#even though naming things were the bane of my existence | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

studioeisa · 1 month ago

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keeping score ⚽ mingyu x reader.

hating mingyu is easy. seeing him in any other light takes work, and you’re tired of trying to figure that out.

⚽ uni soccer player!mingyu x reader. ⚽ word count: 20.4k ⚽ genre: alternate universe: non-idol, alternate universe: university. romance, light angst. offshoot of @xinganhao's soccer team!hhu verse. ⚽ includes: mentions of food, alcohol consumption. cussing/swearing. frenemies to ???, looots of bickering, slowburn, pining!! yearning!! tension, idiots in love, feelings realization/denial. reader is a fashion major, mingyu is a goalkeeper. hhu ensemble (mingyu’s soccer teammates). other idols make a cameo. ⚽ footnotes: this entire piece of work— all 20k words of it— is dedicated to @maplegyu. this couple is our magnum opus, and i owe so much of this vision to her; i can only hope i’ve done them justice. my favorite gyuldaengie! iyong iyo ‘to. ily. <3 🎵 the official keeping score s01 playlist.

▸ S01E01: THE ONE WITH THE MONTHLY FAMILY LUNCH.

The bane of your existence arrives like clockwork every month, complete with a three-course meal, polite conversation, and the insufferable presence of Kim fucking Mingyu.

You love the Kims. Really, you do.

His mother is an absolute angel, his father tells the best stories, and his sister is one of the few people in this world you can actually stand. But Mingyu?

Mingyu is a menace. A thorn in your side. A perpetual migraine dressed in a soccer jersey and an overinflated ego.

And yet, because your families are close, you’ve had the misfortune of growing up with him. There has never been a time in your life when he wasn’t there wreaking havoc, getting on your nerves, making these monthly lunches a test of patience and endurance.

You barely step through the Kims’ front door before he spots you, and the smirk that spreads across his face already has you bracing for impact.

“You spend all your money on clothes, don’t you?” Mingyu drawls, gaze sweeping over your carefully chosen outfit. This month’s best attempt at dressing to impress. “Do you ever buy anything useful, or is it just fabric and brand names at this point?”

You flash him a saccharine smile, one wide enough to make your cheeks hurt. “I would ask if you ever spend money on anything besides soccer cleats, but then I remembered—” You snap your fingers. “You don’t. Trust fund baby, right? Still trying to deserve that, Kim?”

He clutches his chest dramatically, as if wounded. “Low blow.”

You step past him, muttering, “Not low enough.”

The act drops at the dining table, of course. Because despite the mutual irritation that fuels your every interaction, you both have the social awareness to play nice in front of your parents.

Mingyu is seated next to you, and it takes every ounce of willpower not to roll your eyes when he oh-so-helpfully pulls a serving dish closer. To himself, obviously.

“Let me guess,” you say, resting your chin on your hand. “You’re carb-loading for a game?”

Mingyu, mid-scoop of mashed potatoes, doesn’t even blink. “Nah, just loading up so I don’t wither away listening to you talk about… what was it last time? The ‘psychological complexity of lipstick shades’?”

His mother lets out a dramatic sigh, though there’s no real dismay behind it. “Mingyu, be nice.”

“I am nice,” he says easily, flashing his mother an innocent smile before turning back to you, tone all too sweet. “And personally, I think you’re more of a soft pink girl than a red one.”

It’s a direct dig at your choice of makeup for the day. You know he’s just speaking out of his ass; he doesn’t know the first thing about shades, and red is definitely your color. You take a slow sip of your drink before matching his tone. “That’s funny. I was just about to say you’re more of a benchwarmer than a starter.”

His father chuckles, far too used to this by now. “Oh, come on,” he chuckles. “You two have known each other since you were in diapers. When will you stop with the little jabs?”

“Maybe they’ll finally get along,” your mother says amusedly, “now that they’re graduating.”

You and Mingyu exchange a look, one perfectly in sync despite how much you loathe the idea of ever being on the same wavelength.

Nose scrunch. Head shake.

Not in this lifetime.

There was a time— brief, fleeting, and foolish— when you thought you might actually be friends with Mingyu.

You must’ve been, what, eight? Nine? Young enough to still believe that people could change overnight, that rivalries were just a phase, that some friendships took time to bloom.

Back then, it was silly competitions: Who could swing higher at the playground, who could run faster in the backyard, who could stack the tallest tower of Lego before the other knocked it over. It was childish, harmless, even fun at times— until you saw his real colors.

And now, over a decade later, nothing has changed.

He still finds new and inventive ways to drive you up the wall.

Case in point: Your families’ traditional group photo.

You don’t know why you still expect him to behave. You should’ve known better.

Just as the camera shutter is about to go off, you feel something tickle the back of your neck. You tense immediately, but it’s too late. Mingyu, standing behind you, has flicked the ribbon of your dress like an annoying schoolboy pulling on a pigtail.

You whirl around, shooting him a sharp glare.

“Don’t,” you warn through gritted teeth.

He gives you a wide, infuriatingly innocent grin. “Don’t what?”

You turn back, forcing a pleasant smile for the next shot. And yet— there it is again. A slight tug, barely noticeable, but just enough to let you know he’s doing it on purpose.

The camera clicks.

This time, you whip around so fast he actually takes half a step back.

“I swear to God, Kim Mingyu—”

“Kids,” your mother calls, barely looking up from her phone. “Let it go.”

“We’re not kids,” you shoot back.

Mingyu nudges your side with his elbow, leaning down ever so slightly to murmur, “You’re right. We’re adults now. Which means you can use your words instead of glaring at me like you’re trying to set me on fire with your mind.”

You retaliate by elbowing him in the ribs. He squeaks and begins to whine to his mother.

There is no universe in which you and Mingyu will ever get along. No amount of family lunches, no shared childhood history, no forced photo ops can change that.

And you’re perfectly fine with that.

▸ S01E02: THE ONE WITH SOCCER PRACTICE.

Mingyu is having a good practice session— until Seungcheol ruins it.

“Yo, loverboy,” the team captain calls out, grinning as he jogs up beside him. “You’ve got an audience today.”

Mingyu frowns, breath still heavy from his last sprint across the field. “Huh?”

Seungcheol subtly tilts his head towards the stands.

And there you are— looking as out of place as a flamingo in a snowstorm.

You’re sitting as far from the field as possible, like being too close might infect you with ‘sports’. Your arms are crossed, your pink-clad form nearly swallowed by the ridiculous sun hat and oversized sunglasses shielding you from the very concept of nature. A frilly umbrella is propped up beside you, even though there isn’t a single drop of rain in sight.

The sheer disgruntlement on your face is almost impressive.

Mingyu groans. “Oh, come on.”

“Who’s that?” Vernon asks casually, appearing beside Mingyu and Seungcheol like a curious puppy. He’s the newest, youngest guy on the team, so he can’t be blamed for knowing the semi-constant fixture in Mingyu’s life.

Wonwoo, stretching nearby, lets out a knowing hum. “That,” he responds, “is Mingyu’s one true love.”

Vernon blinks. “Oh.”

Seungcheol laughs, slinging an arm around Mingyu’s shoulders in a way that always ticked the latter off. “The love of his life. His childhood sweetheart. The Juliet to his Romeo,” the older boy sing-songs.

Mingyu scowls. “Shut up.”

Vernon looks at you again. The way your expression barely changes as you sip from an offensively fuschia thermos makes him squint in confusion.

“She doesn’t seem too happy to be here,” the youngest notes, and Mingyu holds back the urge to snort.

You’re fidgeting now, glaring at a single blade of grass that’s found its way onto your lap, as if deeply offended by its existence. He’s half-tempted to dump an entire barrel of dried leaves on you, just to see you screech.

For now, though, Mingyu settles with shoving Seungcheol’s arm off him. “You guys are so annoying,” Mingyu grumbles.

Wonwoo pushes his glasses further up his face. “We’re just stating facts.”

“They’re not facts,” Mingyu snaps. “And she’s not here because of me. Trust me, if she had any choice, she’d be anywhere but here.”

Vernon looks between Mingyu and you again, then back at Mingyu. “…So?”

“So, what?”

The younger player shrugs. “Why is she here?”

Mingyu rolls his eyes. “She’s waiting for me.”

Seungcheol lets out a dramatic gasp. “Oh? Waiting for you? Just how deeply are you entangled with this woman, Kim Mingyu?”

It’s a story that Seungcheol and Wonwoo already know. Mingyu knows they’re just being difficult for the hell of it, trying to goad him into reacting. He focuses on indulging Vernon, knowing the longer he avoids it, the longer he’ll be picked on.

“I owe her family,” Mingyu says through his teeth. “It’s not some stupid love story— her parents basically helped raise me when mine were busy working. You think I want to drive her places? I don’t. But my mom guilt-trips me into it every time.”

Seungcheol and Wonwoo share an unimpressed look.

“Uh-huh,” Wonwoo says. “Poor you. Forced to chauffeur a beautiful girl around in your nice car. Sounds awful.”

Mingyu fights the urge to sulk. “It is. She’s unbearable.”

“She seems pretty quiet,” Vernon grunts as he adjusts his cleats.

“That’s because she’s sulking.” Mingyu isn’t sure why, but once the explanation starts, it just keeps going. “Normally, she never shuts up—always going on about useless crap, complaining about things normal people don’t even think about. Like, oh no, her new nail set doesn’t match the vibe of her outfit, or God forbid a restaurant uses the wrong kind of parmesan.”

He realizes he’s said too much when he notices Wonwoo fighting back a smirk, and Seungcheol biting the inside of his cheek. The latter pushes it further with a drawl of, “So, what I’m hearing is… you listen to her. A lot.”

Mingyu groans, rubbing his temples. He really had to learn how to keep his mouth shut. “No, I suffer through her,” he insists. “There’s a difference.”

Wonwoo folds his arms. “You know, it’s funny. You talk all this smack, but I don’t think I’ve ever heard her rant about you.”

“That’s just because she’s stuck-up. Always has been,” scoffs Mingyu.

His mind flashes back to childhood— when he was seven and you were six, and you turned your nose up at his scraped knees, saying, Only boys who don’t know how to run properly get hurt like that.

When he was ten and you were nine, and you refused to eat a slice of pizza at his birthday party because you only liked the fancy kind with real mozzarella, not whatever that was.

When he was fifteen and you were fourteen, and he caught you scoffing at his old sneakers, telling your mom some people just have no concept of ‘aesthetics.’

And yet, despite everything, your families had always forced you together.

Mingyu was never given the option to just avoid you. Your parents and his were practically inseparable, and since childhood, he’s had to deal with your high standards and exasperated sighs and perpetual disapproval over whatever nonsense you deemed worth being mad about that day.

“I promise you, she’s the worst,” Mingyu mutters, stretching his arms behind his head.

Vernon, still watching you, tilts his head. “So, what does she think of you?”

That one’s easy.

“She hates me,” Mingyu says simply. Like it’s a fact. The sun is warm, the sky is blue, and you hate Kim Mingyu.

Seungcheol grins, his smile a little too sharp and knowing for Mingyu’s liking. “Oh, well. At least that’s mutual, right?”

Mingyu doesn’t answer, but he does glance back at you just in time to see you struggling to shove your umbrella back into its case. You catch his eye and stick your tongue out at him, the act so childish that Mingyu can only roll his eyes and flip you off.

The feeling was most definitely mutual.

The practice goes as usual— drills, passing exercises, a scrimmage where Mingyu manages to nutmeg Wonwoo (which earns him a half-hearted shove after the play). By the time they’re finishing up with cool-down stretches, the sun is dipping low in the sky, casting the field in warm golds and oranges.

Mingyu runs a hand through his sweat-dampened hair and chugs the last of his water bottle before chucking it at Seungcheol’s back. “Captain,” he calls mockingly, “we done?”

Seungcheol catches the bottle before it can hit him. “Yeah, yeah. Go, be free.”

Mingyu doesn’t need to be told twice. He grabs his bag from the bench and jogs off the field, presumably heading toward you, who is still seated cross-armed, looking thoroughly unimpressed with the entire practice.

The three boys watch the interaction from a distance. Mingyu says something; you scowl. He nudges your knee with his foot; you swat at him.

Wonwoo rolls his shoulders. “You think today’s the day?”

Seungcheol lets out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “Not yet. Give it another few months.”

Vernon furrows his brows. “What?”

“The bet,” Wonwoo says simply.

Vernon blinks. “What bet?”

“We’ve had a running bet for years about how long it’ll take those two to get together,” supplies Seungcheol.

Vernon looks between them, then at you and Mingyu again. The two of you now seem to be engaged in some sort of bickering match. Mingyu pulls at the edge of your pink cardigan, and you swat his hand away with increasing irritation.

How long it’ll take the two of you to get together?

“You guys are insane,” Vernon says flatly.

Wonwoo snorts. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

“I mean, look at them.” Vernon gestures vaguely in your direction. At this point, you’re looking like you’re five seconds away from pouncing Mingyu. “They hate each other.”

Seungcheol and Wonwoo do it again. That shared look, that quiet understanding.

“Look again,” the team captain urges, and Vernon does.

He watches as Mingyu steps back, laughingly avoiding your physical assault. You— despite your obvious frustration— fight a smile before rolling your eyes.

There’s something there. Some spark of familiarity, of knowing each other too well, of a connection that might just be a little too deep for pure hatred.

Huh.

A beat. And then Vernon digs through his pocket and procures a couple of loose bills.

“Before the year ends,” he declares, making Seungcheol and Wonwoo chuckle.

▸ S01E03: THE ONE WITH THE JANKY ELEVATOR.

You don’t know why you always end up here.

Actually, no. You do know why. Because your parents insist you wait at Mingyu’s place whenever they’re running late to pick you up, since apparently his apartment is safer than a café or a mall. Nevermind that the biggest threat to your wellbeing is standing right beside you, scrolling through his phone with a self-satisfied smirk.

“Was a functioning lift too much to ask for when you were looking for apartments?” you say, eyeing the rickety metal doors of his apartment building’s elevators.

Mingyu doesn’t even look up. “Oh, sorry, princess. Next time, I’ll make sure to move into a high-rise penthouse with gold-plated buttons just for you.”

You make a noise of disgust, jabbing at the button with unnecessary force. “As if I’d ever step foot in your place again after today.”

“You say that every time.”

You open your mouth for a comeback, but the elevator doors groan open just then. The lights flicker ominously. There’s a suspicious stain on the corner of the floor. You step in with a sigh, Mingyu following behind you.

The doors shut. The elevator lurches upwards with a wheeze.

“You know,” Mingyu says, “if you hate coming here so much, you could always just Uber home.”

“Oh, believe me, if I didn’t have to be here, I wouldn’t. But my mom insists you’re—” You pause, making air quotes, “—‘trustworthy.’”

He smiles like he’s some God-given gift. “I am trustworthy.”

“You once stole my fries in front of my face and claimed I was hallucinating.”

“Okay, but—”

Before he can finish, the elevator gives a violent jolt.

And then everything goes black.

For a moment, there’s silence. Just the quiet hum of the emergency light kicking in, the faint creak of metal settling.

Then, Mingyu takes a sharp inhale.

“Uh.” His voice is suddenly tight. “No. Nope. No way.”

You blink, eyes adjusting to the dim lighting. “Oh, great,” you grumble. “Fantastic. This is what I get for stepping into this death trap of a building.”

“I think— I think I need to sit down,” Mingyu mutters, lowering himself to the floor.

You huff. “Be so for real right now, you lumbering idiot.”

But then you actually look at him.

The usual cocky tilt of his head is gone. His fingers are gripping the fabric of his joggers, his breathing coming in short, uneven bursts. His eyes are darting around the elevator, as if checking for an exit that isn’t there.

Oh.

He’s genuinely scared.

A new, unfamiliar kind of concern settles in your chest. “Wait,” you say, kneeling beside him. “You’re not actually—”

“I just—” Mingyu gulps. “I hate elevators. And small spaces. And, you know, the whole getting stuck thing.”

And then it clicks.

You remember being kids, when the power went out at the Kim’s summer house during a thunderstorm. You remember little Mingyu, barely taller than you, sitting stiffly on the couch with his knees pulled to his chest, trying— and failing— not to let his fear show. You remember the way his face twisted when the room was swallowed by darkness, how his mother had to light candles and sit beside him until the power returned.

He never admitted he was scared, of course. Mingyu never admitted anything.

But you knew.

Looking at him now— his face pale, his jaw tight— you realize some things don’t change.

Without thinking, you place a hand on his arm. “Hey. Breathe, okay? It’s fine.”

Mingyu exhales shakily. “I am breathing.”

“Yeah, like a terrified chihuahua,” you mutter. “Deep breaths. In through your nose, out through your mouth.”

He gives you a look, squinting at you through the darkness, but he obeys. Inhale, exhale.

You squeeze his arm. “See? Not so bad.”

He closes his eyes, focusing on his breathing. You sit beside him, fingers still on his arm, grounding him. After a few beats, his breathing evens out. His shoulders relax.

“… Don’t tell anyone,” he finally says, voice barely above a whisper.

“Oh, I’m definitely telling the team.”

“I will murder you.”

An unbidden laugh escapes you. You nudge his knee with yours. “See? You’re fine.”

“Still hate this,” Mingyu exhales, rubbing his face.

“You are kind of pathetic.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He leans back against the wall. Then, like it pains him to say it, he adds, “Thanks, though.”

You roll your eyes, but you don’t remove your hand from his arm.

With a sudden jolt, the elevator whirs back to life. The overhead lights flicker before settling into a steady glow, and the quiet hum of movement returns beneath your feet.

Mingyu exhales the biggest sigh of relief you’ve ever heard. “Oh, thank God.”

He’s on his feet before the doors have even fully opened, practically leaping into the hallway like he’s just escaped certain death. You follow him with a disbelieving huff.

It isn’t until you’re several paces into the hallway that you realize you’re still holding onto him.

Your fingers are curled around his forearm, right where they’d been when you were calming him down. Mingyu, ever the opportunist, notices right before you can subtly let go.

He tilts his head. “Aww, you care about me,” he coos, but there’s a hint of something in his tone. You think it might be genuine appreciation; you’re not about to dwell on it, though.

“Shut up,” you snipe. You want to shove him back in the elevator and see just how cocky he can be when it crashes out again.

“Admit it,” he sing-songs, trailing after you toward his apartment. “You were worried about me.”

“I was trapped in an elevator. I was worried about myself.”

“Uh-huh. Sure.”

You choose not to dignify him with a response, striding ahead until you reach his door. Mingyu unlocks it with a beep, stepping aside to let you in.

As soon as you enter, you do what you always do— make yourself at home. You toe off your shoes, toss your bag onto his couch, and march straight to his kitchen. The years of forced proximity have made this something as good as a routine.

“You got anything to eat?” you ask. The question is rhetorical; you’re already prepared to rob him of whatever he has in his pantry.

Mingyu scoffs as he kicks off his sneakers. “This is not a restaurant.”

“Clearly,” you huff, swinging open his fridge. The contents are bleak. A few eggs, a half-empty carton of orange juice, a suspiciously old container of takeout, and at least three protein shakes.

You make a face. “Be serious.”

He sprawls onto the couch. “What?”

“You live like a caveman.” You shut the fridge with an exasperated sigh, turning to scan the apartment. Your gaze lands on a new decorative shelf against the wall, filled with an assortment of mismatched trinkets. They’re all atrocious and generic.

You’re inclined to tease him that it’s why he’s bitchless, this sheer lack of consideration for aesthetics. You reel that in, though, opting instead for a lighter, “Since when did you care about home decor?”

Mingyu props his feet on the coffee table. “It’s called having taste,” he shoots back.

“You don’t have taste.”

“Excuse you—”

“This,” you gesture at the shelf, “is ugly.”

Mingyu grabs the nearest throw pillow and chucks it at you.

You barely dodge it. It whizzes past your head, and once again, you think this is exactly one of those things you should’ve expected from Mingyu. He’s immature, and obnoxious, and unbelievably rude.

“Did you just—” you’re gaping, but then another pillow flies your way.

You snatch it out of the air, and then you catch the way he’s already scrambling for another ‘weapon’. “You are such a child!” you screech, except you’re not above retaliation.

What follows is a semi-violent pillow war that neither of you are willing to concede. It’s ridiculous, and loud, and it feels exactly like every argument you’ve ever had with him. Full of unnecessary dramatics and zero real malice.

Just like that, the moment in the elevator— the quiet, vulnerable, human side of him you’d glimpsed— disappears into the back of your mind. A moment of weakness, never to happen again.

Because Kim Mingyu is still the same as he’s always been.

▸ S01E04: THE ONE WITH THE NIGHT OUT.

Mingyu swears he’s going to kill you.

He’s probably made that threat dozens of times in the past years, but tonight, he’s fairly sure he’ll actually do it.

He should be in bed right now, getting some much-needed shut-eye for tomorrow’s game. It’s the type of do-or-die match where scouts will be in the audience, after all, and while Mingyu doesn’t really give two damns about going pro, he wouldn’t mind the validation.

Alas, instead of being in his bed, he’s stuck in traffic en route to wherever the hell you’ve gone drinking tonight.

If it had just been you that asked to be picked up, Mingyu would’ve ended the call without question. Probably would have told you to get off his case and book a cab yourself.

But it’s your mother who’s asking, who has entrusted your safety and well-being in Mingyu’s allegedly capable hands. He’s not about to turn down the woman who practically helped raise him.

Disgruntled, Mingyu pulls into the parking lot of where you said you’d be drinking. Some swanky club with thumping music and neon lights.

“So help me, God,” Mingyu grumbles underneath his breath as he stomps out of his car and toward the establishment. When the bouncer charges him an entrance fee— an entrance fee!— Mingyu’s urge to cause you bodily harm only triples. He coughs up the fee and marches into the club, fully prepared to give you grief for this little stunt.

The club is alive, full of sweaty bodies pressing against each other and questionable house remixes that everyone is pretending to like. It’s an assault on the senses, and Mingyu absolutely loathes it.

He wasn’t about to act holier-than-thou. He’s had his fair share of drinking escapades, had even been to this very club himself once or twice. Still, it’s different when you’re ready for a night out and when you’ve been forced out of your restful evening because of a person you can barely even consider a friend.

It takes him all of three minutes to find you.

Take away the history, the tension, and fine. Mingyu would willingly admit: You’re gorgeous. Sometimes. When you tried.

It’s more than the sinfully short dress, more than the ankle-length boots that no one else would pull off. It’s that laugh of yours, so bright and open and loud as you let one of your friends twirl you around on the dance floor. The sound reaches Mingyu over the din of debauchery, and he feels a muscle in his jaw tick.

He hates it. He hates you.

He wants to be home, back in his bed, instead of standing five paces away from a stunning you. A you that he will have to drag down because of responsibility, because of his blasted pride. Whether or not he cares to admit it, he hates that, too.

Mingyu weaves through the crowds of dancing people until he’s reached you. He’s just about to call your name when the DJ plays a song that you seem to like, because you let out a loud squeal and try to jump.

Key word: Try. You’re just a little off-balance from your choice of shoewear and the alcohol running through your veins, because your attempt has you stumbling.

Instinctively, Mingyu reaches out to catch you. His palms land on your waist as your back falls against his chest, and it nearly kills him— the sound of your drunken giggle. You tilt your head back to look up at him.

It starts off as a half-lidded, hazy expression, one that shows off just how intoxicated you already are. But there’s something different there, too. A heat. A hunger. One that shows you’re out for something, someone tonight. Mingyu hates that the most.

He hates how that look on your face disappears when you realize who caught you. Immediately, your unchaste expression gives way to something more akin to sulky discontent, like Mingyu is the bearer of bad news.

And he is, really, because his fingers squeeze at your waist as he glares down at you.

“It’s past midnight, Cinderella,” he says, pitching his voice just loud enough above the music. “Time to head home.”

Your reaction to him is always a good litmus test of how intoxicated you are. When you jut out your lower lip and whine out a petulant “Mingyu!”, that gives him the idea that you’re pretty damn gone.

“You’re no fun,” you whine, trying to wriggle free from his grip. “This is my favorite song—”

“And it’s one in the fucking morning. Let’s go.”

Somehow, you manage to peel away from him. One of your friends links arms with you, the two of you bursting into laughter of giggles. Mingyu is tempted to leave you then and there. There’s nothing funny about this situation, and he’s already planning to tell you off for how this might affect how he plays tomorrow.

“One more song!” You put up one finger, practically shoving it up to Mingyu’s face. “Pleaseee?”

He’s only halfway through saying something like no, let’s go before your friend is dragging you further into the throng of dancing people. Mingyu can already feel a headache blossoming beneath his temple.

Resigned to his fate, he steps to the fringes of the crowd. He isn’t in the mood to scream to All I Do Is Win with all of these strangers; the least he can do is keep an eye on you.

You, scream-singing the lyrics. You, whose dress rides up with every little sway. You— laughing, dancing, still several paces away from Mingyu.

He crosses his arms over his chest and briefly closes his eyes, exhaling through his nose. A voice snaps him out of his reverie.

“Hey, handsome. Want a drink?”

Mingyu’s eyes flutter open. He hadn’t noticed the girl sidling up to his side. She’s a bombshell, sure, with a lecherous gaze and a barely-there dress, but Mingyu trips up over the fact that the two of you kind of smile the same.

“No, thank you,” he says curtly. “I’m driving.”

The girl throws her head back and laughs. Mingyu’s headache feels like it’s worsening.

“You’re too good-looking to be the designated driver,” the stranger purrs. When she reaches out to run an innocent finger over Mingyu’s crossed arms, his lips tug into a slight frown. He’s no stranger to girls coming on to him. He’s entertained a couple, even, in settings exactly like this.

Tonight, he’s not in the mood. That’s it. That’s all there is to it, he thinks— as if he’s trying to convince himself.

That’s how he builds the courage to lie through his teeth.

“I’m here to drive my girlfriend home, actually.”

In the morning, he will justify it like this: He wanted the stranger to leave him alone. He wasn’t exactly lying. You were a girl, and you were… kind of his friend. And he was driving you home. That much was true.

In that very moment, though, his heart— the treacherous fool that it is— skips a single, infinitesimal beat at the prospect of calling you his ‘girlfriend’.

The stranger is undeterred. It’s a common throw-off, after all. The lie about having a significant other.

“Where’s this girlfriend of yours?” she asks, one eyebrow cocked upward in amusement.

Mingyu’s eyes flick over the throng of dancers. Right. He had been watching for you. He opens his mouth, about to mention some notable feature of yours, when the words stick in his throat. Because he’s looking right at you—

You, with your arms over the shoulders of some guy. You, tilting your face upward to kiss said stranger.

The strobe lights cut Mingyu’s vision into strips. He sees each moment like a flashbulb blinking on and off: Your eyes fluttering close. The stranger’s hand slipping to the small of your back, right over the curve of your ass. Your body, arching upward a little bit more.

Mingyu, still paces away.

By the time you’re pulling away from the man, Mingyu is already at your side. He’s still ever so gentle as he yanks you away from the stranger’s grasp.

“We’re going,” he announces.

The guy you had just been kissing lets out some strangled sound, something to the effect of “what the hell, man,” but Mingyu can’t be bothered to stick around and clarify. He focuses on hauling your ass away, even as you begin to kick up a fuss.

“But he said I was pretty—” you’re whining, the tone of your voice grating on every single one of Mingyu’s nerves.

“Because you are pretty!” he snaps as he guides you through the crowd. “Don’t go around making out with anyone who compliments you. Jesus!”

Somehow, the two of you manage to spill out of the club. Mingyu has a white-knuckled grip on your shoulders as he attempts to push you forward, towards his car.

You only add to his mounting annoyance when you dig the heels of your boots into the ground, keeping him from going any further.

“For fuck’s sake—” Mingyu grumbles. “I swear to God, I will leave you. I’m going to leave you to your own devices in this parking lot, you leech.”

“You wouldn’t,” you say shrilly. “You would never leave me!”

“I would,” he shoots back. He contemplates just throwing you over his shoulder and being done with it.

That train of thought is swiftly interrupted by you spinning around to face him. You plant your hands on your hips, speaking surprisingly evenly for someone who looks drunk out of their mind. “I was having fun,” you sniffle.

“And I was supposed to be asleep four hours ago,” he seethes. “Instead, I’m dealing with your bratty ass—”

“I didn’t ask you to—”

“Your mother asked me to—”

“Well, she can go and—”

“Please!”

Mingyu huffs out the word with his whole chest. Honestly, at this point? He’s not above begging. He runs his hands over his face before wringing them together.

“Can we just go home already?” he pleads. “I have to be up by six, and the student manager will have my neck if I’m late one more time. Please, please, please just get in my car already.”

You only stare him down with that steely expression of yours. Once again, Mingyu toys with the idea of manhandling you into his backseat, until you speak up.

“He said I was pretty,” you repeat, like that’s somehow the most important fact of the night.

“You are,” he responds exasperatedly.

“You’re lying,” you insist. It might be a trick of the light, a fleeting moment in the darkness of the otherwise empty parking lot, but Mingyu swears he sees a flicker of insecurity in your eyes.

You go on, “You’re just saying that. Unlike the guy back there, you don’t actually think—”

“Oh my God. Fine. Fine. I don’t think you’re pretty!” Mingyu throws his hands up in the air in a gesture of defeat.

You look like you’re about to deflate, but then he barrels on, going absolutely insane over this whole stupid affair. “I think you’re breathtaking. I think you’re the most gorgeous girl in the world,” he bites out. “But, holy shit, are you the most annoying one, too!”

If you’re surprised, there’s no indication of it in your expression. But your hands do drop from your sides, and you’re looking at Mingyu with a little less disdain than a couple of seconds ago.

A beat. And then—

“You think I’m breathtaking?” you ask, the ghost of a smirk on your lips.

To hell with it. Mingyu surges forward and wraps his arms around your waist, hauling you off the ground.

You’re squealing and raining punches down his back the entire way to his car.

▸ S01E05: THE ONE WITH THE MORNING AFTER.

You wake up to the distinct smell of something warm and buttery wafting through the air, the scent tugging you out of your heavy slumber.

Your head is pounding, and your throat feels like you swallowed a gallon of sandpaper, but worst of all, there’s a familiar sense of displacement— the kind that comes with waking up somewhere that isn’t your own bed.

Cracking one eye open, you’re met with the soft glow of morning light filtering through unfamiliar curtains. It takes you a second, but then you recognize the room instantly: Mingyu’s apartment.

The realization doesn’t startle you as much as it should. In fact, you sigh, rolling onto your back and rubbing at your temple. It isn’t the first time you’ve found yourself here after a night out, though it’s usually because of some family event that went on too long rather than Mingyu being forced to drag your inebriated ass home.

Still, the headache and vague memories of last night are enough to sour your mood. You groan, sitting up and taking in your surroundings. Your shoes are neatly placed by the door. A bottle of water and a pack of painkillers sit on the nightstand, which you’re quick to grab.

And then, there’s the smell. The one that pulled you out of sleep in the first place.

You shuffle out of bed and into the kitchen, where you find an actual, plated breakfast waiting for you on the counter. A plate of eggs, toast, and— because you assume Mingyu is still an insufferable health nut— a side of fruit. Stuck to the rim of the plate, a bright yellow Post-it with the worst handwriting known to mankind.

Stop drinking. -KMG

You find yourself staring at the plate longer than necessary. No matter how crude the note is, the fact remains: Mingyu cooked this. For you. Before his game.

There’s an uncomfortable flutter in your chest that you quickly stomp out.

Because sure, Mingyu cooked for you. Sure, he bought you medicine. But he also had the gall to leave you a rude Post-it note like the patronizing asshole that he is. You grab the note and crumple it in your fist before popping one of the painkillers in your mouth. You mutter “fuckin’ bitch” to no one in particular, but it lacks real venom.

Your thoughts are interrupted by your phone ringing. You frown before spotting Mingyu’s charger plugged into the wall, your phone attached to it. You don’t have time to unpack whatever that means, because your mother’s name flashes across the screen.

With a sigh, you answer. “Hello?”

“Where are you?” she asks, voice sharp with concern. “I tried calling last night, but your phone was off.”

“I was…” You hesitate, glancing at the breakfast on the counter. “With Mingyu.”

There’s no need for your mother to know where you really were dancing, who you’d spent the night flirting with. Hell, all of that is pretty much a blur at this point. The only thing left in your alcohol-addled mind is Mingyu calling you Cinderella, Mingyu’s hands on your shoulders, and… Did he carry you to his car? You’ll have to wheedle that information out of him later.

Your mother’s reaction to your white lie is immediate. Her sigh of relief is so loud you have to pull the phone away from your ear. “Oh. That’s good,” she breathes. “At least I know you were in good hands.” The food in front of you suddenly looks much less appealing. Of course. Of course that’s all it takes for her to drop her interrogation. You could have told her you spent the night at any of your friends’ places, and she still would have had a million questions. But mention Mingyu, and suddenly she’s appeased.

“Yeah,” you say flatly. “Great hands.”

You don’t like it. You don’t like feeling indebted to him. You don’t like that he has that effect— not just on your mother, but on you, too.

As much as you want to brush it off, you can’t help but glance at the plate again, at the neatly arranged breakfast that he didn’t have to make, at the medicine he didn’t have to buy.

And that flutter? That stupid, tiny, treacherous flutter in your chest?

You shove it deep down where it belongs.

Meanwhile, Mingyu fights his own battles. On the field, he’s a wall. A force of nature.

His muscles burn. His mind is sharp. Every time the ball nears his goal, he’s already two steps ahead. The opposing team is relentless, throwing every tactic they can at him, but it doesn’t matter. Not today.

Today, Mingyu is untouchable.

The scouts on the sidelines are nodding, murmuring to each other with increasing interest. His teammates are exhilarated, feeding off his energy. Seungcheol is the first to voice it, panting as he jogs past the goal. “You’re playing like a fucking monster.”

Mingyu doesn’t answer, just adjusts his gloves and keeps his gaze locked on the field. Wonwoo watches him a beat longer, brow furrowed. “You’re not usually this aggressive.”

Mingyu exhales sharply. “Gotta keep the scouts entertained, don’t I?”

It’s a good enough excuse. No one questions him after that.

But the truth is, he knows exactly why he’s playing like this.

Because across the field is him— the guy from last night. The guy who got to kiss you, to touch you while Mingyu watched.

And the jerk looks perfectly fine. Well-rested, even. Ready to play.

Mingyu’s jaw tightens.

When the next shot comes, he doesn’t just block it. He slaps it out of the air with enough force to send it soaring toward midfield. The sound of his palm meeting the ball echoes across the stadium. The forward who took the shot looks stunned; the murmurs from the scouts grow louder.

Seungcheol lets out a low whistle. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but I like it.”

Mingyu exhales, flexing his fingers inside his gloves. His heartbeat pounds in his ears, but he’s locked in, focused. He doesn’t care how many more shots they take. None of them are getting past him today.

You’re not even here, but you might as well be by the way Mingyu thinks of you the entire damn time.

And if, after the final whistle blows and his team secures the win, he happens to walk past him with just a little too much shoulder in his stride? Well.

That’s just the cherry on top.

He feels proud. Vindicated. He revels in it for a full minute before— much like you— shoving the feeling as far away from him as possible.

Now it’s even. Now, he doesn’t owe you a thing.

▸ S01E06: THE ONE WITH THE PERFUME.

Mingyu isn’t sure how he ended up in the fragrance section.

The trip to the mall had a purpose— find a birthday gift for their student manager, someone patient enough to handle their chaos. Seungcheol was atrociously down bad for the girl, and was still trying to prove himself worthy of her time.

Seungcheol, Wonwoo, and Vernon debate between a sleek planner and a wireless charger.

“The planner will help her deal with us,” Wonwoo pushes, “we’re always bombarding her with our schedules, anyway.”

Vernon butts in. “Getting her a gift that benefits us is a shitty thing to do.”

The man of the hour— Seungcheol, who is balancing the two gifts in his hands— gives the world’s shittiest suggestion. “Let’s just get both!”

As the three try to argue the merits of the gifts, Mingyu wanders off. For some reason, he finds himself drawn by the gleam of glass bottles and the faint hum of different scents in the air.

He has no business being here. Cologne isn’t something he puts much thought into; he has his one bottle, the same one he’s used for years, and it does the job.

Still, his fingers ghost over the display, picking up a tester bottle without much thought. The label is understated. Minimalist design, black serif lettering against a frosted background. Expensive-looking. He presses down on the nozzle, sending a fine mist into the air.

The scent unfurls slowly. First, there’s a burst of something citrusy— bright, crisp, and fleeting. Then it settles into softer notes, something warm and clean, like white musk and fresh linen.

But underneath, lingering just at the edge, is something else. Something vaguely floral, but not overpowering. A hint of jasmine, maybe, softened by vanilla.

His grip tightens around the tester. He’s suffered through this scent before.

It clings to his couch cushions, stubborn even after airing out his apartment. It lingers in his car, filling the spaces between his words when you're in the passenger seat. It’s in his hoodie the morning after you crash at his place, making his head turn before he remembers you’re already gone.

Mingyu frowns, inhaling again, as if the scent will offer up an explanation for why it pulls at something deep in his memory.

Could it be your own perfume? Could your shampoo have the same notes?

He debates it for a second. Buying the bottle, testing if it really does smell the same. If it would fade the same way, settle the same way. If it would remind him of you just as much.

And then— what the hell is he doing?

Mingyu sets down the tester bottle, clicking the cap back on. He tries to chalk it up to curiosity. That has to be it. He’s a man of logic, someone who likes to confirm hypotheses like whether this inconspicuous bottle of perfume is the same as his arch rival’s.

That’s all there is to it, he thinks, as he stalks back over to his teammates. A verdict has been reached: Seungcheol will get her the planner. The charger will be halved three-way by Mingyu, Vernon, and Wonwoo.

“Where’d you go?” Wonwoo inquires.

“Nowhere,” Mingyu answers, even though his mind is still on the stupid smell.

He wipes at his wrist like that might help him get rid of the thought of you.

(In the other side of the mall—)

▸ S01E07: THE ONE WITH THE SHOPPING TRIP.

You love shopping.

Not just for the thrill of it or the satisfaction of walking out of a store with a new find, but because it’s part of your studies. As a business major with a minor in fashion design, you don’t just see clothes. You see craftsmanship, marketability, trends, and the little details that separate the exceptional from the ordinary.

Which is why you don’t take it lightly when a saleslady looks down on you.

It starts with the way she barely glances at you when you step into the boutique, her gaze flickering from your casual outfit to the more expensively dressed customers lingering by the racks. She doesn’t offer a greeting, doesn’t ask if you need help, just wrongly assumes that you’re not worth her time.

You brush it off at first. It’s not the first time someone has made a snap judgment about you, and it won’t be the last. But then, as you pull a dress from the rack, inspecting the stitching along the seams, you hear her scoff.

“That one’s a little out of budget, don’t you think?” she says, her voice coated in artificial sweetness.

You arch a brow, turning the dress over in your hands. It’s a designer piece, sure, but it’s not about the price. It’s about the construction, and this one? Overpriced for what it offers. You could name at least three brands that do a better job at a fraction of the cost.

Instead of rising to the bait, you hum thoughtfully. “The stitching here is uneven,” you muse, holding the fabric up to the light. “And the lining? They cut costs with synthetic blends when they should have used silk. The structure won’t hold up after a few wears.”

The saleslady falters, clearly unprepared for an actual critique. You don’t stop there.

“For the price, I’d expect better craftsmanship. If you’re going to charge this much, at least make sure the dress can justify it.”

A beat of silence. Then, another voice chimes in— a stranger, another customer, who suddenly looks interested in what you have to say. “That’s actually a good point,” she murmurs, inspecting her own dress more closely.

The saleslady’s expression tightens, and she suddenly looks less inclined to speak. You hide a smirk, setting the dress back on the rack.

You love shopping. But more than that, you love knowing exactly what you’re talking about.

The next store is quieter, more minimalist, with racks of clothing spaced out deliberately to give each piece a sense of importance. You skim through them idly until something catches your eye.

A shirt. Simple, well-tailored, the kind of thing that would sit well on broad shoulders.

Mingyu’s shoulders.

You wrinkle your nose at the thought. The idea of picking something out for him makes your stomach turn, and yet… you keep looking at it. It’s a nice color, something that would complement his skin tone. The fit would be flattering. It’s practical, stylish, something he could wear effortlessly.

You chalk it up to habit. It’s the same as when you find a cute piece that would suit a mannequin perfectly. Just another exercise in styling. Nothing more.

Besides, if you bought it, it wouldn’t be for him. It would be for the sake of aesthetics. Like dressing up a doll. Or— better yet— like charity.

Yes. That’s all it is. You like knowing what you’re talking about, and this is just a manifestation of it.

You grab the shirt, holding it up for a final once-over before tossing it into your basket. If anything, you can pass it off as a Christmas gift. That’s reasonable. Normal, even. No big deal.

But then you see a sweater that would pair well with it. And a jacket that’s undeniably his style. And before you know it, your basket is full.

It’s only when you’re standing in line to pay that it truly hits you.

What the hell are you doing?

Your grip tightens around the handle of the basket, heart hammering in your chest. You stare at the pile of clothes— clothes for Mingyu— and feel a wave of unease creep up your spine. This is not normal. This is not something you do.

You were supposed to get one thing. One. Now you’re standing here like some deranged personal shopper, about to spend money on a man you claim to tolerate at best.

No. Absolutely not.

You step out of the line, return to the racks, and unceremoniously dump the basket’s contents back where they belong. One by one, you rid yourself of every last piece until there’s nothing left.

Your heart is still racing by the time you exit the store. You need a spa day. Desperately.

▸ S01E08: THE ONE WITH THE GAME.

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

Mingyu stares from across the field, frozen in place as his teammates jog past him. The pregame warmups blur into the background because there you are, sitting in the stands. Willingly.

It shouldn’t be a big deal, shouldn’t mean anything, but it does. Because in all the years he’s known you, you’ve never voluntarily attended one of his games. Not without some level of coercion. Not without at least thirty minutes of complaining.

And yet, here you are.

Unfortunately, you also stick out like a sore thumb.

He sees you draped in obnoxiously bright colors, layered in mismatched school merch like someone who got dressed in the dark— or someone trying too hard to look like they belong. The cap, the oversized hoodie, the scarf, all of it is excessive.

The worst part? It works.

Because even from across the field, even as his teammates stretch and the crowd chatters, Mingyu sees you. And now he can’t unsee you.

He ignores the cheerleaders calling his name. Ignores the people waving at him, the fans holding up banners with his number. Ignores the way his coach is probably going to yell at him later for getting distracted before the game.

Instead, he heads straight for you.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he demands, stopping just short of the stands.

You lower your phone, where you’d clearly been snapping photos, and peer down at him like he’s the one acting weird. “Your mom asked me to take photos of you,” you reply, voice maddeningly nonchalant. “Don’t lose.”

Mingyu scoffs. “Don’t tell me what to do.” Then, a beat later, he petulantly adds, “Also, I never lose.”

You roll your eyes, already angling your phone for another shot, but Mingyu doesn’t move just yet. The fact remains; you’re here, looking infuriatingly good, and he’s going to spend the next 90 minutes fighting for his life. He can’t decide if that’s a good or bad thing.

Either way, he knows one thing for sure: He really, really can’t afford to lose.

But he does.

It’s a hard-fought game, and Mingyu plays like a man possessed. He dives for impossible saves, yells orders at his defenders, and shuts down shot after shot. The crowd roars every time he denies the other team, and for most of the match, it looks like his team might just scrape by with a win.

Then, in the final minutes, everything falls apart.

A miscalculated pass. A stolen ball. A breakaway that happens too fast.

Mingyu sees it unfold in real-time, feels the moment slip through his fingers before it even happens. He charges forward, determined to cut off the angle, to make himself big, to stop the shot. But the ball soars past him, hitting the back of the net with a deafening thud.

The stadium erupts. The other team celebrates. And Mingyu, chest heaving, fists clenched, can only stare as the scoreboard confirms it.

A one-point lead. Game over.

He barely hears the whistle. Barely registers his teammates patting his back, muttering things like You did great and We’ll get them next time. None of it matters. Because he lost. Because he let that shot in.

Because somewhere in the stands, you saw him fail.

He drags his gloves off, jaw tight, shoulders tense. He doesn’t want to look up. Doesn’t want to see if you’re still watching.

Against his better judgment, his gaze lifts toward the stands anyway.

There you are, camera in hand, expression unreadable. Of all his losses that day, that was the one that inexplicably ticked him off the most. The fact that you weren’t smiling, weren’t frowning. You were just… watching. He’s never been able to read your mind, but he despises that inability the most today.

Mingyu exhales sharply, looks away, and storms off the field.

He doesn’t expect you to wait for him outside the locker room. You’re there anyway when he steps out, your arms crossed and your lips pursed. He doesn’t slow down, doesn’t acknowledge you beyond the look he shoots your way; you have to take large steps in your ridiculous heels just to keep up with his pace. He feels like a hurricane— one that’s about to sweep through your stoicism, about to leave significant collateral damage.

“Come on, then,” he mutters, shoving his duffel strap higher onto his shoulder. “Tell me just how shitty I am.”

“Excuse me?”

He lets out a humorless laugh, shaking his head. “You must be dying to rub it in my face. Go ahead. Get it over with.”

You frown. “What the hell is your problem?”

That sets him off.

“My problem?” he snaps, finally stopping in his tracks to glare at you properly. You follow suit, and it amuses him for a fraction of a second— just how easily he towers over you. “I just lost a game, in case you missed that part while taking your stupid pictures.”

You scoff, fully displeased now. “Are you serious? You think I came here just to laugh at you?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.” His voice is sharp, low. “You’ve never had a problem making fun of me before.”

Your jaw clenches.

“No need to make me your punching bag, Kim.” In turn— your tone is piercing, almost hurt. “I came here to comfort you. I’m not the fucking devil you make me out to be.”

The words hit harder than they should.

The weight of the loss still clings to him, frustration simmering beneath his skin. His hands are still balled into fists, his shoulders locked up so tight they ache. But the way you say it, the unexpected offense in your voice, makes something in him falter.

He rubs a hand over his face. The hurricane in him quiets, runs out of rain. “Yeah.” His voice is quieter now. “Sorry.”

You roll your eyes. Really, you have every right to give him more shit; he knows he deserves it. “I should just leave you here to wallow.” You make a grand show of turning away— really, you have every right to give him more shit; he knows he deserves it.

But then you glance at him over your shoulder. “Since I’m feeling benevolent, I’ll treat you to a meal.”

Mingyu stares at you like you’ve lost your mind. “You?” He gestures vaguely between the two of you. “Treating me? Are you dying?”

“Maybe,” you deadpan. “From secondhand embarrassment.”

He lets out a sharp exhale, something between a huff and a chuckle. “Wow. Real comforting.”

You shrug. “I never said I was good at comfort,” you snipe, and he knows that much is true.

Somehow, that’s how he finds himself behind the wheel of his car, hands gripping the steering wheel. He’s still mildly dazed as he glances over at you in his passenger seat. He doesn’t remember actually agreeing to this. He doesn’t remember deciding to take you to his favorite restaurant. And yet here you are, scrolling through your phone like this is the most normal thing in the world.

For the first five minutes, the drive is quiet. Mingyu fiddles with the AC, rolls his shoulders, frowns at the road ahead. But the longer you sit there, humming under your breath, mindlessly playing with the hem of your sleeve, the more it starts to sink in.

This is the first time the two of you have willingly shared a meal together.

Not because of mutual friends. Not because of a group project or an event neither of you could get out of. Not because your parents forced you into it.

Just… because.

It’s the strangest possible way for Mingyu to have possibly ended the night.

He spares you another glance as he pulls into the parking lot. “You better not complain about the food,” he warns, “or I’m leaving you here.”

Of course, that gives you the leeway to complain, bitching about things like sanitation and standards for cuisine. He tunes it out like he often does, instead trying to figure out how the hell he ended up here.

Here, sitting across from you in a restaurant that he usually only visits with his teammates. It felt like a fever dream to approach the host stand and ask for a table for two; his voice had come out a little too uncertain, like he couldn’t quite believe the words himself.

The host had seated you without question, handing you both menus before disappearing, leaving Mingyu to sit there and take in the absurdity of the situation. You, sitting across from him, elbows on the table, flipping through the menu like this is any other meal with any other person.

His mind flickers, unbidden, to a thought: Are you like this on all dates?

Then, he scowls. No. This is not a date.

“Alright, what am I getting?” you ask, still scanning the menu. “You’re the one who dragged me here, might as well give me a solid recommendation.”

Mingyu raises a brow. “I dragged you here? You were the one who insisted on treating me.”

“Tomato, tomahto.” You shoot him a sharp glare, as if his insolence was something that caused offense. “Just tell me what’s good.”

He studies you for a second like he’s waiting for the punchline. When you just blink back expectantly, he sighs, resigning himself to whatever surreal alternate reality this is. “Get the beef stew,” he finally says. “And the garlic rice. You’ll thank me later.”

To his surprise, you actually listen. He half-expected you to ignore him just to be difficult.

The conversation that follows is easy in a way that confuses him. You bicker, naturally, but it’s mostly over trivial things— your tragic lack of appreciation for his taste in sports documentaries, the way he insists that pineapple on pizza is a crime against humanity. Nothing about the game, nothing about his loss, nothing about the way frustration still lingers in the tightness of his jaw.

Instead, you seem content commenting on the restaurant itself, mentioning how you like the warm lighting, how the playlist is surprisingly good. And then there’s the way you eat. Without rush, without any of the absentmindedness he sometimes sees when you’re multitasking with your phone. You actually appreciate the food, nodding approvingly after each bite like you’re mentally scoring it.

Somewhere between your satisfied hums and the way you swipe an extra spoonful of his rice when you think he’s not looking, Mingyu realizes something strange: You’re actually enjoying this.

And, maybe, so is he.

It’s disorienting, how quickly the irritation from earlier has faded.

He tries to remind himself of the reasons you’re infuriating. That you’re picky about things that don’t matter, that you have a bad habit of being late, that you roll your eyes too much, that—

But every thought is immediately met with another. That you actually care about things enough to be picky. That you only run late when you’ve lost track of time doing something you love. That you roll your eyes, sure, but you also laugh, also banter, also make things more interesting.

Mingyu stares at you for a moment, something warm settling into his chest.

By the end of the dinner, he’s forgotten why he was so upset in the first place.

▸ S01E09: THE ONE WITH THE HIGH SCHOOL REUNION.

The party is already in full swing by the time you and Mingyu arrive.

It’s the usual reunion scene— too many people packed into a house slightly too small for the occasion, music loud enough to drown out the conversations but not enough to stop them altogether, and a lingering smell of something fried mixed with overpriced cologne.

You’re still annoyed. Annoyed because Mingyu had, with all the grace of a wrecking ball, insulted your outfit on the drive here. Something about how your skirt was too short and your heels were impractical for a house party. As if he was some kind of fashion authority.

“Thanks for the unsolicited advice, asswipe,” you had snapped back, crossing your arms and staring out the window. He only scoffed in response, muttering something about not wanting to be responsible if you tripped and broke your ankle.

Now, hours later, you’re still disgruntled about it. You refuse to think about how, deep down, it had been less about disapproval and more about the way his gaze had lingered.

That would be a problem for another time. Maybe never.

You make your way to the kitchen, eyeing the assortment of drinks lined up on the counter. A bottle of something expensive-looking catches your attention. You grab it, twisting the cap with determination, but it refuses to budge. You try again, gripping it tighter, but all you manage is an embarrassing squeak of effort.

“Seriously?” you mutter under your breath, frustration bubbling up.

Before you can attempt another futile try, a large hand appears in your periphery. The bottle is plucked effortlessly from your grip. In one swift motion, Mingyu twists the cap open like it was nothing. No struggle, no hesitation, no unnecessary flexing. Just pure efficiency.

He doesn’t even smirk. Doesn’t gloat or tease you like you expect him to. He just hands the bottle back to you before turning away as if it had never happened.

You blink. Then blink again.

The room suddenly feels a little warmer. Must be the alcohol in the air. Or the heater. Or—

Oh, God.

With absolute horror, you realize Mingyu was kind of hot for that.

You take a generous swig from the bottle, hoping it burns away whatever ridiculous thought just took root in your brain. Unfortunately, the warmth spreading through you has absolutely nothing to do with the alcohol.

You take another sip, then another, letting the burn of the drink ground you. It’s fine. It’s whatever. You’ll drink and have fun and not think about the way Mingyu’s hand had so easily dwarfed yours when he took the bottle from you.

You wander back toward the living room, where clusters of people are chatting, laughing, reliving the glory days. Just as you settle into the buzz of the atmosphere, you catch Mingyu’s name being thrown around in a conversation nearby. You don’t mean to eavesdrop— okay, maybe you do a little— but something about the way his voice carries through the room makes you pause.

“Not drinking tonight?” You hear someone ask him.

“Nah,” Mingyu replies, nonchalant. “I’m her designated driver.”

Your stomach does a weird little flip.

Well, then.

If that’s the case, if Mingyu’s already consigned himself to the role of responsibility, then there’s absolutely no reason for you to hold back.

You tilt your head back, take another sip. Then another.

A warmth spreads through your limbs, but whether it’s from the alcohol or the fact that you now have free rein to drink without consequence, you’re not sure. You tell yourself it’s definitely the alcohol, though. Because the alternative— the thought that it has anything to do with Mingyu— just isn’t an option. Not tonight.

The alcohol has settled comfortably in your veins by the time the dancing starts. The living room has been cleared to make space, furniture pushed against the walls. Now the music pulses louder, the bass vibrating through the floor.

You’re laughing with old friends, moving with the rhythm, when you feel a sharp tug at the hem of your skirt.

You whirl around, already prepared to snap at whoever dared, only to come face-to-face with Mingyu. He’s standing there, a frown on his face. He leans in slightly, voice low but clear over the music. “I told you it was too short.”

You blink at him, thrown off by the way his fingers had just been on you, tugging fabric downward like it was some sort of personal mission. Something fizzes beneath your skin, something that has nothing to do with the alcohol and everything to do with the fact that Mingyu— annoying, overbearing Kim Mingyu— is looking at you like that.

It’d been such a boyfriend move. You force yourself not to dwell on it.

You don’t know what compels you, but maybe you’re just tipsy enough. Maybe you want to make him suffer.

You suddenly reach out, looping your arms around Mingyu’s neck. His whole body goes stiff, his eyes widening in immediate suspicion.

“Dance with me,” you say, tilting your head, voice syrupy with tipsiness and mischief.

Mingyu shakes his head, already taking a step back. “Absolutely not.”

You grin and pull him right back in. “You sure? ‘Cause I know things, Kim. Lots of things.”

“Are you blackmailing me?” he squeaks.

You sway closer, pretending to consider it. “It’s more of a… strategic incentive.”

A battle wars in his eyes. But then, with a low ‘tch’ and a mutter of “You’re insufferable,” Mingyu lets your grip pull him in.

The moment is bizarre.

His hands find their place— one cautiously at your waist, the other hovering near your shoulder like he’s afraid to touch too much. You move to the beat, feeling the heat of him through his shirt, the solid press of his frame against yours.

It’s ridiculous. It’s stupid.

It’s also the best decision you’ve made all night.

The song shifts into something heavier, the bass thrumming through your chest, the kind of music meant for bad decisions and blurred memories. Mingyu hasn’t bolted yet, which is a miracle in itself. He’s actually keeping up with you, moving in sync, matching your rhythm with ease. It’s unexpected, the way he doesn’t seem like he hates this, like he’s maybe— God forbid— having fun.

You scoff at the thought, but the amusement lingers. The insults come easy, natural, tossed between the two of you like a ball neither wants to drop.

“You dance like an old man,” you tease, voice warm with liquor.

“And you dance like you’re trying to summon a demon,” he shoots back.

You laugh, tilting your head up to meet his eyes. Maybe it’s the dim lighting or maybe it’s the alcohol, but Mingyu’s gaze doesn’t seem as sharp as it usually does. His grip on your waist is firm but not forceful, like he’s not entirely opposed to being here, to this, to you.

It’s too easy to forget that this is Mingyu, that this is the same guy who has made a sport out of getting under your skin. Because right now, he’s just a tall, ridiculously handsome man who happens to be an unfairly good dancer.

The thought sneaks up on you before you can fight it. If he wasn’t Mingyu...

The words slip out before you register them. “I wonder what I’d do if you weren’t you.”

Mingyu’s eyebrows raise. “What?” His voice is a little rough around the edges, and far too sober.

Shit.

You blink rapidly, force a laugh, and shake your head as if you can brush it off. “Nothing. Ignore me.”

But the thing is— you can’t ignore it.

Because somewhere, in the back of your mind, you’re already picturing it. A world where Mingyu isn’t Mingyu, where he’s just some stranger with sharp eyes and broad shoulders who smells good and dances well, who looks at you like he’s actually seeing you.

A world where you wouldn’t have to fight every instinct telling you to lean in.

Eventually, your feet start to protest. You’re wearing heels that were never meant for this much standing, much less dancing. You haven’t even said anything about it, but your expression must be reflecting your discomfort and your frustration. Mingyu sighs like you’ve personally ruined his night before crouching down and unlacing his sneakers.

“What are you doing?” you ask laughingly as he kicks them off, right there on the fringes of the dance floor.

“Giving you my shoes,” he says, like it’s obvious, shoving them toward you. “I’m not carrying you to the car.”

You snort. “You’d probably drop me anyway.”

“Exactly.” He watches as you swap out your heels for his much-too-big sneakers, which make you feel ridiculous but are, admittedly, a godsend.

You don’t realize until you’re halfway to the car that Mingyu is walking in only his socks, completely unbothered. You slide into the passenger seat, tipsy and warm and just self-aware enough to realize something terrible is happening.

You are warming up to Mingyu.

It hits you like a truck.

Mingyu, your mortal enemy. Mingyu, who has annoyed you since childhood. Mingyu, who insults your outfits and steals your food and opens your drinks without a second thought.

Your head lolls against the seat as you stare at him in horror, combing through the memories, trying to pinpoint exactly when this started going wrong.

By the time he pulls up in front of your house, you’ve made a decision.

You need to stop being too nice to him.

▸ S01E10: THE ONE WITH THE TEAM LUNCH.

Mingyu is halfway through his second helping of rice when he hears it— the unmistakable sound of his personal hell approaching.

He doesn’t even have to look up to know it’s you. The dramatic click of your heels, the way the conversation at the cafeteria table shifts just slightly, the exasperated sigh that escapes Wonwoo before you even arrive.

And then, as expected—

“Kim.”

Mingyu exhales sharply through his nose. He doesn’t know what you want, but if the past few weeks have been anything to go by, it’s nothing good. Ever since the high school reunion, you’ve been nothing short of a menace.

He still doesn’t know what changed that night, but suddenly, you’ve taken it upon yourself to be the most irksome person in his life. There was the time you texted him an obnoxious amount of links to ugly sneakers after he’d lent you his at the party. The time you “accidentally” swapped his shampoo for some floral-scented one that lingered in his hair for days. The time you sent him a video of him losing his last match, edited with clown music in the background.

He finally looks up from his food, expression already set in a scowl. You’re standing at the edge of their table, arms crossed, a shit-eating grin plastered on your face. Seungcheol, Vernon, and Wonwoo all look between the two of you like they’re watching a horror movie unfold in real-time.

“What do you want?” Mingyu asks, voice flat.

You feign offense, placing a hand over your chest. “Can’t I just stop by to say hello?”

“No.”

Vernon snorts, covering his mouth with his hand. Seungcheol nudges him under the table, but he’s grinning, too.

“You wound me, Kim.” You pull out the chair beside him and sit down like you belong there. “But fine, I do need something.”

Mingyu rolls his eyes, shoving another bite of food into his mouth before jerking his chin at you. “Then spit it out already.”

“I need a favor.”

Mingyu groans. “No. Absolutely not.”

“You don’t even know what it is yet!”

“I don’t need to know what it is.” He glares at you. “It’s a no.”

Wonwoo sighs, setting his chopsticks down. “Just let her talk, Mingyu. We’d like to finish our meal in peace.”

Mingyu gestures wildly. “I would like to finish my meal in peace!”

You pat his shoulder condescendingly. “This is more important than your third bowl of rice.”

He swats your hand away. “It’s my second bowl—”

“Not the point,” you cut in. “Listen, I just need—”

Mingyu groans again, slumping back in his chair, already regretting every choice that led to this moment. He knows, deep in his soul, that whatever you’re about to ask is going to be something ridiculous.

And yet, for some godforsaken reason, he doesn’t immediately tell you to leave.

“I need help moving some furniture.”

Mingyu blinks. “That’s it?”

“Yes, that’s it,” you deadpan. “Are you going to help or not?”

He stares at you. It’s one of those things that’d be a given for anybody else. Mingyu was the type of friend who would drive someone to the airport, would help someone move, would cook if someone was sick. Those were things he’d do for someone he was friends with— something the two of you were decisively not.

“And why, exactly, would I do that?” he challenges.

“Because you owe me?”

He lets out a laugh. “I owe you?”

“Yes, for—” you flounder for a reason, “—for existing, Kim Mingyu. Do you know how exhausting that is?”

Unconvincing to a fault. Mingyu is half-tempted to call you out for being a spoiled brat, but he’s not interested in escalating this argument in front of his team.

“Not my problem,” he settles on saying.

“You’re the fucking worst.”

“And yet, here you are.”

The two of you go back and forth like that, the jabs mostly inoffensive and subjective. Mingyu is vaguely aware of Seungcheol pinching his nose like he’s nursing a headache, Vernon sipping his drink as if watching a spectacle, and Wonwoo calmly chewing his food, unfazed.

Finally, Seungcheol decides he’s had enough.

“Both of you,” he interjects, voice firm. “Can you stop fighting for five minutes?”

To Mingyu’s shock, you actually fall silent. You roll your eyes but begrudgingly listen, arms still tightly crossed.

Mingyu scoffs. “Oh, so you can listen to people,” he mutters. “Didn’t know you were capable of being nice.”

Your head snaps toward him. “I am capable of being nice. Just not to you.”

“Right, because you’re a little devil sent from hell just to ruin my life.”

“Your life was already in shambles before I showed up. Don’t blame me.”

The bickering immediately picks back up, much to the dismay of Mingyu’s teammates. Vernon exhales dramatically. “Mamma mia,” he sing-songs jokingly to Wonwoo, “here we go again.”

You suddenly reach out, snatch a piece of Mingyu’s pork right off his plate, and pop it into your mouth as you ready to leave. His jaw drops; he’s stolen your food a fair amount, but you’ve never done it to him. “Hey—”

You’re already turning on your heel and walking away, not sparing him another glance. “Thanks for absolutely nothing,” you chirp.

Mingyu watches, speechless at the petulant display.

“Did she—” he starts, then stops. His grip tightens around his chopsticks. None of his teammates push, all too wary of the dark look that passes over his expression. Seungcheol promptly tries to change the topic.

Mingyu finishes his meal in a foul mood, stabbing at his food with unnecessary force.

He doesn’t understand why you’ve gotten so absurd with him lately. Every interaction with you feels like a new test of patience, like one day you just woke up and decided to amp up all the ways you could make him miserable. He had almost started to believe, for one fleeting second, that maybe, maybe you weren’t that bad.

But no. The night at the reunion was just a fluke— when you’d danced together and he’d privately thought it was something he could get used to.

You were always meant to be his worst nightmare, and he resolves that he’s not waking up any time soon.

▸ S01E11: THE ONE WITH THE REASON.

The joint family meal is as lively as ever, voices overlapping in conversation, laughter ringing between bites of food. You, as always, have taken it upon yourself to make Mingyu’s life difficult today.

“Wow, even you managed to show up on time for once,” you remark as he slides into the seat across from you. “Did hell freeze over?”

Mingyu shoots you a deadpan look, clearly not in the mood for your antics. “Not today, Satan.”

You grin, but there’s something off about him. He doesn’t come back with anything more biting, doesn’t engage in the usual back-and-forth. His shoulders are tense, and there’s a blankness to his gaze that makes you wonder.

Your mother places a generous serving of food onto your plate, and you idly push some rice around with your chopsticks, gaze flickering toward him again. “What, got scolded for being too slow on the field?”

Mingyu finally looks at you properly. His frustration is clear. “Can you not today?” His voice is quieter than you expect, worn at the edges. “I had a shitty day at training, and I really don’t have the energy for you right now.”

The words catch you off guard. You could leave it at that, let him have his peace for once. A part of you— one you stubbornly refuse to acknowledge— almost wants to ask why, wants to pry into what’s bothering him and offer something resembling comfort.

Instead, you shove that impulse down. Whatever this is, whatever softening that night at the reunion did to you, needs to be stomped out immediately.

So you double down.

You spear a piece of your meat a little too forcefully. “Right, because I’m the problem here. You always find a way to suck at things all on your own.”

Mingyu’s expression shutters. For the first time ever— in all of your interactions with him— you feel something unpleasant coil in your stomach. He shakes his head and then goes back to eating without another word.

There’s a small, screeching voice in the back of your head that wants to demand an explanation. Not for Mingyu’s dismal mood, no, but for that flicker of disappointment that’d passed his face when he shook his head.

Why would he be disappointed over your cruelty? Why would he expect anything else from you?

The rest of the meal passes without his usual jabs in return, and you tell yourself that’s a victory. It feels like anything but.

As dessert is doled out, your mother calls out to the pair of you. “You two, go somewhere else for a while. The adults need to discuss business.”

You open your mouth to protest. You’re both adults already; surely you and Mingyu could sit in, rather than be forced into yet another awkward situation neither of you can run from.

But Mingyu is already pushing his chair back with a grumbled “fine.” The look your mother shoots you indicates that this is not about to be up for debate. You follow Mingyu out, both of you stepping into the cool evening air.

The restaurant’s outdoor area has an old playground— rusting swing sets, a chipped slide, and monkey bars that have seen better days. You walk ahead and hop onto a swing, the chains creaking slightly as you push off the ground.

Mingyu stands nearby, watching you for a moment. “Didn’t take you for the type to get sentimental,” he snorts, and that slight edge in his tone gives you just a bit of hope that he doesn’t completely despise you.

“I’m not. I just need somewhere to sit that’s far away from you,” you say matter-of-factly.

He huffs but doesn’t argue. Instead, he heads towards the monkey bars. He grips one, testing his weight against the metal. “Remember when you got stuck on these in second grade?” he asks as he free-hangs.

“I wasn’t stuck,” you sniffle in protest. “I was strategizing.”

Mingyu lets out a bark of laughter. “Strategizing how to fall on your ass?”

You drag the tip of your shoe against the dirt, narrowing your eyes. “If I recall correctly, you weren’t any help. You just laughed at me until my dad had to come pull me down.”

“Hey, in my defense, it was funny.” He swings himself onto the lowest bar, legs dangling. “You had snot running down your face and everything.”

You lunge half-heartedly to kick at his shin, but he pulls his leg away just in time. There’s a beat of silence, the air filled with the distant chatter of your families inside. It’s strange, this reminiscing. The usual bite to your exchanges is still there, but it’s smooth around the edges, tinged with something dangerously close to fondness.

Mingyu exhales, gaze fixed on some nondescript point in the distance. You think he’s gearing up for his next jab about something. Probably your embarrassing high school days, or that one summer vacation you hate talking about. Instead—

“Why aren’t we friends?” he asks. His voice is quiet, thoughtful.

You blink. The question is so absurd it momentarily stuns you. “What?”

“I mean,” he shifts, “we’ve known each other our whole lives. Shouldn’t we— I don’t know— be close?”

If you didn’t know any better, you’d think he was teasing. But the question doesn’t sound rhetorical, and he seems almost wistful.

You hate it.

You hate him.

Your chest tightens, unbidden memories surfacing. There were plenty of reasons. The bickering, the competition. But at the core of it, there was one moment. One day that cemented everything in place, whether Mingyu realized it or not.

You were seven. It was summer, the sun blazing high as the neighborhood kids gathered for a game of soccer. Everyone had been split into teams, and you had waited, jittery with anticipation, as Mingyu— the fastest, the strongest, the boy everyone wanted to follow— started picking players.

One by one, he called out names, grinning as kids ran to his side. You had stood there, heart pounding, willing him to say your name next. You were family friends! Sure, you were a girl, but surely Mingyu could see how fast and strong you were, too.

In the end, Mingyu had picked everyone but you. When there was no one left, you had been shuffled onto the other team by default. You still remembered the sting of it. The two of you were already acquainted, and yet he hadn’t even seen you as an option.

It was stupid. It was petty. And yet, that wound had never quite healed. Everything that came after was just a domino effect after that.

If you were a little meaner to Mingyu than you had to be, if you were much more curt and snappy with him than you were with anyone else? It all came back to that. That moment where Mingyu hadn’t seen you— worse.

He had pretended not to.

You swallow, dragging yourself back to the present. Mingyu is watching you expectantly, waiting for an answer.

“Because you didn’t pick me,” you say at last, the words slipping out before you can stop them. “That one time.”

Mingyu’s brows knit together. “What?” he asks, and it feels like a punch in the gut.

The look of confusion on Mingyu’s face— you don’t know if it’s a curse or a blessing. He doesn’t remember. Of course he doesn’t. Why would he?

But you do. You remember, and you hold on to it for the lack of a better thing to hold on to.

Hating Mingyu is easy. Seeing him in any other light takes work, and you’re tired of trying to figure that out.

Mingyu opens his mouth. For a second, it looks like he might protest. His brows pull together, his lips part, and there’s something foreign in his expression— something that makes your stomach twist uncomfortably. But before he can say anything, you hear your mother beckoning for you from the restaurant.

You stand up and brush nonexistent dust off your clothes. “Well, that’s my cue,” you say airily, praying to any higher power at all that Mingyu won’t call out the way your voice shakes. Just a little bit.

Instead, he remains by the monkey bars, watching you with an impassive look on his face. You can feel the weight of his stare even as you turn away.

You hesitate for half a second before glancing back at him. “We’re probably better off this way,” you say, because you always have to have the last word.

His grip tightens around the swing’s chains, knuckles going white. There’s a pause.

Then, finally, he nods. A jerky, forced thing.

“Yeah,” he says, voice strangely even. “Probably.”

You don’t acknowledge the way the word sits heavy between you, don’t let yourself linger on the way it sounds more like reluctant acceptance than agreement. Instead, you pretend not to hear it at all, turning on your heel and walking back toward the restaurant.

Hating Mingyu is easy. It’s all you’re good for. As you leave him standing alone, you hope it feels a little bit like that day in your childhood— when you’d been the name he hadn’t called.

▸ S01E12: THE ONE WITH THE SMILE.

Mingyu doesn’t get it.

He’s been off his game for days.

It’s not an injury. It’s not exhaustion. He’s been training the same way, eating the same meals, sleeping the same hours. And yet his shots don’t land the same. His passes are sloppy. He misses easy blocks he could have made blindfolded.

It pisses him off.

The ball soars past him yet again, hitting the back of the net with a dull thud. Vernon cheers and Wonwoo does a victory lap. Mingyu just stands there, hands on his hips, jaw locked tight. His fingers twitch at his sides, itching to punch the goalpost out of sheer frustration.

Seungcheol, ever the captain, jogs over. “That’s enough,” he barks, voice edged with authority.

Mingyu bites the inside of his cheek. He knows what’s coming for him, and yet he still tries to protest. “One more round.”

“No. You’re done.” Seungcheol’s tone leaves no room for argument. “Go home. Figure out whatever’s got you playing like shit and come back when your head’s on straight.”

Mingyu has to bite back the retort that he’s not playing like shit, that he does have his head on straight. The numbers don’t lie. There’s no talking his way out of this one. With a sharp exhale, he yanks off his gloves and stalks off the field, muttering curses under his breath.

As he grabs his bag and heads toward the exit, he runs through every possible reason for his sudden slump.

Training? No. Diet? No. Stress? Maybe, but it’s never affected him like this before.

You?

You’ve been distant ever since that night at the playground. The constant quips, the snarky remarks, the way you always seemed to find a reason to pester him— it’s all dialed down to nearly nothing.

It should be a relief. He should be thriving with all this newfound peace and quiet.

Instead, he’s a goddamn mess.

Mingyu kicks a stray rock on the pavement as he walks to his car. He doesn’t get it. He doesn’t get you. And worse, he doesn’t get why it bothers him so damn much.

It’s entirely by accident, how he ends up spotting you. Maybe it’s some form of twisted divine intervention, some cruel twist of fate.

He’s at a red light, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel, when he happens to glance to the side. And there you are, ripped right out of his scrambled brain, standing outside a café with a group of friends.

You’re wearing one of those preppy outfits he always mocks you for, all pristine pleats and crisp collars. It’s the kind of thing he’d usually say makes you look like you stepped straight out of some rich kid catalog. He tucks away the insult in his mind, filed for the next time you annoy him.

But then—

You’re laughing. Your head tilts back; your eyes crinkle at the corners. The street lights catch on the soft highlights in your hair, the gentle slope of your nose, the flush on your cheeks from whatever ridiculous joke was just told.

You look light. At ease. So effortlessly happy.

Mingyu watches, unseen, his grip tightening on the steering wheel.

He’s seen you smirk, seen you grin in that infuriating, self-satisfied way when you get under his skin. He’s seen you scoff, roll your eyes, pout. But he doesn’t think he’s ever seen you smile like that in front of him.

And what’s worse—

Why does he want it?

He presses on the gas pedal once the light turns green. By the time he pulls into his parking lot, his mind is still spinning. He kills the engine but doesn’t move, just sits there, glaring at the wall in front of him.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, he sees it. A stray hair tie, wedged between the seats. One of yours.

He stares at it, his brain stalling. The last time you sat in his passenger seat… when was that? His mind scrambles, trying to pinpoint the moment, but he comes up empty. The fact that he doesn’t know unsettles him more than it should.

Something else comes, too. A stupid, fleeting burst of happiness. An excuse to message you, to return it, to say something anything just to get you talking to him again.

The realization slams into him all at once.

His frustration. His inability to focus. The way your absence has been gnawing at him. The way your happiness without him made his chest ache.

Mingyu slumps forward in his seat, his forehead resting against his steering wheel.

Not even the screeching sound of his horn is able to drag him out of the horrific realization that he’s off his game because he likes you.

He likes you, the one person in the world he shouldn’t. The one person in the world he can’t have.

“Fuuuck,” he grouses, banging his head on the steering wheel so that the beeps come in sporadic bursts. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

He’s fucked.

▸ S01E13: THE ONE WITH THE PLANNING.

You don't know when it started— this weird, drawn-out awkwardness with Mingyu.

It’s not like you’ve stopped arguing. You're still giving him shit for his stupid hair, his dumb socks, his loud chewing habits. But lately, he’s... off. Slower to snap back. Not quite meeting your eyes.

Worst of all? He’s barely even tried to make fun of your outfit today.

It’s part of the Mingyu playbook. Some wisecrack about your clothes, some comment about how you should be running hell in Satan’s place. If he’s feeling particularly inventive, he even deigns to bring your course into it.

Today, though, it’s all painfully polite. Curt answers and absentminded nods. You know you’ve frozen him out since that night on the playground, but you didn’t expect to get the same chill in return.

“So what I’m hearing is,” you say, tapping something into your phone, “you’re fine with anywhere as long as there’s pasta. Are you five?”

Mingyu squints at you like he's struggling to come up with a comeback. He opens his mouth. Closes it. Shrugs.

You narrow your eyes at him. “Wow. Riveting. Have you always been this dull or did I finally break you?”

He laughs, but there's no real bite to it. “I’m just being agreeable,” he offers. Even the snark in that is half-hearted, hesitant. “You should try it some time.”

“Oh, don't get all mature on me now,” you scoff, scrolling through the list of local restaurants your parents emailed. “God forbid you grow a personality overnight and forget how to argue.”

Mingyu mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like “still better than yours.” He seems distracted, for the lack of a better term. The two of you have the unfortunate task of deciding on the next joint family meal’s venue, and he’s been uncharacteristically civil throughout it all.

Somehow, it unnerves you more than when he’s being an insufferable asshole.

“Seriously, are you okay?” you press, a touch of concern making its way into your tone. “You're kinda giving... robot with a mild software glitch."

“Yeah, ‘m fine,” he grumbles. “Just tired."

“Tired or scared I’ll beat you in the battle of wits today?”

“Not scared. Letting you have the spotlight for once.”

“Touching. Very generous.” You know a lost battle when you see one, so you scroll down the list again before turning your phone so he can see it. “Okay, vote: Overpriced fusion place with truffle everything or rustic hipster café that serves lattes with art so complicated it should be in a museum?”

Mingyu squints. “The second one has better lighting.”

“... Lighting?”

He raises his shoulders in a shrug. “For your parents’ photos. You know how your mom gets.”

Something twists in your stomach.

The fact that Mingyu is considering your mother’s happiness, that he knows how she is and he’s not complaining— instead accommodating?

You feel almost grateful, almost admiring, but you shake it off with a dramatic sigh. “Fine. Hipster café it is. Let’s go, then.”

“I’m literally only here because you begged me to come.”

“Yeah, but I begged louder. So I win.”

There it is— the ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. Not quite a comeback. But closer.

It doesn’t quite explain why his ears have turned pink, but that’s a can of worms you decide you’re not ready to open up just yet. Instead, the two of you go to scope the venue, lest your parents call you out for not fulfilling your duty-bound obligation to this godforsaken tradition.

The café is aggressively quaint. All pastel walls and potted plants and menus printed in cursive. A waitress greets you at the door with a bright smile and a clipboard in hand.

“Table for two?”

“Yeah,” Mingyu says.

She glances between the two of you, then beams. “Perfect! You're just in time for our couple’s lunch special. It comes with two entrees, a shared appetizer, and dessert for only half the price.”

For a moment, you wish you could see yourself through the waitress’ eyes. You can’t imagine a single thing that might give off the impression that you and Mingyu were a couple. There’s too much space between the two of you, and the look you two share is enough for you to gleam that he’s equally flabbergasted.

He turns to look back to the unassuming waitress. “Oh, we’re not—”

The world’s most brilliant idea strikes you then. You act on it before you can develop a semblance of shame.

“We'll take it,” you cut in smoothly, linking your arm through Mingyu’s before he can ruin it. You smile sweetly at the waitress, completely ignoring the way Mingyu goes rigid beside you.

As you’re led to a corner table by the window, he leans down to frantically whisper, “What the hell was that?”

“A good deal,” you respond cheerfully. “Unless you want to pay full price just to protect your ego.”

He glares. “You’re unbelievable.”

“You knew that when you got in the car.”

The waitress sets down your menus and tells you she’ll be back shortly for your order. Mingyu slumps in his seat, looking very much like you’ve told him he can never play soccer ever again.

“Cheer up,” you say, nudging his shin under the table. “If you play your cards right, I might even feed you.”

His eyes narrow. "You wouldn’t dare."

Ah, but you would dare. The moment the pasta arrives, you’re already grinning. You twirl the noodles with your fork; he tries to communicate with his gaze that he wants you dead.

“Say ahhh, loverboy,” you sing-song.

“Absolutely not.”

You kick him again. He hisses mid-sip of water. “Just pretend, Mingyu,” you say through the teeth of your smile. “God, have you never faked a relationship for free food before?”

“I have not, actually,” he retorts. “Fuckin’ cheapskate.”

Begrudgingly, he opens his mouth. He at least seems to know that you’re not about to let up. You shove the fork into his mouth; he retaliates by ‘feeding’ you some chicken piccata, though it’s more of him forcing the bite into your mouth even after you’ve protested the presence of peas.

The next half hour is full of increasingly absurd couple behavior. You fake gasp when he offers you water. He pretends to be offended when you steal his garlic bread. You stage-whisper pet names across the table just loud enough for the waitress to hear, coos of baby and sweetheart in between eye rolls and grimaces.

And through it all, there are moments— brief, fleeting— when his eyes linger on yours just a second too long. When his smile is a little too soft. When his hand brushes yours and he doesn’t pull away immediately.

You tell yourself it’s all part of the act.

But maybe that’s not the whole truth.

The meal ends as it should. Mingyu foots the bill, and he does it without complaint. On your way out, the waitress smiles at the two of you like you’re some couple to be revered.

Pride sparks like a flint in your chest. You douse it as quickly as you can manage.

Outside, the sun is bright and the sidewalk smells like coffee and car exhaust. With your joint scoping done, the two of you walk a little slower than usual. You’re unsure why you’re not rushing to get back to the car.

“Well,” you say casually, “you make a convincing boyfriend. Color me shocked.”

Mingyu gives you a flat look. “Glad to know my fake relationship skills impress you.”

“What can I say? Low expectations,” you chirp, then jab him lightly with your elbow. “Now that I think about it— you're pretty single, huh. Why is that, again?”

It’s a jab that you’ve delivered far better in the past. Jokes about him being unable to pull. Remarks of him not knowing the first thing about romance or women.

Today, though, it comes out as a query of genuine curiosity. One you typically might throw at someone you wanted to gauge interest in, and my God, how damning was that?

Mingyu doesn’t make a big deal out of it. He answers your question with frustrating casualness, toying with his car keys as he drags his feet. “Busy. Not looking. The usual.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Lame excuse. Try again.”

“What about you?” he counters, the attempt at evasion only driving you a little more crazy. “Still turning down anyone who doesn’t meet your god-tier standards?”

You tilt your chin up, mock-offended. “Absolutely. Only the best for me.”

“Yeah? What does that even mean?”

It’s obvious. You know the answer to this.

“Someone who’s funny. Smart. A little annoying but not, like, murder-worthy,” you ramble. “Tall, but not weird-tall. Knows how to argue without being a total asshole. Kind to animals. Can cook. Probably has nice hands.”

The words come out easily, too easily. You mean to keep it jokey, casual, but the list tumbles out before you can really filter it. It’s only when you hear it out loud that it hits you.

You know someone like that.

Your mouth goes dry. A beat passes.

You realize, too late, that you've gone quiet. That the silence between you has shifted. It’s not awkward, but it’s charged.

Mingyu bumps your shoulder with his, snapping you out of your reverie. “That’s oddly specific,” he taunts. “Anyone I know?”

You scoff and shove him away. “Shut up.”

From the corner of your eye, you can see him fighting down a teasing grin. You can feel your pulse thudding in your ears, can feel the heat creeping up the back of your neck.

You don’t dare look at him.

You hope Mingyu doesn’t know. You hope he doesn’t realize you just described someone that sounds suspiciously like—

▸ S01E14: THE ONE WITH THE WORST SEVEN MINUTES OF MINGYU’S LIFE.

Mingyu knows better than anyone, just how true the platitude every second counts is.

He plays soccer. Of course he knows the value of a ticking clock, of a last-minute save, of seconds that tick by arduously slow.

The clock has always been his enemy. But, today, it’s his friend.

Every second that ticks by moves the hands on the clock. Every movement on the clock will end this game faster.

He had this coming, really. When Ryujin dared him to kiss a girl— any girl— in the circle, he had known he was being baited. They all wanted him to choose you, to confirm whatever stupid assumptions they’d made about your complicated relationship.

Mingyu lived to defy expectations, so he leaned over and pulled Chaeyoung into his lap, and he kissed her like it meant something. Did his eyes briefly flicker open to check if you were watching? Did he feel some sort of sick, perverse triumph when he saw that you looked annoyed?

He should have known that karma would bite him back fast. You had the tendency to do that— knowing just how to piss him off right back.

It’s been two minutes and thirty-five seconds since you stepped into that goddamn pantry with Yugyeom.

“Seven minutes in heaven,” Jinyoung had teased when the bottle landed on you, giving you free rein to choose anyone.

And Mingyu knew immediately that it wouldn’t be him.

Your high school friend group had jeered and laughed and teased when you reached for Yugyeom. Mingyu was not an inherently violent person, but he wanted so badly, in that moment, to wipe the smug smirk off the other man’s face.

You didn’t even look at Mingyu as you slinked away with Yugyeom.

Mingyu is nursing a new bottle now.

Trying to focus on the game. Trying to ignore the empty spaces in the circle. Someone’s daring something scandalous, a strip tease of some sorts—

You’re wearing his jacket, Mingyu realizes. From the little spat earlier this night when you’d spilled rum down the front of your shirt. Before you could throw a hissy fit, he’d shoved his varsity jacket in your arms and told you to suck it up.

The thought of Yugyeom unbuttoning that piece of clothing— that one thing on your body that might mark you as Mingyu’s, if it mattered at all— has the keeper clenching his beer bottle a little tighter.

It’s been three minutes and twelve seconds. Mingyu doesn’t know why he’s counting it down, but he also doesn’t know how to keep his cool.

His brain keeps supplying him with images of what he might do if he were in Yugyeom’s place.

The realistic answer: You’d sulk, probably. Find a way to blame him for the situation. The two of you would bicker the entire seven minutes and then come out of the secluded pantry in foul moods. Seven minutes in hell, he would say sarcastically, when asked, and you’d flip him off.

Underneath the realistic answer, though, is something that’s close to a fantasy. His hands resting at your sides, his touch warm over your— his— jacket. Your fingers entangled in his hair. The way he'd have to lean down, to tilt his head.

Would you taste like all the alcohol you’d drank that night?

Would you taste like everything he’s ever dreamed of?

Mingyu shakes his head and takes a sip of his beer, his fingers trembling around the bottle. Eunwoo is stripping as part of a dare; Mingyu tries to focus on that, and not on the fact that it’s been five minutes and fifty-two seconds.

Jungkook lets out a loud squeal. The sound pierces through the pre-drunk migraine that Mingyu already feels coming on. The sound—

What would you sound like?

In his arms. Against his mouth. Underneath—

“Fuck,” Mingyu cusses lowly, the word spoken mostly to himself.

He’s drunk. He’s riled up. And you’re just so pretty tonight—

“Oi, lovebirds!” Jinyoung calls out in the direction of the pantry. “Seven minutes are up!”

Mingyu barely registers the sharp ring of the seven-minute alarm going off, or the jabs that everybody else throws out. His gaze is now fixed on the pantry door, the one he has to fight every urge to approach. Every second that ticks past the required mark has his head spinning with thoughts, with ideas that he would rather not dwell on.

Yugyeom emerges first, that smirk of his still in place. You come out right after, looking unruffled as you smooth out the front of your shirt.

You don’t waste a single beat. Your eyes find Mingyu’s face, where he’s poorly concealed just how much more intoxicated he's gotten in your absence.

A corner of your mouth tilts upward in a vicious smile. The action you give him next is so brief, he could have imagined it.

You pucker your lips.

A flying kiss.

Mingyu has never wanted you so badly.

▸ S01E15: THE ONE WITH THE WORST SEVEN MINUTES OF YOUR LIFE.

Seven minutes.

You could do anything in seven minutes.

Say something stupid. Say something brave. Let someone kiss you. Let someone else go.

You step into the pantry and it smells like cinnamon and dust and maybe a little bit of regret. Yugyeom’s behind you, grinning like this is just another game. And maybe to him, it is. A dare. A kiss. A story to laugh about later.

The second the door shuts, the world dulls. Muffled cheers and drunken cackles blur into the walls, and it’s just the two of you in this cramped little time capsule. His hand grazes your arm. Your breath catches, but not for the reason it’s supposed to.

“Hey, pretty,” Yugyeom greets, and there’s some sort of vindication in knowing he actually does think you’re pretty.

This was an evening of unepic proportions, of high school friends coming together for a birthday party and bad decisions. In your head, there’s some small consolation to the fact that there’s not much light in the pantry.

Just the hint of fluorescence flooding through the door crack, reminding you of a loose circle where Mingyu is seated.

The thought of him makes your skin crawl. It’s bad enough that you don’t know how to act around him anymore. But then he went in to make out with Chaeyoung of all fucking people—

“Let’s get on with this, Kim,” you tell Yugyeom, trying to sound convincing, sultry.

Your voice wavers just a bit on the surname. Wrong Kim.

To give Yugyeom some credit, he laughs softly before leaning in. His lips are warm. Kind. And you think, briefly, that he must be good at this. The kind of guy who gets picked in these games a lot. The kind of guy who smiles and means it.

You wonder if you’ll feel anything when he kisses you.

You don’t.

It’s not bad. It’s just not… anything.

You try. You really, really do. Your fingers curl at the front of Yugyeom’s shirt; his own hands dance over your sides. Over the jacket, over Mingyu’s jacket, and you wince because you’re thinking of him, of the way he’d introduced himself to the unfamiliar faces with that winning smile and that nickname of his, the stupid Gyu you never get to call him—

“Mmm,” Yugyeom hums against your lips. He pulls back, eyes still closed, a lazy grin on his face. “Did you just say ‘Gyu’?”

Fuck.

You blink at Yugyeom, your brain slow to catch up. “No, I didn’t,” you sputter.

He opens one eye. “You totally did.”

You could say you said Gyeom. You could simply shut Yugyeom up with a fiercer kiss, maybe a little more action.

But it’s there, out in the open, curling in the space between you two like something dangerous and damaging

The slip wasn’t just a slip. It was your heart showing its cards. A royal fucking flush you can’t even begin to run from.

Your hand falls to your side. Yugyeom steps back.

No annoyance, no dramatics— just something soft in his smile that makes it worse. “You wanna try that again? With the right guy’s name this time?”

You cover your face with your hands. “Yugyeom,” you groan, because while you can’t bring yourself to try making out again, you can at least say the right name. “Please don’t make fun of me.”

“Never,” he chirps. He shifts to lean on one of the pantry’s low shelves, hands tucked in his hoodie. “So. Mingyu, huh?”

You don’t answer right away.

Because what is there to say? That you’ve spent more than half your life wrapped in arguments and almosts and the kind of tension that should’ve burned out by now but hasn’t? That the sound of your name in Mingyu’s mouth makes you want to scream or kiss him or both? That he gave you his stupid jacket and you’re still wearing it like it means something?

“It’s complicated,” you gripe.

Yugyeom cackles. “That’s the most girl-who’s-in-love thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Shut up.”

He doesn’t. “You know he was watching the door like a lovesick puppy, right?”

That shouldn’t make your heart flutter. It does anyway. “He was?” you ask, and you could kick yourself for just how giddy you sound.

It’s as close to a direct confirmation that Yugyeom is going to get. You think that he might be grinning, but it’s not something you can be sure of in the darkness. It’s something you hear instead, bleeding into his words. “Pretty sure he was ready to fight me.”

You sit beside Yugyeom. The shelf creaks. Your hands are cold in your lap, but your face is burning.

“Do you love him?” he asks, and it’s so straightforward you want to laugh.

You don’t say a thing. It’s one of those silence-means-yes moments, one of those things that should go unsaid.

The sun is warm, the sky is blue, and you’re in love with Kim Mingyu.

Despite how much the fact has simmered underneath your skin, it’s something you can’t bring yourself to say out loud. Because it’s not that easy. Because it’s him. Because you know the way he is— impulsive and stubborn and so good at pretending he doesn’t care when really, he cares too much.

And so you don’t answer Yugyeom. The two of you kill the remaining minutes in silence; it’s almost like your friend is letting you sit with the truth, the realization.

After a long moment, he leans in to press a chaste, friendly kiss to the top of your head.

“Whatever it is,” he mumbles into your hair, “he’s one lucky bastard.”

You let out a watery laugh. You hadn’t even realized you were tearing up— the sheer fear of the reality overwhelming you.

Jinyoung’s voice echoes from outside. “Oi, lovebirds! Seven minutes are up!”

“Come on. Gotta act like we had some fun in here,” Yugyeom urges. “You picked me to make him jealous, right? Let’s make it look like that.”

“I owe you my first born child,” you respond, genuinely grateful despite everything.

“Hopefully the one you’ll have with Ming—”

“Let’s not go there.”

He messes with your hair. You rumple up his shirt. It’s all a farce, a show, and Yugyeom is kind enough to play along. He throws you a conspiratorial wink as he steps out, that smirk of his slotting right back on to his barely-swollen lips.

You take a deep breath, and then you follow.

It’s almost like a magnet, how your eyes seek out Mingyu. He looks just a little more drunk; a feat, considering the fact you’ve been gone for only seven minutes.

You can’t help it. Your mouth twitches in a fond grin. The way his gaze is burning into you, the way he’s clutching his beer bottle just a little too tightly?

That might be what compels you. It’s a flicker of an action, a ghost of a tease. You throw him a flying kiss, giggling to yourself when his face flushes a shade of red.

You have never wanted Mingyu so badly.

▸ S01E16: THE ONE WITH THE ‘MISTAKE’.

He doesn't want to be mad.

Truly. Logically. On paper— whatever. Mingyu knows he started it.

He kissed Chaeyoung first. He played the game. He played you. And now here you are, sitting cross-legged on his couch in your usual over-the-top family dinner outfit. Like that one night at the party didn’t end with him counting down seconds that felt like drowning.

You’re humming some song under your breath. You’re so calm, so nonchalant.

Mingyu is not. He stomps and clenches his hands into fists and slams his drawer with more force than necessary.

You glance up from your phone. “Damn,” you say with a low whistler. “Did the closet offend you or something?”

He doesn’t answer. He’s pulling clothes out of his dresser like they all personally insulted him. Button-down, slacks, watch, socks. All too formal for something that’s supposed to be casual, but tonight everything feels like a performance.

He ducks into his room and dresses quickly. By the time he emerges, you’re already standing by the front door. It shoots a momentary panic through him, the thought of you leaving.

But then you’re quipping, “You said we had to leave at seven. It’s 6:55. Just reminding you before you start blaming me for being late.”

“I’m not blaming you,” he grunts, padding across his living room in search of his wallet.

He can see you looking skeptical in his peripheral vision. “Sure feels like it,” you huff.

“Can you not?”

“Can I not what? Breathe in your general direction?”

Mingyu exhales sharply. He should stop. He should apologize. He should not make this worse.

He does.

“Yeah?” His tone drips with derision as he finally shoves his essentials into the pocket of his trousers. “Maybe if you weren’t so good at pretending nothing ever touches you, I wouldn’t have to.”

You laugh; the sound is incredulous, sharp. Offended?

“Right, because clearly you’re the one who’s been suffering,” you jeer. And then, completely out of the left field—

“I forgot how hard it must’ve been for you, kissing Chaeyoung like your life depended on it.”

There’s so much to unpack. The way you’re bringing this whole thing up days after it happened, even after you and Mingyu have just kind of… bristled at each other a lot more. Mingyu wanted to think your patience was just a lot thinner than usual— as was his— but he hadn’t imagined it would be related to that night. Or to Chaeyoung.

It makes his heart, the traitor that it is, practically stop in his chest.

He knows where you’re getting at. He knows what this could mean. He just has to make sure, and it’s in the way he tries to keep up with his rage when he snaps, “What does that have to do—”

“Why didn’t you kiss me?”

And there it is.

The question cuts through everything. Your voice— loud at first, angry— is suddenly small. Wounded.

Mingyu’s head spins.

You wanted him to kiss you.

His mouth opens then closes. Your face is incandescent, burning with shame. He knows this about you, knows you’ve never been able to deny yourself a thing. You’re an open book, a heart-on-the-platter type of girl. As badly as he wants to try and figure out all the signs he might have missed, he’s more concerned with the fact that you’re already trying to take it back.

Your hand is on the door handle. You’re about to make a run for it, Mingyu realizes, and that’s not something he’s going to let happen.

Before you can get too far, his fingers are wrapping around your wrist and tugging you back.

When you look up at him, his expression is contorted into a mix of torment and want. You’re not looking any better yourself; you look caught between desire and fear, like all the years you’ve shared are bearing down on the two of you.

You look as crazy as Mingyu feels.

“I was waiting,” Mingyu breathes, his eyes wide and wild. “I was waiting—”

“For what?” you bite out. “What were you waiting for?”

His sharp response is softened by the desperation edging his tone. “For the perfect moment,” he snaps.

Mingyu tugs you into his space. He’s gentle, still, as he snakes an arm around your waist and pulls you closer until you’re chest to chest. He has to tuck his head to press his forehead against yours, and he can’t breathe.

You’re holding your breath, too, like you’re fighting every instinct to kick up a fuss at how patient he’s being. He has to be. He has to be, or else he’s going to give you everything when the two of you have to meet your families for the night.

His breath ghosts over your lips, which are already parted so beautifully for him.

“But I guess,” he whispers, his heart in his throat, at your feet, in your hands, “my shitty apartment is as good as any for a first kiss, huh?”

Mingyu doesn’t even wait for you to answer.

He closes the distance and presses down into you, enough that you end up taking a step back. When your nails sink into Mingyu’s shoulders to hold yourself steady, he lets out a low hiss against your mouth but refuses to pull away.

He kisses you like he’s thought about doing it for years.

And maybe he has. Maybe it’s always been there— this prospect, this possibility, and he could’ve gone his whole life just wondering what it might be like.

Now that he has it, has you, he doesn’t know if he can go without it.

It might be a mistake. He knows that.

He’s crossed a line you’ve both danced around for too long. There's a part of him— rational and careful— that screams this could ruin everything.

But then you kiss him back.

You kiss him back like you mean it, like you’re angry about all the years wasted not doing this. Like you want to climb into the marrow of him and stay there.

Mingyu doesn’t know how long it lasts. Doesn’t care. Eventually, the space between you pulls taut again, and you're both left staring, dazed, stunned, as if the world has shifted under your feet.

His fingers ghost over his lips. They’re swollen, just like yours, and he knows there’s no going back from this. There’s no way he’ll ever be able to convince himself that you’re some annoying pest instead of the love of his goddamn life.

“We— we should go,” Mingyu says hoarsely, barely above a whisper. It’s all he can manage.

And for once, you don’t fight him.

▸ S01E17: THE ONE WITH THE PROMISE.

The bane of your existence drives you to your family’s monthly dinner in his car with its one working speaker, and a half-eaten protein bar wedged into the cupholder.

You complain about the lack of legroom. He snarks back about your giant tote bag taking up all the space. It’s almost impressive how easily the two of you slip back into the familiar routine of bickering.

If someone were to eavesdrop, they’d never guess you’d made out half an hour ago. That he’d kissed you like you were the only thing keeping him breathing; that you’d kissed him like he had all the answers to the questions you’ve been afraid to ask.

Mingyu parallel parks like an asshole— too far from the curb— and you mutter something under your breath as you slam the door shut behind you.

“You could say thank you,” he says, locking the car.

“Thank you,” you echo. “For the trauma.”

He almost smiles. The sight of him fighting that back reminds you of his lips, how they’d been so soft against yours despite the heated, desperate way he moved.

Your brain is going to be in the gutter the whole evening. You’re sure of it.

Your families are already there at the vouchsafed hipster café when the two of you walk through the door. For a treacherous moment, everything feels like clockwork again. The smell of garlic bread wafts through the air. His mother greets you with a warm hug. His dad already has a story locked and loaded. Your parents give him the same doting affection.

It’s so normal you almost forget what’s changed.

Almost.

Mingyu sits next to you instead of across from you. He offers you the breadbasket first, tops your glass when nobody else is looking.

At one point, you arch a brow at him, suspicious. He says nothing.

It’s all suspicious.

Conversation flows easily enough. Your families are familiar, loud, opinionated. There’s some rapport between you and Mingyu; if your parents notice that it’s not as scathing as usual, they don’t point it out.

Under the table, something changes.

You feel it before you see it. Mingyu’s hand, careful and tentative, resting on your knee. His touch is featherlight, like he’s giving you a chance to move away.

You don’t.

It’s hidden by the table cloth, and you think you might be imagining it until you glance at him.

He’s already looking at you.

His expression is half-agony, half-hope.

And that’s the thing about Kim Mingyu. He’s always been too much and never enough. Too loud, too cocky, too frustrating. Never thoughtful enough, never serious enough, never willing to make the first move until now.

You’re done keeping score. This isn’t a battle of wits, a challenge of who can hold out better. This is a game neither of you will win.

No. This is a game you no longer have to play.

You lace your fingers through his.

Mingyu’s shoulders drop like he’s been holding that breath for years. He squeezes your hand, and you think you could get used to this, to him. You’ll have to talk about it later, to decide; for now, though, the promise of it is more than enough.

You used to think there was no universe in which you and Kim Mingyu could ever get along.

But maybe— just maybe— this one will do.

#mingyu x reader #svt x reader #seventeen x reader #svthub #keopihausnet #mingyu imagines #mingyu fluff #svt imagines #seventeen imagines #svt fluff #seventeen fluff #kim mingyu x reader #(💎) page: svt #(🥡) notebook

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goldfades · 6 months ago

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★ 'cause she's watching him with those eyes / and she's loving him with that body, i just know it / and he's holding her in his arms late, late at night / you know, i wish that i had jessie's girl / i wish that i had jessie's girl / where can i find a woman like that? ───JB⁹

⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 18k (a lot more than i expected...)

⟢ ┈ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | a college student navigates her complicated feelings for her charming yet infuriating neighbor, joe burrow, while dating the seemingly perfect linebacker. after a series of missteps, flirtatious teasing, and an unexpected kiss, she finds herself caught in a whirlwind of tension, confusion, and unexpected sparks, all while trying to avoid the loud, chaotic presence of joe and his ever-constant parade of girls.

⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | unedited (sorry... i got lazy), NSFW (with lots... and lots... AND LOTS of plot), unprotected sex (wrap it before u tap it, kids) praise, teasing, lots of kissing/foreplay, p in v, uhhh.. descriptions of big dick joe??? enemies to lovers, roommates, mentions of drinking/alcohol, cheating (not on reader), joe being an asshole, cocky joe, lots of fighting, heated arguments.

⟢ ┈ 𝐞𝐯'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 | this has been in my drafts for a good 2 months and finally decided to finish it up on the sunday before american thanksgiving! so... yaya! please let me know your thoughts!

The muffled sound of Ja’Marr Chase’s bass-heavy playlist seeps through the thin walls of your apartment, rattling the picture frames you swore you hung up straight last week. The tiny LSU apartment complex, with its peeling beige paint and eternally broken elevator, has its charms—like the way the front door doesn’t lock unless you kick it just right or how the air conditioner only works when it’s below 70 degrees outside.

But Joe Burrow? He’s not one of those charms.

No, Joe Burrow is the bane of your existence, the human equivalent of a pothole on a road you have to take every day. His name alone makes your best friend, Ella, roll her eyes so hard it’s a miracle they don’t get stuck in the back of her head. “Just ignore him,” she says every time you come storming through the door, ranting about whatever fresh annoyance he’s cooked up that day. “He only bothers you because you’re fun to mess with.”

Right. Like that’s supposed to make it better.

Living next door to Joe and Ja’Marr was tolerable at first. Sure, they were loud, occasionally messy, and probably violating a dozen lease terms, but it wasn’t personal. Then, you had one small misunderstanding—okay, so maybe you yelled at Joe for leaving his bike in front of your door after you tripped over it—and now it’s like he’s made it his life’s mission to drive you insane.

Sometimes, it’s harmless: an obnoxious smirk when you cross paths on the way to class or his sarcastic comments about how you always seem to be spilling coffee on your shirt. Other times, it’s borderline infuriating: stealing your parking spot, taking the last box of cinnamon rolls at the grocery store, or claiming the shared apartment complex grill for “official game day business” every single Saturday.

Still, there’s something annoyingly magnetic about him, even when you want to wring his neck. The way his eyes crinkle when he’s laughing at his own jokes. The stupid mop of curls he somehow manages to pull off. The effortless confidence that borders on cocky, though you’d never say it out loud because that’s exactly the kind of thing that would go straight to his head.

Ella always jokes that you two are like an old married couple, constantly bickering but secretly loving it. You disagree. Mostly because Joe already has enough people falling at his feet—like the swarm of girls in purple-and-gold jerseys who show up at the apartment complex every other week, giggling like they’re auditioning for a reality show.

You sigh, brushing a stray crumb off the countertop as Ella flops onto the couch behind you, textbook in hand. And if his stupid grin when he sees you on your balcony later tonight is any indication, he’s already got something planned.

You just don’t know it yet.

The parking lot outside your apartment complex is a war zone at 11 p.m., with far too many cars crammed into a space that was clearly designed with only half the residents in mind. You circle the lot for the third time, your headlights cutting through the dark like a searchlight on some hopeless mission. After eight grueling hours at the campus library helping undergrads figure out why their printers are possessed, your brain feels like oatmeal, and all you want is to collapse into your bed.

But, of course, tonight isn’t going to be that simple.

Because there he is. Joe freaking Burrow.

He’s in his Jeep—windows down, music playing softly, and, naturally, there’s a blonde perched in the passenger seat laughing at something he said. Of course, he found the last available spot. Except—it’s not his spot, because you saw it first. Your blinker’s been on since the beginning of time (or at least the last 30 seconds), and you refuse to back down now.

Your grip tightens on the steering wheel as he slowly starts to reverse into the spot, like he hasn’t noticed your very obvious claim to it. Heart pounding with a mix of exhaustion and indignation, you tap your horn. Just once. Polite, but firm. He stops, glances in his rearview mirror, and then—of course—he smirks.

Oh, hell no.

You roll down your window and lean out. “Hey, Burrow! I was waiting for that spot.”

He leans his elbow casually against the window frame, his curls catching the faint glow of the streetlight. “Were you? Didn’t see your name on it.” His voice is slow, lazy, like he’s got all the time in the world to be a pain in your ass.

You glare at him, barely suppressing the urge to snap. “I was here first.”

“And I started reversing first,” he counters, raising an eyebrow like it’s a debate class and not a parking lot at nearly midnight. The blonde giggles beside him, twirling a strand of hair around her finger. “Just let me have it. You look like you could use the exercise.”

Oh, he’s done it now.

“Excuse me?” Your voice comes out sharper than you intended, but you’re too far gone to care. “I’ve been on my feet for eight hours dealing with entitled freshmen, and if you think I’m about to let you—”

“Alright, alright,” Joe interrupts, hands raised in mock surrender. “Relax, I’m not trying to ruin your night.” He throws the Jeep into drive, and with a dramatic sigh, he pulls away, leaving the spot open for you. But not without one last parting comment. “Don’t scratch the paint when you park. Oh, wait—you’re really close to that pole—”

You park with excessive precision, throwing your car into park before leaning out the window to call after him. “I didn’t ask for your help, Joe!”

His laugh echoes across the parking lot, carefree and infuriating. You slam your door shut a little harder than necessary, adjusting your bag on your shoulder as you trudge toward the building. Finally, peace.

Or so you think.

Because just as you reach the elevator, its ding announcing its arrival, you hear the telltale sound of sneakers scuffing against concrete and—because your luck is absolute trash—Joe freaking Burrow strolls in behind you, Blonde Giggles McGee still glued to his side.

“Hey, neighbor,” he says casually, stepping into the elevator with you like he didn’t just steal and relinquish a parking spot out of sheer pettiness. The blonde gives you a wide, vaguely clueless smile, her gum snapping between her teeth.

You press the button for the third floor with a pointed jab and cross your arms, leaning against the elevator wall as Joe and his date take their sweet time figuring out which floor they’re going to. The door finally slides shut, and the tension in the small space is unbearable.

“So,” the blonde says brightly, flipping her hair over her shoulder, “you guys, like, live here? That’s so fun! Like, neighbors and stuff. Wow.”

Your lips press into a tight smile, trying to avoid eye contact with Joe, who you can feel grinning at you like this is the highlight of his week. “Yep. Fun,” you reply curtly, forcing the word out like it’s laced with acid.

Joe’s shoulders shake slightly, and you realize he’s laughing. He glances at you, and there’s that damn smirk again, like he knows exactly how close you are to losing it. “She’s real talkative tonight,” he says, tilting his head toward you. “Usually, she’s got more to say.”

You turn to him with a withering glare. “Don’t you have something else to do, Burrow?”

Before he can reply, the elevator lurches slightly as it comes to a stop on your floor. You step out quickly, muttering a polite “Good night” that is entirely devoid of warmth. Joe follows, his pace annoyingly casual as he throws one last look over his shoulder.

“See you around, neighbor,” he says, and you can hear the grin in his voice.

You don’t look back.

The smell of cheap ramen hits you the moment you open the door to your apartment. It’s comforting, in a way—familiar, like Ella’s answer to every late-night craving or bad day. She’s in the kitchen, stirring a pot on the stove, barefoot and wearing the oversized LSU sweatshirt you’d bought together during freshman year.

“You’re late,” she says without looking up, her voice light with mock reproach. “Was the library on fire, or did you stop to fight Burrow in the parking lot again?”

You kick off your shoes with a sigh, tossing your bag onto the couch. “Option B. Obviously.”

That gets her attention. She turns, spoon in hand, eyebrows raised. “Seriously? It’s, like, midnight. You two are going to give each other aneurysms before graduation.”

You slump into one of the kitchen chairs, letting your forehead hit the table dramatically. “He stole my parking spot. Had the audacity to smirk about it, too. And then—get this—I got stuck in the elevator with him and some girl who wouldn’t stop talking about how ‘fun’ it is to have neighbors.” You lift your head to glare at Ella, who is now struggling to hold back a laugh. “I’m cursed. That man is my curse.”

Ella snorts, pouring the ramen into two mismatched bowls. “He’s not your curse. He’s just a guy with too much charm and not enough common sense. And clearly, you’re living rent-free in his head, which, honestly, is kind of impressive considering he’s got a playbook in there.”

You accept the bowl she slides across the table, your stomach growling despite your lingering irritation. “I don’t want to live in his head. I want him to stop being so… so Joe all the time.”

Ella sits across from you, propping her chin in her hand with a sly grin. “Are you sure? You seem to spend a lot of time talking about him.”

You glare at her over a mouthful of noodles. “Don’t start.”

But she’s already started, her grin widening. “I’m just saying, it’s giving sexual tension.”

You nearly choke, coughing as you wave her off. “Nope. Absolutely not. There’s no tension. Only irritation. And rage. And an overwhelming desire to see him move to a different apartment complex.”

Ella laughs, leaning back in her chair. “Whatever you say, babe. But for the record, I think you secretly enjoy it.”

You open your mouth to argue, but before you can form a retort, there’s a knock at the door. Both of you freeze, staring at each other like deer caught in headlights.

“You expecting someone?” Ella whispers, her tone suddenly conspiratorial.

“No,” you whisper back, your heart sinking as a horrible suspicion creeps over you.

Ella gestures for you to check, and with a deep, resigned breath, you shuffle to the door, bowl still in hand. You crack it open just enough to see who’s on the other side, and—because the universe apparently hates you—there he is. Joe Burrow, in all his smug, infuriating glory, holding a box of cinnamon rolls.

“Hey, neighbor,” he says, his grin infuriatingly wide. “Figured I owed you something for stealing your spot.”

You stare at him, speechless, for a moment. Then, finally, you manage, “It’s 11:30 at night.”

He shrugs, as if that’s a perfectly reasonable time for a peace offering. “Better late than never, right?”

From behind you, Ella’s voice rings out, barely containing her amusement. “Is that Joe? Invite him in!”

You turn to glare at her, silently vowing revenge, but when you look back at Joe, he’s already stepping inside like he owns the place.

“Nice place,” he says, glancing around before holding up the box. “So… cinnamon roll?”

You sigh, shutting the door behind him. It’s going to be a long night.

Joe leans casually against the counter, still holding the box of cinnamon rolls like he’s been invited to stay for a late-night hangout. You narrow your eyes at him, folding your arms. “So, what’s this about, really? Cinnamon rolls aren’t exactly your style.”

“Wow, judgmental much?” he says with a mock-wounded expression. “What if I just wanted to be neighborly?”

Ella snickers softly behind you, spooning up her ramen as she watches the exchange like it’s prime-time TV.

Joe grins, ignoring your skepticism. “Actually,” he says, setting the box on the counter with a little too much flourish, “I’m out of sugar. You wouldn’t happen to have any, would you?”

You blink at him, incredulous. “Sugar? You came over at almost midnight to borrow sugar?”

“Yup,” he says, popping the “p” for emphasis, completely unbothered by your glare.

Ella, ever the peacemaker—or enabler, depending on the situation—sets her bowl down and gets up to rummage through the cabinets. “We’ve got some,” she says reluctantly, pulling out a small bag. She walks over and places it in Joe’s outstretched hand, but not without narrowing her eyes at him. “You better bring this back, Burrow. Or at least repay us with something better than cinnamon rolls.”

“Noted,” he says with a charming smile, tucking the bag under his arm. He turns to you, his grin softening into something almost teasing. “Thanks, neighbor. You’re a real lifesaver.”

You don’t bother replying, instead stepping aside so he can leave. He makes his way to the door, pausing for a moment. “Oh, and don’t forget to check your parking job in the morning,” he says with a wink before slipping out into the hallway.

The second the door clicks shut, you groan, slumping against the counter. Ella bursts into laughter, practically doubling over as she grabs her bowl again. “You two are ridiculous,” she says between bites.

“I’m moving out,” you mutter, dragging yourself to the couch. “I don’t care if it’s to a cardboard box in the quad. It’ll be quieter than this.”

You think that’s the end of it—Joe’s random sugar-borrowing adventure, Ella’s endless teasing—but of course, you’re wrong. Because a few hours later, just as you’re finally starting to drift off in the tiny bedroom you call your sanctuary, you hear it.

A muffled giggle. A low, rumbling voice you’d recognize anywhere. Then, unmistakably, the rhythmic creak of a bed frame against the wall.

Your eyes snap open, and for a moment, you pray you’re imagining things. Maybe it’s a nightmare—a cruel joke your overtired brain is playing on you. But then you hear it again, louder this time, followed by a very enthusiastic “Oh my God, Joey!”

You groan, grabbing your pillow and pressing it over your ears.

From the other side of the wall, Ella’s muffled voice reaches you through the darkness. “Is that…?”

“Yes,” you hiss, your voice barely audible through the pillow. “It’s him.”

She snorts, and you can hear her shifting in her bed. “Well, at least he’s getting good use out of that sugar.”

You let out a strangled laugh, torn between exhaustion and disbelief. “I swear, if this goes on all night—”

As if on cue, there’s another creak, louder this time, followed by more giggling and exaggerated moaning.

Ella sighs. “Thin walls, huh?”

“Apparently,” you mutter, rolling onto your side and glaring at the wall like it’s personally offended you.

The noises continue—giggles, muffled moans, the occasional thud that makes you wince. You bury your face in your pillow, silently cursing Joe Burrow and his audacity.

It’s going to be a very, very long night.

The next morning comes too soon. Despite the symphony of creaks, giggles, and thuds that plagued the night, you manage to drag yourself out of bed, bleary-eyed and cranky. The coffee pot sputters as you pour yourself a life-saving cup, muttering curses at your neighbor under your breath. Ella, still in her pajamas, watches you from the couch with an amused smirk.

“You look alive,” she teases, spooning cereal into her mouth. “Barely.”

“I hate him,” you say flatly, taking a long sip of coffee.

“Sure you do,” she singsongs.

You don’t dignify her with a response, grabbing your bag and heading out the door.

As luck—or fate—would have it, the universe isn’t done with you yet. Because just as you’re locking your apartment door, you hear the unmistakable sound of high heels clicking down the hallway.

You glance over your shoulder and immediately regret it.

There she is. Last night’s Blonde of the Hour, strutting toward the elevator with a walk of shame so confident it might as well be a victory lap. She’s wearing Joe’s oversized LSU hoodie, paired with last night’s skirt and heels. Her hair is tousled, but she doesn’t seem to care.

And because the universe apparently has a sense of humor, she notices you at the same time you notice her.

“Morning!” she chirps, her voice way too chipper for someone who clearly didn’t sleep much.

You press your lips together to keep from laughing, nodding in acknowledgment. “Morning.”

The two of you step into the elevator together, the silence stretching awkwardly between you. You steal a glance at her from the corner of your eye, wondering if she has any idea that her night of “fun” ruined yours. But then she sighs and adjusts the sleeves of Joe’s hoodie, completely unbothered, and you realize she probably doesn’t care.

The doors slide open to the lobby, and you step out first, your pace brisk as you make a beeline for the exit. But as you push through the glass doors into the bright morning sunlight, you nearly collide with none other than Joe Burrow himself.

He’s leaning against his car, coffee cup in hand, looking far too put together for someone who should be as tired as you. His eyes widen slightly when he sees you, then flick over to the blonde trailing behind.

“Morning, neighbor,” he says, his voice laced with amusement.

“Morning,” you reply dryly, brushing past him toward your car.

But of course, he can’t just let it go. “Sleep well?”

You stop dead in your tracks, turning to glare at him. His smirk is infuriatingly smug, and you can’t tell if he’s genuinely clueless or just messing with you.

“Thin walls,” you say pointedly, raising an eyebrow.

His smirk falters for half a second before he recovers, lifting his coffee cup in a mock toast. “Noted.”

The blonde, oblivious to the tension, giggles. “Joe, you didn’t tell me your neighbors were so fun!”

You resist the urge to roll your eyes, instead unlocking your car with more force than necessary. “Oh, we’re a blast,” you mutter under your breath, sliding into the driver’s seat.

As you pull out of the parking lot, you catch a glimpse of Joe in your rearview mirror, still leaning against his car, watching you leave. There’s a flicker of something in his expression—amusement, maybe, or curiosity—but you don’t have the energy to figure it out.

Later that afternoon, when you’re back in your apartment trying to catch up on work, Ella pops her head into the living room with a mischievous grin.

“Guess who I ran into at the coffee shop?”

You glance up warily. “Who?”

“Joe,” she says, plopping down on the couch. “He said he’s planning a little ‘building mixer’ this weekend. Invited everyone on the floor. Including us.”

You groan, letting your head fall back against the couch. “No. Absolutely not. I am not going to some Burrow-hosted mixer.”

“Oh, come on,” Ella says, nudging you with her foot. “It could be fun. Free food, free drinks… awkward encounters with your mortal enemy…”

You glare at her, but she just laughs. “You’re going,” she says firmly. “I already RSVP’d for us.”

And just like that, you realize your week is about to get a whole lot more complicated.

Saturday night rolls around faster than you’d like, and with it comes the so-called “mixer” that Joe Burrow somehow convinced Ella you had to attend. You’d held onto the slim hope that it would be a small, quiet gathering of your neighbors in the building, with maybe some snacks, polite small talk, and an early exit for you.

Instead, you step off the elevator into what can only be described as chaos. The hallway is packed with people, the distant thrum of music vibrating through the walls. Someone’s yelling about finding the keg, and the faint scent of spilled beer and cologne wafts toward you.

“This is not a mixer,” you mutter to Ella as you both navigate your way through the crowd.

Ella, of course, looks thrilled. She’s dolled up in a crop top and high-waisted jeans, her hair and makeup perfectly done. “Relax,” she says, looping her arm through yours. “It’s just a party. Have a drink, let loose. Who knows? You might even have fun.”

You highly doubt that, but before you can argue, she spots Ja’Marr Chase leaning against the doorway to Joe’s apartment and perks up immediately. “I’ll catch up with you later!” she says, already untangling herself from your arm and heading toward him.

“Ella!” you call after her, but she’s too busy tossing a flirty smile Ja’Marr’s way to notice.

Great. Now you’re alone in the middle of a party that feels like half of LSU showed up to, surrounded by strangers and sticky floors. You push your way toward the kitchen, hoping to grab a drink and then find a corner to blend into until Ella decides it’s time to leave.

But, because the universe apparently loves messing with you, you hear his voice before you see him.

“Well, well, look who decided to show up.”

You groan internally and turn to see Joe leaning against the counter, a Solo cup in hand and that ever-present smirk on his face. He’s dressed casually in a fitted t-shirt and jeans, but somehow still manages to look like he owns the place—which, technically, he does.

“I’m only here because Ella dragged me,” you say, crossing your arms. “Don’t get any ideas.”

Joe chuckles, taking a sip of his drink. “Come on, admit it. You’re having the time of your life.”

“Yeah, sure,” you deadpan. “Sticky floors and loud music are exactly my idea of fun.”

He grins, clearly enjoying your irritation. “You know, if you wanted to hang out with me so badly, you could’ve just asked. No need to pretend Ella dragged you here.”

“I—” You stop yourself, realizing there’s no point in arguing. It’s exactly what he wants. Instead, you grab a bottle of water from the counter and turn to leave.

“Hey, hold up,” he says, stepping in front of you. “You’re not just gonna drink water all night, are you?”

“Yes, Joe, I am,” you say, trying to sidestep him, but he moves to block you.

“At least let me get you a real drink,” he says, gesturing toward the makeshift bar someone set up on the other side of the room. “I make a mean rum and Coke.”

“I’m fine, thanks.”

“Suit yourself,” he says, stepping aside, but not before adding, “But you’re missing out. My bartending skills are unmatched.”

You roll your eyes and head toward the living room, finding a spot near the wall where you can observe without being dragged into the chaos. You sip your water and watch as Joe works the room, effortlessly charming everyone he talks to.

About an hour later, you’re starting to regret not leaving when Ella abandoned you. You’ve been stuck making awkward small talk with strangers, and the music is only getting louder.

Then Ella appears out of nowhere, grabbing your arm with a giggle. “Come with me,” she says, pulling you toward the corner where Joe and some of his teammates are lounging on a worn-out sectional.

“Why?” you ask, resisting her tug.

“Because Ja’Marr wants to introduce me to his friends, and I don’t want to go alone!”

You sigh, reluctantly following her over. Ja’Marr greets Ella with a grin, and she practically melts under his attention. You, on the other hand, find yourself stuck sitting next to Joe, who looks far too pleased about the arrangement.

“Miss me already?” he asks, leaning closer so you can hear him over the music.

“Not even a little,” you reply, glaring at him.

He chuckles, clearly unbothered. “You’re really bad at hiding how much you enjoy my company, you know that?”

You open your mouth to retort, but before you can, one of his teammates interrupts. “Yo, Burrow, who’s this?”

“This,” Joe says, gesturing toward you with a dramatic flourish, “is my lovely neighbor.”

“Neighbor, huh?” the guy says, raising an eyebrow. “You two seem… close.”

You snort. “Not even remotely.”

Joe grins, slinging an arm over the back of the couch behind you. “Don’t listen to her,” he says. “She’s just shy.”

You shoot him a withering look, but he only laughs, clearly enjoying himself.

As the night drags on, Joe makes it his personal mission to annoy you. Every time you try to leave, he finds a way to pull you back into the conversation, teasing you relentlessly. His teammates, to their credit, seem amused by the dynamic, occasionally chiming in with their own jokes.

By the time Ella finally decides she’s ready to leave, you’re exhausted—physically and emotionally. You practically sprint for the door, eager to escape Joe’s smirk and the endless teasing.

As you step into the hallway, he calls after you, “See you around, neighbor!”

You don’t bother responding, instead dragging Ella toward the elevator. But as you press the button for your floor, you can’t help but feel like you haven’t seen the last of Joe Burrow tonight—or any night, for that matter.

The next week at LSU passes like any other, but somehow, Joe Burrow has managed to worm his way into your daily routine. It starts small—running into him at the mailboxes, hearing his muffled laughter through the thin walls at ungodly hours, and the occasional “good morning, neighbor!” shouted across the courtyard when you’re clearly not in the mood.

It’s maddening, really, the way he seems to delight in being everywhere you don’t want him to be. And yet, despite your annoyance, you can’t deny that his presence makes life just a little more… interesting.

FRIDAY NIGHT

Ella bursts through the apartment door, her face lit up with excitement. You’re sprawled on the couch, flipping through lecture notes and wishing the week would end already.

“Guess what!” she exclaims, tossing her bag onto the counter.

“Let me guess,” you say dryly. “Ja’Marr invited you to another party?”

“Close,” she says, wiggling her eyebrows. “Ja’Marr and Joe are throwing a tailgate tomorrow before the game, and we’re invited.”

You groan, already dreading the idea of spending yet another afternoon dodging Joe’s incessant teasing. “I’m busy,” you lie.

“You’re coming,” Ella insists, plopping down next to you. “It’s practically a campus tradition, and besides, you could use a little fun.”

“Fun,” you repeat, raising an eyebrow. “Is that what we’re calling being forced to socialize with half of LSU now?”

Ella rolls her eyes. “Come on, it’ll be fun. Food, drinks, and—” she grins mischievously—“a chance to hang out with your favorite quarterback.”

You glare at her. “Joe Burrow is not my favorite anything.”

“Uh-huh,” she says, clearly not believing you. “Wear something cute. We’re leaving at noon.”

SATURDAY AFTERNOON

The tailgate is, unsurprisingly, a spectacle. Rows of tents stretch across the field, decked out in purple and gold, with grills smoking and music blasting. Students and alumni alike mill about, laughing and chatting as they gear up for the game.

You follow Ella through the crowd, clutching a plastic cup of soda and trying to blend in. She, of course, makes a beeline for Ja’Marr, who’s manning the grill with an ease that suggests he’s done this a thousand times.

And where there’s Ja’Marr, there’s Joe.

He spots you almost immediately, his trademark smirk spreading across his face as he waves you over. “Hey, neighbor! Glad you could make it.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you mutter, but he’s already stepping closer, his easy confidence making it impossible to ignore him.

“What, no hug?” he teases, holding his arms out dramatically.

“Not in this lifetime,” you reply, sidestepping him.

Ella, now fully engrossed in a conversation with Ja’Marr, leaves you to fend for yourself. You glance around, debating whether to make a run for it, but Joe blocks your path, clearly amused by your discomfort.

“You’re really bad at this whole socializing thing, aren’t you?” he says, leaning casually against the nearest table.

“Maybe I just don’t enjoy your company,” you retort, taking a sip of your drink.

He grins. “If that were true, you wouldn’t be here.”

Before you can respond, one of his teammates calls his name, distracting him long enough for you to slip away. You find a quieter spot near the edge of the field, letting the noise of the crowd fade into the background.

But, of course, Joe finds you again.

“Thought you’d try to escape, huh?” he says, appearing at your side like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“I wasn’t escaping,” you lie, crossing your arms.

“Sure you weren’t.” He pauses, glancing at the crowd. “Not a fan of tailgates?”

“Not a fan of crowds,” you admit.

He nods, surprisingly serious for once. “Fair enough. They’re not for everyone.”

You glance at him, caught off guard by the genuine tone in his voice. It’s a rare moment of sincerity from someone who seems to live for getting under your skin.

And then, just as quickly, the moment passes.

“Still,” he says, his smirk returning, “you’ve got to admit, the food’s pretty good. Ja’Marr’s burgers? Best on campus.”

The party stretched well into the night, turning the once-bustling tailgate into a dimly lit, hazy scene of music, laughter, and scattered conversations. You’d almost forgotten how much you hated these kinds of events. The air was warm, the smell of grilled food and spilled beer thick, but for once, you weren’t faking a smile just to survive.

Instead, you were leaning against a folding chair near the makeshift DJ booth, chatting with a guy named Wes. He was a linebacker for LSU, though, by his own admission, mostly a benchwarmer. Shy, soft-spoken, and refreshingly normal, Wes wasn’t at all what you expected to find at a party like this.

“You’re telling me you’ve never been to Mike’s cage?” he asked, his voice slightly raised to be heard over the music.

You laughed. “I don’t know, it just never seemed like a big deal to me. It’s a tiger.”

His eyes widened in mock offense. “It’s not just a tiger. It’s our tiger.”

“Okay, okay, maybe I’ll check it out sometime,” you said, grinning at his enthusiasm.

From the corner of your eye, you caught movement, and instinctively, you glanced over. There, leaning against the bar table, was Joe.

His usual smirk was nowhere to be seen. Instead, his jaw was tight, and his eyes were fixed on you and Wes.

The sight of his uncharacteristically cold expression sent a jolt through you. Was he annoyed? No, that didn’t make sense. He didn’t care about you, not really.

Wes was saying something about the tiger habitat, but your attention flickered back to Joe. His knuckles whitened around the edge of his red Solo cup, and he seemed to be muttering something to Ja’Marr, who only shrugged in response.

“Everything okay?” Wes asked, his brow furrowed as he followed your gaze.

You blinked, forcing yourself to refocus. “Yeah, sorry. What were you saying?”

Joe, however, was impossible to ignore. At one point, he stormed past your little corner of the party, brushing close enough that you could feel the heat of his arm against yours.

Wes had just finished telling a story about his first LSU practice, his nervous laughter making you smile, when Joe’s voice cut through the conversation like a jagged knife.

“Nice to see you making friends,” he said, his tone just sharp enough to raise the hairs on your neck.

You turned to find Joe standing a few feet away, his trademark smirk forced and strained. He wasn’t looking at you but at Wes, his gaze heavy with something you couldn’t quite place.

“Hey, Burrow,” Wes said, his voice even but noticeably quieter.

Joe stepped closer, ignoring you entirely as he clapped Wes on the shoulder. “Wesley Evans, right? Linebacker extraordinaire.” His words were light, almost teasing, but there was a strange undertone to them.

“Uh, yeah,” Wes said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Though ‘extraordinaire’ might be a bit of a stretch.”

Joe chuckled, his laugh cold. “Oh, come on. Don’t sell yourself short. I mean, someone’s got to keep the bench warm, right?”

The group went silent.

You froze, your stomach dropping as the words settled over the conversation like a wet blanket. Wes’s easygoing demeanor faltered for just a moment—just long enough for you to catch the flicker of hurt in his eyes.

But he recovered quickly, letting out a forced laugh. “Yeah, well, someone’s gotta do it.”

“Joe,” Ja’Marr said sharply, stepping forward. “That was uncalled for.”

Joe raised his hands in mock surrender, his smirk faltering. “What? I was just joking.”

“No, you weren’t,” Ja’Marr said, his tone leaving no room for argument.

You stared at Joe, your chest tightening with a mix of anger and confusion. What was his problem? You’d seen him tease people before, but this was something else. This was cruel.

Joe’s eyes finally flicked to yours, and for a brief second, something like regret flashed across his face. But just as quickly, he turned away, muttering, “Whatever,” before stalking off into the crowd.

The group stood in awkward silence, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife.

“I’m sorry about that,” you said softly, turning to Wes.

He shook his head, forcing a smile. “Don’t worry about it. Happens all the time.”

But you could see the way his shoulders sagged, the way his fingers tightened around the edge of his cup.

Ja’Marr sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “He’s not usually like that.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” you muttered, still staring at the spot where Joe had disappeared.

Ja’Marr shot you a look but said nothing. The group eventually dispersed, the easy energy of the night soured by the encounter.

And as you followed Ella home later, you couldn’t stop replaying the moment in your head, trying to piece together why Joe Burrow seemed so determined to ruin the night—not just for you, but for Wes, too.

The walk back to your apartment was quiet, the faint buzz of crickets and distant party music filling the air as you and Ella navigated the dimly lit sidewalks. The night had been long, and your head was still spinning from Joe’s earlier outburst. You’d always known him to be annoying, maybe even a little infuriating, but tonight was different. There was a sharpness to him, an edge that left you unsettled.

Ella broke the silence first, her voice soft. “What do you think that was about? With Joe, I mean.”

You shrugged, kicking a loose pebble down the pavement. “Who knows? Maybe he ran out of people to torture and decided to branch out.”

Ella laughed lightly but didn’t press further. By the time you reached your apartment complex, the cool night air had started to seep into your skin, making you shiver. All you could think about was collapsing into bed and forgetting this day ever happened.

But, of course, Joe Burrow had other plans.

There he was, right in front of your door, pressed up against yet another blonde, her manicured nails tangled in his hair as they made out like the world was ending.

You stopped dead in your tracks, Ella nearly bumping into you.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” you muttered under your breath.

At the sound of your voice, Joe broke away from his hookup, turning to face you with a smirk that was equal parts shameless and infuriating.

“Well, well, if it isn’t my favorite neighbor,” he drawled, his voice low and teasing. “Didn’t think you’d be back so soon. Wes not invite you over for a post-party study session?”

Your jaw tightened. “Get out of the way, Burrow.”

He raised an eyebrow, clearly enjoying himself. “What’s the rush? You don’t want to hang out? I can introduce you to…uh…” He glanced at the girl beside him, snapping his fingers as if trying to remember her name.

The blonde giggled, clearly unbothered. “Stephanie,” she offered, tucking her hair behind her ear.

“Right. Stephanie,” Joe said, his grin widening.

Ella groaned softly beside you, crossing her arms. “Joe, move. We’re tired.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he said, stepping aside but not before leaning casually against the doorframe, effectively blocking your path again. “But seriously, where’s Wes? Thought you two were hitting it off. Or is he back on the bench already?”

“Are you serious right now?” you snapped, finally losing the last shred of patience you had left.

Joe straightened up, clearly surprised by the sudden bite in your tone. “What? I’m just messing around.”

“No, you’re being a jerk,” you shot back. “First, you humiliate Wes at the party, and now you’re standing here, rubbing it in like it’s some kind of joke. What’s your problem?”

Stephanie shifted uncomfortably, her gaze darting between you and Joe. “Uh, maybe we should—”

“Not now,” Joe cut her off, his tone sharper than you’d ever heard it. He didn’t even look at her, his eyes locked on yours.

Stephanie’s mouth fell open in shock. “Excuse me?”

“Just go,” he said, his voice quieter but no less firm.

For a moment, the three of you stood frozen, the tension hanging thick in the air. Then, with an indignant huff, Stephanie grabbed her purse and stormed off, her heels clicking angrily against the pavement.

Ella’s eyebrows shot up to her hairline. “Wow,” she muttered under her breath.

Joe ran a hand through his hair, exhaling deeply before turning back to you. “Happy now?”

“No,” you said, crossing your arms. “You’re still here.”

“Unbelievable,” he muttered, shaking his head. “You’re acting like I committed some crime. I was just joking, okay? It’s not my fault you can’t take a little teasing.”

“Teasing?” you repeated, incredulous. “Joe, you embarrassed Wes in front of everyone tonight. And for what? To make yourself feel better? To prove you’re the big man on campus?”

His jaw clenched, the cocky facade cracking ever so slightly. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Then enlighten me,” you challenged, taking a step closer. “Why do you always have to be such an ass?”

For a moment, he didn’t say anything, his gaze dropping to the ground. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and tense. “Maybe because it’s the only way to get your attention.”

Your breath caught, his words hitting like a punch to the gut. Before you could respond, he turned on his heel and walked away, the sound of his door slamming echoing through the quiet hallway.

Ella let out a low whistle. “Well, that was…something.”

You stared after him, your heart pounding in your chest. “Yeah,” you said softly. “Something.”

“Did he just…?” Ella’s voice was barely a whisper beside you.

You swallowed hard, not trusting yourself to speak. What the hell was that supposed to mean? It wasn’t like Joe to be vulnerable—hell, he practically lived to get under your skin. And yet, there it was, hanging in the air: the truth you never asked for, wrapped up in all his stupid teasing and annoying antics.

“Forget it,” you finally muttered, fumbling with your keys as you moved to unlock the door. “He’s just trying to mess with me.”

“Uh-huh,” Ella said slowly, following you inside. “Because, you know, the guy who just ditched a hot blonde to argue with you at midnight clearly doesn’t care.”

You shot her a glare, unwilling to entertain the idea. “I’m going to bed.”

Ella raised her hands in surrender, smirking knowingly as she headed for her room. “Okay, but don’t act surprised when he shows up tomorrow. He’s not exactly the type to let things go.”

“Goodnight, Ella,” you said firmly, shutting your bedroom door behind you.

But as you lay awake in the dark, staring at the ceiling, you couldn’t get his words out of your head. Maybe because it’s the only way to get your attention. Was he serious? Or was this just another game to him, a way to throw you off-balance and make you question everything?

With a frustrated sigh, you rolled over, punching your pillow as if it was somehow Joe’s fault that you couldn’t sleep. Whatever his deal was, you weren’t going to let him get under your skin any more than he already had.

But deep down, you knew it was too late. Because whether you liked it or not, Joe Burrow had already wormed his way into your thoughts—and no amount of denial was going to change that.

The next morning, you woke up to a series of loud knocks on your door, far too early for any sane person to be awake. Groaning, you pulled the covers over your head, but the knocking continued, persistent and unrelenting.

“Go away!” you yelled, but the noise didn’t stop.

With a huff, you threw off the blankets and stumbled out of bed, yanking open the door with every intention of giving whoever it was a piece of your mind.

But, of course, it was Joe.

He stood there, leaning casually against the doorframe like he hadn’t just woken you up at the crack of dawn, a lazy smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Morning, neighbor.”

You stared at him, too stunned and too tired to muster a response.

“Didn’t think you’d be up,” he said, his tone annoyingly chipper.

“I wasn’t,” you snapped, rubbing your eyes. “What the hell do you want?”

His smile widened, and he held up a to-go coffee cup, the LSU logo bright against the paper sleeve. “Thought you might need a pick-me-up.”

You blinked at the cup, then at him, suspicion rising. “What’s the catch?”

“No catch,” he said, still holding it out. “Just coffee. Truce?”

You hesitated, the words from last night still lingering between you. But, against your better judgment, you reached for the cup, your fingers brushing his for a brief second. “Fine. Truce. For now.”

His eyes gleamed, like he’d just won some kind of invisible battle. “I’ll take it.” He turned to leave but paused, glancing over his shoulder. “Oh, and by the way—I’m not going anywhere.”

And with that, he was gone, leaving you standing in the doorway with a coffee cup in hand and the distinct feeling that, somehow, things were about to get a whole lot more complicated.

Things between you and Wes have been going really well. You’ve been texting each other daily since that first meeting in the quad, and his messages always seem to bring a smile to your face. Some days, you talk about classes and the usual college chaos—complaining about professors who seem to thrive on assigning last-minute papers, laughing over campus gossip, or sharing music recommendations.

Other days, the conversations drift into deeper topics: family, future dreams, and the things you never thought you’d share with someone you’d barely known a few weeks ago. It's easy, effortless, and you feel like you've known him forever. There's a connection that grows stronger with each passing day, his texts becoming a constant you look forward to amid the swirl of college life.

When game days roll around, you make sure to watch, even if football has never been your thing. You learn enough of the basics to text him encouragement before each game and tease him when his team makes a stupid play. And every single time he wins, you get a photo of him in his jersey, sweaty and glowing with victory, his smile so wide you can feel it through the screen.

One crisp Saturday evening after a particularly big game—a win that had the entire stadium roaring and chanting for more—your phone buzzes. It’s Wes, as expected, but this time the message is different.

Wes: Big win tonight. You should come out to celebrate—party at the house. It'll be fun, promise.

You hesitate for a moment. Frat parties aren’t usually your scene, but the idea of seeing Wes in person after weeks of building up this text-based connection makes your heart beat a little faster. It feels like the right time to finally break out of the comfort of your phone screen. You don’t want to overthink it, so you respond quickly.

You: Okay, I’ll come! What time? Wes: Perfect. Starts at 9, but I’ll be there around 10. Meet me out front? I’ll make sure you don’t get lost.

You can’t help but laugh at that—his protective side has become more apparent lately, and you find it kind of endearing. The rest of the evening passes in a blur of anticipation. You try on half your wardrobe, feeling a mix of excitement and nervousness that makes your stomach flutter. After way too much deliberation, you settle on something that’s cute but comfortable—a black crop top, jeans that fit just right, and your favorite sneakers. Casual, but you don’t want to come off like you’re trying too hard.

The party was in full swing by the time you and Wes went in, the familiar buzz of laughter and music filling the air. His arm rested loosely around your shoulders as you made your way through the packed house, a red solo cup already in his hand. It was a typical LSU post-game celebration—teammates hyped up from their win, students eager for a reason to cut loose, and just enough chaos to keep things interesting.

Wes, ever the golden retriever type, was all smiles as he greeted his teammates. You couldn’t help but feel a twinge of guilt as you plastered on your own smile. Wes was great—sweet, thoughtful, and good-looking to boot—but there was something missing. Conversations with him always felt a little too polished, like he was sticking to a script.

Still, you weren’t going to let your wandering thoughts ruin the night. As he led you toward the makeshift bar in the kitchen, you decided to let loose a little, leaning into his world for the evening.

You were two drinks in when you felt it—a shift in the air that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. Glancing across the room, your eyes locked with Joe’s. He was leaning casually against the wall, his cup dangling from his fingers as he laughed at something Ja’Marr said. But his focus wasn’t on his teammate—it was on you.

That look.

You’d seen it before, the one that screamed I’m up to something. Your stomach twisted as his lips curved into a slow, knowing smirk.

“What’s wrong?” Wes asked, his voice breaking through your thoughts.

“Nothing,” you said quickly, forcing a smile. “Just thought I saw someone I knew.”

Wes didn’t notice your distraction, too busy rambling about the game. You nodded along, but your attention kept drifting back to Joe. He was still watching, and now he was moving.

Straight toward you.

“Wesley,” Joe said, his voice louder than necessary as he clapped a hand on Wes’s shoulder. “Man of the hour! Hell of a game tonight.”

Wes beamed, his chest puffing out a little. “Thanks, Burrow. That means a lot coming from you.”

“Oh, don’t mention it,” Joe said smoothly, his grin sharpening. “You’re really making a name for yourself out there.” He paused, his tone dipping just enough to make the compliment feel off. “You’ve got a solid five minutes of playing time this season, right?”

Wes laughed, missing the sarcasm entirely. “Yeah, Coach says I’m improving every week.”

Joe nodded, his expression the picture of sincerity. “No doubt. You’re an inspiration, man. Really showing the bench how it’s done.”

You rolled your eyes, biting back the urge to step in. Wes didn’t deserve to be Joe’s verbal punching bag, even if he was too oblivious to notice.

Then Joe shifted his focus.

“And this,” he said, gesturing toward you with his cup, “is the girl everyone’s been talking about?”

You stiffened, already bracing yourself.

“She’s great, right?” Wes said proudly, tightening his arm around your waist.

“Absolutely,” Joe said, his eyes locking on yours. “Smart, pretty, patient.” His lips twitched as he added, “Definitely one of a kind.”

The room felt hotter, smaller. You knew what he was doing, and you refused to let him win.

“Wow, Joe,” you said, your tone dripping with mock sweetness. “That’s almost a compliment. Are you feeling okay?”

The corners of his mouth twitched upward. “What can I say? I’m a generous guy.”

Wes chuckled awkwardly, clearly missing the tension simmering between the two of you. But the people around you weren’t as oblivious. Conversations around the kitchen began to quiet, heads subtly turning in your direction.

Joe leaned in slightly, his gaze never leaving yours. “Though I gotta say, Wes, you’ve got your hands full. She seems like the type to keep you on your toes. Always ready with a snappy comeback.”

You took a step forward, your jaw tightening. “Maybe because some people deserve it.”

“Oh, I’m sure you’re talking about me,” Joe said, his smirk widening. “But hey, you’ve got to admit, I keep things interesting.”

“Interesting?” you repeated, your voice rising. “You mean infuriating.”

By now, you were toe-to-toe, the space between you charged with unspoken words and something else you refused to acknowledge.

Joe’s eyes flicked down to your lips for a fraction of a second before he smiled again, softer this time. “Guess that’s one way to put it.”

Your breath caught, and for a moment, you were certain everyone in the room could see the way your cheeks flushed, the way your chest rose and fell faster than it should have.

Joe straightened, patting Wes on the back. “You’ve got a good one here, man. Don’t screw it up.”

And just like that, he was gone, disappearing back into the crowd with that stupid smirk still on his face.

Wes turned to you, oblivious as ever. “Man, Joe’s great, isn’t he?”

You didn’t answer, too busy trying to calm the storm raging inside you. Because as much as you hated to admit it, Joe Burrow had just gotten under your skin again. And this time, you weren’t sure you could shake him off.

The days blur together after the party, each one bleeding into the next with a heavy quiet you can’t shake. Joe hasn’t teased you, hasn’t made any more snide comments in passing. It’s almost like he’s disappeared entirely, and the silence he’s left behind feels suffocating.

But it's not the kind of peace you wanted—it's the kind that echoes, that bounces around inside your skull, replaying the things he said over and over again until you can’t ignore them anymore. You try to focus on Wes, try to let his easygoing, good-natured attitude soothe the irritation that keeps curling under your skin, but the more you think about Joe’s words, the more they fester. Suddenly, everything about Wes feels too soft, too careful. He’s kind, yes, but there's a blandness to it, a safe predictability that only makes you itch for something sharper.

Then, days later, you find yourself in the apartment lobby, bundled up against the late autumn chill, glaring at a maintenance form on the wall. The hot water’s been out for days, and you’re halfway through filling out a complaint when you hear footsteps behind you. You don’t have to turn around to know who it is—the shift in the air is enough.

"Wow, fancy meeting you here," comes Joe’s voice, smooth and mocking, with just enough bite to make your spine stiffen. You don’t turn around, don’t give him the satisfaction of a reaction. Instead, you keep writing, the pen pressing hard enough against the paper that it almost tears.

"Cold water bothering you too?" he continues when you don’t respond, his tone amused. You can feel him looming behind you, a little too close, and you grit your teeth, willing yourself to stay calm.

"Just trying to get it fixed," you reply curtly, finally turning around and catching the cocky smirk tugging at his lips. You’re not in the mood for whatever game he’s about to play, but of course, he’s not about to let you off that easy. His gaze slides from the form in your hand back up to your face, one eyebrow quirking up in that infuriating way that always makes you want to wipe the smugness off his face.

"Surprised you’re handling it yourself," Joe drawls, his eyes bright with something almost like delight. "Thought you'd get your little boyfriend to do it for you."

Your fingers tighten around the pen, and you force yourself to take a breath, ignoring the way your pulse quickens. "Not everything revolves around Wes," you shoot back, but your voice wavers just enough to make Joe’s smirk widen. His eyes flick over your face, and you hate the way he seems to read every expression, every crack in the mask you’re struggling to hold up.

"Really?" he says, the word heavy with skepticism. He crosses his arms over his chest, leaning back against the wall like he’s settling in for a show. "Could’ve fooled me. He’s got you wrapped around his little finger, huh? I bet you’re the perfect, supportive girlfriend." His voice drips with sarcasm, and something inside you snaps.

"Shut up, Joe," you hiss, your voice low and dangerous. You turn back to the form, determined to ignore him, but he doesn’t move. In fact, he leans in closer, his breath warm on your ear.

"Why?" he murmurs, his voice soft but taunting, like he’s got all the time in the world. "Hit a nerve?"

You don’t answer. You can’t. Because the truth is, he did hit a nerve. And he knows it.

"Come on," he pushes, a note of genuine curiosity in his tone now. "Don’t you ever get tired of it? Playing nice, doing everything right, sticking with someone who’s… I dunno, safe?"

You spin around, eyes blazing, and Joe’s face lights up with triumph. "You don’t know anything about him," you snap, but there’s a waver in your voice that makes Joe’s eyes narrow with interest. "Wes is kind, and he’s decent, and he actually cares about people, which is a hell of a lot more than I can say for you."

Joe’s smile doesn’t falter. In fact, it only grows wider, almost wolfish, and you hate that it sends a thrill through you, a charge that leaves your heart racing. "Yeah," he says, his tone almost pitying, "he’s safe. Boring. He’s exactly the kind of guy who’d never get in your way, never challenge you, never push back. And you’re happy with that? Really?"

You glare at him, your blood boiling, but you can’t look away. Because some part of you—the part you’ve been trying to silence for days—knows he’s right, and it makes you want to scream. "What the hell is your problem, Joe?" you demand, your voice shaking with anger. "Why do you even care? What does it matter to you if I’m with him or not?"

For a moment, something flickers in Joe’s eyes, something you can’t quite read, but it’s gone as quickly as it appears, replaced by that infuriating smirk. "I don’t care," he says, too quickly, his voice a little too smooth. "I just think it’s funny, that’s all. Watching you pretend like he’s enough for you."

You step closer without realizing it, your fists clenched at your sides. "You don’t know what you’re talking about," you insist, but it sounds weak, even to your own ears. Joe’s gaze drops to your lips for a split second, and you feel a jolt of something hot and dangerous twist in your stomach.

"Don’t I?" he murmurs, and suddenly, you’re standing toe-to-toe, your breath mingling with his, the tension between you crackling like a live wire. He’s so close, close enough that you can see the flecks of gold in his eyes, the way his smirk softens just enough to be dangerous.

You don’t move. Neither does he.

There’s a beat, a moment suspended in time where it feels like the whole world has narrowed down to just the two of you, the weight of everything unsaid hanging heavy in the air. Then, suddenly, Joe’s expression shifts, a slow, satisfied grin spreading across his face as he leans back, breaking the spell. He claps you on the shoulder, his touch light but lingering.

"Good talk," he says, his tone infuriatingly cheerful as he pushes past you towards the elevator, leaving you standing there, breathless and rattled.

"Have fun with Wes," he throws over his shoulder, and the door slides shut behind him before you can find the words to reply. You’re left staring at the closed elevator doors, your chest heaving and your hands still trembling around the pen, the echoes of Joe’s taunting voice ricocheting in your mind.

And for the first time in days, the silence feels even louder.

The days drag by, and every one of them feels heavier, weighed down by Joe's words. They hang over you, echoing whenever you try to ignore them, seeping into your thoughts when you're with Wes. The way he holds your hand, the way he smiles politely at your jokes, the way he never raises his voice or teases you too hard—it’s all safe. It’s what you thought you wanted. But now, thanks to Joe, it’s all starting to feel empty, like a shell with nothing inside.

As if to make matters worse, Joe's been louder, more present, and more irritating than ever. He’s upped his game, bringing a new girl home almost every night, the kind who giggle just a little too loud in the stairwell, whose heels click sharply against the tile floors, waking you and Ella up in the middle of the night. You hear them laughing through the paper-thin walls, their voices carrying long after you wish they’d shut up. Ella throws a pillow at the wall one night, groaning in frustration, but you just lie there, staring up at the dark ceiling, the annoyance mixing with something else—something you refuse to name.

And then Wes’s birthday sneaks up on you, like a storm you’d been pretending not to see on the horizon. Everyone's talking about it—the party of the semester, hosted at his parents’ mansion on the outskirts of Baton Rouge. You know it’s a big deal. Wes’s parents are the kind who throw events instead of parties, the kind where everyone’s wearing their best, and you’d feel out of place if you weren’t on Wes’s arm. You spend way too long picking out your dress, ignoring Ella’s teasing smile as you change twice and then settle on something classy, something you think Wes’s parents will approve of.

The mansion is even more extravagant than you expected. Tall, stately, and glowing with warm light spilling from every window. A string quartet plays softly near the entrance, and there’s enough champagne to drown in. It’s a perfect picture of Southern elegance, the kind of party where everyone’s on their best behavior and no one dares spill a drink on the white marble floors.

You’re almost able to relax, standing with Wes as he introduces you to old friends and relatives, his arm around your waist like you’re some kind of prize. But then, from across the room, you catch sight of someone familiar stepping through the grand double doors, and the air goes still.

Joe. And he’s not alone.

On his arm is a girl who looks like she’s stepped straight out of a beauty magazine—perfect curls cascading down her back, a dress that hugs her curves in all the right places, and a pageant smile that could light up the whole room. She’s everything you’re not: polished, pristine, and undeniably beautiful. And Joe’s leaning in close to her, whispering something that makes her laugh, the sound light and carefree, echoing above the music.

Your heart sinks. You should have known he’d be here. You should have known he’d show up with someone like her.

The moment he walks in, it’s like the temperature drops. You feel him scan the room, his gaze sliding over the crowd until it lands on you. There’s a flicker of recognition, a half-smile that tugs at his lips, and for a second, you swear he’s going to make a beeline for you, but then he turns to his date, all easy charm and confidence.

You look away quickly, swallowing down the hot, bitter twinge of jealousy that rises in your chest. Beside you, Wes is oblivious, laughing with some cousin or another, completely unaware of the storm that’s building in your mind.

The party moves on, but you can't shake the weight in your chest. Every time you turn around, Joe is there—always in your peripheral, laughing with his date or effortlessly sliding into conversations with people he’s never met, commanding attention without even trying. And it’s driving you mad. You hate that he’s here, hate the way his presence seems to seep into every corner of the room, hate that you can’t stop looking for him, even when you don’t mean to.

Wes’s parents announce dinner, and you find yourself at a long table, perfectly set with silverware that you don’t even know how to use properly. Wes is on your left, chatting away, and you force yourself to smile and nod at the right moments, though your gaze keeps drifting over his shoulder. Joe is at the far end of the table, but his eyes meet yours—bright and full of something that feels like a challenge. He raises his glass in your direction, and you don’t miss the way his date practically glows under his attention, leaning into his side.

You grit your teeth, focusing on Wes, who’s completely unaware of the way your stomach is twisting. He’s sweet, attentive, a perfect gentleman, and you wish you could ignore the itch under your skin, the restlessness that grows with each passing minute. But it’s there, burning hotter every time you catch sight of Joe, laughing too loud or leaning in too close to whisper in his date's ear.

By the time dessert is served, you’re practically vibrating with frustration, and Wes’s voice is starting to blur into the background. He’s telling some long-winded story about his summer at the family lake house, but all you can think about is how easy it would be to just walk over to the other end of the table and—

“Hey, you alright?” Wes’s voice breaks through your thoughts, and you force yourself to focus on him, pasting on a smile that feels hollow.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you lie, reaching for your glass of champagne and taking a sip that burns all the way down. He seems satisfied, squeezing your hand gently under the table, but his touch feels distant, almost suffocating.

And when you glance back at Joe, he’s watching you, his smile sharper than you remember. There’s a glint in his eyes that makes your skin prickle, like he’s waiting for something, like he knows exactly what kind of game he’s playing. His date is still chattering away, oblivious to the way his gaze keeps flicking back to you, like a tether he can’t quite cut loose.

You look away, your face heating, and try to drown out the feeling with another sip of champagne. But it's no use. The night has only just begun, and you already know—it’s going to be a long one.

You escape upstairs, the noise of the party fading as you climb the grand, spiraling staircase. It’s quieter up here, with the muted sound of conversation and laughter drifting up from below, and you can finally breathe a little easier. You’re not even sure what you’re doing—just that you need a break from the suffocating conversation, the polished smiles, and the feeling of being watched. Wes is deep in conversation with a teammate, and it was easy enough to slip away unnoticed. You tell yourself you're only going to the bathroom, but you don’t even bother finding one. You just wander down the hall, hoping to collect yourself, to calm the thudding in your chest.

But then, of course, you see him.

Joe, leaning lazily against the wall at the end of the hallway, like he’s been waiting for you. There’s no sign of his date—she’s probably downstairs, lost in the crowd—but Joe’s here, and he looks too damn comfortable, his tie loosened and his shirt sleeves rolled up. He gives you that infuriating half-smirk the second your eyes meet, like he’s been expecting you. Like he knows you’re going to stop.

“Lost?” he drawls, his voice a low, lazy tease, and you freeze, every muscle in your body going tense.

“No,” you snap, hating the way your heart skips when he pushes off the wall, taking a step closer. “Just getting some air.”

“From Wes?” he asks, eyebrows raising, and you can hear the taunt in his tone, the way he draws out the name like it’s a joke. “Or from this whole perfect little party of his?”

“None of your business,” you shoot back, but he’s closer now, and you hate how your breath catches, how the air between you feels thick and electric. He’s looking at you like he’s stripping away all the layers you’ve put up—the polite smiles, the careful charm—and seeing straight through to the part of you that’s restless and hungry for a fight.

“You know, I can’t tell if you’re actually enjoying yourself,” he says, his voice dropping lower, almost intimate. “Or if you’re just playing the role of ‘good girlfriend’ to make everyone happy.”

“Shut up, Joe,” you warn, but your voice is weaker than you want it to be, and he notices. Of course he notices. He takes another step, and suddenly he’s way too close, the heat of him radiating into the space between you, making it harder to breathe.

“Or is it that Wes is just…too boring for you?” he presses, and something snaps. You step forward, shoving him hard enough to make him stumble back a step, anger flaring white-hot in your chest.

“Why do you care?” you demand, your voice rising. “Why do you always have to ruin everything? You can’t stand seeing me happy, can you? You always have to get in the way—”

“Oh, please,” he cuts you off, his voice sharp with irritation. “Don’t act like I’m the one ruining things. You’re the one who can’t stop looking at me. You’re the one who’s pretending this perfect little relationship is enough for you.”

You don’t even think. You just react, stepping closer, your chest heaving with the force of your anger, your hands curling into fists at your sides. “You don’t know anything about me!” you shout, the words tearing out of you before you can stop them. “You don’t know what I want or what I need, so stop pretending like you have me all figured out!”

He’s laughing now, a low, mocking sound that sets your teeth on edge, and you want to hit him, to scream, to do something to wipe that infuriating smirk off his face. But then he’s had enough. Suddenly, he moves, quick as a flash, and before you can even blink, he’s grabbing you by the waist and hoisting you up as if you weigh nothing, throwing you over his shoulder in one swift, effortless motion.

“Put me down!” you shout, struggling against him, but he just tightens his grip, carrying you down the hall like you’re some kind of rag doll. Your fists beat uselessly against his back, and you’re half-cursing, half-panicking as he ignores you, kicking open the nearest door and stepping inside.

The door slams shut behind him, and you barely register the darkened room—a guest bedroom, dimly lit by the moonlight streaming through the curtains—before he’s setting you down, pressing you up against the wall with a force that steals the breath from your lungs. You’re too stunned to move, your back hitting the cold plaster, and suddenly his body is pinning you there, his hands on either side of your face, caging you in.

“Finally shut you up,” he mutters, his voice rough, and you feel a shiver run down your spine at the way his breath brushes your cheek, hot and fast. His eyes are dark, burning with something you’ve never seen before, and the space between you feels like it’s crackling, alive with an energy that makes your skin prickle and your pulse race.

“Why do you have to be such a—” you start, but he cuts you off, leaning in closer, so close that you can feel the warmth of his chest pressing against yours. His mouth is inches from yours, his lips twisting into a wicked smile.

“Go on,” he taunts, his voice low and dangerous. “Say it. Tell me what you really think.”

You’re breathing hard, your anger warring with something hotter, something that’s been building between you for months, and you can’t stop yourself. “You’re an asshole,” you spit, your hands coming up to shove at his chest, but he doesn’t move. He just leans in, his nose brushing against yours, the air between you thick and suffocating.

“And you,” he says softly, his voice almost gentle, “are a liar.”

You don’t know who moves first—whether it’s him closing the distance or you surging up to meet him—but suddenly his mouth is on yours, hard and desperate, and you’re kissing him back like it’s the only thing you’ve ever wanted. The kiss is furious, full of all the things you can’t say, all the frustration and the longing and the anger that’s been building up for so long it feels like it’s going to explode. His hands are in your hair, his grip almost painful, and you’re clinging to him, pulling him closer, gasping into his mouth as he presses you harder against the wall.

“Tell me you don’t want this,” he whispers against your lips, his breath ragged, and you shake your head, too far gone to think, to lie, to do anything but pull him closer, your nails digging into his shoulders.

“Shut up,” you breathe, and he laughs, the sound vibrating against your skin, before he kisses you again, deeper this time, slower, like he’s savoring the taste of your surrender. The room feels too small, the air too thick, and you know you should stop, you know this is wrong, but you can’t, not when his hands are sliding down your sides, not when his body is pressing into yours, not when he’s kissing you like he’s been waiting for this just as long as you have.

And then, suddenly, it’s too much. You push him away, your breath coming in short, harsh gasps, and he lets you go, stepping back with a grin that’s all arrogance and triumph. Your lips feel swollen, your face flushed, and you hate that you can’t stop looking at him, that you want more even though you know you shouldn’t.

“See?” he says softly, his voice maddeningly smug. “I do know you.”

The words barely have time to leave his mouth before you’re on him again, shoving him away from you, your hands hitting his chest with more force than you intend. He stumbles back a step, a flash of surprise crossing his face before his eyes harden, that infuriating grin vanishing. You’re both breathing hard, the air between you heavy with everything unspoken, with all the sharp words that have been building up since the day you met.

“You don’t know anything!” you snap, your voice cracking, and he just laughs, a short, humorless sound that makes your blood boil.

“You keep saying that,” he shoots back, his voice low and dangerous, “but here you are. Every time, it’s the same thing. You want me to stop? Then say it. Tell me to leave.”

You open your mouth to say exactly that, to tell him to go to hell and stay out of your life, but the words won’t come. They catch in your throat, tangled up with the truth you can’t face, and he sees it. He always sees it. His gaze softens, something like understanding flickering in those dark eyes, and it pisses you off more than anything.

“See?” he murmurs, taking a slow, deliberate step forward. “You can’t. Because you don’t want me to.”

“Shut up,” you whisper, but it’s too late—he’s already crowding into your space, his hand curling around the back of your neck, tilting your face up to his. You hate him for the way he’s looking at you, like he’s unraveling you with a single glance, like he knows exactly how to break you down, and before you can stop yourself, you’re surging up, your hands fisting in his shirt as you kiss him again, harder this time, angrier.

His arms come around you instantly, pulling you closer, and you hate that it feels good, that it feels right, even as you’re pushing against him, your nails digging into his shoulders. It’s a mess of teeth and tongues, the kiss desperate and furious, and you’re drowning in it, in the heat of him, in the way his fingers are tangled in your hair, tugging just enough to make you gasp.

Then the door swings open, and you both jerk apart, your breaths coming in ragged, uneven pants. You barely have time to process what’s happening before you see Ja’Marr standing there, his expression caught somewhere between exasperation and disbelief. He looks at you, then at Joe, and lets out a long, frustrated sigh.

“Really, Joe?” he says, his voice laced with disappointment. “In the middle of Wes’s birthday party? Do you have a death wish or something?”

“Calm down,” Joe says coolly, like he’s not the least bit bothered, his gaze still fixed on you, as if daring you to run. “We were just talking.”

“Yeah,” Ja’Marr scoffs, crossing his arms over his chest. “Talking, right. Because making out with your teammate’s girl is totally a normal conversation.”

You feel your cheeks burn, and you step back, smoothing down your clothes like you can erase what just happened. “This—this was nothing,” you stammer, trying to ignore the way Joe’s lips curl into a smirk at your flustered tone. “We’re done here.”

Joe just gives you a lazy, almost triumphant smile, like he’s won some unspoken battle, and turns to Ja’Marr with a shrug. “She’s got a mind of her own, you know,” he says, and you want to punch him, to scream, but Ja’Marr just shakes his head, looking equal parts disappointed and resigned.

“Whatever,” Ja’Marr mutters, grabbing Joe’s arm and pulling him out into the hallway. “You need to get your act together. Wes is going to notice if you keep pulling this crap.”

Joe’s eyes flick to you one last time, something unreadable in his expression, before he lets Ja’Marr drag him away. The door clicks shut behind them, and you’re left alone in the darkened room, your heart racing and your thoughts spinning out of control. You know you should follow them, that you should go back downstairs and pretend like nothing happened, but your knees feel weak, and it takes you a long moment to gather yourself, to steady your breathing.

By the time you make your way back down to the party, your face feels numb, and you’ve forced on the brightest smile you can muster. Joe is already back in the thick of things, his arm slung casually around his date’s waist, laughing like he doesn’t have a care in the world. You want to be angry, to hate him for making it look so easy, but then Wes catches sight of you, his eyes lighting up as he excuses himself from his conversation.

“Hey, there you are!” he says, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and pressing a quick kiss to your temple. You try to smile, but it feels fake, like your skin doesn’t fit right anymore. “Where’d you disappear to?”

“Just needed a minute,” you say, your voice sounding hollow even to your own ears. You’re about to say something else, anything to fill the awkward silence, when you catch movement out of the corner of your eye.

Joe’s watching you, his gaze flicking from your face to your mouth, and that’s when you realize—his lips are still stained with the faintest trace of your lipstick, a dark, telltale smear at the corner of his mouth.

Wes follows your gaze, and his smile falters, his brow furrowing in confusion. “Joe, what’s on your—”

But Joe cuts in smoothly, wiping the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, his grin widening as if he finds the whole thing hilarious. “Guess I got a little carried away,” he says, his voice dripping with mock innocence, and you feel the ground sway beneath you as Wes’s arm tightens around your shoulders, his confusion shifting to suspicion.

“What’s he talking about?” Wes asks, his eyes narrowing, and you open your mouth to respond, to deny, to do something—but nothing comes out. Your voice has abandoned you, and all you can do is stand there, frozen, as Joe’s smirk deepens and he lifts his drink in a mocking toast, his gaze never leaving yours.

“Good party,” Joe says casually, his tone almost friendly. “Really enjoyed myself.”

You don’t remember what happens next—just the blur of faces, the noise of the party swelling around you, and the hollow ache settling deep in your chest as Joe turns away, laughing with someone else, like he hasn’t just blown everything to pieces.

Wes's smile is strained when he pulls you aside, away from the music and the crowd. There’s a tightness around his eyes you haven’t seen before, something almost defeated, and for the first time that night, you feel a genuine pang of guilt. This is the part you were dreading—the confrontation, the disappointment in his eyes. But instead of yelling, instead of demanding an explanation, he just looks... tired.

“Hey,” he starts softly, rubbing the back of his neck, his eyes dropping to the floor. “I don’t wanna make a scene, okay? But I think... I think maybe you should go.”

You open your mouth to respond, but the words die in your throat. There’s no anger in his voice, just resignation, like he already knows the answer before you can even try to lie. You can’t tell if that makes it better or worse.

“Wes, I—” you begin, but he holds up a hand, a weak, defeated smile pulling at his lips.

“It’s okay,” he interrupts, and there’s something achingly kind in his voice, which somehow makes it hurt more. “I think we both know this... isn’t what you want. Not really.”

You feel relief flood your chest so suddenly that it’s almost nauseating, and that’s how you know he’s right. Because instead of being devastated, instead of scrambling to explain yourself, you just feel lighter. Like a weight you didn’t realize you were carrying has finally been lifted.

You reach out to touch his arm, but he steps back, shaking his head. “Don’t,” he says quietly, and you let your hand drop, nodding numbly. There’s nothing left to say. You don’t try to apologize; you don’t try to make excuses. You just turn and leave, the buzz of the party fading behind you as you slip out the front door, the cold night air hitting you like a slap.

The walk back to the apartment feels like a blur, your mind whirling with everything that just happened, everything you don’t want to think about. You don’t know if it’s the relief of being free from something you never truly wanted, or the shame of how it all went down, but by the time you reach your building, your hands are trembling and your breath is hitching.

You let yourself into the apartment, your eyes already burning with unshed tears, and you find Ella curled up on the couch, half-asleep in front of the TV. The moment she sees your face, though, she sits up, worry creasing her brow.

“Whoa, what happened?” she asks, her voice thick with sleep, but you don’t even know where to begin.

“Everything,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper, and then it all spills out. You tell her everything—about Joe, about the kiss, about Wes’s sad, tired smile and the way he let you go without a fight. You’re talking so fast you’re stumbling over your words, your emotions a chaotic tangle of regret and relief and frustration, and by the time you’re finished, you feel completely wrung out.

Ella listens without interrupting, her expression shifting from shock to disbelief to sympathy as you pour your heart out. When you finally go quiet, she just sighs and pulls you into a hug, squeezing you so tight you can barely breathe.

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs, and you don’t realize how much you needed to hear that until the tears start falling. She doesn’t tell you that you screwed up, she doesn’t lecture you about Joe, she just holds you while you cry, rubbing soothing circles on your back until the tears run dry.

By the time you pull away, your throat is raw, and you’re exhausted. Ella doesn’t say anything, just gives you a look that says she understands, that she’s on your side no matter what, and that’s enough. It’s more than enough.

But then, just as you’re wiping your eyes and trying to compose yourself, you hear it—a loud burst of laughter echoing through the thin wall you share with Joe’s apartment. It’s followed by the high-pitched giggle of a girl, and your stomach twists. Of course. Of course.

Ella catches the look on your face and scowls. “He’s such an ass,” she mutters, rolling her eyes. “You want me to go bang on the wall and tell them to shut up?”

“No,” you say quickly, shaking your head. “It’s... it’s fine. Let’s just go to bed.”

You don’t even believe yourself, but you can’t deal with Joe right now, not after everything. So you go to your room, shut the door, and try to block out the noise. You tell yourself you don’t care. You tell yourself it’s over. But sleep doesn’t come easily, and all you can hear is Joe’s voice in your head, his mocking words echoing long after the sounds from next door have finally gone quiet.

Over the next few days, you try to fall back into a routine, but everything feels off-kilter. Wes doesn’t text you, and you don’t reach out, letting the silence stretch between you until it feels like a mutual understanding—something that was always going to happen. Ella hovers, supportive but careful not to push, and you appreciate that. You just need space, time to sort through everything.

Joe, however, is a different story.

You barely see him around the complex, but when you do, it’s impossible to ignore him. He’s still bringing home girls—more than ever, it seems—and they’re always loud, obnoxiously so, like he’s doing it on purpose, like he’s rubbing it in your face. And maybe he is. Maybe this is his way of proving a point, of showing you that he doesn’t care, that he never cared, and the worst part is... you don’t know if you care either. Or maybe you care too much.

One night, after a particularly sleepless stretch of listening to laughter and footsteps pounding through the walls, Ella finds you staring blankly at the ceiling, dark circles smudged beneath your eyes.

“He’s doing this on purpose, you know,” she says bluntly, her tone halfway between irritation and pity. “He’s trying to get to you.”

“Yeah, well,” you mutter, rolling over to face the wall. “It’s working.”

Wes’s birthday party fades into memory, and a few weeks pass. It’s easier to pretend you don’t care when you don’t have to face the fallout. You focus on classes, avoid places where you might run into Joe, and try to ignore the way your heart sinks every time you hear his voice next door.

Then, one Friday night, there’s a knock on your door. You’re half expecting Ella’s latest Tinder date or a package, but instead, you find Joe leaning against the doorframe, his usual cocky grin nowhere in sight. There’s something almost hesitant about the way he looks at you, and for a second, you don’t know what to say.

“Hey,” he says, his voice softer than you’ve ever heard it, and it catches you off guard.

“What do you want?” you ask, and you hate how defensive you sound, how you can’t help but put a wall between you.

Joe’s eyes flicker, and he shoves his hands in his pockets, glancing down the hallway before he looks back at you. “Can we talk?” he asks, and you can’t tell if he’s asking because he wants to or because he thinks he has to. “Please?”

You hesitate, every part of you screaming to slam the door in his face, to tell him to go to hell. “Talk?” you echo, as though the very idea is laughable. “What’s there to talk about, Joe?”

He shifts uncomfortably, his hands still deep in his pockets. “I just—” He sighs, running a hand through his hair. For once, he doesn’t look cocky or composed. He looks tired. “I screwed up, okay? I know that. And I just… I want to make things right.”

You laugh bitterly, shaking your head. “Now you care about making things right? Weeks later? Where was this when you were busy humiliating me in front of everyone at Wes’s party?”

Joe flinches, and the sight of it sends a small, mean thrill through you. You want him to feel every ounce of the anger and hurt that’s been simmering inside you since that night.

“I was drunk,” he mutters, like it’s an excuse. “You know I didn’t mean half the shit I said.”

“Oh, so you only mean half of it?” Your voice rises despite yourself, and you take a step closer. “Which half, Joe? The part where you said Wes was too good for me? Or the part where you implied I’m some kind of charity case?”

Joe groans, his frustration bubbling to the surface. “That’s not what I meant! You’re twisting it—”

“I’m twisting it?” Your laugh is sharp, humorless. “No, Joe. I’m finally calling you out on your crap. You think you can just waltz in here, throw out a half-assed apology, and I’m supposed to forget how you treated me? Newsflash: I’m done being your punching bag.”

“Punching bag?” His voice spikes, and you can see his patience starting to fray. “Are you kidding me? You think I don’t care about you? That I’d say that stuff to hurt you on purpose?”

“Then why did you say it?” you snap, stepping closer until you’re almost toe to toe. “Why, Joe? If you care so much, why do you always find a way to make me feel like I’m not enough?”

He stares at you, his jaw tightening, his chest rising and falling as he tries to keep his temper in check. But then he snaps, his voice loud enough to make you flinch. “Because you drive me crazy, alright? You’re in my head all the damn time, and it’s like I can’t think straight when I’m around you!”

You’re stunned into silence, your heart pounding in your chest. The air between you crackles with something electric, something you can’t name but can feel in every nerve of your body.

Joe’s eyes are blazing, his chest heaving as he takes a step closer. “You think I wanted this? That I wanted to feel like this about you? I didn’t, okay? But I do. And it scares the hell out of me.”

You swallow hard, your throat dry. “Joe…”

He shakes his head, his voice softening just a fraction. “I’m sorry, alright? For all of it. I just—I didn’t know how to deal with this, with you.”

You don’t know who moves first, but suddenly, the space between you is gone. Joe’s hands are on your arms, his grip firm but not rough, and you’re looking up at him, your breath catching in your throat.

Joe doesn’t step back. He doesn’t let the anger rise again. He stays close, his hands still resting on your arms, his grip grounding and firm. His gaze softens, something vulnerable breaking through the tension in his voice.

“You think I like being the guy who gets under your skin?” he asks, his voice low, but there’s no bite to it now. Only honesty. “You think I enjoy pissing you off just for fun?”

You stare at him, caught off guard by the sudden shift, the rawness in his tone. “Don’t you?”

Joe lets out a sharp exhale, shaking his head. “No. That’s just the only way you ever seem to notice me.” His words hit like a punch to the gut, and your breath hitches. “If I’m not in your face, annoying the hell out of you, it’s like I don’t even exist to you.”

You open your mouth to argue, but nothing comes out. He’s too quick, too honest, and you don’t have a defense ready for the truth.

“That’s why I invite them over,” he continues, and there’s no cockiness in the admission. Just exhaustion. “Those girls, the loud music, the stupid games—it’s not because I want them. It’s because I’m trying to get you to see me. To pay attention. Even if it’s just so you can yell at me.”

Your stomach twists, a lump forming in your throat. You want to stay mad, to cling to your anger like a shield, but it’s slipping through your fingers. Joe doesn’t stop; he steps closer, so close now that you can feel the heat radiating off him.

“I don’t know how else to get through to you,” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper. “And I’m tired, okay? I’m tired of pretending like I don’t care when I do. So much more than I should.”

Your breath catches, and your heart pounds in your chest like a drum. You don’t know what to say, what to feel. Joe watches you, his gaze flickering between your eyes and your lips, his hesitation palpable. And then, before you can process what’s happening, his lips are on yours.

It’s not rough or demanding like you might have expected. It’s soft, tentative, as if he’s afraid you’ll pull away. His hands slide from your arms to your waist, anchoring you gently, and you can feel the tension in his body as he holds back.

For a moment, you freeze, torn between the urge to push him away and the overwhelming need to lean into him. But then your walls crack, and you kiss him back, your hands clutching at the front of his shirt as if it’s the only thing keeping you grounded.

Joe pulls back just enough to look at you, his forehead resting against yours. His breathing is unsteady, his expression a mix of relief and something deeper. Without a word, he steps forward, his hands tightening around your waist as he gently pushes you through the door.

You don’t resist. You can’t.

He closes the door behind him with a quiet click, then sweeps you off your feet in one swift, effortless motion. You let out a small gasp, your arms instinctively wrapping around his neck as he carries you down the hall toward your bedroom.

“Joe…” you begin, but he silences you with a look—a look so tender, so unlike the Joe you thought you knew, that your words die on your lips.

By the time he lays you down on the bed, the anger and frustration from moments ago have evaporated, replaced by something else entirely. Something that hums between you like a live wire.

He hovers over you, his weight supported by his arms on either side of your head. His eyes search yours, silently asking for permission, for understanding. And when you nod, so small and uncertain, he dips his head to kiss you again, this time deeper, more sure of himself.

Your hands find their way to his hair, tugging gently as he trails his lips down your jaw, your neck, every touch making your pulse race. He’s careful, almost reverent, as if afraid to break the fragile moment you’re sharing.

And for the first time, you let yourself believe that maybe—just maybe—Joe Burrow isn’t the selfish, cocky guy you thought he was. Maybe, behind all the bravado, he’s just a boy who wanted you to see him. And now, you finally do.

Joe’s lips trail along the curve of your neck, leaving a warm, electric path in their wake. He takes his time, his breath hot against your skin, and every deliberate touch makes your pulse thunder louder in your ears.

His hands glide over your waist, fingers pressing lightly, almost teasing as they trace the hem of your shirt. You feel his smile against your neck when you squirm slightly beneath him, a soft laugh rumbling in his chest.

“You’re quiet all of a sudden,” he murmurs, his voice low and teasing. “No more yelling? No smart remarks?”

You swallow hard, trying to find some semblance of control, but the way his hands move, the way his lips hover so close yet don’t quite touch, leaves you breathless. “Maybe I just don’t have anything to say to you right now,” you shoot back, though your voice wavers.

Joe chuckles, lifting his head to look at you, his blue eyes glinting with mischief. “Oh, I don’t believe that for a second,” he says, his thumb brushing over the strip of skin where your shirt has ridden up. “You’ve always got something to say to me. Even if it’s just to tell me to fuck off.”

You glare at him, but it’s half-hearted, your resolve crumbling as he dips his head again, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “I like it when you get all fired up,” he whispers, his tone teasing. “But I think I like this quiet side of you even more.”

You huff, trying to ignore the way your body betrays you, leaning into him despite yourself. “You’re so full of yourself.”

Joe smirks, pulling back just enough to meet your gaze. His hand slides under your shirt, fingers grazing your skin, and you shiver at the contact. “Maybe,” he admits, his tone smug, “but you’re still here, aren’t you?”

You want to retort, to wipe that cocky grin off his face, but before you can, he shifts his weight, his lips capturing yours again. This time, the kiss is slower, deeper, and you feel the teasing edge in his movements as he kisses you until you forget whatever comeback you had planned.

His fingers inch higher, tracing light patterns on your stomach, deliberately avoiding the places where you want him most. It’s infuriating, how easily he has you unraveling, and when he pulls back just enough to smirk down at you, you let out an exasperated groan.

“You’re infuriating,” you mutter, tugging at his shirt in frustration.

Joe leans down, his nose brushing against yours, his lips curling into a playful grin. “But you’re not telling me to stop.”

He shifts again, his hands sliding up to frame your face as he kisses you once more. His lips are soft but insistent, drawing you in until all you can focus on is him—his weight pressing you into the mattress, the warmth of his skin, the way his touch sets every nerve in your body alight.

“Say the word,” he murmurs against your lips, his voice soft but laced with a challenge. “Tell me to stop, and I will.”

You stare up at him, your chest heaving as you try to catch your breath. But the word never comes. Instead, you pull him down again, your fingers threading through his hair as you kiss him with all the pent-up frustration, anger, and longing that’s been building between you for weeks.

Joe groans softly, his hands sliding down your sides, his teasing touch giving way to something more intentional. “That’s what I thought,” he murmurs against your lips, his tone smug but laced with something warmer, something that makes your stomach flip.

Joe's lips find yours again, the kiss deepening as his teasing facade begins to slip. His hands roam your body with more purpose now, fingertips pressing into your skin like he’s memorizing every curve. He nips lightly at your bottom lip, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Still hate me?” he whispers, his voice low and rough, sending a shiver down your spine. He moves back slowly, before pulling off your leggings, his eyes never leaving yours.

You bite back a moan, refusing to give him the satisfaction of an answer. Instead, you pull him closer, your nails grazing the back of his neck, and the quiet groan he lets out is enough to make your pulse race.

The leggings are long forgotten now, leaving you exposed in your underwear. Joe chuckles softly, his breath fanning against your lips as he trails kisses along your jaw, then lower, his teeth scraping lightly against the sensitive skin of your neck. His tongue follows, soothing the faint sting, and the combination has your hands fisting in his shirt.

“You’re not as tough as you act, you know,” he teases, his voice dripping with amusement. His hands slide beneath your shirt, his palms warm against your bare skin as he pushes the fabric up slowly. “I think you like this way more than you’re letting on.”

“You talk too much,” you manage to gasp, but your retort loses its bite when his thumb grazes just beneath your ribs, sending a rush of heat through your body.

Joe pulls back just enough to tug your shirt over your head, tossing it carelessly to the side. He takes a moment to look at you, his blue eyes dark and filled with something you can’t quite name, and for a second, the teasing smirk is gone, replaced by something softer.

“You’re so damn beautiful,” he murmurs, almost to himself, and the sincerity in his voice catches you off guard.

Your breath hitches, and you feel your cheeks flush under his gaze. Before you can overthink it, his lips are on you again, softer this time but no less insistent. His hands trace slow, deliberate patterns along your sides, his thumbs brushing just beneath the band of your bra, and you arch into his touch without meaning to.

Joe grins against your skin, clearly pleased with your reaction. “That’s more like it,” he murmurs, his lips trailing lower as he presses kisses down your neck, across your collarbone, and then to the edge of the fabric.

He pauses, glancing up at you as his fingers toy with the clasp, his expression both playful and questioning. “Tell me if you want me to stop,” he says again, his tone softer now, without the usual cockiness.

But stopping is the furthest thing from your mind. Instead, you pull him down to you, your lips crashing into his with a fervor that answers his unspoken question.

Joe groans against your mouth, his hands moving to unclasp your bra with surprising ease, and you feel the shift in his demeanor as his teasing gives way to something more raw, more urgent. His lips trail lower, leaving a path of heat in their wake, and every deliberate touch has your body humming with anticipation.

“Still hate me?” he asks again, his voice rough and teasing, but there’s a flicker of vulnerability in his eyes as he looks up at you.

You reach for him, your fingers threading through his hair as you pull him closer. “Shut up, Joe,” you whisper, your voice breathless but firm, and for once, he listens.

Joe's smirk returns, but it’s softer now, laced with something warmer than his usual arrogance. He lets out a quiet laugh, the sound low and full of disbelief, as if he can’t quite believe where the night has led. But he doesn’t argue. Instead, he lets his lips and hands do the talking, his touch reverent but still filled with that undeniable fire that seems to burn between you.

He slowly pulls away, looking up at you with a small smirk before he gets up. Before you could start questioning him, he takes off his shirt and sweats swiftly, your eyes widening at his body.

Joe’s smirk deepens as he catches the way your eyes widen, lingering on his toned frame. His confidence seems to grow with every second you stay silent, your gaze betraying the sharp tongue you usually use to deflect him. He steps closer, his movements slow and deliberate, as if giving you time to drink him in.

“You’re staring,” he teases, his voice low and teasing, though his eyes burn with something more primal. “I knew you liked looking at me, but this is a new level.”

You roll your eyes, but the heat rushing to your cheeks gives you away. “Don’t flatter yourself,” you mutter, trying to sound dismissive, but your voice wavers slightly, betraying the effect he has on you.

Joe chuckles, leaning down to brace his hands on either side of you, his face inches from yours. “Too late for that,” he says, his tone dripping with satisfaction. “You’ve already done it for me.”

Before you can fire back, he trails his hand down your side, fingers skimming over your waist and hip with maddening slowness. He presses a kiss to your collarbone, then another to the swell of your chest, each one softer than the last, as if he’s savoring the way you shiver beneath his touch.

You can feel his hardened bulge against your stomach, and you're just about done with his teasing. You need him, now. “Joe,” you whined as he pulls back with a smirk.

“You drive me crazy, you know that?” he says, his voice low and raw. “But I wouldn’t want it any other way.”

Before you can reply, his lips are on yours again, his kiss stealing whatever snarky comeback you might have had. His hands move with purpose, sliding over every inch of bare skin, and the slow, deliberate way he touches you has your body aching for more.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispers against your lips, the words a quiet challenge. But you don’t. You can’t.

Instead, you pull him closer, your fingers tangling in his hair as you kiss him with all the frustration and longing you’ve been holding back for weeks. Joe groans, the sound vibrating against your lips as his teasing slips away entirely, replaced by something deeper, more desperate.

“God, you’re impossible,” he mutters, his voice laced with both exasperation and awe. But his actions betray the truth—he wouldn’t have it any other way.

He finally pulls away, breathless as he gazes down at you, his eyes filled with adoration and lust. “I'm gonna fuck you, alright?” he mutters before leaning closer. “And for all those times you pissed me off, and annoyed me, I'll forget about all of that if I can just... hear you.”

You're caught off by the request and you almost think he's joking, but you're mistaken. He's dead serious. All you could was nod slowly in response and Joe leans away, pleased.

Joe’s control starts to slip, and it’s evident in the way his kisses grow hungrier, more urgent. His hands tremble slightly as they trail over your body, mapping out every curve like he’s afraid this moment will disappear. He pulls back just enough to look at you, his pupils blown wide and his breathing uneven.

“Do you have any idea what you do to me?” he whispers, his voice raw, the cocky edge completely gone. “You’ve been driving me insane for months.”

Then finally, he slowly peels off his briefs, and his large, hardened cock falls out.

Joe lets out a small groan as his head falls back, relief in his expression. His pink tip is already leaking with pre-cum. You practically faint at the sight, you couldn't help but let out a whimper. His hands find his cock before he slowly begins to pump it, his eyes finding yours again.

He spreads your legs open before leaning in, his lips finding yours as his hands lead his cock to your cunt. His forehead falls against yours as he slowly begins to insert himself, a heavenly groan leaving his lips at the feeling of your warm, tight walls.

You felt like you were being split in half, in the best way possible. You can't even describe how good his cock felt, he wasn't even a quarter inside of you, but you still felt like you were filled to the brim.

“O-oh, fuck, Joey,” you moaned as your swollen lips form an O, your head falling back onto the plush pillows. Now you understood why the girls in his apartment were so loud—they definitely weren't exaggerating.

His hands grip your hips firmly, pulling you closer as if he wasn't inside of you already. His lips crash against yours again, the kiss filled with desperation, like he’s trying to pour every suppressed emotion into it. It’s intoxicating, the way his need for you feels almost overwhelming, and you find yourself clutching at his shoulders, wanting to be as close as possible.

He bottoms you out slowly, and he tries to give you a second to adjust—he really, really tried. He just couldn't. He slowly started thrusting in and out of you, and before you could even process the change in speed, he was rocking his hips against yours like the world depended on it.

The bed was creaking loudly underneath the two of you, the only sounds that could be heard was your loud moans, his grunts of pleasure, and the sound of skin against skin.

His cock was dizzying, to say the least. It hit all the spots you swore nobody had ever reached, making you question all your previous partners. You couldn't even form a singular thought about anything else except for Joe's huge cock and the way he was making you feel.

“Joe!” You manage to gasp as he begins to pound into you impossibly harder, but he cuts you off with another kiss, groaning softly against your lips.

“Say my name again,” he demands, his voice husky and edged with desperation. He leans down, pressing open-mouthed kisses along your jaw and down your neck, his teeth grazing your skin in a way that makes you gasp as his hands spread your legs wider, pinning you to the mattress.

Before you can respond, his lips are on yours again, his kisses growing more frantic, more needy. His hands are everywhere, exploring, worshipping, as if he’s afraid this moment might slip away. The way he touches you, the way he whispers your name like a prayer, leaves you utterly undone.

His words make your head spin, and you can’t find a response. You're too caught up in the way he was pounding into you, like a fucking animal.

But Joe doesn’t seem to care; he’s too caught up in you, his hips moving faster and faster until you're practically crying out loud. His hands roam your body as if he’s memorizing every curve, every inch of skin. There’s no pretense now, no games—just raw, unfiltered desire.

You begin to feel the knot in your stomach begin to form, tight and persistent. You begin to grip his shoulders even tighter, your head falling back into the pillow as you moaned.

“O-oh, fuck! I'm gonna cum, please.” You began rambling as your legs wrapped around his waist, his hips not faltering one bit—if anything, he began going faster.

“Yeah? Gonna cum for me, pretty girl?” He grunted out, his own impending orgasm. “Cum for me, baby.”

That was all you needed. The knot in your stomach snapped violently, your whole body spasming as you cried out in utter pleasure. The orgasm washed over you perfectly as Joe's hips began to falter, and a few moments later, his cum spilled into you.

You both lie there, tangled in the sheets, your breathing ragged and your hearts racing as the room settles into a heavy, satisfied silence. Joe’s arm is draped lazily across your stomach, his fingers tracing light, absentminded patterns on your skin. The intimacy feels different now—softer, quieter, as if the storm that had built between you for so long had finally passed.

He exhales deeply, his chest still rising and falling against your side. “Well,” he says, his voice low and hoarse, “that was... long overdue.”

You glance over at him, your lips twitching into a faint smile despite yourself. “You think?” you reply dryly, the lingering warmth of the moment making it hard to muster the sharp edge your tone usually carries with him.

Joe turns his head to look at you, his hair mussed and sticking out in every direction, his cheeks still flushed. There’s that cocky grin of his, but it’s softer now, tinged with something you don’t think you’ve seen before—contentment, maybe. “Yeah,” he says, chuckling lightly. “So overdue I’m almost mad at us for waiting this long.”

You roll your eyes, but you can’t help the laugh that escapes you. His grin widens as he props himself up on one elbow, leaning over you. His gaze flicks across your face, and he reaches out, brushing a strand of hair away from your cheek. “But hey,” he says, his voice taking on a playful tone, “now that I’ve finally got you right where I want you, I think it’s time to make this official.”

Your brow furrows slightly as you tilt your head at him. “Official?”

Joe nods solemnly, though the sparkle in his eyes gives him away. “Yup. A real date. No fighting, no yelling, no storming off. Just you, me, and a public setting where we try very hard not to tear each other’s clothes off.”

You snort, shoving his shoulder lightly. “Oh, is that so?”

“That’s so,” he replies with a grin, catching your hand and intertwining his fingers with yours. His thumb brushes over your knuckles, his gaze softening. “Come on, let me take you out. I’ll even behave. Swear.”

You arch a skeptical brow, though the warmth in your chest betrays you. “Behave? You? I’ll believe it when I see it.”

Joe leans down, pressing a kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering for a moment. “Guess you’ll just have to say yes and find out,” he murmurs, his voice teasing but undeniably sincere.

You roll your eyes again, but there’s no hiding the small smile that tugs at your lips. “Fine,” you say, trying to sound reluctant but failing miserably. “One date. But if you embarrass me, it’s the last one.”

Joe’s grin is blinding as he flops back down beside you, pulling you against his chest. “Deal,” he says, his voice full of triumph. “You won’t regret it. Best date of your life, guaranteed.”

You shake your head, laughing softly. “You’re impossible.”

“And you love it,” he counters, his tone smug as his hand tightens around yours.

Maybe, just maybe, he’s right.

↳ make sure to check out my navigation or masterlist if you enjoyed! any interaction is greatly appreciated !

↳ thank you for reading all the way through, as always ♡

#jb5 #nfl fic #nfl football #nfl lb #nfl imagine #joe burrow bengals #cincinnati bengals #joeyb #joe burrow fan fic #joe burrow smut #joe burrow imagine #joe burrow x reader #joe burrow #joe burrow x you #joe burrow x y/n #joe burrow x oc

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xoxochb · 6 months ago

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request + a/n at the bottom

cw: (overly?) rough sex, brief swearing, overstimulation, piv, and erm I think that’s it? mdni (or do, that’s none of my business)

——— ౨ৎ ⊹ ࣪ ˖

he’s trying to kill you, that’s what. there had been a celebratory event for percy jackson— what he did this time was beyond your knowing. one day he kills the minotaur the next he’s universally known and wanted by the fbi, in a similar way he’s praised at camp for every tiny thing he does. new quest, celebration, came back alive from a quest, celebration, presumed dead but came back alive, celebration, just existed, a damn celebration! the kid’s not even eighteen and he’s the talk of camp! it’s ludicrous, yes, but you couldn’t give less of a fuck, what other people cared about was out of your capacity of understanding, he’s just a kid.

to your boyfriend, though, percy wasn’t ‘just a kid’ he was the bane of his existence. when you think about it— why was it fair that percy got claimed to quickly and is actually acknowledged by his godly parent while luke can’t do the same? that’s unfair. today, during another celebration for the great perseus jackson, you witnessed luke’s anger first hand, through fireworks and a party bonfire, you were pulled away by him in the middle of your s’more making— which he claimed was “helping add onto the hype for that dumb kid.”

with a pout spread over your lips, you’re dragged to an empty cabin eleven, his bed more specifically. you had no control coming after this, none when your clothes were pulled off, and none when he, without warning, shoved his cock inside of you (quite violently may you add, may the gods save you from the pain you’re going to feel in the morning). nonetheless, you’re not going to interfere with his mood, you’ll let him fuck you senseless until you fall into a coma. and that’s what you’re sure he’s trying to do!

because between his thumb maniacally rubbing over your clit and with each vicious thrust you feel yourself growing progressively more lightheaded, your hands tightly fisting the sheets and a plethora of tears streaming down your perfectly pink cheeks. you hear luke murmur incoherent babbles, something you assume is all hatred towards the son of poseidon, because you take notice that he gets rougher each time.

“luke, I- please… mhm I- can’t-” what the fuck are you saying? you sound like a clueless child attempting to say their first words. your chest heaves with great force, seemingly to the same pattern of the cacophonous fireworks outside that don’t seem to ever stop— gods, why fireworks of everything? you’re getting a fucking migraine at this point, and with every deafening moan escaping your maroon lips your head seems to pound harder. this is how you’re going to die for sure.

practically sobbing, you grab at luke’s dark curls in an attempt to pull him out from you, or just to do anything that involves stopping your current state of overstimulation. it’s too much, fine at first, but now it’s too much. panting, you repeat his name, pleading, praying. he doesn’t seem to listen at all, continuing to thrust inside you to impel your moans to jump to the highest octave possible, and you’re half sure that by now they’re louder than the bursting fireworks outside.

“you gonna come for me, angel? not done until you come for me…”

you could scream. shit— you’re practically already moaning at the same decibel level of a blood curling scream (you’re so not going to be able to talk tomorrow). “fuck, please- ah- luke, I-”

nonetheless, you feel your velvety walls tightening as your orgasm washes over you, your thick wetness coating his throbbing cock. he prolongs this for a full minute you were sure would’ve killed you, until he pulled out of you, he’s met suddenly with your deathly glare.

“what the fuck is wrong with you?”

༯ “So you had this post where u said 'louder than the fireworks' (which later said '(he's fictional)' lol) and i got an idea.. Luke castellan just fucking the shit out of you while everyone is celebrating percy bc he's mad or sum shit idek all i know is that its rough and he's trying to get louder than the fireworks 🤭” hi nonnie, my love, for some reason I was unable to respond to your request?? it only had “delete” and “post” but I love love loved this request so I just copied it on here :)

#xoxochb #percy jackon and the olympians #pjo series #pjo fandom #percy jackson #pjo #percy series #luke castellan fic #luke castellan smut #luke castellan x reader #luke castellan #luke castellan x you #luke castellan x y/n #riordanverse x reader #riordan universe #riordanverse #percy jackson x reader #percy jackson x you

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rika-mmendmethings · 1 month ago

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Feline Hexes l Sylus

Summary: A prolonged game of kitty cards angers the kitty gods, who curse Sylus to become a cat, which leads to a series of misadventures and an un-fur-gettable day.

Warning(s): Tooth-rotting fluff, written with female reader in mind, might die from the cute aggression you get from Cat Sylus, short and sweet, slightly suggestive at the end, cheesy, kissing, pet names like sweetie and kitten used.

Word count: 2.6k

Now playing: Angel Baby by Troye Sivan

Notes: I've read a lot of fics where the reader turns into a cat so I couldn't help but want Cat Sylus and the rest is history ♥

It was another normal Sunday. As normal as playing kitty cards with the leader of Onychinus sitting across you could be considered. You two had been at it for approximately two hours and seventeen minutes and not once had you even stood up for a breather. You were dead-set on settling the score with the man in front of you because eating dirt was genuinely not your forte. It appeared it wasn’t his either because he had not shown an ounce of mercy to you despite your pleas and outbursts and now you were stuck in an endless loop of losing.

You internally rejoiced when you picked out an assist card, which happened to be the magic paw card. You kept your composure, scanning the cards in your hand once more: one Magic Paw card, one Paw Combo, one Purrcieve, and two number cards. Perfect. Victory would be within your grasp in the next round. Sylus had no number cards left, and judging by what you could see, only three assist cards in his hand. With the two cups left, you were confident that nothing—absolutely nothing—could take this sweet glory from you.

As it turned out, your win was not taken away; rather, it was deliberately snatched out of your awaiting, outstretched arms. Veiny hands that had you gushing over them with admiration every other day were now making you want to break them as they set down his cards. He gained another assist card, then one by one, placed all four of his cards down. His Freeze card had both you and your next assist card phase freezing. His combo attack, first from Cat-ching and then from Paw Combo, left you wounded. And just when you thought that at least the round would end in a tie because of your matching points, the bane of your existence shoved his last card and another easy win in your face. Magic paw. You could only watch, horror etched across your face, as Sylus reduced your highest point cup to a mere one point.

“Sylus.”

“Yes, kitten?”

“...I’m going to weep.”

“...Do you want my shoulder, a tissue, or both, sweetie?”

You let out an exaggerated groan, dragging your hands down your face in exasperation. Sylus was at your side in an instant, his large arms wrapping around you in a comforting embrace. You knew you were being petulant, but the feeling of frustration didn’t dissipate, causing you to absentmindedly kick your feet beneath the table like a child amid a tantrum. His chest rumbled with laughter, a rich sound that made your heart flutter and your anger soften, until his next words pierced through your thoughts.

"Seems like a skill issue to me, sweetie."

You pulled away from him sharply, shooting him a glare that could have melted steel, though he only laughed harder. Typical Sylus, always rubbing his victories in everyone’s face. Without a word, you stood up, informing him that you were heading to the bathroom. The last thing you saw before you turned the corner was Sylus, now surrounded by all the upset Cats from the Meow’s Café, their tails puffed and ears flat in distress, clustering around his feet in a chaotic display. Serves him right. He had been ruthless to both you and the Cats, insisting on one round after another.

When you finally returned to your table, you only saw the Cats lazing around there. All that was left was a dotted line where Sylus had last been standing. You searched high and low but he was nowhere to be found. Just as you were about to ask a nearby employee, a pristine puff of alabaster white caught your eye from the corner of your vision beneath the table. Curiosity piqued, you bent down to investigate further. There, staring up at you with crimson eyes you had long grown fond of, was not your boyfriend, but rather a small white Cat with an unamused gaze and cautious stance.

You blinked, processing the odd sight, and then shifted your gaze to the other Cats lounging around the table. It didn’t even surprise you when the other Cats seemed to regard the white puffball with a mix of indifference and quiet suspicion. Some even narrowed their eyes at it, which prompted the white fluff to hiss back in a clear display of annoyance. The situation slowly began to sink in, and you, now fully convinced, scooped the fluffy creature up and placed it on the table to meet your gaze.

"Sylus?" you asked tentatively.

A small, disoriented meow graced your ears as a response from the fur ball. It took barely a minute for the realization to sink in before you were on the floor, tears streaming down your face as you clutched your stomach, shaking from the intensity of your laughter. The sound echoed loudly as you cackled uncontrollably. Meanwhile, Cat Sylus made his way over to your scattered hair, pawing at it while hissing in irritation.

“Ouch, ouch! Okay, okay, I won’t laugh anymore. Stop pulling my hair!” you stammered, trying to Catch your breath between fits of laughter. You sat up, running a hand through your tangled hair, and risked one more glance at Cat Sylus. The sight of him only made you snort with laughter again. But you finally stopped when you saw your boyfriend-turned-cat sulking in a way that was so quintessentially him. Without hesitation, you gathered him into your arms, lifting him high into the air just like Rafiki did with Simba in The Lion King.

A smug grin tugged at your lips as you couldn't help but ask, “Who's the kitten now, Sylus?”

Cat Sylus huffed indignantly, ears flattened and tail swatting at your hands in a futile attempt to free himself. You gently set him back on the table and took a seat across from him. The two of you locked eyes, unblinking, until an overwhelming sense of affection surged through you. A wide, ecstatic grin spread across your face as cute aggression took over.

You squealed in delight, cupping Cat Sylus’s rounded cheeks in your hands before pulling him tightly to your chest. You couldn't resist nibbling at his ears and burying your face in his soft fur, cooing sweet praises all the while. You felt like that one Chinese influencer who was famous for her adorable Cat and the high-pitched, cute aggression she gets whenever she sees it. Surprisingly, Cat Sylus didn’t protest. He simply sat there, enduring your onslaught of affection. And if you observed closely, you might have even noticed the faintest trace of contentment in his eyes, as though he were almost basking in the warmth of your adoration.

You pressed a gentle kiss to his small forehead and scratched behind his ear comfortingly as you assured him, “Don’t you worry, baby. I’ll talk to the employees about how to get you back to your normal form at the earliest. Although I wouldn’t mind you like this for a few more hours.” Cat Sylus narrowed his eyes but didn’t stop purring like a broken record as you offered him more chin scratches.

You held a reluctant Cat Sylus up by his scruff and walked over to the Meow Cafe’s counter, with him swaying in your hand. You placed him on top of the counter, pressing a finger to your lips and motioning for him to stay put as you rang the small yellow bell to summon an employee. You glanced up at the clock above the counter, which showed a quarter past seven in the evening, reminding you that the cafe closed when the clock struck eight.

A woman in her mid-thirties emerged from behind the counter, tipping her cap in greeting before asking if you needed assistance. You gestured to Cat Sylus, briefly explaining, “My boyfriend and I had been playing for quite some time. I stepped away to answer nature’s call, but when I returned, he had been transformed into a Cat. So, I’m hoping we can find a way to turn him back into a human.”

The woman clasped her hands together after listening to your story and reassured you, “This isn’t anything new for us. The cafe kitties have cursed people before, especially if they’re irritated. Just last week, a purple-haired, pettish man was cursed to turn into a cat as well. However, his girlfriend seemed far more concerned than you, as it turned out her boyfriend had a strong distaste for the very animal he had transformed into. You don’t need to worry too much though—the curse could wear off anywhere between a few hours and a day. If your boyfriend hasn’t reverted to his human form by tomorrow afternoon, you can bring him back here, and we’ll see what we can do.”

She reached out to pet Cat Sylus, but he had other ideas. He ducked beneath her raised hand and hopped off the counter, quickly standing between your legs. The two of you shared mildly awkward smiles as you nudged him lightly with your foot, waving off his antics. “He’s even more complicated as a Cat, sorry.” You carefully gathered him up in your arms and placed him inside your backpack, leaving the zipper slightly open so he could breathe and poke his head out to take in his surroundings. After offering a polite farewell to the employee, you boarded Sylus’s motorcycle, securing your helmet in place. You glanced over your shoulder one last time to make sure he was comfortable before revving the engine and heading off toward the N109 zone.

You put Cat Sylus down on the black marble floors of his mansion, watching him stretch and meow softly. The sound immediately pulled Luke and Kieran out of their video game trance. They leaped off the sofa and rushed over to where Cat Sylus stood. Simultaneously, the twins pointed at the white ball of fur and asked, “What is this?”

“A cat,” you deadpanned, kicking off your shoes before scooping up Cat Sylus and strolling over to the sofa.

Your boyfriend’s most loyal henchmen—your children in all but legal names—followed you closely, sitting down beside you. You could practically feel their curiosity radiating off them in waves. Kieran was the first to speak, “Yeah, but where did you find it? Why is it here?” Luke chimed in between Kieran’s question, “Does boss-man know about this? What are you planning, missus?”

You pressed your hands over your ears in an exaggerated motion, pulling them away only when they got the hint and stopped their relentless barrage of questions. You gestured toward Cat Sylus, who had now settled comfortably on the armchair where he usually sat. With a matter-of-fact tone, you explained, “That is Sylus himself. We were playing kitty cards for far too long, and it ended up angering the Meow Cafe’s kitties, who cursed Sylus to turn into a Cat. The curse should wear off soon enough.”

The twins’ mouths formed an ‘o’ as they nodded in unison, their eyes fixed on their boss-turned-cat. They could have said so much more, even teased Sylus endlessly, but the scarlet-tinted glare directed at them was the only thing keeping them in check. It carried the unspoken threat of impending doom once he reverted back, should they dare utter a single word.

The twins settled for a half-hearted salute to Cat Sylus before scurrying away to their rooms after concluding that it was for the best if they left their boss in the best mood. You had an arm draped over your eyes and that was probably why you didn’t notice your Cat boyfriend straightening with gradual zeal when his beady crimson eyes fell upon a shiny earring that lay between the beak of his own creation, Mephisto.

Your body had practically melted into the soft, plush leather after such a chaotic day when you suddenly felt it—silence. It was unusually quiet, and the absence of noise made your brow furrow in confusion. Slowly, you lifted your arm from your face and gasped in disbelief as your eyes took in the scene before you. Mephisto was frolicking around at Cat Sylus, who was curled up on the center table, a diamond earring resting under his left paw. Every so often, he swatted lazily at the mechanical crow as though it were nothing more than a bothersome fly.

Upon noticing that you were awake, Mephisto flew over and perched himself on your shoulder, cawing loudly as if to explain his dilemma—Cat Sylus had stolen from his precious collection. You gently patted the top of Mephisto’s head in understanding before prodding your Cat-boyfriend to coax him into opening his eyes. He peeked up at you with one ruby eye, a lazy smirk tugging at his muzzle, before closing both eyes again as if you were some lowly peasant unworthy of his attention. You huffed in mild offense, silently noting how, even in his feline form, Sylus still managed to maintain the same aloof mannerisms.

You poked him again, clicking your tongue. "Sylus, this won't do. Give Mephisto back the earring. Why are you even taking from his collection?"

At last, Cat Sylus opened his eyes, and you had to take a deep breath to stop yourself from melting—an almost impossible task, considering he was looking at you with those big, innocent eyes. He nudged the earring toward you with his muzzle and meowed sweetly. If you hadn’t melted before, you were certainly a puddle now. You nearly cooed, realizing that he was offering the earring to you, his beloved.

You picked up the earring and handed it to Mephisto, allowing the crow to fly off to his secret collection hideout. Then, you turned your attention back to Cat Sylus. You stroked his forehead affectionately, watching as he slow-blinked up at you. With a fond tone, you spoke, “I appreciate it, Sylus. But maybe it’s best to let Mephisto have it since the earring isn’t in its pair. Come on, let’s go to bed—it’s late.”

You walked to your shared bedroom, Cat Sylus trailing behind you. After freshening up, you decided to clean him with a wet napkin and even brought him a large bowl of lukewarm milk, knowing he would prefer it to cat food. You chuckled when you noticed his silvery muzzle dripping with milk, the contrast stark, like white crayon on white paper.

When you finally settled onto your back, Cat Sylus wasted no time, curling up on top of you, his tiny form resting gently on your chest with his tail wrapped around himself. You smiled tiredly, pressing a gentle kiss to his nose and giving him a few belly rubs before drifting off into sleep.

You awoke to a heavier weight on your chest than the night before. Your eyes fluttered open, adjusting to the soft morning light. A familiar brush of knuckles moved your hair away from your face, and as you looked up, your gaze met your lover's—human once again. The corners of his lips curled into a Cheshire grin as his ruby eyes roved over your face. You breathed in recognition and murmured, “Sylus.”

“Hello to you too, sweetie. Missed me, hm?” he drawled, and you shook your head in playful denial, teasing him.

He was lying shirtless, his chin resting on your sternum, dressed in grey sweatpants—likely after he’d shifted back while you were still asleep. You let your fingers weave through his bed-tousled strands, and in response, he nuzzled into your chest. You let out a huff of laughter and asked, “Sylus?”

He didn’t stop his ministrations, and with a playful tone, he supplied, “I hope I didn’t lose my cat privileges just because I’m not a cat anymore.”

You held back a shudder when he pressed a peck to your clothed cleavage and pulled him up to your eye level by his hair and replied, “Not at all.” He grinned devilishly before sealing your lips with his and what followed after could only be guessed.

Check out my other works if you liked this ♥

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saturnville · 26 days ago

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love calls | kelvin harrison jr.

Pairing: Kelvin Harrison Jr. x Black Fem OC (nia) Summary: Kelvin takes the step to make things official between him and Nia. Warnings: Sexual suggestions. WC: 2519 AN: Everybody say thank you @youreadthatright for asking about Nia and Kelvin. Semi-inspired by Love Calls by Kem. Remember: Likes are nice, but reblogs, comments, and asks are encouraged. What were your thoughts?

Phone calls during work hours were the bane of her existence. Having successfully broken her self-proclaimed cell phone addiction, anything that was a cellular distraction was forbidden, especially during her shifts. She kept her phone across the room on a plush chair her mother purchased when she was promoted. It was nice and cozy, unable to be drained from overuse like its owner. It must be nice.

Yet, her efforts were in vain. The do-not-disturb setting wasn’t strong enough to withhold the call that forced its way through technological blockages, and a familiar name made a special appearance on the slightly smudged screen of her laptop. KHJR.

She'd scowl if she were skilled at holding a grudge, but she couldn’t help the smile that tugged at the corner of her lips as she accepted the call. “I’m at work; you do know that, right?”

His soft chuckle warmed her body. After a few moments of reconnection, clear, brown skin, a pretty smile, and a crisp hairline appeared. So did a broad chest covered by a crisp wife beater decorated with a gold chain. Those lips. She inhaled sharply. “You gon’ fall behind for over a five-minute call, Ni?”

If she kept ogling at him, she might. Things between her and Kelvin had changed drastically since that night at his apartment. What was supposed to be one night turned into two, filled with pizza, deep conversations, and a warm body against hers when the night came to an end. When maintenance arrived on Monday, he was by her side, watching to ensure the handyman secured the new lock with enough precision that even Hephaestus couldn’t undo the work.

They spent a lot of time together after that. On days when his schedule wasn’t as packed, he joined her for lunch, often insisting he take her to different restaurants around the city. When she was holed in at the office, he resorted to bringing food and flowers, which her co-workers whispered and inquired about when he left. They weren’t dating, no. Just two adults enjoying the company of one another and enjoying the company a little too much.

Some lines had not yet been crossed, but if Nia didn’t regain control and dignity, she’d find herself in that man’s bed for reasons beyond a busted lock. Her instinct was to fall back. To regroup and maintain composure. She wasn’t twenty anymore. Love needed structure, and it required intentionality. It lasted all of two days until Kelvin came ringing her line as he usually did.

Nia shook her head. “No, but I was in the middle of something. Don’t want a certain someone stealing my focus. Everything good?”

Kelvin nodded slowly, brown eyes following every ebb and flow of her movements. Though on the call, she moved gracefully to write down a few things that came to her mind. She tucked her pressed hair behind her ear, showing off her cheeks and beautiful collarbone with a simple gold chain around it. Her lip was drawn between her teeth as she forced her pen across the paper.

“Yeah,” he said after her eyes cut toward him as an extra push. “I’m back in town on Thursday evening; I wanted to see you on Friday. You got room on the busy calendar for 8?” Honestly, his asking was a mere formality to show respect for her time. One way or another, he’d be in her presence on Friday night, hell or high water.

Nia’s eyes flickered toward her desk calendar. Half day at work, but he didn’t need to know that. No plans with the girls since they were all on weekend adventures, but he didn’t need to know that, either. Her pause was intentional, but delaying wouldn’t help her case, so she said, “I’m free at eight on Friday.”

She hated how easy it was to say yes. She hated how it seemed to be the correct answer even more.

“Smooth,” Kelvin replied but didn’t hang up. His lips parted, but nothing came out. Nia tilted her head to the side. “What?” She asked, her pen still in her hand. Kelvin shook his head, rubbing the back of his neck, the gold necklace catching the sunlight at the right angle. “Nothing…just bring that smile you tryna hide with you. I’ll see you on Friday.”

And Lord, it couldn’t come fast enough. By Wednesday, she was counting down the hours. By Wednesday evening, she glanced at the clock, almost jumping out of her skin when he called her to ensure she was still suitable for Friday evening. On Thursday, she shared the details with her closest friends, who encouraged her to go; as a good man, making it official within a month wasn’t usual.

“He asked me out. He didn’t ask me to be his girlfriend,” Nia downplayed as she sat in the manicurist’s chair, her voice vibrating from the massage chair’s beating on her back.

Roni blew a raspberry that caught the attention of nearby patrons. “Girl, he’s about to. He asks you out all the time. He’s taking you to a nice dinner at an expensive restaurant in the city and Lord knows where else. Just be prepared to be booed up by the end of the weekend and stop being so pessimistic—oh, I’m sorry, can I change my polish color?”

By Friday after work, she was shuffling through the racks at her nearest Zara after determining the dresses in her closet wouldn’t do. They were either too short, too long, not in season, or not weather-appropriate. She landed on something less traditional and maybe something that would hurt any other man’s pride but would have Kelvin complimenting her off the walls—the sharpest two-piece black suit. Kind of. She wanted the pants, but when she saw a pair of shorts that complimented the blazer, it seemed appropriate for the occasion. Coupled with her favorite black heels and gold jewelry, she’d be date night-ready.

The knock came like a secret. Not loud. Not rushed. Just three, a soft three-tap rhythm against the door that made her stomach leap. He didn’t call. Didn’t text. No hazard lights reflected off her window to send a signal like Batman. Kelvin showed up as he’d always done. With presence.

She rechecked her reflection, tamed the nonexistent wrinkles on her blazer sleeve, and adjusted the hem of her shorts. Her legs looked long, which she could attribute to her heels. Her skin glowed, and her necklace winked at her like it knew the night would end with a bang.

When she opened the door, the look in his eyes made her heart race.

“Alright, girl.” He didn’t just look at her. He studied her like an unknown subject, his eyes decoding every step that led to her putting on that blazer that covered just enough but still gave way to a wandering imagination and shorts that showcased smooth, brown legs. His vision was focused on her, and its fingers drummed down her thigh. “How can I keep it together when you look like this?”

Nia’s lips curved into a knowing smile. “If I’m leaving the house, I might as well look good doing it.”

Kelvin hummed low and smooth like melodies from an old church choir. He stepped closer, one hand in his pocket, the other tucked underneath her chin. Not too far, but just enough to have her leaning into his touch. His eyes flickered down to her lips, full and covered in lip gloss he’d love to have smeared on his skin at any opportunity. “You gon’ let me kiss you now, or do you need another five minutes like you Ain’t been thinking about it since Tuesday?”

She swallowed thickly. Her lips parted, but the words didn’t come quickly enough. So he did it for her. Leaned in and pressed his lips against the corner of her mouth. Not quite her lips. Not overly complicated. Simple enough to be considered innocent but intentional enough for Nia to know it was a shadow of something else to come.

Nia exhaled sharply. “You’re tryin’ to start something, Kelvin.”

He smiled as he pulled back, his dark brown eyes never leaving her complimentary ones. “Nah, just tryna build something, if you let me.”

That was enough for her knees to almost buckle, sending those five-inch heels flying off her feet. Roni was right. He was up to something.

The ride to the venue provided enough time to get her mind and vagina in order before she made decisions on impulse. They were seated outdoors, which gave the perfect view of the city’s nightlife as the sun crested over the horizon and city lights reflected off building windows and car mirrors.

The live jazz band's soft sounds soothed her anxiety leading up to the date. Paired with two glasses of the finest white wine to grace her taste buds, they had her feeling loose and ready to accept any proposition he could provide. It was further subsided by a delicious meal, conversation with stolen, lingering glances, and the most delicious chocolate cake brought out on a clean, white dish with chocolate writing: Will you be my girlfriend?

Suddenly, chocolate cake felt like a commitment. One she wanted but wasn’t expecting so soon.“You did not,” Nia gasped, dropping the fork she prepared to use to obliterate the dessert he ordered. A child-like grin on her face. “Babe…” His lips curled into a smirk. “You Ain’ even accept my proposal, and you callin’ me babe, c’mon girl, let’s do this the right way!”

They shared a laugh. When it died down, Kelvin took her hand in his, thumb caressing the scar on her hand and the jewelry on the middle finger. “Nia, we’ve been cool for a while, but this last month has been…something different. I could be moving too fast or too old to play games. Maybe both, but I know I want you and only you; I want it to be real between us…and I’d be honored to call you my girl if you’d let me.”

Thank God for some self-control, or she would’ve leaped across the table and painted this man’s face with her lip gloss. Instead, she settled for a soft yes and a smile, which seemed to do it justice, as Kelvin couldn’t keep the smile off his face no matter how hard he tried.

The ride back to her apartment was filled with an undeniable tension they both tried to mask with soft smiles and whispers of old school R&B that played through the speakers. It followed them up the elevator and to her front door, where her hand ghosted over the knob, debating whether to end the night or let him press her against a wall and capture her lips in the searing kiss she'd internally been begging for. But the other part of her, the cautious part of her told her to slow down.

The shift was noticeable. Didn't fall on blind eyes. Kelvin didn't step closer but he didn't move way, either. The ball was in her court, but his presence was undeniable. She could feel his warm breath against her skin, the hairs on her neck standing at attention.

"You don't have to do anything you don't want to do, Nia," he reminded her of what she already knew, but it didn't help. Her inhibitions were clamoring behind iron bars she'd constructed over the last few years. Did he have the key to open the doors? It seemed so.

His patience was both a gift and a challenge, an enigma she struggled to grasp. Thankful that he was mature unlike men--no, boys, she was used to dealing with. Curious about the unspoken confidence that warned her once she was his, she was his fully and he was hers.

Nia turned over her shoulder, her stunning side profile spotlit by the low lights of the apartment hallway. "Come in," she said after some time. She aimed for confidence, but hesitation lassoed her words into a whisper, leaving only a hushed breath to pass her lips. "You sure?"

The door creaking open was his answer.

The two hardly made it past the threshold before lust beat self control and his mouth was on hers. She couldn't recall how it happened. Maybe when her hand lingered too long on his chest or when his lips brushed against her neck as she unlocked the door. She didn't know. She didn't care.

Nia moaned softly from the intensity of it all. Their kiss was sloppy and uncoordinated, but it sparked a match that lit a flame deep in her loins. She'd set fire to the whole place if it didn't simmer down. But she didn't want it to.

There was something grown, sexy, raunchy about a man finding her so delectable that as soon as the door closed and the locked clicked, he was on her like white on rice. She placed her hands on his chest to still his movements, bending down to kick off her heels before she broke an ankle trying to keep up with his lips sucking on her neck. Her eyes rolled back behind heavy eyelids. "Mhm, wait, wait."

Her breath came out in a shaky laugh. She pressed against him, not to push him away, but to ground herself and remind herself of who she was. Kelvin pulled back immediately, eyes scanning her face for any sign of discomfort or hesitancy. His hands stayed where they were, distant but respectful. Unmoving, but still reminding her that she was in control and he'd follow her lead.

"You good?" he asked, his voice a low rumble.

"Yeah, yeah," Nia nodded, her fingers clenching around his shirt. She didn't know whether to pull him closer or retreat. "Wasn't expecting you to kiss me like that."

Kelvin chuckled, "Well, I'm not afraid to admit that's all I been thinkin' about since Tuesday, but.." That made her smile. Really smile. The one that made her nose crinkle and her shoulders relax. Her hands slid up his shirt and her finger wrapped around his chain, and she pulled him in for a kiss. Slower. More calculated. Nasty.

His hand slid down her back and settled on the cuff of her bottom that peeked through the bottom of her shorts. A firm squeeze made her knees buckle. So the shorts were a good choice, she noted. She whimpered against his lips, her body arching every so slightly into his touch. Maybe. The younger version of her would've used this as fuel to spiral into full-fledged fantasies. But this, this was in the room with her. And it was hers. He was hers.

Kelvin pulled back enough to whisper against her lips, "Do you want me to stay?"

She didn't answer right away. Didn't need to. She just reached for his hand and led him further into the apartment and into the unknown that a night full of vibes, fancy wine, and cute proposal could thrust them to.

And whatever happened after that, she'd chosen it. And that was enough.

Tags: @kirayuki22 @greedyjudge2 @notapradagurl7 @irishmanwhore @honeytoffee @theogbadbitch @jazziejax @kumkaniudaku @nahimjustfeelingit-writes @youreadthatright

#saturnville #black!reader #black reader #kelvin harrison jr.#original writing #kelvin harrison jr. x reader #kelvin harrison jr. x black reader #kelvin harrison jr. smut #kelvin harrison jr. fic #kelvin harrison jr. x black oc #kelvin harrison jr #black fanfiction

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exceptional-z · 1 year ago

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zed necrodopolis x reader

this is an au where zombies were never allowed to go to human high school. so zed is aged up (though age is never mentioned so you can imagine whatever) but has never been on the other side of the barrier. i attempted not to use gendered language but i tend to write with fem!reader in mind.

also please ignore any inconsistent verb tenses. english is not my first language and verb tenses are literally the bane of my existence. + i wrote this in like an hour

your family didn’t have much money growing up, hence why you lived so close to the gate. real estate was cheap since no one wanted to live near the zombies. but it also meant you learnt how to save money in as many ways as you could.

seabrook was all about perfection. if a mattress was two years old, it was time to throw it out and buy a new one. if a bike had a single scratch, it was thrown into the dumpster. all of the old items deemed as ‘garbage’ were brought to a warehouse that was emptied around every two weeks. and this was your favourite place to be.

you sneak into the warehouse. it’s late at night and there’s never any security around. you’re immediately greeted with piles of furniture and clothing and trinkets that are too unique to fit into the seabrook aesthetic.

you start to rummage through with the plastic gloves you always wear just in case any bugs or mice decide that this is a perfect place to burrow. lost in thought, you don’t hear the creaky door open, but you do hear the sudden shout that erupted from behind you.

your heart nearly stops beating at the sudden noise and your head swivels around. the lighting isn’t great, and you can only make out the vague shape of the person blocking your only exit. he looks fairly lanky, and if you squint you could make out some of his features. he doesn’t look much older than you and he certainly doesn’t scream “imposing”. he’s taller than you, but maybe if you caught him off guard you could knock him out with one of the many heavy objects splayed around you.

“i was told no one ever came in here,” the boy says. fuck, his voice is attractive.

“they don’t. in the three years i’ve been doing this i’ve never run into anyone else.” you answer, obviously suspicious.

“i’m uh- i’m just looking for a gift for my little sister,” he explains, “it’s her birthday soon and she said she wanted a new bike but we can’t really afford it.”

you relax a little at his explanation, sharing that you’d gotten into the habit of coming here to rummage for things since your family also doesn’t have much money. “i could help you look if you’d like? and even if we can’t find a bike, there’s a ton of cool stuff you can find if you’re willing to dig.” you offer.

you can’t be sure, but you think he smiles as he answers. “i’ll take any help i can get. my friend eliza told me to try coming here to look, but honestly, i’m a bit overwhelmed.”

you talk and laugh together for what must be at least two hours. you don’t end up finding a bike, but you find an old cheerleader outfit that looks to be in perfect condition. you can’t imagine why anyone would throw it out unless it just didn’t fit anymore. the boy -who still doesn’t have a name- literally jumped up in joy when he saw you holding the skirt from the set, doing a little celebratory dance that should have been embarrassing but was somehow endearing. (that’s how you figured out his little sister was obsessed with cheer).

eventually you have to part ways; it’s getting into the early hours of the morning and you both need to be getting home. he’s halfway down the street when you realise you never shared names and you yell out, “wait!”

he stops and turns around, and you jog to catch up to him.

“what’s your name, stranger?” you ask, “just in case we run into each other again.”

he tells you his name is zed, and you tell him your name in return. for a few seconds the both of you just stand in the street, memorising each other’s faces until you look away, shaking off the thoughts of how attractive he is under the starlight.

(bonus: when zed gets home, all he can think about is you. he wonders if eliza would recognise your name, or if he would possibly run into you if he chose to go to school for once instead of always skipping. he wonders where you live in zombietown, since he doesn’t recognise you and is sure he would remember seeing someone as gorgeous are you. he spends the next few days wondering, and then is in for the shock of his life when he sees you through the fence that blocks off zombietown from seabrook and learns that you’re human.)

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rosieswriting · 7 months ago

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The Chemistry of Chaos

Barty Crouch Jr x reader

Summary: Amidst teasing and undeniable chemistry, a party celebration leads to unexpected encounters that blur the lines between annoyance and attraction

Note: engllish is not my first language so probably it has some mistakes!

Words: 1,5K

The library was more crowded than usual, with the exams being next week, and it seemed like students had only just now started to take their studying seriously. By students, of course, you meant you. You’d always managed top grades in every subject—except Potions. It was the bane of your academic existence. Thankfully, Remus, and Lily Evans, your ever-supportive best friends, were currently helping you with that very subject.

“I just don’t understand why I need to know how to make it! It´s not like I need it to know who I fancy!” you groaned in frustration, having recited the steps to make Amortentia about a dozen times but always forgetting one.

Remus and Lily chuckled softly.

“C´mon, you are almost there” Lily encouraged you. So once again, you started to say the steps. But before you could finish, Barty Crouch Jr, Evan Rosier and Regulus Black entered the library.

You immediately recognised Barty´s voice and rolled your eyes. “Just a second” you excused yourself from your friends before standing up from the table with a book in hand and going to the slytherins.

“Junior” you called out shortly.

Barty turned around, a cocky smirk already spreading across his face. “Treasure” he greeted smoothly. “Missed me already?”

“You wish” you scoffed and hand him the book “next time don’t be too stuck up in your ass and actually pay attention to where you leave your things”

The boy just kept smirking as he grabbed his herbology book that he had given up for lost.

“Why would I do that when I have such a pretty girl that can return it to me?”

“If you call me pretty girl again i´ll hex you”

As you turned to walk back, you heard his voice, teasing and smug as ever. “Looking forward to it!” Though you didn’t turn around, you could practically feel the grin plastered on his face, and it took every ounce of restraint not to give him that hex he so richly deserved.

As soon as you sat down, you caught the amused looks on both Remus and Lily´s faces. “What?” you asked them confused and with furrowed eyebrows.

Remus raised an eyebrow, his expression half-amused, half-intrigued. “So…Junior huh?”

Lily smiled, leaning in slightly. “You practically ran over there to give him his book, Treasure”

You shoot her a glance at the nickname. "I did not ‘run.’ He just left it behind and—"

"And you, being the kind, considerate person you are, couldn’t wait to get it back to him, right?" Remus finished, exchanging a glance with Lily. “You’ve been talking to him a lot lately, haven’t you?"

"Not by choice," you insisted, crossing your arms. "He’s always around, and it’s not like I can just ignore him when he’s that loud."

Lily tilted her head, eyes glinting with mischief. "And what was that? ‘Pretty girl’? Seems like he’s got a little nickname for you."

You shrugged,. "He calls everyone names. It’s not a big deal”

"Uh-huh," Remus said, a teasing smile playing on his lips.

Lily giggled, nudging your arm. "Admit it, you think he’s cute”

Was Barty Crouch Jr. an idiot? Absolutely.

Was he the cockiest person you had ever met? Without question.

Was he the most insufferable student in Hogwarts? Definitely.

Was he also the hottest student in Hogwarts? Yes, but you would never say that out aloud.

"I do not," you huffed. You focused on the Potions notes in front of you, determined to shift the conversation away from Barty and his stupid, handsome face. "Besides, I’ve got better things to worry about."

Remus raised his hands in mock surrender, grinning. "Alright, alright. We’ll let it go. For now."

But you knew they weren’t convinced. They could see through you, even if you wouldn’t admit it to yourself. You were stubborn, yes, but not blind.

Two nights later, exams were finally over, and the Ravenclaws had organized a party in their common room. The air was buzzing with excitement as students from all houses snuck in, celebrating the relief of another term well done. You made your way inside with Lily and Mary and went directly to greet your other friends.

"Looking good," Remus greeted you, handing over a Butterbeer with an approving look. He raised an eyebrow. "Too good, actually. You didn’t dress up for someone, did you?" he teased.

“Oh god” you groaned, rolling your eyes as you took a sip

But Lily quickly jumped in, recounting the story of your recent run-in with Barty, complete with dramatic embellishments.

“Barty Crouch Junior? Of all people?” James asked you with raised eyebrows

“Remus and Lily are dramatic, nothing is going to happen” you shrugged, trying to brush it off.

“Well, you may want to tell him that, sweetheart” Sirius told you, throwing an arm around your shoulders and gently steering you to face the other side of the room.

Barty was leaning against the wall, talking to his friends, but his eyes were locked on you. When you caught his gaze, he gave a slow wink, his lips curving into that annoyingly smug smirk. You rolled your eyes, turning back to your friends.

“Alright, can we drop this now?” you said, taking another swig of your Butterbeer. “Let’s all just enjoy a perfectly nice and irresponsibly drunk party, yeah?”

Your friends laughed, dropping the topic for now, and soon you found yourself in the middle of the dance floor, laughing and spinning with Lily and Mary. After a while, your drink ran out, so you left your friends to grab a refill.

But to your luck, Barty was also getting another drink over the table

“Didn’t know you could clean up this well, Treasure” he drawled, his eyes roaming over you “You sure seem nice when you are not being a smartass” he said looking at you with a devilish grin.

“I wish I could say the same to you, but you look as hideous as always” you said walking pass him and over the table to grab another beer.

You felt his presence behind you and you froze for a second, his body really close to you

“We both know you don’t mean that” he whisper over your neck, sending a shiver down your spine.

You froze for a second as his presence surrounded you, the warmth of him far too close for comfort. Turning to face him, you found him leaning into your space, his smirk deepening as he watched you, utterly unbothered by the fire in your gaze. You were trying to hold your ground, but your gaze flickered to his lips for the briefest second, which he noticed. His grin widened a glint of triumph in his eyes.

“See?” he murmured his voice barely above a whisper. “You find me irresistible”

You gave a short, exasperated laugh. “Junior,” you said, taking a breath, “the only thing I find irresistible is the urge to slap that grin off your face.”

“Oh really?” he said and without warning wrapped his arms around your waist. You gasped and quickly rested your hands on his chest, trying to separate your bodies at least a bit “Because it doesn’t seem like it, in fact you look like if you-“

You didn’t let him finish. Closing the distance, you pressed your lips to his, determined to silence him for once. You could feel his smirk even as he returned the kiss, his grip on your waist tightening, pulling you impossibly closer. Your hands slid to his shoulders and then tangled into his hair, deepening the kiss as he nipped at your bottom lip, making you gasp. He took advantage, his tongue teasing against yours, and despite yourself, you found yourself getting lost in the heat of it.

You don’t know how long you have been kissing until you both needed some oxygen and pulled away. His smug expression was maddeningly back in place

“Just wanted to shut up, so don’t let it go to your head” you said as you gave him a playfully pat on his cheek and walk away over to your friends, who had watched what happened.

“What was that about ‘nothing happening’?” Sirius teased, unable to contain a snicker.

You rolled your eyes and grab his beer, having completely forgotten to grab your own thanks to the distraction.

You rolled your eyes. “He wouldn’t shut up,” you mumbled, taking a long sip to hide the flush creeping up your cheeks.

Your friends exchanged knowing glances but decided to save their teasing—for now. But you had a feeling you’d be answering a lot of questions come morning. Still, as you turned one last time and caught Barty’s gaze from across the room, you saw him wink at you again, but this time, you didn’t roll your eyes. Instead, you felt the slightest blush bloom on your cheeks, along with a feeling you couldn’t quite name.

Damn you, Junior.

#barty crouch jr #barty crouch junior #the slytherin skittles #barty crouch jr x reader #barty crouch jr x you #slytherin skittles #marauders era #bartemius crouch jr

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ch4nb4ng · 2 years ago

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Marital Duties

Pairing: Chan x afab!reader

Word count: 9.4k

Genre: Established relationship, married

Warning: SMUT (18+ only), phone sex, sexting, car sex, mention of boobs, oral sex (f. receving), penetration, swearing, mention of cum, mentions of pussy, kissing, praise

Note: ok i kinda nervous to post this but yas! Here is my inspo (here) (here) (here) warning it’s literally p word.

Tagged: @seo--changbin @j-0ne25 @cb97whoree @kpopsstuffs

Summary: Having a job that meant travelling and spending time away from your husband made the absence grow much fonder for you and your needs, as well as your husbands.

Work conferences were the bane of your existence. Yes you were away from your kid and sometimes it was hard, but being away from your husband was harder. There was no doubt about your job. Being a world renowned forensic psychologist was amazing and something you wanted for a long time. Sometimes though, it was nice to just curl up on the couch, read a good book, watch a comforting movie; there was nothing wrong with indulging in self-care, you just did not have the time to do so.

The recent promotion into becoming head of the north-west region of mental health care was a big step up from your previous job. No one than you was more qualified for this. Everyone, colleagues and board members put your name up. Psychology was your life, but your family was bigger.

Highschool sweethearts, you and your husband had been inseparable since what felt like the dawn of time. Meeting at 15, having your first dance at 17 at prom. Graduating and going to college together; If you had a dollar for everytime you accomplished a big milestone with him or because of him, you would be swimming in luxury. When the two of you got married, things just fell into place even more. The doubt of being able to help people mentally after graduating from your post grad made you nervous, but then again, you never thought that you would be married to such a wonderful man. A dream job at your local hospital fell into your lap, and your husband became the nurse that everybody wanted to assist them with their care. Working in close contact with him everyday was just another blessing in disguise; you simply could not get enough of him. It was impossible to get sick of him.

That was when you decided to have your first child. What could be a better mix than the two of you combined? The first 4 years of parenthood came with its challenges. Nevertheless, it was the best decision you ever made, and you couldn’t think of anyone better than to share the unfamiliar journey with.

The promotion, however, meant that you wouldn't work with your husband as much, and spending time with your daughter was a little limited, but you knew he would never tell you to turn something down, and in a way it was the best decision for your marriage. The times together were shorter, but it also meant that every moment was savored tenfold. The time was better quality, the acts of service more thoughtful, and the sex. The sex, was that much more passionate, just like the first time he made love to you. He would always find ways to surprise you. Whether it was the way he grasped, grabbed you on the fibers that lingered to be touched, the way his body pressed upon yours, lips lingering on new places. You were always amazed with how much he could do, and what he was capable of.

These are the ideas that tortured your mind when you were away on business trips. Calling him and hearing his voice, seeing his face through the tiny phone screen was not enough. It didn’t matter how long you had been together, you always craved and missed him significantly.

“Hang on,” he whispered through the phone speaker, “someone wants to say hi to you.”

Your heart beamed with joy every time you saw her little face on the screen. God she looked like her dad, and you knew she'd grow up to be a beautiful woman.

“Hi mommy,” she giggled, fingers crinkling then uncrkinly as she waved at the camera, “I miss you mommy.”

“Aw baby,” you pouted, “I miss you too. Mommy will be home tomorrow. Now it’s time for you to sleep.”

“Yes,” he cooed, “and daddy is going to read you a bedtime after you say goodnight to mommy.”

Your baby squealed with joy, running out of the frame and to her room. You could do nothing but chuckles, careless that she was that excited over a book of words that she forgot to say goodnight.

“Let me call you back at 15.”

You nodded, pressing the red cross before rolling on your back and looking up at the ceiling, admiring the off white paint color, heart beating out of your chest every second that the callback was not made. It’s not that you were worried he wouldn’t call back, you just felt that longing you always did when you weren’t looking at him.

The vibration on your chest was extra sensitive. You rolled back over, now lying on your front with your hand resting on your chin, other hand holding the phone as you answered.

“Hey baby.”

“Hiiii,” you whispered, a smile on your face impossible to be rid of.

“She was out like a light.”

“I’m glad.”

“How was your day, baby? I want to hear all about it.”

You giggled as you saw him get up, walking into the bathroom of your house as he placed you against the bench next to the sink. Chan wasn’t shy. He thought it was completely normal to remove his scrubs and leave his upper body bare as he bent down to the bottom drawer, taking out his skincare and placing it on his face. Chan was your husband. You had seen him shirtless 100 more times than you could count. It should not affect you this much. It should not make the temperature of your cheeks rise. It should not cause a sudden sharpness of change in your breath. It should not make your eyes bulge, and it should definitely not send you into a head spin when his biceps flexed when washing his face. Being a clinical psychologist meant having pristine precision and concentration, so if anybody got a hold of this live footage right now, they might question your profession.

“Y/n, Y/n?”

You blinked, quickly snapping your head to get back in the game. It was too late, however, your husband was already smirking at your distraction. You could try and play it off, but the both of you knew that he was too smart to fall for that.

“Sorry babe, I’m a bit distracted.”

“Oh yeah? What’s distracting you?”

“Oh please,” you scoffed, “you know exactly what you are doing.”

“Me?” He gasped, placing a hand on his chest, flexing his opposite bicep, “I have no idea what you're talking about.”

You couldn’t help but smile at his obvious attempt to woo you over, the subtle flirt. Sometimes it was easy to resist, but in this case, it was easier to play along, feign innocence until he truly told you what he wanted. The two of you liked to play such games, especially when you were on the road. It was time for you to sit up, placing Chan on the lamp atop of the bedside table before placing yourself on the edge of the hotel bed. The buttons on your shirt were suddenly feeling a little tight. The smirk on your husband’s face grew the moment he saw the first two buttons undone, a sneak peak of your cleavage making its debut for the night. You stopped there, gently pulling down the fabric, stretching the collar of the shirt, consequently putting your chest on full display.

“Two can play that game Mr. Bang.”

A deep chuckle escaped his lips as he walked over to your shared bedroom, placing his phone in similar fashion to yours before removing his bottoms, your husband now in nothing but his boxers as he laid down, stretching out his legs before lifting you again, wanting the closest view to your fingers continuing to remove one button at a time, a painfully slow movement to your fingertips. Fuck. Now he kind of regretted starting this game with you tonight. A gasp of gratification spilt from Chan’s lips as he watched the satin material that made up your shirt slither off those, in his words, gorgeous shoulders of yours. The black lace bra, the one being your husband’s favorites out of pure coincidence the only garment covering your chest.

Chan loved every part of you, make no mistake. He would worship every part of your body 24/7 if he could. He simply could never get enough of you, but your chest, your breasts were on a whole different level. Chan loved your boobs. It didn’t matter what the two of you were doing, promiscuous acts or not, if he could have his hands on them, he could. Cuddling, sex, hugs; call him a pervert, but he didn’t care. It was his wife for god sakes. He would feel abnormal if he wasn’t attracted to them. Conveniently for you, this was something you could play to your advantage. Didn’t want to do the dishes? Show him your cleavage. Needed to put your daughter to sleep but you wanted him to do it? Promise him to show your cleavage after he does so. It was a convenient weapon to use, and this was the perfect time to use it. It was fair, seeing as he was using the weapon of his own to try and get you where he wanted.

“Aw come on,” he whined, “you did that on purpose?”

“Did what,” you smiled, fingers gently tracing the lace attached to the strap, “I didn’t do anything.”

Tapping the phone screen, you sighed. It was like, and your flight home was something that required you getting up much earlier that you would ever prefer. You should go to sleep. Hang up on him. You were going to see him tomorrow anyway, surely you could suppress your urges until then.

But then you saw your husband redirect his palm from the outside of his undergarment, which was obvious to the eye, to the inside, a gentle slap against his skin as it dived past the waist band. Fuck this was cruel now. Not only because you could see his hands subtly tumbling underneath, he drew attention to how hard he already was, and you didn’t know what aroused you more: his probaby pulsating length or the fact that he was as aroused as he was because of you. It didn’t matter how many times it occurred, Chan always had a way of making you feel special. Physically, emotionally, intimately; it was part of his aura, and one of the main reasons that you were so attracted to him in the first place.

“Baby,” you gasped, hands traveling up waist and to your chest, gently kneading the mass in an attempt to match his slow pace that he was palming himself, “you’re so naughty. I have to go to bed.”

“Aw come on baby,” he groaned, head resting atop the headboard, gaze even more piercing at the angle his head was at rest, “I haven’t seen you all week.”

“I know Chan,” you sighed, your next words going to be knowingly disappointing for him, “I have to check out at 3am and it’s already almost 10. You know what I’m like when I don't get my beauty sleep.”

Chan gave you a disapproving pout as he took his hands out of boxers, a shiny ring reappearing from the undergarment as he took the phone with both and lay flat on his back, sinking under the sheets and head gliding onto the pillow. He was humbly accepting defeat, most likely because he would see you tomorrow anyway; that’s when he could have his fun.

“I know baby it’s ok,” he smiled, bringing his face as close as possible to the camera, lips still pouting, “let me give you a kiss goodnight.”

“Thank you baby,” you giggled, also leaning forward to kiss the phone screen simultaneously before whispering a small, “goodnight.”

It didn’t take long for you to fall asleep, and the adrenaline from your almost raunchy rendezvous over the phone wore off quickly. You weren’t that young anymore. Getting tired was much easier. There was much less energy, especially after getting riled up like that. Even if it was what you saw while you were sleeping in your dreams, and you only have to wait 12 hours to see your beautiful husband in the flesh.

***

The alarm caused a fright, a deep groaning sound of annoyance bellowing from you, but that quickly wore off. The immediate thought of seeing Chan and your beautiful daughter being the main reason for your sudden change in temperament. Your bags were already packed and you organized your brain knowing that you would be too tired to do it in the morning The smile on your face couldnt dared to be wiped off once you were in the taxi. The cool breeze of the warm summer hitting your face as you pushed the window in the back seat halfway down. Summer was your favorite time of the year, especially since it was the time you got to spend with your family that was of the best quality. All of the aspects of your job you loved, even the times you traveled. However, your heart did sink a little when you had to travel at this time of the year. The school holidays always felt too short, so when you had to travel, the amount was even shorter.

A ding from your phone brought out of your somewhat solemn daze, heat creeping to your cheeks immediately:

[hubby <3] 7:00 am Can’t wait to see you, hope there aren't any delays at the airport.

*one attachment*

Jesus fuck. Now sending a full blown dick pick with your daughter in the car, which you assumed was there, was definitely not the way to go; and thank god your husband knew that. But that did not let him off the hook. It was a photo of him, in the mirror, with his face cut off and only his lips in the frame. He was wearing a black sleeveless tank and those fucking grey tracksuit pants. Call yourself cliche, but nothing turned you on more than that particular piece of clothing. Chan had one hand on the camera, the other hand at the base of his hardened length. He always did this. As mature as Chan was, the times he chose to be inappropriate truly were the most inconvenient for you. A loud gasp escaped your lips, head almost hitting the chair in front as the driver came to a halt.

“Everything okay back there?”

“Uh yes,” your head snapped towards him, nodding furiously as a terrible attempt at acting in the norm, “why did we stop?”

“We are at the airport, miss?”

His tone sounded one of question, kind of looking at you in the rear mirror like you were one of the strangest passengers he had. You looked outside, a ferocious laugh escaping your lips as you decided it was better to say nothing and just pay, get out, and grab your own luggage. The awkwardness left your mind in shambles. How dare he send such a photo. Your husband. It was most likely to get revenge from last night, because he knew you would have to sit on the plane and suffer in silence.

Your luggage was checked in quickly, security easy to get through; there was plenty of time to wait in the boarding lounge. At first you were annoyed by the message. The sexual frustration that had already accumulated from your absence away from him was enough, but if anything, it felt like this was an extra punishment for last night.

But then you opened it again, started analyzing it (if you could call it that) until your finger was subconsciously in your mouth. It didn’t matter how many times you looked at him, your husband, he was always going to do it for you, every single time. The ache that has been coming and going throughout the week returned, and it made you annoyed. So annoyed that you found yourself lifting your butt from your chair, walking to the bathroom and locking yourself in one of the stalls. Gripping the bottom of your shirt, you pulled it down as much as you could without taking it off, mimicking a downward looking angle in an attempt to copy your husband, lips down as the camera clicked, off silent. Fuck. It’s fine. The idea that people may have heard the sounds of you taking a photo in the toilet. You were too fueled with a horny rage to think of the ramifications as you sent your photo, giving in and responding to him.

[Y/N] 8:30am No delays. Make sure you’re there on time.

*one attachment*

Oh, he was gonna hate that. Chan had patience for a lot of things. But short, dry messages were something that made him mad. Serves him for sending you that first. You knew exactly what his reaction would be as well, but at least you could board the plane in peace.

It was around 3 hours before the plane arose from one location and landed in another. The plane ride was painful. You tried to do the things you usually would. Create drafts for your patients, read a book, watch a downloaded netflix movie, and just sink into your non-reclining chair and relax; but you simply couldn’t.

The brain rot that was the simple image of your husband’s half naked torso should not be affecting you this much. But that was the problem too. It wasn’t just the picture. That image was the catalyst for the sexual rumination that had been numbing your brain for the past week. The want to get home was even stronger now knowing that you really had something to look forward to.

Of course, to your dismay and longing, the baggage claim took forever, security had a long line, and by the time all of that had been completed, it was, of course, an hour schedule that you told your husband to come and pick you up. The look on his face was sour to say the least. There he was, leaning against the exterior of your shared four wheel drive, drinking his probably now lukewarm coffee. The tingle instantly came back to your core, feeling like a teenage girl again. The scene was just like old times. Chan, waiting around the corner from your house to come and pick you up. The only thing that was different was that it was slightly taller, and had a few more wrinkles. Nonetheless, he looked super hot. Still wearing those grey sweatpants, and a fucking black tank. A fucking blank tank that was probably the tightest fitting pieceing of clothing in his fucking closet. His stance was strong, biceps, triceps, and ¾ of his pecs bulging out in public, and it was truly making your brain dizzy. You walked over quietly, the jarring sound of your suitcase wheels rolling along the parking lot concrete ruining the suspense of your arrival. Chan’s head snapped, eye widening the moment you appeared in his vision.

“Hi baby, sorry I’m late the customs took for-”

The interruption was welcome as Chan shoved his phone in his pocket, apparently with an empty takeaway coffee cup falling to the floor as he enveloped you into his arms, a groan of admiration falling from his lips as they immediately attached to yours, your body to relaxing against his, eyes fluttering shut at his touch. God, it was only a week. One week, but you craved his touch more than anything in the world. It truly was the little things such as his calloused textures, the warmth of his skin, his smile. Holy fuck his smile was, in your opinion, the greatest thing in the world that ever existed.

“Mmmh,” you hummed, gently pulling away, hands snaking across your husband’s waist, a smug smile on your lips, “I missed you.”

“Missed you too baby,” he growled, morning raspiness to his tone, “how was your flight?”

The implication of his question made your eyes ogle, the visual image of his text message imprinting on your brain. The smirk that developed on his face formed the expression of realization that hit you. Suddenly his grip on your waist was tighter, and Chan was pulling you in even closer, leaving you to feel everything; yes, everything.

“It was good,” you giggled, knowing that you had been caught, “what was not good was your behavior since last night.”

“Hmm is that so? I don't see this being a one-sided activity?”

Your right hand left his torso, smacking him on the chest before taking a step back and walking to the car. It was fun to pretend to be annoyed, especially because you knew it would work your husband up even more. Chan hated when you sulked, especially when he playfully called you out. Chan always liked games, and so did you, because you knew that there was always one thing it would lead to. The longer the game went on, the more passionate the ending to this game would be. You walked into the car, peacefully sitting in the passenger seat as you left your husband to take your suitcase and place it in the boot. Serves him right for being a smartass. There was no sound except for the car door once the two of you were inside. The ignition was turned on, and so were you, watching your husband's arm reach over to the shoulder of your car seat, his head turned to look behind him. This was so dumb! You really should not be aroused by this; you’ve seen him do this thousands of times.

“You okay babe?”

You shook your head, snapping yourself out of this lustful daze, “yeah, why?”

“Ok it’s just,” he paused, shifting into drive, then placing his hand on the inside of your thigh, “you’re staring at me like a piece of meat.”

“I am not,” you scoffed, “you wish I was staring at you like that.”

He said nothing, a light chuckle following as the car fell into another silence. A comfortable one at that, well, to an extent. His thumb was gently nudging at your skin, knuckles inching closer to your center. There was something in the air, and the longer it lingered, the harder it was to ignore it. The want. The need to have him. It was impossible. You knew that even if you did get home soon that your daughter was home, and there was no way you were going to traumatize her like that; kids remember everything. If you took too long in the car, your father would get suspicious. He was one to get on your nerves like that, especially if he spent more time than agreed to watching your beautiful child.

“I got your text message this morning.”

Chan’s eyes were on the road, which forced you to keep yours. Your eyebrows furrowed however, knowing that the street he just turned down was not the right way to your house. Instead, Chan turned the opposite direction, the car coming to an immediate stop at a lookout, but not just any lookout. The lookout east. The two of you came from a small town, meaning there weren't many spots to go; that was until the lookout east was uncovered. Back then it was the talk of the town, the go to hookup spot for many. You have seen it yourself. It had a beautiful view however, and most of the time you and Chan would go just to admire the view, but did not mean that every time would be an innocent one. The two of you had not been in years, and there was a big question mark as to why you were here right now. Chan said nothing, getting out of the car and walking over to your side, opening your own door before opening the back door, crawling in with you following. The two of you got comfortable, that was, until Chan pinned you down to the back seat, lips once again attacking yours as he pressed his horny groin into yours, a deep groan bellowing from your husband's chest. His dominance was easy to comply with, the desperate moan falling from your lips a culmination of feelings from the past 12 hours. This really could have been the horniest you have ever been in your whole entire life, even including the times of excessive sexual hormonal changes during pregnancy. His tongue snaked past your lips, without any slight of permission as his hips fell into a gentle rhythm. Chan moved with such delicacy and poise, yet somehow he was able to convey his ultra high level of arousal. Now you were in big trouble; it was serious business when Chan pinned you down like that. It meant he had serious business to take care of.

“Chan,” you tried to speak, his lips interrupting each word, “what, are you doing?”

He pulled away, sitting up. Chan said nothing, eyes fixated on your chest as he grasped your wrist to pull you up, your body clumsily falling into him as you fixed your balance. Chan was quick to attack your lips again, hands making light work as they gripped onto the edge of your shirt. Your arms lifted unconsciously, allowing the kiss to break as he took off your shirt, your upper body in nothing but your undergarments. Your husband was like a kid in a candy store the moment he saw the slightest bit of cleavage. Chan’s arms wrapped around your back as he effortlessly unclasped the unwanted fabric, lips immediately attaching to your left nipple. A gracious moan fell from your lips, a hand tickling the back of the hair at the base of his skull, keeping a guidance. At first this tongue was small, gentle. A few kitty licks right in the center. Although it was minimal touch, you were one to have more sensitive nipples, so the feeling was already heaven enough. It wasn’t until his entire mouth was attached, a parietal noise of vacuum escaping his lips each time your tit went in and out of his mouth.

“Mmmmm,” you hummed, back arching slightly at the subtle texture of his teeth, “you’re like fuckin newborn.”

“Mhh can’t help it,” he huffed, out of breath, hand replacing his lips for a brief moment, “makes me want to have another kid.”

Chan gave you no time to reply, lips resuming their position, but now on the opposite nipple. His fingers never stopped moving, either on your shoulder, running up and down your arms, but mainly on your breasts, doing whatever he can to feel you. Each squeeze of the mound brought a whine to your throat. His statement ran through your mind and just stayed there. Having another kid was not really something the two of you had ever spoken about. It wasn’t that it was off the table, no. It truly was just something that had not come up in conversation. You could understand why he wanted to have one, and in this moment especially, it had nothing to do with having an actual child.

It is true that when you met your husband, your body shape resembled more of a P, but when you were pregnant with your daughter, Chan was on another planet. Any chance he got, his hands were on them. Call him twisted, but he loved how much bigger and softer they got when you were deep into pregnancy.

When you came back out of thought, and the major distraction of your husband's lips on your body, you pushed him away gently. You followed the sort of harsh motion with a gentle peck to his lips, arm wrapping around his neck as you smiled at him in disbelief. The last chance the two of you, well more him, had been so reckless like this was so long ago you would not even be able to recall. This didn’t mean you hated it though, if anything, it satisfied that little part of your adolescence that lingered. The adolescence that was always sparked whenever you were away. Whenever your calls turned to a lustful space. The photos. The phone calls. Usually the ‘rebellious’ behaviors were to compensate for the distance. But now, Chan was hungry for you, even when you were right in front of him.

“Babe, what has gotten into you?”

Your husband buried his face into your chest, a large breath filling his nostrils, your scent deeply satisfying him before he responded.

“I just missed you a lot, baby. And that picture you sent drove me fucking wild.”

A smirk appeared on your lips, legs hovering over your husband's waist before encasing the lower limbs around his waist, a light amount of friction created by the swift move of your hips makes him hum in pleasure. Your eyes, now sitting on top of his lap, gazed over, looking down on the poor man. There was a slight emotion of guilt there. Depriving him of getting what he wanted. You didn't really care though. If anything, pissing him off usually led to better sex after, and there was nothing in this moment that you wanted more.

“Mmmh, as much as I want this,” you mumbled, another soft kiss in between your sentences, “I need to go home and see my daughter which I have not seen in a week.”

“You’re right,” Chan chuckled, “I am getting a little bit carried away, aren't I?”

Yeah he was impatient, but he understood, and it was one thing you really loved about him. He was extremely empathetic, sometimes to a fault. Able to put himself in everyone else’s shoes. So as soon as you mentioned wanting to see your daughter more, he understood. He passed you your bra and shirt, quickly helping you put them back on, not without stealing another mouth watering kiss, and hopping back into the driving and passenger seat promptly.

The drive was once again peaceful; which lasted around 30 seconds. Maybe it was a better idea to just fuck in the back of your car, because the ache between your legs, when reflecting on the past week, was at the most intense it had been. Maybe this was your karma for withholding your body from your very eager husband. It didn’t matter now because whether you liked it or not, all of this was going to have been scheduled at a much later, uncertain time.

Chan’s hand was placed on your thigh like before, the light background and the noise somewhat distracting you, but not for long. Your husband’s grip was getting stronger and stronger, inching closer and closer to your wanting pussy with each second. A sharp gasp left your lips when his middle finger traced over the hem of your jeans, your level of arousal heightened to the point where even the breeze most likely was enough to partly satisfy yourself.

“Chan.”

“Y/n.”

“Stop it,” you whined, fingers coincidentally fidgeting with the button of your jeans, following the same direction with your zipper before the pair of pants were below your waist, your bottom undergarments now on display. You looked down, embarrassed at the mass wet patch coating your panties. Your husband's hands took a little bit of a wander, but froze almost immediately when he felt that familiar patch he had felt oh so many times. The digits were quick to act, another moan spelling from your mouth as soon as he got you in the exact spot he knew to touch. That were the perks of having a husband, because whether the time of orgasm was long or short, he knew exactly where to touch you to make that happen.

“Your body is having the opposite reaction,” he smirked, “and my eyes are strictly on the road.”

“And keep it that way.”

“Mhmm,” he ignored, fingers somehow able to push your panties to the side, raw fingertips now spreading open those pussy lips. God you felt dirty, nasty. How could you do this in your fucking car? Too horny to even wait until you were in the comfort of your bedroom. You were much too harsh on yourself. It was most definitely your husband's fault for opening that can of worms the moment he rocked up on the facetime camera without his shirt on. Therefore, your humility was minimized, there were always much worse things you could have done. Chan was easily able to find that wanting little entrance of yours, two fingers effortlessly plunging themselves inside, the unsympathetic texture of his hard working fingers gently scratching the velvet interior of your walls, hips now gently rocking back and forth on him. Your hands came to your breasts automatically, pinching, twisting, flicking the sensitive buds in any way possible that could create a replica of Chan’s mouth from previous moments. Fuck, no one else could do you like your husband, even yourself.

“Fuck Chan,” you whimpered, covering your face in embarrassment.

“Shh it’s okay,” he cooed, coaxing you through his honey textured tone, “just let it feel good, worry about other things later.”

Just as you let your head fall against the headrest, eye fluttering shut, the car came to a halt. Eyes flying open, a mound of disappointment when your visual fields were filled with your front yard. To your dismay, your husband withdrew his fingers from your pussy, a large squelching sound in the moment as he placed his hands on the gear shift, placing the toe of your into park before turning the car ignition off. The look you were giving your husband now was one of sadness, despair, making him laugh. He loved when you were dramatic.

“You’re not happy to be home?”

“Shut up,” you huffed, redoing your pants up before storming out of the car, forcing your husband to grab your suitcase as you stood impatiently at the front door, waiting for him to open it. It would be impossible to wipe the puffed up look of content on his face, knowing that he got right under your skin. Games were fun to play, but you simply knew that if he didn’t give you what you wanted soon, the house would fall into chaos. It was one thing to wind you up, but this time it was too far to push through, then stop just when things were getting good.

A fake smile plastered on your face, the refreshing thought of seeing your daughter coming back into your mind as you walked through your abode. It faded however, unable to see or hear anything that resembled your little baby. It wasn’t until you walked down your long hallway that led to your kitchen that you saw the note on your marble bench. It read the following:

Hi Darling, hope you had a safe flight!

I have taken my beautiful granddaughter to the park for a playdate with a couple of her friends and the other available parents.

We are leaving at around midday, and won’t be back for a few couple hours. Apologies you will have to wait a little longer, but I couldn’t say no to her beating eyes when she asked me.

I'll see you when I’m looking at you.

Dad

“Chan!”

Your timbre was loud, somewhat frightening your husband as he rolled your luggage across the floor, meeting you in your shared kitchen. He was kind of worried. Chan knew that your dad was taking care of her while he went to pick you up, but he never said anything about taking her out. He stood next to you, trying to analyze your expressions before you spoke. You missed your daughter a lot, there was nothing false about that statement. Nonetheless, when the smug look came to your face at the thought of what having an empty house implied, you couldn't help yourself.

“Did you know that my dad took her to the park?”

Oh fuck. Chan thought he was in trouble; big big trouble.

You bit down on your bottom lip, trying to suppress your smile at how hopeless he looked. Being the medical professional you were, it was easy to read your husband like a book. And after his actions, which were already on the verge of crossing the threshold of what you would put up with, he was in his every right mind to react this way. Walking on eggshells was the right way to go. From his friskiness on the phone, to sending an almost naked picture to you in public, to publicly groping and prodding at your highly aroused body in the discomfort of your car, to now delaying your reunion with his daughter; my my my did he dig himself a massive grave that he would not be able to dig himself out of this one.

“No,” he answered, hesitance leaking from his tone, “she must have asked him after I left.”

“Right,” you paddled, handing the note your dad had left to your husband. A sigh of relief in the form of his chest falling from the fat breath he sucked in before dissipating from his chest. Taking a step close, your husband ignored, focusing all his efforts on the written material until he felt the texture of what was your fingertips find a place on his torso, index fingers ‘accidentally’ finding a way underneath the hem of the thin material that made up his shirt. The note was removed from your husband’s face in the form of a toss with his own hand, eyes piercing into yours the more and more the skin of his torso was being exposed to the light. Your palms then became a part of the conversation, gently pressing against your husband's groin as you could feel his length awake from a light slumber.

“Why am I sensing that you’re not mad now?”

“Me,” You gasped, feigning ignorance as you finally pulled the flimsy material over your husband’s head, “I was never mad?”

“You weren’t?”

“No Mr. Bang,” you giggled, wrapping your hands around your husband’s neck once more, “Mad that you have been teasing me for almost 24 hours straight?”

Chan didn’t answer, instead sweeping your legs off the floor and into your arms, carrying your bridal style back down the said hallway, bedroom door conveniently already open as he laid you down on your back. A hum of happiness fell from your lips at the familiar feeling of your own bed sheets encompassing your back. You were brought out of those thoughts quickly however, your husband left you little to revel in bed texture, removing his sweats immediately before lifting you by the armpits again, leaving you to stand and him sitting on the edge of your shared mattress. The invitation of your barely dressed husband with a pressing erection straining his boxers was a very enticing seat. One that you took without a second thought as his hands were straight for your throat, a gentle squeeze as your lips connected first, legs cloaking his waist once more, the both of your tongues fighting for dominance over each other. Chan’s mouth vibrated as he relaxed into the sensual nature of the kiss, hands drifting away from your upper body and right to the outside of your thighs, a gentle tingle of fingertips dancing across your heated skin as you pulled away from a brief moment, wanting to match at least half of his body in the lack of clothing. Your husband helped as he withdrew his hands from your body for a brief moment, deciding to, rather than pull your nice shirt over your head like a normal person, he pulled the seams apart, splitting the shirt into two before using one hand only to unclasp your bra this time. It would be a lie if you said you weren’t impressed by it everytime.

“I liked that shirt,” you pouted, “did you have to rip it?” “I’m sorry y/n,” he chuckled, hands snaking up your sides another time, “I just want you so badly.”

There was no time to react as your husband gripped your hips, spinning you around and pinning you into the mattress. His second attack followed impeccably, hands fumbling on your jeans before getting them undone, panties groped in unison as they hit the side wall. That was an irrelevant detail, because Chan was lying on his front, abs rubbing against your core as he brought his hands back to your tits; his most favorite thing in the world. The man could not keep his hands still, mouth slobbering all over the sensitive skin as he began his second attack of the day on your nipples.

“Never gets old,” you giggle, a gentle moan following after at the contrast of your flimsy mounds and rock hard nubs. Chan’s hands felt like no other, and when he had them on you, it was the time when you felt like the luckiest woman in the world. Your husband’s chuckles followed closely to yours. Seeing his wife happy was one thing, but knowing that he could make you feel this good aroused him to another level. His admiration deepend, yes, but it was somewhat of an ego boost for him. Knowing that he was that good with his fingers.

Your husband’s lips, like his hands, began to wander, a strip of wet kisses trailing down the center of your stomach, causing him to crawl back further and further until his lips were just above your core. Chan brought his fingers right back to where he had them in the car, easily able to slip in two fingers without warning, a deep groan gritting his teeth at the way your back arched for him monumentally. The sight was one that he had been craving, one that you craved yourself. It did not matter how far apart you were from your husband, his appetite for you would never change. If he wanted to be close, he wanted to be close. If he wanted to be far, well that was just simply not plausible. As much as he wanted to pleasure you, make you feel good, like the diligent role of a husband should be, it was the closeness that motivated him every time. Chan longed for these moments, especially since the introduction of your daughter restricted the ability to do so. At any possible moment, Chan would demand to do whatever he could to profess his love, and it was always done with his mouth; his tongue to be more specific.

In this scenario, rather than speaking with tongue, it was sticking out of your husband’s lips, flattening as he dived in head first without hesitation, your hands automatically rummaging through the thick mound of curls that supported the top of his head. His tongue was heaven, spreading your pussy lips farther and farther apart and he used that ferocious organ to fiercely suck on your wanting nub. A monstrous moan escaped your lips at the contact, a gratifying humm coming from his throat at the way you tugged on his locks. Your eyes were barely open, unable to prevent yourself letting your eyelids dance back and forth from open to shut, mesmerized at the current view you had when hunching your neck to see. Chan could see the way you were desperate to view his fulfilling prophecy that was going down on his wife, making sure to lay his chest flat on your bed, ejecting his fingers from your cunt and hooking each forearm around each leg, compressing them into the mattress, giving you the perfect perspective of the combination that was his lips and tongue simultaneously pleasuring your aching core. If this was going to be the result after pining for each other for around 12 hours only, you would never think about it twice.

“I love being married,” you whined, another humorous hum escaping your husband’s lips, “tongue feels so good.”

“Mmmh,” he mumbled, half of his face muffled in your pussy, “you taste so good.”

“What was that?”

He took away his tongue for a brief moment, looking you deep in the eye before repeating his statement.

“You taste so good.”

He didn’t want to take much time away from making you, his wife, feel good, let alone waste his breath on 3 words. His tongue snaked across your inner thigh, the organ licking a gentle strip up each leg before descending back onto your gushing pussy. The smile on your face at his works was impossible to wipe off, your moans through the pearly whites getting louder and louder at the same time with your core, the accumulation of your slick and Chan’s oral fluids contributing to the squelching sound that was bringing you closer and closer to peak arousal. His lust was simply one of trance and dedication. It genuinely could not be explained enough how much he loved seeing you like this, knowing that he was the one that was doing so. Your lips contorted, unable to keep the smile as your bite down on the skin below your bottom lip, harsh enough to leave a line of marks before you were sitting up, hands leaving his hair and dominating his face, palms spread across either side before pressing a kiss to his lips. Your nose crinkled, easily identifying the taste of you on his tongue before giving him one last look, eyes completely open as you crawled backwards on your elbows, left index fingers curling in a come hither motion. The invitation was simply too divine to resist. Your husband turned into a predator, jumping on top of you like he had just caught his prey. His moves were delicate, making sure to not crush you underneath him. His lips were itching to be on yours again, and the feelings were returned, tongue automatically parting his lips and dipping inside his wanting mouth as his hands left your figure for a brief moment, slipping the thin material down his legs and over his feet, fingertips, like magnets to his wife’s skin, straight back onto you. Your own hands were now back on your husband's body, fingernails digging into the large mound of muscles that was his upper back as his fully erect length pressed against your heat. A moan slipped out of your mouth and straight into his, causing him to pull away.

“Fuck you really missed me, didn’t you?”

His smirk was fucking priceless. So annoying, but it would just be a flat out lie if you said you were not attracted to it in the slightest. Cocky did not look good on most people, but it 100% suited your husband. Your nails buried themselves deeper into his flesh at his statement, a poor attempt at humbling him in the slightest as another moan fell from your lips as he began slightly rocking back and forth, the tip of his pre-cum soaked tip hitting your extremely sensitive nub. You went to open your mouth, a failing endeavor of speaking a sentence when the only thing coming out being sounds of pleasure.

“Don’t tease me Mr. Bang,” you mumbled in between each groan, bucking your hips to create a larger friction between your two bodies. Chan was getting impatient himself, but god, did he love to tease you. Your husband had no trouble making you orgasm over and over, he just had displeasure in making you cum so quickly. Your body was sensitive solely to him, even after all these years, it didn’t take much to get you there. Therefore, teasing you made the process so much more enjoyable. Watching you squirm was something that he really enjoyed.

“Hmm Mrs. Bang,” he hummed, lifting his hips off of yours, one hand now wrapped around the base of him, “you’re so cute when you’re all hot and bothered.”

Your eyes formed into a squint, annoyed at how easily he was pinning you down, “stop playing games and fuck me. Preferably today before they get home.”

“Oh fuck,” Chan chuckled, prodding at your pussy hole with his length, “you’re right, let me get to business.”

It was funny when previously mentioned that Chan left to tease and see you squirm, because once his length was comforted by the strength of your tight walls, your husband was a mess. He couldn't help it. Your pussy, after being with you for so many years, molded exactly to the shape and maneuvers that Chan needed. He tried to maintain a slow pace, allowing for your cunt to stretch perfectly around him, wanting you to feel every inch of him; but it simply was too irresistible to resist. Chan wrapped his hands around your ankles, lifting your limbs in the air and stretching them as far as they could go before kneeling on his knees as he began to flat out pound your busy. His pace was not as fast no, by the velocity of the thrusts was truly toe curling. Your jaw dropped to the floor if it could, the bedhead surely denting the walls at the arms as each time his hope made contact with your contact, a large noise resembling a slap occurred. Your husband was usually not as rough, but it’s not that you’re complaining at all. It was rare that he would just throw you around like this, usually if he was frustrated or that you had been away. So really, you should have seen this coming. Maybe it was what provoked you to reply to his lustful text in such a similar manner; whatever you have been doing it was right seeing as he was making your pussy cry with arousal.

Chan’s teeth sunk into your left calf, a string of large huffs and puffs escaping from his chest as he put all his mighty effort into each thrust, your husband breathing heavy at the combination of his force and pleasure he got from fucking you like that. His eyes ogled however, at how easily your tits bounced back and forth.

“Fuck,” you shouted, “s-so rough.”

“You like that?”

“Mhm,” you whimper, keeping your legs in the air as your pulled him by the neck, foreheads accidentally smashing foreheads together with a significant force, “you’re fucking me like you want to put another kid in me.”

“Maybe I do,” he grunted, pressing a kiss to your lips in between, “maybe I should put another kid in you.”

God the way he talks, especially like that, turns you on so much. Your hands now travel back to the familiar spot of his back, pulling his chest against yours as he picked up his pace, thrusts much smoother with rhythm as your eyes fluttered shut, head hitting the back of the pillow ad your husband relentlessly fucked your pussy. A deep breath blew from your lips, an insufficient try to maintain your composure as your husband refused to set a forgiving speed.

“Fuck your pussy,” he growled, unable to finish his sentence.

“Yeah baby?”

“Mine,” he huffed, his own eyes fluttering shut as he pinned your upper limbs next to your head, head dipping down back to your breasts, a ferociously lick on your left nipple before he continued, “Fuck I’ll fuck another fucking child into that fucking pussy if you want me to.”

Chan became a menace when he reached his peak horniness, and during this timeline, that was right now. Anyone who met or knew Chan, as a well-respected friend, colleague, or even a stranger, knew that was one of the most polite people that you could possibly have the pleasure of meeting. Not one to swear, always use his manners and respect other people��s time and values. However, it was only you who got to see the truly feral side of him, like this, cursing his head off. It was only at this point did he forget that facade of a well-mannered gentleman. Chan was certainly not polite or gentlemen like when he fucked you, and it was a guilty pleasure of yours. It always aroused you to hear him say ‘fuck’, mumble a ‘motherfucker’ or ‘shit’ under his breath, even just in normal dialgoue. So when he said it during sex, it truly was one of the hottest fucking things your had ever seen.

“Do it,” you mumbled, unable to use your full voice, “put a kid in me.”

“Really?”

His head snapped up immediately, lips moving back to your own, pecking you one more time, but with his eyebrows raised in surprise, “Are you being serious?”

“Yes,” you smiled, fingertips spreading across your husband’s cheeks, “you have my permission.”

“Oh fuck,” he grumbled, “you really shouldn’t have said that.”

Chan’s hands snuggled under your back, scooping you and placing you up right on him, cock still inside of you as he sat up himself, keeping you close to his torso as he scooched the end of the bed. He let out a groan as he stood up, hands trailing to your hips as began to bounce you. A new level of sound escaped your lips at the new angle he was hitting inside of your pussy. It was smart to keep your arms enclosed around his neck, head buried into his chest as he still managed to keep the same pace. You really didn’t know how much more of this you could handle; the pressure in your body was building. The pit of your stomach was making its way to your final high, and your muscles were tightening in conjunction. The room’s scent was full of sweat, but also passion. Sweet sweet passion and sweet sweet love filled the four nostrils in the room, bringing you even closer to the edge.

“Chan?”

“Y/n, you okay baby?”

“I’m gonna cum baby,” you whined, “I'm gonna cum so hard.”

“Oh me fucking too baby,” he fritted through his jaw breaking teeth clench, “I’m about to blow so fucking hard.”

“Yeah?”

“All in this pussy,” he whined, placing you back down on the bed, “my pussy.”

“Mhm, all yours.”

Your husband kept your back arching off the edge of the bed, making sure that when let go of himself, that nothing but even a drop would drip out of your hole. His hips became erratic; you could tell that your husband would not last much longer. Not that you were far off either, but you know that the release of his seed would tip you over the edge.

“Fuck,” he cursed, hard, “Y/n I’m so sorry I’m gonna cum first.”

“It’s ok,” you whined, “I need your seed inside of me so fucking badly.”

“Yeah?”

“Oh yeah,” you clenched, eyes dark with lust as he kept his gaze on you, “put a fucking kid in me.”

“I fucking love my fucking wife so much,” he spat, jaw falling agape as his load exploded, the ropes of your husband’s orgasm roping over and over inside of you, “I fucking love you so much.”

“Fuck Chan,” you screamed, your own orgasm washing over and sending you into a haze, “it feels so good inside of me.”

Your whine was so attractive to Chan that he leant down to kiss you one more time, before withdrawing his aching cock, falling to your side in a heavy breath. He was quick to get back into action, however, falling off the bed and grabbing your ankles again, lifting them off the floor and onto the bed, ensuring that not a lick of his load would fall out. A fat giggle escaped from your lips when you watched him do so.

“Fuck you were serious about that kid hey?”

He was already gone, annoyingly leaving you by himself. He was quick to come back however, returning with a glass of water and a banana from the kitchen bench, handing over to you without a second thought. Your lips turned into a smile automatically, practically chugging the water down to quench your thirst before peeling the banana open. Your husband took his spot next to you, lying on his side as he watched you with admiration. All of a sudden you felt self-conscious, hesitating before putting your lips anywhere near the fruit.

“I’m starting to think you got this fruit for a particular reason.”

“No,” he chuckled, “just eat it.”

You looked away from him as your lips ‘accidentally’ slipped down the banana, much past where necessary to take a bite. You could see your husband's jaw clenching out of the corner of your eye as your motion.

“What,” you mumbled, mouth full of food, “you were asking for it.”

“Fuck your lucky that your daughter is going to be home soon.”

#bang chan #bang chan fic #bang chan smut #bang chan scenario #bang chan imagine #bang chan x reader #stray kids fic #stray kids #stray kids smut #stray kids imagine #stray kids scenario #stray kids x reader #ch4nb4ng

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fridgemissionmaster · 5 months ago

Text

Beelzebub x Reader: A Winter Date, Ignoring Indulgence

In which Beelzebub tries cheering you up amongst snow flurries

Word Count: 6410

Warnings: Reader is very stressed

AN: Thanks @om-adventcalendar for giving me an excuse to write something for my favorite guy.

Your breath shuttered hearing that screeching alarm go off. Slowly, ever so slowly you propped yourself up with your arms and patted the nightstand once, twice, thrice, and several more times just hitting wood till at last your numb fingers grazed the bane of your existence, snatching it with a slap, pressing the power button.

Silence.

You stayed like that for a while, leaning against the nightstand.

It’d been so long since you’ve last met that. Perhaps that was just a part of winter here. The snow drifting down, tucking everything under that fridged blanket and cloudy pillows making things perfect for a peaceful slumber.

…

A pitiful chuckle escaped you at the thought.

“Oi, MC breakfast’s ready!”

“Coming.”

Time to get up.

You hadn’t fully unpacked yet, the brothers left you no time for such frivolous things where there were much more important ones, like breaking the sprinklers when your back was turned.

Despite it having been several days the bed beneath you was still unfamiliar. Your room empty, impersonal, all your belongings still in your bags strewn about on the desk and chairs.

It was very empty. A unanimous decision by the demons that you get the largest room despite you having brought the least amount of stuff. A work desk before the window, a chair there, one across that, bed in the corner, door across that, and a closet alone away from all else. The twins or Asmo would have been better off here instead of you. All you could muster placing here was upsetting news and unsettling thoughts.

With an unceremonious thud you slammed into the wooden floor.

Cold.

Seemed your body betrayed you and was insisting you get some actual proper rest, but no such luxury could ever be afforded to you, could it. All the worlds loved you too much and something notable always had to be happening.

One arm up and you found purchase on that stranger’s mattress to help yourself up.

You needed to hurry up, otherwise the brothers would throw a fit.

You wondered if them throwing a fit would have been so bad though, watching Mammon and Satan both try and fail to use the mixer, incessantly yelling about how to use the damn thing. It was shiny and new to them, but if it was so difficult why didn’t they just do what they usually did back home.

They called your name, but you ignored it. They both called you enough as it was, they could figure it out themselves.

“Are the pancakes bad?” Beelzebub, your gentle giant sat beside you; his plate already half gone.

“No, you can have mine though.” It was difficult to keep anything down, your stomach twisting and churning. You swear you could feel those acids clinging and stinging your throat raw.

“Mc?”

Okay, what… what was the way back to your room again? It was up the stairs then… then… It was difficult to move, your body felt as if it were lead. Why did Diavolo have to get such a large house? Sure, he wanted EVERYBODY, but four stories was ridiculous. And he wasn’t even here yet! This was his idea and yet Lucifer is insisting on decorating the place for his arrival! Where did the princeling get the idea of having a snow-white Christmas anyway?

Click

It’s too much.

Leaning against the shut door you slowly slid down it, breath trembling.

It’s not bad, you knew this’d happen. You just felt worse off because you didn’t sleep! E-everthing’s… You’re not-

and out

then out

Deep breaths.

With that third one you got to your feet and strode over to the bed plopping yourself down, the sudden weight shifting the admittedly messy quilt and sheets beneath you. You never actually cleaned the thing, did you. Oops.

It still sat on the nightstand beside the bed… upside down.

…

Fingers picked at the edge of the mattress.

You already knew, there was no point looking to it again…

It’d be irresponsible not to though. And so you plucked the little device from the stand.

It was still muted from last night, not that the lack of notifications did much, upon unlock being greeted to your contacts, the hundreds of messages from friends and family next to each of their names and icons.

You already knew, you didn’t want to hear the same damn news over and over and Over again. You didn’t want to help make plans, you didn’t want to arrange dates or talk about it or WHATEVER else needs to be done! What all even needs to be done!? Can’t someone else do this!? Be in charge for a change!? You DON’T WANT it to be real! Why do YOU have to be passed responsibility!? It shouldn’t be! Doing that stuff it’d ju-

Knock, knock, Click. “Mc?-”

Before you could do a thing he was already kneeling before you, snacks dropped and forgotten in his lap.

“What’s wrong?”

You could not look at him. Beelzebub and his absolute earnestness would tenderly rip your bleeding heart out from your throat and have you say it, acknowledge it. What could you say, he is gluttony, indulgence, and once you started spilling this awful bile you’d indulge, and not stop, dumping all this bullshit onto him. He should be happy on vacation, not… THIS.

“Dry.”

“Huh?”

You wiped your stinging eyes with the palm of your fist before looking to him. His brows slightly furrowed, hands placed on either side of you, so worried. Did you really look that much like on the brink of tears?

“The heaters’ always on, right? Well, the things here have the stupid side effect of making things dry as well and let me tell you it’s not the most fun thing to deal with, especially with it on constantly. It can irritate the eye.”

Beel simply gave you a single nod and hum. You couldn’t look at him much longer than necessary.

…

There was a quiet thump sound as he arranged whatever it was in his lap before sitting beside you.

…

A little plate of berries and cut-up fruit was placed on your lap.

“Bunny apples?” You held the slice up to wide beams of light that streamed from that window to your side.

“Uh… My Monster Crush…Monster Crusher-” The man shook his head, deciding the title didn’t matter and to forget about it. “Levi watched it a couple days ago and wanted them when they showed up. I don’t get it, but he liked them.”

Ah, so that’s why the knife work looked so good. Beel could master just about anything in such a short amount of time if it’s for someone he cares about. From that wobbly first attempt at sewing plush of Belphie, to designing outfits for everyone, then going on to making the most gorgeous yukata you have ever seen. You’re still so surprised every time you look at it seeing how small and even the stitching is, all hand sewn. And now seeing his brother like a cut-up fruit and figuring out how to make it overnight.

That crisp, juicy flesh and the satisfying SNAP as you took a bite, lovely. And the CRUNCH of every last bite, so satisfying!

“Dose the dryness make humans not hungry?”

“Thirsty, yeah. Hungry, I’m not too sure.”

You didn’t even need to look at him to know what was coming. Better to beat him to the punch.

“I’m just feeling a little off. Whenever I go here or the Devildom my body usually takes a few days to readjust.”

The silence between you and the sixth born was always a comfortable one, no need to fill up the space with needless chatter, however right now it just… you weren’t sure. You knew you didn’t want to be alone, but being around the others was just too much. You knew eventually someone would notice you then everyone else would find out since even the most simple of things must be so dramatic or the end of the world around here. No place to just rest, or even ignore them since personal space is such a foreign concept that even if you tri-

“Would going out help?”

“I- What?”

Your gentle giant had to take a moment to swallow before answering, only popping in a few pretzels from the bag in hand so his voice wasn’t completely muffled. “It’s not too dry outside, right?”

“I… don’t think sssooooo?” That last word grew higher in pitch, you unsure about… ANY of this?

“Let’s go on a date.”

His expression… you’ve lived together for so long you gotten accustomed to the little changes of his faces, but this… No matter how you tried to scrutinize it you couldn’t tell at all what he was thinking. Was he worried? Just wanted to go out? There was something serious about it but trying to take you out on ‘proper’ dates and worries about you were both taken seriously to him, yet something was off with this.

“A date?” Placing the plate aside you leaned in. A hand on his cheek, thumb wiping away those pesky crumbs… Damn, still couldn’t read a thing. At least you got such a pretty view out of it. “We still have to decorate for Diavolo’s arrival, and I doubt Lucifer’ll let us so easily get out of that.”

“… I’ll ask Belphie to cover for us.”

Beel, thinking of skipping out on something involving his family? Maybe you weren’t the only one feeling so odd today.

Already he stood, squeezing your hand with his before you could take it back, then striding towards the door. “I’ll get you soon, okay?”

Upon seeing you nod he smiles, then closed the door behind himself as he left.

Well…

Certainly not what you were expecting to do with your day, but you know what, maybe this was just the thing you needed! The pair of you hadn’t gotten the chance to spend time together without someone interrupting for a while now, even before arriving here on Diavolo’s whim.

Quickly you got ready for the outdoors. In the end you had to ransack your own luggage to find all you wanted but cleaning the strewn about clothes could come later, it also made for the perfect excuse to finally put it all in the closet. Perhaps you were a little too eager for this excursion, not sure what to do with yourself.

Not much else for it other than to look out that window. It was a nice view. Next to the hotel across the way was that massive horse ranch. The moment you sent Mehpisto a picture of it when first arriving he wouldn’t stop spamming, demanding more pictures. You hadn’t gotten to visit the place yet, but they did allow visitors, maybe you’d all get to go later. There were a few out, dashing across those white plains, kicking up snow, blurring their legs as they went. Had his horses ever experienced snow before? Surely, it did snow in the Devildom, albeit rarely. If not, maybe it’d be something to look forward too when he arrives with Diavolo.

…

Should you bring your phone? You REALLY didn’t want to, just the thought alone made the constant pit in your stomach sour. Leaving them on read would just make them upset and the whole thing worse. But not being able contact others could be dangerous.

The view’s pretty, especially so when there was such a bright handsome demon in it.

What were you thinking. There was no such thing as danger if Beel was nearby.

He simply kept waving to you even after you waved back.

It was simple enough to flick open the hook lock. You immediately regret throwing open the windows as you did, that chill engulfing you. You should have expected it though, already able to feel it through the crack between the door-like panes.

“HEY BUB!”

“JUMP!”

“...”

He held his arms up and out.

Just what was up with him today?

Okay. Thankfully with the whole lot of nothing on the desk it took but a moment to perch yourself on the windowsill. A bit too thin for your liking, but… Beel was there, you knew you were safe. Didn’t stop your body from freezing on the spot clutching to the side of the thing, heart thumping something in you screaming to hop back onto the desk instead, you were on the fourth floor after all. However, the man below you was much too far for your liking and that had to be fixed.

And so

The wind thrashed into you before your mind could register it, already crashing into his firm frame. It took a moment to collect yourself from the impact despite Beel’s best efforts to give you a soft landing into him.

He… didn’t move. Leaning back you could see the snow around him wasn’t disturbed other than the trail he made to get here already disappearing.

“… You didn’t even need to take a step back for balance!”

“You’re not that heavy.” Effortlessly he readjusted you. “Lika a grape.”

“A grape? Dude, I smashed into you from up there-” Your arm was flung toward the top of the building where the open window was. Damn, still had no effect on him. Was that a demon thing or just a strong Beel thing? “-not even the force of gravity did anything!?”

“No?” The man just stood there, a light chuckle shaking his body at your bewildered expression as he squeezed you closer. What were you finding so confusing about him? You didn’t seem upset by it at least.

“Belphie said this would be safer than going out together. Mammon and Asmo were in the living room looking for you.” Gently you were placed on the ground. Too bad, he was so warm, like your own personal heater.

“Ah, well then, we just better get going before anyone notices.” Perfect timing too, with the current snowfall your tracks would be covered. The icy flakes drifted down, twisting and twirling as the wind rushed past kicking up parts of clothes and hair as it went playing along.

“Could we go get supplies. They asked where I was going and Belphie…” Your demon’s gaze drifted away from you, clearly uncomfortable with the situation.

“Of course, that’ll be out first stop.” He perked up relieved by your answer. Even more so when you took his hand and began walking.

The town was definitely more of a touristy one, Danish themed you believed. Oddly reminded you of the Devildom in some ways like the cobblestone walkable streets, or the colorful buildings, even the wooden signs that hung above the doors of shops, the words engraved an intriguing font. Plants littered the place, trees and wooden potted shrubbery everywhere. The Devildom had similar too, however it was nice being able the see them from every angle easily instead of needing the help of the lights from shop windows. It… was nice. In a way like seeing the Devildom in daylight. Was this place really like the Devildom though or were you just imagining it and making connections where there were none. There was also the fact it felt so odd to be seeing lights hanging from rooftops and windows not lit up constantly, or the twinkling stars above.

…

You didn’t have much of a choice coming back given this was another one of Diavolo’s sudden adventures, but would it have been better if you hadn’t followed along and came here? They already know you have so it’s not like you could just make the excuse you were off ‘studying overseas’ again. It’d be nice if you could just ignore everything. Not that playing tour guide for so many demons would be any better. How were you going to handle things when Diavolo arrived, yesterday you only got to bed at THREE in the morning because everybody needed you for some reason or another, like what’s this thing, why do you need a can opener when you and use your teeth, MC I broke the weird thing in the lawn, the SPRINKLERS which isn’t the worst thing, but WHY!? MC spend time with me. MC it’s too damn bright outside. MC I brought paperwork on vacation for no reason, help me because I’m such a self-entitle brat who believes I can just take you any time I so please because your wants and needs don’t matter, here take responsibility for my family, because you’re family and the only one I can rely on apparently!

Your hand was squeezed.

Everyone but the one person you wanted to be with most. And you were with him now.

A date.

Even a squeeze and he was so gentle, so aware of his strength. His hand absolutely engulfed yours. You could feel some of those calluses pressed against your palm even through gloves.

And it was gone.

“Bubba?” Beel was taking off his jacket?

“You’re shaking.” Didn’t even look at you, just kept taking the thing off.

“I was?”

His eyes widened pausing mid action, just a sleeve still on.

“You’re not cold?”

Fuck

“Ah! No, no I am. I just didn’t realize I was shivering!” You tried swallowing, pushing down the lump building in your throat. No stresses, you’re with him. “But what about you?”

“I’ll be fine, you know it gets much colder back home.”

Before you could say a thing further he already had the garment off and in hand. At least he had a turtleneck unde-

Your knees buckled underneath, your foot shooting out to not fall.

“MC!?” His hand was on your chest, but you were fine, you didn’t completely lose your balance.

“What’s this thing so heavy for!?” It wasn’t too terrible a weight, but certainly enough to startle you and trick you body into thinking someone from behind… fell on you slowly? Or something, it was such an odd sensation!

“Snacks, I can-”

“Oh no mister! This is mine now!” You took a step back before he could take it from you. Yes, it startled you, but it was comfy and warm! Still though, he managed to hide that many in there? It was very big and durable though. Beel had worn this before when you went on hikes back home. You’d seen that thing get beat up, sliding down rocky land, trudging through prickly thickets, even slashed and pecked by wild animals yet still it was in pretty decent condition, that probably had something to do with it and the layer of fluff lining the inside.

Beel held his wrist to his chest for a moment, a habit that normally showed when he was anxious or worried.

“Hey.” You wrapped your hands around one of his, gently pulling away getting him to let go. “We still need to get that shopping done, right?”

All you got was a light hum, lips straight and taught, lost in thought.

Oh! “Beely-boy, the bus!” Immediately he nodded, gripping you tighter and picking up pace, footfalls crunching with every hastened step across the fridged landscape. It wasn’t too much farther down the street, and it had just stopped.

It was nice watching the scenery pass by beside you. It was an open-air bus, not exactly too many walls, but this was probably better than wandering about on foot looking for a good place for the supplies. There were people walking about, hearing them talk in a multitude of languages, shouldn’t be all too surprising, the town did seem to be a popular place to vacation, exactly what you’re doing.

You leaned into the warmth behind you as your companion wrapped his arm around you, pulling you closer.

…

“Mc, are you okay?”

‘No.’ What an answer that would be to give…

“Beelzebub.”

“Yes?”

You couldn’t. You knew all too well those crystalline eyes would break any resolve there was to keep anything from the man.

“Beel.”

“Huh?”

That building had a green roof.

“Bub.”

A food stall, you took note to go there later.

“Bubba.”

You wondered if there’d be any interesting books in the gift shop, like history of the town.

“Beelzeboo.”

Toy shop, probably could find a good puzzle for Luke there.

“Beely-boy.”

You wondered if the shop with the giant grandfather clock behind the window was an antique shop.

“Beely-boy-bub.”

“M-mc?”

Oh, a horse drawn carriage. Big ones with the floofy hooves. Mephisto would love to go for a ride.

“Big guy.”

You could see the giant windmill you first spotted when arriving in town.

“Big boy.”

Maybe it was safe to look back now… but just in case you thought it best to go for the kill.

“My cute little Love Bug. You have nothing to worry about.”

…

You could practically feel the heat radiating off of him. Looking up and back the first thing you spotted was surprisingly not that fiery orange hair but the lightest steam which quickly twisted and drifted away in the wind. His cheeks and the tips of his ears flushed, almost as bright as the color of his sin. Lips slightly parted, eyes bore into you while he faced away, something in him unable to fully face you in the moment.

You… knew he could get awkward and blush at certain topics, but THIS

Never before could you have imagined him getting so bashful.

YOU JUST MEANT TO DISTRACT HIM, MAKE HIM A LITTLE SHY, OR SOMETHING, NOT COMPLETELY EMBARRASS THE POOR GUY!

“I’m sorry! Sorry! I’m just tired and am in a weird mood! I didn’t-are you okay?”

Obediently he nodded, although he did start facing his feet.

…

“You’re enjoying yourself.”

“I’m not! I’m sorry!”

Lightly he shook his head before finally facing you again, a little wobbly smile creasing his lips. “You’re cute.”

“What do you mean! You can’t just say stuff like that after…” Your hands lightly waved about before gesturing to yourselves. “THAT!”

“Why not?”

“Why am I the one starting to be embarrassed here!”

You proceeded to hide your face in your hands.

“Mc?”

His arm pulled you closer, letting you hide in his chest.

He seemed so flustered but then just decided to slap you with THAT AND WORST OF ALL YOU KNOW IT WAS NOT OUT OF REVENGE, HE JUST GENUINELY MEANT THAT BECAUSE YOU GETTING FLUSTERED ON HIS BEHALF HE FINDS SWEET APPARENTLY! AND THEN HE’S JUST ALL NORMAL AGAIN AND ACTING LIKE YOU’RE THE ONE COMPLETELY EMBARRASSED AND LETTING YOU HIDE YOUR FACE! YOU SHOULD BE THE ONE OFFERING YOUR SHOULDER FOR HIM TO HIDE HIS FACE AT!

Gently he rubbed his hand up and down your arm, a soothing motion. His other hand slipped into one of his jacket pockets and pulled something out.

This man, just

Damn it

“Oh, Mc.”

“… yes.”

“Our stop’s here.”

“eh?”

Lightly he tugged you up to your feet before leading you off the bus.

One, two, three, four buildings the pair of you went past…

“Where are we going?”

“There.” He pointed down the street, the end of which you could only kind of see, very misty and away. Sometimes you forgot just how good his eyesight was, man could spot you from the opposite side of a fangol field in practically pitch darkness effortlessly.

With a little hum in his throat the bag he held was tilted your way.

… you really didn’t want too, but how could you refuse him.

“thank you.” Dried fruit, maybe it’d settle your stomach a bit.

…

Sour and acidity. Felt like you just ate a rock, part of it sticking in your throat. Or did it already feel like that before, when you got the ne-

NOPE

You! Are on,

A date.

None of that nonsense!

A sigh escaped in your failing attempts to alleviate the tension in you. That puff of air freezing in the wind. There was chatter all around, music in the distance, and a crunch with every step beneath your feet. Even with everyone milling about flattening it, more snow kept falling to take it’s place, only the streets where vehicles drove were more or less cleared of it.

Your fingers twitched around the edges of Beel’s jacket, pulling it closer.

“Warm?”

You nod. Very warm. “Thank you… Are you sure you’re fine?”

His eyes followed you up and down for a moment, landing on your face. “As long as you are.”

“That’s not an answer! Are you cold or not!”

“No, you warmed me up earlier.”

“I said I was sorry!”

“Sorry for what?”

This man…

Supplies, supplies, supplies, that only referred to one of two things when on vacation, getting ‘just in case’ things, an extra first aid kit here, a fire extinguisher there, or party stuff. This trip seemed to be for both. There was a demon prince, his butler, loyal noble, a wizard, angels and a reaper arriving throughout the week, so everything had to be perfect and not get too out of hand.

While you were here you could probably pick up some extra food as well, you always needed extra on hand. You stood there, arm draped over the handle of the shopping cart unable to decide if getting candles would be a good idea as well, never know when there’ll be a power outage. You heard the distinct clinking of many items being placed in the shopping cart. With a quick glance you could tell Beel tried leaving a little room for anything that wasn’t food. Or perhaps you shouldn’t get to much extra supplies, you would have to be walking around with the stuff after all.

“Mc, do you like this?” There was a spool of thread in Beel’s hand. A bright red with a shiny gold strand running throughout.

“Yeah, it reminds me of you.”

“Oh… I thought of you when I saw it.”

“Any ideas for it?” Gingerly you took it, spinning it about to see if it was frayed or damaged anywhere before placing it in the cup-holder of the cart.

“A jacket for you.”

“A jacket?”

Beelzebub gave you a single nod. “I wanted to get you the same one as mine, but they don’t sell them anymore. And you like mine so much, I want you to have one like it.”

…

And he just stood there, smiling at the thought of making you something you’d like.

…

Why was this getting to you so much. Such a simple action and you were hot allover, and it felt as if your rib-cage was shaking. “Well, we better pick up a few more spools then.”

He was very quick to come back with more in hand, however as you waited you noticed something. You pulled out this pan from the cart. Similar to any other one in shape, but instead of one large divot there were nine shallow ones.

“Know what this is for Big Guy?”

“… Takoyaki balls?”

Gently you placed it back and began making your way to the registers. “No. Aebleskivers. Imagine pancakes, but better.”

“Better?” You couldn’t help smiling hearing his immediate interest.

“Yeah, better! They’re like spheres. They’re usually COVERED in powered sugar. The smaller ones are dipped in jam, but the bigger ones, chocolate, creams, jams could be stuffed inside. We passed some on the bus ride, wanna go?”

“Yes!”

You didn’t even need to ask; his answer was obvious. You tried hurrying as best you could, your giant’s excitement palpable and infectious. He took the heavier bags without a word, just like every other time. Just in case you fed him a new pack of cookies as you went so the anticipation wouldn’t turn to impatients. Thankfully the bus went at a leisure pace, so it was easy enough to recall how to get to the little hole in the wall.

Hole in the was the best way to describe it actually. No shop to go into, simply an open window where one could order how much they wanted, watch as the delicacies were made, the glass to the sides reflecting your partner’s twinkling eyes and the drool rolling down his chin, and have little colorful, topless boxes passed to you, steam raising up from the golden-brown spheres from the parts that weren’t drizzled with jam, a little powdered sugar sprinkled on top like the snow flittering down around you.

“Here.” Part of the perfection of theses things was how they were so simple. Just a sphere. Easy enough to stab it and hold up to a waiting maw.

You distinctly heard a sort of click sound, likely Beelzebub’s teeth knocking into the plastic. Admittedly with the force behind his bite you were worried for a moment he broke and swallowed part of the fork as well.

Your pace slowed as Beel’s did, soon coming to a stop before a park. It was small, not much to it aside from trees much taller than those in the rest of town and the tables and benches strewn about.

He trotted along, placing the bags he held aside, needing a free arm to sweep the frozen ice chunks off the table and seats. They didn’t seem too wet, you at least had Beelzebub’s jacket to cover yourself in-case it was, but Beel… was already sitting before you could say a thing. He didn’t seem bothered so it must have been fine.

Soon both of you had placed your treats about, already there was a stack of those boxes off to the side, you having made sure Beel had gotten plenty on the way.

There was that stiffness still in your neck, probably got there from the night before. Hands held high you stretched, joints popping. Each one got the demon before you to flinch, eyebrows furrowing further with each one. You had told him plenty of times it was nothing bad, that as far as you knew that was just a part of the human body, but that didn’t stop him from worrying, you had yet to tell him the popping was air bubbles for that reason, him probably getting concerned as to how those got there in the first place.

Neck still felt off.

With a loud exhale you tried relaxing, only to be greeted to one of those round pancakes at your face.

…

They weren’t that heavy, deciding it couldn’t be so bad you took a bite.

“… Still not hungry? You haven’t had much all day.”

“Not everyone can unhinge their jaw like you Buddy. I’ll have more soon.”

“Hmm.”

You tried ignoring the growing uncomfortableness in your gut and the urge to pick at something, your gloves, the peeling paint on the table, your fingers, perhaps the empty boxes, maybe a loose thread somewhere, something to pull, to break, something hard to grind into your hand, flick, press-

Or nudge, like whatever had knocked into your foot. You tried pressing against it to shoo it away, instead it nudged into you again.

Was it the leg of Beel’s chair or table somehow?

You tried lifting your foot up to tap the thing only for your toe to get caught! And the sole of your shoe was lightly pushed!

Only then did the realization dawn on you.

“You wanna play footsies, eh?”

The man before you quirked a brow. “You started it.”

YOU started it!? Well, perhaps you WERE distracted and maybe started bouncing your leg or something but certainly you were going to finish it! Why just look at him, Beelzebub sitting there so mischievously and cooly, munching away as a little smile pulled at the corners of his lips! Too handsome and charming, you had to do something about it!

Reeling back, packing in as much power as you could, launching your foot forward.

A giggle escaped him at the ticklish feeling. Success! Something in you always worried about any hit to the man but after seeing him get whipped and laughing at it, you realized not much could phase him. Still it felt odd to-

“Ah!”

You left yourself vulnerable, Beel catching the bottom of your foot, lifting it up.

Alright a swift maneuver to the l-

THUNK

A nervous giggly mess of a laugh escaped you. Everybody in the area probably heard you crash into the table and were looking your way! You couldn’t stop yourself though, it was so silly y-

“I love you.”

what

He sat there. The chill dusting his cheeks with a rosy hue, hair gently swaying in the wind, snowflakes clinging to a few strands making the orange color seemingly unbearably warm in contrast.

He’s just always like that.

Quiet, yet overwhelming.

So direct, and honest, and raw.

He didn’t even think about that action, it just came out.

His eyes were half closed in that moment, pooled with emotion, shiny, reflecting only you.

Or at least you think.

Fuck

Everything just kept getting blurrier and blurrier. You could not stop laughing. It ripped out of your throat in painful, satisfying bursts wracking through your whole body, everything shaking and rattling only settling a little as a kind pressure enveloped you, one you could only try holding in kind.

Your breaths were unsteady but eventually you were able to claim them and hold them back, to be steady.

It was hot.

With a deep breath you slowly leaned back a little, never being let go of though.

“sorry”

All he did was hold you tighter yet it felt like it was enough to squeeze a few more tears from you despite his tenderness.

“i didn’t… i”

A hand slowly soothed up and down your back, very much there.

“… you make it hard. to not just

say everything

……

you just

always

make me feel so safe”

You were terrified to look at him yet could not resist the temptation.

Beautiful

His cheek felt so hot the moment you placed your hand on it, him nuzzling into the touch.

“Is that bad?”

“… i don’t think it matters. you

your

everything

it’s just so much, i just

want it all

your love

your strength

your warmth.”

“Oh.”

“hmm?”

“You’re smiling, really smiling.”

A light chuckle rumbled out your throat. Only he could make a comment like that in a moment like this.

Gently you pulled his face closer to your’s, your giant demon not resisting in the slightest.

His breath was unbearably hot against your lips.

Even after you parted you didn’t move your hand. How could you? He was still enjoying the touch, leaning a little into it.

“Do you want to talk?”

“no. i really, really don’t

i don’t

i don’t wanna deal with it

i don’t want to talk

or think about it

not now

…

you’re so warm and safe and i know

i know you’d listen to anything i have to say

but i don’t wanna dump everything on you

but you make me want to

to indulge in the pain

to wallow in the relief

i”

“Is that bad though?”

...

“That’s okay, I’ve waited all day and longer, I can wait as long as you want.”

And longer?

Clearly he could tell the question playing in your mind.

“You left for your room in a hurry. I thought you were trying to get to bed at first, but you were shaking a little. I wanted to ask but you needed sleep and Lucifer started lecturing us about keeping you up.”

“TCH, are you kidding me? the last thing i did last night was look over those stupid papers with him.”

Hypocrite, not that the fact was anything new.

“Want to go back?”

“eh, a date with you or having everyone fight over me. I definitely know what I prefer.”

You managed to get a giddy chuckle out of him with a quick kiss to emphasize the point.

“What do you want to do?”

You sighed, not really wanting to think too much in the moment, however you could come up with one thing. “You found that cool thread, right? Maybe they’d have some fabric shops here with other unique designs.”

With a beaming smile that was far too bright he picked you up, effortlessly collecting the bags and boxes. The least you could do was to hold on to those, giving him a bite.

“You should have more.”

“It feels awful from the stress though.”

“You’ll feel worse if you’re hungry.”

Those pleading eyes, you couldn’t refute them and gave in. They were definitely cool but damn it, they still tasted good.

“I can walk.”

“I want to carry you.”

“You have all the bags though.”

“Like a grape.”

“… Okay, that’s ridiculous! A grape fits in your hand, I’m much bigger than that!”

“A human grape maybe. But you and those are easy to carry.”

… Should you really be surprised at this point by the nonsensical things from the Devildom!

You and everything else were truly effortless for the man to carry, even managed to pull the wallet out of his pocket to pay the carriage driver.

Even when seated he still held you close. It was an open-air carriage, but at least the covering kept the snow off. Gave you an excuse to snuggle into his side whenever an especially chilly breeze rolled by.

…

“Love Bug.”

“… yes.”

“Thank you, you really mean so much to me.”

He didn’t need to say anything, that wobbling smile, the light blush and him holding you tighter said it for him.

“M-MC! BEEL KIDNAPPED MC!”

Leviathan!?

Only for a moment you spotted him, Satan by his side however before you knew it you were already leaping out of the carriage in Beelzebub’s arms, him bolting across the streets.

“Oh. Belphie tried calling.”

Beel passed you his phone for you to scroll through as he run, your name being called by a new voice on occasion. There were dozens of texts and several missed calls. Seems he had a plan but everyone realized you were missing during a nap and panicked, especially when they found your room a mess and the window open.

That… wasn’t exactly a good look, was it.

“Guess we should go back, huh Bub.”

“Do you want to?”

“… Not really, no.”

“Then we won’t.”

… What were you going to do with this man you wondered. “Thank you.”

#omadventcalendar #obey me x reader #obey me beelzebub #obey me beel #obey me #beelzebub x reader #beelzebub x mc #obey me fanfic

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thebramblewood · 1 year ago

Text

For a brief moment in her eternal existence, Lilith was well and truly shook.

Previous / Next

[incessant pounding at door]

Lilith: It’s nearly sunrise! Who would be calling at such an ungodly hour? [expectant pause] Fine. I suppose I’ll answer it then. Helena? [immediately composes self] Well, isn’t this an unexpected pleasure?

Helena: Let’s get one thing straight, Lilith Vatore. I’m only here as a last resort. I won’t let you have your way with me. Caleb warned me about you.

Lilith: [bemused smirk] Oh? So that’s what’s been keeping him busy.

Helena: [barreling forward] And I read your book. You don’t come off well.

Lilith: It’s hardly my book. That journalistic hack is the bane of my existence. No one alive still cared about the Vatore name until he started nosing around. I’d kill him, but it'd just make more trouble than it’s worth.

Helena: How can you talk about it so casually?

Lilith: What?

Helena: Killing people!

Lilith: Because it’s what vampires do. It’s as natural to us as breathing, darling.

Helena: Caleb doesn’t kill people, does he? I don’t think he even drinks blood.

Lilith: Caleb, bless his heart, is a miserable fucking sadsack. Clinging onto one’s humanity is a thankless task, one he’s bafflingly decided is his personal cross to bear. But we’re above humanity now, Helena. We’re elite. We’re supernatural. Nobody can fucking touch us. Our power is limitless, so long as guilt doesn’t get in the way.

Helena: I’m not interested in power. I didn’t ask for any of this. Are you even sorry for what you did?

Lilith: Of course! I thought you were dead until five minutes ago, and I have been mourning the loss.

Helena: [scoffs in disbelief] For yourself maybe. You didn’t give a shit what happened to me. I have no future because of you!

Lilith: Oh, that couldn’t be further from the truth. You’ll make a remarkable vampire someday. I can sense it. I understand you and Caleb have been… bonding. While you’re here, though, you may as well learn from both of us. You might be surprised whose lessons you prefer.

Helena: We’ll see about that.

Lilith: Make yourself comfortable. If you’ll excuse me, I need to have a little chat with my dear brother.

#ts4 #sims 4 #ts4 story #sims 4 story #simblr #story: hzid #helena zhao #lilith vatore #caleb vatore #a lot of pics i know but i wanted to avoid too many huge walls of text and the expressions were just too good!!!#something about the forgotten hollow aesthetic just HITS #and of course our girls being back together is equal parts dreadful and amazing #*tbw

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alpaca-clouds · 9 months ago

Text

Trying to figure out Gortash's backstory

As I said before, I am right now very much inspired to write a redemption story for Gortash. Like post-canon, Gortash lives AU (because I still hate that he dies), and he actually gets a chance to redeem himself. Not only like: He turns good, but he actually does something good enough to be considered a redemption. And he does so without dying.

But... Yeah, that story is going to be from Gortash's POV, which means that I very much need to come up with some fillings for the big ass holes that the game leaves in terms of his backstory.

We don't know how old he is, but I would estimate him to be around his late 30s or early 40s. Which means we kinda have like 20 years to fill up.

While the entire timeline of Raphael "buying" him from his parents and him escaping the hell is very vague, he was probably somewhere between 18 and 20 when he got out of the hells. And the exact stuff what happened in between is vague. Even how he escaped the hells is not quite clear. I mean, was Helsink responsible for that? Or how did he get out?

And then he starts to do illegal weapons trading once he is back in Baldur's Gate. Which is fair. I am going to assume that he is actually going to throw some stuff in there that is of his own making, given that he clearly is a tinkerer.

Given Karlach is 30, I do not think he hired her before she was 15, so at max she has worked for him just a couple of years.

I mean, technically those details don't matter. What does matter however is: How does he become a Chosen of Bane, and how does he get into contact with the Dark Urge?

As quite a few people have pointed out: Technically the Dark Urge existing is very confusing given that they have been created by Bhaal and Bhaal was dead for about a hundred years until ten years ago. So unless Durge is ten years old, this does not fully make sense. Sure, technically speaking Durge could be immortal, I guess, but... Well.

See, the issue I see with Gortash is, that I just do not pick him as the religious type. I do not see him going to the Banite church and actually give enough fucks to make himself a name in the church and after some great show of faith getting the status of chosen. I mean, if you talk to him, he just... Ketheric is devoted to Myrkul, sure. And Orin was indoctrinated into the Bhaalist cult from her birth onward. But Gortash? He would follow nearly every god if that god gave him powers. At least that is my reading of him. Sure, the entire tyrant thing plays well with his pompous and kinda narcissistic personality (and I mean this in a neutral way - given how he grew up narcissism in a medical sense is to be expected), but... Like, had Oghma thrown him a boon, he would have served Oghma, right?

So, why is he a chosen?

Usually chosen are either one of two: Either, they are very dedicated to the god and have proofen themselves to them over and over again, or they have something (power, knowledge, influence) that the god is interested in. As I don't see Gortash falling underneath the first umbrella, the second one could be it. Was Bane interested in Gortash maybe, because Gortash had a lot of knowledge about the hells maybe? Was Bane originally interested in the crown or something else that Gortash knew about? That would be one possibility.

Though, there is another one. Because it just so happens that in the lore of Faerûn something happened just 8 years ago, that could have given him chosen status without him doing shit for it. Even though it would also mean, that him being a chosen is almost random. Because 8 years ago the second sundering happened. And during the second sundering for a variety of reasons the gods picked quite a lot of chosen. And yes, that included the Dead Three as well. And a lot of those chosen were in fact not people super dedicated to the gods or anything, but just people who generally aligned with the domain and alignment of the god in question. And I cannot help but wonder: Was Gortash just one of the chosen Bane got from that event?

It would work out fine. Because there is one thing that keeps bothering me: Sure, Gortash kept secrets from Karlach. But she still was his personal bodyguard. And she had no idea that he was aligned with Bane. Which makes me think that indeed he was not a Banite when he sold her off to Zariel.

And yeah, I cannot help myself. The timeline would work out rather well: Gortash becomes a chosen closely prior the events of the second sundering, but after he sold of Karlach. After a bit the Dark Urge (who somehow very much is an adult, because I guess he time travelled or something) finds him. The two hit it off (whether romantically or platonically) and come up with their grand evil scheme. At some point Ketheric joins.

Of course, there is one big hole in that explaination, though: Who are the other people working for Gortash while he just is a black market weapons trader? If he was a Banite it would be easily explainable (other Banites), but like this it leaves open the question: Who are they and what happened to them?

I don't know. I am rambling. But yeah. I like this asshole. And his story is fun to think about.

#baldur's gate 3 #baldurs gate 3 #bg3 #bg3 gortash #enver gortash #lord gortash #bg3 meta #bg3 analysis #dnd lore #bane

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tired-truffle · 1 month ago

Text

Something's Gotta Give

A CullenxLavellan fic

Chapter Word Count: 7.7k

Part 44 - I Won't Say (I'm In Love)

"You're trying not to tell him you love him, and you're trying to choke down the feeling, and you're trembling, but he reaches over and he touches you, like a prayer for which no words exist, and you feel your heart taking root in your body, like you've discovered something you don't even have a name for." - Richard Siken

Song Rec: The Line by twenty one pilots

Tag list: @thomrainierapologist (If you'd like to be added to the tag list, let me know!)

(Thank you for posting this gif @sweetjulieapples, it's perfect!)

Masterlist

“You’re like a brother to me, Dorian,” Ash said as the carriage ground to a halt outside of the estate. “I meant to tell you that earlier. Sorry for the delay.”

Ash had spent the majority of the carriage ride back in silence. Sitting across from her, Dorian cast concerned glances in her direction, his eyes filled with a helplessness that mirrored his inability to find the right words. What could possibly suffice in such a situation? How does one comfort a friend who had been struck on the back of the head, kidnapped, drugged with the Mage Bane, and manipulated as a pawn against her own sister, only to have her throat slit in the end? She’d survived, but only out of sheer luck.

Dorian's eyes diffused of their consternation, a genuine smile replacing his frown. "My dear Ashvalla, I'm touched. Truly. Though your timing is impeccable as always. Nothing quite says brotherly love like near-death experiences.”

She reached out, her fingers trembling slightly as they grasped Dorian's hand. The calluses from his staff were oddly comforting against her palm.

"Well, you know me," she quipped, her voice still rough from the healing magic that had knitted her throat back together. "I like to keep things interesting."

Dorian squeezed her hand gently, his gaze sweeping over her with poorly concealed concern. "That you do, my friend. That you do."

The carriage door swung open, and they were ushered out by an attendant to the lonely estate.

Ash couldn’t fathom how this day could get any worse. Love, on the other hand, possessed an imagination unbound by such constraints.

Burning and bubbling beneath her skin, Love unleashed her anger, her pent-up desire that had been suppressed by both Ash and the Mage Bane. As she stepped up to the manor, she stumbled, hiding her wince by ducking her head.

“Are you alright?” Dorian asked, his steadying hand on her elbow.

“I will be,” she answered, eyeing the enclosed confines of the opulent manor. If Love was going to throw a temper tantrum, Ash was reticent to allow her to do so inside. “I think I need some time alone, though. I’ll be in the gardens, should anyone need me.”

“But you’re still covered in your own—“

“It’s already dried, there will be no difference in trying to clean it now or later,” Ash spoke over him. “Please, Dorian, I just…need a minute to clear my head.”

Dorian sighed, tilting his face up to the night sky like it held the answers to his suffering. “If Cullen skewers me for leaving you alone, my death will be on your hands.”

The reminder of the Commander had Love flaring again, and Ash gritted her teeth into a smile. “I owe you one,” she said, and she did - or rather, she owed him several.

Dorian clicked his tongue against his teeth and nodded to one of the manor attendees to unlock the gate to the gardens - giving her a hard look that promised retribution should she not follow through on their deal.

Moonlight flowed across meticulously trimmed hedges, illuminating stone pathways that wound between beds of dawn lotus and roses. Crystal grace hung from latticed arbors, and the night air carried a heady floral perfume, mingling with the earthy scent of soil and the faint metallic tang of her own dried blood.

Ash followed the central path, her steps unsteady as Love pulsed angrily beneath her skin. It was like carrying a storm inside her chest, lightning crackling through her veins with each heartbeat.

A marble bench stood in a small clearing at the garden's heart, surrounded by a circle of roses. Ash sank onto it gratefully, the green silk of her gown billowing around her as she settled, spilling across the bench like liquid emerald. Ruined now by her crusted blood.

When had her life come to this? For over two decades, she’d been possessed without complications, until Cullen came into her life. He set her heart aflame, making her feel things she’d never experienced before. She’d known familial love, of course, both given and received through her bond with Rae. The love from friends had been new, Dorian opening the door to the kind of companionship she never thought she’d have. But Love wasn’t this tumultuous when Dorian didn’t speak to her for weeks, and Ash loved him dearly. Why was Cullen so different?

"Enough," she whispered to the spirit. "You're giving me a headache on top of everything else."

But Love was not in a listening mood.

As if in answer, Love pressed her flames along the insides of Ash’s ribcage. She clutched her arms tightly around her trembling torso, her body quaking as she stifled a cry. Tell Cullen she loved him, or turn into an abomination - a choice that should have been simple but was anything but. Gods, she loved him so much it ached in her chest, raw and consuming like a dying star, deeper than any pain that Love could inflict.

Love’s power ebbed, granting Ash a brief respite to catch her breath. She needed to banish thoughts of Cullen, to cease feeding Love the fuel for her yearning, yet by Mythal, the image of that man's face stubbornly lingered in her mind. Horror and concern that had crossed his face when he’d seen her covered in her own blood. The angry furrow of his brow as he seized her wrist in the ballroom, softening into something she couldn’t identify. How flustered he’d been when Leliana challenged him. She longed for him - for the steady comfort of his arms around her, quiet words of reassurance whispered against her skin. She’d cast him aside, and now she was paying the price.

Love surged again, stronger and hotter than before, and Ash had to double over and bury her face in her skirt to suppress the scream clawing at her throat. Dizziness struck her as she struggled to breathe, gasping inhales that failed to replenish her lungs. Fuck, it felt like her chest had been branded by a searing iron, molten lava coating her flesh. Light filtered through her tightly shut eyelids, and she hesitantly cracked them open, staring down at her chest - a sinking stone falling to her gut.

From over her heart, jagged cracks had erupted in her blood-crusted skin, like a spiderweb spun by a vengeful hand. Fissures branched out in every direction, converging around a core of seething, spitting flames. Love had only ignited such a transformation once before, the morning of her dress fitting after Cullen had accidentally barged in and promptly left. Was this the signal of the end? Her final warning before Love turned them into an abomination?

Ash twisted her fingers in her hair, tugging at the strands and tearing them out of her ruined updo - pinpricks across her scalp almost unnoticeable under Love’s fire.

Dorian. She needed to find Dorian. She’d meant it when she’d promised to go to him if it became too much.

“Ashvalla? What in Andraste’s name are you doing out here on your own? And is that—you’re still covered in blood.” Cullen - because, of course, it was him - had snuck up on her. Or perhaps it was more accurate to say she had been so consumed by the pain that she failed to notice the heavy thud of his footsteps drawing nearer.

Staying curled in on herself to hide Love’s light, she gritted out, “Go away.”

He scoffed, his earlier irritation bubbling back to the surface. She doubted that the bright lights and relentless chatter of the ball hadn’t pounded a headache into his skull and furthered his foul mood - assuming he didn’t already have one gnawing at him to begin with. "Not until you tell me why you're out here in the dark instead of in bed resting, where you ought to be."

All it had taken for her to become the recipient of his concern once more was a near-death experience at the hands of some exceedingly rude Orlesians. He should have still been at the ball, right? But perhaps she had been sitting in the gardens for longer than she’d realized.

“You’re not my minder, Commander. I owe you no explanation,” Ash spat, pathetically unable to straighten. Love, taking issue with this, released a new surge of fire that ate away at the marrow of her bones. She hissed, low and under her breath, but Cullen heard her in the silence of the garden.

She felt him grow closer more than she heard the soft sound of his boots crushing the grass. His hand hovered over her shoulder.

“Don’t touch me,” she growled, jerking away from his touch even as she yearned to feel it.

“Why not?” he asked briskly, and she could perfectly picture his nettled scowl.

“Cause fuck you and fuck off, that’s why.” Ash was well aware of how childish she was acting, but she did not have the energy to care. “Let me find my moment of peace alone.”

Love disagreed, and Ash shuddered as another bout of fire rolled through her and boiled her organs.

"You sit here, in blood-soaked clothes, clearly in pain, trying to find peace? What possible peace can you find in such a state?"

Her ears flattened against her skull. “Didn’t I tell you to fuck off? No need to worry about the crazy, possessed mage, Templar.”

"Oh, for the love of—“ Cullen cut himself off with a frustrated growl. She peered through the curtain of her hair and noted his hands clenching at his sides. “Is it your neck that’s bothering you? Did Solas not heal you properly?”

His hand extended toward her once more, his fingertips gently grazing her shoulder. She recoiled slightly, finally lifting her gaze to meet his. Her hands were pressed protectively against her chest as she remained bent over, her skirt concealing the glow of Love’s rage beneath. She must appear utterly disheveled; tiny specks of blood clung stubbornly to her cheeks and matted her hair, while her eyes, rimmed with smeared kohl, were bloodshot and weary.

“I said: don’t touch me.” She barred her teeth in a snarl, pointed canines glinting in the low moonlight, ears tight to the sides of her head. It did little to deter him. Love writhed, slashing at her spine, deepening Ash’s snarl.

“You’re a mess.”

Ash’s attempt at a grin ended more in a grimace. “How sweet of you to notice.”

He wiped a hand down his tired face, his gloves discarded along with some of the more decorative pieces of his Inquisition formal wear. Had he been in the middle of undressing for the night when he’d decided to take a late-night stroll through the gardens? Was he…meeting someone out here? There were plenty of eligible women at the ball, petite and demur - the opposite of Ash in every conceivable way. Perhaps that was more his type; someone who would yield to his every command without resistance, modest and agreeable. Not her, not difficult, bossy, demanding, loud.

He liked it when I was loudly screaming his name. Her mind added unhelpfully.

“Would you allow me to help you for once in your damn life?”

“Then leave!” she cried as the cracks in her skin lengthened, cutting through her defences. “I don’t want you here!” A lie, she wanted him with her always, but it hurt too much. The magic flared again, her body jerking of its own accord and sending her sprawling to the ground. Her knees hit the soft grass, her hands following suit as she released a strangled sob, bent over and weeping into the dirt. “Please.”

He followed after her, crouched at her side, before she’d finished her sobbed plea. “Not until you explain what’s going on. Don’t think I don’t notice that…light you’re trying to hide.”

Get up. Straighten your spine. Since when do Lavellans wallow?

Ash froze, the voice so clear she almost looked around for the source. Her mother had been dead for over two decades, yet there she was, chiding Ash as if she were still a child with skinned knees rather than a grown woman with a heart breaking apart.

You think you're the only one who's ever suffered? Stop making your problems everyone else's burden. Handle it yourself.

The phantom scolding stung, but beneath the harshness lay the steel that had shaped Ash's own backbone.

“I have it under control,” Ash said through clenched teeth, both to Cullen and the voice of her mother. “I’m not going to hurt anyone.”

“The last thing I’m worried about is you hurting someone.” He looked her up and down, a concerned tilt to his brows. “Right now, I’m more worried about you. You could have died today.”

“But I didn’t.”

Cullen pinched the bridge of his nose. “No, I’m not doing this with you.” And with no further warning, he shifted to kneel in front of her, grasping her biceps, and pulled her into an upright position. She felt the sway of her body as she rose, her limbs too feeble under Love's overwhelming power to muster any resistance.

She tried in vain to cover the roaring magic with her hands, but the cracks had spread too far to be hidden. Tears rolled down her cheeks as his eyes widened and his lips parted, his breath catching at the blood and flames.

“Is this the spirit’s doing?”

Fear slithered down her spine like a snake shedding its skin - what would he do if he didn’t think she could be controlled? “Will you make me tranquil if I say yes?” she spat, though her venom did nothing to quell the hard look in his eyes.

“How many times do I have to say no before you believe me?” he shot back. “Stop being difficult and tell me.”

She wasn’t going to win this one, she may as well explain and put his worries at ease - if she was lucky. “Love is upset with me. I’ll be fine once she calms down again. The Mage Bane hurt her, she’s confused.”

A half truth, one that Cullen saw right through.

“Are you trying to get yourself killed?”

“She won’t kill me, she’d just end up killing herself.” Ash panted as the magic slowed to a simmer, preparing to launch another attack. At least she had time to prepare herself.

His hands tightened around her biceps.

"There are thousands of different ways for that to go wrong, and you're just sitting here taking it."

“What else would you have me do, hm?” She pulled her arms from Cullen’s grasp, and he released her without resistance. She let her arms fall to her sides. There was no use hiding it from him anymore. “Beg to be made tranquil so it can all go away?”

“I'm trying to help you!” He ran a hand through his hair, letting loose a curl that hung over his forehead. “I don't wish for you to be in pain. Is that so difficult to understand?"

“I don’t really want to be feeling this either, but there’s nothing you can—“ Her body shook around a sob as the flames ate at her skin, curling in on herself like she could keep it contained - keep it from hurting him too.

“Ashvalla—“

“You don’t have to be here.” She swallowed a groan. “I know you’re still…angry with me.”

"How could I not be?” Frustrated and incredulous and worried, he could hide none of it in the strain of his voice. “Look at what you’re doing to yourself, and for what?"

If they fought, Ash could avoid the truth of her pain. A baited hook she latched onto like a common pike.

“Tell me how you really feel.”

He raised his face to the stars, taking a deep breath - praying to his god to give him strength. Similar to how Dorian had done earlier that evening. She was skilled at driving those she cared for to witless exasperation.

“Forget it, that isn’t the point.” Damn, she’d been hoping he’d continue down that path until he got so frustrated that he stormed off. “You say that you don’t need help, but you’re…being harmed by that spirit. I will help you if you’d allow it.”

There were countless reasons she denied him swirling in her mind, too numerous to name. A deep-seated fear gripped her heart, preventing any flicker of hope from taking root that he might still harbor feelings for her. Even if such feelings lingered, the harsh reality remained unchanged - he would always fear her.

“You’ve done enough.”

"Ah, yes, my apologies." His words dripped in sarcasm, his anger seeping out. "Clearly, this is all my fault. I'm the one that's possessed by a spirit, collapsed in agony on the blasted ground."

“She wouldn’t be so upset if you weren’t here!” The same tired argument, relentless and repetitive, but he wouldn’t listen.

"How dare I be concerned about your welfare."

“You don’t care for me! Not—ah—anymore!” Ash yelled, voice grating as Love flared. Biting back screams, the cracks in her skin reaching her shoulder, she squeezed her eyes shut.

“Maker’s breath, Ashvalla, I never stopped caring!" His voice was almost a shout to match hers, his words strained. "You're the one who's been pushing me away! You're the one that keeps running from anything that makes you feel a damn thing! But no - no, you'd rather sit here and suffer than let anyone help you."

He cared for her, after everything, every cold glance and clipped dismissal, he cared for her. But it couldn’t be willing, he cared because she had tricked him, fooled him into believing that she was someone worthy of it.

“You’ve spent so long putting other people’s feelings before your own that you’re practically breaking yourself doing it. And for what? So you can be a martyr?”

“No!” She winced as the magic continued to roll through her. “All I want is for the people I…the people I care about to be safe. I’m not a martyr because I will survive, I have to.”

“For someone else, right? Never for yourself.” She hated how gentle his tone became, tinged with frustration, but soothing in its low timbre. Why couldn’t he just scream at her instead? “It has become increasingly clear to me why the Inquisitor was so incensed before Adamant. She’s had to watch you do this your whole life.”

Rae. Always Rae. She had almost died too many times to count, Ash couldn’t let it stick the next time she put herself in danger.

But wasn't that just another excuse? Another wall built to keep everyone at bay? The fortress of her soul, constructed brick by brick with every rejection, every dismissal, every time she turned her back on what she truly wanted - on who she truly wanted.

Her sister's face swam before her eyes, but it blurred with his. Emerald and amber, earth and the sky at sunset, both looking at her with the same exasperated concern. Both trying to save her from herself.

Only she could save herself now.

The cracks in her chest weren’t solely from Love. She’d been fracturing for years, hairline fissures spreading with every grin to cover a grimace. Every helping hand brushed away. It was second nature, a crutch she wasn’t able to give up, lest her knees collapse and she crumble to dust.

“I’m sorry that this is so hard for you,” Ash sneered, but it didn’t have the desired effect; he remained. “I’m sorry you’ve been involved in my mess yet again and by the gods do I wish you’d just fucking leave me alone. All you’re doing is irritating Love. You’re not helping.”

His lips pressed into a thin, unimpressed line. “Why?”

Ash blanched, and Love stabbed her spine with white-hot needles. “Why what?”

“Why am I irritating Love?”

Oh, that look in his eyes, ripe with understanding. Did he know? Was he disgusted by her feelings, and this some sick torture?

“Go awa—“ She couldn’t say it, couldn’t give him the answer he sought, and Love punished her for it with another bout of fiery pain. “Fuck.”

“Stop pushing yourself like this,” he said, trying to keep the anger out of his voice - anger at her? She wasn’t sure.

“I don’t have a choice, she doesn’t understand.”

His fingers found her chin, tilting her face up towards his, his brows pinched in concern, frowning in aggravation. “What doesn’t the spirit understand?”

Again with the same leading question that she had no intentions of answering.

Love pushed, and Ash whimpered.

“Please don’t make me,” she whispered under her breath, meant for Love, yet with Cullen’s proximity, she was certain he’d caught every word. “I don’t want to tell him, not like this. Please, not like this.”

She needed to find Dorian, to get him to…solve her predicament? No, there was only one solution, only she could end this.

Ash rubbed her sternum, fingers pressing against her chest as if she could physically push Love back inside. The pressure did nothing to soothe the burning, but the motion was instinctive, desperate. She winced as the pain intensified rather than abated.

"I've seen you do that before," Cullen said, his eyes tracking the movement of her hand.

Love flared hotter at his observation, as if pleased to be acknowledged. The cracks widened, tendrils of golden light seeping between Ash's fingers.

"Yeah, well," Ash said, unable to meet his gaze, "she's particularly active around you."

The moment the words left her mouth, her mind screamed in panic. Would he know what that meant? Possibly. She didn’t want to be around to find out. Incensed and feeling a jitteriness rise beneath her skin, she leapt to her feet, wavering as her weak legs adjusted to the sudden weight. Cullen followed her up and she turned from him, pacing away until his hand encircled her wrist, pulling her to a stop.

“Stop running away,” he said tersely. "You're being reckless, and until you are no longer in danger, I’m not letting you out of my sight.”

“I lied to you, I allowed a relationship between us when I knew the truth would wound you deeply. Why do you still bother?”

The confession was blunt but true. He didn’t let go of her wrist.

“You had your reasons.”

Ash scoffed, turning to face him, hand pressed to her chest as she gritted through Love’s assault. “You didn’t seem to care much for my reasons a few weeks ago.”

“I was upset, I was hurt, I still am - how did you expect me to react?” He released her wrist to throw his hands to the side in a gesture of perplexity.

“Exactly as you did.” Cold and contrite, another honesty bestowed upon him.

A shadow passed over Cullen's face, the moonlight catching the hollows beneath his eyes. He looked at her - really looked at her - as if peeling back layers of armour she'd spent years perfecting.

"Is that what you think?" His voice had softened to something dangerous, something raw. "That I reacted exactly as expected because you deserve nothing better?"

Love twisted inside her, a terrible longing that wrapped around her limbs like ivy climbing a forgotten ruin.

"Don't you dare pity me," she whispered, the words scraping her throat.

"Pity?" He laughed, a broken, humourless sound. "I've never pitied you. Been infuriated by you? Constantly. Worried for you? Every day. But never pity."

He stepped closer, and she stepped back in turn.

“What happened between us after Adamant…” He sighed, shaking his head ruefully. “It wasn’t only your fault.”

“Yes, it is!” She insisted, hands balled into fists at her sides, angry tears falling from her cheeks to splash on her corset-squashed breasts. “It’s all my fault! And now Love won’t let me rest because I won’t do what she wants, I can’t! She doesn’t understand, and I don’t know what to do, and I’m hurting her too. I can’t get myself to stop.”

Unravelling at the seams, unable to push back the terror that rolled off her tongue.

His eyes narrowed, his gaze darting across her damaged skin as though he could find the source of her pain. “What do you mean you’re hurting her? How are you hurting a spirit?”

At her silence, he stepped forward and wrapped his hand around her shoulder, pulling her attention to him. “Tell me,” he prompted.

Neither of them acknowledged that the cracks in her skin receded from his hand. Ash could breathe a little easier.

“I won’t do what she wants. I’m…stifling her.” And turning her into a demon, but she couldn’t bring herself to say it aloud.

His hand tightened, and the cracks receded further. “What does she want?”

“What I can’t have.” Ash’s voice broke along with the shattered remnants of her heart. What didn’t he understand? Why did he have to keep pushing her? Did he not see how desperately she needed him, how much she craved his touch?

Something shifted in Cullen's eyes - softening his features while tightening his jaw. His gaze dropped to the fissures spreading across her chest, to the embers flickering beneath her skin. When he looked back up, his eyes held a question. His hand dipped a hairsbreadth lower. Asking permission without words.

Ash froze, trapped between the desire to flee and to surrender. Love surged beneath her skin, yearning toward him like a flower seeking light.

She met his gaze, those eyes that had haunted her dreams, now filled with an emotion too tender to name. She gave him the barest nod.

His hand descended with excruciating gentleness, fingertips brushing the crusted blood on her chest as though touching a priceless relic. When his palm pressed flat against her heart, covering the worst of the cracks, Ash's breath caught in her throat. Where his fingers splayed, the cracks receded, sealing themselves as though they'd never been. The fire that had consumed her dimmed to a bearable simmer.

His thumb swept gently across the skin. It wasn't forgiveness - not yet - but understanding. Acknowledgment that neither could voice.

For a fleeting moment, Ash allowed herself to savour it, to pretend that this touch meant forgiveness, meant healing, meant more than a temporary respite from her torment. But beneath that touch, beneath the momentary peace, a tide was rising inside her. Not Love's rage this time, but her own.

How much longer must she endure this endless cycle? This constant battle between what she wanted and what she feared? Between protecting others and destroying herself?

Gods, she was so fucking tired.

Tired of the push and pull between them. Tired of the secrets. Tired of the constant vigilance required to keep Love contained. Tired of denying herself even the smallest comforts. Tired of being strong for everyone but herself.

She was shattered shards of a childhood ceramic bowl held together by nothing but stubborn will, and even that was failing her now.

Every day felt like walking on a knife's edge, waiting for the inevitable slip that would send her plummeting into an abyss from which there would be no return. And for what? So she could maintain this façade of control? So she could protect everyone from truths they would eventually discover anyway?

What was the point of surviving if she wasn't living?

She didn't want this anymore. This half-existence, this perpetual state of barely-contained madness. She wanted peace. She wanted to breathe without feeling like her lungs were filled with broken glass. She wanted to love without fear of destruction.

She was so tired of fighting herself. Of fighting Love. Of fighting him.

The tears that spilled down her cheeks weren't born of pain but of profound, bone-deep exhaustion. A weariness that had become her, tainting every thought, every breath, every heartbeat.

She wanted it to stop. All of it. The lies, the fear, the constant struggle to keep herself together when all she wanted was to fall apart in someone's arms and be told that she didn't have to be strong anymore.

In his arms.

Ash's shoulders slumped as something inside her finally, irrevocably broke. The last of her defenses held up by shoddy mortar and scaffolding that tumbled to the ground.

"I can't do this anymore," she whispered. The admission like tearing out a piece of herself, raw and bleeding. "I'm so tired, Cullen."

Not Commander, but Cullen. The man she’d lost her heart to long ago. His eyes widened slightly at her words, at the naked vulnerability. “Ash—“

No longer able to hold the weight of her anguish and fear and a desperate need she didn’t understand, she crumbled. Hot tears fell down her kohl-stained cheeks, her voice becoming doubled, like it had at Adamant when Love had spoken with her. “Just tell me what to do and I’ll do it! I don’t care anymore, I just can’t take it! Tell me how to fix it, please, Gods, I can't do this.” She clutched at his shirt, her voice returning to solely her own. “This fucking spirit doesn’t understand that I fucked everything up. Every time I am near you she’s begging me to close that distance, but I’m the one who put it there!”

His shock at her outburst rendered him speechless, his mouth slightly agape as if frozen in time. She continued her tirade, the words tumbling from her lips with a relentless, raw intensity, like rivulets of blood oozing from a mortal wound.

“I couldn’t bring myself to tell you, and maybe I should have, but I couldn’t. Maybe I could have trusted you or believed you when you claimed you had no intention of killing me, hurting me, or making me tranquil. I never allowed you the chance to adapt or understand. Instead, I threw my possession at you and distanced myself before you could do the same to me. I’m a coward who doesn’t know how to let anyone in, but I’m trying to learn.” Her chest heaved with panted breaths, her eyes wild as Love’s fire coursed through her veins. She sobbed through her agony. “I love you so terribly that sometimes I think it may kill me, and I would welcome it. I’m afraid and I love you and I can’t do this anymore! I can’t—Cullen, I can’t do this.”

The agony in her chest faded away, and clarity took its place. No…she hadn’t meant to admit that. But in her exhaustion and the relentless pain that had worn down her defenses, she’d let it slip, unbidden. Love was satisfied, her relief spreading under Ash’s skin - she was no longer teetering on the brink of becoming a demon. If fortune favoured her, Cullen hadn’t caught those words or, amid her incessant ranting, hadn’t registered their significance. Maybe—

No, she should know by now that counting on luck was a fool's errand.

Cullen’s lips parted around a choked breath as he stared at her, stunned into silence. Oh Gods, this was mortifying - to profess her love to a man who…did he despise her? Surely not, as he had assured her he cared, but what did those words truly mean?

No, it didn’t matter. Nothing would change. He could care about her all he wanted, but she would never be rid of her spirit possession. Love would always be a barrier to, well, love.

Her hand gripped her arm where it hung at her side, nails digging into the twisted, scarred flesh. She couldn’t feel anything except for the hand he’d kept affixed to her chest.

“You were supposed to be fun, not…” Ash didn’t know why she was still talking. She’d said enough, but now that she’d started, she couldn’t get herself to stop.

“What?” Cullen prompted, a burning intensity to his gaze and a hoarse bark to his voice.

She took a shaky breath. “Everything.”

He inched closer, as if drawn in by each confession.

“Again.” He prompted, his hand moving from her chest to cup her cheek, fingers brushing away tears.

Ash blinked rapidly, certain she had misheard him. “I beg your pardon?”

“Tell me you love me. Just one more time. And then I’m going to kiss you.”

Her heart stuttered. “What?” she asked breathlessly, like he’d punched her in the gut.

“You heard me.” His eyes never left her face. “One more time, and then I’m going to kiss you.”

He leaned in a fraction, then paused, uncertainty written in the furrow of his brow. Did he think she didn't want this? That after baring her heart, she would reject him now?

Ash couldn't bear the thought of him pulling away. Not when she finally had him so close, when the possibility of everything she'd yearned for was within reach. Even if this was the last kiss, she was powerless to resist. Love hummed contentedly beneath her skin, urging her forward.

“I love you, Cullen.”

With a low, strangled noise in the back of his throat, Cullen closed the distance between them. His lips met hers in a kiss that was hard and desperate, like neither of them had breathed since they’d parted, like the kiss would bring back to life what they’d destroyed in the solitude of his office.

One sword-roughened hand slid into her hair while the other arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her flush against him. Ash's arms wound around his neck as she pressed closer, deepening the kiss.

It felt like coming home, like finding a piece of herself she’d been searching for all her life. Cullen's lips were soft yet insistent against hers, his stubble scratching at her tear-stained skin. She could taste the faintest hint of wine on his tongue, feel the strong beat of his heart against her chest.

All the pain and fear of the past hours melted away. There was only this - Cullen's arms around her, his warmth enveloping her, his kiss setting her ablaze. Love sang through her veins, no longer an agonizing burn but a joyous, radiant glow.

When they parted reluctantly, both breathless, Ash kept her eyes closed for a moment. She was afraid that if she opened them, she would find it had all been a dream. But Cullen's forehead rested against hers, his fingers gently combing through her tangled hair, and she knew this was real.

She opened her eyes to find Cullen gazing at her with such tenderness it made her heart ache. A smile tugged at her lips, mirrored on Cullen's face.

"Ashvalla," he said, rough and tender and everything in between. "Why didn't you tell me sooner?"

She let out a humorless laugh - why not tell him everything? What else did she have to lose? Her dignity lay shredded in the garden bed. "When should I have done that? When I was lying to you about being possessed? Or after, when you could barely look at me?” Ash said, shaking her head and trying to pull away. "But nothing's changed. I'm still possessed, you’re still afraid of her."

Cullen didn't let her go. His other hand came up to frame her face, forcing her to meet his gaze.

“Yes,” he said quietly, “I was afraid of Love, of what it was doing to you, what it can do to you. But losing you frightens me more.”

Ash's mind reeled, heart skipping beats as his words sank in. No, that couldn't be right. He was a former Templar, trained to hunt mages who stepped beyond the line of acceptability. Her entire existence crossed that line.

"No, that's not right." She shook her head slightly against his palms. "We were only—"

"No." Cullen cut through her protest. "I know what you’re about to say. You are not just a body to me. I am certain I made that clear, so end this tireless attempt to make me slip. There is nothing to slip on. You are…even terrain."

Even terrain. The words echoed in Ash's mind as she studied Cullen's face. If he truly feared her - if Love's manifestation had triggered the Templar instincts he'd worked so hard to shed - wouldn't she have seen it? Wouldn't there have been that telltale flicker of revulsion, that instinctive recoil she'd witnessed in others?

But as she sorted through her memories since he’d joined her in the gardens, searching his expressions for any hint of disgust or fear, she found none. When Love had cracked open her skin and spit fire, he hadn't stepped back - he'd moved closer. When the spirit had raged within her, he hadn't reached for his sword - he'd reached for her.

Every time she'd expected him to turn away, had begged him to leave, he had leaned in instead. Where she expected judgment, he offered kindness. His hands on her skin had been gentle, his eyes concerned rather than alarmed. Even now, his thumbs stroked her cheeks with a tenderness that made her want to weep.

"You're not afraid of me.”

"No," Cullen agreed firmly. "I'm afraid for you. There's a difference."

"But I lied to you," she whispered, clinging to the last thread of her resistance. "I betrayed your trust. You told me what happened to you, and I still kept my possession a secret."

"And I reacted poorly," he conceded. His thumb traced the line of her jaw, the touch reverent and hesitant, as if she might shatter beneath his fingers. Or perhaps it was he who feared breaking.

"When I learned about Love, I was angry because I thought all we had shared was a lie, that your feelings weren't real - that they were the spirit's, not yours." His eyes searched hers desperately. She hoped he found what he was looking for. "I couldn't bear the thought that what I felt was one-sided. And then we argued and I…regret how it ended, that I let you push me away.”

Love pulsed beneath Ash's skin, not in pain but in triumph, a warm glow that spread through her veins like honey.

"What you felt?" she echoed, hardly daring to breathe. Her ears fell, quivering slightly.

"I thought it was obvious. I've been told I wear my emotions on my sleeve."

"I don’t understand." She needed to hear the words, needed them spelled out in a way that left no room for misinterpretation or doubt. She held her breath, barely daring to hope.

Cullen smiled, pained and tired, but it was beautiful - he was beautiful. "I fell madly in love with you. Maker help me, but I love you still, Ashvalla. I always will."

A small, choked sound wriggled from Ash's throat. She stared at him in disbelief, her eyes wide and glistening with unshed tears.

"But…how?”

"Because you're brave and selfless and infuriating," Cullen said with a wry grin. "You challenge me and frustrate me and make me want to be better. And yes, you hid your possession. But I…understand why, now, even if I don't agree with it.” He leaned his forehead against hers, and on instinct, she tilted her face up towards his, his breath puffing over her lips and her eyes fluttering closed. "These past weeks have been torture without you. You were there, but I couldn’t reach you."

Ash's hands came up to grip Cullen's wrists, holding him there as if afraid he might disappear. Her chest ached, but this time it wasn't from Love's fire. It was something warmer, sweeter - hope blossoming where she thought it had withered away.

"I don't deserve you," she said.

Cullen shook his head. "You deserve so much more than you give yourself credit for."

"I'm still possessed," she whispered. This was a dangerous line they were toeing, and she wanted nothing more than to bound past it and fall into his arms, but she couldn’t stand it if he changed his mind later - once reality set in. "That hasn't changed."

"No," Cullen agreed softly. "But my understanding of it has. Love isn't controlling you. She's a part of you. You are still you."

“Am I?” So quiet she almost couldn’t hear herself speak. She hadn’t been just Ash in twenty-three years, but did that mean she wasn’t still herself?

“Of course you are,” he said with a fierceness that breathed air into her tired lungs. “You’re still the same—you’re still the same woman I fell in love with.”

Creators, she loved him and he…loved her, too. She wasn’t naive enough to think that love would magically fix all their wounds, but it was a start. They would have time to sort the rest of their mess out - together.

He pulled back, his eyes roaming over her face before settling on her neck. He gently tilted her chin up, thumb brushing across the fresh scar that marred her throat. The dried blood still caked her skin, flaking off in places where her movements had cracked it. His fingers ghosted over the crusted crimson stains that ran down her chest, disappearing beneath the neckline of her ruined gown.

"When I heard you'd disappeared," he said, raw and filled with sorrow, "I thought I'd lost you without ever getting to apologize for my behaviour that night." His eyes met hers, filled with regret and a deep, aching tenderness. "I was…I don't know if I have the words to describe how distraught I was. It made me realize how much of a fool I’ve been."

Ash swallowed hard, feeling her throat bob beneath Cullen's fingers. "You weren't—"

"I was," he insisted. "I let my fear cloud my judgment. I let you push me away when I should have been trying to understand." His thumb traced the line of her jaw, a feather-light touch that sent shivers down her spine. "When they told me you'd been taken, all I could think about was how our last conversation had been an argument. How I might never get the chance to make things right."

Ash leaned into his touch. "I'm here now.”

"You are," Cullen agreed, thick with relief. "But Maker's breath, Ash, you nearly weren't. This scar…" His fingers brushed over it again, reverent and careful. "When I saw all that blood, I thought…"

"I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize. None of that was your fault." His hand slid to cup the back of her neck, fingers tangling in her hair.

"I'm so grateful you're alright. That I have the chance to tell you how I feel, to make things right between us. I wouldn’t have been able to live with myself."

Ash's heart swelled. She brought her hand up to cover Cullen's where it rested on her neck. "You’ll never hear me admit this for anything else, so listen up,” she said with a tired grin. “We both made mistakes, but we're here now. Together. That has to count for something."

A small smile tugged at Cullen's lips. "Together," he repeated like a promise.

He leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead, then to the tip of her nose, before finally capturing her lips once more. This kiss was different from the first - slower, deeper, filled with all the words they couldn't quite say.

His hand pressed harder against the small of her back, and Cullen's lips moved against hers with growing urgency, pulling her closer. Ash melted into him, her fingers coiling in his hair as she kissed him. A soft moan fell from her throat as he nipped at her bottom lip.

Love hummed contentedly beneath her skin, urging her on. Ash's hands slid down Cullen's chest, feeling the strong muscles beneath his shirt. His own hands dipped lower, gripping her hips and holding her flush against him.

No, this was a terrible idea. As much as she wanted to shed their clothes and fuck him in the garden, not caring who saw, it wasn’t the right time.

Reluctantly, Ash pulled away. "Wait," she panted, pressing a hand to Cullen's chest. "We can't…we have to talk about this first. There's still so much…"

Cullen cleared his throat, the round edges of his ears turning bright pink. "Yes, of course," he said. "You're right."

Ash giggled at his flustered expression - caught in his desires. She leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek. "Don't worry, Commander," she purred, her lips brushing his ear. "We'll have plenty of time for that later."

His blush deepened, spreading down his neck, but his eyes darkened with hunger as they roamed over her.

"I should probably wash up," she said, gesturing to her blood-stained dress and disheveled appearance. "I'm hardly fit for polite company at the moment." Cullen's eyes softened, a flicker of disappointment crossing his face as he realized their time together was coming to an end. He didn't voice his reluctance to part, but Ash could see it in the way his hands lingered on her waist, the slight downturn of his lips as he stepped back.

"Right," he said. "That dress can’t be comfortable."

Ash nodded, and the full weight of exhaustion settled over her. The events of the day - the kidnapping, the blood loss, the emotional turmoil - all crashed down at once. Her legs felt weak, her eyelids heavy.

"Actually," she said, sounding small and uncertain, "I'm not sure I can manage on my own. Would you…would you mind helping me? Even just to get back to my room."

"Yes," he said eagerly, though he tried to hide it by averting his gaze. "Whatever you need."

Ash gave him a grateful smile. "Thank you.”

Cullen wrapped an arm around her waist, supporting her as they made their way back into the manor. The halls were quiet, most of the guests having retired for the night. They encountered no one on their way to Ash's room, for which she was thankful. She didn't have the energy to field questions or concerned looks.

Each step required more effort than the last, her body finally demanding the rest she'd been denying it. But soon, she’d be able to lie down, warm and clean and heart mending. The worst part was over. Although there were many challenges left to navigate, having Cullen by her side filled her with an unshakeable joy that nothing could diminish. She loved him, and by the Creators, he loved her, too.

A second chance. They had found their way back to each other, and for now, that was enough.

Next Chapter

A/N: Finally! They figured some of their shit out, and there's plenty more where that came from. Don't worry, Cullen will learn exactly what was going on, but it will require a deeper conversation than the gardens will allow.

I hope it was everything you wanted, and I shall see you all in the next chapter!

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