#every time someone else is singing we Know

[southstarlight]

〉my rockstar

》 "do i wanna know, if this feeling flows both ways?" masterlist

pairing: rockstar!ellie x reader word count: 2.7k summary: you've been in love with ellie williams since you were teenagers. she's a rising rockstar now, and you're just someone who knows her too well. you go to one of her shows hoping to finally say what you've kept hidden for years. but ellie isn't alone that night. warning: alcohol and smoking, jealousy, not well written smut MINORS DNI

You have been to a lot of Ellie’s shows, but this one feels different. Bigger. Louder. More packed. Her name is lit in red above the venue, flickering like a warning sign, and the line to get in wraps halfway around the block. It’s weird—seeing her like this. Famous. Elevated. Untouchable.

But you still remember her in a beat-up flannel on her bedroom floor, drunk off gas station wine, writing lyrics on your thigh in Sharpie because she couldn’t find a notebook.

You still remember the first time she sang to you.

The way her voice cracked on your name.

You're not backstage tonight. You didn’t ask to be.

You bought a ticket like everyone else. You stood in line. Because tonight, you're just another face in the crowd. And maybe that’s all you will ever be.

You push through the bodies toward the front, elbowing gently, murmuring apologies, feeling sweat cling to your skin before the first song even starts.

You've been rehearsing what to say all day: Hey, Ellie. I think I’ve been in love with you since we were seventeen. I think every song you wrote was mine before anyone else’s ever heard them. I think you’ve always known.

But she comes out, bathed in neon and stage smoke, and the words fall away.

She looks like something out of a fever dream—tattoos inked into the veins of her arms, hair messy in that way she never tries to fix. Guitar slung across her body like a weapon. When she sings, it’s like she’s exorcising something. Like she’s bleeding into the mic.

And God, she still looks at the crowd like she’s daring them to look back.

Halfway through the set, you lost her.

Not literally. She’s still onstage, but she’s not herself anymore. Not your Ellie. She’s a performer, and the space between you is filled with noise and lights and a thousand strangers screaming her name.

Then she walks toward the edge of the stage.

And she looks down.

Not at you.

At her.

She’s tall. Pretty. Confident in that effortless way. Leather jacket, eyeliner sharp enough to kill. And she’s right there—front row, leaning close, mouthing the words like she owns them.

Ellie grins.

And then she winks.

Your stomach drops.

You have never seen Ellie flirt onstage before. Not like this. Not so obvious. Her voice turns sultry, almost teasing, and when she hits that line—"Do I wanna know if this feeling flows both ways"—she looks right at her.

Not you.

You feel stupid. Standing there with your heart cracked open like a souvenir from a town she’s already forgotten.

You stumble back a little. Just a few steps. Enough to let the bassline and the crowd swallow you whole.

You don’t leave.

But you don’t sing along anymore.

────────── ✮ ──────────

After the show, you hang back near the exit. You know she’ll come out eventually, either for a smoke or a fan photo or just to catch her breath. And you want—need—to talk to her.

You have to know if you were ever anything more than a lyric in a notebook.

Ten minutes pass.

Then twenty.

You are about to give up when you see her.

She’s coming out the side door with the girl from the front row.

They’re laughing. Ellie’s got a cigarette tucked behind one ear, her jacket hanging loose from one shoulder, her cheeks still flushed from the stage lights. And the girl—God, she’s touching her. Just casually, like she belongs there.

You freeze.

Ellie doesn’t see you. She walks right past.

You hear her say, “You comin’ to the afterparty?”

The girl giggles. “Only if you promise to play me something private.”

Ellie smirks. “Depends on how private we’re talking.”

Your throat tightens. Your hands are cold. It’s summer, and you're fucking freezing.

You turn and leave before you have to watch her leave with someone who isn’t you.

────────── ✮ ──────────

That night, you get drunk alone in your apartment.

You scroll through photos from the show, not even sure why you saved them. You watched videos where she’s singing your song to everyone else. When she’s looking at someone who doesn’t know the way, she gets quiet when she’s sad, or how she hates sleeping without music playing.

You replayed that moment over and over—the wink. The grin. The effortless way she gave something to a stranger that you've spent years aching for.

Your phone buzzes.

It’s a message from her.

“Didn’t know you were at the show. Should’ve told me. You okay?”

You don't know whether to lie or tell the truth.

Because the truth is no. You're fucking not okay.

And you don’t want to be her almost. Not anymore.

────────── ✮ ───────── You ignored her text.

But the presence of it haunts your every thought.

You had read it three times before setting your phone face down on the kitchen counter. You don’t answer. You don't even want to, at least that's what you tell yourself. You don’t even know what you would say.

Because she knew. She had to know. How could she not? You were right there, twenty feet from the stage, watching her sing like the spotlight was born for her. Watching her look into someone else’s eyes. Smile like she used to smile at you.

You don't sleep that night. The hours blur with whiskey and silence. You tried to write something—anything—to get it out of your system, but every word feels like a cheap imitation of what you really want to say: Why her? Why not me?

────────── ✮ ──────────

Five days.

You go five days without hearing from her again. It’s the longest stretch in years. Normally, if a day passed without talking, one of you would cave. She’d send a dumb meme or a voice note with a new riff, and everything would slip back into place like clockwork.

But this time, nothing.

You think she’s moved on. Maybe that girl from the front row is still around. Maybe she’s the new muse. Maybe that one wink turned into something else—something real.

And then she shows up at your door.

It’s a little past midnight. You're still in the oversized hoodie you haven’t changed out of in two days, sitting cross-legged on your couch with a half-empty bottle of Jameson and a cigarette that burned itself out in the ashtray twenty minutes ago.

You're not expecting the knock.

The sound startles you. You glance at your phone; no missed calls, no new messages. Just that same unanswered message you left on 'seen'.

You open the door, and there she is.

Ellie. Hood up. Cigarette lit. Guitar case in one hand like a goddamn movie cliché. It looked like she was the type to throw rocks at your window from outside to get your attention.

“Hey,” she says, voice quiet, almost hoarse.

You stare at her, blank-faced. “What the hell are you doing here?”

She shifts, uncomfortable. “Couldn’t sleep.”

You lean against the doorframe. “So you just… showed up? Uninvited?”

“I didn’t know where else to go.”

“Funny,” you say. “Didn’t seem like you had a problem finding company the other night.”

Ellie flinches. It’s subtle, but you see it. Her eyes drop to the floor. “That’s not—can I come in?”

You hesitated.

Because you want to slam the door. But more than that, you want to know why it had to be her.

You step back. “Fine.”

She walks in like she’s been holding her breath. Like stepping inside lets her exhale for the first time in days. She shrugs off her jacket and sets the guitar case gently by the couch, like it’s fragile. Like this moment is.

You sit down across from her. Not next to her. Not this time.

“You didn’t respond,” she says.

“No.”

“Why?”

You laugh bitterly. “You really have to ask?”

Ellie’s jaw tightens. “It wasn’t what it looked like.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You were flirting with her onstage, Ellie. It looked like you wanted to fuck her in front of a thousand people.”

She groans and scrubs a hand down her face. “Jesus. She was just a fan.”

“Yeah?” You say, voice rising. “Do you flirt with all your fans like that? Make them feel special? Like the song’s about them?”

“It wasn’t about her.”

“Then who the fuck was it about?”

Silence.

She stares at you.

And you think maybe, maybe, this is the moment she’ll finally say it.

But she doesn’t.

So you keep going. “You have no idea what it felt like. Standing there, watching you grin at someone who doesn’t even know you. Who hasn’t held your hair back when you were puking from too many shots or stayed up with you on FaceTime when you had a panic attack in some shitty hotel room in Seattle. Who didn’t fucking wait—”

Your voice cracks.

You swallow hard and look away, feeling the tears well up in your eyes.

“I didn’t know,” she says softly.

You scoff. “You did. You just didn’t care.”

“That’s not true.”

You shake your head. “Then explain it to me. Help me understand why, if I mean anything to you, you looked at her like she was your whole fucking world.”

Ellie stands up, pacing now, pulling at her fingers. She looks wrecked. “Because I panicked, okay?”

You blinked.

“What?”

“I saw you,” she says, spinning to face you. “In the crowd. I saw you before the second song even started. And I thought—fuck, there you were. Looking at me like you always do. Like I mean more than the noise. And I didn’t know what to do with that.”

You stare, again blank-faced.

She laughs. Dry. Bitter. “So I looked at someone else instead. Someone easy. Someone who didn’t scare the shit out of me.”

Your throat tightens. It feels like the walls are closing in on you.

Ellie keeps talking, words rushing out now like she’s afraid to stop. “You’ve been everything to me. Since the beginning. Since we were just dumb kids playing Nirvana covers in my garage. But you never said anything. And I figured… maybe you didn’t feel it too. So I buried it. Wrote songs about it. Pretended it didn’t kill me every time you smiled at someone else.”

Your heart pounds in your ears.

“You wrote those songs about me?”

She laughs, almost in disbelief. “Every fucking one. Even the angry ones. Especially the angry ones.”

You don’t know what to say. You feel as if you're shaking, but you're completely still.

Ellie walks over, kneels in front of you, her eyes searching yours.

“I’m in love with you,” she says. “I’ve been in love with you. I just— I just didn’t know if you’d ever feel the same.”

You let out a broken breath.

And everything spills.

“I was going to tell you that night. That’s why I came to the show. I bought the ticket because I couldn’t keep it inside anymore. But then I saw her. Saw the way you looked at her. And it felt like I was already too late.”

Ellie’s hand finds yours.

“You’re not too late.”

You stare at her, trying to believe it.

Then you kiss her.

It’s not soft. It’s not gentle. It’s desperate. Years of longing crashing together in a heartbeat. Her hands in your hair. Yours gripping her hoodie like it’s the only thing keeping you anchored.

When you finally pull back, we are both breathless.

“I should’ve told you sooner,” you whisper.

Ellie smiles, eyes glassy. “We’re telling each other now.”

You nod.

“Come here,” she says, tugging you onto her lap.

You end up curled together on the couch, tangled limbs and quiet murmurs. She sings a line from a half-written song against your shoulder. You recognize it. You remember when she wrote it.

You didn’t know it was about you.

Now you do.

The whiskey sits forgotten on the coffee table.

The cigarette’s long gone out.

And in the silence that follows, you let yourself believe that maybe—just maybe—this thing you’ve held so close to your chest might finally be safe in her hands.

────────── ✮ ─────────

You don’t move for a while.

You stay curled into her chest, the slow rhythm of her breath lulling you into a kind of quiet you haven’t felt in years. Her hands trace lazy circles into the curve of your back. Her lips press soft kisses to your temple like she’s still afraid you will disappear.

“I meant what I said,” she murmurs. “I love you.”

You close your eyes and let the words settle into the cracks. “I love you, too.”

It’s not loud. It doesn’t have to be.

It’s enough to make her pull you even closer, enough to make your breath catch when she whispers your name like a prayer she’s been waiting too long to speak.

You tilt your head and find her mouth again. Slower this time. Softer. Her lips move against yours like she’s learning them for the first time, like kissing you is the only song she ever needed to write. She tastes whiskey and fear and something heartbreakingly sweet beneath it all—relief.

Her hands are warm where they slide beneath the hem of your hoodie. She doesn’t rush. Just glides her fingers along the bare skin of your waist, your ribs. She kisses you like she’s asking permission, even though you have already said yes.

You shift, moving to straddle her lap. Your hoodie bunches around your thighs, and she looks up at you with something reverent in her eyes. Like, she can’t believe you're real.

“I want you,” you whisper. “Only you.”

Ellie lets out a shaky breath, nodding. Her hands slide up your back, pulling the hoodie over your head. She tosses it aside gently, like it matters. Her eyes roam your body with slow, aching intent. Like she’s memorizing every inch of you.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” she says, voice barely there.

You help her out of her shirt, fingers brushing the faded ink on her arms. You lean in and press kisses over every familiar scar and tattoo. She shivers beneath you, jaw tense like she’s holding something in.

You kiss her throat. Her collarbone. Her shoulder. Each one softer than the last.

By the time she lays you down on the couch, you are both half-naked and fully shaking; not from nerves, but from everything that’s finally breaking open between you. Her fingers find yours, and she laces them together, grounding you, steadying herself.

She touches you like it’s sacred. Like every breath and moan, and tremble matters.

And when her mouth finds your skin, slow and reverent, you melt beneath her.

You whisper her name again and again like it’s the only thing that makes sense. She smiles against your chest, kisses your sternum, your stomach, trails her lips lower until you're gasping for air.

She takes her time.

It’s not about urgency. It’s about knowing.

Ellie knows you, although you've never been this intimate. The way your hips twitch, the soft sounds you make when you're close, the breathless way you say her name when it’s too much. Her fingers move with slow precision, her mouth a warm, aching rhythm that builds and builds until your spine arches and your body breaks open for her.

You come undone with her name on your lips, like a prayer.

And she doesn’t stop until your thighs are trembling and you're pulling her up to kiss you like you'll fall apart if she’s not near.

When it’s her turn, you take care of her. You trace the lines of her tattoos with your tongue. You murmur how much you love her as you undo her, piece by piece, until she’s breathless and gasping your name in return. Her whole body curls into yours like she’s trying to live inside the space between your ribs.

You fall asleep tangled together on the couch, bare skin against bare skin, no distance left between you.

There are still things to say. Still songs to write. Still years of almosts to mourn.

But tonight isn’t for sadness.

Tonight is soft hands and whispered truths and the quiet understanding that, somehow, despite everything— you made it here.

Together.

notes: i hope you guys like this! it's kinda short and honestly i haven't written smut in a while so it isn't too detailed. i'm tryna push out more fics while i got the time - cj

[herearedragons]

so the Drakona Iron Republic situation was crazy: summary post.

(cw: grief/loss, suicidal thoughts, dissociation, what is definitely ptsd)

messing with the timeline and putting the Firebrand's Feast of the Exceptional Rose "you and I have been reforged in flames of irrigo" scene Right before Drakona leaves for the Republic. like, for gameplay reasons it has to happen during the festival, but for the purposes of me playing dolls in my mind it Doesn't Have To

so for the purposes of this, he takes them on a nice "before you go to Literal Hell" date, where he says the whole thing about how he's given up on trying to recover the memories he lost and he'd rather build a new identity instead, and how they're one of the things he remembers perfectly, and how the irrigo made them both stronger actually. he says the "tell me what you need, I'll be that and more" thing. and in what is a sweet but also kind of unhinged moment considering what they're about to do, they go "then be mine."

he goes "that will be easy."

can we get a round of applause for Drakona Finally Committing. this is like the last good thing that will happen to them in this.

anyway, in my mind this conversation finally makes their thing Official in the sense that they've been seeing each other, but neither of them has really SAID anything about where this is going. until now. this is a surprise tool that will help us later.

he's very much not going with them to the Republic (they do not want him there), so he gets them a little gift to take with them. specifically a deep amber pendant necklace (mirroring his first gift to them). he asks them to think of him while they're away. this is a surprise tool that will help us later

they do in fact think of him while they're away, which, during the zee journey, just seems to complicate things. they're out there trying to empty their mind of everything but Revenge, and instead they keep thinking of who they've left behind in London. they're not planning on dying in the Republic, but the little they know of it frightens them (THEY ARE CORRECT IN THAT. OH MY GOD ARE THEY CORRECT.), and also, well, it's The Final Act. it's revenge time. they don't know what they might have to do, what it might take. and they'll never back down, because they owe it to James, because they'll never be able to live in peace until they see it finished, before they see justice done. but can they be the person they need to be to do this if they keep thinking back to someone else?

visiting the three sisters in Hunter's Keep who seem to only ever to want to talk about the lovers they left back in London does not help.

overall though, zeefaring actually does them some good. they settle into the role of captain surprisingly well. they can conjure an air of authority when they need to, they're a quick thinker, and their newfound unhingedness is enough to strike fear and/or respect into the hearts of whoever they need to strike it into. that Bizarre/Dreaded combo really coming through as they prowl the deck shouting orders. by the middle of the journey they have enough of a hold on the crew that when Drownies start singing around the ship, they don't lose a single soul

cue the Iron Republic leitmotif.

so the second they set foot in the port the sky opens up and rains a new law down, and it's a Law That Kills You Unless You're Really Faithful To Someone and they get caught by it and don't die. REMEMBER THAT SURPRISE TOOL, FOLKS?

this is going to mess with their head for a while because they don't actually know which commitment saved them. is it their commitment to their revenge? is it the amber necklace tucked under their shirt? is it something else entirely?

but we don't have time to ponder that too much, because we have UNCEASING REALITY WARPING NIGHTMARE scheduled!

damn Warning wasn't lying that Iron Republic sure can Changed You

it's. bad. even for an experienced honey user, it's bad. every day is mental and physical torture and there's no reprieve from it and they just have to keep going. but it's too much, and I think the longer they stay, parts of their mind just start shutting down one by one. emotions go first. then smaller concerns that can be spared in the face of existential danger, like neat appearance, or wondering how their friends are doing back in London. actually, it's easier not to think about London at all, the way it's easier to not think about the Surface sometimes. if they pretend this is all they've ever known, it's easier. just a little. but, god, they'll take those crumbs when they can get them.

the deranged becomes normal. it feels like they've forgotten how to be shocked. nothing phases them anymore.

a reality-shift makes them tear the chain on the amber necklace and they don't have the presence of mind to fix it, so they're keeping it in their pocket now. sometimes they can't bear to remember it's there. sometimes holding it in their hand feels like the only thing that's keeping them sane

they work towards their goal.

they find the prison.

they find Scathewick.

and it's ALL STAGED it's FUCKING STAGED

they're right where someone wants them to be. someone wanted them HERE, EXACTLY as tortured as they are, and that someone wants them to kill that man.

and they're going to do it. because the part of them that would have thought twice is not home right now. because it's justice. because IT'S THE KNIFE IT'S THE SAME KNIFE IT'S THE

the details of WHY they're even doing this became blurry in the... how long has it even been? how many days? they don't remember. they just remember revenge. they have a mission, they NEED to finish it, they CAN'T LEAVE until they FINISH IT

it becomes clearer when they see the knife, though. when they remember finding his body.

it's justice.

it's not over. it's not even nearly over.

killing Scathewick doesn't even feel good.

they walk back on board of their ship, drenched in blood, still holding the knife, staring directly in front of themself, say nothing to no one, and lock themself in their quarters.

they clean up. they cry. they break the hell down because it's not over, all that and it's not over, and James died because of THEM. to lead THEM here. to make THEM into this.

Drakona has enemies. that makes sense. but who the FUCK cared enough about Catherine to do all of that.

and that someone is still watching them. all this time, they've been doing exactly what was expected of them.

somewhere in the middle of that breakdown they reach for the amber necklace and realize that it's gone. they've dropped it while they were murdering Scathewick.

it's somehow the least bad thing that happened to them today. the realization gets one miserable noise and that's it.

on the way back to London, they get a little too contemplative staring at the waves. if it's all about them. if James died FOR them. BECAUSE of them. how long until it's Jacob*? how long until it's their cousin, again? how long until it's Sunny, again? and this isn't Jack-Of-Smiles. this will be permanent. whoever is doing this isn't in the business of sending messages, they are removing people, by the hands of others.

others like Drakona.

they can keep investigating this. they have the notes. but isn't this exactly what the murderer wants them to do?

is the best ending achieved by removing themself from the equation entirely?

they don't go through with it. they do agree with the ship surgeon's (their cousin's) decision that they should probably stay in their quarters for the rest of the journey.

it's a lot of staring at walls. it's a lot of not looking or touching or interacting in any other way with the knife they brought back from the prison, because whenever they think about it they start getting the kind of ideas that got them confined to their quarters in the first place. they don't let anyone else touch or take it away, though, so it's just. sitting there. at the very bottom of a chest. and they can pretend it's not there, that they've left it behind on the floor of that cell instead of the amber necklace — and they're crying again.

they do come out towards the end of the voyage to manage a naval chase situation, which honestly probably does them some good, but also uses up the rest of their energy. which might also be good. they're to tired to do or think anything too self-destructive after that

back in London, it's a lot of bed rest to recover from the wounds they brought back from the Republic. they don't mind. it's a lot of empty time; even when they're technically well enough to walk around and go outside with some assistance, they choose not to. they can't really bear to face anyone or to undertake anything bigger than moving from one spot in their townhouse to another. they read a little, then the story reminds them of something, so they stop. mostly they sleep, and pretend to sleep.

they know that when they get up, they'll have to pick up the case again. it's going to start again. and they don't want to. so they don't get up.

they probably can't stay like this forever, but they can stay like this for now. and maybe forever.

word gets out that The Dreaming Detective was badly injured at zee and is recovering at home. people send gifts. letters. they are a person of interest. they have allies and admirers who wish them well.

the only thing they really touch is a weird puzzle-box from the Honey-Addled Detective, which they make a halfhearted attempt at solving every now and then. he's visited in person, said that when they can solve it, it means that they're well again. that doesn't sound true, but it's a way to pass the time

Jacob comes to see them, early on. they sit him down and explain the situation. someone is after them; it's serious; it's worse than Jack; it's someone powerful; it's who knows them from the Surface. they tell him everything about James. about their life as Catherine. they explain that they can't protect him; that if he chooses to stay, he should know that.

he does not leave. he joins the rest of their inner circle in keeping them company, in rotation, making sure they're not alone for long periods of time.

mostly they don't feel like talking to anyone, but telling him about their past leads to him sharing some of his, admitting to things he doesn't remember and wishes he did.

half-jokingly, they say that they've half a mind to throw themself into irrigo again, if not for the fear that it would leave the awful memories and take everything else

even in the midst of it all, it gives him pause. he's been looking into ways to cancel out the irrigo entirely, but what if he could give them what they want? what if one could let the irrigo in, and control what it takes?

it's something to think about.

he won't say anything to them. not yet. the last thing he wants is to get their hopes up, and then disappoint.

time passes.

it's hard to say what exactly happens. there's just a sudden moment of awareness, catching a glimpse of themself in the mirror — they've been avoiding mirrors — their body feels like an ill-fitting suit, after the Republic, and they know they'll find some fault in what they see — would their eyes be different? the eyes of a murderer? —

they catch a glimpse of themself in the mirror. Catherine stares back.

their hair has grown out to where it was before the Neath. in their nightgown, it's almost like they're back on the Surface. like they've never left. like they stayed, and let the grief wither them away.

they certainly look withered. they haven't been eating a whole lot. maybe that's why they feel so damn tired all the time.

taking the scissors in their hand feels like a gamble, for a moment, but the weight and balance is different from a knife. this could be an implement for violence — who if not them knows that most things could — but the part of their mind they'd been wary of stays silent. they're just holding a pair of scissors. nothing more, nothing less.

they cut most of it off, but not all of it. the person in the mirror is now entirely unfamiliar, neither from the Surface nor from the Neath, and it suits them just fine.

the next time someone walks into their room, they find a wall cleared, paintings and furniture removed, and the Detective propped up against a table they've dragged over, tacking pages torn out of Scathewick's journal to the wall. there are notes. possibly there is red string. they aren't working with their usual feverish determination; their movements are slower, mechanical, the first awkward steps of someone stepping back into their own body. it's muscle memory more than anything, sorting through evidence, noting down patterns and inconsistencies. but they've done more in two hours than they have in several weeks, combined.

a few days later, they put their morning coat on, and go outside.

a week or so later, Jacob has a gift for them. a necklace like the one they've lost, set with violet amber this time. he had some in his pocket in the cave, he explains; later he found it changed. he's been experimenting with it, and he's fairly sure it's safe. for forgetting the things that pain you, he says.

changed. like them. like him. it is fitting; they'll give him that.

they smile.

"I'm glad you're still here," they say.

he told them that once, right after the Nadir. they understand now.

the Dreaming Detective has changed, but London hasn't. London, that is twisted and dark and unforgiving in its own right; that will drink the love out of you and then bleed you for more; but there is a rhyme to it, and the walls usually don't bleed, and one is that less likely to find themself briefly turned inside out on their morning stroll.

all in all, it's still familiar. it's still their city. they've carved their name into it, and now the walls echo it back to them when they walk around.

they've changed.

they're home.

they have a case. they better get to solving it.

* the name I've given the Revolutionary Firebrand for fic purposes

[edge-oftheworld]

no hate for somewhere new it was genuinely good but what I would give for a re-record of unpredictable

[indiegame]

today was. good. yeah. needed that.

[botanicsoul]

Eyes Up Here

Aged up | Possessive!Bakugou Katsuki x (fem) Reader

-> This one’s for my bigger chested babes🍈🍈

𖤐ᝰ.ᐟ𖦹₊⊹ 𖤐ᝰ.ᐟ𖦹₊⊹ 𖤐ᝰ.ᐟ𖦹₊⊹ 𖤐ᝰ.ᐟ𖦹₊⊹ 𖤐ᝰ.ᐟ𖦹₊⊹

It’s sunny, warm, and perfect for walking hand in hand down the street with your boyfriend. You’re dressed for the heat—light denim shorts that hug your hips and a yellow low-cut tank top that gives just the right amount of bounce and peek.

You’d noticed his mood shift about three blocks ago.

He was quiet, more than usual, walking half a step behind you. But you knew Bakugou, and you could practically feel the heat of his glare every time someone else’s eyes lingered on you too long. His grip would tighten around your hip whenever that happened, thumb pressing into the waistband of your shorts.

So naturally, you played it up. A little extra sway in your hips, a stretch when you reached for your drink, a smug little smirk when you heard him grumble under his breath.

“Katsuki,” you sing-songed as you reached a patch of flowers blooming by a café wall. “We need a picture. The light is perfect.”

He snorted, lips curled. “Seriously?”

“Come on, plus you look hot today.” You dragged him in beside you and held your phone up. “Smile, babe. Just once. For me.”

You flipped to selfie mode, adjusting the angle. Your tank dipped low with the way your arm was lifted, giving the camera an unobstructed view of your cleavage. You looked damn good, and you knew it.

But before you could snap the picture—

A warm hand slapped over your chest. Then, in one swift, unapologetic tug, Bakugou yanked the hem of your tank up, covering the curve of your breasts with a grunt of pure annoyance.

“Katsuki!”

“You’re not fuckin’ posting that,” he growled into your ear, hand still fisted in your shirt, keeping it high.

You twisted to glare at him. “It wasn’t even that bad!”

“The hell it wasn’t,” he muttered, eyes scanning your face—then your chest—then the street, as if daring anyone to be looking. “You think I didn’t see that guy over there just now? Mouth open like he was starin’ at a damn dessert menu.”

You burst out laughing. “So what? I am dessert.”

He grumbled low in his throat. “Yeah, but you’re my fuckin’ dessert.”

“Oh my god, Katsuki—”

He leaned in, crowding close, hand still gripping your tank. “You’re walkin’ around with your tits half out like you want people lookin’. You tryin’ to start somethin’? Hm?”

“You’re so dramatic, it’s not my fault their big—”

“I’m serious.” His voice dropped lower, hotter, lips brushing your ear. “You don’t wanna know what I’d do if you actually posted that. let people see what’s mine.”

Your thighs pressed together instinctively at the tone, at the way his fingers lingered at the top of your shorts like he was one second away from slipping them in, right there on the sidewalk.

“You’re so possessive,” you whispered.

“You fuckin’ love it,” he replied, smirking when your breath hitched.

And the worst part? He was right.

He let go of your tank only when it stayed put, satisfied with the new, more “modest” arrangement. You snapped a photo anyway, catching the moment: your lips parted in shock, his hand mid-grab, his eyes narrowed like he’d just claimed territory—and dared anyone else to try.

“You’re insane,” you murmured, grinning as you looked down at the photo.

“Keep testin’ me,” he muttered, brushing a possessive kiss to your temple. “Next time I’m makin’ you take the picture with my hand down your shorts so they really know who the fuck you belong to.”

Your breath caught. “Katsuki—”

He shot you a wicked smirk. “Go on, post that, sweetheart.”

𖤐ᝰ.ᐟ𖦹₊⊹ 𖤐ᝰ.ᐟ𖦹₊⊹ 𖤐ᝰ.ᐟ𖦹₊⊹ 𖤐ᝰ.ᐟ𖦹₊⊹ 𖤐ᝰ.ᐟ𖦹₊⊹

-> here is one for my smaller chested babes 🍒

[bitters-n-sweets]

the night after — jack abbot x fem!reader After celebrating someone’s birthday and getting absolutely wasted, you wake up naked next to your attending, Jack Abbot

warnings: Grey’s Anatomy Mer-der’s first meeting but in reverse—kind of—i guess not really, suggestive, mdni, 18+ only, sexual tension wc: 1.7k+ masterlist

You wake up with a pounding headache and a dry mouth. Your tongue feels like sandpaper, your head is foggy, and something doesn’t feel right. Your bed’s on the other side of the room, the AC is blasting colder than it normally does, and—fuck. You realize you’re not in your room. And there’s an arm draped over your waist.

Slowly, carefully, you turn your head. The sunlight spills through half-closed blinds, catching on the salt-and-pepper stubble of the man beside you. His mouth is slightly open, and his dark lashes flutter as he shifts in his sleep.

Your eyes widen and you put a hand over your mouth to stop the gasp from escaping.

Jack. Fucking. Abbot.

And you’re naked. Very naked. And so is he.

You squeeze your eyes shut, forcing your memory to rewind, praying this is just a dream. But the ache between your legs, the faint bruises on your hips, the marks on your shoulders, and the condom wrapper on the nightstand all point to the same conclusion.

You slept with Jack Abbot. Your attending.

The man who’s called you ‘kid’ and made your heart flutter over a hundred times since you started working with him.

“Oh my God,” you whisper, barely breathing.

Jack groans beside you and stretches a little, his voice still sleep-rough. “Morning.”

You go rigid.

He peeks one eye open, confused at first, then amused as the recognition hits him. “Well,” he says, voice annoyingly calm. “This is unexpected.”

You grab the sheet and pull it up to your chest like it’s armor, even though he’s seen everything last night. “We didn’t—did we��?”

He raises a brow, glancing down at your very much shared nudity. “I’d say the evidence is compelling.”

“Oh God.”

“Yeah, that’s what you kept screaming last night.” Jack props himself up on an elbow, not bothering to hide his smirk. “Along with my name.”

You gasp and hit him with a pillow.

He laughs, but his smile falters a little. “…Do you regret it?”

You stare at him.

You don’t know. Your brain is still catching up, replaying hazy flashes of last night, someone singing off-key, tequila shots, his hand on your lower back, the way he laughed when you leaned too far into him, his lips on your neck…

You start getting dressed, refusing to meet his eyes. “Our shift starts in 3 hours.”

Jack watches you, a quiet sigh escapes him. “Guess I’ll see you at work, then.”

You pause at the door. “Don’t tell anyone.”

He nods. “You got it.”

But the look he gives you—half smug, half something else you can’t place—follows you all the way home.

It follows you all the way to work, actually.

You’re doing hand-offs with Langdon but you keep feeling a pair of eyes on you. Every time you glance Jack’s way, he’s unapologetically staring—and every damn time, you’re the one who looks away first. Because damn him and his godly hazel eyes.

You sigh quietly and follow Langdon, but he catches it. “Something wrong?”

You raise your brow, “No, nothing. Just tired.”

He chuckles. “Yeah, I heard it was quite the party last night.”

Your eyes widen, and your head snaps toward him—but he doesn’t look suspicious. Just amused. You hadn’t considered the possibility of people seeing you and Jack leave together. Did anyone see? Did you two make out in front of everyone? Oh God.

“What—what did you hear exactly?”

He shrugs. “Oh you know, Whitaker dancing on the table, Javadi puking on the side…” And then he lowers to whisper in your ear, “You going back with someone…”

You gasp and take a step back, your face instantly going red. Langdon bursts into laughter, clapping you on the shoulder like he just scored a touchdown. As he walks away, you bury your face in your hands.

When you look up, Jack’s already watching you again. Brows furrowed because why does it look like you’re blushing from something Langdon said?

He starts heading your way.

And you panic.

If he talks to you right now, you might combust. So you pivot sharply and walk quickly toward triage, pretending you suddenly care a lot about minor injuries.

You manage to avoid him most of the time. It helps that the ER’s chaos has no mercy and no time for personal crises—though every time your fingers brush the back of your neck or shift your weight just so, flashes of the night before hit you like a freight train.

The press of his mouth against your collarbone.

His hands caressing, gripping your thighs as you convulse.

His voice, low and hoarse: “You feel so fucking good…”

You snap out of it. You have a job to do.

But Jack is everywhere. You see him checking vitals in Trauma 2, walking past with a chart, barking out orders near the nurse’s station—and every damn time, your traitorous brain replays some sinful image of last night’s events.

And he’s not doing much better.

He freezes in the middle of writing something when you laugh at a joke someone tells. He knocks over a coffee cup when you pass behind him in a tight hallway. And he has to physically turn away when you bend over to pick up a dropped chart, running a hand through his hair and muttering “fuck” under his breath.

The tension between you could power the entire hospital.

Later, you spot him teaching a group of interns about… something you couldn’t care less about. But you linger, half-listening to his explanation, until your eyes drift downward.

His fingers.

You should look away. You know you should. But your gaze lingers—strong, steady hands guiding with careful precision, calloused from years in trauma, confident in ways that make your stomach twist.

Your breath catches.

You remember those same fingers grabbing a fistful of your hair, then circling around your neck and putting just enough pressure to make you see stars. And how you licked his fingers clean after he made you come with them, the way you came apart under his hands, his voice in your ear, rough and reverent—“Such a good girl for me…”

You feel heat crawl up your neck and jump slightly when Jack calls your name, grabbing your attention.

Jack is looking straight at you, brow raised. “You okay?”

“Y-Yeah!” You smile too quickly. “Just, uh, dehydrated. Gonna grab some water.”

He narrows his eyes slightly. He knows you’re lying. And as you walk past, you swear his lips twitch upward like he knows exactly what you were thinking.

Your shift has finally come to an end. Thankfully there were no serious cases—because you’ve been completely distracted all night. You’re at your locker, jacket in hand, moving quickly, until you spot a familiar pair of shoes and pants standing just beyond the locker door.

You debate whether to close it or keep it open forever.

“You know we’re gonna have to talk about it sooner or later, right?” He asks, leaning against the lockers.

You bite your lip before slowly closing the door, revealing Jack, arms crossed, bag slung over one shoulder, looking irritatingly good for someone who’s probably just as wrecked as you are.

“Outside?” You offer and he nods, suggesting you lead the way.

As you pass through the automatic doors, you spot Langdon just beginning his shift. He smirks, nodding like he knowssomething, and you try your best to ignore it. Flipping him off for good measure.

You’re now face to face with Jack outside of the ER under the dim lights, tapping your shoes against the pavement, looking everywhere but at him.

Jack rubs the back of his neck. “So… are you avoiding me because it was bad, or because it was really good?”

You groan, hiding your face in your hands. “We were drunk, Jack.”

“Yes, we were.” He agrees, way too easily. “Not what I asked.”

You fold your arms across your chest. “We made a mistake—”

“Did it feel like a mistake?” Jack tilts his head, watching you closely.

You hesitate.

Because you know what a mistake feels like. A mistake feels like guilt sinking sharp in your stomach, like regret pounding in your head. But waking up tangled in Jack’s sheets, his fingers still resting on your waist like he couldn’t bear to let you go? It didn’t feel like a mistake. It was like relief, joy, release. Like something you’ve secretly been waiting for.

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying,” He takes a step closer to you, “Even drunk out of my mind, I didn’t regret it. And I’d do it again.”

Your eyes widen and you stop breathing for a second. He’d do it again?

“As long as it’s with you.” He adds, clearing his throat and looking away.

For once, he doesn’t look like the Jack everyone else knows. He’s not all confidence or sharp comebacks. He’s vulnerable, a little nervous, maybe even a little scared. And somehow, that makes your heart beat even faster.

“…I didn’t regret it either.” You finally say, and his eyes dart back to look at you, hopeful.

“To be honest,” You continue, huffing because you’re about to admit your deepest secret. “I’ve had… feelings for you for as long as I can remember.”

Jack’s brows raise, an amused smile forming on his lips.

“I mean, you’re—you’re annoyingly handsome, and confident, and…” You swallow. “And I like how you always look out for me. Not just me—everyone, really.”

A small laugh escapes his lips. “Just you, sweetheart. I couldn’t care less about everyone else.”

You blush. “Flattering. But well…yeah. I was just really surprised we… we did it—”

“Sex?” Jack teases. “You can say it.”

You groan, clearly he’s having fun teasing you because you’re beet red now. “Jack—”

“Sorry, sorry,” He smiles, “You’re just so damn cute like this.”

You think there must be steam coming out of your ears now from how hot you feel.

You glance away, hoping to regain composure. “So… what now?”

Jack daringly takes another step towards you, trapping you between him and the wall. “Well,” He says, “You haven’t answered my question.”

“Actually…” You bite your lip. “I think I was so drunk that I… can’t really remember… many details of last night.”

He puts a hand over his heart, mock-wounded. “Ouch. That bad?”

“No! I’m sure it was great—I just—”

He cuts you off gently. “It’s fine, really.”

You blink. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” He then whispers near your ear, “It means I get to show you again. Fully sober this time.”

You gasp, tilting your head to face him and seeing that smirk on his face.

“So,” he adds, eyes sparkling, “your place or mine?”

----

i loved writing this one ngl

[cutehoons02]

After concert!

*pairing: idol Heeseug x fan Girl

*trope: opposite attraction

*synopsis: What would happen when your best friends for your birthday give you the ticket to the concert of your dreams as well as the Enhypen with the VIP option? You were in seventh heaven to go see your favorite band especially your favorite idol Heeseung, but what happens when he never stops looking at you during the concert and during the VIP meeting and finally a member of the staff asks you with an excuse to follow him because a band member wanted to see you?

*tags: A lot of tension, Heeseung is perverted but also sweet, fluffy moments, needy Heeseung, needy protagonist, a lot of kisses, suckers, finger sucking, masturbation, protected sex,cowgirl, possession, pet names (baby,pretty girl,good girl) (Hee)

8.7k(🎤) 💌The request and ideas were written by @goldenretrieverjakezgirlbaby for this story (thanks a lot for your help)

(English is not my native language)

You were looking at yourself in the mirror for the umpteenth time, trying to ensure every detail of your outfit was perfect. Behind you, your best friends were lying on the bed, giggling as they teased you. — You’re more nervous than if you were about to step on stage with them— Stella joked, tossing you a pillow. You sighed, crossing your arms with a pout. "Can you believe it? I’m about to see Enhypen live! Not just live, but up close! It’s been my dream for years!" You were wearing a black skirt, paired with a custom T-shirt for the occasion: a red heart with the words "If you say" printed on it. Your hair was loose, with two braids framing your face. On your feet, a pair of comfortable shoes—because sure, you’d be sitting in the VIP area, but you already knew you’d be singing and dancing nonstop. 'You should bring us with you,' Emma said, pretending to pout. "At least one of you! Come on, join me!” you tried to convince them, making your classic puppy-dog eyes, hoping they’d give in. But the two friends burst out laughing. — Stop with the big eyes! You know there were no more tickets! But don’t worry, you’ll make friends with someone else. Enhypen fans are everywhere,— Stella reassured you. You let out a dramatic sigh, but in the end, you smiled. They were right. After all, that night was an incredible gift, and even if you were going alone, nothing could ruin your mood. Before leaving, you hugged them tightly. "I love you. You’re the best friends in the world." 'We know,' Emma replied with a little grin. 'And remember: take videos of everyone, not just Heeseung! I want to see Sunoo, got it?' — And don’t forget Jay for me!— added Stella, winking at you. You burst out laughing. "Okay, okay, I’ll send you all the videos you want!" Then, with your heart racing from excitement, you grabbed your bag and left the house. What you didn’t know was that once you passed through the stadium gates, your life would change forever.

The sunset illuminated the stadium, and the soundcheck was almost finished, with all the members interacting with the audience. You were in the front row, and you could see them so closely it didn’t feel real. The girls next to you screamed every time a member appeared, and you shot them a disapproving look. When it was Heeseung’s turn to walk toward you, you admired him carefully without shouting or taking videos—you just wanted to observe him more closely. You had seen him everywhere on metro screens for various ads and even in some bars, while the fans next to you kept screaming and acting like fools. You rolled your eyes and shifted your gaze to Heeseung, and he started laughing as you glanced at the girls sitting next to you. You smiled shyly at him because he had singled you out in the crowd. When Heeseung moved to the other side of the stage, everyone screamed his name and started filming, but then some girls began pushing and yelling to get his attention. However, his focus remained on a girl sitting down, carefully watching him but also throwing glances at the other girls. He scanned you from head to toe and thought you were really cute—no, scratch that, beautiful. You were wearing a skirt and a T-shirt with a print from an old summer album, your hair was loose with two small braids, and your gaze had been fixed on him for a solid few minutes. He licked his lips as if it were the most natural thing in the world—an instinctive gesture, normal for him. But at that moment, with thousands of phones pointed at him and you looking at him with those deep eyes, it seemed anything but innocent. And you? You didn’t know whether to sink into the ground out of embarrassment or smile again. The girls next to you kept screaming, trying to get his attention in every way possible. You exasperated, rolled your eyes, and looked away from him for a moment. But just then, Heeseung burst out laughing. Surprised, you turned your head again, only to find him staring at you with an amused expression. He had noticed you. Among thousands of people, his gaze had landed on you. Embarrassed, you flashed a shy smile.

The stadium lights, the rhythm of the music, and the energy were simply electric. The concert was a dream come true.

Enhypen was incredible. Every detail—from their perfectly curated looks to the inhumanly synchronized choreography—showed the dedication and hours of training behind it all. You were there, completely captivated by their presence on stage.

You sang, danced, recorded videos, and took photos, without being able to stop for a second. It was impossible not to get swept up in it. Every song flowed through your veins: Moonstruck, Pass the Mic, Polaroid Love… all etched in your mind and on your phone’s memory.

But amid all the emotions of the night, there was one that made your heart race in particular.

Heeseung.

Was it just your impression, or… did he linger just a little longer every time he passed near your section?

The girls next to you screamed whenever he came close, desperately trying to get his attention. But you had the feeling that, among all of them, his gaze always returned to you.

No, it couldn’t be, you thought, trying to rationalize. There are thousands of people here—why would he look at me?

And yet, it happened again.

Another song, another lap around the stage, and Heeseung found another reason to pass by your area. This time, as he danced, he shot a glance in your direction. A second, maybe less. But enough for your heart to race uncontrollably.

If he could make you feel this way from a distance… what would happen when you met him at the meet & greet with your VIP pass?

The thought made you catch your breath.

And for the first time since the concert began, the thought of what might happen next excited you even more than the show itself.

The concert had just ended, and you were still buzzing with adrenaline. Slightly sweaty, heart pounding, you made your way to the VIP area to meet Enhypen.

As you entered the area, you took a few minutes to freshen up: fixing your braids, touching up your makeup, and spritzing a bit of your favorite perfume. Around you, other girls were doing the same. After all, in just a few minutes, you’d be seeing Enhypen up close, with only some barriers separating you from them.

Each fan had an assigned number and had to remain in their spot. While you waited, you began chatting with the girls around you, talking about the experience you’d just had, your favorite songs, and, of course, who your bias was.

Suddenly, a wave of excited screams filled the room.

You leaned forward slightly and saw Enhypen coming down to interact with the fans. They were right there, in front of you.

Your heart jumped into your throat.

Since you had one of the last numbers, you had to wait a bit longer before they reached you. In the meantime, you kept talking with the girls next to you to distract yourself from the growing anxiety.

A few minutes later, the first member to reach you was Jay.

<<Hey!>> he greeted with his usual confident smile.

Timidly, you asked if he could sign a T-shirt for your friend.

He grabbed the marker, but before signing, he looked at you with a mischievous grin. <<And where’s your friend? Didn’t she have the courage to come?>>

You chuckled, already feeling your cheeks warm. “She has an exam tomorrow… but she loves you!”

Jay nodded theatrically. <<Then we forgive her. I hope this signature brings her good luck>> he joked, signing the shirt with his neat handwriting.

One down.

“If they’re all this friendly, I can relax a bit,” you thought.

After Jay, it was Sunoo’s turn. His radiant face looked even more stunning in person, and he wasted no time signing the album you brought. 'Shall we take a photo?' he asked enthusiastically.

Of course, you agreed. You took a quick selfie, and he made a heart with his fingers before moving on to the next person.

Next up was Sunghoon. With his calm and mysterious demeanor, he took the marker and signed the T-shirt you were wearing, next to the event logo. -This T-shirt looks great on you,- he said, giving a smile while writing his name.

A chill ran down your spine and that was just the first three.

There were still four members left, including him. Heeseung.

And with each passing second, the wait became even more nerve-wracking.

When Jungwon and Niki arrived at your turn, instead of asking for the usual photo, you threw out a different idea.

“Let’s do a BeReal?” you suggested with an amused smile.

Jungwon’s eyes lit up with excitement. --Oh, that’s a cute idea!-- he exclaimed, moving closer to get into the shot. Niki nodded right away and pulled a funny face before the photo was taken.

You chatted a bit more with Jungwon, finding him easygoing and sweet. He asked you about your experience at the concert, your favorite performance, and even what had brought you to study in Seoul. He seemed genuinely interested in getting to know you, which surprised you.

After a few minutes, Jake arrived.

As soon as he approached, it seemed like all the fans around you lost their minds. With his usual sunny smile, he chuckled and exchanged a few jokes with you while signing your T-shirt.

But then something happened that made your blood freeze.

Behind him, almost as if he had been waiting for his moment, Heeseung appeared.

And from the very first moment, his eyes were only on you.

A shiver ran down your spine.

Jake made a joke to Heeseung about how much he was in demand with the fans, and Heeseung responded with a sarcastic comment that somehow seemed directed at you.

'I want to sign the T-shirt too,' he said, slightly shifting his gaze toward you with that sly smile of his.

You stood up slightly, ready to make room for him to sign the top of your T-shirt, just like Jake and Sunghoon had signed your shoulders.

But Heeseung did something unexpected.

He crouched down slightly and, through the gap in the barrier, reached out his hand. He grabbed the hem of your T-shirt and gently pulled it toward him to get a more stable surface to write on.

But in doing so, his fingers brushed your skin, right on your stomach.

A light touch. Almost accidental.

But enough to send a wave of warmth to your cheeks.

The fans around you held their breath for a second. Some recorded the scene with their phones, while others exchanged incredulous glances. It was just an autograph… or was there something more?

You, frozen, watched him as he was almost kneeling in front of you, focused on writing his name on your T-shirt.

When he stood up, he locked eyes with you and, with his usual flirty expression, asked:

'Shall we take a photo together?'

You, still slightly shaken, nodded without saying a word.

He took your phone and, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, lowered the screen to check the saved photo of him on your background. A mischievous little smile appeared on his lips. 'Oh? What’s this?' he asked, showing you the picture of him you had saved.

You felt like dying of embarrassment. Had that just happened?

'So, am I your favorite?' he asked, his voice a little lower and more playful.

Other fans were waiting, and you had to let him go. But before he took the photo, you decided to tease him a bit.

“Maybe… or maybe I change the screen to a different photo of all seven of you every day,” you replied with a smile, trying to recover from the tense moment.

He looked at you for a second, squinting as if he were trying to figure out whether you were lying or not.

Then he took the photo with you and finally moved on to the next fan.

But still… every time he could, he would glance back at you.

As if, for some reason, he just couldn’t stop looking at you.

You were both stunned and ecstatic at the same time.

The evening had already been incredible on its own, but what had happened with Heeseung left you in a state of complete confusion. Was it just a game to him? A way to entertain the fans?

Lost in your thoughts, you were leaving the stadium when a big, burly man, clearly part of the security team, approached you.

-Excuse me, miss, we found your ID on the ground. Could you follow me for a moment?-

You looked at him, surprised. My ID?

Maybe it fell out when you showed your tickets at the entrance…

"Oh, sure!" you replied, following him without asking too many questions.However, as you ventured deeper into a more restricted area, anxiety began to rise. Why is he taking me here?

When you reached a side door, a staff member, with a kind demeanor and a sweet smile, greeted you.

'Hi! Could you check if your ID is really in your bag?' she asked. Confused, you opened the notebook where you usually kept your documents... and the ID was there.

You stared at it, puzzled. "But..."

She smiled even more. 'Actually, it was just an excuse. One of the members asked to meet you.'

Your heart skipped a beat.

"...What?"

'Heeseung asked to meet you after the concert.' You burst out laughing, more from shock than anything else. "You're joking, right?"

The girl shook her head. 'No, it's all true. If you want, you can go into that room. But first, you need to sign a confidentiality agreement and leave your phone with us.'

You swallowed hard. An agreement?

"Can I read it first?" you asked, growing more nervous.

'Of course, take all the time you need.'

She handed you a tablet with the document, and you began scrolling through the text, making sure to understand every point.

Main points of the agreement:

Total confidentiality – You couldn’t share any details about the conversation or the meeting with Heeseung, nor talk about it online or with friends.

No recording – No photos, videos, or audio. You had to hand over your phone before entering.

Duration of the meeting – It was specified as a private meeting, with no commitments or obligations.

Termination of the agreement – If you felt uncomfortable, you could leave at any time.

Number of fans he had met – 0, no names were listed, and you had to write yours at the top of the box along with your phone number.

You read it carefully. Nothing seemed strange or dangerous, but it still felt surreal. Why does Heeseung want to see me?

In the end, after taking a deep breath, you agreed and signed the contract.

The staff member took your phone and sealed it in an envelope, then smiled. 'You can go in.'

She opened the door, and as soon as you stepped inside, you saw him.

Heeseung was sitting on a couch, legs slightly spread, a cold drink in hand, and his hair still damp. His posture was relaxed, but his gaze was fixed on you. Slowly, he set the bottle down on the table beside him and, with a sly smile, said the first thing that made your legs shake.

'I thought you wouldn’t accept.' You approached slowly, almost with fear and disbelief.

Heeseung rose from the couch with a smooth movement, leaving the drink on the table. He was tall and relaxed, but his gaze was hypnotic. He extended his hand with a slightly mischievous smile.

'Maybe you already know my name... and maybe you know everything about me,' he said in a low, slightly amused voice.

You immediately blushed but you didn’t want to seem like a shy, fan-girl with no character. So, you looked up and, with a somewhat timid but bold smile, replied: "I know all about Enhypen, not just about you."

He chuckled, raising an eyebrow as if he hadn’t expected such a response. 'Oh? So, I’m not your favorite?'

Without lowering your gaze, you confidently extended your hand toward him, palm open. "Y/N."

As soon as your hands touched, both of you felt a sudden shiver. A flash of something unexplainable, electric.

He stayed for a moment, staring at you, his thumb gently brushing your skin, and said, 'Nice to meet you, Heeseung.' Then, almost as if he wanted to mask it, he ran a hand through his hair and briefly looked away.

'I wanted to meet you because…' he paused, almost as if considering how to say it. 'I couldn’t stop looking at you.'

Your heart skipped a beat. You swallowed, trying to remain calm, but your voice came out a bit more uncertain than you intended. "So… it wasn’t just my imagination?"

Heeseung laughed, tilting his head slightly. 'No. I really was always looking at you.' The way he said it, so simple and direct, left you speechless for a moment.

'In fact,' he continued with a smirk, 'I always looked for a reason to go to your side of the stage.'

You stared at him with a skeptical expression. "Oh, so it was all calculated?" you teased, crossing your arms.

He laughed again, a low, captivating sound, before shaking his head. 'Maybe yes… or maybe no.'

Now that he was right in front of you, so close, you could truly observe him. His skin is still slightly damp from the concert, his dark eyes seemed to glow, the way his lips always curved into that expression halfway between playful and provocative.

And then, without thinking too much, he did something that completely threw you off. He took your hand and placed it on his cheek. The warmth of his skin against your palm made you hold your breath. Your fingers brushed the edge of his jawline, the slight roughness of his post-concert skin tangible beneath your fingertips. It was real.

In a barely audible whisper, the words escaped your lips. "You... you’re real." Heeseung closed his eyes for a moment under your touch, then slowly reopened them. 'Yes. I’m real.'

Then, he lowered his voice a little, his gaze turning more serious and intense.

'And we can do whatever we want.'

You burst out laughing, a light and innocent sound, even though the atmosphere in the room had turned electric, charged with something dangerously intense. "So, Heeseung…" You tilted your head slightly, watching him with a provocative smile. "What do you want to do with me?" For a moment, he seemed taken aback, as if he hadn’t expected your boldness. Then he lowered his gaze, biting his lip slightly before letting out a low laugh, almost amused but also pleased. 'You’re bolder than I thought.' His finger brushed the edge of your shirt, exactly where he had signed his name just moments ago. A light touch, almost imperceptible, but enough to make you hold your breath. You didn’t move and when he noticed, something in his gaze shifted. With a slow and calculated movement, he slid his finger along the hem of your skirt, his fingertip tracing a small circle on your exposed skin. Then, without breaking eye contact, he lowered his finger to your thighs, barely grazing them, leaving you breathless and with a racing heart. You stared at him, trying not to be overwhelmed by his game, and teased him with a mischievous smile. "So?" Your voice was barely a whisper. "Is that all?" His eyes darkened slightly, his lips parted as though he was about to say something, but then he hesitated. Finally, in a low, husky voice, he whispered against your skin. 'I want to kiss you.' Your lips curled into a slight smile, your heart pounding in your chest, but you wouldn’t make it easy for him. 'Is that it?' He stiffened for a second, as if your question had caught him off guard, then tilted his head to the side, eyeing you with a mix of amusement and authority. Did he seem shy? Maybe for a second. But only for a second. 'Don’t joke with me.' His voice had deepened, turning more dangerous. You bit your lip, amused by his reaction, but inside, you felt an ever-increasing surge of tension, almost unbearable. "I’m just trying to understand…" you shrugged, feigning innocence. "What else do you want from me? Why me, out of all those girls?" He narrowed his eyes, his jaw slightly clenched, and then, with a pout that almost seemed cute, answered with disarming honesty: 'I want to touch you. I want to have you for myself.' And in that moment, you realized he wasn’t playing anymore. The tension in the air was so thick, it almost felt like you could touch it. Your eyes locked with his as, without hesitation, you whispered: "You can kiss me." Heeseung tilted his face slightly, his gaze moving from your lips to your eyes, as if memorizing every one of your reactions. His hand slowly rose to your cheek, brushing it with a delicacy almost unnatural for the desire you saw in his eyes. Then, slowly, he lowered his face toward yours. His lips met yours in a kiss that started light and soft as if giving you time to get used to the sensation of him so close. But you didn’t want caution; you wanted to feel him for real. You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer to you. His scent enveloped you, his presence seemed to consume you. After a few seconds, you felt him smile against your lips, and then, with a slow, almost cruel motion, he bit your lower lip. A soft moan escaped you, and that was exactly what made him lose control. With a fluid motion, he slid his tongue against yours, deepening the kiss without hesitation.

His fingers glided across your skin, his hand resting on the small of your back, pulling you even closer to him.

You lifted yourself slightly onto your toes, trying to bridge the height difference between you, and he noticed immediately.

'You’re really small,' he murmured against your lips, chuckling as he traced small circles with his fingers on your exposed stomach.

He teased you, his tone provocative, amused. You pulled away slightly, catching your breath, and lifted your gaze to meet his.

"And you’re bold," you shot back, but your voice sounded more innocent than you had intended.

Heeseung chuckled softly, his eyes shining with dangerous satisfaction.

Your back hit the wall with a dull thud, your breath caught by the intensity with which Heeseung had pushed you against it.

It wasn’t violent; it was desperate.

His eyes burned with a barely contained desire, and before you could say anything, he lowered himself to you, his mouth finding your neck.

A shiver ran through your body as his lips brushed the sensitive skin beneath your ear, leaving behind slow, provocative kisses.

Then, the first bite, you moaned softly, your fingers instinctively gripping his shirt. Heeseung smiled against your skin, his warm breath caressing you as he continued to torment you with gentle bites and sucks, alternating them with sweeter kisses.

Between breaths, you barely found the strength to whisper a question that was consuming you from the inside:

"How many times have you done it?" You felt his smile curve against your skin before he even spoke. He paused for a moment, his eyes meeting yours with a hint of genuine shyness.

'It’s the first time with a fan.'

Your expression must have betrayed your skepticism because Heeseung chuckled softly, leaving another kiss just above your collarbone.

'I don’t really like these kinds of things,' he continued in a lower, rougher voice. 'But when I saw you under the stage... I wanted to get to know you. I wanted to have you all to myself.'

Your heart skipped a beat."I don’t believe you."

You just couldn’t trust those words. A guy like him? The flirt, the idol who drove millions of fans crazy?

Heeseung barely shook his head, as if he had anticipated your reaction. Then he sank his teeth into a more sensitive spot on your neck and sucked hard enough to make you flinch.

'Did you read the contract?' he whispered with a hoarse voice, his lips still pressed against your skin.

"Yes," you replied with difficulty, trying to catch your breath.

'And how many fans was it written that I had been with, before you?'

Your mind quickly went back to the contract you had signed. There was a number. Zero. You stiffened slightly. Heeseung pulled back just enough to look at you, a cocky smile on his lips.

'It was true.' He was teasing you.

And without thinking, you reached a hand into his hair and pulled slightly, making him groan softly against you.

His eyes darkened when they met yours.

'You’re cute when you do that.'

"I’m not cute."

'Are you jealous too?' he chuckled softly, his voice full of amusement.

You rolled your eyes, trying to ignore the frantic beating of your heart.

You would never give him the satisfaction of a response. But Heeseung didn’t seem willing to let you go.

He moved closer again, his mouth back on yours—and this time, the kiss was even deeper. His lips came back to you, hungry and sure, while a shiver ran down your spine. He chuckled against your skin when his hands moved more decisively down your sides, tracing the curve of your body with an audacious touch.

A barely audible groan eluded you when you felt the touch of his hands creep under your skirt. He giggled against your neck, the hot breath making you shudder. "So sensitive already?” he whispered, his fingers sliding light on your butt as if to test your reaction.

You looked down, your cheeks on fire, and he seemed to enjoy it even more. With a sharp movement, he squeezed you by the hips.

'Jump up' he ordered, his voice lower, almost hoarse. You hesitated for a second, embarrassed, but the intensity with which she looked at you made you give in. You clung to his shoulders, and he lifted you up with ease, gluing you to himself. Your back crashed into the wall with a light thud, while his hands clasped you tightly against his body.

You felt its length press against your warm center, even through the layers of clothing, and your breath stuck in your throat. 'Baby,' he muttered with a crooked smile, the tone barely darker, 'you're so fragile... I could bend you as I want.'

A shiver ran through your back, but instead of backing away, you looked at him with a spark of defiance in your eyes. “And what stops you?”

He laughed quietly, his eyes shining with something dangerous. Then his fingers found the edge of your panties, stroking them with slow, deliberate movements. He felt how soaked they were already and raised an eyebrow, amused.

'So wet just for me?' You bit your lip, trying to hold back a reaction, but he wouldn't let you. With an expert touch, she pushed her thumb against your sensitive clitoris, making you arch your body instantly. "H-Heeseung..." you gasped, holding on to him more.

'Shh,' he whispered, bringing one hand under your butt to hold you still while the other continued to explore you. When you felt the first finger slip inside you, you gasped and he giggled again, pleased to see you so lost in his touch. 'So tight... ' he whispered, her voice full of desire. 'I'll ruin you.'

Heeseung walked slowly around the room, holding you firmly in his arms. Every step was safe and controlled, while his fingers moved inside you with maddening slowness. The contrast between his firm grip and languid touch drove you crazy. Your hands clung to her dark hair, pulling them slowly in a desperate attempt to have more friction, more intensity. He laughed against your skin, his warm breath caressed your neck.

'So impatient,' he whispered, nibbling softly at your earlobe. 'Look how you hold me. Do you like it that much, mh?' The heat that spread through your body was overwhelming, and you looked away, your face turned red. Feeling your embarrassment, Heeseung smiled amused.

He sat on the big bed, keeping you above himself without ever stopping the movement of his fingers inside you. When he added another, deeper, your body flinched at him, snatching another low, smug laugh.

'Oh? Do you like this too?' he asked, his voice full of malice.

'Don't say you're shy when your body is practically begging me to continue.' He blatantly teased you, and you, in an attempt to regain at least some control, lowered your head towards her neck, leaving a light kiss on his skin before nibbling it softly. You could feel him stiffening for a moment, before his free hand grabbed your hair firmly, pulling you back slightly to make you meet his gaze.

'What a good girl...' he muttered, dark irises shone with desire.

'But do you really think you can provoke me like that and get away with it?' Your mouth opened to respond, but a sudden movement of his fingers, faster, deeper, made you gasp faintly against his lips. Heeseung laughed again, his tone authoritarian but amused.

'Oh, you're so sensitive... Tell me, do you like it when I touch you like that?' You looked down, biting your lip. You didn't want to give him that satisfaction.

'Don't you want to answer?' he murmured, increasing the pace without any mercy. The increasing pressure made you grab the fabric of his T-shirt with trembling fingers.

'No need, baby. Your body is already speaking for you.' You knew you couldn't resist him much longer. Your legs began to tremble around his hips and the feeling growing in your belly became overwhelming.

"Hee... I -”

'I know,' his voice was a whisper against your ear. 'You're so cute when you try to hold yourself back, but I want to hear you let go for me.'

One last, precise movement of his fingers was your end. The pleasure exploded inside you in an uncontrollable wave, and your body squeezed around its fingers as a moan escaped from your lips. Heeseung watched you with dark eyes full of satisfaction, his breathing heavy as he pressed you against himself.

'So beautiful,' he whispered, leaving a slow kiss on your temple. 'And all mine.'

Heeseung watched your flushed face, breath still broken by the former pleasure. With a satisfied smile, she brought her wet fingers close to your lips, gently tracing the outline with her tip before whispering in a low, hoarse voice: 'suck.'

You stiffened slightly, the heat rose from the chest to the cheeks. Heeseung's eyes shone with malice as he waited, patient but dominant, for me to obey. “I ... never did, " you muttered, looking down slightly.

He laughed softly, that low, enveloping laugh that made you vibrate inside. With his other hand, he gently stroked your chin, forcing you to look at him.

'Oh, how cute,' he whispered, tilting her head slightly.

'You are so shy, but look how well you took my fingers before...' Swallow empty, feeling even more embarrassed under his intense gaze. But part of you wanted to please him, wanted to see him satisfied. So, hesitantly, you slowly squinted at his lips, leaving him room to push his fingers between them. You wrapped them with your tongue, savoring the slightly sweetish and salty flavor of your essence. You sucked them gently, licking softly while he watched you with dark, piercing eyes. His chest rose with a deeper breath, and his free hand crept through your hair, stroking it with slow, relaxing movements. 'Good girl,' he muttered, the tone low and velvety.

The compliment made you cringe, and you nodded quietly, maintaining eye contact with him as you continued to suck softly. When he felt it was enough, Heeseung withdrew his fingers from your mouth slowly, leaving a thread of spit connected between them and your slightly swollen lips. Before you could say anything, he pressed his lips against yours in an urgent, ravenous kiss. His hands went down to your hips, squeezing you with more force as he drew you even closer to his warm body.

The kiss was deep, almost possessive, and you couldn't help but get carried away, responding with the same intensity. In the brief moment when you took off to catch your breath, you whispered against his lips, short of breath: "You taste of me...”

He smiled at your lower lip before biting it flat, pulling it slightly before releasing it.

'And I like it,' he replied with a grin. Then, without giving you time to replicate, he began to slowly move his hips against yours, rubbing himself slowly with slow but firm movements. The contact made you gasp, a muffled groan escaped from your lips as he continued to kiss you, swallowing every sound you could make.

'You're so responsive...' he whispered between kisses, his voice charged with desire.

'You like it when I move like this, don't you?' The heat in your belly became unbearable, and all you could do was hold on to him even more, completely lost in his touch. The rhythm between you became slow but full of tension, your bodies moving in unison in an increasingly pronounced rocking. With every slightest movement, you could feel his excitement growing beneath you, the hardness pressing against the light fabric of your little skirt. The warmth enveloped you, and a little amused smile grazed your lips as you looked at him with eyes full of mischief.

"Do you like it, Hee?” you muttered, tilting your head slightly as you continued to move slowly over him. He raised an eyebrow, his smile widened into a smug grin.

'Are you kidding me?' he asked, his voice low and veiled with desire. You didn't respond right away, biting your lip as you moved just a little harder against his thick cock that by now your poor pussy felt so good under him. A subdued growl escaped from his lips, and in an instant his hand slid under your butt, grabbing you with a firm grip that made you wince. He lifted you slightly, forcing you to stop, and his gaze became darker as his thumb traced small circles on your exposed skin.

'You know' “he began, tilting his head as his eyes slowly slid over you,

'I've always liked this little skirt of yours'

Your breath became shorter when his hand slid down the light cloth, stroking your hips before stopping on your thigh. 'Every time I came to the side of your sector to see you dance and sing my songs...' he paused, letting his fingers graze the edge of the cloth. 'He always got up too much for my taste.'

A shiver ran down your back at his tone, so confident, so authoritarian. But before you could answer, you felt a little slap on the bare buttock. Nothing strong, just a light blow, more provocative than punitive. A little gasp escaped from your lips, and your eyes opened wide as you looked at him, surprised. He smiled, clearly amused by your reaction.

“Why did you do it?” asked slowly, the voice a little uncertain. Heeseung lowered his face until he touched your ear, his voice now a warm and possessive whisper.

'Because from now on, these beautiful legs will only be seen by me.' Your heart beats faster in your chest, and your body responds to his statement more than you want to admit. And yet, in the next moment, his attitude changed slightly. His eyes, still intense, seemed for a moment sweeter, and his hand, which just before had grasped your skin firmly, now gently stroked your back.

'Baby..' he muttered, his voice lower, almost uncertain. 'Do you want to take my pants off?' The contrast between his authoritarian tone from just before and the slight hesitation with which he asked you for that gesture sent you completely into a tailspin.

The heat on the cheeks became oppressive, and you slightly lowered your gaze, biting your lip. You couldn't answer right away, but at the end, you nodded quietly, your voice a shy whiff.

"Yesp” A satisfied smile curved his lips. 'Good girl.' Heeseung lifted slightly, leaving you room to pull off his pants. With slightly trembling hands, you grabbed the edge of the fabric and lowered it flat, when the pants slid down his legs, your eyes stopped on her tight-fitting boer Your breath stopped for a moment, and the heat on your cheeks became even more intense. Heeseung immediately noticed your fixed gaze, and a mischievous smile painted on his lips as he leaned towards you.

'That's the effect you've been doing to me... since the first time I saw you sitting at the soundcheck.' His voice was low, and deep, as if he were confessing a forbidden secret. You looked at him, biting your lower lip with a mixture of embarrassment and satisfaction. Part of you still felt shy under his intense gaze and you lowered his hand and brushed his erection over the hot boer Heeseung breathed sharply, your abs twitching under the gentle touch of your fingers.

The sound that came out of his lips was deep, and throaty, and for a moment you seemed to lose control. "I can...?" you asked slowly, your fingers moving just above the cloth. He did not hesitate for a second before answering, his voice more hoarse than usual.

'Yes ... please.' A little amused smile eluded you as you gently grabbed the edge of his boer When the fabric slipped away, his breathing became heavier. Your gaze rests on his cock, imposing, slightly curved, the warm skin crossed by light veins and covered with a thin moisture of whitish liquid. Without realizing it, you slowly licked your lips, and Heeseung did not let it slip.

'Do you like what you see?' he whispered, his tone provocative but loaded with expectation. You just lowered your hand, slowly touching him, savoring the way his body reacted under your touch. Heeseung closed his eyes for a moment, his jaw clenched as a subdued groan escaped from his lips. 'Continue...' he muttered, his voice slightly trembling. Heeseung seemed completely lost in you.

His eyes were ajar, his lips slightly open as his chest rose in irregular breaths. Still, all you were doing was slowly moving your hand along his cock, exploring it with a mixture of curiosity and shyness. His voice, deep and broken with pleasure, filled the room.

'Not—' he gasped, slightly clutching the sheets under himself, 'not too hard... go slow.'

Nod slowly, biting your lip as you followed his command, your hand moving more gently. Now and then, his voice became more authoritarian, as if he wanted to regain control of the situation, but his own pleasure seemed to betray him.

'Yes, so...' he whispered between heavy breaths, his hand resting on yours, guiding you in the rhythm he preferred. 'Good girl.' Those words made you feel even hotter and you felt your poor pussy even more stimulated and dripping from seeing the guy of your fucking dreams make him feel good with just one hand of yours, and the way he was looking at you - lost, vulnerable, completely at your mercy - made you unconsciously squeeze your legs.

Every deep moan of his, every sigh of his body under your touch, made you feel like you were discovering a side of him that no one else had ever seen. After a while, his breathing became even more irregular and you felt his body vibrate under your hands. Heeseung gently grabbed your wrists, holding you for a moment as the pleasure overwhelmed him altogether. A throaty moan left his lips as his body arched slightly, the heat of his excitement pouring over his taut abdomen and you watched him spellbound as he cleaned out in his abdomen the splashes of his cum and stood motionless for a moment, his chest rising and lowering heavily as he tried to recover. Then, he opened his eyes and looked at you with a sly smile. 'You're such a good student.'

The blush on your cheeks increased, and you slightly lowered your gaze, fiddling with your fingers. ” Today I'm trying a lot of new things... "

You admitted softly, your voice shy but sincere. He laughed softly, his expression sweetened as he watched you with a mixture of affection and amusement. Then he came up and, with extreme sweetness, kissed your forehead. 'Then let's see what else I can teach you.'

His hands grazed your skin with a delicacy that contrasted with the way he looked at you—his dark eyes, burning with desire.

'Do you want it?' he whispered against your lips, his voice hoarse and deep. You nodded quickly with a barely hinted smile, raised your hand and gently took your chin between your fingers, forcing you to look straight into your eyes.

'Tell me,' he ordered in that authoritarian tone that made you tremble. Inhale slowly, feeling your body getting warmer and warmer under his intense gaze. "Yes, I want you."

A smug smirk made space on his lips as he picked up a condom and unrolled it over himself with a confidence that made you bite your lip. Your gaze remained glued to his gestures, and he immediately noticed.

'All yours, Baby. You can do whatever you want.' His confidence made you feel thrilled, but he also wanted to test you, and make you give in completely to him. His hands rested on your hips, stroking the light fabric.

'Get up a little bit so that I take off this fucking skirt and this little t-shirt, I can't wait to see you completely naked around my cock!"

You burst out laughing, hitting his chest lightly with your hand, but he took the moment to grab the edge of your shirt and lift it over your head, revealing your body little by little. His eyes lowered on your curves with admiration and desire, and his breathing became heavier. "You are incredible..." he muttered, letting his fingers slide slowly down your skin. Then, with a mischievous grin, he added: 'Perfect at every point.'

You felt the heat rise on your cheeks as he ducked down to leave a warm kiss on your skin, right there where your heartbeat was most frantic. His hands clasped around you more firmly, and in an instant he lifted you slightly, supporting you in his arms as your breaths intertwined.

When you felt him finally pushing himself inside you your warm walls began to wrap his cock inside you, and a subdued moan escaped from your lips, immediately followed by his. His eyes met yours, dark and burning, while his body moved against yours with an almost unnerving slowness.

'Is everything okay?' he whispered, his thumb stroking your side gently. Nod slowly, clinging to him as the wave of sensations swept over you. "Yes ... continue." His hips rose slightly and you turned more violently on his cock while your vaginal walls completely excited and covered in slime took him almost completely inside you, your breasts ribboned every time his cock entered you; every time you pushed against him, a thrill of pleasure ran down your back, and your moans came out involuntary.

He, with a mischievous smile, mocked you for your reaction, but even he did not seem able to resist. His body trembled under yours, responding to your every movement. Every time you approached, he would bend down to kiss you on the breast, his kisses becoming more and more intense and full of passion. His hands caressed your skin with a sweetness that contrasted with the strength of his desire.

'You're amazing,' he whispered between breaths, his voice hoarse and low. 'I didn't think you'd be so... beautiful and good at taking my cock.' The pleasure grew, and with each movement, you felt the wave of pleasure enveloping you more and more. When he finally touched the right spot, a scream of pleasure eluded you, and his eyes became even more intense.

'Do you want them to hear you?' he asked.

"Yes, yes...Hee is too much' He smiled with a smug air, gently caressing you.

'You're not as shy as I thought you were,' he muttered, your every movement getting faster, more intense, and you felt that the pleasure was overpowering you. With a last gasp, you whispered to him that you were about to arrive. He gently took you in his hands, touching both of you and making you feel even closer to him. When his breathing became even more frantic, he leaned toward you, kissing you with impetus, his tongue exploring yours with an intensity that gave you goosebumps.

'Feel how much I am inside you,' he muttered against your lips, the tone warm and deep.

'Feel what you make me feel.' His words made you falter, but the passion and desire you felt made you stronger. You responded with a groan, pushing at him with greater intensity, your body instinctively reacting to his unspoken commands. Every word, every whisper, made you feel like you were experiencing something unique, and intense, and all you wanted was to let go completely. "Don't stop," you whispered to him, your body trembling with desire. "Let me come, please Heeseung."

Heeseung held you tight against him, his eyes dark and burning with desire. 'You're so small compared to me...' he whispered with a cheeky smile, the tone low and provocative.

'I could break you at any moment, you know?' His voice made you shudder. You knew it was just a provocation, but the way he said it, with that disarming confidence, made you lose your mind. His movements became deeper and deeper, more intense, each push sending waves of pleasure down your back. You stuttered broken words, unable to formulate coherent sentences, and this seemed to amuse him.

'What are you trying to say, baby?' he laughed softly, with that mocking, charming tone.

'Can't you even talk? Am I making you feel so good?' You nodded weakly, biting your lip to hold back the moans, but he didn't seem willing to let you hide anything.

'No, no ... I want to hear from you.' His hand slid between your bodies, finding your most sensitive spot. A single expert touch was enough to make you gasp and let slip a louder groan. "Hee-I'm going to -"

He smiled, stroking you with slow, torturing movements.

'I know, baby ... come for me.' And when the wave of pleasure swept over you, a scream of ecstasy filled the room. Your body shook above him, your hands clinging desperately to his broad shoulders. Heeseung didn't stop moving, dragging you through orgasm as his breathing became more erratic. With one last deep moan, he completely immersed himself and doused all his condom with his cum that he absolutely wanted to squirt into you but he didn't know you and he knew exactly how much he was risking, his body straining as he let go.

He held you close to him, his face tucked against your neck, his warm breath on your skin. You stayed like this for a few moments, hearts beating in unison, the silence broken only by the labored rhythm of your breaths. Then, when you finally got up slightly, you felt a sudden feeling of emptiness that left a shiver on your skin. It was a reality that you should not forget: he was Heeseung, an idol, a star that everyone admired.

You ... just a student who loved it. Yet at that moment, in his arms, none of this seemed to matter.

The idea of seeing him everywhere, wherever you looked, made you feel a little trapped as if fate was playing a bad joke on you. Every time you crossed his eyes, even on a giant screen, there was something that struck you deep, as if it had left an indelible mark on you. And yet, you knew that for him you were just one person among a thousand others, one night among many, one of the many experiences that he could easily forget, while you remained to brood, to try to come to terms with your heart that did not seem to want to know to "forget"

It had been a month since that magical night and that afternoon you were quietly working in the bar outside the university campus until you saw him come in, but you were not ready for that voice that made you stop suddenly.

That voice that had tormented you in your dreams and in your days, like a melody that you could not get out of your head, but that now seemed even more real, closer. Your colleague, with her innocent smile and a little complicit, had no idea what was going on inside you.

He had no idea how much that simple request for ' an iced coffee' had made you falter.

Your colleague asked Heeseung his name and he said to write,

'Do you want to go out with me?'

and he had thrown it at you as if it were a game as if he had no idea of the effect it had on you, the world around you seemed to have stopped. Your mind was trying to reason, but your feelings were a whirlwind difficult to contain. How could you answer that? How could you pretend that everything was normal, when the guy of your dreams, the guy you had seen everywhere and tried to avoid, from the first moment he entered the bar was looking at you with that challenge in his eyes?

You made that coffee, put the ice in it, and wrote those words on the glass... everything seemed so simple, but inside you, there was a total confusion. Every move seemed executed in a dream, every gesture you did as if automatic, but your heart was completely out of control. When you turned around to pass the glass to your colleague and stood in front of him, it was as if the whole world had stopped again. His eyes were on you, and his smile, with that slight air of defiance, hit you right in the chest.

He passed the marker to you as if he wanted to continue that game, but his look told you everything: he was waiting for an answer.

It was all so surreal. You looked at him, your heart pounding in your chest, and with a smile, you couldn't hold back, you turned a little more toward him.

And your question... 'Is it a yes or a no?' it struck you as a small provocation, but also with a sweetness that almost made you melt.

taglist: @stwrlightt @hearts4cheoll @lovenha7 @in-somnias-world @heeseungxo @luvyeni @jayjw16enxp @jvngwnii @jooniesbears-blog @gguk-n @cloudykim @enhaverse713586 @stormy1408 @jakesw82 @misssparklyprincess @bamguetismee @jaylajakey @arclviie @strxwbloody @steddie-steddiee @jungwoosbaey @laurenmia65 @tasnemluvs @lovellydisasterr @rikiscupid @simj4k3 @numnommzz @sspidermansss @vixialuvs @smlbch @m3wkledreamy@xylatox @ikeulove @nishikio @ancnymcnzjy @sofiafromvenus @kayjiguki @annovaz @kkamismom12

Rebblog and comments are appreciated

©cutehoons02 all rights reserved 2025.

[mw00nie]

thinking about how nanami doesn’t do baby talk with your daughter.

he made it clear from the very beginning. the day you found out you were pregnant, he kissed your forehead, pressed a hand to your still flat belly, and said, “i refuse to do baby talk  just so we’re clear.”

you laughed at the time, thought he was joking. but he wasn’t.

when she was born, he cradled her like glass. spoke to her like she understood everything. whispered soft things in her ear in that calm, low voice of his. not nonsense or silly rhymes, but actual words. real language. “you’re safe.” “you’re loved.” “i’ll always be here.”

and that’s how it’s been ever since.

now she’s four, and still, he doesn’t coo or squeal or make exaggerated cartoon voices. he doesn’t squish her cheeks and call her a wittle cutie pie. he doesn’t baby her.

he calls her “sweetheart,” “darling,” “honey” in that same even tone he uses with everyone, but softer. slower. warmer. like his words are only hers.

he talks to her like she’s someone worth listening to.

and she talks back like she knows she’s being taken seriously.

when she tells him her teddy bear is sick and needs emergency surgery, he clears his schedule and lays out tissues like gauze pads. “what’s the diagnosis?” he asks, serious as ever. “fuzzy fever,” she says, frowning. “then we’ll need extra care and plenty of rest,” he replies, adjusting the little stuffed limbs with practiced hands. he doesn’t do pretend very often at all, but for her? he’ll play nurse, doctor, and emotional support all at once.

he doesn't speak down to her, ever. when she asks questions (and she asks a lot) he answers every single one like it’s important. “why is the sky blue?” “because of the way light scatters in the atmosphere.” “what’s a mortgage?” “a financial agreement. you don’t need to worry about that just yet.” she hums and nods like she understands, like she’s filing it away for later.

he teaches her things gently. slowly. patiently. “we use kind hands.” “we speak clearly when we’re upset.” “it’s okay to cry, but we don’t throw our toys.”

he doesn’t yell. doesn’t raise his voice. doesn’t huff or sigh in frustration. when she’s overwhelmed, he just kneels beside her, rests a hand on her back, and says, “it’s a big feeling. take your time.”

and she trusts him. wholly. fully. because he’s never once made her feel small. never once laughed when she stuttered through a sentence or tried to use a big word she didn’t quite understand. instead, he gently repeats the word for her. uses it in a sentence. helps her try again.

and she calls him “dad,” but sometimes “sir” slips in when she’s mimicking the way others speak to him. she does it with such seriousness that it breaks something soft in his chest. he pretends not to react, but you’ve seen the way he glances away quickly, like he needs a moment to collect himself.

he doesn’t tell her she’s cute. but he tells her she’s clever. tells her he’s proud of how kind she is. “you were very thoughtful today,” he says after she offers you the last cookie. “you showed great emotional maturity,” he tells her when she apologizes after a tantrum.

and when she’s tired. really tired. she crawls into his lap without saying a word. he always opens his arms. always shifts to make space. he strokes her hair, rests his cheek on top of her head, and murmurs, “you did your best today. that’s all i’ll ever ask.”

and she falls asleep there, every time, safe in the arms of a man who never babbles, never sings off-key lullabies, but always shows up. always protects her. always sees her.

and when you ask her who her best friend is, she says “dad” without hesitation. when you ask her why, she shrugs and says, “he listens to me better than anyone else.”

and it’s true.

he listens when she talks about butterflies and princesses and space robots. he listens when she says she’s scared of thunderstorms. he listens when she says she wants to be a firefighter and a ballet dancer and also maybe a sea turtle. he never tells her it’s silly. never laughs.

so no, nanami doesn’t do baby talk. he doesn’t sing silly songs or play peek-a-boo. but he shows up to every tea party. he folds her tiny socks like they’re made of gold. he takes her hand when they cross the street, holds it like it’s the most precious thing he’s ever touched. and when he tucks her in at night, he kisses her forehead and says, “you’re growing into someone wonderful.”

and really, that means more than any silly voice or rhyming song ever could. because nanami doesn’t just raise a daughter; he raises a whole person

[cruel-seduction]

Not So Golden Now, Are You?

Summary - Where in your not-quite-friendship with James Potter thrives on mutual mockery—you call him daddy’s babygirl because he flaunts his daddy's money, he calls you whatever gets under your skin fastest. It’s never serious… until he parrots back a joke you made about your looks, the kind of joke people only make after crying over it alone.Which you were sure that you never made about him. What he thought was harmless banter turns out to be your breaking point, and while everyone else laughs it off, you don’t. Not this time. And now James—cocky, clueless, James—is stuck trying to fix a crack he didn’t mean to make, humiliating himself in ways no Marauder ever has… all in the hopes of earning a single, goddamn, laugh from you again.

Tone: Gritty, emotional, enemies-to-lovers like kinda (idk I am confused myself. What do you mean just cause I wrote it I should know what it means) with heavy hurt/comfort and a golden boy begging for forgiveness.

Part - 2

There was a particular type of hell reserved for group hangouts where everyone was prettier than you. You know the kind—flawless skin, perfect hair, the kind of laugh that didn't sound like a dying kettle.

And unfortunately for you, that was every single Gryffindor gathering.

Especially when Lily Evans was present. With her radiant glow, timeless hair, and bone structure carved by Aphrodite’s jealous cousin. And not to forget Marlene McKinnon, who looked like she got ready by having woodland creatures sing her into a custom-tailored outfit.

Meanwhile, you looked like you were personally styled by anxiety and unresolved childhood trauma.

You were sitting cross-legged in the Gryffindor common room, huddled in a circle on worn rugs and beat-up couches with the usual suspects: Sirius, James, Remus, Peter, Lily, Marlene, Dorcas… and unfortunately, you.

You were always the +1. A friend of a friend. Mostly tolerated. Occasionally useful. Never the moment. Or that’s what you liked to believe. You leaned back on your palms, casting a casual glance at Lily, who was radiant even while fiddling with her shoelace.

And then you did what all insecure, self-deprecating people do—you made a joke before anyone else could beat you to the punch. “Some girls are born to be photographed. I was born to stand next to them and make them look like paid models by comparison.”

It was said with a wink and a smirk, aimed at Lily—because that's what you did. Make fun of yourself first, before someone else could. Maybe to hear that you’re not just a background character. Those people actually liked hanging out with you. That you were not a charity case. The group chuckled. Lily swatted your shoulder gently, "Oh, come on, you're gorgeous, shut up."

You held up your hand. “No, no. I bring balance. I’m the garlic bread on the table of ten-star entrées. Comforting. Slightly burnt. Easily ignored once the main course arrives.”

Sirius snorted. “You are the garlic bread. Bit crunchy, slightly dangerous, but always there.” You faked a smile, the thing you have mastered for years.. “See? Someone appreciates my contribution to visual mediocrity.”

James was leaning back in one of the armchairs, lazily bouncing a snitch between his fingers. You hadn’t said much to him—your friendship was more a result of mutual proximity than actual emotional investment. You didn’t like him, really. Or that’s what you tried to believe whenever your heart beats too loud near him or whenever you catch yourself smiling, whenever he laughs or whenever you care about him too much but c’mon friends care about each other. That’s not love. Right?. He was loud, always joking, and had a superiority complex that made you want to shove him into a broom closet and lock the door.

Still. He had his moments.

“Honestly,” he said, voice casual, “we should give (Y/N) a badge or something. Hogwarts’ Official Pretty-Girl Enhancer.” He didn’t even look up. Just tossed the snitch in the air again. “Without her, hot girls everywhere would lose contrast.”

There was a beat of silence. Not loud. Not dramatic.

Just… still.

Like someone had knocked the air out of your lungs without touching you. And then, like the smug bastard he was, he added with a grin, “MVP of average.”

Your face didn’t move. You didn’t laugh. You always laughed at yourself, even if it hurt—but not this time. Because he said it with such ease. Such dismissive amusement. Like it was true. Like he just casually confirmed the thing you’d been trying to pretend wasn’t already gnawing at your insides.

Sirius barked out a laugh. “Oi, she’s gonna hex your balls off, Prongs.”

James just shrugged. Still grinning. Still not looking at you. And you? You wanted to melt into the floorboards. Or maybe launch yourself off the Astronomy Tower. Either one was fine.

You looked around—Remus furrowed his brow slightly, eyes flicking toward you, but didn’t say anything. Peter was too busy stuffing his face with biscuits. Marlene giggled absently.

But Lily. Lily noticed. Her gaze snapped to you, sharp and immediate.

She cleared her throat, forced a smile. “So! Who’s ready for Hogsmeade this weekend? I heard Honeydukes is stocking those fizzy sugar spiders again—”

And just like that, the moment passed.

Except it didn’t. Not for you.

Because you weren’t angry. Not really. You were humiliated. Quietly. Sharply.

And that was always worse.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

James Potter didn’t think much of it at first.

You always laughed at jokes. Even the ones aimed at you. Especially the ones aimed at you. It was your thing—sarcasm, wit, never letting anything stick long enough to scar. You insulted him all the time. Called him an overgrown golden retriever with the emotional range of a teaspoon. Told him he looked like a walking ego with legs. And he gave it right back—always.

So when he made that comment earlier about you being the "MVP of average," he expected you to roll your eyes, maybe call him a narcissistic broomstick with daddy’s money, and then snatch the last chocolate frog from his hand out of spite.

He didn’t expect silence.

He didn’t expect that deadpan look on your face.

He didn’t expect you to leave the circle early, claiming you had to finish a Potions essay you definitely finished last week. But hey. Maybe you were just tired. That’s what he told himself.

Right up until that night.

The dorm was dimly lit, soft firelight flickering across the old stone walls. Sirius was balancing Bertie Bott’s beans on his nose, Peter was whining about something in his sleep, and James was halfway through retelling a Quidditch story that no one had asked for.

That’s when Remus spoke. Quiet. Cold. “Do you ever think before you open your mouth?”

James blinked. “Er—what?” Remus didn’t look up from his book. “About what you said to (Y/N).”

Sirius, for once, stopped being a jackass long enough to glance up too. James frowned. “It was a joke. We always—she always says worse things about herself.”

“You just took someone’s worst fear and turned it into a punchline,” Remus said. His voice wasn’t angry. That would’ve been easier. It was disappointed. And that? That cut deeper. “She doesn’t think she matters, James. And you just proved it.”

And then it hit him.

The way your laugh hadn’t had that sharp, mischievous ring to it. No sass. No playful dig. Just… that sound. Bitter. Hollow. Like someone smiling at their own eulogy.

He sat up straighter. His mind flicked back to earlier—your crossed arms, your stiff posture, the way you stared at the fireplace without saying a word while the rest of them laughed.

The way Lily had cut in, voice suddenly chipper, shoving the conversation forward like she was trying to outrun something. The way you never came back with a comeback.

And James Potter, who could bullshit his way out of every detention, every prank, every emotional disaster, suddenly found himself choking on silence.

His breath caught.

All he could see was your face when he said it. That flicker in your eyes. That little twitch of your mouth that wasn’t amusement—it was restraint. Control. You’d been swallowing it down, choking on the embarrassment while he and Sirius laughed like idiots.

“You think she’s fine because she’s funny,” Remus muttered, standing and tossing his book onto the trunk at the foot of his bed. “But sometimes funny is just... the mask.”

James didn’t sleep that night.

Because now he remembered every time you called yourself “forgettable,” how you always stood behind Lily in photos, how you never really let anyone compliment you without joking your way out of it.

And now? Now he realized he hadn’t made a joke. He’d hit the bullseye on someone’s deepest wound and laughed about it.

He remembered the way you stayed up all night when Remus was sick during exams, rewriting all his notes, color-coded and organized like some kind of academic art piece.

How you always, always made Sirius laugh on his worst days. Even when he came back from Christmas break with bruises on his wrists and a cigarette burn he didn’t explain, you were there. Mocking him gently. Loving him fiercely. Whispering, “I’m proud of you, Sirius Black,” like your voice could stitch him back together.

He remembered how you scolded them like a mother one minute and made them snort Butterbeer through their noses the next. How your eyes always twinkled before a comeback. How you once threw your shoe at him for transfiguring your ink into glitter, then asked if he was cold and tucked a scarf around his neck anyway.

He loved that about you.

God, he loved you.

Not that he’d ever admit it. Not to himself. Not out loud. Not when everything between you was built on chaos and roasting each other like Sunday dinner. But you mattered to him. And tonight, he’d made you feel like you didn’t.

He’d taken the thing you feared most—and instead of seeing it, understanding it, protecting it—he’d dragged it out in front of your friends and slapped a joke sticker on it. All because he didn’t think. Because he figured you’d laugh. Because he always made you laugh. But you didn’t.

And now, the damage was done. James Potter had humiliated the girl he secretly, stupidly, undeniably loved. And now?

Now he was completely, utterly screwed.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

James couldn't sleep.

His bed felt too stiff, the blankets too heavy, and every creak of the castle sounded like the echo of your laugh—that hollow, bitter one that had etched itself into his skull. He needed air. Space. Somewhere to untangle the storm inside his chest.

So he walked.

Up the stairs, past the darkened classrooms and snoozing portraits, until he reached the one place that had always helped him think. The Astronomy Tower. He pushed the heavy door open quietly, half-hoping for solitude. But he stopped dead the moment he heard it.

A soft sound. Muffled.

A sniff.

Then another.

And then your voice—barely a whisper. Wavering. “God, pull it together…”

James froze.

He crept quietly around the stone barrier, heart hammering. And there you were, tucked into the hidden nook behind the telescope—knees hugged to your chest, jumper sleeves soaked from wiping your eyes. The stars above cast pale light across your face, catching the streaks of old tears, fresh ones still trailing silently down.

He didn’t think. “Hey,” he breathed.

You jumped, swiping at your cheeks violently, like you could erase the evidence before he fully saw you. “Oh,” you croaked, blinking fast. “James.”

You said his name like it burned your mouth. “What are you doing here?” you asked quickly, voice stiff, pretending like your throat wasn’t raw.

“I could ask you the same,” he said, carefully stepping closer.

You sat up straighter, already slipping your mask back on. “I, uh—nothing, just allergies,” you lied, blinking up at the sky. “Stars make my eyes water. Bastards.” He didn’t laugh.

“Really?,” he said, gently. You didn’t look at him.

“I’m fine.” He crouched down beside you. “Are you?”

You nodded quickly, too quickly. “Yeah, it’s nothing. Really. Just—long day. You know me, dramatic as ever.”

He hated that.

The way you hid pain behind humor like it was a shield. Like you weren’t allowed to be hurt. You sniffed, voice light, too light.

His jaw tensed. “Is this about earlier?”

You didn’t answer.

“I’m serious,” he said, moving to sit beside you now. “That thing I said... I didn’t mean it like that.”

You gave a little shrug. “Doesn’t matter. It’s fine.”

“No,” he snapped, sudden and sharp. “It’s not fine.”

You turned your head, startled.

He looked at you, eyes burning. "You think I don’t see it, but I do. God, I do. I saw your face today—the way your smile cracked like glass, the way you laughed like it physically hurt, like it was splintering something inside you just to pretend. And I can’t take it. I can’t keep watching you fold yourself smaller just to make everyone else feel okay. I need you to tell me what’s wrong. Don’t shut me out like this, don’t lie to my face with that same soft “I’m fine” when your eyes are screaming everything but fine. I know I hurt you. I know I did. And maybe you don’t want me to carry that, but I should. I am. You’re allowed to be mad, to be heartbroken, to want to scream or cry or even hate me for what I did. You don’t have to protect me from your pain. You don’t have to smile through it just to keep the peace. I don’t want peace if it means you breaking yourself into pieces to give it. So don’t look at me like that and say it’s fine."

Your lips parted slightly, but you didn’t speak.

“I thought you’d laugh,” he said quietly. “We always mess around. I didn’t know I—I didn’t realize it was something real. That it would actually...”

He trailed off.

You exhaled shakily. “It’s not your fault.”

“Yes, it is.”

“No, James,” you snapped, eyes finally locking on his. “It’s mine. I told myself it was okay. That I’d be the sidekick. The friend. The funny girl who stands in the background. The contrast. Because if I say it first, if I laugh about it—then it can’t hurt, right?”

Your voice broke on the last word.

James felt like the ground had cracked under him.

“But it still did,” you whispered. “When you said it out loud, it just—it felt like someone had pulled the last thread holding me together. I don’t think you understand what that moment did to me. It wasn’t just words. It was everything I’ve ever feared, wrapped in your voice. Like it wasn’t a joke anymore. Like it was real. Like everyone around us already knew, and you just finally said it out loud. That I really am the filler in the photo. The extra. The one you crop out or blur past. The shadow to someone else’s light. I’ve felt like that for so long, like I’m just there, taking up space, trying to smile pretty enough that no one notices I don’t belong. But hearing it from you—it shattered something in me. And the way you said it, so fucking casually, like it didn’t matter... that’s what kills me. It’s like I didn’t even register as something fragile to you.

And I know I didn’t say anything. I just laughed it off like always. Like I’m good at doing. Like I’ve trained myself to do. But inside, I was screaming. I was begging for someone to just see me—really see me—and pull me out of this mess in my chest. I kept hoping, stupidly, that maybe you saw something more in me. Something worth holding onto. But maybe that was my fault. Maybe I made that up. Maybe I wanted too much. I’m sorry. No—really—I’m sorry. For having expectations. For thinking I could be someone that mattered to you, even for a second. I should’ve known better. I always do.”

His heart twisted.

You wiped your nose, furious at the tears that wouldn’t stop.

“I’ve spent so long convincing myself I was fine with it,” you said, quieter now. “But when you said it? I don’t know. It felt like the whole world joined in.”

James swallowed hard. “I’m sorry.”

You looked away.

“I mean it,” he continued, voice thick. “I’m such an idiot. I didn’t mean it like that. When I called you the “MVP of average,” I thought I was being funny—stupid, harmless—but I wasn’t thinking, and I sure as hell wasn’t seeing. Not the way you needed me to. Not the way I should’ve. And it’s killing me, knowing those words came from me, from someone who looks at you like you hung the stars and then taught the sky how to shine. You think you’re the shadow to someone else’s light? No. You are the light. You’re the kind of light that slips through curtains at 4am and makes a broken person believe in warmth again. You're the reason color exists in a world I forgot was turning grey. And me? I’m just the fool who thought he could throw around careless jokes and you'd somehow still know how goddamn divine I think you are.”

He continued, His voice so pure of determination that it made you think he has practised this script thousand times before but the pureness in his eyes made you think otherwise. He continued “If you asked me to, I’d write your name into the marrow of my bones just so you’d know you’re etched in me. If you told me you liked the rain, I’d drown smiling just to taste what you love. I would pour honey on my heartbreak if I thought the sweetness might remind you of your laugh. I'd salt my wounds if it made them smell like your perfume. I would tear out every page where I wrote someone else's name, just to make space for yours. I didn’t say what I said because I had to—I said it because I thought I was close enough to be stupid and you'd forgive me. But I forgot… I forgot how deep words can slice, especially when the person hearing them already walks around stitched together with silence. Remus had to tell me. That’s how blind I was. You laughed, and I believed it—because I wanted to believe it. And that’s on me. That’s my failure. But now that I know? I’d beg if that’s what it takes. On my knees, on broken glass, under the weight of every word I should have never said. I’d beg a thousand times over, not just for forgiveness—but for another chance to look at you right, to say it right. Because you’re not average. You are the goddess I whisper prayers to when no one’s listening. And I—I am just the fool who didn’t realize he was already living in the temple of your presence. Let me stay. Let me make it right. Let me love you like I should’ve from the beginning.”

Your eyes flicked to his—raw, red, vulnerable. Then you stood. Fast.

The cold air caught your breath as you turned your back to him.

“You don’t get to make this about your guilt,” you said, voice low and hard. “I’m allowed to be angry, James. I’m allowed to not forgive you.”

He stood slowly behind you.

“I know.”

You didn’t look at him as you stepped toward the stairs.

“I’m not the girl who falls apart in front of people,” you said. “And I’m sure as hell not the girl who forgives the boy who made her feel invisible so easily with just some speech he gave her..”

And then you walked away.

James didn’t follow.

He just stood there—alone, under a sky full of stars—and watched the one person he wanted to make smile disappear down the steps, carrying a storm in her chest and tears he’d put there.

And for once in his life, James Potter had no idea what the fuck to do.

[uniquexusposts]

But I am Lando Norris | L. Norris

Summary: Lando Norris went to a random concert and ended up seeing his childhood neighbour on stage. What would he do to see her again after all those years? Words: 2.619 A/n: I got the inspiration after seeing Tom Odell and Billie Eilish at their concert :)

The venue was filled with many people. A lot of people. Something Lando hadn’t really expected, for some reason, but it was very real. 20.000 people in this stadium. All for Your artist name (Y/a/n). Everything in the stadium was louder than expected. 

It wasn’t chaotic, not yet, but there was a humming with that kind of pre-show tension that made everyone talk louder than usual, laugh sharper, sing along with the background music, scroll their phones more nervously, as if trying to pass the time before something important dropped. And to many, something important would happen. The opening act had just finished.

Lando tucked his hands into the pockets of his jacket and scanned the crowd beneath and next to him, from where he stood near the VIP lounge entrance. His friends had disappeared a few minutes ago, getting drinks or merch or whatever else people would do before a show like this. He had said he would wait here. He didn’t mind it. 

He wasn’t even really sure why he had said yes to coming. His friend had offered the spare ticket with zero pressure, and he had said ‘why not’ like it meant nothing. He hadn’t expected anything, they said it was just a show of an artist, just music, good music, and maybe some songs he would vaguely recognise. 

And then he had seen the name on the poster when arriving. 

Y/a/n. Just that. Stylised. Sharp. Backlit in white. 

He remembered seeing it and pausing, only for a second. Enough to think, Huh. That’s wild. Because even if she went by something different now, even if her look had changed, he knew who she was.

They had grown up on the same street. Played in the same games with the same kids outside. Played football, hide and seek, ring and run. Things kids would do when playing outside. They had never been close, just part of the blut of childhood. And then one day, after going to high school, the entire group stopped meeting up. 

Lando exhaled slowly and glanced over the crowd. Y/a/n had a massive fanbase, she had so many hits, the tickets to her tour were sold out quickly. People would camp a week before her show to get the best seats. People were standing outside without a ticket, hoping someone would give up a ticket to still give them a chance to see Y/a/n. 

He ran a hand through his hair, then followed the others inside. They took a seat on their designated seats. 

Max nudged him. “Didn’t know you were a fan.”

“I’m not,” Lando said, almost absently. “She just… grew up in my neighbourhood.”

Max blinked. “Wait, seriously?”

“Yeah. We used to play outside with the same group of kids.” He shrugged like it didn’t matter. “That’s it.”

And then the lights went out.

A breathless silence fell like a wave, followed by a sudden scream from the crowd. Somewhere beneath it all, a low, pulsing synth began to rise, slow, haunting, magnetic. Lando sat up straighter. He hadn’t expected much. But the moment the music hit, the first note, the sudden bloom of lights, something shifted.

The screen behind the stage flickered to life, abstract visuals in grayscale, like static breaking into water, and the bass deepened, vibrating in Lando’s chest. Then, through the smoke and fractured light, she appeared.

Y/a/n. 

Y/n L/n from house number 47. 

It wasn’t just the way she stood there, still, centred, not saying a word, but the way the entire arena reacted on her presence. She wore something simple, red, almost careless, yet very stylish, but held herself like gravity had shifted in her favour. The crowd roared. She didn’t flinch.

Lando forgot to blink.

It was her. Of course it was her, her voice was on every radio, her face was on every screen. But this was different. This was now. And the shy girl, who used to kick gravel down their street had turned into a phenomenon.

And when she began to sing, the crowd was screaming the lyrics along. They knew every single word. She moved energetically along the stage, waved every now and then to the crowd. It was like a bomb with energy exploded in the stadium. 

Lando didn’t hear the lyrics.

He only watched her. The way she moved with purpose but without effort. The way the crowd swayed like she was pulling every string.

His friends were cheering. Someone bumped into his arm. But Lando didn’t move. He wasn’t starstruck, it wasn’t that. He just suddenly couldn’t believe that someone like her had been standing five feet away from him all those summers ago, barefoot and shy and loud and ordinary.

And now?

Now she looked like a storm that had learned how to sing.

-

The crowd screamed, clapped, their cheers nearly drowning out the music when Y/a/n walked around the stage to wave at her crowd for the last time. Lando stood, clapping along, but it was automatic. He didn’t feel the rush of excitement everyone else was experiencing. He was still lost in the haze of that last moment.

His mind was still back at the moment she had stepped on stage, her presence a magnet. His heart wasn’t pounding, it wasn’t nerves, but something deeper, quieter. A magnetic pull he couldn’t explain.

Max slapped him on the back. “She was incredible, huh?”

Lando nodded, eyes still on the stage as the lights began to fade, her presence fading away as she got off the stage. “Yeah. Incredible.” His words felt empty compared to what he was actually feeling, but he couldn’t find the right ones. Incredible didn’t even begin to cover it.

The crowd slowly began to spill out of the stands, but Lando wasn’t moving. His friends were already heading toward the exit, chatting about the encore and how they could grab drinks after. But Lando’s feet stayed planted.

How could she be that powerful?

He scanned the stage one last time, searching for any sign of her, his heart still racing despite the calm exterior. There was a stir in the air, a buzz of people rushing behind the scenes, a mix of crew, security, and the last few fans who were hoping for a glimpse.

He didn’t think, he just acted.

Lando got up and he walked towards one of the doors that said ‘backstage, staff only’. He could hear the excitement of all the fans, many were screaming, crying and almost hyperventilating. Some recognised him, but they were still processing the moments they had with their favourite artist. His pulse was fast, not from adrenaline but something else entirely, something raw and uncertain. He couldn’t explain it, but the need to see her, just for a second, had overtaken him.

By the time he reached the backstage entrance, a security guard stepped in front of him, blocking his path.

“Can I help you?” the guard asked, arms crossed, his gaze unimpressed.

Lando swallowed, trying to push away the uncertainty that suddenly hit him. “I… I just need to talk to her. Y/n. Is she still here?”

The guard raised an eyebrow. “You a friend?”

Lando hesitated for a beat too long, the weight of his own words feeling heavier now. “Yeah. I grew up with her. We-”

The guard didn’t even let him finish. “And I grew up with the King. You can turn around and go home.”

Lando bit back a frustrated sigh. He glanced at the exit, hoping for a glimpse. But he knew that wasn’t enough. He wasn’t going to leave this night like that. Not after what he had just seen. “Do you have any idea when she’ll be available?” he asked, his voice steady but urgent now. “I don’t want to take up much time. Just a quick conversation.”

The guard looked him over again, as if debating whether or not he should let him through. He squinted his eyes. “You know, mate, we can do it the friendly way or the difficult way. There’s a reason why I am here. And you should know all about it. We can’t give everybody access to their favourite person. You would not like it too.” 

“No, I fully understand,” Lando sighed. He couldn’t leave, not yet. He had to see her again. “But how can I see her? This is personal. And as you said, I know all about it. So why would I disturb her for no reason?”

The guard didn’t budge, still eyeing him with skepticism. The silence between them stretched for a moment, the background noise of the crowd's excitement humming in the distance. Lando could feel his patience wearing thin, but he knew he had to stay calm. He couldn't risk losing his chance.

Finally, the guard spoke again, his voice softer, though still guarded. “Alright, mate. Here’s the deal. She’s not going to have time for some random fan to chat her up after the show, even if you used to play football with her as a kid-“

“But I am Lando Norris,” Lando said, throwing out a card he hated. 

“And I am Leo Samson, nice to meet you. I can’t make exceptions. Stop the debate, it’s not going to happen-“

“But I’m not a random fan,” Lando cut in, sharply but not unkind. “I’m not trying to take a picture or get an autograph. I’m not even here for her music, well, I am now, I guess. But I didn’t come here because she’s famous.”

The guard’s brow furrowed, but he didn’t interrupt.

“I came here because I recognised the name on the poster,” Lando continued. “Because I remember her before all of this. Before the crowds and the lights and the sold-out stadiums. I just... I saw her tonight and I remembered who she was. And she probably doesn’t even remember me, but I would hate myself if I didn’t try to say hi. That’s it.” He let the silence settle again. “I’m not trying to cross any lines,” he added quietly. “But if I walked away right now, I think I would regret it. For a long time.”

The guard studied him. Really studied him. Then finally, he huffed a breath through his nose and reached for his microphone that was connected to his transceiver. “I’ve got Lando Norris coming through for Y/n L/n. It’s alright.” He stepped aside and opened the door. “Don’t do weird things, mate. I will find you.”

A relieved smile came on Lando’s face. “I will, thanks.” 

“Someone will bring you to her.”  

Lando gave the guard a quick, grateful nod, then stepped through the doorway, the heavy sound of the door closing behind him like a shift in atmosphere. The hallway he entered was quieter than the rest of the venue, cooler, dimmer, like the pulse of the show had finally exhaled back here.

Someone, one of the backstage crew, was already waiting. She didn’t ask questions, just gave him a glance, then motioned with her head for him to follow. They walked down a corridor lined with industrial pipes and faded posters from past shows. He could still hear the crowd outside, but it was muted now, distant. He wasn’t sure what he was going to say when he saw her. He wasn’t even sure she would want to see him. But the idea of not trying had been worse.

He turned the corner, and there she was.

Y/n was walking down the hall toward him, alone, her hair damp from the show, her outfit stuck to her skin due to the sweat. Her head was down, scrolling her phone. She looked so normal like this. So real. The stadium version of her was still echoing in his mind, but this, this was the part he had been desperate to see.

She looked up.

Stopped.

He froze too.

“…Lando?”

Her voice was cautious, halfway between recognition and disbelief.

He exhaled a laugh, barely a breath. “Hey.”

Y/n blinked like she was trying to make sense of him standing there. “What are you… how did you..?”

“I saw your name on the poster,” he said. “Didn’t believe it at first. Then I saw you tonight and I-” He ran a hand through his hair, suddenly unsure of everything he had rehearsed in his head. “I couldn’t leave without seeing you.”

She didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at him. Really looked.

He stepped closer, slowly, not wanting to spook her, not wanting to mess it up. “You probably don’t remember me.”

Her brows rose. “Of course I remember you. You’re the reason I almost broke my arm falling out of the neighbour’s tree. And the reason I never touched Capri-Sun again.”

He laughed, a little dazed. “You threw it at my head. Deserved, for the record.”

A small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth, and for a second, the years between them shrank. “I didn’t know you were into concerts,” she said.

“I’m not, really.” He shrugged. “But apparently I’m into you.”

Her eyes flicked up to his, a quiet spark lighting behind them.

Lando cleared his throat, suddenly nervous again. “I just… I didn’t want this to be one of those things where I remembered someone forever and never told them they meant something to me. Even if you didn’t remember me.”

Y/n looked at him, soft now. “Well… I do.”

They stood in the hallway, just looking at each other, while the world outside buzzed and pulsed with the afterglow of her performance.

Lando let out a breath, eyes still on her like she might disappear if he blinked. “I don’t even know where to start,” he said, a little breathless. “You were… insane tonight. In the best way. Like… I don’t think I’ve ever been in a crowd that loud before. And I’ve stood on podiums, but this? You had everyone wrapped around your finger.”

Y/n flushed slightly, the way an older neighbour made a comment about them playing on the road. “I mean, F1 podiums are something different, huh?” She smiled. “And I mean, it’s kind of surreal, still. Even after all this time.”

“It shouldn’t be,” Lando said. “You’re meant for this. I don’t know how I didn’t see it back then. You were always singing, always messing around with lyrics or humming something under your breath. I guess I just thought everyone had something like that.”

She smiled again, the kind of smile that carried a hundred memories. “Most people grow out of it.”

“But you didn’t.” His voice was quiet now, sincere. “You built a world out of it.”

Y/n looked down at her hands for a second. “It wasn’t easy. Still isn’t.”

“I can imagine,” Lando said. “But tonight… God, Y/n, you were like this force. You had everyone screaming one minute, dead silent the next. It was electric.”

Y/n’s smile turned shy, like she didn’t know what to do with the praise. “Thanks. That means a lot, coming from you.”

Lando shook his head. “I’m not saying this as the Lando Norris, if you mean it like that. I’m saying it as some kid who used to race you down the street for ice cream and lost every time. I’m proud of you. Seriously.”

The silence between them filled with warmth, a fragile but growing sense of something shifting.

“You always were terrible at running,” she murmured.

“And apparently, really good at recognising stars before they go supernova.”

That made her laugh. Really laugh. And Lando swore it sounded just like it used to.

Taglist: @itsjustkhaos @crashingwavesofeuphoria @maryvibess @ironmaiden1313 @sltwins @heart-trees @npcmia @llando4norris

[homunculus-argument]

Just read about the study that looked into the connection between the sound resonance of human-marked caves and the location of cave paintings. They discovered that the cave paintings were most commonly located in the areas with the clearest resonance, the best acoustics. The ideal places to sing. Scientist are bound by a duty to commit to facts, to stick with what is known and can be known. They aren't allowed to just wildly speculate, jump to conclusions, or romanticise the connections they make. But I am not a man of science and I can say whatever I want.

We called them "cavemen" at first, when we knew even less of them than what we do now. They were hunter-gatherers, nomadic people who wouldn't have stayed in one place for long, not even a place as good as a cave. A cave is a maw full of blackness, cold and dark, unless you bring fire. They brought fire with them, that we know. They painted the walls in light of torches, beasts that appear to move in the flickering light. They painted the walls in places where one could best sing.

A cave is a place of darkness, unless you bring fire. And quiet - perhaps save for the bats - unless you bring your voice. What did they sing about? The same songs every year, that one sings that time of year When We Return To The Cave, or new ones made up on the spot? Were they sacred? They must have been. One does not go into an unfamiliar cave alone, there are too many ways you may die. You go together, someone shows it to you. Brings you to the paintings to sing. To sing in the dark underworld that looks nothing like the world above, and where even the weakest voices carry, amplifying like nowhere else in the world that they knew.

Is that what we still yearn for? To go with your kin to the hollow halls of sacred places, where the echo compels you to reverent silence, until it's time to sing? To hear the familiar tune, amplified by the echos of stone, urged to join the song just as wolves are called to join the howl? Our urge just as natural as theirs, like migrating birds yearn to leave and return?

Why else do we have churches, but for our yearning to sing in the caves?

[writesvani]

dear me | 11

lawyer! jungkook x privatechef! reader

SUMMARY: Once upon a time, Jungkook and you were everything. Best friends who shared every moment, every secret—except one: you were in love with him. But life changed. High school ended, real life began, and slowly, you drifted apart, the distance between you growing too wide to cross.

The end. Except it isn't.

One day, after a long day at work, you open your email to find a message from 13 years ago—written by your younger self. A letter you’d forgotten, sent by a service you paid to remind you of your youth, your love for him. As the emails keep on coming and you keep reading, the flood of memories hits you, and you realize something heartbreaking: you never stopped loving him.

But now, it’s too late. Jungkook is about to marry someone else. Or is he?

estranged childhood best friends-to-friends-to-lovers?

TRIGGER WARNINGS: emotional repression, jealousy, passive aggression, emotional conflict, secrecy, pregnancy mention, guilt, self-deprecation, avoidance, emotionally unavailable relationships

comment HERE for Dear Me taglist;

SERIES M.LIST;

— previous chapter // next chapter (pending...)

wc: 5,1k // date: 22nd of June 2025

CHAPTER ELEVEN — THE SECRET happy reading my gummies...

AN: hi there my babes. guess who's back. mhm that's me. here's dear me 11. are we excited or what (i know fully well i am). ugh guys, this chapter is actually one of the most important chapters in season one of dear me (even though it doesn't seem like it), because we're slowly going to be unlocking past and present character arcs and i’m so excited (and scared) about it. did you like it? what do you think? i can't wait to read your comments and theories ugh.

also let’s be honest, this chapter is unhinged in the most emotionally constipated way possible. people be fighting, lying, cracking under pressure, and someone is being the hot nuisance he always is. a full-course meal.

now for the note goal—note goal for this chapter is 500 notes. let’s see if we can still do it or if we’ve collectively died from the angst. love you always mwah.

“Jesus, come back to bed, why are you up so early?” Taehyung groans from the tangle of your sheets, voice still thick with sleep.

The morning sun breaks through the blinds and slides across his bare chest like it’s trying to seduce you too. His dark hair is a mess, sticking out in different directions, pillow-creased and annoyingly perfect. He throws one arm over his eyes, the other lazily patting the space beside him.

“Because some of us have actual lives,” you mutter, knotting your robe and trying not to look at how the sheet’s dangerously low on his hips. Taehyung in your bed is already dangerous enough. Taehyung all golden and sleepy? That’s a war crime.

“Boo,” he yawns. “So no morning sex?”

You grab your phone off the nightstand. “Wasn’t last night enough for you?”

“Enough?” He lifts his head, giving you a grin that is absolutely going to get him smacked one day. “I’m never full when it comes to you. You're like—dessert. Irresistible, kinda bad for me, but still... I keep going.”

You throw a sock at him. “Gross.”

“True.”

You laugh anyway, tossing your charger into your tote. “I have to go see my parents. And then clean, grocery shop, return that thing that’s been sitting in my bag for three weeks, try not to spiral into a panic attack—just Saturday things.”

“Wow,” he says, voice flat. “Sexy.”

“Don’t pretend like my crippling to-do list doesn’t turn you on.”

“Oh, it does,” he groans. “You scribbling little notes in that scary planner? That’s peak hot girl behavior.”

You roll your eyes, walking toward the kitchen for coffee. “You know this isn’t a sleepover, right? You don’t actually live here.”

“I’m aware,” he calls after you, voice sing-song. “But you let me stay the night, so by the rules of fuckbuddy law, I get coffee privileges.”

“Who made those rules?”

“Me. I’m the mayor of casual hookups. Respect my office.”

You return with your mug, taking a long sip. “You’re lucky I don’t charge you rent.”

“I’d pay in very creative ways,” he says, stretching his arms above his head in a way that absolutely should not be legal. “Very. Creative. Ways.”

You glance at the time on your phone. “Well, unfortunately for you and your creative payment plans, I’ve got to go.”

He pouts like a child being told recess is over. “So that’s it? I get kicked out into the cruel world with nothing but last night’s memories and a boner?”

“You’ll live.”

“Barely.”

You head to the door with your bag, pausing before you open it. “Lock up behind you.”

Taehyung salutes you from the bed. “Yes, captain. Until next time, my cruel queen.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Don’t eat all my cereal.”

“No promises!”

Taehyung keeps spamming you with messages until you pull into your parents’ driveway, phone lighting up like it’s possessed.

[11:36 AM] Tae: where’s the coffee. be honest.

[11:36 AM] Tae: also why do you have like… seven bags of quinoa??

[11:37 AM] Tae: are you okay

[11:38 AM] Tae: help me

[11:38 AM] Tae: if i die in your apartment, it’s your fault

[11:39 AM] Tae: okay nvm found the coffee i love you

[11:39 AM] Tae: wait no i don’t that was the caffeine talking

[11:40 AM] Tae: also the sugar was in the fridge?? are you a serial killer

You can’t help the little laugh that escapes you as you scroll, thumb tapping a quick reply.

[11:40] You: stop touching my stuff or i will block you.

[11:40] Tae: kinky

You ignore that.

Kim Taehyung makes everything so damn complicated and yet so stupidly easy at the same time. Like, he’s the human equivalent of throwing glitter in the air—chaotic, unnecessary, but admittedly very pretty. He talks too much. Sends too many selfies. Wears your robe like he owns it. But he also listens when you rant, hugs you like you’re breakable, and makes your coffee just how you like it—when he actually finds the ingredients.

He’s also extremely good in bed. Like, top-tier, Olympic-gold-medal-in-thrusting good. You’d give him a solid 11/10 if it didn’t feel like stroking his already inflated ego.

You have thought about it before—what being with him would look like. But every time the fantasy starts to form, it fizzles out just as fast. Because Taehyung? He’s a walking red flag with mood swings and a god complex. He’s emotionally unavailable, possibly allergic to commitment, and once said “monogamy is a social construct” while eating cereal shirtless.

So yeah. He’s hot. He’s fun. He’s probably texting you right now asking if he can borrow a pair of your socks. But he’s not boyfriend material.

Clingy fuck buddy it is.

You put your phone on Do Not Disturb just as you climb out of your car. The second your foot hits the pavement, you hear your mom yelling from the front porch.

“There she is! Finally! You said eleven! It’s basically noon!”

You sigh, slipping into your practiced smile. “Traffic.”

“Sure. Come kiss your father.”

Your dad’s in his usual spot on the porch, coffee in hand, pretending he’s not amused by your mom’s dramatics.

You wave. “Hi, dad.”

“Morning,” he grunts. “You look tired.”

You want to say well I didn’t sleep much because I was too busy getting railed by a man who thinks air fryers are sentient, but instead you just smile and say, “Didn’t get much sleep.”

Your mom tuts and ushers you inside with a fuss. “You young people and your strange schedules.”

You shoot her a grin. “You’d be surprised.”

Vicky gently grabs you by the wrist, pulling you to the side as you enter the house.

“Heard Jungkook played a few days ago,” she says casually, as if even bringing up Jungkook’s name doesn’t flare her up with irritation.

You hum, noncommittal, mostly because you don’t feel like unpacking that whole situation with Vicky before you’ve had any sugar in your system. “Yeah. He did.”

“That’s all?” She raises a brow.

“That’s all,” you say, brushing past her.

You don’t have the energy to explain the layers of tension and warmth and unresolved mess between you and Jungkook—not to Vicky, who has her own (unsolicited) commentary on your friendship with him. Besides, you’re still piecing it together yourself.

You head into the kitchen where Leah is already sitting like a little gremlin, legs folded up on the stool, waiting for you.

“There she is,” she grins, leaning over to press a soft kiss to your cheek. “Girl, I made crème brulée. You gotta give me a taste test.”

“Bring it out,” you say, finally smiling as you drop your bag and lean your hip against the counter. “Let’s see what all the hype is about.”

Leah stands up dramatically, like she’s about to present a Michelin-starred dish on MasterChef. Vicky follows behind, arms still crossed like she’s itching to circle back to the Jungkook thing, but stays quiet—for now.

“You’ve been avoiding us,” Leah says sing-song as she grabs the ramekin from the fridge. “Which makes me think either you’ve been in a depressive spiral… or you’re hooking up with someone you’re not telling us about.”

Vicky snorts. “Honestly, could be both.”

You roll your eyes. “I’ve just been busy. I have a life, you know.”

“Suuure,” Leah says, placing the ramekin in front of you. “But your life doesn’t make crème brulée and ignore group texts for 48 hours straight.”

You grin despite yourself. “Okay, this looks kinda insane, not gonna lie.”

“Tap it,” she says, holding her breath.

You grab a spoon and give it a gentle smack—the sugar top cracks perfectly.

Leah gasps like she just won a medal. “DID YOU HEAR THAT?! I told you I got it right.”

You take a bite. “Leah… this is stupid good.”

“She’s been unbearable all morning,” Vicky mutters, sipping her lukewarm coffee. “She forced me to do a blind taste test at eight a.m.”

“Because I’m a culinary icon,” Leah says, beaming.

“You’re a menace,” Vicky deadpans.

“Soooo,” Leah says, dragging the word until it becomes a warning, “are you hooking up with someone?”

You lean back in your seat, one hand ruffling your hair. “Maybe I am.”

“Knew it,” Vicky mutters, smug like she just cracked a case. “You’ve had that freshly-fucked glow for weeks.”

Leah gasps. “I told you it wasn’t just new moisturizer!”

“Okay, first of all, rude. Second, I’m literally just… chilling. No big deal.”

“Uh huh,” Vicky deadpans. “Just chilling. Meanwhile someone’s breaking your back on the regular.”

You grin. “Someone’s helping me with my stress management, let’s say that.”

Leah squints at you. “Do we know him?”

“No.”

“Do you like him?”

You pause, blink. “I like that he leaves when I tell him to... Sometimes... and brings snacks.”

Vicky claps. “That’s growth.”

“He talks too much after sex though,” you say, grabbing a cookie off the counter. “Thinks I wanna discuss jazz theory while I’m still catching my breath.”

Leah laughs. “Wait. Is this the guy who got lost in your kitchen trying to find coffee the other day?”

You smirk. “The very same.”

“Oh my God,” Vicky says. “He texted you, didn’t he?”

You wordlessly flash your phone screen with six unread texts from Taehyung. One of them just says:

“where’s the fucking sugar i’m begging u i’m eating cereal like a prisoner”

They both burst out laughing.

“This man,” Leah says between wheezes, “is your reward for getting your life together?”

“I never said I was doing great. I said I was managing.”

“Are you gonna keep seeing him?” Vicky asks, still giggling.

You shrug. “Probably. He’s fun. Keeps things light. Doesn’t ask dumb questions like ‘what are we?’ or ‘have you eaten today?’”

Leah grins. “So you’re thriving.”

“Obviously.”

Leah moves around the kitchen with the kind of grace that only comes from familiarity, pouring coffee into mismatched mugs she’s had since high school. The smell is rich, warm — a little stronger than you’d make it yourself, but comforting all the same. The three of you shuffle into the living room like it’s muscle memory, each one naturally taking the spot you’ve claimed a hundred times before. It’s easy, effortless. The kind of comfort only years can bring.

You curl up on the couch, fingers wrapped around the warm ceramic of your cup. The cushions dip just the way you remember them — this couch has survived a lot of heartbreaks and way too many spilled drinks.

“Where’s Nick?” you ask, not really thinking much of it. It’s just something you say when someone’s missing.

Leah leans back into the loveseat, tucking a blanket around her legs. “He’s at the Jeons’,” she says, completely unbothered.

You nod, already knowing she means Jungwoo’s place. Nick’s been best friends with Jungkook’s younger brother since forever — they’ve been inseparable since middle school, and by now he basically lives over there. The Jeon house is his second home, just like it used to be yours.

“I’ll give him a call,” Vicky says, already unlocking her phone with a dramatic sigh. “We barely get time like this anymore. He should come hang out with us.”

You hum in agreement, taking a slow sip of your coffee. “He probably thinks we’re gonna start trauma-dumping the second he walks in,” you joke.

“Honestly, he’s not wrong,” Leah adds, grinning as she pulls her hair up into a messy bun. “But he can survive a little emotional depth.”

Vicky rolls her eyes as she puts the phone to her ear. “If he picks up on the first try, I’m buying a lottery ticket.”

You glance around the room while she waits — the soft ticking of the wall clock, the slight creak of the ceiling fan above, a framed photo of the four of you at Leah’s high school graduation still hanging a little crooked on the wall. You didn’t realize how much you missed this — not the house, not even the coffee, but the quiet sense of belonging that comes with being around people who get you.

“It’s so weird that this used to be, like, every day,” Leah says, eyes scanning the ceiling like she’s watching a memory float by. “Now we need to schedule hangouts like we’re CEOs or something.”

“Yeah,” you say, your voice quieter than you expect. “I miss this.”

Vicky groans, “Ugh, he sent me to voicemail. Whatever, he’ll show up. Eventually.”

You all laugh, because that’s just so Nick. Always the last to arrive, always the one who makes an entrance.

The moment isn’t flashy, or even all that eventful. But it feels like something you’ll remember. A lazy Sunday afternoon and some coffee that’s too strong but made with love. No pressure to talk about anything heavy, no expectations — just a soft space to exist in for a while.

And honestly, that’s enough.

Just as Vicky pulls the phone away from her ear with an annoyed sigh, it starts ringing — his name lighting up the screen like a miracle.

She stares at it, stunned. “Okay, what the hell?”

You and Leah both lean in to look at the screen like it’s a rare artifact.

“No way,” you say, laughing. “Nick’s actually calling you back? Right now?”

Vicky answers dramatically, “This must be a sign of the end times.”

“Hello?” she says into the phone, already sounding skeptical. “Oh now you wanna pick up?”

You can only hear her half of the conversation, but you can imagine Nick on the other end — probably sprawled out on the Jeons’ beanbag, gaming controller in one hand, phone pressed to his cheek.

“No, we’re not dying, idiot,” she continues, exasperated but fond. “But we’re all here — me, Leah, and our lazy-ass sister — and you should be too.”

You sip your coffee as Vicky rolls her eyes dramatically again, clearly being fed some kind of excuse.

“Well put down the controller or say goodbye to your dignity, because I’m putting you on speaker.”

She taps her screen and tosses the phone onto the couch between all of you. “Say hi, loser.”

Nick’s voice comes through, slightly crackly but clear. “Yo! Okay, okay, chill. I’m coming, alright? I just gotta finish this round.”

“Told you,” Leah smirks.

“Finish it fast or I’m eating everything without you,” you snark.

There’s a pause. Then Nick goes, “You guys suck,” before hanging up.

The three of you burst out laughing.

“God, I missed this,” Vicky says, letting her head fall back against the cushions.

You don’t say it out loud, but you did too. It’s rare now — the ease, the messiness, the way you all still slip back into each other like puzzle pieces that still fit, even after years of growing up.

You glance toward the door like you can already hear his footsteps on the porch.

“He’ll probably show up in, what, an hour?” Leah teases.

“Or fifteen minutes,” you say, smiling. “If he thinks I really am eating his food.”

“Yoooo,” Nick yells as he bursts into the house exactly twenty minutes later, arms open like he’s walking into a sitcom set. He immediately goes for everyone’s cheeks, pinching each of you with dramatic enthusiasm like he’s not the literal youngest here. “Missed me?”

“Unfortunately,” Vicky says dryly, slapping his hand away.

“Your energy is so loud,” Leah mutters, even as she’s smiling, trying to avoid his fingers. He gets to you last, practically squishing your face in his palms. “Ugh, you’re all so weird,” he teases before dropping into the armchair like a king returning from war.

Right behind him, like an awkward little shadow, comes Jungwoo. He looks up with a shy smile, offering a timid “Hey,” and you instantly brighten.

“Jungwoo!” you say, pulling him into a warm, quick hug. He lets out a quiet laugh, and you pat the seat next to you, already scooting over to make room.

“Thanks,” he says, settling down carefully, like he doesn’t want to take up too much space. His presence is comforting though — calm and familiar in a way that never demands anything.

But then—

You hear the casual thump of sneakers on the hallway tiles and, a beat later, him.

Jungkook walks into the room like he owns the lease, all lazy posture and understated confidence. His hair’s a little messy, like he didn’t bother checking it before leaving the house — or maybe because he doesn’t have to. His hands are in his pockets, and his eyes scan the room like he’s just checking in on what’s his.

You don’t notice him right away, not until his presence actually reaches you — like the heat of a flame you didn’t realize was too close.

Your eyes flick toward Vicky before anything else, and sure enough, she’s already rolling hers, the irritation practically humming off her. Classic.

Jungkook doesn’t seem fazed. He leans down and presses a casual kiss to your cheek like it’s the most natural thing in the world — and maybe it is, maybe it’s just who he is, but the air still shifts slightly around the room, and you’re hyper-aware of it.

“Hey,” he murmurs, and it’s so brief, so soft, it’s almost a whisper.

You hum back already feeling the subtle undercurrent vibrating beneath what was just a chill hangout moment ago.

Nick, of course, is oblivious, already asking if there’s food in the kitchen. Leah’s staring between you and Jungkook like she’s trying to connect invisible strings. Jungwoo politely sips on some soda, and Vicky... Vicky looks like she’s trying not to throw something.

“Jungkook,” Vicky says with a dry cough, her voice laced in sugar-coated sarcasm as she shoots him a smile that feels more like a threat than a greeting.

Jungkook doesn’t miss a beat. He plasters on a polite grin, the kind that says I see you, but I’m not giving you the satisfaction, and replies, “Hey, Vicky.” His voice is casual, as he lowers himself into the open seat beside you. His knees knock yours lightly as he settles in, spreading his legs like he owns the damn couch.

You can practically hear the smugness in the shift of his body.

He leans back into the cushions like he’s been part of this family hangout every Sunday for the past ten years.

“So glad you two made it,” Leah says, eyes warm as they flick between Jungkook and Jungwoo. She’s the only one in the room who actually seems excited, cradling her mug like it’s a shield against the inevitable chaos.

“What, no love for me?” Nick gasps, placing a hand dramatically over his chest. “I walk in here after being ignored in the chat all week and you’re acting like I’m invisible?”

Leah rolls her eyes without looking at him. “Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answer to, little bro.”

“You wound me,” Nick mutters, falling into the armchair like he’s been personally attacked.

You snort into your coffee. “What were you guys even doing before you came here?” you ask, turning your head just slightly toward Jungkook. He’s too close. His cologne smells like cedar and leather and something vaguely sweet, and it’s driving you crazy.

Jungkook stretches his arms over the back of the couch and shrugs. “Just gaming. Got sucked into a ten-round match. Jungwoo was rage quitting every five minutes.”

Jungwoo, still looking slightly nervous to be around this much estrogen, huffs from the corner. “Only because you kept stealing my kills.”

“I call that teamwork,” Jungkook says smugly.

“Amazing,” Vicky cuts in, her voice a touch too bright. She leans forward like she’s part of the conversation, even though she clearly wants to be anywhere else. “A group of full-grown men, spending their precious free time playing make-believe war on a flat screen. So inspiring. Truly peak masculinity.”

There’s a second of silence.

Jungkook just raises a brow. “Hey, don’t knock it till you’ve tried the high of landing a perfect sniper shot.”

“Right,” Vicky deadpans. “Because that’s what’s missing from my life. Digital murder.”

You hide your smirk behind your mug. Nick snorts out loud.

“Don’t take it personally, Kook,” you whisper under your breath, your lips brushing the rim of your cup. “She’s just mad because no one ever carried her to victory in Mario Kart.”

Jungkook chuckles low under his breath, and that stupid little sound warms the side of your neck.

“Please,” Vicky says, crossing her arms. “If I wanted to waste hours of my life, I’d re-download Tinder. At least that has real people.”

“Debatable,” Jungkook mutters, and even Leah lets out a laugh at that.

“Besides,” Vicky sing-songs, stretching her arms over the back of the chair like she owns the entire damn living room, “if I wanted to, just hypothetically speaking, spend my time engaging in murder…” —her gaze drifts pointedly toward Jungkook, slow and deliberate— “it sure as hell wouldn’t be the digital kind.”

A beat.

Jungkook blinks once, then exhales like she’s personally exhausted him. “Damn, Vick. I barely stepped into the house and you’re already out here threatening my life?”

“Who says I’m talking about you?” she snaps, lips curling into a sweet, venom-laced smile. “But I mean… if the shoe fits.”

Leah snorts from the couch, muttering something under her breath that sounds suspiciously like, “Size ten in petty.”

Nick, spoon halfway to his mouth, glances between the two of them like he’s watching a tennis match. “You realize he’s a lawyer, right?” he says, around a mouthful of Leah’s crème brûlée. “He could probably put you in jail for, like, intent to commit murder. Or… psychological intimidation. That’s a thing, right?”

“Wow. Thank you, Nicholas,” Jungkook says, lifting his hand to his chest in mock appreciation. “Glad someone here respects the law.”

“Oh, boo hoo,” Vicky sighs, tossing her hand dramatically. “I’m so scared. What are you gonna do? Sue me for having bad vibes?”

Jungkook’s brows shoot up. “Don’t tempt me. I bill by the hour.”

Leah nearly chokes on her tea, covering her mouth to keep from laughing. “God, this feels like a deleted scene from Legally Blonde."

Vicky eyes Jungkook one last time before shifting her focus to her nails like he’s not even worth the continued energy. “Whatever. I’d win in court anyway.”

“You’d win by sheer volume of attitude,” Jungkook mutters.

“You’re damn right.”

“Anyways,” you say, drawing out the word like a life raft tossed into rising tension, “Where’s Nina? How is she?”

“Uhh…” Jungkook scratches the back of his head, a little too slowly. “She’s sick, so she’s resting a bit.”

“Again?” you ask, brows knitting, concern slipping into your voice before you can curb it. “She was feeling off the night you played too. Is she okay?”

“Yeah,” Jungkook shifts in his seat, a bit too quickly. “It’s probably just the weather changing, I'm not sure. But it's nothing serious.”

“Sounds like an excuse to me,” Vicky mutters under her breath, swirling her tea like it wronged her. “What is she, pregnant or something?” She lets out a short laugh, but no one joins in.

In fact, the air shifts—just slightly, but unmistakably.

You feel it first. Jungwoo straightens his shoulders like someone pressed a nerve in his spine. Nick stops mid-bite, his spoon hovering somewhere between the table and his mouth before he quickly lowers it like the dessert is suddenly too rich to swallow. He stares at his plate like it might hold the answer to why this room just dropped ten degrees.

And Jungkook?

Jungkook doesn’t laugh. Not really. He lets out a single, clipped chuckle that dies as quickly as it’s born. His jaw tightens—once, twice—his fingers twitch subtly at his knee. His breath comes shallow. Controlled.

“Of course not,” he says, voice just a tad too light, too quick. “Just a little cold. Happens.”

But his eyes don’t meet yours.

Vicky blinks, her expression faltering as she scans the room, the energy clearly not matching her intent. “I was just joking, guys,” she says slowly, like she’s unsure whether she should be apologizing or doubling down.

You offer her a small, almost sympathetic smile—because truly, you don’t think she meant it. But your stomach twists all the same. Because whatever she said hit something. Something tender. Something no one’s talking about.

And most of all, because Jungkook’s not looking at anyone anymore. Just at the edge of the coffee table. Like he’s suddenly a million miles away.

And for the life of you, you don’t know why.

The conversation trickles back after a few awkward gulps of coffee and half-hearted jokes. Leah tries her best, bless her, chattering about some new café that opened up in town. Nick throws in the occasional sarcastic comment to keep the rhythm from collapsing entirely. Jungwoo nods along like a man on autopilot.

But you can still feel the heaviness clinging to the room like smoke.

Jungkook’s unusually quiet now. He's answering questions when prompted, but his usual warmth is gone—like he packed it away with Nina’s name.

You’re not the only one who notices. Vicky’s arms are crossed tight, and her jaw ticks like she wants to say something but bites it back. Leah’s glance darts between the two of them, the peacemaker instincts activated but unsure where to step in.

Eventually, the opportunity comes when Leah gets up to take more dessert orders and Vicky follows her into the kitchen with a pointed, “We need more whipped cream,” which is clearly just code for let me vent for five minutes before I explode.

Nick and Jungwoo fall into their own small conversation—basketball, you think—something safe.

That’s when you nudge Jungkook’s leg.

He looks at you, slow. You nod toward the hallway.

“Come with me for a second?” you ask quietly.

He follows you without a word.

You stop near the coat rack in the hallway, just out of earshot. It’s dimmer here. Quieter. The hum of a refrigerator from the kitchen and soft chatter from the living room feel miles away.

“You okay?” you ask, voice gentle.

Jungkook shrugs. “Yeah. I told you—she’s just sick.”

You tilt your head, squinting at him. “I didn’t ask about Nina.”

That catches him off guard. His shoulders drop slightly, like you just called him out on holding his breath.

“I’m fine,” he says, this time without the fake lightness. “I just… didn’t expect that.”

You nod, arms crossing, not in defense, but in comfort. “Is there something going on you’re not telling me?”

He doesn’t answer right away. His tongue rolls over the inside of his cheek like he’s chewing on whether or not to speak. And then he exhales through his nose, sharp and quiet.

“There’s just stuff I’m… still figuring out.”

“Okay,” you say simply, not pushing.

His eyes meet yours for a second longer than necessary. There’s so much in them. Fatigue. Frustration. And something else—something you can’t name, but it makes your heart sting a little.

And then, as quickly as it cracked, the mask slides back on.

“We should go back,” he says, already stepping toward the living room.

You watch him walk off. You don’t follow right away.

There’s a weird heaviness in your chest. Not worry. Not sadness. Just this strange, frustrating itch of not knowing.

You don’t know what’s going on with him.

You don’t know what Vicky’s comment touched.

And you really don’t know why all of it is starting to matter more than you want it to.

It's past midnight when you finally get home.

The apartment is dark, your skin smells faintly of creme brulée and laundry detergent, and your phone’s been silent for the past hour.

You lie in bed, staring at the ceiling. And you think about it.

About Vicky’s joke.

About the shift in Jungkook’s posture.

About how he didn’t touch his coffee after that.

About the hallway, and the way he didn’t answer your question, but his eyes did.

So, you do what you shouldn’t do.

You open your texts.

[12:27 AM] You: hey

You stare at it. Delete. Re-type.

[12:28 AM] You: i hope you're okay. you don’t have to explain anything if you’re not ready. i just wanted you to know i’m here. always.

You press send.

And then — because you can’t help yourself — you add one more.

[12:29 AM] You: also. if you ever need someone to fake a kidnapping so you can vanish for a weekend, i have a shovel and a good alibi.

You hit send.

Immediately regret it.

Immediately laugh.

Immediately wonder if he’ll reply.

You put your phone face down on your chest and close your eyes.

The kind of tired you feel isn’t physical.

It’s the kind that settles behind your ribs and waits.

You’re not expecting a reply.

Not tonight, maybe not at all. You know Jungkook — he shuts down when things get too heavy.

But your phone buzzes. Once.

[12:41 AM Kook]: you always know when to text me. it’s scary sometimes.

Then, after a beat, another one.

[12:42 AM] Kook: i’m okay. or trying to be. it doesn't matter. but thank you

Your heart tugs in a way you don’t like. A way that feels too much, too soon, too everything.

He sends one more.

[12:44 AM] Kook: also, pretty sure the shovel thing is illegal. but i’m keeping you in mind. just in case.

You laugh. You smile. You almost cry. All at once.

You set your phone down gently, like it’s carrying something fragile. Because maybe it is. Maybe it always has when it comes to Jungkook.

The room is dark except for the soft glow of the city bleeding in through your curtains, dancing shadows on your wall. You exhale, long and quiet, and sink deeper into your mattress, the weight of the day pressing against your chest.

You don’t reply to him. Not because you don’t want to, but because you don’t trust yourself not to say too much. Because your fingers are twitching to type "I miss you,” and your chest aches with the need to ask "What are you not telling me?” But instead, you let the silence answer for you.

You turn over, blanket pulled up to your chin, eyes open to the ceiling, and you realize something:

This is no longer simple.

It hasn’t been for a while now.

Jungkook's words echo in your head as you finally close your eyes.

“You always know when to text me.”

And yeah—

That’s exactly the problem.

taglist: @lovingkoalaface @santiiagopopegarcia @jadaocon1 @asyr97 @gukieater @themwordsblog @whatevevrerr @amarawayne @tititania @guwol @reallygenerouskoala @kyljjk @whoa-jo @taekritimin123 @minimoninini @upo1313 @polnaraffsrack @tatzzz-25 @orphicepiphany @coletaehyung @bjoriis @epiphany-n @kimyishin @eegyo @dearmyfavoritepeople-bts @parkinglot-nights @mar-lo-pap @evrsncenewyork @jjeonjjk7 @minghaosimp @cerulean1riz @anumita-2007 @vantelover1306 @vynmin @nadzzzblog @jnghs @lachimolalajeon @joonwater @choijay-07 @notsevenwithyou @mononoaware16 @sky-23s-world @auroresce @sadgirlroo @arcadiaem @kokoandkookie @nakyra2 @kissyfacekoo @butterymin @kokoandkookie

[theonottsbxtch]

THE LOCKER NEXT TO HIS PT1 | LN4

an: the forth installment! i had a lot of fun writing this one as you can tell it is much longer than all the other ones, this one i am holding very dear to my chest and would die for this version of lando, following this one is med school!isack, i hope you enjoy this installment! i have to post them in two parts because its too long lmao

wc: 17.2k (both parts together)

warnings: mentions of death & trauma

summary: lando was just a tired firefighter in a flat that smelled like rice and regrets. then she showed up, quiet, sharp, accidentally charming. and suddenly things weren’t so routine. they flirt like it’s an olympic sport, but grief lingers like smoke. somewhere between post-it notes and midnight gelato, they start to save each other.

PART TWO uniformed hearts masterlist

LANDO HADN'T MEANT TO STAY IN THAT FLAT MORE THAN SIX MONTHS. A stopgap, that’s what he’d called it. Just somewhere cheap, close to the station, until something better came along. That was two years ago.

Now, the walls still had damp blooming quietly up the corners, the boiler made a wheezing noise every time someone flushed the loo, and someone, probably Isack, had blu-tacked a page of anatomy revision notes to the fridge like it belonged there. But it was cheap. And close to work. And, in a way he didn’t often admit, just familiar enough to feel like home.

He shared it with two others. Franco, a paramedic who was mostly never around and staying at his girlfriend’s place, and Isack, a med student who never spoke above a whisper and survived almost exclusively on rice. Lando saw more of their laundry than their faces.

The place smelt faintly of washing powder and leftover curry. The living room rug was half-singed from a failed candle experiment last winter. Still, at the end of a long shift, it was warm. And sometimes that was enough.

This morning, he was already late.

He jammed a half-eaten cereal bar into his mouth, slung his fleece over one shoulder, and locked the flat behind him with the usual three-jiggle twist it took to get the key to behave. The sun hadn’t quite committed to rising yet, that strange hour when the world felt like it belonged to delivery vans and joggers and no one else.

The station was only ten minutes away. Twelve, if he stopped to grab a tea.

He didn’t.

Inside, the usual morning buzz was just beginning, chairs scraping, the telly droning low in the corner, Zak already sighing like the day had personally offended him.

Lando was halfway through pulling off his jacket when he saw her.

Standing in the kitchen, back turned, sleeves rolled up, one hand on the kettle and the other flicking through a file. Hair up. Posture that said she wasn’t just passing through.

He paused, briefly, just taking her in. She wasn’t familiar. And he’d have remembered.

Not firefighter. Not one of the council types either. Too practical.

New.

He didn’t say anything straight away. Just stepped into the doorway and leaned against the frame, casual as anything.

She noticed him. Didn’t look up. Just said, “If you’re here to ask when breakfast’s ready, you’ll be disappointed.”

Lando blinked. Then smiled, slow. “Right. So no full English then?”

“Not unless you brought your own pan. And cleaned it first.”

He chuckled, stepped further in. “Didn’t realise we’d hired a chef.”

“We didn’t,” she said, glancing up now. Her eyes were sharp. “I’m maintenance.”

“Maintenance?” he echoed. “You fix the boiler or the printer?”

“Neither. I answer phones, do inventory, chase you lot for forms you forget to fill out.”

“Ah,” he said, mock grin. “The real power behind the throne.”

She raised a brow. “Something like that.”

He offered a hand, out of habit. “Lando.”

She glanced at it, then shook it once, quick and professional. “I know.”

That caught him off guard. “You do?”

“You’re the one who broke the kitchen chair last week, left half a Kinder in the fridge with a post-it that said ‘mine’, and wrote your own name on the rota in capital letters. Twice.”

He blinked. Then laughed. “Alright. Bit of a fan, are you?”

“Not even slightly.”

Her tone was deadpan, but there was the faintest twitch at the corner of her mouth, not quite a smile, more the memory of one.

Lando tilted his head, watching her. “Well. If you’re going to be making notes on me, at least let me buy you a coffee first.”

She didn’t roll her eyes exactly, but the look she gave him was somewhere between amused and unimpressed.

“Do you flirt with everyone this early in the morning, or am I just the lucky one?”

He grinned, crooked. “Only the ones who remember the Kinder.”

That earned him nothing but the click of a cupboard door and the soft clatter of mugs being rearranged.

Still, as he turned to leave, she said, almost offhand, “Zak wants you to do a PPE check. Form’s on your locker.”

He glanced back. “You always this charming, or just for me?”

She didn’t look up this time. Just stirred her tea and said, “Don’t flatter yourself.”

But her voice had softened by a degree. And Lando, who had been through enough hell to know the difference between cold and careful, he just smiled to himself and walked away.

Lando grinned all the way down the corridor. He wasn’t sure if it was the tea fumes or the new girl’s deadpan delivery, but something about the whole exchange left him in a better mood than he’d started in.

He found Oscar in the mess room, hunched over a bowl of cereal like it was the only thing tethering him to consciousness. There were dark smudges under his eyes and a slight sway to the way he was sitting, like he hadn’t slept properly in weeks, which, to be fair, he probably hadn’t.

“Morning, sunshine,” Lando said, dropping into the chair opposite.

Oscar grunted.

“Alright, Eeyore. You look like you’ve been up all night getting emotionally waterboarded.”

“I have been up all night,” Oscar muttered, spoon halfway to his mouth. “Baby won’t settle unless she’s lying on me, and at some point I passed out with half a dummy stuck to my cheek.”

Lando winced. “Fatherhood’s so hot.”

Oscar gave him a look that could’ve curdled milk. Then went back to his cereal.

Lando leaned back in his chair. “Met the new girl yet?”

“What new girl?”

“Maintenance. Zak’s latest hire. Bit of an enigma. Possibly my soulmate.”

Oscar blinked. “You’ve known her five minutes.”

“Yeah, and I’ve grown emotionally in all of them.” He stood, gesturing with his mug. “Come on.”

Oscar stared at him, unmoving.

Lando sighed. “This is what happens when you don’t talk to adults. You forget how to do normal social things. Get up. This is your reintroduction to society.”

Oscar groaned, but stood anyway, carrying his cereal bowl with the slow resignation of a man who knew he wasn’t winning this.

Upstairs, the kitchen was still warm. A different kind of quiet now, more settled. She was sorting through a delivery box on the counter, frowning down at a set of mugs that looked suspiciously like they belonged in someone’s nan’s attic.

Lando leaned casually in the doorway, Oscar lurking just behind him.

She glanced up, caught them both staring, and narrowed her eyes. “Why am I being looked at like I’m on trial?”

Oscar, ever the diplomat, cleared his throat awkwardly. “Sorry just… there’s usually no women here.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Right. First time seeing one?”

Oscar flushed slightly. “No. I just meant…”

“Mm.” She looked him up and down, then caught the glint of the ring on his left hand. “So it’s not your first time. That’s a relief. What’s Lando’s excuse?”

Lando, who was sipping from his mug just to appear casual, nearly choked. “I don’t need an excuse,” he said, grinning. “I’m a very supportive colleague. Just thought you two should meet. Oscar’s our resident domestic deity. Got a newborn and a soft spot for dad jokes.”

“Impressive,” she said, with a faint smile. Then to Oscar, “Congratulations.”

“Thanks,” he said, still a bit thrown. “She’s small. And loud. But I love her.”

That made her laugh, just a little. The sort of sound that caught Lando more than he’d admit. Light and fleeting, like something she didn’t let out often.

She turned back to the mugs, pulling one out with a small frown. “These are horrible.”

Oscar peered at them. “They look like they came from a charity shop in 1983.”

“They did,” she muttered, checking the box label. “Brilliant.”

Lando leaned in. “You know, we’ve got some pristine ones in the crew room. Untouched. We only use the chipped ones out of loyalty.”

She gave him a look. “You mean laziness.”

He shrugged. “Tomato, tomato.”

Oscar, sensing he was no longer needed, backed away slowly like a man escaping a wild animal encounter. “Right, I’m going to pretend I’m still on leave.”

“You’re literally in uniform,” Lando called after him.

Oscar held up his cereal bowl in vague farewell and disappeared down the hall.

That left Lando in the doorway again, her still half-focused on unpacking, but not quite not-looking at him.

He tapped the side of his mug with one finger. “So. No name badge. I’m still operating on mystery-girl settings.”

She didn’t look up. “That’s intentional.”

“Fair. Adds to the intrigue.”

“I think your definition of intrigue is ‘mild inconvenience’.”

He grinned. “Only when it comes with sarcasm and a file of health and safety violations.”

She glanced at him then, properly. The sort of glance that said she was still deciding what to make of him. Not in a rude way. Just measured.

“I’m here to work,” she said, tone light but firm. “Not get flirted with by every firefighter who forgets how to work a printer.”

Lando placed his mug down on the counter and gave her a small, mock-serious nod. “Right. I’ll keep it professional, then. Strictly toner cartridges and awkward eye contact.”

She snorted. “Please don’t make eye contact when discussing toner. That feels weirdly intimate.”

Lando laughed. “Alright. No eye contact. But I reserve the right to leave mysterious Post-it notes.”

She raised a brow. “You leave mysterious Kinders. Not the same.”

He held his hands up in surrender. “Guilty.”

The radio crackled to life again in the background, some caller-in show about potholes, typically British. She turned back to the box and he lingered for a moment longer, just watching the way she worked. Efficient. Sharp. Like someone who’d been underestimated enough to turn it into armour.

Eventually, he straightened. “Well. Welcome to the circus.”

She didn’t look up. “Thanks.”

He paused just long enough to hear her say it.

Then headed back down the hall, still grinning, like he’d just been handed a puzzle he wouldn’t mind taking his time figuring out.

She’d been here a week. And no one had noticed.

Which, to be fair, was exactly how she’d planned it.

There was a certain freedom in invisibility, no questions, no expectations, just her and the never-ending list of things that needed restocking, reordering, or politely emailing the council about. The station ticked along with its own rhythm, and she slotted herself into the gaps. Fixed the printer. Made the tea. Carried on with the quiet efficiency of someone trying very hard not to be part of the story.

And then Lando had walked into the kitchen with his ridiculous grin and his even more ridiculous face, and now well.

She’d been noticed.

Not just glanced at. Not just nodded to. Noticed. Clocked. Eyed in that way she’d hoped wouldn’t happen. The way that said I see you, even if he didn’t know what he was looking at yet.

She wasn’t sure how she felt about it.

Well. She was. She just wasn’t sure she liked how she felt about it.

She turned back to the delivery box with unnecessary focus, tugging another mug out with a bit too much force. Her knuckles grazed the edge of the cardboard. She didn’t swear, not aloud, anyway.

The thing was, she hadn’t wanted to be here. At all.

After uni, she’d done what everyone told her to, took a gap year to "find herself", which mostly involved booking flights she couldn’t afford and having mild identity crises in hostels that smelt like socks. It was meant to help. Give her time. Clarity. A sense of direction.

It gave her a sunburn, two expired travel cards, and a vague dislike of anyone who said "manifest it" unironically.

So when she landed back home with no plan and even less money, her dad had said, kindly, firmly, with that look she knew better than to argue with, “You need to face reality.”

And reality, apparently, was a job at his fire station.

Maintenance, on paper. Odd jobs. Admin. Support. Nothing official. He’d even promised, hand on heart, that no one would know they were related.

And so far, he’d kept that promise.

They barely spoke on shift. Just passing nods and the occasional muttered “well done” when she managed to fix the kitchen tap with nothing but a spoon and a suspiciously old instruction manual.

Still. It was weird. Being there. Being her there.

The station had its own language, radio codes, nicknames, shorthand she hadn’t quite cracked yet. It smelled of gear bags and burnt toast and stale deodorant. The men were mostly decent, older, tired, still caught in the glory days of jokes from 2009. Some of the younger ones looked at her like she was either an intern or a misplaced delivery.

But none of them had really looked at her. Until this morning.

She rubbed the back of her wrist absent-mindedly, eyeing the last few mugs. The sound of Lando’s voice still lingered faintly in her head, bright, teasing, too quick for her to deflect without thinking.

She didn’t want to be flirted with. She didn’t want anyone to ask her name. She didn’t want to feel warm in the face just because some firefighter with annoyingly nice forearms and a crooked smile had noticed she existed.

She wanted to do her job. Get paid. Maybe disappear again in six months.

But now…

Now she’d been noticed.

She shoved the last mug onto the shelf, shut the cupboard a bit too firmly, and stood there for a second, palms flat on the counter.

Maybe he’d forget about her. Maybe it was just a one-off.

She opened her eyes and sighed.

It definitely wasn’t.

By midday, the station had settled into that familiar low hum, not quite quiet, but not buzzing either. She liked it best like this. Paperwork stacked into vaguely sensible piles, someone’s half-finished toast abandoned on a plate in the kitchen, and a dog-eared training manual lying face down on the sofa like it had given up on life.

She moved through the building with her usual rhythm, checked the rota board, confirmed the equipment delivery (which was, as always, three helmets short and labelled for a completely different station), replaced the loo roll in the women's locker room, even though she was still the only person using it.

It wasn’t glamorous, but it was something. And she was good at it, the small, invisible things that made everything else tick along.

Around half three, she swung by her dad’s office.

The door was slightly ajar, as always, and the radio on his desk was turned low, some footie commentary murmuring away like background weather. He was hunched over a spreadsheet, glasses low on his nose, biro in mouth.

She knocked gently on the doorframe. “Delivery update. You’re not getting your flash hoods until Friday. And someone in logistics thinks we’re in Milton Keynes.”

Without looking up, he said, “Alright, princess.”

She rolled her eyes so hard it hurt. “No.”

He looked up, blinked. “Sorry. Force of habit.”

“Yeah, well. Break it.”

He smiled, a little sheepish, a little smug. “Noted.”

She stepped inside, resting a hip against the edge of his desk. “Everything alright?”

He sighed. “Fine, mostly. Andrea’s chasing up the budget report. Something about overspending on vehicle maintenance.”

“Because the bloody ladder mechanism got stuck again and someone tried to fix it with WD-40 and optimism.”

He snorted. “God, you sound like me.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Don’t say that like it’s a compliment.”

“Didn’t realise it wasn’t.”

She smirked despite herself, then nodded toward the open personnel files beside him. “Anyone actually fill out their updated medical forms?”

“Two out of fifteen.”

She made a noise of vague despair. “And you wonder why I threaten them with brightly coloured spreadsheets.”

He chuckled. “You’re good at this, you know.”

She shrugged. “Doesn’t mean I want to be here.”

His expression shifted, just slightly. “I know.”

There was a pause. Not awkward, just full of things they weren’t going to say.

Eventually she pushed off from the desk and nodded toward the hallway. “Alright. I’ve got to go and chase up the missing radio order.”

“Thanks, love.”

She froze. Gave him a very pointed look over her shoulder.

He held his hands up in surrender. “Sorry. Force of habit.”

She muttered something under her breath and stepped out into the corridor.

Only to walk straight into Lando.

He was leaning against the wall outside, arms folded, one foot propped up behind him like he’d been there long enough to get comfortable. He had that look on his face, the one people got when they knew something they shouldn’t.

“Princess, huh?”

Her whole body stilled. “No.”

He raised an eyebrow, far too pleased with himself. “Didn’t peg you for the royal sort.”

“Piss off.”

He stepped beside her, falling into step as she marched back down the corridor. “Do we curtsy now? Or is it more of a wave-from-the-balcony vibe?”

She didn’t look at him. “If you start humming God Save the King I will staple your rota to your forehead.”

Lando grinned. “Ooh, feisty. Bit of a Lady Catherine de Bourgh situation.”

She glared sideways at him. “You read Pride and Prejudice?”

“No. But I saw the film. The one with the pond scene.”

“Of course you did.”

They turned a corner. He was still going. “Alright, what about Duchess? Your Royal Highness? Madam?”

“You sound like you’re ordering off a weird menu.”

“Alright, alright. Something simpler. Love?”

“No.”

“Darling?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Babe?”

She stopped walking and gave him a look so withering it could’ve stripped paint.

He held his hands up. “Right, not babe. Got it. Bit strong.”

“Bit tragic.”

He smirked. “Fine. We’ll keep it simple. How about… Trouble?”

She raised an eyebrow. “You’ve known me less than a month.”

“Exactly. And look how much damage you’ve done already.”

She shook her head and started walking again, refusing to let him see the way her mouth wanted to twitch.

He kept pace beside her, not saying anything now. Just humming. Badly.

Probably God Save the King.

She sighed.

This was going to be a long placement.

By the end of her second week at the station, she could walk the corridors without needing to look where she was going.

There was a comfort in routine, not the dramatic sort, not anything life-affirming, just the steady hum of predictability. Tom still started every morning with a groan and a tea he never finished. Andrea had taken to recounting the same three stories about her early days on shift, adding a new detail each time, like folklore. The back door stuck. The toaster was temperamental. The station dog, who technically didn’t exist, but wandered in most afternoons, had taken a liking to her boots.

She moved quietly through the days, doing her job well enough to be useful, not so well that anyone got ideas. Printouts, forms, stock requests, phone calls. The small things no one else remembered to do, until they weren’t done.

She liked being overlooked. There was peace in it.

Or there had been, until Lando started paying attention.

It began on Monday, in the kitchen, where he appeared beside her while she was fixing the drawer runners. He held out a custard cream like it was a rare offering.

“I’m not bribable,” she said, not looking up.

“Not even for the superior biscuit?”

She glanced at him, expression flat. “That’s not the superior biscuit. That’s the beige one people pretend to like.”

He looked scandalised. She ignored the smile curling behind his scowl.

By Tuesday, she’d learned to brace herself.

Oscar passed her in the hallway holding what looked like the contents of a nursery in both hands, a car seat, a onesie, a muslin cloth draped over his shoulder like a war flag.

“Do you know how babies’ arms work?” he asked, bleary-eyed.

She blinked. “Not really?”

He nodded. “Didn’t think so. They’re too bendy.” Then wandered off in the direction of the kit room, muttering something about elasticated nightmares.

On Wednesday, Lando caught her crouched under the printer with her hand up to the wrist in toner powder.

“You always fix everything?” he asked.

She didn’t look at him. “Someone has to.”

There was a pause.

“You good at fixing people too?”

She did look up, then. Not long, just enough to catch something unfamiliar in his expression, something quieter, more honest than she’d expected.

“People are messier,” she said.

He nodded. “Yeah. We are.”

He left her to the toner after that.

Thursday brought Oscar again, sat on the sofa in the mess room staring into a cup of tea like it wasn’t the correct colour.

“You alright?” she asked.

“I cried at a John Lewis advert this morning,” he said. “The penguin one. So lonely.”

She made him another tea, stronger this time, and sat beside him until he stopped sighing.

On Friday, she caught Lando standing in front of the noticeboard, staring at a tacked-up photo someone had left, a family barbeque, blurry and sunlit. His arms were folded, jaw tight. Still.

She almost said something. Almost.

But then he turned, saw her watching, and grinned like it had never happened.

Later, he called her handwriting weirdly attractive. She called him a walking HR risk. But the moment had stayed.

By Saturday, things had shifted.

She found a Post-it on the coffee tin.

Superior biscuit rankings:

Chocolate Hobnob

Bourbons

Rich Tea (if dunked properly)

Custard Creams (wrongly slandered)

Underneath, a line in smaller script: This list is legally binding. Debate at your own peril. — L.

She rolled her eyes. Smirked. Reached for a pen.

Chocolate Digestives or we riot. 

She didn’t sign it, but she knew he’d know.

On Sunday, Oscar appeared again, looking vaguely haunted.

“Why are you here?” she asked, eyeing the yoghurt on his jumper.

“I just needed to be near adults,” he said, deadpan. “I had a forty-minute conversation with a sock this morning.”

She made him coffee. He thanked her like she’d just administered CPR.

And just like that, another week passed.

She still didn’t have a nameplate on her door. Still hadn’t told anyone her dad ran the place. But the station had begun to feel less unfamiliar. Not home, not exactly. But somewhere in the region.

And Lando hadn’t stopped.

Still teased. Still turned up at inconvenient moments. Still leaned into conversations with that smirk like he was trying to distract her from something neither of them were ready to say.

But every so often, she caught him between expressions. When he thought no one was watching. And that was when she saw it, the quiet edge beneath the grin, the pause that lasted half a second too long.

She didn’t know what it meant yet.

Didn’t know if she wanted to.

But she’d noticed.

And it was becoming harder not to look.

It was nearly midnight by the time she reached the station. She hadn’t meant to come back  but somewhere around mile three of a run she didn’t particularly want to be on, she’d realised she’d left her charger under the printer desk. Again.

The streets were quiet, the kind of quiet that only settled after eleven, not empty, just still. Streetlights hummed above. The air smelled faintly like takeaway and damp concrete.

She let herself in through the back door, not expecting anyone to be around.

The station at night was different. Softer. The fluorescent glare had given way to low amber bulbs in the corridors. The mess room telly was muted, casting a flickering glow over abandoned mugs and someone’s half-finished Sudoku. No shouting. No alarms. Just the odd creak of old floorboards and the distant hum of the boiler cupboard.

She padded towards the office, tugging her hoodie down over her hands. Her legs ached pleasantly, the ache that came from moving just to stop your brain spinning.

She was halfway through reaching under the desk when she heard it, the clink of a spoon against a mug, followed by a low, familiar voice.

“Well, well. If it isn’t the mystery admin gremlin.”

She looked up.

Lando was in the kitchen, sleeves of his fleece rolled to the elbows, tea in hand, leaning against the counter like he lived there. His hair was damp at the ends, like he’d just come back from a call and jumped through a quick shower. There was a streak of something, ash, maybe, along the hem of his shirt. He looked comfortable. Tired in a way that suited him.

“I’m not a gremlin,” she said, standing upright, her hoodie sticking slightly to her arms with sweat. “I came to get my charger.”

“Midnight charger rescue mission?” he said, raising an eyebrow. “Very high stakes.”

“Not all of us have three spare at home.”

He took a sip of his tea. “And here I was thinking you just couldn’t stay away.”

She gave him a look.

He grinned.

She sighed and walked past him into the kitchen, opening the cupboard mostly to avoid his face. “Aren’t you on night shift?”

“Mm. Just me, for now. Everyone else is either asleep or pretending to be.”

She nodded, pulling a glass down from the shelf.

“Didn’t think I’d see you here at this hour,” he added, watching her with quiet curiosity. “Out for a jog?”

“Run,” she corrected. “Jogging implies I enjoyed it.”

He smiled around his mug. “You always run late at night?”

“Helps clear my head.”

He nodded, slowly, like he understood.

She didn’t elaborate. Didn’t need to.

There was a beat of silence. Not awkward, just full.

She poured herself some water from the tap, the metal clinking gently as she set the glass down.

“You alright?” he asked, softer now.

She hesitated. “Yeah. Just needed some air.”

He didn’t push. Just sipped his tea again, eyes not quite meeting hers.

“You always here this late?” she asked, turning the question back on him.

“Not always. Just got back from a call.” He shrugged. “Small fire. Washing machine went rogue.”

She smirked faintly. “Those bloody washing machines. Menace to society.”

He laughed quietly. “Tell me about it. Once helped my friend Max who got his cat stuck in a washing machine.”

She raised an eyebrow.

He gave a small shake of his head. “Don’t ask.”

They stood there for a moment, the quiet settling between them like an old jumper. Comfortable. A little frayed.

She leaned back against the counter. “Always the joker when you’re tired, huh?”

“I always joke,” he said simply. Then added, “Tired just makes it more dangerous.”

She looked at him then, really looked. The easy grin, the slouched shoulders, the way his fingers wrapped around the mug like he didn’t quite trust his hands to be still otherwise.

And there it was again. That flicker. That pause, right before he spoke. Like something inside him was louder than the words he let out.

“You alright?” she asked, the question returned, quieter this time.

He looked up, surprised.

“Yeah,” he said after a second. “Just been a long shift. You know how it is.”

She nodded, but didn’t move.

He tapped the rim of his mug once, twice, then glanced over. “You ever feel like you’re running just to stop your head catching up with you?”

She looked at him. “Yeah.”

His eyes softened a fraction. “Yeah. Me too.”

That was all. Nothing more than that. But it sat between them, heavier than silence.

She finished her water, set the glass down gently.

“Well,” she said, already moving toward the door, “I’ve got my charger now. Gremlin duties complete.”

He stepped aside, holding the door open like he’d done it a hundred times.

“Night, princess.”

She paused mid-step. Turned slowly. “Seriously?”

He shrugged. “What was it? Force of habit.”

“Fuck off.”

He grinned. “Sleep well, your majesty.”

She rolled her eyes and walked off, hoodie sleeves shoved down to her knuckles, face warm in a way she refused to examine.

Behind her, the door creaked shut. The corridor hummed.

And for the first time in a long time, she wasn’t sure if she wanted to be invisible after all.

Lando waited until he heard the back door click shut before moving.

The corridor hummed faintly behind him, that low, electric buzz that stations all seemed to have at night, like the walls were holding their breath.

Lando set his mug down in the sink, rinsed it, left it to dry on the draining board with the others that no one ever put away. His hands were still damp when he pressed the button for the gym lights.

They flickered once. Came on low.

It wasn’t much of a gym, just an old weight bench, a knackered treadmill, and a punching bag that swayed too much when the heating kicked in. But it did the job. Kept the edges off. Let him move until his brain shut up.

He slipped off his fleece, rolled his sleeves to the elbows, and started with push-ups. Nothing fancy. Just movement. Repetition.

Down. Breathe. Up.

Again.

The floor was cold beneath his palms. The air tasted faintly of rubber matting and leftover adrenaline.

He kept going.

Fifteen. Twenty. Twenty-five.

It wasn’t about numbers. Wasn’t about anything, really, just the act of it. The quiet. The ache. The way it drowned everything else out.

When his shoulders started to burn, he switched. Pull-ups, then bag work. Let his knuckles sting. Let the punchbag sway too far and hit him back. Maybe he deserved it.

After a while, he didn’t count.

He stopped when his arms wouldn’t quite lift the way he asked them to.

The sweat cooled quick. It always did in here. He wiped his face on the bottom of his T-shirt and didn’t bother changing. Just grabbed his fleece, still warm from before, and walked back into the corridor like nothing had happened.

Except something had.

It always did, when she was around.

He didn’t know what it was, exactly. She was sharp, sure. Funny, in that dry, blink-and-you-miss-it kind of way. But it wasn’t just that.

It was how she looked at him sometimes. Like she hadn’t decided yet if she trusted him. Like she could see the cracks before he even made them obvious.

And that scared the hell out of him.

He wandered back into the mess room, lights still low. The telly was off now. Someone had left an empty tea bag on the side, like a promise they’d come back and clean it up later. They wouldn’t.

He sat for a minute. Let the quiet settle. Tried to ignore the way his chest still hadn’t caught up with his breath.

Then he stood. Walked to the noticeboard.

The photo was still there.

It always surprised him how no one seemed to mention it. Like it had just become part of the wall, pinned between rotas and fire safety posters and that one printout about mental health support that no one had taken seriously since 2014.

It was a family photo. Slightly curled at the corners. Dad, mum, two boys, one lanky, older, arms folded like he thought he was hard. The other younger, round-cheeked, grinning with the sort of abandon you only ever saw in children.

He didn’t know who they were. Had never asked. Probably someone’s cousin’s cousin, a story passed along the chain and forgotten.

But every time he looked at it, his stomach twisted.

Tonight, it didn’t twist. Tonight, it dropped.

He stared at it for too long. Didn’t blink. Didn’t move.

Just breathed.

And there it was, the flicker. The corner of memory he spent every day trying not to walk past. The echo of a voice. A smell he couldn’t quite name.

He reached out.

Fingers didn’t touch the photo. Just hovered.

Then the alarm went.

That shrill, familiar sound that sliced through everything.

Lando flinched.

He grabbed his fleece, shrugged it on, and ran.

No time to think.

Just the job.

Just keep moving.

It was Monday, which meant the station was technically quieter, fewer calls, fewer people, fewer distractions. But admin didn’t stop just, it kept coming, and her dad had casually dropped a teetering stack of paperwork on her desk that morning with a cheerful, “No rush, but yesterday.”

So she’d parked herself in the corner office, the one with the drafty window and the chair that wheezed when you leaned too far back, and resigned herself to a day of forms, phone calls, and sighing.

She was halfway through reformatting a log sheet when she heard the unmistakable squeak of a wheeled chair being dragged down the corridor.

Not rolled.

Dragged.

She didn’t even look up. “If you break that, you’re paying for it.”

The noise stopped in the doorway.

“I’ll have you know this is a tactical relocation,” came Lando’s voice, far too pleased with himself.

She looked up, unimpressed. He stood there with a chair from the meeting room, one hand still gripping the backrest like he might ride it into battle.

“You’re not on shift,” she said.

He shrugged. “Franco’s got his girlfriend round and Isack’s studying for some terrifying anatomy thing. He offered to show me the flashcards. I ran.”

“And you thought this was the better option?”

He rolled the chair in beside her desk, flopped into it like a bored teenager, and stretched his legs out with a dramatic sigh. “I figured you missed me.”

She didn’t dignify that with a response. Just kept typing.

He watched her for a bit, not in a creepy way, just with the sort of idle curiosity that came from having nothing else to do and nowhere else to be.

“So,” he said eventually, “what’s the most thrilling form on your desk today?”

“Incident review,” she said. “From two weeks ago.”

“Scandalous.”

“I can feel your sarcasm from here.”

“I’m just saying,” he said, spinning slowly in the chair, “this room could use a bit more sparkle.”

She side-eyed him. “You’re not sparkle. You’re disruption.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Wasn’t one.”

But she didn’t tell him to leave. And he didn’t move.

She kept working, and he kept gently spinning in that way people do when they’re fighting the urge to fidget. After a while, she slid a stack of blank forms across the desk.

“If you’re going to loiter, make yourself useful.”

He blinked at them. “Am I being put to work?”

“You’re here. You’re breathing. That’s enough for me.”

He picked one up and held it like it might bite. “You know this is against the Geneva Convention.”

“Welcome to admin,” she said, dry.

They fell into an odd rhythm. She typed, answered the occasional radio call, scribbled notes. He asked questions with the sincerity of someone who had never willingly filled out a form in his life.

Somewhere around the fourth page, she glanced over at him properly. Really looked.

He was slouched, legs long in front of him, head tilted back just slightly as he read a line for the third time. There were faint shadows under his eye, darker than usual. His jaw was less tight, somehow, like he’d run out of energy to hold it.

“You look like you haven’t slept in ages,” she said, casually.

He looked up. Smirked. “I’m good.”

She frowned.

He looked away, back at the form, pen twirling between his fingers.

The thing was, he said it like a reflex. Not like it was true.

She didn’t press. Just went back to her own work.

Time slipped on, slow and quiet, the clock ticking somewhere behind them. The room was warm, soft with sunlight filtering through the blinds.

At some point, she reached for the stapler. When she glanced up again, he’d gone still.

Proper still.

Head tilted against the back of the chair, mouth slightly open, pen still in his hand, but asleep.

Deep, unbothered sleep.

She stared at him for a moment, unsure whether to be annoyed or concerned.

Then she sighed. Rolled her chair back. Opened the drawer, pulled out an old fleece someone had left behind, and draped it gently across his chest.

He didn’t stir.

“Idiot,” she muttered.

But she didn’t wake him.

Not yet.

Hours went by and he didn’t move once.

She checked twice, just to be sure, once by glancing over the top of her monitor, and again by quietly sliding her chair back and standing, careful not to disturb the creaky floorboard by the heater.

Still out cold. Head tilted slightly to one side now, jaw slack with sleep, hand resting lightly on the folder he hadn’t managed to finish. 

She left it there.

It was the most still she’d seen him since arriving at the station. No smart remarks. No grin. Just quiet.

She sat back down and tried to work. Tried being the operative word.

Ten minutes later, the corridor outside creaked under the weight of heavier boots, and then—

“Ah, just the person I’m looking for.”

Max’s voice, authoritative and a bit too loud. She’d been introduced to him last week when he came back after a garage fire.

She stood quickly, holding a finger to her lips. “Shh. Please.”

Max blinked. Oscar, just behind him, squinted into the room.

Then both of them spotted Lando.

“Oh,” Max said, voice dropping to a whisper. “Is he asleep?”

She nodded. “He came in a couple of hours ago. Wasn’t on shift, just, turned up. Said he was bored.”

Oscar sighed. “Sounds about right.”

Max stepped a little closer, peering at Lando like he wasn’t sure whether to laugh or take a photo.

“He looks twelve like that,” he said.

“He looks like he hasn’t slept properly in days,” she said quietly. “Just let him be.”

Oscar gave her a look. Not mocking. Just knowing.

Max nodded, stepping back again. “Right. I’ll be quick. I only needed him to sign off on a joint report from that garage fire. Insurance flagged something weird. It’s just a formality.”

“I’ll sort it,” she said without hesitation. “Leave it with me.”

Max raised an eyebrow. “You sure?”

“Yeah. I’ll get it signed and sent over first thing.”

Oscar was still watching her. She didn’t meet his gaze.

Max handed over the folder, gave her a grateful nod, and turned to go.

Oscar lingered for half a second.

“He probably doesn’t sleep, otherwise,” he said, soft.

Then he followed Max down the hall.

She stood there for a long moment after they’d gone.

Then turned back to Lando, still dead to the world in that chair that couldn’t have been comfortable, and whispered, “You’re not fooling anyone, you know.”

But she didn’t wake him.

Instead, she pulled out a new form, clicked her pen, and quietly got to work.

Lando didn’t talk about it.

Didn’t mention the fact he’d fallen asleep mid-sentence, slumped in a borrowed chair in the corner of her office like it was the most natural thing in the world. Didn’t apologise. Didn’t make a joke about it. Just vanished.

She’d only stepped out for five minutes, a quick detour to her dad’s office to hand over a supply order and get cornered into a discussion about rota gaps.

When she came back, he was gone.

The chair had been returned to the meeting room. The admin folder he’d been working on was neatly stacked, signed and dated. Her pen capped. The desk tidied.

And on top, stuck at a slight angle, was a yellow Post-it note in familiar handwriting:

might steal your job — L

She smiled, helplessly. Rolled her eyes. Folded the note in half and slipped it into her notebook like it didn’t mean anything.

She’d just sat down again when Oscar appeared in the doorway, knocking gently against the frame like he wasn’t sure if she was mid-email or mid-breakdown.

“Got a minute?” he asked.

She looked up. “I haven’t broken anything. Yet.”

“Not here to scold. For once.”

He stepped inside, holding a bright pink envelope that had clearly been carried by someone under the age of ten, it was covered in butterfly stickers and glittery stars, and her name was written on the front in purple gel pen, all curls and extra hearts all over the place.

She blinked. “Should I be worried?”

Oscar grinned. “Aurelia’s birthday party. This weekend.”

“Oh,” she said, trying to sound normal. “She’s turning…?”

“Nine,” he said. “Going on nineteen.”

She smiled. “Big deal, then.”

“Massive. There will be pizza, games, some kind of pinterest inspired cake situation I don’t fully understand. She made invitations herself. You’re on the guest list.”

He handed it over.

She took it carefully, trying not to dislodge the glitter.

Inside was a folded card covered in felt-tip doodles, unicorns, a suspiciously buff firefighter, and a massive ‘YOU’RE INVITED’ across the top. Inside, written in big letters with no regard for spacing:

dear fire girl,pls come to my birthday on saturday. there will be cake and silly games and my stepdad said you’re cool even tho you look serious all the time.also mum says you have very nice hair.love,Aurelia :)

She stared at it for a second, something warm catching in her throat.

“I’m not fire crew,” she said, not really to him. “I just do paperwork.”

Oscar shrugged. “You’re here. That’s enough.”

There was something about the way he said it, like it was obvious. Like she didn’t need to prove anything.

“I’m not trying to crash anything,” she added quickly. “I know it’s a family thing.”

“And you’re part of that,” he said, simple as anything. “Like it or not.”

She didn’t trust herself to speak straight away. Just nodded, pressing her thumb against the edge of the envelope to keep her hands busy.

Oscar gave her a soft smile. “Don’t overthink it. Just show up. Eat some cake. Let a small child judge your dancing.”

“Terrifying,” she muttered.

“Welcome to the family.”

And with that, he wandered off down the corridor, humming something that might have been the Cha Cha Slide.

She sat there a little longer, staring at the card, glitter catching the light like it had something to prove.

Maybe this place was becoming something after all.

On Sunday, she’d spent far too long standing in front of her wardrobe.

It was just a kids’ birthday party. Not a job interview. Not a first date. Not anything that required this level of internal debate. And yet there she was, trying on her fourth outfit and wondering if she looked like she was trying too hard.

Eventually, she landed on something simple: a pair of high-waisted jeans, a cropped top that was just on the right side of casual, and an oversized cardigan that made her feel less exposed. Soft trainers instead of boots. A touch of lip balm. Nothing dramatic.

Still, when she looked in the mirror, she barely recognised herself. No station polo. No cargo trousers. No practical ponytail scraped back like she was heading into battle.

Just her.

She carried the small gift bag in both hands as she walked up the stairs to Oscar’s apartment. She could already hear the laughter from inside, music playing low, the sound of kids squealing in delight, someone shouting over everyone else. Warmth spilled out through the letterbox.

She paused at the door.

And stood there.

She wasn’t sure why. She’d been invited. Welcomed, even. But something about the sound of everyone already inside, the ease, the familiarity, made her hesitate.

She was the outsider, after all. The one with the clipboard. The one who wasn’t quite in the group, even if she was starting to circle the edges of it.

She was just reaching for the doorbell when a voice behind her said, “You planning on standing there all day, or?”

She turned.

Lando stood a few feet away, arms full of gift bags, three plastic ones stuffed with boxes, tissue paper, and what looked suspiciously like a giant inflatable unicorn. He was in jeans and a black hoodie, hair still slightly damp like he’d only just got out the shower. He looked stupidly relaxed.

“You’re late,” she said, folding her arms.

He grinned. “Fashionably. Also, I had to stop at three different shops because apparently nine year olds don’t like books anymore unless they come with glitter slime.”

She raised an eyebrow. “That’s a lot of presents.”

“Got to maintain my title as favourite uncle, haven’t I?”

She smirked but didn’t reply.

He shifted the bags in his arms and looked at her properly then, the way her cardigan sleeves covered her hands, the way she was still angled slightly away from the door.

“You alright?” he asked, softer now.

She hesitated. Then nodded, once. “Just forgot how loud kids can be.”

He didn’t push. Just smiled, easy and warm.

“Well, lucky for you, I brought reinforcements.” He nodded toward one of the bags. “One of these is a karaoke microphone. Battery operated. No volume control. We’ll have them begging for bedtime by six.”

She laughed, quietly, but genuinely.

Then he noticed the gift bag in her hand. “Ooh. You got her something?”

“It’s just a little art kit,” she said, suddenly self-conscious. “Some pastels. Sketchbook. I didn’t want to turn up empty-handed.”

He tilted his head. “You softie.”

“I’m not,” she muttered.

“She’s gonna love it,” he said, firmly. “She’s been drawing all over the walls at home. Oscar’s nearly wept.”

She smiled again. “You’re spoiling her.”

“Obviously,” he said. “How else am I supposed to win her eternal loyalty?”

“Bit competitive, aren’t you?”

“I don’t play to lose.”

He winked, then shifted the bags again and nudged the door open with his hip. “Come on, let’s make an entrance.”

They stepped inside together.

Warmth hit her like a wave, fairy lights strung up around the bannisters, balloons in chaotic clumps, the smell of party food and cake and sugar. Someone had put on a kids’ playlist. The room was full of colour and laughter and far too much glitter.

“Uncle LanLan!”

Aurelia came barrelling down the hallway like a tiny whirlwind, tutu bouncing, face painted with lopsided butterflies. She launched herself at Lando with absolutely no hesitation.

He caught her with ease, bags dropped in a heap at his feet, arms lifting her like she weighed nothing.

“Hey, monster,” he said, grinning up at her. “Happy birthday!”

She wrapped her arms around his neck. “You’re late!”

“I brought offerings.”

“Are they sparkly?”

“The sparkliest.”

She squealed and clung tighter.

And she just stood there, watching.

Something about it, the way Lando held her, the way he laughed without holding back, the way Aurelia fit so perfectly against his shoulder, it pulled something strange and deep in her chest.

He was so good with her.

Natural. Effortless. Kind in a way that didn’t ask to be noticed.

He glanced sideways then, catching her watching, and gave her a small smile.

She looked away, suddenly shy.

Maybe he wasn’t all jokes after all.

The party unfolded in a swirl of noise and colour.

Aurelia ruled the lounge like a glitter covered queen, directing games with the authority of a small dictator and demanding cake before the candles were even lit. Oscar played referee with the vague desperation of a man outnumbered, while his wife laughed from the kitchen doorway, half-horrified, half-proud.

She kept mostly to the edges, helping carry plates, passing around napkins, ducking flying balloons. Not invisible, exactly. Just quietly present.

Then came gift time.

Aurelia sat cross legged in the middle of the floor, hair wild and face flushed with sugar, tearing into bags like her life depended on it. Lando sat beside her, grinning as she pulled out gift after gift with increasingly dramatic reactions.

When she got to her bag, the one with the pastels and sketchbook,  she paused. Slowed.

Lifted the tissue paper carefully.

And then beamed.

“OH,” she said loudly, holding the sketchbook aloft like it was a trophy. “THIS IS COOL. LOOK AT ALL THE COLOURS.”

She turned, without hesitation, and flung her arms around her.

For a second, she froze, not expecting it. Then returned the hug, awkward but warm.

Oscar celebrated from the kitchen. “We’re never going to have a clean wall again.”

His wife laughed. “Just let her draw on the windows this time.”

“I like the windows.”

“Then maybe don’t have a creative daughter.”

Aurelia was already flipping through the sketchbook, muttering about what to draw first.

Lando stood, brushing glitter off his jeans. “I’ll take it all up to your room,” he offered, scooping up the rest of her opened presents. “Keep the chaos contained.”

“Don’t touch the purple slime,” Aurelia warned. “It’s cursed.”

“Noted.”

He disappeared up the stairs with a wink in her direction, arms full.

The party swelled again, music, cake, someone trying to teach a dance move that looked vaguely illegal. She lost track of time for a bit, swept into the strange domestic warmth of it all.

But twenty minutes passed. Then thirty.

And Lando didn’t come back.

She tried not to overthink it. Maybe he’d been cornered by a child with a puzzle. Maybe he was helping clean up. But then what if he wasn’t.

She slipped away from the noise, up the stairs, quiet.

Aurelia’s room was at the end of the hall. Door ajar.

She pushed it gently open.

He was sitting on the edge of the bed, still and upright, staring at the chair in the corner.

Aurelia’s school uniform was draped over it, blazer, shirt, tights folded on the seat. Nothing dramatic. Just a chair with clothes. Ordinary.

But he was frozen.

Not in a relaxed sort of way. In a locked sort of way. Shoulders tight. Breathing shallow.

She stepped in, careful not to startle him.

Then, slowly, lowered herself beside him, not too close. Just enough to be felt. Her hand came to rest lightly on his thigh, not firm, not pressing. Just there.

The reaction was instant.

He flinched, grabbed her wrist, not hard, not mean. Just automatic.

His eyes snapped to hers, wide. Then dropped to her hand. Realisation hit.

He let go immediately.

“Shit,” he muttered. “Sorry. I—”

“It’s okay,” she said quietly.

He ran a hand over his face, looked away.

“I didn’t mean to—” He shook his head. “I’m usually better than this.”

She let the silence breathe. Let him breathe.

“Wanna talk about it?”

He hesitated.

Then stood.

“I think I’m gonna head out.”

She didn’t try to stop him. Just watched him walk to the doorway, hands in the pockets of his hoodie, like he couldn’t quite figure out what to do with himself.

As he reached for the door, she said, “Wanna go get ice cream?”

He turned.

She shrugged, casual. “I’m craving gelato. Figured you looked like someone who doesn’t know how to say no to pistachio.”

He stared at her, like he wasn’t sure if she was joking or not.

Then his mouth twitched, just a little.

And he said, “Yeah. Actually. Yeah, alright.”

They made their way downstairs together, the party still in full swing. Someone had started a conga line. The cake had reached its messy, dismantled stage. Aurelia was attempting to teach Andrea how to floss and was laughing so hard she could barely breathe.

She hovered in the doorway, unsure how to make an exit without interrupting.

Lando didn’t seem to have that issue.

He clapped Oscar gently on the shoulder. “We’re off.”

Oscar turned, eyebrows raised. “Both of you?”

“Giving her a lift,” Lando said smoothly, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Oscar looked between them, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Something almost knowing.

“Right,” he said, nodding slowly. “Well. Drive safe.”

She offered a little wave to Aurelia, who was too busy pelting someone with wrapping paper to notice. Oscar’s wife mouthed thanks for coming, and she mouthed thanks for the invite back.

And then they were outside.

The air was cooler than she expected, the sort of late sprint evening that carried the smell of grass and someone else’s barbecue. Streetlights blinked on above them. 

They walked in comfortable silence for a bit, side by side, the kind that didn’t need filling.

Then Lando jerked his head toward the kerb. “That one’s mine.”

She looked.

A black Mercedes, quietly sleek, parked under a tree. Her eyebrows shot up.

“You drive that?!”

He shrugged. “Prefer to walk.”

She gave him a look.

He grinned. “Swear. It was my sister’s old one. I kept it after she said she needed a family car but couldn’t be bothered to sell it. Everyone in my flat’s insured on it now. Isack uses it more than me. Says the bus gives him migraines, but I think he’s trying to impress girls.”

“Fair enough.”

“I’m basically the custodian of luxury transport for stressed out medical students and over committed paramedics.”

She laughed.

He opened the passenger door for her with a slight bow, which she ignore, but stepped in anyway, frowning when she heard the word “princess” slip from his lips.

Inside, it smelt like lemon air refresher and whatever shampoo Lando used.

They drove without music. 

When they pulled up outside the gelato shop, she nudged him gently with her elbow. “You going to order something ridiculous?"

“I’m a purist,” he said, feigning offence. “Chocolate and hazelnut. Two scoops. Waffle cone. No frills.”

“Liar.”

He grinned, pulling out his card from his wallet, before she could even open her mouth to argue, he gave her a look that silenced her as she plucked the card from his fingers.

She returned a few minutes later with her own ice cream in one hand, card in between her lips.

He started the engine as she looked over, “Let’s go to the park.”

His nose scrunched. “No.”

“Oh,” she said quickly, covering. “Alright. Sorry I just thought—”

He nodded to the dashboard. “Let’s sit in the car.”

She blinked.

He added quieter, “It’s warm. And I don’t really do parks after dark.”

She didn’t ask why.

Didn’t need to.

“Okay,” she said, nodding.

And so they stayed, engine off, parked on a quiet road under the amber streetlight, two people sitting in a luxury car with melting gelato and too much unspoken between them.

The gelato was starting to melt, running slowly down the side of her cup. She let it. Neither of them seemed in a rush.

They sat in companionable silence, the soft hum of a late evening pressing gently against the windows. The street was quiet, one of those sleepy little residential corners where everything felt paused.

She glanced over at him.

He was leaning back in his seat, one hand curled around the steering wheel even though they weren’t going anywhere. His other rested on his leg, thumb idly brushing back and forth.

His cone was untouched in the cup holder.

She didn’t say anything. Just waited.

And eventually, he spoke.

“That room,” he said quietly. “The chair.”

She looked at him properly now.

“I know it was nothing,” he went on. “Just clothes. Just… normal. But it looked exactly like—” He stopped. Swallowed. “It looked exactly like how my brother’s uniform was, the night he died.”

She didn’t move. Just listened.

“I was eight. He was fifteen. We shared a room. He was, he was everything. You know? Tall, loud, never took anything seriously. Used to wind me up with something rotten. But he always made sure I had the warm side of the blanket. Always said he’d look out for me.”

Lando stared out of the windscreen.

“There was a fire. At home. Faulty plug socket. My mum had been nagging about it for weeks. I didn’t wake up properly until there was shouting. Smoke everywhere. I got out.”

He paused again. His voice was low, steady, but every word felt carved.

“He didn’t.”

Her breath caught.

“I don’t know if he was looking for me, or if he’d already passed out. I don’t know. I just remember standing on the pavement, watching the house go. And waiting for him to come out.”

He blinked, hard.

“And he didn’t.”

She reached for him, but he kept going.

“My parents” He exhaled. “They never forgave me. Said I should’ve woken him. Said I should’ve done something. I was eight.”

She felt her stomach twist.

“After that, it was just cold. Silent. I got blamed for everything. Started staying with my friends. Skipped school. Didn’t talk about it. Not once. Not for years. Parents didn't care where I was."

He looked at her now. Eyes bright, jaw tight.

“That’s why I froze. In Aurelia’s room. It was just a stupid chair. But for a second it felt like I was there again.”

She opened her mouth, but he held a hand up gently.

“I want to tell you,” he said. “Not because I want pity. Just because I trust you.”

The words landed like a stone in her chest.

“You’re the first person I’ve told,” he added, quieter still. “Like, properly told. Not in bits. Not like a joke.”

She didn’t know what to say.

So she put down her cup, reached awkwardly across the centre console, and gave him the most ridiculous, bent-arm, middle-seat hug in history.

His body tensed at first, surprised, then relaxed into it.

He chuckled against her shoulder. “This is the least ergonomic hug I’ve ever experienced.”

She huffed a laugh, face half in his hoodie. “Don’t make it weird.”

“You made it weird.”

She pulled back slightly but didn’t move far. Their faces were still close, breath mingling in the warm car.

There was a moment. Soft and still and entirely theirs.

She didn’t say I’m sorry. Didn’t say that’s awful or you’re so strong or anything else that people say when they don’t know what to say.

Instead, she whispered, “Thanks for telling me.”

And that was enough.

They stayed like that for a moment longer, limbs tangled awkwardly across the centre console, faces close, the air warm with words not spoken.

Eventually, she eased back into her seat, reaching for her rapidly-melting gelato. “We should eat this before it becomes soup.”

Lando hummed in agreement and started on his own cone, finally. He took one bite and immediately winced.

“Brain freeze,” he muttered, clutching his forehead.

She snorted. “Serves you right for inhaling it.”

“I panicked,” he said. “Felt like the right thing to do in the moment.”

“Very brave of you.”

“Thank you. I’ll be expecting a medal in the post.”

She rolled her eyes and took another spoonful. “You know, for someone who had an emotional breakthrough five minutes ago, you’re surprisingly annoying.”

He grinned. “Can’t have you getting too used to me being serious.”

There was a beat of quiet again, but this time it felt easier. Lighter.

She glanced sideways at him, fiddling with her spoon. “You don’t have to answer this,” she said, softly. “But what brought you to the fire service?”

He didn’t look surprised. Just thoughtful.

Then he leaned his head back against the seat, staring up at the roof of the car.

“I think I thought if I became a firefighter, if I saved enough people, did enough good, maybe I could balance it out.” He glanced at her. “Make up for losing my brother. Like I owed the world a life.”

She didn’t say anything. Just let it land.

“I know it doesn’t work like that,” he added. “But that’s what it felt like. Like maybe if I pulled enough people out of fires, it’d stop mattering so much that I didn’t pull him out.”

Her chest ached for him.

He took a slow breath. “I still can’t go into kids’ bedrooms, during house fires. Not if I see the uniform on the chair. Doesn’t even have to be the same colour. I just freeze.”

His voice faltered slightly.

“And the thing is, I’d hate, really hate, to ever be the reason someone didn’t make it. Because my stupid brain decided it was time for a panic.”

It wasn’t self-pitying. Just honest. Raw in that quiet way grief gets, when it’s lived inside you long enough to soften its edges.

She reached over, without thinking too hard, and ran her fingers lightly through his hair, ruffling it with a mixture of fondness and frustration.

He blinked. “Did you just mum me?”

She smirked. “You may be an idiot, but not stupid.”

“High praise.”

“Although,” she added, straightening up, “I still don’t agree with your biscuit ranking.”

“Ah. And there it is.”

“You lost me at custard creams.”

“You’ve got no biscuit integrity.”

“Says the man who has a soft spot for Hobnobs.”

“They’re classic,” he said, mock-affronted. “They don’t need your approval.”

She laughed, properly this time, and for a moment it felt like the weight had shifted. Not gone. But lighter. Carried together, even just for a while.

part two...

taglist: @rebelatbay @fictionalfanatic123 @lilorose25 @curseofhecate @number-0-iz @dozyisdead @dragonfly047 @ihtscuddlesbeeetchx3 @sluttyharry30 @n0vazsq @carlossainzapologist @iamred-iamyellow @iimplicitt @geauxharry @hzstry @oikarma @chilling-seavey@the-holy-trinity-l @idc4987 @rayaskoalaland @elieanana@bookishnerd1132@mercurymaxine

flat next door/station down the road taglist: @f1enthusiastsstuff @luminouskalopsia @f1boistrash @pandora108 @obxstiles @cinderellawithashoe @breiiology @sunshinesafteycar @coffeebeforewater @taetae-armyyyyy @capricornito @ravenrage27 @bowielovesyou @adalynneva @hreader7 @ladyliberty6 @isotopemylove @scarsoncherryglass @samanthaw16 @lauvender-bolter @oxforce @padwanoftheyear @fangirlmusicbiashoe @papayainsectorone @le-le-lea @clovermoters @leeknowinggg

[demie90s]

Questions We Shouldn’t Answer

꒰ 🍒 ꒱ Paige Bueckers X READER ꒰ 🍒 ꒱ MASTERLIST MORE

⭑ pairing: Paige Bueckers x reader (fem!reader)

⭑ summary: You and Paige agree to film a fan Q&A video, thinking it’ll be chill. It’s not. Between chaotic questions, fake beef, suspicious flirting, and the unspoken fact that y’all are secretly dating, the energy is loud, unserious, and dangerously close to getting exposed.

⭑ genre: Comedy, slice-of-life, secret relationship, chaotic love

⭑ warnings: Swearing, flirtatious bickering, heavy sarcasm, delusional fans, dangerously unserious energy

⭑ word count: 0.5k

The second they tell you it’s a media day “content shoot,” you already know what time it is.

You show up twenty minutes late—iced coffee in one hand, lip gloss in the other, Paige’s hoodie on your back. And she’s already seated on the other side of the set, legs crossed, rolling her eyes like she didn’t FaceTime you five times this morning to wake you up.

The camera’s not even on yet, and Paige is mouthing, “Take it off.”

You mouth back, “Make me.”

KK walks by with a bag of Tru Fru and stops. “Lord, y’all not even tryin’ to hide it no more.”

You grin, slide into the seat next to Paige, and lean your cheek on her shoulder like you didn’t just come from clowning her in practice. “She missed me.”

“She was at my apartment last night,” Paige says flatly to the producer.

“Y’all ready?” the media guy asks, clearly already tired.

“Been ready,” you say, kicking your Crocs off under the table. “Let’s cook.”

FIRST QUESTION: Who’s the better shooter?

You blink slow and look dead at Paige.

She doesn’t even flinch. “Me.”

You tilt your head. “You sure about that?”

“I know I’m sure. Be for real.”

You snort. “You went 2 for 10 yesterday and I counted.”

“And you had four turnovers in one scrimmage—should we keep score?”

KK walks by again in the background: “World War 3 loading.”

SECOND QUESTION: What’s your pregame hype song?

You both answer at the same time.

You: “Baby Keem—‘Honest.’”

Paige: “‘Straightening.’ Migos.”

You pause. “See that? We was locked in. Right there.”

Paige turns toward the camera. “We have a shared playlist, actually.”

You glance at her, then at the camera. “Private, though. Can’t risk y’all catching feelings over how good the vibes are.”

THIRD QUESTION: Who’s most likely to get a tech first?

Before the words are out, Paige points to you.

You lift both hands like, “I mean, yeah.”

“She gets one almost every month,” Paige says.

You wave her off. “I’m passionate. Geno love it.”

Behind the camera, you hear Geno’s voice: “I absolutely do not.”

FOURTH QUESTION: What’s your favorite memory together?

The silence is suspicious.

You both look at each other, then back at the camera like, “Next question.”

“Oh it’s like that?” the producer teases.

You bite your lip, grinning. “Yeah. ‘Cause if we answer it, y’all gon’ post it, and if y’all post it, she gon’ be on blogs. I’m not tryna fight comments.”

Paige looks real smug. “Somebody sounds obsessed.”

You fake a gasp. “Yeah. I am.”

The editor already knows that part getting clipped.

FIFTH QUESTION : What’s one thing the fans don’t know about y’all?

Paige leans back like she’s thinking. You lean forward like you already know what you’re about to say.

You drop your voice low. “She be singing in the shower. Loud. Off-key. Beyoncé runs on a Taylor Swift beat. I’ve suffered.”

Paige side-eyes you. “You literally sleep with your socks on.”

The crew loses it.

Interviewer: “Okay last one—who’s most likely to get caught sneaking into someone else’s dorm past curfew?”

You don’t even blink.

You: “Depends. Are we talkin’ caught on camera or caught in the act?”

Paige shifts in her seat, real calm. Too calm.

Paige: “You’d be caught. You don’t know how to shut a door quietly.”

You: “You don’t lock yours.”

Silence.

KK, somewhere behind the camera: “OH MY GOD.”

Geno, barely containing himself: “Y’all are bold today.”

You just smirk and lean back like you didn’t just air out a whole situation.

Paige mutters under her breath, “I should’ve stayed home.”

[moonchild-in-blue]

(Okay, I am scheduling this for when the video is out, so by now everyone should have access to it)

About Caramel:

Every time they try to shout my real name just to get a rise from me Acting like I'm never stressed out by the hearsay I guess that's what I get for trying to hide in the limelight Guess that's what I get for having twenty-twenty hindsight Everybody wants eyes on 'em, I just wanna hear you sing that top line And if you don't think I mean it, then I understand But I'm still glad you came, so let me see those hands

I don't ever want to hear anyone say anything again about how "it's not that serious" everytime someone goes out of their way to invade their privacy and put their whole identity on display in Sleep Token spaces.

About how people who go to the shows and sing and dance and have fun "are ruining it for everyone", because they want to just stand there and listen (why would you go then ????).

I don't care if we're being called over-protective for making sure new fans know not to spread their names and faces. "But he never said it explicitly-" IS THIS CLEAR ENOUGH FOR YOU?

For everyone who's ever shouted their names on rituals, who brought merch and banners from their side projects, for everyone who thinks they're above "the gimmick", who said their identities are not that big of a deal (especially Vessel). Who insists on bringing up their names on ST exclusive spaces. Who insists on harassing the people around them, who have spread rumours about who or what could the songs be about. Who follow them around in the hopes of being noticed, and make it uncomfortable for everyone involved.

I hope they sleep with a guilty conscience and take a good look at themselves.

This guy has given so much out of himself to us, and all he asked in return was to respect him as a human being. Genuinely I don't think how much more direct he could get with it. And there's STILL people deliberately missing the point.

I try not to talk about how it's harder now

(...)

The sweetest dreams are bitter, but there's no one left to tell

(...)

Too young to get bitter over it all Too old to retaliate like before Too blessed to be caught ungrateful, I know So I'll keep dancing along to the rhythm This stage is a prison, a beautiful nightmare A war of attrition, I'll take what I'm given The deepest incisions, I thought I got better But maybe I didn't

For someone who has lived and breathed music all his live, who *we know* dreamed of being where he is now, who has gone through so much and still came out the other side - that sure is a fucked up mentality to have. Imagine having your life dream turned over on you in such a cruel way.

And the fact that despite it all, he still chooses to dance along WITH us? For us? To endure all that pressure and stress, the injustice and bitterness so many of us listeners have brought him, for the ones who know better and understand? The fact that he still invites us to stick with hin through it all?? MY GOODNESS.

I'm so sorry this is how he's been feeling about it all, and I'm SO devastated to know a significant chunk of it has been caused by us - the very same people he sings for.

(and of course this is extended to the rest of the band, but this is very much HIM talking to us. Not as Vessel.)

Sometimes we forget that as much as this is music and a hobby and something that is part of our day, this is his job. This is his life.

If this doesn't make some people behave, then I genuinely don't know what will. I'm genuinely scared to see what else is coming. I just hope going forward we can shift this narrative together and do better. Remember,

Nothing lasts forever.

[daegall]

☆ when the candles burn out.

➷ Jeno Lee has everything he's wished for, except for you.

pairing: best friend!jeno x (implied fem!) reader

genre: bff2l!AU (WE R SOOO BACK), birthday!AU, university!AU, fluff, slight angst

warnings: none, but feel free to lmk if you find any

word count: 2.6k words

a/n: happies birthday to the (officially titled!) birthday boyyy!!! wishing him the very very best and hope that he knows we're so proud of him and love him sooo much!!!! I've missed writing sm so this was soo fun to make!! sorry if i've been super inactive, i've still got a lot to do before graduation ♡ i hope you all enjoy!!!

If he was asked, Jeno would say his life is very fulfilling, and that he's completely satisfied with it. How could he say any differently? He's doing really well in University, he's got amazing friends and a steady side job to support himself. He shouldn't be complaining.

But he's lying to himself. He knows he feels empty inside. And he knows what could fill that void.

It's you.

Jeno always felt he was missing something—he figured he would fix it later in life. He never knew it would hurt this much, he never knew it would be this hard to fix it. Frankly, he wishes it was something else that would be the glue to fix everything in his life.

It's not that Jeno hated you, no, he loved you. So dearly—he's never ever felt anything so intense in his life. Every time he looked at you, it was like he was reading his favorite book, unable to peel his eyes off the pages. Every time he heard your voice, it was like listening to the soft chirping of birds in the morning—the breeze in the afternoon—the comforting sounds of the bustling city in the evening. And when you touched him, a hug, or even something as simple as a high-five, it's as if you're a fireplace in winter, keeping him warm, inside and out.

God, he wanted you. Bad. Jeno never know one could yearn so deeply. He was never one good with words, but you make him want to write thousands of poems and sing melodies dedicated just to you.

The echoing questions that all his friends constantly ask him haunt him.

'Why don't you tell her?'

'She doesn't know yet?'

'What's the worst that could happen?'

'Why are you so scared?'

That's what Donghyuck always asks him. Jeno can't begin to tell him, he doesn't know where to start, Donghyuck wouldn't understand the turmoil he feels.

Jeno's scared that he's not what you expect. That you have a completely different vision of him than who he actually is. Jeno thinks you need someone who is able to love you loudly, who isn't afraid to give you everything that you not only need, but want, too. Jeno is sure that he's not your ideal man.

Today's his birthday. 25th. He knows because Jaemin greets him the very first this morning, calling him 'halfway-50 year old'. Jeno only rolls his eyes at his usual strange antics, pushing him out of the way of the fridge to grab his yogurt from the fridge.

When Jeno checks his phone, he realizes that Jaemin isn't the first one to say happy birthday. He finds out with a mouthful of yogurt, and a heart full of love, that it was you. On April 23, military time 00:12, you left a long paragraph wishing him a happy birthday, thanking him for everything and for being a great friend, and wishes of love and luck.

"Friends don't send birthday messages that long."

Jeno barely catches on that Jaemin is shamelessly peeking at his phone, throwing him a pointed look. "Maybe she does."

Jaemin's eyebrows raise—a deadpanned look. "She sent me a sentence on my birthday. At 5pm."

"That's cause you gifted her a giftcard for her birthday."

"That's what friends do!" Jaemin retorts. "You gifted her animal crossing—that shit's expensive!"

Jeno has to admit, he's right. About one thing. Friends don't send an essay's worth of a birthday message.

Okay, yeah, saving up for animal crossing for you took some time, but Jeno would do anything for you. And he means everything.

Like meeting up at your place for a birthday celebration with others. He would much rather spend it with only you, but that doesn't seem to be an option, considering how you love to make a huge deal about his birthday every year.

Now here he stands, at your door, knowing full well that you've planned some 'surprise' party. Despite that, he'll still pretend to be shocked—just to make you happy.

Jeno only needs to wait about 3 seconds right after he knocks, before the door swings open, the music inside finally distinguishable and—oh, it's... you. Just you.

Nobody else is seen behind you in your apartment, the familiar living area he recognizes so easily dimmed with a low, warm light, the walls filled with handing streamers of red and green—his favorite colors.

Jeno's heart has never swelled this much with love, his head has never been so clear and unbelievably messy at the same time, his practiced surprised smile completely fading in an expression of shock, his jaw hanging lightly.

"Hello, birthday boy," You grin. God, Jeno might kiss you.

The way you can't seem to stay still in excitement, the anticipation on your face and the way you wear his sweater, something he's definitely left accidentally somewhere inside there—he adores it all.

He never thought his feelings could get even more eager and heartfelt, and yet here he is, feeling it tenfold right in his heart.

"Come in," You smile, grabbing and tugging at his sleeve gently.

You want to laugh at his surprised expression, your excited smile falling shy. "Surprise! I bet you thought it was like all the surprise parties I hosted, huh?"

Jeno should have seen it coming. The fact that you saw through him almost immediately. A soft huff of a laugh leaves his lips as he nods, growing more comfortable as he ventures deeper into the surprise. His eyes trail over the streamers reflecting the warm light from your lamp, his gratitude growing almost unbearable.

Finally, his eyes land on the cake. Unlike the usual ordered or store-bought cake you make Mark Lee get every year for the party, it's sloppy, and it's clear that you made it yourself. The icing barely covers the full surface of the cake, leaving blank, splotchy spots along the cake.

"I tried my best," You comment, noticing his gaze on your cake. You really did, practicing some nights and watching multiple videos to find the best recipe to use.

Jeno grins even more his gaze shifting to you. If you weren't mistaken... he looks at you differently. Well, he looks at you as he always does, with a twinkle in his eyes and with utmost attentiveness, but tonight... it's different.

You think—and this is a big assumption—that he's looking at you with love. You could only dream that he would admit it.

"I love it," He reassures, slowly approaching you. "thank you, Y/N, I love everything about this."

Your cheeks feel sore from all the smiling, but you can't seem to stop smiling, pulling him into a hug, your arms wrapping around his broad shoulders. "I'm glad. You deserve the best, Jeno."

Jeno holds you tight, his nose burying into the depths of your hair, eyes shutting to savor the moment as long as possible. His hands are warm, you can feel it through his sweater that you wear, one hand on your lower back, the other between your shoulder blades.

It's as if his hands have burnt through the fabric, because you feel every single movement his hands make. The way his thumbs rub gently up and down—the way his palms tensing up as he holds you closer—this feels better than it should.

When you pull away, the warmth finds it's way to your heart, beating faster suddenly and soaring, as if it was searching for his own to entangle in.

When you lead him to the couch to finally blow out the candles (with he candles now about a third of it's original height), Jeno has never felt happier, leaning in close to the cake.

He laughs when you suddenly panic, halting him to search for your camera.

"Why do you even need to film this?" He chuckles softly, it's a rich sound you find yourself enjoying more than you should.

You roll your eyes, finding the camera on your messy study desk, hidden behind a stack of books you never seem to finish reading. "To remember this! I want to look back on this when I'm eighty and reminisce like a stubborn old lady."

When Jeno blows out his candles after an awkward minute of you singing him 'happy birthday' by yourself, he finds himself wishing that you'd be a stubborn old lady with him. He wishes with his whole heart that he'd be there, reminiscing with you, that'd your grandchildren would be gagging at your love story, he wants to spend the rest of his life with you.

Jeno gives you the first slice of the cake, despite your protests, handing it to you with a stern look. His heart melts when you take it from his hands, a small playful scowl on your lips. "I wanted you to taste it first..."

"Fine," He sighs, picking up the two forks you prepared. "we'll eat it together, yeah?"

Jeno dismisses your objections, already stabbing the forks into the cake and scooping it up. He laughs heartily when your words die in your throat, offering the fork to you.

You stare at the piece of cake on your fork with intent. "If it tastes like shit, I'm sorry,"

Even if it did, he'd pretend it was the most delectable delicacy he'd ever eaten. He would believe so, with his whole being. Even if it was bad, your stunning smile would be sweet enough for it to substitute the taste.

You're surprised when Jeno brings his own fork up to your lips, blinking in shock. When you look up at him, he gives you an encouraging look. "I'll feed you, you'll feed me."

You don't think he's aware of how intimate this is. Not when he's looking at you with such innocence and care. But with the dim, warm lighting from the distant lamp, and the music that still plays softly in the background, this feels too romantic—too real.

You go along with it anyway, knowing that you'd do anything and everything for him.

As your lips come in contact with the cake, and your teeth clash just slightly with the metal of the fork, you realize the strawberry jam you used for each layer—it's sour.

Instantly, you gaze up at Jeno, to gauge his reaction and his opinion of your cake, only to see that his mouth is closed, lips stretched into a soft, loving smile as his face his dodged from your fork.

"Jeno, you—how could you!"

In a moment, both forks are on the ground as you lunge forward to grab at his shirt. On your lips is an embarrassed smile, your eyes shut as you shake him back and forth. "You ass! I made this for you..."

"Sorry, sorry!" Jeno laughs, his hands enveloping yours, holding on top of them as you continue to shake him. "You just looked so cute—all anticipated and excited,"

"Yeah! For you to taste it!"

"Fine, fine! I'll taste it! Just stop shaking me!"

When you scowl and release his collar, his hands don't leave yours, instead, he takes your hands in his, his fingers slotting almost perfectly between yours with ease. You don't shy away from this, it's normal for him to do this. It's a typical tactic he uses so you don't start fooling around once more—but this time... it feels different. His touch seems gentler, his thumbs rubbing softly up and down the sides of your palm. You have to admit, it has your heart in a twist.

"How are you going to try it if you keep holding my hands?" You smart him, sticking your tongue out at him.

Jeno's eyes search yours, his gaze deep. It's almost as if he's trying to look into your soul—trying to find the place you keep the thought of him. He should look into your heart, then.

His right hand suddenly leaves yours, and just as you think he's about to grab the fork once more, his hand inches towards your face. You don't dodge it, despite your shock, your lips parting in surprise, and Jeno knows that he's interrupted one of your sassy, smart retorts that he loves so much.

It's like instinct when his palm envelops your cheek, that you lean into his touch, your head tilting into his hold. As his thumbs rub at your cheek, his eyes search your entire face, searching for any signs of discomfort or rejection. He searches, and keeps searching, only to find nothing. You want this. As much as he does.

"...so are you going to try the cake?"

"Give me a minute, you dork,"

You laugh, and he laughs when you laugh. Your laughter entangle in the air and echo, like a resonating song on repeat—the kind that no matter how many times you play over and over, you never get sick of it.

Suddenly, Jeno's nose is brushing against yours. His thumb gently caressing at your bottom lip. He searches your eyes once more, and at this proximity, he can finally tell what you feel. In your eyes, it's him. In his eyes, it's you. In your heart, is his. In his soul, is yours.

The tender exchange of affectionate looks screams only one thing.

I love you.

When Jeno's lips press to yours, you're not surprised. Instead, you welcome it warmly, reciprocating and leaning into it.

His hands travel, one to your neck, the other your waist to tug you closer. Your own find comfort in the hairs of the bottom of his neck, tousling the strands there. You feel his lips curl into a smile, as his neck cranes to find an angle to grow closer to you, if it were possible.

Jeno slowly and gently lowers you to your back, his hand protecting the back of your head as he settles you down on your carpet, hovering over your body. As your arms wrap around his neck, his tongue finds yours, tangling tenderly and lovingly, declaring his care and affection, all his feelings for you.

You smile against his lips as Jeno's laugh vibrates against your own, content and devoted, finding the whole situation unbelievable. Luck truly is in his favor, and he thinks he's one step closer to his birthday wish coming true.

When Jeno pulls away, his breath is warm against your lips, the tip of his nose grazing against yours.

"...tastes sweet," He finally elates, smiling. His eyes find yours, pupils dilated with love.

You laugh out, eyes squeezed shut, and head throwing back against his hand that still holds you protectively. You snort when he gives you a confused, almost lost puppy-like look. "The cake jam was sour, Jeno,"

"Oh," he hums. "must've just been you I was tasting, then..."

You push playfully at his shoulder. "Oh my god, you sappy idiot!"

"No, no," He retorts with a grin. "you taste sweet. I didn't get a single taste of sour,"

"Taste the cake, then!"

"Don't wanna, just want you,"

Despite his words, you make him taste the cake, laughing as his nose scrunches up. "It's—oh god—it's sweet! I swear!" He insists.

Finally, Jeno feels complete. He no longer feels an empty void inside of him, he no longer feels lonely or hurt when he looks at you—though he does feel his heart hurt, swelling with the amount of love he has for you. He can finally say wholeheartedly that he's satisfied with his life, that he feels fulfilled.

He's doing really well in University, he's got amazing friends, the best girlfriend he could ask for, and a steady side job to support himself and his girl, you.

Jeno is dead set on making his birthday wish come true.