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dozybeez · 1 day ago

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Spin For Me (Pt. Twelve)

She's the quiet girl in class with a secret life after dark. He's the campus heartthrob who's used to getting what he wants— except her. When a class project forces them together, buried truths, blurred lines, and undeniable tension threaten to unravel everything they thought they knew.

→ part one → part two → part three → part four → part five → part six → part seven → part eight → part nine → part ten → part eleven

→ part thirteen coming soon

pairing: college au! kim mingyu x exotic dancer f!reader

word count: 9.0k

content warnings: slowish burn, smut, lap dances, adult club setting, derogatory language toward sex workers, internalized shame, emotional distress, subtle? size, possession, and innocence kink. drugs & alcohol. MDNI, you will be blocked.

songs for this chapter:

tba

The silence after yes is the kind that hums inside your ribs.

Not hollow. Not awkward. Just… full. Like the quiet that settles when a storm finally passes, when the wind dies down and the trees are left shivering in the aftermath, stripped but still standing.

You stay wrapped up in him. Breathing in tandem. Letting yourself sink into the safety of his arms like you’ve never been allowed to before. And Mingyu doesn’t let go—not even a little. His hands stay firm on your back, fingertips curled in the fabric of your outfit like he’s afraid if he lets go now, he’ll never get the chance to hold you again.

It’s warm where he touches. Too warm for this cold night.

You don’t know how long you stand there, nestled in the alley behind the club, your bare legs goosebumped, your body half exposed to the dark. But it doesn’t feel cold. Not with him pressed so close, his heartbeat thudding through your cheek, uneven and tired and real.

Eventually, your fingers loosen their grip on his hoodie, but not entirely.

You tilt your head just enough to look up at him.

His eyes are already on you—soft and dark and wide with something too big to name. His busted lip is split, a little puffy, still bleeding faintly at the corner.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper.

Mingyu blinks. “For what?”

“For tonight. For the club. The video. The mess.” You hesitate, words trembling like they’re walking barefoot over glass. “For ruining your reputation.”

His face twists like the idea itself physically hurts him. “You didn’t ruin anything.”

You lift a shoulder in a helpless half-shrug. “You’re supposed to be the guy everyone wants. You’re not supposed to be seen with the stripper who gives lap dances in stilettos and glitter oil.”

He exhales slowly, but there’s a weight to it—something cracking under pressure. “Do you want to know what I see when I look at you right now?”

You don’t answer. You just stare at him.

“I see the girl who stayed up late studying for her midterms, who got that one tiny wrinkle between her brows whenever she concentrated too hard. I see the girl who cried when that rabbit in that TikTok animation got hit by a car. The one who eats cereal at midnight and falls asleep at the library with her mouth open.”

Your lips part, your heart thudding unevenly.

“I see the girl who gave me her last piece of gum on a rainy Tuesday. Who dances like she was born to fly but still thinks she needs to prove herself to people who don’t matter. And yeah…” His hand lifts to your cheek, knuckles brushing your skin so softly it makes your chest ache. “I see the girl who strips. Who danced for me like it meant something. Because it did.”

Your breath catches.

“I’m not ashamed of you,” he says, voice quiet but clear. “I’ve never been.”

You don’t mean to cry again, but the tears are there—tired and hot and stubborn. You blink fast, trying to shove them back where they came from, but one slips free anyway.

He catches it with the pad of his thumb.

“I’m yours,” you whisper.

A breath shudders out of him. He leans forward until your foreheads press together. His nose brushes yours.

“And I’m yours,” he murmurs back. “Every part.”

You close your eyes for one second. Just one. And when you open them again, the night is still here. The alley still reeks of beer and smoke and spilled perfume. You’re still standing in heels with glitter smudged on your collarbone.

But he’s here too.

And somehow, that makes it bearable.

"Let’s get out of here," he murmurs.

You shift against him and speak quietly but clearly. “I need to go back in.”

He stiffens. “What?”

You tilt your chin toward the club’s back door. “Just to grab my stuff—bag, clothes, phone. I’m not going back for another dance with a stranger, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

A small grin tugs at your mouth when you catch the way his jaw tightens. “Unless you were hoping to add to the busted lip.”

His eyes flick to yours, and for a second, something like exasperated affection flickers across his face. “Yeah, well. Not sure it’d be the worst way to earn another one.”

You raise a brow, amused. “You’re saying you’d fight someone again?”

His jaw ticks. “If they even look at you wrong.”

Your grin softens into something smaller, more real.

He exhales, steadying himself. “I’ll come with you.”

“You really don’t—”

“I want to.” His hand slips down to take yours, fingers weaving through like muscle memory. “Let me come.”

You nod.

The hallway inside the club is warmer, but it feels suffocating after the quiet outside. Your heels click dully against the floor as you lead him down the corridor past the bar and toward the dressing room.

A few heads turn. A few people whisper. You don’t care.

Mingyu walks behind you—not quite touching, but close enough that you feel his presence like a shield.

The security guard stationed outside the dressing room immediately narrows his eyes at Mingyu. “You again?” he says, voice sharp and unfriendly. “Back to cause more problems?”

You step forward quickly before Mingyu can respond. “Relax. I’m just grabbing my stuff, and then we’re leaving.”

The guard doesn’t look at you—he’s still watching Mingyu like he’s one wrong breath away from being dragged out again.

You squeeze Mingyu’s hand, then turn to the guard with a saccharine smile. “Just give me two minutes, okay? No need to glare holes into my boyfriend’s head.”

The man scoffs but steps aside with a grunt. “Two minutes.”

You turn to Mingyu, lowering your voice. “Wait here. Please don’t move. I’ll be quick.”

His eyes flicker down your body—still in your tiny stage outfit, glitter catching the hallway light—and he hesitates. “You’re not gonna change?”

You shake your head. “I don’t want to risk leaving you alone with him that long.” You nod toward the guard. “He looks like he wants to throw you through a wall.”

Mingyu huffs a breath but nods. “Fine.”

You dart into the dressing room, fast and focused. You grab your duffel bag, shove your phone and clothes inside, and swipe a makeup wipe across your face just to feel halfway human. Normally you’d change. You’d scrub the glitter off, pull on sweats and reclaim some dignity you feel you have lost.

But not tonight.

Tonight, you just want to get the hell out.

When you push the door open again, Mingyu’s right where you left him—leaning against the wall, arms crossed, eyes trained on the hallway like he’s trying not to breathe too loud.

You sling your duffel over one shoulder, eyes flicking nervously toward the guard still watching by the dressing room door.

He pulls off his hoodie in one smooth motion and hands it to you, already reaching for your duffel with his other hand like it’s instinct—no discussion, no pause, just him quietly taking care of you.

You slide the hoodie on immediately. It swallows you whole, the sleeves slipping past your fingertips, the hem grazing your thighs. The fabric is soft and warm, heavy with his scent, a shield against the chill and everything else that still lingers.

He’s left standing there in just his white tee, the thin cotton doing little to hide the bruises beginning to form—dark smudges blooming along his arms and collarbone, a fading imprint from the man who tried to push him off.

But Mingyu doesn’t seem to notice. His eyes are only on you.

His hand moves to rest on the small of your back, steady and protective, guiding you forward.

The guard raises an eyebrow at Mingyu, clearly unimpressed and probably about to say something, but you put a finger to your lips and whisper, “Shhh, we’re leaving now. Just don’t give him a reason to get mad.”

As you step away, a few of the other dancers pass by, smirking knowingly.

“If I saw my man with a busted lip after beating up some dude for me,” one says with a teasing grin, “Lord, I’d be on my knees right now.”

Her friend laughs, “Same. Wouldn’t even wait to get home.”

You flush, and Mingyu mutters, “Jesus,” under his breath.

His hand stays firm and warm on your back as you both slip quietly out the back exit and into the night.

⸻

Mingyu keeps his hand on the small of your back as you step out into the night, his hoodie hanging heavy on your frame, your duffel bag secure in his grip. The street is nearly silent, save for the low hum of traffic somewhere in the distance and the soft scuff of your heels on the pavement. The club’s neon buzz fades behind you, swallowed by the dark.

You don't speak. He doesn't either. But his presence beside you is louder than any words could be.

He unlocks the car with a soft beep, opens the passenger door, and gently helps you inside. His hand lingers at your thigh for just a moment—just enough to make your breath catch—before he leans in, buckles your seatbelt, and closes the door with a quiet click. It’s such a small thing, but it makes your chest twist.

By the time he slides into the driver’s seat, the silence has shifted again—no longer thick or heavy, but charged. Fragile. Sacred.

The car is cold. His knuckles are scraped. His mouth is still bleeding faintly.

But he looks over at you like you're the only thing that matters.

“I’m okay,” you whisper, even though you know he didn’t ask.

“I know,” he says. Then, softer: “Still wanted to make sure.”

You rest your head back against the seat, turning slightly to face him. The hoodie smells like him—warm laundry, cedarwood, and something sharp underneath it all, like adrenaline refusing to settle.

When the engine starts, the heater sputters to life in bursts. He pulls out of the lot with one hand on the wheel, the other dropping instinctively to your thigh again. That same touch as before—grounding, reassuring, firm but careful. Like he’s not quite ready to let go.

You place your hand over his, your fingers sliding between his knuckles until they fit.

The streetlights flicker past the windows like slow blinks. Each turn he takes is gentle, almost reverent, like he’s afraid if he jolts the car too fast, you’ll vanish beside him. His thumb strokes your leg absently, and neither of you says a word for blocks.

But it doesn’t feel like silence anymore.

It feels like everything.

It feels like beginning again.

You glance at him once, catching the way his jaw is clenched and his eyes flick toward you every few seconds like he’s checking—rechecking—that you’re real. That you’re here. That you’re his.

Your chest aches.

Not with pain.

With something fuller.

He pulls into his apartment’s underground garage, the fluorescent lights overhead making the bruises forming on his arms look worse than they did in the club. He parks in the corner, far from everyone else, and shifts the gear into park. But he doesn’t move.

Neither do you.

For a moment, the engine ticks beneath the silence, cooling slowly. The heater huffs one final breath.

Then he turns toward you.

Really turns.

His eyes rake over you—not in that heated way from before, not hungry or desperate—but with a kind of heartbreak. A kind of awe. Like he doesn’t understand how you’re still choosing him in this moment.

Your fingers tighten around his.

“I didn’t know what was happening,” he says suddenly. His voice is low. Rough. “I thought you were pulling away because it was too much. Because I’d moved too fast, or I’d made you feel—”

“You didn’t,” you say. “You never did.”

His eyes close, just for a second. Then he nods.

You unbuckle your seatbelt slowly, the click echoing louder than it should. Mingyu watches you as you reach across the console, one hand brushing along his jaw where the skin is swollen and tender.

He leans into your palm like it’s instinct.

You whisper, “Let’s go upstairs.”

His breath hitches. But he nods again.

You both step out in silence. The garage air is colder here—still and sharp, echoing with the distant hum of the city above. Mingyu meets you at the front of the car and adjusts his hoodie where it swallows your frame, tugging the hem lower with quiet intention. There’s something instinctive in the motion—something protective. Like now that you’ve said you’re his and he’s yours, he won’t let anyone else glimpse what’s his to hold. Not tonight. Not like this. Then he slides your bag off your shoulder and onto his, his free hand reaching for yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You don’t speak.

But your fingers stay linked all the way to the elevator—and they never loosen, not even once.

⸻

You don’t speak as he locks the apartment door behind you. The quiet between you is thick but no longer heavy—more like it’s stretching, expanding to hold everything you both haven’t said yet.

You take a step further in, heart slowing to a more human rhythm, and that’s when you see it.

The blanket’s still half-folded on the kitchen counter, the same one he’d once brought to the library after seeing you shiver before. A paper bag of your favorite snacks sits slouched beside it, open and forgotten. There’s a pitcher of your favorite tea you always ordered—and a plastic-wrapped bouquet of peonies, the pink kind with ruffled edges you used to draw in the margins of your notebooks.

It hits you like a punch.

He had been ready.

And when you didn’t show, he didn’t rage. Didn’t throw it away. He just… put it down. Set it aside. Like he couldn’t bear to get rid of it, but it hurt too much to look at.

Your throat tightens. “You really were going to ask me tonight.”

His voice is quiet behind you. “Yeah.”

You blink fast and inhale through your nose, but it still stings. You nod, fingers curling against the hem of his hoodie still draped around your thighs.

Then softly, “I need to shower.”

It comes out almost like a confession, but it’s not an excuse. You just… want to wash off the night. The club. The glitter, the eyes, the guilt. You want to feel clean. Just for a moment. Just for him.

Mingyu nods, like he understands all of that without you needing to say it.

“Come on,” he murmurs. “I’ll get you stuff.”

He disappears into the bedroom and comes back a moment later with a clean hoodie, and a pair of his softest boxers. His eyes meet yours as he hands them over, and the brush of your fingers sends a flicker of heat straight down your spine.

“I’ll be quick,” you whisper, even though he hasn’t asked you to be.

“I don’t mind if you’re not,” he says, so quietly you almost miss it.

The bathroom light is warm and gold. You undress slowly, stripping off everything that felt like armor earlier—lashes, rhinestones, glittering scraps of cloth—and let them scatter across the counter like the parts of a girl you’re no longer trying to be.

When the water runs hot, you step in.

And for a moment, the world stops.

You let it beat down on your back, scalding and sharp, like it’s burning away the past few hours. The scent of Mingyu lingers on your skin—on your neck, your wrists, your thigh—and now it swirls with the steam, all-consuming. Your muscles ache. Not from the dancing. From the weight. From the wanting.

You don’t hear him come in.

But you feel the change in the air.

“Mingyu?”

His voice is gentle. “Yeah. I brought you a towel. Forgot earlier.”

When you glance over your shoulder through the foggy glass, you catch the way he’s standing—just inside the door, back turned in his pajamas, one arm extended blindly toward the counter with the towel folded over it. His eyes are squeezed shut like it physically hurts him not to look.

It makes your chest ache.

“You can open your eyes, you know,” you call softly. “You already saw me in an outfit that left nothing to the imagination.”

He doesn’t move.

“And,” you add with a little smile, “you saw me completely naked a couple days ago. On your couch.”

His voice is strained. “That’s different.”

“How?”

“Because now I know what it feels like to touch you.”

You go still under the spray. Heat creeps up your neck, blooming low and slow in your belly.

The air pulses between you.

“Do you want to see me again?”

There’s a beat of silence.

“Yes,” he says, barely audible. “God, yes.”

“Then see me.”

He opens his eyes slowly, his gaze instantly locking onto you standing beneath the steady flow of warm water. The way the droplets trace delicate paths along your bare skin, the subtle curve of your neck, the soft rise and fall of your chest—it all pulls him in with a quiet, awed reverence. For a moment, the noise of the world falls away, and there’s nothing but you, illuminated in the golden bathroom light, radiant and utterly captivating.

You shift slightly, stepping just enough out of the shower to reach for the towel folded nearby. But before you can take it, his fingers move with a mind of their own, the towel slipping silently from his grasp to the floor. Instead of keeping the towel in hold, his hands come up, cupping your cheeks with gentle warmth, as if he needs the feeling of you close, grounding him.

His lips brush yours—soft and tentative at first, barely more than a whisper of contact, as if he’s testing the air between you. The warmth of his breath mingles with the steam, his fingertips still resting lightly on your cheeks, steadying you, grounding the moment. It’s a kiss that lingers in its gentleness, like a promise held close, fragile but full of meaning.

You respond with a slow inhale, your lips parting slightly, inviting him deeper, and with that subtle shift, the tenderness transforms. Your hands rise to the curve of his neck, fingers threading into the soft strands of his hair at the nape. The kiss grows, no longer a cautious question but a deliberate declaration, the heat pooling between you rising, spreading like wildfire.

His mouth moves with reverence—slow, exploring, savoring every inch of you. The brush of his lips down your jaw, the delicate nip at the corner of your mouth, the pull of his tongue just grazing yours—each movement carefully measured but aching with need. Your body responds in kind, pressing forward, hungry to close the distance that still lingers.

Breath catches and mingles; hearts thud in chaotic rhythms as the kiss deepens. Your teeth graze his lower lip in a subtle challenge, and he yields, giving in fully to the growing hunger. His hands slide from your cheeks, one trailing down your neck, the other settling at your waist, pulling you flush against him. You’re trembling under his touch, the water streaming down behind you forgotten for the moment, the world narrowing to the heat between your bodies.

There’s an urgency now, raw and unspoken, a feeling like all the moments before this—the waiting, the ache, the confessions—have led here. The kiss intensifies, breathless and relentless. His mouth claims yours with a fierce hunger, demanding, yet tender. You match him, deepening the kiss, pouring all your desire and need into the contact. His hands grip your hips, steadying you as you wrap your arms around his neck, fingers curling into his hair, pulling him closer as if you could fuse together with the strength of the longing between you.

Still kissing, still lost in the fierce gravity of each other, you both begin to move without thought—slow, unsteady steps that carry you stumbling back beneath the warm rush of water. The shower envelopes you again, the cold tile beneath forgotten as the heat of your bodies and the water blurs into a shared fire, every lingering touch, every breath, every desperate sigh binding you closer in a moment that feels like both a beginning and an eternity.

The spray of the shower rains down around you, cascading over your shoulders, streaming down your spine—but you hardly feel it. All that registers is him. The heat of his mouth, the press of his chest against yours, the soft drag of his palms as they map your skin like he’s been waiting a lifetime to memorize you.

Mingyu is soaked now, utterly drenched in his tee and sweatpants, the fabric clinging to every line of muscle. Water darkens his hair in rivulets, plastering it to his forehead, dripping from his temples—but he doesn’t falter. Doesn’t pull back. His focus is entirely on you.

Your lips part on a gasp when his hand trails up, fingers skimming over the curve of your waist, slipping up the line of your ribcage. He’s reverent—like every inch of you is sacred—but his touch is undeniably hungry. You feel it in the tremble of his breath against your cheek, in the way his fingers brush just beneath the swell of your breast and pause there, savoring.

You shudder beneath the contact, your back arching just slightly, offering more.

His thumb grazes your nipple, soft and curious at first, then more deliberate. The pad of it circles slowly, coaxing a sharp intake of breath from your lungs, and your head tips back against the slick tile wall, not even noticing the goosebumps forming on your body. The water may have lost its heat but you don’t feel the cold. Not really. Not when his mouth is pressing kisses along your throat, hot and open-mouthed, tasting the water, tasting you.

“You’re freezing,” he murmurs between kisses, his voice thick with something tender and raw, barely a breath against your skin.

“But you’re so warm,” you whisper back, voice trembling from more than just sensation. Your eyes flutter open, finding his—dark and storm-lit, burning and wide.

He lifts a hand—slow, steady—and tilts your chin up with two fingers, like he’s afraid to startle the moment, like he wants to see you before he devours you whole. His thumb strokes along your jaw as his gaze searches yours, fierce and unguarded.

“Then let me keep you warm,” he says, low and rough and entirely yours.

You don’t answer—not with words. Instead, your hands slide down his chest, feeling the soaked cotton clinging to him like a second skin. You trace the ridge of each muscle through it, feeling the strength he’s holding back for you. Your palms settle at his hips, and your fingers curl in the waistband of his pants, anchoring.

He exhales like it hurts, like the patience in him is breaking at the seams.

Then his mouth is back on yours—deeper this time, fuller. He kisses you like he needs it to breathe, like your lips are the only tether keeping him sane. His tongue slips past yours with a low groan that rumbles through both your chests, and suddenly there’s no air, no space, no boundary left between you.

The steam clings to your skin, sweat and water mixing until you don’t know which heat is yours and which is his. One of his hands tangles in your wet hair, tilting your head just right so he can kiss you harder. The other stays at your waist, sliding behind to the small of your back, pulling you flush against him until you feel the full hardness of him through the soaked fabric.

A whimper slips from your throat, caught between the kiss and the steam, and he stills—just for a breath. His forehead leans into yours, chests heaving together, soaked and trembling, water cascading down your tangled bodies like a pulse.

Neither of you speaks.

But your lips part, not for words—for air, for closeness, for the sheer gravity of it all.

His eyes search yours, drenched strands of hair clinging to his forehead. The admiration in his expression makes your heart twist. And then—you smile. Barely there. Soft. Like the feeling blooming in your chest has nowhere else to go.

He smiles back, lips flushed, pupils blown wide.

Then, almost in tandem, your gazes darken—desire thickening in the space between your mouths. The warmth shifts. Deepens. A shared hunger blooms in silence, and you lean into it like you’ve both been waiting to burn.

Even as the water keeps pouring over your skin, even as your lungs beg for air, you can’t stop touching—can’t stop reaching for him like he’s the only thing anchoring you to this earth.

He pulls back just enough to see you, your eyes wide and blown and burning, your lips swollen and slick from kissing. A bead of water trails down his jaw and catches on the edge of his busted lip—still faintly swollen from the fight, split and darkened but somehow impossibly beautiful. Your gaze flickers to it, then back up to his eyes.

"You're bleeding a little again," you whisper.

He smiles through it—crooked, ruined, reverent. “Don’t care.”

His hands settle firm at your waist again, holding you like you’re fragile and holy all at once. But this time, when his lips find yours, he kisses you through the pain. The kiss deepens, then slows. He pulls you into him like he can’t stand the inches of distance still left. It’s less frantic now—but no less hungry. The kind of hunger that’s waited. That’s earned its patience.

His hands slide down, beneath the curve of your thighs. And before you can blink, he’s lifting you—effortless, like you weigh nothing to him. Your legs wrap instinctively around his waist, your bare chest pressed to his soaked shirt, nipples dragging against damp cotton, sending jolts of heat through your body.

He steps carefully out of the shower, still holding you, steam curling around your bodies like smoke. The air outside the stall is cooler, but neither of you feels it. His grip is firm, steady, one hand cupping the underside of your thigh, the other splayed wide across your back, keeping you tight to his chest.

He sets you down slowly—delicately—on the bathroom counter, your skin sliding against the cool stone, still slick from the water. You shiver from the contrast, and he leans in immediately, kissing along your jaw, your throat, your collarbone, murmuring soft nothings like I’ve got you and You’re okay, baby, as if his mouth alone could warm you.

Your legs stay spread around his hips, pulling him in close. You reach for the hem of his soaked shirt, tugging it up slightly, revealing the long, sculpted line of his torso. Your palms run up the ridges of his abs, mapping every inch, memorizing with touch what you’ve only dared to imagine. He lets you look. Lets you touch. His eyes never leave yours.

“You’re so beautiful,” he breathes, voice fraying at the edges. “You don’t even know.”

Your hands roam higher—over his chest, along his shoulders, across the wet fabric still clinging to his arms. You slide it off, baring more of him, dragging your nails lightly over the bruises that have started to bloom along his biceps. The ones he got for you.

Your heart aches at the sight—but your body burns.

He leans down, kissing you again, and this time it’s messier. Wetter. All open mouth and gasping breath. Your hands tangle in his damp hair, fingers curling tight when he rolls his hips against you—slow, deliberate. You feel the length of him through the soaked sweatpants, hard and straining. Your hips arch instinctively, chasing friction, desperate for more. With a breathless whimper, you hook your fingers into the waistband and tug, aided by the steadiness of his hands, peeling the soaked fabric down until only his boxers remain between you.

The contact draws a low groan from his throat. He presses his forehead to yours.

“Tell me what you want,” he rasps, voice ruined. “I need to hear you say it.”

“I want you,” you whisper, your voice barely holding together. “I want you so bad, it hurts.”

His jaw clenches. That busted lip splits a little more, but he doesn’t flinch. He only nods—once, like he’s just barely holding himself together.

Then his mouth is on your chest.

He kisses the slope of your breast first, warm and open-mouthed. Then his lips part, tongue flicking against your nipple, drawing it into the heat of his mouth. You gasp, arching against him, legs tightening around his waist. He groans at the feel of you squirming against him and sucks harder, flicking the sensitive peak until your toes curl against the counter.

His other hand slides down—slow and reverent. He strokes the outside of your thigh, the curve of your hip, and then slides between your legs. His fingers brush the inside of your thigh, barely grazing your slick heat. You’re soaked—not just from the shower. He draws back to look at you, his lips swollen and wet, his pupils blown.

“Can I touch you?” he asks. “Really touch you?”

You nod, breath stuttering. “Yes.”

He kisses you once more before sinking to his knees.

His hands slide under your thighs, spreading you wider as he lowers his mouth to you—and even though your back arches and your hips jerk forward, he holds you steady, tender but firm. His tongue dips into your folds, slow and warm and devastating. You cry out softly, one hand flying to his hair, the other clawing at the edge of the counter.

He moans against you—moans, like the taste of you is something he’s craved forever. He eats you like a man starved, tongue teasing, licking, sucking, circling your clit with an impossible focus that makes your vision blur.

“Mingyu—” you gasp, barely able to form words.

He groans again, the sound low and guttural. “God, you taste so good. You’re so fucking sweet, baby.”

His voice, rough and low between your thighs, sends you spiraling. Your hips buck against his mouth, and he holds you tighter, guiding you through the pleasure like he’s worshiping you, not just pleasuring you. His tongue flicks faster, then slower, teasing you to the edge and back again.

You’re shaking, breath ragged, sweat and water slick on your skin.

But it’s not just lust—it’s love. It’s written in the way he touches you, the way he looks at you like you’re a miracle, the way he keeps whispering you’re mine, even as he’s unraveling you completely.

You’re already so close.

Your thighs are shaking around his shoulders. Every flick of his tongue, every warm breath against your drenched core is unraveling you by the second. Your fingers are in his hair, twisted tight, and the desperate sounds slipping past your lips barely sound like you anymore.

The tension builds—thick and hot and unbearable. It curls low in your belly, heat spiraling outward, wave after wave crashing toward the edge.

Your breath hitches. “Mingyu—I'm—”

But just as the tremor crests, just as your hips jerk and your chest arches—

He stops.

His mouth leaves you.

The absence is so sudden it feels like a crash.

Your eyes fly open, dazed and wide, your chest rising and falling like you’ve just surfaced from deep underwater.

“Mingyu—” you start to protest, voice breathless and aching.

But then you see his face.

He’s still kneeling, still flushed and dripping wet, but his eyes—God, his eyes are molten. Dark and wrecked and full of reverence. His busted lip is swollen, glistening with your arousal, and he’s panting like he’s barely holding himself together.

His hands smooth up your thighs, slow and trembling. “I want to feel that,” he says, voice low and thick, almost hoarse. “I want to feel you fall apart on me.”

You blink fast, breath catching.

“I want your first time to be with me, baby,” he murmurs, standing slowly, placing soft kisses along your inner thigh on the way up. “Not my mouth. Not my fingers. Me.”

Your chest caves in with the weight of it—the tenderness. The restraint. The absolute, aching need that vibrates through every inch of him.

You reach for him instantly, wrapping your arms around his shoulders, pulling him in until your foreheads touch, until you can feel his breath mingling with yours again.

“Then take me,” you whisper, raw and open and completely his.

He exhales a broken breath like you just shattered something inside him.

But he doesn’t rush.

Instead, he leans in slowly, catching your mouth with his again—soft at first, almost hesitant, but quickly growing deeper. Needier. Your legs wrap around his hips again, and now there’s nothing between you—just the soaked cotton of his boxers, sticking wet and hot to his skin, doing nothing to hide how hard he is for you.

You reach down between your bodies, your fingers ghosting over the waistband of his pants.

He stills under your touch.

“I want this,” you whisper, eyes searching his. “I want you.”

He nods once, sharp and reverent, like he’s sealing a promise.

“I’ll go slow,” he says softly. “You tell me everything you need, okay? We’ll stop whenever you want. We don’t have to—”

“I want to,” you cut in, voice steady now. Sure. “I want all of it. With you.”

A groan slips from his throat, wrecked and full of awe.

Then he’s kissing you again—deep, slow, molten—and this time, he starts to guide you off the counter, lifting you easily into his arms again.

“I need to get you to bed,” he murmurs against your mouth.

You nod, already dizzy with want.

And as he carries you out of the bathroom, soaked and breathless and burning for each other, you know—this isn’t just sex.

This is love, finally given a body.

And it's about to be yours.

⸻

He carries you out of the bathroom like you’re the most precious thing in the world—limbs wrapped tight around him, heart hammering in sync with his. The cool air hits your wet skin the moment the door clicks shut behind you, but the heat between your bodies burns brighter than any chill.

The hallway to his bedroom feels endless, every wet step echoing with the weight of what’s about to happen, but also with the quiet certainty of belonging. His grip never loosens, fingers digging into your thighs to keep you steady as you adjust, grounding yourself in him.

When he finally sets you down, the bedroom swallows you whole—soft shadows pooling in the corners, the faint scent of his cologne mixing with the lingering warmth of fresh sheets. Mingyu doesn’t hesitate; his hands are on you again in an instant, sliding up your back, tracing the curve of your spine, memorizing the landscape of your skin with reverent hunger.

He doesn’t rush. Not tonight. Not with you.

His hands slide over your trembling skin, reverent and slow, mapping every inch as if memorizing a precious secret. His mouth follows, trailing soft kisses along your collarbone, down the curve of your neck, each breath warm and heavy against your skin.

When his fingers find your bare thighs, the heat of his touch sends a shiver rippling through you. You part your legs instinctively, inviting him in, your pulse hammering in your ears as you watch his dark eyes flicker with hunger and tenderness.

“Let me take care of you,” he murmurs, voice thick with desire and something softer—something almost sacred.

His hand slides closer, fingers teasing the delicate skin between your legs. He traces lazy circles, coaxing your body to open, to welcome him gently. You catch your breath as his touch dips lower, his fingertips brushing your folds with exquisite patience, drawing out a soft gasp.

Slowly, deliberately, he slides one finger inside you—soft, small, careful. His thumb strokes just above, rubbing gentle circles on your swollen clit, coaxing a rush of warmth and ache that settles deep in your belly.

You tremble at the new sensation, but his voice is a balm.

“Good girl,” he whispers. “Just like that. You’re so perfect.”

His finger moves with a slow rhythm, easing you open, inviting your body to trust. When he adds a second finger, curling gently inside, you gasp—a mixture of surprise and pleasure—but you don’t pull away. Instead, you lean into him, your fingers tangling in his hair, needing his steady presence.

Then, as he tries to ease a third finger inside, your body stiffens, a sharp wince breaking free.

“Mingyu, I can’t,” you whisper, voice fragile.

He pauses, searching your face with fierce tenderness.

“I know you can, baby,” he murmurs softly, voice steady and sure. “How else am I supposed to fit all of me inside you?”

Your gaze drops, and you see him there in his boxers—hard, big, aching, desperate for you. A slow gulp escapes your throat. You want this—want him—but the thought sends a flutter of nerves through your chest.

You shut your eyes tight as he tries again, overwhelmed by the fullness, the pressure, the way his fingers stretch you more than you’ve ever known. But then—you feel the warmth of his mouth on your clit, his tongue gentle and insistent, and something shifts. A moan slips from your lips. When you open your eyes again, blinking through the haze of pleasure and heat, you find him staring up at you from between your thighs. His lips are wrapped around your core, his fingers still buried inside, and his dark brown eyes are locked on yours—intense, reverent, burning with devotion. The sight steals your breath. You feel like you could melt completely, unravel into the floor tile, just from the weight of that gaze and everything it holds.

His fingers ease back, then slowly press forward again, pushing that third finger just a little further—barely more than before. His mouth works magic, sending waves of pleasure to counterbalance the stretch, making the ache feel like something you can bear, even crave.

“Shh, you’re doing so good,” he croons against your skin. “I’m right here. You’re safe.”

Your hands clutch his shoulders, body trembling with the delicious tension of pain and pleasure intertwined. The water from the shower still clung on your bodies splashes around you both, but you barely notice—the heat between you is a furnace.

He never rushes, never pushes beyond what you can handle. His eyes are locked on yours, steady and full of devotion, giving you strength when you falter.

With every gentle stroke, every lingering kiss, every whispered promise, you feel yourself opening—not just to him, but to this moment, to this love, to the sacred trust between you.

And in that slow, charged space, you realize this is only the beginning.

He watches you carefully, gauging every tremble, every twitch of your thighs, the way your breath hitches and your walls flutter around his fingers. He knows your body now—knows the sounds you make when it’s too much, the sighs when it’s just right. And when he feels you open around him, finally, soft and stretched and clenching in waves, he knows.

He lifts his mouth from your core, slow and deliberate, and the absence makes you whimper—a sound that twists something primal in his chest. His fingers slip from your body, soaked and shining, leaving you fluttering open and trembling on the bed. You lie there panting, legs still spread, flushed and undone, your chest rising and falling in stuttered breaths as the air brushes over your damp skin.

He straightens to his full height, standing at the edge of the bed, the steam still curling off both your bodies, his chest heaving. His gaze drags down your body—flushed, glistening, pliant beneath him—and he feels his restraint unraveling, thread by thread.

Then, without taking his eyes off you, he lifts his fingers to his mouth—those same fingers that had just been inside you, coaxing you open with patience and care. There’s nothing hurried in the motion, just heat. Reverence. Want. The pink of his tongue darts out to taste your slick—and your breath catches, sharp and fast in your throat.

But then you see it. Just a glimmer. A trace of red mixed with your arousal, glistening faintly at the base of his knuckle. A smear of something more than heat. Your stomach flips.

“Wait—” you sit up on your elbows, reaching for him. “There’s blood—Mingyu, don’t—”

But he just shakes his head, gaze burning as his fingers slip between his lips anyway, slow and deliberate. He groans low in his throat like your taste is everything, like it’s sacred. He sucks the digits clean, tongue curling around each one with something close to reverence.

“Baby,” he murmurs, voice wrecked, thick with heat and something deeper, “it’s fine. You think I care about a little blood?”

You stare up at him, breathless. He’s standing over you, flushed and soaked, his busted lip still faintly swollen, a drop of water sliding down from his jaw to his collarbone, catching the light. He looks like sin and salvation all at once. Reverent and ruined. Devoted and starving.

“You’re mine,” he says, voice low and serious, like he’s carving it into stone. “All of you. That includes this. Every part.”

Your lips part, and your throat tightens—but it’s not shame you feel. It’s awe. It’s gratitude. It’s love, thick and overwhelming.

And when he starts to peel down his boxers—slow, eyes still locked to yours like he needs to see every flicker of emotion—you realize just how far gone you are for him.

Your breath catches, and heat coils in your belly again—deeper, needier this time. You’re trembling, open and aching beneath him, and when he lowers himself between your legs once more, the air thickens with something unspoken. Like the whole world has gone quiet to make space for this.

He lines himself up with trembling patience, his hands braced on either side of your body. His expression is still soft, but his eyes burn—deep brown and blown wide, pupils swallowing the gold. His chest heaves with every breath, and his cock is heavy against your entrance, thick and flushed, tip brushing through your slick folds like he’s soaking in every part of you before crossing the threshold.

“Are you ready?” he whispers.

You nod, but he doesn’t move yet.

“Baby… I need to hear it.”

Your heart thuds like thunder. You swallow hard. “Yes,” you whisper. “I want this. I want you.”

And that’s all it takes.

He exhales slowly, hips tilting forward, and you feel the first push—just the tip. The stretch is immediate, a burn that laces up your spine and tightens your throat. Your eyes squeeze shut, fingers gripping the sheets beneath you as your breath stutters.

He stills instantly.

“Okay?” he breathes, voice tight, like he’s holding back everything in him to make this right.

“Y-Yeah,” you manage, though your voice trembles. “Just… slow.”

“I will,” he promises. “I’ve got you.”

His hand finds yours and squeezes tight, grounding. Then, slowly—agonizingly—he starts to press in further. The ache sharpens for a moment, your body instinctively tightening around him, but he kisses your knuckles, murmurs your name like it’s the only word he’s ever learned.

You whimper when he sinks a little deeper, the sting blooming across your hips.

“I know,” he whispers, eyes locked on you. “I know, baby—it’s a lot. You’re so tight… fuck, you feel—”

He breaks off with a shuddered breath, like the pleasure of being inside you is almost too much.

“You’re doing so good,” he murmurs, mouth brushing your temple. “You’re perfect.”

And you believe him.

Bit by bit, inch by inch, he fills you—each breath pulling him closer, deeper, until the sharpness fades and the ache becomes something warmer, fuller, more bearable. He stretches you in a way that feels endless, but never once makes you feel like you’re being taken from. Only given to.

He’s gentle, so gentle, even when his body trembles with restraint. His busted lip brushes your cheek, and you turn your face to kiss it—lightly, reverently—like it’s your way of saying thank you without breaking the moment.

And then he’s fully seated inside you, hips pressed flush to yours, chest hovering just above your own. His breath is ragged, his forehead slick where it touches yours.

Neither of you moves.

The air is heavy and slow, like time has bent itself around this one instant. His hand finds the side of your face, thumb brushing your cheekbone. “Tell me how it feels,” he whispers, like he needs to hear it from you, not just see it.

You open your eyes—barely—and meet his gaze. “Like I’ve been waiting for this my whole life.”

He lets out a soft, broken sound. His lips find yours again, careful, full of love.

And then—then—he begins to move.

He starts slow—so slow it almost hurts. Not the stretch, not anymore, but the way every inch of him moves like he’s memorizing you from the inside. Like every drag of his hips is a sentence in a language he’s only ever wanted to speak with you.

You cling to him without meaning to—arms looped around his shoulders, fingers buried in his damp hair. His name spills from your lips in a soft, breathy whimper, and he answers it with a low groan against your mouth, like the sound is too much and still not enough.

“You feel like heaven,” he whispers, voice frayed and reverent, his forehead pressed against yours. “I don’t—fuck—I don’t know how I ever touched you and didn’t know this is what we were made for.”

The words sink into your skin like silk and fire. You can’t breathe around them. You don’t want to.

His rhythm is gentle at first, hips rolling with steady control, every stroke long and deep. You gasp each time he pushes in, the ache melting into heat that spreads through your core, turning into something that coils and tightens with every pass.

“Still okay?” he asks between kisses, lips brushing the corner of your mouth, your jaw, the hollow of your throat.

You nod, then whisper, “More.”

His eyes darken—something wild and worshipful blooming in his gaze—and his hand slides down your side to grip your thigh, lifting it gently around his waist to angle you open even more. The next thrust sinks deeper, and your breath catches sharp in your lungs.

“Oh my god—” you gasp, nails biting into his back.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs again, voice lower now, rougher. “You’re taking me so well, baby. So fucking good.”

The friction builds—slow and deliberate—until every nerve feels alive under his touch. His pelvis brushes your clit on each deep roll of his hips, a perfect, maddening drag that makes you writhe beneath him, needy sounds escaping you with no shame, no filter. You’re completely bare for him—emotionally, physically, soul stripped raw—and he treats you like it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

His busted lip splits further when he kisses you again, a smear of pink across your mouth that neither of you care about. He tastes like salt and sweetness, like heat and need, like the past and the future clashing in a single kiss.

“Mingyu,” you breathe, your voice cracking. “Please…”

He grits his teeth like he’s trying to hold back—but your body is slick and pulsing around him, velvet and tight and perfect, and he knows he’s not going to last much longer.

Still, he slows again, grounding himself in you. His hand slips between your bodies, fingers finding your clit with practiced care. He rubs slow circles there, syncing with each deep thrust, and your mouth falls open in a choked cry.

“Let go for me,” he whispers. “I want to feel you when you come.”

Your head tips back, eyes fluttering shut, body trembling with the building wave inside you. His rhythm doesn't falter—deep, slow, intentional. His fingers stroke your clit in time with each powerful roll of his hips, sending lightning down your spine and setting every nerve alight.

The pressure builds so quickly it’s dizzying—like standing at the edge of something vast and irreversible. His name spills from your lips again and again, a broken chant that doesn’t sound like language anymore, only want. Only surrender.

“You’re so close,” Mingyu breathes against your skin, his voice unraveling. “I can feel it. Don’t hold back, baby. Let me feel you fall apart.”

And you do.

With a shattered cry, your body clenches tight around him, back arching off the sheets as the orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave. It rolls through you in long, blinding pulses—sensation layered on sensation until you forget where you end and he begins.

He groans deep in his chest as you come, the rawness of your pleasure unraveling something inside him. Your walls tighten around him in rhythmic waves, slick and perfect and endless, and his control breaks.

“Fuck, baby—just like that,” he rasps, burying himself deeper, deeper still. “You feel so fucking good—so tight, so warm—shit, I’m gonna—”

His rhythm falters—just slightly—as he pushes once, twice more and comes with a low, guttural sound. His body jerks into yours, thick and hot as he spills inside you, pulse after pulse until there’s nothing left to give. You feel everything—every throb, every twitch, every desperate breath between you.

The room is filled with the scent of sex and skin. The only sounds are the sharp inhales you both fight to take, mingled with the slow thud of your hearts beating in tandem.

Mingyu doesn’t move right away. He stays pressed against you, face tucked into your neck, arms trembling as they hold you close. Like he’s afraid that letting go will undo it all.

You feel the heat of his breath against your collarbone, the sticky slide of his chest against yours, the soft shake of his hands as he finally starts to breathe normally again.

Your fingers find his hair and sink in slowly, brushing back the damp strands from his forehead. He tilts his head just enough to meet your eyes—and the look he gives you nearly undoes you again.

He’s wrecked. Flushed. But his eyes are wide and warm and full of something you can barely hold.

Your lips are still parted when he begins to soften inside you, your bodies still tangled, breath still shared. His forehead rests against yours for a long, slow moment, like he needs to anchor himself in the closeness, the heat, the heartbeat under your skin.

And then, finally, gently—he pulls out.

You gasp, instinctively shifting your hips away, suddenly too aware of the sensation of his release leaking out of you. Warm and slow, slipping down your thigh. Your legs twitch to close, to hide, but Mingyu’s hand is already there—large and grounding on your hip, stopping you with ease.

“Don’t,” he murmurs, voice hoarse and reverent.

You glance up at him, eyes wide, cheeks flushing, but his gaze is fixed between your thighs—like he’s memorizing the sight. The proof of what just passed between you. The wet heat, the flush of your skin, the mess he made inside you.

“Mingyu…” you whisper, embarrassed.

His eyes flick to yours, dark and aching with something close to awe. “God,” he breathes. “You look so fucking pretty like this.”

You try to squirm away again, shy and overstimulated—but he doesn’t let you. His grip tightens gently, not to trap you, just to steady you.

“Let me see,” he says softly, almost like a plea. “Just for a second. You don’t know what you do to me.”

The vulnerability in his voice stills your retreat. And when you let yourself relax into the bed, legs still parted slightly, flushed and spent and trembling, his hand moves to your thigh again—gentle now, soothing.

“You’re mine,” he whispers, almost like he’s saying it to himself. “All of you. Even this.”

He leans down to press a kiss just above your hip, reverent and tender, like a thank you. Then one to your navel. Then another, lower. You’re too sensitive, too raw to do anything but breathe through it, overwhelmed by the way he’s still touching you like you’re something sacred.

Eventually, he lifts his head and meets your gaze again.

“You okay?” he murmurs, brushing your hair from your damp cheek.

You nod, cheeks hot, eyes glassy with emotion you’re not sure how to name.

“I just…” You swallow. “I didn’t know it could feel like that.”

Mingyu’s smile is soft and slow. He leans in to kiss you again—sweet and deep, no hunger now, just the kind of kiss that says you’re safe.

“I did,” he says, lips brushing yours. “Because it was you.”

⸻

// this is pretty much 9.0k words of straight smut im so embarrassed and feel so guilty lol

Tag List: @sojuxxi @belovedgyu @bingumingoo1004 @burnerforfiction @jujuz251013 @dmstoyangyang @armycarat2612 @eisaspresso @svthinker @babycaratdeul @my-atiny-kookie-rkive @iluvhosh @caratcak3 @anateeso @tooflef @cocoalmond @mayalou @aeerio @aquasan29 @chemiru @dinonara-ara

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kittyminion · 3 days ago

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friends first robb stark x f!reader

-you are robb's new wife -fluff, arranged marriage, short and sweet

You hadn’t known him for long, just knew he’d needed a wife and heir to secure his title as King of the North. Robb Stark had made a large impression on the North, so that meant men were rushing to claim their loyalties to him.

Your father happened to be ahead of every other men, and next thing you knew, you were walking down the aisle and binding your soul to Robbs from now to eternity.

Robb kissed you delicately that day, his eyes staring deep into yours with a certain hardness full of duty. It hurt you to know he thought of you that way, for all your life you’d wanted love, but you couldn’t help but feel the same way for him.

He was just a Stark man and now that you were his wife, you were responsible for giving him sons.

As the two of you sat in the banquet hall watching the men and women from your Houses celebrate your ties, you said nothing to him. You ate your meat, drank your mead and flinched everytime Robb accidentally brushed your arm or asked you to pass him something.

He was loud and tipsy that night, internally begging to be anywhere but here, but his mother kept an eye on him down the table, urging him to quiet down or talk to you with a simple blink of her eyes.

She complimented your curly hair and your wedding gown, calmed your thoughts on all things marriage while keeping a far enough distance that you wondered if she even liked you for her son.

You were a quiet woman, rarely talking unless you needed to. You read in your free time and made snarky jokes that people didn’t understand, which made you a bit of an outcast as a child.

When you were a teenager you kept to yourself, finding small hideouts in the forest and staying there for hours at a time until your father wondered where you’d gone and sent a search party out looking for you.

Of course, you weren’t the first choice out of your sisters, but you were pretty, rarely complained, and you’d actually liked Robb for what he stood up for.

“Wife?” Robb suddenly turned to you, his eyes red and low, fingers outstretched towards yours and you pursed your lips and ignored the cheering around you. You’d dreaded the bedding ceremony since the first day you’d learned you would be married, but you knew you couldn’t avoid it.

Allowing Robb to pull you up, he ushered you out of the banquet hall, his attention loosely on you while he accepted passing drinks from his friends.

Once the two of you were finally alone in Robb’s bedchambers you sat in an armchair near the window and watched Robb collapse on his bed, lazily removing his shoes while he stared at the silver band on his ring finger.

He muttered words you couldn’t hear then finally glanced over at you, “you haven’t spoken much today. And the wedding vows don’t count.”

You sighed and shook your head, “I think you’ve been avoiding me this entire night. Why bother speaking to someone who clearly doesn’t want to be bothered.” Robb sat up and unbuttoned his cloak, tossing it across the room soon after.

“Who said I didn’t want to be bothered?” Robb stood and came over to you, fingers reaching up to remove his shirt.

You stood as well, reaching behind yourself to remove your dress, revealing your undergarments. When you didn’t answer Robb's question, he grabbed your wrists and started helping you undress.

“You are a stranger to me. I have to get to know you.” When your undergarments fell and you were left naked, Robb kept his eyes on yours as he pulled off the rest of his clothing.

The room was filled with warm candle light as Robb tugged you over to the bed. “Let us become friends.”

𐙚

Through all your talking, you didn’t realize the sun had come up until there was knocking on the door. Robb stumbled out of bed, mussing up his curly hair and throwing on a pair of pants as he walked over to the door and pulled it open.

When the chamber maid saw you, naked, lying in bed and Robbs bare chest, she blushed, “I’ve come to check for bleeding.”

Robb glanced over at you, a light smirk on his lips when you sunk into the bed, “another maid came to check late last night, she’s already laundered the bedding.” The maid nodded sporadically and dipped into a short curtesy, “thank you, Your Grace.”

As soon as the door shut and Robb turned to you, the both of you chuckled and he slipped back into bed next to you, “I shall get ready soon, I have to meet with a few banner men.” You nodded, flipping onto your back and staring up at the ceiling, “they’ll get suspicious if we don’t, Robb.”

Robb huffed, fingers reaching up to twirl a piece of your hair, “we’ll have dinner tonight, just the two of us, in the courtyard?”

After Robb got dressed and left the bedchambers, your maid came to pour you a hot bath and dress you. The dress she prepared was heavy, padded against the cold Northern weather and hard to walk in, but you walked around the castle Robbs men were in temporarily, read the books in the dilapidated library, and cross stitched with Catelyn.

“Is my son treating you well?” She questioned delicately, eyes focused on her needlework, and you nodded slowly, “yes, he is very gentle.” Catelyn smiled, “he’s always been that way. My other children though...,” her humorous laughter rang out and you chuckled as well.

#fanfic #angst #smut #fluff #game of thrones #game of thrones fanfiction #robb stark #robb stark x reader #robb stark x y/n #robb stark x you #house stark #sansa stark #asoiaf #westeros #arranged marriage

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sundeyyy · 20 hours ago

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𝙒𝘼𝙏𝘾𝙃 𝙔𝙊𝙐𝙍 𝘽𝘼𝘾𝙆───𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝘼𝙁𝙏𝙀𝙍 𝙋𝘼𝙍𝙏𝙔: 𝙋𝘼𝙍𝙏 𝙊𝙉𝙀

✰𝙥𝙖𝙞𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙜: BadBoys!Ateez x Broken!Reader

✰𝙬𝙘: 8.7k

✰ 𝙨𝙮𝙣𝙤𝙥𝙨𝙞𝙨: Your spiral deepens. The bottle becomes your escape, and school turns into a stage for your self-destruction. Drunk laughs, shaky footsteps, and viral videos make you the talk of the school.

✰ 𝙬𝙖𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨: Bullying, Underage drinking, Emotional distress, Depressive behavior, Self-harm, Cyberbullying, Mental health struggles, Alcohol abuse, Self-destructive behavior, Toxic coping mechanisms, Public intoxication, Feelings of worthlessness/ hopelessness, Self-isolation, Suicidal ideation (Imk if I forgot anything).

✰ 𝙙𝙞𝙨𝙘𝙡𝙖𝙞𝙢𝙚𝙧: This series is not a representation of the idols as individuals and is to not be taken seriously. If you’re uncomfortable with the content in the series or on my page, then feel free to click off at any moment.

───

The silence in your room is heavy—thick enough to choke on. Moonlight filters in through your window, casting a pale glow across the cluttered floor. Yuji sits on the edge of your bed, her posture stiff but her eyes soft with worry. You've barely moved since she arrived, barely spoken.

And then, her voice slices through the silence.

"What did you do?"

You flinch.

Your fingers tighten around the hem of your hoodie. That question, asked so gently, feels louder than any scream. You stare at your hands, your breath uneven. You should lie—make something up, say you just needed space—but the truth is a storm that's been boiling under your skin for days, and it wants out.

"I tried to disappear," you whisper.

Yuji's brows knit. "What do you mean?"

You swallow hard. Shame burns in your throat.

"I took... something. Pills. Maybe drugs, I don't know. I just wanted everything to stop." You pause, then force yourself to go on. "I thought... if I took enough, I wouldn't wake up."

Yuji stares at you, stunned. Her breath catches, her expression falling.

"Y/N..."

You shake your head quickly, the guilt thick in your chest. "It didn't work. I threw it up, or maybe it wasn't enough. I didn't even do it right."

The silence that follows is suffocating. Yuji is still, eyes wide and glossy, like she's seeing you break in real time.

You look away, voice flat. "Now you know. You can go, if you want." "I'm not going anywhere."

Yuji's voice is barely above a whisper, but it lands heavy in the room. You keep your eyes on the floor, heart hammering in your chest, wishing you could dissolve into it.

Then— A sharp knock. The door creaks open.

"Y/N?"

Your mom's voice is hoarse, like she's been crying for days. When you don't answer, she steps into the room. She looks like she barely slept—hair messy, dark circles beneath her eyes, her clothes rumpled.

But her eyes are locked on you. And she's shaking.

"Did I—did I hear you right?" she asks, voice trembling. "You... you tried to—"

You look away. The shame is unbearable. It crawls up your spine and presses against your ribs like barbed wire.

"Mom, just—don't," you mutter.

"No." Her voice cracks. She moves closer, drops to her knees in front of you. "You can't say something like that and expect me to be quiet. Y/N, I thought you were just shutting me out because you were angry—God, I didn't know it was this bad—"

"How could I let it get this bad?"

She breaks.

Right there on your floor, your mother folds in on herself, sobbing. Yuji stands frozen by the bed, tears in her eyes, watching a family fall apart in real time.

You can't handle it.

You pull your hood over your head, curl your body inward, and whisper, "I didn't mean for anyone to find out. I just wanted to disappear. That's all."

The room is still again. The only sound is your mother's quiet crying.

And then—Yuji finally moves. She sits beside you again, her hand ghosting over yours but not grabbing it.

"You're not disappearing," she says. "Not while we're here. Not if I have anything to say about it." Your mother's hand slowly reaches for yours again, hesitant, like she's afraid even touching you might break you further.

"I knew something was wrong, Y/N," she says, her voice shaking. "I saw the signs. But you wouldn't talk to me. I begged you to tell me what was going on, but you kept pushing me away... Why didn't you come to me?"

You look down at your hands, feeling the weight of her words. Your mother had always been there, had always tried, but you kept shutting her out, keeping everything locked inside. "I didn't know how to say it," you whisper, your voice barely audible. "I didn't know how to ask for help."

She shakes her head slowly, tears spilling from her eyes. "Y/N, you don't have to ask for help. You just have to tell me. I could've been there for you. I want to be there for you, always."

You bite your lip, swallowing the lump in your throat. "I didn't want to be a burden to you. You have enough on your plate already," you say, your words sounding almost robotic, like you've rehearsed them a million times.

Her grip tightens on your hand, as if to ground you both in this moment. "You're never a burden, Y/N. I'm your mother. I'm supposed to be here for you. I need you to believe that."

Your heart aches as you hear her voice crack, the rawness of her pain mirroring your own. "I should've noticed sooner... I should've known," she whispers more to herself than to you. "I'm so sorry I didn't push harder."

You pull away slightly, your walls starting to rebuild as the shame and guilt rush in. "It doesn't matter now. I messed up," you mutter, looking away, wishing you could just disappear.

She doesn't let you pull away for long. Her hands gently cup your face, forcing you to meet her gaze. "It does matter, Y/N. You matter. More than anything. You're not a burden. You're my daughter, and I will always fight for you, no matter what you've been through."

The words feel like a promise, one you've been desperate to hear for so long. For a moment, it's like you can finally breathe, and the tension in your chest eases, just a little.

But the weight of everything is still there. You still feel broken. Still feel like you don't belong in the world you're supposed to be a part of.

But for the first time in a long time, you let yourself believe that maybe, just maybe, you're not as alone as you thought.

You sit with your hands in your lap, fingers twitching like they're unsure if they should be building a wall or tearing one down.

Yuji doesn't rush you. She just watches you with eyes that are wide and brimming with something you don't quite recognize—gentleness, maybe. Or patience.

You swallow hard. "I don't remember what it's like to feel... safe," you begin, voice raw, shaky. "Not since I was little. He used to come into my room at night and I never knew what mood he'd be in. If I made a sound, he'd scream. If I stayed quiet, he'd still find something to hit me for."

Yuji's expression flickers—pain rippling across her features—but she doesn't interrupt.

"I can still hear him," you continue, words pouring faster now, like the dam finally cracked. "Even now. I'll be alone, and it's like he's still here. I flinch when people walk too fast behind me. I freeze when I hear loud voices. It's like I'm back there. Like I'm eight years old again, hiding in the closet with a bloody nose, hoping he forgets about me."

Your mom is in the doorway now. Silent. Shaken. But you keep going.

"I've had nightmares every night since I was a kid. And sometimes I don't even sleep at all. Because I know I'll see him again. I'll feel it all again. I can't breathe when it happens. I wake up choking."

Yuji's voice comes out quiet but firm. "Why didn't you ever say anything?"

You laugh, bitter and hollow. "Who would've listened? Who would've cared? I'm just the 'weird' girl, the one who lashes out, the one who hides in baggy clothes and pretends everything's fine."

You hug your arms around yourself. "But it's not fine. It's never been fine. I still feel him. In every mirror I pass. Every time I mess something up, I hear his voice saying I'm worthless. That no one would ever love me."

Your voice drops to a whisper. "And... I believe him."

Your mom makes a sound from behind you—small, broken. You don't turn around.

Then Yuji speaks again, gently. "Y/N... have you been hurting yourself?"

Your mom chimes in, voice trembling. "Sweetheart... please. Tell us the truth."

And that's when you move.

Silently, slowly, you lift your hoodie over your head. The sleeves stick for a moment, like they're trying to protect you from what comes next. But you pull them down.

Then your fingers go to the waistband of your sweatpants, and you lower them just enough.

The room goes silent.

Your arms are a map of pain—red and raised, pink and healing, some fresh enough that they sting in the air. Your legs, worse. Long patches of burns, darkened scars, places where your skin tells the story your mouth couldn't.

Yuji doesn't speak. She looks like someone knocked the air out of her. Your mom is crying openly now, hand over her mouth.

But you—you just sit there, exposed and numb.

Yuji's breath catches. She blinks like she's trying to make sense of what she's seeing, but nothing prepares you for the look in her eyes. It's not disgust. It's not pity. It's grief. It's a kind of heartbreak so quiet it aches.

She reaches out, but stops herself—hands hovering, trembling slightly.

"Y/N..." she says softly, voice cracking. "God, I—I didn't know. I didn't think it was like this."

Your mom sinks to her knees beside you, tears streaming down her face now. Her voice is broken when she speaks. "You've been carrying this alone... all of this... my baby..." She doesn't try to touch you, not yet. Just stares at the damage, at the reality she had only sensed in the shadows before.

You stay frozen. Not because you're scared of their reactions—you were expecting disgust, silence, maybe yelling. But this? This quiet, raw pain in their faces? It's harder to look at than anything.

Yuji lowers herself beside you and places her hand—gently, carefully—on your back.

"You didn't deserve this," she whispers. "Not what he did. Not what they're doing to you now. You didn't deserve any of it."

You blink fast, but the tears still come.

Your mom is still crying. "I knew something was wrong. I knew you were hurting, but you never let me in. I should've tried harder. I should've fought harder for you."

You finally look at her. And what you see there isn't judgment—it's regret. Devastation. Love, shaking and scared, but still love.

"I thought you'd hate me if you knew," you murmur.

Your mom reaches out, brushing a thumb under your eye. "I could never hate you. Never. I'm so sorry I didn't make you feel safe enough to tell me. That ends now. I'm not leaving you alone in this again."

Yuji nods beside you, voice steadier now. "Neither am I."

You sit there with both of them, hoodie still off, marks still visible, and for the first time in what feels like forever, you don't feel the need to cover them up. Not in shame. Not in fear. The room goes completely silent.

Yuji's hand trembles where it hovers near yours, unsure if she should touch you, hold you, or give you space. Your mom's lips part, but no sound comes out. Her eyes are wide, glassy with horror and heartbreak. She covers her mouth with one hand as the tears begin to fall freely.

No one says anything at first. Just the sound of your breathing. Unsteady. Ragged.

Yuji gently reaches out, finally placing her hand over yours, her voice barely above a whisper. "...You've been carrying this alone for so long, haven't you?"

You nod. Barely.

"I didn't know how else to make it stop," you say, your voice hollow. "Sometimes the pain inside gets so loud, and this was the only thing that made it quiet."

Your mother crumbles into quiet sobs. Yuji closes the gap between you both and pulls you into a hug—not too tight, but close enough to remind you that you're not alone. Her voice is soft in your ear.

"You don't have to hurt to be heard, Y/N. I see you now. I promise I won't look away."

And for the first time in a long time, even if the pain still lingers, you let yourself cry into her arms. —————

The hours pass slowly.

Your mom refused to leave your side. Yuji as always, didn't leave your side. They stayed with you in quiet solidarity, even when no more words were spoken.

Eventually, the scars are bandaged. Your hoodie replaced with something softer. A warm blanket. A glass of water you barely touched. You're curled up on the couch now, staring at the TV playing some old rerun you're not really watching.

Your mom is making phone calls in the other room—talking to someone about a therapist. A counselor. Support. You don't listen too hard, but the guilt weighs heavy.

Yuji sits beside you, one leg tucked under her, still quiet. Every now and then, her hand brushes against yours.

"I meant what I said earlier," she murmurs. "What you've been through... it matters. You matter. I know it's hard to believe right now, but I'm not going anywhere."

You glance at her, your eyes tired. "I don't know if I can get better."

"You don't have to figure it out tonight," she says. "Just... let us be here. That's all."

The silence hangs thick after you revealed your scars and burns—some fresh, others faded but angry-looking. Your mother stares, broken and stunned. Yuji's hand is still resting gently against your wrist, warm and grounding.

Yuji swallows hard before speaking.

"...My mom's a therapist," she says softly, eyes never leaving yours. "I haven't said anything before because I didn't want to push you, but... if you wanted to talk to someone safe—someone good—she'd help you. She's helped me."

Your eyes flicker with uncertainty, shame, a thousand things all at once. "Is that why you're not scared of me?"

Yuji's brows knit together, her expression tightening. "I was never scared of you, Y/N. I was scared for you. There's a difference."

Your mom exhales shakily beside her, wiping at her eyes. "If... if there's someone who can help her, please..." she whispers, voice cracking. "I'll do anything to get her better."

You don't respond immediately. You looks down at your arms again, your voice faint.

"I'm just tired. I don't know if I'm ready to talk. Not to anyone."

Yuji nods. "You don't have to be ready right now. But when you are—even if it's just to listen—my mom would be gentle with you."

There's a pause. Then, almost imperceptibly, you gives a small nod.

It's not a yes. But it's not a no either. ________

The soft scent of vanilla pancakes and scrambled eggs drifts up the stairs, curling into your room like something warm, something almost safe. It smells like a memory you forgot you missed. You shift slightly under the covers, still wrapped tight in the blanket. Beside you, Yuji is curled up at the edge of the bed, her head resting on a pillow she dragged from the couch. Neither of you has said much this morning—but neither of you has needed to.

"Y/N? Yuji? Breakfast is ready," your mom calls up. Her voice sounds lighter than yesterday. Hopeful.

Yuji blinks awake and sits up, hair a soft mess. "Smells really good," she mumbles, turning to you. "Hey. Wanna try eating with me?"

You hesitate. Your stomach twists in a way that has nothing to do with hunger. Just thinking about sitting at a table makes your throat go tight. But there's something soft in Yuji's voice—no pressure, no judgment—that nudges you out of bed.

"Okay," you whisper.

The two of you pad downstairs together. Her presence feels like a steady heartbeat beside you.

The kitchen is already warm. Plates are set, and your mom is placing the last golden pancake onto a plate. When she turns and sees you both, her smile wobbles at the edges—tired, emotional, but filled with love.

"Good morning, girls," she says gently. "I thought you could both use something warm today."

You sit slowly. There are pancakes, scrambled eggs, and strawberries arranged into a tiny heart on your plate. You stare at it for a long moment, something quiet stirring in your chest.

Yuji sits next to you and nudges your shoulder. "She made yours prettier than mine. I feel betrayed."

A small puff of air leaves your nose. Almost a laugh.

Your mom sits down with her own plate. "That was intentional," she says with a wink. "Yuji's got enough sweetness already."

Yuji places a dramatic hand over her heart. "You're gonna make me cry before I've had caffeine."

You don't know what to do with the warmth that fills the room. Your fingers hover over your fork. Your mom notices. So does Yuji. Neither says anything.

Then your mom leans in a little, voice low. "You don't have to finish. Just try a few bites. I'm just... really glad you're here this morning."

Your throat tightens. You look at the strawberries again, shaped into a heart like someone tried to tell you without words: you still matter.

You pick up your fork. Take one bite.

Your mom's smile grows soft and quiet.

Yuji grins. "Hey—look at that. First bite conquered. You're kinda awesome, you know that?"

You don't answer, but something in your shoulders eases. The food doesn't feel like the enemy today. For once, breakfast isn't a battlefield.

By the third bite, your mom reaches across and brushes a piece of hair from your face. "You're doing better than you think, sweetheart."

Under the table, Yuji squeezes your hand. "One step at a time, okay? You don't have to do this alone."

And for the first time in a long while, with the scent of pancakes and quiet care filling the room, something new stirs inside you.

Hope.

⸻

It's been a long time since you've gone anywhere that wasn't school, home, or the dark corners of your mind. So when your mom gently suggests a trip to the mall—just the three of you—you're surprised by the way your mouth says yes before your brain catches up.

Yuji's instantly on board. "We're doing soft girl healing errands today. It's happening."

You don't smile. Not fully. But you don't resist either.

The drive is calm. Yuji plays lo-fi beats through the Bluetooth, something gentle with a hint of nostalgia. You sit in the back seat, the sun dancing through the trees, the light brushing your face like a question you're not quite ready to answer.

The mall buzzes with life, but not in a way that overwhelms. Just enough to remind you that the world still moves. And maybe—just maybe—you can move with it.

The first stop is a boutique full of plush toys and pastel hoodies. Yuji pulls a frog bucket hat from a shelf and plops it on your head.

"This screams you."

You wrinkle your nose. "Does it scream breakdown or post-breakdown healing?"

"Both," she says proudly. "It's an exclusive vibe."

Your mom chuckles, holding up a lavender hoodie. "You always loved this color," she says. "Remember? You called it 'cloud purple.'"

You do remember.

You buy it.

Later, you're standing with a bubble tea in hand—flavor picked at random, half-expecting not to drink it. But you do. Slowly. Your mom's eyes crinkle when she sees it. Small steps. Today is full of them.

While Yuji tries on rings, you and your mom linger by a quiet fountain. The trickle of water muffles the noise of the mall.

"I'm proud of you," she says gently. "You don't have to smile. I just wanted you to know... this matters. You matter."

You look down at your cup. "I almost didn't come."

"But you did."

That's all she says. That's all she needs to.

Yuji returns, waving three matching bracelets. "We're a soft, chaotic girl gang now," she announces.

You wear yours without complaint.

The sun is setting by the time you reach the car, casting the sky in soft pinks and gold. You let yourself feel it—the way the light touches your skin. It's not everything. It doesn't fix the past.

But it's something.

⸻

The ride home is quiet. Bags rustle gently at your feet, and one of Yuji's new hoodies is draped over your shoulders. She holds your hand lightly between hers.

When the car stops in the driveway, you hesitate.

"I... I had a good time today," you say quietly.

Yuji squeezes your hand. "You deserve days like this."

Inside, the house feels... different. Warmer. Not in temperature, but in energy. Safer. You kick off your shoes, your eyes scanning the living room like you're seeing it for the first time.

You settle on the couch together, wrapped in blankets. A comfort movie plays in the background, and you rest your head on Yuji's shoulder. Not quite asleep. Not quite awake.

Your mom peeks in from the kitchen. She doesn't say anything. Just watches for a moment—then goes to make tea.

That night, Yuji stays over again. No big talk. Just quiet companionship and the sound of blankets shifting in the dark. You lie facing the wall, eyes open, but you're not alone. And for now, that's enough.

⸻

You wake early. The ceiling above you is familiar and unfamiliar all at once. The weekend clings to you like smoke. But you get up anyway.

Downstairs, your mom's packing lunches. She smiles when she sees you. Soft. Encouraging.

"Oatmeal or toast?"

"Oatmeal," you say. Your voice barely cracks.

You finish most of it.

The ride to school feels heavier. You sit frozen in the passenger seat, hand gripping your bag like it's the only thing keeping you grounded.

Yuji leans over, resting her hand on your arm.

"We're walking in together," she says. "You're not alone."

You swallow. Nod once.

And when you step through those school doors, it's side by side.

Together. ________ From the moment you step onto school grounds, the whispers begin.

"There she is."

"Thought she ran away for good."

"She probably just wanted attention."

You heard it all. You don't flinch, don't react. Your stare is locked straight ahead, and Yuji walks with a quiet fire in her eyes, daring anyone to say more.

But it gets worse in the hallway. One girl leans against a locker, arms crossed.

"Guess she crawled back."

"Yeah, rehab must've been full," another sneers.

Yuji turns, jaw tight, but you grab her wrist, shaking your head. "Don't," you mutter.

You and Yuji make it to homeroom, but the air feels charged. The teacher doesn't even acknowledge you. And when you answer a question, someone coughs, "Try not to overdose again."

That gets laughter.

It's suffocating. And it doesn't stop.

At lunch, a girl throws an empty juice box near their table. "Oops," she says, not sounding sorry.

You stay still. The burn in her stomach feels familiar.

Yuji finally snaps. "What the hell is wrong with you people?"

No one answers. They just smirk and walk away.

You grip your tray, breathing through your nose. Trying not to break.

Lunch is over

The hallway feels colder than usual.

Forth period

It's not the temperature—it's the way eyes shift in your direction the moment you stepped into the hallway. The way whispers start just barely out of earshot. The way some people nudge their friends and snicker when they think you're not looking.

You keeps your head down.

Yuji walks beside you, chin high, daring anyone to say something. She doesn't speak—not yet—but her presence is loud in its loyalty.

You both reach your locker. The writing from last week has been scrubbed off. The faintest shadow of marker still lingers on the metal, like a scar that didn't fully heal.

You stare at it longer than you need to. You don't open it.

"Do you want me to get your books?" Yuji asks softly.

You nod. "Just the fourth period one."

Yuji opens the locker and begins collecting what you need. Behind them, laughter rises from a small group. It's not directed at them—not yet—but your shoulders still tense.

You glance down the hall, past the noise, past the teachers chatting quietly near the faculty room, past everything. There's an odd sense of distance, like you're watching life from the other side of a window.

And then—you hear it.

A low voice from behind you.

"I thought she wasn't coming back."

You freeze.

Yuji spins around immediately, but the group is already gone—whoever said it vanished into the crowd. You don't react. You just close your locker.

"Let's go," you muttered.

Yuji opens her mouth to say something, but closes it again. She just follows you toward your last class of the day.

And somewhere in the building, a counselor watches from a windowed office above the hall. Mrs. Honey, her expression unreadable but alert.

Your first day back after everything , and already it feels heavier than it should.

Maybe you should have stayed home another day if this was what you were going to be dealing with. ________

Your last class of the day, History class, and you're already over everything today. I mean of course you didn't expect everyone to have a change of heart or anything but damn did it feel like everyone just despises you more than they did before.

But it didn't matter, 30 minutes until the bell rings and you didn't have to see anybody else's face for the rest of the day. You wondered why the time was going so slow, maybe if you'd stop looking at it then maybe it would go by faster.

Great, now you have to pee... again. The whole day you've been denied bathroom access, not because the teachers are worried or anything, they couldn't care less about you honestly. But just like all of your peers, the teachers also want to torture you for no reason.

But you really need to go, so why not try your luck with Mr. Bae.

You raised your hand, Yuji took her focus from her notebook and looked at you. Since having all of your classes with her, she was aware of how all of the teachers were being complete assholes to you and wouldn't let you use the bathroom. So, seeing you raise your hand again has only gotten her anxious that you might be denied again.

Mr. Bae now starting his stretch, notice your raised hand and...

Ignored it.

Of fucking course he did!

Not only did you roll your eyes in frustration but Yuji sighed in defeat, she truly over everything today just as much as you were.

While both you and Yuji were sitting at your desks annoying, Mrs. Honey came in. She been checking on you all day, unlike anyone else at this fuck ass school.

Mr. Bae looks at Mrs. Honey confused, and so did everyone else. Why in the hell would she be checking on you, or to be a bit more specific, why would she give a fuck about you, no one else in this school does, so why does she?

"Hi sweetheart, I'm just checking on you, is everything going okay. Do you need anything?"

As you stared into Mrs. Honey eyes, you didn't see hate, distain, or resentment. You saw empathy, care, and love, it made you feel a little better.

"I have to use the bathroom really bad" you whispered to Mrs. Honey, trying not to talk loudly, avoiding to draw anymore attention to yourself.

"Did you raise your hand sweetie?" You nodded your head to Mrs. Honey's question. At first she was confused, but then the look in your eyes and the irritation on Yuji's face when the question was asked told her everything she needed to know.

You saw Mrs. Honey's jaw had tightened as she took a deep shaky breath before her gaze softened as she looked at you. "Go ahead go sweetheart, I got you. And how about I let you two spend the rest of the period with me instead of in here okay? And tomorrow you both can spend the whole day with me, away from everyone else, how does that sound?"

You looked at Yuji, who happened to be nodding her head hastily with relief written all over her face. You let out a tiny laugh and softly nodded at Mrs. Honey.

She smiles and nods. "Good, why don't you run along to the bathroom, Yuji and I will get your stuff, okay?" You nodded in response and quickly turned to walk out of the classroom with everyone else giving you dirty looks.

You ran down the hall, mind fully set on getting into one of those bathroom stalls, running past open door classrooms not caring if anyone saw zooming down the hallway.

Then, you finally made it. You pull the girls bathroom door open and rush in, going into the first stall that was closest to you.

Relief spread throughout your body as a huge sigh escaped from your lips.

Then, you heard the door to the girls bathroom open. At first you thought it was Yuji checking on you, but you soon heard voices and realized that it was a couple of girls that entered the bathroom.

One girl starts talking, "Honestly? She's like one breakdown away from just snapping and murdering everyone. The bitch is seriously fucked up mentally, it's pathetic really."

"I know right. Like girl you're a walking embarrassment to everyone, just a goddamn waste of space."

"I honestly feel like she just wants attention from everyone. Probably because knows that no one isn't gonna love her sorry ass."

"Exactly, and you know what? I guarantee that both her mom and Yuji secretly hate her ass to the core. Because there is no way they both actually want to put up with her bullshit."

"Omg, you took the words right out of my mouth. And did you guys see her mom's state during that whole spiral that the bitch had? You can tell that she just tired of her ass and wants her gone for good, I know I would."

The girls all collectively laugh together in unison before leaving the bathroom.

All you can do is just sit there and stare at the stall door blankly.

You just sit there. Feeling everyone molecule of their words crawl under her skin like insects. Nesting.

"They're right." "Everyone is tired of me." "Yuji. Mom. Everyone." "I'm nothing but a fucking disappointment to everyone."

God, if only you had a lighter or a razor right now, but you don't. All you could do was put your hand under your sleeve and sink your nails into your skin, breaking it.

You need to feel something. You have to feel something. —————— You knock on Mrs. Honey's office door. You're greeted by Yuji as she gives you a big smile, but it soon dropped when she saw your face.

"Babes you okay? What happened?" Yuji bombarded you with questions as you walked past her and into the office.

Mrs.Honey, who's attention was now set on you as she watched you slowly sit down in the chair whilst staring at the floor, not even acknowledging them.

"Come on sweetheart is everything—."

"Headache," you cut her off.

"Well, do you want to—."

"No."

Your voice sharp. Flat. Final. It slices the room in half.

Yuji takes a step back, heart sinking. Mrs. Honey just nods slowly, eyes lingering on you like she already knows it's not just a headache. ————— The final bell rang. At last. School was over.

Yuji had offered you a ride.

Twice.

You said no both times. You didn't even give a reason. Just shook your head and walked away.

Now, you're walking home. Alone.

Your headphones are in, but there's no music playing. You just like the silence it gives you — like muting the world.

The streets blur past. Your legs move on their own, muscle memory guiding you while your thoughts drag like dead weight.

Your mind replays the bathroom. The laughter. The names. The tone in their voices when they talked about your mom. Yuji.

"They're tired of you." "She hates you." "They all do."

You tighten your grip on your backpack strap. Nails digging in. Flesh pressing red.

A part of you wishes someone would just stop you. Ask if you're okay. Touch your shoulder. Say your name.

But no one does. No one ever does.

The world just... keeps moving. And you just keep walking. A ghost in your own life. —————— You arrived home but you noticed that your mom wasn't there. You shrugged it off.

After unlocking your front door, you enter your house. The lights are off. It's quiet.

You push yourself into the kitchen to get a glass of water. Leaning against the kitchen counter, you just look around. Then you notice it. The alcohol cabinet.

Then you remember that night. The party. That god forsaken party.

Then you remember how you felt after a couple of sips of the alcohol you consumed that night. You remembered how good it felt. How the thought died down. How the weight of everything was lifted up off of you. How the alcohol helped you let go of everything.

You got the key from the drawer. The cabinet was now unlocked. The cup you had that was filled with water was now filled with the liquor you pulled out.

You took a sip. Scrunching up your face as the bitter taste and burning sensation fill your mouth and throat. You exhale. Took another sip. Then another. And another.

Your cup is empty. You fill it up. And you take another sip. It's working. It's all going away. —————— 3:43 a.m.

You woke up on the floor in your bathroom. You felt heavy. Everything felt so slow around you. Your body ached.

4 large empty bottles that were filled with vodka, were now surrounding you. Empty.

The headache you lied about yesterday was definitely there now. Pounding. Stabbing. You can't even think straight. Or even at all.

Your mouth felt as if you had been stranded in the desert for days. Your room is spinning, it's like as if you're riding a carousel inside of it. Your room is cool, but it felt like you just ran a marathon from how sweaty you were.

You feel something in your stomach. Wait. It's coming up. Oh no.

You quickly crawl to your toilet, nearly missing it as soon as it all comes out. In faint light, you can see a yellowish foamy fluid with slight red streaks where your clear toilet water used to be. Your nose and throat burning intensely, immediately irritating you.

And that taste. That god awful sour taste. It filled your mouth. And you hated it.

Your limbs felt weak. You felt like crying, but you felt too numb to even do so. Nothing could possibly compare to how drained you felt. Or how raw and sore your chest and throat felt.

You hate how you're feeling right now. "I ruin everything." "No wonder everyone wants me gone." "It's all my fucking fault." The thought came back. Fuck.

Is this how it feels after drinking so much. If so, it sucks. But goddamn did it feel good when those couple of sips sunk in. When the thoughts went away. When everyone felt easier. When you felt...free.

If this is what it takes to just let go, then fuck it. Let it happen. As long as the baggage you felt was lifted. You're completely okay with it. ——————

It's 7:45 a.m. and you're currently in the car with your mom, on your way to school. With your book bag in between your feet and a big metal cup filled with your...water.

You're wearing a huge black hoodie, grey sweats, converses, and sunglasses to hide how tired you were.

"Honey you alright? You seem—."

"I'm fine," you interrupted.

Your mom didn't push further.

Your mom pulled over. You turned your head and saw that you were in front of your school. You could've sworn that you were just in front of your house about to pull off. Who cares.

You grabbed your bag, with your cup still in your hands and got out of the car, shutting door at your mom tried to say goodbye.

You walked up slowly to the school front doors. Taking a deep breath before opening them and stepping inside.

As usual, you're greeted with stares of disgust, hatred, and hostility. You don't care. You went to find Yuji.

As you made your way down the hallway, with stares burning every part of your body. You take a sip. Then another. Another.

Deep breath. There it goes. The peace is almost here.

As you went to turn the corner, you bump into Ateez. They look at you for a moment before Yunho breaks the silence.

"Sup Y/N, what with the sunglasses? And what's in the huge cup?"

"Why? What's it to you?"

"Hey relax, I just wanted to know." Yunho chuckled as he jokingly held his hands up.

Out of nowhere both Yeosang and Jongho walked up to you and crouched slightly to your height level.

And a soon as they did, they looked at each other then turned and looked at the rest of Ateez.

Hongjoong was studying you, he knew something was up. Same goes for Seonghwa who stood right next to him.

Wooyoung and San both looked at each other, your demeanor and tone made them feel uneasy.

Yunho and Mingi were smiling before, now held slight worry on their faces. But they could show it, not I front of you.

None of them could show it. They still had to try and play up the act that they still hated you. Despised you. Wanted the utter worst for you.

"Can you move?" You spat. You were already irritated, the vodka is setting in but at least you felt peace, that's all you ever wanted, and you're getting it.

You exhaled roughly and pushed past them, walking off as you continued to look for Yuji. As you kept walking, you ran into the girls who humiliated you at the party, the same girls who said those things about you yesterday.

When they saw you they didn't even try to hold in their laughter. You stood there as they laughed and whispered about you. When they were past you, you brought your cup to your mouth and chugged.

You took a huge breath and was about to start walking again when you heard Yuji called your name. You turned around and saw Yuji running up to you. And right behind her, you saw Ateez still standing where they were, looking at you.

"Hey babes, how are you feeling?"

You paused for a moment. Your vision is starting to get a little blurry.

"I feel fucking amazing," You giggled.

Yuji smiles, she's happy to see you laugh today. God if she only knew.

"C'mon Ji, let's walk." You throwing you around her, smiling widely as she giggles and does the same. As soon as you take your first step you stumble, but you quickly play it off.

As you and Yuji walk past Ateez, they watch you. You looked at them and take another sip of your...water. Eventually fading out of their sight.

ATEEZ's POV "Yeosang, what was the problem?" Hongjoong demanded anxiously.

"Her eyes hyung...she looked so fucking tired."

"That's not all," Jongho added while looking at his feet.

"What is it Jongie?" Ateez said in unison.

"That isn't water," Jongho muttered, eyes still fixed on the spot she stood. "It's vodka. I smelled it when she passed."

Silence. The kind that squeezes your chest.

Mingi ran a hand down his face. "Fuck."

——————— You told Yuji that you had to go to the bathroom.

The bell had rung twenty minutes ago, but you never made it to class.

You were locked in the far end girls' bathroom on the second floor — the one nobody ever used because the lights flickered and the stalls were rusted and uneven.

You sat against the wall, legs splayed out, hoodie pulled over your head, your big metal cup now tipped over and empty beside you.

You giggled to yourself at first.

Then cried.

Then passed out.

Your phone buzzed against your leg. Yuji had texted you twice. "Where are you??" "You okay??"

But you didn't respond. Couldn't.

⸻

Some time passed. The door creaked open.

Footsteps.

Then silence.

And then — a sharp click.

A photo.

Followed by a snicker.

One of the girls walks up to you and picks up your cup. Bringing it up to her nose, and getting a whiff of what use to be inside.

"Wow," one of the girls whispered. "Guess vodka really is her breakfast."

Another laugh. "Send that to the group chat."

Your head lolled to the side, face flushed, hair stuck to your cheek. Your eyes barely fluttered open, lips parted in a daze, not fully conscious but not fully gone either.

"Should we, like... tell someone?"

A pause. Then laughter.

"Let the bitch rot. Maybe next time she won't run her mouth."

And just like that — the door closed. Their footsteps disappeared.

Leaving you alone on the cold tile floor.

Face-down in a puddle of your own peace. —————— 3rd Period

It started with a ding. Then another. And another.

The group chat blew up. "LMAO LOOK AT THIS" "She's PASSED OUT???" "Omg she's literally disgusting 💀" "Her cup's EMPTY TOO?? Yeah that's vodka." "Tragic." "Send it to the main chat." "Already did."

Within minutes, your photo was everywhere.

Your body slumped against that dirty bathroom wall. Your head tilted back, lips parted, eyes half-shut. Hair a mess. Hoodie bunched at your waist. Cup spilled beside you like the scene of a crime.

No context. No mercy. Just you, immortalized at your lowest.

Screens lit up across classrooms. Laughter filled corners of the hallways.

People zoomed in. Added captions. Made memes.

"Y/N before 9 a.m. 😍🍸" "Bitches be like: 'I'm fine' ☕️" "New yearbook photo just dropped 💅"

Some people didn't even know who you were, but it didn't matter. Your name trended on school threads. A few even shared it to private Instagram stories.

Yuji got it next.

She was sitting in class, trying to focus. But her phone buzzed, and when she looked down—

Her stomach dropped.

She froze. Blinking at the screen. That was you.

"Fuck," she whispered.

Before the teacher could stop her, she shot up and grabbed her phone, heart pounding.

She bolted.

⸻

Meanwhile

Ateez saw it too.

Mingi's jaw clenched as the photo loaded on his screen.

Wooyoung stopped mid-laugh when he saw it. "Are you fucking kidding me?"

Yunho leaned back in his chair, silent.

Jongho just stared at the photo. He didn't even blink.

Yeosang was the first to speak. "She's passed out drunk in a bathroom and they're laughing?"

Seonghwa stood up without a word.

And Hongjoong... Hongjoong's hands curled into fists beneath the desk.

He didn't say anything.

But his eyes never left the photo. ————— Lunchtime.

The photo was everywhere now.

AirDropped. Screenshotted. Filtered. Edited.

And not just passed around in private messages anymore—now it was public.

A meme account with over 3,000 followers reposted it with the caption:

"When she says she's 'just tired' 💀" Tagged: #WastedWednesday #SchoolCelebrity

It got 127 likes in the first ten minutes. Comments poured in.

"Is she dead or just dramatic?" "That's what happens when you have no friends." "LMAOOOOO" "I just KNOW she stinks." "Y'all sure that's not a mugshot??"

A few people even went to that second-floor bathroom on purpose, just to peek in, just to say they saw you. A couple walked in, took a video of your unconscious body, whispered commentary over it like it was a zoo exhibit.

"There she is in her natural habitat." "Someone get this girl some water—oh wait, she drank it all." "Bitch brought a Stanley Cup of vodka like it was a fashion statement 😭"

The video? It got posted too.

⸻

Back in Classrooms...

Even students who didn't know you were now watching the video of you slumped in that stall, your cup spilled, face flushed, completely unaware of the swarm outside.

Someone edited the video with TikTok sounds. Someone else added fake subtitles. Someone used your face as a reaction sticker in Discord.

You became a joke across multiple platforms.

⸻

Yuji was spiraling.

She had gone to the bathroom. She found you. She screamed for help. But help was slow. People were too busy watching their screens to actually move.

She was crying, shaking you, holding your head in her lap while students outside the bathroom door whispered and giggled.

And when someone tried to take a picture again—she lost it.

"DELETE IT!" she screamed, lunging at the girl holding the phone. "SHE'S NOT A FUCKING JOKE!"

But it was too late.

You already were.

⸻

Ateez saw it all unfolding.

Mingi stormed out of the cafeteria. San cursed under his breath and slammed his phone on the table. Wooyoung threatened someone who laughed too loud. Yeosang had gone completely silent, fists clenched under the table. Seonghwa looked like he was going to break something. Jongho had already walked out. Yunho couldn't even look at anyone.

And Hongjoong...?

Hongjoong stared down at the video.

His jaw tight. Eyes dark. Cold rage building behind them.

"She thinks we hate her," he muttered.

And then he stood.

"We let her believe it too long." ————— You Were a Headline.

Not just in the school. Not just in the group chats. But on Burn Book—the anonymous confessions page every student followed but pretended they didn't.

Someone posted your photo with a new caption:

"Guess who's passed out in the haunted-ass 2nd floor bathroom 💅🍸" #VodkaQueen #FaceDownFriday #RIPToHerLiver

Another post followed:

"She always acts like she's too good for everyone. Now look at her—slumped like a failed influencer."

And then—

The Photoshop edits started.

Your body was cropped onto a concert stage. A bottle of Grey Goose was edited into your hand. A toilet crown on your head. A club background behind your stall.

"She's not drunk. She's just manifesting." "She's auditioning for Euphoria season 4."

The students laughed. Teachers had no clue. Staff looked the other way.

⸻

By 4th Period... It Was Teachers Too.

You weren't there, of course. You were in the nurse's office, barely coherent, half-asleep on that awful plastic cot. Yuji had stayed with you for a while, until they made her go back to class.

But in one classroom down the hall, a teacher left their laptop open. Burn Book was up.

A few students giggled and pointed.

The teacher didn't say a word. Didn't report the page. Didn't even close the tab.

⸻

Someone printed your photo. Full size. Taped it to the inside of your locker.

Someone else wrote across it in red Sharpie:

"Maybe drink less and cry more, freak."

And just two lockers down, someone filmed themselves slapping the photo, posted it with the caption:

"Me every time she talks in class."

It went viral within the school. Other schools started seeing it. People you didn't even know were commenting.

"Someone get her an Uber to rehab." "Is she okay? Wait—, who cares." "LMFAOOO who let her cook this hard?"

⸻

And then—

Your mom got a call.

Not from the nurse.

From a parent, who saw the video through her kid's feed.

Your mom froze. Then called you. You didn't pick up.

She left work. Started driving to the school.

⸻

And Ateez?

They were watching it spread in real time.

Hongjoong's fists were shaking under the table. Seonghwa's nails dug into his palm. Mingi couldn't stop pacing. San and Wooyoung looked like they were ready to fight someone. Yeosang and Jongho had already started looking for the girls who posted it. Yunho... was just quiet.

The last thing Hongjoong said before they all stood up at once:

"They wanna humiliate her?"

"Fine. Let's make them regret it." —————— You Were a Meme.

Not just a Burn Book post. Not just some inside joke. But a circulating image, sent in group chats, school discords, Twitter accounts with anime pfps and burner usernames.

The original caption evolved. Now it read:

"When your GPA is a 1.2 but the vodka's a 10."

Someone added music. Slowed + reverb audio of "Habits (Stay High)" played over the picture. Overlayed with glitch effects. A slow zoom into your face—cheeks flushed, lips slightly parted, eyes barely open.

The post spread to other schools in the area. Then city-wide. Then beyond.

⸻

"Is this that girl from Aurora High School?" "Bro we don't even go there and WE know about her." "LMFAOOOO she's from MY cousin's school wtf 💀"

Someone edited your photo into a fake concert poster:

Y/N: The Wasted Tour 2025 "Performing live in a bathroom stall near you."

⸻

TikTok Got a Hold of It.

Edits. Soundbites. Fake interviews.

One person wore a hoodie and sunglasses and pretended to be you:

"Hey guys, I just wanted to say... don't mix vodka with mental instability. Unless you want to trend by 4th period."

It hit 100K views in three hours.

And then the comments flooded in:

"She really thought she ate... but she blacked out instead 💀" "Is she in the hospital or just on timeout?" "That's a cry for help wrapped in a hoodie and regret."

⸻

And Then Came The Hate Pages.

A spam account named @yn_slumped posted every version of the photo they could find.

People sent in anonymous stories about you. Most of them were lies. Some were exaggerated. Others were just cruel.

"She tried to fight my friend over a guy." "She hooked up with someone in the janitor's closet." "She's always drunk. I'm not surprised." "She deserves it. You should've heard what she said about people."

The comment sections were filled with laughing emojis. People liked the cruelty. They shared it. Made it grow.

⸻

And the worst part?

You didn't know yet.

You were still in the nurse's office. Still half-asleep. Still groggy. Still whispering things that didn't make sense. Still asking for Yuji when no one answered.

Your mom was minutes away. She had no idea what was really going on.

But Ateez did. Yuji did. And a storm was coming. —————— You sat slumped in the nurse's office.

The room was still spinning. Your skin felt cold, but you were sweating. There was a dull ache behind your eyes, and your mouth tasted like metal and regret.

Your hoodie was still on. Your sunglasses were somewhere on the nurse's desk. And your metal cup? That was long gone.

The nurse—an older woman with short graying hair—had tried to ask you questions earlier. But when you mumbled something about "bathroom floor" and "water that burned," she just sighed and called your emergency contact.

And now... You heard the front door open.

Then—

"Y/N?"

Your mom's voice. Soft. Tired. Confused.

You didn't look up.

She stepped inside the room. Stopped. Stared.

Her eyes flicked to the nurse, who gave a look that said we'll talk later. Then she turned back to you.

"C'mon baby," she whispered. "Let's get you home."

⸻

The Car Ride Was Silent.

The kind of silence that wasn't peaceful—just heavy. You stared out the window. Your mom kept glancing at you, but she didn't say anything.

Not yet.

Your phone buzzed again in your lap. You ignored it.

She noticed.

"You've been getting texts all day," she finally said, voice tight. "Did something happen?"

You didn't answer.

You couldn't.

Because you already knew what those messages were. You felt it. That kind of dread doesn't lie.

Another buzz. Another.

Your hands started to shake.

Your mom saw.

"Y/N?" she said quietly. "Talk to me."

You turned your head, eyes bloodshot. Voice dry.

"I just wanted peace."

She blinked. That hit her harder than it should've.

⸻

At a Red Light, She Checked Her Phone.

Not yours—hers. A Facebook notification. A message from another parent.

"Hey, is this your daughter...?"

Attached was the photo. The one from the bathroom floor.

Her hands tightened on the wheel. Lips parted in disbelief. Then slowly, horror.

Your head was leaning against the window, eyes fluttering closed again.

She didn't say anything. She couldn't.

But something deep in her cracked.

✰ 𝙩𝙖𝙜𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙩: @amazingpersonever @hannahstacos @majaaxx @anonymip @miyadollie @yuyuslay @lixhoe @sparda1234 @miracle-sol @beljakovina @rinabluess

✰ 𝘼𝙇𝙇 𝙍𝙄𝙂𝙃𝙏𝙎 𝙍𝙀𝙎𝙀𝙍𝙑𝙀𝘿 𝙁𝙊𝙍 𝙎𝙐𝙉𝘿𝙀𝙔. 𝘿𝙊 𝙉𝙊𝙏 𝙎𝙏𝙀𝘼𝙇, 𝘾𝙊𝙋𝙔, 𝙊𝙍 𝘾𝙇𝘼𝙄𝙈 𝙈𝙔 𝙒𝙊𝙍𝙆 𝘼𝙎 𝙔𝙊𝙐𝙍 𝙊𝙒𝙉.

62 notes · View notes

stlllle · 9 hours ago

Text

“Only My Hands Know How to Make You Cum Like This” — Nam-Gyu x Reader

🔞 +18 | Explicit content. Female masturbation, breast play, dirty talk, possessiveness, oral fixation, multiple orgasms, emotional obsession, aftercare with possessive cuddling. Not for minors.

Author's notes:

Hiiiii besties, back at it again with another Nam-gyu fic because apparently I’m way too obsessed with this man 😛

Also… his hands??? I swear I have a problem. I’m literally obsessed with them and needed to write about it 😃✨

Anyway, if you enjoy this and wanna request something, feel free to drop by — my requests are open!

Masterlist -[link]

Setting:

Outside the games, in one of the rooms you two share in a rented house while waiting for the next round. Just the two of you, sticky summer night, him lying sideways on the bed with you in his lap — Nam-Gyu slowly losing his mind over your scent and the taste of your skin.

---

You had no idea what got into him that night, but ever since dinner ended, Nam-Gyu wouldn’t leave your side. Every touch lingered too long, every hug came with his breath hot against your neck, and his dark, heavy eyes were loaded with that kind of hunger he tried to hide from everyone else.

Now, alone in the quiet room, the faint glow from the streetlight slipping through the window, he had you in his lap, sitting face-to-face with him, and those hands — those damned big, veiny hands, with rough palms and long fingers — were already all over you.

“I… I fucking need to feel you,” he whispered against your skin, voice raspy and soaked in need.

You smirked, knowing exactly where this was headed. And it didn’t take long.

Nam-Gyu kissed your neck, biting softly while his hands slid under your shirt, rising to cup your tits. His rough fingertips circled your nipples, pinching them harder than he should, his thumbs rolling them slow until you let out a low, broken moan.

“You love it, don’t you? Always loved when I played with them…”

He murmured against the corner of your mouth, and before you could answer, his head dipped and he sucked one nipple into his mouth, tongue flicking and lips tight around you. His left hand squeezed your breast while the right slid down, dipping under your shorts. No teasing, no patience — fingers pushing past your panties, feeling just how wet you already were.

“Fuck… look at this… already so open for me, just from a little touching.”

His tongue didn’t stop working your nipples as his fingers played with your pussy, circling your clit in slow, torturous circles. He knew every weak spot, every pressure point — and he made sure you felt it.

Without warning, two fingers pushed inside you. The wet sound of the sudden penetration made him groan, his breath stuttering as he stared at your face.

“Shit, you’re so fucking pretty like this. My girl… my filthy little slut, so warm around my hand…”

And it wasn’t an exaggeration. Nam-Gyu was obsessed with making you cum like this, with nothing but his fingers. It was his territory, his control, what he could do to you over and over until you begged.

His palm pressed against your clit while his fingers moved deep and slow, faster with every thrust, and he switched breasts, leaving the other one marked with dark hickeys. The wet sounds of his mouth on you, mixed with the slick noises of his fingers fucking you, made the whole room feel sticky, filthy, perfect.

Your moans came louder, and he smirked, giving your clit a light slap.

“You’re gonna wake up the neighbors like that… or fuck it, let them hear. I want them to know who you belong to.”

He sped up, fingers relentless, curving perfectly to hit your spot, and your head fell back.

“Cum for me. Wanna feel you dripping down my hand.”

And you did. Your whole body trembled, clutching his shoulder, hips grinding against his palm as you came hard.

Nam-Gyu pulled his fingers out slowly, sticky and glistening, and brought them to his mouth. He sucked each one clean, groaning softly.

“Best fucking taste in the world.”

But he didn’t let you go.

Before you could even catch your breath, he laid you on your side, pulled your leg over his hip, and pushed those fingers back inside you, slower this time, dragging out your pleasure, making you beg.

The night went on like that. Messy kisses, fingers deep and steady, nipples sucked until they throbbed, controlled orgasms, and him obsessed, possessive, keeping you pressed against him long after.

By the end, you were lying on his chest, listening to that quiet little purring sound he only made when he was truly, deeply satisfied.

And those hands? Still on your thigh, like he’d never let you go.

---

📌 END.

74 notes · View notes

lilangelbuds · 2 days ago

Note

Dad and older brother use their beautiful girl together. Dad prefers pussy, brother takes it in the ass. Maybe they will have another daughter/sister soon, and after a while each will have their own girl.

The living room was too quiet, just the hum of the TV playing some forgotten show, the flickering light casting shadows across the couch where she sat curled up, knees tucked under her chin. She knew what was coming. They knew what was coming. The air was thick with anticipation, heavy with the unspoken hunger that had been building between them for weeks.

Her father was the first to move. A rough hand slid up her thigh, fingers pressing into the soft flesh just above her knee. Claiming. She shivered, biting her lip as his calloused palm inched higher, pushing the hem of her skirt up.

“You’ve been teasing us all night,” he murmured, voice low and rough. His breath was hot against her ear, sending a jolt straight between her legs. “Sitting there in that little skirt, crossing and uncrossing your legs like you don’t know what it does to us.”

She whimpered, arching into his touch as his fingers finally brushed against the damp fabric of her panties. Soaked. He chuckled, the sound dark and possessive.

Her brother wasn’t far behind. He sank onto the couch beside her, one arm draping over her shoulders, pulling her back against his chest. His other hand slid around her waist, fingers skimming up her stomach before cupping her breast through her thin top. She gasped as he pinched her nipple, rolling it between his fingers until it stiffened into a hard peak.

“Look at her,” her brother growled, lips grazing the side of her neck. “Already dripping for us.”

Her father hooked a finger under the waistband of her panties, tugging them down just enough to expose her slick folds. He groaned at the sight, spreading her open with his thumb, dragging it through her wetness before pressing it against her clit in slow, torturous circles.

“Fuck,” she moaned, hips jerking against his hand.

Her brother’s grip tightened, his other hand sliding down to grip her thigh, forcing her legs wider. “You gonna let Dad have that pretty little pussy first?” he murmured, nipping at her earlobe. “Or do you want me to take that tight ass while he fucks you?”

The words sent a fresh wave of heat through her. She could already feel her father’s cock pressing against her hip, thick and heavy, straining against his jeans. Her brother wasn’t any softer; his erection pressed into the small of her back, demanding.

Her father didn’t wait for an answer. He leaned in, capturing her mouth in a rough kiss, his tongue sliding against hers as his fingers pushed inside her, curling just right to make her cry out.

“That’s it,” he growled against her lips. “Take my fingers like a good girl.”

Her brother’s hands were already working her skirt up higher, his fingers tracing the curve of her ass before pressing against her tight hole. She tensed for a second, but he just chuckled, wetting his fingers with her own arousal before circling the clenched muscle.

“Relax,” he murmured, biting her shoulder. “You know you love it.”

And she did. The stretch burned at first, but then, oh god, then it was pure pleasure as he worked a finger inside, crooking it just enough to make her gasp. Her father added another finger to her pussy, thrusting deep, the heel of his palm grinding against her clit in time with her brother’s movements.

She was trembling, caught between them, pleasure coiling tighter and tighter in her belly.

“Please,” she begged, voice breaking.

Her father pulled back just enough to unbuckle his belt, freeing his cock, thick, veined, already glistening at the tip. He stroked himself lazily, eyes locked on her as her brother pushed a second finger into her ass, stretching her wider.

“You want it?” her father asked, dragging the head of his cock through her soaked folds, teasing.

She nodded frantically, hips rocking forward, trying to take him inside.

Her brother laughed, low and dark. “Greedy little thing.”

Then her father was pushing in, filling her in one slow, relentless thrust. She cried out, back arching as he bottomed out, her walls clenching around him.

Her brother didn’t give her time to adjust. The moment her father started moving, he lined himself up, pressing his cock against her tight hole.

“Breathe,” he ordered, and then he was pushing in, stretching her even fuller.

The dual sensation was overwhelming, her father’s cock dragging against her walls, her brother’s filling her ass, both of them moving in a rhythm that had her seeing stars.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” her brother groaned, gripping her hips hard enough to bruise.

Her father’s hands were everywhere, cupping her breasts, pinching her nipples, sliding down to rub her clit in rough circles as they fucked her.

She was close, so close, pleasure building like a storm inside her.

“Come for us,” her father demanded, thrusting harder.

Her brother’s fingers dug into her skin. “Do it.”

The command shattered her. She came with a scream, body clamping down around them both as waves of pleasure crashed through her.

They didn’t stop.

Her father’s pace turned brutal, his cock pounding into her as her brother fucked her ass just as deep.

“Gonna fill you up,” her father growled.

Her brother’s breath was ragged against her neck. “Make sure you take every drop.”

She could only moan, lost in the sensation of being used, owned, loved by them both.

Then her father’s grip on her hips tightened, his thrusts turning erratic. “Fuck—gonna—”

Her brother wasn’t far behind. “Me too.”

They came almost at the same time—her father’s hot release flooding her pussy, her brother’s filling her ass, both of them groaning her name like a prayer.

She collapsed between them, boneless, dripping with sweat and their cum.

Her father brushed a kiss against her temple. “Good girl.”

Her brother smirked, running a possessive hand down her spine. “Next time, maybe we’ll give you a sister to share.”

She shivered, already imagining it.

But for now, she just let them hold her, their cocks still buried inside her, neither of them willing to pull out just yet.

“Again?” her father murmured, already hardening within her.

She moaned.

Her brother laughed.

And then they were moving, taking her again.

80 notes · View notes

alexanderlightweight · 13 hours ago

Note

Happy Prompts Day! If it inspires you, I would like to request something from the Manipulation is Rehab verse. SFW and NSFW are both fine with me.

hi hi! yes tis the prompting!! had some computer problems (screen kept flickering but a few updates and a couple restarts later and it's not longer at risk of giving me a migraine!)

i cackled because i love this verse (i say that about all of them true) but like, i feel like this verse really gives insight into how much easier things would have been for malec if they'd both just had some time to relax. last part here

Also i need everyone to know that Nightshade lies on his back and holds his bone up to chew on it and yes, he has dropped his bone on his own face before. its hilarious and sad and he gets so embarrassed he's like 'no one saw that right? no one saw- baba why are you laughing? you didn't see that... right?'

<3 lumine

manipulation is rehab

Alec feels as if he finally understands what bliss is.

They might not have had sex yet, but Alec finds himself hard pressed to believe that anything could be better than this. He��d fallen asleep to Magnus’ magical hands massaging him and had woken up the same way, with Magnus murmuring soft words to guide him out of the realms of sleep.

Who needs an orgasm when there is pleasure and relief in every touch and Magnus’ skin is warm, pulling the infected heat of Alec’s muscles away and then staying, firm and gentle and warm on Alec’s abused muscles.

This is truly the last time Alec lets anyone ambush him with a mundane on a mission. He’s already written up a report and he just needs to send it.

Eventually.

If Izzy doesn’t get to him first.

Except, Alec wouldn’t mind more massages like this.

It almost makes the mundane and Fray being involved worth it.

As if he can understand Alec’s thoughts — and Alec wouldn’t put it past Magnus’ abilities — Magnus tsks his tongue and Alec tenses involuntarily because what, is making Magnus upset?

Alec will destroy it.

“You’re undoing all my hard work.” Magnus doesn’t sound upset, but he does sound aggrieved and Alec tries to forcibly relax and instead makes it worse.

“What’s tangling your thoughts up, Alexander?”

“Trying to figure out if I should report the mundane and Fray to Idris and let them deal with it.” Alec is trying very hard not to overly involve Magnus in his own problems — they seem small when compared to the weight and burden Magnus bears for his people and his territory. Except Magnus asked and Alec tries not to lie or avoid answering him. It’s just hard to justify bringing up something he should be able to deal with.

“You haven’t already?”

It’s such a mild question but it definitely finishes the job of absolutely ruining all of Magnus’ hard work and progress because Alec feels his body tense as if in danger. He hadn’t expected Magnus to agree with him, he realizes. He’d thought Magnus would be like the others, more understanding of poor little Fray’s hard entry to the Shadowworld and that her mundane friend isn’t in danger or causing a disturbance.

Alec hesitates and it’s clear he hesitates too long because then strong hands — and magic? Alec needs to know if Magnus used magic or just his own strength because both are nice but uh, he has questions now.

About just how strong Magnus is.

Except Magnus’ golden eyes aren’t letting him getting distracted because they’re displeased.

And Magnus’ eyes are gorgeous even in anger but Alec much prefers the soft glow when delighted and how Magnus’ pupils turn into a eclipse when he’s pleased.

“Alexander, he’s a mundane. He endangers himself, you and our world every time he interacts with any of you.” Magnus face softens but his voice stays firm, “regardless of whatever is staying your hand. You need to report it. Him and Fray. Things will only worsen until you do.”

—

Alexander looks wrecked and not in the way Magnus had planned and it’s grating on him, how even here — in the safety and seclusion of Magnus’ own lair, that Alexander cannot be free of burdens.

Such as his siblings, the mundane and little Clarissa-Problem-Bringer-Fray.

Who Magnus would have dealt with differently if he’d realized how great of a problem she’d not only bring, but create on her own.

“Can you pass me my phone?” Alexander asks him, expression tight and Magnus summons it to his palm, handing it over without protest and Alexander types in several things before he hands it back over with a sigh.

There’s a sheepish look on his face and he avoids Magnus’ direct gaze — though by the way he can’t keep from glancing over shows he doesn’t actually want to avoid Magnus.

“I’ve had the papers ready to send for a while. I just… hadn’t.”

Magnus can imagine why.

If Alexander had thought Magnus wouldn’t back him, then it just goes to show how deep the cracks in Alexander’s confidence and power are.

“You handled it. Better late than not at all darling. You did well and,” Magnus strokes warm fingers over the crease of Alexander’s brow. “You’re still off-duty for a few more hours.”

Magnus leans closer and presses a kiss to Alexander’s cheek and then his jaw and a softer kiss, to the plush corner of his boy’s mouth.

“Uh-huh. I am.” Alexander’s voice is breathless as he nuzzles closer, trying to inhale Magnus and soak up the affection and warmth and praise he’s offering.

In a world where no one is satisfied with his actions, where no one will ever be fully happy with what he picks, Alexander is at a crossroad. He needs stability and Magnus is more than happy to offer that to him.

“Shall we go somewhere else, brunch in another country or lunch down the street?” Magnus offers and Alexander seems hesitant he offers, “it’s only a portal away, Alexander. We can be back in an instant and furthermore, it will take your mind off things. You need a distraction while the paperwork and reprimands are sent through.”

“How did you know there were reprimands in the reports?”

Magnus laughs but he keeps it mild and gentle, because he can’t imagine how Alec would handle the reports without taking all of the blame if he didn’t issue out and document reprimands.

Valid ones at that.

“Darling, if I’d been in your position I wouldn’t be nearly so nice. Reprimands are the least of what’s necessary and deserved.” Realizing a moment later that it might be taken badly, Magnus adds, “but I’ve had decades and centuries of experience. I’ve failed and succeeded at thousands of things darling. My confidence isn’t just because of my power, it’s because I’ve fought for what I have. Worked my ass off. Same as you and while you will make mistakes, as long as you try to move forward, that’s what matters in the end. Stagnation is the death of everything, lovely.”

Magnus lets that sit between them and then he stands, because he’s not going to try and get Alexander relaxed again. Magnus will only end up losing his temper and destroying something if he gets his boy nice and relaxed again only for it all to be ruined in a moment by others.

“Somewhere out of the city sounds nice.” Alexander offers and then he goes a step further, “but I only have hunter clothes with me, Magnus.”

Magnus doesn’t mind and his grin seems to show it if Alexander’s mildly alarmed look says anything.

“Oh darling, I have a closet and magic. Did you think your options were limited?”

AN:

magnus is trying so hard to woo alec in this. he's like 'i got you baby'

and alec's like 'oh wow. support. never met her before. so uh, hi. i'm going to fuck this up 100%'

magnus: maybe let me do the percentages in this relationship, alexander. you're a little too dramatic to be handling numbers

magnus: .... you haven't reprimanded them yet? *in his mind he's slowly immolating the four of them because he knows they're why his boy keeps coming with more pain and less ability to notice magnus' interest and relax

alec expecting a lecture and insults: no...

magnus: that's okay sweetheart. better late than never, progress is what's important.

alec: is this... what validation feels like?

Magnus: sweetheart, you can't compare yourself to me. i've been high warlock for a few centuries now. i've been a leader and a follower and a ruler and many many things through my long life.

Alec: yeah but i--

Magnus: you're not even 25, Alexander. You're not even three decades of life old. you've been in command and responsible for others older and younger than you for almost a decade. that's a hefty burden. stop being mean to my boy

Alec: ... i'm not sure how to argue with any of this

Magnus: then don't. just let me take care of you

Magnus internally: HES OPENING UP!!! ITS WORKING!!!!

Also Magnus Internally: who is manipulating my boy? i'm the only one allowed to manipulate him and that's for self-care and health purposes. I WILL DESTROY THESE INTERLOPERS

Izzy and Jace: i feel strangely unsettled

Simon: oh, a disturbance in the force?

Izzy and Jace: what force?

magnus and alec having brunch somewhere shaded and cool with their feet in cool water and throwing a handful of dried oats to the local water fowl as they have a picnic.

Magnus thought that privacy would be better than other beings and he was right. Alec is having a great time, he's sitting next to magnus, they're feeding each other bites of food and while they aren't holding hands (because eating) their feet are swinging next to each other int he clear waters of the bank and alec is feeling like he's actually getting a moment to catch his breath

magnus understands that stress can kill and destabilize people. if he wants alec serious and into him, he needs to de-stress his boy so alec can make like, actual thought out decision rather than just reacting because he's in flight or fight.

#lumine writes #writing wednesdays #writing wednesday #manipulation is rehab #magnus bane #alec lightwood #malec #shadowhunters

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camficdiner · 3 days ago

Note

Hi Cam! Can I please order, [1.3] [2.17 Exes forced to share a hotel bed] [3.5] [4.2]? I’m so excited to see what you come up with! Many thanks 💗

☕️ Cams fic diner — order 076

🍒 thank you to the girlies who crave tension so thick you could slice it. exes. hate sex. soft hands after hard words. this one’s yours.

P.S this was the last request on my inbox, so submit more!!

love you, thanks

Cam's Fic Diner

💬 “Fuck You Means I Miss You”

✨ description & prompts:

character: Luke hughes

prompt: you try to set him up with someone else, but it backfires you

type: jealousy, possessive smut!

wc ~1.6

additional prompt: exes forced to share a hotel bed

✨🧁🍒🛼

You hadn’t seen Luke Hughes in five months.

Not since you walked out of his apartment, coat soaked in rain, mascara streaked, with his voice echoing down the hallway: “You don’t get to leave and act like it doesn’t fucking hurt.”

You hadn’t answered. You didn’t know how.

Now, five months later, you’re standing in a Bauer PR room in Chicago, smile frozen in place while some rep talks about unity and gender integration and how great it is for the sport to see the WNHL and NHL collaborate for this year’s ad campaign.

And you’re stuck doing it with Luke.

Your ex.

He walks in five minutes late, eyes flicking over the room until they land on you — sharp, unreadable, jaw tight. You feel it instantly. That low, aching pull in your gut. The one you swore you’d erased. He’s tanner now. A little bigger. Same stupid smirk when he finally walks over and mumbles, “Didn’t think you’d show.”

You don’t blink. “Didn’t think you’d care.”

Next to you, Sienna — your mutual friend, the one you invited to make it easier — coughs awkwardly. Luke shoots her a look, curious. Then amused.

“You brought her?” he mutters later, under his breath. “What are we, on Love Island now?”

“She’s a friend,” you snap. “And she’s single. You’re single. Just thought I’d…help.”

He lets out a sharp, humorless laugh. “Help? Yeah, right.”

⸻

The shoot is tense. You pose with the stick in hand, Luke passing you a puck. Your hands touch once — you jerk back. His eyes darken.

Sienna keeps trying to flirt. Luke keeps ignoring her.

And you… you keep checking your phone. Because Quinn texted you something earlier.

Quinn [17:42]

Miss you already. Hope you can still walk tomorrow 😉

It was a joke. Something dumb about the spin class you both took before the flight. But when Luke saw it?

He fucking snapped.

“Of course,” he mutters, grabbing your wrist after the shoot, dragging you into the hallway. “Of course you’re still fucking my brother.”

You freeze. “What the hell are you talking about?”

He shows you the text.

You groan. “He’s not flirting. We took a workout class. It’s a joke—”

“You think I’m an idiot?”

You wrench your arm free. “I think you’re a jealous asshole.”

“That’s rich coming from you,” he spits. “The girl who brought a puck bunny to set me up with, just so she didn’t have to deal with the fact she’s still in love with me.”

You slap him. Quietly. In the chest.

He doesn’t move. Just stares down at you with fire in his jaw.

⸻

The storm strands you there.

Flights cancelled. PR team panicking. Hotel overbooked. Only one room left.

Of course it’s yours.

Of course there’s only one bed.

You walk in first. Drop your bag. Breathe deep.

“I’ll take the floor,” you mumble.

But Luke? He just locks the door. Slowly. Loud enough that you turn to look.

And he’s already storming toward you.

“You know what pisses me off the most?” he says, voice low and raw. “You left me. You walked out without even looking back. And now you act like I’m the one who should’ve moved on? You don’t get to set me up with some girl who laughs like a dolphin and smells like glitter.”

You swallow. “Don’t do this.”

“You don’t get to do this,” he snarls. “I’m not Quinn. I don’t play nice. I want what’s mine.”

You back up until you hit the window. “I’m on my period.”

He stops. Looks at you. Breathes in.

Then says, low, hungry, “That doesn’t mean you can’t be used.”

⸻

His mouth is on yours before you can reply. Rough. Unapologetic. Tongue demanding entry. You moan into it, all teeth and want and months of denial cracking open.

His hands slide under your thighs and lift you like you weigh nothing. He lays you on the bed, rips your leggings down.

“You sure?” he mutters, voice trembling. “Tell me now.”

You nod. “Yes. Please, yes.”

He groans. Digs his face into your neck. “You’re gonna fucking kill me.”

You guide his hand between your legs. “Here,” you whisper, breath hitching. “Just fingers.”

He slips two in with ease, thumb circling your clit. “So wet already,” he mutters. “God, I fucking missed this.”

You pant, arching. “Luke…”

But he pulls back.

“Turn over,” he says. “On your knees.”

You blink.

“Please,” he adds, voice cracked. “I just… I need to feel you. I need to ruin you again.”

You do. Slowly. Nervously.

And when his spit-slick finger presses behind you — careful, patient — your gasp echoes across the room.

“I’ve got you,” he promises. “You’re mine. No one else has ever touched you here. Right?”

You shake your head. “No. Only you.”

He groans. Loud. “Fuck.”

He opens you up slow, inch by inch, before guiding himself in — careful at first, then deeper.

“Too much?” he asks, teeth gritted.

“No,” you moan. “More.”

He pounds into you, hands tight on your hips, your name falling from his lips like a prayer and a curse.

“Mine,” he growls. “You’re fucking mine.”

⸻

You lie there, trembling, legs tangled with his, heart pounding.

Luke strokes your back, kisses your shoulder.

“I never wanted anyone else,” he whispers. “Even when you left.”

You blink at the ceiling.

“I didn’t leave because I didn’t love you,” you admit, quietly. “I left because I was scared.”

He pulls you tighter. “Then don’t be scared anymore.”

You don’t answer. You just reach for his hand, lace your fingers through his.

#camficdiner #luke hughes smut #luke hughes fanfic #lh43 imagine #lh43 fic #lh43 x reader #lh43 #luke hughes

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respectfulrebel · 2 days ago

Text

I actually have no words, you’ve outdone yourself yet again 🫠🫠🫠🫠 that was just absolutely fucking brilliant from start to finish, made my heart clench 🥲 you’re such an amazing writer with the way you make me feel things 🥲

You had made up your mind: it was time to break up with him, to tell him that things weren't like they used to be.

👏 finallyyyyyy

A girl was with him, long curly hair falling down her back, one of your oversized t-shirts hanging loosely off her shoulder.

WHOSE T-SHIRT??????? 😤😤😤😤😤😤😤 THE AUDACITY

"This goes for you too," you snapped, cutting him off. "Get the fuck out."

👏👏👏👏👏👏

The girl brushed past you, not saying anything, not meeting your eyes. She was gone within seconds, the sound of the front door shutting hard behind her.

NOOOOOO THE TSHIRT!!!! Giiiiirl 😩😩😩😩 I’d be more mad about her stealing my clothes than my (asshole) boyfriend cheating 😩

"She just what?" you cut in, stepping forward. "Fell into your lap? Accidentally unzipped your pants and sucked your dick? You're such a piece of shit."

🫢🤭🤭🤭🤭

Amber: Free to be with Noah?

Yes. 🥰🥰🥰

Because Kole had promised you love, and yet he'd left you alone. Noah had promised you nothing, and still, he was always on your mind. Maybe that was the paradox: the one who had never said "I love you" made you feel happier than the one who said it a thousand times.

🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺

You opened the door.

And froze.

"Noah?"

NOAH?!?!?? 🫢

His skin was pale, a sickly sheen of sweat on his forehead. His breathing was too fast, his shoulders rising and falling like he'd run a mile. His brown eyes were glassy and unfocused.

Oh nooo 🫢

You imagined Noah, in the abandoned building where he had taken refuge long ago, sitting on the floor, his back against the cold concrete, hands trembling as he tried to bandage his leg as best he could, no medical kit, no one to offer their help.

OH NOOO 😭😭😭😭😭

A deep gash ran along the muscle of his thigh. The skin around it was red, swollen and inflamed. From the wound oozed thick yellow-green pus. It smelled sharp and rotten, the kind of smell that made your stomach turn.

OUCH 😭😭😣😣😣😣😣

When I was about 13 my younger brother fell on a piece of glass and sliced his thigh pretty deep when we were alone at home, and that was the most traumatising thing I’ve ever witnessed (even without the infection and the pus). So I can imagine her panic and feel her pain cause girl it’s scary 😭😭😭😭😭😭

A wave of helplessness washed over you. You stared at the mess on his leg, at the pain painted on his face. You wanted to cry. You wanted to scream. Instead, you whispered, "I don't know what to do."

Oh my god 😭😭😭😭 that is a very real response

He hissed. "Shit." He arched his back off the couch as you worked, a cry escaping his throat before he could stop it.

"Hurts," he gasped out.

Ohh babyyyyy 🥺🥺🥺😭😭😭

"It's done," you murmured softly, brushing your fingers down his shin in a motion that wasn't quite medical anymore. "I finished. It's over. I promise you're not gonna die in my house. I'm not gonna let you die."

I caaaant 😭😭😭😭

Then, carefully, you leaned forward and pressed your lips to his temple. A soft kiss, barely there. His skin was burning, feverish, damp with sweat. You lingered for a second longer, your mouth resting against his hairline, breathing him in.

Stoooooooop 🥺🥺🥺🥺 my heartttt 🥺🥺🥺

"I've got you," you whispered into his skin. "You're safe."

That realization hurt. He had boarded public transportation, traveled across the city with a raging fever and an infected wound slowly eating away at his leg. He had done it all alone.

That he never had to do something like that again. That he could stay, there, with you, for as long as he needed. Days, months, years... forever, if he wanted. Because you loved him.

Stoooooooooopppp 😭😭😭😭😭😭

No answer. Just his hand, moving again, this time more insistently, palm dragging across the edge of the cushion, reaching... for something.

For you.

Are you trying to kill me???? 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

He brought it to his chest, slow and shaky, until your palm was resting against the warm fabric of his shirt, over the beat of his heart.

"Oh, Noah," you breathed.

Your heart broke a little.

Yes, so did mine 😭😭😭😭

Then you reached for the pillow beneath his head, lifting it with one hand as you slid yourself into its place. You settled back, and lowered his head carefully into your lap. He murmured something incoherent, the sound low and contented, and let himself sink into the new position without protest.

MY HEART 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

"I should've died."

Your whole body went still.

"It should've been me."

Ohhhhh noooo, baby nooo 😭😭😭😭😭

"I killed him," he whispered, pained, without giving any sign of understanding what you had said. "I-he's dead. It's my fault."

WHAT IS HAPPENING???? 😭😭😭😭

Maybe it had been self-defense. Maybe an accident. Maybe something worse. Or maybe it never happened at all.

Me when I read the previous chapter and was theorising

You didn't know the truth. Not yet.

Yup… none of us doooo 😭

"Tell your hot coma boyfriend," she said, smirking. "That your amazing, funny and extremely kind bestie, helped keeping him alive, when he's awake."

I love Amber 😂

𝐅𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐇 𝐁𝐑𝐔𝐈𝐒𝐄𝐒 - 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐈𝐗

Pairing: underground fighter! noah x reader

Series summary: You’re dragged to watch an illegal fight, and after the match, you meet Noah, a fighter who seems to be battling more than just his opponents.

Tw: cheating, very gross descriptions of infected wounds, nightmares

Series mastelist

You weren’t supposed to be home this early.

Jolly had called that morning to cancel last minute, saying something about an emergency. He was okay, but he just couldn't come to the tattoo shop that afternoon.

So with no clients left for the day, you and Nick had closed up the shop early. It felt almost weird, leaving with daylight still spilling over the sidewalks. You even stopped for a coffee on the way home, thinking you might actually have a rare evening to yourself.

You had been talking with Amber for a few days about what to do with Kole. You had made up your mind: it was time to break up with him, to tell him that things weren’t like they used to be. You both had different interests now, different paths to follow, and it was clear your relationship wasn’t what it was back when you first got together, when everything felt easy.

Amber seemed genuinely happy about your decision, and she reminded you with a smirk that, sooner or later, she wanted to meet Noah.

You unlocked the apartment door and stepped inside, kicking off your boots. The place was quiet, mostly. You could hear Kole’s voice coming from your shared bedroom.

At first you thought he was on the phone. He had that voice he used when he was trying to be charming and funny.

Then you heard her.

A woman’s laugh. Light, casual. Close.

You froze in the hallway.

There was no way.

You walked farther in, slowly. Your brain kept offering rational explanations, maybe it was the TV, maybe it was a friend, maybe...

But then you turned the corner and saw them.

Your bedroom door was half open, and Kole was inside, sitting on the bed. Shirtless. A girl was with him, long curly hair falling down her back, one of your oversized t-shirts hanging loosely off her shoulder. She was laughing at something he’d just said.

And for a second, you didn’t move.

Then, you pushed the door open all the way.

“Get the fuck out of my house.”

She jumped, scrambling to grab her bag from the floor.

You didn’t even look at her. Your eyes were on Kole, and something about your tone must’ve finally registered, because he stood up fast.

“Wait. Baby, it’s not...” he started.

“This goes for you too,” you snapped, cutting him off. “Get the fuck out.”

The girl brushed past you, not saying anything, not meeting your eyes. She was gone within seconds, the sound of the front door shutting hard behind her.

Great, she also left wearing your t-shirt.

Kole ran a hand through his hair. “Can we just...can we talk about this for a second?”

You laughed. “Talk about what, Kole? The part where you brought some girl into my bed? Or the part where I was literally on my way home to try and break up with you in the nicest way possible and you did... this?”

He winced. “I made a mistake, okay? She just—”

“She just what?” you cut in, stepping forward. “Fell into your lap? Accidentally unzipped your pants and sucked your dick? You’re such a piece of shit.”

He looked hurt, like you were the one being unfair. “I

fucked up, okay? I know I did. But I love you.”

You stared at him.

“I spent the past week trying to figure out how to let you down gently,” you said. “I was trying to be kind. Because after all, I still cared about you.”

You shook your head. “You don’t deserve it.”

“Baby, come on—”

“Don’t ‘baby’ me,” you snapped. “You can go fuck yourself. Or better yet, go call curly-hair and fuck her. Just not in my bed.”

Kole didn’t move.

You pointed to the door. “Now.”

He stared at you, looking like he was about to say something else. But whatever comeback he had died in his throat.

Finally, he took his shirt from the floor and shoved it over his head.

And then he walked out, quickly grabbing his jacket and phone before slamming the door behind him.

You looked at your bed, at the dent his weight had left on the covers, and for a second, you almost cried.

But you didn’t. You just sat down on the edge of the mattress, elbows on your knees, and breathed.

Let him be someone else’s problem now.

You were done.

You stayed in bed for what felt like hours.

Not sleeping. Not crying.

Just lying there, still dressed, staring at the ceiling.

Eventually, you reached for your phone.

You opened your messages and typed without really thinking:

You: Kole brought a girl into my bed. I kicked him out.

It only took her a few seconds to reply.

Amber: Holy shit

Amber: Are you okay??

You hesitated. Your thumb hovered over the screen, trying to decide how honest to be.

Then you answered:

You: Honestly… I thought I’d feel worse.

There was a pause. Then the screen lit up again.

Amber: At least that’s one less problem to deal with.

Amber: Want me to come over? We can eat ice cream and watch cartoons.

You smiled faintly. It was the first real smile you’d had since you walked through the door.

You: I’m okay. Really. I feel… free, actually.

Another pause. You could almost feel her side-eye through the phone.

Amber: Free to be with Noah?

You let out a soft snort and typed back.

You: Slow down.

Amber: What?

Amber: You love him.

Amber: And you’re single now.

You rolled onto your back

You: AMBER

Amber: I’m just saying. Tell him before he smashes his head in a match and forgets you exist.

You chuckled.

You: I’ll think about what to do, okay?

Amber: Mhmm.

Amber: Just don’t wait too long.

You: Goodnight, dumbass.

Amber: night night :)

You set the phone down on your chest and stared at the ceiling again, but this time it felt lighter.

After a while, you got up.

You peeled off your clothes and changed into something more comfortable, a faded band tee that had been washed so many times the print was barely visible, and a pair of old sweatpants.

You padded back through the apartment, the floor cool under your feet, and you crawled back into bed, tugging the blanket up over your legs.

And when you closed your eyes, you weren’t thinking about Kole.

Not even a little.

Because Kole had promised you love, and yet he’d left you alone. Noah had promised you nothing, and still, he was always on your mind.

Maybe that was the paradox: the one who had never said “I love you” made you feel happier than the one who said it a thousand times.

You woke to darkness.

You blinked at the red numbers glowing on the alarm clock.

2:25 a.m.

A small, selfish relief bloomed in your chest, because that meant you could sleep for a few hours more.

Then you heard it.

A sound.

Something shifting outside your front door.

At first, you thought it was one of the strays. There were a few cats in the area that you sometimes fed when they passed by. One of them had knocked over a planter last week. Probably the same thing now.

You closed your eyes again.

But then came the footsteps. Slow. Uneven.

Then came the knock. Not loud, but definitely a knock.

Your stomach dropped.

Kole.

It had to be Kole. He'd done this before, knocking at your door in the middle of the night with drunk apologies, dramatic speeches and promises he’d forget the next morning. You pushed the covers off and swung your legs over the side of the bed, your throat ready to fire off a “go to hell” before he could say a word.

You opened the door.

And froze.

“Noah?”

He looked like he might collapse right there in your doorway.

He was wearing one of his usual black hoodies and black pants, and he was gripping the frame like it was the only thing keeping him upright.

His skin was pale, a sickly sheen of sweat on his forehead. His breathing was too fast, his shoulders rising and falling like he’d run a mile. His brown eyes were glassy and unfocused.

“Hi,” he mumbled. “I... I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come. I didn't... I didn't know what to do, I just—”

“Oh my god. Noah. What the hell happened to you?” You stepped forward without thinking, your arm already sliding around his waist. He flinched slightly when you touched him, but didn’t pull away. His body was too warm. Burning up.

He didn’t answer, just let you guide him, stumbling inside.

You half-carried him to the couch, his weight sagging against you. Every step made him groan. You could barely get him onto the cushions before he dropped with a sound that made your stomach twist.

He hissed through his teeth, trying to shift, but even that seemed to take more strength than he had.

You knelt beside him.

Your voice cracked as you spoke. “Noah, what happened to you?”

He didn’t answer. He just let out a shaky breath, eyes half-closed, then dropped his hand heavily to his leg, clutching at his thigh. His fingers curled tight, his jaw clenched.

Your gaze followed the movement, your fingers already brushing his leg. “I’m gonna look, okay?” you whispered, more to yourself than to him.

He didn’t protest.

With delicate hands, you reached for the cuff of his pants and slowly rolled the fabric up, inch by inch, trying not to jostle him too much. He sucked in a breath through his teeth, his hand gripping the armrest until his knuckles turned white.

Then you saw it.

A thick bandage wrapped hastily around his upper thigh, already stained through with something dark and sick.

You bit your lip and carefully began to unwind it. It peeled away slowly, sticking in places.

And then the wound came into view.

You froze.

His skin around it was stretched tight, shiny, too warm to the touch.

Your chest felt like it was caving in.

“Noah…” you breathed.

“They... they kind of stabbed me,” he muttered, his voice low.

'Kind of', really?

“Last night. After a match. Said I cost them money. Because I won. They didn't think I would.”

“Jesus Christ. Noah. It's been more than a full day. It wasn't cleaned well. Or the knife was dirty. It’s infected.”

“I know.” He leaned his head back against the couch. “Can’t go to the hospital. You know I can’t.”

A wave of helplessness washed over you. You stared at the mess on his leg, at the pain painted on his face. You wanted to cry. You wanted to scream. Instead, you whispered, “I don’t know what to do.”

He looked at you then, eyelids heavy, pupils a little too dilated. “You always know what to do.”

Then his eyes fluttered shut.

“No, no, no,” you said quickly, placing your hand on his cheek, warm and burning under your palm. “Stay with me. Open your eyes, Noah.”

“Mmh. Yeah,” he mumbled, breath shallow. “Still here.”

“Okay,” you said, nodding, though your heart was hammering. “We need to clean it. You need... you need real help. Antibiotics. Something. And I don't have...”

You blinked, and suddenly something clicked.

Kole.

Kole had been sick two months ago, a pretty bad bronchitis. The doctor had prescribed him antibiotics, but he’d quit after two days because they made him too nauseous. He’d switched to something else.

Which meant he hadn’t finished the first course.

He’d left them.

You shot to your feet.

“Noah. Look at me.” You leaned close, gripping his shoulder gently. “I think I have something that can help. I think...yeah. I’ve got Augmentin. It’s for infections. I think... I'm sure it can help.”

He barely nodded, lips dry, blinking slowly. “Okay.”

You ran to the bathroom.

The cabinet was chaos within seconds. You dumped every bottle, every box, every crumpled blister pack onto the floor. Your fingers tore through everything, heart pounding like a drum in your ears, until you found it. A small orange pill bottle. White label, Kole’s name on it.

Augmentin. 875mg.

You popped the cap and stared inside. At least a dozen pills. Maybe more. Still good.

You grabbed a glass, filled it with water, and rushed back into the living room.

He was half-conscious on the couch, his chest rising in shallow, uneven breaths.

“Noah,” you said gently, dropping to your knees. “You have to take this. Just one now, then another in eight hours.”

He blinked again. Nodded faintly.

You helped him taking the pill and brought the glass to his lips. He swallowed it, the motion making him wince. He coughed once after, then leaned his head back with a groan, shivering.

You looked down at his leg.

At what you’d have to do next.

And you weren’t ready.

You grabbed all the things you needed after doing some google research, hoping it was right, along with a bowl of water you’d boiled and then cooled.

Noah lay limp, sunk into the cushions, his breaths shallow and labored. His eyes were mostly closed, lips pale, damp hair stuck to his forehead with sweat. One arm hung loosely at his side, the other resting on the couch like it was too heavy to lift.

You dropped to your knees beside him again. “Noah,” you said softly, but firmly, “I need to clean the wound now, okay? It’s going to hurt.”

His eyes flickered open, barely, and he gave a small nod, then turned his face into the couch like he didn’t want you to see whatever would come next.

You pulled on the gloves with a snap, wincing at the sound in the otherwise silent apartment.

You started by touching gently around the swollen, angry flesh. Noah tensed instantly. His whole leg jerked.

“Fuck.” He said in a broken voice that physically hurt you.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I’m so sorry. We have to clean it, Noah. It’s full of pus. It’s going to get worse if I don’t.”

He didn’t answer, just clenched his jaw so tight you could see the muscle jumping under his skin.

You kept going, more as gentle as you could, and thick, hot pus began to ooze from the gash. The smell hit you like a punch in the face, and you turned your head, fighting nausea.

Noah let out a low groan and tried to twist away from you. You reached out quickly and pressed your hand to his knee to keep him steady.

“I know, I know,” you whispered again. “You’re okay. I'm so sorry.”

He wasn’t. He was burning up. He was panting now.

When the pus stopped flowing, you grabbed a clean gauze pad, dipped it into the saline, and began rinsing the area. The water ran down his leg, pink and cloudy.

He hissed. “Shit.” He arched his back off the couch as you worked, a cry escaping his throat before he could stop it.

Tears pricked your eyes. You weren’t even the one feeling the pain, but watching him like this hurt more than anything.

“I’m sorry, Noah. Please hold on.”

“Hurts,” he gasped out.

“I know,” you said again. “I know. You’re doing so good.”

He flinched violently with every touch as you kept cleaning it, dabbing it with another clean cloth, even the lightest one. His breath came in sharp, short gasps.

“I’m done. Almost done,” you said, not sure if it was for him or for you.

You dried the area carefully, barely brushing it with sterile gauze, then laid a clean pad over the wound, loose, breathable, enough to protect without suffocating it. You taped it down gently.

When you looked at him again, his face was slick with sweat. He was shaking from head to toe, teeth clenched so tight his jaw was trembling.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered again, pulling the gloves off and tossing them aside. “Noah, I’m so sorry.”

His eyes fluttered open, glassy and unfocused, but he managed to find your face.

“It’s done,” you murmured softly, brushing your fingers down his shin in a motion that wasn’t quite medical anymore. “I finished. It’s over. I promise you're not gonna die in my house. I'm not gonna let you die.”

And you were not. You were hoping the antibiotics and cleaning the wound every few hours would be enough. But deep down, you knew that if by tomorrow there weren’t any signs of improvement, if the swelling didn’t go down, if the color stayed that awful red, you would take him to the hospital. Even if it meant going against his will. You were already rehearsing what you’d say: that someone had attacked him, that he was homeless, that he needed help. That no, he didn’t have insurance, he didn’t have money, but you would cover the costs.

You’d do it without hesitation.

What you weren’t sure of was how you’d get him there. There was no way you could carry him to the car, not with how weak he was, and with the fact that he might try to fight you, and not on your own. You considered asking your neighbor, just for a second. He was a quiet man, mostly kept to himself, but maybe he’d help. Or maybe he’d call the cops the moment he saw Noah. You had no idea.

God, anything but losing him. You couldn’t bear the thought.

If the infection reached his bloodstream, if it turned to sepsis...

You stopped yourself. You didn’t want to go there.

At your words, his whole body seemed to deflate. The tension drained from his muscles, a small, broken sound catching in his throat, half-sigh, half-whimper.

His eyelids fluttered. “Thank you.” he whispered, so quiet you barely heard him.

You took his arm and helped him lay down on the couch, he let out a low, exhausted groan and turned his face further into the cushion.

You sat there for a moment, on your knees beside him.

Then, carefully, you leaned forward and pressed your lips to his temple.

A soft kiss, barely there. His skin was burning, feverish, damp with sweat. You lingered for a second longer, your mouth resting against his hairline, breathing him in.

“I’ve got you,” you whispered into his skin. “You’re safe.”

Your hand moved gently to his face, brushing damp strands of hair back from his forehead. They clung to your fingers as you smoothed them away.

Your palm rested lightly against his cheek. His skin was warm and a little clammy, but it felt like it was not as hot as before. Maybe the pill was already starting to do something, or maybe that was just blind hope talking.

You stayed like that for a while, kneeling there beside him, your hand in his hair, gently stroking it back in slow, comforting motions. He didn’t speak again.

And then, after a few minutes, you noticed his breathing had evened out.

Slow. Deep. Rhythmic.

You pulled back just enough to look at him, his lips slightly parted, brow relaxed for the first time since he walked in. His lashes lay soft against his cheeks and his chest rose and fell in steady waves.

He’d fallen asleep.

He was still shivering, so you reached down and tugged the blanket from the back of the couch and pulled it over him, careful not to disturb the leg.

You stayed there, sitting quietly at the foot of the couch, your legs folded beneath you, too scared to move or leave, as you watched him sleep.

The fever hadn't broken yet, but at least he was resting. That had to mean something.

While you stayed there beside him, your eyes drifted toward the window, in the dark. There were no cars parked out front except your own. Not a single one. You knew Noah didn’t own a car, and his neighbor’s car wasn’t there, and even if he had tried to drive in that condition, he probably would have crashed anyway.

He must have taken the bus.

That realization hurt. He had boarded public transportation, traveled across the city with a raging fever and an infected wound slowly eating away at his leg. He had done it all alone.

It would have taken him at least an hour and a half to get there, maybe more, and almost certainly required him to switch lines somewhere along the way. Navigating transfers and unfamiliar stops, surrounded by strangers, all while his body was barely holding itself together.

The thought of him, sitting hunched over on a cold plastic bus seat, shivering, sweating, as his vision blurred almost made you cry.

And all you could think, all you could feel, was an overwhelming, aching need to hold him into your arms and never let him go. To hold him until the fever broke, until the fear faded. To run your fingers through his hair and promise him, over and over, that he wasn’t alone anymore. That he never had to do something like that again. That he could stay, there, with you, for as long as he needed. Days, months, years… forever, if he wanted.

Because you loved him.

And in that moment, more than anything, you just wanted him to know that.

Minutes passed, maybe ten, maybe twenty, you weren’t sure. You barely blinked, afraid to take your eyes off him for more than a second. And then he moved.

A small shift at first, barely more than a stir. Then his hand twitched, arm sliding forward across the couch in a slow, searching motion. His eyes didn’t open. His brow pinched faintly like something in his dream was bothering him, his body restless under the blanket.

You straightened instinctively, leaning toward him. “Noah?” you asked softly, your heart jumping. “I’m here. What is it? Are you okay?”

No answer. Just his hand, moving again, this time more insistently, palm dragging across the edge of the cushion, reaching… for something.

For you.

You blinked, unsure, until his fingers found yours where they rested on your knee.

And then, gently, he curled them around your hand.

He brought it to his chest, slow and shaky, until your palm was resting against the warm fabric of his shirt, over the beat of his heart.

“Oh, Noah,” you breathed.

Your heart broke a little.

But soon, the floor started digging nto your knees, your back stiff from being hunched over for so long. You shifted slightly, and Noah made a small, distressed sound in his sleep, a faint whimper, like something inside him registered the change, the slight withdrawal.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you whispered quickly, brushing your thumb across his knuckles. “I just...let’s get a little more comfortable, okay?”

You tried to ease your hand from his grip, but his fingers clung tighter with a faint, unconscious noise of protest.

“Just a second,” you soothed, leaning in. “I promise.”

You moved with care, slow, climbing gently onto the couch beside him.

Only then did you reach for his hand again, pressing it gently back against his chest.

He made another small noise, softer this time, almost like a sigh. A sound of comfort.

You smiled faintly. “There,” you murmured. “Better?”

He didn’t answer, but the way his body relaxed against yours said enough.

With your free hand, you reached up and brushed his damp hair from his forehead again, fingers threading slowly through the strands.

You let your hand trail from his temple down the curve of his brow, across the bridge of his nose. Your fingertips skimmed the soft skin beneath his eyes, then traced the faint stubble along his jaw, the line of his throat.

Your touch slowed at his neck, right where the ink began.

You followed the sweep of the tattoo, outlining the familiar shapes you’d seen many times but never touched like this.

And you stayed like that, his head in your lap, your fingers drawing quiet paths along his skin. Holding him as gently as you could.

You woke to the sound of his voice, just a low murmur, when the first rays of the rising sun began to filter through the living room window. Your neck ached from the awkward angle, but your hand was still in his, your other arm curled protectively near his chest. You blinked, disoriented.

“Noah?” you whispered, voice rough.

Then you heard it clearly.

“I should’ve died."

Your whole body went still.

"It should’ve been me.”

His forehead burned under your touch, hotter than before. It was too soon for another pill. Barely three hours since the first dose. Not long enough.

“Noah,” you said gently, brushing his hair back, “hey, it’s okay. You’re safe. I’m here.”

But he wasn’t hearing you. His eyes weren’t open. His lips were parted, breathing fast, mumbling between gasps.

Suddenly, he twitched, his body, and his leg, jerked, just slightly, but the movement dragged a strangled sound of pain from his throat.

You immediately pressed your hand down gently on his thigh, steadying him.

“Don’t move,” you whispered. “You’ll hurt yourself more."

“I killed him,” he whispered, pained, without giving any sign of understanding what you had said. “I—he’s dead. It’s my fault.”

You sat up straighter, a chill running down your spine.

“What?” you asked softly. “Noah, what are you talking about?”

But he kept going, more frantic now. “Should’ve been me. I was supposed to... I killed him."

You cupped his face carefully. His skin was clammy and flushed, trembling under your palm.

“Noah, who? Who are you talking about?”

He shuddered. “I killed him,” he choked out.

A knot twisted in your stomach.

“Noah,” you tried again, “You didn’t kill anyone. You’re just... it's a nightmare. It’s the fever. You’re okay.”

"I... killed him." He kept repeating.

“Shh,” you said gently, brushing your thumb across his cheek. “It’s okay."

Eventually, he stilled. His breathing began to slow. His hand, still holding yours, loosened just slightly. His lips moved, but no sound came out. His brow unknotted.

He slipped back into unconsciousness.

You sat there, staring down at him, heart still hammering.

The room was quiet again. But nothing inside you was.

Because now you were left with a thousand unspoken questions.

You brushed your fingers over his temple again, wondering if it was true, if he had really killed someone. If it was a nightmare or a memory.

You sat there long after he’d gone quiet, the words still echoing in your head.

“I killed him.”

It could’ve been the fever. A nightmare. Just fragments of pain and memory colliding in a mind too exhausted to tell the difference. But the way he said it, it didn’t feel like just a dream.

You didn’t know the full story of his past, but you knew enough to know it hadn’t been easy.

Maybe it had been self-defense. Maybe an accident. Maybe something worse. Or maybe it never happened at all.

You didn’t know the truth. Not yet. But you knew one thing: if he had done something, he had lived with it alone for too long. And whether it was guilt or fear or a twisted memory, you wouldn’t let him carry it by himself anymore.

Hours later, when the clock on the wall told you it had been nearly eight hours since you’d given him the first dose of Augmentin, you were still next to him. His breathing was still slow, steady, but his body remained limp. He hadn’t stirred much, drifting in and out of deep, fevered sleep.

You reached for the pill bottle again. Carefully, you picked one out, holding it up to the light, then brought it to his lips.

“Noah,” you whispered softly, brushing a stray lock of damp hair from his forehead. His eyes fluttered open just a little, glazed and unfocused, but he understood. His lips parted, barely audible as he murmured something you couldn’t quite catch, but he swallowed the pill without resistance when you brought a glass of water to his mouth.

You settled back beside him, your fingers tracing gentle, comforting circles on his arm. Hours passed slowly, and you stayed close, watching for any sign of change.

Then, as the afternoon light grew warmer, you started noticing it: the fever was breaking. His forehead, once burning hot to your touch, was now a bit cooler. You have never felt so relieved as you did in that moment.

You carefully cleaned the wound on his leg again, this time with less pus escaping, but still pretty swollen. Noah let out a few low, pained groans, but nothing like the first time. You whispered soothing words as you worked with the sterile gauze and saline.

As evening approached, there was a soft knock at the door, and this time you were sure it was Amber.

You had talked with her on the phone in the morning and she had promised to come by, bringing some groceries, medicine, anything else you might need to help take care of Noah. And she also just wanted to see you and make sure you were okay.

You opened the door to find her standing there with a warm smile and two bags filled with food, vitamins, and a small box of wound care supplies.

“Hey,” she said quietly. “How’s he doing?”

“Better,” you replied, stepping aside to let her in. “The fever’s starting to go down.”

Amber set the bags on the bigger table in the livingroom, then sat down beside you.

You smiled faintly to your friend. “Thank you. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“We can’t let your new boyfriend die before I even get a chance to talk to him, right?”

You let out a small laugh, rubbing at your eyes with the back of your hand. “He’s not my boyfriend.”

Amber raised an eyebrow, her smirk deepening. “Whatever he is...mysterious underground fighter, patient zero, random handsome man almost dying on your couch...I wasn’t going to let you deal with it all alone.”

“Thank you, Amber. Really.”

Amber leaned back in her chair, looking at Noah. “I just... I kind of hoped the first time I met him in person would’ve been under different circumstances.”

"Yeah, me too."

Amber nudged your knee gently with hers. “He’s totally your type, by the way.”

You groaned softly and gave her a look. “Don’t start.”

She held up her hands, laughing quietly. “I’m just saying, he’s pretty. And I can see it too. The two of you. Together. You would look cute.”

You shook your head, but couldn’t suppress the smile that crept onto your face. “Thanks for the blessing, I guess.”

After a moment of silence, she spoke again. “Anytime. But seriously, you look exhausted. Are you okay?”

“Yeah. I mean, I don’t know. I’ve been running on instinct and adrenaline for like... twenty-four hours. Every time he breathes a little more clearly, I feel like I can exhale again. But it’s all still too close. Too recent.”

She nodded, serious now. “That’s a lot. With Kole, and then Noah... I'm sure it was not super easy.”

“Yeah,” you murmured. “But I think... if he keeps improving, maybe I’ll be able to sleep for more than twenty minutes at a time.”

“I brought chamomile tea,” Amber said, nudging one of the bags. “And those little granola bars you like. Oh, and cold packs. In case he spikes again.”

You nodded. "Thank you."

“Tell your hot coma boyfriend,” she said, smirking. “That your amazing, funny and extremely kind bestie, helped keeping him alive, when he’s awake.”

You chuckled, "I'll try to remember that."

You and Amber kept talking for a while, your voices low and careful so as not to disturb Noah's sleep, and you made tea for both of you.

“So,” you asked casually at some point, “what are you doing later this afternoon?”

Amber tilted her head like she had to think about it, though you could tell she already had an answer. “Might stop by the record shop.”

“Didn’t you go last week?”

“Yeah,” she said, nonchalant. “But I want to go again.”

You sipped your tea slowly. “Something new come out?”

“No,” she said, “I just… felt like going.”

You narrowed your eyes, watching her carefully for a beat.

“You’re hiding something,” you said, setting your cup down. “I know that face. That’s your ‘I’m hiding something’ face.”

Amber scoffed, but there was already a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “I'm not.”

You tilted your head. “You definitely are.”

She gave a little laugh, tucking a loose lock of blonde hair behind her ear.

“Oh my God,” you said, starting to realize.

“What?” she asked.

“You like someone,” you said, grinning now. “Someone at the record store.”

Amber tried to play it cool, but you saw the way her cheeks colored just slightly.

“Maybe.”

You gasped, hand over your mouth. “Who?”

She didn’t answer.

“Wait. Is it Jolly?”

“God, no.”

"What's wrong with Jolly?"

"Nothing. Just not my type."

You laughed. “Okay, okay. So, who else works there? It’s just Jolly and that girl with the long black locs.”

Amber didn’t say anything, but the way her lips twitched and her eyes flicked toward you again told you everything you needed.

“Oh my God. It’s her. It’s her, isn’t it? Bingo! It’s the dreadlocks girl!”

Amber gave you a look that was both resigned and a little giddy. “Maybe.”

“Don’t maybe me! What’s her name?”

She exhaled, then said it like a secret. “Vivienne.”

You smiled. “That’s such a cool name.”

“I know, right?” Amber said, her voice rising just a little in excitement. “And she's, like, one of the hottest women I’ve ever seen in my entire life. I swear. The first time I walked in and saw her behind the counter, I think I blacked out for a second. I literally spent the next week praying to every god, spirit, and cosmic force that she might be lesbian.”

You burst out laughing. “Did it work?”

“I don’t know yet,” Amber said, grinning now. “But I’ve been... casually browsing vinyl I don’t need every few days in hopes of finding out.”

“That is the gayest thing I’ve ever heard,” you said affectionately.

“Thank you,” she replied. “I work very hard.”

You both laughed.

After a while, your laughter faded into a comfortable silence. You reached for your tea again, feeling just a little lighter than before.

It felt good, almost normal, despite the man asleep and recovering in front of you, despite everything that had happened.

Amber looked over at him again. “This is really just… kind of wild,” she said.

You glanced at her. “What is?”

She gestured vaguely toward Noah. “You’re literally harboring a dying guy in your living room.”

“He’s not dying.”

Amber laughed. “You know what I mean.”

You sighed. “Amber… I promise you, he’s not a killer, not a psycho, not dangerous, not crazy.”

Amber gave you a look. “Babe, no one’s saying he’s the crazy one.”

You blinked. “What?”

She pointed at you with a teasing grin. “You’re the crazy one here.”

You opened your mouth, but she cut you off, smirking. “But hey… what can I say? You do wild things when you’re in love.”

You laughed under your breath, cheeks warming.

And you didn’t deny it.

“I promise… he’s sweet. Once you get to know him.”

Amber looked at you for a moment, then nodded with a little smile. “And I trust you, don't worry. I just like messing with you.”

You were deeply grateful that Amber had come, not just for the groceries or the tea or the cold packs, but for the way she’d made you laugh and talk about something else, even for just a little while.

Before she left, you made sure to wrap your arms around her in a tight hug, holding on a little longer than usual, reminding her that you loved her.

Tags: @anything-more-than-human @ladyveronikawrites @iloveyoutodeathbutimdrowning @fadingangelwisp @xmads-omensx @iwasntstable @thisbicc @pathion @flowery-mess @into-the-grey @lacy1986 @tosoundlessdarkistare @stardustsirenmelody @thewrstinme @hurricanesfollowyou @ichoosetenderomens @chey-h @alwaysfightforwhoyouare @follow-me-down-to-wonderland @missduffsblog @pandora-08 @geminigirlfromfinland @bloody-spades @rumoured-whispers @astronoids

Fresh bruises tags: @1toreyouapart @respectfulrebel @dragoncopper @overmydeadbodysblog @fear-its-beauty @xslavicprincess @concreteangel92 @super-btstrash-posts @pipidoll @pipidoll @bluehairpunklol @tktstomydwnfall @jesuisunchaton @brutallysoftmuse @acatatonicpeace @spookieolson @dontwantthemoney @renegadebirch @awkwardalex @nojoyontheburn

#so in conclusion: this needs to be made into a tv show and have like 500 seasons 😭😭😭

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