#forever in one another’s orbit

[thelesbianthespianposts]

They’re friends

[canibalistic-brownie]

.

[elians-terrarium]

the joy of fandoms you join as a child: you never really leave them

[yieldtotemptation]

EASY ft. Yunjin

yunjin x male reader smut

6k words

“Oh, you’re an idiot,” Yunjin decides, stealing yet another one of your fries. “My best friend is an idiot.”

You pull the bowl out of her reach, feeling the need to defend yourself, “You're really calling me an idiot because—”

“Because you have the completely insane opinion that jerking yourself off is better than getting a blowjob. What is wrong with you?”

“They’re overrated! Number of times I’ve cum from a blowjob—zero. Number of times I’ve cum from my own hand—probably thousands!”

“Okay, first—gross, and second—you’re not just an idiot. You are a sad, sad man.”

“I’m just being honest!”                      

Yunjin reaches over, snatches yet another fry. Waves it in front of your face, judging you, before reaching some kind of consensus in her unreasonably pretty head. “You only think that because you've never had a good one.”

“I've had plenty.”

Yunjin's eyes narrow. She crunches.

You swallow hard.

“But you've never had one from me.”

—

Look, you’re pretty sure Yunjin’s full of shit. You’ve known her forever, you’re well versed in her bullshitting ways—she’s got a penchant for stretching out the truth until it’s as elastic as the underwear strap that she just loves to leave sticking out of her jeans.

So, yeah. The girl likes to exaggerate. It’s kind of her job anyway. Make things seem bigger, more dramatic than they really are. Sell the idea of heaven in a three-minute pop song. Sweet lies from lips painted to perfection.

Plump, glossy, pillowy-soft lips that you’ve seen pout and purse and get trapped between her teeth or swiped over by her tongue and—

You get the picture.

“Seriously, the bathroom?” You’re asking, and honestly, you’re trying to give her an out. Waiting for her to take it back, reveal that this is all just an extremely unfunny prank, designed to needle you, make you blush and maybe get a good story to embarrass you in front of her friends with. How she left the silly, naïve hometown boy with his pants around his ankles and his dick in his hand.

Any time now, she’ll point and laugh and make you feel like even more of a fucking idiot when she says, ‘I can’t believe your dumb ass actually followed me in here expecting a blowjob,’ and that’ll be the end of it.

Really. Any time now.

And yet.

Silence as she closes the door behind her, which you feel the need to break with, “Come on, Yunjin, you don’t have to prove anything—"

Yunjin cuts you off—“Oh, but I want to.”

She spins on her heels to face you. Presses her back flush against the door. She turns the lock.

Something in the room shifts. 

Her posture, maybe, or more specifically something in her legs. The way she’s angled herself so that your eyes are drawn to their long creamy expanse, up to the tightness of her thighs, and the way they frame the juncture in between.

Or it’s in the drop of one single shoulder; her half-zipped hoodie sliding down to reveal a sliver of smooth neck, the falling strap of her tank-top, the gentle swell of her chest.

Or maybe it’s just the tilt of her head, her lips all pouty and perfect, and oh, now she’s unzipping the jacket further down and she’s watching you find out in real time that she’s left her midriff bare and uncovered and holy shit her abs are ridiculous and your brain is blue-screening—

This isn’t the Yunjin you know.

The friend, the confidant, the embarrassingly loud chatterbox who raids your fridge and roasts your clothes and has a running commentary on every single woman that enters and very quickly leaves your orbit.

Each ticking second, each subtle movement, she’s starting to look less and less like the girl from your childhood and more and more like the idol that everyone else seems desperate to worship.

She takes a step forward.

Your mouth feels paper-dry.

You lie, “Can’t say you’re off to a great start, then.”

Yunjin raises a perfect brow, and yeah, she doesn’t buy that shit for a second. “What, were you expecting somewhere with a little more ambiance?”

“Well, you’re setting yourself up for failure here,” you retort, some defence mechanism causing you to try to keep things casual, bring it back to more familiar, banter-heavy waters. “Toilets aren’t really a turn-on for me.” 

“Didn’t take you for a romantic,” she teases, but something about her tone—light, playful, less biting than usual, sends you in a tailspin. Your mind grinds to a halt when you realise why. She’s not simply teasing. She’s flirting. And she’s taking another step.

“What can I say, I’m a love before lust kind of guy.”

Yunjin just laughs, something foreign and a little bit wicked. Forces a chill down your spine that you can’t quite explain. She makes those final steps, closing the distance, backing you up against the row of sinks, and—fuck.

She stops right in front of you. Your heart races. You think she can hear it thump.

“Am I making you nervous?” She asks, and it’s all kinds of fucked because now you’re seeing the details; the flecks of honey-brown escaping the coloured contacts that make her eyes pop, the curls at the end of her lashes, reaching out to touch the fluorescent lights overhead. “The thought of my pretty lips wrapped around you putting you on edge?”

And you really thought you knew her mouth; but now she’s jutting out her bottom lip, and it’s fuller than you remembered. As dangerously red as her hair, and Jesus Christ you catch the tremble in them when her eyes flicker down for just a brief instant—right before they return to yours.

She grins.

You aim for unaffected. You miss the mark by a wide margin. "Just don’t want to disappoint you. Putting all this effort in only to be proven wrong by me. Again.”

Yunjin gives you a pitying sigh in response, the sound all honey and smoke, and she makes you flinch when she barely has to move a muscle to place a single finger on your sternum.

She draws a lazy circle on your chest. You hate that you shiver.

“Something tells me that won't be the case,” she’s saying, whisper-quiet now. The circle she’s drawing gets wider, turns into a spiral, and now she’s massaging into your chest, a hand over your heart, and her fingers are getting higher until they’re up to your shoulder, and she’s leaning in so her breath is hot on your neck, and—“It’s going to be filthy. Sloppy. A fucking mess. You’ll never be the same. I’m going to bring you to your knees.”

“I thought the whole idea of this was for you to be kneeling in front of me,” you manage, by some miracle, to keep your voice steady. “Seems like you’re getting ahead of yourself here.”

“All in due time,” she answers, getting her body closer, and you can feel your worser impulses start to involuntarily close the gap between your waists. “I’m not like those other girls. I’m not going to just jump right on your cock and bounce up and down for two minutes. I think you’ve earned yourself a little torture.”

“Then you’re wasting your time.”

“We’ll see about that,” she chides, and her other hand starts to skate down your chest, lower and lower until it stops just short of your pants. Her thumb digs into your waistband. Tugs. Does nothing else.

And maybe there's something there. The denial. The torture. The helplessness. Coming from someone who's always been a little bossy, who you've always let get her way because, hell, she's Yunjin, and she always promised that in the end she'd make it so nice for you.

You’re not sure if you want to find out.

“Yunjin—”

“Don’t be afraid,” she giggles, breaking you out of whatever spell has kept you frozen in place this entire time. “Go ahead, you can touch me too, if you want.”

But it's just as you reach out for her that you’re caught.

Yunjin traps one of your wrists in her grasp, causing you to freeze up all over again. Brings your hand to her mouth. Let’s her eyes flit once—to your face—and again—to your thumb.

She sucks.

Slow, deep, her tongue swirling around the digit as it disappears past her lips and into the warmth of her mouth. Vibrates a ridiculously filthy moan into your knuckle, convincing you for a second that your thumb must be delicious, must be something really fucking sweet for her to be slurping on it like this.

She pulls away, just enough to let the sticky wetness left behind glisten in the light.

Her lips bless the pad. “You’re picturing it, aren’t you?”

And then the next finger; and yeah, you’re transfixed—fascination, horror, painful straining as she does the same dance with your forefinger. Deep, deeper than the thumb could reach, until your nail is scraping at the back of her throat and—

It pops out of her mouth as quick as it entered, and you feel it in your core—the sudden absence. “You’re thinking about it—thinking I might be right. Realising that if I can do this to your fingers—”

You can’t bring yourself to argue. Can’t even bring yourself to speak. You’re too busy watching her mouth, too busy watching your middle finger go all the way in, push down into her throat and holy fuck, she doesn’t even gag.

“It’d feel so much better than anything you ever had. Ever even imagined,” she says, and she’s kissing up and down your finger, staining it fire-engine red. “See, the problem wasn’t that you don’t like blowjobs. It’s that you never once gotten one from a mouth this eager for you.”

And finally, when her teeth graze the tip of your ring finger, and you’re expecting the warmth of her lips once more, she stops.

Grinds her hip into you, forcing you to stab into her abs, and it’s unavoidable now—the pressure of your cock, ready to tear itself out of your jeans and just feel her. Her touch. Her cunt. Her mouth.

She feels it too. Arches her eyebrow—‘I told you so’ on her lips prepped and ready.

You wait under the heat of her gaze, trying not to look because you really don't want to give her the satisfaction. But fuck it’s hard. Each breath feeling like it’s being siphoned out of you, replaced with the scent of her—sweet, suffocating. Intoxicating.

But your eyes turn traitor. And it’s a mistake.

Yunjin squeezes your wrist, steals your attention. Takes your ring and pinkie fingers into her mouth. Pushes them past her lips at the same goddamn time.

Your mind goes completely, utterly blank.

She sucks on them hard, drawing them deep past her lips, devouring them, like they’re the last two drops of water in the desert and she’s just been dying of thirst. Holds your eyes hostage, needing an audience to watch as she makes a show of it; moaning around them, tongue rolling over and around your digits and you’re receiving the message loud and clear—‘You have no idea what you’re in for.’

You feel your knees start to give out.

Your fingers are soaked with her saliva, and the sounds she’s making—deep, throaty, fucking obscene—your body’s being hijacked, all your blood redirected to one painfully obvious place.

It occurs to you that you should just give up now. Tell her she’s proven her point. Your heart’s racing, your chest is tightening, your breath is coming in ragged, desperate bursts. Just tell her you believe her and jump straight to the part where she does her victory dance on top of your cock

If only.

Yunjin sets your fingers free with a smack of her lips, but the heat of her mouth still clings to your skin, lingering with the wetness of her tongue, the promise of something so much better. She kisses a trail around your palm, over the back of your hand, around your wrist.

And then she’s on her toes, and she’s leaning her body into you, using your shoulder for support. Marking your neck, nose nuzzling against the stubble, and you can’t help but wrap your arms around her waist. Pull her closer, give her tongue access to your jaw, your cheek, anywhere she wants.

Her teeth line the bottom of your ear, and she sucks gently at your earlobe, and you swear to fucking God it makes your balls tingle.

She bites. “By the end of this, you’re going to be begging.”

Gets closer still, nestles herself into your embrace, presses her tits against your chest. It's divine, the feeling of her against you, in your arms. So right. A body so tight; slender and grace and so happy to have your arms wrapped around her, so delighted that you've discovered the perfect home for your fingers, because she would absolutely hate to have them anywhere else. On anyone else.

"You won't be able to resist me," she tells you, her breath hot on your skin, making it rise up in goosebumps. And you just nod along, because what could be better than the way she's touching you, the heat she's offering, the things you can already picture her lips doing?

And that’s when she lays it on you—her true endgame in all of this teasing:

“You’re going to want it so badly, you’re going to call me Mommy.”

You nearly push her right off you.

Yunjin just stares straight at you. Dead serious. Heat, intent, fucking determination set upon her awfully pretty features.

“I’m older than you, you know.” You try to laugh it off, but it comes out strained when Yunjin presses herself into you again, and her tongue starts to trace the shell of your ear, and her hand starts to work at your zipper. Touching you like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like she’s done it so many times before. Like she’s going to do it so many times again.

“It’s a state of mind, baby,” and she smirks, and there’s a challenge in there. Two doors—try to prove her wrong and walk away, keep your dignity intact. Or just let go, get rid of your pride and fall into a pair of the most tempting, talented, sinful lips that have ever graced your skin.

You don't even get a second to decide.

Her hand’s already at your throat, pulling you close. You let her. Make it easy. Taste the sweetness of her breath, getting a split second to crave her tongue before finally meeting it. Her mouth crashes into yours, and you’re gone.

You kiss her back, breathe her in. Welcome her tongue past your teeth, let it stroke yours, dance in a way that’s far too right for a first time, and it's crazy how she just fits.

She feels, smells, tastes like everything good.

You settle into the reality that this might be the last—only—chance you get.

Face it, you’ve always known who she is—undeniable, goddamn gorgeous, sexy, hot, plain and simple. But this? This is different. You’ve watched it. Yunjin on stage, wearing next to nothing, hips rolling in sync with a thrumming bass, eyes fucking the hell out of the cameras. And you’ve fantasised about it. But it's always felt so fucking far-fetched. She's always felt so impossibly out of reach.

Intangible, since the day she debuted. Ascended to some place that you could never join.

But now.

She’s come back down, just for this. Just to reclaim something that's always been hers.

She moans something nice into your mouth when she feels you pushing back against her. Her hand finally dips beneath your waistband. Finds you eager. Desperate.

But then she pulls away.

Eyes widen, fucking laughs.

“Oh, you’re such an asshole.”

You blink. “What?”

She reaches back, hands careful. Like she’s defusing a bomb. Her fingers peel down the zipper of your pants, and then yank down the stretched-out cotton of your briefs, and you’re set free.

Hard. Aching. Throbbing.

Hers.

“Asshole,” she repeats.

You don’t even know what the fuck.

“Christ, it suddenly makes sense,” she says to herself, but doesn’t bother elaborating. No, instead, she just reaches back down, wraps her fingers around you and gives you a little squeeze. Tests the water. Feels the way your cock jumps under her touch.

Your knuckles turn white against the sink behind you, and Yunjin smiles again when she realises you’re going to let her do whatever she wants.

And so her hand starts moving. Slowly. Gently.

She kisses you again, for just a moment, and then lower, and lower. Stroking you as she maps her way down your body with her lips. Feather-light against your skin, touch hot on your cock, dragging it out, building the anticipation.

Stopping when she’s on her knees. Breathing on your cock.

You hiss in a breath.

Yunjin lets go. Takes off her jacket. Tightens her ponytail. Blinks up at you. And fuck. Her chin tipped just so. Her cheeks flushed. Her eyes alone making you strain.

Her lips part, and you find yourself nodding before she even says a single word.

“I’m going to take care of you now,” she whispers into your skin, kissing into your thigh. It’s warm, soft, wet. Excruciating. She’s so close to where you need her mouth to be, but so fucking far.

Her fingers trace patterns up and down your shaft, dancing over your cock. Not touching, never. Just teasing. Torment that has you squirming, and she’s basking in it, tracking every twitch, loving every desperate gasp.

“You’re mine,” Yunjin mutters, as her mouth travels up your thigh, and your muscles start to shake. You could just grab her, it’d be so easy. Just take her by the hair, force her to give you want you want. But something stops you. Afraid of breaking this moment. Anticipating what’s to come. 

Your oxygen's running low, barely breathing, can’t stop yourself from panting when her teeth scrape along your hipbone, and your cock jumps in response, nearly slapping her right in the face.

But fuck, Yunjin’s a sadist. She kisses around your waist, her tongue darting out to taste your skin, exhaling hot and steamy air against your balls. You're dripping, beading at the tip, and it’s all so, so obvious.

The wait is agony. Pure agony.

Yunjin gives you a small mercy. Her hand wraps around you again, and for an instant you’re terrified that the touch alone would be the end of it.

But thankfully, you outlast. Yunjin strokes you lightly, her grip firm but gentle. Loving. Wresting control over you, your cock. So fucking hard already, you’re surprised you haven’t torn the sink off the wall yet.

And then, oh fuck, she’s kissing closer. Your abs, your belly button. Lower, lower, breath hot on your cock, closer, closer, please.

You can’t take it anymore. You need her. You need this.

“Yunjin,” and any other time you would hate yourself for how embarrassingly needy it comes out.

“Admit you were wrong,” Yunjin says, and you’re ready to scream it, tell her you’ve never been more wrong about anything in your entire life. Anything to feel her lips. “Admit that there’s no way your hand could ever be better than this.”

“Yes,” you grit out, and it’s a fucking miracle you can form words at all. “You were right. I was wrong.”

She’s baring teeth now, and her lips are ghosting over your cock head and you just need her.

“Please.”

“Say it.”

“I can't—”

“Do it.”

“Mommy.”

And then—

Her mouth is on you.

Wet, hot, heaven. Taking you in slow, eyes paying attention to your every flinch, the agonising twists across your face. Trained on all your strained reactions. Savouring it. Reading you like a book—every page turned with a flick of her tongue, every paragraph devoured with a swirl of her cheeks.

Slow, so slow. Deliberate. Perfect suction. Just enough to make your toes curl, to have your hips buck in her mouth. Convincing you that everything before, everything you ever had, whatever you believed was a blowjob—was all a fucking lie.

No one ever felt like this.

Your fingers release the sink, find their natural place in her hair, threading through the red, letting it knot around your digits. And there's the urge again. Tug, pull, make her go faster, make her understand that she’s already won so you might as well fuck without abandon, but you don’t dare. You don’t want to ruin this. Not when she seems so satisfied.

Cheeks hollowing out with every suck, smiling around your cock, basking in some kind of pleasure you can’t even comprehend—because she’s the one doing the giving here.

And then when she sinks, finally pushes your cock to the back of her throat and further down. Presses her nose to your waist and holds you there. Stealing your breath, the air from your lungs, forcing a deep, guttural ‘Fuck’ from your gut.

You reach your conclusion. Her lips are made for this. Made to fit around your cock perfectly, to slide up and down with the fucking unapologetically sloppy noises that make the room spin. That it’s only her throat that can take you deeper than you ever thought possible, that can constrict and tighten around you so nice. That no other mouth could be this warm, hot, welcoming, fucking right.

She pulls back. A long, long draw that leaves a fucking mess. Globs of spit, drool, pre-cum hanging off your cock, from her lips.

“This poor, poor cock,” she sighs, like it’s such a great tragedy. “Never had anyone treat it right. Like the treasure it is.”

She shows you what she means, demonstrates how to properly worship your cock. Lips brushing along your shaft, pecking gentle kisses along your length, tongue snaking out to lick off her own spit.

Her hand slides under your balls, cupping them, balancing them in her palm. Holding them in place when she points your cock up so she can duck underneath. Nuzzle her nose into your waist, lap her tongue at your base, get her lips right where you’re most sensitive.

Pleasing you like she’s always wanted to. Making you believe that maybe she has. Maybe this is something she’s been thinking about all this time; every time she’s seen you, seen the way you looked at her, heard you tell stories of the other women that only ever disappointed you with their mouths.

Not knowing that she was the one that could make you fucking levitate this entire time.

“This was always going to happen,” Yunjin says. Starting to stroke you again, her grip a little tighter this time, a little more possessive. Looking up at you through her lashes, red lipstick smudged off the corner of her mouth. “One way or another, I was always going to have this.”

And her tongue is everywhere. Laving around the base of your cock, making you feel it all the way to your toes. Not done with the teasing, the unbearably slow burn that’s going to drive you insane.

Her mouth opens wide. She takes one of your balls into her mouth. Surrounds it in soft, wet heat. Sucking—not hard, not yet, just enough. Enough to make you bite down and grind your teeth. Squeeze your eyes shut—not that it even helps. You can feel her tongue rolling around, coating your balls in a warm stickiness. Soothing. Torturous. So fucking good.

She lets out a soft hum, and the vibration nearly sends you over the edge.

Yunjin lets go with a pop, and you swear you can hear your soul sigh in relief and despair. “God, this cock,” she murmurs, “Wish you had told me, shown it to me sooner.”

The way she says it—like you could even fathom what you’ve been missing out on. Years of this? Years of her mouth on you? Years of her making you feel like the only thing that matters in this fucking world is impaling your cock into the most insanely hot and wet and tight hole you’ve ever felt?

The look on Yunjin’s face answers every single question for you.

Yes. Yes to all of it.

“Could have been doing this every fucking day,” she muses, and you let out some choked gasp, and her lips are kissing into your slit again. Then her tongue, then lower, and she’s taking you deep. So deep you’re pretty sure you can feel her fucking heartbeat through her throat.

She holds you there. One, two, three. Letting her tongue drool down your shaft, letting it drip over your balls and splash down between her knees.

Pulls back, lets go, catches her breath.

Spits on your cock.

“Imagine,” she speaks, even though her mouth is a fucking disaster, lips swollen, just a glossy smudge of red. “Just waking up to me sucking this, getting it all nice and hard and throbbing.”

It’s not difficult at all to see it. You can feel it. Tongue flattening against the underside of your cock, the swallow as she’s taking you in, the cheeks fixing around the edges with each bob. Just so fucking messy. Soaking your cock, letting these garbled, choked, slick, filthy noises echo off the bathroom walls.

“This would ruin me, you know that don’t you? Ruin my cunt,” she tells you. “Ruin Mommy’s tight little cunt so fucking nicely.”

“Fuck you, Yunjin,” is the best you can muster, which is impressive considering your brain cells are dying off one by one from the lack of oxygen.

“Yeah, I’m sure you’d love that.”

“Of course I would,” you admit, and then continue admitting, “I’ve always fucking wanted to.”

“I know,” Yunjin admits back, and that sets her off. Her mouth goes to work again, your cock disappearing into her, her hand getting just that little bit faster, and fuck, fuck, fuck, she’s got it all wrong.

She’s the one that’s going to ruin you. Going to make you forget every other orgasm you ever had.

There'll be no room for anything in your head but just thoughts of fucking her. Raw, rough; again and again until she's completely filled up with you and even then.

“Been dreaming of it,” you groan out, as Yunjin’s pace builds, and there’s the beginning of tears lining her eyes, and she’s gagging more often than not, and it compels you to keep telling her, “Been dreaming of your tight fucking body. What I’d do to get my hands on that slutty little waist. Just dig in my fingers and pound into that cunt. God I know it would feel so good.”

Deeper and deeper, until she doesn’t even need to use her hands anymore. Just to steady your legs, to keep you still while she fucks your cock with her throat.

And it’s these images you’re drawing up in her mind. How you’d pay her back, how you’d make her scream, how’d you do the same to her and more. Wreck her with your cock until she never seeks another again. Make sure that her lips, her cunt, her body belong to only you. That’s what’s driving her now, making her eyes water, making her cheeks go red and her throat bulge.

That’s what has her hand snaking down between her thighs, forcing open the button of her shorts, stretching the waistband of her panties to their limits. Just so she can touch herself. To feed into the heat building in her cunt and the wetness leaking down her legs.

You can feel her, mouth tightening around you as she teases herself. Feel the accidental swipe of her teeth when it gets too much. She’s rubbing her clit in circles, matching the tempo of her bobbing head.

Fuck, the sight alone.

Hand disappearing into her shorts, getting down and into herself, and she’s so fucking pretty, even when her face is scrunched up in the worst of pleasures, even when she’s choking on your cock.

And you think there’s laughter around the gags, or at least a smile against your skin when you throb, jerk, fuck her mouth. She’s enjoying this. The power, the pleasure she can wrench from you. You’re getting off, sure, but it’s all for her. All to prove her point.

And she’s fucking winning.

“Tell me,” she gurgles when she’s at your head, mouth bubbling at the corners with a cocktail mix of her sloppiness and your arousal. “Tell me how good it feels.”

“Shit, Yunjin, it feels—”

“Actually, fuck that, tell me it’s better,” Yunjin decides, and she seems so fucking pleased with herself that you want to hate her. But it’s so hard to deny those big fucking eyes that anchor you to the ground, those ridiculously plump lips that suck any argument right out of your throat. “Better than your hand. Better than any other mouth. Tell me it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to your cock. Be a good boy and tell me I’m better.”

You groan, or whimper, or cry, or make some noise that makes Yunjin just so fucking ecstatic, makes her swoon and nearly come apart on her own fingers. “So much fucking better, Yunjin. Jesus, your lips. Perfect for this. Perfect, cock-sucking lips. Hot mouth. Your fucking throat taking me so nice.”

“Use it,” Yunjin opens her mouth, stretches her lips as far as they'll go, showing you, sticking out her tongue and giving you an insight into your own end. “Use it like the toy it’s always been for you. Fuck it, fuck me. Use my lips, my mouth, my throat. Make me choke until you think I can't take it and then give me even more.”

“You’re fucking insane.”

“And you’re about to make a mess.”

Yeah, you’re properly doomed.

God it’s so fucking cruel. How Yunjin doubles down, mouth swallowing you whole. So fast and deep that you don’t understand how you’re still on your feet. Just watching her throat pulse, convulse, her eyes bulge when you rut inside her and she just won’t stop.

“You’re so fucking good, Yunjin, so good, you’re a—fuck—you’re a—” Only one word comes straight to mind, "Cumslut."

Yunjin preens. Looks up, lashes fluttering. Sounding so girly that it makes everything seem even more debauched and depraved. “Aren’t I? Aren’t I so good for you?”

You grunt out, “You already fucking know.”

Yunjin’s hand returns to the fold, jerking your cock into her lips, because your own personal catastrophe’s on the horizon. It’s coiling in your balls, tightening up, a spring ready to snap.

And, oh, how Yunjin would love to be the one that snaps it.

“You’re not going to be able to go back. Never. No one else will be able to take this big fucking cock like this. No one can be as much of a cumslut for you.”

You’re fucking falling apart. Yunjin’s mouth is a vice. Hot, heavenly, sloppy vice that’s squeezing the last drops of sanity from your brain. She just keeps fucking doing it—taking you so deep until your cock’s lost down her throat, over and over again. And it’s building and getting closer and closer to disaster and every nerve ending in your body is just begging for release.

“Give in,” she slurs around your girth, barely coherent, mouth full of you. Pumping your cock faster, until it’s throbbing and aching so desperately and angrily, and her words are sounding nicer and nicer with every passing beat. “Give up. Give me that cum. All of it.  Cum for me. Make Mommy happy. Give me what I want. Give me what I need. Give me—”

“Shut the fuck up and take it—”

“Be a good boy and beg—”

“Fuck you—”

You’re straining, for the first time lifting your hips off the sink and falling into her. Hands holding onto her head—and now her hair is just a handlebar, and you're riding her mouth for dear life, fucking into it like she doesn't have a choice. Using her, making her take you, over and over, again and again, and she’s just so happy to keep fingering herself into oblivion while you lose all tempo and pace and forcefully, clumsily wreck her throat.

Until you’re just seeing red.

Red of her hair, her lips. Red smudged up and down your cock and against your waist and all over your fucking fingers.

And then—

“Fuck you—Mommy!”

You can see it in her eyes.

You can feel it in every nerve ending.

You can taste it in the air.

It’s harsh, mean, rough. Pounding into her mouth, stretching her throat, until her nails are digging into your thighs and you’re shaking, twitching, fucking—

Cumming.

You empty yourself into her. Yunjin doesn’t flinch. She takes it. Every pulse of your orgasm, every drop of your cum. Swallows it down with a greedy gulp, again and again, until she can’t swallow anymore.

It gushes out of her mouth.

A thick rope that she can’t quite keep up with that paints those gorgeous fucking lips. Her cheeks and chin. Drips down to her neck. So fucking beautiful. Covered with your cum all over her face, and now down to her shoulder, her collarbone, and oh you’ve ruined her entire slutty outfit.

“God, fuck, Yunjin—”

And she’s dropping her pussy down onto her fingers, panting around your cock, around mouthfuls of your cum. Working her clit in quick, sharp movements until it’s just your hand tangled in her hair that’s keeping her upright.

This fucking image of her.

Mouth full of you, swallowing, choking, gagging. So fucking obscene you can’t look away. Eyes rolled back into her skull, cheeks are flaming, and she’s so shiny and wet and glazed over, and just a complete fucking mess for you.

You can’t imagine anything better.

It leaves you reeling. Standing there with your cock still out. Shaking from aftershocks that you’re not sure will ever end. Trying to catch your breath, chest heaving, eyes blurring back into clarity while you watch Yunjin return to life.

“Good boy,” she breathes, but it’s hardly smug. It’s just pure victory.

She opens her mouth. Smiles so wide. Shows you her prize. Shows you the mess she’s made, shows you everything. Moans at the taste of it, as she absorbs your flavour into her tongue. Completely dazed, mouth fucked to hell, and just strung-out and drunk on your cum. She finds the energy to swipe her tongue around her teeth, cleaning the best she can. She barely makes a dent.

And you’re still hard. Still fucking throbbing.

Her eyes never leave yours. She wants you to see.

She grins, and you're already expecting it, the victory speech. Something no doubt flirty and teasing and completely fucking filthy that will make you want to throw her over the sink and punish her tight, drenched cunt until she's the one begging and calling you Daddy.

Only, that all gets tossed out when you hear someone banging on the bathroom door.

“Everything okay in there?”

The sudden intrusion brings everything back into focus, seizes you back into a reality outside of Yunjin's cum-stained lips.

You clear your throat.

“I’m sorry, it’s my,” and you look down and Yunjin’s beaming up at you. Looking so perfect, kneeling on the cold tiles. Streaks of your cum hanging off her chin. She blows you a kiss. “My girlfriend. Just needed some immediate attention.”

And Yunjin decides to up the ante, leaning back into you. Snaking her arms around your thigh. Kissing into where you’re still so ridiculously sensitive. And then licking and sucking and—

It takes an impossible amount of effort to not scream at the top of your lungs. “We’ll be out soon, just need a couple—”

Yunjin shakes her head. Shows you both hands. Flashes all fingers.

“Ten—”

Shakes her head once more. Flashes again.

“Twenty?”

Yunjin nods.

“Twenty minutes.”

There’s a pause on the other side of the door, and you realise that this is all fucking out of control and completely unbelievable.

But still.

Yunjin’s tongue is setting you on fire, and God she’s kissing up higher, rising to her feet and she's covering every inch of your skin that she has yet to leave her mark.

You whisper-shout at her, “They’re going to break this door down.”

Yunjin laughs, and there’s no way whoever is outside the bathroom doesn’t hear it.

She removes her ruined top. Lets her bra fall to the ground. Steps out of her drenched panties. She looks like perfection.

“That’s fine,” she says, and she’s taking a hold of you, kissing you, and you can taste yourself on her lips and fuck, she’s winning again—“But you’re going to break me first.”

[monstersholygrail]

Long ago you had gotten into some trouble with the gods, being the mischievous little Cat Hybrid you are. You had actually managed to trick one of the Gods in a deal. A deal where you ended up earn everything and they ended up looking like a fool. At the time you were astonished and quite prideful. To trick a God was no small feat. But that quickly came to regret your trickery, even if you couldn’t help it.

The Gods decided that the best course of action was to punish you, of course. They couldn’t let you walk free, spreading word you had humiliated one of their own. So they made sure you could only trick mortals by trapping you within the confines of a ‘Hero’s Trial’ that once entered cannot be left. There you’d live for eternity using your wits to mislead heroes intent on proving themselves.

Eventually you lost count of the years you had been stuck within the trail. You were bored and restless. While it was fun tricking silly humans they always ended up dying. So your job became a little bit of a downer. Until he appeared. You didn’t pay him any mind at first. You thought he’d die like all the others. While he intrigued you with his own wit and cleverness, you didn’t have high hopes. The odds not in his favor.

That is until a year later when he returns at the start of your trial. You immediately perk up on the stone gate you rest upon, remembering him immediately. He made enough of an impression for that. You look him over, noticing his weakened stated. Armor torn and barely a weapon in sight. Yet he was returning to do the trial again.

“Why have you returned?” You ask, your tone demanding the truth. The air was knocked out of you as he smiles at you weakly, barely standing from the extent of his injuries. Yet his eyes glittered with adoration.

“To see you, of course,” he replies simply but you find your cheeks still turning red.

The rest of the exchange is a flurry of back-and-forth. The banter and ease in which you two talk is beyond anything you’ve ever experienced. You tricked a damn God! How could a mere human ever manage to keep up with you. But… he did. And as he walked back into the trial you can feel your heart breaking. A deep longing filling you to the brim. With his injuries and lack of protection you’re sure this time he’ll perish. There’s no way, right?

Another year passes with no hope and so much hurt. But butterflies burst in your belly when the day comes that he appears back at the start of your trial. He had somehow survived. He actually did it! With none of the grace your cat hybrid nature demands, you jump off the gate. Your human meets you just past the entrance where you two crash into each other in a fierce embrace.

“You have returned,” you breathe out with relief, your claws digging into his skin in your excitement. It’s then you realize he now has even less armor on than before.

“I’ve come to see you,” your human croaks, his voice tired but just as relieved as your own.

You lean back enough to look at his face, eyes flickering over his rugged features. He looks back at you as if you are the sun and he is the moon destined to forever remain in your orbit. You can’t explain the wave of emotions that wash over you in that moment as he confirms he’s come back to you all over again. You don’t know where to begin explaining how much it means to you. So you stop trying to explain.

As if one mind and one heart, you and your human move in at the same time, your mouths meeting in a passionate kiss. Your hands roaming along each other’s bodies with a familiarity that shouldn’t be there for two people who are only now touching for the first time. Yet it feels as if you’ve done this with him a million times. And you two share a night of passion and ecstasy before he continues off in the trial.

Years pass, one after the other, and every year your human returns to you. Proving to you time and time again the lengths and depths of his devotion to you, a sly Cat Hybrid. You count the years that pass now, not only remaining aware but keenly so. As each time your human returns with a little less armor, a weak weapon he must’ve found somewhere or none at all, his skin a little more wounded, and his mortal body a little older.

As time goes on, you grow more insistent, begging him to stop returning to the start, and still never fully understanding why he’s returned just to see you. Not when it hurts him so. Not when it hurts you to see him struggling while you have no possible way of helping him. You’re trapped to remain at the start, never allowed to go behind or beyond its entrance.

“Please, you must stop this,” you beg one night as the two of you lay under the stars, bare bodies tangled up in each other.

Your hand caresses his chest, right over his heart and his gaze softens. It’s an argument you’ve had time and time again but his patience and understanding with you remains.

“I cannot. How else will I see you?” He asks softly, lifting a hand to brush some of your hair back. You instinctively lean into his hand, nuzzling into him as you begin to purr.

Your eyes flutter shut as his words seep into you. An ache settling over your heart. The weight of his words has you shaking your head. A part of you wanting to be selfish, to keep him with you for as long as possible. But your love for him quickly overpowers it.

“Indeed you cannot. For if you see me again you will surely perish,” you whisper tearfully, your claws lifting to softly caress the forming lines on his face that begin to show his age.

Something akin to heartbreak flashes across his features. But just as soon as it comes it leaves, replaced with his usual understanding. A glimmer in his eye shows he’s close to tears as well. Needing your touch he takes your wandering hand in his, kissing it tenderly.

“Fine… If that is what you wish. Just don’t cry, my love,” he whispers, voice breaking as he speaks.

The two of you move as one, leaning in to fitting your lips together in a searing kiss. Losing yourselves to a needed final night of love and passion. Treasuring each other and the time you’d had. Knowing this will be his last time through the trial.

Another year passes at a snails pace. Never realizing how lonely you had been before meeting your lover. His love and utterly endless devotion changing you to your very core. For the first time in your very long life, the punishment the Gods had given you felt exactly like that… a punishment.

Eventually the leaves begin to turn orange and brown once more. The flicker of excitement inside your chest at the idea your lover would be here soon quickly flutters and dies to a lonely ember. Remembering once again that he was never to come back.

So when you see a strangely familiar form through your blurry tear-filled vision, you swear you must be seeing things or simply dreaming. But a quick swipe to your eyes has reality crashing down on you.

A gasp escaping from your throat to see your love stumbling toward you, clutching his stomach with his hand outlined in red against his tunic. He’s silent for a moment before something gurgles in his throat and he begins to choke.

You scramble off your perch, landing on the ground with a sickening thud. Your heart lies still in your stomach, unable to beat as you try to stand. The two of you rush toward each other just past the entryway to the trial. A strangled cry leaves him as he collapses in your arms and the two of you instantly crumble onto the ground, the leaves scattering around you.

“What are you doing here?!” You scream through broken sobs, frantically wiping away tears so that you may better see him. A rattling wheeze leaves him as he lifts a hand to softly brush the tears from your cheeks.

“I’m here to see you… one… last… time,” he rasps, cupping your cheek and bringing your forehead down to rest against his. The difference between his cold and your warmth is chilling. Unbearable. You can’t take it, you’re very being threatening to fall a part as you feel his final breath ghost across your face. His eyes never once leaving yours.

You throw your head back, letting out a cry mournful enough that it shakes the heavens. You can sense their leering eyes peering down on you. Oh, how they must be relishing in their revenge. Your tongue cannot be stopped as you spout endless curses at them.

Despising them as they must despise you, their punishment finding affect even now. For even if you didn’t mislead and trick your lover within the trial itself. You always tricked him into coming back. You must’ve. Somehow. His devotion too pure, his love too endless to be anything but the result of a trick. It couldn’t be real.

You couldn’t handle losing anything that real.

[luviestarz]

jungkook fic recs! 💘 part 3

★ starry night (m) | jjk - @kithtaehyung (all you wanted to do was take your boyfriend on a super late date.)

★ Millisecond - @kookiepleasee (Jungkook just can’t get enough of you, but is too afraid to make a move, so he just admires you from afar, every day.)

★ Home: risky birthday 🔞 - @bonny-kookoo (In which you really don't know how he talked you into this.)

★ just a little... | jjk drabble - @soft4gguk

★ "big tiddie anime bitches" | jjk - @h0neypjm (Jungkook, bless his heart, has an obsession. An obsession with big titty anime girls and the idea of you dressed as them. His birthday is coming up, what better time to fulfil his weeb fantasies than on Jungkook's special day.)

★ WARM NIGHTS & CLEAR LINES — JJK (m.) - @awrkive (there haven't been a lot of people who have come into your life that became important to you – and you didn’t expect jeon jungkook to be one if it – not at all. but what started as a casual relationship turned into more than that, and now you find yourself deeply in love with him – and happily so. or; your first "i love you" comes out completely wrong.)

★ ( 전정국 ) . . . BURNING HOUR jeon jungkook - @jungqkook (there’s nothing better than spending an entire day at your boyfriend’s yatch, tanning and waiting for the sunset with a drink in your hand… too bad your boyfriend had other plans for you.)

★ fill with fire, exhale desire, m | jjk - @whatifyoulivelikethat (He smokes cigarettes. You hate it. You always have a lighter in your pocket. He is pissed off because it isn't for him, you say. So much is said, but the truth is in the silence.)

★ RAINY DAYS | JEON JUNGKOOK - PART ONE - @rklve (your life choices left not only yours, but jungkook's heart broken in peaces. now you're back in town, and just like pluto, even if it's cold and dark, he tends to orbit around his sun forever.)

★ Devoted to Trouble - @jeonsweetpea (In which the whole world finds out Jungkook is Spider-Man, but he doesn’t care about anything but you. OR Can you survive seven days of Jungkook pining over you while his identity is exposed to the world?)

★ whipped - JJK - @aquagustd (another day, another trend that you’re forced to participate in with your boyfriend. It was his idea but he somehow gets sidetracked, with his head between your thighs.)

★ campus affairs | jeon jungkook - @kooktrash (you transferred to a new college during second semester and you didn’t expect much excitement out for. that’s until jungkook came along and what had struggled to be a friendship was becoming so much more.)

★ [10:29pm] | jeon jungkook - @kookssin (established!relationship, smut, mirror sex)

★ Fall Back in Love | jjk - @bukguhope (jungkook somehow grew a reputation of sleeping around on campus, leaving him lonely and inexperienced with relationships. so when you, his old childhood best friend moves onto campus, he discovers what a relationship can feel like as he finds himself falling in love with you)

★ 𝐜𝐡𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐦𝐚𝐬 𝐤𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐬: - @euphoricfilter (it’s not often your boyfriend calls you with a cryptic message to come over; especially when he’s meant to be at his parents’ place for the holidays.)

★ fast forward - JJK - @aquagustd (If every single person you knew was against you, it wouldn’t matter, doesn’t matter because Jungkook would be there for you. That’s why you don’t question his words when he repeats ‘I’ll be back’ one disconcerting morning, and you respond with ‘I know. I trust you.’ He’ll make you eat your words.)

★ paired & puppy-eyed | jjk - @yoon-kooks (When Jeon Jungkook agrees to be your partner for a class project, he doesn’t realize what that might escalate to until you show up at his door in a teeny-tiny crop top and cling to his tattooed arm like his naughty little kitten.)

★ risqué ; timestamp #15 - @mercurygguk

★ LOVE ME | JJK - @wnderkoo (I guess I'm just a sucker for love.)

★ CRIMINAL ! ... halloween special - @voyter (your boyfriend ends up loving your costume idea for the two of you more than he initially lets on.)

★ 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐦𝐩𝐚𝐠𝐧𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐟𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐢 - @pennyellee (You, a determined fashion designer, find yourself entangled in a collaboration with the irresistibly charming and egotistic heartthrob, Jeon Jungkook. Will this partnership remain strictly professional, or will he make the lines blur?)

★ grumpy!jk - @awrkive (jungkook is usually a nice guy from the way he interacts with other people – but the only exception comes to you. and you can't figure out why.)

★ MOTHERFUCKIN’ TRAIN WRECK! ⋆ 정국 - @lovieku (when renowned fuckboy jeon jeongguk catches feelings, he loses his mind. only when it comes to you, though.)

★ CRAZY | JJK (Part 1) - @girlygguk (you know it sounds twisted. that most people would see hyungwon as the perfect boyfriend. healthy, balanced, all the things that relationships should be. that’s when you realized... you weren't like most people. but that's okay. because neither is jungkook.)

★ metro inhabitant!Jungkook x survivor!female reader - @runariya

★ Closer To You - JJK (18+) - @back2bluesidex (You know that you and Jeongguk are completely different individuals from every possible aspect, and there is no future of this relationship but you can’t push him away, not when he only wants to come closer to you.)

★ next door - jjk - @sugaimhome (Jungkook is obsessed with you. All because of some badly designed architecture and house planning, he’d do anything for you, and when he sees you struggling to orgasm, he takes matters into his own hands... or camera.)

★ PRESSED IN THE STEAM - @97kuu (There is only so much he can handle visually of your wet, hot and exposed body in an a private onsen before his member starts craving more than simple touches and thrusts between your thighs.)

[hrrtshape]

manifestation and the eroticism of longing.

the ache, the gasp, the delicious purgatory of almost-there. you don’t want it, not really. you want the wanting. the suspended moment before consummation, the sharp inhale before impact. the high before the high. desire is the apex predator of sensation, the final boss of narrative tension, the thing that keeps the world spinning.

to manifest is to bring into being, yes, but what happens when you fall in love with the space between? the anticipation, the near-miss, the art of the unfulfilled. it is the thrill of the unread message, the way fingertips ghost against skin but never press down, the unbearable ecstasy of knowing something is yours but not yet. wanting is its own genre of pleasure, a fetish for potential, a love affair with the unresolved.

some people live here forever. orbiting their desires like moths around a flame, intoxicated by the dance, never daring to land. they want the longing more than the having. they want to stand at the edge of the pool forever, just close enough to feel the cool mist on their skin but never submerged.

because the moment you have it, the spell breaks. the chase is over. the yearning dissolves. the unbearable tension snaps in two, and suddenly, there is nothing left to want. the chemistry of the brain adjusts. the hunger ceases. the thing once pulsing with electricity is now just another object in your hands, another scene with the lights on.

so ask yourself…do you want it? or do you want the wanting? because the two are not the same, and only one of them will ever truly belong to you.

[nororitz]

Phainon who smiles at you brightly, the same as always, never changing. The senior student council member that pesters you constantly with dazzling blue eyes and a kind laugh. He refuses to leave you alone, as if he knows that it would be cruel to you.

Despite your assurance and seemingly fine appearance, Phainon looks at you with his eyes forming into crescents. He shakes his head and rests his chin on his palm, eyes never leaving your form. The intensity of his gaze speaks of adoration and you can’t help but quickly shift your focus to the book in your hand instead. Soft spring breeze blows strands of hair into your face, though you quickly tucked them behind your ears. Anything to distract yourself from that unfamiliar look of his, one completely peculiar to you, one that tugs at your heartstring.

Another laugh leaves his lips, his form shifting closer to yours, inquiring what you were reading. As always, you earnestly explain the content of the book to him. Without fail, his eyes are gentle, trained on the you who talks with a light of passion. Moments like these remain a constant in your memories. An incarnation of the sun orbiting around you warmly— Phainon, the beloved Phainon that breaks down your walls and embraces you so kindly and gently. Maybe, just maybe, peaceful days like these would last forever, where the light in his eyes would never fade.

a/n: i’ve been going through hi3 lore lately and the 3.2 quest ToT

[reasonsforhope]

"The first satellite in a constellation designed specifically to locate wildfires early and precisely anywhere on the planet has now reached Earth's orbit, and it could forever change how we tackle unplanned infernos.

The FireSat constellation, which will consist of more than 50 satellites when it goes live, is the first of its kind that's purpose-built to detect and track fires. It's an initiative launched by nonprofit Earth Fire Alliance, which includes Google and Silicon Valley-based space services startup Muon Space as partners, among others.

According to Google, current satellite systems rely on low-resolution imagery and cover a particular area only once every 12 hours to spot significantly large wildfires spanning a couple of acres. FireSat, on the other hand, will be able to detect wildfires as small as 270 sq ft (25 sq m) – the size of a classroom – and deliver high-resolution visual updates every 20 minutes.

The FireSat project has only been in the works for less than a year and a half. The satellites are fitted with custom six-band multispectral infrared cameras, designed to capture imagery suitable for machine learning algorithms to accurately identify wildfires – differentiating them from misleading objects like smokestacks.

These algorithms look at an image from a particular location, and compare it with the last 1,000 times it was captured by the satellite's camera to determine if what it's seeing is indeed a wildfire. AI technology in the FireSat system also helps predict how a fire might spread; that can help firefighters make better decisions about how to control the flames safely and effectively.

This could go a long way towards preventing the immense destruction of forest habitats and urban areas, and the displacement of residents caused by wildfires each year. For reference, the deadly wildfires that raged across Los Angeles in January were estimated to have cuased more than $250 billion in damages.

Muon is currently developing three more satellites, which are set to launch next year. The entire constellation should be in orbit by 2030.

The FireSat effort isn't the only project to watch for wildfires from orbit. OroraTech launched its first wildfire-detection satellite – FOREST-1 – in 2022, followed by one more in 2023 and another earlier this year. The company tells us that another eight are due to go up toward the end of March."

-via March 18, 2025

[bueckets]

The Hit List | 02.5

Pairing: fuckgirl!Paige x Mechi Student!reader

Masterlist (TBA) | Part One | Part Two (READ BEFORE 2.5)

Genre: romance, slow burn, enemies to lovers, kinda funny?, they fuck, n its hot n sweaty, cat n mouse

Description: What starts as a game of avoidance turns into something far more dangerous when old grudges and unfinished business crash headfirst into a truth neither of them are ready to face. Armed with a stubborn streak, a boyfriend you're trying too hard to believe in, and a simmering resentment that burns just as hot as desire, you swear you won’t let Paige win.

But when history keeps rewriting itself in glances, in touches, in words that cut too close—you start to wonder if you've had control of the game at all.

wc: 24k, yes, 24k

Authors Note: sorry this took forever, too many words so this is split into two parts (THIS IS part 2 chap 2)

Three Weeks Later

Midterms came and went, dragging you through hell and back. The sleepless nights, the cramming, the fucking Systems Engineering project that nearly made you throw your laptop out a window. It’s over. You survived.

And somewhere in between all of it—Paige Bueckers became just a name again.

Not a person. Not a presence. Not someone orbiting your every waking moment.

Just a name you see online.

A headline when UConn wins another game.

A clip someone reposts on Twitter, her pulling up from three like it’s muscle memory, making it look so goddamn easy.

Her life moves forward at full speed.

The season’s in full swing, meaning the team’s constantly gone—traveling for games, disappearing for days at a time, too busy to be anything but motion.

It’s weird.

Because after that night—after the fucking laundry room, after the way she felt against you, the way her breath tangled with yours—you thought she’d stick. Thought the weight of her would still be there, pressing into your ribs, twisting your stomach every time you caught a glimpse of her across campus. But she’s gone.

Not in the literal sense. You still hear her name, see her in passing, watch her run drills on the court like she owns it. But she’s not here. Not in the way that matters. She’s everywhere else—on screens, in headlines, living a life that no longer overlaps with yours.

And you hate that the only way you see her now is through a fucking phone. A video of her laughing on the sideline, hair damp with sweat, head thrown back like she doesn’t have a care in the world. A post-game interview where she’s loose, confident, rattling off the same media-trained answers like she’s never lost control of anything in her life. She’s fine. She’s thriving.

And the worst part? She probably doesn’t think about you at all.

So you adjust. You fall back into routine. Class. Studying. Work. You go to parties, sometimes. You drink. You dance. You make out with people whose names you don’t bother remembering. You kiss Eli again—once, just to see if it sparks something, if it fills the void she left behind. It doesn’t. It never does.

And then, just as fast as she disappeared—

She’s back.

It happens out of nowhere. One second, you’re dragging yourself through campus, brain fogged with sleep, the winter air biting at your skin, coffee scalding the tip of your tongue. And then—her. Right there. Like she never left. Like she hasn’t spent the last few weeks bouncing between cities, arenas, flashing cameras. Like she isn’t something bigger than all of this.

She’s standing outside the training facility, hoodie pulled over her head, joggers slung low on her hips, a duffel bag hanging off her shoulder. She’s talking to someone—one of her coaches, maybe—but she’s different. Not in the way she looks. No, she’s exactly the same, infuriatingly so. It’s something else, something in the way she carries herself, like she’s spent so much time away from this part of her life that she almost forgot it existed.

Like she almost forgot about you.

Your breath stutters. Your steps slow.

She’s close enough to touch. Close enough to reach out and prove she’s real.

And yet, she might as well be a ghost.

Because when she finally turns, finally glances up—she sees you. You know she does. But there’s nothing. No reaction. No flicker of recognition. No teasing smirk. No raised brow, no knowing glance, nothing. Just a passing look, empty and indifferent, before she turns away.

Like you’re nobody.

Like that night never happened.

Like you never fucking existed.

And it wrecks you. Because for the first time since this whole fucked-up, tangled thing started—

It feels like you lost.

Two Months Later

Dating Eli is easy. That’s the problem.

There’s no push and pull, no fire curling under your ribs, no moments where your pulse spikes so fast you think you might actually combust. There’s no game. No tension. Just quiet, steady comfort. He’s sweet—thoughtful, even. Picks you up for class sometimes, walks you to your dorm even when it’s out of his way, texts you good morning despite seeing you every day. A good boyfriend. The kind you’re supposed to want.

And you? You go through the motions. You hold his hand. Let him kiss you. Let him slip an arm around your shoulders as you walk across campus, even though it still feels foreign. Even though it still feels wrong. But you let it happen because it’s safe. Because he doesn’t make your stomach drop. Because he doesn’t wreck you.

Because he’s not her.

And that’s exactly what you need. Because Paige Bueckers doesn’t know you exist anymore.

She came back from the season like she shed you—like you were just something she outgrew. Whatever happened between you was nothing. A passing thought. A mistake so inconsequential she didn’t even have to acknowledge it. And if she doesn’t care? Then neither do you.

So you lean into Eli.

And when he invites you to a UConn game—something casual, something low-stakes, something he’s excited to take you to—you say yes. You say yes because it makes sense. Because this is your life now. Because Paige Bueckers is just another player on the court.

And that’s all she’s ever going to be.

The stadium is packed, the early spring air crisp, cutting through the warmth of the sun. You follow Eli up the steps, scanning for open seats, the scent of popcorn and hot dogs thick in the air. It’s different from the last time you were at a game. Not indoors, not under the blinding arena lights. The energy is looser, more relaxed, fans chatting easily, kids waving oversized foam fingers.

You take a breath, steadying yourself. It’s fine. It’s just a game. And you’re here with your boyfriend.

Eli finds seats near the middle, pulling you down beside him, arm draping lazily over your shoulders. You lean in, let yourself sink into the warmth of his body, let yourself pretend like this is all normal.

On the court, the team is warming up. Players jog across the pavement, stretching, shaking out their limbs. Your gaze drifts over them, detached, unfocused, not looking for anything in particular—

And then—her.

It shouldn’t feel like a fucking collision, but it does.

Your breath catches, body locking up as if it knew before your brain did. As if some deep, unshakable instinct recognized her presence before you could stop it. Paige jogs across the court, her shorts hanging loose around her thighs, her hoodie still on, dribbling lazily like she doesn’t have a single care in the world. Like she’s untouchable.

Your chest tightens. She still looks the same. Still is the same. And yet—something’s different. Maybe it’s the way she seems even more unreachable now, like she exists in a space just beyond your grasp.

You exhale sharply, force your gaze away.

You’re here with Eli.

You’re fine.

This means nothing.

Eli nudges you. “You good?”

You blink, nodding too quickly. “Yeah. Just thinking.”

He smiles, presses a kiss to the side of your head. “Get ready. She’s gonna put on a show.”

You force a laugh.

And when you chance another glance at the court—Paige is already looking at you.

But this time, she reacts.

Just slightly. Just enough.

A shift in her eyes. A flicker of something.

And then—she smiles.

Not big. Not obvious. Just the barest curve of her lips, like she knows. Like she sees you sitting there, tucked under Eli’s arm, playing house, pretending like you’ve moved on. And for the first time in months, you know—

She hasn’t forgotten you at all.

You don’t watch the game. Not really.

You hear it—the sharp squeak of sneakers against pavement, the shrill whistle of fouls, the deafening roar of the crowd when UConn scores. You see it—the blur of white and navy jerseys cutting across the court.

But your focus is off.

Because all you can feel is the weight of her presence.

And the fact that she knows you’re here.

It fucks with you.

Because it had been easy to believe she forgot. That she let it go, left you in the past, moved on like you were nothing. But now—now she’s looking at you between plays. Not constantly. Not obviously. Just enough.

A glance while she’s standing at the free-throw line, hands on her hips, chest rising and falling. A flicker of her eyes when she jogs back on defense, scanning the crowd, skimming right past Eli like he doesn’t even exist.

And that fucking smirk when she sinks a three-pointer, lets it hang in the air for just a second before she turns, wiping the sweat off her brow with the hem of her jersey.

It’s deliberate. Calculated.

And it’s working.

Heat curls up your spine, a suffocating mix of frustration and something you won’t name. Your arms lock tight across your stomach, fingers curled into your sleeves. Beside you, Eli cheers, completely oblivious.

You wish you could be.

You wish you could tune her out. Pretend she’s just another player on the court. Pretend she doesn’t get under your skin.

But she’s in your head again. She won’t leave.

And worse—she knows it.

The game stretches on, endless. Every second is another reminder that she’s still there. That she’s not just some passing thought, some unfinished mistake. She’s real. She’s here. And she’s still in this fucking thing with you, even if neither of you are saying it out loud.

By the time the final buzzer sounds, you feel like you’ve been through a war.

Eli’s arm tightens around your shoulders, shaking you lightly. “See? Told you she’d put on a show.”

You nod, force a tight smile, but your chest feels hollow, your stomach twisted into something you don’t know how to untangle.

Because the game might be over—

But this?

This is just getting started.

The crowd filters out in waves, a slow, steady stream of bodies stretching stiff limbs, shaking off the lingering chill, still thrumming with energy from the win. Eli stands, his hand warm around yours as he pulls you up with him, his voice easy, unbothered, spilling into the space between you with post-game analysis—stats, highlights, a play he wants to rewatch later.

You nod when you’re supposed to, hum responses that sound just engaged enough, but none of it sticks. Your mind is elsewhere.

Because she’s still here.

Not with the team. Not caught up in post-game celebrations or media duties. No cameras, no noise, no excuses. Just lingering.

Sweat still clings to the curve of her neck, damp strands of blonde hair curling against her skin. Her hoodie is pulled over her head, water bottle hanging loose from her fingers, body relaxed like she has nowhere to be. But she’s not just standing there.

She’s watching.

Not outright. Not obvious. Just enough.

And Eli? He doesn’t notice.

Because why would he? He’s here with his girlfriend, celebrating a win, caught up in the moment, assuming she’s just watching the team clear out, thinking nothing of it.

You, on the other hand—

You can’t fucking breathe.

Every nerve is stretched too tight, buzzing under your skin, prickling like static, like she’s marking you without even touching you. Like she’s still fucking with you, seeing how much space she can take up in your head before you break.

And the worst part?

She looks fine.

Completely untouched. Unshaken. Not like she’s been thinking about you. Not like this has cost her anything.

And that—that is what undoes you.

Because this was supposed to be over.

You were supposed to be fine.

But here you are. Crumbling.

Eli tugs on your sleeve, easy, unaware. “Come on, let’s head out before traffic gets bad.”

You blink, drag yourself back into the present, nodding too quickly. “Yeah. Yeah, let’s go.”

One step.

Then two.

And then—

You don’t mean to look.

But you do.

Just for a second.

And she’s still there.

And she smiles.

Not big. Not obvious. Just that same, slow, knowing curve of her lips.

Like she sees right through you.

Like she knows you’re unraveling.

Like she’s won.

It’s three days after the game when the email comes in.

You don’t think much of it at first, just another facilities request forwarded to you through the engineering department—something about a faulty vent system in the women’s basketball locker room. Nothing urgent, nothing particularly exciting, just another task to check off your list between classes and whatever project is currently draining your soul. You’re barely skimming the details as you type out a confirmation reply, promising to stop by that afternoon, when it hits you.

Women’s basketball locker room.

Your stomach tightens.

For a second, you debate forwarding it off to someone else. Someone more qualified, someone with less history hanging in that space. But that’s fucking ridiculous, isn’t it? It’s been three months. Three months since the laundry room, since she pretended you didn’t exist, since you started playing house with Eli like it was supposed to fix everything. Three months of routine, of pretending you don’t track her name through game highlights and Twitter clips, of pretending you don’t feel her presence like a ghost in the back of your head.

You should be fine.

This shouldn’t be a thing.

It’s a fucking vent. You’re going to walk in, tighten some screws, maybe clean out a filter, and walk right back out. No big deal.

And yet, as you step into the building later that afternoon, tool bag slung over your shoulder, the cold press of the metal door handle beneath your palm, you feel something coil tight in your chest, something uneasy and electric, something that tells you this won’t be as easy as you want it to be.

The locker room is quiet when you step inside, the kind of silence that feels thick, like it’s waiting to be broken. The scent of sweat and body wash lingers in the air, fresh from practice, steam still clinging faintly from the showers in the back. Rows of lockers stretch across the room, some still open, jerseys draped lazily over the benches, sneakers kicked off in pairs on the floor.

You exhale slowly, adjusting the strap of your bag as you move toward the vent panel along the far wall. The faster you do this, the faster you can leave. You crouch, fingers working quickly to loosen the first few screws, trying to focus on the movement, the mechanics, anything but the slight tremble in your hands, anything but—

“Didn’t think I’d see you in here.”

The voice is unmistakable.

That low, casual drawl, edged in something sharper, something teasing, something that shouldn’t still make your breath catch the way it does.

You don’t turn immediately.

You keep working, keep your gaze locked on the vent, pretend like your pulse hasn’t just doubled. “Just fixing a maintenance issue,” you say, voice as even as you can manage. “Won’t be here long.”

There’s a pause, a shift of movement, the unmistakable sound of sneakers against tile. She’s coming closer.

“Shame,” Paige murmurs, and fuck, you feel it.

The weight of her gaze. The presence of her body somewhere behind you, close enough to make the air feel different, charged, suffocating.

You grip the screwdriver tighter.

She shouldn’t be here. Not now, not after all this time, not when you’ve spent months convincing yourself she doesn’t matter.

But she is.

And she’s talking to you.

You swallow, working another screw loose, forcing yourself to focus. “Shouldn’t you be at practice?”

She hums, and you hear the smile in it before you see it. “Finished early.” A pause, and then, “Didn’t know you were doing this kind of work.”

Your jaw tightens.

Of course, she didn’t. Because you don’t exist in her world anymore, do you? Not unless she decides you do.

You finally turn, slowly, pushing up from your crouch, letting yourself look at her.

And fuck, that was a mistake.

Because she looks good, better than you remember, the months of training and travel and games only sharpening her in ways that make your stomach twist. She’s standing there in sweatpants and a UConn tee, hair damp from a post-practice shower, arms crossed over her chest, watching you like she’s curious, like she’s interested, like she hasn’t spent three months pretending you were just another passing face in the crowd.

And it pisses you off.

You force a shrug, tilting your head slightly. “Didn’t know you cared what I was doing.”

Her smirk twitches. Just barely. Just enough.

“Didn’t say I did,” she replies smoothly, but the way she’s watching you says otherwise.

There it is.

The push and pull. The old game slipping back into place like it never left, like three months of avoidance didn’t mean shit.

And you should walk away. You should finish the job and leave, act like you don’t feel this, act like she’s just another person in another room.

But you don’t.

Because something deep in you, something bitter and unresolved and desperate, needs to know if this still means something.

So you take a step closer, watching the flicker in her eyes as you do.

“Then why are you standing here?” you ask, voice low, steady, challenging.

Paige doesn’t move. Doesn’t step back, doesn’t flinch, just holds your gaze, her mouth curving slightly, like she’s enjoying this, like she knows she’s getting to you.

“Maybe I’m just curious,” she says, tilting her head. “Been a while, hasn’t it?”

Three months.

Three months of silence. Three months of pretending. Three months of you thinking you were the only one who remembered, the only one who cared, the only one still feeling it.

And now?

Now she’s standing here, looking at you like she never forgot at all.

You don’t answer.

Because what is there to say? That, yeah, it’s been a while, and yet somehow it still feels like she never left your fucking head? That you’ve spent the past three months trying to scrub the memory of her hands off your skin, only to have them crawl back the second you laid eyes on her again? That seeing her at the game did something to you—something ugly, something desperate, something you don’t want to name?

No.

You won’t give her that.

So instead, you just lift a brow, forcing something casual onto your face, like her presence isn’t making your chest feel too tight. “Yeah. Guess it has.”

Paige watches you for a second longer, and you can see it happening—her weighing the moment, deciding how she wants to play this. Because that’s what she does, isn’t it? She plays. Gives you something, just a taste, just enough to make your stomach flip, before she rips it away.

And you should know better by now.

You do know better.

But then she shifts, weight rolling back onto one foot, arms still folded, her mouth quirking into that slow, almost lazy smirk—the one that’s never meant nothing.

“So,” she says, tilting her head, “are you gonna keep ignoring me, or are we past that now?”

Your pulse stutters.

Your fingers tighten around the screwdriver in your hand.

You weren’t expecting that.

For her to just say it. To acknowledge it, to drag it into the light, the weight of your silence, the way you spent months dodging her like it might actually fix you.

You scoff, shaking your head, turning back to the vent, to anything that isn’t her mouth forming words that fuck you up. “I haven’t been ignoring you.”

It’s a lie.

Paige knows it’s a lie.

She steps closer—just enough that you can feel the shift of air between you, just enough that you catch the faint scent of her shampoo, something fresh, something clean, something too close.

“You sure?” she murmurs. “Because it kinda seemed like you were.”

Your teeth clench.

She’s doing it again.

The push and pull. The little tug, just enough to make you stumble, to throw you off balance, to remind you exactly who you’re dealing with.

You exhale slowly through your nose, focus on the screw you’re twisting into place, force your voice to stay neutral. “You seemed fine with it.”

There’s a pause. Just for a beat. Just long enough that you think maybe—maybe—you landed something.

Then—soft, amused—Paige says, “You think that?”

And it’s not fair.

The way she says it, the way it slides under your skin, the way it makes your chest squeeze, makes you feel fucking stupid for believing, even for a second, that maybe she really had forgotten you.

Your fingers tighten around the screwdriver.

She’s playing with you.

And the worst part?

You let her.

You don’t turn. Don’t face her. Don’t give her the satisfaction.

But your voice is quieter when you say, “Why do you even care?”

Another pause.

Then—

“Maybe I don’t.”

Your stomach drops.

It’s so fucking typical. Just when you think she’s giving you something, just when she pulls you an inch closer, she yanks it away.

You clench your jaw, inhale sharply, force yourself to stay still.

And then—because you refuse to let her win this—you huff a soft laugh, shaking your head. “Right. Of course.”

You finish tightening the last screw, closing the panel, standing up. You finally turn to her, tilting your head slightly, forcing something light onto your face, like you’re fine, like she isn’t doing what she always fucking does.

“Well,” you say, slipping the screwdriver back into your bag. “It’s been great catching up, but I have shit to do.”

You move to step past her.

But she shifts, blocking your path.

Not aggressively. Not obviously.

Just enough.

Just enough that you have to stop.

Just enough that you have to look at her.

Paige licks her lips, considering you, and her voice is quieter this time, almost thoughtful. “You don’t like when I do that, do you?”

Your stomach tightens.

You keep your face neutral. “Do what?”

She tilts her head slightly. “Give you something, then take it away.”

You swallow.

Because the fact that she’s saying it out loud—naming it, acknowledging it—makes your chest squeeze so hard it’s almost painful.

You force a shrug. “You do whatever you want, Paige.”

You step around her, adjusting the strap of your bag like the conversation hasn’t just sunk claws into your spine, like you aren’t already burning up from the inside out. You throw one last casual glance over your shoulder, just to make a point, just to show her this doesn’t fucking matter.

And then—

“Is he your boyfriend?”

It’s smooth, deliberate, cutting through the silence with the ease of a well-placed knife.

Your body goes rigid.

Not enough to be noticeable. Not enough to give her the satisfaction. But she notices.

You school your face into something neutral before turning back to her. “Yeah.”

The second the word leaves your mouth, Paige scoffs. Then—slow, quiet, like she’s really thinking about it—she laughs.

It’s not loud. It’s not obvious. But it hits.

It slides under your skin, needles into your chest, presses against something raw and unsettled.

You know exactly what she’s laughing at.

Not at Eli, not really.

She’s laughing at you.

At the fact that you’re standing here, pretending like that word doesn’t feel foreign in your mouth, like it doesn’t taste like something you don’t quite believe.

At the fact that you’ve spent months throwing yourself into a version of reality where he is the answer.

At the fact that she knows—she fucking knows—that if he really was, you wouldn’t be here.

Your throat tightens.

You square your shoulders. “Something funny?”

Paige shakes her head, smirk barely there, but sharp. “Nah.” A pause, her gaze flicking over you like she’s amused, like she’s bored. “Just wasn’t expecting that.”

Your fingers curl around the strap of your bag, tight enough to sting.

She tilts her head slightly. “Does he know you’re here?”

You force your jaw not to clench. “Why would it matter?”

Paige hums, the sound lazy, almost dismissive. “It wouldn’t.”

You don’t know why that lands deeper than it should, why it hits like something solid in your chest.

She doesn’t fucking care.

You exhale sharply, roll your shoulders, force yourself to act like you don’t feel like she just pressed a finger right against something bruised inside you.

“Well,” you say, tone light, detached, like this whole conversation hasn’t just put a fucking stone in your stomach, “great catching up.”

And this time, when you walk out—when you force your feet to move, when you push through the door into the cooler hallway air—you don’t look back.

You don’t have to.

Because you can still feel her there.

Still hear the low echo of her laugh.

Still fucking feel her.

And you hate that it still makes your chest tighten.

The locker room door swings shut behind you, but the conversation doesn’t leave with it.

It sticks.

It clings to your skin, coils in your stomach, presses into your ribs like something sharp and unshakable.

You walk down the hallway fast, like you can outrun the weight of her laugh in your ears, like you can erase the way she looked at you when she said that’s your boyfriend?—like the words weren’t just words, like they were something else, something heavier, something soaked in disbelief and mockery.

You should be over her by now.

But then why does your skin still burn? Why does your pulse still hammer against the inside of your wrist? Why does the way she said it—casual, unbothered, like it didn’t even fucking matter—make something in you want to break?

The night stretches out after that, long and restless. You try to study, but you can’t focus. You try to sleep, but every time you close your eyes, she’s there. Her smirk. Her scoff. The way she laughed like you were a joke. Like he was a joke.

You spend the next week avoiding places where you might run into her, avoiding anywhere that makes you feel like a live wire, avoiding thinking about her—

And it works.

Until it doesn’t.

Because the thing about Paige Bueckers is that she has a way of creeping back in, of making herself known, of pulling you back into her orbit whether you want to be there or not.

It happens at another party.

A packed house, music pulsing through the walls, the kind of night where people are drinking like they’re trying to forget something, where everything feels just a little too loud, a little too bright, a little too much.

You’re standing in the kitchen, fingers curled around a red cup, Eli close behind you, talking to someone you don’t know. His hand is warm where it rests on your hip, an absentminded touch, a casual claim.

It’s fine.

You’re fine.

Until you’re not.

Until your eyes flicker past the crowd, past the shifting bodies and pulsing bass, past the open doorway—

And land right on her.

Paige is in the next room, leaning against the wall, head tilted, that lazy, practiced ease draped over her like armor. She’s watching something—someone. A girl. Pretty. Brunette. Standing too close, laughter spilling past glossy lips as she hangs on whatever Paige just said.

Paige isn’t even touching her. Doesn’t need to. Just standing there, looking, smirking, waiting. And the worst part? You know exactly what she’s doing.

Like she could have her if she wanted.

Like it’s not even a fucking question.

Your stomach knots, tight and hot. Not with jealousy—no, it’s worse than that. It’s recognition.

Because you know what it’s like to be on the other side of that look.

You know what it’s like to be wanted by her.

The ghost of it slams into you like a fist to the ribs—how it felt to have those eyes locked on you, sharp and knowing, pinning you down like a game she was already winning. How it felt when she had you right there and she knew it.

Your grip tightens around your cup, fingers digging in like it’s the only thing holding you together. Your breath stutters, the air too thick, the room suddenly too small.

She hasn’t seen you yet.

She’s too caught up in her game, too wrapped up in not caring.

So you do the same.

You force yourself to turn back to Eli, to play your part. You smile, lean into his touch, let him press his lips to your temple like it’s easy, like it’s nothing. Like it means something.

And maybe it works.

Maybe it doesn’t.

Because when you chance another glance—just for a second—

Paige is already looking at you.

And this time—

She smirks.

Slow. Deliberate. Like she’s been waiting for you to look. Like she knows exactly what she’s doing. Like she knows exactly how much space she still takes up in your fucking head.

And that’s when you snap.

You don’t think.

You move.

Your cup clatters onto the counter, liquid sloshing over the rim, but you don’t care. You slip out of Eli’s reach, push through the crowd—away, anywhere, somewhere with air that doesn’t taste like her.

Your pulse is a riot, hammering against your ribs, deafening in your ears as you shove past people pressed against walls, past laughter and voices swallowed by the music, past the tight, choking heat in your chest.

Your hands are shaking. Your breath is uneven. You need a second.

Just one fucking second to breathe—

And then—

A door swings open, and suddenly—

She’s right there.

Paige.

Still smirking.

Still looking like she has all the time in the world.

Still making your stomach feel like it’s caving in on itself.

Your chest rises and falls too fast, heat crawling up your neck, pooling low in your stomach, everywhere.

She leans against the doorway, casual as ever, the light behind her casting long shadows over the sharp angles of her face. She looks obnoxiously good, like she knows exactly how lethal she is.

She tilts her head. “What’s wrong?” she murmurs, voice low, teasing, like she already knows the answer.

And fuck her.

Fuck her for this.

For knowing you this well.

For still knowing you this well.

You shove past her, shoulder knocking against hers, but she moves at the last second, stepping just enough to block you—

And then—her hand.

Fingers curling around your wrist. Not hard. Not pulling. Just there.

You suck in a sharp breath.

She’s not holding you here. Not keeping you against your will.

But she doesn’t let go.

And neither do you.

The air between you crackles, thick, heavy, dangerous. The weight of something unsaid presses into your ribs, clinging to your skin, wrapping around you like a fucking chokehold.

Paige watches you.

And this time—

She doesn’t laugh.

She doesn’t smirk.

She waits.

And maybe—just maybe—

This time, you’re the one who moves first.

The space between you is electric, charged, something twisting tight in your chest like a live wire ready to snap. The hallway is dim, shadows stretching long against the walls, muffling the noise of the party outside, trapping you in this thing you’ve been running from for months.

Paige’s fingers are still around your wrist, not tight, not forcing—just there, anchoring you, keeping you from bolting like you probably should. Her eyes flicker over your face, searching, waiting, and fuck, you hate how easily she does this, how effortlessly she pulls you back into her gravity like you were never gone at all.

Your breath is uneven. Your pulse is pounding in your throat, but your voice is steady when you say, “What game are you playing at?”

She blinks, just once, slow and measured. Then the corner of her mouth curves, something smug, something dangerous. “Don’t you have a boyfriend?”

Your stomach drops, rage curling up into your throat so fast it makes your vision go sharp.

You shove her.

Harder than you should, more than just frustration, more than just anger. It’s months of this—of her pushing, pulling, giving you something and then acting like it never fucking happened. It’s her laugh in the locker room, her smirk at the game, the way she looked at you through the crowd like she was daring you to react, to feel. It’s all of it—the way she still owns you and acts like she doesn’t even care.

Paige stumbles back a step, but her hand never leaves you.

Instead, she grabs your other arm, fingers tight around your biceps, steadying herself, steadying you. Her grip is firm, strong, the heat of her palms burning through your sleeves.

Her smirk is gone.

And when she speaks again, her voice is different. Lower. Rougher.

“I’m not playing at a game.”

Your breath catches.

Because it’s not cocky. It’s not teasing. It’s real.

Her hands flex slightly on your arms, like she’s bracing herself, like she needs you to hear this.

And you do.

It sinks under your skin, gets lodged somewhere between your ribs, breaks something open inside of you that you’ve been trying to keep sealed shut.

Your heart is hammering. Your whole body is buzzing, tight, waiting.

Paige is still holding you.

And she’s so fucking close.

You can feel her breath against your lips, can see the flicker in her eyes, the way her chest is rising and falling just as fast as yours.

You don’t know who moves first.

Maybe it’s her. Maybe it’s you. Maybe it’s both of you at the same fucking time, colliding like you were never meant to be anything but this.

Your mouths crash together, hot and desperate, months of tension unraveling all at once, burning through every nerve in your body.

Paige exhales sharply against you, hands tightening around your arms before sliding up, up, framing your face, pulling you deeper into it, like she’s afraid you might disappear again.

You fist the fabric of her hoodie, dragging her into you, needing her closer, needing more.

Her body presses against yours, her lips insistent, rough, a little reckless, like she’s been waiting for this just as long as you have.

The hallway feels too small, the walls too close, your hands too desperate where they roam—her waist, her shoulders, the sharp edge of her jaw.

Paige groans softly against your mouth, and it wrecks you.

It fucking destroys you.

Because it’s real.

Because she wants this.

Because for the first time, she’s not taking it away.

You don’t stop.

Neither does she.

It’s all heat, all breath, all want. Paige’s mouth is rough, greedy, like she’s making up for every second you’ve spent apart, every time she pretended she didn’t see you, every time she smirked at you like this was just a game. Her hands are everywhere—your waist, your back, gripping the fabric of your shirt like she’d die if she let go.

You’re no better.

Your fingers fist in her hoodie, tugging her closer, dragging her against you, needing her body against yours, needing her to feel what she’s doing to you. The hallway barely exists anymore—the party, the noise, Eli—none of it fucking matters. Just her. Just her mouth, her hands, the way she kisses you like she’s starving for it.

Then, between kisses, between desperate little gasps, she murmurs it.

“I need you, baby.”

It wrecks you.

Fucking destroys you.

The word slips out easy, unthinking, raw. Not teasing, not smug, not calculated. Just real.

Your breath catches.

Paige must feel the way your body reacts, the way your nails dig into her arms, the way your hips press forward into hers, because she groans against your mouth and drags her teeth over your bottom lip.

You’re moving before you can think.

Paige is pushing you, guiding you back, back, until your shoulder blades hit a door, until she’s fumbling with the handle, barely breaking the kiss long enough to shove it open.

The room is dark, empty. Some random spare bedroom, barely furnished, barely even fucking registered because the second the door slams shut, Paige is on you again.

Her hands slide under your shirt, rough palms dragging up your ribs, fingertips pressing hard, desperate. Your breath is uneven, your body thrumming with something electric, something you can’t stop, something you don’t want to stop.

You don’t think.

You don’t need to think.

You just pull her hoodie up over her head, fingers tangling in the fabric for a second before it’s gone, discarded somewhere on the floor. Paige exhales sharply as you press into her, as your mouth moves against her jaw, down her throat, tasting, taking.

Her fingers slip into your hair, tugging just enough to make you feel it, enough to make you moan against her skin.

“Fuck,” she mutters, voice rough, breathless, like she’s unraveling, like you’re doing this to her.

You are.

And she fucking loves it.

Her hands move lower, sliding over your hips, gripping tight, like she’s anchoring herself, like she can’t stop touching you, like she’s making sure you’re real.

You kiss her again, harder, messier, pushing her back until her legs hit the edge of the bed, until you’re both toppling onto it, tangled together, all mouths and hands and heat.

Paige knows she’s winning.

You can see it in her eyes, the slow drag of them over your body, the way she takes her time, drinking in every reaction like she’s cataloging them, memorizing what makes you shiver, what makes you squirm, what makes your breath hitch in your throat.

She still likes the game.

She still likes to play.

But this time, she isn’t letting you pull away.

This time, she’s going to take everything.

Her fingers skim over your stomach, slow, teasing, just enough to make you feel it but not enough to satisfy anything. Her mouth follows, lips pressing soft, lingering kisses down, down, down, like she has all the time in the world.

Your head tilts back against the pillows, eyes fluttering shut, but then she stops.

She stops completely.

The heat of her, the weight of her, everything—just gone.

Your eyes snap open, and she’s just looking at you, smug, comfortable, settled between your legs like she owns this moment, like she knows she has you right where she wants you.

Her fingers trail up your thigh, featherlight, barely there.

“You want this?”

Your stomach clenches.

She knows the answer.

She fucking knows.

You glare at her, shifting under her touch, frustrated, dizzy, so strung out you can barely think. “Paige—”

She smiles. Slow. Wicked.

And then, just as easily, “Say it.”

Your breath shudders out of you.

Because this?

This is her game.

She wants to hear you admit it. She wants to make you admit it.

She wants you to lose.

Your fingers dig into the sheets, your pulse a steady riot in your throat, in your wrists, between your legs where she still hasn’t fucking touched you.

But you can’t play this game forever.

Not when she already owns you.

Not when she already knows.

Your voice is thin when you say it.

“I want you.”

And the second the words leave your mouth—

She moves.

Paige grins, low and satisfied, and then she finally stops playing.

She knows she has you, like she’s been waiting for this moment, dragging it out, savoring every second of watching you come undone beneath her. She doesn’t rush. She doesn’t give you everything all at once. No, she takes her time, letting her fingers trace the curve of your hip, pressing light, teasing kisses down your stomach, exhaling slow like she’s enjoying this, like this is just as much for her as it is for you.

You’re burning alive.

Your breath is uneven, your hands twisting in the sheets, thighs already trembling with the anticipation of her next move. But she doesn’t move—not in the way you need her to.

Instead, she just looks at you.

From between your legs, eyes dark, lips parted, expression unreadable, like she’s still deciding how she wants to do this.

Your stomach clenches.

“Paige—”

She presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh, slow, deliberate, her nails digging in just slightly when she grips your hips, holding you in place.

“Shh, baby,” she murmurs, and fuck, there it is again.

That word.

Casual, unthinking, sliding out of her mouth like she doesn’t even realize she’s saying it. Like she means it.

You shudder.

Paige notices. Of course, she does.

Her smirk curves against your skin, and then—

She finally stops playing.

The first press of her mouth sends a raw, electric jolt through you, your hips jerking up on instinct, fingers clawing into her hair like you’ll die if you let go. But she’s already moving—already fucking dragging this out like she wants you begging, like she’s savoring every second of your desperation. Her tongue flickers, slow and teasing, pressing, stroking, curling, soaking you with her hunger, her need.

She moans against your cunt like she’s been fucking starving for it. Like she’s been waiting, aching, dreaming of this moment for weeks, and now that she’s got you open beneath her, there’s no way she’s letting you go easy.

She drags it out.

Like she wants to ruin you.

Like she wants to tear you apart and put you back together with her tongue.

Your nails scrape against her scalp, hard enough to hurt, but she only groans, only pushes deeper, her tongue slipping, flicking, thrusting into the dripping heat of you. You’re gasping now, thighs trembling, back arching, breath catching in desperate, broken moans you can’t even bite back. You can feel her smirk, the way she’s reveling in it, the way she’s enjoying every single fucking sound you make for her.

Her fingers press in, spreading you, holding you open, her tongue working, her lips sucking, teasing, devouring—like she’s trying to drink every last drop of you. The obscene, wet sounds of her mouth on you make you whimper, make you grind down against her, make you clutch her hair so tight she groans into your slick heat.

Your body is shaking.

Paige tightens her grip, keeps you there, keeps you spread for her, keeps you exactly where she wants you—helpless, ruined, fucking wrecked on her tongue.

And just when you think you can’t take it anymore—just when the pleasure coils so tight in your stomach it’s about to snap—she fucking speeds up.

And you’re gone.

You don’t know if you scream her name. You don’t know if you sob it. But the pleasure detonates inside you like a fucking bomb, ripping through your body, setting every nerve on fire, leaving you shaking, gasping, falling apart beneath her mouth.

When you finally come back down—breathless, wrecked, soaked and still trembling—Paige is looking up at you from between your legs, her lips swollen, her chin glistening, her eyes dark and wicked.

Paige’s brow quirks up and she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, slow and deliberate, her eyes never leaving yours. You’re still gasping, still trembling, your body melted into the mattress, legs spread, thighs twitching from the aftershocks of what she just did to you. But she doesn’t move away. Doesn’t crawl up to lie beside you, doesn’t give you a second to catch your breath.

She licks her lips, smirks, and says, “I’m not done with you.”

And then she’s moving.

Crawling back up onto the bed, her body sliding over yours, her hands gripping your thighs, spreading you wider before she finally lets her weight press down. Her skin is hot, slick, her breath heavy and sweet, her thigh slotting between yours as she pins you there beneath her.

Then she grabs your tits.

No teasing, no hesitation—she palms them, squeezes, kneads, rolling the soft flesh in her hands like she owns you, like she’s claiming every inch of you all over again. Her thumbs flick over your nipples, once, twice, before she leans down and takes one into her mouth.

The heat of her tongue, the wet pull of her lips—it makes you cry out, makes you arch into her, makes your hands fly up to grip her head as she sucks, hard, her teeth scraping just enough to make your whole body jolt.

“Fuck,” you whimper, thighs clenching around her, but she just chuckles against your skin, her mouth latching onto your other nipple, her fingers tweaking and rolling the one she just left wet and swollen.

Then her hand moves up.

She grabs your chin, tilts your face up, and before you can even process it—

She shoves her fingers into your mouth.

Her fingers, still wet from you, slip past your lips, pressing against your tongue, forcing you to taste yourself as she pushes them deeper. Your lips part around them, your tongue curling against the salty-slick heat of her touch, a soft, helpless whimper slipping from your throat.

Paige groans at the sight, eyes dark, lips parted, her fingers flexing inside your mouth before she pulls them out—

And spits.

Right into your mouth.

A hot, wet drop onto your waiting tongue, mixing with your taste, with the slickness she just forced you to swallow.

“Swallow it,” she breathes, her voice thick, rough, her fingers trailing down your throat as you do exactly what she fucking tells you.

And then her hand is between your legs again, fingers slipping through your soaked, throbbing heat, pressing in, pushing deep—

Fucking you all over again.

Paige’s fingers drive deep, knuckles sinking into the wet heat of you, her palm grinding against your swollen clit as you gasp, as you choke on the pleasure, your body arching into her touch like you can’t help it. Like you’re made for this. Made for her.

"Fuck—yeah," she groans, watching you, watching the way your body reacts to her. "You feel that? Feel how fucking good I make you take it?"

Your breath stutters, your hips rolling down against her hand, your mouth falling open, nothing but desperate little whimpers spilling from your lips.

Paige smirks, dark and wicked, pressing in deeper, curling her fingers just right, just enough to have you fucking shaking. "Bet he never got you this wet, huh?" she taunts, her voice thick with heat, with possession. "Bet he never made you moan like this."

Your fingers clutch at her shoulders, nails digging in, your head tilting back against the pillows as she fucks into you, slow but deep, deliberate, like she’s making a point. Like she’s proving something.

"You wanna lie to me?" she murmurs, lips brushing your ear, her breath hot against your skin. "Wanna tell me he’s ever made you come like this? That he’s ever had you dripping down his fingers like a desperate little slut?"

You whimper, shaking your head, unable to speak, unable to do anything but take it.

"That’s what I thought," she breathes, grinning against your throat, her teeth scraping over your pulse before she drags her tongue along your skin. "That little boyfriend of yours wouldn’t know what to do with this pussy if it fucking begged him."

She pulls her fingers out, slow and teasing, leaving you empty, aching—only to shove them back in, hard, deep, her palm slapping against your soaked skin as you sob, as you fucking fall apart.

"He ever make you scream?" she growls, fucking you rougher, faster, her fingers pressing against that spot inside you that makes your whole body jolt. "He ever make you soak the sheets like this?"

Your back bows, pleasure slamming through you, your nails raking down her back.

"You’re fucking mine," Paige groans, her mouth on your jaw, your throat, her tongue tasting the sweat on your skin. "This pussy? It’s mine now. Say it."

You barely manage to breathe out the words—"It’s yours"—before she presses her palm against your clit, her fingers curling just right, and you break.

Pleasure rips through you, white-hot and shattering, your whole body shaking, your vision going hazy as you come, as Paige fucks you through it, as she watches you, revels in it, grins like she just fucking ruined you.

And she did.

She fucking did.

——-

You wake slowly, the kind of slow that doesn’t feel like rest. The kind that feels like being pulled from something deep and heavy, like your body’s been wrung out and put back together all wrong. The sheets are soft, warm, unfamiliar, and there’s a weight draped over your hip—solid, steady, too much. Your breath stutters before your brain even catches up.

Paige.

She’s there.

Heat ghosts against the back of your neck, steady and unhurried, the rhythm of her breathing lulling, like sleep still has a hold on her. Her arm is slung around your waist, fingers curled lazily against your stomach, like she belongs there. Like she’s never left before.

And that—that is what makes your chest tighten.

Because this isn’t just some drunken mistake. This isn’t heat or tension or something you can chalk up to unresolved bullshit. This is her in your space, in your bed, in the quiet after. And she’s never stayed before.

Your pulse kicks up, your fingers twitch against the sheets. Last night slams into you all at once—the scrape of her teeth, the press of her hands, the way she looked at you, like she was done playing. Like she wasn’t giving you a choice anymore.

Your stomach clenches.

You don’t know what to do with this.

With her.

So you move, slow, careful, trying not to wake her as you shift out from under her arm. But the second you pull away, Paige stirs, her breath hitching, her grip tightening for just a fraction of a second before her eyes flutter open.

She blinks at you, still groggy, still soft, and for one, dangerous moment, she doesn’t say anything.

She just looks at you.

And you can’t breathe.

Then, just as quickly as it came, the softness vanishes.

Paige stretches, rolls onto her back, runs a hand through her hair, like she does this all the time, like she’s just woken up from any other night, not this one.

“Morning,” she mutters, voice rough with sleep.

You swallow, force yourself to move, force yourself to sit up and swing your legs off the bed. You don’t look at her.

“Yeah,” you say, clearing your throat. “Morning.”

You feel her watching you.

Feel her waiting.

For what, you don’t know.

But when you stand, reaching for your clothes, Paige finally speaks again.

“You leaving?”

Your fingers curl into the fabric of your shirt.

You could stay. You could let this morning linger, let whatever this is stretch out just a little longer.

But the longer you stay, the harder it’ll be to pretend like this isn’t something.

So you nod, still not looking at her. “Yeah.”

Paige exhales through her nose, shifts behind you, and you expect her to let it go, to brush it off like she always does.

Instead—

“You gonna tell him?”

Your stomach drops.

You don’t need to ask who she means.

Eli.

The name rings in your head like a warning, like something cold and sharp, and you hate that she’s the one who brought it up, that she’s the one forcing you to look at it when you were this close to just leaving without dealing with the weight of it.

You squeeze your eyes shut for half a second before turning to face her.

Paige is propped up on one elbow now, watching you with something unreadable in her expression, like she’s testing you, like she’s seeing if you’ll break first.

You lick your lips, pulse hammering. “That’s none of your business.”

Paige’s lips twitch, and for a second, you think she’s going to let it go.

But then—

She scoffs. Shakes her head. Leans back against the headboard with a lazy, almost bored kind of smirk.

“Right. Forgot you’re still playing house with him.”

Your whole body goes rigid.

She’s doing it again.

Tugging at you, pushing you, seeing what you’ll do.

Your jaw clenches, fingers fisting into the hem of your shirt. “I’m not playing anything.”

Paige hums, unconvinced. “Sure. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

Something inside you snaps.

Because how dare she?

How dare she act like you’re the one playing games when she’s the one who ignored you for three months? When she’s the one who smirked at you across a fucking stadium like she knew she had you? When she’s the one who—

You exhale sharply, shaking your head, forcing yourself to breathe.

This is exactly what she wants.

So you don’t give it to her.

You pull your shirt over your head, reach for your shoes, straighten up.

Then, voice even, you say, “This didn’t mean anything, right?”

It’s a test.

You can see the flicker in her eyes, the quick way her throat bobs as she swallows.

But it’s gone in an instant.

Paige shrugs, casual, careless, like she’s already over it.

“Right,” she echoes. “Just a good time.”

Your chest tightens.

You don’t know what answer you wanted, but that—

That wasn’t it.

You nod once, sharp, then turn for the door.

And this time, you don’t fucking stop.

The door slams behind you, the force of it rattling down your spine, but you don’t stop moving.

You storm down the hallway, your breath sharp, hands curled into fists, every nerve in your body buzzing like a live wire. You don’t let yourself think. Thinking would mean feeling, and you can’t—won’t—give her that.

Not after what she just said.

Not after this didn’t mean anything, right?

Not after she agreed with you.

Just a good time.

That’s all it was. That’s all she wants.

You push through the front door, stepping into the cold air outside, your breath coming fast, too shallow, like you just ran ten miles. You shove your hands into the front pocket of your hoodie, fingers curling against the fabric, trying to ground yourself, trying to—

Your phone rings.

Or at least, you think it’s your phone.

The vibration against your palm jolts you, and you pull it out, ready to decline the call, ready to shut the entire fucking world out.

But then—

You see the name.

Taylor.

Your breath catches.

Your chest tightens.

The cold bites at your skin, but suddenly, it’s like everything else stops.

Because this isn’t your phone.

This isn’t your hoodie.

You look down at yourself, the oversized sleeves, the familiar weight of the fabric, the scent clinging to it—her scent.

Paige’s hoodie.

Paige’s fucking phone.

And Taylor is calling.

Your stomach lurches.

Right back where you started.

The phone keeps ringing, vibrating steadily in your hand, demanding something from you that you can’t give.

You stare at the screen, at the name that shouldn’t be your problem, at the proof of what Paige just walked away from.

And something inside you snaps.

You spin on your heel, shoving back through the front door, retracing your steps, moving fast, fueled by something you don’t even have a name for.

You don’t knock.

You don’t hesitate.

You shove the door open, expecting her to be there, expecting her to still be sitting on that bed with her legs spread and that fucking look on her face, smug and satisfied and untouchable.

But she’s gone.

Just fucking gone.

Like she was never here at all.

The phone stops ringing.

Silence.

You stand there, chest heaving, hoodie too big on you, your fingers still curled around a phone that doesn’t belong to you.

The phone is still warm in your hand.

It shouldn’t matter. It’s just a piece of plastic, just a screen with a name that shouldn’t be your problem. But it is. The weight of it presses against your palm, solid and damning, the name Taylor burned into your retinas, a fucking mockery of everything that just happened.

Paige left.

Vanished like this was nothing, like she didn’t just dig her fingers into you and pull you under, like she didn’t just whisper your name against your skin, like she didn’t just look you in the eye and say just a good time before slipping away like a fucking ghost.

Like she didn’t just ruin you.

And if she thinks she gets to walk away from this untouched—

She’s wrong.

Your feet move before your brain even catches up, before you can think about how reckless this is, before you can stop yourself from doing exactly what she wants. Because you already know where she is.

Where she always is.

The athletic facility is quieter than usual this late at night, the halls dimly lit, silent except for the distant hum of vending machines and the soft squeak of your shoes against the polished floors. But the second you push through the doors to the locker room—

The silence shatters.

Laughter.

Voices overlapping, casual, easy, still thrumming from practice, still buzzing with energy. The kind of normalcy that makes your blood boil, because your world is fucking spinning and yet—

She’s here.

Paige is here.

Leaning against the lockers, towel draped around her neck, a lazy grin curling at her lips as she listens to something one of the girls is saying. Loose. Relaxed. Unbothered.

Like she didn’t just leave you standing in the wreckage she made.

Heat slams into your ribs, a pulse of something violent and ugly crackling under your skin. Your fingers tighten around the phone, nails digging in, breath sharp and unsteady. And before you even fully register what you’re doing—

You move.

The door swings shut behind you with a slam, the force of it cutting through the noise, making heads turn, making conversation die mid-sentence.

Paige doesn’t move.

Doesn’t flinch.

But her shoulders go rigid for half a second before she shifts—casual, calm, fucking unhurried.

Like she already knows it’s you.

Like she felt you coming before she even looked.

And when she finally does—

The smirk is already forming.

Already settling into place like armor. Like a mask. Like she thinks she still has control of this.

But she doesn’t.

You stop in front of her, too close, way too close, enough to make the other girls shift where they stand, enough to make the laughter fully die out, enough to make the air feel thick.

Paige stays leaned against the lockers, pretending, but her eyes flicker over you, sharp and calculating.

Assessing.

Waiting.

So you don’t make her wait long.

You lift the phone, hold it up between you. Let her see it. Let her know why you’re here.

And then—voice low, rough, barely steady under the weight of your fucking anger—

“You think you can just fuck me and play me while your girlfriend still calls?”

The reaction is instant.

The shift in the room is immediate.

Someone swears under their breath. One of the girls lets out a quiet oh, shit. Another shifts awkwardly, eyes darting between you and Paige like they just walked into a fucking war zone.

But you don’t look at any of them.

You only see her.

And Paige—

For the first time, she doesn’t have a comeback.

Her lips part slightly. Her throat bobs as she swallows. Her fingers twitch just slightly around the towel slung over her shoulder.

It’s subtle.

Barely there.

But you see it.

The hesitation.

The way she’s trying to catch up to you, trying to find the right move, trying to figure out how to pull back control.

But there isn’t one.

Because this time, you’re the one leading.

This time, she’s the one who doesn’t know what to say.

The silence stretches, thick and suffocating, pressing into your ribs, into your throat, into her.

Then—slowly—Paige exhales through her nose, shifts against the lockers, expression smoothing into something blank, something unreadable.

She tilts her head slightly, eyes flickering over your face, voice deceptively soft when she says—

“You done?”

Your stomach twists.

Not with pain. Not with embarrassment.

With rage.

Because she isn’t sorry.

She isn’t guilty.

She’s just pissed that you called her out in front of them.

Your grip tightens around the phone, your pulse hammering in your ears, and for a second, you think about throwing it at her.

Then, just as quickly, you step forward—lean in close, so only she can hear—

And whisper, voice like a knife—

“You’re a fucking coward.”

Paige’s jaw locks.

Her whole body tenses.

And that—

That’s how you know you landed a hit.

You hold her gaze a second longer, long enough to make sure she felt it, long enough to see the way her breath catches, the way her fingers twitch, the way she’s fighting to stay still.

Then—

Without waiting for a response—

You shove the phone against her chest.

She catches it automatically, fingers closing around it, but she doesn’t look down.

She just looks at you.

Expression unreadable.

Eyes sharp, dark, burning.

You should look away first.

You should be the one to turn and walk out.

But you don’t.

You hold her gaze.

Daring her.

Challenging her.

Waiting.

For what, you don’t fucking know.

But you can feel it.

Feel something shifting, feel something breaking, feel something coming.

And for the first time—

You think Paige might feel it, too.

But then—

She swallows.

Nods once.

Slips the phone into her pocket like it doesn’t matter.

Then—voice low, smooth, too fucking even—

She says, “See you around.”

Like this was nothing.

Like she didn’t just lose.

Like she’s already planning how to fucking win.

This is war.

[starsinthesky5]

what are they like in public, like in group settings together?

a/n: last one for the night :)

───────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆───────

they’re the couple everyone lowkey watches without even realizing it; magnetic in a quiet, effortless way. they don’t ask for attention, but they draw it anyway, simply by existing in each other’s orbit. they’re not flashy or performative, not wrapped around each other for show, but the closeness between them is undeniable. it lives in the way joe’s hand finds hers beneath the table without looking, fingers threading through hers like second nature. in the way he rests his palm on the small of her back when they move through a crowd—not to guide her, but to let her know he’s there.

it’s the way she glances over when someone corners him into a football conversation, reading the tightness in his jaw immediately, sending him a small, knowing smile that eases his shoulders. the way he leans down to catch her voice when the room gets loud, eyes soft even if she’s just talking about the weather or some new podcast she’s obsessed with.

they always drift back to each other. no matter how many people are around or how spread out the group is, they close the distance in quiet ways—his knee brushing hers under the dinner table, her fingers ghosting along the inside of his wrist when she walks past.

she’ll absentmindedly adjust the collar of his shirt or smooth a curl at the nape of his neck while mid-convo with someone else, like touching him is as natural as breathing. and joe’s never been too showy, but he’s also never held back from loving her out loud. a hand resting on her thigh, his thumb tracing the curves of her rings while she laughs with a friend. a soft “you good, baby?” whispered into her temple when he sees her starting to zone out or shrink back from a too-loud moment. and she never has to answer with words—he reads her better than that.

when she talks, joe listens like it’s gospel. like the rest of the room disappears. he gives her his full attention every single time, even if it’s a story he’s heard a dozen times before—because it’s her telling it. and when he speaks, in that quiet, dry humor of his, she lights up. nudges him with a, “go on, baby, tell them,” like she’s proud of every word that comes out of his mouth. like letting people see that side of him—the silly, shy, smart, observant version—is something sacred. she brings it out of him, and he lets her.

and the way they look at each other? it’s unreal. it’s not flashy, but it’s constant—like they’re always checking back in with one another, even from across the room. like the connection between them is a thread that never goes slack. sometimes she’ll catch him watching her and tilt her head with a smirk, all teasing eyes like, what? and he’ll just smile, slow and soft, cheeks faintly flushed, like nothing. just love you. always love you.

they’re solid. intentional. like they’ve been doing this forever. they take care of each other in every space they share—without fanfare, without needing to talk about it. it’s just who they are. and everyone around them can feel it, that unshakeable thing between them. the kind of love that doesn’t need to be proven, just quietly lived.

[glitteringdust]

Lucanis/Spite pining for Rook

Could be at any part of their romance.

Or at 1 am when that 13th cup of coffee hits

Why did you leave?

Spite's questioning had still not ceased. Lucanis ignored the demon, staring at the slow, orbiting Fade rocks in the distance. Trying to clear his head was hard when a Demon wouldn't shut up about his mistake. He takes a sip of the coffee in his hands, surprised at how cold it had become. A trick of the Fade or had he lost track of time? He had already lost track of what number cup this was, the exhaustion from the day was slowly creeping in. He needed to be in better control.

Rook was right there. You had her.

The infatuation Spite had for Rook had started right away— she was a shiny new toy, something new to play with. Lucanis figured the demon would grow bored of her eventually, but Spite hung on to every one of Rook's words and demanded to speak to her constantly. His attention was on Rook whenever she was in the same room.

He could not blame him, honestly. Rook was delightful to be around, and becoming the best part of his day. She was just… good. Everything felt good when she was there. So when she started flirting with him, he could not help himself. She was so close he could smell that unique scent of her.

Cherries…cinnamon…

He was so close to tasting her, but stopped himself at Spite's remark. He could not do this to her, could not bring her close to him if there was even one chance of hurting her. He was an abomination, a danger.

So he pulled away. He left. Keeping her safe was of utmost priority.

Rook is not afraid of us.

"She should be, Spite." He mutters aloud.

He heads back inside the dining hall, needing to start another pot of coffee if he is going to evade sleep a little longer. As it brews, he finds his mind wandering back to Rook.

What would it have been like? Sweet and intriguing, like he thought? Or would she have been more bold? She was a force of nature given form, after all. His kisses would have been fervent, as he pinned her against the wall. Tucked away in the dimly lit pantry, he would have shown her just how much he thought of her.

Maybe she would have taken his hand, and led him back to her room across the way. They'd risk the chance of being seen but he would not have cared. He can picture it now, the way the light of the main hall would make her curls a captivating navy blue. He should have kissed her…

…

…

He doesn't remember falling asleep, but jolts awake just outside the hallway leading to Rook's room.

"Lucanis?"

She's dressed down into sleep clothes, hair slightly damp as if she'd just bathed. "Is everything alright?"

"Ah, Rook. Yes. I am fine, only on a stroll."

Blue eyes examine him once over, a small frown forming, "You look tired, Lucanis. Why don't you get some rest? I can keep an eye on Spite."

Yes. Do it! Go to Rook.

"I do not wish to trouble you with that. Spite is mine to deal with."

"You can’t just avoid sleep forever. It would be no trouble at all." She looks at him with such softness, he wants to give in.

"I can handle this. Do not worry yourself."

The space between them is a hollow ache, close but not enough. A moment of weakness, Caterina would call it. To be an assassin, you must set aside emotion. To get the job done, there can be no hesitation, no doubt. Love is a weakness. It sets you up to lose.

He did not want to lose her.

He turns, heading out of the main hall and back to his own room. The air of the Fade was stale with each inhale, heavy.

How frustrating you are. She likes us, and you stay away?

"What is it with you? Why do you act as if you know her?" He snaps back.

You know her, so I do too. Rook is good.

It’s the least hostile thing Spite has said to him. The demon really means it. He cares for Rook in his own unconventional way.

He pours another cup of coffee.

[rinnstars]

third’s times the charm!

in which you try to confess three times before rin finally understands your feelings

itoshi rin x reader : mainly just fluff, a bit of angst of readers part, no proofreading + likes n reblogs r rlly appreciate ily <3

rin has always been an enigma, as if hes from another world - an alien like figure on your life yet a constant, like an orbit from another galaxy orbiting around you. slowly, youve grown fond of him and suddenly, its no longer just a friendahip - your heart is pumping weirdly, your palms are sweaty, your throat goes dry the second youre beside him (which is most of the time but hey!) maybe its part of growing up, you tell yourself, but deep down this is the “love” you’ve seen in storybooks, manga, movies. denial is always the first thing, avoiding rin during break times, opting to go with your other class friends. eventually, you fall back to the same routine, beside him for lunch in class, stealing the candies he brought (specially for you, he wants to confess but he doesnt.) and of course with love, the next step should be confession as all fourteen year olds rationalise, and thus began your attempt at rizzing confessing to itoshi rin who has become your star.

#1 —VALENTINE CHOCOLATE?!

as all mangas and love story dictates: a gift during valentine practically screams a love confession, if not already hinted by the hearts clumsily pasted onto the heart-shaped box containing your own hand-made chocolates. of course, it comes with a sort of insecurity - what if he doesnt like it? what if he doesnt see me that way? what if our friendship forever changes? what ifs? yet, you held on tightly to the chocolate, walking into class to rin. until you see your own desk beside his flooded with valentine chocolates addressed to rin himself where all of the sudden, you wished to run away far away, you wished to live just in solitude by the ocean, you wish to pretend to be sick and go back home and cry again and again. its stupid, you think, youre just another person in love, youre nothing special. yet, when rin looks at you with sparkling eyes at your chocolates unlike anyone else, you feel as though youre at the top of the war, youre like diamond amongst the rest, that maybe rin sees you differently.

“is that for me?” if he didnt looked so expectant, so hopeful, you might have just not given it to him, simply from the pile of chocolates (that you hope hell pass to you after valentines, and he does.) on the desks. you nodded, passing it to him with a awkward smile. he doesnt get the hint you think, as he opens it without hesitation to eat one - his usual grimace that melted into a small smile changed into a grin, chewing happily onto the overly sweet chocolate you made. you want to be mad, that youll always be in competition with everyone, but when he smiles like that, youve got no choice but to look at him like hes built the very world for you, like hes your star in the dark, like hes your own galaxy.

its now or never. whats the worst that can happen? - that your friendship is forever broken, that your heart is shattered by his own hands, that youll never ever see him the same way again And he’ll never see you again?! “i.. i like you..!” courage, right, thats what those mangas would call it, but deep down it was just an impulse, as if you were born to say it to him, born to love him, like you were soulmates. he doesnt even blink, replying back with about the worst thing someone can hear when they confess : “i hope so? we’re friends.” with the most deadpan voice that had you question everything. nothing like this happens in those romance mangas - he should have either said yes or no! not an in-between?! this doesnt match up to any calculations, not by your friends, not by romance mangas, not by any youtube videos could have prepared you for that response.

nonetheless, you went home with a plastic bag with all of itoshi’s confession chocolates. thats a win? sort of. but its clear that you need a more straightforward approach to get your romantic intention, NOT platonic intention across.

#2 — CONGRATULATIONAL FLOWERS?!

after long months of cringing at the first failure attempt at confessing, and long days of rereading cheesy love mangas to gather ideas, it was finally time for round 2. this time not because of simply encouragement, but from the bursting butterflies in your heart. ever since that, your lovesickness have only gotten worst - if hanahaki was real, no doubt flowers would be pouring out of your lungs from the amount of love that has grown roots into your heart. every moment felt like straight from a k-drama through rose tinted lenses, every action of his felt like a confession, every second with him felt like heaven. and enough was this barrier called embarrassment, fear, cowardice to stop you from pursuing. another year had passed and now each second is like diamond - counting down every second to when lunch starts, to a free period, to after school, to after club - anytime where you can maybe, just maybe spot rin even if he ocassionally runs off for football training that had only lasted longer until the sun sets after the argument with his brother.

deep down, even though youve never met sae, you wished you did just to punch him - for now rin has only grown more distant, whilst your feelings had grown more deeper. like oil and water, you no longer merge together as one, and perhaps this is the last chance to confess before he eventually disappears. growing up is hard, but maybe losing him would be the scariest and hardest part. yet, here you are, still attending all his football matches, waiting for him in the air-conditioned library until the clock ticks to when the school gates closes to find him, waiting for him to come back to you.

flowers. longing and yearning - cameilia and carnation replied back all those cliche love mangas. and so, you saved up for weeks just to buy an overly expensive bouquet - one that seemed out of place with your bags or rin’s everexpanding confession gifts. would it be a rejection, a success? a repeat of the previous year, another retry of last year’s failed confession, just that this time he might just get the idea? hiding the flowers in a separate bag, because certainly this could count as romantic, and youd rather do away with gossips or talks. yet of course, fate strikes again.

“thanks..? its alright to not get gifts for my football matches win though, its nothing major anyways.” and suddenly you take it back. you rather he just thanked you for it platonically. in what world do friends get romantic flowers with ribbons and all sort of decorations for a simple congratulations for a no-name match?! perhaps you two were never meant to be, and this had to be a sign from the gods or something, you concluded. you blinked and laughed it off, your mind spinning with all sort of thoughts - was this his way of rejecting you?! was he truly this clueless or is he trying to let me down?! suddenly all the fantasies and daydreams had fallen flat - this is real life. there is no true school romance, that rhese are feelings left better unsaid as your parents and adults in your life say. teenage love never last, they say - but in this case, they dont work, or at least for you. maybe, your teenage life would be the same mundane, boring ones - filled with just waiting for rin, doing homework, talking with friends, one that is filled with love and normalacy but never the exciting and romantic films you see on tv.

and maybe, just maybe, youve given up on pursuing itoshi rin romantically for the time being. but thats alright, as long as you were friends, youd stay together forever right?

#3 — CONFESSION FOR YOU UNSAID?!

youve lived the rest of your mundane life, completing routines after routines as if its a time loop. maybe, that failure had affected you, brushing off datdreams quickly. growing up meant to be logical, to not blush like a teenage kid, to not linger on hopeless love and dreams - you tell yourself. and rin is still here, like the sun to the earth, always orbiting around you. as long as the world continues to hold you two together as though connected by red strings, itd be alright.

yet, it stings when he tells you about blue lock. its evil, its bitter, its jealousy, its anger that pumps through your very veins. just as rin and you were falling back to back then, where you guys were connected by the hips, to when you had first been enchanted by his star-like eyes. you want to blame the world, the universe for being so cruel. you want to lock yourself, trap yourself in your room, throwing away the key. yet, theres only limited days with itoshi rin, and youd rather die than not be with him until the very end. even if its to the end of your friendship, your dream, your life with you and him together. whether that is to bring him to old arcades where tou two once played, bring him to the old now run-down convenience store where you and him went after school to get lunch, bring him to the mall to take your final photos and lucky charms with him. each moment now even more precipus than previous ones - and suddenly you understand the saying ‘distance makes the heart grow fonder’. its love. you know its love, you knew since you were 14 when you gave him the chocolates, you knew since you were 15 when yoi presented him a bouquet, and you know now that youre 16 about to send him off to another world you can never reach.

its selfish when you blurt it out as he was half-way out of your door after your last sleepover. its out of desperation, out of feelings youve kept hidden in an bottle that is now exploding. its impulsive, its unconscious - the way youve just confessed to him that you loved him. “i love you” theres no way to misinterpret that. maybe he’ll tell you theres bo need to be sentimental, that hell be back (you were convinced he wouldnt.), that its cringe. yet, its silence that fills the room and all you wished to do was to run back to your room, to cry into the pillows, to read all those hopeful love mangas.

“.. i hope you meant it.. i love you too.” its anticlimatic, theres no dramatic scene of profession of love the way mangas portray it, yet you think that theres nothing more than you need. its the most itoshi rin (though youve never thought hed ever say love in a context outside of horror movies and games) and yet, its the words that you longed and yearned for for years by now, its the dream youve been daydreaming in class and in bed, its the life yoive envisioned as you look at him from the stands. and perhaps the world has finally answered your prayers, your musings, your complaints.

third’s the charm they say - and you for once agree with those stupid sayings because on your third attempt of confession did you finally get to be with itoshi rin.

[airybcby]

જ⁀♡⊹｡° stranger, that's all i see

( sae itoshi x fem! reader )

♡ a/n — the 7th ( and last ) part to my seven petals, all poison series! ( masterlist )

♡ word count — 1.8k

♡ content — sae itoshi x fem! reader , sae and reader are 30-31 ish , established relationship ( married ), divorce hinted at ( and said toward the end ), one sided relationship, sae falling out of love with reader, harsh sae, tbh idk what else to add :), not proofread!

♡ synopsis — Ten years ago, you fell in love with a rising star in Spain. A whirlwind romance, a quiet wedding, a promise of forever. But forever is starting to feel like a one-sided vow. Sae Itoshi still wears his ring—but the space beside you in bed stays cold. And love, as it turns out, doesn’t survive on silence.

── .✦ when i look into your eyes, a soulmate who wasn't meant to be

You used to think silence was romantic.

In the beginning, there was something beautiful about sitting next to him in a café with nothing to say, yet feeling everything. Fingers lightly brushing over ceramic coffee mugs, eyes meeting across the table, your knee barely grazing his under the small table. 

You always thought he was a storm kept still just for you. Even his quiet held weight, meaning.

But now?

Silence is a weight you carry alone.

You stare at the seat across from you—his seat. Your fork scrapes across porcelain as you push asparagus and roasted chicken around your plate, untouched. 

Another dinner alone. 

Another meal you plated with too much hope. 

You still try, out of habit. 

You’ve been trying for ten years.

Your eyes flick to the digital clock on the oven.

9:47 PM.

You used to wait.

Now, you just clean up.

You met him in Madrid, fresh out of university, wide-eyed and brilliant with a pen. 

You were a translator at first, then a sideline reporter, and then a full-on broadcaster with glowing reviews. Your Spanish lilted and playful, your insight sharp. 

You caught his eye with the way you didn’t flinch at his silence. How you challenged him, even when others backed away.

Sae Itoshi was the prodigy.

You were just...you.

He said he liked your honesty. You liked his contradictions. He was all ice, but when he touched you, he burned.

You dated for a year. Engaged the next. Married the one after that. It was fast, but it made sense. You were both dreamers in your own ways. He had a career that stole him from the world. You had a world you were willing to shrink, just to stay in his orbit.

At twenty-four, you thought love was enough.

You’ve grown into a different version of yourself—your thirties are here. Your friends are planning holidays with their kids, attending parent-teacher nights, adopting dogs they name after old musicians.

You show up to everything alone.

“Oh, where’s Sae?”

You used to smile and say, “Training.”

Now, you sip your drink and shrug. “You know him.”

Because you do know him. Or at least, you did.

But that version of him—the boy who kissed you in your rain-wet hallway after a win, the man who promised you Venice and three kids and a house with a garden—is gone. 

Or maybe he never existed outside the breathless version of him you imagined in your twenties.

When the season ends, he’s home more. Kind of. You wake up to the sound of him showering. You hear him shuffle around the kitchen, pouring cereal, never coffee. He leaves the bowls in the sink.

He doesn’t ask how you are. He doesn’t notice the way your hand lingers on the fridge, or how your eyes are always just a little too glassy.

It’s not cruel. It’s just...empty. And that hurts more.

The house is quiet—too quiet for something so big. The kind of silence that fills your chest like smoke and refuses to leave.

You stand in the living room with your arms crossed, staring up at the one thing in this house that still feels alive.

A portrait.

Large and centered above the fireplace, preserved like a shrine: your wedding photo.

You don’t even know how long you’ve been standing there, just looking at it. But time doesn’t matter. Not in this house. Not anymore.

You, in that dress you spent weeks hunting for—a soft ivory with a dramatic, low back and a train that shimmered every time you moved. You remember how the lace felt under your fingertips. How your cheeks hurt from smiling too much. How your mother cried when she buttoned you in.

And Sae—

Sae looked at you like you were the only real thing in the world. His hand was at your waist, his mouth pressed against your temple, and the corner of his lips lifted just slightly in a way no one else ever saw.

You remember everything. The flowers you picked out together. The laughter that rang through the courtyard when your uncle accidentally tripped on the runner. The music—God, the music—you two danced to that soft jazz track he liked. He didn’t even want a first dance until he saw how badly you did.

Your fingers tremble as they drift to the ring on your hand.

You twist it, slowly.

You remember the way his thumb brushed over your knuckles when he slid it on. “You sure about this?” he asked, and you’d smiled, breathless. “Always.”

That girl is a ghost now. Her voice lives only in your memories.

You feel your throat tighten.

Then— A voice, sharp and cold, cuts through the haze:

“What are you staring at?”

You jump, heart in your throat.

Sae stands at the doorway, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder. He’s home earlier than usual. His hair still wet from a shower, his jersey only half-tucked into black sweats. 

He looks tired. He always does now. 

And the worst part is—he doesn’t even try to look at you.

You swallow the lump forming. “Oh. Just our… our picture.”

You smile, soft and nostalgic, still twisting the ring like a habit you can’t break.

“Oh.”

He looks up at it.

His expression doesn’t change. Blank. Like the photo means nothing.

“We need to take that down.”

He says it like he’s mentioning the weather. Like he’s telling you the laundry’s done. Then he walks off into the kitchen, door swinging behind him.

That’s it. The first conversation you’ve had in weeks.

Just seven words. And not one of them about you.

You stay there for a while longer, staring at the photo. At the girl who thought promises meant permanence. At the man who once looked at her like she hung the moon.

You fight for the first time in weeks one morning, over something stupid.

“You said we’d go visit my parents,” you remind him. “They’ve been asking.”

“I have meetings,” he replies, not even looking up from his phone. “You can go.”

“I don’t want to go alone, Sae.”

He finally looks up, brow slightly knit. “Why not?”

You nearly laugh. It’s not funny, but it is—it’s hilarious how little he sees you these days.

“Do you ever want to do anything with me?” Your voice wobbles.

“What kind of question is that?”

You blink. “An honest one.”

He sighs and rubs the bridge of his nose. “You’re being dramatic.”

There it is.

The sentence that breaks you. Not because it’s harsh. But because it’s indifferent.

You leave the room before he sees your tears.

You have the conversation one night in bed. 

You can’t sleep, and his breathing is slow beside you, too far on the edge of the mattress.

“You know I wanted a family,” you whisper into the dark.

He’s silent for so long, you think he’s asleep. Then—

“I never asked you to stay.”

It’s a knife without sharpness. A dull blade. And somehow, that makes it worse.

Your breath hitches. “Is that what I’ve been doing? Staying?”

He doesn’t answer.

Because he knows.

And so do you.

The day you leave, he doesn’t fight. Not really. 

He just watches you pack a small suitcase. You leave the rest. You leave the house. 

You leave the life you waited too long for.

But before you walk out the door, you turn to him. He stands in the doorway, arms crossed, still wearing the shirt you folded for him yesterday.

“I loved you so much, Sae.”

He looks at you like he almost believes you didn’t. “You still do.”

You nod. “Yeah. And that’s the saddest part.”

It’s raining when you step into the cab. Of course it is.

But for the first time in years, the silence inside you starts to sound like peace.

Not absence.

Just...quiet.

The apartment you live in now is smaller. There’s no grand foyer. No marble countertops or a view of the city skyline through floor-to-ceiling windows. Just one bedroom, a couch you picked out by yourself, and a kitchen with mismatched plates and mugs.

It’s quiet here, too.

But not the kind of quiet that swallows you whole.

This one... this quiet lets you breathe.

Still, some mornings are harder than others.

You’re sitting at your kitchen table, the rim of your coffee cup pressed to your lips but untouched. 

Your phone buzzes, face-down on the wood. You ignore it. 

You’ve gotten good at that. Letting people reach for you without having to reach back.

But something nags at you. So you flip the phone over.

A headline lights up the screen.

“Sae Itoshi: Better and Better, Even After Divorce.”

At 32, Japan’s prodigal midfielder is aging like fine wine—and nothing seems to slow him down.

Your stomach drops before you can stop it.

The article auto-loads, as if your phone already knew you’d read it.

There’s a photo. He’s on the field in a sharp navy kit. His hair longer than you remember. Still unreadable. Still beautiful in that cold, impossible way.

You skim, even when you don’t want to:

“After a decade at the top, Itoshi continues to impress. His stats have only improved, his stamina unshakable. When asked about his divorce that happened a year ago, the midfielder declined to comment, simply stating, ‘My focus is football.’”

Of course it is.

You set the phone down slowly.

He’s still shining. Maybe brighter than before. And not a single thing has changed.

No stumble. No pause. Just a chapter closed, and a new one opened without you.

You, though?

You left with nothing but your name.

No shared bank accounts. 

No alimony. 

No custody battles—there was nothing to fight over. 

Not even a goldfish to argue about.

You walked away with your clothes, your pride, and a ring in the bottom of a drawer.

And somehow, you’re the one mourning.

Not the man he is now. You don’t even know him.

You mourn the boy who whispered “I love you” in a chapel under Spanish stars.

The man who once kissed your hand like it was sacred.

The version of him who looked at you like you were the only thing he’d ever wanted.

Not the stranger who took his place.

And still—

Still, when it rains, you think of him.

Still, when you cook too much food, you instinctively plate two servings.

Still, when the crowd cheers on your TV and they zoom in on him—jaw tight, eyes ruthless, chest rising beneath that number ten—you feel something tug deep in your ribs.

You press the phone face-down again, like it’ll help the ache go away.

The coffee’s cold now, but you drink it anyway.

Because you’re still learning how to live without someone who’s very much alive.

Because some love doesn’t die with divorce.

It just turns into something you have to shove down til it disappears.

ohhh sae you stupid, stupid man

well, that's the end of this series!! I hope you all enjoyed it!

likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated!!

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⋆.˚✮ 2025 ©airybcby ✮˚.⋆

[solarmorrigan]

It’s Eddie’s own fault, really, that things turned out this way (he says, as if he’s in any way displeased with the outcome).

It’s just that once they’d started dating, once Steve had realized that his touch was invited and welcomed, he’d become so open with his affection, whenever and wherever he could be.

He holds Eddie’s hand, he hugs him “hello,” he kisses him “goodbye” (and, frankly, any other time he thinks he can get away with it), he’s always pulling Eddie up close to him when they sit (or pulling Eddie right into his lap, or, once he’s been assured that he’s not that heavy, sitting himself on Eddie’s lap), he’s forever orbiting in Eddie’s space, and Eddie is living for it.

He’s never had anyone love him so openly before, so proudly. It’s fucking marvelous.

Naturally, Eddie starts looking for ways to return the favor; little ways to let Steve know that he’s just as loved.

And it starts with his car keys.

He asks Steve to grab them for him because they’re still on the counter and Eddie’s already halfway out the door. When Steve hands them over, Eddie makes sure to take a moment to lean in and peck him on the cheek with a quick, “Thanks, babe.”

And after catching the pleased, pink flush that spreads over Steve’s cheeks at that, there’s no way Eddie isn’t going to do it again.

After Steve brings him a beer the next time they’re watching a movie together, Eddie gives him a quick kiss on the cheek and tells him, “Thanks, angel.”

After Steve pays for dinner on date night (they take turns, no complaints, no skipping, no matter how much one or the other might argue I can get it this time), Eddie takes a furtive glance around the empty restaurant parking lot before pressing his lips to Steve’s cheek with a quiet, “Thank you, baby.”

After Steve brings him the towel he’d left inside the next time the kids are over to use the pool, he gets a big kiss on the cheek and a saccharine, “Thank you, sweetheart” (at which most of the kids groan and boo about PDA, which results in Eddie flipping them off while Steve kisses him full on the mouth, because they are mature adults).

If Eddie had stopped to think about it, he might have recognized it as a sort of (benign!) conditioning. He doesn’t actually stop to think about it, however, until one afternoon when Steve brings him lunch while he’s working on a campaign.

“Thanks, Steve,” Eddie mumbles, barely glancing up from his notebook.

It takes him almost a full minute to realize that Steve hasn’t moved – and only then because Steve pointedly clears his throat.

Pulled from his plotting stupor, Eddie blinks up at Steve, who is staring right back at him. “What?”

“Forgetting something?” Steve asks, glancing down at the sandwich and chips he’d brought in.

Eddie frowns, thinking back. “I said thank you.”

Steve raises his brows, clearly unimpressed that Eddie is still missing some kind of point, and then he tilts his head just slightly up and to the left, baring the side of his face.

Eddie stares, uncomprehending, for moment longer before– “Oh, shit, right!”

He pops up out of his chair and presses a kiss to Steve’s cheek, then another, and another, until Steve’s smiling at him and trying not to laugh.

“Sorry, darlin’,” Eddie murmurs against his skin. “Won’t happen again.”

“Better not,” Steve chides, but from the way his arms wind over Eddie’s shoulders, pulling him closer as he turns his head to catch him in a proper kiss, Eddie can tell that he’s far from displeased.

[Prompt: Cheek kisses]

[seongwars]

strangers by nature | ix

Pairing: heir!Song Mingi x heir!Reader AU: non-idol | arranged marriage | enemies to lovers Genre: angst, humor, fluff in future chapters Rating: NC-17 Summary: After a life-altering car accident, Mingi is given one final shot at redemption—reborn as a fuzzy little puppy. To earn a second chance at life, he must complete three tasks or risk being doomed to the afterlife forever. Word Count: 7.9K Warnings: lazy SMUT (18+) unprotected p in v, oral snu snu, chapter is only half proofread because this was a beast to write, fluff

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Mingi watched you from the corner of his eye as you flitted around, getting ready for Kira’s wedding dress appointment. He was leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest, but there was a softness in his gaze, a lazy smile playing at his lips. 

He found himself mesmerized as you focused on doing your hair, your fingers deftly working through the strands and twisting them into a clip. It was a routine he had seen dozens of times before, yet there was something about watching you now that made him pause and take in every detail. The way you smoothed down a stray lock, tilting your head slightly to check your reflection. The way your lips pursed ever so slightly as you concentrated.

The past few months had been a slow dance, a series of tentative steps as the two of you fell into a routine with one another. As Mingi grew stronger in his recovery, he found new ways to make himself present through small gestures.

Each morning, you’d find two cups of coffee waiting on the counter, one just how you liked it—black, with only the faintest dash of cream that he had memorized from all the visits to the coffee shop when he was still your puppy. 

And then there were his little games. You knew by now that he had started placing things on higher shelves just to watch you struggle, giddy with excitement whenever you huffed in frustration. Eventually, you’d give in and like clockwork, he’d appear at your side.

But you weren’t entirely innocent, either. Old habits were hard to break, and more than once, you found yourself moving before thinking, like grabbing things for him as if he still needed help. Just the other day, when he bent down to pick up a spoon he had dropped, he found you already reaching for it.

“Where is my phone?” you mumbled, rifling through your bag before uselessly patting the nonexistent pockets on your dress.

“Looking for this?”

You turned just in time to see Mingi leaning against the doorframe, holding the device.

“You just let me struggle, didn’t you?”

“Maybe,” he admitted, tilting his head.  

You huffed, snatching the phone from his hand, but there was no real bite to it. Despite the way the two of you kept orbiting around each other, the rhythm you had found had started to feel natural. Like something you could get used to. 

Like something that was becoming yours.

You rolled your eyes, but your heart betrayed you with a small, traitorous flip at the way he was looking at you. Clearing your throat, you forced yourself to focus, tucking your phone safely into your bag this time so you wouldn’t misplace it again.

“I should be back in a couple of hours,” you said, adjusting your sweater. “Don’t work too hard, okay?”

Mingi’s smile softened as he grabbed his own jacket. “I won’t. But—” He hesitated for a split second before stuffing his hands into his pockets. 

“There’s a new place that just opened up. Thought we could check it out together.”

Your fingers stilled over the zipper of your bag. The question was casual enough, but there was an underlying hopefulness in his voice that sent a flutter through your stomach.

Was he…asking you out on a date?

The thought almost made you laugh—not because it was ridiculous, but because before the accident, Mingi never bothered with invitations, never went out of his way to make plans—at least, not with you. That was just how things were. Mingi had his own world, his own circle of friends, and while you were in it, you had never really been part of it. Not in the way that mattered.

And now here he was—standing in front of you, asking. Waiting.

Maybe it was the accident, maybe it was time, but something had shifted. You could see it—Mingi was trying. He knew your coffee order by heart, found little excuses to keep you close, and was now making plans meant just for the two of you.

“W-What kind of place?”

“It’s a diner. You know, milkshakes, burgers, all that good stuff.”

You hummed, pretending to consider it, though your heart was already set on saying yes. “Yeah… I’d like that. Text me the address, I'll see you for dinner?”

As you walked out, you swore you heard him let out the happiest little exhale, like you had just made his entire day. Mingi sighed as the door clicked shut behind you, running a hand through his hair before grinning to himself. 

You couldn’t help but bite back your own smile as you rode the lift down to the parking garage, your heart still light from Mingi’s invitation. The thought of him waiting for your answer, of the little breath of relief he’d let out when you said yes—it left a warmth lingering in your chest. Maybe things really were changing between you two. 

Maybe this was the start of something new.

“How adorable,” Mrs. Ha sighed.

Mingi nearly jumped out of his skin, spinning around so fast he nearly knocked into the console table. “What the—how long have you been standing there?”

Yohan took a leisurely sip of his tea. “Long enough.”

Mingi’s ears went bright red. “It’s not—she’s just—ugh!” He dragged a hand down his face. “Shouldn’t you both be, I don’t know, working?”

Mrs. Ha waved a hand. “There’s no need to cook tonight since you’re taking her out on a date. Honestly, this is much more entertaining.”

“Plants are watered,” Yohan added. “Also, I’m rooting for you.”

Mingi blinked, caught off guard. He never thought the staff his family hired would be on his side, not after the way he’d treated them in the past. But having people in his corner, people who actually wanted to see him happy, felt unexpectedly nice. 

“Well… I’m off. I’ll see you both later,” he cleared his throat, attempting a smooth exit.

Except the moment he turned, Mrs. Ha clicked her tongue. “Shoes, dear.”

Mingi froze mid-step, looking down at his very much bare feet.

“Right. Shoes.”

“And keys?” Yohan called out as he attempted to shuffle back toward the door.

Mingi let out a long-suffering sigh, snatching them from the hook along with his work bag. Mrs. Ha and Yohan simply watched as he finally made his exit—after nearly walking into the doorframe on his way out.

A beat of silence passed before Mrs. Ha let out a pleased hum, stirring her tea.

“I must say there’s definitely something there that wasn’t there before.”

⋆

“It’s the return of the king,” Yunho cheered as he sauntered into Mingi’s office, a wide grin on his face. Mingi looked up from his desk just in time to see Yunho plop into the chair across from him, stretching out his legs like he owned the place. 

“And here I was thinking you’d be a little more solemn, considering everything I’ve been through,” Mingi teased, a smirk tugging at his lips.

Yunho let out a scoff, feigning offense. “I was sad in my own way, you know. But I didn’t want to take the spotlight away from your adoring wife.” He wiggled his eyebrows, clearly enjoying himself.

Mingi rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t ignore the warmth spreading in his chest at the mere mention of you.

He had known—of course, he had. No one else realized he had been aware the whole time, locked in his own body while everyone around him worried and grieved. They didn’t know that while they saw a man unconscious in a hospital bed, he had been right there, curled up in his small, furry form in your arms.  

He wanted to tell you then that he heard you, that he was still there. But now, he could tell you in the only way that mattered—by being here, awake and alive.

“I know,” Mingi finally said, his voice softer. “And I’m grateful.”

Yunho studied him for a moment longer before nodding. He hated thinking about it, hated remembering the way Mingi used to look at you. Yunho would think that Maybe you should just leave. Not because you deserved to be abandoned, but because you deserved better than the mess you had been caught in.

Yunho felt guilty for never stepping in. Never stopping Mingi from making his mistakes or curbing Ahri’s cruelty. He had told himself it wasn’t his place, that Mingi would realize on his own what he was losing. 

But you?

You had stood firm, fighting in your own way. Never demanding more than what was fair, never retaliating even when you had every reason to. You had been kind when others wouldn’t have, and Yunho knew now that mistaking your kindness for weakness had been a grave mistake.

Because you weren’t weak. 

You weren’t someone to be manipulated or walked over, no matter how often people mistook your compassion for passivity.

When Mingi finally let Ahri go, desperate to undo the damage he had caused, Yunho had felt nothing but relief. Relief because he knew Mingi was better off without her.

Now, watching Mingi sit there, lost in thoughts of you and only you, Yunho exhaled, letting the last of his guilt finally settle.

“So?” he pressed, leaning forward with his elbows on the desk. “How’s it feel to be back? You settling in okay?”

Mingi exhaled, nodding. “Yeah, just catching up on everything after working from home the last couple of months.”

“Are you going to come in early like you used to or show up three hours late? It’s practically noon.”

Mingi shrugged. “Decided to sleep in a little. Plus, Y/N misplaced her phone, so I had to help her look for it.” He leaned back in his chair. 

“She’s with Kira today, doing wedding dress fittings, being a part of the wedding party and all.”

The words sat heavy in his chest. He had never asked you how you felt about your own wedding. Never once considered what it must have been like to be forced into a marriage you hadn’t wanted, to sign away your future with no say in it.

There had been no dress. No ceremony. No reception filled with laughter and music. Just the scratch of a pen on paper, the cold finality of a contract binding you to him, not in love, but in obligation.

And now, you were sitting in a boutique, watching your friend—your soon-to-be cousin-in-law—try on gowns, helping her pick the dress she’d wear to marry the man who adored her, who wanted to give her the world.

Mingi glanced down at his wedding band, guilt creeping in. Maybe he had been too caught up in his own resentment, too blinded by his bitterness, to think about what you might have wanted.

But now? Now, it ate at him in ways he couldn’t ignore.

Because if he could go back—if he could fix it—he would.

“Well, that’s my cue to leave,” Yunho said suddenly, stretching as he stood. His gaze flickered between Mr. Song, who was standing just outside Mingi’s office, and Mingi himself before landing back on his best friend.

“I’ll catch you later, yeah?”

Mingi gave him a brief nod, watching as his friend paused just long enough to offer Mr. Song a respectful bow before slipping out the door.

The moment it clicked shut, the office felt heavier.

Mingi looked up from his desk, bowing. “Mr. President.”

His father stepped further inside, his sharp gaze sweeping over him with quiet assessment. “How are you settling back in?” he asked, his tone measured. “It’s been a few months since the accident—I assume you’re not overexerting yourself.”

Mingi straightened slightly, resisting the urge to glance at the clock. “I’m fine,” he said evenly. “Just catching up on everything I missed.”

His father gave a short hum, considering the response before moving on. 

“Good. I reviewed the third-quarter projections. The numbers from the overseas branches are steady, but with the merger, we should reevaluate our expansion strategy. Our companies together have more leverage, and I want to solidify our presence in—”

Mingi nodded absently, but he barely heard a word. Expansion strategies. Projections. Markets. None of it even registered.

Because all he could think about was you.

His mind wandered. First to the way you might look in a wedding dress, then to something simpler. Dinner. Just burgers and fries, maybe a milkshake if he played his cards right.

“Mingi?”

His father’s voice snapped him back to reality.

He blinked, realizing belatedly that he had been completely zoned out. “Right,” he cleared his throat, nodding as if he had been listening the whole time. “That makes sense.”

Mr. Song gave him a pointed look, clearly unconvinced but unwilling to press the issue. Instead, he exhaled, adjusting his cufflink. 

“Give some thought to the expansion project. And don’t forget the gala this weekend.”

His father lingered a second longer, as if debating whether to say more, but ultimately let it go. With a curt nod, he turned and exited, the door clicking shut behind him.

The second he was gone, Mingi exhaled slowly, dragging a hand down his face.

Meetings, expansions, galas—it all felt so distant. So irrelevant. Because no matter how hard he tried to focus, his mind kept drifting back to you.

He glanced at the clock. Still too early to leave.

But that didn’t stop him from counting down the minutes anyway.

“Sorry I’m late!” Jiwoo exclaimed, barreling through the boutique doors. She looked like she had just sprinted across town, her blazer slightly askew, hair tousled from what was probably a mad dash from the office. 

“This client was insistent on going over every single stipulation in their contract for selling their place in France. Absolute nightmare.” She waved a dismissive hand before scanning the room. “Also, what dress are we on?”

“Dress number six,” you supplied, watching as she flopped onto the plush couch beside you, still slightly breathless. “France?” you echoed, quirking a brow in curiosity.

Jiwoo huffed, running a hand through her messy hair. “Yeah. The guy’s a real piece of work—super picky, way too many demands.” She rolled her eyes, then suddenly shot you a sly grin. 

“But the place itself? Absolutely adorable.” She nudged you playfully. “You interested?”

You traced the rim of the champagne glass in front of you. It felt like déjà vu—Jiwoo excitedly finding some picturesque castle or countryside escape for you, convinced it was the perfect getaway, and you? You’d sit on the idea, never bringing it up again. Always dreaming, never doing.

“I’ll think about it,” you murmured, already knowing how this would go.

“Okay, but listen,” she said, shifting to face you, eyes gleaming with enthusiasm. 

“This is everything you could dream of and more! You could run away and start a hobby farm—oh! There’s enough room for some cows, and you can also raise sheep!”

“Why do you always want me to raise livestock?”

“Because it’s cute!” she insisted. 

“And you need some peace in your life after all the shit you’ve gone through the last couple of months. You know, animals are said to help lower your cortisol levels.”

You hummed thoughtfully, imagining a life like that. A quiet, simple existence away from the noise and expectations, surrounded by nothing but fields and the soothing sounds of nature. The idea of it was tempting. 

A life where you could just breathe. 

“How do I look?”

You turned to face Kira, momentarily caught off guard by the sight of her in her sixth wedding dress. It was stunning—ivory lace and delicate beadwork that shimmered as she moved. The mermaid gown clung to her figure in all the right ways, as if it was made for her.

For a moment, you forgot where you were, your mind wandering to what it could be like to stand in a dress of your own. The thought was fleeting but real—what if? What if you had your own ceremony, your own dress, your own celebration of love?

But just as quickly as the thought entered your mind, you pushed it back down. That wasn’t your reality. You couldn’t let yourself dwell on it. Instead, you smiled at Kira, trying to shake off the stray thoughts. 

“You look amazing! How do you feel?”

“It’s…I don’t know, I don’t think I'd be able to get down on the floor with it. I have to be able to dance.” She turned back to face the sales associate. 

“Let’s try something with more wiggle room.”

Your phone buzzed in your lap, pulling you out of your thoughts. You blinked, the remnants of your wistful daydream dissolving as you glanced down at the screen.

[Mingi]: Bluebird Diner, 1024 Wonderland Boulevard.

[Mingi]: Do you want to see the plant Yohan brought? I asked for something easy to care for.

You let out a soft chuckle, shaking your head at the randomness of his texts. The first was straightforward—just a time and place. But the second? That was different. It was almost…domestic. 

Before you could respond, Jiwoo zeroed in on your expression.

“Mingi?” she guessed with intrigue. 

You locked your phone, forcing a casual shrug. “Don’t husbands and wives text all the time?”

“Husband? You’re calling him your husband now?”

You shrugged, but the effort to seem indifferent was wasted on her. “He sent me the address for dinner. I’m meeting with him later.”

She squinted at you. “There’s more, isn’t there?”

“He also asked if I wanted to see the plant Yohan got for him. Apparently, he made sure it was something easy to care for.”

Jiwoo gasped, clutching her chest dramatically. “So, let me get this straight, he’s making conversation? Voluntarily? Engaging with you like an actual person?”

“You’re reading too much into it.”

“Am I? Because you seem weirdly calm about this. Old you would’ve been bracing for a fight. New you is just…rolling with it?”

You hesitated, fingers brushing against the fabric of your dress. “I mean… yeah. It’s new. But it’s not bad.”

Jiwoo leaned in, eyes gleaming. “So… how do you feel about it?”

You bit your lip, considering the question. How did you feel?

Mingi being kind to you was still something you were adjusting to. It was strange, like stepping into a version of your life where the rules had changed overnight. No more sharp words. No more walls between you. Instead, he initiated conversations, asked about your opinions, your day… It was jarring, but it wasn’t unwelcome.

“I think…” You exhaled, searching for the right words. “It’s nice, actually.”

Jiwoo arched a brow, giving you a knowing look. “But?”

You swallowed. Of course, she’d catch that.

“But… a part of me keeps holding back. I want to believe this is real—that he’s changed. But there’s still this little voice in my head telling me not to get too comfortable.”

“Because you’re afraid it won’t last?”

You nodded, your gaze dropping to your hands.

Jiwoo was quiet for a moment, then she nudged you with her foot. 

“I get it. But you know what? You don’t have to have all the answers right now. Sure people change, but real change isn’t temporary. If Mingi’s being different, it’s probably because he wants to be different.”

You wanted to believe that. You hoped this was proof that things between you and Mingi were moving forward—that this wasn’t just another fleeting moment before everything went back to the way it used to be.

Your phone buzzed with another message from Mingi—a photo. A small jade plant sat neatly in a ceramic pot, its plump green leaves catching the light. But what stood out most was the pot itself—painted with uneven strokes, as if Mingi had started with a vision but lost patience halfway through. 

Messy, imperfect, yet strangely endearing.

[You]: It’s so cute! 

[Mingi]: Yohan said they need moderate watering. But what if I don’t give it enough water?

[You]: Then it’ll die

[Mingi]: Wow. Thanks for the encouragement

⋆

Mingi sat nervously in the booth, twiddling his thumbs and anxiously checking his watch for any sign of you. You had texted him just moments ago, saying you were on the way and looking for parking, but the minutes seemed to stretch on forever. 

He had taken plenty of women out on dates before, long before he had even married you. It was never this nerve-wracking. Back then, it was effortless, something he could walk into with confidence, knowing exactly what to say and how to charm his way through the night. 

But this? This felt different. It made his palms sweat and his heart race like a teenager about to take his crush out for the first time.

Every noise from the entrance had his head snapping up in anticipation, only for his shoulders to drop in disappointment when it wasn’t you. He hated that he was restless and fidgety. It reminded him of the first night he spent at Yeosang and Hetmon’s. 

“Mingi!”

When he finally spotted you weaving through the tables toward him, his breath caught in his throat. You weren’t doing anything special, just walking toward him, a little exasperated from circling the parking lot too many times. But to him, you might as well have been the only person in the room. His fingers curled against his knees, resisting the urge to smooth down his slacks again. 

As you slid into the booth across from him, Mingi realized something: no amount of preparation would have made this any easier. Because this wasn’t just another date—this was you. 

And that changed everything.

“Did you order yet?”

Mingi shook his head, offering a small, nervous smile as he shifted in his seat. “No, I was waiting for you.” 

His fingers toyed with the edge of the menu, though he hadn’t really looked at it. It felt odd—this nervousness settling in his chest, the way he was hyper aware of every little movement you made. The way your eyes briefly scanned the menu before landing on him again. He had never felt this way before, not with anyone else.

“So…” He cleared his throat, trying to steady his voice. “How was wedding dress shopping?”

“It only took her twelve dresses until she found the one,” you said, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Everything’s finally starting to feel real for her.”

“That’s great,” he murmured, but his voice had softened, thoughtful in a way that made you glance at him. Mingi hummed, gaze drifting to the table as he absently traced patterns along the menu’s edge.

“Was it like that for you?” His fingers stilled, pressing against the worn paper. 

“Did it ever feel real?”

You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift in the conversation. Mingi never talked about your marriage—at least, not like this. There was always bitterness or resentment when he did. But now, there was none of that. If anything, he sounded…wistful.

“Honestly? No,” you admitted, toying with the hem of your sweater. You hesitated, searching for the right words. 

“A part of me never wanted to be married, I think my parents had a big part in that. But if I did it would be small. Intimate. Maybe just the two of us.”

Your breath hitched as you realized how that sounded. “—just me and whoever I would’ve married,” you corrected quickly, eyes widening. “Back then. When I was single. I just mean, I would’ve been just fine with eloping.”

Mingi let out a startled laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, I get it. No need to panic.” 

“I don’t think I ever really imagined a big wedding either. Not that it mattered back then.”

You studied him carefully, noting the way he traced absent shapes against the tabletop. His shoulders weren’t as tense as they usually were when you spoke about your marriage. It was the first time you felt like you were having a real conversation about it, not just dancing around the subject with anger or avoidance.

“Did it ever feel real to you?” you asked, voice quieter now.

His gaze flickered to yours, something softer in his expression now. “Not at first. But I think it still could.”

Your heart skipped a beat. There was a hopefulness in his eyes that made your breath catch as the possibility of hope settled in your chest. 

The hope that maybe, just maybe, there was something worth holding onto after all.

Your fingers curled around the edge of your sweater, trying to ground yourself, but the sincerity in his voice made it impossible to ignore the shift between you.

“I’m holding you to that,” you murmured. Heat rose to your cheeks, and you quickly turned away, suddenly hyper aware of how intense his gaze was.

“Ready to order?”

You startled, nearly knocking over your water in your haste to compose yourself. The glass wobbled precariously before you caught it, as Mingi chuckled under his breath.

A brief silence settled between you as your waiter left with your orders.

“My dad wanted to remind us about the company’s charity gala this weekend,” he said, drumming his fingers against the table.

“Are you excited?” you asked.

“No,” Mingi scoffed, slumping back in his seat. “It’s just a bunch of old guys in overpriced suits pretending to care about causes they can’t even pronounce.”

You snorted. “Wow. And here I thought you’d be thrilled.”

Despite the complaint, his mind seemed elsewhere. His fingers, which had been tapping aimlessly, stilled against the table. His expression softened, and his lips pressed into a thoughtful line.

“You got something to wear?”

You frowned at the question, a little suspicious. “Sort of, I’m not set on it though. Why?”

“No reason,” he said a little too quickly, but his mouth twitched like he was holding back a grin. 

“Just wondering.”

“Mrs. Ha, I think we’re trapped!”

You fumbled with your keys, Yohan’s strained cry muffled by the door. A sigh threatened to escape you as the weight of the day pressed down on you—hours spent in a boardroom, locked in tense debates with your parents over expansion strategies, followed by an exhaustive review of Q3 metrics with the board. Your mind was already fried, but as if that weren’t enough, the looming charity gala this weekend added another layer of stress. You still weren’t sure about the dress you’d picked, and the thought of second-guessing your choice felt like one more problem you didn’t have the energy to solve.

“Yohan? Mrs. Ha?” you called out, only to be greeted by a labyrinth of clothing racks crammed into your living room. 

Swaths of fabric billowed as you brushed past them, catching glimpses of shimmering gowns, delicate lace, and velvet. Beneath one of the racks, a neat row of shoeboxes lined the floor, and beside them, a small vanity had been set up, complete with trays of jewelry, swatches of makeup, and a carefully curated selection of accessories.

A rustling sound came from somewhere behind the gowns, followed by a muffled grunt.

“Nonsense,” Mrs. Ha scoffed. “We just need to—oh! Watch the hem of that one! It’s silk, for goodness’ sake.”

You peeked around a particularly extravagant gown—something floor-length with layers of tulle—to find Yohan and Mrs. Ha navigating the maze, you suspected, that your husband created.

“Oh, good. You’re home.”

You turned toward the sound of Mingi’s voice—only to see nothing.

“…Mingi?”

Silence.

You squinted, stepping further into the fabric jungle. “Where are you?”

“Uh.” He paused. “I thought I was near the door.”

You blinked. “What door?”

“I was leaning against the frame—” 

Mingi had positioned himself perfectly—at least, that’s what he thought. One arm braced against the doorframe, his head tilted just enough to look effortlessly cool, like one of those mysterious love interests in the books you were always reading. 

“Mingi, I literally just heard you,” you muttered, turning in a slow circle..

“Yeah, and I hear you,” Mingi countered. “But I can’t see you.”

Yohan sighed dramatically from somewhere beyond the abyss. “Jesus, you two are meant for each other.”

After another few tense seconds of shuffling and muttering curses, a very ruffled-looking Mingi finally emerged from the sea of formalwear, blinking at you just like he did when he first woke up in his puppy form. 

He looked at you expectantly. “Do…Do you like it?”

You stared at him, then at the extravagant display behind you, then back at him. This was all for you?

Swallowing, you blinked, taking in the thoughtfulness of it all. He had gone through the trouble of hiring a stylist, ensuring you had options, making sure you wouldn’t have to deal with it alone.

The corners of his lips twitched nervously. “You said you weren’t set on what you were planning to wear to the gala.”

You chuckled softly, shaking your head. “You’re something else.”

“That’s not an insult, right?”

“No,” you said, taking a small step toward him, your voice lighter now. “It’s just…you went out of your way to make this all happen, and honestly…I’m really touched. Thank you.”

He blinked at you, his face flushing a little under the weight of your words. “Really?”

“Really.”

“I just wanted to make sure you’d feel comfortable in whatever you were wearing. You deserve more than just throwing something together at the last minute.”

“Mm,” you hummed, your heart swelling with affection. “Well, you definitely didn’t disappoint. I guess I should make my pick before Saturday.” 

The next few hours became a whirlwind in the penthouse as Mrs. Ha pulled dresses off the racks, while Yohan provided a steady stream of commentary. You disappeared into your room, only to emerge each time to a new reaction—Mrs. Ha’s approving nods, Yohan’s brutally honest critiques, and Mingi’s soft chuckles when you did an exaggerated spin, letting the fabric billow dramatically around you.

“Too much sparkle, you’ll blind all those old people. Next!” 

“Oh this one’s nice—oh wait, no. That color washes you out. Next!”

Mingi had started the night leaning back against the couch, arms crossed, trying to keep up his unbothered demeanor. But as the makeshift fashion show went on, he couldn’t hide his grin. He wasn’t just watching you try on dresses, he was watching you enjoy yourself, and something about that had him itching to join in on the fun. 

Trying to be sneaky, he reached for a couple of dresses on the rack, casually thumbing through the fabric as if he weren’t about to hold them up for you to try. 

"Whatcha doin?"

Mingi nearly jumped out of his skin.

Yohan’s face had appeared between the gowns, peeking through the rack with a devilish grin stretching across his face.

"You were about to pick dresses, weren’t you?"

Mingi, caught red-handed, clutched the sequined gown against his chest like a criminal caught in the act. "I—No—I was just—" He cleared his throat, trying to sound smooth. 

"Just…checking the quality."

Yohan’s grin widened. "Sure you were." He wiggled his fingers through the hanging fabric. 

"There’s nothing wrong with wanting to spoil your wife. She deserves it."

“Of course I know that!” Mingi huffed, tossing another dress over Yohan’s face.

Mrs. Ha hummed in amusement at their banter, pretending to adjust a gown on the rack, though the warmth in her eyes betrayed her. In all her years working for the Songs, she had never seen Mingi truly connect with people—not like this.  

He was laughing freely, teasing and being teased in return. He was involved, not just observing from the sidelines but part of the moment. He had found his place among people who didn’t just expect something from him but who genuinely wanted him, his presence, his thoughts, his company.

Perhaps it was because of you, the way you had held him accountable and stuck around when no one was willing to. Or perhaps it was his own resolve, the effort he had put into letting down his guard, into stepping out from behind the walls he had built.

Slipping out of the last dress, you reached for the next one in line, but a knock at the door made you pause. Curious, you opened the door—and found Mingi standing there, holding a sleek red gown in his hands, rocking back and forth on his feet. 

"Hey," he said, voice quieter than before. He lifted the gown slightly, as if presenting it to you. "I, uh… picked something."

You blinked, caught off guard. Mingi? Choosing a dress? Your gaze flickered between him and the gown—elegant, striking, bold. It was on brand for your husband. 

"Figured it was worth a try.”

Your lips curled into a small smile. "Guess I better try it on, then."

You disappeared behind the door, slipping into the gown. It was undeniably striking with its bold crimson hue and dramatic full skirt. A true showstopper, designed to command attention. But as your fingers trailed over your reflection, a strange feeling settled in your chest.

It was stunning.

But it wasn’t you.

You stepped out of the room, smoothing your hands over the fabric before giving a small twirl allowing the skirt to fan out in a perfect arc. "Well?"

Mrs. Ha hummed in approval, already taking in the fit and craftsmanship with a keen eye. Yohan let out a low whistle, grinning.  

But it was Mingi’s reaction that held your attention.

He didn’t say a word. Didn’t even blink.

His lips parted slightly, his eyes tracing every detail—the way the fitted bodice melted into the dramatic skirt, the delicate dip of the neckline. He stood frozen, hands flexing at his sides like he wasn’t sure what to do with them.

Inside, his mind was reeling.

He had picked the dress because it was bold and undeniable—a dress that would make people stop and look. He thought it would suit you, thought it would match the quiet strength you carried with you every day. But seeing it on you?

He hadn’t been prepared for that.

Finally, he managed to speak. "You look…" He trailed off.

"Incredible."

You gave another spin, but the unease lingered. The dress was beautiful, and you could tell it had been chosen with care. And yet…

"It doesn’t feel like me," you admitted, your voice quieter now.

Mingi blinked, his head tilting slightly.

"What do you mean? It looks amazing on you."

"It does," you agreed. "But that’s just it. It looks right, but it doesn’t feel right."

Mingi frowned, his gaze sweeping over you again, slower this time. It was the kind of dress that demanded attention, that made a statement before you even said a word. And suddenly, he understood.

You didn’t need to demand attention. You never had.

Mingi inhaled deeply, then exhaled through his nose, nodding once. "Okay. Then we keep looking."

Your eyes softened. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. We’ll find the one."

⋆

You sighed in defeat as you collapsed onto the couch beside the small mountain of designer dresses. Hours had passed, and the excitement of finding the perfect dress had faded into frustration. No matter how many you tried, from bold statement pieces to couture straight off the runway, none of them felt right. Normally, you wouldn’t care this much. These events were just another obligation, with the only exception ever being the Gold Gala, where you had to admit the spectacle was worth the effort. But this? 

This was different.

Something insidious stirred inside you, something persistent, whispering that you had something to prove. To Ahri, whose mere presence was an unwelcome shadow, a reminder of betrayal that lingered no matter how much time passed. 

To your in-laws, who remained distant, tolerating you, per terms and conditions outlined in your marital contract. 

And to high society, where every conversation was a test of whether you could endure their scrutiny. You were one of them by birth, but your choices—your friendships, your indifference to their world—made you an outsider in a way they would never fully forgive.

The penthouse was quiet. Mrs. Ha and Yohan had left. The only sounds were the distant hum of the city below and Mingi’s voice, rambling beside you.

He was slouched on the couch, just as exhausted, rubbing a hand over his face. “Who knew fittings would be such a pain?” he muttered, turning his head toward you with a dramatic sigh.

You hummed absentmindedly in response, only half-listening as your gaze swept over the remaining racks. You had combed through dozens of gowns but something kept nagging at you, a voice in the back of your mind that said you hadn’t quite found it yet.

Then, your eyes landed on a dress tucked toward the back of the rack. It hadn’t caught your attention before, overshadowed by the more extravagant pieces, but you were certain you could hear it calling to you. 

Mingi was still talking—something about decorator crabs attaching seaweed to their shells to hide from predators—but his voice faded into the background as you pushed yourself up from the couch. Without a word, you reached for the gown, fingers grazing the black velvet. And for the first time that night, you felt it—this was the one.

"Where are you going?"

"I found it!" you exclaimed, dashing excitedly to your bedroom without bothering to close the door.

You shrugged off your hoodie and shorts before stepping into the strapless gown, smoothing the fabric over your hips. The plunging neckline accentuated the curves of your chest, framing your collarbones perfectly. Though the column silhouette was understated, it hugged every contour before flowing elegantly into a floor length hem.

Twisting your arm back, you stretched awkwardly, but the zipper refused to budge. With a frustrated groan, you gripped the front of the dress to keep it from slipping while your other hand fumbled blindly, desperately trying to get the closure to move.

But it was useless. There was no way you were managing this alone. The only option left was asking for help, and that meant calling Mingi.

You exhaled sharply, hesitating for a beat before forcing the words out. “Hey, do you think you can help me with this dress? The zipper sucks.”

There was a pause, then a low chuckle. “Sure.”

As he stepped into your room, you turned your back to him, gathering your hair in an attempt to make it easier for him to zip the dress. The moment his fingers brushed against you, a jolt shot through your body, and you had to fight the urge to shiver. Your breath hitched, so quiet yet loud enough for him to hear.

“This one, huh?” His voice was rich and teasing against your ear. He leaned in, just a little too close, the warmth of his chest brushing against your back.

You swallowed hard, suddenly hyper aware of how little space remained between you. 

“Yeah. It’s the one.

You were trembling now, but it wasn’t just the unfastened dress threatening to slip—it was everything between you. Every stolen glance, every touch that lasted a second too long. Years of tension, unspoken and unresolved, hanging thick in the air.

“Mingi,” you sighed, expecting the tug of the zipper, but he made no move to secure the fabric together.

Instead, his gaze darkened as he looked at you, lingering between your lips and your eyes in the reflection of the mirror. His fingertips found the zipper, but rather than pulling it up, he toyed with the fabric, brushing his knuckles along your spine. 

“That’s…not up,” you murmured. 

Mingi hummed, the ghost of a smirk playing on his lips. “I know.”

It was so different, being the focus of his attention, feeling the weight of his gaze through the reflection in the mirror. His eyes roamed over you, watching as your fingers clung to the front of the dress in a futile attempt at modesty. 

But Mingi had other plans.  

His fingers toyed with the fabric, tracing along the top edge where the delicate material barely clung to your body. He dragged his fingertips along your bare shoulders, down the curve of your back, and then back up again, never quite pulling the dress into place. He was teasing you, savoring the way you reacted to him, the way your body betrayed just how much you wanted this.

You wanted more.

You wanted all of him.

Your heart pounded in your throat, anticipation coiling tight in your stomach as the space between you shrank. He dipped his head, lips barely grazing the curve of your shoulder before trailing upward against your jaw. The warmth of his breath, the soft press of his mouth against your skin, left you dizzy.

His lips hovered just behind your ear. “Still want me to zip it up?”

You barely managed to shake your head before he tilted your chin up, guiding your lips to his.

And then, finally, he kissed you.

It was slow and soft at first, his lips barely grazing yours. But then his tongue slid into your mouth, and suddenly, it was all heat, want, and need. You melted into Mingi as he deepened the kiss, his hands gripping your hips as he turned you to face him.

You let your arms drop, the dress pooling on the floor around your feet until you were left in nothing but your lacy underwear. Your head spun as his mouth moved against yours, his hands roaming over your body, exploring every inch of you. The heat between you was undeniable, building with every passing second, with every brush of his skin against yours.

“Bed,” he ordered, tearing off his glasses and tossing them aside without a second thought.

His hands slid down to cup your ass, lifting you effortlessly off the ground. Instinctively, your legs wrapped around his waist, your arms tightening around his neck as if letting go wasn’t an option. He carried you over to your bed, his lips never once leaving yours.

The moment your back hit the bed, his weight pressed you into the mattress, surrounding you, consuming you. You arched against him, desperate for more—more contact, more friction, more of him.

His hands found your breasts, cupping them and teasing the sensitive skin with his thumbs. You moaned into his mouth, his large hands working to slide off your panties and you obliged, bucking your hips against him to give him access to your sopping cunt.

“Shit, baby,” he breathed, sliding his thick fingers between your thighs. He teased your entrance, making you gasp as he kissed his way down to your pussy, eyes blown wide with desire. 

You were already wet and sensitive, from the way he teased you earlier, but it was no help when he slid his hands under your hips, bringing your legs up to rest on his shoulders. You arched at the intensity of the angle as his tongue drew languid circles around your clit before plunging inside of you.

“Fuck, Mingi,” you whimpered, “just like that.”

“So needy. When was the last time you were fucked?”

“Shut up.”

He groaned, his mouth working overtime as the coil in your stomach snapped. When he finally pulled away, his lips were slick with your arousal, and the look on his face was enough to make you cum again right then and there.

You were breathtaking—utterly wrecked in the best way. Your flushed cheeks, the way your hair was mussed from his touch, and your lips, swollen and parted as you caught your breath, had his head spinning.

Mingi crawled over your body, his cock straining against his pants. You tugged on his belt loops, pulling him closer as you fumbled with his belt, then hurriedly tugged at his shirt while he kicked off his pants and boxers.

He was beautiful—all hard lines and muscle—yet the way he touched you was anything but rough. As his hands roamed up your body, he found your fingers, intertwining them with his as his lips claimed yours again. You couldn’t help but whimper when his tip brushed against your slit. 

"Can I...?" he murmured, kissing the back of your hand. 

Your heart pounded, overwhelmed by the depth of emotion in his gaze. You reached up, cupping his face, your thumb brushing over his cheek.

"Please," you whispered, nodding.

And that was all the reassurance Mingi needed before pushing inside you. He let out a soft moan, overwhelmed by the way your pussy fluttered around him. You were warm and wet and tight, and he didn't want to move for fear of coming too soon because fuck, you felt so good. 

Mingi filled you up perfectly, stretching you in a way that had you gasping for air, your toes curling from the sheer fullness of him. He moved agonizingly slowly, giving you time to adjust to his length because holy shit you could see why all his exes went crazy for him. You couldn’t tell if he was being sweet or teasing, but it was driving you insane.

"Mingi," you whined, "Faster."

He smirked, leaning down so his lips ghosted over yours, "Hmm? What was that?"

"Faster!”

"Yeah?"

“Yes! Just fuck me!”

He chuckled, snapping his hips against you, drawing a sharp gasp from your lips as you arched into his chest. His movements grew desperate, his breath coming in ragged pants with each thrust. A low groan rumbled from his throat as he savored the way you clenched around him, the sensation unraveling whatever restraint he had left.

"You're so pretty," he groaned, "So pretty for me."

Your stomach tightened at his words, a clear sign that you wouldn’t last much longer. Your eyes drank in every detail of him—the way his brows furrowed in deep creases as he pulled out only to thrust back in at the brutal pace you had begged for. The flush on his cheeks spread down his neck, a telltale sign of his own unraveling, mirroring your own as pleasure threatened to consume you both.

“Mingi,” you gasped, his name the only thing you could manage as the heat pooled in your abdomen. 

He groaned against your skin, his grip tightening as he pulled you impossibly closer, as if the space between you didn’t exist, as if he never wanted to let go. His lips traced soft, lingering kisses along your neck, savoring every second. The warmth of his breath sent shivers through you, your thighs trembling beneath his touch, threatening to give out.

“I love you.”

The words unraveled you completely.

A shaky breath left your lips before you crashed into him, pouring every unspoken feeling into the kiss. He swallowed your moan, his hands roaming your body—touching, claiming, worshiping. The heat between you was unbearable, spiraling higher until pleasure consumed you.

His grip tightened, his breath ragged against your skin as he held you through it, your voice breaking on his name like a prayer. With a deep groan, Mingi tensed, then unraveled, riding out the last waves of pleasure in slow, lazy rolls, lost in the moment, in everything you meant to him.

For a moment, neither of you said anything, save for the sound of your breathing filling the space. Wordlessly, Mingi burrowed closer, tucking his face into the crook of your neck with a content sigh. You felt his lashes flutter against your collarbone, the soft huff of his breath as he began to doze off.

"Let me cuddle," he pouted, his voice muffled and sleepy.

You chuckled, threading your fingers through his hair, scratching lightly at his scalp. He hummed in satisfaction, his grip tightening just a little, as if even in sleep, he couldn’t bear to let you go.

“Love you too.”

<< viii | x >>

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