#he's just saying the same thing over and over

[peachesofteal]

Raspberry Girl Previous + masterlist + AO3 Simon Riley/female reader CW: 18+ daddy kink, anxiety, reader is neurodivergent

There’s a splitting headache pounding behind your eyes. 

It’s the only thing you can focus on for the first five minutes of being awake, reconciling it with queasiness, the ache of your joints. You feel like you drank an entire vat of vodka. 

Jesus. How did you even get ho-

Oh god. 

Oh my god. 

Fragments of last night come rushing back, shattered clips out of order and full of nonsense, things that make no sense. Improbable things. 

Captain Riley dressing you in his t-shirt. 

Captain Riley holding your chin while he brushes your teeth. 

Captain Riley wiping your make up off.

Captain Riley putting you in bed. 

With him. Putting you in bed, with him. 

The fabric of your dress, black with little blue and purple flowers, catches your eye. It’s sitting neatly on top of a dresser with your bra, your shoes just below, placed side by side, and the world crashes down around you. It shifts and shudders, reality roaring into focus. 

This is his room. His house. His bed. 

Your stomach turns, nausea swelling into a wave that washes over you, forcing you from the bed to the bathroom on stumbling, heavy legs, snatching your clothes on the way, throwing them to the ground as you lean over the toilet and lose what’s in your stomach, bile and water, the burn pulling tears from your eyes. 

What did you do?

Shame rips through you like a knife, stabbing you between the ribs hard enough to make you ache. Humiliation, that’s what this is. You’re humiliated. Humiliated that you drank so much he had to take you home from the bar. Humiliated you couldn’t brush your own teeth or wash your face or change your clothes or put yourself in bed, humiliated you turned into an irresponsible, drunken mess. A burden. 

You’re in his house, his room, his bed, your secret fantasies crumbled away into one big nightmare. 

He’ll never look at you the same way again. 

You know what will happen now, of course. He’ll stop coming by the shop, or if he doesn’t, he’ll just stick to polite conversation. He won’t text you, and anything you send will be responded to with clipped, brief responses.

It always ends this way for one reason or another, but this, blacking out and making a fool of yourself, is certainly a first. 

A first you had with Captain Riley. The man you’ve spent every waking minute thinking about for months. 

Dumb. So dumb. 

You turn the sink on. Rinse and spit. Wash your hands. Splash your face with cold water, and then do it again, letting it mix with your tears, trying to use the shock of the temperature to slow your spiraling anxiety, your descent into madness.  

The fabric of your dress on your skin and the sight of his t-shirt crumpled on the ground, still warm from your body, nearly drives you to hysteria. 

You ruined it. 

Knuckles knock against the bathroom door, and then he’s calling your name. 

Your heart drops. 

The bathroom window is too small to crawl out of, but you did see a pretty big one in his bedroom. Maybe… 

“Open the door sweetheart.” You can do this. Just rip the bandaid off. Get it over with. You pull it wide, momentarily blindsided by what’s on the other side, Captain Riley in a pair of sweatpants and a white t-shirt, steam rising from a mug in his hand. A normal sized mug that for some reason, looks like a child’s toy. His gives you a once over before trapping you in his gaze, so deadly serious it keeps you rooted to the floor as he deposits the mug on the sink and pulls you close, warm palm settling on the side of your neck. “Were you sick?” 

“No.” You croak, the lie is blatantly obvious based on the smell in the bathroom alone. His eyes narrow. 

“Try again.” You can’t force yourself to say it, so you nod miserably. “Oh baby,” He tugs you into his arms, cupping the back of your head into his chest. “Why didn’t you call for me?” Jesus. Christ. He pities you. 

Don’t cry don’t cry don’t cry.

He’s being so nice, it makes it all worse. Makes the ache spread all the way to your heart where it pounds so loud you’re sure he can feel it. ‘U-uh, I… I…” 

The severity of it all hits you like a truck, hard enough to make your knees weak, and you force yourself to step back, leave the warmth and safety of his arms, his body, his smell, his… everything, before you try to disappear in it. Burrow yourself inside him, seek permanent refuge from the storm. Hide behind him like a child running from a monster. 

“I’m s-sorry about last night, th-this,” your stomach is queasy again, and you can’t bring yourself to look at him. “I… that was… I don’t usually drink that much, I’m… I’m sorry.” The walls are closing in, a sob so heavy you could drown in it builds in your chest, and you sink into the stark reality of what he’s probably waiting to say. It’s time to go. Get out of his house. “I’ll just… I’ll go.” You move farther of the bathroom, and he follows. 

“You’ll st-” 

“I need to go to work later, so I sh-should probably go home and get some sleep.” You’re scrambling, looking for anything that might make sense, might justify you sprinting out of this house. It’s amazing how solid your voice is, truly an impressive feat on your part, treading water in survival mode and trying to preserve a shred of dignity. “I have work. A lot of prep work. To do… later.” The uber app lights up under a stroke of your thumb. 

“Sweetheart…” he’s got his hands out now, palms open like you’re a wild animal thrashing in a trap and he’s going to free you. “Everything’s okay. You didn’t do any-” 

“I’m fine.” Your voice cracks when you cut him off. You can’t listen to him be nice to you after this. “It’s fine. But um… I-I… really do need to go.” You can’t describe the look on his face. It’s like he’s holding onto something with a shred of control, muscles in his arms tense, jaw tight. It almost looks like anger, mixed with concern, his eyes bright and focused, all of it making the edge of your vision blurry. 

He’s got you pinned. It’s all you’ve wanted. 

But now you’re standing in front of him, a mess, ashamed, horrified. 

When he says your name it’s gentle, and patient, the underlying authority in it impossible to ignore, a leash drawing your eyes up from the floor. 

Your phone chimes. 

Uber. 

“That’s my ride,” you rasp, looking away and towards the door. There’s a long moment where you think he might not let you leave, a thought that’s not frightening at all, but unexpectedly comforting. If he didn’t let you leave… if he wanted you to stay… 

He takes a very long, very deep breath, the only noise existing between the two of you until he nods and crosses his arms in front of his chest. “I don’t want to push you too hard yet,” he pauses, scrutiny bringing his brows together in a barely there crease, “and I can’t box you in, can I?” It doesn’t seem like a question for you, just about you, one he’s asking himself, one you do not understand at all. The hangover is liquifying your brain, and nothing is making sense. 

“I, uh… I-” His thumb presses to your bottom lip, stealing words, thoughts, logic, everything from inside you. 

“I want you to get some rest when you get home. Take a shower, eat, and text me before you go into work.” 

“O-okay. I will.” He rewards you with a smile, a small, proud smile that hangs like a blue ribbon around your neck. A shiny trophy from a soccer-roos game, a first place prize at the science fair, and for once it doesn’t feel like you’re looking out into the crowd for smiling faces that aren’t there. 

That feeling is what keeps you warm all the way home, even in the nip of brisk morning air. 

You should have gone home and slept, but you didn’t. You couldn’t. 

You went to work. 

You threw on a pair of throwaway clothes you keep in the office and tied an apron around your waist and disappeared into bakery. 

You buried yourself into whatever you could think of, four different types of cookie dough, brownie batter, massive batches of buttercream, nervous energy bubbling up in your chest and spilling out through your hands, forcing them to work, to make, again and again until you can’t possibly do anything else. 

The entire time, you ignore the world. Your headache, your stomach, the slow foot traffic out front. Weekends run on a skeleton crew and you’re never here anyway, so it’s not like anyone bothers you. 

It’s just you, an entire bag of fresh rosemary, and a mountain of flour. 

You could make rosemary focaccia every day and never get bored. It can be used for anything, eaten with anything, and- 

the dough can take a beating. 

It’s therapeutic, mixing and kneading it into pliable balls and then stretching them out onto sheet pans, chopping rosemary leaves into tiny little pieces so you can sprinkle them over the top with the olive oil. It’s easy to get lost in it, ignorant of the time slipping away, the shop out front closing, your phone rattling against the stainless steel tabletop across the room, the sun slowly sinking behind the skyline. 

You push the world away until a heavy knock sounds from the back door. 

Captain Riley is standing on the other side. He looks over your shoulder, a sweeping inspection revealing the facts of the matter, a truth that has your stomach sinking like a stone to the bottom of the sea. 

You went back on your word. 

“Hi.”  

“You didn’t go home.” You gulp. 

“No.”  He turns you around and steers you back inside. 

“You didn’t listen.” He hoists you up onto a stool at the end of your workbench.“Sit, and do not move.” 

“I-” Fingers hook under your knee, pulling it against his thigh so you’re partially spread around him, and the contact is like a drink of water in a drought. A washed out memory forces its way to the forefront of your mind. Did you know you’re so big?  “A-are you mad?” Your voice is tinny, steeped in anxiety, and his eyes soften. 

“No baby, I’m not mad. You’re learning, you’ll make mistakes.” 

“I will?” He nods. 

“My instincts are never wrong. You didn’t run off because you were uncomfortable. You ran because you were embarrassed, and that’s my fault.” He murmurs, wiping at something crusted on your cheeks. Batter. Dough. You don’t know, all you can focus on is the rhythmic rub of his palm skating up and down your leg, squeezing the flesh at your hip before traveling back down to your knee. It’s like watching a pocket watch swing in front of your face, hypnosis taking over your thoughts until the only thing left is him. “I shouldn’t have let you leave this morning but I didn’t want to box you into a corner.” There’s a bowl of raspberry filling to your left, and he swipes his thumb through it, holding the red, pulpy sweetness to your lips. “Open your mouth,” tart sugar swipes across your tongue from tooth to tooth, and he holds you open, tips your head back. You’re holding your breath, hanging on the edge of cliff, dangling, wondering if the rope will be cut, if the rug will be pulled out beneath you, scrambling to put something, anything together to make this make sense. It’s rattling through your bones, twisting you up into knots…

all of it going quiet when his mouth finds yours. Tasting. Taking. Holding your head between his hands and breathing new life into you, tongue against tongue, raspberry swirl staining you both, dying your mouths so red it could be blood. Heat turns molten and you throb, thighs trying to close instinctively, seeking contact, pressure, an alleviation to the mounting ache blooming between them. 

He pulls away and chuckles, thumb retaking its place in your mouth as he watches, studies. “My sweet girl.” You make a noise, a squeak, a little whine of pleasure. That’s you. His sweet girl. His. It makes you happier than you know how to explain. 

And then he says something that knocks the wind out of you. 

“You’re daddy’s girl, baby.” He lets it linger in the air, waiting for something, a reaction, but nothing comes except more agony between your legs, and a strange feeling of relief. “You’re mine, and I’m going to take care of you, every little piece of you, even the ones you try to hide.” Your eyes burn with tears and he wipes them away with his free hand. You wonder if you’re supposed to be disgusted, if you’re supposed to feel shame, discomfort, but none of those things are there. Only desire, relief, longing, peace. Hope. 

He wants you. He cares about you. He sees you.

Daddy’s girl. 

“Do you want that?” You nod and pull on his thumb like you’re trying to take more, and he huffs an exhale of a laugh. “Look at you, sucking on my thumb already.” He pops it free to cup your cheek, and you mourn the empty space between your teeth, leaning forward for more. More, more more- “I need the words.” 

“Yes, I want it.” Your voice doesn’t shake. You don’t stutter. It’s the strongest you’ve ever sounded. He presses his lips to yours, lingering in the kiss before holding your face in both hands, tipping your head back, bringing your eyes directly to his.

“Yes who?” You lick your lips. 

“Yes, daddy.” When you say it, it doesn’t sound foreign, or weird, or sinful. It’s right. For once in your life, your words don’t feel clumsy or stupid or mixed up. They just are. What you want to say, what you meant to say. 

“Yes, daddy. I want it.” 

[lunarxcity]

Why you? (Part IV to Why me?)

azriel x rhys' sister! reader

angst/eventual comfort (Now Azriel is in his healing era, don't worry he does suffer in this chapter so prepare for the azriel angst. You can't be in a healthy relationship when you are mentally at your worst and lashing out at everyone around you and Azriel is learning this the hard way.)

Summary: When you walk in on Azriel and Elain the mating bond snaps leading you to flee to Autumn with Eris so you can be free of Azriel. Your absence causes Azriel to come to some drastic realisations, but is it already too late and has your time in Autumn led to you moving on?

Parts I, II, and III if you missed them!

-

They say that misery breeds loneliness, or was it misery likes company, either way Azriel couldn't remember how it went but he knew he felt miserable and alone.

You were gone and Rhys had banned him from seeing Elain, even though it didn't matter. He couldn't even look at her without feeling crushing guilt. Guilt for considering killing your friend for the sole reason of him wanting to fight for his mate, which any honorable fae male would have done. Guilt for possibly driving you out from the Night Court. Guilt for dragging Elain into this and then ignoring her.

To say that Azriel has been a mess would be an understatement. After needing to sleep in your bed to calm himself down the night you left, he hasn't had a decent night's sleep. At this point, his dark circles had dark circles, he hadn't shaved, and he has basically been on autopilot for the past 3 months.

Him and Rhys hadn't been on good terms for the first month, but he came around and apologised for the way he spoke to him. They were civil, but Azriel didn't know how he could be close with him again after what he said. If you were there you would have played the peacekeeper, telling him what to say and scolding Rhys for his lack of sensitivity. He thinks about you more than he would care to admit, which is saying something because he's been admitting it a lot lately.

The first 2 weeks were so rough for Azriel that he threw himself into his work, not talking to anyone and even missing his training which he can't recall having ever done. He walked into the training ring and first thing Cassian did when he saw him for the first time since the night you left was laugh and say, "Oh brother, you look a bit rough for wear. You have obviously had better days."

Azriel didn't say anything. His face was set in the same straight-faced look that he had been wearing every day. He just walked up to Cassian and began fighting him. You would think that missing 2 weeks of training out of the hundreds of years wouldn't make a difference, but he had lost every single sparring match between him and Cassian. You would have loved to see it, you probably would have been on the sidelines laughing saying that Azriel needed to be humbled with his snowball fight record. His thoughts strayed to you and he was immediately snapped out of it by Cassian landing a blow on his right jaw sending Azriel to the ground."

"You seem distracted brother. I am always here if you want to talk." He holds his hand out as a truce, but Azriel doesn't take it. He was upset and in pain and feeling a flurry of emotions that he didn't know how to deal with. He picked himself up and told Cassian, "I appreciate it brother, but I don't need you or Nesta or Rhys trying to fix me." Granted he realised he was being a bit dramatic, but his adrenaline was high and didn't know how to deal with what he was feeling, let alone what he was feeling.

Azriel turns his back on Cassian, beginning to storm off from the training ring. "You think she would want you to suffer in Silence? To keep hurting everyone else because you're trying to outrun your problems? " Azriel stilled. "If she cared enough, she wouldn't have left. Why should I care about myself when she is so repulsed by me that she would prefer an enemy of the Night Court's company over mine?" His voice was ice that sending shivers down Cassians spine, this was the feared Spymaster of the Night Court speaking, not his brother.

"For someone who's job it is to collect information, you truly do not know anything." Cassian shook his head and took off into the sky before Azriel could say anything.

Great now that's two of his brother's that he's not on great terms with. Things with Cassian continued to be tense and since he was also on Rocky grounds with Rhys, things had become a bit awkward with Feyre and Nesta. Yes they were polite and would invite him to things and he would still have his weekly coffee with Nesta, but things were a lot more tense since they couldn't even bring up their mates.

No one in the inner circle would bring you up, not to Azriel at least. He knew they talked about you and Azriel, both in friendly hangouts he wasn't invited to and the family dinners that he had been dodging. He knew that they probably had a lot to say when the insomnia had gotten so bad that he needed to take residence in your room. He doesn't know the exact details because the shadows have been withholding information from him too. Just what he needed another person who had an issue with him, this one actually being part of him.

At this point he was on the best terms with Amren which actually started an unlikely friendship. He must have looked so pathetic for Amren to invite him over for tea. It started with talks of the prison, which then led to the inner circle, which then led to inner workings of the Night Court. Tea with Amren became a normal ordeal, she didn't treat him differently and was the same blunt Amren she's always been. It was a good distraction.

He wore the gloves you had gifted him regularly, even if his hands weren't bothering him, he liked the sense of comfort he felt when he wore them. He still felt a mix of emotions when he thinks about your departure, he's angry with you for leaving him here like this, sad because he feels like you have given up on him, and most of all feeling like he's an idiot because all he wants is for you to come home. To come back to him.

Rhys had assigned him on his first mission, a recon mission in the Dawn Court. Azriel had begged to go to the Autumn Court, to at least check on you and make sure you're okay, but Rhys immediately shut him down every time. It's a two week long mission and he was ready to go. The blade you gave him for Solstice had been left in your desk, since Azriel moved to your room. It was too special to him to risk damaging it, so he left it there but he feels like he wouldn't be doing your gift justice if he didn't wear it on his mission.

At this point it had been about 6 weeks without you. He took the blade from the sheath you had also had made for him and inspected it. The silver metal shone in the sunlight, and the blade was the thinnest and sharpest he had ever seen. Outside the silver edge of the blade there was a clear outlining that went all the way around the edges of the blade. He assumed this was the blood bind, so Azriel took the blade and sliced his left hand. The blood weld and the blade absorbed it, the clear lining turned red with blood and once it had decided that was enough blood spilled to activate the blood bond, the red turned into a shimmering black.

Azriel admired and then sheathed the blade. He turned and looked at himself in the mirror and almost jumped at the sight. He truly did look terrible, the beauty of the blade you had crafted for him a contrast over his current ragged state. Your blade. That you had made for him.

Azriel knew he hadn't been the greatest friend lately. He skipped the things you guys would usually do to try and get to know Elain better, his reasoning being you guys have already spent so much time together and would have so much more. He wishes he could go back in time and deck himself for even thinking that. He misses your coffee runs. He misses pranking Rhys with you. He misses laughing with you at Cassian being well Cassian. He misses your laugh.

He doesn't even need you there, he would take whatever small part of you he can and would happily thank the Mother for even allowing him that small respite. He's coming to realise that in the midst of his cruel and miserable existence, you had been the one ray of light in his life and that when the Mother decides that it's his time and he's nothing more than stardust scattered across the universe or the Mother decides to take her revenge for the sins he's committed in this life that it's the sound of your laugh that would carry him away. If the Mother was good she would allow him the luxury of scattering you with him, but ashes are plentiful and he only needs a single ember.

In the silence of your room, haunted by the ghost of your absence Azriel breaks. Tears stream down his face for the second time in this very spot and realizes that something needs to change, that he needs to change.

When Azriel returns from his mission, he knocks on Cassian's door. Cassian opens the door, his face is straight and devoid of his usual smile. "Are you finally ready to talk or am I going to have to kick your ass again and watch you storm off and brood some more." Azriel begins to feel shy, it is not a feeling that is common to him nor one he likes. This was already very hard for him, but he also forgot that Cassian was Cassian and he wouldn't allow him to walk in like nothing happened. Azriel knods and looks at Cassian with determination in his eyes, "I'm ready." Cassian matches his seriousness and then breaks down in laughter and brings Azriel into a bone-crushing hug. "I'VE MISSED YOU BROTHER." Azriel normally would have tried to get out of it, but he needed this.

Azriel sat down and told Cassian his problems. All of them. They started mid-day and didn't end until passed out after sunrise. He told him about feeling worthless and left out. He told him about you and how he doesn't know what he did or how to fix it but does know he's going insane like this. He talked about Rhys and how that whole situation had really affected him, Cassian had no idea and was so upset that he left for an hour or two and came back bloodied. 15 minutes later Nesta came in and brought him bandages and ice while telling him good job for putting Rhys in his place.

This became regular for Azriel. Him and Cassian would talk out all his problems one by one and he would actually try to do something to fix them. Cassian talked with Madja, and Azriel was now seeing her regularly as she claimed that "illnesses of the mind must be given the same level of attention as illnesses of the body." He started showing up to family dinners again. He apologised to Elain and told her that he couldn't go on with what they were doing because he wasn't in a place for anything right now and could barely deal with himself. She understood and was happy he was finally getting the help he needed. He told her not to wait for him and that it would be better for them to remain friends and she agreed.

Azriel began doing things for himself. He went to your guys' favourite bakery on the regular. He started reading all the books you had left on your shelf. He even started playing piano again, a hobby he had long forgotten, but only remembered because found his old compositions stuffed in a book on your shelf. He had no clue how you got them, he thought they were all thrown away, but nonetheless he was glad to have them.

Things were looking up for Azriel. The only thing bothering him was that he still didn't have you here or know why you left. No one would tell him anything and they would all shut down around him when you were brought up. Conversations would quiet, and topics would be changed. This confirmed the suspicion he had from the beginning, the reason you left was directly concerned with him.

While he was getting better, Azriel did have his ups and downs. His biggest down was the realisation that you had been writing to every single person except for him and Elain. The shadows had finally decided to start talking to him again and the first thing they had told him is that they caught your scent in the house. He flew like a madman from the other side of Velaris, getting there in record time. He searched for your scent, desperate to see you, when he found a handful of envelopes, all with your name and scrawl. The ink was a dark red and the lines were too thin to be from any of your writing tools. You must be using Eris' then.

This bothered Azriel so much he almost forgot the reason why he was holding these letters. He looked at who they were addressed to and saw every single Inner Circle member had received a letter but him and Elain. He put the letters back on the desk and waited to see if anyone would bring them up. Nothing. His shadows began to update him of their arrivals. You had been regularly corresponding with them and not him. Azriel was crushed.

Nevertheless, he continued with his routine. He saw Madja regularly, became close with his family again, and began to actually do things for himself. The process was difficult and so incredibly hard, especially for someone who had been bottling things up for as long as he had.

He's even been visiting his estate lately to see his mother, as she lives on his property. He avoids her when he isn't doing well, she's been exposed to many cruelties over the span of her long life she doesn't need to deal with more. Talking with his mother has really helped. Her warm smile could brighten any day. He's missed her lately. He has a bad habit of putting the ones that he cares the most about on the back burner, but he's working on it.

It's been 3 months since you left and Azriel is finally feeling better. He was at his weekly session with Madja. It was going really well actually, well it was going really well until she causally says, "And how do you feel about a certain princess' return to the Night Court?" She asked almost sounding like a child teasing their friend in front of their crush. Azriel didn't even pick up on it. His shadows stilled and his eyes went wide. You were coming back? Back to the Night Court? Back to him?

Madja looks at him confused. She tilts her head, "You didn't know?" He shakes his head no. He lets out a breath he didn't even know he was holding and goes, "No I had no idea. I'm still the only one she hasn't spoken to." His tone bitter, but he caught himself and asked, "When is she getting back?" He hopes she'll just forget about his mini outburst just a second ago.

Madja looks surprised and Azriel is even more surprised at her confusion. She has sat here for the past few weeks hearing about him complain about your lack of communication with him, shouldn't she know that he knows nothing of this?

Madja goes, "You do know you have little shadow spies that listen in to all of your conversations?" Good to see that age hasn't dulled her sense of humour. How did he forget about that? Azriel shakes his head and goes,"Fair enough Madja."

She gives him a pitying look and sighs, "She'll come back. As far as your relationship goes, I would recommend talking it out in person. You both obviously have a lot on your minds, your relationship won't be able to move progress until you address this." Madja leans forward, like she's about to tell him a secret. "Now knowing both of you for so long, I can assure you that you guys will be fine. You're fond of each other and your biggest fear is losing each other, it's going to take a lot more than this to ruin you relationship."

Azriel looks at her agape. While this was fairly common knowledge, no one had actually sat him down and told him this. He assumed that you guys were fond of each other in the way he was fond of each of the inner circle members. Now that the dynamics of the inner circle shifted, they were all pairing up and finding their person. While you had always been close to Rhys, Azriel was the one you had usually ended up pairing up with in the end. Azriel had never come to this realisation, his entire life, he had been yearning for someone to pick him, only to drive away the one person who did.

Madja looks at him and he swears she can read his mind. She shakes her head and starts, "You were ready to die for her Azriel, when she was going to be clipped. You put yourself under the mercy of the old high lord for hundreds of years to ensure her safety and you're going to let your relationship fall apart because of what? A misunderstanding?"

Azriel stills, the conversation had escalated very quickly, leaving him speechless. He can't jump to conclusions before he even knew your side. He would talk to you and everything would be okay. It was just one big misunderstanding. It had to be.

He takes a deep breath and revels in his new found peace and clarity. The Azriel of a weeks ago would have angrily stormed off, lashing out at whatever unfortunate victim would check on him to make sure he's okay, but he's getting better now. He isn't anywhere near perfect, he is the same Azriel, but he hopes that when you get back he will be someone that is deserving to have you in their life without taking you for granted.

He takes a deep breath in and out. "Okay. When is the soonest I can speak with her?"

-

note: Azriel self-help arc time! Yes he did suffer for a bit and yes he will suffer a lot more so don't you worry, but I do think he deserves a little respite. He's coming to his senses... slowly. Thank you all for the support on this series I know we've hit a bit of a slow point in the storyline but there will be the reunion in the next episode which will be explosive one way or another so keep an eye out for that. Until next time loves!

note note: I probably will stop putting out chapters at this speed because I want to actually be able to edit them and the next parts are really important to the story and I do want to get it right :)

taglist: @alimarie1105 @chaosabroad @bbontenswhhore @tele86 @ashblooddragons @circe143 @i-am-infinite @princesssunderworld @thestartitaness @tiffany-xx @cpfantasybooks @lucia-valentinaa @jennigsonl @ivy-34 @firefly-forest @k-homosapien @coeurdeveea @cherryjain17 @bckynatt @becstersworld @rcarbo1 @gojospearlycim @atluky

[dmitriene]

cw: unreliable description of domsub relationship, gagging, aftercare, reader in a dress.

simon meets you on the app where men like him look for obedient, sweet subby pups, everyone gathers there for their own purposes, but ultimately, everyone is there to pick the best sub from among those who are obedient and charming, and you are there to explore, to find someone who can look after you, be your guide, while holding on your leash.

he's on this app to unwind, find someone who will help him release all his tension, all of the faces there appear to him to be the same, endless descriptions of the sweet girls that flash their bodies and claim to be looking for a daddy are always a fleeting buzz to his mind, until he stumbles upon you.

your profile picture is awkward, posture rigid, you're just sitting pretty in front of the camera while wearing some lacy piece of nightgown, as if downloading this app was nothing but a choice of boredom, with your face hidden, but your description says that you're new in this world and here to learn, find someone who can help you out, promising that you'll try your hardest to be the greatest, and it's gets to simon, nearly too close to his chubbing cock.

maybe it's the way you text, responding to his brief message in an instant, as though you've been waiting all this time, shy and meek, while simon finds out that you understand the fundamentals of the system, how people meet, the stop words, the rights of subs, and that you're sweet and innocent in a way that most of the others aren't, so simon's fingers decide before his head does that he should invite you over to try and give you a taste.

looking even better than in the smudged pictures you sent him, simon meets you at his apartment on the weekends in the evening, getting up from where he was sprawled over on the couch when he hears the door click open, he warned that you can get inside without a shame, he'd welcome you in inside, so after taking a few deep breaths in, you open the door, and his imposing frame, which dwarfs the narrowing hallway, greets you, making your feet stutter.

black, tight trousers that fit his muscular, beefy thighs in all the right places, a tight cotton shirt that highlights his toned, and at the same time slightly softer stomach, broad arms that are intertwined with tattoo ink curdles, crossed over his chest, expanding with deliberate breaths as you meet his face.

coal, dark colored eyes framed by the delicate, pale wisps of eyelashes, quivering and moving with the swoop against the edges of cut holes at his balaclava, you can feel the lopsided smile he holds to his lips in the creases around his eyes, you knew he would be hiding his face, and he told you so, said that if that's a problem, you can talk about it, but with a shiver running down your spine, the trill at the pit of your stomach, you said that won't be a nuisance.

the evening begins with a dinner that is meal already set on the plates, everything tidy and neat, including an alcohol to your liking in the glass and his flexing hands pulling a chair for you across from him, the small table still keeps you two close, enough for simon to warm you up for him, with quick, feathery touches of his palms against your knee and up towards your thigh, hugged by your tight, adorable dress.

simon eases every single worry you have in your tiny head with his cooing out, and since it is tiny, the only thing you have to keep in is his name, the fact that he is your sir tonight, and that all you have to do is spread your pretty legs and let him take care of your needy, already aching pussy, holding onto his forearm as he leads you to the bedroom, already pliable for him.

even more so when he has you underneath him, your tight cunt squelching wet, sappy with slick, making every one of his punctured, pounding thrusts obscenely wet in the large, dimly lit room, your keens and hiccups turning into frothing drool that drips past the gag, stuffed in your mouth, a large ball that keeps your sounds at bay, but still loud enough for simon to hear only.

his cock scalding, pummeling in your split, gushing hole as your legs hang at the sides of his neck, splayed over simon's stretched out shoulders, twitching against his rippling back and digging with your flexing toes in, as your back arches back, sharp, causing you to cry out as his fat, dribbling cockhead hammers against your sweet, spongy spot, grinding in deep circles of his muscular hips.

kissing the crystal tears off your wet, blistering cheeks, chapped lips against your clumped eyelashes and glossy rolling eyes, while you dig your nails into his neck, causing simon to groan and rasp out in pleasure that rakes down his spine, down to his spasming cock, tightly hugged by the welcoming, slippery warm heat of your pussy, clenching with impending release that will leave you limp, with a loose hole creamed and globs of his seed oozing on the sheets.

you won't have to return to that app, simon will take care of that, and you, coo at your hoarse sobs and little chokes you sputter through the drool that floods your mouth, wipe you down with a fluffy towel wet from warm water, a respite against your still trembling limbs and aching, battered pussy, your face reaching, turning to his kisses as he rubs and massages at your sides, allowing you to fall asleep in his hold, now marked forever as his.

main masterlist. quidelines.

[xoxochb]

——— ౨ৎ ⊹ ࣪ ˖

“percy, percy, percy…” you sigh whilst shaking your head disapprovingly.

“I recall last time you said my name three times in a sentence we were in a very different position.”

you slap him across the head. “sit your ass down!”

“yes ma’am.” percy smiles and sits down on his bed.

you throw him a ‘one minute’ indication with your index, rushing to the bathroom and returning with a bright blue bandaid, a shark sprawled along it.

you take a seat next to percy on the bed, forcefully taking his ring finger and wrapping the bandaid around it.

“aren’t you gonna kiss it better, sweet girl?”

you roll your eyes and kiss his finger over the bandaid. “you bled all over your sheets. I just washed them this morning, y’know.”

“and I’m grateful for you doing my chores. but… I wouldn’t mind watching you bend over as you—”

“stop.” you leave and walk back into the bathroom, throwing out the bandaid wrappers before returning.

percy has already made himself comfortable, clothes discarded on the floor. you sigh and slip off your/percy’s shirt before sliding into bed beside him.

you take his injured finger into your hands. “how’d you do this?”

“that’s a great question, sweet girl, you ask good questions. I love you for that.”

you glare his way. “what did you do?”

“well… I was playing with a stick and one thing led to another.”

your glare diminishes into a look of confusion. “you never cease to amaze me with your stories.”

“thank you!” percy laughs and tugs you to lay against him, pressing a sloppy kiss to your forehead.

“it wasn’t a compliment, I’m saying you’re a dumbass.”

he shrugs and kisses you again. “yeah, but it’s getting me hard.”

you close your eyes and take a long inhale. percy begins to pepper your face in light kisses.

“percy.”

“mhmm, my sweet girl.”

your lost for coherent words as he distracts you. though you presume nothing you had to say was very important anyways.

he ends with a peck to your lips before resting your head beneath his chin, patting your upper back lightly, soothingly.

and to think this is the same boy you’re marrying this summer. the same one you’d devoted your entire life and heart to.

“percy?”

“sweet girl.”

“you’re one of a kind,” you laugh, nuzzling your head into his neck. “I love you.”

“I’m glad you think that way. I love you too, sweet girl.”

yeahhhh, you’d chose the right boy.

[toshn]

showing mark weird tiktoks :P this is really just pure brainrot i can’t takr it anymore it’s all over my fyp 💔🥀gn!reader i rhink and hero reader!! not proofread!!

it was 11:27 pm. you were doing your usual—doomscrolling on tiktok in bed while laying in mark’s arms after beating the shit out of criminals the entire day. it was the only time where you were able to just lay down and do nothing. if you weren’t born with powers, you would have definitely chose to rot in bed all day eating frosted flakes in the same pajamas you wore the previous day as opposed to working your butt off to fight crime. one could only dream

you’re new latest obsessions, of which mark was graciously subjected to never hearing the end of, was those weird ai generated photos of animals mutated with random things and the cute little japanese mouse-like creature—chiikawa. if you weren’t mouthing off about something a weird half-jet plane half-crocodile said, you’d be crying about how cute chiikawa is. or whoever ‘gluttonous king usagi’ is, as mark would say.

“mark. our streak mark. mark our streaks.” you mumbled with your cheek pressed against his chest, eyes still glued onto the screen in your hands.

“why do you keep sending me this rat in a suit who killed john pork? why is his wife having an affair with a pig?”

you giggled, laughing at the silliness of what came out of your boyfriend’s mouth. “tim cheese was a controlling piece of shit. he doesn’t deserve tina! she should’ve left him a long time ago!”

“and he didn’t have to kill john pork…” mark grumbled, scrolling further up to watch the other tiktoks you sent him. making sure to answer each one and keep your streak alive—or he won’t be hearing the end of it.

you rolled away from his grasp to instead press your stomach against him, your face inches away from his. “yeah! he was totally jealous of john pork. i’ll send you another tiktok so you’ll be able to educate yourself better about the ‘tim-cheese-john-pork saga.” you exclaimed, laying your cheek against him once more. the rumbling of his chest that came from his laugh making your heart swell with how soothing it sounded.

mark was really enjoying hearing you ramble about things he doesn’t even understand. hell, he was a geek himself. but if someone were to put you and him in the same room? (please do) it’s a different story. sometimes he doesn’t even get half of what you’re saying because he can’t catch up with internet humor nowadays—not that he has the time to do so. he patiently waited for you to find the video you were looking for, briefly looking at his own phone before he felt you perk up.

“here look! he betrayed john pork! i kinda feel like pengu is in on it… just- just watch the whole thing!”

and he indeed, watch the whole thing. his face was a flurry of emotions the entire time. he was frowning, furrowing his eyebrows, for a second you thought he was gonna throw hands himself. mark was clearly invested.

“i’m so scared for my life right now. what if i actually am next?”

you let out a hearty laughter, rolling away from mark and onto your back. he had the same reaction as you did the first time you watched the tim cheese lore video. and he even had the same look on his face when tim shot john pork’s head off clean.

“baby this is no laughing matter. who even made this? what beef do they have with john pork? i mean he clearly had pork you know.”

you continued on laughing, the absurdity of the entire conversation further fueling the fire and mark was suppressing his own laughter, determined to be the mature one between the two of you. mark shook his head. dismissing the tiktok that was still playing in the background as he watched you cradle your heaving chest while quiet giggles continued on under your breath.

“alright.” you deadpanned, “it’s no longer funny. i’m over it.” you sat upright, a faux stoic expression on your face and you looked mark right in the eyes— slowly getting back into the position you were once in.

mark shook his head in agreement, placing a hand on your back and rubbing circles on the area as he lifted his phone again to open tiktok. his attention still subtly on you. “yeah, you’re right.” he remarked.

“but what if… pengu actually framed tim cheese and he killed john pork? food for thought, (y/n). food for thought.”

[gojosconsort]

Can I pretty please ask for pre-relationship Gojo and the perverted things he does? :3 I love love LOVE your work!

PERVY!SATORU’S been watching you at the gym for weeks—months, maybe, he’s lost track. you’re always there, same time, same routine, and fuck, he’s so gone for you. it’s not just your face—though that’s plenty to work with—it’s your body, your curves, your sweat, fuckin’ leggings so tight they might as well be painted on when you bend over some machine like you’re begging him to stare.

he’s satoru fuckin’ gojo, he could have anyone, but it’s you—oblivious, focused, perfect—that’s got him so worked up, hard in his shorts every damn session.

today’s no different. you’re on the leg press, thighs flexing, ass up high as you push the weight, and he’s across the room, leaning on a treadmill he’s not even using, eyes locked. his phone’s out, casual in his hand, and he waits—waits ‘til you’re mid-rep, head down, not looking—then snaps it. quick, quiet, just a flick of his thumb, and there it is: your ass, round and tight, framed perfect in those black leggings. he smirks, tucks the phone away and he’s hard already, biting his lip, shifting to hide it.

he’s home fast, sprawled shirtless on his bed, gym shorts shoved down just enough, phone propped on his chest. the pic’s up, zoomed in, and fuck, it’s better than he remembered���every curve, the way the fabric hugs you, a little sweat stain right where it counts.

he’s got one hand around his cock, thick and leaking already, stroking slow at first, and he’s imagining you—bent over that machine, leggings ripped down, his hands gripping that ass, spreading you wide. “fuck,” he mutters, breath hitching, thumb swiping over the tip, smearing pre-cum as he scrolls the pic up and down, obsessed with how you’d feel under him. “shit, you’d be so tight—bet you’d squeeze me good.”

satoru’s loud, needy—your name slipping out, “fuck, look what you’re doin’ to me.” he pictures your hips rolling back, taking him deep, and his abs clench, a perfect six-pack glistening as he picks up speed, hand tight, pre-cum slicking his fingers. “yeah, bounce that ass—c’mon, take it,” he mutters, lost in it, your ass in that photo all he sees—bouncing if he fucked you hard enough, right there on the gym floor, fucking you raw.

his balls tighten as he zooms in more, and he’s gone—cumming hard, thick ropes spilling over his hand, splattering across his abs, hot and messy, dripping down the ridges of muscle. he moans through it, head thrown back, white hair wild against the pillow, chest flushed pink, abs flexing as he milks every drop—cum pooling in the dips, streaking his skin, a fucking mess of his own making. “goddamn—that was good,” he pants, voice wrecked, phone slipping to his side, still glowing with your pic.

he runs a hand through the sticky mess on his abs, smirking lazy, imagining you seeing him like this—wrecked, desperate, all for you. “bet you’d lick it off me, huh? shit, i’d let you,” he says, half-joking, half-hoping, already hard again thinking of tomorrow—watching you, snapping more, jerking off to every angle he can steal. you don’t know it, but you’ve got him—satoru gojo, undone, cum-soaked, and fucking yours.

♡ AUTHOR’S NOTE. sorryyy i think this isn’t really so pervy but i was a bit lost with this request eHHH, hope you like it either way! (or send in another request if you have something specific in mind <3)

[gothcsz]

Hands To Myself | Javier Peña x F!Reader | ~4k wc | Explicit. Minors DNI.

Summary: You get to know the handsome stranger sitting next to you on your overnight flight to Mexico.

Tags: smut, reader is ovulating, hand job, fingering, dirty talk, lust at first sight again, sexual acts in public (on a plane), let's just pretend this is realistic okay, pwp, blowjob to completion, no use of y/n, reader is afab and able-bodied, reader is a woman of color yet everyone is encouraged to read, no physical descriptions, any typos/grammar mistakes are of my own doing and i apologize in advance, if i missed any other tags pls let me know okay, thanks!

A/N: this is all @probablyreadinsmut's fault tbh. coming into my inbox with horny thoughts, knowing i have to do something about it 😩 hehe i hope you guys like this, it's nothing special... i just need this man in any way i can get him! let me know what you thinkkkkkk🖤

You knew you were fucked the second you saw him at the gate. He isn’t just attractive—he’s ridiculously attractive. The kind of hot that only exists in movies or in passing, like some guy you make eye contact with and never see again. Except this time, he wasn’t just passing through. He was standing right there.

To make matters worse, your hormones are out of control. Peak ovulation. Just being around a man has your skin buzzing, like your body is betraying you on a biological level.

So yeah, you looked. How could you not? He’s tall, has broad shoulders, leaner than what you usually go for but still built in a way that makes your brain short-circuit.

Then the universe really had to mess with you—you are assigned the seat right next to him for the overnight flight.

Your stomach drops. Suddenly, your go-to comfy travel outfit, leggings and a cardigan, feels way too basic.

“I’m at the window seat,” you say, trying to sound normal.

He looks up, meeting your gaze, and smiles—actually smiles. His brown eyes are warm and a little intrigued as he gives you a once over.

“Okay.”

Just that one word and you are already overthinking. How good his voice would sound in your ear as he’s—

No, you won’t make things harder on yourself by having intrusive sexual thoughts about some stranger. No matter how good looking he is.

You shove your carry-on into the overhead bin and awkwardly step aside so he can stand and let you in. His body brushes against yours, and you get a whiff of his cologne, something woodsy, mixed with the unmistakable scent of whiskey from the airport bar.

Okay… so maybe you’d been watching him for longer than just at the gate. But who could blame you? The man is truly a sight to behold. It’s not like you were being a creep about it.

You mutter a soft “thanks” and sink into your seat, trying very hard to act normal while the flight attendants go through their safety spiel, though it’s hard to focus when you can feel his presence right next to you.

You need a distraction—fast. So, in a last-ditch effort to stop acting like a feral idiot, you pluck your book from your backpack and try to read.

It works, kind of. Not really.

“So, what’s waiting for you in Playa del Carmen?”

His voice, low and raspy, cuts through your attempt at reading—not that you’d absorbed a single word, still stuck on the same page since you opened it.

You glance over, and of course, he’s already looking at you. His leather jacket is gone, leaving him in a short sleeved button-down, a few undone buttons teasing the tanned skin of his neck, his thick biceps straining against the fabric.

You take too long to answer because he tilts his head slightly, lips twitching like he’s holding back a smirk. “Sorry—abrupt fuckin’ question.”

“No, no, it’s fine.” You stumble over your words, mentally cringing at yourself. His brows raise slightly, amused, and you don’t miss the way his mustache tics when he presses his lips together. 

“A friend’s birthday trip. I got caught up at work, so I had to take a later flight at the last minute. What about you?”

He hums, the sound deep and thoughtful. “Work.” That’s all he offers. “Not as fun as what you’ll be getting up to, I’m sure.”

You bite your lip, fingers fidgeting with the edge of your book. “I’ve heard the beaches are beautiful. I’m excited to just lounge and take in the sun. It’s been so long since I’ve gone on a proper vacation.”

Your tongue is loose despite the way you’re vibrating under the weight of his attention.

“I know that feeling. Don’t even think my body knows what a vacation is…” He trails off, leaning back in his seat, thighs spreading in that way men do, which you usually find annoying but something about the way he does it has your pussy clenching, and you try no to let your eyes drop down to his crotch.

“How’s the book?”

You blink slowly, returning your attention to the paperback in your hand. “Got a slow start but so far it’s been alright.”

“I bet. You’ve been stuck on the same page since we took off. Must be the most riveting paragraph ever written.”

Heat creeps up your neck, and if it were anybody else, you’d be weirded out by their observation. Being hot does have its privileges. “Maybe I just like rereading. Really taking in the point the author is trying to make.”

“Uh-huh, right…” He chuckles softly and that sound triggers the desire that seeps into every pore of your skin.

The conversation continues flowing thereafter, which you definitely did not expect. His name is Javier, and he’s constantly traveling for work—though he’s vague on the details, and you’re not about to grill a stranger for his life story.

Instead, the topics meander, easy and flirtatious, both of you toeing the line between casual and something else.

You swear he’s flirting. He leans in slightly when you speak, holds your eyes captive just a beat too long, like he’s in no rush to look away.

You’re noticing everything the deeper you get into this… thing. The way lips form around each word, full and obnoxiously kissable. The way his brown eyes glint when he talks about things that should be trivial but feel interesting because he’s the one saying them. How the tendons in his forearms flex whenever he gestures, his fingers long and strong, the kind of hands that could make a woman very happy.

Your horny brain is spiraling.

“A mango marg is my go to. Preferably one of those ridiculously oversized ones with sugar on the rim.”

He huffs out a laugh. “Yeah, that tracks.”

You arch a brow. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

He scratches his jaw, flicking his tongue over his teeth. You admire how chiseled his jaw is. “Means you like to have fun. You probably get away with a lot.”

“And you think I get away with things?”

His eyes flick down to your lips, just for a second. “I think you could, if you wanted to.”

You cross your legs, shifting in your seat like that’s going to help anything. It just makes it worse. Focus. He’s just a hot stranger. A hot stranger that smells like whiskey and cedarwood and keeps throwing you these amused little glances like he knows what the fuck he’s doing to you.

You should probably end this before you embarrass yourself. But instead, you just keep talking, keep flirting, and keep waiting to see just how far this can go.

“Do I have something on my face?”

Javier’s voice snaps you back to reality, and you blink, heat settling on your cheeks as your brain scrambles to catch up.

“Sorry, what?”

His lips curve slightly like he’s fighting a grin, but his eyes give him away. “You keep staring at my mouth…” He trails off, but there’s something in the way he says it. As if he’s caught you red-handed and is enjoying watching you squirm.

Your stomach clenches. Your thighs press together on instinct.

Fuck.

Panic surges through you, and suddenly, the cabin feels way too small, the air too thick. “No, uh—there’s nothing there. I just… I zone out sometimes.” You clear your throat, fingers fumbling with your seatbelt. “Would you mind letting me get to the restroom?”

You sound as pathetic as you feel, but Javier doesn’t let up. His smirk stays put, eyes flicking over your face like he’s contemplating something.

Still, he nods. “Sure.”

He stands, stepping aside, and as you squeeze past him, his hand just barely grazes your lower back. Light enough to be innocent, intentional enough to send a full-body shiver down your spine.

You swallow hard, pretending not to notice—pretending not to feel the slick heat between your legs pulse at the contact—and walk as casually as possible down the aisle.

The moment you lock the restroom door behind you, you press your palms against the tiny counter, breathing hard.

Your reflection stares back at you, pupils blown, lips parted like you just stumbled out of a damn makeout session. 

You’re hot. Turned on from nothing but a little eye contact and some shameless flirting. And the worst part? It’s not going away anytime soon. Especially since you’re sitting so fucking close to him. Your body is wound tight, aching at the worst possible time.

Your panties are soaked, borderline ruined, pussy crying to get some relief, and you actually consider slipping a hand down there and rubbing one out. But you know yourself. Getting off with your fingers is a slow, frustrating process, and the last thing you need is to be locked in an airplane restroom, chasing an orgasm while Javier is sitting just outside, existing like that.

So you suck it up. Splash some cool water on your face. Take a deep breath. Get it together.

When you step back into the aisle, he’s already standing, leaning casually against the row of seats as if his demeanor and charm aren’t totally putting you under his spell. He looks even better now than he did before you left.

You give him a tight-lipped, awkward smile as you slide back into your seat. He follows, sinking into his own with a quiet grunt, the sound low and rough enough to send another spark of pleasure straight to your cunt.

“Everything good?” He asks smoothly, but there’s an undercurrent of playfulness to it, like he already knows the answer.

You force your legs to stay still, clenching your thighs subtly as you nod.

“Mhm.”

He hums. “You don’t have to lie, you know.”

Your eyes snap up to his, heartbeat hammering. “What?”

“I know when a woman’s turned on. And you haven’t exactly been subtle about it.”

Your stomach drops, your whole body flooding with embarrassment. “That’s ridiculous—”

“Nothin’ to be embarrassed about.” He shrugs. “Been thinkin’ about how good your ass looks in those leggings since I saw you back at the airport.”

Oh, you’re so fucked.

Your breath stutters, fingers gripping the armrest as if that’ll do anything to ground you. Maybe this is a dream, it has to be. No way he’s reciprocating the horny vibes you’ve been exuding because of your damn ovulation cycle. 

“Javier…” His name falls from your lips, shaky, uncertain.

His expression doesn’t change—still cool, still lazy, but there’s a darkness to it now. “It’s okay. We don’t have to do anything…” His knuckles graze your thigh, featherlight, making you shiver before he pulls away. “But I’m not gonna sit here and pretend like I’m not attracted to you.”

You lick your lips, watching the way he follows the movement, how his hand balls into a fist against his leg. The cabin is dim now, most passengers lost in their own worlds or asleep, and the seats around you are conveniently unoccupied. The flight attendants have finished their last walkthrough, leaving you tucked away in a private little pocket of space.

Your pulse thrums, a decision forming in the haze of arousal clouding your mind. “What if…” You hesitate, but then let the thought take control, logic be damned. “What if I wanted to do something?”

Javier’s brows lift slightly, intrigue flashing across his face. The shift is instant—his relaxed posture stiffens, his jaw ticks, and his eyes dip just slightly as if assessing exactly how far you’re willing to go.

You’re barely breathing as he lifts the armrest between you, his body pressing in tight, his lips ghosting over the shell of your ear. You almost pass out.

“Yeah?” His voice is nothing but a whisper, matching the lust that’s thrumming in your veins. “Like what?”

The warmth of his breath has you letting out a soft, involuntary whimper.

“Anything,” you murmur, fidgeting with your fingers, the need unbearable. “I just need you to touch me.”

Javi exhales a low, quiet laugh through his nose, and you can feel his smirk against your skin. His lips ghost along the side of your jaw, teasing, taunting.

“I can do that.” His fingers then trail up your thigh agonizingly slow, stopping just at the hem of your leggings. “Just need you to keep quiet.”

You nod weakly, head tipping back against the seat as his mouth finds your neck. He starts slow, pressing soft kisses along the sensitive skin before sucking lightly, dragging his teeth over your pulse. You resist the urge to squirm as his large palm moves up your body, fingertips teasing along the curve of your breast over your top.

Your nipples tighten instantly, and when he pinches one between his fingers, both of you let out a quiet groan.

“So sensitive. You need more?”

You bite your lip, nodding desperately again. “Yes.”

His hand slips beneath your shirt and finally—rough fingertips meet your bare skin. He palms your breast, kneading, tugging at your nipple, sending sharp little sparks of pleasure straight to your pussy.

You shift, desperately trying to find any friction. Your horniness is maddening and he knows it.

“Poor thing,” he murmurs against your jaw, tongue flicking out to taste your skin. “So worked up already. Bet you’re soaked.”

His words send a fresh wave of heat through you, and you whimper, hips rolling ever so slightly.

Javier groans at the movement, shifting even closer, his thigh pressing against yours as he works your tits over with a practiced hand.

His lips move up to your cheek, then the corner of your mouth. You turn your head, eyes locking with his for a brief moment before you both give in—lips crashing together, mouths desperate and hungry.

He can kiss.

His tongue slides against yours, tasting and exploring. The fingers at your breast keep working, rolling your nipple between his fingers, twisting just enough to make you gasp against his lips.

“Javi…” His name is exhaled breathlessly. “More. Please.”

He tilts his head slightly. “Yeah?” Leaving your tits, he moves down between your legs and you spread your thighs, giving him enough room to begin rubbing you over your leggings.

You let out a sharp gasp, back arching slightly. The pressure has you melting, chasing the touch you so desperately need.

Javier watches you, drinking in the slight furrow of your brow, how your lips purse. “Goddamn.” He can’t help but nip at your lower lip, gripping your thigh with his other hand as he grinds a little harder against your pussy. “You soaked right through these.”

Your fingers dig into his forearm, the teasing unbearable.

“You’re so—” You shudder, exhaling shakily and he’s living for it. “You’re so fucking hot, I couldn’t help it.”

“I could probably make you come just like this, huh? Needy little thing needs her pussy played with so bad, she’s whoring herself out on a fuckin’ plane just to get an orgasm.”

Your jaw hangs open at his filthy words.

Javier is clearly enjoying the effect he has on you. His fingers keep moving, slow and firm, while your hand drifts down, pressing against the hardness straining beneath his jeans. Even through the thick denim, he’s big, and when you squeeze just slightly, his hips jerk into your palm.

He groans into the kiss you’re sharing, enjoying your touch. “This is risky, you sure?”

You nod, struggling to think through the fog of lust clouding your mind. “I don’t care.”

That’s all it takes.

He pulls back, just enough for both of you to move quickly. You shrug off your cardigan, tucking it beneath you before slipping your leggings and panties down to your mid thigh. You’re not about to put your bare ass on this plane seat.

He unbuckles his belt, freeing himself from his jeans, and holy shit.

Your mouth goes dry. He’s thick, a swollen, flushed cock with a prominent vein running down the side, curving just enough to make your walls flutter at the thought of him fucking your cunt.

Javi catches your lingering gaze and smirks. “You just gonna look, or—?”

You drag your tongue across your palm before wrapping it around his leaking cock, your touch making him shudder. Slowly, you stroke him, spreading the precum with your thumb, gliding it over the sensitive head before giving a firm squeeze, earning a growl from deep in his chest.

His fingers slip between your thighs, spreading your pussy lips open, and he wastes no time in teasing your sensitive labia, dragging his touch up and down attentively.

You moan quietly as to not get yourself caught. He groans at the feeling of you, slick and hot, his digits smearing your arousal all over your pretty pussy before pressing against your swollen clit.

“If we weren’t on this goddamn plane I’d fuck the shit out of you.”

You can’t hold back your soft whine, your head tilting back, wrist still moving, his own fingers working magic between your thighs.

“How? Please Javi tell me how you’d fuck me.”

He buries his head into your neck, licking, biting, sucking at your skin, his thick fingers now breaching the mouth of your cunt.

It’s pure bliss—the stretch so much deeper, fuller than your own fingers ever manage. His thick digits work you open, pressing against every sensitive spot inside you. The way he drags against your inner walls has your eyes rolling to the back of your head, but it’s the relentless pressure on your fleshy pearl that wrecks you, erasing every thought but him.

“I’d have you spread out, my head buried between your legs, fucking you with my tongue until you’re wet enough to take this big cock.” His hips grind into your jerking palm to emphasize his point.

You can only imagine how his wet tongue would feel up against your flesh, tasting every crevice, pulling orgasm after orgasm from you.

“Probably start over you, wanna see that pretty face while I slide inside this tight pussy baby, fuck,” he groans, fingers now knuckles deep inside your cunt and you moan, slipping into this fantasy with him, imagining how good it’d feel to have his dick stretching you out.

“Not really a missionary girl but I know you’d make me feel good, Javi.”

His thumb is slick with your sticky wetness, allowing him to swirl your clit around, massaging it and making your pussy drool even more. Your nipples are hardened and oversensitive, adding to the bliss when they brush against the fabric of your shirt with every deep inhale and exhale you take. 

Javi’s fingers begin to thrust into you more earnestly, the soft squelch of your pussy getting finger fucked thankfully drowned out by the hum of the plane. “How would you want it then? Tell me how you’d take it.”

Another bead of precum dollops from his slit and your mouth waters, picking up the pace to match the stroking of his fingers inside you.

“On top. I’d bounce on your cock until you’re filling me up. Put my tits in your face, make you suck on them.”

A thin sheen of sweat clings to your temples, the heat of his kisses still lingering on your neck making your temperature spike like a fever you don’t want to break.

Javier gets desperate, leaning in to put his lips on yours, imagining the way your pussy would feel while you rode him. You clench around his fingers, your orgasm on the brink of making a mess all over his hand.

“You’d let me come inside you?” His voice is a husky murmur, almost taunting, laden with lust as he cups your jaw with his other hand before sliding lower, wrapping firmly around your throat. Not squeezing, just holding, keeping you in place as he curls his fingers, brazen eyes boring into yours.

Your breath stutters as ecstacy coils impossibly tight. “Mhm,” you nod weakly, tears welling in your eyes from how good it all feels.

A wicked smirk spreads across his lips, his grip keeping you steady as he drags you closer. “Naughty girl,” he murmurs. “Fuckin’ love that.”

His lips crash against yours again, swallowing your cries as his fingers work you harder, scissoring inside you, his fat thumb flicking your clit rapidly. 

It sends you tumbling over the edge, your entire body clenches, muscles locking as waves of pleasure ripple through you, your release coating his fingers while you moan into his mouth, trying to keep quiet, trying not to let the whole damn plane know what he’s doing to you.

Your grip on his cock tightens but you lose your rhythm as he lets you ride out your orgasm, whispering praises against your lips, not seeming bothered by the lack of attention at his shaft.

Your chest rises and falls rapidly as you attempt to catch your breath, blinking away the stars clouding your vision while he pulls his fingers out, a sticky web following.

Javier lifts his fingers between you, still slick with your release, dark eyes flicking to yours as he takes in the scent of your pussy before he’s licking at them, using the hold he still has on your neck to bring you in so you’re both making out with his wet fingers between the two of you, your tongue moving sinfully, getting lost in the act.

You break away when his fingers are licked clean, attempting to catch your breath. After regaining some control, you continue to work his cock, urging him to slide into the unoccupied third seat by the aisle so you have room to take him in your mouth.

Javi blinks, caught off guard, dick twitching in your grasp as he registers what you’re suggesting.

“You sure?” His hands flex like he’s barely holding himself back.

“Yes. Don’t want to make a mess, right? Just make sure no one’s looking.” You purr, pulling your legging and underwear back up before shifting your body and bending over to lick at his tip, circling around his head before you’re taking as much as you can into your mouth.

The positioning is a little cramped and awkward, but you don’t care. He tastes so good, feels even better on your tongue. The blood is roaring in your ears, you can’t even hear any of the quieted noises you’re pulling from him but you do feel his hand landing on the back of your neck and he pushes you further down, forcing you to take almost the entirety of his cock down your throat.

You fondle his balls, sucking in your cheeks and bobbing up and down quickly. His stomach tightens and before you know it, ropes of warm and salty cum are filling your mouth, his fingers digging into your skin. You moan around him, slurping him up before pulling away with a soft pop, wiping at the corners of your mouth where the fluids had smeared.

He looks just as wrecked as you had when you came, his cheeks a little pink, eyes dilated, breathing heavily. He exhales a quiet, breathy laugh, running a hand through his hair before tucking himself back into his pants, watching you with something dangerously close to admiration.

You lean in, pressing a slow, teasing kiss to his lips, returning the favor and letting him taste the last traces of himself.

“Where are you staying? This can’t be the last time I see you.”

You tell him the name of the resort, watching as that familiar cocky smirk creeps back onto his face.

“Okay,” he murmurs, mind already made up. “Can’t let you walk away after that. Pussy’s too good. Hope your friends don’t mind me stealing you for a night or two.”

He caresses your cheek and you melt into him, resting your chin on his shoulder, staring up at him with starry eyes. You already know you’re going to get the lecturing of your life once you disclose what just transpired to your homegirls.

“They will. Maybe I should extend my stay just a little longer…” Your fingers fidget with the buttons on his shirt.

“I’ll pay for it. Anything to see you again.”

Oh god, is this irresponsible of you? Probably. But you’re not thinking with your brain right now, no, you’re straight up thinking with your pussy.

“Deal.”

@almostempty . @auteurdelabre . @miss-oranje-disco-dancer . @pepperstories . @greenwitchfromthewoods . @maiamore . @pedrohoe04 . @natalieispunk . @thewisesalmon . @bitchesuntitled . @puddles221b . @swankyorange . @bbyanarchist . @thottiewinemom . @heyhihello-4771 . @persephone-girl . @danaehldy . @sunflowerfive . @libre-sol . @harriedandharassed . @untamedheart81 . @moel-jiller . @honeyedmiller . @alexxavicry . @oldenoughtoknowbettersstuff . @almodovarispunk . @southernbe . @readingiskeepingmegoing . @pedrito-is-punk7. @mandaloriankait . @la-vie-est-une-fleur29 . @lover-of-books-and-tea . @mysterious-moonstruck-musings . @almostfoxglove . @thundermartini . @pigeonmama . @piercethevic03 . @marisemonteiroo . @picketniffler . @getitoutofmymindwrites . @clubsoft . @bunniboo0015 . @kirsteng42 . @ivuravix . @joelmillerisapunk . @theestorm . @pasc4lfuzz . @manuymesut . @biapascal . @angiewatson .

[seitmai]

Many thoughts

He hummed and decided it was perfectly acceptable to interrupt your jaunt with his presence. “Hey! Up so early?” He asks as he tries to match your pace from a standstill “could ask you the same.” You reply bluntly “well I wanted to get a run in before-” “well there’s your answer.” You reply, cutting him off. “You run really quick.” He says as you try to keep your pace increasing to shake him off “goodbye, Bradshaw.” You say, pulling your sunglasses over your eyes and taking off at a pace he couldn’t sustain. He just stops and shakes his head smiling, you were funny.

This is hilarious 😅

“Oh look my chick is back.” You mumble sarcastically and Bradley laughs loudly at you. “You love me really” he says, looking at you as if he wanted to you agree with him “you seem to keep telling yourself that, don’t you?”

He is manifesting 🤭

“What?” You ask, finally turning to look at him. “What?” He repeats, looking at you with raised brows “you want to ask me something. You’re fidgeting.” You point out “so ask me or fuck off” you say, turning away again. “Your last name is Mitchell” he says and you roll your eyes “you can read and hear. Two things I’ve learnt today.” You huff, again, with sarcasm. “Are you related to Pete Mitchell?” He asks, looking at you and nearly holding his breath “you finally put two and two together?” You ask and he lets out the breath.

I love her no nonsense attitude

“Yeah, he’s my dad.” You say after a while “I was a whoopsie baby my mother didn’t want anything to do with” you tell him. “He used to fly with my dad.” Bradley almost whispers, voice just a few octaves above. “I know” you nod “he’s practically wallpapered all over our hanger.” You say “so are you” you eye him. “He pulled my papers” he says, again after a few moments of silence “I know” you say “do you know why?” He asks “yes.” You reply, and he could tell you weren’t going to elaborate. “Y’know I’m not a fan of your dad, but I really like you.” He says and you just look at him with a blank face. “Yup” you hum to yourself and he raises a brow “just as Mother Goose was described” you say, and Bradley’s face immediately lights up with a huge grin, stretching and arm around you and pulling you into his side. “Get off me.” “Yup, yep, sorry.”

This playful tension between them is so so good 😍

“1. Haywood & Solomons, 2. Hughes & Shelley & Omaha, 3. Cooper & Parker & Cromwell & Smith, 4. Bradshaw,” you crossed your fingers as someone read out the names, then yours was read alongside Bradley’s “oh for god’s sake” you grumble, turning to see Bradley practically jumping for joy. “This is great! Me and you, Hen!” Rooster cheers and you just stare at him “should’ve called you leech cause you’re acting like one. Calm down.” You instruct and he tries to chill out, but the cheeky smile on his face was indiminishagble.

Bradley is very much not chill about it, he is overjoyed and he can barely hide it 😅

“Do you want a family?” He ask and you just nod “really?” Hawk asks “that’s cute, didn’t take you for a family gal” he jokes and you harshly kick his leg under the table “kids and everything?” He asks after the pain subsides. “Yup.” You say and Bradley hums “I didn’t know that” he says and you just look at him “you never asked.” You reply simply, and that was true: he hadn’t. He was quite prepared to spend the rest of existence chasing after you, whether that meant giving you your first kiss on your deathbeds.

Bradley is so deeply in love and he will happily live with whatever crumbs Hen gives him😅🤭

“Congratulations!” Bradley says excitedly on graduation day when you victoriously lifted the trophy above your head. You turned to him and he leant down slightly - you weren’t stupid, you knew what he was intending to do. “Thank you, Brad.” You say, turning to walk over to where your father was stood - knowing that was probably the only time Bradley wouldn’t follow you. That was the first time you’d ever called him anything short of Bradley Bradshaw.

There had to be a special occasion to call him even close to his government name 😂

“I’m so proud of you honey” your dad says, hugging you tightly and you embrace him back, smiling widely “thank you, dad” you respond and he looks behind you where Bradley was stood a while back, watching the ordeal. “Is that-” “yes” you tell him and your dad just looks at you “I wouldn’t get all teary he follows me like a lost puppy” you grumble but he just grins “he’s a good kid, hon.” He says and you shake your head “he’s definitely something”

Something hmm👀

“So how does their relationship work?” Bob asks Hangman, watching Bradley talk your ear off and you just staring ahead into space, blankly. “You see Bobby my boy,” Jake begins “Hen loves her personal space” Bob nods “Rooster also loves Hen’s personal space.” Bob nods again, now understanding. “Haven’t they done everything together though?” He asks “I think it’s more the fact that Hen does something and Rooster just kinda goes with it” Phoenix said and Bob hums, as Bradley continues to converse one-sidedly with you.

This is too good 😂

“He means well” you hear from beside you as you stare out from the hanger, turning to see your honorary uncle Tom walking towards you, you run towards him as he embraces you tightly “hey Ice” you smile, sweetly. “Hey sweetheart” he croaks. “I mean what I said.” He states and you raise a brow “he means well” he nods towards the man doing his required push ups on the ground with Hondo. “I know, Ice.” You tell him. “No, I don’t think you do” he hums and you raise your eyebrows at him. “The kids in love with you. You’ve either got to let him in or tell him to get out.” He says, “you’re living together for goodness sake”. “It was cheaper” you argue “we both know the accommodation is subsidised.”

Saving money on accommodations is a great and valid argument though, there are worse roommates 🤷🏻‍♀️

It was true, you and Bradley were sharing accommodation. “Hey Hen, they’ve offered us shared accommodation back in Miramar” Bradley says, coming over with a pamphlet. “Why?” You ask, taking it out of his hands. ‘Married couple accommodation’ it states and you raise your brows “you getting ahead of yourself, Bradshaw?” You ask and he shakes his head “the guy assumed our callsigns were cause we’re a couple” he tells you and you just hum.

Oh and Bradley wouldn’t dare to correct him, manifesting and all 🤭

You take a moment of hesitation, before loudly groaning and heading out onto the tarmac, getting down and doing push ups alongside Rooster. He turns his head and looks at you and you just raise your brows at him. “Hey honey” he grins “hello Bradley” he nudges your hip with his own. “I’ll drive us home.” You tell him, and he raises his eyebrows “Home?” He asks and you huff “okay, Bradley I will drive the two of us back to our shared accommodation that we accidentally got given.” You say and he laughs loudly “home sounded better.”

I am obsessed with their banter 😍

“How about this one? Beach front, close to the running track for you. Only a walk from the Hard Deck. White picket fence, really” he hums, turning the laptop again “garden?” You ask and he nods “garden.” He nods with a grin. “Shall we go look?” You ask and he raises a brow at you. “You said it’s a walk from the hard deck. Let’s go.” You say, putting the address into your phone and immediately recognising the street name, Bradley quickly falling into step with you as you walk towards the property.

Like a lost puppy always behind Hen 🤭👀

“Obviously the kitchen, living room, even a deck out back with a huge garden and high fences” she says nodding out the window and you hum. “Out the side there’s an entrance straight to the beach” she motions, then starts heading up the stairs “three bedrooms, attic space, bathroom” she says “I’m guessing it’s just you two at the moment?” She asks “oh we’re not-” Bradley begins “yes, just us.” You confirm, shutting him up. “Okay, so there’s a large room for your bed and then if any new additions are to join, you have the space for them” she smiles and leads you back out front.

I feel like Bradley's manifesting is slowly working 👀

“It’s not cheap, it’s California. So I understand if you’re not prepared to pay that much money, do you mind me asking what you do?” She asks “we’re naval aviators.” Bradley says “stationed here?” She asks and you both nod “ah! I get why you’re looking for a property here!” She says and Bradley looks at you. “I really like it, Roo.” You say, and Bradley has to stop his jaw hitting the floor at your nickname. “It’s your call, honey” he says and you look at the lady and smile as she offers her hand “we’ll take it.”

Just for the nickname alone Bradley would have bought the house probably 🤭

“Where’ve you two been?” Hangman asks “we bought a house.”

Ahaha iconic answer

One evening, after you were all moved in and were hanging out at the Hard Deck after a long day or routine flying, you were sat outside with Rooster; watching the sunset. “When are we getting married then?” You ask and he spits out his beer “what?” He asks, eyes wide and getting progressively more giddy.

He is probably pinching himself because this is his dream come true 🤭🥹

“Well we live together, we have a joint bank account, and Jake keeps telling me we’re practically married. So when are we getting married?” You ask as he hugs you tightly “whenever you want, baby” he says, kissing the top of your head and pulling a ring out of his pocket to get on his knee. “Will you marry me?” He asks and you raise a brow “didn’t I just say that?” You ask bluntly “just say yes, please” he begs and you nod “yes. Yes I will marry you, Bradley Bradshaw.” You confirm as he kisses your lips gently.

🥰🥰🥰

I am absolutely OBSESSED with them 😍👏🏻

Personal Space

Bradley ‘Rooster’ Bradshaw x reader

Summary: you love your personal space. Unfortunately, Bradley also loves your personal space.

Pt. 2

You never understood why Bradley stuck around. Since the academy you’d preferred to stick to yourself; get your head down and get the job done. Especially with a surname like Mitchell. You didn’t want your father and grandfather’s reputation to negatively proceed you, and by the time people had put two and two together as to whom loins you came from: you’d made your own reputation so Maverick never made much of a difference to it.

But still, having dinner in the mess you’d sat down, when someone came and thudded down next to you and began eating themselves. “I’m Bradley” he said when you finally looked up at him. You raised a brow “Bradshaw?” You ask and he nods: you recognise him from the photos your dad pinned up in your two’s hanger. You hum “and you are?” He asks “not important.” You reply, deciding you’d lost your appetite and stood to clear your plate “good talk!” Bradley said, but you were already walking away.

He’d next encountered you when you were running around the academy, early morning; before any naval training would take place. He hummed and decided it was perfectly acceptable to interrupt your jaunt with his presence. “Hey! Up so early?” He asks as he tries to match your pace from a standstill “could ask you the same.” You reply bluntly “well I wanted to get a run in before-” “well there’s your answer.” You reply, cutting him off. “You run really quick.” He says as you try to keep your pace increasing to shake him off “goodbye, Bradshaw.” You say, pulling your sunglasses over your eyes and taking off at a pace he couldn’t sustain. He just stops and shakes his head smiling, you were funny.

Eventually, you’d both gotten up in the air and were quick to earn your callsigns “Rooster” and “Hen”. Bradley earned his because he was up before the chickens, you’d earned yours because the chicken kept fucking following you around like you were his mother. You were sat on the aircraft carrier, your trainee group learning how to land on a ship deck and you’d finally gotten a moment of peace that evening. You sat on the edge of the deck, feet dangling over the edge as you watched the sunset, not moving when you hear someone slip into the space between the barriers beside you.

“Oh look my chick is back.” You mumble sarcastically and Bradley laughs loudly at you. “You love me really” he says, looking at you as if he wanted to you agree with him “you seem to keep telling yourself that, don’t you?” You hum, turning to watch the sea lap against the grey metal. You can feel him fidgeting beside you, as if antsy to say something. “What?” You ask, finally turning to look at him. “What?” He repeats, looking at you with raised brows “you want to ask me something. You’re fidgeting.” You point out “so ask me or fuck off” you say, turning away again. “Your last name is Mitchell” he says and you roll your eyes “you can read and hear. Two things I’ve learnt today.” You huff, again, with sarcasm. “Are you related to Pete Mitchell?” He asks, looking at you and nearly holding his breath “you finally put two and two together?” You ask and he lets out the breath.

“Yeah, he’s my dad.” You say after a while “I was a whoopsie baby my mother didn’t want anything to do with” you tell him. “He used to fly with my dad.” Bradley almost whispers, voice just a few octaves above. “I know” you nod “he’s practically wallpapered all over our hanger.” You say “so are you” you eye him. “He pulled my papers” he says, again after a few moments of silence “I know” you say “do you know why?” He asks “yes.” You reply, and he could tell you weren’t going to elaborate. “Y’know I’m not a fan of your dad, but I really like you.” He says and you just look at him with a blank face. “Yup” you hum to yourself and he raises a brow “just as Mother Goose was described” you say, and Bradley’s face immediately lights up with a huge grin, stretching and arm around you and pulling you into his side.

“Get off me.” “Yup, yep, sorry.”

For your first deployment, the academy set it up that you’d at least be with one person from your training squadron, and today the list of names were coming out; they were scribbled on the back of a napkin and pinned to a notice board.

“1. Haywood & Solomons, 2. Hughes & Shelley & Omaha, 3. Cooper & Parker & Cromwell & Smith, 4. Bradshaw,” you crossed your fingers as someone read out the names, then yours was read alongside Bradley’s “oh for god’s sake” you grumble, turning to see Bradley practically jumping for joy. “This is great! Me and you, Hen!” Rooster cheers and you just stare at him “should’ve called you leech cause you’re acting like one. Calm down.” You instruct and he tries to chill out, but the cheeky smile on his face was indiminishagble.

He only became more unbearable then, with you every working hour, your wingman on the missions you’d fly, inseparable despite your complaints. “Where’s your boyfriend?” Hawk asked you, as he came to sit with you for lunch. You shush him loudly. “Woah woah I only asked where he was.” “Speak his name and he shows up. I’m trying to hide.” you say in a hushed voice “plus he isn’t my boyfriend” “sure” he scoffs but the daggers being shot into his head silenced him easily.

“Hey Hen! Hawk” Bradley greets as he sits down. You grunt and point an accusatory finger at Hawk “this is your fault, jackass” you say and he laughs at you, him and Bradley engage in conversation as you just eat, having learnt the skill of drowning him out. “What about you, Hen?” Hawk asked, drawing your attention away from your plate and up to the two men alongside you, you raise an eyebrow - letting them know you were insinuating that you weren’t listening to their conversation.

“Do you want a family?” He ask and you just nod “really?” Hawk asks “that’s cute, didn’t take you for a family gal” he jokes and you harshly kick his leg under the table “kids and everything?” He asks after the pain subsides. “Yup.” You say and Bradley hums “I didn’t know that” he says and you just look at him “you never asked.” You reply simply, and that was true: he hadn’t. He was quite prepared to spend the rest of existence chasing after you, whether that meant giving you your first kiss on your deathbeds.

The two of you even went to Top Gun together, training to be the finest naval aviators of them all. And boy, you two fought to be the best; tongue and teeth, blood sweat and tears, everything. The decision came down to one final dogfight. “May the best aviator win” Rooster jokes, sticking out a hand to you. You eye it and internally question if you were insane, before leaning up to peck his cheek. “Prepare to loose, chicken.” You say, leaving him frozen in his place while you head to your plane. That day, Bradley was seriously off his A-game, and you came out on top.

A Mitchell finally Top Gun.

“Congratulations!” Bradley says excitedly on graduation day when you victoriously lifted the trophy above your head. You turned to him and he leant down slightly - you weren’t stupid, you knew what he was intending to do. “Thank you, Brad.” You say, turning to walk over to where your father was stood - knowing that was probably the only time Bradley wouldn’t follow you. That was the first time you’d ever called him anything short of Bradley Bradshaw.

“I’m so proud of you honey” your dad says, hugging you tightly and you embrace him back, smiling widely “thank you, dad” you respond and he looks behind you where Bradley was stood a while back, watching the ordeal. “Is that-” “yes” you tell him and your dad just looks at you “I wouldn’t get all teary he follows me like a lost puppy” you grumble but he just grins “he’s a good kid, hon.” He says and you shake your head “he’s definitely something”

“So how does their relationship work?” Bob asks Hangman, watching Bradley talk your ear off and you just staring ahead into space, blankly. “You see Bobby my boy,” Jake begins “Hen loves her personal space” Bob nods “Rooster also loves Hen’s personal space.” Bob nods again, now understanding. “Haven’t they done everything together though?” He asks “I think it’s more the fact that Hen does something and Rooster just kinda goes with it” Phoenix said and Bob hums, as Bradley continues to converse one-sidedly with you.

“He means well” you hear from beside you as you stare out from the hanger, turning to see your honorary uncle Tom walking towards you, you run towards him as he embraces you tightly “hey Ice” you smile, sweetly. “Hey sweetheart” he croaks. “I mean what I said.” He states and you raise a brow “he means well” he nods towards the man doing his required push ups on the ground with Hondo. “I know, Ice.” You tell him. “No, I don’t think you do” he hums and you raise your eyebrows at him. “The kids in love with you. You’ve either got to let him in or tell him to get out.” He says, “you’re living together for goodness sake”. “It was cheaper” you argue “we both know the accommodation is subsidised.” He states, matter-of-factly, patting your shoulder as he turns to go talk to your dad when he walks into the room.

It was true, you and Bradley were sharing accommodation. “Hey Hen, they’ve offered us shared accommodation back in Miramar” Bradley says, coming over with a pamphlet. “Why?” You ask, taking it out of his hands. ‘Married couple accommodation’ it states and you raise your brows “you getting ahead of yourself, Bradshaw?” You ask and he shakes his head “the guy assumed our callsigns were cause we’re a couple” he tells you and you just hum. “Well I’d rather stay there than in an apartment.” You say simply, giving him back the leaflet and refocusing on the plane you were working on repairing. “Seriously?” He asks, voice overly hopeful. You look at him and shrug “just go get the damn house, Bradshaw. Before I change my mind!” You say and he grins, turning and breaking out into almost a jog to head to confirm your living situation.

You take a moment of hesitation, before loudly groaning and heading out onto the tarmac, getting down and doing push ups alongside Rooster. He turns his head and looks at you and you just raise your brows at him. “Hey honey” he grins “hello Bradley” he nudges your hip with his own. “I’ll drive us home.” You tell him, and he raises his eyebrows “Home?” He asks and you huff “okay, Bradley I will drive the two of us back to our shared accommodation that we accidentally got given.” You say and he laughs loudly “home sounded better.”

Then after the mission, the whole Dagger squad got permanently stationed in San Diego, other than deployment, so they urged the new additions to the base to buy their own properties closer to base rather than on it. You and Bradley were sat in the Hard Deck, a long time before it was open, the rest of the Daggers spending time on the beach while the two of you were scouring Bradley’s laptop for a property. Well, Bradley was.

How about this one? He turns his screen to you. You shake your head “I want grass in the garden. I want to plant flowers” you say as you point at the paved back of the house, explaining that it’s a waste of money to have it ripped out. Bradley nods “Mkay, garden” he says, moving back to look again.

“How about this one? Beach front, close to the running track for you. Only a walk from the Hard Deck. White picket fence, really” he hums, turning the laptop again “garden?” You ask and he nods “garden.” He nods with a grin. “Shall we go look?” You ask and he raises a brow at you. “You said it’s a walk from the hard deck. Let’s go.” You say, putting the address into your phone and immediately recognising the street name, Bradley quickly falling into step with you as you walk towards the property.

You look at it and place your hands on your hips. Bradley was right. Pretty damn perfect. “Can I help you?” A lady asks, walking outside of the house, clipboard in hand. “Oh no, we’d just seen this property online and wanted to take a look.” Bradley tells her. “Well I’ve had a no-show on a viewing. How’d you like to take a look?” She suggests, motioning to the open door. “Okay” you nod, following her into the house.

“Obviously the kitchen, living room, even a deck out back with a huge garden and high fences” she says nodding out the window and you hum. “Out the side there’s an entrance straight to the beach” she motions, then starts heading up the stairs “three bedrooms, attic space, bathroom” she says “I’m guessing it’s just you two at the moment?” She asks “oh we’re not-” Bradley begins “yes, just us.” You confirm, shutting him up. “Okay, so there’s a large room for your bed and then if any new additions are to join, you have the space for them” she smiles and leads you back out front.

“It’s not cheap, it’s California. So I understand if you’re not prepared to pay that much money, do you mind me asking what you do?” She asks “we’re naval aviators.” Bradley says “stationed here?” She asks and you both nod “ah! I get why you’re looking for a property here!” She says and Bradley looks at you. “I really like it, Roo.” You say, and Bradley has to stop his jaw hitting the floor at your nickname. “It’s your call, honey” he says and you look at the lady and smile as she offers her hand “we’ll take it.”

“How shall we split the payment?” You ask Bradley as you walk back to the Hard Deck after organising a meeting with the realtor to actually finalise all the kinks and bumps. “I don’t mind doing the down payment then we’ll take it in turn paying the loan” he suggests “we can get a joint bank account and do it that way” you say and he agrees as you settle back into your seats at the Hard Deck. “Where’ve you two been?” Hangman asks “we bought a house.”

One evening, after you were all moved in and were hanging out at the Hard Deck after a long day or routine flying, you were sat outside with Rooster; watching the sunset. “When are we getting married then?” You ask and he spits out his beer “what?” He asks, eyes wide and getting progressively more giddy. “Well we live together, we have a joint bank account, and Jake keeps telling me we’re practically married. So when are we getting married?” You ask as he hugs you tightly “whenever you want, baby” he says, kissing the top of your head and pulling a ring out of his pocket to get on his knee. “Will you marry me?” He asks and you raise a brow “didn’t I just say that?” You ask bluntly “just say yes, please” he begs and you nod “yes. Yes I will marry you, Bradley Bradshaw.” You confirm as he kisses your lips gently.

“Okay get off of me now.”

Pt. 2

[pythonmoth]

cw: FLUFF. social anxiety. self-imposed exposure therapy (pls never do that!). cute and then not so cute, but cute again! panic attack. dissociation. reader is traumatized and inconsistent. implied sexual activity, nothing explicit. simon is a whiny little bitch. slightly styled text.

primary simon x f!reader. poly tf141.

word count: 4k

First | Last | Next

Having breakfast with Johnny, with the team, wasn’t something you realized you’ve been missing.

It fits right in your heart, filling a hole you didn’t know has been empty.

So many years have gone by and little things like this usually go ignored until you’re forced to be aware of them and their absence. Maybe it’s therapy; maybe it’s that you’ve gotten used to being alone after nine months, only relying on your brother for a few months and then being on your own, but breakfast with the people you’ve called your family for nearly ten years now, it’s something your body accepted as necessary once you got it back, only then understanding how much you’ve been missing it.

Once everybody’s tummy is filled with tea, coffee and good food, they take turns to shower, one by one leaving to get ready until it’s only Simon and you. He looks far more relaxed than the day before, his eyes warm as he nods when you talk, telling him about how you’ve been planning to remodel a little, maybe change the paint of the exterior or even add some flowers to your backyard. Now that you’re forced to stay home, there are things that you want to change so it looks prettier when you come back. 

You don’t miss the way his right cheek jumps, as if he’s trying not to grimace; you know it isn’t a happy memory for anybody, but you’re glad he isn’t trying to shut it down, and merely accepting it as it is. Same as you are.

“Do you know if Tommy is available? I might have to call him up, since I can’t reach everything on my own. He’s the closest one to a professional I know, anyway” you hum, your fingers entertained as they rip apart a sugar packet, your eyes not leaving it for a moment.

“My brother? I think so. I can ask him to contact you” Simon mumbles. You look up when you notice how unhappy he sounds. He’s… pouting.

“What?”

Simon frowns, seemingly unsure if he should speak up or not. In the end, just when you’re starting to overthink and overanalyze everything you’ve said and done to get him to look like his, he finally looks up.

“I’m… I am available. I could help you” he grunts. “I’ve helped him at work before and I can get it done as quickly as he can” Simon rushes, as if he couldn’t help it. “With the right tools, perhaps even faster”.

When you go quiet, he shuts up. You’re hyper aware of his eyes on you as you look down at the ruined sugar packet in your fingers, biting down on your lip. It’s not that you don’t know he helps Tommy sometimes, it just felt like a safer question.

In the back of your mind, you think back to something your therapist mentioned as a possibility, something that could help you with the PTSD, though she said it wasn’t time nor a good idea for you yet. That was five months ago and, really, neither of you mentioned it again. Maybe…

Exposure therapy. It should be okay.

After all, what’s the worst that can happen? It’s just Simon.

“Wait, I don’t want to make you feel uncomfortable. I can just call him and—”

“Yeah. Yeah, okay” you interrupt him, your eyes twinkling a little. “If you’re free… we could start today, buy a few things. Please?”

And so, when the morning comes to an end, Price, Gaz and Johnny say their goodbyes, only Gaz and Price coming over to kiss your cheek and pat your head. Johnny gives you a bright smile and a promise to come over later. Price makes sure you remember his number, just in case. Gaz cups your cheeks, kissing your forehead loudly before he walks out the door with Price.

Johnny kisses Simon briefly before they leave, Gaz playfully gagging behind them. You see him, however, getting nudged by Price, both of them looking quite content; surely, there was a conversation you weren’t part of. The sun is high up as the car disappears from sight, some part of your heart wishing they could stay longer, but this will be good.

You hope so, at least.

Then, it’s only Simon and you.

It takes you fifteen minutes to get ready, and another ten minutes for you to stop looking in the mirror, reminding yourself that you’re not going alone. You don’t have to double check behind you, you’ve nothing to fear. But, the reminder that is Simon who’s coming with you, brings an unwelcome feeling at the base of your spine.

It’s somewhat irrational, you’re aware. But it’s still scary, and it doesn’t make it less real.

Taking a deep breath, you nod to yourself in the mirror, and step back, hastily putting away your makeup and promising yourself you’re going to clean the few-weeks-old dust from it when you’re back.

Your guts flip when you realize the sun’s already coming down, and it makes you feel insane that you can’t even focus on things like that; why would you be unsure of how long you’ve spent spacing out? That’s something else to mention the therapist, maybe.

Simon’s waiting in the living room when you come down, his face relaxed and his eyes fixed on his phone. His leg betrays him, however, because you can tell he’s been waiting, anxious. When he hears you, Simon gets up, checking his pockets to make sure he has everything and gives you a thumbs up, gingerly walking towards you.

“You ready?” he asks, his expression inviting, as if giving you an out. He looks just as anxious as you feel, and that makes you feel a little better.

Reaching into your bag, you make sure you have your knife and the spare knife, before nodding at him. As you both make your way out and into the car, you also pat the left pocket of your jeans. 

Pocket knife is a must, sometimes.

Buying the paint isn’t nearly as boring as you thought it would be. 

Simon makes it his mission to keep you entertained, easily reading the anxiety in your body language; he talks.

He talks a lot. And quite easily, much to your surprise.

Simon tells you why the lighter painting is better, and why you shouldn’t go for the darker one in certain places of the house, and why grey is a hard no if you want your house to look good. The black surgical mask is almost funny with how much it moves over his mouth, but you focus on him, and soon enough, you’re less worried, talking more, smiling and laughing at his awful jokes.

Eventually, in the middle of one of Simon’s morbid comments —"Look, that ashtray would be a funny gift for Johnny, if you ask me. We could make him fit in there later. Do you think it would be cheaper if we tell them why we want it?"—, you find the perfect shade for the exterior of your house. Simon isn’t convinced, you can see it, but he doesn’t complain, only crossing his arms and tilting his head, as if calculating in his brain how much you’ll need. He’s been at your house many times, and knows it as well as you do.

Simon’s the one who asks for the paint and a few other tools, since you’re already aware he won’t let you carry it anyway. You hand Simon your credit card, and turn away, distracted with little light bulbs of soft white light that would look pretty good in your bedroom, so you don’t notice he doesn’t use your card to pay for it, but his instead. He doesn’t tell you either as he hands the plastic back to you and carries the bucket and the rest of the big tools to the car.

Just like a few days ago, you find yourself checking your surroundings, especially now that it’s dark. You keep the car locked as you check the back seats with your phone, making Simon wait a moment. After making sure it’s safe, you pat your left pocket to feel the knife there and quickly get inside, finally allowing him in as well. Maybe your therapist is right and you’re still jumpy, but it is dangerous out there anyway, and there’s nothing wrong with being paranoid careful.

The drive back home is pretty calm, your shoulders finally relaxing after nearly two hours of being on edge. Simon’s music blasts on the speakers, a little too loud to be safe, but you need the distraction, and the streets are pretty lonely at night so you only focus on it, mumbling the lyrics to yourself.

Fifteen minutes later, you’re home and carrying the little bag with tools, which is the only thing Simon will let you grab, and get inside. Not even bothering to turn back, you lock the door behind you and take your shoes off, letting Simon take the plastic bag from your hands so he can set everything by the back door.

“I’ll be up early. If you wanna help, make sure you’re up by 7am” Simon grumbles, yawning as he takes the mask off.

“I haven’t woken up at 7am in like… nine months. That’s too early”.

“Tough shit”.

With a happy feeling in your chest, you say goodnight and go up to your room, leaving Simon to get comfortable in the guest room. Neither of you mention it, but it’s implicit he won’t be staying in your room like he would if this were before. The stairs creak slightly when you pause, your hand over the handrail, looking down as he seems to hesitate before waving at you, making his way to the room.

Out of habit, and maybe feeling a little anxious, you lock the door before taking your heavy jacket off. Getting ready to sleep alone feels a bit odd now that Gaz isn’t laying in your bed, but soon enough, you’re fresh and clean, and ready to sleep.

A loud crashing sound makes you jump up, face wrinkled from the pillow and heart pounding in your chest. You make your way downstairs, nearly tripping over your bare feet, one of the long knives in your hand as you try to focus on whatever is happening. The sun hits your face from the back door, watching as Simon hisses and holds the bucket of paint up, a big splash of colour all over your wooden floor.

“What the hell are you doing?” you grunt, using the knife to scratch your forehead.

Simon looks up, his eyes widening as he takes in your appearance. He didn’t think he’d ever be given the opportunity to see you so messy in the morning, but here you are. He clears his throat and starts scraping up the paint before it dries. “I didn’t seal it and I kinda dropped it. It’s fine, I’ll clean it quickly”. He falters a little when he sees the knife in your hand, a little amused. “Are you gonna stab me for messing with your floors?”

“Maybe. Don’t tempt me” you huff, your shoulders relaxing. “Be back in ten. Don’t you dare use the skyscraper ladder without me”.

“Mhm”.

“You’re gonna break your neck if you do”.

“Heard ya” Simon grumbles, his lips curling up. “I’ll wait for you”.

The tone in his words makes your heart tremble, but your face betrays nothing. Excited to work on your house, and hoping the little challenge you're putting yourself through doesn’t end badly, you rush to get ready.

The toughest part of painting with Simon is getting the job done.

Simon doesn’t move until the edges are perfectly done. He accidentally touched something he shouldn’t have? He’s gonna spend as long as necessary to get the paint off. You’re doing it gently, slowly, so he doesn’t take the brush from you? You’re taking too long! And if you let him do it himself, then why are you sitting there all pretty while he does it all? In the end, you give him an annoyed look and he calms down.

But then, when the edges are done, and you have to use the roller? Now that’s fun.

Since it’s easier, he lets you do it yourself, one of his hands on your lower back so you don’t trip —if your heart is trembling a little, that’s none of his business. Though you’re not entirely sure if it's anxiety, or excitement—. Simon’s smiling now, guiding you with a lot more patience, chuckling next to your ear when you accidentally get paint over your hands, and some tiny, little drops on his hair.

“I’ll make something to eat after we finish the first layer” Simon promises, guiding your arm with his warm hand; a simple caress from your elbow to your wrist as he points to the little places that are missing some love, as he calls it.

It doesn’t take you both long to finish the first layer, though it is more than you expected, since Simon kept coming back to perfect the edges and some little mistakes you couldn’t even notice, but you appreciate his enthusiasm, so even if it can be a little annoying, you don’t really complain.

Simon cooks something “simple” that allows you both to take two hours off, letting the paint dry properly. With both of you working together, his movements less sudden than they were the last morning —especially with the knife, which you can appreciate—, you end up just eating on your feet, both of you in the kitchen, not even using the plates and eating straight from the pot. 

Feeling lazy to clean up after this, you reach out for a single glass, lifting your eyebrow at him. Simon nods, taking it from you to pour some cold water for the two of you.

You can tell his eyes are fixed on the little mark your lip balm leaves on the glass and the way he drinks from the exact same place, but you’re easily distracted by food, so it doesn’t cross your mind to call him out for it. It’s something he used to do a lot back then, so you’re not surprised, but… it’s a little funny, honestly.

A few hours later, Simon’s on your ass again. The stupid edges are making both of your eyes twitch and your annoyance grows with each comment about how you’re doing it wrong. He isn’t even mean, but it’s so fucking annoying it makes your blood boil, your guts churning with murderous intent.

When he fucking whines that you’re not doing it as straight as it should be, you just can’t do it anymore. Your hand reaches down to the painting tray and, when your palm is dripping, you don’t give him a moment to understand what you’re doing before you place your hand right across his face, paint getting to his hair, his forehead, his nose and temples.

“Whom do you serve?”

Simon stares at you in shock.

You have exactly two seconds to run away when you see him reaching down for one of the brushes. 

He catches up to you in just a moment, the cold brush getting paint all over your old shirt, as if he were slashing a sword across your back. You shriek, still trying to get away, but Simon’s determined now, an arm wrapping around your waist to hold you against him. “You little shit” he grunts, amusement dripping from his voice as clearly as the paint does from the brush.

“Wait!” you yelp, laughing when Simon runs the cold paint across your face, forcing your lips close for a moment as the coarse bristles run over your cheeks.

“See? Better” he laughs, his hand splaying on your stomach before he finally lets go. Your skin tingles when his warmth slips away, but then you turn around to huff at him, and notice the bright, rare smile splitting Simon’s face in two, so you end up tackling him to the ground instead.

You’re rewarded with his flushing face, a loud bark of laughter coming from deep in his belly as he doesn’t even try to stop you. You scoop the dripping paint from your cheeks with your fingers and wipe your hands clean on his hair, his shirt. The paint seems to glow over his flushed cheeks.

A loud yelp of surprise echoes in your backyard when Simon easily flips you around, one of his hands pinning your wrists to the soft grass as he uses the brush to paint ridiculously big dots all over your shirt and arms. Your entire body shakes with amusement, laughing with no inhibitions, until you try to free your wrists from his grip.

And you c a n ’t mo ve.

Your mind fills with awful memories, with pain, fea r, salt wa ter, and pain. 

Pain. Pa in. One finger nail. Five fi ngerna ils.

Th r ee toe na il s.

You suddenly freeze, zoning out. You don’t even notice Simon’s holding you up, carrying you back inside as he mumbles, whispering soft promises. His hands are gentle and warm as he wipes the paint off your face, doing his best not to get much water on your skin, but you aren’t listening, your body is rock solid and your jaw is so tight he can’t even make sure you’re not biting down on your tongue.

When you wake up, you’re in your bed.

Your skin is clean, and there’s a soft towel under you that’s now a little dirty with paint; you’re still wearing the same clothes from this morning. It takes you a little moment to remember why you’re here, and look down at your wrists. 

Right.

The sound of water running from downstairs makes you get up, taking the towel off your bed. You set it over your chair by the desk and walk downstairs, your cheeks warm with embarrassment when you see him in the kitchen. The lights are low so you can’t really see his face, but you can see his slumping shoulders, the tension on his nape and the twitching of his mouth.

“Simon?”

He nearly drops the glass when he hears your voice, but he manages to catch it just in time, freezing as he stares up at you.

He’s still covered in paint, including the mark of your hand across his face. The sight of him looking so worried and still giving you those big puppy eyes behind all that completely dry paint…

“I’m sorry”.

Simon’s lips part, the words heavy on his tongue. His eyebrows seem unsure if they should be surprised or angry, because they jump and pinch together at the same time. He lets the glass aside and walks over to you, stopping just a few steps from you, his shoulders trembling.

“Sorry? You’re— sorry? What the hell are you even apologizing for? That was my fault. I scared you, again” he mumbles, tears welling up in his eyes, even if he desperately tries to stop it, swallowing thickly and shaking his head. “I am sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. It slipped my mind and I fucked up”.

You reach up to touch his shoulder, but Simon steps back, flinching away from you. Your heart breaks, your lips parting in surprise, but Simon’s too gone with guilt that he doesn’t realize it. Distantly, you wonder if this is what he’s felt this whole time. You wonder how many times you’ve broken his heart by now.

“I’ll just— I’ll call Tommy tomorrow. I’ll tell him to help you with the rest, so you don’t have to be around me for now. That will be easier” Simon mumbles, mostly to himself, his eyes darting from one place to another, avoiding your eyes. “Just let me grab my stuff. I can leave in ten minutes. I won’t bother you, I promise, I—”

Taking a quick step forward, your arms wrap around his middle, closing your eyes as you navigate through the complicated feelings growing in your chest. A little bit of fear as you feel him so close again, the panic still not gone from your system, but the love makes you weak on the knees; even like that, you don’t let go of him, your arms tightening around him when you hear him breathe shakily.

“I’m alright” you whisper, your fingers curling on his shirt, almost pleading. “Don’t leave”.

Simon’s heartbeat pounds against your ear, his arms still hovering over you, hesitant. And scared.

“Please”.

That’s all it takes for Simon to sink to his knees, gently bringing you down with him, his arms never restraining you, merely holding you close. His hands splay across your back, your sides. You grip onto him harder when you feel his tears running down your shoulders, shifting until you’re straddling his lap, his face buried in your chest as he cries in complete silence, your fingers lost in his hair.

“I love you. I’m sorry” he whispers, his voice muffled with your skin. You think he’s going to pull back, but his hands only curl slightly on your arms, your sides, one of your thighs, as if he were grounding himself.

As if he couldn’t believe you were holding him again.

The ball of feelings in your chest unravels until you’re able to slowly identify them as you both hold each other right there in the middle of the kitchen. His hands brush over your back, fingernails scratching softly over your skin, and you’re reminded of good memories, of better times; of the moment you realize you were in love with him, of the ridiculous moment he asked you to be together. Of the night Johnny joined you for the first time, of the instant you understood your own feelings, Johnny's, and Simon’s. 

You’re reminded of the night you saw Price and Simon share a fervent kiss before disappearing into the Captain’s room, more than once. And then when you saw Gaz and Price do the same over the years, even if they never freely spoke of it. 

The memories of that experimental kiss with Price, back in your first year with the team haunts your memory for a moment; both of you had paused after a while and grimaced. In the end, Price had given you his chocolate and you gave him your tea flavored mochi, the kiss forgotten and never spoken of again. 

At some point, your arms relax around Simon, but he doesn’t seem in the mood to pull away, even if his grip isn’t even too tight. It takes a little bit of nudging, a few whispered words, but he finally pulls back, his face puffy and slightly wet with tears, staring at you.

“Sleep with me?”

He doesn’t need to be told twice, it seems; his hesitation appears to be long gone as his arms easily hold you up, calmly throwing you over his shoulder. That would’ve broken the tender moment, if it weren’t for the warm hand over your back holding you still, and the shaky fingers gripping onto your thigh again as he walks up to your room.

Simon hesitates, but you kick back on your door, hurrying him up. Once inside, he sets you down, waiting by the door.

“Are you... expecting me to kick you out?”

“Yes”.

Your lips curl up, forever glad he never holds back with you, and motion him to get in. 

The anxiety doesn’t magically leave your body, and you’re still awfully terrified of him being able to just restrain you so easily again, but… progress.

It’s progress when he curses and rushes down to grab his clean clothes and a towel, asking you to let him take a shower after you’re done.

It’s progress when Simon lays in your bed, body stiff and hands shaky as he waits for you to turn the lights off.

It’s progress when you both awkwardly find a good position to sleep.

It’s progress when you wake up in the morning with his arms wrapped around you, your legs tangled, and one of your hands under his tshirt, warm against the bare skin of his back.

And it’s progress when you’re greeted with a small, sleepy smile from him before his eyes even focus properly on you.

henlo. how are we feeling? progress!!! progress!!! PROGRESS!!!

› buy me a coffee ♡

anyway, simon's autistic bc i am autistic and he's a whiny little bitch perfectionist!

if things go well, we have 8 chapters left :)

+18 people read here: yes, price and simon still fuck nasty from time to time. nobody gasped, nobody surprised.

taglist I: @euphoricn @lilg101010 @enfppuff @carolchaotic @silas-fanfic-favs @nina-from-317 @an-ever-angry-bi @kittygonap @adventurerabby @defronix @sheepispink @iambuttwodaysold @blackhawkfanatic @malevolentghoul @thriving-n-jiving @literallegendicon @echo9821 @angel-bugz @ssc7514 @clickbait-official @hades--baby @blackhawkfanatic @sirbonesly @saki---chan @skeletonsucker @nnsissys @kukavittu @tessakate @honestlymassivetrash @s-a-v-a-n-a-34 @rayrayyio @diseasedclitoris @alex1011sdzfgh @thebumbqueen @hyunjaebaby @jillvalentinesrealwife @sodavrr @kneelforloki @vioxsoo @l4vstrr @leon-thot-kennedy @t3a-bag @dotmistbird @littlezarp @eclipsedcherry @codeseven @babydoll-143 @viennakarma @exitingmusic @lockofspades

[heejamas]

OUT OF TUNE ˖ 🎙◞⋆ (part 2)

pairing: producer!beomgyu x producer!femreader

summary: you and beomgyu have been at each other’s throats since day one at HYBE. both of you are producers, both of you are talented, and both of you absolutely refuse to lose to the other. whether it’s competing for the best demo, fighting over studio time, or bickering in team meetings, everyone knows one thing: you and beomgyu cannot stand each other so, of course, your boss decides to put you two on the same project—producing ENHYPEN’s next album. together. as in, sharing a studio, making creative decisions, and not murdering each other in the process. and suddenly, the tension isn’t just about work.

genre:  enemies to lovers, coworkers to lovers, slow burn, angst with a good payoff // w/c: 26k // warnings: not proofread, MDNI!! smoking (reader and beomgyu smoke), drinking, angst, jealously, overworking characters, making out, petnames, dry humping

author's note: you guys loved part 1 so much that i decided to drop part 2!! i wasn’t originally planning on posting this so soon, but all the love and reactions made me wanna share it with you asap. hope you enjoy <3 READ PART 1 HERE // PANIC IS OUT NOW <3

The night was quiet, but Beomgyu’s mind wasn’t.

It had started with a question. A simple, stupid question that he never should have asked.

Waiting for your boyfriend to pick you up?

You had blinked at him, caught off guard, before letting out a soft laugh—so casual, so oblivious to what you had just done to him. "Yeonjun? No. God, no. He’s just—" You shook your head, still smiling. "He’s not my boyfriend."

Beomgyu had scoffed, looking away before you could see how tightly his jaw had clenched.

It didn’t matter. It didn’t matter that you weren’t with Yeonjun. It didn’t matter that you had laughed, like the thought had never even crossed your mind.

And yet, by the time he pulled into the parking lot of his apartment that night, exhaustion was settling deep into his body, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep. He rarely did these days, not properly, anyway.

The hallway to his apartment was quiet, dimly lit, the familiar flickering of the overhead lights casting long shadows against the walls. It wasn’t a bad place. Spacious, modern enough. But it felt empty.

As soon as he stepped inside, he tossed his bag onto the couch and went straight to the kitchen, grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge. His shoulders ached from hunching over his desk all day, his head heavy from staring at screens for too long.

Still, instead of going to bed, he pulled out his phone and scrolled through his call log. His thumb hovered over the contact labeled Mom, but for some reason, hesitation rooted him in place.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to talk to her. It was just that… sometimes, it was easier to pretend things were fine when he didn’t hear how tired she sounded. Still, after a few moments, he forced himself to dial.

When she picked up, her voice was soft, laced with the kind of exhaustion that came from being sick for too long. "Gyu-yah."

His chest tightened. "Hey, Mom."

"You’re calling late," she murmured, a small smile in her tone.

"You’re awake late," he echoed his earlier words to his brother.

She chuckled lightly. "Guess it runs in the family." Another beat of silence. "You’ve been working a lot, haven’t you?"

Beomgyu leaned against the counter, closing his eyes briefly. She always saw right through him. "Yeah. Big project."

"Hm. And how’s that going?"

He exhaled, rubbing his fingers over his temple. "It’s—" He hesitated, searching for the right words. "Harder than I thought."

"Isn’t it always?"

He huffed a quiet laugh. "Yeah."

His mother’s voice softened. "What’s making it difficult?"

Beomgyu rolled his shoulders, shifting against the counter. He could lie, say it was just the usual stress of production, deadlines piling up, expectations weighing on him. That was part of it, sure. But there was something else. "She’s… challenging," he admitted before he could think better of it.

A pause. Then, amusement slipped into his mother’s voice. "She?"

Beomgyu regretted his wording immediately. "I meant the project is challenging." His mother hummed knowingly, and somehow that was worse than if she had outright called him out. He sighed, tipping his head back. "It’s just—I don’t know. I’m used to working on my own. Or at least, if I do work with other people, I don’t have to think about them all the time."

"All the time?"

He gritted his teeth. "Not like that."

His mother just laughed softly, as if she had already heard this story before. "That means they’re good, doesn’t it?"

Beomgyu scoffed. "More like they piss me off."

"That’s the same thing sometimes." He rolled his eyes, but a small, unwilling smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "Does she make your job harder?" his mom asked after a moment, more thoughtful now.

Beomgyu exhaled slowly. "She makes my job better."

It was the truth. And he hated that. Because you did. Even when you were annoying, even when you were frustrating, even when you made him want to slam his head against the mixing console, you still made the music better.

And that should be the only thing that mattered. Should be.

His mother hummed softly, as if she could hear everything he wasn’t saying. "Some people just have a way of getting under your skin," she murmured. "And sometimes, that’s not a bad thing."

Beomgyu didn’t respond to that. Because he wasn’t sure he liked where his thoughts were heading. After a while, he let her rest, hanging up the call and tossing his phone onto the couch. He should go to bed. But instead, he found himself standing in his kitchen, staring at the dark city skyline through the window, mind circling back to the same damn thing. To you.

To the way you had looked at him earlier, confused by his mood. To the way your voice had softened when you told him you weren’t having a good day. To the way you had laughed at the idea of being with Yeonjun, so casually, like it wasn’t even a possibility.

He didn’t know why that last part stuck with him the most. And he really didn’t like that he cared enough to wonder.

And now, standing in the middle of a crowded party, staring at you across the room, he realized: You had never really left. You were looking at him. Even with the haze of alcohol buzzing in his system, even through the blur of shifting bodies and flashing lights, Beomgyu felt it—sharp and unmistakable. The way your eyes found him, held him, even for just a moment. The way your expression flickered, unreadable, like you were trying to piece together something that neither of you had the words for.

And for the first time that night, he wasn’t sure if he wanted to smirk or swear. Because he liked it. He liked that you were looking. He liked knowing that, no matter how much you fought him, no matter how much you denied it—there was something there. But then, you looked away. Like it hadn’t meant anything. Like he didn’t mean anything. And something twisted deep in his chest, hot and sour. So, naturally, he did what he always did. He let his mouth run before his brain could catch up. "But don’t worry," he said, voice light, almost lazy, but aimed with precision. "I don’t care either way. After all, like you said… I’m just your coworker." The words landed exactly how he intended. He saw it—the way your shoulders tensed, the way your lips pressed together. The way something flickered in your eyes, so fast that if he blinked, he might’ve missed it. Then he smirked. Just a flash of teeth, just enough to make your stomach twist. And before he could second-guess himself, before he could let the alcohol-fueled honesty catch up to him, he turned on his heel and walked off, leaving you standing there, heart pounding, head spinning, caught between wanting to kill him and— No. You weren’t even gonna finish that thought.

You let out a slow, frustrated breath, running a hand through your hair. You needed to get out of your own head. You needed a drink. And after that, you needed Yunjin.

The party was still buzzing when you stepped back inside, the room warm and crowded, laughter spilling over the music. You spotted her near the bar, leaning against the counter, drink in hand, mid-conversation with some guy you didn’t recognize. You marched straight up to her, grabbing her wrist.

“I need to talk to you.” Yunjin barely had time to react before you were pulling her away from the noise, past groups of people, through the doorway leading to one of the quieter lounge areas.

Once inside, she gave you a look, raising an eyebrow as she took a slow sip of her drink. “Damn. No ‘hey, how are you?’ Not even a ‘you look great tonight, Yunjin’?”

You groaned, dragging a hand down your face. “Not now.”

She studied you, then smirked knowingly. “This is about Beomgyu, isn’t it?”

You stiffened. “No.”

“Uh-huh,” she said, completely unconvinced. “Go on…”

You exhaled sharply, slumping onto the couch, rubbing your temples. “I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with me.”

Yunjin sat beside you, kicking off her heels, posture casual. “Alright, let’s hear it.”

You hesitated, staring at the floor, feeling strangely vulnerable all of a sudden. It took a few seconds before you found your voice. “I—” You stopped, frowning. “I don’t even know what I feel right now. I’m just… frustrated.”

She hummed. “At him?”

“At everything,” you admitted. “At this whole fucking project. At the way he gets under my skin so easily. At the fact that—” You cut yourself off, clenching your jaw.

Yunjin, sharp as ever, caught it immediately. “At the fact that what?”

You hesitated, gripping the edge of your seat. “I want his approval.” The words came out quiet. Frustrated. “I don’t know why. I just—I hate how much I care about what he thinks. Every time we work on something, I catch myself waiting to see how he reacts. Like, I tell myself it doesn’t matter, that I don’t need him to validate me, but then—” You exhaled sharply, shaking your head. “But then he does. And it fucks with me.”

Yunjin listened, her expression unreadable. “Do you want his approval?” she asked. “Or do you want him?”

Your head snapped toward her. “What?”

She shrugged, completely unfazed. “I mean, you’re so worked up over him, and yeah, some of it is because of work, but…” She tilted her head, giving you a look. “Is that all it is?”

Your stomach twisted. “Yes,” you said immediately. Yunjin just stared at you, unimpressed. You crossed your arms. “It is.”

Silence. Then she smirked, slow and knowing. “Liar.”

You groaned, shoving your face into your hands. “Oh my god, shut up.”

She laughed, nudging your foot with hers. “I mean, come on. This whole thing screams unresolved tension. You two have been circling each other for months, pretending you’re just rivals when clearly there’s more to it.”

You lifted your head, glaring. “There isn’t.”

“Okay,” she said, amused. “So if he kissed you tomorrow, you wouldn’t think about it for the rest of your life?”

Your brain short-circuited so violently that you actually choked on air. “What—”

Yunjin grinned. “Exactly.”

You scowled, but the damage was done. The thought was already planted in your head, unshakable. Beomgyu, close. Beomgyu, leaning in. Beomgyu, looking at you with that stupid, unreadable expression of his before—

Nope. You refused to entertain this. You grabbed her drink, downing the rest of it in one go, ignoring the way she laughed at you. “I hate you,” you muttered.

“No, you don’t,” she teased. “But you do have a thing for Beomgyu.”

“I don’t.”

“You do.”

“Shut up.”

“Denial isn’t a good look on you, babe.”

You groaned, sinking further into the couch, your mind an absolute mess. Because no matter how much you wanted to deny it, Yunjin wasn’t completely wrong.

The music pulsed through the party, deep bass reverberating in your chest as you let yourself sink into the moment. The weight of the conversation with Yunjin still lingered in the back of your mind, but you shoved it aside, focusing on your friends instead—on the warmth of Yeonjun’s arm slung over your shoulder as he dramatically belted the lyrics to whatever song was playing, on the way Taehyun shook his head at him, on Hueningkai laughing so hard at something that he nearly dropped his drink. You let yourself get lost in it.

And then, eventually, the night began to wind down. People started leaving in waves, slipping out the doors in pairs or groups, laughter and goodbyes trailing after them. Your own friends were still lingering, but you were exhausted, drained from the long week, from the constant push and pull inside your head.

You needed sleep. You told them as much, earning dramatic protests from Yeonjun that didn't want to leave with you, a teasing “boring” from Yunjin, and an understanding nod from Taehyun. Hueningkai just patted your shoulder. "Get home safe," he said, voice warm.

Near the entrance, just a few feet away, Beomgyu stood against the wall, shoulders tense, arms crossed over his chest. He wasn’t talking to anyone, wasn’t laughing, wasn’t even pretending to enjoy himself. He was just there, like he had been standing in that same spot for too long, stewing in whatever storm was brewing behind his unreadable expression.

And he was looking at you. Even in the dim lighting, even from across the room, you could feel the weight of it—heavy, unwavering, pressing against your skin like static before a thunderstorm. There was something sharp in his gaze, something unsettled. Irritated. His jaw was tight, his fingers flexing slightly against his bicep, like he was holding something back. But from what? From you?

The noise of the party faded into the background, drowned out by the heavy thrum of your own heartbeat. You didn’t know why you were still standing there. You didn’t know why the sight of him like this made something twist sharply in your stomach, something restless, something uneasy.

You exhaled sharply, breaking the moment before it could turn into something you weren’t ready to name. Without another glance, you turned on your heel and walked out of the party.

You didn’t know what you felt.

But whatever it was, you hated it.

Just like you thought you hated Beomgyu.

You woke up feeling like absolute shit.

The kind of headache that pounded behind your eyes, the kind of dryness in your throat that made you regret every decision from the night before. You groaned, burying your face in the pillow, willing the pain to go away.

It didn’t. Of course it didn’t.

Memories from last night filtered into your mind slowly, fragmented, like puzzle pieces that didn’t quite fit together at first. You remembered the warmth of the alcohol in your veins, the steady bass of the music vibrating through your chest, the feeling of actually having fun for once—until you saw him.

Beomgyu.

You squeezed your eyes shut, as if that could make the memory disappear.

Beomgyu, drunk and loose-limbed, flashing you that easy, lazy grin that made your stomach flip before you could even process why. Beomgyu being nice, too nice, his words softer than usual, his teasing edged with something warmer.

And then, just as quickly as it came, it was gone. The shift. The way his smile dimmed when he saw you talking to Yunho. The way his fingers curled slightly around his drink, his jaw tightening just enough for you to notice. The way his gaze darkened, cold and distant again.

And right before he walked away, he had turned to you with that unreadable look in his eyes, that frustrating mix of amusement and distance, and had said— "After all, like you said… I’m just your coworker."

Your stomach twisted. You threw the blanket off you, forcing yourself to sit up, because if you laid here any longer, you were going to start throwing things.

The apartment was dead silent, except for the faint sound of someone snoring in the living room. You got up carefully, wincing at the headache that pulsed through your skull, and padded out of your room. Yeonjun was passed out on the couch, one leg hanging off the side, his face smushed into a pillow. You sighed, grabbing the nearest blanket and draping it over him.

Then, as you turned toward the kitchen, you nearly tripped over two bodies sprawled out on the floor. Hueningkai and Taehyun. Both dead asleep, Kai using a hoodie as a pillow, Taehyun curled up in the most uncomfortable-looking position you had ever seen.

You stared at them for a long moment, then sighed again, rubbing at your temples. You needed coffee. You needed out of this apartment. That's why you decided to grab coffee somewhere else.

It was still too early for the world to feel real. The streets were quiet, the sky dull with that soft, overcast light that only came on hungover Sundays. You wrapped your jacket tighter around yourself as you pushed through the doors of the coffeeshop, craving caffeine more than you had ever craved anything in your life.

You were so focused on getting to the counter that you didn’t even notice him at first.

"So we really had the same idea, huh?" You blinked, turning toward the voice. Soobin was sitting at a corner table, hoodie pulled up over his messy hair, looking just as wrecked as you felt. His iced coffee sat half-finished in front of him, condensation dripping down the sides.

You stared. "Holy shit. You look like hell."

He scoffed. "Thanks. You’re glowing this morning."

You snorted, finally ordering your drink before sliding into the seat across from him. "Didn’t expect to see you here."

Soobin hummed. "Didn’t expect to be here. But I woke up with a headache from hell and figured coffee might bring me back to life."

"Same." You took a slow sip of your drink, wincing as the cold hit your stomach. "Last night was… a lot."

Soobin huffed a quiet laugh. "Yeah. Some more than others."

You narrowed your eyes. "What’s that supposed to mean?"

He just smirked, shaking his head. "Nothing. Just… Beomgyu was in rare form last night."

You stiffened slightly. If Soobin noticed, he didn’t mention it. "That drunk?" you asked, voice carefully neutral.

"Drunk enough to be nice," Soobin mused. "Which, you know, is when you should be really concerned." You huffed a laugh, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes. Soobin watched you for a moment, something thoughtful in his expression. "You know," he said eventually, stirring his drink with the straw, "he’s not as much of an asshole as he tries to be."

You raised an eyebrow. "Could’ve fooled me."

Soobin chuckled. "Yeah, he’s good at that. But—" He tilted his head slightly, studying you. "—he respects you."

You hesitated. It wasn’t that you didn’t believe that. You knew Beomgyu took you seriously, he wouldn’t compete so hard with you if he didn’t. But respect wasn’t the word that had been echoing in your head since last night.

Soobin leaned back in his chair. "And maybe he likes your work a little too much."

Your heart skipped, just once, just enough for you to feel stupid. You forced out a scoff, shaking your head. "Right. Sure. That’s why he spent half of the night treating me like shit."

Soobin’s smirk barely twitched. "I never said he handles it well."

You stared at him, trying to figure out if he was messing with you. But there was nothing teasing in his gaze, just knowing amusement, like he had already seen how this story played out before you even knew what page you were on.

You hated that. You hated that something about it made your stomach twist.

So, you stood up, grabbing your order. "I need to go before you start giving me life advice."

Soobin grinned, unfazed. "See you Monday, then?"

"Yeah, yeah," you muttered, already heading for the door.

But even as you stepped out into the cold air, the caffeine still not fully kicking in, Soobin’s words stuck with you. Maybe he likes your work a little too much. Whatever that meant, you weren’t sure if you wanted to know.

The walk back to your apartment was slow, the cool morning air doing little to clear the fog still lingering in your head. The coffeeshop bag swung gently at your side, filled with coffee and a few pastries, not because you were feeling particularly generous, but because you knew the three idiots waiting for you would need it just as much as you did.

When you finally pushed the door open, the apartment was still a disaster.

Yeonjun was awake now, sprawled across the couch in the same position you had left him in, scrolling through his phone with half-lidded eyes. Taehyun and Hueningkai were still on the floor, looking like they had barely moved.

You let the door shut behind you with a soft thud, and all three of them flinched.

"Jesus," Yeonjun muttered, rubbing his face. "Not so loud."

You rolled your eyes, tossing the bag onto the coffee table. "Brought coffee. If any of you die, it’s not my fault."

Hueningkai groaned, blindly reaching for the bag without sitting up. "You’re an angel. A mean one, but an angel."

Taehyun sat up with effort, running a hand through his already-messy hair. "Where’d you go?"

"Coffeeshop," you said simply, grabbing your own cup before sitting on the arm of the couch. "Needed air."

Yeonjun stretched his arms above his head, then let them drop dramatically. "Did we ever figure out what happened to Yunjin?"

"Yeah," Taehyun answered, taking a sip of his drink. "We got her home safe. She passed out halfway there."

"Typical," Yeonjun muttered, shaking his head.

Hueningkai yawned. "We were too drunk to go back to our own places, so we crashed here. Hope you don’t mind."

You shrugged. "I figured. You were taking up half my floor." You shook your head before speaking again. "Ran into Soobin there, in the coffeeshop."

That got their attention. Hueningkai snorted. "Damn, everyone had the same idea."

"Yeah," you mused, stirring your straw through your drink. "He looked just as bad as me. Maybe worse."

Yeonjun hummed. "He drank a lot last night."

"Yeah," you agreed, then took a slow sip of coffee before adding casually, "But he said Beomgyu was worse." You expected some reaction. A laugh, a sarcastic remark, maybe even an exaggerated groan. What you didn’t expect was the subtle way Yeonjun and Taehyun exchanged glances. You frowned. "What?"

Yeonjun exhaled, setting his drink down. "Nothing—just…" He hesitated before continuing, "after you left, Beomgyu and Yunho got into it."

You blinked. "What?"

Hueningkai nodded, chewing slowly. "Yeah. Not, like, a full fight or anything. But they were arguing. And it wasn’t friendly."

You sat up slightly. "Over what?"

Yeonjun shrugged. "No clue. Heeseung and I stepped in before it got worse, but they were both pissed."

Your mind raced, replaying the night. Yunho had been fine when you left, normal, flirty, acting like he always did. And Beomgyu? Beomgyu had been weird. The shift had been so sudden, one second he was being nice, playful, softer than usual. The next, cold, distant. And now, apparently, he had also picked a fight with Yunho. None of it made sense.

You drummed your fingers against your cup. "What did Yunho even say?"

Taehyun shook his head. "Dunno. But whatever it was, Beomgyu hated it."

You scoffed lightly. "So what? He was already pissed at me."

"Was he?" Yeonjun asked, raising an eyebrow.

You frowned, opening your mouth to respond, but nothing came out. Because, honestly? You didn’t know. He had been acting off all week, distant and unreadable. And then last night, he was the opposite, warm, teasing, close. And then, again, the shift, cold. Your head hurt just thinking about it.

"I don’t care," you muttered, standing up and stretching. "I’m taking a shower. If you guys are still here when I’m done, I’m kicking you out."

Taehyun smirked. "Love you too."

You rolled your eyes, but as you walked toward your room, the weight of Yeonjun’s words lingered. Whatever it was, it clearly got under Beomgyu’s skin. But why did that matter? And why the hell did you care?

The car ride to work on Monday was quiet, but not in a peaceful way.

Yeonjun was dropping you off like usual, his music playing softly in the background, but you weren’t really listening. Your thoughts were elsewhere, circling, looping, pulling you into an endless spiral of what the hell is going on with you and Beomgyu.

You had spent the entire Sunday trying not to think about him.

Trying not to think about the way he had been so warm, so teasing, so himself, until he wasn’t. Trying not to think about Yunho, about their argument, about the way Beomgyu looked at you when you left.

And yet, here you were, staring out the car window, still thinking about it. Because now you had to see him again. And you had no idea which version of Beomgyu you were going to get. The smug, infuriating one who lived to push your buttons? The cold, distant one who had barely acknowledged you all week? Or the version from the party, the one who looked at you like he knew exactly what he was doing to your head?

Which was exactly why you didn’t want to talk about this. Because if you said it out loud, then it would feel real. Instead, you just turned back toward the window, watching as the HYBE building came into view.

You made it to your studio without seeing Beomgyu. Thank god.

You hadn’t even realized you had been holding your breath until you shut the door behind you, exhaling slowly. The last thing you wanted was to run into Beomgyu in some awkward hallway moment, trying to pretend like everything was fine when clearly nothing was.

So you did what you did best. You threw yourself into work.

The hours slipped by, your fingers moving almost mechanically over your keyboard, your mind hyper-focused on mixing, arranging, tweaking. It was easier this way, easier to pretend that nothing had changed, that your work was all that mattered.

You didn’t see Beomgyu once. Not in the hallway, not in the break room, not even in the usual spaces where he always seemed to be. Maybe he was avoiding you too. You tried not to care. Tried not to think about it.

But then, just as the day was winding down, just as you were finally about to pack up and go home, there was a knock at your door.

You frowned, pushing your chair back. "Come in."

The door swung open, and standing there, looking as serious as ever, was Baekhyun. "Hey," he said, stepping inside. "Got a minute?"

You straightened slightly, your pulse kicking up for no reason at all. "Uh… yeah, of course."

Baekhyun shut the door behind him before turning to face you. His expression was unreadable, calm, neutral, but with a weight behind his eyes that made your stomach churn. You had a bad feeling about this.

"Listen," he started, crossing his arms. "I wanted to tell you this before you heard it from someone else."

You swallowed. "O…kay?"

Baekhyun exhaled, then said, "Beomgyu dropped out of the project."

The words didn’t register at first. You just blinked at him, waiting for him to say something else. But he didn’t. Because that was it.

You sat up straighter, confusion flashing across your face. "What?"

"He asked to be reassigned," Baekhyun clarified. "You’re the sole producer now."

Your stomach dropped. "He what?"

Baekhyun sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "I don’t know what happened, but it wasn’t about work. His excuse was weak as hell. He just said he ‘wasn’t the right fit for the project’ and left it at that."

You stared at him, your brain struggling to process. Beomgyu, who never backed down from anything, had quit? Beomgyu, who had spent the last few weeks going head-to-head with you, challenging you, pushing you, had walked away?

Just like that? Your pulse roared in your ears. "Why?" you demanded.

Baekhyun shook his head. "I have no idea. And honestly, I don’t have time to figure it out. The album still needs to get done, and now it’s all on you."

You barely heard him. Because all you could think about was him.

The way he had been acting all week. The way he had been acting at the party. The argument with Yunho. The distance. The sudden shift. And now this.

Beomgyu didn’t just quit. Not unless there was a reason. But what the hell was it?

Baekhyun sighed, checking his watch. "Look, I have to run, but if you need anything, let me know."

You nodded stiffly, barely registering as he left the room, shutting the door behind him. And then you were alone. Alone with the news. Alone with the confusion. Alone with the sharp, twisting feeling in your chest that you refused to call anything other than frustration.

Your brain spiraled. Your hands clenched into fists against your desk, your pulse hammering in your ears. Beomgyu quit? Just like that? Without saying a word to you? Without even giving a proper reason?

It made no sense. None of it made sense. You sat there, staring blankly at your screen, but you weren’t processing anything. All you could think about was him.

You exhaled sharply, pushing back from your desk. You weren’t going to sit here and let your thoughts drive you insane. If he wasn’t going to come to you, then fine. You’d go to him.

The building was nearly empty. Most people had already gone home, leaving only a few scattered producers and trainees still working. The silence felt heavier somehow, like even the air itself knew something was wrong.

You walked straight to his studio first. Locked. No lights inside. Empty.

Your jaw tightened as you turned away, moving faster now. Fine. Maybe he was in the break room.

You checked there next, stepping inside and scanning the area. Nothing. Not even a half-finished cup of coffee or an abandoned snack, things that always seemed to be left behind whenever Beomgyu was around.

Your fingers twitched at your sides. You were already walking before you had fully decided to, heading down the hallway toward the smoking area outside. You shoved the door open, stepping onto the dimly lit balcony. The cold air bit at your skin, but you barely noticed. Because the space was completely empty. He wasn’t here.

You let out a frustrated breath, running a hand through your hair. Where the hell was he?

After a few more seconds of standing there uselessly, you turned back around, forcing yourself to accept that you weren’t going to find him tonight. Maybe he had already gone home. Maybe he had been home this whole time, avoiding everything and everyone. Maybe you were wasting your energy trying to chase after someone who clearly didn’t want to be found.

Defeat sat heavy in your chest as you trudged back toward your studio, exhaustion sinking into your bones now that the adrenaline had faded. You should just let it go. Just let him go.

But when you stepped inside your studio—

You froze. Because there he was.

Sitting in your chair, arms resting on the desk, staring at you like he had been waiting. Like he had known you’d come looking. He had that look on his face. That stupid, pathetic, guilty expression—like a kicked dog, like he knew exactly what he had done, like he was bracing himself for the storm he knew was coming.

You shut the door behind you harder than necessary, your heartbeat roaring in your ears. Beomgyu swallowed, his hands tightening slightly where they rested on the desk.

"Listen—"

"Listen what?" Your voice snapped through the air, sharper than you even intended, but you didn’t care. Because after everything, this was what you got? A half-hearted listen? No. Not happening. You crossed your arms, glaring at him. "Go on, Beomgyu. I’d love to hear it."

The words hit the air like a match against gasoline. Beomgyu exhaled sharply, rubbing his palms against his jeans before leaning forward, elbows on his knees. His gaze flickered up to meet yours, hesitant, cautious. "I just—" He ran a hand through his hair, frustration leaking into his voice. "It wasn’t working."

"What wasn’t working?" you demanded. "Because from where I’m standing, the only thing that wasn’t working was you deciding to disappear without saying a damn word to me—"

"Would you just let me talk?" Beomgyu snapped, his voice cutting through yours.

You froze. He never raised his voice at you. Not like this. Not with something heavy sitting behind it, something too close to something real. You set your jaw, arms tightening over your chest. "Fine. Talk."

He let out a bitter chuckle, shaking his head. "You think I wanted to leave the project?"

You blinked. "You literally did."

"Yeah," he snapped. "And maybe if you weren’t so stuck in your own head all the time, you’d realize why."

Your stomach twisted. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

Beomgyu scoffed, pushing himself up from your chair. "It means," he said, voice low, controlled, "that I warned you about people you let in in your life, and you didn’t listen."

And there it was. The shift. The argument that had started as one thing—the project, his sudden absence, your frustration, suddenly becoming something else. Your hands clenched at your sides. "This is about Seungcheol?!"

He let out a sharp laugh, running his tongue over his teeth. "Wow. Look at that. You do listen sometimes."

You took a step closer. "And what exactly is your problem with him?"

Beomgyu’s jaw ticked. "My problem," he muttered, "is that you’re so damn naive sometimes—"

"Excuse me?"

"You think everyone is exactly what they show you," he continued, voice rising slightly. "You think people don’t have their own reasons for the things they do, for why they pay attention to you—"

You felt something sharp crawl up your throat, something dangerously close to real anger. "And why the fuck does that matter to you?"

Beomgyu’s breath hitched, just for a second, just enough for you to see it. And then, just as quickly, his face hardened again. "It doesn’t," he said flatly.

You let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "Right. Got it. So, you threw away an entire project, left me with all the fucking work, because you suddenly don’t care?"

Beomgyu’s hands curled into fists. "I left because I knew this was going to get messy."

"It’s already messy, Beomgyu!" you exploded. "You made it messy! I thought we were a team—I thought, for once, that maybe you weren’t just trying to be better than me, that maybe we actually worked well together, but no—of course not, because you had to fucking run the second it got complicated—"

"Are you even hearing yourself?" His voice was sharp, eyes blazing. "Do you really think I left because of the fucking project?"

You opened your mouth—then shut it. Because, no. You didn’t believe that. Not for a second. Because if this was just about work, then Beomgyu would’ve fought harder. He always fought harder.

Your breath was shallow now, your heart racing against your ribs. There was only a foot of space between you.

You could hear his breathing, sharp, uneven. You could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers twitched at his sides like he was fighting the urge to do something. And you could feel it, how the air between you had shifted, thickened into something neither of you knew how to name.

This wasn’t just about work. This wasn’t just about Yunho, or Seungcheol. This wasn’t just about Saturday night. It was about everything. But neither of you were ready to say it. Neither of you knew how.

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to keep your expression neutral. "Then why did you?"

His jaw clenched. "I told you—"

"No," you cut him off, stepping even closer, your anger outweighing your restraint now. "You didn’t. You keep talking in circles, Beomgyu, but you haven’t told me shit. You just keep—acting like I’m supposed to read your fucking mind."

Beomgyu exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his hair. "Because you don’t get it!"

"Then make me get it!" you snapped.

His eyes flashed, dark and burning. Then, suddenly—

"You drive me insane."

The words hit the air before he could stop them, before you could process them, and for a second, the room froze. Your breath caught.

Beomgyu’s lips parted slightly, like he couldn’t believe he had actually said it out loud. His chest rose and fell unevenly, like he had been holding onto those words for too long, like they had just ripped their way out of him.

You felt your stomach twist, your skin heat, your pulse roar in your ears. Because he wasn’t looking at you with anger anymore. He was looking at you like you were something dangerous. Like you had the power to ruin him. Like you already had.

"Ever since we started this fucking project," he continued, voice rough, "I haven’t been able to think straight. I go home, and I still hear your voice in my head. I wake up, and I’m already wondering what kind of mood you’ll be in, if we’re gonna fight, if we’re gonna work, if—" He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "It’s you. It’s always fucking you."

Your pulse slammed against your ribs. This, whatever this was, it had been bubbling under the surface for so long, hidden under sharp words and competition and a rivalry neither of you had ever actually needed.

"You fucking ran." Your voice was quieter now, but not softer.

Beomgyu’s brows pulled together. "I had to."

"No," you countered, stepping closer. "You wanted to. Because it was easier than—than whatever this is. Because you can’t handle anything you can’t control."

Beomgyu let out a sharp breath, tongue running over his teeth. "You think I’m the only one running?" You hesitated. That second of hesitation was all it took.

Because then, suddenly, Beomgyu’s fingers curled around your wrist, not pulling, not forcing, just grounding, and you felt the warmth of his skin burn into yours. "You tell me to stop running," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper now. "Then tell me to stay."

Your heart nearly stopped. The challenge in his tone, the weight behind it, felt like stepping off a ledge. You stared at him, your throat tight, your head light, your pulse a fucking mess. Because this wasn’t how things were supposed to go. This wasn’t the plan.

And yet, your fingers tightened slightly around his. Barely, just enough for him to feel it. Just enough for something inside him to snap.

You barely had time to process it before Beomgyu moved.

His hands found your face first, warm, calloused fingers cradling your jaw like he needed to hold you in place, like he was afraid you’d pull away before he could do what he had been holding back for too long.

The space between you disappeared, and then his lips were on yours.

The first press was firm, almost hesitant, like he wasn’t sure if you’d kiss him back, if this was something he was allowed to take. But then you gave in. A sharp inhale, a slight tilt of your head, the way your fingers fisted into his hoodie, yanking him closer. That was all he needed. Because once Beomgyu realized you weren’t stopping him, that you weren’t pushing him away, he lost it.

The kiss got harder, deeper, his lips parting against yours as his hands slid from your jaw to your waist, fingers gripping your sides like he was pissed off—at you, at himself, at the entire world for making him wait this long.

You made a sound against his mouth, but it wasn’t protest. It was frustration, relief, disbelief that this was even happening. Because fuck, he kissed like this? Hot and desperate and messy, like he had been waiting for this for longer than even he was willing to admit. Like he had no idea where to put his hands because he wanted to touch you everywhere.

You felt his teeth graze your lower lip, just barely, just enough to make you gasp, and he took full advantage of it, deepening the kiss, pressing himself into you until your back hit the door behind you.

All you could process was him, his lips, his warmth, the way one of his hands slid up, fingers curling around the back of your neck, angling your head so he could kiss you even deeper, even dirtier. Your fingers dug into his hoodie, tugging him forward, not willing to let him have all the control. He groaned at that.

A soft, frustrated sound that sent a thrill through your body, because you had never heard him sound like that before, had never imagined that you could pull that sound from him. And then, just when the heat between you had grown unbearable, just when his hands started to wander, gripping at your waist like he wanted to pin you there forever—

You both realized what was happening. Realized that this was you and him. That this was real. That this wasn’t something either of you could take back. So you pulled away first. Barely, just a few inches. Just enough to catch your breath. Beomgyu didn’t move.

His forehead pressed against yours, his breath warm and uneven against your lips, his hands still gripping your waist like he couldn’t let go. Your chest heaved, heart hammering so loudly you swore he could hear it. Neither of you spoke. Neither of you could. Because whatever line had been there before? You had just obliterated it.

His breath was uneven, and the silence between you both stretched longer than either of you had anticipated. The air in the studio felt thick now, charged with something neither of you quite knew how to handle.

Finally, you broke the silence. Your voice came out rough but firm as you looked at him. "You… you can’t just walk away."

Beomgyu’s hand twitched at your waist, his grip still there, like he was trying to hold onto something real in the middle of all the chaos between you two. His lips parted, but he hesitated, like he wasn’t sure what to say next.

"You want me to stay?" he asked, his voice quieter now, more vulnerable than you expected. "You really want me to stay?"

You swallowed hard, a knot forming in your throat. It wasn’t that simple. But then again, it was. "I do," you said, your words coming out with an honesty you couldn’t take back.

The air seemed to crackle around you both, and Beomgyu finally let go of his tight grip around your waist, but not completely. He just let his hands fall to your sides, his touch lingering as though he was afraid of pushing too far.

And there it was. The line had been crossed. The weight of your words hung between you, settling like something inevitable. Neither of you moved, but there was something different now, something undeniable that shifted in the space you shared.

Beomgyu’s eyes softened for the first time, he leaned in again, his hand gently cupping your cheek this time, as though he was finally allowing himself to believe that this wasn’t just another fleeting moment, another mistake. His touch lingered for a moment longer, his hand soft on your cheek as though he were afraid that if he moved too quickly, everything would fall apart. His eyes searched yours, the intensity of the moment hanging between you, thick with unspoken words. His lips parted slightly, as though he was going to say something, but the words seemed to get stuck in his throat.

For a long moment, all that was heard was the sound of your breaths, his shaky, yours quick. But then, just as quickly as he had leaned in, Beomgyu pulled back.

The change was immediate. His hand dropped from your cheek, and there was a flicker of something in his eyes, something almost… regretful. You could feel the tension in his body shift, a quiet storm brewing in him that you couldn’t quite understand.

"Beomgyu…" you started, but before you could get another word out, he turned away from you.

Without a word, he walked toward the door. Your chest tightened, confusion and frustration flooding your senses as you watched him move. You didn’t know whether to call out, to beg him to stay, or to just let him go and pretend that this whole mess hadn’t happened. But no matter what, you felt a pit in your stomach, a weight you couldn’t shake off.

Beomgyu reached for the handle, his back still to you, and for a brief second, you thought maybe he would say something—anything. Maybe he would explain himself, finally tell you what was going through his head. But instead, he opened the door. The sound of the hinges creaking was like a cruel reminder of what was happening.

He stepped outside, and for a heartbeat, the door remained open, leaving you to watch him through the gap. His expression was unreadable, his body stiff. Then, without looking back, he closed the door behind him, the sound echoing through the room like the finality of everything.

And just like that, you were left alone.

Your heart pounded in your chest as you sat down, staring at the door, still hearing the faint click of it locking in your mind. You couldn’t move. You couldn’t breathe. It felt as though the world had tilted on its axis, leaving you floating in the aftermath, unsure of what had just happened. What had changed? Why did it feel like you were left with nothing?

Everything was so… messy. You had never felt so raw, so exposed, and yet, Beomgyu had walked away without a single word. The silence that filled the room now was deafening. You wanted to scream, to shout, to demand answers, but all you could do was sit there, trying to make sense of it all.

Had you been wrong to ask him to stay? Did you push him too far, too soon? Or was this all just another part of that complicated dance you two had been doing from the very start?

You didn’t know. All you knew was that the studio felt emptier now, quieter. And Beomgyu… Beomgyu had walked away. The silence in the studio was suffocating.

You sat there, unmoving, eyes still locked on the door even though Beomgyu was long gone. Your hands were trembling in your lap. The lump in your throat tightened, and before you could stop it, a sharp, broken breath escaped you. Until the tears spilled over, hot and relentless, blurring your vision and burning your cheeks.

You sucked in a shaky breath, gripping the edge of your desk like it was the only thing keeping you grounded. You never cried over shit like this. Not over work. Not over him. You hated this. You hated feeling like this.

You blinked rapidly, wiping at your face with the sleeve of your hoodie, but the tears wouldn’t stop. Your breath came out in uneven gasps, the weight in your chest growing heavier by the second.

You needed to leave. Your fingers scrambled for your phone, your vision still blurred with tears as you unlocked it and pulled up your messages. You barely even thought before typing.

[you]: can you pick me up The response came within seconds.

[yeonjun]: on my way. stay there.

You let out a shaky breath, gripping your phone like it was the only thing keeping you from completely unraveling.

The second you slid into Yeonjun’s car, the dam broke.

The moment the door shut behind you, the sobs you had barely been holding in ripped out of you, raw and unfiltered, shaking your entire body.

Yeonjun didn’t hesitate. Didn’t ask any questions. Didn’t push. He just reached across the console, one hand on your back, grounding you. "Hey, hey, hey," he murmured, his voice low and calm as he rubbed small circles. "I got you, okay? Just breathe."

You shook your head violently, pressing your palms into your eyes, trying, and failing, to stop crying. "I—I don’t—" A sharp inhale, a choked-out sob. "I don’t even know why I’m crying."

Yeonjun let out a soft breath, like he already knew that was a lie. You sucked in another shaky breath, leaning your head back against the seat, staring up at the roof of the car. For a few minutes, neither of you spoke. Yeonjun just drove.

The car was quiet, save for the steady hum of the engine and the occasional sound of your sniffles as you tried to get your breathing under control. Yeonjun didn’t say anything right away. He didn’t press, didn’t demand answers. He just waited and held your hand while he drove. Slow, steady, like he had done this a hundred times before. Like he knew you needed the silence before you could find the words.

And when you finally did, your voice came out small. Tired. "He quit the project." Yeonjun’s grip on the wheel tightened slightly, but he stayed quiet, letting you continue. "I don’t—I don’t get it," you said, shaking your head as you wiped at your eyes with your sleeve. "I was working all day, and then Baekhyun came in and just dropped it on me like it was nothing. Like it was some casual decision Beomgyu made, and now I’m just supposed to deal with it—"

Yeonjun exhaled sharply. "Wait. He just left? No warning? No explanation?"

You let out a shaky breath. "Nothing. I—I went looking for him, but he wasn’t anywhere. Then when I finally gave up and went back to my studio, he was just there, like he had been waiting for me or something." Yeonjun frowned, but he didn’t interrupt. "And I was so fucking mad," you admitted, voice thick with frustration. "I just—I don’t understand him. He always has to push my buttons, always has to act like he doesn’t care about anything, but then he turns around and does this. Like it means something, but then he—he just—"

Your breath hitched. You squeezed your eyes shut, your chest aching. "And then he kissed me," you whispered.

Silence. Yeonjun inhaled slowly. "What?"

Your hands clenched in your lap. "I don’t even know how it happened. We were yelling at each other, and it just—it happened."

Yeonjun didn’t respond right away. His fingers flexed around the steering wheel, his brows furrowing as he processed what you just said. "And then what?" he asked, quieter now.

Your throat tightened. "And then… he left."

Yeonjun let out a slow, controlled breath. "What a dick." You let out a weak, wet laugh, shaking your head. "Yeah, well, I mean it." He tightened his grip on the wheel before exhaling, forcing himself to soften.

Then, carefully, he reached over, his fingers curling around your knee, grounding you. "Hey." You sniffled, not looking at him. Yeonjun’s voice was softer this time. "Did it mean something to you?"

Your breath caught. Because, fuck. It did. It did, and you hated that. You let out a shaky exhale, running a hand over your face. "I don’t know," you lied.

Yeonjun hummed like he didn’t believe you for a second. He didn’t push, though. Instead, his thumb rubbed slow, calming circles into your knee. "Look, Y/N… I don’t think Beomgyu ran because he didn’t care. I think he ran because he does."

Your chest ached. "Then why not just fucking say that?"

Yeonjun sighed, turning onto your street. "Because people are dumb. Men are dumb. And Beomgyu’s spent years convincing himself that he doesn’t care about anything. You think he’s just gonna wake up one day and admit that he cares about you?" Your breath stilled. Yeonjun just shook his head. "He’s an idiot. That’s all it is."

You let out a weak laugh, leaning your head against the window. "Yeah," you murmured. "That makes two of us."

Yeonjun pulled into your apartment complex, shifting into park before turning to you. He didn’t say anything for a second, just watched you carefully, his eyes warm and steady. Then, gently, he reached out, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. "You’re not an idiot," he murmured. "You just care too much, and you’re scared."

You scoffed. "No shit."

You swallowed hard, your throat tight. He let that sit for a second before shaking his head. "You know what I think?" Yeonjun hummed, thoughtful. "I think he’s scared, too."

You stiffened slightly. "He didn’t seem scared when he left me standing there."

"Yeah?" Yeonjun mused. "Then why did he leave at all?"

You frowned, glancing at him. "What do you mean?"

Yeonjun sighed. "Think about it. If Beomgyu was just messing around, if this was just another game to him—he wouldn’t have left. He would’ve stayed. Would’ve laughed it off, made some cocky comment, pretended like it meant nothing." Your stomach twisted. Yeonjun turned toward you, his expression softer now. "But he didn’t, Y/N. He ran."

You let that sink in. Because maybe Yeonjun had a point. Maybe Beomgyu leaving wasn’t just some asshole move. Maybe he had been just as freaked out as you. The thought made your chest tighten all over again.

Yeonjun reached over, squeezing your hand once before letting go. "You don’t have to figure it all out right now," he murmured. He gave you a small smile before reaching over, pulling you into a hug. "You’re gonna be okay," he murmured against your hair. "I promise."

You let out a shaky breath, gripping onto him a little tighter. You weren’t sure if you believed him. But for now, you needed to. You sighed, leaning back against the seat, exhausted. But even as Yeonjun turned off the car, even as you sat there, trying to steady yourself, one thought wouldn’t leave your mind.

Beomgyu had run. But what the hell was he running from?

The question rattled in your mind, looping over and over as you stepped into your apartment, your limbs heavy with exhaustion.

You barely remembered saying goodnight to Yeonjun. You barely even registered the moment you locked yourself in the bathroom, turning on the shower and stepping under the scalding water.

Steam filled the space around you, thick and hazy, but it did nothing to quiet the storm in your chest. You tilted your head back, letting the water soak through your hair, tracing down the curve of your spine. Your breathing was still uneven, your mind still too loud.

You were supposed to be fine. It wasn’t a big deal. So what if he had kissed you? So what if he had left? You and Beomgyu had been dancing around each other for years—this was just another part of the cycle.

Right?

You squeezed your eyes shut, inhaling deeply through your nose. Then why does it feel different this time? Your fingers curled into fists.

You could still feel his hands on your waist, his breath against your lips. Could still see the flicker of hesitation in his eyes right before he pulled away. Could still hear the sound of the door clicking shut as he left.

You sucked in a sharp breath, forcing yourself to push the memory away. You weren’t going to do this. You weren’t going to sit here, overthinking every second, every glance, every fucking thing about Beomgyu.

So instead, you stayed under the water until your skin was raw, until the ache in your chest dulled into something you could ignore.

And despite everything—despite the storm in your chest, despite the weight in your head—you managed to fall asleep. But you woke up feeling like your body was still stuck in yesterday.

Your limbs were sluggish, your mind groggy, and the second you remembered why, your stomach twisted unpleasantly. You groaned, dragging a pillow over your face, trying to will yourself back to sleep.

But outside your door, you could already hear Yeonjun moving around the kitchen. You forced yourself out of bed, padding into the living room to find him standing by the stove, frying eggs like he actually knew how to cook. You frowned. "What are you doing?"

Yeonjun glanced over his shoulder. "Making breakfast."

"You don’t cook," you pointed out.

"Yeah, well, desperate times." He nodded toward the table. "Sit."

You sighed but obeyed, rubbing at your temples as you slumped into a chair. A minute later, Yeonjun set a plate in front of you, eggs, toast, and a coffee. You blinked. "You’re really committing to this whole overbearing best friend thing, huh?"

Yeonjun smirked, plopping down across from you with his own plate. "You love it."

You rolled your eyes but took a bite of the eggs anyway. They were… passable. Yeonjun watched you carefully between bites, waiting. You sighed. "I will be fine, you know."

He hummed. "Yeah, I know." He took a sip of his coffee, then added, "But are you fine right now?" Your fingers tightened slightly around your fork. You didn’t answer. Yeonjun just sighed, reaching across the table to squeeze your wrist. "You don’t have to be fine yet, Y/N."

Your throat tightened. So instead of answering, you just nodded, pushing your food around your plate. Yeonjun didn’t push. Just let you sit there, existing, until you finally managed to eat something.

When it was time to leave, he drove you to work again, filling the silence with easy conversation, talking about his projects, making fun of bad drivers, anything to keep your mind off of what was waiting for you at HYBE.

But the second you stepped out of the car, the weight returned. The anxiety crept back into your bones. Because today, you had to see Beomgyu. And you had no idea what was going to happen.

You made it to your studio without running into him. You didn’t know whether that was a good thing or a bad thing.

But instead of sitting there, drowning in your own thoughts, you pulled out your phone. Your fingers hovered over the screen for a moment before you typed.

[you]: taehyun, i need to talk to you [taehyun]: About what? [you]: just… when you have a second. come by my studio [taehyun]: Be there soon.

You exhaled, setting your phone down. You didn’t know why you needed to talk to him. But right now, Taehyun felt like the only person who could give you some kind of clarity. And clarity was exactly what you needed.

It didn’t take long for Taehyun to show up. You barely had time to fully gather your thoughts before there was a soft knock at your door, and then he was stepping inside, hands in the pockets of his hoodie, head tilting slightly as he studied you.

"Alright," he said, shutting the door behind him. "What’s up?"

You opened your mouth, then closed it. Because now that he was actually here, you weren’t sure where to start. Did you tell him about Beomgyu quitting? The fight? The kiss? Did you tell him about the way your heart had completely fallen apart when Beomgyu walked out of that room?

You exhaled, rubbing your temples. "This is stupid."

Taehyun raised an eyebrow. "Well, now I definitely wanna hear it."

You shot him a dry look, but he just crossed his arms, waiting. So you told him. Everything.

How you found out that Beomgyu had quit. How you had gone looking for him. How he was already waiting for you when you got back to your studio. The argument and then… And then the kiss.

Taehyun listened carefully, barely reacting at first. Just nodding, humming occasionally, letting you spill everything you had been holding in since last night. And when you finally finished, slumping back into your chair with a deep breath, he exhaled slowly, shaking his head.

"Jesus Christ," he muttered. "You guys are exhausting."

You let out a short, humorless laugh. "Tell me about it."

Taehyun was quiet for a moment, thoughtful. "He’s an idiot," he said. You blinked. "He is," Taehyun repeated, sitting on the edge of your desk. "Beomgyu is… complicated. He’s impulsive, and reckless, and sometimes he doesn’t think before he acts. But he’s not bad, Y/N."

You frowned, shifting in your seat. "I never said he was bad—"

"You didn’t have to," Taehyun interrupted. "You’re pissed, and you should be. He left you with an entire project and just disappeared. That’s a dick move."

You scoffed. "Glad we agree on that."

"But," Taehyun continued, leveling you with a look, "you also know that if this was just about work, he wouldn’t have left."

You stiffened. Because, yeah. You did know that.

Taehyun sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Look… I’ve known Beomgyu for a long time. And I can tell you one thing for sure—he’s confused as hell about you." Your stomach twisted. "Beomgyu’s not used to… feeling things like this. You know him—he jokes, he messes around, he acts like nothing ever really matters to him. But this? You? This is probably the first time something has actually gotten to him in a way he doesn’t know how to handle."

You looked away, fingers tightening slightly around the edge of your desk. "He looked at me like…" You hesitated, searching for the right words. "Like he regretted it."

Taehyun hummed. "Maybe he did." Your heart sank. Taehyun must have noticed your expression, because he shook his head quickly. "No—not like that. Not in the I wish I never kissed her way. More like… Fuck, what did I just do?"

Your breath hitched. Taehyun leaned forward slightly, watching you carefully. "Y/N… if Beomgyu didn’t care, he wouldn’t have left. He wouldn’t have pulled away. He wouldn’t be acting like this at all."

You swallowed hard. "Then why didn’t he just say something?"

Taehyun sighed. "Because he’s a coward."

You blinked. "Wow. That’s blunt."

"Yeah, well." He shrugged. "Someone has to say it."

A short silence stretched between you, the weight of everything still settling in your chest. And then, Taehyun’s voice softened slightly. "I know you want to see him." You inhaled sharply, but before you could argue, he continued. "But you won’t," he said simply. "Not for a while, at least."

"What do you mean?"

Taehyun rubbed the back of his neck. "I overheard Baekhyun talking to some of the staff this morning. Beomgyu asked for a week off before getting reassigned to another project." Your stomach dropped. You opened your mouth, closed it, then opened it again. Taehyun hesitated. "He’s not ot gone. Just… off the grid for a bit."

You swallowed hard. A week. You had a week without him. A week to focus on work. A week to stop feeling like this. A week to—

To what? Forget about him? Pretend none of this ever happened? Pretend that the past twenty-four hours hadn’t completely flipped your world upside down?

You clenched your fists in your lap, nodding stiffly. "Okay."

Taehyun studied you for a moment. Then, finally, he sighed and reached out, squeezing your arm. "You’ll be okay," he murmured.

You let out a shaky breath, forcing a nod. "Yeah."

But as he walked out of the room, leaving you alone with your thoughts, one thing was clear. You weren’t sure if that was true.

The first day without Beomgyu was easier than you expected.

Maybe because you were still fueled by frustration. By anger. By the exhaustion of the past few days. It was easier to channel all of that into work, to drown out the silence with layers of sound, synths, drums, melodies, anything to keep your mind occupied.

You convinced yourself that you didn’t need him here. Didn’t need his input, his annoying commentary, his stupid smirk when he knew he was right about something. And for a little while, you almost believed it.

But then the second day came. And the third.

And by Wednesday, you realized just how much space Beomgyu used to take up, physically, mentally, emotionally. The studio felt different without him. Too quiet.

You had spent so long being annoyed by his presence, by the way he was always around, always making some offhand comment, always pushing your buttons just because he could. And now it felt like the air had been sucked out of the room. Like the silence was mocking you. You tried to ignore it.

Tried to focus on the album, on the endless meetings with Baekhyun about tracklists, on your studio sessions with the Enhypen members.

Jake had mentioned that they were excited about the project. Jungwon had suggested a few ideas for the second track. Heeseung had even sat with you for over an hour, working through some of the melody transitions.

It was good. The work was getting done. Everything was moving forward. So why did it still feel like something was missing?

By Thursday, Yeonjun had stopped asking if you wanted to talk about it. At first, he had tried, little things, subtle attempts to get you to open up.

"You seem really focused on work this week," he had mused over dinner on Tuesday. "Trying to distract yourself?" You had rolled your eyes, shoving a bite of food into your mouth just to avoid answering.

By Wednesday, he had simply given you a long, knowing look before sighing. "Okay. I get it. You don’t want to talk about it."

And you didn’t. Because what was there to say? That you missed him? That you had caught yourself glancing at his empty chair during meetings? That every time you pulled up a demo, you could still hear his suggestions in the back of your mind? That you had started a dozen text messages, only to delete them before even finishing the first word? No. You weren’t going to do that.

You weren’t going to let Beomgyu live rent-free in your head while he was off doing whatever the hell he was doing.

So by Friday, you had convinced yourself that you were fine. That you were moving on. That you had finally, finally stopped thinking about him. At least, until you walked into your studio that morning.

And saw the letter sitting on your desk.

At first, you thought it was just another memo from Baekhyun. Or maybe some notes from one of the Enhypen members. But then you got closer. And you saw his handwriting.

For a moment, you just stood there, frozen in the doorway, staring at the folded piece of paper like it might disappear if you blinked. Then, cautiously, you stepped forward. Your fingers hesitated before reaching for it. The paper was slightly creased, as if he had folded and unfolded it multiple times before finally deciding to leave it here. No greeting. No explanation.

Just one simple sentence, scrawled in messy, familiar ink.

i think this fits for track 1

Your heart pounded in your chest as your eyes flicked down to the lyrics below. And the second you started reading, your breath caught.

Just the two of us, getting deeply moonstruck Oh, you make me go crazy over you, you, baby Let me hold you close, I want to feel you until the end of the night Fly this night above the rising moon Crazy over you, you, baby We can take it slow Moonstruck in ecstasy

Your fingers clenched around the edges of the paper. This wasn’t just a song suggestion. This wasn’t just another track for the album. This was Beomgyu, talking to you the only way he knew how. Your pulse roared in your ears.

Because, fuck. You weren’t stupid. You knew exactly what this meant. And now, you had no idea what the hell you were supposed to do about it.

You sat at your desk, gripping the paper so tightly it was a wonder it hadn’t torn yet. Your eyes kept flicking over the words, tracing the messy, slightly smudged ink of his handwriting. Moonstruck.

You read the lyrics again. And again. Each time, they felt heavier.

I'm so intoxicated, getting more and more into you, baby

What the fuck was he trying to say? You tried to rationalize it. Maybe he had written it before everything that happened. But that didn’t make sense, did it?

Your fingers curled into the fabric of your hoodie as your mind looped back to that night. The way he had kissed you. The way he had run. And now, instead of an explanation, instead of a conversation, he left this? A song?

You exhaled sharply, forcing yourself to push it aside. If Beomgyu wanted to talk in lyrics, fine. You would make sure they were heard.

The Enhypen members were already lounging around their practice room when you arrived. Sunghoon was sprawled on the couch, lazily scrolling through his phone. Jungwon and Jay were flipping through notes on the album’s concept. Jake was throwing a crumpled-up piece of paper at Sunoo, who swatted it away with an exaggerated groan.

The second you stepped in, Heeseung perked up. "Oh, hey, you’re here. What’s up?"

You inhaled deeply, clutching the paper in your hands. "We have a song."

That got their attention. Sunghoon sat up properly. Jay leaned forward, brows raising. Ni-ki, who had been half-asleep in the corner, immediately straightened, eyes flicking toward you.

You placed the lyrics down on the table. "It’s called Moonstruck," you said, keeping your voice steady. "Beomgyu wrote it."

A beat of silence. Jungwon blinked. "Wait. Beomgyu?"

You nodded stiffly. "Yeah."

Jake leaned in, scanning the paper. "When the hell did he even—?"

"I don’t know," you admitted, arms crossing over your chest. "But it’s good. And I think we should use it."

They didn’t argue. Instead, they took the next few minutes carefully analyzing the lyrics, murmuring about which parts fit their vocal tones best.

"Pre-chorus has to be Ni-ki and Sunghoon," Jay noted, nodding to himself. "Their voices will carry this section perfectly."

Ni-ki grinned. "I do sound good under moonlight."

Sunoo groaned. "God, shut up."

Jake chuckled, shaking his head. "The first verse has a nice flow. Maybe Heeeseung and Jay can split it?"

You nodded. "Yeah, that works."

As they discussed vocal distribution, you quietly worked on the arrangement, playing with some of the melodies on your laptop. And as much as you hated to admit it, the song was beautiful.

The harmonies, the depth, the longing in the lyrics—it all weaved together into something intoxicating. Something that felt like Beomgyu. And, more terrifyingly, something that felt like you and Beomgyu.

You poured yourself into it. Every ounce of frustration, every unanswered question, every lingering moment of that damn kiss, you put it all into the music. If Beomgyu wanted to communicate this way, then fine. You would answer him in the production.

By the time the first rough demo was put together, the entire room had shifted. The members listened intently, nodding along to the beat, already humming harmonies under their breath.

And when the final note played, Heeseung let out a low whistle. "Okay," he muttered. "That was… insane."

Jake leaned back against the couch, arms crossed. "This might be one of the strongest songs on the album."

Ni-ki grinned. "It’s sexy."

Jungwon rolled his eyes. "It’s romantic, you idiot."

Sunghoon smirked. "Both."

You stared at the screen, fingers still hovering over the controls, heart pounding in your chest. You had lost track of time, lost yourself in the production, in the process of turning Beomgyu’s words into something real.

Heeseung stretched his arms over his head, glancing over at you. "How the hell did this come together so fast?"

You hesitated. Then, before you could think too much about it, the words tumbled out. "Because Beomgyu wrote it."

The room fell quiet for a beat. You swallowed, suddenly feeling exposed under their stares. You ignored the pointed looks, turning back toward the screen.

You had done what you needed to do. You had taken Beomgyu’s song and made it something real. And yet, as you sat there, staring at the lyrics again, one thought lingered.

This was his way of talking to you. But when—if—you finally saw him again… Would he have anything else to say?

The weekend arrived quietly, slipping in like a breeze through an open window. For the first time in what felt like forever, you allowed yourself to exist outside of work, outside of the chaos, outside of the constant hum of him in the back of your mind.

You spent Saturday sprawled across the living room floor, limbs tangled with Yunjin’s as she attempted (and failed) to beat Hueningkai in a Mario Kart tournament.

"HOW is this fair?!" she screeched, gripping the controller like it personally offended her. "This little shit has been in first place for the entire race—"

"Skill issue," Hueningkai mused, barely sparing her a glance as he executed yet another flawless turn.

Taehyun cackled from his spot on the couch. "Face it, Yunjin, you’re bad at this game."

"You’re supposed to be on my side!"

"I would be," Taehyun said easily, taking a sip of his soda. "If you were winning."

Yunjin let out an exaggerated wail, flopping back onto the floor in defeat as Hueningkai crossed the finish line with ease. You laughed, stretching your legs out, your shoulders relaxing in a way they hadn’t all week.

This was nice. No tension, no overthinking, no lyrics folded neatly onto your desk like an unanswered question. Just this. Just them.

Yeonjun, who had spent the afternoon attempting to make cocktails, only to get tipsy himself after "taste testing" every single one. Hueningkai, who had somehow convinced everyone to build a fort in the living room, resulting in a half-collapsed mess of blankets and fairy lights that no one had the energy to fix.

Taehyun, who had made it his personal mission to bother you at all time, poking your cheek, stealing your hair tie, purposefully messing up your playlists just to get a reaction out of you. And Yunjin, who was now lying dramatically across your lap, still mourning her loss. "I hate this game," she mumbled into your hoodie.

"You say that every time you lose," Yeonjun reminded her, nudging her foot with his own.

She groaned. "Because I do."

You chuckled, resting your head against the couch cushions. For the first time in days, your mind felt quiet.

Maybe Beomgyu was just a phase. A storm that had come and gone, leaving only a few stray raindrops behind. Maybe by Monday, you would go back to work and it wouldn’t hurt anymore. Maybe.

It wasn’t until Sunday night, when the apartment had finally settled into silence, that something shifted. Everyone had gone home. Yeonjun had retreated to his room, muttering something about a deadline he had been procrastinating. And you were alone.

The weight of it settled over you slowly, like an old sweater you hadn’t worn in years but still fit perfectly. You weren’t sure when you reached for your guitar. Hadn’t even realized you were doing it until you were sitting cross-legged on your bed, fingers ghosting over the strings. It had been a while.

Too long since you had written something for yourself. Too long since you had let yourself sit in the mess of your own emotions, instead of tucking them neatly into productions meant for other people’s voices.

You plucked a few chords aimlessly, letting the melody come to you naturally. Something soft. Something slow. And then—without meaning to—you started to hum. A tune that wasn’t meant for the album. A tune that wasn’t meant for anyone.

The words slipped out like a confession, too quiet for anyone else to hear. You didn’t even think about them. You just sang.

Your fingers stilled. The room felt too small. You closed your eyes, exhaling through your nose. And then, with trembling hands, you picked up a pen and started to write. Not because you wanted to. But because some things were too heavy to carry in silence.

The first chord rang out soft and hesitant, barely louder than the steady hum of the city outside your window. You pressed your lips together, fingertips finding the familiar weight of the strings, the slightly worn frets beneath them.

And then, you started to sing.

This is the first day of my life Swear I was born right in the doorway I went out in the rain, suddenly everything changed They're spreading blankets on the beach

The words came slowly, carefully, like they had been waiting for you to let them out. Your voice was quiet, almost unsure at first. But as the melody settled into you, as the lyrics unfolded with each passing chord, something in your chest loosened.

Yours was the first face that I saw I think I was blind before I met you And I don't know where I am, I don't know where I've been But I know where I want to go

Your breathing evened. Your fingers moved more fluidly. And suddenly, it wasn’t just a song anymore. It was him.

The memories bled into the music, uninvited but unavoidable. The late nights in the studio, the sharp bickering that always gave way to something deeper. The way he looked at you sometimes, like he knew you, like he saw through every wall you had ever built and wasn’t afraid to push past them.

So if you wanna be with me With these things there's no telling We just have to wait and see But I'd rather be working for a paycheck Than waiting to win the lottery Besides, maybe this time is different I mean, I really think you like me

The realization settled slowly, creeping in like the soft glow of headlights through your window. You missed him. Not just as a producer, not just as a coworker, not just as the person who had spent years getting under your skin.

You missed him. His presence, his voice, the way his eyes flickered with something unreadable when he looked at you. The way you had always convinced yourself that the tension between you two was nothing but competition.

But now? Now, as you sat here with a guitar in your lap and a song that tasted like confession on your tongue, you weren’t so sure anymore.

The words hung in the air, delicate and fragile. And for the first time in weeks, you stopped running from the truth. It wasn’t just a rivalry. It wasn’t just frustration. It wasn’t even just a stupid, fleeting crush.

You liked him. And that was terrifying.

The car ride to work felt different today.

You weren’t as anxious as last week, your chest wasn’t as tight, your hands weren’t as clammy, but there was still something unsettled in you, something quietly nagging at the back of your mind.

Because today, Beomgyu was coming back.

And you had no idea what that meant. No idea which version of him you’d be facing. No idea if he’d pretend like nothing had happened, if he’d be cold again, or if he’d acknowledge it, that stupid, reckless, earth-shattering kiss. Or, if you'd even seen him today.

The HYBE lobby was already buzzing with early-morning energy. You kept your head down as you made your way toward the café, deciding that you desperately needed caffeine before facing the rest of the day. When you stepped inside, the familiar scent of espresso and vanilla filled the air, the quiet hum of conversation washing over you like white noise.

You spotted Taehyun near the counter, casually scrolling through his phone as he waited for his order. "Morning," you greeted, sliding into line beside him.

Taehyun glanced up from his phone as you slid into line beside him. "You’re here early," he remarked, taking a sip of his coffee.

You shrugged, adjusting the strap of your bag. "Figured I’d try something new. Maybe if I start my day with caffeine instead of stress, I’ll live longer."

Taehyun smirked. "Doubt it. But I respect the effort."

You hummed, stepping forward as the line moved. "What about you? Thought you weren’t a morning person."

"I’m not," he admitted, stuffing his free hand into the pocket of his hoodie. "But some of us have obligations."

You snorted. "Right." You huffed a quiet laugh, shaking your head as you reached for your phone. And just as you unlocked it, a notification popped up at the top of your screen.

[baekhyun (HYBE)]: meeting on the 18th floor. 10 minutes.

Your stomach twisted slightly. Taehyun must’ve noticed the shift in your expression because he raised an eyebrow. "Everything good?"

You exhaled, locking your phone and slipping it back into your pocket. "Yeah. Just got called into a meeting."

He hummed, sipping his coffee. "Just you?" You nodded, grabbing your drink from the counter. Taehyun studied you for a beat before smirking. "Well. That’s suspicious."

You shot him a flat look. "Everything is suspicious to you."

"And yet, I’m usually right." Taehyun smirked. "Good luck, warrior."

You shot him a dry look before turning to leave. But as you made your way toward the elevators, your chest tightened slightly. You weren’t nervous. At least, that’s what you kept telling yourself.

But the moment the elevator doors slid open, your breath caught in your throat. Beomgyu was already inside.

He stood toward the back, hands shoved into the pockets of his hoodie, the sleeves pushed up just enough to reveal the veins in his forearms. His dark hair was slightly tousled, messy, like he had run his hands through it too many times this morning.

Your heart did something stupid in your chest.

You hesitated for half a second, debating whether you should just wait for the next elevator, but then Beomgyu’s eyes met yours. And you couldn’t run. Not again. So, stiffly, you stepped inside.

The doors slid shut behind you, and the silence pressed in like a heavy weight. You swallowed. Beomgyu said nothing. You could feel him there, standing just a few feet away, but he didn’t look at you. His jaw was set, his gaze fixed on the doors in front of him, his entire body wound tight.

The tension was unbearable. So, stupidly, you spoke first. "You’re back."

His lips pressed together slightly. "Yeah."

You exhaled slowly, nodding. The elevator climbed higher, the numbers blinking above the doors, but the silence remained.

"I saw the tracklist update," Beomgyu said, voice even. "You kept Moonstruck."

Your breath hitched. For the first time since you stepped inside, he looked at you. And suddenly, you were back there. Back in the studio. Back in the moment he kissed you like it meant something. Back in the moment he ran.

You swallowed hard, gripping your coffee cup like it could anchor you. "Yeah," you said, keeping your voice steady. "It’s a good song."

Beomgyu’s gaze flickered, just briefly, just enough for you to see something shift. But he didn’t respond.

The elevator slowed. And before either of you could say anything else, the doors slid open. 18th floor. You stepped out first, pulse hammering against your ribs. But just before the doors shut behind him, you heard Beomgyu exhale a quiet—

"See you around."

And fuck. You were not ready for this.

Your legs carried you toward the meeting room, but your mind was still in that elevator. Moonstruck. He had noticed. You didn’t know why that made your stomach turn. Why it sent a hot, prickling feeling down your spine.

You had convinced yourself that the song was just work, just another track, just another piece of the album puzzle. But hearing him say it? Knowing that he knew?

It made it real. And the way he had looked at you when he said it, like he was waiting for something. Like he wanted an answer. But you didn’t have an answer. Because what were you supposed to say?

You inhaled sharply, pushing open the door to the conference room. And the second you stepped inside, you regretted it. Because sitting at the table, next to Baekhyun, was Seungcheol.

His eyes flicked up to yours immediately, and his lips curled into that same knowing smile he had given you at the HYBE party. "Ah," he mused. "Finally, our star producer has arrived."

Your stomach twisted. You forced a polite smile, slipping into the seat across from them. You had no idea what this meeting was about. But suddenly, you had a feeling it was going to be a lot.

You sat down, adjusting your posture, trying to ignore the sudden unease creeping into your chest. It wasn’t like you had anything against Seungcheol, he had always been perfectly pleasant whenever your paths crossed.

At the HYBE party, when Baekhyun introduced you, he was polite, curious, asked questions about your work that felt genuine. A few days later, in the hallway, he reinforced that same interest, saying he wanted to learn more about your creative process, that he admired what you were doing. It made sense, he was HYBE’s creative director, after all. It was his job to connect with the producers.

But then he happened. Beomgyu. With his endless stubbornness, his unwarranted judgment, his obvious disdain for Seungcheol.

He didn’t trust the guy. And he made that very clear, not just at the party when he interrupted your conversation, but later, in the hallway, with the way he threw out casual, cutting remarks, as if it was obvious that Seungcheol had ulterior motives.

You had ignored him. Because Beomgyu was always like that, poking, provoking, saying things just to get under your skin. But now, sitting across from Seungcheol, watching the way he smiled at you, the way his gaze lingered just a little too long, something inside you hesitated. And that was when you realized, that voice in my head isn’t mine. It’s Beomgyu’s. The thought irritated you. You didn’t need him planting ideas in your mind. Seungcheol had done nothing wrong.

He had never been inappropriate, never crossed any lines. If you were uncomfortable now, it was only because Beomgyu had convinced you that you should be.

Seungcheol leaned forward slightly, resting his hands on the table. "I was really pleased when I heard you’d be leading the production on your own," he said, his voice smooth, effortless. "I think you deserve it—this is a great step forward in your career."

You blinked, keeping your expression neutral. Something about the way he said it bothered you. Because the truth was, you hadn’t minded producing the album with Beomgyu. He was a good producer. One of the best, actually. And despite all your frustrations with him, you couldn’t deny that the work had been better when he was there.

You licked your lips, choosing your words carefully. "I never had a problem sharing the workload," you replied smoothly. "Beomgyu is incredibly talented. The album was going really well with the two of us working together."

Seungcheol didn’t react immediately. Instead, he just smiled a little, as if he had been expecting you to say that.

Next to him, Baekhyun, who had been flipping through some papers, glanced up. "Beomgyu’s decision to leave was personal," he noted, sensing the tension. "He requested to be removed. It had nothing to do with the quality of your work together."

You nodded, but Seungcheol simply let out a quiet, almost amused chuckle. "That sounds like something he’d do," he murmured, almost to himself.

You frowned. "What do you mean by that?"

Seungcheol met your gaze, tilting his head slightly, his expression unreadable. "He’s impulsive," he said simply. "Always has been. He doesn’t handle things well when they don’t go his way."

Your jaw clenched. Something about the way he said it bothered you. It wasn’t what he said—it was how he said it. His tone was too calculated, his words too deliberate, like he was trying to implant something in your mind without directly stating it. And maybe you were being paranoid, but it almost felt like he was waiting for a reaction from you.

You kept your face carefully blank, but you couldn’t stop the words from slipping out. "Or maybe he just had a valid reason for leaving," you said, keeping your voice light but firm. "Whatever it was, he’s one of the best producers here. He always delivers, and he knows exactly how to handle pressure when it matters."

Seungcheol raised an eyebrow, like he was mildly surprised by your defense. But instead of pushing, he just smiled again. "If you say so."

Baekhyun cleared his throat, flipping to another page. "Anyway, now that you’re leading the project, we need to finalize some decisions about the album direction. We have to lock in arrangements before we move forward with recording."

You nodded, relieved that the conversation was shifting back to work. The meeting had gone on longer than expected. You had been so focused on the album’s direction, discussing arrangements and potential changes to the tracklist with Baekhyun, that for a moment, you managed to forget about Seungcheol entirely.

Until you didn’t. Because at some point during the discussion, as you were leaning over the table, flipping through some production notes, Seungcheol’s hand landed on your arm.

Not aggressive. Not too much. Just enough. Enough to make your shoulders stiffen, enough to make your fingers freeze mid-page, enough for that cold, uncomfortable feeling to creep down your spine.

It was subtle, an easy touch, light pressure on your forearm as he leaned in slightly. "I really admire how dedicated you are," he murmured, his voice smooth, casual. "It’s rare to find someone so talented and hardworking."

Because now, you saw what Beomgyu saw. Maybe he had been dramatic. Maybe he had been exaggerating. But Seungcheol was flirting with you. And for the first time, you couldn’t ignore it.

You swallowed, keeping your eyes on the papers in front of you, pretending not to notice the way his fingertips lingered a little longer than necessary before he finally pulled away.

This was work. This was a meeting. You weren’t going to make a scene. You shifted slightly in your chair, tucking your arm out of reach, nodding stiffly. "Thanks," you said, your voice carefully neutral.

If Baekhyun noticed anything, he didn’t react. He simply continued walking you through the album structure, his focus locked on the material in front of him. But your focus was gone. Because now, every single word out of Seungcheol’s mouth sounded different.

When he agreed with your ideas, it wasn’t just professional, it was deliberate. When he smiled at you, it wasn’t just friendly, it was calculated. And Beomgyu’s voice, the one you had sworn you wouldn’t listen to, was ringing in the back of your head, loud and unshakable.

You should be careful with him.

By the time the meeting wrapped up, you were exhausted, not from the work, but from everything else. You had barely finished stacking your papers when Seungcheol stood up, stretching his arms with an easy smile. "Well," he said, buttoning his blazer, "this was productive."

You hummed noncommittally, hoping that was the end of it. But as he reached the door, he paused, glancing over his shoulder at you. "Oh, and by the way—" You looked up. "The invitation still stands," he said, that same smile playing on his lips. "You should drop by my office sometime. I’d love to go over more of your work."

Something about the way he said it made your stomach twist. Before you could respond, he was already walking out, leaving you alone with Baekhyun. The second the door shut, you let out a slow breath, pressing your fingers to your temple.

Baekhyun sighed, setting his notes down. "Alright," he said, leaning back in his chair. "I know that look. What’s on your mind?"

You hesitated for half a second before deciding—fuck it. If you didn’t say something now, you were going to explode. "Look," you exhaled, straightening. "You’re my boss. I respect you. I like working with you. But I need to be honest—"

Baekhyun raised an eyebrow. "Go on."

You licked your lips, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. "That whole meeting just made me really uncomfortable."

His expression shifted slightly, his features smoothing into something unreadable. "Because of Seungcheol?"

"Yes." You didn’t hesitate. "It’s not just today. It’s been happening for a while. I didn’t want to make assumptions, but now I—" You shook your head, exhaling sharply. "I don’t know. The way he talks to me, the way he acts… It doesn’t feel like it’s just about work."

Baekhyun didn’t answer immediately. He watched you carefully, considering your words before finally sighing. "Yeah," he muttered. "I figured as much."

You blinked. "Wait, what?"

Baekhyun rubbed his temple. "I had a feeling this might happen eventually. Seungcheol has a reputation—he doesn’t always separate work from… other things."

Your stomach sank. "So it’s not just me," you muttered.

Baekhyun hesitated before shaking his head. "No. It’s not just you."

You exhaled, leaning back in your chair, processing. Baekhyun watched you for a moment before continuing, his voice lower now. "Listen, you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. If he makes you uncomfortable, I’ll back you up. But I also know how these things can be tricky, so… what do you want to do?"

You stared at him. You hadn’t expected that. You hadn’t expected someone to actually ask. You swallowed, gripping the edge of the table. "I just… I just want to do my job."

Baekhyun nodded. "Then that’s what you’ll do."

And for the first time that day, you felt like someone was actually listening. You sighed, rubbing a hand over your face. "Honestly… I didn’t want Beomgyu to leave the project."

Baekhyun leaned back in his chair, watching you closely. "Yeah, I figured."

You hesitated for a moment before continuing, choosing your words carefully. "It wasn’t perfect, working with him. We fought a lot. We had different approaches. But the album was better when we were both on it. And now, I don’t know… it just doesn’t feel the same."

Baekhyun hummed thoughtfully, tapping his fingers against the table. "You know," he started, "when he asked to leave, I thought it was weird too."

Your brows furrowed. "Weird how?"

Baekhyun exhaled, tilting his head slightly as if trying to recall the exact conversation. "For starters, the excuse he gave me was bullshit. He said he just had ‘other priorities,’ but it didn’t add up. He didn’t have anything urgent lined up. He wasn’t being reassigned yet. If anything, he was in the perfect position to stay on the project."

Your stomach twisted. "Then why did he do it?"

Baekhyun studied you for a moment before answering. "Because of you."

Your breath hitched slightly. "What?"

"He told me you were the perfect person for this album," Baekhyun said simply. "He said that if anyone deserved to take full control of it, it was you. That you understood the vision, that you had the best instincts for the sound, that this was your project."

You blinked. Baekhyun smirked slightly. "He also said he’d still be available if you needed anything—which was interesting, considering he was insisting on stepping away."

You swallowed, shifting in your seat. "So… he didn’t leave because I was in the way."

Baekhyun raised a brow. "No. He left because he thought he was."

Your chest tightened, your fingers clenching slightly over your notebook. Beomgyu thought he was in the way? That didn’t make sense. That wasn’t how this worked.

You had spent years competing with him, matching his energy, pushing yourself to outdo him the way he pushed himself to outdo you. You thought he saw you as a rival, as someone to challenge, someone to beat.

This didn’t sound like someone trying to win. This sounded like someone stepping aside. And suddenly, for the first time since that damn kiss, you wondered— Had you misunderstood everything?

The meeting wrapped up soon after, but your mind was far from settled. Baekhyun left first, offering you a knowing look as he walked out. Seungcheol was already gone, thankfully, leaving the room feeling a little lighter.

You stayed behind for a moment, fingers tapping restlessly against the table, thoughts still tangled in everything Baekhyun had just told you. Beomgyu thought he was in the way. He stepped back because of me?

The idea felt foreign, almost ridiculous. But the more you sat with it, the more you replayed every interaction, every lingering glance, every almost-argument that dissolved into something softer. Maybe it wasn’t ridiculous at all.

You exhaled sharply, pushing the thoughts aside as you gathered your things and made your way back to your studio. By the time you stepped inside, something had already shifted in you. Because for the first time in days, you wanted to write. Not because of deadlines. Not because of expectations.

But because something inside you was begging to be let out.

You locked the door behind you, took a deep breath, and crossed the room, fingers reaching for the guitar propped against the wall. It had been there for a while, untouched, gathering dust in the chaos of everything else. But the second your fingers curled around the neck, something inside you settled.

You didn’t know why, but you wanted to record this song you wrote on Sunday night. First Day of My Life. You knew it wouldn’t fit the album. It was too raw, too stripped-down, too honest. It wasn’t meant for Enhypen’s project—it wasn’t meant for any project.

But still. You adjusted the mic, positioned the guitar properly, and pressed record. And then, you played.

Your fingers moved over the strings carefully at first, but then muscle memory took over, and suddenly, it was effortless. The chords flowed easily, filling the quiet studio, wrapping around you like something safe, something familiar.

And then your voice followed. The words came soft, steady.

“Yours was the first face that I saw…”

You thought about the way he looked at you when he didn’t think you’d notice. The way his lips parted like he wanted to say something but never did.

“I think I was blind before I met you.”

Your breath hitched slightly, but you kept going, pouring yourself into every note, every word. The melody washed over you, unfiltered and vulnerable, and for the first time in a long time, you weren’t thinking about what came next.

You were just feeling. And when the last chord faded into silence, you opened your eyes slowly, exhaling shakily. You sat there for a moment, staring at the blinking red light on the recorder. Then, without hesitating, you saved the file.

You stared at the tape sitting on your desk. And it stared back.

You had written a post-it, your handwriting slightly messier than usual, because your hands had been shaking when you wrote it.

wanted the opinion of the best songwriter i know.

Your stomach twisted. This was stupid. It was so stupid. And yet, you grabbed the tape before you could overthink it.

The hallways of HYBE were quieter now, most people already heading out for the evening. You didn’t know where Beomgyu was, but you hoped, prayed, that he wasn’t in his studio right now. Because you weren’t ready to see him. Not yet.

Your footsteps were light as you reached his studio door. It was closed, the small light inside turned off. Empty. Good. You slipped inside quickly, ignoring the way your heart was pounding against your ribs. You set the tape down gently on his desk, smoothing the post-it out with your fingers. And then you stepped back. You stared at it for a moment longer, your pulse hammering in your ears.

He might not even listen to it. He might throw it away. He might ignore it completely. But still, you left it there. And as you walked away, your chest felt lighter. Because for once, you weren’t running. You were giving him a chance.

You were late.

Not catastrophically late, but late enough that you were definitely pushing it. Yeonjun had texted you when he woke up, asking why the apartment was unusually quiet, only for you to send back a half-panicked “I overslept, don’t judge me” before practically rolling out of bed.

You hadn’t meant to stay up so late the night before. But lying there, staring at the ceiling, replaying every single second of the last few days in your mind?

That was apparently more important than sleep.

By the time you rushed into HYBE, coffee was your only priority. You barely had time to breathe as you dodged people in the hallway, some of them calling your name, others trying to get your attention.

"Y/N, do you have a second?" "Hey, I sent you that file, did you get a chance to look at it?" "Oh, Y/N—can you check in with the Enhypen team later?"

The words blurred together, the weight of everything pressing against you as you nodded, mumbled vague acknowledgments, and kept walking. Because, in the end, none of it mattered. Not right now.

Not when the only thing on your mind was getting to your studio and catching your breath before the day swallowed you whole. You reached your door, exhaled sharply, and pushed it open.

And froze. Because there, sitting casually in your chair like he belonged there was Beomgyu. Holding the tape.

Your stomach dropped. The scene was so eerily familiar that for a split second, you thought you had hallucinated it. The way he was slouched slightly in the chair, the way his fingers turned the tape over slowly, like he was still processing it.

The way his dark eyes flicked up to meet yours, and how, in that exact moment, you saw it. You saw the feeling written across his face. Soft. Open. Maybe even a little wrecked. You sucked in a sharp breath and, without thinking, shut the door behind you. A beat of silence passed.

"You wrote this," Beomgyu murmured, his voice quieter than you expected.

It wasn’t a question. You swallowed hard. "Yeah."

His fingers tightened around the tape slightly. "Was it for the album?"

You shook your head. "No. It doesn’t fit the concept. I just… wanted to record it."

Beomgyu exhaled, slow and measured. "It’s beautiful."

The words hit you in a way you weren’t prepared for. You blinked. He wasn’t teasing. He wasn’t throwing in a sarcastic remark, or a smug smile, or anything that would make this easier to brush off. He just meant it.

And it made your chest ache. You shifted slightly, gripping your coffee cup a little tighter. "You listened to it?"

Beomgyu nodded, still looking down at the tape. "Twice."

Your breath hitched. "Twice?"

His lips twitched, just barely. "Maybe more." You let out a short, breathy laugh, shaking your head. A pause. "What made you write it?"

Your fingers curled slightly over your cup, heat pressing into your skin. You could lie. You should lie. But you didn’t. You licked your lips, shifting your gaze to the floor for a second before looking back at him. "I don’t know. I guess I just… needed to."

Beomgyu studied you for a long moment, the weight of his gaze settling over you like something heavy. And then, so quietly you almost didn’t catch it, he says: "It felt like something you needed to say."

Your heart stumbled. Because maybe it was just your imagination. Maybe you were hearing things that weren’t there. But the way he said it, like he understood, like he knew.

Beomgyu’s fingers drummed lightly against the tape, his gaze flickering between you and the guitar leaning against the wall. The silence between you felt fragile, like if either of you moved too fast, it would shatter. Then, without a word, he reached for the guitar. You raised an eyebrow as he adjusted it on his lap, fingers testing the strings before looking up at you again. "Pass me the chords?"

You hesitated, but eventually nodded, grabbing a piece of scrap paper and jotting them down quickly. When you slid it across the desk toward him, his fingers brushed yours as he took it, sending something electric up your spine.

Beomgyu studied the chords for a moment, then started playing. Slow, tentative, like he was feeling out the song in his own way. And before you even realized what you were doing, your lips parted—

"This is the first day of my life…"

The words came out softer this time, more intimate. You weren’t just singing anymore, you were sharing something. Beomgyu kept playing, his eyes locked onto you now, his expression unreadable.

"Swear I was born right in the doorway…"

You swallowed hard, voice faltering slightly when you saw the way he was looking at you. Like there was something he wanted to say. But he didn’t. He just kept playing. And so you kept singing.

"Yours was the first face that I saw… I think I was blind before I met you."

Something shifted in the air. You weren’t sure if it was you, or him, or just the weight of everything that had been left unsaid between you two for so long.

But for the first time, it felt like neither of you were trying to fight it.

When the song finally came to an end, the last note fading into silence, Beomgyu exhaled slowly, letting his fingers rest against the strings. And then, so quietly you almost didn’t catch it—

"I’m sorry."

You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden softness in his voice. "For what?"

He looked down at the guitar, running his thumb absently over the wood. "For dropping the album."

Your chest tightened. "You didn’t have to," you murmured. "I never wanted you to."

He let out a dry chuckle, shaking his head. "I thought… I thought you’d work better without me."

You frowned. "That’s not true."

Beomgyu hesitated, his jaw tightening slightly. "I didn’t want to leave you alone." He inhaled sharply, like he was steadying himself. "But I didn’t want my feelings to get in the way."

Your breath hitched. Your heartbeat pounded in your ears. Slowly, carefully, you asked— "What feelings?"

Beomgyu tensed. For a second, he looked like he wanted to say it. Like he might say it. But then something closed inside him. His shoulders stiffened, his fingers gripping the guitar a little tighter. And when he finally spoke, his voice was quieter. More distant. "It’s hard for me."

You furrowed your brows, confused. "What is?"

Beomgyu swallowed, looking down. "This. Talking. Saying things out loud." His lips pressed together for a moment before he let out a soft, humorless laugh. "It’s easy to write about it. To turn it into lyrics. To make it rhyme and feel poetic and beautiful."

He shook his head, exhaling through his nose. "But when it’s real? When it’s not just a song?" He shaked his head. "In real life, it’s harder."

You stared at him, heart twisting. Because this was him. This was Beomgyu without the smirks, without the teasing, without the carefully crafted walls. And for the first time, you realized, maybe this wasn’t just difficult for you.

Maybe he didn’t run because he didn’t care. Maybe he ran because he did.

Your heart pounded, your throat felt tight, but you forced yourself to breathe, to steady your voice. "What did you mean by that?"

He exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over his face. "You know what I mean."

"Do I?"

Beomgyu let out a dry laugh, shaking his head. "Come on, Y/N."

There was something in his voice, frustration, exhaustion, something too tangled up in itself to pull apart. You frowned. "I don’t want to assume."

"Right," he muttered. "Because assuming things with me has always worked out so well."

Your chest tightened. "Beomgyu—"

"I—" He exhaled, running a hand through his hair, then finally, finally, looked up at you. And god, you hated the way it made your breath catch. The way his eyes, dark and searching, made you feel like you were standing at the edge of something.

Like if you took one more step, there’d be no turning back. But before you could say anything—before he could say anything—the door creaked open.

Both of you turned at the same time.

"Hey," a familiar voice broke through the tension. "Think I left my pen with you earlier."

Seungcheol. His voice cut through the tension like a blade, sharp and unexpected. He stepped inside, eyes flickering between the two of you, taking in the scene—the guitar in Beomgyu’s lap, the tape on the desk, the way neither of you seemed to be breathing.

You turned toward the doorway, blinking as he leaned against the frame, his usual easy confidence settling into the room like he belonged there. Beomgyu’s entire posture shifted. It wasn’t obvious, no clenched fists, no outright glare, but you saw it anyway. The slight stiffening of his shoulders, the way his fingers curled subtly against the guitar.

You exhaled, stepping toward your desk. "Yeah, I think you did."

Seungcheol grinned. "Knew it."

You grabbed the pen and handed it to him, your fingers barely grazing before he pulled away. "Thanks, sweetheart," he said, easy, casual. "See you later."

And just like that, he was gone. The door clicked shut.

The silence that followed was worse than before. You turned back to Beomgyu, and immediately knew something was off. He put away the guitar, his arms crossed, expression unreadable, but his jaw was tight. "You going along with him?" His voice was sharp, cutting.

You frowned. "What?"

"Seungcheol," Beomgyu said, eyes locking onto yours. "You going along with his shit?"

Your frown deepened. "No. What the hell are you talking about?"

He scoffed, shaking his head. "I told you not to trust that guy."

"And I didn’t," you snapped, "I just gave him back his damn pen."

Beomgyu’s jaw clenched, his frustration spilling out in waves. "Yeah? Well, maybe you should know what your old friends are saying about you before you act like I’m being dramatic."

You stared at him. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

He exhaled, running a hand through his hair, like he was trying to decide if he should even tell you. But then, his eyes darkened, and whatever hesitation he had burned away. "You remember Yunho?"

Your stomach twisted. Of course you remembered Yunho. Beomgyu didn’t wait for your answer. "After you left the party, he came up to me," he said, voice tight. "Started making conversation—asking if I worked at HYBE, shit like that. And then, out of nowhere, he says he knows Seungcheol."

Beomgyu watched your reaction closely, but he didn’t stop. "And then, Yunho tells me he used to fuck around with you," he continued, voice growing harsher, "but dropped you because, in his words, you were ‘too desirable.’"

You flinched. Your fingers curled into your palms, nails pressing against your skin. "What?"

Beomgyu let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. "Yeah. And apparently, Seungcheol’s been waiting for his turn. ‘Dying to get a piece,’ is what he said."

The words hit like a punch to the gut. Your heart pounded. "You’re lying."

Beomgyu’s gaze snapped to yours, sharp, furious. "I fucking wish."

You felt sick. But Beomgyu wasn’t done. "And then," he continued, voice low, "this motherfucker—this piece of shit—starts talking about how he doesn’t go for ‘girls who get around’ because he has standards." Your breath hitched. "That’s what he called you," Beomgyu said, voice flat. "A girl who gets around."

A sharp, ugly silence settled between you. Your pulse was roaring in your ears, rage and humiliation coiling together in your stomach like poison. "You fought him."

Beomgyu scoffed, shaking his head. "No. We talked."

You frowned. "Talked?"

"Yeah," he said, jaw tight. "He was acting like he had some kind of moral high ground," Beomgyu went on, voice sharpening. "Like he wouldn’t go for a girl who’s ‘too easy’—but oh, Seungcheol? Seungcheol was dying for a chance with you. And the way he talked—" Beomgyu exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "It pissed me off."

You swallowed hard, something ugly and bitter crawling up your throat. "So what, you argued with him?"

Beomgyu’s eyes flickered with something unreadable. His expression darkened. "Don’t do that."

"Do what?"

"Act like it doesn’t bother you," he snapped. "Act like it’s nothing when people say shit like that about you. I know you, Y/N."

Your breath caught. Because he wasn’t wrong. But you weren’t about to admit that. The air between you crackled with tension. His expression flickered. You should’ve let it go. Should’ve walked away. But something about the way he was looking at you made something snap inside you.

You shook your head, frustration burning beneath your skin. "You’re exhausting," you muttered, voice sharp. "One second you’re quiet, then you’re nice, then you’re picking fights, then you act like I’m just some coworker—"

Beomgyu’s expression flickered, something dark flashing in his eyes. "You think I treat you like that?"

"You tell me, Beomgyu," you snapped. "Because I have no fucking clue what you want from me."

The words hung in the air like a threat. His jaw tightened, his fingers flexing at his sides. "Don’t act like you don’t know," he said, voice rough. "Act like this is just me playing games—like I’m trying to play with you just for fun."

You let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "Aren’t you?"

Beomgyu’s entire body tensed. "Are you serious right now?"

"Yes, I’m fucking serious!" You took a step closer, rage bubbling up from every place you had been shoving it down. "You kissed me, Beomgyu. And then you disappeared for a fucking week. No texts, no calls, nothing. And then you show up at work like it never happened—like I should just be fine with that."

His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. "It wasn’t like that."

"Then what the fuck was it like?"

He ran a hand through his hair, fingers tugging slightly at the strands, like he was trying to pull himself together. "I needed time."

You exhaled sharply, shaking your head. "Bullshit."

Beomgyu scoffed. "Oh, so now I’m the bad guy?"

"You’re not the fucking victim," you shot back. "You don't get to kiss me like that, make me think—"

You cut yourself off, biting down hard on the words before they could spill out. But it was too late. Beomgyu was already looking at you like you had just punched the air out of his lungs. Like he knew exactly what you were about to say.

The air between you was too thick, too charged, suffocating and electric all at once. His hands curled into fists at his sides, his chest rising and falling unevenly. "You think I don’t fucking feel it too?" His voice cracked slightly, rough and raw. "You think this is easy for me?"

Your breath caught. "Then why do you keep running from it?"

Beomgyu exhaled sharply, something desperate in his gaze. "Because I don’t know what to do with it!"

Silence. His confession settled between you like an exposed wire, dangerous and crackling with heat. His jaw clenched, like he hated admitting it, like he hated feeling this much. But then, his expression shifted, morphing into something sharper, something wrecked.

"Fuck, Y/N," he muttered, voice strained. "You don’t get it. You don’t fucking get it."

"Then make me get it!" you yelled, frustration boiling over. "For once in your goddamn life, just say it!"

Beomgyu’s breath hitched. For a second, he didn’t say anything.

"Because I can’t fucking want you this much and still pretend it doesn’t matter!"

Your entire body locked up.

Beomgyu exhaled sharply, chest heaving, his eyes dark and so fucking serious it made your stomach flip. "I can’t—" He dragged a hand over his face, voice lower now, wrecked. "I can’t pretend that this thing between us doesn’t fucking kill me every time I try to ignore it." Your heart was a wildfire in your chest. Beomgyu let out a sharp laugh, one that sounded more like frustration than amusement. "I don’t know how to fucking want you without ruining everything else."

The words hit harder than they should have. The words hit harder than they should have. Because that was it, wasn’t it? That was why he ran. Why he pushed, pulled, disappeared, came back. Why he kissed you and then left.

Because he wanted you. But he didn’t trust himself with you. The realization sat heavy in your chest. And for the first time, you saw it, the fear beneath the anger, the hesitation beneath the frustration.

Beomgyu didn’t just want you. He was terrified of wanting you. And you didn’t know what scared you more. The fact that he was afraid. Or the fact that you weren’t.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The air between you was stretched too thin, humming with something neither of you knew how to control. Then, Beomgyu exhaled, deep, uneven. His gaze flickered downward, his fingers flexing at his sides like he wanted to reach for something but couldn’t bring himself to do it.

"I’m sorry," he said.

The words were quiet, but they landed with the weight of something long overdue. You swallowed. His lips parted, then closed. He let out a slow breath, shaking his head slightly, like he didn’t even know where to start. "For kissing you," he murmured. "For leaving. For not talking to you for a week like a fucking coward." His jaw clenched. "For making you think that it didn’t mean anything."

You stared at him, heart pounding. "And did it?" you asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Beomgyu lifted his gaze then, something wrecked behind his dark eyes. "You already know the answer to that."

Your breath caught. He was looking at you differently now. Not with frustration, not with hesitation, but with a kind of certainty that sent heat curling in your stomach.

Then, before you could even process it, he took a step back. "Come with me," he said.

You blinked. "What?"

Beomgyu turned, already heading toward the door. "Come on," he repeated, glancing back at you. "I wanna show you something to prove it."

Something in his voice made your pulse jump. Still, you hesitated. "Show me?"

He didn’t answer. Just held the door open, waiting. And for some stupid, unexplainable reason, your feet started moving.

The walk to his studio was silent. Not tense, not uncomfortable, just charged. You could feel it, the way he was holding something back, something big. His pace was quick, purposeful, like if he didn’t move fast enough, he’d lose his nerve.

When you reached his studio, he pulled out a keycard and swiped it, unlocking the door before stepping inside. You followed hesitantly, eyes flickering over the dimly lit space.

Beomgyu didn’t say anything at first. Instead, he walked over to the soundboard, pressing a few buttons, adjusting the controls. A small red light flickered on in the recording booth.

Your stomach flipped. "What are we doing?" you asked, voice quieter now.

Beomgyu turned to face you, his expression unreadable. "I want you to hear something."

And then, he pressed play. A soft, melancholic guitar filled the room. Your breath caught immediately. You recognized it before he even started singing. Moonstruck.

But it wasn’t the version you had heard before. It was him. Beomgyu’s voice. Low, warm, just slightly raspy—vulnerable.

Your mind had barely caught up to the fact that he had recorded this himself when he spoke again. "I think you know why I wrote this," he said, voice quiet, steady. Your head snapped toward him, but he wasn’t looking at you.

He was looking at the recording booth. And then, he moved. Slowly, purposefully, he reached for the door handle and pushed it open, nodding his head for you to follow. "Come here."

Your pulse stuttered. You should’ve stopped. Should’ve said something, anything to break whatever the hell was happening right now. But you didn’t. Instead, you stepped inside. The door clicked shut behind you.

Beomgyu pressed a button near the panel, locked. He finally turned to face you then, and, fuck, he was close. "I don’t want anyone interrupting this time," he murmured.

Your breath caught. The air inside the booth was thick, the music still playing softly through the speakers. Beomgyu took another step forward, and this time, you didn’t move away. "You know what this song is about," he said, voice lower now.

You swallowed hard. "Beomgyu—"

"You know," he repeated, softer.

You couldn’t breathe. Because he was right. You knew. You had known since the first time you read the demo, since the first lyric. This was about you. And now, standing here, locked inside a booth with him, his voice bleeding through the speakers, warm and raw and real, you had never been more aware of it.

Beomgyu reached up then, fingers barely grazing your wrist. Not pulling, not pushing. Just there. A question. A hesitation. You didn’t know who moved first.

Maybe it was him. Maybe it was you. But suddenly, there wasn’t space between you anymore. His hand slid up, over your wrist, your forearm, until his fingers curled gently around your jaw. Your lips parted slightly, breath uneven, your pulse roaring in your ears.

Beomgyu’s gaze flickered down to your mouth. And then, he kissed you.

It wasn’t rushed, wasn’t messy, just slow, lingering, like he wanted to memorize the way you felt against him. His fingers curled tighter against your jaw, tilting your head just enough to deepen the kiss, to let himself drown in it.

And you let him. Because right now, nothing else mattered. Not the past, not the fear, not the things left unsaid. Right now, there was only this. Only the music, still playing softly in the background. Only him.

The kiss deepened before you even realized it was happening. Beomgyu wasn’t hesitant anymore. He wasn’t uncertain, wasn’t holding back, he was in it, pressing into you with a kind of desperation that made your head spin. His fingers dug into your jaw, tilting your face just the way he wanted, his lips parting against yours, taking.

Your back hit the wall of the recording booth, and he was on you in an instant, one hand braced against the panel behind you, the other sliding down, grazing the side of your neck, the bare skin of your arm, like he needed to feel you.

You barely had a second to breathe before he kissed you again, harder this time, almost rough, a low sound slipping from his throat as you pressed up onto your toes, your fingers curling into the front of his shirt.

"Fuck," he muttered against your mouth, voice already wrecked. "You have no idea how long I've wanted to do this."

Your breath hitched. "Then why did you run?"

His teeth grazed your bottom lip, his fingers tightening around your waist. "Because I’m a fucking idiot," he murmured, pressing another kiss against your jaw, then lower, dragging his lips along your neck. "Because I didn’t know if you—"

You cut him off, pulling him back to you, kissing him harder, more insistent. Beomgyu groaned against your lips, his body pressing flush against yours now, his hand slipping down to grip your thigh, hiking it up against his hip. His touch burned, warm and firm, like he needed you closer, needed to close the space that still existed between you.

"Tell me to stop," he muttered, his mouth trailing down, lips brushing the sensitive spot just below your ear. "Tell me to stop, and I swear I will."

You swallowed hard, fingers digging into his back. "I'm not telling you to stop."

That was all it took. Beomgyu made a low, almost guttural noise, like something inside him had just snapped. The next kiss was different. Messier. Hungrier. His hands were everywhere, sliding up under the hem of your shirt, skimming over bare skin, gripping your waist tight enough to leave bruises. Your body arched into his touch, your breathing uneven, heat pooling deep in your stomach as his fingers dug into your hips.

"Say it," he muttered against your lips, voice rough with something you couldn’t quite place. "Say you want me, too."

You let out a shaky breath, barely able to think. "I want you, Beomgyu."

He groaned, pressing his forehead against yours for a split second before kissing you again, slower this time, but deeper, like he wanted to drown in it. Then, suddenly, his grip tightened. He lifted you effortlessly, guiding you up onto the small ledge of the booth, your legs wrapping around his waist, his body slotting between your thighs like it was meant to be there.

Your pulse roared. He was so close now, every inch of him pressed against you, his breath uneven, his fingers tracing slow, deliberate circles against the skin just above the waistband of your jeans. "You drive me fucking insane," he muttered, his lips brushing over yours between each word. "I can’t think straight when I’m around you."

You barely had time to process that before his mouth was on your throat again, biting, sucking, dragging his lips down and down and down. Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan, his hips pressing forward on instinct. The friction made you gasp, your legs tightening around him. "Shit," Beomgyu swore, his forehead dropping against your shoulder.

For a moment, neither of you moved. Your breathing was uneven, your body burning, your skin thrumming with heat where he touched you. Then, slowly, Beomgyu lifted his head. His gaze met yours, dark, unreadable. His hands flexed against your waist, like he was trying to ground himself. "I don’t want to fuck this up," he murmured, voice strained. "Not with you."

Your chest ached. Because he wasn’t saying I don’t want this. He was saying I don’t want to ruin it. Your fingers traced lightly along the back of his neck, your breathing still shaky. "Then don’t," you whispered.

Beomgyu swallowed hard. "I’m trying." He was still close. His forehead was still resting against yours, his hands gripping your waist, his body pressed between your legs like he wasn’t ready to pull away yet.

Your breathing was uneven. So was his. And then, like some invisible force snapped between you, his lips were on yours again. This time, there was no hesitation. He kissed you like he had been starving for this, like he was finally letting himself have what he had wanted for so long. His fingers dug into your waist, pulling you against him, his body heat swallowing you whole as his mouth moved against yours, deep and urgent.

You gasped slightly when he tilted your chin up, angling the kiss deeper, his tongue teasing against yours just enough to make your stomach tighten.

You felt like you were burning. Everywhere he touched, everywhere he pressed, lit up. Your arms wrapped around his shoulders, fingers threading through his hair, tugging just enough to make him let out a low, almost desperate sound against your lips. His hips pressed forward, instinctive. "Beomgyu—" you breathed against his mouth, barely able to think.

"Mm?" He didn’t stop. Just kissed along your jaw, down your neck, biting down lightly at the sensitive skin there before soothing it with his tongue.

A shiver ran down your spine. "We should—"

He kissed you again, cutting off your words, his hands gripping your thighs, holding you steady against him. "Say it later," he muttered, voice rough, lips brushing against yours. "Say it after I kiss you again."

And then he did. Harder this time. Deeper. Your body arched into his without thinking, heat curling in your stomach, your hands gripping onto his shirt to keep yourself steady. You could feel everything. His heartbeat, heavy and uneven against your chest. The way his fingers flexed against your skin like he was trying to memorize the way you felt. The low, unsteady sounds he made every time you moved against him, every time you kissed him back just as desperately.

It was too much. You broke away first, chest rising and falling, trying to catch your breath. Beomgyu didn’t move. He stayed close, lips still brushing against yours, eyes dark and heavy-lidded. Your fingers were still curled in his hair. His hands were still gripping your waist.

"We should stop," you murmured, forcing the words out before you lost your grip on reality completely. "Beomgyu, we’re— We’re at work. It’s not even noon."

Beomgyu let out a slow, shuddering breath. "Fuck." He still didn’t move. You could see it, the way his jaw clenched, his eyes flickering over your lips like he was debating whether to listen to you or keep going anyway. Then, finally, he exhaled sharply, resting his forehead against your shoulder for half a second before stepping back. "Yeah." His voice was strained, rough. "You’re right."

The air felt thin without him against you. You took a slow breath, trying to calm the racing of your pulse, trying to ignore the way your body still buzzed from his touch. His fingers brushed over your thigh before he pulled away completely, straightening his shirt, raking a hand through his hair.

You slid off the ledge, steadying yourself as you smoothed out your clothes. "I should get back to work," you muttered, voice still slightly breathless. "The album—"

Beomgyu gave a humorless chuckle, rubbing a hand over his face. "Yeah. Right. The album."

Neither of you moved. Neither of you looked at each other. Because you both knew, work was the last thing on your minds right now. But still, you turned toward the door, reaching for the handle. "I’ll see you later," you mumbled.

Beomgyu hummed in response, something unreadable in his expression. "Yeah."

You pulled the door open, and then, just as you were about to step out, his hand caught your wrist. Before you could even process it, he tugged lightly, just enough to make you turn back, and pressed a soft, lingering kiss against your lips. It was barely a second. Barely anything. But it hit you like a fucking meteor. He pulled away just as quickly, his eyes flickering over your face, watching your reaction. You didn’t move. Couldn’t move.

Because what the fuck was that? Not the heat, not the urgency, not the kind of kiss that made your head spin and your knees weak, but something softer. Warmer. Something that made your stomach tighten in an entirely different way.

Beomgyu’s lips quirked upward slightly, like he could see the way your brain had short-circuited. "Go work," he murmured.

You blinked. "Right." And then, without another word, you turned and walked out, your heart still pounding.

You spent the rest of the afternoon in your studio. Hours passed. You barely noticed.

The only thing grounding you was the music, the way it pulsed through your headphones, the way it filled every inch of your studio. The way it made everything else, the tension, the heat, the weight of Beomgyu’s touch, fade just enough for you to breathe.

Your fingers moved instinctively, layering melodies, adjusting levels, smoothing over instrumentals. Every track you touched felt electric, the ideas spilling out of you faster than you could process them. Maybe it was adrenaline. Maybe it was something else. But whatever it was, you let it take over.

The hours blurred together, stretching into one long, unbroken moment of creation. A new beat took shape, fast, sharp, pulsing with urgency. You molded it into something heavier, something alive. You adjusted the bass, the synths, the vocal layers, adding a deeper texture, something that ached in all the right ways.

Then another track, smoother, melancholic, intimate in a way that made your chest tighten. You let the guitar linger in places it normally wouldn’t, let the reverb stretch out just enough to make it feel like the song was breathing.

Another, this one bold, unrelenting, filled with heat and confidence. It demanded attention, crackled with something fierce. You didn’t stop. You couldn’t stop. Your eyes flickered to the screen as the tracklist took shape in front of you:

XO (Only If You Say Yes) Your Eyes Only Hundred Broken Hearts Brought The Heat Back Paranormal Royalty

A solid foundation. A damn good foundation. By the time you finally leaned back in your chair, exhaustion was creeping in, settling into your limbs, but there was a different kind of satisfaction sitting beside it. Because you had done it. Most of your work was done. And maybe, just maybe, you had needed this. The music. The escape. The chance to turn everything swimming in your head into something real.

With a deep breath, you saved the files, powered down your setup, and began gathering your things. Your jacket, your bag, your phone, shoving everything into place as you checked the time. Late.

The sun had already set by the time you stepped outside. The air was crisp, the streets quieter now, the city humming with the distant sounds of life. You exhaled, adjusting the strap of your bag over your shoulder as you turned toward the metro station.

And then—

"You took your time."

Your steps faltered. Beomgyu was waiting. Leaning against the side of the building, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket, his head tilted slightly as he watched you.

Your brows furrowed. "What are you doing here?"

Beomgyu smirked. "Told you I had until the album dropped for you to change your mind."

You blinked. "Change my mind about what?"

His smirk widened. "About getting a drink with me."

You stared at him. "Are you serious?"

"Dead serious," he said, pushing off the wall, stepping closer. "You spent the whole day in that studio. You need a break."

Your lips parted slightly, caught between irritation and something closer to amusement. "And you decided you’d be the one to provide it?"

Beomgyu shrugged. "Obviously."

You shook your head, exhaling. "I was planning to go home."

"Okay," he said easily. "You can still go home."

You frowned. "What?"

"After one drink," he clarified. "Then you can go home."

You let out a short laugh, shaking your head again. "You’re impossible."

"And yet," he mused, rocking back on his heels, "you’re still standing here, considering it."

Your jaw clenched. Because he wasn’t wrong. The exhaustion was still there, but so was something else, something that made you hesitate, something that made you want to say yes. Beomgyu noticed.

And so he tilted his head, lowering his voice just slightly. "Come on, Y/N. Just one."

You stared at him for another long moment. Then, before you could stop yourself, "Fine."

Beomgyu smirked, shoving his hands deeper into his pockets as he led the way. "You know," he mused, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye, "you’re a lot more fun when you don’t overthink things."

You scoffed. "I’m not overthinking anything."

He grinned. "Then why do you look like you’re already regretting this?"

You huffed, shoving your hands into your jacket. "I’m not."

Beomgyu just hummed, like he didn’t believe you, but didn’t feel like arguing. Instead, he turned down a quieter street, leading you toward a bar tucked between two buildings, a cozy-looking place, warm light spilling from the windows, the scent of grilled meat drifting through the air.

You hesitated. "This is where we’re going?"

Beomgyu glanced at you, amused. "Why? You don’t like barbecue?"

Your stomach growled at the thought. You sighed. "I do, a lot."

He just smirked, pushing open the door. Inside, the atmosphere was just as inviting as the smell. Low, warm lighting. Laughter. The quiet clinking of glasses. The faint crackle of meat sizzling on the built-in grills at the tables. It was comfortable. And you hated that it made you relax a little.

Beomgyu led you toward an open table near the back, sliding into the seat beside you instead of across from you, leaning back like he had done this a thousand times before. Which, knowing him, he probably had. "You come here a lot," you muttered, glancing around.

He grinned. "I have good taste."

You rolled your eyes. A server appeared, and Beomgyu barely had to glance at the menu before ordering beef short ribs, pork belly, a few side dishes, and two cold beers.

You raised an eyebrow. "Ordering for me now?"

Beomgyu shrugged, tapping his fingers against the table. "You like barbecue. You like beer. I connected the dots."

You leaned back, crossing your arms. "What if I suddenly decided I hate all those things?"

Beomgyu smirked, resting his chin in his hand as he looked at you. "Then you’d be lying." You narrowed your eyes at him.

The beers arrived first. Beomgyu picked up his glass, tilting it slightly toward you. "To finishing most of the album in one day."

You huffed, clinking your glass against his. "To having nothing better to do than drag me to a bar."

Beomgyu just grinned before taking a sip. The beer was cold, smooth, the kind that went down easily after a long day. And as much as you hated to admit it, this, the warmth of the place, the comfort of the food, the quiet hum of conversation around you, felt nice.

You set your glass down, glancing at him. "Alright," you muttered. "You win. This isn’t terrible."

Beomgyu smirked, leaning in slightly. "High praise coming from you."

You scoffed, taking another sip. "Don’t get used to it."

And then, the food arrived. Plates of sizzling meat, steaming side dishes, the aroma so good that your stomach twisted with hunger. Beomgyu grabbed a pair of tongs, flipping the short ribs on the grill, moving with too much ease.

You eyed him. "You really come here a lot."

He smirked. "Told you."

You sighed, watching as he expertly cooked the meat, barely thinking before reaching for the lettuce wraps, stacking up the perfect bite, then placing it in front of you. Your eyebrows lifted. "Are you seriously making me food right now?"

Beomgyu shrugged, sipping his beer. "What, you want me to feed it to you, too?"

You scoffed. "I can make my own wrap, Beomgyu."

"Yeah, but I already did it." He nodded toward the plate. "So eat."

You rolled your eyes but took it anyway, biting into the warm, flavorful wrap. You weren’t sure if it was the exhaustion, the hunger, or the fact that Beomgyu was sitting so close, watching you eat with an amused expression, but something about this moment made your chest feel too full. You pushed the thought away.

"So?" he asked, watching you chew.

You swallowed, setting your chopsticks down. "It’s fine."

He snorted. "You are so bad at compliments."

"No," you corrected, taking another sip of beer. "I just don’t like boosting your ego."

Beomgyu grinned. "Too late for that."

The conversation flowed easier after that. The second beer turned into a third. The food disappeared, leaving just the sound of clinking glasses, the occasional glance that lingered too long, the way your shoulders brushed when you leaned forward to reach for something.

Somewhere between another drink and another teasing remark, you realized something: You were having fun. And Beomgyu knew it. His smirk never wavered, his eyes never left yours for too long, his voice never dropped that teasing lilt that made your pulse stutter more than it should. And maybe it was the alcohol. Or maybe it was just him.

But as you sat there, half-listening to him ramble about some ridiculous story, you realized, you didn’t really want the night to end. And by the time the last plate had been cleared and the third beer had been emptied, you were warm all over. Not drunk. Just loose.

The world felt a little softer around the edges, your limbs lighter, your thoughts slower but comfortable. Beomgyu, across from you—no, beside you, because he had sat next to you like it was the most natural thing in the world—was in the same state, his body relaxed, his usual sharp-edged energy dulled by alcohol and good food.

You tapped your fingers idly against the table, staring at the condensation on your glass. "So," you muttered, "you never told me—what do you think of the album name?"

Beomgyu blinked, then frowned slightly, turning his head to look at you properly. "What album name?"

You exhaled, stretching your arms over your head. "The one Baekhyun’s thinking about. ‘Files of Romance.’"

His reaction was instant. Beomgyu made a face like you had just told him the worst news imaginable. "Nah, not my personal taste."

You raised an eyebrow. "You hate it that much?"

"Hate is a strong word—" he paused, reconsidering. "—but yeah, I fucking hate it."

You laughed. "Why?"

Beomgyu turned in his seat, facing you fully now, one arm resting on the back of your chair. "Because it sounds like some 2010 Wattpad fanfiction. ‘Files of Romance’—what is this, a collection of love letters? A secret diary? An unfinished manuscript?*"

You smirked, tilting your head. "It’s poetic."

"It’s cheesy," he corrected.

You rolled your eyes, taking another sip of beer. "Okay, then what would you call it?"

Beomgyu hummed, thinking for a moment. Then, he looked at you. And something in his gaze shifted. His smirk faded, not completely, but enough for you to notice the way his expression softened slightly. "Romance: Untold."

The words settled between you like something heavy. Your fingers stilled against your glass. "Untold?"

He nodded. "Because that’s what this album is, isn’t it? All these songs, all these stories—" he tapped his fingers against the table, voice dropping slightly. "It’s about things people don’t say out loud. Feelings left unsaid. The in-between moments, the things you can’t admit, the things you only let yourself feel when no one’s looking."

Suddenly, this wasn’t about the album anymore. Beomgyu wasn’t looking at you like a producer talking about work. He wasn’t critiquing an idea, wasn’t just throwing out another title. He was talking about you and him.

Your lips parted slightly, heart picking up speed. "That’s…" you hesitated. "That’s actually not bad."

Beomgyu grinned. "Not bad? Come on, admit it—you like it."

You exhaled, shaking your head. "You’re impossible."

"And you’re predictable," he countered easily, taking another sip of his beer. "You act like you hate everything I say, but deep down, you know I’m right most of the time."

You scoffed. "Most of the time?"

"Mm-hmm." He leaned in slightly, his smirk turning just a bit more smug. "Like right now."

Your eyes narrowed. "Beomgyu—"

"Say it," he murmured, voice lower now, the playful edge still there but thicker, like something else was creeping beneath it. "Say you like the name."

You exhaled sharply, pressing your lips together. He was so annoying. But also, he was right. You sighed. "Fine. It’s… a good name."

Beomgyu smirked, triumphant. "See? I always win."

You rolled your eyes, taking another sip. "You don’t always win."

"Pretty close to always," he teased, nudging your leg under the table. "And anyway—" his gaze flickered over you briefly before settling on your lips. "I get the feeling you like it when I win."

You swallowed, shifting in your seat, trying to ignore the way your skin felt hot under his gaze. "You’re drunk."

Beomgyu smirked. "Tipsy."

"Same thing."

"Not even close." His fingers tapped against his glass, his smirk lingering. "You just don’t wanna admit I’m fun outside of work."

You snorted. "Fun is a strong word."

"And yet," he murmured, leaning in slightly, "you’re still here."

He wasn’t wrong. You could’ve left at any time. You could’ve said no to this drink. You could’ve cut this conversation short the second it started feeling like more than just talking. But you didn’t. And now, sitting here, so close to him, so aware of every movement he made, every glance, every shift in his voice, you couldn’t pretend that it was just because of the album anymore.

You cleared your throat, forcing yourself to look away. "We should probably head out soon."

Beomgyu hummed, like he knew exactly what you were doing but didn’t feel like calling you out on it. "Yeah, yeah."

Neither of you moved. Instead, he let his arm stretch across the back of your chair, fingers tapping against the wood in a slow, easy rhythm. "Romance: Untold," he repeated, more to himself now. "Yeah. I like it."

You exhaled. "Me too."

And somehow, you knew, this wasn’t just about the album. This was about you and him. The story neither of you had told yet. But one that, deep down, you both knew was already being written.

The night air was cooler now, a crisp contrast to the warmth still buzzing under your skin from the drinks. The street outside the bar was quiet, only the occasional car passing by, headlights flickering against the pavement.

Beomgyu stretched his arms over his head, then shoved his hands into his pockets. "Alright, let’s get you home."

You raised an eyebrow. "You’re not driving."

"Obviously not," he said, rolling his eyes. "I’m not a fucking idiot."

You let out a breathy laugh. "So what’s your plan?"

Beomgyu tilted his head, smirking. "Gonna take the subway with you."

You blinked. "You don’t have to do that."

"I know." He started walking. "Come on."

You hesitated, but ultimately followed, falling into step beside him. The subway station wasn’t far. The streets were quieter here, the hum of neon signs flickering against the damp pavement. It felt… nice. Comfortable. Like the two of you had slipped into something easier than usual.

The train arrived just as you stepped onto the platform. You both boarded, sliding into a seat near the back of the car. "So," you mused, resting your head against the window. "Tell me something I don’t know about you."

Beomgyu hummed, stretching his legs out in front of him. "Something good or something stupid?"

"Good," you said. "And don’t say something obvious."

Beomgyu smirked, tapping his fingers against his knee. "I’ve wanted to do music since I was ten."

You blinked. "Really?"

"Yeah." He leaned back, gaze flickering up toward the train ceiling like he was remembering something. "I used to listen to my older brother’s CDs all the time—Nirvana, Radiohead, The Strokes, My Bloody Valentine. I’d sit in my room with those shitty little wired headphones and just obsess over the sounds, the production, the way the lyrics hit different when you were alone in the dark."

You tilted your head, watching him. "I never took you for a rock band guy."

Beomgyu scoffed. "What, you think I only listen to industry shit?"

"I mean… kinda."

He clutched his chest dramatically. "Wow. The disrespect."

You laughed. "Okay, okay. What’s your favorite album of all time?"

Beomgyu exhaled, tapping his fingers against the seat. "Damn. That’s hard."

"Come on," you nudged his knee with yours. "You’re a music guy. You have to have a number one."

He thought for a second. "‘Loveless’ by My Bloody Valentine."

Your brows lifted. "Shoegaze?"

"Shoegaze," he confirmed. "That album changed me."

You smirked. "Oh, so it’s that serious?"

"It’s life-changing serious," he said. "I mean, listen to ‘When You Sleep’ and tell me that shit doesn’t make you wanna dissolve into the floor."

You chuckled. "Okay, fine. I’ll listen."

"You better."

The conversation flowed easily after that. Beomgyu rambled about different albums, breaking down the exact moment he fell in love with certain sounds, which producers he admired, which live performances made him feel something real.

And you listened. Really listened. Because even though he talked a lot—too much, sometimes—this was different. This was Beomgyu talking about the thing he loved. And it made you want to know more.

By the time you reached your stop, the train car was nearly empty. The streets were quieter now, the air even cooler. Beomgyu walked beside you, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, his usual smirk still tugging at his lips. And then, without warning, his arm slung over your shoulders.

You stiffened. "What the hell are you doing?"

Beomgyu grinned. "Relax. You looked cold."

You scoffed, but didn’t pull away. "You just wanted an excuse to be annoying."

"And?" he teased. "Is it working?"

"Always."

Beomgyu chuckled, squeezing your shoulder lightly before letting his arm stay there, draped over you like it belonged there. And, for some reason, you let it. By the time you reached your apartment building, the air between you had shifted again, lighter, charged, something humming just beneath the surface.

Beomgyu turned to face you, his smirk softer now. "Well, that was fun."

You raised an eyebrow. "Oh? You admit I’m fun now?"

"I didn’t say that." He grinned. "I said that was fun."

You rolled your eyes, stepping toward your door. "Whatever."

But before you could reach for the handle, Beomgyu caught your wrist. You turned. And suddenly, he was right there. Closer than he had been all night. The teasing was gone from his face. His eyes flickered between yours, his fingers still wrapped loosely around your wrist. And then, he leaned in. Slowly. Deliberately. Like he was giving you time to stop him.

But just as his lips were inches from yours, the door swung open.

"Well," Yeonjun’s voice rang out, amusement laced through every word. "What do we have here?"

Your stomach dropped. Beomgyu’s entire body went rigid. Yeonjun grinned, stepping onto the porch, holding a tied-up trash bag in one hand. "I was just taking out the garbage, but this is much more interesting."

You groaned, pulling away from Beomgyu instantly. "Yeonjun."

"What?" Yeonjun feigned innocence, looking between the two of you. "I didn’t know we were having late-night meetings outside the apartment."

Beomgyu exhaled sharply, pressing his fingers against his temple. "Great timing, dude."

"I try my best." Yeonjun smirked. "So… are you gonna kiss, or should I give you some privacy?"

"Yeonjun, I swear to God—"

"Alright, alright, I’m going!" He held up his hands, stepping off the porch with a laugh. "But we will be talking about this later, Y/N."

You shot him a glare as he disappeared down the walkway, humming to himself. The second he was out of earshot, you huffed. "Unbelievable."

A beat of silence passed. "So…" Beomgyu shifted, glancing at you. "Where were we?"

A slow smirk tugged at Beomgyu’s lips. His head tilted slightly, his eyes flickering down to your mouth, just for a second, just enough for your breath to catch. He was waiting. Waiting to see if you’d push him away, if you’d roll your eyes and disappear inside, if you’d cut this tension off before it turned into something real.

But you didn’t. And that was all he needed. Beomgyu took a slow step forward, closing the space between you with the kind of confidence that sent your heart slamming against your ribs. His fingers brushed against yours, hesitant for only a moment before he tilted his chin down, leaning in. And then, finally, he kissed you.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t urgent or rough or anything close to what you had before. It was gentle. Soft in a way that made your stomach flip, slow in a way that made your knees feel weak, like he had all the time in the world to memorize the way you felt beneath his lips. Beomgyu wasn’t pushing. He wasn’t taking. He was giving. And you let yourself take it.

Your fingers curled against the front of his jacket, tugging slightly as you kissed him back, sinking into the warmth of it, the quiet rightness of it. Beomgyu let out a soft sound against your lips, half a sigh, half a laugh, before tilting his head slightly, deepening the kiss just enough to make your stomach tighten.

His hand came up, brushing against your cheek, fingers tracing the line of your jaw, slow and deliberate, like he was trying to remember this. Like he had wanted this for too long. You could feel his smile against your mouth, feel the way his fingers flexed slightly, like he wanted to pull you closer but was holding back.

And then, someone cleared their throat. Loud. Pointed. Beomgyu stilled for half a second, then pulled back, blinking like he had just been shaken out of something. Slowly, almost painfully, you turned toward the sound.

Yeonjun. Standing in the hallway. Arms crossed. Smirking. "Really?" he mused. "Right outside the door?"

Your stomach dropped. "Yeonjun—"

"You guys didn’t even wait five minutes after I left?" he continued, shaking his head. "Damn, Beomgyu. You work fast."

Beomgyu groaned, dragging a hand over his face. "For the love of God—"

Yeonjun just grinned as he stepped inside. "Don’t let me stop you. I was just coming back."

You wanted to die. You wanted the ground to open up and swallow you whole. Beomgyu exhaled sharply, muttering something under his breath before taking a small step back, running a hand through his hair.

You cleared your throat, trying to ignore the way your skin burned. "I should go inside."

Beomgyu looked at you, his expression unreadable for half a second before he smirked. "Yeah. Probably."

You hesitated. "Goodnight, Beomgyu."

He tilted his head. "Goodnight, Y/N."

And then, because he couldn’t help himself, he leaned in one last time. A quick, teasing peck against your lips. Barely a second. Barely anything. But it sent your stomach spiraling.

Then, before you could even react, he turned toward the stairs, shoving his hands into his pockets. "See you at work," he called over his shoulder. And with that, he disappeared.

The second the door shut behind you, your back met the wood, and you let out a sharp breath. What the fuck just happened? Your fingers hovered over your lips, the ghost of Beomgyu’s kiss still lingering, the warmth of his touch still burning on your skin. Your heart was still racing, your mind still spinning, and—

"Oh, this is so good," Yeonjun’s voice cut through your spiral, full of glee.

You groaned. "Please. Shut up."

author's note: i hate to do this… but we’re getting a part 3. there was just too much to fit into this chapter, and things are about to get tense next time. if you want to be on the taglist for the next part, let me know in the comments!

ALSO i wrote this fic way before beomgyu even announced PANIC 😭😭 so pls go give him all the love bc he looks AMAZING the song is perfect and i swear the beomgyu i wrote is the same beomgyu who wrote panic did i just win????? 😭💘

taglist: @czennieszn @iyoonjh @shycreationdreamland @beomsdoll @whatblop @cbgtopia @enhaloveeee @hyunj00 @jnysaln @woncheecks @soobinslvr13 @kejingken @v1shwa-xo @yeovnjin @c1eod1n3 @etherealid7 @naeyerys

READ PART 1 HERE <3

[lyn31]

Your Touch

Summary

A lighthearted yet intimate experiment in withholding touch backfires when Zayne proves just how much he’s come to crave your affection—leading to a playful battle neither of you really mind losing.

Ao3 link

My Masterlist ✨

Notes

Pairing: Zayne x MC/Reader College AU, fluff, kiss, I got distracted again (suppose to go up the same time as on ao3) but hey here it is!

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You and Zayne are not the type of couple that does PDA. Maybe some light touches here and there, sharing food—things you'd do with a friend. But in private? Neither of you hold back.

You’re always the one reaching for him first. Whether it’s poking his cheek to get his attention, linking your pinky with his when you’re sitting close, or running your fingers through his hair when he’s studying—it’s just natural. And even if Zayne doesn’t initiate as often, he never pulls away. If anything, he leans into it.

You’ve noticed the way his shoulders drop when you absently run your fingers down his back, how he subtly tilts his head into your hand when you play with his hair. The rare times you pull away too soon, he gives you that barely-there frown, the one only you would recognize as sulking.

Which is why, when you come across a trend online—

Stop touching them for a day and see how your partner reacts!

—you just have to try it.

You expect Zayne to notice quickly. Maybe even call you out immediately. But what you don’t expect is how quiet he gets.

You’re in his dorm, sprawled on his bed while he sits at his desk, flipping through his notes. It’s the usual scene—you talking, he half-listening, occasionally humming in response or throwing in a deadpan remark when you get too ridiculous.

“—and I’m just saying, if I were a medieval queen, I’d absolutely have a secret escape tunnel. None of that ‘trapped in a tower’ nonsense.”

Zayne barely glances up. “You’d get lost in the tunnels within five minutes.”

You gasp, placing a dramatic hand on your chest. “Excuse me?”

“Excused.”

Normally, this would be the part where you reach over and flick his forehead. Or poke his cheek. Or, if you’re feeling particularly clingy, lean onto his shoulder despite his halfhearted protests. But today, you simply huff and fold your arms, keeping your hands firmly to yourself.

Zayne’s pen stills on the page.

It’s subtle at first. His gaze flicks to you briefly before returning to his notes. A few minutes later, he shifts in his chair, glancing at your hand when you gesture—but you don’t reach for him. He rolls his pen between his fingers.

Another few moments pass. You keep talking, but you catch the way his shoulders rise, then drop, like he’s suppressing the urge to fidget. His fingers tap against the desk. Then stop. Tap again. Stop.

Then comes the first glance.

Then another.

By the fifth one, it’s not subtle anymore.

You bite your lip, fighting back a smile. Oh, this is getting good.

Feigning innocence, you turn to him. He’s still sitting at his desk, but at this point, he’s fully facing you, elbow resting on the armrest, fingers tapping idly against his knee.

“What?” You keep your tone neutral.

Zayne studies you for a moment, his usual unreadable expression giving way to something more thoughtful. Then, with a quiet sigh, he pushes himself up from his chair and moves to the bed beside you. He doesn’t touch you—not yet—but there’s a crease between his brows, his lips pressed together like he’s working through a puzzle.

“I’m trying to figure out if you’re mad at me or not,” he says. “But I can’t remember anything I did that might’ve upset you.”

Oh. Oh no. He looks genuinely concerned. For a second, guilt flickers in your chest.

You blink, forcing your expression to stay smooth. “Of course I’m not mad. Why would you think that?”

He tilts his head slightly, eyes narrowing. His gaze flickers to your hands—resting neatly at your sides instead of reaching for him like they normally would.

And then, wordlessly, he shifts.

The mattress dips as he leans in, his head lowering until it rests against your lap. The movement is so natural, so easy, like it’s something he doesn’t even think twice about.

Your fingers twitch against the sheets. Stay strong.

“Oh? What’s this?” you tease, biting back a grin. “Does my boyfriend need attention?”

He frowns at you. Then, as if deciding he’s not getting enough from just lying there, his arm loops around your waist, and he buries his face against your stomach instead. His hold on you is loose, but there’s something unmistakably stubborn about the way he presses closer.

You hear a muffled murmur against your sweater.

“Hm? What was that?”

He lifts his head just enough to look at you, brows drawing together slightly. His grip around your waist doesn’t loosen. “If you’re not mad… then what is it?”

Oh no. He’s pouting. Well, technically, no—but for Zayne, this is as close to pouting as it gets.

You inhale sharply. Don’t laugh. Don’t break.

This would be a great time to come clean. You should just tell him. But he’s still clinging to you, half-curled into your lap, waiting for an answer with a look that’s entirely too cute for his own good.

So instead, you tilt your head, feigning innocence. “What do you mean?”

His gaze sharpens, suspicion flickering across his face. His grip around you tightens slightly before, without hesitation, he reaches for your hand, takes it, and places it firmly on his head.

You gape at him. Excuse me?

His fingers linger against yours, his touch slow, deliberate. He even strokes your palm once—almost absentmindedly, almost like a silent plea—before murmuring, “You’ve been avoiding touching me.”

Okay. Definitely time to tell him now.

…But.

Wouldn’t it be a waste not to enjoy this just a little longer?

So instead of confessing, you slowly run your fingers through his hair, reveling in the way he immediately leans into your touch.

“Did I?”

His eyes snap open. His body tenses for a second before he abruptly pushes himself up, face now inches from yours. His cool breath fans against your skin, his nose brushing yours.

His gaze drops to your lips for just a second before flicking back up. His fingers flex slightly where they rest on your waist, like he’s suppressing the urge to fidget.

“You’re playing a game,” he says flatly.

Your grin slips out before you can stop it. Your hands find his shoulders, playing with the fabric of his shirt.

“If I say I did,” you hum, “what are you gonna do about it?”

Zayne doesn’t hesitate. “Then I suppose it’s game over.”

“What—” You notice the way his fingers flex against your waist, his eyes dip to your lips, lingering there just a heartbeat longer than before. Your breath catches. “Wait—are you—”

He moves before you can finish. His lips crash against yours, stealing the rest of your sentence, the air between you evaporating in an instant. His hand on your waist tightens, pulling you flush against him, while the other cups your cheek, tilting your head just right. The kiss is firm at first—decisive, like he’s making a point—but it softens as he deepens it, his lips moving against yours in a slow, measured rhythm that makes your breath hitch.

You don’t even realize you’re sinking back until your shoulders meet the mattress. He follows without hesitation, pressing into you, his weight grounding, his fingers threading through your hair as he tilts his head and kisses you deeper. The heat of it curls low in your stomach, leaving you dizzy, breathless—your hands gripping his arms, unsure if you’re holding on or pulling him closer.

By the time he pulls away, you’re both panting, your chest rising and falling in sync with his. His forehead rests against yours, his thumb grazing your jaw in slow, absentminded strokes.

“I thought you hated losing,” you manage, your voice slightly hoarse.

Zayne exhales. “It’s your game over, not mine,” his thumb tracing slow circles on your hip. His voice is even, but there’s something undeniably satisfied in the way he says it.

You frown. “That doesn’t make sense—”

He cuts you off with another kiss. It’s brief this time, but no less deliberate.

You try again. "But that’s not even how—"

Only to get cut off with another kiss. “Mm, your loss,” he murmurs against your lips, punctuating each word with another quick kiss.

You blink, still a little dazed. Okay, well. This is very cute.

You suppose one loss is fine.

Grinning, you loop your arms around his neck, giggling between his kisses. He hums in response, the sound vibrating against your lips as he presses a few more slow, deliberate pecks to your mouth, like he’s savoring his victory. You didn’t expect this reaction, but honestly? It was absolutely worth it.

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Notes

Fluff fest. this week so far ahahahaha but I mean how can I not?

[dwarf-vader-of-middle-earth]

Just 2 years ago I visited a Pet Smart with my mother. The cashier was a cool dude with these gauges in his ears, and tattoos all over, a real rugged punk type like myself!

But as we approached, my mother outright asked him if it was hard to get a job with all of that. She asked if it's impractical to have gauges and tattoos because what if people think poorly of him?

Completely unprompted. She just suddenly began drilling him.

The cashier, gods be with him, brushed it off and took it like a fucking champ, expressing his love for how he appeared and I can't blame him!! He looked badass as hell!! Yet my mother kept pressing and causing obvious discomfort to not just him and myself but others in line as well, as if somehow her berating questions would get him to change. But that man defended himself relentlessly but kindly and with an upbeat attitude!

My mother literally didn't stop trying to push her point until I ushered her out of the store.

Once, as a little kid, I saw a cashier at the art store with blue hair, and seeing that blue is my favorite color, I wanted to compliment her!!

Before we even got in line, my mother pulled me aside and told me, word for word, "Do not say anything about her hair."

I ignored her, of course, and a few seconds after we arrived at the register, I told the woman I liked her hair a lot!

And my mother just exhaustedly sighed and held her head in utter dismay, IMMEDIATELY reprimanding me verbally for having said anything!!! That cashier told my mother it was fine and she was so happy to hear somebody say something nice about her hair!!

While I was walking with my mother through our neighborhood as a kid, we'd passed by a boy shooting hoops or something, but he was making every shot and well, so I said aloud as we passed, "Wow, that boy is REALLY good!"

And my mother SCOLDED me!! She harshly said, word for word, "Magnus, you DON'T do that!" And she was VERY relentless and angry in how she said it.

I was so confused. I still am.

My grandparents were the exact same. I encountered many situations like this when with them growing up. My aunts did the same, reprimenading me for giving a compliment. But all of them found it completely ok to berate a stranger for any reason at all, prompted or unprompted.

I tried asking my mother why I couldn't say something nice, and she couldn't give a valid explanation no matter how much I asked. All my mother did was continuously insist I don't do that (complimenting a stranger), and that it's rude to say anything of the sort.

Why is it so abhorrent to say someone is good at something? Why is it horrible if I tell someone their appearance is cool? If their talents are great? Why is it acceptable to berate somebody and call them out for any minor reason completely unprompted, but it's not acceptable to voice unprompted kindness and support with genuine desire to share love???

Why is rudeness acceptable but kindness isn't????

Now, I'm autistic, and I don't even pretend to understand social norms. But I do know how kindness can literally save lives, and how it genuinely just makes shit better for everyone no matter if they're having a good day or bad, when they are given a genuine compliment. So I was never sure if this is just some double standard or if it's something deeper, either or obviously being ingrained over many generations, but I say fuck it.

I compliment strangers constantly these days. I tell folks their tattoos are awesome, that I love their earrings, their outfits are so cool and well put together, their hair looks perfect! I compliment folks on their talents, and I'm genuine and heartfelt about it, meaning every word I say with sincerity!!

Strangers have given me hugs! People have broken down crying and hugged me for my I kindness!!! So many people have told me word for word, "That's the nicest thing anyone's ever done for me!" And I'm not kidding.

I find every possible reason to compliment somebody, to voice kindness, especially for things such as piercings and hair dye and talents and the sort, especially those that many would disapprove of.

The way I see it is that if nobody ever hears support, then how will they know they're being supported at all? And if all anyone voices is disdain and berating, then how does anyone feel loved and supported??

So yeah. I don't get the whole belief of compliments = rude, and berating = fine. I don't think I'll ever know why this is normalized here.

But I'm damn tired of this because it's the precursor to allowing folks to walk all over you. If you can't voice a kind compliment to another without being shut down, then you're never going to be able to vocalize support of someone in need when they're being berated harshly and given shit left and right.

weird as fuck living in a culture where it's considered more impolite to speak up and defend yourself against someone treating you unfairly than it is for someone to be rude to you in the first place

[backtothefanfiction]

Can I Sleep With You? | Joaquin Torres imagine

Summary: when all else fails, try sleeping next to someone who’ll hold you accountable

Warnings: fluff, funny jokes, miscommunication

Word Count: quick written in app couple hundred words

A/N: just before I go to sleep, you can have this little idea

You couldn’t remember the last time you had a good night sleep. Ever since you took up the offer to move onto the new Avengers campus for training, you just couldn’t seem to switch off. The bed was too new and firm. You felt self conscious knowing the rest of the team were in rooms around you, most of them practically strangers. Your muscles ached from hours of work outs and fight training. Your brain constantly going back over the things you’d done wrong. Your body ached. Your eyes were heavy, yet still you couldn’t sleep.

You had tried everything under the sun; reading, listening to audiobooks, so many different white noise sounds. You had even smothered your body in a lavender moisturiser to try and help you to relax. Still you tossed and turned and ended up staring at the ceiling in frustration.

On night three, you decided you’d had enough.

You checked the time on your phone, 12:15am, before shooting Joaquin a text.

Y/N: Hey, you still up?

Joaquin: Yeah, why?

You didn’t bother to message back and explain. Instead you got up, slipped your feet into your sliders next to the bed and went down the hall to his room; where you knocked and waited patiently.

“Hey,” he whispered into the silent hallway, “what’s up?”

“Can I sleep with you?”

He took a step back, his eyebrows raising as he looked you up and down, his eyes taking in your bedtime look.

“I mean, I’m not opposed, but surely if you were gonna come use me for a late night booty call, you could have at least dressed up a little and treated me to some lingerie.”

“Uh, what? No.” you quickly said, shaking off his comment. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Okay, then what did you mean?”

“I mean sleep. Like actual sleep. I feel like I’ve had maybe three hours sleep total in the last three days and I’m desperate.”

“And sleeping in bed with me is gonna help?” he fished, looking for your reasoning.

“Look, I’m just weirded out being in a new place on my own okay. I just want to cuddle up in bed with my best friend and feel safe so I can sleep.”

He softened then, a tiny smile playing at the corners of his lips. “Come on then,” he said, stepping back and ushering you inside.

His bedsheets were all ruffled where he’d been chilling in bed, winding down to go to sleep, the bedside lamp on washing the room in a soft yellow light.

“I didn’t interrupt your late night porn routine did I?” You joked, wanting to diffuse the small amount of tension you’d brought into the room from invading his space.

“Oh no, I finished that about an hour ago,” he teased.

“Good thing this wasn’t an actual booth call then,” you said back, before climbing into the bed and shuffling to the far side that hadn’t been touched.

“Oh don’t worry, I could have gone again,” he teased back, flashing you a playful smile. You rolled your eyes at him before fluffing the pillow and lying down in it comfortably. “You need anything else?” he asked as he prepared to climb in next to you.

“Nah, I think I’m good,” you said.

“Just that cuddle then.” he said with a nod, turning the light off and shuffling close to spoon you. You both shuffled about a little until you were completely comfortable, the dark quiet of the room blanketing you both and making the moment feel far more intimate than you’d originally imagined this being. “You called me your best friend,” he finally said quietly into you ear.

“Yeah, I did.” you said back, in the same hushed tone. “Is that okay?”

“As long as you don’t expect me to say it back.” he joked and his breath tickled the back of your neck, sending a shiver down your spine that relaxed you, your body folding into his and his arm wrapped tighter around you to pull you into his chest.

“Good night, Joaquin.” you finally said into the darkness.

“Good night, Y/N.” he said contently back.

[alinathinkstoomuch]

COMFORT IN YOU

pairing: aaron hotchner x reader (ex!reader, i suppose) summary: even though the two of you are no longer together, hotch can't help the fact that he still has the need to comfort you. warnings | an: lil hurt & comfort, two exes making soup together but they're still blatantly in love with one another, also pretty sure this is not the correct way to make soup i was really just saying shi to make them busy, yearning i suppose?? word count: 2k

✧ masterlist

You were having what you could only describe as a series of bad days. There were no particular causes or events for them, just the uncomfortable feeling of a heaviness in your chest. There wasn’t anything glaringly wrong, but there wasn’t much that felt right, either.

For the past week, you’d been snoozing your alarm until the last possible second. Mornings turned into rushed scrambles - brushing your teeth and hair the only boxes you’d managed to check before bolting out the door. You hadn’t bothered with makeup or a decent outfit in days, simply because nothing seemed worth the effort.

You knew the feeling would pass eventually, it wasn’t a constant thing. Every now and then, you just felt…off. Like you were watching yourself from the outside, going through the motions but not really present.

You were sure there was a word for it. Something detached and clinical - Spencer had once mentioned it on a flight home from a case. The memory hovered at the edges of your mind, but you couldn’t find the energy to chase it down just to label what you already knew.

You just didn’t feel like yourself.

“You’re not seriously staying here past five on a Friday night, are you?” Penelope asked, using your desk as a dumping ground to sort through her large purse.

You glanced up with a tried smile. “No, Pen. Just finishing up. I’ll be out of here soon.”

“Okay, sugar,” she said in what was supposed to be her warning voice – though, like everything Penelope said, it came wrapped in warmth and sweetness. “Promise me you’ll go home, take a nice hot bath, light some candles –” she fluttered her fingers animatedly, “–and show yourself some love.”

You arched a brow. “Is this your subtle way of telling me I look like shit?”

She gasped, swatting you lightly with her pink glasses case. “I would never use such language. But also…yes. A little bit.”

You shook your head and rolled your eyes, giving her a full performance of your pretend annoyance.

Penelope just grinned, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “Text me when you get home. And take care of that beautiful face, okay?” She reached out, giving your chin a playful squeeze before blowing you an air-kiss. “Self-care, my love. Don’t make me come over there and enforce it.”

“Yes, boss,” you said, standing from your seat. “Have a good night, Penny.”

Once she was gone, you stacked the last forms for your report into a folder, quietly relieved that Hotch wasn't in his office to hand it in to. It had taken you far longer to complete than usual - in fact, you were pretty sure yours was the only report he was waiting on to close out the case.

He wouldn't have given you a hard time about it – he never had – but still, you didn't want him thinking you couldn't handle your workload. Not when you both agreed the job was too important to let anything, especially your relationship, interfere with it.

You made your way into his office, the lights still on despite the fact that he'd stepped out for a meeting hours ago. It should've felt strange being in his space. Working with him. Seeing him every day, even after the two of you had mutually agreed to call it quits. But it didn't feel strange at all.

If anything, your relationship with him had stayed almost exactly the same. The only real difference was that you couldn't crawl into his arms at the end of a long day - and that was okay, or at least you had spent a lot of time trying to convince yourself that it was. You were both adults. Mature. Maybe a little too career-hungry.

You'd given it your best shot for almost a year, and it just didn't work. That was it. There wasn't anything more either of you could've done – or, if you were honest, wanted to do. Maybe if you'd both been accountants, or if one of you had decided to transfer out of the BAU, it might've worked. But neither of you wanted that.

You both loved the job exactly as it was.

So you let go.

And maybe that was love too, in its own way.

You left the report neatly on his desk, then made your way back to your own. After packing up your things, you headed out, the building quiet behind you.

On the way home, you stopped by the grocery store near your place, telling yourself you'd pick up something for a proper dinner. But somewhere between the fluorescent lights and the half-empty shelves, you settled on a frozen meal instead. Very high-nutrient of you, truly.

By the time you got home, you didn't even bother unpacking your haul. You just dropped the bags on the countertop and left them there, your keys landing beside them with a dull clink. You headed straight for the bathroom, aiming for a quick shower and could practically hear Penelope rolling her eyes at your refusal to take a proper bath.

It couldn’t have been later than eight when a knock echoed through your home. Your slippers dragged softly across the wooden floor as you made your way to the door, unsure of who you were about to find on the other side. Perhaps it was Penelope, coming over to check whether the bath salts she had given you for your birthday had finally been put to use.

But when you opened the door, it wasn’t Penelope standing there.

It was Hotch. Still in his work clothes, with a brown bag tucked under his arm.

“Well, fancy seeing you here,” you greeted, opening the door wider to let him in.

He stepped inside without a word, moving through the space like he’d never left it. Like it still belonged to him, at least in some small way. And maybe it did. For a while, this had been his second home.

You watched him cross to the kitchen, settling the bag down beside your still-unpacked groceries.

“No Thai?”

“Not tonight,” he replied, slipping off his jacket. “I thought I’d make soup.” His sleeves were rolled up before you could even respond and he was at your sink, using your soap to wash his hands to make you dinner.  

You really couldn’t make this up.

You took a seat on the bench, folding your legs beneath you as you watched him unpack the contents of the bag. “Did you read my report?”

He didn’t look up as he pulled out a bundle of parsley, a container of chicken stock and various vegetables. “I did.”

“Am I going to have to redo it?”

He glanced at you then, the faintest trace of amusement crossing his face. “No,” he said. “It was good. A little rushed, maybe – but not wrong.”

You gave dry laugh. “You can tell me to redo it, I promise I won’t get mad.”

“I know you won’t, but I also know when you’re not at your best. And I’m not going to punish you for having an off week.”

You nodded slowly, watching as he moved to grab a cutting board.

After a moment, you spoke again – softer this time. “You won’t be able to do this forever, you know.”

His eyes met yours again, but he stayed silent.

“I’m serious,” you went on, offering a small smile. “What happens when you start dating again? You’re just going to keep showing up at your ex-girlfriend’s house with soup ingredients?”

“I don’t think dating is in the cards right now.”

You tilted your head, teasing gently. “Why not? Did I leave you that emotionally wrecked?”

He shook his head with a quiet laugh. “No, you didn’t. It’s just…not where my focus is.”

You clicked your tongue, reaching for an orange from the fruit bowl. “Well, that’s a shame. Because dating is in my cards,” you revealed, digging your thumb into the skin and starting to peel.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Thinking of going for a broker this time,” you mused, not looking at him as you pulled off a strip of peel. “You know, mix it up. Maybe someone who doesn’t alphabetize their spices.”

“And you’d be happy with a broker?”

You shrugged, glancing up at him as you popped a piece of mandarin into your mouth. “Who knows.” You chewed slowly, then added with a smirk, “I can easily picture you with a nurse. Or maybe a doctor. Wouldn’t that be fun? We could do double dates, your nurse-doctor, my broker. Very grown-up of us.”

“I don’t think I’m built for double dating.”

“No,” you agreed. “You’d probably scare my broker away.”

“Would that be such a bad thing?”

You paused, taking the time to eat your second piece of mandarin. “Depends.”

“On?”

“How much I like the broker."

He didn’t respond right away, turning back toward the stove. “Where’s your big pot?”

“Exactly where you left it,” you replied, watching as he moved toward the lower cabinet, like he still remembered this kitchen better than his own.

And the truth was, this – whatever this was – probably wasn’t the healthiest of situations, and it wasn’t making moving on any easier for either of you.

But it was what you knew. What you remembered.

And if this was the version of him you were allowed to keep, you’d take it. You weren’t ready to go back to a life without him, not yet. Not when he still offered pieces of himself and not when you still kept saying yes.

“Do you need any help?” you asked, rising to your feet, your knees clicking in protest.  

“Always need your help,” he responded – just a little too casually. You knew he hadn’t meant for it to land as heavily as it did.

You gathered the orange peel and turned to toss it in the bin, just as Hotch stepped back from the stove. And suddenly, he was right there – in front of you. His eyes found yours and held them, like he was reading something you hadn’t yet decided to say. He’d always been good at that, seeing things before you did. Predicting thoughts you hadn’t even fully formed.

“Have you been sleeping?”

You nodded, brushing past him to rinse your hands. “Like a baby.”

He turned just slightly, enough to catch your expression. “That’s a no, then.”

“It’s hard to get comfortable on a bed that’s broken,” you said, equal parts explanation and blame. And while you wished it was a great sex story you were referring to…it wasn’t. You’d asked him to hang a frame above your bed. The next thing you heard from the living room was a loud thud – one of the bed legs snapping clean off.

“Hey, I fixed what I broke,” he offered.

Ha.

“Not very well,” you muttered, drying your hands. “Where do you want me?”

Hotch paused mid-motion as he added vegetables to the pot, eyes flicking up to meet yours.  

“In terms of helping,” you added, arching a brow like it was his mind that had wandered.

The corner of his mouth twitched. “Right.” He nodded toward the cutting board. “You can shred the chicken.”

You did as you were told, moving to stand next to him. Your elbow brushed his now and then, neither of you bothering to move away.

“You still do this thing,” you said after a moment, not looking up. “Organising everything before you start. Like you’re in a restaurant kitchen.”

“It saves time,” he reasoned, glancing at you from the corner of his eye.

“It’s kind of endearing.”

“You used to call it controlling.”

You shrugged again. “I don’t recall.”

“Just like you don’t recall watering the basil?” His eyes moved to a pot on the windowsill, it’s leaves wilted, dropping sadly.

“You’re welcome to take it home with you.”

He raised a brow. “And let it die under my care instead?”

“Seems fair. Full-circle moment.”

Your elbow brushed his again and the two of you fell silent.

“...You okay?”

You didn’t look at him. “Yeah.”

“You sure?” he pressed, gentler now.  

You nodded, still not meeting his eyes. “Yeah. I mean… not great, but – functioning.”

“Is there anything that I can do?”

You glanced up, offering a tired but genuine smile. “Just make sure the soup’s good.”

“It will be,” he assured you. “I know how you like it.”

And he did – because he still remembered all of it. Everything you liked, everything you didn’t. What you tolerated with a tight-lipped smile and what you outright hated. He hadn’t forgotten a thing.

And as you stood there, watching him move through your kitchen like he still belonged in your home, in your heart, you couldn’t help but wonder how many more times the two of you would let yourselves end up in moments like this.

tags - @fandomscombine @dohmeti @pastelpinkflowerlife @hazzyking @bernelflo @risenqueen1521 @jazzimac1967 @camihotchner @abschaffer2 @ill-be-okay-soon-enough @pacmillo-blog-blog @stilestotherescue

(please lmk if you want to be removed from the general tag list & just be kept on the fake finance tag list)

[toruforuu]

(slightly nsfw!)

nerd!jo who goes to the same uni as you and ever since he caught onto you, you’ve been on his mind. leaving him utterly captivated since your first semester, when he saw you on campus

nerd!jo who quickly realises you’re the kind of person who’s known around the facility. you belong to countless of clubs, take parts in multiple projects and you’re always surrounded by your friends. you’re popular. the complete opposite of him as he prefers to keep to himself and stay quiet

nerd!jo who later finds out you’re sharing a class with his best friend geto and who’s instantly met with a wave of mixed feelings. he keeps his little crush on you a secret. even from his best friend

nerd!jo who stumbles upon you talking to geto in the hallway and who’s pulled into the conversation by his friend, offered as a helping hand for your project’s calculations

nerd!jo who does indeed agree to help, however, he doesn’t know how to act so close to you. which paints him out to be pretty nonchalant

nerd!jo who starts to wear a certain colour more often after you compliment his sweater, telling him it makes his eyes stand out

nerd!jo who warms up to you over the time due to him helping you with the project and you popping by to greet him and his best friend, chatting them both up

nerd!jo who is soon falling head over heels for you. without even realising

nerd!jo who’s confused when you join his calculus class next semester, because he remembers you saying it wasn’t something you were keen to. and who’s shocked even further, when you claim the seat next to him

nerd!jo whose blood runs cold, when some other dude walks up to you after your shared calculus class and interrupts you two talking. only to ask you if you wanna get out and grab a coffee. he stood frozen still as his heart roared in his chest, knowing it wouldn’t be right to interfere

nerd!jo who nearly lets out a sigh of relief when you reject the offer. and who’s irritation skyrockets the moment the guy won’t take no as an answer

nerd!jo who steps in automatically without thinking, telling him you and him have a thing going on later in the evening. your eyes narrowed in surprise. truthfully, he surprised himself too

nerd!jo who keeps pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose whenever he’s around you. the nervous gesture not going unnoticed by you

nerd!jo who grows sad, when you begin to tag along with him and geto, assuming it was his best friend you were after as it was usually that way. not him

nerd!jo who’s taken back when you pull out a box filled with baked goods and offer him to try some before a lesson. and he wondered if you had remembered his sweet tooth

nerd!jo who is so painfully oblivious to your shameless attempts at flirting, thinking you’re just being nice

nerd!jo who thinks about jerking off to your instagram picture he’s so fond of, but never ends up doing cause it’s laud. but he thinks about it, way more than he should

nerd!jo who gets flustered and awkward whenever his best friend mentions you or anything concerning you two together

nerd!jo who overhears you talking about your crush to your friends. a crush. his heart breaks

nerd!jo who notices the way your eyes linger on his lips as he speaks about the equation you asked him to explain, nonetheless, he tells himself it’s nothing and he’s probably seeing things

nerd!jo who then proceeds to go completely still when he registers the feeling of your lips on his mid sentence

nerd!jo who blinks to adjust his vision after you pull away few seconds later and then fixes his glasses. only to be the one who crashes his lips onto yours this time

nerd!jo who leaves the library with a raging boner after you spent the entire time desperately making out and being handsy with each other instead of studying

nerd!jo whose heart almost gives out, when you confess you had your sights on him from the beginning as well, but you were too shy to approach since he looked so intimidating

nerd!jo who ends up being your boyfriend by the end of the same day

nerd!jo who can’t help but feel a course of confidence seizing him as he walks through the campus with you, hands interlocked

a/n: couldn’t and can’t stop thinking about nerdjo so thought i would share couple of my ideas;)

credits for dividers: [ @cafekitsune ]

[jinxedanubis]

I had this kid in middle school (we were around the same age) who was trying to do this chivalry thing towards me because he liked me- told me he wouldn't hit a woman on our bus ride home.

Safe to say I started a physical fight with him on the bus over it. He wouldn't listen to reason, so I got physical.

managed to knock off his glasses- I let him get up and leave, take his glasses, and go to his trailer park when we reached his stop. Cause I didn't want to fight he just wasn't listening.

I am still very proud of myself and I do not care what anyone has had to say about it. I did what I believed and still believe is right.

Your sexism does not appeal to me.

One time in highschool our teacher said that it was never under any circumstances okay for a boy to hit a girl and I asked “not even in self defense?” and he said “no” so I pointed to the kid next to me and said “so if I just started whaling on this guy then he’d just have to take it? What the hell” and he was like “you two have had the same homeroom for three years do you not know his name” and I was like “that’s not the point right now” and Mr. K if you’re out there reading this I’m still mad about it