#i feel like the interaction is going down

[that-one-girl2020]

Please do the confrontation, Celine really needs to be called out on her bad parenting.

The Confrontation

Saja Boys x Rumi’s Sister! Reader

A/N: Okay, several of you asked for it. So here it is. This takes place a little bit after the movie, so the girls are technically still on hiatus and the reader still hasn’t debuted as a solo artist.

For those who are just stumbling upon this, it won’t make much sense unless you read the short series I wrote so go check that out!

Also, Polytr/x is present but is subtle and isn’t very in your face.

TW: Celine’s terrible parenting, toxic parental figure, species discrimination…?

Word Count: 3,102

Master List

“I don’t wanna be here…”

You couldn’t help but sulk as you trudged up the path towards a certain house in the middle of the forest.

A couple weeks after Gwi Ma’s defeat and the sealing of the rainbow Honmoon, the group of you had agreed that it was finally safe for you all to make the journey to the Hunter’s grounds, where you and Rumi grew up, in order to search for answers now that it seemed like all the missing souls that Gwi Ma had consumed or been fed had returned. The nine of you were all worried that the power that had brought you and the boys back would suddenly fade or could be triggered at any time without warning, so you all had agreed to take a weekend or longer to search the archives at the Hunter’s grounds.

Rumi had sent a short, succinct message to let Celine know they were coming but that was the extent of whatever courtesy she deigned to give her.

“It’ll be alright, (Y/n). We haven’t been back in so long! I’m excited,” Zoey tried to cheer you up, bouncing up the path excitedly.

“Yeah, Babe, we’re curious to see where you grew up,” Kwan grabbed your hand, swinging it exaggeratedly between the two of you. He had his bag and all the girls’ overnight bags slung over his shoulder in his other hand.

Rumi grimaced awkwardly, “It’s not that interesting. Promise.”

You and Rumi shared a look. Neither of you knew about the other’s interaction with Celine, but both of you wanted to avoid more interactions with the woman than were necessary…

“The ancient training grounds for all Hunters isn’t interesting?” Jinu cocked an eyebrow at Rumi’s words. His shoulders seemed a little more relaxed than usual now that you all were outside of the city.

Mira scoffed, “It’s just an old house with nothing around it for miles.” Mira rolled her eyes, already bored just thinking about being back at their training grounds. But she still took Rumi’s hand in her own, squeezing it softly when she noticed how uncomfortable she seemed.

“If it’s old enough, maybe we’ll feel right at home,” Chungae mused pleasantly. Jum and Hyeon trailed behind him, at the back of the group. The two were taking in the scenery, pausing every now and then so Jum could take a picture of something on his phone.

“I wouldn’t try to get too comfortable,” You mumbled as the house finally came into view.

The hanok house was still standing proudly although some part of you wished that it had crumbled along with the old Honmoon. The boys would definitely feel right at home with the building from the 1400’s…

And there was your Aunt Celine, pacing outside the front door. She turned at the sound of approaching footsteps and her face lit up in a smile as she hurried over.

“Girls!” She pulled Mira, Rumi, and Zoey into a hug. “Oh, I was so worried. But I saw the Honmoon become sealed, and I’m so proud of you girls.”

Rumi shifted awkwardly in Celine’s arms, breaking the hug. “Nice to see you too, Aunt Celine…” Internally, Rumi couldn’t help but feel her chest twist uncomfortably at how the woman ignored their last interaction like it had never happened.

When Rumi pulled away, Celine looked her up and down, seeing her faint iridescent patterns shining in the sun easily with the shorts and t-shirt Rumi was wearing. Celine’s smile fell into a frown, shrugging off the cardigan she wore to drape over Rumi’s arms, “Oh, Rumi, cover up, please…” Celine side eyed Mira and Zoey pointedly, as if looking for support or to remind Rumi that she shouldn’t show her patterns around others.

Rumi sighed, shrugging the cardigan off to hand back to Celine, “Aunt Celine, we’re here to look for something in the archives.” She didn’t miss how Celine’s eyes began avoiding her when she did.

“‘We’?” Celine echoed in confusion. Her eyes finally wandered from the three Hunters, looking at you and the five boys behind them. Celine gasped at the sight of you and the boys with your demonic patterns on display. She reached for a weapon that no longer came to her, “Demons?! Girls, you brought demons to the sacred training grounds?!”

You were quiet as the boys pulled you back from the woman, grouping around you protectively. “Hello ma’am,” Jinu greeted her simply, a cold look on his face.

The boys hadn’t missed the difference in treatment you received from your Aunt, or how distasteful the woman was of Rumi’s patterns. Mira and Zoey were also beginning to look weary and confused.

You sighed, “Aunt Celine, it’s fine. They’re good, they’re not here to cause any harm, they’re here to help us,” you tried to calm the woman but it seemed to only fuel Celine’s actions.

Her eyes narrowed on you, almost snarling at you, “‘Good’? Demons are not good, they are never good, child. I thought I told you to leave last time you were here.”

Zoey stepped between you, a strained smile on her face as she forced a laugh, “No really, Celine! They are good, they helped us defeat Gwi Ma and find lost souls when they returned.”

Celine looked at Zoey incredulously, eyes wide with mania, “Only after they let Gwi Ma through I’m sure. The only ‘help’ they can offer this world is by dying on your blades.”

Mira crossed her arms, “Celine, listen to us. They’re making up for what they did, they sacrificed themselves to help us seal the Honmoon.”

Celine wasn’t listening to reason, “They’re a danger to the Honmoon. The six of them will leave now. They are not welcome here.”

“Wait, Celine, ‘six’?” Zoey echoed unsurely, hyper focusing on the number as she counted the Saja Boys in her head. No, still just five demon boys.

“She means me,” You answered monotonously. “Don’t you.” You stared emotionlessly at your Aunt and how she grimaced every time she looked at you.

“No, that’s not right. I’m sure she just miscounted, right Celine?” Zoey tried, her smile straining tighter.

“Yes,” Celine answered. “I mean you as well, child. Because you failed in protecting Rumi’s secret, the Honmoon was almost destroyed and Gwi Ma almost invaded our world.” Celine laid the blame at your feet with a stony expression.

You took a deep breath, trying to quell your rising emotions—the hurt and the pain of being treated with such scorn by the woman who raised you. “Fine. We’ll go back to the city. Please let us know what you find, girls. Let’s go boys,” With a small formal bow to Celine, you turned to the boys, intent on going back to the cars so you could take one back to the city. Or just teleport back, you were happy to still have that ability.

The boys weren’t happy. No, not at all.

Hyeon had to swallow back the vicious growl that was building in the back of his throat. Kwan’s fist clenched as he felt the war beast inside him rattle its restraints. Chungae grit his teeth, aching to sink them into this woman’s beating heart. Jum shakily wiped the blood on his hands on his black pants, the small wounds from his claws bleeding lightly. Jinu’s face was cold, different scenarios flying through his head, all unique plots where your Aunt mysteriously met a fatal accident.

Rumi’s voice cut through the air, “No.” You all turned to look at the girl. Her fists were clenched tight, her teeth grit, and her pupils more narrow as some of her more demonic features came to the surface in her anger. “No more.”

“Rumi?” Celine was genuinely surprised at Rumi’s sudden words.

Rumi marched past the woman, grabbing your wrist to keep you at her side in front of the boys and between them and Celine, her face resolute as she faced your Aunt. “No more separating (Y/n) and me.”

Rumi began going off on a tangent, her eyes welling with frustrated tears, “Ever since we found out that (Y/n) couldn’t connect to the Honmoon, you’ve kept us apart, but no more! You put us in separate rooms, you kept her from singing and dancing with me, you pushed her into the kitchen, you suppressed all her dreams, and I know it was wrong to go along with it now.”

You looked down, squeezing Rumi’s hand in yours as the well of emotions in your chest threatened to burst.

Celine stepped forward with wide eyes, Mira and Zoey watching unsurely from behind her as they thought over all the interactions they’ve seen you have with the woman. At the time, it had felt normal because that was how it was when Celine started training them. They thought it was just how it was, but that didn’t make it right.

Celine placed her hands on Rumi’s cheeks, cradling her face softly. “I’m so sorry, Rumi. This is my fault, you got too attached. She’s more like that man than I thought, she’s manipulated you. I should’ve tossed the child out when you were younger…”

The air froze around them.

“What?” One of the boys spoke but you didn’t turn to see who it was. You looked down, your shoulders hunching up as you shrunk into yourself. You felt ashamed for some reason.

Rumi, horrified, backed away from Celine, pulling you with her. “You… should’ve tossed her…”

“You knew,” you turned your head to peek over your shoulder at Jinu. “She’s already said this to you.”

You nodded, your throat too tight to get words out.

“When?” Chungae asked simply. Well, it was more of a demand than anything.

You looked away, your stomach roiling uncomfortably. “After the Idol Awards… I came here to ask for her help to find Rumi and explain to the girls.”

“And she refused to help you,” Kwan pieced together the events on his own, moving closer to you. You must’ve come to them just after.

“Yes,” You nodded anyway.

“You’re a terrible person,” Hyeon growled lowly, his teeth bared at your Aunt.

Celine scowled, “How dare you, you filthy-“

“No, he’s right,” Mira agreed darkly, her and Zoey rounding Celine so they could bracket you and Rumi between them defensively. “You are a terrible person.”

“Mira?”

Zoey frowned, crossing her arms, “Terrible. Like, worse than the worst demon. Well, but Gwi Ma—No, I stand by my words.”

“Zoey?”

Rumi steeled her expression. “Celine, (Y/n) is the only reason the girls and I were able to create and seal the rainbow Honmoon. Not the gold. Rainbow.”

Mira nodded, “She died protecting Rumi and gave her soul to Rumi. (Y/n) gave us the strength to defeat Gwi Ma.”

“And the boys followed her lead. They all gave us their souls to give us strength. She became a sword for Rumi!” Zoey agreed vehemently.

“And I bet,” Jinu added, all the boys moving closer so they could join the defense circle around you and Rumi. “That you’re the reason the girls were so scared of sharing their patterns. Especially Rumi.”

Rumi blinked at suddenly being included in the center of the protective S/Os. “Wait, what?”

Mira’s eyes narrowed, “Yeah. When Rumi hesitated in going to the bathhouse with us, you always shot it down before she could. Until she started doing it herself.”

Zoey’s eyes widened, “Wait!” Her eyes narrowed into a glower at Celine, who was surprised by the turn of events. “You’re the reason Rumi and (Y/n) never went to the bathhouse with us for years!”

“Rumi had to keep it a secret until the Honmoon was sealed and they were gone,” Celine defended herself. “They’re supposed to be gone now… And they’re not because (Y/n)’s soul must have poisoned the Honmoon…!”

You blinked at the sudden realization Celine came to, flinching back when she launched herself at you with an angry expression. Mira and Zoey quickly restrained her though as the boys closed ranks around you and Rumi, Rumi hugging you close to her.

“You’ve gone crazy!” Mira told the struggling woman.

“(Y/n) didn’t ‘poison’ your precious Honmoon, you crazy old bat,” Kwan snarled, his arms at the ready at his side in case Celine lunged for you again. The boys’ eyes had an amber glow about them and their skin had an inhuman tint to them as their demonic features flared in their anger and protective instincts.

“And Rumi never had to hide herself. We would’ve accepted her from the start!” Zoey added her own thoughts to the bubbling pot.

Jum and Chungae, the two youngest of the Saja Boys, fell back from the defensive line to offer comfort to you. Jum took your free hand in his while Chungae wrapped his arms around your waist from behind, propping his chin on your shoulder. Jum offered Rumi a candy he had seen her eating pretty often. They were there for her too.

Derpy also emerged from a bush to comfort Rumi, pushing his head under her hand in demand for pets. Sussie glared with all three eyes from a tree branch.

“I don’t think we can trust you around the girls,” Jinu remarked from his defensive stance. “We also simply don’t want you here. Is there any place she can go other than here?”

“How about Antarctica?” Mira suggested. You couldn’t tell if she was serious or not.

“There are Hunter properties all over the world,” Rumi told the group. “And several in Korea. The furthest from here without leaving the country would be the Jeju island estate.”

“Oh, so you guys are rich rich. Got it.”

“I can have Derpy portal her there,” Jinu offered immediately. “All in favor?”

“Yeah.”

“Definitely.”

“Couldn’t we go farther…”

“Yup!”

“Sick.”

“Agreed Boss.”

You and Rumi didn’t get a vote.

“We’ll go take her to pack a bag,” Zoey volunteered for her and Mira. The rest of you trailed after them as the two girls frogmarched Celine to her room.

“What are you girls doing!? The Honmoon isn’t safe! They must’ve tainted it so they could keep letting demons into our world!” Celine argued furiously but none of you were listening to her anymore.

Zoey even rolled her eyes, “Yeah yeah…”

While their voices trailed off into the house, you and Rumi led the boys into the den where you proceeded to take all the pillows and blankets within reach and dumped them on the ground. The two of you then proceeded to faceplant in the pile with twin groans of emotional exhaustion.

You and Rumi were rung out.

Coming here, you had expected backlash from Celine, especially with your more prominent demon features. However, you had decided to yourself that you would quietly fade into the background for the weekend so you, the boys, and the girls could look for answers peacefully. It hurt that the woman who had raised you could only see you as your demon lineage, but you would deal so you wouldn’t make waves.

But seeing the boys and Mira and Zoey stand up for you and Rumi so vehemently, reassuring yourself that your treatment from Celine wasn’t right? You realized you had fallen back into bad habits.

‘Fade into the background?’ You thought you were done doing that.

It was also a slap in the face to realize all the damage the woman had done to your and Rumi’s relationship.

You had only ever seen that Celine gave much more of her attention and affection to Rumi, supporting her in being the idol she envisioned. Now you could see that it was wrong. Celine had been pushing Rumi into the image of your mother, the memory of her that Celine held onto with a desperate iron grip.

Just like Celine only saw you for your father, Celine just saw Rumi for your mother.

The boys moved around you, setting all of your bags in a corner and plopping down in different spaces around you and Rumi.

Jinu was on Rumi’s other side, one hand reaching over the purple haired girl to massage the back of your neck soothingly.

Hyeon took up the free space at your side, nuzzling his nose into the crook of your shoulder. It was his favorite spot in the whole world.

Kwan somehow shifted the both of you so he could lay under you with you on his chest and yet still not disturbing Hyeon from his spot. You didn’t understand it either.

Jum settled on Hyeon’s other side, using his hyung’s side as a pillow as he stuck a sucker in his mouth and scrolled through his phone. You think he’s going through the pictures you’ve taken together. He likes to send them to you to cheer you up or motivate you.

Chungae was on Jinu’s other side, also using the man’s middle as a pillow. He pulled out the bracelet he had started making during the car ride over to keep his hands busy. Focusing on being there with you and not your horrible Aunt.

“Derpy just sent Celine on her way,” Mira announced as she, Zoey, and Derpy with Sussie perched on Derpy’s shoulder joined them in the den.

“It was strangely satisfying,” Zoey chirped. You were a little concerned that Celine had actually been sent to the arctic but it wasn’t your problem.

Mira and Zoey joined the cuddle pile, nudging everyone to the side so they could be on either side of Rumi, Mira squeezing between you and Rumi and Zoey on the other side between Jinu and Rumi.

Zoey peppered Rumi’s face with kisses, making the older girl smile. Mira, meanwhile, took the tie out of her hair and unraveled the braid, using her nails to massage her scalp and ease the tension headache that had been building. Rumi melted with a content sigh, practically purring.

Derpy tilted his head before deciding to settle over everyone’s legs, purring contently despite you all groaning as your legs became trapped.

As everyone settled into quiet content, you squeaked when Hyeon pressed a soft kiss to the crook of your shoulder where his face rested. You could feel Kwan chuckling beneath you, bouncing you up and down on his chest with the movement.

You ignored him. You reached out in the tangle of bodies until Chungae and Jum, on the edges of the pile, took your hands. Chungae pressed a kiss to the back of it and Jum squeezed the other comfortingly.

And you all just laid there for a good long while. Content.

A/N: I still have plenty of ideas for this series, including a smut and a role reversal AU where the boys are the hunters and you and the girls are the demons, so stay tuned!

I also just tagged the same people from the series so let me know if you want me to remove you from the taglist from here on out now that the series is officially done.

Outtakes:

*Starting Therapy*

You: *Casually Trauma Dumping* “So my aunt had me suppress all my own wants and desires in order to protect my sister because our mother was a demon hunter and then she met our father, a demon, and then they were both killed. And then I recently briefly gave up on humanity and opted to help my five boyfriend sacrifice thousands of souls to their demon overlord.”

The Therapist: *Desperately keeping a straight face* “Uh-huh…”

…

You: *Peacefully singing in the shower*

The Saja Boys and Huntr/x: *Sitting outside the bathroom door to listen*

…

Abby: *Flexing in front of the mirror* “Oh yeah~ I’m looking fine today~”

You: *Opens the door* “…” *Silently judging*

Abby: *Frozen*

You: *Slowly closes the door*

Abby: “Wait! It’s not what it looks like!”

…

Tag List: @brights-place @itmechaosartist @reni502 @chin-chii @cultish-corner @enerofairy @mama-m1na @akariis4snowball @gremlinartstudio @shynotded @shadowmoonlight0604 @omgsuperstarg @neigesprincess @sleep-7372 @hurts-my-brain @kiwibackie @gh0stied3ath @naysha140 @theferretkids @lelantyuu @sexyindependentdowntospendit @hornehlittleweeblet2 @moonymoo1 @moochiwoochi @cheolright @crescent-z @prorpy @mey-archive @cami1qx @nerdalicios @xxsadlovexx @latisthegenderfluidwannabealone @blackheart34 @anonymousewrites @scarletrosesposts @justanindiangirl12 @beexboo @tatsuri-zomushiki @call-me-nyxx @queenofviolenceandnerds @randomfan218-blog @jaybbygrl @unholycheesesnack @ocean-mochi @iviorienne @confusedparticle @otakusimp1 @nosbaby07 @fries11 @ri-eveowe @1950schick @libdarkheart @yourjustassaneasiamx @the-bookish-artist @anduinandwrathionlover @eternallyrosyfire @lysira340 @lansy-4 @strayharmony943 @maximumtrashchild @bleufu1 @minepugs @valeriele3 @arieslucy @nisarelle @suzieq1948374 @esposamultifandom

[binmeister]

I love you.

The first time he said I love you

Saja boys x Reader (Separate)

Making up for the heart break 🫶 the way abby and jinu are my faves… but i write longer segments for the others…

CW: fluff, mostly mushy stuff - primarily gender neutral - not proofread

Jinu

Not the smoothest guy, are you?

He likes the way you laugh, the way you’re willing to mess with him when he pokes fun at you - the soft push and pull between you two that felt natural, like home. He likes the late night talks you guys have, either out on a walk enjoying the silence of the streets or moments like now where you’re laid side by side on his bed barely a hair away from each other staring at the ceiling and you don’t notice when his head has turned to watch you as you spoke - goofy grin on his face as he watches your face scrunch up whenever you recount something or the tilt in your lips as you let out an infectious laugh.

You were rambling about idol comebacks right now, both jumping into a detailed discussion on which group sounded good this time around and who could maybe try a different concept. You talked with your hands and he couldn’t help but laugh a little at how enthusiastic you were about the topic, pointing at his direction with your hands but not turning your head when you instructed him on what his group should totally try next comeback. The topic shifted again and it kept going around in circles where you’d start one, and then he’d continue, then he’d start a new topic, then you’d continue. It was comforting.

“I love you.” He blurts out, you’d both finished laughing at some dumb interaction you had at work that day and it made you both freeze up. Slowly you turned your head, realising he had been staring at you the entire time and his face was as surprised as you were. Like he didn’t expect himself to say it.

Another beat of silence. He’s about to stammer an apology and brush it off when you laugh again, chest feeling light as you roll onto your side and then flop your upper body on top of him. The last thing he saw was your big grin and then you buried your face into his chest, he looked down at you and was so caught off guard that he couldn’t help the nervous laugh that he let out as he realised he could feel the heat from your face on his chest. 

Then he hears it, the muffle of your voice as you reply to him.

“I love you too.” You had said into his chest before finally tilting your head up to look at him, he looked a mess with his face reddening by the second and then you’re both giggling like little kids that confessed to their school crush. It takes a couple minutes before you manage to poke fun at him again, making a comment as you poke his cheek. “You’re such a loser.”

“Oh, I’m the loser?” Jinu fakes offense as he raises an eyebrow, eyes crinkled a little as he calms down and he instinctively tilts his head into where your finger is prodding into his cheek then his arms finally shift to wrap around you. “Aren’t you a loser for loving me?”

“Woah woah, chill out now. I might retract my statement.” You replied to his teasing and he feigned shock, like a scorned Victorian woman and you felt his hands squeeze your sides lightly as his voice lowered a little. “You wouldn’t.”

A sly expression slipped onto your face and before you could say you would, he shifted to hover over you, one hand moving up to cover your mouth as his other arm held his torso up - his turn now to have his upper body leant over yours and he smirked at how flabbergasted you now looked. “I’m not gonna let you.”

Then you licked his palm and he quickly removed his hand from your mouth as you started to giggle evilly at him, but you were silenced once again as he quickly shifted his head to press a brief kiss to your lips. And like that he’d backed off and started giggling as he got off the bed and started dodging your attempts at catching him.

“Hehehe.” 

Abs / Abby

Say it with your chest

He’s big, more muscle than man and knows he sometimes struggles with controlling his strength but you’ve never given him grief for it - never yelled at him for being too rough or how clumsy he could be given his stature. There’s something about the way you touch him like he’s fragile, like he could break if you’re not careful and it makes his stomach all fuzzy and his chest feel warm.

It was one of those times now where you’re both just hanging out in the guys’ apartment, laying on the living room floor and he’s got a little too much energy so he looks at you before lunging. Wrapping you up in a tight hug and rolling around with you in his playful attempt of a rough housing session, he’d never actually hurt you but he needed to get the cuteness aggression out. You’d smacked at his chest and his arms to get him to stop, complaints spilling out of your mouth in between all the giggles and gasps for air you let out and it made him melt. 

“Really? That’s all you got?” He exclaimed as he rolled you guys over for him to hover on top of you, an arm shifting to cage you in by your head as his other stayed wrapped around your waist - lifting your back slightly off the floor and you were still giggling at him. Another pathetic swat at his chest that barely felt like anything and then you’d reached up with a shaky hand to hold his cheek. The touch so light he could barely feel it and he leant his head into it, the warmth of your palm was so inviting.

“Y’know, I really love you.” Your eyes widened at his sudden confession as he looked down at you with a confident grin, boyish twinkle in his eyes as he expectantly looked at you for your response. You’d stammered and he wanted to devour you right then and there, head lowering enough so he can bump his nose against yours before he lifted himself up again. He wanted to hear you say it, say it with your chest that you loved him too.

“...love you....too..” He heard your soft voice and he feigned ignorance, squinting at you like he was hard of hearing as he watched your face scrunch up and your hands had shifted from him to shield your face. Or that’s what he thought til you smacked your cheeks and look at him with a determined expression.

“I love you!” You suddenly spoke at a much louder tone, not quite yelling but getting close to a shout with it and his eyes widened. Then he’s laughing. Eyes crinkling and he feels warm and giddy. You start laughing as well and then you feel his weight drop on top of you as his arm gives out from holding him up which makes you both start laughing harder. You managed to wriggle your arms free of his weight and he rolls to his side to free you, the arm still loosely under your waist stays in it’s place and you feel his hand squeeze your side gently.

“Now that’s what I like to hear.” He mused, head rested against the fluffy rug on the floor and you rolled your eyes a little at him. You’d shifted onto your side and reached your hands up to hold his face, cupping it like he was the most precious thing in the world and he can’t get that goofy grin off his face as you do then he’s shifting his head to press a kiss to one of your palms.

“Are you guys done?” Both of you froze, heads shifting slowly to see a very unimpressed Baby staring blankly at your tangled bodies on the living room floor, his eyes flicked from you guys to the TV before he continued on. “Controversial, I know, but this is a shared space.”

Mystery

He says it with his actions

He thinks he fell for you the day he had snapped and barked at you by mistake instead of Romance and instead of being scared or disturbed, you had let out a cute little snort that still plays in his head when he remembers the first time he met you.

“Nice to meet you too.” You had quipped as you looked at him with this mischievous glint in your eyes that made him falter, why did you seem different than the other humans he’s met? Romance was beside himself, absolutely folded over in laughter at what he witnessed and Jinu had arrived just to witness that last section of what had happened. He’d walked over and grabbed Mystery by the back of his neck and forced him into a 90 degree bow while apologising profusely to you. You laughed it off and said it was no biggie, thought it was a little funny and you hoped the guys had a good day.

He’d run into you again a few days later, gone on a walk to get away from the chaos that were his ‘demon bros’ as Abs liked to call them. You were in the park - same strip of bricked pavement where he had barked at you and it’s like you felt his gaze on you when you’d suddenly raised your head and looked at him. He saw the way you smiled, recognition evident on your face as you gave him a little wave. He waved back, smiling back at you and then felt a little tug at his heart as if telling him to go talk to you but he ended up ducking his head and continuing on with his walk.

Then he runs into you again another time. And again. And again. Actually he might have subconsciously been searching you out now that he thinks about it. But you don’t seem weirded out by the frequency that you’ve run into each other, rather you joke about it each time you bump into each other. 

“You sure you’re not stalking me?” You had said today as you run into the mysterious lavender haired guy for the umpteenth time in the last fortnight, you knew the coincidence of running into someone were low but never 0 so you just assumed it was crazy timing. Seeing as how you’d run into his two friends a few times as well, you just thought they must live around the area and like getting out. 

“I might be.” He joked. Your eyes widened a little and then it dawned on him that he’s never actually spoken to you during all of these brief encounters, normally just nodding at what you said or you’d both wave a small hello at eachother and then he sees your lips quirk up into a little smile. Like you found him cute.

“..guess I’m lucky then.” You’d said a little quieter, a bashful expression crossing your face as you shifted your weight from one foot to the other. No further words were exchanged - unknowingly your feet synced up and the two of you were walking together for a while. Indulging in the comfortable silence and then you bid each other a farewell til the next time you’d meet.

It was like a silent agreement that you’d be together every time you ran into each other after that, taking a walk around the plaza and then on some days you’d extend the walk meter by meter til your encounters went from a short 15 minute walk to an hour or more of mindlessly walking about together side by side - a respectable distance between you two that steadily grew smaller over time. Exchanging short conversation here and there but mostly just enjoying each others quiet company. 

The pair of you were nearing the end of today’s walk, steps slowing down to preserve what time you had left and then when you’d returned to the plaza you started in you’d stood still in silence. Both not really wanting to go home just yet and as you were saying goodbye and turning to leave, you felt a clammy hand grab onto your wrist gently and then you turned to look at Mystery mouth agape as if he didn’t expect his body to move on it’s own. You couldn’t help the nervous giggle you let out as you relaxed a little, turning back around to face him and then he let his instincts kick in.

It was gentle, mostly, his teeth accidentally clinked against yours as he incorrectly guessed the distance between your faces and he’d pressed his mouth against yours for a brief moment. A quiet confession. Your face was heating up and you looked dazed at his actions and then you were smiling again, a little pep in your step as you two decided to extend your walk a little longer for the night.

Hands linked together this time.

Romance

Signs it in your notebook

He likes that he doesn’t have to keep up the pretence, doesn’t have to keep up the flirty persona at all times with you and it was oddly reassuring. You’d tagged along for a fan signing event that your friends were frothing at the mouth for and when they got a little too excited at getting signatures from the Saja boys; you’d bowed a little and explained that they were really big fans. He picked up on how you excluded yourself from that.

He spotted you again at another fan signing event they held, not really paying attention to anything that was happening on stage and trying your best to look like you were having fun whenever one of your friends whipped around to look at you all starry eyed. During some brief fan interaction it was you and your friends again that had managed to luck out, the group were all exchanging conversation with your friends and you had hung back a little. Clearly not wanting to engage but not wanting to seem rude so you’d respond if anyone directed their attention at you, but then you’d quickly shift the other guys’ focus back onto your friends.

It was his turn to talk to you as your friends had switched seats to now be in front of the other guys, you’d plopped down on the seat across from him and before he could even get a word out to him you rose a hand to get him to stop.

“Don’t worry about it.” You’d said simply, his brain short-circuited as he tried to piece together what you meant by that but you’d bowed a little to show your respect before your eyes shifted back to your friends to make sure they didn’t do anything in front of their idols that may warrant concern. 

..you didn’t want him to flirt with you? It clicked now, how he normally greeted his fans and how he had just greeted your friends prior. He couldn’t stop himself from chuckling at that but he eased up, opting to ask if you’d like to just chat then. You seemed surprised at that but you agreed, the two of you just conversing mindlessly.

He asked you about your friends, you explained they were both part of the ‘Pride’ (with finger quotations) and you just wanted to support them because they get nervous without someone around to back them up. He asked if you were part of the Pride and you shook your head no. That question became a frequent one between you two as he realised this would not be your last encounter at one of these fan signing events.

He was impressed with your friends dedication when he saw you again the third time, but realised it was a different group of friends you were with and it seemed like you were just the designated chaperone at this rate. You caught his eye and gave a guilty smile at his smirk. When it was your time in front of him again, he asked you again if you were part of the Pride yet and this time you shrugged. Progress. He liked that. You spoke again, conversation not really about the event anymore and instead a little more about yourself - your interests and what you both were going to do after the event was over and the a lotted 15 minutes was up just like that. You bowed at each other as you stood from your seat to go down the line and you continued to chat with his other group mates, while he was interacting with the next fan he couldn’t help the way his eyes would flick over to where you were.

“She’s really pretty.” This fan had whispered at him and he was surprised at that, it didn’t seem like this fan was mad about it and just told him that he should totally go for it if he wanted. He put on the flirty persona after that - a little embarrassed at how he got caught out being ‘unprofessional’ as Jinu would tell him but the event still went smoothly.

The fourth time he saw you in the crowd at their latest event, you were alone. No friends around you and when your eyes met he saw the way you froze like a deer in headlights and sheepishly waved at him. The same song and dance as you’re sat in front of him, this time you’ve brought your own notebook instead of the freebie poster handed out at the start of the event.

“So..?” He didn’t ask the question in full but you knew what he wanted, you laughed a little and nodded this time. “Yes, I  finally joined the pride.”

He liked the way you laughed, liked it so much that as he was signing your notebook he flicked a corner up to one of the back pages to leave a little note for you to find later. Then you two continued your usual conversation, getting to know each other in the time slot given and you were off again to get the others’ signatures and have your brief chats. You’d gotten home that night and were showing your friends your notebook on a video call when you noticed a corner of it had been folded back, as the others were gushing you flicked to the back of your notebook and saw in Romance’s pretty handwriting.

I think I love you, call me? xxx - xxx - xxx

Baby

Slips it into conversation casually

You’d ended up apart of the group at some point, it’s fuzzy that he can’t pinpoint when and why but you’d accidentally come across their demon identities and instead of snitching - you just shrugged and offered to teach them how to people better. Jinu was hesitant at first and then he witnessed a moment of Mystery chewing on the corner of the phone that he’d received and immediately folded at your offer. Easy to say that Mystery no longer chews on technology, when you’re present at least.

He’s intrigued by you, confused that you’re not annoyed at him when he seemingly isn’t paying full attention to you but then you explain that you know he’s listening: how his ears perk up a little and he’s less focused on whatever else he’s fidgeting with and how you notice the way he instinctively leans in a little when you start talking. He scoffed and tried to play it off, telling himself he hated that you caught him out but he can’t deny that fluttery feeling he had as you looked at him with that cute little knowing smile of yours.

There was a day you’d left earlier than normal, seemingly having dinner plans with your other human friends and Jinu let you off and the other guys all waved goodbye too. As soon as he was sure you were gone he had gone to invade the elder male’s room, thinking maybe he should ask him about the fluttery feeling because he’d rather Jinu know than Romance. One of them can keep secrets and one of them is a gossipy wench.

“Hey I, when I’m with [Name] my stomach feels like there’s like...” His brain was struggling to form words as he attempted to describe the sensation he had when he was with you, Jinu was patient as he let Baby try to process his thoughts into words and sat up a little straight to hear the younger man a bit better. “Like there's bugs in it.” Yeah.. that’s the phrase, bugs in the stomach. “What is that feeling?”

“You’re in love!” Before Jinu could even open his mouth to answer Baby’s question, Romance had exclaimed loudly behind him - hands clasps together as he cooed at the youngest member and started to make a whole song and dance over it. Baby didn’t even have a chance to lunge at him as Romance ran off to tell the ‘great news’ to Abby and Mystery. This was the most energy he’s shown in day to day life as he whipped around to chase after but then Jinu spoke and it made him freeze in his tracks.

“Well.. he’s technically not wrong.” Was the calm comment, he looked amused at Baby’s disgruntled expression before he continued on. “Love is pretty strong word but, you might have feelings for [Name].”

Both of his elder demons’ words echoed in his mind for the next few weeks. Lingering as he stared at you a little longer than usual and then when you asked if he was okay he just nodded dumbly, not really thinking it over too much. You didn’t pry further as you were busy trying to teach Mystery that  ‘yes you can say this, no you cannot growl or snap your teeth at them’ when he had asked you what was appropriate interactions with fans.

It was on his mind now as you turned to ask if Baby had any questions now that the taller male was done, he didn’t have nearly as many as Mystery did but he had a couple and then as you were answering whatever bullshit question he came up with he just.. slipped his confession in between it.

“Love you.” You paused and then blinked, opening your mouth and then closing it again as you tried to process what he just said. “Wait wh-”

“I love you.” He said it again, the same casualness as the first time that threw you for a loop as he proceeded to ask another question right after it - not giving you any time to recover because he was starting to get a little nervous about it. You answered  his question with a little shyness in your voice now, the confidence you usually had shaken up a little  as you tried to process the information he let slip.

As you were bidding them goodbye for the day, you paused as you walked by Baby before leaning in for a second to tell him something. His eyes widened a fraction and he tried to play it cool in front of the other members, as you rushed outright afterwards. He would rather die than let Romance know what you had quietly confessed to him on your way out.

“I love you too, Baby.”

[dgaftilwedie]

don't think i've done this talking about nam but that time is now YAY 😽 you guys know i can't stop yapping about him

i thought he was an asshole in the best way. i really liked his interactions with other characters and they way he'd instigate things. he's such a fun character to watch in action but i also saw a lot of myself in him. the borderline codependency, the clinginess - he's very similar to me in a lot of ways and i latched onto him immediately.

i think it's easier to talk about why i DON'T like him... the hair, the tattoos, the attitude... i dunno!! im so drawn to him i can't choose like, one thing. no wait i lied maybe the fact that he's so clingy... yeah... i'll go with that :3

the fact that he's lowkey just a little bit of a misogynist but i can play that off with headcanons and the fact that i am unbelievably turned on by him calling semi a whore <3 (that should be me)

i would put him in real life... no but in all serious, i've been thinking about either writing a thagyu bathroom trap ship or designing my own saw trap for namgyu...

hm... scaremonger by chiodos, it's the only song i have in my namgyu playlist so far

already mentioned it above oopsies... I CAN KEEP TALKING THO one thing i noticed about gyu is that he has very cat-like traits and a very cat-like appearance (which i also latched onto because me too...)

especially in fics, but i LOVE soft namgyu. he's not a great person but i truly believe that at his core, he's a broken man who yearns for love and affection by somebody who won't abandon him. i love when people break him down to his innermost self and show that outside of his cruelty and selfishness, he just wants to be taken care of.

this is kind of the exact opposite of what i just said but i HATE abusive cheater evil boyfriend namgyu. HATE IT. HATEEEEE it.

ABSOLUTELY

PROBABLY

OH MY GOD YES i could fix him i think... help him get better, be the kind of person he needs in his life yknow...

I HAVE SO MANY im like a headcanon encyclopedia for nam :3 one of my favorites is that he's an artist. he's really good at drawing. however, he has so much internalized misogyny that he keeps it a secret. he feels like it's a weirdly feminine thing to do (even though it literally isn't) but he loves coming home from a long day at the club and drawing whatever comes to his mind. another headcanon of mine is that he designed most of his tattoos :3 the only thing he didn't choose was the colors, he let his artist take care of that

I JUST KNOW HE'D USE ALL OF THE CAT EMOJIS... either that or the skull emoji, it's definitely his most used

HEAR ME OUT, numetal namgyu... i have a vision ok... the baggy clothes, the guyliner, the piercings, the chunky shoes... the only thing i can't see him doing is cutting his short and spiking it

CATSHIPPING !!!!!!!!!!!!! and then thagyu ofc :3 (sorry me and namgyu are canon in my heart)

I. HATE. NAMGGI. did i think it was incredibly hot to see them go on that killing spree together? yes. would i let them both hit at the same time? absolutely. do i ship them? FUCKKKKKKK NO. i hate myunggi with all of my heart. they'd be so toxic, i don't think myunggi even liked namgyu during the 20 some odd minutes they were paired up together.

i get namgyu x minsu? it's ok :3 i can be fun sometimes, i just don't seek it out

i love thagyu ok. even platonic thagyu....... idgaf!!!!! reminds me so much of me and my bff we are them for real

have. i. mentioned. myunggi. yet.

THANOS DUHHHHHH

i love making namgyu soft and sappy... if im writing a namgyu fic, it's either going to be like. hurt/comfort or smut

i think i already mentioned it but again, love good bf!gyu, hate bad bf!gyu

im gonna attach it at the bottom because it messes up the flow of the numbers :P

adam stanheight and jesse pinkman... WORST TRIO EVER!!!!! i kinda wanna write a fic where they interact but i have no idea for a premise

"oh my god i need that twink" to "oh my god I NEED. THAT TWINK." LMFAOAOAOA i've always loved namgyu... i was attached from the moment i was introduced to him

ok first of all, the scene in season two where he bites his lip and hits the blue button? his whining in season three???? GOOD LORD. GREAT HEAVENS. NAMGYU. NAMGYU HAVE MERCY

he's so purple...

LMFAO ACTUALLY FUNNY STORY i literally wrote a fic where namgyu and hoffman met... my two f/os of all time...

hm... ok first off all STOP USING HEROIN that is a good place to start i think!!

CHARACTER ASK GAME!!! 💫

Send a character + one or more of these question IN THE INBOX. Don't reply on the post!

1. Why do you like or dislike this character?

2. Favorite canon thing about this character?

3. Least favorite canon thing about this character?

4. If you could put this character in any other media, be it a book, a movie, anything, what would you put them in?

5. What's the first song that comes to mind when you think about them?

6. What's something you have in common with this character?

7. What's something the fandom does when it comes to this character that you like?

8. What's something the fandom does when it comes to this character that you despise?

9. Could you be roommates with this character?

10. Could you be best friends with this character?

11. Would you date this character?

12. What's a headcanon you have for this character?

13. What's an emoji, an emoticon and/or any symbol that reminds you of this character or you think the character would use a lot?

14. Assign a fashion aesthetic to this character.

15. What's your favorite ship for this character? (Doesn't matter if it's canon or not.)

16. What's your least favorite ship for this character?

17. What's a ship for this character you don't hate but it's not your favorite that you're fine with?

18. How about a relationship they have in canon with another character that you admire?

19. How about a relationship they have in canon that you don't like?

20. Which other character is the ideal best friend for this character, the amount of screentime they share doesn't matter?

21. If you're a fic writer and have written for this character, what's your favorite thing to do when you're writing for this character? What's something you don't like?

22. If you're a fic reader, what's something you like in fics when it comes to ths character? Something you don't like?

23. Favorite picture of this character?

24. What other character from another fandom of yours that reminds you of them?

25. What was your first impression of this character? How about now?

26. What's something the character has done you can't get over? Be it something funny, bad, good, serious, whatever?

27. What is a color or colors that you think of when you think of this character, be it their canon color(s) or not?

28. If you could have this character meet another in another media, who would you have them meet?

29. Could you live as this character, would you? If not, what would you change so that you could?

30. FREEBIE QUESTION!!

[ramp-it-up]

Slow Burn

Summary: First he saved your life. Then he refused to leave. And there is the problem of the history between you. Nothing between you is simple anymore.

Word count: less than 4.2 K

Pairing: Firefighter! Bucky Barnes x Principal! Reader

A/N: Y'all know I need another AU like a hole in my head. So of course here it is! 🙃 This was inspired by an abandoned AU from last year and then this ask from a few weeks ago. I can't get him out of my mind. So here goes. Bucky is a firefighter and a burn survivor. This first part is a little brutal y'all, but tell me how you feel by reblogging, commenting, sending asks, dm'ing and the like. Interaction is life.

Warnings: 18+ Only, Minors DNI. Read at your own risk. This fic/au deals with fires, burns, burn survivors and recovery. There are graphic descriptions of burns and pain. Bucky and Reader are burn survivors. Past greivances, slow burn romance, house fire, fire rescue, hospital recovery, a lil bit of language, mutual pining, Grumpy Bucky, Steve, Ari, and Syverson are also firefighters (warning!) Bucky is also a trained paramedic, protective Bucky, hurt/comfort, a teeny tiny bit of praise kink if you squint (it's me, guys). Bucky takes care of you.

I no longer have a taglist. Please follow @rampitupandread and turn on notifications to learn when I post! 😘

I Do NOT Consent to my work being reposted, translated or presented on any other blog or site other than by myself.

--------------

Bucky held your gorgeous body in his arms, every luscious curve of you molding against him as if you’d been made to fit there.

His gloved hands gripped your thighs, your hips, and the bare skin where your lingerie had shifted and melted away under the heat. For one breathless instant, he knew he’d never seen anything more beautiful.

It was so goddamn hot.

Literally.

This house was old, and probably optimal fuel for the fire that had started within it. You were unconscious and dead weight, but Bucky could more than handle you and he had to get you out of there.

As he approached the door, Bucky heard a crash which he hoped was created by his crew going through the roof to get to the fire. When you heard it, you started coughing and moaning and struggling against him.

“Easy. Easy now. You have to stay calm. I got you. Gonna get you out of here.”

You opened your eyes, lifting your head from his shoulder but all you saw was haze, and a giant form that had you in his grip. The voice that came out of it was distorted, sort of like Darth Vader. You dropped your head back down and decided that you were dreaming. 

“Never gonna drink a whole bottle of wine by m’self again. ‘M a lightweight.”

Bucky’s heart clenched. He’d heard a lot of things in burning buildings, but that was a first.

You twisted in his hold, one hand fumbling for a pillow that wasn’t there. And then, realization dawned and your body went rigid. You started thrashing. Hard.

“Stop, hey!” 

He grunted, tightening his grip as you fought him. You weren’t too heavy, he could carry you all day if he had to, but you were panicked, limbs flailing, feet kicking against the door he’d been about to open.

A white-hot jolt of fear surged through him as your leg scraped the door’s edge and blistered instantly.

“Fuck! Hold still,” he ordered, voice dropping low. “You’re gonna have to trust me.”

You bit your lip with tears in your eyes. It was time to woman up.

Bucky felt something sharp lodge in his chest. You were terrified, but you were still fighting.

“We’re going through the window,” he said, already shifting you higher against his chest.

“My guys have the lifenet ready. We’re gonna be fine.”

Your wide wet eyes met his, and even through the mask, he felt the way it hit him, something hot and protective and completely unprofessional.

A groan of splintering wood cracked above you and you flinched, burying your face in his chest. He looked up, saw a fissure spidering across the ceiling, and knew there was no more time.

He ducked his head to look you in the eye. 

“We gotta go. Now. Both arms around my neck.”

Your arms obeyed on instinct, looping tight behind his helmet. His grip flexed on your thighs as he stepped to the window, shoulder braced against the glass, testing. 

He backed up and tightened his hold, telegraphing what was about to happen. Terror filled you.

“Open the window!”

You thought he’d forgotten that important detail as he responded.

“The air will just feed the fire.” He backed up a step, his stance widening, every muscle bracing.

“We’re going through.”

You gasped and then coughed with a lungful of smoke. 

“Just hold on. A few scratches are better than the alternative.”

You clung to him, nodding, trying not to sob. “‘Kay.”

“I’m gonna count to three.”

His gloved hand rose with his axe poised over his shoulder. You pressed your face to his chest.

“One,” he said, rocking forward.

“Two,” he shot forward, and you closed your eyes as he swung the axe. 

You two jettisoned through the window as the glass shattered. There was a leap out into cool air, but also the slight vacuum tug of heat following you. 

For a moment, flight, then a free fall. You screamed as your stomach dropped, and howled as you landed on the net, the canvas scraping your burned leg raw and glass raining down all over you.

“Three.”

It was the last thing you heard before you blacked out from the pain.

—-

When you woke, it was to the steady beep of monitors and the low murmur of voices you knew, your parents, your best friend, and one you didn’t.

You turned your head, blinking slowly, and found him sitting there in the visitor chair, still in his turnout pants and a navy t-shirt that clung to broad shoulders and the defined planes of his chest, his face streaked with soot. You noticed the metal hand on his thigh and your eyes traced the prosthetic up to his elbow, his bicep, and his shoulder.

His blue eyes locked onto yours with an intensity that sent a shiver through your bruised, exhausted body. 

They were a little too familiar, like you’d seen them somewhere before.

Your voice scraped out, hoarse and raw.

“Thank you,” you whispered. “For coming in after me.”

He exhaled, something easing in his shoulders.

“Anytime,” he said quietly.

For a moment, neither of you looked away. You knew him, but you were too exhausted to chase it down. There were more immediate things, like the ache in your throat, the exhaustion clawing at your bones, and the simple fact that you were alive.

Hours later, the room had emptied, your parents slipping into the hall to talk to the doctor as your best friend Amyra dozed in a chair. You were almost asleep again yourself when you heard it, your father’s low voice, warm but edged with fatigue, right outside the door.

“Yeah. Lieutenant Barnes just went in. He’ll be out in a sec.”

Lieutenant Barnes.

That old, unshakable teacher’s instinct, cataloguing every name and every face, flickered awake in the haze of your mind.

James Barnes.

You knew that name. Not from the firehouse. Not from any training.

From the district memos.

The reports you’d read a couple of years ago, when you were still at Jefferson High. The ones about a lieutenant who’d flagged repeated safety violations,  who’d stood in front of your principal, your mentor, Lloyd Hansen, with a spine of steel and told him he was risking lives.

Lloyd, who’d called that firefighter a nuisance. And who’d been demoted when it turned out the firefighter had been right.

Your heart gave a slow, stunned thump, and the monitor betrayed you, spiking with your recognition.

That was why he looked familiar. That was why you’d trusted him in that burning house. Even half-conscious, even terrified.

Before you could think better of it, you cleared your throat.

“Lieutenant Barnes?” you rasped.

He turned from where he’d been watching the monitor, his gaze catching yours. Even out of uniform, just dark work pants and a grey t-shirt stretched over muscle and scar and metal, and he looked every inch the man you now remembered. 

The man who didn’t back down, no matter who he was up against.

“Yeah?” he said, stepping to your bedside, voice low, handsome face soft. “You need something?”

Your voice shook.

“I… I think we’ve met before,” you said carefully. “Jefferson High. You were the one who…”

You trailed off, too tired to finish, but you knew he’d understand. And he did. Recognition sparked behind his eyes, something like surprise, and maybe even regret.

“Yeah,” he murmured after a minute. “I remember.”

Neither of you spoke, just looked at each other, the air between you heavy with everything that happened back then, and everything you’d barely survived tonight.

He sideyed the monitor, which told him that your heart was hammering. You didn’t have the energy to fully analyze the reason why.

Finally, you shifted.

“I guess you’ve been saving my life longer than I realized,” you whispered.

Something flickered in his expressions.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “Guess so.”

And in that strange, quiet moment, you knew nothing between you was ever going to be simple.

—--

The next few days passed in a blur of pain and bright fluorescent lights. Every morning, someone came to change your bandages. It was excruciating, worse than the burn itself some days, and you clamped your jaw shut so you wouldn’t make a sound.

The burn specialist explained it over and over:

The burn needed to be thoroughly cleaned daily

The risk of infection was high.

Pain management wasn’t optional.

But you tried to prove you were stronger than this. You refused the stronger pain meds the first day, and the nurse just looked at you like she’d seen it a hundred times, like she’d watched other stubborn fools learn this lesson the hard way.

Bucky visited that night, unannounced and uninvited.

He stood just inside the door for a moment, watching you like he was taking inventory of everything you were trying so hard to hide. Then he crossed to the chair by your bed and sat, his hands braced on his knees, his broad shoulders tense.

“You don’t get points for suffering.”

“I’m fine,” you lied.

His gaze locked onto yours, blue and unflinching.

“Then why are you shaking?”

You hadn’t even realized you were until he said it.

The next morning, when the nurse offered you a dose before the dressing change, you didn’t argue. You swallowed the pills and stared at the ceiling until the pain blurred into something you could survive.

—---

The first time Bucky stepped into your hospital room, you were half-asleep, your face turned to the window. You looked so small in that bed, swallowed up by stiff white sheets, and an IV running slowly into your arm.

He’d seen hundreds of burn patients over the years. Kids, grandparents, families with nowhere else to go.

He’d told himself you weren’t different, that you were just another call. Another save.

But standing there, watching you pretend you weren’t in pain, he knew he was lying.

—---

Three days in, Bucky watched you grit your teeth through rehab.

Your parents hovered by the door, but you kept waving them away, insisting you were fine. Amyra cried once, quietly, and you looked mortified.

Eventually, they left.

They trusted him. God help him, he almost wished they didn’t.

He was the one who stayed when you shuffled to the parallel bars, every step a fresh agony you refused to admit.

He knew you were proud, knew you’d rather collapse than ask for help. But he also knew what it felt like to push so hard you tore yourself up inside.

When your knee buckled, he moved instinctively, one step forward, ready to catch you if you fell. But you didn’t. You caught yourself, your breath coming in fast, ragged pulls.

“Are you trying to prove something?” he asked, voice quiet and close.

You didn’t look at him. When you finally spoke, your voice cracked around the words.

“Maybe I am.”

He stayed behind you, silent and steady, even though his hands itched to touch you, to ease something he had no right to claim.

Then he watched you take another step.

And another.

And he knew. You were going to survive this.

But you’d rather bleed in private than let anyone see you weak.

—-

That night, when he stopped by after shift, Bucky saw the pill bottle on the tray. The edge had gone out of you, your face soft in sleep, one hand resting over your heart.

And even though it was selfish, and probably wrong, a small part of him felt relief. You’d finally started to heal.

He should have left; he’d already crossed too many lines.

Instead, he sat in the chair by your bed and let himself watch you.

When your eyes blinked open and drifted down to the glint of metal where his sleeve had ridden up, he didn’t move to cover it.

Your voice was soft, thick with exhaustion.

 “Does it…does it hurt?”

He hadn’t told anyone in a long time about the fire that took his arm. It had been easier to let people think he was born hard.

Easier to be the man who never flinched.

But looking at you now, he knew he wouldn’t lie.

He swallowed. Sometimes it did hurt; phantom pain was a bitch no one prepared you for.

“Not like it used to,” he said quietly.

Your gaze stayed there, on his metal skin.

 “Was it…fire?”

He nodded once, “Yeah.”

You didn’t ask more questions.But you didn’t look away, either.

After a moment, he cleared his throat.

“They tried a lot of shit to fix it,” he murmured.

“First graft failed. Infection. Then this…experimental tech.”

“Really?” you whispered.

“Yeah, in Wakanda.”

He let out a breath.

“Figured if anyone could build something that felt real, it’d be them. They are good people.”

You were quiet for a long time. Then your fingers moved, just a little, toward where his forearm rested on the side of your bed.

He didn’t pull back. But he couldn’t breathe.

When you finally drifted off again, he stayed there, your touch warm on metal that usually felt like nothing at all.

—--

It was over a week before they’d even consider letting you leave.

Eight days of doctors, dressing changes, antibiotics, and endless check-ins that woke you every time you drifted into something like real sleep.

Eight days of Bucky showing up at your door, sometimes in uniform, sometimes in jeans and a plain t-shirt, but always carrying something you hadn’t asked for.

Like food, or flowers.

Not from him, of course.

From the crew, he’d say, every time, like he thought you couldn’t tell he wasn’t telling the truth.

He never stayed long.

But he always came.

On the morning of your discharge you were sitting on the edge of the hospital bed, trying not to look as exhausted as you felt. You’d been upright for barely fifteen minutes, and it already felt like you’d run a marathon.

The nurse was flipping through your chart when Bucky came in, this time with backup.

Steve gave you a quiet nod, smiling kindly at you. He set a bag of takeout on the tray table without ceremony. Syverson followed, carrying a bouquet so large it looked ridiculous in his hands.  

Ari Levinson trailed behind, all, dark-haired, still in uniform, flashing you a crooked grin. His eyes swept over you in a slow, unhurried appraisal that made your face warm.

“Principal,” Ari drawled, smile flickering, “you’re looking better than last week.”

Your throat felt too tight to answer immediately.

“I’d hope so,” you managed.

Syverson smirked, glancing at Bucky. 

“She’s even prettier up close. You didn’t say she was pretty, Buck.”

Bucky didn’t look at him. He was staring at you, his jaw flexing.

“Not relevant,” he muttered.

You mind began to spin.

Bucky didn’t say you weren’t pretty. He said it wasn’t relevant. So did he think you were pretty, or just that prettiness wasn’t relevant to the situation? Holy shit, the drugs must be affecting your brain.

Ari’s gaze slid back to you, amused at his friend’s reaction.

“You sure you’re ready to leave? You could milk this for a little longer.”

You managed a tired laugh, “I just want to go home.”

Silence. Your face went hot.

“I mean a home,” you corrected quickly. “I’m going to Amyra’s.”

Your parents were nearly an hour away, and you couldn’t stay on your own.

Not yet.

“Then let’s get you there,” Steve said, his voice warm as he set the takeout on the tray table.

“Just waiting on the last form,” you said.

The nurse finally came in, flipping through your chart. 

“You have a ride home?”

Amyra’s voice came from the doorway, dry and affectionate all at once.

“Right here. I’ll go bring the car around.”

You pushed yourself upright, ignoring how your leg twinged. 

“I can walk.”

The nurse gave you a look.

“Hospital policy says wheelchair discharge.”

Bucky’s mouth quirked. “Told you.”

Ari smirked, leaning closer, voice pitched low. 

“He’s just trying to impress you. Thinks it’s charming when he plays stoic hero.”

Bucky’s jaw flexed so tight you thought it might crack.

“Knock it off,” he growled.

Syverson let out a low whistle, tipping his head toward the hall.

“C’mon, Ari. Let’s go warm up the truck before Barnes commits a homicide.”

Ari lingered half a beat longer, eyes sliding back to you.

“If you are half this stubborn at your school,” he mused, that grin widening, “I don’t know how any kid ever gets away with anything. You need someone who can keep up with that spirit at home.” he teased.

Bucky took a step toward him, his shoulders squaring like he’d forgotten you were watching.

Ari held up both palms in mock surrender and disappeared into the hallway, Syverson chuckling behind him. Steve shook his head and then spoke to you again.

“Please take care. We’ll… “ He caught his friend’s glare.  “...I mean Bucky will check in on you.”

He smiled as he left, following his men.

You looked away from Bucky, but it didn’t matter, he was still watching you like he already knew what you were thinking.

“Hospital insists on wheeling you out,” he said. “I can do it.”

You blinked, flustered by the testosterone in the room.

“Since when does a fire lieutenant do the hospital escort?”

His gaze didn’t waver. 

“Since I’m a certified paramedic.”

You were surprised. And pleased. But you didn’t let it show.

“You…you don’t have to.”

“Yeah,” he murmured, already moving to get the chair. “I do.”

When you reached the exit, Amyra was waiting in her car.

“You good?” she called, her eyes flicking between you and Bucky like she was trying to read something neither of you had said out loud.

You nodded, even as your throat went tight. Bucky bent, one large hand bracing your elbow as he helped you stand. 

His touch was professional. Almost.

“I’ll ride over behind you,” he said. “Make sure you get settled.”

Amyra lifted a brow. “I think I can handle it.”

He didn’t argue, just stated facts. 

“Yeah. But I’ll still be there.”

—--

Amyra’s little bungalow felt impossibly calm after the hospital with it’s natural light and lavender smell. She helped you to the couch, fussing with your pillow, and  making sure your leg was elevated.

“Can I get you anything?” she asked.

“I’m fine,” you said, though your voice sounded thin in your own ears.

Her gaze flicked to the door just as Bucky stepped in, carrying your overnight bag and the takeout. He looked too big for the room, broad shoulders, heavy boots, that quiet, unshakable presence that made something in your chest pull tight.

“I was going to make sure your room has everything you need,” Amyra said, her tone so carefully casual it made you suspicious.

“Can you stay, Lieutenant Barnes?”

You opened your mouth to protest. Bucky cut in first, his voice low but unyielding.

“Yes, I’ll make sure she rests.”

Amyra’s brows rose.

“Oh, I’m sure you will.”

He shot her a look that probably worked on everyone else. Amyra just grinned.

“Call me if you need anything,” she sing-songed, already drifting to the hallway. 

“Or if you need him removed.”

“Amyra,” you groaned.

“I heard that,” Bucky muttered under his breath.

She ignored you both as she slipped down the hall. Bucky stood there for a moment, just watching you. He looked tired.

“You really don’t have to stay,” you whispered.

“Yeah,” he said again, voice soft but final. “I do.”

“I don’t need a babysitter.”

He looked you in the eyes.

“I know,” he said quietly. “But you’ve got one anyway.”

He set the takeout on the coffee table and crouched to unzip the duffel.

“I’ll change your bandages after you eat,” he added, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Your throat went dry.

“You don’t…”

“You’re not an inconvenience,” he interrupted gently, glancing up.

His gaze held yours, unflinching. Heat crawled up your neck, your heart thudding so hard you were sure he could hear it.

“Okay,” you whispered.

His mouth curved, just a little.

And for one breathless second, you didn’t feel tired at all.

—--

Bucky unpacked the supplies efficiently, like this was something he’d done a hundred times and never thought twice about. He laid out gauze, antiseptic spray, ointment, and a fresh roll of the elastic bandage.

His hands were steady. Yours weren’t.

“I can call the nurse,” you said, though you didn’t mean it.

He gazed at you, blue eyes burning.

“I’m qualified.”

“I know.” Your voice came out too soft. “That’s not…”

You were lost in the ocean of his eyes.

“Do you trust me?”

It was such a simple question. And it shouldn’t have felt like the most intimate thing anyone had ever asked you.

“Yes,” you whispered.

He nodded once, the line of his jaw easing by a fraction. “Good.”

Carefully, he lowered himself to the edge of the couch, close enough that your knees brushed his thigh. The warmth of him bled through the thin cotton of your borrowed sweatpants, and you had to look away.

“I’m going to lift your leg,” he said quietly. “Tell me if it hurts.”

His hands were large, warm, and shockingly gentle as he braced your calf. You hissed when he shifted the limb onto a folded towel, and his gaze snapped up, searching your face.

“Breathe,” he murmured, his thumb brushing the unburned skin above your ankle in a reassuring stroke.

You tried. When he began unwrapping the bandage, you pressed your lips together keep from making a sound.

“It’s okay,” he said, his voice low. “I’ve got you.”

The last layer fell away, and cool air kissed the raw, angry skin. You swallowed, blinking fast.

“It looks good,” he said after a moment. “Healing clean.”

You hadn’t realized you were holding your breath until it shuddered out of you.

“Still hurts,” you admitted.

His metal hand hovered for a second, then lowered to rest lightly against your shin, careful not to touch the burn.

“I know,” he murmured. “I’ve been there.”

Your gaze flicked to his arm.

“Do you have sensation in it?”

“Yes.” His thumb traced a slow line along your uninjured skin. “Not the way you’d think.”

You didn’t know what possessed you to ask.

“Can you feel my skin under your fingers now?”

His jaw worked, like he was sorting through a thousand things he wouldn’t say.

“Yes,” he said finally, voice rough. “I can.”

Your heart knocked hard against your ribs.

He set the clean gauze in place, the touch gentle but so precise it almost felt clinical, if it weren’t for the way he looked at you. 

Like he was memorizing every small sound you made. 

Like he’d never let anything hurt you again if he could help it.

When he finished with your bandage, he sat back on his heels and looked up at you, searching your face like he could read every unspoken thing you were holding in. He held your gaze for a second, and then looked away, moving to  pack the supplies away. 

You watched him in a daze, your cheeks still hot.

“Is this where you offer me a sponge bath, too?” you mumbled, trying to sound like you were joking, even though your voice was too unsteady.

He looked up, and his gaze pinned you in place again.

“I told you,” he murmured, his voice like gravel. “I’m qualified.”

Heat crawled up your neck so fast you thought you’d pass out. 

Maybe he mistook the look on your face for pain, or maybe he didn’t, because he said, “You should take something.”

“I’m okay,” you sighed, because you were always okay. 

Because you didn’t know how to be anything else.

His brow furrowed, and something about the way he looked at you, like he’d already decided you were his responsibility, made your throat close. His eyebrow raised.

“You keep saying that.”

He reached for the bottle of pills the nurse had sent with you and shook one into his palm. He held it out.

“Take it,” he said, steady and unflinching.

You looked at his hand, at the calluses and the faint scars along his knuckles, and at the way his metal fingers flexed against his thigh. And you realized you were too tired to argue.

Your hand brushed his as you took the pill. His fingers curled reflexively around yours, warm and sure, and for one heartbeat you didn’t feel like someone broken or in need.

You just felt seen.

He handed you the glass of water, watched you swallow the pill, and waited until you set the glass back down.

“Good girl,” he murmured, his voice softer than you’d ever heard it. The way he said that phrase made you feel things, but your eyelids were already heavy, the pain blurring at the edges, replaced by something warm and thick that made it hard to think.

You drifted in and out as he moved around the room, packing away the supplies, murmuring something to Amyra when she peeked back in.

When you opened your eyes again, it was darker and there was a ceiling fan spinning above you.

Amyra’s guest room.

The quilt tucked around your shoulders smelled like lavender and clean cotton. Your overnight bag sat neatly on the chair in the corner.

For a second, you couldn’t remember how you’d gotten there. 

Then you realized.

He’d carried you.

And even though you told yourself it shouldn’t matter, it did. 

It mattered more than anything had in a long time. 

Because it was the second time Bucky Barnes had carried you to safety.

[nimbusclan]

Moon 9 Part 2

[Previous] [Start] [Next]

There’s a sickening crunch and Moonstar’s body suddenly stops, lurching in the air.

Panting, Moonstar tightens the grip of her right paw – she’s managed to sink her claws into a thick root that is growing through the side of the cliff. She’s dislodged it a bit – that must have been the cracking sounds – but it holds fast to the cliffside and Moonstar doesn’t hesitate a second longer.

Gathering all of her strength, she swings her other paw up to sink her claws into the root, shoulders shaking as she pulls her body up. Her back paws windmill in the air until she’s able to find purchase on the cliff, digging her back claws into the rock and dragging herself up onto the slope.

Shaking all over and sick with adrenaline, Moonstar’s aching limbs want nothing more than to collapse out from under her. She flexes her claws in the loose gravel under her paws and eyes the dirt warily, as if it’ll suddenly heave forward and send her sailing over the edge of the cliff again. Muscles screaming, Moonstar moves her shaky, aching body to firmer ground.

Safe for the moment, she slumps at the base of a pine tree and shakes.

She almost died.

She almost died.

Quest for moss entirely forgotten, the only thought Moonstar can dredge up is the idea of getting back to her brother and collapsing against him, taking comfort in his familiar scent and his solid, grounding presence at her side. She’d assured Fogfreckle just last moon that she could handle being on her own, but now she’s not so sure she’s going to survive the hunt for a new home without him.

Ignoring the sharp ache of pain in her shoulder where she caught the root that saved her life, Moonstar struggles to her paws and slowly sniffs out the trail she took to get here, retracing her pawsteps through the fog and back up the mountain.

Limbs dragging, a wash of relief splashes Moonstar like ice melt on a hot day as she spots the clearing where they’ve scraped out their dens. Through the trees and the mist, she can just make out the light color of her brother’s dappled pelt moving around in the clearing. There’s something dark swinging from his mouth, likely freshkill, and, feeling relieved, she pulls herself through the trees and towards him.

Only pawsteps away, Moonstar opens her mouth to greet Fogfreckle, but stops in her tracks. 

It’s not freshkill.

“Moonstar!” Fogfreckle’s ears flick back a second before he turns at the sound of her arrival, eyes bright and shining with happiness. “Look what I found while I was out collecting moss!”

Tucked at Fogfreckle’s paws is a kitten. A skinny thing, with short, raggedy brown fur and dark, reddish tabby stripes.

Moonstar’s relief swiftly vanishes.

The kit is quiet, motionless, almost expressionless, but it stares at Moonstar like it can see through her, past her pelt and muscle and down to her bone. Unnerved, Moonstar meets its intense bright blue eyes with her own. They’re not cobalt blue, like her brother’s, or ice blue, like her own. They’re an otherworldly blue.

She’s snared by that unblinking, unwavering gaze, and something about it seizes Moonstar with a feeling of pure, crawling dread, like somebody has set ants loose in her pelt. The kit sits neatly with its tail curled over its paws, still and silent unlike any kit Moonstar has ever interacted with before.

She feels rooted to the spot, as if to make any move closer to her brother – closer to the kit – would be dangerous, somehow.

Fogfreckle grins, wide and happy, apparently unaffected by whatever has taken hold of Moonstar. He bends his head to give the kit an affectionate lick atop the head. “I’m going to name him Alpinekit.”

[Previous] [Start] [Next]

[spitefulsatanfics]

❝𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐍’𝐒 𝐒𝐄𝐗 𝐀𝐁𝐂𝐒❞

Dean Winchester x Female Hunter!Reader Rating: 18+ (MINORS DO NOT INTERACT) ⚠️ Warnings: Graphic sexual content, kink discussion, dominant!Dean, soft!Dean, oral sex (f & m receiving), praise kink, overstimulation, slight bondage, aftercare, emotional intimacy, jealousy kink, dirty talk, feral protectiveness, possessiveness, slight degradation, vulnerability, and more (it’s Dean, baby — man’s got layers).

❝𝑰 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒔𝒉𝒊𝒑, 𝒃𝒂𝒃𝒚. 𝑰 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒌 𝒉𝒂𝒓𝒅. 𝑰 𝒑𝒍𝒂𝒚 𝒉𝒂𝒓𝒅𝒆𝒓.❞

— Dean Winchester, somewhere between love and sin

🜛 A — Aftercare

Dean acts like he doesn’t need it — until he does. And he gives it like it’s second nature.

His voice drops low, raspy with concern as he tucks you into his chest, pressing lips to your forehead like he’s sealing you shut, safe from the world. Calloused hands rub slow, lazy circles over your spine. He’ll clean you up himself if you let him. Bring water. Fix your hair. Stroke it out of your face while whispering soft things like “You did so good for me, sweetheart.”

It’s the one time you ever see Dean not pretend he’s invincible.

🜛 B — Backseat of the Impala

Classic. Sentimental. Dangerous. Holy.

He’s feral when you crawl over the leather, looking back at him like sin wrapped in denim. Your name sounds different when he groans it against the curve of your thigh. The Impala has seen blood, guts, demons, salt — but the look in Dean’s eyes as he ruts into you under the Kansas stars? That’s reverence.

His hands don’t just hold your hips — they claim. Fingers bruising. Panting against your shoulder like he needs to stake his soul on the way you scream his name in his car.

🜛 C — Control

Dean doesn’t play with power lightly. But with you? He devours it.

Being in control doesn’t mean cruelty. It’s calculated, coaxed, sweet-talking you into giving in until you’re begging — not because you have to, but because he’s made it feel good to let go.

He ties your wrists with his belt when he’s really feeling like a menace. Growls things like “I got you, baby. Don’t even try to think tonight.”

And you don’t. You can’t. Not with him above you like that — dripping devotion between every filthy word.

🜛 D — Dirty Talk

Dean is fluent in filth. But his filth loves you.

“God, look at you,” he murmurs while you ride him, half-broken with pleasure. “Fuckin’ perfect like this, takin’ me so sweet. Made for it, weren’t you?”

He whispers things in your ear that make you shudder. Tells you what you look like. What he’s going to do next. What he wants you to do — and always follows it up with a raspy, “Atta girl.”

🜛 E — Exhibitionism

Dean likes the risk. Motel curtains half-open. Car parked just off the road. Someone might see. Hell, he wants them to.

He wants people to know he’s the one making you cry out like that. Wants to fuck you in your hunter's gear, boots on, still smelling like gunpowder and sweat.

It’s primal. Territorial. He wants the world to know you’re his without having to say a damn word.

🜛 F — Face-Sitting

His favorite throne? Your thighs.

Dean worships from below like it’s the only prayer he believes in. He growls when you try to squirm off. His grip bruises your hips as he pulls you back down, voice thick with hunger.

“Nuh-uh, princess. You stay right here. Gonna make you come ‘til your legs shake.”

🜛 G — Gun Kink

You clean weapons together. You fight side by side. You trade bullets like love notes.

He’s never more turned on than when you’re cocky with a blade or blood-smeared from a hunt. He’s had you against the trunk of the Impala with your gun holster still on — his fingers between your thighs, saying, “Still got one weapon loaded, don’t we, sweetheart?”

🜛 H — Hair Pulling

Dean lives for that grip. Yours in his, his in yours.

You tug on his when he’s eating you out? He groans like it fuels him. He tugs yours when you get mouthy — or when you’re riding him too slow, torturing the both of you.

Hard enough to guide. Soft enough to care.

🜛 I — Intimacy

It’s not just fucking. It’s seeing.

When Dean touches you, he looks you in the eye. Kisses you soft, slow, like you matter. And when you tell him you love him — panting, half-drunk on him — he freezes, like he doesn’t think he deserves it.

But you say it again. And he says it back. Barely a whisper, like it might break him.

🜛 J — Jealousy

Dean doesn’t share. Period.

He’s not proud of it. But he’s honest. When some rookie hunter tries to flirt with you, Dean wraps his arm around your waist so tight you can feel his gun digging into your hip.

Later, he fucks you like he’s rebranding your body — leaving marks, claiming skin, biting your shoulder with a muttered, “Mine. You’re fuckin’ mine.”

🜛 K — Kinks

Let’s summarize the top tier:

Praise kink (King of this)

Light bondage

Oral obsession (giving and receiving)

Overstimulation (especially when you’re already shaking)

Possessiveness/Jealousy

Semi-public sex

Wearing his clothes while he wrecks you

Slight degradation (when he’s angry or desperate)

Hunter gear/knifeplay light aesthetic

🜛 L — Lingerie

He loves it — but rips it off half the time.

Tells you to wear it under your flannel on a hunt. Nearly crashes the car when you show him in the rearview. He’ll mutter curses under his breath like “Fuck, sweetheart, you tryna kill me?”

But he never forgets to tell you you’re beautiful first.

🜛 M — Marking

Dean leaves love bites like warnings.

You’re his. You wear him. Your neck, your thighs, your hipbones — he paints them in his name.

“I want people to see 'em,” he says against your skin. “Want ‘em to know.”

🜛 N — Name Calling

Sweetheart. Baby. Princess. Angel. Gorgeous. Good girl.

And sometimes — only sometimes — “My girl.”

He means it when he says it.

🜛 O — Oral Fixation

He could live between your thighs. Man’s on a mission.

Tongue slow, eyes locked, fingers tight on your hips. He talks you through it. Tells you how you taste. How good you look coming undone on his mouth.

And when you return the favor? He tries to keep eye contact, but ends up with his head thrown back, lips parted, guttural moans falling like prayers.

🜛 P — Possessiveness

He’ll never admit it outright. But he is.

Keeps a hand on your lower back in bars. Eyes follow you like a shadow when you're around other guys. He calls you “his girl” even when it’s just you and him in bed — like a reflex.

He needs to know you’re his, and you let him. Because you want to be.

🜛 Q — Quickies

Before a hunt. In a grimy bar bathroom. Between gas station stops. His hand down your jeans in the Impala.

He doesn’t always have time. But he makes it. And he makes it good.

🜛 R — Rough Sex

When Dean’s emotions run high, the bedroom gets feral.

He slams into you like he’s losing his mind. Grunts out curse words and prayers. Tells you how much he missed you. How fucking good you feel.

He holds you like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded. And you are.

🜛 S — Soft Sex

Because Dean isn’t just about rough.

Sometimes he takes his time. Slow grind. Warm touches. Eye contact and gentle kisses and “I love you” said between every stroke.

It’s sacred. Sacred and safe.

🜛 T — Teasing

He’ll edge you until you’re crying — and smirking the whole time.

His voice? Lethal. His fingers? Worse. He’ll pull away right before you fall apart just to hear you beg. And when you finally do? He rewards you.

Beautifully.

🜛 U — Undressing

He loves taking your clothes off — especially after hunts.

Bloody, bruised, breathing hard — he strips you slow. Peels away your layers like gifts. Licks the wounds clean. Worships you like a warrior goddess.

🜛 V — Voyeurism

He doesn’t even mean to sometimes. But you touching yourself? That’s a religious experience for him.

Especially if you whisper his name. Especially if you ask him to join.

Spoiler: he always joins.

🜛 W — Worship

Dean worships you. Your body. Your sounds. Your smile.

His lips trail prayers over your skin. He tells you you're beautiful even when you're sweaty and spent and ruined beneath him.

“You’re everything,” he whispers. “Everything, baby.”

🜛 X — X-Rated Photos

He keeps one Polaroid in his wallet. Secret. Just for him. You in his flannel, nothing else, grinning wicked.

He looks at it when he’s lonely. When he misses you. When he needs to feel you close.

🜛 Y — Yearning

Sex isn’t just sex for Dean. It’s yearning. It’s wanting. It’s need.

He doesn’t always know how to say he loves you — but he’ll spend hours proving it with his body. Fingers memorizing every inch. Lips tracing your name in reverence.

You’re the only one he lets see him like this.

🜛 Z — Zzz / Sleeping Together

Spooning, tangled limbs, his hand on your bare stomach. He sleeps better next to you.

And when he wakes up hard, pressed against you? You know how that story ends.

𝑾𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒏 𝒃𝒚: 𝑳𝒊𝒕𝒕𝒍𝒆 𝑫𝒆𝒗𝒊𝒍 ♡ | Date written and published: 2025™

[b-free]

"Yeah. We'll at least plan it. We don't need to train, and I know Alex is probably going to sleep in the ship for a little longer once we land." B rolled her eyes. "Gatherings like that tend to stress her out so much that she gets a headache or makes her nerve damage act up, so a lot of activity probably won't follow."

B's tail curled around Cassidy, a purr in her chest. "You did really well. We're proud of you Cassidy."

[SweetBee] Alex has already started on some of her prep stuff [SweetBee] So I'm letting you know I'll be over soon so we can start moving what we need to the ship ok?

B's message arrives a little before sunset, and seems to at least explain why Alex has been quiet for as long as she had been. The fact time felt like it passed both far too slow and far too quick for this whole... thing was probably something to address.

( @b-free I can TYPE STUFF owo )

Cassidy sighs, and closes her books.

You are nervous?

"Yeah. I mean, there's been a lot of build up to this. Kind of the capstone of my internship, and a big part of what it'll be like to do this in the future."

She looks at herself in the small mirror on her desk. "And I'm not really... one for parties. Can I ask—"

We will not seize movement capabilities unless asked for assistance.

"Thanks."

Cassidy takes her phone and sends B a response. She looks at her desk, holding her silicone tint and makeup tablet, then her closet, which housed her dress, purse, and the box with her necklace, anklet, and hair clip. This is it.

[Cassidy] Alright. Tell me if I can do anything in the meantime.

[butyoudidthis4what]

Congratulations on the 1k milestone!!! Could you write something with a female reader and Abbot where he’s says "Let's get you in the shower and we'll take it from there." to her? 💜

Hi friend, thank you so much for sending this in! I hope you enjoy this little drabble and thank you so much for your support!! ♥️

Celebrate 1k with me by requesting a drabble! Read this post for prompts and characters! 🙂

If you'd like to be tagged in the 1k drabbles please read and interact with this post!

Tepid

Jack Abbot x F!Reader

1.5k || All my content is 18+ MDNI || CW: None, really. General cold/flu discussion. The slightest bit of angst if you squint in the form of Jack being worried about you for thirty seconds. Fluff.

Summary: Jack arrives home from work to you sick in bed.

AN: Fluffy sick fic! That's about it, really! I hope it's okay!

Even wrapped in the cocoon of blankets you’ve brought to bed with you, you’re still shivering. And miserable. Very, very miserable. 

“Honey?” Jack’s caught off guard when your purse is still on the console table just inside the door. It makes his pulse rise just a little. He hates it, but he always goes to the worst case scenario, it’s what he’s trained for. He knows you must’ve overslept or fell back asleep on accident, but his brain runs through every possibility of you being injured or dead somewhere in the apartment you share.

He walks back to your bedroom and is glad to see you’re in bed. You look so fucking adorable wrapped in all the blankets you’ve brought in, but he knows it means you must be sick and that hurts his heart. He doesn’t want to disturb you but he does want to know what’s wrong, if you’ve taken meds, how long you’ve been like this. Why you didn’t call him the second you weren’t feeling well. 

“Jackie?” Your small and raw voice resolves his conflict for him. You don’t open your eyes yet.

“Hi sweet girl, what’s going on?” He sits on the edge of the bed next to you and puts the back of his hand to your forehead. “Definitely have yourself a pretty good fever.”

“You should go,” you whisper. He’s not sure if it’s really a whisper or just as loud as you have the strength to speak right now. “You shouldn’t be close to me, you’ll catch it.”

“That’s a risk I’m willing to take,” he murmurs. “You taken anything?” 

“No, I just woke up enough to tell work, pee and get more blankets.” You finally blink open your eyes to look at him. “You need to sleep and I got the sheets all gross with my sweating before I got cold. I’m sorry.”

“I don’t care, don’t apologize. You’re sick, you can’t help it. And sweat doesn’t bother me. Especially not yours.” He runs his hand up and down your side, though he’s not sure you can feel it under all the blankets. But it soothes him just as much so he continues. “Feel like a bad cold? For how long?”

“I guess, yeah. My throat is killing me. I can feel congestion coming in and some settling in my lungs. Nauseous too.” You cough a little to clear your throat, wincing at the jolt of pain it causes. “Went to sleep with a vaguely sore throat. Didn’t think much of it. Woke up at my alarm and was like this but I was so hot and sweaty the sheets were almost soaked, I swear. My whole body hurts, it feels like I’ve been hit by a semi.” 

“I’m sorry, Baby, I wish I could take it on for you or kiss it away.” Jack leans down and presses a couple of kisses to your forehead and one to the tip of your nose and both of your cheeks. He smiles brightly when the kisses pull a smile from you, even if it’s smaller than usual. It reaches your eyes. “You could’ve called. You know that, right? I would’ve left,” he murmurs. He’s not chastising or chiding you, just reminding you. 

You nod, roll a little so you’re not quite on your back but not totally on your side. “I know.” 

“Good.” Jack kisses your forehead again. “I’m going to get you some meds, okay?”

“Okay,” you whisper, eyes fluttering closed again. 

Jack walks into the bathroom and looks through the medicine cabinet. You sound a bit more flu-like than cold. He could ask Robby to drop by a test. Maybe an IV if he can’t get you to drink enough fluids. It’s almost certainly viral so it’s not really a matter of treatment but of controlling symptoms. He decides on some meds, makes sure there’s a pain reliever and fever reducer in there somewhere. He also grabs the thermometer. He wants to know exactly how hot you are. 

He goes and grabs you some water before heading back into the bedroom. “Alright sweet girl, can you sit up for me?” He takes his place on the edge of the bed next to you again. You whine at the request as you open your eyes. “Please?” Jack gives you a little pout. 

You let out a halfhearted sigh and let Jack help you as you force yourself up and your blankets open enough for you to get your arms and hands out. You hold your hand out for him. 

“Thank you for sitting up. Under your tongue,” he instructs softly as he puts a single pill in your hand. “Zofran. For the nausea.” You do as he asks and once it’s dissolved he hands you the other pills and you swallow them. 

“Thank you.” You give him an exhausted smile. 

“You’re welcome.” The smile Jack gives you in return is a little sad. You know he hates seeing you sick, just like you hate seeing him sick. “I’m going to get your temperature really quick, okay?” You nod and Jack takes it, gives a kind of noncommittal frown at it. “102.5. Too hot, but not get you to the ED hot. And we need to keep it that way. So I think we should get you a shower and I’ll change the sheets okay?”

You groan. “I don’t want to shower. I don’t want to leave the bed. And I’m cold, Jackie. I don’t want a cold shower.”

“I know, Baby, I know.” He grabs one of your hands and brings it to his lips, presses a few kisses to it. “It won’t be a cold shower. But it won’t be hot, either. We need to keep it tepid.” 

“I’ll be fine,” you whine a little. Showering sounds exhausting. Getting out of your blankets sounds freezing. Making Jack do work and change the sheets sounds unfair. “Just give me a minute or so and I can change these sheets for you and then go in the guest room so I don’t get you and your sheets gross.”

“Yeah, because I’m ever going to let that happen.” He gives you a knowing look with a soft smile so you know he’s not mad or upset or anything. “Showering will help. Feeling cleaner will make you feel at least a little better.”

You shrug. Your brain isn’t firing on all cylinders and you feel too tired to keep yourself upright for any extended period of time. “Well, I don’t think I can stand.”

Jack blinks at you for a few seconds to see if it registers. It doesn’t.

“Well, it’s a good job there’s a bench in there.” He gives you a little smirk and winks at you. You cringe and grimace a little for a second. How could you forget that? It’s just become so normal you don’t even notice it.  

“Don’t smirk and wink at me you cruel man.” You pout overdramatically at him. 

“Cruel?” he laughs. “How am I being cruel taking care of you?”

“You know how hot you look winking and smirking and doing the two together. Teasing your poor sick woman.” Before you can say anything else you start coughing and are quick to bring your blankets up to cover your face. It hurts. All of it. The sudden movement of your arms, your throat, your chest muscles.

“It’s okay,” Jack soothes you, slips his arm behind you to help hold you up and rub your back. Eventually you’re able to catch your breath again. “I’ll make it up to you once you’re feeling better, I promise.” 

“Yeah, if I haven’t passed my misery on to you,” you huff a little, a decision you regret immediately when the fire that is your throat flares again.

“I think I’ll be just fine. I come into contact with this type of thing almost daily.” He leans in and kisses your forehead again. He’ll stay away from your lips, in part because he knows you’ll just push him away if he even tries to keep him from getting sick. “And if I do get sick then I get sick.”

“Well if you do then I’m taking care of you and I don’t want any pushback.” You give him the sternest look you can muster which is clearly not very stern judging by the way he bites his lip to hold back a laugh at how adorable you are. 

“Okay, Baby.” Jack stands up, holds his hands out for you. “I’m going to help you to the shower and then once I’m done changing the sheets I’ll help you shower and get clean, okay?” 

You don’t move. “I’ll just make the next set gross. There’s no point.”

“You might not. Not if we can get your temperature under control here a little.” Jack nods in encouragement. “And it’ll be nice to feel clean after sweating that much.”

“But what if I do just get them all sweaty again? It’s not fair to you.” You start to worry your bottom lip between your teeth.

“Then I’ll change them again.” He shakes his head as you go to argue further. “Hey, let’s get you in the shower and we’ll take it from there, okay?” 

I hope it was alright and you enjoyed! Thank you for reading and your support and your interactions mean the world to me! ♥️

Want to be tagged in future 1k celebration drabbles? Interact with this post.

Want more Jack? Check out my masterlist here.

Interact with this post if you'd like to join my Jack tag list, this post if you'd like to join my Robby tag list, and this post if you'd like to join my Andrew Pope Cody tag list! (Each tag list is a separate post!)

Divider by @saradika-graphics.

Tag list:

@loveyhoneydovey @taylorswifts-cardigan @readingaroundworlds @bubblesmaketheworldgoround-blog @beefbaby25 @ksyn-faith @iamawhore4life @niamhmbt @guardiancardigan @readiefreddie @cavillary @madprincessinabox @pear-1206 @estelsbloggings @borbalalikesdocs @qardasngan @diamond-gardens @flyinglama @phoenixhalliwell

[dixonsbugaboo]

𝘑𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘮𝘺 𝘵𝘺𝘱𝘦.

ꜱᴀᴊᴀ ʙᴏʏꜱ🎵

𝘊𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝟢 - 𝘍𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵

Fem!Reader x Saja Boys

Summary: Reincarnated in the body of a demon from the last film you saw before you died, you have decided to change the script of the story in your favour. But you didn't count on your presence in the story changing everything.

Warnings: slow burn, swearing, mentions of death, kinda cringe

Word count: 700+

A/N: the K-Pop Demon Hunter fever is SO ALIVE. I just need more content... so I decided to jump in the fanfic like many others to try and get something out... I have so many ideas!! I hope you like this one! No proofread btw, sorry about that

︿︿︿︿︿︿︿︿︿︿︿︿︿︿︿︿︿︿

Every day was the same: feeling pity, torturing the human souls that Gwi-ma didn't devour, feeling anger, remembering a past too distant and painful, and trying to remember what had brought you to that point, to hell itself. It was a daily thing for you: a demon.

Or that would be the case if you really were a demon; that is, if you had sold your soul to Gwi-ma in a deal… but you never did that. You just… kicked the bucket. Dead meat. Gone. R.I.P.

You were born human, grew up and lived as a human all your life: a normal life. You studied art and decided to specialise in music production because of your passion for pop, especially Korean pop. You were good at it, but it wasn't easy to make a living, especially when you came from nothing and had no contacts. And just when life was starting to smile on you (a K-Pop girl group had heard one of your demos and wanted you to work with them to release it), you died. You didn't quite remember how… You had decided to celebrate that you had signed the production contract for the song, gone up to the roof of the building where you lived to have a drink… and then… did someone push you? who?

The fact is that you were now a demon. But at the same time, you weren't exactly you… At least, physically. Somehow, you had been reincarnated as a demon. It sounds strange, but that's how it was. You had their memories and yours at the same time. Strange that now your soul was in a body that had sold its own… But that's the way it was. Take it or leave it.

The funny thing is that, as far as you could imagine, Gwi-ma wasn't real in your world… nor were the hunters, nor any of those elements of the last movie you were able to watch (about seven or eight times) before you died. So not only were you reincarnated, but you were now WITHIN the world and plot of the movie. And in the body of the most secondary possible villain: unnamed demon number 435, or something like that.

And the worst part is that you knew exactly what was going to happen: Jinu would make a deal with Gwi-ma, gather a demonic k-pop boy band, meet Rumi, everything would go down the drain because of betrayals and misunderstandings… and you would be trapped under the barrier, or worse.

And that couldn't be.

First: you have already died once, and once is more than enough. You were miserable enough as a demon to continue that filthy life for centuries, or die before you could do anything about it.

Second: you knew the movie, you knew what was going to happen… and you wouldn't let Jinu and Rumi's relationship end that way. Jinu didn't deserve to ‘die’. You would do anything for that ship. Even sink in it if needed.

Third: … What if, since you could keep Jinu and Rumi as a real couple, you could also manage to pair Zoey and Mira with a member of the Saja Boys? Which, by the way, your curiosity was killing you; they hadn't had enough screen time, and you'd give anything to interact with them to really get to know what they were like. Hell, you'd love to talk to all of them (Jinu included) like you did with them. It would be a dream come true, wouldn't it?

And last but not least: What would it hurt to change the plot of the movie a little bit to save unnecessary drama and deaths (yours included)?

So you got down to work, notebook in hand, and started planning what you loved doing most: writing music.

You would produce a complete discography for the Saja Boys, make them successful, teach them that they could regain their souls (all of them, without exception), and together defeat Gwi-ma. No casualties.

All thanks to a skill you had had since you entered that body: Gwi-ma couldn't get inside your head. At all.

So ladies and gentlemen, it's time to turn the script around in your favour….

Or at least that was your plan, before you realised that your involvement in the story would change everything.

︿︿︿︿︿︿︿︿︿︿︿︿︿︿︿︿︿︿

Ch. 1

A/N: Honestly, I don't know what to expect from this. It's literally an introduction to the story, so to speak. But the idea had been floating around in my head for some time and I needed to write it down as soon as possible. I hope you like it.

See you soon,

Nun🐇​

[ao3commentoftheday]

I am having issues being nice to people in my ao3 comments. Most of the time people are perfectly lovely and I love having interactions with them. It's really important to me that when I'm on my writer tumblr instead of my main and on my ao3, I foster a kind and gentle community. I feel like that starts with me and that is the sort of environment I want to create.

Now, the problem is this fic I wrote. It's for a pretry big fandom and it got a lot of traction (like first page when sorting by hits while there are tens of thousands of fics) and it's been wild. Mostly great... except this one arc I wrote where character A, who is mentally ill and gets triggered into a spiral acts mentally ill, which negatively impacts people around him, including character B (it's a ship fic), who while not responsible is making it worse and making the active choice to stay, because he also has his own issues. The fic explores the aftermath of that as well, but for a few chapters it's just the downward spiral. And while it isn't all condoned, I give character A understanding due to the situation as well as a healing journey, wherein he apologizes and does better and makes up for it.

Sadly for me, character B is the fandom's favorite white boy, who is always the hurt victim in every situation and has no responsibility ever. So me also stating how character B is in part responsible forthe situation ending up getting as bad is a no go and people are very angry at me. On top of that, I based a lot of character A's struggles on my own, which makes it even less pleasant to get detailed comments about how he deserves to be beaten up for his actions and left by all his friends and family to stew in the guilt for the rest of forever all alone, less than fun.

I don't want to have to tell people about my own personal struggles and I am tired of explaining that it is a character arc and a nuanced and complex situation wherein multiple parties are at fault. And I have chronic have to reply even when I know ignoring it is better syndrome. At what point does it become acceptable to just be a fucking bitch to people?

First of all, lemme give you a hug 💗 It's never fun when people misunderstand your message and it's even worse when there's a personal element to it as well.

The way I see it, your comments section belongs to you. It's an extension of your fic and it's a place where every message left gets dropped into your inbox. If there's something you don't want to see in your comments section? Delete it. If there's someone who won't stop misinterpreting you/your characterization or someone who is being an asshat? Block them. Then delete their comment.

I know people get hung up on whether or not they should do that, but I'm here to tell you that if I didn't delete hate and block haters, this blog would have shut down in 2020, if not earlier. You need to take care of yourself, and if that means removing that part of your comments then so be it.

I also prefer to lead with empathy and understanding. I believe in giving people the benefit of the doubt. I work very hard at taking the best interpretation possible of scenarios that people write me about. But that doesn't mean I need to put up with hate or with willful ignorance or with snarky "ironic" dystopian takes on my attempts to be sincere and helpful. Those things all make it harder for me to continue this hobby I love, and therefore I delete and I block and I move on in the direction I'm going.

I definitely understand the desire to be a heinous bitch in response. I've even given into it a few times. But I also remember those times because I'm not proud of myself for losing my temper. I look back on them and wish that I hadn't chosen a good burn over my principles.

Don't share anything that you don't actually want to share with strangers on the internet. Don't keep comments around that make you feel bad. Put an author's note at the bottom of the chapter explaining what you're going for and letting readers know that you don't want comments like the ones you describe here - and delete them if they come in despite that.

Sometimes you just have to clean house, anon, and get rid of some of the cruft.

[bullet-prooflove]

Like God Needs The Devil: Charlie Reid x Reader (NSFW)

Tagging:@kmc1989 @littleesilvia @wrestlequeen @ahopelessromanticwritersworld @beebeechaos

Summary: Charlie takes you to heaven in the hallway of his house.

Prequel piece to:

Charlie - Charlie meets someone unexpected one night at his pool hall.

The Whole Damn Night (NSFW) - You aren't anything like Charlie expected.

Companion piece to:

Risk Management - Charlie realises the two of you have been keeping secrets from one another.

Deals With The Devil - Charlie's fall from grace starts with an act of love.

The Ghost That Lingers In The Nighttime - Charlie's becoming accustomed to the late night visits.

Who The Fuck Is Charlie? - You wake up calling for Charlie but noone knows who the fuck Charlie is.

Blood For Blood - Charlie's wrath leads to his worst nightmare...

You realise Charlie isn’t like the other men you’ve been with, when he takes off your shoes in his hallway. They’re black leather stilettos that give a fuck me vibe, ones that have in the past resulted in carpet burn and rough sex. When he gets on his knees you don’t know what to expect but its certainly not his palm on your ankle, slipping each one off.

“I thought we were supposed to be fucking.” You tell him and he looks up at you with those warm whiskey eyes before he sets the expensive pumps alongside his boots in the shoe rack.

“I could lay you down on those sheets and treat you like fuck doll.” He tells you. The words roll out of him like thunder, rumbling through his chest in that delicious way of his. “I could fuck every single one of your holes, leave you dripping with my cum and send you on your way, not giving a shit that you didn’t get off.”

Your breath catches because that’s what you’ve come to expect in all your interactions with the opposite sex, mediocre liaisons that leave you feeling physically and emotionally dissatisfied.

“Or I could not be an asshole, cook for you, help you wind down and spend the night with my head between your thighs making it a much more pleasurable experience for the both of us.”

He rubs his face against your pussy through your dress trousers, nuzzling it. You can feel the roughness of his cheeks through the fabric, the heat of his breath as he mouths it.

“What do you say Em?” He murmurs, nipping at your clit through the material, sending a tremor of heat vibrating through you. “Do you want me to be the asshole or do you want me to be the man that’s going to take care of you tonight, who is going to have you coming so fucking hard you see fucking God?”

“I want to see God.” You whisper, you fingertips running through his unruly burnished steel curls.

“Good girl.” He mumbles, unfastening the button of your trousers and drawing them down over the curve of your ass. “Let’s make that happen.”

He presses his face into those pretty black panties, inhaling the scent of your arousal through the slim fabric. You’re wet already, the damp patch blossoming across the silk. His fingertip traces along the elasticated edge, dipping just inside so he can feel the moisture coating it.

“I don’t even have to take these off to make you come honey.” He whispers against your clit, framing the words against that sensitive little bud. “A little friction now and then can be a blessing, keep you from getting too sensitive for all the filthy things I’m going to do to you later.”

He guides one of your thighs over his shoulder, his palms slipping into your underwear, grasping that perfect peach of yours, pinning you against his mouth. Your back comes to rest against the wall as his tongue licks a teasing swipe across your cunt. Pleasure chases through you, unfurling like a storm on the horizon building and building as Charlie takes you apart.

Your hips are canting against his mouth, your desperate whimpers echoing through the hallway. He grips your ass harder, leaving marks with his fingertips, before he seeks out the elastic of your panties, hooking it on his fingers, pulling it aside.

He plunges his tongue into you and you hit nirvana, the heavens bursting open as the storm breaks and you climax all over his mouth. The essence of you floods his senses as he laps up that honey like it’s the finest fucking thing he’s tasted in his entire life.

“You sound just like a fucking angel.” He mumbles against your thigh, his lips brushing over the tiny birthmark shaped just like Maine.

“You’re just as sinful as the devil.” You tell him, your fingers stroking through his curls as you give him that  fucked out smile or yours. “And twice as handsome.”

He huffs a chuckle into your skin, a flush creeping across his cheeks. “An angel and the devil, maybe that makes us a good match.”

“Yeah.” You say, your fingertips tracing over the five o’clock shadow that lines his cheeks as you look into his eyes. “Maybe it does.”

Love Charlie? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

Before you join the taglist make sure to read the rules here as you otherwise you won’t be added.

Interested in supporting me? Join my Patreon for Bonus Content!

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[binmeister]

Any thoughts about the Saja boys with a Deaf reader? I can imagine them not understanding what hearing aids are or not understanding KSL, except maybe Mystery (thats mostly because I headcannon him as selectively mute.)

Some loose thoughts and HCs for this, pardon if this isn’t super clean!

I feel like the eras where they had been alive and human it was extremely rare to have come across someone who was deaf or someone who wasn’t “normal” - heavy on the quotations

Their time as demons maybe theyd come across one or two deaf demons, a lot of mute ones, but maybe not as many known deaf ones bc telepathy was a thing so some demons didnt talk using their vocal cords anyway so it wasnt uncommon for someone to never talk or have an uncommon way of speaking

I also believe in selectively mute Mystery, but I dont think he knows that KSL exists - Im thinking of some of your first interactions is you being a little confused on him not even mouthing words; a way you had been taught to understand people was to lip read and subconsciously your mouth would make the same shapes even though the sound would be inaccurate - so you communicate with the tiny notepad you bring around or with your phone, scribbling down what you wanted to say or typing it out and showing him

Out of all the guys I think Mystery or Romance are the fastest to learn KSL, mystery because it ended up a useful tool for him to communicate and Romance bc.. i just picture him as someone who would care enough to do so

There’d be a day where Romance surprises you as he speaks to you and signs at the same time, revelling in the way your eyes light up and you happily sign back at him your signs a little messy with your shock and he teases you that maybe you should work on your signing bc he couldnt understand you, you’d playfully smacked his shoulder after that

Jinu was confused, that was for sure - saw you fiddling with your hearing aids and was confused on why you were wearing a strange looking in ear, were you an idol or performer? But then he realises that when he spoke out to you, your eyes were laser focussed on the way his mouth moved and he would unintentionally slow his speech which lead you to huff at him like ‘how dare you, im not dumb’ - you’d signed it at him rapidly, voice making little incomprehensible protests as well and then it clicks to him that the hand gestures you were making had meaning with the emphasis you put on some motions

Honestly can imagine Jinu going to a public library and trying to learn about it but not knowing what exactly he was trying to learn, so he pesters Rumi about it til she breaks and teaches him the basics of it (HC is the girls had learned at least basic KSL bc they seem like the type who want to be able to communicate with all of their fans)

Abby my sweet bulky man, has absolutely no clue how you exist bc i highly believe in the era he lived in , it was you HAD to be the strongest to survive so hes surprised youve lived until adult hood with being deaf and unable to be majorly alert with your surroundings especially sound

You’d have given him a brief explanation on how much your can hear - maybe it varies where youre able to hear a little clearer with the assistance of your hearing aids but theres still a noticeable ‘sound’ in the way you talk with your voice and hands that would make them all realise that you were deaf: tries his best to learn KSL or is more mindful of the way he talks or moves his mouth so that its easier to lip read

I feel like out of all of them, Abby struggles the most to learn KSL but he puts in some of the most effort bc he’s starting to be able to understand you - just his execution is clumsy so he signed a cuss word at you once and you were laughing soundlessly at him to the point of tears and hes confused and flustered

Baby was perceptive, probably clocks the fact youre deaf the fastest aside from Mystery and he notices that sometimes youre furrowing your brows at him when he talks because his voice had gone too low that your hearing aids had actually struggled to pick it up - the way his mouth is usually in some kind of smug smile didnt help either because it warped the shape of his mouth and you looked a little upset at yourself for struggling to understand him

He’d pluck your phone from you to type what he said, or if your little notepad was in your hand he’d gesture for you to give it to him and he writes what he said instead - though he does become more mindful as well on his annunciation of words instead of being a little lazy in how he speaks

Highkey.. i dont think Baby learns KSL in full or even most of the basics but he does absorb the common signs you use so hes able to understand you at least, maybe a little more bc he likes the way your eyes twinkle when his hands sign along with some of the common words he uses

I am a believer that Baby would he the type to check what cuss words existed in KSL and refuse to believe anything else

[azzishands]

Fan of a fan - Chapter eight

Paige x Azzi

WC: 8.3

Warnings: Homophobia, mature content

A/N: Azzi looks so good in her latest tiktoks, I'll never get over it😫

Masterlist

---

June 2025

The Huskies’ European tour had ended at last, and they were back home in the US. Paige was finally gonna get to be with Azzi for a longer period of time. Or, well, she was going to spend some time with the band and start writing the soundtrack to the Ice’s movie. But other than that, this summer was all about Azzi. 

The plan was for Paige to spend June in LA at Azzi’s place, and then spend July in Minnesota at Paige’s place. They had talked about if it’s too early to be practically living with each other, but then came to the conclusion that they wanted to make up for all the lost time spent in each other’s absence. 

“And if - and that’s a big if - if it feels like it was too early for it, I’ll just book a hotel,” Paige shrugged. And it really wasn’t more complicated than that. Paige always seemed to be prepared for whatever worry Azzi had. 

And now here they were, in Azzi’s apartment in the middle of June, just playing Fortnite with the whole band over. Paige adored how Azzi wanted to get to know the people Paige loved, and that’s how The Huskies ended up taking over Azzi’s apartment this week. 

“Azzi!” KK yelled “Stop do-”

“-Shut up, I know what I’m doing!” Azzi yelled back, and then proceeded to die. 

“I don’t think you do,” Sarah mumbled and held back a laugh. Azzi just shot her a look and shook her head in disapproval of the comment. 

Paige just sat back on the couch and laughed at the whole thing. Being with the four people that felt like family more than anyone else made her whole heart swell. 

Azzi was sitting on the floor in front of her TV, right next to KK. Paige, Sarah and Aubrey were taking up the couch. The band had spent the last three days there, sleeping in that very living room. Azzi loved having them over, and loved feeling like it was some sort of summer camp. It was always lively, always fun and always easy with them. It felt like a big sleepover. 

“Azzi, do you sing?” Aubrey asked as Azzi stood up from the floor to get another pizza slice from her kitchen counter. 

“No-”

“-Yes she does,” Paige said simultaneously as Azzi had denied it. “All the time actually.”

“No I don’t,” Azzi frowned. 

“Yeah you do.”

“No-”

“Specifically our songs,” Paige continued, completely ignoring Azzi and turned to Aubrey. “And Iris, of course, her favorite song. And one song she can never stop singing is Just Fine by Mary J Blige. I feel like I’m gonna go insane if I hear it one more time.” 

“You said you liked that song!” Azzi said in an accusing tone, taking her seat back on the floor but still turned to the couch where Paige was sitting. 

The paparazzi’s pictures of Paige and Azzi had been wiped from the internet as much as their PR teams were able to. It had been viral for at least two weeks, before another Kardashian had done something with someone, and thankfully, the noise about the two simmered down. But their hardcore fans still had their eyes on them attentively, waiting for another mistake.

Paige had talked to Azzi about being a bit more lowkey onwards, which Azzi had agreed to. They didn’t interact on social media, they didn’t leave the apartment unless they had made sure no one was around, they always drove cars with tinted glasses, and so on. 

Azzi understood that it was important for Paige to be able to control whatever she could. But a small part of her quietly wondered how long they were gonna be lowkey. For how long did Paige have to stressfully check out the windows as if they were criminals fleeing from prison every time they wanted to go out and eat dinner? She didn’t want to ask Paige, because she didn’t want to make her girlfriend’s struggles about herself, she told herself. Truth was, she didn't have the guts to want to learn the truth yet. 

The next days with the band were spent pretty much the same - playing games, talking about everything and nothing, having movie nights, listening to music. All the girls appreciated just hanging out like normal people. And when the week had gone by, Azzi felt like she knew the band a lot better than before. 

“With or without Paige, hit me up when you’re in town,” Azzi hugged KK, Aubrey and Sarah as they stood in the hallway, ready to leave. 

“We will,” Sarah smiled. 

“You won’t get rid of us that easily,” KK said.

“Thank you for having us, Azzi. We’ve had a great time,” Aubrey thanked the hostess. 

Their words made both Azzi and Paige warm with love. Azzi was happy she got along so well with Paige’s best friends and liked being around them as much as they seemed to like being around her. 

The three Huskies left the apartment, waving goodbye until the door was closed, and then there were only Paige and Azzi left. 

“Finally alone,” Paige murmured and didn’t hesitate on wrapping her arms around Azzi’s waist, pulling her in closer.

Azzi chuckled. “What, you’ve been waiting for them to leave?”

“It’s been killing me to sleep next to you this whole week without getting to touch you,” she said, her lips almost touching Azzi’s. 

“So do something about it then,” Azzi cocked her head to the side, looking at her girlfriend as if she was challenging her. 

And Paige gladly accepted the challenge by crashing her lips onto Azzi’s. She didn’t want to waste any more time. 

With her hands on Azzi’s sides, she guided them towards the kitchen and pressed her girlfriend against the kitchen counter, never taking her lips off her. She swiftly lifted Azzi up on the counter and stood between her legs. 

“Missed this,” Paige mumbled and moved her mouth down on Azzi’s jaw, to her neck, placing wet kisses on the places she knew drove Azzi crazy.

“Prove it,” Azzi exhaled with her eyes closed by Paige’s neck kisses. 

As soon as Azzi had said that, Paige roughly bit down on the part that connects the neck with the shoulder, making Azzi gasp. Paige gently kissed over where she bit and used her tongue to lick back up on her neck.

“Take this off,” she said as she removed Azzi’s shirt. “This too.” She grabbed the hem of Azzi’s pants, and Azzi obediently lifted up her butt to make it easier to remove her pants. 

Paige took a step back to take in the view. Azzi in her underwear, on the kitchen counter with those big eyes looking at her like she’s Azzi’s whole world. Paige’s heart couldn’t beat any faster than it already was, and she internally thanked God for bringing Azzi Jazlyn Fudd into her life.

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” she swallowed and closed the distance between them.

“I think it’s the other way around,” Azzi whispered and wrapped her arms around Paige’s shoulders, stroking her nose against Paige’s. 

“Kinda overwhelming how much I love you,” Paige said and kissed Azzi’s nose. “Thank you for inviting the band. It meant a lot to me.”

“Is this your new way of dirty talk?” Azzi bit her lip teasingly. “Kinda soft.”

“I don’t care,” Paige said and peppered kisses all over Azzi’s face. “Just appreciate you.”

Azzi sighed in contentment, immediately giving up the teasing and caving in on Paige’s words of appreciation. 

“I love you too, P,” she whispered and gave a single soft kiss on the lips. “And I love you even more for letting me into your life, getting to know your friends and family. They’re wonderful, just like you.”

“But I’m still your favorite, right?” Paige asked playfully.

“Hmm, we’ll see, it depends,” Azzi replied. 

“Depends on what?”

Azzi didn’t reply, she just placed her hand on Paige’s head and slowly pushed her down to her knees. Azzi sat herself on the edge of the counter, spreading her legs and looking down on Paige. 

Paige tried to play it cool, but with Azzi’s legs spread like this, looking down on her, with her hand on her head, it was hard to not just dive in right away.

Azzi just rested her hand on top of Paige’s head, neither pushing or pulling her closer. She wanted Paige to take control by herself. But Paige didn’t move. She just looked up at Azzi with those blue eyes that penetrated her soul. Azzi was getting wetter and wetter, even though Paige didn’t even touch her. Somehow that made it worse. 

“Paige,” she breathed out impatiently, gently starting to pull her head closer, but Paige pushed her head back, not letting Azzi get what she wanted. 

“Nah-uh,” she said. “You gotta wait.”

“Wha- why?” Azzi asked, confused. 

“Because I say so,” Paige just said and started to place kisses on her thighs, getting closer and closer to the area Azzi really needed her, but still not touching her with her hands.

“Be a good girl and hold onto the counter for me,” she said and placed Azzi’s hands on the edge of the counter beside her legs. “And no touching.” It was a warning. It was a demand. 

Azzi swallowed hard and looked down at Paige, who still teasingly just kissed the insides of her thighs. At last, her face was positioned right in front of Azzi’s center, and she used her hands to spread Azzi’s legs a little bit more, to quickly remove her hands from her once again. 

She didn’t want to beg for it, not yet at least. But the way Paige took her time was making it really hard for Azzi to sit still. 

At last, Paige gave one small lick on top of her panties right over Azzi’s clit, making her softly whimper at the contact. Azzi was breathing heavily from refraining from the urge to just pull Paige’s head into her. 

“You’re doing so good for me,” Paige complimented and gave another stripe with her tongue over Azzi’s clothed center, this time with a little more pressure. It made Azzi squirm, instinctually grinding her hips forward. 

“Let’s take these off,” Paige said and slid down Azzi’s panties. 

She couldn’t help herself but to smirk at the sight of Azzi’s glistening pussy.

“You’re gonna make the counter wet,” Paige teased her. 

“Well, maybe you should do something about it before it gets to that then,” Azzi said with an annoyed tone. 

“You’re such a brat,” Paige replied, very amused with the impatience Azzi was feeling. 

“And you’re such a fucking tease,” Azzi said and grabbed Paige at the back of her head, forcibly pulling her closer to her center. 

But Paige grabbed her wrists and removed her hands from her head just as quickly. 

“Don’t fucking play with me,” Paige murmured low and stood up, face to face with Azzi, still holding her wrists. “I told you to hold onto the counter.”

Azzi just let out a short cold laugh. “You may think you have the control, but we both know who the desperate one is,” she said and ripped her wrist loose from Paige’s grip to harshly cup Paige’s clothed center, making her hips buckle involuntarily. 

Paige took a step back to try and gain some sense of control again, already missing the feeling of Azzi’s hand on her center. 

“See Paige, if you’re not gonna give it to me…” Azzi said and let her hand slide down slowly from her stomach down to her center, leaning back while teasingly caressing her own inner thigh in front of her girlfriend. 

Paige just stood there, dazed by the sight. So much for control, huh.

“Oh God,” Azzi moaned as she finally let her fingers stroke her clit. She was breathing heavily, eyes closed and head thrown back, practically grinding against her own fingers. 

The blonde woman could just stare. Because no matter how much she wanted to take the control back, she couldn’t tear her eyes away from seeing Azzi in pleasure. 

“Paige,” Azzi groaned, as she slipped two fingers into herself. 

“Fuck Azzi,” Paige exhaled. 

“Please,” the actress whimpered. “I need you.”

“Doesn’t look like it,” Paige smirked. “Keep going.”

“Paige, please” Azzi whined, just wanting to feel her girlfriend on her once again. But Paige didn’t move. She just stood there, in front of her, watching. 

Until Paige walked away to the bedroom, and Azzi stopped fucking herself, just looking after her confused. She was starting to regret her decisions of being so defiant, but before she could really start to regret it, Paige came back with the strap in her hand. 

“Oh shit,” Azzi mumbled to herself. 

“You gonna be good now, or you wanna keep doing it by yourself?” Paige asked while removing her clothes to put on the strap. 

Azzi swallowed. She didn’t answer the question, but her silence was enough for Paige, and she smirked victoriously. 

“Bend over,” Paige commanded. Azzi almost gasped just by the words. She got off the counter and turned around, letting her upper body fall against it instead. 

Deciding to be a little bit more cooperative with Azzi, she lets her hands roam her back as she positions herself behind her, finally touching her girlfriend. Azzi relaxed into the touch, getting relieved she was finally getting touched. 

“See, you can be a good girl when you want to,” Paige said and let the tip of the strap touch Azzi’s folds. Her hands were on Azzi’s waist now. All she had to do was pull her backwards for the strap to enter her. 

“But it’s more- fuck!” Azzi didn’t get to finish her sentence before Paige had pushed into her. 

“You were saying?” Paige thrusted in and out of her steadily against the kitchen counter. Azzi didn’t say anything back, just had her eyes rolled back from pleasure. 

She could feel herself getting closer with each stroke. Whimpers and moans constantly leaving her mouth with every hit. 

Not having been touched for a week, Azzi felt her body being on alert for every touch, every stroke that Paige gave her. 

“I’m gonna cum,” she told Paige. “Please don’t stop.” 

The singer leaned forward with her upper body and pulled on Azzi’s hair to position her mouth by Azzi’s ear. She whispered sweet nothings in her ear. At least that’s what Azzi guessed, because all she could focus on was Paige’s thrusts and her mouth breathing hot air on her ear. 

“Paige,” Azzi moaned as the orgasm was crashing down on her. 

“I know baby,” Paige didn’t stop, she continued to let Azzi ride it out. 

Eventually Azzi put her hand on Paige’s stomach to signal that it was too much. Paige eased out of her and peppered kisses all over Azzi’s back and shoulders. 

“Baby,” Paige whispered. 

“Yeah,” Azzi let out breathlessly, still on the counter, just trying to catch her breath. 

“Wanna eat you out.”

Azzi let out a tired breath with a smile that said ‘of course you want’. 

The night seemed never ending. It had only been a week, but the two women craved each other’s touch like they had been away from each other for years. It’s funny how fast the memory of long distance fades, and is replaced by a greedy hunger for more, even when you already have more. 

The remainder of June was spent in Los Angeles with most time spent in Azzi’s apartment. But they made a tradition out of going on a road trip once a week somewhere. They had gone to San Diego, Santa Barbara, and even smaller road trips like to Venice Beach. Everything had been absolutely perfect. It had only been a few times where people would recognize them. And when that had happened, it was usually only one of them that people recognized. If it was a movie fan, they wanted a picture with Azzi. If it was a music fan, they wanted a picture with Paige. It was grateful that none of their hardcore fans had bumped into them.

Well, until they had gone to Malibu. 

There was a group of girls that saw them on the beach. Paige could instantly tell that they had eyes on them and turned to Azzi, who was sunbathing in the chair next to her. 

“I have a feeling we’re being watched,” Paige mumbled softly. 

Azzi discreetly turned her head to the side, and then to the next one as if she was stretching her neck, and looked with her eyes behind her sunglasses. She spotted the group of girls who didn’t look any older than seventeen years old. They were whispering to each other, constantly glancing towards the pair while giggling.

“Yup, they are definitely talking about us,” she mumbled back and grabbed a towel to cover up her bikini clad body.  

And as if on cue, one of the girls were being pushed towards the couple by her friends, and she nervously walked over to them.

“Um, hi,” she said, visibly stressed. 

Both Paige and Azzi sat up from their sun loungers and looked at her.

“Hi,” they both said in unison, Paige slower than Azzi. 

“We were just wondering if we could get some pictures with you Paige, we’re huge fans,” the girl said and pointed to her friends.

“Sure,” Paige said and raised from her chair. 

The girl waved her friends over, and they all ran. There were at least seven of them, Azzi counted. They all were older teenagers, they all were hysterical, and they all were eye-fucking her girlfriend. She didn’t feel jealous about it. After all, they were just kids. But she did feel uneasy with the way she couldn’t set any boundaries either. She was okay with it because she had to be. 

“You over there,” one of the girls said and pointed at Azzi. “Could you take the picture?”

“Of course,” Azzi said and stood up, receiving one of the girls' phones to take the picture with. 

The group of girls stood beside Paige with big smiles, having their arms around each other's shoulders. 

“Okay and can we take pictures with you one on one?” they asked.

And Paige, Azzi’s sweet Paige, of course agreed to it. It was one of the things she loved the most about Paige, and at the same time one of her pet peeves. The way she never set any boundaries, even though Azzi could tell that this whole interaction made her uncomfortable.

Azzi kept taking the pictures as each and every one of the girls were posing with Paige in front of her. It started out fine, but when they got to girl number four, it switched. 

“Can I hug you for the picture?” the girl asked. Now that was all natural, and Azzi didn’t think twice about it. The girl threw her arms around Paige from the side and rested her head against her chest with a big smile. Everything was fine, really, until the girl moved her hand a little bit too low for Azzi’s liking, palming Paige’s lower stomach. 

“Okay, done,” Azzi said curtly. “Next.”

“Damn, I hope they’re not actually together, cuz Azzi is kind of a bitch,” she overheard one of the girls whisper to the rest of the group. 

‘Oh so they do know who I am’, Azzi thought to herself and rolled her eyes at the whole situation. 

Then the next girl was up, and this time it took everything in Azzi to not throw the phone into the ocean. 

“Can you like, hug me from behind?” the girl requested. 

Azzi put her hand on her waist, her body language saying everything her mouth couldn’t. Paige noticed it and quickly wrapped her arms loosely around the girl's neck, not wanting to touch her any more than necessary. 

“Alright, next,” Azzi said with a very clearly annoyed tone. 

“Actually, I’m so sorry, but we have to go,” Paige interjected before the next girl could pose. 

“What? But we’re only three more, please,” the girl pleaded.

“I’m sorry,” Paige gave her an apologetic smile and grabbed the phone from Azzi’s hand to give it back to the group. 

The girls murmured disappointed comments amongst themselves and started to move along, but not before the blonde woman overheard one of the comments.

“Fuck Azzi Fudd. Paige never turned down fans until Azzi came into the picture.”

Paige snapped her head back to look at them with a big disapproving look, but the girls were too busy walking away to notice. 

“I’m sorry for that,” Paige said and looked down at Azzi who was sitting down on the sun lounger. grateful that she hadn’t heard the comment.

“It’s not your fault,” Azzi just said, clearly still irritated.

“Yeah but I kinda feel responsible. They’re my fans,” she said and sat down next to her, their legs touching.

“They’re not your children, Paige. They wouldn’t wanna fuck you if they were,” the actress said with an edge. 

Paige didn’t know what to say, because she didn’t know what was the right thing to do in those moments either. 

“It’s not that I’m jealous, I’m not, it’s just that…” Azzi started. 

“That what?”

“Seeing them interact with you like that in front of me just reminds me that I’m no different.”

“What? That’s crazy, you-”

“-No I know,” Azzi interrupted. “I just mean that, you belong to them as much as you belong to me. We’re just a rumour that we’re trying to get rid of. That’s all we are.”

“That’s not true. I’m your girlfriend,” Paige said. “That’s not a rumour.”

“Yes it is,” Azzi argued. “No one but us, and a few others, know that. It’s a dirty little secret at best.”

“Azzi,” Paige said with a lump in her throat. “If I could, I would show the whole world how much I love you. It’s killing me that I can’t. I don’t want to pretend, believe me. I don’t want to sit like this next to you and not just grab your hand and kiss you all over.”

It did feel better to hear Paige say that, but it didn’t stop Azzi’s unresolved feelings completely. But just enough for her to stop paying attention to them at the moment.

“I just want to protect us a little bit longer,” Paige said and rested her forehead against Azzi’s shoulder. “Please don’t give up on me.”

And that did it. Azzi felt a sense of guilt for making Paige think she wasn’t ready to battle Paige’s struggles side by side with her. 

“I won’t,” she whispered and gave Paige’s forehead a quick peck. “And I’m sorry too. I know it’s hard for you too.”

Paige could intellectually understand what Azzi meant, when she said that she felt like there was no difference between her and her fans. But emotionally, she was being torn between her own fears and boundaries, and not wanting to hurt her girlfriend. 

The girl’s comment about her Azzi made Paige feel a conflicted feeling she’s never felt before. Because she should be the one to speak up, to stand up for her girlfriend - but she didn’t. And somewhere deep inside Paige, that was scary. Because what if there’s something about it all she’s not ready to admit to herself.

But Paige put those thoughts aside. In her head, this wouldn’t be a problem once they would be in Minnesota. There, they would be in their own little bubble and have more privacy. 

—

July 2025

Minnesota was warm this time of year. Not as hot as LA, but just enough for Paige. She easily burnt anyway, and loved being out without getting heat stroke. 

The girl’s they had met on the beach in Malibu had posted the photos on Instagram, Tiktok and Twitter, and did not hold back on giving the details on their meeting. Their posts became some sort of forum for the debate whether or not Azzi and Paige were dating, and unfortunately, the forum for more hate towards the actress.

‘She’s not even that good of an actress, I don’t know what Paige sees in her’, someone on twitter had said, even tagging the both of them. 

“I don’t care how many more people I gotta pay to get those tweets deleted Sam, I want them gone by the next time I go on there,” Paige said angrily to her PR team manager on the phone. 

“Paige,” Azzi gently nudged her, sitting beside her on the couch. “It’s okay.”

“No it’s not Azzi,” Paige snapped and got up from the couch. 

Azzi sank deeper down in her seat, watching her girlfriend go to her home office and closed the door. 

They had just been sitting on the couch together, cuddling, when Paige had stumbled over the endless amounts of tweets directed at her girlfriend. Azzi hadn’t paid attention to whatever Paige had been doing, until she had started to angrily cuss. Azzi had turned around and asked her what was wrong, and saw the comments on her phone.

It stung more than she wanted to admit. Seeing people comment on her acting, her appearance, her body, her face - everything. They were even debating whether she was using Paige for money or not, speculating how much Azzi were making from her quote-unquote ‘quirky little movies’. 

She understood quite early on that a lot of people would feel some type of jealousy, but she hadn’t been prepared to be torn down over her acting. She hadn’t been prepared to be deemed inadequate in the status, money, personality, skin color and body aspect of it all. 

The worst part was that she didn’t wanna tell Paige just how much it hurt her, because she felt like if she did, it would consume the entirety of their relationship, and Paige was already consumed by trying to control everything she could, even the things she couldn’t. 

But she did appreciate Paige’s effort to get rid of the nasty tweets. She did. Even if it felt like sweeping everything under the rug instead of handling the actual issue, like telling her fans off instead of being quiet. 

“I’m getting real fucking tired of these so called ‘fans’,” Paige came back out from the office, still angry, but sat down next to Azzi and looked her straight in the eyes. 

Azzi didn’t know what to say. She couldn’t say ‘it’s okay’ one more time. She didn’t want to defend the fans again either. But she really didn’t want to break down in front of Paige and let her see how much it got to her. 

Paige saw the hesitation in Azzi’s eyes, saw the uncertainty in her look. 

“Are you okay?” Paige asked softly. Too softly. 

Azzi just gave a quick nod and looked away. Opening her mouth to say yes was a risk of opening the gates of truth, and she was not ready. 

The singer put her arms around her and buried her head in Azzi’s crook of her neck. It completely unraveled her. Azzi’s tense body relaxed to the touch, and that was dangerous, because suddenly she felt like the tears she had been holding back were fighting their way out in her relaxed state.

And before she knew it, the first tear fell down her cheek. 

She involuntarily let out a quiet sob into Paige who was holding her tightly. And it broke Paige. 

“I’m so sorry baby,” Paige whispered, feeling her own eyes tearing up. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

They both cried in each other’s embrace. The living room was filled with a glooming hopelessness in the air. 

Maybe if Paige hadn’t been Paige.

Or maybe if Azzi hadn’t been Azzi.

It felt like a punishment to be themselves. 

None of them knew the answer. But both of them knew the problem. 

Paige felt that some type of resolution was in her control, yet she felt powerless. How is it that power can feel so futile when it really mattered? That’s what Paige wondered, while Azzi wondered if Paige really understood the power of her silence. 

—

“How are you feeling?” Azzi asked her girlfriend, who was visibly nervous. 

“I’m fine. Just a bit nervous, that’s all,” Paige swallowed. 

It was a big deal, and an even bigger deal to Paige. 

Paige’s mom and her sibling were in town, wanting to meet Paige. Azzi had offered to do something else, to disappear for a few days to Paige’s dad’s place or something. But Paige had told her no, told her that she needed her there. 

And so the day had finally come. Azzi was gonna meet Paige’s mom, Ryan and Lauren.

“I'll be here for you the whole time,” Azzi said and rubbed Paige’s back while they were standing in the kitchen, having just prepared dinner.

“Thank you. You know how much I appreciate you?” Paige said and leaned on Azzi’s shoulder. 

The doorbell rang and Paige went to let her family in. 

Ryan came into view first. He was taller than Azzi had thought. Then she saw Lauren. She was very pretty, and had a lot of resemblance to her girlfriend. And then her mom, Amy, came in. 

“Welcome, welcome,” Paige murmured as the company took off their jackets. The siblings hugged Paige tightly and held onto her as if they didn’t want to let go. Her mom on the other hand, gave her a pat on the back and looked over at Azzi.

“Hi,” Azzi said with a big nervous smile and an outstretched hand. “I’m Azzi. You must be Paige’s mom.”

Amy shook her hand and gave her a small smile. “Hi, yes, I’m Amy. Nice to meet you.”

“Oh my God, Azzi Fudd!?” Lauren exclaimed in shock when she had let go of her older sister. 

“Hi, you must be Lauren,” Azzi said, and Paige swore to herself she could die from her girlfriend’s cuteness. 

“Why is Azzi Fudd here?” Lauren asked Paige in excitement. 

“She’s gonna eat dinner with us,” Paige replied. 

“She is!?” Lauren yelled. “Please can I sit next to her?”

“Why don’t you ask her?” Paige chuckled. 

Azzi just looked at Lauren and nodded with an affirming smile. 

Paige’s mom was very different from what Azzi thought she would be like. She was soft, a little bit shy, but still very kind and sweet. She asked Azzi a lot of questions, included Ryan and Lauren to help the flow of the conversations, and spoke with appreciative words towards the host, her oldest daughter. 

“This was delicious, Paige,” Amy complimented Paige. They were sitting in the living room, eating together around Paige’s bigger dining table. It almost felt like a festive holiday, the formality of using the big table, Azzi thought. 

“I got a little help from Azzi,” Paige smirked. 

“Oh no, I’m not a good cook, this was all Paige,” Azzi quickly shook her head. 

“You did the potatoes,” Paige said. 

“That’s not really something to brag about,” Azzi nervously laughed, and Amy politely chuckled. 

“It feels so weird to be sitting next to Azzi Fudd,” Lauren mused out loud. “Like, I just watched a movie with you the other day, and now you’re here.”

Azzi offered a small smile and nodded. “Yeah, I’m glad I’m here.”

“Why didn’t you tell me you’re friends with Azzi Fudd?” Lauren turned to her sister. “Especially since you’ve been obsessed with her since forever.”

“Bro, first of all, I wasn’t obsessed,” Paige quickly said.

“I already know you were, stop lying,” Azzi raised her eyebrows teasingly. 

“No you totally were,” Ryan chimed in. “If I hadn’t known better, it was like you were in love with her or something.”

“That’s cute,” Azzi smiled. Paige didn’t. 

“Whatever,” Paige mumbled. “Anyone want seconds or can I start cleaning up?”

Paige grabbed the plates and went to the kitchen. Amy stood up to go and help, but Azzi quickly intervened. 

“Oh please, let us, you can sit down while we clean,” Azzi smiled. “Don’t worry.”

“Thank you, honey, how sweet of you,” Amy sat down again and gave her a grateful smile. 

Azzi just nodded and grabbed some more plates to carry to the kitchen.

“You’ve really been talking about me to everyone for years, huh?” Azzi said as she entered the kitchen. Paige was already by the sink, doing the dishes. 

“Can you blame me? I mean, look at yourself,” Paige said flirtingly

“Alright, easy,” Azzi chuckled. “I’m already your girlfriend, no need to butter me up like that.”

“Well, I-”

Paige turned around and stopped dead in her tracks. 

Azzi looked at her confused and turned around as well, seeing Paige’s mom stand there with some leftover dinner in her hands with her lips pursed together into a thin line. Azzi didn’t know what to do. Both the daughter and mother seemed to be frozen by hearing Azzi say the g-word. 

“I think it’s time to leave,” Amy said at last and put down the food on the counter and left the kitchen. 

“Wait, mom-” Paige hurried behind her. 

A heavy breath escaped Azzi’s lips as she was left alone in the kitchen. Everything had gone so well, until she had opened her mouth. She leaned over the counter and continued on breathing deeply to calm down her own heart. 

In the living room, Amy was telling Ryan and Lauren that it was time to go. 

“But I thought we were staying here?” Ryan asked, confused, but his mom just grabbed his arm and shoved him up on his feet from his chair. 

“Change of plans,” she just said. “Come on Lauren.”

“Wait, mom, please don’t go,” Paige said and looked at her with pleading eyes. “Please, can we just talk first? Give me a chance to explain, please.”

“I don’t think there’s much to talk about,” her mom replied. 

“I wanna stay with Paige,” Lauren whined. 

“Me too,” Ryan agreed. 

“Please mom, for your children’s sake, can we talk first, and then you can decide whether or not you’ll leave,” Paige begged. 

Amy sighed, and Paige knew that she had won. 

“Fine. Wait here,” she told her children. 

The two women walked to Paige’s office and closed the door. This was no discussion for anyone else to hear. It was barely a discussion Paige wanted to hear either.

And now that she was here, standing face to face with her mom to talk about the thing she had avoided for years, she didn’t know what to say. She felt the urge to defend herself, to lie, to say that it wasn’t what she thought. But how could she do that to Azzi? 

“You wanted to talk, so talk,” her mom said after a full minute of silence. 

Paige swallowed nervously. 

“Can I just… I mean…” Paige sighed. “Do you still think less of me because of, you know?”

Her mom let out a breath of air as if it was a stupid question. 

“I don’t think less of you, Paige,” she said. “But it’s not a lifestyle I support and you know that. I could never defend choosing a path that leads to hell. And you’re gonna have to accept that. So if you’re gonna choose that lifestyle, you’re gonna have to accept that it comes with a life without me, Ryan and Lauren.”

“What?” Paige exhaled bewildered. 

“It’s just not right. I don’t want my children near it.”

“I’m your daughter, I’m their sister, you can’t take that away from me,” Paige’s voice was shaking. ‘Not again’, she thought to herself. 

“I’m not the one taking it away from you,” her mom said. “You are.”

Paige felt the lump in her throat and the tears started to crowd her eyesight.

“You can’t,” she begged. “Please.”

“You need help, Paige,” Amy just said and exited the office without another word, without another look. 

As the door closed, Paige collapsed down on her knees with her head falling in her hands. The tears were streaming down her face uncontrollably, and it felt like she couldn’t breathe. 

Somehow, it was worse this time. Because she had spent the last ten years living a life to not ever get to this point again - and yet here she was, on her knees, being left by her mom once more. 

How is it possible that a feeling can survive ten years and be resurrected as if it was yesterday? It should be gone. This feeling should be new. This feeling shouldn’t exist. Not after everything Paige has repressed. Not after everything she’s done to never have to relive it again.

Azzi was in the kitchen, hearing Amy gathering Ryan and Lauren and then shutting the front door. And then it was quiet. Eerily quiet. 

She slowly walked to the living room to see the empty chairs. 

They left. 

“Paige?” She softly spoke. Did they all leave? What happened?

She checked the bathroom. Empty. She checked the bedroom. Empty. She checked the studio. Empty. 

At last, when she came to the office, she found her.

“Paige,” she breathed and lunged forward to the floor where Paige was still crying into her hands. She didn’t say anything else, she just put her arms around her and held on tightly. 

They stayed like that for an hour. 

Paige was hyperventilating and was trying to breathe while holding onto Azzi as if she was scared to death. Because she was. Scared of herself, because why did this keep on happening, no matter how hard she tried?

Azzi felt her struggling by the way Paige’s whole body was twitching with every involuntary sharp inhale. Her shirt was wet from Paige’s tears and her arms probably had two bruises on them from Paige’s hard grip.

“I’m here,” she whispered. “I got you.”

Time is a funny thing when it feels like the world is crashing down. It feels like forever and it feels like a second. Because somehow, hours had gone by, and Paige’s breathing had finally returned to normal. 

The grip she had on Azzi’s arm’s were now loose, and her breathing quite deep. Azzi stroked the blonde hair gently and carefully leaned backwards to look at Paige’s face.

She was asleep. 

Azzi carefully stood up and took Paige in her arms, carrying her bridal style to the bedroom and put her down on the bed. She went to the bathroom and got a wet towel to wipe Paige’s face that was stained by dry tears. 

Azzi didn’t sleep much that night. She constantly looked at Paige in case she would wake up and need her. 

It was not until five in the morning she involuntarily fell asleep. 

—

Azzi woke up to an empty bed.

She sat up in the bed in panic and looked around. Her head was still groggy from just waking up to think rationally. 

“Paige?”

No answer. She got up and walked out to the kitchen, where she saw her girlfriend sitting by the table with her glasses on, hair in a low bun, a simple white t-shirt and some sweats, with her phone in her hand and a coffee mug in the other. 

“Hi,” Paige said a bit surprised as she looked up from her phone. 

“Hi,” Azzi said back and stopped in her tracks. 

They just looked at each other, until Paige put her mug down and waved her over.

“Why are you just standing there, come,” she said and motioned for her to sit down with her. 

“What time is it?” Azzi asked.

“One pm.”

Azzi just hummed for an answer. Paige returned her attention to her phone. 

“Is it too early to talk about it?” Azzi carefully asked. 

Paige put down her phone and sighed. “Yeah.”

“But… Are you okay?” 

The singer pursed her lips together and made a face. “Not the best.”

“That’s alright,” Azzi said. “Is there something I can do?”

Paige stiffened with that question. “I don’t think so,” she slightly shook her head. 

Azzi swallowed. This was not what she had expected. She hadn’t expected to wake up seeing Paige sitting at the kitchen table drinking coffee all normal, as if nothing had happened. She hadn’t expected her to not want to talk about it. She hadn’t expected her to give short answers and not let her in. Not after she had held her for hours. 

“Okay, well, let me know if there is,” she said lowly. Paige just gave her a small smile and picked up her phone to return her attention to it instead of Azzi.

But Paige never brought it up again. And Azzi felt an inescapable sense of distance from her girlfriend. Sure, everything on the surface was the same. The compliments, the fun parts, the sex… But on the emotional level, Azzi didn’t even know what Paige felt anymore. It was as if Paige was there, but only half-heartedly. 

During the whole duration of July, it was killing Azzi to not know what had happened that day between Paige and her mom. She had tried one more time to ask Paige, but she had just said that she didn’t want to talk about it, and Azzi had accepted it. But it felt like a rejection. 

—

August 2025

“I feel like Paige isn’t letting me into her emotional life.”

It was in the middle of August and Azzi had gone back to LA from Minnesota to start shooting her new film. The actress had called Ice Brady after a very frustrating call with her girlfriend, where she had yet again tried to get her to open up, but once again had failed. She just needed someone that knew Paige to tell her that she shouldn’t worry about it, or something comforting. That’s how she ended up at Ice Brady’s apartment.

“Why is that?” Ice asked. They were sitting on her couch in her living room, sipping on some red wine.

“Okay, don’t tell her I told you this, but something happened with her mom like a month ago, and I found her crying on the floor in her office. It went on for like hours, until she passed out from exhaustion in my arms. And I still don’t know what happened,” Azzi told her. 

“Have you asked her?” Ice asked.

“Of course I have,” Azzi deadpanned. “She just tells me she don’t wanna talk about it.”

“Hm, okay,” Ice said. “Does she tell you why she doesn’t wanna talk about it at least?”

“No. But the thing that started it all was that her mom overheard me saying that I’m Paige’s girlfriend, and I know that her mom is not accepting of her being gay. After that, they disappeared from the room, and then her mom and her siblings left, and that’s when I found her crying.”

“Damn,” Ice exhaled. “I feel like it’s something serious then.”

“I know. That’s why I don’t wanna push, but I also feel this is not how it’s supposed to be, being her girlfriend and not even knowing how to be there for her, because I don’t know what exactly happened.”

“Okay but it obviously has something to do with the fact that she overheard you guys, right?” 

“Yeah,” Azzi confirmed.

“Look Az,” Ice said. “I was there the last time she had a PR crisis and all that. She never outright told me it was about her being gay, but I could tell it was a touchy subject for her. So I understand if you feel like she’s shutting you out, but it’s nothing personal, I think she just doesn’t know how to open up about it.”

Azzi felt somewhat relieved to hear that she’s not the only one who Paige isn’t opening up to. Because the last weeks had been hard for her. Ever since that day with Paige’s mom, she could see how Paige was struggling in silence. 

The distance between them had grown, and Azzi didn’t know how to meet Paige in the middle anymore. It felt like she was fumbling in the dark after her. 

And all this while the internet was still tearing her down. 

It’s like a wildfire, the narrative that spreads on social media. It only takes one tweet to go viral for it to become some sort of trend - some sort of truth. And the latest truth? It was that Azzi Fudd was an overrated actress with an attitude. The typical female actor narrative. And who had started that discourse if not her girlfriend’s fans. 

Everything felt so backwards. The one person who should be able to open up to her, wasn’t, and the people who should love their favorite’s girlfriend, didn’t. 

Paige had said she didn’t want to hide Azzi, but it sure felt like it. And after the thing with her mom, it was like Paige didn’t want to be seen with Azzi in public at all. 

Azzi started to feel like a mistake. Like someone Paige was trying to erase from her image in real time, while still being next to her. Azzi felt like she needed to shrink herself to fit into the small space Paige was ready to offer her. 

All these feelings, and Paige still said the most promising things to her. She always bought her flowers, she always cooked them dinner, she always told her how much she loved her… She did everything right when they were alone. 

But Azzi couldn’t ignore all the times when they weren’t alone, or all the times Paige didn’t open up. 

Something had to change. 

Or this could never work. 

It was stirring deep inside of the actress's heart. She didn’t know how much longer she could ignore it. 

Paige, on the other hand, was sitting in a meeting with her PR team and the band’s manager, Geno, in Minnesota, talking about her future. 

“The comment’s about Azzi are still out of control,” Paige said. 

“We are aware, but there’s very little we can do about that discourse. People are free to voice their opinions, and there’s nothing we can do but delete the worst one’s,” Sam, the PR manager explained. 

“Paige, you can’t control everything,” Geno chimed in. 

“I know that,” Paige snapped. 

Geno had noticed the singer’s short temper for the last few weeks. He had never seen Paige this irritated and impatient before. 

“Paige, what is going on with you lately?” he softly asked. 

“Nothing,” she said curtly. 

“I can tell something’s wrong,” he pushed. 

"Oh, can you?” she asked sarcastically.

“Alright, that’s it,” he stood up and pointed at her. “Come with me.” 

“Why?”

“Just come.” 

The two exited the office and Geno led her to another smaller office. Paige took a seat in one of the chairs and Geno closed the door.

“You’re acting like a defiant teenager right now, and that’s not working for me,” Geno said, almost scolded. “So you’re either telling me what’s wrong, or we’re done.”

With those words, Paige flinched. 

‘Or we’re done’. It sounded too much like the ultimatum her mom had given her. 

“I can’t,” she breathed out nervously. 

“What do you mean you can’t?” Geno sat down in the chair in front of her. 

“I can’t talk about that. It’s… too much.”

“That’s exactly why you need to,” her manager said softly. “You can’t carry everything by yourself, Paige. We’re all here for you.”

“Everytime I think about it it feels like I’m gonna choke,” she explained. “Like I can’t breathe.”

“Try, and if you have a hard time breathing, we’ll stop,” he insisted. 

Paige nodded. In that moment she looked like a child, trying to tell her parents she's peed her pants. But Geno sat there, patiently waiting for Paige to start. And the way he waited persistently, gave her a little more courage. 

“You know how I have a strained relationship with my mom? Last month we got into a fight… And she said that if I choose to be gay, she and my siblings won’t be in my life anymore.”

Geno sat there quietly, letting her speak freely without interrupting.

“And now I don’t know what to do,” Paige broke down. She started to cry right in front of him.

Geno took his chair and sat beside her and placed his hand on her back, comforting her.

“That’s a lot you’ve been carrying by yourself, kid,” he said. 

Paige wiped away her tears from her face and took several deep breaths to stop herself from crying too much. 

“You haven’t told anyone about this? Not even Azzi?” he asked after a while.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I can’t. How can I tell her that my mom made me choose between her or my family, without making her feel guilty?”

Geno didn’t have an answer to that. 

“Exactly,” Paige murmured. “I love Azzi. But I love my siblings as well. And I’d do anything for them. It’s killing me that I can’t have both. What do I do, Geno? What the hell do I do?”

The man took a deep breath and exhaled loudly. He didn’t have an answer to that either.

“And on top of that, our fans are bullying my girlfriend right in front of me. I know she won’t admit it, but I can tell how much it hurts her. It feels like I’m just bringing bad things into her life now. I can’t… I don’t even have the guts to stand up for her. I’m not even grown enough to be out and proud for her. I feel like a curse to her and myself.”

“I understand that it feels like an impossible situation. But you won’t find the answers on your own. You have to talk to Azzi about your relationship instead of trying to make decisions for the both of you,” Geno said at last. 

“It is an impossible situation,” Paige just said. 

“So if it’s an impossible situation, what do you have to lose, talking to Azzi?” Geno questioned. 

Paige thought about it for a while, before answering: “Everything.” 

—

[jungkoode]

WE GREW UP SOMEWHERE ALONG THE WAY | 02

˗ˏˋcorporate hellscape & theoretical arrangements ˎˊ˗

"Despite every rational thought screaming at you to shut this down, you hear yourself agreeing to the most ridiculous professional arrangement in the history of professional arrangements."

next | index

⋆｡°✩ chapter details ✩°｡⋆

word count: 7.5k

content: corporate hellscape survival, Dave Davidson (yes that's his real name), theoretical modeling arrangements that feel less theoretical by the minute, meeting Momo the sugar glider, apartment tours, domestic intimacy disguised as friendship, emotional whiplash, and Y/N making questionable life decisions while simultaneously insisting they're purely professional.

Kiki Nation's discussion thread for this chapter.

✧ author's note ✧

Okay so first of all *turns microphone on, taps twice, clears throat aggressively* 🚨 WE HAVE AN OUTLINE FOR WGU, PEOPLE. I REPEAT. WE HAVE AN OUTLINE. 🚨

Which means this fic is now officially going to be 30 chapters long and highly likely somewhere between 200-250k+ words, so buckle your seatbelt, tighten your shoelaces, and kiss your emotionally stability goodbye. We're going full send.

This is wild because… I never outline. I’m not built like that. I am a write-by-the-vibes, stream-of-consciousness, playlist-induced fugue state kind of girl. I daydream entire scenes while brushing my teeth and then rearrange them mentally like a madman pinning red thread to a corkboard. The closest I’ve come to a “structure” before this is just knowing what general direction I want things to go—like I might know, “at some point they’ll kiss in the rain,” but no clue if that’s Chapter 5 or Chapter 17 or a hallucination I made up in REM sleep.

But now? Now I know what happens in every chapter. Not just plot beats, but character turns, internal shifts, thematic echoes. And y’all… it’s life-changing. It lets me plant narrative seeds that will grow into devastatingly beautiful emotional collapses later. Like, suddenly I feel like an actual architect instead of a raccoon with a pen. Still feral. But, you know. Feral with a floorplan.

And because I'm me, this story is now also structured into four volumes, because it needed to be arch-y like that. Big arc energy. Arcs that make you cry in the club. I genuinely think this might become my most emotionally textured fic—because I'm working with intent instead of just instinct. Both are good. But together? They go feral. Together they write this fic.

I love it so much. I love them so much.

NOW. About this chapter.

I absolutely love their interactions in here. The way Y/N is simultaneously trying to maintain professional distance while also being completely unable to resist Hoseok's chaos is so her. She's all "this is purely professional" while literally agreeing to the most unprofessional arrangement imaginable. And Hoseok! God, Hoseok in this chapter made my heart ache. The way he talks about his work—trying so hard to convince himself and everyone else that it has artistic merit while clearly struggling with what he's had to compromise to survive. There's this beautiful tension between his genuine artistic passion and the reality of what pays his bills. When he talks about wanting to draw "realistic" expressions and movements, you can see how much he actually cares about his craft, even when it's wrapped up in work he's ambivalent about.

The corporate office scenes were painful to write because they're so real. Dave Davidson (and yes, his parents really were that creative) represents everything soul-crushing about modern work culture. Y/N's first day is this perfect encapsulation of how foreign everything feels when you're trying to build a new life—not just the language barriers but the social dynamics, the unspoken rules, the way exhaustion seeps into everything when you're constantly translating your existence for other people.

But then we get to the izakaya scene and everything shifts. The alcohol loosens Y/N's defenses just enough for her to make this completely insane offer that sounds professional on the surface but is loaded with so much subtext. She tells herself it's just helping a friend with a work problem, but we all know there's so much more brewing underneath. The way she rationalizes it—"it's just work, it's professional, it's no different from life drawing class"—while simultaneously knowing she's crossing a line she can't uncross.

And Momo! Sweet little Momo who immediately sees through Y/N's bullshit and gives her the cold shoulder. There's something so perfect about Hoseok having this tiny, discerning creature who's protective of him. It adds this domestic layer to his character that makes him feel so much more real and vulnerable. Plus the way Y/N gets personally offended by being rejected by a sugar glider is peak Y/N behavior.

Next chapter we get to see this "professional arrangement" in action, and let me tell you, the tension is about to become unbearable. Y/N thinks she can maintain clinical distance while posing for intimate scenes. Hoseok thinks he can separate his artistic process from his growing feelings. They're both about to learn how wrong they are.

Thanks for reading, and prepare your emotions because we're just getting started.

⋆｡°✩ read on ✩°｡⋆

wattpad

ao3

Your alarm goes off at 6:30 AM sharp, dragging you from dreams about okonomiyaki and stupid orange beanies.

The corporate world of Osaka doesn't give a shit about your jet lag, your existential crisis, or the fact that you spent half the night staring at the ceiling wondering why Jung Hoseok draws porn for a living.

You stumble through your morning routine in the cramped bathroom, squinting at yourself in the mirror that's too small and positioned at the wrong height. Your reflection looks like it's been through a blender—hair doing its own thing, eyes puffy from restless sleep, and that general air of 'please don't perceive me' that seems to be your default setting these days.

The shower barely produces lukewarm water, and you're starting to understand why rent was so cheap. Everything in this apartment operates on the principle of 'technically functional but aggressively mediocre.'

You throw on your most professional-looking outfit—a navy blazer and matching pants that felt impressive in Sydney but now seem inadequate for whatever corporate hell awaits you. The fabric wrinkles the moment you sit down, because apparently even your clothes are nervous.

The commute to Umeda is a forty-minute journey that involves two train transfers and a ten-minute walk through streets that all look identical in the early morning light.

Everyone around you moves like they're on a mission or part of a James Bond movie (hard to tell, honestly)—briefcases and designer handbags clutched like weapons, faces set in expressions of determined politeness.

You study the other foreigners on the train—scattered among the sea of black-haired commuters like misplaced chess pieces. A few Western faces here and there, all wearing the same slightly overwhelmed expression you suspect is plastered across your own face.

The building housing Synergy International Marketing is a gleaming tower of glass and steel that probably looked cutting-edge in 1995 but now seems like it's trying too hard.

The lobby has that corporate smell—air freshener mixed with coffee and the faint anxiety sweat of people pretending they know what they're doing.

You present yourself to reception, where an immaculately dressed Japanese woman greets you with the kind of professional smile that reaches exactly nowhere near her eyes.

"Y/N-san? Welcome. Please wait here. Tanaka-san will escort you to orientation."

Tanaka-san turns out to be a harried-looking man in his forties who speaks English like he's translating every word in his head before letting it out.

He leads you through a maze of cubicles and conference rooms, explaining company policies in a tone that suggests he's given this speech approximately ten thousand times.

"International Communications Department is on seventh floor. Your desk will be in shared workspace with other English-speaking staff. Please maintain professional appearance and punctuality at all times."

The elevator ride up is silent except for generic jazz music that makes you want to throw yourself out a window.

The seventh floor is an open-plan nightmare of beige cubicles, warm lighting, and the aggressive clicking of keyboards.

It's honestly like someone took every stereotype about corporate offices and decided to make them reality.

Your desk is a small corner space next to a window that looks out onto another building approximately six feet away

The previous occupant has left behind a stress ball shaped like a hamburger and a coffee mug with 'I want to drown in coffee' printed on it in faded letters.

Inspiring.

"Your immediate supervisor is Davidson-san," Tanaka explains, gesturing toward a tall man with prematurely gray hair who's currently engaged in what appears to be a heated phone conversation in English. "He will explain your duties. Please make good impression."

Davidson finishes his call and approaches with the kind of smile that suggests he's simultaneously relieved to see you and already exhausted by your presence.

"You must be our new copywriter! Dave Davidson, department head. I know, I know, my parents were very creative." His handshake is firm but sweaty. "Ready to dive into the wonderful world of international marketing?"

Aaaand… That's how you spend the next three hours in meetings that could have been emails, learning about 'synergistic brand integration' and 'cross-cultural consumer engagement strategies.'

Your role, as it turns out, involves translating Japanese marketing concepts into English copy that doesn't sound like it was written by robots having a nervous breakdown.

Your colleagues are honestly a mixed bag—two other foreigners who look like they've been here long enough to develop thousand-yard stares, and several Japanese staff members who speak perfect English but seem perpetually confused by your presence.

Lunch is a sad bento box eaten at your desk while reviewing client briefs for companies you've never heard of selling products you don't understand.

The work itself isn't terrible, just mind-numbingly ordinary.

Write copy for a new line of beauty products. Edit brochures for a tech company. Make everything sound 'dynamic' and 'innovative' without actually saying anything meaningful.

Marketing, as it is.

By 3 PM, you're wondering if this is what death feels like—slow, bureaucratic, and accompanied by the sound of printers jamming.

Your phone buzzes with a message that makes several of your new colleagues glance over disapprovingly.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤: 𝙷𝚘𝚠'𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚜𝚕𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚢𝚘𝚞, 𝙲𝚊𝚙𝚢? 𝙰𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝚜𝚞𝚒𝚝? 𝙸 𝚋𝚎𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚝! (◕‿◕)

You glance around to make sure no one's watching before typing back:

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝙸'𝚖 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚍𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚏 𝚋𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚍𝚘𝚖. 𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚍𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚖 𝚎𝚡𝚌𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤: 𝙰𝚠𝚠𝚠 𝚙𝚘𝚘𝚛 𝚋𝚊𝚋𝚢 𝙲𝚊𝚙𝚢! 𝙰𝚕𝚕 𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚙 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚗𝚘 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚞𝚕𝚝! (╥﹏╥)

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝙸 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚞𝚕𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚒𝚏 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚙. 𝚈𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚐𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤: 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚒𝚜! 𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚜𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚕 𝚊𝚕𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢! 𝚆𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚍𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚜𝚑? 𝙸 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚛, 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛!

You look around the office—at Davidson explaining synergy to a potted plant, at your coworkers staring at their screens with the enthusiasm of people watching their own funerals.

It feels like watching dead insects.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝟻:𝟹𝟶 𝚒𝚏 𝙸'𝚖 𝚕𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚢. 𝟼 𝚒𝚏 𝙳𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚍𝚜𝚘𝚗 𝚍𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 '𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚝𝚞 𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗' 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤: 𝙿𝚎𝚛𝚏𝚎𝚌𝚝! 𝙸'𝚕𝚕 𝚖𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚋𝚋𝚢 𝚊𝚝 𝟼! 𝙳𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚝𝚛𝚢 𝚝𝚘 𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚙𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚎𝚡𝚒𝚝, 𝙸'𝚕𝚕 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞!

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝙷𝚘𝚠 𝚍𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝙸 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔?

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤: 𝙷𝚊 𝚑𝚊, 𝚜𝚘 𝚏𝚞𝚗𝚗𝚢, 𝙲𝚊𝚙𝚢. 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚖𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝. 𝙰𝚕𝚜𝚘 𝙸 𝚖𝚊𝚢 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚐𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚝. 𝙳𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚋𝚎 𝚠𝚎𝚒𝚛𝚍, 𝙸 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚐𝚕𝚎 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝙲𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚙𝚢. 𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚎. 𝙳𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚖𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚒𝚝.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤: 𝚆𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝙸 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝 𝙲𝚊𝚙𝚢𝚋𝚊𝚛𝚊 𝚠𝚊𝚒𝚝? (𝙸 𝚊𝚋𝚜𝚘𝚕𝚞𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝙸'𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚛𝚢 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚘!!)

You put your phone away and try to focus on the task at hand—writing compelling copy for a line of anti-aging moisturizers targeted at 'modern Japanese women who demand excellence.'

The irony isn't lost on you.

At exactly 6:07 PM, you escape the corporate hellscape and find Hoseok lounging in the lobby like he actually belongs there.

He's wearing ripped jeans, a faded band t-shirt, and that same orange beanie, looking like he wandered in from a completely different universe.

Several security guards eye him suspiciously.

"Capy!" He jumps up (and you want to slap him) from the leather chair he's been sprawled across. "You survived! I wasn't sure you would make it out alive."

"Barely," you mutter, adjusting your blazer. "This place is where souls go to die."

"Harsh. But accurate, probably." He looks you up and down with an expression you can't quite read. "You look very... professional. Like you could fire someone and feel nothing."

"Don't tempt me. I already have a list."

He laughs, falling into step beside you as you head toward the exit.

"That bad, huh?"

"I spent six hours learning about 'consumer-focused brand narratives' and I still don't know what that means. Also, my desk faces a wall."

"Sounds like you need alcohol and carbohydrates. Lucky for you, I know just the place."

You follow him out into the early evening chaos of Umeda, where salary men in identical dark suits stream past like schools of depressed fish.

The contrast between Hoseok's chaotic energy and the rigid corporate atmosphere is so stark it's almost funny.

Almost.

"So," he says as you navigate through the crowd, "tell me about your coworkers. Anyone interesting? Any office romances brewing? Workplace drama?"

"It's been one day, Ott. I barely learned where the bathroom is."

"Details, Capy! I need details! Is your boss hot? Is there office gossip? Do people eat lunch at their desks like sad robots?"

"Yes to the sad robot lunches. No to everything else." You side-step a group of tourists taking photos of street signs. "Although Davidson—that's my boss—seems like the type who has strong opinions about proper email formatting."

"Davidson? What kind of name is Davidson for a boss? He sounds like a middle management villain."

"Davidson Davidson, actually."

Hoseok stops walking entirely.

"You're joking."

"I am not joking. His parents named him Dave Davidson. He acknowledged the lack of creativity himself."

"That's the most tragic thing I've ever heard. No wonder you looked dead inside when I picked you up."

"I didn't look dead inside."

"Capy, you looked like someone had surgically removed your will to live. Which, honestly, is understandable after spending eight hours with a man named Dave Davidson."

You can't argue with that assessment.

He leads you to a small izakaya tucked between a convenience store and a shop selling nothing but different types of socks.

The interior is all dark wood and paper lanterns, with the kind of cramped seating that forces strangers to become uncomfortably intimate with each other's elbows.

"This place doesn't look like much," Hoseok says, sliding into a booth that's clearly designed for people smaller than either of you, "but they have the best karaage in the city, and the beer is cheap enough that you can afford to forget about Dave Davidson's existence."

"I can't get drunk. I have to work tomorrow."

"Who said anything about getting drunk? I said forgetting Dave Davidson exists. That only requires like, two beers, max."

The waitress appears—a woman who looks like she's been working here since the restaurant opened sometime in the Meiji era.

Hoseok jumps in, ordering in fluent Japanese that flows so naturally you almost forget he's half-Australian. 

His mom made sure he was bilingual from the start, but hearing it now, surrounded by the actual language and culture, makes you realize how much more connected to this place he is than you.

"What did you order?" you ask when she leaves.

"Food. Beer. Trust me."

"That's not an answer."

"It is now, Capy. Live a little."

You lean back against the booth, feeling some of the day's tension leave your shoulders.

The izakaya is warm and dim, filled with the comfortable buzz of people unwinding after work.

It's the first time all day you've felt like you could breathe properly.

"So," you say, "how's the porn business?"

Hoseok nearly chokes on the water he's sipping.

"Jesus, warn a guy before you just blurt that out."

"What? You brought it up yesterday. I'm just making conversation."

"It's... fine. Good, actually. I just finished a commission that's probably going to pay my rent for the next two months."

"What was it? Wait, do I want to know?"

He grins.

"Probably not. But I'll tell you anyway. It was a twelve-page story about a librarian who discovers that late-night study sessions can be... educational."

"Oh god."

"Hey, don't knock it! The characterization was surprisingly deep. She had a whole backstory about her graduate thesis on medieval literature. Very sophisticated stuff."

"You're defending the artistic merit of librarian porn to me."

"I'm defending the artistic merit of all my work. Just because it's explicit doesn't mean it lacks substance."

The food arrives—platters of fried chicken, grilled fish, pickled vegetables, and enough beer to drown a horse.

Hoseok immediately starts dissecting the chicken with the precision of a surgeon.

"The thing is," he continues, apparently not done with his professional defense, "most hentai is garbage. No character development, ridiculous scenarios, anatomy that defies physics. But I try to make mine actually... realistic, you know? Like, what would these people actually be thinking? How would they really react?"

You take a long drink of beer.

"Realistic hentai. That's your niche."

"Mock all you want, but it's harder than you think. Especially drawing women. Like, actually making them look like real people instead of inflatable dolls with anatomically impossible proportions."

"I imagine that is challenging."

"It is! I spend hours looking at reference photos trying to get facial expressions right during…" He clears his throat. "…intimate moments. And body language! How do people actually hold themselves when they're vulnerable? What do real emotions look like on someone's face when they're—"

He stops mid-sentence, looking suddenly self-conscious.

"When they're what?" you prompt, more curious than you want to admit.

"When they're... you know. Experiencing pleasure. Real pleasure."

There's something in his voice—a genuine frustration that catches you off guard. Like this actually matters to him beyond just paying rent.

"That does sound complicated," you say, surprising yourself with the sincerity.

"It is. I mean, I can draw bodies fine. Anatomy, positioning, all that technical stuff. But making it feel real? Making the characters seem like actual people instead of just... vessels for fantasy? That's the hard part."

The beer is making you bolder than usual.

"So what's the problem exactly?"

Hoseok fidgets with his chopsticks.

"I think... I think I draw women the way I assume they should look and feel, instead of how they actually do. Does that make sense?"

"Sort of. Like you're working from secondhand information instead of... primary sources?"

"Exactly!" He leans forward, animated again. "I'm always guessing. What would her face actually look like in this moment? How would she really move? What would be going through her head?"

You take another drink, processing this unexpected insight into his work.

"And you can't just... I don't know, watch porn for reference?"

"Porn is the worst reference possible. It's all performance. Fake expressions, exaggerated reactions, completely unrealistic scenarios. If I based my work on porn, it would be just as terrible as everyone else's."

"Huh."

"Yeah, huh." He picks at his food, suddenly looking younger than his twenty-six years. "Sometimes I wonder if I should just give up on trying to make it realistic and just draw ridiculous tentacle monsters like everyone expects."

"Don't do that."

The words come out more forcefully than you intended, and he looks up with surprise.

"I mean," you backtrack, "if you think realistic is better, then... keep trying to make it realistic. Right?"

"But how? I can't exactly ask random women to model for explicit manga. That would be weird and probably illegal."

You're quiet for a moment, an idea forming that you immediately try to dismiss.

But the beer and the warmth of the izakaya and the genuine frustration in his voice make you consider it.

"What if..." you start, then stop.

"What if what?"

"Nothing. Never mind."

"Capy, what were you going to say?"

You drain half your beer in one go.

"I was going to say, what if you had someone to model for you? Like, someone you trust who could give you actual realistic reference?"

Hoseok stares at you. Frowns, like genuinely, actually frowns (and isn't that the first time in his adult face you've seen it?)

"Are you... are you offering?"

"I'm not offering anything. I'm just saying hypothetically, if you had access to realistic references, your work would probably improve."

"Hypothetically."

"Hypothetically."

"And this hypothetical reference model would be...?"

You feel heat rising in your cheeks and blame it on the alcohol.

"I don't know. Someone who understands that it's just work. Professional."

"Professional reference modeling for hentai manga."

"It's not any weirder than your current career path."

He's quiet for a long moment, studying your face like he's trying to solve a puzzle.

"You're serious," he says finally.

"I'm drunk," you correct. "There's a difference."

"But you're serious about being drunk."

"Shut up, Ott."

But he's grinning now, that stupid, wide grin that takes over his entire face.

"Capy wants to model for my sexy manga!"

"Keep your voice down!" You glance around the izakaya, but everyone seems too absorbed in their own conversations to care about yours. "And I didn't say I wanted to do anything. I said hypothetically—"

"You offered to pose for me."

"I offered a theoretical solution to your creative problem."

"By posing for me."

"By... providing realistic reference materials in a professional capacity."

"For my hentai manga."

"For your... adult-oriented sequential art."

He's laughing now, delighted by your obvious discomfort. "This is the best day of my life. Capy is going to be my muse!"

"I am not going to be your muse. And stop calling it that."

"What should I call it? My artistic collaborator? My reference consultant? My—"

"Your friend who's had too much beer and suggested something stupid."

"My friend who's going to help me create the most realistic romantic manga Osaka has never seen."

That stops you.

Because he…

He's just said the word 'friend'.

And you hate how that made something twist in your chest.

"I haven't agreed to anything," you insist. "We were just talking theoretically."

"Theoretically, when would you be available for our first session?"

"Theoretically, you're an idiot."

"Theoretically, you're avoiding the question."

You finish your beer and immediately signal for another.

"If—and I mean if—I were to consider this theoretical arrangement, it would be purely professional. No weirdness."

"Define weirdness."

"You know what I mean."

"I really don't. Are we talking about no inappropriate comments? No lingering stares? No—"

"All of the above. It would be like... like life drawing class. Clinical. Professional."

"Have you ever taken a life drawing class?"

"That's not the point."

"Because life drawing classes can get pretty—"

"Hoseok."

"Right. Clinical. Professional. Got it." He's still grinning. "So when do we start?"

"We don't start anything because this is a hypothetical conversation about a theoretical arrangement that will never actually happen."

"But if it were to happen theoretically?"

You look at him across the table—flushed from beer and excitement, eyes bright with possibility, that stupid beanie slightly askew.

He looks exactly like the kid who used to convince you to climb fences and steal apples from the neighbor's tree, all mischief and misplaced confidence.

And despite every rational thought in your head screaming at you to shut this down, you hear yourself saying:

"Tomorrow night. After work. Your place."

His grin could power the entire city.

"Theoretically?" he asks.

"Theoretically."

"This is going to be amazing, Capy."

You signal for another beer.

You're going to need it.

The thing is, he looks genuinely excited. Not the performative, over-the-top excitement he uses to annoy you—but the real kind.

The kind that makes his eyes go bright and his whole body lean forward like he can't contain whatever stupid idea is bouncing around in his head.

It's the same look he used to get when he'd convince you to sneak out and explore the construction site behind your neighborhood, or when he'd drag you to that weird arcade with the broken claw machines that somehow always gave him exactly what he wanted.

Which means this theoretical modeling arrangement is either going to be completely innocent or a complete disaster.

Probably both.

"You know what?" he says, peeling the label off his new beer bottle in strips, "you should see my place tonight. Get the full Osaka experience."

You nearly choke on your karaage. Because what did this nuthead just say?

"What? No. Absolutely not."

"Why not? It's still early!"

"It's past nine, Ott. That's not early. That's nighttime. When normal people go home to their sad apartments and contemplate their life choices."

"Since when are we normal people?" He grins, that stupid, infectious grin that probably got him out of trouble his entire childhood. "Come on, Capy. When's the last time you had a proper house tour?"

When's the last time you crashed at a guy's place just because he asked? When's the last time you did anything without calculating the exact social implications and potential for regret?

"When's the last time you cleaned your house?" you counter instead.

"That's… irrelevant."

"Everything about you is irrelevant."

"Harsh but fair."

The waitress brings your beer, and you immediately take a long drink because this conversation is heading somewhere you're not sure you want to follow.

The alcohol has made everything slightly fuzzy around the edges, but not fuzzy enough to make this seem like a good idea.

Actually, that's a lie.

The alcohol is making it seem like exactly the kind of stupid, impulsive thing you would have done when you were seventeen and thought the worst thing that could happen was your parents finding out.

Now you know better.

Now you know that the worst things are usually the ones that feel like coming home.

"I'm not going to your apartment at nine-thirty at night after we just agreed to some theoretical professional arrangement that I'm already regretting," you say, but your voice lacks conviction.

"But you haven't seen where the magic happens! Where your theoretical modeling will theoretically take place!"

"The magic happens in your bedroom, doesn't it."

"Well, yeah. Better lighting by the window, and I can spread all my references out on the bed—" He stops mid-sentence, apparently realizing how that sounds. "Wait, that came out wrong."

"Everything you say comes out wrong."

"Fair point." He demolishes another piece of chicken. "But seriously, you should see the place. I've got it set up pretty nice now. Real drawing desk, proper lamp, even organized my reference materials into folders like a functioning adult."

"Your porn collection, you mean."

"My professional research library," he corrects with mock dignity. "Very different thing. Alphabetized and everything."

The image of Hoseok carefully organizing hentai manga by genre and artistic merit is so ridiculous you almost smile.

"Plus," he continues, voice quiet and not meeting your eyes while he picks at the label on his bottle, "you could crash there tonight. Save yourself the train ride back to your shoebox apartment."

And there it is. The real reason behind this sudden house tour enthusiasm.

"My apartment isn't a shoebox."

"Capy, you described it yesterday as 'slightly larger than a coffin but with worse lighting.'"

"That was… accurate but not the point."

"The point is you're probably dreading going back there alone. New city, new job, everything unfamiliar." His voice gets softer, less performative. "Wouldn't hurt to have somewhere comfortable to crash."

There it is again—that stupid, genuine concern that always catches you off guard. The way he can shift from ridiculous to sincere in half a sentence, like he's got some kind of emotional whiplash disorder.

It's the same tone he used when you were thirteen and crying because your parents were fighting again, when he climbed through your window and sat on your floor for three hours without saying a word. Just… present.

Just there.

And that's the problem, isn't it?

Because it's been five years since anyone was just there for you. Five years of being the competent one, the reliable one, the one who has her shit together and doesn't need anyone to sit on her floor and not say anything.

Five years of being completely, utterly alone.

"I'm not crashing at your place, Hoseok."

"Why not? We're friends, right?"

There's that word again—friends.

Like it's simple. Like five years of radio silence and separate lives can be erased with one dinner and too much beer.

Like you can just slip back into being the people you were before you grew up and moved away and learned how to be strangers.

"Are we?" you ask before you can stop yourself.

He looks up from his bottle, label half-peeled and hanging like a sad flag of surrender.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean…" You gesture vaguely between you, encompassing the izakaya, the theoretical modeling arrangement, the way he's looking at you like you're still seventeen and nothing has changed. "This. Whatever this is. Are we friends? Or are we just two people who used to know each other pretending nothing's changed?"

He blinks at you. You blink at him. And suddenly the two seconds of silence that pass by feel like an eternity.

"Do you want to be friends?" he finally asks quietly.

"I don't know." The honesty surprises you. "I mean, yes. I think. But I don't know if we can just… pick up where we left off."

"We don't have to pick up anywhere. We can start over."

"Start over as what?"

"As…" He shrugs, that careful casualness that means he's thinking harder than he's letting on. "As whatever we want to be."

But that's the problem—because you don't know what you want to be.

You don't know if you want to be the girl who crashes at her old friend's apartment because she's too lonely to go home, or the woman who keeps appropriate boundaries and doesn't complicate things.

You don't know if you want to be someone who can trust that easily again.

"You still bite your lip when you're thinking too hard," he observes.

"I do not."

"You're doing it right now."

You immediately stop biting your lip, which only makes him grin wider.

"Some things don't change, Capy. Even when everything else does."

"Don't get philosophical on me, Ott. It doesn't suit you."

"What does suit me?"

The question catches you off guard.

You look at him—really look at him—taking in the way five years have sharpened some edges and softened others.

The boy you knew is still there, buried under layers of adult experience and professional disappointment and whatever other things happen to people when they stop being kids and start pretending they know what they're doing.

He's still too thin, still too energetic, still wearing clothes that look like he grabbed them off his bedroom floor.

But there's something different in his eyes now.

As if he's been waiting for something for a long time and isn't sure it's coming.

"Chaos," you say finally. "Chaos suits you."

He laughs, loud enough that several other customers glance over.

"I'll take it."

"Good, because that's all you're getting."

"For now."

There's something in the way he says it that makes your stomach do a small, traitorous flip.

You blame the beer and the warm lighting and the fact that you've barely slept in three days.

"I should go home," you say, but you don't move to leave.

"You should come see my apartment."

"Those are opposite things, Ott."

"Not if you crash at mine."

"I'm not crashing at your place."

"Why not?"

"Because…" You fumble for a reason that doesn't sound ridiculous. "Because it's weird. We just reconnected yesterday. Normal people don't sleep over at their childhood friend's house after one dinner."

Because it feels too much like before.

Because you're scared of how easy it would be to fall back into old patterns, old dependencies, old ways of needing someone.

Because you've spent five years learning how to be alone, and one night on his couch might undo all of that.

"Normal people don't agree to model for hentai manga either, but here we are."

"That's different. That's professional."

"Right. Professional." He draws out the word like it's a foreign concept. "Professional modeling, professional friendship, professional distance. Everything professional."

"There's nothing wrong with professional."

"Course not. Very sensible. Very mature."

He's grinning again, but there's something underneath it that you can't quite identify.

You feel, surprisingly, it's shaped like disappointment.

"Very unlike the Capy I remember."

That makes you swallow.

It's unfair, how he can say shit like that and have your chest cave in.

"People change, Ott. We're not kids anymore."

"No," he agrees, and his voice goes quiet. "We're not."

The way he says it makes you look at him again, and what you see in his eyes looks like he's grieving for those kids too. Like he misses them as much as you do.

Like maybe he's been just as lost without them as you have.

"I have a surprise," he says suddenly, changing direction so fast you get conversational whiplash.

"I hate surprises."

"I know. That's what makes this one perfect."

"That logic makes no sense."

"Trust me."

"I don't trust you. You tried to convince me that eating chocolate for breakfast was a balanced meal because it contained milk."

"It does contain milk! And calcium! Very nutritious!"

"You were seventeen, Hoseok. You should have known better."

"I was a growing boy! I needed nutrients!"

You laugh despite yourself, and the sound echoes off the low ceiling of the izakaya.

It's embarrassing how easy it is to fall back into this rhythm with him, like your brain has been storing all these conversation patterns for five years just waiting for him to come back.

"What kind of surprise?"

"The kind you'll only find out if you come see my apartment."

"That's manipulation."

"That's incentive."

"That's emotional blackmail."

"That's friendship."

Fucker.

You drain the rest of your beer in one long pull, partly for courage and partly to delay having to respond. The alcohol seems to have erased your usually reliable sense of self-preservation.

And maybe that's what you need right now. Maybe you need to stop protecting yourself from every possible disappointment and just… see what happens.

Maybe you need to remember what it feels like to trust someone who used to know all your secrets.

"If I come see your place," you say carefully, "and if I hate your surprise, I'm leaving immediately."

"Deal. But you won't hate it."

"I probably will."

"You definitely won't."

"I have a very high hate-to-like ratio when it comes to surprises. Remember my sixteenth birthday?"

His face changes. "Oh. Shit. Yeah, I remember."

Of course he remembers.

He's the one who spent three hours sitting outside the bathroom door, talking to you through the wood while you had a complete meltdown because your mom had thrown you a surprise party and invited half your class and you couldn't handle being the center of attention like that.

"Your mom meant well," he says quietly.

"I know she meant well. But I told her I didn't want a party, and she threw one anyway because she thought I was just being shy. And then I locked myself in the bathroom like a lunatic while twenty people ate cake and wondered where the birthday girl went."

"You weren't a lunatic. You were overwhelmed."

"I was pathetic."

"You were sixteen and dealing with more shit than anyone knew." His voice has gone serious in a way that makes you uncomfortable. "And I should have known better than to help her plan it."

"You were just being a good friend."

"I'm still trying to be a good friend," he says, and there's something in his tone that makes you look up from your beer.

This man who used to be a boy who used to climb through your bedroom window just to sit on your floor and read comics. Who used to walk you home from school even though his house was in the opposite direction. Who used to know exactly what to say to make you laugh when you were crying about some stupid teenage drama.

Who disappeared from your life for five years and somehow found his way back in the span of twenty-four hours.

"Fine," you say, and immediately regret it. "But I'm taking the couch."

His smile is so bright it should be illegal.

"Deal. But you're gonna love the surprise, Capy. I promise."

"I doubt that."

"You love being wrong about things."

"I love being right about you being an idiot."

"Same thing, really."

He signals for the check, already bouncing slightly in his seat with excitement.

You watch him count out bills with the kind of gesture that suggests his porn money isn't quite as abundant as he likes to pretend.

His apartment is probably just as small and depressing as yours.

He's probably just as lost and lonely as you are.

He's probably just as scared of growing up and becoming a real person with real responsibilities and real consequences.

But at least you can be lost and scared together.

At least for tonight.

"Ott?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you still like strawberry milk?"

The question comes out of nowhere, surprising both of you.

But something about the beer and the warm light and the familiar rhythm of your bickering has loosened something in your chest, some speck of control you've been maintaining since you walked into that izakaya.

His smile goes soft around the edges.

"Yeah. I do. Do you still put way too much sugar in your coffee?"

"Yeah."

"Good."

It's such a small thing—strawberry milk and oversweetened coffee—but somehow it feels enormous.

Like proof that some essential part of each of you has remained unchanged despite everything else that's shifted and grown and broken apart.

Like maybe those kids are still in there somewhere, waiting to be found again.

"Ready to go?" he asks, standing and pulling on his jacket.

"No. But let's go anyway."

"That's the spirit, Capy."

You follow him out into the cool Osaka night, where the neon signs reflect off wet pavement and streets are full of people pretending they know where they're going.

And for the first time since you moved here, you think maybe you don't need to know where you're going.

Maybe you just need to trust that wherever Hoseok is leading you, it'll be worth the trip.

Even if it scares the hell out of you.

Four flights of stairs later, you're questioning every life choice that led to this moment.

"Exercise," you mutter, gripping the railing as Hoseok bounds ahead like some kind of demented mountain goat. "Right. Because what this night needed was cardio."

"Almost there!" he calls back, not even slightly winded. "Just think of it as pre-modeling conditioning!"

"I'm thinking of it as cruel and unusual punishment."

His apartment door is covered in stickers—anime characters you don't recognize, band logos from groups that probably broke up in 2001, and what appears to be a holographic Pikachu giving a thumbs up.

It's aggressively juvenile and somehow perfectly him.

"Don't judge the door art," he says, fumbling with his keys. "It came with the apartment."

"It absolutely did not."

"Okay, fine, I may have added some personality over the years. Sue me."

The door swings open and you step into what can only be described as organized chaos.

The apartment is small but noticeably bigger than your shoebox—which isn't saying much, but still manages to feel spacious by comparison.

Manga volumes are stacked in towering columns against every wall, art supplies scattered across a desk positioned near the window, and clothes draped over furniture like fabric ghosts.

"Welcome to Casa de Ott!" he announces, spreading his arms wide and nearly knocking over a lamp in the process. "Home sweet chaotic home."

You scan the space, taking in the details.

The couch looks like it was salvaged from a 1980s office waiting room. There's a small TV balanced precariously on a stack of manga, and the kitchen is basically a corner with a mini-fridge and what might generously be called a stove.

"It's…" you start.

"Terrible? Depressing? A fire hazard?"

"I was going to say small."

"Small is a nice way of putting it. I prefer 'cozy' or 'efficiently designed.'"

Your eyes land on a red sketchbook lying open on the low table, pages covered in detailed drawings that make you stop mid-step. You can't make out the specifics from this distance, but before you can guess the contents, Hoseok is screeching.

"Oh shit," Hoseok says, following your gaze. He lunges forward and slams the sketchbook closed, clutching it to his chest like a shield. "Those are, uh, not for virgin eyes."

"Virgin eyes?" You raise an eyebrow. "I'm twenty-six, Ott. I've seen naked people before."

"Yeah, but not my naked people. These are my professionally naked people. Very different."

"I'm literally going to model for this stuff, remember?"

He freezes, sketchbook still pressed against his chest.

"So we're not doing hypothetical anymore?"

Shit, he's right—somewhere between the beer and the banter and the way he looked at you when you called him your friend, the theoretical became decidedly less theoretical.

"I…" You falter, suddenly aware of how close you're standing. "Beer. You mentioned beer."

"Right. Beer. Very important. Life-sustaining beverage." He's still holding the sketchbook like a security blanket. "Kitchen's over there. Help yourself. I'm just going to put this away where it can't traumatize anyone."

He disappears down a narrow hallway, and you make your way to the kitchen area.

The refrigerator is covered in delivery menus and what appears to be a drawing of a cat wearing a top hat.

Inside, there are exactly three items: beer, leftover ramen, and a container of something that might once have been vegetables.

"Your food situation is concerning," you call out.

"I survive on convenience store cuisine and pure artistic passion!" comes his muffled reply from what you assume is his bedroom.

You grab two beers and settle onto the couch, which is actually more comfortable than it looks.

The apartment feels lived-in despite its chaos—or maybe because of it.

There's something appealingly unpretentious about the space, like Hoseok just exists here without trying to impress anyone.

"Okay," he says, emerging from the hallway with his hands behind his back and a grin that should probably be illegal. "Ready for your surprise?"

Every muscle in your body tenses. "I told you I hate surprises."

"And I told you this one's different. This one's going to change your entire worldview on surprises."

"My worldview on surprises is based on sound psychological principles and extensive personal trauma. One cute whatever-it-is isn't going to—"

He brings his hands forward, revealing a small, furry creature with enormous dark eyes and a long, fluffy tail.

You stop breathing.

"Capy," he says, his voice soft with obvious pride, "meet Momo."

The sugar glider—because that's clearly what she is—sits perfectly still in his cupped palms, studying you with the kind of intense curiosity usually reserved for wildlife documentaries.

She's tiny, maybe the size of a hamster, with gray fur and cream markings that make her look like she's wearing a tiny vest.

"Holy shit," you whisper.

"Language," Hoseok scolds, but he's grinning. "She's a lady."

"You have a sugar glider."

"I have Momo. She's not just any sugar glider. She's the most perfect sugar glider in the history of sugar gliders."

As if hearing her cue, Momo shifts slightly in his palms, studying you with what can only be described as deep suspicion.

"Can I…" you start, then stop. "Is she friendly?"

"She's cautious with new people, but she's never actually bitten anyone. Well, except that one time with my neighbor, but he deserved it."

"What did your neighbor do?"

"Tried to pet her without permission. Momo has very strong opinions about consent."

You extend one finger slowly, and Momo sniffs it delicately, her tiny nose twitching as she processes your scent.

After a moment of consideration, she pulls back and immediately scurries up Hoseok's arm to perch on his shoulder, as far from you as possible.

"Well," you say, trying to keep your voice casual, "that's… fine. I don't care if a rodent likes me or not."

"She's a marsupial, actually. And she just needs time to warm up to new people."

"I said I don't care."

But there's something distinctly annoying about being rejected by something the size of a hamster.

You're a perfectly likeable person. You've never done anything to offend small mammals.

"She's very discerning," Hoseok says, clearly trying not to laugh at your obvious wounded pride. "High standards."

"So you rescued a sugar glider."

"I rescued the most perfect sugar glider."

"You keep saying that."

"Because it's true. Look at her little hands! And her tail! And the way she tilts her head when she's thinking!"

You look at him instead—at the way his entire face lights up when he talks about Momo, the gentle way he cradles her, the obvious pride in his voice.

This is a side of Hoseok you've never seen before, tender and protective and completely unguarded.

It's dangerous how much you like it.

"She's nocturnal," he continues, settling onto the couch beside you with Momo still in his hands. "So she's most active when I'm working late. She keeps me company during those long drawing sessions."

"Does she approve of your career choices?"

"She's very supportive of the arts. Aren't you, princess?"

Momo makes a soft chittering sound that might be agreement or might be a request for food.

Either way, you can't deny it's adorable.

"How long have you had her?"

"About eighteen months. She was really skittish at first—wouldn't let me touch her for weeks. But now…" He strokes her tiny back with one finger. "Now she's spoiled rotten."

You watch as Momo climbs onto his shoulder, then leaps gracefully to the back of the couch. The movement is so fluid it barely registers as motion—one second she's with Hoseok, the next she's exploring the cushions near your head.

"She's showing off," he says fondly. "She likes to glide around the apartment when she's skittish."

"Glide?"

"Sugar gliders have these membranes between their legs—see? She can glide from the bookshelf to the couch, couch to the desk, basically anywhere she wants to go. It's like having a tiny flying squirrel roommate."

As if to demonstrate, Momo launches herself from the couch back to Hoseok's shoulder, the movement so quick and graceful you barely catch it.

"That's incredible."

"I know. She's basically a superhero. A tiny, adorable superhero who costs me a fortune in specialized food and vet bills."

The beer is wearing off, leaving you feeling suddenly, acutely sober.

Clear-headed enough to realize what you've gotten yourself into tonight—agreeing to pose for Hoseok's hentai manga, coming to his apartment, letting yourself get charmed by his ridiculous pet.

"Ott," you say carefully.

"Yeah?"

"I was drunk earlier. When I said I'd… help with your reference situation."

His face doesn't change, but something shifts in his posture.

"How drunk?"

"Drunk enough to suggest something stupid."

"And now?"

"Now I'm sober enough to know it was stupid."

He's quiet for a moment, watching Momo explore the couch cushions.

When he speaks, his voice is casual in a way that doesn't fool either of you. "Too late, Capy. I'm already planning our first session."

"Hoseok—"

"Think about it. Professional artistic collaboration between old friends. Very sophisticated. Very mature."

"Nothing about this situation is mature."

"I'm hurt. Deeply wounded by your lack of faith in my professionalism."

Despite yourself, you feel a smile tugging at your lips. "Your professionalism in drawing pornographic manga."

"Adult-oriented sequential art with emotional depth and realistic character development."

"You keep saying that like it makes it sound more legitimate."

"Because it is more legitimate. You'll see when we start working together."

The assumption in his voice—that you will, in fact, go through with this insane arrangement—should annoy you.

Instead, it makes something flutter in your chest that you absolutely refuse to acknowledge.

"I didn't actually agree to anything," you say, but the protest sounds weak even to you.

"You suggested it. I accepted. Contract sealed."

"That's not how contracts work."

"It's how friendship contracts work."

Friendship contracts.

As if you're still twelve and sealing deals with pinky promises and shared secrets.

Except you're not twelve anymore, and this isn't about friendship.

Or maybe it is, and that's what makes it dangerous.

"I should get going," you say, making no move to actually leave.

"It's late. Train's probably stopped running."

"It's not even eleven."

"But you're comfortable now. Look, Momo likes you."

You glance down to find the sugar glider eyeing you from the floor.

"She's still giving me the cold shoulder."

"She usually hides when strangers are here, so this is actually progress."

"Great. I've been upgraded from 'immediate threat' to 'tolerable presence.'"

"It's a very exclusive club. You should feel honored. You've basically been officially approved for apartment privileges."

"What kind of privileges?"

"Sleeping on the couch when you're too tired to go home. Raiding my refrigerator. Critiquing my life choices in person instead of via text."

The casual way he lists these domestic intimacies makes your chest tight.

Like he's already decided you belong here, in his chaos, part of his routine.

"I'm not sleeping on your couch, Ott."

"Why not? It's surprisingly comfortable. And I'll be in my room working when you get lonely and need someone to bother."

"I don't get lonely."

He gives you a look that suggests he sees right through that particular lie.

"Fine," you say, because arguing seems more exhausting than just giving in. "Now shut up and give me another beer."

"Can't. You said you're sober now. Can't have you making any more questionable decisions."

"I make excellent decisions."

"Says the woman who just agreed to sleep on a stranger's couch."

"You're not a stranger. You're Ott. Annoying but familiar."

He grins at that, wide and pleased, like being called annoying is the highest compliment you could give him.

And maybe, in your particular language, it is.

goal: 100 notes.

if you liked this chapter, please consider buying me a coffee!! ♥'ﾟ௰ﾟ'♥ https://ko-fi.com/jungkoode

next | index

⋆｡°✩ taglist ��°｡⋆

@cannotalwaysbenight @taevescence @itstoastsworld @somehowukook @stutixmaru @chloepiccoliniii @kimnamjoonmiddletoe @annyeongbitch7 @mar-lo-pap @mikrokookiex @minniejim @curse-of-art @mellyyyyyyx @rpwprpwprpwprw @weasleyswizarding-wheezes @dltyum @dailynnt @sanarin @billy-jeans23 @hobis-sprite0218 @mcflurry-220 @sashakittyct @bjoriis @hemmosfear @bettytta

© jungkoode 2025

no reposts, translations, or adaptations

[callmemonster68]

7 minutes in heaven | enhypen

When the “7 Minutes of Heaven” game gets a little more sexual than expected

paring: enhypen x fem!reader 18+ | masterlist

warnings: nsfw

SUNGHOON

Scenario: Sunghoon had always kept his feelings to himself, but in that moment, the seven minutes in heaven became a challenge. The tension between them was overwhelming, and he couldn’t hide how he felt anymore. Sunghoon: "I never thought I’d say this, but you really get to me, Y/N." Y/N: "I don’t understand." Sunghoon: "Every time I see you smiling with the others… I feel like you’re slipping away from me. And now, these seven minutes… they’re my chance to show you how I really feel."

Development:Sunghoon stepped closer, his hands finding her waist as he pulled her into a searing kiss. The intensity between them grew as his lips trailed down her neck, making her shiver. He backed her against the wall, his hands exploring her curves. Her fingers slid down his chest, undoing his belt. Their bodies moved in sync, each touch and sound heightening the desire until they both reached their peak, the outside world forgotten.

HEESEUNG

Scenario: The closet door closed, and Heeseung seemed more introspective than usual. Y/N could feel the tension in the air. Heeseung: "I’m good at hiding how I feel, but I can’t do it anymore, Y/N." Y/N: "What’s going on with you?" Heeseung: "Seeing you with the others hurts more than I thought it could. You… make me want more."

Development: Heeseung closed the distance between them, his hands cupping her face as he kissed her deeply. His lips traveled to her neck, leaving a trail of heat in their wake. He turned her around, pressing her against the wall as his hands slid under her clothes. Y/N let out a soft moan as his movements became more urgent. Their bodies intertwined, the small space amplifying the intensity of their connection.

JAY

Scenario: Everyone was gathered, and the game of "7 Minutes in Heaven" had begun. When it was Y/N and Jay’s turn, the air between them was heavy with tension. The closet door closed, and silence filled the space. Jay: "You know you drive me crazy, right?" Y/N: "What do you mean?" Jay: "Every time I see you with the others… I feel out of control. But now, I finally have you to myself for these seven minutes."

Development: The closeness between them was undeniable. Y/N felt the intensity of Jay’s gaze, deeper than she had anticipated. Unable to resist, he pressed her against the wall, capturing her lips in a passionate kiss. His hands roamed down her sides, pulling her closer until there was no space left between them. She felt his arousal pressing against her, and as their breaths mingled, he lifted her, letting their bodies collide. The confined space amplified every sensation as their moans filled the closet, the game outside long forgotten.

NI-KI

Scenario: Niki’s gaze was possessive as he watched Y/N interact with others. When it was their turn in the game, he pulled her into the closet with a mix of frustration and desire. Niki: "I can’t stand seeing you with the others, Y/N." Y/N: "Niki, you’re acting strange." Niki: "I don’t know how to deal with this. But now it’s just you and me, and I won’t let you escape."

Development: The tension in the air was palpable as Niki pressed her against the door, his lips crashing onto hers with urgency. His hands found her waist, pulling her closer as his body molded against hers. Y/N responded in kind, her hands trailing under his shirt. She felt his arousal grow as she unzipped his pants, her touch sending shivers through him. Unable to hold back, Niki lifted her, their movements urgent and hungry as they gave in to the heat of the moment.

JUNGWON

Scenario: When Y/N and Jungwon entered the closet, something in his eyes was different. He seemed visibly tense, and Y/N couldn’t ignore it. Jungwon: "I know I’m always the playful one, but today… this is more than just a game." Y/N: "What are you talking about?" Jungwon: "I feel something every time I see you laughing with the others. I can’t pretend anymore."Development: The energy between them grew stronger as Jungwon stepped closer, his hand cupping her face. His lips brushed against hers hesitantly, but the moment their mouths met, all hesitation disappeared. He pushed her against the back of the closet, his kisses turning more desperate. His hands slid under her shirt, exploring her skin as their bodies pressed together. Y/N tugged at his belt, and before long, the tension between them exploded in fervent passion, their whispers echoing in the small space.

SUNOO

Scenario: Sunoo was usually playful, but tonight something was different. He was more serious than Y/N had ever seen, and the seven minutes in heaven seemed to be drawing something new out of him. Sunoo: "I’ve always seen you as a friend, but today… I can’t ignore how I feel anymore." Y/N: "What do you mean?" Sunoo: "Every time you’re near others, something in me reacts. I don’t know why, but I can’t hide it anymore."

Development: Sunoo stepped closer, his eyes locking with hers before he leaned in for a soft but lingering kiss. As their lips moved together, his hands found her waist, pulling her closer. Y/N’s hands slid under his shirt, feeling his warmth. Their movements became more daring, and before long, the closet’s small space was filled with the sound of their passion as they lost themselves in each other.

JAKE

Scenario: Jake and Y/N were in the closet, and the energy between them was electrified. He was more serious than usual, and it left Y/N intrigued. Jake: "I always joke around, but today… I’m not kidding anymore." Y/N: "What do you mean?" Jake: "Every time I see you with the others, something inside me… breaks. I want you, Y/N, and I think you realize that now."

Development: The confined space amplified their emotions. Jake stepped closer, his hands gripping her hips as he pulled her flush against him. His lips met hers, and the kiss deepened quickly, filled with raw intensity. He lifted her onto a small shelf, his hands exploring every inch of her. Y/N tugged at his pants, her touch igniting a fire between them. Their breaths were ragged as they moved together, the small space echoing with their whispered moans.

✿ If you don't reblog and comment, you can be sure I'll be showing up in your dreams tonight… and I won’t be as sweet as in the story ✿

[totallynotslothhh]

DAMN DISTANCE

pairing: joost klein x fem!reader

word count: 4,370

warning: smut, dominant!male, oral!male receiving, tongue piercing, spit in mouth, unprotected sex, cum inside, face slapping, slapping in general, dirty talk, rough sex, hand around throat, choking, i think you get the idea.

description: Two months of waiting, a long-distance argument, an unrevealed piercing and sky-high tension create the perfect setting for raw, intense intimacy.

author’s note: The filthiest, horniest smut I’ve ever written and I’m proud of it (i think). Nothing more to say except I’m working on the first part of a long fanfic full of angst and sex WITH ANGST and probably more angst, maybe angst????.

you love me, i know that. Enjoy the reading, gooners.

big kisses!

(sorry if there are grammatical errors, I tried my best, English is not my first language!!!🙏)

——————————————————————

Two months of tour? Absolutely heartbreaking. Not being able to see, touch, kiss, hug, tease and cuddle my boyfriend for that long had been incredibly hard to bear. We had never been apart like this in our four years together.

I always tried to be present at his concerts, his travels around the country, around the world; even the festivals he attended at. That’s because he wanted me by his side and honestly, I always had fun.

It made me feel close to him, showed him my support, helped him before he stepped on stage… and also let me experience post-performance Joost, buzzing with adrenaline and excitement. Excited in every sense of the word.

Sex after concerts was amazing: it gave a spark to our sex life. Maybe that’s also why I loved going to every event. It was a moment of union.

Sure, it was driven by raw physical attraction, but it was mostly a way to feel like one soul. To know, without a doubt, that we belonged to each other. To look into his eyes, reflect his desire, to feel his hands gripping my body, to feel his breath, his teeth, his tongue, his lips on my neck; to be shoved against the wall of his dressing room, or the tiny bathroom behind the stage, or the backseat of a car, or literally any surface in our home; to feel his cock sink deep inside me while his filthy mouth moaned those lazy, sloppy sounds and my chest ached with pure love for him; love I felt was fully returned, made me feel like I could touch the sky.

He was always so into it, so hungry, so unpredictable. He could go from being the most aggressive: pinning me down with my face smashed to the sticky dressing room table, hands behind my back and legs trembling, to letting me ride him at my own pace, letting me decide how the moment would unfold.

The problem was… this time, I couldn’t join him. Work had buried me alive and I couldn’t even think about being gone for two months.

So I accepted it. So did he.

…Or almost.

We fought after nearly three weeks. The tension had built up and despite trying to avoid it, we couldn’t escape the misunderstandings.

I’ll admit it - I probably overreacted, but waking up and not seeing any message from my boyfriend since the night before, before yet another concert… only to see a notification that he’d started an Instagram live? That sent my nerves straight to my brain.

Had he forgotten me? Was he ignoring me?

I called him the second the live ended. I had watched the whole thing. I saw how he interacted with his friend, saw him lying back on the tour bus shirtless, of course leaving plenty for the fans to fantasize about. With every passing minute, the tight knot in my chest grew stronger.

Was I jealous? Maybe.

Insecure? Definitely.

“Baby, good morning-” I didn’t even let him finish. I snapped. The phone was gripped tight in one hand, my other arm pressed against my chest.

“Did you have fun ignoring me?” My voice was sharp, accusing. My heart thundered in my chest and my brows were furrowed like he was standing right in front of me.

A sigh came through the speaker, followed by a line so robotic, so obviously fake, that it lit a fuse under all the frustration I’d bottled up.

“I was gonna call you in five minutes. I wasn’t ignoring you.”

Was that a joke?

He hadn’t texted me all day, even though he’d had the chance. I didn’t want to feel pushed aside. I didn’t want to come second. I knew he was busy but so was I, and yet I always carved out time for him.

Did he want distance? Was he happy being away from me? Then fine, he could stay away.

After ten minutes of arguing, intense arguing where we tried to out-blame each other, I hung up on him, yelling: “Since I don’t exist to you anymore, go fuck yourself!”

Yeah.

We didn’t text for a solid week, and for the rest of the month we barely sent each other a few messages just to confirm we were alive.

Saying I didn’t miss him would’ve been a straight-up lie. I watched his concert videos and got jealous, frustrated. I tried to be happy for him but I couldn’t.

He was acting like an asshole, even worse than me. He didn’t text at all. Maybe that’s why we were together - because we were both stubborn.

That day came. He was finally coming home from that never ending tour.

I found myself bouncing my leg anxiously, fiddling with the new tongue piercing I hadn’t told him about, checking our chat again: his last message had been “coming home” and I had replied half an hour ago.

I hadn’t really cleaned the house, just the living room. I was anxious to see him, desperate to hold him again, but at the same time, I knew things between us were tense.

I felt guilty. I was scared I’d ruined the tour for him, that I’d ruined us, that I’d pushed him into thinking about ending things.

I wanted to talk, to apologize, to hear what he had to say. I wanted to show him the piercing I’d gotten the day after he left, to see his reaction.

I wanted to feel close to him again, to kiss him until I was drunk on his taste.

The click of the front door echoed down the hallway. The light from the ceiling glowed over the quiet corridor as my bare feet brushed the cold floor, carrying me cautiously toward the sound. I left my phone on the kitchen counter, which opened onto the living room, tucked a strand of hair behind my ear and laid eyes on Joost.

He walked in dragging his big suitcase behind him. He had those black boots on, which he kicked off near the shoe rack.

A tight wool beanie hugged his head, hiding his forehead and leaving just a few bleached strands visible at his nape. Earbuds still in. One of the thickest jackets I’d ever seen him wear, definitely new.

I pressed my lips together and clutched the hem of the hoodie I was wearing, one that usually felt warm and comforting but now just made my skin itch.

He didn’t look up when he took off the black coat. Didn’t meet my gaze, even as I sighed loudly, trying to catch his attention as he headed down the main hallway.

Was he really giving me the silent treatment?

I followed him with my eyes but didn’t move, just stood frozen in the middle of the room.

I felt embarrassed to even approach him.

I didn’t expect him to be this cold.

I glanced at the suitcase next to his shoes, then turned toward the hallway when I heard the sound of running water. He was in the bathroom. Without thinking too much, I decided to go to him.

Sooner or later, we’d have to face everything.

I peeked in, gripping the wooden doorframe with both hands. And there he was, standing in front of the mirror, wearing nothing but a pair of boxers. My stomach instantly turned into a black hole, pulling every sensation into one tight point, my upper teeth catching my lower lip on instinct.

“I need to take a shower, I’m really tired.” He shifted his weight onto his right leg, and his voice hit me like a warning. I suddenly felt as small as an ant.

I hadn’t heard his voice in over a month, hadn’t touched him for even longer, and yet, despite everything, the sight of him half-naked, the annoyed look on his face and that tired tone in his voice… hit me with undeniable force.

My eyes lingered a second too long before I gathered my courage, shoulders tight, and stepped into the room, reaching over to turn off the running shower.

No. He wasn’t getting in. Not before clearing the air with me.

“y/n” His thick eyebrows lifted slightly and his hands landed on his hips as his gaze quickly ran down my body, only to settle on my face, creased with guilt.

“You’re not even going to say hi?” I spoke with feigned offense as I walked up to him and wrapped my arms around his torso, letting my hands rest on his back and my cheek on his collarbone.

He could deny it all he wanted, but I felt the shiver run across his exposed skin, heard the subtle breath leave his lips.

“I’m sorry…” My voice got even smaller, as my body instinctively sought the warmth I hadn’t felt from him in so long.

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t move.

So naturally, I lifted my head to meet his eyes.

They were already on me and now that cold, icy stare had softened. He looked at me with something unfamiliar, something cautious, almost like he didn’t believe I was really there. My expression gave me away completely: lips curled downward, wide eyes, and slightly puffed cheeks: like a scolded puppy.

“Are we making up?” I murmured, hugging him tighter, desperately wanting to feel that he was still mine.

He furrowed his brows, narrowing his eyes as if trying to read something hidden. Then, with his tattooed hand, he took my chin and gently tilted my head upward. His thumb rested softly on my cheek, his index finger outlining my jaw.

“Stick out your tongue.” His deep, smooth voice sent a sudden jolt straight to my lower stomach. He had seen the piercing and now he just wanted confirmation. The anticipation crawled under my skin, nearly unbearable.

I smiled before obeying him, catching the way his gaze sharpened slightly, how he wasn’t about to back down without getting what he wanted.

I parted my lips and slowly let my tongue slide out, revealing the titanium piercing and silver bead that caught the artificial bathroom light. His stare locked on my mouth, his thumb brushing down to my bottom lip and gently pressing it. I stuck my tongue out a little further, letting him fully take in the view.

His expression softened. A dry chuckle rumbled from his chest.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” His eyes lifted from my mouth to my gaze again, a playful curiosity dancing in his expression.

“I wanted to show you in person. And mostly… let you feel it.” The guilty tone quickly turned into something falsely innocent - like I wasn’t implying anything dirty. Like there was nothing to be misunderstood.

He looked at me for a few seconds, then took a slow breath, exhaling through his nose. His hand dropped to rest gently around my neck: not squeezing, just enough to let me feel the weight of his presence and the fact that my words had definitely had an effect on him.

“Yeah? And why should I indulge you?” His voice turned teasing, his lips curled with mischief as his eyes flicked back to my mouth.

I stuck out my tongue again and playfully rolled the piercing across both lips, letting the beads trace my upper then lower lip.

“Because… why not?” I said shamelessly.

His fingers tightened slightly around my neck. Then his lips crashed into mine with a primal hunger that left no room for hesitation. A muffled hum slipped from my nose as my hands dug into the cold skin of his back, while my tongue slid naturally into his mouth, and he welcomed it without resistance.

Our tongues moved in sync, the piercing dancing against Joost’s wet muscle as he took in the new sensation with visible pleasure. It was obvious. He wanted me. As much as I wanted him. His hips unconsciously pushed into mine and a deep moan vibrated from his throat, muffled by the heat between us.

He pulled back, still gripping my neck, eyes locked with mine, breath heavy and ragged in the small bathroom.

Then came the pressure of his thumb sliding into my mouth, no words needed. He wanted me to suck it.

“Still my little slut” He said calmly, voice low enough to draw a gasp from deep within me,“Doesn’t matter how much you scream at me on the phone, how much shit you throw at me… you’ll always be right here.”

The heat shot down my spine, landing directly in the soaked center of my panties.

We had made up. And we’d talk about everything after we fucked. The mood had shifted completely. And honestly? This was the best possible turn things could have taken.

I released his thumb with a wet pop and gave it one last lick, letting the silver bead clash against his skin. Our eyes locked again but I broke eye contact first. A sharp slap landed on my cheek, firm but not cruel. My eyes shut and a breathy moan escaped my lips, more out of reflex than pain.

“Did I tell you to stop sucking?” His voice reached my ears like a command. His hand grabbed my jaw, tilting my face back to him, forcing me to answer.

I shook my head in a silent no.

Then he pulled me in again, dragging me into another deep, messy kiss.

We kissed for what felt like minutes. His hand moved to tangle in my hair, while mine, previously resting at the base of his spine, snuck shamelessly into his boxers. I wasn’t the only one getting off fast. He was already hard and had been for at least five minutes.

I wrapped my hand around him and moved slowly, teasingly, while his breath grew heavier, until he finally broke away from my lips now swollen and slick with spit.

“I missed you…” The soft, warm breath hit his skin, and his face welcomed it with a genuine smile that cracked open the thick atmosphere of pent-up sexual tension that had been simmering for over two months.

I didn’t stop moving my hand inside his boxers. I was being sweet, almost romantic, I ignored the reason for the guttural moans slipping from his lips with such ease.

“How much?” He whispered, licking his lips, which curved into an expression of bliss as my hand tightened slightly around his cock, stroking his sensitive tip with the flat of my palm.

“A lot. Only God knows how many times I touched myself thinking about you.” My voice turned delicate again, feigning innocence, wide eyes full of desire. That was all it took for his hand to silently guide me downward until I found myself kneeling between his legs.

I didn’t resist. I wanted to. And I knew my legs would ache later, but I didn’t care.

After slipping my hand out of his boxers, I pulled them down, then brought both hands to his cock, letting him guide my face toward his length.

I started licking, savoring the salty, slick taste of his precum that had dripped down the length of his shaft. The contact with my tongue piercing made him twitch, the titanium bead pressing softly along the thick, pulsing vein.

“Fuck-“ The curse fell from his throat, his hand tangling in my hair, forcing my face down closer to his groin. I closed my eyes for a second and let my tongue swirl around his base, ending with soft, teasing nibbles on the skin of his lower abdomen.

His head tilted back, exposing his throat, and from where I was, I could only see his heaving chest, his tensed neck, and the faint bulging of veins in his tattooed arms. His grip was tight in my hair, but it still felt like I had complete control. I could lick, suck, bite, do whatever I wanted to every inch of skin I desired.

I dragged my tongue slowly along his entire shaft, letting the piercing glide across every delicate part, especially the swollen head, which made him shudder and flex his muscles. I moved my hands to his thighs, gripping them softly, as my lips began to close around his tip and I slowly sank down on him.

I could taste him again. Feel him at the back of my throat. Choke around his thrusts. Look up into his eyes while he lost himself inside my mouth.

That was all I needed to realize nothing had really changed between us. All my overthinking had been for nothing.

Tears welled up in my eyes not from pain or frustration, but simply as a natural reflex.

And once I started to suck him properly, it didn’t take long before his hips began to move with me. Both his hands gripped my head now, and I could feel the pressure increase as his cock filled my mouth to the brim. The piercing rubbed harder and harder against his skin, and I could tell - he loved it.

I could see it in the raw, uncontrollable sounds he made, in the way his hips snapped forward, in how his eyes glazed over with pure lust.

“Fuck- best decision you’ve ever made” He murmured through groans, sweat now coating his body, as his thrusts grew faster, more erratic.

I couldn’t take it anymore. My nails dug into his thighs so hard I was sure I’d leave marks. My eyes were shut tight, and the sounds I was making against his cock said everything except control.

But he didn’t come. He refused to finish in my mouth.

He yanked me off with a sharp pull, and my legs, numb from kneeling, nearly gave out as I stumbled backward onto the cold bathroom floor. I gasped for air, wiping away the tears on my cheeks as a coughing fit hit me, throat raw and burning from how deep he’d been inside me.

He leaned in just slightly, only to gently cup my face in his hands, lifting it toward him. That simple gesture made me immediately straighten up: first on my knees, then standing, eager to grant his silent wish to taste himself from my lips.

He was soft, but commanding. I let him win the battle for control between our mouths, and his hands slowly slid from my cheeks to my hips, quietly asking me to take off the sweatshirt I still had on.

I pulled back from his body, only detaching my lips from his when absolutely necessary, just long enough to slip off the warm layer still covering my bare skin underneath. I let it fall to the floor and immediately brought our mouths back together, barely giving him time to look at the round curves of my breasts, the softness of my stomach.

My fingers wove into his hair and I let him pull me into his warmth, his arms wrapping around my bare torso. My breasts pressed firmly against his chest, and my nipples reacted almost instantly to the contact.

We pulled apart one last time, and he looked at me, really looked.

He took in my glossy eyes, my blushing cheeks, my swollen lips, the way my skin shivered under every one of his touches.

It was like his eyes were made to read me: half-lidded, heavy with desire, perfectly reflecting how he felt inside. They gave soul to his tired face, to the dark circles under his eyes, to his messy hair and lips still stained with filthy, honest words; words that somehow still dripped with sweetness, even though I knew he’d fuck me against the sink like an animal in just a few minutes.

And he did.

After playing with my breasts, covering them with attention, teasing them with the rough bristles of his mustache, biting until red patches bloomed across the plane of my chest. After making me believe, even for a moment, that he’d gone soft: his gaze focused on my pleasure, his cock grinding desperately against my side, begging for attention, for release. After caressing the curves of my hips and hearing me moan his name, he grabbed me and turned me around, pressing me up against the cold marble of the sink.

His hand returned to my throat, sliding upward from the marks he’d left across my chest. He leaned his head against mine and looked into the mirror, taking in the sight of my body from its reflection.

“Look at yourself. Remember who gives you these marks. Remember who makes you moan like that. Remember who you ache for.” He whispered it right into my ear, just before closing his eyes and brushing his kiss-bruised lips down the sensitive skin of my neck. He tilted my face gently and trailed a line of kisses from just behind my ear to my shoulder, lifting his gaze to meet mine in the mirror.

“You’re mine, and I’m yours. No unsent message will ever change that.”

Those words collided with the shivers already running through me, making me arch my back, pushing my ass against his bare cock without even realizing it. My hands gripped the marble, and without me noticing, his hands were already tugging down my soft pants and underwear in one swift motion, exposing me to the cool air that rushed across my pulsing, wet entrance.

I didn’t have the courage to keep my eyes open. I shut them tightly until a sharp, deliberate slap landed on my bare ass and a moan tore from my throat before I even had time to think.

“Look at yourself while I fuck you. You need to see the way you fall apart because of me. Got it?” I opened my eyes obediently, biting down on my lower lip, chaining my gaze to my reflection and finally seeing myself.

Even if only for a few seconds.

God, how much I loved melting in his arms. It was one of my favorite things in the world.

He entered me with a single, deep thrust, making the first wet slap echo between us as our bodies collided. My back arched even more, my eyes searching for his, and my unprepared walls clenched immediately around his length.

He gripped my hips tightly and pushed me harder against the material of the sink, creating a rough friction between my skin and the cold surface. I didn’t even have time to focus on that stinging pain, because he started moving right away.

He didn’t give me a break, didn’t give me a second to adjust, he just began thrusting into me with a relentless, aggressive rhythm.

His hands dug into my skin like I was the only thing keeping him afloat. He slapped my already reddened cheek again and immediately after, one hand wrapped around my throat. He brought his chest close to my back without slowing down, fucking me just as hard, making sure I could hear every breath, every word of praise whispered into my ear.

I whimpered, feeling his fingers truly sinking into my flesh, making me instinctively wrap one hand around his wrist while the other stayed braced on the edge of the sink.

The sight in the mirror was obscenely arousing, so much so that it alone could’ve made me come: my breasts bouncing with each thrust, his head next to mine, his sweat-damp hair clinging to his forehead.

The overwhelming awareness that the next morning, I’d see every mark he left on me, including the one that was currently stealing the breath from my lungs.

I came just after he did. Right after I felt him fill me - his cum, his cock - every inch of him pressing deeper. Right after his weight settled over my back and his hand finally loosened from around my throat, though it still lingered gently there.

I was exhausted, sore, my back aching, completely spent… yet, I ached to cling to Joost, to stay wrapped in his body like a lifeline.

The thought of our fight still echoed in the back of my mind, even after that wild, frenzied fuck.

He cupped my face and turned it just enough to bring it close to his.

Still panting, he motioned for me to part my lips. I did. And looked into his eyes, first to admire how flushed his face had become.

He forced me to hold eye contact as he let a thin line of spit fall into my mouth, landing right on the piercing he still wasn’t used to. Then he kissed me. Softly, slowly, once I’d closed my lips and swallowed his spit.

The feeling of his cum dripping out of me. His tongue now tender, stroking mine. His hands, moving slowly, back to hold my waist… It was enough to make love bloom through every pore of my skin.

“I’m sorry I acted immature and didn’t reach out to you” He murmured against my lips, barely audible, after pulling away from that last kiss.

He buried his face in the crook of my neck and breathed me in deeply, the scent of my skin, something he’d clearly missed, judging by the way he clung to me. The way he stayed connected to my body, the way he mumbled quietly, like he never wanted to let me go again.

A smile broke across my lips, and a soft laugh echoed in the bathroom at his next words: “Let’s not talk about it anymore, okay?”

We hadn’t talked about it at all. But maybe that was fine. Maybe our bodies had said enough. Maybe our souls had kissed the way they needed to.

“That piercing looks really fucking good on you” he added, finally lifting his head and letting his lazy gaze rest on my softened expression.

“Looks good, or you just liked it for… other reasons?” I raised an eyebrow, my smile shifting from sincere to teasing.

“Both” he muttered after pretending to think for a moment, planting a quick kiss on the lips he’d been biting just minutes earlier.

I turned in his arms and held onto his shoulders tightly, while his hands - his gentle, skilled fingers - traced my sides with care and reverence.

That touch alone was enough to remind me: He was home.