#like. there was a solid minute of typing. then not. then typing. and nothing. just. mutual panic lmao

[cursedlanternsstuff]

I’m just sitting here baffled at the orchids are doomed bit cause I know that until the mealy bugs got. All but three of my 20 something phalaenopsis/moth orchids I had a bunch that were from when I was in high school like. A literal decade ago that I did literally nothing except put them in a west window and after the move a south window that now exists and. They were happy? Like grew well repotted them with just the orchid bark a couple of times and they were happy enough to live and bloom? And sometimes grow another bloom spike from chopping the dead part off.

That said the new major problem of getting new clearance orchids that are mealy bug free is that despite the many. Many times I have said DO NOT PUT THE NEW ONES AT THE WINDOWS WITH THE OLD ONES they get put there and get infested in a week at most to the extent I have said the heck with it and just. Got a poofy makeup brush and just snowed them all with diatomaceous earth(that took a solid minute of remembering the order of the letters to type that). It works for the violets so with any luck it’ll work for the orchids.

That said I probably should go give them orchid food but I also just gave them their weekly water yesterday.

I think all houseplant care guides (including the little stakes they put in the soil when you buy one) should also include the expected lifespan of the plant. Not its flowers, the plant.

I feel like I’m left wondering if I killed the plant or if it was just its time way too often.

Also, it’d just be nice to know if the plant I’m buying will live for two more years or two more weeks

[c0sm1cp0tat0]

Yandere! Saja Boys x Reader

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5.

You lost your boyfriend recently. He had been loving. Caring. With him, you'd felt like everything was a bit...lighter. Like the horizons were a little bit brighter. It was loving relationship.

He'd kiss you on the cheeks, and comment on how soft your hair was. You'd turn back to him and lunge at him, pressing your open mouth to his. Those were the type of days you spent.

You sat now, in your lonely empty house, scrolling your phone. He was gone now, and the world felt grey. Your grief wasn't like everyone else's. When losing a loved one, anyone would shut themselves in and do nothing. Not you. You'd done everything-- that extra bit at work, worked out to the max, followed your diet, talked too much to your colleagues and now you were invited to a party.

You just didn't care anymore. Couldn't be bothered to fight in your own mind. Couldn't be bothered in the least to not do something you were used to doing everyday. The pain was too much.

It was that faithful evening you were walking towards the said party. You were walking past a performance. A new boy band. Was it their debut?? Had they always been there?? You didn't know. You didn't know what day it was. What year it was. If you looked up and blinked properly, you would see you and your boyfriend chatting and laughing happily on that bench by the alleyway.

"You're my soda pop~"

"My little soda pop~"

They were quite the lookers, you could see that beyond your grief. You looked up properly now. The music was good-- not good good, but offered that temptation. That deceit. They weren't sweet like they appeared. They were dripping in their own misery. Just like you were. Even more so.

Everything was heightened to the max-- their looks, too good to be real. Body proportions inhuman. Their movements, too fluid and synchronized to be human. They were all in synergy as if joined by one life force.. Their overly bright outfits matching to perfection. Every last inch of them-- their movements-- their charms-- were perfect.

It caught your attention for a minute, then you looked away, disinterested again.

Gotta get to that party. Gotta forget.

They better have good booze.

You stalked off, not noticing the five men who still stood on that make-shift stage. Finished with their performance, staring after you like abandoned, volatile dogs. Staring after the woman who'd just casually looked past their cheerful human façades, seen the ugliness that lurked inside, identified with it, and calmly walked off. Like she hadn't just gained five fresh demon idols pining after her.

"Who's she?" Abby leant an elbow on Baby's shoulder, who for once didn't shrug away. His large, deceitfully doe-like eyes still fixated on the retreating figure of you in the distance.

"Didn't even stick around to watch like the rest," Romance snickered, a hand subconsciously running through Mystery's blueish-grey locks.

Jinu's eyes flashed molten gold. "She saw. I felt it. She knows what we are."

"And she just left??" Romance reasoned, bewildered.

"She doesn't care." Baby's calm voice of melted caramel murmured. There was unmistakable intrigue in his voice. Alot of it. Perhaps even surpassing intrigue into something else-- a liking.

"Gwi-ma will go crazy if he finds out a human knows about us." Abby chuckled. Jinu bit the inside of his cheek.

⌗☾︎ ‧₊˚ ︶꒦꒷♡��꒦︶⋅₊˚☽︎⌗

You were drunk. To say that would be an understatement. No one could see it at first glance. But you had that slight stumble. In your high heels, you couldn't walk in a completely straight line.

But you were on cloud nine. A smile on your face. Successfully, you had forgotten your woes in the lovely embrace of expensive chardonnay.

You grunted, holding your hand out for a taxi on the side of the road. It wizzed on right past you. Asshole.

You subconsciously stumbled backwards, only for the back of your head to bump against a solid chest. You turned. There stood a man. Black hair, pale skin. His facial features, height, even expression, were all a blur to you. He had black hair and pale skin, the typical traits of a Korean male. The very same as your late boyfriend.

He looked like your boyfriend. You reached up, small hands hooking around the collar of whatever sort of top he was wearing. You pulled.

Jinu complied without thinking. He never would bend to anyone's will. But something about your cute little smile. Those flushed cheeks. Your dark, soft looking hair. More than anything, those dark, blissful eyes. They were beautiful, unclear, but still beautiful.

But how was he to react, when, next thing he knew your plumpy lips were on his?? Moving too. Sucking, licking. He went rigid. It was like a trigger was pulled. His face heated up. This girl. This small, beautiful, dumb little thing was kissing him in such a-- an aggressive, but soft, delicate way.

You pulled away before he could even comprehend fully the kiss, your small arms wrapping around him as you sobbed into his chest.

"Ah-- Hangyeol-- I missed you!! My baby, my love...you came back to me!!"

Ah, she had someone else written in her heart. And she had clearly just... mistaken him for that guy. Lucky guy...Jinu felt a sudden urge to kill that guy. Wherever he was.

"Nothing's been the same. I'm doing everything the same but nothing really is-!"

His hands came up behind her back. And slowly, very hesitantly, he patted your back soothingly.

"Fuck...did she just do what I think she..." Abby voices silently from behind the corner, watching in awe.

"Little minx." Romance grunted roughly, but he was smiling. Very wide. He wanted that. He wanted that little lady's lips on his as well. No matter what. And he knew that for a fact, he wouldn't rest until he got it.

He didn't know why he felt this way. To what he owed this new rush of... sensation. Of feeling that wasn't misery or shame but... something else. Something refreshing and new and sweet.

Judging by the looks of the rest of them, especially Jinu, the victim of your kiss, Romance knew it was the very same as himself.

"Say somethin'...wanna hear your voice so badly..." You heard the words leaving your completely wasted mouth, muffled, as you completely buried your face in the oddly large expanse of your man's chest.

"I'm not... Hangyeol--"

You pulled him down again and started smacking kisses all over his face.

Five minutes later, you wiped your mouth. Your boyfriend's face was still blurry to you, but this time it was covered in these lip-shaped red stains.

Oh...you did that?? You giggled, wasted out of your mind.

He lifted you off of your feet. And you threw your arms right around him. Inhibitions who?

"We gotta get her somewhere safe."

"Woah, Jinu, we said we were gonna figure out what she knows...not, y'know, get it on with her..." Abby's voice grated on his already frayed nerves. Jinu had no idea why your kiss had and was affecting him so badly.

"Yeah, and damn, now you wanna keep her safe as well??" Romance questioned in bewilderment.

Baby on the other hand was silently laughing his ass off at the state of Jinu's face. Debauched, covered in bright red lipstick prints. Even Mystery, standing beside him, couldn't help but crack a grin.

Romance wasn't even trying to hide it anymore. The want. The jealousy. The feeling that went beyond the usual wanting to toy around with humans and into something real.

"If I was him I'd never want to wash my face."

The other boyband members paused momentarily and seemed to decide that they too didn't really want to deny what they felt towards her anymore. They nodded in agreement.

Jinu gave away nothing, but insisted on having her head in his lap on the drive home. And though he could have cleansed his face within a second using magic, he didn't.

Romance, who was usually devoid of any emotion on rides home, now had this huge stupid smile on his face that he couldn't wipe off. As did Abby.

"We need to keep her." Baby demanded childishly.

Mystery, who had her feet in his lap, slowly stroked up your legs. Enamoured. "She's so small." He whispered.

When you woke up, your head was pounding. You felt like crying. This wasn't new by any means-- waking up in this random place that you went to with some random man you thought was yours the night before.

It was humiliating, mostly. Partially, enraging.

It was a small punishment, the way you clawed the back of your hand briefly before forcing your eyes open.

Ohhhh shit. Well this was... different.

You were in bed. A particularly large one. When you looked around, the bedroom was too opulent. Too...grandiose for your liking.

Had you landed yourself into a celebrity's bed by accident? It was a thought of jest. But the slight mirth slipped from your sleep-addled brain once the door swung open and you saw who stood at the entrance.

....Who was he again?? You squinted, small form now propped up by the elbows in the middle of the huge bed. You'd seen him somewhere. Dancing, specifically. Purple hair, cropped shirt, showing perfect six-packs. Huge shoulders. You wracked your brain.

Ah fuck it, too much effort.

But you still glared at him, dissapointed in yourself.

This? This was the dude you mistook for your plain and special boyfriend? This six-foot-four mountain of disaster looking guy??

But then, something you hadn't expected in the least happens. Another one steps in. Unlike this tall purple haired handsome monster, he was small. Taller than you, but next to Mr. Abs, he looked like just a baby. His hair was a pastel matcha, eyes big, face shorter and less defined.

"She's awake." The baby one spoke- his voice was surprisingly deep and strong for how he looked.

Another one sauntered in the room just as the smaller one stepped inside. This other one was slightly taller. But slender. His face was covered by this curtain of silky hair. You'd think that sorta hair only suited anime cartoon characters-- but somehow, this guy pulled it off. Just like his look, he exuded a mysterious aura as well.

"She's up!!?" This fourth one was fucking loud and you gave a full body flinch when this pink haired mullet dude stumbled in. His pretty eyes looked around and landed on you. You hiccuped, backing up as he advanced towards you.

They were all very handsome. You'd seen them before somewhere. If only their hair didn't have the colors of the rainbow you'd be able to take them seriously.

"Don't tell me..." Your voice was hoarse. They all paused as if they were hearing the call of a siren, "... you're kpop idols or something?"

"How'd you know?" The last man was inquisitive. When you saw him, you realized who exactly you'd mistaken for your boyfriend.

It was this tall guy. As tall as Mr. Abs. With hair as black as midnight and dark eyes to match. That burned hot with the heat of a million suns as he looked directly at you.

You weren't deterred, somehow. Maybe because, after losing Hangyeol, you didn't really care for anything anymore. He'd been half your personality. Now you just felt nothing. All you wanted to do now was go home and curl up alone on your couch.

"Because-- look at your hair. And your faces."

"You find us handsome~?"

"AHHHH!!" You backed away from the pink haired dude who'd somehow spawned right up next to you without your noticing. Your small form was about to collide with the floor but you quickly turned and landed on your palms and knees.

Wary, you stood up. They watched as if in awe as you brushed yourself off. "I'm sorry for any trouble that I caused yesterday. But I'll be off now."

So small. So fiesty and guarded and yet so clever and polite you were. You were talking through a sobered up alcohol addled system and yet your gaze was full of clarity.

"Fuck," Jinu cursed. Did you not see how stunning you looked? Your cheeks were flushed from that deep sleep. Your lips swollen from biting. Long hair tousled. You stood on those slender legs in this fancy human house and you didn't even care about the state you were in front of THE Saja Boys.

And most of all, your eyes. That stare. You could still see past whatever normal, cheerful façade they had up. But you still couldn't be bothered to look deeper into it.

You stepped forward to reach for your bag, that lay on the nightstand, but then you realized. The pink haired man in the bed had his abnormally large hand around your wrist. You glared at his hand, then shifted your glare up at his handsome face, framed perfectly with those silky pink curls and wisps.

"Let go o'me."

"Do you not wanna know who we are? What we are? Our names?"

He slowly brought your hand up to his mouth, laying a kiss on your knuckles before nuzzling your palm,"I'm Roman. You kissed Jinu. Can't you kiss me too?" Kissed WHO?

He was reverent. You were creeped out. They were all steadily inching closer and closer.

"You're talking too much. Gonna scare her off." Baby snapped. His oversized pastel sweater slipped off a slender shoulder as he came to wrap his arms around you and rest his chin atop your head. You grunted in alarm, squirming, trying to pull away.

However handsome they were, they were still strangers. Also belying his looks and frame, the baby-looking one was strong. Too strong. His arms actually didn't even budge, acting as metal vices around your smaller form.

"Are we supposed to be sucking up to her??" Abby spoke rather confusedly. But his tone was lighthearted too. Despite being a demon, he couldn't bring himself to harbour any sort of dislike towards you.

"I didn't mean to kiss anybody." You blurted. You had an idea of who Jinu was. The smirk on the tall ravenette's face didn't go unnoticed.

"Ah, but do you know who we are? We're the Saja Boys. Second on the charts to Huntrix. And you laid a hand on the leader." Jinu almost mocked, but with a serious undertone.

You were mortified, "I was drunk,"

The midnight-haired man seemingly wasn't interested in arguing semantics, "We won't sue. On one condition." He was growing more and more intrigued by the second. You'd captivated all his band members. And at his imminent threat, you didn't even flinch. You were acting like you had nothing to lose. Just like he didn't.

"Stay here and answer some questions for us." He was cajoling, not demanding. And you didn't know why. Kpop idols had to appear nice and kind to the public but you knew that wasn't really what all of them were.

Especially these ones. They had the darkness. You were familiar with that darkness from when you lost the only thing that had ever made you happy. Your boyfriend.

"Okay, how long will it take?"

"That's for us to know and for you to find out," Abby snickered before Roman effortlessly tugged you back into the silk sheets.

𝐓𝐁𝐂

[gianna-z-xdx]

!LT simon! x !reader!

Simon Riley, the strong lieutenant, having a soft spot for you? Ha! Never. But deep down, in the quietest part of his heart, he couldn't fake it anymore. Maybe—just maybe—he did have a slight soft spot for you… but who said you had to know that?

You didn’t.

Then one day, as you were casually walking past his quarters, not paying much attention, you bumped right into him—into his broad, solid chest. You looked up quickly to see who it was.

Oh shit.

You just bumped into Lieutenant Riley.

Panic rushed through your chest. You were afraid of getting chewed out or written up, so you stammered quickly, “S-Sorry, Lieutenant…” Your voice was small, shy, barely above a whisper.

Simon looked down at your smaller frame and muttered, just loud enough for you to hear, “It’s fine. Just be careful next time.”

And then he walked past you.

You stood there for a good minute, frozen, brain still trying to catch up with what had just happened. You were so confused… but he was so fine that you immediately forgot about the awkwardness.

You shook your head and made your way to the mess hall, eventually plopping down onto a cold metal bench. It wasn’t the most comfortable thing in the world, but it would do.

Then, out of the corner of your eye, you saw Lieutenant Simon Riley sit down right next to you.

Your brows furrowed. Why was he sitting with you? This was the second encounter today… and in the mess hall of all places? That never happened. Simon never mingled like this. This was weird.

Was he doing this on purpose? Or was it all just a coincidence? Maybe it was an accident? You didn’t know what to make of it. So finally, curiosity got the best of you, and you turned to him.

“Mr. Riley… are you purposefully coming up to me?”

He glanced at you, cool and unreadable, and replied with a short but steady tone: “No. Just a coincidence.”

And he knew damn well that was a lie. He wanted to see you. Every single day. He didn’t even know why he felt so possessive over you—but he did. He wanted you. He needed to claim you.

Meanwhile, you were just sitting there confused as hell, unsure what to make of any of this. You ignored it, stood up, and walked out of the mess hall. There wasn’t much to do there anyway. You made your way toward your quarters, only to hear the overhead speaker blare:

"READER. SIMON. COME TO MY OFFICE."

You sighed and turned on your heel, heading toward Price’s office.

When you got there, Simon was already standing inside. You stepped in and quietly shut the door behind you. The room was heavy with silence. Price motioned for both of you to sit across from him, and you did—nervous, waiting for whatever this was.

Then Price spoke, voice sharp, straight to the point: “So. We’ve got too many recruits on base. We’re doubling up rooms. You two are the first pair. Hope you understand.”

The silence that followed was thick.

You opened your mouth to speak, but Simon beat you to it.

“Yes, sir. Which quarter is it?”

“Room 653,” Price replied simply.

Without another word, Simon stood up and began walking toward the assigned room. You stood too, following closely behind. His steps were purposeful, loud. Dominant.

When you got there, Simon opened the door.

The room was small—standard issue. A bunk bed in the corner, one nightstand, a rug on the floor, and plain-painted walls. No decorations. Nothing personal.

This wasn’t a princess castle. This was the military.

You both took a moment to look around, then you spoke, “I’m taking the bottom bunk.”

Simon let out a soft chuckle. “All good.”

You each began unpacking your things. You silently hoped Simon wasn’t the messy type—you hated mess. Thankfully, it didn’t take long to settle in, and the room stayed neat.

You sat down on the edge of the bed and said, “It’s actually kinda comfy…”

Simon looked over and replied, “Is it now? Well, that’s good.”

The air was a little awkward at first, but eventually, it softened. You talked until about 8 PM, and by then, it was time to get some rest. You both settled into bed.

But by 1 or 2 AM, you were still wide awake.

Frustrated, you quietly climbed up the bunk ladder and reached Simon, gently shaking him. No response. You shook him a little harder.

He groaned, eyes blinking sleepily as he rubbed his temples and sat up.

“I… I can’t sleep,” you whispered shyly.

He sighed. “Well, just use the military method. You already know it.”

“I tried, Simon. It won’t work. I tried multiple times!”

He sighed again, more deeply this time, and turned his back toward you.

You frowned. “Simon—! I wanna sleep just as much as you do. Please…”

Something about the way you said please made something shift in him.

Without a word, he pulled you into his arms, spooning you gently but firmly. “This means nothing… it’s just friendship,” he muttered.

But he knew damn well that was a lie.

It meant a lot more than friendship for him.

pt 2 when🤨? i loved this sm you guys DO NOT know

[neellscapsule]

the sunshine gentleman

summary | after discovering batman's identity, you continue your work as a secretary for bruce, keeping the secret; then, some days before christmas, your brother visits you. 

pairing | bruce wayne x kent!reader ; platonic clark kent x reader

warnings / tags | fluffy, jealous bruce, clark being the best big brother ever, mentions of drunk sad bruce

word count | 4.5k

authors note | hi there!! english is not my first languaje so there might be some mistakes, or not, it can depend :)

this is part of the kent!batmom!reader series. you don't need to read the other parts to understand this since this is about bruce and batmom's past.  this can be read as wayne's secretary part 2.

taglist | @maolen @joonunivrs @c4ssi4-luv @fanfics4ever @inejskywalker @radenxd @resting-confused-face @fionnalopez @stargirl9911 @idek101-01

YOU WENT BACK TO WORK LIKE NOTHING HAD HAPPENED.

Well… almost like nothing had happened.

Because things had changed, and even if neither of you said a word, you could feel the shift humming beneath the surface like a quiet electrical current. You knew he knew that you knew. And Bruce Wayne—professional, stone-faced, emotionally constipated Bruce Wayne—wasn’t exactly the type to bring up rooftop vigilante confessions or bloody couch collapses during your Monday morning coffee run.

Still, he was watching you differently now.

You’d catch it sometimes—those moments when your head was bent over your keyboard, fingers flying across the calendar updates, only to glance up and find his eyes already on you. Not in that fleeting, distracted way he used to. No. This was different. Intentional. Like he was studying you, trying to memorize something he didn’t realize he’d forgotten.

You never mentioned it.

You didn’t mention the fact that your salary had mysteriously doubled, either. One morning you just… opened your paystub and blinked at the number for a solid five minutes.

You almost choked on your coffee.

Then you laughed—alone, startled, dryly amused.

Not because you weren’t grateful, but because part of you worried what it might look like. You hadn’t told anyone about Bruce’s second identity. Not even Clark. And yet, here you were, getting a suspiciously generous raise right after patching up Gotham’s most elusive vigilante on your couch.

Still, you didn’t say anything to him about the money. Just like he didn’t say anything about the fact that you’d seen him half-dressed and bleeding.

Silence was your shared language now.

Christmas crept closer on the calendar, your week-long vacation to Smallville already approved—and then extended by Mr. Wayne himself without warning or comment. You noticed it on the scheduling software one quiet Wednesday morning and blinked, eyebrows furrowed.

“Two weeks,” you said under your breath, squinting at the screen. “Did I… request two?”

You hadn’t.

He couldn’t say he wanted you to rest. Couldn’t say he wanted you safe, far from rooftops and broken ribs and the kind of darkness Gotham swallowed people in.

You could’ve marched into his office and asked—but you didn’t. You figured this was Bruce’s way of doing something nice without ever being seen doing it.

You let it go.

Instead, you buried yourself in your task list: confirming board meetings, answering endless phone calls, redirecting holiday invitations, scheduling the year-end Wayne Foundation charity appearances, finalizing travel logistics, fixing one of Mr. Wayne’s glaring calendar conflicts that would’ve had him at two galas and a board retreat on the same night.

Currently, you were typing out an email to the Metropolis city hall offices—following up on a donation Wayne Enterprises had pledged—when the phone rang.

You didn’t even glance at the caller ID.

Your hand reached for the receiver automatically, tucking it between your ear and shoulder as you continued typing.

“Mr. Wayne’s office,” you said brightly. “This is Y/N.”

There was a slight crackle on the line, followed by Eloise’s chipper voice from the front desk. “Hi, sweetie. Sorry to bother—there’s a man here—”

“Oh, go ahead and send him up,” you said, not really listening, half-focused on the typo correction blinking at you on screen. “He’s probably here for Mr. Wayne.”

“Wait—”

You hung up.

Exactly three seconds later, Bruce’s office door opened.

You didn’t even turn at first.

“Who was it?” he asked, his voice low and casual, but there was something in the tone—something tense, like a wire pulled too tight.

You glanced over your shoulder. “Don’t know. I told Eloise to send him up.”

He stared at you.

You blinked. “What?”

The tension crackled between you like static. Like the moment before lightning splits the sky. And you hated how you couldn’t stop remembering the look on his face when you asked if he wanted to stay. The way he’d looked at you when you called him complicated. The way he hadn’t denied it.

You opened your mouth to ask if he wanted you to bring water or coffee or a distraction, but then—

“Y/N?”

Your head whipped toward the elevator. The voice was warm. Familiar. Deep and smooth and impossibly safe.

Your heart leapt.

“Clark?” you gasped.

And then you were running—faster than you could remember moving in heels—across the office floor, the thick plush carpet muffling the sound of your footsteps.

Your brother stood in the doorway, tall and broad and unmistakable in that sweet, dorky way only he could manage. Thick-rimmed glasses sat on the bridge of his nose, and his soft dark hair flopped gently against his forehead, a few strands damp from the misty Gotham air. He wore a gray pea coat and a warm smile so wide it nearly broke your heart in two.

You threw yourself at him.

He caught you with one arm like you weighed nothing, like you were still six years old and couldn’t reach the cookie jar, spinning you around as you clung to his neck and laughed, genuine and warm and glowing from somewhere deep in your chest.

“Oh my God, you’re here!” you squealed.

“I’m here,” he laughed, the sound vibrating through his chest. “You didn’t think I’d miss seeing my baby sister before Christmas, did you?”

You beamed, still in his arms, eyes damp with happiness. “You never come to Gotham.”

“Well,” he said with a sheepish grin, “someone had a pretty rough week.”

You pulled back just enough to frown at him, though your eyes sparkled with amusement. “Ma called you.”

He raised his brows in mock innocence.

“Clark.”

“What? She was worried!”

You snorted, finally sliding down to your feet, still holding his forearms as if to make sure he didn’t disappear again. “Unbelievable. She ratted me out.”

“She said you cried.”

You groaned. “I did not cry. I got champagne on my dress.”

“She said you sobbed.”

You buried your face in your hands. “Oh my God, I’m never telling her anything again.”

Clark just pulled you into another one-armed hug, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

“I came to check on you,” he murmured. “Because you’re my girl.”

You blinked back something wet in your lashes.

You’d always been his. His first little sibling. His shadow. His anchor. His soft spot.

“You still have the same glasses,” you muttered.

“They’re iconic.”

“They’re huge.”

Clark laughed again, his smile wide and impossibly bright behind those dorky glasses. His hair was messier than usual, curling faintly from the cold, and his eyes—those soft, sea-colored eyes—shimmered like safety itself.

“You look good,” you said, brushing invisible lint off his jacket. “You’ve been flying more, huh?”

“Trying to,” he admitted, sheepish. “Kara says I’m too slow. Which is offensive.”

You snorted. “You’re a blur. I’ve seen it. Remember when you caught that meteor? Like. Mid-air?”

He grinned. “What, this old thing?” He mimed catching something, flexing obnoxiously. You slapped his arm.

“I missed you,” you said, more softly now.

He smiled at that, the kind of smile that reached all the way into your chest and stayed there.

“I missed you more, bug.”

There was a quiet cough behind you.

You turned and—

Oh.

Right.

Bruce.

You’d forgotten he was standing there. Your boss. Who was watching all of this with an expression so perfectly neutral you would’ve missed the sharp tension in his jaw if you didn’t know exactly where to look.

Oh.

He thought—

You stepped back slightly, placing a hand on Clark’s arm. “Oh! Sorry. Uh. Mr. Wayne—this is my brother.”

Bruce’s shoulders shifted almost imperceptibly.

“Clark Kent,” Clark offered warmly, stepping forward and extending his hand. “Reporter. From Metropolis.”

There was the barest flicker in Bruce’s eyes—recognition, maybe?—but it was gone just as fast.

“Bruce Wayne,” he replied coolly, clasping Clark’s hand.

“Pleasure, Mr. Wayne.”

Bruce took his hand, shook it once.

“Likewise.”

You didn’t notice how tight Bruce’s jaw was, how his eyes narrowed for just half a second when Clark touched your shoulder again in that brotherly, protective way.

Didn’t notice the split-second flash of relief that flickered across Bruce’s face when you’d said the word brother.

He’d been bracing himself.

You’d never know that.

You didn’t see the look that passed between them—brief, measured, masculine.

Your smile widened, the tension in the room bleeding out like a pulled thread. “I was just finishing an email. Clark, you wanna sit while I wrap it up?”

He nodded, then threw a glance at Bruce. “Unless I’m interrupting?”

Bruce’s face didn’t move, but his eyes—those eyes—lingered on you.

“No,” he said finally. “Not at all.”

You turned toward your desk again, heart beating a little faster.

You didn’t miss the way Bruce looked at you then.

Not as a secretary. Not as an employee.

But as the girl who knew his secret. The girl who’d wrapped gauze around his ribs with shaking hands. The girl who hadn’t said a word—because she didn’t need to.

 “Do I get a secretary badge too?”

 “No, it's mine only.”

Bruce watched you go—your arm looped with Clark’s, relaxed, the sounds trailing like music behind you.

He stood there, quiet, still, gaze unreadable.

But inside?

Jealousy had come and gone in a blink. And now, it left something softer behind.

He’d seen the way your eyes lit up. He’d watched it all.

And for one agonizing second—before the word brother—he’d hated the thought that someone else could pull that joy from you.

Not because he didn’t want you to have it but because he wanted to be the reason you smiled like that.

And maybe—just maybe—he already was.

The rest of the afternoon went by in a warm blur.

Clark hung around your desk, alternating between leaning on it, teasing you about how fast your typing was, and wandering through the executive suite like it was a museum exhibit. He made small talk with a few assistants from legal—charming as ever, harmlessly polite, somehow looking both like a bumbling reporter and a walking supernova at once.

You finished wrapping up the weekly emails, flagged three reports for follow-up, and cleaned your desk like you always did before a long break. Clark had taken your swivel chair hostage, legs folded in like a grasshopper as he spun slow, lazy circles, absolutely unbothered.

“Clark, people work here,” you said for the third time, nudging his shoulder as you reached to log out of your terminal.

“And I’m helping morale,” he offered brightly, spinning again. “Look at you. All cheered up.”

You rolled your eyes. “Yeah, because watching my older brother act like a caffeinated toddler is exactly what my coworkers needed.”

“You’re just mad I didn’t bring you cookies from Ma.”

You stared at him.

His mouth dropped open. “I knew I forgot something.”

You gasped. “Clark Joseph Kent. You monster.”

He laughed, shoulders shaking, your favorite kind of sound in the whole world. That laugh could turn a whole day around. Could mend a broken afternoon in three seconds flat. It’d been that way since you were little.

“Pa had eaten half of them,” he said between chuckles. “Said something about quality control.”

“Ugh.” You folded your arms. “I bet it was the molasses crinkles.”

“Yup.”

You narrowed your eyes. “I would’ve killed for those.”

Clark smiled as he leaned back in the chair, hands behind his head. “Well. Guess you’ll just have to come home for the rest of them.”

“I am going home. You knew that. You just didn’t want to share.”

“I’m not denying that.”

You kicked the base of the chair lightly, and he spun again, grinning wide.

The sun had dipped low over Gotham, tinting the skyline in shades of copper and soot. Snow hadn’t started falling yet, but you could feel it in the air—the crisp weight of it just waiting for nightfall. It was almost six. You’d already told Mr. Wayne his schedule was cleared. Everyone else in the suite had trickled out.

You closed your laptop slowly, dragging your fingers along the cool edge. “That’s it,” you murmured. “Last one for the year.”

Clark leaned against your chair, his warm hand tousling the top of your hair like he always did. You swatted him, but not with much force.

“You made it,” he said, all soft pride.

You beamed. “And with minimal trauma.”

That’s how Bruce found you.

You didn’t hear his office door open, but you felt it. That soft shift in the air, that weight of a presence even before a single word was spoken. You looked up instinctively—knew without knowing.

Bruce stood at the threshold of his office, silent and sharp in the dim light of the evening, his expression unreadable as ever. He didn’t look at Clark right away. His eyes were already on you.

And for a breath—just a breath—it was like the room quieted.

Clark noticed it too. The sudden stillness. He sat up straighter, adjusted his glasses, and gave a small, polite smile.

Bruce’s gaze didn’t move for a beat longer. Then, finally, he cleared his throat and said, “Y/N.”

You blinked. “Yes, Mr. Wayne?”

He paused.

Clark stood up beside you, suddenly less playful, picking up on something unspoken in your voice.

“I need a moment,” Bruce said.

You glanced at Clark. He gave you a tiny nod and turned toward the hallway, very obviously not listening. 

You stepped over quietly, hands loose at your sides. It felt like stepping into a conversation that neither of you had planned. One that had been waiting in the shadows since that night on your couch.

Bruce’s jaw was set. His eyes flicked to yours, then away again. You waited, patient as ever.

This time, you noticed.

The persona was slipping.

There was no flirty billionaire here. No polished playboy with a champagne flute and a model on his arm. No clever, offhand remarks. No perfectly rehearsed charm.

And he wasn’t Batman either.

This wasn’t the man who bled on your hardwood floors and let you bandage the hidden parts of him.

This was just Bruce.

And somehow, that was even harder to look at. Because he was the one you wanted. Not the mask. Not the myth. The man who looked like he’d spent the last days thinking about something he didn’t know how to say.

You kept your voice soft. “Something wrong?”

He shook his head once. “No.”

You nodded, waiting.

He studied you like a puzzle he couldn’t solve. Something tightened behind his eyes.

“I just…” He hesitated. “I realized I hadn’t said anything.”

You tilted your head. “About what?”

“About Christmas. Your time off.”

You blinked, surprised.

“Oh.”

Another pause. His voice was gentler this time. “I hope you enjoy the break.”

You smiled slowly. “Thank you.”

He glanced down for a moment, then back up. “You deserve it.”

Your heart twisted.

The words were simple—but coming from him? They struck deep. Like a hand brushing the side of your cheek that never quite touched, but left warmth anyway.

“I wanted to… thank you. For your work this year.”

That caught you a little off guard.

You softened, lips quirking gently. “Thank you for not firing me after I spilled coffee on the Q3 reports.”

That pulled a flicker of a smile from him. The briefest upturn at the corner of his mouth. It made your chest ache.

“You’ve been… indispensable,” he said finally.

You blinked again.

You could count on one hand how many times Bruce Wayne had complimented you. And it had never sounded like that before.

“Wow,” you said softly. “That almost sounded like praise.”

He glanced up at you now. There was something in his eyes. Not softness, exactly. But… honesty. A peeling-back, quiet and raw.

“I’ll be with my family,” you said quietly, watching him. “My Ma and Pa. Clark, obviously. My . . . cousin, Kara. And all the pets in there.”

His eyes softened at that. “Good.”

You hesitated, then added, “There’ll be snow. And pie.”

“You like pie?”

You gave him a look. “Everyone likes pie.”

That earned you the smallest hint of a smile. “Then I hope there’s a lot of it,” he said.

You smiled back, not sure what else to say. A knot sat heavy in your throat.

This felt like goodbye. Not just for Christmas. Like something deeper was trying to end itself before it could bloom into something neither of you could handle.

He took a slow breath.

“Merry Christmas, Y/N.”

Your name in his voice was a quiet thing. Almost reverent.

Your chest tightened.

“Merry Christmas, Bruce.”

It was the first time you’d said it like that. Just his name.

No title. No distance.

Just him.

He didn’t correct you. Didn’t move. Didn’t say another word.

You gave him a tiny nod and stepped back, walking down the hallway with your heart throbbing in your chest.

Clark waited by the elevator, arms crossed, his smile patient.

“You good?” he asked, stepping inside with you as the doors opened.

You nodded. “Yeah.”

He watched you press the button. “That was not a professional goodbye.”

You elbowed him gently. “Shut up.”

The elevator ride up was filled with the familiar hum of holiday music through cheap speakers. You leaned against the wall, arms folded, mind still back in the office.

Specifically… in his office.

The words he’d said. The way he’d looked at you. Something unspoken itched at your ribs.

By the time you reached your apartment, the city had gone dark. Snow dusted the sidewalk in soft, fresh layers. The heater hummed as you kicked off your boots, Clark shrugging out of his coat like he lived there.

You gave him a look and then dropped your bag by the couch and flopped down with a sigh. Clark joined you a moment later, settling beside you with two mugs of cocoa he’d made in a blur of super-speed.

“You spoil me,” you muttered, sipping the top layer of whipped cream.

He smiled. “You’re easy to spoil.”

You curled your legs under yourself and leaned your head against the back of the couch.

Clark waited half a beat.

“So.”

You groaned.

“So what?”

He looked sideways at you with the kind of smirk only an older brother could perfect.

“You know what.”

You groaned. “Don’t start.”

“I’m not starting, I’m just observing.”

You turned your face just enough to look at him sideways. “Observing what, exactly?”

He tilted his head, mock-thoughtful. “Oh, you know. Just the way you turned into a blushing schoolgirl the second Mr. Billionaire said your name.”

“I did not blush.”

“You absolutely did.”

You sat up, grabbing the pillow and whacking him with it.

He took it like a champ. “That’s not denial!”

“I’m not blushing over Bruce Wayne,” you insisted.

Clark grinned. “Bruce Wayne. So we’re on a first-name basis now?”

You glared at him. “You’re infuriating.”

He laughed. “And you’re in love.”

You made a strangled noise and threw another pillow at his face. He caught it easily.

“I’m serious,” he laughed, ducking. “Y/N. You’re in love with your boss.”

“I am not—!” you started, then stopped.

“You’ve got a look,” he said. “You’re doing that pouty-lip, faraway-eyes thing.”

“Am not.”

“Are too.”

“I always look like that.”

He arched a brow.

You gave him a pointed glare. “Okay. Maybe.”

Clark grinned. “I knew it.”

You groaned. “Please don’t.”

“What?” he said, grinning wider. “I’m not judging. I think it’s cute.”

“Clark, seriously.”

“Hey, hey—look. I’m just saying. I know that look. You’re soft on him.”

You slumped onto the couch. “It doesn’t matter.”

He tilted his head. “Why not?”

You exhaled slowly, wrapping the blanket around your shoulders. “Because he’s my boss,” you said quietly. “And because I’m just… me. A girl from a farm. He has models and CEOs on speed dial.”

Clark’s gaze softened.

You didn’t meet it.

“And besides,” you added after a beat, “even if he did know I care… it’d just be gratitude. Or, like, professional respect. Nothing more.”

Clark looked at you for a long, long moment.

You didn’t realize your fingers were twisting the blanket.

He didn’t ask. Didn’t press. Didn’t say the words hovering between your teeth—that you’d seen Bruce Wayne in another light, one only a handful of people would ever witness. That you’d bandaged his wounds. That you knew who he really was beneath all the masks.

Because you hadn’t told him.

And Clark didn’t need to hear it to know your heart was wrapped in something complicated.

“You’re one of the best people I know,” he said gently, nudging your shoulder. “If he doesn’t see that… he’s an idiot.”

The city stretched outside your window, still dark, still sprawling.

You thought about Bruce’s face. The look he’d given you tonight. Like he didn’t have the words. Like maybe, he wished he did.

You pulled the blanket off the back of the couch and wrapped it around your shoulders. Clark reached for the remote, flipping to some holiday cartoon you both knew by heart.

And for the first time all year, your heart didn’t feel so heavy.

The train pulled into Smallville just past dusk on the 22nd, the windows fogged with cold and lined with frost, and for a moment, it felt like the town hadn’t changed at all. As if the moment you stepped off the platform, time folded itself in half and brought you right back to being sixteen with a knit scarf and Clark’s oversized coat hanging off your shoulders.

The Kent Farm was still there. Still white and peeling in some spots, still crowned with snow like whipped cream on top of an apple pie. The big oak out front was bare now, wrapped in tinsel and glowing red-and-green lights Clark must have strung at super-speed. The porch swing creaked like it always had. And from the driveway, you could already smell pie.

The air was so clean it almost made your eyes water.

“Ma’s been baking for three days,” Clark said, tugging both your suitcases out of the car’s trunk like they weighed nothing. “You might have to fight me for the cherry one.”

“Yeah?” you challenged. “Bet she made me my own.”

He groaned. “Favoritism.”

“Younger child advantage.”

“Still unfair.”

You stuck your tongue out at him, racing up the porch. He let you win.

Ma opened the door before you could knock, her arms already out, smile breaking across her face like a sunrise. “My baby.”

“Hi, Ma,” you breathed, hugging her tight. She still smelled like cinnamon and sugar, soft and warm and a little like sunshine.

Behind her, Pa stood in his old flannel, leaning on the doorframe, his expression quiet but fond.

“Well now,” he said, arms open. “There’s our girl.”

You hugged him next, fitting into his arms like you never left. His beard scratched your cheek, and his callused hands were gentle on your back.

“Thought you weren’t showing up ‘til tomorrow,” he said, though you could hear the smile in his voice.

“Got lucky with the train,” you replied. “Clark met me in Gotham and drove me the rest of the way.”

“Mm,” Ma said, ushering you inside, “well, lucky us then.”

The house hadn’t changed much. The old quilt on the couch. The fireplace crackling with kindling and soft orange light. The tree in the corner—short, squat, and lovingly cluttered with handmade ornaments, some dating back to your first art class in kindergarten. Clark’s old stocking hung beside yours, both sagging a little under their own weight. The radio hummed with classic carols in the background.

It was perfect.

You spent the first evening in pajamas, curled up with your feet under Ma’s legs while she threaded popcorn garland. Clark lay on the floor with Krypto in his lap, absently petting it while you flipped through old photo albums and teased Pa about his seventies haircut.

You didn’t talk about Gotham.

Didn’t talk about Bruce.

Didn’t talk about the new pay bump or the way your hands had shaken when he said your name that last day. You just breathed.

And it felt like your lungs could finally fill.

Christmas morning broke with the smell of pancakes and the sound of Pa whistling “Jingle Bells” while frying bacon.

Snow had fallen overnight. Heavy, soft, glistening snow that blanketed the entire farm in silence. The barn roof sagged under it. The wind was still. Clark had cleared the driveway before anyone woke up.

You padded downstairs in fuzzy socks and a flannel shirt big enough to swallow you whole. Your hair was messy. Your eyes still carried sleep.

Ma greeted you with a kiss on the temple and a stack of warm flapjacks the size of your face.

“Merry Christmas, sweetheart.”

“Merry Christmas, Ma.”

Clark sat at the table, already halfway through a second plate. You plopped beside him and stole one of his pancakes with a fork. He glared. You beamed.

“I have super reflexes, you know.”

“You also have super generosity,” you said sweetly.

The day passed in a slow blur of joy.

You opened presents in the morning—socks and books and Clark’s idea of a joke gift (a Gotham travel mug that said “Bat-teries Not Included”). Pa gave you a new flannel, and Ma gave you a hand-knitted blanket in your favorite color.

Clark got a new camera. Ma teared up watching him unwrap it.

After that, there were pies. All kinds. Ma had made you a cherry one just for yourself. You offered Clark half a slice. He acted like you’d handed him gold.

Later, Clark flew out to visit Lois while you helped Ma with the dishes and watched a black-and-white Christmas movie on VHS. You curled up on the couch with the blanket she made you, sipping cider, belly full and warm.

It was the kind of day that didn’t need anything more.

The kind of quiet that healed something.

Even if you still felt the echo of Gotham under your skin. Even if your thoughts still kept wandering back to a cold tower and a lonely office with dark windows. Even if your heart still ached when you remembered the way Bruce had looked at you—soft, almost apologetic, and just a little too late.

It was past midnight when your phone rang.

You were in bed, tucked under layers, the room cold but your limbs warm. You blinked at the screen, expecting a message from Clark—maybe a picture of a food coma from Lois’s house.

But it wasn’t Clark.

The name on your screen just read: Mr. Wayne :p

Your heart stuttered. You answered on the second ring.

“Hello?”

There was a pause. Then a low, familiar voice, quieter than you’d ever heard it.

“Y/N.”

You sat up slowly, fingers tightening around the phone.

“Hi,” you whispered.

He didn’t say anything for a moment. You listened to the background noise—nothing but silence. No city hum. No movement.

“Y/N.”

Your heart skipped. He exhaled through his nose, slowly.

“Mr. Wayne?” you said. 

Another silence. Then, quieter: “Bruce.”

You blinked. “Bruce. Right. No working hours.”

You could hear him breathing, the faintest rustle of fabric. Something slow, heavy. Like he was lying down.

“Did I wake you?” He asked.

Something in his voice made your throat tighten.

It wasn’t the voice of a billionaire. Not even Batman. It was just him.

Tired. Raw.

“No,” you said. “I… wasn’t sleeping.”

Another pause. You lay back down slowly, pulling the blanket higher.

“Are you alright?” you asked gently.

“I don’t know,” he said, so honestly it nearly knocked the breath out of you.

You swallowed.

“I wasn’t sure if I should call,” he said. “Didn’t want to interrupt.”

“You’re not,” you whispered. “You’re not interrupting anything.”

A faint rustle, like he shifted onto his side.

“It’s quiet here,” he murmured. “Too quiet.”

You hesitated. “You’re alone?”

“…Yeah.”

You bit your lip, thumb brushing the edge of the phone.

“Are you… okay?” you asked again, softer this time.

“I think I drank too much,” he admitted.

There was no bravado to it. No self-deprecation. Just a quiet truth.

You exhaled slowly, curling tighter into the blanket. “Do you want me to stay on the phone?”

There was a pause.

“Yes.”

That one word felt like it cracked something open inside you.

“Okay,” you said gently. “I can do that.”

Neither of you spoke for a while. Just breathing. Just… there.

And then:

“Merry Christmas,” he said, his voice so low it was barely more than breath.

Your eyes burned. “Merry Christmas, Bruce.”

You didn’t ask what he’d done that day. You didn’t ask if he’d seen anyone or if he’d sat in that big house alone with all those ghosts and memories and shadows.

You didn’t need to.

He’d called you. And that was enough.

You heard him sigh quietly, the sound tugging something deep inside your chest.

“I think I’ll fall asleep,” he whispered.

“Then sleep,” you said. “I’ll stay.”

“Thank you,” he breathed.

The line went quiet after that.

You didn’t hang up. You didn’t say a word. You just lay there, the phone pressed to your ear, the line still open, listening to Bruce Wayne fall asleep to the sound of your voice.

[jungwnies]

f1 grid | i'm so hungry i could eat a...

୨ৎ : featuring : all drivers on the grid ୨ৎ : synopsis (requested by 🫐) : the tik-tok, "i'm so hungry i could eat a..." trend

୨ৎ : genre : comedy ୨ৎ : word count : 1011

୨ৎ masterlist ୨ৎ 10k event | masterlist ୨ৎ

ᡣ𐭩 a/n : this was so hilarious to write but i had to like deep dive for some of the drivers to make it ... interesting smirk 😼

ʚ・red bull

max verstappen

you bite into your sandwich, chew for a second, then sigh. “i’m so hungry i could eat daniil kvyat.”

max freezes mid-sip. his eyes slowly lift to meet yours with the full force of “what the actual fuck.”

he doesn’t say anything. just shifts slightly, pulling his plate closer like you might lunge across the table. two hours later he casually asks if you’ve been watching cannibal documentaries again.

yuki tsunoda

you flop onto the couch, stomach growling, and groan, “ugh, i’m starving. i could eat kazuto kotaka.”

yuki chokes on the chip he was halfway through. “what?!? you can’t just say that about my friends!”

he looks both offended and mildly scared, texting kazuto immediately: “don’t come over. she’s feral.”

ʚ・mercedes

george russell

you yawn dramatically while stabbing your salad, then say, “i’m so hungry i could eat alex albon.”

george blinks slowly, like his soul left his body. “i—sorry, what did you just say?”

he stares at you for a solid ten seconds, then opens a notes app and types “watch out for her” with no further context.

kimi antonelli

you toss a fork into the sink and mutter under your breath, “i’m starving. could eat ollie bearman honestly.”

kimi’s entire head whips around. “i’m—huh???”

his ears go bright red. he starts stammering something about context and friendship and legality. leaves the room muttering, “what the hell is wrong with her,” but returns ten minutes later with snacks “just in case.”

ʚ・ferrari

charles leclerc

you’re scrolling on your phone while eating cereal and casually say, “i could eat leo, he looks so soft.”

charles gasps so dramatically you think he’s joking—he’s not. “mon mon chat?? are you insane?? he is baby!!”

he picks leo up protectively and cradles him like you just declared war.

lewis hamilton

you lounge back on the couch and go, “ugh, i’m so hungry i could eat nicole scherzinger.”

lewis pauses mid-sip and just… raises an eyebrow. “so we’re just gonna say things like that now?”

he takes a beat. “honestly… i don’t blame you.”

ʚ・mclaren

lando norris

you toss a piece of popcorn in your mouth, sigh dramatically, and say, “i’m so hungry i could eat luisinha.”

lando drops his controller mid-race. “what?” he looks personally attacked. pulls a pillow into his lap like it’s a safety barrier.

“why are you being like this??” he asks, jokingly.

oscar piastri

you’re doing absolutely nothing, just scrolling on your phone when you go, “i'm so hungry i could eat hattie.”

oscar slowly turns toward you. “that’s… my sister.” he doesn't yell. he doesn't flinch. he just stares at you like you told him the sky is green. "surely you mean to say, 'patty' right?"

you laugh, "like a krabby patty? no, i meant hattie,."

ʚ・aston martin

fernando alonso

you sigh dramatically while picking through takeout, then go, “honestly? i’m so hungry i could eat taylor swift.”

fernando doesn’t even look up. “i beg your pardon.”

you blink. “…i'm just hungry...?”

he shrugs. “she’s powerful. that’s a strong protein source.”

lance stroll

you kick your feet up on the ottoman and mutter, “i could eat lawrence, honestly.”

lance turns so slowly it’s creepy. “my dad?” he doesn’t yell, just looks deeply unsettled. “what if he hears you, he might have you eaten?”

ʚ・williams

alex albon

you curl up beside him, all cozy, then whisper, “i’m so hungry i could eat bitbit.”

alex pulls back like you slapped him. “what the actual fuck did you just say??”

he’s already scooping bitbit into his arms. “you need to leave. i’m reporting you.”

carlos sainz

you’re peeling an orange and casually go, “i could eat isa hernáez, tbh.”

carlos chokes hard on his juice. he starts waving his hands like he's trying to reboot his own brain. “no no no. not this. not today.”

he walks out of the room mumbling “dios mío…” and comes back five minutes later with bread and zero explanation.

ʚ・haas

ollie bearman

you hum while scrolling, then casually go, “i’m so hungry i could eat kimi antonelli.”

ollie blinks. hard. “…like…why him?” immediately becomes suspicious of every time you’ve smiled at kimi.

he spirals for a full hour before asking, “wait… was that like a flirty hungry or a murdery hungry?”

esteban ocon

you stir your tea and murmur, “mmm, max verstappen sounds filling.”

esteban doesn’t look up. doesn’t breathe. doesn’t blink. “of course,” he says dryly, “we’re just devouring championship rivals now.”

your tea mysteriously disappears from the counter.

ʚ・racing bulls

liam lawson

you're laid out across the bed like a victorian widow and whisper, “i could eat yuki tsunoda.”

liam doesn’t flinch. he just sighs. “same, honestly.” pauses.

“…wait, what kind of eat are we talking about here?”

isack hadjar

you're giggling to yourself while reheating leftovers and casually say, “i’m so hungry i could eat… ze car.”

isack turns so fast his shoulder cracks. “i hate you so much.”

when you bust out laughing, he goes pale. “i am never going to live that down, am i?”

ʚ・alpine

pierre gasly

you spin around dramatically in the kitchen and declare, “i could eat simba.”

pierre gasps so loud it echoes. “mon chien???” grabs simba and cradles him like he’s just intercepted an assassination attempt.

refuses to let you hold the dog for the rest of the day.

franco colapinto

you sigh mid-bite of your sandwich and mutter, “i could eat javier milei.”

franco just stares at you. like a mix of concern, existential dread, and the weight of the argentine government crashing down on him. “…why would you say that, what if he's listening?” he whispers.

ʚ・kick sauber

nico hulkenberg

you're chewing on a breadstick and shrug, “i could eat kevin magnussen.”

nico doesn’t blink. doesn’t flinch. “get in line.”

he keeps chewing. you’re not sure if he’s serious. you don’t ask.

gabriel bortoleto

you’re giggling to yourself while setting the table, and blurt out, “i could eat isack hadjar.”

gabriel short-circuits. he stares at the salad you made like it might be laced with something. “you worry me.”

2021-2025 © jungwnies | All rights reserved. Do not repost, plagiarize, or translate

[bueckersstuff]

HER NEW OBSESSION

Part I Part II Pairing: Paige Bueckers x Reader

You and Paige didn’t talk about that night.

You didn’t talk about the way she touched your face.

Didn’t talk about the way she looked at you.

Didn’t talk about the way her voice had dropped when she told you not to walk in looking like that again.

It was easier to act like it never happened.

So that’s exactly what you both did.

Things were awkward—but manageable. Civil, even.

A few words exchanged in passing.

Normal. Forgettable.

Like nothing ever happened.

And if Paige started acting a little different?

A little distant?

A little too reckless with the way she was bringing girls home?

That was her business.

Not yours.

Azzi brought it up first.

You were sitting outside between classes when she plopped down beside you, stretching her legs out.

"Paige has been weird lately," she said, brows furrowed.

You kept your face neutral. "Weird how?"

"I don’t know," Azzi sighed. "She’s been zoning out a lot. At practice, in class… Just looks lost in thought. It’s not like her. Have you noticed anything? You live with her."

You blinked.

"No."

"Really?"

"Really," you shrugged. "She keeps to herself. I don’t know what’s going on with her."

Azzi studied you for a second before sighing.

"Maybe she’s just in her own head," she muttered, rubbing her temple. "Whatever it is, it’s messing with her game."

You didn’t have an answer for that.

Because really, you didn’t know what was going on with Paige.

All you knew was that things felt different.

Paige came home late that night. Later than usual.

Her hoodie was damp from the rain, her sneakers scuffed from whatever drills they had at practice. She barely looked at you as she kicked them off by the door, dragging her feet toward the couch where you sat.

You didn’t acknowledge her either.

You just kept scrolling through your phone, letting the glow of the screen illuminate your face.

This had become the norm between you two.

She did her thing. You did yours. No unnecessary words. No acknowledgment of the tension hanging thick in the air.

You expected her to grab a drink, maybe disappear into her room like she always did.

Instead, she hovered.

She stood there for a second, looking at you like she was debating something, then without warning—

"Don’t move."

Her voice was quiet. Rough around the edges.

You barely had time to register the words before she dropped onto the couch beside you.

Then—she stretched out.

And suddenly, her head was in your lap.

Your whole body went stiff.

The weight of her pressed against you—warm, heavy, solid.

She had one arm slung over her face, shielding her eyes from view. Her other hand rested loosely against her stomach, fingers twitching like she couldn’t get comfortable.

She didn’t say anything else. Didn’t explain.

She just lay there.

Seconds passed.

You swallowed.

It was weird.

Paige had never done this before.

You opened your mouth—to say what, you didn’t know—but then you noticed the tension in her shoulders, the way her fingers curled slightly, like she was holding something in.

Like she was trying not to break.

Your mouth snapped shut.

You weren’t sure how long you sat there, frozen.

A few minutes? An hour?

But then Paige twitched.

A quiet sound left her lips—almost a whimper.

You looked down, startled.

Her brows were furrowed, her jaw clenched.

She was having a dream. A bad one.

Your hand hovered above her hair.

Hesitating.

Paige wasn’t the type to let herself be vulnerable, not like this.

If she woke up and saw you comforting her, she might hate you for it.

But then she twitched again.

This time, her whole body tensed.

You sighed. Then, slowly, carefully, you ran your fingers through her hair.

Soft. Slow.

Paige exhaled.

A deep, relieved breath, like something inside her had just uncoiled.

Her body melted against you.

The tension in her shoulders eased, and her grip on herself loosened.

Your hand kept moving, threading through her hair, scratching lightly at her scalp.

She sighed again, turning her face slightly, pressing into you.

The warmth of her breath ghosted against your stomach.

You swallowed hard.

She looked so different like this. So unguarded.

And that scared you more than anything.

You should stop.

You should wake her up.

But instead—you kept going.

Your fingers traced through her hair, and you let yourself watch her for just a little longer.

And before you knew it—you fell asleep too.

You woke up feeling light. Too light.

Like you weren’t even on the couch anymore.

It took you a second to realize—you weren’t.

You kept your breathing even, your body still, pretending to be asleep as you felt strong arms carrying you effortlessly through the dimly lit room.

Paige.

You knew it was her before you even opened your eyes. The scent of her shampoo, the familiar warmth of her body so close to yours—it was unmistakable.

She was careful, her grip steady, one arm hooked beneath your knees, the other wrapped securely around your back. Each step was measured, like she was trying not to wake you.

But she didn’t know. You were already awake.

Your heart pounded as she reached your room, the bed dipping slightly as she gently set you down on the mattress. But she didn’t pull away immediately.

She lingered.

You felt her staring.

A breath hitched. Not yours. Hers.

Then, before you could fully process it, you felt her fingers—light, hesitant—trailing along your face. A soft touch brushing against your cheek, smoothing over your hair. A quiet, barely-there caress, like she was fighting herself the entire time.

“Fuck,” she whispered, voice rough, strained, like she was battling something she was losing to.

Your stomach clenched.

Her breathing deepened. You could feel it—warm, shaky, right against your skin. The air between you crackled with something heavy, something dangerous. Your mind raced. What was she doing? What was she thinking? Was she about to—

Your eyes snapped open.

Paige froze.

Wide-eyed, you stared at her. Her face was close. Too close. Her pupils were blown, her lips slightly parted, her entire body tense like she’d just been caught doing something she wasn’t supposed to.

But she didn’t move away.

She just looked at you.

Like she wanted something.

Like she needed something.

And who were you to deny her that?

You swallowed hard, pulse hammering against your throat. You couldn’t lie to yourself anymore. Even if this was a game to her, even if she was only doing this out of some curiosity—

You wanted her, too.

Suddenly, Paige looked so different in your eyes.

Your body moved before your mind caught up. You inched closer. Just a little. Just enough to feel the heat radiating off her skin.

Paige sucked in a breath.

“What are you doing?” she whispered, voice rough, like she already knew the answer but needed to hear it anyway.

You exhaled shakily. “Go on.”

She looked wrecked—like that was all the permission she needed, yet somehow it still wasn’t enough. She hesitated, her lips parting like she was about to say something.

“You sure?” she rasped. “I don’t want to ruin what we have.”

But you were already nodding—

Not even finished—

Before she was kissing you.

It was desperate, unrestrained, like she had been imagining this moment for far too long. Like she had played this scenario in her head over and over again until she couldn’t take it anymore.

She pulled back, her breath ragged, her fingers digging into the sheets beside your head.

Her eyes burned into yours, shocked—by herself, by you, by this entire moment.

And then—

She kissed you again.

Harder. Hungrier.

Like she had been celibate for years and was finally breaking. Like she had been starving and you were the only thing that could satisfy her now.

Your fingers curled into her hoodie, pulling her closer, feeling the warmth of her body press flush against yours.

“Shit,” Paige groaned against your lips, deep and guttural, like she had been holding herself back for too long and was finally giving in.

She needed this.

She needed you.

And the scariest part?

You needed her back.

Paige was on top of you now.

Her weight pressing you into the mattress, her hands gripping the sheets beside your head, her knee between your legs—keeping you right where she wanted you.

Her breath was heavy, uneven, hot against your skin.

You felt caged in.

Pinned.

And you didn’t mind one bit.

She swallowed hard, her eyes dark, wild. Her hair fell forward, strands tickling your cheek.

Her thumb brushed the corner of your mouth—almost absentmindedly, like she was memorizing you.

She’s looking at you like she didn’t know whether to hold you or devour you.

“Tell me to stop,” she muttered, her voice raw. “Because if you don’t—I won’t.”

You should say something.

You should think.

You should be rational.

But Paige was on top of you.

And rationality had long left the room.

Instead, you tipped your chin up, closer to her lips.

“Then don’t,” you whispered.

A sound left her—half a curse, half a groan.

Then—she snapped.

Paige crashed her lips back onto yours, harder, deeper, messier than before.

She kissed you like she was angry—like she was furious that she wanted you this much.

Like she had been fighting this feeling for too damn long and finally, finally—she lost.

Her hands roamed on your waist, stomach, legs—gripping, squeezing, taking.

She cursed under her breath, words tumbling out between kisses, hushed and wrecked.

“Fuck—” she muttered, dragging her lips across your jaw.

Her hands burned against your skin, sliding beneath fabric, exploring, teasing, taking.

“You don’t even know—” she exhaled against your throat, her breath hot, shivering.

Your fingers found the edges of her hoodie, fisting the material, anchoring yourself.

Paige’s lips were everywhere—neck, collarbone, pulse point—like she was trying to memorize the taste of you.

A deep, needy sound rumbled from her chest as she pulled back, eyes flickering over you.

Her gaze darkened.

She swallowed.

"You’re gonna be the fucking death of me," she rasped, voice wrecked.

Then she kissed you again.

Like she needed you to breathe.

Her hands slid down your waist, gripping tighter, as if afraid you'd disappear.

You gasped against her mouth, overwhelmed by her—the weight of her, the heat, the way she fit against you so perfectly.

Paige groaned, her lips barely breaking from yours as she whispered, "God—"

The room was spinning.

Everything was Paige.

Paige, who had you pinned.

Paige, who couldn’t seem to get enough of you.

Paige, who never let herself want you—until now.

She slowed, her forehead pressing against yours, breath mixing.

For a moment, neither of you moved, lingering in the space between something reckless and something devastatingly inevitable.

Then, almost hesitantly, Paige pulled back—just an inch, just enough to meet your gaze.

Her fingers traced your jaw, her breathing still ragged.

"Tell me you regret this," she murmured, but the way she looked at you—like she was praying you wouldn’t—made your stomach tighten.

You stared up at her.

At Paige, breathless, flushed, staring like she had no clue what to do with herself.

And then you whispered, “I don’t.”

Something inside her broke.

Paige let out a shaky breath, eyes flickering down to your lips, her grip tightening on you—

Then, this time, when she kissed you—

She didn’t hold back.

She took.

And you let her.

Let yourself forget everything else.

And when it was over—when exhaustion finally won and you collapsed beside her, tangled, breathless, spent—Paige reached for your hand.

Just barely.

Just enough for your fingers to brush.

A silent something.

You didn’t pull away.

And that was enough.

For now.

And just like that—she fell asleep.

The first thing you noticed when you woke up was the empty space beside you.

Paige was gone.

Your body still felt heavy, like you were weighed down by last night, but the absence of warmth next to you made something tighten in your chest.

You sat up slowly, heart pounding as fragments of last night came flooding back.

Paige’s hands, firm and desperate.

The way she looked at you, like she was starving.

The way she touched you, like she was memorizing every inch.

The way she broke apart in your arms.

Heat crept up your neck as you buried your face in your hands, mortified.

What the hell did we do?

The door to her room was shut.

Your stomach turned.

Did she regret it?

Before the panic could fully settle in, your eyes flickered to the kitchen counter.

A small, folded note rested next to a glass of water.

You hesitated before reaching for it, your fingers slightly trembling.

"Got practice. See you later. We'll talk."

You exhaled, shoulders slumping.

It wasn’t a dismissal.

But it wasn’t a promise either.

Still, she left a note.

And somehow, that stopped the anxious spiral forming in your chest.

For now.

You tried to go about your day as if nothing happened.

Class felt longer than usual.

Lunch felt off, like everyone could see through you.

Your skin tingled at the thought of Paige.

You weren’t sure how to act—how to feel.

Did last night mean something to her?

Or was it just another mistake she’d rather forget?

You didn’t text her.

She didn’t text you.

And yet, the anticipation sat heavy in your stomach, a constant, nagging thing that wouldn’t leave.

You heard the front door open before you saw her.

Paige walked in, fresh from practice, hair damp from a shower, hoodie slung low over her eyes.

You sat on the couch, pretending to scroll through your phone, but your heart hammered.

She didn’t say anything at first.

Just kicked off her sneakers, stretched, then sat on the opposite end of the couch.

Silence.

Awkward.

Then—

"So," Paige finally said, voice almost careful, like she was testing the air. "How are you feeling?"

You blinked. "What?"

She turned her head slightly, watching you. "After last night."

Your face burned.

"Paige—!"

She smirked, leaning back against the cushions. "What? It’s a valid question."

You glared at her, heart racing, but her teasing smirk only deepened.

You hated that she looked so relaxed.

Like she wasn’t unraveling inside the way you were.

But then her voice softened.

"I'm serious, though. Did I... make you feel good?"

You gasped, horrified.

"Paige—!"

She burst out laughing, throwing her head back, and for some reason, that made you relax.

The tension cracked, just a little.

She still looked like your roommate.

Not just the girl who had wrecked you the night before.

Your shoulders eased, lips pressing into a reluctant smile.

"You're insufferable," you muttered.

Paige only grinned.

And then—as if she hadn’t just turned your entire world upside down—she stretched her arms out, tilting her head towards her room.

"If you ever wanna do it again," she said casually, "just open my door."

Your jaw dropped.

She was joking.

Right?

Paige smirked at your stunned silence, then stood up and disappeared into her room—leaving you sitting there, heart pounding, pulse racing, brain an absolute mess.

Shit.

You sat there frozen, Paige’s words echoing in your mind.

"If you ever wanna do it again, just open my door."

Like it was nothing.

Like last night hadn’t been a complete shift in whatever the hell your relationship was.

You swallowed hard, gripping your phone as if it could ground you.

Paige was already in her room, like she hadn’t just dropped a bomb on you.

And now you were left sitting there, heart pounding, body still remembering the feel of her hands, her mouth, the weight of her on top of you.

Shit.

You shook your head, forcing yourself to snap out of it.

She was joking. She had to be.

Paige had always been playful, teasing, cocky—but this?

This was new.

This was her acknowledging what happened.

And giving you a choice.

You exhaled slowly, fingers twitching at your side, the ghost of her touch still lingering.

You wouldn’t.

You shouldn’t.

But something in you itched.

Your eyes flickered to the hallway, where her door sat just barely closed.

Like she had left it open just enough.

Your body moved before your mind could stop it.

One step.

Then another.

The apartment was silent, save for the distant hum of the AC.

Your breath felt too loud.

Your pulse, too erratic.

Paige’s door was within reach now.

You stared at it.

Fingers grazing the surface.

Paige.

Your roommate.

Your friend.

The girl who had spent the last few weeks making you question everything.

Would she really be okay with this?

Would you?

Your heart pounded as you pushed the door open, just a little.

The room was dimly lit, the only glow coming from the city lights outside the window.

And then you saw her.

Lying on her bed, hoodie off, tank top loose around her collarbone.

She wasn’t sleeping.

She was waiting.

Your breath caught in your throat.

Paige turned her head, eyes locking onto yours.

And just like that—you were done for.

"Couldn’t resist, huh?" she murmured, voice low, teasing—but there was something else in her eyes.

Something you couldn’t ignore.

Something dangerous.

"Shut up," you muttered, stepping inside.

Her lips curled, but she stayed where she was, watching you with that same unreadable intensity.

You closed the door behind you.

And this time, you didn’t hesitate.

Things didn’t change after that night. Not really.

Paige still woke up early for practice.

You still had your usual schedule.

You still passed each other in the dorm, civil, casual, normal.

At least, that’s what you told yourself.

But one thing was different.

The flings? Gone.

No girls slipping out of her room in the morning.

No hushed phone calls when she thought you weren’t listening.

No stolen glances across campus, no girls hanging off her after practice.

Nothing.

It was subtle at first. You didn’t notice right away.

But then the silence became too loud to ignore.

And the absence of something that had always been there felt heavier than its presence ever did.

You sat in your usual seat in the lecture hall, half-listening to the professor drone on about something you were too distracted to absorb.

Paige sat two rows ahead, leaned back, one arm lazily draped over the chair beside her.

Your eyes flickered to her out of habit.

It was a small thing, but she seemed… restless.

Fidgeting with her pen.

Checking her phone, then locking it without typing anything.

Tapping her fingers against the desk, brow furrowed like something was off.

You shouldn’t care.

You really shouldn’t.

But you noticed it anyway.

Just like you noticed how she didn’t disappear after class anymore.

How she started walking home at the same time as you, without actually walking with you.

How she lingered in the apartment more, flipping through channels on the couch instead of heading out.

And the most obvious thing—

How there was never anyone else around.

You came out of your room late that night, half-asleep, mind too clouded to care about anything except getting water.

Paige was already in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, spinning a basketball absentmindedly between her fingers.

She glanced up when she saw you, eyes flicking over you for a brief second before returning to the ball.

"You good?" she asked.

"Yeah," you mumbled, opening the fridge. "Just thirsty."

Paige hummed. "Should probably keep a bottle in your room then."

You rolled your eyes. "Didn’t realize I needed survival tactics in my own apartment."

A small smirk ghosted over her lips. "You never know."

You scoffed, grabbing your drink, but as you turned, something in your chest tightened.

Because for the first time in a long time—Paige was alone.

No one texting her.

No one waiting for her.

No plans.

Just her.

And you.

And suddenly, you weren’t so sure that things hadn’t changed after all.

It had been a week.

A week of avoiding certain thoughts.

A week of pretending nothing had changed.

A week of stealing glances and pretending you weren’t.

But when Paige walked through the door that night, all of that forgotten restraint wavered.

She looked exhausted.

Hair damp from a post-game shower, shoulders slumped under her hoodie, her duffel bag hanging from one hand. A hard loss.

You’d seen her upset before, but this was different. She looked…defeated.

You weren’t sure what to say, so you said nothing. Instead, you grabbed your phone and sent a text.

You: There’s ice cream in the freezer if you want some. You look like you need it.

A moment later, her phone buzzed in her pocket. You saw her pull it out, glance at the screen, then pause.

Her eyes flickered up—slightly wide, slightly hesitant.

Then she pulled her phone up, typed something back, and a second later, your phone vibrated.

Paige: How’d you text me?

You frowned, typing back quickly.

You: You gave me your number that night I got rained on, remember?

She read the message.

Then exhaled a quiet chuckle before disappearing into her room.

You assumed that was the end of it.

But minutes later, her door creaked open.

She stepped out, barefoot, hair still slightly damp, wearing an oversized hoodie and sweatpants.

No words.

No dramatic entrance.

Just her standing there, looking at you with a gaze that felt too heavy.

You blinked. “Ice cream’s in the—”

She cut you off by walking straight to the couch and dropping onto it, right next to you.

“…You okay?” you asked carefully.

She didn’t answer right away, just leaned her head back against the cushion with a slow exhale.

Then—

“I fucking hate losing.”

You huffed a small laugh. “Yeah, I kinda figured.”

She turned her head slightly, looking at you.

"Sometimes I wonder if it's all worth it," she muttered.

That surprised you.

You hesitated before saying, "It is, though. You're literally one of the best."

Paige’s lips twitched at that, but she didn’t deny it.

Instead, she stared at you for a second longer, her eyes flickering—like she was thinking too hard.

Like there was something she wanted to say but wasn’t saying.

And then, just when you were about to break the silence, she shifted.

Not away—closer.

The air felt tight instantly.

You swallowed. It was too familiar.

Paige tilted her head, gaze flickering down to your lips before she caught herself and looked away.

She exhaled.

Then, so quietly you barely caught it—

“…I need a release.”

Your breath hitched.

She didn’t say it like that—not overtly, not intentionally sultry.

It slipped out like a confession.

Your stomach flipped.

"Why not go to one of your flings?" you asked, the words out before you could stop them.

Paige huffed a soft, almost amused breath. "Haven't been interested."

You frowned. "What, just like that?"

She turned fully now, one leg tucking onto the couch, facing you entirely.

Then, with zero hesitation, she said—

"I think I found a new obsession."

Your heart stopped.

Paige didn’t say it outright.

Didn’t spell it out.

But the way she looked at you?

She might as well have.

You swallowed hard, but before you could even process it, she was already leaning in.

And this time, you let her.

The first brush of her lips was slow. Testing.

Then, when you didn’t pull away—when you sighed into it—she gripped the back of your neck and kissed you harder.

Desperate.

Like she had been waiting for this. For the whole week.

Like she had been holding back, like having you so near and her not being able to touch you, tortured her.

Your hands found her hoodie, fisting the fabric as she deepened the kiss.

A small, frustrated noise slipped from her throat before she pushed you back against the couch, climbing over you, straddling you completely.

Your breath hitched.

Her hands skimmed down your sides. Your stomach tensed under her touch.

Paige pulled back just slightly, forehead resting against yours, breath uneven.

Then—

“Tell me to stop.”

Your pulse hammered.

"Because I can't."

You didn’t tell her to stop.

Instead, you pulled her back down.

And that was all it took for her to lose control.

Paige groaned against your lips, like she had been waiting for this, like holding back had been hell.

Her hands were everywhere—gripping your waist, your thighs, slipping under your hoodie like she was desperate to feel you.

The heat between you was suffocating.

Her lips trailed down to your jaw, your neck, her breath hot against your skin.

You gasped when her teeth scraped against your pulse, and that sound—that sound—made Paige curse under her breath.

"Fuck," she murmured, voice husky. "You're gonna kill me."

Your grip tightened in her hoodie, trying to ground yourself, but Paige wasn’t letting you.

She was losing herself in you.

Her hands framed your face, her forehead pressing against yours as she tried to catch her breath.

"You don’t know what you're doing to me," she muttered, like she was mad about it.

You did.

You could feel it in the way she touched you—starved, impatient, obsessed.

But then, suddenly, Paige slowed.

Her lips still hovered close, her hands still gripping you tight, but her movements turned… deliberate.

Like she wanted to memorize you.

Like she was savoring something she wasn’t sure she could have again.

And that—that scared you.

Because it meant this wasn’t just about a release.

It was more.

But before you could process it, Paige kissed you again—deeper, slower, like she was making sure you felt it.

You let yourself drown.

taglist: @alilstressyandlotdepressy @iowahawkeyes22 @delusional-day-dreamer @unadulteratedcyclepaper @nicebellee @lively-blues @paige05bby @munchtotally @vicsstufff @bucketbueckers @avvwritesstufff @wheeniemyloove @sarahkaisley Love you guys ❤️

[jakesimfromstatefarm]

──── YOU'RE HERE, THAT'S ENOUGH . ↳ one shot // also part of the no doubt series !

✎ᝰ .ᐟ aka jake's late, you order for your own drink for once, and now he owes you his life.

── sim jaeyun x f!reader ౨ৎ wc. 866 ⌗ pure fluff, jake is so self-panic-inducing, mentions of breaking up, mentions of jake abt to jump out a window . he's just a simp at the end of the day .

↳ IMPORTANT NOTE .ᐟ ── this is part of my no doubt series ─ a sequel series of short drabbles that take place after the events of my fic no doubt, and show jake & reader's relationship throughout their first year together (& how jake wins her trust & love back hehe) ── THIS CAN BE READ AS A ONE-SHOT, however, there will be some easter eggs if you've read no doubt before!

↳ addie's ✉ .ᐟ ── hehe another cutesy one. im excited for the next one everyone pls buckle up...i almost kinda feel bad for jake here this poor guy just lives life on the verge of panic every day. am i evil for this? sorry jakey <3

Jake is sprinting.

Not fast-walking. Not lightly jogging.

Jake is in full-on, Olympic-level, life-or-death sprint through the streets.

His bag is slapping his side. His hoodie is slipping off his shoulder. His lungs are screaming. And he’s probably sweating more now than he did during the entire extra hour of dance practice that made him late in the first place.

And still—he’s pretty sure he’s still not moving fast enough.

His phone is glued to his palm, screen still open to the frantic texts to you:

jake (6:32PM): baby im so so so sorry practice is running over i swear im leaving soon PLEASE dont hate me

jake (6:41PM): im literally dying to be there pls give me 10 minutes max i promise

jake (6:47PM): oh my god im running now im literally sprinting my lungs are collapsing hold on

jake (6:50PM): please still be there please please please

Jake nearly crashes into the café door.

He bursts in, chest heaving, heart racing, vision tunneling. His eyes dart around the café, already mentally preparing the most desperate apology of his life—

And then he sees you.

There you are. Sitting by the window like something out of a postcard. Sipping your iced peach latte. Typing away on your laptop like nothing’s wrong.

Jake’s lungs fully give out.

He practically trips over his own two feet, words spilling out before he’s even fully made it to you.

“I am—so sorry,” he gasps, hands bracing himself against the table, his bag fully falling to his side now, his entire image disheveled. “I—I—oh my god—I messed up, I know—”

You blink up, startled.

“Jake—”

“I swear I left as soon as I could, I was literally ready to bolt over, but then we had to go over the choreo one more time and—” he cuts himself off to breathe, huffing in frustration, running a hand through his sweat-damp hair. “I swear I was ready to jump out the window to get here faster and I know I should’ve managed my time better and I shou—”

“Sim Jaeyun.”

Jake’s mouth snaps shut.

You tilt your head, your eyes soft as you look up at your boyfriend.

“Sit.”

He does. Immediately. Like an obedient golden retriever.

“Breathe.”

“Trying.”

You gently push an untouched iced Americano towards him, “I ordered for you.”

Jake looks down at the drink. Then back at you.

“Wait, you ordered? Like you spoke to the cashi—wait. You’re not mad?”

“Nope.”

“Not even…like, a little mad?”

“You sound like you want me to be.”

Jake lets out a sound that’s equal parts relief and self-deprecating, “Well, definitely not, but I’m late. To our date.”

You casually take a sip of your latte, your gaze still soft on him, “Jake. You told me what was happening, you ran here like an insane person, and now you’re looking at me with those eyes you do that makes you look like a kicked puppy. Why would I be upset?”

Jake blinks.

You’re not mad. You’re here.

Still here.

Still you.

Looking at him with nothing but patience and understanding.

And Jake feels something deep and warm settle into his bones.

Jake just stares at you for a full solid second until finally—

“Oh my god,” he collapses onto the table, face-planting into his arms. “You’re actually an angel. I don’t deserve you.”

You break out into a fit of giggles, “Okay, that’s a little dramatic.”

“No, like—” he lifts his head just enough to look at you with big, defeated eyes. “I thought I ruined it.”

“You didn’t.”

“I thought you were gonna break up with me.”

“I wasn’t.”

“I thought I’d walk in here and you’d be gone and I’d have to get on my knees at your front door and beg for my life back.”

“…Did you eat lunch today?”

Jake ignores that.

“I just—” He grabs your hand across the table. His voice drops into something low, something sincere. “I don’t want you to think I’m not trying. Or that you’re not a priority.”

Your face softens, “I know I am. And you are trying, Jake. Like, so hard. I see it. You don’t have to prove yourself to me every second of the day.”

Jake swallows.

“I appreciate you, Jakey—” you squeeze his hand, “—a lot. And I’m just happy you’re here.”

Jake lets out a breathless laugh, feeling suddenly light again. He lifts your hand and presses a kiss to your knuckles—once, twice, like he needs to (he does).

“Okay,” he breathes, lips still brushing your skin. “Okay. But just so you know—I am still making it up to you.”

You raise a brow, smiling, “Oh?”

“Yup,” Jake grins, flipping your hand over to press another kiss to your palm. “Whatever you want. I feel bad you had to order our drinks by yourself, I know you hate that.”

You laugh, rolling your eyes, “That’s true. I hate talking to cashiers.”

“Don’t worry, baby.” Another kiss. “I’ll make sure you never have to talk to one ever again for the rest of your life.”

“You’re actually ridiculous, Sim Jaeyun,” you smile, cheeks warm.

“Mmhm,” he mumbles before countering immediately—

“And you’re perfect.”

<< past || no doubt m. list || next >>

tag list! (open ! // bolded couldn't be added!)

@bluxjun @ki2rins @why-did-i-just-do-this @favoritten @lovialymisc @xylatox @vivimura @leehsngs @puma-riki @lezzleeferguson-120 @enhaprettystars @laurradoesloveu @sievenderz @somuchdard @kristynaah @hinryh @ltfirecracker @lov4hoon @taeheexx @niyzu @fangirl125reader @0429jw @dreamy-carat @yuons @thestarinstarbucks @miszes @llearlert @ppeachyttae @hoomin10 @teddybeartaetae @tanisha2060 @therealmrsbahng @beomgyu-bears @ikeulove @jiyeons-closet @youngheejay @wxnderingthoughts @fuevrois @soobundle1009 @isoobie @enhypenova @zoemeltigloos @lizdevorak @deluluscenarios @bloomiize @hasuyv @ijustwannareadstuff20 @veilstqr @etteyun @dreamiestay

[obsessivevoidkitten]

Pollen and Pheromones

Kinktober Day 13: Sex Pollen

Male Alpha Yandere x Gender Neutral Omega Reader CW: Noncon, sex pollen, aphrodisiac, pheromones, knotting, biting, claiming bite, stranded, spaceship crash, sci-fi, outer space, alien planet, a/b/o dynamics, bigotry/prejudice against omegas, rivalry, breeding, general yandere behavior, tsundere, betrayal Word Count: 1.6k (Enjoy this kinktober meal I have prepared <3)

"Star log: This is Pilot 2418 currently operating vessel Starlion: Orion. I am currently on route to pass the threshold of our galaxy in less than five minutes."

You were a shuttle pilot, one of the Exploration Guild's best. Ever since humanity had achieved interplanetary travel, they had sought to extend themselves ever further. With the new drift-space drives, that dream was now a reality.

They were only currently suited for small 1 to 2 man shuttlecraft, and only a couple such craft had been made. Two different ones had been commissioned through the guild, with both pilots competing to see who could exit the Milky Way first. The new drive could only be used in bursts to prevent overloading, so the journey had still taken a few months. But it seemed like you were about to succeed. Then you could make a U-turn and start drift-jumping back towards the nearest station.

Since you were an omega, this was a great achievement, a notice to the universe that your kind could do whatever betas and alphas could. You would be able to help stamp out the lingering bigotry and inspire others all with one action.

You were just about to cross the finish line!

Suddenly, your opponent, Tetsunori, came out of drift-space behind you. He had been your long-time rival, with both of you being about equally skilled.

But this was unacceptable to him as he was an alpha and held to the knothead mindset that an omega's place was bouncing on an alpha's prick or maybe in a teaching or nursing job.

You weren't worried, though. You had a solid lead. There was no way he could close the gap.

You rolled your eyes at the incoming transmission.

"Why don't you just give up now? If you surrender nicely, I'll let you celebrate my victory by letting you keep my knot warm!"

The temptation to reply was too great.

"Ha! You may be good at navigating the stars, but I doubt you have ever found your way into an omega."

Conversing with him hadn't distracted you or made you pause, so he growled as he switched to another plan. He fired on his tractor beam.

What the fuck, was he insane? Stooping so low to make sure you couldn't have a historic moment? You fired an equal and opposite tractor beam through his, which forced him to disengage. Something only possible because both ships were similar in size and energy output. Did he think you were some amateur?

In a desperate bid to prevent you from winning, Tetsunori rammed his shuttle into yours.

This type of bumping wasn't unheard of. It wasn't lethal if both ships were similar and had their shields up. But the bouncing was pretty strong for both parties, which is why it was a last-ditch effort. It could push you past the line, or it could bump him further. Neither of those things happened, though.

Instead, you careened right into the gravitational pull off a planet. You did everything you could to slow down and stabilize, but nothing seemed to be working.

Tetsunori sped after you in his spacecraft as he spoke into the comm link.

"I'm sorry, oh my god, I'm so sorry! I just had to be first! What omega would want to be mates with someone who they bested??"

You didn't have time for his weird ass confession and barely registered it. Your shields were still online and he had started pulsing his tractor beam to slow you down, full usage of it at such speeds could rip your ship apart, thankfully he wasn't an amateur either and knew that.

You put all available power and quickly put it into overloading the shields. You hit the emergency crash button, and two nozzles came out from the sides of the cockpit and sprayed you with a rapidly drying foam that would reduce damage to you if you got flung about the ship. Tetsunori's reckless and speedy entry into the atmosphere may have been enough to save you, but he had lost control of his vessel as well.

As you crashed, he careened away and crash-landed as well.

It was a good thing the high-tech impact reduction foam was so effective. Despite having shields, the ship was still shaken pretty badly, and the inertial dampeners weren't powerful enough to thwart damage from such a landing.

You took stock of the condition of your systems.

Almost everything was fried. You could at least scan the planet. It seemed like you had actually lucked out. In the entire galaxy planets that supported life were incredibly rare. But you had landed on one.

It seemed there were no known biological hazards present. No recognized toxins, dangerous bacteria, or viral agents. You were cleared to remove your suit. The temporary foam had started to dissolve, so it wasn't hard to remove.

The scanner also indicated there was a strong human life sign. It appeared that Tetsunori was okay.

You took the survival kit from underneath your seat as well as some beverages and rations you had procured at the last station and headed in the direction of dust and smoke in the distance.

You didn't even need the ship's scanner to tell you that the great imbecile, Tetsunori had landed there.

As you got closer, you stepped into a field of flowers that surrounded the entire crash site. You were probably still a mile away, but all around you were odd glittery silver and gold flowers.

The smell of them made you just slightly lightheaded and tingly. You realized the tiniest bit of slick was dribbling down your leg. They must be an aphrodisiac. The scanner hadn't warned you of anything in the air that was truly dangerous, so it probably wouldn't matter very much. And it really didn't. For you. As you trudged through the flowers and pollen, the effects did not get worse.

But for Tetsunori, the pollen was much stronger. When it hit his nostrils, it immediately put him into rut. Not a typical rut either, one of the ruts you see in pornos where the alpha is almost feral and unable to control their mating drive. When you came upon him, he was sitting on a piece of debris from his shit and rocking back and forth in clear distress. Through his outfit, his bulge was immediately visible.

"T-tetsunori? Uh... are you okay? D-did you get hurt in the crash?"

You took a step back when he looked up at you. His eyes were red, giving him a demonic appearance.

"The flowers, I think... they... UGH! My thoughts are all jumbled..."

He started to rub and massage his crotch desperately. He finally caught a whiff of your scent, ripe from the recent hike over to him and from being without a proper shower since your last space station stop. Not to mention the smell of the slick the aphrodisiac had coaxed out of you.

He started wildly sniffing at the air.

"Y-you smell so nice. You can help!"

You started backing away slowly.

"Uh... help with what?"

He got up and closed the difference between the two of you. Sweat had his dark hair clinging to his head. He was significantly taller and looked down at you intensely before sniffing and licking your neck with lazy broad strokes.

"S-smell so gooood. Always wanted to knot youuuu~"

You tried to push him off.

"Tetsunori! St-stop!"

You slapped, smacked, kicked, punched, and flailed, but nothing you did deterred him in the slightest.

"I'm sorry, but I fucking n-need this!"

He pinned you to the ground, clawing and biting off all your clothing until only your underwear was left, he removed it more delicately before inhaling its scent deeply and putting it in his pocket for later.

"Please don't do this, Tetsunori, PLEASE!"

He looked down at you, and it seemed like he was genuinely trying to resist before the pollen-charged rut won out.

Tetsunori unzipped his pants and let his drooling cock and full heavy balls out.

"G-gonna put all my babies in you! Have to! Have to!"

The lust-drunk alpha wasted no more time in ramming into you, an insertion that would have been more difficult had the pollen not slicked you up. Though it was still sudden and slightly painful.

"A-aaah!"

You tried to kick at him, but he growled viciously before pushing you into a mating press and slobbering all over your neck with his eager tongue.

The pollen must have increased the potency of his pheromones, or at least your susceptibility to them, because his musk was starting to cloud your thoughts.

Your grunts of pain became gasps of pleasure as your body quickly accommodated to his large size. You winced as he bit down hard on your neck to claim you. He kept right on fucking into you without skipping a beat.

He licked and kissed the lightly bleeding bite mark, some part of him remembering to comfort you despite his dominating need to fill you with cock. And by that point, the last of your resistance finally melted away.

"T-tetsunoriiiiii~" You moaned as your toes curled and body twitched in orgasm.

He growled your name in response and gave a few hard, deep thrusts before cumming as deeply as possible.

A comforting fullness filled your hole as his knot locked the two of you together. He pulled you close as he sat down so that you were in his lap facing him. The two of you caught your breath, then remained in an awkward silence until his knot deflated.

"G-got it out of your system?"

"Yeah... for the most part... sorry about that..."

You lifted yourself off of his lap, his half hard cock springing free with a lewd plopping sound.

"Well... it wasn't your fault. It was just the pollen..."

He grabbed your wrist and pulled you back into his lap, his cock ramming directly into you, then began humping.

"Well... it wasn't just the pollen..."

[ruinix]

recent walk in..sugar daddy quinn mad when he realizes you haven’t been using the black credit card he gave you for expenses

Hello, lovely. Of course, hehe.😏 You did not catch me writing this. I am just a ghost taking over the keyboard. I need to put this out before a new walkin comes out.... (edit not really fully sugar daddy!quinn. But he totally would pay for everything type of boyfriend)

Broken Promise, Broken Cards

TW/CW: 18+ MDNI, Smut, Spanking (pussy slapping??), Edging, Unprotected sex (protections, lovelies, they’re important), Squirting, Just Quinn being so angry that he became calm and he edges you coz he can.

Count: 3356 -> 3734 words (Edited) | Masterlist | Taglist

You’re sending him pictures of your shopping. One picture after another. One choice after another. Quinn helps you pick when you ask for his opinion. He has no problem answering your texts while he watches a replay of a game. The only problem is that Quinn has yet to receive a notification from any of your purchases.

With that, he can no longer focus on the game. It’s just white noise now while he refreshes his inbox.

Swipe down. Wait. Close the app. Open it. Swipe down.

Over and over again, whenever you send him a new photo of your successful purchase.

None. Not a single fucking one.

He is getting too agitated when he receives a photo of a paper bag of a particular brand of lingerie with your delicate hand holding it. You have your nails done earlier this morning. It’s so pretty with your favorite shade of pink and favorite flower designs. Just like how you described it before you went out. He can’t wait for your hands around him tonight.

‘Focus,’ he reprimands himself.

Shaking his head, focusing on the paper bag instead, locking in the brand, he gives the purchase a few minutes to process—or whatever the fuck—but again, nothing. He stares and stares into the screen, his eyebrows meeting. He remembers having every transaction on that card to be sent over his email too. He set that up long before. So, where the fuck are they?

Are you actually buying things or are you stealing them?

Did you bring cash?

Quinn didn’t give you cash for anything else other than your nails and the tip for its service today. His frustrations build up. He’s so close to calling the bank and making sure that the card is activated. When he receives another message, he takes a moment to calm down—he has to—before opening it.

He immediately gets distracted by how bright you look. You are grinning so much that the corners of your eyes crinkle, a blush flushing your face. Your nails are on full show once more as you hold up the bag next to your face. So beautiful.

After a solid five minutes, he remembers to refresh his inbox. Only then does it dawn at him.

Are you even using the card he gave you? No, that can’t be. You promised him to use that card today. You are definitely using it.

Aren’t you?

One last swipe down to refresh his email. Still nothing.

What the fuck.

You’re definitely not using the card.

Quinn paces. He’s getting angry for you breaking your promise, getting worried because you’re buying a lot of stuff today. More than you usually do. Didn’t you just complain about your depleting savings last night? It’s one of the reasons why he secretly transferred a few hundreds of dollars—exactly three thousand—into your account. He knows that you didn’t notice it, because you would’ve transferred it back to him after you lecture him about it. If it’s not that, did you suddenly replenish it in your own way? He quickly checks the date and confirms that it’s nowhere near payday, so that’s not it.

Where the fuck are you getting your spending money?

He refuses to acknowledge that you might be using your old credit card. The one with a fucking limit.

It can’t be.

There is no fucking way.

Something snaps in his head, pushing him to act. He rushes to your office, powers up your computer, and signs in without a hitch, because you’ve never put a password on it. If you do, he knows about your little notebook of passwords under your desk plant next to your monitor.

He never really goes through your stuff. He is content and trusts you with everything. Everything. He knows exactly how deeply you feel about him as much as he does with you. Although sometimes you hide your phone from him, that’s when you’re texting your friends about him. It’s obvious because you keep snickering while throwing glances at him. He doesn’t mind that. Not at all. You can talk to your other friends about other stuff. The fact still remains. He trusts you.

But, right now, he is losing it. He needs to see. He needs to look into your email. Just this one time. He’ll apologize for it later.

His eyes are locked on the notifications, the receipts, the confirmations. The account number on every single one of them is not the one on the black credit card he has given you. He had it memorized, and it doesn’t fucking match. You are not fucking using it. What the fuck.

An ache forms in his chest. It’s like a horrible backhand that could shake up his teeth, so horrible that he had to run his tongue over them, making a clicking sound to ensure his teeth are still rooted. He crosses his arms. His legs are spread wide as he slouches against the backrest, one leg bobbing up and down. He glares at the screen, trying to will the emails to disappear while he burns them one by one in his mind. He tries a different route to imagine the account number to change, but of course, nothing works.

He rubs a hand over his face. His head pounds at the start of a headache. His phone pings from another message. It sounds like a blaring siren, making his ears ring. After a few moments, a new mail pops up.

This is so much worse than you realizing the deposit in your debit. Because one, you broke your promise. Two, he feels useless. If you were not going to use the card, you could’ve let Quinn accompany you during this shopping spree that would at least appease his soul. But then, he can force his card into the hands of the cashiers. Realization hits him.

That’s exactly why you didn’t let him tag along. You know he’ll talk his way to overtake your payments. Exhaling, a chuckle escapes him. A smirk forms on his face as he gazes up the ceiling. You are such a clever girl, aren’t you?

He’ll give this to you, but you are in so much trouble when you come home.

As if on cue, you text him, “I’m on my way home.”

He turns your computer off, standing up. An eerie calm envelope him. He’s still so angry, yet instead of vibrating and burning outwardly, it settles deep inside his bones until nothing comes up. It’s an odd feeling. It’s not heavy. It’s not light. It just is. A calm before the storm.

He undoes his second top button. If you really want to use your credit card, you can. You’re your own person. Still, you should have kept your promise. Such a bad girl.

He walks back to the living room and sits down on the single seater, reaching the remote to close off every curtain, making his place dimmer and dimmer and dimmer.

Then he waits.

He waits until you come in with your impressive haul. Extremely impressive, because you have your arms full already. When you put them down, you only leave to get more of them until you get a little pile in the living room. It’s amusing how your grin looks so self-satisfied, not realizing that he’s sitting in the corner of the room, until your eyes land on him. Your smile turns sheepish, taking your hands behind you, not daring to come closer.

Truly clever.

“Hi, Quinny. Didn’t see you there.” You wave.

“My Love,” he greets, beckoning you with a finger, but you refuse to come, shaking your head. “What’s wrong?”

“I need to put these away.”

He watches you start with one bag with the little nightgown that looks so fucking sexy. You’re clearly distracting him and it’s working. Slightly. He obliges you, his amusement growing the more you ramble. You’ve enjoyed your shopping trip. You speak at a quicker pace than you usually do. You have a little bounce on your step. Your happy energy radiates from you in waves while you continue taking everything out of bags which you fold right after. He knows you’re aware that he knows. That’s why you’re taking your time.

Quinn’s aware that you are genuinely delighted that you distract yourself more than him.

He’s proud and happy that you enjoyed your day.

Truly.

It doesn’t erase the fact that he has already lost it. The calm that his anger turned is what’s keeping him from pouncing on you, from taking you over his lap and slamming his hand on your bare ass until you got handprints that will bruise and ache for a couple of days. Just like how you want them.

He still can’t believe that you’ve broken him just from breaking your promise.

It’s entirely laughable.

Yet heat streaks down his spine, down his lean abdomen, down to his cock.

He’s so fucking hard.

He stands up, stalking towards you while you’re crouching next to a pile of paper bags. You’re still rambling a pottery workshop you’ve come across. You’re saying that you want to go back there so you can make mugs for each other. When you’ve already successfully built a mug collection in one of his cupboards.

So adorable. So clueless about the danger prowling towards you.

He stops, his shadow looming over you. He counts the seconds, but you still don’t notice him, do you? Then he sees how your hands start to shake. You do. Silly girl.

A chuckle escapes him as he grabs your arm. He swiftly pulls you up then lifts you over his shoulder.

“Quinn!” You squeal, hitting his back a couple of times. “Put me down! You’re making me dizzy—”

You let out a moan when Quinn slaps the tender spot under your ass.

  “Quiet,” he orders, making you whimper like the dirty slut you are. “What did you say before you left?”

“Bye?” You sound so confused. “I love you?”

He spanks you on the same spot again, making you moan and whine. Even more when he slips his hand under your skirt, his fingers trail up and up, then he puts you down on the bed. Instantly, you flip over, looking at him like he has taken everything from you. He can already hear your protest that’s sitting on the tip of your tongue. He glares at you, daring you to speak them, but you don’t take the bait. You usually do.  Interesting.

“You bought a lot.” Quinn crawls over you.

His hand flattens over your sternum, effortlessly pushing you down.

Your pupils are so blown out when he levels his face with yours, his nose grazing yours, your breath mixing with his. He can smell the gum you chewed on before you arrived, the perfume you’ve sprayed behind your ears. Your eyes fall down his lips and up his eyes again, perfectly seducing him, but he refuses, moving away when you try to kiss him, your tongue darting out to entice him.

Not yet.

“Quinn,” you whine.

“Why’d you do it?” He asks. He kneels up, flipping you over your stomach, pressing a hand on your lower back to keep you from whatever you’re planning which is being  a brat.  

“I didn’t do anything,” you say with pout, shuddering when he slips his hand into your shirt. He unclasps your bra without exerting an effort, so used to your undergarments. “What are you doing? I haven’t showered yet.”

Quinn doesn’t fucking care if you showered or not. Since when did he care? He doesn’t care even if you come from a workout. He has fucked you like that. Many times. All sweaty and dirty. He already licked your sweat as he plunged deep inside your quivering pussy. You coming from a whole day of shopping is simple play for him. You’re just trying to get out of the inevitable punishment.

“Don’t make me repeat myself,” he rumbles against your ear. He slides his thick fingers under you so he can touch your tits. So soft. So perfect in his hands. Your nipples are so taut from anticipation and his attention. He pinches the sensitive peaks, your hips coming up to grind against him. He pulls away, receiving an unsatisfied groat. “Uh, uh. Answer me before you get what you want, you dirty slut.”

“Oh, fuck,” you gasp.

“That’s what you are, isn’t it?” He grits. He slides down one hand down your abdomen, down into the waistband of your skirt, down until he reaches and feels the wet patch on your panties. He presses and teases along your clothed slit. “See? So fucking wet. I barely touched you.”

“Quinn, please,” you plead, panting for more.

Why are you still not repeating your broken promise?

He’s getting so annoyed. He forces your clothes off, tearing every piece of clothing on your beautiful body. He ignores how much you complain, ignores your little ‘ouch’ because you’re full of shit. There’s no way it’ll hurt when he is tearing the fabric instead of pulling it against your fucking skin. Do you think he’s fucking stupid? Do you think he’ll hurt you that way?

He’s not a fucking rookie.

He keeps you down, spreading your legs by kneeling between them, watching how your pussy drips on the silk sheets, how your entrance quivers, begging to be filled. Languidly, he feels your folds. You feel so fucking good, so fucking soft, so fucking wet.

You gasp and moan like you’re already getting fucked. You’re just so sensitive, aren’t you?

Then he gives you a slap right there. On your dripping pussy. On your clit. His other hand grips your hip to keep you there when you attempt to crawl away, but he gives you another slap. Then another. Another.

You are moaning and writhing from the pain, begging him to stop, when you’re the one pushing your wet cunt against his palm. You keep seeking, even after briefly reeling away from every hit. Your eyes look over your shoulder, meeting his, begging and begging, mentally conveying, “More, more, more.”

Such a good slut.

His slut.

You’re his.

Quinn slides his middle finger into your heat, smirking at how your walls quivers around him. Your cunt is so red from his spanking. His thumb teases your other hole. You writhe, wantonly moaning, pathetically grasping the sheets for support.

You’re not running away now, huh?

Not when he is fingering you. Not when he pounds and puts pressure on that specific spot that has you screaming breathlessly. You want this so much. You’ve been waiting for a relief that he can easily give you.

He adds another finger, thrusting them into your pussy. Harder. Deeper. The squelching noises are music to his ears when it’s coupled with your moans and groans.

Then he feels the familiar pattern of your pussy walls. You’re going to come soon. He knows you so much. Knows your pussy more than you. Knows your little tells like how your thighs quiver, how your toes curl, how your back arches into the bed.

He knows it.

So, it’s so fucking easy to just…pull away.

You look back harshly. You look betrayed as your breaths come out choppy. Disbelief reflects in your eyes, not used to him not letting you come. He always makes you come. Not now though. Quinn takes his fingers from your arousal to his lips and slowly licks them, like he’s feasting on your pussy, groaning at how you taste. Fuck, you’re truly his favorite flavor.

“Quinn, I…” you call, your eyes tearing up. “You didn’t…”

He flips you over your back. He rests your ass over his thighs while your legs are spread out.

“Didn’t?” he mocks which you only process that as a question. You’ve already been dumbed by your pending orgasm, by your need for it.

“I didn’t come,” you whine, jutting your hips up the air, begging for another touch. “Please make me come.”

“Yeah,” he nods. That makes you smile, sighing in relief. Shaking his head, he silently says, “No.”

He doesn’t let you say another thing, plunging his fingers into your pussy. He fucks you fast and deep, thumb swiping over your clit just so perfectly, only to pull away when you’re on the verge of an orgasm.

By the third time, you finally understand what’s happening and you’re begging and begging.

Your pleas don’t reach him though.

They can’t. Not when he’s still not satisfied. Not when you still don’t say anything. However, the strange calmness that locked him is already dissipating the more he makes a mess out of you. The more beautifully and frustrated you cry.

Oh, his poor, sweet Love.

“Quinn, I’m sorry. I just wanna use my card.” You sob. “I’m sorry. Please. Please. I need to come. It’s been an hour.”

An hour?

You’re counting?

He pauses his torture, because you are finally talking.

You cover your face, hiding your fucked out face, hiding your beautifully blushing cheeks, hiding how your hair sticks to your skin.

“I saw you deposit money in my account again. I thought using my card would be a great revenge. Now, I know it’s not. This sucks! It hurts not to come. We both know you’re just going to pay the bill when it comes.” You sob, looking absolutely hurt and exhausted.

Quinn quickly pulls you up, soothing you with a hug. He sighs as you melt into his touch. You sniffle but your hand reaches between you two, tugging at his pants, trying to get to his cock.

“You have to make me come.” You beg, looking at him with your best puppy eyes. “Please?”

“You always beg so perfectly.” He tucks your hair behind your ears. “Wasn’t so hard to admit your wrongs, was it?”

“I know. I already said sorry—”

He cuts you off by pushing you back. He quickly tugs his pants down, pressing his dribbling cock to your pussy, shuddering at the feel of your trembling entrance. One swift thrust and he’s seated inside of you. Fuck. Your pussy is truly made for him. He perfectly fits. All of him. He can feel every crevice, every texture, every arousal that coats you deep inside. Shit. So good. He can come just by being inside of you, by feeling your tight pussy’s embrace. Did you know that?

But he knows that it’s not enough for you tonight.

You need him to fuck you, so he does. He fucked you hard and rough that your eyes are rolling up as you come. Even then you plead for more and more.

So he gives you everything. Changing the tempo here and there, going slow and deliberate, going back to a fast pace. He gives you everything because you deserve it.

Every time he feels that you’re about to come again, he whispers into ears, “That’s my good girl. Give me one more. That’s it. My good little slut. Take what you need. Come, my Love.”

Every time.

He draws out your fifth orgasm then he comes deep inside you, swearing loudly into your ear. He’s coming so hard that his eyesight dims. Your pussy milks every drop of his cum. How he still manages to flick your sensitive clit while he comes so hard is a mystery, but it doesn’t matter when you start to gush.

You’re making such a mess.

You always do.

“Quinn, oh my, fuck,” you cry out.

“It’s okay. I got you. Just let go, my Love,” he encourages, flicking your clit again and again, until you’ve successfully drench both of you. “No more?”

“No more. No more.” You shake your head, so he stops. “Kiss me.”

He obliges you, kissing you, whispering praises in between. You both spend minutes just kissing until you’ve calm down. Quinn gives you one last kiss before he stands to run a bath. He puts a few drops of lavender and chamomile oils in the tub. It’ll soothe you.

He comes back out to wrap you with a fresh and heated towel while the bath fills up. You look so spent, so Quinn holds you for a few more minutes, whispering more and more soft praises in your ear, because you’ve earned it.

When he hears the tub fill up, he takes you to it. He helps you in, tucking your hair behind your ears. “Just relax here. I’ll join you in a bit, okay?” He says as you settle. You nod at him as your eyes slowly blink. “I won’t take long. Don’t sleep. Not when I’m not here.”

“Okay, Quinny,” you say as you yawn. Your tummy rumbles. “Hungry.”

“I’ll get you a sandwich then I’ll make dinner after our bath. Sounds good?”

You smile at him.

His heart flutters, his stomach filling up with butterflies. He presses another kiss on your head, before he’s off, leaving you to have a little alone time. He got one thing in his mind.

He made his way to your bag that’s left behind on the floor. Humming a soft tune, he carries it to the counter, setting it down, as he takes out the ingredients for a sandwich. Just bread and your favorite jam. Washing his hands quickly, he fixes your sandwich, placing it on a plate. He also takes a fresh and cool bottle of water. It will do for a light snack before dinner, but he doesn’t take it immediately to you.

He sits on a stool, rummaging through your bag, finding your wallet.

He smiles at your photo with him there. It’s taken from a polaroid. He knows there’s another photo tucked behind it. It’s you and him in an ice rink that you had personally printed out. You’re truly cute.

He touches your face, heart pounding at how breathtaking you always look.

Even when you’re so fucked out, your beauty never changes. He can’t wait to grow old with you. He bet with everything he has and more that you will still look like the beautiful woman in the world, because you are.

Then he takes the credit card you’ve used today.

His smile never goes away as he stares at it for full minute.

Then he snips it in half and does the same to another and another.

Now, you only have one card left.

[piastrisun]

love me not.

pairings: lando norris + female reader.

summary: it started with one kiss. it kept happening. now you don’t know what hurts more — the way he holds you at night or the way he leaves you in the morning.

genre: angst.⠀word count: 7.7k. ⠀ warning: mentions of sex.

notes: inspired by ‘love me not’ by ravyn lenae. i feel this could’ve been more angsty but i’m happy with the result. hope you enjoy it a lot!!

you were best friends.

the kind of best friends who could sit in silence for hours and still feel like you were saying everything. you knew the passcode to his phone. he kept a spare hoodie at your place. you made playlists for each other and had a standing friday night tradition: pizza, films, and sharing one blanket on your sofa. it was always that way.

safe. easy. solid.

you’d grown up side by side, gone through break-ups, new jobs, bad days — all of it. you were the first person he called when he did well at a race. he was the one who held your hand when you failed your final exam. you were home to each other.

then it changed.

it was after a party. one of those nights that didn’t feel like it was supposed to matter. you were drunk, barefoot on his sofa in one of his old t-shirts. he was sitting on the floor, head leaning against your knee, telling you about some girl he wasn’t sure about.

“i just wish i liked her,” he’d said. “wish it felt like something.”

you laughed — tired, tipsy, warm — and said, “maybe you’re just waiting for the wrong person to feel like the right one.”

he looked up at you. eyes hazy. tired. quiet. and then he kissed you, not rushed. not hungry. just… gentle. curious, even. and you kissed him back.

the first time wasn’t planned.

you didn’t talk about it afterwards. you fell asleep in his bed, wearing the same t-shirt, pretending everything still felt the same.

and it didn’t.

the next morning, you made pancakes like you always did. he kissed your temple when he left. like it meant nothing. like you hadn’t just crossed a line neither of you could uncross.

you told yourself it was a one-time thing. a weird moment. something that didn’t need a label.

but a week later, it happened again.

and again. and again.

you told yourselves it was casual. just two best friends who slept together sometimes. nothing had to change. nothing would change.

except it did.

he stopped texting you good morning. you stopped telling him about the guy you’d matched with on hinge. the friday night film marathons got shorter. more skin. less talking.

you only saw each other late now. and even then, only when one of you was lonely enough to press send on a “you up?” text.

you used to talk until 4 a.m. now he leaves before sunrise. and now the friendship is gone. no more dumb inside jokes. no more teasing. no more comfort. just late-night sheets and fading laughter.

you still know how he takes his coffee. he still notices when you change your nail colour. but you don’t say those things anymore. you don’t talk unless someone needs a body. not a friend. not a heart.

just a body.

─────⠀ SCENE #1.

“don't loosen your grip, got a hold on me / now, forever, let's get back together.”

it’s sometime after 2 a.m. the city outside your window hums softly, distant and unbothered. the kind of quiet that only exists in the middle of the night, when even the streetlights seem tired. your flat is dim, lit only by the faint orange glow slipping through the blinds. your phone is in your hand. you’ve typed and deleted the same message three times.

you finally send it.

“you up?”

you don’t expect him to answer. not really. but when there’s a knock at your door ten minutes later, your heart trips over itself anyway. three soft raps, the kind only he does. and before you can even think about changing your mind, you’re opening it.

lando stands there, shirt half on, eyes tired but wide when they meet yours. his curls are messy, like he’d been tossing in bed or maybe hadn’t slept at all. he doesn’t say anything. neither do you. you just step back, and he walks in like he always does like this is still his place too.

the flat is dim, lit only by the soft orange glow of the streetlights bleeding through the curtains. the silence between you crackles, thick and heavy with everything unsaid. you both know why he’s here. why he always comes back.

soon, you’re lying in bed, backs pressed against the mattress, shoulders just barely touching. the sheets are tangled, the air between you damp with something that isn’t quite love but feels too much like it.

he breathes steady beside you, like he’s already slipping away and something about that makes your chest tighten. you stare up at the ceiling, your fingers absently brushing against your own collarbone, grounding yourself. then your voice breaks the silence, low and soft like it might crack if you’re too loud.

“do you ever miss it?”

lando shifts a little, but he doesn’t turn to look at you. you see his jaw tighten just slightly in the dim light. he keeps his eyes on the ceiling like it’s safer that way.

“miss what?” he asks, like he doesn’t already know.

a small, bitter laugh escapes, but it isn’t really funny. you turn your head toward him. “us. before this,” your voice cracks a little. “when we could talk about stupid shit for hours and it didn’t end with you zipping up your jeans.”

the silence that follows is different this time, heavier. you swear you can feel it pressing down on your chest.

he exhales, long and slow, and finally turns his head toward you. you don’t look at him. you’re afraid if you do, the ache in your throat might spill out.

“i do,” he says eventually. quiet, but clear. “i miss it more than i say.”

you close your eyes. that should mean something. that should feel like enough. but it’s not. because you also know what comes next, the part where he pulls you close, kisses you like he means it, and then leaves before the sun comes up. the part where he pretends it’s nothing again.

“then why do we keep doing this?” your voice cracks despite you trying not to let it.

he doesn’t answer right away. he swallows hard, and you can see it, the way his throat bobs, the way his fingers curl against the sheets like he’s trying to hold himself still.

“because i don’t know how to not want you,” he says. “but i don’t know how to keep you either.”

your chest burns. that stupid mix of relief and heartbreak, like his honesty is a knife you asked him to twist. and in a way, you did

you finally turn to face him, and for the first time in weeks, your eyes meet in the dark.

“i don’t need you like that,” you whisper. “but i miss you. every time you go.”

he doesn’t say anything. just reaches out and brushes his fingers against your hand like he’s asking for permission to stay a little longer. and even though you know it’s going to hurt, you let him.

because you’re both already in too deep.

because you both lie.

and it’s all starting to crack.

his fingers graze yours, and your heart stutters, not because it’s new, but because it isn’t. because he’s touched you a hundred times like this, maybe more. but it never feels casual, no matter how much you both pretend it is.

you don’t pull away. not yet. even though you probably should.

you shift slightly on the bed, turning toward him, your knees brushing under the sheets. the air smells like him, faint cologne and something familiar, something that always clings to your pillow when he leaves.

“do you ever think we ruined it?” you ask, barely more than a whisper.

lando doesn’t hesitate this time. “yeah. all the time.”

that hurts. but what hurts more is how easily he says it, like it’s a fact he’s made peace with. like it’s something you’re both supposed to carry now, quiet and heavy and constant.

“i miss knowing you,” you say, and the words feel naked. “not just… this version of you. the one who only shows up when it’s late and no one’s looking.”

lando flinches, just a little. like the truth surprises him even though he knows it’s true.

“you still know me,” he says, soft but urgent. “more than anyone.”

“that doesn’t feel like enough anymore.” you don’t mean to sound bitter. but maybe you are, maybe that’s fair.

─────⠀ SCENE #2.

“it's hard to see you, but i wish you were right here / it's hard to leave you when i get you everywhere / all this time i'm thinkin' we could never be a pair.”

it starts in his car.

the windows are fogged from the inside, soft with condensation and blurred city lights that bleed through like bruises — purples and reds smudging across the glass. rain taps steadily against the roof, rhythmic and gentle, like a heartbeat. not yours, though. yours is lodged somewhere in your throat, pounding too hard, too fast. the air is thick with the scent of leather, the chill of the night air slipping through the cracks, and him, always him.

you hadn’t planned this. of course you hadn’t. you were supposed to just talk. to sit here, say a few things, maybe pretend it didn’t hurt as much as it does. maybe say goodbye, if either of you were brave enough to say the word out loud.

but then his hand brushed yours across the centre console — just a soft touch, nothing dramatic — and neither of you moved away.

you’re sat in the passenger seat, knees pulled up to your chest like they can protect you. your eyes are fixed on the streetlamp outside the car, watching the way the light flickers in the rain. like if you stare long enough, it’ll anchor you. keep you steady. because looking at him would ruin you. because looking at him means remembering everything you’re trying not to feel.

and then he says your name, quietly. like it’s fragile. like it might break if he says it too loud. “you okay?”

you nod. your throat is tight, but you lie anyway. “i’m fine.”

you’re not fine. not even close. because he’s sitting right there, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off his skin, close enough that you could just reach out and… touch him. and all you can think about is how much you miss him. how even when he’s this close, it still feels like he’s slipping away.

you finally turn to look at him, and your lips part, maybe to tell him to go. maybe to ask him to stay. maybe to scream. maybe to confess. you don’t know what you’re going to say.

but you don’t get the chance. because he leans in first, and, as usual, you let him.

it’s soft at first. barely even a kiss. like he’s asking a question. like he’s giving you a chance to stop this before it begins. but you don’t. you lean in too.

your fingers slide into his hair before you can think better of it, pulling him closer like it’s instinct. like you’ve done this before. like your body remembers him better than your heart does. the kiss deepens quickly, too quickly. all tongue and teeth and aching desperation. you move across the console like your bones were made for this, like you’ve always known how to get to him, how to reach him. like there’s never been any space between you at all.

his hands find their way under your shirt before you can catch your breath, and yours are tugging at his belt like it’s the only way you know how to speak now, through skin, through touch, through the kind of silence that says too much.

you end up in the backseat.

clothes half-on, half-off. limbs tangled. your breathing messy, mouths greedy, movements clumsy but real. it’s not perfect, it’s rushed, uneven, aching. but it’s honest. it’s desperate. you breathe him in like air, like you’ve been holding your breath for days, waiting for this exact moment to come undone.

you never tell him to stop.

not when the cold window presses against your back. not when his breath hits your ear, hot and shaky, and your name leaves his lips like a vow he doesn’t know he’s breaking.

because you don’t need him.

but oh god, you want him.

and in this moment, that feels like the same thing.

somehow, later, you end up back at your place.

he drives like nothing happened. his grip on the steering wheel steady, eyes forward, the silence between you thick with everything left unsaid. like your lipstick isn’t smeared down his throat. like your hand on his thigh isn’t enough to make him hard again. like neither of you are pretending that this is normal.

the door clicks shut behind you, and you’re on him again. it’s instant, automatic, like the moment you crossed the threshold, everything else disappeared. your backs hit walls. his mouth finds your neck. your blouse comes off, buttons lost somewhere on the floor. his shirt doesn’t even get a chance to drop, it stays crumpled in your fists like you’re afraid letting go of the fabric means letting go of him.

you don’t speak. you don’t have to.

this time, he takes you in the hallway. then the kitchen table. then finally, the bed, the one place you’ve never let him this far in, or at least you try to avoid.

he moans into your neck, murmurs your name like it’s a prayer, like it means something. and for a second — just one second — you let yourself believe it. you let yourself pretend this is love. pretend it’s real. pretend it isn’t just another night of pretending.

because loves you not, he loves you.

he holds you tight, then let you go.

he holds your waist like you’ll vanish if he loosens his grip.

and you ride that lie all the way through. every kiss. every sigh. every time you whimper “don’t stop” when what you should’ve said was “don’t come back.”

later, you lie on your side, facing the window. his arm is draped around your hip. your bodies still pressed together, skin still burning. the room is quiet, but your mind is anything but.

your thoughts scream, you don’t need him like that. you’re better off without him. you’ll be fine in the morning. but right now?

you reach back. find his hand in the dark. your fingers wrap around his without thinking. you hold on. just for tonight.

because sometimes, want wins.

even when it will hurt like hell.

─────⠀ SCENE #3.

“soon as you leave me, we always lose connection / it's gettin' messy, i favor your affection.”

you weren’t planning to go out that friday.

but your friends insisted, and you didn’t feel like being alone with your thoughts. so you let them drag you to that bar in the city centre — the one with the overpriced drinks and the red lighting that makes everything feel a little too intimate, like even glancing across the room could mean something.

you’re halfway through your second drink when you see him.

lando.

same half-tucked shirt. same slouched posture, like he couldn’t care less who’s watching — and yet, somehow, he’s always the one everyone watches. not because he’s trying. because he never has to.

he’s not alone.

beside him — her. the girl. she’s pretty. effortlessly so. the kind of pretty that doesn’t ask for attention, but gets it anyway, just like he does. she leans in when she laughs, head tilting just right, mouth parted like she’s rehearsed it. you see her fingers graze his arm. see the way he doesn’t flinch or step back.

she’s close. too close. laughing at something he said. her fingers brush his sleeve again like she’s done it before. like she belongs there.

and worst of all — he smiles. soft. familiar. not that smug grin he uses with strangers. no, this one’s different. it’s the real one. your one.

and it twists in your stomach like something sour.

you try to swallow it down. pretend it doesn’t bother you. pretend you’re better than this. but it does bother you. and you’re not better.

you stay long enough to let it sting. then you leave. like it doesn’t matter. like it didn’t crack something open in you. you make it home. sit on the edge of your bed. try to forget.

and fail.

later that night, your phone lights up.

“can i come over?”

you stare at the message, screen glowing in the dark. thumb hovering over the keyboard for a full minute. you could ignore it. should ignore it.

but you don’t.

“door’s open.”

you hate how fast you type it. hate that your heart jumps. hate that you’re already pulling on the sweater he left at yours three weeks ago — the one you swore you were going to wash and return. you hate that you glance in the mirror, just once, even though you tell yourself you don’t care.

it’s past midnight when he shows.

you don’t watch him enter, but you know the sounds of him — the soft click of the door, the quiet rustle of his jacket landing on the arm of the sofa like muscle memory. like he’s done this a hundred times before. because he has. because you’ve let him.

you stay where you are, perched on the kitchen counter. legs bare, sweater slipping off one shoulder like it always does. the glass of water next to you has gone warm and untouched. your heart, though — wide awake. pulsing in your chest like it’s been waiting.

you don’t look at him when you speak.

your voice is steady. cold. detached — at least on the surface. “she looked nice.”

a direct hit. you don’t give him the grace of subtlety tonight.

he exhales hard. like he was expecting it. like he deserves it. “it wasn’t like that,” he says, stepping toward you. you see the way his hands twitch, fingers flexing like they want to reach for you. but he doesn’t.

you finally turn to face him. your expression gives nothing away, but your chest aches. every beat hurts. “neither is this,” you reply. “but here you are.”

and that’s the truth. the raw, ugly kind. the kind that scrapes at your throat on the way out.

he looks at you, eyes darker than usual, jaw tight. like he’s searching for something he already knows is there. and hates that it is. there’s guilt in him. you can see it.

but it doesn’t change a thing. guilt never stopped him before.

you slide off the counter slowly, deliberately. your bare feet hit the cold tile. you walk past him without a word. like he’s just another ghost in your hallway. like the heat between you hasn’t already begun to suffocate.

he follows. of course he does.

when the door clicks shut behind him, everything changes. like someone flipped a switch. emotion blurs into impulse. silence into heat.

your mouth is on his before he can speak. and he kisses you back like he’s been starving. like she didn’t exist. like you’re the only real thing he’s ever known. but you aren’t sure if that comforts you anymore. it just makes you want to break something.

your hands clutch at his shirt like you’re trying to rip her off him. erase the memory of her skin. take her name off his lips. you don’t care if it hurts him.

you hope it does. and he lets you. he always does.

clothes fall like lies — fast, careless. his shirt hits the floor in the hallway. your underwear ends up somewhere by the front door. you don’t even make it to the bedroom straight away. it starts in the kitchen, your breath fogging against the fridge. then the hallway wall. then, finally, the bed.

it isn’t tender. it’s desperate. messy. wordless.

you give him everything. let him take everything. because if this is all he wants from you, fine. let it be this.

he kisses you like he’s trying to forget. and you let him. even when your heart begs for something more.

your hands tangle in his hair, pulling harder than you should. he groans into your neck, the sound raw, like pain and want all tangled up. his name falls from your lips like it’s a habit you can’t shake. and you hate that it still feels holy.

when it’s over, you’re twisted in the sheets. your back pressed to his chest. his arm draped around your waist like it means something. like he still belongs here.

like he’s not going to disappear before the sun comes up.

the silence is heavy. thick with everything you didn’t say. you should ask him why. why he keeps doing this. why he picks you at night but forgets you in the daylight. why it hurts more every time he leaves. but you don’t ask. because you already know the answer. and maybe hearing it out loud would hurt more than this.

so you just lie there. pretending the ache is enough. pretending the weight of his arm is more than just routine. pretending you’re not just a placeholder for something he hasn’t figured out he’s looking for.

because this is what it is now. not love. not friendship.

just him.

just you.

and all the ways you don’t belong to each other but still can’t seem to walk away.

─────⠀ SCENE #4.

“you gotta say that you're sorry at the end of the night / wake up in the mornin', everything's alright.”

the sun leaks through half-closed blinds, casting soft, golden lines across the tangled sheets. it’s the kind of light that should feel warm — gentle, even — the kind that belongs to slow mornings and shared breakfasts. but all it does is highlight the distance between you. it stretches across the bed like a quiet, golden reminder of how far apart you really are now. the dust in the air glows like ghosts, dancing in the silence, haunting the space you once called safe. there’s a stillness to the room now, like the aftermath of a storm, when everything has been said or broken or swallowed. and in a way, that’s exactly what this is. the quiet that comes after something violent. something real.

you sit on the edge of the bed, legs curled beneath you, arms wrapped tight around your own body like it’s the only thing holding you together. your hoodie’s still on, sleeves tugged down over your hands, like maybe the fabric can shield you from the ache in your chest. it can’t. your hair’s stuck to the back of your neck, tangled and damp with sweat you didn’t bother to wash away. your skin smells like him. it always does after nights like this. nights where desire drowns out sense, where you let him in even though he never really stays.

and that scent, that ache, it clings. it always lingers longer than he ever does.

behind you, he’s getting dressed. you don’t need to look. you know the sound by now. the soft shuffle of denim, the faint metal hiss of a zip, the familiar clink of his belt. then that quiet sigh, the one you could recognise with your eyes closed. it’s the sound he makes when he’s trying not to feel. like he’s gently, deliberately peeling himself away from you, slipping back into the person he is when he’s not here. when he’s not yours.

and somehow, that hurts more than it should. more than you ever let on.

the silence between you thickens, stretching long and heavy, not just awkward — no, this is denser. fuller. it carries everything you haven’t said, everything you’re both too afraid to touch. but it pulses under your skin, louder than his heartbeat had been against your back only hours ago.

you break the silence first. you always do.

but this time, your voice isn’t soft. you don’t cushion the fall. you don’t offer him an easy out. “say something.”

your words drop into the room like stones. heavy. deliberate.

he pauses. long enough for your stomach to twist. long enough to make it feel like maybe he won’t respond at all. you know this version of him, the one that shuts down when things get too close, too real. the one that dodges truth with silence, always hoping it’ll be enough.

then he speaks, barely above a whisper, like he wants to say it without it counting.

“i don’t know what you want me to say.”

your jaw tightens. of course he doesn’t. of course he hides behind that. because to say the truth would mean facing it — facing you. it would mean admitting that this, whatever this is, matters. that you matter.

you turn to him slowly, carefully. your eyes sting, but you won’t cry. not here. not in front of him. he’s sitting at the edge of the bed now too, his back turned, bare shoulders hunched slightly, the curve of his spine rising and falling with every breath. and god, you hate how much you love the way he looks. you hate how familiar he still feels. how much of you still wants him.

your voice is thin, shaking at the edges. but you say it anyway.

“say you miss me.”

he doesn’t move.

“say this fucks you up too.”

still nothing.

“say i’m not the only one who can’t sleep after you leave.”

your voice cracks on that last line, and it feels like failure. it feels like breaking in front of the very person who made you feel like you had to be unbreakable in the first place. you didn’t mean to fall apart, not again. but you’re so tired. tired of pretending. tired of swallowing your feelings. tired of being something soft when he needs it, and nothing when he doesn’t.

the silence that follows is different this time.

you hear the way he swallows. you notice the tiny hitch in his breath. and when he finally speaks, it’s quiet. raw.

“you think i sleep at all?”

and just like that, it steals the air from your lungs.

because it’s the first thing that’s felt honest in weeks. and no, it’s not enough. not nearly. but it’s something. something real in a mess of half-truths, vague touches, and midnight lies.

you look down at your hands. they’re trembling now, gripping the hem of your hoodie like you can physically stop yourself from falling apart if you just hold on tight enough.

“then why do you keep leaving?” your voice barely makes it out. “if it hurts so much, why do you always walk away?”

you don’t turn to face him when you say it. you can’t. not when the answer might ruin you. and again, he doesn’t respond.

you think maybe it’s because he truly doesn’t know. or maybe he does. maybe the truth is too heavy. maybe it’s that he’s scared. scared of what it means to love you more than just friends. scared of what he becomes when he does. scared of staying — and scared of what might happen if he doesn’t. but what if it’s not like that?

for neither of you and the desire is the one talking. the ego trying to make sense of why he doesn’t want you like that.

you blink hard, trying to stop the tears from coming, but one escapes. a single drop, hot and slow, sliding down your cheek before you can stop it. you wipe it away quickly, almost angrily.

he stands. quietly. pulls his shirt on like it’s just another morning. like this is just another ending. you feel the shift in the room as he moves, and even though you don’t look, you know he’s watching you. maybe he wants to say something. maybe he almost does.

but he doesn’t. he walks to the door, it clicks shut behind him. and just like that, it’s over. again.

until the next time.

until you miss him too much to fight it.

until he needs something he doesn’t know how to name.

until one of you breaks and sends that same old message.

“you up?” “can i come over?” “door’s open.”

but for now, it’s just you.

in a bed that still smells like him. in a room that feels hollow. in silence that sounds more like goodbye every single time. and all the words he didn’t say are louder than the ones he did.

you lie back down, pulling the sheets over your chest even though they offer no warmth, no comfort.

and you try. god, you try, to breathe through the part of you that still hopes he’ll turn back. but he doesn’t. and deep down, you knew he wouldn’t.

─────⠀ SCENE #5.

“lord, take it so far away / i pray that, god, we don't break / i want you to take me up and down / and 'round and 'round again.”

it’s been a week.

seven whole days without a single word from you. not a text, not a late-night call, not even one of those dumb memes you always used to send when you were bored or trying to dodge something heavier. his last message? left on read. the one after that? you didn’t even open it.

because if silence is the only weapon you’ve got left, then you’re going to learn how to wield it properly. it’s your armour now. your boundary. your final stand. but now it’s 11:37 p.m., and there’s a knock at your door. and you already know who it is, you knew from the second your phone didn’t light up but your heartbeat did.

you don’t move at first. you just stare at the door like maybe, if you’re still enough, if you wish hard enough, he’ll vanish. maybe the knocking will stop. maybe he’ll get the hint. but it doesn’t. and your chest is tight, the kind of tight that makes it hard to breathe, and the air feels like it’s been holding its breath with you. so you open the door.

lando’s standing there, like he always does when it’s too late and he’s run out of places to go. his hair’s a mess, his jacket’s half-zipped, and his eyes—god, his eyes look like they haven’t seen sleep in days. he speaks, low and careful, like he’s afraid you’ll shatter. “hey.”

you don’t say a word. just step aside. he walks in like he’s done it a thousand times before, because he has. like your home is still his home, like he still belongs here. “was starting to think you’d really shut me out this time,” he says, trying to keep it light, but it lands heavy.

you shut the door behind him, leaning against it like it might keep you upright. arms crossed. walls up. “i did too,” you reply, and there’s no softness in it. no invitation.

he exhales, and it’s almost a wince. like the truth winded him. like he expected a door slammed in his face, not honesty dropped at his feet.

then your voice breaks. just slightly. “i can’t do this.” the words fall out like they’ve been sitting on your tongue for days. like they’ve been aching to be heard. you say them like you mean them. like this is the line you’ve drawn. the point of no return. you want him to hear it and feel it and finally, finally understand. you want it to be closure.

but you don’t move. your feet stay planted. your arms don’t push him away. you don’t walk him to the door. you don’t ask him to go.

you never really do.

because every time he comes back, your mouth says leave but your body says stay, please stay. every time his hand finds yours, your resolve melts. not because you’re weak. not because you don’t have boundaries. but because they never stood a chance with him. because you never knew where to draw them. maybe it should’ve started the first time he kissed you like you were everything. maybe it should’ve started the first time he left without saying goodbye. maybe somewhere in the middle of all the things you never said about what this was… and what it never became.

you should tell him to go. you should mean it. but instead, you just stand there. breathing him in. and he steps closer — slow, tentative, eyes locked on yours, like he’s waiting. waiting for you to flinch, to speak, to push him away. but you don’t. you let him get close enough for the air between you to go warm, thick with history.

“tell me to stop,” he whispers, like a dare. but he already knows you won’t. because you never have.

and you hate yourself for it. for the way your skin still hums for him. for how your body still reaches for something that’s always broken you. for the way he fits into you like he’s lived there. like he was made for it. and it’s you who leans in first. or maybe he does. maybe it’s both of you, meeting halfway like always. like inevitability.

your fingers slip under the hem of his shirt and pull it over his head. his hands are already under your shirt, like this is muscle memory. like you’ve both been here a thousand times and still haven’t learned. the sofa’s too far. the bedroom feels like a decision. so it happens right there. on the floor. on the same old carpet where you used to laugh until your ribs hurt. where you used to fall asleep in the middle of a film, limbs tangled, hearts calm.

now you’re tangled for different reasons. desperate. breathless. hungry for something neither of you dares name.

and when it’s done — when the world quiets — your head is on his chest, your legs still looped with his, and you let yourself pretend. just for a second. pretend that it’s safe here. that maybe, this time, he’ll stay.

but you already know how this goes. you’ve lived this story on repeat. because you never made the rules. because he never asked for them. and because you never thought you’d need them.

and maybe that’s the worst part, not that he crossed a line. but that you never drew one. not really. not where it counted. because you didn’t want to lose him. because wanting him always roared louder than protecting yourself from him.

and now he’s lying beside you on the floor, shirtless and soft, warm in all the places that still ache from him. your skin’s buzzing. your heart’s already breaking. because it’s never just physical. not with him. it never has been. and you knew that. and you let it happen anyway.

because at 2 a.m., when he’s right there, saying he’s worried you didn’t texted back with his hands instead of his mouth, it’s too easy to forget that he always leaves. and too hard to remember how to tell him not to come back.

then, out of nowhere, you laugh. quiet. unexpected. because you’re tired. because he’s still him. and for one second, it’s like it used to be.

he grins. soft and barely there. you both collapse back onto the carpet, side by side. legs tangled without thought, like instinct.

he nudges your knee with his. “remember when we slept on this floor after too much tequila and you made me rank every spice girls song?”

you smile, eyes fixed on the ceiling. “you said sporty carried the group.”

“she did,” he replies, mock offended.

a beat. you both laugh. and for a second… it’s easy. it always is, just before it hurts.

then he turns his head to look at you. his voice cracks a little now, like the joke chipped away something deeper. “i—i miss you.”

it’s quiet. honest. like something unraveling between you. like thread slipping loose.

you don’t look at him. just keep your eyes on the ceiling. “no,” you whisper. “you miss the part of me that lets you in at 2 a.m. and pretends it doesn’t hurt.”

he sits up suddenly. brows pulled in, hands through his hair — that move you know too well. “that’s not fair.”

and before you can stop yourself, your body follows his. now you’re both sat across from each other, legs crossed like kids. but your expression is sharp now. and your voice? even sharper.

“no,” you snap. “what’s not fair is holding me like i’m everything, just to let me go like i’m nothing. what’s not fair is the way you kiss me like you mean it, then disappear like you never did.”

his mouth opens. then shuts. his jaw tightens.

“that’s not how it is,” he says, quiet.

“then tell me what it is, lando. tell me what this is.”

silence.

he doesn’t answer. because he doesn’t know. because he’s scared. because giving it a name means risking it all.

“you always show up when you’re lonely,” you say, voice breaking now. “not when you miss me. not when you want me. just when being alone feels worse.”

“that’s not true,” he says quickly, defensive. “i come because i—i don’t know where else to go.”

you laugh again. but it’s empty now. “wow. that’s so romantic.”

he winces. “i didn’t mean it like that.”

you stand, grabbing the blanket from the sofa, wrapping it around yourself like it might protect you from this ache. “you never do. and that’s the problem.”

he watches you. like he’s waiting for the shift. for you to fold. for you to leave the door open, like always.

but this time… you don’t.

lando stands slowly. his jeans are only half-zipped. his t-shirt’s bunched in his hand — the same one you’d pulled off earlier. his hair’s a mess. his mouth is still pink. and he looks like every version of the boy you’ve ever loved.

but he doesn’t say anything.

not please, not don’t, not i love you. just silence. then he turns, walks to the door, opens it. you don’t stop him. he leaves.

and this time, you don’t cry. not until the door clicks shut. not until it’s real.

─────⠀ SCENE #6.

“oh no, i don't need you, but i miss you, come here / and oh, it’s so hard to see you, but i wish you were here.”

it’s been months. long enough that the sting of him has mostly faded, or at least, you’ve gotten good at pretending it has. you’ve stopped waiting for those texts at 2 a.m., the ones that always came too late and said too little. you’ve stopped pretending they didn’t break you. stopped staring at your phone like it might suddenly light up with his name and a miracle, some kind of answer to the mess you two made.

you’ve found a rhythm now. a way of living that doesn’t ache quite as much. a way of laughing that doesn’t feel like a betrayal. smiling no longer costs you something. you’ve learned how to lift your chin again without feeling like the weight of his ghost is pulling your shoulders down.

and for the most part, it’s fine. manageable. survivable.

the party is loud — too loud — with too many people, too many voices blurring into one constant hum against the bass of the music. you’re standing with friends, drink in hand, half-listening, half-smiling. trying. but then your eyes catch on someone across the room, and it’s him.

lando.

and just like that, the rest of the room fades. the noise quiets. his presence pulls you in like gravity, like muscle memory, like no time has passed at all.

his eyes meet yours. there’s no smile, no wave. just that look. the one that used to undo you. and even now, months later, it still finds its way into your chest, that familiar ache, sharp and bittersweet. you can almost hear his voice in your head, low and close, like it used to be when he leaned in just to say your name.

his lips twitch, like he’s about to smile. that same crooked grin that used to make you feel like you were the only one in the world.

but you don’t smile back. not this time.

instead, you turn your attention to the conversation around you. you laugh at your friend’s joke — louder than you need to — and take a sip of your drink you don’t really want. your fingers wrap tighter around the glass. you stand a little taller, a little stronger, trying to create distance between yourself and the ghost of him still lingering in your bones.

you won’t let him slip back in. not again. not now. not when it’s taken everything just to feel like you can breathe without him.

and then — your phone buzzes. you don’t have to check to know who it is, you already know, but you do anyway.

“come here.”

it’s just two words. harmless, almost. but they knock the air out of you.

you read it once. then again. and again. staring at his name like it’s something sacred and cursed all at once.

your chest tightens. your throat burns. because you can hear it: his voice, soft and quiet, like he’s standing right beside you. like he’s saying it not just through text, but through the silence between you, the memories, the weight of everything that still hasn’t been said.

you want to reply. god, you want to. but you don’t.

you slide your phone back into your bag. your hands shake slightly, but you steady yourself. because this time, you’re not doing it. not going to be the girl who folds for a late-night message again.

and somehow, that decision — that silence — feels like the bravest thing you’ve done in months.

you turn back to your friends. the music is too loud, and someone is laughing too hard, and it all feels like a blur. but you lean into it. you let it drown out the noise in your head.

you don’t look back.

the night carries on in flashes, lights, drinks, words that drift in and out. you smile and nod and dance and breathe. and when you finally get home, your heels kicked off, makeup smudged and hair still carrying the scent of smoke and too many people. the silence wraps around you like a blanket.

except it’s not comforting. it presses in on you, heavy and unforgiving.

you sit on the edge of your bed, the message still unopened on your screen, glowing faintly like it’s waiting for you to break.

come here.

you still get him everywhere. in the spaces between dreams. in the lyrics of songs you weren’t expecting. in the way your hand reaches for your phone just before sleep, even though you already know exactly what’s there. but this time, you won’t open the door.

because you’ve learned what his love feels like, all shadows and silence. he only comes when the night is quiet and the world is still, when the loneliness creeps in and he remembers you were once warm and easy to find. but you need more than that.

and he’s never been that person.

you can’t keep being the girl who waits for someone to mean it. who takes scraps and calls them love. and that realisation, it hurts more than you’ll ever admit aloud. it tears through your chest in the dead of night when no one is looking.

you press your fingers to the side of your phone, wishing it could erase the part of you that still aches for him. that still wants to believe the words he sends when he’s lonely. but you can’t stay there. not anymore.

and across the room at that same party, lando stands near the door, phone still in hand, the message sent and left on read.

he stares at the screen. rereads it. wonders if maybe you just didn’t see it. but he knows.

he knows that silence.

it isn’t distance — it’s a choice.

he’s done this too many times. come crawling back when it’s dark and empty and he can’t pretend anymore. he’s always shown up when it’s too late. when you’ve already put the pieces of yourself back together.

and now, watching you from afar, he feels it. the weight of what he’s broken. what he never gave you.

you don’t look back. you don’t seek him out. and god, he deserves it. but it still cuts.

you were the one thing that felt like home, and now you’re just a stranger in the same room.

he sends another message — i miss you — but even as he types it, he knows it’s not enough.

he’s sorry. he is. but he also knows that sorry isn’t love. sorry isn’t showing up when it matters. sorry doesn’t fix the way he only ever came to you when he was empty.

and maybe that’s why you finally stopped waiting.

he looks down at his phone, your silence louder than any answer you could’ve given.

because now he knows what it really means. you won’t come back — not unless he learns to want you in the light. not unless he learns how to stay.

and the worst part is… he’s not sure he ever will.

the space between you is wide and echoing. and he’s left standing there with nothing but a quiet screen and the realisation that he let you go.

one of you was falling harder every time, the other pretended they weren’t feeling a thing. who was who?

and the truth: you were both lying. and now it’s over.

there’s only ache and the strings are attached forever. either you are want it or not.

©⠀piastrisun original work. please don’t translate, claim or repost any of my writing, 25’.

[homunculus-argument]

It can also help to remember there's no universal or 'correct' amount of time that it takes to process one's emotions - it's different for everyone. Like in extreme cases with something like grief, or more specifically losing someone. Someone might want to completely pretend everything is fine, some people might cry and need emotional support every day for quite some time, some people might need a combo of the two, and there are millions of other types of reactions. In a situation like that, where a death cannot be undone or fixed, don't you think it makes sense people would need to talk about it and process it? That same thing also applies to less serious situations. We're social animals who seek comfort in one another, and venting is basically that.

Is it in any way illuminating to what kind of a gap there is between us that I don't grieve? My father died when I was 17 and the only thing I felt about it was to be mildly relieved - he wasn't actively evil, not the kind of a person whose death you'd celebrate or anything, just the type whose presence in the room makes you wish he'd leave.

Other deaths in the family have meant even less than that to me. When my paternal grandfather died, the biggest emotion I felt was annoyed - I had pastel pink hair around that time, and I was just done dyeing my hair back to my natural colour in order to be presentable for the funeral, when my mom informed me that actually my aunt already arranged the funeral herself and didn't invite us. And mom had fucking watched me ruin a hair colour that was so hard to achieve and expensive to do in order to attend an event that she knew was already over and we weren't even invited to????

When my paternal grandmother died, I felt mildly guilty of being relieved. She was the only family member I ever felt bad for, even if I didn't like her. Her life had been nothing but misery from the beginning to the end, to the point where my sister snickered at her funeral over how badly the priest was lying through his teeth trying to paint grandma's life as something worth living. She didn't ~meet her future husband~ in the city, she got knocked up by accident and had a shotgun wedding with a mean-spirited, violent alcoholic. The same aunt who didn't invite us to granddad's funeral didn't attend, saying she didn't want to fly to Finland "when the weather is so miserable". My father's mother outlived two of her three children and the last one didn't bother attending her funeral.

I didn't attend that aunt's funeral. Fuck her.

When my mother's father died, I didn't really feel like it was my obligation to mourn. He was the family patriarch, who had four children and seven grandchildren, a respected member of the communities he belonged in, and one hunting dog magazine published an article about how a great man of the field had died. I felt like other people were already doing enough. Mom spent his entire funeral fussing over whether I'm wearing or holding my hat right. He was buried on a stinging cold winter day where it physically hurt to be bareheaded outdoors, and I was counting minutes until I'd be allowed to either get back inside or put the shitty little formal funeral-appropriate cap (which mom made me buy, saying my normal warm solid black winter hat was too frivolous) back on my head.

Her fucking father died and she spent the whole time fussing over my unacceptable hat. I won't care when she dies and won't attend her funeral.

[cami040405]

Told you I’d get annoying in here >:) anyways, can I request Michael, Bo, and Brahms with a fem!s/o that talks like, a lot a lot, and gets really insecure about it sometimes so she just goes quiet? Very much a comfort thing needed :p if not then it’s totally okay!

THANK YOU SM FOR ANSWERING MY OTHER TWO REQS BTW, THEY WERE WONDERFUL <3

Michael Myers, Bo Sinclair and Brahms Heelshire with a Talkative S/O (SEPARATE)

Summary: Imagine Michael Myers, Bo Sinclair and Brahms Heelshire with a Fem! S/O who talks a lot but gets insecure about it sometimes.

A/N: I loved writing this request because I identified with it a lot, I talk a lot sometimes too, so I felt very much like the character, thank you for sending the request, your ideas are great!

Michael Myers

Being with Michael was… strange to most people. You were the girl who talked a mile a minute — whether it was about something you read, your thoughts during a horror movie, or even just wondering aloud if clouds ever felt jealous of each other. People often told you to "slow down" or "quiet down."

But Michael never did.

He wasn’t the type to speak — not even once. And yet, he was always there when you talked. He listened, you could tell. He’d sit with you for hours in total stillness, letting your voice wrap around the silence like a blanket. Sometimes you’d sit at his feet while he cleaned his knife. Sometimes you’d walk through the woods with him beside you, and you’d fill the air with your thoughts while he just listened.

At first, you assumed he just tolerated it — like you were background noise. But over time, little things started to make you question that.

He’d lean in slightly when you were excited. Tilt his head when you were rambling about something obscure. Once, he even handed you a book — not for him to read, but for you to read out loud. He sat there silently while you read three chapters, curled into his side, your voice the only sound in the house.

But even with him… you had your moments. Those creeping thoughts, the ones that told you you were too much — too loud, too annoying, too exhausting. That if he ever wanted peace, it meant without you.

One evening, you were pacing the cabin, rambling about a dream you had, hands flailing as you talked — until you caught yourself. Mid-sentence. You felt that cold wave of self-consciousness hit your chest like a brick.

“I talk too much,” you mumbled, suddenly frozen, heart sinking. “God, I don’t know how you put up with me…”

The silence that followed felt like punishment. You stared at the floor, not daring to look at him. You sat down, curled into yourself, quiet. The room felt bigger when your voice wasn’t filling it.

Michael, still standing in the doorway, just stared at you. His mask revealed nothing — but his body language changed.

He walked over slowly. You didn’t look up until he was kneeling in front of you.

His gloved hand reached out. Gently — so gently — he touched your face, his thumb brushing beneath your eye like he was memorizing your features. He held your gaze, quiet but intense.

You tried to laugh it off, still unsure. “I just… I know I talk a lot. I must get on your nerves sometimes.”

He didn’t speak. But he shook his head, slowly, once. Then twice. With quiet care, he moved behind you on the couch and let you curl into him — big, warm arms wrapping around you like armor.

His hands settled against your stomach. His masked head rested beside yours. You could hear his breathing — slow and steady. He wasn’t leaving. He wasn’t upset. He was anchoring you.

You felt tears prick at your eyes. “I just… don’t want you to think I’m too much.”

Michael leaned forward slightly, and you felt the solid press of his forehead against your shoulder — his version of a kiss. His hand traced slow circles over your arm, over and over, until your breathing matched his.

No words. Just presence. Just comfort. And in that moment, you understood:

Michael didn’t just tolerate your voice.

He needed it.

.

Bo Sinclair

You’d always been a talker — a storyteller, a rambler, a collector of strange little facts and chaotic commentary. At first, you weren’t sure how Bo would react. He had that whole Southern charm going for him, sure, but beneath it was a man made of sharp steel, biting sarcasm, and deep-seated shadows.

But surprisingly? He never shushed you.

Bo liked the sound of your voice. Whether you were sitting on the front steps of the gas station rattling off about some dream you had or pacing around the house going on about a podcast episode, he listened. Not always obviously — he’d still be working on the car, tossing a wrench from one hand to another — but he heard every damn word.

He even started teasing you playfully, tossing out smirks like:

“Ain’t no one ever tell you to breathe between sentences, baby?”

But he’d say it with this softness in his voice. Like he was entertained. Like he genuinely cared.

It was on a quiet afternoon when it happened.

You were curled up on the couch in Bo’s room, legs tucked under you, chattering while he tinkered with something by the window. But mid-sentence, the words caught in your throat. Your mind spiraled.

“Do I sound annoying?”“Maybe I’m just talking too much again.”“He’s probably sick of hearing me ramble.”

And just like that, silence. Bo didn’t turn right away. But he noticed. His shoulders stilled. His hands paused. The air shifted.

He turned slowly, blue eyes narrowing in that way he did when something wasn’t sitting right. “You alright?” he asked, voice low and even.

You managed a small shrug. “Yeah. Just tired.”

That was a lie, and he saw right through it.

“Don’t bullshit me, sweetheart,” he said gently, wiping his hands on a rag. He walked over, crouching in front of you. “You were goin’ a mile a minute a second ago. Now you’re all quiet.” He tilted his head. “What happened in that pretty head o’ yours?”

You bit your lip, eyes dropping to your lap.

“I just… I feel like I talk too much sometimes,” you whispered. “Like I’m annoying or—just too much.”

Bo blinked. And then he looked at you like you’d just insulted yourself in front of him — which, in his mind, you had.

“Too much?” he echoed, almost offended. “Honey, let me tell you somethin’ real clear.”

He leaned in, one hand coming up to rest under your chin, coaxing your gaze back to his.

“You think I’d sit there listenin’ to you talk about those weird little facts, or them stories you spin outta nowhere, if I didn’t want to?” His thumb brushed over your cheek with a gentleness that contrasted every rough edge of him. “Hell, half the time, you’re the only thing keepin’ me sane in this damn place.”

Your breath hitched — eyes glassy, throat tight.

“I like the sound of your voice,” he continued, quieter now. “I like how you light up when you’re tellin’ me somethin’. I like when you forget what you were even sayin’ ‘cause you got so excited.”

He chuckled under his breath, eyes soft. “Drives me crazy in the best kinda way.”

You blinked back the sting of tears, and Bo noticed. He leaned up, kissing your forehead, lingering there for a moment before resting his own against yours.

“You don’t ever gotta quiet down for me, darlin’. Not ever. You go ahead and talk my ear off — I’ll be right here, every time.”

You nodded, sniffling softly, and he gave you that crooked little smirk you loved so much.

Then, with a wink, he muttered,

“Now come on. Tell me the rest of that story about the raccoon with the donut. I was listenin’.”

And just like that, the words started coming again — hesitantly at first, then more freely — and Bo? He just leaned back, arms crossed, watching you like you were the only thing that mattered.

Because to him… you were.

.

Brahms Heelshire

The manor was quiet.

A strange thing, considering how much your voice usually echoed through its old walls. Whether it was humming while organizing the dusty shelves, ranting about something you read, or just talking to Brahms about literally anything, your presence filled the house like sunlight — warm, persistent, and impossible to ignore.

But today? Silence.

You sat curled on the far end of the window bench in the library, knees drawn up under your chin, hands tucked into the sleeves of your cardigan. You were staring out at the garden, not really seeing it, just sinking into your thoughts.

From the hallway, soft footsteps echoed. Brahms emerged from the shadows, face partially covered by his porcelain mask. His gaze drifted across the room—searching—before settling on you.

“Darling?” His voice was cautious.

You didn’t answer right away. Just a small, tired shrug.

He tilted his head. Something was off. You hadn’t spoken to him all morning. No cheerful greeting, no “Brahmsie, did you move my book again?” No rambling about your dreams or the weird crow you saw outside. Nothing.

A quiet Brahms was normal. A quiet you? Not at all.

“Why are you being so… quiet?” he asked, stepping closer.

You hesitated, biting your bottom lip before finally whispering, “I just… I don’t know. I talk too much. I get annoying. I thought maybe you'd enjoy a break.”

The moment those words left your mouth, Brahms froze.

Then, slowly, like he couldn’t quite believe what he heard, he took a step toward you. And then another. His long frame moved with that eerie grace he had — like a wind-up doll, gentle but uncanny.

“You think… I’d want less of you?” he said, voice low. “That I get tired of you?”

You avoided his eyes. “Sometimes I see your face and it’s like… I don’t know. Blank. Or distant. I just overthink, I guess.”

He was beside you now, sinking to his knees in front of the bench. His masked face tilted up to you, gloved hands gently finding yours and tugging them free from your sleeves.

“Blank doesn’t mean bored,” he murmured, voice softer now. “I just get lost in you, that's all. I listen to every word. Even the nonsense. Especially the nonsense. You fill the house. You fill me.”

You blinked. He tugged your hands to his chest, pressing them over his heart.

“When you go quiet,” he said, almost mournfully, “everything feels wrong. Empty. Like the house used to feel before you.”

His grip tightened just a little, as if he thought you might slip away with your silence.

“Say something,” he whispered. “Anything. Say I smell funny. Say you forgot how to spell ‘rendezvous.’ Say I’m a spoiled man-child. I don’t care. Just... don’t go quiet. Not with me.”

You finally laughed—a breathy, watery laugh that escaped your throat before you could stop it. And it lit his whole posture up like a switch had flipped inside him.

“There she is…” he sighed, pulling himself up onto the bench to sit beside you. “I missed your voice, little dove.”

And as you began speaking again — slowly at first, hesitantly, then with growing comfort — Brahms curled around you like ivy, head on your shoulder, arms holding you gently in place, like you were something precious he couldn’t bear to lose.

He didn’t say much else.

He didn’t have to.

His silence said: Talk all you want. You’re never too much for me.

.

[vibelladonna]

✑ 𝓉𝓎𝓅𝑒 𝑜𝒻 𝒷𝑜𝓎𝒻𝓇𝒾𝑒𝓃𝒹 𝜗𝜚 𝒽𝓎𝓊𝑔𝑜

We’re back again with the “type of boyfriend” headcanons—this time for the best baby boy in TKATB. That’s right, it’s finally Hyugo’s turn. People have been asking for him (loudly), and since there’s barely any content on this chaotic rooftop menace, I figured... fine. It’s time.

𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓃𝓉 𝓌𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔: 18+ NO KIDS (Adults Only) This content contains mature themes unsuitable for children. Please respect the creator's intentions. 

Also, I was only gone for like two weeks and suddenly y’all hit me with 1K followers—??? Why?? T-T

I’m not even a consistent writer, I just be vanishing like a ghost with commitment issues. But seriously, thank you. I’ll try to get to your requests after finals, once my brain cells recover from the academic warfare.

Anyway, writing him? Pain. He’s sweet, playful, has beef with the college, possibly a knife in his back pocket 24/7, and still manages to be boyfriend-coded. Balancing all that? Not easy—especially studying for finals kicking me in the face. But even while dying academically, I think I’ve got a solid grasp on him now.

Honestly? I might just become the main Hyugo writer. 

Someone has to. Let’s get into it.

[ 𝓂𝒶𝓈𝓉𝑒𝓇𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉 ]

Let’s be clear—Hyugo was the one catching feelings first.

The boy was already gone for you long before you realized what was happening. In the game, it’s mentioned he has a “certain crush,” and the way he stares a little too long or makes offhand comments about how you “remind him of someone”?

Yeah. That someone is you.

He doesn’t confess right away, though. That’s not his style. Instead, he lingers around you more often, steals your pen to “borrow it” even though he never returns it, pulls you into weird places like the rooftop “just because,” and randomly brings up your name in conversations with Sol—pretending it’s no big deal. (Spoiler: it is.)

✑ Unpredictable Lover (But With Bite)

Hyugo doesn’t ease into love. He trips, stumbles, and full-body slams into it like a cartoon character hitting a wall—and then laughs about it while nursing emotional whiplash. One minute you’re just the guy who shares notes or laughs at his dumb trivia. 

The next? He’s looking at you like you invented gravity.

When the MC reminded him of his old crush? That was it. Game over. His brain short-circuited and fully convinced itself you were his soulmate. Not in a clingy way (okay, maybe a little clingy), but in that wide-eyed, heart-hammering, "Oh, you're real? You're mine?" kind of way.

It’s not even subtle. If Sol’s the type to bottle everything up until it explodes, Hyugo’s just… holding the bottle upside down, watching it pour, and asking if you want a sip. He’ll tell you he likes you in the most offhand, dramatic, heart-melting ways—laughing as if it’s no big deal while simultaneously dying inside.

“I like you too much. It’s annoying.” cue deflection into food talk like he didn’t just ruin your emotional stability for the week

He’s drawn to people who get him—the weird parts, the unpredictable schedule, the random ass facts at 3 a.m., the way he vanishes and reappears with rare cassettes or bags of stolen berries like a chaotic little cryptid boyfriend. People who don’t try to "fix" him, but instead hand him a spoon and ask to share dessert.

He doesn’t do patterns. Doesn’t do expectations. What he does do is follow his gut, sprint into romantic territory like it’s a speedrun, and somehow still make you feel like the center of the universe—his odd little galaxy.

One day he’s got your favorite fruity snack in hand, saying, “Skip class with me. I found a crime documentary we can heckle together.” The next? He’s ghosted for two days. No texts. No calls. Reappears like nothing happened, dumps a bag of cassette tapes in your lap, and mutters, “They sounded like you. Messy but good.”

His version of sweet nothings?

“If I threatened the dean, do you think I’d get expelled or promoted?”

What.

Anyway, Hyugo’s idea of a confession is the kind of thing that makes you pause for a full ten seconds wondering if he just insulted you or proposed.

Like the time he sauntered over to you with a slice of cake in a paper napkin, tossed it on your desk, and casually said:

“I got this cake the other day and it reminded me of you. It was horrible—like, truly disgusting—but really pretty to look at.”

And then he smiled.

Not even sheepishly. Just smug. Like he thought he was being romantic.

And somehow? It kind of was.

Because beneath the trolling and chaotic delivery, there’s a genuine, rare honesty. That cake? It was real. He hated it—but he thought about you. He bought it thinking about you. He shared it, thinking that even if it sucked, he wanted you to be part of the joke, part of the moment. And that’s what Hyugo does. He doesn’t wrap his feelings in a bow—he throws them at you like a dodgeball and laughs when you flinch.

But that’s the thing: Hyugo’s love isn’t elegant. It’s not scheduled. It’s messy, spontaneous, way-too-loud, and utterly sincere. One day he’s skipping class to show you a crime documentary he downloaded illegally off a sketchy website, and the next, he’s vanished for 48 hours without a word. Then he returns like nothing happened, hands you a crumpled bag of sweets and pretty flowers and mutters:

“I don’t know. These felt like you.”

He doesn’t believe in doing things the “right” way. He believes in feeling. And if being with you makes his heart do that hiccup thing in his chest? He’s going to chase that.

His affection isn’t routine—it’s a riot. He’ll flirt by arguing with you about fictional crimes. He’ll compliment you by comparing you to garbage-eating birds. He’ll confess his feelings mid-snack, while chewing.

“I like you too much, it’s annoying. Can you pass the chips?”

And honestly? It’s kind of perfect.

Because Hyugo doesn’t do romance the normal way—he does it his way. Unhinged. Blunt. Endearing in the most unpredictable fashion.

If you can survive the whiplash of dating someone who gifts you detective movie posters, late-night existential rants, and a stolen plush frog from the student store—He’s already yours.

Sidenote, now thinking about—Let’s just say… if Sol finds out Hyugo has feelings for the MC too?

Sol is the type to internalize every emotion until it calcifies. He doesn’t say he’s upset—he just stiffens around you, goes quiet, disappears from hangouts, and starts writing darker poetry. But make no mistake: he sees everything. And Hyugo? He’s not subtle. Not even a little.

Hyugo would catch on instantly. He’d tease Sol. Not maliciously—more like poking a sleeping wolf with a stick to see if it barks.

“You’re awfully quiet, Sol. Something bothering you?”

leans a little too close to MC

“Or someone?”

And maybe he laughs. Maybe he makes a show of being the light-hearted one. But behind all that noise is a sharp, protective loyalty—Hyugo’s jokes are weapons, and he’ll use them to keep the people he cares about close.

He might pretend to flirt just to mess with Sol.

But when it comes to you? He’s serious. Hyugo doesn’t play around with the things that make his heartbeat go crooked.

If you’re the one who makes him feel free—if you accept all his chaos without trying to change him—he’ll give you everything. The good, the bad, the oddly sweet bird-themed analogies. The ugly truths he doesn’t tell anyone else.

Because once Hyugo falls?

He falls all the way. No brakes. No caution tape. No escape plan.

Just you, and a heart too loud to ignore.

✑ Smart but Soft (and a lil scary)

Hyugo’s the type who confuses people on purpose. He’s top of the class one day, doesn’t show up the next. Cracks the most complicated equation in five minutes, then sticks googly eyes on the school vending machine and blames it on aliens.

Some say he’s a delinquent. Some say he’s a genius. All anyone really knows is that Hyugo always gets things done. He’s reliable.

Strangely so. You call him at 3AM with a crisis? He shows up.

You’re in tears over nothing? He distracts you with candy and half a conspiracy theory. He’s not ashamed of affection either—not even a little. 

Hyugo doesn’t care who’s watching when he grabs your hand in the hallway, when he hugs you from behind, or when he loudly calls you embarrassing pet names in front of Sol, or pretty much anyone.

Yeah. He's that guy.

But there’s something… off about him too.

Not in a bad way. Just—off. Like, he’s always smiling. Always laughing. But sometimes you catch that flicker in his eyes that’s just a bit too sharp. Sometimes his grin feels like it’s hiding something sharp behind it. Something practiced. Like he's worn that mask for years and just got good at making it look natural.

And the truth is? You’ve seen things.

Once, after class, you were heading toward the train station shortcut—an alleyway behind the older school buildings. You didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but the voice that echoed off the brick stopped you cold. It was rough. Deep. Too serious. Too cold. Not Hyugo’s voice.

“If I catch you touching her again, I’ll carve out your throat and make you apologize with your last breath. Say ‘thank you’ for the warning.”

And then you saw him.

Hyugo. Your Hyugo.

Back pressed to some guy’s chest, hand gripping his jaw like he’d snap it clean. Not smiling. Not even blinking. Calm in a way that felt unnatural. There was a flick-knife in his hand. The same one he later used to peel an apple while lying on your floor like it never happened.

And what did you do? Nothing. You minded your business.

Like, what were you supposed to say? “Hey, babe, nice threats today! Who was the guy? Should I be worried?” Because how do you ask someone if they’re dangerous when they’re laying in your lap, pressing absentminded kisses to the inside of your wrist? When he’s curled up beside you with all his warmth and nicknames and that childish excitement in his voice whenever he finds a weird bug or sees a raccoon?

How do you bring it up when he's sweet?

When he traces your knuckles with the same fingers that curled around a knife so naturally. When he leans into your neck and mumbles, “You smell like strawberries,” like it’s a confession.

When he tells you, “Don’t ever leave me, okay?” in a tone too soft to be anything but sincere. That duality is what makes Hyugo dangerous. And irresistible.

He’s smart. Very smart. Too smart, maybe.

But beneath that chaotic, happiness-bomb energy, there’s a darkness he doesn't talk about. A history he won’t explain. All you get are glimmers—warnings painted in pretty smiles and sugar-sweet kisses. And maybe he isn’t an assassin. Maybe he just knows how to handle himself. Maybe he is too cute for that sort of thing. ...Right? Or maybe the same hands that cup your cheeks gently could, without hesitation, end someone who hurt you.

And maybe—just maybe—that’s why you feel safest right next to him.

✑ Certified Cling Wrap™

Hyugo’s a walking paradox.

He’s an extrovert, yeah. The guy who can light up a room just by showing up, who always has something weirdly fascinating to say ("Did you know slugs have four noses?"). The type who remembers everyone’s birthday, even if he doesn’t show up to class half the time. He’s fun. Loud. Chaotic.

But when it comes down to it?

There’s nowhere he’d rather be than with you.

He’d trade a party for your couch in a heartbeat. Scratch that—he wouldn’t even consider the party if you were available. You could literally say, “I’m thinking of watching a movie tonight,” and he’d be like:

“Say less. I’m bringing snacks.”

He just wants to exist in your space. Quiet or loud, chaotic or cozy, rainy or sunlit—if you’re in it, that’s where Hyugo wants to be. And when he’s there? Prepare to lose all personal space rights.

Hyugo is Certified Cling Wrap™

Affectionate in the most relentless, devoted way. He’s the kind of guy who:

Will sit on the floor beside you just so he can lean his head against your thigh while you're working.

Wraps his arms around your waist from behind while you’re cooking, swaying with you and humming some dumb made-up song about your hair smelling good.

Steals your hoodies even though he already has a closet full of his own (“Yours smell like comfort and bad decisions.”).

Sleeps like a cat in a sunbeam—curled up on you, gripping your shirt with a soft little snore in your ear.

He doesn’t care if your hair’s a mess, or if you’ve said three words all day. To him, that’s the dream. A quiet afternoon, curled up together under a blanket, him reading some wild conspiracy thread aloud like it’s bedtime poetry, your legs tangled under the coffee table—that’s his definition of paradise.

And it’s not just physical closeness.

It’s emotional, too. Hyugo pays attention.

He notices when your laugh doesn’t sound real. When your “I’m fine” isn’t. When you’re holding back tears or trying to carry more than you should. And in his own strange, lovable way, he makes it better. Sometimes it’s through chaos—dragging you out of bed at 2AM for gas station candy and an illegal rooftop view of the cityline. Maybeee say for a bit to sun rise.

Sometimes it’s through comfort—sneaking in your favorite drink with a dumb note taped to it (“Drink this or perish.”).

And sometimes, it’s just… silence.

Him resting beside you, letting his fingers run lazy circles on your arm while you process whatever’s weighing you down. Not asking for anything. Just being there.

Hyugo’s the guy who’ll whisper “I love you” into your hair when he thinks you’re asleep, just to be safe. Who calls you nicknames like he’s been doing it his whole life—“bug,” “babyface,” “sweet disaster,” depending on the mood.

Who holds your hand like it grounds him.

And maybe he’s a little too clingy. Maybe he gets pouty when you’re not around. Maybe he whines into your voicemail if you ignore his texts for too long (“I’ve withered like an unloved plant. You better come water me or I’m dying dramatically.”).

But that clinginess? It’s love. Undeniable. Raw. Real. Because Hyugo doesn’t just want to be with you. He wants to build with you. A life. A routine. A weird little bubble of shared chaos and safety and inside jokes that no one else understands.

You’re his home. Not the apartment, not the school rooftop, not the alleyways where he sometimes does questionable things.

You.

And he’ll remind you in a hundred little ways, every single day.

✑ The Ass Silly Flirt

Hyugo flirts like it’s a full-time job and he's trying to get promoted.

He’s not smooth about it either—he’s annoying. Like, he’ll text you “thinking of you 😘” and then immediately follow it up with a picture of a traffic cone wearing a wig with the caption: “This u?”

And the worst part? You laugh or offended. Every time.

He texts you non-stop, like you're both in some private group chat that never shuts up. No context. No warning. Just raw, unfiltered Hyugo brain static 24/7:

“Do you think ghosts get boners?”

“Be honest would I survive if I just ate bubblegum and vibes for a week.”

“I saw a pigeon with a limp today and now I’m emotionally compromised.”

Mid-class, 3AM, during a fire drill—he does not care. You’re getting these texts whether you're ready or not.

And the memes? OH, THE MEMES.

Hyugo’s meme game is so strong it’s criminal. He’s got folders. Archives. A whole reaction gif arsenal like he’s been preparing for emotional warfare. He sends one for every situation, no matter how inappropriate.

You text him “I’m sad.”

He sends a gif of SpongeBob playing the world’s smallest violin and follows it up with “come cuddle or perish, dramatic ass.”

It’s his love language.

He doesn’t know how to say “I care about you deeply” like a normal person—he just sends you 38 TikToks in a row and expects you to watch them all immediately and react to each one like you’re being graded.

Now. Let’s talk about The Streak™.

Y’all have had a TikTok streak going for months. At this point, it’s longer than some people’s relationships. It is sacred. And if you break it? Hyugo will take it personally. You think he’s kidding? No. This man will hit you with voice notes that sound like break-up letters. 

“Hey. So. I noticed we haven’t exchanged any TikToks in the last… 14 hours. Are you okay? Are we okay? Just let me know if you hate me now. It’s fine. I’ll just go stare out a rainy window like a Victorian widow.” You better send something—anything—before he starts live-posting his descent into madness.

Speaking of voice notes?

He loves those. You open your phone and there’s just a five-minute recording of him rambling while pacing his room like a raccoon hopped up on sugar.

“Okay so listen—I saw this guy trip on the sidewalk and somehow launch his phone into a trash can, and I SWEAR it was cinematic. Like, Academy Award level physics. Anyway I thought of you. Wanna get dinner?”

Or sometimes it’s just him humming some random song he heard in the background of a YouTube ad and begging:

“Can you find this song? Please. I’m in shambles. I don’t have Shazam and my dignity won’t survive me asking a stranger.” And you do find it. Because you love him. And because you’ve accepted that being in love with Hyugo means acting as his personal Google assistant and meme judge.

Hyugo doesn’t flirt to impress. He flirts to torment. To tease.

To infect your brain like a catchy song and live there rent-free until you’re giggling like an idiot alone in your room just because he sent you a picture of a cat with bad bangs and said, “our child if we never discipline them.”

He’s a menace. A menace with heart eyes and a clingy streak. 

He’s the kind of guy who’d write “I love you” on a bathroom mirror with lip balm and then blame it on ghosts. The type who’d kiss you mid-sentence just to watch you stutter. Who’d steal your charger but bring you snacks to “make up for it” and then never give the charger back.

In short: He’s loud. Annoying. Borderline illegal levels of clingy.

But he’s yours. And that’s kinda the best part.

✑ Tailored to You

— Words of Affirmation?

Hyugo speaks your praises like he’s reciting scripture from a holy book only he knows how to read. 

It’s constant. Casual. Deadpan-delivered and terrifyingly sincere.

You’ll be mid-rant about your day and he’ll just go:

“You're the smartest person I know, and I hang out with Sol. That man knows Latin and still doesn’t know how to say sorry. Meanwhile, you? You breathe and my brain goes ‘yeah, this is the one.’”

Sometimes he insults you, sure, but in that “I’m obsessed with you but emotionally stunted” way.

“You make me want to be a better man. Unfortunately, I’m lazy and emotionally unhinged, so you’re stuck with this version of me. Congrats.”

And don’t even think about crying in front of him. He’ll switch from “hey sexy” to “you are the most brilliant, beautiful, badass person I’ve ever met” so fast it’ll give you emotional whiplash.

— Acts of Service?

Hyugo would absolutely walk into a war zone with nothing but your to-do list and a Monster energy drink and say, “Don't worry babe, I got it.”

He’ll do your homework shockingly he’s smart asf while you nap, call customer service on your behalf (“Hi yes, my partner’s about to commit murder over a billing error, please help”), and will not let you carry your own bag if he’s around.

Did your phone die? Suddenly, his is at 92% and in your hands.

Craving something? It’s on your bed before you even finish the sentence.

Exhausted? He’s already drawing you a bath and setting a snack tray like he’s your overworked but loyal butler who’s also in love with you.

He doesn’t even act like it’s a big deal. He just shrugs and says:

“If you’re good to me, I gotta be good back. That’s the rule.”

— Receiving Gifts?

He gives gifts like he’s on a scavenger hunt where the prize is your smile. They’re not always expensive—but they are weirdly specific.

A ring from a claw machine he swears “vibes with your aura.”

A charm bracelet/ring/necklace with tiny objects representing inside jokes only the two of you understand.

An old book with your favorite quote already highlighted, because he “happened to see it and thought of you.”

A dumb little vending machine toy he’s convinced is your new emotional support trinket. And the wrapping? Forget it. He’ll give it to you in a paper towel and say,

“Presentation is for cowards. Love is raw and weird. Take it.”

— Quality Time?

This man thrives on being around you.

Not even doing anything, just existing in your orbit. He’ll lay sideways across your bed like a lizard sunbathing while you read. He’ll follow you from room to room like a haunted but affectionate cat. You’re watching a movie? He's not even watching—he’s watching you watch it. “You scrunch your nose when you get invested. It’s cute. I like it. Shut up and let me admire you.”

Wanna nap together? He’s already curled up next to you.

Want to work in silence? He’ll bring snacks and just vibe, occasionally sending you memes while sitting 3 feet away.

Your time? His favorite gift of all time. 

— Physical Touch?

Oh you want space? Too bad, babe.

Hyugo is basically a heated blanket with limbs. 

He’s all over you—shoulder leans, back hugs, thigh squeezes, lap pillows, forehead touches, neck nuzzles. He’s like Velcro with feelings. He has zero shame. “You’re soft and warm and smell like my favorite person, why wouldn’t I be on top of you right now?” And yes, those hands? Again, the same ones that once threatened someone in an alleyway after class?

Those are the ones that cup your face so gently it makes your stomach flip.

That brush your hair behind your ear. That hold your hand even in public, especially in public, with a smug little grin like he’s bragging silently: “Yeah. This is mine.”

In conclusion, Hyugo doesn’t just love you in five languages.

He’s practically multilingual in affection—loud, devoted, and unfiltered. Tailored to you. Perfectly chaotic. Inescapably real.

Want to cry a little about it later? Yeah. Me too.

✑ Tailored to Him

— Words of Affirmation?

Hyugo thrives on your praise like it’s oxygen laced with espresso.

Tell him he’s smart? He’ll preen. Tell him he’s handsome? He’ll smirk and pull you into a kiss so sweet it tastes like a dare. But whisper to him, all soft and serious, “I’m proud of you” or “You make me feel safe” and he short circuits. Full-body blush. Ears red. Eyes everywhere but on you.

He might laugh it off, say something dumb like,

“Babe, stop it, I’ll fall harder and it’s already embarrassing out here…”

But he replays your words over and over in his head. He craves your approval like it’s sacred. He doesn’t want empty compliments—he wants real ones, the ones you mean. The ones that come out when you think he’s not listening, but he always is. He remembers your voice in detail. 

If you say something sweet in the morning, expect him to bring it up casually three days later like it didn’t melt his heart into syrup.

— Physical Touch? 

Let’s not play.

He’s got the soft hands, the smug smirk, the “come here and sit in my lap while I tell you about this video game I saw played last night” voice. But under that cuddly, somewhat short golden retriever exterior is a problem in the best way.

He’ll touch you constantly—absently tugging your fingers, nosing at your neck, kissing your knuckles like some old-timey heartthrob who listens to rap music and fights demons on weekends. Bro what?

But when he wants you? Oh, he wants you.

He leans in close when he talks, voice dropping an octave, and his fingers splay against your hip like he knows what he’s doing. 

When it’s just the two of you, he goes quiet. Focused. His usual chaotic flirty energy simmers down into this heated, steady burn. And God help you if you wear something that shows your skin—because suddenly he’s behind you, dragging his fingertips along your arms, whispering in your ear with that teasing-laced purr like:

“You really gonna look like that around me and act innocent? That’s wild.”

He’s cute. But he’s also lowkey hot in that "I’d ruin you with love and cheek kisses and then also maybe leave scratch marks you didn’t know you liked" kind of way.

— Quality Time?

Hyugo’s a social creature, yeah—but you? You’re home.

He could be surrounded by people, laughing at memes, bouncing from conversation to conversation—but the moment you walk in, he shifts. Eyes locked. Energy redirected. Like you’re his true north in a galaxy of distractions.

He doesn't need an occasion. Doesn’t need a plan.

He’s the kind of guy who shows up at your door with snacks, a blanket, and zero expectations other than being near you.

Spending time with you recharges him. Whether it's lying in bed watching weird documentaries, going on midnight walks, or sitting on rooftops eating vending machine junk food—if it’s with you? 

It’s worth it.

He memorizes your routines, your reactions, your sleepy habits. He makes mental notes like:

“They like their tea a little sweeter at night.”

“They squint when reading—they need a lamp, I’ll buy one.”

“They hum that one song while brushing their teeth—learn that on guitar maybe?”

Time isn’t just time with Hyugo. It’s devotion made casual. It’s “I choose you” in every second. It’s you matter most, no matter what else I could be doing.

So yeah. Hyugo’s a mess. But he’s your mess.

He’s a walking contradiction of softness and chaos, affection and absurdity. He loves in ways that feel like warm thunderstorms—loud, unexpected, but still soothing if you know how to listen. And when he loves you, he tailors it perfectly.

Words that lift you up. Touches that say "stay." Time that says “you’re all I need.”

He’s all in. And he’ll make damn sure you feel it.

✑ Joystick Jerk 

Oh, Hyugo’s a gamer gamer.

Not some flashy streamer, not a try-hard clout chaser—no face cam, no Twitch, no mic unless it’s Discord with you or the inner circle. He doesn’t stream, and when you asked why, he just shrugged and said something cryptic like:

“Gotta keep some parts of me hidden, y’know? Too many eyes makes the game less fun.”

Which like… okay. Cool. Normal people say that.

Totally not suspicious. Definitely not assassin-coded behavior. Definitely didn’t say that while sharpening a pocketknife and humming anime opening themes under his breath.

But listen, the man’s cracked at every game you throw at him. FPS? Headshots for days. Fighting games? You blink, you lose. Racing? Don’t even try it. Even rhythm games? He gets full combos and doesn’t even break a sweat. He’s got the focus of someone who’s either a pro… or someone who’s trained their hand-eye coordination to kill a man in silence.

And worst of all? He always wants to play with you. 

And when I say always, I mean always.

“Babe, let’s do co-op, I’ll carry you.”

“Play a round with me? C’mon, I’ll give you a kiss every time you die.”

“If I win, you have to say I’m hot. If you win… okay that’s never gonna happen, but I’ll still say you’re hot.” It’s cute at first. Until you realize he never loses. Not unless he lets you win.

And yes—you noticed.

He tries to act slick about it. Pretends he “accidentally” missed that final hit or “slipped” during the last lap. But the smug look on his face gives it away every damn time.

You: “You let me win, didn’t you.”

Hyugo, grinning: “What? No way. You’re just getting better. Natural talent. Gamer instincts. Maybe I’m rubbing off on you—”

You: “I’m going to delete your save file.”

Hyugo: “Wait—WAIT I’M SORRY—”

There was a time you swore off gaming with him completely. “Sore loser? Absolutely. Certified D1 crash-out? No shame.” But lately, he’s been playing way too much.

Like… you come over and he barely looks up from his screen. Just tosses a lazy “hey babe” and keeps mashing buttons like his life depends on it. Sometimes he forgets to eat. Sometimes he forgets you’re in the room.

So what do you do? Be normal? Communicate?

Nah. You’re evil.

Beautifully, diabolically evil.

Let’s say one day, Hyugo’s deep into a match. He’s playing some online team shooter with Sol, both of them barking callouts like seasoned war generals. His voice smooth and laser-focused as he barks commands into his mic. The screen flashes with rapid gunfire, his fingers a blur over the keyboard. He’s locked in, absolutely locked in—with that deadly kind of concentration that makes you want to ruin it.

So naturally, you do.

You drop to your knees without a word and slip under his desk, the soft whir of his PC fans the only warning he gets.

At first, he doesn’t notice. At first.

Your fingers trail up his calf, slow and innocent.

Then not so innocent. You press your palms to his thighs, feel the twitch under your hands. And when you start fiddling with the buttons of his pants, he pauses—just for a second.

His voice stutters.

“Y—yeah, flank left—mnn—flank, I meant flank! Just—move, damn it!”

Sol’s voice crackles through the headset, confused: “Yo, you good?”

Hyugo clears his throat with the subtlety of a panicked cat. “Yup. Peachy. Total—nghh—focus.”

You don’t stop. If anything, you get bolder—running your nails along the seam, watching him shift in his seat, those long fingers faltering for just a beat. You don’t even need to look up to know his jaw is clenched, teeth gritted in pure restraint. You can hear it in his breath. Shaky. A little desperate.

Then, finally, a low, bitten-off sound escapes him—a moan. Not loud. But real. Raw. The kind of sound you feel low in your stomach.

“Fuck—” And still? Still he wins the match. Freak of nature. You almost applaud. “GGs, I’m out,” Hyugo mutters into the mic, voice hoarse. “Emergency. Real life critical hit.”

Click. Call ends. Silence.

Before you can even shift, he’s got one arm under your shoulders, dragging you out and straight into his lap. The headset’s tossed somewhere across the desk. The game’s forgotten. All his focus now? On you.

Those baby blue eyes? Sharp. Wicked. Burning.

“You wanna play dirty now?” he breathes, voice low, chest heaving. “You think you can tease me while I play the game with Sol and just walk away?” His hand slides up your thigh, firm and slow.

“Nah, sweetheart. You started this.”

And Hyugo?

Oh, he never leaves a game unfinished.

✑ Sugar, Spice, and Chaos

For someone who lives on the edge of unhinged and adorable, it’s no surprise Hyugo is a menace in the kitchen—but only if it involves sugar. Actual meals? Nah. He either burns them, forgets them on the stove, or looks at savory ingredients like they personally offended him. 

But sweets? Baking? That’s his love language.

He’ll never say it, but there’s something almost calming about it—the measuring, the mixing, the slow transformation of flour and butter into something warm and golden. He’s got a soft spot for berry shortcake, especially ones layered with cream and strawberries. It’s nostalgic, he once said. You don’t press further, but the way he lights up when he tastes it? 

Tells you all you need to know.

So one weekend, he drags you into the kitchen with that signature grin, sleeves rolled up, apron tied (yes, it says “kiss the baker,” yes he wore it on purpose) and says: “Today, we conquer the cake.”

You start with the cake base—he insists on doing the measuring himself, swearing he has “baker’s intuition.” You don’t argue, even when you notice him eyeballing the flour instead of using the cup.

The moment the batter’s mixed, he tastes it with a spoon like it’s a gourmet meal. Then gives you a spoonful too. 

“Here. For quality control.” It’s… actually amazing.

While it bakes, he turns the kitchen into a war zone of whipped cream, sugar, and cut strawberries. He tries to pipe roses onto parchment and ends up with something that looks suspiciously like a slug.

“Abstract art,” he claims. “Put it in a museum.”

You laugh. He grins wider.

Then comes the fun part—assembling. You’re trying to do it neatly, but Hyugo? He starts feeding you strawberries like some dramatic prince and smearing whipped cream on your nose when you’re not looking.

“Look at you,” he smirks, “cuter than the cake.”

You chase him around the kitchen with a spatula in revenge. It ends in a tie. And a kiss. (With a side of whipped cream.)

Finally, the shortcake’s done—messy, chaotic, but somehow still perfect. Just like him.

The kitchen’s a battlefield of bowls, whipped cream smears, and flour footprints. You’re both a little sticky, a little out of breath from laughing too hard, and the oven’s still faintly warm behind you. Hyugo licks a smudge of berry syrup off his thumb with the same lazy grin that always gets him his way.

You’re sitting on the counter, legs swinging, and he’s nestled between them, sharing forkfuls of cake straight from the dish. His eyes flicker up every time you chew, like he’s not watching the dessert but you enjoying it.

He hums low after a bite, leaning against your shoulder. “I’d burn water for dinner, but damn if I won’t make you the best dessert of your life.”

You snort, licking cream from the side of your lip.

“Cocky much?”

“Confident,” he says, swiping a bit of whipped cream with his finger and tapping it onto the tip of your nose. “But also a little hungry still…”

You tilted your head, lost. “For the cake?”

“Sure,” he smirks, “let’s go with that.”

He kisses it off your nose—soft and teasing. Then off your cheek. Your jaw. The corner of your mouth. Each one slower than the last. Until it’s not about the cake anymore.

You reach for the bowl of whipped cream—because why not?—and dip your fingers in it. His eyes track you like prey, curious and wide as you smear a little on the side of your neck. “Oops,” you whisper, “missed a spot.”

Hyugo freezes. Then laughs, soft and dangerous. “Oh, you really wanna start something, huh?”

The next moment is a blur—his hands are on your thighs, spreading them wider around him as he presses closer. His lips find the cream on your neck and he bites—playful at first, then deeper. Your breath catches. That baby blue gaze turns sharp, electric with mischief.

He kisses down your throat, slow and purposeful, tongue chasing the sugar and teeth chasing your pulse. You’re not even sure how the bowl got knocked over, but it doesn’t matter. The spoon clatters to the floor. Your back arches into him.

“Tastes good,” he mutters against your skin, “but you’re sweeter.”

His hands slide up under your shirt, warm and insistent. The cake is long forgotten now, half-eaten and melting beside you. His mouth is busy elsewhere—your collarbone, your shoulder, the curve where your neck meets your jaw. He’s painting you with sugar and heat, and licking every trace away.

You’re not sure who pulls who in first for the kiss, but it’s messy and desperate and just the right amount of wrong. And when he pulls back, panting, pupils blown wide?

“Kitchen’s already trashed,” he grins, voice rough, “might as well finish the job.”

Let’s just say the next round doesn’t involve frosting—but it’s still very much dessert.

✑ Partners in Cosplay (and Crime)

You knew Hyugo liked crime flicks and video games—but this? This was a full-blown obsession.

He’s not just a fan. He’s a geek. Deep in the lore, the trivia, the obscure theories that only like four people on the internet care about—and he’s friends with all four. He’s the kind of guy who can quote entire movie scenes, word for word, with the dramatic voice shifts and everything. One time he paused a shootout scene just to explain the gun model they used and how it’s “totally unrealistic, but looks so fucking cool.” His eyes literally sparkled.

So when convention weekend rolls around? Oh, he’s already packed.

Costume? Secured. Prop weapon? Custom-made.

And when he asks you to go with him? He doesn’t even care who you dress up as—just that you’re there. His partner in crime. Literally.

You pick a character that kinda matches his—maybe one from his favorite show, or the one you think would annoy his the most. Either way, when you step out in your outfit, Hyugo malfunctions. Full on, mouth open, hand to chest, “I think I just fell in love again” levels of dramatic.

You walk the con floor hand-in-hand, him constantly pulling you over to booths like a kid with too much sugar and no parental supervision. 

He buys crime-themed keychains, limited edition figures, posters with ridiculous quotes, and sketches from artist alley like his life depends on it. He compliments cosplayers like a pro—“Damn, that’s clean! Bro, how’d you make the holster?”—and flirts with you every chance he gets. “You look way too good in that outfit. You trying to kill me or get me arrested?”

By the time you get to the hotel, his and yours arms are full of merch bags, his wallet’s empty, and his energy is still sky high.

You barely make it through the door before he’s tossing his stuff onto the couch and pulling you onto the bed with him. 

Still in cosplay, the both of you. 

“Okay but like… what if our characters actually hooked up? For research purposes.”

You raise a brow. “Research?”

He just smirks and leans in closer, fingers already unbuckling whatever fake tactical vest he’s wearing.

“I’m just saying… we could be committing crimes of passion right now. Or passionately committing crimes. Whichever hits harder.”

Before you can reply, his lips are on yours, hands warm and eager as they slide beneath your costume, tugging fabric aside and leaving goosebumps in his wake. He kisses like he’s still acting in character—cocky, sharp, teasing—but with that unmistakable Hyugo sweetness that always slips through.

“I can’t get enough of you,” he whispers between kisses, “real talk.” And when you end up tangled in a mess of half-off cosplay and breathless laughter, his voice is low and rough in your ear:

“Next year? We’re going all out. Couple cosplay. New characters. New roles. New positions—wait, did I say that last one out loud?”

You’re pretty sure he’s still joking… mostly.

✑ He’s Pansexual (lil angst)

Hyugo is pansexual—genuinely and unapologetically so.

He doesn’t care if someone’s masculine, feminine, both, neither, fluid, strange, loud, quiet, or something the world hasn’t learned how to label yet. If he’s drawn to you, it’s because you’re you—your voice, your presence, the way you move through a room, the look in your eyes when you’re focused, angry, glowing, grieving. He falls in love with essence, not gender.

“I don’t give a damn what you are on paper,” he once told you, head resting on your stomach, fingers playing with the hem of your shirt. “I like what you are to me. And that? That’s something nobody else gets to have.”

He says it so confidently, like it’s not even up for debate. 

Because it isn’t. But love—real love—terrifies him.

Hyugo plays it cool, because he’s always been good at pretending. But when he lets himself really care for someone? It unlocks this whole hidden, trembling part of him that he usually buries beneath bad jokes and gaming trash talk. That part of him that lies awake sometimes, staring at the ceiling, scared out of his goddamn mind that one day the world might take you away from him.

“I don’t… live a quiet life,” he admitted once, when things between you were still new, still fragile. “I got people who know my name and don’t say it fondly. I got enemies. I got… unfinished things. If I ever pull back, disappear for a while… it’s not ‘cause I’m tired of you. It’s ‘cause I’m trying to protect you.”

You hadn’t said anything right away.

Just looked at him—really looked—while he sat still, shoulders tight, like every second of silence chipped away at his confidence. Like he was bracing himself for you to sigh, to shake your head, to say you didn’t sign up for this.

Like he’d seen it happen before.

Because he had.

People have left Hyugo before. Screaming matches or messy, dramatic exits or Just… quietly. Gradually. Like a candle flickering out in a room he hadn’t realized had gone cold.

Some said he was “too much”—too chaotic, too unreachable, too unpredictable. Others didn’t say anything at all. They just disappeared. Let go without warning. Walked out while he was still holding on.

So when he opened up to you, even a little—when he admitted how messy his life was, how much danger it might bring, how scared he was of dragging someone good into his world—it wasn’t just a warning.

It was a test. And he hated that it had to be.

But you didn’t walk away.

And something in him cracked open for you after that. Slowly, cautiously—but it opened. Still, there are moments… quiet, stupid moments where the fear creeps back in. When someone else’s eyes linger on you a little too long. When your attention slips away for just a beat too long. When you laugh with someone else in a way that used to be his alone.

And then? Hyugo gets quietly possessive.

Not cruel. Not jealous in the way that burns everything down. But in the way that digs in—firm, unyielding, scared in the places he refuses to show.

He’ll pout first, like it’s all fun and games. Arms crossed, an exaggerated sigh, brows cocked high with all the drama of a man auditioning for a bad soap opera.

“You ignoring me now? Damn, babe. Who’s this new cast member and what do they have that I don’t? ‘Cause I will up my stats. I’m not above DLC bribes.”

But if the other person gets too bold?

That’s when the shift comes. Subtle, but sharp.

His fingers slide to your waist, grounding himself in your warmth like he’s afraid you’ll slip away. His voice softens, drops an octave—but there’s steel under the silk now. His whole energy changes, like a storm smiling through the sunlight.

“That guy’s not gonna steal you away, right?”

The words brush your skin just before his lips do, heat trailing over your neck, a kiss so casual it feels like a claim.

“I mean… you are mine, yeah?”

It’s not a threat. Not a demand. 

It’s a plea he doesn’t know how to voice.

Because he doesn’t want to trap you—he wants to be chosen. Every day. Every hour. Loudly. With intention. Just like he chooses you.

Even when the world’s unfair. Even when he’s neck-deep in shady jobs, fractured loyalties, or the weight of who he used to be. Even when he’s afraid. He’ll still love you like it’s the only thing keeping him real. Because Hyugo doesn’t care what you are. Only that you’re his. And yeah… sometimes he still wonders if he’s too much to stay with. 

But damn if he won’t spend the rest of his life giving you every reason to stay anyway.

✑ Flaws? Suprisingly there’s only Two…

Again—no one is perfect.

Hyugo’s learned, consciously or not, that being the comic relief, the sunshine, the dependable one earns love and keeps people around. So that’s the role he plays. Laughing through pain. Masking exhaustion with trivia. Brushing off his own needs with a practiced smile.

Which is a classic avoidant coping style, often stemming from early experiences where expressing pain or emotional needs either resulted in abandonment, punishment, or dismissal. He’s not unaware of his hurt—he just doesn’t believe there’s space for it. Or that anyone will stay if they see it. So he internalizes the belief:

“If I keep everyone happy, if I’m useful and entertaining, they won’t leave.” But emotional suppression is a time bomb. Eventually, the mask cracks.

It started small. Missed texts. Delayed replies. A few vague excuses about errands or errands or “sorry, I fell asleep.” But the dark circles under his eyes weren’t from sleep.

And you knew it.

So when you drop by his place unannounced and find him sitting on the edge of his bed, shirt halfway off, eyes glazed over in thought—You don’t say anything. You just step in quietly and sit next to him.

“Didn’t expect you,” he says, voice soft. He smiles—but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I look like a mess, huh?”

You don’t reply to the joke. You just ask, “Are you okay?”

That’s when it happens.

A twitch in his jaw. A flicker of discomfort. A sharp inhale. “Yeah. I’m fine. Just thinking. Long week, y’know?” Then a quick subject change: “Hey, did you know in some countries, strawberries used to symbolize perfection? Which is kinda dumb, 'cause they bruise so easily—”

You cut him off gently. “No trivia tonight, Hyugo.”

He goes quiet. The tension in his shoulders rises like a tide. He won’t look at you. Just stares at the floor like it might rescue him from the weight settling in his chest. “I’m good,” he says again. But softer this time. “I have to be. I don’t really get to fall apart. People expect me to… I dunno. Handle things. Be cool. Be funny. Be the guy who keeps the mood light.”

You put your hand on his knee. Anchor him. Pull him back from wherever he’s floating off to. “You’re allowed to fall apart sometimes.”

He lets out a bitter laugh. It cracks midway through. His head drops, and for the first time in a long while—he doesn’t hide the exhaustion. “But if I do… what if you leave too?”

And that’s the real fear. Not pain. Not stress. Abandonment.

You pull him in. Let him lean on you. His arms wind around your waist like he’s scared you’ll vanish if he loosens his grip. And for a while, neither of you speak.

Eventually, he murmurs, “You’re the only one I want to be weak with. That’s… scary. More than anything else I’ve done.” And he means it.

He’s not fixed. Not magically “healed.” 

But tonight, he let himself be seen. And that’s the start of something more powerful than any armor he’s ever worn.

Next is that, Hyugo doesn’t just love.

He attaches—deeply, instinctively, and without conditions. The people he chooses are more than friends, more than lovers—they’re extensions of his purpose. And if protecting them means lying, fighting, getting hurt, or burning bridges?

He’ll do it. No regrets. No hesitation.

This stems from survivor’s guilt and a deep-rooted sense of self-worth that’s tied to usefulness. In his head, if he isn’t saving someone, then what is he even for? There’s a quiet belief that he’s more tool than treasure—someone meant to hold the line so others don’t have to.

But in doing so, he forgets:

You love him for who he is. Not what he can suffer through for you.

You’d told him not to come. 

You made it clear: “I’ll handle this. Don’t get involved.”

But that was like telling a storm not to rain. The moment he caught wind of someone cornering you—someone threatening, someone bigger—Hyugo was already halfway to the alley behind the gym building, jaw tight, mind made up.

By the time you arrived, breath ragged and furious, the guy was on the ground. Groaning. Bloody lip. Hyugo stood over him, fists clenched and knuckles torn open.

He didn’t even look at you at first. He just said,

“Don’t worry. I handled it. He won’t bother you again.”

But you didn’t feel safe. You felt sick.

Not because he lost control—but because this wasn’t his burden to bear, and he didn’t even stop to think about the cost. “Hyugo,” you said, your voice shaking, “what if he presses charges? What if someone saw?”

He finally looked at you. Eyes wild. Heart still in war mode. But his expression softened when he saw the pain in your face—not from fear of him. From fear for him. “I didn’t care,” he said honestly. “I still don’t. No one’s hurting you. Not while I’m breathing.”

That should’ve made you feel safe.

But instead, it made your chest ache.

You stepped closer, grabbing his bloodied hands. They trembled slightly against yours. “You don’t get to set yourself on fire every time someone throws a spark near me.”

He blinked. Confused. Quiet. And that silence? That was the part that stung most—Because it told you he genuinely didn’t see the problem.

You reached up, cupping his face. “You think I want to watch you destroy yourself in my name? You think that’s love?”

His throat bobbed with the effort of swallowing guilt. But he didn’t pull away.

You added, softer: “You’re not a weapon. You’re my heart. And I want all of it. Whole. Safe. With me.” That was the moment he broke—just a little.

He leaned forward, forehead resting against yours. “...I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I just… I didn’t know how else to protect you.”

You held him tighter. “By letting me protect you, too.”

This flaw will never fully go away. It’s wired into how he loves. But now? He’s learning there’s strength in restraint. That protecting someone doesn’t always mean throwing himself into every fire. Sometimes, it means staying close.

And staying whole—so he can keep loving you tomorrow, too.

✑ Thoughts + Ranting

Okay. So I said Hyugo only had two major flaws.

...I lied. It’s three. Sue me.

There’s one I didn’t name before. One that’s not easy to admit, even if it’s written all over him like an unspoken scar. Here it is: Hyugo is a perfect example of someone who’s been sexualized—and who learned to play into it, because it was the only way he ever felt seen.

But let’s set the record straight, because the internet loves to twist things: I’m not saying he’s a pervert. Absolutely not. Don’t even try it. This isn’t a man hiding in your closet or panting in your bushes. He’s not creeping in the dark. (Save that energy for Sol and his dramatic, stalker-coded tendencies—respectfully.) 

Hyugo isn’t that type of man.

What he is, is someone who developed hypersexual behavior—something that’s often misunderstood. Hypersexuality isn’t about being horny all the time for fun. It’s an intense, sometimes compulsive fixation on sex or sexual behavior, often as a way to cope. It’s not inherently predatory, and it’s not inherently wrong. But it is a reaction. 

A symptom. And in Hyugo’s case, it’s a wound.

See, I was sitting in class when the thought hit me like a truck: What if people really do treat Hyugo like a walking fantasy? A quick fix? A body to burn through and discard before sunrise? What if that’s how he’s always been viewed—never as a person, just a fleeting high, a secret, a sin?

Because that kind of dehumanization sticks. 

It doesn’t fade. It etches itself into the softest parts of you until you believe it too. And maybe, just maybe, Hyugo learned somewhere along the line that his worth lies in how easily he can be desired—not in who he is, but what he can do for others. What he can give.

He doesn’t feel loved. He feels used. And to protect himself, he leans into it. Becomes somewhat flirt, the temptation, the chaotic late-night call you regret in the morning. Not because it’s what he wants—but because at least this way, he’s not being rejected. He’s being chosen, even if it’s for all the wrong reasons.

And that’s why he can’t let you go.

Because you didn’t treat him like a performance. 

You didn’t treat him like a transaction. You saw through the chaos and the charm and found the person. The equal. The soul. The boy who still believes in love, even if he’s too scared to admit it out loud.

You made him feel real.

Sidenote—completely unrelated to everything I just said—but I can’t stop thinking about the fact that Hyugo lost his virginity to a man.

Fantasia said it. I’m not taking it back. It wasn’t for shock value. It’s canon. It means something. It says something about him—and the more I sit with it, the more it adds layers to his character that I can’t ignore.

First of all, it confirms what we already sensed: Hyugo’s pansexual. He doesn’t box his heart or desires into categories. He loves people, not parts. He's comfortable in his skin, open with his identity, and doesn’t shrink himself to make others comfortable. He owns who he is with that same bold, cheeky confidence he brings to everything else. And that kind of honesty? It’s rare. He doesn’t make a show of it. He just is. Unapologetically.

But here’s where it gets tangled in my head—I keep wondering about the context.

Was it a casual hookup? Something spontaneous, wild, and curious, sparked by the need to feel alive or wanted in a moment of vulnerability? Or was it more than that? Did he love this person? Did they matter to him in a way that left a mark? Could this have been the crush he mentioned once, the one he speaks about with that strange softness, like he’s remembering something half-sweet, half-sore?

Did it end suddenly? Did it end at all?

There’s something quietly haunting about the idea that Hyugo’s first time wasn’t just a physical milestone, but an emotional one too. Maybe it was one of the only times he gave himself to someone not as a game, not as a performance—but as a person. Whole. Nervous. Real.

And maybe it didn’t last. Maybe it broke him a little. Maybe that’s where the cracks started—where he learned that intimacy and pain can exist in the same breath. That being vulnerable doesn’t always lead to safety. That being wanted doesn’t always mean being kept.

That’s why it sticks with me. Not because it’s scandalous.

But because it’s human.

And in Hyugo’s story, humanity is the one thing he keeps offering—despite how often the world tries to strip it from him.

Let’s take it deeper—Hyugo and… Geo.

I know I never shut up about Geo (he’s my husband, deal with it), but this isn't just about gushing over him. There’s something worth unraveling here. Something that speaks to how trauma doesn’t create a blueprint—it creates a battlefield. Two people can grow up in the same wreckage, and walk away with completely different scars.

See, Hyugo and Geo? They’re two halves of a shared history. 

Geo likes to say they’re stepbrothers—like that somehow distances them, makes the connection less binding. But let’s be honest: blood means nothing when you’ve been raised under the same roof, weathered the same storms, and built your sense of self from the same broken foundation.

That’s your brother.

That’s family. Whether you want to admit it or not.

And that’s the thing with Geo—he doesn’t want to admit it. Cold, closed-off, “don’t touch me unless it’s about business” 

Geo would rather die than openly acknowledge Hyugo as his older brother. But that truth lives in his bones. It’s there in the way he bristles when Hyugo’s hurt, in the way he silently watches over him from across a room, like a knight who doesn’t want to be caught caring. And Hyugo? He knows. He never says it outright, never demands affection or acknowledgment. But he knows. Geo is his little brother. End of story.

What’s fascinating—and heartbreaking—is how differently they responded to the same trauma.

Geo shut down. Became all logic and sharp edges. He put walls up so high no one could climb over, and he keeps his emotions buried so deep even he forgets where he left them. He’s aromantic/asexual, what if he’s emotionally scarred to the point of numbness, one thing’s certain: Geo is the embodiment of survival through detachment. He chose silence over softness. 

Distance over danger.

Meanwhile, Hyugo? Did the opposite. If Geo’s pain froze him solid, Hyugo’s set him on fire. He threw glitter over his wounds. Covered the screaming with laughter, with noise, with affection that sometimes feels like too much—until you realize it’s the only way he knows how to ask, “Will you stay? Will you care?”

That’s why people call him two-faced. 

Why they mistake his flirtation for manipulation, his touch for control. But it’s not conquest. It’s not about power. It’s about connection. About feeling real in a world that kept trying to erase him. Hyugo wants to be loved, and not just in passing. He wants to be seen—fully, achingly, intimately.

So yeah. In my eyes, Hyugo’s hypersexual.

But not in the shallow, performative way people think. It’s not about predation. It’s not about conquest or control. It’s about feeling. About proving to himself that he’s real, that he matters, that someone sees him and still stays.

Every touch is deliberate.

Every kiss is a question: Do I still exist to you?

When Hyugo reaches for someone, it’s like he’s trying to anchor himself to this world before it slips away again. 

Because to him? Intimacy is safety. Desire is reassurance.

And love—true love—is survival.

When he touches you, he’s not just touching skin—he’s tracing the shape of a future where he doesn’t have to be afraid. When he looks at you, it’s not lust—it’s hunger for warmth, for stability, for someone who doesn’t leave.

You don’t become his partner. You become his reason. His rescue.

And once you have Hyugo’s heart?

There’s no in-between. No lukewarm affection. He’s all in. No backup plan. No armor. Just him—raw and real and terrified that you’ll disappear too. Loving Hyugo means being chosen. Means being seen in a way that strips you down to the bone, and yet somehow, makes you feel more whole than ever before.

It’s intense. It’s overwhelming. But it’s never fake.

Now pair that with his two-faced nature—the side of him people whisper about. The switch that flips from sunshine to shadow in a blink. Because yeah, Hyugo can be the kindest soul you’ve ever met.  Soft, attentive, radiant. But cross a line? Or worse—betray him?

He’ll smile while slicing you in half with words sharp enough to scar your soul. That duality isn’t an act. It’s survival.

One face to charm the world. The other to protect what little of himself he hasn’t already given away. 

And the reason that duality even exists? Because Hyugo grew up in the same haunted house as Geo. Same broken floorboards. Same locked doors. Same silence. But while Geo turned cold, Hyugo became heat.

One froze to survive. The other burned.

And they’re still bleeding from it. Two brothers.

Two different coping mechanisms. Same pain—processed on opposite ends of the spectrum. So call Hyugo hypersexual. Call him two-faced. But don’t you dare call him fake. He’s just trying to feel something real. And in this world? 

That makes him one of the bravest souls I’ve ever known.

[slytherin-pen]

Grief

pairing: Xaden x Reader

word count: 1.3k

warnings: mentions of death, grief, Xaden comforts you

a/n: happy (or sad) last day of Xaden Week! absolutely no one should be surprised i chose a hurt/comfort fic for free day. hope you enjoy. @empyreanevents

The door to your room is locked, but that doesn’t stop Xaden.

You don’t hear him at first. You’re curled on your side, knees pulled to your chest, staring blankly at the wall. The candle you left burning last night has long since melted into a puddle of wax, and the room is dim, the only light filtering in is the glow of the moon outside.

He knocks, the rhythm firm and worried.

“Love,” Xaden calls, his voice softer than you’ve ever heard it. “I know you’re in there. Let me in.”

You squeeze your eyes shut. Maybe if you don’t answer, he’ll go away. Maybe if you stay still enough, silent enough, he’ll think you’re asleep and leave you to your misery.

But Xaden Riorson isn’t the type to walk away from a fight. You should have known better.

The lock clicks. You don’t have to look to know it’s his signet at work, shadows slipping through the cracks to unlock the door. The door creaks open, and next thing you know, he’s standing in the doorway.

The scent of mint and leather reaches your nose immediately. His presence makes the hairs on your stand at attention. Not in fear. Just in awareness that you’re no longer alone.

He doesn’t say anything at first. He just stands there, taking you in, his eyes scanning every inch of you. You don’t need to see him to know the way his jaw clenches, the way his fingers twitch at his sides like he wants to reach for you but isn’t sure if you’ll let him.

The door clicks shut behind him as he makes his way into your room, and his boots barely make a sound against the floor as he walks toward you. You don’t look at him. You can’t. If you do, you’ll break, and there will be nothing left to hold you together.

But Xaden doesn’t need you to speak. He doesn’t need you to explain the grief curling like a living thing inside your chest.

Liam is gone.

He was your bodyguard. Your best friend, and eventually your brother. He was gone too soon. If anyone in this wretched place should have made it, it was him.

The bed dips under Xaden’s weight as he sits beside you. He doesn’t pull you into his arms, doesn’t press you to talk. He just sits there, warm and solid, his thigh against yours. Minutes pass. Maybe longer. Neither of you speak.

Eventually he murmurs, “You haven’t been eating.”

You let out a breath, exhausted just from existing. “Not hungry.”

Xaden shifts, and a moment later, you feel his warm, calloused hand that’s so achingly gentle brush against your cheek. You flinch before you can stop yourself, and his fingers still instantly.

“Love,” he says again, softer this time. “Look at me.”

You don’t want to. You really, really don’t want to. But he waits, patient as always, until you finally turn your head just enough to meet his gaze.

And gods, the way he looks at you—like you’re breaking his heart just by lying there—makes something inside you crack wide open.

“I know,” he murmurs, stroking a thumb across the dark circles beneath your eyes. “I know it hurts. I know it feels impossible. But you can’t do this to yourself.”

Your throat tightens, a lump forming so thick you can barely swallow past it. “He—” Your voice breaks, and you squeeze your eyes shut, willing yourself not to fall apart. “He was fine, Xaden. And then he wasn’t.”

Xaden exhales sharply, a sound like he’s trying to keep his own grief in check.

“He shouldn’t have risked himself for me,” you whisper. “I should’ve—”

“No.” His voice is firm, leaving no room for argument. “Don’t do that. Don’t blame yourself.”

“We promised each other,” you choke out. “We promised we’d graduate together. And now he’s—” You can’t say the word. Can’t make it real.

Xaden’s arms are around you before you even realize you’re shaking. He pulls you upright, cradling you against his chest, and the dam inside you finally breaks.

You sob into his shirt, fists clutching the fabric like it’s the only thing keeping you tethered to the world. Xaden just holds you, his chin resting against the top of your head, his hands firm and grounding as they rub slow circles against your back.

“I know,” he whispers into your hair, his own voice cracking slightly. “I know, love.”

You don’t know how long you cry. It could be minutes. It could be hours. Xaden never lets go. Never pulls away. He just holds you like he can take some of your pain into himself, like he’d do anything to bear the weight of it for you.

Eventually, when the sobs turn to quiet hiccups and your body is trembling from exhaustion, he shifts just enough to press a kiss against your temple.

“You need to get up,” he murmurs.

You let out a weak, humorless laugh. “I can’t.”

“You can.” His hand slides up and down your back, soothing, encouraging. “Come on, love. Just a bath. That’s all I’m asking.”

You shake your head, curling further into him. But Xaden isn’t deterred. He adjusts, one arm slipping beneath your legs, and before you can protest, he’s lifting you effortlessly into his arms.

“Xaden—”

“Not up for discussion.” His voice is calm, but there’s no mistaking the command in it. “I let you grieve. Now you let me take care of you.”

You should argue. Should tell him you don’t need taking care of. But you’re so damn tired. And the warmth of him, the way he carries you like you weigh nothing, like you’re the most important thing in the world, makes you want to let him. Just this once.

He carries you into the adjoining bathroom, steam curling from the tub he must have used lesser magic to fill. Xaden sets you down on your feet and slowly helps you out of your clothes, tossing them in the corner. He holds your hand for balance as you step into the tub, then kneels before you as he reaches for a washcloth.

His hands are steady, careful, as he starts with your arms, wiping away days of grief and exhaustion. He doesn’t rush, doesn’t force you to do anything. He just takes his time, murmuring soft reassurances, pressing kisses to your knuckles, to your wrist, to your shoulder whenever you start shaking again.

By the time he’s rinsing the last of the soap away, you feel lighter. Like maybe the world isn’t entirely unbearable with him in it.

When Xaden helps you out of the tub, he has some of his clothes he keeps in your room ready for you to put on.

“You’re doing so good,” he says, pressing his lips to the top of your damp hair. “Just one more thing.”

You sigh against his chest. “What now?”

“You’re eating,” he says. “Garrick’s bringing food.”

As if on cue, there’s a knock at the door. Xaden doesn’t move, just calls, “Come in.”

Garrick steps inside, carrying two trays of food. His usual smirk is absent, replaced by quiet understanding. He sets the trays down, meets your eyes, and gives you a small nod before slipping out.

You should be embarrassed, but you aren’t. Not with Xaden.

He guides you back to the bed, pulling you into his lap and pressing a fork into your hand. “A few bites,” he coaxes. “That’s all I ask.”

You sigh, but you take a bite. Then another. The food is warm, filling, and you hadn’t realized how empty your stomach felt until now.

Xaden doesn’t let go of you the entire time. His fingers trail up and down your arm, soothing and familiar, his warmth chasing away the cold that had settled into your bones.

When you finally set the fork down, full enough to satisfy him, he shifts you both until you’re lying against his chest, his arms tight around you.

“You’re not alone,” he murmurs against your hair. “You never will be. We’ll get through this together.”

You hum as you snuggle further into him, your eyes falling shut with the comfort of a full stomach and Xaden’s embrace.

[cheol-e-kat]

Hey!! for the bingo game i was thinking if you could write something about knotting & marking with cheol!!

hiii yes!! yay cheol - i don't write enough for his cute squishy cheeks (face or butt).

okie, so this def went in an a/b/o way, but that seems obvious given the knotting. anyway, hope you like this.

♡ kat

bingo squares: knotting + marking

part ii

summary: y/n helps seungcheol through his rut and gets knotted and marked in the process

word count: 1.7k

genre: a/b/o, alpha!cheol, omega!reader, ruts, enemies to lovers (barely), implied pining, kind of fluffy ngl

warnings: below cut

penetrative sex, fingering, oral sex, knotting, marking, breeding kink

it had always been fun to tease seungcheol, mostly because his aversion to you was so intense that it bordered on absurd. so naturally it became your favorite past time to mess with him, especially when you were younger. you knew you had won every time he looked huffy and mad, with arms crossed, and his lips pressed into a hard line. 

for ages, there was nothing quite so good as knowing you had gotten under the alpha’s skin, until you weren’t sure when it changed exactly. and it wasn’t a total change because it was still fun to annoy him, just a bit less.

to be fair, you had known one another forever, virtually, and you didn’t hate him - he was the one with the issue. but maybe he was right that you were a little demented since you had literally kicked your feet with glee when his parents and your parents thought it would be a good idea for you to live in the same building when you both moved to the city for work after college. 

but you weren’t a bad neighbor - there were limits to how much you were willing to annoy him because every once in a while he would truly look like the most tired alpha to ever alpha, and you would usually send him delivery from the one restaurant you knew he liked - not that you kept track or something.  

but fast forward to several days before, because the real issue was when you noticed that he seemed very off and weird, even for him, and you couldn’t help but ask what was wrong. of course, he just rolled his eyes and mumbled something about ‘why would you care’, which was annoying. but when you saw his mail was piling up, you sort of wondered if he were dead or something. you tried knocking, loudly, even - still nothing. plus, you didn’t want to be late for work and decided you would try texting him. maybe. 

you thought about it - you even typed the message, but sending it was another thing because he did always shoot you these annoyed looks when he saw you. which only made you want to be a menace, but that was harder since you presented as an omega and starting noticing scents. like how his was this amazing peppery floral scent that practically made your mouth water every time you were close to him. the fucking elevator was your enemy in that regard. even if you weren’t in it at the same time, you could catch his scent. you had maybe fingered yourself a few times thinking about just how good he smelled. 

you didn’t message him. instead, you chose the totally normal option of using the fire escape - it wasn’t that many floors to climb. plus if his apartment was like yours, you would be outside his bedroom and be able to see if he had like died or whatever. with that solid plan, you went through your day. and by the evening, you ignored the rain and climbed the rickety as fuck fire escape ladder to the fourth floor. it was surprising to know he didn’t have black out shades - they seemed on-brand for him, but no, just thin, fluttery curtains that reminded you his mother probably did his shopping. you leaned against the glass to see that he was in bed, wrapped in maybe 45 blankets. it was pure impulse to tap on the glass, and then the old desire to see some emotion from him kicked in a bit too. so you kept tapping.

it took a few minutes to see any movement. so you kept tapping until he was in front of the window.

“it’s raining,” he said through the glass.

“yeah, so can i come in?”

he stared blankly for a moment. “you’re insane, you know that, right?”

you nodded, “you do keep reminding me.”

he rolled his eyes, but he still opened the window. he went back to flop on his bed while you climbed in through the window. you were shocked for a moment by how heavily his scent hung in the air and by how intensely floral it was, but peppercorns were actually kind of floral, you reasoned. 

“so can i do anything to help?” you asked, glancing around his room - it was neater than you would have guessed. 

he groaned, “please don’t mess with me right now, y/n - it’s not fair,” he grumbled and burrowed back into his blankets, which was much cuter than it should have been. 

you sighed and walked over to his bed and sat, “i’m not messing with you - you’ve looked like shit, i was worried - you know, since we used to be friends and stuff, besides if you died, i feel like i would definitely be judged by your mom, who i do like, and you would haunt me just for fun.” you reached out to feel his forehead as you spoke - he was shockingly warm. 

and then it clicked in your mind - alpha, looking like shit, all warm. “oh, shit,” you tilted your head to look at him, “don’t you use blocks and stuff?”

he stared at you for a moment like he was deciding something, “they make me sick - sicker before you ask - they’re way worse than this.” 

you barely realized you were smoothing his hair from his face. you watched him close his eyes while you petted him. you tried to remember all the things about alphas in ruts - you knew it could be really painful, fucking helped, but sometimes just being around someone could help too. you wanted to be surprised that he was the type to just hibernate and tough it out, but it actually tracked pretty well since he wasn’t the most social. 

you bit your lip lightly, “i can order food?”

he nodded, “stay and eat with me?” he stared up at you, his big eyes made you weaker than you ever liked to think about. you found yourself nodding because it was just staying for food. 

you ordered food, and took a shower to get warm so he would shut up about how you would catch a cold - it also meant borrowing clothes from his extensive collection of sweats and pajamas. based on his wardrobe alone, he really stayed home too much. you sat next to him in bed and didn’t complain when he leaned against your thigh - you assumed it was his way of saying he liked when you played with his hair before. you ate and watched tv.

it was uneventful until you tried to leave, and he sulked and asked you to stay the night. you stared at him for a moment, wondering if he was somehow concussed. but you agreed, which meant being integrated into his burrito blanket situation, which would have been fine if it hadn’t felt like the equivalent of snuggling with a space heater. you woke up at some point during the night, thinking of opening the window, which made him whiny. 

you made the executive decision to solve the problem by kissing him. for a few minutes, it was nothing but finally knowing how good his lips felt and heavy breathing from both of you. 

 he broke the kiss just enough, “y/n - it’s - you don’t need to”—

“you’ll feel better right?” you cut him off with your question. 

he exhaled loudly, “yeah, but it’s not how i…” he trailed off - you could feel the gentle way his hands held your waist, his thumbs making little shapes against your skin. you blinked quickly, understanding where that sentence was headed. 

you took a deep breath, “it’s how it is - it can be cute later,” you kissed him roughly, feeling like he deserved it for being this much of an idiot. 

you didn’t mind the rush to undress or the way he had you on your back in what felt like seconds. he kissed you as much as possible while his hands moved your legs and hips into the positions he liked. you moaned when his fingers pushed in.

“fuck you’re so tight,” he groaned, working his fingers in deeper, stretching you as he did.

you gasped at the pace he was setting, especially when you felt his cock brush against your hip and realized how big it was. you reached down to jerk it while he prepped you. he moaned softly, “my good little omega,” he whispered against your skin. you blushed and nodded, especially when he bit the one spot just beneath your ear. your eyes immediately rolled back, and you came all over his fingers - slick and cum mixed just right to take his cock.

he was breathing heavily - you were already gone - his scent and bite were enough to send your mind reeling. but you quickly came to ground when you felt his cock push into you for the first time. he stilled for a moment when he bottomed out inside you. and then he started to move. you yelped at the stretch and felt his hand cover your mouth.

“shh, baby, just a few minutes - i won’t last,” he groaned and started to snap his hips, “fuck,” he muttered. he sounded on the verge of tears. 

you reached up for him, your hand tracing over his chest and stomach - you knew you were speaking but weren’t really sure what you said until you both seemed to pause when you babbled about how you wanted his knot. 

he nodded, “mmmh, yeah, princess, i’ll knot you,” and thrust harder, the tip of his cock unquestionably hitting your cervix, “breed you full too - all my pups, baby girl - i want you full of them,” he whispered against your throat, his lips teasing the mark he had already made. when his teeth grazed the skin, you pulled his hair roughly in anticipation of another bite. and when his teeth sank into your throat, and his knot started to catch and stretch you even more, there were so many sensations - you were certain that holding onto him was the only way to stay tethered to the earth - you knew your fingers were digging into his skin. but you didn’t care when your orgasm hit - it was a rush of perfect bliss that morphed into floating in nothingness until you felt him pulling you close, pressing soft kisses against your skin. 

you had no idea how long his knot would last, but it didn’t really matter when you were lying across him, body limp and pliant and sleep taking you so easily. 

a/n: thanks for submitting an ask and thanks for reading

bingo card master list

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seungcheol: knotting + marking | professor (prof. choi, pt. 1) | monster | spanking (neighbor seungcheol) | big dick + hate sex | forced masturbastion (prof. choi, pt ii) | voyeurism + punishment | coffee shop au + forbidden relationship (untitled alpha!!cheol pt. 1) |

mingyu: lingerie + praise kink | bed sharing + big dick | praise + worship kink | vehicle sex + oral fixation | drunk pda + no underwear | enemies to lovers + tentacles |

seungcheol & mingyu threesome: oral |

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[rawjutsu]

US WHEN? p3 of the ":3 with benefits" series

pairing: college aged loser yuuta x college aged lesser loser freader

summary: he sends the wrong porn. you get off anyway and make yuuta give you the lay you deserved the first time around. fluff ensues.

cw: explicit smut, gooner tendencies, overstimulation, begging, soft dom/sub dynamics, excessive oral/fingering, cum kink, mildly unhinged Yuuta, praise, consent-focused, riding, overstimulation, cumplay, praise kink, emotional vulnerability, accidental love confession, reader takes control, subby!Yuuta, crying (of pleasure), aftercare themes

it’s been about a week and a half since you and yuuta accidentally fell into… whatever this is.

no label. no discussion. just doujinshi trades, anime binges, and overpriced ramen from the same spot that knows both your orders by heart now. you’ve started slipping into each other's dorms like it’s second nature—sometimes with drinks, sometimes with boba, once with a usb drive full of bl that was questionably legal to obtain.

the weird part? he never brings up the hookup. not even once. it's like that night never happened—like you imagined the whole thing, the ceiling posters, the way he manhandled your tits like they were made of mochi. he doesn’t even try to touch you again. no sleazy comments, no “remember when i folded you like origami?”, just anime and awkward blushes and your favorite matcha drink waiting for you outside after your monday lecture.

which is exactly why you’re caught so off guard when he sends… that.

you’re lying in bed, lights off, texting links back and forth like usual.

yuuta 🤷‍♂️ oh maybe you’ve heard of this one, i saw it on twitter the other day and bookmarked it to send to you!!

you open the link.

it is not a doujinshi.

it's a video. grainy, reposted from some twitter porn account. a girl is straddling a guy on a couch, kissing him slow, deep. his hands slip down her pajama pants, and her moans—soft and a little whiny—fill the room.

you jolt. clutch your phone like it burned you. your dorm is silent except for the breathy, intimate audio playing from your screen. thank god you have a single.

your hand hovers over the keyboard.

um, i don’t think this is what you meant to send

you hit send.

the response comes in immediately.

yuuta 🤷‍♂️  OH MY GOD I DIDNT MEAN TO SEND THAT I MEAN I MEANT TO SEND PORN BUT NOT THAT KIND OF PORN IM SO SORRY

your phone buzzes again.

yuuta 🤷‍♂️ i’m so sorry i promise i wasn’t being gross i had like 3 tabs open and twitter is evil and i didn’t mean to be weird i’m so sorry you’re so cool i swear i didn’t mean—

you stop reading after that.

because unfortunately, you’re not mad.

you're horny.

your cheeks are warm, your thighs pressed together, and somehow—without even thinking—your hand is already slipping beneath the waistband of your panties. it’s instinctive at this point. the video’s still playing, and even though it’s not super explicit, it’s intimate in a way that makes you ache.

you imagine yuuta’s hands instead. his voice. the way he looked when he said your name last time, all fucked-out and breathless like it broke him a little. you remember the weight of him on top of you, the way he stared at your chest like it was holy.

ten minutes pass.

your breathing's slowed. your head's clearer. your phone’s still lighting up with apology texts.

you scroll down. you bite your lip nervous.

you type:

us when?

there’s a beat of silence.

then:

yuuta 🤷‍♂️ wait are you serious like actually serious? is this a bit or are you like asking fr

you grin, staring at the screen, the afterglow still humming in your blood. you don't reply right away.

you like letting him sweat.

yuuta’s typing. then stopping. then typing again.

poor guy’s probably pacing a hole into his dorm carpet.

finally, a new bubble pops up:

yuuta 🤷‍♂️ do you want me to come over

you smirk.

yes also can u bring that strawberry matcha too btw

there’s a solid minute where nothing comes through.

then:

yuuta 🤷‍♂️ On my way! rn

. . .

fifteen minutes later, there’s a knock at your dorm.

you open it to find yuuta standing there, disheveled as ever, hoodie thrown over some wrinkled t-shirt, hair a mess like he didn’t even look in the mirror before running over. his hand is shaking a little as he holds out the drink.

“uh… hi.”

you take the matcha and sip casually, eyes not leaving his.

“you ran, didn’t you?”

“i didn’t wanna make you wait—”

he trails off. his eyes flicker down your body. you're wearing sleep shorts and an oversized tee, nothing crazy, but something shifts in his expression anyway. that glassy look you remember from the dorm. the one that led to your legs being shoved behind your ears while he moaned something embarrassing into your neck.

you step aside.

“come in.”

the tension is palpable.

he sits at the edge of your bed like he’s not sure he’s allowed to exist in your room. you sit across from him, sipping your matcha slowly. his leg bounces. he keeps opening his mouth like he wants to say something, but nothing comes out.

so you say it first.

“you watch that video after you sent it to me?”

yuuta chokes on air.

“i—i mean—”

“because i did.”

he stares at you, eyes wide, lips parted.

“like… while you were apologizing.”

you take another slow sip. it’s petty. it’s cruel. it’s also very deserved.

yuuta makes a strangled sound and covers his face with his hands.

“i thought i scared you off,” he mumbles behind them.

“nah,” you say, standing up and walking over to him. “you just made me really, really horny.”

his eyes snap to yours.

you take his drink from his hands, set it on the desk, and straddle him like it’s the most casual thing in the world. he freezes.

“still scared?”

he shakes his head, dumbly.

“good.”

you lean in, slow and deliberate, until your lips are just brushing his.

“then shut up and kiss me right this time.”

he does. a little clumsily at first, then like he’s been waiting to for weeks. like he’s been jerking off to the memory of your moans since the last time, and maybe he has.

you grind down against him, and he groans into your mouth, hands finding your waist like they remember how to hold you. like his body never forgot. you’re not sure where this leaves either of you—but you know where it’s going tonight.

and you’re not stopping him.

not when he’s already whispering, voice shaking:

“can i touch you again? please?”

before you can answer his hands are all over you the second you straddle him. nervous at first, then desperate. like he can’t believe you’re letting him touch you again. like he’s still scared he’ll wake up and realize this was just another post-nut hallucination.

you pull back, catching your breath, and say:

“you remember what happened last time?”

he pauses. swallows.

“y-yeah.”

“yeah?” you echo, tilting your head. “you remember how you came? like… a lot?”

he nods quickly, wide-eyed. definitely still picturing it.

“and i didn’t.”

that lands like a punch to the chest. yuuta immediately looks like you just kicked his cat.

“oh my god. i’m so sorry—i thought—i mean, i wasn’t trying to be a selfish dick i just—fuck—i’m—”

you press your fingers against his mouth to shut him up.

“relax. you’re gonna make it up to me, right?”

he nods, again. this time slower. eyes heavy-lidded.

you lean close, lips brushing his ear.

“good. because you’re not gonna stop until i cum all over your pretty face.”

he’s on his knees within seconds.

dragging your shorts down slow like he’s unwrapping something sacred. he kisses up your thighs, murmuring praises between each one:

“so pretty…” “so warm…” “i missed this. i missed you.”

you thread your fingers through his hair and pull—just to hear him whimper. his breath hitches, but he doesn’t complain. he just flattens his tongue against your slit, slow and messy, like he’s savoring the taste.

his hands are wrapped around your thighs, keeping you pinned to the edge of the bed. you gasp when he starts to moan into your pussy, like he’s the one getting off on it.

“god, yuuta—”

he pulls back just enough to pant:

“i could do this forever. please—lemme make you cum. i want it so bad.”

then he dives back in.

his tongue circles your clit just right, obscene and wet, while two fingers curl up inside you with a desperation that has nothing to do with experience and everything to do with obsession.

he’s gone. lost in it. gooner-mode fully activated.

you’re grinding down against his face without even realizing it, his name falling from your lips over and over while he chases every twitch of your body like it’s gospel.

“f-fuck, yuuta—fuck—don’t stop, don’t stop—”

you cum hard. shaking. hands buried in his hair.

he doesn't stop.

doesn’t even slow down.

he keeps going like a man possessed—fingers still working you open, tongue still lapping you up, moaning every time you clench around him like he’s the one getting off from it.

you squirm, overstimulated, but he just groans:

“give me another. please. just one more. i need it.”

“yuuta—fucking hell—”

“i’ll die if you don’t cum again i’m serious—i’ll pass away right here with my face in your pussy and you’ll have to explain it to the RA—”

you laugh, breathless, but then your back arches again because somehow this bastard keeps going. a second orgasm slams into you like a freight train and you cry out, thighs shaking, legs locking around his head.

he groans, almost possessive, and grinds his face against you like he’s trying to fuse with your soul.

you tug his hair hard to get him to stop. he finally pulls back, face flushed, lips shiny, eyes dazed.

“oh my god,” you gasp. “what the fuck—”

he’s still panting. still hard. you haven’t even touched him.

he looks up at you, wrecked and glistening in your juices.

“did i make it up to you?”

you grin.

“not yet.”

you smile—slow and sweet like poison in a teacup—and push him gently by the shoulders until he’s flat on your bed.

yuuta lets you climb on top like it’s the most natural thing in the world. like this is church, and you’re what he’s here to worship.

you reach between his legs, pull his sweatpants down just enough to free his dick—and fuck, he’s hard as a rock. dripping. twitching.

“god,” you whisper, wrapping your fingers around him. “you’re a mess.”

he moans like you just blessed him. the moment you start to stroke him, he’s already bucking up into your hand.

“please, please—i want it so bad, you feel so good—”

“yeah?” you murmur, hovering over him. “you want me to ride you, baby?”

“yes—fuck, please—ride me, use me, i’ll be so good—”

you don’t give him a second to think. you line him up and sink down onto him slow—too slow—because you want him to feel everything. every inch. every squeeze. every second of being inside the pussy he’s been obsessing over since the moment he saw you on his dorm bed the first time.

yuuta screams.

no exaggeration. the moment you bottom out, his whole body tenses and he chokes out a sob.

“ohmygod—oh my fucking god—”

“shh,” you tease, rocking your hips just once. “can’t tap out yet, baby. you haven’t made it up to me.”

“i—i can’t—i’m gonna cum—”

“no you’re not.”

you squeeze around him just enough to make him whimper.

“not until i say so.”

and then you ride him.

hard. slow. deep. a little inexperienced but fuck if yuuta cares.

every bounce of your hips is calculated to pull a new sound out of him. his fingers dig into your thighs, but he’s not moving—he wouldn’t dare. you’ve got him trained, gooned out and glassy-eyed, tears beading at the corners from how good you feel wrapped around his dick.

“you're so tight—you feel so good—i can’t take it, i can’t—”

“you will. you made me wait last time. so you’re gonna take it now, baby. all of it.”

he nods furiously, babbling. you’re not even sure what he’s saying anymore—something about how perfect you are, how soft, how warm, how he’d let you kill him with your pussy if you wanted. his eyes are wild, unfocused. his chest is flushed. you bounce faster.

“you close?”

“i’m gonna fucking die,” he sobs. “i love you, i love your pussy so much, i love you—”

you freeze. still fully seated on his dick.

yuuta gapes like a fish. realizes what he said.

“i—i meant your pussy—i meant—i love that—not that i—”

too late.

you lean forward, caging his face with your hands, staring right into his panicked, gooner-brained eyes.

“say it again.”

“w-what—”

“the part where you said you love me.”

he looks up at you like he’s about to cry again—but he swallows and says, small and wrecked:

“...i love you.”

“good boy.”

and then you grind down hard, making him cum so violently he sees stars. he lets out a raw groan, clutching you like you’re the last stable thing on earth as he fills you up. he’s still whimpering, still moving a little—he can’t stop even though he’s shaking from it, overstimulated beyond sense.

you stroke his hair as he pants beneath you.

“wasnt that so much better than last time?”

he nods into your chest, tears drying on his cheeks.

“i don’t even remember what day it is.”

. . .

your dormroom is quiet now.

yuuta’s breathing has finally evened out, and the weird porno twitter tab is mercifully closed. he’s curled up beside you, arms around your waist, cheek resting against your chest like he needs skin-to-skin to recharge his serotonin levels.

he’s still pink all over. hair damp with sweat. you could honestly say he looks adorable—if he weren’t also the same guy who had just begged to die in your pussy less than ten minutes ago.

you stroke his hair idly, your legs still tangled together.

“you okay?” you ask, softly.

he nods. doesn’t lift his head.

“that was so good,” he mumbles. “like… top 3 moments of my life.”

“only top 3?”

“okay fine. top 1. easily.”

you laugh, and yuuta finally looks up at you. eyes big. earnest.

he opens his mouth, then shuts it again. then opens it again.

“hey… um.”

you blink. “yeah?”

“can i ask you something?”

you raise an eyebrow. “you’re not about to ask if you can eat me out again, right? because i need, like, a hydration break and—”

“no—! i mean—yes eventually—but not what i was gonna say right now!”

you grin. “then what?”

he looks nervous. ridiculously nervous. like he’s about to propose in front of a stadium.

“do you wanna be… y’know…”

“yuuta.”

“...my girlfriend?”

it’s rushed and soft and kind of embarrassing, and he says it while looking down at your comforter like he expects it to swallow him whole if you say no.

you blink.

then grin.

“yeah. i do.”

his head snaps up.

“wait seriously?”

“yes, seriously. you’re cute. you bring me matcha. and your dick isn't half bad, that’s boyfriend material.”

yuuta looks like his soul just left his body in relief. he buries his face back in your chest, groaning.

“oh thank god. i was gonna ask earlier but i was scared you only saw me as, like… your doujinshi plug with benefits.”

“oh, i do see you as that. you’re just also my boyfriend now.”

he groans louder, cuddling closer.

“i can’t believe i get to call you my girlfriend,” he mumbles.

you kiss the top of his head.

“i can’t believe i let a man who unironically uses emoticons hit it raw, but here we are.”

yuuta giggles—actual, giggles—and you both lie there a little longer, wrapped in each other and the gross knowledge that, yeah… this started with a horny hinge match.

but it might just end in love.

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