#like... i can feel people laughing at me for liking this or that pairing and calling me blind and things like that | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

studioeisa · 2 days ago

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company benefits 🗂️ junhui x reader.

you can’t really call wen junhui your ex-boyfriend. it was more of a friends with benefits situation—except you only got ghosted, while he got an internship at your recommendation. people always say to not bite the hand that feeds you; it looks like jun didn’t get the memo.

🗂️ pairing. marketing intern!wen junhui x copywriter!reader. 🗂️ word count. 12k. 🗂️ genre/warnings. smut, romance, humor, pinch of angst. alternate universe: non-idol. mentions of alcohol, food; profanity. semi-public & unprotected sex. ex-situationship, forced proximity, tension... so much tension!!!, contract terms i’m not 100% sure about. soonyoung from eunha’s Be My Tigress? 🗂️ footnotes. this is part of the that’s showbiz, baby! collaboration. eternally grateful to all the writers in the server who motivated me to finish this. above all, indebted to @diamonddaze01, who pitched this collaboration to me over six months ago. what a pleasure to finally write a long fic for jun!!! goin to take a veryyy long nap now. 🎵 recommended listening ⸻ company benefits.

You never dated Wen Junhui.

You made out with him in the backseat of an Uber once. Shared a bowl of tteokbokki at 1:00 a.m. and left a toothbrush at his place. He sent you voice notes saying things like, “I wish you were here,” in that half-awake tone he got when he couldn’t sleep, which was often.

You spent entire weekends tangled on his couch, watching movies you barely remembered because you were too busy tracing the veins on his arm with your pinky. You cried once, in front of him. He didn’t flinch.

You never dated Jun, so when he shows up as one of the interns at your company, it's not like you can call him your ex. You can, however, nearly snap a Pilot G-2 pen in half.

The intern orientation is a thirty-minute slide deck with enough corporate jargon to resurrect a Roman senator. You're sitting near the back, doodling tiny skulls in the margins of your notes, when your manager says, “Let’s all welcome this year’s marketing interns!”

And there he is.

Wen Junhui. Hair longer than you remember. A navy button-down that you’re 90% sure used to be yours. He spots you in the crowd like it’s nothing. Like no time has passed. And then—the male audacity of it all—he smiles.

Your pen creaks, spine bending until the plastic gives a quiet, pitiful snap.

You recommended him. That’s the worst part.

Back when he was unemployed and soft-spoken and yours in a way you never could quite name. You filled out a glowing referral form like an idiot. Said things like creative thinker and natural collaborator when what you meant was: makes me laugh when I don’t want to, makes me feel like I matter.

Now he’s here. Mid-career intern. Probably labeled as non-traditional in the onboarding notes. Definitely labeled as dead to me in your mental CRM.

You corner him in the coffee room after orientation. He’s stirring oat milk into some artisanal nonsense, back to you, as if this isn’t the beginning of your villain arc. “You’ve got some nerve, Junhui,” you declare, properly pissed.

He doesn’t even flinch. Just turns, holding his mug like he’s in a toothpaste commercial. “... I was just getting coffee,” he answers, one perfect eyebrow already arched.

You fold your arms. “What are you doing here?”

“Interning.”

“You’re in your thirties.”

“I’m only twenty-nine, actually.”

“You had a whole job before this.”

“And now I have a new one.”

You resist the urge to glower. “As an intern.”

“Mid-career transition,” he says smoothly. “It’s a thing. There’s a podcast about it.”

You’re aware. You introduced the podcast to him. “Why here?” you bite out.

He sips his coffee, meeting your gaze without hesitation. “It’s the best, isn’t it?” he drawls. “And I always want the best.”

There it is. That infuriating sincerity, tucked behind some metaphor you can’t afford to unpack. That must mean I wasn’t the ‘best,’ then, you nearly snap, considering, you know, you up and left.

You hate that your chest aches. You hate that he still looks at you like you mean something. Like he didn’t disappear. Like he didn’t cut the cord with clean hands and a lazy smile.

You made your bed. Now, you have to lay in it.

–-

This Agreement was entered upon by Wen Junhui [“FORMER SITUATIONSHIP INTERN”] and You [“ABSOLUTE FOOL COMPANY”] and shall remain in effect until either party learns how to stop looking for closure in a coffee room.

–-

You decide to be a professional about it.

Which is to say: you ignore him. Flawlessly. The way an inbox ignores unread emails from old flings or the way a cat ignores physics. With dignity, aloofness, and a very calculated schedule of exits and arrivals.

You walk into Monday morning’s marketing sync with an iced Americano, a bullet-pointed agenda, and an expression that says try me. Jun, mercifully, sits at the far end of the table, between a girl who uses color-coded spreadsheets and a guy whose entire personality is PowerPoint animations. You pretend not to notice when he nods at you. You definitely pretend not to notice that he’s taken to twirling his pen the same way you do.

Soonyoung, the Marketing Director, is wearing a shirt printed with neon tigers. Again.

“Okay, okay,” he claps his hands once, then dramatically slaps a stack of post-it notes down. “Let’s make this week roar!”

The interns balk, but none of the full-timers bat an eye. You’re all used to it. The man once themed an entire quarter around ‘predator energy.’

You run through project updates with the calm precision of someone who did not threaten emotional homicide in the coffee room last Friday. You lead the discussion on the spring campaign revisions, answer questions, deflect unnecessary input, and even sneak in a joke that makes Soonyoung laugh hard enough to drop his whiteboard marker.

The meeting ends. You gather your things. You’re halfway out the door when he catches up to you. “Hey,” Jun says, gently, like he’s trying not to spook a wild animal. “You killed that. You always do.”

You glance at him, expression neutral. "Thanks."

He looks like he wants to say more. Like he wants to be invited to say more. But you walk away, shoes clicking a little faster than necessary.

You still remember the other times he said it. After your first promotion. After you helped him rehearse for a job interview he never got. After a random Wednesday when you had ranted over a headline you couldn’t get right and he said, I wish you could see yourself the way I do.

You don’t want to remember any of it, so you go get coffee with Jihoon.

The head of HR is not known for emotional delicacy. Or any kind of delicacy, really. He wears monochrome like it’s a moral stance and drinks black coffee like it’s a dare. But he’s your friend, and he gets to the point.

“I’m not asking for details,” Jihoon says, stirring his drink with the slow menace of someone thinking about a compliance form. “But I saw the way you looked at the new intern.”

You feign innocence while you still can. “Which one?”

“Don’t insult both of us.”

Short-lived. You sigh. “It’s fine. He’s fine. We’re professionals.”

“Good. Because if I get even a whiff of nepotism, I’m lighting your recommendation form on fire.”

“You’re throwing around the word nepotism pretty lightly.”

“Am I?”

You lean back. “Everything’s professional,” you insist. “I wouldn’t jeopardize my own career over someone who thinks career pivots counts as a personality.”

Jihoon gives you a look. You sip again. Neither of you smiles.

Business as usual.

At least, that’s what you keep telling yourself. Some of it fractures two days later, in the breakroom with the flickering fluorescent light. You’re there for a sad granola bar and a moment of peace. Instead, you walk into chatter. The kind with edges.

Three interns—clipboard girl, PowerPoint boy, and someone new who looks like she does CrossFit for sport—are huddled near the snack station, laughing in that tight, conspiratorial way that means something mean is about to follow.

“I swear, he’s like, ancient,” Clipboard says.

“Wasn’t he in finance before this?” PowerPoint Boy adds. “Kind of sad, right? Like, starting over in your thirties?”

“He’s not in his thirties,” CrossFit interjects. “I checked. He’s twenty-nine. But still. Mid-career intern? Kinda screams washed-up.”

There are no names being thrown out—the slightest practice of discretion. It’s not difficult, though, to nail the topic of their breakroom gossip. The oldest intern in the pool. The one who hasn’t quite meshed with the Gen Z-ers who take OOTD mirror selfies and film TikToks in the bathroom.

You clear your throat. Loudly. The interns freeze, a tableau of bad choices and instant regret. “Funny,” you say dryly. “I thought interns were supposed to observe before speaking.”

Clipboard opens her mouth. Closes it. Tries again. “We didn’t mean—”

“You did,” you interrupt. “But that’s okay. Not everyone gets to be interesting on their own, so I understand the appeal of tearing someone else down.”

PowerPoint looks at the floor. CrossFit suddenly finds the nutritional facts on her trail mix fascinating.

Your words come out with their trademark sharpness, with the type of teeth that has silenced board rooms. “Jun has more experience than most of you. He chose to be here. He got in the same way you did. Maybe keep that in mind next time you’re measuring someone’s worth by your own insecurities.”

Silence. Blessed, blooming silence. You grab your granola bar and turn around.

And then you nearly walk right into Jun.

He’s standing by the doorframe, coffee in hand, eyes wide. You have no idea how long he’s been there. Long enough, judging by the way he looks at you. Not shocked. Not smug. Soft. And a little sad.

He doesn’t say anything. Neither do you.

You nod once. He nods back.

You walk away, heart tapping a rhythm that feels like a memory.

–-

IV. In addition, the Intern will be eligible to participate in bonuses and other employee benefits established by the Company for its employees. The Employer currently offers the following benefits to its employees: momentary witness to your better nature, free of charge.

–-

The assignment happens on a Wednesday. Which already feels unfair. Mid-week emotional warfare is always much more draining than, say, a Monday terror or a last-minute Friday deadline.

You’re sitting in the glass meeting room with a half-dead laptop and a whole-dead espresso shot when Soonyoung bursts in with his usual flair, dragging Jihoon behind him like a reluctant paperweight.

“Alright, team!” Soonyoung announces, sleeves rolled and tie nowhere to be seen. “It’s time to mentor the future!”

Jihoon sets down his folder with the quiet judgment of a man who had no say in this decision. “Intern shadowing,” he says, flat. “Mandatory. Two weeks. No complaints.”

“Like a tiger teaches its cubs,” Soonyoung adds, teeth bared in a wide grin.

Pairings are doled out quickly. Clipboard girl is assigned to someone in data. PowerPoint boy goes to Accounts. CrossFit intern gets Soonyoung himself (“I will break her spirit or befriend her forever,” he declares).

And then—

“Junhui,” Jihoon reads. And then your name.

You don’t flinch. You nod once, hand still moving across your notes. Professional. If the pen’s plastic creaks underneath your grip, that’s between you and whoever invented Faber-Castell ballpoints.

Jun, across the table, shifts. “Is that... final?”

Jihoon frowns. Never a good sign, even if it is his default. “Would you like to dispute the legality of this HR-approved decision?”

“No,” Jun mutters. But he doesn’t look at you.

The meeting ends. People scatter. You’re organizing your things when Jun corners you in the hallway, by the glass copy room that reflects everything you don’t want to see.

“I was trying to give you an out,” Jun says curtly, almost explaining.

You glance up at him. “What?”

“Back there. In the meeting. I was trying to not make things worse.”

“By publicly questioning a department head’s assignment?”

“By not forcing you to work with me when things are clearly… complicated.”

You back out a laugh. “It’s just work, Junhui. Not everything is personal.”

He stares at you, like he’s trying to figure out if you mean it. You mean it. Mostly.

There’s a flicker of something—memory, maybe. The last time you fought, back in the vague non-label limbo of your not-a-relationship. Something about a canceled plan. Or the way he left your texts on read. It spiraled, and somehow you ended up half-yelling and then making out in his kitchen, back against the fridge.

Those arguments never lasted long.

This one already has.

You tuck a pen behind your ear, shoulders squared. “We’ll get the intern materials from Soonyoung this afternoon. I’ll book a conference room.”

“Okay,” Jun says. He still looks like he wants to say something else. Maybe everything else.

You walk past him before he can. The hallway feels colder than usual.

Just like that, the stage is set. You. Him. Two weeks. One shared desk. Zero unresolved tension whatsoever.

The project brief lands the next morning like a meteor.

Marketing strategy for upcoming romantic comedy starring Jeonghan, the email reads. The subject line includes a heart emoji. You click it with a growing sense of dread.

The film’s title? Just Friends.

“Fuck me in the ass,” you mumble underneath your breath, the same way a corporate slave does once or twice a week.

You open the attached pitch deck. The logline reads: Two friends navigate the blurred lines of a no-strings-attached relationship until one of them catches feelings.

You close your laptop. You reopen it thirty seconds later. Professionalism, you remind yourself, is a decision.

By 2 p.m., you and Jun are in a borrowed conference room with Soonyoung, who has inexplicably brought snacks and a whiteboard shaped like a heart. “Okay! Let’s ideate,” Soonyoung says brightly, cracking open a soda. “No bad ideas. No wrong answers. Just vibes.”

“How about a trailer that ends with both characters alone,” you start, “because some things aren’t meant to be mutual.”

Jun’s lips quirk to one side. “A little bleak for a rom-com.”

“Not if it’s honest.”

“Or bitter.”

“Not everything has to be about you.”

Soonyoung pauses mid-sip.

Jun clears his throat of the faux pas. “We could do a digital campaign,” he offers. “Confession booth at the premiere. People record what they never told their almosts.”

You write it on the board. Then, without looking at Jun, you add: “QR codes on limited-edition tissues.”

“You still have those?” Jun asks, his tone a little snide. “Thought you threw them out.”

“I did.”

A beat. The marker you’re holding is probably going to run dry by the end of this hour. Jun’s fingers are tightly clenched over the table edge. Soonyoung is unashamedly looking back and forth between the two of you, as if this is a particularly interesting tennis match between Carlos Alcaranz and Jannik Sinner.

“Maybe a microsite,” Jun says quickly. “Where users can soft-launch their regrets anonymously. Could include heat maps for popular phrases.”

You nod. “We could include copy like Sometimes the fine print on friendship is heartbreak.”

Jun’s next words are spoken under his breath. “Right. Friendship.”

Soonyoung raises his hand like he’s in school. “Sorry,” he squeaks. “Is this a pitch or—an actual breakup in real time?”

“Both,” you say simultaneously with Jun.

Jun clicks his pen. “At least I’m trying.”

“Is that what this is? Trying? Looked more like derailing.”

“Better than deflecting.”

“Better than ghosting.”

Soonyoung reaches for another snack. You turn back to the board. “Let’s bring in Jeonghan for a cheeky teaser. Maybe he narrates bad firsts. First kiss, first fight, first time you find their ex’s number still in their contacts.”

Jun exhales, sharp. “How about the first time they refused to introduce you to their friends?”

“Not as bad as the first time they said someone else’s name during sex.”

Soonyoung coughs, intentional and interrupting. “Wow. Okay,” he exhales. “Let’s take a break, cubs. Hydrate. Process.”

No one moves.

You cap your marker slowly. “I’ll send a write-up.”

Jun’s stiff fingers flex on the table. “Looking forward to your notes.”

–-

V. The Employer also offers the benefit of one (1) shared creative meltdown in the presence of your manager, and unlimited awkward silence thereafter.

–-

Jihoon calls you into his office with the same tone someone might use to summon a guilty terrier who’s chewed through a power cord. You arrive with your laptop and your most composed expression. You know better than to ask what this is about.

He shuts the door. Points to the chair opposite his desk. You sit. Jihoon steeples his fingers. “Soonyoung says the marketing brainstorm was intense.”

“I’d call it thorough,” you say wryly.

“He used the words ‘emotional combat.’ Also ‘trauma-fueled campaign ideation.’”

You exhale through your nose. “We delivered on the brief.”

“Is there something I should know?”

The question hangs. You think about deflecting. About redirecting. But Jihoon’s office is too small for half-truths, and cluttered with evidence of a man who lives off structure and caffeine. You suspect he can smell lies the same way bloodhounds smell fear.

You lean back into the chair and pick out the bullet points. “Jun and I were… sort of a thing. Before. It wasn’t official. But it also wasn’t not.”

Jihoon doesn’t even blink. “Yeah,” he huffs. “I figured.”

Your brow furrows. “Then why ask?”

“I wanted to see if you’d admit it like an adult,” he replies. “You passed. Barely.”

“I’m not going to make this a disciplinary thing,” Jihoon continues, flipping through some papers just to emphasize how above it all he is. “But you have to keep it together. Finish the project. Grin and bear it.”

“I am grinning,” you mutter. “Aggressively.”

“Good. Because this is what happens when you mix personal history with professional decisions.”

You squint at him. “You mean helping a qualified former friend apply for a job and letting HR do its job?”

“See,” Jihoon says, pointing with his pen, “this is why nepotism is bad.”

You groan. “It wasn’t nepotism. We weren’t even dating. He was unemployed. I had a moment of generosity.”

“And now you have a moment of regret,” Jihoon says. “Funny how that works.”

You cross your arms. “I liked it better when you barely spoke to people.”

“Me too,” he replies. Then, almost kindly: “Finish the campaign. Keep it clean.”

You nod. He returns to his laptop without another word. You take that as your dismissal.

As you leave Jihoon’s office, you hear him grumble, just loud enough: “God, I hate romantic comedies.”

You invite Jun for coffee the way some people file restraining orders. Terse. Cold. Legally sound. “After work,” you say, passing his desk without slowing. “Fifteen minutes. Corner place with the green awning.”

Jun, understandably, looks mistrustful. “Is this a trap?”

“Only if you make it one.”

Thirteen minutes later, he shows up. Hair slightly mussed. Shirt rolled at the sleeves like he’s trying to look less guilty. It doesn’t work. You’re seated already, nursing a decaf and a dull headache.

He slides into the chair opposite you. Eyes scanning your face like you’re a riddle he once solved and forgot the answer to. “If it’s not a trap, is it a truce?” he asks outright.

“Not everything has to be war, Jun.”

“You spent half our brainstorm launching missiles.”

“Well,” you say, sipping. “Some of them were paper airplanes.”

He grimaces. “I’m not doing this sober.”

You hate it when he’s right.

The bar you two agree on is dim and semi-functional. Exposed brick. Mismatched stools. The music sounds like it was curated by a heartbroken DJ. Jun orders a peach soju; you get the blueberry one.

“So,” he says around the rim of his soju bottle. “Where should we start?”

“How about,” you exhale, “with your obnoxious sipping habits?”

“My what?”

“The way you slurp. It still gives me the ick.”

Jun’s responding laugh is humorless. The drinks go down quickly. The second round is unnecessary and immediate.

“Remember that fight we had about ice cream?” you ask, after he chewed you out for being emotionally unavailable and unnecessarily anal-retentive about halving bills.

Jun laughs into his glass. “You said anyone who chose mint chocolate chip was self-sabotaging.”

“And you defended it like a personal religion.”

“You called it mouthwash in disguise.”

You shrug. “Still true.”

More drinks. More memory lane. There’s a half that has teeth, that tears through the gripes and frustrations. But there’s also a half that’s almost tender, that provides a montage of why it could have worked once upon a time.

“You kept a spare toothbrush at my place,” he says.

“You gave me a drawer.”

“You never used it.”

“You never asked why.”

Silence. Real, this time. The music changes to something softer. A song you both know. You hate that you both know it.

“I was always trying to be careful,” he says delicately. “Trying not to overstep.”

You stare at your glass. “Yeah. Well.”

In not overstepping, Jun ended up taking no steps at all. Another silence tugs. Longer. It doesn’t bite. Just lingers.

“We were never good at timing,” he says eventually.

“We were never good at talking.”

You expect him to push back on that. He doesn’t. For a moment, you contemplate asking the million won question. Why did you ghost me?

Before you can, though, he’s saying something too sincere for you to ruin. “Thanks for the rec. For the job.”

“Thanks for finally thanking me,” you answer, taking a long enough sip of your soju to ignore the way your heart flutters.

He winces, smiles. “Small steps.”

You nod.

“So, we’re okay?” he asks.

You think about it. The ghosts, the drawer, the campaign brief that cut too close. “Whatever ‘okay’ means,” you say, because you never lied to Jun; you weren’t about to start now.

He raises his glass in a wordless cheer. You clink.

The second brainstorming session is mercifully normal.

You arrive ten minutes early, not because you’re eager but because you’ve started pre-gaming meetings with silence. Jun arrives exactly on time, not a second more, not a second less. He looks at you like he’s bracing for shrapnel. You nod like you’re not holding any.

Soonyoung plops into the seat across from you both, wearing a tiger-print shirt that says FIERCE IDEAS ONLY. You want to make fun of it. You don’t. Growth.

The meeting flows. That’s the only way to describe it. No barbs, no barbed metaphors. Jun pitches clean, clever ideas. You counter with strategy. There’s laughter. There’s alignment. There’s a genuine moment where you look at him and say, “That’s a good one.”

He smiles, appreciative and maybe even a little fond. You have to look away from it. The compliment tastes like a penny on your tongue.

“Hehe,” Soonyoung cackles, eyes flicking between the two of you. “Am I interrupting something?”

“Just your reign of chaos,” you deflect.

“Horang-haaay,” he sighs. “Anyway. Love this direction. Run with it. Make it beautiful. Make it bite.”

You do.

The presentation goes well. Soonyoung beams like a proud zookeeper. Jihoon nods once, which is his version of a standing ovation. The execs approve the romantic comedy campaign with minimal edits. There are even murmurs of early awards submissions. You pretend not to care. You care deeply.

Jun catches you after the meeting, shoulder brushing yours in the hallway. “Hey,” he says. “We made that work. Really work.”

The pride blossoms in your chest, persistent and unwelcoming. “We did.”

“So,” he starts, casual but not, “Want to grab a drink? Just us. Not like before. Or maybe not not like before. Whatever works.”

You hesitate.

If it were anyone else, you probably wouldn’t balk. This offer isn’t a romantic advance. It’s a grabbing-a-drink-with-your-workmate-after-a-job-well-done. Unfortunately, your mind is a slideshow of late texts, half-finished thoughts, and the sound of silence where a goodbye should’ve been.

“I can’t,” you answer. Not unkind. Just honest. You give no explanation, and Jun doesn’t press even though he flinches. Wavers. As if he’s remembering his place.

He nods slowly. “Okay,” he says with faux cheer. “Another time.”

You don’t say yes. You don’t say no. He walks away like it doesn’t sting, and you stay rooted like it does.

To ease the hurt, you take yourself to dinner like a pity party with better lighting. Your comfort place is a hole-in-the-wall Italian spot tucked between a laundromat and a locksmith, which is, frankly, how you know it’s good. The tables wobble slightly, the waitress knows your name, and the carbonara tastes like a hug from someone who never judged you for your bad taste in men.

You order your usual. Set your phone face-down, then pick it up again. Jun’s contact is open.

You don’t remember when you opened it. Your thumb hovers over the keyboard, caught between being impulsive and being pathetic.

You almost start typing. Something like, Hey, my schedule cleared up. Drinks on me? or Were you flirting with me or am I delusional? or I’m at the place where we had our first date. At the very same table we sat at, in fact.

Then the door chimes.

You look up.

Jun walks in. Not alone.

He’s with another intern—the one from finance, maybe? She laughs at something he says as they walk toward the back. He’s relaxed. Rolling his sleeves like he wants to look like effort. He gestures to the menu like this place wasn’t once yours.

You watch, stone-still, as he orders. You catch fragments. “You’ll love the tiramisu.” “This place is a hidden gem.” “No, seriously, the carbonara—life-changing.”

You’re vaguely aware that you’re gripping your fork too tight. You don’t name the feeling. Not jealousy. Definitely not jealousy. Just territorial spite and righteous betrayal with a dash of indigestion.

Your pasta arrives. You pick at it. Every bite feels like chewing a memory that now has someone else’s fingerprints on it. In your head, it’s a litany of fuck you Wen Junhui, fuck you Wen Junhui, fuck you Wen Junhui.

The carbonara is wrong. Too salty. Not al dente enough. And Jun is sitting a couple of seats away, smiling at his date. Blissfully unaware that he’s ruined your comfort food for life. Wrong, wrong, wrong. Fuck you, Wen Junhui.

You flag the check. You tip generously, because if you’re having a terrible night, then the waitress might as well have a good one.

Jun notices you only as you brush past his table. His expression morphs mid-laugh—first surprise, then something else. His companion’s gaze flits to you, recognizing you as a senior at the company.

“Hi!” she says politely.

You give her a tight nod. “Hello.”

Jun rises. “Wait, hey—”

But you’re already pushing past the door. The air outside is cooler than expected. He catches up halfway down the block.

“Hey,” he calls, a little breathless. “I didn’t know you were there.”

“Clearly.”

“It wasn’t a date.”

“Didn’t ask.”

“I wasn’t trying to—”

“Oh, what, colonize my safe spaces?” You stop. Turn to him. “I didn’t realize you gave restaurant tours now. How generous.”

He runs a hand through his hair. Frustrated. “I wasn’t thinking about it like that.”

“You weren’t thinking. That tracks.”

The words hang. Sharp. Petty.

“Don’t be rude to your not-date,” you grit out. “Haven’t you got some life-changing pasta to share?”

You don’t wait for his reply.

You walk off, fast. The kind of walk that dares someone to follow.

He doesn’t.

That, too, tracks.

–-

VI. The Intern is entitled to unlimited paid time off (PTO) for as long as they do not do it at bygone date spots. In light of this, the Employer may claim a lifetime of pettiness.

–-

Soonyoung makes the announcement as if it’s a reality show reveal.

“There might be one or two interns we absorb after the cycle,” he tells the room of department heads, bouncing on the balls of his feet like this is an exciting twist instead of a budget conversation. “Jun’s doing well. Also, that other one—what's her name? Finance intern? The one who has a nice laugh.”

You freeze mid-note taking. He means the girl from the restaurant. The one who knows about the tiramisu. Your stomach coils, and your poor pen jabs into your paper a little too hard.

You make it through the rest of the meeting on autopilot, the kind of dazed professionalism that only corporate trauma can birth. Jihoon gives you a look on the way out. You ignore it.

As expected, you’re assigned to write Jun’s intern evaluation.

It’s a task you’d normally treat like any other. Bullet points. Benchmarks. But the cursor on the blank Google Doc blinks at you like a dare. Because it’s not just about campaign contributions or interpersonal skills. It’s about putting on record what he it, or what he isn’t.

You close the tab. You’ll come back to it. Maybe. After a lobotomy.

Two days later, Jun finds you by the vending machine. “You’re evaluating me?” he says by way of greeting.

You take your time selecting a soda. The machine whirs dramatically. Maybe if you ignore him, he’ll go away.

He proves otherwise. “Soonyoung told me,” Jun presses. “He said you’re writing my assessment.”

You procure your strawberry Fanta with deliberate coolness, fingers already toying with the metal lid. “Do you greet all potential references this way?” you say dryly.

“I just—I figured you wouldn’t be neutral.”

That stops you. You turn, slow. “Excuse me?”

“I mean, after everything. The way we—” He gestures vaguely. “That night. The restaurant. You were pissed.”

You laugh. You can’t help it. God, what did you do in your past life to end up in a situation like this? The last of your patience snaps like a rubber band, and the words spill out of you with a kind of cutthroat that could melt tungsten.

“I gave you a glowing recommendation, Jun,” you snipe. “I said you were sharp and collaborative and vital to the pitch. Which, in case you forgot, you were. I did my job. Maybe try doing yours.”

He gapes. You don’t stop. “You’ve been the unprofessional one here. You keep making things personal. You bring other people to restaurants that aren’t yours to share. You act like I owe you something when I don’t even owe you eye contact.”

Jun opens his mouth. Closes it again. You toss your still-full can in a nearby bin. You don’t have the appetite for anything sweet right now.

“You haven’t changed, Wen Junhui,” you bite out—the last word, huzzah!—before walking off.

It’s not the cleanest exit, but it’s something final. And right now, that’s all you have.

Jun pretends like nothing happened.

You’re not surprised. Denial is practically his native language. He nods at you in meetings, leaves polite spaces between you in the break room. He’s mastered the art of the neutral expression, the kind that suggests nothing has ever gone wrong. That everything is fine.

Then a package arrives at your desk.

No note. Just a brown paper bag tied up with string, like something out of a middle school crush fantasy. Inside, nestled in tissue paper, is a bouquet.

Of ballpens.

Dozens of them, in your preferred brand and ink weight. All black, all clicky. Not one of them chewed, cracked, or snapped in half—yet.

You stare at them like they’re a coded message. Maybe they are.

Jun used to tease you about it. How you went through pens like breath mints. How he’d hear the telltale crack of a barrel and look over to find you sheepish, a half-dismembered pen in hand. Once, he said he was going to buy you a box just to see how long it would take you to kill them all. You laughed and told him that was the most romantic thing he’d ever said.

You use one of the pens in the next meeting. On purpose. Jun notices. You can see it in the flick of his eyes, the way he registers it with a twitch of his mouth that isn’t quite a smile.

After, as people are clearing out, he lingers.

“That one working okay?” he asks.

You click it. Unclick. Click again. “Still alive,” you say. “No casualties yet.”

He nods. You don’t say thank you. He doesn’t say sorry.

All the same, it hangs there, between you. The closest either of you has come to being a decent person.

–-

VII. The Intern will respect all intellectual property of the Company, and in return, the Company will provide necessary tools for productivity—and occasional forgiveness.

–-

The interns are tasked with planning the company party to cap off the end of their rotation. It’s meant to be a fun assignment. Low-stakes. High morale. Naturally, it turns into an emotional landmine.

Jun, for reasons you pretend not to think too deeply about, takes the lead.

He delegates well. Manages expectations. Schedules with military precision. In the end, what catches your attention is the uncanny accuracy of his planning decisions.

The venue is one of your favorites. The playlist includes that one obscure indie-pop band you once had on repeat. The snacks avoid all your known aversions—no olives, no red velvet, no sad carrot sticks masquerading as party food.

You raise an eyebrow when he unveils the plan in the department-wide meeting. He doesn’t look at you directly, but when you glance his way, he winks. Later, when everyone’s clapping for the effort, you wait for him to slide into the seat next to yours. You lean over and mumble, taunt just for him, “Stalker.”

He raises one shoulder in a shrug. “I shadowed you for two weeks. I’m observant.”

The party is in a week, which is probably why you run into him at the grocery store later that night, arms full of sparkling water and overpriced string lights.

You’re already in line, clutching a frozen meal and a bottle of wine that screams dinner-for-one. He falls in behind you, a little breathless, a little smug.

“Fancy seeing you here,” he says.

“Is that rosemary sea salt popcorn?” you ask, peering into his basket. “Wow. Intern budgets have really changed since my day.”

He grins. “Only the best for Carat Company.”

You point at a tub of hummus. “That brand’s terrible. Too tangy.”

“Noted,” he says, and swaps it out for another without fanfare.

You don’t know what makes you say it—maybe the buzz of fluorescent lights, maybe the way he’s stacking paper plates like it’s an art form—but you tilt your head and ask, “Bringing a date?”

Jun doesn’t miss a beat. “Nope.”

“Finance intern not free?”

“She’s got better taste than me,” he says. Then, a little more tentatively: “Position’s still open, if you’re interested.”

You click your tongue. Before you can think better of it, a responding flirtation breaks free. “I could be convinced.”

Jun giggles, quick and honest. He tries to cover it with a cough, but he’s still smiling as he sets down his basket.

The next couple of days unfold with unnerving ease. You tell yourself it’s just the party approaching, just everyone being unusually cooperative for once. But there’s a rhythm to the way you and Jun move around each other now—a familiarity that feels inherited. Like muscle memory. Like relapsing.

You catch him finishing your sentences, anticipating your notes in meetings, handing you the pen you’re about to ask for before the words even leave your mouth. It’s annoying. It’s also disarming.

You’re in the office late one evening, finalizing a last-minute asset for the event. A print layout no one else had the brain cells to catch. Most of the floor’s lights have gone dark, save for your corner, glowing sterile and soft. But Jun’s still there too, cross-legged on the carpet like he lives here, surrounded by poster tubes and tangled cable wires, wielding a stapler with the intensity of a man on the edge.

“You know we have tape, right?” you say, leaning against the copy room door frame, sipping cold coffee that tastes like regret.

He glances up, squints. “Yeah. Tape’s a coward’s tool.”

You snort. It sounds like something he would’ve said back when you were sharing fries and arguments on your living room floor, when evenings blurred into 2a.m. discussions about plot holes in movies and whether hotdog sandwiches were burgers.

“Besides,” he adds, popping a staple in with too much flair, “this is more permanent. It says, I commit.”

You raise an eyebrow. “To the banner?”

“To the bit,” he says, deadpan.

You roll your eyes and go back to your screen, but your grin lingers longer than you want it to.

He offers you a ride home. Says it casually, like it’s a weather update. You accept. Too casually. Like you haven’t already memorized the way his dashboard lights flicker, or how he drives five over the limit.

In his car, it’s too quiet. The AUX cable is broken. His windows fog slightly from the humidity. The air smells like mint gum, vinyl from a new car freshener, and something else—something old. You give him the directions without thinking, because they haven’t changed. Neither has the weight that settles in your chest when he takes each turn with instinctive precision.

Outside your apartment, the silence hovers. “Thanks for the ride,” you say, hand on the door handle, already half-gone. Trying very, very hard not to think about the dozens of other times this ride has happened, and how each of them ended the same way.

He doesn’t answer for a moment. He just watches you, head tilted slightly like he’s solving a puzzle or waiting for permission. You face him, nose scrunching with mild confusion. “What?”

“Nothing,” he says.

And then he kisses you.

It’s not sudden, but it still surprises you. Your body forgets to protest, forgets the smart thing to do, forgets the narrative you’ve been building for weeks about being over this. His mouth is warm, and patient, and frustratingly familiar. The kind of kiss that bypasses logic. The kind that knows too much.

You kiss him back. Automatically. Completely. As if no time has passed. As if the ghosting, the tension, the HR talks and overused pens never happened. Just mouths and memory and momentum.

It isn’t until you break apart—his thumb still barely touching your jaw, breath heavy in the space between—that you hear yourself say, “What are you doing?”

He exhales a laugh, like he’s embarrassed. “Convincing you.” A beat. “Is it working?”

The panic rises in your throat like bile. You’re not sure what you’re about to throw up—regret, probably. But for what? Which part?

You don’t know the answer to that question. And so you peel away from a confused Jun, and you open the car door. The night air rushes in, cool and intrusive. You get out without a word.

He doesn’t follow. Doesn’t call after you. You don’t know what you’d want him to say, anyway. For once, you’re grateful that Wen Junhui has never chased after you when it counts.

The morning after, you walk into the office like nothing happened. Which is to say: you walk in five minutes late with a coffee too hot for your tongue and sunglasses still on because your soul isn’t ready for fluorescent light.

You make yourself a promise. You will not acknowledge the kiss. You will not dwell. You will do what Jun did months ago. You will ghost in broad daylight.

It feels very mature.

Except, unlike Jun, you have to see him at the printer. And at the shared snack drawer. And at the joint team huddle where Soonyoung teaches everybody how to this weird, new hand gesture he picked up on.

Jun keeps looking at you. That too-familiar softness, that edge of disappointment creeping around the corners of his mouth like he expected better from you. You don’t return the look. You don’t even return the stapler he loaned you yesterday. If professionalism is a hill to die on, then consider your gravestone already drafted.

Two days pass. You think you’ve successfully rewritten history until Jun corners you by the vending machine. Again. Before you can half-joke we have got to stop meeting like this, Jun is already snipping at the strings of your defenses.

“Is this revenge?” he asks, low voice, eyes scanning your face.

Your hand hovers over the button for salted almonds. “What?”

“This,” he gestures vaguely at the space between you, which has become somehow both intimate and unbearable. “You pretending like it didn’t happen. Like the kiss didn’t happen.”

You choose the almonds. Not because you want them, but because silence is at least with vending machine clatter.

“You kissed me back,” he says. Almost an accusation.

You shrug. It’s not as nonchalant as you probably want it to be. “People kiss. It’s a thing.”

Jun recoils, and something like white-hot guilt flashes through you. You douse it as Jun huffs out his next words with poorly-concealed offense, “Wow. Is this what being the bigger person looks like now?”

You pocket the almonds. “Well, you always said I was good at taking notes.”

His jaw flexes. Hurt flashes in his eyes before he smooths it over with a tired smile. “Right. Got it.”

You don’t stop him when he walks away. For the both of you, it’s a lesson learned. Turns out, the taste of your own medicine is bitter.

And, sometimes, it comes with a side of overpriced almonds.

–-

VIII. The Employee acknowledges that emotional clarity is not listed among official job responsibilities, and therefore will not be provided under Company policy.

–-

The company party is held at a rented rooftop bar with fairy lights, questionable shrimp cocktails, and cheap beer masquerading as an open bar. Someone’s playlist is stuck on a loop of early 2010s hits, and there’s a half-deflated inflatable swan in the punch bowl. It’s all very on-brand.

There are icebreaker games, a makeshift red carpet, and a cardboard cutout of Soonyoung in a tiger costume posing with the slogan: ROAR FOR Q4! It is, in every way, excessive.

You don a black silk blouse tucked into tailored high-waist trousers, sharp and clean and the only ironed thing in your apartment. Your lipstick is a soft red. Strategic, not romantic. You wear your hair up, simple earrings, and shoes that are just shy of painful. You look like someone who planned not to linger.

Jun shows up in a white button-down with sleeves rolled past his elbows, collar slightly askew like he got halfway ready and forgot to care. There’s a wine-colored blazer slung over one shoulder and, unfairly, it works. He has the ease of someone who didn’t expect to be watched yet somehow is.

You avoid each other all night with the precision of two people still nursing unspoken sentences. You talk to other departments. He lingers around the interns. Jihoon drinks exactly one cocktail, makes direct eye contact with you for three seconds too long, and vanishes like The Judgmental Ghost of Situationship’s Past.

The party buzzes on. There’s a chocolate fountain that no one trusts and a dance floor that Soonyoung won’t leave. There’s a photo booth filled with props from last year’s pirate-themed anniversary campaign. You find yourself laughing at something someone from Legal says, and immediately hate that it reminds you of how Jun used to make you laugh just like that—like you were surprised by it.

It’s going fine. Almost.

Until the awards begin. Soonyoung, of course, is the MC, beaming with chaotic delight. “And now,” he grins, pausing for effect, “for the honorary award for Best Enemies-to-Lovers Plot Unfolding in Real Time…”

You blink. Jun blinks. You both know how this film is going to end, and sure enough, Soonyoung is screeching your name and Jun’s.

There are cheers. Some gasps. Mostly laughter. You rise with the grace of someone preparing for emotional war. Jun’s already on his feet, giving you that look like this is either his worst nightmare or his best bit. Possibly both.

Onstage, you are handed a trophy of a basketball player bought from the dollar store around the corner. You and Jun pose awkwardly for a photo as a chant of Speech! Speech! Speech! resounds in the crowd.

You contemplate handing in your two week’s notice tomorrow.

Under string lights and scrutiny, you take the mic first. “I’d like to thank HR for not firing either of us,” you say for the lack of better thing to say.

Polite chuckles. Someone from the Events team yells, “Not yet!”

Jun takes the mic next. “And I’d like to thank, uh, Soonyoung. For teaching me what a ‘horanghae’ is. Seriously, it’s done immeasurable damage to my vocabulary.”

Louder laughter. A few whoops. You both smile too hard, too bright, too fake.

Later, you spot him near the edge of the bar, half-shadowed by a potted ficus. He’s slipping away. Classic Jun, retreating mid-scene.

You excuse yourself before you think too hard about it. You follow him down a stairwell half-lit by emergency bulbs, the music above thumping faintly through concrete. He hears your steps before you speak.

“You always leave like this?” you ask.

He turns, hands in his pockets. His expression—initially closed-off, ready to bolt—creaks open ever so slightly. “I didn’t think you’d notice,” he answers.

“Can’t help it.”

He looks at you like it hurts. Like you’re saying too much without saying enough. “Is this the part where you ask me why I’m leaving?”

You fold your arms over your chest, over the maddening beat of your heart. “No,” you breathe. “I want to know why you left.”

You don’t care about tonight. Jun could leave this party and never look back at The Carat Company, and you wouldn’t blame him. You care about the way his texts stopped coming in, the way it was radio silence for weeks. How he didn’t even come to take back his things, so you made the executive decision to donate them to a thrift shop like it might somehow make you feel better about yourself.

Jun exhales, long and tired. He shifts from one foot to another. For a moment, you think he’s going to make a run for it.

He doesn’t.

“I didn’t think I could be enough,” he says, finally. “Not for you. Not for the version of you that has her life together, who writes like a scalpel and moves like she’s never tripped over anything in her life. I didn’t want to hold you back. I didn’t want to be another unfinished thing in your life.”

When Jun had gotten laid off his previous job, he’d fallen into a rut that you tried so hard to get him out of. You sent him motivational LinkedIn posts. You pointed out Harvard courses and helped him scour JobStreet. All the while, you were working your ass off at The Carat Company. Coming home burnt out but still willing to help him back on his feet.

You hadn’t realized how that might’ve looked like for him. You hadn’t seen the cracks, stretching like spiderwebs over his fragile male ego. Obscuring the reason why you did it all in the first place.

Love. Crazy, stupid love. You clear your throat, refusing to let the rage tip out of you. Some of it bleeds into your incredulous question, anyway. “So you decided for me?”

His shoulders flinch. “I was scared.”

“You don’t get to do that,” you say, your attempt at being cool fracturing. “You don’t get to leave me, then show back up like a better man, when the truth is—you didn’t even let me choose.”

He looks at you, stunned. “I—”

“No,” you say, stepping forward. “Who I want to suffer for is my call.”

This time, you kiss him.

It’s not clean. It’s not soft. It’s messy and fierce and fueled by months of bitterness and longing, of misspoken lines and things unsaid. His hands find your waist like they’ve never left it. Your mouth moves like a dare. There’s a wall at his back, and your chest at his front, and none of this feels professional at all.

It feels like something finally falling into place. Or breaking open.

Jun’s car is parked two levels down, the far corner of a concrete lot that smells like rain, gasoline, and the ghost of things unsaid. It’s far from the rooftop’s sticky laughter and company-wide inebriation. A hush broken only by the soft echo of your heels and the low, restless rhythm of your breathing. His, too.

You’re kissing again by the time you get nearer to the car. This time, it’s slower. Hungrier. The kind of kiss that drags a sound out of him—half-sigh, half-swear.

Jun groans into your mouth, hands moving instinctively. One finds your jaw, the other your waist, fingers curling with intent. Your back hits the side of his car with a quiet thud. You smile against his mouth, sharp and satisfied.

“You gonna run again?” you mumble, voice low, all edge.

He shakes his head, dazed. “Not unless you tell me to.”

“Good,” you say, fingers slipping under the hem of his shirt, grazing hot skin. “Then shut up and get in the car.”

He listens. He always did know how to listen when it mattered.

The door slams shut, muffling the world. The air smells like him—clean linen, faint spice, something faintly sweet beneath it. The dash glows dim. Your blouse is unbuttoned by the time you straddle him, knees digging into the leather seat. He fumbles to push his seat back farther, and you don’t wait. You settle on his thighs, hungry hands pushing his shirt up, over his head.

His eyes are already wild. Chest bare. Breath uneven. Like he can’t quite believe this is happening. You kiss him again, rougher this time, teeth grazing his bottom lip. He gasps.

“You want this?” he asks, voice cracked, part awe, part fear.

You lean in, lips brushing his ear. “I need this.”

Clothes are tossed somewhere in the front seat—jacket, trousers, shirt, all lost to heat and haste. Your fingers fumble with his belt; he helps, hands shaking. You lift your hips, letting him drag your trousers down, your underwear already damp and sticking to your thighs. His knuckles brush the inside of your legs as he pulls them off, slow and reverent, then not-so-slow.

His fingers ghost along your inner thigh, then between your legs, slipping through slick heat. He exhales like it guts him.

“Still so wet for me,” he breathes, voice shredded. “How are you still so wet?”

You take his hand, guide his fingers to your lips, and suck your own slick clean. Your eyes on his the entire time. The sharp, guttural sound he makes is a reward in its own right.

The kiss that follow doesn’t end so much as it fractures. Broken by breath, by the heat of your thighs still spread over his lap, by the way your hips keep shifting like you haven’t quite had your fill.

Jun exhales sharply when you pull back. His mouth is swollen, his chest rising and falling like he ran a mile, and his hands—God, his hands—don’t stop touching you. One strokes your thigh, the other drifts higher, sliding back between your legs.

He groans, thumb dragging through your slick, and you shudder. “You always get like this,” he whispers, like it’s a secret meant only for you. “I touch you and you… fuck, you melt for me.”

You grind into his palm, voice already too hoarse to feign nonchalance. “Don’t pretend you’re in control right now.”

His eyes flick up, wide and wrecked. “I’m not,” he laughs. “Not even close.”

His fingers slip in. Two at once, with a stretch that makes your eyes flutter. You gasp, back arching, one arm braced against the seat in front of him as he starts to work you open. Slow. Deep. A rhythm that feels almost reverent, like he’s savoring this. Like he’s making up for every missed chance.

“So warm,” he grunts, forehead pressed to your collarbone. “So perfect.”

You reach down to find his cock still half-hard and twitching. Your fingers wrap around him, familiar with the way he likes to be touched, with how he reacts when you drag your thumb just under the head. He shudders. Moans. His hand falters inside you.

“Don’t—don’t do that,” he stammers.

You smile, sharp and smug. “Why not?”

You jerk him slow, just enough to keep him on the edge. His eyes flutter. His mouth opens, breath catching on every exhale as your hand works him while his fingers fuck into you.

This is how it used to be, back when it was messy and undefined, back when you still pretended this didn’t mean something. His hands in your pants after a long day at work. Your mouth on him in a shared shower. But this is different. Sharper. Hungrier. The way he looks at you now—it isn’t casual. It’s not temporary.

His lips graze your jaw. His voice cracks. “You feel so good,” he says, his words slurred with pleasure, “s-so good. I can’t think.”

You lean closer, nipping at his throat. “Don’t think. Just give me your fingers.”

He does. He gives you everything. Curling deeper, pressing harder, stretching you out until you clench around him and gasp, nails digging into the side of his neck. “Shit,” you whisper. “There, please. Right there.”

He moans, like he’s the one being burned alive. His hips jerk up into your palm. “So polite,” he says affectionately, placing a quick kiss to your shoulder before going on, “You’re gonna come for me, baby? Huh? Just on my fingers?”

You grind down, breath punching out of you. The pleasure coils hot and fast in your stomach, that dizzy, electric pull that tells you you’re about to break. When you register that the old pet name had slipped out of him—baby—you shatter.

It hits you all at once. Tight, breathless, a wave crashing through your spine and curling your toes. Your moan rips through the silence, raw and wild, as you pulse around him.

Jun curses under his breath. Even as you climax, your hand hasn’t stopped moving. He trembles, thighs tight beneath you. “Fuck, stop, stop—please, I’ll come,” he pants. “I’ll come and I’m not inside you yet. Please.”

You still your hand, fingers flexing around the base of his cock. His hips twitch anyway, desperate. His head falls back against the seat, jaw slack, chest heaving.

You watch him. The boy you almost had. The man who’s trying not to lose you now.

“You good?” you ask, voice low. Fond. Worried.

He nods, swallowing hard. “Barely,” he croaks. “Need you.”

You lean in, mouth grazing his. “You’ve got me,” you promise, and it’s the truest thing you’ve said all night.

The second your hand lifts from his cock, Jun fumbles between your thighs with shaking fingers, lining himself up. His touch is clumsy, reverent, desperate. His breath hitches when the head of his cock drags against your slick, catching at your entrance.

“Fuck, yes,” he gasps, the sound raw, like he’s already too close.

You sink onto him in one motion.

It’s not graceful, not slow. It’s greedy.

Your body takes him deep, full, stretched wide around him in a single sharp thrust that leaves you both dazed. His head snaps back, mouth open in a moan that cuts off halfway, swallowed by the thud of your hips meeting. “Jesus Christ,” he chokes out. “You’re—fuck. Fuck. You’re perfect.”

Your nails dig into his shoulders, anchoring yourself. The leather creaks beneath your knees. You don’t wait, don’t answer. You ride him fast, rough, punishing—like you need him to feel just how badly you've wanted this.

His hands scramble to keep up, one sliding to your waist, the other gripping your thigh, then your ass, then back again. He can’t seem to pick where he wants to touch you, so he settles for everywhere.

“You’re taking me so good,” he groans, eyes flicking down to where you’re joined, completely lost in it. “So fucking deep. Missed this. Missed you.”

You grind down harder, pace unrelenting. “You missed me, or just my pussy?” you bite out, even as a moan escapes.

He laughs, broken and breathless. “Both. Don’t make me choose.”

You lean in and kiss him, open-mouthed and hungry, your teeth dragging against his bottom lip before you suck it into your mouth. His hands tighten, fingertips bruising. Your hips roll, bounce, grind. Every motion is intentional. Relentless. He’s twitching inside you already.

He lets out a strangled sound when you clench around him. “Trying to—hng—ruin me?” he whimpers, forehead pressed to yours.

“You’re doing that all on your own,” you exhale before chasing his lips.

The car rocks. Windows fog. Sweat beads at your spine, your thighs, the crease of his neck where you bury your face to muffle a cry.

He’s fucking up into you now, meeting every downward slam of your hips with a thrust that has you seeing stars. His rhythm is messier than you remember, but it’s probably the moment. The setting. The reunion.

“Gonna come,” he warns, voice wrecked. “Shit—baby, please.”

You pull back, lips brushing his ear. “Then do it,” you whisper. “Come—ah—inside me. Make a mess, baby.”

His whole body jerks. His fingers dig in. He groans deep in his chest like it hurts to hold on. You don’t let up.

Your pace gets rougher. Sloppier. He’s moaning, practically whimpering. The kind of sounds you’ve only ever pulled from him when he’s too far gone to pretend. “You sound wrecked,” you pant, dragging your nails down his chest. “You close, baby?”

He nods, dazed, unable to speak.

You fuck down harder. Grind meaner. Your clit drags against the base of him and your whole body tenses. It hits you without warning—full-body and sudden. Your orgasm crashes through you like a wave, ripping your breath away as your muscles seize around him.

He cries out, high and choked. His hips stutter. “Wait—wait, fuck, baby, stop—please,” he pleads, voice cracking. “Need this to last. Need to have you for longer.”

You freeze, panting against his mouth.

He’s trembling.

“Alright?” you ask.

He nods, frantic. “Yeah. Yeah. I just—don’t want this to end.”

You stroke his cheek, your body still sensitive in aftershocks.

He looks up at you, eyes glassy, lips kiss-bruised. “I used to dream about this,” he says, voice barely there. “After we... you know. Dreamt of having you again. But it never felt like this.”

“Like what?”

He swallows. “Like I could lose you if I didn’t hold on tight enough.”

The sincerity bowls you over, so you kiss him again. This time, you slow down. Not because you want to, but because you know you’re both too close to let it end like that.

Your next words are a tremble against his lips. “Don’t leave. Not this time."

“I won’t,” he answers without missing a beat.

You don’t move for a moment. Just sit there, full of him, your body still trembling with aftershocks, hips twitching every few seconds like your muscles don’t know it’s over. Jun’s forehead rests against your sternum, his breath hot and uneven against your skin, his grip around your waist just this side of desperate.

You let it stretch. The quiet. The weight. The ache.

The car is still and humid, your skin sticking slightly where it meets his. All you can hear is the slow, syncopated rhythm of your breath tangled with his. Every now and then, your body clenches around him involuntarily, dragging tiny, startled sounds from both your throats.

After a couple of minutes, you start to move again. Just a slow, idle grind of your hips. Gentle. Lazy. The kind of roll that shouldn’t mean anything, but still makes you both react. A twitch from him. A flutter from you. You do it again. Then again. Just enough pressure. Just enough friction to keep you grounded in it.

He whimpers quietly, head tilting up to look at you through damp lashes. “This is torture.”

You smile. Kiss his temple, almost laughingly. “I always did like making your life hard.”

Jun huffs something like a laugh, more breath than voice. His hand curls around the back of your neck, thumb stroking over your pulse. The other traces down to your thigh, fingers dragging along the crease with slow reverence. You keep rocking gently, almost absentminded. Not fucking. Not chasing. Just—resting. Keeping him there. Letting him feel all of you, even in stillness.

It’s unfairly intimate, how your body fits against his like it remembers how. The arch of your spine molded to the shape of his chest, your forehead resting against the curve of his jaw, your hands cradling his face when you lift it.

His heartbeat pounds beneath your palm, too fast. Too vulnerable. “Can I…” he starts, voice cautious, almost shy.

You lift a brow. “Can you what?”

“Take some of the control. Just for a bit.”

It kills you. That he has to ask. That he still doesn’t think you’d give him the world. “Of course,” you say, the word murmured against the corner of his mouth. “Take me.”

He doesn’t answer. His grip on your ass tightens, fingers digging into the supple fleshed. “Baby,” he says, wrecked and serious, “I’ve been dreaming of fucking you properly since the day I left.”

Your teeth grazes his lips. “Do it, then,” you hum.

And he does.

He plants his feet. Braces himself. Then lifts you slightly and thrusts up hard, cock dragging deep, unforgiving. The breath punches out of you like a hit. Your hands scramble for purchase on his shoulders, your head falling forward.

He does it again. And again. Brutal. Precise. Each upward slam meets the drag of your body grinding down, slick and hot and soaked with all the aftermath he’s still pulsing inside.

“That’s it,” he growls, his breath ragged. “Let me fuck you. Let me make you feel it.”

You let him.

You go pliant in his hands, let him chase the tempo, his rhythm messy but deep. Every thrust is a reminder of what you both lost and what he’s begging for now.

He fucks up into you like he’s trying to chase every unsaid apology down your spine. The car rocks with the motion. His arms strain with effort, sweat slipping between your bodies, your skin slapping wetly together with every filthy thrust.

“You’re unreal,” he moans. “So good. So fucking good. I forgot how you feel. I forgot how you sound when I—”

“You didn’t forget,” you cut in, panting. “You just—hng—thought you could survive without it.”

He whines at that. Literally whines. You tighten around him and his hips stutter.

The pressure rises again. Slower this time. No sharp edge. Just steady, building tension in your core. Your muscles twitch with each thrust, your chest pressed to his, damp and heaving.

Jun kisses you hard, tongue hot and desperate. “I wanna feel you come again,” he begs against your mouth. “Please. Please, baby. One more. Give it to me."

You nod, but it’s not conscious. Your body answers before your mouth can.

It crashes into you, serrated and mean. Your third orgasm claws through your nerves, your thighs clamping down around his waist as you cry out into his neck. It’s overwhelming. Scalding. Your body trembles, every inch of you unraveling in his hands.

That’s all he needs. He groans, deep and undone, shoving into you one last time and staying there. His whole body goes tight, shakes. You cup his face. Make him look at you.

The thought occurs to you for the nth time: Jun is so pretty when he comes.

Even if he does it with a raw, wounded sound. He pulses deep inside you, buried as far as he can get, and you swear you can feel him shaking with it. Like it guts him. Like it saves him.

He clings to you afterward. Breathing hard. Drenched and unraveled.

You don’t say anything. You just stay. Let him hold you. Let him come back to you, slowly but surely.

Because this time, he isn’t running. And for once, neither are you.

The next morning, though, you wake to the absence of weight.

That’s the first thing you notice.

The second is the shape of your own anxiety, curling low in your chest, familiar as a bad habit. The other side of the bed is empty. The sheets are rumpled and cooling. There’s a single long strand of hair caught in the pillowcase. Not yours.

For a moment, you just stare at it. Then you look around. Bedroom door open. A thin shaft of light bleeds in from the hallway.

You don’t call out. You don’t move. You just go very, very still.

This is, after all, a familiar pattern. Boy meets girl. Boy runs away. Girl pretends she doesn’t notice until it’s convenient to feel something about it. The air smells like sex and detergent. The ceiling has a crack in it that you keep forgetting to report to the landlord. Your throat is dry.

Then Jun reappears.

Towel low on his hips, toothbrush in hand. He stops short in the doorway, mid-step, and you watch the exact moment he realizes what his absence must’ve looked like. The moment the air shifts. The look on your face must be something, because his shoulders drop in a slow exhale and his voice goes soft.

“Hey. I didn’t leave,” he says, swallowing his toothpaste—what a fucking psycho—before setting his tooth brush on to the nearest flat surface. “Just went to brush my teeth."

You raise an eyebrow. Try to mask the little betrayal that had already crept in. “You know, most people announce their morning survival before disappearing,” you say. “It’s customary.”

Jun winces. “You’re right. I should’ve said something. I just didn’t want to wake you.”

You sit up, sheets falling to your waist. Your body aches in a way that feels earned. Your hair is a mess after the two, maybe three rounds that you and Jun had when he fell into your bed last night. You don’t care enough to hide the overthinking.

“You could’ve left a note,” you say. Half-serious, half-joking. “Or a sock on the door. A smoke signal.”

He laughs, crosses to the side of the bed. Drops the towel a little lower on purpose, the menace. “Noted. Next time I disappear into the bathroom, I’ll launch a full PR campaign.”

You narrow your eyes. “See that you do.”

His hand lifts to your face, thumb dragging just under your cheekbone. “I’m here,” he says, plain and simple as a promise. And he means it.

Maybe it’s stupid that you believe him. Maybe it’s messier than it should be, that you’re even in this place, in this bed, with this boy again.

But his hand is warm. His mouth is soft when he kisses your forehead. And when he climbs back in bed to hold you to him, you don’t say no.

It’s a Saturday, so the two of you let the sun climb high enough to slice through your blinds. You’d move, but Jun is draped over you like a weighted blanket with abandonment issues. It’s clingy in a way that would be annoying if it weren’t also stupidly comforting.

His leg is thrown across yours. His arm is a dead weight on your stomach. He smells like your shampoo and the faint citrus of your soap, and the whole thing is either domestic bliss or a very elaborate trap.

His fingers are tucked into the curve of your hip, not moving, just there. A quiet claim. As if anchoring himself will stop time or stop you from thinking of endings.

You’re not even annoyed, which is suspicious. You should be cataloging all the reasons this is a bad idea. Cross-department entanglements, your no-office-romance policy (written internally, unspoken externally), the sheer HR nightmare of it all. Instead, you’re memorizing the rhythm of his breathing.

“So,” he says after a long moment, voice still scratchy with sleep, mouth near your collarbone, "they offered me a job."

You blink at the ceiling. The fan clicks. One of the blades wobbles slightly. “‘They’ being The Carat Company.”

He nods into your shoulder. You feel the curve of his smile before you see it. It’s smug and sleepy and dangerous—a combination that should come with a warning label.

You hum. Neutral. “That’s… a choice.”

Jun shifts. Enough to glance up at you, catching your expression with lazy amusement. It’s probably somewhere between polite support and visible internal shrieking. “Wow,” he murmurs. “You are doing an excellent job of pretending that doesn’t horrify you."

You sigh, staring at the water-stained patch on your ceiling. “I just think our HR department is one passive-aggressive email away from imploding, and I’m not sure I want to share a copier with someone who’s seen me naked.”

He chuckles. Kisses your shoulder. “That’s fair. But relax. I’m not taking it.”

You pause. Blink. Turn your head just enough to catch his face. “You’re not?”

He shakes his head, pulling back slightly, grinning like a man who knows he’s about to get a dramatic reaction. You squint at him. "So?"

“Sebong offered me something better.”

Record scratch. Full stop. You sit up slightly, sheet dragging across your chest. “Sebong Corporation? Our most flamboyant and passive-aggressive rival?”

“The very same.”

You purse your lips. “The one that sent us cupcakes during Q3 just to say ‘Sorry about your metrics’?”

Jun grins. “A plus for petty. But yeah, they want me.”

“You’re going corporate spy now? Love that for you,” you jab. “Can you wear a wire to our next team sync?"

He shrugs, undeterred by your sarcasm as a coping mechanism. “They offered better pay, better benefits. Free espresso on every floor.”

You make a sound of mock envy. “Now you’re just bragging.”

“I am,” he adds, with that soft arrogance only he can pull off without getting slapped. “I think I’m gonna take it.”

“Why?”

He looks at you with the kind of gaze that burns just a little. Like he’s searching for a permission he already knows you’ll give. Then he says it. The same thing he said when he waltzed back into your life, self-assured and saccharine.

“It’s the best, isn’t it?” Jun says. “And I always want the best.”

You roll your eyes so hard your ancestors probably feel it. But something in your chest stutters. This time, the words land different. Softer. Honest in a way that makes your ribs ache.

He’s making a concession. He’s doing something to make this, make the two of you, possible.

He’s calling you something he wants, and calling you the best, in the same breath.

Jun leans in, presses his forehead to yours, nose brushing yours like an apology. When he kisses you, it tastes like toothpaste and devotion. And also maybe like something terrifyingly close to commitment.

You lie there for a while. Wrapped in warmth and silence and the complicated calculus of wanting things that feel big and breakable. Like him. Like this. Like futures you haven’t even said out loud yet.

At some point, Jun shifts behind you, arms tightening around your middle. His chin rests in the crook of your neck, breath brushing your skin.

“You okay with it?” he asks.

You shrug. “I mean, it’s marginally better than you working across the hall from me and flirting over the printer queue.”

“We’d both get nothing done.”

“Exactly. Chaos.”

Jun kisses the back of your shoulder again. It’s like he can’t stop kissing you, like he can’t believe he can do it all again. Somewhere in the quiet that follows, your brain writes the paperwork.

This Employment Contract (“Agreement”) is made between Wen Junhui (“Boyfriend”), and you.

WHEREAS the Boyfriend agrees to remain shirtless in your apartment at least three mornings per week, and to bring the good coffee whenever you run out;

WHEREAS emotional transparency shall be upheld with the same rigor as quarterly reporting, including but not limited to: post-sex vulnerability, Sunday-night anxiety debriefs, and one (1) designated safe word for moments of self-sabotage;

WHEREAS both parties are permitted one (1) bad take per fiscal quarter, to be gently corrected and never mentioned again;

THEREFORE, both parties agree to exclusive rights to back scratches, late-night ramen runs, shared Spotify queues, and slow dancing in the kitchen when neither of you feels like cooking;

FURTHERMORE, cuddling shall not be used as a diversion tactic during emotionally intense conversations, unless unanimously approved by both parties in advance.

Effective immediately. Benefits include forehead kisses, a stupid amount of texting, sleeping on opposite sides but always ending up tangled, emergency ice cream runs, and never having to go to office parties alone.

#jun x reader #junhui x reader #svtshowbiz #svthub #keopihausnet #wen junhui x reader #svt x reader #seventeen x reader #jun imagines #junhui imagines #svt fic #seventeen fic #svt imagines #seventeen imagines #jun smut #junhui smut #(🥡) notebook #(💎) page: svt

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gothicfied · 2 days ago

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Can you please do this one? 💛

Basically takes place after 4th game. Nam-gyu finds out he lost the necklase with drugs and goes to the guard, asking if he can go back, after the confrontation that happened in the scene. He goes to the reader and she just basically takes care of him (comforting, hugging him, giving him her water, holding him in her sleep, helping him etc.) And if you want to (you dont have to), you can add there, where she helps him in the jump rope game.

Save me, my love! - a Nam-gyu Oneshot

Pairing: Nam-gyu / Player 124 x Reader

Word Count: ~950 Words

Warnings: Mentions of drugs, drug usage, addiction, violence, death, gunshots, blood (typical Squid Game stuff), I obviously have no idea how addictions or withdrawals work😭, other than that it's just fluff/comfort, not proof read (English is not ny first language)

A/N: He was genuinely so pathetic in that scene, I loved it. So sorry if any if these descriptions are unrealistic or wrong, I just wrote it like I remembered the scene lolololol Also: I am doing a pt2 on the teen reader thing, so stay tuned. Enjoy!

You never imagined that in this place, drugs would be someone's biggest issue. You thought maybe people dying left and right and the sound of the never ending gunshots would wake someone up and make them vote 'X', but no. Some of these literal animals still think money has more value than a humans life. Sadly, one of those people is also someone you grew quite close to.

Nam-gyu somehow felt like you guys were making a great team, or maybe it was because he was madly in love with you that he tolerated someone who voted to get the hell out of here. After Thanos was stabbed to death, as Nam-gyu vividly described — with a fork, he kind of... just lost it.

You did too, after the rebellion failed. You were so sure everyone could do it, but no. Originally, the man laughed at you for even trying to get through the guards or for supporting the idea in the first place, but he was still very glad you didn't.. well, die. He couldn't have handled another death like that (he could've on drugs, but he didn't tell you that, obviously).

The fact that he has used before, outside the games, became more and more apparent. Constant ticking, scratching, sniffling, rocking back and forth... whenever the effects of those little pills started to wear off, Nam-gyu became this angsty, disturbed mess that just wanted to be held by you. And you did hold him tight. You didn't know what it was about him, maybe it was because he made you feel somewhat grounded and not all alone in this place, or maybe it was trauma bonding. Probably the second thing.

During Hide and Seek, the most disturbing game you almost didn't survive, he had apparently lost the little cross necklace that held the remaining pills. Based off of how Nam-gyu acted (because, yes, you could hear him scream and sing through the halls), you were able to figure out at what stage this addiction process was. Whatever those things held in them, they were really addicting, scarily even so. It's only been like four days and Nam-gyu's acting like that.. it's weird.

Granted, you didn't quite understand how addictions worked. Because his veins were blown out by all the stuff he used to shoot up his arm, you thought a little pill couldn't make you so erratic.

From your bed, you could see how Nam-gyu scrambled to the pink guards, first asking and then eventually yelling at them to let him back because he lost the goddamn necklace. You sighed while seeing and hearing it — Man, you felt bad for him. He didn't act like this the first day or the second day and you thought that he didn't deserve this, to go through withdrawal.

After he was threatened by one of the guards, Nam-gyu quickly shut his mouth and walked back over to you, looking at you like you were the light of his life. He sighed, slowly sitting down next to you on the bed. "They.. they won't let me in! Oh my god, I know I lost that fucking thing in there and they won't give it to me."

Nam-gyu whined next to you, actually sounding like he was in pain (or that he was, at least, very desperate). His blood-covered hands covered his face as he started to rub his eyes to come back to his senses. After a pause, you put your hand on his back, drawing slow and soothing circles, because what else were you supposed to do?

"I'm seriously dead without.. without—"

"It'll be okay."

"Ohhhh— No, you have no idea how bad this is!"

The man looked at you with blood shot eyes, that were probably just there because he couldn't sleep well when high. He was exhausted, too exhausted to even explain to you what was bothering him right now when you asked him. He knew he was worrying you, but it wasn't like he didn't try fixing it yet.

Your eyes scanned his face, trying to come up with a solution. There was nothing you could do to help, mainly because you don't know what withdrawals feel like.

Nam-gyu clawed on your shirt and basically threw himself onto you, breathing like he just ran a marathon. You cradled his face against your chest, taking a quick peek to see what was going on — Nam-gyu looked like he was about to cry from frustration, anger (at himself), because he was panicking.. his eyes told a whole story and it broke your heart.

You tipped your head back to lean it against the metal railing of the bed while your hand was lightly grazing his cheek. Eventually, Nam-gyu's breathing began to calm down and it seemed like he had finally fallen asleep completely, which he wasn't able to do the past couple of nights. Just yesterday he woke you up in the middle of the night to 'talk to you' because he couldn't sleep. He had been chronically awake the whole time, which really messed with his perception of things, at least that's what you thought.

Carefully, you pushed some of his hair out of his face, calming at how peaceful he looked. You heard faint whispers of the other players talking to each other, most of them just as worried as you. You were scared, of course you were. You were scared for your life, for Nam-gyu's life, because something told you that he couldn't and wouldn't make it any further in this condition.

You truly hoped you would, though, because at the end of the day, you did truly care about him.

#squid game #squid games #squid game fanfic #squid games x reader #squid game 2 #squid game 3 #squid game season 3 #nam gyu squid game #nam gyu x reader #player 124 #player 124 x reader

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whimsicalwritersstuff · 3 days ago

Note

hi beautiful 🩵 I read all your work and is perrrfect!!!! can I request joel miller x reader where they break up *idk why but they did* and joel is always texting her, stalking her, nnd one night Joel invites her to dinner at his house, (and she goes bc she loves him) he makes everything super romantic, and while they're having dinner he says, "When are you coming back? Come back home, babygirl." And the end is up to u 💖❤️‍🔥 this get super long omg sorry. Thank you so much

── "Come back home, Babygirl."

Pairings: Joel miller x fem!reader

No outbreak-

Content warnings: 18+ ONLY, minors DNI. Break-up & reconciliation, praise kink, unprotected sex, creampies, soft dominance. praise & dirty talk, soft obsession, dom!Joel, sub!reader, Established Relationship.

Summary: You and Joel broke up. Neither of you ever moved on. Weeks pass. He keeps texting, watching. You try to stay strong. Until the night he invited you to dinner, just one night.

Just one night to see him again.

But when Joel miller loves, he doesn't let go easy. And tonight? He's not letting you walk out again.

Word count: 1.399

The sky was dusky, that soft blue gray that happens just before the stars really show themselves. You stood at the edge of Joel's porch, arms crossed tightly over your chest, heart in your throat.

You shouldn't be here.

You should've ignored the text.

"Just dinner. Just us. 7pm. - J."

No strings, he said.

But Joel miller never played with string.

He wrapped people in chains.

You knock. Soft. Then harder.

The door creaks open before you can second guess it again.

And there he is.

Joel.

Older. Grayer. Those frown lines deeper. His sallr and pepper beard trimmed, his hair abit longer. But his eyes- those damn eyes, look at you like no time passed at all.

"Hey, baby."

Your stomach flips.

"Dont call me that."

He doesn't apologize. Of course he dosent. Just steps aside so you can walk in, bjs scent immediately wrapping around you. Cedarwood, leather and the faint spice of the chili in the kitchen.

You swallow hard.

"Smells good."

"Been cookin' all day," be says. "Wanted it to be right."

His voice is softer than usual. That careful tone he used to use when you cried. When you were in his bed and afraid to admit you loved him.. you look around. The table's set. Candles lit. Two glasses of red wine. Cloth napkins. Joel miller set out cloth napkins.

"You never did this when we were together."

"yeah," he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck. "I fucked a lotta things up when we were together."

Your heart clenches, but ouu don't let it show, you sit stiffly at the table. Joel follows, handing you your wine like it's fragile.

The dinner passes in waves, quiet at first. Then warner. Easier.

He tells you about how work is. About Sarah. How he'd been learning to grow tomatoes in his spare time. You laugh once, then cover your mouth, guilty for smiling.

He just watches you with that look.

The one that says you were never gone to him.

~~~

Later, you're helping him clean up. He never insists on drying, even though he never used to.

And then it happens.

He turns to you slowly, leans against the sink, towel still in hand, His voice low. "When are you coming back?"

You blink.

"Joel-"

"Come back home, babygirl...

That word.

That voice.

That ache.

You freeze, heart hammering, mouth dry.

"You don't get to call me that. Not after everything..."

"I do" he says, stepping closee. "Because you're still mine. You don't have to say it. I know it. I see it every time you look at mekke like your chest's on fire."

He reaches out, fingers brushing your wrist. Gentle. Hesitant. But not weak. "I know I pushed you away. Got scared. Got angry. Said shit I did t mean. But you-"

His voice cracks.

"You never stopped being home to me."

The room is spinning. Your breath feels caught between now and everything that uaedtobe.

You should say no.

You should say it's too late.

But Joel steps closer, hands now at your waist, his forehead pressing against yours. "Please... Just come home. Let me fix it. Let me love you right..."

You look up into those pleading brown eyes and you realize: this man would burn the world down to keep you.

His lips bover just above yours, breath trembling against your mihtb like he's scared you'll disappear if he kisses you too hard.

But you're not going anywhere.

"I never wanted to go," you whisper.

"Then don't," Joel breathes, voice low and wrecked. "Stay. Let me love you the way I should've before."

You kiss him first.

And it's slow, his mouth is warm and certain. His hands sliding up your sides like he's rememberjng every incekf you. You press to his body, soft curves meeting the solid strength of him and suddenly there's no past between you. Only now. He breaks the kiss, forehead pressed to you're, both of you breathing hard.

"I missed you,babygirl," he murmurs. "Every goddamn second. You don't know what it did to me, not havin' you here." Your fingers curl into his shirt. "Then show me."

That's all he needs.

Joe lifts you up, strong arms, steady hands, like it costs him nothing even now.

You gasp, clinging to him as he carries you down the hallway to the bedroom. The lights are low and the sheets are still the same ones you used to sleep in.

He lays you downike you're breakable. Like something he treasures.

And then he just looks at you.

"You're still the most beautiful thing I've ever seen," he says. "Can't believe I let you walk away."

You pull him down to you but he doesn't rush. He kisses your mouth, your jaw, your throat. His hands roam gripping your waist, kneading your thighs, dragging the hem of your shirt slowly.

"Take it off," you breathe.

"Patience, sweetheart." He murmurs.

"I'm not lettin' myseflf forget a single fuckin' detail this time."

Your shirt goes off first. Then your bra. He grownd softly when he sees your bare breasts, full, nipples already peaked from his touch.

"Goddamn," he mutters, thumbing your nipple, then leaning in to suck it slowly into his mouth. "You've always been so sensitive here..."

You moan, hips shifting. He sucks greedily, switching sides, letting his tongue drag slow, wet circles around each one while his hand slips beneath the waistband of your plants. "You wet already?" He murmurs against your skin. "Fuck, baby. You missed this, huh? Missed me?"

You nod, breathless. "Yes. So much."

He pulls your pants and panties down together, tossing them aside and settles between your legs like he belongs there. And he does. His fingers stroke through your folds, slick and ready for him. He teases you with two of his fingers, slow and deep, watching your face the whole time.

"That's it, babygirl... Open up for me. Been waitin' so long to touch you again."

You whimper when pulls his hand away but then he's stripping off his own clothes, shirt first, then jeans until he's bare Infront of you..

Still so solid, still so him.

He strokes himself slowly, the tip red and leaking. And your thighs tremble with need.

"You sure about this?" He asks, "cause once I have you again, I'm not lettin' go."

"Joel," you whisper, pulling him towed you. "I was yours the whole time."

That breaks sometbingin him.

He pushes himself inside you slow, inch by thick inch, and both of you gasp at the stretch. He fills you like nothing else ever had. Like your body remembers him.

"Fuck.." he groans, pressing his forehead to yours. "You still fit me like heaven, baby."

He starts moving, deep,slow thrusts that grinds against every sensitive spot. Your hands clutch at his back, nails dragging, your moans soft and sweet in his ear.

"I missed this..." you pant as you wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him closer. "Like I'm still yours."

"You are," Joel growls, voice dark and fill of ache. "Mine. Say it."

"Yours. I'm yours, Joel..."

He pounds into you harder at that, sweat beading at his temple. His hand sneaking between your bodies to run slow circles on your clit. You cry out and he kisses you quiet.

"Cum for me," he murmurs. "I wanna feel toy fall apart around me. Show me how much you missed me."

You do.

It hits hard, a rush of heat and pleasure and emotion that makes you sob into his shoulder. He groans as yoy clench around him, fucking you through it, chasing his own release.

"I'm gonna fill you up, baby." He pants. "You want that? Want me leakin' out of you all night like I used to?"

"Yes, please, joel- please."

He groans deep, hips stuttering and then he spills inside you, thick and hot, his mouth pressed to your throat as he gasps your name like a prayer.

When it's over, he dosent pull out. He just holds you.

You're tangled up in sweat and blankets, your legs still around his waist, your bodies trembling with what you just gave each other.

"I love you," you whisper,and his breath catches.

"I never stopped," Joel says, voice hoarse and thick. "And I never will." He kissees your forehead, your nose, your lips.

And this time, you don't leave.

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sad-girl-hours23 · 2 days ago

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hi darling, for the cuddle prompts! bucktommy + 27

– @bisexualbrainrots

Thank you for the ask! This was for "first cuddle" and I enjoyed writing this so much. So much that it's 723 words lol so many of which are not them cuddling. But I hope you love it anyway <3

Steam billows from the bathroom as Tommy walks out. He's wearing a pair of basketball shorts and a sleeveless tank top he borrowed from Buck, though he's not sure he's ever looked as soft and inviting in them as Tommy does.

Tommy greets him with a smile and a kiss and takes the offered glass of water with a murmured 'thanks'.

As they stand at the foot of the bed, Buck realizes this is the first time Tommy's been in his bedroom. Why is he sweating all of a sudden? "What side do you prefer?"

Tommy turns to him and arches his eyebrow. "It's your bed, Evan."

"Uh, right. I'll just—" he gestures vaguely to the bed and walks around the right side of it, setting his glass on the nightstand.

Tommy watches him for a moment with a soft smile on his face. Then he rounds the left side of the bed and pulls back the covers. He looks at Buck. "We're just sleeping, Evan."

"I know," Buck says, but he still waits for Tommy to lie down under the covers before joining him. Now that he's in bed, his exhaustion from the day catches up to him: Waking up hungover. Losing Chimney. Looking for Chimney. Chimney found. Encephalitis. Chimney marrying Maddie from his hospital bed.

And Tommy.

Tommy showing up for Chimney and Maddie. And for him.

Tommy walking through the sliding hospital doors—walking to Buck—covered in soot and visibly exhausted. Saying 'sorry' for being late as if he hadn't been fighting a fire the entire day.

God. Buck wanted to climb him like a tree. He still wants.

But then he wanted to take Tommy home and wrap his arms around him, blanketing his big frame.

Buck's still not sure if that's something it's okay to want. Does he want it because he's only ever been with women and has always been the big spoon?

"I can hear you thinking."

Buck flushes, but he turns and faces Tommy anyway. "I want to try something we've never done before."

It earns Buck an impressive eyebrow raise, but Tommy turns and faces him too. "Now?"

"I want to cuddle."

"That—is not what I was expecting." A smile tugs at Tommy's lips. "I'm not sure that's something you try, I think you just...do."

Buck laughs—a huff of breath forced from his lungs. "Yeah. Right."

Tommy cups his jaw with gentle fingers. "Hey. Talk to me, sweetheart."

Buck sighs. "Sometimes I worry I'm doing this all wrong."

"Can you elaborate?"

"Dating a man."

"Well—as the man you're dating, I've got no complaints."

"Tommy. I just—I don't know what role I'm supposed to take or fit into."

"I'm going to stop you right there, not because you did anything wrong. You don't need to fit into any role, Evan. Besides, we're still getting to know each other. We're still learning how to be a couple—whatever that means for us. Just do what feels right and if you're not sure about something, you can always talk to me."

Buck frowns. "I appreciate it, I do. But it feels like you're telling me to just be myself."

"That's the idea."

"No offence, but that's terrible advice. What am I supposed to do with that?"

"You can start by cuddling me."

Buck smiles. "Yeah? You want that?"

"Yeah, I do. You know—most people don't look at me and think little spoon."

"Well most people are wrong." Buck sits up, giving him the leverage he needs to turn Tommy the other way. Manhandling, his lizard brain supplies, and he files that away for another day. Buck pulls him into the cradle of his hips. Tommy shudders. Oh, maybe they should have done this the other way around.

Tommy sinks into the embrace. "Go to sleep, Evan."

Buck huffs. "I'm trying, but some parts of me are going to take a minute to catch up."

Tommy's whole body shakes with laughter.

"You're not helping, you know." Buck squeezes Tommy's hip, then lets his hand rest there on the hot stretch of exposed skin. "Am I doing this right?"

"Mm. Best big spoon I've ever had."

Buck's pretty sure he's the only big spoon Tommy's ever had, but that conversation can wait another day. He kisses Tommy's shoulder and murmurs "goodnight."

He can't wait for the rest of their firsts.

#bucktommy #tommy kinard #evan buckley #bucktommy fic #911

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gallifreyan85 · 2 days ago

Text

Keep on dreaming (don't stop breathing)

pairing: mentor!agatha x reader

summary: when a stranger's words make your question your importance in agatha's life, you end up finding out more than you were hoping for.

warnings: one (1) mean witch. agatha taking your money. idk. enjoy.

A/n is all the way down, as always.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆

Westview was always a quiet place. There was chatter, and gossip, people, yes, but it had its own little charm you grew to love. It was peaceful. Comfortable. Safe.

Your morning was a slow one, outside clouds were dull but not gray, and Agatha’s living room was littered with scattered papers, books and scrolls you knew she’d put away with a wave of her hand, all evidence from last night’s lesson that ended up stretching well past midnight. Having Agatha Harkness as a teacher meant lessons were never boring, and listening to her talk about spells in her own, unfiltered Agatha way was nothing like reading a textbook. She always had new plans, ways to subtly get more magic while showing off her skills and teaching you something new in the process. And a more recent addition to your so called studies-- letting you tag along to mysterious places you had no idea existed in such close proximity to the normal lives of such normal, unassuming people.

When you reached the kitchen you had found her already up, sitting at the counter in her pyjamas, a dark floral robe, dark hair spilling over her back, still a little tousled from sleep. She’d been drinking coffee from a mug, halfway through taking a sip when she saw you, and paused for the briefest of seconds just to say, “You’re up early.” and then proceeded to throw an outfit into your face and tell you to get dressed for the day, you’d be staying the night somewhere.

Westview was always quiet, so you had to admit your surprise when Agatha dragged you to a gathering of witches talking in conspicuous voices and casting you odd looks when the two of you walked in. She’d started doing this more, since the whole hassle with the Witches Road, taking you to places of adamant magical power. You expected a forest clearing, the ruins of an old house, some ancient, story-ridden place of forgotten lore and old, withered chaos. But instead you were here. A people-filled, packed space where everyone was odd and busy and the air was thick with deft words and a jumble of protection spells.

“What are we here for, exactly?” you asked Agatha, glancing around in hopes of a clue of some sort. She chuckled lowly and tossed back her hair over one shoulder, leading the way.

“We’re here, student mine, because I’m looking for something.”

“And that is…?”

“Useful.” she said, “And old.”

You stifled a sigh. Old and useful. You were expecting as such, but of course she wouldn’t tell you more than that. So, with a small roll of your eyes, you followed after her, looking around at all the artifacts you couldn’t name and the witches whose heads turned at the sight of Agatha walking by.

She stopped abruptly at a stall draped in dark purple, shawls and robes hanging over the sides, embroidered and colorful with silver and gold stitching, and a dozen or so glittering knick knacks littering the front table. The witch working there turned her head up, glancing at Agatha with a suspicious look, but Agatha smiled, all polite helplessness, and tugged you to her so hard that you stumbled.

“This is my familiar,” she said, raising one hand to glide through your hair lightly, “she’s been feeling ever so lost while I’m gone, and I was hoping you’d have some sort of rune base I can use to cast a binding spell.”

The witch glanced over at you, giving you a suspicious once-over, and then turned back to Agatha, who was shaking her head, still petting your hair with over-the-top-care.

“I need something that’ll keep her inside, poor thing is so attached to me she wants to follow me everywhere.”

The witch gave her a look that made you think she was about to laugh in her face, but then she turned around with a deep sigh and asked,

“What kind are you looking for? We’ve got stone, crystal and obsidian.”

Agatha huffed, offended. “Stone? If I wanted to spell out amateur beginner, have better ones in my backyard, thank you.”

Now the witch looked offended too. “Your inability to train your familiar doesn’t sound like my problem.”

Agatha shook her head briskly, annoyed. “Nevermind. You said obsidian. Give me the best one.”

When the witch turned around to get it, muttering about it being too strong for a ‘simple binding rune’, you turned to Agatha, who had pulled her hand away from your hair and was fixing her coat, glaring daggers at the witch’s back.

“That’s what we’re here for?” you murmured to her, tired, “A slab of fancy rock?”

Agatha shushed you, and smiled most gratefully as the witch handed her a square of wrapped cloth.

“Thank you, madam.” she nodded, gesturing for you to move along as she handed the woman a couple paper bills.

You frowned as she caught up with you, the two of you weaving through the crowd.

“Were those dollars? Since when do witches use mortal money? I thought you’d give her like, gold coins or something.”

She smiled, pocketing the lump of stone. “We do, usually.”

“Why did she take them then? Didn’t she see what you gave her?”

“Oh she did. She’ll realize it in about-” she tilted her head absentmindedly, “three minutes give or take, as soon as the enchantment wears off.”

You frowned. “What enchantment?”

Agatha smirked. “The one I cast while you were asking your curious questions.”

“But-- you could’ve just used leaves or something, I mean why take real money if you already—”

“You have to learn to use what’s nearby.” she smiled innocently.

“Nearby? What do you mean ne-” You dipped a hand into your pocket and did a double take.

“Agatha!”

She continued walking, not batting an eye. “When did you-- did you take my money-”

“A true witch never reveals her secrets.”

You groaned into thin air.

“Hurry up now, familiar, we have more things to get done.”

But even as you hurried after her, shaking your head, there was a smile on your face.

The two of you weaved through the crows of people, occasionally stopping by stalls and tents for Agatha to look around while you busied yourself with trying to count your very real, remaining money. You had just found a stack of blue charms embedded in a velvet cushion at the edge of some tiny outside shop when you felt a tug on your jacket.

“We’re done for today, let’s go.” Agatha said, and while her voice wasn’t annoyed you could see she hadn’t quite found everything she had hoped for. You decided not to question her about it, and followed her down the little valley and into a small, witchy inn that stood by the side of the road, overlooking the convention. You looked around while she argued with the witch at the front desk, and then followed her upstairs into a room on the second floor. It was small, but clean. Two beds, a window, some old, shrivelled string of dried flowers for supposed protection that Agatha tossed out said window before casting a ward on the door and mocking the owners.

Sitting on one of the beds and watching her, you wondered briefly if this was your form of vacation. It was a change from your usual routine, and you supposed it had been sort of fun. When it got dark you went with her downstairs to the open restaurant area outside and ate your dinner. She talked about the way she outsmarted some witches in the 1800s while she was travelling, and stole the last french fries off your plate when you went to get a glass of water.

It wasn’t that that bothered you, but when you were waiting the witch behind the bar poured it slowly, glancing behind you and at Agatha before looking back at you. She slid the glass towards you, then leant against the counter, and said in a far-too-curious voice,

“That’s Agatha Harkness, that is.”

You paused, careful.

“Yes.”

“And you’re with her?” her piercing eyes raked up and down your figure before settling back on your cautious face.

“What’s a little thing like you doing with a witch like that?”

That’s none of your business, you almost replied, but you weren’t going to be rude. You’d gotten used to it by now, people staring at you like you were mad to follow a witch like Agatha. And hell, maybe you were.

“I’m her student.” you said finally. Another lie. Part truth. You were her student. A friend. Maybe her family. Maybe--

The witch laughed in your face.

“Ohh, you sweet summer child. A student, you say? My condolences.”

“Your- what?”

She gave you a cocky grin, amused by the put off look on your face. “You don’t seriously think you’re the first, do you? Don’t you know how many others tried to learn from Agatha Harkenss herself, how many of them died by her hands?”

You swallowed.

The truth was, you hadn’t known. You’d thought about it a few times, yes, but she never mentioned anyone else before you, so you just assumed it was nothing significant. And of course, this witch, whoever she was, could be lying to you, trying to mess with your head. If Agatha taught you one thing about others of your kind it was that you shouldn’t trust anyone outright. You reached for your glass but she pulled it back, out of your reach.

“You didn’t know, did you?” she said, looking intently into your eyes, “The little birdie had no idea she was travelling with a murderer.” She smiled at you. “Your best chance would be to run while you still can.” she fixed her hair, “But then again, maybe you enjoy this. Being her little… pet.”

“I’m not—” but it was your own thoughts that stopped you this time.

You were about to say that she was wrong, you weren’t a pet, even if Agatha did call you that sometimes, but then you thought about earlier, the way she’d pulled you to her, all fake smiles for a stranger, while introducing you as her familiar. But surely that was just- Agatha being herself. You weren’t that, you weren’t some tool for her to use and discard as she pleases, you weren’t--

The witch, seemingly satisfied that she’d rattled you a little, plopped a single ice cube into the glass and took a sip.

“Go back to your owner, little birdie.” she said, turning around, “You’d run if you knew what was good for you.”

And she went back to cleaning the bar. You stood there for a moment, staring at her, feeling your heart thumping uncomfortably in your chest. You didn’t ask for another glass. You didn’t tell her anything else, just turned around and went back outside.

When you sat down, twisting your fingers into the edge of the tablecloth, Agatha gave you a questioning look.

“I thought you went to get a water.” she said flatly.

“I did. They were- uh- out.” you made up awkwardly.

She frowned, shook her head at you as if you were to blame, and then muttered something about the incompetence of this place. She went back to eating her food, while you left the rest of yours untouched and studied her instead. Her face, her clothes, her words. Was this really someone who would leave you to die? No.

You shook your head.

You were being ridiculous. She’d saved you a number of times, gotten the two of your out of dangerous situations and more, and you weren’t about to let some stranger make you question that trust. Make you question the one constant in your life you could outright depend on.

You picked food off your plate in silence until she finished her meal, listening to her talk but not quite following the words, and after she stood to leave you did the same, sparing a glance back inside as you climbed the stairs, but the bar was now empty. You sighed, and got ready for bed.

An hour later, sitting on top of the still folded covers, hair damp and your clothes soft, you couldn’t bring yourself to go to sleep. As much as you hated to admit it you were still turning the witch’s words over in your head, restless and hesitant. You glanced to the side. Agatha was sitting on her own bed, one leg over the other, her long hair like a curtain over her shoulders. She was holding up a book, some old thing in a language you couldn’t read or recognize, and it didn’t seem like she would be asleep anytime soon either.

“Agatha?”

She didn’t turn, but her head went up a little.

“Hmm?”

“Did you ever- do this before?”

She paused, halfway through flipping a yellowed page. “Did I ever do what before?”

“This.” you said a little awkwardly, “Taught someone magic. Like this. Like me.”

She hesitated, a brief, barely-there second, and then closed the book with a dusty snap that startled you.

“Yes, I suppose so.” she said slowly, setting the book down on the bed beside her. “Why? What does it matter?”

You looked at her for a moment, feeling an odd sense of disappointment wash over you. You weren’t quite sure what you were expecting her to say, to lie maybe, or tell you that no, no one was like you, you were special, you were different--

“And what- what happened...to them?” you asked tentatively, voice a little shakier than you’d have liked.

Agatha shrugged. “I don’t know. Most of them left. Figured they knew better, or couldn’t keep up, thought I was too demanding—” she waved a hand about dismissively. “They were just nosy little pests, thinking they can handle big magic. It’s not my fault they all gave up.”

They weren’t directed at you, but her words stung you a little. You sat up straighter, fumbling with your fingers.

“Is that what you think about me?” you asked quietly.

She turned at that, her expression somehow sharper, yet also slightly irritated. “No.” she said finally after a stretch of silence, “No, it’s not.”

Something unwound in you a little. Not fully, but halfway.

“Why?”

She sighed, looking at you like you were asking her things that were obvious. They weren’t. They really, really weren’t.

Not right now, at least.

“Why?” she echoed, “Why this sudden interest in whoever came before you? You never asked about this before. And you’ve been eyeing me with that hurt little look of yours all night, don’t think I haven’t noticed.”

You shrunk a little, feeling slightly embarrassed.

There you were, watching her the whole evening and thinking she wouldn’t notice just because she kept talking. Of course you were wrong.

Your tried to cross your arms, then brought them around yourself defensively, hesitant.

“It’s nothing. Forget it. Just-”

Agatha shot you a look. She was interested now, you could tell by her eyes, and you knew she wouldn’t drop this until you revealed the truth.

With a half glance to the side, you murmured finally,

“Fine. It’s… It’s nothing, like I said. Just- some witch at dinner- she said-”

Agatha tilted her head. There was another look in her eyes now, a different one.

“What witch? What did she say?” but her words were clipped, angry somehow.

“Nothing.” you shook your head quickly. “Just some- nonsense about- how I shouldn’t stick with you cause I’ll end up dead.” you started, “It really doesn’t--”

“She tried to scare you?” Agatha said, standing up now. You tried to backpedal.

“No, no-”

“No? She thought she’d just- what? Imply that I’ll kill you one day? You think that’s what I’d do that, pet? That you’re only here because I want to—”

She stepped closer, and looked up at her, quiet and open.

“I don’t think that, Agatha.” you murmured. “I don’t.”

She studied your expression and exhaled slowly, blowing out a soft breath.

“You might not,” she said evenly, “but you have questions. I can see it in your face, pet.” With that she turned and sat back down on her bed, back straight, fixing her hair.

“Go on then,” she said briskly, “ask away. I’ll answer whatever you want to know. Can’t have you thinking I’ll murder you.”

You pressed your lips together. She was angry, you could tell, but you didn’t think it was at you. You hoped you were right.

“I don’t...think that, Agatha.” you replied tentatively, “I just-- was wondering. If that’s all true then why am I still here? Aren’t you bored of me, or something?”

A twinge of something shot through her expression. You could see the gears turning in her head, the silent frustration of choosing to either be cold and risk hurting your feelings or be honest and risk saying something disgustingly sweet. It made you want to smile.

“I couldn’t get bored of you.” she said, a little flatly, “because for one you seem to genuinely enjoy my company, which is... odd, and…” she took a breath, not meeting your eyes, “and for another, you’re…” she paused again.

Words weren’t coming to her, which was rare because Agatha usually had a quip for everyone, you included.

“You’re not like them, pet.” she finally said, studying your face. “You’re not like them because I… you know things about me, things I never told them, any of them. And the things I teach you, they aren’t what I taught anyone else.”

That made you pause, and think.

“What do you mean?”

She chuckled, a kind of frustrated laugh.

“You think I show everyone how to break out of a binding rune? You think I told them about spells from the Darkhold? Or how to ward your bedroom for better sleep? Your think too highly of me, darling.”

Her words sent a flow of reassurance washing over you, and made you want to go and hug her. You didn’t. You just sat there, watching her, trying to think of what it was that you did that made her trust you like this.

“That's really sweet.” you murmured.

She made a face, like tasting something bitter.

“Ugh. Don’t start. See this is why I avoid feelings, you just get all mushy and-- adorable. It’s annoying.”

You giggled. She shot you a glare. You smiled.

“Are you gonna tell your familiar why you bought a slab of stone? With my money?” you grinned at her, leaning over to look at her frowning expression.

“Come onnn.” you whined at her continued silence, “You used me to get it, I deserve to know.”

She shook her head, and instead got up and reached beneath her coat that stood flung over the dresser, fishing out a glittery something from a thin paper bag before tossing it at you.

You caught it, inches from your face, and opened your hands to see what it was.

“I was gonna give it to you at home,” she said, shaking her head, “but if it’ll shut you up now…”

It was a blue charm, a piece of glittering crystal, one you were looking at earlier while waiting for her. You smiled. Then you went over and hugged her, saying thank yous. She stiffened and groaned and pretended to be put upon before embracing you back with exaggerated dramatics.

After she sat back down you went over to the window, looking outside. The sky was really dark with no streetlamps you were so used to, and the convention was reduced to a field of tiny glowing specs, warm lanterns that illuminated the now closed stalls and stands.

“I didn’t know you could be sentimental.” you said, smiling.

“I can do a lot of things you don’t know about.” she said, smirking.

You turned. “Like what?”

She waved a hand. “Oh, nothing. Just your usual witchy nonsense. Levitation, transmutation, mind control, take your pick.”

You looked at her curiously, fiddling with the charm. “You can read minds?”

She shook her head. “Not quite. That’s more Wanda’s style of expertise.” There was a bitter note in her tone whenever she mentioned Wanda, not that it was hard to miss, seeing as she had a habit of spitting on her empty property every time you happened to pass it back in Westview.

“But you just said mind control. Isn’t that, like, a given?”

“Yes and no.” she said, appraising you carefully. “Think of it like writing a book. Picking it up and reading the pages, that’s taking a peek into someone’s thoughts. When you’re controlling someone you become the author. You decide what gets written down, you control the narrative.”

You paused in thought. This was a side of Agatha you didn’t get to see quite as often.

Sure, she taught you magic, showed you how to do spells that were a bit tricky or controversial, but you hadn’t even scratched the surface of what she could do with her magic. Sometimes you thought she thought it would scare you, knowing what she could make happen, but after tonight, and that witch’s words still vaguely ringing in your head, you wanted to prove those claims wrong.

“But Billy- at the road. That last trial, you did something. You helped him.”

Agatha scoffed, shaking her head. “I didn’t help, I just gave him a nudge in the right direction. He’s as hopeless as you.”

“So you can read minds. Kind of. If someone lets you.”

She nodded.

You circled the dresser and went over to her, quiet and careful, slightly tentative now. “Can you- could you show me?”

She stopped. Looked up. Arched one perfect eyebrow.

“Show you.”

You nodded.

She blinked, looking at you with narrowed eyes like you had just offered her something very suspicious she was sure would end up being a trap. Then she tilted her head, just slightly, and said

“Fine.”

Your eyes widened. You weren’t expecting her to agree, and so quickly at that, too. You weren’t scared. But the prospect of having Agatha Harkness in your head was one that some people, some witches, the one downstairs definitely included, would find downright terrifying.

“Well?” You startled at Agatha’s sharp voice. “Did you change your mind already?”

You quickly shook your head, making your way over to her. “No, no. I’m okay. What do I do?”

She patted the bed, once, turning to sit with one leg over the other so that she was facing you.

“Sit down.”

You did.

In front of her, close, so close you could see each strand of wavy hair that had fallen in front of her eyes. You stayed still, looking up at her as she moved her hands, slowly, so slowly, up towards your head.

You tried to remember what this was like with her and Billy, but he seemed in pain, and upset, and she hadn’t exactly sounded very comforting then. You could only hope she would be different with you.

As if sensing your apprehension, her fingers paused, and instead of going to your temples they brushed your hair back from your face.

“Relax.” she breathed, and you felt some tension in your spine unwind at the softness of her tone.

Her hands found the sides your head, barely touching, barely there.

“Relax…” she said again, and you took a breath, trying to match your breathing to hers. She was looking right at you, making you feel vulnerable and exposed from such a short distance.

“Close your eyes.” she murmured.

You did. Slowly, you let your eyes fall closed, felt the darkness envelop you, let yourself sink into it. It was odd, you thought, how severing one sense could make you feel the others more strongly-- you could feel the room around, could feel Agatha sitting in front of you, the warmth of the air, dry with summer heat, damp from the open window’s gentle night breeze. The bed covers felt soft beneath your legs, your hands folded in your lap, Agatha’s still on your head.

And then--

Purple.

A hazy, tingly burst of it, like a tiny light flickering in the darkness, weaving in and out of in front of you so suddenly that you startled. You wanted to blink but that would mean opening your eyes. You stared at the light.

It was floating, moving around you, and that didn’t make any sense because you weren’t standing you were sitting, but the light had moved so you moved too, you took a step and went towards it, went after it, you reached out a hand, fingers outstretched, and the light…

Snapped you on the wrist.

You jumped, even though the impact was barely there, a faintest whisper of a touch. You tried to pull your hand back but the strand of light got there first, looping gently around your hand, pulling you forwards. You followed, because it was warm and light and unlike anything you had ever touched before, and then-

Hi.

You jumped again. Agatha chuckled, in front of you, you could hear, but you could also somehow feel that she chuckled inside your head.

“How…” you started, but the words were unnecessary and died in your throat, because as you were saying them you could feel their meaning as well, and you knew that she could too.

It was the most peculiar feeling you’d ever felt, and you weren’t even sure if it was real, but Agatha was there, somehow, beside you, in real life and inside your mind, and you smiled at her and she smiled back. Her smile was more of a satisfied grin, but that wasn’t surprising.

What now? you asked her.

Now? she shrugged, You wanted me to read your mind. Think of something. All I can see here is… she thought around, your antsy excitement over the fact that I’m talking to you in your head. Yes, I know, you can hear me. Yes, you can still hear me, this is unsettling now, please stop thinking aloud.

You tried your best to stop any unwanted thoughts from flowing through the forefront of your mind, which you realized now was very hard. You weren’t sure what she’d do if she somehow got to your ‘I wish Agatha would hug me more often’ moments, or ‘what if I wake up tomorrow and she decides I’m a failure’ moments, or the several nights you so vividly remember crying into your pillow about your favorite witch, favorite person, favorite Agatha- being dead. You let her startle you a third time by saying

No, I don’t quite think you’re a failure ...yet.

You hadn’t meant for her to see or hear or know that, so you quickly tried to think of something, anything else, and your mind fell on a random day in Westview, during the Hex.

You were at her house, the same one you lived in now, but you didn’t know her so well then, now like this. You’d been sitting at the table in her kitchen, listening to her ramble about neighbors and gossip from three doors down in that cheerful tone while making you tea. She served it in a polka-dotted mug, white and blue, set a plate of biscuits in front of your and smiled softly at you. It wasn’t anything special per se, nothing unusual happened that day, well, overlooking the fact you had tea at a witch’s house while simultaneously being trapped in another witch’s fake sitcom reality. But something about Agatha from then had stuck with you. The way she made you tea, listened while you spoke, looked at you, really looked at you, it made you feel seen.

Of course you came to know later that she was only looking and listening so well because she was trying to figure out what was going on with Wanda, but something about her attention, that almost care, even if it was fake at the time, it had gotten to you. And now she knew.

You tried to step back, only to remember you couldn’t because this was all happening inside your head. Agatha luckily got the gist, and pulled away.

There was darkness then, so suddenly, just dark and black and nothing, just the inside of your own mind, and you felt a sense of regret thrumming though you, wishing she’d stayed a little longer, because the warmth that was there somehow went away along with her, leaving you cold and alone in the dark. When you felt her hands leave your head, still so gently, you slowly opened your eyes, embarrassment settling in your chest.

What had you achieved?

You let a witch into your head and showed her how much you longed for her attention, that you thought of her as family, and that you selfishly had the audacity to feel insecure if even though you were, quite literally, her only student. You were just thinking it good that she wasn’t there to hear these afterthought parts of your thinking, when she smiled.

“What?” you murmured.

“Nothing." she said, shaking her head. "It’s funny.”

“What is?”

“The inside of your head. It’s so…” she made a face, “You’d think it was just sunshine and rainbows with all that hope you always keep in your eyes.”

You didn’t say anything.

“Do you trust me?” she asked suddenly.

You nodded. Slowly, then more firmly.

“Yes.”

“Good.” she murmured, “Because I’m going to tell you something I’ll probably regret. Ugh.”

She raised one hand, let it hover for a moment as if to cup your cheek, but then thought better of it, and wrapped her arms around you instead. It was a little awkward, with the small distance between you, so you scooted closer, slightly dazed.

“You asked me if I taught other people before you.” you felt her talking against your hair, “Witches know who I am, pet. Some of them wanted power, some of them were after fame. A story to tell others after they got what they wanted. But none of them were as good as you.” you stayed still, not daring to move and break the moment.

“You know, every day I watch you follow me around and listen and I think one day she’s going to come to her senses and run. She’s smart, she’ll realize how- how dangerous I really am.” her voice wavered, just slightly. You’d never heard her talk like that before.

“But you never do. Every day, I get up and you’re still here, waiting for me to teach you new spells and new magic and those silly charms you love so much.”

She smiled, chuckled, but her laugh sounded closer to a sob. “I don’t say this often enough because I always hope you somehow already know, but you mean a lot to me. And I-- I want you to know, I need you to know, pet, I’d never hurt you. Ever. Not for anything. And I- I don’t want you- to be scared.”

You swallowed. Your heart was doing odd things in your chest because did that actually just happen? Was it possible that you were spending your days worrying about Agatha dismissing you and she was doing the same about you leaving her, being scared of her?

“I-” you didn’t know what to say. “I don’t- I’m not.” you made out, “I’m not scared of you. Don’t think that. I don’t think I could be- even if you...if you tried.”

That was a shaky truth. She was very good at being scary when she wanted to be. But for you, somehow, that never meant fear. It always meant safety.

“Your mind is a beautiful place, darling.” she said softly, surprising you again. Her fingers brushed against your temple, and you felt that same warmth brush the edge of your mind, not probing, not pushing, just there. “Keep it safe. Please.”

You nodded.

“And don’t let anyone take that good from you. Not even me.”

You nodded again.

You didn’t think words would do justice to what you were feeling, surprise, confusion, gratitude, relief, but you knew that she knew. That she understood.

With one final brush against your mind she pulled away, both there and literally, and you weakly allowed her to sit back across from you, as if the last ten minutes had never even happened.

You stared at her.

She didn’t say anything.

Then she cleared her throat, and with a sharp look told you, “Stop doubting yourself, pet. Now get off my bed, you’re hogging the blanket.”

That night, you stayed awake a little longer than usual, glancing at the blue charm she’d gotten you and thinking of where you could put it, then at Agatha herself, still reading on her bed like she wasn’t spilling her worries of scaring you away mere hours earlier.

You knew the odds of her mentioning your conversation were small, much less even acknowledging what was said, but when you woke in the morning and followed her downstairs for breakfast, she stopped you when you tried to get up to get more coffee.

“I’ll get it.” she said, already standing up from her seat.

You watched her go inside, getting back to your food and wondering what was taking so long when something clattered to the floor, glass breaking. You turned but couldn’t see anything, now getting increasingly worried despite the fact that Agatha could more than hold her own against a few other witches.

You listened again, fork halfway to your mouth.

Nothing.

Still nothing. You’d just taken another bite of your food, almost cold now, when someone stumbled over to you, heaving.

It was the witch from last night.

Her hair was messy as if she’d been running, and her pupils were blown wide.

“I apologize.” she said, slightly breathless. “Last night, what I said, it was out of line, and—”

she glanced back inside just briefly as if checking for conformation and got none, but went on anyway, “It was-- it was rude of me, s-so rude, and I apologize, I’m so sorry.”

You stared at her, perplexed and biting back a smile that was threatening to eascape. You could count on Agatha to have your back too, it seemed.

“You’re sorry?” you said, tilting your head with an innocently curious tone.

She nodded frantically.

“Well in that case, I suppose I can forgive you.” you said with a small sigh.

The witch didn’t try to shake your hand. She didn’t say anything else, just turned tail and ran, actually ran, out towards the convention and its halfway open shops and tents.

Agatha came back a second later, strolling with her hands full.

She set a glass of water in front of you. Then your steaming coffee. Then she plopped a whole ice bucket next to her plate and fished one cube out to drop into her orange juice.

When she sat back down across from you, leaning back in her chair with a smug smirk, you asked her what happened.

“Oh nothing.” she replied, shaking her head and tossing back her hair, “Just had a little chat with the witch who works here. Nothing you should worry your little head about. Now eat. Your food's getting cold.”

You smiled and took a sip of your coffee, and then snorted into your mug, because Agatha told you to order whatever else you wanted— it was on the house.

A/n: hiiiii y'all. so this took forever to write. it ended up being so long i debated posting it as two parts but i wasn't sure where to split it so there you have it. softie agatha is my favorite... I was thinking of doing the next part of IWNMTT next, but also are there like, familiar!reader fics? but platonic? i feel like it would go agatha thinking she has a pet project and then agatha being far too motherly. idek. I went through every idea possible for inspo lol. If anyone would read that let me know, and send ideas y'all, what do you want agatha to do next. Title is from Afraid by The Neighbourhood. Also if anyone has any playlists or songs they think match agatha lmk. I love y'all and thank you for reading, as always, have a wonderful dayyy!! <33

Taglist 💜 @milflovers4 @senhorita-girassol @dandelions4us @kaymariesworld @ahintofchaos @atlasimagines @eyalovesherbed

#agatha all along #agatha harkness #marvel #agatha harkness x reader #agnes of westview #marvel cinematic universe #mentor agatha harkness #reader insert

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seokminfilm · 2 days ago

Text

i wanna try / vernon chwe

⭐ pairing vernon chwe x reader warnings non-idol au, fluff, very short, confession (?? they say 'i love you' for the first time but are alr dating), newly est. relationship, boyfriend vernon, kissing, face touching, pet names: vern (vernon), two (shy) idiots in love summary the first time you said "i love you" to vernon. lyr's notes double upload (help me it's 2am rn)!! missing my vernon era terribly atm its lowkey so sickening 💔anyways here's a tiny fic to try to mend my broken heart and sad vernon-less spirit LMAO now playing beanie / chezile word count 347 written for @kstrucknet

the night sky is clear as you and vernon sit on a bench, staring up at the starlit sky with a comfortable quietness between the two of you. in the month that you and vernon have been together, moments like this were often, moments where you and him would just bask in each other's presence without mumbling a word.

"you know, i'm so glad i met someone who thinks looking at the night sky is fun." you break the silence first, and vernon nods, spreading his legs just a little bit as he pushes his beanie further down on his head.

"people who don't think looking at the night sky is fun are boring people." vernon says simply, and you laugh, allowing yourself to lean your head on vernon's shoulder. you feel him go still for a moment, as if trying to rehearses what he's supposed to do. it's cute, seeing him so shy.

vernon lets his hand fall open, silently pleading for you to take it. you do as he wants, intertwining your fingers with his as he bounces your joined hands on his knee.

"what are you thinking about?" you ask softly. vernon just shrugs, shaking his head as he speaks again.

"i'm not very good at voicing my thoughts, but you...you make me want to try and get better at it." vernon says without warning, and your cheeks flare up as you let your eyes meet his. he looks at you with all the seriousness in the world, lips twitching with the ghost of a smile as he kisses the top of your forehead.

"vern, i...i love you." your heart says it before your head can think, and your eyes widen as your heart drops to your toes. vernon freezes mid-blink, the tips of his ears warming to a light red.

"i love you too. i always have." vernon tells you, gathering enough courage to bring his thumb to your lip as he strokes it softly. you grin under him, letting your eyes flutter shut as he meets you halfway, kissing your smiling lips.

125 notes · View notes

bingbongsupremacy · 2 days ago

Note

Hey can you do a Bucky Barnes/ Winter Soldier x female reader. Where maybe they’re on their way back on the jet from a mission with the rest of the Avengers. Something has been off with Bucky who’s been doing nothing but stare at the reader the whole time so the reader finally has enough and makes it her mission to make funny faces back at him meeting his dead stare. Internally Bucky is like what the fuck, but either Tony/Steve/Clint looks over and sniggers asking the reader what they’re doing. And reader shrugs and responds, “What? If he’s gonna stare at me the whole damn trip, I’m going to make it my mission to either make him laugh or he finally gets over himself and tells me what he wants!”

His Stare

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader (Plus Size Friendly)

Warning: Y/N use

Summary: Bucky won't stop staring. You decide to give him something to look at.

A/N: Hope this is okay and you like it! Thanks for requesting!

*Not Proofread*

No description of reader's weight/body type, race, or gender.

You and Bucky weren't very close.

It's not like you didn't like the guy; he was handsome and kind, and you knew he'd been working hard to make up for his past. You admired that, his determination. It's just neither of you had really spent time together. Of course, you both had each other's backs; you were teammates after all. You fought together and saved each other's asses multiple times. It's just, he had his friends on the team. You had yours.

That's why it was when you noticed he was staring at you on the jet ride back to the compound, you had no idea what to think.

You tried to ignore it in the beginning, thinking he's just zoned out. It became exceedingly harder too when his 'zone out' moment began to hit the 5-minute marker.

That's when you decide to do something about it. Instead of confronting him loudly in front of the rest of your teammates, you decide to handle it in the most discreet, silent, and mature way you can: you start to make silly faces.

You turn your head to face the gaze you feel burning into your skin. Bucky's slightly slouched against his seat, his handsome face stoic and lips pressed together. His arms rest casually folded across his chest, moving up and down slightly with every breath. A few strands of dark brown hair lie fallen across his forehead. What grabs your attention the most are his dark eyes, which are trained on you. It's not a mean glare or even intimidating. It's soft, possibly curious.

Bucky's seated on the other side of the plane, multiple people in between the two of you. But they don't add a buffer to his gaze.

You lock your eyes with his, ensuring he understands that what you're about to do is meant for him.

Then you briefly squeeze your eyes shut, sticking your tongue out at the man. When you open your eyes again, you notice he's still looking at you, his expression unmoved.

You decide that you're going to continue to make silly faces until he cracks. Or he explains whatever the hell is up with his staring problem.

You once again lock eyes with the man, this time maintaining his gaze while scrunching your nose, tucking your jaw into your neck, and sending him a silly smile.

This time, you see the corner of his lips briefly pull up into the ghost of a smile.

It's working

You pull a few more funny faces, trying your hardest not to make yourself laugh.

You're in the middle of crossing your eyes and sticking out your tongue when you hear a snicker from across from you, immediately distracting you from your mission.

Your eyes focus on the clearly amused face of Clint.

"Y/N...what are you doing?" He asks.

You let out a small laugh. "Barnes has been staring at me from the moment we sat down. I don't know why, so I decided to give him something to look at." You respond, shrugging your shoulders. "I'm gonna keep making faces until he either laughs or gets over himself and tells me what he wants."

"Uh-huh." Clint chuckles again. "Have you considered...I don't know...going over and talking to him, maybe?"

"Nah." You grin. "I'm on a mission."

Natasha pulls Clint's attention away, leaving you to finish what you started.

You turn your attention back to Bucky. You double down on your efforts, determined even more than before to get some sort of reaction from the man.

You suck your cheeks in to make a fish face, slightly opening and closing your pursed lips in the process. Along with the expression, you softly move your head from side to side.

You break into a wide grin when you see Bucky finally crack. His lips curl up into a wide smile, his pearly white teeth peaking through. You faintly hear his chuckle, drawing a laugh from you.

For the first time, Bucky breaks your gaze, glancing down at the ground and shaking his head in amusement.

Mission Successful.

-----

"B!" You call over to the man, rushing to catch up with the older man.

He slightly slows, allowing you to match his pace. "Y/N." He responds softly.

"Look, I know I look like a fucking mess. I got my ass handed to me a few times today." You joke slightly. "But I didn't think it was bad enough for someone to stare. Is there a booger or something I missed on my face?"

Bucky lets out a small sigh, stopping in place. He hesitates slightly and you can tell he's a bit unsure. He turns to you, his gaze meeting yours. "I've been talking to Steve lately." He begins. "He's been telling me I need to take the time to learn more about the things that interest me. That it'll help me distract myself when bad memories pop up."

You feel your cheeks heat up. "You think I'm interesting?"

He grins slightly. "Yeah, doll, I do."

"You know, Buck," You begin. "if you want to know more about me, you don't have to try to read my mind. You can just ask. I don't bite."

"I guess you're right. I'm not a very good mindreader." He admits, with a sigh.

"I guess you'd better stick with your day job then, huh?" You tease.

His grin widens. "You might be right." He agrees. "I think I need to try this over. Will you go grab some coffee with me sometime?"

You feel a grin break across your face. "I'd love that."

Maybe you and Bucky could be more than just teammates. Maybe you could be friends. Maybe something more.

126 notes · View notes

throttleheart · 2 days ago

Text

⸻ ⸻ ⸻

More than words

Pairing: Lando Norris x Oscar Piastri

Genre: Crack treated seriously, fluff

Word Count: 3.2k

Summary: Lando and Oscar love each other, so therefore, it’s everyone’s problem.

⸻

McLaren hospitality is quiet. Not empty—never empty on race weekends—but quiet in the way only a post-race Sunday evening can be. The sharp edges of adrenaline have worn down into something soft and languid, a gentle hum beneath the surface instead of a roar.

Oscar sits on one end of the sleek white leather couch tucked near the far wall, where the lighting is warmer and the air feels less sharp. His legs are stretched out in front of him, race boots long since peeled off. Next to him, curled up with his head in Oscar’s lap and half a fleece draped over his torso, is Lando. Dead to the world.

His curls are a mess—flattened on one side, fluffed on the other, caught somewhere between race sweat and shower damp. His mouth is parted slightly, cheeks flushed with the warmth of sleep and the Miami air. He looks peaceful, more boy than driver.

Oscar’s hand moves idly through Lando’s hair, gentle, absent-minded. Fingers curl and uncurl, threading through strands, brushing lightly against his scalp. It’s not deliberate, not for show. It’s just what he does—what he’s always done, when Lando lets himself rest like this.

A voice whispers, barely above a breath.

“Could frame that and call it modern art.”

Oscar glances up.

Ava, McLaren’s social media manager, stands a few steps away with her camera half-raised, one brow arched. She’s ditched her team vest for a soft hoodie, takeaway cup of iced tea on the table next to her, phone in hand.

Oscar gives her a look—half amused, half resigned. “Please don’t.”

She holds up her free hand. “I swear, I won’t post anything recognisable. Just… that.”

She nods toward his hand in Lando’s hair.

Oscar blinks, then glances down. His fingers are still tangled gently in the brown curls, thumb brushing slow arcs across Lando’s temple. It does look… strangely tender. Almost cinematic.

Ava lifts the camera again, quietly. No full-body shot, no faces. Just the cropped-in frame: Oscar’s hand, Lando’s curls, the texture of the fleece and the soft white leather beneath them. Intimacy without context.

Click.

She looks at the preview, then at Oscar again. “It’s not even romantic unless someone already knows.” She says as she shows the phone to the driver.

“People know,” Oscar murmurs, rubbing his thumb once more across Lando’s scalp.

Ava smirks. “Then consider this a soft confirmation.”

“You’re lucky he’s asleep.”

“Oh, I know. He’s the feisty one,” she teases, already walking off, camera swinging against her side.

Oscar huffs a soft laugh and goes back to combing gently through the curls in his lap.

⸻

In the media team’s group chat:

[Ava – Social]:

got a banger

promise it’s subtle

just… look at this

[Image attached: Oscar’s hand resting in Lando’s hair. Soft lighting. No faces. Just quiet, unmistakable affection.]

[Graphic Design]:

i’m crying and they’re not even my boyfriends

[PR]:

hard launch or soft? 👀

[Ava]:

stealth mode no names, no faces just vibes

[Comms Lead]:

run it at midnight with “Miami cooldown.” trust me.

⸻

Later, after the sun’s gone down and most of the crew has left for dinner, Lando stirs. He blinks sleepily, frowning at the soft lighting and the quiet buzz of far-off conversations. He doesn’t lift his head yet—just hums and tilts it further into the warmth beneath him, nosing Oscar’s clothed stomach.

“You’re awake,” Oscar says softly.

“Kind of,” Lando mumbles. “What time is it?”

“Late.”

“Did I miss debrief?”

“You did.”

“…Oops?”

Oscar smiles faintly, fingertips brushing through his curls again, slower now. “You looked like you needed it.”

Lando shifts slightly and, with a groggy groan, slides his hand over to rest on Oscar’s knee. “You always do that. With my hair.”

“Don’t like it?”

“Didn’t say that,” Lando murmurs, mouth twitching up at the corners. “Feels nice.”

Oscar doesn’t reply. He doesn’t need to.

After a moment, Lando cracks one eye open. “Did you let Ava take a picture?”

Oscar snorts. “She didn’t get your face.”

“Still.”

“You were asleep. What was I supposed to do? Swat her away with one hand while the other played stylist?”

Lando mutters something unintelligible and presses his face deeper into Oscar’s thigh, clearly not planning to move anytime soon.

“I’ll take that as a ‘forgiven’,” Oscar says dryly.

“I want final approval next time,” Lando grumbles.

Oscar smirks. “Sure. I’ll run it by you before I touch your hair again.”

“You better.”

Oscar leans his head back against the couch, fingers still moving in lazy loops through Lando’s curls. “You’re so high-maintenance.”

“You love it,” Lando says, eyes closed, voice nearly inaudible.

Oscar doesn’t respond. He doesn’t have to. He just presses a smile to Lando’s lips. They don’t mention the way the door opened and slammed shut in a second or the fact that Lando came out of the room wearing his team tee backwards, they simply don’t need to.

⸻

@/mclaren

Slide 1: Gloved hands on a steering wheel.

Slide 2: A mechanic wiping sweat from his brow.

Slide 3: A close-up photo. Oscar’s hand in a mop of soft, brown curls. A scrap of McLaren fleece. The white couch in the background.

Caption: “Miami cooldown 🧡”

⸻

Tumblr, 12:04 AM:

OH. OH THIS??? THIS IS A WAR CRIME

do you see the way his hand is just there in the HAIR??

they didn’t even show their faces but I KNOW

Lando’s curls and Oscar’s calm-ass fingers. I’m going to cry

idc what anyone says this is a SOFT LAUNCH and I’m eating it UP

⸻

Lando scrolls through his phone while nursing a protein shake. Across from him, Oscar smirks into his cereal.

“You’ve been quiet,” Oscar says, not looking up.

Lando flashes his screen. “We’re trending in… Brazil. Again.”

Oscar shrugs. “I blame Ava.”

“She just posted your hand.”

“It’s a nice hand,” Oscar deadpans.

Lando stares, then laughs, surprised by the honesty of it. “Okay, calm down, Instagram model.”

Oscar leans forward slightly. “You really mad?”

“No,” Lando admits. He tucks one leg beneath him, leaning in until their knees touch. “I just… wasn’t expecting it.”

Oscar’s hand brushes his knee again—gentle, grounding. “I didn’t expect to care this much either.”

There’s a beat. Lando’s eyes soften.

“You like playing with my hair?”

Oscar nods. “Almost as much as you like pretending you don’t fall asleep on me on purpose.”

Lando smirks. “I don’t.”

Oscar just hums while nodding, unconvinced.

From the corner, Ava lifts her coffee and pretends not to watch them with the expression of someone already plotting the next “completely accidental” social media masterpiece.

⸻

Media Day is a special kind of punishment.

The Imola paddock is a humid blur of cameras, crew, and caffeine, and McLaren’s corner is already swarming with light rigs and branded backdrops. Lando fidgets in place, tugging at the collar of his team tee. Oscar is seated beside him, posture suspiciously relaxed, one ankle resting casually on his opposite knee.

“Stop squirming,” Oscar says without looking.

“I’m not squirming.”

“You’re vibrating like a phone on silent.”

Lando shoots him a glare. “Sorry, I don’t have your zen monk media face.”

Oscar glances sideways, a teasing glint in his eyes. “I don’t have a media face.”

“You absolutely do. It’s like… controlled serenity. You should teach a class.”

Oscar smirks. “Jealous?”

Lando snorts. “In your dreams.”

They don’t notice the boom mic being lowered toward them.

⸻

Ava, holding a clipboard and wearing the unmistakable look of someone trying to stop a forest fire with a bottle of Evian, mutters into her headset.

“Can someone tell audio NOT to go live until they’re officially rolling?”

“Already told them twice,” replies the sound tech. “They said it’s just background feed. Not even patched to press.”

“That’s what you said last time, and we almost had to delete a whole post because someone said ‘arse’ three times in thirty seconds.”

“That was Lando.”

“Exactly.”

⸻

Back on the couch, the mics clipped to the drivers’ shirts are technically muted. But the room isn’t soundproof, and boom mics are unforgiving.

Oscar leans closer.

“You nervous?” he murmurs, voice low and casual.

Lando shrugs, tapping his fingers against his thigh. “Nah. Just… itchy. Uncomfortable chair. Bad lighting.”

Oscar raises a brow. “Sure.”

Lando glances around. “It’s not like that.”

Oscar doesn’t push. Just smiles, small and amused. And then he says, like it’s nothing:

“You always get like this when you want to kiss me but can’t.”

Lando chokes.

“What—what the hell, Oscar?”

Oscar leans back in his chair, entirely composed. “What?”

“You can’t just say that!”

“I just did.”

Lando looks around frantically. “Mic check? Boom? Ava?? Hello?? One Two Three??”

Oscar taps his own mic with one knuckle. “Muted. Chill.”

Lando groans and buries his face in his hands. “You are going to be the death of me.”

Oscar leans in again, lowering his voice. “You love it.”

“I hate you.”

“Do you?”

Lando peeks through his fingers. “Not even a little. That’s the problem.”

⸻

In the control room a junior editor stares at the audio waveforms on the monitor.

“Uh…”

“What?”

“Did we just… catch something?”

A pause. Then static.

Ava appears behind them like a ghost. “Catch what?”

They rewind. Oscar’s voice comes through, crystal clear:

“You always get like this when you want to kiss me but can’t.”

Then Lando’s scandalized, “What the hell, Oscar?”

Ava pinches the bridge of her nose. “Oh, for fucks—”

⸻

The interview starts ten minutes later. The boys have regained their polished, McLaren-approved composure. They talk about tyre degradation and strategy confidence and team morale. Lando says the car feels “lively.” Oscar says “positive trajectory.”

But behind the scenes, a silent war wages.

Ava corners them the second the camera cuts.

“Don’t ever flirt on a hot mic again.”

Lando flushes. “We didn’t know it was hot!”

Oscar shrugs. “Technically, it wasn’t live.”

Ava glares. “Do you want to hand-deliver PR nightmares to the McLaren comms team? Because that’s how you hand-deliver PR nightmares to the McLaren comms team.”

Lando opens his mouth. Oscar cuts in smoothly: “It won’t happen again.”

Lando shoots him a look. “It might.”

Oscar smirks. “You’re right. It might.”

Ava groans, walks away muttering something about “subtlety” and “celibacy.”

⸻

Later, back in the drivers’ room, Lando sits on the couch, visibly still buzzing from the adrenaline spike. Oscar walks in, two waters in hand, tosses one over.

“Caught it,” Lando says, surprised.

“You always do,” Oscar replies, like that’s some kind of metaphor.

They sit in silence for a beat. Lando pulls his curls into a loose puff and stretches. Oscar watches.

“What?” Lando asks.

Oscar hesitates, then says quietly, “You looked scared for a second. When you thought the mic caught us.”

Lando looks away. “I wasn’t scared. I was… surprised.”

Oscar nods, slow and thoughtful. “We don’t have to hide forever, you know.”

“I know,” Lando says. He leans in, until their shoulders touch. “Just… a little longer.”

Oscar smiles. “As long as you want.”

Lando reaches over and tangles his hand in Oscar’s. “Thanks.”

Oscar squeezes once. “Still wanna kiss me?”

Lando groans. “God, shut up.”

Oscar only laughs.

(They do kiss.)

⸻

TikTok, uploaded two days later by a fan account:

🎥 “McLaren boys during mic test”

[Video clip from behind the scenes. No audio, but Oscar leans over and says something that makes Lando nearly fall off his chair.]

🎶 Kiss Me Thru The Phone – Soulja Boy

Caption: What did he SAY 😭😭😭

Comments:

i swear to god these two are about to accidentally come out mid-season

lando’s blush is visible this far 😭

oscar said ✨bold✨

⸻

By the time breakfast rolls around the next morning, Lando’s phone is blowing up. Group chats. Instagram DMs. A text from Charles that simply says: 🫢

⸻

Twitter, 17 minutes later:

@/f1softlaunches

📸: McLaren admin, you are NOT slick.

[Image: Oscar’s hand in Lando’s curls]

📝: Let us not forget what happened last week.

⸻

@/formulanando: NO BECAUSE THIS IS A COUCH FROM THE MCLAREN HOSPITALITY LOUNGE I KNOW THAT COUCH

@/oscarpiastritea: the hand placement. the trust. the intimacy. the silence. THE CURLS.

@/hotmicgate: the way oscar looked at him earlier this week. it’s happening. the era is upon us.

⸻

Oscar slides into the hospitality lounge wearing the most innocent expression on earth.

Lando’s got his head in his arms, face buried in a McLaren hoodie.

“I hate you,” he mutters.

Oscar sits next to him.

Lando peeks out. “You’re enjoying this.”

Oscar leans in. “A little.”

Lando glares. “I will smother you with a throw pillow.”

Oscar smiles sweetly. “But not before you let me keep doing this.”

And before Lando can protest, Oscar’s hand is back in his hair, pushing his head towards his, lips meeting — soft, grounding, and just the tiniest bit smug.

⸻

@/oscarpiastri

📷 Carousel

1. Lando laughing in the garage.

2. A blurry night skyline.

3. A close-up of Lando’s helmet.

4. The back of Lando’s head on a white couch — same photo Ava posted, but less cropped. Same hand. Same touch.]

📝: “all good things take time.”

⸻

Top Comment:

@/landonorris: 🧡

⸻

@/landonorris

📷 Carousel

1. Oscar on the motorhome balcony, hoodie up, eyes closed, head tipped into the breeze.

2. A candid of their matching sneakers lined up outside the trailer door.

3. Oscar fast asleep on the McLaren couch, one hand curled over a Monster can, the other tucked under his cheek.

4. A blurry mirror selfie — two shadows. One in a hoodie, one in socks, both unidentifiable.

5. Close-up: Oscar’s wrist and a tangle of Lando’s curls. Mid-play. Gentle. Deliberate. (Ava’s second photo, this time definitely not cropped.)

📝: “you posted yours. mine now.”

⸻

It goes up at 1:23 p.m. local time — not that anyone’s watching the clock. Or at least, not until they refresh their feed and see that last photo.

Within minutes, the F1 corner of the internet is in collective cardiac arrest.

⸻

Twitter, naturally:

@/landoscar#1truther: I definitely won’t look too much into the caption ahaha definitely not ! I’m not THAT crazy yet

@/girlsontrack: me: i wonder what it would be like to be loved gently

lando & oscar: this

@/mclarensocials: hi yes this is ava. yes i signed off on this. yes i’m fine. yes i’m crying.

@/landoscarupdates: the symmetry. the mutual posting. the fingers in curls.

we are so back.

@/fernandoalonso44: this is why i don’t go online anymore

⸻

In the motorhome lounge, Oscar walks in to find Lando sitting cross-legged on the couch, phone in hand, barely suppressing a grin.

“You posted it?” Oscar asks, suspicious.

Lando doesn’t look up. “Maybe.”

“Which one?”

Lando just holds up the screen. “The one with your hand.”

Oscar sighs — fondly, not annoyed. “You really just… posted it.”

“You posted first.”

“I didn’t think you’d retaliate with a gallery.”

“You started it.”

“You picked the one where my thumb is literally in your hair.”

“Exactly.” Lando tosses his phone aside. “You’ve been soft-launching me with your fingers all season. I figured it was time I fought back.”

Oscar sits down beside him, deadpan. “You’re unbelievable.”

“You love it.”

Oscar doesn’t argue. He just leans in, gently rests his hand back on Lando’s head — fingers sliding through familiar curls, almost out of habit now. Comfortable. Casual. Like breathing.

“Yeah,” he says, like it’s obvious. “I do.”

⸻

Top Comment:

@/oscarpiastri: 😐

@/landonorris (replying): 😜

⸻

Second Top Comment:

@/danielricciardo: finally

⸻

Scene: Post-Race Press Conference, Round 16 – Monza Grand Prix 2025

The McLaren boys have just finished P2 and P3. Lando’s still got his race suit half-zipped, curls damp from the cooldown room. Oscar’s sipping from a Monster bottle, clearly trying to avoid eye contact with anyone who isn’t Lando, Charles or his PR rep.

They’ve been seated beside each other, flanked by Charles Leclerc (P1, ferrari please let me have this), and there’s a definite shift in the room.

The social media posts had dropped hours ago — and while neither driver has confirmed anything, it doesn’t take a detective to put two and two together. Not when Lando keeps looking at Oscar like that, and Oscar keeps subtly shifting his hand behind Lando’s seat like he forgot there are cameras.

A reporter clears her throat. “This one’s for Lando and Oscar—”

Both drivers tense, visibly.

“—Congratulations on the double podium. How’s the atmosphere in the team right now? There’s been… a lot of chemistry, especially between you two. Fans are definitely noticing.”

Oscar coughs. Lando smiles, entirely too knowingly.

“It’s good,” Oscar says quickly. “Positive. Productive. We’re working well together.”

Lando leans forward, elbow on the mic. “He means to say, I carry the vibes. He just brings the data.”

Oscar elbows him. The table mic catches it — the dull thud of playful contact — followed by a muttered “Shut up, Norris.”

Which, unfortunately, also gets caught on the hot mic.

There’s a beat of stunned silence.

Charles is hiding a grin behind his bottle. The PR manager, sitting just off-camera, audibly exhales. Ava, from McLaren’s media team, is openly texting under the desk. She’s probably already drafting captions.

Lando doesn’t recover gracefully. “Anyway,” he says, face flushed, “we’re good. Best atmosphere I’ve had in a long time, honestly. Everyone’s working flat out and—”

Oscar interrupts, voice low. “You’re rambling.”

“You elbowed me!”

“It was justified.”

Another beat. Reporters are trying to stay professional. They’re failing.

A hand goes up from the back row.

“Yes, Jon?”

Jon — a veteran motorsport reporter and known agent of chaos — adjusts his glasses. “Lando, about your Instagram post—”

Oscar’s head immediately drops into his hand. Lando looks like he’s fighting a smile with every muscle in his face.

“—Was that a strategic PR move? Or something more… personal?”

There’s a pause. A long one. Oscar peeks out from behind his hand, like maybe if he looks pitiful enough, Jon will retract the question. He doesn’t.

Lando shrugs. “I thought it was a nice photo.”

“That’s all?”

“Can’t a guy post a cute photo of his teammate touching his hair?”

Charles chokes on his drink, laughing.

Oscar, still pink, mutters, “You’re the worst.”

“I’m honest,” Lando says brightly. “And I like your hands.”

There’s a collective gasp — or maybe that’s just everyone realizing the hot mic is definitely still on.

Oscar turns toward him, eyes wide. “Lando.”

“What? It’s true.”

The moderator’s voice finally cuts through the chaos. “Okay! Let’s… keep the questions racing-related.”

The room sighs — a mixture of amusement, secondhand embarrassment, and collective psychic fatigue.

The rest of the press conference limps on. Lando avoids eye contact with anyone but Oscar. Oscar fidgets with the label on his bottle like it owes him money. By the time it wraps up, Charles is texting someone furiously, probably already sharing a quote in the Ferrari group chat.

⸻

Back in the hallway—

“You said you like my hands,” Oscar says, as they head toward the paddock.

“You started it. With the curl post.”

“You didn’t have to announce it to international media.”

Lando stops walking. “Didn’t I, though?”

Oscar sighs again — that soft, frustrated kind of sigh that Lando’s started filing under affection. And then Oscar reaches up and, without a word, pushes his fingers through Lando’s curls again.

Just once. Gentle. Quick. Familiar.

“You’re insufferable,” he says.

“You like it.”

Oscar doesn’t argue.

⸻ ⸻ ⸻

69 notes · View notes

mingiatz · 3 days ago

Text

Y/N thinks Kang Yeosang is cold and arrogant. He’s actually just shy—and secretly been crushing on her for years. A group project, late-night study sessions, and a little chaos from his friends slowly pull them closer.

Pairing: Kang Yeosang (ATEEZ) × Female Reader (Y/N)

Trope(s): Slow Burn, Academic Rivals-to-Lovers, Found Family

Genre: College AU, Romance, Fluff, Light Angst, Comedy

Featuring: All ATEEZ members as Yeosang’s friends + Y/N’s best friend

Masterlist

Part 1 | Part 2

"Okay,” Y/N said, hands on her hips. “Tonight is the night.”

Yeosang stared at her like she had just declared war.

“You’re going to practice the presentation,” she continued, “in front of a real audience.”

Yeosang blinked. “I thought you meant… you.”

“I am the audience. But also—” she opened the door to the living room dramatically “—so are they.”

On the couch: Wooyoung, San, Yunho, Mingi, Jongho, Seonghwa, Hongjoong, and Y/N’s best friend.

All of them holding snacks. All of them looking way too excited.

“Oh no,” Yeosang whispered.

“Oh yes,” Wooyoung grinned. “Present for us, Yeosang. Show us the magic.”

“This is not a safe environment,” Yeosang muttered.

“Don’t be shy,” Mingi said. “Well, you can be a little shy. That’s kind of your thing.”

Y/N nudged Yeosang toward the front of the room. “Come on. You’ve got this. Think of it like exposure therapy—except with snacks.”

“I hate this.”

“You’ll be fine.”

He inhaled deeply, opened the laptop, and clicked to the first slide.

Then stood there.

Silent.

Blank stare. Slightly trembling hands.

And a visible blush creeping up his neck.

Y/N could practically feel him short-circuiting.

She stepped up beside him and lightly touched his forearm. “Hey,” she whispered, “you’re okay.”

He turned to look at her—

—and immediately turned red.

Like, full-blown, tomato in a hoodie red.

Wooyoung made a noise like he was choking on popcorn.

“I’m going to combust,” Yeosang said under his breath.

“You’ve got this,” Y/N said gently, smiling at him. “Start with the thesis. Just like we practiced.”

He nodded once—tiny, panicked—and started reading the first slide. His voice was quiet, a little shaky, but it came out.

“Today, we’ll be presenting a comparative analysis of how…”

From the couch, Yunho gave him two big thumbs up.

Jongho leaned over to Hongjoong. “He’s talking. This is progress.”

Y/N’s best friend leaned over to Wooyoung and stage-whispered, “He’s sweating.”

“He’s in love,” Wooyoung whispered back.

Yeosang made it to the second slide before his hands started shaking again.

Y/N stepped in and read the bullet points aloud with him, her shoulder brushing his.

When she glanced over, he was trying very hard to look anywhere but directly at her.

“Almost done,” she murmured.

“I think I’m dying.”

“Nope. Still breathing.”

“I’m not meant to do this in front of people.”

“You’re doing great,” she said softly.

He looked at her. Really looked.

And for a moment, the entire room seemed to fade.

Until—

“Woooo!” Mingi cheered. “That was not terrible!”

“Yeosang didn’t pass out!” San added.

“I give it an 8.5 for content and a 12 for blushing,” Wooyoung said.

Yeosang slowly closed the laptop.

Then sat down.

Then buried his face in his hands.

Y/N laughed and sat next to him, gently patting his back. “You survived.”

“I need to go into hiding.”

“I’m proud of you.”

He peeked at her through his fingers. “Really?”

She smiled. “Really.”

•───────•°•❀•°•───────•

Later that night, after the snacks had been eaten and the chaos had moved on to a heated Mario Kart tournament (and Wooyoung had been dramatically defeated by Y/N’s best friend, much to everyone’s delight), Yeosang offered to walk Y/N home.

It wasn’t a long walk. The moon was out, and the air was crisp.

They didn’t talk much at first.

Then: “Thanks,” he said quietly.

She glanced at him. “For what?”

“For making me do that. Even though it sucked.”

She smiled. “You didn’t suck. You did great.”

“I couldn’t have done it without you.”

“Sure you could’ve.”

He shook his head. “You… make it easier. Talking. Being around people. I don’t feel like I have to perform.”

Y/N’s heart did a weird little flutter.

She stuffed her hands in her coat pockets. “Well… good. I’m glad.”

They stopped at her dorm entrance.

Yeosang looked at her like he wanted to say something else—but didn’t.

So she said it for him.

“I’m really glad we got partnered for this project.”

He blinked. “You hated me at first.”

“Yeah,” she said. “I was wrong.”

He smiled.

It was small.

But real.

And suddenly, she didn’t feel confused anymore.

She just felt… warm.

Y/N had never felt this prepared for a presentation before.

She was calm, focused, confident.

But mostly?

She was watching Yeosang.

Because even though his grip on the cue cards was a little tight and he kept shifting his weight from one foot to the other, he wasn’t panicking. He wasn’t retreating. He was right beside her, standing tall, mouth set in quiet determination.

And when it was his turn to speak?

He did.

His voice was soft—but clear. Steady. Every line they’d practiced came out just right, and when his eyes flicked to hers, she gave the smallest nod.

And he kept going.

It wasn’t flashy. It wasn’t loud.

But it was Yeosang. Thoughtful. Direct. Present.

By the time they reached the conclusion slide, the professor looked genuinely impressed.

When it was over, Y/N smiled and closed the laptop. “Thank you,” she said to the class. “We’ll take any questions now.“

No one raised their hand.

A few students even clapped softly.

Which was basically a standing ovation in their department.

They left the classroom in a stunned kind of silence.

Then Y/N turned to him, wide-eyed. “We nailed that.”

Yeosang let out a breath like he hadn’t realized he’d been holding it. “We did.”

“You didn’t even stutter!”

He gave a tiny, sheepish smile. “I blacked out a little.”

She laughed—and then, without thinking, threw her arms around him.

“You did so good,” she said against his shoulder. “I’m so proud of you.”

For a split second, she panicked. Maybe that was too much. Maybe she’d just overwhelmed him—

And then his arms came around her.

Gentle. Steady. Careful like he thought she might disappear.

She froze for half a second.

Then melted.

Yeosang was warm.

And soft.

And smelled like clean laundry and something faintly sweet.

And—most dangerously of all—he held her like he meant it.

They stayed like that for longer than was strictly necessary.

Until finally, slowly, she leaned back.

But his arms didn’t drop immediately.

And her hands didn’t either.

And when they looked at each other—really looked—everything else went quiet.

Y/N’s heart was beating too fast.

Her stomach flipped like it had been waiting for this.

And suddenly, she wasn’t confused anymore.

She knew.

She liked him.

And it wasn’t a maybe. It wasn’t a crush.

It was… real.

Something in his eyes shifted, too. Like he was on the verge of saying something.

And that’s exactly when it happened.

“Yeosang!”

Two girls from their department walked up—giggling, hair flipped, eyes bright.

“You were amazing in there,” one of them said, stepping way too close.

“Seriously,” the other added. “You should present more often. It was, like, really impressive.”

Yeosang took a step back instinctively, one hand awkwardly dropping to his side.

Y/N blinked, the warm bubble between them immediately popped.

“Oh,” one of the girls said, just noticing her. “You’re his partner, right?”

“Right,” Y/N said flatly.

“Cool. Anyway—Yeosang, do you want to come to the study café later? We’re planning a group session. Could be fun.”

Y/N felt her jaw tighten.

Yeosang glanced at Y/N, hesitating. “I—uh—”

Y/N didn’t wait to hear the answer.

She stepped back, slinging her bag over her shoulder.

“Well,” she said, keeping her tone even. “Congrats again. I’ll see you later.”

She didn’t look back as she walked off.

But she didn’t miss the look on Yeosang’s face—caught between regret and something he didn’t have time to say.

•───────•°•❀•°•───────•

A week passed.

Seven days.

And Y/N still hadn’t stopped thinking about the way Yeosang held her.

It wasn’t just the hug. It was how he melted into it. How his arms didn’t fall right away. How warm he felt. How safe.

And how the moment broke when those girls walked over, all flirty smiles and sparkly lip gloss.

She’d told herself it didn’t bother her.

She was fine.

Except… she wasn’t.

Because for the past week, she’d been catching herself smiling at nothing.

She’d been replaying his laugh in her head, the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled.

She found herself staring at his name in their shared Google Doc like it might blink back at her.

And worst of all?

She missed him.

Even though their project was done. Even though they hadn’t officially made plans to see each other again. Even though she was pretty sure she’d said “I’ll see you later” like she wasn’t dying inside.

Her best friend noticed, obviously.

“So are you gonna tell him you’re in love, or should I just post it on the student bulletin board?”

“I’m not in love,” Y/N muttered, flopping face-first onto her dorm bed.

Her friend raised an eyebrow. “You’ve been weird all week.”

“I’m not weird. I’m emotionally compromised.”

“So… in love.”

“I hate you.”

“You’ve said that every time I’ve been right,” her friend said smugly.

Y/N groaned into her pillow.

That afternoon, she escaped to the library.

Not to see him. Not really.

She just needed to focus.

Except she couldn’t even focus on focusing, because two familiar voices drifted from the next table over.

“I’m still so bummed he said no,” one of the girls said with a pout. “He’s so dreamy when he talks. That presentation? Instant crush.”

“Same. I thought we had a chance,” the other one sighed. “But he turned us down so politely. Said he was busy and already had plans.”

Y/N’s eyes widened slightly.

She pretended to read the same paragraph three times.

Plans?

She smiled to herself without realizing.

And suddenly, she didn’t care what the plans were.

All she cared about was the quiet, warm satisfaction blooming in her chest.

She stayed in the library longer than planned.

Hours passed. Her coffee got cold. The sky outside turned dusky blue, then deep indigo.

By the time she packed her bag, the main lights were dimmed and most of the tables were empty.

Y/N blinked at her phone.

11:14 p.m.

Crap.

She hadn’t meant to stay that late.

Still… she didn’t want to bother anyone. It wasn’t that far. Just a ten-minute walk.

She pulled on her coat, tugged her bag higher on her shoulder, and stepped out into the night.

It was chilly, the kind of cold that slipped beneath your sleeves.

The streets were quiet—only the hum of faraway traffic and the occasional flicker of streetlights keeping her company.

She told herself she was fine.

It was fine.

Until the fourth time she thought she heard footsteps behind her.

And that tiny, anxious feeling began to creep in.

•───────•°•❀•°•───────•

The walk home was quiet at first.

Just cold air, her boots on damp pavement, and the echo of her own thoughts.

She shouldn’t have stayed so late. Should’ve asked her roommate to meet her. Should’ve taken the longer path through the dorms instead of the shortcut past the empty campus quad.

But she didn’t.

And now someone was walking behind her.

At first, she told herself it was a coincidence. Same direction. No big deal.

Until he sped up.

Until she could hear his breathing.

Until she stopped walking, and so did he.

Y/N’s heart kicked up in her chest.

She tightened her grip on her bag and kept moving, a little faster this time, ducking her head as fat raindrops started to fall.

Great. Perfect.

“Hey,” the guy called, footsteps quickening. “Wait up.”

She didn’t.

“Hey! You dropped something.”

She glanced back instinctively—and he was closer now. Too close. Early 20s. Hoodie up. Smile too wide.

“I didn’t drop anything,” she said quickly, turning away again.

“You sure?” he asked, catching up with her now, matching her pace. “I thought I saw something fall.”

“I’m fine. Thanks,” she said, voice clipped.

He reached for her arm.

She flinched.

“I just wanted to talk,” he said. “You’re pretty. What’s your name?”

“I don’t want to talk,” she said firmly, pulling her wrist away.

“Don’t be like that,” he said, stepping in front of her. “I’m just being nice. Give me your number, yeah?”

“No.”

“Come on—”

“I said no.”

She tried to move past him, but his hand caught her wrist again—tighter this time.

“I’m being polite. Don’t make this weird.”

Her breath hitched. The rain came down harder now, soaking her hair, her coat, everything. Her heart pounded like a warning siren.

“Let go of me,” she said, sharper now.

But he didn’t.

Not until—

“Let her go.”

The voice was quiet. But firm.

Deadly, even.

She looked up—and there he was.

Yeosang.

Soaked from head to toe, hood down, rain plastering his hair to his forehead. A plastic convenience store bag swinging from his wrist, forgotten.

His eyes were locked on the guy.

Cold. Sharp. Unmoving.

The guy let go of her like he’d been burned.

“I didn’t mean anything,” he muttered. “Just wanted to talk.”

“She said no.”

The guy scoffed, but took a step back. “Whatever, man. You don’t need to act like her bodyguard.“

Yeosang didn’t respond.

Just stood there. Still. Staring.

And somehow, that was enough.

The guy muttered something under his breath and finally walked away, disappearing into the rain.

Y/N stood there, frozen.

Drenched.

Shivering.

Yeosang stepped toward her.

“Are you okay?” he asked softly.

Her voice barely worked. “I—I think so.”

He didn’t touch her. Just stood close enough to block some of the rain with his body.

“You’re soaked,” he said, brows furrowing. “Come on.”

“Where—?”

“My dorm,” he said. “You need to get out of the rain.”

She wanted to say she was fine. That she could make it home.

But the adrenaline was still buzzing under her skin. Her wrist ached faintly. Her heart was still racing.

And Yeosang—quiet, gentle, solid—was looking at her like she was someone worth protecting.

So she nodded.

And followed him into the dark.

•───────•°•❀•°•───────•

Yeosang didn’t say much on the walk to the dorm.

Y/N was too cold, too wet, too stunned to speak either.

The rain hit hard and fast, plastering their clothes to their skin. Her shoes squelched with every step. Her fingers were frozen.

But Yeosang stayed close. Every time a car passed too close or a puddle splashed near her, he shifted—subtle, instinctive—like a barrier she didn’t know she needed.

By the time they reached the dorm, her legs felt numb.

He unlocked the door quietly and stepped inside, motioning for her to follow.

She barely got a foot through the door before—

“Yo, did you buy the spicy ramen or the normal one?” Wooyoung called from the kitchen.

“Please say spicy,” San added. “I need to feel alive.”

“I swear to god if you brought that off-brand crap again—” Jongho started.

Yeosang sighed quietly, kicking his shoes off.

“Oh my god, just admit you have a little crush and—”

“Shut up,” Yeosang said under his breath.

The guys went quiet for a beat.

Then Yunho peeked out from the kitchen and froze. “Uh… guys?”

Mingi followed. “What—oh, shit.”

In seconds, all seven of them were crowding the hallway.

Y/N stood there, dripping water on the floor, eyes wide and shell-shocked.

“What happened?” Seonghwa asked first, voice low and serious.

“Why is she soaking wet?” Hongjoong added.

“Did you fall in a fountain? Are you okay?” San asked, already moving to grab a towel.

“I’ll get blankets,” Yunho said instantly, rushing off.

“Wait, wait—what happened?” Wooyoung said, looking from her to Yeosang. “Why do you both look like you got chased by ghosts?”

And that’s when the adrenaline wore off.

Y/N opened her mouth—and it hit her.

Her wrist still ached. Her coat was heavy with rain. Her hair was stuck to her face.

But worse than all of that… her hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

“I—” she choked, voice cracking.

And then she was crying.

Like, full-on tears. Ugly, embarrassing, unstoppable tears.

They came without warning—fast, loud, real.

Yeosang’s eyes widened in panic.

“I—I was walking home and this guy—he followed me,” Y/N gasped, holding her wrist. “He grabbed me. I told him to stop, and he wouldn’t—he grabbed me and I couldn’t—”

“Hey, hey,” Seonghwa said immediately, stepping forward. “You’re safe now. You’re okay.”

Wooyoung was already tossing her a fresh towel. “What the hell? What guy?!”

“Where is he?” Jongho said sharply.

Yeosang didn’t say a word. His jaw was clenched so tightly it looked painful.

“I didn’t know what to do,” Y/N sobbed, wiping her face. “He wouldn’t stop. I thought—if Yeosang hadn’t been there—”

Yeosang finally spoke. “You’re safe now.”

His voice was calm. But cold.

Colder than any of them had ever heard it.

They got her into the bathroom with Seonghwa’s help. Hot water. Clean towels. A fresh hoodie and sweatpants from Yeosang’s room.

The house was uncharacteristically quiet by the time she came out—hair damp but clean, face puffy from crying, bundled in clothes two sizes too big.

She found them all in the living room.

Blankets. Hot tea. A pillow on the couch with her name on it.

Yeosang looked up when she entered.

Everyone else gave her space.

He didn’t.

He walked right up to her, gaze flicking to her wrist.

The second he saw the bruise forming beneath her sleeve, something shifted.

His expression didn’t change much.

But she saw it.

The tension in his jaw.

The way his hand closed into a fist for half a second.

He didn’t say anything.

Just walked away silently, returning a moment later with an ice pack wrapped in a towel.

He held it out without a word.

When she hesitated, he gently—so, so gently—took her hand, sat beside her, and settled the pack on her wrist himself.

Y/N blinked down at their hands.

He was so careful.

Like she was glass.

And when she looked up?

He was already looking at her.

And she blushed.

Hard.

Because he wasn’t saying anything dramatic. Wasn’t declaring vengeance or swearing to protect her forever.

He was just… there.

Present. Steady.

And suddenly, her heart didn’t feel so broken anymore.

•───────•°•❀•°•───────•

The spare room was warm, the hoodie Yeosang gave her soft and clean and comforting. The sheets smelled like fabric softener and something vaguely like cedarwood.

But she couldn’t sleep.

Every time she closed her eyes, her mind flashed back to the street.

To the stranger’s hand around her wrist.

To the words she said—I said no—and how little they had mattered.

She curled into herself tighter, tucking her knees up, gripping the blanket like it might anchor her back into the present.

She wasn’t cold anymore, not physically.

But she was still shaking.

And no matter how many times she told herself she was safe—inside, dry, surrounded by people she trusted—her heart refused to calm down.

After what felt like hours of tossing and turning, she sat up and looked at the door.

Her body moved before her brain fully caught up.

Barefoot and silent, she padded across the hallway and stopped in front of Yeosang’s door.

Her hand hovered for a second.

Then she knocked—softly. Barely a tap.

The kind of knock that said "I need you.”

•───────•°•❀•°•───────•

Yeosang couldn’t sleep either.

He laid on his side, staring at the ceiling, fists curled in his sheets, chest still tight with rage.

That guy.

That stranger.

The moment Yeosang saw him with his hand around her wrist, something in him snapped.

He wasn’t loud. He never had been.

But he didn’t need to be.

Because one look at her face—wide-eyed, rain-soaked, terrified—and all he could think was, get her away from him. Now.

And later, in the living room, when he saw the bruise—

God, he hadn’t even realized how tightly his jaw was clenched until his teeth ached.

She’d cried in front of all of them.

She never cried. Not like that.

She looked fragile. Not weak—never weak—but breakable.

And he hated that someone had made her feel like that.

Even now, all he wanted was to make it stop. To rewind time. To put himself between her and the world before it hurt her.

Because he didn’t just like her anymore.

He… felt something else. Bigger. Softer. More terrifying.

And then—knock knock.

He sat up immediately, heart jumping.

That knock wasn’t one of the guys.

He crossed the room and opened the door carefully.

And there she was.

Barefoot. Hair damp. Sleeves pulled over her hands. Looking smaller than usual. Sleep nowhere in her eyes.

“Hey,” she whispered.

“Hey,” he echoed, blinking. “Are you… okay?”

“I just—” she looked down. “I can’t sleep.”

He stepped aside instantly. “Come in.”

She hesitated for only a second. Then slipped past him and into the room.

He watched her, still stunned that she was here. That she’d come to him.

She didn’t look at him right away—just stood there awkwardly, hands clenching and unclenching the hem of the hoodie.

“Do you… want to stay in here?” he asked softly.

She nodded, eyes flicking to the bed.

“I can sleep on the floor,” he added quickly. “You can have the bed. It’s clean.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I want to.”

He was already moving, grabbing an extra pillow and a folded blanket from his shelf.

Y/N stood there for a moment longer, and then—just as he sat down on the floor beside his bed—she whispered, “Thank you.”

He looked up.

She was looking right at him now.

And she wasn’t shaking anymore.

•───────•°•❀•°•───────•

The room was dark, lit only by the soft glow of Yeosang’s desk lamp and the occasional flicker of headlights from the street outside.

Y/N sat on the edge of his bed, legs crossed, pulling the blanket tighter around her shoulders.

Yeosang was on the floor beside her, back against the wall, long legs stretched out, hair still damp from the rain earlier. He hadn’t changed out of his hoodie yet, and it looked too big on his already lanky frame.

Neither of them spoke at first.

It wasn’t awkward—just… quiet.

Like they were both waiting to see who would break the silence first.

Y/N did.

“Does it always feel like this?” she asked softly.

Yeosang looked up. “Like what?”

“After something scary happens. Like your body’s here, but your brain hasn’t caught up yet.”

He nodded slowly. “Yeah. It’s like… delayed fear.”

“Exactly,” she murmured. “I didn’t cry at first. I didn’t even feel scared. But now… I can’t stop thinking about it.”

His voice was quiet when he replied. “That’s normal.”

She looked down at her hands, wringing the fabric of the blanket. “I hate that he touched me. I hate that I froze. I didn’t know what to do.”

“You did everything right.”

“But I couldn’t stop him—”

“You didn’t need to,” he said firmly. “It wasn’t your job to fight him off. It was his job to listen. And he didn’t.”

Y/N’s throat tightened. She glanced at him, eyes stinging.

Yeosang didn’t look away.

“You were brave,” he said. “You still are.”

A beat of silence.

Then—“You were brave too.”

He looked almost embarrassed at that. “I didn’t do much.”

“You showed up,” she whispered. “That was everything.”

His gaze dropped to the floor. His ears turned red.

They lapsed into silence again, but this time it felt fuller—like something had been shared, something important and unspoken.

Y/N laid back slowly, her head sinking into the pillow, body finally beginning to relax. She pulled the blanket up to her chin and stared at the ceiling for a long moment.

Then, without turning, she said:

“You know… the bed’s big enough for two.”

Yeosang blinked.

His breath hitched ever so slightly. “You want me to…?”

“If you want to,” she said quietly. “It’s just… less weird than talking to the ceiling.”

Another pause.

Then, slowly—cautiously—he stood and climbed onto the bed.

He didn’t face her.

He laid down with his back to hers, keeping a careful distance, arms tucked to his chest like he didn’t quite know what to do with them.

Neither of them moved.

The only sound was the soft ticking of Yeosang’s old wall clock and the gentle exhale of their breathing.

After a minute, Y/N shifted just a little, and their backs brushed.

He froze.

She did too.

But neither of them moved away.

And like that—barely touching, breath shared, hearts loud in the quiet—they fell asleep.

•───────•°•❀•°•───────•

Warm.

That was the first thing Y/N noticed.

The second was weight—gentle, steady, wrapped around her like gravity had finally decided to be kind.

She blinked slowly, eyes adjusting to the early gray light filtering through Yeosang’s window.

She wasn’t alone.

She was tangled in something—someone.

Her cheek was pressed against something solid. Warm. Bare.

Something that rose and fell steadily beneath her.

Her eyes drifted downward, confusion blooming.

Her hand.

Under his shirt.

Resting flat against skin.

Firm, warm skin.

She felt—

Abs.

She felt Yeosang’s abs.

Y/N’s entire brain froze.

She tensed instinctively, but Yeosang shifted just then—pulling her slightly closer in his sleep.

His chin rested gently on top of her head. One of his arms was draped around her waist, the other loosely curled under the pillow they shared.

She hadn’t even realized they’d moved during the night.

She definitely hadn’t realized they were now spooning.

Full-body contact. Legs tangled. Skin-to-skin.

And he was warm. Really warm.

And—

Softly, she felt him stir.

He inhaled against her hair, his breath warm at her temple, and then—

Still half-asleep, his voice low and rough:

“Good morning.”

Y/N stiffened.

Yeosang stilled.

And in the silence that followed, you could feel the exact moment his brain caught up.

His entire body tensed.

She didn’t move.

Neither did he.

He was very aware of where her hand was.

She was very aware of… everything else.

And yet—

He didn’t pull away.

Didn’t shift or untangle or recoil like she expected.

He just exhaled a quiet, shaky breath and whispered again, “Good morning, Y/N.”

Her heart thundered.

She dared to look up at him.

His face was bright red. Eyes wide. But calm.

Soft.

He looked at her like she was something fragile and holy.

And still—he didn’t move.

Didn’t let go.

Just kept her in his arms like this was the most natural place for her to be.

And somehow, despite the flustered panic coursing through her veins—

She didn’t want to move either.

•───────•°•❀•°•───────•

“I think I accidentally felt his abs.”

Her best friend froze mid-spoonful of ramen.

“…You what?”

Y/N covered her face with both hands, groaning into the sleeve of her hoodie. “I woke up, and my hand was under his shirt. He didn’t even say anything—just said good morning and let me stay there.”

There was a long pause.

“Girl.”

“I know.”

“You. Felt. His. Abs.”

“I KNOW.”

Her best friend put down her spoon slowly, then folded her hands like this was a formal intervention. “Y/N. Please explain to me how this doesn’t mean he likes you back.”

Y/N threw herself backward onto the couch dramatically. “Because! He’s Yeosang. He’s quiet and polite and soft-spoken and smart and way out of my league.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And he didn’t pull away, but he also didn’t like… do anything either. Maybe he was just being nice.”

Her best friend stared.

“Stop looking at me like that,” Y/N muttered.

“No,” she said. “Because you’re being ridiculous.”

Y/N sat up again, cradling her tea. “I like him.”

“Well, yeah.”

“I really like him,” she repeated, softer this time. “Like, it’s not just a crush anymore. It’s worse. I like his voice. I like how he listens. I like that he reads the feedback on every paper we write. I like that he gets overwhelmed in big groups but never leaves anyone behind. I like how he brings snacks to the library even when he says he’s not hungry. I like him.”

Her best friend blinked. “…And the abs.”

Y/N groaned. “Yes, and the abs.”

She sighed, leaning her head on the back of the couch.

“I think I’m going to tell him.”

That made her friend pause.

“Seriously?”

Y/N nodded slowly. “Not because I think he likes me back. Just so I can… let it out. Get it off my chest. Move on.”

Her best friend gave her the most exasperated face she could muster. “You’re literally confessing like it’s a funeral.”

“I’m just being realistic!”

“You’re being dramatic.”

“I can’t keep feeling like this and pretending I’m okay when he sits next to me and smells like vanilla and safety.”

Her best friend snorted. “Vanilla and safety?”

“You know what I mean.”

There was a pause.

Then—

“Well,” her friend said, finishing the last of her ramen. “When you confess, just make sure you’re not standing near any sharp corners. Because if Yeosang turns red the way I know he will, and then tells you he likes you back, I want you conscious enough to enjoy it.”

Y/N stared at her.

“I’m just saying,” her friend continued. “He looked at you like you hung the damn moon. You’re the only one who doesn’t see it.”

Y/N’s heart pounded. “Do you really think so?”

“I know so.”

Y/N bit her lip.

“I’m gonna do it,” she whispered.

“Then I’ll be here with tissues and cake if you need them,” her best friend said with a grin. “But you won’t.”

“Because he’ll reject me gently?”

“Because he won’t reject you at all.”

•───────•°•❀•°•───────•

“I woke up,” Yeosang said, staring blankly into his mug, “and her hand was under my shirt.”

There was a beat of stunned silence.

“Bro.” Wooyoung gasped, slapping a hand over his mouth like he was personally offended. “YOU WOKE UP AND SHE WAS TOUCHING YOUR ABS?”

San choked on his cereal. “Did you say anything?”

“I said ‘good morning.’”

“You WHAT?!” Jongho yelped from the kitchen.

Yeosang sank lower into the couch.

“It was the first thing that came out,” he mumbled.

“Was she—like—touching-touching?” Mingi asked with wide eyes.

Yeosang’s ears turned violently red. “Her hand was… resting there.”

Seonghwa blinked slowly. “So she was basically cuddling you and copping a feel.”

“I don’t think it was on purpose—”

“Was she awake?” Yunho asked.

“I think so. Eventually.”

Wooyoung tossed a cushion dramatically into the air. “And you just stayed like that?! You didn’t combust?!”

Yeosang stared into his mug again. “I was… comfortable.”

The room exploded.

“I knew it!” Mingi shouted. “He’s in love.”

“He’s BEEN in love,” Hongjoong muttered, flipping through his notebook like this wasn’t groundbreaking.

“I’m not—”

“You let her sleep on your chest like a damn K-Drama lead,” Jongho said, pointing. “You’re in love.”

Yeosang didn’t argue.

He didn’t have to.

Because the truth was—he was.

He hadn’t meant for it to happen. But somewhere between awkward library sessions, midnight ramen runs, watching her fuss over color-coded slides, and that terrifying moment in the rain—

It hit him.

She wasn’t just a crush anymore.

She was a feeling.

A presence.

Someone he wanted to protect. Someone he wanted to see smile. Someone whose voice made his heart speed up in the weirdest, softest way.

And now?

Now he was ruined.

“I think she’s going to forget me,” he said suddenly.

Everyone paused.

“What?” Seonghwa said gently.

Yeosang blinked slowly. “The project’s over. We don’t have an excuse to hang out anymore.”

“That’s why you make one,” San said, clapping him on the back. “Ask her out.”

“I can’t just—ask her out.”

“Why not?” Yunho asked.

“She probably doesn’t feel the same.”

“She fell asleep on your chest, hand on your abs, and didn’t scream.” Wooyoung pointed out. “That’s a pretty solid indicator.”

Yeosang sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just… don’t want to scare her off.”

“She came to you when she was scared,” Jongho said softly. “That means something.”

There was a quiet pause.

Then Yeosang said it—barely a whisper.

“I really like her.”

Silence.

Then chaos.

Mingi whooped. Yunho flung his arms in the air. Wooyoung collapsed onto the floor like it was the most romantic thing he’d ever heard.

“Finally,” Hongjoong muttered with a smirk. “Now do something about it before she thinks you don’t like her.”

Yeosang blinked.

Wait.

Was that possible?

Was it possible that she didn’t know?

That she couldn’t see it every time he smiled at her?

Every time he panicked over saying the right thing?

Every time he stood quietly next to her because the only alternative was staring at her too long?

Maybe she didn’t know.

But maybe she would.

Soon.

•───────•°•❀•°•───────•

It started as a normal day.

Well—normal by “I’m hopelessly in love with my former project partner” standards.

Y/N had asked Yeosang to meet up at the student café. Just a casual “we haven’t talked in a while” message that took her three hours to write and rewrite.

He said yes within two minutes.

She got there early.

Too early.

By the time Yeosang arrived, she was already on her second tea and nervously picking apart a muffin.

And of course—of course—he looked ridiculously good. Oversized hoodie, hair soft and slightly messy, a shy smile that nearly knocked her out.

“Hey,” he said, sliding into the seat across from her.

“Hey,” she echoed, trying not to combust.

They talked. About classes, campus rumors, a professor who’d mispronounced someone’s name as “Chandelier.” It was easy.

Until it wasn’t.

Two girls from the literature department passed by their table.

They paused.

Smiled.

“Hey, Yeosang,” one of them said sweetly, twirling a strand of hair. “Are you coming to the group poetry night tomorrow? We’re reading tragic love poems. You’d fit perfectly.”

The other one giggled. “We saved you a seat.”

Y/N glanced at him out of the corner of her eye.

He smiled politely. “Thanks, but I don’t think I’ll make it.”

“Aw,” they pouted. “Too bad.”

They left with one last lingering look.

Y/N stabbed a piece of muffin with unnecessary force.

“Are you okay?” Yeosang asked, turning to her gently.

She looked up, caught.

“What? Yeah. Fine.”

“You seem… quiet.”

“I’m always like this.”

He tilted his head slightly. “Not really.”

And that’s when she cracked.

“I just—” she burst, voice lower than usual but sharp with frustration. “It’s like… you’re so nice. To everyone. And people flirt with you constantly and you’re so polite about it that they never stop. And maybe it’s not a big deal to you, but I—I care.”

Yeosang blinked, stunned. “Y/N—”

“I like you, okay?” she said suddenly, words spilling out. “I like you. And I’ve liked you for a while now. And I wasn’t going to say anything because I thought maybe it would go away, or maybe I’d stop thinking about your dumb shy smiles or how you smell like clean laundry all the time, or how you always stand a little closer when I’m tired like you can tell—”

She paused, heart pounding.

Yeosang hadn’t moved.

Hadn’t said a word.

He was just… staring.

And her heart sank.

“Oh,” she said, voice small. “Okay. It’s fine. You don’t—”

“No—” he blurted suddenly, eyes wide. “Wait, no. I’m just—processing.”

Y/N stood up. “You don’t have to say anything. I just—needed to say it.”

“Y/N—”

“I’ll go. It’s fine. I’ll be fine.”

And then she turned and walked away before she could cry in public.

Yeosang sat frozen in his chair.

Staring at the empty space where she had been.

She liked him.

And he’d let her walk away.

•───────•°•❀•°•───────•

“Y/N!”

Her name rang out louder than she’d ever heard it.

Y/N didn’t stop.

She couldn’t.

Her face was burning, her heart felt like it might shatter right through her ribcage, and she just—couldn’t stand there and watch him pity her.

So she kept walking. Fast. Past the other café tables, past a few students turning their heads, past her own spiraling heartbeat—

“Y/N, wait!”

Footsteps.

Fast ones.

Then—

A hand caught her shoulder.

Not rough.

But firm.

And then the other hand, on her opposite shoulder.

She turned instinctively, startled, ready to snap or run or crumble—

But stopped cold.

Yeosang stood right in front of her, breathing hard.

And for the first time since she met him—

He wasn’t calm.

His hair was a little windblown. His eyes wide and urgent. His voice, when he spoke, cracked just slightly.

“Just—listen. Please.”

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat.

People were watching.

A few tables over, someone had stopped mid-bite.

But Yeosang didn’t care.

His hands stayed right there on her shoulders, gentle but grounding.

“I didn’t say anything because I couldn’t believe it,” he said, eyes locked on hers. “Because I thought—there’s no way she’d like me back.”

Y/N blinked, frozen.

Yeosang swallowed hard.

“I’ve had a crush on you since freshman year.”

The world tilted.

“I sat behind you in that intro literature seminar,” he continued, voice softer now but still breathless. “You wore that oversized hoodie and had notes in different colors, and I thought—I’ve never seen anyone concentrate so hard in my life. And then you made that joke about Shakespeare being overrated, and I laughed for like ten minutes. Quietly. Internally.”

Y/N’s lips parted, stunned.

“I never talked to you,” he said, voice dropping. “Because I didn’t know how. Because every time I tried, I got so nervous I couldn’t form a sentence. You made me nervous.”

She blinked rapidly. “Yeosang—”

“I’m sorry I didn’t stop you sooner,” he said. “I’m sorry I stood there like a statue instead of saying everything I’ve wanted to say for years. But I’m saying it now. I like you. I’ve liked you since before we ever spoke. I like your weird movie rants and your angry typing and your laugh when you don’t care who’s listening. I like you.”

Her eyes filled with tears. “You… really mean that?”

He nodded. “I do.”

Silence stretched between them.

Around them, the chatter had quieted. A few people had definitely heard. Someone near the espresso machine was visibly eavesdropping.

But Y/N didn’t care anymore.

Because Yeosang was in front of her.

Heart open.

Hands warm on her shoulders.

And nothing else mattered.

She stepped closer, barely a breath between them now.

“Say it again?” she asked, a whisper.

“I like you.”

She smiled, tears slipping down her cheeks.

“I like you too,” she whispered back. “Even when you’re a statue.”

He let out a breathy laugh, full of disbelief—and then, slowly, carefully, pulled her into his arms.

And this time?

Neither of them pulled away.

•───────•°•❀•°•───────•

Yeosang didn’t let go.

Not when her arms slipped around his waist.

Not when her forehead pressed against his shoulder.

Not even when they both noticed the awkward silence around them.

Someone coughed loudly from a nearby table.

A girl whispered, “Did you see that? Oh my God.”

Another person muttered something about calling dibs on writing a campus confessions post about it.

Yeosang slowly pulled back, eyes flicking up—then immediately down, cheeks flushing pink.

Y/N peeked around his shoulder.

At least four people were staring.

“I—um,” she stammered, eyes wide. “Maybe we should… go.”

Yeosang nodded, already reaching for her hand. “Yeah. Come on.”

They walked quickly, barely speaking, too overwhelmed to say anything coherent.

Y/N’s hand stayed tucked in his the whole way.

His palm was warm.

Steady.

When they got to the dorm, the house was empty—blessedly, finally quiet.

The guys were all out: some in class, some gaming elsewhere, one probably asleep in the library.

Yeosang opened the door and let her in first.

No chaos. No teasing.

Just… peace.

He kicked off his shoes and led her up the stairs to his room without a word, their hands still tangled.

When the door shut behind them, she turned slowly, still catching her breath.

Yeosang stood near his desk, fidgeting with the hem of his sleeve.

His hair was slightly messy, and his cheeks still held a soft flush.

It was quiet.

Safe.

“Hey,” Y/N said softly.

He looked up.

“I’m still kind of reeling,” she admitted with a shy smile. “You—you really meant all of it?”

He nodded. “Every word.”

She sat on the edge of his bed. “I didn’t know you were into dramatic public declarations.”

“I wasn’t,” he said honestly. “But… you were walking away. And I panicked.”

Her chest squeezed. “I almost didn’t tell you at all.”

“Why did you?”

She swallowed. “Because I liked you too much not to. And I thought maybe… if I said it, I could finally move on.”

He stepped closer, something soft and searching in his gaze. “Do you still want to?”

“Move on?” she asked.

He nodded.

She shook her head.

Slowly.

“No,” she whispered. “I just want to move closer.”

She stood up.

They were barely a foot apart now.

She reached for his hand—slowly, deliberately—and watched as he laced their fingers together.

“Can I…” she whispered. “Can I kiss you?”

Yeosang didn’t answer right away.

He just stared at her like she was something sacred.

Then, finally—quietly—he nodded.

She leaned in.

Their noses brushed. Her hand slid up to his shoulder, his to her waist. And for a second, they just breathed the same air, hearts pounding between them.

And then—finally—

She kissed him.

Softly.

Gently.

With every slow, aching beat of the past few weeks blooming between their lips.

Yeosang kissed her back like he’d been waiting years.

And maybe he had.

At first, the kiss was soft.

Like they were afraid to break it.

But then Yeosang’s hand slid up her back.

And everything shifted.

His fingers found the nape of her neck, gentle but grounding, as his mouth pressed firmer against hers — less hesitant now, more sure, like something inside him had finally snapped free.

Y/N’s breath caught.

She wasn’t prepared for this. For him like this.

Because Yeosang — who was always quiet, always composed, always lingering just outside the center of attention — was kissing her like he meant it.

Like he’d imagined it.

Like he’d waited years to feel this.

His other hand slid to her waist, pulling her closer, their bodies now chest to chest. She let out a soft noise against his mouth, and he kissed her again — deeper this time, more urgent, like the room had gone silent and she was the only thing left in the world.

She gripped the front of his hoodie, heart hammering, knees slightly weak. Her other hand found his jaw — sharp, warm, real — and the feel of him under her fingertips made her dizzy.

They moved in sync, one kiss blurring into the next.

Everything else faded — the dorm, the walls, the time, her nerves — all of it.

Gone.

Just Yeosang.

Just the warmth of his lips and the way he tilted his head and exhaled so softly when she tugged him closer.

And then—

“BROOOO—”

The door slammed open.

“—GUYS. You will not BELIEVE the—OH MY GOD WHAT THE—”

Y/N yelped and broke the kiss instantly, stumbling a step back.

Yeosang’s hands shot to her arms, steadying her, eyes wide, lips very kissed.

In the doorway stood Wooyoung.

Behind him? Mingi. Then San. Then Yunho, already starting to wheeze-laugh.

They all froze.

No one said a word.

Then—

“ARE YOU SERIOUS?” Wooyoung shouted gleefully. “I LEAVE FOR TWO HOURS AND THIS HAPPENS?”

Yeosang, completely red-faced, cleared his throat and muttered, “Can you… get out?”

“You made out!” San said, dramatically clutching his chest. “Our boy made OUT.”

“I told you!” Mingi pointed at Yunho. “I TOLD YOU he’d be freaky in private!”

Y/N covered her face with both hands, mortified.

Yeosang looked like he wanted to melt into the floor.

“I swear to god,” he muttered, “if one of you breathes wrong, I’m locking this door for eternity.”

Wooyoung saluted. “Carry on, Romeo.”

Then the door slammed shut again.

Silence.

Then Y/N, still blushing, peeked at Yeosang.

“…They’re never going to let us live that down, are they?”

He sighed.

Then smiled.

“No. But I don’t care.”

She blinked.

He stepped forward again, voice softer now.

“I’ve wanted to kiss you like that for so long.”

Her heart jumped. “Really?”

He nodded, gaze never leaving hers. “And… I’d kind of like to keep going. If you want.”

She laughed — breathless, flushed, floating.

“Yeah,” she whispered. “I really want.”

•───────•°•❀•°•───────•

The next morning, Y/N walked into the café with a spring in her step and dread in her soul.

Because her best friend was already waiting at their usual table — grinning.

And she knew.

“Morning,” Y/N said innocently, setting her bag down.

Her best friend took one look at her, sipped her coffee like it was tea in a courtroom drama, and said:

“So. You and Abs Boy?”

Y/N choked on air. “Wh—what?!”

“Don’t you what me,” she said, pointing a perfectly painted nail. “Wooyoung already posted about it in the group chat. Something about walking in on a ‘PG-13 Yeosang experience.’”

“I—He—We—It wasn’t like—!”

Her best friend arched a brow.

Y/N gave up and dropped her face into her hands. “We kissed, okay?”

“I know.” She smirked. “So. Was it good?”

Y/N groaned.

“Oh my god it was good.”

“AHA!”

“I hate you.”

“No, you love me,” her best friend said sweetly. “Now. Spill.”

Y/N peeked up from her fingers. “He kissed me like he forgot what air was.”

Her best friend clutched her chest. “I knew shy boys had it in them!”

Y/N was still blushing so hard her ears hurt. “And then the others walked in.”

“WHAT.”

“It was chaos.”

“I miss everything,” she hissed dramatically. “I need a full reenactment.”

Before Y/N could bury herself in embarrassment any further, her phone buzzed.

Yeosang

“Heading to campus. Want to meet after class?”

Her heart jumped.

She tried to type something normal. She failed. She typed “yes” with three exclamation marks, deleted it, retyped it with one, then deleted that and sent a simple:

“Yeah, I’d love to.”

•───────•°•❀•°•───────•

Yeosang was not prepared for what walking into the dorm kitchen would be like the next morning.

The second he stepped into the room:

A chorus of wolf whistles.

“Ohhh, look who’s alive!” San called. “Barely survived the night, huh?”

“Was it romantic?” Mingi asked with fake curiosity. “Did you quote poetry?”

“Did you even breathe between kisses?” Wooyoung added, waving his cereal spoon.

Yeosang grabbed a banana and ignored them.

“Bro,” Yunho said, grinning. “You’re glowing.”

“Glowing?” Seonghwa repeated, arms crossed. “He floated down the stairs.”

Yeosang just sighed and peeled his banana.

“Are you gonna tell us how it happened?” Jongho asked, sipping his tea.

“No.”

“So she made the first move?” Wooyoung guessed.

“She asked if she could kiss me,” Yeosang mumbled.

Cue absolute uproar.

“She WHAT?!”

“That’s hot.”

“I’m jealous.”

“I told you she liked you!”

Yeosang rubbed the back of his neck and, despite himself, smiled.

“She kissed me,” he said again. “And it felt… right.”

The room quieted for a moment.

Then San clutched a hand to his heart. “Our Yeosang is in love.”

Yeosang didn’t deny it.

Because honestly?

He was.

•───────•°•❀•°•───────•

The group hangout was Yunho’s idea.

Which meant chaos was guaranteed.

He claimed it would be “a chill little gathering” at the dorm with “just snacks and a few games.” Naturally, this translated to three boxes of pizza, mismatched playlists, and half of ATEEZ already arguing over Mario Kart when Y/N and her best friend arrived.

“Welcome to the zoo,” Y/N whispered as they stepped inside.

Her best friend’s eyes immediately locked on Wooyoung, who grinned and pointed. “You. Still ignoring my charm?”

She smirked. “What charm?”

The room howled.

Mingi clutched his chest. “Bro, she’s gonna ruin you.”

“Ruin me gently, please,” Wooyoung said dramatically, earning a pillow to the face.

Meanwhile, Yeosang had come down from his room at the first sound of Y/N’s voice.

He wasn’t glowing exactly, but he might as well have been.

He made his way to her slowly, quietly, like always — but when she turned and smiled at him, the room blurred.

“Hey,” he said softly.

“Hey,” she echoed, stepping into his arms like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And this time?

No nerves.

No second-guessing.

Just warmth.

Her best friend gave her a subtle thumbs-up across the room. Y/N tried not to grin too hard.

The rest of the evening was a blur of snacks, teasing, and way too many stories being told at Yeosang’s expense.

“He used to turn bright red if you asked him his favorite movie,” Seonghwa said, mid-game.

“He once wrote Y/N’s name on his notebook and then panicked and tore the page out,” Jongho added proudly.

Yeosang buried his face in Y/N’s shoulder. “Why did I agree to this.”

“Because,” she whispered, smiling, “you like me.”

He peeked up at her. “I really do.”

Later, when the games wound down and people started sprawling out across the dorm in various stages of post-pizza coma, Y/N and Yeosang found themselves back in his room.

Just the two of them again.

She sat cross-legged on his bed, fingers playing with the edge of his hoodie.

“I never thought this would happen,” she admitted quietly.

“What? Us?”

She nodded. “I thought you didn’t even notice me.”

He leaned forward, hand finding hers. “I noticed everything.”

She looked up, breath catching.

He smiled. “The way you drink tea like it’s serious business. How you hum when you’re reading. That tiny crease in your eyebrow when you’re confused.”

Y/N’s heart fluttered.

Yeosang squeezed her hand. “You used to feel so far away. Like something I wasn’t brave enough to reach for.”

“And now?”

“And now,” he said, leaning closer, “you’re here.”

She kissed him — soft, slow, content.

No rush. No panic.

Just them.

Weeks later, a new semester started.

People still whispered when they walked across campus together — the quiet top student and the girl who used to complain about him nonstop.

But now?

She held his hand.

He kissed her forehead before class.

And when they passed the café where everything changed, she smiled and said, “Still think I was imagining it?”

He shook his head. “Not even for a second.”

Because the thing about Yeosang and Y/N?

They took a while.

But the best things always do.

Masterlist

Part 1 | Part 2

#8 makes 1 team #ateez #ateez fanfic #atzblogging #ateez fanfiction #ateez fic #fanfction ateez #ateez x y/n #ateez x reader #yeosang fanfic #kang yeosang #ateez yeosang #yeosang ateez #yeosang

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seokmn · 2 days ago

Text

︵⠀AFTERLIFE ⠀◌Ⳋ ✧ ── "till death do us part" is not enough for woonhak when it comes to you.

pairing: woonhak x gn!reader wc: 0.6k words warnings: mention of death, reader kinda ruins the moment

ᯓ★ “for me, it’s still you and me”

The walk home was filled with love and laughter – the laughter Woonhak has grown to love and now can’t have a good day if he doesn’t hear it at least once.

Your boyfriend held your hand tightly, even if his hand was a little sweaty from all the effort he put into the basketball game earlier. Although you were against the idea of holding his sweaty hand, you had to give in due to his tantrum and how he kept saying that you didn’t love him anymore and how you were disgusted by his existence just because you didn’t want to hold hands.

From afar, an elderly couple caught Woonhak’s attention, and with a soft smile on his face he leaned down and whispered in your ear. “Do you see that couple?”

“Yeah,” you looked up at him. “What about them?”

“Do you think we’re going to be just like them in the future?”

The question caught you off guard, but if you said your heart didn’t melt you’d be lying.

You hummed as you imagined you and Woonhak growing old together and living a quiet, yet lovely life. The way he would still always make sure that you’d get the drink that you liked more, even if it’s his drink; how he would bring you a new book from the library every week when he decides to go on a walk; how you would see younger couples and talk about the good old days when you two were younger, in love and felt like you could rule the world together.

“I kinda see it.” You nodded.

“I think it’s going to be amazing, I can’t wait to grow old with you. I think you’re going to look so cute with wrinkles.” Woonhak pinched your cheek and chuckled.

“I mean, if I don’t die before that happens.”

Woonhak let go of your hand abruptly and stopped in his tracks, a frown growing on his face. “Ya!” He yelled, startling you and making you look around the street, looking embarrassed as you bowed with an awkward smile to the people who were passing by and looked confused at the boy. “Why would you say such a thing?! It’s not like you’re dying or something like that! I’ll live until you’re 117!”

“Don’t yell, we’re in the middle of the street! And until I’m 117?” You laughed. “That’s too much!”

“But it’s going to happen because I’m making sure you’re really healthy! None of us will die so soon, we’ll grow old together and we’ll die in our sleep holding hands!” He tried to lower his voice, but it kept growing louder as he spoke. “And when we die, we’re going to become a couple of ghosts in love and we’ll be very happy in the afterlife!”

You kept laughing at his mad yet heartwarming words, and even if you tried to resist, your hands found their way to his cheeks as you pressed your lips against his, hoping that would make him stop yelling and pouting.

“You’re right, babe. I’m sorry, okay? I’m going to live until I’m 117,” you held back a chuckle as you said that. “And we’re going to die in our sleep while holding hands. Now, can you please stop with the pouting?”

“Only if you kiss me again…” He mumbled and looked away, his pout growing even more. You rolled your eyes and smiled before pressing your lips against his again.

Woonhak’s hands rested on your waist as he smiled against your lips. Once you pulled back, he was grinning and his cheeks were flushed.

“Better now?”

“Better now.” He nodded and took your hand before walking along with you again.

“Do you think that in the afterlife I’ll have to deal with your sweaty hands?”

“Why do I feel like you want to pick a fight?”

You laughed and rested your head against his upper arm. “I’m joking, I’m joking… I’ll get used to it until then.”

taglist ! @tkooooop 𖹭.ᐟ enjoyed the fic? join my taglist to know whenever i'll post another one! have a great day ;)

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siachaos · 1 day ago

Text

🎧 now playing: "Devil’s Advocate" – The Neighbourhood

“WHAT YOU DESERVE"

✦ pairing: g!p karina (aespa) × fem!reader

✦ genre: obsessive lovers, red flag romance, toxic domination, punishment kink

WARNINGS:

g!p karina ✶ toxic manipulative dynamic ✶ dubcon undertones ✶ bondage (scarf + ankle restraint) ✶ belt spanking ✶ orgasm denial ✶ overstimulation ✶ rough sex ✶ degradation (slut, princess) ✶ possessive jealousy ✶ emotional manipulation ✶ public humiliation ✶ fear kink ✶ degradation kink

SUMMARY:

Karina says you can go to the party—after interrogating you first. You try to breathe, to laugh, to exist without her shadow. But Karina doesn’t like sharing. Especially not you. She storms into the club, drags you out, and reminds you—violently— that no one else gets to touch what’s hers. You’re punished, ruined, and worshipped all in the same night. And when it’s over, you’re still hers.

🖤 “you don’t get to come until i say. now take it, slut.”

The first red flag wasn’t the jealousy.

It was how you apologized for it.

You had told Karina you were going out tonight—a club thing with your friends. It was your friend Sana’s birthday, and she’d rented out the second floor of this neon-drenched bar downtown. Girls only. Loud music. Glitter eyeshadow. Nothing she should be worried about.

But Karina was already in her usual mood when you told her. Arms crossed. Dark eyes narrowing like headlights. That crooked smile that always carried danger.

“Who’s going?”

“Just friends,” you answered, watching her lean against the doorframe. “Sana, Yujin, Yeji, like... girls.”

“And no guys?”

You hesitated. “No one I’m interested in.”

Wrong answer.

Her tongue ran along her bottom lip. “That wasn’t what I asked, baby.”

You swallowed. “No guys.”

She stared at you for too long. Then walked over, slow, hands slipping beneath your jaw to tip your chin up. Her voice dipped an octave.

“You’ve been good lately. You don’t want to ruin that, do you?”

You shook your head.

So she smiled and kissed you. “Fine. Go. Have fun.”

You knew better. But you still went.

---

You weren’t even flirting. Just laughing. Talking to Yeji, someone Karina hated for reasons she never explained. The music pounded under your shoes and you felt the haze of alcohol and freedom—that rare feeling when Karina wasn’t looming like a shadow over your shoulder.

Then your phone started buzzing.

KARINA 💔💌

Where are you?

Are you with someone?

I am coming.

You tried to reply—calm down, it's nothing, I’m just talking—but the messages kept coming, faster and more aggressive. Until suddenly…

She was there.

The club doors blew open with a gust of summer heat and rage, and there she stood like the storm she always was.

Everyone saw her. She didn’t care. Tall, sharp, wolf-cut hair tousled like she'd driven 90 through the city. Black leather jacket. Jaw clenched. Eyes fixed on you like you belonged to her.

Because you did.

“Outside,” she said.

You froze.

Karina didn’t shout. She didn’t have to. Just pointed to the door with two fingers and turned without checking if you followed.

You didn’t want to make a scene. Not again. Not after last time.

You muttered some excuse to Yeji and hurried after her, heart sinking.

---

The drive home was silent. Tense. You sat with your hands in your lap, trying not to cry.

She didn’t look at you once.

When she slammed the front door behind you, she didn’t speak. Just walked straight into the bedroom.

You followed her like a ghost.

She was standing there, back to you, fists clenched. Breathing hard. You stepped closer, hands trembling.

“Karina, I didn’t—”

“Shut up.”

You flinched.

She turned.

“You think I’m fucking stupid?” she growled. “You think I don’t see how you look at people when I’m not around?”

“I wasn’t—”

“You were laughing. With her. Letting her touch you. Smiling. You never smile like that for me unless I make you.”

You took a shaky breath. “It was nothing. I swear.”

“Nothing?”

Her voice dropped. Dangerous.

“I think you need a reminder,” she said, stepping closer, “of who you belong to.”

You backed up instinctively. Your legs hit the bed.

Her eyes raked down your body. Hungry. Furious.

“Strip.”

You hesitated.

She grabbed your face with one hand. “Now, slut.”

You obeyed.

Your clothes hit the floor one by one. Her eyes never left you. By the time you stood naked, trembling, she was rolling up her sleeves like she was about to ruin you—and she was.

“On your knees.”

You sank to the floor, heart pounding.

She unbuckled her belt slowly, letting the leather slide free from the loops. The sound made your stomach twist.

“Hands behind your back.”

You obeyed.

She grabbed a scarf from the drawer—your scarf, the soft one she’d once complimented—before knotting it tightly around your wrists.

Then she stepped back, admiring her work.

“Pretty little thing,” she murmured. “So obedient when you’re scared.”

You looked up at her, helpless.

“You don’t get to act innocent,” she hissed, gripping your jaw. “You knew what you were doing. Laughing with that bitch like you don’t already have someone who owns you.”

She shoved two fingers in your mouth.

“Suck.”

You did. Gagging slightly as she pushed deep, making you drool.

“Good girl,” she said. “Now get on the bed. Face down. Ass up.”

Your knees nearly gave out as you climbed onto the mattress, wrists bound behind you, cheeks burning with shame and fear and need.

Then you heard the belt crack behind you.

“Count,” she said coldly.

The first lash landed hard. You cried out.

“One!”

Another.

“Two—!”

She didn’t go easy. She never did. The leather burned every time it struck your ass, and the sting bloomed into something darker—something that made your core ache with guilt and arousal.

“Ten,” you choked eventually, tears in your eyes.

Karina dropped the belt onto the bed.

“Look at you,” she muttered. “So wet already. Fucking filthy.”

She undressed finally—slow, deliberate, like she knew you wanted to look. Her toned body, lean and commanding. And between her thighs, thick and hard already, her cock twitching with anticipation.

“You don’t get to cum tonight,” she said flatly. “Not until I say.”

You whimpered.

She climbed onto the bed and grabbed you by the hips.

“No prep,” she said. “You don’t deserve it.”

She shoved in without warning.

You screamed.

---

She was merciless.

Every thrust was brutal, designed to punish. You were slick and dripping, but it wasn’t enough. She wanted you to feel every inch, every second, every lesson.

“You like this, don’t you?” she growled in your ear. “Getting used like a hole. That’s what you are.”

You moaned helplessly, the pain and pleasure fusing together. She reached under you and rubbed your clit in tight circles, fast and rough.

You got close—so close.

Then she stopped.

“No,” she snapped. “You don’t get to cum until I say.”

You sobbed into the sheets.

She pulled out and flipped you over, binding your ankles to the bedposts with more scarves. Spread wide. Exposed.

Her hand wrapped around her cock and she slapped it against your clit.

“Beg,” she said.

You whimpered. “Please… please fuck me.”

“Say who you belong to.”

“You, Karina. Only you.”

She smirked.

“Damn right.”

She shoved back in and started again—harder this time, deeper. The bed shook. Your cries echoed off the walls. She slapped your face lightly between thrusts, spitting on your chest.

“Such a pretty little slut,” she groaned. “You think anyone else could do this to you? Ruin you like this?”

You didn’t answer.

She gripped your throat.

“Answer me.”

“N-no… only you…”

“That’s right. I own this body. This cunt. This fucking soul.”

You nodded frantically, vision swimming.

“Cum,” she ordered suddenly.

But you were too far gone. You’d been denied too many times, your body trembling violently.

She kept fucking you through it. “Cum, slut.”

You screamed, back arching, as you finally broke—waves of pleasure crashing over you, so intense it hurt.

But she didn’t stop.

---

Karina chased her own high now, thrusts turning feral. She grabbed your hips and pounded into you with brutal force, still overstimulating you as your body twitched and shook.

You couldn’t breathe.

“Take it,” she growled. “Take all of me.”

You sobbed beneath her.

She came with a strangled groan, deep inside you, hips jerking, biting into your shoulder to muffle her moan.

You thought that would be it.

But she didn’t pull out.

She waited.

“Again,” she said.

You shook your head weakly. “Karina, I can’t—”

“Yes you can.”

She reached between your legs again, fingers rough, cock still buried inside you.

“You’re mine,” she whispered. “So you’ll take what I give you.”

You came again, raw and shaking.

She fucked you through it.

Another orgasm. Another. Your mind broke a little more each time.

Eventually, she pulled out and watched your come-slicked body collapse into the sheets, twitching.

She untied your wrists.

You curled into a ball instinctively.

She pulled you close.

“Shhh,” she whispered. “That’s my good girl.”

You didn’t respond.

She kissed your hair. “See? I forgive you. We’re okay.”

You were too tired to cry.

---

Later, you lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, unable to move. Bruises forming. Thighs sore. Throat raw.

Karina sat beside you, scrolling on her phone like nothing happened.

“Next time,” she said casually, “don’t make me remind you again.”

You closed your eyes.

She leaned over and kissed your temple.

“I love you,” she whispered.

Your chest ached.

“I love you too,” you said quietly.

And you meant it.

Because this was love, wasn’t it?

It had to be.

Why else would it hurt so much?

___

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lacyspressotv · 2 days ago

Note

hii

here’s a request for a sabrina fic:

maybe brina gets a bit nervous backstage because it’s her biggest crowd and reader comforts her <3

this is such a cute request!! i hope you like it!! sorry it's kind of short

you're scared, i'm nervous

pairing : sabrina carpenter x female!reader

about : sabrina is about to perform for her biggest crowd ever and she's nervous, so you comfort her

type : comfort/fluff

word count : 584

cw : none

Watching Sabrina on stage, you'd think she's nothing but confident. And for the most part, she is. She knows she's talented and she knows the people who come to see her love and support her. But this time, the crowd is bigger than she's ever performed for and she can't help but feel a little bit nervous.

You're with her backstage, just like you always are before and after her shows, sitting beside her. You're sitting in silence but it's easy and soft and peaceful and you could never get tired of it.

But this time, Sabrina seems a little uncomfortable. You know exactly what's wrong, you know her better than anyone. She doesn't say anything about it, but you can tell by her face that she's nervous.

You gently put a hand on her shoulder, a gentle expression on your face as you look at the girl beside you. "Are you alright?" You ask softly.

Sabrina looks up at you and nods, a small smile on her face at the gesture. She always appreciates your efforts to make her feel comfortable. "Yeah, I'm okay. It's just a really big crowd. And I know I've performed in front of huge crowds before, but this is the biggest one yet." She says, her hands resting in her lap.

You nod. You don't relate to the problems she has, but you can understand them. Anyone would be nervous in her place.

"It's okay to be nervous," You say. "I would be nervous too."

Sabrina laughs softly, tilting her head slightly so it rests against yours. You smile and slide your arm around her waist in a comforting gesture.

"And you'll do great," You add. "Even if you make a mistake, which you won't, it'll be okay. It's just your fans out there, they love you no matter what."

"I know," Sabrina says with a little nod. "It's just hard not to be nervous anyway. They're all watching me, they all see everything I do on stage."

"And they love everything you do on stage. I mean, from back here, I hear how loud they are and how much they love you," You say. "And even if they didn't, I love you and I'm here for you, no matter what happens at this concert."

Sabrina smiles, moving so she can look at you. "You're the best, you know that? I don't know what I would do without you." She leans in for a soft kiss, smiling against your lips. "Really. Thank you."

"Of course." You say, smiling back. "Now get out there and kill it."

Sabrina nods, getting to her feet. She leans over and kisses you one more time, then she straightens her outfit and heads out to where she'll walk onto stage.

You sit backstage the whole concert, watching her from the side. She's amazing, she always is, and you can't help but feel proud. When she gets back, she has a smile on her face as she runs over to you.

She throws her arms around your neck, hugging you tightly. "You were right, I did it! It was amazing, I'm so glad you told me it would be alright!" She says, pulling back to look at you, a soft expression coming over her face. "Thank you, so much, for encouraging me. I knew I could do it but I needed to hear it too."

You smile, brushing her hair out of her face. "Anytime." You say, placing a gentle kiss on her lips.

#sabrina carpenter #sabrina carpenter x reader #sabrina carpenter short n sweet #short n sweet #sabrina carpenter tour #sabrina carpenter concert

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honeyandruin · 2 hours ago

Text

A Quiet Kind of Want — dbf! Joel Miller x Reader

— ✦ — ✦ — ✦ —✦ — ✦ — ✦ — ✦ — ✦ — ✦ — ✦ — ✦ —

Pairing: dbf! Joel Miller x Reader

Summary: At a family barbecue, you slip away to the pantry when the old insults get too loud. Joel finds you there—and somehow, his quiet steadiness makes everything feel a little less impossible.

Warnings: uhhhh, not many. passive aggressive family/comments?

Word count: 1.5k

A/N: this was requested by @glitterspark ! I hope you enjoy 💚 ((I’m not great at fluff so I apologize if it blows)) honorable mention for wanting to be on a tag list; @reidswifeyyyyyy & @kyloispunk

— ✦ — ✦ — ✦ —✦ — ✦ — ✦ — ✦ — ✦ — ✦ — ✦ — ✦ —

Sweet corn, charcoal and the familiar scent of freshly cut grass envelopes the backyard.

You stand by the folding table, hands wrapped around a sweating cup of lemonade, nodding along while your aunt recounts—for the third time—how her son just got promoted again. How some people could stand to be more ambitious.

You pretend it doesn’t bother you. Pretend your stomach doesn’t twist every time someone asks how the “cupcake thing” is going. Like your job isn’t real. Like you’re still a kid playing house.

You catch Joel’s eyes across the yard—he’s standing by your dad, flipping burgers, wearing that same faded baseball cap and patient expression he always does. He’s known your family almost your whole life. He knows exactly how they are.

And for a moment, the tightness in your chest eases.

But then someone else laughs. Your uncle chimes in with something about “wasting that college degree on frosting,” and the heat climbs up your throat, hot and choking.

You set your cup down. You smile. You excuse yourself with a little wave.

Nobody stops you.

The house is blessedly quiet. You slip down the hall, past the photos of birthdays and Thanksgivings, and open the pantry door.

The shelves smell like flour and old spices. You step inside, tug the door almost closed behind you, and finally let your shoulders sag.

Your breath shudders out.

One hand lifts to cover your mouth, like you can hold it in, but you can’t. The tears come hot and fast, spilling over your cheeks, soaking into the collar of your sundress.

You don’t know how long you stand there. Just breathing. Just trying not to fall apart completely.

Then—soft footsteps. A familiar weight in the doorway.

You swipe at your eyes, but it’s pointless. You know he can see.

“Hey,” Joel says, low and careful. “You hidin’ in here on purpose?”

You sniff, pressing the heel of your hand to your cheek. “No,” you lie, voice wrecked.

He doesn’t say anything for a second. Then the door opens all the way, and he steps inside—just enough to crowd the narrow space, his broad shoulders blocking out the kitchen light.

“Thought I’d find you here,” he murmurs.

You try to look away, but his hand comes up—gentle, callused fingers tipping your chin.

“Hey,” he says again, softer this time. “Look at me.”

You do.

His brows pull together, that little crease deepening between them. He sighs. “You wanna tell me what they said?”

“They didn’t—” Your voice breaks, and you have to swallow before you can keep going. “It’s not… They just think I’m wasting my time.”

Joel’s eyes flick over your face, like he’s memorizing every piece of it. “And what do you think?”

You blink. “What?”

His hand drops, but he doesn’t step back. His voice stays quiet, steady, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“What do you think?” he repeats. “About your work.”

“I—” You swallow. “I love it.”

He nods. “Then it’s not a waste.”

Your throat goes tight all over again, but this time it’s not embarrassment. It’s something warm and sharp and almost unbearable.

He huffs a quiet breath and looks away for a second, like he needs to collect himself. Then he eases down to sit against the opposite wall, legs folding until he’s cross-legged on the pantry floor.

“C’mere,” he says, patting the empty space beside him.

You hesitate. Just for a second.

Then you slide down, your shoulder bumping his, and let your head tip against his solid warmth.

Neither of you talks. The quiet stretches long and safe around you.

After a while, his hand drifts up—resting over yours where it’s curled in your lap. His thumb moves, slow and reassuring.

“You work harder than any of them,” he says, voice almost a whisper. “Don’t let ‘em make you forget that.”

And when you finally breathe again, it comes a little easier.

You don’t know how long you sit there.

Long enough for the ache in your chest to dull, for your breathing to even out. Long enough for the heat of Joel’s shoulder against yours to feel like something you might start missing when he’s not there.

Finally, he sighs. You feel it more than you hear it, the way his chest shifts beside you.

“You ready to go back out?” he asks, voice low.

“No,” you admit, and he huffs a quiet laugh.

“Fair enough.”

But after another minute, you know you can’t stay hidden in here forever. With a deep breath, you straighten up. He watches you, searching your face for something you don’t know how to name.

“Okay,” you murmur. “I’m ready.”

Joel doesn’t move right away. His hand lifts—fingers brushing a stray tear off your cheek, the rough pad of his thumb lingering just a second too long.

“You did nothin’ wrong,” he says, and there’s something fierce in it, something that makes your heart squeeze tight. “You hear me?”

You nod, because it’s all you can manage.

Then he pushes up, offering you his hand. You take it, and he pulls you to your feet without effort. His palm stays wrapped around yours a beat longer than it needs to before he finally lets go.

When you step back into the kitchen, the noise of your family feels too loud. Too bright. Your throat tightens all over again.

Joel’s hand finds the small of your back, warm and steady. He doesn’t say anything, just guides you out onto the porch, like he knows you need the air.

You hover there for a second, feeling everyone’s eyes shift in your direction.

“Hey,” your uncle calls from his seat near the folding table. His voice has that familiar edge, the one you’ve been trying to tune out all afternoon. “You good? Thought maybe you’d finally realized you’re too old to be playin’ house in a bakery.”

Your heart stumbles. Heat crawls up your neck, hot and humiliated. Before you can open your mouth—before you can even breathe—Joel steps forward.

He doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t even look angry, exactly. But the way he stares at your uncle—steady, flat, like he’s looking right through him—makes the table go quiet.

“You got something useful to say?” Joel asks, voice low, deceptively calm.

Your uncle shifts in his chair, mouth opening—and then closing again. He looks away.

Joel waits a beat. Long enough that you can feel the tension thrum under your skin. Then he turns his head, gaze finding yours.

“C’mere,” he says, voice softer now. “Need a hand with the grill.”

It’s not really a question.

You nod, grateful for the excuse. Grateful for him.

He doesn’t touch you again as you cross the yard—maybe because he can feel your family’s stares on his back—but when you reach the grill, he turns to face you fully.

“You okay?” he murmurs, low enough that no one else could possibly hear.

“Yeah,” you say, though your voice wobbles. You swallow. “I will be.”

He nods, jaw tight. His eyes drag over your face like he’s memorizing the way you look when you’re trying so hard not to fall apart.

And then, quieter, just for you: “They don’t get it,” he says. “But I do.”

Your heart clenches.

He looks away first, gaze settling on the coals like he hadn’t just undone you with five words.

“Grab me the tongs?” he says after a second, his voice easing back to something almost normal.

You exhale, shakier than you want to admit.

And when you pass him the tongs, your fingers brush. Just barely, but it’s enough to make you feel steady again.

The grill crackles low between you, the scent of smoke and char drifting up to mix with the warm night air.

Joel doesn’t say anything else about your uncle. About your family. About the way your voice shook when you told him you were fine.

Instead, he shows you how to watch the coals. How to feel for the right heat with your palm. He keeps his voice steady, careful, like he’s giving you something no one else ever bothered to.

At one point, you risk a glance up.

He’s already watching you.

The moment stretches—softer than it has any right to be. His eyes flick to your mouth, then back to your eyes, and something in your chest tugs tight.

You look away first, because you have to.

When your dad calls your name from the porch, you step back automatically, wiping your hands on your skirt.

Joel clears his throat.

“You need a minute,” he says quietly, almost hesitating, “you can come back out here. Nobody’ll bother you.”

Your throat goes tight again, but in a different way this time. “Thank you,” you whisper.

He doesn’t smile. Just nods, like it costs him something to look away.

You turn and cross the yard, feeling steadier than you have all day.

And when you glance over your shoulder, just once, you catch him watching you again, his hand braced on the side of the grill, eyes dark in the glow of the coals.

Like he’s making sure you get all the way inside before he lets himself breathe.

#joel miller #the last of us #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller fic #joel miller tlou #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #tlou #joel miller fanfic #joel miller smut #joel x reader #joel smut #fluff #joel tlou #tlou joel #pedropascal #pedro pascal

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pink-sparkly-witch · 2 days ago

Text

The Girls Next Door, Part One

Summary: When Beau moves next door to Y/N and her daughter, Mia, he finds something he didn’t know he needed: another chance at love. Now, all he needs to do is convince her he’s worth the risk.

Pairing: Beau Arlen x Single Mother!Reader

Rating: General

Triggers / Warnings / Tags: Fluff

Word Count: 2.6k

A/N: Consider reblogging to spread this far and wide around this Hellsite or leaving a comment. It truly fuels a creative’s muse. If you’re too shy or too cool for people to know you read fanfic and you don’t want it showing on your blog, you can submit an anonymous ask or drop me a DM 💖 My Masterlist AO3 Ko-Fi

Y/N’s POV

“You’ve got to be kidding me!” Y/N exclaimed after pushing the end call button on her phone.

“Everything okay there, darlin’,” Beau asked, putting down the spanner he’d been using to fix her kitchen sink and looking over at his upset neighbour.

When he moved in next door, Y/N was the first person to stop by, introducing herself and her four-year-old daughter, Mia, and offering to help him with anything he needed. He quickly took her up on that; having been unable to find the box with his coffee maker and desperate for a fix of the bitter goodness, he knocked on her door and asked her where the nearest coffee shop was.

She’d been even kinder than he’d expected and invited him in, saying she was brewing a fresh pot. She’d even offered to give it to him in a travel mug if he had too much to do across the way.

The only people he’d known in Helena at the time had been his ex-wife, Carla; her newest husband, Avery; and his daughter, Emily. Figuring that making a friend wouldn’t do him any harm, he opted for a ceramic mug and some home-baked cupcakes.

Despite being a garish shade of pink and covered in edible glitter, they were the most delicious cupcakes he’d ever eaten. He’d found it cute that Y/N apologised for their girlish appearance, but he assured her he got it because he had a daughter, too.

They’d been friends ever since, helping each other when they needed an extra pair of hands around the house or garden and keeping an eye on each other during the long, cold Montana nights. He’d tried to keep his feelings in check, but the more he got to know her and the more time he spent in her company, the more he found himself falling for her.

She was sweet, kind, caring, and pretty. She was pure sunshine and warmth and would go out of her way to help anyone who needed it. His changing feelings had taken him by surprise. He thought he’d never willingly put himself through that again after Carla. He never wanted to get his heart broken by a woman ever again.

“So, I told you that my usual babysitter moved away recently, right? And I’ve been struggling to find someone new that I like. The one who was supposed to be here tonight has just cancelled on me, and I won’t be able to find someone else on such short notice, so I’ll need to cancel my shift at the bar,” Y/N explained.

Beau could tell she was close to tears. He knew how much she needed every paycheck she could get from her two part-time jobs.

“Hey, let’s not panic, darlin’, okay? Let me call Emily and see if she can look after Mia for a few hours,” he suggested, smiling slightly at the hope that filled his neighbour’s expression.

“Really? You don’t think she’d mind?” Y/N asked, and he grinned wider.

“No, not at all. Emily loves Mia, and I’m sure she’ll be happy to help. If she’s busy, well, I’m not working tonight, and I could babysit for a few hours,” Beau said, shocked he’d managed to get that last part out. He’d considered offering before but didn’t want her to laugh or dismiss him.

“You’d do that for me?” Y/N asked, clearly taken aback by his kind gesture.

“Sure. That’s what friends are for, right? To help each other out? Step up when the other needs it?” Beau smiled softly.

“Let me go call Emily, okay?” he said as he pulled his phone from his pocket. Y/N had a look of adoration on her face, and he told himself not to get used to it. It was a one-time thing because of his offer to help her find a babysitter.

Stepping into the hallway, Beau scrolled through his recent contacts and hit ‘call’ on his daughter’s number.

“Hey, Dad,” Emily answered after a couple of rings.

“Hey, baby girl. How are you?” he asked, unable to resist the tug at his lips as they lifted into a smile at hearing her voice.

“I’m good. What’s up?”

“Y/N’s in a tight spot and needs a sitter so she can work a shift at the bar. If you don’t have anything on, I thought maybe you could help?”

“All I’ve got on is homework, and I can do it there, so I’d love to help. What time does she need me there?” Emily asked.

“Well, I’m here now fixing her leaking sink, so there’s no need to rush, but her shift starts in an hour,” Beau told his daughter.

“Okay, I’ll head over now. See you soon, Dad.”

“Thanks, kiddo. And hey, how about I order us pizza as a thank you?”

“You don’t need to do that. I wanna help Y/N,” Emily said.

“I know,” he smiled. At least he and Carla did one thing right, and had raised their daughter to be kind and always willing to help someone in need. “I insist.”

“Well, if you insist!” she chuckled, “I’ll tell Mom where I’m going and be right over.”

“Thanks, Em,” Beau said again before ending the call and walking back into the kitchen. He huffed a quiet laugh at the sight of Y/N pacing the floor and chewing on her thumbnail. It was sad, he thought, that a woman as good as her had been dumped the second she told Mia’s father she was pregnant. Any guy would be lucky to have her, and she was a great mother.

Clearing his throat, he laughed louder as she stopped pacing and looked at him. Her big, beautiful eyes held a silent plea that she could still go out and earn her paycheck and tips.

“Can Emily babysit?” Y/N asked nervously.

“Yeah, she’s on her way,” Beau nodded, smiling as Y/N’s shoulders seemed to fall several inches, and she exhaled a shaky breath.

“Thank you, Beau. I really appreciate it. You’re the best, honestly. I don’t know what I’d do without you. Or Emily.” Y/N looked like she could kiss him, but again, he told himself not to get used to it.

“Hey, there's no need to thank me, darlin’,” he grinned, regardless, because he loved hearing her praise and seeing her look at him as if he hung the moon. “Go and get ready for work, and I’ll finish fixing the sink.”

“Alright, Mia, best behaviour, okay?” Y/N said, kissing the four-year-old’s forehead.

“Yes, Mommy,” Mia said, nodding her head.

“Remember, Emily’s the boss. Whatever she says goes, alright?” Y/N continued.

“I know, Mommy,” Mia rolled her eyes dramatically, making her mom laugh.

“Thanks again, Em. Help yourself to whatever’s in the kitchen. Bedtime is no later than eight, and I’ll be home around eleven, but if you need anything, call me, okay?”

“No problem, Y/N,” Emily chuckled as Mia climbed over the arm of the couch and made herself comfortable on the teenager’s lap. “We’ll have fun, right Mia? Eat pizza and do whatever you want before bed. How does that sound?”

“Fun!” Mia squealed. “Can we watch Frozen while we’re eating pizza?”

“We sure can!” Emily said, sounding just as enthusiastic as the four-year-old.

“Yay! Thanks, Em, you’re the best,” Mia said, wrapping her arms around Emily’s shoulders and hugging her. “Are you watching Frozen with us, Sheriff Beau?”

“How about I eat dinner with you two pretty ladies and then go home, huh? You don’t want a boy crashing your fun, do you?” Beau said, pulling a ‘yuck’ face and making Mia giggle.

“I want you to stay,” Mia said shyly, hiding her head on Emily’s shoulder.

“Well then,” Beau said enthusiastically. “If that’s what Miss Mia wants, then I’ll stay. Besides, I love Frozen.”

“You do?” Mia asked, her eyes going wide with awe.

“Pfft! Who doesn’t? I will have you know that I just happen to be Sven’s biggest fan,” Beau grinned as Mia giggled.

“Who’s your favourite, Em?” Mia asked.

“I like Olaf,” Emily said. “Who doesn’t want a magical snowman as a best friend?”

“My favourite is Elsa because she’s got pretty hair. Mommy’s favourite is Anna because she’s real,” Mia excitedly told the Arlens. “Mommy only says that because she wakes up grumpy and drooling and has messy hair, just like Anna!”

“Oh, thanks for sharing my drooling, messy morning hair with the neighbours, Mia!” Y/N chuckled, leaning down and kissing her daughter’s head one last time. “Bye, sweetie. I’ll see you in the morning, okay?”

“Bye, Mommy. Have fun at work!”

Y/N came home to a quiet house. Mia was in bed, Beau had gone home, and Emily was at the dining table with books spread around her. The kitchen radio was playing quietly in the background, giving just enough sound for there not to be total silence.

“Hey, Em,” she said as she leaned against the door.

“Hey! How was work?” Emily asked, and Y/N was slightly taken aback as the teenager looked like she genuinely wanted an answer. Sarah had been great with Mia, but she wasn’t exactly the chatty type, so when Y/N came home, Sarah took her money and left as soon as possible.

“Busy,” she chuckled. “But it beats being quiet. How was she?” Y/N asked, nodding her head in the direction of Mia’s room.

“She was no trouble. We had dinner, watched Frozen, and Dad played tea party with her for a while,” Emily grinned at Y/N’s shocked face. “I get it! Looking at him, you’d think it’s bizarre that he’d do that, but he’s a great father and used to play with me like that, too.”

“I don’t doubt it. Your dad raised a fine young woman,” Y/N smiled. “It’s just hard to picture him pretending to sip from a tiny pink plastic cup!” The women shared a laugh before hearing a quiet knock at the door.

“That’ll be my dad. He said he’d give me a ride home,” Emily said as she started to pack up her books, and Y/N went to the door.

“Hey, Sheriff,” Y/N said as she opened the door and let him in.

“Hey, how was your shift?” he spoke quietly, obviously not wanting to wake Mia.

“It was busy. I’m looking forward to making a cup of tea and putting my feet up!”

Walking back into the kitchen, Y/N pulled an envelope from her purse and handed it to Emily, who frowned.

“Money for tonight,” Y/N confirmed. “I can’t thank you enough, Em.”

“You don’t have to. I didn’t do it for the money,” Emily replied, trying to hand it back.

“I insist, please,” Y/N said, and Emily nodded reluctantly.

“Thank you,” Emily smiled. “If you ever need a sitter, I’m happy to help, Y/N, anytime.”

“I’ve been offered more hours at the bar, so I might take you up on that,” Y/N smiled. “But, I’ll talk to you about that another time. It’s late, and you have school in the morning. And thanks, Beau. You didn’t need to stay, but I bet it made Mia’s night that you did.”

“No need for thanks, darlin’. Don’t think I could ever say no to that little face,” Beau winked.

“Still, you didn’t need to. If you’re not working on Sunday, please come over for dinner. I’m making roast chicken with all the trimmings, and I wanna say thank you for mowing the lawn the other week and fixing the sink. And for Mia,” she said, suddenly feeling very nervous.

“Well, that is a very kind offer that I can’t pass up. Thank you; I’ll be there.” Beau nodded, touched that she’d go to such trouble for him.

“Alright, great,” Y/N smiled. “I won’t keep you any longer. Thank you both again.”

“Anytime,” Emily said. “Call me if you want to take those extra hours, okay? I liked concentrating on homework and studying without Mom’s constant interruptions!”

“I will. Goodnight, Em,” Y/N smiled gratefully.

“If I don’t see you before, I’ll see you on Sunday,” Beau said, turning on her porch and waiting expectantly.

“Are you really going to stand there until I lock my door when you’re right there, and nothing is going to happen?” Y/N grinned.

“You’re damn right, I am! You can never be too careful,” Beau smirked, standing firm on her porch and crossing his arms. “Goodnight, Y/N.”

“Goodnight, Sheriff,” Y/N grinned, closing her door and locking it, leaving the porch light on until Emily and Beau were driving away in the car.

Walking down the hallway, she checked in on Mia, smiling fondly when she saw her little girl sound asleep and clutching her Elsa doll like a lifeline. Bending down, she kissed Mia’s forehead and closed the door over just the right amount, making sure a sliver of light would be visible if she woke in the night.

Heading back into the kitchen, Y/N switched on the kettle, pulled an oversized mug from the cupboard, and made some chamomile tea to help her sleep. Working this late was always tricky because it took a while for the day's adrenaline to wear off before she could fall asleep.

She took the mug of steaming tea into her bedroom, placed it on the bedside table, changed out of her work clothes, threw them in the laundry basket, and put on sweatpants and an oversized T-shirt.

Climbing into bed, she picked up the book on her nightstand and settled in to read a few chapters while drinking her tea.

She was only a few pages in when she heard Beau’s truck pull into the driveway next door. A soft smile tugged at her lips as she thought about Beau and how he was one of those rare Southern gentlemen she’d read about in many a romance novel. She’d never met anyone like him, and she found his chivalry extremely attractive and endearing.

Beau had been through a lot of tragedy, and although she didn’t know the whole story, she knew the consequences of his trauma had ended his marriage to Carla. She didn’t understand why Carla left him when he was at his most vulnerable. She was his wife; she must have known how much he was hurting and that all he needed was a little time, patience, and a whole lot of TLC.

She listened intently, waiting for his door to open and close and for the sound of the locks turning, chuckling to herself that she was just as bad as he was by making sure he was home safe and sound.

Being able to call Beau a friend had been a blessing Y/N hadn’t known she needed. She thanked God every day she’d worked the late shift that night. Getting home at 4 AM and being woken three hours later by Mia meant that she put on an extra pot of coffee that afternoon.

Truth be told, she’d been lonely and in need of a friend. All her friends were in relationships, and being the only mother— a single one at that—meant spending days trying to find a babysitter just to spend a few hours being a third wheel wasn't very high on her priority list.

And besides, she worked two jobs to make ends meet, and she’d much rather spend what precious free time she had with her adorable four-year-old daughter.

Part Two

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