#me? posting something? more likely than you think!

[p1psqueaks]

LOVE AND DEEPSPACE — MISSION GONE WRONG

ZAYNE

You stumble through the sterile white corridors of the hospital, the world around you spinning, and the sharp sting of pain gnawing at your every step. The mission had gone wrong in ways you didn’t even want to think about, but there was no avoiding it now. Blood stains your uniform, and exhaustion weighs heavily on your body as you drag yourself toward the medical wing. Every breath feels shallow, and your chest burns, the aftereffects of near-death lingering like a bad memory.

As you turn the corner, you catch sight of him. Zayne. He's standing by the nurses' station, his back straight and his usual professional composure in place, but his eyes immediately snap to you the moment you appear. The flicker of worry in them is unmistakable.

"What happened?" he asks his voice dropping an octave. His calm, steady demeanor never falters, but you can see the tension in his jaw. “Are you hurt?”

You try to give him a reassuring smile, but it’s weak and fails miserably. “Mission went south. Nothing I can’t handle.”

His eyes scan you from head to toe, quickly noticing the bloodied bandages peeking from under your torn jacket. His brow furrows in response. “You’re not handling this. Come on, we need to get you to a bed, now.”

You swallow, wanting to protest, but you don’t have the energy. Zayne’s hands are gentle but firm as he guides you toward the nearest treatment room, keeping you steady on your feet, as if the sheer presence of him is enough to keep you from collapsing.

He glances at one of the nurses, Yvonne, over his shoulder. "Have Dr. Greyson look over my post-ops for now."

Once inside, Zayne immediately takes charge, his usual calm and methodical self taking over. “Sit down,” he orders, voice soft but commanding. You sink into the bed, too exhausted to argue.

He begins assessing your injuries with a practiced eye, checking your pulse and temperature before gently peeling away the tattered remnants of your uniform. His hands are gentle but quick, his movements sharp, yet there’s an undercurrent of something more—something deeply protective. The quiet intensity of his gaze speaks volumes, and you realize, for the first time, just how much this affects him, seeing you like this.

"What happened out there?" he asks as he begins cleaning a deep gash on your arm. His touch is careful, but you can see the tension in his shoulders, the unspoken fear of seeing you so badly hurt.

You take a shaky breath, the memories of the mission flooding back in waves. "They ambushed us... a trap. We weren’t ready. We should have known. I should have known. I couldn't save everyone."

Zayne’s face softens, but he doesn’t pull away. Instead, his voice is steady, but there’s an edge to it. "You did what you could. You always do. It’s not your fault, my love."

But the guilt presses on you, suffocating in a way you can’t ignore. "We lost good people, Zayne. People who trusted me. I couldn’t stop it. I couldn’t—"

"You’re here," he interrupts softly, his voice dropping to a more intimate register. "You made it back. And that matters more than anything."

You look up at him, your heart twisting at the quiet sincerity in his eyes. It’s so rare for him to drop the doctor’s facade, to let down the walls that keep him so emotionally distant from the world. But with you, there’s no hiding it. There’s no barrier between the hunter and the man who cares about you.

"You don’t deserve this," you say, your voice barely above a whisper. "I didn’t want to drag you into this... into my mess."

Zayne pauses, taking a breath before continuing his work, his hands never stopping as he applies a fresh bandage. "You didn’t drag me anywhere, my love," he says, his voice so soft, so sure. "You’re my partner. I’m here because I choose to be. I’m not going anywhere. You’ve got me, and I’ve got you."

His words settle in the room like a blanket, and for the first time in what feels like forever, you let yourself soften. You feel the weight of your guilt slip just a little, the sharp edge of fear dulled by his steady presence.

"I don’t know what I’d do without you," you admit, your voice hoarse. "You keep me from falling apart."

Zayne meets your eyes, his expression tender but firm. "I’m not going anywhere. Not now, not ever. We do this together, no matter what."

You let his words sink in, closing your eyes briefly, just allowing yourself to feel his presence, to feel the safety of being here with him. The hospital room, with its harsh lights and sterile smell, suddenly feels a little warmer, a little more like home.

Zayne finishes bandaging your arm and moves to your side, carefully sitting next to you, his shoulder brushing against yours. His hand finds yours, his fingers lacing with yours with such ease, like it’s second nature. You squeeze his hand, the simple gesture grounding you in a way nothing else can.

"I love you, you know," you whisper, the words coming out before you can even stop them. You’ve said them before, but here, now, they feel even more significant—vulnerable, raw.

Zayne’s lips curve up into that small, rare smile you love so much, his eyes softening as he leans in close. “I love you too. Always.”

For a moment, everything fades—the mission, the pain, the guilt—until all that’s left is the quiet rhythm of your breathing and the steady thrum of his heartbeat against your side.

You lean your head on his shoulder, feeling the overwhelming weight of everything start to ease. There’s still work to be done, still losses to grieve, but for now, you know you’re not alone.

And with Zayne by your side, you know you’ll heal.

XAVIER

The metallic hiss of the docking bay doors echoed in the vast emptiness of the ship. You had just returned from a mission that should have been a simple recon, a sweep through an abandoned space station. But as the airlock cycled open and the faint glow of the docking bay lights illuminated the vessel, a heavy silence fell over the crew.

You stumbled through the door first, your body battered, clothes torn, and your movements sluggish. You had barely made it back at all, much less in one piece. Your face was smeared with dirt and blood, and your usually sharp eyes were clouded with exhaustion.

Xavier was the first to spot you.

His usual calm, collected demeanor faltered for a split second as he rushed forward, his boots making swift, purposeful strides across the floor. His face tightened with worry, eyes scanning your battered form. He had heard the distress call, had heard the urgency in your voice, but seeing you like this—bleeding, broken—hit him harder than he anticipated.

"Hey," he breathed, his voice tight with concern.

You looked up at the sound of your name, eyes blinking as if you had just woken up from a deep sleep. "Xavier..." you muttered, your voice barely above a whisper. The exhaustion in your tone was unmistakable, but there was something else there too—something darker. Something haunted.

Xavier took a step closer, reaching out instinctively to steady you, but you pulled away slightly, as though the contact hurt more than it helped.

"Easy," Xavier murmured, his voice gentle but firm. He hated seeing you like this. He hated the thought of you suffering alone out there in the cold, vast expanse of space. "What happened? We heard the distress call."

You swallowed, trying to push down the nausea that rose in your chest. The mission had gone wrong so fast—an ambush, a trap, enemies from a faction you thought you'd left behind. But none of that seemed to matter now. The only thing that mattered was getting through this, surviving long enough to see the others. To see Xavier.

"I was... outnumbered," you said slowly, words falling heavily. "They weren't supposed to be there. It wasn’t supposed to be like this, Xavier. I couldn't..."

"You don’t have to explain," Xavier interrupted, his hand gently gripping your arm, this time making sure you didn’t pull away. "You’re here now. That’s all that matters. You’re safe."

But you could see it in his eyes—he didn’t believe it. Not fully.

You let out a shaky breath, a faint laugh that felt hollow in your chest. "Safe? After what happened out there?"

Xavier said nothing, but his grip tightened, his gaze never leaving yours. The silence between the two of you grew thick, like a storm cloud hanging in the air, heavy with the unspoken words that neither of them seemed ready to say.

Your voice was low but insistent as you looked up at him. "I should’ve... I should’ve called for backup sooner. We could’ve avoided this. I should’ve been better, faster, more prepared..."

"No," Xavier said, his voice low but resolute. "You did what you had to do. And you made it back. That’s what matters now." He leaned in, his forehead touching yours, eyes filled with an intensity that spoke of more than just concern. "Stop blaming yourself. You did everything you could."

The warmth of his breath on your skin, the steady beat of his heart beneath the thin fabric of his uniform, grounded them. You closed your eyes for a moment, fighting the overwhelming flood of emotions that threatened to rise up.

"I’m sorry," you whispered.

Xavier's hand, which had been hovering near your shoulder, finally settled there, steady and unshaking. "You don’t have to apologize to me,. Not for this. I’m just glad you're here."

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The world outside the ship continued on, the hum of the engine a distant, comforting sound. But in that small space between you, the silence held more than just words—it held everything they couldn’t say aloud.

"I thought I lost you," Xavier finally admitted, his voice raw, his usual composure cracking. His hand gently cupped their cheek, his thumb brushing over the cut there, as if he could somehow erase the pain just by touching them. "For a while, I didn’t think you were going to make it."

Your heart ached at the vulnerability in his voice. You had always known Xavier as a strong and capable hunter, someone who could face anything with a cool head and unwavering confidence. But now, as he stood before you, his own walls seemed to crumble, if only slightly.

"I’m here," you murmured, their voice hoarse. "I’m still here."

The corners of Xavier's mouth twitched in a faint, weary smile. "I’m glad."

You both stood there for a while, silent but connected in a way that no words could express. The past was still there, heavy on both of you, but in this moment, all that mattered was the present. Xavier had always been a steady presence in your life—strong, supportive, always there when you needed him most. And now, after everything you had been through, you could finally allow yourself to lean into that strength.

"You should get some rest," Xavier said after a while, his tone softening with a concern that was unmistakable.

You shook their head slowly. "I can’t. Not yet."

Xavier raised an eyebrow. "You can’t stay awake forever. Let the others take over for now. You need time to heal."

The words were gentle, but they carried an undeniable weight. For the first time in what felt like forever, you allowed yourself to relax, to let go of the tension that had been holding you together in the aftermath of the mission. You felt the weight of Xavier's gaze, steady and unwavering, and knew that, no matter what came next, you wouldn’t face it alone.

"Okay," you whispered. "I’ll rest."

Xavier gave you one last look, a silent promise hanging between them. "I’ll be here when you wake up."

You didn’t need to say anything more. There was nothing left to say.

The storm had passed. And for now, you were home.

RAFAYEL

The door creaks open on rusted hinges, the metal groaning in a way it didn’t the last time you stepped through it. The studio smells the same—linseed oil, old wood, drying paint, and the faint ozone tang of filtered sunlight through the solar skylights.

But something about it feels emptier.

You stand in the doorway a moment longer than necessary, your gloved hand still braced on the frame like it might be the only thing holding you upright. Your gun dangles from your other hand, cracked but intact.

Your boots leave damp prints on the worn floorboards as you step inside.

"You're back," a voice says from deeper in the room.

Not accusing. Not angry.

Just... frayed.

Rafayel doesn’t move from where he sits, half-hidden behind a leaning canvas. The stool beneath him creaks as he shifts, brushes idle in his fingers. He doesn’t even look at you at first—just stares at the wall, at some invisible point only he can see.

“You’re painting,” you say, your voice rough. You haven’t spoken much in the past forty-eight hours. Not since extraction. Not since you watched someone you couldn't save drift away into the black.

He finally looks up, eyes scanning you like you're part of the composition. Not a subject, not a muse—just someone he’s been trying to remember how to see.

“You weren’t supposed to be gone that long.”

“I know.”

“You didn’t send a message.”

“I couldn’t.”

A silence stretches out between you. It isn’t uncomfortable—it’s the kind of silence where everything lives. Fear. Relief. The ghosts of unspoken thoughts.

You shift, unfastening the collar of your suit. Your shoulders sag the moment the seal breaks. It’s always heavier when you come back. You remember the stars being beautiful once. Now they just feel cold.

“I thought about this place every day,” you say. “It was the only thing that felt real out there.”

Rafayel rises slowly, setting the brush down on the edge of the easel. Paint still clings to his fingers, ultramarine and burnt sienna smeared across his knuckles like bruises.

He crosses the studio to you, stopping just short of touching. His expression is unreadable. Distant, almost. But his eyes—those impossibly expressive, storm-colored eyes—are too full.

“What happened?” he asks quietly.

You hesitate.

“We lost half the team. Comms were knocked out. We drifted... longer than expected. Long enough to think maybe no one was coming.”

He exhales like he’s been holding that breath since the moment you left. When he steps closer and finally touches you, it’s with a gentleness that makes something in your chest give way. One hand on your cheek. The other rests against your side, feeling the tremor you can’t suppress.

“I didn’t paint for the first week,” Rafayel murmurs. “Every time I picked up a brush, I just... stared at the canvas. I kept thinking, what’s the point of capturing light if I don’t know whether you’re still in it?”

Your breath hitches. “I’m sorry—”

“No,” he interrupts, firm but soft. “Don’t. Not to me.”

He pulls you in slowly, giving you time to pull away. You don’t. Your arms slide around his waist and you press your forehead against his shoulder. The tension doesn’t vanish—it can’t, not yet—but it loosens. Bit by bit.

You stand like that for a long time.

When you finally part, Rafayel brushes a streak of dried blood from your temple with his thumb.

“Let me show you something.”

He leads you to a side alcove where the light is softer. A single canvas stands there, turned away from view. He hesitates for a heartbeat before flipping it around.

It isn’t finished.

Your silhouette is there—sharp and luminous—but your face is only partially rendered. One eye stares back, half-done, ringed with shadows that haven’t been painted in fully. The rest of the canvas is sketchwork, graphite and ghost lines.

“I started this the night before you left,” he says quietly. “But when I didn’t hear from you... I couldn’t keep going. I didn’t know how to draw someone I might never see again.”

Your fingers reach out, brushing the edge of the canvas.

“You don’t have to finish it,” you say.

He looks at you, startled. “Why not?”

“Because I’m not the same person you started painting.” You turn to meet his eyes. “But maybe you could start a new one.”

His lips curve—softly, not quite a smile, but something warmer.

“Stay,” he says. “Just for tonight.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

And this time, when you kiss him, you mean it like a promise. Not to the stars. Not to the mission. But to him.

To here.

To home.

SYLUS

The lights in the apartment are dim when you step through the door.

Your body aches. Your limbs are heavy with exhaustion, and your suit—still streaked with dust from the failed mission—feels like a second skin you can’t shed fast enough. The echo of the explosion still rings faintly in your ears, muffled now by the silence of home.

You don’t expect him to be here. Not this late.

You barely make it two steps before you hear movement from the living room.

"You're late," Sylus says, voice calm but edged in something sharper—something tight. "Three hours. Mephisto couldn't locate you."

You turn toward the sound and find him sitting on the couch, long legs stretched out, hair tousled like he’s been running his hands through it all night. His gaze sweeps over you in one quick, calculating motion—assessing. Scanning.

"I'm here now," you say softly, your voice hoarse.

"You’re hurt."

You look down. There’s a cut along your forearm—dried blood, not deep. Another scrape near your collarbone. The mission had gone sideways, fast: an ambush, one of your own turning against you, comms scrambled. You’d barely made it back.

"I’m okay," you say, but even to your own ears, it sounds like a lie.

Sylus is already on his feet. In three steps he’s in front of you, his hands ghosting over your arms before settling on your shoulders. His grip is gentle—but grounding.

"You were off the grid for too long. I thought—"

You lean into him, the rest of the sentence unnecessary. I thought I lost you. You feel it in the way he holds you closer, in the way his forehead drops to rest against yours. He breathes you in like you’re the air he’s been missing.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur.

“You don’t have to be,” he says. “Just… next time, let me come with you.”

You let out a shaky laugh. “You know you can't do that."

“Then quit."

He’s only half-joking, and you love him for it.

You pull back enough to look into his eyes. “I didn’t want you to see what happened.”

His expression shifts—more serious, more tender.

“Then tell me,” he says. “Tell me everything.”

So you do.

You tell him about the ambush, the way your mission had been sabotaged, how you’d lost communications and one of your team had turned traitor. You speak in low, halting sentences while Sylus cleans your wounds with steady hands. He doesn’t interrupt, just listens—his silence filled with warmth and quiet fury on your behalf.

When you finish, he doesn’t offer hollow reassurances. He doesn’t say it will never happen again, because you both know the truth: it will. That’s the job. The risk. The cost.

Instead, he says, “I’m proud of you.”

Your eyes sting.

“You made it back,” he continues. “You brought the rest of your team home. And you walked through that door.”

“I almost didn’t,” you admit. “There was a moment when I thought—I didn’t know if I could.”

“You did,” Sylus says, voice low, sure. “You always do.”

You sit together after that, on the couch, the silence between you no longer heavy but healing. His arm curls around you, his fingers tracing slow, absent patterns against your back. You let your head rest on his shoulder, your eyes fluttering closed.

“You know,” you murmur, “you should’ve been asleep.”

“I was waiting for you.”

“You always do.”

He kisses the top of your head. “I always will.”

CALEB

You wake hours later, the house quiet, the lights low. The faint scent of chamomile lingers in the air. Caleb’s not beside you, but you hear the low hum of the kettle in the kitchen. The clink of a spoon against ceramic.

He’s always like this — never sleeping when you’re out on a mission, never resting, always waiting for you to come back in one piece. He was always waiting, even when he didn’t show it.

You sit up slowly, stiff and sore in ways you didn’t feel before. The herbal tea calms the knots in your stomach, but there’s an ache deep in your chest, one you can’t ignore.

Caleb appears in the doorway, two steaming cups of tea in his hands. He looks at you with that same unreadable expression, but something’s different now. It’s softer, as if he’s peeling away the layers of control he holds so tightly around everything.

“Chamomile,” he says, his voice steady, though there’s a faint quiver in the way he says it, like he’s holding back something more.

“Thanks,” you say, taking the cup from him, your fingers brushing his. It’s a small thing, but it feels like a spark between you.

He doesn’t sit immediately. Just stands there, his eyes on you — searching, like he’s trying to read the unspoken things in the spaces between your words.

“You were gone for three days longer than planned,” he says, voice low. “No communication. No updates.”

You look down at your hands, your grip tightening on the mug, the weight of his concern pressing down on you. “I didn’t have a choice.”

“I know,” he replies quickly, too quickly. “But I still thought…”

He stops himself, and the silence stretches between you. It’s thick now, heavy with things neither of you have said.

You glance up at him, swallowing past the lump in your throat. “What did you think?”

He hesitates for a moment longer before answering. “I kept replaying every transmission you ever sent. Listening to the tone of your voice. Trying to figure out if there was something I missed. A clue. A hint. Anything.”

Your heart stutters. You set the cup down, the liquid inside forgotten. “That’s—Caleb, you didn’t have to—”

“I did,” he insists, his eyes fierce now, jaw tight. “Because you’re not just another hunter to me. Not just some mission on a schedule board. You—”

He stops himself again, and the weight of his words lingers in the air, like they’re trapped somewhere between his lungs and his lips.

You whisper, “Say it.”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. His hand is trembling just slightly when he reaches up, cupping your cheek in his palm. His thumb strokes along your skin, slow, deliberate, like he’s memorizing the feel of you.

“I kept thinking about what I’d do if you didn’t come back,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “And I knew I wouldn’t be able to live with it. I don’t think I’d be able to breathe.”

You close your eyes at the rawness in his voice. “I’m here.”

The words break something inside him. He leans forward, just enough that his lips brush against yours — a tentative, barely-there kiss. A question, an offering.

It’s not neat. It’s not perfect. It’s messy and hungry, tasting like relief, like heat, like every unspoken word between you two that’s finally tumbling out.

When you finally break apart, he doesn’t pull back. His forehead rests against yours, breath coming in shallow bursts, and you both stay there, suspended in the moment, unsure of where the next breath might take you.

“You terrify me,” he murmurs, his lips barely brushing your skin.

“Because I might get myself killed?” you tease, though there’s a tremor in your voice, too.

“No,” he says, his voice soft, but filled with something more. “Because I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you. And because I want you so much it hurts.”

Your heart flutters, a distant star shining brightly in the center of your chest. You’re close now, too close to ignore the heat thrumming between you.

You whisper, “I didn’t think I’d make it back.”

He smiles, just barely, the corner of his lips lifting. “I did.”

You reach up, curling your hand around his, pulling him closer until there’s nothing separating you two, until you feel the heat of his skin, the thrum of his heartbeat.

And as he holds you, his arms wrapping around you like gravity itself has shifted, you finally let go of the last vestiges of fear, the mission, the blood, the fire.

You’re here now. Alive. And Caleb is here, too.

That’s enough.

[lighting-and-shadow]

Post LADS Main Story: NonMC Reader x Sylus

So I had a thought again: you being reincarnated into the world of LADS, but after the story ends. Ever is no more. Wanderers have been cured and don't exist anymore. The world is relatively peaceful.

MC has found her happy ending with one of the boys, something you find out during a stroll in Linkon City. And it's not Sylus.

I was thinking it would be Xavier for the angst factor. Because, to Sylus, she chose the prince of the people that caused him so much pain over him. She chose the light Xavier represents over his darkness. She chose someone who, in Sylus' mind, was born with everything over him who worked to get everything he has for her sake.

Or maybe she chose Caleb. And that would hurt too because Sylus realizes that while they only had each other in the past, she overlooks that for her present. That their history isn't nearly as valuble as her history with Caleb.

Either way, it causes sad boy hours. The man is devasted. And while he and MC still have a friendship, it's a bit toxic. No longer do they play Kitty Cards or spend time at the claw machine. With the new love in her life, all that's left for Sylus is scraps.

She uses him. Calls him when she needs something or she wants to do something. But if it's him? She blows him off. She treats him like a joke.

Maybe not even truly realizing that she is (but part of me wants to go the bitch route because I've made her so nice in all my other current works and WIPs; I blame @rcvcgers for this (I say this with love, because I honest to god love Rotten Apples), and need to channel that anger).

Then it gets worse: he dies. She remembers her past with him, and gives back the other half of his soul. And then she turns her back on him for good, cutting ties because their morals are just incompatible. He's so devasted that he takes his own life, no longer immortal because his sorceress abandoned him (just like everyone else did).

But anyways, you figure this out, and basically come barging into his life. Not to make him love you. Not to get her to love him. But to give him something to latch onto.

Let's say Sylus was your favorite in the game (as he is for me, clearly), so you act like a total, batshit crazy, fan girl. And there's something about that crackhead energy that makes him drawn to you.

So you bug him. And bug him. And bug him endlessly. Because even annoyance and anger are better than emptiness and coldness he carries right now. Sure, he hides it well behind snark and flirting, but you know him better. You've watched him from behind a scene for quite some time.

I imagine the reason you're kept around is because of the chaotic nature of who you are and the knowledge you have. And because Sylus doesn't have it in him to give a shit. You're not a threat. If anything, it was the twins that convinced him of your use.

So you live at the base, occassionally witnessing the toxic nature of him and MC's dynamic. And you come up with a plan to help him get over her. Not by making him love you, you'd never be worthy of that, but of getting him to realize that his sorceress is dead. That even it's technically the same the person in soul, she's not the same at her (Aether) core.

Doing so makes you fall even further in love. You discover things about him a simple game could never. You see sights and experience parts of this world that could never captured by a screen or some code. And it hurts.

It hurts because he's more than just a character to you. He cares for you, is soft with you. He buys you things, helps braid your hair, takes you to fancy venues, stands up for you, protects you... You almost think that he loves you.

But that's silly. Who would love you? Who would love the real you, and not the one you present to the world? The one that cries at nothing? The one consumed by anxiety and insecurity? The one that hides under layers and layers of walls capped off by an impenetrable mask? The one that hid herself and changed herself for so many years? The one you're not even sure still exists?

You're such a fraud.

(This whole prompt was inspired by the Webtoon My Derelict Favorite, and I couldn't get it out of my head).

[prettygirl-gabi]

Melatonin in Human Form

Pairing: Paige Bueckers x Reader

Fandom: WNBA-Dallas Wings

Summary: can’t sleep without Paige—childhood naps turned forever habit.

A/N: I would like to publicly apologize for my most recent post. It was very wrong and insensitive of me to post, and I take full accountability for the harm it may have caused. Please forgive me.

Especially too: @iwasbored-okay , @cowboybueckers , @yailtsv , @elalfywhore , @elswhore , @sillylittlepop , @elliesglock , and @authentic-girl03

🏷️: @paigeshirleytemple , @unknowgirlypop , @nicebellee , @sitawita , @thatonesuschix , @vamptizm , @starfulani , @paxaz535 , @azziswrld , @jadasogay , @paigeluvvr , @melpthatsme , @lessi-lover , @courtsidewithlani , @italyyy , @lightsgore , @private-but-not-a-secret , @aubreygriffin , @issilovesherself , @graceeeeeesblog , @sayurireidotcom

I don’t remember the first time I fell asleep with Paige. Her dad probably does, because he never stops talking about how we were “two little Velcro babies who refused to nap without being tangled together.”

My parents even saying the same.

I do remember the warmth.

The safety.

The way her breathing always found its rhythm first, and how mine followed like it knew where home was.

We were maybe six, freshly worn out from a birthday party and some feral rendition of musical chairs, when I ended up passed out on her beanbag chair with her arm slung across my waist like we were puzzle pieces.

And from that moment on, I was done for.

Sleep, for me, has never just been about closing my eyes.

It’s always been about proximity.

Paige-shaped proximity.

And now, years later, that hasn’t changed.

Back in high school, before we were anything more than best friends who happened to blush a little too hard during sleepovers, I tried to downplay it.

I’d crash on her floor during study nights or after games, making excuses about her mattress being comfier or my house being too loud.

She never called me out for what it was—pure, undiluted dependence.

By the time we got to UConn, it was a running joke with her teammates.

“I swear Y/N has Paige set as her melatonin,” Sarah once said, deadpan, as I yawned through breakfast after a night apart.

Paige had just come back from a weekend home, and I barely made it 48 hours before showing up at her dorm door like a stray cat.

“You didn’t sleep again, did you?” she asked, smirking knowingly.

“Define sleep.”

Now we’re in Dallas.

New city, new league, new pace—but the same me.

Same needy, cuddly, sleep-inept me.

And the same Paige, only shinier.

She’s Paige Bueckers, WNBA rookie, endorsement magnet, face-of-everything-all-at-once. And she’s also my fiancée.

Which still makes my stomach flip if I think about it too hard.

Our apartment is big enough to breathe in—exposed brick, sunlight that spills into every room like a golden retriever.

We even have a home office now.

Which I’m currently standing outside of, barefoot in a hoodie and cocooned in a fluffy duvet like a deranged burrito.

It’s 12:42 a.m. I’m tired. But not the kind of tired that leads to sleep. Not when I’m in bed without her.

I knock softly on the office door.

“Paigey?”

No response.

She’s got her AirPods in, probably typing an email to her Nike rep or something equally business-y and important.

I open the door just enough to peek in.

Her laptop casts a blue glow over her face, and her glasses—glasses that I specifically told her made her look like a hot librarian—are sliding down her nose.

I shuffle in like a slug wrapped in cotton.

Her eyes flick to me and soften instantly. “Baby… what are you doing?” she asks, voice low and warm, pulling one AirPod out.

I don’t answer. I just wobble toward her like I’ve been drugged and then, without warning, climb into her lap, duvet and all.

“Y/N!” she laughs, startled, but instinctively adjusts her chair and cradles me like I’m made of something delicate.

“I can’t sleep,” I mumble, face smushed into her neck.

“I told you I’d be done in fifteen.”

“You said that forty minutes ago.”

“You were awake then.”

“I tried. I really tried. I even put on our playlist and laid on your pillow. But it’s not the same.”

Her hands start tracing circles on my back through the blanket. My eyes flutter, already sinking.

“I’m sorry,” she says quietly, kissing my temple. “I just had one last email to send about the Puma shoot next week.”

“Mmm.”

“I should’ve stopped when I saw you still tossing around twenty minutes ago.”

“You’re forgiven,” I murmur, “if you never leave me alone at night again.”

She snorts. “Deal.”

I feel her return to typing, hands moving carefully so she doesn’t jostle me.

My cheek is pressed to her collarbone, and her heart is beating in that perfect, sleepy metronome I’ve known since childhood.

“Do you remember that one time we fell asleep in your trampoline net?” I ask, already halfway gone.

“I remember waking up covered in mosquito bites and somehow still thinking it was worth it.”

“Because I was there?”

“Because we were there.”

There’s a pause. She finishes typing, clicks her trackpad softly, then wraps both arms around me fully.

“I’m done now,” she whispers.

“Good,” I sigh, pulling the duvet higher over both of us.

“I really am your melatonin, huh?”

“You’re more effective than any sleep aid known to man. I should bottle you up.”

She laughs again, quieter this time, and kisses the top of my head.

“I’ll never get tired of being needed by you, you know?” she says, her voice humming against my skin. “Even if it’s just for sleep.”

“It’s not just for sleep,” I yawn. “It’s for everything. I only function right when I’m close to you.”

I expect her to tease me, maybe crack a joke about my codependency, but she just holds me tighter.

“I love you, burrito girl,” she murmurs. “You can stay in my lap forever if you want.”

“I plan to. Even when we’re eighty.”

“You’ll still be dragging your blanket into my wheelchair like this?”

“Yup. Snoring on your shoulder while you answer emails from the grandkids.”

She hums a soft chuckle, and it’s the last thing I hear before I finally—finally—fall asleep.

Wrapped in her arms. Right where I belong.

■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■

                 -Thank You For Reading!💚💙

                             -prettygirl-gabi✨️💗

[bizarrelovetriangel]

lonely + touch starved mc when they first make their relationship with the boys official? like they're scared to ask for more but desperately need it, since they've been missing it for so long

love your writing btw, thank you for posting it!!! no pressure if this request isn't your thing! :))

sylus

- even before your relationship became official, you and sylus have always been somewhat touchy. hands bumping against each other, fingers ever so slightly grazing, and bodies casually brushing up upon close proximity — it's always been there. his touch, no matter how simple, makes you feel so warm and so special. you haven't felt so wanted, in such a long time, maybe ever. the way he makes you feel is one of a kind, and you can't help but crave for more.

- you decided to be subtle and nonchalant about it, thinking sylus was going to tease you if you ask directly. the 'accidental' touches linger for a little too long, and the amount of times you'd playfully and casually hold him had increased. but maybe you didn't do a good job at keeping it low key.

- sylus pays attention to you more than you think. it didn't take long for him to catch your longing gazes to his lips before looking away, and the way you fiddle with your hands after accidentally touching his.

- "if you want something from me, don't hesistate to claim it. i'm all yours, sweetie." he told you after once again noticing your not-so-subtle-gazes at him. "i'd be happy to give you whatever you ask for. anything at all." that's just what sylus does. he's always encouraging you to be unafraid and boldly go after what you want. do what you want to do without shame.

- and so, with his encouragement, you dared yourself to kiss him. and from the second he kissed back with even more passion, you realized that you have nothing to worry about at all. he wants you just as much as you want him.

- with every day you spend together, you become more and more comfortable in asking for physical affection. just as he said, you don't even really need to ask him — just do it. so, eventually, you've come to a point where, if you want kisses, you just kiss him and he will return with a million times more than you could ever ask for.

caleb

- he's basically a puppy. and puppies are naturally affectionate. even before you were official, physical affection has always been one of his main love languages. headpats, pokes, picking you up, grabbing your waist, ruffling your head, giving you massages, putting an arm around your shoulders, using you as a headrest.... he simply cannot keep his hands off you.

- once you became an official couple, however, while you're grateful that his usual handsiness didn't go away, you started to want more physical affection that are a little more intimate. but you wonder, how could you bring it up without sounding greedy or demanding or awkward? knowing him, he'd tease you and you'd rather not have that right now.

- so you start giving him more longing touches but nothing further. they're like invitations for him to make a move: 'if you want more, then do something' kind of touches. you'd rest your hand on his hands, chest, back, arms and shoulders, hoping that you have some effect on him that will make him want to touch you in return.

- as smart as he is, caleb doesn't catch on right away and fails to fall for your traps, and so eventually you lose patience. "hurry up and kiss me already, dummy" and only then did it click to him that you want more. that you are comfortable to take your relationship a step further in regards to physical affection.

- in truth, he was taking it slow around the time your relationship began because he doesn't want to overwhelm you. he's been in love with you for so long, he'd shoved all his feelings in a box, thinking he'd never be able to act on them. he was afraid of opening that box and overwhelming you with his feelings, so he thought he'd wait for you to get comfortable with his touches as your lover.

- and now that he knows you've been waiting for him, caleb is relieved. at last, he doesn't have to hold back. "if you don't mind, i'd like to be a little more greedy now."

zayne

- your relationship started off slow in general because you're both still testing the waters and learning how to act around each other as a couple. you'd start off with holding hands in private, giving kisses on the cheek, and eventually, kisses on the lips. zayne was quite reserved at the beginning, and so there wasn't as much intimacy as most couples would have at the starting stage.

- although you don't mind the slow pace, you secretly longed for more of his touches that are so gentle and warm, like a sweet embrace. his kisses, despite being brief, are always so passionate and they make you want to melt. his cuddles are even better than your most comfortable blanket. you want to be in his arms forever. but of course, you don't want to seem desperate or scare him away by coming off too strong, so you say nothing.

- little did you know, zayne is just as nervous and touched-starved as you. he wants to feel you and he wants to be held by you, and he wished he was more experienced just so he could be more confident that his actions won't be foolish and wrong. because it's you, he wants to get everything perfect.

- for some time, you two stuck with minimal intimacy. however, both of you have also become impatient rather fast, feeling as if you want more and more of each other every day. you'd wish that those goodnight kisses lasted just a little longer. you'd wished that you'd cuddled more while watching movies. you'd wished that you're next to each other as you fall asleep after talking about how your days went.

- with time, you two have gotten out of your comfort zones together and soon enough, neither of you would get nervous about wanting a kiss, and sleeping next to each other wasn't so terrifying anymore. it's all about timing and getting comfortable with each other. eventually, both of you grew confident with physical affection and intimacy, up to a point where you won't be any need to ask. if you want kisses, you just do it. after all, you're his, and he's yours.

rafayel

- rafayel is so pretty he makes you nervous sometimes. in the beginning of the relationship, you'd find yourself in disbelief that that man is your lover, and that he is in love with you, out of everyone in the deepspace. every time he holds your hand, gives you a kiss, and hugs you, you feel like you're not worthy of such warmth.

- and yet still, you need more. more kisses, more hand holding, more cuddling, even just sitting closely together. you just love that tingling, comfortable, warm feeling that he shelters you with. he makes you feel so loved and appreciated. you feel greedy and clingy at the thought of demanding more of his affection, so you kept it all inside and just took what he gave you.

-but rafayel is someone that made you comfortable so easily. he's often playful and lively, and he tends to move around, a lot. there's a lot of playful touches involved — him locking his arms around yours, holding your shoulders, bumping your hands, and various other little casual physical contact, which greatly helped with intimacy.

- eventually, your nervousness went away and you learned to take initiative, knowing that rafayel will never mind all the physical affection as long as it's with you.

- although, if anything, rafayel might just be a little more touch-starved than you, because he'd been waiting for you for so, so long, and every time you hold him, he's met with a sense of belonging — like everything is going to be okay, and that this life is good, after all. and so, don't be afraid to approach him first because he will always welcome and appreciate your touch, and he will absolutely return it all by a tenfold.

xavier

- he'd be the one to take initiative. you won't even have to ask for more because he wants you even more than you could possibly want him. he can be greedy when it comes to you. even in the beginning, he'd find excuses to be around you and touch you, so you won't ever feel lonely.

- but of course, there comes the times when you're feeling needy for more of him. with xavier, the best thing to do is to be direct and upfront, no matter how scary it seems. you found that the best time is when he's sleepy. he is so cuddly. all you need to do is lie down next to him and he'll gradually get closer and closer into cuddling with you until eventually you're spooning. he'd usually make the first move and ask, "is this okay?" or sometimes he'd just do it and read your expressions. if you like it, he'll do it more. if you don't, he'll stop right away.

- if you want to make the first move, he's always been open and inviting with you. he'll always make sure you're comfortable. he's very approachable, so it doesn't take long for you to become confident with what you want from him.

- but mostly, xavier will always want to give than take more, so you won't ever have to worry. with him, you'll always know that you are loved.

[kunareads]

brat | track one

360

producer!suguru x popstar!reader

prev / next series masterlist / full masterlist

wc: 2k

content: smut, fluff, smau / exhibitionism (concealed in a public setting), fingering, drug/alcohol use, ambiguous relationship status / a little scene-setting before we get into it next chapter :)

INTERACT HERE FOR TAGLIST 18+ please <3

Variety — YEAR OF THE BRAT: SUGURU GETO AND YN HAVE THE INDUSTRY IN A HEADLOCK (AND THEY’RE LAUGHING ABOUT IT)

Vulture — INSIDE THE CULT OF YN AND GETO: WHY EVERYONE’S COPYING THE CHAOS

The Cut — THE ART OF BEING WATCHED: THE ROLLOUT THAT TOOK OVER YOUR TIMELINE

[ seven days, 14 hours to drop ]

you’re chewing gum when you walk in.

the meeting room is glass-walled, over-lit, aggressively air-conditioned. it smells like money and emails. a brand director is mid-slide, gesturing at a screen filled with words like reach and multi-platform ecosystem. someone else chimes in about vertical integration.

suguru trails two steps behind you with half a croissant in his hand, headphones slung around his neck. he doesn’t say a word—just drops into the chair beside yours and opens his laptop as if the room isn’t full of people.

you don’t take your sunglasses off. their fault for lighting the place like an interrogation chamber.

“the aim is cultural virality,” someone says. “we’re thinking cross-brand utility meets niche rebellion.”

you blink slowly. blow a bubble. pop it.

“is there a slide where you tell us what the fuck that means?”

suguru doesn’t look up, but he does smirk beside you—the silent, crooked kind he gives you when he thinks you’re being mean on purpose. (you are.)

a younger exec tries to pivot. “no, like—we just want to elevate your image without diluting the—”

“please don’t say authenticity.” you cross your legs. “i’ll have to light myself on fire.”

[ six days, 12 hours to drop ]

@/cultyn (instagram post) 📸 : your silhouette behind a sheer curtain with silver tinsel, suguru’s tattooed hand pulling the curtain aside. 💬 : countdown in bio. don’t be late ⏳

@/cultgeto (instagram post) 📸 : same as yours. 💬 : it begins 🔄 360 video friday

[ four days, 22 hours to drop ]

you feel it before you name it—that warm, sparkling edge of visibility. the music’s perfect. the lights are forgiving. everyone’s looking, seeing exactly what you want them to.

but the only eyes that matter are fixed on you from a corner—suguru, legs spread and an arm slung over the back of the couch like the section belongs to him. (it does.)

he waits.

you let it build. air-kiss people you barely remember. twirl a girl’s hair between your fingers, whispering something that makes her giggle. lean into camera flashes, catching light in your earrings, your clothes, your teeth.

and when you’re satisfied, you cross the floor, hips swinging like a threat, and slot yourself between his knees. he leans back and gives you that look—somewhere between dare and devotion.

“having fun?” he asks, amused.

you straddle his thigh without answering. your skirt rides higher, his eyes drop lower. instead of stopping you, he grabs his jacket from the seat and drapes it over your bare shoulders—possession dressed as modesty.

“so fucking spoiled,” he mutters, more observation than complaint. like he’s proud. like he made you this way on purpose.

you roll your hips once. then again, slower, dirtier. a palm settles on your ass to guide you, not stop you. his show now, not yours. every grind hits harder as you fall into the rhythm he sets.

he takes your drink, downs it in one swallow, sets the glass aside. you watch his throat work before that same hand trails condensation up your thigh and under your skirt.

you’re slick through your panties.

“you’re such a fucking handful,” he says with a smirk, planting kisses from your cheek to your jaw. his voice is hot in your ear, close enough to catch between beats. “you know that?”

you tilt your head, feigning innocence. “wanted you to touch me.”

his smirk deepens when you slide your knees wider on the seat for him. he shifts your panties aside and sinks two fingers in.

your mouth drops open as he sets a pace. you arch into him automatically, grinding harder, already after something without permission. his palm presses over your clit with every thrust. it’s sloppy—shallow breath, parted lips, heavy eyelids.

you try to keep the rhythm, to stay composed, but his fingers work in time with the music, eyes pinned to your face. he kisses you when he catches it—the split second where it stops being teasing and starts being need.

“breathe.”

your hips stutter, the warning landing between your lungs and your legs.

“you’re gonna cum too fast.”

you nod, or shake your head—you don’t know. you ignore him like you always do, desperate now, chasing it like you’re not surrounded by strangers. if anyone’s watching, suguru’s already made sure they can’t see anyway.

“you wanna be fucked on this couch in front of everyone?” he asks, voice dropping to something fond and a little mean. “or are you gonna behave?”

you don’t answer. can’t. your forehead drops to his shoulder, breath hitching as his cologne fills your senses. you’re right on the edge—

“i know, baby.” he murmurs it like a spell, dragging his thumb up your clit. “i know. make a mess if you need to.”

you cum on his hand like it was his idea. like you didn’t start the whole thing in the first place.

he keeps you there, fingers still inside, letting you come apart in pieces on top of him. your hips twitch and you whimper into his throat, melting against him. he lets you ride it out. lets your slick flood over his fingers and down his hand, then pulls out slowly. tucks your panties back into place too carefully for what just happened.

then he brings one finger to his mouth, licking it clean. he offers the other to you, and you take it like you always do—lips parted, tongue out, wrapping around him slow in the way you know drives him insane. you suck, humming low in your throat like a thank you.

you start to lift your head, suddenly aware of where you are and the fact that the song’s changed twice, but a hand finds the back of your neck, grounding you as he kisses your temple.

“not yet,” he murmurs. “you’re okay.”

so you exhale and let yourself sink into him fully. your cheek pressed to his chest, his arm snug around your waist, jacket still warm over your shoulders. the music keeps playing and the lights keep shifting, but for a few more seconds, you stay where you are.

[ four hours to drop ]

you’re twenty-five minutes late and only partially dressed when you go live.

you rarely do interviews separately. don’t take meetings separately either, unless you’re trying to scare someone. livestreams are the same—it’s him or nothing.

suguru stands behind you, black shirt half-buttoned with the sleeves rolled up. he’s halfway through lacing your corset, rings flashing as he works the ribbon like he’s tying a gift.

“i told you to start getting ready two hours ago,” he mutters, eyes on his hands.

“you did,” you agree with a nod, squinting at the phone propped against the hotel mirror. the chat scrolls too fast to follow, but you catch a few:

SUGURU HANDS WATCHERS STAND UP he’s doing it wrong but like… sexy?? she’s so calm i would be screaming and crying and biting

“chat says you’re doing it wrong.”

“chat can’t get you out of a corset with one hand,” he deadpans, not even looking up.

you seal the joint in your hands with a slow press of your tongue, dragging it across the paper like you know he’s watching. (he is. he always is.)

he finishes with a final tug, knotting the ribbon tight and smoothing the laces like he’s proud of himself. his fingers trail down your spine in a lazy line as he kisses your bare shoulder once, soft and thoughtless.

the lighter clicks. you inhale, exhale. watch him in the mirror as he disappears from the frame to rifle through the jewelry you’d dumped onto the counter earlier.

he returns with earrings, necklaces, and bangles in hand.

“stay still.”

his fingers are cool where they skim your neck. he hooks the earrings in slow, fastens your necklace, slips each bracelet on one by one and brings your hand to his lips when he’s done.

you pass him the joint.

“we were supposed to be there thirty minutes ago and it’s thirty minutes away,” he says, exhaling smoke.

“mm,” you reply, dabbing on lip gloss. “better hurry up and pick my shoes then.”

i’ve never wanted to be a joint so bad in my whole life HE PICKS HER JEWELRY?????? is this foreplay or a grwm

[ 30 minutes to drop ]

the diesel party is still going by the time you leave. your heels click loudly against the sidewalk. suguru’s hand rests low at your back, half-steering. he smells like weed and your favorite cologne.

someone with a press badge calls your name—matte lipstick, eyes wide like she can’t believe you’re real. she catches you just before the car with a mic, a cameraman, and a hopeful smile.

“just a second—can we get a quick word? you both look—” she hesitates, trying to find the right language. “—unreal.”

suguru stops halfway behind you, not moving his hand from your waist.

“so,” she starts, practically vibrating. “what made you two want to show up together for tonight’s diesel launch?”

“we love a party,” you reply, smiling.

she laughs like it’s charming. follows up with something about your sound, the visuals you’ve been putting out recently. you let suguru answer that one—you’re busy watching the lights bounce off the gloss you left on his cheekbone.

“okay, last one. you probably get this all the time, but—are you two… together?”

suguru grins. “we’re the same person.”

you don’t miss a beat. “worse.”

the interviewer laughs, flustered and delighted. “right. okay. thank you—”

but you’re already sliding into the backseat.

the car door shuts and the world cuts out. no bass, no flashing lights. just dark leather and air conditioning and exhaustion behind your eyes.

you exhale once, sharp, and start leaning forward to unbuckle your shoes.

suguru stops you. “let me.” like it’s obvious.

he pulls your feet into his lap one at a time, slipping the heels off like you’re breakable. his thumb circles your ankle, slow and grounding. your breathing evens out.

outside, cameras flash against the windows, but the tint’s too dark for them to get anything real.

it echoes in your head. are you two together?

“you didn’t say no,” you say softly, eyes closed.

he keeps rubbing. “you didn’t either.”

when you look at him, he’s smiling at you, eyes soft like he’s listening for something unspoken.

you settle deeper into the seat, one hand resting over his.

neither of you has said it.

but he always shows up. always looks at you like you’re the only person in the world speaking his language.

and you do the same.

you’re each other’s. just not in a way you can put in writing.

[ three minutes post-drop ]

the 360 video drops at midnight. it’s trending by 12:03.

the internet does what it always does.

@/bratchive: every brand strategist watching this with tears in their eyes

@/getogirl: brat / tamer dynamic so loud you can hear the leash drag

@/forynonly: legacy is UNDEBATEDDDDD icon behavior

you don’t check your phone, but you feel it—the shift, the buzz, the spin of it all. the world catching up to something you’ve already lived through.

[delilahsturniolo]

— ♡ motive . . . m.s

in which . . . you and matt meet at a party and go back to his apartment, just expecting him to be another player and nothing more, come to find out theres something real behind his motive.

warnings . . . smut, a bit of angst, oral, (fem!recieving) dry humping, kissing, use of pet names.

written by @delilahsturniolo. do not copy, steal, or modify my works. if you are taking any inspiration from this, please ask me first before posting and credit me in your description. happy reading! :)

POSITIONS WRITING MARATHON . . . fic #3

you don’t do this kind of thing.

you don’t let boys with soft lips and prettier eyes talk their way past your carefully constructed boundaries. you don’t fall for sweet words whispered in the back of dimly lit parties. you especially don’t fall for guys like him. the ones who flirt like it’s a sport and smile like they’ve already won. but then matt walks in with that crooked smirk and careless confidence, and suddenly, you’re rewriting your rules.

he finds you nursing a drink on the balcony, the bass from inside pulsing through the walls like a heartbeat. his voice is lazy when he says, “figured you’d be out here.”

“figured you’d be inside,” you shoot back, not even looking at him. you feel him come closer, his presence like gravity, tugging at your spine. “what, and miss you trying to play hard to get?”

you roll your eyes. “who said i’m playing?” his laugh is low and close to your ear now, warm and teasing. “you do know that just makes me want you more, right?” you finally glance at him, take in the way his curls fall across his forehead, the way his shirt clings to his chest like it was made for him. he’s too good-looking for his own good. for your good.

“you want me, huh?” you tilt your head. “why?” he doesn’t answer right away. instead, he looks at you like he’s trying to undress your intentions, your doubts, your game. “is this a trick question?”

“depends. are you just trying to get laid?” his eyebrows lift, caught somewhere between amused and impressed. “what if i am?” you blink, not expecting him to be that honest. it’s…refreshing, kind of. frustrating, too. because you don’t want to like how his honesty turns you on.

“then you’ll need a better pitch than that,” you murmur. he steps in closer, not touching, but almost. “i could give you a better pitch,” he says, voice dipping, “but i’d rather show you.” you exhale slowly, trying to ignore the heat curling low in your stomach. you want to know what his motive is. you want to believe it’s more than just one night, that he’s not like the rest. but even if it is just one night, you’re starting to think you wouldn’t mind.

“you always this forward?” you ask. he leans down, lips brushing your ear. “only when i really want something.” and god help you, you want him, too. so, you follow him to his car, trusting your gut. he begins driving once you buckle your seatbelt, his sleeves rolled up and his tie slightly lopsided.

when you get there, his apartment is clean, dimly lit, music playing low from some playlist that sounds suspiciously curated. he tosses his keys on the counter like he’s done this a hundred times before, but there’s something different about the way he watches you tonight, like he’s trying to memorize you. “you nervous?” he asks, stepping closer.

“should i be?”

he grins. “depends on what you think is gonna happen.” you cross your arms, ignoring how your body buzzes with anticipation. “why don’t you tell me what you think is gonna happen, matt?” his eyes darken. “i think you came here wondering if i was just another player.”

“and?”

“and i think you already know i am.” he pauses, hands sliding up your waist. “but that doesn’t mean i don’t want you just as much as you want me.” his fingers dig in, pulling you closer until your chest is flush with his. his breath is hot against your cheek. “we don’t have to lie to each other. not tonight.” his honesty cuts through the haze in your head like a match to gasoline.

so you kiss him. and it’s electric.

his hands are everywhere. your hips, your back, threading through your hair. he tastes like mint and sin, and he kisses like he’s trying to make you forget every boy who came before him. you pull his shirt over his head, fingers trailing over the lean lines of his torso, your breath catching when he whispers your name like it’s something sacred. his mouth traces the column of your neck, teeth grazing skin just enough to make you gasp. he doesn’t ask for permission, he knows you want this, but he still waits for that look in your eyes. the one that says yes.

you give it to him without hesitation. he backs you into his bedroom, lips never leaving yours, his hands teasing the hem of your top. when he pulls it off, he stares for a second too long, like he can’t believe you’re real. “beautiful,” he mutters, almost to himself.

you shove him down onto the bed, straddling his lap with a wicked smile. “still think this is just about sex?” his eyes gleam. “i’m starting to think it might be more.” you begin to grind against him slowly, watching him unravel beneath your hands. he’s all breathless groans and hushed curses, every nerve lit up like a fuse. “shit baby..” matt groans, looking up at you as you moved your hips, feeling his erection through his jeans. you were in nothing but a bra and your soaked panties.

“what? gettin’ tired already?” matt chuckled, grabbing you and flipping you both over so he was now on top. matt spread your thighs, leaning down and tugging your panties off with his teeth, slowly sliding them down and off your ankles. “gonna show you m’not playing around when i say i want you.” matt mumbled, he was gonna show you his motive.

you moaned as matt flicked his tongue against your clit, slowly and teasingly lapping his tongue around your wetness. he pressed a kiss to your clit, making you jolt. he was taking his time with you, and he was going to make this unforgettable. he continued to hold your legs open, getting lost in your slick, his lips were coated with your wetness. he brought his thumb over, stroking your clit a few times. and that was all it took the make you come undone. “fuck, oh my gosh—“ you cried out, cumming on matt’s tongue. he collapsed on the bed next to you, giving you some breathing room.

after, tangled in his sheets, bodies slick with sweat and breath still uneven, you find yourself tracing patterns across his chest. he’s quiet, but not in that usual post-hookup way. he’s looking at you like he’s still figuring you out. like he’s not ready to let you go yet. “so,” you murmur, “was that all part of the plan?” he laughs, lazy and satisfied. “if it was, it worked.”

“but what was the plan? just sleep with me once and ghost me after?” he frowns slightly, then leans in to kiss your shoulder. “honestly? i didn’t have a plan. i just knew i wanted you.” you tilt your head. “and now?” he brushes your hair back, his touch unexpectedly soft. “now i think i might want more.” you stare at him for a beat, heart thudding. “you sure you’re not just saying that?”

he laughs again, pulling you closer. “maybe. or maybe you’re just different.” you rest your head against his chest, letting the silence stretch. you don’t know what this is, or where it’s going, but for once, you don’t feel the need to ask. not tonight. tonight, you’re okay with not knowing the motive. you just know it feels good.

© delilahsturniolo

[ihavenocluewhatiwanttobecalled]

YES YESSSSS! And let me be clear. Even if swimming is probably the best exercise for fat people... ... ... Why should fat people be forced to exercise? (To be clear: I am NOT saying that's what you're saying. I know that's not what you're saying. I'm just adding to the conversation by touching on something you didn't, because what you said segues neatly into something I've been thinking about) Like, yes, evidence shows that fat people who exercise are actually healthier than skinny people who don't. Evidence shows fat people who exercise don't suffer the same health problems that fat people are stereotyped as having, even if they don't lose weight. (Because health is more about how FIT you are, or at least, how much EXERCISE you get without OVERWORKING YOUR BODY, than it is about how fat you are). But... Why should fat people get shamed into exercising? Why should people shame and belittle and "kindly suggest" that fat people exercise? Or outright DEMAND they do? Because we don't really do this to skinny people, even though skinny people DO also "need" to exercise, just as much as fat people. And before the "pissing on the poor" reading comprehension gets a hold of this post: I am a skinny white man who's "exercise" is 10 jump squats, 10 situps, 5 burpees, and 5 pushups, which I do only 3 days a week. Though I haven't been exercising while I've been sick. And I do plan to increase my exercise to 20 jump squats, 15 situps, 10 burpees, and 5 pushups... Eventually. I'm working my way up. But like, that is still the kind of exercise you'd be expecting 8-year-olds to be doing. In fact, what I'm working my way up to? That IS an exercise routine for 8-year-olds. Just... letting y'all know that for context.

It's honestly such a shame that we've made such a huge thing out of swimming and swimsuits and looking good in swimsuits and fat people not looking good in swimsuits. Swimming is actually the perfect exercise for fat people because it puts zero pressure on the joints, which is a much bigger concern for us than it is for skinny people, and lets you exercise basically every muscle group without straining too much and risking injury. Yet somehow this is one of the least accessible exercises to fat people due to nothing more than a culture of body shaming. The work to unlearn all the shame to be comfortable in a bathing suit in front of strangers is huge even for conventionally attractive people, but I could probably count on one hand the number of fat people I've met who were confident enough to get in a bathing suit and go swimming in public.

And what is the exercise that somehow everyone thinks they should do instead? Jogging. It's more accessible, sure, it's easy and costs nothing to go outside and run. But I need you to understand telling a fat person to go running is basically telling them to go destroy their knees. Not to mention it's probably one of the most physically uncomfortable exercises to do when you have a body that jiggles even with compression garments.

Imagine a world where everyone had the ability and equal access to whatever exercise fit them best and helped them be happy and healthiest. Imagine a world where fat people go swimming.

[revelboo]

Your newest role play posts have been so good. I can’t help but think that for Starscream he’d be into some role play involving his human calling him master or something. Also Omg dude are you alright? The sun poisoning?

I’m a little shaky, but fine. Whatever I did to myself, the hotel elevator is messing me up with unexpected vertigo now, though lol. Star would absolutely want to be called master or lord Starscream. 🔞 mass displaced mech 🌶️

Roleplay

Starscream

• “Okay.” And he’s just staring at you, his wings flicking like he expected a fight. Or for you to at least argue with him. Besides, he’s been well behaved lately. At least he’s not been complaining too loudly about your other mates. Especially the fact that you have other mates. “Master,” you add and his optics flare brighter. Biting into the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling as his wings tremble and flare out slightly.

• Wavering between arousal and embarrassment as you look up at him, he reaches out to cup your cheek, a servo sliding over your bottom lip. Because asking you to do this for him, to roleplay is one thing. Actually ordering you around, though? He’s not sure what to say. But then you’re sliding down onto your knees, looking up at him as your palms slide up his thighs. And his spike is so hard behind his plating. Aching for you.

• He’s actually frozen. Like he can’t believe you’re playing along. Bemused, you brush your mouth against the plating hiding his spike. “Want my mouth on you, Lord Starscream?” You whisper as his servos tunnel into your hair, optics almost wild. And he makes a strangled, rumbling growl of noise, freeing his spike for you. Curling a hand around him, you skim your mouth along his length feeling him tremble. “I live to serve,” you tease.

• Turbines whining as his venting grows ragged, he can’t tear his optics away from the sight of your lips brushing against his length, eyes flicking up to lock with his optics before you’re taking the head of his spike into the wet, heat of your mouth. Struggling against the urge to thrust when your tongue slides over the head, then along the underside of his spike and your head slowly bobs. “Like that,” he grinds out, head back and jaw clenched.

• Swallowing as you run your fingers over him, fisting him, you slide your other hand between your thighs. Playing with yourself as you tease him. Aware of those optics shuttering as he groans. “Did I tell you that you could touch yourself?” He grinds out and you ignore the attitude, mouth sliding on him. Feel his hips flex slightly and it’s the only warning you get before he overloads and you swallow before pulling away, feeling him slick your front with his excess. “Lay on the berth,” he growls, tone firm, more confident than usual.

• Venting raggedly as you obey, sitting on your modified berth with your thighs spread slightly, your smile is wicked. “Like this?” And his wings flare as you give him a look. “Master,” you add, tone teasing. Palming your shoulder, he pushes lightly and you lay back for him. Gripping your hips, he buries himself inside you in a hard drive, thrusting deep. ‘Say it again,’ he snarls, hips pumping. “Master,” you moan as he ruts against you.

[2neaky]

. ۪ ֗ “ 𝑁𝑜—𝐺𝑒𝑡 𝑇ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑂𝑛𝑒 ”⋆˚🫧

PART 2 • [this fic has been split into two parts]

21k! CONTENT WARNING (MDNI) • phone s*x (mutual m*sturbation), edg*ng, unprotected s*x, p -> v s*x, b*ckshots, squ*rting, choking, c*rvix kissing, rough consensual s*x, dominating male character, possessive behavior/talk, dummification, foot f*tish, minor size k*nk, tummy bulge, heavy use of dirty talk, use of profanity, nicknames (Mami, Mama, Papa, Pa), use of the n-word (all characters & Author are Black) • INSPIRED BY THIS POST • CHARACTER VISUALZ

PART 1 HERE ->

DRAGGING A HEAVY HAND DOWN HIS FACE, Sito releases a long-held sigh.

Parked up outside of the auto body shop, he sits in his car with heavy eyes. His cousin is still inside, in a screaming-match with the mechanic about a change in the previously discussed price.

He could only last about two minutes before he had to leave the confrontation behind for his peace of mind.

With dead eyes, he stares blankly ahead. The sun has long since went down, leaving the sky a dark blue. He should be in bed right now, laid back, watching Cimani go on and on about some random topic plaguing her mind at the moment.

He hopes she didn’t forget his call. 

He kisses his teeth. “Matter fact … ‘cause I know she forgot—“

His fingers move as he speaks to himself, tapping to get to her contact. 

For a minute, the FaceTime call rings out until ultimately going unanswered. His face twists up at that.

So, with an even worse attitude, he calls again. Because, who does she think she is, ignoring his call? That is not what they do.

His phone rings out for some time. His frustration is growing. Just as he’s sure the call is about to drop, the phone chimes as it’s answered.

It’s quiet for a few seconds as the call connects, then he hears her shifting around in bed.

“Hello?”

He looks at the screen, her camera turned off.

“So you forgot you had to call me?”

“No?”

Her voice is soft and quiet.

“Why your voice sound like that? You sound like you just waking up.”

There’s a long delay before she answers. “M’not…”

“Yeah, aight.” He stares at the screen, eyes narrowing in a squint. “Why am I looking at myself? I FaceTimed you. This ain’t no regular call.”

A soft, sound comes from her end of the call. He’s not even sure he could tell what kind of sound it was.

“I don’t wanna t-turn it on.”

He lifts a brow. “You want me to hang up? I’m bothering you or something?”

A short breath leaves her. “You’re n-not bothering me.”

“So turn your camera on.”

“Sito—“

“Yo, quit acting like this before I hang up. Forreal, ‘Mani. You sure you not just waking up?”

“Oh my God … I’m not.” There’s some shifting going on, picked up by the mic. It’s about a minute before her camera finally turns on.

Sito finally sees her in her bonneted-glory. And she’s as barefaced as ever, noting in particular how low her eyes are. 

“What day you booked the lash appointment for?”

“Um… “ Her eyes flutter as she pulls her bottom lip in between her teeth. She exhales. “S-Saturday.” There’s a tiny inflection in her voice.

He expects her to go on a tangent about the style of lashes she’s getting, even complain about how long it takes to get them done—the usual whenever she was about to get them done.

But, his expectations are subverted with her short answer and lack of an explanation.

“Okay?” He says, brows pulled together in confusion. “How much is it?”

“Mh—I don’t … I-I think $120?”

“You think? What you stuttering so much for?”

“M-m’not,” she—whines? Not only that, but her eyes almost kind of … roll?

What’s going on?

“You good?” He asks, more confused than concerned.

“Yes … J-just … tell me about your—um … your errands.” The last few words were breathed out in a rush, like she couldn’t hold them in anymore.

He kissed his teeth, his gaze switching to somewhere out of the window. “Haircut was cool, not much to complain about. Y’know, Ray did his thing,” he smiles. 

But his smile is quickly wiped away by the reminder of his current predicament. “But, Jahmere in there, arguing with the fucking mechanic about the price.”

“Mhm…”

“I’m tryna get the fuck outta here. Granted … the nigga is overcharging him, I’m not even gon’ lie. Like, I’m telling you, ‘Mani, he charged him odee for some crazy ass shit—“

His brows pull together as her breathing grows heavier—louder—in the mic. He has to do a double-take. Nevertheless, he continues with his story.

“Uh, they been screaming in there for about a hour now. I wasn’t even tryna hear all that, forreal. So,” he rubs a hand down his face. “I came in here—“

“Hh—mhm.”

He blinks. Slowly, Sito turns his head to finally look at the screen. Cimani is nowhere in sight. Instead, he’s staring up at her dark ceiling.

He expects a quick apology, an explanation—even a small joke from her about the oddness of her breathing. Yet, for the next few seconds it’s nothing but silence.

That is, until he hears it. 

It’s so quiet, it’s really a miracle that the microphone even picked it up; tiny splishes of water growing, almost drowning out the soft squishes of wet, slippery skin.

He angles his phone away from his face, just so she won’t catch it when he hides his mouth with a closed fist. Because there’s no way…

He presses his lips together, trying to keep a grin at bay. His call had definitely interrupted something.

Slowly, he inhales, trying to settle himself. “So, uh … you sure I’m not bothering you?”

Her exhale is loud, he can tell she had breathed out through her mouth. “Hhm—no.”

“I’m not?”

“No, Sito.”

The frail tremble in her voice does something to him. He inhales deeply.

“Aight, I’ma trust you… When you get your lashes done, get that wispy shit. That’s what you had last time, right?”

“Y-yes—“

A whimper hits his ears. 

“Aight, I’ma send you the money.” He licks his lips, looking at the still screen. It takes him less than a minute to send the Apple Cash. “You got it?”

“I-I don’t know.” Her voice is soft, almost whiny.

“Just check,” he begs softly.

She whispers something, but he doesn’t hear it too well. What he does hear is a slopping sound, and he can imagine her fingers, decorated with acrylic, pushing through the mess she’s created. Running through her lips to rub at her sensitive clit.

There’s a soft mewl this time.

“O-okay,” she pants. The camera is jostled around before he finally sees a peek of her bonnet again. “I got it.” Her voice wavered. “Thank you, Sito.”

He bites at his bottom lip, trying to stop himself from grinning any harder.

“You good, Mami.”

Another whimper. He can tell that she’s trying to keep quiet.

“You know you deserve it.”

Again, he hears what she tries so hard to hide: Plap, plap, plap. Like she had just laid three, hard slaps on her pussy.

He swallows, instantly reminded of the dryness in his own throat. There’s a hidden desire for a taste of something wetter. His heart is pounding in his chest.

“Lemme see your nails.”

“S-Sito—“

“Nah, you didn’t even show me when you got back in the car. Lemme see.”

It’s quiet on the other line for a few seconds. There’s no movement.

“Cimani.”

No answer.

He kisses his teeth. “Quit making me ask so many times.”

“Shit … h-hold on—“

There’s some fumbling with the phone before it’s finally picked up. Apprehensive, she lifts a hand to the camera, showing off her brand new nails. 

And as Sito looks at the deep blue acrylics, he notes how shiny they look. 

Glistening, even. 

Wet.

He can’t help the sick chuckle that leaves him. “Oh my fucking God,” he mumbles into his hand.

“D-do you see you it?”

He licks his lips, enjoying too much the desperation in her voice. “Yeah… I like ‘em.”

The hand disappears shortly after, and the screen goes dark.  It’s quiet once again. Well … almost quiet.

That soft, creamy sound is picked up by the mic again. He can tell her hand is moving slow. Probably rubbing slow circles against her clit.

“You like them?”

“M-mhm … yeah.”

“Knew you would.” He rubs the knuckle of his thumb into his lower lip as he eyes the screen. “Should’a just listened to me when I first told you to get ‘em.”

He wishes she would show him something. Even if it’s just her face.

“But that’s just you being a brat.”

He can hear her breathing pick up. Another minute of silence passes by.

“Your hair.”

“What about it, Mami?”

The broken sound that leaves her makes his dick jump.

“Wanna s-see it.”

Without another word, he clicks on the light for her to see. In the camera, he bows his head to show off the fresh line up.

“It’s good, right?”

“Mhm.”

It’s quiet for a moment, and that creamy sound seems to get a fraction louder.

“L-looks so good, Pa.”

Her words were a soft moan. He knows she didn’t mean for that to slip. She’s caught up in the moment.

And he doesn’t mind one bit, as he’s got a hand gripping on his dick. A quick glance out of the car window ensures him that there isn’t a soul outside to catch him. It’s not like they would see him anyway, not with his tints.

He sits up in his seat, gripping his phone a bit tighter.

“That’s my name now?”

Her breathing is heavy, even if she tries to hide it. “Fuck … s-sorry—“

“Are you?”

No answer.

Softly, he kisses his teeth with the shake of his head. “Stop playing, ‘Mani.”

“W-what?”

“Stop playing with me, Cimani.” 

She’s quiet again.

“Answered my phone call while you playing with your pussy.”

He swears he hears a tiny gasp.

“Least you could do is lemme see it … know it’s mine, anyway.”

“Sito—“

“It was just Pa. What happened?”

She doesn’t say anything.

“Don’t get shy on me. You was just playing with her, all loud in the mic,” he chuckles. “Shit was cute, though, I’ll give you that.” 

He doesn’t have a hand in his pants yet, but he’s about two seconds away from doing so. “Put her on camera.”

There’s a bit of shuffling, but it only takes a couple of seconds before he sees her: puffy lips taking up his screen. Freshly done fingers spread her open for him to see pretty, gummy pink walls squeezing in on themselves. 

Her cunt dribbles a cloudy, sticky sap.

He shifts in his seat, feeling on himself through his pants. “She always pretty like this?”

She only moans in response. Her clit jumps with another clench.

“Them long ass nails, bet you can’t even play with her right.”

There’s a whimper. “I can’t,“ she whines.

Finally, Sito unzips his jeans, slowly slipping a hand underneath his boxers. “Lemme see how you been playing with her.”

Her middle finger dips into her honey pot, swiping up a dabble of her pearlescent goo. It’s sticky, stringing between the opening of her lips and the pad of her finger.

As he watches, he runs his hand down his length before holding himself at the head.

“She drooling, baby.”

He sees her other hand pulling a leg back. Hand between her legs, her fingers pull together. This resume a gentle flow as they rub against her clit.

Which is so small. In fact, by the looks of it, she can really cover her whole pussy with just a hand. And as far as he remembers, Cimani’s hands aren’t big at all.

He almost coos, watching her work her little cunt until it sputters out a release from overstimulation.

His hand tightens around his dick as the thought of him stretching her out plays in his mind.

“Couldn’t wait to mess up them nails, huh?” he asks. “Them nails I just paid for.”

“I’m sorry—“

“Nah, you cool, baby. It’s cool. Lemme see how you did ya toes.”

He swipes his tongue over his plump bottom lip just as he passes his fist over himself.

The camera is pushed further back, probably leaned up against the bulk of her sheets. It happens so fast, it’s like he blinks and she’s back in the screen—legs pulled back and spread once more. 

And just above, on either side of her, her toes are curled rather cutely. The fresh acrylic on them is shaped in perfect squares, every last one of them a gentle pink.

“Fuck,” he whispers, twisting a hand over himself as more blood rushes south.

“W-what else, Pa?”

Oh, that got him. Something about that soft voice and her asking him—he’s high off of this fantasy-come-to-life.

“Keep playing with her,” he says, voice ragged.

She listens, no questions asked. As her fingers swipe back and forth over the swollen bud, pushing through puffy lips, he tries his best to mimick the pace at which she goes, on himself.

“You so pretty, Mami. How many times I gotta tell you that?”

The question is rhetorical, his mouth just running as his body breaks down.

His shoulder twitches, he sinks further in his seat. “Pretty ass lil’ pussy.”

With low eyes, he watches her cunt clamp around nothing every few seconds the longer she goes. Her hips twitch as they begin to roll against the air.

“Bet you if was there, I could give her what she really need.”

“Please,” she whines.

“She deserves some good ass dick, don’t she?”

As her fingers flick over herself faster, his hand, too, speeds up.

“Y-yes—“

“How long it’s been? Hm?”

“I … f-fuck—too long,” she hiccups.

Another broken moan falls from her right as her hand freezes. She’s still for a second, before she lays two quick slaps to her clit.

Soft white globs ooze from her, slipping down the terrain of her lips to the stained sheets below.

“U-uh … ffuck!”

She reaches down to scoop up some of her release, spreading it over herself.

Her lips shine like they’ve been glossed, a tantalizing view.

“Keep going for me,” he mumbles, still working himself.

Despite crying out at the overstimulation, she continues. She just keeps rubbing and rubbing.

“Oh, God,” she mewls. Her pussy clenches tighter. “Mh—Sito,” she warns.

“That ain’t my name.”

“I … I—“

She flutters twice, pink walls pushing out for him to see. Then, crystal clear water trickles from her pussy like a water fountain. Her stream gains a bit of height, even hitting the camera as her body bears down.

He can hear the cushioned pattering of her release against the sheets, like rain hitting a roof.

“Shiiit…” He watches in awe. “She get wet like that?” 

A soft, broken moan leaves her as she rides out her high, still rubbing her abused clit until the stream dies down.

When she’s finally done, her soft pants are all picked up by the mic.

“Fuck,” he groans out, a lazy smile on his lips. He’s still got a hand on his dick, having stopped to focus on her.

A gentle silence settles over the call. He looks at the screen. For a moment, everything is still. 

She’s so quiet, he starts to question their connection.

“Yo, ‘Mani,” he calls out.

No answer.

As he opens his mouth to call her again, a soft chime sounds.

She hung up.

Dick in hand, Sito feels like a clown as his face morphs into an expression of confused irritation.

“The fuck?”

ᥫ᭡

HER HEAD REMAINS DOWN as the pads of her middle and pointer fingers press into her temple. There’s a faint pulse there.

As her other hand cradles the cup of tea she prepared for herself, she struggles to even lift the cup to her lips. 

If it isn’t one thing, it’s the next. Last night’s phone call plays over and over in her mind—the second-hand embarrassment paralyzing.

How, in her right mind, could she ever think to do that?

Yeah, he’d caught her at a bad time, but she could’ve hung up. He even asked. 

Why couldn’t she just call him back? What about that felt so thrilling to her that she just had to continue?

He enjoyed it, she’s not stupid enough to ignore that part or even pretend to be oblivious to it. 

Actually, it’s not even all that hard to see that where they stand is as a little more than just friends.

But she hadn’t wanted that to change. Not so soon. Not with everything so unsure in her life right now.

Can she even handle a relationship with Sito? She knows she likes him, the crush has been there for a long time. Hovering in the near-distance. 

Does he feel the same way, is the question.

As she thinks back on how seamlessly he switched up last night, pulling out the dirty talk with no hesitation, it makes her wonder: is this just lust for him?

How seriously does he take her?

Cimani’s never been one to think of Sito as a slut. In fact, the only reason she’ll ever know of a girl he’s talking to or hooking up with is by accident (or snooping). He doesn’t discuss his sexual or romantic life with her, not since high school, honestly.

She can respect that about him, not being a pillow-talker. At the same time, though, Sito doesn’t ever really talk about much that doesn’t pertain to what’s between them.

Even if she can say that she’s known him for years, she doesn’t know everything about Sito. The vagueness scares her.

A heavy sighs leaves her as she finally raises the cup to her lips. The taste of lemon barely touches her tongue when there’s a knock at her door. She freezes up, staring at the door with widened eyes.

She’s not expecting anyone, she never really does.

More knocking.

Carefully, she sets down her cup. On her way to the door, the knocks grow hastened. When she gets close enough, she even hears the faint sound of one kissing their teeth.

The word “fuck” is mouthed quietly.

“Don’t act like you not there. You know we still share locations.”

She throws her head back with a silent groan and the roll of her eyes. Regaining composure, Cimani takes a deep breath before finally unlocking her door and pulling it open.

It’s like coming face to face with your worst nightmare and your greatest dream at the same time.

“I was ‘bout to say, I know you not gonna make me start yelling for you out here.”

She blinks, trying to make sense of the visual before her; Sito stands with an arm at his side while the other is curled around a big bouquet of flowers.

Pink peonies—her favorite.

He’s beaming, solid gold fronts cover his top and bottom row of teeth. And at his feet are several brown bags of groceries. She stares at them for a while. 

The nearest Trader Joe’s is twenty minutes away from her apartment.

She looks back up at him, unable to even process the wide grin on his face.

“Took me like three trips to bring all these bags here. Y’know, I didn’t wanna—“ he pulls the bouquet from the crook of his arm, showing them off. “—crush the flowers.”

She blinks again.

His smile dims a fraction as he looks off to the side. “So … you gonna let me in or…”

Her mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

“Okay, ‘Mani—at least take the flowers.” His face falls with possible rejection. “I’ll take the groceries back if you don’t want ‘em—“

“Sito,” she exhales.

He stands at attention, elated to at least hear her voice.

“W-why … what is this?”

His groomed brows furrow.

“What you mean?” He looks around at all the things he’s bought, before finally looking back to her. “I’m just making sure you good.”

•

She helped him unpack in silence—or, the other way around. Neither of them were able to say much. 

When they had packed the final bag away, Cimani immediately sprung to her electric kettle, starting it to make him a cup of tea.

It’s already half-past eleven, but she needs to keep busy. 

She doesn’t even ask him what kind of tea he wants.

No need. She already knows. Black tea with milk, and two tablespoons of sugar.

As she stirs his cup, he watches her from the other side of her small island. Every single movement she makes, he eyes carefully, studying her.

Her skin feels hot under his stare. Clearing her throat, Cimani slowly passes him the cup. She doesn’t look at him.

“You’ll make me tea, but you won’t say nothing to me.” He scoffs. “C’mon, now.”

Finally, she dares to look him in the eyes.

“Are we gonna talk about—“

“I don’t think last night should’ve happened.”

His face alights with shock, brows raised and mouth open. “Oh?”

Inhaling deeply, her eye contact with him falters. “I-I don’t know why I did that. It was—that was wrong, I shouldn’t have even answered the phone.”

The worlds tumble out of her mouth, clumsy and loose.

“And that was weird, I just—I feel like I crossed a line.” Her face contorts in mild discomfort, her body beginning to fold in on itself. “I’m sorry—“

“Hol’on—wait.” A breathy laughter leaves him as he shakes his head. “‘Mani, you making it seem like you just assaulted me or some shit.”

“I technically did.” She frowns.

“I mean—“ He looks around, trying his best to come with a way to word his thoughts properly. “Did I expect that shit? Hell no. Did I enjoy it?” His gaze locks dead center with hers. 

“Sito—“

“Yes.” He even nods for emphasis. “I enjoyed it a lot. Matter fact, only thing I didn’t enjoy was you cutting that call short.”

Her heart skips a beat, but still her frown deepens. “You don’t get it.”

His head jerks back, confusion clear on his face? “Get what, ‘Mani? What else is there to get?” He scoffs. “You wanted to put on a show, and I wanted to watch—“

“Oh my God, shut the fuck up,” she groans, hiding her face in her hands.

She takes yet another deep breath, gathering herself to prepare the worst to come. She already fucked things up this bad, there’s really no going back after this. Not with the kind of person Sito is, he’ll never let this shit go.

“I … I feel like that didn’t mean anything to you.” Her brows pull in together, and she looks as if she confused by her own words. “Like, I get that it was … whatever the fuck it was, but like—ugh!”

His face contorts with hers, trying to follow along with her words.

“I-If you just wanna fuck after this, Sito, that’s not what I want. Okay? I don’t just wanna use you, or you use me, for a quick thing whenever we need to get some pressure off. I’m sorry if I even gave you that impression—“

“Woah, woah, woah. What are you talking about?”

She squints at him. “What do you mean what am I talking about? I think I’m making myself pretty clear.”

“Uh—not really. ‘Cause honestly, you bringing claims to the table I ain’t never even claimed!”

She blinks, her face dropping. “Huh?”

For the first time in a few minutes, he actually cracks a smile. “Don’t ‘huh’ me. You heard what I said.”

Slowly, he rounds the island, forgetting all about the drink she had made him.

“Who the fuck told you I only ever wanted to fuck? I give you that vibe?” He gestures between the two of them, his expression teeters the line between confusion and offense.

“Somebody that just wanna fuck, gon’ get you all that shit I bought? They gon’ buy you groceries a-and get you flowers?” He takes slow steps towards her. “They gonna offer to give you rent money and pay to keep you pretty?”

By the time he chooses to stop, her back is pressed against the countertop. Her only option is to remain there, staring up at the man who only leaves a few inches of space between them.

“Cimani,” he chuckles. “Told you, you just like to hear yourself talk, forreal—I’on know what fucking impression I gave you, but I just wanna see you be put up.”

She can hardly swallow with his admission.

“I’on know how many times I gotta say that. I ain’t tryna see you stressed out for nothing. Not when I know I could make it easier.”

His eyes bounce back and forth between her own. 

“Do I need to explain myself anymore?”

Chewing at her bottom lip, she tries her hardest to wrestle her facial expressions under control. So far, it’s not working, because he can see the inklings of a smile on her face.

She shakes her head ‘no.’

Peering down at her, his gaze is focused and intense. There really isn’t much of a smile on his anymore.

“Now that we finally got that shit out the way, I’m tryna finish what you started.”

•

“That’s it … that’s all I need you to do,” he pants. “Just need you to take it.”

Her vision clouds as her eyes roll back, before her eyes squeeze shut. A rough groan rips from her chest.

His dick, wide and thick, stretches her out in more ways than one. As he peers down between them, where they connect, his dick twitches from the sight.

Her lips mare fully stretched around him, as she feebly clenches around him. Her body is filled to the brim—stuffed.

“She hugging me tight, huh?” He laughs, holding her open with one hand. “Tryna figure out what to do with all this dick she getting.”

She clenches at his words, earning another chuckle out of him.

It’s not even like she can respond—tell him to shut up … not that she wants to. Stuffing her big, pouting lips are Sito’s big, ringed fingers. Her tongue laves at them.

The only semblance of a response she gives, is a moan.

“Don’t gotta do no more thinking, right?”

“Mm—mmh,” she groans, the sides of her mouth leaking with spit. 

Her eyes flutter, only opening when he begins to drag his dick out of her. Her back was barely able to arch against the countertop, body pressed against the cold, hard surface.

“No more thinking,” he coos. “Not when you got all this—dick in you.”

He slides back in, pushing all of those inches up against her cervix. From the small underside of her stomach that he barely catches, he can see himself pressing against the wall of her stomach.

He repeats: pulling out just to push back in. Every revelation of his dick shows him that he’s covered in her glossy slick.

He’s obsessed.

The hand on her left ass cheek grips the little bit of fat tighter as he starts to pull her back against him. And still, he fucks back.

Wet fingers drag from her leaking mouth, to clutch the chamber of her neck. Each heavy stroke punches a new sound out of her.

“Oh—ffuck! … Aauh,” she shudders as he bounces her against him. Her breathing is tight and shaky.

“Pretty ass lil’ bitch,” he grunts. With each movement, he can feel his tip kiss her spongy walls.

She squeals, somehow tightening around him.

“Don’t know … how I let you think you was some fucking bum.”

She’s getting drunk off of his dick and words. Honestly, she can’t get enough of it.

“Just needed me to come remind you, huh?”

“Ye … yes!” she groans out. 

“Needed me … to come straighten you out … w-when you was being a fucking brat—“

His voice wavers only slightly as he uses more power in his hips. She spasms around him.

“Oh—fuck, stop doing that shit,” he pants. “Stop—doing. That—“

The sound their bodies make when they collide gets louder as he fucks into her with more pressure. She can hardly keep up.

The buckle of his B.B. belt scrapes against the floor, his jeans pooled at his ankles.

She’s screaming out, her body inching up against the counter.

The hand around her neck tightens as it pulls her back. Her back curls into an arch as he leans forward to crash his lips against hers. 

Their kiss is sloppy, lips sliding off of each other’s.  Well, it’s more like he’s kissing her. Her lips are parted, moaning in his mouth, loudly.

The sound of her ass clapping against his dick is louder.

“S-so fucking tight,” he gasps against her mouth. His stomach is clenching.

Both of their bodies are covered in a layer of sweat that makes their brown skin shine.

He can’t get enough of her, going back in for another kiss, even when he feels like he’s going to pass out from not breathing.

When he pulls away, their lips smack. He finally releases her neck as he pulls out.

Her body sags against the counter, her toned legs trembling under her own body weight. As her hands feebly grip the counter’s edge, she peers back at him, looking railed. Her slick back bun is past sweated out, decorated with flyaways and frizz. Even her lips are swollen.

Cimani’s blurred vision, mostly full of tears, tracks to between Sito’s legs. She’s staring at the very thing ruining her, wondering how her friend of almost ten years was carrying all this dick around and she hasn’t even known.

Long, thick, and deep brown, with a left curve as it hangs between his tattooed legs. He is, single-handedly, her demise.

He’s saying something, but she can hardly hear him over her own panting.

“You hear me?”

Slowly, she looks up into his lustful eyes.

“Said I’ma show you something,” he repeats.

Before she can ask, a warm hand grasps her inner thigh of her right leg. The warm touch makes her jolt, she’s sensitive.

Carefully, he lifts. And she’s not too sure where this is going, her brain too exhausted to catch on with ease.

In fact, panic doesn’t set in until her knee is put to rest on the cold countertop, level with her hips. A large, warm hand falls back to the junction of her hip and lifted thigh.

This new stretch, he doesn’t even need to hold her open to see the way her pretty pussy drools. Droplets of her wetness dangle from her slickened heat. The leg she balances on, trembles even more.

“It’s good for you?”

She nods, her head dropped between her hiked shoulders.

“Yeah … already knew that.” 

He takes ahold of himself, passing over his dick with ease as the skin is slippery. He comes to hold himself towards the tip.

“Already knew … you could handle that,” he exhales

She shivers, feeling the heat of his wide tip, kiss at her opening. It’s wet, gently passing through her lips. Tickling as it travels to her clit.

Stretched, her cunt flutters at the feeling, missing how deep he was. Lost in a trance, he plays with her, slapping the head of his dick against her clit over and over. 

Her back barely arches as she tries to push back against him. Holding his dick to her swollen bud, he drags a tight fist up and down himself.

“Shit…”

Slowly, he pulls back to her sopping cunt.

“Know you could take it… Know you could—”

A sharp gasp inflates her chest, body locking up as his dick slides back in with too much ease.

The stretch is greater this time, a stronger burn. She almost taps out.

“Fuck, she squeezing me,” Sito groans out. His fingers grip the fat of her hip tight. “Know you feel that shit,” he hisses.

Her eyes roll back to the whites, feeling him reach even deeper than previous. Before she can even moan out, her head is pushed to counter, held down as she begins to fuck her again.

“This … all I w-was tr-tryna … give you, Mami.”

Her pussy hugs him extra tight at the mention of that name.

“Just some … good. Dick.” Every sentence is punctuated with a sharp thrust. “And … make sure you taken care of.” 

Her mouth opens, but there isn’t a sound leaving it.

As he picks back up to a steady pace, her pussy lets go around him. All of the friction has packs her sticky release into a creamy froth at the base of his dick. 

A sharp smack is laid to her asscheek, his heavy hand gripping the little bit of fat immediately after. 

She doesn’t even have it in her to jump from the rough hit. Instead, she just flutters around him.

“This lil’ shit drive me crazy,” he slurs. “This lil’ ass booty,” he chuckles, breathlessly.

Every time they meet, spurts of her cum splat against his pelvis.

“You’on even know … how—how many times I—“ He presses his hips right up against her. “—times I wanted to fuck ya lil’ ass up—“

Her gasp cuts him off as he straight rolls his hips, digging his dick into her drooling cunt.

“Si—Sito—“

She tries to reach back. She doesn’t even make contact with him; he keeps her wrist against her lower back.

“I know, Mami, I know.”

Slowly, he comes to a stop, pulling out just a few, thick inches. His other hand reaches down to readjust her leg, which had slipped some from the island. He pushes it up higher. 

“I know—”

“Augh—FUUUCK!”

Her voice scratches at her throat.

His shoves back in, hitting her g-spot dead-on. She crumbles against the island, gripping onto its edge with everything left in her.

Her ass jiggles cutely every time his pelvis collides with her, bouncing on him.

“All you gotta do is take it … take this dick, ‘Mani. That’s it.”

He raps a hand around her disheveled bun, yanking her head up.

“Don’t even gotta work for it,” he grunts in her ear.

She can feel it, her pussy creaming all around him. He’s slipping and sliding into her walls effortlessly. Every punch his dick gives to her cervix, knocks the wind out of her.

With how fast her heart is beating, she honestly thinks she’s about the faint.

“Ain’t never gonna make you work for it.”

She’s sniffling, her face a mess of tears.

“‘Long as you don’t give my pussy away.”

She shakes her head, lips parted and eyes squeezed shut.

“No, right?”

“N-no Pap-pa—“

“Huh?”

“No!” She wails out, feeling her standing leg shake under her. “Oooohh—uh! Fuuuck!”

“Yeah,” he smiles wildly, grills undoubtedly shining. “Ain’t no nigga giving it to her like this. Ain’t no nigga that’s—dicking her down like this.”

Following every thrust is a spurt of water, splashing down on the hardwood floor.

“Ain’t no one doing it like Sito, right?”

She cries out, unable to even form words as she twitches around him.

“Gonna stamp my name in this shit,” he swears through gritted teeth.

As sweat drips from his forehead, his braids have even started to frizz up.

All of this pleasure, all of this stimulation makes her toes curl cutely. And he catches it, the square shaped acrylics decorating them.

His hand releases her wrist to hold raised foot. He presses his thumb into the sole, immediately triggering another set of kegels off in her. 

The pressure of his thumb to her sole, and his dick against her cervix, drives her body insane. Like a reaction set off by pushing two buttons at the same time, she cums yet again.

The sound of water pouring against wood makes his ears perk up. She almost collapses from the pleasure.

“Pretty ass toes.”

He slows his strokes his focus zeroes in on her foot. She can’t even say that he’s giving her mercy at this moment, as each languid drag of his dick against her spot makes her bawl out.

“Cute ass lil’ feet.”

His dick jumps within her, a recent memory flashing within his head.

“When you put ‘em in the camera,” he huffs. “Right above this pretty ass pussy … damn near nutted.”

She only shudders. Her body spasms around him as he continues massaging her feet. And with that, his pace picks back up again.

“Fuuuck,” he groans out. “You so pretty, Mama.” 

Releasing her hair, he lets her fall back to the counter, watching how he fucks her deeply. His control is slipping from him, his thrusts getting sloppier by the second.

“This shit all yours,” he pants. “This sh— … shit all yours—f-forrea—uhh—“

He doesn’t even get to prepare for his orgasm, but his body couldn’t hold back anymore. The first few spurts were buried deep in her walls.

His brain buffers before he regains enough sense to pull out, still nutting as he does so.

Laying his dick between her cheeks, it dribbles out the last few drops of cum, softening as he finishes.

“Shit...”

He stares, lost in a trance as he stares down at the beautiful mess they made. Her brown skin glistens with a sheen of sweat and his cum decorating her pussy and cheeks.

But it isn’t until she whimpers that he’s knocked out of it. She doesn’t even have to say anything.

So tired and spent, Cimani barely even registers when she’s placed on her back, her legs wrapped around his waist.

Her eyes are barely open, but Sito is all that she sees. Everything is so hazy. 

He leans down, pressing his chest to hers and he holds her close.

And when he puckers his lips to kiss her, her movement is automatic, immediately kissing him back although weakly. 

Their pecks are soft and sweet, almost too sentimental for what just happened.

And that makes her giggle.

He cracks a smile. “What?”

“My feet, Sito? What the fuck?” she slurs with breathless laughter.

He kisses his teeth, hiding his face in her neck. “C’mon, now.”

“I just didn’t expect you to have that big of a foot fetish!” 

Her giggles are music to his ears, pulling a tired chuckle out of him.

“I don’t ... s’just you,” he mumbles, uncaring of how feindish he sounds. Pulling his body up to look at her, his eyes run over her face. “You knew that, though.”

She hums, a dreamy smile on her lips. But as they stare at each other, her mouth falls into a gentle pout.

“You nutted in me,” she whines.

He pushes her fly-aways off of her face.

“My fault, Mami,” he says softly.

It doesn’t fail to make her pussy flutter again, the action pushing more of his cum out.

“Said I was gonna stamp it, though.”

Her faux pout lightens.

“I’ll get you the Plan B.”

“Thank you,” she smiles.

Before any of them can say more, the ringtone of Cimani’s phone goes off. They jump up at the sound.

“My phone,” she says, sitting up on her elbows.

Reaching over her, Sito grabs it up from its spot on the island, closer to the opposite side. He hands it over to her, carefully.

For a second, confusion takes over her face as she reads the unknown number. 

“Who is it?”

She glances up at him. “I don’t know.”

Nevertheless, she decides to answer anyway.

“H-hello?”

Sito watches with great interest, the focused look on her face—threaded brows pulled together in thought.

“This is her.”

As the call continues, that look bleeds off of her face. It’s replaced with a bright smile.

“Yes, yes—I can come by today.” She sits up more, Sito backing up to give her the space.

“Two?” She looks at him.

Confused, he nods nonetheless.

“Y-yeah, two is good for me.”

“What?” he mouths.

But she only looks away. “Alright … yup, that’s perfect … okay. Okay, bye.”

She pulls the phone away, ending the call.

“Who was that?”

She looks up at him. “That was an apartment locator for that place you found. I-I think things fell through with their first option, so they considered me next. They asked to come by for a tour.”

His brows lift. “You deadass?”

“Yes! Oh my God!”

Throwing her phone down on the counter, she jumps on him, wrapping her arms around him and squeezing tight. Luckily his reflexes are quick enough—he catches her before she falls.

“Oh my God!” she squeals.

She pulls back, staring up at him with wide eyes. “Fuck, what time is it?”

Reaching out with one hand, he double taps her screen to get the time—almost one o’clock.

“How fast you think you could shower?” He asks.

“Fast enough.”

His lips curl upward as he gets an idea. 

“Shit, I think if we both get in, we could save some time.”

This sounds like a bad idea.

She can’t help but to mirror his expression.

“I think so, too.”

PART 1 HERE

TAGLIST • @wintrrxxo @vibewshyla @icanmakethedickstandup @toji-dabi-wife @genea-myers @whoareyouuuo @thegoatedaries @nova2kss @thecoochiefairy @plutobratz @levibabymama @bubblegum-lollipop @junitries @thevelvetwhispers @pussypinkdoll @venusincleo @soupersaldz @synicalslut

BANNERS • @cursed-carmine | @adornedwithlight & @cafekitsune

[max1461]

I think this is more an intentionallio-misunderstandio ad absurdum than a reductio ad absurdum. I remember miti making the same kind objection to another post where I said we should optimize for human flourishing, or something like that.

Yes, there are reasonable caveats. I don't include every reasonable caveat in every statement of my views and I'm pretty sure you don't either. I could trawl your blog and pull the same bad faith tactic on you, but I don't because I have more decency than that.

Let me try again.

The purpose of institutions is to serve people. No institution has a right to exist—it earns its existence by serving a just end with sufficient success. I do not think Israel is serving a just end with sufficient success. In particular, slaughtering people en masse is really, really, really, really, really, bad, it weighs extremely heavily in the calculation. I think the calculation does not come out in Israel's favor, over various alternatives to the existence of an Israeli state. So if someone says "this alternative to the Israel state would be good" or and someone responds "doesn't Israel have a right to exist?" my answer is going to be "no." In in particular, even if Israel did come out on top in a value-over-replacement sense, it still wouldn't have anything to do with it having a "right to exist". And the reason we are even having this discussion is because Israel is slaughtering people en masse, which is really really really really really bad, and—just as the allies did with Nazi Germany—this makes looking into alternatives to its existence reasonable.

No state has a "right to exist". The purpose of institutions is to serve human beings, and if your institution is slaughtering human beings en masse then it must be stopped. The survival of the institution itself in this scenario is of almost no import.

[planetxiao]

# FROM: LOML <3

𖤐 sakura haruka x reader

⟢ fluff, drabble // while out a cafe with friends, sakura gets a text from a contact all too interesting for the first years to ignore.

“Oh~ Sakuraaa,” Kiryu drew out his name with a certain lilt in his tone, “I didn’t know you were such a romantic.”

Sakura quirked a brow. What was he on about this time?

Kiryu caught onto his obliviousness and tapped on the contact name — your contact name. Sakura’s eyes widened, a furious blush creeping up to his ears. He had totally forgot that you took his phone and changed the contact name in it.

‘love of my life 💗’

It practically took up half the screen display.

Before Sakura could hide it again, Kiryu swiped the device from the table with teasing smile. He quickly showed the screen to their fellow friends sat next to him. Nirei gasped — he was about to pull out his notebook but saw the death glare Sakura pointed at him, while Tsuge wiggled his brows and gave the monochrome man a knowing look. Suo, who had previously seen it, just lightly shook his head with small smile.

“H-hey!” Sakura barked, his cheeks burning to near boiling point, “They changed the name a while ago and I don’t know how to change it back!”

Of course, the men had guessed this already. Sakura always had an aggressively soft spot in his heart, something that hadn’t changed over the years, but even so they don’t think he would do something like this. Not just because of embarrassment, but because Sakura was notoriously bad with technology.

Suo turned to Sakura with a teasing glint in his eye.

“I can change it for you if you’d like.” He offered.

However, Suo was anything but serious. He can read Sakura like a book, he just wanted Sakura to confirm his suspicions.

Sakura’s hesitation at the comment said it all.

The truth was yes, you had changed it a while ago but there were two reasons he hadn’t changed it. The first being he didn’t know how; the second, however, was because he liked it. More than he’d like to admit.

Whenever he would see a text from you come through, he would smile at the name. It was true, you were the love of his life.

Though, he’d rather die than admit that to the giggle squad.

Sakura turned away from Suo, choosing to instead stare at the cafe’s intricate wallpaper design. A pout sat on his lips and his eyebrows furrowed. Aeconds of silence passed as his friends awaited his answer with bated breath. He glanced back at them, already feeling his skin start to heat up again.

“J-just give me my phone back!”

note: i wrote this a while ago and never posted it but i like the idea too much not to lol

[myinaru]

Childhood Best Friend Complex

You and Heeseung have been best friends forever. Emphasis on forever. Like, learned-how-to-walk-together type of forever. But college throws a wrench into your usual routine: one night blurs a line that was never supposed to move, and suddenly, everything feels different. Now there’s weird tension, awkward silences, and unspoken things you’re both too stubborn to say out loud. You don’t know what’s worse, pretending nothing’s changed or admitting everything has. Because staying friends? That was always the plan. Wanting more? That was never supposed to happen.

Pairing: Lee Heeseung x Fem!Reader

Genre: College AU, Childhood Best Friends to Lovers, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, Smut, Angst, Fluff

Word Count: 39.6k Total (14.4k - Part 1)

Warnings: Dry humping (hell yeah), Corny maybe idc, Lots of misunderstanding, Mentions of multiple kpop idols, Cursing, Cunnilingus, Unprotected sex (pls don't), Praising, Heeseung is a yearner, Lmk if I missed anything lol

Author's Note: First time uploading here lol. This fic was heavily inspired by the manhwa/webtoon Childhood Friend Complex. I'll be splitting it into three parts since Tumblr won't let me post it in one go. Hope y'all enjoy T-T

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

You and Heeseung had spent twenty chaotic years crashing into each other. Bickering, teasing, arguing like it was your first language. Now, you were slumped on the floor of his dorm, drunk and quiet, knees touching, the air between you strangely charged.

Heeseung didn’t move much. Just watched you with wide, unreadable eyes. His hand crept toward yours slowly, like even the thought of reaching for you was too loud. His fingers brushed yours. Then stopped.

His breath hit your cheek. It was warm. Uneven. And then, in the softest voice you’d ever heard from him, he said, “Do you... want to kiss?”

No smirk. No teasing. Just fear, and something he couldn’t hide fast enough. He’d never say it unless he thought you might say yes. Because if you didn’t, he wouldn’t know how to come back from it.

You froze, confused. “You’re drunk,” you said with a nervous laugh, nudging his arm.

Heeseung’s expression tightened. A flash of hurt crossed his face before he forced a laugh, too sharp to be real. “Yeah, I’m drunk. Fuck, Y/n. You really think...” He trailed off, shaking his head.

“Forget it. Stupid idea.”

He started to pull away, but his reflexes were off. His knee bumped into yours, and he hissed. More from the weight of rejection than pain. “Fuck. Stupid,” he muttered, catching himself against the wall. His eyes narrowed. “What’s your problem? Why are you... you never... God, forget it.”

You furrowed your brows, head spinning slightly. You grabbed his arm to stop him from leaving.

He stiffened at your touch, breathing heavily. For a moment, he just stared at you, searching your face like he was trying to read every single thought behind your eyes. His hand twitched in yours, like he wanted to pull you close but was holding back.

“Don’t play games with me,” he said softly, dangerously quiet. “Not tonight. Not after...” He swallowed hard. “God, Y/n. If you keep looking at me like that, I don’t know if I can...”

He broke off with a strangled sound, forehead leaning against yours. “Tell me I’m being stupid,” he whispered. “Tell me you don’t want this. Tell me it’s just the alcohol.”

You swallowed. “It might be the alcohol... but I’m not telling you I don’t want it. I don’t even know what I’m talking about anymore... Can’t we just not regret this tomorrow?”

He went still. His heart felt like it stopped before thundering back to life. “That... that’s not—I mean...” he stammered, hands trembling slightly as he brought them to your face. His thumbs gently stroked your cheekbones. “Are you serious right now?”

His voice was rough, thick with emotion he rarely let show. His eyes searched yours intently, looking for any trace of hesitation. “Because if this is real... if you actually want...” He swallowed again. “Shit, Y/n. You have no idea what you do to me.”

You didn’t answer with words. You leaned in and kissed him.

The moment your lips met, he let out a shaky gasp. His hands moved to your hair, fingers tangling as he kissed you back with a desperate intensity. It was messy, passionate, tongue and teeth, hunger barely held back.

A small moan escaped him, muffled against your lips. His body pressed flush to yours, fitting like a puzzle piece that had always been missing. One of his hands slid to the small of your back, fingers digging into your shirt as he pulled you closer.

When you broke apart for air, he was panting, eyes dark with desire. He rested his forehead against yours.

“You don’t know how long I’ve wanted to do that. How many times I’ve imagined it,” he said.

You smirked, resting your finger against his lips. “Don’t say anything you’ll regret tomorrow.”

He nipped at your finger lightly, his teeth grazing the skin. His eyes locked with yours, full of heat and promise.

“No regrets,” he murmured. “Not tonight. Not with you.”

Then he kissed you again, hard. His hands slid to your hips, gripping tightly as he pulled you onto his lap. The position pressed your bodies together, and he groaned into your mouth.

“I want you,” he breathed, voice ragged. “I want you so fucking much, Y/n. Want to feel you, taste you, make you mine.” His hands slipped under your shirt, fingers brushing over your bare back. His lips found your neck, kissing and nipping at the sensitive skin.

You mirrored his touch, sliding your hand down his chest, feeling the toned muscle beneath. As you moved closer, you felt his erection press against you.

Heeseung sucked in a breath. His muscles tensed under your fingers. When you rolled your hips against his, his reaction was immediate, hips bucking, breath catching. “Y/n…” he groaned. “That feels so good. You’re killing me.” His hands held your hips tighter, guiding your movements, slow and deliberate. You could feel every hard inch of him, even through the layers.

“I bet you’d look so pretty riding me,” he panted into your neck, kissing along your throat. “Bet you’d take me so well. I want to feel you squeeze around me. Fall apart on my dick.” One hand came up to cup your breast, fingers kneading the soft flesh through your bra.

You let out a shaky breath, grinding harder.

He let out a low growl of appreciation, helping you move against him. “That’s it. Take what you need. Fuck, the way you move...” His thumb brushed over your nipple through the fabric, sending heat straight to your core. He pinched and rolled it, his other hand still firm on your hip. “I want to watch you fall apart,” he murmured. “Want to hear you moan my name.”

Your head fell onto his shoulder as you whimpered his name, picking up the pace.

Heeseung gasped, thrusting up to meet you. “Yes, just like that. Fuck, you feel so good. So perfect. Such a good girl for me.” His hand slid up your back and into your hair, tugging gently. The other dipped into your pants, under your underwear, gripping your ass firmly. “If you keep doing that,” he whispered, lips brushing your ear, “I’m gonna come in my pants.”

You smirked. “That’s honestly a turn on.”

He shuddered, overwhelmed. He looked at you, eyes dark and blown wide. “It is? You like knowing how much I want you?” He ground against you harder, letting you feel every inch of him. “Because I’m so fucking close. You’re gonna make me explode in these jeans.” His thumb pressed against your clit, slow circles over your underwear. “Think you can make me come like this? Grinding until I lose it? Bet you’d love feeling me twitch against your pretty pussy.”

You bit your lip, meeting his rhythm. “I know you’ll cum for me. You always do what I tell you, don’t you? Just like the good little boy you are.”

Heeseung let out a strangled moan, body seizing. “Oh fuck...Y/n... I’m cumming!” He buried his face in your neck, biting down on your shoulder to muffle the cry. His cock pulsed and twitched, hot release soaking his pants as he clung to you. Your name fell from his lips in broken whimpers.

You came with him, body shuddering, head falling to his shoulder. “Ngh... fuck... so tired...” you mumbled.

Heeseung smiled, exhausted but content. He held you close, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. He shifted, laying back on the bed and pulling you with him. After dressing you in spare clothes, he cleaned himself up and returned to curl beside you.

He watched you sleep, your face peaceful, before sleep took him too. Still half-drunk, halfaware.

The screeching of your alarm feels like a knife in your skull. You reach for your phone, slapping it down with a groan, but the damage is done. Your head’s pounding, and it feels like the world’s spinning under you.

Beside you, Heeseung groans, the sound muffled by the pillow he’s half-smothered in. “Ugh. Shut it up,” he mutters, flinging his arm over his face like it’ll save him.

You don’t even have the energy to respond. Your hand moves instinctively to your forehead, trying to ease the ache that feels like it’s about to split your brain in two.

Heeseung shifts, throwing his arm away from his eyes. He squints at you through the haze, his face scrunched up in discomfort. “Oh my god,” he groans dramatically, his voice barely more than a croak. “I think I might actually die today.”

You don’t even respond at first. Your mind is too busy reeling, trying to piece together what the hell happened last night. It’s like watching a movie in slow motion, the details fading in and out.

And then, bam. It all comes rushing back.

You dry-humped your best friend.

You don't even know where to begin. Last night was a blur of alcohol and hormones and bad decisions. Your hands on his chest. His breath hitching. Your bodies moving together in the dim light. His voice in your ear. Your best friend, your dumb, sweet, annoying, beautiful best friend had his hands all over you.

And you… let him.

No.

You wanted him to.

You groan again, burying a pillow over your face.

“What’s wrong with you?” Heeseung mutters, still not fully opening his eyes.

“What’s wrong with me?” You yank the pillow away and look at him. “What the hell was last night, Heeseung?”

That gets his attention. He blinks at you like a deer in headlights. “Oh shit.”

“Yeah. Oh shit.”

He bolts upright, sheets falling away. “Wait- we didn’t, right? We didn’t actually-?” He gestures wildly.

“No!” you say too fast. “God, no. But we… we dry humped each other for, like, an hour, on the floor.”

Heeseung flops back, groaning into the pillow now. “Kill me. Just end it. Right here. I’ll leave you my gaming chair in my will.”

You toss a pillow at him, hitting him square in the face.

“You started it!” you snap.

“You climbed on top of me!”

“You pulled me down!”

“You were grinding!”

“You moaned!”

Heeseung yelps, shoving the pillow into his face. “Shut up!”

The pillow shifts just enough for him to peek at you. His eyes are wide, like a deer caught in headlights.

“I didn’t even-” he blurts. A beat. Then quieter: “Well, maybe.”

He lets the pillow fall into his lap, deflating like a kicked balloon. “God. That was so stupid. So, so stupid. What do we even do now?”

You wince at the memory of what you said last night. Every detail’s still painfully vivid. “Well... we said no regrets, right?” Your voice comes out careful, uncertain. “We agreed.”

Heeseung goes quiet for a moment, eyes scanning the floor. Then he gives a small nod, like he’s trying to convince himself.

“Right. No regrets.”

He rubs a hand through his hair, only making the mess worse. “So... we’re good? Still friends and everything?”

“Only if you swear, we never mention the phrase ‘dry-humped’ in front of each other again.”

“Deal.” His voice wavers, just enough to give him away. “Because honestly, if we’re not anymore, I might actually combust right here.”

You snort, reaching for the nearest pillow and tossing it at him. “You’re so dramatic. I’m not gonna throw away twenty years of friendship just because we almost-”

Your voice catches. You clear your throat and stand up instead. You only realize then, you’re wearing his hoodie. Not yours. Definitely not yours. It hangs oversized on your frame, soft and warm. You glance at yourself in the mirror, cheeks flushing.

Heeseung catches on too, eyes widening. “Oh, uh- yeah. Sorry about the clothes. You would have been sleeping in your outside clothes and I blurred out and just- gave you that. I didn’t look. I swear.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Sure.”

He makes a strangled noise and looks away. “Okay, well, want breakfast or something? I heard food helps with hangovers.”

You take one last glance at yourself in the mirror before nodding. “Thanks, by the way. I didn’t bring pajamas, so… appreciate it.” You point toward the bathroom. “Can I shower here?”

Heeseung nods quickly, still red in the face. “Yeah. Of course. Towels are in the cabinet under the sink. Shampoo and stuff’s in there too.”

You start walking past him, and he inhales, just a little too deeply. You catch it. His laundry soap mixed with your perfume lingers between you.

“Hey,” he says suddenly, stopping you just before you disappear into the bathroom. His voice softens. “About last night… I’m glad it didn’t mess anything up. You’re sickeningly important to me or whatever, Y/n.”

You rolled your eyes with a smile, ignoring how your stomach flips at how disgustingly earnest he says your name.

“Me too,” you reply. “It’d be a waste to throw twenty years down the drain over one really… weird night.”

Heeseung exhales, like he’s been holding that breath all morning. “Exactly. Besides,” he adds, a small smile forming, “who else would put up with me and feed me when I’m too hungover to move?”

You roll your eyes, though the corner of your mouth lifts. “You’re such a loser.”

“Yeah, well, you love it,” he retorts with a laugh, clearly relieved. “Now go take your shower before the water goes cold, princess.”

You snicker as you close the door behind you. “Stop calling me that! You’re so fucking weird when you’re nice.”

Heeseung’s laughter rings out from the other side of the door. “I can’t believe you’re still talking back while you’re in the bathroom. What kind of weirdo are you?”

You hear him flop onto the bed again as the shower water turns on, his voice muffled by the bathroom door. “I can’t believe I dry-humped my best friend. Classic Heeseung,” he mutters to himself, clearly still cringing.

After about twenty minutes, you both finished getting ready, falling into silence, moving like you had been doing this forever. You didn’t talk much, just small comments and glances over breakfast before going to the university together.

By the time you reached campus, there was barely any time left before classes started.

Without much choice, the two of you split ways. Different departments, different buildings. Still, that parting tugged at something. Maybe it was how reluctant Heeseung looked, or the way his eyes lingered a second too long.

Heeseung, for his part, couldn’t focus all day.

His professors might as well have been speaking gibberish. He found himself zoning out midlecture, thumb absentmindedly grazing the edge of his notebook as images of last night kept flashing in his mind. The way your voice softened when you were sleepy. The heat of your skin when you leaned too close.

He was still stuck in that daze by lunchtime, hovering near the cafeteria entrance with his tray in hand, eyes scanning the room until they landed on you. You were seated by the window, halfheartedly poking your food with your expression unreadable. He hesitated.

Should he join you? Would that be weird?

After a moment of internal chaos, he sucked it up and walked over, plopping down across from you like it was no big deal.

"Hey," he said, voice casual but eyes hesitant. "Didn’t know if you wanted company. Didn’t wanna be annoying."

You didn’t even look up right away, just poked at your food with a spoon. Then you smirked. “I was literally looking for you earlier. Then I gave up 'cause I got lazy." He blinked in surprise. That made his shoulders relax just a little.

"You know," you added, finally meeting his eyes, "what’s with you lately? You’re acting weird. You’re never this... nice. It’s freaking me out."

Heeseung sat up straighter, hand pausing mid-bite. "I’m not nice? Wow, okay. Maybe I’m just trying something new. Ever thought of that?"

"There he is," you said with a laugh, reaching across the table to pat his shoulder a little too hard. "There’s the asshole I grew up with. Thought I lost you for a second."

Heeseung winced and rubbed his shoulder. "Ow. You trying to dislocate my arm? Damn. You're lucky I even tolerate you. Especially with that garbage personality of yours."

But you caught it, that flicker in his eyes when you touched him, even briefly. The twitch of his lips he tried to suppress when you teased him back.

Things might’ve continued that way, comfortable, familiar. If only Jay hadn’t suddenly flopped into the seat next to Heeseung.

"Dude. Be real with me. Are you dating her or what?"

Your fork froze mid-air. Heeseung choked on his water.

"What?! No- what are you-" He looked between you and Jay, a bit panicked. "We’re just friends! Why would you even-?"

Jay shrugged. "I mean, the way you two bicker like an old married couple? Come on. And the rumors are already everywhere."

You raised a brow, glancing at Heeseung. "Who in their right mind would think I’d date him?"

"Excuse you," Heeseung shot back, glaring. "I’d rather shove my head in a blender than date some clingy, passive-aggressive- ow, god!" He hissed as you kicked him under the table.

Jay just watched with a grin. "You two are exhausting."

Then his grin widened as he leaned closer to Heeseung. "But since you’re not dating her, does that mean Jung Yeri’s got a shot with you?"

You blinked. That name made your stomach do something unfamiliar and ugly.

Heeseung visibly tensed. "What? Why are you even-?"

"Dude," Jay laughed. "She’s been all over you. Pretty sure half the class already thinks you two are a thing."

Right on cue, a girl that looked suspiciously like Jung Yeri sauntered by. She tossed Heeseung a slow, deliberate wink before settling at a table nearby.

Jay elbowed him again. "Go talk to her! You’re blowing it!"

But Heeseung looked like he’d just been cornered by a wild animal.

You tried not to laugh. Honestly, you really tried. But your hand twitched and your lips curled as you bit down on the inside of your cheek. It was a struggle not to smirk as you watched him flail.

"I- no," Heeseung said abruptly, voice sharper than he meant. "I’m not into her."

Jay blinked. "Seriously? She’s not your type?"

Heeseung let out a strangled sound, running his hand through his hair. "She’s fine, I guess, but I’m not... I do not like. I’m already-"

His eyes flicked toward you, just briefly.

"...interested in someone else."

Your hand paused on your tray. You glanced up at him, lips parting slightly, but you said nothing.

Jay, of course, was relentless. "What? Since when?! Who?"

Heeseung mumbled something, but it was too low for anyone to catch.

Jay leaned closer. "Huh?"

Heeseung snapped, "It’s none of your business!"

You finally cracked. The laugh escaped before you could catch it, loud and unfiltered. You covered your mouth, turning your head, shoulders shaking.

Heeseung glared. "What’s so funny?!"

Jay smirked like the puzzle pieces finally clicked. "Wait a second... it’s her, isn’t it? You’ve got it bad for Y/n."

Heeseung nearly choked on his drink again. "What?! No!" he barked. "I don’t like her like that!" You only laughed harder, tears starting to prick your eyes from holding it in.

Jay turned to you. "Is that true? You two really aren’t into each other?"

You wiped your eyes with your sleeve, calming down enough to deadpan, "The only day I’d be into him is if the world ended and we were the last people alive."

Heeseung’s smirk wobbled for a second. "Right back at you. I’d rather eat glass than date you."

Jay shook his head and stood. "Y’all are full of it. Anyway, I’ve got class. Try not to murder each otherwhile I’m gone."

Once he left, the tension stayed behind. Quieter, but heavier somehow.

You leaned in. “Really? You like someone who’s not Yeri?”

Heeseung stiffened, his eyes darting to yours. He opened his mouth, closed it, then scowled and looked away.

“Why do you care?” he muttered. “It’s not like it matters.”

You grinned. “Are you sure Yeri isn’t this mystery lady you secretly like?”

“Oh God, no way!” he blurted, then winced. “I mean, she’s… not my type. At all.”

He picked at his rice like it offended him. “I don’t even know why you’re asking. It’s not like I’m going to tell you who it is.”

You shrugged, standing to set your tray aside. “Do whatever you want. Although…” you smirked as you leaned your chin on your palm, “I do hope your virgin ass finally gets laid.” Heeseung’s head snapped up. “EXCUSE ME?!” he nearly yelled.

Everyone turned. He ducked down, voice hissing now. “I am not a virgin! And even if I was, that’s none of your business!” He crossed his arms. “Besides, you’re one to talk. When’s the last time you even went on a date?”

Your smile fell. “Hey! For your information, I’m actually set to go on a group date with my friends this Friday.”

His expression darkened instantly. “A group date?” he reiterated. “Since when are you into that kind of thing? I thought you hated crowds.” He leaned closer, tone sharp. “And who exactly are you going with? Do I know them? Are they even decent people?”

You crossed your arms. “Why do you care? And besides, it’s about time my miserable ass gets a boyfriend.”

Heeseung’s hands tightened around the edge of the table. He forced a laugh, bitter, hollow. “Yeah. Good luck with that. Let me know how that works out for you.”

Then, he stood up, abruptly, chair scraping loudly behind him. His tray clattered as he grabbed it. “I have to go. Class starts soon.”

You frowned. “Hey-”

But he was already walking away.

You blinked, confused. “You don’t even have afternoon classes today…” You shook your head, carrying your tray to the bin. You frowned as you watched him storm off, tray in hand and tension radiating from every step.

The doors clattered shut behind him.

You stood there for a few seconds, tray still in your hands, like your brain hadn’t caught up to your body yet. Heeseung never walked away from an argument. He lived for comebacks, lived for that smug look he always wore when he got the last word.

So why now?

You blinked, startled by the tight knot forming in your chest. Was it something you said? You turned slowly toward the trash bins, tossing your leftovers away, but your mind wasn’t really on autopilot like it usually was. You weren’t thinking about your next class. Not even about what Jay said or how half the cafeteria had stared at you when Heeseung yelled about not being a virgin.

No, all your thoughts were stuck back at the table. Replaying the way his eyes darkened when you brought up the group date. The way his jaw tensed. That laugh that wasn’t a real laugh, more like something brittle, something breaking.

And then he’d left. Just… walked out.

You stood by the bins, fingers loosely gripping the edge, your tray empty but your head full of noise. The kind of silence that rings in your ears when everything around you moves on and you’re just… stuck.

You leaned against the counter, letting out a slow breath as your thoughts started spiraling.

Why was he upset?

Sure, you teased him. You always did. That wasn’t new. Neither was him teasing back.

But this time…this time he’d gotten weirdly defensive. About Yeri. About you going on a date. About everything, really.

He always called you annoying, or brat, or headache, but he’d never looked angry. Not like that.

Not like someone who was… hurt.

You stared at the floor.

And then it hit you, an idea awfully insane, and kind of stupid.

He was acting jealous.

The word lodged itself in your brain like a splinter.

No. No way. That didn’t make sense. This was Heeseung. He’d rather die than admit he liked anyone. Heeseung, who called you a cockroach just last week when you stole his fries.

Heeseung, who once said he’d sooner become a monk than date you.

Still, you couldn’t shake it.

That look in his eyes when you joked about finally getting a boyfriend.

That silence.

The way he’d refused to look at you when he said, “Yeah. Good luck with that.”

You slowly made your way out of the cafeteria, feet dragging more than usual. Your fingers were twitchy, like they wanted to text him, but you couldn’t even think of what you’d say.

And still, that question kept circling back in your head.

Annoying. Shitty. Question.

He’s not… jealous… is he?

Heeseung didn’t even remember how he got back to his dorm. One second he was standing in the cafeteria, hearing you joke about getting a boyfriend, and the next he was outside, walking blindly through campus with his fists jammed deep in his pockets.

The cold didn't help. If anything, it made his thoughts sharper, more jagged.

It's about time my miserable ass gets a boyfriend. He could still hear it. Like a punchline he wasn’t in on.

He kicked a stray rock across the sidewalk, watching it bounce into the bushes.

“Stupid,” he muttered, jaw clenched. “So fucking stupid.”

He didn’t know what pissed him off more, the thought of you with some guy from that group date or the fact that he had no right to be this upset in the first place. You weren’t his. You never had been.

But that didn’t stop his chest from tightening every time he imagined you laughing with someone else. Sitting beside him. Holding his hand.

Heeseung cursed under his breath as he shoved his dorm room door open and slammed it shut behind him. He let himself fall face-first onto his bed, eyes burning holes into the ceiling.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

Not after everything that happened.

Not after that night.

Your lips. The way you melted into him. The way your hands gripped his hoodie like you didn’t want to let go.

He let out a groan and buried his face into his pillow.  

What the hell were you even thinking?

He wanted to text you. Apologize maybe. Pretend it didn’t matter. But every time he picked up his phone, his thumbs froze, and the words disappeared.

So instead, he just laid there. Let the ache sit with him like it had every night since.

You walked into class like you were wearing a mask.

Blouse tucked in. Skirt straightened. Smile tight.

Everything looked fine from the outside. But inside? Your brain had been on a loop for hours, trying to make sense of what the hell had just happened with Heeseung.

You told yourself it wasn’t a big deal. Friends fight. You probably just hit a nerve. Maybe he was stressed. Maybe you’d said something wrong.

Maybe-

“Earth to Y/n.”

You blinked, startled, as Vicky waved her hand in front of your face.

“You've been staring at your notebook like it's gonna write itself,” she said with a giggle. “Everything okay?”

You forced a smile. “Uhm… yeah. Just thinking about... things.”

Vicky raised an eyebrow. “Things,” she repeated. “Uh-huh. Right. Like how you’ve been zoning out since you sat down. Does this have anything to do with that guy you’re always with?”

Your smile froze. “What- Heeseung? No, why would-”

She gasped softly. “Oh my god, it is about him.”

Before you could argue, she clapped her hands excitedly. “Perfect timing! Don’t forget, our group blind date’s this Friday. You have to invite him. I bet he'd totally get along with my friends. Or maybe you two can date each other and pretend it's a blind date.”

You stiffened. “Woah, slow down. Heeseung and I? That’s… we’re like family. Literally. I’ve known him since I was in diapers.”

Vicky pouted, clearly unimpressed. “That’s a shame. You guys would be stupid cute together.” You rolled your eyes, but the weird twist in your gut didn’t go away.

“And hey,” she added teasingly, voice low, “if you’re really not interested… is he fair game?” You whipped your head toward her so fast your hair slapped your shoulder.

Vicky laughed nervously, holding her hands up. “Kidding! Kidding. I know better than to go after someone you’re protective of.”

You turned back to your notes, pretending to write something. But the words blurred together.

Why did that bother you so much?

Heeseung could date whoever he wanted. You didn’t care. You shouldn’t care. And yet the thought of him sitting next to some girl on Friday made you want to scream.

It didn’t make sense.

Your fingers gripped your pen tighter.

The rest of the class passed in a haze. Vicky tossing in ideas for venues and flirty outfit suggestions while you nodded absently, stuck inside your own head.

By the time you got home, the sun was already setting, casting warm shadows on your walls.

You dropped your bag on the couch and kicked off your shoes, but something soft hit your thigh as you moved.

You reached in and pulled out the fabric.

Heeseung’s hoodie.

Of course.

You exhaled slowly, running your fingers across the soft sleeves. It still smelled like him. Laundry detergent and something warm underneath.

You didn’t want to see him. Not yet. Not when your heart still felt like it was in a blender and you didn’t know why.

But now you had an excuse to. And that irritated you more than it should.

“Whatever,” you muttered, tossing it in the laundry and pretending like that settled something.

It didn’t.

The next few days passed like molasses. Slow. Heavy. Tense.

Neither of you texted.

Neither of you reached out.

You kept telling yourself that was fine. That this wasn’t weird. That everything was totally normal.

But it wasn’t.

Every time your phone buzzed; your heart jumped. Every time it wasn’t him, it sank.

Heeseung was the same. Pretending he was busy. Pretending he wasn’t checking his phone every ten minutes. Pretending he didn’t care that the hoodie you wore while falling asleep in his arms was gone.

Denial was easier.

Until Friday rolled around. The day of the group date.

And neither of you could deny anything anymore.

The day of the group blind date crawled by, but you felt the weight of it like a countdown.

You spent the morning aimlessly cleaning, second-guessing your outfit, and chewing on your lip as you stared at your phone. Still no text. Not that you expected one. Not really.

Meanwhile, somewhere across campus, Heeseung was pretending to be busy. Doing laps around his dorm, rearranging laundry that was already folded, and slamming his fridge shut multiple times for no reason. Every task he did had one purpose: stalling.

Eventually, he couldn’t stop himself.

You heard the doorbell just as you were zipping up your boots. When you opened it, your breath hitched.

There he was, standing stiffly outside your apartment, a black tote bag dangling from one hand. He looked like he didn’t want to be there, and also like he’d explode if he didn’t show up.

“Hey,” he muttered, avoiding your eyes. “You left your clothes. From that night.”

You blinked, confused for a second, then glanced down at the bag. Your cheeks warmed. “Oh. Right.” You stepped back, your voice smaller than intended. “Thanks... wait here a sec.”

You ducked inside, grabbing his pajamas off your bed and stuffing them into the bag. When you returned, he was still standing there, hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets.

“Thanks for lending me this too,” you mumbled, holding out the bag again.

Heeseung nodded, his jaw tight. He took it wordlessly. His fingers brushed yours. Then, after a beat too long, he said, “You look…”

He didn’t finish right away. His gaze dropped again. To the dress. The earrings. Your exposed collarbone.

“You look nice.” The words left his mouth like he hated them. “For your date, I mean.” He cleared his throat, jaw working. “Have fun or whatever.” You froze.

“Oh. Uh. Thanks.”

He shifted on his feet, clearly uncomfortable. Like there was something else he wanted to say but didn’t know how.

“I should go,” he said, turning away. “Don’t want to make you late.”

“Yeah. Thanks again.”

He nodded and walked off, leaving you staring at the closed door, mentally cursing yourself for not saying more.

You stared at the shut door for a long moment, biting the inside of your cheek. It felt like something important had been said. And also, like nothing had.

By the time your Uber pulled up, your nerves had twisted into a tight coil behind your ribs. You tried to shake it off as you headed to the restaurant. But that all flew out the window the second you walked through the doors.

Because standing near the entrance, tray in hand, was Heeseung.

Your jaw dropped. “You? Wait. You work here?”

His eyes went wide as they landed on you, like you’d just punched him in the gut. “Y/n-? Yeah. Part-time.”

“You never told me-”

“I did,” he muttered, flushing and avoiding your gaze. “Maybe you just didn’t listen.”

You blinked, thrown off. “Since when?”

“Since-… whatever.” His voice was clipped, like he was trying too hard to act unaffected. “Needed the money. Free food. Don’t make it a big deal.”

Before you could respond, someone from the back called out: “Lee! Table 7!”

He exhaled through his nose, already turning away. “Gotta go. Enjoy your date.”

And just like that, he was gone again. Vanishing between tables, his apron swaying as he moved. You barely had time to process it when Vicky waved you over. She was already seated with another girl you knew, makeup perfect, and surrounded by three guys. One of whom slid a drink toward you as you sat down.

The night crawled forward.

Your date was… fine.

Well, there wasn’t anything wrong with him. He was cute. Tall. Had that clean-cut kind of look, the kind you’re supposed to want. The kind that makes your friends nudge you under the table and whisper “Okay, not bad.” And he was nice, in a way that felt... practiced? Like he knew exactly what to say and when to say it. Smiled on cue. Laughed when he was supposed to. Asked questions, but only the easy ones, your major, your favorite movie, if you liked dogs or cats. Surface-level stuff. Like we were speedrunning a personality quiz.

You nodded. Smiled. Even laughed a few times. But it didn’t feel like anything.

The whole time, your brain kept running in circles. You kept comparing everything he did to Heeseung, without meaning to. Without even realizing I was doing it at first.

Like when he leaned in and grinned that too-perfect smile? All you could think about was how Heeseung’s smile was kind of lopsided and usually only came out when he was genuinely amused. The real kind. The one where his nose scrunches a little and he tries to hide it behind his hand like it’s embarrassing.

Or when your date started talking about his internship and humblebragging like it was his whole personality. Meanwhile, Heeseung would rather choke than talk about himself like that. He’s so annoying about hiding how hard he works, like it’s something to be ashamed of. But at least when he says something, you know it means something.

And then there was this moment. God, it was so dumb, when your date reached across the table and tried to brush something off your sleeve, real casual. Like in the dramas. Except it didn’t feel sweet. It felt…wrong.

Because your first instinct wasn’t butterflies.

It was Heeseung would’ve made fun of me first.

He would’ve been like, “You wore that? You look like you lost a bet.” And then when you’d pout and hit his arm, he’d sneakily fix whatever it was while you were distracted. That was just how we were.

But this guy? He kept making these flirty comments toward Vicky like you weren’t sitting right there. At one point, he asked her what kind of guys she liked, while you were talking midsentence. Like, what are you? A chair?

And you just sat there, drinking your watered-down cocktail, smiling through your teeth while your insides twisted into knots.

Because the real reason you weren’t having fun?

Wasn’t the bad flirting.

Wasn’t the recycled jokes.

Wasn’t the fact that you had more chemistry with the damn napkin holder.

It was because he wasn’t Heeseung.

He didn’t get under your skin the same way. He didn’t make your heartbeat stumble just by looking in your direction. He didn’t have that stupid habit of calling you by a nickname only he could get away with. He didn’t make you want to argue just so you could hear him talk back.

He didn’t make you feel like yourself.

And maybe that was the scariest part. Sitting across from someone perfectly decent, someone that everyone else would probably think is a catch, and realizing that the only person you wanted to talk to about it... was the same person you were trying so hard not to think about.

And it sucked. Because you didn’t know what that meant.

Not really.

You just knew you were halfway through a third drink, laughing at jokes that weren’t funny, smiling at a guy who wasn’t him. And the whole time, your eyes kept drifting to where Heeseung was working across the room.

Not looking at you once.

And that’s when it hit you.

Maybe he was trying not to look too.

By the time dessert came around, you were on your fifth glass of whatever fruity cocktail they'd ordered for you. The alcohol was warm in your stomach, and your thoughts were a slow spin cycle. You laughed at your date’s joke, but it didn’t reach your eyes. It didn’t reach your heart.

Because part of you was still stuck at your front door, with Heeseung not saying what you both knew he wasn’t ready to admit.

When the night finally wound down, the group staggered toward the exit. You tried to play it cool, but your legs were shaky and your head swam.

You didn’t even notice you were stumbling until a hand grabbed your arm.

“Hey, watch it.” Heeseung’s voice, low and sharp with concern, cut through the noise like a tether. “You’re seriously drunk.”

You looked up at him, lips pouting as your balance wobbled again. “The date sucked,” you mumbled. “He was annoying.”

Heeseung raised an eyebrow. “You were laughing. You looked fine.”

“I wasn’t.”

He cursed under his breath and guided you to a bench near the side of the restaurant. You slumped down, grateful for something solid. He knelt in front of you, one hand on your knee to steady himself. “What happened?” he asked, quieter now. “Did he do something?”

You shook your head lazily. “No, just...”  

There was a long pause, way too long like your brain and your heart were fighting against each other.

“He wasn’t you.” Ah. Now we know who won.

The words fell out before you could stop them, and the way his expression shifted for just a fraction of a second told you he didn’t expect that. But Heeseung quickly masked it, shrugging nonchalantly, like it didn’t matter.

“Right,” he muttered, almost too quickly. “Well, you’re really drunk. Don’t go saying weird stuff.” He stood up slightly, glancing at the rest of the group in the distance, then back at you.

You didn’t want to let it slide. “You’re acting different,” you mumbled, your eyes narrowing as you stared up at him, trying to focus. “You’re being... too considerate. Like I’m someone special, and I don’t like it.”

Heeseung’s eyes flickered to yours, an unreadable expression crossing his face for a moment. He opened his mouth like he was going to say something but hesitated, as if weighing his words carefully. “I’m just trying to make sure you’re okay,” he said, voice quieter, a little more strained than usual. “You’re barely keeping yourself upright. What do you want me to do, huh?”

You didn’t back down. “I want you to stop being nice,” you said, your voice slurred but clear enough. “It’s confusing. You’re supposed to be a jerk.”

There was a long, tense pause, and you almost didn’t notice it, but the way his face softened for just a second made your heart skip. He stood there, his posture stiff, but his eyes were searching yours, something vulnerable flickering behind his usual mask.

“Why?” His voice was barely above a whisper, and you could tell it caught him off guard. “Why does it bother you?”

You weren’t sure if it was the alcohol or just the raw honesty of the moment, but you decided to let the words spill before you could stop them.

“Because if you keep being nice to me like this... I might-” you murmured, the weight of the confession crashing over you as the words slipped out. “I might actually start liking you.”

The silence that followed felt almost suffocating. Heeseung froze, his expression unreadable. You felt your body sag with the realization of what you’d just said, and the alcohol finally hit you like a wave. Your vision blurred as your head dropped back against the bench, and before you could even process the weight of your own words, your body gave out.

You didn’t even hear Heeseung call your name. You just felt his hands steadying you, but everything went black.

Everything that followed was a haze.

You didn’t remember falling asleep. Didn’t remember being moved. But when your eyes blinked open, the light stung a little, and you were surrounded by something familiar, but not yours.

It took a second to realize you were in Heeseung’s bed.

You were curled up on top of his thin comforter, a lighter blanket tossed over your shoulders like an afterthought. His scent lingered faintly on the pillow beneath you. It smelled like clean laundry, hints of shampoo, and something distinctly him. The room was dim, lit only by the soft morning light peeking through slatted blinds.

Across the room, you spotted him, Heeseung, sitting at his desk, back to you, headphones on as he typed slowly on his laptop. His hair was still a mess, sticking out in places. He was wearing the same hoodie from the night before.

You shifted slightly, and that was all it took.

He immediately swiveled around in his chair. Headphones off, brows pulled together. “Hey,” he said, voice softer than you’d ever heard it. “Hey, easy. Don’t sit up too fast.”

He was already kneeling by the side of the bed, one hand resting gently on your shoulder. His eyes searched your face. “How do you feel? Water and aspirin…” he reached toward his desk, grabbing a bottle and a little foil pack, “…ready to go.”

You took them, muttering a tired thank you as you sat up slowly. Your head was pounding. Everything felt weirdly fragile, like the air was too loud.

“What a mess.. why am I remembering…” you rubbed your temples, “Vicky. Telling me she’d scare off my date.”

Heeseung gave you a tight-lipped smile, carefully neutral. “She did.” You let out a weak laugh. “I didn’t do or say anything... regrettable, right?” His expression flickered. Just for a second. A crack.

“Regrettable?” he repeated quickly. “Nah, nothing like that. You were just… rambling. Typical drunk stuff.” He cleared his throat, eyes darting away. “I brought you back here ‘cause you couldn’t go home like that. And I figured, y’know… better I make sure you’re okay than leave you to die in a bush or something.”

You snorted. “Very noble of you.”

He tried to laugh, but it came out awkward, stiff. “Seriously though, I swear, nothing weird happened. You knocked out like, instantly. I made sure you didn’t choke in your sleep or whatever. That’s it.”

You nodded slowly, watching him as you sipped the water. “Nothing else?”

There was a pause. Barely a beat. He shook his head. “Nope. Nothing.” You said nothing. Just nodded again.

Because you did remember. The moment before it all faded. The way your heart pounded. The words that escaped you.

You remembered what you said to him. Clear as day.

Heeseung looked visibly relieved that you didn’t push it further. He stood up, rubbing the back of his neck. “You should probably go home though. Rest somewhere more… homey. Real food, maybe not just painkillers.”

You hesitated. Then quietly, “Can I stay? Just for a little while.” His eyes widened.

“I know I’m probably being annoying, but I just…can’t really go home like this yet.” You picked at the blanket, looking down. “Also, the date was shit...I wanna distract myself from thinking of it.” Heeseung blinked. The expression on his face shifted from surprise to something gentler.

“Yeah,” he said after a second, voice low. “Of course you can stay.”

He sat down next to you slowly, like he wasn’t sure he should. You could feel the warmth of him, even without touching.

“So,” he asked, carefully, “what happened? Was he a jerk or something?”

There was something off in his tone. A casual mask trying to cover the edge of something rawer.

You shrugged. “He was full of himself. Talked about himself the whole time. Kept flirting with Vicky right in front of me.” You glanced at him. “It was pathetic, honestly.”

Heeseung’s entire expression darkened. Jaw clenched. “Are you serious?” he muttered. “He did that in front of you?” You nodded.

“Piece of shit,” he muttered, then immediately seemed to catch himself. He ran a hand through his hair. “Sorry. That’s just-God, what a dumbass.”

You could feel something bubbling beneath his words. He was angry. More than just offended on your behalf. There was something personal in the way he said it.

“I didn’t even like him that much anyway,” you said under your breath.

“Oh?” he said quickly. “Then why go on the date?”

You gave him a sidelong glance. “I guess I was trying to prove something to myself. That I could move on. That I didn’t-” You bit your lip. “Never mind.” He watched you closely.

“Didn’t what?”

You shook your head, brushing it off. “Forget it.”

Heeseung opened his mouth, then seemed to think better of it. He leaned back against the wall beside the bed. “If it makes you feel better,” he said, “you deserve someone way better than that loser. Someone who… actually listens. Knows you.”

You smiled faintly. “Sounds like a fantasy.”

“It shouldn’t be.”

You turned to him. “You speak from experience?”

He smiled crookedly. “Something like that.”

There was a quiet stretch. Neither of you spoke.

Then, on impulse, you asked, “Wanna grab something to eat? My treat.”

He looked at you like you just offered to buy him a yacht. “Really?”

“Yeah. You took care of me, so let me return the favor.”

He blinked, the corners of his mouth twitching upward. “Sure. That sounds good.”

“I mean, you’ll probably complain about the food, but-”

“Oh, absolutely. You have terrible taste.”

You rolled your eyes, pushing the blanket off as you stood. “Can I shower?”

Heeseung blinked. “Shower?”

“Yeah. You’ve got clean towels, right?”

“Uh, yeah. Cabinet under the sink.” He was already standing up, rummaging through a drawer.

“Here. Take this.” He held out a folded t-shirt and a pair of his joggers. “These should fit, I think.” You took them, holding back a grin. “Thanks, mom.”

He flushed, then made a face. “Just don’t use all my conditioner. That shit’s expensive.”

You ducked into the bathroom, the sound of running water quickly masking the sound of your laugh.

Left alone, Heeseung flopped onto his bed, covering his face with his arm. “What the fuck,” he muttered.

Everything about you lately was driving him insane.

Ten minutes later, you emerged, towel-drying your hair and wearing his clothes. The t-shirt was soft, worn-in, and smelled like him. The joggers sat comfortably low on your hips.

“Feel better?” he asked, trying to keep his tone light.

You nodded. “Surprisingly, yeah.”

He grabbed his keys. “Let’s go, then.”

You walked side by side. Close. Too close, maybe. His hand brushed against yours a few times, just barely.

“Watch it,” you muttered after the third time.

“Not my fault,” he said, not looking at you. “You keep drifting.”

You narrowed your eyes at the smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

When you reached the restaurant, he pulled open the door. “Go,” he said, flicking his chin. “Before you embarrass yourself trying to yank this open.”

“Wow,” you scoffed. “Chivalry’s dead.”

Inside the little restaurant, it was quiet. Just the low hum of a fan overhead and the occasional clink of cutlery from the kitchen. You slid into a booth by the window, the vinyl seat cool against your skin. Heeseung sat across from you, stretching his legs under the table with a soft groan.

He picked up the laminated menu and scanned it half-heartedly. “This place is always weirdly cold.”

You shrugged, fingers idly tracing the edge of your water glass. “Better than it being stuffy. I can’t think when it’s hot.”

“You can’t think when you’re cold either,” he pointed out, flipping the menu upside down like the food choices might change.

You smirked. “I can’t think around you, period.” He looked up. Blinked.

You hadn’t meant to say that.

“I mean-when you’re being annoying,” you added quickly, eyes dropping to the menu like it had suddenly become the most important thing in the world. “You’re distracting.”

“Uh-huh,” he said slowly, voice teasing. “Nice save.”

You made a face at him. He just chuckled and leaned back, watching you with that unreadable expression again. Half amused, half something else.

A waitress came by, took your orders, then disappeared just as quickly.

For a while, neither of you said much. You busied yourself with your straw wrapper, folding it into tight little knots. He watched your hands. Then the window. Then you again.

Finally, he asked, “So. Last night.”

You didn’t look up. “What about it?”

He shrugged. “I guess I just… didn’t expect it to bother me as much as it did.” That made you glance at him.

“I thought you weren’t paying attention?” you said carefully.

He let out a short breath. “Yeah. That was… not my finest moment.”

You leaned forward slightly. “Why though?”

Heeseung opened his mouth, then shut it again. Ran a hand through his hair.

“It was just… weird. Seeing you with someone else. Even if it was just a date.”

You tilted your head. “Weird how?”

He didn’t answer right away. His fingers drummed softly against the table.

“I don’t know,” he said finally. “I guess I thought I’d be fine. Like, of course you’re gonna date. That’s normal. But then I saw you standing there with him, and I just-” He exhaled sharply. “It was weird as hell.”

Your throat felt tight. “Heeseung…”

He shook his head, like he regretted saying anything at all. “I’m not trying to make this about me. I just… I care. Okay? Maybe more than I should.” That landed heavier than you expected.

You looked down again. At your straw wrapper. At the water beading on your glass.

“I didn’t like being there,” you admitted, voice low. “The whole thing felt off from the start. Like I was pretending.”

He looked up at that.

“Pretending what?”

“That I wanted to be there. That I didn’t already…” You hesitated. The words felt too big all of a sudden. Too close to something you weren’t sure either of you were ready to say.

“Already what?” he asked, barely above a whisper.

You gave him a small, careful smile. “Already know what I want.”

He stared at you for a moment. Then nodded slowly, like he understood just enough.

“Okay,” he said. “Okay.”

The silence between you wasn’t heavy anymore.

The food arrived, and the moment passed. You both shifted back to easier conversation. Complaining about portion sizes, laughing at how they overcooked his egg, making jabs about your weird sauce preferences.

No one said it, but you both felt it.

It wasn’t a confession. Not exactly.

After the plates were cleared and the bill had been paid, you both just sat there nursing the last of your drinks, your fingers lazily stirring the melting ice around with your straw. Neither of you seemed in a rush to leave.

Heeseung glanced out the window, squinting slightly at the soft morning light filtering in. “It’s still early,” he said, stretching his arms above his head with a yawn that made his voice raspy. “Wanna walk around? There’s that park nearby… you know, the one with the stupidly big ducks.”

You snorted. “The ones that hiss at people?”

“Yeah. You like danger, right?”

You rolled your eyes, but you were already grabbing your bag. “Fine. But if I get chased, I’m sacrificing you.”

“Fair enough,” he said, grinning as he held the door open for you. The morning breeze was crisp, brushing past your cheeks and ruffling his hair a little. He didn’t bother fixing it.

The walk wasn’t far. It was one of those sleepy neighborhood parks. Just a few worn benches, an old slide, some trees that were finally blooming again. You found an empty bench in the shade and plopped down with a sigh; your legs grateful for the break. Heeseung sat beside you, stretching his long legs out in front of him.

For a while, there wasn’t much said. Just the sound of wind rustling through the leaves, the occasional squawk of an aggressive duck, and the distant bark of someone’s dog.

Then, without warning, you glanced sideways and asked, “Anyways, why did you lie when you said you told me about your part-time job?”

Heeseung blinked like you’d thrown cold water on him.

He looked at you, a little startled. “Huh?”

“You told me you already mentioned it,” you said, leaning back against the bench, casual but still watching him. “But I swear you didn’t.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, fidgeting with a napkin he'd absently tucked into his pocket.

“It’s just a part-time job, you know? Nothing special.” You didn’t say anything, waiting.

He sighed, letting his hands fall to his lap. “To be honest, I was kinda embarrassed about it. Figured you'd make fun of me for working at some random diner.”

You raised a brow. “Why would I make fun of you for that?”

He chuckled dryly. “I dunno. I guess I thought you’d see it and think I peaked in high school or something.” He finally met your gaze, sheepish. “Guess I should’ve known better. Since when do you judge people based on stuff like that?”

You cracked a grin. “Well, I’d definitely make fun of how you look while working. But not where or why.”

That made him laugh, really laugh, and you caught a glimpse of his canines when he smiled, the way his eyes crinkled when he wasn’t trying to hide it.

Then, maybe a little too comfortable, you added, “You looked good in that uniform though.” Your mouth shut a second too late.

Heeseung blinked. His eyebrows lifted ever so slightly, and he ducked his head, hiding the blush blooming across his cheeks.

“Oh yeah?” he said, trying for cool but fumbling it. “You... noticed?”

You cleared your throat, willing your face not to burn. “Just saying. It suited you.”

“I thought I looked stupid in it,” he muttered, scratching at his jaw. “Like... cartoon diner boy vibes.”

“You always look stupid,” you said, trying to mask the compliment. “But, like, stupidly good in that uniform. Somehow.”

He turned to you fully now, a full grin spreading across his face. “Stupidly good, huh?” he echoed, nudging your shoulder with his. “I don’t know whether to be offended or flattered.” “Go with flattered,” you muttered.

He laughed softly. “I will then. Coming from you, that’s high praise.”

Then he tilted his head, suddenly thoughtful. “Hey, remember that bet we made in middle school? That if neither of us found anyone by thirty, we’d just marry each other?”

You rolled your eyes. “Jesus, I didn’t think you still remembered that.”

“Of course I do,” he said through a mouthful of whatever snack he’d bought from the park’s sad vending machine. “How could I forget such a ridiculous deal?”

He leaned in a little, his voice playful but low. “Plus, it gives me ten years to write a killer speech for stealing you away. Gotta make it memorable.”

“Ew.” You groaned, half-laughing, half-wanting to throw him off the bench. “You’re so cheesy. Stop! You of all people actually being okay with that is insane.”

Heeseung held up both hands in surrender. “Okay, okay. I’ll tone it down.” But the smile didn’t leave his face.

Then his voice dipped, not teasing now. Softer. “But seriously. You’d rather end up with some stranger over someone who already knows you? Someone who’s been there... through everything?”

You looked at him, quiet.

He didn’t push. Just kept talking, like he was thinking out loud.

“Not saying I’d actually do it. But… it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world, right? Settling down with someone who already knows all your weird habits and still wants to sit on a park bench with you after diner shifts and awkward first dates?”

The question lingered between you, neither rhetorical nor rushed. It hung in the silence like a soft, open-ended maybe.

You didn’t answer right away. Because honestly, you didn’t know how to.

Instead, you just reached out and flicked the corner of the vending machine snack in his hand.

“I only agree if I get to write your vows.”

He blinked. Then his grin returned, brighter than the morning sun overhead.

“You drive a hard bargain,” he said, voice warm.

You leaned back, letting your shoulders relax against the bench, watching a pair of ducks waddle toward a group of toddlers.

Heeseung was still beside you, just close enough that your knees bumped occasionally. Not a big moment. Nothing dramatic.

But it felt like everything wasn’t quite the same anymore.

So why are you letting it?

The next few days passed normally, with a tinge of peculiarity. You and Heeseung still bickered, still teased and jabbed at each other, but the edge was gone. Things had softened. Like the air had changed after a storm but neither of you wanted to talk about the lightning that had struck.

He'd text you late at night, just a meme or a weird video. You'd answer immediately, even if you were halfway through brushing your teeth. Sometimes he'd swing by the dental building just to walk you to the bus stop. You pretended not to notice the way your heart started doing gymnastics in your chest whenever he leaned a little too close or smiled a little too long.

Nothing had really changed. Except that everything had.

You didn’t dare bring up what he’d said at the breakfast place. The whole "settling down with your best friend" thing. You weren’t sure if he was serious. Heeseung had always joked like that. Always known how to toe the line. But lately, it felt like the line was erasing itself. You didn’t want to risk crossing it too soon.

And then suddenly, it was just a month before the university’s Interdisciplinary Festival. You could feel it in the shift of the campus vibe. Flyers everywhere, group chats buzzing, department chairs acting more high-strung than usual. You weren’t directly involved. Dentistry didn't usually have flashy showcases. Your part was more behind the scenes, coordinating with allied health orgs, preparing booths, boring but practical stuff.

But Performance Arts? That department lived for this. And Heeseung, being a third-year in Movement and Expression, had one of the biggest showcases lined up.

You only heard about it by accident.

You were on the library steps with your friend Hyejin, eating ice cream like it wasn’t ten in the morning. She was scrolling through her phone, showing you some video of someone absolutely bombing their tap dance final, when she went, "Oh my god, wait. You know Heeseung’s partnered with Yeri, right?"

You blinked. "Partnered for what?"

Hyejin tilted her head like it was obvious. "The interdisciplinary showcase. Their final’s a partner performance piece. Live. Like, full-blown duet. Probably something emotional and contemporary."

You laughed, even though your fingers tightened slightly around your spoon. "Sounds dramatic."

She shrugged. "Kinda hot, though. I mean, those two together? They’re gonna look insane on stage. Everyone’s already talking about it. People are betting on whether they’re gonna kiss in the final scene."

Your laugh this time came out too sharp. "Betting? Seriously?"

"It’s the Performance Arts kids. They make everything theatrical. But yeah, it’s all over the department forums. Some freshman even made a Yeri x Heeseung hashtag. It’s gross."

You scoffed, trying to play it off. "Heeseung’s probably dying of embarrassment. He hates that kind of attention."

But your stomach was sinking. Not because of Yeri, not exactly. Yeri was nice. Really fucking nice. And she and Heeseung made sense on paper. Both were tall, talented, and conventionally attractive. They moved in the same artistic circles. They shared a language you’d never really spoken. The idea of them being shipped together wasn’t surprising. It was reasonable.

And maybe that’s what made it worse.

You didn’t say anything to Heeseung at first. Not when he texted you a blurry selfie of himself trying on a costume for rehearsal. Not when he showed up at your library table the next day with a mango smoothie like he always did.

But you noticed the changes. Subtle things. He was always tired now. Rehearsals were eating up his evenings. He’d started humming unfamiliar melodies under his breath. And once, just once, you caught the faint scent of Yeri’s perfume clinging to his hoodie when he leaned over to help you fix your cracked phone screen.

You didn’t even flinch. You just smiled and handed him the new glass. Like always.

Until the cracks finally showed.

It was Friday evening. You’d both ended up on campus late—him from rehearsal, you from a late lab session. He found you sitting by the vending machines, legs curled up on the bench, eyes glued to your notes.

"You look like you haven’t blinked in an hour," he said, tossing you a small snack pack.

"You look like you got hit by a lighting rig," you shot back, eyeing his sweat-soaked hair.

He grinned. But it was tired. Too tired.

You both sat in silence for a moment, the kind that used to feel comforting. Tonight, it felt like holding your breath.

You nudged his knee. "So. The duet."

He stiffened slightly. Not a flinch, but close.

"Ah. That." He leaned back, resting his head against the wall. "You heard, huh?"

You nodded, keeping your tone light. "Whole school has, apparently. You two trending yet?"

He groaned. "Don’t even. Some sophomore tried to interview us for the school paper. I told them to interview my foot instead."

You snorted. "Nice."

Heeseung scratched at his temple. "It’s not that serious, y’know. Just an assignment. Yeri’s chill. She’s focused. No drama."

You stared at him. "You don’t think it’s a big deal?"

He looked at you then, really looked. And for a moment, the easy smile slipped.

"I didn’t say that," he said quietly. "Just... I didn’t ask for her. We were paired. It’s not like I had a choice."

You tried not to react. "Right. Makes sense."

Heeseung’s eyes narrowed a little, studying your expression. "Why? Does it bother you?"

You shrugged. "Why would it? It’s your class. You’re doing what you have to do."

There was a pause. Something taut stretched between you, neither of you daring to pull too hard.

Heeseung tilted his head slightly, his eyes narrowing as he watched you fidget with your notebook. "But it’s bothering you, right?"

You didn’t look up, focusing on the paper in front of you. "I didn’t say that."

He raised an eyebrow. "No, you didn’t. But you’re kind of wearing it on your face."

You huffed, flipping a page in your notebook, trying to avoid the growing tension. "I don’t know why you’re making such a big deal out of it."

Heeseung chuckled softly, but there was a quiet seriousness behind it. "I’m not making a big deal. You are."

You could feel his eyes on you, but you didn’t give in. "I’m not. Just-" You paused, scratching your pen over the paper more harshly than you intended. "It’s just different, okay? I’m used to having you around, not just in passing. And now… it’s like you’re always somewhere else, in some other world. I don’t know, maybe I forgot what that feels like."

There was a long silence between you, but it wasn’t uncomfortable, just a bit too quiet. Heeseung adjusted in his seat, clearly thinking about what you said. You could feel him looking at you, but you kept your gaze fixed downward, pretending like it didn’t bother you.

Finally, he spoke, his voice soft but with a hint of something almost... understanding. "That’s the problem, isn’t it? You’ve been so used to me being around all the time that now it feels weird."

You stiffened, feeling a flicker of irritation. "I’m not saying it’s a problem."

He sighed, leaning back in his chair. "You’re not the best at explaining things, you know that?"

"Well, maybe if you didn’t make everything feel like a thing, it’d be easier to explain."

There was another wave of silence, but this time, it didn’t feel quite as tense. Heeseung shifted again, this time reaching over to poke your arm lightly. "Alright, alright. I get it. You miss me or whatever."

You rolled your eyes, but there was a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips. "I don’t miss you, I just-" You stopped yourself before you could say more, mentally cursing your own brain for letting that slip.

"Yeah, sure," Heeseung said, his voice now teasing but still light. "I know you’re just totally fine without me around."

You gave him a look, not bothering to respond. The familiar bickering felt oddly comforting, even if it didn’t solve anything. You could almost pretend like things weren’t shifting, that nothing had changed.

Heeseung leaned a little closer, his voice quieter this time, not quite teasing but not completely serious either. "You know, I’m still here, right? Even if I’m not always right in front of you."

You glanced at him, but your gaze faltered quickly. You couldn’t help but feel the weight of those words, even though they weren’t as heavy as they could have been. "Yeah, I know. You just keep disappearing into your little world for hours."

Heeseung smirked, nudging your arm with his shoulder. "I come back. I always do."

You looked up at him, your expression softening, but you didn’t say anything. For a moment, it felt like there was more between the two of you than you wanted to admit.

Heeseung smiled, the kind of smile that made you want to laugh and roll your eyes at the same time. "Don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere. You’re stuck with me."

The university’s interdisciplinary festival was the kind of event that had a little bit of everything: booths on oral health from the Dentistry department, sports exhibitions, and the inevitable Performance Arts showcases that would steal the spotlight, as they always did. Naturally, since the festival spanned multiple departments, each one had its role to play. It was a chaotic, messy combination of everything, but somehow, everything still managed to fall into place. Though not without a bit of stress.

Vicky, your very unfortunately good friend, was the one who dragged you into it.

“You’ve got to come help with the festival, please! I’m begging you!” Vicky had said that day, eyes wide with that slightly manic enthusiasm that usually meant trouble.

You’d wanted to refuse, but you owed her. Big time. You couldn’t exactly back out, not when she’d held a dirty little secret over your head for months. And there was the fact that she’d somehow convinced you to help her out when you’d lost a bet a while ago. This was your punishment, you guessed, helping her run around doing menial tasks for the festival. You sighed dramatically as you agreed, your inner voice grumbling about the mess you were about to step into.

“I’m only doing this because I owe you, Vicky,” you muttered, throwing on your jacket as you followed her to the sign-up table.

“I knew you’d come through,” she grinned widely, practically bouncing on her toes. You shook your head but didn’t argue.

Vicky was good at that, making you feel guilty enough to help her out without ever truly demanding it.

And so, you found yourself getting swept up into the logistics of the festival, running around with other volunteers from different departments. And as fate would have it, you ended up working directly with Yeri.

The thing about Yeri was… she was easy to like. At least, that’s how she came across. She was friendly. Polite. A little too nice at times, in a way that made you feel like she was always trying to read something between the lines. You didn’t know her well. But everyone else seemed to think she was this pure, sweet angel.

It was hard to deny, though, that something about her rubbed you the wrong way now. Maybe it was the way she smiled a little too brightly at you, or the way her eyes lingered on Heeseung just a little too long whenever he was nearby. It wasn’t jealousy, not exactly. At least, you didn’t want to think it was. But there was something unsettling about the ease with which she seemed to glide through everything, untouched and perfect.

And when you saw her, right there in the middle of it all, managing rehearsal coordination for the Performance Arts group, your stomach twisted in knots.

Her smile was so… practiced as she greeted you. Almost too perfect. She was standing by the entrance of the rehearsal room, clipboard in hand as people filtered in. She waved at you when she saw you approach with Vicky, and then stepped forward, offering a cool bottle of water in a way that felt both casual and deliberate.

“Here,” she said, holding it out to you with a small smile. “It’s gonna be a long day. Stay hydrated.”

You took the bottle from her without a word, fighting the urge to scowl. Vicky, ever the optimist, nudged you with a grin before speaking up.

“I’m gonna grab a coffee. You two go ahead and start getting familiar with the space. You’ll be fine, right?”

You barely had time to answer before Vicky disappeared, leaving you with her.

“Thanks,” you mumbled, avoiding Yeri’s gaze. You were about to turn away, but then her voice stopped you, and you froze.

“So,” she said, her voice light but her gaze sharp. “Are you and Heeseung… dating, or...?”

You blinked, caught off guard by the question. Your heart skipped a beat, and you had to fight not to let it show. Your chest tightened, and you almost laughed to cover it up.

“No,” you said, as casually as possible, trying to shrug it off. “We’ve known each other forever.” You wanted to move past this. But Yeri wasn’t letting you off that easily.

“Oh.” Her eyes were deceptively innocent as she tilted her head, her smile soft but there was something unsettling about it. “So, you’re like… family, then?” And just like that, your stomach dropped.

Family. That word. The word that made it sound like nothing between you and Heeseung would ever be more than just what you already were. Not that you even wanted it to be more, right? At least that’s what you tried to tell yourself as you awkwardly fumbled for a response.

You forced a smile, a tight thing that never quite reached your eyes. “Yeah, I guess. That’s one way to put it.”

Yeri didn’t seem to notice, or maybe she just didn’t care. She smiled again, a little too warmly, and nodded as if that answer had satisfied her.

“Family, huh?” She repeated, almost to herself, her eyes narrowing slightly, studying you for a moment longer than necessary.

You didn’t know why, but her words hit you like a punch in the gut. Something about them felt too sharp. Too intentional. It was like she was probing for something, trying to understand exactly how far the relationship between you and Heeseung went. You didn’t want to play her game, but she wasn’t going to let you off easy.

“Right.” You swallowed and finally gave in, looking at her for a second before glancing away.

“Well, we’re not really… family, I guess. Just… friends.”

Her smile flickered, a glint of something unreadable flashing in her eyes. She nodded again, still too perfect, too calm.

“Right. Just friends.”

The tension lingered in the air, thick and suffocating. You tried to shake it off, but it clung to you, following you around like a shadow. You didn’t want to think about what Yeri’s words meant. Didn’t want to think about the fact that, in the back of your mind, they made you feel…small.

Before you could say anything else, someone shouted from across the room, calling for Yeri’s attention. She glanced back at you, giving you one final, soft smile.

“I’ll be around if you need anything,” she said, and with that, she turned away, leaving you standing there, feeling a little more unsettled than you had a moment ago.

You wanted to be mad. You wanted to be angry at the way she’d managed to make you feel like you were something less than you were. But you couldn’t find it in yourself to get upset. Not when you felt…stupid.

And maybe it was because of her. Or maybe it was because of the way your heart had stuttered when she’d asked about you and Heeseung. But either way, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something was starting to change… again.

And it wasn’t just with her. It was with Heeseung, too.

For the next few days, you couldn’t stop thinking about it. The way Yeri’s smile had never quite reached her eyes. The way her words seemed so carefully chosen, like she was testing you, seeing how you’d react. You weren’t sure what her angle was, but you knew it was something more than just curiosity.

And Heeseung? He wasn’t making it any easier. You didn’t know if it was the festival getting to you, or the fact that Yeri was always around, her presence like a quiet storm brewing in the background. But you couldn’t escape the feeling that the space between you and Heeseung was widening.

It had always been this easy with him. But now? Now, everything felt...complicated.

It had been a few days since that weird conversation with Yeri. Since that almost-smile you gave her. Since her words, “So you’re like… family?” had been playing on repeat in your head like some cruel inside joke you didn’t know you’d signed up for.

You told yourself you were over it. Told yourself you were being dramatic. But the thing is, once a thought plants itself like that, it doesn’t go away. It twists. It grows teeth. It appears like a teratoma you saw in ‘Grey’s Anatomy.’

The thing about trying to shake something off is that it never really works when you're already spiraling. And after that whole almost-cordial conversation with Yeri a few days ago, the drink offering, the “you’re like family?” line, the way her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes, it had been hard not to spiral. You told yourself it wasn’t a big deal. That it didn’t mean anything. People asked offhand questions all the time. Yeri didn’t know better.

But you weren’t stupid. You knew a loaded question when you heard one.

Still, you’d managed to push it down. Not away, just barely under the surface, like stuffing a drawer that wouldn’t quite close. You buried yourself in classwork, in shift hours, in helping Vicky plan her chaos of a booth for the Interdisciplinary Festival. She’d somehow roped you into printing tarpaulin designs and labeling props for a dental hygiene game that involved questionable puppet mascots and glitter glue.

And maybe it was easier to be annoyed at Vicky than to sit still long enough to think about how things felt different lately.

Heeseung hadn’t been avoiding you, no. If anything, he was still... around. Still showing up outside your building with a coffee when you didn’t ask, still bumping his knee against yours under the table during lunch, still sending reels at 2am with a “this is you when you’re hungry” caption.

But something had shifted.

Maybe it was you.

Or maybe it was that you noticed the shift more now that Yeri had stepped out of the periphery and into your shared spaces.

It was a late Thursday afternoon when it happened. The hallway leading to the studio wing was mostly quiet, the usual buzz of activity softened by the fact that most departments were busy prepping their respective booths or showcases. You were carrying a stack of laminated activity cards, something Vicky insisted were “vital to audience engagement,” and cutting through the Performance Arts floor because it was a faster route back to your booth.

You didn’t mean to look.

Really, you didn’t.

You only turned your head because you heard music playing from the open studio door. It was something soft and rhythmic, a piano loop that sounded vaguely familiar. You would’ve kept walking if not for the glimpse of movement in your peripheral vision. A flash of grey sweatpants.

A foot pivoting. The sound of a quiet laugh.

And there they were.

Heeseung and Yeri.

In the center of the studio, mid-run-through. You could tell from their breathing that they were nearing the end. Their movements were fluid, he reached for her wrist, spun her in close, and her hand landed on his shoulder like muscle memory. The music faded into its final notes. She stumbled slightly, and he caught her by the waist without missing a beat.

And then, still holding her, he laughed.

It wasn’t flirtatious. It wasn’t intimate in the way people always imagined.

But it was close.

His forehead brushed hers as he chuckled, and she grinned back, flushed from movement, her hand still resting against his chest.

And just like that, the drawer inside you burst open.

You didn’t wait for the rest of the moment. You didn’t give it the grace of an ending. You turned before they could see you, before Heeseung could glance over and realize you’d been standing there like some pathetic cliché in a drama rerun.

The laminated cards dug into your fingers as you walked faster, then faster still, until the hallway blurred and your breath caught unevenly in your throat.

You knew it wasn’t a big deal. Knew that this was rehearsal. Knew that Heeseung didn’t look at Yeri the way he looked at you when you were both cracking jokes in line for ramen, or when you were arguing over toothpaste flavors at the convenience store.

But knowing didn’t mean anything when your brain kept replaying that image. His hands on her waist, their laughter floating in sync, the ease of it all.

And the worst part?

The worst part was how normal it all looked.

How good they looked together.

You don’t remember walking down the stairs.

Your legs must’ve carried you out of the performance wing on autopilot, but your brain was stuck on loop, replaying the scene you weren’t supposed to see. The way he held her. The stupid laugh. That split second of closeness. You kept telling yourself it wasn’t even romantic, and yet here you were, nearly tripping over your own feet on the way back to the volunteer booth because your chest felt tight and hollow at the same time.

By the time you made it to the central quad, the heat in your ears had barely faded. Students were scattered across folding tables, tape guns snapping open, boxes getting unpacked.

Someone was blasting a speaker near the MedTech stall. It was all just noise.

You spotted Vicky instantly, perched like a gremlin on top of a chair, one leg folded under her as she furiously labeled laminated tags. Her drink was half-spilled next to a tangle of string lights. Typical.

You dropped the flyers in front of her with a little too much force.

Vicky flinched. “Damn. You tryna give me a paper cut to the throat or something?” You didn’t answer.

She peered at you, head tilted. “You good?” Still nothing.

Vicky blinked. “Okay, mood.”

You sat down wordlessly across from her, staring blankly at the label sheet.

After a beat, she gave you a look. “...You passed by the rehearsal studio, didn’t you?” That snapped your head up.

Your silence was enough of a confession.

Vicky hissed through her teeth. “I told you not to take the back hallway. Didn’t I literally say not to risk it today?”

“I wasn’t trying to spy,” you said stiffly. “It was just the fastest way. I wasn’t expecting-”

“Well, yeah. No one expects to get punched in the gut by destiny.”

You frowned. “This isn’t some drama.”

“Isn’t it?” she countered, flicking a label onto a folder. “Because I’m pretty sure that looked a hell of a lot like the third-act misunderstanding in Twilight. You’re Bella. Yeri’s the romantic rival. Heeseung’s the-”

“Don’t,” you warned. “Do not call him Edward.”

Vicky shrugged, deadpan. “I was gonna say Jacob, actually. But tomato, tomato.”

You shot her a glare, but your heart wasn’t in it. Your stomach was still twisted up, your chest still humming with that awful buzzing feeling. Like jealousy, but meaner. Heavier.

She studied you for a moment before softening, her voice dipping lower. “Look, I get it. I know it sucks. And I know you’re not gonna say it out loud, but you’re mad.”

“I’m not mad.”

“You’re jealous, then.”

“I’m not-” You bit off the rest, jaw tight. “I’m not anything.”

Vicky gave you the most annoying knowing smile. “Sure. Which is why you’re out here nearly cracking a hole in my table.”

You folded your arms, but the motion felt defensive even to you.

She pressed. “Be real, though. Are you actually upset about the duet? Or about the fact that it looked... comfortable?” That landed.

You exhaled sharply and looked away. “It wasn’t even romantic.”

“But it could’ve been. If you didn’t know better.” Vicky leaned back in her chair. “That’s what stings the most, huh?”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to.

She watched you for a second, then leaned forward, voice softer now. “Look. I know it’s easier to pretend it’s nothing. But I also know you. And you don’t look at people like that unless it means something.”

You swallowed hard.

“Even if you can’t say it,” she added gently, “you feel it. That’s enough to make this kind of thing hurt.”

You stared down at the table. A breeze lifted one of the corner tags and fluttered it against your arm.

“I told myself I didn’t care,” you murmured. “Everyone knows they’re partnered. I thought I was fine. I was fine.”

“And then you saw it.”

You nodded, slowly. “He laughed.”

Vicky raised a brow. “And that’s the crime?”

“No,” you said, shaking your head. “It’s just… he laughed like it was easy. Like she belonged there. In his arms. I’ve seen him do duets before, but this...” You trailed off. Your throat felt tight.

“She’s good at what she does,” Vicky said, not unkindly. “And she’s not stupid. She knows exactly how she comes off.”

“I know.”

“She probably knows you’re watching, too.” You blinked at her.

“C’mon,” Vicky said, scoffing. “Yeri’s not dumb. She asked if you and Heeseung were dating in the most suspiciously casual way imaginable. You think she wasn’t testing the waters?”

You clenched your jaw, that old bitterness creeping back in. “She said we were like family.”

“Oh, ouch.”

“Yeah.”

Vicky sighed, sliding her drink over to you. “You want me to ‘accidentally’ trip and spill glitter on her head?”

You cracked a laugh. It was weak. Shaky. But real.

“I’m serious,” she said, straight-faced. “I’ll ruin her whole aesthetic. It’ll be glitterpocalypse.” “I appreciate the offer,” you mumbled.

A long silence stretched between you, filled only by the sounds of other students setting up around you, the distant hum of another speaker kicking on.

And then Vicky said, softer, “You’re allowed to feel things, you know. Even if you’re not dating him. Even if no one said anything out loud yet.”

You blinked fast. The backs of your eyes were starting to sting.

“But what if I’m just... reading too much into it?” you asked, voice quiet. “What if I’m the only one who thinks we’re… whatever we are?”

“You’re not,” Vicky said firmly. “I’ve seen the way he looks at you. It’s not just you.”

You stared at the tabletop, her words echoing in your chest like they wanted to stick but didn’t know where to land.

“Just don’t let this one moment undo everything you’ve built with him,” she added, nudging your hand. “You guys have history. Depth. That beats any choreography any day.” You nodded slowly, even though the ache hadn’t left. Not really.

But for now, you stayed.

You let Vicky drag you into more prep work, into stringing lights and faking jokes, into the chaos of your friendship, even while the image of Heeseung and Yeri refused to leave the back of your mind.

Even while the burn lingered.

Even while the question, the one you never said out loud, twisted deeper inside you:

If you were really his person...

Then why did it feel like he was learning to smile in someone else's direction?

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

[mulloey]

so like… mtl likely to participate in hardcore cnc kink with the reader?

like, I think jun would be open to it because he’s good at acting and seems really observant but I’d like to see what your thoughts are on it and why ^-^

cnc with seventeen

first of all thanks to my girl @my-favefics for helping me with this!! and for getting me into writing svt in the first place.

this will be posted in three parts, beginning with the most eager and ending with the ones who might need a little convincing for it:)

warnings: cnc, rape roleplay, heavy dom/sub, the word ‘rape’ is used, fear play, manhandling, belting etc. this is intense. you’ve been warned. i’m not your babysitter and hate is blocked.

part one: the freaks

everything about cnc just screams seungcheol. he naturally assumes a dominant role over you, and he gets off on it too. the head rush he gets when you submit, giving yourself to him completely is comparable only to what he gets on stage—except with you, it’s so much more delicious. because you would let him do anything.

but what if he didn’t want you to let him?

what if he wanted you to struggle? what if he wanted to have to hold you down and force you to obey?

at first he’s disgusted with himself for having these thoughts. he feels like a terrible person, sick in the worst sense when he imagines you trying pathetically to fight him off, cowering and terrified when he finally subdues you. tears in your eyes as you beg him not to do this. beg him not to hurt you.

when he finally gathers the courage to bring it up he’s beyond nervous; stammering and shaking and refusing to meet your eyes until you grab his hand and nudge his face up to meet yours. “i wanna try it, cheollie,” you say.

silence, for a moment. “really?”

“yeah.”

you catch the glint in his eyes when he looks up at you; the darkness. the smile that grows on his face is nothing less than a warning.

he wouldn’t really be interested in the role play side of things; he doesn’t want to chase you down or break into the house with a knife. no, it wouldn’t do it for him if he were a stranger to you—it has to be him. you have to reject him. you have to be overpowered by him. you have to fear him—because it’s him. because you know the power he wields and all the things he’s capable of.

maybe he’ll make a move while you’re on the couch or in bed; you’ll make a show of pushing him off, hiding your excitement as you tell him you’re just not in the mood right now. and he’ll just tilt his head, cocking an eyebrow quizzically as he stares at you like you’ve just said something ridiculous. offensive, even.

“oh?” he says. “you’re saying no to me now? who taught you that, baby?”

“i have the right to say no, seungcheol.” you try to sound firm but your voice wobbles and his eyes flash with delight. “it’s my body.”

“oh is it?” he chuckles, a deep sound; and nothing about the man in front of you is the loving and considerate person he was seconds ago. “you really don’t know how this works, huh?”

“how what works?”

he moves quickly, pinning you to the couch and hovering over you like prey. “you let me have you,” he breathes. “you let me take you. that means i own you, baby. and you don’t say no to your owner.”

your breath hitches, adrenaline pulsing; despite your knowledge and delight at what’s happening a very real fear begins to pulsate as you kick and squirm under his grip, but he’s so strong he barely seems to notice. “this isn’t fucking funny, seungcheol,” you say. “i don’t like this.”

“poor thing,” he coos. “she doesn’t like this, huh? you know i could make this a lot worse for you, don’t you?”

“stop, cheol. please, i don’t—”

the strength of the slap seems to take you both by surprise; his eyes widen and you cry out, clutching your cheek but it only spurs him on. “you need to learn some respect,” he spits. “need to learn some fucking manners.”

you put up a good fight, of course; you kick and thrash and fight until your body gives out but he’s so much stronger than you—and if he has to physically drag you into position himself, or gag you with your own panties to stop you from screaming for help? then he fucking will.

it’s about time you learned your place.

—

you've always known jeonghan had a bit of a fear kink. and by a bit—well, he goes crazy for it. completely feral at the idea of you cowering beneath him; flinching when he raises his hand; reacting physically to his little displays of power.

it's his favourite game and it's yours too. it came up fairly early in your relationship; when you were just staring to explore more... extreme kinks, and had become aware of just how fucked up you both were. how much you loved it when he hit just a little too hard; used a bit too much pressure: pushed you just a little too far. he felt the way you'd clench around him when you broke down and cried; when he'd whisper threats in your ear and feel the pulse of fear rush through you.

so of course he wants to push it further. so do you.

so you don’t know why you’re so surprised when he comes up to you one day and asks if you want to play this new game he’s been thinking of.

from the look in his eye you have an inkling of what it might be; a hint of something so fucked up and depraved you’re the only person he could ever say it to. and you’re right, of course, as you usually are with him—but even you’re taken aback to hear the words “i want to rape you” come from his mouth.

“oh,” you whisper.

he raises an eyebrow, staring expectantly, if a little nervously at you. “what do you think?”

“it… in what context?” you ask.

“i mean… it wouldn’t be real, baby. you’d have a safeword. i just wanna… fuck.” he shakes his head, cheeks flushed already and it makes you pulse. he really, really wants this.

“wanna what?” you prompt.

“i wanna see you scared, pretty girl. like really, really terrified.”

oh. yes. you want to see that too.

he doesn’t tell you when he’s going to do it; wants it to be a surprise, he says. but you get a bit of a clue a few days later, when he reminds you seven times in the same morning what your safeword is.

still, for his sake you pretend to be surprised when the large presence behind you suddenly clamps a hand over you mouth and drags you over to the wall; slamming you into it with brute strength. there’s danger in his eyes; excitement on a level you’ve never seen and his dick is straining against his pants. “what do we have here?” he smiles. “walking around all pretty like that.” his eyes flicker down to your attire; the loose tshirt and panties clinging to your hips. “you were waiting for me, weren’t you?”

“i don’t know what you’re talking abou—”

he cuts you off with a hand around your throat, holding you in place with enough pressure to set your heart racing. “don’t lie,” he croons. “i know all about you, baby. i know how sluts dress when they’re wanting some attention.”

“i’m not lying.” you spit it through gritted teeth and his lips curl into a smile; somehow sweet and nauseating at the same time.

“well, let’s check, hm?”

you were definitely lying—you wore those pretty little panties you know he loves just to provoke him. unfortunately for you, your pussy does not lie, and when he slips two fingers into your panties his face tells you the jig is up.

“oh dear,” he muses. “i think you were lying, baby. i think you need to learn to tell the truth.”

“learn?” you echo. “how?”

his smile widens. “you ever had your ass fucked, dolly?”

that’s your cue, you decide; you shove him off you with all your strength and make a mad dash for the living room. he just watches you, amused more than irritated—he knows you’ve no chance of overpowering or escaping him. you just need to make a good attempt at it so you can feel like you resisted; can pretend you’re not just as aching for it as he is.

your tears don’t fool him; the sobbed pleas not to hurt you too much, not to do this, i’ll give you whatever you want, just please not this. they only spur him on—make his hips buck and his grip tighten on you. seeing you cry and writhe beneath him only makes him even more determined to destroy you—to ruin you in ways only he knows how. to make it hurt.

and he’d never tell you, but he was always a bit of a masochist too, so the cuts and scratches you leave while he subdues you only makes that first strangling squeeze of your asshole around his dick feel that much better.

—

minghao loves it when you cry. he really, really fucking loves it. to see you break down underneath him, calling his name pathetically between sobs; to see the tears on your face; the red cheeks and helpless eyes—to know that he’s the one who caused it all. there’s nothing like it on earth.

he wants to see you completely fucking broken. you’ve known it for a while now; you were just waiting for him to make the move.

he catches your arm one day as you’re walking past; pulling you towards him with a small smile. “by the way, sweetheart,” he purrs. “your safeword is turkey. don’t forget it.”

“why?” you giggle, sort of half-knowing already.

“because, pet,” he whispers. “from now on, unless you say that word… when you tell me stop, tell me too much, tell me it hurts… i’m gonna keep going. gonna use you til i’m satisfied. now doesn’t that sound fun?”

it really fucking does.

and once this new arrangements of yours is firmly established? he only gets more sadistic. he hits you harder, chokes you harder; drags you into alleyways and public bathrooms with a hand over your mouth just because he can. because you love it.

he’s been fucking you for what feels like hours now. you’re in the bed at least; a small mercy given how fond he’s become lately of forcing you onto all fours on the floor and fucking you until your knees are red and raw. but now your legs are stretched painfully as he holds them firmly on his shoulders and he’s drilling into you so hard it’s painful; saying such horrible things that it all just feels… too much.

and at the same time, it’s nowhere near enough.

but you know exactly what to say to get him to go harder.

“minghao.” you force the word out of your throat, raw and irritated from his earlier abuse. “stop.”

“what did you say?” he asks, not even slowing down for a second. “stop?”

“please, hao.”

he laughs, a sharp, bitter sound. “insolent little brat,” he grunts. “fucking bitch, you think you get to decide that? we’re done when i say we’re done, whore.”

“n-no,” you cry. you try to struggle, writhing under his grip and he slams his hand down on your clit, making you scream.

“yes,” he snarls. “shut up and take it, fuckdoll. this is my fucking pussy and i’ll use it until i’m done.”

you’re sobbing now, hot tears streaming down your face and he leans over you; eyes dark and delighted. “oh, that’s it,” he coos. “let it out, honey. i’ll take care of you. i’m gonna break your pretty brain until there’s nothing left.”

you can’t even talk now, too overwhelmed to think as the pace and force of his thrusts only quickens; you feel like you’re being split open, all your senses in overdrive and your entire body in pain and you’ve never, ever been more turned on.

he can tell.

“good girl,” he mutters. “so fucking wet for me. don’t worry, honey. i’m gonna fucking ruin you.”

he does.

—

if there’s one thing that gets wonwoo off, it’s your size difference. doesn’t matter how big; he just adores it. he adores the way you look so tiny and fragile under him; how small your hand looks in his—how easy it would be to overpower you with his big, strong body.

but how easy would it be, if you actually put up a fight?

you never really have—you love it when he manhandles you; when holds you down, uses his size against you, so you’ve never really resisted it. the only taste he’s ever had of a true fight are those little play fights you have from time to time; stupid, half-heated fighting for stupid reasons. but even that was enough of a taste to drive him absolutely wild. he needs more. he needs to win you.

“sweetheart,” he calls for you as he walks into your apartment after work. you come running immediately as you always do, pulling him into a hug and he laughs. “hi, honey. you—”

you pull away suddenly, just enough to peer up at him with those wide, innocent eyes, and all else is forgotten. you look so small like this. he can’t wait any longer. he won’t.

“fuck,” he curses. you raise an eyebrow, head tilting. “baby. tiny girl.”

“yeah?” fuck, your voice is so soft. so weak.

“sweetheart. i wanna try something new with you.”

“o…okay.” you sound confused; a little nervous—good. you should be. “what is it, woo?”

“i want you to fight me off.”

the silence is thick and painful and never ending as he awaits your response; you blink once, twice, three times as you process what he’s said to you. “fight you off?” you repeat. “like, in sex?”

you don’t sound disgusted, at least—just unsure exactly what he’s asking you. he hums, nodding his head. "i want to overpower you, baby," he says. "i wanna earn that pussy—fight for it, you know? wanna see you struggle."

fuck. you do know, now that you think about it. "yeah," you say. "i think i wanna try it."

"yeah?" he grins, demeanour shifting; it amazes you sometimes, how quickly he can let the nerves fall away and fully envelop himself in what he's doing. "you wanna fight me off, baby?"

“yeah.” you swallow, lightheaded already. “i wanna.”

“good girl.”

you’re half expecting him to pounce on you straight away, but instead he presses a kiss to your forehead and walks off. you decide not to question him; knowing your boyfriend, he’s already got this planned out to the letter, and by the sounds of it, waiting and wandering when he’s going to strike is half the point.

but if he thinks taking you by surprise will make you easy to subdue, he’s dead fucking wrong.

the moment his hand closes over your mouth some days later, you’re ready; adrenaline kicks in instantly and you shove back against him; your hands fly up to claw at his forearm where he’s wrapped it around your neck, pressing against your throat with just enough pressure to make you panic. “come on, easy, easy baby.” his voice is soft, soothing and it fools no one. “don’t struggle, you know i don’t like it when you struggle.”

a lie, of course—his dick is rock hard and pressed against your ass, twitching each time you thrash and struggle against him. he loves his—even loves it when you bite down on his palm hard enough to draw blood.

“fuck,” he curses; he pulls his hand away from your mouth but the arm against your throat is more than enough to keep you still as he yanks your head back to meet his eyes.

the face that stares back at you is unlike you’ve ever seen it; none of the love and tenderness you can usually find even in the most intense of scenes—rather pure, uncompromising darkness. ice.

“you bitch,” he spits. “fuck, i was gonna be nice to you, y’know, was even gonna let you cum a few times but you obviously can’t behave.”

“fuck you,” you grunt. when his grip loosens momentarily you try to make a run for it but he just laughs, pulling you back into him as easily as if you were a tiny puppy who’d wriggled out of its leash.

“i don’t think so, doll,” he says. “you don’t run from me. now be good and i won’t have to hurt you too much, yeah?”

the answer is no, obviously, just as he wanted it to be—it doesn’t stop him from holding you by the hair and belting your ass raw while you cry and squirm on his cock, though.

doesn’t stop you from loving every second of it, either.

—

[anotheruserwithnoname]

I prefer to think for myself. It makes the effort worth it. If I let AI do everything what's the point? I had someone suggest I use AI to come up with something for a story. I did it myself in 5 minutes.

Also I'm in an industry where one can be sued into oblivion for getting facts wrong. AI has no fear of being destroyed by a lawyer and losing the ability to buy food. I've experienced the threat (though fortunately only the threat). It's given me the fear. I don't approach writing as a scared little puppy, mark you, otherwise I'd be stacking shelves at Wal-Mart, but each time I've screwed up (I've been a writer longer than most readers of this post have been alive, so it's happened a few times over the last 33 years) it has made me more careful because I hate the feeling of messing up and having people mad at me. And in worst-case scenarios saying I might get a letter from someone with initials after their name.

AI draws from everywhere. That means it potentially also draws from people like me when we've screwed up (I know one or two of my "fear-causing" stories are online, somewhere, and there are many things online that saw less-fortunate writers than me most definitely get "The Letter" and end up buying houses for other people in the process). AI is the most gullible thing in the world because it believes everything it reads, even if it's wrong.

the scariest thing about the generative AI thing is how quickly people have accepted it as an indefinite, irrevocable part of their reality. people have genuinely convinced themselves that ChatGPT is the only solution to most tasks - tasks they did with their own brain without any large effort two years ago. like you know damn well all of us used to write emails ourselves why are we pretending like this is an impossible task to do with your own two hands. what's with the fucking. AI revisionism. i feel like i am going insane.

[bloominglegumes]

between jazz, blaster, and soundwave, who's your favorite and why? or, if you can't decide, what's something you like about each of them?

oh.ohhhoh okok

i say this all the time jazz my funky mystery man my beautiful deadly girlfriend,, i made that silly post a little while ago about jazz being like a femme fatale but genuinely that is my idea of jazz?? every version of him is just so cool and charming, competent, i love the character type that's spunky and playful while sometimes also using the fun personality as a cover for being kind of fucked up and awful yknow. i think it's first of all funny and then. hot and then tragic and i fall for it every time. plus canonically plays bass so thats 1/3 of our jazz trio

ohh and blaster. there's of course his main schtick of being a boombox, music lover, bold and loud, single parent figure,, gotta be honest i rlly love his crunchy marvel comics version too, he's protective, he's dedicated, he's got that tough guy with a secret soft side energy to him and his being made commander of autobot city in g1 is so ?? like that skyrockets his guardian vibe to me ,, listen he's a sweetheart and i think it's unfortunate he hasn't been brought into more screen versions </3 miss my beautiful butch wife

soundwave is already popular enough fjdfh i don't know what i can say about him that hasn't already been said tbh. first off epic vibes, i'm a sucker for just characters with a good voice and his is so consistent and iconic. second the scary looming watchdog type is so tasty especially in tfp,, guy who builds his entire self on devotion and dedication, guy living for a purpose greater than himself. he's evil and sexy. single mother. guy who owns the braincell. soggy stray cat vibes. gnc creep weirdo radiohead,,

[shanastoryteller]

why isn't shanastoryteller's tumblr writing on ao3?

i've been asked this before, and i've gotten asked this a handful more times in just the past week, so

i'm going to link this post in my pinned post so it hopefully comes up a little less. i'm going to go through my answer in a detailed way that isn't necessarily all directed towards anyone who has asked some variation of this recently or ever, i'm just trying to be thorough to answer this for the (hopefully) last time

first there's the issue of formatting. there's pretty much no way to move what's at this point about 2,000 prompts over to ao3 in a way that isn't deeply annoying to myself, other users, and anyone who's subscribed to me. i'm not interested in making a new "chapter" for just a couple hundred words, i'm not going to tag 100 fandoms on one work, i don't want have to go to ao3 after every prompt cycle and copy and paste the prompts into the fic, whether that be as a new chapter or just editing a story to contain new material. the masterlist and updating the google doc already takes a decent amount of time and having to do this on ao3 would be both finnicky and time consuming and there's no way to set it up that i wouldn't find myself irritated with the prompts being on my profile period

however, most importantly, it just doesn't jive with how i use each of these websites

ao3 is an archive and dumping all my random prompts on there is an appropriate use for it. however. it's not how i personally prefer to use each site and just because something can go on ao3 does not mean i'm required to put it there

tumblr is my sketchbook and ao3 is my art gallery

the prompts and snippets and random crap i post here isn't thought out, don't necessarily have an overarching plot, or any real substance to them besides the scenes. they're fun, they're usually low effort, and they're things i work on without any real expectation that they'll spawn into a full, fully plotted story or at least not one i'm committed to writing out. i don't like having unfinished works on ao3 and i try really hard not to. if i'm posting something to ao3, that's me making a commitment to eventually (EVENTUALLY!!) completing it and having all my random, messy, incomplete prompts and scraps on there would 100% stress me out

like how sketches often become full pieces, it's not uncommon for a prompt series or random writing to turn into a full fic that gets fleshed out / expanded and put on ao3

The Great Puzzle, wing bones touching, Snakelet, Here Be Dragons, Become Tomorrow, shrine or scar, that is a door, Cartwheels in Cloud Recesses, Ghosts Shouldn't, Little Lion Boy, and Despite the Abundance all started on tumblr

but even in cases where i found a big chunk of the tumblr writings usable and worth keeping, it's not a matter of just copy and pasting it over and calling it a day. a full fic and and a series of random prompts or whatever scenes i've written on here isn't necessarily how i would choose to tell a longform story, so transporting them over always entails a fairly large amount of work on my end

in the case of the great puzzle, i used all that i'd written, it was just the commitment and plot to writing the story through. for wing bones touching, i'm using most of what's already been written, but there's a lot of connective tissue and build up to earn the payoff that i hadn't bothered to write when it was just a prompt series that now has to be put in

there are some series where this is easier than others. the azula and zuko series, for example, would have to be written almost entirely from scratch. it encompasses a huge amount of time and action and earns pretty much none of it - because the format means it doesn't have to.

living blood is one that i'm thinking will probably end up on ao3 at some point because i've written a lot of the connective tissue and build up into it already so it's not such a huge effort to polish it up

"but you don't have to polish it up!" i can hear you saying. "you can just post it as is!"

i said it above and i'll say it again: i could. but i don't want to

i'm saying this with all the kindness and appreciation for your interactions and your comments and your readership but: not everything is about you

i link all the previous prompts in the most recent one. i make a masterlist after every prompt cycle. i have every prompt linked out in the google doc

i'm not opposed to making things easier for your guys, and have spent a lot of time doing so, but i'm completely uninterested in moving my prompts and random writings over to ao3 for all the reasons laid out above, and being asked repeatedly isn't going to change my answer

if you think those reasons are stupid and inadequate and it makes you mad, the good news is this: you don't have to follow me and you don't have to read my work. you're completely and totally free to opt out of this experience

if you find navigating prompts as i have them laid out to be too cumbersome and difficult then, kindly, don't read them

i'm not a professional, a company, or a celebrity. this blog and my writing is neither a product nor a service

the point where prompts are more stressful and irritating than they are fun, the point where sharing scraps of my writing becomes something that turns into an obligation or a drag or too much work, is the point where i stop doing it