#my voice has been described as ‘soothing’

[renee-mariposa]

Why am i Like This

[hoshigray]

Heyyy. Can I request a college au. Reader is an average, socially awkward person but somehow managed to pulled the campus heartthrob, Geto (or gojo). And he's lowkey obsessed with her and try to be fucking her every chance he gets.

𝐚. 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: why not both? ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ idk, felt like doing a threesome for some reason lmao

⊹ 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬: Geto + Gojo x fem! reader - explicit content; minors DNI - modern au! college setting - sex in public places; gymnasium locker room + dining hall + college dorms - oral (m! + f! receiving) - face + throat-fucking - fingering (f! receiving) - clitoral play (swiping, grinding and licking/sucking) - face-sitting - threesome - double penetration; anal and vaginal - cowgirl dp position - anal fingering (f! receiving) - kissing/making out - protected sex (psa: warp it up or get tf up) - overstimulation - pet names (angel, baby, cutie, my love, pretty girl, princess, sweetie, sweetheart) - sato + sugu being whipped over you, hehe~ - slight humor - mention of tears and drool.

⊹ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 5.1k (pretty long for a req, lol)

“Oh, Y/n, it’s good to see you. Did you have a good weekend? Let’s walk each other to class; I was waiting for you.”

“Y/nnnn! This cold day is so much warmer now that you’re here. Let’s grab something to eat at the dining hall, okay?”

You thought college life couldn’t get any more difficult than it already is. Oh, how you were so wrong… 

Being on your own on campus was hard enough; states away from your family and having to rely on and take care of yourself while also striving for a better education. On top of this, making friends (outside of your roommates Shoko and Utahime) is such a social and excruciating chore as it’s challenging to put yourself out for people to notice you. Making small talk with your peers or talking/discussing group material in classes has your heart racing enough – not to mention trying to commit to clubs – making you feel a bit of a failure as a human being.

With that, you almost dwell on not trying at all. You’re utterly content with your inner circle with your roommates, waking up and heading to classes and back, eating college food, and sleeping after reading for a lecture. This routine of sticking to yourself was a notion you’ve grown to accept and find comfort in — no need to change it if it’s been doing you well this far.

That is until you meet them — Gojo Satoru and Geto Suguru, the best friends of your roommate Shoko. 

Gojo is the star player of the school’s basketball team, a famous face among the class years, and the “disgustingly tactless, cutesy prince” of your year, as described by Utahime. By morning, he’s a dedicated student in his business administration major and history minor classes; by afternoon, he is his playful, social, and charismatic snow-haired soul, grabbing the attention of others and bringing life to those around him with his bright cadence. In addition, he’s a talented figure, capturing the hearts of many with his model work in fashion shows and playing fan-favorite roles in plays.

In contrast, Geto was a much more mellow star that pulled the hearts of students and professors alike. The raven-haired bioengineering major was a boy whose presence was easy not to notice yet quick to pull you in when making himself known. His tall, docile figure emitted an aura that accompanied the soothing tune of his voice, the perfect combination that made him trustworthy and obliging to the students around him and his lacrosse teammates. With the charming features of a heartthrob and the alluring speech of a leader, he’s someone many would turn to in search of a person to follow and praise.

Satoru and Suguru, two complete opposites – two best friends – who are, without a doubt, the twin stars of this school. However, there was one thing the two shared in common, something that made your heart skip and your mind race every time knowing this fact: the two were unmistakably and sickeningly in love with you!

How? You do not know. It all started when Shoko brought them over one night for dinner, and you saw them for a quick moment in the kitchen, quickly greeting them before rushing back into your room. Next thing you knew, you had begun to see and run into them every so often, which soon turned to at least once per day. And now, like a white bubbly puppy and a black, quietly affectionate cat, you could not shake them off you when and wherever you went.

Oh, it was something you were not used to, being sneaked up from behind by Gojo, who’d pull you in for a hug or lift you with every greeting in public (as if you weighed like nothing)! Especially in classes where Geto would surprise you with his calm voice and a warm hand on your shoulder to check if you were okay before claiming the chair next to you. And you couldn’t push them away — how could you when two of the most renowned faces on school grounds want to be around your presence!? Good Lord, it was all overwhelming, Shoko and Utahime having to step in to beat the boys into shape for making you uncomfortable.

And then there are those times when the two would butt heads with each other because of you! There have been a handful of times where if one had you to themselves, the other would bore glares to the former’s skull. Gojo would suck his teeth with his arm wrapped around your shoulder, white brows furrowed and ticked off blue eyes concealed by his dark circle shades. “Yo, Buddha with bangs, can you let go? Y/n promised to hang with me after their classes ended, and I’d be damned if you’d be third-wheeling.”

“That’s not happening, Satoru,” Geto’s hand grasps yours with more grip, royal purple eyes narrowed at his white-haired friend. “Y/n and I have a presentation to work on for tomorrow. Go lollygag somewhere else.”

Two positive bundles of life will immediately turn hostile when it comes to you, suffocating your very being as you’re stuck in the middle of them. It’s bad enough being with either of them has people notice and talk about you; it’s another thing when you’re being fought over like some small bunny between two snarling wolves. Oh God, why me!!??

But it wasn’t all bad. If anything, being fawned over by the two was a strange thing that has happened to you thus far, and not in a terrible way. Gojo has made you a lot more open and social than before, dragging you to parties he’s been invited to and to his crowded games (where he’s always sure to find you and blow a kiss). And spending time with Geto has sparked instances where you’re courageous enough to speak for yourself with a bit of a push from him, throwing in your inputs for class discussions or having him aid you in knowing your material when you two study together.

The two most popular guys in school who flatter and are obsequious over you. That in itself is enough to make your cheeks and ears dial in warmth, shielding your face in your pillows just thinking about them. You like them both, bound to be drawn in by the handsome boys and their pursuit of you.

However, their infatuation was something you’d find out goes beyond words and handholds. An obsession for you embroidered in their very minds…and bodies.

“…Mhahhh, Go—Mmmph! Gojooo…we shouldn’t be doing this…”

“Aww, c’mon, Y/n, you know I don’t like it when you call me by last name. It’s just the two of us here…Fuck, keep licking it like that…”

Sneaking into the basketball team’s locker room is one thing; sneaking in with the star player in the team with you between his legs on the bench and sucking his dick? Oh, that’s a can of worms you never thought you’d open in your entire life. 

Gojo brings his head back, banging on the locker behind him as the contact of your tongue on his pink tip sends shivers up to his shoulders. “Fuuuck, you feel so good, baby. Gonna make me cum again…” You peer up with lidded eyes as you suck his tip into your mouth, him humming at the warm sensation of your mouth swallowing his length whole. Your face is hot of embarrassment, being looked down on by him as you do such an indecent thing on him in a place of changing for men. 

This was his idea – bringing you to the gymnasium to watch him practice with his teammates for an upcoming game. Then, he pulls you aside once the guys want another fifteen-minute water break, bargaining into the men’s locker room and pulling you in for a hot kiss. Sucking on and nibbling on your lips and tongue has you mewl sweetly for him, distracted as he pulls his shorts and briefs down to expose the erection growing inside him. “Sorry, you just looked too cute watching me from the side,” he’d say with a hazy glint in his eyes shielded by his shades.

So here you are, sucking him off to the hilt, where your lips meet strands of his white pubes, making your boyfriend cum for the second time. Gojo brings a hand to your head for purchase, moaning as your hand massages his balls. “—Ahh, fuck…God, you’ve gotten so good at that, cutie. Can’t get enough of you...”

His words burn your ears, his aroused tone making your face even more hot to bear. Gosh, this was such a dangerous game; your nerves constantly on edge in hopes nobody would walk in.

However, your worries might have been what jinxed your fate because you two heard the door to the locker room open. You instantly move your mouth away from Gojo’s cock and stand to panic. But before you could, Gojo quickly grabbed you by the wrist and took you to one of the bathroom stalls. You sat on the toilet, bewildered at being dragged all over this fitness center. Then, Gojo brings his dick to your face again, and you give him the most shockingly confused expression as if he can’t hear the commotion of two people speaking where they used to be.

“Relax, no one’s coming here,” Liar, we almost got caught! He pushes the tip to your mouth, and you murmur on his length, filling your mouth and throat. “Let’s make this one quick, okay?”

You were too busy registering him place his hands on your head before he could slam himself to your mouth; the sudden thrust of his hips propelling his cock deep into the tight crevices of your throat makes you grip onto his shorts for dear life. The slap of his ruts fills your eardrums; you can’t tell how far or close the two guys who entered the locker room are. He’s making you focus on nothing but him — a selfish objection from a selfish man as he’s using you to relieve himself in the men’s locker room. God, this was such a bad situation, and yet your lower half couldn’t stop the throbs that have you shifting your thighs together. How embarrassing! 

“Hhnnn, fucking shit, your throat feels so good,”  he praises, his slender fingers massaging your scalp. Your tongue brushes the underside of his length in a way that has his pace go faster, and he has to keep his moans to a lower volume. “Shiiit, baby, I’m gonna cum…Take it all in…!”

You have no choice but to, forced to gulp down all of his load that he spills into your tight, warm throat. He still rocks his pelvis into you until every pump of his jizz is inside you. When your ears pick up the sound of the locker room door opening and closing with the dismissal of the two strangers, that’s when Gojo takes his long shaft out of your mouth, spit connecting from your tongue to his cockhead is wiped with haste. 

But then, Gojo pokes your cheek with his tip, a sign that he wants to go again. You throw quiet pleas, “N–No, Gojo! You have to get back to practice—“

“Shhh, those guys can survive a few games without me. And besides,” he gently slaps your cheek with his cock. How vulgar! “I’ll fuck your mouth til the end of the day if you don’t stop using my last name when it’s just the two of us here.” The playful grin on his lips doesn’t make that threat any better. “One more time, please?”

With hesitant eyes, you place kisses on his shaft while stroking him. “Only one more…okay, Satoru?”

He beams with the dimples of his cheeks. “Yes, pretty girl~.”

And it doesn’t stop there — because Geto is no better. 

“Aww, you two are so cute together~”

You squirm on the booth seat you’re sharing with your other boyfriend, you two sitting across from his friends — a senior couple he shares a lab with that invited him for dinner. Unsurprisingly, you were his plus one, knowing you’re not one for being around people you’re not familiar with. And yet here you are, caged by the wall and Geto’s frame to keep you in this conversation on the side of the busy dining hall.

Geto chuckles before brushing your cheek, "Aren’t we? But they’re the cutest thing to me.” He says as he places a swift kiss on your cheek; it’s an action that has your face grow in warmth — and the couple “awwing” at his affection.

The guy of the couple speaks to the dark, long-haired other. “I never knew you were one for relationships, Geto; you seem so busy with Bio and your clubs that you don’t seem to have time to lay low and be with someone.”

“Mmm, I thought so, too. That is until I met Y/n through a friend of mine,” you jerk at the silent touch of his pinkie grazing your thigh, noting it had sneaked under your skirt to graze its skin. Your eyes peek in his direction, finding that he remains eye contact with the guy he’s talking with. “And, you know, I got to know them here and there, shared some classes with them on the side. Now, I just can’t imagine them being out of my line of sight.”

The guy across laughs. “Sounds kinda obsessive!”

Geto shrugs with a chortle. “I guess it’s like that, I don’t know. I’m just really crazy about them; they’re my sweetheart after all.”

“That’s so sweet!” The girl senior across exclaims, turning to you to ask, “So, how long have you and Geto been a thing, Y/n?”

The question has you stumped for a bit as you weren’t ready to be thrown inquiries. And before you answer, you feel Geto’s hand rub on your thigh. “U-Umm, me—ahem—Geto and I have been a couple for quite a while now? My roommate was the one who introduced me to him—Mmmm!” You briskly flatten your lips at your squeak because the fingers inside your skirt pinch your skin. On command, you spread your legs for Geto to insert his hand inside your panties.

The girl asks more questions. “Oh? So, your roommate brought you two together. Did you know of them before?” 

“Well, not really…She and Geto—Ohh!” You bring your hand to your lips at the graze of Geto’s forefinger on your clit. You turn to him and are immediately locked into his violet gaze. He lifts a brow with an undisturbed smile, and you gulp. “I–I mean, Suguru and my roommate have been best friends since high school, so I kinda got…Nnmm,” you chew your lips when he bullies a digit between your folds to play and tease. “She was the one who introduced me to him…”

“Is that so? Hehe, it’s amazing how the world works, huh?” You listen, but your mind is too focused on Geto’s digits swiping and nestling across your wetness to have your body more excited about his touch. And it gets worse as he inserts his forefinger inside your vagina, causing you to jolt and suppress your mewl by leaning into his shoulder, gripping onto the sleeve of his turtleneck. “Here are two lovebirds all lovey-dovey with each other thanks to one friend bringing them together. It’s crazy imagining you two would’ve never met hadn’t that happened.”

Geto hums at that comment, “I agree; I have to thank Shoko for bringing this little angel to my arms.” He places a soft kiss on your forehead, completely nonchalant compared to the quickened pace of the digit scraping your insides. “Isn’t that right, my love?”

With trenched brows and a shaky breath, you try to reply to the awaiting couple. “Mhmm, yes, I’m so grateful that Suguru is in my life…He’s been such a help to me,” his forefinger goes slow, having you feel every dent and knuckle. “Hahhh, he’s so good to me, and I love him just as mu—Mmmph!!”

“Hmm? Are you okay, Y/n?” How can you tell the guy across from you that your boyfriend’s thumb just surprised your clit with a swipe?  You’d rather melt on this floor had you not buried your face into Geto’s shoulder. 

Speaking of who, he takes the initiative to answer for you. “I think they’re a little parched, must’ve been this lemonade I got for them. I’ll go get them some water—“

“Oh, no, no! I’ll go get the water; I was gonna get more of those garlic knots anyways.” The girl stops Geto from moving, sliding from the booth seat with her boyfriend’s hand to follow suit. “C’mon, let’s leave these lovebirds for a bit. We’ll be right back!”

And so they leave, thanking your lucky stars. Once their figures are nowhere to be seen within the sea of students, you probe the man with a trembling whimper. “Mmmph, Suguru, please, take it out before—Ahhh…! They come back…”

Luckily, he listens to your request with no argument, withdrawing his digit from your wet slick and underwear. And to your horror, he brings the finger to lick and suck and says with a dark look, “Just checking to see what I’ll be having later.”

It doesn’t matter wherever or whenever; Gojo and Geto will be sure that their love for you is expressed to you every chance they get. 

It doesn’t matter the day or hour, whether you are free from assignments, spending time with your roommates, or on your way out to study; those two will find a way to get to be with you. And, to be honest, it can be a bit overstimulating! 

When there are dates to the movies with Gojo, there’s private alone time with Geto on his bed as he eats you out. And when there are days when Geto holds hands with you and walks you to your classes, there are nights when Gojo will fuck you til his cock is warmed inside you in his slumber. It can go either way, the two competing for your affection and time when the other is out of sight. 

Again, sometimes it’s overwhelming for you, never knowing which of the two will have you all to themselves, nor knowing when you can have time to yourself! And it’s not like you haven’t tried putting your foot down to express your wish to be alone. But, albeit it can be utterly exhausting, you know those two love and cherish you so much that it drives them crazy. Hell, it’s driving you crazy just how much they can’t keep their hands off you! 

Especially now when they drag you to their shared dorm room, experiencing one of those days when the two wish to have you in the same presence. 

“Hahhh, damn, Y/n…you’re sucking me off so good,” Geto purrs with a whistle while lovingly patting your head. “So good for me, huh, sweetie?” 

The two stripped you off your clothes to be nude with them on the bed. Your naked frame straddles above Gojo, lying on his back with his face buried into your bare cunt for his mouth and tongue to please you orally. Meanwhile, you suck on Geto’s girth as he leans on the pillows and headboard. It’s his turn after sucking off Gojo (they settled this over rock-paper-scissors) and fingering you to warm you up first.

You whine of his member, Gojo’s tongue doing wonders on your delicate body. He licks on your clit just as you lap yours around Geto’s glans, and then he’ll suck your pearl right as you take in the tip with pursed cheeks. It’s such a mutual shared experience, with how Gojo’s hands wrap to your thighs to keep your chasm on his lips while you have Geto keen to your mouth and hands stroking him. 

“—Khhhh, Jesus Christ…Hohhh, right there, sweetie…” The raven-haired one coos as you kiss your way down to his balls to suck one as you continue to jerk him. “Heh, you doing good down there, Satoru?”

The snow-haired other removes his mouth from your folds, licking your essence that sticks to his lips like honey mixed with his saliva. “Hahaa, you have no idea. I could stay like this for hours,” his tongue licks your come to your clit tantalizingly slow, evoking you to almost choke on Geto’s girth. “Aww, look at you trying to move from me,” Gojo brings your hips back down to him for him to swirl around your labia, his grip on your thighs refusing to submit. “Don’t go anywhere, princess; I’m not finished until you cum on my face again.”

“Ohhh, shit, keep doing what you’re doing, Satoru,” Geto subtly bucks his hips, “I love the way they’re whining on my dick…”

With your puffy lips being busy in the front and your cunt being lapped and nibbled on from below, your senses are clouded by the two boys who seek nothing but your participation in experiencing pleasure. Your head gradually turns into mush with every rut to your throat and every lap around your clitoris. It’s to no surprise that your release seeps out of your body without preparation, crying on Geto’s length as your frame quivers in euphoric bliss. 

And if you think you couldn’t get swamped enough, think again. 

“—Nnngh, fuck, Y/n, you’re gripping on my dick like crazy…Hehe, is it because you can’t look me in the face? Damn, you’re such a cutie…”

Your face is nuzzled in the crook of Gojo’s neck as you’re straddling on top of him, your nude, sweaty bodies melted together to share heat. Your hips bounce up and down on his pelvis, where his rubber-covered length is scraping the walls of your vagina. His left curve grazes and jabs your sweet spots, and your body lies on top of Gojo, which brings more friction to your clitoris. 

“Hahhh, ahhnn—Ohhhh!” Your phrases have doubled down to that of whimpers of pleasure, thinking straight is impossible, and your mind is too deep in a haze to focus on anything outside of what’s happening. And it’s not like you can’t stop your hips from bouncing on his shaft — you’ve tried! But the moment your legs express so much as reluctance or fatigue, Gojo’s hands are right there on your ass to guide you back into the rhythm. So it’s expected when you climax on him once more, clamping onto him as you ride out another orgasmic wave. “Ahhaaa! Sa’toruuu, stooohhp—hic…! I’m ‘oo sens' tiveee!!” 

“You say that, but—hnnn! You’re rocking those hips of yours on your own, baby.” He chuckles at your slurred speech, placing kisses on your cheek as his hands massage your asscheeks. “Holy shit, you feel so unreal; wanna fuck you raw so bad with how tight you are.” 

“Don’t even think about it, Satoru,” you hear Geto’s voice from behind, the dent of the twin-size bed shifting with his added weight. “If I can’t go condom-less, you’re not getting any special treatment out of it either.”

“Psssh, yeah, yeah,” Gojo says with rolled azure eyes before he whispers to your ear. “Come on, angel, let’s get you prepped up.” The white-haired boy’s hands spread your butt, exposing his dick buried deep into your tight slit and your taint.  

Geto grins salaciously. “My, what a dirty sight for me, my love.” You chew your lips to his words, the heat in your ears causing them to ring. You then feel his fingers smothered in lube to meet your asshole, spiraling around it before inserting them one by one. Your holes instinctively contract, making Gojo hiss. “Relax, pretty girl,” he kisses your temple. “We’re gonna make you feel so good.”

You remind your figure to calm down, allowing Geto to play with your anus for it to accommodate the next foreign limb he’ll put inside. Gojo keeps kneading your butt, but he throws furtive thrusts up to your chasm to keep you on your toes. You gasp when Geto removes his digits suddenly, and now you bite your bottom lip at the contact of his cockhead touching your puckered entrance. “Stay calm for me, princess. Gonna go slow just for you…”

Breathing with your mouth is the only way you can function through his insertion; even after he properly lubed himself and the rubber, it never fails to amaze you how you’ve been able to take in his girthy dick times before. Every inch pushed inside you feels as if your breath is pulled away, feeling both your holes become occupied. And your head goes up at the snap of Geto’s pelvis smacking on your ass, mouth agape for drool to sneak down puffy lips. 

“Heh, there you are,” Gojo licks your spit before placing a kiss on your lips. “What a pretty face when you’re going dumb on our dicks, Y/n.”

You couldn’t even reply in modesty because Geto immediately goes pounding your ass with hunger. Your wails come out freely at the pacing of both boys propelling themselves into you. And it doesn’t help that your holes don’t stop contracting on their dicks as they push, the motion making you move your clit against Gojo and having your sore nerves active again. 

“Holy fuck,”Geto drills his cock into your taint, grinding his hips into you to make you whine aloud. He then bends to kiss your sweaty shoulder down to your spine. “You’re so tight, Y/n…like you’re gonna milk me dry.”

Words are exhilarated squeaks and shrills, your arms coming around Gojo’s neck and pressing your hot cheek on his. He snickers at how touchy you are, “Hey, baby,” he coaxes you through the onslaught of ruts that quicken in tempo. “God, you sound so fucking cute, angel…” 

“—Ahhahh…! Ohhh, guysss, pleaseee, slow d—Owwhhnn!!” You cry, eyes watering with the pokes and jabs on your velvety insides, the curve of Gojo scraping you in places you can’t reach, and Geto’s girth having your backside completely stretched for him. It’s all too much to focus on as your delicate bud is pressed on by your weight. “…Nhooo, God, I’m gonna—“

“Gonna cum, cutie?” You nod hurriedly, amusing Gojo for more chuckles. “Let’s cum together, yeah? Such a pretty girl…” And then, Gojo claims your lips for a steamy, passionate kiss, bringing a hand from your bottom to place behind your head to keep you on him. 

“—Hnngh!! Wait, sweetheart, don’t clamp onto me so sudden—Ohh, shit, shit, shiiit,” Black hair strands fall from Geto’s shoulders as he falters at your grip. “Gonna cum, too….Gahhh—“

Your crescendo is the first to appear, howling and mewling into Gojo’s lips while your trembling figure undergoes the shocks of the deep penetration on both ends. The fluttering sensations of your cunt and anus are what prompt the two men to spill their load into you simultaneously, groaning with pleasure from your body. Your head is undoubtedly dizzy, your brain spiraling with impulses as your frame jerks with every wave of your orgasm. 

After his climax is done, Geto slowly withdraws his cock from you. The condom filled with his essence. “Phew, that felt way too good.”

“For real, can’t get enough of this.” Gojo sighs while groping your asscheeks and kissing your forehead. “Ready for another round, baby? C’mon, let’s switch before Suguru gets all crybaby on us.” His sweet tone immediately flips to narrow his eyes at Geto for throwing his used, tied condom at Gojo's face for that comment. “Oh, you disgusting son of a bitch…”

“Shut up and switch, or else I’ll have you watch me pound Y/n for fifteen minutes.”

Being loved and obsessed by the two heartthrobs of the school is no easy work, which is evident when you can’t even get to nap by yourself after the sexual activities. With Gojo spooning Geto while he spoons you, there is no rest with these two; they might as well put collars around their necks and give you their leashes with how smitten they are to be around you.

Yet, at the same time, you don’t hate it — far from that. Because you know their feelings for you are genuine, you can see it in their sleeping faces as they’re probably thinking about you in your dreams as you observe. With a smile, you place kisses on their cheeks and silently leave the bed to use their shower. 

The warm water is just as welcoming and temperate as their love, keeping you safe and washing your anxiousness away. In your thoughts, you reflect on all the times you’ve grown because of them, and it goes to show that their involvement has done substantial help for you. And for that, you are forever grateful for them and will always reciprocate their feelings as you feel the same. 

“Hey, Y/n.”

Well, minus the immediate sense of apprehension that skyrockets once you hear Geto’s voice come behind you. You turn to see his naked self coming towards you to wrap his arms around your waist. “Suguru!? I–I thought you were sleep—“

“I was until you left my arms,” he says to your ear with his dulcet voice, his hands kneading the flesh of your wet hips. “Besides, saves us a lot of time if we share the shower, right?”

“Oh, Y/n~,” another voice enters the bathroom, and your dread plummets even further when Gojo opens the curtains with glee. “Don’t tell me you decided to shower without m—…Oh, you’re here, too.”

“Obviously,” Geto sucks his teeth at his roommate. “I live in this apartment and use this same shower, dumbass.”

Snowy eyebrows crease with irritation as Gojo enters the walk-in shower, sandwiching you between the two. “Well, don’t you think it’s rude for you to use the shower when our guest is using it first?”

“I could be asking you the same thing because who told you to come here?”

“Duh! I’m here to shower with my lover; are you stupid?”

“Are you? Don’t you see a boyfriend is trying to have some alone time with their partner?”

“Oh, eat horse shit.”

“Croak and die.”

You can only stand there and be mushed by the two tall boys arguing over you, unable to flee the scene as they both have their hands on you. Again, you don’t hate it at all. You love them just as much as they love and adore you. They may be the school favorites; however, you are the most precious thing they wish to engage with and want to keep to themselves.

…But would it kill them to give you some room once in a while!?

Jesus, how am I gonna survive with these two…

requests/thirsts are open hehe~ 🧸

© 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐲2024 – reblogs and comments are appreciated wholeheartedly ☆ header edit done by me + dividers by @/benkeibear.

[ylangelegy]

lost in translation ♾️ minghao x reader.

“being good to you is the easy part.” # day eight of (the)8 days of minghao. ♡ happy birthday, minghao!

☆ includes: translator/interpreter!reader, idiots in love, yearning!!!, hurt/comfort, confessions. alcohol consumption, reader gets a [minor] surgery. mandarin & other languages are all courtesy of google translate. word count: 25.8k (damn.)

Minghao learned early on that there were words that didn’t always have a translation.

He had grown up with Shenyang Mandarin, only to have to learn Korean, English, and even some Japanese. It was always such a frustrating feeling, to have the Mandarin word at the tip of his tongue then to need to swallow it or substitute it.

He’s never felt that way with you, at least.

You, PLEDIS’ skilled, multilingual interpreter-slash-translator. Minghao remembers the day you came in, nine years ago. How he had felt a spark of hope when you slid into the dialect that was all-too familiar to him. Finally, Minghao had thought.

He had started off as your pupil, your tutee for Korean. Over time, it blossomed into genuine friendship. He can count on one hand the things that he has in Korea. The group. The fans. The other Chinese idols. And you.

It’s comfortable and easy with you. It’s always been. It’s why Minghao is fine with seeking you out at the company, with sliding into the seat next to you even though you’re working on something on your laptop. Checking subtitles for a SEVENTEEN video, it seems.

He waits until you’ve noticed him before he holds out the book he had been reading. It's a Korean novel. Almond by Sohn Wonpyung. He points to a particular phrase— 눈치가 빠르다— before speaking, but the words aren’t in Korean.

“Is there a Mandarin word for this?” he asks in Mandarin, his voice taking on the lower pitch of the dialect. His eyebrows knit together in a look of utter concentration. “Or is this one of those untranslatables?”

You pull out your earphones, a mild look of amusement on your face at Minghao’s sudden appearance. When you realize what he’s asking of you, a small huff of laughter escapes, but you concede to looking at the book in his hands. You say the phrase under your breath, as if testing it out. 

“It’s not untranslatable,” you say, sliding right into Mandarin to match Minghao. “The literal translation is observant or perceptive. But in Korean contexts, it’s meant to describe— I suppose, comprehension that something is going on with a friend, or a family member. Like, ah—”

You pause. And then you code switch, again, this time, to English. “A gut feeling?”

“Ah.”

Minghao’s expression clears as comprehension filters across his face, his mouth forming that little ‘o’ shape as he repeats the phrase as well. “A gut feeling... okay, like intuition.”

He pulls his legs up on to the chair, resting his chin on his knee. “Do you think it's something that is universal? A gut feeling. Is there a word for that in Mandarin?”

You’re far too used to Minghao getting philosophical, to him pressing for more than the first answer. “Gut feeling in Mandarin... zhíjué?” you offer. 

“Zhíjué,” Minghao repeats quietly, mulling the word over. There’s something satisfying and soothing about rolling the syllables on his tongue, the way he does it. The way they come from the back of his throat— a language that's as intimate as his mother's lullabies when he was a child.

He lets the word rest in his mouth for a while— zhíjué, gut feeling— before he looks back at you, his chin tilting forward in a nod. He gives you a little smile, appreciative.

"Mhm," he says. "That’s close enough."

You chuckle before slipping right back into Korean. It’s a dizzying back-and-forth between at most three languages, at any given time. The two of you have been called out for it, but Minghao secretly enjoys the challenge. 

"I’ve been meaning to check that out from my neighborhood's library," you note as you tap at the spine of Minghao's copy of Almond. He privately marvels at how your voice sounds more mellifluous in your first language, almost missing the question you pose. “How are you liking it so far?”

He looks down at the book in his lap, thumbing through the pages idly. “It’s good,” he answers simply. There’s a pause, but it's not quite awkward. It's something else... an afterthought. The next words are quieter than the last. “A bit sad.”

“That’s what most reviewers have said about it,” you muse, leaning back against your chair to stretch your legs underneath you. “Maybe I’ll finally pick it up this weekend.”

Minghao doesn’t look at you directly when you start to stretch out, when your shoulders roll forward. Instead the focus of his eyes is on the book on his lap, but his mind is most definitely not on the words on the pages.

When you mention picking it up that weekend, he nods in silent agreement, the movement a bit stiff. And then, in that same beat: “Have you gone to the doctor about your back pain?”

The question is quiet but pointed, with just a hint of concern to his voice. He spots all the tells of you preparing to lie to him— the tick in your jaw, your tongue peeking out between your clenched teeth. “Of course I have,” you lie smoothly. “It’s just your regular back pains that come with sitting in a chair a lot.”

“Hm.”

Even this late in the game, you still thought you could lie to Minghao. And maybe you could, and he would let it slide, in favor of being considerate and polite.

But only for a bit, because he knows you haven't seen a doctor about the back pain that started recently. Knows that you’re being a hypocrite, always asking him to take care of himself when you aren’t even doing the same for yourself.

He’s not entirely surprised, admittedly. You’ve always been so focused on your work and on taking care of others that it was sometimes hard to think that you focused on yourself. Not that Minghao is one to talk, when it comes to taking time for his own health. But this was you.

He sighs, just barely, before he reaches over to nudge you on the shoulder, like he would do with Jun or Soonyoung or any of the other members. “Liar.”

A sound between a huff and a laugh escapes you, but then you raise your palms in a show of surrender. 

“I haven't really had the time to go to the doctor,” you admit sheepishly. “There’s been a lot of content to translate. And I’ve been preparing for the group's Japan showcase next week.”

Minghao knows you well enough to know that you'd probably work yourself till you dropped, if you had the chance. The thought makes him want to roll his eyes.

“Mm,” he responds, his eyes narrowing as he crosses his arms across his chest. “You can stop working for ten minutes to go to a clinic. You have enough money. And even if you don’t, I could—”

He cuts himself off, biting the inside of his cheek. The words nearly slipped.

— take you to one, he had meant to say. 

The offer is on the tip of his tongue; the thought of you walking around with such bad back pain that you could barely walk without hobbling having pissed him off. Some part of him, some tiny selfish part, is holding him back from saying anything.

Maybe he just wants to see what you do. If you’ll finally do something about it, if only because he’s asked you to care for yourself for once.

There’s a flicker of surprise on your expression, though it's quickly smoothed out by something more akin to affection. Minghao had always been the thoughtful kind. It had taken some time for him to warm up to you, but around three or so years into your friendship, you’d started becoming a recipient to his quiet care and compassion.

“I’ll get a proper checkup once the Japan showcase is over,” you finally concede, if only to put his mind at ease. “The whole thing. A CT scan and all that.”

Minghao let out a breath he didn’t realize he had been holding out in silent relief, his shoulders dropping. When you promise that you'll go for a checkup when the Japan showcase is over, part of him wants to say I don’t believe you or I’m coming with you or even I’ll take you there myself.

But he decides to keep his mouth shut. There's no point in arguing, unless he wants to give you even more of a headache. He huffs with faux annoyance. "I’ll hold you to that," he tells you.

Minghao’s little show of annoyance does little to unnerve you, especially when you know it’s just that. A show. You shake your head with amusement before glancing at the table in front of you, where your laptop rests, forgotten. 

“I still have to finish this, though,” you say almost ruefully to Minghao, tilting your head slightly as you look back at him. “Do you have any other schedules for the rest of the day?”

“I don’t,” he says. “We have a free day today. My only plans were to bother you.”

Minghao’s definition of bothering was a lot different from, say, what Mingyu or Jeonghan would call being a bother. No, for Minghao, bothering you entailed simply being in your space— mostly in silence.

“Knock yourself out, then,” you say with a slight wave of your hand, essentially giving Minghao the carte blanche to stick around, maybe read, as you finish off your work. “I'll probably be done in half an hour. Let's grab something to eat after?”

“Thirty minutes,” he agrees. “And I get to pick the place.”

For the next half hour, Minghao makes an effort to not bother you in the way most of the other members would. No unnecessary comments, no sudden pokes with a pen or a random finger tapping at your shoulder.

He simply sits there, legs crossed out in front of him, one hand flicking through the pages of the book he was reading earlier, the other hand on his knee. Every so often, he glances up, just a brief glance to check if you’re still swamped with work.

It’s hard for anybody, even the most unobservant of people, to miss the sight of the two of you  sharing the couch in the company lounge. Two such different people— you, with your cool temperament and soft features, and Minghao, with his sharp eyes and his sharper tongue.

And yet, the sight of the two of you is more familiar than anything else. Anyone who’s been around the company long enough has seen the two of you sitting almost shoulder to shoulder. Quiet. Serene. At utter peace with each other's company.

There are others who want to interrupt, but the intensity of Minghao’s gaze as he glances up briefly is enough to discourage them. It’s a silent challenge and a promise that they better not disturb the two of you.

By the end of the thirty minutes, you’re nearly done with the video subtitles, and Minghao is about five or so pages from finishing his book. The book has been set aside on the table by then, his gaze now focusing on your work, rather than the story in his hands.

You hammer out the last of your subtitles with a mumble of “I’m done, I’m done.” 

You shut your laptop with a slight snap, groaning slightly as you sink back against the back of the couch. “That was rough,” you huff as you press the heels of your hands to your eyes. “My French is getting rusty.”

“You say that about every language,” he points out. He watches you for a moment more before he reaches over, fingers wrapping around one of your wrists to tug at your arm. “Come here.”

This wasn’t the first time he’d used touch to get your attention. Minghao wasn’t the most outwardly tactile, but he had his moments. Touch was an easy, unspoken thing; it required no language, it spoke volumes.

This was one of those rare, intimate, moments of his. The moments where he let his guard down, the walls around him falling away. He tugs again, pulling you a little closer to him.

“Come here,” he says again. The word comes out in Mandarin, his fingers gently squeezing around your wrist, his other hand going to your hip to encourage you to lean in.

“So demanding,” you huff in the same language. 

You’re complaining, but there isn’t any bite or any real annoyance in your tone. If you were really bothered, you’d pull your arm away and snap at him in Korean. Instead, you go along with what he’s doing, allowing him to pull you closer, even as you continue to grumble under your breath in Mandarin.

You give too much, he thinks silently, as his hand moves up from your hip to gently press your head into his shoulder, his arm wrapping around your waist instead. You let me have too much.

It’s a compromising position, especially in the company lounge. No other idol would be caught dead cozying up to a staff member like this, but Minghao was just a little bit above it all and HR had long since given up on lecturing you both about propriety.

Your hand absentmindedly rests over his knee, the platonic touch hidden underneath the table. You stick to Mandarin as you hum “This is nice.”

Minghao can’t help but agree with your words, his eyes fluttering close as he rests his cheek on the top of your head. Even with a company full of people around you and a door that anyone could walk through at any second, the two of you are tucked away in your own little world. He hums in response to your words, his own hand moving slightly to lace his fingers through yours.

Despite the fatigue weighing down on you both, the two of you stay like that, tangled together on the couch in a way that's more akin to a couple than just friends.

Eventually, the silence and stillness between you two is broken by a gentle knock on the wood.

Minghao’s eyes flutter open; he lifts his head up slightly to glance towards the door. “It’s open,” he says, his voice not betraying that you’re tucked into his side or that his hand is tangled with yours.

The door creaks open a crack, and Jeonghan peeks in. His eyebrows shoot up slightly. His mouth opens and closes, as if to say something, but you can see a knowing look pass across his face.

“Ah,” he says, and it almost sounds like he’s laughing.

You code switch to Korean, unsurprisingly. “Jeonghan,” you greet, raising your free hand to wave at the older boy. You make no real effort to disentangle from Minghao. If anything, the fact that it's just one of his members makes it easier for you to just relax a bit more. "Hao kept me company while I was working."

"I can see that," Jeonghan says with no shortage of amusement. He steps into the room, decisively closing the lounge door behind him. "I figured he'd be here."

Jeonghan takes a few steps closer to the couch before he halts, just a few steps away, his legs slightly apart and his arms folded over his chest. He looks between the two of you, his gaze drifting meaningfully from the arm wrapped around your waist, to the fingers still entwined with Minghao's.

“He's good at keeping company,” Jeonghan agrees, his head slightly tilted.

“Shut it,” Minghao grumbles in response, irritation obvious in his voice.

He doesn’t move his head or his arm wrapped around your waist. Instead, he raises his other hand— the one that’s still holding your hand— to give Jeonghan a gesture that clearly means for him to go away.

Jeonghan just laughs in response to the gesture, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “What, are you two lovebirds too busy for me?” he says, his tone deliberately saccharine. “I just wanted to tell you that the boys scheduled a game night later.”

Minghao glances down at the watch on his wrist, before looking back at the two of you. “What time?” he grumbles to Jeonghan, visibly displeased at the thought of having to disentangle from you. 

“In about an hour,” Jeonghan sing-songs. 

“Don’t be late,” he adds cheerfully, before promptly turning around and leaving the room.

“There goes our dinner plans,” you deadpan to Minghao once Jeonghan has left, although you don’t really sound upset about it. It’s more of a statement of a fact.

“Guess so,” he responds, his chin still resting on top of your head. Your hair is soft, and his fingers absently brush against the strands.

There’s a beat of stillness between the two of you, before he speaks again. “Sorry,” he murmurs, the word quiet and soft. He knows you’d probably been hoping to eat before going back to subtitles.

“No apologies necessary,” you say easily, because this was just sometimes the reality of our friendship. You always had a dozen other things pulling at you in different directions, and so a couple of stolen hours was always a welcome reprieve.

You give Minghao's hand a gentle squeeze. “Let's stay like this for— five more minutes,” you bargain, a slight smile tugging at your lips as you stare ahead. “And then we can pack up.”

“Five more minutes?” Minghao repeats, his voice low. He thinks over your words for a moment, before he lets out a soft sigh, his hand tightening around yours. “Okay.” 

There aren’t many moments when he isn't in control, or when he lets his guard down. But this— with you, with your soft hair and comfortable warmth, is something he can’t resist. He lets his chin rest on top of your head, the weight of his head resting against you. He closes his eyes, and simply lets himself breathe.

The minutes pass by in comfortable silence, the two of you still tangled together on the couch. For those few moments, Minghao has nothing to worry about and nothing to think about. He has no choreography to practice, no schedule to keep. 

Five minutes spin into seven, then ten. Neither of you are keen to pull away. At the fifteen-minute mark, you finally do try. “We’ve had more than five minutes,” you say against Minghao’s shoulder.

Minghao’s arm tightens around your waist, his fingers curling around your hip in a silent bid to keep you in place. He can feel the reluctance in your tone, the hesitation, and that’s what spurs him to be a little selfish.

He lets out a soft breath, his words a low, reluctant mumble. “Just... one more minute.”

“We have to go, xīngān,” you mutter absentmindedly.

It’s unfair, the way a single word in Mandarin sounds perfect in your voice. He doesn’t know if you’re even aware that you just called him darling— maybe it was a lapse in the switch to Mandarin, maybe it was intentional.

Either way, it doesn’t take more than a single moment for his heart to skip a beat, the sound of the word making something flutter and stir in his chest. His fingers involuntarily tighten around your hip.

“Okay,” he responds, his own voice coming out quieter than usual.

He does let go of you afterwards, the loss of your body heat making his hand feel a little cold. The couch feels noticeably larger and cooler without your side pressed against his, and he already misses the weight of your head against his shoulder.

Minghao tries very hard to look collected as he stands up from the couch, his face almost carefully neutral. His lips quirk up into the ghost of a smile before he offers you a hand to help you up as well.

He holds your hand a little longer than is necessary before letting go slowly. Silence drifts over the two of you as you make your way to the door, and for once, Minghao isn’t quite sure what to say. All he can think about is the single word you’d used— xīngān, in that warm tone of yours.

It’s an endearment he’s heard from friends, family, and fans. It’s a simple, innocent term. The only thing that makes it strange is that he’d never heard you use it for him until now.

He clears his throat, trying— and failing— to keep the quiet waver out of his voice. “Hey,” he says, the word falling from his lips a little more softly than he'd intended.

He pauses for a beat, as you turn to look at him questioningly. He doesn't know how to voice what he wants to say, so he opts to keep things as simple as possible.

“You called me xīngān,” he says point blank. 

For a moment, the silence drags on as you keep walking. "Xīngān," you repeat a little dumbly, your eyebrows furrowed as you try to remember how the word translates in. When it seems to dawn on you, you stop dead in your tracks. 

You’re speaking in Korean when you frantically wave your hands in front of you, your eyes slightly wider than before. “I’m sorry,” you say, panicked. “I think I was aiming for yīngjùn de. You know, ‘handsome.’ I don’t know why I called you—”

Minghao's shoulders nearly slump in disappointment. It’s a stupid, pointless feeling. It’s just a word, and a common endearment, at that— and yet he’s disappointed to learn that you were trying to say something else.

He gives a little scoff, not bothering to keep the petulance out of his voice. “Oh,” he responds, his hand lifting to rub absently at the back of his neck. “Damn.”

“Did you— like being called xīngān?” you ask, and then you try for the term in your smooth, easy Korean. “Yeobo?”

Minghao hesitates, the slightest hitch in his breath as you repeat the word in Korean.

The truth is a stupid, pointless one. The truth is that his heart almost jumped into his throat the moment he heard that single word, those two syllables. The truth is that he did like being called that. He liked being called darling. He liked it a lot, to be quite honest.

He gives an aborted nod, his gaze falling away from your face. “Maybe. A little.”

“In Korean or in Mandarin?” you prod. 

“Do you prefer yeobo,” you start, the Korean term rolling easily off your tongue. “Or xīngān?”

Your Mandarin version is a little more hesitant, more reserved, but just a touch more sweeter.

Both, Minghao nearly blurts out, before he stops himself. He doesn't know which one it is he likes more— the sweet, gentle lilt of the Mandarin, or the smooth, almost-familiar Korean. All he knows is that the sound of being called ‘darling’ in your voice, in any language, makes something in his chest flutter and tighten.

He hesitates, but again— there's no point in being coy about it, is there? 

“Both,” he answers softly, his eyes lifting up to meet yours.

“Darling,” you test out— this time not in Mandarin or Korean, but in English. It's heavily accented and clumsy, but the sentiment is still the same. Minghao sucks in a breath, his heart skipping another beat. It's stupid, he’s stupid, but—

He likes how you sound, speaking English. He likes the way your words soften and drag, the way your tongue wraps around the syllables, the gentle flow of your sentences. It’s all so stupid, and yet his heart can't help but skip another beat as he listens to you speak.

The corners of his mouth lift slightly. “I like that one too,” he responds.

“In any language, huh?” you tease lightly, a light pink dusting your cheeks. The two of you begin to walk, again, because you do have places to be.

In an absentminded way, you begin to mumble the ways you know ‘darling’ is translated in other languages.

Spanish. Cariño. Portuguese. Querido. Italian. Tesoro. French. Chérie. German. Liebling.

If nothing else, Minghao has to admit that watching your cheeks flush— and hearing you speak all these other languages— is very distracting.

He’s still busy mentally storing away this new, intriguing tidbit of information that he's learned about himself, but he still can't help his mind from wandering at the sound of other languages falling from your lips. A few of them are familiar, having seen or heard them before, but some of them are entirely new.

Minghao can’t help his mind from dwelling on how good they sound when you say them.

"Wait— what about Arabic?" he asks, cutting into your little list.

It’s the only one he can think of. He just wanted to hear you say this one, too.

“I haven’t touched Arabic in ages,” you mutter distractedly. Minghao can’t help but silently laugh as he watches your facial expressions flicker in a series of micro-emotions, each one slightly different from the other. Frustration, confusion, a pinch of annoyance— and all of it over this little thing.

“I think it's maḥbūb,” you answer after a full moment's pause. Your nose scrunches up in mild frustration; the endearment accented in the language you don’t use often.

His laugh turns into a little scoff, before he finally just lets the laugh roll right out of his lungs. “You’re cute when you’re frustrated,” he tells you fondly, the words falling from his mouth before he can help himself.

Shit.

He'd planned on saying that, but not so— casually. So off-handedly, without a thought to the meaning behind the sentiment. It’s a little much, and yet he can't take the words back now that they’re out there. Thankfully, you take it in stride. 

“And you’re cute for liking to be called darling,” you tease right back.

The words hit Minghao square in the chest like one of your punches. He’s glad you’re a few paces ahead of him so you can’t see the way his mouth parts slightly, the way he nearly stumbles. He’s thankful for the few beats of silence before you pipe up once more.

“I think I’ll stick to xīngān,” you commit.

And just like that, he’s breathless again.

He’s a sucker for that term, the way it rolls off your tongue. The way you choose it, like it's the easiest, most obvious choice in the world. “Xīngān,” he finds himself echoing, his voice softer, breathier than he’d meant it to be.

The sound of it leaves a warm, pleasant feeling in his chest. He likes the safety of the word, the way it makes something in his chest flutter. He can’t help the slight smile from tugging at his lip.

“I like the way you say it,” he admits, no longer bothering to keep up the charade of nonchalance.

“I’ll say it more, then,” you muse.

Minghao isn’t even fully convinced that you realize that this is flirting. He’d always gotten that feeling, that you don't always notice when something turns into that sort of casual teasing. He knows you can flirt; he’s witnessed some of your flirtations personally and he’s heard plenty of stories from the others.

But this sort of thing— this banter, the way you tease him with a casual sweetness in your voice— it’s new flirting territory. It’s something he's never experienced in your presence.

He follows you silently to the doors of the company, his heart pounding in his chest. The two of you walk side-by-side, your hips and shoulders nearly brushing with every two steps.

Neither of you bother to slow down as you near your inevitable separation. There isn’t a point, after all. Why draw out the goodbyes?

Before he loses the confidence, Minghao reaches out to snag your wrist. He can only hope that you’re less oblivious than he’s afraid you are. 

“Hey,” he calls you back, his voice just a touch breathless. “You free this weekend?”

You tilt your head to one side, only momentarily thrown off. It wasn’t unnatural for you to meet with the boys when they didn’t have a schedule. Sometimes, it was a language lesson; other times, it was a spontaneous hangout. It was always discreet, never anything to really read in to.

You and Minghao have had your fair share of escapades. Chinese takeout on the floor of your apartment, trips to a local library. They’re few and far between, but always welcome.

“I’m free Saturday evening. I have to work in the morning, and I have a family thing on Sunday,” you answer. “What’s up?”

Minghao feels the slight tension in his shoulders loosen at your answer. It’s not a no, not when it comes with a little extra clarification, as though you had been expecting something of a meetup anyway.

He drops the grip on your wrist, his fingers loosening just enough that you can pull away if you want. “Do you want to—” he starts, the words catching in his throat. Is it just him, or is the hallway warm? “Do you want to go to the movies?”

“The movies? Sure. What did you want to watch?" you inquire, your head tilting further as your curiosity is piqued.

The overhead lights catch the soft, sharp lines of your face, illuminating the features that Minghao knows like the back of his hand. The gentle tilt of your chin, the way you’re slightly shorter than he was, the way your hair frames your face in a messy but unfussy way— as though you didn’t try, but the effect was pleasing nonetheless.

It’s an effect that isn't lost on Minghao, that leaves something warm and fond twisting in his chest. He struggles to get a hold of himself.

“There's a film festival,” he says. “An international film festival, over in Gwangjin.”

If Minghao were a weaker man, he would have beamed at your reaction— the excitement in your voice, the way you reached out to squeeze his wrist in turn.

“That sounds fun,” you say happily. “I’d love to go.”

He knew you were passionate about languages, about cultures— one of the reasons you two have gotten on so well, as you’re the only person he’s ever met who shares that sort of enthusiasm. The only person who understands it in a way that doesn’t feel too much.

He gives you a little flicker of a smile before he answers. “Good.” 

There's a beat of silence as he contemplates his next few words— and what exactly he was about to propose. “You know…” he finally says, his tone just a little hesitant. “There's a… there's a film that I really wanted to see. In the festival, I mean.” 

“It’s in Mandarin,” he quickly clarifies, the words tumbling from his mouth in a way that feels a little too much like panic. “Um— will your Mandarin be up to it? No subtitles.”

“I’ll be up for it,” you assure Minghao laughingly. “If I miss anything, I guess I’ll just have to ask you.”

Ask him? The idea— the mere implication that you’d be leaning in, closer, to ask him. That you’d be needing something, some sort of clarification, a better context.

The way you'd need him.

And perhaps it was obvious, the way you and he were constantly switching back and forth— him with his Mandarin and your Korean and English, to fill in the blanks. But the words still set something loose in his chest, to know that he would be there to help you if you needed it.

“Yeah,” he says, once he finally manages to remember how to speak. “Yeah, you can ask me.”

As you begin to step away, you speak up. “It’s a date, then,” you say casually, still painfully unheeding to the implications of everything. “Will you pick me up or should I meet you there, xīngān?”

Minghao has never felt more simultaneously grateful and betrayed by your lack of awareness.

Because how could you be so casual, how could you just drop that right in front of him— calling it a date, calling him ‘darling’— as though it was nothing more than just another hangout? It leaves him reeling in a way that makes it impossible to respond.

He can only offer a nod, his throat dry, as one hand lifts in a half-wave. “I’ll pick you up,” he says, his brain lagging behind with the rest of his body.

You give a small wave back, your smile just as bright and friendly as the rest of you. This was going to be a thorn in Minghao's side, it seemed. Your brain wasn’t good at half measures. You needed clarity, needed straightforwardness to confront abstract feelings.

You disappear through the revolving front doors of the company, leaving Minghao in the company lobby that suddenly feels all-too warm. His phone pings in his pocket; a text from Jun.

You're late to game night, his member teases. Get away from the love of your life and get your ass over here. ㅋㅋㅋ

Because of course Jeonghan had tattled to all the other boys where Minghao had been. He rolls his eyes as he glances down at the screen, tapping out a quick response.

I'm coming. Don't cheat.

He glances up and back at the glass revolving doors, knowing full-well that you're already on the street at this point.

Minghao, for all his bluntness, has suddenly found himself in a situation where all he can do is beat around the bush.

Minghao arrives outside your apartment building on time, his hands shoved deep in his pockets against the early evening chill. His heart is pounding in his chest, the nervous energy buzzing in his veins.

He had dressed up. He had put on cologne. He was taking you to a film festival. What could possibly happen that would go wrong?

It's a thought that is interrupted when a horn beeping snaps Minghao's attention away from his inner thoughts, as he straightens and glances down the street. There's no one parked on your street, no one walking down the sidewalk. He takes a step forward, peering across to the other side of the street— and there you are, stepping out of the building.

It takes everything he's got to keep a straight face. It feels like something out of a drama, and he's still not entirely sure he's not dreaming.

The fact that you're dressed up too is not lost on him. Damn it, of course you'd look good to him, no matter what you'd chosen to wear.

Minghao straightens as you draw closer, suddenly not quite knowing what to do with his hands. Does he pull you in for a hug? Offer up a casual, friendly greeting?

He settles for a nod, shoving his hands further into the pockets of his jeans, doing his best not to stare. "Hey."

"Hey," you greet right back, flashing Minghao a dimpled smile. You give Minghao a once-over.

"You look nice," you say like it's the most casual observation in the world. 

The praise sets something aflutter in Minghao's stomach, his hands gripping his car keys a little tighter to try and keep them from shaking. "Thanks," he responds, somehow finding it in himself to step closer and unlock the car door for you. "You look good, too." 

Good doesn't even begin to cover it, he thinks as he goes to slide into the driver’s seat. 

"You got me nervous," you say as you pull the seat belt over yourself, suddenly slipping into Mandarin. "About the film having no subtitles, I mean. So I ended up brushing up on my Mandarin."

He lets out a small huff of a laugh that's bordering on a scoff. "Since when have you had to brush up on anything?" he responds in Mandarin as well, flicking on the turn signal and pulling the car out into the street. "Your Mandarin is perfect."

"I'm always studying. You know me," you chirp, leaning forward slightly to fiddle with the knobs of Minghao's car radio. You’ve been in his passenger seat enough time to feel comfortable doing this; you settle on a station playing mostly Western indie songs.

"And my Mandarin always has room for improvement," you go on. "I'm still working on that C2-level proficiency."

Of course you weren't satisfied with just good. You had to go and be an overachiever. Minghao finds himself shaking his head at the thought of how your drive for excellence in everything was— for lack of any better word— admirable and adorable all at the same time.

"You're insane," he says under his breath, still so awed by self-imposed standards. "You really don't need to do that, you know. You're great the way you are."

"How is it that you're both goading and complimenting me at the same time?" you tease.

The way you speak sounds effortless and yet Minghao can pick up on the little moments where your tongue would just ever so slightly stumble. He could correct you, but God, he's never quite heard that same sound before.

In fact, he's suddenly very aware of just how different you two sound when you speak his mother tongue.

"It's called being a good friend," he responds, fighting the rising urge to say something else.

"You're a pain in the ass, but I love you, anyway," he continues, his hand settling on a knob on the center console to change the radio station to something with a bit more of a modern beat. You always had to listen to indie music.

As the sounds of some Top Fifties pop song filters through the car, you let out a snort of laughter and respond noncommittally to Minghao's jab. "Love you, too," you say with no shortage of sarcasm. The words, in Mandarin— wǒ yě ài nǐ— still sound soft and sweet and lilting, despite your best effort to sound mocking.

Minghao suddenly has to swallow against his very dry throat. He hadn't expected that response from you, not when the last time he had said those words to you was months and months ago during an argument between the two of you. A particularly stressful work week, a squabble that neither of you talk about anymore.

"You better," he manages to respond, his voice cracking ever so slightly on the second syllable of 'better'. He hopes it goes unnoticed.

That little stutter, that tiny stumble around the last syllable of 'better', was the only indicator that betrayed the way Minghao's heart was hammering out the wildest beat in his chest.

He knows it's a sign of his own impending nerves when he turns the radio volume all the way up, drowning out any chance of conversation between the two of you for the rest of the ride to the venue.

Far too used to Minghao's pockets of peace, you pay no heed to the fact that the rest of the car ride is spent in companionable silence. You only break it once Minghao is pulling up into the parking lot of the theater house.

"You should go ahead. I'll get us snacks," you offer delicately, this time in Korean. The reminder of how the two of you had to hide any sort of public interaction settles like a stone at the very bottom of Minghao's stomach, and yet he nods anyway, silently agreeing with the logic of your suggestion.

You ask, "Is there anything you want to eat?"

He lets out a soft sigh as he pulls the keys out of the ignition. "Popcorn," he responds, his eyes skimming over your form as you unclick the seatbelt to leave. "With M&Ms."

The familiar request makes a small smile tug at your lips. It was the same thing, still, that Minghao asked for after all these years of movie-watching. "Got it," you say, sliding out of his car. "I'll find you in a bit."

Even through the closed car door and over the sound of the car radio turned up to its highest, he can still clearly hear the smile in your voice. It sets that now familiar thump in his chest into overdrive.

"Hurry up," he responds in all of his usual nonchalance, despite the fact that his eyes are still following your figure, taking in the way you carry yourself as you walk away.

Shit, he's so gone for you.

Minghao's choice of seats are typical as always. In the very back of the theater, to keep him away from possible prying eyes.

You settle into the seat at his right, carefully balancing the food you’d gotten the two of you. "I couldn't carry two popcorn buckets, so we'll have to share this big one," you whisper to him as you pass him his pack of M&Ms and a bottle of soda.

"Thanks,” he murmurs over the sound of advertisements playing over the big screen.

"I've heard a lot of good things about this film," you mumble. "No making fun of me if I cry."

"I would never," he replies, voice as light as yours.

Sure enough, the opening of the film has Minghao leaning forward on the edge of his seat, engrossed in the drama unraveling between the characters on-screen. It's like he was that sixteen year-old boy in the movie, struggling to find his place in the world.

He's all but quiet in his consumption of popcorn, a hand sneaking into the bucket at times to munch on a few pieces idly. A few times, when the food almost runs out— he accidentally brushes his fingers against yours. The touch is brief, accidental, but each time, his skin feels like it's singing, and he fights the impulse to grasp your hand altogether every time he reaches for popcorn.

He does notice, however, when you seem to encounter unfamiliar words. His gaze flicks over to you as your lips wordlessly form the nickname they call the main character. Xiǎoshì.

It's a term, sure, but it's far more than that to him.

For him, it's a moment. A time in his life that was so brief, but one he remembers like it happened yesterday. A small part of him wants to tell you all about it, but he can't now. 

And so he settles on another form of communication. With your attention still on the screen, Minghao reaches over— and finally grasps your hand. Interlocking your fingers together.

As your fingers grasp with his, a part of him hopes that you don't pull away. He almost wants to look sideways at you, just so he can see your reaction— read your face as you focus on the movie in front of you, as your heart beats fast, loud, against your ribcage.

He doesn't dare to hope, though. He keeps his hand in yours, holding on tightly, as the movie continues to play out, the scenes getting more familiar to him.

The main character gets into a particularly nasty row with his mother about following his dreams, about leaving home, about wanting a better life than the one they had in their province. His gaze flinches slightly at the familiar scene before him and the memories, the emotions, that it all brings up in him.

It's a tense scene, spoken in the scathing language he'd grown up in, and you can tell the way it's affecting him. Instinctively, you reach your free hand over to gently press at the side of Minghao's head; a quiet invitation for him to rest his head on your shoulder.

Minghao takes you up on your invitation, the touch of your hand almost a command to him. He lets his head rest on your shoulder, not unlike a weary puppy. He can practically hear his mother's voice in some parts of the argument playing out in the movie. He can hear his own words echoing in his ears— almost as if he himself was the one speaking on-screen.

He wants to stay in the moment, with you, in the darkened theater as the movie continues to play. He doesn't think he can tear his eyes away from the screen, just like how he feels like he can't let go of your hand.

But it's a movie— a coming-of-age one, at that— and so all ends well. The boy and his mother reconcile. The main character is not any older by the last part of the film, but he's wiser, and the whole thing ends with him looking out at the Beijing skyline, humming an old lullaby for comfort.

The credits roll. The lights stay off as they do, and you finally, finally, bring yourself to pull away from Minghao's shoulder.  

You keep your hand in his, though, as you let out a quiet, watery laugh. "Xu Minghao," you reprimand in Mandarin. "You took me to the saddest movie ever."

"I told you," he responds back lightly, in Mandarin, his own voice a little rough from trying to hold himself back just a bit. "My friend said it was a sad one, when he recommended it. And you said you were fine."

He squeezes your hand again, shifting in his seat so that he was facing you, a hint of teasing in his tired eyes.

Absent-mindedly, you rub your thumb on the back of his palm. "How did you like it?" you ask, pitching your voice lower, still, despite no one being within your vicinity.  

Minghao's eyes soften a little at the tender gesture on your part. He feels the light, comforting motion of your thumb brushing against the back of his palm and he lets out a small, shaky sigh of his own. "It was... a little difficult to watch," he admits, his voice quiet, his eyes focused on your interlocked hands between you.  

"Do you want to talk about it over dinner?" you offer, your smile just a touch rueful. "Or we could just... have dinner and not talk about it at all. Whichever works best for you."  

At your offer, a small, almost self-deprecating smile quirks at the corner of Minghao's lips. He squeezes your hand one more time. "Dinner, yes. Talking, no."

The walk back to the car is a quiet one. Once you’re in your seats, Minghao puts the burden of deciding on you. 

"There's this barbeque place I've really been wanting to try out over in Myeongdeong," you rave, but then your fingers freeze over the GPS screen. You glance at Minghao over your shoulder, suddenly a bit sheepish. "It's a bit out of the way from your dorm and my apartment, though. Is that alright?"  

He lets out a small, soft laugh, shifting in his seat a little before reaching over to lightly flick your ear. "When has distance ever stopped me?" he retorts, his usual dry tease in his voice. "Let's go, I'm starving."  

"Alright, alright," you huff as you plug in the address. The directions to the restaurant— somewhere twenty minutes away, barring traffic— appear on screen as you move back into your seat, still pouting slightly at your ear being flicked. "I just thought you'd be sick of me after the movie."  

"Sick of you?" He scoffs at your words as he begins to peel out of the parking lot. "I think I would die of boredom without you, actually."  

“Ah. Because no one else will keep up with you like this, hm?"  

"They're not quick enough. You're one of the rare ones who don't make me want to tear my hair out."  

"You're laying it on thick tonight. Is this a ploy to get me to pick up the dinner bill?” you tease. "Because really, Hao, there's a rather big difference between the salaries of idols and translators."  

He chuckles a little at your comment, his grip around the steering wheel tightening slightly. "No, this is not a ploy to make you pay for dinner. I'm treating tonight. I'm rich, remember?"  

"Yah, you're not treating!” you shoot back. “We’ll pay for our own shares. You should only spend your money on things that are important.”  

"And treating you isn't important? You're always important to me. Don't deny it."  

When you suddenly go silent as a flush starts to creep up your face, Minghao can't help but look away from the road for a few moments to glance at you from the corner of his eye. He can only see the side of your face, the blush that colors your cheeks glowing against your skin.  

"You can't just say stuff like that so casually," you snap, though your tone is soft around the edges. "You should save that for birthdays or holidays."  

"And why only birthdays and holidays?" he muses. "I'd rather tell you all the time."  

In a bid to regain a bit of an upper hand, you keep your eyes out the window as you mumble in Mandarin, "Just keep driving, xīngān."  

Seeing your flustered face flush an even deeper color of red gives Minghao a sort of satisfaction, his lips tugging up at the corners. He can't help but chuckle a little more when he hears the words that leave your mouth in Mandarin, his mind taking a few moments to register the nickname he's grown to like.  

"Yah, don't just call me that without warning," he says, voice slightly muffled as he continues to focus on the road. "My heart can only handle so much."  

You finally glance over at him. The blush still lingers, but there's a bit of a mischievous glint in your eyes now. "Should I warn you, then, if I'm about to use it?" you say sweetly, sticking to his mother tongue for the sake of seeing how far you can go with it. "Should I only save it for special occasions?"

"Yes," he manages to hiss out after a beat, a small scowl on his face when he realizes that you're taking advantage of his weakness. "I'd much prefer you to warn me in advance. And only use it on occasions that actually count."

"I'm about to use it," you warn instantly, leaning slightly forward to turn down the radio. There had been some other group's song playing, filling the car with the sweet, lilting sounds of a ballad.  

"This occasion counts, xīngān," you sing-song. "Every moment with you counts."  

At your obvious mockery, Minghao's scowl only deepens, not that he really minds. Your sweet words have his heart thudding loudly in his chest in spite of his protests.  

"Stop being so cheesy. You're only saying this because you know that I like it, aren't you?"  

"I'm saying it because I like it," you answer. "It suits you. I'm about to use it again."  

You pause for a beat. "Darling," you say, this time cycling between English, Korean, and Mandarin. "Yeobo. Xīngān."  

This time, Minghao can't help but chuckle. He's definitely going to be having a good time tonight.  

"Are you going to spend the rest of the night calling me that?" he questions, finally having to pause at a red light. He turns to look at you for a few moments. "Just so I know what to expect."  

"Do you want me to?" you ask right back, your eyebrows raised slightly.  

"If you did," he starts, the words coming out before he even fully registers them, "I wouldn't stop you."  

The light turns green. The cars in front of you move forward a bit, and that means that you have to as well. The moment passes ever so slightly as Minghao is forced to lurch forward, to turn the corner that will finally have you at the barbecue place you'd recommended.  

You look ahead, away, the smile on your face widening just a bit. And because he said he wouldn't mind, because he'd given you something akin to a go-ahead—  

"Alright, xīngān," you say softly.  

The term of affection in your voice has Minghao's heartbeat rising, the nickname ringing in his ears, filling his chest with a sort of sweetness at the sound of it. It was like music to his ears, he thinks, the way you say it, the way it sounds.  

Once again, he can't help the smile that finds a place on his face, though he hides it by turning away to concentrate on the road ahead, trying to focus on it instead of the way his heart just won't stop racing in his chest.

The meal is comfortable. You talk about everything and nothing; you take turns cooking the meat. If sometimes you fall silent, neither of you feel the need to fill that quiet. You're so assured in each other's presence that we're fine to just be.

It's easy, with you— easy to relax in a way that he sometimes can't with others. He feels comfortable with you, safe around you, and he doesn't really have to think about what words he uses or the right thing to say.

You make it easy for him. And he's grateful for it.

As the night continues, though, the light conversation seems to eventually die down. Not that it bothers him; no, as Minghao has said before, the two of you do well with silence.

In the quiet that now surrounds the two of you, though, his mind begins to wander. A thought that has been in the back of his mind since earlier that night resurfaces again.

"Xīngān," he begins tentatively, his eyes still on the grill in front of him as if staring at it is supposed to give him some strength. Once again, he finds himself turning to Mandarin for the question, the words feeling like home on his tongue.

It feels, somehow, more fitting to ask you this question in the language that's his, one that he's comfortable and practiced in. "Do you believe in fate?"

Mìngyùn. Fate. Your mouth soundlessly tries out the word, the two syllables lolling on your tongue.  

"Like— the red thread of fate," you say, just a little dumbly, as you contemplate Minghao's question. You don't even notice the way you've switched over to Mandarin to match his pace. "Like that kind of fate? Or something else?"  

He takes a beat before he answers, trying to figure out how to word his question, how to express what he means in a way that makes sense, even to himself. "I mean that kind of fate," he clarifies. "Like, soulmates."  

"Do you?" you ask suddenly, throwing the query back to him.  

"I do."  

"What version of the red string of fate do you believe in?"  

He hesitates when you ask him the question, not quite sure how to explain the kind of fate he believes in. "I believe in things that are inevitable."  

"I mean— I believe in things that are destined," he continues, trying to elaborate. "I believe the people— the ones who are supposed to be together— will always find each other, in a way, no matter what happens. No matter how much time passes, or what obstacles there are between them."  

The way the corner of your mouth twitches when he says the word inevitable sets something ablaze inside him. 

He knows the look you're giving him is just one of interest, not a look of affection, but to him, it feels like a look of affection.  

Your lips twist into a slightly rueful smile as you take a moment to flip the meat on the grill, trying to keep it from burning. It's your turn to keep your gaze evasive as you answer. 

"I'm not sure if I believe in fate," you say, your Mandarin deliberately careful and slow. "Or soulmates. Not in the way that you do, at least."  

The words strike a painful sort of ache in his chest and Minghao finds himself having to bite down on the inside of his lip, trying to quell the way his heart seems to clench at the confession.  

This time, you slide into Korean, desperate to get your point across in the language that you know, in the tongue where you won’t be misconstrued. "I want to. I want to believe that soulmates exist— that there's someone out there for all of us," you say with a little more firmness, the change in speech giving you some more conviction.

"But I think that if soulmates do exist, they're not found; they're made." You pause to bring your gaze back up to Minghao. "People meet, they get a good feeling, and they get to work building a relationship. And that will lead to the inevitable."  

He's not quite sure why it feels like a loss, somehow, to no longer be speaking in Mandarin, and it makes his fingers itch for something to do. There's a moment where Minghao has to process the words you say, the way you express yourself so firmly and deliberately, as if you've given this some thought. Slowly, he gives a nod. "Like working in a relationship. Like making it work."  

"Like making it work," you concede.  

You gently place the last pieces of meat on Minghao's plate. "The concept of the red string of fate has always scared me," you admit, your mouth twitching upward in a slightly wistful smile. "What if the person on the other end follows the string only to realize they don't like what they find?"  

Minghao's gaze drifts down to the plate of food you've assembled for him, a gesture that feels oddly domestic, somehow, to have someone prepare a plate for him, and his heart gives a warm, affectionate little squeeze. 

He looks back up when you speak, his face a carefully stoic mask in spite of the way his heart is giving a painful thud, thud, thud inside his chest.  

"I think..." he begins slowly, his eyes still on you, the words leaving his lips careful and deliberate, as if he's trying to pick them out slowly from a tangled mess in his mind.

There's an intensity to his gaze, a gravity that's hard to miss. "I think even if the person on the other end of the string doesn't like what they find, it's what they're supposed to have. It's what they're destined for."  

"Ah. Destiny."  

Minghao had stuck with Mandarin; you say it in Korean. The two words— mìngyùn, unmyeong— are the two faces of the same coin.  

"And who do you think I'm destined for, xīngān?" you ask with just the right amount of teasing, making it a point to still refer to Minghao with the Mandarin term of ‘darling’ despite speaking the rest of the question in Korean.  

It's supposed to be nothing more than a good-natured joke, but Minghao feels the sudden urge to be honest.

He knows it's a joke, he knows it's meant to be a lighthearted question, but something in the back of his head, something sharp and cruel, his traitorous, selfish heart keeps repeating the question back to him: Who do you think I'm destined for? 

The thought that you'd be destined for anyone but him makes him feel like there's something lodged in his throat, something painful and sharp, and he wants to reach out and grab you, hold you, pull you tight against him and just never let go.

But instead he just looks at you and he forces the corners of his lips to tug up into a smile. "You're destined for someone wonderful," he says in his soft Mandarin, his trademark sincerity.

It's a non-answer; a cop-out, a way to avoid confessing things he shouldn't, but it's the best he can manage at this moment, when I wish it was me is screaming so loud in his head, it's all he can hear.

You smile softly.

Minghao had told the truth. You are destined for someone wonderful. 

He just wishes he could have been more specific. 

The next time he sees you is ahead of the boys’ Japanese showcase. Minghao had been lagging behind in the airport; he'd managed to get a few moments of shut eye on the plane, but it did little to stave off the exhaustion he still felt.

He walks a few steps behind Seungcheol, his eyes flitting idly through the crowd, until they land on you, walking slightly ahead.

You were already moving efficiently, keeping your gaze straight as you walked next to Seungcheol, your eyes focused and unflinching even as the press and fans yelled out at you.

Minghao's eyes don't leave your figure, following you and Seungcheol as you navigate the throngs of airport patrons with practiced ease. He's almost unsettled by how effortless you seemed— walking through the crowd as if it were nothing more than a casual stroll through the park, your expression set and unwavering as you translate for Seungcheol in a low, firm tone.

Once you finally get past the front doors of the airport, there's a lull as the boys all pile into a twelve-seater van. You stay by the door, finally stealing seconds to see each of them as they pass by you.  

Vernon dips his head in a nod. Mingyu throws you an exaggerated wink. Jun mouths 'hello' to you in Japanese. 

And then it's Minghao's turn to get in the van, to pass by you. There's not much either of you can do or say yet, considering the fact that there are still fans and press scrutinizing your every move, but he still has this. A moment of acknowledgment, however he deems fit.  

Minghao's mouth tugs up at one corner as he sees you smile at him, the sight immediately making something warm bloom in his chest.  

He can't help the subtle, almost instinctual reaction as he stops ever so slightly in passing you. He wants to say something, but words elude him.  

Instead, his hand just grazes against your wrist— the merest press of his fingers against the bare skin of your arm. It's a tiny gesture, but one that speaks volumes.

For the rest of the car ride to the hotel, Minghao struggles.

He's stuck in a car full of members, all exhausted from the flight, all loud and noisy and rowdy, and the van feels suddenly stifling. He spends most of the time looking out the window, trying to focus on whatever he sees.

Anything to distract himself from thoughts of you and the ghost of your soft, warm skin under his fingers.

The next time you're slated to see the group is in the dressing room before their showcase. It's hours later. Hours you spend translating, liaising, transcribing. The dressing room is as lively as ever, most of the members having already changed into their stage outfits. Several of them are sitting around, idly eating snacks or watching videos.  

You carefully push open the door. "Hey," you greet, and you're met with the instant chorus of thirteen boys welcoming you.  

Seungkwan excitedly calls out, "Hey, hey, hey!"  

Joshua gives you a warm smile. Chan waves exaggeratedly.  

You let out a huff of laughter, already acutely familiar with the boys' habits. "Just wanted to check in on everyone before the showcase," you say as you lean against the doorframe.

Minghao is sitting on a couch in the corner of the room, his eyes on you as you say your reason for coming to see them. 

"We're all good here," Jeonghan answers, one hand propping his chin up. "You look like you could use a sit, though."

Your laugh is just a little strained, your smile a touch forced. But your façade stays intact, even as you shake your head. "I've still got some preparations to do," you say lightly, and then you shift gears before anyone can press. "How was the flight?"

"It was fine," Seokmin pipes up. "You know, nothing out of the usual. We were well-behaved."

"Well-behaved," Wonwoo echoes from the couch. "If by well-behaved, you mean Soonyoung and Vernon got extremely handsy in the plane."

"Hey," Vernon protests, whipping his head around to look at Wonwoo, "don't say it like that!"

On the couch, Jihoon lets out an amused snort, shaking his head in fond, exasperated disbelief. "No, no, please," he encourages, his voice laced with sarcasm, "tell everyone how you two almost got us yelled at by the stewards because you were roughhousing over some food."

Soonyoung pouts, his expression instantly adopting a look of exaggerated innocence. "I don't know what you're talking about," he insists. "I was a perfect angel."

While the other boys are all busy ribbing on Vernon and Soonyoung, Minghao makes his way over to where you're standing against the doorframe.

He stops when he's standing next to you, and the corner of his mouth tugs up into an amused smile as he takes in your distant, almost out of it expression. When he speaks, his voice is soft enough for you to hear but low enough that the others can't, barely more than a whisper. 

"You look tired."

You give him a sheepish smile as you pat out invisible wrinkles on your linen blazer. "Hao," you greet quietly, still a bit hesitant to use xīngān in front of his members.

Your gaze flickers briefly to the rest of the room before you switch to Mandarin, a clear indication that you want your next words to be for Minghao and Minghao alone.  

"I am tired," you admit in his native tongue. "But it's nothing crazy. Just the usual exhaustion."  

"You always work too hard," he responds, matching your switch to Mandarin. His gaze sweeps over your form, taking in the weary lines of your frame, the subtle stiffness in your stance. "You look like you'll fall over any second."  

You roll your shoulders a bit, unconsciously leaning closer toward him. "It's my back, still," you confess. "Making things a little harder than usual. I really will get it checked when we're back in Korea."  

A concerned frown tugs at the corners of Minghao's mouth when he hears you say it's your back, his eyes sweeping over your frame once again. "How long has it been bothering you?" he asks, his gaze sweeping over you.  

He tries not to seem too obvious about it, but he steps a little bit closer, shifting a fraction of an inch closer in case you do fall over. His arm brushes up against yours, the contact between the two of you almost imperceptible.  

"This morning," you say with a rueful smile, your hand reaching behind to massage the small of your back from over your layers of clothing. "The plane was a bit cramped."  

Minghao's eyes narrow a fraction of an inch when he hears the reason, one of his eyebrows lifting slightly in a mixture of surprise and annoyance. "I told you to get it checked before the flight," he says.  

You give Minghao a look that's mildly exasperated and wholly exhausted. "I'm already booked to see a physician once this trip is over," you grumble, crossing your arms over your chest as you look up at Minghao.  

"You always say that," Minghao responds, the hint of annoyance in his voice a clear indication of just how frustrated he is. "It's clearly bothering you every day. If you just took some time off, maybe even just a week, maybe you'd—"  

"Minghao."

The quiet, stern way you say his name— just his name; not Hao, not xīngān— cuts right through his frustrated tirade. A flicker of surprise passes across Minghao's features, the almost snap in your tone shutting him up.

"I'm going to go," you inform him stiffly, slipping back into Korean and away from the language you reserved for each other. "We need to prepare for the showcase."

His jaw clenches, a muscle in his cheek twitching as he tries to keep his mouth shut for once, biting back the words he wants to say, the protests that are so close to leaving his lips. He lets out another huff of air, forcing his expression to stay neutral. 

"Yeah," he replies in the same language, the one word filled with annoyance. "See you."

When the showcase rolls around, you maintain a backstage presence. Your role, as always, entails that you pay complete attention to the boys as they speak. Whenever they address the crowd as a whole, you translate their Korean into Japanese.

For some reason, hearing the familiar sound of your voice coming out of the speakers, the smoothness of your Japanese, still feels somewhat calming to Minghao. In the chaos of lights and loud music, hearing the rhythm of your words through the speakers makes it feel like, at least for the moment, you're still right there beside him.

When the songs pass and the showcase ends, the members are all still riding the high of the excitement of their performance, the energy of their fans still buzzing in the atmosphere.

They all make their way backstage, the hum of their conversations filling the air, a sense of excitement and satisfaction, each and every one of them energized. Minghao, once again, makes his way over to where you're standing, his eyes on you, his expression almost intense.

You don't immediately notice Minghao approaching because a staff member is talking to you in rapid Japanese about some interviews you need to coordinate, need to play the role of interpreter for. You're trying to bargain for a moment's break, but it's a losing battle.

The staff then suddenly folds into a bow, and only then do you realize that Minghao had come up to you. You dip your head in an equally respectful bow of acknowledgement.

In Japanese, you tiredly assure the staff member you'll be there for the press circus; she leaves Minghao and you alone at your reassurance. You flash Minghao a weary smile, slipping, this time, into Korean. "Good job with the showcase," you say benevolently. "You did well."

He can't help the subtle frown that forms on his face, the way his eyebrows furrow in concern. The fact that you're once again hiding behind that professional exterior of yours, the friendly, polite smile you're shooting him, does nothing to soothe his frustration.

"Thanks," he mutters, his tone somewhat clipped.

He hesitates for a moment, his gaze sweeping over you. "Hey," he eventually says. "Come with me for a second."

You cast a glance around backstage. The boys are all off doing their own things— chugging water, ribbing each other, taking photos. In a gaggle of thirteen, it's easy to fly under the radar at any given time.

"You have a magazine interview in fifteen minutes," you tell Minghao, clueing him in on the conversation you had with staff just moments prior. "We can't really go anywhere—"

"I know," Minghao responds, his tone perhaps a little sharper than he'd meant it to be, frustration getting the better of him.

He takes a quick glance around the backstage area, confirming that the others are all occupied enough that they won't notice, before his gaze lands back on you. "We won't be long," he assures you, already grabbing your wrist.

His grasp on your wrist is firm, his hand strong and his fingers wrapping around the limb easily, pulling you along with him, with no room for any protest. He doesn't break his pace until he's found a small, secluded bathroom, pulling you inside and shutting the door behind the two of you before anyone could notice.

"Minghao," you hiss under your breath, still obviously pissed in the way you forgo both his nickname and pet name. "You can't just drag me off when we have work."  

Even in his already frustrated state, Minghao finds himself momentarily distracted by your pissed off tone, and the use of his name without a nickname or pet name. He likes you calling him by some form of a cute or affectionate moniker far more than just plain, unadorned Minghao.  

"We still have a couple more minutes," he retorts, mirroring your tone even as his hand slides down to lace your fingers together.  

His eyes are heavy on you, his expression intense even as he takes an unabashed, close-up look at your face, studying the weariness in your expression, and the strain that's clearly weighing down on you.  

He makes a move to reach down, his gaze on your cheek, to brush away a strand of stray, loose hair. His heart lurches when he sees the way your expression softens subtly, even when you're still trying to be mad at him. The way you immediately intertwine your fingers in his— God.  

"We look very suspicious right now," you say dryly, your free hand gesturing vaguely to the fact that Minghao practically has you pinned against the bathroom wall. "Is this what you pulled me away for?"  

"We'll make it quick," he manages to reply, sounding slightly hoarse, before closing the already-minimal distance between the two of you, one arm snaking around your waist.  

"We shouldn't—" you protest weakly, because there's just some things you can't explain away. Like how Minghao and you might be caught hugging in this bathroom when you were colleagues at worst, good friends at best. "We're going to get in trouble."  

"We won't," he responds, his tone firm, stubborn.  

His other hand comes up to rest at the back of your head, pulling you in even closer, burying your face in his chest, the other arm still looped firmly around your waist. He lets out a sharp exhale of air, the frustration and tension of the moment melting into something akin to relief. 

"Just—" he mumbles, his breath hot in your ear. "Let me hold you. Just a little— for a second."  

A small flicker of relief fills his chest when he feels the tension ease as a result of his embrace, the way you lean against him, almost as if you're allowing yourself just to relax. To melt against his body the way you almost never did in public.  

When you mumble Mandarin against his chest, your words are slightly muffled. "I'm sorry about earlier," you whisper. "I was really stressed."  

"I know," he responds, just as quietly. "I'm sorry too."  

This was how it was with the two of you— the quick-tempered arguments, the stubborn disagreements, and then the inevitable apologies that always followed. Minghao knew he was stubborn, maybe even a little irritable, and he would admit that he could've handled his response better.

But, for some reason— in the moment, at least— all of that tension that had been between the two of you in that moment just evaporated in the embrace. "You're working yourself to the bone," he mutters quietly, into your collarbone.

He knows how hard you work, in general, but it's become increasingly worse as of late. The endless translation, the interviews, the subtitles and scripts. It all seemed to be getting too much, even for you.

"I know it's not my place to tell you this but—" he continues, his voice becoming even more hoarse and heavy in worry. "You need to take better care of yourself. You can't just keep pushing yourself like this. Not like you've been doing. You're going to burn out at this rate."

It's just the way the two of you were— you, the overworked, over-stressed, and over-tired, and him, almost constantly worried about your general well-being, worried about you working yourself to actual exhaustion.

The moment you gently run your fingers through his hair, he instantly melts against you even more, practically nuzzling against your shoulder.

"You do have some right to tell me this. We're friends," you sigh, tilting your head to press your lips to the side of Minghao's temple. "And you're right�� I'll look into taking a medical leave for a bit, once we get back home."  

"Good," he responds, his voice quiet but firm. "You need a break. And I—" he pauses, hesitating.  

He doesn't like seeing you like that, he wants to say. He doesn't like seeing you so tired and so stressed every day. He doesn't like how you barely have any time together anymore. He doesn't like seeing you overexert yourself so much.  

He stops himself from saying it out loud, instead letting out a soft huff before continuing. "I really worry about you, you know?" he mutters against your shoulder.  

"I know, xīngān," you respond, slipping into Mandarin in a bid to comfort Minghao a little more. A beat. And then, ever so quietly: "I worry about you, too."  

You slide your hand up and down his back. "We're both fools," you whisper with a slight huff of laughter.  

"Yeah," he agrees with an exhale of a laugh at your last words. "We are both fools."  

But we're fools for each other, his mind unhelpfully reminds him as he dares to hold you for just a moment more.

He just has to go and mess it all up by insisting, "I wish you’d let people take care of you."

People, meaning him. He had meant to say I wish you’d let me take care of you, but instead something entirely else came out. He knows he ought to back down the moment he feels you tense under his grasp, but Minghao was nothing if not adamant.

"I don’t need to be taken care of," you persist. 

Minghao huffs into your hair. "That’s bullshit and you know it."

"Hao—"

"It’s not a sign of weakness—"

"You keep treating me like—"

"I’m not—"

"Minghao!"

You’ve all but pulled away now, your earlier softness replaced with a new kind of tension. It’s not the same tiredness from being overworked; no, it’s the frustration of the two of you trying to speak over each other. The push and pull of your words. Your mutual inability to communicate just what you mean. 

Minghao’s fingers ball into fists at his sides to hide his almost trembling hands. It’s all he can do to keep himself from reaching back out for you.     

"I'll go ahead," you whisper decisively, your gaze fixed on the door. "I'll see you at the magazine interview."

An almost visceral, physical pain shoots through Minghao's chest at the mention of you leaving. His mind screams no, don't leave, don't go. But he swallows down his own irrational, impulsive desires, his own selfish longing for you.

"I— yeah," Minghao responds slowly. "I'll meet you there."

He watches silently, almost helplessly, as you make a beeline for the door.

The interview is with NYLON JAPAN. You interpret and translate for both the interviewer and the boys, once again acting as an off-camera presence— an intent, constant figure quietly relaying questions and answers.  

There's some benefit in SEVENTEEN being thirteen members strong. That way, Minghao is in the second row, some distance away from you. If you avoid his gaze, it almost feels negligible.

For the duration of the interview, Minghao can hardly concentrate on the questions and answers being traded between the members and the interviewer. His focus is firmly drawn towards you.  

He can't help but glance in your direction every so often. Every time your gaze accidentally meets his, it's like a jolt of electricity straight to his chest, his stomach clenching at the painful realization of how close you are and how far away you feel.

When the interviewer begins to ask member-specific questions, you do your job as well as you always do. The first two are for Seungcheol, then Chan. And then, of course, there it is.

You nod a bit as the interviewer poses his question. "Jun and Minghao," you translate, your voice wavering imperceptibly on the second name. "You two are the members that have given up a life in your home country in exchange for being an idol. How are you able to cope with that?"

As you translate Jun’s answer to the interviewer, Minghao can hardly focus on the actual words he's saying. He’s only half-listening as he watches the subtle flutter of your eyelashes, the slight parting of your lips, the crinkle in your forehead as you concentrate hard on getting the Japanese translation perfect.

His chest feels tight, like there's a band wrapped around his entire body, constricting his airflow.

When your gaze finally moves back to him, locking eyes with his own, a rush of breath leaves his lungs, his heart jumping in his throat. The look in your eyes, the distance between the two of you— it’s nothing short of exaggerated.

For a brief moment, he's not answering a question for a Japanese magazine interview. He's answering a question for you. 

"It's hard," Minghao answers, his voice quiet and low, somewhat hoarse. "It’s really hard and lonely sometimes."

Every word that leaves his lips feels like a struggle to get out, like they're getting stuck in his throat, choking him.

"But I have the members, and we have the fans," he continues, a quiet yearning in his eyes. "And so it’s bearable," he says, despite the pit still present in his stomach, despite the ache of needing more.

He keeps his gaze focused on you, letting every word he says hold a meaning beyond the answer to the interviewer’s question— as if he’s answering for you and not the interviewer. But he has to keep his words vague, just in case those damned cameras picked up on his words and the way he looks at you.

"It's bearable," he repeats, swallowing hard, letting his eyes convey what he really means, even if his words can’t. You make it bearable.

There are some things that don't need to be translated. The pinched look on Minghao's face. The way he's openly staring at you. The subtle shift among the members— all of whom seem to pick up on something Minghao isn’t saying.

"Is that all?" you ask Minghao in Korean, your voice steady as ever despite the flicker of emotion in your gaze.

That aching, yearning expression is still present on his face as he responds. 

"Yeah," he says. "That’s all."

Minghao's phone is tucked under his pillow, the device set to vibrate.

He jolts awake the moment it begins to buzz, a habit he had grown after years of being under the spotlight and on the road. His hand flies out to grab the phone.

His eyes bleary, he blinks a few times to clear his vision. A slight smile involuntarily tugs at his lip when he sees your message, his eyes skimming over the contents of it several times.

i'm sorry about today. (yesterday, technically?) i hope you're resting right now. ily.

"Idiot," he murmurs quietly to himself.

You don't have anything to apologize for, he replies quickly. It's not your fault. I'm the one who should be sorry. I should've been more patient with you.

How are you? Are you okay?

i'm ok. fell asleep on the couch and woke up suddenly. but did i wake you? it's so late. you should be asleep.

A quiet sigh leaves Minghao's lips as he reads your response, a part of him feeling a pang of guilt, as if knowing he was the reason you were awake right now.

You did wake me. But don't worry. I'm glad you texted me. Can you call me?

A beat. 

let me just step out onto my balcony so i don't wake my roommates.

The image of you carefully sneaking out onto the balcony to talk, just so you wouldn't wake your roommates, briefly flashes through Minghao's mind. It reminds him of his own sleeping roommates a mere few feet away from him.

He sighs softly, quietly pulling himself out of bed, careful to not disturb Mingyu and Jun as he quietly makes his way out into the balcony from the door to his left.

The air is cold and the night sky is clear. Those are the two of the three things Minghao registers when he steps out on the balcony of his hotel room. The third thing comes after you call him and there’s a slightly amused edge to your tone as you say, "Look to your right, xīngān."

He turns to look to his right just as you asked, his eyes searching the balcony area in the distance. He can't quite make out any details on your figure in the low lighting, but when his eyes finally land on you, his heart skips a beat all the same.

"Found you," he murmurs.

"I didn’t mean to wake you," you say softly. "We could have talked in the morning, you know."

"I know," Minghao responds. He leans against the railing of his own balcony, the metal cold to the touch, his eyes fixed on you. He's sure you can't see him clearly, but it doesn’t matter at this moment.  

He was looking at you, and that was enough.

"I wanted to talk to you," he says simply, the words said without a trace of shame, just quiet honesty.

"What did you want to talk about?" you ask, giving him the liberty to set the pace for tonight, to pick and choose his battles.

There are a lot of things Minghao could say right now, a lot of things he wants to say. But instead, he settles for, "How are you?"

"Better now," you say simply, your gaze still fixed on Minghao in the distance. And it's the truth, even if the second half of your answer goes unspoken. Better now, that you're talking to him.

He stands there silently, still watching you from a distance. Despite his earlier confidence in talking to you, he's suddenly feeling uncharacteristically timid. Tongue-tied, almost, with his words caught in his throat. He can’t bring himself to speak for a moment, a part of him still feeling guilty about earlier.

He swallows the tightness in his throat, taking a deep breath, before finally forcing the words out. "I'm sorry," he mumbles. "For what happened in the bathroom."

Perhaps it's the years you’ve known each other, the herculean task you’ve both faced. But Minghao and you know better than anyone that things were so easily lost in translation, that there’s only so many emotions that can be grasped in all the languages of the world.

"We just have to get better at using our words, I guess," you sigh. 

Something in his chest settles at your response— at the understanding in it, at the fact that you don't hate him. The knowledge washes over him like a sudden warmth, the guilt he'd felt earlier slowly evaporating with each passing moment.

"We do," he replies quietly.

There's a comfort, still, in being just a couple of balconies away. How you can make out each other's vague silhouettes in the late evening of this foreign country.

It feels like you're standing on the precipice of something, of possibility.  

But instead of confronting it, you opt to dance the line a little longer. Your eyes are still trained on the sky as you slip into Mandarin.  

"The stars out here are so clear, xīngān," you muse thoughtfully. "It's beautiful, don't you think?"

The change in language registers quietly in Minghao's mind, his brain taking a second to get used to it after speaking in Korean and stilted Japanese most of the day.  

He looks up at the night sky for a moment in quiet contemplation, taking in the beauty of the stars as you'd described them, before turning his gaze back to the shadowed outline of your figure in the distance.  

Something about the sight, about you, makes his heart ache a little bit. Beautiful, you had said about the stars, but he’s not looking at them. 

He responds softly, longingly, in Mandarin, his voice almost a whisper in the night air. "It really is."

The next day, you both get on separate flights back to Seoul. As Minghao had poked and prodded you to do, you finally take the medical leave from work— a one-week block, which was the longest you’d ever gone away from PLEDIS since you first started nine years ago.

Roughly three days into your break, Minghao is in dance practice when he feels his phone buzzing in his pocket. He frowns when he glances at the screen and sees your name. 

can i call? 

The sight of the message, so unlike your usual lighthearted air, makes his heart drop instantly in his chest. There's no text-speak, no cutesy words, no emoji— just a simple question. He drops whatever he's doing, ignoring the questioning stares from the members as he steps out into the hallway and quickly dials your number without a second thought.

"Xīngān," he greets you, a little breathless from the rush he'd felt upon seeing your message. There's a hint of concern in his voice as his heart races in his chest, his mind whirling with thoughts. 

He doesn't even bother with pleasantries or small talk, diving straight into the issue at hand. "Is everything alright? What's wrong?"

Much to Minghao's chagrin, you bother with pleasantries. "Hey," you say back in Mandarin when he greets you. For a moment, you hesitate; like you're not quite sure which language you want to speak to Minghao in.  

"I'm sorry," you say in Korean. "Did I bother you?"  

Minghao shakes his head even if you can't see him. He's silent for a moment, mulling over his words before replying, "No. Never. You didn't bother me, xīngān."  

The words are uttered quietly, his voice soft and gentle, as if he's afraid that the volume of his own voice might somehow scare you away.  

"I finally visited a doctor for my back," you say, finally. "It's a herniated disc, and I'm being slotted in for a surgery in two days."  

His heart drops into his chest at your admission, the words feeling like a sudden weight upon him. Herniated disc.  

The words feel like a sudden strike to his heart, his mind racing with questions and concerns. "A herniated... disc," he repeats, his voice a little breathless, a little shocked, as he quickly tries to process what he'd just heard.  

He doesn't realize he's switched to Mandarin, his own words spoken in a rush. "How bad is it? What are the doctors saying?"  

You stubbornly stick to Korean, likely because it's easier to accurately relay your medical results in the same language you'd received them in. "It's not bad," you say firmly. "The operation is an open discectomy on my lower back. It will take at most an hour, and I'll only need to stay in the hospital for up to three days."  

There's a flicker of irritation in Minghao's eyes at your insistence to continue speaking in your language, frustrated at the lack of comprehension and understanding it brought. He wants to protest, to argue, to tell you to just use Mandarin— but it disappears when he hears your firm voice, when he realizes what it is you're telling him.  

An hour-long operation. Three days in the hospital. It didn't sound bad, per se, and logically, he knew that you would probably be fine. It still didn't make him worry any less.  

"What are the risks?" Minghao asks after a moment.  

Normally, he would have just looked up whatever answers he wanted, searching it up in medical databases and online articles. But, for some reason, he's suddenly terrified to hear anything other than the sound of your voice— your words, reassuring him that everything will be okay.  

"No change to the back pains," you rattle off. "A five to fifteen percent chance of a revision discectomy if the herniated disc returns. A lower chance of an unstable spine. It's— they're truly not bad risks, Hao."  

"Five to fifteen perc— no, that's not a 'truly not bad risk'," Minghao counters immediately, his voice sharp and frustrated, as if scolding a child that was being too nonchalant.  

"You— it's surgery, xīngān—" he continues in Mandarin, his tone almost pleading. "Five to fifteen percent chance— it— what if something goes wrong?"  

He feels a little bit frustrated at his sudden loss for words in both languages, as if his own limited vocabulary couldn’t express the rush of emotions that had suddenly overwhelmed him.  

"Hey," you say softly into the receiver, this time switching over to Mandarin. Because it had always been more soothing to him, more familiar in the sense that mattered. "Take a moment and breathe for me, xīngān."

There's a sense of calm that washes over him as he finally hears the change in language. He takes a deep, shuddering inhale, followed by a slow exhale, his eyes squeezed shut as he mentally counts down seconds.

Slowly, the panic, the fear he'd felt gradually starts to subside, leaving his heart and breath steadier— but not completely unbothered.

After a moment, you go on in Mandarin, calm and measured. "It's a surgery with a high success rate of sixty to ninety percent," you maintain. "I need it to address the persistent back pains, xīngān. If I don't do it now, the pain will only get worse and more of my spine could be affected."  

You pause, letting the words sink in. "These doctors are good," you go on. "They do their job well."  

Minghao takes several more slow, steady breaths as he listens, the sound of your voice alone calming him down, helping him keep his mind clear and focused. He knows you're speaking to him in Mandarin because it's easier to communicate with him this way, but he can't help but notice the subtle firmness, the reassurance in your tone.  

The statistics, the numbers, the facts— they're hard to deny, and as he takes another shaky inhale and exhale, he realizes that you're right. "Sixty to ninety percent success rate," he repeats to himself, his voice a soft murmur.  

"Sixty to ninety percent," you reaffirm. Then, in a more shy tone, you add, "I'm sorry for springing this on you. I— I just didn't know who else to call."  

He notices it then, the meekness in your words, the small hint of vulnerability in your voice. Any remaining anxiety he felt from the situation suddenly dissolves with the realization that you needed this.  

You had called him because you’d needed to hear a familiar, comforting voice, a sense of reassurance after what you'd just confessed. He swallows back his fears, his worries, any thoughts about the risk and that lingering, unpleasant feeling in his chest, because you needed him to be calm, to be steadfast.  

"Don't... Don't apologize, xīngān," he says almost immediately after. He swallows again before continuing, mentally berating himself for letting his anxiety and irrational fears take over his brain. "No, don't— I'm glad you called. I'll always pick up the phone."  

"Are you free tomorrow?" you ask tentatively. "We could grab a meal before I have to check into the hospital."  

As he hears the question, his mind immediately begins to run through his schedule for the next day.  

He knows what he should do. He knows what the logical part of his brain, the part that's in control of his rationality, is supposed to do. But when he thinks of you— of you, in the hospital, waiting to undergo a surgery (it's safe, it's a safe surgery, he chants in his brain) alone, without him—  

"I'll clear my schedule," he tells you.  

"No, you don't have to," you say quickly, falling back on Korean in an attempt to express your haste. "It's okay. We can just meet once the operation is over—"  

"I'm clearing my schedule,” he repeats, his voice firm, final. “I’m going to be there. We’re eating before the surgery, and I’m going to be at the hospital with you afterwards. I’m not letting you go to the hospital alone."  

A beat. While there are things that Minghao and you have yet to clear about the nature of your friendship, one thing stands true regardless of label.

"You're too good to me, Xu Minghao," you say softly, shifting to his mother tongue for the sake of sentiment. 

He lets the sound of your voice, the familiar language, wash over him. As it does, it soothes the anxiety that still gnaws at the corners of his mind.

"It’s…” he begins quietly, a small, almost sheepish smile forming on his lips, “not really…”

There’s a moment of silence before he sighs softly, his expression growing more earnest as he continues. “Being good to you is the easy part.”

"And it’s xīngān, not Xu Minghao," he adds quickly, and he’s sure you can hear the pout in his voice. 

It draws a laugh out of you— one that's still quiet, but a lot more genuine. A moment of levity. A brightness that only Minghao could truly give you. The sound of your laughter, even over the phone, is enough to lift his spirits, his heart swelling in his chest in relief.

"Xīngān," you amend, and your voice is just a little too fond to be friendly. 

For a moment, Minghao can convince himself that all will be alright in the world again. 

The discectomy is relatively uneventful, which can only mean that it was good. There's no way of Minghao knowing this, of course, not as he spends the entire morning in a group meeting he can't really skip.

Regardless, all the members can tell that Minghao's heart isn't really in it. That he's physically at the PLEDIS building, sure, but his mind is on you— somewhere in an operating room, under anesthesia.

Seungcheol broaches the topic carefully. "Ah, it’s their surgery today, isn’t it?" the leader asks almost too casually, to no one in particular. There's a murmur of agreement across the table of thirteen boys. Some shifty, knowing glances at Minghao.

Minghao nods in response to Seungcheol's question, his expression still entirely too… anxious. "Yeah," he replies, keeping his voice as controlled as he possibly can, even as he feels his dread build up inside of him. "I'll be going to see them, after this."

It doesn't go amiss to anyone that Minghao doesn't even bother to extend the invite to anyone else. Jun is the only one who looks vaguely miffed about it, but they're all mostly understanding of how different Minghao felt with you compared to their own concern, their own affection.

Joshua offers the next best thing. 

"I was thinking we could chip in to send flowers," he says, and there's easy assent across the group. Minghao feels a small flicker of warmth in his chest at the thought of how you'd receive these messages of their care and concern.

As Vernon and Jeonghan debate what arrangement to send, Jun throws a glance at Minghao and almost smiles. Almost.

"What flowers did you get them?" Jun says in Mandarin, so no one else in the room can pick up how quickly the other Chinese man had clocked that Minghao was already three steps ahead.

Minghao glances over to his friend, his expression unreadable, as he answers in the same language. "Sunflowers," he replies, not missing a beat.

Jun can only smile faintly at Minghao's answers. "Sunflowers for your sunshine," Jun teases good-naturedly, still in the tongue that none of the other members will understand.

There's something about the way the Mandarin word for 'sunshine'— yángguāng— that sounds just so right. The Chinese term falls from the older man's lips like a blessing, a wish for good luck and health and goodness for all those involved. 

Minghao isn't sure if he'd imagined it, not exactly, but he sees the way Jun looks at him right after he says the word. For a split second, Minghao's chest tightens, his throat clenching up, because maybe Jun thinks his feelings for you are obvious.

Maybe Jun thinks he's been obvious all this time. In his head, Minghao had already been thinking it— yángguāng, sunshine, mine— And it's only now that he realizes that he was never the only one who saw it that way. That saw you and Minghao as something inevitable. 

He glances at Jun, eyes softening, filled with almost a wave of gratitude.

"Sunflowers for my sunshine," he repeats, hoping it will somehow manifest like a prophecy. 

You wake up after your operation with one less disc in your spine and one too many floral arrangements in your hospital room. As you blink against the vestiges of your anesthesia, you register the absurd, almost comical amount of flowers piled on the couch, and it doesn't take you more than a couple of seconds to realize it came from the boys.  

One of whom is dozing off in a chair next to you. You watch with mild amusement as Minghao's head dips in his restless slumber, his fingers still surprisingly firm around the bouquet of sunflowers in his lap. The affection you feel for him then threatens to overwhelm you.  

You manage to tamp it down in favor of gently prompting, "Minghao."  

Your voice is still hoarse, still a little rough around the edges. Not quite enough to rouse him from his sleep. After two or so more attempts, you go for what you know will wake him up.  

"Xīngān," you call out with no shortage of fondness.  

The sound of your voice jolts Minghao awake, and he opens his eyes in an instant. For a moment, his vision is still blurry, the world around him seeming almost vague, fuzzy with sleep, but then it snaps into focus when he sees you.

When he sees you awake, alive, and looking at him. His heart does somersaults in his chest.

"Yángguāng," he answers, his voice low, soft and affectionate, barely above a whisper.

"That's a new one," you say in Mandarin; your voice is still scratchy, but your amusement is not any less evident.    

He thinks he'll never get tired of watching that. Of watching your lips move that way. "You like it?" Minghao asks.  

He doesn't need an answer to his question, because he already knows that you do— but he can't help himself, needing the confirmation, needing to hear your answer. The thought of calling you 'sunshine' isn't a new one, but saying it out loud to you for the first time, when you're awake? It feels like a miracle.  

"I could live with it," you answer with a soft smile— even though both Minghao and you knew that you would now never be able to live without it.  

Minghao wants to laugh at the way you shrug his question off, at the way you seem so nonchalant, even as you give him that sweet, sweet smile that is so bright that it could rival the very sun itself.  

Because he knows the truth. He knows you're happy about it. He knows you love it. He can tell it in the way you're looking at him, in the way your eyes glitter with affection.  

"I'm glad," he answers, playing right into your charade because he knows every little trick in your book.  

And then, in a fit of bravery— one that he almost feels like applauding himself for— he leans in to press a kiss to your temple.  

When he pulls away, the bouquet of sunflowers still clutched in his hands, he's sure he can see it. The happiness in your eyes. The sheer, blinding affection in your smile.  

"Thank you," you whisper earnestly. Partly because your voice is still shot; partly because you don't trust yourself to speak any louder. "For coming to see me."  

He has to swallow hard to regain control of his emotions, because he is so terribly, terribly in love. He laughs under his breath because he's not sure what to do about his feelings anymore. Maybe it's best to just throw himself off the cliff and see what happens, right?  

"I'll always come see you," he answers, instead, making a promise for the future.  

He leans in again with that thought on his mind, and he presses another kiss to your temple, softer, longer, his lips lingering against your skin for just a fraction of a second longer than necessary.  

He pulls away to meet your gaze, and he almost feels like laughing at the way he can see his feelings reflecting in your eyes, shining in the pools of your irises. He loves you, he loves you, he loves you. How is he going to live with that?  

Minghao leans in again, but this time, he kisses the corner of your lips, right where your smile is.  

And it's astounding, really, just how terrible Minghao and you still are at this whole thing. Despite all the years between you, you still falter and stumble in getting your feelings across.  

There was always something. A job to do. A reputation to uphold. And now, a hospital bed, a recovery period.  

But, for once, you can only laugh breathlessly as Minghao gives you two more kisses, as you feel the upward curve of his lips against your face. Your heart stutters at the peck on the corner of your mouth; it's not quite what you both want, what you both need, but you'll take it. God, you'd take it.  

"Stop that," you try to chide in between your giggles. "Get off me, Hao—"

The sound of you laughing is like a revelation in Minghao's chest. As if a chord of tension that had been strung taut within him for so long had been cut.

He pulls back with a look of satisfaction on his face, that teasing grin playing on his lips as he does. "But why?" he asks in an absolutely, unbearably sweet tone, a tone that is laced with faux innocence, even though he knows why. You were recovering. You had to be careful.

A part of him is almost glad he hadn't kissed you properly. Because if he so much as feels the softness of your lips against his, he's not sure he'll be able to stop.

But God, does that make him want it even more— the fact that he can't, the fact that you're so close and still beyond his grasp. He forces himself to look elsewhere then and his gaze falls to the bouquet on his lap, to the flowers he'd brought you.

Sunflowers, because he doesn't think they make flowers that even compare to the brightness of your smile, or the way your eyes glitter when you laugh— at least, not flowers that make him think of you and you alone.

He holds the bouquet out to you. "Do you like them?" he can't help but laugh. He had chosen them and bought them for you, and yet, in true Minghao fashion, he finds himself still asking for your approval.

"I love them," you say easily, readily, already reaching out to take the arrangement from Minghao. 

Three sunflowers in full bloom, flanked by chamomile and irises and baby's-gypsophila. Your smile is bright and wide as you look down at it, as you hold it delicately. 

When you look back up at Minghao, there's that touch of amusement again. That tinge of disbelief that seems to wordlessly communicate, I can't believe you.  

"You didn't have to," you point out with a low chuckle, shifting slightly in your hospital bed as your fingers go imperceptibly tighter around his flowers. "But thank you."  

The sight of the smile on your face is enough to almost make him want to kiss you all over again.  

It's not the first time he'd given you an arrangement of flowers, but it's the first time it's made Minghao feel like he's just given you his heart, too.  

"No, I didn't," he agrees lightly, reaching out to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear, the very tips of his fingers brushing against your soft skin. But I wanted to.

The boys all come to visit, one after the other. In small groups, in age order, until they have to be kicked out for being too noisy and potentially drawing too much attention to themselves. There are doctors, too, and nurses. All of whom are a little shell shocked at the idols just milling about in your hospital room, making themselves at home.  

Throughout it all, Minghao stays. His usual quiet, steadfast presence. He absorbs all the diagnoses; he tells off his members when they get overwhelming. And, when no one's looking, he'll squeeze your hand or press his fingers into your shoulder.  

As always, there are some things neither of you have to say out loud.  

He's more than happy to play the role of your protector, even as he continues to worry, even as he's filled with dread over the possibility of you not recovering fully and what that might mean.  

See, Minghao would never describe himself as a man of prayer. He doesn't go to temples nearly as often as he should, though he does go often, and he doesn't consider himself not spiritual.  

He finds himself praying anyway. To the universe and whatever is out there, begging for the chance that all of this would work out for you.  

But for now, at this moment, all Minghao can do is wait, and focus on the way your hand feels in his— a source of comfort in and of itself.  

That's how your mother finds you, actually, on the evening that she deigns to visit.  

Minghao is at your bedside, playing with your fingers, and the two of you are debating over something trivial— the merits of adapting dramas into other languages— with your heads bent together. It would've been negligibly friendly if it weren't for the obvious affection in your petty argument, the way you practically lean into each other's touch.  

That's why it takes a moment for either of you to register that a third person had entered your hospital room. You look up at the sound of a throat clearing, and you're just about to apologize when you register who the silver-haired woman by the entryway is.  

Your spine goes rigid; your eyes, imperceptibly wide. "Eomma," you choke out in a slightly strangled whisper.  

Minghao goes still the moment the word leaves your lips, and his mouth goes dry when he registers the figure at the door. He doesn't exactly know what kind of a relationship the two of you had, but Minghao can only hope, for the sake of politeness and respect, that she doesn't despise him.  

"Hello," he says weakly, his hand tightening almost protectively around yours in a silent gesture of support before he finally rises to greet her. He bows respectfully, clearing his throat to greet your mother appropriately.  

Your mother's scrutinizing gaze flickers over Minghao— everything from his polite bow to the way he had just been holding your hand, moments prior. When she speaks, it's in garbled Korean; there's a hint of a French accent, one that doesn't quite match her Seoul dialect.  

"There's no need for that," your mother tells Minghao, referring to his bow. She's aiming for kindness but comes off, still, as cold. It must come with the nature of her profession; you had once mentioned that your parents were diplomats.   

Minghao forces himself to stay calm and composed, even as the fear of how your mother may react to him sets in the pit of his stomach. He nods his head, but he doesn't quite dare to look her in the eye  

"I'm Xu Minghao, ma'am. I'm here to offer some company," Minghao tries to explain, though he's not sure he's doing the best job of it.  

There's a flicker of recognition on your mother's composed expression. The look of recognition in your mother's eyes puts Minghao slightly at ease, but that doesn't quite erase the nervous tension, the anxiety that thrums against the underside of his very skin.  

"Xu Minghao," she repeats, and you let out a groan when she sounds just a little amused despite her stoic demeanor.  

He waits, just about holding his breath as your mother comes further into the room, stopping in front of the two of you. Minghao shifts awkwardly in his spot, glancing over to you just about nervously, as if waiting for you to take charge of the situation.  

"Eomma," you repeat. This time your voice is a lot more level. You try to ignore the way Minghao seems absolutely scared shitless at your side. "When did you fly in?"  

There's a detached casualness to your mother's response, almost more like you're colleagues than family. "Just this morning," she says. "I'm staying at your grandparents’ for now."  

You dip your head into a nod. There's a pause.  

"Minghao is a member of SEVENTEEN," you say, sounding just slightly resigned at having to remind your mother.  

The older woman turns her gaze back to Minghao, her eyebrows raised slightly. "I'm aware," she says coolly, an edge of amusement in her tone. When she refers to you, she sticks to your full name instead of your nickname. "How is it working with my child, Minghao?"  

"They’re wonderful," Minghao answers without hesitation, his answer almost coming out a little too fast.  

He doesn't bother to temper it back, because that's how he feels— and because he believes that your mother needs to know how he feels about working with you, about being around you.  

"Kind," he adds after a moment of pause, looking back over to you, just about begging to be given permission to continue, to gush about you.  

You look straight back at Minghao, barely resisting the urge to vehemently shake your head. You know him. You know how he wants to say more, would probably talk hours and hours about your role as an interpreter if you gave him the green light.  

As you attempt to wordlessly communicate with him through your pointed glare, your mother watches the exchange with growing amusement. Then, just as you always have whenever you wanted to get Minghao talking more—  

"I would hope they were kind," your mother says, though she says the words in Mandarin.  

When your mother speaks in Mandarin, Minghao can't help the rush of gratitude that floods through him, because that only means one thing— that it was okay, that he was encouraged to say more. And so, he does, a small smile on his lips.  

"Kind, thoughtful, patient," he says softly, almost like a litany. "Always on top of things. Brilliant."  

There was something about talking about you in his own language that made everything come so much easier to Minghao. "They make us all look bad," he adds with a soft laugh, though there's a hint of truth behind the words. He means it.  

You made him want to be better to you, more worthy of you, and not just as a person, either. As a man, too.  

You stare up at Minghao, exasperated at how a simple change in language had suddenly gotten him so honest. "You shouldn't say all that—" you hiss at him.  

As you go on to tell off Minghao under your breath and he only looks down at you with that completely smitten expression, your mother puts two and two together. One doesn't have to be in the same room as the two of you for too long to recognize it.  

Ah, the older woman thinks to herself. They're in love with each other, and they don't even know it.  

The expression on Minghao's face as you scold him would be better described as that of a puppy who doesn't quite understand what he'd done wrong. His eyebrows furrow, and as you continue to hiss under your breath, he looks like he simply wants to reach out and pull you into a hug because he can't stand it when you fuss over him.  

But he settles for squeezing your fingers once more, his grip tightening, just enough to ground himself when you don't seem to relent in your quiet berating.  

After a moment, your mother clears her throat again. It's a habit of hers that immediately gets you to shut up.  

"I just wanted to drop by," she says vaguely, switching back to Korean. "But I really must get going. Duty calls."  

"Duty calls," you echo quietly, and your mother's gaze softens imperceptibly.  

"I'll be back later tonight," she reassures you. Her gaze flickers to Minghao for a moment before returning to you. "I trust that you'll be in good hands until then."  

"Eomma," you huff, and your mother looks like she almost might laugh.  

Minghao stays still as he watches you interact with your mother, as he watches her gaze flicker back and forth between the both of you. He can't help the slight smile on his face at the look in your mother's eyes, however, because it's almost like approval.  

She turns to Minghao, this time. Gives him a once-over. He's jolted when your mother suddenly speaks French. It's not anything Minghao will understand— just a brief sentence that is meant for you and you alone. It's almost impertinent; the words are anything but.

Your smile widens and you respond in the same language.  

Your mother gives Minghao a nod. "Goodbye, Minghao," she says in Korean as she takes her leave. "It was a pleasure to meet you."  

Minghao is left looking at you, still holding on to your hand. His eyes flicker down to your smile, a grin of his own blossoming on his lips. "What did you say to each other?" he asks, almost immediately pouting.  

He won't admit it, but he feels almost jealous. The feeling tides over when you absentmindedly note, "It was nothing."    

The smile on Minghao's face turns soft and he squeezes your hand for good measure, still watching your face even as you slump back against your bed.  

"You're a terrible liar, y'know." He raises your hand to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss against your knuckles. "You know I can read you, right?"  

"She asked me if I agreed with the meaning of your name," you say point blank. "And I said yes. Of course."  

Minghao pauses, his lips still at your knuckles as he absorbs your words.  

He knows what his name means. He's heard it enough in his lifetime. As far as names were concerned, he always considered himself lucky for the fact that he's got a pretty decent one.  

Ming, 明, which meant bright and brilliant. Hao, 浩, which meant grand and vast. Minghao— someone bright, brilliant, vast like the sky.  

But to hear you say it back to him like this? It feels like a revelation. Like you're giving him a gift, something that he can hold on to.  

"Of course," he repeats reverently, his heart a steady thump, thump, thump in his chest.

The subsequent recovery period is a slow crawl. Minghao fusses more often than not. He ensures you're on top of things— physical therapy, check-ups— and is extra careful about anything that might involve your back.  

Even as you're given the go-ahead to return to work, he frets, having read through one too many articles about the risks of having a discectomy. How strenuous labor and contact sports are still off the table for the foreseeable future. How, now, four weeks after the surgery, you still ought to be careful with routine activities.  

It's as endearing as it is vaguely irksome, especially on instances such as these. The rest of the staff avert their gazes and try not to laugh. The boys look like they're most definitely going to give you grief later on.  

Because Minghao is still adamantly carrying your things as you all head to a shooting location for the newest Going Seventeen episode.  

"Hao," you say through gritted teeth, right at Minghao's heels as he lugs around your duffel bag. "I told you, I can carry that!"  

Despite the slight exasperation in your voice, Minghao can't hide the way the corners of his lips tug into a smile.  

He knows exactly what he's doing and he knows how it makes you feel. But he can't help himself; it's too easy to wind you up. "It's heavy," Minghao insists, despite the fact that it's not that heavy, or that he doesn't actually believe that it is.  

He’s just being a slight nuisance on purpose, something he does often to get your attention.  

"It's not heavy," you seethe, taking extra steps to keep up with Minghao's lithe strides. He’s leading you to one of the company buses that would take all the members and the staff to today's shooting location— some beachside AirBnB along Sokcho.  

"I packed it, for Christ's sake. I know it's not heavy," you insist helplessly, reaching out one hand to tug at the back of Minghao's shirt.  

He's always like this, pushing and prodding and annoying you to get reactions out of you because he finds it amusing. It's been such a long time since you last properly scolded him, and oh, how he wants you to do it again.  

He stops in his tracks, forcing you to either halt in yours or bump into him. When he pauses, your feet keep moving on their own accord. Your face smashes right into Minghao's back.  

Immediately, your hand that had been grasping his shirt flies to your face. You clutch the bridge of your nose— feeling a slight sting there, following the impact— as you mumble a low chorus of "ow, ow, ow, what the hell..."  

The moment your face smashes into his back, Minghao finds himself doubling over in laughter, his frame shaking as he braces against his knees. The look of pure disbelief on your face is probably one of the funniest things he's seen all week, and the laughter that bubbles up out of his chest is unrestrained and free.  

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry—" he apologizes, his voice wavering in between laughter as he slowly tries to regain his composure. "Are you... are you alright? Does it hurt? Is it broken?"  

"You're insufferable," you huff before stomping ahead of him, making it a point to bump your shoulders against his as you make a beeline for the bus.  

Minghao only continues to chuckle, shaking his head as he follows after you, his laughter never once dissipating. By the time he reaches the bus, he's still smiling, completely unable to hide the way he keeps grinning.  

Much to Minghao's chagrin, however, you exact your revenge in the smallest way possible: By settling into a seat next to Mingyu, who's always more than a little willing to jump on Minghao's nerves when given the chance.  

"Sorry, Hao," Mingyu sing-songs, his eyes sparkling with mirth. "But I'm calling dibs for the next two hours. There's an empty seat next to Jun, though!"

Minghao only rolls his eyes, clearly slightly miffed at the way you'd just abandoned him for Mingyu in a heartbeat.

He finds his way to Jun's side, plopping down on the seat next to the other boy with an overdramatic, exaggerated sigh. "He snatched her away from me, ge," he whines, glancing back over to you with that same pout still on his face.

"You made her bump into you, Haohao," Jun points out with another roll of his eyes, shaking his head, though there was still a slight curl on the corners of his lip.

"I'm just having fun! You could at least sympathize with me.” There's no seriousness behind Minghao's complaint. It's a tone of complete and utter playfulness, and that only deepens Minghao's smile as he leans back in his chair.

The bus ride drags on, slow and careful, with Mingyu and you chatting about menial things. At one point, he slumps against your side to fall asleep on your shoulder, and you doze off with your cheek pressed to the top of his head. Seokmin takes a photo for posterity purposes.

Jun and Minghao watch from a couple of seats behind, and for a moment, Jun is contemplative.

It's a conscious choice for Jun to slide into Mandarin. The only other person in the bus who might understand it would be you, and you’re knocked out cold. That means the words are for Minghao alone.

"How much do you like them, Haohao?"

The switch in language catches Minghao's attention, especially when he hears the seriousness in Jun's voice. It's enough for him to pause, lifting his head up from where he'd had his chin resting against his knees.

"Too much, I think," he finally answers, with just a slight hint of hesitation.

It's not because he's ashamed, but because he's never been the kind of person to be so open about these type of feelings before. He's not even sure he knows how, sometimes.

"There's no going back now," Jun says, reaching out to lightly nudge Minghao's hip with his own. There's a slight look of concern in his eyes, but he speaks carefully, keeping his voice low as he continues.

"You might be in too deep," Jun continues, his voice a low murmur as he adds. "But I think... if the way they look at you is any indication, they’re right there with you."

The smile that spreads across Minghao's face is blinding, despite the way he turns his gaze down to his shoes. He can't help it— not when his heart is beating fast against his chest, at the idea of you feeling the same way that he does.

He wants it to be true, more than he's ever wanted something to be true in his entire life.

"I should hope so," he says, in an attempt at being flippant, but the way his voice sounds? It would give him away instantly.

When the company bus eventually rolls up onto a gravelly parking lot, the sight beyond the vehicle is one to behold. Sprawling, white sand beaches with glittering waters. The boys are still supposed to film some content, do some challenges, but the prospect of being in somewhere so pretty has significantly boosted everyone's spirits.

Wonwoo rouses Mingyu and you from your sleep. Mingyu chatters aimlessly at your side, only pausing when Minghao comes up to you; of course, the older boy can't resist one last jab.

In full view of Minghao, Mingyu does an infuriating shaka sign in front of his face and mouths 'call me, jagiya', completely unwarranted. It draws a proper snort of laughter out of you. 

"Stop it," Minghao whines as he reaches out to pinch Mingyu, though there's no real heat behind his voice. He doesn't even try to hide that smile on his face, not when he catches the way you laugh.

He can't look away from you once he sets his eyes on you. He's never been able to.

He just hopes that you can't tell exactly how in love he is. Because how is he supposed to tell you he's fallen hard?

The day at the shore flies by faster than any of them expect it to, but in the end, the filming is finally over.

By the time the staff tells them they're finished, the sky is painted in beautiful shades of orange, pink, and purple. It only adds to Minghao's already good mood, especially when he gets the chance to steal you back from Mingyu and get you all to himself.

When filming wraps up and the cameramen all begin to pack their material, the boys take it as a go-ahead to treat the rest of the late afternoon as a beach day.

You smile, mostly to yourself, as they break off— to take photos, to go for a swim, to explore the private beach. All the while, you try to maintain your focus on your laptop, your practiced fingers moving across your keyboard.  

It's why you're initially oblivious to Minghao's stealthy approach.  

Minghao lingers behind for a moment, watching you work. He's already gotten changed, his clothes swapped with swim trunks and a simple black tank top.  

He knows better than to bother you while you're working, and so— to your oblivious self— he's content to stand by and simply watch until you're done. After another moment, his expression softness as he sees how your brow furrows in concentration. Minghao steps in a little closer, one hand coming up to gently ruffle your hair.  

He almost doesn't want you to get back to work and instead considers pulling you up so you can go for a swim with him. He does no such thing, though, settling for patting your cheek once before pulling his hand away.  

You briefly glance up from your laptop so you can flash him a ghost of a smile. There's something to be said about the ways you often communicate without words, how easy it is to just understand.  

You dip your head, give a wave of your hand, turn your gaze back to your laptop. A silent, speechless Go ahead, I'll follow.  

It's like there's nothing he's not feeling right then— just happiness at seeing a smile, and the way that it feels like there's no secrets between the two of you.  

He reaches out to gently pat your cheek once more, his hand lingering for a moment before he pulls away again, turning to make his way out of the tent, the grin on his face still ever-present.  

By the time you're done with your work and changed into some proper swimwear, most of the boys and the staff are already in the water. It's in moments like these when you're reminded why you've stayed with PLEDIS for so long— the ways you're allowed to interact, to just be, when there's no cameras on, no job to do.  

You linger by the shoreline for a beat too long. Before you know it, you're being swept off your feet. Your shriek of surprise pierces across the beach as Jun easily throws you over one shoulder, his hand respectfully bracing the part of your back where there's still marks from your surgery.  

"Sorry, tàiyáng," Jun cheekily says in Mandarin as he rushes the two of you into the water, eliciting laughs from everyone else. He sends you hurtling into the ocean as you scream bloody murder, but you're laughing, still, as you go down.  

Minghao is laughing from where he's standing near the shore, still waist-deep in the water. He'd heard you scream, but the second he hears the sound of your laugh he knows you're fine. Instead of rushing to his feet and out of the ocean, he just stays where he is, the smile on his face never faltering.

The sound of your laughter is only made better by the way the sunlight dances off the water, reflecting off its shimmering surface like diamonds.

He watches as you resurface, your wet hair in your face as you gasp for breath, your face bright with a smile, and he can't help the way he feels himself falling, falling, falling.

He wants to swim over and make sure you're alright, but he knows that Jun won't let anything happen to you. All Minghao does is watch, his grin wide and bright, his eyes never leaving you. He's completely smitten, and right now, the others are just going to have to deal with him being even more of an insufferable, lovestruck fool.

The next couple of moments drag on with light-hearted rough housing, with idle splashing and lazy swimming, until Jun has somehow maneuvered you and him towards where Minghao is in the water.

Jun, behind your back, throws his best friend a conspiratorial wink.

Minghao knows that he can be obvious to an almost comical degree when he's in over his head in his feelings for you, but Jun winking is an entirely different story, and he's already a little wary as Jun brings the two of you over in his direction. 

Even still, nothing could prepare him for the sight of you soaked from head to toe, the water shimmering on your skin in the sunlight as you near him.

Oh, he's screwed, and he's pretty sure Jun and the others know that.

So he does the only thing he can think of.

Minghao dips under the surface of the water and disappears, ducking under the water for a few seconds before he comes back up just behind you, and reaches out to tickle your sides. If he's going to be an idiot and fall all over you, he might as well try and cover it up with a little bit of playfulness.

"Yah, don't do that!" you cry, already rounding in a futile attempt to stop Minghao. You weren't particularly ticklish, but something about the cool water and the warm breeze has you feeling more sensitive than necessary. Breathless laughter escapes you as you try to capture Minghao's wrists, to stop him from his actions.  

Jun quietly pads away with the pleased air of someone having done his job well. Some of the other boys share knowing glances— like they know they ought to intervene— but it's Seungcheol who shakes his head, who wordlessly calls everyone off.  

The leader, telling his members in the most subtle way, Let Minghao have this.  

There are words Minghao wants to say when you reach for his wrists to stop his actions, to ask if you want to join him in diving under the water with him, but words have never been his strong suit.  

No, it's actions that are his strength. And so, instead of asking if you'd like to join him, Minghao does just that, wrapping his arms around your waist and ducking the both of you under the water, the salt in the water stinging his eyes a bit as he opens them briefly beneath the surface.  

And then he brings you back up for air, the look on his face almost triumphant as he laughs, shaking his head to rid himself of the water that's plastered all over his hair and face.  

When you emerge, you laugh in between gasps for air, and instinctively reach up to push aside the wet strands of hair sticking to Minghao's face. "Look at you," you say disapprovingly, but you're betrayed by the pure, unadulterated adoration in your tone.  

"You love this look on me, xīngān," he insists, with that same wide grin on his face.  

And, well, he's not wrong. He can see the way your gaze lingers on his face, even as you scold him and ruffle his wet hair teasingly.  

It makes him wonder what it'd be like if all the what-ifs were real, if this was a relationship rather than an almost. He's almost afraid to wish for it. As if wanting it too much might break it.  

Minghao likes the way that you press close to him, and he keeps his arm wrapped snugly around your waist as you talk and laugh and joke with the others.  

It almost feels right, the way you're there next to him. Even though this isn't a relationship, the way that you slot right next to him is comforting because it almost makes what isn't feel more like what it could be.  

He wants the taste of you to be something more than just a taste. He wants more than a simple bite.

And so, that's how he finds himself suggesting that the two of you go on a walk together once the sun starts to set. There's a slight flush to his cheeks as he asks the question, a shy little smile on his face as he murmurs it.

He wants a chance to be alone with you. He thinks he deserves that much, especially now, after spending the rest of the day having been teased and prodded and jabbed at by the others about his feelings for you.

"Sure," you say coolly, somehow managing to keep your voice level. "Let me just grab my stuff."  

That's how you and Minghao end up breaking off from everyone else, kicking up the sand underneath your feet as you go. There's a couple of jeers here and there; Seungcheol warns you both to be back before dark.  

You take it in stride as you go on ahead, your shoulders just barely brushing. Like you're absolutely helpless to the pull of gravity that tries to keep you together.  

Once the other boys are out of sight, out of earshot, Minghao finds himself growing slightly less shy as you walk side by side, the two of you headed for a small cliffside pathway.  

His gaze is drawn to you rather quickly— to the way the ocean breeze makes your hair blow about, the way you almost shine when the sunlight hits you. The way your hand is so tantalizingly close. His own almost aches to reach out and take yours.  

"You know," he says instead, his lips quirking up into a little cheeky grin that makes his dimple show when he sees the path lined with flowers. Some of them blooming, some small clusters of white blooms scattered around the cliffside.  

Minghao plucks one of the blooms from its plant and tucks it into your hair so it's just behind your ear. He has to focus to not notice the way his fingers skim your cheek, and God, you're so close.  

"I think you look pretty like this," he says, and the words are whispered out like a confession. He picks another of the blooms, and offers it to you, his smile bright, genuine. "Take it. For good luck, maybe."  

When he extends to you one of the white blooms with that gorgeous, dimpled grin, you chuckle quietly. You take the flower. You hold it in your fingers for just a beat.  

And then you stand on your tiptoes to mimic Minghao's action— tucking the bloom right above his ear.  

"You're all the good luck that I need, xīngān," you say laughingly, in Minghao's mother tongue.  

Minghao melts, his lips parting in the slightest as he stares at you like you're a vision, like you're something to worship. He's already far too gone on. The moment he feels your fingertips against his skin, he decides he'll never be able to get over you, not if it takes him years to try to do it.  

There, the two of you stand, looking at each other with an unspoken, shared admiration, standing in front of a cliffside that overlooks the ocean with the sun setting against it, the horizon all burning shades of amber and orange and red.  

This is a moment that Minghao won't forget, and he takes your hand in his, slowly interlacing your fingers together to see if you'll let him.  

Just to know that there's a little bit of a chance that his dreams could come true, someday.  

Your fingers find purchase in the spaces between Minghao's, slotting there as if it was something meant to be. As if the two of you might have the right.  

For a beat, neither of you really say anything as you look out to the glittering expanse of ocean, the sun setting right beneath the horizon. It's a little too picture perfect.  

Exactly the reason why neither Minghao nor you dare to verbalize whatever this is, whatever you've been dancing around for years and years. Minghao wants to tell you everything, tell you that he loves you, maybe get down on his knees and kiss your hands, ask you to be his and to let him be yours.  

But he stays there. Silent. Holding your hand by your side.

When you head back to everyone— where food is being served for the members and the staff— there's a bit of an exaggerated welcome from all sides. The boys all jeer, and the staff give you side-eyes, but you only shake your head slightly as you peel away from Minghao's side.  

The words stay unspoken. The red thread of fate, the one that Minghao so firmly believes in, draws out for another moment more.  

As you go to shoot back some drinks with your team, Mingyu sidles up to Minghao's side. The older man presses a sweating bottle of beer into Minghao's hand.  

"Still not tonight, huh?" Mingyu asks with no shortage of amusement.  

The beer in his hand is cold enough that it would be a little uncomfortable to hold onto if Minghao weren't so used to it, but he simply wraps his fingers around the bottle and takes a half-hearted sip from it.  

His lips purse as he hears Mingyu's question, a frown crossing his face.  

"No. We didn't talk about anything," he says, somewhat regretfully, because tonight just felt like it could have been the right night to say something. To finally admit how he feels, to finally ask what he wants to ask.  

And maybe you would deny him, tell him that you just wanted to be his friend, but he'd take it. He'd take anything if it meant he could stay in your life—  

Or maybe you'd even say yes, and he could finally have a chance to prove himself to you.  

"Are you going to try again tomorrow?" Mingyu asks, taking a sip of his own beer, his eyebrows raising a little.  

Another sigh falls from Minghao's lips and he nods, his gaze softening as he looks in your direction, watching you smile in spite of the way he aches to be by your side.  

"Of course I'm going to try again tomorrow," he whispers, and he'll do that for the rest of his life if he has to.  

The night drags on with everyone getting progressively more drunk. Soonyoung is reduced to tears at one point, while Seungkwan puts on an enthusiastic, one-man performance of Aju Nice. 

And maybe Minghao drinks a little more than he usually does, partly because Mingyu and Jun take advantage of the fact that it's a rare thing for them to be drinking with you within the vicinity.  

Minghao's best friends are menaces who want to see what type of drunk he is, who want to see how it will affect the way he approaches you. He's always been quiet when he's drunk— the type of drunk with a slight permanent blush to his cheeks, with a lazy grin on his face, with thoughts too slurred or in Mandarin for most of the boys to understand.  

And tonight was no different, with his face flushed from alcohol and his words so slurred that all Mingyu and Jun can pick up is the word pretty over and over, along with a couple of other words in Mandarin. But he's always been honest when he's drunk— almost too much so.  

Jun is a bit stressed having to play interpreter for Minghao's drunken ramblings, but it's all worth it when Mingyu tosses his head back with raucous laughter at every word spilling from Minghao's lips, interpreted by Jun.  

"This is too much," Jun whines once the three of them have worked through a significant amount of soju. A glassy-eyed Mingyu nods in agreement, though neither of them are as bad as the notoriously lightweight Minghao.  

"Haohao, are you going to go up to her or what?" Mingyu teases.  

Another slurred word in Mandarin falls from Minghao's lips upon hearing that, his eyebrows knitting together for a moment as he pouts at Mingyu.

It's almost comical to see, to hear Minghao's usually soft and lilting voice falter, all while his cheeks stay a soft pink and his hair is a mess from how he's been running his hand through it.

The thought of approaching you makes his stomach churn, but he knows that he will. After this next shot. Just one more drink.

"Ge, you said you'd only drink one," Jun murmurs, a bit of concern seeping in his tone as he sees Minghao grab shakily yet another shot glass of soju.

Of course, he ignores their warnings for the moment as he downs the shot, his face growing pinker as he shakes his head and pushes himself to his feet.

It takes him a moment to gain his footing, his legs a little wobbly from alcohol, but he gets it. Mingyu laughs so hard that tears come out of his eyes. Jun, distressed, shoots back some more alcohol.

Minghao's vision is a little blurry, but you're just within his sight. And so, with Jun and Mingyu watching from behind, he makes his way towards you.

He's got a lopsided grin on his face, his cheeks a little pink, and he thinks he must be in love in a moment like this.

"Xīngān," he slurs, a slight hiccup following the word as he stops in front of you, his vision still a little fuzzy. He raises his hand to gently rub the back of his neck, his tone a little softer— and a bit more earnest— as he murmurs his invitation. “Can we talk for a minute?”

"Hey, you," you greet, readjusting the flower that he'd placed behind your ear. "Having fun?"  

Minghao shakes his head, his lips parting to say no only to dissolve back into soft little hiccupping giggles instead. Of course he's having fun— how could he not, when his love is right there, and he gets to see you smiling and laughing and tipsy yourself?  

He stumbles forward, wrapping his arm around your shoulder and pulling you in, his free hand coming up to your face as he squishes your cheeks and gives you a bright, gummy smile. "Are you having fun, xīngān?" he asks.  

"I'm having fun, Hao," you concede laughingly, resting your other hand at his waist to keep yourself steady. It's— once again— a position that implicates you a little more than it should, but everyone's varying levels of drunk anyway.  

This isn't the drunk Minghao, exactly, that everyone has seen. This is the one he so rarely allows anyone to witness, the one who gets clingy and a little emotional. He's usually much more capable of keeping his composure, even with alcohol loosening his tongue and his inhibitions, but he just can't manage to focus on anything but you tonight.

"Come run away with me," he murmurs. He tugs you against his side again, a little less carefully this time. He wants the closeness, tonight, as he leads the two of you over to the chairs loosely surrounding a warm bonfire.  

It's mostly the other boys here— Joshua and Vernon practicing an acoustic guitar, Jihoon chatting with the co-producer everyone knew he had a bit of a thing for. They all watch with mild amusement as Minghao drunkenly stumbles over to one of the chairs, single-minded in his ambition of sharing a single seat.  

He plops down onto the chair, tugging you right into his lap. He's so close to you then, his lips next to your ear as he wraps his arms snug around your waist, his legs on either side of you, pressing you close against him.  

"I missed you," he murmurs, and the words are slurred, warm on the shell of your ear as he presses his face into the crook of your neck and exhales softly for a moment.  

He's drunk. And in love. And that's a dangerous combination.  

You press your fingers into Minghao's knee, your shoulders shaking with quiet laughter. "How could you miss me?" you whisper back. "I was right there the whole night, xīngān."  

He shakes his head, burying his face into the crook of your neck, mumbling softly. "You were far," he pouts, his words a little more garbled than before. He has no sense of personal space right now, with you pressed so close against him, and he's more prone to whine to get his way. 

He wants this. He wants you close. He wants you. 

"Is that so?" you say sympathetically, the words coming out almost like a coo. "You have me now, though." 

"I'm never letting you go," he responds.  

There's still an almost childish part of him that thinks if he says it, like this, with you wrapped up in his arms, with your face flushed from alcohol, that maybe you'll stay by his side.  

He just has one question that he wants an answer for.  

"Will you hold my hand," his words are slurred, his fingers tracing along the small of your back, up, down, back up again, "and look at the moon with me?"

Wordlessly, you reach for his hand at the small of your back and you thread your fingers together. You keep your intertwined hands over your thigh as you lean just a little further into Minghao until he's pressed against the back of the chair and you're practically lying on top of him.  

It's easier, this way, for you to tilt your head back and do exactly as he asked. "Moon," you point out with your free hand, the word coming out in Mandarin. Yuèliàng. "It's a crescent moon tonight, see?"  

With his arm securely around your waist, he presses closer still to look at the moon together, his words still a stammer as he murmurs, "Yeah. Just like us."  

The words have no logic, not when he's drunk and soft and clingy like this. But he's still happy with it.  

"Just like us?" you echo, and you briefly wonder if you're just a little too tipsy; if you'd missed a chapter or two about how you could be compared to the waxing crescent. Your eyebrows furrow in mild confusion, though you quickly realize there's no point in worrying your head when you could just ask.  

"I'm the moon, and you're the flower," he declares, with all the confidence of his own drunken logic, his eyes falling to look at the flower still tucked behind your ear. He reaches up a hand to brush his fingers against the side of your face. 

If not for the alcohol, he might be too shy to admit how pretty you are to him. 

"We're a matched set, xīngān," he says.   

The smile that breaks out on your face, then, is bright and wide and warm, rivaled only by the bonfire raging a couple of feet away. Your friends are still chattering amongst themselves, completely oblivious to Minghao's bold declaration.

A matched set. And you're just a little out of it, just a little drunk yourself, as you mindlessly link Minghao and your pinkies together. It's a quiet promise on its own. An assurance that this was something that could happen, would happen, at the right time.  

"My moon," you concede, calling Minghao with a breathless sort of giggle. "My moon, my xīngān, my Hao."  

"I love it when you speak Mandarin," he admits, his words warm against your temple as he presses closer still, his lips a few centimeters from your skin.  

He has too much alcohol in his system, too little a filter for his thoughts, and right now, Minghao's world consists only of you and how you look in the moonlight— like some kind of vision, like something he'd write about in a song.  

"Say it again," he instructs, his tone gentle. A request. Never a command.  

"Which part do you want me to say again?" you ask in Mandarin, because Minghao had said he loved it when you spoke in it and you'd be damned not to give in.  

It's all the same to him. The gentle words that come tumbling from your lips— he doesn't need to understand the meaning, he just wants to hear you speak. 

Because how you sound when you speak Mandarin is lovely, and Minghao can't help but lean in just a little to drink in the sound of it, his fingers tracing along the exposed skin of your upper back.  

He's never cared or loved the way he does when he's speaking Mandarin. But you, when you speak to him, it sounds like poetry.  

"Anything," he murmurs. "Just say anything."  

You tilt your head back up to the sky, where none of the usual Seoul light pollution is barring you from seeing the stars. When you see the expanse of the Big Dipper, you stick to what you know.  

A Korean myth from your yesteryears, one that he hadn’t heard of in his own childhood.  

"Once upon a time, deep in the mountains, lived a mother and her seven sons," you start softly, in Mandarin, as per Minghao's request. You tell the story almost in a whisper— the cold winter, the seven brothers, the Jade Emperor of Heaven.  

A part of you, in the language that was a part of Minghao.

As you tell the fable, the alcohol settles comfortably in Minghao’s system. He feels sobered by the fact that you’re so close, that you’re indulging him in the way that you always do. So much, he thinks again. You give me so much. 

And yet it’s not enough, still. He thinks back to the Korean phrase he once sought you out for. Intuition. Zhíjué. 

Your story is winding to a close when he decides to trust his gut, this time. His arms tighten around your waist and he buries his face into the back of your shoulder.

"I love you," he says. Wǒ ài nǐ.

You pause. He can hear the smile in your tone as you respond, "I love you, too." Wǒ yě ài nǐ. 

But, no. Minghao is done.

He won’t let this pass, won’t let miscommunication take this away from him. He has spent the better half of his twenties grasping at straws, bridging gaps in languages; this will not be another one of those things that he can’t say. He takes a fortifying breath. 

He doesn’t care if you don’t believe in soulmates. If he’s the only one who thinks there’s a red string tied between you two. He’ll subscribe to your credo of destiny. He’ll do all the work. 

"I’m in love with you," he amends. Wǒ ài shàngle nǐ.

He says it in his language, because it feels right, but then he repeats it in yours so there’s no room for you to misunderstand. It doesn’t change, anyway. Korean, Mandarin. English, Japanese. 

Minghao is helplessly, hopelessly in love with you. 

It feels like forever before you respond. 

When you do, it’s in Mandarin. "Me, too," you admit, and he peeks at you enough just to see the way you’re gazing up at the night sky. He catches the hint of the smile on your face; the sincerity of which threatens to bowl him over. 

You repeat his words— I’m in love with you— in Mandarin, then Korean, then English, then Japanese. Then all the other languages you know. 

Minghao resists the urge to tell you to stop, to tell you it’s okay. He holds you tight, laughing quietly, as he basks in what feels a lot like the beginning of something. 

It’s okay, he wants to say as you confess to him in Spanish, in Portuguese, in Italian. 

I hear you. 

I hear you loud and clear. 

[choslut]

˖ ࣪ ، ◞ せ⌇ INKED. featuring s. geto.

↻ geto enjoys his job for this exact reason… he gets to give pretty girls like you your first ever tattoo.

tags : tattoos, slight masochism, dirty thoughts, suggestive actions, possessive behaviour, tattoo artist x florist trope, voice kink, dirty talk, praise kink, latex kink (if you squint), implied fingering, marking (literally and figuratively), implied virgin!reader, slight dubcon // wc. 1.1k

author's note : the longest one of the series… and possibly the longest author’s note too. i want to thank everyone who’s supported me throughout this event from the day i released the masterlist all the way up until the last work today!! i know i’ve said that every one of these have been my favourite but why not save the best ‘til last… this very specific image of geto haunts my (wet) dreams 🤤🤤 thank you again for all the support, because of you guys, i managed to go from 200 to over 900 followers !! 💓💓 i can’t thank you more, and i hope you enjoy this last work. this has been luna, and thank you for reading!!

pspsps …. you might want to stick around for my upcoming kinktober. it’s going to be a thriller…

“i would’ve never striked you as the type to want a tattoo, sweetie.” GETO looks at you over the frame of his glasses, eyebrow quirked as he confirms your appointment on his laptop. “and especially not one of this… calibre. is it your first time?”

you nod shyly, eyes averting from his gaze. he looks at the sheet of paper with your desired design on it, and the corners of his lips quirk upwards. a tramp stamp. totally not your type upon first glance. 

he’s looking forward to this. 

you’re a sweet enough girl. you wear denim miniskirts and baggy floral t-shirts, and your face is almost always bare, save for a few coats of mascara on your eyelashes and the occasional touch of lip gloss to make your features pop. you work in the flower shop across the street, and the only way geto can describe you is cute, and definitely not the type to want such a striking design tattooed on your lower back. it’s in such an intimate position, and he can’t help but feel a tiny bit jealous for the lucky fucker who gets to run their hands all over it whilst he-

“it’s not too… extreme, is it?” you bite your lip nervously. “my friends told me that i should do something out of my comfort zone, so…”

he tears his eyes away from the sheet of paper to look up at you kindly. “it’s beautiful. come this way, we’ll get started now.”

“since it’s your first time, i’ll try to take things slow.” you’re lying flat on your front on the table, skirt pulled down an inch and shirt riding up your stomach. geto stands beside you, rolling up his sleeves and donning his latex gloves before prepping the stencil. 

you have such pretty skin, he notes. beautiful and untouched, with such a pretty arch in your spine. he would’ve loved to imagine you positioned like this in different circumstances, but for now, he’s your tattoo artist and you’re his client, so his job is to make you feel as comfortable as possible. 

so, to soothe your nerves, he runs his latex-clad fingers along the arch in your spine, splaying his hands across your lower back and smiling when he feels you shiver as a disinfectant wipe comes into contact with your skin. 

“i’m just prepping the skin, and then i’ll transfer the stencil. it’ll feel a little cold at first, but hopefully it’ll help calm all those pesky nerves. does that sound alright?” you nod. “good girl.”

shit. it just slipped out, the praise, but then he notices that your muscles start to relax. you like praise. good to know, for next time. 

time seems to pass slowly as geto works his magic, plastering the stencil onto your lower back. it’s affecting him, your reactions, and when he finally reveals the potential placement of your totally out-of-character tramp stamp, he has to physically restrain himself from groaning out loud. 

the placement — it’s fucking dirty. 

geto decides to check up with you before finally starting to prep his equipment. “are you sure about this? it’s your first time, so it might hurt.” he chuckles lightly. “scrap that. it will hurt, but i’ll try to make it quick so that you feel the least amount of pain as possible.”

“i…” your voice dies in your throat when you feel his fingers trace the outline of your preeminent tattoo. “ ‘m a bit nervous. never done this before.”

“mm, i know, angel. you have such a beautiful body… i’d be honoured to mark it up some more next time.”

oh. you know (read: think) there’s no underlying intent to his words, but the way his honeyed voice purrs behind you has a stream of wetness start to build inside of you, and you try to discreetly clench your thighs to quell the dull ache in between your legs, praying that geto doesn’t notice. 

he does. if he wasn’t mistaken, this might just be your kink: being left merciless whilst someone toys with your body. he doesn’t overstep though, just teases, running his hands along your bare legs. “how about here next time? i could ink a pretty little flower on your ankle, or maybe some initials… yours, of course.”

geto rathers he mark his initials on your ankle, but again, boundaries. to stop himself from saying anything that’ll have you bolting out of the studio in a millisecond, he finally sits in his chair, picking up the needle and scooting towards you. “are you ready, sweetheart? this is going to hurt, so tell me if you want me to let up at any time.”

you won’t. he knows you won’t, because the feeling of his fingers on your skin is intoxicating for you given the way your toes begin to curl in your flats as he steadies his hands on your lower back. “relax, love. it’ll hurt less.”

the needle pierces your skin, ink blooming as geto begins his work. the feeling… it’s strange, given the fact that it’s quite literally repeated pinpricks on your back. but it feels strangely good paired with geto’s hands on your back, and his smooth voice praising you all the way through. 

“oh, you’re doing such a good job for your first time, love. i’ve never seen anyone react so well.”

“does it feel alright? wouldn’t want to cause any harm to this precious body of yours.”

“i’m almost finished. you’ve been such a good client, i wouldn’t mind inking you again.”

all of it goes straight to your head, and the pain of the needle is replaced with instant euphoria as your mind fills with lewd images of geto fucking you in this exact position, hands on your lower back in the same way as he eases inside of you. and his voice, good lord, his voice… he would totally talk you through it, his rich grumble echoing in your ear as he guides you to orgasm. 

“you’re taking it so well, aren’t you, baby? that’s my good girl.”

“fuck yes, angel, just like that… oh, you’re so damn perfect.”

“you’re close? cum for me, baby. need to feel you, atta girl…”

before you know it, a moan slips from your lips, and you immediately dread geto’s reaction. 

“did you just…?”

your cheeks are on fire. “n-no! sorry, it hurt a little bit there. i should be fine though, you can keep going.” 

he quirks an eyebrow. “well then, the fault is mine entirely. allow me to make it up to you? i’d feel horrible for hurting you, after all.”

your slight nod is all he needs and suddenly he’s finishing up and wrapping your tramp stamp before prying your thighs apart and slipping his latex-clad fingers into your dripping panties. 

PREVIOUS : SWEET TALK ft. choso NEXT : N/A

liked that? check out the WE’RE SO BACK masterlist.

© choslut 2024 — do not copy, repost or translate my works without permission. chain divider by @/cafekitsune.

[astrcmoni]

ᯓ☆ star’s midnight caller II ☆ᯓ

MASTERLIST

☆ series masterpost: I II III

pairing: billie eilish x sex-hotline-operator!fem!reader

genre: smut, fluff, angst (if you squint)

synopsis: in the quiet of the night, you answer a call that pulls you into a world of mystery and intrigue. what starts as a simple conversation with a stranger turns into a connection you never expected, leaving you craving more with each ring.

wc: 19.8k…..chat

warnings: top!billie, bottom!reader, phone sex, guided masturbation (r!receiving), dirty talking, fingering(r!receiving), cunnilingus (r!receiving), r! is described to have tattoos and nipple piercings, cussing, let me know if i’ve forgotten anything.

authors note: if you haven’t read pt 1 i suggest you do to understand what’s going on, it’s linked up above. but y’all don’t understand how long this took me. never doing this again (i say as pt 3 brews in my notes app🧍🏾‍♀️) ☆

phone call style story — reader is in bold italics, billie is in blue italics.

————

thursday 2:25 pm

the room is enveloped in near-darkness, save for the faint glow of the projector casting moving shadows on the walls, the images dancing faintly before fading into obscurity. a grainy forensics case study plays on the screen, the narrator’s monotone voice threading through the silence like a low hum. images of crime scenes flicker: shoeprints etched into mud, a blood-streaked knife gleaming under harsh light, diagrams of trajectories drawn with meticulous precision. the air is thick with a strange stillness, broken only by the whir of the projector.

you’re seated at a lecture table in the middle of the room, the glossy surface cool against your forearms. your notebook lies open, pages crisp and lined with the neat curves of your handwriting—cornell notes style, each section meticulously labeled. the ballpoint pen you’ve been gripping bears faint smudges of ink, a quiet testament to earlier focus. your belongings are arranged with an almost obsessive precision, each item carefully placed to avoid encroaching on your classmates’ space.

but your mind drifts, untethered, as if caught on the hook of a voice that lingers in the back of your thoughts. a certain caller has been invading the quiet hours of your nights, her words weaving themselves into the fabric of your mind. the way she asks questions—casual but deliberate, coaxing details about your life with a quiet intensity. she tells you about herself too, the cadence of her voice shifting when she delves into stories or spirals into laughter, the kind that leaves you grinning like a fool. sometimes the conversations are light, like skipping stones across water, but often they sink deeper, pulling you both into rabbit holes of thought. and then there’s the flirting—her tone dipping just enough to leave you wondering if it’s intentional or simply her nature. either way, it stirs something in you, a warmth that unfurls in your chest, spreading through your limbs like the first sip of hot tea on a cold morning.

subconsciously, your fingers begin to wag the pen back and forth. the faint tapping against the notebook creates an uneven rhythm, a soft staccato that fills the empty spaces of your wandering mind. the sound is muted, almost soothing—the thwack of plastic meeting paper, the rustle of shifting pages. it’s erratic, mirroring the restless energy simmering beneath your surface, your thoughts leaping from one idea to the next before circling back to her voice.

your eyes stray from the projection, sweeping across the dimly lit room. your classmates sit scattered like statues in varying states of engagement—some scribbling notes with mechanical precision, others half-hidden behind their desks, their faces lit faintly by the glow of their phones. the soft rustle of pages and the occasional stifled yawn add texture to the quiet. your gaze drifts to professor talis, who sits at her desk, bathed in the soft glow of her computer screen. the light highlights the contours of her smooth, golden-brown skin, her curls tumbling gracefully over her shoulders. her thick glasses perch neatly on her nose, catching the faint reflections of the video playing on the board. the snug burgundy sweater she wears looks like it holds warmth, hugging her frame in a way that seems almost comforting.

your attention slides to the clock hanging on the wall, its face faintly illuminated by the dim light. the second hand trudges forward in slow, deliberate ticks, each movement stretching time until it feels infinite. the soft hum of distant chatter blends with the faint scratching of pencils, a quiet symphony of distraction. the pen in your hand wavers, the motion gradually slowing as your focus narrows. the countdown begins—seconds trickling away like grains of sand slipping through your fingers. freedom feels close but distant, just out of reach, and all you can do is wait.

suddenly, the vibrations of your phone ripple through the table, a faint hum cutting through the quiet. a few heads turn toward you, their eyes glinting with muted curiosity in the dim light. the attention feels sharper than it should, and you arch a brow, your head jerking slightly forward in disbelief.

“what?” you mutter under your breath, the word laced with a sharpness you didn’t bother to hide. your gaze flicks to the nearest onlookers, daring them to explain their sudden fascination. it’s not like you’re in middle school—and honestly, have they never heard a phone vibrate before?

ignoring their stares, you reach for the device, its smooth surface cool against your fingertips. unlocking it, you glance at the screen, squinting slightly as the glow cuts through the dimness. one notification stands out, breaking through the shield of your do not disturb focus mode:

1 new email notification from: Maggie Baird

tapping on the alert, you’re directed to the email, the words staring back at you in bold clarity.

hello,

i hope you’re doing well! i just wanted to send a reminder about our appointment today at 2:45. please let me know if you’re still able to stop in or not.

have a great day!

best regards,

maggie baird—guidance counselor

your fingers move automatically, the soft taps of your typing blending into the faint rustle of papers and distant murmurs.

hi!

yes, i will still be stopping by your office today to finish our discussion. see you then.

as you hit send, a voice cuts through the haze of your thoughts, calling your name. your head snaps up, eyes scanning the room for the source. the voice echoes faintly, too soft to pinpoint, and you find yourself searching faces, your gaze darting from one corner to the next. then it happens—an unexpected thud against your cheek, rough paper colliding with your skin. your nose scrunches instinctively as your eyes flutter shut, the crumpled projectile falling to the desk with a dull plop.

turning around, you lock eyes with carson, her expression caught somewhere between disbelief and exasperation. her dark curls frame her face, slightly tousled, her sharp green eyes narrowing as if to say, really?

pushing your chair back, you scoot closer to the table behind you, leaning into the shared space until her whisper reaches your ear. the cool touch of her necklace brushes your skin, a fleeting sensation that sends a shiver down your spine.

“why the fuck was that so hard when i’m right here?” she whisper-shouts, her voice edged with teasing indignation.

“shut up,” you reply, your voice low and tinged with amusement despite yourself. “what do you want?”

carson shakes her head, her grin tugging at the corners of her mouth. the familiarity of the moment settles between you, warm and grounding. memories flicker to life—move-in day, your freshman year, the sterile air of the dorm buzzing with unfamiliarity. you still remember walking into the shared space, anxiety twisting in your stomach, only to find her already there. her stuff was unpacked, books stacked neatly on the desk, posters pinned haphazardly to the walls. she sat cross-legged on her bed, her bright green eyes meeting yours with a warmth that immediately put you at ease.

“hey,” she had said back then, her voice steady and inviting. “welcome home.”

something between you clicked that day, an invisible thread tying you together in a way you never questioned. even now, years later, the bond feels effortless—natural, like it’s always been there. you don’t say it often, maybe not as often as you should, but you’re grateful. her presence is an anchor, a quiet reassurance in a world that so often feels unsteady.

“seriously, though,” she whispers, her grin softening. “you’re so dramatic.”

“you’re the one throwing shit,” you counter, your lips twitching into a smirk.

the moment feels suspended, a pocket of light in the dimness of the room, the weight of everything else temporarily forgotten.

it made sense that she was at school on a basketball scholarship. carson had shown you her highlight reels more times than you could count, pulling them up on her cracked phone screen with that same smug grin she always wore when she knew she’d impressed you. her stats were insane—double-doubles, clutch shots, and a level of confidence that could light up any court she stepped on. she was damn good, and she knew it. but it wasn’t just her skill that kept you showing up to every game—it was the way she played, like every shot, every layup, every defensive steal was a conversation she was having with the universe. it was impossible not to get pulled into her orbit.

since the day you two met, you’d been inseparable. carson’s energy was magnetic, and from the moment she greeted you in that shared dorm room, you knew she’d be the kind of friend you could count on for anything. you became her shadow, and she became yours—whether it was late-night study sessions fueled by vending machine snacks or impromptu karaoke performances in your tiny dorm bathroom. you showed up to every one of her games, screaming your lungs out from the bleachers, your voice blending into the roar of the crowd. it wasn’t long before you decided to join the university’s cheer team, if only to have an excuse to be closer to the action—and closer to her.

but it wasn’t all fun and games. you were there when she tore her ACL sophomore year, the anguish etched across her face as she sat on the bench, the season slipping through her fingers. you’d sat with her in the hospital waiting room, holding her hand while she blinked back tears, offering nothing but your quiet presence. and when things got hard for you—when the weight of school, life, and your own fears felt too heavy—carson was there, cracking jokes, pulling you out of bed, and reminding you that it was okay to stumble as long as you kept going.

“so basically after the banquet tomorrow—”

“—seminar,” you interrupt, the corner of your lips twitching into a smirk.

“whatever, same thing. they both serve free food, do they not?” she scoffs, rolling her eyes with exaggerated flair. “anyways, before you rudely interrupted me, are you going to the thing tomorrow?”

“what thing?” you ask, your curiosity piqued as you shift slightly in your seat.

“do you not check the gc?”

“oh… no. i muted y’all forever ago,” you admit, stifling a laugh and keeping your voice low to avoid disturbing the rest of the class.

“my god,” she groans, dragging the words out like a dramatic sigh. “anyway, they wanna go out tomorrow—to some club or whatever—after we get back from it.”

“um… i’ll let you know,” you say, turning back toward the front of the room. ��i’m supposed to meet with my counselor today about some ta thing, so i’m not too sure just yet.”

before she can respond, your attention is drawn back to the projector screen. the narrator’s voice cuts through the background noise, monotone but heavy with implication.

“this pattern of blood spatter indicates a medium-velocity impact, likely from a blunt object. note the size and direction of the droplets.”

the words sink into the stillness of the room, the imagery vivid and clinical. you feel a strange sense of detachment as your eyes flicker between the screen and your notebook. the notes in front of you blur slightly, your thoughts wandering back to carson’s offer, the muted buzz of her words still lingering in your mind.

you pause, underlining a key phrase in your notes, the ink dragging softly against the page. your eyes flick back to the screen, narrowing as you try to absorb the image—splatter lines branching out like veins, chaotic but telling a story if you looked closely enough. you force yourself to focus, blocking out the creeping edges of distraction that threaten to pull you under.

outside, a low rumble of thunder rolls, faint but steady, like a distant warning. someone shifts behind you, their chair letting out a sharp squeak that pierces the silence.

“pause the video.”

the screen freezes on an intricate diagram of blood spatter. the jagged pattern is unsettling in its precision, almost artistic in a morbid way.

professor talis speaks up, her voice cutting through the stillness like a blade. “alright, let’s take a moment. can anyone tell me why this particular pattern rules out a high-velocity impact?”

the room falls into an uneasy quiet, the kind that stretches too long and grows heavy. a few students drop their gazes to their desks, avoiding eye contact like the answer might leap off their notebooks and save them. someone in the back coughs, the sound echoing faintly.

your pen stills in your hand. you know the answer; it’s on the tip of your tongue, almost reflexive. and you know she knows you know it. but the thought of speaking aloud—the weight of all those eyes on you—makes your throat tighten. you drop your gaze to your notebook, hoping the moment passes.

professor talis lets out a soft sigh, laced with disappointment. “no one? fine. look at the size of the droplets. high-velocity impacts—like from a gunshot—create a fine mist. what you’re seeing here is much larger, which tells us—”

“—that it’s medium-velocity, probably from something like a bat or a pipe,” you mutter under your breath, the words escaping before you can stop them.

the professor’s head snaps toward you, her sharp gaze locking onto yours. “exactly. speak up next time, ms. you know this stuff.”

you nod faintly, a flicker of heat rising to your cheeks. you glance at carson, who’s leaning back in her chair with an amused smirk, mouthing the word ‘damn.’ you roll your eyes at her, the corner of your lips twitching.

“alright, class dismissed,” professor talis announces, motioning for someone near the door to flip on the light switch. the room is suddenly bathed in a harsh, sterile glow, and a collective groan ripples through the class as everyone shields their eyes. you squint, blinking repeatedly, trying to adjust as the light burns away the comfortable dimness.

“don’t forget your assignments are due next monday. no excuses,” she continues, her tone firm, no room for negotiation. “you’ll thank me when you’re out there solving cases. also, remember that class is canceled tomorrow, and for those of you attending the seminar, be there no later than 11:00 a.m. sharp. dress in business attire. i’ll email your tickets tonight. have a good rest of your day, and i’ll see some of you tomorrow.”

the room erupts into the familiar chaos of end-of-class. chairs scrape against the floor, bags zip shut, and faint murmurs of conversation fill the space. you shut your notebook with a soft thud, sliding it into your bag. as you reach for your phone, the screen lights up with a notification: final notice: payment overdue.

your stomach twists, a sharp pang cutting through you, but you swipe the notification away quickly, jaw tightening. you pull on your zip-up jacket, the hood going over your head almost instinctively, a flimsy barrier against the world. slinging your bag over your shoulder, you make your way down the lecture stairs, your sneakers scuffing lightly against the floor.

as you push open the heavy door, the rumble of thunder outside greets you again, this time closer, louder, like a promise waiting to unfold.

you push open the heavy door of the building, stepping into the dimly lit hallway, your hood falling as you cross the threshold. the rain that had soaked through your jacket still clings to you, a cold, damp reminder of the storm outside. you glance down, swiping your shoes against the coarse floor mat, the sound scratching faintly against the quiet. the hallways stretch out before you, dim and hushed, the flicker of old fluorescent lights overhead casting a muted glow. the rain outside drums steadily against the roof and windows, the rhythm echoing down the empty corridors like a distant heartbeat.

your sneakers squeak softly with each step as you navigate the polished floors, leaving faint wet prints in your wake. the air smells faintly of books and wood polish, mingling with the crisp, metallic tang of rain. as you approach the office, warm light spills into the hallway from the narrow opening of the door, a soft beacon in the otherwise subdued space.

you pause, lifting your hand to knock lightly against the wood, the sound barely audible over the rain outside.

“come on in!”

the voice is cheerful, familiar. pushing the door open, you step inside.

maggie sits behind her desk, her silver hair pulled into a loose bun, strands escaping to frame her kind, lined face. the desk is cluttered with papers, framed photos, and a half-empty mug of coffee, the scent faintly mingling with the room’s warmth. she looks up as you enter, her smile bright and inviting.

“ah, just the person i wanted to see. please, sit down.”

you ease into the chair across from her, the worn leather creaking slightly under your weight. “thanks for seeing me on such short notice.”

she waves a hand dismissively, leaning back in her chair. “you’re fine. i heard you’re looking for a teacher’s assistant position?”

“yeah,” you say, adjusting your bag on your lap. “something flexible, if possible. my schedule’s already packed, but i really need the extra money.”

maggie hums thoughtfully, her fingers tapping lightly on the keyboard as she scrolls through files on her screen. “well, i think i have something that might work. the music department is looking for a t.a. it’s mostly administrative—grading papers, organizing lesson plans. nothing too heavy.”

your brows furrow slightly at the mention of music, a faint unease creeping in. “music? i’m a forensics major.”

maggie lets out a soft laugh, her eyes crinkling. “relax. you don’t need to be a musical prodigy. besides, the professor is great. my daughter, actually.”

you blink, her words catching you off guard. “your…daughter?”

she nods, the pride evident in her smile. “yeah. billie eilish—well, i guess she goes by professor o’connell now. now listen, she’s a bit unconventional, but she’s brilliant and easy to work with. i think you’ll like her.”

your thoughts race, uncertainty tugging at you, but you nod slowly, chewing the inside of your cheek. “well…i mean, if you’re sure…”

“i am,” she says confidently, leaning forward. “trust me, you’ll be fine. she’s expecting you in, oh, about ten minutes.”

maggie scoots her chair back, bending slightly to pull open a drawer. she rummages for a moment before withdrawing a manila folder, sliding it across the desk toward you. “here are all the details of the position. you’ll go over them with billie and make any changes where you see fit. just remember to keep an open mind. and don’t be late—billie’s not a fan of tardiness.”

you take the folder, the paper cool and smooth beneath your fingertips, and slip it into your bag. “thank you so much, maggie.”

“anytime, sweetheart. good luck.”

you offer a small smile before stepping back into the hallway, the warmth of the office fading as the cool air of the corridor greets you.

wandering through the halls, your eyes scan the doors, searching for the name. the polished brass plaque catches your attention, glinting faintly under the dull light: o’connell. the name sits bold and formal in black lettering, an unassuming prelude to whatever waits behind the door.

you hesitate for a moment, fingers brushing over the strap of your bag, before finally reaching for the handle.

you take a deep breath, the cool air of the hallway settling in your lungs before you raise your hand to knock. the sound echoes faintly in the quiet, the weight of anticipation tightening in your chest.

“come in,” her voice calls out, smooth and measured, carrying an edge of curiosity. your stomach flips as you push the door open, stepping inside.

she stands at the front of the room, her back partially turned as she writes on the whiteboard, her movements fluid and precise. a black pen is tucked behind her ear, and a neat stack of sheet music rests on the table beside her. the room feels alive despite its simplicity—soft natural light pours in through tall windows, painting golden streaks across the floor. a piano sits in the far corner, its polished surface reflecting the greenery of several plants scattered throughout the space.

then she looks up.

blue eyes meet yours, bright and clear, framed by gold-rimmed glasses perched on her nose. her gaze is steady, assessing, but there’s warmth there too—a smile softens her expression as if she’s welcoming you into her orbit. “hello. you must be the new t.a.”

your tongue feels thick in your mouth as you nod, your voice barely audible. “yeah. that’s me.”

it hits you like a tidal wave—her voice. it’s her. you freeze, the realization flooding through you in a dizzying rush. she doesn’t seem to recognize you, doesn’t give even the faintest indication that your paths have crossed before, but that only makes it stranger. surreal, almost, to stand here in front of her.

you’d always wondered what she looked like, your mind crafting endless versions of her face over the past weeks to fill the blank spaces in your memory. but nothing—nothing—could have prepared you for this.

she’s beautiful in a way that words can’t quite hold, like trying to capture sunlight in your hands. her oversized tan button-up hangs loosely on her frame, paired with dark wash jeans that sit low on her hips, the fabric pooling slightly around her ankles. her hair falls in soft, dark brown waves down her back, glinting faintly in the sunlight. she’s both effortless and breathtaking, a contradiction you can’t help but admire.

and her eyes—sharp, yet gentle—trail over you, taking in every detail. they seem to glow, crystalline and piercing, cutting through your casual exterior. suddenly, you’re hyper-aware of your own appearance, of the worn sweater and faded jeans you’d thrown on without a second thought. you feel exposed, wishing you’d cared a little more about how you looked.

“have a seat,” she says, gesturing to the chair in front of her desk as she moves to sit down. her voice is soft, but there’s a firmness to it that tells you she’s used to being listened to.

you slide into the chair, your movements careful, and pull the folder from your bag. placing it on the desk, you watch as she flips it open, her fingers brushing lightly against the papers. the motion draws your attention to the ink scrawled across the back of her hand—delicate lines of black, faint smudges at the edges, as if she’d been too focused to stop and wash it off.

as she begins to explain your responsibilities, you try to focus on her words, but your eyes betray you. they wander over her face, lingering on her lips. they’re full and soft, a natural pink like the petals of a plumeria flower, and you can’t help but wonder what they might feel like against your own. the thought startles you, heat creeping up your neck.

her voice cuts through your spiraling thoughts, pulling you back to reality. “is everything okay?” she asks, her brows knitting together in light concern.

you blink, shaking off the haze. “yeah, sorry about that. can you repeat that?” you force a small, nervous laugh, rubbing your palms against the rough fabric of your jeans before leaning in slightly, hoping to seem more attentive.

she doesn’t answer immediately. instead, she watches you, her fingers idly tracing the edges of the papers in the folder. her head tilts to the side, the movement subtle but thoughtful, her gaze narrowing slightly.

her tongue darts out briefly to wet her bottom lip before she pulls it in, biting gently on the skin as if she’s considering something. the moment feels heavier than it should, the silence stretching thin between you. you shift under her gaze, the weight of it pressing into you, as if she’s trying to read something just beneath the surface.

“what?” your brows knit together as confusion flashes across your face, your eyes darting around the room in search of some unseen answer.

“nothing,” she huffs softly, amusement laced in her tone, though her gaze remains sharp. she leans forward, closing the distance slightly, her arms resting on the desk. her presence is magnetic, drawing you in even as her words send a ripple of unease through your chest. “i’m just wondering… do i know you from somewhere?”

you freeze, the air seeming to still around you. her question hits you like a sudden drop, the ground vanishing beneath your feet. a chill skates down your spine, and for a moment, you forget how to breathe. you inhale sharply through your nose, forcing yourself to collect the fragments of your composure. your voice feels foreign when it finally escapes, a careful balance between indifference and denial.

“no, i don’t think you do. i’m sorry.”

silence unfurls in the space between you, thick and palpable. billie doesn’t move, her blue eyes narrowing slightly as they search yours. there’s a quiet intensity in the way she looks at you, as though she’s trying to piece together a memory just out of reach. her lashes frame her gaze, softening its sharpness, but the weight of it is almost too much to bear.

her eyes shift, slow and deliberate, tracing the curve of your jaw, the slope of your neck. they linger there for a moment too long, and you can feel the heat rising to your cheeks. then, like a current, her gaze flows down your arm, pausing briefly as if something there caught her attention. her movements are so fluid, so unassuming, you barely register them before she straightens, her focus shifting back to the file in front of her.

“hm… well then,” she murmurs, her tone light but her expression unreadable. she leans back in her chair, the black leather creaking softly beneath her. a beat passes, the air taut with unspoken tension, before she continues. “does every monday, wednesday, and friday at five pm work for you?”

you nod quickly, your movements stiff and mechanical, and she doesn’t press further.

she begins listing your responsibilities, her voice smooth and measured as she explains your duties. you force yourself to focus on her words, but it’s a losing battle. your responses are clipped, your gaze fixed firmly on the desk in front of you. if you keep it brief, keep it distant, maybe she won’t look too closely. maybe she won’t connect the threads dangling between you.

by the time the meeting wraps up, your nerves are frayed, each passing second an exercise in restraint. billie leans forward again, extending a hand across the desk. “looking forward to working with you.”

for a moment, you just stare at her hand, your heart pounding in your ears. then, slowly, you reach out, your fingers meeting hers. her hand is warm, her skin smooth but not without the rough edges of callouses. the contrast between your hands strikes you—her strength tempered by an understated softness, your own fingers trembling slightly as you fight to maintain control.

her thumb brushes lightly against your knuckles, whether intentional or not, and the contact sends a jolt through you. goosebumps rise along her arm where your nails graze her skin, the faint gleam of your top coat catching the light.

“thank you,” you mumble, your voice barely audible. you pull your hand back quickly, tucking it close to your side like it might betray you.

with a hurried goodbye, you slip out of the room, your chest tight and your thoughts in chaos. the hallway feels too quiet, the walls pressing in as you all but sprint away. each step echoes, a reminder of what you’ve left behind and the weight of what you can’t seem to outrun.

back in your apartment, billie’s voice lingers like a song you can’t get out of your head, looping endlessly in your mind. you toss your bag onto the couch and make your way to the bathroom, craving the solitude and stillness that only a hot shower can bring.

you tie your hair back loosely, fingers trembling slightly as you strip off your clothes. stepping into the steam, the water cascades over your skin, scalding but grounding, a sharp contrast to the chaos in your chest. the scent of your lavender body wash fills the air, soft and calming, like a fleeting embrace in the midst of a storm. you close your eyes and focus on the sound of the droplets hitting the tiles, willing the tension in your shoulders to dissolve, willing your nerves to spiral down the drain along with the suds.

after a few long moments, you twist the knob, and the water stops, leaving behind silence and steam. wrapping yourself in a towel, you step out, the cool air prickling against your damp skin. you move to your bedroom, the ritual of moisturizing your skin a temporary comfort. your favorite lotion, thick and sweet like vanilla and brown sugar, lingers on your fingertips as you rub it into your arms and legs.

the clock on your nightstand glows 3:47 in vivid red, mocking you with the hours left until your hotline shift begins. you sigh, pulling on a pair of soft, worn pajamas, their familiarity soothing. the silence presses against your ears, heavy and unrelenting, so you turn on your tv, letting the hum of your favorite show fill the void. but even with the characters’ voices playing in the background, your thoughts are loud, relentless.

you drag yourself into the bathroom to begin your hair routine. from under the sink, you gather your tools: the flat iron, heat protectant, parting comb, rollers, and duck clips. the motions are automatic, practiced, almost meditative.

your thumb brushes against the flat iron’s switch, flicking it on. the red light blinks steadily as it warms up. you spray heat protectant onto your hair, the mist clinging to the strands, giving them a subtle sheen. when the iron’s light turns green, you pick it up and run it carefully down each section of hair. the heat transforms your coils into glossy, silken strands, the steam curling in the air like whispered secrets. you follow each pass with your comb before rolling the ends of your hair up to the roots and clipping them in place with a metallic duck clip.

the process repeats, your hands moving on autopilot, but your mind drifts elsewhere. you replay the meeting over and over, analyzing every glance, every word. the way her eyes lingered on you, searching for something just out of reach. does she know? or is this all some cruel coincidence?

your alarm buzzes sharply, jolting you from your thoughts. the clock now blares 6:20. you finish the last section of your hair, securing the roller in place, before turning off the alarm. as you set the flat iron down, another sound cuts through the room—the sharp trill of the phone. it’s the hotline.

your stomach flips as you hesitate, staring at the flashing light. finally, you take a deep breath, slip on your headset, and settle into the familiar rhythm of your persona.

thursday 6:32 pm — incoming call from +1 (310) 807-3956 (los angeles, california)

“hello, and thank you for calling the pulse network. this is star speaking.”

“star,” billie’s voice flows through the receiver, warm and honey-smooth. “how’s my favorite voice tonight?”

your heart clenches. it’s always like this when she calls, the way her voice sinks into your skin and leaves you aching for more.

“i’m good,” you reply, fighting to keep your tone steady. “you?”

“exhausted,” she admits, a soft chuckle following her words. “it’s been a day. i just got a new t.a., which i’m so grateful for, but she was so quiet. i think i scared her off.”

your breath catches in your throat, and for a moment, you can’t speak. she’s talking about me.

“maybe she’s just shy,” you manage, your voice careful, measured.

the conversation flows, her voice a melody you know too well. she talks about her day, her words curling around you like smoke, hazy and intoxicating. you fall into the rhythm of your usual calls, her laughter tugging a small smile from your lips despite the weight in your chest.

when you mention your new nails, she perks up, her tone playful and teasing.

“tell me everything. what color? shape? i need details, star.”

her curiosity pulls you in, her warmth easing the tension in your shoulders just enough to let you breathe. for a moment, it feels normal—like it always has, like she’s just a voice on the other end of the line. but beneath the surface, you can feel the cracks forming, the weight of your secret threatening to shatter everything.

“baby?” she calls out, her voice soft, low, and dripping with a kind of warmth that sends a shiver down your spine.

the little nickname stirs something in you, a flutter of wings in the pit of your stomach, delicate and chaotic.

“hm?” you hum, your tone nonchalant, though your pulse skips just slightly.

“i’ve always wondered if you had any tattoos or anything.”

her question catches you off guard, and you smile faintly, letting out a soft breath as you lean back in your chair.

“yeah, i have a couple.”

“oh? where?”

her tone shifts—curious but edged with something playful. it pulls a light laugh from you, your fingers idly tracing the edge of your desk.

“um… i have one on my spine, another in the middle of my boobs, like, on my sternum. there’s a few others, but i always forget about them. they’re mostly in places you can’t really see unless… you know.”

“unless what?” her voice takes on a teasing lilt, and you can hear the smirk tugging at her lips, even through the line.

your own lips curl as you lean forward slightly, your tone dipping into something slower, smoother, deliberate.

“unless i’m having sex or something”

the words hang in the air, heavy and electric. you hear her breath hitch faintly before she responds, her voice low, sultry, matching your energy effortlessly.

“just might have to take you up on that offer.”

your side of the line goes quiet for a beat, her words lingering in your head like smoke. you swallow hard, the heat blooming in your chest spreading lower. ever since this afternoon, your thoughts have been consumed by her. seeing her for the first time—her sharp blue eyes, the casual confidence in the way she moved—was enough to get your mind reeling and your body betraying you in ways you hadn’t expected.

you sigh softly, the sound escaping without permission, and lean back in your chair.

“you okay over there?” her voice breaks through your haze, tinged with genuine concern.

“yeah,” you say quickly, then pivot. “do you have any tattoos?”

“just six,” she says, her tone easing back into its usual calm rhythm. “not a lot. i have a back tattoo, one on my hip, two on my thigh, one on my sternum, and then everyone’s favorite—the one on my hand.”

she describes them casually, but her voice is warm, soft around the edges, and it paints vivid images in your mind. your thoughts immediately flash to the tattoo on her hand. you’d seen it earlier, the intricate details trailing over her skin. it had you thinking thoughts you shouldn’t, imagining her hands tracing over your body, exploring every sacred inch of you.

a low sound escapes your throat—something between a groan and a hum—and you don’t even realize it until the silence stretches between you.

“what was that?” her voice is teasing now, a quiet laugh slipping through, and you feel your cheeks heat up.

“nothing,” you murmur, shifting in your seat. as you adjust, your elbow brushes against the desk, and the edge presses uncomfortably into your chest. a sharp pain shoots through you as it hits your nipple piercing, and you wince, sucking in a breath.

“what’s going on over there?” she asks, half-laughing, half-curious.

“nothing,” you say again, trying to brush it off, though your voice is tight. you bite your lip, squeezing your eyes shut as the sting subsides, but your thoughts remain tangled in her—her voice, her hands, her presence.

this is dangerous, you think. and yet, you can’t seem to pull yourself away.

“i just bruised my fucking piercing.”

“what piercing?” her voice perks up, curiosity spilling through the line. there’s something in her tone—teasing, intrigued—that makes your stomach twist, heat curling under your skin.

you hesitate for a moment, then let it slip. “this damn nipple piercing. don’t even know why i got it.”

you didn’t, really. it was one of those impulsive decisions—your freshman year of college, sitting cross-legged on your dorm bed while your ex convinced you it’d be fun and cute. you remember the way she had grinned, her enthusiasm contagious, and before you knew it, you were booking an appointment. carson came with you, holding your hand and laughing the entire time, but she didn’t stop you either.

“you’re full of surprises, star,” billie says, a soft laugh weaving into her words. it’s a laugh that warms you, but it also disarms you, makes you feel more exposed than you intended. “but seriously, take care of yourself. that sounds painful.”

her concern lingers in the air, brushing against you in a way that feels intimate, like a hand on your shoulder or the press of her fingers tracing over your skin. you shift in your chair, biting your lip as her words replay in your mind.

“and how do you suggest i do that?” the question leaves your mouth before you can catch it, hanging there like a thread pulled loose.

there’s a pause on the line, just long enough for your heart to stutter, and then she speaks. her voice drops, soft and deliberate.

“do you trust me?”

your throat tightens, and you nod instinctively, even though she can’t see you. “yeah.”

your voice is quiet, a little unsteady, but honest. and in that moment, the walls of your room feel smaller, the distance between you and billie shrinking with every word exchanged.

“i’mma need you to say it, babe.”

her voice is steady, low, and commanding, the kind of tone that roots itself in your chest and refuses to let go. even though she isn’t physically there, you feel her presence like a weight, tangible and pressing. the air around you thickens, charged with an unspoken tension.

you hesitate, your pulse thrumming wildly against your throat. “i—” the words catch, sticking to your tongue. then you swallow hard and try again. “i trust you, billie.”

“just wanna help you out, okay?”

there’s a softness in her words now, a reassurance that wraps around you like a warm blanket. you nod before realizing she can’t see you. “okay.”

“good. what are you wearing?”

her question catches you off guard, even though deep down you already sensed where this was headed. your fingers toy with the edge of your desk, and your heart kicks up a notch.

“just a t-shirt and some sleep shorts.”

the admission feels simple enough, but the way her pause lingers on the line makes your skin prickle with anticipation.

“can you lift your shirt for me?”

her words come out smooth, velvet-coated, and they sink into you like the slow pull of a tide. the apprehension you’ve been holding onto tightens, coiling low in your belly. but there’s something magnetic in her voice, something that compels you to follow.

“mhm.” your response is soft, barely audible, but you know she hears it.

your hands find the hem of your shirt, your fingers grazing the fabric. the motion is slow, deliberate, like the weight of her voice has made everything else move in molasses. you pull the shirt over your head, the cool air hitting your skin in contrast to the heat that’s creeping up your neck and chest. carefully, you fold it, laying it down on the desk beside you like it’s something sacred.

the room feels quieter now, more intimate somehow. the faint hum of the tv in the background, the occasional creak of the apartment settling—all of it fades as you wait for her voice to return.

“now i want you to rub your tits for me, be nice and gentle to them. touch your nipples and tell me what kind of jewelry you got, baby.”

her voice is like a current, slow and unrelenting, pulling you into its depths. your body responds before your mind catches up, your hands moving instinctively to the soft curve of your chest.

your fingers skim along your skin, warm and pliant, before you focus on the sensitive peaks. a sharp inhale escapes your lips as your fingertips brush over the hardened buds, the sensation sending a shiver down your spine. you tease yourself, tugging lightly, your movements deliberate yet tender.

“they’re, um—” your breath hitches, the words tumbling out unsteady. “they’re hearts, silver diamond hearts.”

you let the image sink in, your hands still working against your skin, and it feels like you’re teetering on the edge of something unspoken.

“mm—i just know they’re so pretty, how does it feel?”

her voice is low, almost a whisper, and yet it feels like it’s wrapped around you, coaxing you to give in.

“feels good, billie.” your voice is barely audible, your words coming out in a soft, breathless rush.

“i know it does, mama.”

the way she says it, smooth and confident, sends a warm flush through your body. it’s intimate, intoxicating, the kind of connection that feels like it exists in its own universe.

your hands falter slightly, your touch growing lighter as you bask in the way her words linger. the heat building under your skin seems to sync with the cadence of her voice, every syllable pressing against you like a soft, unseen touch.

you let out a quiet sigh, feeling the tension ebb and flow like waves against the shore, and for a moment, everything else fades away.

before you know it, her voice shifts, becoming softer, more intimate, like a low hum in the quiet night. her words settle over you, warm and heavy, weaving a haze you can’t escape—not that you want to. the rhythm of her voice is hypnotic, each syllable pulling you deeper into the moment, blurring the edges of your thoughts.

you let your head rest against the cool wood of your desk, eyes fluttering shut as her tone wraps around you like a secret only the two of you share.

billie’s breath hitches on her end of the line. the image of you—at your desk, bare skin glowing in the dim light, your hands exploring what she so desperately wishes she could—floods her mind. it consumes her, making her ache with a longing she’s unprepared for. her free hand trails absentmindedly to her chest, pressing lightly against her own skin as her voice dips lower.

“now i want you to touch the most sensitive parts of yourself,” she murmurs, the words rolling off her tongue like honey. “your lips, your neck. go slow, baby, there’s no rush.”

“okay,” you whisper, your voice barely audible, caught between hesitation and desire.

you start at your lips, your thumb brushing over the softness, tracing their shape as if committing them to memory. the sensation is subtle but electric, and you can’t help but imagine her doing the same—her hands, her mouth, leaving trails of warmth across your skin.

your fingers drift downward, grazing the curve of your neck, lingering where your pulse flutters beneath your skin. your breath catches as you press lightly, letting the heat of the moment seep into every nerve.

you let your hands travel further, down to the valley of your chest, the softness of your skin against your fingertips grounding you even as it sets you alight. every motion feels deliberate, each touch sending ripples of warmth through you. your fingers tease the edge of your waistband, a small gasp escaping your lips as you hover there, caught between restraint and surrender.

“you’re doing so good, mama,” billie murmurs, her voice rough around the edges now, her own breathing heavier than before. “how does it feel?”

you hesitate, swallowing hard before replying. “it feels—good. it feels so good.”

her voice comes again, softer, more urgent, like she’s right there, close enough to touch. “keep going for me, yeah? take your time.”

her words push you forward, her presence on the line the only tether you need. it’s electric, raw, and completely hers.

“take off your panties for me, love.”

her words wrap around you like a velvet ribbon, smooth and enticing, tugging at something deep within you. your teeth catch your bottom lip, nerves and anticipation tangling into one as her voice lingers in your ear, low and commanding.

“oh, well, you see, i’m not wearing…any.”

you pause, letting the words hang in the air, the silence heavy with implication.

“oh?” her response is slow, deliberate, and laced with a smirk you can practically hear. “that makes everything easier then. go ahead and slide your shorts off for me.”

your hands tremble slightly as you hook your thumbs into the waistband of your shorts. you peel the fabric away from your skin, the motion slow, deliberate, almost reverent. the dampness at the center is undeniable, the evidence of your arousal making your cheeks flush. you’re thankful for the black fabric, a small mercy in an otherwise vulnerable moment.

as the shorts fall away, the cool air in the room caresses your exposed skin, sending a shiver through you. it’s like the atmosphere itself is alive, charged with the tension billie’s voice weaves around you.

“are they off?” her voice is soft but insistent, each word settling deep into your core.

“yeah, yes, they’re off,” you exhale, the words barely audible, your breath catching as you shift slightly in your chair. the air presses against your skin, the sensitivity almost too much.

“look at you,” she murmurs, her tone dripping with praise. “being such a good girl for me.”

her words hit you like a warm rush, the praise melting into your chest and pooling low in your belly. a soft moan escapes your lips before you can stop it, the sound vulnerable and raw.

the line crackles with a silence that feels anything but empty, the connection between you tangible even through the phone. it’s as if she’s right there with you, her presence wrapping around you, guiding you, pulling you closer to a kind of surrender you hadn’t anticipated.

“i want you to slowly feel the skin on your legs. stroke your inner thighs, tease yourself a little,” she whispers, her voice like silk unraveling across your skin.

you don’t hesitate, your hands gliding downward, fingers skimming over the smooth expanse of your thighs. the touch is light, tentative, as if testing the waters of your own restraint. goosebumps ripple in the wake of your movements, the coolness of the air mixing with the warmth pooling inside you.

your breath comes out uneven, a shaky exhale that echoes in the quiet room. the ache low in your stomach intensifies, spreading like a slow burn, and you can’t help but press your thighs together for even the smallest semblance of relief.

“like this?” your voice is soft, barely above a whisper, but the need in it is unmistakable.

“just like that,” billie purrs, her tone soothing yet commanding, each word pushing you further into the haze she’s crafted. “take your time. let your fingers linger. don’t rush it, love.”

your hands obey without thought, fingertips trailing along the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. the sensation is electric, every nerve ending alive and sparking under your touch. you let your fingers wander, brushing higher, closer, teasing yourself with a deliberate slowness that borders on torture.

the tension in your body coils tighter with every passing second, and a small whimper escapes your lips. it feels as though the distance between you and billie is nonexistent, her presence palpable even through the thin crackle of the phone line.

“you feel good, don’t you?” her voice dips lower, rich and smoky. “i bet you’re dripping for me already.”

her words make you gasp softly, your body arching involuntarily as her confidence washes over you. she knows exactly what she’s doing, her tone laced with equal parts encouragement and command, pulling you deeper into the moment.

your fingers falter for a second, trembling as the ache inside you becomes almost unbearable. you bite your lip, the metallic taste grounding you briefly as your mind swims in the intoxicating warmth of her guidance.

“god, i wish i could see you right now. i know you look so good, thighs spread apart, pussy all glistening and wet— all because of me.”

her voice is molten, dripping with desire, and it feels like it wraps around you, constricting and coaxing you all at once. her words settle low in your stomach, feeding the fire that’s been building steadily, threatening to consume you.

“billie, please…” the plea escapes your lips in a shaky breath, barely audible, as your body trembles under the weight of her voice.

“want me to fuck you?” she asks, her tone soft yet firm, a tease wrapped in promise.

“mhm.” the sound is a desperate whimper, raw and unfiltered, and your nails dig into the sensitive flesh of your inner thighs, an attempt to anchor yourself as your mind spirals deeper into the heat of her words.

the room feels smaller, the air heavier. every sound, every creak of the chair, every whisper of breath feels amplified, blending into the symphony of your need. your thighs ache from the tension, the pressure of your own touch almost unbearable as your body responds to her commands.

you can picture her smirk on the other end of the line, that knowing, cocky curve of her lips, and it sends a shiver racing down your spine. it’s maddening how her presence can fill a space she isn’t even in, how her voice alone can undo you piece by piece.

“good girl,” she murmurs, her praise sending a jolt through your chest, straight to the core of you. “keep going, don’t stop now. i want to hear all those pretty little sounds you make.”

her words feel like a tether and a push all at once, keeping you grounded even as they push you further out of control. your breath hitches, a quiet moan slipping past your lips, your body moving instinctively, chasing the release she’s guiding you toward.

the way she says ‘good girl’ loops in your mind, a mantra that fuels every movement of your hands, every desperate whimper that escapes your lips. the ache inside you grows sharper, an unbearable tension building and building, and all you can think about is her.

“shit- go ahead and touch yourself baby, wanna hear how wet you are.”

taking your index and your middle finger, you spread your folds apart, before you dip your middle finger to touch your slit. coating your finger in your salivating ecstasy, you swipe up and down on your pussy. the sound of your slick wetness echoing throughout the room. touching your bundle of nerves your rub it in circle motions, pushing down on it just slightly to get the right amount of friction.

billie closed her eyes and tries to steady her breathing as she hears you on the other end, practically begging her to fuck you. and she wish she could do it too, take her time with you to touch you properly and to make you come undone as many times as she wanted to.

“oh my, fuck babe.” a string of curse words slips from billie’s lips, and you can feel her breath hitch through the line. there’s something about hearing her react that sends a shiver down your spine, and you can tell that the sound of your moans and the atmosphere in the room have her completely captivated. every sound you make, every little shift, she’s there with you in it, even if it’s through the phone.

billie shifts, her voice quieter now, like she’s trying to keep herself steady. “i want to feel you so bad… but for now, this will have to do,” she murmurs, her words trailing off with longing. lying on her bed she sat up against her head board, shoving her hands down her sweats and playing with her own clit, the pads of her pointer and middle finger gently rub steady, figure 8's against her nub as she tried to match your pace.

you imagine her lying back, the soft glow of her room casting faint shadows, just the sound of her voice filling the space. you know she’s doing the same thing you are — wanting to be closer, but for now, savoring the distance in the only way she can.

your eyes squeeze shut at the thought, the image of billie crystal clear in your mind. she’s on her knees, her lips slightly parted, her tongue teasing and deliberate. her thumb would press against your most sensitive spot, slow circles coaxing pleasure from you as her eyes stay fixed on yours, sharp and unwavering, like she’s committing every flicker of your expression to memory. you’d tangle your fingers in her soft hair, pulling her closer, feeling the heat of her breath against your skin, every moment searing itself into your mind.

a low moan slips past your lips, involuntary and raw, as you shift in place, letting the image take over. the ache inside you grows, pressing against the edges of your composure, and you can’t help but imagine how her touch would feel—how every word she’s murmured would finally come to life under her fingertips.

“you’re so perfect,” billie’s voice hums through the speaker, her tone soft but rough around the edges, laced with the kind of restraint that makes your heart pound harder. “keep going, baby. let me hear you.”

her own breathing hitches slightly on the other end, breaking the rhythm of her steady voice. it’s as if she’s right there with you, matching the pace, letting the connection between you stretch taut like a thread pulled to its breaking point. the sound of her—soft curses under her breath, the quiet rasp of her voice—sends shivers along your skin, and it’s almost too much.

the room feels charged, the air thick with a tension you can’t name but don’t want to escape from. every word she says pulls you deeper, every second on the line feels like a lifetime wrapped in her presence, and for now, that’s enough.

“holy shit. you sound so fucking good for me. so fucking perfect.”

her words spill through the phone, low and gravelly, threading through the quiet of your room. each syllable feels like a caress against your skin, pulling you deeper into the moment, and your fingers obey without hesitation, working in rhythm with her praise.

“feels so good, billie, fuck. you feel so good.” the words tumble out of you, shaky and raw, your voice catching on the edges of your breath.

“wish i was there so i could help you, baby.”

it’s then you notice it—her breathing, uneven and rushed, broken by faint, muffled sounds. you hadn’t really picked up on it before, but now it’s all you can focus on. the soft, rhythmic moans slipping through the line, the faint wet sounds beneath her breath, as if she’s right there with you, mirroring your every movement.

your chest tightens at the thought, a spark of heat running through you. the ache builds, sharp and unrelenting, driving your fingers to move faster, each motion more desperate than the last. the air around you feels heavy, charged with anticipation, and every inhale is shallow, quick, feeding the fire that billie’s voice has set ablaze.

“oh baby, billie—i’m gonna—please—just—fuck,” you whine, your voice breaking with the force of it all, your words spilling over each other in a rush. they don’t make sense, but nothing does in this moment except the way she makes you feel.

“that’s it, baby,” her voice trembles, heavy with want and barely contained restraint. “let go for me, love.”

and that was it. the sharp edge of release tore through you, pulling a low, penetrating moan from your lips. your body trembled as waves of heat rolled over you, your fingers working instinctively to draw out every last ounce of pleasure. billie’s name fell from your mouth like a prayer, soft yet desperate, as you made a mess of yourself, utterly unraveled.

your chest heaved, the rise and fall rapid as you tried to steady your breath. the world around you felt hazy, distant, like everything had faded into the background except for the sound of her voice spilling through the line.

“good job, baby, you did so good for me,” she murmured, her tone soft and full of pride. on the other end, you could hear her breathing too, uneven and ragged, her words laced with the remnants of her own high. her praise wrapped around you like a warm blanket, grounding you, until—

she says your name. not just your name but the one that feels heavy, official. the one you thought she didn’t know. it rolls off her tongue like it belongs there, smooth and deliberate, shattering the fragile bubble you’d built between the two of you.

your heart stops. your breath catches. a chill races up your spine. “what did you just say?”

silence follows, thick and suffocating, stretching out like a chasm between you.

“nothing,” she quips, too quickly, the edge of something unreadable in her voice.

your tone sharpens, cutting through the quiet. “billie.” it’s a warning, low and steady, but laced with an undercurrent of unease.

her next words are quiet, almost hesitant, yet certain in a way that makes the floor feel like it’s slipping out from under you.

“i know it’s you.”

the world tilts, panic surging in your chest like a tidal wave. heat floods your face, and suddenly the room feels too small, too suffocating. “i—i have to go,” you stammer, the words spilling from your lips without thought. with shaking hands, you rip the headset off, your pulse thundering in your ears as you end the call.

the silence that follows is deafening, but your heart continues to pound, the realization settling over you like a weight.

you sit there, frozen, staring blankly at the wall as your mind races in a chaotic loop. how could she know? what does this mean? the questions tumble over each other, relentless, leaving no room for answers. leaning back in your chair, your eyes dart around the room, searching for anything to ground you, but instead, they land on the vanity mirror across from you.

your breath catches. there it is. that damn butterfly tattoo etched delicately behind your ear, its wings trailing faintly onto the side of your neck—a design you often forget about until moments like this. the same tattoo she had been staring at earlier today, her gaze lingering just a beat too long.

with an aggravated huff, you reach out and spin the mirror around, unable to look at it any longer. the sight feels accusatory now, a reminder of your slip, your vulnerability. you shove the chair back with a screech and hurry to the bathroom, the need to cleanse yourself and your space overwhelming. the cool water against your skin is sharp, but it doesn’t quiet your spiraling thoughts.

as you clean the chair and pull your clothes back on, the fog in your mind thickens. panic churns in your chest, mingling with an odd cocktail of shame and unease. you know she didn’t mean to make you feel this way, but the weight of it lingers all the same.

then, your phone buzzes, yanking you from the haze. the screen lights up with another call, but your focus is fractured. with trembling fingers, you force yourself to answer, masking your nerves with the practiced ease of someone who knows how to play their role.

meanwhile, across the city, billie is pacing her room, her hands raking through her hair, disheveling the strands until they’re as chaotic as her thoughts. she knows she’s messed up—badly—and the regret is gnawing at her. she grabs her phone and dials the hotline again, but there’s no answer, only an echoing silence that fuels her desperation.

unable to sit with her guilt, she opens the app and sends a payment—your expected earnings for the session she interrupted, plus a tip. the amount is significant, but it feels insignificant compared to the words she can’t seem to say. she types out a brief note to accompany it: “i’m sorry. can we talk tomorrow?” her finger hovers over the send button before she taps it, watching the transaction disappear into the void.

you, however, keep moving through the night, each call leaving you feeling more drained than the last. panic still lingers in the corners of your mind, intertwined with the sting of dejection and the unsettling sense of vulnerability. though you remind yourself that her intentions weren’t malicious, the leftover shock clings stubbornly, refusing to fade.

finally, after what feels like an eternity, you decide you’ve made enough for the night. with an exhausted sigh, you shut down the hotline, the weight of the day pressing heavily on your shoulders. the room falls into darkness as you flick off the lights, retreating to your bed and mindlessly flipping through channels, hoping for distraction.

but then, the soft chime of your phone breaks the silence.

new transactions — 3:15 am

+1 (310) 807-3956 (los angeles, ca) - $350.00 + $550 tip, notes: “i’m sorry. can we talk tomorrow?”

+1 (254) 783-0184 (dallas, TX) - $79.72

+1 (980) 598-7201 (charlotte, NC) - $153.68

+1 (201) 508-3416 (bayonne, NJ) - $220.65

+1 (216) 347-0517 (cleveland, OH) - $37.54 + $35 tip

your eyes skim over the notifications, your attention halting at the first one. you know it’s her. your chest tightens, a mix of gratitude and hesitation washing over you. the tip is generous, overly so, but you can’t bring yourself to reply. not now.

with a sigh, you lock your phone and set it face down on the nightstand, the screen now dark and unyielding. rolling onto your side, you close your eyes and try to will yourself to sleep, but the thoughts keep creeping back in, tangled and persistent.

the night stretches on, heavy and endless.

friday 8:45 am —

the next morning drifts by in a haze, the weight of the night before pressing into your chest like a stone. billie’s slip-up loops endlessly in your mind, her voice saying your name with the kind of familiarity that shouldn’t exist. it feels like a quiet earthquake, shifting everything beneath your feet and leaving you unsteady.

but the day doesn’t care about your turmoil. you have a packed schedule: the forensics seminar in san diego is a top priority, and you can’t afford to let your personal life bleed into your professional one.

the seminar stretches on far longer than expected, the clock’s hands spinning faster than they should. presentations drone, conversations pile up, and you lose track of time between networking and handshakes. by the time you finally make it to your car, you’re already behind. your first day as billie’s ta looms, and you’re cutting it dangerously close.

frustration bubbles in your chest as you toss your heels onto the passenger seat and swap them for your sneakers. the drive back to los angeles feels like a blur, the highway unwinding like a taut ribbon, city lights flickering in your periphery.

when you arrive on campus, you’re out of breath, your sneakers tightly laced, your bag slung over one shoulder. the music department’s doors creak as you push them open, the sound echoing in the stillness of the hallway. billie’s office waits at the end, her name etched on the placard beside the door.

you steel yourself as you approach, forcing your posture to straighten and your expression to settle into something neutral. you can’t afford to let last night’s mess seep into today.

when you step inside, billie looks up from her desk, a polite but cautious smile flickering across her face. she cradles a mug of tea in her hands, the steam curling up in soft tendrils.

“you made it,” she says softly, her voice careful, like she’s testing the waters.

“yeah,” you mumble, your voice flat as you drop your bag onto the chair nearest the door.

she gestures toward the kettle on a side table. “i made some tea if you want.”

you shake your head. “no, thanks.”

the silence that follows is thick and awkward, settling over the room like a dense fog. you take a seat and reach for the stack of papers she’s prepared, diving into the grading without so much as a glance in her direction. your pen moves methodically, the scratching of ink against paper the only sound breaking the stillness.

billie tries to bridge the gap with small talk, her tone light but tentative. “how was the seminar?”

“fine,” you reply curtly, not looking up.

“did you learn anything new?”

“not really.”

then she says something that makes your hand pause mid-motion, the words slipping out so softly they almost disappear into the air between you.

“you look pretty.”

the warmth of her voice lingers, curling around you like smoke, uninvited but hard to ignore. for a moment, your resolve falters, heat rising unbidden to your cheeks.

“thanks,” you murmur, forcing the words out before returning to the papers in front of you. your hand moves faster now, as if the quicker you work, the less you’ll feel.

the air grows heavier with every clipped response, every wall you put up. you feel her eyes on you—watching, waiting—but you refuse to meet her gaze. instead, you pull out your phone, scrolling aimlessly through instagram, letting the stream of curated stories and fleeting glimpses into other people’s lives distract you from the weight of your own.

you wish you’d said yes to carson yesterday. you imagine yourself anywhere but here, laughing over drinks or walking aimlessly through the city, free from this suffocating room and its unspoken tension.

your phone finds its way back to the desk, face down, the screen going dark like the mood in the room. you shuffle through the stack of papers, forcing your focus back to the words in front of you, but your mind keeps drifting. billie’s presence sits heavy, her silence louder than anything she could say.

the papers in front of you blur, the words melting into indistinguishable smudges as your pen moves mindlessly across the page. the ticking clock on the wall grows louder with each second, the steady rhythm grating against your nerves. billie’s presence feels suffocating, her quiet, measured breaths and those occasional glances prickling at your skin like needles. no matter how much you try, you can’t shake the feeling of her eyes on you. still, you keep yours trained on the stack of papers, determined to maintain a veneer of professionalism.

the silence between you is brittle, threatening to crack. it’s billie who finally breaks it, her voice soft but resolute. “are we going to talk about it?”

“talk about what?” you respond, keeping your tone as even as you can, your gaze fixed on the paper beneath your pen.

“you know what i mean.”

your fingers tighten around the pen, and you press it harder against the page, the words blurring even more. “there’s nothing to talk about.”

she exhales, and the sound carries frustration, an edge you’re not sure you’re ready to face. “you can’t just pretend it didn’t happen.”

“i can, actually,” you reply sharply, the bitterness in your tone slipping out before you can stop it.

“no, you don’t,” you say, louder this time, your voice firm, unyielding.

the next words that leave her mouth hit like a slap. “quit acting like a dick.”

your pen freezes mid-stroke, the ink bleeding into the paper. your head snaps up, and you glare at her, the tension between you thick enough to choke on. “excuse me?”

billie doesn’t back down. she crosses her arms, leaning slightly forward, her posture tense. “you heard me. we’ve been talking for weeks, and now, after one awkward call, you’re acting like i don’t exist.”

a bitter laugh escapes your lips as you scoff, shaking your head. “it’s not that simple.”

her gaze sharpens, her blue eyes piercing through your defenses. “then explain it to me,” she presses, her tone walking the tightrope between firm and gentle. “because from where i’m sitting, it looks like you’re punishing me for something that caught both of us off guard.”

her words dig under your skin, unearthing emotions you’ve tried to bury since last night. frustration bubbles over, spilling into your voice. “it’s not just that, billie,” you snap, the pen slipping from your fingers as you lean back in your chair. “you called me by my name. my name. you knew who i was this whole time, and you didn’t say anything. do you even understand how messed up that feels?”

her shoulders slump slightly, and her expression shifts, guilt softening the sharp lines of her face. “look,” she starts, her voice quiet now, tinged with regret. “i know it’s weird. i know i screwed up. and i’m sorry for what i did—how i handled it. i should’ve told you the moment i recognized you, but i didn’t know how. i didn’t want to scare you off. but can we stop pretending like this is something it’s not?”

you blink, the weight of her words settling heavily in the air between you. her gaze is steady, unwavering, and there’s something vulnerable in the way she looks at you, like she’s peeling back layers she’d rather keep hidden.

she shifts forward, resting her arms on the desk, the smallest flicker of hope breaking through her hesitation. “let me make it up to you. dinner, my place, my treat. no games. just you and me talking. figuring this out.”

you hesitate, her voice hanging in the space between you like an open door. her sincerity wraps around you, tugging at the edges of your resolve.

your lips part as if to respond, but the words stall in your throat. the clock ticks on, and for a moment, the room is silent again, the kind of silence that feels like it could break at any second.

“dinner?” you repeat, your voice laced with skepticism, narrowing your eyes as if the word itself might betray some hidden meaning.

“yes, dinner,” she replies, her voice softer now, the hint of a smile tugging at the corners of her lips, delicate like a promise hanging in the air.

you study her, eyes tracing the lines of her face, the subtle shift in her posture as she waits for your response. it’s a soft invitation, yet you can’t shake the weight of everything that’s been unsaid. after a long, pregnant pause, you finally sigh, the tension in your chest letting out with the exhale. you push back your chair, the screech of it against the floor sharp in the quiet room. “fine. but this doesn’t mean we’re good.”

billie’s smile falters for a moment but quickly steadies, her nodding serious and thoughtful. “fair enough. but it’s a start.”

the silence settles between you, a thick, almost tangible thing as you gather your things. her presence lingers in the room, and though she tries to mask it with the faintest smile, the tension that hangs between you is nearly suffocating. you sling your bag over your shoulder, your hand brushing against your phone before you glance at it absentmindedly, letting it slip back into your bag as you head for the door.

the rain greets you before you’ve even stepped outside—a heavy, relentless downpour that blurs the view through the glass doors, transforming the world into a watery smear. you pause, groaning softly, the cold air that seeps through the doorframe making your skin prickle. you glance at your car parked on the far side of the lot, the distance mocking you. of course, it had to rain today.

“you’re not seriously planning to drive in this, are you?” billie’s voice drifts toward you, a note of concern threading through her words as she steps closer.

“i’ll be fine,” you respond quickly, clutching your bag tighter as if it could shield you from the storm that’s waiting to soak you through.

billie steps into your space, the jangle of her keys cutting through the tension between you like a knife. “i’ll drive you.”

you turn to face her, shaking your head in reflex. “that’s not necessary—”

“it’s pouring out there,” she interrupts, her voice more insistent now, the firm edge of authority slipping through. “you can barely see five feet ahead. i’m driving.”

you hesitate, biting back a retort as the sound of the rain intensifies, slamming against the roof like a million tiny fists. it’s a losing battle. the rain’s not letting up, and as much as you hate the thought of being trapped in a confined space with her, you know she’s right.

“okay,” you mutter, your voice thick with reluctant acceptance. “but this doesn’t mean anything.”

billie chuckles, a low, quiet sound that wraps around the words you’d just said. she shakes her head as she opens the door for you, the soft creak of it almost drowned out by the rain. “whatever you say.”

the ride to billie’s house is quiet, save for the rhythmic patter of rain against the roof, the sound almost hypnotic in its repetition. the low hum of the heater fills the car, but it can’t seem to chase the chill away. you keep your eyes fixed on the window, watching as the city lights smear into streaks, the glow of them soft and distant against the blackened night. billie’s hands rest on the steering wheel, her fingers tapping lightly, a subtle movement that betrays the rhythm she’s hearing in her head.

“you okay over there?” her voice cuts through the silence, soft and tentative.

“i’m fine,” you reply curtly, your gaze never leaving the blurred world outside, unwilling to meet her eyes.

billie doesn’t push, her focus shifting back to the road ahead. you can feel the weight of her unspoken words pressing in the space between you, but she doesn’t say anything more. when she finally pulls into the driveway of her house, the rain is still coming down in sheets, relentless, unforgiving. she parks the car, the engine’s hum dying as she cuts it off. for a beat, there’s only the sound of the rain, a quiet, natural backdrop to the tension that clings to both of you.

she turns to face you, her eyes steady, searching, but she doesn’t speak.

“wait here,” she says, her voice a quiet command as she grabs an umbrella from the backseat. with a swift motion, she steps into the downpour, her silhouette swallowed by the rain for a brief moment before she circles around the car, opening your door. the umbrella hovers above you, a delicate shield against the storm. the gesture catches you off guard, something soft in it that you hadn’t expected, but you mumble a quiet thanks, stepping out and letting her guide you, her presence warm against the cold night, toward the front door.

inside, you take in your surroundings, your eyes tracing the clean lines of the sleek, modern design of billie’s home. every corner seems intentional, every surface polished. the walls are lined with awards, their golden surfaces catching the soft, ambient light, gleaming proudly like trophies of a life lived in the spotlight. you swallow a quiet surprise, suddenly feeling out of place.

“so, you are rich,” you mutter under your breath, the words slipping out before you can stop them, the weight of them hanging in the air.

billie’s soft laugh meets your ears, a musical sound that feels oddly comforting in this unfamiliar space. “i wouldn’t say rich,” she replies with a shrug, leading you further inside. “comfortable, maybe.”

before you can muster a response, the soft pattering of paws against the hardwood floor catches your attention. a gray pit bull pads over, his tail wagging enthusiastically, his nose already working overtime as he sniffs at you curiously, his eyes bright and welcoming.

“shark,” billie says with affection, her voice warm as she crouches down to scratch behind his ears, the bond between them clear in the way she speaks. “he’s friendly.”

you lower yourself to the dog’s level, extending your hand so he can get a proper sniff. when he finally accepts you, his head tilts slightly, and you give him a gentle scratch behind the ears. “hey, big guy,” you murmur, the smile pulling at the corners of your mouth as his tail wags harder, thumping against the floor in a rhythm that feels oddly like approval.

when you stand, you catch billie watching you. her gaze is intense, but there’s something there—something unreadable—that makes your chest tighten. she quickly looks away, clearing her throat as if trying to shake off a thought. “wine?” she offers, her voice casual, though there’s a subtle vulnerability in the gesture, as if the invitation is both a question and a subtle apology.

you nod, and she pours two glasses of deep burgundy red wine, the liquid catching the light as it fills the glasses, a dark promise in each drop. she hands you one before moving toward the kitchen. “i was thinking we could cook something simple. nothing fancy,” she adds, her voice laced with an easy kind of familiarity.

you follow her into the kitchen, leaning against the counter as she opens the fridge. she stares at its contents for a moment, her brow furrowing slightly as if the answer to some silent question isn’t immediately obvious. a defeated sigh escapes her, the vulnerability in it making you pause.

“i honestly don’t know what i’m doing,” she admits, the words tinged with an unexpected embarrassment, her voice soft but sincere.

you smirk, your gaze fixed on her for a beat, before you set your glass down with a quiet clink. “need some help?” you ask, the playful edge to your voice masking the way her admission makes you feel, like you’ve just uncovered something real.

she glances at you, her eyes flickering with something you can’t quite place, before a faint look of relief spreads across her features. “yeah,” she says with a small, shy smile. “that’d be great.”

you gesture to your outfit, feeling suddenly self-conscious in the space. “do you have something i can change into?” you ask, your voice quiet. “i don’t want to ruin this.”

she blinks in surprise, then nods. “oh, yeah, of course,” she says quickly, before disappearing down a hallway. when she returns, she’s holding a pair of sweats and a hoodie, the soft fabric a far cry from the sleek, polished atmosphere of her home. “here,” she offers, her voice gentle, but there’s a warmth in the way she looks at you as if she’s seeing you—really seeing you—for the first time tonight.

you change in the guest bathroom, the soft fabric of billie’s sweats and hoodie carrying the faint, comforting scent of her detergent. it lingers around you, mixing with the quiet hum of the house as you slip back into the kitchen. when you re-enter, billie’s eyes flicker over to you, a fleeting moment of something unreadable in her gaze, but it lingers just a second too long.

“you clean up nice,” she teases, a playful smile tugging at the corners of her lips, her voice light but edged with something you can’t quite place.

you shrug, rolling up your sleeves, the fabric brushing your forearms. “shut up and start chopping those veggies,” you reply, a hint of challenge in your voice, but there’s a softness to it, too.

as the two of you work, the tension from earlier seems to dissolve, like fog lifting under the morning sun. easy conversation flows between you, and the kitchen, with its warm lighting and rhythmic sounds of chopping, feels more like home with each passing moment. you tell her about your ups and downs as a college student—the late-night study sessions, the sneaky runs past your RA’s when you had to hide things you weren’t supposed to have. you share how you were a cheerleader only because of your best friend, and how, despite your excitement to graduate, there’s a gnawing fear deep down—because school, for all its stress and chaos, is all you’ve ever known.

billie listens intently, her eyes fixed on you, absorbing every word as she watches you bring a pot of water to a boil, adding a pinch of salt, and then sprinkling in the penne noodles with practiced ease. her gaze flickers from your eyes down the line of your nose, tracing the curve to your lips—glossy, slightly parted as you speak—and then to the tattoo peeking out from behind your ear. she finally makes out the design—a swirl of blue and black butterflies etched into your skin, delicate and intricate.

it’s funny, but in that moment, she realizes she’s feeling like those butterflies—fluttering around in her chest, her stomach tight with something she can’t name. watching you in her kitchen, making dinner in her clothes, feeling like you belonged in this space, made her feel… domesticated. it was a feeling she wasn’t used to, something scary but good.

“are you just gonna watch, or are you gonna help too?” your voice breaks the quiet as you turn to look at her. your eyes catch hers, a spark of mischief in the air between you, before she crosses her arms over her chest, leaning casually against the corner countertop to the right of you.

“nah,” she smirks, her gaze flickering over you with a softness that doesn’t quite match the playful tone of her words. “you seem to be doing just fine.”

her hand reaches for her glass, bringing the wine to her lips. it’s a moment of indulgence, a slow sip that fills her senses with its velvety smoothness. there’s a burst of ripe, dark fruit on her tongue—blackberries, plums, black cherries—interwoven with subtle notes of red currants and raspberries. the taste, rich and elegant, almost too perfect for this moment, feels like it’s been made for her.

with a dramatic roll of your eyes, you grab a knife, holding it out playfully. the tip points at her, aimed at her stomach. “chop,” you say, a teasing edge to your voice as you wave the knife between her and the cutting board sitting on your left. “go on.”

with an exaggerated huff, billie snatches the knife from your hand and moves over to the chopping board, a flicker of defiance in her eyes. you turn your attention back to the sauce, rifling through her spice cabinet with a sense of purpose until you find the seasonings you need. you set them on the counter, the familiar weight of the bottles grounding you in the task at hand, but you can still feel her presence—like a quiet hum in the room.

turning on the burner, you grab a smaller pot and set it on the stove, tossing in the ingredients for the pasta sauce, the scent of garlic and tomatoes filling the air as you give it a gentle stir.

“shit—” you hear billie say, her voice tinged with frustration. glancing over, you see her holding a knife the wrong way, hovering over a green bell pepper like it’s some sort of adversary she’s unsure how to defeat.

“okay, stop,” you say, setting your spoon down and walking over to her. “you’re going to hurt yourself.”

billie chuckles, stepping back with her hands up in mock surrender. “i told you i don’t know what i’m doing. you’re the one who offered to help.”

you roll your eyes, but the faint smile tugging at your lips betrays the irritation you’re trying to suppress. “hand me the knife.”

she obliges, her fingers releasing the blade with a soft sigh as she leans back against the counter. you take it from her, the cool handle fitting easily in your hand, and begin slicing the bell pepper with practiced ease. her gaze is unwavering, like she’s studying you—watching every movement you make, as though your hands hold some kind of secret she’s trying to unravel.

“stop staring at me,” you mutter, without looking up from your work.

“can’t help it,” billie replies lightly, her voice almost like a tease. “you’re kind of fascinating.”

you pause mid-slice, glancing up at her. the look in her eyes is softer now, less playful, more… something else. something that makes your stomach twist in ways you’re not sure you like, a fluttering feeling that you can’t quite place.

“focus,” you murmur, turning your attention back to the vegetables, hoping the distraction will keep your mind from wandering.

billie chuckles softly, her presence like a quiet hum behind you. she moves closer, her body edging up to yours until she’s standing just behind you. her hand brushes against your waist—delicate, light, but enough to send a small shock through you as she leans in closer to watch you work. you slice the pepper into thin, even pieces, the knife gliding through with ease. you reach for a piece and turn slightly, offering it to her.

instead of taking it from your hand, like you expect, billie angles her head down. her lips brush against the tips of your fingers as she slides the pepper into her mouth, her eyes holding yours in a quiet challenge. you freeze, heart skipping a beat, watching the way she lingers just a second too long.

“is it good?” you ask, your voice quieter than you mean it to be.

“yeah, thank you.” her voice is soft, a low hum that sends a thrill down your spine. at this point, her hands have found their place on your waist, steadying herself as she lingers close. before you can process it, she presses a gentle kiss to your forehead, the brush of her lips light but warm. the world seems to slow, and you freeze, the knife hovering mid-air over the cutting board.

“i—” billie starts, pulling back quickly, her breath catching as she realizes what she’s done. “shit, i’m sorry. i didn’t mean—”

“no, it’s okay,” you interrupt, your voice soft, almost a whisper. the words come out before you can stop them, and there’s an honesty in your tone that surprises you. “i… kinda liked it.”

billie’s eyes search yours, her gaze searching for something you’re not sure you’re ready to give. there’s hesitation there, a quiet storm of uncertainty in her expression. after a beat, she nods, her hands lingering on your waist for just a moment longer before she steps back, her touch slipping away like water through your fingers.

you continue making dinner, the soft sizzle of the sauce simmering filling the kitchen as you stir occasionally. the rhythm of the task is soothing, the casual clink of utensils against the pan blending with the low hum of conversation. you find yourself laughing at billie’s dry wit, and for the first time, it doesn’t feel forced, just two people sharing space and time.

dinner is served shortly after, and the two of you settle at the small dining table, the warm light overhead casting soft shadows around the room. the atmosphere is relaxed, easy—surprisingly so. billie is funny, her sarcastic quips balanced by moments of genuine curiosity about you. her questions are casual, but there’s something deeper beneath them, an earnestness that feels refreshing.

“so,” she says, taking a sip of her wine, “why forensics?”

you shrug, twirling a piece of meat on your fork, contemplating your answer. “i’ve always liked puzzles. figuring things out, piecing them together. plus, it’s practical. there’s always work for someone who can solve problems.”

billie nods thoughtfully, her eyes narrowing slightly as she considers your words. “makes sense. seems like you’re good at that—figuring things out.”

her words hang in the air for a moment, and you can’t tell if she’s talking about more than just your career. her gaze softens, and you look down, focusing on your plate, suddenly aware of how close she is, how much weight is in that quiet compliment.

“what about you?” you ask, finally breaking the silence, your voice steady but curious.

“what about me?” billie tilts her head, a playful edge to her tone.

“why did you become a teacher? you clearly don’t need the money, so tell me.” you pause, laying your fork down and resting your elbows on the table, folding your hands together and propping your head up on them. “don’t hold back.”

billie huffs out a light laugh, twirling her fork slowly on her plate, the motion almost absentminded as she takes her time answering. “uh… well, music’s always been something i’ve loved. and i will love it till the day i die. but the fame that came along with it…” she trails off with a deep sigh, her eyes flicking down to her plate. “that wasn’t something i necessarily loved. don’t get me wrong, i love my supporters and i’m forever grateful for them, but at times it would get overwhelming. i suppose…”

her gaze shifts away from you, her focus distant as she stirs the food on her plate. it’s as though she’s not just talking to you but to herself, too. her words are soft, laced with a kind of exhaustion that speaks of a life lived too quickly. “just kinda got burned out too quick and i wanted to disappear for a while. but i still wanted to actively share music with others—besides, you know, my friends and family and such. so i took some online classes, got my teaching license, and my mom told me a job was open at the university, so i took it.”

a beat passes as you take in her words, and you can’t help but wonder what it must be like, having to leave behind something that once lit you up because the world took too much from you. it’s hard to imagine, but you get it, in a way.

“would you ever publish music again?” you ask, the question floating between you two like a breath.

billie leans in slightly, her voice dropping as if she’s about to reveal a secret. “i’ve actually been working on something,” she says, her smile contagious, her eyes lighting up. “i can show you later.” she clears her throat, sitting back in her chair and crossing her arms, trying to play it off as no big deal. “i mean, if you want. it doesn’t matter.”

you roll your eyes but can’t help the smile that tugs at your lips. “i would like that. a lot.”

the conversation moves easily after that, with billie washing the dishes while you dry them, not letting her refuse your offer. you laugh at her protests, the rhythm of it a kind of unspoken dance you both slip into. there’s a comfortable silence between you, broken only by the occasional clink of glass or the soft hum of the running water.

once the dishes are done, billie suggests watching a movie. you hesitate, glancing at the clock, but ultimately agree. you settle onto the couch with a glass of wine in hand, the cool glass offering a little relief as you sip and settle into the cushions. the movie plays in the background, but neither of you is really paying attention. the sound of the film blends with the quiet, comfortable hum of each other’s presence, and it feels as though the world outside could just slip away for a while.

billie sits close—closer than she needs to. her arm rests casually on the back of the couch, her fingers brushing lightly against your shoulder. you try to ignore it, focusing on the screen, but it’s impossible not to feel the heat radiating from her, a subtle electricity in the air between you.

“can i ask you something?” she says suddenly, her voice low and quiet, barely above the hum of the movie.

you glance at her, your heart skipping a beat. “what?”

“can i kiss you?”

the question catches you off guard, like a breath you didn’t know you were holding. you blink, your mind racing. “i—”

“it’s okay if you don’t want to,” billie adds quickly, her voice softer now, pulling back just slightly. “i just… i wanted to ask.”

you don’t know why, but you nod. maybe it’s the wine, or maybe it’s the way she’s looking at you—her blue eyes soft, earnest, like she’s searching for something in you that she’s not sure of. it feels like the right thing to do, even if your heart is suddenly pounding in your chest.

billie leans in slowly, a fraction of an inch at a time, her movements deliberate, giving you time to pull away if you wanted to. when her lips finally meet yours, it’s soft, tentative—like she’s testing the waters, unsure but hopeful. your breath hitches, caught in the moment, and for a brief second, you forget how to move.

but then you’re kissing her back, your hands finding their way to the nape of her neck, pulling her closer as the kiss deepens, soft and searching. it’s like the world narrows to just the two of you, everything else fading into the background.

one kiss turns into two, then three, until you’re both breathless, tangled in each other. billie pulls back slightly, her forehead resting against yours, her breath warm against your skin.

“come with me,” she murmurs, her voice a low, coaxing whisper, her hand finding yours and gently leading you down the hall.

her bedroom is dimly lit, the faint glow of a bedside lamp casting long shadows across the room. everything in here feels like an extension of her—a chaotic yet comfortable blend of soft fabrics, scattered music sheets, and mismatched furniture that somehow all comes together. a record player hums quietly in the corner, its melody filling the space with a quiet intimacy.

she turns to you, her hands resting on your waist as she searches your face for any sign of hesitation. you reach up, your fingers grazing her cheek gently, hoping to ease the worry that flickers in her eyes. leaning close, your breath ghosts over her lips, your nose brushing against her own, the air warm between you two. your eyes flicker to hers, a silent question hanging there—are you sure?

her left hand slides to the side of your neck, her thumb tracing the curve of your jaw before she pulls you closer, her lips brushing against yours again. this kiss is deeper, more insistent. her tongue swipes over your bottom lip, soft and teasing, before gently nipping at the skin, asking for permission. you open your mouth slightly, giving her access, and she takes it, her kiss hungry and tender all at once.

she trails soft kisses from the corner of your lips down your throat, each one sending a shiver through you. your hands find their way to the back of her neck, pulling her closer, feeling the warmth of her skin beneath your fingers. her hand leaves your neck, moving to rest on your hip as she begins to trail her lips down, marking your skin with slow, wet kisses.

you gasp softly as she moves, her lips leaving a trail of fire in their wake. she pulls back just slightly, meeting your lips again in another kiss, this one more urgent, as if the world outside has ceased to exist. her hands slide beneath your hoodie, the cold metal of her rings brushing against your side, a sharp contrast to the warmth of her touch. your breath catches as she pulls you closer, her body pressing against yours, each touch feeling like it has a life of its own.

she grabs the hem of your hoodie, lifting the fabric slowly, her fingers grazing the skin of your abdomen as it slips over your head, leaving you in just your bra. the cold air of her room nips at your bare skin, sending a shiver down your spine.

“so beautiful,” she murmurs, her voice barely above a whisper, reverence in every word. her hands are back on you in an instant, sliding up your back until they rest just beneath the band of your bra, her touch tender and warm.

her compliment stirs something inside you, a small, involuntary smile curling on your lips. you reach for the collar of her shirt, fingers trembling ever so slightly as you gently undo the buttons one by one, taking your time.

billie watches you, her gaze softening as you brush your thumb across her collarbones. she feels a warmth in her chest that’s unfamiliar yet comforting. you let your hands trail over her chest, down her stomach, stopping at the hem of her blue shirt. your eyes meet hers, a silent question in the softness of your gaze, asking for permission. she nods, her eyes flickering with something deeper.

her breath catches in her throat as you move, tender and deliberate, as though each movement is a quiet reverence for her. you reach for her chains, your fingers sliding beneath them to tuck the necklaces inside her shirt, and then you lift her blue polo over her head, the fabric sliding against her skin. you toss it to the side, leaving her in only a simple white undershirt.

a soft smile plays at her lips, one that’s almost shy, before she presses her palm gently to your cheek. without thinking, you lean into her touch, your breath catching at the intimacy of the moment. she leans in again, her lips finding yours, and a low groan escapes her as she feels the softness of your lips against hers, the warmth between you two pulsing.

her hand slides down to the drawstring of your sweats, tugging them gently as she guides you toward her bed. she sits down on the edge, pulling you on top of her, your legs straddling her lap. her hands move instinctively to your thighs, rubbing them gently through the thick fabric, grounding herself in the feel of you beneath her.

you press your lips to her neck, starting just behind her ear, then trailing down, each kiss lingering softly against her skin. the wet sound of your kisses fills the air, each one leaving its mark. billie’s hands move slowly, exploring the curve of your lower back, her fingers grazing over the tattoo you spoke of the night before. the intricate design sends a shiver through you as her touch leaves goosebumps in its wake, her fingertips tracing its path upwards.

her hands reach the clasp of your bra, the delicate touch of her fingers working to undo each hook, slowly and carefully. when it finally comes undone, the cool air meets your skin, and your nipples pebble slightly in the change of temperature. a small breath escapes you, the sensation both electric and tender.

your kisses on billie’s neck slow to a languid pace as her fingers toy with the bars piercing your nipples. a soft gasp escapes your lips, your breath hitching as you angle your face into the curve of her neck. your nose grazes the damp trail left by your earlier kisses, and the air feels thick, charged with her presence.

“that feel good, huh?” she murmurs, her voice low and teasing, tinged with a laugh as she feels your body respond to her touch. “been wanting to play with these since yesterday.”

her words send a flush coursing through you, the confession settling warm in your chest. gently, she shifts you, her hands firm yet careful as she turns you over and lays you on your back. the comforter beneath you gives way, soft and cool against your heated skin, and your body trembles just slightly at the sensation.

you look up at her, through the fringe of your lashes, her face framed by the golden glow of the bedside lamp. her blue eyes are soft yet intense, locking onto yours as a warm smile spreads across her face. her hair falls like a curtain around you, strands brushing your cheeks, shielding you from anything that exists outside this moment.

“is this okay?” she asks, her voice gentle, careful, as though one wrong move could shatter the sacredness of the moment.

you nod lightly, your throat tight with anticipation.

“remember, i need you to say it for me, mama,” she presses, her tone dipping lower, melting into the air between you.

“yes,” you whisper, your voice steady but barely audible. “it’s more than okay, billie.” your arm lifts, delicate yet sure, wrapping around her neck to pull her closer. your lips meet hers, the kiss slow and deliberate, an exchange that speaks louder than anything you could say.

she hums against your lips, a sound that vibrates through you, before trailing her mouth back to your neck. she kisses you there, leaving traces of herself as she moves lower, her lips ghosting down to your chest. when she reaches the curve of your breasts, she pauses. her breath fans over your skin, sending a shiver through you. the peaks of your nipples stiffen under the coolness of her breath, a soft gasp slipping past your lips.

darting her tongue out, she licks at your right nipple, her tongue circling the bar before pulling it between her lips. her left hand moves to your other breast, her fingers pinching and rolling the sensitive bud. the push and pull of her attention leaves you breathless, and when she releases your nipple with a soft, wet pop, her saliva glistens against your skin in the dim light.

her mouth finds its way to your other breast, mirroring the same motions—sucking, licking, teasing, until your body arches toward her involuntarily. the noises escaping you feel foreign, unbidden, like they’re pulled from some deep, hidden part of you.

her lips trail further downward, leaving a line of kisses over your navel, her hands pressing into your sides to hold you steady. as her lips pause between the valley of your breasts, her gaze lifts to yours, a soft flicker of recognition crossing her face when she notices the small tattoo etched there. she presses a kiss to it, reverent and unhurried, before pulling back slightly to take you in.

she sits up, her eyes never leaving your face as she watches the way your body writhes beneath her, your chest heaving, your lips parted in a series of soft moans that sound like a melody only she gets to hear. her hands move deliberately, halting at the waistband of your sweatpants. her fingers brush against the material, teasing, rubbing it between her thumb and forefinger.

her lips curve into a smile as she leans down, her voice low and teasing, warm against your ear. “can i keep going?”

her question lingers, patient, unhurried. her fingers hover at the edge of your waistband, waiting for your answer. and in her eyes, you see nothing but care, nothing but quiet, consuming need.

sitting back up, she watches you beneath her, your body writhing against the comforter, each movement punctuated by soft, needy moans that flood her ears like a song she never wants to end. her lips curve into a slow, knowing smile as her fingers toy with the band of your sweatpants, rubbing the fabric between her thumb and forefinger, dragging the moment out.

“can i?” her voice is soft, low, like a secret meant only for you.

your chest rises and falls in shallow breaths, your voice trembling as you whisper, “yes, please, baby.”

the grin that spreads across billie’s face is equal parts wicked and tender, her eyes never leaving yours as she hooks her fingers into the waistband. she drags them down, her movements slow, deliberate, as if unwrapping a gift she’s been waiting too long to open. inch by inch, she bares you to her until your sweatpants are discarded, tossed carelessly to the side. all that’s left is the thin barrier of your underwear, and the wet patch at the center betrays the need pulsing through you.

“shit—someone’s getting worked up,” she teases, her voice thick with amusement as her fingers brush against the damp fabric, applying just enough pressure to make you gasp.

“shut up,” you mumble, heat rushing to your face as you squirm beneath her. your legs instinctively press together, your core aching for more as she continues her tormenting touches. “just take it off already,” you whine, your voice dripping with impatience.

a cruel smirk tugs at her lips as her fingers curl around the waistband of your panties. “what? i can’t take my time with you?” her words are taunting, dripping with feigned innocence as she slides the fabric down even slower than before.

“no, just—fuck,” you hiss as the cool air hits your bare skin, your body arching slightly at the sudden contrast. unable to take it anymore, you grab her by the neck, pulling her down into a kiss that’s harder, more desperate than any of the ones before. her lips crash against yours, and for a moment, all you can feel is her—her weight, her warmth, the way her body presses into yours.

her hands plant firmly on either side of you, her fists digging into the mattress to steady herself. as the kiss deepens, your hips rut upward, the heat of your bare skin grinding against the rough denim of her jeans. the friction sends a jolt of pleasure through you, a muffled whine escaping into the kiss as you seek more.

billie pulls back, her breathing uneven as her hand slides to your side, fingertips ghosting over the curve of your ass. her other hand presses gently against your hips, pinning you back to the bed with a firm but gentle touch.

“have patience,” she murmurs, her lips brushing against your cheek as she peppers it with soft, lingering kisses.

“i can’t,” you groan, your voice cracking under the weight of your need.

“you can,” she counters, her tone firm but laced with a tenderness that makes your chest ache, “and you will.”

her eyes meet yours, a silent promise shining in the blue depths. billie wants nothing more than to give in, to lose herself in you completely, but she holds back. she wants this to last, wants to savor every second, every sound, every tremble of your body beneath hers. you deserve that much—more than that.

she dips her head, her lips finding the crook of your neck as she resumes her journey downward. every kiss is purposeful, unhurried, as she maps your body with her mouth. her lips trace the delicate line of your collarbones, pausing to place a lingering kiss at the hollow of your throat before moving lower. she trails kisses down the swell of your breasts, her hands sliding over your sides as she presses soft, reverent kisses to each nipple.

she continues downward, her lips brushing over your ribs, your belly, the dip of your navel. her hands smooth over the curve of your hips, grounding you as she moves lower still. when she finally reaches the soft mound of your cunt, she pauses.

her chin grazes you lightly as she hovers there, her breath warm against your skin. the anticipation hangs heavy in the air, your body taut beneath her, every nerve alive and waiting. her eyes flicker up to meet yours, her lips curving into a small, almost imperceptible smile.

“so fucking beautiful,” she murmurs, her voice barely audible, like a prayer spoken only for you.

“well hello there,” she murmurs, her voice low and dripping with mischief, her blue eyes flicking down to where your core glistens, wet and aching for her touch. the sight alone seems to mesmerize her, her lips twitching into a crooked grin as she drinks you in. leaning forward, she presses slow, deliberate kisses to the inside of your thighs, her lips soft but her teeth sharp as they leave faint marks in their wake. her thumbs brush tender circles on the sensitive skin, grounding you and setting every nerve alight all at once.

“you’re so mean, making me wait like this,” you mutter, your voice shaky with anticipation as you prop yourself up on your elbows to watch her. the sight of her there—her head between your thighs, her hair messy, her lips swollen—sends a shiver down your spine.

“no, i’m not,” she counters with a sly smirk, sitting back just enough to pull her shirt over her head. her bra follows, tossed aside carelessly, leaving her bare before you. her tattoos catch the soft glow of the light, a stark contrast against her pale skin. “i’m just taking my time with you, that’s all.”

you let out a frustrated whine, your eyes raking over her now-exposed chest. “exactly, and that’s so—fuck,” your words cut off in a sharp gasp as her lips finally make contact with your pussy. her tongue brushes over your clit in a fleeting touch, just enough to send a jolt through your body.

she doesn’t stop there. her mouth moves with intent, her lips pressing kisses all over, her tongue darting out to taste you. it’s not rushed; it’s sensual, almost like she’s savoring you. she moans against you as her tongue flicks over your entrance, dipping in briefly before sliding up through your folds. the vibration of her voice sends waves of pleasure through you, and you can’t help but arch your back, chasing the sensation.

“billie,” you whimper, your voice breathy and desperate, as her nose grazes your clit with every movement. she doesn’t respond with words, just another moan as she pulls you closer, her hands gripping your thighs to hold you in place.

your fingers tangle in her hair, tugging at the roots as you rock your hips against her face. “oh my god,” you gasp, your thighs trembling as her tongue flicks in a way that leaves you breathless. her nails dig into your skin just slightly, a grounding sensation amidst the overwhelming pleasure.

she pulls back, her lips shiny and swollen, her chest heaving as she looks up at you. “you taste so good,” she mutters, her voice husky and dripping with want. without breaking eye contact, she lets her tatted hand slide down, her fingers taking over where her tongue left off.

her fingers tease your slit, slick and warm, before sliding one inside you with ease. the stretch is slow, deliberate, as her thumb brushes over your clit in lazy circles. “feel good, baby?” she asks, her voice soft but commanding, her eyes watching every little twitch of your body as she works you open.

“yes,” you gasp, your head falling back against the pillows. your walls clench around her finger as she curls it inside you, brushing against that perfect spot that makes your breath hitch. she smirks, clearly pleased with your reaction, and leans back in to press a kiss to your thigh, murmuring, “good girl.”

“this okay?” she whispers, her voice gentle, almost reverent, as her movements still for a moment. her other hand glides over the curve of your stomach, her thumb tracing soft circles on your skin. her blue eyes, vast as oceans, hold yours with a tenderness that makes your chest ache.

you nod, breath hitching as you adjust to the fullness of her. “yes,” you murmur, your voice trembling, and it’s all the confirmation she needs. she slides another finger inside you, slow and deliberate, the stretch sending sparks of pleasure rippling through you. her pace is unhurried, her focus solely on the way your body reacts to her, the way you fit around her fingers like she was made for this—for you.

“oh, fuck, billie,” you gasp, your head falling back as you watch her fingers disappear inside you, coated in your slick. she groans softly at the sound of her name falling from your lips, her pupils dilating with a mix of desire and awe. she’s certain she could fall apart right here, just from the melody of your voice and the way you tremble beneath her.

your moans grow louder, mingling with the obscene, wet sounds of her fingers working you, the rhythm steady but maddening. her sheets are damp beneath you, the evidence of your ecstasy pooling there as her pace quickens. “so pretty, baby,” she breathes, her voice thick with affection and hunger. “everything about you… so fucking beautiful.” her free hand slides down, gripping your thigh to hold you in place as you buck against her touch, desperate for more.

your hands find their way to her hair, fingers tangling in the soft strands as you pull her closer. the kiss you give her is fierce, messy, and desperate, your lips crashing into hers like waves against the shore. her teeth graze your bottom lip, and the sensation pulls a whimper from you, the sound only spurring her on. her fingers drive into you faster, her palm brushing against your clit with each stroke, sending shockwaves through your entire body.

you break the kiss, your lips still brushing hers, your breath mingling as you struggle to form words. “billie… i—mmm…” your voice is a broken whine, your brows knitting together as you feel the knot in your core tightening, threatening to snap.

her gaze locks onto yours, and you try to shield your face, embarrassed by how undone you’ve become under her touch. your hand flies to her face, an attempt to cover her eyes, but she’s quicker. she grabs your wrist, gently pulling it away and lacing her fingers with yours. she presses a soft, lingering kiss to the back of your hand, her voice like a balm as she whispers, “don’t hide from me, mama. i want to see all of you.”

her words unravel something deep inside you, and the knot in your belly finally snaps. your climax crashes over you in waves, your body shaking as she guides you through it, her fingers never faltering. “that’s it,” she coos, her lips brushing against your temple as your hips jerk against her hand. “so good for me, baby. just like that.”

your head falls against her chest, your body pliant and trembling as you come down, your breath ragged and uneven. she slows her movements before withdrawing her fingers, careful not to overstimulate you. you shudder at the loss, but the sight of her lifting her hand to her lips makes your breath hitch all over again.

billie closes her eyes as her tongue flicks out, wrapping around her fingers and savoring the taste of you. a low moan escapes her throat as she licks them clean, her expression one of pure satisfaction. “you’re perfect,” she murmurs, her voice heavy with affection, and the words settle deep in your chest, grounding you in this moment with her.

your back hits the bed, the sheets cool against your heated skin as you stare blankly at the ceiling, the swirl of your thoughts almost deafening. the quiet hum of the night fills the space, but all you can focus on is the weight of the moment, heavy and impossible to ignore. billie’s eyes flick over to you, her thumbs brushing lazy circles into your sides as her brows knit together, concern softening her features.

“you okay?” her voice is gentle, like the question might break you.

truthfully, you don’t know. you had crossed a line you swore you’d never even approach—crossed it, leapt over it, and now here you were, tangled in the aftermath. you had met, and fucked, one of your clients. and god, the worst part wasn’t even that. the worst part was the undeniable truth humming beneath your skin—you wanted to do it again. and again. and again.

“mhm,” you hum, but it’s weak, barely audible. your voice doesn’t carry the conviction you need it to, and the room falls silent again, thick with tension. your mind races, spiraling through a maze of scenarios, consequences, and excuses until her voice cuts through the noise.

“it’s getting late.” her words are quiet but pointed, pulling you out of your spiraling thoughts. your eyes dart around the dim room, finally landing on the clock glowing faintly on the bedside table. 2:57 a.m.

“shit—i’m sorry,” you stammer, bolting upright, scrambling for your clothes like an instinctive reaction. but before you can even find your shirt, her hand presses softly against your back, grounding you.

“no, i—i was going to ask if you’d like to stay. for the night.” her voice wavers slightly, and she looks away for a moment, her vulnerability showing in the flicker of hesitation in her gaze. when her eyes meet yours again, there’s something there—hope, maybe? or just a simple longing.

you hesitate, your heart thundering in your chest. everything about this feels complicated, feels wrong, and yet, there’s a pull in her voice, in her gaze, that makes you want to say yes despite all the reasons you shouldn’t. you search for excuses—she’d have to drive you back to your car; it’s late; it doesn’t mean anything—but none of them feel convincing enough to leave.

“okay,” you whisper, the word hanging in the air like a secret. her lips curve into a soft smile, and she moves quickly to grab you extra clothes and swap out the bedding. “thanks,” you murmur, and something in her expression softens even more.

the pillow feels too soft under your head, your back turned to her as you try to steady the rhythm of your breathing. you hear her moving around the room—shutting off the television, switching off the lights. the quiet returns as she slips into bed beside you, and for a moment, you feel the faintest brush of her arm, hesitant, like she wants to reach for you but stops herself just short. the space between you feels heavy, unspoken words hanging in the air.

“goodnight, billie,” you whisper into the quiet, your voice barely carrying. your eyes close, but your thoughts don’t stop—they churn and twist, loud and relentless.

“goodnight, star.” her voice is soft, like the nickname itself is fragile and intimate, and it’s the last thing you hear before sleep pulls you under.

astrc’s tag list: @zendayasredbottoms @bilsdillldough @billiesrighthand @watercolorskyy @bilssturns @47lake @vijaxx @natbelovasblog @hopingforgoodblogs ; hit my asks saying “add to taglist” if you want to be on my regular taglist for all billie content!

[whore-ibly-hot]

Yan!Husbands Boss x Married! Reader

"Just Another Day at The Office."

18+ Minors DNI

Warnings: Dub-con, misogyny, name calling, nude photos, coercion, dubcon touching, fem genitalia for reader, mentions of divorce, general perversion, praise, clit play, cheating, readers husband is a scumbag.

(AN: Requested by an Anon early today, and it made me feral.)

Tick... tick... tick... the sound of an office clock rings in your ears, the only sound louder is your heart, pounding in your ribcage. The clock was awfully loud, though you had never noticed it before, when you were coming to bring your husband a warm, home-cooked meal. Maybe then you didn't notice it because you weren't fearing for your future.

Morgan & Cole, the investment firm your husband had been working for for years had been doing better than ever, and in turn, so had your husband. Promotions, expensive raises, and more had been sent his way. The house was even being repainted. All that begs the question, how had you found yourself in this situation.

It was a few nights ago when your husband informed you of the deal he had made with his boss. Morgan, the co-owner of the company, had his sights set on you, apparently. At a holiday party, he approached your husband with an offer, an offer to get a night with you in exchange for another fat raise. You had always known your husband hadn't been the most loving, but you had never imagined his greed could get to this. The worst part was how casual the deal he described was. Approaching a man at an office party and asking to sleep with his life like you were discussing sports frightened you. You had only met Morgan once or twice, and while he seemed charming, him doing something like this made you very much doubt he was in actuality.

You are snapped out of your thoughts by the sound of a door opening. Morgan steps out of his office, fidgeting with his smart-watch when he looks up and sees your meek form in the office lobby. His brow furrows.

"Oh, Mrs. Peters, I hadn't expected you to met me here. I had intended to come pick you up. How long have you been here?" He asks. You gulp. "Not long, just ten or so minutes." You say, trying to hold eye contact. He sighs and shakes his head. "Well, I wish you would have knocked on my office door, I feel awful having left you out here alone. Come, we can head back into my office and chat." His voice is so soothing, and in any other situation it would have been nice. You enter his office, and he closes the door behind him, before sitting at his desk. You take the chair in front of it.

"So, I assume your husband-" His teeth grind as he says this. "Is assume he has gone over what this is about." You nod. "He did... and... and I don't know if I can do this. I don't know you at all, and I'm a married woman." You whimper. Tears begin to slip down your cheeks, and Morgan sighs heavily. He comes around to lean back against the front of the desk, one hand supporting him while the other touches your cheek.

"I know this must be scary, I understand that. But I'm gonna solve both of those problems right now." He kneels down so your eyes meet his. "First, you worry you don't know me. Let me fix that. My name is Morgan Brant, I am thirty-two, and I live in a loft down on 37th. I like charcuterie and making my own organic lattes. I work out everyday, and enjoy walking through the city. I have both of my parents, Ruth and John, and they live in the city as well. Anything else you'd like to know?" You're too stunned and still panicked to respond, so you just shake your head. "Okay, okay. Good." He murmurs. A hand strokes your hair softly, as if trying to soothe a wild animal. To your shock, for a man who basically paid for a co-workers wife to prostitute herself, he does seem genuinely upset at your fear. His eyes are filled with a sorrow, and he chews his bottom lip nervously. He looks down for a moment.

"Mrs. Peters, your second concern, about being a married woman, is very respectable. I appreciate that you respect the sanctity of marriage so much. I think your loyalty and love for your husband is beautiful." He pauses, and gently grips your chin so you look him in the eyes. "But... I worry that love and loyalty may not be returned. Mrs. Peters, I need you to promise me you will listen to what I am about to tell you." You gulp, his suddenly serious, yet still soft, tone worries you.

He stands, walking to the back of his desk and opening a drawer, grabbing a manila envelope before sitting down at his chair again. He pushes the envelope towards you, folding his hand together and sitting up. He looks as those this odd exchange is yet another business deal, as he sits like a man prepared to do whatever it takes to seal a deal. A real businessman. Your hand trembles as it opens the envelope. Your heart stops.

Inside, your husband can be seen in several photos, from many different angles. Some looked ripped from security footage, others appear to be taken at a distance. However, they all contain the same subject. Your husband, locking lips with various women, every photo a different one. Your hand covers your mouth as you let out a choked sob. "N-no... I mean, he was never warm to me, b-but..." Everything comes crashing down at once. All those nights you waited up for him when he was 'working late', all those warm meals you brought him at work, only to be brushed off so he could talk to his secretary. It all made sense.

"I can't believe this..." You squeak. Morgan shakes his head. "You can believe it, I know you can. He's never loved you, I've seen how he treats you. Rejecting your meals, ignoring you at office parties and work functions. My dear, he is actively sitting at home and preparing to count the bonus he received for pimping you out to me." Morgan exclaims, his shoulders tightening. You put your head in your hands. "I'm... what am I going to do?! I'll divorce him, but I'll have nothing. I, oh god." You cry. Morgan once again moves to try and comfort you. His broad arms wrap around your shoulders.

"I know, I know this is scary. You've been through a lot tonight, your entire marriage even. But it's going to be okay." He cups your face. "I've been watching the two of you, you mostly." He hands you something. An empty tupperware container. "This is from his lunch yesterday. Every meal he rejected from you, I gladly took. I hadn't had the chance to eat something made so lovingly in a long time. They don't serve home-cooked meals like this at business conferences." He chuckles. "I saw how you would cling to him at those same parties he was ignoring you at, and wishing, praying you would cling to me like that." You look up, his confession is shocking. "Your husband... he is a greedy man, but he has pride. I knew I wouldn't even get a moment along with you unless there was something in it for him." He shakes his head. "Darling, I was just as disgusted as you were that he'd agree to that. As excited as I was, as I am for this moment with you, I was thanking whoever is out there that no other person at this office had tried something similar. I'm not some deviant, or criminal. I've had my fair share of sexual encounters, with prostitutes and escorts, but... I never felt anything. I need to feel something. I do with you." He says.

You shake your head. "You don't know me." You say. He shrugs. "You don't need to someone to love them, not at first. I hate to say this, but you didn't really know your husband, did you?" You sob again, and his sticks his hands out. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry darling, that was out of line. I just needed to prove a point. What I'm saying is, I don't just want one night of pleasure with you. I want you to be mine. If you left him, you wouldn't be lost or desolate, you would have me. I could give your everything he has and more. Money, a penthouse, and my love. Real love. You deserve someone who wants to care for you the way you cared for that man-child. I can do that." You sniffle. "It's all so soon, and I don't... I'm scared." You say again. "I know. I hadn't wanted to do this here. I had wanted to show you the pictures and confess early on, I had plans to pick you up and take you somewhere nice to eat. I know the last thing you want right now is a fresh new relationship, I understand. But just maybe, the idea of revenge tempts you?" He suggests. You look up, and bite your lip. "What are you suggesting?" You ask.

"He thinks he's better than you, and that you could never leave him, because you have no one else, nothing else. Why else do you think he assumes their will be no repercussions for a night like this? He's so confident that you would never leave him, never even think about another man, that he truly believes you will return to him after he's pimped you out." Morgan moves closer. "I won't lie, I'll enjoy this, but don't just do it for me. Do it for yourself. Give in, leave him for a man who will worship you, who can give you more. Get back at him, and be with me." You shake your head. "You... you paid him to pimp me out to you like this though?" You exclaim. He nods "I had to show you how little he cared for you, same with the investigators I hired to get those photos." He nods in the direction of the envelope, now dabbled with your tears. "Besides, I've already signed his termination papers, I don't hire men like that here. He isn't getting shit for doing this to you." He assures.

In a moment of weakness, you break. The betrayal of the evening, the hurt and the fear, the anger, it's all too much. You sink to your knees, and nod. "Alright, let's do it. Just... be gentle, go slow." He nods. "Oh, my sweet. I'll do whatever you ask." He captures your lips, pressing your back against the front of his desk as he kneels beside you. His lips are soft, and taste of bourbon and mint. He smells like cologne, but a good kind, something smokey. Not like the tacky expensive stink of your husband, now ex-husbands favorite cologne. His tongue prods at your lips, and shyly you part them, allowing his tongue to slip in and suck against yours. He groans, and you both pull away breathlessly. While you take a breath, he immediately latches onto your neck, placing quick, feverish kisses along your collarbone. You gasp at the feeling, shrinking in on yourself. He grins.

"Does it really feel that good, that's quite a reaction." He chuckles. You blush and look to the side. "It's- It's been a while." He frowns and tilts his head. "How long is awhile, darling?" He whispers. "A few months, maybe eight or so." He shakes his head. "My poor girl, doing all that for him and he still wouldn't please you." He grips your waist, his lips on the shell of your ear. "To be fair though, even if he did, he couldn't make you finish. He would please himself, not you. But I won't, baby. Tonight, is all about you." You can feel a thick hardon pressing against your knee.

"Tell you what, darling. Let me make you feel good, real quick. Something nice and easy for my sensitive girl. Then, I'l take you out. I'm not just going to have sex with you without wineing and dineing you. Then, I'll take you back to my place, I-I'll send for your stuff tomorrow, and if you want, we can go for round two." He coos, looking up at you with admiration and hope. "Won't my husband try to resist my stuff being taken?" You ask. He shakes his head. "He's not your husband. If he calls, I'll hang up. He sold you out, and if he gets pissy, I've go the best lawyers in the country at my disposal. I'm not letting you spend one more night under a roof with that man. You aren't Mrs. Peters anymore, you're Mrs. Brant. Now... let Mr. Brant make you feel good." Hands cradle your thighs, slipping the skirt of your sensible slip dress up over your knees. A hand paws at your panties, cupping your cunt as he sighs. "So warm, poor little thing hasn't been touched in months. I've only kissed your neck a little, and your soaked. Is it because I said I love you? Does your little cunt respond well to just being admired and appreciated? Oh, my darling." He slips your panties aside just a little, not wanting to ruin your outfit for dinner later. Fingers part your lips as a long digit strokes up, from your entrance to your clit. A finger prods the entrance, and you gulp at the throbbing heat you feel.

"Gentle, slow please." You murmur. He nods, placing a gentle kiss on your neck before slipping in his digit. His long, calloused fingers rub your neglected walls in all the right ways. "A-ah, Morgan..." You pant. "Good?" He asks. You nod, breathless already. He thrusts it in and out gently, before asking to add another digit. When you nod, he adds another, while his free hand circles your clit with his middle finger. Perhaps its from typing everyday, day in and day out, but he is skilled. Even when your husband has slept with you, you had never felt like this. A coil forms in your stomach as you pant and whimper.

"M-morgan." You moan. "Please, I need to-" You're cut off by him sharply curling his fingers, as they hit a spongy spot deep inside you. "Oh, god. Yes." You moan again. "Cum for me, darling, please. I want to hear you." Morgan's tone is suddenly more desperate ethan you had heard it all night. He's needy, begging to know that he is pleasing you in the way he so desires. "Say my name, would you? I just want to please you, I need to know it feels good." He begs. "Morgan, I'm gonna cum, shit-" Your walls begin to pulse, juices coating his fingers. As you moan, finishing your high, he kisses you feverishly, desperate for closeness.

When you pull away, panting as you come down from your orgasm, he licks your juices off his hands with a squelching noise, putting your panties back into place. He helps you to your feet, and hands your your purse. "Ready for dinner?" He asks. Tired and very hungry, you nod. "Just one more thing, and you don't have to do anything, I've dealt with this myself plenty but-" He looks down, the tent in his pants is still very prominent.

"May I handle that before we go out?"

[pimosworld]

Pairing -Joel Miller x F!reader

Summary-Joel wants to be the first

CW-18+,MDNI,NSFW, oral (f) receiving, established relationship, no outbreak Joel late 40’s, reader is unspecified legal age, reader is not described, inexperienced but not a virgin, soft dom joel, shy reader, joel is obsessed with you, pet names galore, joel is the king of patience and eating pussy

WC-1.4k

A/N- The Joel brain rot has taken over. This was inspired by one of my fav spicy songs I’ll tag the link at the end.

[Joel Masterlist][Main Masterlist]

Not beta read

Kisses down low

His initial reaction when you’d told him was very much a Joel reaction. It startled you at first how angry he seemed, not at you of course. 

  “Whadya’ mean no one’s ever done that before?” 

  You just shrugged it off a little ashamed for whatever reason. He noticed your obvious discomfort and you shrinking in on yourself and he certainly couldn’t have that. He calmed down a bit  and asked you to explain. Your first real boyfriend didn’t think it was worth his time and another partner made you feel self conscious about it so you just stopped asking. 

  Joel had to take a few deep breaths through his nose and cursed the idiots who passed up the opportunity to appreciate you the way he knew you deserved. You never passed up the chance to show him how much you loved and cared for him. It was hard in the beginning for him to understand someone could love him so unconditionally, even with all his flaws and shortcomings. In the short time you’d known each other you brought out this side of him he thought had been long dormant. He had more patience, a lust for life that he thought was lost when Sarah moved away for college. 

  He’d reassured you that he was willing to wait as long as you needed him to until you felt ready. 

  You could tell he was doing his very best to be patient. Every time you were intimate with each other he’d give you his best puppy dog eyes as he rested his head on your stomach, waiting and hoping maybe this time would be a yes. Even through the no’s he could tell you we’re entertaining the idea. Letting it roll around in your head that Joel would never make you feel ashamed or embarrassed. 

  “I promise I’ll make ya feel good sugar.” He rasps against your ear as he lays all his weight on top of you. He stopped trying to fight you when you’d told him how it grounded you after sex to have his broad body pressing you into the mattress. 

  “I know it’s just…I can’t get out of my head.” You gasp as he rolls you over on top of him. 

  “That’s exactly what I’m tryin’ to do…get you out of that pretty little head of yours and let me take care of you.” His voice is desperate as his hands rub up and down your back. It wasn’t often you got Joel in the position to beg so you decided next time you would trust him to do what he said. 

  ****

  “Just relax baby girl.” His deep husky voice is muffled as he lays kisses to your thighs. He’s been slowly undressing you, making sure you were thoroughly distracted. 

  Your breath stutters a little as his strong hands knead at your breast. His fingers tease your nipple and the whine that leaves your mouth already has him desperate to have you making more of those sounds. 

  “Joel…what’s it feel like?” You ask, feeling a little nervous again. 

  He rests his head on your thigh while he continues rubbing soothing circles along your side and your arms. In all his years he’s never practiced this much restraint with anyone. He’s never wanted anything so bad in his life and he’ll be damned if you aren’t one hundred percent comfortable with what he’s about to do to you. 

  “Why don’t ya think about it like a kiss.” You nod your understanding as he hooks his finger with one hand and taps your hips to have you lift them. He slowly pulls your panties down your legs and grinds his hips into the mattress at the sight of you. 

  Joel’s got you so worked up you can feel the slick dripping out of you onto the mattress below. You’ve never felt so protected and yet so vulnerable. So exposed and also powerful at the same time. 

  “Jesus…you’re prettier than a peach.” 

  You chuckle a little at his words and the fact that you don’t think he meant to say it out loud. 

  His broad shoulders settle between your thighs as his thumbs spread you open. You can feel his warm breath fan across your lips and just that sensation has your head dropping back against the pillow. He doesn’t mean to laugh but he had no idea how sensitive you’d be…he’s barely touched you and you’re shaking like a leaf. 

  Joel’s rock hard in his jeans, not having bothered to strip down. When you said you were ready he only had one thing on his mind and it damn sure wasn’t gettin’ comfortable. All he’s been able to think about the last few weeks is how he’ll be the first one to claim you, to taste you and make you come apart on his tongue. In his mind he already owns you and your willingness to submit to him has him daydreaming more than he’d care to admit. 

  “You ready sweetheart?” His voice is almost unrecognizable as he stares at his prize already soaking wet for him. 

  You nod feverishly as his mouth descends on you. You suck in a breath as his tongue wastes no time working you open. His strong hands grip your thighs as he licks and sucks at your clit. You’re so keyed up it feels like you’re embarrassingly close to your first orgasm as you clamp your hand over your mouth to quiet your moans. 

  One of his hands reaches up to you as he clasps his fingers in yours. “Nuh uh baby girl, I’ve been waitin’ ages for this. I want to hear all those little noises you make.”

  He dives back in, his big nose rubs at your clit while his tongue dips into your hole. A high pitched whine leaves your mouth as you instinctively reach down with your other hand to tug at his curls. He’s growling into your pussy, so drunk off you and the way you taste. “Fuck Joel…please.” You whimper into the air as you buck your hips, seconds from cresting over. 

  Joel’s never been so turned on by the sounds you’re making. He can tell you’re close and the swell of pride in his chest that you’ve fully let go for him is something he can’t describe. He almost feels bad for what he’s about to put you through because there’s no way he’s going back to the way things were before. Your poor little pussy is gonna be so abused by the time he’s had his fill of you. 

  “Come on baby.” His eyes meet yours as you fight to keep your head up. He knows you can do it, he can feel the way your thighs clench around his head. He wants to see if you can without his fingers, wants to watch you fall apart on his tongue as he wrings every last drop of rational thought from your brain. 

  His tongue circles your clit in swift motions as you let out an inaudible whine. Your head drops back between your shoulders as your heels dig into his back. You can barely get out his full name as your climax rocks into you, your vision is sparkly behind your eyes as you hear him whispering sweet words far off in the distance. 

  It takes you both a moment to catch your breath as he places kisses along your thighs just resting his head there. Not even wanting to bother with the damp spot on the mattress where he came with you. He doesn’t even care or feel embarrassed when he can’t remember the last time he felt this good. 

  “Joel…” Your voice is a little hoarse as you clear your throat. 

  “Ya sugar.” 

  “Can we…do that again?” 

  He huffs out a laugh in a small moment of triumph. “Anytime you want.” 

Comments and reblogs are much appreciated

[tteokdoroki]

VOICEMAILS AND DIAL TONES - yuuta okkotsu.

✩ — about. “back then, you didn’t have words to describe the way that he made you feel. maybe, you were a little too young to understand.” there are rules to a friendship that’s lasted as long as yours and yuuta’s has. the first being that you tell each other everything. the second, try not to fall in love. all you know, is that you’ve failed at both, and now your best friend is half way across the world without any idea as to how much you truly love him. is that something you can say over text or voicemail? ( 8.7K )

✩ — warnings. minors, blank and ageless blogs do not interact! nsfw, smut, fluff, angst, with a happy ending - video banner! characters are in their 20s. coffee-shop!au, childhood friends to lovers, forbidden romance, long-distance, misunderstandings, miscommunication, situationships, arguments, hospitalisation mentions, death mentions (non-major characters), cucking, somnophilia, praise, fingering (f!receiving), oral sex (f!receiving), phone sex-ish, clothed sex, unprotected sex, overstimulation, creampies, fem!reader.

✩ — things to note. hi everyone!! jumping on the yuuta hype and dropping this fic i wrote as a commission last year!! it's so interesting to see how much my writing has changed, but i remember having fun when writng this. either who!! i hope you all enjoy <3 - m.list ⋆ read on ao3 ! ִ ࣪𖤐₊ ⊹

absence makes the heart grow fonder — at least that’s what they tell you so that the feeling of missing someone hurts a tiny little bit less. 

you’ve always wondered if that were true. if willingly putting space between yourself and the person you loved truly helped soothe the soreness as if it were medication for the body’s aches and pains. perhaps the theory could best be applied to your friendship with yuuta okkotsu. 

he’s been your best friend for as long as you can remember — from the moment he moved in next door, his bambi eyes were big and brown, safe and inviting…who were you to keep hiding behind your mothers leg and deny him an invitation to play on the swing set his parents had put up for him in the garden just over the fence? yuuta was the sweetest boy to date, he was always polite with your parents and asked their permission before taking you into the depths of his cardboard fort in the front yard. 

he would walk home with you from pre-k, your chubby little fingers tightly intertwined and the matching charms on your backpacks swinging about the place jingling with every step you took towards home. when you got to middle school and kids were meaner, yuuta stood by your side while you were teased for being quieter than most. he defended you, his shy, patient best friend. 

okkotsu still walked you home, his pinky finger hooked over yours — greeted your mother with that same shy, yet charming tight lipped smile and offered to help her with cooking dinner with that same airy voice of his. your mother would reward you both with a kiss to the forehead and a plate of warm walnut and chocolate chip cookies and your pinkies — still linked underneath the table.

you were always linked. it’s always been yuuta and you. back then, you didn’t have words to describe the way that he made you feel. maybe, you were a little too young to understand the butterflies in your tummy and the blistering temperature to the back of your neck and your ears — maybe too naive to understand a metaphorical doctor’s diagnosis of a case of early on-set puppy-love. knowing back then would’ve explained why you wrote yuuta’s name on a heart alongside your own or why you squirmed every time you touched.

there was only one explanation. you liked yuuta, loved him. 

you wished that you’d known what that feeling was…because it's soon ripped from your grip and your whole world changes when rika orimoto enters your lives. she was pretty, had a beauty mark smeared daintily across her cheek and gentle eyes that made you feel safe. she was pretty and yuuta thought that too — inside and out. that’s why they became fast highschool sweethearts and why you were left in the dust. 

rika easily made a mess of him, tearing yuuta into a million tiny pieces that only she could put back together. she asks him out on white-day, okkotsu a bumbling mess by the lockers in between gym class and economics as he clutches her neatly written love letter — hearts over the I’s and T’s crossed ever so cutely. she had done to yuuta what he’d been doing to you all of your lives and you’d hardly seen her talk to him around school until that day. 

much to your dismay, they date throughout the rest of highschool and it nearly kills you, having someone that you were once so close to fade-away into near nothingness with growing distance. life where yuuta has a girlfriend ( that isn’t you ) drains the happiness that you got from being around your childhood best friend. it’s selfish, you know, to have wanted to keep him all to yourself. to have him want you instead of her. 

they make plans for after school, babies with names that start with the same letters as theirs and a wedding that’ll be small and flowery and whatever rika wants because yuuta okkotsu would give the girl he loves the entire world. you so badly want to be her. that person who is the centre of his universe. it should be you, it should have always been you — making plans with yuuta and imagining the perfect ring, the one that he would give you in the front yard of his childhood home. it should be your life with him, one that you’d dreamt up with him…and the sick thing is, you can’t have him — because you’re best friends and you’d be risking it all in the name of childish love.

rika, dies just days shy of your highschool graduation and it changes your best friend. a tragic car accident violently takes her life and okkotsu along with it. he’s a shell of the person he used to be, void of his dazzling smile and the comforting warmth that was unavoidable if you spent even just a minute with him. yuuta used to be like sun rays on a sunday morning but after the incident, he felt like blizzards on a dark november's eve. he lost his love, and you were starting to lose him even more than before.

his first love is memorialised at the graduation ceremony and while everyone sends her their thoughts and prayers — you feel sick to your stomach, knowing that for a brief second you’d felt relieved that your competition was gone. loving him was forbidden, he’d just lost his person and so despite your guilt you had to stick it out. be there for him. be there for your friend above all else and hold him up so that he didn’t sink in the deep water of his own grief. you’d save him, at all costs, you’d stop him before he drowned. 

things start to look up when the pair of you head to college — you both get into the same school and find the cutest little off-campus apartment to share. it feels like a home away from home to you both, since your nights before semester begins are spent attempting to master your mother’s famous cookies while practising how to introduce yourselves since you’re both nervous as hell for this new beginning. everything feels like it was when you were both children and didn’t have a single thing to worry about — except now there’s crippling student debt and a four year workload ahead of you…but you’re both excited, together again and it seems like the distance between you has shrunk just a little.

then your love life takes a turn for the worst ( yet again ) and yuuta finds himself running around town with a new crew of friends that he met in a club run by one of your elective professors, satoru gojo. they stay out later than you’re used to and your best friend comes home smelling different too, of strong perfumes and cigarette butts even though you know he doesn’t smoke. as it turns out, there’s another girl. 

maki zenin.

you don’t like her, and to be fair, she doesn’t like you either. so you keep your distance once more, keep your head down when maki does her faux walk of shame out of your best friend’s room — her thighs and her neck covered in bite marks and scratches, his shirt slipped over her body to cover the rest of her decency. he made her breakfast with your food and tea in your designated mug. it hurts to hear her mewl the sweet syllables of his name late at night while you’re stuck with the soundtrack to your own sobs.

it should be like this, distant — far apart because you care about okkotsu and you love him, so it’d be better to avoid it all rather than get him hurt.

your phone ringing in the distance gently lulls you from your reminiscent thoughts and you scramble to pick it up before you end up with a missed call. 

yuuta’s contact flashes across your screen, framed by light and making him look like an angel. it rings and rings, and you know that you should let it go to voicemail. let the space between you grow so you can protect what’s left of his soul. 

but you were never strong when it came to him. 

and you pick up before he can listen to another second of dial tones.

voicemail #1  - “hey yuuta, i hope you’re good, you’ll never guess who stopped by the cafe today— professor satoru! i haven’t seen him since your graduation! anyways, are you still coming over for dinner tonight? i miss you!”

this isn’t like him. 

even after all these years, from pre-k to college — yuuta okkotsu has never missed one of your calls. after graduating you'd made a promise to one another, to keep contact no matter where life took you, a promise of his own volition. you’d have dinner with each other at least once a week just like when you were kids and catch up on your not-so crazy adventures into adulthood. 

you kept up your end of the bargain as your way of keeping okkotsu afloat — to ground him. he’d seen and been through enough hurt to last him a lifetime and if he had to use you as a crutch for comfort, despite your raging feelings for him, then so be it. so you never missed a call, always checked in and made him something nostalgic and tied to the memories of afternoons where your mother would fill you up with her wondrous baked goods or heartwarming soups.

but still, this isn’t like yuuta to not pick up when you call. 

to feel…more distant than usual and of his own accord. 

panic sets in while you listen to the third dial tone, trying to contact him again. taking a deep breath, you pace around the fridge-freezer in the back of your bakery — one that you’d set up shortly after graduating from your business degree. there had to be some explanation for your best friend’s absence. perhaps traffic? maybe he was on the subway catching a ride over? or maybe he just needed space. he’d been going through a lot recently. yuuta didn’t get a job straight out of college and he broke things off with maki shortly after — they wanted different things and had different aspirations.

even still, with the free time left on his hands, there was too much room for him to think about his losses and his loves…it made you worry for him, it made you panic and chew on your nails just like this. “c’mon yu,” you whisper to yourself, the shaky syllables of your words bouncing off the metal house for your ingredients, muffled by paper bags of powdered sugar and organic flours. “where are you?” 

you can barely hear the automated message telling you to leave a voicemail for your friend over the bustling of your afternoon service. if yuuta hadn’t been off the grid, he’d be here helping you with the customers that know him all too well, the old ladies that pinch his cheeks and the younger ones that twirl their hair in an attempt to flirt over miniature cherry bakewell tarts. except he’s nowhere to be found, and you’re nauseous, worried sick about where he could be and what he could be up to. 

you try his cell one more time in an attempt to grab at his attention. there's something weird about today...as if he’s avoiding you, hiding. yuuta always picks up and you always pick up for him, it’s an unspoken rule.

when you’re met with the dial tones again, you hang up — slumped and distraught. there’s hungry customers to feed and you’re overly friendly college professor waiting on a fresh box of sweets you’d used as an excuse to escape to the back of your shop. yuuta can wait for another call from you. 

but you’re not sure if your heart can wait for one back from him. 

voicemail #2  - “it’s yuuta, we need to talk.” 

oddly enough, silence is comforting to you. it reminds you of your best friend, the nights you’d spend coupled up in your dorm with your fingers running through his silken midnight hair, his head in your lap and the both of you shrouded in darkness. more often than not, you could tell how one another’s days went just by body language and when shoulders were slumped and eyes were droopy — yourself and yuuta would curl up together  and just…take in the quiet. 

be close to one another.

so, you bask in the tranquillity of your quaint little cafe as you clear up after a day's work. you sweep floors, wipe tables clean and arrange the tables and chairs with perfect precision. the only sound that accompanies you is the clink of silverware and porcelain plates as you wash the dishes. it’s so quiet you could hear a pin drop and the slightest noise is enough to make you jump — just like your phone that vibrates deep within your back pocket, startling you as you scramble to dry your hands so you can see if it’s him who’s been trying to get in touch with you.

it’s embarrassing how quick you are to smile when you see a few missed calls and a voice message from yuuta. though you’ve never quite heard the tune of seriousness that plays in his voice before, your heart won’t stop racing at the mere sound of him speaking. your mind wonders…what could be so urgent that he’d need a ‘talk’?’ 

maybe it was a thank you…for always being beside him or maybe he even liked you. perhaps okkotsu had finally come to his senses and realised how much he’d always needed you…how much he loved you.. the racing thoughts in your brain hopefully jump towards a confession from your best friend and you find yourself getting giddy at its prospect. you practically skip, hop and jump to the back of your cafe, switching out your flour stained clothes for one of the spare and cleaner shirts you keep in the back — you touch up your makeup too, brighten the dark circles under your eyes and blot your worry lines with care. 

you even manage to heat up a few of yuuta’s favourite pastries to serve up by candlelight — rehearsing your own words of confession as if they haven’t been looming around in your head for years. 

the bell to your quaint little cafe chimes with his arrival, a rush of cool, late night air tangling with the temperate atmosphere as you lay your finishing touches on the meal you’d prepared for you both. when you look up, yuuta’s eyes have settled on you — warm and inviting as usual, but bright with a light that had been missing from them since you were young. you’ve missed it, the subtle spark that brings life to the coffee brown oasis in his eyes.

he remains as handsome as ever, taller than you by however many heads — limbs long, arms slightly muscular and waist slender, though his build is more like a dancer’s. yuuta okkotsu grew up to be a fine man and you’d be a fool to have not noticed. he crosses the room in short strides, rushing to take you into his arms and hold you close and squeeze you to his chest. yuuta smells like cookies, you note, hardly paying attention while his lips softly brush over your hairline in a sweet kiss.

“hi,” he whispers, voice smooth like melted chocolate dripping through your ears. “i’ve missed you.”

you only hope that he can’t hear your racing heartbeat, it’s speed picking up as you decide that this is your moment. the moment. “i’ve missed you too,” you mumble back, toying with a loose string on the cream cashmere the dark brunette is wearing. “yuuta…i have to tell you something—“

“i-i have something important to tell you,” he breathes out at the same time as you do, almost shy as you both sway in the centre of the room and enjoy one another’s embrace. 

the both of you share a laugh that’s light and airy before you drag him over to a table and set of chairs, forcing him to sit and to eat the baked goods you’d set out for him. “you first, yuu,” it makes you happy to see him tuck in, a smile tugging at the corners of your lips. “you owe me a story after disappearing on me today.” 

okkotsu nods in agreement, his cheeks adorably full of food and pastry flaked across his milky skin. “‘m sorry, i was sortin’ something out la’sht minute.” 

“yeah?” 

“y-yeah! i’m moving,” yuuta drops the bomb like it’s nothing. “abroad. for a job! professor gojo set me up and it’s s-supposed to help build my confidence and stuff—“ 

your world falls apart in an instant, sucking away the oxygen in your lungs until you feel like your lungs are failing. yuuta is leaving you and this time it’s for real. 

confessing to him now wouldn't mean shit, you’d only be holding him back. your face crumples faster than you can control at the thought and after years of knowing you— okkotsu instantly picks up your change in mood. 

“what’s wrong?” he says your name and even that hurts to hear.

“n-nothin’ yuu, i’m happy for you, really.” comes your broken voice over the quiet, you fake it until you make it.

“really? you don’t look like it.” 

running a hand over your tired face, you force a smile. “really. especially if you think this is what’s best for you.” 

“it is!” yuuta nearly snaps, controlling himself— stopping himself from yelling at you and tearing your friendship apart before he’s gone. “i need this, need’a be my own person. after college, after highschool i didn’t have time for any of that! i need this.” 

needs it more than he needs you.

“okay.” you say simply, blankly.

“okay.” he says back. 

the debate doesn’t last that much longer after that — the room fills with silence as you grieve your faltering friendship. whatever confession you had planned, now forgotten. 

voicemail #3 -  “yuuta! i wasn’t sure how long your flight was but please call me when you land! you’re gonna do great at your new job.”

yuuta doesn’t call after he lands, in fact two entire days pass before you actually hear from him. after the argument, you’d try to stay on good terms as though not to lose him for good — helping him pack and sort out his currencies, buying him language books since you knew he would struggle with the new dialect. 

you figure it’s because he’s unpacking and not because he doesn’t want anything to do with you — and while you make some late night tea, you find that it’s better to imagine him alone in a new foreign country, picture his pretty pink lips struggling to form the vowels of the new language too, envision how he’ll tan under the blistering hot heat and how excited he’ll be to try new things.

its humiliating how easily he can preoccupy your thoughts from thousands of miles away and makes your heart race so fast that it might burst through the bones and flesh of your chest. he occupies your every thought like a fungus crawling across your brain that’s only disrupted by the sound of your phone ringing loudly — making you drop your tea and jump up to answer.

“hey,” the way yuuta says your name sends tingles down your spine — filtering out any pain you feel from burning your hand. he looks good too, dark hair flopping over his eyes, voice gravelly with sleep as if he’s just woken up and you’re the first thing on his mind. “i got your message, s-sorry for not calling i’ve been—“ 

you cut him off, eager to speak and draw the call out for as long as possible because you missed him. “busy? a guy like you must be extremely popular on the other side of the world.” you’re chipper in an attempt to cover how flustered you are and to cheer your best friend up when you notice how nervous he looks.

“not exactly… i’m nervous. e-everything seems so big ‘nd scary without you here…”

without you.

you shake your head over the grainy FaceTime call. “you’ve always done fine without me, you’ll do even better without having to cover for my shyness!” he laughs at that, the sound like a sweet song to soothe your aching heart. “you got this yuuta.” 

your best friend gives you a sleepy smile, one that melts you like a knob of butter on a hot stove and has your knees knocking. “you’re the best, you know that? you always know what to say.”

the static crackles between you and your heart leaps into your throat. 

“i’m always here for you, yuuta.” 

“and i’m glad for that,” he yawns. “i love you.” 

you have to remind yourself that what your best friend says is strictly platonic but you almost selfishly repeat the words back to yuuta until you notice he’s fallen back asleep. 

ending the call, you clutch your phone and burned hand to your chest. 

“i love you too.”

voicemail #4 - “hey sorry i missed your call, time zones can be crazy! work has been catching up with me and, well, i made a new friend!”

for the first week, you and yuuta text everyday while he’s away. you do your duty and act as his crutch like you always have— keeping him company while he works, eats and commutes all on his own. you feel bad that you lap up the attention he gives you over the phone through his loneliness. you could be compared to a desperately hungry stray animal at the way you drink up every little interaction you have. giving pieces of yourself away to keep your best friend happy. 

but as time goes on, okkotsu seems less and less worried about his job — easily slipping into the language here and there, no longer relying on you to stand on his own two feet. the frequency of your communication dwindles to the point where you really feel like you’re oceans apart. 

even yuuta notices the change within himself — the confidence that filters through him when he says yes to the pretty girl who works in the cubicle next to him when she asks him to tag along for drinks with the rest of the office one night which soon becomes a regular thing. he knows that he speaks less with you and that your texts are barely there but he’s sure you won’t mind the distance. you’re a busy girl, you run a cafe, a few days of not talking wouldn’t do any harm.

“oooh, she’s pretty. who is that?”

kasumi miwa is the one to pull yuuta out from the fog of his thoughts. the brunette looks up from his phone, your face flashing across it’s lock screen as the background. a photo where you have your arms wrapped around him from behind and your smile is as bright as the sunshine. miwa is a pretty girl, different from you. her voice is smoother and eloquent where yours is charming and sweet — she doesn’t remind him of home, or smell like the warmth of a chocolate chip cookie…but she is pretty. her presence is enough to make him shy.

he’s caught her looking a few times, her touch lingering whenever miwa passed him paperwork and right now; her cheeks are tinged pink probably from the alcohol the office is drinking inside where yuuta had come out for some fresh air.

okkotsu clicks his phone shut and stands up at full height to face his blue-haired coworker. “i… i haven’t spoken to her in a while. i miss her.” he says wistfully as he gives your name

“well, if i were dating a girl that pretty, i would miss them too.”

“o-oh! we’re not together! she’s my best friend!”

the woman beside yuuta cocks her head, a satisfied grin spreading across the slope of her lips. “you should call her — i’ll be waiting inside.” 

he follows her eyes as she walks off, along with the whiff of her chanel perfume, before his gaze lands on his phone — he calls your phone. 

you answer after the second ring, though don’t speak straight away, letting the silence wear the both of you thin. “how’ve you been?” you say quietly, lacking the chipperness to your tone that you usually have whenever the two of you ring each other up. there’s no hello, no warmth, you’re cold. 

but yuuta doesn’t ask — he’d like to think he knows you well enough not to. he thinks that you’re fine, probably tired from work and it’s late over there too. if he cared to catch up with you, he’d have been more considerate of that.

“good!” the brunette chirps in order to keep the mood light, leaning over a nearby railing. i miss you. yuuta wants to add, but the words feel like cotton in his mouth, sticking unpleasantly to every surface and for some reason they don’t feel right to say— feel foreign. “work’s been good. i think i’m getting the hang of things around here. my co-workers are great, i get this amazing view every morning a-and—“

“and?” 

“i met someone! i think! i wanna get to know her more but she’s been great to me so far…you’d like her!”

hearts don’t make a sound when they break, but if they did— you’re sure that yuuta would have been able to hear yours even from halfway across the globe. over his own ramblings he can hardly make out the shatter of your vital organ as it falls to pieces, cracks into tiny shards with jagged edges that could make you bleed if you tried to put it back together…because your best friend having met someone means he’s moving on. leaving you behind. and he’s too tone deaf to notice. 

through the static of a phone call, okkotsu misses the crumple of your face and the way your throat bobs as you swallow back salty tears and two decades worth of unrequited love. you’re devastated and he can’t even tell, barely noticing the way you rush off the phone while he’s halfway through a sentence.

his brows furrow when he realises you’ve hung up. 

“i take it that didn’t go well?” kasumi questions when yuuta re-renters the bar, her face sympathetic but voice elevated with smugness. 

he shakes his head once. “no, but it’s okay. she’s been busy.” 

he excuses you but kasumi doesn’t let up, pushing for more of yuuta — breaking him out from his shell, stealing and keeping the pearl of his heart for her taking. “don’t be too sad yuuta, you have me and your new friends, we’ll keep you company instead.”

there’s a hidden meaning behind her cherry picked words. she’ll keep him company — and for once, yuuta doesn’t feel guilty for trying to break away from you.

voicemail #5 - “what happened between us yuuta? you used to tell me everything and now you’ve got a girlfriend? i didn’t even find out through you!”

there’s an unspoken rule to a friendship that’s lasted as long as yours and yuuta’s – you’re supposed to tell each other everything. there’s not been a secret between you in all the years you’ve known each other except for minor white lies that couldn’t amount to major forms of harm. he might have told you that your hair looked fine on days where you’d barely any time to tend to it and you might have told him that he hadn’t been awkward presenting in front of your entire college class… but those were worthless lies. strings of words tied together that didn’t mean anything, that didn’t have any intent to harm.

there were no secrets, no major ones.

until now.

“he’s got a girlfriend, yanno…”

the news is shared with you casually from over the counter one day by your irritating white-haired ex-professor who makes a habit of annoying his old students. he comes in for sweets often and the daifuku you make is his favourite – you offer him extra in exchange for updates on the classmates you used to share since he’s nosey like that.

with every visit to your little cafe, gojo filled you in on everything yuuta had been up to in the blurred weeks and months since you’d last spoken – including his relationship status. “she’s pretty too, long hair. s’blue which is an odd colour, but she’s been good to him, ‘pparently. boosted his confidence.”’ the man cocks his head, watching in real-time as your movements in packing up his order slow down.

your throat bobs whilst you swallow your fading pride in front of your teacher, forcing down a wave of tears. it doesn’t matter how many times yuuta gets over you, moves on from you, finds someone to love other than you… it still hurts. it’ll always hurt knowing that he can fill the other half of his heart with someone that isn't you, while your own stays void and empty.

as always, satoru gojo sees right through your resolve as you total up his order – again forgoing charging him extra for the little tid bit of gossip he’d given you. there’s a shell of someone he doesn’t recognise in place of the girl he used to teach – the one who was once full of life and eager to learn, get out into the world and achieve your dreams. yuuta okkotsu had chipped away at you, the years you’d spent protecting his feelings had caused you to drown in your own.

and gojo could see that, he knew that. he’d been through it before.

he only wishes he had better words of comfort for you.

“you love him, don’t you?” he asks you quietly as you ring him up but you answer with his total in yen instead – sniffling as you do. professor gojo takes his brown paper bag, full of enough sugar to make the heart stop – to kill a person, but even that’s a better death than the heartache you’re going through now. you sniff and he offers you a sad smile that doesn’t quite reach the sapphire eyes behind his shades. “better yet, don’t answer that. i don’t need anymore tears in my daifuku.”

voicemail #6 - “oh fuck yuuji, right there…” “here baby? oh you’re so cute, fuck ‘m gonna—!” “oh… yuuji!” 

( incoming voicemail from - yuuta: “hey, call me back? who’s yuuji? are you okay?” )

yuuta knows that he shouldn’t have kept listening – he should have deleted the voicemail as soon as he caught onto what was happening. it didn’t take a genius to know what was going on, the sounds of skin slapping on skin, your voice wavering with the tune of lust even over the static crackle of the voicemail you’d left. 

he wishes that he’d never heard you moan out like that for someone else, that he wasn’t picturing the faces you’d make underneath the body of another man…but he couldn’t help it. the more he listened, the angrier he felt, the more betrayal flooded his veins and clouded his usually clear judgement. the brunette had no right to be this mad at you, he was supposed to be happy with miwa, supposed to be letting you move on just like he had done from you.

and yet, like a necrotizing parasite – jealousy feasts at the back of okkotsu’s mind. it disrupts his work, distracts him from his girlfriend and fills his mind with flashing images of you being fucked five ways by another man. one that isn’t him. yuuji. who even is yuuji? how did you meet him? were you dating him? you hadn’t talked in so long so the guy had barely come up in conversation. you were best friends that used to tell each other everything and now he felt like you were fucking someone new behind his back. yuuta knew nothing of what that stranger meant to you, he had no idea that yuuji itadori was just some college boy you’d brought home one drunken night – to act as a salve for the burns your childhood best friend had left on you.

it's a temporary fix, yuuji’s tongue laps at your wounds – pleasures you with teeth and tongue until your head is light and you’re almost too dizzy to think properly. in the moment, he felt good, he took care of you…but he wasn’t who you wanted. he wasn’t yuuta.

was it bad that you basked in the jealous rage and attention the brunette had bathed you in? drowning you in a barrage of text messages  the morning after you’d slept with itadori, when yuuta finally had the chance to listen to the voicemail you’d left by accident. it was the most you’d gotten out of him in the months you’d been separated.

yuuta - 7:16AM: hey…did you mean to send that? call me when you’re up.

yuuta - 7:45AM: i don’t think i was supposed to hear that…

yuuta - 8:34AM: who’s yuuji?

yuuta - 8:36AM: are you seeing someone? call me please.

yuuta - 8:57AM: pick up the phone.

yuuta - 9:21AM: it’s not funny anymore. i’m worried. pick up.

you answer your phone around noon, having given yourself the space to think over cooking a hang-over breakfast for yuuji. the sounds of spitting oil underneath frying eggs had provided the soundtrack to your thoughts – helped you pick and choose the words you would say to yuuta before your companion slips out of your apartment and you tell him to grab a pastry from your cafe downstairs on his way out. a little thank you for the night you’d shared.

“what the hell was that?” is the first thing yuuta snarls down the line once your call connects.

you shift your phone in your grasp, as if his seething tone has scorched the palm of your hand. “are we past greetings or somethin’, yuu?” you fail to admit that it hurts you, starting the call without his tender and caring ‘hello’, you feel like an enemy on the battlefield to okkotsu, rather than his friend.

“i think we are well past that, especially with the kind of voice messages you’ve been leaving me.” he says it like he’s disgusted with you, when he really just misses you. craves you. he’s angry at himself and for letting you slip between his fingers into the grasp of another man. not at you. never at you. but even cell phone lines connecting calls from across the globe can’t properly convey the way yuuta feels. “what’s going on with you? why are you acting like this? we haven’t spoken in weeks and you–?”

“why is what i do any of your business anymore, yuuta?” you snap through his flurry of questions, growing heated yourself. “i accidentally left you a voicemail of me fucking someone, that doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with me.”

“you’re just… not like this. we don’t speak and all of a sudden…y-you’re different!”

you clutch the phone tighter, swallowing thickly. “and who’s fault is that? let me answer that for you. it’s yours. you’re the one who got a girlfriend and left me in the dust. not the other way around!” you argue, trying to sound stern and steady though yuuta can hear the wobble to your words loud and clear. “you shouldn’t have listened, you should have called. you let the distance become a problem between us.”

he scoffs, an action so unlike your best friend. “we’re not children anymore! you should have talked to me about the distance!” 

“i couldn't!” you defend yourself, desperate for the pain in your heart to be heard for once. “you were finally happy again yuuta! that mattered to me—“ 

“you think i'm happy about hearing my best friend get…defiled over the phone?” 

“well you should be! it means I’m not hung up on you anymore, that i’m moving on from being in love with you! leaving you so that you can be happy in your new life!” 

the silence from yuuta’s end of the phone is both too loud and too deafening. 

“you…loved me?” he whispers, switching back to that same sweet tone he always used when it came to you. “why didn’t you say?”

your stupid little confession, the one you’d been holding back for more than half your life, sips out before you can catch it with the tip of your tongue and you instantly feel terrible for weaponizing your crush on okkotsu against him. at least that’s what it feels like you’ve done. “i never told you…because i’m not selfish, yuuta,” you stutter out, your face hot with oncoming and flustered tears. “i-i'm not a selfish person. i wouldn’t sacrifice our friendship or your happiness, not just because i loved you.”

yuuta says your name, but blood rushes through your ears in embarrassment – way too fast for you to catch it, and you hang up before you can humiliate yourself any further.

before you can hear him say that he loves you too.

voicemail #7 - “open up, i'm coming home. please be here when I’m home.” 

the number you have dialled is unavailable, please try again later.

after the slip of your tongue and confession to yuuta— he was met with radio silence. you’d blocked him on every form of social media possible and he couldn’t even blame you. you wanted to be free from him, from that silly and imaginary red string that had kept you tied to his soul for all of these years. it hurt to think when everything reminded you of him, so you buried yourself in your cafe and worked yourself to death because even the sweet relief from life would be better than living without your best friend. 

gojo had stopped by and taken you to the hospital twice since you’d worked yourself into exhaustion — tonight was no different, sentenced to bed rest by your ex-professor and the best doctor he could find. he always did look out for his students.

sleeping your sadness away had caused you to miss a barrage of yuuta’s calls — if you’d picked up you’d have known that he was coming home. coming home for you. in the wake of your love confession, okkotsu had realised how much he needed you and how much he loved you. you had never left his side, no matter what yuuta had been through, and now, nothing feels right without you. 

so he broke up with his girlfriend, took leave from his job and flew halfway across the world for you — to give his message in person. 

it’s near midnight by the time yuuta gets back to japan, the warm yellow of the streetlights illuminating the path right up to your apartment after getting out of the uber. there’s a spare house key, glinting gold, hidden under your cupcake shaped doormat just as yuuta remembers and he uses it to slip inside — dumping his bag and kicking his shoes off at the entryway. his socked feet locate the bedroom with ease, perhaps drawn by your aura and the anticipation of seeing you again.

and there you are, so close yet so far away — your face peaceful and painted with an adorable expression of slumber. okkotsu notes the way your chest slowly rises and falls, the crease between your brow as if you’re having a bad dream. he could fix it… whatever’s plaguing your sleeping mind, he knows that he can, because whenever you touch each other, it’s like your bodies know to relax and that they’re safe.

tiptoeing deeper into the room, the brunette slinks up to the side of your bed and the mattress dips underneath the weight of his knee as he seats himself beside you. you’re so beautiful, so calm. he doesn’t know how he went his whole life without choosing you, choosing other people over you time and time again. “i love you,” yuuta whispers into the dead of the night, brushing a thumb and forefinger over the apple of your cheek — hesitating when you roll into his body heat. “i love you. i’m so sorry.” he says again, while pressing a feather light kiss to that same spot. 

his breath hitches when you reach for him this time, grabbing at the man in your sleep.

yuuta kisses you again, but on your forehead. then your other cheek, your chin, your inner wrists and finally — your lips. each brush of his own against you is increasingly feverish, pouring unspoken emotions into them as he quietly utters the words ‘i love you.’ over and over again. he feels like he has something to prove, as if the brunette has to show you how much he cares for you — leaving a trail of sweet smooches between the valley of your breasts from over your night-shirt to between your thighs that spill out of the loose material.

he only hopes that this is enough for you to forgive him, for you to love him back like he does you.

your best friend… or ex best friend really should feel bad about this, teething on the swell of your thighs— his fingertips sinking into their apex to pry you apart for him. you could end up hating him more for this, yuuta’s slick and drool stained tongue rolling over the seam at the crotch of your panties hungrily, softly as if to test the waters. he takes it as a good sign when your face contorts with pleasure even in your sleep and slots his entire mouth against the sweet treasure between your legs— sucking the juices from the fabric of your underwear.

you taste so good and he’s not even got you properly wet yet. yuuta’s next move is to hook two fingers over the garment to pull it aside — revealing your twitching hot cunt to the cool night air in your bedroom. even your scent is divine, enticing just as you’ve always been and the brunette can’t believe he was too blind to see it before. he presses a chase kiss to your clit, feeling it pulse to life against his lips before said kisses become open mouthed and sloppy— tongue diving into the tightness of your little hole, circling it to flick your flavour back into his mouth. 

his movements start slow, tenderly testing which spots inside your pretty little cunt make you sigh out contently while you slumber but the wetter you get, the sloppier yuuta becomes — lapping at your sex and your clit in eager movements like a kitten at a bowl of milk. you only stir awake when his fingers travel up to grip onto your ass and tug your pussy onto his face, guiding you up and down on his writhing tongue like he’s fucking you for real.

“y-yuu?” you grumble, still finding your footing in the reality of consciousness. “whas’ h-happenin’… oh my god—!”  the questions you have for the mop of hair between your legs, groaning like a starved man into there too, taper into an angelic moan. pretty and airy, like music to yuuta’s ears. once you come to and fully realise what’s going on, your fingers slip into the roots of his hair and your hips buck into his mouth instinctively — even though you should be pissed. even though you should be screaming at him and kicking him off. you can’t help it that this is what you’ve always wanted. that you’ve always wanted him.

“w-what are you doing here?” you manage to ask through a whine, brain fogging up at the way yuuta’s tongue runs laps over your swelling clit. 

he pulls off of you with a lewd pop that makes both of you shudder, two of his slender digits easily sliding into you where his tongue once was — guided by spit and slick. “i came home for you. i love you,” your best friend doesn’t have time to formulate proper reasoning, drunk on your saccharine flavour  like you’re the finest wine he’s ever had the honour of tasting. “f-fuck, i-i missed you.”

yuuta gives you those big puppy dog eyes as he curls his digits inside of you and hits spots you can't quite reach on your own. you should be talking about your feelings not fucking through them but you’ve missed him so much and need him so bad. both of you groan in unison when he brushes over your g-spot, your hips jumping up and his grinding down into your silky sheets. 

“missed you too,” you breathe and yank him up by the hair to meet your lips — making out with him feverishly, swapping the words your mind can’t seem to force you to say, pouring the mixed emotions into him as he finger fucks your tight little hole like his life depends on it.

every movement you make with one another is sloppy and uncoordinated, tongues doused in one another’s saliva— saliva that tastes like you. your moans mingle in the hot and heavy air and you clench down on yuuta’s fingers as they pump in and out of you, his palm slapping against your folds while you leak into the seat of his palm. 

“are you close?” yuuta slurs into your mouth so quietly you almost miss it underneath the lewd sound of your pussy. “i want to make you cum, show you how much i love you.”

blood rushes through your ears, heat pin pricking like needles under your skin. “y-yes. p-please yuu…” 

his thumb dragging smooth circles over the pulsating bud between your blooming pussy lips is all you need to trip over the edge into your high— the knots in your lower tummy unwinding faster than you can register, waves of your nectar flowing from your cunt onto the sheets below and soiling yuuta’s hand right up to his wrist. 

your head tips back into a high pitched squeal, eyes locked away and rolling back while you damn near black out from your orgasm. but your best friend is right there like he should be, sucking love-bites into your neck to ground you. dark tresses of yuuta’s chocolate-like hair tickle at your tingling flesh while he manoeuvres himself between your legs and shifts his pants down enough to let his rock hard cock spring free. 

“c-can you take me now?” he pleads more than he asks, brown and warm eyes trembling with need, anticipation. “i don’t think i’ll last long and i need you.” 

you feel him press at your entrance, his angry red tip glistening with opaque beads of precum— yuuta softly ruts his hips against you, smearing…claiming you with his own essence while he waits for your consent. “i’ve always needed you, yuuta.” you say breathlessly, giving him a small grin and nod when he looks up from drooling against your neck. 

that’s all the go ahead he needs before his thick girth pushes all the way into you at once — weighty and temperate against your ribbed and creamy walls. “‘ohmyfuckinggod,” he whimpers wetly against you. “y-you’re so tight wrapped around me. so perfect i—“ 

“move, yuuta. fuck me, please,” you remind him, tugging on his air and crossing your ankles at the base of his spine. 

“y-yeah okay…g-god you’re so good. so sweet ‘n tight.” with that, he draws his hips back — hesitant at first. brown eyes watch your face for any signs of discomfort and yuuta’s lust driven instincts take the lead when he only notices how blissed out you look. your pretty lips are agasp, forming a pleasure-filled ‘o’ as you mewl and claw at his half-clothed shoulders. “i love you, o-oh god!”

all you can do is whimper in response, fingers drifting up to the nape of yuuta’s neck to tangle in his dark locks— tugging him into you as if it’ll make him hit deeper, churn up your guts and make you see stars. “y-you’re stupid…” you manage to get out, the warmth of your breath glossing his lips as if to taunt your best friend with a kiss. 

“i know…” calloused fingers grab at the backs of your thighs with a bruising grip before yuuta pushes your legs towards your shoulders, both of you grunting and whining in unison when you tighten around him at the new angle. gushing sweet juices that paint his stomach and pelvis.

“y-you shouldn’t have left me,” tears start to brim, collecting in your lash line like diamonds before they hit your cheeks.

you’re so beautiful like this, even when you’re crying— when you’re crying because you’re fucked up on his cock, claiming it with your cream as ur clings to his balls and the veins that spital down his length. 

yuuta’s red hot tip nudges against the soft and squishy spots along your sensitive walls, keeping his thrusts at a rhythmic and passionate pace to make sure the only thing you feel is heaven on earth. your pussy is hot and warm and heaven-like around him, sucking him in so selfishly and tightening every time yuuta’s strong abs grind against your puffy clit. 

“i know,” he sighs dreamily and with an airy voice, licking a stripe from your chin to your cheek as a tear streaks it’s way down it. “won't ever leave you again,” his fingers touch at your face, sinking into the softness of your cheeks as he drags you up to face him. “i’ll never leave you again.” 

“never?” you ask, hiccuping.

“never.” he moans.

you see it there, the love glittering amongst the almond flecks in your childhood best friend’s eyes — he means it, he promises it and you can feel it with every roll of yuuta’s hips into you while he pins you to the bed. he makes love to you and says what he needs to through his actions this time. through your tangled mess of sweaty limbs and fluttering lashes you find okkotsu’s hand, linking them together. 

the sight of your hands meeting one another brings emotions bubbling to the surface of your skin, hot to yuuta’s touch — it's a symbol that you’ve finally come together after being worlds apart for so long. “you’re finally mine, ‘m never letting you go,” his warm breath coasts across the seam of your lips before he dips into kiss you— tongue gliding over yours as it pushes into the depths of your mouth just as his cock does, brushing up against your g-spot and just  kissing your cervix. “you’re always going to be mine.” 

“i-i’m yours,” your eyes roll back and yuuta loses his pace, his entire body twitching the closer you both get. sex taints the air, both in sound and scent, your cunt squelching around him with how wet you are and how much he leaks into you. “g-gonna cum, yuu! make me cum, make me fucking cum.”  you slur out, anchoring the man down to you with your arms around his neck until yuuta’s forehead is pressed against yours. sweaty locks of his hair and all.

yuuta’s body collapses against you and his thrusts switch to sensual grinds that never let up on your spongey g-spot. “f-fuck me, b-baby. ‘m cummin’,” he croons, panting against your lips and with one, two, three more pumps you’re squirting all over him— the pressure unwinds in your lower belly and you’re hit with blinding white lights and your nails dig into yuuta’s shoulder to the point where you leave bright red crescent moons. “that’s it baby, cum for me, make a mess for me. show me you love me— fuck!” 

you’re still trembling with the aftershocks with your orgasm when the brunette follows suit — the warmth of his seed floods your quivering cunt, painting your folds an opaque white before yuuta pulls out. the last droplets of his cum hit your soft tummy accompanied by his high pitched whine  and then he crumples against you, exhausted from the height of it all. 

“i love you so much,” yuuta hums against your skin, pressing a gentle kiss to your shoulder. “it’s always been you.” 

“i love you,” you affirm, knowing that no matter what distance is put between you and your best friend (now lover) — you’ll always find your way back to each other. 

꒰ end. — all rights reserved © tteokdoroki 2024. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.

[aeralux]

"Hard To Resist" - Cregan Stark

Summary: Betrothed to the one and only Cregan Stark. Your first meeting with him luckily goes better than expected.

Content warning: smut, oral (f! receiving)

-- aera xx

As a proper Lady of the North, your fate had long been determined before you learned to walk. Your father and brothers had found the perfect match for you, another northerner. “A proper man,” as they described him. Big, burly, and rough. Those were the only descriptive words you knew of him, not nearly enough to draw a picture of your betrothed.

Alas, the day to meet your future Lord husband has arrived. You were doing everything in your power to calm your nerves. Like playing with your wolves, Wane and Cusp, even resorting to having a strong drink. Nothing seemed to work. For a moment, you were contemplating escape and riding off into the distance with your wolves.

Your daydream was interrupted by your eldest brother knocking on your door. The loud sound startled you. 

“Yes?" You asked, fearing that your soon-to-be husband had arrived. “Open up, dearest,” your brother answered with his usual affectionate nickname for you. Being almost 20 years your elder, he had become a second father figure to you than a brother.

"Come in, Arthur,” you answered, sadness evident in your voice. "My dearest sister, this should be a joyful day. Not a sad one," he tried cheering you up but to no avail.

How was one supposed to be happy when being married off to a stranger? "Easy for you to say. You got to choose who you married. And you knew your wife beforehand," you complained to your brother, getting pissed off. "I refuse to be treated as a broodmare and be sent off to some hairy northerner," already on the verge of tears, fuming. "My dear sister, it is your responsibility to strengthen the bond between our families, and you are fully aware of this."

You scowl, looking down at your feet. "I am well aware of my responsibilities and duties. It seems like that is all I was born for. To marry some Lord that I have never met, all for the greater good." Your tantrum was cut off by the sound of marching hooves.

The Starks have arrived. You looked at your brother with big eyes, feeling vulnerable and scared. "It will be alright, sister. You are beautiful, bright and cunning. He will take good care of you," he caressed your arms, trying to soothe your nerves. "Now let us go. Father and Albert are probably outside already, greeting our guests. And your soon-to-be husband," Arthur smirked at you, but his words only made you feel more uneasy.

You began walking downstairs, Arthur protectively placing a hand around your shoulders. As you reached the front door, you took a deep breath. "I'm ready," you said as you looked at your older brother. "Excellent!" he said before the guards pushed the massive entrance doors to reveal your eventual Lord husband.

Your breath caught in your throat upon seeing him. He was indeed big, burly, and rough but also wildly handsome. Cregan Stark looked every part of the "King of the North" title. Tall, muscular, and rugged. A true warrior. He studied you as he took in his first sight of you. Cregan had a stern look on his face, and as you met his grey eyes, you felt a shiver run down your spine. You walked over to him and curtsied. "Hello, Lord Stark. I am Lady (y/n). My family and I welcome you to our lands."

Cregan nodded his head respectfully. “Thank you, my lady.” He then stepped forward and took your hand in a firm, but not uncomfortably tight, grip. He raised your knuckles to his lips and planted a light kiss on them. “You look lovely,” he said before looking up to meet your gaze. You couldn’t help but blush, hearing soft words from such a brute man. Cregan smirked faintly, as he observed your cheeks tint with a light shade of pink. He found it amusing, how he could make you blush with a simple statement like that.

Cregan greeted your parents and brothers, giving each a strong handshake. “Arthur good to see you again,” Lord Stark said to your brother, giving him a tight smile that your brother returned.

“If the Lords find it fit, I would like to speak to my Lady in private,” boomed Cregan’s deep voice, gesturing to your father and two older brothers. Your father and brothers looked at each other before nodding in agreement. You didn’t say anything in return and led him to your castle's library. The library was modest, with big windows yet little light due to your House being far up in the North. At least you would feel at home in Winterfell, you thought.

“Here,” you walked into the library, waiting for him to follow suit. Cregan followed you as you walked to the library. He couldn't deny that his eyes were glued to your backside as you walked ahead, his gaze slowly running over the curves of your hips. Once you reached the library, you gestured for him to step inside, and he closed the doors behind him. You were alone now. Just the two of you, in the quiet, empty, library. Cregan glanced around the large room for a moment, before his grey eyes settled on you once again. He then smirked faintly and leaned back against one of the bookshelves, crossing his arms over his muscular chest as he regarded you. “Now I believe we should get to know one another, don’t you think?” He said, his voice coming out in a low tone.

“Oh? Yes, yes, of course,” you were a bit surprised by his boldness, but it made you smile nonetheless. Cregan chuckled, finding your slight smile rather adorable. He pushed away from the bookshelf and began to slowly close the distance between the two of you.

“Now, I want you to be entirely truthful with me, my lady.” He said as he stopped just in front of you. He was much taller, towering over you. “Tell me, what do you think of me, at this very moment?” Cregan’s gaze wandered over your face, studying every feature. The way your hair fell, the contour of your nose, the shape of your lips, the length of your eyelashes. He couldn’t help but think you looked absolutely beautiful. The boldness of his question took you back. “Well… seeing as I do not know much about your personality. At this very moment, I would say that you are handsome. My brother was right when he said that you are the very picture of a Northern man. And I must say that I am rather pleased with whom my brother decided to betroth me to,” you look down blushing, not wanting to see his reaction to the last part.

A smirk tugged on the corners of Cregan’s lips as your cheeks flushed pink once again, and you kept looking down. He found it amusing how he was able to make you blush so easily, and he took a step even closer, barely leaving any space between the two of you.

“Quite pleased, you say?” He repeated, his voice coming out in a low, teasing tone. “Now tell me, do you say that simply to flatter me, or are you being entirely truthful, my lady?”

“I do not care for lying my Lord, I will always speak the truth,” you smiled at him, finally daring to look him in the eyes.

Cregan chuckled lowly, enjoying the sound of your voice saying the words “my Lord”.  “I like that about you. I can’t stand liars.”

He then raised a hand and gently lifted your chin with his index finger, forcing you to look up and meet his eyes once more. His thumb gently stroked over your lower lip. “And you certainly wouldn’t lie about thinking that I’m handsome, now would you?”

Your breath got caught in your throat when he gently touched your lip. Goosebumps rise on your skin. “No, of course not,” you muttered quietly. Cregan chuckled. “I know you wouldn’t, my lady.” He leaned in slightly, the distance between the two of you even smaller now. His face was only mere inches from yours now. He kept your chin raised with his thumb, slowly running the digit over the smooth skin. “You’re honest. I like that.” Another low chuckle came from him, as he slowly leaned even closer, his breath now warm and hot against your skin.

You tried to keep your composure but having him so close was making you slowly lose your self-control. “Arthur didn’t mention anything about me?” You asked upon hearing his words. Didn’t your brother mention what kind of a woman you were?

Cregan shook his head. “He didn’t.” He ran his fingers through strands of your hair before continuing. “He simply told me you were a good fit for a Lord. That you would be a proper Lady of Winterfell. That you could hold your own in the North... and make a good mother one day.”

A smirk tugged on his lips once again as he continued to twist your hair around his fingers. “What he failed to mention, however, is how gorgeous you truly are.”

I chuckled. “Well, I guess it would be unforeseen of my brother to call his own younger sister gorgeous.”

“I suppose you’re right.” Cregan laughed faintly, enjoying the sound of your laugh.

He stepped even closer, and gently pushed you backwards to press you up against one of the bookshelves. He gently ran his hands down the sides of your arms, running his calloused fingertips over your smooth skin. “He also neglected to mention how I would have to keep you away from all other men in the North…”

“You think I can’t hold my own?” You asked in a teasing tone, tilting your head.

Cregan chuckled, the low sound making your stomach flip. He found your attitude entertaining, the little smirk on your lips, the way you tilted your head. He took a moment to study your face with his gaze; the long, delicate eyelashes that framed your eyes, the way your lips curved into that little smirk. “Oh, I’m sure you can.” He said, his smirk widening. “But I don’t want other men to even think about how utterly ravishing you are.”

“I don’t see how that would matter, as you would be the only one doing the ravishing, no?” You smirked, joking ofcourse. But Cregan didn’t seem to take it as lightly.

His smirk grew wider at your reply. He liked this slightly bratty, sassy side of yours. It was a nice change, as most women he interacted with tended to swoon in his presence. He took another step forward, completely closing the space between the two of you and trapping you between his body and the bookshelf. He leaned in, his face barely a centimeter away from yours as he whispered in a low, silky tone. “Careful with those words, my lady. They might tempt me to do more.”

“And as much as I would love nothing more. That will be saved for later.” You said in a sultry tone, control slipping from your grasp. Resting a hand softly on his strong and sturdy chest.

Cregan’s smirk turned into a small, amused smile at your reply. He knew you were right; it would hardly be proper to do anything too inappropriate in this library. He then looked down at your hand, resting on his chest as you spoke. He gently picked it up and interlaced it with his, bringing it up to his mouth to plant a light kiss on your knuckles. “I suppose you’re right…” he said, his lips gently brushing over your skin, “As much as I would very much love to.”

You blushed and yet again looked down. His words make your stomach flip, pleasure shooting right to your core.

“Although I did have a question for you, my Lord. Will my two wolves be able to make permanent residence in your castle? I have grown far too attached.”

A small, amused smile tugged on Cregan’s lips at your question. He was a tad surprised that you’d even ask him that; he’d assumed you would’ve brought them with you anyway.

“Of course, you can bring them. I expected you would bring them along. After all, how is Lady of Winterfell supposed to get along without her dire-wolves?” He said with a slight chuckle.

All you could do in response was smile shyly. His demeanor so different when with you.

Cregan smirked faintly, finding your shy smile endearing. He also found it a bit peculiar, that a northern woman would be shy. In his experience, northern girls usually were quite forward, even brash, whereas it seemed he was making you nervous. He kept his hand firmly grasping yours, gently squeezing it as he spoke, his eyes locking with yours. “I have a question for you, too, my lady.” He took a step forward, closing the already small space between the two of you even further. He now had you completely pressed up against the bookshelf as he spoke in a low, deep tone. “You said you were ‘quite pleased’ with me, after taking me in… but I want to know. Are you truly content, with the idea of marrying me?”

You found his question odd, considering men usually didn’t care much for a woman’s opinion on the betrothal. But you answered nonetheless.

“Yes. I am. Why would I not? I trust who my brother and father picked for me.” 

Cregan smirked faintly as you answered, his lips still over your knuckles. He liked the way your soft skin felt underneath them, and he wanted nothing more than to kiss more of you.

He looked back up at your face, and gently brought his free hand up to your chin, lifting it slightly so you were looking directly into his eyes.

“Just ‘yes’? No other answer?” He teased with a slight smile, his thumb gently caressing your jawline.

His touch sent shivers down your spine, cursing yourself for feeling so weak from a man’s simple touch.

“What would you like me to say then?” You asked breathlessly, mind starting to go blank.

Cregan chuckled lowly as he gently tugged you even closer. You were now pressed against him, his broad, muscular chest completely enclosing you. “Perhaps I’d like you to give me a different response. Maybe tell me…”

He began to slowly and carefully lower his lips to your jawline, planting gentle kisses along it before moving to your ear and whispering.

“How much you want me…”

Hearing his provocative words, you threw all caution out the window. “What if I just… showed you,” you replied as you gently placed your hand from his chest onto his cheek, pulling him closer. Planting a soft kiss on his lips.

Cregan’s eyes darkened as you planted a delicate kiss on his lips. He couldn’t help the feeling of desire that began to ignite within him. He was taken by surprise at your bold move. He would have assumed you were shy, but here you were, taking the initiative. Cregan quickly got over the momentary shock and decided to match your boldness. He deepened the kiss, tilting his head to the side to get a better angle. He then wrapped his arms around your waist and pulled you flush against his large form, completely pressing you against the bookshelf.

You let out a quiet mewl, feeling his strong hands around you. His rough touches turning you on. He chuckled at the sound of your mewl and quickly decided he wanted to hear more of them. His hands slowly traveled down over your hips and to your thighs, which he grabbed a hold of firmly and lifted you, easily manhandling you to pin you against the bookshelf. He kept his body pressed flush against yours and continued to hungrily kiss you, his hands still holding your thighs.

You let out a breathy gasp, your hands immediately going to rest on his shoulders as he lifted you.

Cregan smirked faintly at the sound of your gasp, the sound making his lust for you grow, he let his hands slowly slide up your thighs to your ass, grabbing a firm hold of it.

You continued to make quiet sounds of pleasure, the desire to have him only growing in you.

Cregan found himself growing more and more addicted to the small noises you continued to make. He found them adorable, and it only encouraged him to kiss you even more passionately. He pushed his body even closer to yours, as close as he possibly could, and began to kiss down your neck and collarbone.

Your mouth fell open as he did that and you couldn’t help but moan his name.

“Cregan,” you whimpered.

Hearing you moan his name for the first time almost made him grow feral. He loved the way it sounded, the way it rolled off your tongue. He continued to slowly drag his lips down your neck, nibbling on the sensitive skin.

“Again.” He breathed out against your skin, his grip on your thighs and ass tightening. “Say my name again.”

You started to feel dizzy the way he was sucking purple marks onto your neck. Letting out a gasp.

“Cregan…please” You whined and begged him, not even knowing for what. Your mind was already foggy with arousal.

Cregan smirked faintly at the way you moaned his name, the way you begged him. He knew exactly what you were craving, even if you did not, and placed another kiss on your neck, letting his tongue slowly drag against your skin before pulling back slightly to look into your eyes.

"Please, what, my Lady?" He asked in a low, teasing tone, his hands digging into your flesh.

Your breath stuttered as you felt him drag his tongue across your neck, hips involuntarily bucking against his.

Cregan let out a low growl as he felt your hips buck against him. He was barely able to remain in control of himself, resisting the urge to completely rip your clothes off and take you right there in the library.

He placed a final kiss on your neck before speaking, his words coming out in a low, rumbling growl. “You are going to be the death of me, aren’t you, little wolf?”

You whined pathetically, hoping that no one could hear the inappropriate scene that was going on.

He took ahold of your hips and started moving them against his. You pulled him into a rough and passionate kiss, giving his hair an experimental tug. To your surprise, Cregan seemed to enjoy it, letting out a low growl.

He quickly moved you to a nearby sofa, laying you down. He was almost desperate in his moves, needing to take you as soon as possible. 

He opened his eyes again, looking down at you with darkened eyes. He was no longer trying to hold back, no longer trying to rein in his desire for you. He needed you, and he was going to have you, right there in the library if that’s what it took.

“I need you, little wolf.”

"Is it that hard to resist me?" You giggled. Your teasing only egging him on.

Cregan huffed at your words, his eyes narrowing slightly. He could tell you were enjoying taunting him. He could see the smirk on your face.

“It’s very difficult.” He admitted, his tone was low and strained as if it was taking all his willpower not to just fuck you until you could no longer walk.

“I don’t like to be patient.” He added with a slight growl, his hands moving up your dress skirts, bunching them around your waist before sitting down on his knees in front of you. Letting his hands caress your now exposed thighs.

You covered your mouth to stop the whines from spilling out your lips. His light touches kept traveling upwards, getting closer and closer to your cunt. You couldn't help but shiver in arousal and anticipation, needing his mouth on your heat already.

Cregan started placing light kisses near your chemise, looking up at you for permission. When you nodded your head, Cregan pulled them down forcefully.

"Soaked already, my Lady?" He questioned and smirked, cockiness in his voice.

You didn't even get a chance to respond before you felt his mouth on folds. Licking at your wetness like a man starved. All he got in response from you were loud whines. He began to suck on your clit, doing everything in his power to draw more moans from you. Pressing kisses on your slit and opening, flicking his tongue over your pussy over and over again, swirling his tongue over your sensitive bud, your thighs began shaking.

"Ohh, Gods, Cregan!" You moaned like a whore, his tongue bringing you closer to your release.

At that, Cregan began to move his tongue quicker, adding two fingers into your pussy, working you open.

"Ahh!" You couldn't help but moan loudly at that, his big fingers stretching you open deliciously. You began to move your hips against his fingers and face, trying to get your dripping cunt even closer to him.

"Mm, just like that, ride my fingers," Cregan mumbled against your cunt, the vibrations almost sending you over the edge.

He curled his fingers expertly against your soft spot, starting to go faster.

All he wanted right now was your sweet release to coat his lips. After all, there is no nectar sweeter than your wife's cunt. At least that's what Cregan thought.

When you arched your back and let out a loud moan, he knew he hit the right spot.

"Faster! Please let me cum!"

Cregan was surprised by your bold words but couldn't deny that they turned him on even more. Knowing that you were desperate for him.

Cregan began pumping his fingers into you even faster, his erection already painfully pressing into his breeches. He will deal will that later, right now he was focusing on getting his Lady to come all over his face.

With a pointed tongue, he began to quickly flick your clit. Your legs trembling around his face, he couldn't help but smirk. It felt like he was splitting you open with his fingers, the pain of the stretch only adding to your pleasure, whines, and moans spilling from your mouth.

"Ohh, I'm... I'm so close, make me cum, please" You begged your soon-to-be husband, clamping your thighs around him.

He hummed against your cunt, and his movements became sloppy, his own arousal making him feel dizzy.

As he felt your cunt begin to pulse around his fingers, he knew you were close. Cregan gave a final few sucks to your pearl, and that is what threw you off the edge.

You came with a loud moan, your legs shaking and hips bucking against his face. 

Cregan kept thrusting his fingers in you, working you through your release. When he pulled away from your cunt you saw how his face glistened with your juices and his spit. The sight so erotic and lewd.

You still felt the aftershocks of your orgasm, your body shivering.

"Your cunt tastes divine, my Lady. I can't wait to enjoy this every single night." Cregan said with a smirk, placing wet kisses on your thigh to calm you down.

You gave him a lazy smile and leaned down to kiss him, tasting your release on his tongue.

"Hey! You might want to save some for the wedding night!" Came your brother's voice from the other side of the door.

Author's note: This was quite literally my first smut so if it feels rushed, weird etc., it is probably because of that. Although I did enjoy writing it. Any feedback would be appreciated. THANK YOUU MWAHH!!!

[boldchaoswhite]

Ominis Gaunt HCs

𝐇𝐞𝐲 𝐇𝐞𝐲! 𝐒𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐲 𝐇𝐂𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐎𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐬!

(Don't come for me if you don't agree with some of them, these are just how I think he would be like.) These aren't really categorized (Sorry, I tried to categorize them but some are in the wrong spots but i don't really care these came out over time and got posted here.) Sebastian's are here! Divider by: @cafekitsune Enjoy!

In General:

Ominis loves the sound of your heartbeat. Sometimes, he’ll lay his head against your chest, letting the steady rhythm soothe him. 

The idea of him opting out of using his wand as an excuse to feel your touch is so cute to me! Sometimes he occasionally ‘forgets’ his wand somewhere and asks you to lead him, especially if it’s been a long day, and he just needs comfort.

He likes to squeeze your hand twice for yes and once for no if you’re hesitant on saying yes or no for something, because he likes to help guide you and stuff that you’re hesitant about if you are hesitant about stuff like that, it’s his way of helping you since you ‘help’ him. 

And sometimes. (Sometimes meaning like 5% lol) he will be the type to make little grabby hands but only when it’s around you two cause he really really wants to feel your hands or like feel somewhere on your body and it’s just so adorable that you can’t say no.

He knows exactly where his food is but loves pretending he’s helpless just to get you to guide his hand or feed him. Sometimes, he’ll dramatically sigh and say, “Oh no, I’ve completely missed my plate. I am in desperate need of help.” with a cheeky grin.

When you do help him, (yet, you will have a smile/annoyed look on your face) he’ll have the BIGGEST SMILE on his face and say something like, “Ah, my savior. How would I survive without you?” (Now THAT would make you blush and smile.) 

Sometimes, if he’s feeling overwhelmed or overstimulated, he’ll sit close to you and lean his head against your shoulder, staying completely silent but finding peace in your presence.

When he senses you’re upset, he will pull you into his lap, sit you between his legs, and he’ll cup your face in his hands; thumbs brushing gently over your cheeks.

“Talk to me,” his voice was low and earnest. If you can’t find the words, he’ll just hold you like that, forehead resting against yours, his silence speaking volumes.

Ominis has a way of saying your name that makes it sound like poetry. When he’s feeling extra affectionate, he’ll pull you close and murmur it softly, over and over, like it’s his favorite word in the world.

Ominis sometimes unconsciously seeks you out in his sleep. Whether it’s his hand resting on yours or his body curling around you, he always finds a way to stay connected. 

One night, you woke up to him softly mumbling your name, his hand searching for yours. When you laced your fingers together, he relaxed instantly, a small smile tugging at his lips even in his sleep.

He’ll ask you to describe things to him (not just the physical, but the emotional.) “What does the sunset look like today? How does it make you feel?” Your words paint vivid pictures for him, and he hangs onto every detail.

You’ll make a genuine effort to describe things for him, but sometimes you get too flustered and stumble over your words. “It’s, um… it’s like a sunset, but with… more gold? And, uh… less red?” He finds your attempts adorable and will encourage you with a smile: “I’m sure it’s beautiful. You’re doing great.”

Ominis has a habit of playing with your hands absentmindedly, rubbing circles into your palms or interlacing your fingers with his. “Your hands feel like home,” he confesses one day, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. “They’re the one place I always want to be.”

Ominis has a memory like a vault when it comes to you. He remembers the smallest details—your favorite scent, the way you hum when you’re thinking, the way your hand feels in his. 

When you’re not around, Ominis lights up whenever someone mentions your name. He can’t help but gush about you, his voice soft and full of admiration. 

Ominis sometimes has moments of insecurity where he worries he’s holding you back. “You deserve someone who can give you everything,” he admits quietly, his grip on your hand tightening. When you reassure him, he pulls you into his arms, burying his face in your shoulder.

Ominis isn’t the type to make a big scene, but if someone so much as raises their voice at you, his usually calm demeanor turns ice cold. He’ll step closer to you, his brows furrowed, and his voice will lower to a dangerously/cold calm tone.

When he senses someone’s making you uncomfortable, his entire body shifts to protect you. He’ll place a hand on your arm, stepping slightly in front of you as if to block you from harm. His voice becomes firm, but his touch remains gentle.

If he ever has to step in to protect you, he worries you might be upset by his intensity.

If Sebastian ever teases you a little too harshly, Ominis won’t hesitate to cut him off with a sharp, “That’s enough, Sebastian.” He knows it’s all in good fun, but he doesn’t tolerate anyone—even his closest friend—making you uncomfortable.

If you’re hurt or in danger, Ominis doesn’t hold back his fear. He’ll frantically call your name, his wand shaking in his hand as he tries to find you. 

If his family ever disrespects or threatens you, Ominis is unrelenting. He’ll face them head-on, his tone sharp and unyielding. “You will not speak to them that way,” he’ll say, his usually soft voice full of steel. For you, he’s willing to risk everything, even the wrath of the Gaunt name

His protectiveness stems from the deep fear of losing you. He’s seen how cruel the world can be and is determined to shield you from it.

You’ll occasionally say things like, “Look at that!” or “Did you see what I just did?” before realizing and awkwardly backtracking. Ominis will just smirk and tease you: “Ah, yes, I saw it perfectly. The visuals were stunning.”

When you slip up and he teases you, you’ll pout and say, “I’m trying, okay? My brain moves faster than my mouth sometimes!” Ominis will gently take your hand, squeeze it, and say, “I know. And I love that you try.”

Despite your occasional slips, Ominis never gets upset because he knows you’re coming from a place of love and care.

You always try to include him in visual experiences, even if it means getting creative. During fireworks, you’ll press his hand against your chest so he can feel your heartbeat race as you describe the colors and shapes in vivid detail.

Whenever you get flustered about forgetting, he’ll teasingly say, “If you keep apologizing, I might start to think you enjoy feeling guilty.” His lightheartedness helps you laugh it off and move on.

Ominis loves that you don’t treat his blindness as a limitation. “You make me feel normal,” he’ll admit one day, his voice soft. “Like I’m not defined by what I can’t see.”

Ominis once told you, “I don’t care if you forget sometimes. It just means you’re focused on what’s important—us.”

You’re his biggest supporter, always encouraging him to step outside his comfort zone while never pushing too hard. “I know you can do this,” you’ll say softly, squeezing his hand. “And if you need me, I’ll be right here.”

Ominis sometimes worries that his blindness makes people overlook him, but you see him for who he truly is. You’ll whisper, “You’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever met,” and he knows you’re not just talking about his looks—you see his heart and soul.

You know how deeply he feels, so you’re careful with his emotions. You never take his love for granted and always make an effort to show him how much he means to you, whether it’s through words, actions, or simply being there when he needs you.

Even though he knows he can’t see, he still turns his head toward your voice or where he senses you might be, almost as if willing himself to see you. It breaks your heart a little every time, so you make sure to let him know you’re there by gently touching his arm or hand.

When you speak, he often tilts his head slightly, as if leaning closer to the sound of your words. It’s a subtle habit, but one that makes you feel like he’s giving you his full attention, even when he’s surrounded by distractions.

Whenever he successfully locates you by sound or instinct, he gives a small, triumphant smile. “Found you,” he’ll say softly, as if it’s a little victory.

Sometimes when you see his face, he has a big smile on his face from finding you, and you always think it's adorable.

He’s attuned to the way you move—the sound of your footsteps, the swish of your robes, even the rhythm of your breathing. He uses these cues to orient himself toward you, and it makes him feel comforted to know exactly where you are.

He’s memorized the sound of your movements so well that he can sometimes predict what you’re doing. “You’re pacing again,” he’ll say with a small smile, even when you haven’t said a word.

The Feels!

There are moments when he sits quietly, his head turned slightly in your direction, and you can tell he’s imagining what you look like.

Sometimes he gets frustrated, not with you, but with himself for not being able to do things as easily as he’d like. On rare occasions, he’ll mutter, “I just wish I could look at you without having to ask where you are.” You’re quick to reassure him, holding his face gently and reminding him that he’s perfect just the way he is.

If he’s in a noisy or chaotic environment, he’ll instinctively reach for you. The sound of your voice and the touch of your hand become his anchor, calming him when everything else feels too much.

Sometimes, late at night, he’ll confess quietly, “I hate that I can’t see you. I want to know the color of your eyes when you’re happy or the way your face looks when you laugh.” He feels like he’s missing out on such an important part of loving you, and it eats at him more than he lets on.

Even though he’s fiercely independent, there are moments when his blindness frustrates him to the point of despair. He’ll sit in silence, gripping his wand tightly, feeling like a burden for needing help sometimes.

Ominis struggles with feeling like he deserves happiness. 

“Why would someone like you love someone like me?” he’s asked, his voice full of disbelief and sadness. No matter how much you reassure him, part of him always wonders if you’d be happier with someone else.

Growing up in the Gaunt family was isolating and terrifying. He rarely talks about it, but when he does, the pain is palpable. “I used to sit in my room for hours, hoping someone would come looking for me,” he admits. “No one ever did.”

(this one is a big SOMETIMES for me. It just came across in a dream I had a while ago…)While he appreciates your help, he despises being pitied. The thought of anyone, even you, seeing him as weak or incapable cuts him deeply. If he senses even a hint of pity in your tone, he’ll withdraw and put up a wall, retreating into himself.

He’s overheard whispers from other students calling him “the blind Gaunt” or making cruel jokes about his disability. He doesn’t let on that it bothers him, but you can tell by the tightness in his jaw and the way he holds his wand a little too tightly.

The extra feels:

During moments of deep insecurity, he might push you away, thinking it’s for your own good. “You don’t need to waste your life taking care of me,” he says, his words cold but his heart shattering.

In crowded spaces, he can’t always keep track of where you are. The panic of losing you in a sea of voices is overwhelming, and when he finally finds you, he grips your arm like he’s afraid to let go. “Don’t leave me,” he whispers, his voice shaking.

After a dangerous incident where he thought he’d lost you, he broke down entirely. “I can’t do this without you,” he cried, holding you so tightly it was almost painful. The raw fear in his voice was something you’d never forget.

You’ve occasionally slipped up and said something that unintentionally stings, like mentioning something visual he can’t enjoy or forgetting to guide him when he needed it. While he brushes it off, you can see the flash of hurt in his expression, and it breaks your heart.

Ominis doesn’t cry often, but when he does, he comes to you. He’ll bury his face in your shoulder or lap, clutching onto you like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded.

Friendship with Sebastian:

Ominis is fiercely protective of you, but in a quieter way when Sebastian’s around. He trusts Sebastian, but there’s always a part of him that worries you might get swept up in one of Sebastian’s more reckless moments.

Even though the three of you are very different, there’s an unspoken understanding that you’ll be there for each other, no matter what. If one of you is struggling—whether it’s with schoolwork, personal issues, or family matters—the others won’t hesitate to step in and help.

Ominis would provide a grounded perspective, always willing to offer his advice or a listening ear. While he doesn’t speak a lot about his own struggles, he’s incredibly empathetic and always seems to know when you need support. Sebastian, on the other hand, would be the one to try and lift the mood, perhaps cracking a joke or suggesting a very random adventure to get your mind off things.

Ominis might not always vocalize his feelings, but every time you laugh at one of Sebastian’s antics or share a moment of kindness with the group, he’s silently grateful. He’ll cherish these small, happy memories more than he lets on, because it’s rare for him to feel truly connected with others (having you and Sebastian around makes him feel less alone.)

If I think of more ill post them here, hope you enjoyed! Love you all~! Sebastian's are here!

[castellanapologist]

“Bless me Father for I have sinned.”

Luke sat up a little straighter on his side of the confessional, ears perking up at the voice. He recognized it, for it haunted his every waking moment and every dream. The girl who had been sitting in the front pews every Sunday for the last two months. Y/N. He cleared his throat.

“How long has it been since your last confession, my child?” He asks, fingers rubbing at his rosary.

“It has been quite a while Father, I haven’t been in two months. I’ve been so ashamed.” Y/N answers. Luke feels his chest tighten and his eyes strained to see her through the panelling. To no avail, but he pictured her beautiful face distorted in sadness.

“It’s quite alright my child, all that matters is that you’re here now” He soothes. “What sins have you come to confess?”

There’s a beat of silence before she intakes a breath and begins. “I…I have been lustful Father. Having sinful thoughts of a man I cannot have.”

Luke feels the air knock out of him. Lust? A man she cannot have? He felt a heavy jealousy weigh on his heart, but he swallows it down in favor of answering her.

“We all lust for things we cannot have sometimes. It is a sinner's nature.” He pauses before pressing further. “Is this man married?”

This time the silence stretches, and he feels himself getting antsy. His mind floods with possibilities of who it could be. He had seen her talking with couples after Mass before, could it be any of them? He wracks his brain for any man he’s seen her be alone with but comes up empty.

“Not in the traditional sense Father. He…he is married to the church.” She whispers. Luke stills, mind racing with her confession. He speaks slowly as if not to scare her off.

“As in…a priest?”

The air is thick with tension as he awaits her answer. He feels his heart thumping wildly against his chest as his fingers work his rosary over and over. Y/N sniffles before she speaks again.

“Yes. The new priest that’s recently come to our church. I didn’t mean for it to happen, Father!”

Luke feels himself shudder at the revelation that his waking torment has also been haunted by him. The confessional booth suddenly feels too small and cramped.

“What sinful thoughts have you been having of him?” He asks, his voice hoarse. Another beat of silence passes before Y/N continues.

“I’ve dreamt of him k…kissing me” She stutters before continuing. “Of his hands roaming my body and even…” She trails off. Luke inhales deeply.

“Continue.” He demands, voice rough with desire. “Confess your sins.”

“I want him to bend me over the altar” Y/N breathes. “I’ve dreamt of it for so long, even during Mass all I think about is him taking me. I even make sure he’s the one to feed me the body of Christ just to feel his fingers on my tongue.”

Luke feels his dick jump in his pants and he barely surpesses a groan. The rosary shakes in his hand as he processes what she says, the mental images burning in his brain. She describes exactly what he had been dreaming. How he would press the communion onto her tongue with a bit more force just to feel her. Luke takes a shuddering breath as he speaks again.

“It’s alright my child. Lust consumes us all. You just need to fight against it. Pray twenty Hail Marys and Our Fathers then the rosary every night for a week. Do you understand?” Luke’s voice is low, his eyes fixated on her silhouette. He sees her nod before speaking up.

“Yes Father.”

“Go in Peace.”

“Thanks be to God”

As soon as she exits the confessional booth he drops his head into his hands. His length twitches in the confines of his slacks, precum leaking onto his thigh. He tries to breathe deep but only conjures up images of fucking into that temptress in front of the whole church. Fuck. He was so fucked.

Over the next week, he watches as Y/N comes in to pray. He feels like an animal stalking his prey yet simultaneously the prey being stalked. He tries not to notice her heated gaze while he walks around the church. If he ignores this temptation and prays hard enough he knows he can get past it. But a small dark part of him knows he doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to move past it. He wants to take her, ravage her. Wants to hear her scream his name while he eats her out in the pews or on the altar.

Sunday is agonizing. Father Michael wanted him to lead service ‘as a way to connect with the youth’. Which meant he was front and center for communion. Luke tried to avoid Y/N’s gaze, seeing her beeline to his line made his dick jump. She kept her head down until she was in front of him. Like usual, she opened her mouth for the body. He thanked the Lord his robes concealed his erection, twitching pitifully as he pressed the cracker on her tongue. Her saliva coated his fingers and just as he was about to withdraw, her lips closed around them. His breath caught as she slowly pulled away, lipstick staining his skin. He thanked God again she was the last in line.

For the rest of Mass, his head swam with desire and shame. What kind of priest was he to be leaking precum while leading his church in prayer? To fist his cock every night thinking of a member from his congregation? He had to put a stop to this. After Mass, he thanked every member individually for coming. As usual, Y/N was the last to leave. When she made her way to him, his dick jolted. The lipstick stain burned his fingers as she glanced down at it.

“Thank you for coming,” Luke said, his voice hoarse. He tried to think of a way to get her in his office. “Did you enjoy the service?”

“Very much so” She breathes. Their eye contact seems to stretch on for hours, the world melting away. He coughs, turning his head away as he felt shame flush his neck.

“Would-” He coughs again to clear his throat. “Would you have spare time for a prayer?”

She studies him for a moment before nodding, dropping her eyes to the floor. “I’m all yours Father.” He swears she purrs his title. Nodding, he leads the way to his office. Like always, he does the sign of the cross at the crucifix on his door, watching Y/N do the same. She sits in the plush chair across from his, the leather squeaking from disuse. Luke takes a deep breath, her perfume invading every sense and making him dizzy.

“Wait here.” He croaks before stepping into the side room he uses for his robes. He quickly sheds the garment, hanging it on the rack. The mirror seems to mock him. There he stood, curls messy and cheeks flushed like some hormonal high school boy. He curses himself, knowing the lust is merely a test. Fixing his clerical collar, he swings open the door to greet her again.

“Thank you for meeting with me.” He says. “I’ve seen you in the church more often. I thought you might want some guidance in prayer.”

Her eyes flicker with slight embarrassment before nodding. “Yes. Any prayer with you is surely to help me on my journey.”

Luke can’t help but feel his ego swell as he sits in his desk chair. His fingers drum on the mahogany as he studies her. He knows what she desires, the sins she wants to commit. But how does he help her resist when he barely can?

“What do you need me to help with? What weighs so heavy on your soul?”

Y/N meets his gaze again, this time smoldering. Luke feels his throat close at the sight.

“Lust, Father.”

It feels like all the air is sucked out of the room when she says, no, purrs those two words. He takes a big inhale, his fingers stopping.

“Right.” Luke croaks. “It’s a normal sin to have.”

“Do you struggle with it Father?”

His cock lurches against his slacks. Nodding slowly, he speaks.

“Yes.”

His confession hangs in the air. The tension palpable in the room. After discreetly adjusting himself, he stands and rounds the desk to stand in front of her. She gazes up at him, eyes swimming with desire. His hand finds purchase on her shoulder, thumb rubbing in a circle.

“The Lord forgives all.” He breathes. To her or himself he does not know. Sliding his hand from her shoulder to her cheek, thumb still caressing her skin. She turns into his palm, kissing it softly while maintaining her eye contact. His control snaps. Surging down, he captures her lips in a bruising kiss. She wraps her arms around him, moaning into his mouth. Their mouths move passionately, deepening by the second. Luke’s hands hoist her onto his desk, scattering his sermons onto the ground.

Her tongue swipes along his lips and he eagerly parted for her. She licks into his mouth greedily as he lays her fully down on the desk. His hands explore her body with reverence, hiking up her dress to expose her creamy thighs. Luke barely can bring himself to pull away but does so anyway, wanting to watch her fall apart. His fingers press against her clit through her panties, watching her eyes roll back and her back arch.

Hooking his fingers against the band of her underwear he yanks them down, desperate to feel her wetness against his palm. He groans feeling her heat, slick coating his fingers just from skimming over her slit. Y/N moans, hips bucking to get more friction. Luke tsks and holds her down.

“Greed is a sin” Luke scolds, his thumb pressing against her throbbing clit. Y/N lets out a choked moan, hands wrapping around his wrist. “You’ll take what I give you.”

With no hesitation, he slips his middle finger into her wet heat growling as he feels her tightness. His hips grind against his desk as he fingers her. One finger turns into two as he leans down to mark her neck. Y/N clamps around him, moaning louder as his teeth sunk into her. Lukes hips stutter as he imagines her around his cock. Unable to take it anymore, he hastily unbuckles his slacks while he fingers her. Panting with relief as his dick springs free.

He adds a third finger, grinding his cock on her thigh. Y/N squirms under his hold, moaning as she gets closer to cumming. His other hand comes to rub at her clit, desperate to see her finish. It only takes a few tight circles before she seized up, pussy clamping down on his fingers as she gushed. He moans watching her soak his hand, rubbing her through her orgasm. Even as it gets too much for her he can’t stop, dragging her hips to the edge of the desk as he drops to his knees. His tongue licks up her arousal, mouth worshipping her as if she herself were God.

Y/N tries to push him away; overstimulated but he doesn’t allow it. His hands hold down her bucking hips, nose rubbing against her clit as he tongue-fucks her hole. He needs to make her cum again. More than he needs to breathe. He doubles down when her thighs squeeze around his head. Y/N’s hand tug at his curls, moaning his name so loud he's almost scared someone will hear. But he doesn’t want to shut her up; her voice rivaling an angels. Finally, finally she cums again, soaking his face. He moans against her, licking up her slick again before pulling away.

Standing, Luke's chest heaves as he stares down at her. She looked like an angel, face glowing as she gasped for breath. His hands wrap around his cock as he jerks himself off to how beautiful she looked. Even as she desperately tries to breathe, her legs spread for her priest. Luke groans deeply, stepping closer to coat his tip in her wetness. Eyes rolling back as he bumps against her clit.

“Fuck me Father Luke. Make a sinner holy” Y/N moans, reaching for him. He leans down to capture her lips in a searing kiss, letting her taste herself. His mind swims in conflict, but as Y/N guides his tip to press against her hole, it goes blank. Luke moans against her mouth as he slowly pushes in. He almost collapses on top of her as her tight heat envelops him. He braces himself on his elbows as he finally hits halfway. Y/N moans as her legs lock around him.

Slowly, so slowly, he bottoms out. Grinding his pelvic bone against her clit, he wills his orgasm back. He can’t let it end here. Pulling back, he pants as she yanks at his hair before he slams back in. His hips set a brutal pace, her wetness making lewd noises as he fucks her. He feels addicted, feeling like he’ll die if he ever stops fucking her. Y/N clenches around him and his hips stutter.

“Such a fucking temptress. Seducing your priest. Telling me how badly you wanted to be fucked at the altar, sucking my fucking fingers in Mass” Luke growls against her mouth as he fucks her harder. Y/N scratches at the back of his shirt, practically tearing through it. He watches as her eyes roll back in revelation she had confessed to him.

“It was you-?” Shes cut off by a moan as he fucks deeper into her. He huffed a laugh, twitching inside her.

“Thank God it was. Been dreaming of this cunt for months” He groans, hiking her leg up to get deeper. His pace gets impossibly faster, chasing his high. His hand reaches in between them to rub her clit, needing to see her fall apart one last time. Y/N convulses on his cock, milking him as she cums for the last time. Luke's hips stutter as he feels release wash over him, slamming into her one last time to cum as deep as he could. He collapses on top of her, both of them struggling for breath.

“I’m guessing this warrants some prayer” Y/N teases. Luke huffs a laugh, squeezing her hips.

“Come by again tomorrow, we can pray together”

[daycourtofficial]

Chains around my demons, wool to brave the seasons

Pairing: Eris x Rhysand’s sister!reader | WC: 7.2k | warnings: depictions of violence, poison, death, blood, slight gore

Summary: Eris tells his mate to stay with his mother, the Lady of Autumn, while he sets plans into motion to become the new High Lord.

Note: this is apart of my gingerfucker series and is a companion piece to ‘Cold was the steel of my axe to grind’.

Author’s note: happy day 3 of @erisweekofficial - it’s the best day of the year!

A cold chill racked through your body, something tugging in your chest causing you to wake up. The scent of burnt cedar and apple cider filled your nose. Wide eyes investigated the room around you as you stayed still, the brown walls unfamiliar to you. The spike of anxiety was quickly soothed as you spotted a redhead a few feet from you, the bright hair calling to you like a flame.

You softly pulled yourself from bed, silently observing him as he moved about the room, his steps quiet as he thought you slumbered. The bond in your chest hummed at seeing him, so happy to be so close to him. You stood with the blanket around your shoulders, arms crossed waiting for him to notice you.

The minimal light that caused his torso to shine dulled your joy at seeing him.

“What are you doing?” Your voice was hoarse from sleep, but it stopped him immediately, your mate frozen in place before he turned to face you. Warmth crept over you beneath his gaze, blocking out the cold air.

“Going for a stroll.”

Your eyes roamed his body, trying to convey without words how idiotic that excuse was. Did he think that excuse would actually work? He moved closer, his steps deceptively quiet with all that he wore. He placed whatever items he was carrying on the bed behind you before he reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, his mouth opening and closing as if he were unsure where to start. You waited, not pressing for more detail, knowing he’d open up to you.

“Please.”

It was all that came from him, despite the look in his eyes. Depths lay within them, a single word conveying so little and so much at the same time. Your mate was layers and layers of complexities, several centuries of a life you only saw tangentially. You knew Eris - your mate, the one whose song echoes through your ribcage whenever you woke every morning, the one you spent centuries to earn his trust. But you had never seen this version of him in person before - the one who held his side of the bond on a tense lockdown, a fortress not allowing any feeling in or out. The one who does what he has to to survive. You can know something about someone and never have to see it.

He was imperceptibly different. His hair tousled as he had been pulling and tugging at it. The purple and blues beneath his eyes, the wild energy he had about him. 

Everywhere he went, Eris carried an air about him that screamed I know how this ends. The air often contorted around him, as if it blew in his favor. But now he stood with an air of unease around him, no breeze to stroke his ego as he moved.

Every other part of his body was honed and trained for this. Muscles taxed and well-defined from years of use, a determination in his jaw that he would see this through to the end. 

But his eyes always gave him away.

Mor had once described his eyes as a pit of despair, a never ending labyrinth of pain and suffering. She was right, but she had the wrong intentions. She thought he was the beast within the maze, searching for his next meal, the darkness pushing him forward. But Eris played both parts to that story: the beast and whoever was unlucky enough to be trapped within. He had been stuck in a labyrinth of suffering and his eyes shone with light from the exit.

You watched as his fingers trailed over the features of your face, his touch leaving a trail of heat on your skin. Your gaze took in everything about him - his sunken shoulders, the fire simmering in his eyes, the thousands of freckles you once spent an entire evening comparing to the constellations.

“My mate.”

You never thought belonging to someone would feel so freeing. Your parents were mates -  growing up you watched your father always sling that phrase around as if your mother was merely an accessory to him. She wasn’t yours or Rhys’s mother, nor was she her own person, but rather a vessel for your father to use whenever he found it appropriate. 

Eris made the words sound decadent, a place of honor, the greatest title one could receive. As if it were a second name that had been etched into your soul and only he could discern the engraving.

“Stay with my mother. Please.”

An argument laid on the tip of your tongue, staying there as you took in how he looked at you, his eyes betraying him only to you. His shoulders straightened as he looked at you. Holding his gaze, your mind swirled with thoughts to go with him, to be with him. You were a pair, bounded by fate through this life and the next. 

His eyes were pleading to stay, as if you could make out the word in smoke reflected through his irises. Your mouth closed before you nodded, your decision finalized as he gripped your jaw lightly. 

Eris kept all of his plans close to his chest, a quality you admired but also loathed about him. You weren’t sure if he got lucky or was incredibly clever. A mixture of both, perhaps. Maybe that mixture is what has brought Eris here, what has led him to this moment, this opportunity. He’s outlived two brothers, survived centuries of horrific events he only just recently began opening up about, two wars, and being held captive underneath Amarantha. 

Eris was cunning and intelligent. Despite his sharp tongue, he does care about the people of Autumn and his brothers and mother. 

But you would be lying if it didn’t keep you up at night when the luck would end, when Beron would find out about some hidden scheme and go too far to punish Eris.

You had taken your step forward to that fate, Rhysand discovering your secret mateship and being so furious at your refusal to step down that he banished you from his court. You had made your move and now he had to make his. This was Eris’s fight. This was Eris’s father. A male so awful in public to the point you wondered constantly how far his cruelties extended to in the privacy of the Forest House - his servants, his family, courtiers. Perhaps his cruelty contained no bounds, opting to injure anyone if it meant progress or amusement for him.

Eris clutched your face, this brief moment of time extending into a small eternity. The fate of the day was unknown. His arms wrapped around you, clutching you to his chest as you wrapped your arms around his back, fingers gripping the armor, searching for something to grasp onto. The string that tied the two of you together pulled taut, begging for there to be no space between your bodies as you clutched each other.

The last moment of vulnerability before a coup.

He pulled away just enough to cup your jaw, his warm lips meeting your own. Your hands moved up into his hair, clinging desperately to him, giving everything you have to him, wanting him to tuck it away somewhere and give him some form of protection.

Eris was the first one to pull away, his thumb swiping your cheek as he slowly pulled his head back before moving up to give one final kiss on the top of your head. He pulled away, your heart leaping at your rib cage, reaching for him as he collected his things from the bed and departed without looking back.

You stood in the quiet room, not moving from the spot he had left you in, watching the sun rise through the light streaking in across the door. It brushed across your skin, the warmth an echo of Eris’s heat. The hustle and bustle of servants on the other side of the door finally jolted you from your ruminations, your mind pulling from your heart’s desire to lay in his bed, inhaling his scent until he returned. 

You were in the dark about Eris’s plans, stuck to wait until Marigold found you. You were ill-equipped for front line fighting in Autumn: you had no armor and little experience fighting fire wielders, and while you were skilled enough in hand to hand combat, it was nearly impossible for you to know who was friend or foe to Eris. An entire court made of sly foxes, several of them who would salivate at the knowledge the Princess of the Night Court was in their midst. You had a handful of names of those you could trust, but no faces to match them to. So you waited for the one person Eris has always said you could trust no matter the circumstances. 

Eris had slipped out into the darkness, off to set plans into motion you were certain nobody knew the full extent of, everyone involved getting their own sliver of orders and nothing more.

It was morning now and you had cracked open his window, offering prayers to the stars, the moon, the Mother, the cauldron, ancient war gods whose names had been lost to time. All beings who existed outside of your sight at the moment, but you hoped they could hear you nonetheless. You even sent some words to your own mother, hoping wherever she was, she too would watch over your mate.

Wait for my mother.

It was all you clung to as you waited until your voice had grown hoarse with spoken prayer, one task you could accomplish, no matter how impossible it felt. You turned your attention toward Eris’s desk - a neat and tidy thing that you were sure contained several hidden compartments, many nights spent staring at various parchments, writing letters to you. You wondered briefly if he kept your letters somewhere, a hidden stash bundled together, any hint of your scent having been removed from repeated reading and rereading.

That had been your downfall. But you were a much more sentimental creature than Eris was. The letters would be a trail, a link between the two of you. A link one couldn’t afford. Your chest panged in agony at the notion that Rhys likely hard burned your letters, the ones you could recite from memory now. The ones that would have been the only physical proof of your bond if things don’t go well today. 

You shook your head, needing it clear as you grabbed parchment and a pen, writing quickly with only slight hesitation. It was early - the sun was barely risen, and you were certain if he were out he would be in shortly. You didn’t even bother creating a seal - it didn’t need one, and matches weren’t something Eris likely kept around.

You sent the letter off before you could second guess yourself, hoping he would understand and come anyway. You didn’t know what the day would yield, but something in your gut churned at the thought of him not being here. You had pleaded in your letter that things were in motion you couldn’t stop and there was potential for loss of life - from both you and the servants and children who occupied the Forest House. 

You prayed his need to protect and help would override the immense anger he was feeling. Your mate would be livid if he found out, but he would get over it. You both were making choices today, and any choice that furthered your safety isn’t one Eris could be too upset about. 

A knock on the door pulled you from your ruminations, turning to find a young female opening the door but not entering. Her light brown hair was wrapped around her head in an elaborate braid, a simple smock covering the brown, high neck dress that covered her body.

She bowed to you, a slight curtsy as she dropped, “morning, miss. My Lady wishes to see you.”

You looked her over, noticing no weapons from what outlines the clothes afforded her. She stood out with how plain she looked - maybe the Vanserras stood out with how ornately they dressed.

“No.” Her brown eyes widened, her mouth opening to argue, but you continued. “If she wishes to see me, she will come here.”

Eris gave you three warnings: stay safe, stay with Marigold, and if you feel the bond die, get the Hel out of Autumn. 

Two of those were implied, but you knew him well enough to know what he would want. You weren’t certain about the last two points, but the first you could comply with. This room was warded - only those who shared Eris’s maternal line or a mate could enter, and you’d be damned if you weren’t going to use what Eris had given you to your advantage.

The servant bowed unceremoniously before shuffling off, closing the door before her quick footsteps moved down the hall. A few moments later a soft knock caused you to turn before the Lady of Autumn herself entered the room, her long red hair making her both enchanting and comforting to look at. Eris’s brothers all carried elements of Marigold in their faces, Cormac even carried the soft edges of her voice with him.

But Eris was his mother’s son. 

It had been years since you last saw her - the last High Lord’s meeting when Feyre had lost control. She had looked so downtrodden then, as if pain didn’t faze her, a reality of everyday life. The sight had nearly made you nauseous, dreams littered for the next few months of a similar fate for you should Beron discover your mateship.

The female that stood before you today looked resolute and determined. She was practically glowing with excitement, but her eyes held the same look that Eris’s did whenever his mind was overflowing with possibilities.

“How lovely it is to properly meet my son’s mate.”

Her voice reminded you of your own mother, some maternal charm laced her words. A five minute conversation was likely all she needed before fae decided they trusted her completely, despite the personas her sons and husband wore to the public.

You bowed to her, offering a greeting fitting as visiting royalty. Visiting banished royalty, you supposed.

“Good morning, Lady Marigold.”

She curtsied deeply before rising. “Good morning, dear. I presume based on your presence here that your High Lord knows now.”

Her eyes were striking as they took you in - so lifeless the past few years, but now so bright and full of hope.

No one loves a boy quite like his mother does.

“You would be correct. I’m uncertain if he knows of my exact location, but he is less than thrilled about this Cauldron-made match and is in need of time to adjust.”

You could be diplomatic. Eris was off somewhere, Mother knew where, doing Mother knows what. But you had to be careful. Every step you took today had to be carefully placed - either for the outcome of your becoming Lady of Autumn or for becoming whatever Eris’s death will make of you.

She nodded her head as if she understood Rhysand’s feelings perfectly. “It was quite a shock to learn of. I had a hard time with it myself.”

You tried to keep the surprise off your face, not knowing that Eris ever told his mother about the two of you.

“It wasn’t Eris who told me.” 

You were worse at hiding your shock at that statement. Speaking to Marigold felt like she could hear the truth pouring out of you, as if your truths were whispered on the wind and straight to her ears. 

“It was that night all those years ago when the new High Lord of Spring brought you here.”

Memories dumped over you like a bucket of ice, that night only a few flashes and blurs of images, all red hair and blood. You never knew that she had been there that night.

“I didn’t know that things between you and my son had progressed. I knew you were mates, but Eris has always been a startling private person.”

She stood with such poise it was impossible to compare her with the shell she was the last time you had seen her.

“It was my youngest who told me the two of you were still involved.”

Lucien, you thought. Slimy little devil.

Lucien was the only one who knew - he had found out a few months prior having caught the scent of his brother lingering on one of your cloaks. You had been so furious with yourself - a century of hiding meant nothing when a little brother became invested.

“He was quite thrilled at the match, actually.”

That surprised you. Lucien had been quite short with you when he found out, that mechanical eye whirring and clicking at you as if it were admonishing you in a tongue you didn’t understand.

“He was hopeful for you to become a part of this family. Hopeful that perhaps a new addition may help us recognize how awful things have become.” 

She walked about the room, looking at the walls you were certain she had seen for centuries as if for the first time, her leisurely stroll giving no indication of the time crunch you were all in.

“My family is… not what I expected when I was young and full of dreams.” Her voice was just as sweet, but lost in the haze of centuries of time. “I had dreamt of a loving husband. I knew children were expected of me, but I could never imagine the direction my life would take.”

Her voice soured, that honey glazed warmth of nostalgia was replaced with something close to a reprimand.

“I will not pretend as if I know you or your motivations with my son, but I know Lucien. He is the most like me. At least, a long forgotten version of myself.” She took a staggering breath before continuing, her stride uninterrupted as she paced around you. “I know my sons. And while I don’t want to believe Eris could be fooled, mating bonds are tricky, overpowering things. One could fool Eris or Lucien, but not both of them.”

She fixed her eyes on you, looking for something you couldn’t see. It felt like being beneath the gaze of Lucien’s mechanical eye with a lack of clicking to accompany the scrutiny.

“Do not take their trust lightly.”

You nodded, swallowing harshly. She was very maternal, but there was something lurking beneath the surface you couldn’t pinpoint. It felt full of resentment, as if her perfumey smell was an attempt to cover up some rotten part of her long forgotten.

“Yes, Lady.”

“For today, you may call me Marigold.”

“And tomorrow?”

“If there is a tomorrow for the both of us, we shall figure that out.”

-

You had just a moment to yourself in Marigold’s chambers, opting to use it to send an additional letter, letting him know that if he didn’t come now, it’d be next to impossible to find you again.

Other than Eris, there was no one you trusted more. You fiddled with your bodice, ensuring it was in place as you waited, your hands straightening the front of your skirt, itching to tug at the collar of your dress. It felt suffocating, like you couldn’t take a proper breath.

A cool breeze came through the room before he materialized in the shadows of the room behind you. You turned to meet his hazel eyes full of anger as they looked up and down your form, taking in the plain servants clothes you wore. You quickly moved to turn on the faucet, blasting the water as harshly as it would go.

“Hi Az.” You waved a hand slightly, attempting to dispel his cold anger that flooded the room.

He didn’t move, hardly a corporeal form as only his face was tangible through the shadows.

“I need your help. Please.”

Anger swam in his eyes, undeterred by the pleading in your voice. He stood silently, the shadowy blob staying in place and it was then you realized he was waiting for more information.

“I need you to just follow me. In the shadows. I don’t know what the day will entail,” your voice was hushed, trying not to be heard over the running faucet, “but I wanted you nearby in case anyone got hurt.”

His eyes still burned with fury, but one of his wings twitched ever so slightly before his body melted into a pool of shadow that swam around your feet. You decided that was the best outcome to receive from him before you looked once more in the mirror, using a glamour to hide your violet eyes before you left the bathroom.

You followed Marigold out of her chambers, the glamour over your eyes making your vision slightly murky. Violet eyes would give you away, but light brown eyes caused you to blend in with the other staff of the Forest House.

The two of you had a mission - starting from the top and trickling through all of Beron’s more trusted advisors. This was always her initial plan to help Eris, but it felt good to assist her as she had meetings with each and every one of them throughout the day. She had been ruthless this morning before retrieving you, practically bullying these males into seeing her for a cup of tea at some point during the day. 

She developed a routine with each one, as if she were in a performance that she had been doing nightly for years. You would follow in behind her as she sat with whoever it was, the males much too worried about Beron to deny his wife anything. They had an air of annoyance about the disruption, but Marigold never stayed long enough to let it fester beyond that. 

It was perfectly choreographed - her insistence that they try this new delightful tea she had been working, your bow before pouring it for them. You used your own powers of charm to aid Marigold’s, manipulating the emotions of the unsuspecting advisors to feel fully at ease, enticing them to drink the tea.

It was genius, truly. She told you she had been doing this for years, spending her free time experimenting with different tea flavors, noting who liked what flavors to better entice them when the time came. Ultimately she had four different flavors, most every advisor drinking from the cup readily.

Each time you listened for them to slump from their desk as you walked through the halls, quickly locking the door behind you to keep them from being disturbed before bustling after Marigold’s retreating form. 

It was lucky the males didn’t look too closely at the new servant girl with a dark shadow trailing her figure.

-

It had taken hours, but you and Marigold had made it through your list of adversaries to take out. The only ones you weren’t able to take down were those that were scattered throughout Autumn, too far to reach, but Marigold assured you Eris had them taken care of in one way or another. 

The Forest House was calm as you slipped into Eris’s chambers, Azriel barred at the door. The shadow remained on the floor as you chuckled, agitation clear at the shadows movement on the ground. You waited as he moved across the hall, searching the room before returning, a silent request to follow. You quickly obliged, shutting the door behind yourself before the shadowy blob on the floor took more of an Illyrian look as he towered over you, his wings tight in agitation.

“I know you’re mad but-“

“Mad? I’m furious. I- him? Him? I’ve been following you around all day to ensure you didn’t die.”

You understood where he was coming from - you did little to help Eris’s reputation amongst the Inner Circle over the years, but the bond inside of you still yearned to claw at Azriel’s face for how he was speaking about your mate. A hand ran over your face, a deep breath to soothe the bond within you.

“Yes, well, the night is far from over, Azriel. I need your help to ensure the children and servants are safe. I don’t know how this will play out-”

“Oh, you don’t know how this will play out?” His eyes were wide with rage, his words clipped as he interrupted you. “You mean your “mate” didn’t tell you the details of his plan?”

His fingers went up in air quotes around the word ‘mate’ and it made you see red as you slapped a hand over his mouth. “Shut up, Azriel. I don’t know the specifics of this plan-”

He laughed through your hand, pushing it off of him. “Of course you don’t - he’s fooled you! He’s using you to-”

“To what, Azriel? Protect the defenseless fae inside the Forest House? Oh no, he’s so terrible.”

Your tone was mocking. The shadowsinger began tugging at his hair, looking away from you. 

“How long?”

“Does it matter?”

“Yes it matters.” He was quick to whirl around, his eyes wild in fury. “You have been lying to your family, to me, for gods know how long!”

It was silent between the two of you, the only sound was his heavy breathing. You toed the ground slightly, knowing exactly how this conversation will go.

“Do you remember the night my wings were cut off?”

The words sent Azriel spiraling, the scent of copper and fear tinging his nose. It was always there, lurking in the back of his mind. His wings branched out, urging him to grab you and fly far, far away from here.

“No.”

It had never made sense before. His one word was full of disbelief, his face slacken with shock.

“Az, Tamlin found me and-“

Azriel used his hands to block his ears, “no, you have to be kidding me. This is a joke.”

Irritation rose in you at how childish he was being, the large Illyrian before you looking absurd as he paced the room. “This is all some stupid joke that you’re pulling because you and Cassian thought it would be funny.”

You shook your head, shaking his shoulders slightly to get him to look at you.

“No because that- I always knew something was off I-“

He was spiraling, his thoughts a whirlwind of realizations and things he overlooked. Several moments passed before he finally looked down at you, eyes full of understanding. “I have spent centuries trying to figure out that night. How I found you in a clearing not far from the site.”

Your silence was enough for him to determine your guilt, the final piece clicking into place.

“You lured me away. You manipulated me into feeling calm and not looking at what I knew made no sense!”

You bit your tongue. It was the one loose thread that could unravel your careful secret. It was the one thing you felt awful about over these centuries.

Any mention of that night immediately caused you to gauge Azriel’s emotions, never allowing them past sadness or grief over the events. 

Rhys and Cassian were too full of happiness that you had survived, never looking at the details. But Azriel thought over every last detail of events, even centuries down the line.

You felt the anger seep through the shield you kept up, allowing his emotions to swirl inside you.

Betrayal. Anger. Devastation.

His nails dug into the skin of his palm, and guilt washed over you. 

“It’s why you couldn’t find me until the next morning. Tamlin had brought me here because I kept asking for Eris.”

Azriel growled at the mention of your mate and you snapped your teeth back at him, the action surprising him, his shadows skittering in fear.

“He and Marigold healed me and the bond snapped for him but it didn’t snap for me until later. He is my mate and while the choices I made hurt you, I did it for him.”

He stepped back as if your words had physically wounded him, but you kept advancing forward, the truth finally spilling from your lips.

“You have every right to be upset with me and the choices I made. You are my family, Az. I hated lying to you. But he is my mate and anyone knowing would jeopardize our lives.”

He scoffed, standing his ground, but you could see understanding in his eyes.

“If anyone knew and it somehow had gotten back to Beron-“

His harsh tone cut you off. “Don’t try to convince me you did this for anything other than selfish reasons.”

“Okay fine, I was selfish! If Beron knew, he would have demanded that I be in Autumn. I spent years trying to figure something out. Everything would have ended up with Beron using me to keep Eris in line.”

His cheeks were red, from anger or being out of breath you couldn’t tell. “You could have told me. I would have helped. I’m a spymaster for cauldron’s sake! My job is full of secrets.”

“And maybe I wanted to keep you unburdened,” you snapped.

“You’re excusing your lies by not wanting to burden me? You’re unbelievable!” He threw his hands up in the air, anger seeping from his pores. Angry at the betrayal and maybe a little at his own shortcoming for not figuring it out.

“What I did was wrong, Az, but would you not have done the same?”

Azriel would think about this fight, many years later, his own mate wrapped in his arms. How resolute you had been in doing whatever you thought was necessary to protect your mate, even from the scrutiny of your own family. Time would soften his anger, offering a new perspective on your actions that can only come with shared experience. 

For now, he was so overcome with his anger it felt nearly impossible to even think about understanding your viewpoint.

“Even if tonight is a disaster, and Eris dies,” the thought has you catching your breath, the string connecting him to you almost cutting off your circulation, “it will all have been worth it for the chance to be with him.”

Azriel’s icy resolve met the determined look in your eye, his demeanor changing very little. Your argument was halted by screams in the hall, the unmistaken sound of  swords clashing with each other. His eyes shifted to the hallway the same time his hand moved toward Truth-teller strapped to his hip. His other hand moved to the dagger strapped to his chest, unsheathing it before handing it to you. His eyes didn’t move back down, still unable to look at you. But the dagger was a bridge. It was full of hope. You took it. It was also the preferred weapon of the Autumn Court, a fact you can’t decide if Azriel was thinking of when he picked it for you.

Azriel moved to the door, sending shadows beneath it to get a better grasp of what was going on outside of it. You heard distant barking and the sounds of fighting, swords clashing against one another in combat. Screams of pain and fear, none of them sounding like Eris.

“You and I will round up anyone not involved in this and we’ll bring them back here. Some of my shadows will stay behind, barring anyone from entering the room without our say so.”

He looked at you, his face hard and ready to move on your word. Azriel could hold a grudge so tightly it caused him to lose any sense of self, any sense of rationale. His anger often became an untamed thing - wild, free-roaming.

But he came. He came because you asked, certainly defying any orders from Rhysand about your punishment. You were sure your brother had told everyone not to engage with you - to not even speak your name until you came crawling back, begging for forgiveness. But there was one thing Azriel would always put above his court - his family.You took a deep breath before nodding, the sounds of life and death getting louder as Azriel opened the door. 

“I’ll go left, you go right.”

You turned to move, but Azriel grabbed your elbow, unwilling to let go. “We move together or we don’t move at all.”

His gaze was unflinching and you knew the two of you didn’t have long at all until the winds of chaos picked the two of you up and whirled you into its orbit. You nodded and he followed as you went to the right, trying to find Marigold’s chambers once more. 

The two of you moved further from the clanging and screams, but the sounds were following you slowly as you moved down the hall, checking each room as you went. Some of Azriel’s shadows moved ahead of you, searching each room up and down as you went. 

A few doors down, a shadow wrapped around your wrist, tugging you to a door on the left. You softly padded in, looking around the empty bedroom, calling out a soft hello to whoever was in here. The shadow swirled past you, moving toward the wardrobe that stood in the room. You felt someone in it, felt their nerves speak through you as you sent soothing strokes to them, calming their heart rate as you spoke.

“We’re here to help. We can get you to safety.” The anxiety spiked in the person once more, your powers working to soothe them again. “Really, we are. We just want to move you to another room that we have protected.”

Azriel remained quiet, tucking his wings into his back to appear much smaller. The person in the wardrobe shifted, the creak in the wood giving their spot away. Your voice was a soothing balm, a siren-like quality to the way it called out, “please, we won’t hurt you.”

The wardrobe door swung open, a small boy of probably ten crouched inside, hiding behind several long forgotten coats. You held out a hand, which he gladly took as you helped him from the wardrobe.

“We’ve secured a room for anyone we find. Can we take you there?”

He nodded, flinching at a loud sound from the other side of the door. You continued your grip on his hand as you led him down the hall to the room, the shadows moving to allow the three of you entry.

“What’s your name?”

He sniffled, fidgeting with his jacket, looking around the dark room. “Jasper.”

“Jasper, we have to go find others who may be hurt. But we need you to stay here. You’ll be safe.”

He looked up at you, bright golden eyes pleading for you to stay. 

“It’ll be scary, but we have to try to save as many fae as possible. Do you understand?”

He nodded, his eyes looking all over the place. His cheeks were red and stress oozed out of him with every inhalation.

“Jasper, we will be back. We’ll come back with others.”

Azriel grabbed your elbow, pulling you away from the boy. Jasper nodded, his dirty blonde hair shaking with the action. Your chest caved a little at leaving him, but Azriel was right to pull you away. Back outside the door, once the shadows reappeared as a barrier, you blinked away the tears before looking back at the shadowsinger.

The two of you continued moving, dodging the sounds of chaos as you moved through the enormous house, finding servants and whatever bystanders you could. The fighting lasted for hours, yours and Azriel’s hunt for innocent fae lasting as long as possible. The two of you even had to secure a second room on the opposite end of the house because the first became so overcrowded.

The halls were in a state of chaos - furniture was everywhere, broken bits of wood littered the floors. The two of you tried to keep pathways clear, moving broken bits out of the way for safer passage. The two of you were bringing someone back to your safe room - a young female - when a harsh tug on your chest brought tears to your eyes, the bond feeling so strong since it was quieted. You turned to Azriel, words getting lost as a tear fell down your cheek. Your chest whirled with emotions, a constant tugging calling you away.

“Thank you.”

For coming, for his eternal friendship, for his loyalty, for everything. 

He nodded, still too mad to accept any gratitude for his presence. “Are you going to tell him about what you got up to tonight?”

You couldn’t even say his name, still so incredibly pissed off at him and how he handled everything. How the past 24 hours have seen a complete change in not only yourself or your mate, but an entire court, all of Prythian forever changed.

“He knows very little of how I spend my nights, and he made his feelings about you very clear yesterday.”

His eyes softened as he looked at you as if seeing you truly for the first time. Despite his anger at you, you surged forward and wrapped your arms around his torso, squeezing him tightly to you. He folded around you, his shadows swirling around you as he deepened the hug. 

“Please, never wear brown again. Red and orange suit you much better.”

It was a peace offering. You didn’t know how long he’d stay mad at you, and everything in you wanted to hold him close to you until he forgave you. But this was centuries of lies, half-truths, and emotional manipulation. Things you knew Azriel had to work through. You could practically see him in his study, late at night hunched over journals going through the past century in hopes of untangling your lies.

Tonight proved two impossibles: Azriel helping Eris ascend the throne, even in such a minor way, and Eris finally defeating Beron.

You squeezed him one last time, muttering more thanks into his chest.

“I have to- to go find Eris.”

His arms slackened as you pushed off of his chest, sprinting through the halls, not watching Azriel disappear back into the shadows, looking forward and following where the tug kept pulling you. Turning corners, jumping over overthrown chairs, ignoring fae until you came to grand doors to what you assumed was the throne room. The doors were slightly ajar and you pushed them open with reckless abandon, running in before quickly halting.

The scene before you was startling. Six heads of red hair, one on the ground not moving, one curled into someone’s lap, breathing heavily.

You nearly collapsed at the sight, your brain trying to parse out what you were seeing, but someone was quick to hold you up. Lucien’s dark chest blocked your view, and you quickly pushed at him, your feet carrying you until you saw Eris’s face downturned to the body in his arms.

“Eris.”

He didn’t act like he could hear you. He kept shushing his brother, holding him tight in his arms. The room was coated in grief, the smell of blood so pungent your head began spinning. You looked to Beron’s body, finding a gruesome scene of a decapitation, his head nowhere to be found. The room was quiet, not even the sound of feet shuffling in anticipation could be heard.

Marigold appeared from behind you, rushing as she moved to the male in Eris’s arms.

“Flint,” Marigold cooed. You couldn’t see her well, your knees had sunk to the floor behind Eris. You rested your head against his back, the armor so cold against your skin. You listened to Eris’s breaths, letting them calm the surge of emotion inside of you.

Alive, alive, alive.

“Come on, wake up. You have to tell her.”

Eris jostled beneath you, attempting to move his brother you were sure.

“I did it for you, Mother.” The voice was weak - Flint, most likely. He sounded so small, his heart aching with so much pain it made your throat close up. Big emotions coated the air in the room, forming a haze of grief, longing, and regret. So much regret. 

“I know, sweetheart.”

He coughed, his entire being so full of pain. You hated being around the dying. It was nearly impossible as an empath - the feelings of death were so powerful it was impossible to block them out. 

“It was all for you.”

He moved fully into Marigold’s lap now, but you remained fixed behind Eris. His armor began warming or perhaps it was getting accustomed to your temperature.

“I know, I know.”

You placed a hand on Eris’s back, rubbing softly as he gently cried into his brother’s head. Blood was pouring from his brother, covering Eris’s armor. Your fingers tangled in his hair, covered in dirt, sweat, and blood.

His eyes stayed on his brother, his chest moving slower and slower.

Lucien moved toward Beron, picking up the crown that had fallen from his head. It looked like an endless supply of berries and twigs, so enticing like you could pop one into your mouth. He moved toward Eris, his steps loud to ensure he was heard. He placed the crown on Eris’s head, reaching over you to do so. 

When Lucien pulled back, he gave you a pained smile. His own armor was covered in blood, but none of his movements looked painful. He looked so worn down, but the Autumn armor he adorned looked perfectly molded to him.

A true son of Autumn back even if for a short moment.

Flint stopped breathing in her grasp and once she knew he was gone, she began sobbing into his head. Your chest filled with emotions, nearly impossible to assign sources to. Every feeling spiderwebbed from your chest, pulling you to multiple fae at once, but you only focused on Eris, his breathing even save for the occasional shudders.

Marigold’s cries filled the room, none of the other brothers dry eyed. A song was being carried on the breeze, mixing with the Lady of Autumn’s cries to produce a haunting melody. As her cries softened, the song became louder. Your ears twitched in recognition, a tune that carried you off to sleep each night.

The song that tied your souls together was a duet and what played on the wind was Eris’s portion. It was deep and quick, a song that took many turns, carrying the listener on a journey. You looked toward Lucien, his raised eyebrows enough for you to know he heard it too.

It was a beautiful song. It sounded like when you were first mates - conversations that often led nowhere, the both of you too worried to be truthful. It sounded of midnight meetings, stolen glances, moments the two of you had tucked away so deep you weren’t sure where memory and dream bled together.

The song would carry you through your life. You had heard it through the worst moments imaginable. As your wings were cut through your body, the knife uncaring as it shredded through bone and skin. And it was one you would hear years from now, the song being carried on the wind, coming in through the open window the lull your babe to sleep. It was a bridge from the vastly different lives the two of you had led. 

The song would carry you everywhere you needed to go, the changing chords so familiar to you they would follow you in death. And yet every time you heard it, your heart filled with curiosity, wanting to know where the song would go next.

Divider by @tsunami-of-tears

Permanent taglist: @vanilla-seabass @cyrygher @lees-chaotic-brain @topaz125 @chessebookgirl @fides25 @lady-of-tearshed @ashbatz @fxckmiup @lilah-asteria @justvibbinghere @daughterofthemoons-stuff @mybestfriendmademe @heartless-tate @tsunami-of-tears @idrkwhatthisisimsorry @olive-main @azrielsmate3 @pit-and-the-pen @durgenyx @dee-writes-smut @chairofchaos @thelov3lybookworm @berryzxx @throneofsmut @kennedy-brooke @prythianpages @itsswritten @acotarxreader @milswrites @the-golden-jhope @hannzoaks @secretlyhers @tothestarsandwhateverend @sarawritestories @chxosangxl

Eris taglist: @magicstrengthandcourage @book-obsessed124

[fourmoony]

This may be weirdly specific so feel free to ignore if so but

Jamie with a reader who’s never felt like she was someone’s first choice and is having a hard time grasping that she *is* his

thanks for requesting angel! 1.5k f!reader modern!au

he's my sweet boy i need him in a way i cannot describe

masterlist

James' shrill ring tone fills the room, but neither of you make an effort to move for it where it's buzzing against the coffee table. You probably should be the one to do it, considering you're sprawled across the top of James, making it rather difficult for him to move. But, he doesn't ask you to, so you don't. Even when it rings a second time. You think James might actually be asleep, unaware to the incessant ringing. He's slept through worse, in all fairness.

But he groans petulantly when the ringing stops, turns to ping after ping, the texts flashing across his locked screen and illuminating the dark calm of his living room. His hand leaves it's place on your hip, reaching half heartedly for the device and when he fails, you sigh and reach for it yourself. It'd been a peaceful two hours of relaxing, just existing together in the same space, not really talking, not really doing anything except revelling in the feeling of each other's presence on James' couch after a busy week of barely seeing each other. Between your work, James' rugby practices, and trying to maintain social lives, it'd been hard to have quality time.

You're okay with that. More than okay with that. James has his life and you have yours. This thing you have, it's new and it's fragile, and you won't dent it or risk losing it by being clingy, by telling James that you miss him, that you want to spend more time with him, friends and coworkers, practices and life be damned. You refuse. So you slide the top half of your body off the couch, one hand holding yourself up on the floor, and the other outstretched for James' phone.

His left hand cups the back of your thigh, fingers slipping between the left and right. It's an innocent touch, but heat floods your body all the same as your fingers wrap around his rubber phone case and you heave your body back on top of his. He grumbles when the phone starts to ring again, rubs an apologetic hand up and down the back of your thigh which has you forcing your face into the crease of his neck and shoulder to hide the bright red of your cheeks.

He rests his head atop yours as he answers the phone.

Sirius' voice booms through the speaker, though it's too muffled to make out what he's saying. James answers whatever it is with a tired sounding "Not tonight, mate."

There's more muffled talking, a couple of voices added into the mix and you assume that Sirius is in the local pub. Your heart sinks a little when you realise he's likely inviting James out, and you don't have the heart to tell him you'd rather stay inside the cozy confines of his flat, half asleep in the dim evening light. You don't want to seem controlling or toxic, so you lie still, control your breathing, don't react to whatever is coming down the line from Sirius' end.

James chuckles lightly, his free hand rubbing soothing circles into the small of your back, hand warm against your skin where it's worked it's way under your - his - rugby jumper. "Yeah, yeah, she's here." James' hand squeezes the pudge of your hip at the mention of you.

You tilt your head up in interest and James smiles down at you, warmly, presses his lips to the crown of your head as Sirius screeches down the phone.

"No. No, Sirius, she doesn't want to spend her only day off in the pub listening to you lot." James speaks with humour in his voice, but you can see the hint of frustration that's in his eyes.

You frown, wonder if he's frustrated because he feels he has to pick between you and his friends. You love his friends, you get on well with them, but he's right, you can't think of anything worse on your only day off than going to the pub. "You should go." You whisper, urging James by attempting to climb off of him.

His arm wraps tight around your waist, brows furrowed as he looks down at you and shakes his head, "No." He mouths.

Then, "No. Sirius. No. Mate, you're smashed, have Moony take you home."

James laughs at whatever Sirius says in retort, and then the two are saying their goodbyes. James tosses his phone onto the coffee table after he switches it to silent mode.

"You should go. This is your only day off, as well. Go see your friends. We can do a quick dinner or something tomorrow." You try to urge him again.

James' immediate response is to hold you tighter to him, as though you may actually be trying to escape him. "I'd rather spend my time here. With you." He shrugs, like it's nothing.

Your heart does a little stutter at his words, but your brain catches up and you sigh, "Jamie, it's okay. If you want to go, you should."

His brows hook upward at the middle when he furrows them, his eyes searching yours, "Why is it so hard for you to believe I'd rather be here with you?"

You try not to flinch at his words, try not to think about all the boys before who've put a myriad of things above you. It's fine, really. You've grown accustomed to settling for the dregs, the stolen moments. James is worth the heavy feeling it leaves in your chest to be second best. Simply because when you're with him, the world melts away.

Feigning indifference, you shrug against him, "Because all we're doing is laying here in the dark, half asleep. Wouldn't you rather be out with your friends having a laugh?"

"Would you?" James counters, and it seems like he genuinely wants to know your answer, like he thinks, foolishly, so foolishly, you'd rather be anywhere else. That you wish you were doing more.

Doing nothing with James forever sounds like the best thing you've ever heard. "No. Not at all. I love this. But I know you. You're a social butterfly." You speak softly, cautious of the conversation turning into a row.

You have too many experiences with conversations like the one you're having now being turned into a row.

James nods, "I love this, too. And you're right, I like to be social, but sometimes that drains me. I've spent all week being social, spent all week missing you, and I'm drained. All I wanted to do all week was see you, spend time with you. I couldn't think of anything worse than going to the pub, right now."

His hands are as assuring as his words, trailing a path of warmth and comfort across the planes of your back, your thighs, your hips. It's surreal, the assertiveness he speaks with, the way he makes sure you know he means every word. Your stomach flutters with the idea of him missing you as much as you missed him. It's weird, to feel validated, to feel content and sure.

"I just don't want your friends to think you're picking me over them, or something." You mumble, head dropping back into the space between his shoulder and neck.

James hums, "I am though. Not in a bad way. I just," He pauses, like he's searching for the words, "I'm sure about this, you know? Sure about you, about us. You mean a lot to me, and I'm all in. You come above everything else because, for me, that's the only way it'll work."

You feel rather silly for the tears that spring their way to your eyes, and begin to leak without your consent against James' neck. He must feel them, because he tuts, using his hands to pry your face away from the skin, thumbs swiping softly at the fallen tears. He looks at you so gently you might start sobbing. Relief washes over you in waves, and you realise you hadn't even been aware how worried you were that you felt more for James than he did for you.

"Why are you crying, sweet girl?" He whispers, pressing a kiss to each of your tear stained cheeks.

You loose a breath, "I've never been someones first choice before."

That visibly upsets James, who takes it upon himself to right this wrong, stave off your tears by pressing kisses all over your face between murmured promises.

"I'd pick you in this life," a kiss to your nose, "the next," a kiss to your forehead, "the one after that," a kiss to your chin, "and in every universe."

He finishes with a kiss to your lips, soft and deep, his hands steady on the line of your jaw. You whine a little, pushing further into him until he's chuckling into your mouth.

"I'd pick you, too," You say into his mouth.

James smiles, bright as anything you've ever seen, "Thank God for that, lovie."

And yeah. Thank god for that.

[hemlockesprings]

your music has been such a joy for me to discover, my mental health has improved a lot since your ep dropped back in september or whenever. your voices are soothing and hot. your lyrics are great. the beats are several-steps ahead of the comp. your music healed me a lil bit. but most of all, as a locket, i hope this experience of touring the world is good to you as well. love ya hemmy, cant wait for the next bop <3

My voice has never been describes as "hot" before LOL I'm taking it!! thank you thank you! 🙏

In all seriousness though, I'm so glad your mental health has improved! MY EP did nothing, it's all YOU, you've worked SO HARD to HEAL and LIVE, and I'm just glad my music helped you along the way!

I'm not sure how long it has been since you sent this message, but imma don you honorary locket of the month! 👑

I can't wait for you to hear everything! 🥰

-🔒🧡

[slashingdisneypasta]

Peter Hale x Younger!Mate!Reader || Drabble

Plot: **I forget how mates work in the Teen Wolf universe but for the good of the fic, we're going to do this in an AU where your mate is not your choice- you just Feel It, when you meet them, and Know. And you also have a little sixth sense, where you can tell when the other is in danger.**

Peter Hale is your mate, there's no question about that, but from the moment that you both realised that fact- he has made it clear that you are too young and sorry sweetheart, I'm not that evil.

But some time later he turns up at your house. He has no intentions of being there long, but will it be harder for him to leave then he thought?? After all, now its just the two of you. Just you, and him. Fuck.

Warnings: Age difference (Reader is 21-24, Peter is 35-38).

Of all the people who could've been on the other side of the door today, Peter Hale was probably the one possibility you thought would be the least likely. As soon as you see him, you straighten up your back; stand with more confidence. Even though you're really, really confused. How does he even know where you live?? Peter has never been here. And you've never been close enough to tell him.

"Wh-... " You look around. Did one of the other bring him?? Lydia??? Weirdly, you don't see anyone else. Just your devastatingly attractive, occasionally evil, quippy estranged mate. When your eyes land on him again, you cant help but notice something off about him. He looks a little nervous. A little worried. "... Is everything okay??" Your voice is gentle; soothing. You don't know how comforting that is to him, against his will.

"Hi." He starts, causing you to screw up your nose when he doesn't answer your question. "I uhh... I got your address from Styles."

"And he just... gave it to you?" You ask, dubious. Styles hates that you and Peter are mates, and one of the few things that Style appreciates about Peter is the distance he's kept from you all this time.

Peter shakes his head. "Well, no, he took some convincing, but- " His eyes flicker from your face to the rest of you for the first time- period. First time ever. But still, there's not a bit of lecherousness in his glance, just more concern. Now your lips form into a concerned frown. Why is he so anxious?? Thats not Peter-like at all. Even you know that and you barely know each other! "Uh, when I told him I was worried about you, he coughed up."

You blink. "Worried??... Why would you be worried about m- " OH fuck. Guilt rushes through you immediately. You completely forgot that that he could... that mates could sense when the other was scared. You were told it could be felt almost just as clearly as if you yourself were in the danger, if your mate was. And you were pretty damn scared, earlier.

Fuck.

Immediately your body goes cold and your eyes go round. "- I'm so sorry!! It was- I- My friend and I went into the city earlier, and she left early so I took the train back on my own, and there was this creep that sat next to me an-- It wasn't serious. I'm so so sorry."

Peter nods, the worried fog in his eyes clearing as he let out a sound- a sigh? Relief? He remains rooted to the spot, though, a crease in his eyebrows that still conveyed some level of concern. "What kind of creep? Are you alright??"

"He was just- um- " How do you describe the levels of discomfort you were in with this guy, and still convince him that you're fine? You're not, right now. In fact you were still pent up when you finally got home, safe and sound. You only forgot all about it when Peter turned up at your door. "Persistent. I'm okay. Thank you Peter."

The crease in Peter's eyebrows increases, furrowing and knitting together into a grimace of disbelief. What you would almost call a sneer pulls across his pretty face. "Really?? That felt... pretty bad, sweetheart."

You immediately ignore the twitter your heart gives when he calls you sweetheart. "Really. I'm not hurt, he didn't follow me home. I'll be fine."

"Hm." Peter clearly doesn't believe you. You don't know what to tell him!

... fortunately, you don't have to. After a moment, he rolls his eyes and rolls his shoulders, shaking off the grimace and the sneer and looking once again his usual, unique brand of nonchalant. "Fine, don't tell me. But hey, maybe I should give you my phone number. That way you can let me know whenever something like that happens, so I don't have to freak out cuz my heart's about to tear out of my chest while I'm just folding laundry."

"Oh. Yeah, probably a good ide- "

"You got a pen?"

And there he goes, you think with an indignant huff. He's brushing you off and trying to get away fast, like just being near you was a chore.

Giving a nod, you leave the doorway and head into your house. "You can come in!" You call back, searching for a pen and a notepad.

It hurt that Peter was like this with you all the time, but usually it was a vague unfortunate longing feeling somewhere deep inside you. Because, in the end, you didn't really know Peter. Just because he meant to be your mate, didn't mean you knew him (Just meant that you could. That you wanted to.). So truly, was it a huge loss that he didn't want anything to do with you? You tried to tell yourself that it wasn't. And besides, you sort of respected him for not wanting to 'prey' on you. That was good... A part of him not everyone saw.

Right this moment though you felt sad, and annoyed. Because for a moment there, he was really your mate. He was worried for you, he wasn't just shocked and upset like he'd probably try to convince you if you pressed him on it, he was worried. You could see it clear as day. Because one thing you could gather about Peter, was that when he wasn't wearing that semi-permanent poker face he had on again now as he wandered through your house behind you, peering at pictures on walls and books on your shelves, his face was more like a window directly to his soul. He couldn't hide anything. Thats probably why he invented the blasé attitude he'd patented now.

"... didn't know you were a reader." He pipes up, a definite note of interest in his tone. Not Talking is not a possibility for him- even with you. "What's- "

You give him a taste of his own medicine. "Yep."

Finally you find a pen and paper, stuffed in your food cupboard with a grocery list half done on the first page. You flip to the second page and turn around, handing the pad and the fine liner pen over to Peter.

You watch him carefully write in his phone number down for you, and feel very oddly about him being in your home right now. Morally debased Peter Hale, looking way too gorgeous in jeans and a designer t-shirt- your supposed mate- in your kitchen. Absolutely nuts.

When he's done, you cant help but asking if he wants a cup of tea? You want him to stay. You want him to be comfortable with this- with you.

But you wont force him if he cant. Even if it genuinely breaks your heart a little every time that you think about what could be, here.

"No- no, I cant." He says quickly, immediately, and you nod. Yeah. Yeah, you expected that. Okay. "Well... good seeing you, Y/N. I'll, uh, see you around inevitably."

"Probably, I'm in the pack you keep trying to take over."

A little grin flickers across his face. A little fake-ashamed, a little proud. "Exactly."

You don't know if thats a joke or not. Probably a bit of both, with him. From what you knew of him, he could never ignore the allure of being alpha for very long, despite any amount of good deeds he does.

Complicated man, he is.

Peter turns his back and starts on his way back the way he came, and you go to walk him out, and you're just thinking about what you're going to do with the rest of your day- how you definitely need a comforting cup of tea after all the fear and all the oddness and all the sad- when suddenly Peter turns back around. You nearly run into him. "Oh!- Peter- "

Before you even realise what happened, he draws you and in against him and seals your lips with his and swallows down your surprise. There's a passion in this sudden, shocking kiss that you've never felt before and it almost brings you to your knees. You kiss him back, parting your lips and meeting his tongue with a clipped moan, but you have to wrap your arms around his neck just to stay on your feet.

Being this close to him finally, you find you don't mind the rough stubble against your face one bit, and his cologne is expensive but good, and his nose rubbing against yours feels perfect.

When he pulls back he releases a wolfish growl into the small space between you both, frustrated and annoyed. "Shit, I wish I had a good excuse for that, but- " He shakes his head before pressing his forehead against yours. "Fuck me, I shouldn't have done that... "

"I'm a grown up, Peter- "

"See, Y/N, the fact that you have to say that, is not reassuring to me."

"Y/N??" You blink, eyes growing wide.

"Thats your name." He groans, rolling his eyes.

"Yeah, but you've never said it before."

"Yes I hav- " He seems to decide arguing about that isn't worth the time, and shakes his head again. Probably because he definitely hasn't!- "Whatever. Point is, today I have reached a new low. And guess who's fault that is, sweetheart?"

Your mouth falls open with shock, despite the butterflies that fly around inside you at him calling you sweetheart again. "Not mine!- You could control yourself, its not that hard."

His intense blue eyes have a grin in them, now, making you insides feel warm and soft. Still, he sighs. "... any chance you can keep this a secret?"

Hmm... "... Only if you kiss me again." There's a lot to discuss, a lot to figure out; you know that. But the bottom line, the only thing you care about right now, is that you're a grown fucking adult- and you're still feeling the high from Peter's touch. You need it again. You think you're addicted.

Already!

A dark smirk slips across his handsome face. "Hm. You got a couch in this place sweetheart?"

[letternotekisses]

nghhh your blog has made me think of the idea of Doomfist giving his assistant to Ramattra as a way of bridging an alliance between Talon and Null sector....Ram using the assistant as a little stress toy......help

Akande knows how to sweeten a deal.

He’s negotiated and bartered with so many powerful men that swaying them comes to be like second nature for him, but this time it’s a little different. This is no man and there’s no greedy human nature Akande can target. There is no weakness.

Your heels clack against the glossy mahogany flooring as you patter beside him, clutching important notices and valuable documents close to your chest like they might fly away. And you’re tittering away with a casualness that he’d let no another agent of his get away with, but Akande isn’t the only one listening.

Ramattra tilted his head with something that could only be described as curiosity. Such a small thing, you were. Surrounded by dangerous killers and meticulous assassins that would exploit your every weakness should you let down your guard, yet you led him through the halls with all the grace and confidence of a pampered feline pet.

Nothing you were saying was of any importance to the omnic, but he couldn’t tear his gaze away, intently listening to every word that fell from your soft, pouty lips. You were valuable to Akande somehow, special in a way that had Ramattra craving a personal insight.

“My assistant will help you get settled in.”

Akande smiles at him, both knowing and smug as he offers him a key to what Ramattra assumes is the room he’ll be staying in. It is then when the omnic realises he’s been caught staring, but Akande only seems all too pleased.

He’d found his bartering chip, squeezed into an all too tight skirt and a low cut blouse.

—

It’s when you take him to the hilt that Ramattra finally decides on his answer.

Such a soft, sweet little thing you are. Panting into the air as he splays a hand onto your lower back, digging his metal fingers into the fat of your hips to drag you down further. Humans, so malleable, so weak, so soft. Your cunt flutters around the silicone of his cock, sucking him impossibly deeper despite the already snug fit.

“Ambitious, aren’t you?” Ramattra snarls, shifting his hips forward to bump the fat tip of his cock deeper, to bully himself into the softest parts of you. You’re whimpering into the satin sheets like a bitch in heat and it urges him to break you, to cup the soft pudge of your tummy and force himself as deep as he could ever possibly go.

Ramattra had little need for pleasures of the flesh, but there was something all too gratifying about watching you urge yourself on something much too big for you to take. For someone so insignificant, Ramattra was all too tempted to indulge in you, after all, you’d all but been handed over to him on a silver platter.

“Please..” You whine, your begging quickly silenced by a powerful pump of his hips, the cables attached to his head falling past his shoulders in disheveled waves. He wants to tear into your softness. Bury himself inside you and never come back out. He’d give Akande all of the resources he could want just for a few extra minutes between your plush thighs.

He all but cackles, the noise deep and synthetic as he watches your cunt flutter greedily around him. Ramattra pins you down by the back of your neck, revelling in your heat as it bleeds into his hands, warming the metal when he thumbs your nape in a soothing manner.

“Come on my cock, little assistant,” He purrs, his voice staticky with want, “And I will reward your excellence.”