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uncuredturkeybacon · 15 hours ago

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𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝚢𝚘𝚞 || 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚐𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚡 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

in which tattoos aren't the only thing that leaves a mark

warning : sexual content included - minors dni

Your dorm smells faintly of antiseptic and coconut oil, dimly lit by a salt lamp you found at a garage sale and a few strands of fairy lights taped haphazardly across the ceiling. Your tattoo machine is humming gently on your desk, neatly cleaned and resting beside a lined-up set of sanitized needles, ink caps, and gloves. You’ve got a system — one that’s been perfected over the last year and a half — ever since your roommate dropped out and you turned her bed into your makeshift tattoo studio.

Under the name Inkling, you’ve built a quiet reputation on campus. No one knows your real name unless they’ve been in the chair. Athletes, musicians, a couple grad students — they’ve all come through that dorm door, usually through hushed referrals and cryptic Instagram DMs. You’ve never posted your face. Just close-ups of fresh ink, your gloved hands, or that one photo of your forearm covered in delicate, razor-sharp line work. That one got shared a lot.

You’re careful. Every DM gets deleted after a location drop. Every appointment spaced out. You’ve seen enough busted dreams to know UConn wouldn’t hesitate to bench someone — or worse, expel you — if they found out.

It’s a rainy Thursday when your phone buzzes with a new DM.

Hey. Someone told me you might be the person to talk to about a tattoo?

The username catches your attention: @/paigebueckers.

You lean back in your chair, eyebrows lifting. The Paige Bueckers. You’ve seen her on campus, walking with her hood up and headphones on. People talk about her like she’s royalty — or a ghost. Never really both.

You heard right. What are you looking for?

The typing bubble appears. Then disappears. Then comes back.

Something small. My first one. Maybe ribs.

I got you. Location’s in your inbox. Delete this after reading.

You wait.

And then — just like you asked — the message disappears.

You hear the knock on your door five minutes early.

Cracking it open just a sliver, you scan the hallway. Empty.

Then you see her. Hoodie up, eyes down, clearly trying to go unnoticed. You gesture her inside, and she slips in quickly.

She pauses in the doorway, scanning the room. Your tall frame leans casually against your desk, arms inked and folded across your chest. You’re wearing a fitted black tank and sweats, fresh from a lift earlier. Her eyes drift, lingering a little too long before she catches herself.

"You're Inkling?" she asks, raising an eyebrow, tone skeptical — but not unfriendly.

You smirk. “In the flesh.”

She blinks. You can see the recalibration in her eyes, like she wasn’t expecting you — tall, masculine, and somehow both rough around the edges and easy to talk to.

“I’m Paige,” she offers, finally meeting your eyes.

“Yeah,” you say, stepping aside to let her walk further in. “I know who you are.”

You gesture to the chair in the corner — clean, covered in disposable wrap, next to your station.

“So,” you say, pulling on a pair of black gloves. “What are we doing today?”

She tugs her hoodie down, suddenly self-conscious. “I was thinking something simple. Maybe… a small cross? Just here—” She lifts the hem of her shirt slightly, revealing a sliver of toned side. “Right under the ribs.”

You nod, already moving to draw the stencil. “Any style in mind? Fine line? Bold? Shaded?”

She hesitates. “Fine line. Clean. Simple. Kind of like… a reminder, y’know?”

You nod again. “I got you.”

Within a few minutes, you’re walking back over with the stencil, eyes flicking up to hers. “You’re gonna have to take your shirt off.”

You say it casually, but her cheeks tint pink.

She hesitates, then pulls her hoodie and tank over her head, folding them neatly and setting them on the chair. She’s in a sports bra, but even so, her posture stiffens a little under your gaze.

You kneel next to her, applying the stencil with gentle precision, fingers cool against her warm skin. “This okay?”

She looks down and nods, voice quiet. “Yeah. It’s perfect.”

You pick up the machine, the buzz filling the room.

“First tattoo, huh?”

She nods. “Is it gonna hurt?”

“Little bit. But I’ll talk you through it.”

The needle meets her skin. She tenses at first — a sharp breath — but you keep your voice low, steady, as you work.

“You’re not gonna die. Promise.”

She laughs softly, tension easing just a little.

You fall into a rhythm — machine buzzing, your voice threading in between.

“So how’d you start tattooing?” she asks after a minute.

“Boredom,” you admit. “High school. I used to sketch on my friends with Sharpies. Someone dared me to buy a machine. I practiced on fake skin for months before I ever touched a person.”

“Weren’t you scared?”

“Terrified. But I loved it more than I feared it.”

She goes quiet. You glance up.

“What about you?” you ask. “Why basketball?”

“It’s the only thing that’s ever made sense,” she says softly. “It’s like… the court’s the only place where everything goes quiet.”

You hum in understanding, eyes flicking back to your work. “Same way I feel when I’m doing this.”

There’s a long pause. A comfortable one.

You finish the last line, clean it up, and wrap the fresh ink in clear bandage. You explain the aftercare — gentle washing, no picking, keep it moisturized.

She puts her shirt back on and hands you a wad of cash.

And then, just as she reaches for the door — she pauses.

“Hey,” she says, turning back, biting her lip. “Do you ever give your number out?”

You raise a brow. “That depends. Why do you need it?”

Her eyes flick over your face, a little emboldened now.

“I wanna get to know you,” she says. “Not just the artist. You.”

There’s a moment of quiet — just the hum of your machine behind you, the buzz of electricity in the air.

You step toward her, pulling a pen from your pocket and gently taking her hand.

You write your number on her palm, slow and deliberate.

“Then start with a text,” you murmur, eyes locked with hers. “And we’ll see.”

Two weeks.

That’s how long it’s been since Paige sat in your chair — stiff and unsure, her rib stinging under your needle while your voice calmed her nerves better than she’d ever admit.

She hasn't stopped thinking about you since.

Not just the way you looked — tall, confident, with inked knuckles and a crooked grin — but the way you spoke to her. Like she wasn’t just Paige Bueckers, UConn’s superstar. Like she was just... a girl in your dorm getting her first tattoo.

After she left that night, she stared at your number in her palm for a good half hour before finally texting.

hey. it’s paige. got one on the ribs.

You replied two minutes later.

hey ribs. glad you didn’t pass out lol.

Since then, it’s been constant.

Late-night texts. Memes. Song links. Half-flirty, half-real conversations about childhood dreams, favorite snacks, worst injuries, and best memories. She's gotten used to your name lighting up her screen — even looks forward to it. Maybe too much.

Right now, she’s lying on her stomach in the locker room, phone half-hidden under her forearm as she types out a reply.

P: would you ever tattoo your own face on someone as a joke?

You: only if they deserved it.

She grins, lip caught between her teeth, thumbs already flying over her screen for a comeback— when suddenly—

“Who’s got you smiling like that?” KK’s voice breaks through the quiet.

Paige fumbles, yelping a little and nearly dropping her phone. She quickly flips it over, shoving it under her towel.

“N-nothing,” she blurts.

KK lifts an eyebrow, towel slung over her shoulder, all mischief. “Nothing looks a lot like someone.”

“I was just—” Paige clears her throat, rolling over. “Twitter.”

“Ohhh,” KK says knowingly. “Yeah, same. I always giggle at tweets like they’re cute girls texting me too.”

Before Paige can defend herself, Azzi walks in mid-laugh and immediately picks up the vibe. “Wait. What did I miss?”

“Paige is hiding a crush,” KK sing-songs.

Azzi whips her head around. “You’re texting someone? Wait, is it that tattoo artist?!”

Paige goes red instantly. “What? No— I mean— not like that— we’re just—”

“Oh my God,” Azzi says, grinning like she just won the lottery. “You are! You went once and got hooked. I knew it!”

“She called her ‘ribs,’” KK adds dramatically. “I heard it. They have nicknames already.”

“Ribs!” Azzi cackles. “That’s gonna be her contact name in my phone for you now.”

“Shut up,” Paige mumbles, grabbing her towel and pressing it over her face to hide.

Then Aubrey walks in, adjusting her hair, immediately clocking the chaos. “Why is Paige buried like a corpse?”

“She’s in love,” Azzi says sweetly.

“With her tattoo artist,” KK adds.

Aubrey pauses. “Wait. Inkling?”

Paige lifts her head. “You know?”

Aubrey shrugs like it’s obvious. “Yeah. I got my latest one from her last semester. She’s fire.”

“She’s also hot,” Azzi adds. “Like, if I liked girls? I’d have gotten a sleeve just to keep going back.”

KK snorts. “I’d get her initials on my neck.”

“Okay, enough!” Paige yells, half-laughing, half-horrified. “Y’all are so annoying.”

But she’s smiling — wide, and a little dazed — because maybe, just maybe, she kind of loves that they can see what she’s trying to figure out herself.

Meanwhile, across campus, you’re sprawled across your bed, scrolling through Paige’s latest message with a smile playing on your lips.

She sends you a blurry selfie of her holding an energy drink with a caption:

P: this is either gonna power me through or kill me in the middle of practice

You laugh.

You: if you die i’m tattooing “dumb decisions” on your forehead. with wings.

A pause.

P: can’t wait

Your heart stutters. Not just because she’s flirting. But because she’s still here. Still texting. Still choosing you — even if it’s just messages for now.

And that tiny seed of maybe?

It’s starting to bloom.

It’s just past 9PM when your phone buzzes again. You’re half-asleep on your couch, a late re-run of Ink Master humming in the background, one hand tucked behind your head, the other lazily scrolling through your camera roll.

P: hey! ribs needs a touch-up.

You grin, already sitting up straighter. You type back fast.

You: oh no. your tragic little cross fading already?

P: tragic? wow. ok.

You: come cry about it. you free now?

P: omw.

You glance up, blinking.

She’s coming here. Now.

You toss your hoodie on, adjust your sweats, and quickly wipe down your station — not because it needs it, but because you suddenly feel like everything has to be perfect.

You don’t even know if she needs a touch-up. You think the tattoo healed clean. You remember exactly how it looked when she left — skin flushed, ink crisp and sharp, your gloves ghosting her side as you wrapped her ribs with practiced care.

But if Paige wants an excuse to come back?

You’ll let her use all of them.

Fifteen minutes later, you hear a soft knock.

Three quick taps. Hesitant.

You open the door, and there she is.

Hair tied back in a bun. Hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands. Eyes flicking up to meet yours with that soft, unsure kind of confidence that’s been growing since day one.

“Hey,” she says, almost breathless.

You step back to let her in. “Hey, Ribs.”

She rolls her eyes, but there’s a smile tugging at her lips.

“I brought snacks,” she says, holding up a gas station bag. “Touch-up tax.”

You grin. “Bribery noted.”

She perches on the edge of your couch while you prep the machine again, glancing around like she’s trying to memorize every poster, every flickering light string, every shadow you cast across the room.

“So,” you say, sliding gloves on. “Let’s see the damage.”

She lifts the hem of her hoodie, then the tank under it, revealing her side again. She doesn’t flinch this time. Doesn’t hesitate. Just watches you carefully as you lean in to inspect the ink.

You blink.

“Yeah…” you say slowly. “You definitely didn’t need a touch-up.”

“Damn,” she says, tone innocent. “Guess I’ll go then.”

You catch her wrist before she moves.

“Nah. You’re already here.”

The tension builds like a tightrope between you — stretched thin but thrilling.

You lean in, dragging a gloved fingertip lightly over the healed tattoo, eyes never leaving hers.

“You been using the aftercare stuff I gave you?”

“Every night,” she murmurs. “Like a good girl.”

You pause.

You’re not sure who leans in first, but suddenly your faces are too close. Her knee brushes yours. Your fingers are still on her skin. Your heart’s somewhere between say something and kiss her now.

She breaks the silence first.

“You ever get nervous?” she asks softly.

You tilt your head. “About what?”

“Stuff like this,” she says. “Being in someone’s space. Not knowing what happens next.”

You let your hand drop from her ribs, slowly peeling your gloves off.

“I used to,” you admit. “But then I started noticing the signs.”

“What signs?”

You lean back slightly, just enough to make her lean forward — chase the space you left behind.

“Someone shows up without needing a touch-up,” you say. “Brings snacks. Doesn’t take her eyes off you.”

Paige swallows, pulse fluttering in her neck.

“And what do you do when you notice?” she whispers.

You smile — slow, crooked.

“I wait until she makes the next move.”

There’s silence.

Then Paige sets the snack bag aside and shifts closer — until your knees touch again, until the air between your mouths gets impossibly thin.

She rests her hand lightly on your forearm. Testing. Waiting.

“I came back for more than a touch-up,” she says, barely audible.

“I know.”

And then?

You both move at once — like gravity finally gave in.

She almost kissed you.

You know she almost did.

That moment — the way she leaned in, her breath catching, your eyes locked — it was charged. One inch closer and she would’ve been in your lap, her lips pressed to yours, hoodie half-off.

But she pulled back.

Murmured something about practice tomorrow. Smiled that crooked little smile and slipped out like it didn’t shake you to your core.

And now you’re haunted by it.

By her.

The ghost of her fingers on your arm. The scent of her hoodie. The way her voice dipped when she said, “I came back for more than a touch-up.”

You haven’t stopped texting, of course. If anything, it's gotten worse.

P: i keep thinking about that stencil gel. why is it always freezing

You: so u remember the cold gel and not the way i touched ur body huh

P: i hate you

You: no u don’t

She doesn't deny it.

And neither do you.

Three days later, you're bent over your client, your machine buzzing as you work on a chest piece — intricate line work, shaded stars that bloom over his pec like smoke. You're focused, gloved hands steady, music humming low in the background. Your lamp casts a warm glow over your little setup. Three quick knocks. Just like last time.

You look up, brows furrowing. You're not expecting anyone.

You lower the needle and call out, “Door’s open.”

It swings open a moment later — and there she is.

Paige. In joggers and an oversized tee. Slightly flushed like she ran here, hair pulled into a high ponytail, holding a bottle of blue Gatorade like she needed a reason.

“Hey,” she says, eyes flicking around your room. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

Her gaze lands on your chair — on the guy sitting shirtless, one arm behind his head, wincing through the sting of the needle.

“Oh,” she says quickly. “I can come back.”

You shake your head, pulling your gloves tight again. “Nah. Stay.”

Paige hesitates… then closes the door behind her and sinks onto your couch, pulling one knee up, tucking her foot beneath her. She stays quiet at first, just watching.

But you can feel it. Her eyes on you. The weight of them.

Your shirt rides up slightly as you lean over the client. Your chain glints in the light. Your forearms flex. There’s a streak of black ink on your jaw from where you scratched an itch and forgot you’d touched the cap first.

You glance up.

She’s staring.

Her lip is caught between her teeth. Gatorade forgotten in her lap.

You smirk slightly.

“You good over there?” you murmur without looking away from your work.

She snaps out of it. “Yeah. Just… observing.”

You don’t push. You keep tattooing. But your voice drops just enough to tease:

“Didn’t know I was part of the show.”

She doesn’t reply.

But out of the corner of your eye, you catch her shifting — crossing her legs tighter, cheeks a little flushed.

When your client finally hops off the chair and checks out the finished work in your mirror, you clean up and walk him to the door, chatting easily. You say goodbye, click the lock, and turn back around.

Paige is still on your couch. Still holding her Gatorade. Still not looking directly at you.

“You sure you’re not here for another touch-up?” you ask, voice low now that you’re alone again.

She looks up finally.

“I don’t think the tattoo’s the part that needs touching.”

Your heart stutters.

The silence swells again, thick and buzzing.

You take one slow step forward. Then another.

She stands up too, meeting you halfway.

Close. Too close.

You can smell her shampoo. See the freckles scattered on her collarbone. Feel her breath on your chin.

But she doesn’t close the distance.

Instead, her hand brushes your wrist as she walks past you — casual, smooth, intentional — and she murmurs over her shoulder, “Text me later.”

The door shuts behind her.

And you’re left standing in your own dorm, slightly ink-stained, jaw slack, stomach twisted up in tension so sharp it almost hurts.

She pulled back again.

And you're starting to think she's doing it on purpose.

It starts with a text.

P: u up?

You: what are you, a guy on tinder?

P: shut up. i’m serious. come to the gym.

You: it’s midnight.

P: exactly. no one will be there. come shoot with me.

You: ...u tryna seduce me with hardwood floors and fluorescent lighting?

P: depends. is it working?

You don’t even respond.

You just throw on your sneakers and a hoodie, grab your keys, and head out the door.

The UConn practice gym is dim when you walk in — only a few of the overheads are on, leaving the court glowing like a movie scene. Quiet. Still. And there she is.

Paige.

Ball in hand, ponytail high, shooting solo from the top of the key. She doesn’t see you at first — just lets the ball roll back from the rebound machine, catches it in one smooth motion, and fires again.

Swish.

You whistle low.

She turns, a smirk already tugging at her mouth.

“About time,” she says, wiping her forehead with the bottom of her shirt — giving you a full view of her toned stomach before it drops again.

You blink. “Sorry, I had to emotionally prepare for whatever pickup line you were gonna hit me with.”

“Oh please,” she tosses you the ball. “You think I need lines?”

You catch it with a grin. “You’re kinda full of yourself, Bueckers.”

“And you are kinda stalling. Let’s see if you can actually shoot or if you just look cool.”

You raise an eyebrow, then dribble once, twice, pull up at the elbow — clean jumper.

Swish.

Her mouth parts slightly.

You shrug. “Told you I was more than just tattoos and biceps.”

She circles you, grabbing the rebound, bouncing it back your way.

“You are full of surprises,” she murmurs. “I didn’t expect you to have form. Or a jumper.”

You shoot again. Another swish.

“You know,” she adds, jogging over, “if I make this next shot, you have to give me a free tattoo.”

You raise an eyebrow. “And if you miss?”

She spins the ball on her finger, grinning. “Then you still give me one, but I pick where.”

You snort. “That’s not how bets work.”

“Shh.” She backs up behind the three-point line, sets her feet, shoots—

Clank. Off the rim.

You break into laughter, hands on your knees. “Yo—so confident. So dramatic. So short.”

“Okay wow, personal attack,” she says, chasing the ball. “We get it, you’re tall.”

“And humble,” you add with a wink.

She tosses it back. You shoot again. Net.

“You're seriously hot when you do that,” she blurts, then instantly freezes.

You pause mid-dribble, smirking. “When I shoot?”

“When you swish,” she mutters. “And like… do that half-smile thing after. You know what you’re doing.”

You walk closer, bounce passing her the ball again.

“Oh yeah?” you say, voice dropping just a little. “What else do I do that’s hot?”

She squints at you, stepping in too. “You wanna play this game?”

“I thought we were playing,” you murmur.

There’s a pause. Just breath and bouncing orange rubber.

Then Paige grins. “Okay,” she says. “Truth or dare, but gym edition.”

You laugh. “Why do I feel like this is about to go off the rails?”

“Pick one.”

You spin the ball on your palm. “Truth.”

She tilts her head. “Have you thought about kissing me?”

You hesitate — not in fear, but because damn, she really jumped right to it.

You take a slow breath.

“Yeah,” you say honestly. “Too many times.”

She swallows. Looks at your mouth for a second too long.

You step back. “Your turn.”

“I pick dare.”

You toss her the ball again. “Hit a three. If you miss, you owe me a date.”

She narrows her eyes. “That’s not a dare.”

“Sure it is. Do it.”

She backs up, sets her feet, deep breath — and shoots.

It arcs high. Hangs in the air. And—

Rim.

Bounces off.

She stares at it like it betrayed her.

You bite your lip, trying not to grin. “Damn. That’s crazy.”

She groans. “That was so close.”

You step up to her, gently take the ball from her hands, your fingers brushing hers.

“A deal’s a deal, Bueckers.”

“Yeah, yeah,” she mutters. “You better take me somewhere good.”

“Oh, I will,” you say, dribbling lazily between your legs. “Just not to another empty gym at midnight.”

She grabs your wrist before you can turn — eyes locked on yours, soft and slow.

“But you’d come,” she says quietly, “anytime I asked, wouldn’t you?”

You don’t even pretend to lie.

“Yeah,” you breathe. “I would.”

She lingers. Closer again. Inches. Seconds.

And then, like always — she pulls back.

Grabs her Gatorade. Spins the ball once. Looks over her shoulder with that damn smirk.

“Text me later.”

And she’s gone.

It had been four days since you and Paige shot around at the gym.

Four days since that charged truth or dare, since she missed the shot on purpose (you’re sure of it), since she got all up in your space only to walk away like she didn’t just set your heart on fire and leave it smoldering behind her.

You’d been texting still — the usual flirty banter and late-night teasing. But she hadn’t come by. Not since that night.

So when you hear a knock at your door around 7 p.m., your heart stutters.

Her?

You glance over your shoulder — already gloved up, your tattoo machine buzzing as you finish the shading on a delicate black rose. The girl in your chair is leaning back, her cropped tank pulled to the side to expose her ribs. She’s pretty — short brown curls, lip ring, soft eyes. You've tattooed her once before.

You lower the needle for a moment and call out, “Come in.”

The door creaks open.

Paige walks in.

And she freezes.

You swear you hear her swallow.

She takes in the scene — the girl, shirt hiked up, bra strap slipping down, your hand gliding carefully along the edge of her ribs. The soft music. The warm lighting. Your focused expression.

Her jaw clenches — subtle, but you catch it.

“Oh,” she says, stuffing her hands in her hoodie pocket. “Didn’t know you had company.”

You glance up and smile casually. “Just finishing up. Come in. You can chill.”

Paige hesitates, then steps inside and sinks into your couch, eyes lingering on the girl’s exposed skin.

You don’t miss the way she watches you — the way her knee bounces, the way she tugs her hoodie sleeves over her hands like she suddenly doesn’t know what to do with herself.

“Almost done,” you murmur to your client, finishing the last bit of shading. “You’re sitting like a champ.”

“Wouldn’t be my first time,” the girl says with a playful smirk. “You make it easy.”

Paige’s head snaps toward her.

You don’t look up, but you feel it.

She’s seething.

“Glad to hear it,” you say, smirking to yourself as you wrap the tattoo.

The girl sits up, pulling her shirt back down, glancing toward Paige. “Friend of yours?”

“She’s… someone,” Paige mutters, not looking away.

The girl raises an eyebrow, smiles slowly, and heads toward the door.

“Thanks again,” she says to you, hand brushing your arm on the way out. “You’ve got magic hands.”

As the door closes, Paige lets out a sharp, dry laugh.

“Magic hands, huh?” she echoes, voice tight.

You finally look at her — really look.

She’s not just irritated. She’s jealous.

And trying really, really hard to pretend she’s not.

You peel off your gloves, toss them in the trash, and sit on the edge of your desk.

“Something on your mind, Bueckers?”

She shrugs, eyes fixed on the spot where the girl had been. “Didn’t know you did flirty commentary with your clients.”

“She was being nice.”

“She was being obvious.”

You tilt your head. “So?”

Paige looks at you — and the mask slips just a little. Her lips part, then close again. She shifts on the couch, restless.

“So do you flirt back with all your clients?”

“Only the hot ones.”

She raises her eyebrows.

You smirk. “You didn’t seem to mind when you were shirtless on my chair.”

“That was different.”

“Why?”

She’s quiet.

You stand and walk over slowly, stopping just in front of her, hands sliding into your own hoodie pocket.

“Why, Paige?”

She looks up at you, eyes a little too bright, lips just a little too pouty.

“Because I actually care if you’re into someone else,” she finally says, voice low.

The room stills.

You exhale through your nose, taking a beat before you answer.

“You jealous, Bueckers?”

She lifts her chin. “You’re damn right I am.”

You don’t move — you just look at her. Let her feel it.

“You could’ve texted,” you say quietly. “Could’ve said something. Asked me to hang.”

“I didn’t wanna seem…” She trails off.

“What?”

“Attached.”

You take one slow step forward, between her knees. You don’t touch her — not yet — but you’re close enough for her to feel your presence everywhere.

“And what if I like that you’re attached?”

She blinks.

“What if I’ve been thinking about you just as much? What if that gym night messed me up? What if every time you leave, I want you back in the room five minutes later?”

She stares up at you, lips slightly parted, breathing shallow.

And then you lean down, close enough to feel her breath, close enough to kiss her — but you don’t.

You stop right there, noses brushing.

“Still jealous?” you whisper.

Her hand slides up your side, resting lightly on your hoodie — but still, you both hold back.

Barely.

“Only when I’m not the one in your chair,” she murmurs.

You grin. “You saying you want another tattoo?”

She looks at your lips. “No,” she breathes. “I want you.”

But still — no kiss.

Just that unbearable, perfect tension.

It starts with a simple text from Paige.

P: You busy tonight?

You: Not if you’re finally letting me beat you at Uno

P: Tempting. Come by my dorm? Girls are hanging out.

You: You sure? I don’t wanna crash the estrogen party

P: They’ll like you. I promise. Just don’t flirt with anyone but me.

You: Oh? Am I allowed to flirt with you now?

P: Only if you want everyone to know you’re obsessed with me

You laugh at your phone, toss on your hoodie, and head out.

By the time you get to Paige’s floor, you can already hear music and laughter bleeding through the cracked door. You knock once before stepping in.

It’s warm, loud, and full of energy. Sarah’s lounging on the couch with her socks mismatched. Azzi’s sitting cross-legged on the floor sorting cards. KK’s got her phone propped up against a candle jar, already live on TikTok.

“Heyyyy,” Paige grins, hopping up from where she’s been half-sitting on the armrest. She comes toward you, a glimmer in her eye. “You made it.”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” you murmur.

The second you step into the room, every pair of eyes snaps to you.

“Ohhh, so this is the mystery guest?” KK calls, adjusting the angle of her phone. “Wait, wait—come closer, let the live see this. Who is this??”

“She’s a friend,” Paige says quickly, shooting KK a look.

Your eyebrow quirks at friend but you play it cool.

KK waves you over like you’re already part of the crew. “Come sit! Don’t be shy. We were literally just talking about Paige’s secret text buddy—”

“KK!” Paige cuts in, her tone a warning.

“What? I didn’t say their name,” KK teases. “Could be anyone.”

You smirk, sliding into the empty space beside Paige on the couch. Your knees brush. She doesn’t move away.

Azzi greets you with a small, knowing smile. “You play cards?”

“Better than Paige, apparently,” you quip, and she chokes on her drink.

KK cackles from the floor. “Oooh, you got jokes! I like them.”

You glance over and notice Paige is still looking at you — not saying anything, just watching you like you’re the only person in the room. The heat in her stare is something else.

“Okay, okay,” KK says, turning her phone slightly. “Live wants to know who you are. You look suspiciously comfortable over there.”

You flash a polite smile. “Just a friend.”

Paige snorts, and you bump her leg gently with your knee. She doesn't take her eyes off you.

Live chat starts popping off on KK’s phone.

“Who is that???👀” “Is Paige finally boo’d up???” “She’s kinda fine ngl” “They’re sitting HELLA close 😭” “They matching?? Are they matching??”

You glance down at the hoodie you’re wearing — black. Paige’s is black, too.

You lift your eyes to her, biting your lip.

“Matching hoodies, huh?” you whisper under your breath.

“Just coincidence,” she says softly. “Unless you wanna make it a thing.”

Your heart skips, but before you can answer, KK calls out, “HEY. Come on live with us real quick.”

You blink. “Me?”

“Yes, you. You’re already famous in the chat. Might as well say hi.”

Paige gives you this amused little shrug, and Azzi’s smiling into her cup like she knows exactly what’s happening here.

You sigh playfully, scoot over to KK’s phone and lean in. Paige scoots right with you — now shoulder to shoulder, thighs pressed, close.

KK angles the camera toward you both.

“Okay live,” she announces dramatically, “say hello to our very mysterious, very smooth, very not nervous at all guest.”

You nod at the camera with a mock serious face. “Pleasure.”

The comments explode again.

“THE WAY THEY’RE SITTING” “PAIGE IS SMILING SO HARD OMG” “Who is this suave mf I’m in love” “Are y’all dating or what???” “They keep looking at each other omg STOP”

You glance at Paige.

She’s got that look again — amused, glowing, and just a little smug.

You lean closer to the mic. “No comment.”

The room erupts in screams.

You stay on the live for a few more minutes, answering random (safe) questions — what’s your favorite cereal, do you hoop, how did you and Paige meet (you lie effortlessly — “through mutual friends”).

Eventually, KK ends the stream, still giggling.

“That was the most fun we’ve had on live in weeks,” she grins. “You gotta come back.”

“I’ll think about it,” you wink.

Paige gives you a long look as you both settle back into your original spot, her voice low when she says, “You handled that like a pro.”

“Not my first rodeo,” you reply, nudging her leg.

The moment settles in again — comfortable, warm, buzzing beneath the surface. Her pinky brushes yours on the couch cushion.

You don’t move.

Neither does she.

And still—no kiss. Just charged silence, quick glances, and the weight of everything almost happening.

Almost.

It’s late.

That kind of quiet hour where most of campus has gone still, windows dark, the night holding its breath.

Your phone buzzes on your desk.

P: that live earlier… you were kinda smooth ngl.

You smirk, staring at the screen for a moment before typing back.

You: kinda? thought i had you blushing.

P: you wish.

You: come over. prove me wrong.

You hesitate only a second before hitting send. You’ve been dancing around this thing long enough—teasing glances, flirty texts, late-night thoughts.

Tonight?

You want to know.

The reply comes quick.

P: omw.

Ten minutes later, there’s a soft knock on your door. You open it to find her standing there in gray sweats and a white crop hoodie that shows a sliver of skin. Her hair’s loose, no makeup, eyes soft.

“Hey,” she says, voice low, like she’s already matching the quiet.

“Hey,” you echo, stepping aside to let her in.

The lights are dim, a candle flickering on your shelf, casting golden shadows across your dorm. The same chair you tattoo in sits empty now. You gesture to the bed.

“Make yourself comfortable.”

She sits, legs crossing at the ankle, eyes tracking you as you close the door and lock it gently behind you.

“Still think I was only kinda smooth?” you ask, grabbing a bottle of water and tossing it her way.

She catches it, smirks. “I think you’re full of yourself.”

You chuckle, settling into your desk chair. “Nah. I just know how to read a room. And your face during that live?”

“I was not blushing.”

“You so were.”

She rolls her eyes but she’s smiling, teeth tugging at her bottom lip in that way that’s dangerous.

“So what,” she says slowly, “this is your move? Invite a girl to your room, make her talk about her feelings under low light and candles?”

“Only the special ones.”

That gets her. She exhales a soft laugh, cheeks warming in the glow. “You flirt like you tattoo. Confident. Smooth hands.”

Your eyebrow raises. “You thinking about my hands?”

A pause.

She doesn’t look away. “A lot more than I should.”

The tension punches the air out of the room. There’s no music, no noise. Just the sound of your shared breath and the rush in your ears.

You get up and move to sit next to her on the bed.

Close. But not touching.

“What are we doing?” you ask quietly.

She looks at you. Really looks.

“You tell me,” she murmurs.

“I think,” you start, fingers brushing hers slowly, “we’ve been circling this for weeks.”

You turn your body toward her, eyes scanning her expression. “And I think you’ve wanted to kiss me since the night I tattooed you.”

“I almost did,” she admits, her voice barely audible. “That night… when you leaned in.”

You nod. “I know. I felt it.”

You inch forward, just a breath between your lips now. She tilts her head slightly, like she’s inviting it—

And then, just as your lips graze hers, she pulls back.

A whisper of space.

Your pulse stutters. “Paige?”

Her smile is teasing, but her eyes are molten. “Not yet.”

You exhale, not sure if you’re frustrated or even more into her now.

“Cruel,” you mutter.

“Maybe,” she grins, “but now you’re thinking about it more.”

You lean back with a soft groan. “You’re evil.”

She shrugs, smug. “You love it.”

She stays for another hour, curled up in your bed, both of you side by side talking about nothing and everything—what music she listens to pregame, your favorite artists to ink, how she once tried to pierce her own cartilage and absolutely passed out.

You almost forget the burn.

Almost.

Because every so often, she shifts, and her shoulder touches yours. Her leg brushes your thigh. She looks at your mouth and then looks away, and it drives you insane.

When she finally stands to leave, it's after 2 a.m.

You walk her to the door. She hesitates there, hand on the knob.

“Thanks for letting me come over,” she says softly.

You lean against the doorframe. “Anytime.”

Her eyes flicker down to your lips again.

You don’t move.

Neither does she.

Then she leans in, lips brushing the corner of your mouth—a whisper of a kiss, not quite what you wanted, but more than you expected.

A promise.

“Goodnight,” she murmurs.

And then she’s gone.

You’re not sure when exactly she got so deep under your skin, but now you feel it in your fingertips, in the buzz behind your teeth every time her name lights up your screen.

It’s been a few days since that near-kiss.

Too many.

You’ve been playing it cool, trying not to push—waiting for her to make the move.

But tonight?

Tonight you don’t want to wait anymore.

P: gym in 15?

You: be there in 10.

The UConn practice gym is dark, except for one row of overhead lights glowing above the court. Paige is already there, ball in hand, hair in a messy ponytail, wearing a black tank and loose shorts. She looks unfairly good under the gym lights.

She looks like trouble.

“You’re early,” she says, tossing you the ball.

“Didn’t wanna keep you waiting.”

She smirks. “You sure about that? You’ve been making me wait for weeks.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Me?”

She starts walking backward toward the top of the key, still grinning. “You’re the one who talks all this game and then freezes every time I get close.”

You follow, dribbling casually. “Please. You’re the queen of pulling back last second.”

“Maybe I just like the anticipation.”

You stop at the arc and shoot. Swish.

She raises a brow. “Okay Steph, I see you.”

You shrug. “I told you I could shoot.”

She gets the rebound and tosses it back. “Let’s make it interesting.”

“What, horse?”

“No,” she says, stepping close, just barely toe to toe. “If I make my shot, you have to answer a question. Truth only.”

You grin. “And if I make it?”

“Same deal.”

“Bet.”

She pulls up from midrange. Net.

You groan. “Alright. Hit me.”

Her eyes glitter. “Have you thought about kissing me since that night?”

You blink. “Is that even a question?”

“Answer it.”

You step a little closer. “Every night.”

She swallows, the moment thick now. Her turn to shoot again.

She misses.

Your ball.

You catch it, holding it between you. “My question.”

She lifts her chin. “Hit me.”

“Why haven’t you kissed me yet?”

She bites her lip. “Because I wanted to see if you’d break first.”

You chuckle, stepping forward again. “Well, congratulations.”

She tilts her head. “Why’s that?”

You don’t say anything.

You just step into her space, close enough to feel the heat coming off her skin. She opens her mouth like she’s going to say something else—

And you kiss her.

No warning. No teasing. Just your lips on hers, firm and hungry, claiming the moment you’ve both been aching for. She gasps softly into it, hands finding your waist like muscle memory, and you deepen the kiss without hesitation, your fingers tangling in her ponytail.

It’s messy and hot and so full of built-up tension it practically cracks.

She pulls you closer, your body pressing hers gently against the padded wall behind the baseline, breath catching as your teeth graze her lower lip.

“God,” she whispers, head falling back just slightly, “finally.”

You grin against her skin. “I was gonna say the same thing.”

She kisses you again, slower this time but no less intense, like she’s trying to memorize the shape of your mouth.

When she finally pulls back, her cheeks are flushed and her voice is rough. “You’re in trouble now.”

“Oh yeah?”

She nods, smirking. “Because I’m not letting you go.”

There’s no more pretending now.

No more slow-burn games.

She’s officially yours—and you?

You’re already all in.

She’s still catching her breath when you pull her by the hand—out of the gym, down the empty hallway, back toward your dorm like there’s no time left to waste. Because there isn’t. Not anymore.

Not after weeks of stolen glances, soft hands brushing thighs during shoot arounds. Not after that kiss that tasted like everything she’d been holding back.

You open your door, and she’s on you the second it clicks shut.

Your back hits the wall, her mouth claiming yours like she’s starving. Her fingers curl in the fabric of your shirt, tugging you closer, your hands already sliding up the back of her hoodie and under the hem.

You break the kiss just long enough to pull it off, revealing that toned stomach you’ve been sneaking looks at during practice. She's wearing just a simple black sports bra, but it might as well be lace with how fast your pulse jumps.

“Bed,” you mutter against her neck, kissing the warm skin just below her jaw. “Now.”

She obeys, backing toward it, climbing up without breaking eye contact. You follow, slipping your hoodie over your head, your shirt next, until you’re standing above her, toned arms flexing slightly as you kneel on the mattress between her legs.

She looks up at you like you’re something dangerous. And she wants to get burned.

“Still cocky?” she asks, breathless.

You smirk. “We’ll see who’s cocky in five minutes.”

Her laugh is soft, shaky, the nerves behind her bravado showing for the first time.

You dip your head and kiss her again—slow this time, tongue tracing her bottom lip, hands smoothing up her sides until your thumbs brush just under her bra. Her breath hitches.

“Off,” you murmur, and she arches up for you, letting you slip it over her head.

She’s so soft beneath you—golden skin, flushed chest, and already looking at you like she’s seconds from falling apart.

Your hand ghosts over her stomach, fingers tracing the top of her shorts. “This too?”

She nods.

You slide them down, along with her underwear, slow enough to make her squirm. Now she’s laid out under you, nothing between you but heat and air and the sound of her breathing.

“Fuck,” you whisper, dragging your eyes down her body like a prayer. “You’re so pretty like this.”

Her fingers curl into the blanket. “Then do something about it.”

You settle between her thighs, kissing slowly down her stomach, leaving a trail of heat in your wake. Her thighs tense as you press a kiss just above where she wants you most, but you pull back.

“You’ve been teasing me for weeks,” you murmur, mouth hovering over her, breath warm against her. “You really thought I wasn’t gonna return the favor?”

She whines, hand flying to your hair.

And then you give in.

Your mouth meets her with slow, devastating pressure, tongue moving with practiced ease, teasing her open until she’s gasping your name, hips rising from the bed. Your hands press firmly on her thighs, keeping her in place.

She’s so sensitive, so responsive, each moan rolling out of her throat like it’s been waiting in her chest for days.

When you add your fingers—slow at first, curling just right—she loses it, head thrown back, mouth parted, trying and failing to keep it together.

“Right there,” she gasps. “Fuck—please, don’t stop.”

You don’t.

You keep going until she’s trembling, legs shaking, eyes squeezed shut as she falls apart around you, fingers tangled in your hair like she’s afraid you’ll vanish if she lets go.

You only stop when she’s tugging at your shoulders, breathless and wrecked.

You crawl back up her body, kissing her slowly now, her taste on your tongue, your hand resting on her stomach as it rises and falls.

“I told you,” you murmur against her lips. “I don’t miss my shots.”

She laughs, dazed and completely gone. “I’m never letting you near a basketball again.”

You grin. “Then I’ll just have to find other ways to wear you out.”

She’s curled against you now, legs tangled with yours under the warm sheets, skin still buzzing and kissed with sweat. Your arm’s draped over her waist, your fingers drawing slow circles along her back while her cheek rests on your chest.

The silence is thick with something warmer than lust.

You feel her chest rise and fall against you, slower now. Calmer. But every so often she lets out a breath like she’s still recovering—like you short-circuited something in her.

You brush your lips over her temple. “You okay?”

She nods, then looks up at you with the kind of smile that knocks the air out of your lungs. Messy hair, kiss-swollen lips, eyes too big and too honest.

“I’m… really okay,” she says softly. “Like… insanely okay.”

You chuckle and squeeze her waist, pressing another kiss to her shoulder. “Just okay? I’m offended.”

She laughs and hides her face in your chest. “Shut up. You know what I mean.”

There’s a long pause after that. A quieter one. One that has her fingers slowly brushing your side, like she needs to touch you to believe this happened.

“So,” she says after a minute, her voice lower now, careful. “Was that… like… a one-time thing?”

You blink down at her.

“What?” you ask, half-laughing. “Paige. I just took you apart on my bed. You think I’d do that and just ghost you?”

She shrugs, eyes still down. “I don’t know. I just don’t want to assume.”

You tilt her chin up with your fingers. “Then let me be clear.”

You kiss her—soft and slow, the kind of kiss that says everything you haven’t dared to say out loud yet.

“I want to keep seeing you,” you murmur against her lips. “Outside of tattoo sessions. Outside of gym rebounds. I want you.”

She exhales like she’s been holding it in for days.

“I want you too,” she says, her voice a whisper. “I have. For weeks.”

You smile. “Same.”

There’s another beat of quiet before she starts trailing her fingers up your chest again. “You’re really dangerous, you know that?”

You raise a brow. “How so?”

“You’re tall. Hot. Mysterious. You make art. And you’re insanely good in bed. It’s not fair.”

You grin and brush her hair back behind her ear. “And you’re a literal basketball god with killer eyes and an attitude. I’m the one in trouble here.”

She grins lazily and leans in again, kissing you like she’s falling into something she doesn’t want to stop.

Eventually, she sighs and buries her face in the crook of your neck.

“Can I sleep here?” she mumbles, her voice half gone.

You answer by pulling the blanket tighter around her and kissing the top of her head.

“Yeah, Paige,” you whisper. “Stay as long as you want.”

#paige bueckers x reader #uconn women’s basketball #paige bueckers #uconn wbb #lesbian #wlw #paige buckets #paige x reader #wuh luh wuh #wnba x reader #‎꙳¤*٭⁎﹡꙳＊ 𝘂𝗻𝗰𝘂𝗿𝗲𝗱 𝗰𝗹𝗶𝘁𝗲𝗿𝗮𝘁𝘂𝗿𝗲 ＊꙳﹡⁎٭*¤꙳

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rafescherie · 3 days ago

Text

✮⋆˙ rafe accidentally finds out about your praise kink.

warnings — none, really! praise + praise kink, sexual tension.

cherie's note — i was inspired by a tweet on twitter and i knew i had to write it for rafe omg... this is your sign to get your license if you don't have it yet ˵ •̀ᴗ•́˵

a perfect stop.

the infamous black truck idles in his driveway, your fingers gripping against the steering wheel a little tighter than necessary, heart racing.

you glance over at rafe, the boy sat comfortably in the leather seat of his passenger side, waiting for the inevitable commentary. his leg bounces absentmindedly, giving you a small nod of approval — a job well done. not that you had gone far — riding down the dirt marsh roads out of sight from any other vehicle and back, but it was something.

"well?" you ask, a little too eager, a little too nervous.

he doesn't answer right away — lets the tension build between them in that egotistical way he always seemed to do. rafe had a way of making people uncomfortable, he knew that. he watches you for a second. you look flushed — focused and proud and still kind of buzzing from the adrenaline.

"you did good," he remarks, popping the seatbelt out of the lock, "proud of you, kid."

it lands in the silence like a dropped match.

your entire body reacts — shoulders stiffening, breath catching, and your eyes very pointedly avoid his. like if you stare straight ahead long enough, he won't notice how your cheeks had just gone pink — how the heat had crept up your neck, and tinted your ears a shade of red.

but rafe notices everything.

he tilts his head. "...what?"

"nothing."

his brows furrow, confused. just minutes ago, things had been good between you both — normal. but now, you shift uncomfortably under the weight of his gaze while sitting in his driver's seat, flustered and itching for relief from the mortification.

but you look almost... shy — bashful, like his comment had struck something deep inside of you, something not even you were certain about.

"you good?"

"i'm fine," you mutter, eyes darting out towards the window in a hopeful attempt at escape.

oh.

it clicks in his head, the silence between you cracking open just wide enough to let the truth push through. the conversation replays in his mind, each word now laced with meaning he'd missed before. his lips twitch — not with malice, but with something far more dangerous.

a knowing grin spreads across his face like wildfire. he shifts, slow and casual, slinging an arm over the back of your seat, fingers just brushing your shoulder. warmth trails where his skin almost meets yours. "no fucking way..." he breathes, eyes locked on you, "you like being praised."

the words hang in the air like smoke, thick and stifling.

you freeze. the heat rushes to your face, flooding down your neck, settling in your gut like liquid fire. his tone is cocky — but it lands like a challenge. you can't seem to meet his gaze.

"i do not!" you fire back, weakly, the protest wilting on your tongue even as it leaves your lips. you sound unconvincing — it sounds untrue to your own ears. because it is.

a low, triumphant laugh rumbles in his chest. he leans closer, "that's why you always get all weird when i say that shit — compliment you. i thought you were just shy." his voice dips, an octave above a purr, all too pleased with himself. "but — damn."

you cover your face with your hands, wishing you could melt into your seat to avoid the embarrassment brewing in your chest. "can we please talk about something else?"

but he's watching you too closely now — every twitch, every breath. his expression is unreadable, but the look in his eyes is anything but innocent.

and for a second, he looks like he had decided to drop it. finally.

"hey," he says, after a pause. his voice is quieter now, closer. there's something softer beneath the teasing edge.

"what?" you murmur, reluctantly glancing over at him. your eyes shine — with embarrassment, with frustration, with shame.

"you did good today, baby."

it hits harder than it should. like a punch to the stomach and a hand to the threat. you groan, half a protest, half a plea, and shove at his arm — weakly, pointlessly. his laugh fills the truck, deep and unfiltered, vibrating through the close air.

392 notes · View notes

studioeisa · 2 days ago

Text

we both 🐚 joshua x reader.

you're stuck in a car with a beautiful boy, your glorious history, and eight hours of road. what else is there to do but talk about the deepest of truths?

🐚 pairing. exes!joshua x reader. 🐚 word count. 12.9k. 🐚 genres. romance, friendship, light angst. 🐚 includes. mentions of food, death; cussing/swearing. alternate universe: non-idol; joshua is a marine biologist. bad-at-being-exes/exes to ???, breakup dynamics, road trip shenanigans, dialogue heavy. loosely based on a musical (title lifted from there, too), synopsis references richard siken's you are jeff. one scene parallels tlfy's goodbye until tomorrow / i could never rescue you. 🐚 footnotes. when i joined caratblr, @chugging-antiseptic-dye was the very first friend i made. i would not have it any other way. a: i will adore you for as long as there are waves pulling to the shore. shubho jonmodin ‹𝟹 much gratitude to my beta readers: @heartepub for her eye, @chanranghaeys for her wit, and @lovetaroandtaemin for her kindness. my masterlist 🎵 when i am with you (i am real)

You find him in his element—knee-deep in saltwater, sleeves rolled up, clipboard tucked precariously under one arm as he gestures toward a tank brimming with juvenile stingrays.

You wait behind the glass where the public is meant to stay. Leaning against the railing, you watch him without meaning to. It used to be that this was your favorite version of him: ocean-brained and utterly focused, calm in a way most people aren’t allowed to be in their everyday lives. It still is, you suppose, though now there’s a knot of something bittersweet twisted through the feeling.

It’s been five months since the breakup.

Two months since you moved most of your things out of the apartment. And four days since you both agreed that, yes, you still needed to drive down the coast and meet with the landlady to finalize the lease termination in person.

She doesn’t do email. She barely does phones. You’d considered cancelling, asking a friend to go in your place, but the truth is: the car is his, the rent is in both your names, and the landlady likes you best.

So here you are.

Joshua’s hair is darker than you remember, still damp from a rinse or maybe the ocean itself, curling slightly where it clings to his neck. His voice carries over the burble of pumps and the low hum of fluorescent lights.

He’s explaining something to a group of interns. Something about migration patterns and how the moon affects spawning cycles. You can’t hear the details, but you recognize the rhythm of his teaching voice, the way he softens facts with metaphors, how his hands move like punctuation marks.

When Joshua finally steps out from behind the staff door, he looks surprised to see you already waiting. He does that thing. That thing, with his eyes and brows—an upward arch, a spark of recognition beneath the doe-like brown.

“Hey,” he says, wiping his hands on his khaki pants. He doesn't hug you, doesn't reach out, but his smile is familiar. A little tired. A little sad. “You came early.”

You shrug. “Was in the area. Figured I'd save you a text.”

He nods, like that makes sense, like there’s no undercurrent tugging beneath the ease of it. Like this isn’t the first time you're seeing each other outside of grocery store collisions or terse text threads about forwarding addresses.

“Car’s in the back lot,” he says. “I just need to clean up. Shouldn’t take more than a minute.”

You follow him down a hallway that smells like seawater and bleach. He walks ahead, and you let your eyes fall to the way his shoulders move, broad and careful. You still know the shape of them beneath your palms. You wonder if he still sleeps on the right side of the bed, if he still keeps his entire body under the covers because he’s scared something will pull at his feet while he’s asleep.

It’s going to be a long drive.

You both know it. Neither of you says a word about it.

Joshua’s office is tucked just off the wet lab, behind a sliding glass door smudged with fingerprints and the unmistakable trail of saltwater. You slip inside while he ducks into the locker room to change, the lingering scent of ocean and coffee grounds curling in the air.

It’s a cluttered little box of a room—papers stacked like tiny towers, annotated marine maps tacked to the walls, a few photos of past dives and coral surveys pinned up like trophies. There’s even a Polaroid of the two of you on the shelf beside his monitor, buried halfway behind a half-drunk bottle of electrolyte water.

You don’t move it. But you don’t look away either.

“Hey, stranger.”

You blink, turning toward the voice. Seokmin’s already grinning at you, his damp curls flattened beneath a backward cap, a towel slung around his neck. Behind him, Jeonghan lounges in the doorway with all the idle elegance of someone who’s been doing absolutely nothing for the past hour.

“Hi, Seokmin,” you say, mustering a polite smile. “Jeonghan.”

Seokmin bounds in with too much energy for someone who’s allegedly been tagging sea turtles since 4 a.m. “Wow, it’s been a while. You look great. Seriously. Like, breakup glow-up levels of great.”

You blink, startled. “Thanks?”

Jeonghan’s mouth twitches like he’s holding back a laugh. He doesn’t say anything right away—just folds his arms across his chest and tilts his head, like he’s studying you. You don’t like it. That look. Like he knows something you don’t. Like maybe he knows everything.

You’d been friends with them once, although it was probably more out of association than anything. They were Joshua’s co-workers. You were the girl he brought to company events; the wallpaper of his phone once you got past the lockscreen of Dolphy the dolphin leaping into the air.

When you and Joshua broke up, you figured you might never see the duo again. Until now, that is.

“Are you two really going to drive all the way to the coast together?” Jeonghan asks, voice light. “Sounds... cozy.”

“We’re saving gas,” you say. Too quickly. “And rent affairs don’t settle themselves.”

Seokmin nods far too earnestly, eyes wide with some strange sympathy. “Right, totally. Very environmentally conscious. That’s great,” he babbles. “And practical. And—wow, honestly, I just think it’s so mature of you both.”

You glance at Jeonghan, but he’s looking at you like he can read between every word. Your mouth goes dry.

“It’s not like we’re sharing a hotel room or anything,” you add, heat prickling your neck.

“Of course,” Jeonghan says, a little too smoothly. “Of course not.”

You open your mouth to say something—what exactly, you’re not sure—but the locker room door swings open, and Joshua steps out, shrugging a hoodie over his shoulders. His hair is still damp from the shower, and he’s wearing that faded t-shirt you used to sleep in on cold nights. It’s the smallest detail, and it punches the air from your lungs.

“Guys,” he calls, eyes flicking to his friends, then to you. “Are you hounding her already?”

“Never,” Seokmin says, scandalized.

“We were just saying she looks great,” Jeonghan adds innocently. “Glowing, really.”

Joshua rolls his eyes and crosses the room, not bothering to hide the way his hand brushes the small of your back as he stops beside you. It’s not quite possessive, not quite apologetic. It’s almost like a habit, even, and that somehow makes it infinitely worse.

“You ready?” he asks.

You nod, stepping away from Seokmin’s saccharine smile and Jeonghan’s knowing smirk. “Ready.”

Joshua gives his workmates one last look. “Try not to make it weird next time.”

“No promises,” Jeonghan calls.

You don’t look back. You can still feel their stares long after the office door swings shut behind you.

The walk to the parking lot isn’t awkward, not really, but it sits heavy on your shoulders like a coat you forgot you were wearing. Joshua doesn’t fill the silence with small talk the way he used to. You’re grateful and uneasy about that in equal measure.

When you reach the car, it’s like stepping into a memory. The same beat-up Hyundai with the faded blue paint and the bumper sticker that says, Protect Our Oceans— slightly peeling at the edges now, with the art faded. The salt air and the sun hasn’t been kind to it, but it runs fine. Always has. You remember that stupid sticker because you bought it at an aquarium gift shop on a whim, and Joshua had kissed you breathless when you slapped it onto his car without asking.

He unlocks the doors and, like always, walks around to open the passenger side for you.

You blink at him. “Still doing that, huh?”

Joshua glances up at you, a wry little smile playing on his lips. “Muscle memory.”

“Chivalry,” you correct, sliding into the seat. “Or remorse. One of those.”

He huffs a soft laugh and closes the door behind you.

Inside, the car smells the same—like lemon air freshener and something slightly sulfury. His dashboard is still cluttered with receipts and paper coffee cups. There’s a pair of sunglasses perched haphazardly on the dash. One of the little rubber sea creature figurines you used to collect is still wedged in the air vent.

You reach out and flick the tiny plastic octopus. “Wow. Can’t believe you still have this. I figured you’d Marie Kondo everything I left behind.”

Joshua settles into the driver’s seat, buckling in. “It didn’t spark rage, so I kept it.”

You snort. “I think you’re misusing the philosophy.”

The GPS clicks on, a familiar robotic voice announcing the route. Estimated time to destination: eight hours and seventeen minutes.

You glance at Joshua. “Still time to turn back. We can Venmo the landlady and call it a day.”

He shakes his head, pulling out of the lot. “You know she refuses to use the app,” he grumbles. “Thinks it’s a government tracking device.”

You lean back in your seat and sigh. “Perfect. Just what this trip needed: more analog bureaucracy.”

Joshua laughs again, softer this time. You both stare straight ahead, the road stretching long and wide before you. Somewhere in that space, the heaviness begins to lift.

You think the first hour will be easy.

Of course you do. You’ve done long drives before, with less than eight hours of fuel between you. And besides, this is Joshua.

You’ve survived all sorts of terrain together—coastal roads with the windows down, long drives through the mountains while his hand rested on your thigh, that one disastrous trip to Jeju where it rained so hard he missed a turn and the GPS rerouted you onto a cliffside road you’re still convinced was cursed. That one ended in tears. And a kiss. And a long night spent in a guesthouse where the power went out twice.

But this is different.

Now, you’re in the passenger seat of the same car, the leather warmed by the late morning sun, and Joshua isn’t even humming. You keep your eyes on the road or your phone or the shifting landscape outside the window. Anywhere but on him.

He drives the way he always does—left hand on the wheel, right hand fiddling with the AUX cable when the Bluetooth fails (as it often does). You’d always liked that about him. That he never filled silence just for the sake of it, that he gave it space to stretch out, to become something sacred.

Now, it just feels like distance.

“You okay?” he asks in an even voice.

You glance at him. The highway curves, and so does his mouth, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Yeah,” you lie. “You?”

He nods, then looks like he regrets it. “Yeah,” he echoes, but you know he’s lying, too. His nose scrunches up for a half-second. It only ever does that when he’s faking.

Another few minutes pass. The GPS chimes a reminder about your next turn in 112 kilometers. You both pretend like it’s the most interesting thing in the world.

You used to talk about everything in the car. Plans, dreams, where you’d want to settle down when Joshua got a more permanent assignment. You’d nap on the longer drives, and he’d let you sleep, stealing glances when he thought you wouldn’t catch him.

Sometimes, he’d narrate the scenery just to hear you groan about how sentimental he was. There’d be music, sometimes arguments over the playlist. But even the fights were better than this new, tentative silence that makes your lungs feel tight.

You wish the GPS had a button for: Take me back to when it was easy.

“Want some music?” you ask finally, reaching for the console.

“Sure,” he says, and that’s all.

You put on a playlist and settle back, biting the inside of your cheek when the first few notes of a familiar song play. One he used to sing absentmindedly while driving. One that used to make you smile.

He doesn’t sing now.

The song ends.

The road stretches on.

Joshua doesn’t say much for the next half hour, and neither do you.

You try not to count how many times you look towards him. You lose count anyway. The GPS announces that there are six hours and thirty-nine minutes left in the trip. That’s plenty of time, you think, for things to get worse.

When Joshua speaks again, it’s so civil that you contemplate getting off at the next stop and walking the rest of the way instead. “There’s a diner up ahead. You wanna stop for lunch?”

You know the place—he’s taken you there before. Vinyl booths, terrible coffee, and pancakes that somehow taste like grilled cheese. It had always been charming in a very Joshua kind of way.

But a sit-down meal feels intimate. Too intimate. Like pretending nothing ever ended. You don’t have the energy to put on a show, to act like a couple, or friends, or strangers who were forced to be there together for the sake of a meal.

“Can we just get takeout?” you ask. “Eat in the car?”

Joshua glances at you, brows lifting. “You don’t wanna sit down? Stretch your legs?”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not. Your neck does that thing when you’re annoyed.”

“It’s not annoyance. I just don’t think lunch should feel like a date.”

That lands a little too sharply. Joshua blinks at the road ahead, exhales slowly through his nose. “Wasn’t trying to make it one,” he murmurs, the edge of his petulance in his voice reminding you of days where you might’ve willed his upset away with a kiss to the tip of his nose.

Silence stretches between you, taut and cold. You rub your hands together in your lap.

“I just think,” you say more carefully, “eating in your car is a good compromise. Halfway point.”

Joshua doesn’t respond at first, but then his lips twitch. “Halfway point. Like everything else with us.”

You laugh despite yourself. “You make it sound poetic.”

“It kind of is.”

The tension eases just a little. Enough that when he pulls into the diner lot, you go in together, order your usuals with barely a glance at the menu. When the cashier asks if it’s for here or to-go, Joshua looks at you before answering.

“To-go, please,” he says, smiling faintly.

Back in the car, you pass him the paper bag and slide the drinks into the cupholders like you’ve done it a hundred times before. Maybe you have. He gives you your fries without asking, and you split the last onion ring exactly like you used to—right down the middle, no more, no less.

“We’re ridiculous,” you say through a mouthful of burger.

Joshua leans back in his seat, chewing. “Speak for yourself. I’m extremely dignified.”

“Right,” you say with an eye roll. “That’s why you ordered a chocolate milkshake with extra whipped cream.”

He lifts it like a trophy. “You’re just jealous.”

“Of diabetes?”

Joshua laughs, full and bright, and for a second, you forget that you’re not supposed to still be in love with him.

For a second, it feels like that chapter never ended.

Joshua wipes the last of his fries against the inside of his sauce carton before tossing it back into the paper bag, eyeing your half-eaten sandwich like he’s tempted to finish that, too. You don’t point it out. He’s always been the type to clean plates, especially yours, when you left food untouched for too long.

The silence feels less sharp than the last one, but not yet comfortable. It’s the kind that sits in the middle seat like an awkward chaperone.

He slurps down the rest of his milkshake, the straw giving an annoying little gurgle. Then, just as you’re debating how soon you can ask to queue up a podcast without it sounding like a lifeline, he speaks.

“We can’t spend the rest of the trip like this.”

You blink. “Like what?”

Joshua lifts his gaze to meet yours, pointed and unflinching. “Like we’re walking on eggshells. Like we didn’t share an apartment, a bed, a life for two years.”

He’s right, of course, but who were you if you weren’t arguing for the sake of it? “I’ve told you everything that’s happened to me since the breakup,” you shoot back. “If you want the weather report from last Tuesday, I can give that too.”

“I don’t want the weather report.” He levels you with a stare, then softens. “I want more than just a status update.”

You open your mouth, but before you can speak, he leans back with a little sigh and an even smaller smile. “Do you remember our first date?”

You do.

Too well, in fact.

An indie cafe with too many hanging plants and not enough tables. You’d sat across from each other with your knees knocking and your drinks forgotten. He’d suggested the list, half-sincere, half as a joke. You had humored him because his eyes crinkled so sweetly when he grinned, and you liked how he said your name like a song he already knew the melody to.

“Pull it up,” he says now. “Let’s revisit it.”

Your mouth curls into a grimace. "Joshua—"

“Pull it up,” he repeats, firmer. He’s already gathering up your trash along with his, crumpling napkins and squashing cartons, as if taking away your excuses along with the waste.

“This is stupid,” you huff, not bothering to hide your exasperation.

“Probably,” he shrugs, stepping out of the car. “But so are we.”

As the door shuts and he heads toward the garbage bin, you pick up your phone with reluctant fingers. It takes only a few taps to find it again. A New York Times article, a psychologist’s experiment, a curated path to intimacy in less than 40 questions.

The title glares up at you, both a threat and a promise.

The 36 Questions to Fall in Love.

Joshua merges back onto the highway, one hand steady on the wheel, the other fiddling with the A/C knob until the air turns from too cold to just bearable. You hold your phone in your lap, glaring at the list he told you to pull up.

“You’re impossible,” you say flatly.

“Come on,” he grins, eyes now on the road. “It’s been four years. Think of it as a science experiment. Research question: Have we changed? Independent variables: us, circa year one.”

You exhale slowly, scrolling down to the first question. “Fine. But if I cry, I’m blaming you.”

“Looking forward to it.”

You read: “Given the choice of anyone in the world, whom would you want as a dinner guest?”

He hums. “Still Adam Levine.”

“You said that last time.”

“Yeah, and I still want him to serenade me over dumplings. What about you?”

You pause. “I said Robin Williams.”

“You did.” He glances at you briefly. “You still would?”

Your voice softens. “Yeah. More than ever.”

Joshua nods, not saying more. The next question: “Would you like to be famous? In what way?”

“God, no,” he answers. “The idea of people knowing my grocery list terrifies me.”

“You said that exact sentence before.”

“Then I’m nothing if not consistent.”

You consider. “I think... maybe a little. Not movie-star famous, but like, niche-famous. Someone kids cite in their thesis papers.”

“I always said you’d be a terrifying cult classic.”

“And you’d be the first of my followers.”

He just laughs.

You ask the next question. “Before making a telephone call, do you ever rehearse what you are going to say? Why?”

Glancing over at Joshua, you sound almost accusatory. “You said no.”

“Still true.”

“Still sociopathic,” you mutter. “I rehearse everything. Even pizza orders.”

“You did. And you still turn red when they ask if you want extra cheese.”

You try to glare, but he looks too pleased with himself. That’d been his role, way back when. Designated orderer, designated caller, designated voice at the counter saying We asked for no pickles. ‘We’, because he never threw you under the bus when it mattered—every time else was fair game.

You read on. “What would constitute a 'perfect' day for you?”

Joshua’s voice mellows out. “That one I might change. Used to be pools, no tourists, good weather. Now... I think it’s waking up late, coffee with someone I like, doing nothing important.”

You stare out the window. “You said hiking and tide pools,” you recall, tone just a little too wistful.

“Yeah. That was when I thought I had something to prove.”

“Mine’s the same. French toast. Blankets. A book.”

His smile is small. “Still easy to please.”

You persevere. “When did you last sing to yourself? To someone else?”

“I sang to the clownfish this morning. They’re judgmental bastards.”

“That counts. And to yourself?”

He falters. A beat. Another. “I don’t remember,” he says, like singing was now something he could only give to others and not to himself. You try not to overthink it. He goes on to accuse you, “You used to sing in the shower. Loudly.”

“Still do. But I sang to my niece last week. She made me do six rounds of Baby Shark.”

“A timeless classic.”

You grin despite yourself, heart ticking a little faster. You knew this would be strange. You didn’t expect it to feel so oddly comforting.

He breaks the quiet. “Told you it wouldn’t kill us.”

“We’re only five questions in,” you warn. “Plenty of time to implode.”

He just smiles, knuckles brushing the gearshift.

“Onward, then.”

Questions six and seven are easy. Your answers to those haven’t changed much. You would rather live to the age of 90 and retain the mind of a 30-year-old; Joshua’s secret hunch about how he might die would always be something about the water, knowing how he could never stay away from it. There’s a pang of something in your chest. This sinking feeling caught between disappointment and relief, over the fact that there were still some things that stayed the same.

You stall a little at question eight.

“Name three things you and your partner appear to have in common.”

Your phone screen lights up with the prompt, and you roll it over in your palm like it might yield an easier answer if you look at it long enough. Next to you, Joshua keeps his eyes on the road, but his grip on the steering wheel slackens.

He must remember, too.

The first time you answered this question, you were strangers seated across from each other. A mutual friend had sworn you'd get along. There had been no pressure—just coffee and curiosity, laughter over things neither of you really understood yet.

“We both like documentaries,” you had said then, too quickly, a little flustered.

“We’re both good listeners,” he had added.

The third one had taken a while. You remember biting into your food, chewing slowly, the hum of the café’s playlist blending with the chatter around you.

“I think,” Joshua had said, after a beat, “we both really want to be understood.”

You remember the way your gaze had lifted then, meeting his across the table. You hadn’t said it, but you’d thought it: That’s not a guess. That’s a direct hit.

Now, four years later, a breakup and a road trip between you, the question lands differently.

“We both like silence,” you say eventually, to break it.

Joshua lets out a small huff of a laugh. “You used to say that was a bad thing.”

“It was. When we didn’t know what the silence meant.”

A nod from him. “But now?”

You glance sideways, catch the way his profile is lit by the late afternoon sun. “Now, I think we know.”

You don’t have to expound. He knows. You know. Silence is not your enemy, the same way you are not each other’s enemy.

“We both overthink everything,” he adds next. “Especially what the other person is thinking.”

That makes you grin, despite yourself. You always thought of yourself to be a bit of a people pleaser, while Joshua just so happened to lack a proper brain-to-mouth filter. You tap your finger against the phone, as if tallying it up. “Documentaries still count?”

“You tell me.”

You think about the way you’d fall asleep to David Attenborough narrating sea creatures. How Joshua would shake his head, but stay up beside you anyway. The way your conversations would spiral into philosophical debates over conservation, ethics, humanity.

You had learned to love the things he loved, learned to love him by seeing the world through his eyes. And he had loved you back. Loved the intent, loved the work, loved the way you overstayed your welcome every single time.

“Yeah,” you decide. “Guess so.”

Silence laps at the car again, but it’s softer now. Not a chasm, just space.

Then Joshua speaks again, voice low and steady.

“If it doesn’t count,” he says slowly, as if each word is a minefield to navigate. “We could just say we both still care for each other.”

You don’t protest. You don’t need to.

You both go through the next four questions with twin wavering resolves.

You ask, For what in your life do you feel most grateful?, and you do your best not to flinch when he squeezes your name between mentions of waterproof dry bags and mechanical pencils.

When you read out If you could change anything about the way you were raised, what would it be?, you tell him about wishing you had better examples for love—but you don’t quip that maybe it would’ve saved your relationship.

The two of you sidestep and navigate like your lives depend on it. Joshua’s tapping the steering wheel like he’s in rhythm with a song only he knows. A comfortable lapse hovers for the next few minutes as the miles disappear into the road behind you. You think you’re in the clear. That the minefield is behind you.

Then, the GPS voice gently announces a turn. A new fork, a new direction.

The second set of questions.

You scroll down the list, phone warm in your hand. “Thirteen,” you say. “If a crystal ball could tell you the truth about yourself, your life, the future, or anything else, what would you want to know?”

Joshua doesn’t answer right away.

You look towards him. He’s biting at the inside of his cheek, eyes still trained on the road. He exhales slowly, the sound more tired than thoughtful.

“If I made the right call,” he says. “About us.”

It twinges like a pinched nerve.

You wish you had something eloquent to say, some wry comment about him never trusting the scientific method, but all you manage is a short, “Oh.”

Oh, because the breakup is an unwelcome third guest chaperoning you in the car. Oh, because you had both told your friends it was mutual—but if you were to get technical about it, Joshua was the one who brought it up. Oh, because that would have been your answer to the question, too.

Instead, you choose to say, “I think I’d want to know if I’ll ever feel like I’m doing enough.”

Joshua doesn’t say anything to that.

“Fourteen,” you try again. “Is there something that you’ve dreamed of doing for a long time? Why haven’t you done it?”

“You already know mine,” he says. “Marine biology, living near the coast, helping with coastal restoration programs. I did it.”

You nod, expecting the conversation to move on, but he doesn’t let it.

“What about you?”

“I don’t know,” you say hesitantly. “Same answer as before, I guess. I always thought I’d do something with my psychology degree. Make something that helps. You know. But money talks.”

Joshua snorts, but this isn’t like the small, amused sounds of earlier. No, this is preemptive of the Joshua you’d always loathed a little bit. The one who could be derisive, the one buried underneath the gentleman.

“You said the exact same thing two years ago,” he points out, and the tone of his voice grates.

You bristle. “And your point is?”

“My point is,” he says, voice sharpening, “you keep talking like you’re stuck, but you’re the one who won’t move."

The air tightens between you. He takes one hand off the wheel, gesturing vaguely.

“I’m not judging. I just don’t get it. You said you wanted more.”

“And you wanted me to upend my entire life for an ideal,” you shoot back.

“That’s not what I said.”

“It’s what you meant.”

Your voice is louder than you intended. The words are more pointed than they needed to be. This is too familiar—this twisting spiral of disappointment and miscommunication, the way your arguments always started from a flicker and turned into a full blaze.

Joshua exhales. “I just want you to be happy. You used to talk about doing something meaningful with your life.”

“Well, maybe I changed my mind.”

He looks like he wants to challenge that—but just as he opens his mouth, the car jolts.

Hard.

Something thumps beneath you, loud and jarring. Your body lurches forward with the sudden stop, but before you can react, Joshua’s arm darts across your chest, steady and instinctive.

The car groans. You both freeze.

“What the hell,” Joshua breathes, flicking the hazards on as he pulls over.

You’re stunned, held in place by his outstretched arm. It’s only when he turns to look at you, concern overriding the tension in his expression, that you realize he’s still bracing you.

“Are you okay?” he asks, his voice low and urgent.

You nod, lips parted but unable to speak.

Because even now, after all this time, his first instinct is to protect you.

Five hours away. That’s how far you are from your destination.

It’s nothing major. Something about the floor of the car, something that will need repairs so Joshua can drive safe. But the nearest repair shop isn’t going to open until seven in the morning, and Joshua bitches about sleeping in the car for 15 minutes before you finally agree to a motel. Which, of course, has only one room available.

The door creaks open with a wheeze of rusted hinges, revealing a room that looks like it time-traveled straight out of a 70s crime thriller. You both pause on the threshold, blinking at the single bed in the center of the room. The comforter is a paisley fever dream, the walls painted a suspicious shade of beige. A ceiling fan wobbles threateningly above.

And then, as if on cue, you both burst out laughing.

You lean against the chipped door frame, wiping tears from your eyes. “Jeonghan cursed us,” you proclaim. “I knew it. He saw us in that hallway and whispered some old-timey hex under his breath. Probably used sea salt and seashells.”

Joshua drops his bags with a thud and grins, running a hand through his hair. “You’re giving him way too much credit. If anything, this is God. This is Him writing fan fiction. You know—slow burn, exes to lovers, only-one-bed trope.”

“Ah, right,” you say, nodding solemnly. “God’s on AO3 now. What’s next? Coffee shop AU?”

“Don’t tempt Him,” Joshua laughs, flopping onto the bed with a bounce that makes the entire frame groan. “He might give us matching aprons tomorrow morning.”

You look around and spot the world's saddest mini fridge and a TV that probably doesn’t work. There’s a vending machine outside humming like a chainsaw. The neon sign of the motel glows red through the thin curtains, bathing the room in a faint hellish light.

If this was hell, it wasn’t all that bad.

“Well,” you say, toeing off your shoes and sitting at the edge of the bed. “At least it’s clean.”

“That is a bold assumption,” Joshua mutters, inspecting a mysterious stain on the carpet.

Another beat passes. You're both still chuckling softly, disbelief softening into something warmer. Something easier.

You lie back beside him, careful to leave a healthy, polite distance between your bodies. “You know, for all the fights, I missed this part. The chaos. The way the universe used to screw with us.”

Joshua turns his head, gazing at you with a tenderness that nearly knocks the air from your lungs. “Yeah. Me too.”

For a while, you both just lie there, listening to the ceiling fan squeal and the cars woosh pasts on the highway. Laughing quietly at the impossible, fanfictional mess you’ve found yourselves in yet again.

Loving Joshua had felt a bit like that. A fairytale. A song. And so the ending of it all—the last chapter, the final notes—had left you feeling cheated. There was a time where you believed the love might have lasted; it sucks to be proven otherwise.

Joshua pulls himself up, socked feet nudging yours underneath the yellowing duvet. He looks up at you with something reverent in his eyes, the kind of look that used to come just before he said something dumb and sincere all at once.

“You know we can’t stop now,” he says. “It’s not every day we get to be stranded in a town with population thirty and a single bed between us.”

You shake your head, still smiling from earlier. “You’re really pushing the limits of what counts as a romantic setting.”

“I’m just saying,” he continues. “We made it this far. Might as well keep going. Question fifteen.”

What is the greatest accomplishment of your life?

You settle into the other side of the bed, cross-legged, careful not to brush against his knee. “Finishing grad school while holding down a full-time job. That, or not screaming at that one VP during our quarterly meeting.”

Joshua laughs. “Oh, I remember that guy. You hated him with the passion of a million suns.”

“That hasn’t changed. You?”

He thinks for a moment. “Publishing my research paper last year. The one on coral regeneration. That felt big. Like it could actually change something.”

It’s a good answer. You nod. “Alright. Question sixteen. What do you value most in a friendship?”

Joshua leans back, hands behind his head. “Loyalty. The kind that doesn’t flinch when things get hard.”

You hum. “I get that. And maybe the ability to sit in silence without it being weird. Just… coexisting.”

You both fall quiet. That used to be the two of you. Afternoons of independent hobbies, evenings of parallel play. You were both perfectly fine, fully functional people outside of your relationship. You were not two halves of a whole.

A part of you wonders if that’s where you went wrong. If completion was precedent to a proper romance. But you also know that’d been your strongest suit—letting the love guide, not consume. Letting it linger, not fester.

“Question seventeen,” you say, scrolling down your phone. “Most treasured memory.” You steal a glance. “Back then, yours was that beach day with your mom, right?”

Joshua nods slowly. “Still important. But… I think it’s changed.”

He looks out the small motel window, takes a deep breath like he’s getting ready to plunge into the deep end of something. “Remember the time we got caught in that summer storm in Jeju?” he muses. “We were soaked, freezing, and the only place open was that sad diner with the flickering lights. You looked miserable. But you laughed anyway. God, you laughed so hard. I think I knew I loved you then.”

Your throat tightens. You hated that night. Everything went wrong, and you thought it was a sign this new boyfriend of yours wasn’t meant for you. But Joshua had been an even bigger diva than you—enough to make you forget your misery, to have you giggling despite the fact you were borderline pneumonic, showering in ice-cold water.

“That was a good night,” you say.

He offers you a half-smile, one that communicates just how aware he is of your indulgence. He knows you complained to your friends, that you logged the entry into your diary with notes of Never again!!! and The Jeju curse is real. But he also knows you loved him, even then, even with your shoes full of water and your lips too chapped to press against his.

“Your turn,” he urges.

You shrug, suddenly aware of your hands in your lap. “There’s a lot. But… that one birthday you surprised me with the rooftop dinner. I had the worst week, and you just… knew.”

Neither of you have to expound. Not on the work week that had wrung you dry, not on the chocolate chip cookies he had learned to bake especially for that evening. You had burst into tears when you saw the candlelit dinner and the monstrous bouquet of mismatched flowers; Joshua had cooed reassurances into the top of your hair, whispering sweet nothings like Pretty girls shouldn’t cry on their birthday. Come on, love, smile.

“Question eighteen,” you continue, because dwelling on the way he looked then is almost enough to have you relapsing. “Most terrible memory.”

You don’t answer right away.

“Back then,” you say slowly, “it was something stupid. Failing my first stats exam. But now…”

You glance at him, and he’s already looking at you.

“It was the night we decided to end it,” you admit. “The part where I packed up and left. Closing the door. That part hurt the most.”

Joshua exhales. “Ditto,” he says, and you don’t call him a cop out. You don’t accuse him of not being as hurt as you. You just—you let him have that, too.

It’s a terrible memory.

The room is quiet again. Outside, the neon motel sign flickers. Inside, two people who once knew each other like the back of their hands try to find their way back through questions that are starting to feel like maps.

Joshua doesn’t hesitate to read out question nineteen.

“If you knew that in one year you would die suddenly, would you change anything about the way you are now living? Why?”

You shift slightly on the edge of the bed, knees curled toward you like you could fold yourself into a simpler version of this night. “I’d probably quit my job,” you say slowly. “Travel. See my parents more often. Start writing again. Not wait for the perfect time to do everything.”

He hums. “I’d probably take a few sabbaticals. Go diving in the Galápagos,” he says. “Set my mom up with a good house. Maybe... I don't know. Make a documentary. Something that puts all the little things I love in one place.”

You glance at him, watching the way he fidgets with a corner of the blanket between his fingers. He’s leaning against the headboard, one leg stretched out, the other bent. A familiar pose, from when he used to read in bed. The memory tugs, and you almost say something—almost add what neither of you have said.

You’d want to call him. One last road trip, maybe. One last laugh over something ridiculous.

A kiss, if he were feeling particularly generous. Not to see if it could salvage, but just to remember the way it’d made you feel alive.

But you don’t say it. And neither does he.

Instead, he offers you a smile that doesn’t look real at all. “You tired?”

You nod. You lie. “A bit.”

Joshua pushes himself up from the bed, stretching his arms above his head. “Alright. You get the bed. I’ll take the cockroach-infested couch chair.”

You glance at the lumpy thing in the corner and raise an eyebrow. “You’ll get scoliosis.”

“I’m a marine biologist, not a chiropractor,” he quips. “I’ll survive.”

You roll your eyes, already pulling the blanket over you. “Fine. But if you wake up tomorrow and can’t feel your back, I’m not driving.”

He chuckles. “Forever a passenger princess.”

As he dims the lights, he adds, “The experiment continues tomorrow.”

You don’t answer. You let your eyes fall shut, the room quieting into the rustle of sheets and soft motel noises. Since the breakup, you’ve been having trouble with sleep. The melatonin gummies have helped somewhat; you don’t have any on hand, though, after expecting the two of you would make the trip a one-and-done.

Now, though, your breathing slows quicker than it has in weeks. You have a fleeting thought that it has something to do with Joshua being in the same room—as if your body is fine-tuned to relax and uncoil in his presence, so used to the notion that he would always keep you safe.

In your dream, you are somewhere coastal.

The salt air clings to your skin. Joshua is there, too.

Older and sunburned, wrinkled and still yours. He’s smiling at you like nothing ever hurt between you, his eyes curled in those crescents you were always so weak for.

Knee-deep in the water, he reaches out a hand.

You take it without thinking.

The mechanic gives Joshua the all-clear just before nine in the morning. The two of you make do with a gas station breakfast—powdered donuts and hot coffee that taste vaguely of cardboard—and then you’re back on the road.

The sky is clear, and the early morning light softens the world around you in a way that makes it feel like yesterday’s sharp edges never happened.

You think, maybe, that Joshua’s forgotten about the questions. Maybe last night was a fluke. A relic of nostalgia mixed with insomnia. Maybe the two of you can ride the rest of the way in companionable silence, listening to acoustic playlists and the occasional podcast.

Except Joshua is a bitch who never forgets.

“Okay,” he says, fingers tapping rhythmically against the steering wheel. “Where were we?”

You sigh dramatically. “We’re still on that?”

“Of course,” he replies cheekily. “We’re in too deep to give up.”

You scroll back on your phone, eyes scanning the familiar list. You breeze through questions 20 and 21—both of you agreeing that you value honesty in relationships and sharing that you talk to your family almost every week. It’s easy. Almost comfortable.

Then comes question 22.

“Alternate sharing something you consider a positive characteristic of your partner. Share a total of five items.”

You remember how this went the first time. How clumsy and awkward you both were, strangers trying to map out the shape of each other with vague guesses. You’d said something like, You seem like a good listener, and Joshua had commented on your style.

All surface.

Now, there’s too much underneath.

Joshua clears his throat. “You go first.”

You consider calling him a narcissist, but you opt out. “Okay. Uh,” you start. “You’re—steadfast. Once you decide something matters to you, you stay. Even when it’s hard.”

He hums. “You’re perceptive. You always notice the things no one else does.”

“You’re thoughtful,” you go on. “You remember things—like people’s favorite snacks or how they take their coffee. It’s never loud, but it’s there.”

“You’re funny,” he says, a little more quickly. “In a smart way. You don’t always say the joke out loud, but when you do, it lands.”

You laugh. “That’s the first time you’ve called me funny.”

“I call you funny in my head all the time,” he replies.

You don’t quite know what to say to that, so you look down at your phone.

“You’re earnest,” you offer. “Even when you try not to be. Especially then.”

His grip on the wheel tightens for a split second before relaxing again. “You care deeply. About people. About doing the right thing. Even when it tears you up.”

Joshua drives just a little below the speed limit, as if trying to stretch this moment out. You don’t say it out loud, but you both know you’ve passed five.

You wonder if that’s the point.

The hum of the car is soft under the quiet that settles again between you. The GPS chirps—still three hours to go. Still three hours of pretending it doesn’t sting to sit this close to him. Still three hours of pretending like this is just a ride and not a slow unraveling of everything you’d packed away.

You read the next prompt aloud, your voice only slightly more confident now: “Make three true ‘we’ statements each. For instance, ‘We are both in this room feeling...’”

He lifts an eyebrow. “Three each? That's excessive.”

You shrug. “Take it up with Dr. Arthur Aron.”

Joshua rolls his shoulders. “Okay. One: We are both doing our best to not make this weirder than it already is.”

“One: We are both extremely bad at not making things weird,” you counter.

He laughs, and it's the kind of laugh that softens something in your chest. “Two: we both care more than we probably should.”

You hesitate. Then, “Two: We both don’t really know what to do with all the leftover feelings.”

Joshua exhales like you had punched the air out of him.

So far, everything has alluded to this. To the eventual conclusion that you both had things you still wanted to say. Joshua was never slick; you know why he’s insisting on playing this game.

He’s hoping to find closure—some twisted semblance of it—in between questions one to thirty-six. Or maybe he’s hoping to find something else. A hint. A reason. An opening. You don’t know for sure, but you know Joshua Hong is the type of person that always has a motive.

Leftover feelings is just a nice way to put it.

“Three,” he goes on, as if he physically can’t bring himself to address your second statement, “We both remember everything. Even if we pretend we don’t.”

You look at him. His hands on the wheel, that little crease between his brows that forms when he's thinking too hard. You say, quietly, “We are both still here. In this car. On this trip. That counts for my last one, right?”

He doesn't answer right away. Then he says, voice lighter than it’s been all day, “Are you still okay with all this?”

It feels like the first real question he’s asked you—not part of a list, not pulled from a script, not something rehearsed. It’s a moment of benevolence, an offer for an out. If you told him your heart was cracking open, he’d find one of his own playlists and you would throw in the white flag at the start of set three.

You turn toward the window. “I’m okay if you are,” you say, because it’s true, because you’re indecisive, because you kind of want answers, too.

From the corner of your eye, you see him nod. “Okay.” A pause. “Then we keep going.”

You move on to question twenty-six.

“Complete this sentence: ‘I wish I had someone with whom I could share…’”

Joshua shifts his grip on the wheel. The road outside blurs into long stretches of beige and green, but neither of you is looking at it.

He exhales. “...small wins.”

You think of the refrigerator in your shared apartment, the one with fish-themed magnets and Joshua’s accomplishment reports pinned up like kindergarten drawings. You think of his evening prayers, the sleepy mumbles of Hey God, it’s me, Joshua, and the gratitude for no traffic or healthy corals. You think of the crumpled look on his face when you couldn’t quite understand why he was so happy over something, the way his shoulders would fall when you couldn’t share in his small but certain happiness.

You give your own answer. “...my fears.”

It lands heavier than it should. There are notebooks full of pages upon pages of writing, words you should have probably divulged to Joshua but chose not to. There are sweaters, and hoodies, and jackets with loose threads around the sleeves, from all the times you’d gotten scared but took it out on yourself instead of saying something. There are memories of Joshua—on his knees, slamming the door—asking for you to give him an inch. You never did budge.

The car suddenly feels small. Too small for the weight of things unsaid.

“Twenty-seven,” you announce, voice wavering. “If you were going to become close friends, please share what would be important for him or her to know.”

You look at Joshua. His jaw tenses. It’s a query that works best in the context of the study. The questions are a first-date gig, meant for strangers looking to be friends or friends praying to be lovers.

Not exes. Not you and Joshua.

“That I get quiet when I’m overwhelmed,” he responds. “That it doesn’t mean I’m shutting people out. I just need space to think.”

You give a jerky nod, then answer, “That I overthink most things. That I’ll ask for reassurance even when I know the answer.”

He glances at you. “You still do that?”

“Yeah.”

The silence this time is different—not the awkward kind from the first hour of the trip, but something rawer. Tension prickles at the base of your neck.

You tap the GPS map. “Can you pull over at the next gas station? I have to pee,” you say, even though your bladder is the furthest from full.

Joshua grunts his approval.

A few minutes later, he turns off the road. You murmur a quick thanks before slipping out of the car.

The restroom is fluorescent-lit and smells faintly of soap and old tiles. You grip the edge of the sink and lean forward, staring into the mirror.

“You’re fine,” you tell your reflection. “You’re fine. Don’t go there again.”

You splash cold water on your face, the shock of it grounding. You know what this is starting to feel like. A ledge, a pattern, a memory dressed up like something new.

You’re not sure if you can fall again and survive the landing.

Behind your reflection, the bathroom door creaks open. You dry your face and brace yourself to step back into the heat of the day—and into a car that feels more like a confession booth with every mile.

Joshua drums his fingers along the curve of the wheel, elbow resting by the window as highway signs blur past. Your hair is still slightly damp at the edges from where you splashed your face. The radio hums low between you, some soft indie band murmuring about lost time.

“Two more hours,” he informs you. Not quite a warning, not quite a relief.

You nod, thumbing through the article on your phone. “Eight more questions.”

He exhales a laugh. “Maybe space it out? Take your time with the hard ones?”

“I’ll take a break after the next one,” you say. “Number twenty-eight.”

There’s a half-smile on his face, like he remembers the first time twenty-eight was posed. “The big one.”

You clear your throat and read aloud: “Tell your partner what you like about them; be very honest this time.”

You both laugh, maybe a little too hard. You’re thinking of the first date—how you’d nervously said you liked that he was punctual, how he’d said he liked your jacket. Neither of you were very brave, then, or honest.

Will you be now?

“Okay,” he says, tapping the wheel in rhythm to the Billy Joel song that has started to croon. “I’ll go first.”

You don’t stop him.

He speaks slowly, at first. As if he’s the weight of each word. You had expected maybe one or two big things, but the fact that there’s an upcoming break seems to embolden him.

He says he likes how you read people before they know they’re being read. He says he likes how you tilt your head when you’re thinking too hard. That you always ask baristas how their day’s going. That you cry during movies, but always pretend it’s allergies. That you never half-listen to someone when they talk.

Each word feels like it’s making the air between you warmer. Thinner. More charged.

He goes on, and on, and on. Some things, you already know. Some things, it’s the first time you’ve heard.

Some things, you thought he had hated—only to find out it was the complete opposite.

Some things, you’re surprised he even noticed.

When he patters off, he looks a bit sheepish, like he hadn’t expected to ramble. Neither of you steal a glance at the car’s analog clock. There’s no need to check, to confirm he spent perhaps a little too long extolling your virtues and waxing poetics you no longer felt like you deserved.

You inhale.

“I like how you look like you’re trying not to smile when you are,” you start. “I like that you leave voice memos instead of texts when you’re tired. That you care about fish more than people sometimes, but you’ll never admit it. That you always carry two chargers. That you know the scientific names for all your favorite corals but still call them ‘little guys’ when you talk about them.”

Your list goes on, and on, and on. You like the calluses on his fingers from the years of guitar-playing. You like the soothing cadence of his voice when he’s reading something out loud. You like the slightly absurd way he sits, and the empathy he gives out as easily as one gives out gum, and the expressions he makes when somebody does something questionable.

You stutter to a stop, knowing you’ve said as much—maybe even a little more—as him. The entire time, you’d kept your eyes on the road, but now you dare yourself to look. You regret it immediately.

He’s gnawing at his lower lip, fighting back a smile. You don’t know how long he’s been trying to hold it back, but from the ruddiness of his cheeks, you’d say it’s been a couple of minutes. “Don’t say all that,” he manages.

“Why not?” you say defensively.

“Makes me want to kiss you,” he says outright, so softly it folds itself between the cracks of your ribcage. “And I’m not supposed to want that anymore.”

His eyes flick over to you. You meet his gaze for half a second longer than is wise.

“Keep your eyes on the road, Hong,” you say, voice steady even as your pulse wavers.

He does as he’s told, but the smile on his face still tries its damnedest not to break.

The silence between you now is lighter, almost companionable. The kind that doesn’t need filling. You’re both tired, but not from each other—at least not in the same way you were when the drive began.

There’s still an ache, a wariness, but it’s no longer sharp. Just an awareness of proximity and time passed.

Outside the window, the highway begins to bleed into coastal roads, winding through the kind of sleepy seaside towns that barely show up on a map. You catch a whiff of salt in the breeze when Joshua cracks the window open. The air is briny and cool, and your landlady’s city can’t be more than ten minutes away now.

“Bring up the next one,” Joshua prompts. “Question twenty-nine.”

You unlock your phone and read aloud, “Share with your partner an embarrassing moment in your life.”

You think for a second before answering. “One time during a client pitch, I said ‘orgasm’ instead of ‘organism.’ Completely straight-faced. No one corrected me. I didn’t even realize until hours later.”

Joshua barks out a laugh. “That’s… incredible.”

“Corporate girlie era. Not my best work.”

The road narrows, bending toward the sea. Then, he says, “A few weeks after the breakup, I accidentally called you during a team meeting. Like, I butt-dialed you. I was underwater a lot at the time, so I’d listen to your old voicemails whenever I could. Guess my phone got confused. Everyone heard it. The voicemail. You were talking about soup.”

You blink. “Soup?”

He nods solemnly. “Tom kha kai. You were mad I ate yours.”

You stare at him. He tries to act like it’s nothing, like the voicemail wasn’t from very early into your relationship, but his ears are pink.

“That’s…” You want to say sweet, or something else foolish. “Embarrassing. Yeah. I get it.”

He nods, but doesn’t meet your eyes.

Neither of you speak after that. The silence returns, soft and warm. The car turns down a familiar street, and the ocean gleams in the distance like it remembers you both.

Your landlady—sorry, ex-landlady—Minjung lives in a cheerful, sea-salted bungalow at the end of a sloping road. The pavement gives way to pebbles and gull cries. It’s the type of house you and Joshua once joked about retiring in.

There’s none of those jokes today.

The two of you pull up just after one in the afternoon, both exhausted but trying not to show it. The air smells like fried dough, and there’s a breeze that tangles your hair the second you step out.

Minjung opens the door almost as soon as you knock. She’s wearing her usual floral house dress, grey hair pinned up in a neat bun, and when she sees you both standing side by side on her porch, her eyebrows lift so high they nearly disappear into her hairline.

“Oh, you both made it,” she says. Her voice is kind but pointed. “Together, even.”

You and Joshua smile politely, murmuring greetings as you step inside. The living room is exactly how you remember it: mismatched furniture, a faint smell of liniment, crocheted doilies covering every available surface. She ushers you in, offers you barley tea you both politely decline, and sits with a huff in her favorite armchair.

The conversation is short and mostly administrative. Paperwork is signed, keys are handed over, deposits are discussed. She asks if you've found new places to live, and you both assure her you have. When the last form is signed, she takes a long look at the two of you.

“I’m surprised,” she says plainly, “that you two didn’t make it. I had a good feeling about you.”

You glance at Joshua, whose smile is tight but not insincere. “We had a good run,” he says, voice gentle, and that’s somehow the part of this whole endeavor that tears you up the most.

Minjung hums, not quite convinced. But she pats your hand and says she wishes you both well. You thank her.

It’s done. After everything, it’s finally done.

No more shared bills or split chores. No more arguing about groceries or laundry schedules. Just clean breaks, and quiet endings, and another eight hours back home you’ll probably sleep through.

You’re on the porch again, about to step off the last stair, when Minjung opens the door behind you.

“By the way,” she calls out. “You two didn’t have to come all this way, you know. I have a—what do you kids call it? Van-me? Venmo? Yes, that. I have that now.”

She shuts the door in your faces before either of you can respond.

You and Joshua stare at each other. For a beat, silence.

Then, laughter. Real, deep, absurd laughter.

You double over, hands on your knees. Joshua leans against the porch rail, laughing so hard he wheezes. Your cheeks hurt, your eyes blur, and for the first time in what feels like forever, you’re laughing with him like you used to—like nothing ever changed.

“I hate us,” you manage between giggles.

“She really let us suffer through all that,” Joshua gasps. “An eight-hour drive, a motel with one bed, all for... this.”

You can’t stop laughing. Not for a while. And when you finally do, breathless and dazed, you’re not sure what the ache in your chest means anymore.

Joshua invites you to the beach after Minjung’s door shuts behind the both of you. He says it casually, like he’s not asking you to walk across a tightrope of memory, but just to sit, to rest, to let the waves be the only thing talking for a while.

You agree. Because it’s the least you can give him, considering the fact he’s in for another long drive. Because Joshua said that nothing in the world made him happier than the beach, and you.

“We should finish the questions,” he says, already headed toward the shoreline. “Might as well. Before we have to get back in the car.”

You follow him. It’s easier to, now.

The wind’s picked up, but not so much that it makes the air cold. Just enough to push your hair around your face and coat your skin with salt. The two of you find a smooth stretch of sand near the water, a small incline that gives you a view of the waves curling back on themselves. The city behind you is quiet and gray, the kind of place where time seems to wait a little longer between minutes.

You settle in beside him, knees pulled up to your chest. Joshua stretches his legs out in front of him, leans back on his palms.

You open your phone and pull the list up again. “Alright,” you say, trying to make your voice light, “question thirty. When did you last cry in front of another person? By yourself?”

He hums. You think he's stalling, but when he answers, it’s immediate.

“By myself? Last month. One of my undergrads turned in a paper about the death of coral ecosystems and how they linked it to their relationship with their dad. It hit me. I cried in the breakroom.”

“And in front of someone?”

He glances at you. “Right now doesn’t count, right?”

You smile. You don't answer.

“You?”

You pick at a loose thread on your sleeve. “By myself, probably... a couple weeks ago. Work stuff. And in front of someone?” You give him a look. “When we broke up.”

He nods like he remembers, and you know he does.

Question thirty-one. “Tell your partner something that you like about them already.”

Joshua chuckles. “This is like the third time they’ve asked this.”

“Reinforcement is key.”

He looks at you. Not in the way he used to—hungry and open—but with a quiet sort of affection, like he's memorizing without needing to possess. Really looks at you.

“I like how you look when the wind hits your hair. Like you're always on the verge of something. Running or staying,” he says.

You roll your eyes, but your heart doesn’t get the memo.

“You’re such a sap.”

“You used to like that about me.”

“Still do,” you mutter.

Joshua doesn’t press it. You give him your answer—something about the way his eyes light up when he’s watching the sunset. He takes it with grace, angling his face a little more towards the horizon like he’s trying to remind you of what you love about him. As if you’d need a reminder.

Question thirty-two. “What, if anything, is too serious to be joked about?”

You take longer with this one.

He answers first. “Grief. Not because it can’t be joked about, but because not everyone gets to laugh about it. You have to earn that.”

You look at him.

“What?” he says.

“That was... insightful.”

“I’m a marine biologist, not a clown.”

You huff out a laugh. Your chest is tight, and your heart is full, and your throat is dry with words you shouldn’t say.

Not now. Maybe not ever.

You tell him you agree with him, and he doesn’t claim you’re trying to field the query. He knows you’ve earned the right to say the same thing.

The waves crash in slow rhythm, and the sun slips further down the sky. Joshua turns his head slightly toward you, just enough for the breeze to tousle the hair at his temple.

“We doing all thirty-six today?” he asks, a small smile playing on his lips.

You shrug. “We’re here, aren’t we?”

The wind answers for you both.

It tugs at your sleeves and hair, but not enough to be cruel. Just enough to remind you where you are: a little too far from home, and closer to something else you can't quite name.

“Alright,” you murmur, tapping into your phone. “Thirty-three. If you were to die this evening with no opportunity to communicate with anyone, what would you most regret not having told someone? Why haven’t you told them yet?”

You expect him to hesitate. Instead, he answers softly, “That I forgive my dad.”

You glance at him. He stares out at the water, eyes glazed over and jaw tense, but his voice is even. “I kept waiting for the right time. For him to earn it, maybe. But some things... you give, not because they deserve it, but because you need to let it go.”

You nod, even though he isn’t looking. You don't ask questions. You don’t press. It feels sacred, what he said.

He turns to you. “What about you?”

You think for a long moment. The waves come in, and the waves go out.

“That I’m proud of myself,” you say, eventually, your voice cracking around the confession. “That I spent so long trying to be someone worth loving, I never stopped to tell myself I'd made it.”

Joshua’s gaze doesn’t waver. “I’m proud of you, too,” he says.

He says it not because it’s some concession, not because it’s a consolation prize he wants to give you in the face of your honesty. He says it because he means it, the same way he probably meant it when he said he was proud of you for starting your corporate job, proud of you for opening a jar without his help, proud of you for this, and that, and simply existing.

You smile at him. He smiles back. It’s the moment you will carry in your pocket when it’s all over, the one you’ll replay when the morning comes and no trace of Joshua is left.

“Question thirty-four.” You clear your throat. “Your house, containing everything you own, catches fire. After saving your loved ones and pets, you have time to safely make a final dash to save any one item. What would it be? Why?”

“This feels like a game show.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Final answer, Hong?”

He grins, but it fades quickly, as if he’s realizing just how serious the question is. “There’s this box,” he says, “in my closet. Letters, ticket stubs, Polaroids. I guess I thought I’d forget otherwise.”

You know the box. You’d added to it once. Movies you had watched. Grocery receipts. Post-Its with crude drawings of sea animals that he deemed worthy of keeping despite your disgruntled protest.

That had always been Joshua’s way—loving every part of you, every scrap and morsel, even the ones you didn’t think deserved love. Especially the ones you didn’t think deserved love.

You turn back to the sea, silence stretching between you. You’re not sure what your answer to the question is. Everything you own feels replaceable lately.

You open your mouth. Then close it.

And then, softly, “There’s a necklace. My mom gave it to me before college. It wasn’t worth much, but... it made me feel safe. Like I was tethered to someone.”

He knows the necklace. He’d fixed it once. You were hysterical when it broke, and he painstakingly gathered every broken charm, every loose bead. He watched three YouTube videos and treated the necklace with such care that it came back to you good as new.

You stopped wearing it shortly after, though, out of fear that it would snap again. That Joshua might some day not be around to fix it one more time.

Joshua reaches across the space between you and takes your hand, gently, as if asking permission without words. You let him.

For the first time in months, you feel tethered again.

The question lingers between you like sea mist: soft, hazy, impossible to ignore. Joshua is still holding your hand, thumb barely moving, but the warmth of it spreads up your arm like it's been waiting all this time to find a home there again.

You read out loud thirty-five. “Of all the people in your family, whose death would you find most disturbing? Why?”

You share a look, then, simultaneously—the same way you had when you first encountered the questions—you both say, “Skip.”

“Thirty-six,” you go on, voice a little thinner than you'd like. “Share a personal problem. Ask for advice. Then—”

“—have the other person reflect back how you seem to be feeling,” Joshua finishes for you. His smile is faint but real. “I remember that one.”

The tide hums its low lullaby, and for a while, you pretend to be thinking.

You both stare out at the ocean instead of each other, even as the last question hovers between you, even as his fingers shift—no longer just clasping, but sliding between yours, interlocking like they used to.

Like it’s the last time he'll get to do it. Maybe it is.

Then, you crack. Partly because the entire trip has been absurd, because thirty-six questions got you here in the first place and was now bringing you back.

Partly because you think it’s the last time you’ll have this, too.

You laugh. It escapes like air from a balloon, breathless and tinged with disbelief. “I have a personal problem,” you admit, looking down at your joined hands. “It’s really serious.”

Joshua tilts his head toward you, brows raised.

You meet his eyes. The world around you fades into pale sand and blue waves. “I really, really want to kiss my ex right now.”

His breath hitches, but he doesn’t look away.

And then, softly, like it's the simplest thing in the world: “I can fix that.”

He leans in, and you meet him halfway.

His free hand slides to your cheek, yours to his chest. His heartbeat—usually so certain and steady—hammers underneath your palm. There is nothing scientific about the way it undoes you.

Whatever comes next, you’ll figure it out later. For now, the question has been asked.

The answer is this.

Four years ago, you sat in front of Joshua with your heart on your sleeve.

After running through the thirty-six questions, you had asked him between giggles whether he was in looove with you now. He had looked at you like he was trying to remember how to breathe.

You got some ice cream for dessert. You had felt like you were floating, as if your feet weren’t touching the floor, and the feeling only worsened when he tried and failed to be cool about holding your hand.

At the door of your dormitory, he had kissed you good night. A proper kiss. And when he’d leaned in, you put a hand to his chest and told him to leave the night clean and quiet. Leave it at that, you had said against his lips.

That one, perfect kiss. We’ll have more, you had promised, and he responded with I’m going to collect.

You had watched him turn the corner and go. Right before disappearing, he glanced over his shoulder and flashed you a giddy smile.

The ocean gives—

Five months ago, you sat in front of Joshua with your heart in his hands.

The conversation ended with less than thirty-six questions. There is only so much times you can argue, and compromise, before the spats threaten to spill into resentment. In a small voice, you had asked him if he still loved you. Yes, he had said breathlessly, but you and I both know love isn’t always enough.

In the freezer, a tub of his favorite ice cream waited. One you had picked up in the grocery store, remembering him. It would remain there, cold and sweet and untouched, because the argument started mid-dinner and ended with you feeling like you were an astronaut jettisoned into space. One that would never come back down to Earth.

At the door of the apartment, he had kissed the crown of your hair with quivering lips. You were the one with a friend nearby, the one with a place you could stay at before the two of you had to figure out the shared apartment. Joshua had tried to kiss you properly, but you shook your head wordlessly.

Clean and quiet.

All Joshua could do was love you hard. All you could do was let him go.

You had gotten into a cab. Right before you turned the corner, you twisted in the seat to look in the rear window.

Joshua had been by the gate, watching you leave.

The ocean takes away—

It was easier than you thought, quitting your job.

After the roadtrip, that seemed like Joshua’s parting gift. The realization that you had wanted to do something meaningful with your degree, that running or staying was always a choice you could make.

And so you put in your two-week notice, and looked up Master’s programs, and got a part-time job at a non-government organization with an advocacy you believed in. You had been looking for an excuse to change your life, anyway, and here it was.

It was not like anything happened after the kiss by the beach. Somehow, it had reminded you of that first night—how you had advised Joshua not to push his luck.

He knew, you knew, that the kiss was perfect as is. To try and steal another would do neither of you any good.

He hadn’t answered question thirty-six. The kiss took away that opportunity, and so the two of you simply got back into his car without another word.

You slept the entire ride back and woke up to Joshua listening to some podcast about investigating subtidal zone organisms using a light source. He dropped you off at your apartment, wished you well with a one-armed hug, and drove off into the night.

It’s not like you’d been expecting a follow-up text, but it sure would have been nice.

You don’t dwell on it. You transition your replacement and tie up all loose ends. On your last day in the office, you pack up your desk. Whale-themed calendar, coral-shaped push pins, blue Post-It’s.

“I’ve always loved that about you,” a co-worker says in passing as you rearrange your belongings like a perverse Tetris game. “All the sea stuff.”

It hits you, only then, that you’d been a walking, talking documentary for all the things Joshua Hong loved. You could almost cry at the realization. Instead, you laugh politely.

You’re logging out of your work computer for the very last time when the Mail app pings. You’re inclined to ignore it, to just open it up on your phone and be done with everything, but the preview in the notification has your brows furrowing.

You open the email.

To: [email protected] From: [email protected] Subject: RE: My personal problem

I never got to answer thirty-six. It’s because my ‘problem’ is this: I have a couple of questions I want to ask you.

For your reference and kind consideration.

Have you eaten today?

Did you remember to water the plant on your windowsill?

What time did you wake up this morning?

Are you sleeping okay lately?

Did you bring your jacket today like I told you to?

What song have you been listening to on repeat?

Is your favorite mug still the blue one with the chip in it?

Did you ever replace the broken lamp in your room?

When was the last time you laughed so hard your stomach hurt?

Are you still drinking your coffee with too much sugar?

What’s the last book you finished reading?

Do you still cry at that one movie you always cry at?

Have you called your mom lately?

Do you still keep emergency chocolate in the freezer?

What’s the newest dream you’ve had for your life?

What do you miss the most about living with someone?

Do you ever think about our old kitchen, and how the faucet always leaked?

Are you still scared of thunderstorms?

When was the last time you let someone take care of you?

What’s the one thing you wish you could say without it sounding like too much?

Do you remember how we used to dance in the living room when it rained?

What memory have you been holding onto lately?

Have you forgiven me for the words I didn’t say when I should have?

Do you think it’s possible to love someone differently, but just as much, the second time around?

Do you think timing is a real excuse, or just a convenient one?

What did I do that hurt you the most?

What did I do that made you feel safest?

What was your favorite version of us?

What do you think we did right?

What do you think we got terribly wrong?

What did you learn about yourself when we were apart?

What made you fall in love with me, back then?

What did you fall out of love with?

What’s something you wanted to ask me, but never did?

What would you do differently, if we had a second chance?

Could we have a second chance?

– J.

#joshua x reader #svt x reader #seventeen x reader #svthub #keopihausnet #joshua imagines #svt imagines #seventeen imagines #joshua hong x reader #svt fluff #seventeen fluff #(🥡) notebook #(💎) page: svt

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nicholasluvbot · 1 day ago

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STUCK WITH Uㅤ 𓂃 ㅤ 或 ❜ㅤ ── 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽𝖺 𝗁𝗈𝗉𝖾 𝗐𝖾'𝗋𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 ၃

ㅤㅤㅤㅤ🐋ㅤㅤ𝖽𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗂𝖼 𝗌𝖼𝖾𝗇𝖺𝗋𝗂𝗈𝗌 𓈒

𝖻𝗈𝗒𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽 ! 𝖻𝗇𝖽 ⟡ 𝖿𝖾𝗆 ! 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋 ─── 1400 ✴ 𝖽𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗂𝖼 𝖿𝗅𝗎𝖿𝖿ㅤ w. 𝗌𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗉 𝗄𝗂𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀ㅤ੭୧ 𝗅𝗂𝖻𝗋𝖺𝗋𝗒

𝗂 𝖺𝗆 𝗌𝗈 𝖾𝗑𝖼𝗂𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝗋 '𝗇𝗈 𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗋𝖾' >< !

𝖯𝖠𝖱𝖪 𝖲𝖴𝖭𝖦𝖧𝖮

the door creaks open with the low thud of footsteps, and the moment you look up, there he is—tie slightly loosened, hair tousled, broad shoulders slumped in exhaustion.

he’s got his arms around you before you can even say hi, nose tucked into your shoulder, exhaling like the weight of the world just lifted.

you rub his back gently, and he only hugs you tighter. your hand reaches up to cup the side of his face, fingers threading through his hair.

“tough day?”

he nods into the curve of your neck. “i missed you so much,” he mumbles, voice soft and muffled as he sways you slightly. “did you miss me?”

you chuckle under your breath. “you saw me this morning.”

“yeah,” he pouts, pulling back just enough to look at you, “but that was so many hours ago.”

your heart melts at the sincerity in his voice, and you let him hold you, swaying gently with him in the quiet. the only sound is the soft crackle of the chimney behind you, casting a warm glow across the room.

even when you pull away slightly to ask if he wants dinner, he tugs you right back in, mumbling into your shirt, “not yet. just a few more minutes like this.”

and so you stay like that, his head resting on your shoulder, arms around your waist, wrapped up in the quiet thrum of home.

𝖫𝖤𝖤 𝖱𝖨𝖶𝖮𝖮

riwoo’s sprawled on the couch beside you, one arm draped around your shoulder as you snuggle into him, a blanket messily thrown over your tangled limbs and a bowl of popcorn resting on your lap.

a romcom plays on the television—the kind that’s equal parts cheesy and charming—and riwoo’s been providing commentary on every single scene, ridiculous and exaggerated, leaving you wheezing with laughter, clutching your stomach. he looks so proud of himself every time you laugh, flashing that boyish grin every time you laugh, even when you playfully shove him for his hilarious comments.

you’re laughing more than watching.

and then, the ending hits. the music softens, the screen dims, and the two lovers finally reunite after being apart.

riwoo’s about to crack another joke when—

sniffle.

he pauses, turning to look at you, and his smile fades into something softer. “wait, are you crying?” he asks, his voice low, surprised.

you nod, wiping your cheek quickly. “it just got me, okay?”

without hesitation, he scoots in closer, tugging the blanket snugly around both of you, his fingers gently reaching for yours. “hey, come here.”

no more jokes. just his arms around you, chin resting on your head, and his thumb rubbing slow, soothing circles into your palm—quiet, warm comfort wrapped in the soft glow of movie credits from the screen.

𝖬𝖸𝖴𝖭𝖦 𝖩𝖠𝖤𝖧𝖸𝖴𝖭

it’s still dim when jaehyun wakes, the room washed in blue-grey light. your limbs are tangled beneath the blanket, one hand resting over his chest, your breath brushing against his collarbone in a steady rhythm.

his lips lift in a soft smile when he looks at you. your lips are parted slightly, brows relaxed, your expression peaceful—like you’re perfectly content staying wrapped in his arms. his gaze lingers, tracing over your face, memorizing every curve softened by sleep.

he brushes your hair back, thumb gently grazing the slope of your cheek.

the minutes stretch on. he checks his phone. no emails, no messages, no noise. just the quiet beating of his heart, somehow louder in the stillness.

eventually, the boredom seeps in—not the restless kind, but the yearning kind.

so he leans in, pressing a featherlight kiss to your temple. then your cheek. then your nose.

you groan, sinking deeper into the blankets. “too early.”

jaehyun hums, slotting his leg between yours, voice barely above a whisper. “i missed you.”

you sigh, exasperated, but you let him curl fully around you. he’s warm—annoyingly so. he smells like his body wash, and home.

and when he rubs his nose against yours and mumbles, “if you really want me to stop, i will,” you let out a tired laugh.

“don’t stop,” because even if you act mad sometimes, you still love his affection so much.

𝖧𝖠𝖭 𝖳𝖠𝖤𝖲𝖠𝖭

taesan bursts through the door, soaked from head to toe, water dripping all over the entryway.

“you didn’t take an umbrella?” you ask, arms crossed, brows furrowed in disappointment.

“i forgot,” he says pitifully, hair plastered to his forehead and shirt soaked through. “it started pouring out of nowhere.”

your glare doesn’t falter—you’d reminded him to carry an umbrella, more than once. but he never listens.

he pouts a little and leans into you, like a wet kitten looking for sympathy. “comfort me. i’m wet.”

“you’re also gross,” you deadpan. “go shower before you catch a cold.”

when he reappears fifteen minutes later, his hair is damp and clean, shoulders bare, skin flushed from the hot water. he sits at the edge of the bed, and you kneel in front of him, gently toweling his hair dry.

he hums, soft and content, until you accidentally tug his ear a little too hard.

“ow.”

“sorry,” you say, trying not to smile.

he turns to pout at you, cheeks puffed like a cartoonishly. “you’re not being gentle. are you really mad at me?”

you chuckle, setting the towel aside and pulling him closer until his head rests against your stomach. he immediately wraps his arms around your waist, face pressed into your shirt.

“better?”

“mm,” he hums, already snuggling in. “much.”

𝖪𝖨𝖬 𝖫𝖤𝖤𝖧𝖠𝖭

leehan is sitting on the floor between your legs, his back warm against your ankles, and his cheek rested snugly against your knee. the living room is quiet, save for the soft hum of whatever show is playing on the television.

your fingers move through his hair slowly—carding out the little tangles, smoothing each strand with care. leehan hums under his breath as you part it carefully, smoothing it down before starting a braid.

your hands move in gentle patterns—over, under, over—and he tilts his head slightly to give you more space. he leans into your touch, shoulders relaxed, breathing slow and steady.

“is this okay? too tight?” you ask, pausing to lightly scratch his scalp

“no,” he murmurs, eyes closed. “feels nice.”

you finish the braid—neat and simple—but your fingers keep moving, combing through the rest of his hair with soothing, lazy motions.

he shifts slightly, turning his head to look up at you with that soft, half-lidded gaze that makes your chest ache a little. “let’s do nothing all day,” he says, voice thick with comfort.

you chuckle, brushing a thumb against his cheekbone. “that’s what we’re doing right now.”

he nods, satisfied. and you both stay just like that for hours, long after the braid is done—quiet tv, soft touches, and hearts full.

𝖪𝖨𝖬 𝖶𝖮𝖮𝖭𝖧𝖠𝖪

you wake up to the softest poke against your shoulder and woonhak’s voice in your ear. “hey. wake up, please?”

you groan, blearily blinking at the clock. “it’s 1:30 in the morning. what do you need?”

he grins. “i’m craving ramen. come with me?”

you grumble but get up anyway, feet padding after him into the kitchen.

you sit on the counter, half-asleep and smiling as he throws absurd ingredients into the pot just for the sake of experimenting.

“strawberries are not for garnish,” you mumble, amused, watching him cut strawberries into tiny pieces.

“i just wanted some colour,” he laughs.

he keeps looking over his shoulder at you. you’re smiling in a sleepy, squint way: the one that he’s grown to adore so much. he cracks another egg into the pot, absolutely no reason other than wanting to hear you laugh again.

you don’t trust the ramen he’s cooking at all, but he’s glowing—loose tee, messy hair, eyes sparkling—and you let him play chef.

once the lid is on and the noodles are simmering, he sets the chopsticks down, steps between your legs, and leans in to kiss you. slow. warm. just because he can.

you kiss back, fingers curling into his hair—until your nose twitches.

“woonhak,” you murmur against his lips, “the ramen.”

he yelps, rushing back to the pot, cheeks flushed pink, clearly embarrassed for getting distracted so easily.

when it’s finally done, you eat straight from the pot (because who’s bothering with dishes at 2 am?). and somehow, it turns out edible delicious, even.

you sit side by side on the floor, knees bumping, chopsticks clinking, trying not to laugh too loudly.

you’ll probably regret this when you’re both running late in the morning—but that’s a worry for tomorrow.

ㅤnetworks ◞ @kstrucknet @k-films @sgz-net

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bananawafers · 1 day ago

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jjk men in the delivery room! pt. 2!

woot woot! check out pt.1 here!

ㅤ♡ nanami kento ㅤ♡

• so, SO overly prepared

• military-grade hospital bag

• timing your contractions, checking monitors, adjusting your pillow

• your comfort > anything else

• tries to get you to do breathing exercises with him & you just keep laughing. haha nerd ! ☜(`o´)

• “for the love of— just one moment of seriousness. one.”

• he might be exasperated with you, but the moment you wince and your goofy smile drops, he wants nothing more than to bring it back

• every time you cry or yelp from the pain he has to close his eyes for a second, breathe through it with you. he won’t cry—he can’t, not yet

• queen never cry

• he may not cheer or shout, but the pride in his eyes says everything the moment he sees his child. he’d brush your hair out of your face, press a lingering kiss to the top of your head, and speak softly

• “that’s my girl…”

• you catch his wobbly smile before he even realizes it

• you don’t call him out on it though bc he will revert back to nonchalant-ness

• girl dad. fosholy

• sooo careful holding the baby. asks the nurses how to do it

• “i assume there’s a technique for this, yes? a specific way to keep her stable”

• the baby’s tiny pink outfit against his serious, perfectly tailored shirt and black pants looks almost comical

• thanks the nurses like he’s in a business conference

❤︎ geto suguru ❤︎

• so calm and supportive!!! like . biology aside, he is mother ♡(˘̩̩̩̩̩̩ ⌂ ˘̩̩̩̩̩̩)

• rubs your back, holds your hand, or just rests his hand on your leg. every touch is slow, deliberate, as if to remind you that he’s not going anywhere

• poor guy just feels so guilty, like he’s responsible for your pain

• whispers sweet little praises as he holds you. how you’re so beautiful, so perfect, so above him

• staff is flabbergasted at how calm he is

• “are you sure this is your first time in the delivery room, sir?”

• like !! the way he encourages you, you’d think he was a midwife in a past life

• “keep those shoulders loose, okay? you’re doing so well” as he gently massages your shoulders

• fast forward and the baby is finally out, you’re dazed, eyes fluttering, voices and sounds blur into white noise

• he slips an arm around your shoulders and lowers his head to rest his chin gently against your shoulder. “hey… hey. look.” he softly lifts your cheek to look at the foot of the bed, where the doctor holds the baby. “just look at her.”

• fml

• forgot to mention. girl dad. goes without saying

𓏵 sukuna ryomen 𓏵

• WHO INVITED YOU

• GET OUT

• POLICE

• breathing down the doctor’s neck fr

• “don’t you fools have something stronger to give her? anesthesia? an IV of something potent— hell, knock her out for a bit”

• tapping on the heart monitor like it’s a fish tank

• plays with the hospital bed remote, lifting it and lowering it mid-contraction

• you’re literally writhing in pain and he’s so over it

• “didn’t realize i needed earplugs”

• gets up and stands directly in front of the doctor like a mob boss waiting for results

• “taking too damn long.” he says, looking between your legs, completely unfazed. he glances up at you. “say the word and i’ll pull the sucker out myself”

• when the baby is born, he lets out a sigh. “finally. took long enough”

• totally a boy dad

• he walks over and squints at the newborn. “…why does it look like an alien.”

• sort of just watches you hold the baby with mild curiosity

• when you hand the baby to him, he holds it like a live grenade

• eventually sits down, still rigid, but quieter. after minutes of intense scrutiny, his shoulders relax a little. he leans in close to the baby and whispers. “you better grow into that head, runt” (was that affection in his tone?)

pt. 3 - choso, toji => here :D

#jjk headcanons #jjk scenarios #jjk x reader #jjk geto #geto suguru #sukuna #sukuna ryomen #geto x reader #sukuna x reader #kento nanami #kento x reader #nanami x reader #suguru x reader #jujutsu kaisen #jjk x you

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cherryblossom-heart · 3 days ago

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A/n: Ok besties, hear me out. One of my favorite non canon but with all the vibes and sexual tension type of couple is Karen Page and Frank Castle from Daredevil. So now it got me thinking…

FYI this is a little bit long

Hero!Satoru x Reader x Vigilante!Sukuna

Hero!Satoru who you meet after he rescues you. You suffered the terrible case of wrong place, wrong time, finding yourself being chased thought the streets of Tokyo by thugs working for one of the seven clans that own the city.

Hero!Satoru who, after you get cornered in a dead end alley, right as they are about to put a bullet in your head, suddenly pops up behind the man who almost shot you. The men were taken by surprise, it wasn't every day that you saw a man materialize out of thin air but the bandages over his eyes foolishly made them think they had nothing to worry about.

Hero!Satoru who laughs as shot after shot they miss him, taunting them every time. When one of the bullets lands next to you, making you shriek in fear, he quickly appears next to you, carrying you in his arms as he teleported with you to a safe place behind a dumpster. You threw up as soon as your feet touched the ground.

Hero!Satoru who finishes all six men in less than a minute, not even breaking a sweat.

Hero!Satoru who goes to you. You're shaking like a leaf having experienced almost death and certain murder for your intended killers for the first time in your life.

Hero!Satoru who extends his hand to you but you recoil in instinct, not sure of who you should trust now. Sure, this stranger just saved your life but the crack one of the men’s leg did once Satoru bent it at an unnatural angle would surely haunt your dreams.

Hero!Satoru who looks at you and something warms in him. Maybe it was the way you looked like a cornered puppy, your eyes big and wide in fear, or perhaps it's the way your lip quiver with the threat of tears. Or maybe it was because, even though you were terrified you were still brave, your eyes carrying such fierceness he had only seen in his fellow heroes.

Hero!Satoru who lifted his hands in the air, trying to show he was no warm to you. He crouched in front of you, taking out a small tissue he always carried in his back pocket for emergencies. With a swift movement he wiped a couple of small droplets of blood that had stained your face. He's relived you didn't back away.

Hero!Satoru who offers you the tissue, in case you want to clean yourself further more. You take it, hesitantly snatching out of his hand.

Hero!Satoru who breaks the silence.

"Hey, I'm Sator–y," he coughs up the last letter as he chastised himself for his slip up. Fuck, he wasn't supposed to use his real name.

"Satory?" You asked clearly confused.

"Yep, Satory." He lifts up his hand to you. "That's my hero name."

"That's your hero name?" The edge of sass in your voice almost made him laugh.

Hero!Satoru who, after an improvised explanation on why his hero name is Satory, asks for your name. You don't give it to him right away, but as you pondered your options you decided that having a super hero as an acquaintance is not a bad idea.

Hero!Satoru who smiles brightly at your name, each syllable engraining themselves in his memory.

Hero!Satoru who helps you standing up, his pull easily bringing you on your feet maybe a little too hard making you crash against his chest, his arm circling your waist.

Hero!Satoru who feels how a little bit of warmth in his cheeks as he feels you pull apart and he thanks the universe for helping him choose to wear bandages to cover his eyes or else you would've seen his panic in them.

Hero!Satoru who is now a little too nervous, almost darting out as he mumbled a silly apology and excuse of having to keep fighting crime.

Hero!Satoru who gets stopped by your hand in his arm, your touch sending shivers down his spine. He looks at you, unable to say anything as he stared at your fingers wrapping around his biceps.

"Wait, where are you going? What am I supposed to do now? These guys still know who I am, they're going to kill me. Help me, please."

Hero!Satoru who sighs, not because he was annoyed at your pleas, but because he knew you didn't even had to beg that much. He was still going to help you.

Hero!Satoru who takes you to his home and reveals his true identity. Satoru Gojo, playboy, millionaire and an occasional pro bono lawyer with striking blue eyes they were impossible to resist. He tells you the name he uses in his little rendezvous "The strongest.". His cheeks turn pink when you burst laughing.

"I'm sorry. God, aren't you cocky?" You ask in disbelief.

"Only because I'm right." He winks at you.

Hero!Satoru who offers you a place to stay as he figures out a way to get you out of danger. But instead of taking his help you argue with him. You want to expose them, the big corporation that worked under the Yakuza, the politicians what were in the mobs payroll.

Hero!Satoru who, after several hours of arguing with you, finally lets you help. You will be an informant for the police and Satoru would be your lawyer, one of his many pro bono cases. He would talk to his friend Detective!Kento, the one cop in the whole city he trusted one hundred percent.

Hero!Satoru who ends up liking your company, his penthouse not as lonely and dark. He likes getting home to someone smiling for him, he likes the smell of the food you offer to cook as "payment" for saving your life in more than one way. He likes the way your eyes crinkle when you laugh and the way your shampoo smells, it's scent now lingering in one of his pillows in his room.

Hero!Satoru who can't help fall in love with you as you face everything ahead with trembling limbs and tears pooling in your eyes yet you never yield, not even when you get framed for a murder you didn't commit, taking away part of your credibility as a witness. If the police wouldn't hear you then the papers would, and you'll bring every proof you could with you.

Hero!Satoru who enlists Lawyer!Suguru's help, his best friend aware of his shanenigans and the only person in the world he would trust his life with and therefore yours too. Both of them use every trick in the book until the finally get to set you free.

Hero!Satoru who holds you tight the night you get you get released, your innocence finally proven. That's the first night Satoru kisses you. Slowly, passionately, lovingly.

Hero!Satoru who, for the first time in a long time, is happy and content as he has you in his arms, his nose dipping in the crook of your neck.

Hero!Satoru who gives you tells you about the group of thugs he just beat up, hoping that one of them might have some intel he could use against Kenjaku, the man that behind every every string but he had planned to interrogate them but the cops showed up a little too early.

Hero!Satoru who isn't too sure to let you go interrogate one of those thugs at the hospital they were at, especially now that he had another tip of a big showdown where Kenjaku would be at, it was one in a million chance. But a small little please and the fierceness of your eyes and he rolled his eyes and agreed to let you go, as if he could stop you once you had made your mind.

Hero!Satoru who get's to the location, eagerness but mostly anger coursing through his veins as he is waiting to finally see the man who had made your life hell.

Hero!Satoru who notices too late that it was a trap, a trap meant to keep him occupied, distracted. Men after men came, dragging the fight longer than it should. When Kenjaku is nowhere to be seen he hold one of them men by his collar, screaming at him to give him answers.

"The boss... he sends his regards to the little bitch you're protecting."

Hero!Satoru who thinks he's too late as he calls your phone, each call going to voicemail.

Hero!Satoru who, for the first time in his life, feels completely and utterly hopeless.

You had reached the hospital room where one of the men Satoru had fought was recovering in. A broken nose, ribs and arm had rendered him incapacitated, his face almost deformed from the punches he had taken.

He had woken up in fear, scared of the "Blind demon." coming back for him. You had tried to call him down, telling him he better told you everything he knew or you would call this so called "Demon."

It didin't take long for him to spill the secrets he kept, giving you more and more ammunition for the expose you were working on. After over thirty minutes of recording, the sound of screaming interrupted your interview.

Gunshots could be heard everywhere, along with the screams of people who had gotten in the cross fire. You knew they were here for him, and the middle level criminal knew it too. You grabbed him, pulling him alongside you as you tried to make your way out of the hospital.

You had reached the hallway that reached the exit door, so close you could almost feel safety at the tip of your hands. Unfortunately, the criminal you were trying to keep alive had taken a stop, his lungs not cooperating with him after such a run.

You kept pulling on him, telling him to push through the lack of air. He began standing up straight, finally continuing giving a couple of steps in your direction when a shot was heard. A bullet carving his way from the back of his head to his forhead.

You ran, your legs and your lungs burning as you reach for a random room to try to keep yourself safe in. Unfortunately crystal walls are nothing against bullets.

Now cornered against a wall you hear your phone ringing, Satorus ringtone playing through the silent room you and your future killer are in. He looks at you, nothing but disdain in his face. He lifts his gun, aiming straight for your face.

"Kenjaku sends his rega–"

The man fell to the floor, now with a hole where his eye used to be.

Vigilante!Sukuna who looks at you and you remind him of a scared little puppy, trembling like a leaf as you began processing whatever the hell had just happened.

Vigilante!Sukuna whose red eyes scan you, analyzing whether or not you are a threat. It takes him less than a second to asses you're not, not with fear written so clearly over your face.

Vigilante!Sukuna who is surprised when you quickly pick up the gun his victim had, aiming it right at his chest.

Vigilante!Sukuna who sees as you take in his appearance. Red eyes, pink hair and a shit ton of tattoos adorning his body and face along with the big muscles you could see against his black long sleeved shirt he's wearing and the bullet proof vest. The man was built like a tank.

Vigilante!Sukuna who aims his gun back at you, thinking you might give up and just plead and beg for your life. Instead he is surprised by your stance, sure you were trembling but there wasn't a doubt in his mind you would shoot him dead if he tried anything.

"I'm not here for you." He says, plainly.

You don'y say anything, just waiting for him to do the first move. He tries to move forward to you but you aim the gun now to his face as he lifts his hands in the air.

Vigilante!Sukuna who thinks he's dead and he can't help but be disappointed as he sees your finger pulling the trigger. Taken out by a scared little girl, what an embarasing fate.

Vigilante!Sukuna who hears the bullet passing next to him, followed by a thud behind him. He turns around to see one of Kenjakus men in the floor, a bullet in his shoulder.

Vigilante!Sukuna who can't describe what he's feeling but as he sees the fire behind your eyes, he thinks there's more about you that you let on.

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i-get-obsessed-fast · 3 days ago

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Party4U

I wish you’d get here, kiss my face

Summary: It’s your birthday, and you throw a party in hopes Spencer Reid shows up because truth is, you only threw this party for him…

A/N: ngl writing this gave me bad flashbacks and now I never want to drink again…(I’m still going to)

BYR(b4 u Reid): Alcohol, mentions of drunk people, drunk kissing (yes lawd), awkward Spencer, season 1 Spencer, reader is over 20, no use of y/n, and sexual content. Lmk if I'm missing anything.

It was getting later into the night, people were stumbling around, dancing, taking shots, and playing beer pong. It had now become a full-blown party, and everyone seemed to be having the time of their lives.

You were a little buzzed, not too much. You were pacing yourself, holding off. You were waiting for someone. He promised he'd come. And Spencer Reid never broke a promise.

Especially not today. Not on your birthday.

“Birthday girl isn’t even drunk yet! This is not good.” Your roomate Sarah shouted, clearly several drinks in. “I’m waiting for someone.” You replied, sipping from your cup.

She rolled her eyes and snorted. “Don’t tell me you’re waiting on that nervous little FBI chihuahua.” Your mouth fell open slightly. “Don’t be rude. He’s sweet. And yes, I am waiting.”

She sighed dramatically. “Well, good luck with that. This is definitely not the kind of place he’d show up to. You’re going to get stood up.”

You shook your head. Spencer wouldn’t do that. If he wasn’t coming, he’d at least call. He’d explain.

Still, as the party kept going and the minutes ticked by, you couldn’t help but feel the little twist in your stomach. Maybe he changed his mind. Maybe he got too nervous. This really wasn’t his scene.

Maybe the party was a bad idea.

You sighed, slipping into your room. Thankfully, it was empty. No couples, no drunken chaos. Just your stuff, your bed, and the hum of bass through the walls.

You sat at your vanity, looking at yourself in the mirror. You’d put effort into tonight. Found the perfect dress, something cute but not over the top, just enough to feel confident.

You knew Spencer didn’t care about appearances like most people. That’s part of why you liked him so much. But still, you wanted him to see you at your best.

You closed your eyes, taking a deep breath in. It was silly to get this upset over a guy. You told yourself you’d take a few more drinks and forget about it in the morning.

Then your door creaked open.

“Sarah, I’ll be out in a bit.” You said without looking. But then-

“Hey.”

You turned quickly, and there he was.

Your whole face lit up. “Spencer!” You squealed, rushing to him and wrapping your arms around his neck. He froze just for a second before placing his hands nervously and gently on your waist.

“You came! I was worried, I thought maybe…” you pulled back just enough to look at him. “I thought maybe you weren’t going to show up.”

“You were worried about me not showing up?” He asked, eyebrows raised.

“Of course I was! You are my main guest.” You beamed at him. He blinked like he couldn’t quite process your words. You were always open about how you felt, always flirting, always dropping not-so-subtle hints. But somehow, Spencer Reid, certified genius, 187 IQ, turned into a socially anxious mess whenever you did.

It wasn’t that he didn’t notice. He just wasn’t sure how to reciprocate it back in a way that wasn’t so awkward. You made flirting seem so effortless, so easy. He on the other hand would just make a total fool of himself.

You tugged his hand. “Come on, we’re taking a shot.”

But he didn’t budge. You looked back and saw the nerves written all over his face. “Everything okay?”

“I,um, I don’t know anyone here. And I’ve never… drank before.” He admitted.

You tilted your head, smiling at him softly. “Aw, I get to pop your cherry?” You teased, then quickly added. “I’m kidding Spence. You don’t have to drink. We can just hang out and laugh at the ones who had too much.”

His eyes softened. “I don't want you to be bored. It's your birthday.”

“Well you're here so I won't be bored.” you said sincerely. “No, it's okay… I want us to have fun. I’ll get over it.”

“Spencer we don't have to, I promise you,” you assured him, looking deep into his eyes so he knew how serious you were. “I want to.” He replied.

You gave his hand a reassuring squeeze. “We’ll take baby sips first.”

And then, to his surprise, you kissed his cheek. He blushed instantly.

You led him out into the crowd, fingers still laced with his, grabbing two bottles. “We can sip on these until you get a bit more comfortable.” You said into his ear, he nodded.

You then introduced him to a few friends, watching his posture shift slowly, the tension starting to ease once he realized no one was judging him. If anything, your friends seemed impressed with how highly you spoke of him. He noticed the way you held onto his arm, how you made him feel like he belonged.

“How’re you feeling?” You asked as the two of you stepped outside for some air.

“I feel… good. You know a lot of people.”

“Yeah, I tried to keep it small but, well, word got around.”

“I think it’s fascinating. That you’re so comfortable with people.” You looked up at him, smiling. “Some people think I talk too much.”

“I like it. I like listening to you talk.” He said it like it surprised even him. You blushed. “Really?”

He nodded, then straightened up. “Actually… I think I’m ready for something stronger.”

You grinned. “Alright, big guy. Let’s go.”

Inside, you let him pick the drink. You poured two shots and handed him his cup.

“You ready?”

He gave a tiny nod, and you clinked cups. The moment he drank it, he coughed, making the worst face. You handed him a chaser immediately.

“Thanks.” He said hoarsely, lips pink and eyes wide.

Soon, he loosened up even more. You could tell, he held your hand more confidently, his hand occasionally finding your waist. You liked it. He seemed…freer.

“Beer pong?” You suggested. He gave you a look. “I don’t know. I’m not great at throwing things.”

“You’re good at math. I’m sure there’s some equation you can solve to get it right.” He smiled. “I’m pretty sure the game requires physical coordination, too.”

You looked him up and down. “Well, physically, you look good.” You teased giving him a thumbs up. He blushed and you led him to the table.

Shockingly, you two were winning. Granted, your opponents were very, very drunk, but still.

When Spencer made the second-to-last cup, you cheered, high-fiving him. Your fingers interlaced and lingered, until he pulled away.

You turned toward the table, ready to shoot your shot until your felt Spencer’s hand find your waist, then slid down your back to the hem of your dress slightly adjusting it because it had ridden up a bit.

Your breath caught.

So did his.

He couldn’t believe he just did that, neither could you.

You won the game. Of course.

You guys took celebratory shots, Spencer was getting better and better each time.

Spencer sat on the couch and gestured to his lap. “What?” You asked, heart skipping. He didn’t answer, just gently pulled you down to sit on him.

One of his arm wrapped around your waist, resting on your thigh, while the other interlaced with your hand.

“Are you comfortable?” He whispered into your ear. “I always am when I’m with you.”

He looked up at you smiling. Butterflies. Everywhere.

You both sat, just watching people, content in the buzz of the room, the safety of his presence.

His fingers were now smoothing over your skin, rubbing gently, innocently, on your thigh.

You knew he probably didn’t even realize what he was doing, but it made your thoughts spiral. Your heart beat faster.

You both sat together for a little longer, having conversation about everything, your guys cheeks were flush but starting to slowly cool down. You could feel Spencer’s gaze on you, soft but nervous, like he was building up the courage to say something.

“I, um… I have a present for you.” He said quietly, fingers now fidgeting with the hem of your dress. Your heart skipped a beat. “Spence, you didn’t need to-”

“I wanted to.” He cut in, his voice firm but still shy. His eyes searched yours. “Can I give it to you? In your room?”

Your stomach fluttered. You nodded, lips tugging into a smile as you stood and offered your hand. He took it, his fingers trembling slightly against yours as you led the way to your room.

You shut the door behind him, and took a seat at the edge of your bed, and he joined you. Close enough for your thighs to brush. You watched, your chest tightening, as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small box. He opened it carefully, revealing a delicate gold necklace with a tiny diamond that shimmered under the soft light.

“Spencer…” your voice came out barely above a whisper. “This is beautiful.”

“You like it?” He asked, eyes hopeful, and nervous. “I love it.” You said genuinely, looking at him. “It’s perfect. I’m wearing this everyday.”

His mouth twitched into a small, relieved smile. “Can I put it on you?”

You turned without hesitation, he brushed your hair out the way, his fingers lightly touching your skin, featherlight and cautions, and that little contact sent a warm ripple down your spine.

He clasped it at the nape of your neck with slow, precise movements. His fingers lightly ran down your spine, and you turned to him, throwing your arms around his neck in a hug. “Thank you. I love it so much, Spence.”

“I’m really glad.” He said, his voice soft, eyes a little stunned by your closeness. His hand smoothed up and down your back, you pull back a little.

Your guys faces only inches apart, eyes low, and dazed. Spencer couldn’t handle it anymore, he was tired of depriving himself of you.

His hand came up, gently cradling your jaw, his touch careful. Then, slowly, he leaned in and pressed his lips to yours. The kiss was soft, hesitant, he was scared you were going to pull away.

But you didn’t.

Instead, you kissed him back like your life depended on it, you had been waiting so long for this moment and you were even willing to wait longer. Your desperation flattered him. He never imagined he could make someone feel this way.

“I’ve wanted this so bad.” You murmured against his lips, brushing your thumb along his cheeks. “Really?” He asked, you just nodded and deepened the kiss more.

His hands found your waist, bolder now, pulling you onto him, your words had given him confidence. You settled there easily, legs on both sides, hands cradling his face as your kisses turned more insistent.

You pushed him down onto your bed, hovering over him, your lips moving from his lips down to his jaw. When his hands dropped from your waist, unsure again, you gently grabbed them and brought them right back to where they belonged.

You continued leaving a trail down his neck, teeth grazing his skin, listening to the tiny breathy sounds he couldn’t hold in. You barely heard it but, it was there. Your name, a whisper that lit something wild inside of you.

You reached for his tie, loosening it, and discarding it somewhere on the floor in your room. Your fingers hovered over the buttons of his shirt, you glanced up at him, silently asking for permission.

He nodded slowly, jaw tight with want, and you undid them, one by one, revealing more of him. He propped himself on his elbows, and pulled you into him for another kiss.

You slowly slid the shirt off of him, moving the fabric off of his arms. His fingers slipped beneath the hem of your dress, dragging it up slowly, cautiously, until the edge of your underwear peeked.

You broke the kiss to take in this sight of him, your fingers exploring the planes of his chest, the softness of his skin. You planted kisses on him, over his heart, and when he tilted your chin up with his finger, his lips found yours again, hungrier.

You felt him, hard beneath you, pressing up against you, and instinctively, your hips rolled down against him, pulling a surprised moan from his mouth.

“Spencer…” you breathed out, your voice barely hanging on. His hands gripped your waist again, then slid lower to your ass, guiding your hips as he moved you over him with more intention. His breath was shaky, his voice low and warm and desperate.

He said your name, like a confession.

You grind your hips down again, his hands gripped you tighter, encouraging you to keep going, to keep moving against him. His eyes fluttered closed for a moment, mouth parted in disbelief at the pleasure that rolled through him.

He looked completely undone, and it was just from you sitting on him, fully clothed.

You leaned down, kissing along the column of his throat, letting your lips linger just beneath his ear. “You okay?” You whispered, breath warm against his skin.

He nodded quickly, then stammered out. “Y-yeah. Definitely. More than okay.”

You smiled, biting back a laugh, because the way he looked, completely wrecked already, was maybe the hottest thing you’d ever seen. You sat up slightly, hands trailing down his chest, appreciating every inch of him.

“You’re really something else.” You said, brushing your thumb across his lower lip. He caught your hand, kissed your palm. So gentle and slow it made your breath hitch.

“You’re the one that’s something else.” He murmured, voice hoarse. “You’re perfect, everything you do.”

That made your chest ache, you leaned down, kissed him again, slow, deep, and meaningful. You needed him to feel what words can't say.

Spencer grabbed your waist, gently guided you onto your back, moving over you cautiously.

His mouth moved to the side of your neck, your dress slipped higher as you spread your legs slightly, letting him fit between them.

Your fingers found the back of his neck, pulling him to your lips. Spencer’s hand slid slowly up your body, tentative but curious, his fingers tracing the edges of your dress as it rose. When he finally pulled back to look at you, really look, his eyes landed on your black lace underwear, and he just admired.

He couldn’t believe this was real, you felt like a dream.

His fingers brushed over the fabric, hesitant. Gentle. You watched the awe on his face, the way he took you in like you were something sacred.

“Do you… want to take them off?” You softly ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

His eyes darted up to meet yours, wide and startled. His chest rose and fell faster now, the weight of the moment clearly settling over him.

“We don’t have to.” You said quickly. “We can take things slow, Spencer.”

He swallowed hard, and gave you a nod. “I-I want this. I really do. I just… don’t want this to be…” he paused, searching for the right words. “I don’t want it to feel like a one-time thing. You’re not that for me.”

You nodded, smiling at him, your chest warm. “I know. Me neither.”

With a soft exhale, he gently reached for the hem of your dress, pulling it back down to cover you up.

He moved off of you, grabbed your hand pulling you up on your feet. His hands were careful, reverent, as he adjusted the strap of your dress onto your shoulder.

You reached for his shirt, draping it back over his shoulders and slowly buttoning it up, watching his cheeks flush a soft red under your gaze.

He cleared his throat. “What?”

“Nothing.” You said, smiling.

He hesitated, then asked. “Did you… want to keep going?”

You but your lip, nodding. “Of course I did. But I agree. When we do decide to… take that next step… it should be special. Not with a bunch of drunk people stumbling around downstairs.”

He laughed quietly, relieved. “Yeah..”

You kissed him again, softly.

“Should we go back to the party?” You asked, fingers laced with his. He nodded. “You go for now, I’ll be out there in a bit.” He tells you, you smirked at him knowing why he was going to stay back.

“Alright, if you need any help or anything just give me a call.” You teased, he looked at you shaking his head at your teasing. “Very funny.” He sarcastically said, but you caught the small smile tugging at his lips.

You opened your bedroom door and stepped out, flashing him one more smile before closing it behind you.

“Where have you been?” Sarah asked the second you turned around. “I was with Spencer.” You replied casually.

Her eyes widen. “Did you guys just-”

“No, we didn’t.” You cut her off quickly. “Let’s step away, come on.”

You led her away from your room, and thankfully she had gotten distracted by someone else and wandered off.

You glanced around the house, realizing how tired you were of the party. Your home felt overcrowded, loud, and no longer fun. You were close to calling the cops on your own party, but luckily the neighbors beat you to it.

You stood outside as an officer explained the noise complaint and curfew.

“Alright, sir. I’ll shut it down.” You said with a polite smile. He nodded, and you waved him off.

Back inside, you cut the music and made the announcement. “Alright guys, party’s over.” You watched everyone slowly trickle out. “Sorry.” You said to a few as they passed.

Spencer found you shortly after. He looked concerned. “What happened?”

“Police got called.” You told him with a shrug.

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” You smiled. “Honestly, I was about to call them myself if people didn’t start leaving soon.” He laughed, and you joined him.

Once it was just the two of you, and your very drunk roommates who had knocked out in their rooms, you both started cleaning up a little.

“It’s a mess.” You said, tossing red solo cups into the trash bag. “Yeah. People are gross.” He muttered as he poured out a half-full beer. “Thank you for helping me.” You said sincerely. “No problem.” He replied, flashing you a sweet smile.

After most of the mess was cleaned, you both settled on the couch. You leaned into his side, his arm wrapping comfortably around you.

“Can you spend the night?” You hesitantly asked, titling your head up to look at him. He nodded almost instantly. “Of course.”

You smiled, but he suddenly stood up.

“Where are you going?”

“Left something in the kitchen. I’ll be back.” He assured you. You nodded, watching him walk off. When he returned, your eyes lit up. He was holding a small cake with lit candles. It was your birthday cake, the one you had completely forgotten about.

He started singing softly, and your cheeks hurt from how hard you were smiling.

“Make a wish.” He said once he finished, and you did. You closed your eyes and blew out the flames.

He held the cake out toward you. “Take a bite.”

You eyes him suspiciously but leaned in anyway, and sure enough, he gently pushed the cake into your face. Just a little frosting dotted your nose and chin.

“Spencer!” You gasped, laughing as you lightly hit his arm. He laughed too, setting the cake down, and then leaned in to wipe the frosting from your skin with his finger. You watched him as he brought it to his lips, sucking it clean.

He moved closer, pressing his lips to yours.

“Happy birthday.” He whispered as he pulled back just slightly. You smiled at him. “Thank you.” And then you kissed him again, slower, softer…

Dividers from @hyuneskkami !!

Writing this was fun!! I love bold Spencer! 🤭 also listen to the song, I just rediscovered it and became obsessed again. Live, Love, Laugh Charli xcx <3

Thank you to all who reblog & comment!! I really appreciate it sm!

~ Tag List ~

@samslovebug @alastorssimp @sleepysongbirdsings @khxna

#Spotify #spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fanfiction #criminal minds fanfiction #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer x reader #spencer reid smut #spencer reid criminal minds

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azulcrescent · 1 day ago

Note

Btw I first started questioning if I was trans from accidentally pulling an all nighter reading your cute animal girl comic.

I was up at 1am like

"Huh this sounds a lot like me... Wait a minute"

I then proceeded to not sleep for another at least 4 hours

Sadly I haven't read anything past like 217 or something since I lost my progress and have a lot to read

Yeah I've been there too (not that i read my own comic before i realized ofc) but take your time. Things like this take a lot of mental... de fragmenting, and whether you come to the conclusion that you're trans or not, hey, you learned more about yourself!

That aside, thanks for letting me know, and good luck on your journey! Hope you enjoy the rest of the comic too haha

(also i didn't realize i wrote the comic to be furry lmao (cute animal girl comic in ur ask lol))

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unsuperingyournatural · 3 days ago

Text

nowhere else i'd rather be

Pedro Pascal x Actress!Reader

comfort, TLOU season 2 spoilers below

materialized after watching the SXSW interview with him and Bella where he started to get a little emotional as he talked

You missed the flight.

Not the one you booked, but the one you needed to be on—the one that would've gotten you to him in time.

Your day had unraveled like string pulled too tight. A last-minute promo shoot ran over. The car that was supposed to take you to the airport arrived half an hour late, and the traffic was a crawling mess of brake lights and frustration. By the time you got through security, the plane was already taxiing. The only thing you could do was pace at the gate and rebook.

The flight you ended up on was quiet. Too quiet. You spent most of it curled toward the window, earbuds in, the drone of the engines dull against your thoughts. You kept replaying the way Pedro looked last time you FaceTimed from set—bone-deep tired, dust in his hair, that Joel stillness he carried like armor even off-camera. You remembered the way his hands curled into fists when he didn’t think you were watching. The long silences that came after night shoots.

You knew today would be brutal. The kind of goodbye that sits behind the ribs for days.

You checked the time obsessively. Watched your texts go unanswered. Imagined him surrounded by applause, shoulders tight, eyes glassy, doing his best to laugh and deflect when someone handed him a final cup of coffee with "Joel" scrawled across the lid.

He didn’t know you were coming. That was supposed to be the one good part of the day—showing up just in time to pull him into a hug before the weight of it could settle too heavy. But now you’re stepping into a hotel elevator long past sunset, earbuds back in, bag over your shoulder, praying the moment hasn’t passed completely.

Your phone buzzes. FaceTime. Pedro.

You answer with a soft smile, masking the fatigue and the guilt pooling in your chest. “Hey, you.”

The screen lights up with his face, and the first thing you see is the wreck of him.

He’s sitting on the edge of a hotel bed, hoodie loose around his neck, hair mussed from running his hands through it one too many times. His eyes are rimmed red, lashes still damp. There’s something fragile about the way he looks at you, like he’s not quite sure he can hold it together.

“Oh, baby,” you murmur, the term soft with ache.

He tries to laugh, but it crumbles in his throat. “I didn’t want to call you like this.”

“Like what?”

He shrugs, wiping quickly under his eye with the sleeve of his hoodie. “Like a guy who cried all the way back to the hotel.”

Your heart folds in on itself.

“We wrapped.” He swallows. “That was it. Joel’s done. We all stood around clapping and hugging and pretending we weren’t crying until it was Bella's turn to say goodbye. She—” His voice cracks. He exhales sharply through his nose. “She called me her family. Said being on set wouldn't be the same. And when she hugged me, I just—”

You don’t say anything. You just listen. Let him talk.

“I didn’t think it would hit that hard,” he continues, voice quieter now, like he’s running out of steam. “But it did. All of it. The last scene. The jacket. The boots. Even the damn coffee cup they gave me with Joel’s name on it.”

You offer him a quiet smile, steadying, and step out of the elevator. Your footsteps are muffled by carpet now as you move down the hallway.

Pedro watches the screen, eyes narrowing slightly. “Wait, are you back at your hotel?”

“I’m on my way up to the room now,” you reply easily, shifting the camera just enough to keep the door numbers out of frame. You change the subject gently. “What did they give you? You said something about a gift bag?”

He talks, a little less raw now, about the crew and the last-minute gifts, about the director choking up during his speech. At one point he holds up a small wrapped box, trying to describe it while blinking rapidly. His voice keeps catching on certain memories, but you stay with him. Let him lean on you through the screen.

Then you’re standing outside his room. You knock three times, soft but sure.

He looks offscreen. Frowns. “Hang on, sorry. Someone’s at the door.”

“I’ll stay right here,” you say, tucking a smile into the corner of your mouth.

Pedro sets the phone down and moves to the door.

When he opens it, he freezes.

You’re standing there, bag at your feet, hoodie zipped up to your chin, your eyes warm with the kind of affection that comes from knowing someone so well you can see straight through them.

His mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

“Surprise,” you murmur.

He huffs out a soft, shaky laugh, the kind that caught in his throat like a breath half-held, half-sob. He steps forward immediately, arms pulling you into him with a force that says everything he can’t quite say aloud yet.

You melt into the hug, burying your face against his neck, pressing a kiss to the stubble on his cheek. “I’m here, amor.”

Another laugh escapes him, trembling and full of disbelief. You feel it in the way he holds you tighter. His hands shake just a little as they cradle your back. He doesn’t let go for a long time.

When he finally pulls back, his eyes search your face like he still doesn’t believe it. Then he kisses you.

It’s slow. Unhurried. A kiss that says thank you and I missed you and don’t go anywhere, not yet. You kiss him back with the same answer.

When he finally pulls away, he sees your bag. He reaches down, grabs the handle, then takes your hand in his and pulls you gently inside, closing the door behind you.

“Thank you for coming,” he says, voice hoarse.

“Of course I came,” you reply, giving his hand a gentle squeeze, your thumb brushing over his knuckles with quiet affection. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”

Later, the two of you are curled on the couch, his body wrapped around yours like he’s still afraid you might disappear if he lets go. Your fingers move gently through his hair as he talks, voice low and thoughtful.

“It was one of the best wraps I’ve ever had,” he murmurs. “But it was also the hardest. Joel was a lot. He changed me.”

Every time his voice wavers, you press a kiss to his forehead, his cheek, the corner of his mouth. Wherever you can reach.

At one point, he falls quiet. His hand slides up, resting over your heart like he’s grounding himself in the rhythm of your breath. He doesn’t speak for a while.

You hold him through it.

No camera. No crew. No need to be anything but this.

And for the first time tonight, he lets himself rest—not just beside you, but into the quiet, where nothing has to be said to be understood.

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal x reader #female descriptors used #female reader #tlou spoilers

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minetro · 2 days ago

Text

Like him

tags: established relationship, gn!reader

word count: 0.8k

notes: in which kinich looks like his dad

“Hey, Kinich?”

“Mm?” He hummed, imploring for you to go on.

He waited, but no words left your mouth. He gave it one, two, three seconds. No reply. An unusual pause of silence, filled only by the crackling of the campfire and your unsure breaths. He wasn’t facing you, his hands and eyes trained on the fire to keep it steady, but he could tell you were opening your mouth, just to close it, then opening it again. Rinse and repeat.

It was only until after Kinich turned around to face you fully, a tilt to his head, that you mustered up the courage to speak your mind. You had to break eye contact and divert your attention to your feet, but the minute details don’t matter.

“Why… do you, uh, dislike compliments towards your appearance?”

Kinch blinked. Then, he also found his gaze falling to focus on the already well lit fire. Poking it around with a stick to keep his hands busy.

“What do you mean?” He had urged you to elaborate, but deep down he really only hoped that question would cause you to fall over your words and drop the whole thing all together.

“Well…”

Shit. You’re still talking.

“Sometimes, when I tell you that your hair is… pretty, you go quiet, and then you don’t let me play with it after that,” You cleared your throat, “Or when I say your eyes are breath-taking, you just ignore it all together.”

This time, Kinich was the quiet one. Maybe the sound of the crickets would be a loud enough diversion for you to forget any conversation that had been held between the two of you for the past 5 minutes. Not the most full proof of plans, but one he had to roll with.

“You’re doing it again! See? You completely ignored what I said,” You kicked your feet on the dirt.

“...Sorry,” He said with a sigh.

Kinich stood from where he crouched, took a few steps towards you, then prompted himself right next to where you sat on the log. He rubbed his palms together, grappling between what to say, what not to say, or to say anything at all for that matter.

“It’s not exactly a fun story,” He decides to start, “I don’t want to trouble you with it, that’s all.”

“You know nothing you say could burden me, right?” You crossed your arms, staring intently at him.

Kinich relaxed into his seat, slouching a bit as he let out a breathy chuckle.

“Mhm, I know,” a knowing smile adorned his face for a second before it fell to his usual stoic one, this time a tinge of seriousness had made its way to the reflection in his eyes.

“When I was born, it was apparent whose features I had inherited the most from,” He sucked in a breath.

“My dad.”

It felt as though there was a drop in temperature, like the mention of that man halted everything that breathed. Kinich peeked over at your direction, studying your expression as if to discern whether he’d made you uncomfortable and to stop talking, leaving this conversation just at that. He gave you a few moments, just in case you wanted to say something. However, all you gave him was a supportive nod and that was his queue to keep going.

“As I got older, I grew into those features, and began to look more and more like…”

Like him.

“Go on,” You gently rest a hand on his shoulder, understanding.

“Because of that, my mom started looking at me…”

…with fear in her eyes. Kinich wanted to say, but he shook his head.

“She looked at me weird. From then on, she started avoiding me altogether. Whenever I offered to help her out with chores, she’d tell me to go to my room. If I insisted, she’d have me help out with tasks where I’d be out of her sight,” He dug the soles of his shoe deeper into the dirt, holding back a sigh, “Then… eventually, as you know, she… left.”

“Kinich…,” You moved the palm of your hand from his shoulder to his cheek, shifting his gaze to your own.

“When I talk about your features, I’m referring to them as your own. And when I look at you, all I see is… you. Only you.”

Kinich’s breath hitched, his eyes only slightly widening, but not a small enough detail for you to miss. Then, his features softened as his lips were overtaken by a warm smile. The kind of smile that had your heart melting, and your knees kissing the ground.

“Hah…,” He nuzzled into your warmth, his cheeks a light dusting of pink. He rested his own hand atop your own, kissing your wrist, “When’d you become such a smooth-talker? Did Ajaw teach you?”

You chuckled, rolling your eyes playfully, pulling him into an embrace, “Oh, please. If I took romantic advice from him, I’d end up with a rock, and that’s being generous!”

Taking in your scent, he buried himself deeper into the dip of your neck.

“Mm… I’m lucky you didn’t then.”

—

Far away from here, a small pixelated dragon let out a mighty sneeze.

#kinich x y/n #kinich x you #kinich x reader #kinich #malipo kinich #genshin impact #genshin x reader

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grim-reapers-wife · 3 days ago

Text

The Dress (Bakugou x Fem reader)

Summary: Going to a Hero Gala in a Bakugou inspired dress and surprising him.

Dress inspo↓↓↓

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🖤🧡🖤🧡🖤🧡🖤🧡🖤🧡🖤🧡🖤🧡🖤🧡🖤

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🖤🧡🖤🧡🖤🧡🖤🧡🖤🧡🖤🧡🖤🧡🖤🧡🖤

"It's perfect!" I sit in the designers office looking at a sketch of the dress he wants to make me for the gala. "He's going to freak when he sees me." I giggle thinking about his reaction.

"I'm glad you like it Mrs. Bakugou. I'll need you to come in next week so my assistant can get your measurements, I'll have samples of fabric for you waiting."

I shake hands with him while my car is being pulled around. "Thank you for agreeing to make my dress. I'm sure you won't disappoint."

I drive home in Katsuki's (our) orange challenger, making sure I don't speed too much. It's the weekend so Katsuki is on call rather than being at the office or patrolling.

I walk into the house and hang my keys and bag up. "Baby?" I hear his voice call out. "It's me, love!" He meets me halfway before kissing the top of my head. "Hey mama. Where you been?"

"Just met up with the designer for my dress for the Hero Gala. You need to get an outfit ready too." He groans and rolls his eyes. "I'll just wear some suit, baby. I don't need nothing special."

"I don't think you mean that. Every event we've gone to, you've looked absolutely delicious. You'll find something." I give him a look that says try and disagree.

"Fine, I'll get with the designer." He grumbles something else that I can't understand. "Thank you, Suki." I kiss him on the cheek.

He smirks and grabs me. "Come 'ere, beautiful." I let out a scream before he kisses me.

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𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓷𝓲𝓰𝓱𝓽 𝓸𝓯 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓖𝓪𝓵𝓪...

It's the night of the Gala and I'm with the designer in my changing room. My dress fits like a glove. "God it's gorgeous!" He buttons the last of it up. "Well you look fabulous, darling." He fixes the small train in the back and hands me my gloves.

Flash flash flash

Cameras and interviewers are everywhere. Hero's are everywhere on the carpet talking and laughing while posing for pictures. My entrance down the grand staircase is coming up and I'm nervous.

I adjust my gloves once more and my designer fixes the dress before sending me out. "He's going to freak, darling. You look gorgeous." I nod at the designer before walking out and down the stairs.

"Over here! Mrs. Bakugou! Look here!"

Snap snap snap

Cameras flash all around me, getting all angles of the dress. I pose for a minute before walking forward. Katsuki turns from an interview and does a double take. "Excuse me." He says to the interviewer.

I watch his jaw drop.

"Baby, this is what you were plannin'?" I nod and smile. "You like?" "'Like' baby? God you're phenomenal." He takes my hand and spins me. "You mean the dress is phenomenal." I correct him. "No I mean you're phenomenal."

Flash flash flash

"Mr. & Mrs. Bakugou! Over here!" He takes me by the waist for a couple pictures. I smile at the cameras for a minute before turning to him. When I look up he's already looking at me. "Have you even been looking at the cameras?" I wrap my arms around his neck. "No, been too busy looking at my wife." He kisses me softly. "You look incredible. Like you're mine." He turns us back to the cameras but doesn't let go of me for the rest of the night.

____________________________________________ 🖤🧡🖤🧡🖤🧡🖤🧡🖤🧡🖤🧡🖤🧡🖤🧡🖤

Note: I hope you enjoyed! I had a hard time picking which dress to choose but I figured if you didn't like it you could imagine a different dress. I hope you did like tho. Lmk if you have any feedback.

Ps: This is an old one I had saved.

#katsuki bakugo mha #katsuki x y/n #katsuki bakugo imagine #bnha bakugo katsuki #katsuki x you #katsuki bakugo x reader #bakugou katsuki #bakugou x you #mha bakugou #bakugou x reader #bnha bakugou #bakugo katuski #bakugou x y/n #katsukibakugou

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bruisedboys · 3 days ago

Note

thinking of jacob giving u the best hugs after a long week. maybe your social battery has died and people keep asking u to help them so he scares them off (temporarily)

drew my angel thank you for the request!! love u

jacob black x fem!imprint!reader (reader is shorter than jacob)

Jacob Black has a one track mind when it comes to you. You’re all he ever thinks about, all he cares about, the only thing that really matters to him. He worries about you when you’re not together and clings to you when you are together. He’s totally obsessed, and he likes to think that if it weren’t for the whole imprint thing, he’d still be equally obsessed with you. Who wouldn’t? You’re kind, and smart, and beautiful. You don’t care that he’s a monster and you love his pack family even when they’re a pain in the neck.

Like now, when they’ve dragged him out for patrol and left you at Sam’s, when all Jacob wanted to do tonight was take you home and kiss you stupid. You’ve let him go without a complaint, ‘cos you’re perfect.

Jacob, in his wolf form with the rest of the pack spread out within the woods around him, realises too late that he’s been musing over you in his mind. The others are laughing at him.

Really, Jacob? Paul’s voice says in his head. We haven’t been gone ten minutes.

Shut up, Jacob thinks back, but he stops picturing your face in his mind and tries to focus on the task at hand instead.

A few uneventful hours later, the pack finally heads back to Sam’s. Jacob, the fastest not only because he’s naturally quick, but because he’s desperate to see you, gets there first. Back in his human body he feels much more comfortable, and at least now no one can read his thoughts. He can think about you all he likes without getting an earful for it.

He’s unsurprised when he finds you in the kitchen with Emily.

“Hey,” he nods to Emily, who’s getting something out of the oven, and crosses to where you’re standing over the sink, up to your elbows in suds.

“Hi,” he says fondly, moving up behind you. He pushes an arm across your lower back and dips his head to lay a kiss in your hair. “Missed you.”

You turn to look up at him and smile, and you’re so, so pretty, but your smile doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

“Hello,” you say softly. Your voice is heavy and slow, like someone’s poured honey down your throat. “Missed you, too. Where’s the others?”

“I beat ‘em,” Jacob tells you proudly, at the same time as voices and laughter start trailing in from the living room. Jacob winces. “Just.”

You laugh softly. “Will you dry these for me?” You ask, nodding towards the clean dishes on the bench. “Before it gets too rowdy in here?”

Jacob helps you with the dishes. You were right when you guessed it would get rowdy — the pack are starving and eat the meal you and Emily have made like, well, wolves. Paul’s in a mood tonight, a good one but a loud one, and as a result everyone jokes and laughs and talks over one another. You’re decidedly quiet, and when you’re done eating Jacob pulls you into the hallway, out of the way of all the noise.

“Hey, are you okay?” He asks, hands on your upper arms.

You heave a sigh. “I’m really tired,” you admit. You’ve long since given up on trying to hide how you’re feeling from Jacob, because he’s so persistent and stubborn that he always ends up weasling it out of you, anyway. “Not like, sleepy. Just, my battery is really low.“

Jacob frowns and rubs his thumb over the hill of your shoulder. “I’m sorry, honey,” he says. It somehow feels like his fault.

You give him a look like you know what he’s thinking. “S’okay,” you say. “Just had a long week, you know?”

Jacob hums. “Yeah, I know. You want a hug?”

You nod like you were waiting for him to ask, and Jacob makes quick work of wrapping you up in his arms, pulling you into his chest like he’s done a million times before. You push your arms around his waist and cling to him, while he rubs your back with a warm hand. He’s tall enough that he can rest his chin atop your head so he does, and lets you push your face into his neck, your mouth warm where it presses against his skin.

You sigh softly and go almost completely limp in his arms.

“Thanks,” you say, muffled.

Jacob opens his mouth to say let’s go home, but then Embry appears, calling your name in an unnecessarily loud voice.

“Y/N! Can you come help me— oh.”

He stops short at the sight of you limp as a ragdoll in Jacob’s arms. That, plus the look Jacob gives him.

“What, Em?” Jacob says, and it comes out a bit more harsh than he’d intended. He amends, “Sorry, she’s really tired. What do you want?”

Embry has the grace to look a bit sheepish. “Never mind,” he says.

You pull your face from Jacob’s neck, one arm still curved around his waist. “What is it, Embry? I can help, it’s fine—”

“No you can’t, we’re going home now,” Jacob interrupts, throwing you a look, annoyed and endeared by how sweet you are. “Ask someone else,” he tells Embry bluntly.

He’s pretty sure Embry rolls his eyes as he leaves, but he doesn’t care. You turn to look at him once Embry is gone.

“You’re mean,” you say, but you make it sound like I love you, and you wrap your arms around him again.

“And you’re tired,” he says back, ducking his head to press a quick kiss to your forehead. He pulls away but rubs your arm as he goes. “C’mon, I really am gonna take you home now, okay? Dad’ll already be asleep so it’ll just be me and you.”

You raise both eyebrows, pleased. “What’s that supposed to mean?” You ask, feigning intrigue.

Jacob grins. “Whatever you want it to mean, sweetheart,” he says, though he hopes he’ll get to kiss you stupid like he’s been wanting to do all night.

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ducktoo · 2 days ago

Text

Sweet

Dreamcatcher's Dami x M!Reader

Note: Hey! Sorry for not updating for like a month-ish, and May will be the worst month yet personally. But appreciate everyone for waiting, and I will be trying to get all the requests here!

Also, happy 800 followers!

For the first time in a while, Dami wakes up to silence. Not the eerie, post-apocalyptic kind, but the kind of silence that has birds chirping somewhere far off, a breeze politely brushing the curtains, and not a single person yelling about makeup calls or dance rehearsals.

12 pm

No alarm. No schedule. No morning manager texts with twenty exclamation marks and a picture of her half-asleep face attached. Just… the countryside.

Dami sits on the edge of the futon, stretching her arms above her head as the sunlight slips through the wooden blinds and kisses her skin like it’s apologizing for yesterday’s heatwave. Her hair’s a little messy, one sock's missing, and her bucket hat is tossed haphazardly on the windowsill like it, too, needed a vacation.

“So,” she says to the room, which contains nothing but a suitcase, a folded map she still doesn’t know how to read, and one very confused-looking butterfly that’s been following her since last night, “what do people even do out here?”

She grabs her phone. Barely any signal. Of course.

And honestly, good.

She didn’t come out here to scroll through news articles or check her tagged posts. She came here because something inside her—something small and sharp—had been aching for quiet. For stillness. For a chance to hear herself think without the echo of someone else’s voice layered on top.

Still, she hadn’t exactly planned anything. One minute she was signing off her final company commitment with a polite bow and a box of donuts, and the next, she was staring out the window of a bus heading toward some random, green-splashed town with more cows than people, with now waking up after an interesting sleep in a small inn.

Her stomach growls. Loudly. Dramatically. Like it also wasn’t expecting to be in the middle of nowhere this morning.

Dami pats her hoodie pocket, pulling out the scrap of a tourist brochure she’d snagged from the bus stop. The ink’s smudged, one corner’s ripped, and the translation is… well. Creative.

She reads aloud.

“‘Try taste our sweet store candy: handmade with love and sugar of honest heart.’”

She blinks. Then reads it again.

“Sweet store,” she murmurs, narrowing her eyes at the fuzzy little photo beside the text. It shows a small, wooden-fronted shop with faded awnings, jars of pastel-coloured candy lined up on the window display, and a blurry figure sweeping the porch like they’re trying not to be in frame.

It’s oddly charming. Like something out of a slice-of-life drama where everyone has a tragic backstory and nothing really happens except people discovering the meaning of life through tea.

Dami pulls on her bucket hat.

“Alright,” she mutters, half to herself, half to the moth still chilling by the curtain, “let’s go and get sugar rush.”

The wooden door creaks when she pushes it open, and a small brass bell tinkles from above—soft, delicate, the kind of sound that makes you instinctively lower your voice even though no one’s around. The place smells like nostalgia and melted sugar, warm and heavy, clinging to the air like a childhood memory that refuses to fade.

Shelves line the small space, some slanted from age, others patched up with duct tape and what she assumes is leftover washi paper. Glass jars filled with brightly coloured sweets gleam under the filtered morning light—barley candies, flower-shaped jellies, dried persimmon gummies, and those ridiculously addictive sesame crisps that break your teeth but heal your soul.

It’s quiet, except for the low whirr of a fan in the corner and the soft crackle of something cooking behind the counter.

And then she hears it.

That very familiar string of muffled curses.

“Motherf—hot—why is everything so sticky—”

She rounds the corner just in time to see you—you, apron on, sleeves rolled up, face flushed from the steam of whatever candy cauldron you’ve got bubbling away. You’ve got your hair slicked back with a fork (an actual one, probably stolen from last night’s takeout), and your fingers are expertly folding a ribbon of molten sugar onto a wooden board with practiced ease.

“Wow,” she says before she can stop herself, leaning against the counter. “You actually did it.”

You jerk at the voice, almost drop your taffy paddle, and turn with the slow, wide-eyed look of someone who just saw their midterm professor walk into a karaoke bar.

“…Yubin?” Your voice cracks a little on the last syllable.

She grins. “Told you I’d haunt you eventually.”

“You—you’re here?” You look around like you forgot where here is. “In this town? In my shop??”

“Your shop,” she repeats, letting the words roll off her tongue. “Didn’t expect to see you here either. Last I checked, you moved out of our hometown right after middle school. I figured you’d be somewhere in the city by now, overworked, underfed, and buried in a pile of part-time jobs.”

“I was,” you say, still trying to process the fact that Dami, middle school buddy/crush turned K-pop idol, is standing in your candy shop like she just walked in off a sitcom set.

“But then my aunt handed me the keys to this place last year and dipped to Jeju, so now I’m here. Day job: sugar gremlin. Night job: dying over assignments.”

Dami’s laugh is quiet, a little nostalgic. “So we both escaped.”

You blink. “Huh? What do you mean?”

She shrugs, walking slowly around the small shop, fingers skimming along the counter. “Contract ended. No rush to renew anything. Figured I’d disappear for a week. Rest. Breathe. Maybe find myself in a bag of chestnut toffee.”

You smirk. “That one’s on that shelf on the left, right next to the emotional damage gummies.”

Her eyes light up. “Ooh, limited edition?”

“Hand-pulled bitterness,” you say with mock pride. “Best seller. The damn kids kept buying it for challenges.”

For a moment, the two of you just stand there, grinning like it’s still math class and you’re trying not to get caught passing notes behind your textbooks.

“Small world, huh,” she finally says.

“Stupidly small,” you reply.

And just like that, the years between middle school and now feel like they’ve folded into something softer. Like saltwater taffy stretched thin but never snapped. You both left the same town. Took different trains. Ended up back at the same platform anyway.

“Hey,” she says, suddenly sheepish. “You mind if I hang out a bit? I didn’t really have a plan for the day.”

You glance at the clock. Your next batch of plum jellies still needs to set, and your current batch is probably imploding as you speak—but honestly?

“Only if you help wrap these,” you say, nudging the pile of cooling candies toward her.

She raises an eyebrow. “You’re putting the idol to work?”

You toss her a spare apron. “You’re the one who walked into my shop, miss.”

Dami catches it midair, laughter trailing behind her like powdered sugar in the wind, and just like that, your quiet little candy shop becomes something warmer.

If there was a camera in the shop right now—just one, even a dusty old CCTV one—you’re pretty sure this moment would go viral. Dami, former girl group cool-icon, multi-talented performer, deadpan queen of stage presence… is currently fighting for her life against a roll of wax paper and losing.

“Why is it curling like this?” she mutters, brow furrowed, as the sheet she’s trying to cut keeps flipping back onto itself like it has a grudge. “The hell is this? Did you curse it?”

You, very professionally, do not laugh.

At least not out loud.

You’re by the counter, refilling the sesame crisp jars, trying to focus on literally anything other than the sight of her trying to measure and fold wax paper with all the grace of a kitten learning to walk on ice. Every few seconds she mutters something to herself—some half-hearted insult aimed at the paper, your shop, or gravity—and it takes every ounce of willpower not to burst into full, wheezing laughter.

“I thought idols were supposed to be good with their dedicate hands,” you say mildly, glancing over just in time to see the tape dispenser get caught in her sleeve. "…and not cursing."

“I was,” she shoots back, trying to wrangle it off with one hand. “This is bullshit. You’re sabotaging me. This is revenge for the time I told everyone in class you had a crush on that substitute teacher.”

Your eyes narrow. “You mean Ms. Park? The one everyone had a crush on?”

“She wore collared shirt and glasses,” she deadpans. “To be fair, it was the look.”

"Still is, you know that." You scoff and toss her the little candy label stickers. “Here. Just put these on the wrappers. It’s harder to mess that up.”

“You say that like it’s hard,” she mutters, peeling one off with exaggerated care.

You both settle into a rhythm—her sitting at the low table, tongue peeking out a little in concentration as she sticks labels onto neat little plastic-wrapped candies, and you at the counter, folding paper boxes while the soft hum of an old fan and the distant chirp of birds fills the air.

It’s oddly peaceful. Domestic, almost. If someone walked in, they’d probably mistake you two for co-owners or an old married couple running a family shop passed down for generations.

“How long have you been here now?” she asks suddenly, her tone gentler this time.

You pause, thinking. “About…nine months? Moved in right before spring. My aunt used to run this place, but her knees started acting up. Gave me the keys, said, ‘It’s your problem now, kiddo,’ and ran off to Jeju with her yoga group.”

Dami huffs a laugh. “Sounds about right. You always said you wanted something quiet.”

“I said I wanted peace,” you correct her, holding up a half-folded candy box like it’s proof. “Didn’t realize peace included burning my hands on hot syrup every week.”

She smiles, but there’s a softness behind it now. “Still… I get it. The quiet. The slowness.”

You glance at her, noticing the way she’s leaning slightly forward now, elbows on her knees, the faintest crease between her brows.

“Was it hard?” you ask, voice lower.

She doesn’t pretend to misunderstand. Doesn’t deflect with a joke this time.

“Maybe a bit,” she admits. “It’s weird. You’re surrounded by people all the time, but… you get so used to performing, it’s like you forget how to just be. No cameras. No pressure. Just… existing.”

You nod, slowly. “Well, you’re existing now. And apparently waging war against packaging.”

"Shut it…" She snorts. “It’s humbling.”

"Well, you're welcome, missy." You throw a jellybean at her. She dodges it with the reflexes of someone who’s been through years of dance practice and too many fan-thrown plushies.

“Ya,” she says, suddenly grinning. “Remember that time we had to do that candy fundraiser in school and you accidentally dropped a whole tray of lollipops down the stairwell in front of everyone?”

You groan. “Please don’t bring that up. I’m still emotionally scarred.”

“I think you cried.”

“I twitched,” you say defensively.

“You sobbed.”

You stare at her. “You’re never helping in this shop again.”

She laughs—really laughs—and the sound fills the little space like something old and familiar, something you didn’t know you missed. You lean back against the counter, watching her with an amused smile and a warmth settling quietly in your chest.

It’s strange.

How someone can be gone for years, grow up into someone bigger, brighter, more distant—and yet still sit here, in your little candy shop, struggling with tape and teasing you like no time passed at all.

Maybe the universe isn’t so bad.

Maybe it brought her back right when you both needed something sweet.

By day two, you’ve already made a sign that reads:

“Yubin’s Specials – Limited Edition”

You prop it up right outside the door.

She sees it.

She groans.

“You’re seriously using me as clickbait,” she says, holding a tray of chestnut taffies she just helped wrap.

“Of course I am,” you say proudly. “And you’re doing amazing, Lee Yubin.”

“You didn’t even…fcking…train me.”

You shrug. “Trial by sugar.”

It turns out people really like candy made by a former Dreamcatcher member. Even if her wrappers are a bit lopsided and she keeps messing up the ribbon curls. Tourists stumble in with giddy grins, locals pretend not to fangirl too hard, and somehow even the old grump from the vegetable stand next door stops by for two packs of barley candy and whispers, “Wasn’t she on TV?”

You nod solemnly. “She’s our intern now. We pay her in red bean mochi and my yapping.”

Dami, who’s been quietly tying goody bags in the back, shouts, “I heard that!”

And so, business booms.

Your little shop starts getting lines out the door. A couple from Seoul asks if this is the place that sells Dami’s Panda Honey Drops.

You blink. “That’s not a real thing.”

They pull up a blog post on their phone on Dami's Insta.

...Okay, apparently it is now.

Meanwhile, Dami slips further and further into her “intern” role. You catch her giving free samples to a group of shy high schoolers, writing little notes on wrappers like “Don’t forget to rest” and “Fighting! ”. They leave with red cheeks and stars in their eyes.

“You’re stealing my customers,” you tell her.

She looks too smug. “Your fault for using me as clickbait.”

“You’re fired.”

“You can’t afford to fire me,” she says, stretching with a yawn. “The people love me. I’m your brand now.”

"Tsk." You try to glare, but end up grinning instead.

The rest of the day is a blur of sugar, laughs, and the occasional candy-stick swordfight during slow hours (you lost, tragically). By the time the sun starts setting, the shop’s pretty much wiped clean.

You hang the "Closed" sign and wipe your hands on your apron. “We survived another day, Yubin.”

She stretches again, slower this time, her frame outlined by the golden hour light streaming in through the door. “You’ve got a good thing here,” she murmurs. “It’s cozy.”

“Cozy?” you echo. “That’s your review?”

She shrugs. “Cozy. Honest. Kind of… nice.”

You blink at her. That was a bit more real than expected. But before you can say anything, she’s already slipping past you to hang up her apron.

“Where you going?” you ask.

She turns around with that trademark poker face, then lifts her brows. “Obviously to help you out in the neighbourhood, boss. You said this gig comes with overtime two days ago.”

You snort. “Of course. It’s not a full experience unless you also carry bags of flour for Mrs. Hwang and untangle Mr. Jang’s fairy lights that have no business being up in spring.”

She grins. “Lead the way, boss.”

So you both head out to the warm neighbourhood. A few kids run past with grape lollipops from your shop still clutched in sticky hands. A dog you only kinda know jumps up on Dami and she laughs, crouching down to ruffle its ears.

Mrs. Hwang waves from her porch and hands you a small plate of rice cakes. “For the idol girl. Tell her thank you for helping me bring in my laundry yesterday.”

You smile. “She’s right here, you know.”

Mrs. Hwang squints. “You won’t pass it on?”

“Ma’am, she’s—never mind.”

Mr. Jang yells from two houses down. “I tell you two, those lights are seasonal! They just work better than the porch lamp!”

“They blink like a horror movie!” you shout back.

Dami’s laughing the entire time, shoulders shaking, eyes bright. Not in that polite, polished way for cameras, but in the way you remember from middle school—when she fell off the jungle gym and laughed before she even hit the ground.

And you realize… she fits here.

A little too well.

Like she’s always belonged in the quiet lull between candy jars and nosy neighbours. Like maybe this week off wasn’t a random break, but a breadcrumb trail back to something she forgot she needed.

Later that night, you’re both back at the shop.

She’s lounging at the back table again, sipping warm barley tea, while you log sales for the day. The numbers are ridiculous. You glare at her from behind your laptop.

“You made more money for me in two days than I did in a whole month,” you say flatly.

“I accept my payment in roasted rice crackers and lifelong bragging rights.”

You throw her one from the snack shelf. She catches it easily, smirking.

You watch her for a moment. The way she sits so comfortably in this space, even after years of stages and screaming crowds. The way she hums under her breath without realizing it.

“Hey,” you say softly. “You really okay out here in the middle of nowhere?”

She looks up. Meets your eyes.

“Yeah,” she says after a second. “It's nice.”

And somehow, it would be nice to have her here with you too.

The next morning, you woke up to birds chirping way too cheerily for someone who spent all night boiling malt candy until their soul nearly evaporated. You barely cracked your eyes open before tossing a hoodie over your head, grabbing a cooler, and jogging to her place and banging on Dami’s dorm door like the tax collector.

She groaned from the other side. “It’s not even 9 am.”

“Exactly. Prime beach hour. Let’s go.”

You didn’t wait for her to protest.

Half an hour later, you were both trudging across soft sand, you with your cooler slung over your shoulder, and Dami squinting at the ocean like it personally owed her money.

“What are we doing here?” she muttered.

“Shut up and relax,” you said, tossing her a can from the cooler. “That’s an order.”

She looked down at the cold beer in her hand, eyebrow raised. “Is this really allowed?”

“Do you see cops?”

“No—wait, actually, that guy over there—”

“That’s a fisherman, Yubin.”

“Same energy.”

You rolled your eyes and sat down first, your legs stretched out toward the water. The tide was lazy today, dragging the foam in and out like it was breathing. Beside you, Dami plopped down with a sigh so dramatic it could've won an award.

Then she opened the can.

And for the first time in days—maybe weeks, maybe months—she really breathed.

The kind that filled her lungs, her chest, her ribs. Not just the automatic inhales for survival. No, this one was different. Deep. Slow. Like she hadn’t realized how little air she’d been taking in until now.

Her eyes drifted toward the horizon. “God… it’s quiet here.”

You cracked your own beer open with a soft hiss. “That’s why the shop is here.”

She sipped. Then again. “This might be the best thing I’ve tasted all year.”

You nudged her shoulder with yours. “It’s not the beer. It’s peace, Yubin.”

“Cringe.”

You both laughed. But then, slowly, it settled. The silence. The soft rhythm of waves brushing the shore. The clink of aluminium as your cans tapped the ground.

And her voice came quieter this time. Less of a joke. “I’ve been thinking.”

“You think?”

"Shush, you." She ignored you. “What if I didn’t go back?”

You blinked. “To Seoul?”

She nodded, eyes still on the sea. “To that life. Schedules. Spotlights. Deadlines. Everyone watching everything I do… waiting for the next thing to eat me alive.”

You stayed quiet. Let her talk.

“I could stay,” she said softly. “Here. In the countryside. Wake up when I want. Help out. Run a small café maybe. Or just… nothing at all. Isn’t that enough?”

You took a slow sip. “You’re drunk.”

“I’ve had three sips.”

“Exactly. Drunk. Aren't you lightweighted?”

She turned to look at you fully now. “I’m serious.”

So were you. Because you leaned in just a little, reached out, and smacked her on the head.

Harder than you meant to.

She yelped. “What the hell?!”

“You don’t get to say that like it’s simple,” you snapped. “Like you’re just tired of singing and poof—you’re gone. You worked your whole life for this. And now what? You want to throw it away because you got a week off and tasted quiet?”

Her expression shifted. Something between hurt and frustration. “You think it’s that easy for me to let go? You think I haven’t been thinking about it for months? Every single day? When I wake up feeling hollow, go to sleep feeling watched, smile until my jaw hurts because someone says I’m their happiness and I don’t even know how to find mine anymore?!”

You froze.

The beach didn’t.

Waves kept folding into themselves. The wind teased your sleeves. The gulls cried like nothing had happened.

But something had.

“…Yubin.”

She shook her head, looking away. “I’m tired,” she said again. “Really tired. And I know I joke about retiring, but it’s not a joke anymore. I want to stop. And this place… this stupid, quiet, peaceful place… it’s the first time I felt like I could breathe.”

You stared at her. At the way her fingers curled around the can like it was the only thing keeping her grounded. At the sea salt sticking to her lashes. At the familiar slouch of her shoulders—the one you remember from middle school, when the world was too much even then.

And you got it.

Of course you got it.

You just hated that you got it.

“…Then stay,” you said finally. Your voice barely louder than the tide. “But don’t stay just because it’s easier. Stay because it’s right. Stay because this is where you heal, not where you hide.”

She didn’t answer for a while. But she didn’t move either.

The beer grew warm in your hands. A breeze passed, cool and calm. And the sun, despite everything, kept rising.

You knew she was leaving the moment she woke up early without you knocking.

The sun wasn’t even up yet, just that soft grey light smudging the edge of the sky. You were already at the shop, brewing tea and boxing up the last batch of barley and chestnut candies from the night before. Dami came in, hair still a little damp from the quick shower you assumed she took to hide the puffiness in her eyes.

You didn’t say anything.

Just slid over the warm cup.

“Thanks,” she mumbled.

You smiled. “So. You’re ditching me.”

She huffed out a laugh. “Like you didn’t say yesterday that I shouldn’t stay just to hide.”

“I meant it. Still doesn’t mean I gotta like it.”

Dami smiled into her cup.

The next hour passed the same way the last few days had—quiet banter, easy rhythm, sugar and wrappers and sweet scents hanging in the air. Except now, the silence had a ticking clock beneath it. You felt it in every glance. Every pause.

When the bell above the door jingled, you looked up mid-wrap and nearly dropped the entire tray.

Because walking into your shop was Dreamcatcher’s Jiu In the flesh. And not just her—soon behind came a few more heads peeking in. Siyeon waved politely. Yoohyeon smiled wide and said, “Ooh! It smells good in here!” like it was a surprise your candy shop did what it said on the tin.

You blinked at them. Then turned to Dami with your most exaggerated fake scowl. “So this is the kind of company you’ve been keeping, huh? Surrounded by literal beauties while I’ve been over here stirring malt syrup and burning my fingers.”

Dami, bless her, turned a shade redder than the strawberry jellies. “Shut up,” she muttered.

You grinned.

“Seriously though,” you leaned back, arms crossed, “you didn’t tell me they are this pretty. Makes me feel like the ugly duckling.”

JiU chuckled as she stepped further in. “You must be the friend she wouldn’t shut up about all week.”

You shrugged. “Guilty.”

There was a calm in Dami’s expression now. The quiet kind of peace that comes after a storm. After words were said and decisions were made. She helped you pack the final tin of candies—her batch, the ones she kept burning the first day until she learned how to mix in rhythm with yours.

You handed it to her.

“This is for the road,” you said softly. “Don’t eat them all in one go. Maybe share with your unnies if they behave.”

Dami took it. Her hands lingered against yours just a second too long.

Then she hugged you.

Not quick. Not awkward. Not half-hearted.

No, she buried herself into your hoodie, arms tight around your middle, like she was trying to memorize the way you felt. Like if she let go too soon, she’d forget how you laughed when she burned her first sugar pull. Or the way you dragged her to the beach and told her to breathe like it mattered.

And it did. It mattered more than she’d ever say aloud.

“…You sure?” you whispered.

Her answer came against your chest, muffled and soft. “Yeah. I think I gotta come back.”

You nodded, even if she couldn’t see it.

Even if some part of you screamed to hold on.

“Just know,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady, “if you ever wanna come back—not just for a week, not just for candy—you’ve got a place.”

She looked up at you then, eyes a little glassy but smiling. “You’d take me in like a stray cat?”

“I’d exploit you like an unpaid intern again.”

She smacked your arm. “You’re the worst.”

“You hugged me for a full minute, dummy.”

“Shut up. You're lucky you're cute.”

"Wait huh-" Before you could question, she playfully pushed you back and walked out, ignoring the blushes crept to her cheeks.

The others waved their goodbyes, polite and sweet, as Dami stepped outside. The car door shut with a gentle click, and just like that—she was driving off, a blur of black van and sunlight catching on the windshield.

You stood there for a while.

Letting the silence settle. Ignoring the tears left your eyes.

Letting the wind carry away whatever she left behind.

The candy shop was quieter now. But your fingers still smelled like sugar, and your chest still felt full.

Because sometimes, even goodbyes can taste sweet.

Especially when you know it’s not the last one. Just… not yet. Not today.

Maybe you will actually tell her next time she comes back.

#kpop #dreamcatcher #dreamcatcher x reader #dami #dami x reader #lee yubin #yubin x reader

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