#past two weeks and now i just feel dead
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shikai-the-storyteller · 21 days ago
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I miss my old high school friends and classmates o(-(
#i talk#I miss my old dude friends too#I wish they hadn't grown up to be dumbasses#and the ones who were still chill moved away / I lost touch with#I regret not getting closer with one gal in high school who I ADORED#She was so cool and also the first Bi person I ever knew. though at the time that thought didnt cross my mind#I didnt care about labels then or now but back then I also just straight up didnt give them thought lmao#''labels?? sexuality??? who cares I'm cramming for finals''#anyways. she was so cool but I cannot for the life of me find her anywhere online#not even frickin LinkedIn (/neg I hate that place)#Gal straight up vanished after high school and honestly? mad respect but also [redacted] I MISS YOU#YOU WERE SO COOL AND I LOVED YOUR STORIES AND YOUR CONFIDENCE#AND I WISH WE HAD CLASSES TOGETHER SO WE COULDVE HUNG OUT AND BEEN CLOSER#we only had 1 class together in high school and 1 in middle school. I think?#I remember I told my Japanese classmates I would genuinely miss all of them#and a lot of them were startled by how earnest I was about it#because like. we all get alone but the whole class wasnt friends with each other#but I dunno man. maybe it's just a matter of loving what'a familiar#but I do care a lot about people even the ones I dont interact with much#I dunno just feeling a bit sad and nostalgic tonight after seeing that FE post#At least I'm still friends with my best friends#I've known her over half my life and honestly god forbid one of us moves or something#because I think I'd instantly drop dead in genuine despair#aghhh#interacting with people has become so exhausting over the past few years#but I'm trying my best#Trying to let my friends know I love and care about them#instead of dropping off the face of the planet for weeks or months#but it's a major work in progress#Anyways that's enough oversharing for the next year or two
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canibalistic-brownie · 9 months ago
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#I think I’m genuinely going crazy#not sure if it’s like a menstrual thing#or the sleeping 4 hours a night for several weeks in a row#but regardless I feel so Ass it’s gross#I went to sleep in my RV and woke up in my car#I don’t think I drove it but like???? idk#between that and the hallucinations I feel so absolutely fucking dead#I’m so tired and I’m doing my best to be what I need to be but it literally took me hearing g*nsh*ts and screaming that wasn’t happening#and then sobbing for my girlfriend to see I wasn’t doing well#and like now THREE different people have told me to smoke#which is crazy because last semester everyone was mad at me for being a stoner#and now one of the people that was mad about that is telling me to fucking do it anyways.#but I’ve been sober for two months and I’m so mad because how dare you shame me into quitting and then turn around and tell me to turn to#it when shit hits the fan???#like I was in this position when I was a stoner and you blamed me calling me an addict which#I WASNT#And now you’re like “you should turn to drugs!’’#like tell me how the fuck that makes any sense#I’m so tired#I’m so fucking tires#for the past like six mornings I’ve woken up and prayed#I’m not religious#but I keep praying for fucking anything to go right#I just need one happy moment#I’m genuinely so fucking sad and mad and tired#idk how to even properly express my emotions#I’m crying in a truck stop bathroom#that’s how I’ll sum it up#idk if you made it to the end sowwy my metaw heawth is the the shittew uwu#I don’t have anywhere else to put this so 🤷🏻‍♂️ it’s just me talking to the void
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shadowykittengladiator · 5 months ago
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Damian looks at the green letter that simply appeared in his room a few minutes ago. He wasn't sure if he is supposed to be happy or crying.
He still thinks about Danyal all the time. It has been a long time since his brother died. Damian still mournes him two times a year, at their birthday and the day Danyal died.
He told his family, on his fifteenth birthday. Father hadnt been happy but he tearfully hugged Damian the next day and apologized for ever making him feel like he couldn't talk about his brother.
He still thinks of his brother every time he goes to the Watchtower. Father thankfully gives him a minute. Sometimes he joins him too.
But he wasn't expecting this. He looks at the green letter again. He already read it. A bit idiotic, touching an unknown like that. But the code on the side of the letter almost caused him a struck, because it was the code. The code that him Danyal came up with and nobody else knows about.
Dear Damian Wayne
The note reads.
You are invited to the coronation of the Prince of the Infinite Realms, Danyal 'Danny' Phantom, formerly Al-Ghul. The coronation is set to take place two weeks from now. As a part of the Royal Family, you are obligated to join the coronation at your brother's side. You are to wear formal clothes of whichever culture you subscribe to. A knight will take you to place at which coronation is set to take place.
The letter continues on and on about the coronation, about his brothers numerous titles, about proper ettique and many more things. But Damian does not care about that.
What was the possibility of this thing being fake? Maybe, but he doesn't think so. The code alone would confirm its authenticity.
A knock sound from the door and his father enters the room with a familiar copy of the green letter in his hands.
---------------------------------------------------
Constantine has been looking at the letter for the past ten minutes and he looks more like he is about to faint with each line he reads. Finally Damian can't hold it anymore.
"Say something magician! Is that thing real? What is the Infinite Realms!? "
Constantine looks up from the letter and takes out a cigarette to smoke, only to put it down at his father's glare.
"Of course you people would get tangled in the business of the bloody Infinite Realms." Constantine stops for a second. "Basically it's the dimension between dimensions. Thing of it like the glue holding the multiverse together. It's also where ghosts live."
Oh.
Of course.
Damian is an idiot for thinking his brother might be alive. Danyal is dead.
He hears his father turn around and sitting down on the bat computer.
"Ghost?" Richard thankfully asks. "Like Deadman?"
"No."
As Constantine starts a lecture about the difference between magical and ectoplasmic ghosts, Damian's mind wanders towards his brother again.
His brother is still dead, he still died. And of course his brother, his wonderful, idiotic, amazing brother would somehow make himself a king of an entire dimension after death. One of the strongest beings in existence, according to Constantine.
"Damian!" Richard is snapping his fingers in front of his face. "Are you alright? "
"I am fine." Damian says, "I am fine." He repeats a second later.
"It would be a shock if I learned my brother is going to be a king." Constantine is staring him weirdly. "How in the bloody hell that happened? I never knew bats had another kid."
"Doesn't matter." Damian snarks, "Is it safe to assume this coronation will take place in this Infinite Realms? "
Constantine shrughs his shoulders.
"Wouldn't know. Not exactly my area of expertise."
Great, just great.
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zeltqz · 3 months ago
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PICS & VIDEOS — caleb
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✈︎ content warning | references hidden waves memory (sick caleb), phone sex, i made tara a freak cuz why not, simone hates caleb lol, suggestive texts, lingerie photos, caleb sends a dp, reader sends her wet fingers lol, no actual sex yet, just phone sex, sexually frustrated reader, caleb whimpers cuz i want him to, colonel caleb era, caleb abuses emoticons lol i love him ✈︎ synopsis | you are getting sick and tired of caleb always pulling away from potential kisses. frustrated, you take it up with your friends who give you advice on how to get him to fold. send him pics.
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“I’m telling you Tara, he literally won’t make the first move. I don’t know what’s wrong with him.”
Tara rubbed her chin. “Hm. And you’re sure he likes you?”
Beside you, Simone scoffed. “Unfortunately yes. It’s obvious.”
You rolled your eyes, not wanting to address her one-sided beef with Caleb. “Yes, Tara.”
“How is it obvious? I only met him once.”
“And you couldn’t see how obvious it was?” Simone added, genuinely surprised Tara missed the obvious clues. “He wouldn’t stop staring at her like all day. The whole time we ate, he was just staring at her. Not even subtle too. I would’ve thought you two kissed by now, or at the very least fucked.” Simone looked at you now. “Seriously, why don’t you just make the first move?”
“I dunno?! It’s weird…and as much as I dream about just grabbing his face and kissing him, in the moment I just chicken out…”
Tara hummed, stroking her chin again. “I see. I see. And you know for certain he likes you? Besides the staring, and all.”
You nodded. “Yeah.” You looked down at the table, at the fries sitting on your tray, reminiscing about the last time you were in Skyhaven. 
Caleb had caught a cold from standing in the rain for too long, and the two of you were on awkward terms after an argument. He didn’t want you to see him while sick but eventually relented and let you inside his room. You checked his temperature and he was burning up, so you didn’t want to take your hands off his face, caressing his red cheeks, embracing his warmth. You sang for him, and he leaned in, and you just knew it’d finally be the moment you kissed. You even closed your eyes shut, waiting to feel his lips against yours, but he pulled himself away and turned to the side. Obviously you were frustrated, no denying that, and you were about to just leave his room before he pulled you in for a hug. Though you didn’t kiss, the hug was more intimate than you’d imagined. Every time Caleb was sick, even in the past, he rarely let you see him in that state. To see him so weak and vulnerable, unable to stop coughing, his red cheeks and ears. In that moment you wanted nothing more than to just be with him.
You were unaware of how long you were just staring off into space as you recalled the memory from a few weeks ago. Tara and Simone share a look with each other. 
“Um, hello?” Simone waved in front of your face. You blinked yourself back to reality and looked between the both of them. Simone got a good look at your face and clicked her tongue. “You’re so whipped.”
“I’m not!”
Tara cheered. “Wait, were you thinking about him?!” She questioned, and your face flushed even harder. You looked away, and she cheered even louder. “Tell me what you were thinking about!”
Simone, who’d rather die than admit she was curious, rested her elbow on the table, cheek in palm as she turned to look at you, waiting for the explanation.
You sighed and told them the story in extreme detail about your last encounter with Caleb in Skyhaven. Though it started on bad terms, the two of you had been even closer than before. You text every single day whenever he can respond, and when he’s unable to come to the phone, you always spam him with funny videos, and emojis. And he responds to every single one of them. You two fall asleep on the phone almost every night, if he doesn’t come home too late from work, and wake up to see either him still dead asleep, or the call being cut, but he always follows it up with:
Sorry for hanging up, i had to head to work ;-; ill text you as soon as i come back :D 
You hadn’t spoken to him in the last few days though, as he was leading a team to explore the Deepspace Tunnel and would be out of service for at least 5 days. It’s only day 3 and you’ve been missing him so much, it’s crazy. He’s what you think of when you fall asleep, and wake up. You’re not even safe from him in your dreams.
“I’ve got a question,” Tara says, raising her hand up.
“Proceed.” You gesture for her to continue.
She leaned in across the table, cupping her hand around her mouth. “Can I be the maid of honour at your wedding?”
“TARA!” you exclaim. Simone nearly snorts her milkshake up her nose at your reaction. The two of them start laughing and you chuckle a bit yourself. They continue talking and you whip out your phone to open your messages with Caleb, eying the message you sent him this morning.
08:44 I just woke upppp. I’m heading to lunch with some friends today!!! I’ll send you some photos you can salvate over once u get back
You swipe to the camera and snap a photo of your half eaten burger with fries, sending it in chat with a yummy emoji.
13:33 Bet u wish this was u huhhhhhhhhhhh
You throw the fact he has to be on a strict diet in his face, adding a few random emojis before turning off your phone. 
“She was texting him just now,” Simone’s voice startled you. 
“No I wasn’t.”
“Look at that grin on your face.”
You quickly drop the smile you didn’t know existed off your face. “I’m not grinning!”
“You so are!” Simone cackled, leaning into your personal space, eyeing your phone. “Show me what you said.”
“It’s not much,” you say, turning your phone back on. “Just send him a picture of my food.”
Simone looked at the one sided replies, how you’ve been spamming him with messages for the last three days and he hasn’t been online since. She raised an eyebrow.
“Uh, is he ghosting you?”
“What? No.” You take your phone back and hand it to Tara who was struggling to see from the other side of the table. “He’s just on a mission right now. Five days long. I always spam him with he’s unavailable. He says I can tell him whatever is on my mind.”
“Mm-hm,” Simone hummed.
“You know what would be so crazy?” Tara said, scrolling through your messages. 
“What?” you and Simone say in unison.
“If you sent him nudes.”
You nearly choked on air, Simone’s eyes widening at the words coming out of Tara’s mouth. 
“It’s always the innocent looking ones, huh.”
Tara giggled. Meanwhile you were still in a state of shock. 
“Um??? Isn’t that a bit far?”
“Well, no,” Tara defended. “Think about it. You two are basically dating already, just haven’t made it official. And you said you want him to make the first move right? How will he know if its okay to do or not if he doesn’t know you are just as into him as he’s into you? And since you don’t wanna kiss him first, show him you’re into him at least with a few picturesssssss.”
On the surface she wasn’t wrong, you couldn’t deny that. Growing up, Caleb had seen your body before, it wasn’t unusual. Beach days where you were mainly in bikinis, heatwaves where you were wearing mainly shorts and crop tops. He’d even walked in on you changing a few times, and vice versa. It wouldn’t be anything he hadn’t vaguely seen before. But the thought of actually doing it make a knot form in your stomach. But it also made arousal pool between your legs at the thought of him seeing you in a different light.
Maybe this would be the transition you both needed to take your relationship to a different level.
You finally spoke after a while of contemplation. “I mean, sure. But I’ve never taken any before. I don’t even own sexy clothes.”
Simone waved you off. “It’s not that hard. Men are so easy to please. I got you.” She finished her milkshake in a few sucks and set the empty cup down on the table. “Come on, let’s go shopping.”
“Shopping?” you questioned.
Tara squealed. “Shopping, yes!” She quickly got up from her seat and dragged you out of yours. 
Tara and Simone led you out of the food court  and into Victoria’s Secret a few floors down. The three of you spent the next two hours picking different outfits, ranging from two piece sets, to one pieces, bralettes and panties. You ended up spending more than you thought you would’ve but it was all worth it. 
You took them back to your house and the photoshoot began. Was it awkward at first? Yes. You barely wore tight fitted, revealing outfits, especially ones as sexual as this. But after a few test photos, your body loosened up and you gradually became more confident. 
“Press your boobs together,” Tara shouted from behind the camera. You were laying flat on your back, your head hanging off the bed as you stared into the camera. 
“This position looks silly,” you comment. 
“You look smoking hot though!!”
Simone moves behind Tara and bends down to peek at the camera. She wrinkled her nose. “I agree. It looks a bit silly.”
You sat up, sighing. “Thank you.”
“Okay wait, what about sucking a finger into your mouth? Would Caleb be into that? Ooh! Or arching your back on the bed?” The longer you spent with Tara today, you realised she’s not as innocent as she looks. She really is the mastermind behind the operation. From picking out each lingerie set, to looking up seductive posts on Pinterest to make you copy. 
“Are the ones we took now not enough?” you asked, muscles and back aching from bending over and twisting your body in such unnecessary positions. 
“If you’re this tired after some nudes, how are you gonna get the stamina to get fucked hard by Caleb?” Tara retorted. 
“I—”
Simone grabbed the phone and began scrolling through the photos. She picked out one she really liked and turned the phone to you. “This is the one you should send.”
It wasn’t any of the over the top poses Tara suggested. It was plain and simple but it got the job done. You were laying flat on the bed, holding the camera up in the form of a selfie, and biting your fingernail. The camera covered everything from your lips, down to your mid thigh, covered in fishnets from the lingerie.  
“This one? Really?” you asked as you examined the photo. You weren’t denying you looked hot in it, but doubts were starting to fill your mind. What if he thinks you’re being desperate? Or if he thinks it’s distasteful to expose yourself like this for no reason. Though you know Caleb would never think of you that way, your brain can’t help but convince you otherwise. 
“Or or maybe I should just delete them,” you request in a panic as Tara and Simone go through all the photos to see if there’s any better ones. 
Upon hearing your request, Tara nearly breaks her neck with how quickly she looked up. “ExCUZE ME?! Delete them?! For what???! Why!”
“Because! What if he doesn’t like them? Or thinks I’m…desperate?” You scratch your arm, looking down at your thighs. 
Simone’s nose twitched. “Then I’ll beat his ass.”
Tara added. “Well, it’ll suck if he does. But with how you described him, I don’t think he’d look at you that way. And if he does, you can always just say “oops meant to send to someone else” to save face. OH! We can even do the prank where we dress up as a boy and take photos to make him jealous!”
Hearing that, Simone smirked. “I’ll happily do that for you.”
You laughed, shaking your head. “No you’re right. Caleb wouldn’t do that. He’s never as much belittled me or even insulted me before in my life. I genuinely cant think of a negative think he’s said to me.”
“Soooooooo what’s the holdup?” Tara commented. 
You shrugged. “I’ll send it. I just need time to process before I do it.” They both deadpanned you and you continued, feeling the urge to defend yourself. “You guys won’t understand! I’ve known him for over a decade! Almost 14 years! This kinda stuff you don’t send to someone like that without at least thinking it through.”
“You’re right,” they both hesitantly agreed. 
You don’t end up sending Caleb the picture that night. Or the night after that. The day he’s supposed to return from his mission, you’re in bed, scrolling back through your messages. With no fault of yours, you had gone months without contact with him, assuming he was dead and all, but now you can barely even handle a few days. 
His profile displayed a green dot beside his name and you sat up quickly, eyes darting all over your messages and seeing the “Read” Message pop up on each one. 
He responds to each of them one by one, and your smile can’t stop growing as you see him reach the final message, the one about the burger. 
Now you’re just showing off >:( 
Anyway I’m back safe and sound from my mission did ya miss me ;)
yes so much
You responded without missing more than a second. 
Oh didn’t expect you respond that quickly you MUSTVE missed me that bad huh
How much did u miss me? 
You could tell him straight up. Tell him about how you read his messages everyday, thought about him almost every second for the last five days. Or you could just show him. 
You opened your camera roll and picked out the photo. Your thumb trembled over the send button before finally pressing down on it. Your stomach dropped as you saw it send in chat officially. It was too late now. 
Caleb read it and stayed quiet. Thirty seconds passed and he didn’t respond and you felt like you wanted to throw up. Your thumbs were already typing out Tara’s excuse: oh sorry! I meant to send that to someone else 
And before you could press send, Caleb responded. 
Is that for me?
You swallowed. If you said yes, and he hated it, then your excuse wouldn’t work anymore. You decided to risk it all and simply respond truthfully. 
Yes. Is it…bad?
Caleb takes longer to respond than usual and less than thirty seconds later a picture sends in chat. His cock stands tall in frame, precum leaking out from the tip. His hand has a firm grin around the base off it, the tip a reddish hue in comparison to its natural pink colour.
Your breathing stopped as you stared at it. This was Caleb’s dick. You were fucking staring at his dick. 
You swiped out of the picture and sent a 😧😯😮😲 combination. The two of you often communicated through emojis and you weren’t sure how to respond with words. 
Caleb sent crying emojis. 
Did you like it?
Yes? You’ve been hiding that the whole time? 
Says you. I knew your body was gorgeous but fuck. 
You fought the urge to kick your feet together, curling into a ball on your side as you tried to not let his words get to you. Clearing your throat, you refocus yourself and send another message. 
Sooooo what now 🧍‍♀️
I dunno 🧍
You get ready to type a response before he double texts. 
Do you wanna call?
You never thought you’d see the day you’d actually be nervous answering a call from Caleb before. 
Yes
You barely had time to let the message marinate before Caleb started calling. Readying yourself, you pressed the phone up to your ear and swiped. 
“Hello?”
“Hey,” he responded, taking a deep breath. “Is it just me or is this sorta awkward now.”
“No it’s definitely awkward,” you joked, laughing under your breath. 
“I mean, I can always blame you for it.”
“What?” You almost shrieked and broke your back with how quick you sat up from your bed. “How is this my fault?!”
“Nobody asked you to send me that sexy photo out of nowhere,” he joked, tone light despite his words. You didn’t take anything to heart however. 
“Yeah, well be grateful. Otherwise you would’ve died without seeing a girl in lingerie before.”
“How do you know I haven’t seen that before?”
“Because I know you, Caleb.” You said each word slowly. “Or at least I hope you haven’t.” You paused, voice softening ever so slightly. “Have you?”
“I was joking around. Of course I hadn’t. I am assuming though you’d never seen another guys dick before?”
“Well obviously I have. Like in movies and stuff. But not in person.”
“What kind of movies were you watching?” he questioned, suspiciously. 
“You know! Just movies! Shut up,” you whined, ignoring his obnoxious laughter. “Anyway, dudes sent me unsolicited pics in college all the time. I’ve seen dicks before. They weren’t like yours though.” The words spilled from your mouth without even realising you said it. 
“Oh? What’s the difference between mine and theirs?”
You didn’t realise the interest in his tone with how distracted you were, eyes closed and picturing the sight of Caleb’s dick in the black fog of your mind. You could always go back and look at the photo, but you wanted to burn the sight in your memory first. 
“Yours was bigger. And for once, looking at a dick didn’t make me wanna throw up. Theirs were so…ew. Like it was never hard, which is so fucking offensive. If you’re gonna send me that shit unsolicited by the way, at least sprout a hard on or something. Fucking hell.”
Caleb laughed. “You should’ve seen how quick your picture got me hard. It’s not normal.” His voice dropped a little and you inhaled sharply. 
“R—really?”
“Yeah,” he said slowly, sounding slightly out of breath, his breathing ragged. 
“What did you like about it?” you questioned, shifting down onto your back on the bed. 
“Everything. Fuck. You—why are you so hot?” His voice betrayed him at that moment. He let out a soft moan and you could hear wet sounds in the background if you listened close enough. 
Your hand trailed down your stomach, entering your panties and softly rubbing your clit. “W—what else?” 
“Your skin. Looks so soft—mm—and your lips around your finger? Holy fuck.” His filter was long gone now, freely speaking his mind about your body. Your thighs clenched together. 
“Do you wish they were wrapped around something else?”
“God yes,” he sounded so whiny, his hand moving faster up and down his aching cock. “You don’t know how much I love your lips.” He says your name and for a moment you freeze up. 
It’s not often he says your name, and you’ve been so used to just hearing him address you as Pipsqueak. Hearing your name roll off his tongue so easily, and with how whiny he sounds right now, you couldn’t help but insert a finger into yourself. 
Your legs twitched as you began pumping your finger in and out, back arching off the bed and an involuntary moan left your throat. “Caleb—”
“Yes, princess? What is it?”
“I wanna see you so bad right now—mm—fuck.” You gasped as you curled your fingers inside you, shoving them as deep as you could. “I need you.”
“I need you more. Shit. I’m gonna cum soon,” he announced, squeezing the tip of his cock whenever his hand reached it. 
“It’s hard to make myself come,”  you whined. You were never able to successfully have an orgasm on your own and it was frustrating. You wanted nothing more than to experience it first hand right now with Caleb. 
“I’ll help you. Shit. I can teach you. I’ll do whatever you want me to do. Next time I see you, I promise.”
“Please,” your voice barely reached the mic. 
“Fuck!” he let out a loud moan as he came, heavy pants slowly turning to whimpers as his cock milked him dry. He couldn’t control his breathing for at least thirty seconds and you just listened to him pant until he caught himself. 
Letting out one more shaky exhale, he tried to swallow but his throat was dry. “Fuck my throat hurts.”
You laughed and pulled your fingers out. Unable to reach an orgasm, you frowned. But the promise he left earlier gave you hope. 
“Go drink some water dummy.” You looked down at your fingers, glistening with your slick and contemplated. “Wait Caleb.”
“Hm?”
“Check chat.”
You put the phone on speaker and opened the chat camera, taking a photo of your wet index and middle finger, a string of slick connecting them both. You captioned it:
Drink me instead
Feeling more bold, you sent it without even batting an eye. You could hear the exact moment Caleb processed your message with his sharp inhale.  You heard the sound of screenshots being taken, once, twice, then three times. 
“Okay okay damn chill out,” you said while laughing, Caleb joining in. 
“What does it taste like?” he asked, utterly curious. 
“Come find out,” you responded, voice just as sultry as your words. 
“Don’t tempt me. I’ll come over right now.”
“Wait now?” You glanced at the clock, the time reading almost 2 am. “You have work in the morning don’t you?”
“So what? I have bigger priorities right now.”
On one hand it would be so wrong for the Farspace Fleet’s Colonel to miss work over some pussy, but on the other hand, you hated the goddamn fleet. 
“Well what are you waiting for?”
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authors note: can i just say i literally love this man with everything in me like WTF???? HES SO CUTE AND HOT AND I JUST WANNA SQQUEEZE HIS FACE
he brought me out of my writers slump😩🙇🏽‍♀️
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sceletaflores · 6 months ago
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I COULD PLAY THE DOCTOR (I CAN CURE YOUR DISEASE)
pair: logan howlett x fem!reader
wc: 4.1k
contains: 18+ SMUT MDNI, swearing, established relationship, logan's pov, written with origins!logan in mind, nat veering dangerously closer to a/b/o territory with every passing day, rut cycles, oral sex (fem!receiving), fingering (fem!receiving), multiple orgasms, gratuitous amounts of dirty talk, p in v, rough sex, biting, hair pulling, size kink, belly bulging, pussy pronouns, one (1) single use of the word daddy, scent kink, pain kink, breeding kink ofc, knotting (don’t look at me…), squirting, porn w/ plot, no use of y/n.
nat’s note: don’t look at me…i don’t know how many times i swore up and down i’d never write something like this but i’m a confirmed liar apparently so…here. i mean i just figured i'm in a rut artistically so therefore the only answer is writing logan in a rut physically...i can do what i want and i don't need to explain myself or my horny thoughts. also, i debated posting this in the wake of everything that's gone down over the past two days that is still escalating and will continue to escalate in the coming weeks, but i think everyone could use a little escape from how scary things may seem right now. take a break from all the terrifying news sites and read about logan wanting to breed you :) kisses!
divider by angel @saradika-graphics!
it's been another six months, and logan needs your help...
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The burn starts on the walk home from work, a pulse of heat deep in Logan's gut that grows with every step.
It spreads slowly, sinking into his muscles and seeping up his spine as he rounds the last corner, your place less than a block away now.
It caught him off guard this time, an itch burying itself under his skin earlier in the day only to get worse and worse as he worked.
He usually knew the signs well enough to feel them start creeping in, and he was dead sure it wasn't for another few weeks.
Apparently, he was wrong.
Logan’s jaw clenches as he picks up his pace, every nerve ending in his body straining to break into a full blown sprint at the thought of you, all alone and waiting for him.
His fingers curl into tight fists, nails pressing into his palms to ground himself, though it’s hardly enough. The faint scent of you drifts up from his shirt, not even a long day at the lumberyard enough to drown it out.
By the time he reaches your door, his heartbeat is a heavy thud in his ears, syncing with the building ache of desire wracking through his body like the earth rattling boom of a raging thunder storm.
He fumbles through getting his key into the lock, hands unsteady as he tugs the door open with a little more force than necessary and finally steps inside.
The second he closes the door behind him, the heat surges, thrumming through his veins and flooding his chest. Your scent fills the air completely, stronger now, wrapping around him so thick and sweet.
"Darlin'?" His voice comes out rougher than he intends, but he's beyond caring.
Your voice floats from the other room, casual, warm enough to send a jolt through him. Logan drops his axe from his shoulder, leaning it against the door as he starts down the familiar path to your bedroom.
You're spread out on his side of the bed—oblivious, curled up with a book, wrapped in one of the flannels he must have left the last time he stayed over.
Just the sight of you does something to him, like a match dragged against a strike pad, damned on setting everything ablaze.
You glance up, and the soft smile on your lips falters as you catch sight of him.
Logan knows what he must look like, his eyes all dark and predatory, chest heaving as he rakes his hungry gaze over you like a wolf watches a lamb grazing too close to its den.
He doesn’t say anything at first, just stalks toward you with a purpose that’s as undeniable as the heat pouring off him in waves.
The book slips from your fingers, forgotten, as you lean back, the small sound of your breath hitching under the weight of his gaze is music to his ears.
Logan pauses at the edge of the bed, towering over you, letting himself drink in the way you look. So soft and serene, like some kind of invitation that begs him closer. His flannel draped loosely over your shoulders–shrouding you in his scent. 
The urge to pounce on you fights against his normal instinct to savor every second, to draw it out until the heat pooling in his gut becomes downright unbearable.
“Been thinkin’ about you all damn day,” he mutters, voice thick and dark as molasses, rough from restraint he’s quickly losing. His knuckles brush against your thigh, then tighten, holding you in place as he leans down, his breath hot against your neck. “Thinkin’ about what I was gonna when I finally got my hands on you.”
Your skin blooms with warmth beneath his touch, and he grins against your neck, the edge of his teeth grazing you just enough to make you squirm. He growls low in his throat, that itch he’s been fighting nearly all day clawing its way up to the surface with a vengeance.
The primal urge inside of him screaming to claim claim claim take take take mate mate mate breed breed breed.
You tilt your head to the side with a soft sigh, freeing up more space for him to nose along your skin. “Is it time?”
Logan's breath catches as your question hangs in the air, thick with anticipation. The soft simplicity of it ignites the wildfire burning in his gut, every ounce of restraint slipping away like sand through his fingers.
“Yeah, baby,” he growls, slipping his fingers under the worn cotton of your shorts, feeling the bare skin beneath. “It’s time.”
You shift, hands going to the buttons of his flannel like you’re going to take it off. Logan stops you, taking your wrists in his free hand.
“Don’t,” he breathes, shaking his head hard enough that his hair flows with it. “Leave it on.”
The thought of you covered in his scent, of his scent mixing with yours to claim you on a level only he can discern sends his mind buzzing.
You look up at him with those wide, trusting eyes, and something in him cracks wide open. The tenderness of your gaze pulls at him, like a tether pulling him back from the edge, but that heat still smolders in his blood, fierce and unyielding.
Logan runs his thumb along the racing pulse of your wrist before he drops them. His hands venture lower, fingers pressing against the inside of your thigh, tracing a deliberate path that makes your body tremble under his touch.
You let out a shuddering breath, the scent of your arousal swirling through the air is enough to make him crave more.
In one rough tug, Logan yanks you towards the edge of the bed as he falls to his knees. Your hips held tight in his hands as he lurches forward, burying his nose in the soft junction where your leg and inner thigh meet.
He inhales deep, greedy lungfuls of your scent. A guttural growl rumbles through his chest, his eyes screwing shut at the sheer amount of too much that courses through him. He feels dizzy with it, high on the pheromones pumping from you in waves.
You’re soaked already, the wet fabric of your shorts melded to the shape of your cunt. He can’t help but run his nose along the slick seam of you, reveling in the way your legs twitch on either side of his head, in the short gasp you let out.
“Logan.” Your voice is nothing but a mewl, pleading and desperate.
“Missed you,” he rasps, his voice rough, almost unrecognizable. The edge of need in him makes his hands shake, sliding up your thighs, urging them even further apart as he settles between them.
Logan’s fingers dig into your skin, he lets his thumbs brush up, hooking them into the waistband of your shorts to tug them down your legs in one sharp yank. He groans at the sight of you completely bare, no underwear.
“Fuck, look at you,” he grates, his thumb coming down to slip through your dripping cunt. Your hole flutters desperately around him, needy little clenches like it’s trying to suck him in. “She’s all ready for me, huh? Been waiting for me to come home and give her some attention?”
“Please,” you whimper, your voice thick with longing, the sound going straight to his head, clouding his thoughts. 
Logan’s pulse races as he watches your body arch instinctively toward his touch, the desperate need in your eyes igniting the raw urges coursing through him.
He can’t deny you; he never could. You’re a feast laid out before him, and he’s starving.
Logan leans closer, letting his tongue flick out to taste you like he’s wanted to since he left for work this morning. 
“Fuck,” he breathes, closing his eyes and losing himself in the moment. He licks a broad stripe from your entrance to your clit, savoring the way your body responds, the way your legs tremble and your hips twitch against his mouth, seeking more. “Tastes like fuckin’ heaven, sweetheart.”
The taste of you is intoxicating—sweet and tangy, flooding his senses with every drag and swirl of his tongue.
Logan can’t help but moan against you, the sound vibrating through your body as he dives deeper, his nose nudging against your slick entrance as he shakes his head back and forth like an animal—rubbing the plush skin of your inner thighs red and raw with each rough drag of his coarse beard.
Every flick of his tongue sends a shockwave through you, and he revels in the sounds you make—each whimper, each moan, a siren’s call urging him deeper. He laves his tongue around your clit, sucking it gently, pulling at it with his lips as you writhe beneath him, begging for more. 
He keeps your thighs spread wide, two strong hands pinning them to the mattress so he can devour you just the way you deserve, the sharp dig of your heels into his shoulders only spurs him on.
Your hands bury themselves in his hair, tugging him closer, and he groans into you, letting his tongue delve deeper, seeking out every bit of sweetness he can coax from you. 
It’s pure sin, each sound you make, each shiver that runs through you as he takes his time, drinking you down like a man starved. 
The ache in him intensifies, his own need growing, pulsing. He’s hard, has been hard since he walked through the front door.
His cock strains against the zipper of his jeans, need pulsing in time with each pump of his blood through his shaft, circling around the base, threatening to expand even without the tight grip of your pussy surrounding him. His hips jerk up on their own volition, desperate for any friction.
“Just like that, Logan,” you gasp, voice breathy and trembling with pleasure. 
The way you say his name—raw, desperate—makes his blood run hotter. He grips your thighs tighter, anchoring you to the bed as he drinks you in, wanting to lose himself in you completely.
Logan pulls away just long enough to catch his breath, looking up at you with lust-drunk eyes, drinking in the sight of your sweaty cheeks, your heavy-lidded gaze, the way your chest rises and falls with each shuddering breath.
The pulse of his cock intensifies, urging him to speed things along. The base desire of his own instincts is getting harder and harder to ignore under your adoring stare.
He feeds his fingers into your clenching hole with no warning, a satisfied smirk tugging his lips up at your sharp gasp. He runs his tongue along his bottom lip, the entire lower half of his face still shining with your essence.
Your cunt swallows him, two thick fingers sinking into the velvety heat like it’s nothing.
Logan groans as he feels you clench around him, your walls fluttering and drawing him in deeper. “That’s it, baby,” he mutters, his voice hoarse with need. “So fuckin’ ready for me, so ready for daddy’s fingers in your pussy.”
Your mouth drops open in another devastatingly desperate noise, your hands twist his hair roughly, soft breasts rising and falling each time you gasp for air. The dim light of the sunset filters in through the blinds, highlighting the curves of your body, slick and shining with a thin sheen of sweat.
Every clench of your walls around his fingers shoots a thrill straight to his cock, making him ache with the urge to bury himself inside you. The overwhelming need to take you completely, to mark you and fill you, pulses through his veins until he feels like he might explode.
But he’s not done tasting you yet. Not until you’re practically dripping onto the sheets.
He lowers his mouth back to your core, sucking your clit into his mouth as his fingers pump faster. The sudden intensity makes your thighs shake around his head, and he grins against you. He wants to see you fall apart—wants to feel it.
“Logan—please, I…” You can barely get the words out, voice breaking as your whole body strains against him, desperate and needy.
The wet slap of his palm against your spit soaked cunt is loud in the quiet of your bedroom, blending with the loud keens that fall from your parted lips. He crooks his fingers, rubbing at that soft, spongy spot inside of you.
“Come on,” he mutters, slick lips brushing against your clit as he speaks. “Give it to me, baby. Show me you're ready for my cock."
He drags the sharp edge of his canine against your pulsing clit with barely any pressure, and you're coming.
Your whole body tenses, back bowing off the mattress as you let out a broken cry of his name. The bite of your nails digging into his scalp feels harsh enough to draw blood, a feeble attempt at grounding yourself against the onslaught of pleasure. 
Your trembling thighs tighten around his shoulders, gripping him like a vice as your shaking cunt gushes around his fingers. Logan groans at the feeling, eyes slipping shut as you drench his wrist and chin in your juices.
Even then, he doesn’t let up, fingers pumping relentlessly as he draws out every pulse, every aftershock of your climax, every tiny spray of your release splashing against his wrist. 
He’s lost in the feel of you—slick and trembling under his hands, the scent of your release filling his lungs, thick and intoxicating.
You slump back against the bed, body limp and spent. His own need is a driving, aching force now, clawing at his insides, demanding more.
He slips his fingers free from your dripping heat, dragging them through the wetness coating his chin as he licks them clean with a growl, savoring every taste.
“Good girl,” he purrs, voice thick with pride and satisfaction as he pulls back, leaving your thighs twitching in the wake of his touch. But he still isn’t finished. Not even close.
You barely have time to catch your breath before Logan crawls up the bed, his eyes locked on you, pupils blown with need. He looms over you, hands planting on either side of your head. His cock grinds against you through the rough denim, and you can feel just how thick and hard he is, throbbing through the fabric, demanding to be freed.
With a low groan, he shifts his hips, dragging his bulge along your soaked cunt, sending another jolt of pleasure racing through you. His hands are all over you, gripping your waist, hot and possessive.
“Feel that?” he asks, pressing his lips the wild flutter of your pulse, the need to sink his teeth in the soft skin of your neck raises the hair on the back of his neck. “That’s what you do to me baby. Got me hard as a fuckin’ rock, just aching to be inside you.”
Your arms circle his shoulders, clawing at the fabric off his shirt. “Need you inside me, Logan. Please, want it so bad.”
The pure need lacing your words, your scent calling out to him, the way he can feel the front of his jeans getting soaked through with the slick pouring from your cunt all pull him deeper into the recesses of his hind-brain. 
The mounting desperation to stuff you full of his cock finally reaches a fever pitch.
With a deep growl, Logan rears back as far as he can bear, just enough to tear his shirt over his head before he fumbles with the heavy buckle of his belt to free his aching cock.
He shoves his jeans down, boxers quickly following until there’s nothing separating him from the cool air of your bedroom. His cock springs free, hot and flushed an angry red color, drooling from the tip enough that it drips down to stain the pretty floral sheets of your bed.
Your eyes zero in on him, mouth dropping open at the sight. His cock so heavy it doesn’t curve upward to slap against his stomach, instead it hangs down to sway between his thighs as he moves closer. 
Your legs spread as he nears, slick covered thighs parting to make room for him to slot between them. So obedient, so good, so well trained.
Logan takes himself in his hand, nearly wincing at the blazing temperature of his skin. He secures his hand around the base, squeezing where his knot threatens to pop before he’s even got in you.
He slips the angry head through the folds of your cunt, slapping it against your clit with a wet ‘thwack’ sound. He can feel the way it twitches and shakes, just as desperate as him.
“Look at that,” he mutters darkly, eyes glued to where he’s laid his cock flat against your stomach, leaking pre-come all over your soft skin. “How’s it gonna fit, baby?” He shifts his hips, sawing his length back and forth to see just how deep in you he’ll be.
Your glassy eyes drop, a broken moan passing through your slack lips when you take in the sight. Your hips rise off the bed, grinding your cunt along the seam of his heavy balls, along the prominent vein trailing up the underside.
“Don’t worry, baby,” Logan grits out, eyes hooded and dark as he watches you grind against him. “You’re gonna take it all. Gonna make you feel every last fuckin’ bit of me.”
He groans, gritting his teeth as he presses in further, each inch a battle against the tight, molten heat that grips him like a vice. Your body shudders as he fills you, your slick warmth pulling him deeper and deeper, and he sinks down until he’s fully seated, his hips flush with yours. 
The pressure is mind-numbing, your walls clenching around him in rhythmic pulses that make his vision blur. He stills for just a second, savoring the way your body stretches around him, hugging him in a way that feels like it was made for him alone.
Logan watches your face as you adjust to the stretch, your brows pinched together, each breath coming fast and shallow, your eyes glazed with pleasure.
Then, your hands come to his shoulders, nails digging little crescent moons into his skin as you nod your head, ready.
It’s all the confirmation he needs. His hips pull back before he slams in again, the force of it jolting your whole body. He presses his forehead to your shoulder, teeth bared as he muffles a snarl against your skin.
Logan thrusts again, and again, and again, hips setting a merciless pace as he watches the way your breasts bounce with each thrust, each little shudder.
His mouth waters with the need to taste, to sink his teeth into your supple skin hard enough to pierce clean through, hard enough to scar.
Sweat drips down the length of his spine, across his brow. It mats down the hair scattered over his chest, his dog tags slick with it when they bounce off his skin with each thrust. The grip of his hands tightens on your hips, it’s taking everything in him to hold back and yet he knows you’ll still bruise tomorrow. 
Pretty hues of dark purples and yellows in the shape of his fingers, ones he’ll catch you admiring in the bathroom mirror, pressing your own fingertips into them to feel the dull ache—to remember this moment.
“Made for this, aren’t you?” he rasps, his voice dark and possessive. “Made to take me, to be mine.”
The words barely leave his mouth before he’s bending down to capture your lips in a searing kiss, swallowing your cries as he drives into you, pushing you both closer to that sweet edge.
“Fuck, Logan,” you gasp, breaking the kiss as your body trembles under him. “Can–ah!–can feel you in my stomach…”
Your hand drops from his shoulder, slipping between your bodies to rest over the sweaty expanse of your belly. Logan’s eyes follow your path, a feral growl bursting from his chest before he can stop it.
He’s transfixed by it, sure that if he pressed his hand to the soft skin of your lower stomach right over your own, that he’d feel it. Feel the way his cock punches up against your insides, so deep it's like he’s rearranging your guts to make room.
“Fuck.” His voice is nothing but a gravelly rumble, hoarse and dark as midnight. His hips speed up impossibly faster, chasing the feeling of your clenching walls choking the length of his cock so tight he thinks it might snap off at the base.
The flimsy headboard of your bed slams against the wall, creaky mattress springs screaming under his ministrations.
You feel like salvation, like the first rays of light after too many years spent in the dark.
He feels it with each kiss of his cock against your cervix, in the way your lips fit in the junction of his neck, in the red welts your nails leave on the skin of his back. He feels alive, truly alive, for the first time in decades.
“Say my name,” he grates, his hand cupping the back of your neck, coaxing you to look up at him, lips close enough to taste the heat radiating from his skin. “Tell me who you belong to.”
"Logan," you gasp, your voice breathy, edged with desperation as he pushes you closer to the brink. "Yours. Only yours."
A broken, shaky noise falls from his lips as he buries his face in your neck. He mouths at your skin desperately, presses his nose to where your scent is the strongest. 
Flashes of his release spraying your insides play behind his closed eyes, thoughts of drenching you so thoroughly that it has to take only forcing his hips to slam against the rippling muscle of your ass like you have your own magnetic pull. He feels it building, the slow swell of his knot presses against your folds, ready to burst.
“Come on, honey,” he begs, thumb coming down to rub slow circles over your slick clit. “Come with me, soak my cock. Show me how much you love it, how much you love me.”
Pathetic little uh uh uh’s fall from you with every thrust, broken up only by the breathy whines of his name as he pounds into you hard enough to push your body higher up the mattress. Finally, with a loud roar, he stuffs his growing knot inside of your cunt. 
Logan’s teeth sink into your neck before he can even think twice about it, the thick spray of his come filling you as his hands pull your hips down even further over his cock. He needs to be as deep in you as possible, to press forward until he can’t anymore, until his aching balls are flush with your gushing cunt.
He watches with rapt attention as you come with a loud wail, just from the feeling of his knot slotting into place. The clamp of your thighs over his hips is nearly as tight as the way your cunt seizes around him like it’s scared he’ll leave.
He groans at the over stimulation of your cunt milking his cock. Your slick leaks around the base of him, your shaking hole plugged so full it can only slip along the creamy ring to splash weakly against his thighs and hips.
Logan licks along the spot where his teeth pierced your skin, planting one last kiss before he’s taking you in his arms and rolling onto his back atop the mattress. The plush comforter sticks to his skin, your own sweaty body slipping against his as he tries his best to not jostle you too much while keeping you stuffed full of his cock.
He holds you to his chest until your breathing evens out, until your body stops trembling on top of his, until you’re nosing along the column of his neck.
“Logan?” Your voice is tiny, hoarse and scratchy. He feels your hand drawing absent minded shapes along the skin of his stomach. A circle, a star, a figure eight, a heart.
“Yeah baby?” he says, pressing his lips to the crown of your head, eyes slipping shut at the content feeling that spreads through him.
“Love you,” you murmur, voice soft but sure, the words slipping out without hesitation.
It’s the first time you’ve said it today, and hearing those three words from you sends warmth flooding through him.
Logan shifts slightly, pulling you even closer, his hand moving to the back of your head, cradling you with a kind of tenderness he used to think he’d never be capable of. “I love you too, darlin’. More than you know.”
Your body relaxes against him, the lingering effects of your shared intimacy still buzzing through your limbs, but now there’s a sense of peace, of safety, and a deeper connection.
He can feel the way your fingers curl lightly against his skin, the quiet smile that must be tugging at your lips as you press a kiss to the side of his neck.
And in that moment, with everything settled around him, Logan knows that this, right here, is everything.
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mystic-writings · 10 months ago
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we’re just fine | daryl dixon
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PAIRING — Daryl Dixon x Fem!reader
SUMMARY — after the fall of the prison, you find yourself in alexandria, alone. two months later, your family finds their way back to you. 
WARNINGS — angst, canon-typical violence/situations, pregnancy, fluff 
WORD COUNT — 5,000
NOTES — idk what happened to me all i know is i blacked out and then this was made. enjoy i guess
masterlist | navigation | requests are open!
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Despite the pure monotonous routine you’d gotten used to during your two months in Alexandria, you couldn’t say that it wasn’t sometimes extremely boring. Your only saving grace was the mealtimes you had with Aaron and Eric at the end of the day. At least they had the sense and experience outside the walls to be able to carry out a conversation that wasn’t about what food you were eating or how the weather was. 
It was why you hated when they went out on recruitment runs. As their roommate, you felt awkward being in the home by yourself when they left the walls; as though you were intruding. You felt that way in a lot of aspects. An intruder on a perfect life that these people had grown used to in the wake of the apocalypse. A life where their only worry was whether or not Aiden and Nicholas would find the right ingredients for the food they’d planned on cooking during their supply runs. 
But there was nothing to be done aside from making a meal for one, eating alone with only a soft classical music CD to fill the silence, and to wait for the couple to come back home so you would have normal people to talk to. 
You were glad for them and the runs they went on, though. Or they never would’ve found you, and you’d likely be dead in a ditch by now. 
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Your hand shook as you gripped the handle of your blade, wide eyes searching the pharmacy for any signs of walkers, or people. Being on the road alone for as long as you had been was making you feel like you’d gone crazy. Maybe you had already. 
Sweeping the small aisles, you found no signs of life. Most of the shelves were already empty, likely having been raided during the early days. Still, you grabbed whatever was available to you, shoving it into your bag before ducking into a corner, knees pressed to your chest as you rooted around for one of the final few cans of food you had left. 
You’d been rationing out what used to be a plentiful supply for a few weeks now. One can of food per day, nothing more. A lot of what you had was thanks to the traffic blockages on the highways and interstates you’d wandered along on your way out of Georgia. What used to be two cans a day for almost three weeks turned into one for the past week and a half, bordering on two. 
The lack of food wasn’t your only issue anymore. With no signs of life from your former group, you had every reason to believe that they were all dead. Logically, you knew they weren’t. You’d seen some of them escape in the firefight, yourself included. But without any real way of tracking them down, they were as good as dead. Not to mention the sudden and constant fatigue that the southern sun seemed to give to you, making traveling more difficult than you had originally planned. 
Even with no end in sight, no real indicator that the man you called your husband was still alive, and no true hope for your future, you still persisted. You found places to sleep for the night, whether in abandoned cars or gas stations off of turnpikes. You found just enough food to supply you for a few more days if you managed to stretch it thin enough, and you kept going. 
Just as you were about to crack open a can of corn, the crunching of glass and shuffling of footsteps alerted you to the body that had just entered the pharmacy. Its footfalls sounded too heavy and spaced out to be anything but a human. 
Gripping onto your knife, you held your breath and gently placed the can on the floor. With your bag still on your shoulders, you kept your body crouched and your ears peeled, moving around the person — no, people — moving around the pharmacy. 
“I’m telling you, we’ve already been here. There’s nothing left to take,” a voice reasoned. 
The footsteps ceased for a moment, and you paused, praying they hadn’t heard you. “I know. Doesn’t hurt to check, though, right? I mean, we can’t exactly go back empty handed. Aiden’ll have something to say about it.”
“But we aren’t out here for supplies,” the other stressed, “we’re out here for people, remember? New members?”
“I know,” their partner chuckled, footsteps resuming as they rounded the last aisle. You ducked between the shelves closest to the door, hoping to just outrun them and not have to fight them. There was a pause, a palpable beat, before he spoke again. “But I think we might not be coming back alone.”
A cold chill ran through your veins at the former’s words. He knew you were in here. He’d seen your can of food, or heard your shuffling around the pharmacy. In an instant, you were at your full height, eyes wide as your fingers clutched your knife tighter and you ran, against your better judgment, toward the pair. The blond was the one closest to you, his back facing your front. With as much energy as you could muster, you hooked your arm over his shoulder, dragging him to your chest as you pressed your knife to his throat. It wasn’t hard enough to do any real damage, but you knew that if you absolutely had to, you’d apply pressure. 
“Who are you?” You spat, hand shaking as it gripped the knife. “What do you want?”
“Woah, woah, calm down. It’s okay. We’re not here to hurt you.” The brunet immediately jumped into negotiation mode, putting his hands in front of him. The position reminded you of Rick, oddly enough, and your heart twinged as you adjusted your grip on the knife. 
“Then what are you here for?” You spat. “Like you said, there’s nothing worth taking here.”
The faintest of whimpers escaped the lips of the man you held hostage, dragging both yours and the brunet’s attention to him. “We’re just—” the blond gulped. “We’re recruiters. We have a camp not too far from here. A safe one. We’re looking for people to join us. People who have— have experience, out here.” 
His words, as stuttery and fearful as they were, confused you. 
“I’m Aaron,” the brunet said, keeping his arms up in surrender as he slowly slid the backpack from his shoulders. “That man you have is my partner, Eric. Everything he’s saying is right, and I can show you. I have pictures and a brochure in my bag, if you’ll let me get it.” 
Hesitantly, you nodded. Even if he had a weapon, most of your body was blocked by his partner — Eric. There was a highly likely chance that he wouldn’t try to harm you while you kept his friend in your grip, however weak it was becoming. 
Slowly, Aaron reached into his bag, pulling out exactly what he said he would. With Eric still in your grip, he showed you pictures of the place he and his friend called home — Alexandria. “Look,” Aaron sighed, stepping back a bit. “You seem like someone we could use. You have experience that we lack. Plus, it seems like you’ve been out here by yourself a while. We have walls, food, running water, and proper shelter. And if you decide to come with us, our leader, Deanna, will interview you. If she allows you in and you don’t like it, you can leave any time you want. We won’t keep you there if you don’t want to be, okay?”
With a shaking nod, you let go of Eric, nudging him toward Aaron, who enveloped the other man in a tight hug. “I— I can leave if I want to, right?”
“Of course, you can. No one will stop you, and that’s a promise.” 
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It took a bit of getting used to, but you were glad that Aaron and Eric had found you that day. You’d been skeptical of things in Alexandria for the first few days, but you warmed to the entire situation a lot easier than you thought you would. You supposed it was because of how things were at the prison, but even then you weren’t alone.
Aaron and Eric, while not pushing the topic often, had managed to get to know enough about you and where you came from before they’d found you that they considered you a close friend. 
You’d only told them the briefest of answers. That you were with a large group in Georgia from the beginning, that you’d been with one of them for most of that time — even, at some point, considering yourselves to be married, though the symbol you’d had to show it had been lost months ago — and then another group came along and took everything away from you, simply because they could. 
The safety and privacy that the couple provided was something you were more than grateful for, even if you were sure you wouldn’t be able to have it forever. 
Because while Aaron and Eric, along with the rest of Alexandria, provided a structure and a sense of normalcy for you, you couldn’t shake the grief that fell upon you every time you were alone. 
The thought of Daryl being out there, combing every inch of Georgia for you while you were so far away, was enough to bring you to tears. It was another thing to think about the possibility of his rotting corpse roaming the woods in search of something living to eat. The thought that you’d never see him again, dead or alive. That you’d just push through life — however much longer that would be for you — without him, even though he promised you’d never have to go through something like that. 
The thought of your baby never knowing who their father was, and their father never knowing who they were, either. 
You could go an entire lifetime without ever seeing Daryl again, and the idea of it nearly killed you when he was still around. It hurt a hundred times worse now that it was practically a reality. 
The night passed without word from or the arrival of Aaron and Eric. It was common for them to be gone a while at a time — this particular trip lasting almost a week — but you hated sleeping in the house by yourself now. You were so used to waking up to Eric clattering dishes in the kitchen that waking up midday when they were gone only proved how fatigued you seemed to feel nowadays. 
Waking up to a knock on the door wasn’t unusual as of late, but it was certainly unpleasant. You were, however, grateful for the fact that when you were given a room at Aaron and Eric’s, it was on the first floor. 
Rolling out of bed got harder and harder with each passing week, but you managed it anyway. The knocking persisted, and you sighed as you made your way into the living room, shouting out, “I’m coming!”
The knocking ceased, and you pulled on the fabric of your shirt before answering the door, only to find Jessie. “Oh, hey,”
“Hi, hon,” she smiled, and you felt bad for being upset at her moments before. “Pete sent me over, said you were supposed to see him this morning?” 
“Oh, shit, Jessie I’m so sorry,” you said, brushing some stray hair from your face. “I overslept, normally Aaron—” 
Jessie smiled warmly, reaching out and putting a gentle hand on your arm. “I understand, Y/n, no need to worry. Just get dressed and head over to the infirmary. It’s not like Pete’s in any real rush.” 
“Alright,” you nodded, bidding Jessie goodbye and closing the door as she headed down the porch steps. 
Padding your way through the home, you went back to your room, pulling on some fresh clothes before freshening up in the bathroom. Routines like these were simple, but they kept you sane. You’d had something a little closer to it at the prison, but it was nowhere near as nice as it was in Alexandria. 
After eating a small breakfast, you were out of the house and on your way to the infirmary. The streets were quiet, as always, and the sun was anything but forgiving. People smiled and waved, and you did the same, even if you didn’t know half of the people in this place. Even after being here for two months, it was hard to remember such trivial things about so many people. Plus, putting names to faces was never one of your strong suits. 
Stepping into the infirmary, you were grateful for the burst of air conditioning that fell over your body. Smiling, you greeted Denise and Pete, the former of the two sitting on one of the beds as she pored over the book in her lap. 
“Alright, let’s take a look at you. Sound good?” Pete smiled, and you nodded back. 
While you hauled yourself onto the bed, Pete readied the ultrasound equipment. Pulling back the loose shirt you wore, your eyes glued themselves to the obvious, albeit still small, bump you were sporting. 
“Hey, I’m about four months along now, right?” You asked, eyes darting up to Pete, who confirmed with a nod. “That means you can see the baby’s gender, doesn’t it? I remember hearing that somewhere,” 
Pete chuckled, powering on the machine and taking the gel from its holster. “Most of the time, yes. If you want me to look around for it, I can do that. After I make sure everything’s okay.” 
“I really wanna know,” you said, wincing at the cold gel making contact with your skin. “It’d mean a lot. Then I can go full nesting mode. And so can Aaron and Eric, really.” 
The ultrasound went off without a hitch. According to Pete, your margins were clear, and everything looked healthy with the baby. It was always a relief to hear. There was little room for error with these things now that you had scarcely little supplies to work with. Finding the ultrasound machine early on in the apocalypse was a miracle in itself. 
“Okay…” Pete hummed, the wand moving and pressing over your skin. “The kid’s giving me a hard time with this one. And…” he pressed a few buttons, eyes focused on the screen before him. You watched his features intensely, as though his expression would give the answer away before he could say it. Pete’s eyes broke from the screen as he smiled, lifting the wand. “You’re having a little girl. Congratulations.” 
Your heart swelled, a wide smile overtaking your features as Pete handed you a towel. “A girl,” you whispered, eyes locked onto your belly. 
Before you were able to stop yourself, you were once more reminded of the likelihood that you’d never be able to share this with Daryl. Tears welled along your waterline as you sat up, swiping the scratchy cloth across your belly. Whether Pete noticed or not, he made no indications. You were thankful for it, and for him leaving the room to put the ultrasound equipment away. 
When he came back inside, he pulled Denise from her books and into the kitchen to talk, but you paid no mind to them. They were talking too low for you to listen in, anyway, and you were too busy trying to quell your emotions on the makeshift examination table to want to eavesdrop. 
By the time you were ready to leave, Olivia entered the infirmary, eyes scanning the room before landing on your frame. 
“Y/n, they’re on their way back,” she smiled, and you nodded gratefully. 
“They’re okay?”
The woman nodded. “Eric’s a bit banged up, hurt his leg I think, but otherwise they’re fine. And they brought a group. They should be getting here soon.” 
Exhaling a relieved breath, you slid from the bed, bidding goodbye to Denise and Pete as you followed Olivia onto the street. You walked side by side in silence, mulling over what she’d said. 
“You said they brought a group?” You asked, following Olivia up the steps to the house that held all of your inventory. “How many?”
Olivia huffed, brows cinching. “Deanna said it was a big one. That they had a lot of weapons, been on the road a while.” 
Your eyes widened. “A while as in the entire time, or?”
“Not sure,” Olivia shook her head. “All I know is I gotta get the weapons cart to the gate, if you wanna help?” 
“Sure. Should probably be there to get Eric to the infirmary, anyway,” you decided. 
And, sure enough, Aaron helping a limping, sweating Eric through the gate was the first — and for now, only — glimpses of the new group you would get. Aaron smiled apologetically as he spotted you, tucked out of view from the newcomers. 
“What the hell happened to you?” You said, looking pointedly at Eric, who grimaced as you took his arm from Aaron. 
“Roamers,” he sighed. “It’s broken, I think.” 
“You think?” You asked, eyeing the bruising flesh. “I can tell it’s broken. Come on, let’s get you to Pete.” 
Aaron thanked you as you wrapped an arm around Eric’s waist, helping him up the road and back into the infirmary. 
As Pete worked to wrap Eric’s ankle, you couldn’t help but ask questions about the trip. 
“It was a disaster,” Eric groaned. “There were roamers everywhere. Plus, this group, they’re headstrong. Been out there a while.” 
“How many of them are there?” You asked. “Olivia didn’t tell me.” 
“Fifteen,” Eric hissed, squirming as Pete positioned his ankle properly. 
Your eyes widened, throat going dry. “Jesus,” you huffed. “That many of them and they’re still going?”
“With a baby,” 
“Oh my God,” you gasped. Your mind flashed with images of baby Judith, heart clenching. The fall of the prison meant that you never found out exactly who made it out alive, and you never dared to venture the thought of whether or not she did. “They must be some lucky sons of bitches.” 
Eric laughed. “Not only are they lucky, but they’re tough. And really close. I think, once you get used to them, you’ll like them. They remind me of you when we found you.” 
“So, scrappy, hungry, and tired?” 
“Yeah, pretty much,” Eric laughed, and you couldn’t help but do the same. 
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“If you need me, I’m four houses down.” Aaron pointed, Rick and Carl following his line of sight. “If I’m not there, Eric or Y/n probably will be.” 
Carl’s eyes snapped back to the brunet, a mixture of confusion and skepticism floating within them. “Y/n?”
Aaron’s brows furrowed at the boy. “Yeah. She’s a friend of ours, came here a few months back. Why?”
“We, uh…” Rick stepped in, a hand scratching at his beard. “We used to know someone named Y/n. that’s all.”
“Oh,” Aaron nodded, stepping away and heading back home, where you and Eric were sitting at the table, sandwiches in hand as you giggled about something he wasn’t aware of. 
Upon his entrance into the kitchen, you stood excitedly and hugged the man. “Glad you’re back okay,” you said, heading back to your chair. “I heard the group you brought was tough.”
“Yeah, they are.” Aaron chuckled, still mulling over the puzzle pieces in his head. “You said you were with a big group before, right?”
“Yeah, why?”
Aaron huffed, glancing at his shoes. “I brought up your name to one of the new members — just a name, nothing else — he said they used to know someone with the same name.” 
Your heart stuttered in your chest, limbs freezing as you were bringing the sandwich to your mouth. Clearing your throat, you forced yourself to put the food back down, looking up at Aaron with shining eyes. “This man, what’d you say his name was?”
“Rick. Rick Grimes.” 
If your heart had been fluttering before, it was banging like a drum in your chest now. Your stomach fluttered, your hand coming to rest on the swell of your belly, hoping to quell the anxiousness. 
“Where are they?” You asked, and Aaron’s mouth only remained agape. “Aaron, where are they?”
“Down the street,” he finally said, voice cracking. “The house on the curb, the one you said you liked.” 
Within moments, your food and friends were abandoned as you practically ran from the home, shooting down the porch steps and down the street. You were thankful that no one was out and about right now, or you were sure they’d think you looked crazy. You didn’t even register a person in your path until you’d already bumped into them. 
“Oh! Y/n, are you alright?” Jessie asked, her hands on your shoulders as her eyes searched your wild ones. 
“‘M fine, Jessie.” You muttered. “I’ve gotta go.”
You gave the woman no time to respond before you were wriggling out of her grip and hurrying down the street. Up more steps, you were greeted by the charming yellow door of the home you’d wished you lived in, knuckles rapping frantically and unyielding on the wood. 
The door finally, after what felt like decades, creaked open. Your heart stopped in your chest as you took in the sight of your husband’s best friend, clean shaven and hair dripping from a recent shower. 
Rick’s eyes flooded with tears as they met your own. In seconds, you were pulling him into your arms, grateful that you weren’t the only survivor of the Governor’s wrath. 
You sobbed into his shoulder, gripping tightly to the clean white shirt he wore. “Rick,” you croaked, “is he—” 
“He’s fine,” Rick whispered, heart breaking when your sobs worsened out of pure relief. “He’s just fine.” 
When you finally found the strength to let go, Rick led you inside. “We thought you were dead,”
“There were times I wished I was,” you said, taking a seat at the edge of the couch. “I was by myself for just over a month. Found some train tracks, lost ‘em, then stuck to interstates, mostly. Got lost in the woods, found a small town, and from there, Aaron and Eric found me. I’ve been here for two months.” 
Rick huffed a laugh, disbelief filling the sound. “Sounds like you had one hell of a trek.”
“I had a car, for a bit.” You shrugged. “Walkers ruined that part. I crashed it into a tree. Stuck to walking after that.” 
“When did you…” Rick glanced down at your swelling belly, forcing a laugh from you. 
Shrugging, you smoothed your hand over your belly. “Four-ish months ago. Didn’t find out until I got here. Been terrified ever since, really. Not knowing if Daryl was out there, if I’d see him again.” 
“You’ll see him soon,” Rick assured you. “He’s talking to Deanna now.”
“And the others?” You asked. “Beth? Judith?”
“Judith is just fine,” Rick said, eyes leaving yours as he sighed. “Beth got caught out in Atlanta. A woman in a hospital killed her.”
Your stomach churned at Rick’s words, guilt crushing your lungs and bile rising in your throat. “Oh, my God,” you whispered, pressing your fingers to your mouth to try and stop yourself from throwing up. 
Rick nodded, resting a hand on your knee. He watched you stand, your arm resting over your belly, beginning to pace the floor before him. 
“I have to… I need to go see the others. Daryl.” And without another word, you were leaving Rick behind in an unfamiliar home, nearly running down the familiar path to where Deanna and her husband lived. 
The group milled about in the small courtyard in front of Deanna’s house, hidden behind the brick walls that fenced it in. Everyone was either sitting or leaning against something, sticking to a tight group, and completely blocking your path to the inside of the home. 
With your mind so set on seeing Daryl, on simply getting close to him again, you failed to register Carol saying your name. Once again, you were pulled from your thoughts only when someone was right in front of you. 
This time, Carol was pulling you into her arms, her grip on your body tight. You hugged her back, despite the sweat and grime that covered her. Soon enough, Glenn, Maggie, Michonne, and Sasha had joined her. You were surrounded by your family, all overwhelmed at your presence, but happy nonetheless. 
When you finally requested to be let go, they obliged, and you finally spotted Judith in the arms of someone you didn’t know. Relief flooded you, seeing the baby healthy and happy as she could be. 
“What happened to you?”
“We thought you were dead!”
“Are you okay?”
“Guys, I’m fine, I promise.” You chuckled through tears. “I’ve been here almost the whole time, and I’m perfectly healthy. The doctor said so this morning.” 
You smiled as Carol’s eyes drifted from your face to your belly, shock overcoming her features, before her smile matched yours. She said nothing, but you were sure everyone else was either figuring it out or partially aware, just based on the interaction alone. 
A loud scoff echoed from the porch door, followed by low, gravelly muttering. Your heart stopped at the familiar voice, before thrumming in your heart like a rapid drumbeat. There, walking with careless ease, picking at his thumbs, was your husband, covered head to toe in layers of dirt and grime. You choked a sob as the group seemed to part around you. 
“Daryl,” you croaked, just loud enough for him to hear it. 
Daryl paused at the top of the steps, his eyes locked onto yours through the hair he’d let grow too long. In a flash, he was down the stairs entirely, rushing to pull you into his arms. You met him in the middle, colliding with his body and bringing you both to the ground. With one hand cupping the back of your head and the other splayed between your shoulder blades, Daryl cradled you close to him, rocking you as you clutched to the leather vest on his back tighter, sobbing in his embrace. 
“I thought ya were dead,” he whispered, fingers digging into your back. “I thought I lost ya,”
A choked sound escaped you as you shook your head. “Never,” you promised. “You could never lose me.” 
“Yer necklace,” Daryl croaked, tucking his face into the side of your head. “I found it, on the tracks in Georgia. Thought ya were gone…” 
“It fell.” You said, words hushed and shaking, as though they were a desperate plea. “Walkers were coming for me, too many for me to take on myself. It snapped off in the fight, I couldn’t go back for it.” 
By the time you felt okay enough to stand on your own, everyone had departed from the courtyard, likely into Deanna’s home. With a vice grip on his arms, Daryl helped you stand. His eyes raked over your face, tear-stricken and flushed with emotion. No matter the state you were in, Daryl could never see you as anything other than utterly beautiful. 
“You’re okay?” You asked, hands gently brushing the hair from his dirt-caked face. “You’re not hurt?” 
Daryl shook his head, leaning into your delicate touch. Hands smoothed over cloth, over skin, dedicating the feeling of your body beneath his touch to memory. He watched your eyes flutter closed as he did so, relishing in the slight pressure of his palms against your skin. They slid down your hips, your waist, and Daryl’s brow furrowed. He’d committed your body to memory long ago — every curve, every bump, every scar. Slowly, and with a hand that was less steady than it had been a moment ago, Daryl’s fingers drifted delicately over your front, eliciting a small gasp when he found what he’d suspected. 
The sound forced your eyes to open, meeting the bright blue of his own, widened in shock. Immediately, your stomach churned and you pulled your bottom lip between your teeth, a habit you’d been unable to shake since high school. 
“Daryl?” Your voice shook. 
“Yer…” he breathed, eyes darting down to where the backs of his fingers rested, the slight swell of your stomach confirming what he’d been about to ask. “When’d you… did you know?”
“No, no…” you whispered gently, shaking your head. “I had no clue when… I didn’t know until I got here. I suspected it on the road, but… no, I didn’t.” 
A shaking breath fell from his lips. “And yer okay? Yer both— both okay?”
“We’re just fine,” you smiled, resting your palm on his cheek. “I promise. Your girls are just fine.” 
Daryl’s breath caught in his throat, a new wave of pure emotion rolling through his body. It seized his muscles, freezing him in place as he struggled for breath and blinked away tears. Girls. He was going to be a dad. He was going to have a daughter. 
“Ya have no idea how much I love ya,” Daryl muttered, his head dipping low, forehead resting on your shoulder. 
“I think I have a clue or two,” you joked, voice as soft as you could make it.
Daryl scoffed, lifting his head and pressing his lips to yours. It was short, shorter than you would’ve liked, but it carried as much love as all the other kisses you’d shared and stolen with the archer over the years. Still, he was here, and he was safe, and so were you. Nothing else mattered except that. 
The horrifying reality you’d thought yourself to be in was nothing but that — a mere thought. For now, you and Daryl were safe. Together. As a family. 
And you knew that, as he slipped the necklace back onto your skin, this time on a leather rope tied tight, there was nothing either of you wouldn’t do to stay that way. 
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forever taglist: @mazerunnerrose @theboldandthebootyful @miraclesoflove @heliads
daryl dixon taglist: @katrina765 @hp-hogwartsexpress @ellablossom @alexxavicry (open!)
taglist form here!
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pixiexdusts-world · 3 months ago
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Nap time with you
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Joaquin Torres x girlfriend!reader
Summary: Joaquin’s girlfriend can fall asleep anywhere, and instead of questioning it, he starts napping with her. Before long, it becomes their favorite routine.
Word count: 1012
Notes: no Captain America: Brave New World spoilers :)
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Joaquin Torres was used to high-energy situations. Missions, training, and keeping up with Sam Wilson meant he was always on the move. But nothing—nothing—could have prepared him for dating you.
Because somehow, despite all the chaos, you could fall asleep anywhere.
At first, he thought it was a one-time thing. The two of you had been hanging out at his place, watching a movie, when he felt your head slump against his shoulder. He glanced down, expecting you to be watching intently, but—nope. You were out cold.
“Hey,” he whispered, nudging you slightly. “Did you seriously just knock out?”
You let out a small sigh in response, nuzzling into his hoodie like it was the most comfortable pillow in the world. Joaquin blinked, staring at you, before laughing softly to himself.
Alright, maybe the movie was a little boring.
But then it kept happening.
You would doze off in the passenger seat of his car five minutes into a drive. You fell asleep on a rooftop once, mid-mission debrief, and nearly gave Sam a heart attack. You even curled up in a booth at a diner after breakfast, resting your head on your folded arms like it was the most natural thing to do.
Joaquin quickly realized: you could nap anywhere, anytime.
And, well… that was kind of adorable.
~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~
One day, after a long week of missions, Joaquin found you sprawled across his couch, dead to the world. You had come over to hang out, but somewhere between waiting for him to get out of the shower and picking a movie, you had passed out completely.
Joaquin just stood there for a second, hands on his hips, watching the steady rise and fall of your breathing. He shook his head with a soft laugh.
“You’re unbelievable,” he murmured.
Then, without really thinking about it, he grabbed a blanket, tossed it over you, and instead of waking you up—he joined you.
He had meant to just sit beside you, but when he felt how warm you were, the exhaustion from the past week caught up with him fast. The next thing he knew, he was lying down too, pulling you against him, his face buried in your hair.
And damn, this was comfortable.
Joaquin had never really been a nap guy. He always felt like there was something to do, somewhere to be. But being curled up with you, listening to your soft breathing, feeling the steady rhythm of your heartbeat against his chest?
Yeah. He could get used to this.
~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~
After that, it became a thing.
Joaquin stopped questioning it and just started joining you.
You crashed on the couch after training? He slid in beside you, pulling you close. You curled up in the Quinjet after a mission? He threw his jacket over both of you and knocked out too. You flopped onto his bed, stretching like a cat? Yeah, no, he was claiming his spot too.
“You know,” he said one afternoon as you both lay tangled together in his bed, “I think you’ve corrupted me.”
You blinked sleepily up at him. “Huh?”
“I never used to nap,” he admitted, running his fingers through your hair. “Now I’m out here dozing off at random times of the day because of you.”
You hummed, not at all guilty. “Not my fault you make a good nap buddy.”
Joaquin grinned. “Oh, nap buddy, huh? That’s all I am to you?”
“Mm.” You pretended to think about it. “And a pretty decent boyfriend, I guess.”
He let out a dramatic gasp. “Wow. So generous.”
You giggled, snuggling closer, your nose brushing against his collarbone. “Admit it—you love it.”
Joaquin sighed, kissing the top of your head. “Yeah. I really do.”
~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~
One evening, after a particularly long mission, Joaquin was the one who crashed first.
You found him sprawled across the couch, his arm draped over his face, still in his flight gear. His wings had been set aside, his boots lazily kicked off. He looked exhausted.
You should have woken him up, told him to change, maybe convinced him to eat something first.
Instead, you climbed right on top of him and curled up against his chest.
Joaquin made a small, sleepy noise of surprise but didn’t even open his eyes. His arms instinctively wrapped around you, pulling you closer, his hand resting against the small of your back.
“Mmm… stealing my move,” he mumbled.
“Shh,” you whispered, pressing a kiss to his jaw. “Nap first. Talk later.”
He chuckled sleepily. “See? Corrupted me.”
But he didn’t complain.
He just held you tighter and let himself drift off, safe and warm in your arms.
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motthe · 4 days ago
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there's no death here | robert "bob" reynolds
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ཐིཋྀ thunderbolts caught me with a bob-shaped hole in my heart.
warnings: spoilers from thunderbolts, super!reader, fem!reader, not sure if I'll make a bunch of parts or even finish this idea so be warned, gonna go ahead and say canon-divergent to save my ass bc im no marvel expert.
《masterlist》
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You weren't built for battle—the powers you had were more defense based than anything—but you had been trained by the best of the best. The countless lessons left your survival skills above subpar, and maybe you could make use of your size and strangle a man twice it, but those things didn't make you a hero.
And being around so many of them for so long, it's disturbingly easy to start to feel useless.
“Born or cursed?”
You didn't remember who had asked it. You do remember you had been younger, that you'd been more or less adopted into the world of the Avengers without ever truly being thrown into it. Wanda and Natasha had been your everything, especially when it came to helping with your powers. Between the supernatural and the mental side, they had done wonders.
Sitting around and not making use of yourself would be spitting on their memory, so it wasn't long before you were dragged into government business. Reading minds was handy, but picking apart memories? Entering their psyche?
You were gold to detectives and last resort for men in black suits who would “talk” to criminals if you didn't.
The work had drained enough from you by the time Bucky showed up on your doorstep with a bottle of liquor and a favor.
“This isn't what I do,” you told him, looking over the files. “I'm not a therapist or a teacher. If Void is as powerful as you say it is—”
“It can be beaten,” he explained. “We've done it before. I just need you to help Bob block it out. You know how to do that.”
“With other people's thoughts,” you argued.
He shook his head. “You suppress memories. You put them into neat little boxes for your agent work.”
“You want me to make him forget something that dangerous?”
“I want you to show him he's not alone when it comes to this side of superpowers.” Bucky stood, a warm hand coming down on your shoulder and squeezing. “We've all been scattered. It's a shit team, the New Avengers, but it's something, kid.”
“I’m not a kid anymore, Bucky,” you sighed.
“I know. Wouldn't be asking you for your help if you were.”
The door shut to your apartment in farewell, but one visit from the Winter Soldier had too many opening at once. Flashes of earth's most mightiest heroes, of old friends, dead friends, missing ones.
Getting dragged back into that mess was asking for trouble.
Sipping on free alcohol, you flip through the packet of Robert “Bob” Reynolds. Sweet face, fucked past, and a far more fucked psyche for the powers he'd revealed in the last hit on New York.
Cursed, you decided by the end of your research, frowning as a picture slipped free. The New Avengers were definitely a ragtag group. Bucky was the only one you knew, Yelena you learned more than enough about through Nat digging around her head one time too many. Alexei Shostakov as well, but he was easy to pick apart at one glance. Anything revolving around Ava Starr and John Walker was rumors or passed down the grapevine.
Your phone vibrated. Checking it drew a deep line between your eyebrows. Someone was asking for another questioning, this time through the mind of a rampant serial killer in Chicago. They didn't have enough on him.
You leaned into your hands, sighing.
Across the block at a red-light, Bucky glanced at his phone and smiled as he read over the text.
“I need to meet him before I agree to this.”
The light flicked green.
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The Watchtower was a shadow of the place you used to know. Repairs were still being made leaving people crawling on every floor but the top level had been finished for two weeks now, leaving the New Avengers with their shared space.
Bucky had promised the team would be out when you arrived, save for Bob. As it was quiet when the elevator door opened, you were glad to see he'd kept that promise.
“Welcome back,” he called, walking up.
“Which room did you snag?” you scoffed, eyeing the decor. Minimalist, neutral tones. Far greyer than the old room you remembered.
“The biggest.” He said it like it was obvious. Maybe it should've been.
Hearing movement, you both turned as a shadow passed by the windows. The hunched shoulders were a dead giveaway, soft eyes flittering between the floor and you as the young man stepped down.
Bob wore a dark blue sweater that drowned his figure and dark jeans. His hair was still a shaggy length and dark brown from the recent pictures you'd seen. By all accounts, he looked normal, but the anxiety flowed off him in waves that crashed against your head.
His mind extends way beyond others.
“Hi,” he greeted softly, clearing his throat. “You're, uh, Bucky's friend?”
You introduced yourself, stepping forward to offer your hand. He was quick to step back even across the room, body tensing.
“Wait, don't. I'm not sure if I—”
“When's the last time you transported someone into a shame room?”
The shock on his face had you glancing at Bucky for answers.
“Last week,” he said, crossing his arms. “Nothing super dangerous. Uncomfortable, but we get a lot of repeats so we break off easily enough.”
“Wait, so how much do you already know?” Bob asked, arms wrapping around himself.
“Enough,” you and Bucky respond.
Bob sighed, head nodding along as he turned away. “Great, guess that makes it easier.”
“I wouldn't say that; you're guarded now.” You moved closer, keeping your steps slow and your hands behind your back. Bob remained tense but didn't shy away. “Bucky called me here to see if I could help you, but I came here to see if you even want it.”
“Well, uh…” he swallowed, head bowing.
Do you want my help? His eyes flashed wide, breath catching as he looked up. You kept your expression neutral as you raised a brow. Do you? This will only work if you want to put in the effort.
“Can you see everything?”
You fought not to smile at the childish awe in his voice as it echoed back to you. I'm not looking. I'm listening.
A series of curses and panicked background commentary had you laughing.
I've heard and seen a lot. Honestly, don’t worry about it.
“That's easy for you to say,” Robert grumbled. “I cant control my thoughts like you can.”
“Would you like to?”
“It's not that I don't want your help,” he said, hands tangling into his sweater. “I just don't want to hurt anyone again. A lot of people… Some don't snap out of what I make them see. It's bad.”
“I have faith in my mental state,” you assured him. “Mental barriers, especially. I need to see just how powerful you are, though. Because if you get past mine, that means I'll be training you through trial and error. It's risky but it's not impossible.”
Bob looked to Bucky. “Do you think that's a good idea?”
Your old friend shrugged. “I brought her in because she's good at what she does. Whatever she wants to do, I have to trust it's the right decision.”
“I could hurt her!” Bob breathed and looked back to you. “I could hurt you really, really bad. Are you sure you know what you're signing up for?”
“I read through your files. I saw the extent of your powers and the aftermath of the accident,” you explained. “I'm prepared to help you with all things mental and psychic, but trust has to go both ways.”
You raised your hand again. He flinched, shuffling back.
“You want to help me now. What if that changes?” he whispers. “What if you see what it's really like and it scares you?”
“We won't know unless we try.” You took a step. Hand outstretched.
Bob looked at Bucky again, as if waiting to see if anyone would disagree. Whatever he searched for wasn't there.
He sighed and met your gaze. Pale blue eyes, you noted, with colors shifting around the pupil.
“Okay,” he nodded, holding up a shaky hand. The skin was bitten raw around his nails, skin dry but warm. The moment you felt it, there was a pressure against your mental shields. You could see the darkness clouding around you, searching for a way in, but you held firm.
“Are you okay?” he whispered, arm trembling as he stood there. His eyes were closed, head turned away.
You smiled, holding in a laugh as you used your other hand to grab his. “I'm fine, Bob. You're definitely powerful.”
“But you didn't see anything?” he said, eyeing where you were joined.
“I've had years to work on my mental barriers. You can't breach what doesn't have an entrance.” You squeezed his hand. “This is a really good sign. I'm going to have to let you in at some point to see just how potent your power is, but we'll work up to that.”
“You really don't see anything?” he whispered, hope rising in his expression as he searched your gaze.
“Just you,” you promised, unable to keep from smiling. “We'll have to work on your projection. Your thoughts are…loud.”
His face flushed red as he pulled away, sputtering an apology. There was some halfass excuse about the bathroom as he fled. Bucky stepped up to fill the empty space.
“What was he thinking?”
“None of your business,” you chuckled. “You got a guest room for me?”
But you had to admit you were flattered. Mens’ thoughts usually came up with the same descriptions for you at first glance. All your life you'd been met with disgusting thoughts and hateful opinions or plain “hot” and “sexy.”
This might've been the first time a man had ever thought of you as “radiant” before.
918 notes · View notes
yanderedrabbles · 5 months ago
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Yandere Christmas Special
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Christmas festivities featuring your local kidnappers Yandere! Soldier and Yandere! Sugar Daddy.
Yandere! Soldier who spends all Christmas morning at mass. And when he comes home, snow thick on his uniform, he smells like incense.
"Come see. I've brought you something."
There's a bottle of strong vodka and a frosted fruitcake waiting for you on the counter. You watch him unwrap the cake, your mind wandering to your family, to Christmas mornings when you were still an angsty teen. Did they think you were dead by now? Were they still looking for you?
He cuts a thick slice and holds it to your lips. It's sweet and dense and leaves your mouth sticky.
Yandere! Soldier who tilts your chin towards him and casually runs his thumb across your bottom lip to catch any stray crumbs.
"Let's drink, yeah?"
The vodka is icy cold and bitter. But the taste makes you think of friends and university and late nights when you were too tipsy to stand but oh so warm inside. You throw back more shots than normal, trying to chase the memories.
It's only when he gently pulls the bottle away that you realise you're far past tipsy. You're straight hammered.
You stumble when you stand and he's quick to catch you, one strong arm around your waist.
"You've got no head for drink, моя любовь."
"What does that mean?"
"It means it's time for bed."
You swat at him, irritated. "No. The Russian you used. What does it mean?"
He gently steers you toward the bedroom. "It means my love."
You twist around to face him. "Do you really love me?"
He raises a brow. "Alcohol loosens your tongue, doesn't it?"
He's quiet for a moment, studying you. The flush of your cheeks, the curve of your neck... You're everything he's ever wanted.
"Yes. I really love you. Я клянусь, что да."
I swear I do.
You stand on your toes and kiss him. Cradle his face in your palms and feel the heat of him bleed into you. You're so awfully cold, so awfully lonely. You'll regret it in the morning, but for now you press into him and chase the taste of vodka on his lips.
He pulls away and presses sweet, ticklish kisses against your inner wrist. He can feel your pulse racing.
"я полагаю, это мой рождественский подарок."
I suppose this is my Christmas present.
He grabs your thighs and picks you up. You wrap your arms around his neck, terrified of falling. Your breath ghosts across his neck and your nails dig stinging crescents into his muscles.
He doesn't say it out loud, but it's the best gift he's ever gotten.
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Yandere! Sugar Daddy has a tree stacked high with gifts. On Christmas morning, he wakes you up with a kiss and a mug of your favourite hot chocolate, complete with whipped cream and cinnamon sticks.
At first, you assume most of the boxes are just for decoration. There's over a dozen boxes waiting for you - they can't all be gifts, right?
But you should know him better by now. You unwrap present after present, gasping at each one.
A set of custom perfumes from a high fashion brand. Ten different pieces of Tiffany jewellery. A genuine fur coat. Your first pair of Louboutin heels.
Keys to a new car.
You sit in the middle of a treasure trove, struggling to wrap your head around it. He rests his chin on your shoulder and pushes his glasses up his nose.
"Do you like it?"
"Yes! Yes, it's incredible." You turn to face him. "But babe, this must have cost a fortune. I can't accept all of this."
He tilts his head. "Of course you can. I got it all for you."
You're about to argue when he cuts you off. "You said you got me something too?"
You nod and hand him two packages. Your dollar store wrapping paper is glaring cheap next to his.
He unwraps his gifts slowly. The first one is a journal you picked up in a thrift store, weeks before your argument left you trapped with him. Back when you still had your freedom.
You got your artist friend to emboss his name in gold leaf on the front cover. He flips it open to the first page.
To my tech genius boyfriend. This is what we normies call paper. You use it to record all the times your girlfriend is just absolutely incredible, got it? -y/n
He smirks and rubs the page between his fingers.
"I've only heard distant legends of this 'paper'... How fascinating."
You groan. "It seemed funny at the time okay?"
His next gift is a pottery vase, with elegant fluted handles. It's a deep cream with flecks of reddish iron bleeding through. He stares at it, his expression blank.
Your heart drops.
The truth is, you spent months looking for that specific vase. And when you finally found someone willing to sell, the price they named made your jaw drop. You haggled like hell for it. Practically begged the seller on your hands and knees to let you pay it off over a few months. Until this morning, it was a gift you were proud to give him.
But his gifts to you took all morning to unwrap, while all you can offer is a shitty notebook and some amateur pottery. You hate not being able to return his generosity in equal measure. You hate feeling like you're always giving him the short end of the stick. Even now, when you have every reason to hate him, it hurts that you can't spoil him like he does you.
He finally looks up at you, dazed. "This is an original Murazaki. How did you know I wanted one?"
"You mentioned it a few months ago. When we were having dinner together in my apartment."
He puts the vase down carefully.
"You remembered?"
It's your turn to be confused. "Of course? You were really upset about it. You said he was your favourite artist but that you could never find any of his stuff for sale."
He stares at you like he's trying to pick you apart. You look down, embarrassed.
"Look, I'm sorry I didn't get you more gifts. I feel like an ass. Like the world's worst girl-"
He grabs you before you can finish and pulls you flush against him. He buries his face in your hair. He takes a deep breath, like he needs to control himself.
"You remembered."
He kisses your temple and then presses his forehead against yours. His voice is low and loving and just a little shaky.
"Oh y/n, you're the best gift I could ask for."
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Bonus: a yandere who only has one thing on his Christmas wishlist - you.
You wake up under his Christmas tree, cold and confused and still groggy from the sleeping pills he slipped you.
Your hands are tied behind your back and there's a cherry red gag in your mouth. You squirm, trying to pull your hands free. The floor is icy against your naked skin. Wait, naked?
You look down, horror clawing it's slow way up your throat. Most of your clothes are gone. And you're almost completely wrapped in ribbon.
Your thighs are held together with an excruciatingly tight bow. Two green rosettes are pinned to the lace of your bra. You can't see it, but there's a cute red bow stuck on your head too.
The door opens and you hear heavy footsteps on the basement stairs. You squirm, increasingly desperate to get loose.
"Wouldcha look at that? Santa brought me exactly what I asked for."
Your kidnapper squats down next to you, his eyes roaming your body. Taking in all the curves and dips. Mapping it out like it's his to explore. He reaches out and tugs at the ribbon tied around your throat.
"My girl all wrapped up under the Christmas tree."
He grabs your chin and tilts your face up towards his. His eyes are dark - the pupils blown out wide with lust, with hunger.
"Merry Christmas baby. I promise it'll be one you never forget.
2K notes · View notes
vunblr · 14 days ago
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Behind Closed Doors.
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Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader
Tags: Established relationship. Light Angst. Regression Episodes. Emotional Dependency. Comfort. Pet names.
Warnings: 18+ only. PTSD. Regressive!Bucky. Mommy Kink. Praise Kink. Self-Soothing (Nursing). Comfort Sex. Past Self-Harm Mention.
Summary: Most days, Bucky is a functional, dependable, and even deadly man. Others, when the noise in his head gets too loud, behind closed doors, he becomes Jamie.
Word Count: About 5.5k.
notes: For the @avengers-assemble-bingo event, Kinky Bingo. The Prompt is Mommy Kink. Card number KB-014.
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The door banged open hard enough to rattle the frame. Sam strode in first, glancing over his shoulder. "I told you to handle it like a grown-ass man."
Bucky followed, with a duffel slung over his shoulder and a deep scowl carved into his face. "It was handled," he muttered.
She stepped out from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel, smiling without thinking, until she caught the flicker in Bucky’s eyes, the slight drop of his shoulders, the tension so tight under his skin it was a wonder he could move at all.
Still, he crossed the room like nothing was wrong, dropped the duffel with a heavy thud, and bent to kiss her in a short press. His lips were dry, and his hand felt cold against her hip through her pajama shirt. "Missed you," he said, like he meant to say more but swallowed it back down.
Sam snorted behind them. "Real touching, man. Now gimme the damn briefcase, lover boy." 
She laughed under her breath; Bucky flipped him off without looking.
The briefcase was waiting by the couch, matte black, secure enough to survive a plane crash. Bucky kicked it closer with the toe of his boot.
"You know," Sam said, hefting it. "This wouldn’t even be necessary if a certain someone didn’t hulk out on Redwing."
Bucky shrugged, deadpan. "It was an accident."
"Bullshit," Sam barked, half-laughing. "You aimed at him!"
"He was in the way."
"He was flying surveillance, you jackass!"
Bucky shrugged again, more theatrical this time, and a sly twist tugging at his mouth. "Collateral damage."
Sam muttered something vile, but the edge was missing, worn down by exhaustion and familiarity. They circled each other like two old dogs too stubborn to admit they were friends.
"You owe me," Sam called over his shoulder, stepping through the door.
Bucky didn’t answer, just kicked the door shut behind him with a solid, decisive slam.
Three long strides, and he was in her space. He bent his head, digging his forehead into the curve where her neck met her shoulder, banding his arms around her like he could fold himself into her skin if he just held tight enough.
He shuddered once -just once- and then he went still, breathing her in like she was air after drowning.
Already feeling the shift in his mind -the slow melt of tension into something heavier, darker- she cupped the back of his head and murmured, "What's wrong, Jamie?"
His voice was a rasp against her throat. "Don't wanna talk about it, Mommy."
There it was. The tremor under the words. The old damage rising from the depths, thick as smoke, inescapable.
It was going to be one of those weeks.
Bucky was gone. Not dead, not disappeared. Just… buried.
His mind, fractured and fragile, bore scars deeper than any bullet wound. Years of physical torture, mind control, chemical sedation, and that damned chair had left behind something that could never be stitched whole again, only nurtured, only loved in all its brokenness.
"Alright," she whispered, smoothing her palm along the nape of his neck, tangling her fingers lightly in his hair. "You don't have to, sweetie."
Bucky clung harder and shifted his weight, nudging her backwards, steering her without words. The backs of her knees bumped the armrest of the couch, catching her off guard- and then he was pressing, urging, laying her down like something loved but urgent, needing her pliant and beneath him.
She let herself fall back, and her body sank into the cushions.
Bucky climbed after her, sprawling his massive frame above her, caging her in, shuddering like the weight of the world was slipping down his spine.
He buried his face against her chest, moving his mouth blindly, mouthing her through the thin cotton of her pajama top. Desperate, clumsy, a low whine slipping from his throat when the fabric denied him skin.
Frustrated, he nosed under the hem, catching it with his teeth, tugging upward -an animal trying to shed the barrier himself- and she lifted her arms in silent permission, helping him strip the top away.
"There you go, baby," she cooed, cradling the back of his head, guiding him.
Bucky latched greedily onto her breast the second he could. His tongue flicked rough and desperate, the suction was almost bruising, pulling at her with the kind of force that spoke of starvation, not hunger.
She cradled him close, slightly rocking them as soft, wet sounds filled the quiet room. The metal plates of his hand pressed cold against her waist as he shifted his hold, needing the contact. He suckled hard -harder than he usually allowed himself- losing himself in the mindless rhythm of the process, soothed only by her scent, her heartbeat, the feel of her skin in his mouth.
She only held him tighter, whispering into the crown of his head, "I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."
But it wasn't enough. She felt it, the restless grind of his hips against her leg, the low, helpless groan deep in his chest.
The tremors in his body grew worse. He needed more. More skin, more warmth, more of her wrapped around every broken part of him he didn’t know how to fix.
He whimpered around her nipple, the sound was pitiful, hungry, broken. His hips jerked forward in clumsy, desperate thrusts, rubbing his heavy cock against her leg, the friction too little, too clothed, too maddening.
One of his hands fumbled down between them, pawing clumsily at her waistband, frustrated when the fabric of her pajama shorts didn’t yield. She lifted her hips, helping, soothing, letting him peel the barrier away.
The second her shorts were gone, he was there, grinding harder, the rough denim of his fatigues rasping against the tender, slick heat between her legs. His mouth never stopped, suckling greedily and wet at her breast, the noises were animalistic, wet, and obscene. Her thighs fell open to give him more, to give him everything he was silently begging for.
"That's it, baby," she murmured against his temple, her voice thick with love and aching need. "Take it, Jamie. Take what you need."
He shuddered at her words, and with a low growl, he fumbled at his belt, nearly tearing it open in his frantic need. The sound of the zipper rasped loud in the thick, humid air between them, and then he was pushing his pants and boxers just far enough down to free himself, his cock flushed dark and leaking, throbbing with every erratic beat of his heart.
He didn't even line himself up properly at first, just thrusting blindly, rutting against her belly, her hip, lost in pure instinct. She reached down, gentle but firm, guiding him lower, dragging the head of his cock through her slick folds, and he gasped, a desperate, wounded noise, like she'd just torn open his chest and touched his heart.
He pushed forward in a single, shaking thrust, sinking inside her inch by inch, whimpering her name, clinging to her body.
"Mommy... Mommy, please..." he sobbed into her skin, fucking desperately into her, like he couldn't get deep enough, close enough, like he needed to crawl inside her and never come out.
She wrapped her arms and legs around him, holding him tighter, whispering praises and love into his hair, rocking her hips up to meet each frantic thrust, giving him everything, everything he needed.
Bucky's rhythm faltered almost immediately, embarrassingly fast, his whole body went rigid, and a broken cry tore from his throat as he came hard, pulsing deep and warm inside her.
Her fingers never stopped stroking his scalp, the curve of his neck, the tense line of his back where sweat glued his shirt to his skin. He whimpered low in his chest, a sound that made her thighs clench around his waist instinctively, holding him there, inside her, where he belonged.
"You did so good for me." she murmured again, threading the words right into his marrow, "filled me up so good, sweetheart."
His hips gave a weak jerk, as if his body was trying to answer even while spent. He nosed deeper into the crook of her neck, and his hands roamed frantically on her hips like he didn’t know whether to stay still or start again. A needy little whimper bled out of him, wet and desperate.
"Shh, you're perfect," she soothed, rocking her hips just the slightest bit, enough to make him groan, low and wrecked.
But Bucky needed more. Shame and hunger twisted together in his mind, his need to please her, to earn the sweetness of her praise. His hand scrabbled down her body, pushing his shaking fingers between them, seeking out where they were still joined, sticky and wet.
"I can-" he mumbled into her neck, his voice hoarse and cracked, "I can make you come, Mommy... lemme... please, lemme-"
She caught his wrist, soft but firm, guiding him, showing him without words. Her own fingers slipped down, spreading herself open for him, letting him feel the slick heat, her throbbing clit, how ready she was, how close she'd been even from his desperate rutting.
"Alright," she breathed, her voice breaking into a moan when his thumb brushed clumsily over her clit. "Let Mommy remember you how."
He chased every stuttered gasp, every little roll of her hips, with awkward but hungry movements, so eager to please that he trembled. He kissed her neck, her collarbone, and nuzzled helplessly against her, feeding off every moan, "Tell me, Mommy... wanna make you feel good... please..."
"You're doing so good, baby," she cooed, rolling her hips into the clumsy circles he traced against her swollen clit, feeling sparks skittering up her spine. "My big strong boy... that's it, sweetie, just like that."
His breath hitched sharply. She felt him throb inside her, half-hard but growing, so easily aroused by her praise.
"M- more," she whispered into his hair, guiding his hand with gentle, insistent pressure. "Mommy needs more, Jamie... you can give it to me, can't you, baby?"
A shattered little sound broke out of his throat. He latched onto her neck, sucking greedily, slipping his fingers faster, finding the rhythm she loved without even realizing it, simply because she wanted it, because she told him he could.
"Yes... yes, I can-" he gasped, nearly crying it, driving his hand harder against her, frantic, devoted.
She moaned shamelessly, grinding softly against his hand, feeling the wet slide of his cock thickening again between her slick folds. She angled her hips to grind against him, smearing herself all over him, and he nearly sobbed.
"Such a good boy," she panted, dragging her fingers across his scalp, tugging his hair just enough to make him moan. "Making me feel so good... my perfect boy..."
Bucky's whole body shuddered. He humped against her without rhythm, desperate, straining toward the heaven of her approval.
She was so close, the pleasure was burning tight and high, and when he whined brokenly, "Need you to cum Mommy, need it so bad," she ground against him harder, her and breath hitched. The tension snapped through her body as she came around his already hard cock, writhing, crying his name, clamping her thighs tightly around his waist.
His hips moved before thought could catch them, pure instinct, pure need. She gasped sharply, her body so sensitive, still riding her orgasm, and he let out a strangled moan, pressing his forehead hard against hers, as his arms shook where they caged her in.
"Jamie," she whimpered, reflexively wrapping her legs tighter around him, holding him there, where he belonged.
He groaned, trying to last, trying to hold back -but the heat of her body and the clutch of her inner muscles around him milked another low, broken cry from his throat.
"Can't-" he choked out, as his hips twitched. "Mommy, I- fuck-, I can't-"
"You don't have to, baby," she whispered against his lips, "Just let go."
The second the words left her mouth, Bucky shattered. His rhythm was frantic and short-lived, sloppy little thrusts, his whole body spasming, jerking helplessly. His face twisted into a tortured, beautiful grimace, mouth open in a silent cry as he came again, flooding her, so raw, so painfully intense it stripped the breath from his lungs.
She held him through it, both hands threaded in his hair, pulling his weight down onto her so he could sob against her throat, every breath a broken thing.
"Good boy," she murmured, cradling him, rocking him gently even as he trembled and gasped, as if the orgasm had unraveled something too dark inside him.
"My sweet, perfect Jamie..."
He clung to her, gasping, as the aftershocks racked his body. His cock throbbed weakly inside her, spent but refusing to soften, desperate to stay part of her, to never be alone again.
"Love you," he rasped, barely louder than a breath. "I love you so much..."
She kissed his temple, his wet lashes, the corner of his mouth. "I love you too, sweetheart."
He whimpered again, softer this time, more at peace, and his breathing began to slow down as she stroked his spine. It was a mindless comfort, just the warmth of her body, her scent, the surety of being wanted exactly as he was, no masks, no shame.
She felt him trembling against her, as small broken hitches of breath ghosted hot over her collarbone, and she knew he wasn’t done needing her yet. Gently, she threaded her fingers through his hair again, scratching lightly at his scalp until he made a soft, choked sound, half-whine, half-moan.
"Jamie, baby," she whispered, kissing his ear, feeling the damp strands of hair clinging to his temple. "I need you to sit up for me, alright? Just for a minute. Let Mommy take care of you."
He whined again, burrowing his face harder against her skin, refusing. His cock twitched uselessly inside her, spent but stubborn, like his body was terrified of losing contact.
She cupped his jaw, brushing her thumb along the sharp plane of his cheekbone. "Sweetheart, please. Just a little shift, then you can cuddle all you want. Promise."
That promise cracked through the fog in his mind. Bucky lifted his head, blinking slowly and heavy with glazed blue eyes, and his lip caught in his teeth in a desperate little bite. Wordless, he obeyed, pushing himself up on shaking arms and pulling out of her with a reluctant, shuddering moan.
She winced a little at the loss but sat up quickly, nudging his hips to guide him back onto the couch cushions. His tactical pants were still around his thighs, boots still muddy and scuffed from the mission, whole body a mess of tension and need.
She kissed his knee through the fabric, soothing him. "Good boy. Stay still for me, alright?"
He nodded, but his hands twitched like he didn’t know what to grab onto, finally fisting the fabric of her discarded pajama top like a lifeline.
With quick hands, she unlaced and yanked off his boots, tossing them without care. His socks followed, peeled off with a little tug. Then she shimmied the ruined pants down his thighs, down past his knees, ankles, freeing him completely.
Bucky whined low in his throat, and his thighs trembed where they spread for her, his cock flushed dark, twitching weakly against his belly, glistening with the mess of what they’ve made.
"There we go, baby," she murmured, stroking his trembling thighs, letting him feel her loving hands on him. "I got you."
He looked like he wanted to fold in on himself, humiliated and desperate, as his chest heaved.
She pressed a soft kiss to his navel, another just above his hipbone. "You did so well for me, Jamie. Gave Mommy everything she needed.”
He tensed beneath her mouth, breath hitching like he wanted to protest. “That’s not true, I couldn’t-”
She kissed the top of his thigh, firmer this time. “Shhh. No, baby. No more of that.” Her hand smoothed over his stomach. “You did. You gave me what you could. That’s everything.”
Her kiss, her words, seemed to reach him. She felt the tension in his grip easing, not gone, but yielding enough for her to slip from his hold.
“I’ll be right back, baby,” she murmured, brushing one last kiss to his thigh before pulling away slowly.
He gave a faint whimper but let her go, slumping back into the couch, with his legs still spread, and arms loose and heavy at his sides. Vulnerable. Waiting.
She moved quickly, finding a clean cloth and dampening it with warm water, squeezing it out until it streamed between her fingers. When she returned, he hadn’t moved, and his eyes were glassy, staring somewhere past the ceiling, lost somewhere she couldn’t follow, breathing slowly but not relaxed.
She knelt between his thighs and began wiping him with slow, tender strokes, the warm cloth gliding over his softening cock and the skin of his inner thighs. He let her do, as always.
Then, in a voice so quiet it was almost a breath, he said, "There was a chair."
Her hands froze for just a second before she moved again, softer now, like she was tending a wound she couldn’t see. He didn’t have to explain. That phrase -the chair- floated between them, thick and poisonous.
She kissed tenderly the inside of his knee and crawled up to straddle his lap without hesitation, wrapping him up in her arms. His flesh hand immediately latched onto her waist, the metal one curling over her back like he could mold her into himself.
"It was supposed to be another kind of mission," she said tentatively.
"The growing organization... Sam said... they were forming from scraps. Vestiges. Hydra info." His breathing hitched. "We thought... we thought there would be intel to scrap. Maybe... maybe a serum, old samples. Destroy it before it can spread. But they had it. They had the chair."
He choked the last word out like it tasted like blood.
She cradled his face between her hands. “They can’t hurt you anymore, sweetie. You’re free, remember? Remember how they made it all better in Wakanda?” he only nodded, hiding his face on one of her palms.
She threaded her fingers slowly through his hair, feeling the tension beneath his scalp like a live wire still sparking. “Are you hungry, Jamie?” she whispered against the shell of his ear.
There was a small, reluctant pause before he nodded against her chest. "Yeah. But... I can't-" he clutched her tighter, as if her body might dissolve if he let go.
"I know," she soothed. "Come with me, then. We'll stick together."
She coaxed him to stand, his heavy steps were sluggish, clumsy, almost childlike in his exhaustion. He shadowed her across the room, never more than an inch away, his hand curled tight at her waist. While she pulled things from the fridge and stacked a couple of fast sandwiches, Bucky wrapped around her from behind, big and unyielding, pinning her gently against the counter with his weight.
He buried his face in her neck, breathing her scent.
"I'm sorry I'm like this," he mumbled, with a raw, scratchy voice against her skin. "I’m sorry my head's so messed up."
She stilled her hands, the sandwich forgotten half-built, and cupped his forearm where it pressed across her middle, squeezing him hard.
"No," she said firmly, tipping her head back against his shoulder to make sure he heard every word. "You survived what would have killed anybody else. You’re not messed up. You're my Jamie. That's all that matters."
Bucky let out a low, broken sound, something between a sob and a sigh, and hug her tighter like he might fuse himself into her bones if he could.
"Now eat a little, sweetheart," she whispered. "Then I'll tuck you into bed, yeah?"
He nodded mutely against her neck, still clinging, letting her finish fixing the sandwiches one-handed while he melted against her.
"Need me to cut them small for you, or are you good to grab the knife?" she asked gently, tilting her head to catch his expression.
Bucky hesitated, and his eyes flickered uncertainly to the counter, then back to her. "I'll eat them whole," he said finally. "With my hands."
"That's so good, baby," she praised, brushing her fingers over his knuckles. "Wanna eat them on the bed?"
He only nodded, letting her gather the plate and then reach for his hand, guiding him through the hallway like leading a wounded animal.
"Alright. Shirt off, sweetheart," she murmured when they reached the bedroom, giving a little tug at the hem of his tactical top. "Don’t want that messy thing on the sheets."
"Sorry," he mumbled, brow crumpling. His fingers fumbled at the fabric, uncertain. "Should I shower too?"
"Do you want to?" she asked.
"The sheets-"
"Bucky," she cut him off. Not Jamie this time, but Bucky, to wise him up. His breath caught in his chest.
"Do you want to?" she repeated, slower, softer.
"...not right now," he confessed.
"Then get in the bed and eat the sandwiches," she ordered gently, brushing her palm over his stomach in passing.
He obeyed without argument, pulling the shirt clumsily over his head and leaving it crumpled on the floor. His body was flushed and tight with leftover adrenaline, his scars standing out against his skin. He climbed onto the bed, sitting cross-legged like a great, awkward boy, with the plate balanced in his lap.
She settled beside him, smoothing her hand up and down his back in slow, rhythmic strokes as he tore into the first sandwich with trembling fingers, chewing dutifully.
Every time he took a bite, she murmured something soft near his ear: "That's it, baby." "You're doing so good." "My sweet boy."
Bucky shivered every time, eating faster, desperate for her approval, for the tone of her voice wrapped around him.
When he finished, he wiped his hands clumsily on the sheet. She would’ve scolded him, but when he turned toward her, his eyes were huge and glassy, and desperate, his mouth trembling like he might cry if she said even one word wrong, she couldn’t.
Instead, she only smiled, lifting the plate from his lap and setting it aside.
"C'mere," she whispered, opening her arms.
She eased them down into the mattress, coaxing him to lie with his head against her chest. His hair -brushing past his jawline in dark, tangled waves- spilled over her skin. She threaded her fingers through it without urgency, combing gently through the snarls, almost worshipfully.
Bucky let out a low, shaky exhale against her skin, the sound was so raw it made her chest ache. Each slow stroke of her fingers through his hair unspooled knots buried far deeper than the ones at his scalp, memories of fists twisting in his hair to punish, to control, to bend him to grotesque, degenerate wills. Those hands had ripped at him like he was a mindless beast, but hers... hers just held, adored, cherished.
She waited, giving him time to soften under her touch, before she murmured, her voice barely a ghost against the crown of his head.
"Do you have to go tomorrow?" Her fingers combed slowly, untangling another small knot. "You just got here. Can't Clint count on someone else?"
He shook his head against her chest, dragging his hair across her skin in a silky brush. "They need me," he rasped, his voice hollowed out by guilt. "My strength. My hands. Can't just leave 'em hanging."
She kissed the top of his head, brushing her lips in the softest spot where his hair parted. "Rest then, handsome," she breathed into him. "I'll guard your sleep."
----
She woke slowly, feeling him before she even turned her head down. Bucky was draped half over her, his chest pressed to her side, with one heavy arm hooked around her waist. His face was nuzzled into her breast, his wet, warm mouth suckling in soft, absent pulses around her nipple. Not truly awake. Not truly dreaming. Just clinging. Needing.
Nuzzled in like a child too big to be held, too broken not to need it anyway.
She said nothing. Would never say anything. Just slid her hand through his long hair, slow and tenderly, letting him have whatever peace he could steal from her body.
Later, after he finally stirred with a grumble and a heavy, embarrassed sigh, she helped him to the bathroom, guiding him under the shower. She washed his hair carefully, then his body. Dressed him piece by piece in a fresh set of tactical clothing with a lover’s hands.
They sat side by side at the kitchen table, with their knees bumping occasionally, plates between them. Bucky picked at his toast, sluggish but obedient, while she fussed with a napkin, sweeping a streak of jam from the stubble along his jaw. He tilted his head toward her touch like a sleepy cat, eyes half-lidded, savoring every second. Then-
The doorbell rang, sharp and sudden.
Bucky stiffened immediately. His fork clattered onto the plate as he straightened, with a frown etching deep between his brows.
"Early," he muttered. "Wasn’t supposed to be here 'til later."
"I’ll get the door. Finish your breakfast," she said, squeezing his hand before rising.
As she crossed the living room, she could already hear Clint's muffled voice behind the door, some cheery nonsense about coffee and ‘no rest for the wicked.’ She shook her head fondly and reached for the handle, casting one last glance back at Bucky, still sitting hunched at the table, tense, his eyes dark with the weight of parting.
Clint stepped inside with a gust of morning air, scrubbing a hand through his messy hair. He sniffed exaggeratedly, with a wide grin breaking over his face.
"Smells delicious in here. You mind if I munch on something? Didn’t have time at home, kids were playing tug-of-war with my socks."
Bucky froze for a breath mid-bite. Then, without missing another beat, the switch flipped, and he slipped the mask into place. His scowl was automatic, familiar, almost rehearsed.
"Comin’ early and stealing my food," he muttered, jerking his chin toward the table in a rough invitation.
Clint chuckled, taking it for what it was and flopping into the nearest chair.
She hid her little sigh behind a smile, moving to pour Clint some coffee and pulling extra toast and eggs from the warming plate on the stove. As she set them down in front of him, she cast a glance at Bucky.
The mask wasn’t how he lived day to day. Most of the time, he was a functional, competent, and reliable partner. Not the trembling boy who'd wept against her chest, mourning a harsh treatment he hadn’t had in years but still felt in his bones.
When something triggered the trauma, he regressed for days. And those days were… well, manageable inside the house. But when the outside world needed something of him, when he couldn’t just pass those days at peace, the mask appeared. He wore it every time he left home. To go on missions, to stand across from bureaucrats and therapists, to smile awkwardly when a stranger said "thank you for your service," but looking at him like he was a monster.
Now he lounged in his seat, with an elbow propped on the table, coffee in hand, boots crossed at the ankles, looking confident.
Clint wolfed down half a piece of toast, talking around it. "So, mission details got updated late last night," he said, crumbs flying. "Turns out the warehouse’s not just full of spare parts and wannabe Zemo cosplay rejects. They’ve got a shipment of experimental tech stashed in a sublevel. Pressure sensors on every door, that kind of shit. Trip one, and the whole place locks down."
Bucky barely lifted his brows. Sipped his coffee like Clint was telling him the damn weather. "I'll handle that alone," he said flatly. "You just focus on fucking up their electric system."
Clint grinned around his coffee mug. "Pfft. It's like you don’t even need me there."
Bucky gave him a slow, unimpressed look that said exactly that.
Clint clutched his chest theatrically. "Rude."
They bickered, sharp-edged and kind of amicably, but beneath the noise, Bucky’s left hand slid across the seat instinctively until his fingers found hers under the table.
He squeezed her, firm and self-soothingly. She squeezed back, not even glancing down, not making a big thing of it.
----
By the time Clint was asking for seconds, Bucky had drunk all his coffee and finished wiping his plate clean with a torn piece of toast.
"You should see what Lila pulled on Laura last week," Clint said between mouthfuls. "Whole laundry room filled with packing peanuts. Packing peanuts. I swear, that kid’s got a future in psychological warfare."
Bucky huffed -the closest thing he gave to a laugh most days- and leaned back in his chair.  His hand didn’t leave hers under the table. Not once.  When he stood, he tugged gently, silently asking her to follow.
"Be right back," she said casually to Clint, who just waved her off, too busy scraping jam onto another slice of toast.
In the hallway, Bucky didn’t speak. He just brushed his arm against hers, subtly, before nudging open the door to the gear room.
Everything was already half-packed, and she moved to help without him asking. Slid ammo clips into pouches, folded the spare jacket, and zipped compartments closed. Behind her, Bucky stripped off the sweatshirt he'd thrown on for breakfast, revealing the tight black compression shirt beneath it.
"Are you good on suppressors?" she asked, checking the side pouches.
"Yeah." His voice was rough, but controlled. "Packed two."
She smoothed her hand over the thick strap of his tac belt as she adjusted it on the table, brushing her thumb over a scuff mark near the buckle.
His body brushed hers again, slow and heavy, with a silent gratitude he never put into words.
From down the hallway, Clint's voice floated: "-and then she glued all my arrows together. Like some evil arts and crafts project-"
Bucky huffed another low sound, a little closer to amusement this time.
His arm bumped hers again.
He just kept finding ways to stay in her space, pressing close like something small burrowing under a blanket, chasing the comfort only she could give him.
She worked around him like a second skin, slipping the knives into their sheaths behind his waist, across his thighs, securing the flashbangs to the front clips.
He stood still for her, obedient, letting her dress him for war, like he couldn't do it himself.
Not today.
His hands twitched at his sides when she brushed too close to his belt, reaching for the magazine pouches. When she fastened the vest across his chest, his fingers tangled briefly in the hem of her shirt, clutching, small, desperate. She pressed a kiss just below his collarbone in answer, right over the faint scar where a bullet had once shattered bone. He exhaled roughly. Still trembling. Still pretending otherwise, because Clint was just down the hallway.
She buckled the side straps and slotted the heavier grenades at his hip. Checked the sidearm holsters, one after the other. He didn't even try anymore, just let her do it. Let her carry the ritual when he couldn't. It broke her heart every time, how he still wanted to be the strong asset everyone expected him to be, even when the man inside it had been splintered into pieces.
She knelt to strap his boots tighter, double-knotting the laces with a tug. When she stood up, Bucky was already sinking to his knees in front of her. He pressed his face against her belly, wrapping his arms around her waist in a crushing grip.
She just threaded her fingers through his hair, those longer, wild locks he never let the stylists touch, combing slow, soothing strokes from root to tip.
He breathed against her. Ragged. Needy.
A few years ago, when she'd found him curled in a corner after a nightmare so bad he couldn't even speak, she'd dared to ask him, "How did you deal with it… before?"
It had taken him three tries to answer. Finally, he'd muttered: "I... hurt myself. Until I could function again." Like it was normal. Like it was the best strategy. Damage the body to break the mind out of a loop.
Pain instead of panic.
She cradled him closer, stroking the nape of his neck with her thumb.
Never again. Not under her watch.
She motioned for him to stand up. "You’re geared up, Jamie," she murmured against his temple when he pressed his body against her again. He nodded but didn't move. Just hold her closer, breathing the scent of her skin, sensing the fabric of her shirt, the pulse of life he always chased in her when the world tried to smother him.
Only when she whispered, "Come on, handsome. Let’s not keep Clint waiting," did he finally push himself up with a soft grunt, rubbing his face against her like he could take a piece of her with him.
He took a deep breath, still trembling faintly, but standing straighter now.
Still fractured, but held together by her hands, her patience, and her love.
And that was enough.
It was always enough.
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Permanent Taglist: @civilbucky @pandaxnienke @queergalpal97 @mrsalexstan
dividers by: @/strangergraphics
788 notes · View notes
cressidagrey · 30 days ago
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White Horse - Chapter 15: March 2024
Pairing: Max Verstappen x Isabelle Leclerc (Original Character)
Summary:
Max Verstappen is a World Champion. Isabelle Leclerc is invisible.
She watched her family give up everything for Charles’ career—Arthur’s karting, their father’s savings, even her childhood horse. She understood. She never asked for more.
But Max does. He notices the things no one else does, listens when no one else will, and puts her first in ways she never imagined. With him, she isn’t an afterthought—she’s a choice. And for the first time, she realizes she doesn’t have to be invisible.
Warnings and Notes: 
we have now moved on from Charles bashing to bashing his whole family, Discussions of toxic past relationships, talk about loosing a childhood pet, toxic families, Me trying to write therapy sessions.
As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble
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Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Gianpiero Lambiase
Isabelle: Hi GP, Um. This is Isabelle. Belle. Max’s Belle. Sorry for texting you out of nowhere. I hope it’s okay.
GP: Hi Belle. It’s okay. Max talks about you enough that it feels overdue, honestly.
Belle: Oh. Good.
GP: He’s very annoying about it. In a way that’s almost endearing.
Belle: Haha. Sorry.
GP: Don’t apologize. What’s up?
Belle: So… I’m in Bahrain. And I want to surprise Max. Like, sneak into his hotel room before he gets back from practice. Very harmless. Very stealthy. Zero crime.
GP: Did your doctor clear you to travel?
Isabelle: Yes. I have a note and everything.
GP: Because if you’re here without medical clearance and something happens, Max will kill me. And then probably reanimate me and kill me again.
Belle: I promise. I’m cleared. I’ll send you the doctor’s note if you need it.
GP: Good. Because if I was going to help sneak you in, it needed to be a guilt-free crime.
Belle: You’ll help?
GP: Belle, if surprising Max with you magically appearing in his hotel room gets him to stop moping around like a man whose soul was ripped out, I will personally carry you upstairs myself if needed.
Belle: You’re very good at emotional blackmail. I respect that.
GP: I learned from the best. (Max.)
Belle: Okay. I’m at the hotel now. Should I just wait nearby?
GP: Yeah. Give me 10 minutes. I’ll text you when the coast is clear.
Belle: Thank you, GP. Really. I know you didn’t have to.
GP: You’re good for him. That’s all I need to know.
***
The hallway was dim and quiet when Max stepped out of the elevator, still half in race mode — muscle memory from practice laps thrumming through his veins, sweat drying at the back of his neck.
He dug for his key card automatically, mind already turning toward data reviews and hydration schedules, as he opened the door of his Hotel room. 
And then he looked up.
And stopped dead.
Because there, lounging on the couch in his Hotel room in Bahrain, wearing a loose fitting dress, her hair damp from a shower she must have just taken - was her. 
Belle.
Waiting for him.
Max blinked once.
Twice.
He genuinely thought, for a heartbeat, that he was hallucinating.
"Hi," she said, smiling — a real smile, tired but so real — like she hadn’t nearly died two weeks ago, like she hadn’t ripped his heart out and stitched it back together in the same breath.
"Hi," Max said hoarsely, voice cracking slightly.
She stood up slowly, careful, and Max could see the faint traces of bruises still painting her collarbone under the neckline of her dress.
He didn’t think.
He crossed the hallway in three long strides and gathered her into his arms, pulling her against his chest so tightly she squeaked.
Belle laughed — a soft, breathless sound — and buried her face against his shoulder.
"You’re here," Max murmured, like he still couldn’t believe it, like he had to say it out loud just to make it real. "You’re actually here."
"I missed you," Belle whispered into his shirt. "I wanted to surprise you."
"You’re going to kill me one day, you know that?" he said, laughing wetly against her hair. "Heart attack at 26."
She pulled back just enough to look up at him, hands still clutching the fabric of his shirt.
"You’re not mad?"
"Mad?" Max shook his head, jaw tight with emotion. "Belle, I’m—" He broke off, swallowing hard. "I’m so fucking glad you’re here, I don’t even have words for it."
Her eyes shone a little too brightly, but her smile was steady.
"I’m cleared to travel," she said quickly, reading the worry still written across his face. "I’m fine. I’m okay."
Max leaned down and kissed her forehead — a soft, reverent brush of lips — before resting his forehead against hers.
"I thought you were at home," he said, voice low and rough. "Resting."
Belle gave a tiny, guilty smile.
"Technically, I am resting," she said. "Just... here."
Max huffed a breathless laugh — half relief, half something too big to name.
"And how exactly," he murmured, pulling back to raise an eyebrow at her, "did you sneak into a fully-booked F1 team hotel?"
Belle bit her bottom lip, eyes sparkling.
"GP might have helped a little."
Max stared at her for a beat — then burst out laughing, pressing a kiss against her forehead.
"Of course he did," he said, voice shaking slightly with laughter and something dangerously close to tears.
Belle beamed up at him, utterly unrepentant.
"He even texted me like it was a spy mission," she added proudly. "I think he had fun."
Max shook his head, still smiling, overwhelmed by how much he loved her.  
"He's going to regret that when I promote him from race engineer to full-time Belle smuggler."
Belle laughed, wrapping her arms tighter around his waist.
"You’re not mad?"
Max kissed the top of her head, breathing her in like he still couldn’t believe she was real.
"Mad?" he echoed. "No. You’re here. You’re safe. That’s all I’ll ever care about."
She tucked her face into his chest, and Max just held her there — steady, grounding her, grounding himself.
***
Arthur spotted her near the Ferrari hospitality entrance, and for a long second, he honestly thought he was seeing things.
Isabelle —
Here?
In Bahrain?
He frowned, confused, slowing his steps.
She wasn’t supposed to be here.
No one had said anything.
She hadn’t said anything.
Not in the family chat.
Not in any of the bland, polite “good luck” texts she sent before race weekends.
Arthur crossed the walkway toward her before he could overthink it.
“Isabelle?” he called, blinking against the bright sun.
She turned, smiling when she saw him — but it was a small, careful kind of smile.
Not the bright, easy one he remembered.
“Hey, Arthur,” she said softly.
He stopped in front of her, feeling weirdly awkward.
“You didn’t say you were coming,” he said, trying for teasing but it came out too sharp, too defensive.
“I didn’t know I was coming until a few days ago,” Isabelle said, shrugging one shoulder. “Doctor cleared me. Figured I’d make the trip.”
Arthur’s eyes flicked over her automatically — and caught, despite himself, on the faint bruising still along her temple, the shadows along her collarbone.
He looked away quickly.
Pretended he hadn’t seen it.
“You look fine,” he said too quickly. “You are fine, right?”
Isabelle’s smile faltered.
“I’m… better,” she said after a beat. “Still a little bruised. But yeah. I’m okay.”
Arthur nodded, desperate to believe it.
“Good,” he said, forcing a casual shrug. “We were all worried.”
Were we? a voice whispered in the back of his mind, but he shoved it down.
Isabelle looked at him for a long second, her expression unreadable.
“You didn’t ask,” she said lightly. Not accusatory. Just stating a fact.
Arthur blinked.
“What?”
“After the accident,” she said. “None of you really asked what happened. You just… assumed I was fine.”
Arthur opened his mouth. Closed it.
He didn’t know what to say to that — not without admitting that he hadn’t wanted to ask.
Hadn’t wanted to know.
Because if she wasn’t fine —
If she had been hurt worse than a few bruises and a night in the hospital —
Then what did that say about him? About all of them?
Arthur shifted his weight, uncomfortable.
“You’re here now,” he said finally, as if that proved something.
As if her survival was enough to erase everything else.
Isabelle smiled again — but it was a different kind of smile this time.
Tired. A little sad.
“Yeah,” she said. “I’m here.”
And for the first time, Arthur wondered if maybe — just maybe — that wasn’t as simple as it sounded.
***
Lily hadn’t been trying to find anyone in particular — she'd just been wandering the paddock in search of ice cream.
It was so hot, that she really, really needed ice cream before she melted into a puddle of useless girlfriend.
Oscar had pointed her in the vague direction of the food vendors before dashing off for driver obligations, so Lily wandered across the paddock, sunglasses perched precariously on her head, following her nose (and the general vibe of "ice cream is this way").
She was halfway there when she spotted her.
A girl — no, a young woman — perched casually near one of the vendor stands, flipping through her phone with an easy kind of grace, looking completely at home despite the chaos around her.
At first, Lily didn't recognize her. She just noticed the calm. The way people instinctively gave her space without even realizing it. Like the eye of a storm.
Then she realized.
Isabelle Leclerc.
Charles’ sister.
The one who somehow existed on the very edge of all the chaos — always close enough to be there, but never quite tangled up in it.
Belle. The girl who had rescued Oscar from buying “the ugliest couch in existence in Monaco.”
Oscar had mentioned her, in the same tone you'd use for someone you admired without quite knowing how to say it.
Lily hesitated — torn between her mission for ice cream and her deep-rooted manners that said go say hi, you dork.
She picked manners.
"Hi," Lily said, smiling as she approached.
Isabelle looked up, and for a second, Lily thought maybe she'd made a mistake — maybe she was interrupting something.
But then Isabelle smiled back — soft and real — and it was like being wrapped in sunshine.
"Hi," Isabelle said warmly. "You're Oscar's Lily, right?"
Lily laughed, a little breathless with surprise. "I guess so."
"Finally, we meet properly. Belle Leclerc," Belle said, tucking her phone away. "You heading somewhere, or are you just braving the paddock chaos for the experience?"
"Ice cream," Lily admitted. "Desperately."
Belle laughed — a real laugh, the kind that made you want to laugh too. "Good instincts. It's basically a survival tactic in this weather."
Lily grinned, a little more relaxed now. "You wouldn't happen to know where the best vendor is, would you?"
Belle tilted her head thoughtfully, like she was considering the great philosophical question of their time. "There's a stand near the back of the McLaren motorhome," she said. "Less crowded, better flavors. Also, the guy running it doesn’t skimp on sprinkles if you look appropriately pitiful."
Lily beamed. "You’re a lifesaver."
"Come on," Belle said, already falling into step beside her. "I'll show you. It’s basically my civic duty."
Belle tucked a strand of caramel coloured hair behind her ear and Lily suddenly saw the faint bruising still lingering along Belle’s temple and just under her collarbone where her dress dipped at the neck.  
The sight made something twist sharply in Lily’s chest.
"I—" she started, then bit her lip. "I just wanted to say… I’m really glad you’re okay."
Belle blinked, clearly surprised.
"I heard about the crash," Lily said quickly, "Oscar told me it was serious."   She trailed off, feeling weirdly emotional for a person who barely knew her.
Belle’s expression softened even more — touched, a little shy.
"Thank you," she said, voice a little rougher around the edges. "I was really lucky."
Lily smiled, relieved.
"And also," Lily said, remembering, "thank you for helping Oscar with his apartment. He said you saved him from living in chaos forever."
Belle laughed again, covering her mouth. "He’s exaggerating."
"No, he’s really not," Lily said earnestly. "He had one pot and like three mismatched plates before you intervened."
Belle giggled. "I just gave him a list."
"And apparently taught him the existence of rugs and throw pillows," Lily said with a wink. "You’re a hero."
Belle was still laughing, her eyes crinkling at the corners in a way that made her seem even younger, even softer.
Lily found herself smiling so hard her cheeks hurt.
Without really thinking, she said:
"I’m really glad we ran into each other."
"Me too," Belle said, and this time there wasn’t a trace of hesitation.
And just like that — without ceremony or fanfare — Lily was swept up into Belle’s orbit. Adopted. Collected. Claimed.
No big declarations. No awkwardness.
Just a steady, unspoken you’re one of mine now.
Lily understood immediately how it had happened to Oscar.
And why Oscar had looked so quietly smug about it ever since.
As they made their way through the paddock together, Belle offering casual commentary on the chaos around them, Lily thought maybe — just maybe — this whole world felt a little less overwhelming when you had someone like Belle at your side.
Two girls who hadn’t meant to find each other in the chaos of the paddock — but who did anyway.
***
Text Messages: Lily Zneimer & Oscar Piastri
Lily: I just met Belle.
Lily: At the ice cream stand!!
Lily: We both went for survival ice cream.
Lily: It was fate.
Oscar: Oh no. What did you do.
Lily: EXCUSE ME.
Lily: I was adorable.
Lily: SHE was adorable.
Lily: We’re best friends now.
Oscar: That tracks.
Lily: Oscar. OSCAR.
Oscar: What.
Lily: I get it.
Lily: I GET IT.
Lily: Why you’re obsessed with her.
Lily: She’s sunshine wrapped in a cardigan and stubbornness.
Oscar: Yeah. She’s Belle. Everyone’s a little obsessed with her. Max just got there first.
Lily: Also she’s still got bruises from the crash and she was just out here smiling like a total champ.
Lily: I wanted to wrap her in bubble wrap.
Oscar: Trust me. Max is already trying. If he could put her in a Volvo made of titanium, he would.
Lily: Tell him to let me help.
Lily: I’m small but scrappy.
Oscar:  I’ll pass along the message. He’ll appreciate the reinforcements.
Lily: I’m serious. I love her already.
****
Meanwhile on Twitter: 
@/F1Overheard: Isabelle Leclerc and Lily Zneimer spotted getting ice cream together in the paddock today. New power duo just dropped???
@/Turn1Drama:  Not to be dramatic but I would lay down my life for Isabelle and Lily within 0.2 seconds of meeting them.
@/F1Receipts: Ok but… zoom in. Look at Isabelle’s collarbone.  There’s… bruising???
photo attached: Belle smiling with Lily, faint purple fading along her neck/collarbone visible above her dress
@GridGirlsUnited: WAIT. WHY DOES ISABELLE HAVE BRUISES.
@/FerrariFeverDreams: Isabelle Leclerc is the blueprint for moving through the world with quiet grace and still kicking life’s ass.
@/F1WAGUpdates:  UMMM??? ISABELLE LECLERC AND LILY (OSCAR'S GIRLFRIEND) SPOTTED GETTING ICE CREAM IN BAHRAIN?? HELLO??? THE POWER DUO I NEVER KNEW I NEEDED????
@/gridgirlconfessions:  not to be dramatic but Isabelle taking lily under her wing is the SOFTEST THING EVER.  I’m literally going to cry in the paddock rn
@turn1meltdown also. not to be That Person but did anyone else notice... Isabelle has bruises?? I am pretty sure she covered one at her forehead with makeup. but you can see one on her shoulder when her dress fell down  as she got ice cream??
@/tinfoiltires: not to start a conspiracy but…do you think she is dating Lando?! I mean she is hanging out with Oscar’s girlfriend. 
@/paddockprotectionagency: There is literally no evidence for that. At all. 
@/F1TeaTime:  ISABELLE LECLERC AND LILY PIASTRI SPOTTED TOGETHER IN BAHRAIN:  GIRL GANG FORMING ALERT.
@PaddockSpy Isabelle "please don't perceive me" Leclerc and Lily "mystery personified" Zneimer together is EXACTLY the energy the paddock needs.
@/McLarenMayhem Oscar spotted hovering around Lily and Isabelle like a guard dog. Lando too???
@/PitLaneDrama:  Theory: Isabelle was hurt recently. Not racing related (obviously). Something serious enough that the whole grid knows but fans are only now noticing.
@/FerrariFanForum: idk what's happening but if someone hurt Isabelle Leclerc I fully believe half the paddock would riot.
@/f1overheard:  also... are we gonna talk about the fact that Belle still has bruises on her arms??? Faded but definitely there??? Is she okay??? Who do I need to fight???
@/chaosinsector1: She’s laughing and walking and eating ice cream but seeing those bruises on Belle actually made me want to fistfight a drunk driver in the middle of Bahrain.
***
Text Messages: Oscar Piastri & Max Verstappen
Oscar: Mate. Did my girlfriend just get adopted by your girlfriend??
Max: Good. Belle needs more allies.
Oscar: They went for ice cream and now Lily’s acting like she’s been knighted into the Order of Belle.
Max: She has. There’s no going back.
Oscar: ...is this what happened to me?
Max: Yes. You just didn’t notice. It’s stealthy like that.
Oscar: Incredible.
Max: Also — Can you tell Lily to keep an eye on her?
Oscar: Belle?
Max: Yeah. Doctor cleared her for travel, but… She’s good at pretending she’s fine when she isn’t.
Oscar: Got it. I’ll tell Lily. (But I think she already clocked that. She’s weirdly good at reading people.)
Max: So is Belle. That’s probably why they found each other. But yeah. Just… make sure she rests. If she starts acting like she’s invincible, let me know.
Oscar: Copy that. Spy network: activated.
Max: Appreciate it. You get one free pass next time I accidentally block you in quali.
Oscar: Noted. I’ll save it for when it hurts the most.
***
Belle had just been laughing at something Lily said — something about Oscar’s catastrophic ability to pick good ice cream flavors — when she felt it.
That snap in the air.
The sudden chill.
She turned — and sure enough, there was Charles, storming across the paddock toward them with thunderclouds practically radiating off him.
Belle stiffened instinctively.
Oscar noticed too — his easy grin faltering. He had had flopped into a seat beside them minutes ago, looking amused but exhausted after media duties. Lando Norris had joined them too, fresh from a sponsor event, stealing a spoonful of Belle’s icecram like a menace. 
Lando now looked like he was considering dropping his spoon and running.
“Isabelle,” Charles barked, sharp enough that it turned a few heads.
Belle straightened, fighting the instinct to brace herself.
“Hi, Charles,” she said evenly. “Good afternoon to you too."
He didn’t bother with greetings.
He didn’t even glance at the others.
His glare locked onto her like a missile.
He pointed dramatically at Lando, who looked like a deer in headlights.
"Are you dating him?!"
Dead silence.
Belle stared at her brother, mouth slightly open, frozen mid-bite.
Before she could even start responding, Lando erupted:
"WHAT?? NO. OH MY GOD, NO."
He flailed so hard he nearly knocked over his chair.
"I would never!" he blurted, panicked.
Oscar looked like he wanted to sink into the ground and disappear.
Lily was visibly biting her lip, fighting back laughter.
Belle closed her eyes very slowly, inhaled through her nose, and set her cup down carefully on the table.
"First of all," she said icily, "even if I were dating someone, that’s absolutely none of your business."
Charles opened his mouth to argue.
Belle held up a hand. "I’m not done."
Charles froze.
"Second," Belle continued, voice sharp, "I am not dating Lando. I was laughing at a joke about Oscar thinking that horseradish is an ice cream flavour that should exist, thank you very much."
Oscar made a helpless noise of protest. Lily patted his arm sympathetically.
"And third," Belle said, her eyes narrowing, "I would like to remind you that last year, you accused me of flirting with GP because we had a five-minute conversation about kitchen backsplashes."
Oscar actually choked on his yogurt.
Lando snorted so loudly he nearly fell out of his chair.
Charles, flushing red, spluttered, "That was — that was different!"
"Was it?" Belle said, crossing her arms. "Was it really, Charles? I am an adult," she said crisply. "I am capable of talking to men without planning a wedding, thank you."
Belle took a slow step forward, closing the space between them — not enough to make a scene, but enough that he had to really look at her.
At the fading bruises on her skin.
At the shadows under her eyes.
At the way she stood — a little too still, a little too tired — but standing all the same.
“I survived a car crash two weeks ago,” Belle said, voice quiet but razor-sharp. “I’m allowed to eat ice cream with my friends without needing your permission, Charles.”
He opened his mouth like he wanted to argue — to scold her somehow, as if she hadn’t earned the right to live her life on her own terms — but for once, no words came out.
Belle didn’t wait for them either.
***
Group Chat: HELP ME
(Members: Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri, Daniel Ricciardo, Carlos Sainz Jr. and Lewis Hamilton)
Lando: I’M GOING TO DIE.
Lando: I’M ACTUALLY GOING TO DIE.
Carlos: What happened now?
Lando: CHARLES. CHARLES HAPPENED.
Lando: HE THINKS I’M DATING BELLE.
Lewis: Wait, dating?? What did you do?
Lando: NOTHING. WE TALKED ABOUT ICE CREAM TOPPINGS.
Daniel: …please tell me you’re joking.
Oscar:  He’s not. 
Lando: I SWEAR.
Lando: I WAS TALKING ABOUT OREOS.
Lando: AND SPRINKLES.
Lando: AND NOW I’M A DEAD MAN.
Daniel: This is incredible. Never change.
Carlos: Sprinkles = romantic commitment now. Good to know.
Lando: CHARLES LOOKED AT ME LIKE HE WAS ALREADY DIGGING THE GRAVE.
Lando: I’M INNOCENT.
Oscar: Tell it to the judge. (aka Charles.)
Lando: I NEED WITNESSES.
Lewis: Your Honor, all he did was sprinkle some toppings.
Daniel: GUILTY. Of flirting with ice cream.
Oscar: Death by suspicious glances.
Lando: THIS IS A MISCARRIAGE OF JUSTICE.
Carlos: Charles said guilty. Sprinkle boy must suffer.
Lando: I HATE YOU ALL.
Oscar: Love you too, Sprinkle Boy.
***
Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Max Verstappen
Isabelle: Update from the chaos front: Charles now thinks I’m dating Lando.
Max: First GP. Now Lando. Who’s next? Helmut?
Isabelle: PLEASE.
Max: Imagine explaining that one to the family.
Isabelle: At this point I think they’d believe anything. I just need to talk to someone and apparently it’s a full-blown scandal.
Max: Good thing you already have a secret boyfriend. ME. 
Isabelle: The only one that matters. (And the only one who would never judge my ice cream topping choices.)
Max: Correct. As your official and only secret boyfriend, I feel like maybe it’s time to make you an honest woman.
Isabelle: Max.
Max: All I’m saying is if you wore a ring, maybe Charles would stop suspecting every man who breathes near you.
Isabelle: You’re lucky you’re cute.
Max: I’m lucky for a lot of reasons. You’re the biggest one.
***
David Coulthard had been around Formula One long enough to notice things.
He noticed when a driver had a new sponsor before anyone said a word.
He noticed when a pit crew moved two tenths faster than last season.
And he noticed — very easily — when something was going on off-track.
It started with Max.
Max was... Different.
Still sharp, still competitive — God help anyone who thought the fire had gone — but... softer around the edges, somehow.
 Less likely to bite a journalist’s head off.
 Laughing more. Smiling — smiling! — during media duties instead of looking like he wanted to physically vanish into the concrete.
David had filed it away, mildly amused.
 Maybe maturity.
 Maybe something else.
But then Bahrain happened.
And David saw her.
He was standing near the Red Bull hospitality tent, making small talk with Christian Horner about the new season, when he caught the sight of her.
Isabelle Leclerc.
Charles' little sister.
 Quiet. Polite. Always seemed to hover just outside the spotlight.
She was walking across the paddock, a small tote bag slung over one shoulder, sunglasses perched on her head — casual, unnoticed by most of the chaos around her.
Except Max noticed.
Max, who’d been standing half-turned, mid-conversation with a Red Bull engineer, stopped mid-sentence when he saw her.
David watched — curious, instinct pricking at the back of his neck — as Max’s entire face softened.
Not just fond — no, no.
Absolutely gone.
Max excused himself a little too quickly. Caught up with her a few paces later, walking just a little too close, talking low and quiet.
David tilted his head, observing like a man watching a slow car crash — except it wasn’t a crash at all. It was... intimate.
Isabelle laughed at something Max said — and David watched Max practically beam like a golden retriever who’d just been handed a steak.
He narrowed his eyes thoughtfully.
Well, well, well.
Later that afternoon, while pretending to be busy near the media center, David caught another moment.
Isabelle was perched on the low wall near the Red Bull motorhome, sipping from a bottle of water, flipping through something on her phone.
Max came out the door — helmet in hand, race suit half unzipped — and immediately bee-lined toward her.
Not toward the engineers.
Not toward the debrief room.
 Her.
And when he thought no one was looking, Max leaned down and pressed a kiss — soft, fast, familiar — to the top of her head.
David raised his eyebrows.
Oh, it wasn’t just a thing.
It wasn’t casual.
It wasn’t nothing.
This was serious.
And judging by how utterly comfortable they were — how instinctively they gravitated toward each other without even thinking — it had been serious for a while.
David smirked to himself, pulling out his phone.
Text to Mark Webber:I bet you a bottle of wine Max Verstappen is dating Isabelle Leclerc. Long term. Dead serious.
Mark:WHATexplain immediately
David chuckled, pocketing his phone.
Oh, he wasn’t going to explain everything yet.
Where was the fun in that?
He was going to sit back, enjoy the slow unfolding chaos, and wait for the paddock to finally catch up to what he already knew:
Max Verstappen was utterly, completely, irrevocably in love.
And her last name was Leclerc.
God, the 2024 season was already looking fantastic.
***
Mark Webber prided himself on keeping his ear to the ground.
Or, at the very least, knowing when David bloody Coulthard was onto something juicy.
He couldn’t stop thinking about that text message.
 I bet you a bottle of wine Max Verstappen is dating Isabelle Leclerc. Long term. Dead serious.
 Dead serious.
 David didn’t throw those words around lightly.
So, naturally, Mark did what any sane, mature, retired driver would do.
He went hunting for information.
It wasn’t like he could just ask Max — not without getting a death stare and possibly a Red Bull can thrown at his head.
 No, he needed someone younger. Someone adjacent. Someone... less likely to suspect an ambush.
He spotted Oscar near the McLaren garage, fiddling with a water bottle, looking far too innocent for a man in the Formula One paddock.
Perfect.
Mark strolled over casually, hands in his pockets, wearing the most nonchalant face he could muster.
Oscar looked up, blinking like a deer in headlights.
"Hey, mate," Mark said smoothly. "Quick one for you."
Oscar looked instantly suspicious — good lad, instincts sharp — but he nodded.
Mark leaned in, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "Any idea if Max Verstappen’s dating Isabelle Leclerc?"
Oscar choked so hard on absolutely nothing that he physically stumbled back a step.
Mark arched a brow. "That’s a yes?"
"How—" Oscar spluttered, looking around wildly like he expected FIA officials to pop out of the bushes. "How do you know that?!"
Mark laughed, genuinely delighted. "Ohhh, mate, you just confirmed it for me."
Oscar groaned, scrubbing a hand over his face. "I didn’t confirm anything! I just— I mean—" He lowered his voice urgently. "It’s, like, a massive secret."
Mark chuckled, utterly unbothered. "Not that massive if Coulthard noticed it after one afternoon."
Oscar buried his face in his hands. "I’m so dead. Max is going to kill me. I didn’t say anything!"
"You didn’t have to." Mark clapped him on the shoulder, grinning like the cat that got the cream. "Cheers, mate. Appreciate it."
He turned to saunter away — job done, day made — leaving poor Oscar standing there, looking absolutely haunted.
Mark was already pulling out his phone to text David back: Oscar just confirmed it. Owe you a bottle. Also this is incredible.
God, he loved this sport.
***
The restaurant was loud, chaotic in the way all post-race celebrations were, but Max didn’t mind.  
Not tonight.
The Bahrain Grand Prix trophy was already back at the hotel, forgotten for the moment — because the real prize was sitting right next to him, curled into the booth, tucked safely under his arm.
Belle.
Max still hadn't entirely recovered from seeing her waiting for him after free practice a few nights ago — real, alive, breathing.  
Now, with her hair soft around her face, wearing a simple sundress that made her look even more breakable and beautiful under the low lights, he could barely keep his hands off her.
And he didn’t have to.  
Not here.  
Not when everyone thought she was just Isabelle Leclerc, Charles’ sweet little sister, along for the ride.
Max smirked to himself, sliding his hand a little higher on her thigh under the table, tracing small, lazy circles against the fabric of her dress.
Belle looked up at him, cheeks flushing immediately, but her eyes sparkled — delighted, conspiratorial.
God, he loved her.
Lando, unfortunately, was sitting across the table — and he was dying.
Max could feel it.
Every time Max leaned in closer to Belle, murmuring something low in her ear, Lando shifted violently in his seat like he was physically restraining himself from making a scene.
It was beautiful.
"So," Belle said, teasingly soft, tilting her head up toward him, "how does it feel to add another trophy to the collection?"
Max shrugged, smirking, fully aware that Charles — sitting a few seats away — was half-listening while pretending to be absorbed in the menu.
"Don��t care about trophies," Max said easily, keeping his voice just loud enough to carry.
Belle blinked up at him, playing along.  
"Oh no? What do you care about, then?"
Max leaned down, his mouth brushing just over the shell of her ear, and said, so low that it was a miracle only Lando seemed to catch it:
"You’re the only trophy I want."
Belle flushed scarlet, her hand tightening briefly around the napkin in her lap, her breath catching visibly.  
Max smiled against her temple, smug and helplessly in love.
Across the table, Lando made a tiny, strangled noise and buried his face in his hands.
Charles — bless his stupid, oblivious soul — just looked up from the menu and said, casually:
"You’re not even looking at dessert, Max. You’re going to miss the good stuff."
Max didn't even blink.  
"I already have the good stuff," he said without missing a beat, eyes locked firmly on Belle.
Belle made a tiny, helpless noise that she immediately disguised with a cough.  
Lando kicked Max hard under the table, and Max barely resisted kicking him back.
Charles, meanwhile, just shrugged and went back to the menu, completely, fantastically unaware.
Max felt Belle’s hand slide into his under the table, squeezing once — a secret, silent, trembling squeeze — and he squeezed back, his thumb brushing lightly over her knuckles.
She was his.
And one day soon —  
He wasn’t going to hide it anymore.
But for now?  
He could live like this.  
With Belle flushed and smiling at his side, Lando dying quietly across from him, and the rest of the world too blind to see that Max Verstappen had already won the only race that ever really mattered.
***
Group Chat: HELP ME
(Members: Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri, Carlos Sainz, Daniel Ricciardo, Lewis Hamilton)
Lando: I almost DIED at dinner.
Oscar: What happened??
Lando: Max flirted with Belle. In front of Charles. Like, full-on heart eyes and whispered sweet nothings.
Carlos: Please tell me Charles noticed.
Lando: HE DIDN’T. He told Max to look at the dessert menu.
Lando: Max literally said “I already have the good stuff” while STARING AT BELLE.
Lando: And Charles just??? Nodded???
Lewis: Oh my god.
Oscar: I’m losing it. How are you still alive.
Lando: She was BLUSHING. Max was basically devouring her with his eyes.
Lando: I had to physically punch myself in the leg to not start screaming.
Daniel: You deserve an award. Like. An actual trophy.
Carlos: Or a medal. “Bravery in the Face of Complete Dumbassery.”
Oscar: Lando Norris: Survivor of Max-and-Belle Public Flirting™️
Lando: I’m writing my will. If I die because Charles eventually finds out and kills me, tell my mum I love her.
Daniel: Will do. Also, dibs on your gaming chair.
Lewis: We are NOT inheriting his Twitch setup, Daniel.
Daniel: You can’t stop me.
Carlos: Focus. The real question is: How long until Max just proposes and Charles still doesn’t notice?
Oscar: 50 bucks says it happens this season.
Lando: I’m raising you to 100. Because honestly? At this point? I can see it happening.
***
There were a few great constants in Formula One.
 One: There would always be politics.
 Two: Fernando Alonso would always find a way to be fast.
 And three: The old guard — Mark Webber, David Coulthard, and Fernando himself — would probably end up at a hotel bar, drinking expensive whiskey and gossiping like teenagers at a sleepover.
Tonight was no exception.
David leaned back in his chair, looking insufferably smug as he sipped his drink.
"I’m telling you," he said, tapping the side of his glass for emphasis. "It’s serious. Verstappen and the little Leclerc."
Mark, grinning like a fox, said, "Oscar practically shat himself when I asked him."
Fernando’s eyebrows shot up, delighted. "You interrogated Piastri?"
Mark shrugged, completely unapologetic. "Didn’t even need to. Kid panicked so hard I thought he was about to call his mum."
David chuckled darkly. "Told you. Not just a fling. Proper relationship. Long-term."
Fernando leaned forward, elbows on the table, suddenly far more interested. "I have seen them together a few times. Very... comfortable."
David pointed at him triumphantly. "Exactly! No nerves. No posturing. He looks at her like he’s already married her and built her a house in the countryside with five cats."
Mark howled with laughter. "Imagine Max Verstappen in the countryside, bloody hell."
Fernando smirked. "You are both missing the real headline."
Mark and David raised their eyebrows in unison.
Fernando leaned back, satisfied. "When Charles finds out."
There was a beat of silence — then all three of them burst into laughter, loud enough that a few other patrons in the bar turned to look.
David wiped tears from his eyes. "Oh, God, Charles Leclerc’s going to combust."
"Publicly or privately?" Mark asked, grinning.
Fernando considered it seriously. "Privately first. Brooding. Sad playlist. Maybe a little crying in the shower. Then public disapproval."
"Disapproval," David echoed, nodding solemnly. "In that very polite Monegasque way. ‘I am not angry, I am just... disappointed.’"
Mark knocked back the rest of his drink, still chuckling. "Imagine the Christmas dinners. Verstappen sitting across from Leclerc at the table. Isabelle kicking him under it every time he tries to start a fight."
David grinned. "Max pretending to be polite for fifteen minutes before he says something that makes Charles’ eye twitch."
Fernando clapped his hands together, pleased. "This season is already perfect."
Mark waved down the bartender for another round, because frankly, they deserved it.
"We should start a pool," he said. "How long until it goes public?"
David leaned forward eagerly. "Or how long until one of them accidentally soft-launches it on Instagram."
Fernando raised his glass. "Or until Verstappen punches a journalist for asking a stupid question about Isabelle."
They clinked glasses with wicked grins, the unofficial F1 Gossip Club alive and thriving.
Across town, Max Verstappen and Isabelle Leclerc remained blissfully unaware that three of the sport’s greatest troublemakers were placing metaphorical bets on their entire relationship timeline.
***
It wasn’t supposed to be complicated.
It was just a haircut. A simple thing.
Isabelle had asked, gently, over coffee one weekend. "Would you mind coloring my hair again, Maman?"
Her voice light, casual — hoping it would sound like a normal daughterly request, not something heavy.
Pascale had smiled vaguely, barely looking up from her phone. "Of course, cherie. Make an appointment, and we'll sort it out."
Belle had smiled too, automatic and small. "Okay."
She booked it the next week, a Friday afternoon — easy enough to squeeze in around both their schedules. She texted her mother to confirm.
Belle: Appointment for Friday at 2pm. Let me know if that still works for you!
The reply came half a day later.
Pascale: Oh, mon coeur, Friday’s going to be tricky. Charles needs help with a sponsor shoot! We'll find another time, I promise ❤️
Belle told herself it was fine. Of course it was fine.
Charles' career came first. It always had.
She rebooked for the next week.
Wednesday afternoon. Easy. Flexible.
Pascale: Arthur’s looking at apartments. I need to go with him. Next week? ❤️
Another reschedule. Another brushed-off excuse.
Lunch with friends. Last-minute travel plans. A gala that needed organizing.
Each time, Belle rearranged her schedule like a good little daughter. Each time, Pascale’s priorities stayed somewhere else — with someone else.
And Belle — Belle stayed small and polite, pretending like it didn’t sting.
Eventually, after the fourth reschedule in three weeks, Belle stood in front of her bathroom mirror, stared at her roots growing out unevenly, the dull ends of her hair catching awkwardly in the light — and something inside her simply... cracked.
She booked an appointment. With someone else. No fanfare. No texts.
She sat in the warm, bright little salon tucked near the flower market that Emilie had recommended, letting a stranger mix a soft, golden color for her hair, hands sure and kind.
And when it was done — When Belle caught sight of herself in the mirror — she smiled.
Really smiled.
The soft caramel highlights caught the light, framing her face, making her eyes look warmer. She looked — fresh. Hopeful, even.
It was silly.  It was just hair. But it felt like something more.
A line, quietly drawn. A choice for herself, not for anyone else.
She didn’t tell her mother.
Not at first.
But Pascale noticed at a family brunch the following weekend.
The moment Isabelle sat down, Pascale’s eyes sharpened, taking in the subtle change.
"You went to someone else?" she asked, light but pointed, the corners of her mouth tightening almost imperceptibly.
Isabelle sipped her coffee calmly. "You were busy."
Pascale laughed, waving it off. "Still, cherie, you should have waited. It’s not quite... what we would have done."
Belle smiled, soft and polite — the kind of smile she'd perfected years ago. Maybe not what you would have done, she thought. Maybe that's the point.
"It’s just hair, Maman," she said lightly.  She didn’t offer to rebook. Didn’t apologize.
And for once, she didn’t feel guilty about it.
***
The chair in Simone’s office was comfortable — too comfortable, sometimes.
It made it harder to keep her walls up. But maybe that was the point.
Belle picked at the seam of her sleeve, her legs curled under her, staring at the little woven rug on the floor as she spoke.
"It sounds stupid," she said after a long pause. "About the hair, I mean."
Simone — patient, kind Simone — just shook her head gently. "I don't think it sounds stupid at all."
Belle exhaled, staring at her hands."I just... I asked her to help. My mother. And she said yes, but then kept rescheduling. Again and again. For Charles. For Arthur. For everyone else."
Simone nodded, quiet encouragement in the simple gesture.
"And it wasn't the first time," Belle added, voice thinner now. "It’s never the first time. I know that."
"And how did it feel?" Simone asked, voice low, careful.
Belle hesitated.
How did it feel? It felt — small. It felt like being fourteen again, forgotten in the corner while her brothers got all the attention, all the applause.
"It felt like..." she trailed off, fumbling for words. "Like I wasn't important enough to remember."
Simone’s gaze was steady. "And what did you do with that feeling?"
Belle smiled tightly. "I told myself it didn't matter. Booked another appointment. Let someone else do it."
"And how did that feel?"
Belle surprised herself by laughing — a soft, broken sound. "Good," she admitted. And then, more quietly: "Really good."
Simone smiled. "You made a choice for yourself."
Belle nodded, the weight of it sinking in.
"I didn’t wait around this time," she said. "I didn’t hope she'd find time for me if I was just... patient enough."
"That’s not a small thing," Simone said. "That’s reclaiming something you were taught not to expect."
Belle blinked, throat tightening unexpectedly.
"You were taught," Simone continued gently, "that your needs came second. Or third. Or fourth. Or not at all. And now — even in something as small as a haircut — you're learning that you don't have to keep living by those old rules."
Belle swallowed hard.
"I guess I always thought... if I was just easier, or more useful, then maybe they'd—"
She broke off, voice catching.
Simone leaned forward slightly, her voice warm and firm.
"You don't have to earn love, Isabelle."
Belle squeezed her hands into fists, feeling the sting of tears she refused to let fall.
"You were already enough," Simone said. "You always have been."
Belle left the session feeling raw — scraped open — but lighter too.
Because maybe, just maybe, she was allowed to take up space. Allowed to choose herself. Allowed to stop waiting for permission that was never going to come.
Maybe love didn’t look like waiting on the sidelines. Maybe it looked like laughing under new sunlight, caramel highlights catching in the breeze, walking into the world without asking first.
And maybe — just maybe — she could be proud of that.
***
Text Messages: Victoria Verstappen & Isabelle Leclerc
Victoria: Hey Belle 💛 Random question — do you have some time in the next few weeks?
Isabelle: Hi! I should, yes! What’s up?
Victoria: I need help. With the nursery.
Isabelle: 🥺🥺🥺 You want me to help?
Victoria: Of course. You have the best taste. And honestly? I trust you. I want the nursery to feel safe and warm — not like something out of a catalog.
Isabelle: 😭 Vic.
Victoria: I'm serious!! Also I’m too emotional and tired to pick out wallpapers without crying 😂
Isabelle: Say no more. I’m honored. When were you thinking of starting?
Victoria: Whenever you’re free! No pressure. (But preferably before I get too big to waddle up the stairs without a forklift.)
Isabelle: 😂 You’re glowing, not waddling. But yes, I’m free next weekend if you want?
Victoria: Perfect. We can have snacks and mood boards and a no-crying policy.
Isabelle: (That rule is for you.)
Victoria: 100%.
Victoria: Thank you, Belle. Really. It means a lot to me. It means a lot to us.
Isabelle: I can’t wait 🩵 Already have about 12 ideas brewing.
Victoria: I knew I asked the right person 🥹
****
Team Redline Stream – Transcript
(Stream already in progress. Max is mid-race, casually chatting with the team and chat.)
Chris Lulham: So, Max, what’s your girlfriend up to these days? Did she get a new job, or is she just vibing?
Max: (Laughs.) She’s freelancing now."
Luke Crane: "Oh, so technically working, but with way less stress?"
Max: "Exactly. No more crazy hours, no more annoying bosses. Now she actually gets to have a life."
Chat:
FREELANCE ERA LET’S GOOOO
Max won the battle against corporate life
Work-life balance king fighting for his queen
"She actually gets to have a life" he has been PRAYING for this
Bro was so against that job, he’s probably happier than she is 💀
Chris: "So what does she do with all her free time now?"
Max: "More time for the cats. More time for horse riding, instead of just talking about how much she misses it. She’s already been out riding a few times."
Chat:
THE HORSE GIRL ERA RETURNS
"Instead of just talking about it" I know that used to break his heart
He is so smug about this, I can hear it in his voice
The cats and horses are winning rn
Imagine quitting your job and getting more time for your pets and hobbies… she’s living the dream
Chris: "And I’m guessing the cats are thrilled?"
Max: (Grinning.) "Of course. She bought them a ridiculous amount of toys, so they’ve been playing non-stop. They love her more than me anyway."
Aalberts: "I feel like you’ve just accepted that."
Max: (Shrugs.) "It’s the truth."
Chat:
MAX IS A SECONDARY PARENT IN HIS OWN HOUSEHOLD
The cats chose their favorite and it’s NOT him 💀
"They love her more than me" bro just casually taking Ls on stream
Imagine being Max Verstappen and losing to your girlfriend for affection
The way he’s not even mad about it
Luke: "Wait, how many cats is it now? Still Sassy and Jimmy?"
Max: (Smirks) "Three."
Chris: "THREE???"
Chat: HE DROPPED THAT SO CASUALLY HELLO??? NEW CAT REVEAL LET’S GOOOOO
Gianni Vecchio: "When did you get a third cat, mate?!"
Max: "Christmas. She surprised me."
Luke: "Bro your girlfriend got you a whole CAT for Christmas and you’re just mentioning this NOW???"
Chat: WHAT A FLEX A WHOLE CAT Forget watches or cars. Max got a BABY TIGER for Christmas Proposal energy tbh
Chris: "What’s the new cat’s name?"
Max: "Lilly."
Chat: LILLY!!! Sassy, Jimmy, and Lilly — squad complete MAX IS OFFICIALLY A CAT DAD OF THREE
Chris: "Okay but real talk — she got you a cat, bro. That’s basically marriage. So does this mean she’ll be at a race soon?"
Max: (Casually.) "She already was."
Luke: "Wait—WHAT?"
Chat:
HELLO???
EXCUSE ME???
SHE WAS THERE AND WE DIDN’T KNOW???
MAX YOU CAN’T JUST DROP THAT AND MOVE ON
We have failed as detectives
Chris: "Bro. You have people trying to figure out if she even exists, and you’re telling me she was at a race and nobody noticed?"
Max: (Laughing.) "Apparently not."
Luke: "This is insane. What do you mean 'apparently not'?"
Max: (Shrugs.) "She was just walking around, watching, same as always."
Chat:
This man’s girlfriend is a stealth legend
MAX JUST CASUALLY DROPPING BOMBSHELLS ON US
She was among us and we were blind
I feel like he enjoys watching us suffer
WE NEED TO FIND FOOTAGE, THIS IS A MISSION
Chris: "Alright, new game. Next race, we’re all scanning every background shot for your girlfriend."
Max: (Grinning.) "Good luck."
Chat:
Bro knows we will NEVER find her
He’s enjoying this way too much
This is now our new conspiracy theory
Max Verstappen’s girlfriend is the Where’s Waldo of F1
WE WILL NOT REST UNTIL WE FIND HER
***
Meanwhile on Twitter: 
@F1Detective: MAX JUST CASUALLY DROPPED THAT HIS GIRLFRIEND WAS AT A RACE AND WE ALL MISSED IT????
@TireDegEnjoyer:: Max: "Oh yeah, she was at a race." Us: "SIR??? AND YOU DIDN’T THINK TO MENTION THIS EARLIER???"
@softmaxgirl: I refuse to believe we all collectively failed at spotting her. This is a cover-up. She’s in a Red Bull hoodie somewhere in the background. We need to check every race weekend.
@pitlanechaos: Max: "She was just walking around, watching, same as always." SAME AS ALWAYS???? SIR??? DO YOU MEAN TO TELL ME SHE’S BEEN TO MULTIPLE RACES?????
@LandoStoleMyLunch: Max’s girlfriend has officially become the Where’s Waldo of the paddock. She’s there, but she’s a ghost.
@DR3sMullet: ANOTHER CAT?!? I DEMAND PICTURES. WHAT DO YOU MEAN SASSY AND JIMMY HAVE A NEW SIBLING?!!?
@PaddockTea: This woman is so committed to her privacy. Most WAGs get papped once and boom, we know their whole life story. Max’s gf? We don’t even have crumbs.
@SuperMaxStan: The fact that she quit her job and instead of immediately becoming a full-time WAG, she just started freelancing??? She really does not care about his money at ALL.
@F1Shitposter: What do you bet Max has tried to convince her to become his trophy wife at least once and she just refused LMAO
↳@UndercutKing: The way half of us would’ve immediately quit their job the second Max suggested it and she just… didn’t. Iconic.
@FrontWingDamage: Max is just so casual about everything. Like, sir. You do realize we’ve been trying to figure this out for months.
↳@RedBullConspiracy:WE HAVE TO GO BACK. CHECK THE FOOTAGE. FIND HER.
↳@F1Sherlock: He said it so casually. Like he didn’t just confirm that she’s been right there and we all missed it. EMBARRASSING FOR US.
@GridReporter:The fact that people are now scrubbing through paddock footage frame by frame trying to find a glimpse of her… I love F1 fans.
↳@McLarenMemeLord:Max: “She was at a race.” F1 Twitter: ACTIVATE FBI MODE
@SuperMaxUltraFan:At this point, I don’t even care who she is. I’m just impressed by the commitment to staying invisible.
↳@Horseriding4Life:"More time for horse riding"—girl is really just living her dream life, huh?
↳@SidepodDisaster:The fact that she chose freelancing instead of living the soft WAG life… Respect.
@RedBullChaos:She really doesn’t care about his money and I think that’s what drives people insane the most.
***
Alex Albon was halfway through his coffee when Max dropped into the chair across from him like the world had personally wronged him.
“Lilly’s sneezing,” Max said, without preamble.
Alex blinked. “Okay… hi?”
“My kitten,” Max clarified, as if that explained everything.
Alex raised a brow. “Right. Is she okay?”
“She started sneezing two days ago,” Max said, frowning. “Little sneezes. Like tchu-tchu. Not constant. But today it’s more.”
Alex set his cup down. “Vet?”
“Took her yesterday. No fever, no infection. Not her food. They tested for everything. Nothing.” Max looked personally offended by the mystery. “So it has to be something in the apartment.”
Alex squinted. “New plants? Cleaning products?”
Max pulled out his phone and swiped with purpose. “Switched laundry detergent last week. Isabelle lit a new candle. It smells like cedarwood and… I don’t know, something sweet.”
“Floral?” Alex offered.
Max nodded like he was on a crime show. “Possibly rose. Or jasmine. Something aggressive. I think it’s the candle.”
“Could be,” Alex agreed. “Some scents mess with cats’ systems. Especially essential oils.”
Max turned his phone toward him. “Here. This is her on the couch—right next to where the candle’s usually lit.”
Alex looked.
It was a picture of Lilly. Big blue eyes. Tiny paws. Mid-sneeze. The picture was blurry, chaotic, adorable.
But behind the kitten, sitting casually on the couch in one of Max’s oversized hoodies, was Isabelle Leclerc.
Hair pulled into a messy bun. Mug in hand. Bare legs tucked under her like she belonged there. Looking at the kitten with this soft, utterly unguarded smile that said: this is home.
Alex stared.
Max didn’t notice. “See, she only sneezes in the living room. Nowhere else. So I think it’s—”
“Back up,” Alex said, voice sharp.
Max paused. “What?”
Alex pointed at the photo, eyes wide. “Is that Isabelle Leclerc in your living room?”
Max glanced at the phone like it was obvious. “Yeah.”
“Max,” Alex said slowly. “That’s Charles Leclerc’s sister.”
“Correct.”
“She’s wearing your hoodie.”
Then said, without any trace of shame: “Yeah.”
Alex stared. “Yeah?! That’s all I get?!”
Max squinted. “What do you want? A timeline?”
“Uh, YES?” Alex exclaimed, leaning forward. “That’s Charles’ sister. And she’s sitting on your couch in your hoodie with your kitten like she LIVES THERE.”
Max shrugged. “She does.”
Alex’s eyes nearly bugged out of his head. “You’re dating Charles Leclerc’s sister?”
Max took a sip of his water. “We’ve been together for a while. Over a year.”
Alex made an unholy sound. “And Charles doesn’t know?!”
“Nope.”
Alex blinked rapidly. “Does anyone know?!”
“GP, Lando, Daniel, Oscar…Lewis, my family...Oh, wait, Nico Rosberg. Now you.”
“Do you want to die?!”
Max gave him a mildly amused look. 
Alex dropped his head into his hands. “You’re actually insane.”
Max waited a beat, then tapped his phone. “So. Candle, yes or no?”
Alex groaned. “Yes, Max. It could absolutely be the candle. But also, WHAT IS HAPPENING WITH YOUR LIFE.”
Max tilted his head. “Are you going to tell Charles?”
Alex gave him a look. “Do I look like I want to be collateral damage in that explosion?”
Max nodded approvingly. “Good. So... lavender and cedar — dangerous?”
Alex sighed. “For the kitten, yes. For you? I think you’ve already walked off a cliff.”
Max smirked. “Worth it.”
Alex groaned again. “I need a drink. And maybe a therapist.”
***
Group Chat: 2019 Rookies
(Members: Lando Norris, George Russel and Alex Albon)
Alex: boys. Alex: BOYS. Alex: you’re not going to believe what just happened
George: oh no George:  what did you do?
Alex: not meAlex: MAX
George: even worse George:  what happened?
Alex: so max came to me for ADVICE Alex: about his KITTEN Alex: because she’s sneezing
George:  what???
Alex: wait Alex: it gets worse Alex: he shows me a picture of the kitten Alex: and who’s in the background??
George: WHO?
Alex: ISABELLE. Alex: LECLERC. Alex: on his couch Alex: in his hoodie Alex: drinking out of his red bull mug Alex: LOOKING DOMESTIC AS HELL
George: YOU’RE JOKING
Lando: he’s not
George: EXCUSE ME???? George:  SINCE WHEN????
Alex: over. a. YEAR. Alex: he said that with his whole chest like it was normal
George: A YEAR???? George:  A YEAR?????
Lando: welcome to hell 😌
George: CHARLES DOESN’T KNOW???
Alex: he does not
George: ARE THEY TRYING TO DIE
Lando: hang on hang on Lando: adding you both
Group Chat: HELP ME
(Members: Oscar Piastri, Lando Norris, Daniel Ricciardo, Carlos Sainz Jr., Lewis Hamilton, George Russell and Alex Albon)
Lando Norris has added George Russell and Alex Albon
Lando: new additions have arrived
Daniel: Alex!! Daniel:  G-MONEY!!! welcome to the worst-kept secret in f1
Carlos: it is not a secret. it’s a ticking time bomb.
Oscar: Charles will find out and take us all down with him
Lewis: has anyone built a bunker yet?
Alex: I feel like i need to lie down
George: I feel like I need a legal team
Daniel: guys we’re fineDaniel:  just don’t say anything to charles and don’t look max in the eye for too long
George: what happens if you look max in the eye???
Oscar: you see your life flash before your eyes
Lando: and also possibly belle in a hoodie making pancakes
Alex: ...she cooks for him????
Carlos: they cook together
George: that’s worse.  THEY HAVE A ROUTINE
Lando: they have matching coffee mugs Lando:  and the kitten has a name that matches the other cats.  it's over
George: i am distressed George: deeply, emotionally distressed
Lewis: You’ll get used to it. eventually
Oscar: No, you won’t.  We’re all dying inside… but she’s happy so we keep quiet
Daniel: And max is terrifyingly in love so we don’t poke the bear
George: this is insane
Alex: they are insane
Lando: but also, like… kind of cute right?
***
Max had faced down championship-deciding races, international media frenzies, and Monaco traffic. None of it — none of it — had prepared him for being frog-marched into a luxury jewelry boutique by Emilie Abadie at ten in the morning.
"Stand up straight," Emilie hissed under her breath, fixing the collar of his jacket like he was a misbehaving toddler.
Max glared at her. "I am standing straight."
"You’re standing like you’re about to be arrested," Emilie muttered. "Look less guilty."
"I am guilty," Max grumbled. "Guilty of letting you hijack my life."
Emilie grinned wickedly, grabbing his wrist and hauling him inside.
The boutique was elegant and understated — all cream walls, glass cases, and staff so polished they practically floated across the floor. A woman behind the nearest counter looked up, smiling warmly.
"Bonjour, Monsieur Verstappen. Mademoiselle Abadie. Welcome back."
Max blinked. "Back?"
Emilie shot him a look. "I told you I started scouting months ago. We have an appointment."
"You booked an appointment without asking me?"
"You needed help," Emilie said breezily. "You should be thanking me."
Max grumbled something unflattering under his breath but let her lead him deeper into the store. A private consultation table was already set up — soft lighting, velvet ring trays, glasses of still water, and a discreet little sign that read: “Reserved for Mr. Verstappen.”
Max sat down stiffly. Emilie plopped into the chair next to him like she owned the place.
The saleswoman joined them, setting out a leather-bound book filled with sketches. "You mentioned you were interested in a custom design. Yellow gold, emerald centerpiece, classic but with modern detailing?"
"Exactly," Emilie said crisply, before Max could even open his mouth.
Max raised an eyebrow. "Are you proposing or am I?"
"You're the wallet," Emilie said sweetly. "I’m the brains."
The saleswoman laughed quietly and turned the book toward Max. Beautiful sketches of rings — thick yellow gold bands, stunning emeralds set flush into intricate settings, delicate hidden details like tiny horseshoes, floral engraving, or Celtic knots.
Max stared at them, overwhelmed for a second by how serious it felt.
This wasn’t just a ring.
It was Belle’s future wrapped around her finger.
It was a promise he intended to keep for the rest of his life.
Emilie nudged him gently with her knee under the table. "You’re okay," she said quietly. "You’ve already made the most important decision. This is just picking the outfit for it."
Max exhaled slowly and leaned in, studying the designs.
He pointed to one — simple, stunning, an oval emerald cradled in a four-prong yellow gold setting, surrounded by diamonds, the inside of the band left smooth for an inscription.
"This one," he said roughly. "But I want the stone a little lower. So it doesn’t snag."
The saleswoman smiled approvingly. "Excellent eye, sir."
They finalized the adjustments, confirmed timelines (discreetly expedited, of course), and signed the paperwork.
 Max handed over the deposit without blinking.
When it was done, he stood awkwardly in the middle of the boutique, feeling somehow lighter and heavier all at once.
Emilie looped her arm through his, squeezing. "You did good, Verstappen."
"Yeah?" he asked, voice low.
She looked up at him, eyes suddenly bright. "You’re giving her something no one else ever did," Emilie said softly. "You’re choosing her first."
Max swallowed hard. "She deserves it," he said simply.
And he meant it with everything he had.
***
Instagram Story: @/victoriaverstappen
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***
Meanwhile on Twitter: 
@/f1gossipgirl: hold on. HOLD ON. isabelle leclerc... hanging wallpaper... with JOS VERSTAPPEN???
@/casualf1fan:  jos verstappen? the jos verstappen? the one who doesn’t like anyone???
@/raceweekgirlie: victoria verstappen posting belle and jos working together calmly has actually sent me into a spiral i was not prepared for today
@/slowpitstop:  isabelle organizing the nursery i get isabelle being friends with victoria i get but isabelle and JOS VERSTAPPEN collaborating on a wallpaper project????
@/softdrs the fact that jos looks??? like he’s enjoying himself???? someone explain. fast.
@/piastrisleftshoe:  NO BECAUSE THINK ABOUT IT. isabelle has always been quiet, polite, organized. jos: respects competence above all else it’s making sense but also???? why does this feel WEIRDLY IMPORTANT
@/f1socialspy:  the verstappens are either adopting isabelle or she’s secretly engaged to max there’s no third option
@/leclercslens: every time i think about isabelle being on a ladder next to jos verstappen holding a roll of wallpaper like it’s normal i lose 3 years off my life
@/f1girliesunite: wait hold on. why is jos verstappen installing wallpaper with isabelle leclerc. what is happening.
@/chaoticf1fan: THE CROSSOVER I DID NOT EXPECT jos verstappen and isabelle leclerc hanging wallpaper like they’re on some home renovation show???
@/leclercbrainrot: belle leclerc being chill with victoria verstappen i get. belle leclerc hanging out with jos verstappen?????? PLS EXPLAIN
@/maxiecatlover33: I’m sorry but if you had told me in 2019 that JOS VERSTAPPEN would be calmly putting up wallpaper with a LECLERC I would have called you insane.
@/dutchgrandprixfan: the way jos looks like he’s genuinely concentrating and belle is just THERE like it’s totally normal?? I HAVE QUESTIONS
@/landochaosnorris: isabelle leclerc and jos verstappen hanging wallpaper together" is my roman empire now
@/chaosformula1: You’re telling me Max Verstappen’s dad and Charles Leclerc’s sister are casually hanging out???? Installing WALLPAPER together??? Am I on drugs or
@gridgirlenergy Not to be dramatic but if you had told me a year ago that Jos Verstappen and Isabelle Leclerc would be collaborating on INTERIOR DESIGN I would’ve called you clinically insane. What’s next? Toto Wolff and Christian Horner hugging it out?!
@/maxfosi:  the way jos and belle were concentrating on that wallpaper like they were on a two-man pit crew… i have QUESTIONS
@/slowpitstop:  someone please explain how belle leclerc is closer to the verstappens than literally any other paddock girlfriend when SHE’S NOT EVEN A PUBLIC GIRLFRIEND (or is she...?)
@/verstappenfiles: there’s just no way she’s not with max right??? you don’t just rope in your extremely grumpy father to do nursery wallpaper with your brother’s "friend" unless it’s SERIOUS
@/mclarenchaos:  the verstappen family adopting belle like a lost kitten while the internet loses its mind is my favorite off-track drama right now
@/redbullstan89: petition to get a documentary crew in there IMMEDIATELY because whatever this is, i want to see it unfold in real time
@/f1girlies:  petition to make “isabelle leclerc hanging wallpaper with jos verstappen” the new unit of measurement for how confusing the f1 world is
@/pitlaneconfessions: still can’t believe victoria posted that and acted like it was NORMAL like “here’s belle and jos, wallpapering together” no context no explanation iconic behavior honestly
@/charlespills: charles leclerc obliviously posting selfies from golf while his sister is bonding with jos verstappen is soooooo on brand
1K notes · View notes
bunnigumi · 5 months ago
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─ FLUORESCENT ADOLESCENT
YOU KNOW HOW hormonal teenagers are. Especially the boys. They'll want to fuck anything; even their own sisters.
cw. megumi x reader , incest , porn with plot , reader described with small chest , brief mentions of drinking/smoking , Toji is referred to as dad/daddy (nonsexual) , light exhibitionism , dead dove
an. hi guys!! thank you!! for!! 600+ followers!!!!! i lowkey accidently edged you guys at the end srry in advance i didn't have motivation to write out a full smut scene and i hope theres no typos in this bc ill cry if i see it too late... happy reading ^u^ ^_<
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There's a lot of things Megumi can't do when Toji's around. Shower for too long and use up all the hot water, sneak his beers. Get handsy with his sister.
But he seems to do the last one all the time, whether his dad is home or not.
Toji is always too loud watching baseball or horse racing on the TV to hear the noises you make when your brother tries to shove his fingers up your virgin ass for the second time. You chickened out the first because you heard the front door open, your dad coming home for the first time in weeks.
Thought he was going to walk in on the two of you. Ask how your day was, what you've been up to. Something along the lines of what a normal dad would do. All he ever does is mope around. She's dead and you're all grown up.
But Megumi likes to humor you, Let's do it under the covers then.
Especially when you're so irrational, Wanna feel good, right? He won't hear a thing by the time I get my fingers in.
Sometimes he's too passed out drunk to see the bedroom door open with Megumi's hands groping your breasts. They're too small to be properly fondled, but he's always liked girls with small tits. 
You've shared a room since forever. There's only two, one for you and Megumi, and one for your parents. But daddy spends most of the nights on the couch, never makes it a step past the living room.
It probably wasn't the best idea. Megumi started touching you all inappropriately at night, your stuffed dolls from family friends facing away when he fingers you, fucks you, kisses you.
You know how hormonal teenagers are. Especially the boys. They'll want to fuck anything; even their own sisters.
Your brother liked to kiss you a lot when you were younger. Regardless of where you were, who you were with. Simple, fleeting kisses on the lips. Your mom and dad would do it all the time.
Grown ups would fawn over how cute you were as children. How well you two got along. How they wished their children were as well behaved as you two were.
It's not all weird for their age. Shiu said it's just what kids do, kids are parrots, not that he has any. But'chya better teach ‘em it's not normal, or you’re gonna have inbred grandbabies. He says it with a quirked lip, chuckling, and a cigarette in between his fingers.
Your dad, unfazed, gnawed on his own, the sliding door open, summer on your face. Puppy stickers trailing up on the glass that don't make it past the handle.
On a good day, Toji's got a Playboy magazine in one hand, a cold bottle in the other. C'mere, boy. He likes to call Megumi from your room to taunt him. Don't she look just like your sister? Flat out drunk. Well, with that rack, it's more like your ma. See, now this one's more like your sister. Isn't that funny?
He tears out the page, careful to not cut through the model's hips, and tosses it in Megumi's direction. His eyes never leaving the magazine. Not even when he takes a swig of the bottle.
Don't fucking talk about your daughter like that. The hell's wrong with you? Megumi says it partially under his breath. And he says it like he isn't hard in front of his dad, like it's not because of the thought of his sister. 
His face twitches with mock disgust. It's as if he isn't folding the page and slipping it into his pocket when he heads back to your shared room.
It all went through one ear and out the other—television static. Toji doesn't look up, doesn't notice Megumi leave. The daggers stabbed into his hollow head. The hard on his son’s got at the mention of his sister. He never notices anything at all.
And it's whatever. You're waiting for him. You want to show him the new panties you bought when you were out with your girlfriends, the money courtesy of your brother. Not in exchange for sex, of course. He loves you more than to treat you like a prostitue. Plus, you'd do it for free, so that makes you a good sister slut.
Megumi doesn't like his new part time all too much. ‘Part time’ means being away from you, leaving you alone. Government code to keep families apart. Buy whatever you like. You're a people pleaser.
Your dad babies you a lot. He still doesn't understand how teenagers work. Coddles you to death like you're still five when his breath smells like spearmint.
It's about the same for Megumi, that kiddy treatment. Still offers runs out to the nearby store to buy ice cream, loitering for the air conditioning on days when cold baths with you aren't enough to kill the heat. Sticking their faces in freezers, your mom twirling you in circles. Letting you go like a wind up doll, spinning and spinning ‘till the world was dizzy.
You inherited her smile, her upturned eyes when you laughed.
And you hate the way Toji let himself go. The person he became. The safety, the warmth. Detached too early from nurturing. Spiraling all the way down from the tree, the nest.
You, me, your sister. Like we used to.
He never got his ass off the couch. Not for those recreational things at least. Everyone knows that, but Toji still tries.
Not to say that Megumi isn't a fan of tradition. Cold baths with you, having you warm his dick while he washes your hair with strawberry, 3-in-1 kid shampoo. Sucking your little tits and biting down on your tender neck. Rubbing your needy clit in circles, your hips bucking, water sloshing. Suds popping and flying in the air. Soapy residue clinging to tile walls.
Your dad doesn't question why you still do it together when you're in your teenage years, or how you two should have outgrown baths already. It's a win-win situation.
He never has a reason to leave; no wife to nag him about remembering to buy fabric softener at the store with the groceries because he forgot the last time. It's not that important, only sissies need soft clothes to survive.
When he does leave, it's for days on end. And you never really notice when he does until you’re on your way out the door to school in the early morning, and there's no one on the couch, not a note on the counter.
Tugging at the hem of your uniform shirt, slipping on your shoes and leaning on the door handle you’d drill holes into the Toji-shaped spot and the door is quietly shut behind you, your brother still asleep.
He's gotten into the college near home and has been taking on more night shifts. Most of his classes start in the afternoon and you miss walking with him to school.
Megumi's the one paying attention to you more, and even extra attention on nights when dad isn't home and he's back from work.
You can be as loud as you need to be, fuck as much as you want. You've grown to be one spoiled girl, that's for sure.
Toji saw him feeling you up once in the kitchen when he went to grab leftover takeout from the fridge. You thought he wasn't home. Turned out he hadn't left the house since yesterday, passed out in his room. Still smelled like a bar, nicotine, and a skank.
You think it's the first time he actually slept there since, well, you know. 
The hell you kids doing. It wasn't a question. He said it with a yawn, with glaring indifference in the base of his tone. Megumi ignored the way his shoulders were slumped over. How he rested his weight on the fridge handle.
And you could act like it didn't happen, like your older brother wasn't pressing up against your backside, trying to stick his junk inside of you.
Nothing, daddy. It's all in your imagination. Just playing. You've just been watching too many pornos. By the way, are you hungover? Your breath reeks of cumsluts and prostitute whores.
Megumi finds that Toji tends to only register the sound of your voice rather than your words. He'd gotten pretty good at that thing with your mother. When you hit puberty, you started to sound like her.
And it's easy for Toji to turn a blind eye. To forget and be at ease. Megumi could really just have continued to go and fuck you right there over the kitchen counter. You're real good at quick and dirty. There’d be the high pitch of your moans and Toji could care less.
It's what happens when you have a dead mom, a college roommate of a dad, and a touchy brother for a family.
Shiu managed to lure Toji out of the house tonight with the promise of girls and booze. Like a dog hearing the words ‘park’ and ‘treat’. Pathetic, is what it is.
You’re wrapping your hand around your older brother’s cock. Pressing your cheek against his thigh. Pleading eyes staring up at him because you’re unsure of how to start. Red knees on scratchy hardwood floor. It's been a while since you had time for foreplay more than kissing and fingering.
“Suck it like a popsicle. Careful with your teeth,” He says in a low voice. “Yeah, exactly like that.”
You've always been a quick learner. Daddy doesn’t know that. Grey rings on unopened report cards turned coasters.
But your brother sure does. He likes to encourage your learning with a hand tangled into your hair. And he’s not all too strict of a teacher, relenting in his grasp when you dig your nails into the side of his legs. Pulling off with saliva dripping down your chin. Lips pouty and shredded like paper, your jaw aching. Thighs rubbing together, always desperate for something more.
Megumi lifts you up onto his lap so that you're straddling him, and taking the initiative, you throw your arms around his neck—pressing your bodies together, grinding down on him and zealously chasing after his lips.
You love like it's second nature.
Intimately to the ideal of union. Crossing lines just to hear the way they snap, it's more satisfying from the other side. In privileged rebellion; the temptation that comes with this taboo of want.
He can taste himself on you, with notes of sugar from home baked cookies and cheap frosting on your tongue.
Megumi has to force you still, his hands squeezing tight around your waist.
Petulant like a child, a whine leaves your mouth at the halt of friction. He manhandles your position so that your back is resting on his chest. Legs dangling off the edge of the bed, kicking and making a soft thumping noise against its side. 
Lifting up the hem of your shirt, his shirt that you’re wearing, reveals nothing but white panties soaked wet from the way your brother nips at your bottom lip when you kiss, from humping him, the way he loves you, too.
He shoves your panties to the side, smearing your slick all over your cunt with his fingers, onto your clit. He rubs light circles, eliciting breathy moans from you before abruptly stopping to pull your underwear down the rest of the way, letting it fall carelessly to the floor.
Resting his chin on your shoulder and marking the dip between your neck and shoulder with red indents of his teeth, the sting of his canines, he slips his middle finger into your cunt. The ring, to stretch you out. Then the index, to see how much you can take.
Facing the open door, no one's on the couch while your big brothers got a hand between your thighs. The other sliding under your shirt, agonizingly slow up your chest in a way that sends shivers up your spine, translating into hunger for your brain.
You don't wear bras at home, but you enjoy wearing frilly, lacy ones. Little white bows on the center of your chest. Dolly and cute to the point it was sexy, but not overly so. In blue and pink pastels bordering white.
Megumi was always poked fun at for hanging out with you during lunch and breaks in middle school. Always badgered by his rag-tag group of friends. 
C’mon, Fushiguro. Hang out with us. Just for today at least. That pink haired one was always so whiny. Cute, maybe, but whiny. Or what about after school? You always go straight home. He got on your nerves. You hated him. 
Only sister fuckers hang out with them at school. The brunette was fairly pretty. Skinny legs, good tits. Glossy lips when she said her snide remarks. You always had this fear that Megumi would leave you for her. Irrational, did he mention? You shot her a glare, and hated her too.
You’d ask Megumi to follow you to the girls bathroom after lunch. Undoing the buttons of your blazer. The first, second, third one of your dress shirt—flashing starstruck eyes with a new bra. Arms pushing your breasts together, offering him a sweet smile. Lustful persuasion.
Then you would leave him for class and he'd have to jerk off to get rid of his boner. In a stall over the toilet, quick so no one hears him. Grinding his teeth together, biting down on his lip, chewing the side of his mouth to muffle the noise until it all hurt.
You’ve always liked to rile him up. To leave him high and dry, no hand holding on the way home, then give him all of you the second you step into the door without so much as a glance to see if anyone's in the house.
You like to tease him, even whenever Toji is near. 
Simulating the tent in his pants with your feet under the table while daddy is smoking with Shiu.
Staring at your brother from across with a glint of mischief in your eyes.
Waiting for his cool composure to break until he’s got only two options: Bend you over the table and fuck you right then and there, or play his little sister’s game, her rules. Puppy dog eyed, exhibitionist freak.
Your hips continuously grind up to meet his knuckles. Clutching his wrist, whispering as he curiously stops his attack on your neck, “More. Want more,” and you hold your breath.
You feel him smile on your skin. Without a word, he flips you onto the mattress, and knows exactly what you want, exactly what you need by the way you hook your legs over his back, locking your ankles together. Pulling him in closer. Effectively caging him in. The world can't have him. You've claimed your stake on him a long time ago.
And the words that leave your mouth feel nothing but natural. Your voice is airy, breathy. This insatiable desire tugs harshly at your heart.
Your lips purse together for a moment, just a single moment before the words seamlessly roll off your tongue. 
“I love you," like you were born to do.
1K notes · View notes
kitkat13001 · 5 months ago
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₊˚⊹♡⭒˚.⋆ 𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚝 𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚞𝚊𝚕 𝚗𝚘𝚠 ?
i try to be the chill girl but honestly i’m not knee deep in the passenger seat (and you’re eating me out) two weeks and your mom invites me (to her long beach house) if its casual, is it casual now?
⤷ katsuki bakugou x reader
⤷ fem-leaning reader (“girl” used twice, no other pronouns), friends w benefits-ish to lovers, reader is bad at feelings, brief mention (1) of underage drinking, heavily implied reader and bakugou are sleeping together but nothing explicit, lyrics and title from chappell roan’s “casual,” this is long (~2k words)
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for three months it’s been like this. three months of sneaking around and shared glances and private smiles and near-silent laughter at one in the morning. 
it started one night towards the end of winter, just before the beginnings of spring. 
you had just finished up a big practical exam and the class had come in first. you’d worked your asses off and it had been totally worth it. everyone felt like they were walking on air that night, and you’d all decided to get together for a late dinner in the dorms to celebrate. 
you remember it clearly. the valentines decorations were still up in the lounge. you’d ordered pizza to supplement sato’s delicious noodle arrangement and bakugou’s yakitori, and stayed up well past curfew talking and eating and laughing. it was one of the best nights of your life. 
you’d gone to the bathroom, but when you came back to the lounge everyone had already gone up to bed. 
“guess the party’s over,” you’d mumbled to yourself with a little laugh of disbelief. 
“oi!” had come a voice from the kitchen. “who’s out there?!”
“guess,” you’d called out teasingly, leaning against the doorframe. 
bakugou wore his trademark scowl, same as ever. he was standing over the sink, hands covered in suds amidst a pile of dishes. 
“hmph. the hell you doing up, dumbass? figured you’d gone to bed after you disappeared on us.”
“hm. three years and you think you’d come up with a better nickname,” you laughed. “i told denki i was going to the bathroom. something in those noodles did a number on me.”
he had scoffed, seemingly irritated by your overshare. you didn’t care. you were never one to withhold anything and he knew that. 
“whatever. everyone’s asleep already anyway.”
“what are you doing up, kacchan?”
he’d scowled at that, but said nothing. he had long since given up trying to dissuade you from using the nickname. he nodded to the pile of dishes in the sink before him. 
“damn extras left a mess. said we’d pick up in the morning but i can’t sleep with this fuckin’ mess.”
you had laughed at that. he fixed you with a withering glare. 
“what’s so fuckin’ funny?”
“what a mouth,” you snickered. “you never change, do you, kacchan?”
he’d scoffed, scrubbing agitatedly at a plate. “i change plenty.”
you just laughed again. you guessed he was right, because three years ago he never would’ve been caught dead up this late. 
“you gonna help me with this or what?” he demanded, gesturing to the mess of the kitchen. 
you’d shrugged, figuring it would’ve been cruel to leave him to face this alone. 
“i guess so. you wash, i dry?”
he replied with a soft grunt of affirmation. 
it was peaceful that night, standing shoulder to shoulder with bakugou as he handed off soaked dishes for you to wipe down. you took comfort in the warm brush of his hands against yours. 
and the fateful moment that led to all of this?
he’d fumbled a dish, the mug slipping from his soap-slicked grip. you had gone to catch it, reaching over at the exact same time he did. 
you remember the brief pain of your heads colliding and bakugou’s proceeding shout. 
you had grabbed his shoulders for support, and you remember being surprised by how warm he was. it’s not like you’d never touched him before, but the number of times you’d ever been this close to him was minuscule. 
he might’ve been mad, probably about to open his mouth to berate you about how he’d “had it!” and that you “should’ve left it” or something. but he stopped cold, eyes wide at just how close you were. barely an inch between your noses. you could smell the spices on him from when he’d been cooking earlier. 
you don’t know what led you to say it. maybe it was the late hour or the obscene amount of food you’d eaten or the wine cooler you’d allowed yourself to drink after mina had brought them out. 
“can i kiss you?”
you think bakugou might’ve been more surprised by that than if you’d socked him in the face. 
you don’t know why he did, but he had nodded. he thought about it for a second—just one, not too long—and then given the slightest incline of his head. and you did it. 
you kissed him. 
it wasn’t your first kiss. if it was his, you couldn’t tell. he was soft, responsive to your movements but still sure of himself when he kissed you back. 
he tasted vaguely of spices. 
you don’t know how long you stayed like that. you don’t know at what point his hands moved from the sink to your cheeks or when he’d backed you against the counter. 
you just know that when he’d asked if you wanted to go up to his room, you nodded with flushed cheeks and a breathless smile. 
and that’s how it’s been for three months. you’d never addressed it, never put a name to what you had. you’d never questioned it or taken it for granted. bakugou is the kind of person you can follow blindly into any situation and know you’re going to come out okay. and you’ve never been someone who needed a reason to be around people you like. 
tonight’s not much different. it’s quiet, a cool breeze in the air from the open window. the nights are getting warmer as spring sets in, so the breeze feels good on your skin. 
you lay back on bakugou’s bed, breathing in the smell of his ocean breeze laundry detergent and the faint scent of the almost-blooming cherry blossoms just outside.
he didn’t used to let you stay over. he’d walk you back to your dorm once everyone was asleep, grumble a goodnight and disappear back down the hall. but after a while, he stopped mentioning how late it was getting. he’d just toss over and fall asleep, his arm still resting across your body next to him. 
“what’re ya sighing for?” bakugou huffs, reaching over you to plug his phone into the charging outlet. 
“i’m not sighing,” you reply, frowning up at the ceiling. 
“and now you’re pouting.”
you huff back at him, propping yourself up on your elbows. “i am not pouting. i’m eighteen years old, i don’t pout.”
katsuki raises his eyebrows in challenge. “you want me to get you a mirror?”
you roll your eyes and toss a pillow at him. he catches it just the way you expect him to, right in front of his face. you strike quicker than he can move it, smacking the front with a palm. you laugh at his startled growl, falling back on the bed as he throws the pillow back your way. 
you smile innocently up at him, clutching the pillow to your chest and relish in the scowl he casts at you and the way his hair is tousled from the scuffle. 
“brat,” he scoffs, knocking his leg against yours. “c’mon, it’s late. i wanna sleep.”
he waits until you’ve crawled in beside him to turn out the lights. 
you stare out into the dark for a while, but sleep doesn’t come. 
“katsuki?” 
his responding groan in muffled into the pillow. you prop yourself up to turn and look at him. 
“can i ask you something?” 
you see his scarlet eyes open in the dark and glance up at you with a furrowed brow. 
he huffs as he rolls over to face you. “i guess.”
now you’re nervous. god, why did you have to bring it up?
“i don’t want to sound stupid or anything, but i…” you pause, trying to figure out how to phrase it. “what are we? i mean, like…to each other?”
it’s both a relief and an immense amount of anxiety finally getting the words out. “it’s been eating at me for a while now—and you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to—but i figured i’d die if i didn’t at least ask.”
katsuki’s looking right at you, but for once you can’t read his eyes or expression. the silence is stretching and your stomach turns with unease. you keep talking, and even though you know you’re rambling, your mouth is like a runaway train. 
“i mean, to my knowledge at least, you don’t sleep around, right? we don’t see other people. and you’re not…you’re not completely detached when we’re together—at least i hope you aren’t. you don’t act like it anyways. so it seems like it’s more than a physical thing?”
god, why can’t you stop talking? it’s more to yourself than katsuki at this point anyway. 
“and we’re friends. we’ve been friends for such a long time now. it’s not like i’m some random girl you picked up off the street.”
he scoffs quietly and you glance over at him. his expression is pinched, but otherwise unreadable. “tch. i wouldn’t do that.”
“exactly,” you agree, trying to keep your voice even as you fidget with your hands. your voice is quiet and you hang your head a little, unable to face his deep eyes. “i…know you care about me. so i guess that’s why i’m asking what this is to you.” you start rambling again before the silence gets too long. “are we just friends who mess around sometimes? is it that you’re not ready for a relationship…or maybe you do want a relationship but just not with me?”
“do you want a relationship?” he asks. 
“i…i don’t know. maybe, if that’s what you wanted.”
“what do you want?”
“i mean, we don’t have to put a label on anything if you don’t want to. unless you do want to, then i guess we could do that too.” the options are flooding your brain, mouth going off without filter. 
“what do you want?” katsuki asks again, red eyes boring into yours in the dark. 
you shrink back, feeling small under his unwavering gaze. “i…i don’t know.”
he scoffs. “liar.”
your heart sinks a little. 
“what do you mean?”
“you know what i mean,” he replies, and you can hear the frustration in his voice. “you’re not the ‘whatever you want’ girl. you never have been.”
you know he’s right, but that doesn’t make it less painful to hear. normally that kind of tenacity is what people strive for, what people admire. but the way katsuki says it…he makes it sound like a bad thing. like you’re selfish. 
“so tell me,” he insists, face mere inches from yours. “why don’t you care what we are?”
“because i care about you,” you whisper, almost against your will. “and i want you to be happy, so i’ll take you in whatever capacity i can get you.”
he looks almost surprised at that, then slightly exasperated like you’ve missed his entire point. he exhales sharply, sitting back against the headboard. 
“before i answer you, lemme ask you something myself first.”
“okay,” you breathe. 
“why the sudden need to know?”
“huh?”
“you said this shit’s been eating at you for a while now. how come? what’s got you feeling all contemplative all of a sudden?”
it takes a minute to gather your thoughts, much less the courage to speak. you hadn’t been expecting him to turn this on you. 
“well…we’re graduating in a few weeks, and i guess i just…i don’t want to never see you again. i don’t want this to end. and i…” you pause, taking a shaky breath, then shrug. “i don’t want to lose you, kacchan.”
he’s staring now in what you can only describe as disbelief. your stomach stirs uneasily as you sit in silence for a moment. 
“you don’t want to lose me,” he repeats, like its the most ridiculous thing he’s ever heard. “that’s it?”
“yes, that’s it,” you reply, suddenly defensive. you cross your arms, feeling incredibly self-conscious now. 
“and you think i’m what, just gonna up and leave you? don’t you give a fuck about us?” he demands. 
“i didn’t know there was an ‘us’!” you cry. “i didn’t know it meant anything to you.”
“of course it fuckin’ meant something!” katsuki shoots back, on the verge of a shout. 
“i stayed with you the entire time you had the flu in second year. i let you come with me to the gym. we did our work studies together. i make you food when you’re stupid and don’t eat, i let you come in my room whenever you want and sleep in my fuckin’ bed when you have a bad dream.”
you sit there for a moment, absorbing it all. it’s true, all of it. 
“i don’t do that shit for just anyone,” he adds, grumbling. and he’s right. he doesn’t. “so don’t you for one minute think that you don’t mean anything to me. why else would i be spending all this damn time with you?”
“i don’t know,” you hum, crawling over to him. “maybe you did it cause all our other friends were getting together and you felt left out.”
“when have i ever done something just because some other fuckin’ extra did too?”
“never,” you giggle, leaning against him until you’ve fallen into his lap.
“exactly. so what does that tell you?”
“that…you’re very brave and independent?”
he groans loudly, rolling his eyes. “you’re fuckin’ impossible.”
“you love it,” you beam up at him. your stomach flutters with something warmer now as he reaches down and brings you up to meet his lips. it’s a deep kiss, leaving no room for anything but him and you and saying everything that you never said up until now. 
“yeah, so what if i do?” he murmurs when he pulls away, still close enough that his lips brush yours when he speaks. 
“tell me,” you say, smile and voice soft as you push his spiky bangs away from his face. his cheeks are warm under your hands. “tell me for real this time.”
his ruby eyes are deep and sincere when he says it. 
“i love you.”
it’s all you ever needed to hear.
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nothing like the pressure of finals to get you locked in on a fic. i’ve been sitting on this for a while and i finally got inspired to finish it. i really enjoyed the reader/bakugou dynamic here. hope you like!
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mymegrokosmos · 6 months ago
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It isn't hard to get Seungcheol's attention. At least, not usually. He tends to keep an eye out in case you need anything. He's usually the first one to notice the slightest sign of discomfort or to catch you dissociation before you even notice you're tuning out yourself.
Not tonight it seems.
You've tried numerous times over the past hour to get a moment alone with your boyfriend. To ask if he would mind if you called it a night. It never seems to pan out.
First Chan barrelled right through your conversation, bless him he didn't even notice you were talking and he really did mean well. Then Soonyoung nearly spilled his drink all down you and you'd retreated to the bathroom to clean up.
You'd come back out mid game of billiards and it felt somehow scandalous to interrupt. That had distracted you for a while you had to admit. Cheol looked good in his plain black shirt and jeans all the time but tonight, matching Hansol's backwards cap with his own and with the way he slid some of the trickier shots home, you had found yourself feeling a little flushed.
You'd tried to catch him on the way to the kitchen to refill his drink only to get sidelined by a very determined Mingyu who apparently had points to prove. Jihoon looked so exasperated you'd taken pity and offered him a break from Gyu's pouting argument for a while only to lose track of your boyfriend in the house once again.
It wasn't like you weren't familiar with the place. You were over at Seungkwan and Jeonghan's at least twice a week. Somehow you still managed to struggle finding Seungcheol until you stumbled into the basement to find them already bickering about poker teams.
Now they were playing their own little version of a round robin tournament and you'd finally had enough. You tried catching your boyfriend's eye but he was completely focused on whatever Jihoon was saying. You didn't want to interrupt but you were dead on your feet.
You trudged upstairs, throwing on a tired smile when Jisoo appeared in the living room. He waved. You waved back.
"You heading out?"
You nodded. "I think it's time I called it a night. I have cozy pyjamas and a cup of hot tea calling my name back home."
He laughed, stepping forward to pull you into an awkward side hug without spilling the handful of drinks he was balancing in one arm. You patted his back.
"It was nice seeing you Shua. You're still coming by Saturday for that baking book club right?"
He nodded as he pulled back, readjusting the drink distribution to balance them across two hands. "I wouldn't miss it."
"I'll see you Saturday then."
"Mm, you want me to grab Coups for you?"
You shook your head. "No, let him finish his game. It seemed like he and Hannie were on a winning streak. I don't want to pull him away when he's having a good time."
Jisoo blinked at you. "Are you sure?"
"Yes Shua, I'm sure." You smiled. "I'll get an uber. He deserves to enjoy himself, especially after the week he's had. I'll text him when I'm on my way."
He didn't seem convinced but Jisoo nodded. "Okay, get home safe then. Text me when you get back?"
You kissed his cheek. "I'll text you and Hannie both." You promised.
He disappeared downstairs and you made your way through the living room back to the front entrance. It didn’t take long to grab your purse from the closet and slip your shoes back on. You were just pulling out your phone to schedule a car when footsteps down the hall startled you.
Before you could turn a hand came down to rest on your shoulder. "Why didn’t you tell me you were leaving?"
You leaned back into him, tilting your head to look at your boyfriend. "Shua tattled on me huh?"
Cheol just blinked at you, his other hand finding it's usual place on your waist. "He said you looked wiped. His words, not mine."
You closed your eyes, just letting yourself rest against him for a minute. The hand on your waist slid down to your hip, thumb hooking into the belt loop of your jeans. He pulled you closer, hand on your shoulder rubbing a little warmth back into you.
"Baby? You haven't even left the house yet and you're already freezing. Why didn't you come get me?"
"You were busy."
You could feel the exhale as he sighed, pulling back from you slightly. "You know I'll always make time for you."
You turned, shaking your head and reaching up to cup his face in both hands. "Cheol, you shouldn't have to. Not always."
He opened his mouth to protest but stopped, arms crossing over his chest as he leaned back on his heels to listen. One thing about Seungcheol was that as a partner he would always hear you out before pointing out why he disagreed or arguing about anything.
Your communication wasn't always perfect but you had a system and, for the most part, it worked pretty well for you both. So you smiled and leaned up to peck his lips before continuing. That appeased him a little. Not much but he had his listening ears on and tuned into what you were saying.
"You were having fun and I'm capable of getting home on my own. I would have texted you to let you know I was safe but you should also be able to spend time with your friends without constantly having to check up on me."
He frowned and your hands slid down to rest against his neck, one moving to rub his bicep soothingly. He melted a little at the affection but you knew he still didn't like it.
"I would have told you, I promise. I tried so many times earlier but I kept getting dragged off by someone or other and you kept getting distracted. It's a little hard to tell you I'm ready to head home when I'm in the middle of mediating JunHao bickering and trying not to pick sides."
He softened at that, eyes fond as the barest hint of a smile curled at the corners of his lips. "Yeah that never ends well."
You nodded, stepping a little closer. "Go finish your game. I'll call an uber and be in bed nice and warm and ready for cuddles when you get back."
He glanced over his shoulder and then took your hand, bringing it up to his lips. "Call me when you get back?"
You smiled. "Promise."
He nodded. "Okay. But wear my jacket. It's cold. I'll get a ride back with Jihoon or Wonwoo."
You leaned up to steal a kiss. "Mm deal. Call me when you're on the way?"
That seemed like a fair compromise for both of you. He nodded, stepping back to get his jacket from the closet and helping you into it.
"I will. Be safe. I'll see you soon."
He insisted on zipping you into his jacket, putting the uber charge on his card and standing with you until the car pulled into the drive. You smiled as he opened the car door for you and leaned up for a last kiss before bundling you into the vehicle.
"Bye, I love you Cheollie."
"I love you too baby. See you soon."
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katakaluptastrophy · 1 year ago
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The thing about having read our way through two previous books full of necromancers and weird eldritch shenanigans is that the absolute horror of what happens to John as a person doesn't quite register.
John's own glib, matter of fact narration tells the story as an apotheosis. He was doing great. He'd have fixed everything if only people had listened.
But reading between the lines in the John chapters, you glimpse something rather different.
John basically spends the first half of the Jod chapters sitting in the dark with his creepy yellow eyes, not eating or sleeping, literally stroking his favourite corpses and coming out with chill and fun statements about how he can feel their skin when he's away from them and he's 'waking up'. Cool, cool.
Passing swiftly over the cow dome, Presidential Puppet Pals, and the suitcase nuke, day to day life in the cow dome must have been fun... You're all on the Interpol watchlist, the Vatican is asking a lot of questions, the police are outside and John - who hasn't slept in a week and doesn't eat anymore and is probably wearing some kind of weird novelty tshirt - comes wandering past while you're eating breakfast, followed by a dozen silent, dead-eyed corpses like some kind of mother hen. He makes a cow joke, and then zones out because he got distracted by listening to the bacteria in your gut.
And then some guys die accidentally and it turns out he can eat death energy. So now he's got creepy Twilight eyes, an entourage of corpses, a cape, some very dodgy eyeliner, and he's barely breaking a sweat as he instantly kills over 100 people, says it was an accident, and then, dead serious, tells his followers to drag dead UN peacekeepers inside to add to his 'skeleton army'.
By the end, he's not slept or eaten in weeks, is tweaking his own bodily processes on the fly, is puppeting the dead US president and possibly an army of over a hundred corpses, monitoring G- in Melbourne, carrying on at least two conference calls, and helping to build barricades out of chairs.
And I just keep thinking how weird it must have been for his friends. How sometimes he would have seemed like the man they'd known and loved for so long, and sometimes he would seem different. Did they ever find themselves mourning the man he was? Did they ever stand there as he tuned into something they couldn't fathom, staring at them with those yellow eyes, and feel some awful, uncanny valley terror? Did he ever feel like he was losing himself? At what point did the cow jokes stop feeling like oh, classic John and start to be a reminder that his desire for vengeance and the scope of his powers were outstripping his remaining...perspective?...restraint?...humanity?
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jupiterpilgrim · 1 day ago
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Someone Like You
Sohyun x Xinyu x male reader
word count: 19K
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You push open the door with your shoulder, bag sliding down your arm, earbuds still in, still humming the chorus of the track you were half-distractedly mouthing on the walk back. The apartment’s dim, only the low yellow glow from the kitchen light pooling under the cabinets. It smells faintly like miso and something fried earlier (maybe tofu?) and, ironically, this reminds you that you forgot something. It doesn’t hit you immediately, what you forgot. But then your eyes sweep the counter.
Empty.
The fridge hisses softly when you open it. Half a carton of milk. Some eggs. A bottle of kimchi you’re not brave enough to open. And a lonely, suspicious cucumber. Then you freeze.
Okay. Right.
You were supposed to get groceries today. Actually, you were supposed to get them yesterday too, but Xinyu cornered you after the club meeting and asked for help lifting some stuff into storage—by which she meant do all the hard work while I pretend to supervise. Time got slippery. You left campus past dark and told yourself you’d make a list tomorrow.
Well, tomorrow was today. Now today is too late.
You step out of the kitchen just as Sohyun emerges from her room, barefoot, wearing that oversized sweatshirt she lives in when she’s in a mood. Dark grey, sleeves too long, hair twisted up with two pens stabbing through the knot like she’s some sort of overworked librarian assassin. Her expression is unreadable, which is bad. It’s when she gets unreadable that you know she’s very much read you and is probably two sentences away from verbal murder.
“You didn’t go, did you?” she says. No hello. Just sharp and low. Fair enough...
You fidget, rubbing the back of your neck. “I… got distracted. Club ran long.”
Her eyes flick down to your bag. No plastic handles sticking out, no clinking bottles or leafy greens peeking. She leans her weight to one hip and folds her arms slowly, like she’s savoring the drama of the moment.
“Distracted,” she repeats. “Again.”
“It’s just the second time—”
“The second time this week,” she cuts in, and now you’re pretty sure she’s not even mad about the food. There’s something else threading underneath, something prickly and a little tired.
You drop your bag by the couch and step closer, sheepish. “I know, I know. I really meant to, I just—club stuff’s been a lot. We’re organizing that charity auction and planning the art zine printing and—”
“You’re in a crafts club, not national defense,” she mutters, turning toward the kitchen, but slower than usual, like she’s waiting for you to say something worth staying for.
“It’s called ‘Hands On’,” you remind her, trailing after. “And it’s pretty fun, actually. We’re doing embroidery on vintage denim this week.”
That earns a glance, just a flash over her shoulder, one brow twitching. “So now you’re too busy learning how to sew flowers onto someone’s ass to remember your basic responsibilities?”
You shift on your feet. “You make it sound so much lamer than it is.”
“I didn’t have to try.”
You watch her pull out the rice cooker, expression smoothing into that blank practiced calm she wears when she’s trying not to let irritation sound like concern. The rice cooker clicks, and it suddenly feels very loud in the silence you left hanging.
“I’ll make it up to you,” you say quickly, guilt tightening your throat. “Let me cook this weekend.”
She pauses, dead silent. Then slowly turns, both arms now crossed tighter, chin tilted.
“You.”
“Me.”
“You want to cook.”
“For us, yeah.”
“You nearly set the toaster on fire trying to make Pop-Tarts.”
“That was one time. And I was sleepy.”
“You boiled water in a frying pan.”
“I couldn’t find the kettle!”
“It was next to the stove.”
You press your palms together like you’re about to pray. “C’mon. Let me try. I’ll find recipes online. I’ll watch a tutorial or something. I’ll even write down a shopping list this time.”
Her eyes narrow. “You're gonna write down one egg, one cup rice, plus one extinguisher?”
You groan and sag onto the counter dramatically, forehead thunking against the cool laminate. “Have some faith in me, Sohyun.”
“I do, that’s why I don’t want to die.”
You lift your head and grin at her, and she falters. There’s a twitch at the edge of her mouth like she’s fighting it, but her arms are still crossed and her eyes are still doing that sharp thing they do when she’s trying to seem unimpressed. She fails. She always fails.
“You’ve got that face on again,” you say.
“What face.”
“The grumpy ‘my idiot roommate is testing my will to live’ face. I don’t like that face. Gimme a better one.”
She turns away a little, her hip brushing the counter, but you catch the way her lips almost curve. You lean in slightly.
“C’mon, just a little one. Gimme a smile. I’ll even do the grocery run tomorrow and the day after.”
“That’s your responsibility anyway,” she mumbles, but softer.
“Yeah, but I’ll do it extra good. Promise. Just smile.”
She tries to keep her mouth straight, but it’s not fair, because you’re looking at her like a puppy that dropped its leash and still thinks it deserves a treat. And you know what you’re doing; weaponizing that whole innocent soft-boy thing, but it works. She finally lets one side of her mouth curl up, barely, like a crack of sunlight through clouds.
“There,” you say, triumphant, and point like it’s proof. “That’s the one. See? You look way less murdery when you do that.”
“Shut up,” she says, but she doesn’t move away when you lean against the counter beside her. Her shoulder is warm against yours, and she doesn’t pull away. You can feel her relaxing, even if she keeps up the grumble.
“Seriously though,” you say. “Thanks for cooking all the time. I know I suck at adulting. I’ll get better.”
“Yeah, well. Someone has to keep your malnourished ass alive.”
You laugh, and she pretends like that wasn’t a compliment buried in salt. The silence after isn’t tense anymore. It’s familiar. She leans over to rinse some rice, and you stay close, watching the way her fingers move, the easy rhythm of someone who knows what they’re doing. It’s kind of hypnotic. You catch yourself staring a little too long and glance away, ears warm.
“You know,” you say, just to fill the quiet, “Xinyu said she wants to teach me how to make handmade dumplings. Apparently she’s some kind of food goddess outside of club stuff.”
You don’t notice how still Sohyun goes. How her shoulders tighten just slightly. You’re busy thinking about how Xinyu had smiled at you when she said it, the way she tilted her head and asked if your hands were good with dough. Like she was measuring your answer with something hungrier than curiosity.
You don’t notice the way Sohyun’s grip on the strainer shifts. Or the small exhale she lets out, short and flat. But you do catch the quiet that follows your sentence. Heavy again. And not the good kind.
You glance over. “What?”
“Nothing,” she says, too fast. “Sounds like she’s keeping you real busy lately.”
“I guess? I mean, she’s just super involved in everything. She’s got all these ideas. And people really listen to her. It’s kinda cool.”
She hums, then dumps the rice into the cooker with a clatter that sounds more aggressive than necessary.
“Cool,” she repeats under her breath, but you don’t catch the tone.
You yawn and stretch your arms above your head. “Anyway. I’m gonna shower before dinner. Thanks for not killing me.”
“No promises,” she mutters.
As you disappear down the hall, you don’t see the look she gives the kitchen doorway. Not angry. Not exactly sad, either. Just a look like someone watching a window slowly shut on something they hadn’t even realized they were leaning out of. The rice cooker beeps behind her, forgotten. Her reflection stares back at her in the microwave door, and she doesn’t like what she sees there.
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The air outside the lecture hall is too crisp for how warm your neck feels under the collar of your hoodie. Your econ professor dragged out the last five minutes of class with a winding tangent about inflation and donuts, and your brain’s still foggy from trying to stay awake. The hallway hums with the usual end-of-class shuffle—backpacks zipping, shoes squeaking on linoleum, someone laughing too loudly down the hall, the flick of water bottles being opened like a chorus of bored seals. You dig your phone out of your pocket, thumb tapping out a quick message to Sohyun to let her know you might head home soon—and then you hear your name.
Not called. Sung.
“Heeeey!”
You don’t even get the full chance to turn around before something soft and perfume-sweet hooks around your elbow and starts pulling. It’s instinct, at this point. You don’t even resist. You know that voice, and sure enough, there she is: Xinyu. In a velvet jacket the color of overripe cherries, hair twisted in a high braid that bounces with every movement, eyes bright with some new scheme. She's wearing high heels, which emphasizes her height (1.74cm, and she doesn't even need the heels to be taller than you).
“You have legs. You’re walking. Perfect. C’mon,” she says, already dragging you past two people in the hall who double-take like they’re seeing something illegal.
“Uh—hi? What—what’s going on?” You try to plant your feet but she’s stronger than she looks. “I actually need to get home kinda early—”
“It’ll be quick,” she chirps, which you immediately recognize as a lie, the same way Sohyun always does when you tell her you’ll “just check something real fast.” Xinyu gives you a sideways glance, all long lashes and a grin that should be registered as a performance-enhancing drug. “We’ve got a situation and you, my sweet dumb boy, are just the man to solve it.”
“I never agreed to—wait, what situation?”
“You’ll see,” she hums.
That’s how it always starts.
She marches you through campus like she’s late to a parade, and you end up outside the “Hands On” club room (formerly the Sad Little Arts Supply Closet), now upgraded with banners, fairy lights, a suggestion box shaped like a gumball machine, and one extremely passive-aggressive cactus on the windowsill that someone (probably Xinyu) glued googly eyes onto. The room smells like fabric glue and lavender cleaning spray. You can already tell something’s going on. Half the tables have fabric swatches and scissors laid out, while the other half are in chaos—cardboard boxes, paper stacks, craft knives, sticky notes everywhere like a crime scene made by a kindergarten teacher.
Xinyu kicks the door shut with her heel, and immediately spins to face you, hands clasped dramatically.
“Emergency,” she declares. “Our treasurer—bless his little heart—forgot to print half the zine inserts for tomorrow’s showcase. And he left town to visit his boyfriend and won’t be back until Monday.”
You blink. “Okay. And that involves me… how?”
She gives you a look, then grabs a stack of prints and holds them out with both hands, like she’s offering an ancient tome. “We need to trim the inserts, fold them, and pair them with the right zine covers tonight. I would do it myself, but I’m already running final checklists, and I need someone with…” She pauses, eyes dragging slowly down you in a way that makes your spine twitch. “…delicate hands.”
You’re not even sure what that means, but it works embarrassingly well. You shift your weight awkwardly, try not to smile, fail.
“I’ve got readings to do, though,” you mumble, still reaching for the stack anyway.
She leans in, nose almost bumping yours. “Just thirty minutes.”
You know it’s going to be at least two hours. But you’re already sitting down.
You work through the inserts like a factory line, trying not to get glue on your hoodie, trying even harder not to look too happy that she keeps hovering over your shoulder. Every few minutes she passes behind you, laying a hand on your back, leaning to read something over your shoulder, her perfume brushing against your cheek—light and heady, like peonies dipped in honey. When you mess up the first fold, she just laughs and reaches over to fix it, her fingers brushing yours deliberately.
“See? You’ve got the touch,” she says after you finish the third stack, peeking at your neat line of trimmed edges. “You’re careful. Precise. You’d make a good production lead.”
You pause, scissors halfway through a page. “Production what?”
“For the club.” She spins one of the folding chairs around and straddles it backwards, arms folded over the backrest like she’s about to make a TED talk. “We need someone to manage all the materials and oversee project prep days. It’s not super intense, just a couple meetings, task lists, making sure stuff gets done right. I’ve been doing it all myself, but honestly, you’re way more organized than I expected.”
“Uh. Thanks?” You’re not even sure if that’s a compliment or an insult.
She grins. “I'm serious! You’ve got this sort of… reliable energy. Like the kind of guy who double-checks the batteries before a camping trip.”
“Are you saying I’m boring?”
“No,” she says, tipping her head. “I’m saying you’re hot in a very unexpectedly domestic way.”
Your brain short-circuits a little. You drop a sheet. She laughs.
“That’s not—what even is that?”
“Means I could leave you alone in a room with a pet bunny and a glue gun and not worry about either of them dying.”
“…That is the weirdest compliment I’ve ever gotten.”
“And yet you’re still blushing.”
You turn your head away, trying to pretend you’re not. You totally are.
The idea of the position swirls in your head now, even as you keep folding. You picture being in charge of something, even something this small. Making lists. Making things run. Sohyun would probably laugh if she heard it. Or roll her eyes. Or both. Still. There's something weirdly satisfying about the idea of being useful like that. And then there’s the fact that it means more time here. Around her. Around this energy that makes you feel like you’re slightly floating, like maybe you matter in a way you hadn’t thought about before.
“I dunno,” you say. “I’ve never done anything like that before. And I’m still learning how the club works…”
“I’ll help you,” she says immediately. “Seriously. I wouldn’t throw you in alone. I just need someone I trust. And you’ve got this chill thing going on that keeps people from freaking out. I like that.”
You feel your ears heat again.
“I’ll think about it,” you say.
She pouts, and it’s completely weaponized. “But I need you.”
You choke on your breath.
She leans closer across the table. “Please? You’d be perfect. You’re already half in love with this place anyway.”
“I am not.”
She lifts an eyebrow. “You’re literally here folding paper on a Friday night.”
“…Point taken.”
She smiles then, something soft but electric, and somehow the room feels warmer. She taps the side of your hand lightly with a fingernail.
“Just say yes.”
You hesitate.
But it’s barely even hesitation.
“Okay,” you mumble, and you look down because her smile makes it hard to breathe right.
“I knew you would,” she says, sing-song and smug.
You keep working, heartbeat annoyingly loud, the sound of scissors and paper and her humming filling the room like you’ve stepped into a whole different orbit. Something not quite safe. But not bad, either. Just new.
And when you finally look at your phone later—two hours later—you realize you never texted Sohyun back.
You fumble with your keys at the door like they’ve suddenly become a math problem, plastic bags hanging heavy off your wrists, sleeves bunched up, hoodie damp with the sweat of a rushed walk to the market. You’re late. Not “forgot the time” late; actual late. Like, over-an-hour-past-the-“I’ll be home by six”-mark late. And that’s with the shortcut through the back alley that smells vaguely like wet cardboard and moldy pizza. You exhale, brace yourself, and nudge the door open with your foot.
Inside’s warm, lit up with the kitchen lights already on, even though you’d planned to turn them on yourself, cook like a responsible adult for once, surprise Sohyun with your flawless (okay, barely functional) culinary debut. Instead, there’s quiet rustling in the living room and the telltale smell of rice already cooking.
Damn.
“Sohyun,” you call out quickly, pushing in and kicking the door shut behind you. “Wait—don’t cook, I’m doing it! I swear!”
She appears before you can get another sentence out, standing in the doorway between the kitchen and the living room with her arms folded like she’s on break from interrogating someone. That same sweatshirt again, sleeves half covering her hands, her hair up in one of those loose, tired buns that somehow makes her look even more intimidating. She doesn’t say anything. Just stares at you.
You lift the bags. “Groceries. All of ‘em. Even got the brand of gochujang you like and those overpriced Belgian chocolate bars you keep ‘not liking’ but always finish.”
That gets her eyebrow twitching upward, just a little. But the frown’s still hanging around her mouth.
“I said I’d cook,” you add. “I didn’t forget this time.”
“You’re late.”
“I know, I’m sorry. There was… stuff. At the club. Unexpected stuff.”
She doesn’t ask what. She just moves aside so you can shuffle into the kitchen and start unpacking the bags. Vegetables. Noodles. Chicken. Soy sauce. Two bars of that milk chocolate with sea salt she thinks you don’t notice her hoarding in the freezer like contraband. She watches silently as you line things up on the counter, sleeves rolled up like you’re about to operate instead of cook.
“Okay,” you exhale, trying to sound confident and not like you’re internally googling how to dice an onion without making it look like a hate crime. “Tonight, we are making… stir-fried noodles. With chicken. And bok choy.”
Sohyun leans against the doorframe, arms still crossed. “You’re stir-frying something.”
“Technically, yes.”
She watches you wrestle the chicken out of its package like it’s a test of your moral fiber.
“You know,” she says after a long moment, “the whole point of you cooking was to not make me do anything.”
“I got this.”
You do not got this. Five minutes later you’re trying to figure out which knife is for chicken and which is for not-dying, when Sohyun lets out a sigh and walks over. She ties her hair up tighter, grabs a cutting board without a word, and starts slicing the bok choy with precision so sharp it’s almost smug.
“Hey—” you protest, “I said I got this.”
“You said a lot of things,” she mutters. “At this rate, we’ll be eating at midnight.”
You shut up and just let her work beside you. There’s something comforting about it, the shared silence while you both prep, the sound of knives on wood, the little clatter of bottles and bowls. You glance over at her hands a few times—how practiced they are, how she moves like she’s not even thinking about it. You’ve never been able to do anything that confidently. Not like her.
She doesn’t look at you when she speaks next. Her tone’s quiet. Even. Too even.
“So. This ‘unexpected stuff’ at the club.”
You clear your throat. “Just Xinyu stuff.
“Of course.”
“She needed help setting up some print stuff for the showcase tomorrow. I told her I couldn’t stay long, but…”
“But you stayed anyway.”
You hesitate. “It’s not like that.”
“Isn’t it?”
You glance up. She’s slicing scallions now, but her hands have slowed, like she’s not as calm as she wants to sound.
“She just needed help.”
Sohyun sets the knife down, finally looks at you.
“She always needs help, doesn’t she?”
You blink. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Sohyun wipes her hands on a dish towel. “It means girls like her know exactly what they’re doing when they lean in too close and smile too wide and ask for just one little favor. And boys like you—”
“—what about boys like me?” you cut in, more defensive than you expected.
She studies you. “You’re too nice. Too soft. You think people mean what they say when they smile at you.”
Your chest tightens, and you try to laugh it off. “You don’t even know her.”
“I don’t need to,” she says flatly. “I’ve seen enough. You come home late. You forget things. You’re too tired to eat sometimes. All because some pretty girl with glitter in her hair asks you to fold paper and run errands and smile on command.”
“She’s not using me,” you say, voice low now, trying to keep your hands busy with the noodles, but your pulse is skipping. “We’re friends. She values me. I’m not just—help. She made me a production lead.”
Sohyun lets out a quiet, humorless breath. “Wow. Production lead. That sounds very real.”
You grit your teeth. “You don’t know what it’s like there. The club’s fun. I like it. I feel… useful. Like I matter.”
“You do matter,” she snaps. “Here. With me. But you’re so damn caught up in being liked by her that you don’t see what she’s doing.”
You flinch, then stare down at the noodles, hands cold even over the heat of the pan.
“She’s really nice to me,” you mumble. “She listens. She laughs at my jokes. She makes me feel seen. Maybe you just… don’t get along with people like that.”
Her silence is louder than the stovetop now. You don’t dare look up. You keep stirring, even though the sauce is starting to bubble too fast, even though the smell is getting sharper. Sohyun says nothing for a long time.
When she finally speaks, her voice is quieter.
“She doesn’t see you,” she says. “She sees what she can get from you.”
You don’t know what to say to that. You just stand there, heat rising from the stove, from your face, from the sudden shift in the air around you.
“Let's just... finish cooking, okay?” you finally say, and the conversation ends.
The dinner isn’t bad. It’s not amazing either—one of the noodles is suspiciously crunchy and the sauce might be a little too salty—but it’s edible, and you didn’t set off the smoke detector, so it counts as a win. The kind of win where no one cheers but nobody dies. You both eat cross-legged on the couch, bowls balanced in your laps, watching something vague and unmemorable play out on the TV. Neither of you really pays attention. The show is just there to fill the silence you haven’t figured out how to cross again yet.
She’s quiet. Not in the usual way, where she’s half-ignoring you because she’s pretending to be annoyed. This is the kind of quiet where she doesn’t pick at your uneven chopstick technique, or sigh when you slouch too far forward like a sad noodle boy. She just eats. Occasionally glances at the screen. Mostly doesn’t look at you.
It’s your fault. You know that. You didn’t mean to shut her out, but the conversation from earlier is still coiled up tight in your chest like a knotted cord you can’t unkink. You know she meant well. You also know you didn’t want to hear it. And now it’s sitting between you like a third roommate with bad vibes and no rent.
You stab a stray noodle in the bowl and swirl it for no reason. Then, out of nowhere, you blurt it.
“Hey, uh… do you wanna go to the movies this weekend?”
Sohyun blinks. Turns her head slowly. “What?”
You cough and set your bowl down on the coffee table, feigning casual like you haven’t just rerouted the entire tone of the evening. “That movie. The weird indie horror-romance one you wouldn’t shut up about. You said it’s finally playing at that little theater downtown, right?”
She narrows her eyes like she suspects a trap. “That movie?”
“Yeah. That one with the girl who falls in love with a ghost that might’ve murdered her aunt.”
“You said that sounded dumb.”
“I’ve since developed taste.”
Her eyes flick down to your empty bowl, then back to your face, skeptical. “You wanna go see it. With me.”
“Yes.”
“At the theater.”
“Yes.”
“You, willingly, sitting through a movie where people talk in metaphors and cry in bathtubs for two hours.”
“Yes.”
She stares a second longer, then slowly sets her own bowl down.
“…Are you dying?”
You laugh, relieved that the wall between you starts to crack. “No. I just figured it’s been a while, you know? Since we went anywhere together. Just us.”
She looks at you, and this time it’s different. Softer. A little surprised. Her shoulders uncoil, just slightly.
“Yeah,” she says after a beat. “Yeah, I guess it has.”
You shift closer on the couch, knees brushing. She doesn’t pull away.
“I miss that,” you say quietly. “You and me. Hanging out. You making fun of my popcorn choices and stealing half of it anyway.”
“I don’t steal,” she mutters, glancing away. “You just let me take it.”
“Exactly,” you say, and you slide your hand over hers before you can overthink it. Just resting your palm on top of hers, fingers curling a little, not gripping, just—being there.
She flinches slightly at the contact, just a twitch, but she doesn’t pull back. She lets your fingers settle against hers, warm and tentative, and when you look up at her, she’s not smirking. Not scoffing. Her eyes are flicking down where your hands meet like it’s something foreign and strange and maybe a little fragile.
“You’re my best friend,” you say, simple and true. “You matter a lot to me.”
Her lips part slightly. Her brows lift, and for a second you think she might laugh it off or tell you you’re being cheesy or stupid—but she doesn’t. She just exhales, like maybe something heavy has been sitting in her chest too.
“You matter to me too,” she says.
You smile at her, and this time when your thumb brushes her knuckle, she doesn’t tense. She lets it happen. Lets you stay close. The show keeps playing in the background, some scene with a car chase and overly dramatic soundtrack cues, but you don’t hear it. Not really.
She shifts her hand slightly and laces her fingers with yours. Not fully. Not completely confident. But enough.
“Don’t be late to the theater,” she says softly. “Or I will eat all your popcorn.”
“Fair,” you say, and your heart’s beating like you’ve just run a mile uphill, but your smile won’t quit.
Neither will hers, even as she tries to hide it by turning toward the screen again.
And when she finally squeezes your hand, once, gently… you squeeze back.
The week grinds on like a slow, dull blade; long days of lectures that won’t end and projects that never feel done, your hands always on something, always organizing, always fixing. The new position in the club sounded cool when Xinyu pitched it, sounded manageable, even kind of important. And it is. But it's also constant. There’s always something that needs adjusting. A deadline that wasn’t clear. A last-minute supply shortage. Someone who forgot to RSVP to a workshop and now wants to be squeezed in. You spend most of your hours between classes running around campus, typing messages with one hand and juggling printouts with the other. It’s not that you hate it. It’s just… a lot.
And you’ve been deliberately keeping it at arm’s length this week. Showing up when you need to. Doing what’s necessary. But not lingering. Not letting yourself fall into the way Xinyu looks at you when you're both the last ones in the room. Not letting yourself chase that high that comes from being the center of her attention. You're just packing your things at the edge of the classroom when the scent hits you before the voice. Vanilla, sharp berry, something flirtatious. You freeze for half a second before you even look up.
“There you are,” Xinyu says, leaning against the frame of the door like it’s a movie scene. Skirt just high enough to register, blouse knotted loosely at the waist, hair done up in a half-messy twist that probably took twenty minutes to make look that accidental. She’s smiling at you like she caught you doing something bad and she’s this close to forgiving you for it.
“Hey,” you say, more cautious than casual.
“Got a minute?” She pushes off the door with one heel, strides into your personal space like she owns it, which (let’s face it) she kind of does when she wants to. “Just wanted to run a couple updates by you for the zine drop next week. Also, did you see my text?”
You blink. “Uh, I think so? About the schedule?”
“No,” she says, stepping even closer, voice lowering just enough to pull your gaze to her mouth. “The one I sent yesterday. About the mixer tonight.”
You shake your head. “I’ve been a little swamped. Haven’t had time to check.”
Her smile flickers, momentarily amused, maybe faintly disappointed. “Yeah, I noticed. You’ve been kind of... scarce this week.”
You shift your bag on your shoulder, trying not to notice the way her eyes track the movement. “I’ve just had a lot going on. Assignments, you know. Life.”
“Sure,” she says, tilting her head. “But it’s not like you to dip right after meetings. And I miss my favorite assistant-slash-handyman-slash-pretty boy.”
That catches you off guard. You cough and glance toward the hallway.
She’s teasing, obviously.
Probably.
Right?
“I’m still doing everything I’m supposed to,” you say, trying to stay focused. “I’ve just been trying to keep my head down and not burn out.”
She studies you for a second, like she’s assessing whether that’s the whole truth. “Mhm. So you’re saying you could come to the mixer tonight but you won’t.”
You laugh nervously. “I already have plans.”
That gets her attention. “Plans?” she repeats, lifting an eyebrow. “With who?”
You hesitate. A beat too long.
“…My roommate,” you say. “Sohyun.”
Her mouth lifts at one corner, interested now in a way that’s different; not just playful, but… analytical.
“Sohyun…” she echoes. “That name’s familiar. I think I’ve seen her around. Quiet girl? Moles on the face? Always in a hoodie?”
You nod. “Yeah, that’s her.”
“Didn’t know you two were that close.”
You try to shrug it off, but your grip on your bag strap tightens. “We live together. We hang out sometimes. She’s just—she’s my friend.”
Xinyu steps closer. Close enough you can smell her perfume again, soft and sweet, like fruit ripened in summer heat. Her fingers trail lightly across your forearm.
“Just your friend,” she murmurs.
You nod, throat dry. “Yeah.”
Her eyes drag over your face like she’s reading a secret written across your skin. She doesn’t blink. Her fingers pause, then curl lightly around your wrist.
“That’s good,” she says, voice velvet-wrapped. “Because you already have an owner.”
Your breath catches. “I—what?”
She doesn’t give you time to untangle the meaning. She just leans forward and kisses you.
It’s soft at first, almost testing. Her lips barely brush yours, but the sensation is instantly overwhelming. Sweet gloss. A breath of warm air. Her fingers sliding up, into your hair, pulling you a half-step deeper before you even realize you're leaning in. Everything disappears, noise, time, the fluorescent hallway lights, it’s just her, kissing you like she’s claiming something that already belonged to her.
You don’t move. You can’t move. Your thoughts are scattering like coins in water.
When she finally pulls back, her face is still inches from yours, her breath warm and her smile damn near criminal.
“You’re cute when you look like you’ve been unplugged,” she says, brushing your jaw with the back of her knuckle. “But don’t worry. I don’t bite.”
You swallow, hard. “I don’t…”
“You don’t what?”
“I don’t really know what that meant.”
She laughs. “It means I’m making a reservation, baby. You’re mine.”
You look at her, dumbstruck, heart slamming in your ribs.
Then, before you can collect yourself, she adds, “So, since you’re blowing me off for your roommate tonight, how about you make it up to me.”
“…How?”
She leans in again, lips just by your ear now.
“Ask me out. Just you and me. No club stuff. No excuses.”
You hesitate. You shouldn’t. You should say no. You should stall. But instead—
“…Okay. I will.”
Her smile goes wide and adorable.
“Good boy.”
She kisses your cheek this time, softer, lighter, but somehow more dangerous, and then turns on her heel and disappears down the hall, skirt swinging, a melody of casual destruction.
You’re left standing in the doorway of your classroom, the taste of her still on your lips, your phone buzzing with a new message that you already know is from her.
And somehow, all you can think about now is how the hell you’re going to face Sohyun tonight.
You get to the theater with barely a minute to spare, which is honestly a miracle considering your brain's been running on static ever since Xinyu kissed you. You’ve been replaying it like some kind of forbidden cutscene you unlocked by accident. Her perfume is still clinging to your hoodie. Your lips still feel weirdly aware, like your body hasn’t updated the rest of itself on what happened. You texted Sohyun that you were on your way while your fingers were still slightly shaking.
And now she’s standing in front of the ticket kiosk, scrolling on her phone, her expression neutral until she hears your footsteps. She looks up, and her face softens the way it always does when she sees you: shoulders relaxing, lips almost smiling. She’s got her hair down tonight, not tied up like usual, and her eyeliner’s a little sharper than usual, like she put in effort but didn’t want to make it obvious. It kind of punches the air out of your lungs.
“You made it,” she says.
“Wouldn’t miss it,” you manage, trying to keep your tone level.
She squints. “You okay? You look like you just ran from a house fire.”
“I’m fine. Just, uh…” You rub the back of your neck, laughing awkwardly. “Got caught up with something right before I left. But I’m good now. Totally good.”
She walks beside you toward the entrance, and the moment you get close, she stops short. Her nose twitches. Her brow furrows slightly.
“Hold up,” she says, sniffing the air near your shoulder. “What is that?”
You freeze. “What’s what?”
“That smell. Are you wearing perfume?”
You nearly trip over your own feet. “What? No. No, no. It’s, uh… probably just my deodorant. I bought a new one. It’s got like, weird… berry something in it. Or… lavender? Maybe both? I don’t know.”
She stares at you like you just said your skin naturally emits essential oils. “You smell like someone else. Like a girl."
You try not to sweat. “Maybe I brushed past someone on the train. Or—maybe someone at the mall sprayed a tester thing. I mean, you know how people get with free samples.”
Sohyun doesn’t look convinced, but she doesn’t press further. Not directly. Just narrows her eyes and says, “Uh-huh,” before moving toward the theater doors again.
You scramble to change the subject, reaching for something, anything. “Hey, by the way… you look really beautiful tonight.”
That gets her attention. She stops walking again. Turns slowly.
“What?”
You blink. “I mean it. You look nice. Really nice. It’s the eyeliner or the hair or maybe both. I dunno. You just do.”
Now her expression isn’t suspicious, exactly. More like… confused. Like you just threw her off balance in a way she wasn’t expecting. She gives you a side glance, narrowing her eyes again.
“Okay, what’s going on with you tonight?”
“Nothing,” you say quickly, holding your hands up like you’re being accused of a crime. “I’m allowed to compliment my best friend, right?”
She mutters something like “Not when you’re acting weird about it,” but she walks ahead and scans the tickets, so you follow her into the dark theater, hoping the blackness will hide how flushed you probably are.
You sit next to her, the movie already starting with a low, ambient hum that fills the space between you. But you’re not really there. Not fully.
Your body is sitting beside Sohyun, her knee occasionally brushing yours, the bucket of popcorn between you smelling like synthetic butter and warm salt. But your mind keeps flashing back to the moment in the hallway earlier today—Xinyu leaning in, her lips brushing yours, her voice low and possessive, calling you hers. That look in her eyes like she meant it. Like she wanted you. Not just to help with her club plans, not just to make things run smoothly. You. Specifically you.
You sit still, trying to focus on the film, but the plot flows over you like mist—haunting music, characters whispering in shadowy rooms, a scene with someone walking backwards in slow motion. You’re lost in the echo of what Xinyu said.
You already have an owner.
You don’t know what to make of it. But it didn’t feel fake. It didn’t feel like she was playing. It felt like something real. Like maybe Sohyun was wrong. Maybe Xinyu does care about you. Maybe all the flirtation and teasing wasn’t just a way to get you to fold papers and haul supplies. Maybe she likes you. For you.
But then you glance sideways. Sohyun’s eyes are on the screen, but she’s smiling. Just a little. The kind of smile you only catch if you’re watching her close, when something in the movie hits right, or when she’s just happy to be there beside you, no pressure, no performance. Just… happy.
You feel it then. Not guilt, exactly. Something messier. Like being caught between two currents pulling in opposite directions. Xinyu’s kiss still burns on your lips. But Sohyun’s hand, resting on the armrest beside yours, feels like something familiar. Something safe.
So you just keep sitting there, the film flickering over both of you, your brain too full and too loud to hear much of anything.
But Sohyun leans slightly toward you halfway through the film, and whispers, “Thanks for coming with me.”
You nod, quiet. “Of course.”
She nudges you lightly with her shoulder. “Even if your deodorant smells suspiciously like high-end seduction.”
You laugh under your breath, and it breaks the tension in your chest a little. She doesn’t ask more.
And you’re not sure where this is all going. But for now, you’re here. With her. Sharing popcorn. Sharing silence. Sharing something you still haven’t named.
But despite all this, somehow, tonight is going well.
Or at least you're pretending it is.
It starts subtly. A slow gravitational shift. One day you’re just helping Xinyu reorganize the storage shelves in the club room, joking about how half the boxes are labeled with inside jokes only she understands, and the next, it’s just the two of you sitting cross-legged on the carpet, eating overpriced takeout while she flips through proofs and playfully feeds you shrimp tempura with her chopsticks. Time begins to bend differently around her. Hours pass like they’re minutes when she’s smiling at you like that, fingers trailing casually along your thigh while she talks about themes for the next zine, her head tilted, eyes lit like you’re the only one who gets to hear this part of her.
You try not to let it show too much outside the club room. It’s not like you’re trying to hide it, but there’s something about it that feels too new, too bright to be touched by other people’s opinions.
Especially Sohyun’s.
So you don’t say anything about the kisses stolen behind closed doors or the way Xinyu's hand slips into yours when no one’s looking. But you talk about her. A lot. More than usual. Like you’re hoping repetition will turn perception. Like you’re trying to overwrite Sohyun’s skepticism with enough evidence that she’ll finally admit she was wrong.
At first, you don’t notice how often you bring her up. Like during dinner one night, when Sohyun’s plating kimchi stew and you’re scrolling through your phone with a dumb grin.
“She’s seriously so funny,” you say, half-laughing to yourself. “Yesterday she was trying to teach me how to make those little origami frogs and I kept screwing them up, so she made a whole sad frog funeral out of my mess-ups. Like full-on folded a little casket. It was so dumb, but I couldn’t stop laughing.”
Sohyun glances up from the pot, slow, expression unreadable. “Sounds… elaborate.”
“Yeah, but like, in a cute way,” you say, scooping rice into your bowl. “She’s got this energy that makes everything more fun. Even boring stuff. Like she turned budget planning into a game last week. Made me guess prices on glitter and glue sticks like it was a quiz show.”
“She ever let you win?”
You grin. “Only when I look extra pitiful.”
Sohyun doesn’t laugh. She just places your bowl in front of you without comment, her eyes flicking down to the table as she settles into her seat. You don’t catch the way her fingers tense around her chopsticks before she starts eating.
You miss other signs too. Like how she doesn’t look up when you come home late anymore. Or how she doesn’t ask what you were up to. You used to tell her without prompting, but now your nights are wrapped in something private—lipstick on your neck, her breath on your ear, Xinyu pressing you against clubroom cabinets with that smug little grin that makes your thoughts scatter like dice.
You stop watching movies with Sohyun. Not intentionally. It just slips away. The time you spent together starts shrinking, edged out by late-night print meetings, gallery walks with Xinyu that turn into half-drunken conversations on park benches, and slow kisses that taste like watermelon gum and heat. You keep saying you’ll reschedule movie night. You never do.
Sohyun doesn’t press. But she notices.
She notices how you start smiling at your phone more than usual. How your hoodie comes home smelling like something not yours. She notices how you hesitate when she asks how your day went, how you mention Xinyu’s name like it’s a punctuation mark in every other sentence.
“Did she ask you to talk about her this much,” Sohyun mutters one night.
“What?”
She doesn’t repeat herself. Just stares at the screen. Her shoulders stiff.
You shift on the couch. “I just think maybe she’s not how you assumed, that’s all.”
Sohyun’s jaw tightens, her eyes still on the flickering movie neither of you are watching. “Maybe.”
“She’s been… really kind to me,” you add. “She listens. She gets it. I dunno. It’s just nice having someone who really sees you, y’know?”
There’s a pause. A breath. A sound like something small and invisible breaking.
“I thought I did,” she says quietly.
You turn to her. “What?”
“Nothing,” she says. “Forget it.”
You don’t push. And that’s the worst part. You used to. But now Xinyu’s kisses are still on your collar, her texts still open on your screen, little cartoon hearts trailing in your thoughts like an afterimage.
You’re floating. Orbiting. And you don’t see the way Sohyun’s been left behind on the ground, staring at your back like she’s watching a spaceship disappear into a sky that never once asked her to come along.
One month has passed.
She’s not surprised when you’re late. That’s just how it is now.
The first few times, she was. At least enough to stay up, waiting in the living room with a show paused halfway through and her phone resting face-up on the armrest. But that phase passed. It’s like training a cat to come home by midnight—you can try, but if it keeps slipping out the window, eventually you stop wasting your breath.
Now it’s routine. You say you’ll be home by eight. She hears the door creak at eleven. You always have a reason. Club stuff. Project stuff. Xinyu needing help. Xinyu needing you. And Sohyun tells herself not to care. She tells herself she’s just your roommate. She tells herself that if she keeps her expectations low enough, they won’t disappoint her when they inevitably fall short.
But tonight is different.
You didn’t say you'd be out late. You said you'd be back in time for dinner. Even said you'd help her prep. She made an actual list. Took the rice out early. Washed vegetables like she believed you.
Stupid. Stupid, stupid.
Nine o'clock. She tries to study. Fails.
Ten o'clock. She scrolls social media and refreshes your chat twice, looking for a dot that never shows up.
At eleven, she sends a message:
you good?
At midnight:
where are you
No reply.
She starts imagining things she doesn't want to imagine. Hospital beds. Car crashes. You ditching your phone somewhere and bleeding out behind a dumpster. All of it stupid, dramatic, and totally possible in the late-night silence of a too-quiet apartment. She walks the loop from the kitchen to the living room and back again like pacing will keep her from thinking. At 1 a.m. she gives up and goes to her room, sits in bed with the lights off and your chat open on her phone like it might suddenly ping alive and make her look dumb for worrying.
You don’t reply.
Not even the seen-check mark.
She stares at the glow of the screen, the little timestamp beneath her last message like it’s laughing at her.
At 3:04 a.m, the door clicks.
She hears it, obviously. She’s been awake for hours, lying still in the dark, breathing shallow like that might trick her thoughts into falling asleep. The lock turns slowly, like you’re trying not to make a sound. The door swings open with that telltale rubbery groan (it’s always the left hinge) and then soft footsteps. Your footsteps.
She doesn’t move.
You shuffle into the hallway. Then your door clicks shut, soft. No lights turned on. No message sent. No “hey, sorry I’m late.” Just… slipping in like a kid past curfew. Quiet as guilt.
She stares at her ceiling. Her room smells like night cream and too much unsaid.
Something’s wrong. Not in the usual way.
You didn’t just get caught up. You’re hiding something.
She sits up finally, swings her legs over the side of the bed, but doesn’t turn on the light. She just sits there in the dark, jaw clenched, fists curling in her lap.
It’s Xinyu. Of course it’s Xinyu.
Something about that girl makes Sohyun’s skin crawl. Too perfect. Too polished. Too practiced with the way she laughs like music and touches everyone like they’re already hers. And she could see it happening—could see the way you lit up around her, how your eyes chased Xinyu’s every move like a dog waiting for scraps. At first, Sohyun thought it was a phase. Something shallow. A crush that’d fizzle out like most of yours did.
But then the quiet started. The missed dinners. The unread messages. The new deodorant that didn’t smell like you. The way your eyes would dart when she said Xinyu’s name, like it was a window she could see through.
Now, tonight, the way you came in like a stranger. That was the crack that let everything pour in.
She should be angry. She wants to be angry. But what’s worse is this ache: this quiet, hollow ache in her chest like she’s watching something slip out of her hands she never got to call hers in the first place.
You were hers. Not hers-hers. Not officially. But still. Hers in the way you always came to her first. Hers in the way your laugh sounded different when it was just them. Hers in the way you’d watch her cook with that dumb soft look and try not to say anything because you didn’t want to sound sappy. She misses that.
She misses you.
Now all she has is the memory of your footsteps in the dark and the smell of that other girl on your clothes.
And she’s not sure how much longer she can pretend not to notice.
Sohyun wakes up earlier than usual. Not because she wants to. Her eyes just snap open like they’re waiting for an answer to a question she didn’t get to ask. The clock on her nightstand says 6:34, and her room is blue and gray and quiet, with the early light crawling across the floorboards like it’s sneaking in on tiptoe. Her pillow still smells faintly like conditioner and sleep and the night she wasted waiting for you to come home. She kicks the blanket off. Her skin’s cold but her chest’s hotter than it should be. A low, smoldering kind of heat that simmers behind the ribs. Not anger. Not yet. Something more corrosive.
You’re already in the kitchen when she steps out. Acting like everything’s fine. Like nothing happened. Even visibly exhausted, you’ve got that dumb, disarming half-smile on, and your hoodie’s zipped all the way up like you think it makes you look more innocent. Like you think you’re just gonna pour some cereal, mumble something about class starting at eight, and coast through the morning without her noticing the parts of you that don’t match.
"Morning," you say. Your tone is chipper. Fake. She hates it. “I made coffee for you.”
She doesn’t ask anything. She doesn’t snap. She just grabs a mug, fills it with that bitter cheap instant coffee you somehow never notice tastes like burnt pennies, and sits at the table. You start rambling.
“I didn’t get a chance to reply last night. My phone died. I was at a friend’s place. We were just hanging out. Time got away from me, you know how it is.”
She hums. Not in agreement. Just to fill space.
“It wasn’t even that late,” you say. “I mean, okay, yeah, technically it was late, but it’s not like—nothing bad happened or anything. Just lost track.”
She keeps sipping her coffee, expression unreadable. Like the mug is more interesting than your entire explanation.
You wait for her to say something. She doesn’t. You keep going. Nervous filler. You always do that when you’re lying.
“I mean, I didn’t even realize what time it was. It was like, wow, already past two? Crazy. And by then I figured I’d just crash and not wake anyone up.”
She sets the mug down too hard. It clinks against the wood laminate. She looks at you, expression flat. “It’s okay.”
That’s it. Just that. No inflection. Not even a glare. You nod awkwardly and start preparing your cereal.
The walk to campus is dead quiet. You both step in sync without thinking, but there’s no music between you. No shared earbuds. No small talk. Just footsteps and a silence that stretches so long it starts to feel like another person walking beside you, tall and heavy and suffocating.
At the entrance gate, you break off first. “See you later, yeah?” you say.
Sohyun just nods. You turn. And she watches you go.
But today’s different.
Today she’s not going to sit back. Today she’s done playing passive-aggressive roommate, done standing still while something she doesn’t want to name slips out of reach. Today she’s going to find out. For real. Whatever it is—whatever this thing is between you and Xinyu—she needs to see it. Even if it breaks her.
She heads toward your building at a brisk pace, hoodie pulled low, headphones in with nothing playing. Just for the look. Just to blend in. She waits across the quad from your classroom entrance, leaning against a column like she’s texting, like she belongs there, like her heart isn’t pounding in her ears so loud she feels it in her teeth.
You come out a minute later, backpack slung lazy on one shoulder, head ducked, scrolling your phone. She steps into motion before you can see her. You don’t look back. You don’t notice. She follows you across the paved paths, past vending machines and sleepy undergrads, keeping enough distance to look like she’s just going the same way. No one glances at her twice.
And then she sees her. Xinyu.
Bright red jacket. Short skirt and cropped top, quite inappropriate for the academic environment. Hair curled just-so, like she stepped out of an ad. Leaning against a bench with one ankle crossed over the other like she’s waiting for her date. You slow. She smiles. Arms open.
“There you are!” she chirps, pulling you in.
It’s not just a hug. Sohyun knows what hugs are. This one’s got linger. This one’s got fingertips sliding up your back like they’re trying to memorize every bone. You look caught off guard, but you don’t move away.
Sohyun slinks closer, behind the sculpture garden wall. She crouches low, right by the rhododendron hedge that stinks faintly of wet bark and cheap fertilizer. Her hands are cold.
"We need to go to the club immediately,” she says.
“I thought the club was closed today,” you reply.
Xinyu laughs, and it’s musical and full of knowing. “Exactly. It’s closed. No one’s gonna be there.”
You hesitate. “But like… isn’t that why we shouldn’t go?”
“Aw,” she coos, dragging her nail down your sleeve, “you’re so cute when you’re trying to be good. Come on, just a little visit. I forgot my notebook and I need to do some sketches. Besides—” she lowers her voice, “I like the place better when it’s empty. More room to spread out. More room to play.”
Sohyun’s stomach flips.
You laugh nervously. “I guess… I mean, if you really need help—”
“I always need help,” she says, and leans close again. “And you’re so good with your hands.”
It’s like someone punched the breath out of Sohyun’s lungs. She watches you scratch your neck, look away, not quite answering. But you’re not pulling away either. You’re not protesting. You’re blushing. She’s got her hooks in and she knows it. Sohyun can see it all from here, every smug flick of Xinyu’s lashes, every calculated little lean and brush.
She swallows hard. Her fingers are clenched so tight her knuckles hurt.
No. She’s not letting this slide.
She bolts before she can hear anything else. Takes the side path, sneakers hitting concrete in bursts, weaving through the back courtyards toward the old art building. The clubroom’s there, tucked in behind the supply annex. Her legs burn by the time she reaches it.
The door’s unlocked. Wide open. And inside, a janitor’s sweeping like this is just another fucking Tuesday.
“Excuse me!” she says, breathless, jogging in. The janitor looks up.
“There’s—someone from the admin office looking for you,” she lies, no hesitation. “Something about a sink backup on the second floor? They said it was urgent.”
He sighs. “Again?” and drops the broom.
As he walks out, Sohyun holds the door open like a good little helper, then slips in behind him and closes it tight.
The silence is huge.
The air’s cooler inside. Fluorescent lights flicker overhead. The clubroom’s a controlled mess—tables littered with fabric scraps, zine proofs, glue sticks half-melted from overuse. It smells like paper and lavender and too many secrets.
She moves fast, eyes scanning for hiding spots. Under the table? No, too exposed. Behind the supply shelves? Not unless she wants to get spotted immediately. Then—there. In the back corner, half-concealed behind stacked poster rolls and bins of foam letters: a janitor’s closet. She darts over and yanks it open.
Coats. Wire hangers. A mop bucket. Miscellaneous crap. She slides in anyway, curling herself into the shadow between a metal cabinet and a box labeled “event props.” Her heart’s still racing.
She pulls the door mostly shut, leaving just a sliver to breathe through.
And now… she waits.
Every creak of the floor outside makes her flinch. Her phone vibrates. One buzz. It’s a message from you.
Hey, forgot to ask—do we have soy sauce left at home or should I pick some up?
She stares at the screen, thumb hovering. Doesn’t answer. Just locks it again and grips the edge of a crate until her nails dig in.
You’re coming. With her. With Xinyu. To this room. This space.
She doesn’t know what’s about to happen. She just knows she has to see it.
She has to know
A few minutes later, she hears footsteps, accompanied by an irritating giggle that she can already imagine who it belongs to.
You enter the club with Xinyu. The door clicks behind you with a soft, unmistakable snap. The kind that doesn’t come from a casual tug—no, it’s deliberate. You hear the rustle of keys before you even process the sound of the lock sliding into place, and that does something to the air. Traps it. Slows it down. Makes it feel heavier somehow.
Xinyu twirls the lanyard on her finger once, lets it slap lightly against her thigh, then drops the keys into her bag without ceremony. “There,” she says, all sugar and satisfaction. “Now we won’t be interrupted.”
You laugh nervously, glancing at the darkened windows. The blinds are half-drawn, a few strips of light slicing across the tables. “You really didn’t have to lock it.”
“Didn’t I?” she says, tilting her head like she’s daring you to disagree. “What if someone wandered in? What if they got the wrong idea?”
You blink. “I mean—if someone walked in, they’d… kinda get the right idea.”
She giggles, high and soft, stepping in close enough that your backpack bumps the wall behind you. Her perfume’s even stronger in here. Berries and danger. She plants both hands on your chest and leans in, the weight of her grin dragging everything out of orbit.
“You really are cute when you’re flustered.”
You swallow.
“We’ve gotta be quick, though,” she says, letting her palms slide down your hoodie, slow and teasing. She pulls back a bit and throws her bag on the floor, then slowly takes off her jacket. “I told my friend I was going to grab a notebook. Don’t want her wondering why I’m gone long enough to start a new semester.”
She kisses you before you can answer. Fast. Hot. Hungry. Like her mouth’s been waiting all morning and now she’s starved for it. Her lips crash against yours in that wild way only Xinyu seems capable of—reckless and commanding, tongue slipping in like she owns the space. Your brain stutters. Her hands drag lower. One slips under your hoodie, nails brushing skin. The other works on the strap of your backpack, removing one at a time until it falls to the floor with a loud thud in the confined space.
And in the closet, twenty feet away, behind a stack of mismatched poster tubes and event bins, Sohyun goes still.
She doesn’t even remember breathing.
But she hears it all.
That kiss isn’t innocent. That kiss is confirmation. That kiss is a final answer to a question she wasn’t ready to ask—and it lands like a brick in the hollow center of her stomach.
Xinyu breaks from you with a little satisfied sound, her lips glossy, eyes bright. “So…” she purrs, brushing your jaw with the back of her hand, “what’d you think of last night?”
You smile, stupid and a little dazed. “It was… amazing.”
Sohyun’s hands clench.
She doesn’t need details. Her brain fills in the blanks. Too many of them. Her imagination paints things she never wanted to see—your hoodie balled on the floor, Xinyu astride you, laughing into your neck, your voice shaking in ways she’s never heard. The thought turns her breath into knives.
Xinyu hums in satisfaction, then drops her gaze—and her fingers.
They land on the waistband of your jeans.
You tense, glancing at the locked door. “Wait—here?”
“It’ll be fast,” she whispers, eyes already glinting. “You’re already hard.”
She says it like she’s proud of herself. Like you being turned on is a trophy she’s just picked up off the shelf. Her fingers fumble with your button, then unzip skillfully. She sinks down onto her knees, casual as anything.
Sohyun’s heart is in her throat.
She watches from that narrow slit between the door and the wall. She sees your pants drop to your ankles. Sees Xinyu’s hands slide up your thighs. Sees the gleam of her smile when she notices the outline straining through your underwear.
You shift, uncomfortable. “Hey, uh… maybe we shouldn’t keep staying out so late. I got home really late last night. I think Sohyun’s starting to get suspicious.”
Xinyu’s head tilts as she hooks her fingers in your waistband. “So?”
You blink. “I just—don’t want her to worry, that’s all.”
She laughs. Laughs. Like you told her a joke. “She’s not your mother.”
“No, but—she’s my best friend. I don’t want her to think I’m—lying or something.”
That makes Xinyu pause. Just for a second. Then her smile sharpens.
“She doesn’t get a say in this,” she says, and her hands tug your underwear down in one quick, fluid motion.
Sohyun sees everything. And it burns.
Your cock springs free, flushed, twitching with the tension of the moment. You make a small sound in your throat, embarrassed and eager all at once. Xinyu just beams.
“Aww, you really missed me, huh?” she coos.
You try to answer but you can’t form words. Not when her fingers wrap around the base, smooth and practiced, stroking once, twice. Your knees buckle a little.
“She’s not gonna come between us,” she adds softly, voice low now, as she leans in, breath hot against the head. “I don’t care who she is.”
“Don’t say that,” you murmur, but it’s weak. Shaky. “Sohyun’s not just… some random girl.”
Xinyu’s eyes flick up. “Sure,” she says, tone mocking. “She’s your 'best friend'. Whatever.” Then she opens her mouth and takes you in.
You gasp. Sohyun nearly doubles over.
The sound is unmistakable. Wet. Slow. She sees the way Xinyu hollows her cheeks, her jaw working, the obscene slide of her lips over you like she’s savoring every inch. Her hand moves in tandem, twisting just right, guiding every pull and suck. She doesn’t blink. Just stares up at you while she sucks you like she’s devouring you, like she knows she owns you now and she’s showing it.
Your fingers tangle in her hair. Your head tips back.
“S-Shit—” you whisper, trembling. “That’s… fuck…”
Xinyu moans around you, like praise is her favorite meal.
And Sohyun sits in the dark, biting her hand to keep from screaming.
Her lips glide down the length of you slow, savoring, wet heat enveloping inch by inch like she wants to claim it. She doesn’t gag—she adjusts, angle tilting, jaw relaxing, one hand bracing at your thigh while the other strokes the base with a rhythm that makes your knees wobble. Every pass of her tongue along the underside feels like it’s wired directly into your spine, like she’s flipping switches you didn’t know you had.
And she loves it. Every reaction. Every twitch of your hips, the shallow breath you try to hold back, the soft curse you can’t keep from slipping out.
Above her, you brace against the table edge with one hand, the other still threaded in her hair, not pulling, just trying to anchor yourself because she’s looking up at you through lashes dark with mischief, mouth full of your cock like it’s where she was meant to be. Like she planned this moment every time she leaned too close in club meetings or brushed your arm on the walk back from the coffee shop.
From the closet, through that sliver of space, Sohyun sees everything.
The bob of Xinyu’s head, the shine on her chin, the way your hips twitch forward helplessly when she lets her tongue swirl the tip and then slides back down again, steady, smooth, obscene. Sohyun’s fingers are curled into her jeans now, nails biting deep through the denim. Her legs are cramped, but she doesn’t move. She can’t. Every instinct screams to throw the door open and drag you out, but her body’s paralyzed with it—betrayal folded in silence.
You make a sound, soft and hoarse—something between a gasp and a whimper. Xinyu hums, and the vibration along your shaft sends a full-body shiver through you. She pulls off just enough to stroke you with her fist, wrist flicking expertly, thumb swiping the bead of precum from your slit before leaning in again—only this time, lower.
You flinch, surprised, as her lips brush your balls.
Her tongue darts out. A single slow lick, teasing. Then another. Then she shifts lower and takes one in her mouth.
Your breath catches.
“Fuck—Xinyu—”
She giggles, muffled, then pulls off, tongue trailing over your skin like she’s tasting you for notes of sweetness. “Mm,” she says, tilting her face just enough for you to see the smug curve of her smile. “Bet she doesn’t do that.”
There’s a pause.
You hesitate. It’s barely a breath.
“…She doesn’t,” you admit, low, shame threaded through the moan that slips out next as her mouth seals over you again.
Sohyun flinches like she’s been hit.
It’s the confirmation she never wanted—real, raw, echoing in your voice, in your hips tilting forward like you need this, like this is something you never got at home.
Xinyu switches sides, tongue painting lazy circles as her fingers resume their slow pump. “I knew it,” she purrs. “She acts all tough, but she wouldn’t dare get on her knees for you, would she?”
You shake your head, lips parted. Your reply is barely audible, wrecked: “No…”
“Mm,” she hums again, hot breath teasing your spit-slick skin. “Guess that’s my job now, huh?”
You can’t even speak.
She shifts again—one hand stroking, the other cradling under you as her mouth wraps around both balls, tongue massaging them gently, rolling with practiced pressure that makes your thighs tense. You groan, deep in your chest, and she moans with you, reveling in the sound, the twitch she feels under her tongue, the way your body gives itself up to her touch.
Your head falls back.
She’s not just sucking you off. She’s showing off.
For you. For herself. And unknowingly—for the girl hidden in a closet, heart shattering beat by beat.
Sohyun watches your hips rock forward slightly, the way you bite your lip to muffle the next sound. The way your hand trembles on the table. You’re trying so hard not to fall apart, and failing beautifully.
Your hand slides against the tabletop, blindly reaching for something—balance, maybe—but there’s nothing steady in you right now. Not with the way Xinyu's mouth keeps working you like she's drawing a map with her tongue, etching you into memory with every slow, deliberate swirl. She’s focused, almost clinical, except her eyes betray her—hungry, gleaming, dark with satisfaction every time your hips jerk, every time a new sound punches out of your throat and hangs too loud in the still air.
“Fuck—Xinyu,” you breathe, the syllables sticky with pleasure, broken by a stuttering inhale. “That feels so good.”
Her lips pop off your tip with a wet little sound, tongue dragging around it in slow circles, teasing. She smiles as she laps again, feather-light at first, then firmer, lashing under the head like she’s tasting something sweet she refuses to finish too soon.
“Mmm,” she murmurs, kissing it. “I love this cock. So thick… god, you don’t even know what you do to me.”
You twitch under her touch, body caught between surrender and overload. Your thighs are tight, your hands shaky, and she’s not slowing down. She wraps her lips around the tip again, deeper this time, sucking just enough to make your breath catch and your knees knock. One hand strokes the base with a slow rhythm while the other rests flat on your stomach, possessive, like she’s holding you in place. Your moans are barely controlled now, soft, breathy things slipping past your lips no matter how hard you try to stay quiet.
In the closet, Sohyun has both hands clamped over her mouth now, but it’s not enough. Her body is shaking. Her teeth are pressed so deep into her palm she doesn’t notice the sting anymore—not until her tongue tastes iron and she realizes her lip is bleeding too. Her eyes are wide, unblinking, locked on the sight of you crumbling under Xinyu’s mouth, on your hands fisting the edge of the table, the way your face is flushed and twitching and so vulnerable.
Then Xinyu pulls back with a wet gasp and a string of spit connects her lips to you. She wipes it with the back of her hand, smirking.
“Shit,” she says, laughing breathlessly. “You’re soaked. I made a mess.”
She doesn’t apologize. She’s proud of it.
Then her expression shifts. Her hands find your hoodie, tugging. “C’mon. Lie down for me.”
You blink, dazed. “What?”
She tugs harder. “Down. Now.”
And you obey. You let her guide you down onto the storage cushions scattered across the clubroom floor—the ones usually used for sitting during brainstorm sessions and awkward icebreakers. Today, they’re something else. They’re the mattress beneath your back, the soft collapse beneath your spine as Xinyu hovers over you like a second atmosphere. You barely get your balance before she swings a leg over you and straddles your hips, skirt hiked up already, panties visible in that indecent half-off way that says she planned this down to the hour.
She reaches between her thighs, fingers hooking the waistband to the side. No hesitation. No modesty.
“I wasn’t even gonna wear this skirt today,” she says, her grin downright feral. “But then I woke up and thought… damn, I really want to ride him. And this one makes it easy.”
Your mouth is dry. You can’t speak. Can barely breathe. The visual is too much—the way she sits on your waist, head tilted, hair framing her flushed cheeks. She grips you in one hand again, lining you up against the heat of her, rubbing once—twice—and your whole body jumps like you’ve been shocked.
In the closet, Sohyun is crumbling. Quietly. Violently.
She presses her head back against the wall, jaw clenched hard enough to ache. Her eyes are glassy now, not blinking. She watches Xinyu lean forward, planting a hand on your chest as her hips shift just slightly, aligning.
And for Sohyun, the moment cracks. She can’t breathe. Her stomach’s twisted into something unrecognizable. Her hand tastes like blood and skin and the sharp edge of a truth she can’t swallow.
She wants to leave. She wants to scream. She wants to rip the door open and yell your name and tear the whole thing down before it happens. But her body won’t move. Her knees are pins and needles, her vision blurry, her throat full of something that feels like grief and fury mashed into pulp.
And you—flat on your back, arms limp at your sides, chest heaving—you’re watching Xinyu like she’s the only thing that exists right now.
The room smells like heat now. Like sweat and arousal and perfume and that undercurrent of something you don’t recognize but Sohyun does. The smell of losing. Of being replaced.
And Xinyu’s voice cuts through the haze one more time, with that damn victorious purr in every syllable.
“You ready for me, baby?”
The moment she sinks down on you is like being swallowed by heat. Her walls clamp tight, velvet-slick and impossibly wet, and she exhales sharp through her teeth like she’s savoring every inch of stretch. Her thighs flex around your hips, body settling flush against yours, cunt wrapped like a vice around your cock. Warm, pulsing, obscene. You feel it in your knees, in the back of your throat, in the way your eyes blur a little just trying to hold on to the sensation. And she leans in, hands pressed to your chest, nails dragging lightly over your hoodie as she grins down at you—smug, flushed, dangerous.
“Feel that?” she whispers, grinding slow just to make sure you do. “That’s how wet I am for you.”
You nod like you’re in a trance, breath hitched, brain short-circuiting. She rocks her hips once, slow and deep, and your head tips back involuntarily, shoulders hitting the cold vinyl of the clubroom floor. The contrast is dizzying—your back chilled, your cock engulfed in heat. She rolls her hips again, faster this time, and you gasp, hips twitching up into her as she smiles that smile like she’s already won. Because she has. She knows exactly what she’s doing to you, the way her pussy clenches around you just when you think you’ve caught your breath.
“Fuck,” you mutter, hands flying up to brace her waist, fingers digging into her skin like it’ll keep you grounded.
“Mmm, yeah,” she purrs, rolling her hips again, faster now. “You love this. You love how tight I am. How I drip for you. You felt it last night, didn’t you?”
She leans closer, breasts pressing to your chest as she whispers hot against your ear. “That little black set I wore? The garter straps? The thigh-highs? All for you. I was soaked before you even touched me. So wet I could’ve made a mess of my sheets just grinding on your thigh. You remember how I moaned when you slid in? Remember how I told you you were deeper than anyone ever managed to get?”
You remember. God, you remember everything. The way her back arched as she bounced on your cock, the way her fingers tangled in her sheets, how she grabbed your wrists and held your hands against her hips like she didn’t want to let you pull out even if you tried. And it was hot—filthy, desperate, everything you’d never imagined yourself doing until she peeled you open and found all your soft spots.
But then you thought about Sohyun.
You didn’t mean to. It just… happened. Mid-thrust, mid-kiss, some flicker of guilt or curiosity or whatever sick alchemy lives in your gut. You’d pictured her. Not in a voyeur kind of way. Just… wondered. Wondered what her expression would be if she walked in. What her mouth would say. What her eyes would do. And worse, you’d wondered what it would be like if it were her riding you instead—her body flushed and stretched around your cock, her breathy little sighs instead of Xinyu’s practiced moans, her thighs trembling from the effort of keeping rhythm. That made your heart trip into your throat.
And now—now you’re thinking it again. You’re balls-deep in Xinyu, she’s rolling her hips like she’s trying to milk every drop out of you, and your fucking mind is betraying you. You’re picturing Sohyun in her ratty sleep shirt, hair undone, lip bitten, thighs spread across your hips like she’s scared of how much she needs it. You imagine her looking down at you, eyes wide and terrified and wanting, her cunt sucking you in like she doesn’t know how to stop. You imagine her voice cracking as she begs you not to stop, not to leave her like this, not when she finally has you.
The heat in your stomach coils tighter, shame blooming just beneath it.
And Xinyu notices.
“Where’d you go, baby?” she asks, cupping your face in both hands, her pace never faltering, slick heat grinding down on you with maddening precision. “You were staring right through me for a second. Thinking about something?”
You swallow thick. Shake your head. “No, I just—fuck. You feel amazing.”
She beams like it’s the truth. Maybe it is. Maybe it’s just buried under everything you’re not saying.
“Yeah?” she breathes, sitting upright again, her hands sliding down to pull at her top. She yanks it up and over her head in one swift motion, discarding it behind her like it doesn’t matter. Beneath it—no bra, just smooth skin, delicate collarbones and two perfect, pert breasts. Small enough to fit your palms. Nipples a flushed pink that draws your eyes like magnets.
“Wanna touch?” she asks, knowing damn well you do.
You nod, helpless, and she grabs your wrists, places your hands on her chest with a soft, teasing drag. The moment your thumbs brush her nipples she exhales, hips stuttering on your cock.
“Fuck, yes,�� she moans, arching into your hands. “Squeeze them. Harder.”
You do. Palms cupping the weight of her, fingers kneading just the way she likes—gently at first, then rougher when she rolls her hips harder, when she grinds your cock deep inside her like she’s chasing something. Her thighs flex with every bounce, every motion building pressure in your spine. Her nipples pebble under your touch. She grabs your wrists again, pushes them tighter to her chest, pinning you in place as she rides harder now, breath catching with every impact.
“You’re so deep,” she pants, eyes fluttering closed. “I can feel you everywhere. Stretching me so fucking good, baby. God, I wish you could feel what I’m feeling. I’m soaked. I’m flooding your cock. You like that? You like how fucking needy I get for you?”
You groan, jaw tight, hips twitching up to meet her rhythm. You’ve stopped thinking. You’ve stopped pretending you can think. She’s taking everything from you with every roll of her hips, every clench of her cunt, every filthy word that drips off her tongue like sugar laced with venom.
And yet. The back of your mind still tugs. Still whispers.
What would Sohyun think, if she saw this? If she saw your face like this, your body bucking like you’re begging to be used? If she knew how Xinyu talks to you, fucks you, owns you?
What would she do if she saw you like this—flushed, trembling, helpless under another woman’s cunt?
Would she be jealous?
Would she be angry?
Would she want to be in Xinyu's place?
You can’t answer. You don’t get the chance.
Xinyu's pace shifts, frantic now, like something inside her snapped and all that sweet control she loved dangling over you is burning up fast. Her thighs tighten around your waist, nails digging into your shoulders, her whole body chasing friction like a starved thing. Every grind, every desperate rock of her hips sends jolts through your cock, your thighs, up your spine until you can’t even tell where your body ends and hers begins. Wet heat floods down your shaft, slick sounds filling the little space between you like they’re mocking the frantic, filthy rhythm you’ve fallen into.
She leans in, mouth crushing to yours, open, gasping, biting at your bottom lip like she can’t get close enough. Her breath is ragged, her kiss messy, spit-slick and desperate as her cunt clenches around you with every grind. She breaks the kiss for a second, forehead pressed to yours, breath hitching in short, punched gasps.
“Fuck—fuck, baby—” she pants, rolling her hips harder, faster, dragging you deeper every time she slams down. “You’re gonna make me cum. You feel that? You feel how fucking close I am?”
You nod, choking on your own breath. She’s trembling already, muscles shivering under your hands, pussy squeezing your cock so tight it makes your toes curl.
“Please—don’t stop—” she gasps against your mouth, and you hear the cracks in her usually-smooth voice, raw and honest in a way you barely ever hear.
You grab her hips, holding her still for a second, and start thrusting up into her, not gentle now—grinding her down onto you, meeting every desperate rut of her hips with a brutal snap of your own.
“Oh my God, oh my God, fuck—” she sobs, hands scrabbling for purchase at your shoulders, nails raking down your back through the thin fabric of your shirt. “Right there—right fucking there—!”
You don’t stop. You can’t. Your hips slam up into her again and again, cock punching deep inside her soaked cunt, the friction so blindingly good it’s all you can feel, all you can think about. Her walls flutter around you, squeezing tight, milking you, dragging you right to the edge with her.
Then her whole body locks up—legs clamping tight, back arching, head thrown back as she cums hard around you, mouth open in a silent scream. You feel her pussy clamp and pulse and flood hot around your cock, feel her thighs quivering against your sides as you keep pounding up into her, wringing every last spasm out of her until she collapses against you, boneless, panting.
She kisses you then, messy and open-mouthed, tongue sliding into your mouth like she’s trying to pull the breath out of you, hands fisting in your hair. The kiss is wild, uncontrolled, full of leftover shudders as her body rides the aftershocks. She sucks on your tongue, then bites your bottom lip, hard enough to sting, pulling back with a look that’s pure wrecked satisfaction.
“Fuck—you’re not done yet,” she says, grinning breathless against your mouth.
Before you can even catch your breath, she gets off you, stands up and grabs your wrists, pulls you up with surprising strength, practically dragging you toward the desk nearby, knocking over a half-empty box of markers in her haste. They scatter across the floor, forgotten.
She hops up onto the edge of the desk, legs falling open wide, skirt bunched up around her hips, panties obscenely pulled aside. Her cunt is glistening, flushed, still twitching around nothing, and she leans back on her hands, spreading herself shamelessly for you, watching you with dark, lazy hunger.
“C’mere, baby,” she purrs, crooking a finger.
You step between her legs, hands automatically gripping the backs of her thighs, and she grabs your cock, still slick with her cum, throbbing painfully hard, and lines you up, dragging the flushed head along her soaked folds before nudging you right back in.
You don’t ease in. You shove.
Hard.
Her mouth drops open in a guttural, broken sound as you bottom out in one brutal thrust, your hips slamming flush against her ass, your cock stretching her already-sensitive pussy wide again. Her whole body jolts with it, legs wrapping around your waist tight, holding you there, buried deep.
“Fuck yes—” she gasps, nails digging into the edge of the desk for leverage. “God, you feel so fucking good—”
You grab her hips, fingers digging bruises into soft skin, and start pounding into her, desk creaking loudly under the assault. Every thrust drives a choked little noise from her throat, her small tits bouncing with the force of it, her hair falling wild around her flushed, wrecked face.
“You’re so good, baby,” she babbles between gasps, clinging to the desk as you fuck her raw. “You’re—god, you’re perfect—you’re gonna make me cum again if you keep—ahh—keep fucking me like that!”
You bare your teeth, thrusting harder, faster, hips snapping against her ass with every vicious stroke. The wet sound of you hammering into her fills the room, loud and filthy, the slap of your skin against hers echoing off the walls. Her head tips back, exposing the long line of her throat, and you can’t resist leaning down, biting at her neck, tasting the salt of her sweat on your tongue.
She’s trembling again already, thighs quaking against your hips, every muscle in her body winding tighter, tighter, tighter. Her hands scramble for you, clutching your hoodie, your shoulders, anything she can reach, mouth working helplessly like she wants to say something but can’t get the words out past the way you’re fucking her.
“Don’t stop—fuck—don’t stop, don’t stop—!” she wails, legs locking around you again, trapping you deep as you hammer into her without mercy.
Sohyun, hidden behind that narrow closet crack, can barely breathe. She closes her eyes, squeezes them shut so tight it hurts, but the sounds slip in anyway, wrapping around her like smoke, curling in her lungs until she’s drowning in it.
She hears you fucking Xinyu hard enough to shake the table. She hears the desperate slap of skin, the thick wet noises between her thighs, the broken little sobs and gasps you can’t hold back anymore. Every low moan you spill is another nail in her heart. Every grunt, every hitched breath, every whisper of "Fuck, you’re so tight," slices deeper, and she grips the shelf beside her to keep from making a sound, knuckles bone-white.
And you... you’re so far gone you don’t even notice the world outside the space between your bodies. Xinyu’s pussy is swallowing you, so wet you can hear it every time you thrust back in, obscene and filthy and perfect. She clings to you, arms around your shoulders, nails dragging trails of fire down your back as you rut into her harder, faster, chasing the edge you can feel roaring up your spine.
"Fuck—fuck, I’m close," you pant against her throat, voice wrecked, hips stuttering from the effort of holding back.
Xinyu shudders all around you, grinding her hips, milking you with every twist and clench of her desperate cunt. She grabs your face, kissing you hard, sloppy, messy with need, lips sliding against yours as she gasps:
"Cum for me, baby. Please. I want it—I want you to cum for me."
You groan deep in your chest, every muscle tightening, your hands flying down to her waist, grinding her harder onto your cock, feeling that tight, soaked pussy fluttering in urgent little spasms.
"I want it in my mouth," she whimpers into your ear. "Please. Let me taste you."
That snaps what little control you had. You pull out quick, almost shaking with the effort not to cum right then, and your cock slaps wetly against her folds, gliding in her slickness. You drag the thick, swollen head up her entrance, tease her clit with it, grinding, slapping your tip against her until she shivers and gasps, legs falling wide open, fingers clutching at the edge of the desk like she’s about to fly apart.
Your hand wraps tight around your slick cock, jerking it fast and desperate, smearing her juices all over yourself as you stroke. Xinyu drops immediately to her knees, eager, mouth open, eyes wide and hazy with lust. She grabs the base of your cock with one hand, stroking in rhythm with yours, her other hand cupping your balls, massaging them gently.
She looks up at you with that wicked grin just as she leans forward, wraps her lips around the head, and sucks. Hard. Heat and suction explode through you, and your hips jerk forward helplessly. She moans low in her throat, dragging her tongue along the underside of your cock as she bobs her head, saliva glistening at the corners of her mouth, dribbling down your shaft.
She works you like she’s starving for it, alternating between sucking you deep into her mouth and stroking with her fist, twisting just right. The sight of her—kneeling in front of you, cheeks hollowing, spit and slick glistening all over her chin—drives you wild.
Your balls tighten, your thighs tremble, and you grab her hair, trying to warn her, but she just groans in approval, mouth sliding lower, tongue lashing the sensitive underside of your cock.
"X-Xinyu, I’m—fuck, I’m gonna—"
She pulls back just enough to look up at you, lips wrapped tight around the tip, hand still jerking your slick cock, and she nods. Wants it. Wants it bad.
You grip her hair tight as your body locks up and you cum hard, first shot hitting the back of her throat. She doesn’t even flinch. Just hums around you, swallowing every thick, hot spurt, milking you with her mouth and hand as you pulse and shudder against her. Jet after jet, the orgasm tearing through you so violently your knees nearly buckle.
She keeps going until you’re spent, gently sucking the last drops from your twitching cock, then pulls back slowly with a wet pop. She kisses the tip, soft and almost reverent, tongue flicking lazily across it like she’s tasting her victory.
You lean back against the desk, heart hammering, chest heaving, body flushed and trembling.
She stands, fixing her panties between trembling thighs, smoothing down her skirt, picking up the top on the floor. Her cheeks are pink, her lips swollen, her hair wild—and she’s never looked more satisfied.
You fumble to tuck yourself back into your pants, fingers clumsy. Your mind’s fogged with the aftermath. Xinyu steps closer, hands sliding up your chest, resting lightly at your shoulders. Her eyes soften, her mouth tilts into something small and unsure. She looks nervous. That’s rare. She’s always so sure. So in control.
"Hey," she says. “I meant what I said last night, y’know.”
You blink, still trying to catch up. “What?”
She presses her forehead lightly to yours, her hands sliding down to hold your waist, grounding you.
"I’ve never met anyone like you," she says, slow, like she’s scared if she rushes it’ll shatter. “You’re not like the guys I’m used to. All the ones before—they were assholes. Hot, but... just bad news. Guys who wanted me but didn’t actually care about me.”
She leans back, searching your face, biting her lip.
"But you—you’re different. You’re real. You’re sweet. You listen. You treat me like I actually matter."
You swallow hard, heart tripping over itself. You weren’t ready for this. You didn’t expect this.
She smiles, small and nervous, and asks it before you can even think of something to say.
"I want you to be my boyfriend. For real. Like… properly mine. Will you?"
You stare at her—this beautiful, messy, fiery girl who just swallowed your cum like it was candy, who rode you like you were hers before the words ever left her mouth. And something inside you wrenches.
Because you should say yes.
You should want to say yes.
But all you can feel is that gnawing hesitation. That pull. That confusion. That whisper of another name, another face, someone standing just outside this moment, invisible and heavy in the space between your breaths.
Sohyun.
You think about her without meaning to. Think about the way she looks at you when she thinks you’re not paying attention. The way her hand lingers too long when she passes you something. The way she squeezed your hand that night when you invited her to the movies.
You don’t know what you feel. You don’t know what’s real yet. You’re drowning in it.
And it shows.
Xinyu’s face flickers—just for a second. That bright, hopeful light dimming when you hesitate too long.
"I..." You rub the back of your neck, avoiding her eyes. "I just... I need some time to think. Please."
The silence after that is awkward.
She steps back, schooling her face into something neutral, but you can see the crack underneath. The disappointment. The sting. She nods once, slow.
"Okay," she says, and her voice is tight. "Okay. Take your time."
You want to apologize. You want to say something to make it better. But nothing fits. Nothing fixes this.
She grabs her bag from the floor, brushes her hair back, pulls her walls up fast and neat like she’s practiced it a thousand times before.
"See you around," she says, almost breezy, almost real.
And then she’s gone, slipping out the door and leaving you standing there in the wreckage of what you almost had.
You stare at the empty space where she stood, heart pounding, stomach twisting.
You don’t see the faint sliver of movement behind the closet door.
You don’t see the way Sohyun presses her hand over her mouth, trying to keep the sound inside.
Because she heard it all.
And for the first time in weeks, she has hope.
A brutal, aching hope.
Because you didn’t say yes.
You didn’t choose someone else.
Not yet.
And maybe… there’s still a chance you’ll choose her.
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You drag yourself up the stairs like your body’s filled with sand, the keys slipping in your sweaty palm as you jam them into the lock and stumble inside. The apartment lights are off except for the thin line of glow leaking out from under Sohyun’s bedroom door. You shut the door behind you with a quiet click, kicking your shoes off, backpack sliding down your shoulder and thudding against the floor. Your whole body aches. Not just from exhaustion but from the weight of everything swimming in your head; Xinyu’s kiss still burning on your mouth, her words still echoing under your skin, the guilt, the confusion, the stupid tangled mess you couldn’t figure out if you tried. You sigh, pressing your back to the door for a second, head tipped back, eyes squeezed shut like maybe if you stood still enough, long enough, the world would stop spinning.
You don't notice the shape in the corner until it moves, a small shift of shadow peeling itself away from the wall. Your eyes fly open, heart lurching into your throat. Sohyun’s there—leaning against the wall, arms crossed tight over her chest. Her face half-hidden by her hair, her body tensed up in a way that sets your nerves on edge instantly.
“Jesus—” you blurt, breath hitching from the scare. You try to laugh it off, give her a sheepish little grin even though your pulse is hammering. “You scared the hell outta me. I thought you were asleep.”
She doesn’t smile. Doesn’t even blink. Her eyes stay locked on yours, too still, too serious. It sends a ripple of unease down your spine.
“We need to talk,” she says, and her tone is wrong, lower, tighter, with a tremble hidden deep under the words that makes your stomach twist.
You straighten a little, stepping forward slowly like she’s a spooked animal you don’t want to startle. “What... what happened?” you ask.
She holds your gaze for a long moment. So long it starts to physically hurt, like she’s looking right through your skin, peeling you open piece by piece. You can see it in her eyes—fear, yes, but something else too. Something desperate, clawing at the edges of her.
“I know,” she finally says. “About you and Xinyu.”
You blink, mouth opening then closing uselessly, your brain scrambling to process it.
“How—” you start, but she cuts you off, shaking her head once, sharp and final.
“It doesn’t matter,” she says. “It doesn’t matter how I know.”
You’re thrown completely off balance now, stumbling for footing you don’t have. You shift awkwardly, running a hand through your hair, trying to piece together something—anything—to say.
“I was going to tell you,” you mumble finally, and it’s the lamest excuse you’ve ever heard even as it leaves your mouth. “I just... didn’t know how to bring it up.”
Her laugh is short and humorless, a little broken thing that cuts through you sharper than any shout could have. “You didn’t tell me,” she says, voice rising just a little, enough to make your throat close up. “You didn’t. You could have. So why didn’t you?”
You hesitate, weight shifting from foot to foot, wishing desperately for some door, some window, some hole to crawl into and disappear. But there’s no escape. There’s only her, standing there, waiting for your answer like it’s the only thing keeping her upright.
“I was scared,” you admit finally, the words thick in your throat. “I didn’t know what you’d think. I knew you’d disapprove. I knew you wouldn’t... approve of me and her.”
Her arms tighten around herself, nails digging into the sleeves of her sweatshirt. Her lips press together, trembling, and she looks down at the floor for a second.
“Why do you care so much what I think?” she asks, and her voice is small and raw, like she’s asking herself more than you.
You swallow hard. “I... I don’t know.”
But you do know. Somewhere deep down, you’ve always known. You’ve just never had the guts to admit it.
She lets the silence drag, heavy and awful between you. Then she looks up, and there’s something shattering in her eyes—it makes you want to cry.
“You’re right,” she says quietly. “I would have disapproved.”
You open your mouth to speak, to apologize again, but she cuts you off with a sharp shake of her head, eyes wet now, shining in the dim light.
“Do you want to know why?” she asks.
You nod, too scared to say anything.
“Because I love you,” she says, and it bursts out of her like a dam breaking, like she’s been holding it back for years and can’t anymore. “I love you, you idiot! I’ve loved you for so fucking long it hurts!”
You just stand there, stunned into uselessness, your heart hammering in your chest, your breath stuck somewhere between a gasp and a cry.
She wipes at her face with the sleeve of her sweatshirt, blinking furiously against the tears spilling down her cheeks. “I didn’t even realize at first,” she says, “I thought it was just... caring. Being protective. Wanting you to be okay. But it’s not. It’s not just that. I love you. I’m in love with you. And seeing you with her—hearing you moan for her, seeing you smile because of her—”
She breaks off, a choked sob punching out of her chest, and it shatters you.
“It tore me apart,” she whispers. “Because you’re the most special person that’s ever crossed my path. And I was too much of a coward to say anything. I just kept pretending it was fine. That it didn’t matter. That you didn’t matter that way.”
You move to step toward her, instinct taking over, but she flinches back half a step, and it feels like a knife between your ribs.
“I’m sorry,” you say, voice cracking. “I didn’t know, I didn’t—”
“No,” she cuts you off, shaking her head violently, tears flying. “Don’t apologize. It’s not your fault. It’s mine. It’s my fault for bottling it up, for being too scared to tell you, for letting you drift away while I just... watched. I did this to myself.”
You’re breathing too hard, chest aching, head spinning with too many emotions crashing into each other at once—guilt, sorrow, confusion, this desperate, aching affection for the girl standing in front of you with her heart bleeding out at your feet.
“Maybe it’s too late,” she says, crying. “Maybe you’re already hers. Maybe you’ve already moved on.”
She wipes her face again, sniffles, pulls herself together enough to look at you—really look at you.
“But I needed you to know. I needed you to know that someone loved you. That someone loves you. That someone would’ve given anything to make you happy.”
Your feet move before your brain catches up, drawn across the small space separating you like there's a magnetic pull you can't fight anymore. Her face is still wet, tears tracking clean lines through the faint flush on her cheeks, her eyes red-rimmed but locked on you with this terrifying vulnerability you've never seen before. She doesn't flinch this time when you get close, doesn't pull away, just watches you, chest rising and falling too fast, like she’s waiting for the final blow.
You lift your hand, fingers trembling slightly, and gently, so gently, brush the tears from her cheek with your thumb. The skin there is hot, damp. Real. She closes her eyes for just a second at the contact, a shuddering breath escaping her lips.
"Sohyun," you start, and your own throat feels tight, rough, like you’ve swallowed glass. "I'm... I'm so sorry." The words feel stupidly small, inadequate for the chasm that's opened up. "I'm the coward. Not you. Me. All this time... I never said anything because... fuck, because I was terrified. Scared I'd wreck everything. Our friendship, this... us. Everything we have. It felt too important to risk, you know? Too fragile. And I kept telling myself you deserved someone... better. Someone less screwed up than me. Someone confident, someone who had their shit together, not..." You gesture vaguely at yourself, at the mess you feel like you are, the mess you've made. "Not me." You see her lips part, ready to argue, maybe ready to forgive, maybe ready to yell again, but the words are tumbling out of you now, unstoppable, a confession mirroring hers, ripping free after being locked down for so long. "Don't," you whisper, cutting her off before she can speak. "Just... let me say this."
You take a shaky breath, meeting her wide, tear-bright eyes again. "It was always you, Sohyun. Always. Even when I didn't understand it, even when I tried to ignore it. You're the one I love." The words feel huge, terrifying, but also lighter than air once spoken. "Everything. I love everything. That little smirk you get when you win an argument? Love it. The way you wear those baggy sweatshirts every day but still manage to look... incredible? Love that too. How you always know when I'm having a shit day without me saying anything? How you just show up, make me tea, sit there in silence with me until it passes? How safe you make me feel, even when you're pretending to be annoyed?" Your own eyes are getting blurry now. "I love watching you sleep," you admit and, fuck, it's like breaking a chain, a secret you’ve guarded jealously. "Because you look so calm. Peaceful. And I can just... look. At your moles." A faint blush creeps up her neck, her gaze dropping for a second before snapping back to yours, confused, waiting. "You have four on your face, you know? Like a tiny constellation. There's one here," you reach out again, finger hovering below her eyes, not quite touching, "and here, by your nose... one on your cheek... they're the most charming damn things in the world. Seriously."
Her breath hitches, a soft little gasp. She looks utterly lost now, derailed from her pain by the specific, intimate detail. "My... moles?" she echoes, bewildered. You nod, a watery smile finally touching your lips.
"Yeah. My favorite, though? The one right here." Your gaze drops to her mouth, to the tiny, perfect dark mole on the curve of her lower lip. It's always drawn your eye, a little punctuation mark on skin that looks impossibly cute. "That one..." you murmur. "God, that one's made me wonder... so many times... what it would feel like to kiss you. What you'd taste like..."
You trail off, lost for a second in the thought, in the proximity, in the sudden, intense awareness of her mouth just inches from yours. You were going to say more, try to explain the tangle of fear and longing and the stupid, paralyzing certainty that you weren't good enough, but you don't get the chance.
Because Sohyun surges forward like something inside her finally snaps. One second she's trembling, broken open, the next she's pure force, her mouth crashing onto yours with bruising intensity. It's not gentle. It's not tentative. It's a raw, desperate claiming. Her lips are surprisingly soft beneath the force, tasting faintly of salt from her tears and something uniquely her, something warm and real that short-circuits your brain. Her hands fist in the front of your hoodie, yanking you closer, stumbling you backward. Your heel catches on the edge of the cheap living room rug, the world tilting sideways in a sudden, disorienting lurch. You gasp against her mouth, a startled sound swallowed by her kiss, and then you're falling, tumbling backward onto the floor with a muffled thud that knocks the wind out of you.
She lands right on top of you, straddling your hips, the impact solid and grounding even as your head spins. She doesn't miss a beat. Her mouth is still fused to yours, kissing you harder now, deeper, possessive. It's messy and frantic, teeth clashing slightly, tongues tangling with an urgency that borders on violence. Kisses that aren’t asking, they’re taking. Stealing the breath from your lungs, stealing the thoughts from your head, demanding a response you're suddenly, desperately eager to give. Her weight pressing you down, the heat of her body seeping through your clothes, the undeniable proof of her need right there against your stomach—it’s overwhelming. And then, finally, finally, your own arms come up, wrapping around her back, pulling her impossibly closer, and you kiss her back with all the pent-up fear and longing and stupid, crippling love you've kept locked away for years.
You meet her force with your own, tilting your head, deepening the kiss, letting the raw honesty of it burn away everything else. There’s no room for Xinyu, no room for doubt, no room for anything but this—Sohyun, her mouth on yours, her body pinning you down, the undeniable, explosive reality of now. The world outside the apartment fades to nothing, the only sound the ragged gasps for breath between frantic, open-mouthed kisses, the rustle of clothes, the frantic thudding of two hearts beating wildly against each other in the dim, quiet room. This isn't just a kiss; it's a collision, a confession answered, a point of no return you hadn't realized you were racing towards until you crashed right into it, tangled up with her on the floor like this is exactly where you were always supposed to end up.
After seconds that seem like hours, Sohyun finally breaks the kiss, pulling back just enough for air, her chest heaving against yours, eyes blown wide and dark, still glazed with disbelief and something fiercely possessive. Her hands frame your face, thumbs stroking your cheekbones like she’s trying to memorize you. "I love you," she whispers, the words thick, raw, tumbling out again like they can't be contained. Her forehead presses against yours. "God, I love you." She kisses you again, shorter this time, desperate, sealing the words. Pulls back. "I love you." Another kiss, harder. "So much." Each declaration feels like another layer stripped away, leaving her completely bare, completely yours in this moment. The fierce intensity shifts, softening just a fraction as the reality sinks in—you're here, you're kissing her back, you feel it too.
Your heart feels like it's going to beat right out of your chest. Hearing her say it, over and over, sinks hooks into places you didn't know were still empty. You shift beneath her, hands sliding up her back, fingers tracing the knobs of her spine through the worn fabric of her sweatshirt. "Sohyun," you breathe against her lips, needing to show her, needing her to feel it. You pull back just enough to look at her, really look, and then you start mapping her face with your mouth.
Soft, adoring kisses trail along her sharp jawline, up to the curve of her cheekbone where the skin is so soft it makes you ache. You kiss the corner of her eye, tasting the lingering salt of her tears, then move lower, pressing kisses against the pulse point throbbing wildly in her neck. She melts under the attention, a soft sigh escaping her, her body going pliant against yours, head tipping back to give you better access. Her hands slide from your face down to your shoulders, gripping tight, anchoring herself as you worship her skin. Every soft press of your lips feels like rewriting history, erasing the doubt and the distance, claiming this closeness that’s always simmered just beneath the surface.
"Hey," she murmurs, her breath catching when your lips find that sensitive spot just below her ear. She nudges you gently, reluctantly pulling away just enough to meet your eyes again. There's a new urgency there, a need that burns hotter than the confession. "My room," she says, her tone suddenly low, almost husky. "Let's go to my room. Now." She pushes herself up, scrambling off you with clumsy grace, and hauls you to your feet like you weigh nothing. You don't argue, don't hesitate. You follow her lead, stumbling towards her bedroom door, hands finding each other again, lips crashing together in the hallway, clumsy and desperate and necessary. You trip over the threshold, laughing breathlessly against her mouth as she practically drags you inside, kicking the door shut behind you with her heel.
The moment the door clicks, she's tearing at your clothes. Your hoodie comes off first, yanked over your head with frantic energy, tossed carelessly onto the floor. Her eyes rake over your bare chest for a beat, hungry, before she crashes back into you, kissing you with renewed fervor. Her hands are everywhere, exploring the lines of your shoulders, the dip of your collarbones, fingers tracing patterns that make your skin prickle. While her mouth works yours, her own hands go to the waistband of her shorts—those stupidly comfortable grey jersey shorts she always wears around the apartment. She hooks her thumbs in, shoves them down her legs in one hurried motion, kicking them free. She's left in just her oversized sweatshirt and a pair of simple, pale blue cotton panties that hug the curve of her hips. You groan against her lips, the sight hitting you harder than you expected. Her thighs look so strong, so soft.
You deepen the kiss, angling her back against the wall, one hand sliding down her spine, curving possessively over the swell of her ass through the thin cotton of her panties. You squeeze gently, experimentally, and she gasps into your mouth, hips instinctively bucking against yours. "Fuck," she breathes against your lips, her hands fisting in your t-shirt now. "Yes. Need you. So much."
Her admission is raw, desperate, stripping away the last vestiges of her usual guardedness. It fuels you, ignites something fierce inside you. You break the kiss long enough to grab the hem of her sweatshirt, pulling it up and over her head just as she did yours. It snags for a second on her messy bun, and you both fumble with it, laughing brokenly before it finally comes free. And underneath… nothing. No bra. Just Sohyun. Her breasts are fuller than you’d imagined, heavier than Xinyu’s, round and pale with darker, pinkish-brown nipples already pebbled tight from the cool air or maybe just the sheer intensity of the moment. They're beautiful. Perfect. Yours.
She looks down at herself for a second, a flicker of self-consciousness crossing her face before defiant heat replaces it. Your eyes meet hers, a silent question asked and answered. You scoop her up—she's surprisingly light—and carry her the few steps to her bed, tumbling down onto the soft duvet with her. The landing is messy, tangled limbs and breathless laughter, before you settle, half-propped over her, the reality of her bare skin under your hands making your head swim. You kiss her again, slower this time, softer, trying to pour all the unsaid years of affection into it. Her hands come up to cup your face, fingers tracing your jawline, her eyes searching yours.
Then your focus shifts. Your gaze drops to her chest, to the soft rise and fall of her breathing. You lean down, pressing a soft kiss to the valley between her breasts, then lower your head further. One hand gently cups the soft weight of her left breast, thumb stroking the peak, feeling it harden instantly under your touch. At the same time, your mouth closes over her right nipple.
Sohyun arches off the bed with a sharp, choked cry, fingers digging into your shoulders. The sound is pure, unfiltered pleasure, and it sends a shockwave straight to your groin. You suck gently at first, teasing, swirling your tongue around the sensitive peak before drawing it deeper into the heat of your mouth.
She moans again, a long, low sound vibrating up from her chest. "Oh god... yes... fuck, that feels..." You lave the nipple, licking slow circles around the darker areola, mapping the texture with your tongue, before nibbling gently with your teeth. She whimpers, hips twitching restlessly on the mattress. "So good... oh, fuck, yes, right there... I always... always imagined..." Her sentence dissolves into another shuddering moan as you switch sides, giving the other breast the same devoted attention, sucking and licking and teasing until she's writhing beneath you. "You're perfect," you murmur against her wet skin between ministrations. "So fucking beautiful, Sohyun. Always."
Her eyes are glassy, pupils dilated, lips parted and slick. She looks completely undone, vulnerable in a way that makes your chest ache with tenderness and a fierce, protective desire. You trail kisses lower, down the soft curve of her stomach, your lips brushing the faint indentation of her navel. Your hand follows, palm smoothing over the warm skin, feeling the tremors running through her. Your journey stops at the waistband of her panties. Simple blue cotton, dampening noticeably at the center. The sight, the proof of her arousal, makes your own cock strain painfully against your jeans. You press a soft kiss to the damp fabric right over her mound, inhaling her scent—musky, female, intoxicating. She gasps, thighs clenching instinctively. You nudge her legs apart gently with your head, trailing feather-light kisses along the inside of her thigh, right near the edge of the fabric. The skin there is incredibly soft, sensitive. She shivers violently, a choked sound escaping her. "Please..." she whispers, unsure what she's even asking for, just knowing she needs more.
You kiss the wet patch on her panties again, letting your tongue flick out just enough to taste the dampness through the cotton. She cries out, a sharp, high sound, hips lifting slightly off the bed. You look up at her, see the flush creeping down her neck, the desperate wanting in her eyes. Slowly, deliberately, you hook your thumbs into the sides of her panties and slide them down. Over the curve of her hips, down her strong, thick thighs, catching slightly at her knees before you pull them free and toss them aside. She lies bare beneath you now, exposed, vulnerable, beautiful. Her pussy is slick, glistening, her folds plump and flushed, dark curls slightly damp. You lean down, pressing a reverent kiss to her mound, right above her clit. She lets out a strangled sob, hands flying down to fist in her own duvet. She looks wrecked, overwhelmed, needy. "Will you...?" she starts, her breath hitching. "Can I...? Please, just... sit on your face? Let me... I need you to eat me. Please." You lean closer, lips brushing her slick folds as you answer:
"Baby, that's all I fucking want.”
You don't even hesitate. You scramble backwards on the bed, shuffling until you're lying flat, head propped slightly against her pillows—pillows that smell like her shampoo and sleep. Your heart is a frantic drum against your ribs, anticipation coiling tight and low in your belly. This. This it's something you've barely let yourself fantasize about, a scenario tucked away in the darkest, neediest corners of your mind—Sohyun, taking control, overwhelming you. Being completely at her mercy. The thought alone makes your cock throb against the zipper of your jeans, a painful, demanding pressure.
You look up as she moves, crawling towards you on the bed, her expression a mixture of raw hunger and something almost like nervous determination. She straddles your chest first, knees settling on either side of your ribs, leaning down to capture your mouth in another deep, searching kiss. Her bare breasts press against your chest, warm and heavy, the peaks hard against the fabric.
"You really want this?" she whispers against your lips, pulling back just enough to search your eyes. Her own gaze is intense, burning with a need that mirrors yours.
"Fuck, yes, Sohyun," you breathe, hands coming up to grip her waist, fingers digging slightly into the soft skin there. "More than anything. Please."
A slow, predatory smile spreads across her face, chasing away the last remnants of uncertainty. This is happening. She shifts, maneuvering herself with surprising grace, turning until she's straddling your head, her bare ass hovering right above your face. The sight is dizzying—the soft curve of her cheeks, the dark curls nestled between her thighs, the glisten of her wetness catching the dim light filtering in from the hallway. It's everything. You reach up, hands sliding up her strong thighs, thumbs brushing the sensitive inner skin. She shivers, letting out a soft gasp.
"God, yes... touch me," she pleads, her hips twitching.
You guide her down slowly, agonizingly slowly, until her slick folds brush against your lips. The scent hits you full force—musky, feminine, intoxicatingly Sohyun. It’s the smell of pure arousal, sharp and sweet, and it makes your head swim. This is your dream, isn't it? To be right here, underneath her, ready to worship, ready to be completely consumed by her pleasure. The idea of being dominated, smothered by the wet heat of her pussy, of her coming undone completely at your mercy while simultaneously holding all the power… It sends a jolt of pure, filthy need straight through you.
"Ready for you," you murmur against her skin, tilting your head slightly to get a better angle.
She lets out a shaky breath and lowers herself fully, settling onto your mouth with a soft sigh. The pressure is immediate, the heat shocking. Her wet folds engulf your lips, your nose, pressing intimately against your face. It’s almost too much: the closeness, the scent, the slick reality of her cunt right there. You take your first real taste, tongue darting out tentatively, exploring the plump outer lips, tracing the slick crease.
Sohyun gasps sharply, her whole body tensing. "Fuck... yes..."
Emboldened, you dive in properly. Your tongue pushes past her outer lips, finding the slick, sensitive inner folds, licking slowly, deliberately. You map her shape, tasting the unique flavor of her arousal—salty, sweet, utterly addictive. You find her clit, that hard little nub hidden beneath its hood, and swirl your tongue around it gently at first.
"Oh my god," she whimpers, fingers tangling violently in your hair, gripping tight but not pulling you away. "Right there... don't stop..."
You obey instantly, focusing your attention, sucking the sensitive bud into your mouth, worrying it gently with your lips and tongue. Her reaction is immediate, explosive. Her hips buck against your face, grinding down instinctively, seeking more pressure, more friction.
"Fuck, yes! Like that! Suck it harder!" she cries out, her earlier shyness completely incinerated by raw need. "God, you taste so fucking good... eat me like you mean it!"
You groan into her cunt, spurred on by her dirty talk, by the sheer intensity radiating off her. You suck harder, drawing more of her into your mouth, tongue working relentlessly on her clit while your lips provide constant pressure against her swollen folds. Her slickness coats your tongue, your lips, your chin, slicking the skin, making every movement smoother, hotter. She’s so wet, dripping onto your face, the taste of her flooding your senses. You love it. You fucking crave it. The feeling of being covered in her, drowned in her essence.
"That's it, baby," she pants, her hips starting to move in a slow, deliberate rhythm against your mouth. "Fuck, you're so good at this... Did you practice on someone else? Don't fucking answer that," she gasps out, contradicting herself immediately, lost in the sensation. "Just keep doing that. Lick me. Suck my clit like it's the only thing you care about."
"It is," you manage to mumble against her, tongue never faltering. "Only thing... right now... is you. Making you feel good, Sohyun."
Her hips stutter, a broken little sob escaping her lips. "Fuck... you saying my name like that... while you're... down there... God..."
She starts to ride you then, taking control just like she asked, just like you fantasized. Her movements are slow at first, tentative, testing the pressure, learning how to grind against your mouth for maximum effect. Her thighs tighten around your head, trapping you, holding you exactly where she wants you. The feeling of suffocation is mild at first, just the intimate pressure, the heat, the wetness sealing against your skin. But as her pace quickens, as she gets lost in the building pleasure, she presses down harder, her cunt engulfing your nose and mouth more fully. Your breathing gets shallower, restricted, but you don't panic. This is part of it. This surrender. Giving her everything, even your breath, if that's what it takes to push her over the edge.
"Oh god... oh fuck," she moans, the sounds deeper now, throatier. "It's building... fuck, don't stop... keep sucking... harder!"
You oblige, mouth working frantically now, sucking and licking with desperate abandon, chasing her orgasm alongside her. Her pussy clenches around your tongue, milking it, the muscles fluttering uncontrollably. She’s grinding faster now, rocking her hips with frantic energy, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. The pressure increases. Her cunt presses down hard, sealing over your mouth, your nose, the wet heat almost overwhelming. You can barely draw breath, getting only small, desperate sips of air mixed with the heavy scent of her arousal. But the lack of oxygen just fuels the fire, heightens the sensation, pushes you closer to a different kind of edge. You feel utterly possessed by her, consumed.
"Almost there... almost... FUCK!" she screams, her body locking up.
Her hips slam down hard onto your face, grinding relentlessly, muffling your own groan of effort and ecstasy. Her inner walls spasm violently around your tongue, flooding your mouth with a thick, hot gush of her climax. The taste is intense, salty-sweet, addictive, unique. You swallow instinctively, greedily, taking all of it, wanting every last drop. She collapses forward, boneless, her full weight pressing your face into the mattress, her slick cunt still pulsing against your mouth as the aftershocks ripple through her. You're completely enveloped, blinded, breathless beneath her, tasting her release, utterly dominated.
She stays there for long moments, just panting, trembling. You lie still beneath her, heart hammering, face sticky and wet, utterly spent from the intensity of giving her that pleasure. Finally, slowly, she pushes herself up, bracing her hands on the mattress on either side of your head. Her hair is wild, sticking to her flushed cheeks, her lips swollen and red, her eyes dazed and unfocused but gleaming with a deep, sated satisfaction. She looks down at you, at your slick-covered face, and a slow, knowing smirk touches her lips.
"Wow," she breathes. "You... you really did it."
You manage a weak grin, licking your lips, tasting her. "Told you," you rasp. "Anything for you."
She leans down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead, then your cheek, then finally your mouth, her kiss still tasting faintly of herself. It's intimate, proprietary. A claiming.
"Good," she murmurs against your lips. "Because we're not done yet. Not even close." Her eyes darken again, that possessive fire rekindling. "My turn to taste you.”
Sohyun pushes herself up fully, kneeling between your legs on the mattress. Her eyes, still hazy from her orgasm but sharp with renewed intent, roam over your face, lingering on your kiss-swollen lips and the faint marks she left on your neck. A possessive satisfaction flickers there. She reaches down, her hands landing on the button of your jeans. Her knuckles brush against the hard ridge straining behind the denim, and she lets out a low, appreciative hum.
"My turn," she murmurs, her gaze locking with yours. "Been wanting to do this for way too long. Way, way too long."
Her fingers work the button free with surprising dexterity, then move to the zipper, pulling it down with a slow, deliberate rasp that echoes loudly in the quiet room. She doesn't just yank your jeans off. She takes her time, hooking her fingers into the waistband, easing the stiff denim down over your hips, her touch feather-light against your skin. You lift your hips instinctively to help her. Your jeans slide down your legs, pooling around your ankles. You're left in just your boxers—boxers that are doing absolutely nothing to hide the thick, hard length straining beneath the fabric.
Sohyun pauses, her eyes fixed on the prominent bulge. She reaches out, tracing the rigid shape through the thin cotton with one curious finger. You twitch involuntarily, a low groan rumbling in your chest.
"Fuck," she breathes, a note of genuine awe creeping in. "I knew... I mean, I saw... before..." She glances up at you quickly, a faint blush rising on her cheeks as she remembers that moment in the club room closet, the stolen, frantic glimpse. "But seeing it like... this... Jesus."
Her gaze drops back down, captivated. She hooks her thumbs into the elastic waistband of your boxers and slowly, reverently, peels them down. Down past your hip bones, down your thighs, revealing you completely. Your cock springs free, thick and heavy, slick already with beads of pre-cum glistening under the dim light. It's undeniably large, thick-shafted, maybe even surprisingly so given your usually reserved, almost nerdy demeanor. It pulses slightly with your heartbeat, utterly exposed under her intense scrutiny.
Sohyun just stares for a long moment, her mouth slightly parted. Her eyes widen almost imperceptibly. This isn't like the frantic, hidden view she got before. This is up close, personal, undeniable. The sheer size and thickness of you, fully hard and demanding attention, seems to momentarily short-circuit her brain. She reaches out again, hand hovering just above you, like she's afraid to touch, afraid it might disappear.
"It's... perfect," she whispers. "God, it's so... much. And it's really... mine? Right now?"
"Yes," you manage, your throat tight. "All yours, Sohyun. Please. Touch me."
That breaks the spell. Her hesitation vanishes, replaced by a focused intensity that makes your stomach clench. She leans down, her hair falling forward, tickling your stomach as she lowers her face towards your cock. She doesn't grab it right away. Instead, she inhales deeply, breathing in your scent, her eyes fluttering closed for a second. Then, she presses a soft, tentative kiss right to the swollen, pulsing head. It’s a kiss of reverence, almost worshipful. She kisses it again, lingering, her lips incredibly soft against the sensitive skin. Then she trails kisses down the thick shaft, her warm breath ghosting over you, making you shiver uncontrollably. Her tongue darts out, tasting the slick bead of pre-cum at the tip, humming her approval deep in her throat.
"Mmm," she murmurs against your skin. "Taste good... smell good... God, you feel so hard."
She cups your balls gently in one hand, her touch surprisingly confident, weighing them, stroking the sensitive skin underneath with her thumb. You groan, hips lifting slightly off the mattress, needing more. Her other hand finally closes around the base of your shaft, her fingers wrapping snugly around the thick circumference. Her grip is firm, warm, possessive. She strokes you once, slowly, from base to head, watching your reaction with hungry eyes.
"You like that?" she asks. "Like me touching you? Holding your big, thick cock?"
"Fuck, yes," you gasp out, already close to losing it just from her touch, her words. "Please, Sohyun..."
"Shhh," she soothes, leaning down again. "Let me take care of you. Let me worship this perfect cock. You deserve it."
She starts by licking. Long, slow, wet laps all the way up the shaft, starting from the base where her fingers are wrapped tight, swirling around the thick ridge of the head, paying special attention to the sensitive slit at the very tip. Her tongue is relentless, mapping every vein, every inch, savoring the texture, the taste. She licks your balls too, darting her tongue out to trace the seam, making you gasp and buck beneath her. She seems fascinated, utterly absorbed in the act of adoration, like she's discovering a hidden treasure she can't get enough of. She alternates between licking and kissing, pressing open-mouthed kisses against the throbbing veins, occasionally taking just the very head between her lips, sucking gently, experimentally.
"So pretty," she mumbles against you, her breath hot. "So fucking hard for me. You feel so good in my hand... so heavy..."
She gathers your balls more firmly, lifting them slightly as she lowers her mouth over the head of your cock again. This time, she means business. Her lips seal tight, creating a wet suction that steals your breath. She starts to suck, slowly at first, adjusting her jaw, learning the shape and feel of you in her mouth. Her cheeks hollow slightly with the effort, her eyes fixed on yours, watching your reaction, feeding off the strangled noises clawing their way up your throat. She moans around you, a deep, guttural sound of pure pleasure—hers and yours.
"Mmmmph... fuck... so thick," she manages around you, pulling back slightly before sliding down again, taking you deeper this time.
Her pace picks up, her head starting to bob more rhythmically. She uses her hand in tandem, stroking the lower half of your shaft while her mouth works the upper half, creating an unbearable friction, a slick heat that threatens to make you explode. Her tongue works magic inside her mouth, swirling around the head, flicking against the frenulum, driving you absolutely insane. Saliva spills from the corners of her mouth, mixing with your pre-cum, coating your cock in a thick, slippery sheen. She doesn't seem to care about the mess; she seems to revel in it, smearing the wetness down your shaft with her hand, slicking up your balls until they shine.
"Drooling all over you," she gasps, pulling off for a second to look at her handiwork, eyes glazed with lust. "God, look how wet I'm making you... covering your pretty cock in my spit... you like that, baby? Like being my messy boy?"
"Yes," you choke out, nodding frantically, hands fisting in the duvet beside you. "Fuck, Sohyun, please... don't stop..."
"Never," she promises, diving back down, sucking you deeper than before, her throat muscles working as she takes as much of you as she can.
She alternates speeds, sometimes sucking slow and deep, milking you, other times bobbing her head frantically, her hair whipping against your thighs, her lips and tongue working you over with relentless abandon. She cradles your balls constantly, rubbing, squeezing gently, rolling them between her fingers, ensuring no part of you is neglected. The sounds are incredibly hot—the wet sucking noises, her low moans, your own choked gasps and pleas. She's not just giving you a blowjob; she's pouring all her love, all her pent-up longing, all her newly unleashed desire into worshiping you, pleasuring you, claiming you.
"You feel so good in my mouth," she pants, slicking her lips. "Best cock I've ever tasted... fuck, I wanna swallow you whole..."
She picks up the pace again, sensing you getting closer, her hand pumping furiously at the base while her mouth works magic on the head. Your hips are bucking off the bed now, completely involuntary, chasing the friction, begging for release. Your balls are drawn up tight, the pressure building unbearably.
"Sohyun... Sohyun, I'm gonna..." you gasp, vision starting to blur at the edges.
She hums, a deep vibration against your shaft, and pulls back just slightly, letting her lips drag slowly, wetly, all the way up to the tip. She kisses the head one last time, her tongue darting out to catch a final bead of slickness. She looks up at you, eyes dark and heavy-lidded, a satisfied smirk playing on her spit-slick lips. Your cock is practically vibrating in her hand, flushed, aching, coated in her saliva, impossibly hard, utterly ready.
"Good," she breathes, her gaze flicking down at your cock, then back to your eyes. "Keep it just like that for me. Hard and ready. Because now... now I need you inside me.”
Sohyun levers herself up, straddling your hips now instead of your face. Her knees press into the mattress on either side of you, boxing you in. Her gaze is locked on your cock, still hard and glistening, twitching slightly in anticipation. She reaches down, wrapping her fingers around the thick shaft again, her touch possessive, almost proprietary now. She strokes you slowly, deliberately, watching the way your hips lift instinctively off the bed, chasing her touch. A dark, satisfied smile curves her lips. She looks powerful like this, kneeling over you, naked from the waist down, her hair a wild halo around her flushed face, her breasts full and bare, nipples still tight and dark from your attention. The dynamic has shifted entirely. She's in control, and she knows it. And fuck, you love it.
"God, Sohyun," you gasp out, the words shaky. "I've... I've thought about this. So many times."
Her eyes flick up to meet yours, questioning, curious.
"About you," you clarify, needing her to understand. "About you being like this. On top of me. Taking charge. Riding me... dominating me..." The confession feels scandalous, ripped from the deepest, most submissive part of you, but seeing her like this, strong, determined, radiating need, makes it impossible to hold back.
A slow, understanding heat dawns in her eyes, chasing away any lingering shyness. She leans down slightly, bracing one hand on your chest, her thumb brushing your nipple through your t-shirt, making you jolt.
"Yeah?" she murmurs. "Funny. Me too."
Your breath catches. "You... you have?"
She nods, her smile turning wicked. "Oh, yeah. More times than I can count. Thinking about this..." She squeezes your cock gently, making you groan. "...this perfect, thick cock sliding inside me. Stretching me out. Filling me up." She leans closer, her lips brushing your ear. "I might have... borrowed one of your pillows a few times. When you were out late. Pretended it was you I was riding." Her confession is a hot whisper against your skin. "Imagined you were balls-deep inside me while I rode it until I came."
The image—Sohyun, alone in her room, desperate for you, grinding on your pillow—is almost too much. It makes your cock pulse painfully hard in her grip.
"Fuck, Sohyun," you choke out. "Tell me... tell me what you want."
"You," she says simply, fiercely. She lets go of you for a second, putting the panties aside. She guides the thick, wet head of your cock to her entrance, her own slickness making the contact incredibly slippery, incredibly hot. She looks down, watching intently as she aligns herself. "I want you. Inside me. Now."
With excruciating slowness, she begins to lower herself onto you. You feel the head of your cock nudge against her tight entrance, feel her slick folds parting, stretching. She gasps sharply, her eyes squeezing shut for a second as the thick ridge pushes past her outer lips, beginning to invade her.
"Oh my god... fuck..." she breathes, her hands gripping your shoulders tight enough to leave marks. "You're so... big..."
She sinks lower, inch by agonizing inch, taking you deeper. Her pussy feels incredible; impossibly tight, hot and slick and welcoming. The feeling of a body claiming something it’s desperately wanted for far too long. You groan deep in your chest, hands coming up to grip her hips, steadying her, steadying yourself. You can feel every internal ripple, every clench of her muscles as she takes you all the way down, settling onto your cock until you're buried to the hilt inside her.
She sits there for a long moment, just breathing hard, letting her body adjust to the thick invasion, letting you feel the sheer, glorious fullness of being completely sheathed inside her. Her head is tipped back, exposing the long, vulnerable line of her throat, her expression a mixture of intense pleasure and almost unbearable sensation.
"Fuck," she sighs out, a long, shuddering sound. "Just... feeling you stretching me out... God, it's..."
"Amazing?" you supply.
She nods mutely, eyes still closed, biting her lower lip. Then, slowly, she begins to move. Just a small lift of her hips, dragging your cock almost out before sinking back down again with agonizing slowness. The friction is electric, making your toes curl.
"Like that?" she whispers, eyes fluttering open to meet yours.
"Yes," you gasp. "Fuck, yes. More."
She starts to ride you properly then, finding a rhythm. Slow and deep at first, her hips rolling deliberately, learning your shape inside her, learning how to angle herself to hit just the right spots. Her hands rest on your chest, fingers splayed, feeling your heartbeat hammer against her palms. With every downward slide, her tight channel grips you, massages you, threatens your control. With every upward pull, the sensation of dragging your thick head along her sensitive walls makes you groan aloud. Her breasts sway gently with the motion.
"Mmmm... god, you feel so good," she murmurs, her hips picking up the pace slightly. "So fucking thick inside me... filling me up completely..."
She rides you with a growing confidence, her movements becoming bolder, faster. She shifts her weight, grinding down harder, experimenting with angles, a low moan escaping her lips every time she hits a particularly good spot. Sweat begins to bead on her forehead, plastering strands of dark hair to her temples. Her cheeks are flushed a deep pink, her lips parted as she pants for breath. She looks wild, primal, completely lost in the act of taking you, claiming you.
"Fuck, Sohyun, you feel incredible," you gasp out, hands tightening on her hips, tilting her slightly to drive yourself even deeper. "So tight... so wet..."
"Yeah?" she pants, a triumphant grin flashing across her face. "Like this? You like how I ride you?" She increases the pace again, hips pumping faster now, slamming down onto your cock with deliberate force. Her breasts bounce more vigorously, the sight mesmerizing. "You like watching my tits bounce while I fuck your cock?"
"Yes! Fuck, yes!" you cry out, completely overwhelmed by the sight, the sound, the feeling of her riding you with such abandon.
She leans forward, bracing her hands on your shoulders, riding you harder, faster, moving into a frantic, desperate rhythm. The bed starts to shake beneath you, the only sounds the wet slap of her pussy gripping your cock, her ragged pants, your answering groans. This is frenzy. Pure, raw, unadulterated need pouring out of her as she fucks you, possessively, relentlessly. Her eyes are locked on yours, fierce and unwavering, like she's daring you to look away, daring you to think of anyone else.
"Am I...?" she gasps out between frantic thrusts, her stare pinning you down. "Am I better? Better than her?"
There’s no coyness, no game-playing like Xinyu. Just raw insecurity wrapped in fierce possessiveness. She needs to know. Needs the validation. Needs to erase the ghost of the other girl.
You meet her intense gaze without flinching, hands gripping her waist tight, pulling her down harder onto your next upward thrust.
"Yes," you say, the word ripped from your throat, raw with conviction. "Fuck, yes, Sohyun. So much better. No comparison. It's always been you. Only you."
The confirmation—that she’s better, that it’s only her—fuels Sohyun like high-octane gasoline. The frantic energy shifts, solidifying into something harder, more deliberate, more dominant. She rides you with a vengeance now, hips slamming down onto your cock, grinding her clit against your pubic bone with every brutal downward thrust. Her pace is relentless, punishing, her body slick with sweat, moving like she’s trying to fuck you right through the mattress. The wet, slapping sounds fill the room, obscene and rhythmic.
"Fuck yes," she pants, head thrown back again, eyes half-lidded with ecstasy. "That's what I needed to hear. Needed you to say it." She leans forward, bracing her hands on your shoulders again, her stare burning into you. "Now give me more. Don't just lie there like a fucking doll. Touch me. Own me."
Her demand sparks through you, overriding the pleasant haze of submission. Your hands fly up to her breasts, cupping the heavy, sweat-slicked weight. They feel incredible, full and responsive. You squeeze them firmly, kneading the soft flesh, thumbs finding her nipples, still hard, aching pebbles, and rolling them roughly between your fingers.
"Ah! Fuck—yes!" Sohyun cries out, her hips stuttering in their rhythm for a beat before slamming down even harder. "Like that! Squeeze them harder! Play with my nipples while I ride your cock! Make them sore! Fuck, yes!"
You obey instantly, pinching and tweaking her nipples, pulling gently, rewarded by her sharp gasps and the way her pussy clenches impossibly tighter around your shaft. She grinds down onto you, moaning your name, lost in the dual sensations. She rides you like she owns you, like she’s branding you with every slam of her hips, every tight clench of her cunt.
Then, her eyes snap fully open, locking onto yours with a terrifying, desperate intensity. The frantic pace slows just slightly, becoming more deliberate, each thrust deeper, more meaningful.
"I need you to come," she says, her tone leaving no room for argument. "Now. Inside me."
You falter for a second, your hands stilling on her breasts. "Sohyun... wait, are you serious? We didn't... I don't have..."
"I don't fucking care!" she cuts you off, her voice raw, almost frantic. She grips your shoulders tighter, leaning down until her face is inches from yours, her breath hot and ragged against your lips. "I don't care about condoms. I don't care about anything! I need it! I need you to fill me up. Mark me. Make me yours, understand? Breed me. Right now. Cum deep inside my pussy."
Your brain whites out for a second. Breed her. The words, the raw need behind them, the sheer possessive desperation—it hits you like a physical blow, igniting a primal heat deep in your gut you didn't know existed. The idea of planting your seed deep inside her, claiming her womb…
"Fuck, Sohyun," you choke out, overwhelmed.
"Yes!" she urges, her eyes blazing. "Every day. I want you filling me up like this every single day. This pussy?" She grinds down hard, milking a groan from you. "It's yours. Only yours. No one else ever gets to touch it. No one else gets to fuck it. No one else gets to breed it. Only you. Promise me!"
"I promise," you gasp, the words ripped from you without thought, only instinct. "Only you, Sohyun. Always."
"Good," she pants, a wild, triumphant grin spreading across her face. She throws her head back again and starts riding you with renewed, almost violent frenzy. "Fuck yes! Breed your girl! Fill my womb up with your cum! Make me swell up with it! I want your baby! Fuck, put your baby inside me now!"
Every filthy word, every desperate demand, every slam of her wet cunt onto your aching cock drives you closer and closer to the edge. The friction is unbearable, her walls clenching and milking you, her words painting pictures in your head that are setting your nerves on fire. You can feel your own climax rushing towards you now, unstoppable, a tidal wave building behind your balls.
"I'm gonna... oh god, Sohyun, I'm so close!" you cry out, hips bucking up wildly beneath her.
"Me too! Fuck, yes, me too!" she screams back. "Cum with me! Cum inside me! Breed me! Breed me now!"
She rides you faster, harder, a desperate, frantic pounding as you both chase the peak. Her moans turn into high-pitched keening sounds, her body trembling violently. You feel the tell-tale clenching deep inside her, the spasms starting just as your own orgasm rips through you.
"FUCK! SOHYUN!" you roar, your body locking up as you explode deep inside her.
Hot, thick ropes of your cum pump into her womb, filling her, coating her insides just like she demanded. You feel her pussy clench violently around your cock, milking every last drop out of you, her own orgasm crashing over her in wave after wave. She continues to ride you even as you both come, slamming down onto your still-pulsing cock, drawing out the very last shuddering spurts, her own cries echoing yours in the small room. The intensity is blinding, shattering. Your eyes roll back in your head, vision whitening out completely as the pleasure finally crests and breaks, leaving you utterly spent, trembling, muscles twitching.
Sohyun collapses forward onto your chest, boneless, her breath coming in ragged, sobbing gasps against your sweat-slick skin. Her weight is heavy, comforting, grounding. You can feel the frantic thudding of her heart against yours, feel the faint, lingering pulses deep inside her where you just emptied yourself. You wrap your arms around her trembling body, holding her tight, burying your face in her damp hair, inhaling her scent. Neither of you speaks for a long time, just clinging to each other in the aftermath, adrift in the wreckage of shared pleasure, bound together by the intensity of what just happened.
The silence stretches, filled only by the sound of two bodies recovering, hearts gradually slowing from their frantic race. Finally, she lifts her head slightly, just enough to meet your eyes. Her expression is soft, unguarded, the fierce possessiveness momentarily banked by sated exhaustion and something that looks overwhelmingly like love.
"I love you," she whispers, the words quiet but solid, no desperation this time, just simple, profound truth.
Your chest aches with the force of your own feelings, a wave of tenderness washing over you, so potent it almost hurts. You lift a hand, brushing damp strands of hair from her forehead, your thumb tracing the curve of her eyebrow.
"I love you too, Sohyun," you murmur, the words feeling more real, more right than anything you've ever said. "So fucking much."
A slow, beautiful smile spreads across her face, reaching her eyes, making them shine. She leans down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your lips. It’s different from the frantic, claiming kisses before—this one is slow, sweet, full of affection and the dizzying relief of finally being here, together, like this. You kiss her back gently, pouring all your affection into it, letting the kiss deepen naturally, tongues tangling lazily, exploring rediscovered territory. You stay like that for a long while, just kissing, holding each other, limbs tangled, the sticky evidence of your climax cooling between her legs and inside her. The world outside her bedroom ceases to exist; there's only the warmth of her skin, the taste of her mouth, the steady beat of her heart against yours.
But even as you drift in the peaceful afterglow, your body betrays you. Deep inside her, nestled snugly in her tight, creamy pussy, your cock gives an involuntary throb. It’s still undeniably hard, thick and heavy within her, nowhere near satisfied despite the intensity of your release. Sohyun stills, her eyes widening slightly as she feels the distinct pulse deep inside her cunt. She shifts her hips experimentally, just a tiny grind, and gasps softly as your cock throbs again in response, pressing against her sensitive inner walls. She pulls back slightly, looking down between your bodies, then up at your face with bewildered amusement.
"Seriously?" she asks, one eyebrow arching. "How the hell are you still hard? I thought I killed you."
You let out a shaky laugh, tightening your arms around her waist. "Guess not." You shift your hips slightly, letting her feel the solid length still buried inside her. "It's you, Sohyun. You drive me fucking crazy. Always have."
A pleased, almost smug flush creeps up her neck. "Yeah?"
"Yeah," you confirm, grinning. "Seeing you like this... hearing you... knowing you want me this bad..." You shake your head. "It does things to me."
Her smile turns predatory again, that dominant spark reigniting in her eyes. "Good." She leans down, whispering against your ear, "Because I'm not done with you yet." But before she can reclaim control entirely, a surge of boldness rises in you.
"Neither am I," you murmur, and with a surge of strength you didn't know you possessed, you roll her over.
She lets out a surprised yelp as you maneuver her beneath you, ending up positioned between her legs in the classic missionary pose. The sudden shift in dynamic makes her blink, but she doesn't fight it. Instead, a curious, excited glint enters her eyes. You brace your hands on either side of her head, leaning down to capture her mouth in another deep kiss, taking charge this time, setting the pace. Your cock slides almost fully out during the roll before you sink back into her with one smooth, deep thrust.
"Fuck!" she cries out, back arching off the bed as you fill her again. "Oh my god, that feels..."
Her pussy is impossibly sensitive now, slick and creamy with the mixture of her arousal and your own cooling cum. Every slight movement sends shivers through her, her inner walls fluttering and clenching around you instinctively. The friction is insane, almost unbearable, slicker and yet somehow tighter than before. You pull back slowly, deliberately, dragging your thick shaft along her hypersensitive walls, then thrust back in deep, hitting that spot low in her belly that makes her gasp and her toes curl.
"Still feel good?" you ask.
"Y-yes! Fuck, yes!" she pants, gripping your biceps hard. "So good... it's almost too much... so sensitive now..."
"Good," you growl, starting to fuck her with a steady, driving rhythm. "I want it to be too much. I want to make you fall apart."
You fuck her hard, hips slamming against hers, driving deep with every thrust. Her legs instinctively wrap around your waist, pulling you even deeper, locking you in place. She meets your rhythm, hips lifting off the bed to take every inch, her head thrashing side to side on the pillows, dark hair fanning out. Her moans are louder now, higher pitched, broken sounds torn from her throat with every impact.
"Fuck! Harder! Please, harder!" she begs, completely lost to the sensation. "Right there! Oh god, oh god, yes!"
You obey, increasing the force, pounding into her relentlessly. The sound of your bodies colliding, the wet, sloppy sounds of your cock sliding in and out of her creamy cunt, fills the room. Her breasts jiggle wildly with the force of your thrusts, the sight driving you wilder. You lean down, capturing one nipple in your mouth again, sucking hard while you continue to hammer into her.
"Ah! Fuck! Yes, please—suck them! Bite them!" she cries out deliriously.
You lave the nipple, then bite down gently, just enough to make her cry out again, her pussy clenching violently around your cock. You switch sides, giving the other nipple the same rough treatment while your hips maintain their punishing rhythm. She's trembling all over now, completely overwhelmed, on the ragged edge of another climax.
"I'm gonna... I'm gonna cum again!" she gasps, eyes rolling back slightly. "Fuck, I can't stop it!"
"Don't stop it," you command. "Come for me again, Sohyun. Let go."
You focus your thrusts, angling slightly, grinding against her G-spot relentlessly, pushing her over the edge. Her body tenses like a drawn bowstring, muscles locking up, a high, keening whine building in her throat.
"Oh FUCK! I'm—!"
Her climax hits her like a lightning strike. Her whole body convulses, legs locking tight around your waist, back arching so high off the bed only her shoulders and heels are touching. A torrent of clear, slick fluid suddenly erupts from her, soaking the front of your body, spraying onto the sheets beneath her. She's squirting, a hot, copious gush that just keeps coming as her orgasm tears through her, wave after powerful wave. The sight, the feeling of her body spasming around you, the hot spray coating your skin, the sheer, unbridled intensity of her release—it shatters your own control completely.
"FUCK! SOHYUN!" you roar, unable to hold back any longer.
You feel your own orgasm roaring up your spine, too intense, too soon after the last one, but unstoppable. You pull out at the last second, cock slapping wetly against her drenched belly, still spasming from her squirt. You brace your hands, aiming carefully, and explode all over her chest. Thick ropes of your cum spray across her collarbones, coating her full breasts, dripping down between them. Shot after shot erupts from you, hot and heavy, until you're completely drained, collapsing forward slightly, bracing your weight on your elbows, chest heaving, heart pounding like it wants to escape your ribs.
You stay like that for a moment, catching your breath, looking down at the beautiful, glorious mess you've made of her. Sohyun lies beneath you, utterly wrecked, limbs trembling, face flushed, eyes glazed and unfocused. Her chest is rising and falling rapidly, coated in your thick, white seed. The sheets beneath her are soaked from her squirt. She looks debauched, thoroughly fucked, completely claimed. And she's never looked more beautiful. You lean down, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead.
"You," you whisper, "are the most beautiful girl in the world, Sohyun. Absolutely fucking perfect."
She manages a weak, trembling smile, lifting a shaky hand to cup your cheek. Her eyes finally focus on yours, filled with so much love, so much raw emotion, it steals your breath all over again. She doesn't say anything, doesn't need to. The connection between you is palpable, electric, forged in confessions and tears and sweat and cum and squirt, solidifying into something undeniable, something unbreakable, right there in the messy aftermath on her tangled sheets.
A long, shared sigh escapes both of you almost in unison. You lie down next to her, Sohyun rests her head back on your chest, her breathing still slightly ragged, her fingers tracing idle patterns over your cum-splattered chest. You stare up at the ceiling, your own mind racing, trying to process the whirlwind of confessions, the raw intensity, the spilled fluids currently cooling on both of you and the sheets. It feels surreal, like a dream you're afraid you'll wake up from.
"Holy shit," Sohyun whispers after a long silence, her tone full of dazed wonder. "That... actually happened."
You let out a shaky laugh, tightening your arms around her. "Yeah. I... I can hardly believe it either."
She shifts slightly, propping herself up on one elbow to look down at you, her expression serious now, practical thoughts cutting through the haze of pleasure.
"Hey," she starts, biting her lip slightly. "I'm... uh... gonna need to get a morning-after pill. Just... you know..." She gestures vaguely towards her lower body, where your seed still rests deep inside her. "We kinda... really overdid it on the whole... breeding thing."
A flush creeps up your neck, embarrassment mixing with the lingering thrill of her earlier demands. You nod quickly.
"Yeah," you agree, clearing your throat. "Yeah, we definitely did. Sorry, I should have... pulled out the first time too, I just... lost it."
She shakes her head, reaching out to cup your cheek gently. "Don't apologize. I told you to. I wanted you to." A small, almost shy smile touches her lips. "It was... really good. All of it."
Relief washes over you, potent and warm. "Yeah?" You meet her gaze, searching her eyes. "I thought so too. More than good. It was... everything."
She smiles fully then, leaning down to press a soft, lingering kiss to your lips. The easy affection, the simple intimacy after the storm, feels grounding. You kiss her back, pouring all your confused, overwhelming feelings into it. After a moment, she pulls back again, her expression turning thoughtful, hesitant.
"So..." she starts, tracing the line of your jaw with a fingertip. "What... what happens now? With us?"
You shift awkwardly beneath her, suddenly very aware of your nakedness, your vulnerability. This is it. The moment you’ve simultaneously dreaded and longed for.
"Well," you begin, swallowing hard, forcing yourself to meet her searching gaze. "I was kinda hoping... um..." You fumble for the words, feeling ridiculously shy after everything you just did together. "Do you... maybe... want to be my girlfriend?"
Her breath catches, her eyes widening slightly before breaking into the most brilliant, radiant smile you’ve ever seen on her face. It lights her up from the inside out.
"Yes!" she breathes, relief flooding her features. "God, yes! Of course, I do, you idiot!"
She crashes down onto you again, capturing your mouth in a fierce, joyful kiss that tastes like hope and relief and the start of something new. You kiss her back with equal fervor, laughing against her lips, pure happiness bubbling up inside you. When she finally pulls back, breathless and beaming, her expression clouds slightly again.
"Okay, good," she says, settling back against your chest, but her fingers fidget slightly. "But... what about... Xinyu?"
You swallow hard, the name like a stone dropping into the pit of your stomach. Guilt immediately floods you, chasing away some of the euphoria. You owe Xinyu honesty, even if it’s going to hurt.
"Right," you sigh. "Yeah. I... I need to talk to her. Be straight with her." You hesitate, forcing yourself to be completely honest with Sohyun now, no more secrets. "She, uh... she actually asked me out today. Like, properly. Asked me to be her boyfriend."
"Oh," she says, her tone carefully neutral. "Really? Wow, I'm surprised… What did you say?"
"I didn't accept," you say quickly, meeting her gaze earnestly. "I told her I needed time to think. I was... confused. Uncertain." You reach up, cupping her cheek, needing her to believe you. "And now I know why, Sohyun. It was never about being confused between you two. It was about me being too scared to admit what I really wanted. Who I really loved." Your thumb strokes her cheekbone. "It's you. It's always been you."
Her eyes soften, glistening slightly, and she leans into your touch, pressing a kiss to your palm. "Okay," she whispers. "Just... be careful, okay? When you talk to her."
"I will," you promise.
The fluorescent lights of the campus bathroom hum overhead, casting a sterile glare on the tiled walls. Sohyun leans over one of the sinks, splashing cool water onto her face, trying to wash away the lingering exhaustion and the slightly dazed feeling that’s followed her all day. Everything feels different now. Knowing you feel the same way, knowing you're hers, officially... it’s like the world has tilted on its axis. She pats her face dry with a rough paper towel, catching her reflection in the mirror. Her eyes still look a little red-rimmed, her hair is messier than usual, but there’s a softness around her mouth, a lightness in her gaze that wasn't there before. She almost smiles.
The main door swings open, letting in the muffled sounds of the hallway, and Sohyun glances up automatically. Xinyu walks in, head down, scrolling intently on her phone, her usual bright energy noticeably absent. She looks... agitated. She heads towards the mirrors further down, seemingly not noticing Sohyun at first. But then she looks up, her eyes scanning the room, and freezes mid-step as her gaze lands on Sohyun. The recognition dawns instantly.
"YOU!" Xinyu finally spits out. She drops her phone onto the counter with a clatter and points a trembling finger directly at Sohyun.
A couple of other girls who were fixing their makeup quickly gather their things, exchanging wide-eyed glances before scurrying out, leaving the heavy tension simmering between just the two of them. The door clicks shut behind them, amplifying the sudden silence.
Xinyu takes a step closer, her face pale beneath her usually perfect makeup, her eyes blazing with hurt and anger. "It was you, wasn't it? You're the reason he dumped me!"
Sohyun straightens up slowly, leaning back against the cool tile, crossing her arms defensively. Her heart pounds, but she keeps her expression carefully neutral, refusing to rise to the bait immediately.
"Dumped you?" Sohyun asks, raising an eyebrow slightly. "What breakup are you talking about? As far as I know, you and he never actually had anything official to break up from."
Xinyu recoils as if slapped, offense flashing across her features. "Excuse me? We were having something! We were figuring it out, discovering each other! It was real! He kissed me, he fucked me, he was going to be mine! Until you!" she jabs her finger towards Sohyun again, voice trembling with suppressed tears. "You got in his head! You ruined it!"
A cold wave washes over Sohyun. Hearing Xinyu talk about you fucking her, even knowing it happened, still feels like a physical blow. But she pushes the hurt down, replacing it with a steely resolve.
"He was always mine," Sohyun says.
Xinyu lets out a choked, incredulous laugh. "Always yours? That's bullshit! You've known him for years, lived with him, watched him date other people, watched me flirt with him, and you never did a damn thing! You never had the guts! And now, now that I finally decided to go for it, now that I did what you were always too scared to do, now you decide to swoop in and get in the way?"
The accusation hits home, sharp and true. Sohyun flinches slightly, the guilt churning inside her. Xinyu isn't wrong about her cowardice, about her inaction for years.
"You're right," Sohyun admits quietly, dropping her gaze for a second before forcing herself to meet Xinyu's furious stare again. "You're absolutely right. That was my mistake. My biggest fucking mistake, letting fear stop me for so long." Her jaw tightens, her own fierce possessiveness surging forward. "But I finally acted. Because I wasn't going to lose him. Not to you. Not to anyone. I would never let myself lose him."
The raw conviction in Sohyun’s declaration seems to finally break something in Xinyu. Her furious facade crumbles, shoulders slumping, tears finally spilling over and tracking messy lines down her cheeks. She wipes at them angrily with the back of her hand.
"So what now?" Xinyu asks. "Are you going to make him quit the club? Tell him he can't hang out with me anymore?" The question sounds desperate, surprisingly vulnerable. "He... he still wants to be friends. And he's really important for the zine production... We need him."
Sohyun watches her cry, a flicker of unexpected pity stirring beneath her own lingering anger and possessiveness. She remembers your hesitation earlier, your insistence that Xinyu wasn't just using you. Maybe you were right. Maybe Xinyu did have genuine feelings, however tangled up they were.
"Look," Sohyun says, sighing, her tone softening slightly. "I'm not his mother. I don't tell him what to do." She shrugs, trying for nonchalance. "And I know he actually likes that stupid crafts club, for some reason."
"It's not stupid!" Xinyu snaps automatically through her tears.
"Whatever," Sohyun dismisses with a small wave of her hand. "My point is, if he wants to keep going, that's his choice. It's fine with me." She levels a steady gaze at Xinyu. "As long as you understand the boundaries. As long as you don't try anything. At all."
Xinyu sniffs, wiping her eyes again, nodding quickly. "I won't," she promises, her voice small. "I get it. I won't."
An awkward silence hangs between them. Sohyun feels a pang of something akin to regret, not for claiming you, but for the collateral damage.
"I am sorry," Sohyun says quietly, genuinely. "Sorry you got... deluded, I guess. Caught up in the middle of all this."
Xinyu offers a watery, humorless smile, shaking her head. "It's okay. My fault, really." She lets out a shaky breath. "Rule number one: don't fall for the guy who has a female best friend with obvious unresolved history with him. Never ends well, does it?" She attempts a laugh, but it comes out as more of a sob. She grabs a paper towel, dabbing at her eyes, trying to pull herself together. The confrontation seems over, leaving behind only the wreckage and the uneasy truce born from shared heartbreak over the same boy.
Walking into the "Hands On" club room later that day feels different. There's a knot of uncertainty low in your stomach, a leftover echo of the drama, the confrontation you know happened between Sohyun and Xinyu, and your own awkward conversation looming. You push the door open tentatively. The usual creative chaos greets you—fabric scraps littering tables, the faint smell of glue and paint, half-finished projects everywhere. Several members look up as you enter, their chatter dying down for a beat as they take you in. You can practically feel them sense the lingering tension, the potential for more trouble. A silent ripple of awareness goes through the room.
Xinyu, who was overseeing someone wrestling with a sewing machine, immediately straightens up, clapping her hands together with forced brightness.
"Alright people, less gawking, more gluing!" she calls out, her usual commanding tone back in place, though maybe a little strained around the edges. "Those zine covers aren't going to embellish themselves!"
The members quickly avert their gazes, busying themselves with their tasks, pretending they weren't just bracing for round two. You take a deep breath and approach Xinyu, stopping a few feet away, hands shoved awkwardly in your pockets.
"Hey," you manage, the word coming out quieter, shyer than you intended.
She turns, offering you a small, tight smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes.
"Hi," she replies, equally subdued.
You shift your weight, glancing around the room before forcing yourself to meet her gaze. "Look, have you thought about what I said earlier? I just... I came to see... Am I still, like... welcome here? In the club?"
"Yes, of course," she says quickly. "Obviously. You're still production lead, aren't you?"
“Yeah. Thank you. I really enjoy being part of this club. Hmm, by the way, Sohyun told me you two talked today."
Xinyu nods, fiddling with a stray thread on her perfectly coordinated velvet jacket. "Yeah. We ran into each other." A flicker of her old cattiness surfaces as she gives a small, dismissive sniff. "Still don't really get what you see in her, honestly. She's just so... plain. Basic."
"Hey," you cut in gently but firmly. "Don't start, okay?"
Xinyu immediately holds up her hands in mock surrender, though a genuine look of apology flashes in her eyes. "Sorry! Sorry. Force of habit. Old rivalries die hard, I guess." She offers a more genuine, albeit still slightly strained, smile. "Seriously though. We're glad to still have you. I'm glad. You actually get stuff done around here."
You manage a small smile back. "So... it's not going to be weird? Between us? After everything?"
She laughs, a short, sharp sound, but it holds genuine amusement this time. "Oh, it'll probably be weird for a bit," she admits honestly. "But we'll manage. I'll just have to make you work twice as hard on club duties to make up for breaking my heart."
You laugh, the sound easing more of the tension. "Okay, that's fair."
She leans against the table beside her, her posture relaxing slightly. "Look," she says, her tone turning serious again. "I meant what I said, you know. That I liked you." She avoids your gaze for a second, staring down at her perfectly manicured nails. "Okay, fine, maybe at first I was kind of just taking advantage of how nice you are to get help with lifting boxes and shit," she confesses with a wry twist of her lips. "But somewhere along the line... I actually started to fall for the sweet, reliable guy underneath all the errand-running. You're... genuinely good. Different." She sighs dramatically. "Turns out I have a weakness for dependable soft boys who blush easily."
"Xinyu..." you start, feeling a pang of guilt again. "I'm really sorry I couldn't... feel the same way."
She waves a dismissive hand, finally meeting your eyes again, her expression resigned but composed. "Eh, it's okay. Don't sweat it." She shrugs, trying for nonchalance. "Honestly? I should've known it wasn't totally there the second you hesitated when I asked you to be my boyfriend. Nobody hesitates with me." She strikes a pose, hand on her hip, chin tilted defiantly. "I mean, hello? I'm perfect."
You can't help but laugh genuinely this time. "You're right," you agree easily. "You are pretty amazing, Xinyu."
"Damn right I am," she says, grinning, the familiar confidence flowing back into her. "Clearly you just have questionable taste." She winks. "But hey, your loss. I still want to be friends though, if you're cool with that? Awkwardness aside?"
"Yeah," you say warmly. "I'd really like that." You hold out your hand uncertainly.
She looks at it for a second, then takes it, her grip firm and decisive. A handshake. A truce. A new beginning.
"Good," she says, releasing your hand and immediately pivoting back to business mode, clapping her hands together again. "Okay, Production Lead! Less standing around looking relieved, more figuring out how we're going to afford that iridescent cardstock for the spring showcase invites..."
You listen intently as she dives into project details, pulling you back into the familiar rhythm of club tasks. And just like that, things start to feel... normal again. Different, yes. Tinged with the memory of drama and hurt feelings, but manageable. Xinyu, you realize, is great. Complicated, sharp-edged, maybe even a little ruthless sometimes, but also vibrant and passionate and, in her own way, surprisingly understanding. You're genuinely glad you can still have her in your life, even if it's just as friends wrestling over glitter glue and budget spreadsheets.
Later that same day, you push the apartment door open, balancing two large grocery bags against your hip. You check the clock on your phone; only 6:30 PM. You’re not late. In fact, you’re early. A small, ridiculously pleased smile spreads across your face. Adulting: achieved.
Before you can even call out, Sohyun appears from her room. She’s wearing comfy lounge pants and one of your old band t-shirts that’s way too big on her, hair pulled back loosely, face free of makeup. She stops when she sees you, sees the bags, sees the time. A slow, soft smile lights up her face—the real kind, the one that reaches her eyes and makes your heart do a stupid little flip. She walks towards you, and without a word, stands on her tiptoes and presses a sweet, welcoming kiss to your lips.
"Hey," she murmurs against your mouth. "You're home early."
"Made sure of it," you reply, kissing her back gently before setting the groceries down on the counter. "Got everything on the list. Even the fancy mushrooms."
"Ooh, fancy mushrooms," she teases, peering into the bags. "Feeling ambitious tonight?"
"Tonight," you declare, pulling out flour, yeast, cheese, and various toppings, "we are making pizza. From scratch. Together."
Sohyun raises an skeptical eyebrow, leaning against the counter with her arms crossed, but the fondness in her eyes gives her away. "Oh really? We are making pizza? Or I am making pizza while you try not to set the oven on fire or mistake salt for sugar again?"
You laugh, feigning offense. "Hey! I've improved. Slightly. Maybe." You grin at her. "Okay, fine. You'll be teaching me. But we're doing it together."
And so you do. You measure flour (incorrectly at first, earning a playful swat from Sohyun), knead dough (getting more on your shirt than in the bowl), chop vegetables (under her extremely close and critical supervision), and grate cheese. She patiently guides you, corrects your technique with gentle touches and exasperated sighs that don't quite hide her amusement.
There's teasing, there's flour dusted on noses, there's comfortable silence punctuated by easy chatter. It’s chaotic and messy and absolutely perfect. Gone is the sharp-edged tension that used to simmer beneath the surface, replaced by an open affection, a shared warmth that fills the small kitchen. As you slide the misshapen but lovingly topped pizzas into the oven, Sohyun wraps her arms around your waist from behind, resting her cheek against your back. You lean back into her embrace, covering her hands with yours.
"This is nice," she murmurs.
"Yeah," you agree, turning your head slightly to kiss the top of hers. "Yeah, it really is."
You eat on the couch later, cross-legged, sharing slices of slightly burnt but delicious pizza, watching some dumb movie you'll both forget by morning. Her head rests on your shoulder, your arm draped comfortably around her, fingers idly playing with a loose strand of her hair. It feels easy. Right. Like all the broken pieces, the misunderstandings, the years of unspoken feelings, have finally clicked into place, settling into this quiet, comfortable harmony. No more secrets, no more fear, no more wondering. Just this. Just you and her, finally, simply, being together. It’s not a dramatic fireworks finale, but a soft, warm glow settling over everything, promising quiet mornings and shared dinners and the simple, profound comfort of knowing you’re finally home.
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