#so the first one i’m back to is so kind

[icarusignite]

he leaves you out like a penny in the rain (p.3)

Pairing: Zayne Li x Non MC Reader

Summary: You spent years orbiting Dr. Zayne Li, but when a careless comment shatters the fragile bond you thought you’d built, you walk away. Only then does Zayne realize what he's lost.

Warnings: FLUFFFF. Zayne being a simp. A man who yearns is a man who EARNS!

Word Count: 5.7k

Disclaimer: Also, to all the lovely folks in medicine finding this, I am not a medical professional yall, so plz ignore any errors lmao.

A/N: Huzzah, last part! I just want to thank everyone who interacted with the last two parts. I loved reading every comment and reaction. I hope you liked how I wrapped it up. 

I will be doing lads x non-mc reader fics for all the boys, so lemme know if you wanna be tagged for those, and who you'd like next <3

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | AO3

It had been months since the fallout with Zayne. Months of cold silences gradually warming, and old wounds scabbing over with routine kindnesses. He had chipped away at your anger with persistent thoughtfulness, but you were no fool. Whatever had cracked between you had re-formed into something more… professional. Friendly, at best.

And that was fine. You weren’t delusional enough to believe in fairytales. You took his gestures for what they were: The generosity of a colleague. Nothing more, nothing less. 

Regardless, the cardiology interns didn’t deserve to suffer the effects of your grudge any longer. You hadn’t stepped foot on their floor in months, and poor Dr. Greyson had taken to dramatically moping around in your office every other morning, as if his soul were leaving his body due to “muffin deprivation.”

So today, in a rare act of mercy, you stopped by the bakery across the street and picked up a basket of assorted treats, carefully chosen according to the spreadsheet you kept tucked away in your phone, listing every known allergy, aversion, and guilty pleasure of the hospital staff. Maybe it was ridiculous, but it mattered to you. People should be known and remembered.

You arrived at the cardiology nurses' station just as the lunch lull set in, and Nurse Yvonne spotted you first, her entire face lighting up. 

“Guess who’s back?” she announced, looking at you like you were some benevolent snack deity.

You were nearly tackled by a flurry of white coats and clipboard-toting chaos as all nearby interns surged toward you. You waved them off and laid out the spread carefully. 

“Oh my god—!”

“No way—!”

“Dr. Muffin! You live!”

“She returns!”

You grin at their greetings, feeling warmth spread through you. “Plenty available, worry not. Everyone gets one. Except Brian. You get half until you finish your progress notes." 

The intern, Brian, groaned. “I would’ve stayed home today if I knew I was going to be picked on.”

“Then you would’ve missed lemon poppy seed,” you remarked, handing him his with a raised brow. “And I know for a fact you love lemon poppy seed. Don’t lie to me, I have the receipts.”

“Okay, stalker,” he muttered fondly. “Thanks, Doc.”

“Maple walnut for Freya, blueberry crumble for Theo,” you continued, handing them out like a fairy godmother in scrubs. “No nuts for Amara. And yes, Liz, I remembered the vegan chocolate one for you.”

You looked up to see wide eyes, crinkled noses from grinning too hard, and a chorus of thank-yous that made your chest ache familiarly.

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t the sugar fairy.” Dr. Greyson was watching the spectacle with great interest. “Took you long enough. We’ve been surviving on vending machine despair and broken dreams.”

You snorted. “Sounds like your interns could’ve used a better attending.”

“I tried feeding them,” he promised solemnly. “But someone replaced my protein bars with ketchup packets and a single stick of gum.”

“Brian,” three interns chorused in unison.

Brian held up his hands. “Not me!”

Greyson shook his head in mock sadness. “Anyway. I’m filing a formal complaint with HR. You vanished for months, and morale plummeted. You owe us seven months’ worth of baked goods and emotional support.”

“Oh, please, you just missed having someone to complain to.”

“That too.”

The mood was buzzing with laughter and stolen bites, and even though you’d told yourself you were done chasing after external validation, you realized you enjoyed this feeling of being welcome and a part of something.

You were so engrossed with the enthusiasm around you, you didn’t even notice the subtle glance one intern threw toward the glass corridor behind you.

Zayne wasn’t expecting the commotion outside his office. Such sporadic bursts of conversation weren’t exactly uncommon at this hour, but what made him pause wasn’t the noise. It was the scent.

Vanilla, with just the faintest hint of cinnamon and sugar. It tugged a thread in his memory.

He stepped out of his office, expression impassive as always, until he saw you standing at the nurses' station, laughing. 

Actually laughing.

Your head was tilted back, your hair catching the light as your lips curved in a grin he hadn’t seen in months. You were flanked by your two interns, Clara and Nam, both helping you manage the leftover baked goods, but all Zayne could see was you. Your smile settled something in his chest, and completely upended something else. Something that somersaulted in the hollow beneath his ribs.

He cleared his throat, and the sound was enough to make everyone freeze like they’d been caught stealing vials from the laboratory.

"Do I get one?" he asked, deadpan.

A sudden shift fell over the group. Interns brushed crumbs off their coats, straightened their backs like soldiers standing to attention. But you just looked at him with a teasing grin. 

“Of course." You held up a brown paper bag. "Can’t have our head surgeon deprived of his sugar fix.”

Zayne stepped forward as you handed it over, and when your fingers inevitably brushed his, he swore his heart skipped a beat. Perhaps he ought to get himself checked for arrhythmia. 

“What is it?” he asked, busying himself with his treat to avoid looking at you.

“Something new. Thought you might want to try.”

Before he could respond, one of the cardiology interns—Brian, if he remembered correctly—let out a wistful sigh and groaned through a mouthful of muffin.

“I’d marry you for these,” he mumbled, eyes rolling skyward. “Just say the word, Doc.”

The entire station burst into raucous laughter. Except Zayne.

Clara and Nam stepped in front of you like bodyguards, crossing their arms with theatrical flair.

“As if you could keep up with our magnificent doctor,” Clara jeered. 

“Yeah,” Nam chimed in. “She wouldn't marry a guy who still confuses systole and diastole.”

“It was one time!” Brian protested.

The bickering rose in volume, but Zayne’s eyes stayed on you. He didn’t miss the way you humoured their teasing, or how your eyes flickered toward him briefly, unreadable. If it were anyone else, they would have shut down the jibes already, but the interns were comfortable enough to joke around with you because you treated them like friends, not your underlings. 

“C’mon, Doc,” someone teased. “You are married, right?”

“Ha,” Clara cut in with a smirk. “She’s practically married to her job, so the rest of you better get in line. Her attention is already spoken for.”

“Oh,” Brian piped up. “So like Dr. Li.”

A hush fell over the group—half amused, half awkward. 

Zayne didn’t move, but he raised a brow, appraising the young man carefully. “Is that supposed to be a joke?”

Brian flushed. “Uh—no, I just meant like you know. She's dedicated. Married to the work. Like you.”

You snickered, diffusing the tension by tossing Brian a napkin. “Relax, you’re not the first person to make that comparison.”

Not knowing what else to do, Zayne took a small bite from the pastry you’d given him. A mild citrus glaze hit his tongue. It was not something he would’ve chosen, but it was surprisingly pleasant, and he wondered how many more things he didn’t even know he liked until you handed them to him.

Brian, likely in a desperate attempt to redeem himself, addressed you again. “I mean, it makes sense, right? You and Dr. Li. Two of the most overworked doctors in this hospital. Same brutal hours. Same merciless expressions when someone makes a dumb mistake—”

“—same self-destructive perfectionism,” Clara added, looking between you and Zayne like she was connecting yarn on a conspiracy board.

Nam grinned. “Same tendency to pretend they don’t need sleep.”

“Same inability to remember where they left their coffee, or who took it.”

You rolled your eyes at that. “That was one time, Clara.”

Zayne shook his head. “Twice, actually.”

You turned your glare to him, but then, right on cue, Dr. Greyson interrupted. 

“I must say, it's awfully nice of you to rejoin us, Doc. I was starting to think Dr. Li scared you off for good.”

Zayne’s eyes narrowed. “That’s not—”

“Don’t worry,” Greyson cut in again. “We all know his effect on most people. It’s a miracle you still visit our floor at all.”

“Pretty sure it’s the interns she visits,” Nam pointed out.

“Obviously,” Brian agreed. “We’re the fun ones.”

Just then, Nam leaned in conspiratorially. “Alright, alright, before we let you get back to work, we need to know some important stats. How well do you know each other? You know, good colleagues who work together must know each other's habits to function cohesively.”

You frowned. "Nam, what are you even saying?"

Clara clapped her hands together. “Yes, excellent idea! Rapid-fire round. Dr. Li, what's her favourite late-night snack? Go.”

You opened your mouth to tell her that there was no way he'd know that, but Zayne responded before you could. “Subpar takeout from the establishment down the street.”

You pursed your lips sullenly. “You don't have to emphasize the word subpar.”

He gave you a blank look. “You get the same thing every time you're on-call. Even when you should be prioritizing nutrition over price.”

"I am supporting a small business! That is significantly more important."

Meanwhile, Brian pointed between the two of you with a dramatic gasp. “You watch what she eats?”

Zayne didn’t respond, but the twitch in his jaw suggested he realized he’d walked right into that one.

“You never notice what the rest of us eat, Dr. Li.” 

“I’m not responsible for your questionable caffeine intake, Brian,” Zayne replied.

“Okay, okay,” Clara said, grinning. “Next one. Worst habit?”

You smirked. “Dr. Li hoards pens. A concerning number of them. Once I borrowed one and he acted like I’d stolen a kidney.”

“They were organized,” the man grimaced. “You put them back in the wrong slot.”

Brian sniggered. “So you’re saying he’s a pen goblin. That’s fine. What about you, Doc?”

Zayne answered for you this time. “She volunteers for too many shifts. Even when she’s dead on her feet.”

The teasing paused for a beat. You glanced at him, surprised by the concern in his voice.

“That’s not technically a bad habit, Dr. Li,” Clara argued.

“It is, if it means she runs herself into the ground.”

Brian cleared his throat loudly before it could get awkward again. “So… you both don’t sleep. Great foundation. Now, last one. Dream vacation spot. Go.”

You both hesitated, then, spoke at the same time. “Somewhere quiet.”

Clara leaned into Nam and whispered audibly, “Okay, but if they don’t already live together, I’ll eat my stethoscope.”

Greyson, who had been observing everything with the satisfaction of a man watching a very slow car crash, finally interjected. “God, you two really are like a divorced couple who never filed the paperwork.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Alright, Dr. Greyson, if you're done assembling your case file for imaginary conspiracy theories, I'm going to go steal some gloves from your supply closet.”

Zayne glanced at you. “Out of gloves again?”

"You know how it is." You shrugged. "Kids love getting things sticky. Paint, glitter, jam, bodily fluids. It’s a fun surprise every time I enter a room.”

Nam made a face. “Why would you say jam and bodily fluids in the same sentence?”

“Because it’s true." Clara nodded sagely. “We’ve seen things. Sticky things.”

“And suddenly, I’m not hungry anymore.” Brian set his muffin down.

“You’ll get over it,” you said dryly. “It’s your favourite.”

Zayne, meanwhile, looked faintly amused in that imperceptible way of his. His eyes softened, and the edge of his mouth twitched. “I’ll have a box sent over this afternoon. You don't have to raid Greyson's supply.”

That earned a round of wiggling eyebrows and mischievous looks, but the two of you chose to ignore them. 

“I’m going back to work, as should the rest of you,” Zayne said curtly, turning on his heel and walking off, but you swore the tips of his ears had turned an endearing shade of crimson.

After that day, the interns of your two departments formed a coalition of sorts, although you weren't sure what their end goal was. 

It started subtly at first.

Whenever a shared consult with cardiology came up, Nam would look at the patient chart, let out a theatrical sigh, and say, “Oh no, I’ve just remembered I’m needed in the NICU,” before fleeing with such urgency you didn’t have the heart to stop him.

“Guess I’ll have to deliver the updates myself,” you’d declare, trudging reluctantly toward Zayne's office. Enough time had passed that you weren't avoiding him like the plague anymore, and you had fallen back into a friendly routine of bringing him his favourite macarons while he brought you whatever stationery you were currently in short supply of. 

The good doctor himself never looked surprised to see you, but then again, he never looked anything. Except when your hand accidentally brushed his while handing over a file, and he watched you like he was trying to solve a complex equation. One he didn’t yet have the formula for.

After that, the interns got bolder.

You once spotted Clara scribbling something into a notebook, and when you asked what she was doing, she yelped and slammed the book shut, claiming it was just her clinical notes. But you could have sworn you saw the words accidental hand touch: 2 points?

It only escalated from there.

Your coffee order was mysteriously doubled every morning as well. Whenever you’d go to pick up your usual, you'd find two drinks waiting, one marked with your name, the other with Zayne’s initials, forcing you to drop by his office. 

On rare free afternoons, when you went to the cafeteria to grab a quick bite between shifts, you would often find your regular table occupied by whichever interns were available at the time, and most surprising of all, Zayne. And every time, there was only ever one empty seat between him and the wall. 

You could have probably just taken lunch in your office, but you were curious as to what the interns were trying to accomplish, so you played along. Besides, if it got Zayne out of his office and actually eating on time, who were you to complain? 

One evening, you and Zayne were reviewing overlapping patient files in the cardiology break room when a slow song suddenly started playing from someone’s phone left on the table. The music was loud and awkward, and you promptly burst out laughing. 

“Is that… is that Careless Whisper?”

Zayne looked irritated, especially when a chorus of muffled giggles could be heard from the hallway beyond the slightly ajar door. 

You sighed. “We should probably put a stop to their antics soon?”

"Probably," Zayne agreed, pointing to the whiteboard behind him. "Have you seen Brian's latest artistic endeavour?"

You had to choke back another undignified sound when you saw the exceptionally detailed doodle of a heart monitor graph with exaggerated spikes. The words underneath spelled out your name along with Zayne's. 

"There's a spreadsheet too, apparently."

You nearly fell out of your chair. "There's a what?"

Zayne slid his laptop over to you, showing you an elaborately set-up document titled Dr. Li's Compatibility Study: Ongoing Observational Data, with columns labelled “Shared Preferences,” “Mutual Glances,” and “Chemistry–Debatable.”

"Why do you have access to it?"

"It was shared accidentally, I am told."

Your mouth dropped open as you examined it further. “They’ve graphed it.”

"The Pearson correlation coefficient is impressive.”

You buried your face in your hands. “I’m going to kill them.”

“You’ll have to take a number."

However, he didn’t seem as annoyed as you’d expected. In fact, someone with his disposition would have shut down the little project a long time ago, and it was almost as if he was letting it continue on purpose. You told yourself not to read into it too much. Perhaps he, too, was amused by their antics and wanted to see what their end goal was. 

And the next day, you caught him deliberately slowing his steps when he saw you walking into the hospital courtyard, matching your stride like it was muscle memory. He didn’t say much, but he didn’t have to. Not when Nam, Clara, and Brian were watching from the second-story windows with binoculars and wildly jotting into their notebook.

It all came to a startling conclusion the following week.

It began innocently enough, almost too innocently, in retrospect.

First, Clara asked to borrow your pager in the morning, drumming her fingers on your desk with a perfectly casual smile. “Mine’s been glitching all day. I want to compare the alerts side by side.”

You barely looked up from the patient charts you were reviewing. “Sure,” you allowed, sliding it toward her. “Just bring it back in a few minutes.”

She chirped an “Of course!” and breezed out the door.

You didn’t think much of it after that. You had rounds, consults, a half-eaten granola bar and a cold coffee to finish before midnight. A typical day.

It wasn’t until mid-afternoon that Nam groaned from the nurse’s station, holding his lower back like an actor in a bad soap opera. “I think I’ve aged three decades today,” he groaned. “Doc, could you grab more bandages from the supply closet? I’ll owe you my life.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Wasn’t that your assignment?”

“Alas, I am but a shell of a man,” he moaned. "I can barely move, let alone brave through that maze of dust bunnies."

“Fine,” you muttered, taking pity. “But only because I don’t want you fainting from sheer dramatics.”

That was mistake number two.

You made your way to the old supply closet near your office, the one you loathed. It was narrow like a crawl space, shelves stacked dangerously high, and perpetually dim because no one ever fixed the overhead bulb. You’d sent several maintenance requests, but never received a response.

You pulled out your phone, switched on the flashlight, and carefully picked your way through the tunnel of medical chaos. And there it was, balanced idiotically on the top shelf like it was mocking you. You glowered up at the box of bandages, already placing your foot on the bottom-most shelf to use it as a stepping stool, dignity be damned. You were not in the mood to hunt down a ladder. 

Just as you had hoisted yourself up a considerable distance, you heard footsteps outside. You turned your head sharply, opening your mouth to warn whoever was approaching. “Careful! Don’t let the—”

But your warning came too late.

The door swung open, and Zayne Li stepped inside. His shoe landed squarely against the cardboard box you’d wedged in the frame to keep the old door ajar, kicking it clean out of place. You watched in dismay as the door swung shut behind him with finality. 

“Noooo—”

Zayne blinked. “What’s wrong?”

You groaned, smacking your forehead lightly against the metal shelf. “That door is always getting jammed. And you just kicked away our only means of escape.”

Your intruder regarded the discarded cardboard box with an expression of mild guilt. “Oh… I am sorry.”

The space was dim and dusty, lit only by your phone on a nearby shelf, casting eerie shadows on the walls. Zayne’s face, half-illuminated, looked too serene for someone who had just ruined your day.

“Why are you even here, Dr. Li?”

The man held up his pager. “Weren’t you the one who called for me?”

You narrowed your eyes. “Why would I ask to meet you in a closet?”

“Who am I to question your cryptic summons? You said it was urgent.”

“I don’t even have my pager on me—" you interrupted yourself with a grunt, "—CLARA!”

“...Ah.”

You groaned again, your head thunking against the shelf with more feeling this time. “I knew something was off when she asked to borrow it. I should’ve known she was up to something. I can’t believe I’ve been outwitted by an intern.”

“They’ve grown bold. Greyson found a tally sheet on one of their clipboards last week. I believe there are betting brackets involved.”

“Of course, there are.”

Then Zayne squinted up at you, as if just realizing your precarious position. “Why are you climbing the shelves?”

“Because I hate my life, obviously."

“That’s an occupational hazard. You should probably get down.”

You cast a look down at the narrow space between you. You would definitely have to descend directly into his personal space. Like… very personal. Chest-to-chest proximity.

You gave a forced little laugh. “Maybe, uh… maybe I’ll just stay up here and call for help. Pass me my phone, please.”

Zayne rolled his eyes. “You are being dramatic. You can’t possibly make a coherent phone call while perched up there."

"It is surprisingly comfortable up here, actually," you countered.

"Let me help. I can't simply stand by and watch a colleague twist an ankle.” He moved toward you, standing in front of the shelf with his hands raised like he was expecting you to faint into his arms. 

“Are you seriously going to spot me like I’m a toddler on monkey bars, Dr. Li?”

“You’re the one climbing a shelf. The metaphor makes itself.”

You glared down at him. “Do not drop me.”

“I never drop the things I value.”

His voice was too serious, and your pulse quickened at the insinuation behind it. But you shook the delusional notion out of your head as soon as it entered. No, he was simply just being a helpful coworker. 

“That was almost too poetic," you teased. "Are you sure Dr. Greyson didn’t write that line for you?”

He let out a huff. “Come down, Doctor. Please.”

With a sigh, you acquiesced, placing your foot on the shelf below the one you were on. Then, for one distressing second, you slipped, but Zayne was at your side instantly, one hand at your waist, and the other catching your flailing one as you stumbled.

Your heart stuttered.

“See? I told you it was a hazard." Zayne's voice was hoarse despite the forced levity. 

You swallowed thickly as he helped you all the way down, hyper aware of the minimal space between you now. His hand hadn’t moved from your waist, even after both your feet were firmly on the ground, and your faces were far too close. 

You wondered if you imagined the subtle shift in his chest, the faintest hitch in his breathing. His jaw was clenched, his brows furrowed, and his usually unreadable expression seemed almost unsettled.

Was it discomfort? Frustration? You couldn't be sure, and that uncertainty made you uneasy.

You took a slow, calming breath and offered a placid smile, the kind you wore when trying to diffuse tense parents or scared patients. But strangely, it seemed to make matters worse. Zayne’s gaze only darkened, his mouth tightening like he’d eaten something sour. Yet he still didn’t move, or let you go.

You cleared your throat. “I’ll just go ahead and make that call now.”

When you reached toward your phone, his hand shot out and wrapped around your wrist before you could touch it.

You froze. "…Dr. Li?”

His name came out quieter than you meant, the intensity of his grip startling you. It wasn't painful, just firm. You couldn't decide if he was trying to anchor you or himself. 

You watched his throat bob, his eyes darting across your face like he was searching for something.

“Is it really…” he faltered. “Does it not bother you?”

His breath ghosted over your cheek, and you instinctively craned your head backward, trying to give him space, unwilling to make him uncomfortable. It took you a moment to register what he meant, but then, realization flickered behind your eyes.

“Ah… The interns and their jokes? No… it doesn’t really bother me. I mean, medicine is a gruelling field. If they find little ways to have fun, even if it’s at my expense, well…” You shrugged. “I suppose it doesn’t really mean anything, does it? All in good fun.”

You tried to keep your tone light, like none of it affected you. Like the implication that you and Zayne could be anything beyond colleagues didn’t sit heavy and half-formed in your heart each time someone said it aloud. If you turned it into a joke, then it wouldn't hurt as much when everyone else did too. If you pretended it didn't matter, then it didn't. 

When Zayne didn't respond, you winced at your own thoughtlessness. Of course, it irritated him. He wasn't the type to put up with such jokes. Maybe he loathed the idea of being with you in any capacity beyond a fellow staff member. Maybe he was just waiting for you to put a stop to it. 

“I'm sorry," you apologized. “I didn’t realize it bothered you so much. I’ll tell them to stop if you like. I’m sure I can convince them to set their sights on Dr. Greyson and that radiologist he’s been pining after all year instead.” 

You chuckled nervously at the end. A peace offering.

But Zayne didn’t return the gesture. He didn’t even blink. His fingers were still curled around your wrist, and the look in his eyes wasn’t one of amusement.

It was something else entirely.

 "All in good fun," you’d said.

Zayne nearly laughed aloud, except nothing about this felt remotely funny. Not when the only thing separating the two of you was his own desperate willpower. Not when he could feel the heat of your skin beneath his ice-cold palm, and your pulse fluttering wildly under his fingers.

Good fun—was that truly all it had been to you?

Because to him, it had been torment. Every single joke the interns cracked, every knowing glance and coincidental moment engineered to bring the two of you closer had driven Zayne to the edge. At first, he thought he could ignore it, like he did every other distraction in life. He was good at ignoring things and bottling up what shouldn't be felt.

But then came the little things. The way you brought him his morning coffee and favourite macarons every week. The way he had begun to anticipate your presence in his department. And worst of all, you'd laughed through it all. Every ridiculous setup, offhand comment about your compatibility, or synchronized schedules, or some other nonsense—you laughed. 

You smiled as though none of it mattered. As though he didn’t matter.

Meanwhile, he’d spent the past week like a man walking a tightrope over a fire, the heat rising, the air thinning, and the fall inevitable. All while you watched from the sidelines, unaware that his heart was blistering.

And now, here you stood, telling him it didn’t mean anything.

Zayne’s hand tightened slightly on your waist, grounding himself. Your flashlight, perched a few feet away, cast the softest glow upward, catching on your lips, your lashes, and the curve of your cheek.

It was unbearable.

He wanted—no, he needed—to kiss you. To cup your cheek, press his forehead to yours, and tell you how maddeningly bright you made his life. How much he thought about you when you weren’t there. How much he missed your stupid stickers and the smell of your shampoo when you leaned over his desk. And your eyes—gods, your eyes. He could drown in them.

Zayne had always prided himself on control. His life was a sequence of precision and calculation. He had no room for chaos.

But you were chaos. Beautiful, compassionate, infuriating chaos. 

You were the only variable he hadn’t planned for. The only person who could walk into a room and make his carefully built world tilt on its axis. And now you were looking at him with that sheepish expression and apologizing for a joke he would spend the rest of his life chasing the hope of.

How could you stand here, just inches from his mouth, and smile, and ask if he was the one who was bothered? How could you say none of it mattered when he was unravelling, just trying not to tell you he’d been in love with you longer than he’d even allowed himself to realize?

“Because of you, everything is spiralling out of control…” he managed to utter. “How can you pretend you’re not affected?”

Your heart thundered against your ribs, but your eyes were resolutely focused on some point behind his head. “I’m not sure what you mean, Dr. Li.”

Zayne let out a strangled noise of frustration. “I don’t know how much clearer I can make it for you.”

You scowled then, irritation lacing your words. “I suppose you’ll have to spell it out for me. I’m not in the practice of assuming other people’s feelings for them. You can imagine how messy it could get if I infer wrong.”

The silence between you was razor-sharp. Then, Zayne leaned impossibly closer, one hand braced on the shelf behind your head, the other still on your waist.

“Then perhaps I will spell it out for you."

"Best that you do."

He scoffed at that. You were aggravating as always. 

“I think about you constantly," he confessed. "When you’re not there, I look for you. I find myself listening for your voice in every room you do not occupy. I have the sound of your footsteps memorized. Every time someone mentions your name, I can’t help turning my head like a fool. And when you stopped coming around… it felt like someone had taken a scalpel to my lungs.”

He met your stunned gaze head-on, eyes so raw with sincerity you forgot how to breathe.

"You were brilliant back in medical school. You are brilliant now. And I’ve been in awe of you from the moment I met you."

Your mouth opened and closed like a fish pulled out of the water, and all you could give him was a hushed, "Oh."

"You do not need to give me a response, or even return the sentiment," he added hesitantly. "I just needed you to know. I didn’t think I had the right to want someone as exceptional as you, but I do care for you. Deeply. More than I’ve ever known how to say."

Your response was not what he expected. “…Are you feeling alright, Dr. Li?”

He scrutinized you, trying to assess whether you'd gone mad or were mocking him. “Why would I say all of that if I wasn’t?”

“I don’t know. Maybe you’ve come down with a fever. Or had a lapse in judgment. I just—” You paused, your throat tight. “Zayne… are you being serious right now?”

He didn’t flinch when you dropped the formalities. If anything, it made him soften, and he reached up to brush a stray strand of hair from your cheek. “I have never been more serious about anything in my life.”

"Oh."

“I know I said terrible things," he continued, almost desperately. "I know I hurt you. And I will regret it for the rest of my life. But none of that was a reflection of your abilities. It was my own incompetence talking, and my inability to handle things."

You stared at him, wide-eyed, and all the pieces of the past few months—his clumsy efforts, the apologies, the devout offerings—slotted into place with a painful clarity.

But still, your heart throbbed with old bruises. “You made me think I meant nothing to you.”

“I know.” Shame rippled across his face. “And I hate that I did. But you’ve meant something to me for a long time. I just never had the courage to say it, and for that, I will always be sorry.”

You pressed your lips together, trying not to cry, but your ribs ached with the effort.

“I missed you,” you finally whispered. “So much. I thought we were at least friends, and then you went and...”

That was all it took for the tension between you to shift, something tender taking its place. His hand was still resting lightly against your cheek, and his thumb brushed beneath your eye, as if prepared to catch a tear before it could fall. 

“You don’t have to forgive me. I’ll wait as long as you need me to.”

You looked at him for a long moment before dropping your forehead to rest against his shoulder, avoiding his gaze. “I’m still mad at you.”

“I’d be worried if you weren’t,” he murmured, a wry smile tugging at his lips.

You closed your eyes, enveloped in the scent of him—clean and sharp, like antiseptic and pine and something vaguely citrus. You inhaled it like it might tether you to reality, though part of you wasn’t entirely sure you wanted to stay grounded. This couldn’t possibly be real.

It felt too surreal. His hands steady at your waist, the hushed heat of his breath against your skin, the look in his eyes like you were something precious he was finally allowing himself to reach for. You weren’t sure what to think.

Maybe you were dreaming. After all, how many times had you imagined something like this during med school? Embarrassing little daydreams you'd never dared to speak aloud. You were just a giddy, overworked student back then, half in awe, half in love with the smartest boy in your class. The boy who let you sit beside him during study sessions, and always remembered your coffee order. 

So what were the odds that you’d end up here? In a tiny supply closet, no less. Whispered confessions. Flushed cheeks. Breathless tension. This was either your most vivid delusion yet or...

You pinched his arm

Zayne hummed in response, sounding offended. “Why’d you do that?”

“I’m checking to see if you’re real.” You blinked up at him, dazed. “If this is all real.”

“Don’t people usually pinch themselves in those situations?”

“I suppose… but this seemed more reasonable.”

A fond chuckle escaped him, and it warmed the air between you like sunlight bleeding through storm clouds. “Feel free to report me to HR after all this, if you wish," he stated eventually. 

There was a beat of silence before, to his surprise, you giggled. 

“Is that truly what you think I would do?"

"Wouldn't you?"

You shook your head, your lips twitching. "You're wrong, by the way."

"About what?"

"When you said I wasn't affected. You were wrong."

"Oh."

It was Zayne's turn to look bewildered at your revelation, the realization dawning that maybe you had been teetering close to the very same edge he'd been trying to rein himself back from. 

“You’re staring again,” you pointed out after several moments, half-teasing, but far too gentle for the joke to land.

Zayne didn’t waver. “I’ve wasted enough time not doing it.”

That made your mind fuzzy again, and you felt your throat grow dry. It was suddenly too hot in this cramped space, and there was only enough light for you to see the tension in his jaw. Then he shifted, close enough for his nose to brush yours, but still giving you every opportunity to pull away.

You didn’t.

When he uttered your name, it was a confession on his tongue. 

“Would it be… completely inappropriate if I kissed you now?”

The question nearly broke you, because in all your aching, sleepless nights of imagining this moment, you hadn’t once pictured him asking so gently.

You didn’t answer with words, instead closing the sliver of distance and kissing him.

It was tentative at first. Your fingers found the front of his coat, and his trembled where they cradled your jaw. But then he exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for years. 

He kissed you like he was making up for every second he hadn’t, like he, too, couldn’t quite believe this wasn’t a dream.

When he reluctantly pulled back, his voice was a low rasp. “…Was that alright?”

“You’re about several years late, Dr. Li.”

His lips twitched. “I’ll work on my timing.”

Hope I didn't miss anyone ❤️

Taglist: @floofycookie @heartandeye @lanxianschoenheit @loverindeepspace @treeteaofversailles @ikesimpleton @mysticcauldronspire @69-gojos-wife-69 @nm4565natty @ciexuvia @jeonjenny @plzdonutpercieveme @sylusgirlie7 @raethewargeneral @staarflowerr @eolivy @straykidslvr @lemurianmaster @preeyas-world @sillyfreakfanparty

@pinksaiyans @boudoirbae @ramenuzumakis @mcdepressed290 @snowshayla @sanzy4 @mentaltrouble2201 @inzayneforaj @coeurdeveea @chiikasevennn @loomslis @yuurisfavblog @wooasecret @dramaticalsachan @dorkus-minimus @inzanekillian @seventeen-x @chaoticunknownarbiter @kaitoshisluv @needsleep3000 @picnicinthegarden @kithyyy @needvbunni

[kenntoria]

tags/warnings ⋆·˚ ༘ * lil smutty at the end, nothing serious, this is very short

nanami did not expect to come home from a fourteen-hour day at work and get tackled.

he’d barely taken off his tie, still in his slacks and dress shirt and blazer, the lines under his eyes heavy with exhaustion — when you pounced on him like a starved jungle cat.

“baby—!” you squeal, arms wrapped around his neck. “you’re home!”

he catches you by pure reflex. sighs. you’re giggling.

“…have you been drinking?”

“mmm… maybe just a little.” you hold up a glass, very full. “wine. it’s fancy. i put a strawberry in it.”

“how cultured of you,” he deadpans.

you beam at him. “you look hot.”

“…i just walked in the door.”

“exactly. and already so sexy. tragic.”

nanami exhales through his nose. “sweetheart, can i at least shower first?”

you blink innocently. “you can, or i can do it for you.”

“…you’re drunk.”

“i’m imaginative.”

“you’re harassing a public servant.”

“you’re not a cop.”

“i’m worse,” he mutters, dropping his briefcase and hauling you into his arms with a quiet grunt. “i work in finance.”

“oh my god,” you gasp dramatically. “that is worse.”

he carries you to the bedroom like you weigh nothing. drops you onto the mattress. you giggle the whole way down.

“you’re so strong,” you say dreamily, propping your chin in your hand. “you know i was watching some old footage of you today? that one from the beach where you got all red and your shirt was unbuttoned? pornographic, honestly.”

his eyebrow twitches. “i got sunburnt.”

“so hot.”

“…you’re ridiculous.”

you grin at him, all teeth, and slowly lie back on the bed like some kind of pin-up poster. legs parted, wine glass held lazily in one hand, silk robe sliding off one shoulder.

nanami stares. you wink.

and the last shred of self-restraint he had after his miserable day disappears completely.

—

“—you’re so bossy after one glass of wine,” he mutters against your throat, voice low and hoarse as he pushes your thighs up around his waist. “silly little thing. letting it go to your head.”

“you like it,” you pant, gripping his shoulders. “you like when i climb you like a tree.”

“maybe,” he growls, sinking deeper into you. “but if you’re going to act like a brat, you’re going to get fucked like one.”

you whimper. he bites your neck.

you try to sass him again and he just puts two fingers in your mouth to shut you up.

“quiet,” he murmurs, watching your lips wrap around them. “you wanted this, didn’t you? wanted me to come home and fuck the wine right out of you.”

you nod, big-eyed and flushed, drool slipping down your chin.

he laughs softly. kisses you hard.

and by the time he’s done with you — glass long forgotten, sheets a mess, your legs shaking around his waist — he decides maybe one glass of wine isn’t so bad after all.

[jupiterpilgrim]

Find. Watch. Change

Tzuyu x Minnie x Shuhua x Soyeon x Miyeon x Yuqi x male reader

word count: 15K

commissioned fic

The last of the big stuff is finally off the truck, thank fuck. Your back aches, a dull throb that’s settled deep in your lumbar, and your t-shirt is sticking to you with a film of sweat that’s more city grime than honest exertion. Still, looking around the main room of the new apartment, gives you a jolt of something warm and buzzing, a feeling that almost makes the five-story walk-up worth it. Boxes are stacked everywhere, a cardboard mountain range promising weeks of discovery and the inevitable question of “why the hell did we keep this?” But it’s your mountain range. Yours and Tzuyu’s. You’ve been together three years now. Feels like a lifetime and no time at all. This move, though, this is the big one. Trading two cramped studios for this slightly-less-cramped three-bedrooms feels like planting a flag. The beginning of something new and very promising.

You drop a heavy box labeled kitchen - essentials onto the already burdened countertop.

“Right,” you pant, wiping a forearm across your forehead. “Fridge is looking seriously fucking depressing. Like, post-apocalyptic barren. I’m gonna make a quick run to that market we passed on the corner, grab some actual food so we don’t starve on our first night.”

Tzuyu wanders in from what will eventually be the bedroom, a smudge of dust on her cheek and her dark hair pulled back loosely, wisps escaping to frame that face you still can’t quite believe is yours to wake up to. She’s in a pair of those ridiculously short denim shorts that show off the insane length of her legs; legs that are leanly muscled, sculpted perfection from years of unconscious grace rather than any dedicated gym routine, and a loose, faded band t-shirt you vaguely recognize as one of yours that she’s long since claimed.

Her feet are bare, toes wiggling on the unfamiliar wooden floor. Even covered in a fine layer of moving-day dust, she’s fucking radiant. That tall, elegant frame, the gentle curve of her hips under the denim, the subtle swell of her small, firm breasts beneath the soft cotton. She’s all effortless beauty, that rare kind that doesn’t even seem aware of its own power, her slim waist tapering elegantly, her shoulders delicate. Her eyes, those famously large, expressive pools of dark chocolate, find yours and she offers a small, tired smile.

“You sure? I can come with, if you want.”

“Nah, you look like you’re about to conquer Box Mountain single-handedly. Stay, get a head start if you’ve got the energy. I’ll be quick. Promise.” You step towards her, cupping her cheek, thumbing away the smudge of dust. Her skin is so soft. Always.

She leans into your touch, a little sigh escaping her. “Okay. Don’t be too long. And get ice cream. The good kind.”

“Wouldn’t dream of anything less.” You lean down and kiss her, a proper one, lingering just enough to feel the soft press of her lips. “Love you,” you murmur against her mouth.

“Love you too,” she whispers back, a genuine warmth in her eyes that makes all the sweat and strained muscles totally worth it. “Be safe.”

With one last squeeze of her hand, you grab your keys and wallet, heading out into the cacophony of the city, leaving her to the quiet hum of impending domesticity.

Tzuyu watches you go, a fond smile lingering on her lips until the heavy thud of the apartment door closing echoes through the sparsely furnished space. Then, with a little sigh that’s more contentment than weariness, she turns back to the cardboard kingdom. A low hum starts in her throat, a vaguely familiar pop song, as she surveys the remaining towers. There’s a lightness in her chest, a bubbly, almost giddy feeling that’s been her constant companion for weeks, ever since you both signed the lease. This apartment, this step, it feels… solid. Real. The future unfolding, bright and full of promise, right here amongst the half-unpacked boxes and the smell of fresh paint.

She’s so ridiculously lucky, she knows it. You, her first real boyfriend, her first everything when it came to the messy, awkward, surprisingly wonderful world of sex, now the man she’s building this life with. It’s the kind of story she used to roll her eyes at in movies, too perfect to be true, yet here she is, living it.

Her hands get busy, slitting tape with a stray utility knife you’d left on a windowsill, pulling out bubble-wrapped treasures and miscellaneous junk. She flattens boxes with a satisfying crunch, the pile of cardboard casualties growing steadily in one corner. Most of the big stuff is out, the furniture roughly in place, but it’s the little things, the bits and pieces that truly make a space a home, that are left. Your shared collection of mismatched mugs, her ever-expanding assortment of skincare products, the truly appalling number of charging cables you both seem to possess. It’s in a box labeled with your scrawled handwriting – JUNK - OFFICE? – that she finds it.

This box is a chaotic miscellany: old notebooks, a few forgotten tech gadgets from bygone eras, chargers for phones you haven’t owned in years. She’s sorting through it, a ruthless glint in her eye as she designates items for the ‘keep’ pile versus the rapidly growing ‘what the fuck is this even for and why did we move it?’ trash bag. Her fingers brush against something small, smooth, and plastic. A flash drive.

She plucks it out from a nest of greyish cables. It’s a simple black rectangle, no branding, a little scuffed around the edges but otherwise looking perfectly functional. She frowns, turning it over in her fingers. She doesn’t remember this one. You’ve got a couple you use for work, but this one isn’t familiar. And she’s actually been meaning to get a new flash drive, something to back up her photos, maybe some important documents now that she’s officially co-habitating and adulting hard. If you just tossed it into this box of forgotten relics, you probably don’t even remember you have it, right? It’s practically abandoned. No harm in seeing if it still works, and if it’s empty… well, finders keepers.

Her laptop is perched on a stack of coffee table books, a temporary command center amidst the chaos. With a little hum of anticipation, she plugs the flash drive into a USB port. The laptop chimes a moment later, a small notification popping up in the corner of the screen: ‘USB Drive (F:) Detected.’ Cool. It still works. She clicks to open the drive, expecting it to be empty, or maybe containing a few old work files you’ve forgotten about. Instead, a window pops up, populated with a surprisingly large number of files and one solitary folder. The folder is just titled ‘VIDEOS.’ Her brow furrows. That’s… a lot of files for a forgotten drive.

A sudden, inexplicable prickle of unease runs down her spine. She glances over her shoulder, a ridiculous gesture given that she’s completely alone, the only sound the distant wail of a siren and the ticking of the old clock she’d just unpacked. You’ll be gone for a bit longer, surely. The market isn’t that close, and you’ll probably get distracted by the bakery section. She’s always been curious, a trait that has gotten her into minor trouble a few times, but mostly just led to interesting discoveries. It’s probably nothing. Old movies you downloaded ages ago? Game captures? Still, the sheer number of files is odd. Hesitantly, her finger hovers over the trackpad, then clicks.

The folder opens, and her breath catches in her throat. Thumbnails. Dozens and dozens of video thumbnails fill the screen, stark and explicit. Her eyes widen, cheeks flushing a sudden, hot crimson. It’s porn. A lot of porn. Orgies, from the looks of several of them, bodies tangled in impossible configurations. Jesus. Okay. Don't panic. People watch porn, she knows that. It’s a thing. You’ve even watched some together, a little awkwardly, mostly ending in giggles and a quick switch to something more… physical. But downloading it? Keeping it? This much? It feels a bit… much. A bit desperate, almost. A wave of something uncomfortable and a tiny, unwelcome flicker of judgment, washes over her. This isn’t like you, the you she knows.

She forces herself to take a steadying breath, about to close the window, to just pretend she never saw this, when her gaze snags on one particular thumbnail near the top. It’s clearer than some of the others, the lighting less murky. A man, his back mostly to the camera, but his profile… Her heart stutters. The line of his jaw, the set of his shoulders… It’s… familiar. Too familiar. Her blood runs cold. No. It can’t be. Her eyes dart to another thumbnail, then another. Her stomach plummets, a sickening, icy freefall. There, in sharper focus, unmistakable. Your face. Your fucking face. Clear as day, looking directly into the camera in one shot, a predatory grin stretching your lips. You’re surrounded by women. Five of them. Naked. All over you. Her mind struggles to process the visual information, the sheer impossibility of it. This isn’t just some random porn you downloaded.

This is you. In the videos. Fucking.

The laptop lid snaps shut with a click that sounds like a gunshot in the sudden, oppressive silence of the apartment. Tzuyu stumbles back, away from the desk, her breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps. Her hand flies to her mouth, stifling a sound that’s half gasp, half sob. It’s not just porn. It’s you. With other women. So many women. Doing… things.

She paces, a caged animal in the small confines of the spare room that’s supposed to be your shared office, her sanctuary for writing. One hand is pressed to her chest, feeling the frantic, panicked thumping of her heart, the other raking through her long, dark hair, pulling it, anything to give purchase to the storm raging inside her. Her mind is a fucking washing machine, thoughts tumbling, crashing, making no sense. You. How? Why? When? Who are they? Did you… did you enjoy it? Do you still… no. Stop. She feels sick. Actually, physically sick, like she’s going to throw up the nothing that’s in her stomach. This has to be a mistake, some colossal, fucked-up misunderstanding. Maybe it’s not even you. People make those deepfake things, right? Videos that look real but aren’t? It has to be that. It has to be.

Her eyes dart to the laptop, then to the flash drive. Just pull it out. Throw it away. Burn it. Pretend this never happened. Easy. Except it’s not easy, because the images are already seared into her brain, vivid and horrifyingly clear. Your face. Your body. She takes a jerky step towards it, fingers outstretched, ready to yank the damn thing free and delete this whole nightmare from existence. But then she hesitates. Her gaze flicks to the bedroom door, a flimsy barrier between her and the rest of the apartment, between this awful secret and the life she thought she was building. If she’s going to… if she’s going to look again, really look, she can’t do it out here.

A strange compulsion, cold and insistent, overrides the panic. Before she can second-guess it, she’s moving. She crosses to the bedroom door, her bare feet silent on the wooden floor, and her thoughts are so jumbled that she just shuts the door, forgetting to lock it. Then, she’s back at the laptop, scooping it up, the flash drive still firmly embedded. She carries it to the bed, her bed, the one you’ll both sleep in tonight, and sinks onto the edge of the mattress. Her hands are trembling so badly she almost drops the damn thing. She sets it on the duvet, takes a shaky breath that does nothing to calm her, and slowly, deliberately, opens the lid again. The screen flares to life, illuminating her pale, drawn face. That folder. ‘VIDEOS.’ It’s still there.

Her finger hovers over the trackpad, a tiny, almost imperceptible tremor running through her arm. Just one. Just to see. To understand. Or maybe just to punish herself further. She doesn’t know anymore. With a final, resigned sigh, she clicks. Not on the same thumbnail as before, but another one, near the top of the list. The media player pops up, a black screen for a heart-stopping second, and then… it plays.

The quality is surprisingly good. Too good. It’s clearly not some grainy, amateur footage. This was filmed properly. And the scene that unfolds makes her blood run cold, then hot, then cold again. You. You’re there, stretched out on what looks like a plush, king-sized bed, propped up on a mountain of pillows, and you’re not alone. Oh god, you are so not alone. Five women. Five stunningly beautiful, completely naked women are artfully arranged around you, on you. And Tzuyu knows them. Her breath catches, a sharp, painful intake of air.

It’s I-DLE. The actual, real-life, chart-topping, world-famous I-DLE. Soyeon, with her fierce eyes, sharp chin, and that aura of absolute command even when she’s wearing nothing but a predatory smirk, her compact, athletic body lean and toned. Miyeon, impossibly gorgeous, her classical features serene even as she’s doing something utterly depraved, her curves softer, more conventionally feminine but no less perfect, her skin like porcelain. A perfect doll. Minnie, her feline eyes heavy-lidded, her slender, willowy frame exuding a languid sensuality. Yuqi, the pocket rocket, radiating bubbly energy even in this context, her deceptively cute face alight with mischief, her body surprisingly curvy and strong. And Shuhua, the ethereal beauty, looking almost shy but with a glint of something knowing in her dark eyes, her pale, slender form like something out of a painting. All of them. Naked. With you.

This isn’t a dream. This is a fucking nightmare. Or some twisted, surreal fantasy brought to life. This must have been from when you worked at Cube, that vague job you’d mentioned, A&R or something. Years ago, before her. But still. I-DLE. The shock of it is a physical blow, knocking the air from her lungs. How was this even possible?

The video seems to be at some sort of beginning. Soyeon is sitting cross-legged near your hip, a queen surveying her domain. She’s talking. “I’m so glad you finally agreed to this, you know,” she says, her gaze flicking over your body, possessive and appraising. “You’re going to be… exceptionally useful for us. Stress relief, as we discussed. And don’t worry,” a slow, dangerous smile spreads across her lips, “you’ll be very, very well rewarded.”

As Soyeon speaks, Miyeon, positioned closer to the foot of the bed, leans forward. Her long, dark hair curtains her face as she reaches out a perfectly manicured hand and slowly, reverently, wraps her fingers around your already hard cock. Tzuyu’s stomach clenches. Miyeon strokes you, her thumb circling the head, her touch agonizingly slow, expert. You let out a low groan, your head falling back against the pillows.

“I think,” you manage to say, “this is going to be fucking amazing.”

Yuqi, kneeling beside Miyeon, lets out an excited little squeal. “Can we start now, Soyeon-unnie? Please? I’ve been waiting all week for this!” Her eyes are practically sparkling as she reaches out, her smaller hands joining Miyeon’s on your shaft. Shuhua, on your other side, quieter but no less eager, mirrors the action, her delicate fingers dancing over your balls, then up the length of you. Three of them, Miyeon, Yuqi, and Shuhua, now focused entirely on your erection, their heads bent in devotion, a tableau of explicit worship.

Meanwhile, Minnie has draped herself along one side of you, her warm, naked body pressing against yours. She’s kissing your neck, her lips hot, her breath tickling your ear as she murmurs something Tzuyu can’t quite make out but that makes you laugh, a deep, unrestrained sound. Soyeon, seemingly satisfied with her pronouncements, shifts, leaning in to press a long, slow kiss to your mouth, a kiss you return with an enthusiasm that makes Tzuyu’s insides twist.

“You’re so fucking hot,” Minnie sighs as she moves to kiss your chest.

“Beyond hot,” Miyeon agrees, voice a little muffled as she takes the head of your cock into her mouth, her tongue immediately getting to work. Yuqi and Shuhua make appreciative noises, their hands still busy, stroking, squeezing.

Tzuyu is horrified. Absolutely, fundamentally horrified. She’s shaking, a fine tremor running through her entire body. She swallows hard, her throat dry and tight. This is… this is too much. It’s obscene. It’s you, the man she loves, the man who was her first, being pleasured by a goddamn K-pop group like some kind of living sex toy. But beneath the horror, beneath the shock and the rising tide of nausea, there’s something else. A strange sensation, coiling low in her belly, a hot, uncomfortable throb that she doesn’t want to acknowledge, doesn’t want to name. Her nipples are hard, aching, pressing insistently against the thin fabric of her t-shirt. She can feel them, pebbles of sensation that send illicit sparks through her.

Her eyes are glued to the screen, watching with a kind of sick fascination as Miyeon sucks you deeper, her cheeks hollowing, Yuqi giggling as she licks a stray drop of precum from your shaft, Shuhua looking up at you through her lashes with an expression of pure adoration. Knowing it’s you there, seeing your face contort with pleasure, hearing your groans… it’s doing something to Tzuyu. Something awful and confusing and undeniably… arousing.

Her own hand, as if with a will of its own, clenches, then unclenches. She squeezes her own breasts, a gasp escaping her lips, the pressure against her hardened nipples sending a jolt straight to her core. The girls continue their ministrations, and Tzuyu’s hand, a traitor to her conscious mind, slides down from her chest, over her flat stomach, down, down, until her fingers find the hem of her shorts and slip beneath, pressing against the warm, damp cotton of her panties, right over her rapidly slicking cunt, her body arching unconsciously into her own touch.

It’s so wrong, so fucked up, but god, the sight of you, her man, being so thoroughly, expertly worshipped… it’s like a drug.

On screen, the I-DLE girls are a whirlwind of activity around your cock. Miyeon finally pulls off with a wet, sucking pop, a string of saliva connecting her lips to the glans. Her face is flushed, eyes glazed. “Oh my god,” she gasps, licking her lips slowly. “Soyeon-unnie, he’s… incredible. It’s so fucking big.”

“Told you,” Soyeon says. She’s shifted, now kneeling beside you, one hand idly stroking your thigh, her sharp eyes missing nothing. “Twenty-two centimeters of pure trouble. And so thick, right?” She gives your thigh a squeeze. “Fits perfectly, doesn’t it, girls?”

“Perfectly!” Yuqi chirps, already taking Miyeon’s place, her mouth closing eagerly over you. She attacks your dick with an almost comical enthusiasm, her small head bobbing vigorously, muffled slurping sounds filling the audio. Shuhua, never far behind, dives for your balls, her tongue darting out to lave them with a reverence that makes Tzuyu’s stomach flip. Minnie, meanwhile, is giggling, leaning over to trail kisses along your abs, her fingers dancing over your nipples.

“He tastes so good,” Shuhua murmurs, her tongue working magic. “Salty, and… mmm, manly.”

“Don’t hog him all down there, Shushu!” Minnie teases, sliding lower. “I want another taste of that giant lollipop too!” She playfully bats Yuqi’s head. “You’re drooling all over it, Yuqi-ah! Share the wealth!”

Yuqi pulls off with a protesting whine, your cock, slick and glistening, springing free. “But it’s so yummy! And it makes such good noises when I suck it hard!” She grins, a string of your combined spit dangling from her chin. “Hear that, oppa? Hear how much we love your amazing dick?”

You let out a strangled groan, your hips bucking weakly off the bed. “Fuck… yes… feels so… holy shit…” Your voice is raw, shredded with pleasure, a sound Tzuyu has heard before, but never like this, never so utterly undone, so publicly exposed. And hearing it now, knowing it’s those famous, beautiful girls wringing those sounds from you, seeing them adore that massive 22cm cock that is, by all rights, hers… it’s a mindfuck of epic proportions. A possessive, almost feral heat floods Tzuyu’s veins, a desperate need to reclaim, to assert, even as her own body betrays her with wave after wave of shameful, delicious sensation. Her fingers work faster, slicker now, chasing a release she both craves and dreads. Soft, almost inaudible moans escape her lips, lost in the louder sounds from the laptop.

“He’s so responsive,” Soyeon observes, a clinical sort of approval in her tone, though her eyes are burning. “Loves having his balls licked, don’t you, big boy?” She reaches down, her fingers deftly finding your perineum, pressing firmly.

Your answer is a choked gasp, your whole body tensing. “God… Soyeon… yes…”

On the screen, the action shifts. You manage to prop yourself up on your elbows, your chest heaving, your eyes glazed but focused. “Okay… fuck… one of you… I need… I need a face to ride. Now.”

Miyeon is instantly scrambling up your body, her eyes alight with a predatory gleam. “Me! Me first, oppa! Please! I’m so fucking wet for you, look!” She spreads her legs slightly, showcasing the glistening sheen between her thighs, her pussy lips plump and slick. “I’m literally drooling for your mouth.”

“Then get the fuck up here,” you growl, lying back flat on the bed, your hands reaching up to grip her hips.

Miyeon needs no further encouragement. She swings a leg over you, positioning herself directly over your face, her movements fluid and practiced. With a delighted sigh, she lowers herself, her wet cunt pressing firmly against your mouth. You groan into her, your tongue immediately darting out. Tzuyu can’t see your face, buried as it is, but she can see Miyeon’s, thrown back in ecstasy, her fingers digging into your shoulders.

“Oh, fuck yes, oppa! Lick it! Lick my clit just like that!” Miyeon gasps, her hips starting to grind against your face. “You have such a good mouth!”

While this is happening, Yuqi, never one to be left out of the action, has straddled your hips, her hands gripping your shoulders for balance. “Don’t forget about me down here!” she says with a playful pout, before expertly guiding your still-throbbing cock to her own sopping entrance. With a little wiggle and a gasp, she slides down onto you, taking your full length with a practiced ease that makes Tzuyu’s breath hitch. “Oh! Yes! So big! You fill me up so perfectly!” Yuqi starts to bounce, her small breasts jiggling, a triumphant grin on her face as she rides you.

The other three girls are not idle. Soyeon has moved to the edge of the bed, her legs spread, one hand disappearing between her thighs, her eyes fixed on the spectacle of Miyeon on your face and Yuqi on your cock. Her expression is intense, focused, a small smile playing on her lips as her own fingers work. Minnie and Shuhua are curled up together near your legs, their arms around each other, their free hands busy. Shuhua is leaning her head on Minnie’s shoulder, her eyes half-closed, her lips parted as she masturbates, while Minnie watches you and Yuqi, her tongue licking her lips, her own fingers a blur against her crotch.

“Fuck, Miyeon, you taste amazing,” your voice comes out, muffled but audible, from beneath her. “So sweet…”

“It’s all for you, oppa!” Miyeon cries out, her rhythm quickening. “I’m gonna come! Oh god, I’m so close!”

“Ride his face harder!” Yuqi shouts, her own pace becoming more frantic. “Make him drink all your cum! He loves it!” She throws her head back, moaning loudly. “Fuck, oppa, you’re so good! You’re stretching my little pussy out so well!”

“Is that what you like, Yuqi-ah?” you grunt, your hips thrusting up to meet hers. “My big cock stretching you out?”

“Yes! Yes! Harder!”

Tzuyu can barely breathe. The flickering images on the laptop screen are a vortex, sucking her deeper into a world of raw, shameless pleasure she never knew existed, a world where you, her boyfriend, her love, are the undeniable, worshipped center. Her fingers are moving tirelessly against her clit, each stroke building an almost unbearable tension, a desperate, aching need that eclipses the shame, the shock, everything but the raw, thudding pulse between her legs. She’s barely aware of her own soft moans, little whimpers and gasps that synchronize with the louder, more performative sounds erupting from the laptop speakers.

She fumbles with the trackpad, her vision slightly blurry, her whole body humming like a live wire. She doesn’t want to see every single permutation, every girl taking her turn, though a dark, possessive part of her registers it – you fucked all of them, you really fucked all of them. It’s too much, too overwhelming. Her finger jumps the video forward, skimming through scenes of tangled limbs, glistening bodies, and your face, sometimes contorted in pleasure, sometimes focused and intense as you drive into one girl or another. She lands somewhere near what feels like an ending, a crescendo. Minnie is on her back, legs wrapped high around your waist, her screams are high-pitched, animalistic, as you hammer into her with a brutal, relentless rhythm.

“Oh, fuck, oppa! Yes! Right there! Don’t stop! I’m gonna… I’m gonna… AHHHH!” Minnie’s voice cracks, her whole body convulsing around you.

Even through the haze of her own arousal, Tzuyu feels a pang of something (jealousy? Awe?) at the sheer intensity of it. And then your voice, deeper, rougher than she’s ever heard it, cuts through Minnie’s fading cries.

“Fuck… I’m close. I’m gonna cum. Get ready!”

Instantly, the atmosphere on screen shifts. The other girls, who had been watching with varying degrees of rapt attention, some still touching themselves, scramble closer.

“Yes, oppa! Cum for us!” Yuqi yells.

“On my face, oppa! Please, on my face!” Miyeon begs, already positioning herself.

“All over us! Give it all to us!” Soyeon commands.

Shuhua just nods eagerly, her gaze fixed on your straining cock.

Tzuyu’s breath catches in her throat, a painful, sharp hitch. A facial. They want you to cum on their faces. It’s a fantasy she’s seen in porn, something that always made a weird, shameful flutter happen low in her belly. You’d even hinted at it once or twice, playfully, asking if she’d ever be curious, but she’d always blushed and changed the subject, too scared, too… vanilla. The thought of your hot cum on her skin, in her hair… it was too much, too messy, too intense. But seeing it now, seeing you about to do it, about to drench these beautiful, famous, eager girls… it messes with her head, big time.

On screen, you pull out of a still-twitching Minnie. Your hand wraps around your own cock, thick and engorged, veins standing out like cords. With your other hand, you unclip the camera from its small tripod, the view suddenly becoming handheld, shakier, more intimate. You pan across the girls, their faces upturned, expectant, mouths slightly open, eyes gleaming. They look like fucking pagan priestesses waiting for their offering.

“Who wants it most?” you growl, your own hand pumping your shaft with long, deliberate strokes.

“Me, baby! Please, me!”

“Give it to me!”

“Don’t make us wait, you bastard!”

“So much, I want so much!”

Their voices blend into a chorus of desperate, needy begging. And then, a small, broken sound joins them, a whispered plea from the shadowed bed in the new apartment. “Please… cum… cum for me too…” Tzuyu whispers, her eyes locked on the screen, her own hips starting to buck against her relentless fingers. She’s lost, completely immersed, her reality an X-rated film starring the man she loves. You, on screen, let out a deep, guttural moan, your knuckles white as you grip your cock, your whole body tensing for release. “Almost… there… fuck…!”

The bedroom door creaks open.

“Hey, babe, guess what? They had that double-chocolate chunk you like, so I grabbed… a… few…” Your voice, your real voice, cheerful and familiar, trails off, the plastic grocery bag slipping from your suddenly nerveless fingers, thudding softly onto the wooden floor, the sound as loud as a thunderclap in the charged silence.

Tzuyu freezes. Every muscle in her body locks. Her eyes, wide and horrified, snap from the laptop screen (where your video doppelgänger is still a breath away from orgasm) to you, standing in the doorway. The color drains from her cheeks, leaving her ghostly pale. Her hand yanks itself from inside her shorts as if burned, her fingers slick and trembling. She fumbles with the hem of her t-shirt, pulling it down, a completely inadequate gesture of modesty. She’s exposed, caught, a deer in the fucking headlights of an oncoming semi. Sweat prickles her skin, no longer from arousal but from pure, unadulterated terror.

“Oh,” you manage. Then, a little softer, “Oh, Tzuyu.”

She can’t speak. She can’t breathe. Her heart is trying to hammer its way out of her ribcage. She scrambles backwards on the bed, away from you, like you’re the monster under it, not the man she was just fantasizing about.

“Hey, hey, it’s… it’s okay,” you say. You take a hesitant step into the room. “You don’t… you don’t need to look like that. It’s fine.”

She shakes her head, a jerky, convulsive movement. “I… I…” She tries to get up, to flee, but her legs feel like water.

“Tzuyu, calm down. Please.” You’re closer now. “You don’t need to be ashamed.”

Ashamed? She’s fucking mortified. She wishes the floor would swallow her whole. “I… I c-can’t…” she stutters, tears welling in her eyes, blurring your image.

“What… what were you watching?” you ask, your gaze flicking towards the still-glowing laptop screen, where the video is paused after she instinctively hit the spacebar.

She tries to answer, to form words, any words, but all that comes out is a strangled, “S-saw… I…” It’s useless. She can’t even string two syllables together.

You see the flash drive plugged into the side of her laptop. Recognition dawns on your face, slow and unwelcome. Your jaw tightens. You run a hand through your hair, a gesture of frustration, of weariness. “Shit…” you mutter, so low she almost doesn’t hear it. Then, louder, to her, “Fuck. That thing. I thought I’d lost it.” You look at her, your face etched with a sudden gravity. “Okay. Okay, listen, I can explain. This isn’t… it’s not what you think.”

“Why… why d-didn’t you ever tell me?”

You sigh, sinking down onto the edge of the bed, though not too close to her, respecting the invisible wall she’s thrown up. “It’s… fuck, Tzuyu, it’s not exactly an easy thing to bring up, is it? ‘Hey, honey, guess what I used to do for a living before I met you?’” You look at her earnestly. “I swear to you, on everything, this was all before us. Long before. Years before I even knew you existed.” You pause, then ask: “How much… how much did you see?”

She swallows, still trembling. “Just… just one video,” she whispers, which is technically true. One long, horrifying, unbelievably arousing video file.

You nod slowly, a muscle working in your jaw. “Right.” You reach out a hand, slowly, tentatively, and when she doesn’t flinch away this time, you take her cold, clammy one in yours. You edge closer, and then, carefully, you pull her into a hug. She’s stiff at first, resistant, but then something inside her crumbles, and she sags against you, a choked sob finally escaping. You just hold her, stroking her hair, murmuring soothing nonsense until the worst of the tremors subside.

“Okay,” you say softly, pulling back just enough to look at her tear-streaked face. “Let me try and explain this properly: remember I told you I worked in A&R at Cube for a while? Well, that was… part of it. The unofficial part.” You hesitate, choosing your words carefully. “The girls… I-DLE… they were under a lot of pressure. All the time. Comebacks, touring, practice… it’s relentless. And they… they found a way to cope. A way to de-stress. And I… I became part of that. Their… stress reliever.” The words sound clinical, almost absurd, but your eyes are serious, holding hers. “It started small, kind of a joke, almost. And then it just… grew. It was a consensual thing, Tzuyu, on all sides. It was a weird, fucked-up bubble we all existed in for a while. But it was a phase. After I left the company, that was it. Done. I haven’t had any contact with them since, not like that. Not at all. That was years ago. That whole part of my life is completely in the past.” You gesture vaguely at the flash drive. “I genuinely thought that thing was long gone. Thrown out in one of my many moves before I met you.”

Tzuyu just stares at you, her mind reeling, trying to process the information. Stress reliever. For I-DLE. It’s still so surreal, so far beyond anything she could have imagined for your past. She doesn’t know what to say, what to think.

You kiss her forehead, a soft, tender gesture. “I love you, Tzuyu,” you whisper. “You have to know that. And I am so, so sorry I didn’t tell you about this. It’s… it’s something I’m not exactly proud of, you know? And I was scared. I didn’t know how you’d react, if you’d… if you’d look at me differently.” You cup her face, your thumbs gently wiping away the fresh tears that have started to fall. “You’re the only girl in my life now. The only one that matters. Nothing and no one else even comes close.” You take both her hands in yours, squeezing them gently. “Do you… do you hate me?”

She shakes her head slowly, a tear splashing onto your joined hands. “No,” she says. “No, I don’t… I don’t hate you. I’m just… shocked. Confused.”

You kiss her again, a longer, deeper kiss this time, a kiss that speaks of reassurance, of love, of a desperate need for her to understand, to forgive. When you pull away, there’s a new light in your eyes, something a little more probing, a little less purely apologetic. “The videos…” you start. “When I came in… you looked… well, you were pretty into it. Did they… did they turn you on, Tzuyu?”

Her face flames scarlet. She pulls her hands away, suddenly flustered all over again, looking anywhere but at you. “I… I don’t know! It was… it was just… I was curious!” she stammers, the lie flimsy even to her own ears.

“It’s alright, baby. Seriously. There’s nothing to be ashamed of if they did. It’s just… images on a screen, right?” Your hand, warm and sure, slides down her arm, over her hip, and then, with a casual intimacy that makes her gasp, it slips inside the waistband of her shorts. Your fingers find her panties, find the slick, damp heat there. She freezes, her breath catching. You don’t go further, just rest your palm against her, feeling the undeniable evidence of her earlier activities. “Wow,” you murmur. “You’re completely soaked, Tzuyu.”

A soft, involuntary moan escapes her lips. She can’t help it. Your touch, your words, the memory of what she was watching, what she was feeling… it’s all crashing together. You kiss her neck, a slow, wet, open-mouthed kiss, making her arch slightly into your touch.

“So,” you whisper, your lips moving against her skin, sending little electric shocks everywhere. “Since you were, uh, exploring your curiosity so thoroughly… and you seemed to be enjoying yourself quite a bit… why don’t we continue what you were watching? Together?”

Tzuyu lets out a shaky, nervous laugh, a sound that’s half terror, half unwilling excitement. “Are you… are you serious?”

“Deadly. Ice cream can wait.” You take a step closer, your own cock starting to thicken in your jeans. Her t-shirt is still slightly askew from her earlier frantic adjustments. “This is… a little distracting, though, isn’t it?” you whisper, your gaze dropping to the swell of her breasts beneath the thin fabric. You lift the cotton slowly, inch by agonizing inch, your eyes locked on hers, watching for any sign of resistance. There’s none. Just that wide-eyed, hypnotized stare. Her nipples are tight, dark peaks, clearly visible, practically begging for attention. You trail your fingertips over the sensitive skin of her abdomen as the shirt rises, a feather-light touch that makes her gasp, her stomach muscles clenching under your exploration. Little goosebumps erupt in the wake of your touch. Each tiny reaction from her is like fuel to your fire.

“You love this, don’t you?” you breathe, your lips close to her ear. “My fingers on your skin. Knowing what I’m going to do to you.” You don’t wait for an answer, just continue your slow, deliberate unveiling. The t-shirt comes up and over her head, and you toss it carelessly aside. Her small, firm breasts are bare now, nipples still pebble-hard, pointing straight at you.

The vulnerability in her pose, combined with the clear signs of her arousal (the flush on her chest, the rapid beat of the pulse in her throat), is insanely hot. You lean down, your lips tracing a path from her collarbone, down into the valley between her breasts, then lower, your tongue flicking out to lave a circle around one taut nipple. She lets out a strangled moan, her head falling back, her fingers clutching at the duvet.

“So fucking responsive,” you growl against her skin. You trail kisses lower, down her ribcage, over the soft curve of her belly, each touch a spark against her heated skin. She’s trembling now, a fine tremor that speaks of barely suppressed pleasure and overwhelming anticipation. When you reach the waistband of her shorts, already unbuttoned and loose, you don’t hesitate. You hook your thumbs into the denim and slowly, excruciatingly slowly, pull them down, dragging her soaked panties along with them.

Her pussy is completely exposed, glistening, a swollen pink jewel nestled between her tanned thighs. The scent of her arousal, musky and sweet, hits you like a drug. You groan, burying your face against her mons, inhaling deeply. “Fuck, Tzuyu… you smell incredible. So fucking wet for me.”

She whimpers, her legs falling open a little wider, an unconscious invitation. You lave a broad stripe with your tongue up one silky inner thigh, then the other, tasting her, teasing her. She’s squirming now, her hips starting to lift off the bed, chasing your touch.

“Please…” she whispers.

“Please what, baby?” you murmur against her skin. “Tell me what you want.” You kiss the sensitive skin just beside her clit, making her jolt. “Want me to make you feel good? Want my mouth all over this sweet, wet pussy?”

She nods frantically, unable to speak. You position the laptop on a nearby chair, angling it so she can still see the screen clearly from the bed. You hit spacebar, and the video springs back to life, your video-self still on the precipice of orgasm, hand wrapped tight around your own cock, the I-DLE girls a chorus of begging, expectant faces.

“How was it?” Tzuyu manages to whisper, her eyes flickering between the screen and your face, now level with her exposed cunt. “Cumming… on their faces like that? Did it… did it feel good?”

“Good?” you chuckle, your breath ghosting over her clit, making it twitch. “Baby, it was fucking phenomenal. One of the hottest things I’ve ever done.” You press a kiss right to the head of her clit, a direct, possessive claim. “But you know what’s going to feel even better?” Before she can answer, your mouth closes over her, your tongue immediately finding that hypersensitive nub, sucking it, laving it, driving her wild.

Tzuyu screams, a raw, uninhibited sound that’s quickly muffled as your mouth works its magic. Her world explodes into a kaleidoscope of pure sensation. Your tongue is everywhere, a relentless, skillful assault on her senses. One moment it’s flicking rapidly against her clit, sending shockwaves of pleasure through her entire body, the next it’s delving deep, broad strokes that paint her inner folds, then it’s sucking, a gentle, insistent pressure that pulls at her core, making her cunt throb with an almost painful need.

On the screen, your video doppelgänger finally roars, a guttural sound of pure release. “FUCK! I’M CUMMING!” Thick ropes of your cum shoot out, arcing through the air, drenching the upturned, eager faces of I-DLE. Soyeon gets a direct hit across her cheek and forehead, her eyes squeezing shut for a second before she opens them, a wild, triumphant grin spreading across her face as she licks at the splatters near her lips. Miyeon catches a load right in her open mouth, swallowing greedily, her eyes rolling back in her head. Minnie gets a spray across her tits and chin, giggling as she tries to catch the drips with her tongue. Yuqi and Shuhua are similarly plastered, your hot seed painting their pretty faces, dripping into their hair, coating their parted lips.

“Oh my god, yes!” Soyeon groans, wiping a thick glob from her eyebrow and sucking it off her finger. “So much! You gave us such a big load, oppa!”

“Tastes so good!” Miyeon declares, her face a mess of white. “Better than any dessert!” She leans over and licks a thick stream of cum from Yuqi’s cheek, making Yuqi giggle.

“Hey! Get your own, unnie!” Yuqi laughs, but she tilts her head, offering more access. “But you’re right, it’s delicious! He’s like a cum factory!”

Tzuyu is bucking against your mouth, her fingers tangled in your hair, her own little moans and gasps a counterpoint to the lewd exclamations from the video. The sight of your cum, so much of it, coating those famous faces, mixed with the incredible sensations your tongue is creating between her legs, it's causing some seriously naughty damage to her vanilla brain. She can feel your lips pulling at her, your teeth lightly grazing her swollen clit, the vibrations of your hungry hums resonating deep inside her.

Minnie scoops a handful of cum from her own chest. “Shuhua-yah, you missed a spot on your chin!” she says playfully, before leaning in and smearing her cum-covered fingers onto Shuhua’s lips, then kissing her deeply, a messy, semen-flavored kiss. Shuhua moans into the kiss, her hands coming up to tangle in Minnie’s hair, pulling her closer.

“Fucking whores,” Soyeon says, but there’s no malice in it, only a fond, shared depravity. “Look at us. Covered in his spunk like a bunch of cheap sluts.” She turns to the camera you’re still holding in the video. “You like that, oppa? Seeing your girls share your load? Licking it off each other for you?”

Your video-self just grins, still panting. “Love it. Clean each other up good for me.”

And they do. With gusto. It’s a scene of gleeful, sisterly sluttiness. They lick and suck your cum from each other’s faces, tits, anywhere it landed, their tongues darting, their laughter ringing out, their moans of appreciation mixing with praises for your potency. They’re like kittens with a bowl of cream, utterly uninhibited, reveling in the mess, in each other, in the shared experience of being your cum targets.

Your tongue finally leaves Tzuyu’s clit for a moment, moving to trace the sensitive line of her perineum, then dipping to taste the entrance to her tight, wet cunt. She’s panting, her body slick with sweat, her eyes glazed as she stares at the screen, at the aftermath of your explosive orgasm.

“What do you think, baby?” you murmur, your mouth still wet with her juices. “Hot, isn’t it? Seeing them like that? Knowing my cum is all over them?” You can feel the answer in the way her hips jerk, in the renewed wetness that seeps onto your tongue. She’s loving every second of this forbidden education.

“So… so hot…” she gasps out. “They… they really liked it.”

“They fucking loved it,” you confirm, giving her clit another long, slow suck that makes her cry out. “And so did I.” You pull back slightly, looking up at her flushed, beautiful face. “Would you like that, Tzuyu? My cum on your face? Hot and thick, all over your pretty skin?”

The heat in the room, the explicit images on the screen, your relentless, skillful attention to her pussy; it’s all working on her, stripping away years of inhibition, awakening a dormant, darker part of her sexuality. She meets your gaze, a new kind of fire in her eyes, something bold and hungry.

“I… I think so,” she says, voice stronger now. “Feeling your cum on my face… knowing you’d like it… seeing it on me…” She shivers, a delicious tremor. “Then I could… I could spread it all over. Taste it.” As she speaks, her arousal flares visibly, her nipples tightening further, her cunt clenching around an imaginary cock. She’s getting hornier just talking about it, and your tongue, returning to its devoted worship of her clit, is definitely helping. Each lick, each suck, punctuates her burgeoning fantasy.

She moans, her head thrashing on the pillows. “Fuck… yes… more… I want to see more videos,” she gasps, and it is an order, not a request. “Show me more. Show me everything.”

You smile against her slick folds. You trail a line of kisses up her inner thigh, your hand moving to cup her breast, squeezing gently. “Oh, baby,” you say, “l have a feeling you're going to love this next one, baby.” You trail a line of kisses up from her pussy, over her navel, between her bare breasts, until you capture her mouth in a deep, tongue-tangling kiss that tastes of her own arousal. She moans into your mouth, her hips still twitching.

You reach over to the laptop, your fingers deftly navigating the trackpad. The previous video vanishes, replaced by a new file name. You click play, and then your attention is fully back on her. Your mouth leaves hers, and you slide down her body again, but this time, instead of your tongue, your fingers find her, parting her wet folds. Two fingers slide inside her easily, and she gasps, her back arching. You begin a slow, rhythmic in-and-out pump, your thumb finding her clit, rubbing steady circles.

"Watch, baby," you whisper.

On the screen, a new scene begins to unfold. The perspective is handheld. Miyeon and Minnie are on all fours on a large, plush bed, their asses prominent, facing away from the camera but occasionally glancing back over their shoulders. Soyeon is kneeling between them, a large bottle of lube in her hand. She’s all business, her expression focused as she applies generous amounts of the clear gel to Minnie’s asshole, then Miyeon’s, her fingers occasionally dipping inside them, making them squirm. Shuhua is kneeling at the foot of the bed, in front of your video-self’s crotch. Her head is bobbing rhythmically, her mouth full of your cock, slobbering and sucking with enthusiastic abandon, her eyes occasionally flicking up to you with a look of pure devotion. Yuqi’s voice, bubbly and excited, comes from behind the camera.

"Alright, I-dle Productions is rolling!" Yuqi chirps. "Tonight, we have a very special, very exclusive premiere! I-DLE’s first foray into… backdoor adventures! How are our stars feeling?" The camera zooms in, first on Minnie’s tightly puckered, lubed-up asshole, then Miyeon’s. Yuqi lets out a little giggle and reaches out a hand, delivering a sharp, playful slap to Minnie’s left ass cheek, then Miyeon’s right. "Looking good, girls! Tight and ready!"

Minnie flinches slightly at the slap, a nervous giggle escaping her. "A little… apprehensive, Yuqi-a. But also… curious?"

Miyeon, on the other hand, arches her back, pushing her ass out further. "I'm fucking ready! Been wanting to see what all the fuss is about. Stretch me out, daddy!" she calls over her shoulder to your video-self, whose face isn't visible as Shuhua is still diligently working on his cock.

Tzuyu’s eyes are wide, glued to the screen, her own breathing becoming shallow. The fingers inside her pause their steady rhythm for a moment, and you can feel the way her cunt clenches around them. "Oh my god," she breathes. "You… you really fucked their asses?"

"Every single one of them, baby," you confirm. You resume your fingering, sinking deeper, stretching her a little. "And they fucking loved it. You’ll see."

Her head thrashes slightly on the pillow. "It’s… it’s so much," she gasps, but her hips are already starting to rock against your hand, meeting your thrusts.

On screen, Shuhua pulls off your cock with a wet, sucking sound, leaving it glistening with saliva, thick and fully erect. "All lubed up for you, daddy," Shuhua murmurs, looking proud of her work, a string of spit connecting her chin to the head of your dick.

Soyeon pats Minnie’s ass. "Alright, Minnie-yah, you’re up first. Remember what I told you? Relax, breathe, and let daddy take care of you. He knows what he’s doing." Soyeon’s eyes flick to your video-self. "Don’t you, slave? You’re going to be gentle with her first time, then you’re going to fuck her brains out, understand?"

"Yes, mommy," your video-self grunts, moving between Minnie’s spread legs. He grips her hips, and the camera moves in for an extreme close-up as the head of your cock presses against Minnie’s lubed asshole.

Minnie lets out a sharp hiss, her knuckles white as she grips the bedsheets. "Okay, okay, easy, daddy, please…"

"Just breathe, baby girl," your video-self soothes, pushing slowly, steadily. The head of your cock disappears into her, and Minnie cries out, a sound that’s half pain, half surprise.

Tzuyu whimpers, her own cunt clenching hard around your fingers. "Oh god, it looks… it looks like it hurts her."

"A little at first, maybe," you say, your thumb circling her clit faster, harder. "But it’s a good hurt. The kind that turns into incredible pleasure. You feel that, don’t you, Tzuyu? That little ache deep inside when I stretch you?" Your fingers flex, opening her wider.

She gasps, nodding frantically. "Yes… fuck… it’s… kinky." Her eyes are still locked on the screen.

Video-Minnie is panting, her face turned to the side, cheek pressed against the mattress. Your video-self is slowly, methodically working his cock deeper into her ass, inch by inch. "That’s it, Minnie, take it all for daddy," Soyeon encourages, her hand now on Minnie's back, rubbing soothing circles. "You’re doing so well. Such a good girl."

"Fuck… it’s so… big…" Minnie groans. "I can feel… every inch… oh, daddy…" Then, her breathing starts to even out, and a new sound creeps into her moans, a note of pleasure. Her hips start to rock back, tentatively at first, then with more confidence, meeting your video-self’s thrusts.

Yuqi’s voice is practically purring from behind the camera. "Oh yes, Minnie-unnie! You’re taking it like a champ! Look at that ass, just swallowing daddy’s cock! Is it good? Tell us!"

"It’s… oh fuck… it’s amazing!" Minnie cries out. "So full… it hurts so good… deeper, daddy! Fuck my ass harder!"

Your video-self obliges, his thrusts becoming faster, more powerful. Soyeon is watching with a satisfied smirk, occasionally barking orders. "That’s it, slave! Pound her! Make her scream for you! Show her what that big dick is for!"

Tzuyu is writhing under your touch, her pussy incredibly wet, your fingers sliding in and out of her with almost no friction. "She’s… she’s liking it so much," Tzuyu gasps. "Seeing her… the pain, then the pleasure… God, it’s so fucking hot." She twists her head to look at you, her eyes glazed and needy. "I… I think I want to try that. With you. Oh god, what am I saying?!"

"You’re saying you’re a dirty girl, Tzuyu. And you want daddy to stretch your tight little asshole too, don’t you?" You give a particularly deep thrust with your fingers, hitting her g-spot, and she cries out, her whole body convulsing.

"Yes! Fuck, yes!" she sobs, the admission torn from her. "Please… I want to feel it."

"All in good time, baby," you soothe, returning to a steady rhythm, letting her ride the edge. "Let’s see how Miyeon handles it first, hmm?"

On screen, your video-self pulls out of Minnie’s ass with a wet, sucking sound. Her whole body is trembling, her face flushed, eyes blissed out. "Thank you, daddy," she pants, collapsing onto the bed.

Soyeon pats her head. "Good girl. Now, Miyeon, your turn to show us how much you want daddy’s cock in your ass."

Miyeon is already arching her back, her perfectly round, lubed-up ass presented eagerly. "I’m so ready, Soyeon-unnie! Please, daddy, I’ve been waiting! Don’t be gentle with me!"

Your video-self moves behind Miyeon, and this time there’s less gentle coaxing. He aligns his spit-slicked cock with her eager asshole and, with one powerful thrust, buries himself to the hilt. "Fuck yes! Oh my god, daddy! It’s huge!”

Shuhua is ecstatic. "Whoa! Miyeon took it all in one go! What a fucking queen! Get a close-up of that, Yuqi! Make sure you capture how her asshole just devours him!" The camera angle shifts slightly, zooming right in on the junction of your video-self’s cock and Miyeon’s stretched-tight asshole. Every thrust is visible in graphic detail, her flesh gripping your shaft.

Soyeon is now beside her, one hand on her hip, the other spanking her ass in time with your video-self’s thrusts, leaving red handprints on her pale skin. "That’s it, Miyeon! Take daddy’s dick! Show him who owns that cock! Scream for him, you little slut!"

Tzuyu is practically vibrating under your touch. "Her face… she’s in so much pleasure… and Soyeon spanking her… Fuck, it’s… it’s making me so wet," she pants, grinding her clit against your thumb. "I never thought… watching something like this… I’d want it. But god, seeing them… seeing you doing that to them…" Her voice trails off in a series of soft, desperate moans.

"It’s okay to want it, baby," you murmur. "It’s hot as fuck, isn’t it? Watching them take me, knowing they’re doing it for my pleasure, for their pleasure, for everyone watching." You slide your fingers out of her, just for a second, before plunging them back in, all three of them this time, stretching her wider than before.

She screams, a short, sharp sound, her eyes flying wide open. "Oh, fuck! That’s… so much… yes!" Her hips buck wildly now, completely out of control.

The video on the laptop screen continues its relentless assault on your senses, and your fingers inside Tzuyu are a mirror to the on-screen action; relentless, probing, possessive. Your video-self is still buried deep in Miyeon’s ass, her earlier screams of pleasure now punctuated by desperate, needy gasps as she grinds back against your shaft.

“Fuck, daddy, I’m so close!” Miyeon cries out. “Please, don’t stop! I’m right there!”

Your video-self responds with a guttural growl, his pace becoming even more punishing, his hips slamming into her with brutal force. He reaches out, his hand landing squarely on her right ass cheek with a resounding smack that echoes from the laptop speakers. Miyeon screams, a raw, high-pitched sound. Another slap, this time on the left cheek, even harder. Red welts begin to bloom on her pale skin.

“Oh, fuck! Yes, daddy, spank me!” she begs. “Harder! Make my ass red for you! I’ve been such a bad girl, I deserve it!” Her blush is incandescent, spreading from her cheeks down her neck and chest, a stark contrast to the livid marks appearing on her flesh. Yuqi holding the camera under Soyeon’s direction, zooms in on the action, capturing every brutal impact, every quiver of Miyeon’s abused flesh.

Tzuyu lets out a low, keening moan, her body bucking hard against your hand. “Oh my god… you’re so rough with her,” she gasps, her eyes wide and glazed, fixed on the screen. “Look at her ass… those marks… it’s… fuck, it’s so hot.” She writhes, her inner muscles clenching around your fingers.

“Are you… are you enjoying watching this, baby?” you murmur, your thumb rubbing relentless circles on her clit. Your fingers inside her are deliberately slow now, a teasing contrast to the frantic pounding on screen. You can feel the slick heat of her, her pussy practically weeping.

“Yes!” she whimpers, a desperate edge to her voice. “So much… I… I want you to do that to me. Spank me like that, please. When you fuck me. I want to feel it.” She sounds shocked by her own words, but there’s an undeniable hunger there too.

“Oh, I will, baby,” you promise. “I’ll make your pretty ass so red you won’t be able to sit for a week. But not yet. You need to earn it. You need to beg for it properly.” You give her clit an extra hard rub, and she cries out, a frustrated, needy sound. You’re determined to edge her, to draw out this exquisite torture until she’s a wreck.

On the laptop, your video-self is driving Miyeon to her peak. “That’s it, slut,” he pants. “Take daddy’s cock, take his spanking! You love it, don’t you? You love being my little ass-whore!” Each insult, each degrading name seems to fuel her further. Her screams intensify, her hips bucking wildly until, with a final, shuddering cry that seems to rip from her soul, her whole body goes rigid, then starts to convulse violently around your video-self’s invading cock. She’s coming, an explosive, earth-shattering anal orgasm.

Your video-self continues to pound into her for a few more brutal thrusts, milking every last tremor from her, before finally pulling out. Miyeon collapses onto the bed, a shaking, sobbing mess of flushed skin and jiggling flesh, her ass a canvas of angry red marks. Your video-self leans down, grabs her by the hair, and pulls her face up to his, capturing her mouth in a deep, bruising kiss, his tongue plunging into her mouth, sucking on hers as if trying to devour her very essence. The camera doesn’t flinch, capturing every intimate, saliva-slick detail.

“Fuck… she looks so… broken… but so happy,” Tzuyu whispers, breathing ragged. The intensity of Miyeon’s orgasm, coupled with the raw possessiveness of the kiss, has clearly struck a chord. Your fingers continue their maddeningly slow, deep strokes inside her, keeping her on that knife’s edge of pleasure.

The scene on the laptop shifts. Minnie, looking surprisingly recovered and now sporting a predatory grin of her own, is kneeling between Shuhua and Yuqi, who are now on all fours, presenting their asses. Soyeon is now taking on the role of continuing to film. Minnie takes the lube bottle and generously slicks up Shuhua’s tight-looking asshole, then Yuqi’s. Her fingers work expertly, teasing and preparing them. Then, she turns her attention to your video-self’s still-hard cock, which is glistening with Miyeon’s juices. Minnie pours a copious amount of lube onto your shaft and begins to stroke it, her hands slick and sure, her eyes full of unconcealed desire as she spreads the lubricant, her thumbs pressing into the underside, squeezing the thick shaft.

"Mmm, still so hard for us, daddy?" Minnie purrs. "You just fucked Miyeon-unnie senseless, and you're ready to go again. You're a fucking machine." She leans in and captures your video-self’s mouth in a hot, lingering kiss, her tongue darting out to taste him. Soyeon’s voice cuts in, cool and commanding.

"Alright, my little virgins. Shuhua, you’re next. Try not to scream too loud, wouldn’t want to break the camera lens, would we?"

Your video-self moves behind Shuhua. Her ass is bigger, rounder than Miyeon's, her skin pale and flawless. As the head of your video-self's cock presses against her clearly very tight, lubed entrance, Shuhua lets out a terrified squeak, her whole body tensing up like a bowstring. “Wait! Oh god, wait, daddy, please! It… it feels so… impossibly tight!” Her voice is a thin, reedy murmur, her eyes squeezed shut.

“Soyeon-unnie, I don’t know if I can!” Shuhua cries out, her face turning a shade of crimson. “It’s… it’s burning already, and he’s not even in!”

“Breathe, Shuhua-yah,” Miyeon says soothingly from off-camera, her voice still a little rough from her own recent exertions. “It’s always the worst right at the beginning. Just try to relax your muscles. Think of how good it’s going to feel once daddy’s all the way inside you.”

Yuqi chimes in, her voice surprisingly encouraging. “Yeah, Shushu! You can do it! We’re all here for you! Imagine how jealous all the fans would be if they knew daddy was about to stretch out your perfect little asshole!”

Even Soyeon offers a rare crumb of softer encouragement, though her tone is still firm. “They’re right, Shuhua. Take a deep breath. We’re not going to let him hurt you… much. Now, be a good girl and take it for us. For daddy.”

Your video-self whispers something in Shuhua's ear, inaudible to the microphone, and then, slowly, with excruciating care, he begins to push. Shuhua screams, a genuine, piercing shriek of pain, her face contorting. “It burns! Fuck, it burns so much! I can’t!” Tears start to stream down her face.

Tzuyu gasps, her hand flying to her mouth, her own body tensing in sympathy. “Oh, poor Shuhua… she’s really hurting,” she whispers. Your fingers inside her still, allowing her to process the scene. “Does it… does it always hurt that much the first time, for everyone?” she asks.

“It can, baby,” you reply softly, your thumb gently stroking her clit. “Everyone’s different. Some girls are tighter, some are more sensitive. But see how the others are helping her? Talking her through it?” You resume a slow, shallow movement with your fingers. “And you see how careful I’m being now? I got her used to it.”

Indeed, on screen, your video-self is barely moving, just holding himself steady inside Shuhua, letting her adjust to the immense pressure. He’s murmuring to her constantly, soothing words mixed with a firm insistence. Slowly, very slowly, her screams subside into ragged sobs, then into tense, shaky breaths. Her face is still red and tear-streaked, but the absolute terror is fading.

“That’s it, Shuhua… just breathe into it… feel me inside you…” your video-self coaxes. “You’re doing so good, baby girl. So brave for daddy.” He begins to move again, tiny, almost imperceptible thrusts, easing himself deeper by millimeters.

Meanwhile, the camera pans slightly to show Miyeon, who has moved to kneel beside Yuqi. Miyeon’s fingers, slick with lube, are now working on Yuqi’s asshole, gently probing, then sliding one, then two fingers inside. Yuqi lets out a series of excited giggles. “Ooh, unnie, that feels… weirdly good! Get me nice and ready for daddy! I don’t want to scream like Shuhua-unnie, I want to take it all at once!”

Miyeon chuckles. “Impatient, are we, Yuqi-ah? Don’t worry, I’ll make sure you’re nice and loose. daddy’s going to slide right into you.” Her fingers work expertly, stretching Yuqi’s asshole wider and wider, making her moan with discomfort and anticipation.

Your fingers inside Tzuyu are mirroring Miyeon’s actions now: gently stretching, preparing. “See, baby?” you murmur. “Sometimes a little preparation helps. Makes it easier to take something so big.” You can feel her watching, absorbing every detail, her pussy becoming even slicker, if that’s possible. She’s completely captivated, her earlier fear being steadily replaced by a raw, undeniable horniness. Shuhua, on screen, is actually starting to moan with something other than pain now, a low, guttural sound as your video-self finally reaches her depths and begins a slow, steady rhythm.

After a few more minutes of Miyeon diligently working on Yuqi’s ass, she pulls her fingers out with a wet sound. “All ready for you, daddy!” Miyeon announces proudly, gesturing to Yuqi’s visibly gaping, glistening asshole. “She’s practically begging for your cock now!”

Your video-self grunts in approval, then carefully maneuvers himself, positioning Shuhua and Yuqi side-by-side, their asses beautifully presented. With Shuhua now accustomed to his size and rhythm, he pulls out of her slightly, just enough to angle his still-slick cock towards Yuqi. With a single, powerful thrust, he buries himself deep inside Yuqi’s pre-stretched ass, and she lets out a triumphant yell. “YES! FUCK YES, daddy! YOU FILL ME UP SO GOOD!” She immediately starts to rock back against him, her movements confident and shameless, chasing the incredible feeling of being so completely, utterly filled. "Oh my god, it's even bigger than I imagined! Yes! Just like that, daddy!"

"Get a close-up of that, Soyeon-unnie!" Minnie squeals from the foot of the bed, her own hand already a blur between her thighs. "Look at how her asshole just swallows him! Yes daddy, Fuck her tight little Chinese ass!"

Soyeon laughs contentedly behind the camera. "A natural backdoor slut, our little Yuqi. I knew she had it in her."

Almost immediately, without giving Yuqi more than a few glorious seconds to savor the feeling, your video-self pulls out of her. The sound is a wet, resisting schlick, and Yuqi lets out a sharp, protesting whine, her ass still twitching. "No! daddy, wait, come back!" she begs, turning her head to look back at him with wide, pleading eyes. "Don't leave my little ass empty already! It was just starting to feel so good!"

He ignores her pleas for now, his attention already shifting. He slides his thick, glistening cock back into Shuhua, who moans in pure, unadulterated pleasure, no trace of her earlier pain remaining. Her body, now fully acclimated, welcomes him with a surprising eagerness, her own muscles clenching around him. She’s no longer the terrified girl from before; she's a convert. "Oh, daddy... yes... it feels... so good now," she gasps, her head falling forward, cheek pressed against the mattress. "So full... I love feeling you stretch me..."

He begins to fuck them both, a master of his craft, establishing a slow, brutal, possessive rhythm. He sinks deep into Shuhua's tight, welcoming heat for six long, powerful strokes, each one drawing a shaky, blissful moan from her lips. He watches her hips rock, her body surrendering to his invasion. Then, with a slick pull, he withdraws, leaving her whimpering.

"Please... more..." Shuhua whispers, her expression a broken, needy thing. "daddy, don't stop..."

He shifts, the head of his cock, now coated in a mixture of their juices, pressing against Yuqi's waiting, puckered entrance. He thrusts into her, and she lets out another delighted scream, her hips bucking to meet him. "YES! He's back! Fuck, yes, daddy, my turn! Pound my ass, please! Forget about her, I'm the one who really wants it!"

He gives her five hard, fast thrusts, her energetic body matching his rhythm perfectly, her bubbly enthusiasm a stark contrast to Shuhua's dazed, sensual surrender. The sight of them side-by-side, reacting so differently to his cock, is an incredible turn-on. His powerful body works like a piston between their two eagerly receiving asses, the camera capturing the incredible sight of his one cock servicing two of K-pop’s biggest stars simultaneously.

"That's it, slave," Soyeon commands from behind the camera. "Work them both. Show them what a good toy you are. A few for Shuhua, make her remember how good it feels to be stretched. Then a few for Yuqi, reward her for being such an enthusiastic little slut. This is perfect."

He pulls out of Yuqi, who again protests loudly. "No, daddy, you bastard! You can't just give me a little taste and then leave! My pussy is getting so wet listening to you fuck Shuhua-unnie!"

He sinks back into Shuhua, who lets out a sigh of pure relief, her body melting around him. "Thank you, daddy... thank you..." she moans. "I was so empty without you inside me. Please don't leave me again."

Minnie is practically writhing on the bed. "Oh my god, listen to them! They're both begging like little whores for your dick! Shuhua sounds so pathetic and needy, I love it! And Yuqi is so demanding! Fuck them, daddy! Fuck them until they can't remember their own names! Turn them into your mindless, ass-fucked little dolls!"

Your fingers inside Tzuyu are mimicking this teasing rhythm, sometimes deep and slow, stretching her, then shallow and quick, rubbing against her g-spot, driving her absolutely wild. She’s panting against your shoulder, her body slick with sweat, her cunt so incredibly wet it feels like fucking silk around your digits.

“Oh god… watching them… watching you with them like that…” Tzuyu gasps. “It… it reminds me…” She hesitates, a new kind of blush creeping up her neck. “Remember that night? After your friend's party? We were so drunk… and we were talking… things got a little… spicy.”

“Vaguely. My memory of that night involves a lot of cheap wine and you trying to teach me a TikTok dance in the kitchen at 3 AM. What spicy conversation are we talking about, baby?” You slide your fingers out of her almost completely, just the tips teasing her entrance, before slowly pressing back in, making her gasp.

“You… you said…” she swallows hard, her eyes flicking between the screen and your face, “you said you wanted to try… that… with me.” Her gaze darts to the screen where your video-self is now gripping Shuhua’s hips, his pace quickening. “Anal. You said you’d always wondered what my ass would feel like wrapped around your cock.”

“Ah,” you murmur, a slow smile spreading across your face. “That conversation. I remember you got very quiet all of a sudden. Practically sobered up on the spot.” You nuzzle her neck, inhaling her scent. “You never really told me why you shut that down so fast, just changed the subject to needing more pizza rolls.”

“I… I was scared,” Tzuyu whispers, and her admission is practically inaudible over Yuqi’s increasingly loud moans from the laptop. “I wanted to… god, even then, the thought of it… it made me feel… tingly. But then I thought about… about how big you are, your cock…” She shudders, not entirely from fear. “I just… I didn’t think I could take it. I thought it would hurt too much, that I’d tear or something. I was embarrassed to even admit I was curious.”

“Oh, baby,” you murmur, your fingers pausing their movement inside her. You shift slightly, propping yourself up on an elbow so you can look her in the eyes. Her face is flushed, her lips swollen, her pupils blown wide. “There’s nothing to be embarrassed about. And it’s natural to be a little scared of something new, especially something that seems… intense.” You lean in and kiss her deeply, a slow, tender kiss that’s meant to reassure. “But look at them,” you whisper against her lips, gesturing with your chin towards the laptop. “Look at Shuhua now. She was terrified, remember? And listen to her.”

On the screen, your video-self has Shuhua’s small waist in a vice grip, his thrusts deep and powerful. “Oh daddy! Yes! Right there! Fuck! Deeper! I’m… I’M SO FUCKING CLOSE! DON’T STOP!” With a few more brutal, perfectly aimed thrusts, her whole body locks up, her back arching impossibly high as a shattering orgasm rips through her, her screams echoing.

Tzuyu watches, mesmerized, her own body trembling in sympathy. “She… she really liked it,” she breathes, a sense of awe in her voice. “Even after being so scared.”

“Exactly,” you say softly, resuming your fingering, a slow, deliberate glide in and out of her slick heat. “And if you ever wanted to try… truly wanted to… we would go so slow. So much lube, so much preparation. I would never, ever hurt you, Tzuyu. It would be all about your pleasure, making you feel good. And honestly?” You lean in, “the thought of my cock sliding into your tight, virgin ass… it’s one of the hottest fucking things I can imagine. If you wanted it, baby, it would be an absolute pleasure to fuck that sweet ass of yours.”

A choked sob escapes Tzuyu’s lips, and she nods frantically, tears welling in her eyes; tears of arousal, of relief, of burgeoning excitement. “Yes… please… I… I think I really want to.”

“Good girl.”

On the laptop, Shuhua is a spent, quivering mess. Your video-self pulls out of her slowly, his cock glistening. Yuqi, who has been watching with rapt attention while rubbing her own clit, immediately scrambles closer. “Me next, daddy! Oh my god, that was incredible! Shuhua-unnie, you were so loud! Now make me scream like that! Please, fuck my ass until I can’t walk!” She’s practically bouncing with eagerness.

Your video-self needs no further encouragement.

He repositions behind Yuqi, who arches her back, presenting her ass with enthusiasm. He plunges into her with a single, powerful stroke, and Yuqi lets out a whoop of pure joy. “Yes! Oh fuck, daddy! It’s SO good! Just like that!” She’s already grinding back against him, her fingers working her clit with frantic speed. “Soyeon-unnie, are you getting this?!” she yells. “This is the best feeling in the world! Everyone should try anal with daddy’s giant cock!” The scene is a whirlwind of motion and sound, your video-self pounding into Yuqi’s ass, her body bucking and spasming as she rides her own fingers and your invading dick towards a spectacular climax. Within minutes, she’s screaming her release, her whole body drenched in sweat, her clit visibly throbbing as she comes hard.

Tzuyu is panting, her hips bucking against your hand. “They’re so… uninhibited,” she gasps. “Saying exactly what they want… doing what they want… God, it’s… liberating just to watch.”

The video shifts again. Soyeon’s voice, cool and authoritative, cuts through Yuqi’s fading moans. “Alright, my little sluts, you’ve had your fun. Miyeon, take the camera. My turn to play with our favorite toy.” Soyeon hands the camera to Miyeon, whose face is flushed with a knowing smirk. Shuhua and Yuqi, looking utterly wrecked but blissfully satisfied, scramble to make room on the bed. Then, Soyeon turns to your video-self. She doesn’t ask; she commands. With a surprisingly strong shove, she pushes your video-self backwards. He stumbles, then falls back onto the mattress, landing on his back. Soyeon stands over him, a queen surveying her conquest. She grabs the lube bottle. Your video-self’s cock is still impressively hard, glistening with the juices of Shuhua and Yuqi.

Soyeon slowly, deliberately, drizzles fresh, cool lube over the head and shaft. She then straddles his hips, her own perfect, tight asshole hovering just above his waiting dick. She reaches down, takes his thick, lubed cock in her hand, and with a slow, deliberate movement, positions the head right at her own entrance. Her eyes lock with his. “You ready to be mommy’s good boy again?” she purrs.

The image on the laptop screen is electrifying. Soyeon, perched atop your video-self, is a vision of absolute control. She moves with a practiced, fluid grace, her hips rolling and bucking, taking every inch of his cock deep into her ass with an expression of intense concentration mixed with undeniable pleasure. Her hands are braced on his shoulders, her knuckles white, not for balance, but for leverage, for dominance. Your video-self is flat on his back, his own expression a mixture of pained ecstasy and complete surrender as Soyeon rides him like she was born for it.

“Wow…” Tzuyu breathes. Your fingers are still deep inside her, moving with a slow, deliberate rhythm that keeps her simmering. “Soyeon… she’s… incredible. The way she moves, her confidence… she’s not just fucking you, she’s owning you.”

“She is, isn’t she? Soyeon’s a force of nature, baby. In every sense of the word. Truly amazing. She always knew exactly what she wanted and exactly how to get it.” You slide your fingers a little deeper, brushing against her cervix, and Tzuyu gasps, her hips bucking slightly. “Does her being in charge like that… does it do something for you, Tzuyu?”

Before Tzuyu can answer, the girls in the video start chanting. “Fuck him, Soyeon-unnie! Fuck daddy good!” Yuqi yells, her face flushed with excitement. Shuhua is nodding eagerly beside her, her eyes wide. Minnie chimes in: “Yeah, Unnie! Make him beg! Show him who’s boss!”

Soyeon smirks, a predatory glint in her eyes, but she doesn’t break her rhythm. Then, she looks directly at your video-self. “You hear that, slave? They want me to fuck you senseless.” She leans down. “But first… I think my good boy needs a little treat. A taste of his adoring fans.” She glances over at Minnie. “Minnie-yah, you first. Come give daddy a proper offering.”

Minnie’s eyes light up. She scrambles closer, leans over your video-self’s face, puckers her lips, and a thick string of saliva arcs from her mouth directly into his open, waiting one. Your video-self swallows, a small groan escaping him. “Good girl,” Soyeon purrs. “Yuqi, you’re next. Make it juicy for him.” Yuqi, giggling, follows suit, her spit landing with a wet smack. Shuhua, looking a little shy but determined, leans in and adds her own offering. Finally, Soyeon looks at Miyeon, who’s still expertly handling the camera. “Don’t think you’re getting out of this, Miyeon-ah. Get over here and give daddy what he deserves. Make sure the camera catches it all.”

Miyeon, ever the professional, keeps the camera steady on your video-self’s face with one hand while she leans in, angles herself perfectly, and lets a generous stream of spit fall into his mouth.

Tzuyu is watching this, her eyes wide, her lips slightly parted. She looks… utterly enchanted. A strange, almost unreadable expression on her face. “They… they all spat in your mouth,” she whispers, as if trying to process the sheer audacity of it. “And you just… took it. You liked it.”

“I loved it.” You shift your fingers inside her, pressing them upwards, rubbing against the sensitive wall of her g-spot. “Being used like that, by all of them… it’s a rush. Does the thought of that… spitting… intrigue you, Tzuyu? The idea of someone having that kind of… intimate power over another?”

Her breath hitches. “I… I don’t know,” she stammers, but her eyes are still glued to the screen, where Soyeon, having ensured your video-self has been thoroughly ‘seasoned’, leans down and captures his mouth in a deep, wet, open-mouthed kiss. It’s a kiss that’s more about claiming than affection, Soyeon’s tongue plunging into his, tasting her own girls’ spit mingled with his. All the while, her hips continue their relentless, grinding assault on his cock, buried deep in her ass.

“It’s… intense,” Tzuyu finally manages. “The thought of… tasting someone like that… or being tasted… after…” She trails off, a dark blush staining her cheeks. “And her kissing him, with all of their… essences… it’s so… possessive. So dominant.”

“Is that what you find enchanting, baby?” you probe gently, your fingers now moving in a steady, circular motion inside her, stoking the flames. “Soyeon’s dominance? Or is it something about the… shared intimacy of it all? The fluids?”

Tzuyu moans softly, a confused, aroused sound. “Both, I think. The power she has… it’s undeniably hot. But then… the spitting, the kiss… it’s so… primal. So degrading, but in a way that seems to make you even more hers.” She shivers. “I… I’ve sometimes wondered… what it would be like… to be that… free. To do something so… forbidden. Or to have it done to me.”

Your video-self is clearly nearing his limit. His groans are louder now, his hips starting to buck up to meet Soyeon’s thrusts. Soyeon picks up the pace, her movements becoming faster, harder, her own breathing growing ragged. “He’s close!” Yuqi shrieks excitedly. “Unnie, he’s gonna cum! Make him shoot it all inside you!”

“Cum for mommy, slave!” Soyeon commands. “Give me every last drop of that hot load you’ve been saving for me!”

“Mommy!” your video-self roars. “Fuck, mommy, I’m cumming!”

Soyeon rides him with a final, furious burst of speed, her hips moving with an almost impossible skill, milking his cock, her own eyes squeezed shut, a mask of intense concentration. His body arches off the bed, a long, shuddering groan tearing from his throat as he floods her asshole with his hot seed. The sensation, the sight, the sheer intensity of his release clearly pushes Soyeon over the edge too. A split second later, she screams, a beautiful, melodic sound that’s pure, unadulterated bliss, her inner muscles clenching violently around his still-pulsing cock as she achieves her own powerful anal orgasm. She collapses onto his chest, a boneless, panting heap, her body trembling.

The other girls erupt in cheers and applause. “Yes, Unnie! You did it!” Minnie shouts. “You made daddy your cumdump!”

Tzuyu is practically vibrating against your hand, her own breath coming in short, sharp gasps. “you called her mommy,” she whispers, her eyes glazed. “And she made you cum inside her… and she came too… oh god…” The combination of the dirty talk, the power dynamic, and the simultaneous orgasms has clearly hit a nerve. Your fingers are working her relentlessly now, pushing her closer and closer to her own edge.

After a moment, Miyeon’s voice, still a little breathless, comes from behind the camera. “Okay, okay, break it up, lovebirds! Let’s see the damage! Soyeon-unnie, show us what daddy gave you!”

Soyeon, with a tired but triumphant smile, slowly, almost theatrically, lifts herself off your video-self’s cock. As his thick, spent shaft slides out of her, a thick, creamy torrent of white cum begins to ooze from her stretched asshole, running down between her thighs. It’s a lot. Hot and viscous.

“Whoa!” Yuqi exclaims. “Look at all that! daddy really filled you up, Unnie!”

Shuhua, ever helpful, gently spreads Soyeon’s ass cheeks, revealing the glistening, cum-coated entrance. Without a word, Minnie and Yuqi are there, their heads bent, tongues darting out to lick up the leaking seed from Soyeon’s flesh, from the base of your video-self’s cock, catching every stray drop. Miyeon zooms in, capturing their eager, lapping tongues in graphic detail. “Mmm, tastes so good,” Minnie hums, her voice muffled. “daddy’s cum is the best.” Yuqi nods in agreement, her face a mess of semen and saliva. Then, they turn to each other, their lips meeting in a slow, sensual, cum-flavored kiss, their tongues tangling right in front of the camera.

Tzuyu lets out a strangled sound, something between shock and raw, undeniable arousal. “They’re… they’re licking it up… from her… and kissing…” Her hips are bucking wildly against your fingers now, her pussy clenching and unclenching. “That’s… so incredibly filthy… so fucking hot…” Her voice breaks on a sob. “I… I want to be that shameless… I want to taste you like that… from someone else… or… or have them taste you from me… Oh god, what is wrong with me?”

“Nothing is wrong with you, baby,” you groan, your own cock stone hard in your pants, your control rapidly slipping. “You’re just finally admitting what you want. And it’s fucking beautiful.”

Her eyes, wild and dark, lock onto yours. Then, with a surge of newfound boldness, Tzuyu leans up and kisses you, a deep, searching kiss that tastes of her own slick arousal and the remnants of her shocked, breathless words. When she finally pulls back, a slow, genuine smile spreads across her flushed face.

“Okay,” she breathes after pulling back. “Okay. Another one. Please. And…” she bites her lip, a flicker of shyness returning, quickly overwhelmed by a wave of heat in her eyes, “can you… will you go back to…?” She gestures vaguely downwards, towards her own still-throbbing, exquisitely sensitive cunt. “Your mouth… it felt so good.”

“Anything for you, my curious little explorer,” you murmur. You reach for the laptop, your other hand already gently parting her thighs again. “And I think I have just the thing. This next one… it’s a little different. A change of pace. You might find it… enlightening.” You select a new file, hit play, and then, with a groan of pure pleasure that’s entirely your own, you bury your face between her legs, your tongue immediately finding her clit, flicking and laving with renewed devotion. Tzuyu gasps, her fingers instantly tangling in your hair, her hips starting to rock against your mouth.

On the screen, the new video flickers to life. The camera is static this time, positioned on a tripod, offering a wide, clear view of a luxurious hotel room. Your video-self is sitting on the edge of a large bed, looking surprisingly… docile. Soyeon and Minnie are on either side of him, their expressions mischievous and full of playful intent. In their hands are two pair of gleaming, metallic handcuffs. Miyeon, Shuhua and Yuqi are lounging on a nearby armchair, watching the proceedings with undisguised amusement, like spectators at a particularly interesting show.

“Right then, our favorite boy toy,” Soyeon announces as she dangles the handcuffs in front of your video-self’s face. “We’ve decided you’ve been a little too in control lately. Time for a change of management, wouldn’t you say, Minnie-yah?”

Minnie giggles, her eyes sparkling. “Definitely, Unnie! He needs to learn his place. And I think his place today is… thoroughly restrained.” She takes one of your video-self’s wrists and, with a flourish, snaps one cuff around it, and then she ties the other one to the headboard. Soyeon mirrors the action on the other side. Within moments, your video-self’s hands are cuffed to the bed.

Tzuyu lets out a soft, involuntary whimper. Her clit swells under your tongue. You can feel the shift in her arousal, a new, sharper intensity. Her hips are grinding against your face with more purpose now. Through the haze of her pleasure, she manages to gasp, “You… they handcuffed you… you’re… submissive.” There’s a strange, breathless quality to her voice, shock and burgeoning, undeniable horniness. “Did you like it?”

You pause your licking for a moment, just long enough to look up at her, your chin still resting on her damp thigh. Her eyes are wide, pupils dilated, fixed on the screen. “Did I like being handcuffed, baby?” you murmur. “Oh, I fucking loved it. Having them take control like that… knowing I was completely at their mercy… it was an incredible turn-on.” You dip your head again, sucking her clit deep into your mouth, and she cries out, a raw, needy sound.

On screen, Soyeon and Minnie are now maneuvering your video-self so his cuffed hands are secured to the ornate headboard of the bed, stretching his arms above his head, leaving him completely exposed and vulnerable. He’s not fighting it; in fact, there’s a small, almost eager smile playing on his lips.

“Perfect,” Soyeon declares with satisfaction, stepping back to admire their handiwork. “Now he looks like a proper offering.”

Shuhua, Yuqi and Miyeon, who had been watching with barely suppressed giggles, now approach the bed. Miyeon kneels down right in front of your video-self’s exposed, already hardening cock. Shuhua kneels beside her. “Well, look what we have here,” Miyeon purrs, her fingers ghosting over his shaft. “All tied up and ready for worship. You’ve been a very good boy, daddy, letting us do this to you.”

Shuhua, less talkative but equally enthusiastic, leans in and takes the head of his cock into her mouth, her tongue immediately getting to work. Miyeon joins her a second later, her lips closing around the base, their heads bobbing in a delightful, slobbery rhythm. They suck and lick with a focused intensity, their cheeks hollowing, their eyes occasionally flicking up to meet his, a silent acknowledgment of his captive state. Yuqi is practically bouncing in her seat. “Oh my god, yes! Look at them go! He can’t even move his hands to touch them! This is amazing!”

Your tongue is working overtime on Tzuyu, slow, deep laps from her clit down to her perineum, then back up to suck and nibble with maddening precision. She’s moaning constantly now, soft, broken sounds that tell you she’s getting closer. But you’re holding her back, teasing her, letting the video build the tension.

“They’re… they’re so good to you… even when you're tied up,” Tzuyu pants. “You look… helpless… but you're clearly enjoying it so much.” A strange thought flickers through her mind, a fleeting image of you, the real you, tied up like that, her hands exploring your body, her mouth…

Just as your video-self looks like he’s about to lose it from the combined oral assault, Soyeon reappears in the frame. She’s holding something black and menacingly phallic: a large, realistic-looking strap-on dildo, already gleaming with lube. A wicked grin spreads across her face. “Alright, girls, playtime is evolving,” she announces. She adjusts the straps of the harness around her own hips. “Now, who wants to ride mommy, and who wants to keep daddy company?”

Minnie’s hand shoots up instantly. “Me! I want to ride mommy! Please, Unnie, let me feel that big cock of yours!” Her eyes are practically sparkling with depraved excitement.

Shuhua, her mouth still slick from your video-self’s cock, looks up with wide, pleading eyes. “Can I… can I ride daddy, Unnie? Please? He feels so good, and I want to feel him inside me while he’s tied up like this.”

Soyeon nods, her grin widening. “Excellent choices. Form an orderly queue, ladies.” She gestures to the bed. With a little shimmy, she lies down on her back next to your video-self, the strap-on cock jutting proudly upwards. Minnie scrambles onto the bed and eagerly positions herself over Soyeon’s artificial erection, her wet cunt already glistening. Shuhua, with a triumphant look, climbs onto your video-self’s lap, carefully guiding his still-throbbing, cuffed-and-helpless cock towards her own eager entrance.

Yuqi, meanwhile, have abandoned her armchair and are now curled up at the foot of the bed with Miyeon, their arms around each other, their free hands already disappearing between their own legs as they watch the impending dual-penetration scene. “Oh, this is going to be epic,” Yuqi breathes. Miyeon just nods, her lips already parted in a silent moan.

Tzuyu is practically levitating off the bed, your mouth still working its magic on her. “A… a strap-on…” she gasps. “Soyeon’s going to… fuck Minnie with that? While Shuhua rides… you?” The sheer audacity of the scene, the layers of kink (submission, voyeurism, group sex, strap-on play) are clearly overloading her senses in the best possible way. “It’s… it’s so much… so incredibly decadent…”

On screen, Minnie lets out a delighted squeal as she slowly lowers herself onto Soyeon’s strap-on, her eyes rolling back in her head. “Oh, fuck, Unnie! Yes! It feels so real! So big!” She starts to bounce, her small breasts jiggling. Simultaneously, Shuhua, with a sigh of pure bliss, sinks down onto your video-self’s cock, her tight cunt enveloping him. Your video-self groans, his head thrashing against the pillows, his helpless state only seeming to amplify his pleasure and hers. The video now shows a scene with multiple things happening simultaneously: Minnie riding Soyeon’s strap-on with wild abandon on one side, and Shuhua expertly grinding on your video-self’s captive cock on the other, while Miyeon and Yuqi provide a chorus of moans and encouraging dirty talk as they pleasure themselves.

Your tongue is a relentless engine of pleasure against Tzuyu’s clit, on screen, Minnie is riding Soyeon’s thick strap-on with a fierce, almost desperate energy, her face flushed, eyes half-closed in ecstasy while Soyeon squeezes her small breasts. Beside them, Shuhua is a revelation. Mounted on your cuffed, helpless video-self, she’s moving with a newfound confidence, her hips rolling and grinding, her earlier shyness completely obliterated by a raw, possessive hunger. Her hands are braced on your video-self’s chest, her knuckles white as she works his cock, her moans a steady, guttural counterpoint to Minnie’s higher-pitched cries.

Miyeon and Yuqi are a tangled, giggling heap at the foot of the bed, their hands busy on each other and themselves. “Oh my god, look at Shuhua go!” Yuqi gasps, her own fingers slick between her thighs. “She’s fucking him like she owns him! Who knew our little innocent maknae was such a secret slut?”

Miyeon groans, her head thrown back as Yuqi’s fingers find her clit. “She’s… amazing… And Minnie, fuck, she’s going to break Soyeon’s dick off if she keeps that up!” They’re both panting, their eyes glued to the dual performance, their own pleasure feeding off the intensity of the scene.

Your mouth is working Tzuyu with an almost religious fervor, your lips sucking, your tongue swirling, teasing the very edge of her orgasm. “They’re… both so… into it,” Tzuyu manages to pant as you momentarily lift your head, though your fingers take over, two of them sliding deep inside her, your thumb resuming its relentless circling of her clit. “Shuhua… she’s completely different. So… dominant with you.”

“She found her calling, didn’t she?” you murmur, your breath hot against her inner thigh before you dip your head again, taking her whole clit into your mouth, sucking hard. She screams, a muffled, ecstatic sound.

In the video, Soyeon watches Shuhua with a critical, appraising eye. “Alright, Shuhua-yah,” Soyeon calls out, voice sharp over Minnie’s increasingly frantic moans. “You’re doing well, but you’re still being too… polite. daddy here needs to be reminded who’s in charge. He’s been a very naughty boy, letting himself get tied up like this, hasn’t he?” She looks at your video-self. “He needs a little… punctuation. Slap his face. Hard.”

Shuhua visibly flinches, her rhythm faltering. Her eyes dart nervously between Soyeon and your video-self’s face. “Slap… slap him, Unnie?” she whispers, her newfound confidence wavering. “But… I don’t want to hurt him…”

Your video-self immediately chimes in. “Yes, please, Shuhua-yah! Do it! I deserve it! I’ve been so bad, letting myself be your helpless toy! Punish me! Make me feel it!” His eyes are wide, pleading, a masochistic eagerness burning within them.

Tzuyu gasps against your mouth, her body tensing. “You… you want her to?” she whispers. Your tongue gives her clit a particularly sharp flick in response.

Shuhua, emboldened by your video-self’s plea, takes a shaky breath. She raises a hesitant hand and delivers a light, almost apologetic tap to his cheek. It barely makes a sound.

Soyeon scoffs, rolling her eyes. “Pathetic! Is that the best you can do? Minnie!” she barks, her attention snapping to the girl currently bouncing enthusiastically on her strap-on. “Show this timid little kitten how a real bitch marks her property!”

Minnie, caught up in her own pleasure, misinterprets. With a wild grin, she reaches out and delivers a surprisingly sharp slap right across Soyeon’s cheek.

Soyeon freezes mid-thrust, her eyes wide with shock, then narrowing into a furious glare. “NOT ME, YOU DUMB BITCH!” she roars. “HIM!” She points a finger imperiously at your video-self.

The entire room erupts in laughter. Yuqi and Miyeon are practically hysterical, clutching their stomachs. Minnie’s face flames crimson, but she’s laughing too. “Oh my god, Unnie, I’m so sorry!” she gasps out between peals of laughter. “I just… got carried away!” She quickly turns her attention to your video-self and, with a renewed, almost vicious energy, cracks him across the face with a slap that echoes through the room. A bright red handprint blooms instantly on his cheek.

Your video-self groans, a sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure. “Fuck, yes! Thank you, Minnie! That was perfect!” His eyes flick to Shuhua, burning with a new intensity. “Your turn again, Shuhua-yah! Don’t be afraid! Show me how much you want to own me!”

Tzuyu is squirming under your mouth, her pussy incredibly slick, her moans becoming more desperate. “The slap… you actually liked it…” she pants. “It’s… it’s so wrong, but… god, seeing that red mark on your face… knowing you're tied up and asking for it…”

“Does it make you wet, baby?” you murmur, pulling back just enough to look at her. “The thought of me being humiliated like that? Of you being the one to do it?”

Shuhua, her face set with a new determination, takes a deep breath. She raises her hand and brings it down hard across your video-self’s other cheek. This time, the sound is sharp, authoritative. Your video-self lets out a choked gasp, his head snapping to the side. A look of fierce triumph flashes in Shuhua’s eyes.

“Yes!” Soyeon approves, a satisfied smirk on her face. “That’s more like it! Again!”

Shuhua doesn’t hesitate this time. Another slap, then another, each one harder than the last. She’s straddling your video-self, her hips still grinding against his cock, but her focus is now on his face, on the act of marking him, claiming him. A guttural sound rips from her throat. “Yeah, you like that, don’t you, you pathetic little toy?” she snarls, almost unrecognizable. “You like being my bitch, don’t you? Taking my slaps while I ride your helpless cock?” She punctuates each insult with another stinging slap.

Your video-self is moaning, a litany of “Yes, Mistress Shuhua,” “Please, more,” “I’m your property.”

“Holy fuck,” Tzuyu breathes. “Shuhua… she’s… she’s incredible. So dominant… so cruel… And he’s… he’s loving it.” Her own hips are bucking against your mouth, her clit throbbing, desperate for release.

Soyeon, clearly pleased with Shuhua’s transformation, turns her attention back to Minnie. She reaches down and gives Minnie’s ass a hard, stinging slap of her own. “Alright, you little sex maniac, you’re not getting off that easy! Faster! Ride mommy’s cock like you mean it! I want to feel you cumming all over me!”

Minnie, jolted by the slap, lets out a yelp and then redoubles her efforts, her hips a frantic blur on Soyeon’s strap-on. “Yes, mommy! I’m so close! Fuck!” Her eyes are rolling back in her head. Just as she’s about to tip over the edge, Soyeon’s hand snakes up and closes around her throat, squeezing, not hard enough to truly hurt, but enough to restrict her breath, to intensify the sensation. Minnie lets out a strangled, ecstatic cry, her body convulsing violently as a powerful orgasm rips through her, her eyes rolling back completely white for a moment.

Simultaneously, Shuhua, fueled by her newfound dominance and the relentless friction, throws her head back and screams, her own orgasm tearing through her as she grinds down hard on your video-self’s cock, milking every last drop of pleasure from him and herself. She collapses onto his chest, panting, her body trembling, and then, with a surprising tenderness, she leans down and kisses him deeply, a possessive, claiming kiss.

Before anyone can even catch their breath, Yuqi and Miyeon are scrambling onto the bed. “Our turn!” Yuqi announces, playfully shoving a still-dazed Minnie off Soyeon’s lap. Miyeon does the same to Shuhua, who giggles weakly. “You two had your fun! Now it’s time for the real pros to show you how it’s done!” They quickly position themselves, Yuqi over Soyeon’s still-ready strap-on, and Miyeon over your video-self’s miraculously still-hard, captive cock.

With surprising agility, they both flip around, now facing away from their respective mounts, their asses presented in glorious, high-definition reverse cowgirl. Miyeon settles onto your video-self’s still-impressively-hard cock, her back to his chest, her hands gripping his thighs for leverage. Yuqi, with a delighted squeal, does the same on Soyeon’s strap-on, her perfectly round cheeks flexing as she impales herself. Their asses, tight and sculpted, sway in perfect, mesmerizing rhythm, a decadent visual feast for your video-self and Soyeon, and by extension, for you and a gasping Tzuyu.

By the way, your mouth is a furnace of pleasure against Tzuyu’s swollen clit. She’s bucking against you, her fingers tangled so tightly in your hair you’re surprised she hasn’t ripped clumps out. The sight of those two perfect, jiggling asses on the screen, combined with the feeling of your tongue working its magic, is clearly pushing her towards an precipice.

“Oh my god… look at them… their asses…” Tzuyu pants, each word punctuated by a desperate writhe of her hips. “They’re just… grinding on them… so shameless… Yuqi’s ass on that… that thing… and Miyeon… on you…” She lets out a shuddering gasp as you slide your tongue deep into her slick folds, then suck hard on her clit. “It’s too much… watching them… feeling you… knowing it’s your cock she’s taking…”

“Does it make you wet, baby?” you murmur, your lips brushing against her ultra-sensitive nub, tasting her copious arousal. “Knowing my dick is buried deep inside another woman’s tight cunt, even on a screen? Knowing she’s using my helpless, cuffed body for her pleasure?” You give her a particularly long, slow lick, and she whimpers, her whole body quivering.

On screen, Miyeon is a goddess of motion, her hips rolling and grinding with a practiced, sensual skill that speaks of complete confidence in her sexual prowess. She’s taking your video-self’s entire length, her back arched, her head thrown back, a cascade of dark hair tumbling down her spine. Each downward thrust makes her moan, a low, throaty sound that vibrates through the speakers. Your video-self is groaning beneath her, his own hips trying to buck upwards, but his cuffed hands strain uselessly against the headboard. “Fuck, Miyeon… you feel… incredible…” he pants. “So tight… so fucking good… riding me like you own me…”

“Oh, I do own you right now, daddy,” Miyeon purrs, not even bothering to look back at him, her focus entirely on her own pleasure and the sensation of his thick cock filling her. “Every inch of you. Especially this big, helpless dick. You’re just my fucktoy, tied up and waiting to be used.” She grinds down hard, a wicked smirk on her lips.

Beside them, Yuqi is a whirlwind of energetic, almost frantic motion on Soyeon’s strap-on. She’s bouncing and bucking, her hair flying, her giggles and squeals a stark contrast to Miyeon’s more sultry moans. “Oh, mommy Soyeon! Your cock is so amazing!” Yuqi yelps. “It feels so real! I’m gonna ride you all night long! Harder, mommy, fuck me harder with that big purple monster!”

Soyeon, lying back with an amused, almost regal expression, occasionally reaches out to slap Yuqi’s bouncing ass. “That’s it, my little slut. Take mommy’s dick. Show me how much you love it. You’re such a good little whore for my cock, aren’t you?”

Minnie and Shuhua, now somewhat recovered from their own recent exertions, are propped up on pillows at the foot of the bed, watching the dual performance with rapt attention, occasionally reaching out to touch each other, their fingers tracing patterns on sweat-slick skin. “Damn, look at Miyeon,” Minnie says. “She’s going to break him. He’s completely at her mercy.”

Shuhua nods, her eyes wide and still a little glazed. “And Yuqi… she’s like a little jackrabbit. Soyeon-unnie is going to wear her out.” She giggles, then leans over and whispers something in Minnie’s ear that makes Minnie burst out laughing and slap her playfully.

Your tongue continues its devoted worship of Tzuyu’s cunt. You can feel her coiling tighter and tighter, her inner muscles clenching around an imaginary cock, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. “The way Miyeon’s talking to you… calling you her fucktoy…” Tzuyu pants. “And you… you just take it… you like it…”

“Being completely helpless while a beautiful woman uses my body for her pleasure?” you murmur against her clit, before giving it a sharp suck that makes her cry out. “What’s not to like, baby? The feeling of being utterly controlled, of surrendering completely… it’s a different kind of power. A different kind of ecstasy.”

“Fuck, baby… look at them…” Tzuyu pants as you momentarily lift your head, leaving a trail of her slickness on your chin. Your fingers immediately take over where your mouth left off, plunging deep into her soaking cunt. “The way they’re… using you… and Soyeon… Yuqi’s riding that… that purple cock like her life depends on it…”

“She’s always been an enthusiast, our little Yuqi,” you murmur. You can feel the tremors racking her body, the way her muscles clench around your invading fingers. “And Soyeon knows exactly how to push her buttons. Watch closely, Tzuyu. You might learn a thing or two about… buttons.” You dip your head again, your tongue darting out to lave her entire pussy before focusing once more on that pebble-hard nub, sucking it with a possessive force that makes her cry out.

On screen, Yuqi is indeed a blur of ecstatic motion, her small, tight ass bouncing furiously on Soyeon’s formidable strap-on. Sweat plasters her hair to her temples, and a continuous stream of high-pitched, breathless moans and giggles pours from her lips. “Oh, mommy Soyeon! Yes! YES! It’s so big! It fills me up so perfectly! You’re so much better than any real boy!” she shrieks, her eyes squeezed shut in pleasure. “Fuck me harder, mommy! Make your little slut scream!”

“Impatient little thing, aren’t you? You think you can handle mommy’s full attention? You want me to make you scream, Yuqi-ah? Are you sure you’re ready for what that entails?”

“Yes, mommy! Please!” Yuqi begs, her rhythm becoming even more frantic. “I’m so close! I can feel it! Just a little more! Please, Unnie, make me cum! I’ll do anything!”

Soyeon’s eyes narrow, a cruel, knowing glint appearing in their dark depths. “Anything, you say?” she purrs. Slowly, deliberately, she lifts her free hand, her fingers slick with Yuqi’s copious juices. She traces a line down Yuqi’s spine, making her shiver, then lower, over the swell of her ass cheeks. Yuqi lets out a confused, anticipatory whimper. Then, with a predatory smile, Soyeon slides her thumb directly into Yuqi’s tightly puckered, already clenching asshole.

Yuqi’s eyes fly wide open. A sound rips from her throat that’s unlike anything she’s uttered before; a raw, strangled shriek that’s part shock, part agony, and part the most intense pleasure imaginable. Her body goes completely rigid, her back arching like a bowstring, her ass grinding down onto the strap-on with a sudden, violent force as that unexpected, deeply invasive pressure on her backdoor catapults her into a different dimension of sensation. “Oh! My! Fuuuuuck! mommy! W-what are you doin—oh my fucking god, It's sooo good!”

“Just giving my good girl what she needs,” Soyeon murmurs, her thumb now working in slow, deliberate circles inside Yuqi’s ass, pressing against that sensitive, forbidden flesh. “You said you were close, didn’t you? mommy’s just… helping you find that special button.” She pushes her thumb a little deeper, and Yuqi’s screams dissolve into a series of shuddering, gasping sobs, her entire frame convulsing as an orgasm of seismic proportions tears through her. Her fluids gush down Soyeon’s thighs and the shaft of the strap-on, her body bucking and spasming uncontrollably for what feels like an eternity before she finally collapses, a boneless, whimpering heap, onto Soyeon’s chest.

Minnie and Shuhua, watching from the sidelines, are practically apoplectic with shared excitement. “Holy shit, did you see that?!” Minnie screeches, grabbing Shuhua’s arm. “Soyeon-unnie just fingered her ass while she was cumming! That’s… that’s genius! Evil genius!” Shuhua is speechless, her jaw slack, her eyes and a mischievous smile on her face.

Tzuyu, beneath you, is a trembling, overheated mess. Your tongue has been merciless, mirroring the intensity on screen, and the sight of Yuqi’s overwhelming, anally-stimulated orgasm has clearly resonated deep within her. “Her… her ass…” Tzuyu gasps. “Soyeon just… oh god… that looked so… intense. Yuqi’s face… I’ve never seen anyone come like that.” She twists her head, her eyes pleading, finding yours. “Does it… does it really feel that different? That… good?”

“It can, baby,” you murmur, your lips brushing her clit. “It’s a whole other set of nerves. A different kind of full. A different kind of… forbidden. Is that something you’re curious about now, Tzuyu? Feeling a finger… or more… sliding into your tight little backdoor while you come?” You don’t wait for an answer, just give her clit a possessive suck that makes her cry out, her hips bucking wildly.

Meanwhile, Miyeon has been methodically, relentlessly riding your video-self. Her pace is slower than Yuqi’s had been, more sensual, more controlled, but no less devastating. Each downward slide of her hips engulfs his cock completely, her inner muscles milking him. Your video-self is a wreck beneath her, his face contorted in a mask of helpless pleasure, his cuffed hands straining uselessly, his hips trying to meet her thrusts.

“Fuck, Miyeon… yes… don’t stop… you feel so fucking good…”

“Shhh, daddy,” Miyeon purrs as she grinds down on him, her eyes closed, lost in her own sensations. “Just lie there and take it. Let me use your helpless cock. Let me ride you until I’m satisfied. You’re all mine right now, aren’t you? My captive cock. My personal fuck machine.”

“Yes… fuck… yours…” he gasps, his control fraying rapidly. “Miyeon… please… I… I can’t hold back much longer… you’re too good… too tight…” His voice cracks, a note of genuine desperation creeping in. “If you keep this up… if you don’t slow down… I’m going to… I’m going to cum!” The warning is torn from him, a last-ditch effort to regain some semblance of control, but it’s clear he’s already lost.

Miyeon’s eyes snap open at his plea. But there is no concern in them, no hint of slowing down. Instead, a slow, wicked, utterly triumphant grin spreads across her beautiful, sweat-slicked face. She can feel his cock throbbing a desperate, frantic rhythm deep inside her, the unmistakable, tell-tale sign of his impending orgasm. She lets out a low, throaty laugh.

“Oh, are you now, my helpless little stud?” she purrs. “Perfect timing. Did I forget to mention? I’m ovulating. Right now. My eggs are just waiting, daddy. Begging for your hot seed.”

Before he can even process the terrifying implication, she deliberately, cruelly, increases her pace. Her hips become a furious, driving piston, her tight cunt clenching and unclenching around his straining shaft, milking him, torturing him. Each downward thrust is an explicit, possessive claiming of his body and his load.

“You think a warning is going to make me stop?” she grinds out, her own breath growing heavier. “Honey, that’s all the fucking encouragement I need! You’re not pulling out! You’re not going to waste a single drop!”

“Yes, unnie! Breed him!” Yuqi shrieks, practically bouncing with excitement. “Knock her up, daddy! Fill her womb with your baby batter!”

“Don’t you dare let him pull out, Miyeon!” Soyeon commands from her spot at the foot of the bed. “Ride that helpless cock until he blows his load! Make him give you every last drop! We want to see you leak his cum for days!”

Minnie claps her hands together, her eyes sparkling. "Put a baby in her, daddy! We can all be its aunties!"

“NO! Fuck! Miyeon! Please!” your video-self screams as he struggles uselessly against his cuffs, trying to pull away. But he is completely at her mercy. “I can’t… I’m gonna… FUCK!”

His desperate struggles only seem to fuel her. She rides him like a machine, her focus absolute, her body a perfect engine of pleasure. “That’s right, you fucking helpless stud!” she pants, her own pleasure building. “You’re going to shoot every last drop of your pathetic load deep inside me, right where I want it! You’re going to fill me up with your baby-making cum! You’re going to get me pregnant, and there’s not a damn thing you can do about it!”

His hips buck violently, uncontrollably, his entire body going rigid as his orgasm finally rips through him, a helpless, explosive torrent of hot, thick semen flooding her deep, welcoming cunt. He roars, his essence pumping into her again and again in a seemingly endless flood.

The hot gush of his seed inside her is the final push Miyeon needs. She throws her head back and screams in pure triumph, her own body convulsing around his erupting cock as she meets his powerful release with her own shattering orgasm. She rides out his final, fading pulses, her inner muscles milking him dry, a look of supreme, almost divine satisfaction on her face as she feels him fill her completely.

“YES! That's it, daddy! fill me!” she shrieks. “Coat my fucking womb with your hot cum! Make me your baby mama!”

She collapses next to him, a panting, trembling, blissed-out mess, their sweat-slick bodies clinging together. For a long moment, the only sounds are their ragged gasps for air and the faint, celebratory giggles from the other girls. After she catches her breath, Miyeon slowly pushes herself up, propping herself on her elbows to look down at his face. Her hair is a mess, her makeup is smeared, and she’s never looked more beautiful. A soft, gentle, loving smile replaces her predatory grin.

She leans down and presses a tender kiss to his lips. “Just kidding, daddy,” she whispers sweetly, eyes twinkling with affection. “I’m on the pill.”

The sight of your video-self, cuffed and helpless, being forced to cum so completely inside Miyeon, the raw, explicit words, the sheer, unadulterated triumph on Miyeon’s face as she takes his entire load… it’s the final, devastating blow to Tzuyu’s already crumbling defenses. Her body is a taut, vibrating bowstring against your mouth. Her own orgasm is a roaring inferno, a supernova of sensation threatening to consume her. “Oh, god… you… you came inside her… she made you…” she gasps. “I’m… I’m going to…”

And with a final, lingering, possessive suck on that engorged, pleading nub, you lift your head, pulling your mouth away from her just as the first tremors of her release begin to shake her core.

“N-no… please…” Tzuyu whimpers, her eyes flying open, wide and wild and desperate, staring at you in sheer, uncomprehending disbelief. Her body is still spasming, her breath catching in ragged, frustrated sobs. Sweat slicks her entire frame, her hair plastered to her temples, her chest heaving. She looks utterly debauched, completely undone, and more beautiful than you’ve ever seen her.

You lean close to her, your lips brushing against her ear. “Not yet, my sweet, greedy girl,” you whisper, your fingers still teasing the entrance to her slick, swollen cunt. “Patience. We have so, so much more to explore. You can’t possibly cum yet”

“No… you can’t… I was right there,” she whimpers. “Please, I need to… I need to cum. I can’t take it anymore. The heat… it’s unbearable. Please, baby, just… just let me finish.” She’s practically begging, her hips making small, involuntary rocking motions against your hand, chasing that phantom pleasure that you so cruelly snatched away.

You lean down, your face just inches from hers. You look every bit the villain from a dark romance novel, and you know she’s both terrified and impossibly turned on by it. “I know, my sweet girl. I know you were right there,” you whisper. “I felt you trembling. I tasted you on the edge. It was exquisite.” You lean in and capture her mouth in a deep, punishing kiss, your tongue plundering hers, taking her desperate gasps for your own. When you pull back, a string of saliva connects your lips. “But you can wait,” you state, not as a request, but as a fact.

“You can wait just a little longer. Because there’s still something else. Another piece of the puzzle. Another lesson you need to learn before you can truly let go.” You slide your fingers out of her, ignoring her pitiful whimper of protest, and reach for the laptop. “You have to hold on, Tzuyu. Trust me. Build it up. Let it simmer. Think about how good it’s going to feel when I finally, finally let you fall apart completely.”

She stares at you, her chest heaving, her mind reeling. Every instinct is screaming at her to protest, to demand release. But looking into your eyes, seeing the dark promise there, seeing the absolute certainty… a different, deeper part of her responds. A part that is realizing, with a terrifying thrill, that it loves being denied, that it craves this exquisite torture, that it wants to surrender completely to your control. With a shuddering sigh that’s more submission than resignation, she nods.

“Okay,” she whispers. “Okay… for you. I… I can take it.” She swallows, her gaze flicking down to her own glistening, still-throbbing cunt, then back to you. “But you’re right… when I finally do… it’s going to be… overwhelming.”

“That’s the whole point, baby,” you grin, clicking on a new video file. “Welcome to the next lesson.” You resettle yourself between her open, trembling thighs, but you don’t touch her. Not yet. You just let her watch.

The new video opens on a scene that’s immediately more playful and relaxed than the last. The five members of I-DLE (all of them already naked, as usual), are all lounging on the bed with your video-self, who is sitting in the middle of them, looking a little overwhelmed but amused. They’re all laughing, their energy bright and conspiratorial. Minnie turns to the camera, which appears to be on a tripod again. “Okay! Get ready for a very, very special feature presentation!” she chirps. “This is going to be absolutely wonderful, I promise!”

Shuhua and Miyeon are zeroed in on your video-self’s ass. He’s wearing a pair of tight boxer briefs, and they’re making no secret of their admiration. Miyeon runs a perfectly manicured hand over the firm curve of his left cheek, giving it a firm squeeze. “Mmm, seriously, daddy’s got the best ass,” she declares to the camera. “It’s so big and muscular. Perfectly shaped.”

Shuhua nods in vigorous agreement, poking his other cheek. “So yummy! It’s like two perfect, hard peaches! I just want to bite it!” She giggles, then actually leans in and nips him playfully through the fabric, making him yelp and the other girls laugh.

Tzuyu lets out a small, involuntary giggle of her own, a brief respite from her overwhelming arousal. She’s always loved your ass. It’s one of her favorite things about your body, a fact she’s told you many times, usually accompanied by a possessive squeeze or a playful slap when she thought no one was looking. Seeing these world-famous idols fawning over it in the exact same way sends a strange, proprietary thrill through her. “They’re not wrong,” she whispers, almost to herself, her eyes tracing the familiar lines of your body on the screen.

Soyeon claps her hands to get everyone’s attention. “Alright, alright, stop molesting the talent’s glutes,” she says, though a smirk plays on her lips. She turns to the camera, her expression turning theatrical. “Tonight, we’re going to prepare something really, really tasty. A brand-new recipe. You see, tonight… daddy is going to be our little girl.” The statement hangs in the air and, without giving anyone a moment to question it, she points a finger at your video-self. “On all fours. Now.”

Your video-self, with a look of resigned, almost eager submission, complies immediately, stripping off his boxer briefs and getting into position on the bed, his muscular, much-admired ass now perfectly, vulnerably presented to the camera.

Yuqi’s hand shoots up. “Ooh! Ooh! Can I prepare him, Unnie? Please? I’ll be so good at it!” she begs, practically bouncing on the mattress.

Soyeon grants her permission with a regal nod. As Yuqi scrambles into position behind your video-self, Miyeon moves to help, kneeling beside him and taking one of his ass cheeks in each of her hands, pulling them apart, spreading him wide open, exposing the tight, puckered little bud of his asshole to the camera.

Tzuyu goes completely still. Her breath catches in her throat. Her brain seems to short-circuit for a moment as it struggles to process what’s about to happen. She’s seen men’s asses in porn, of course, but it was always clinical, a detail on the screen, never the center of attention. This… this feels different. This is presentation. This is… worship. The sight of your asshole, so intimately, vulnerably exposed by Miyeon’s delicate hands, is something she never, ever conceived of seeing, let alone finding… arousing. But she can’t deny the sudden, sharp jolt of heat that shoots straight to her core.

Yuqi leans in, her face close to his exposed flesh, her own expression a mixture of intense curiosity and playful glee. She licks her lips, then, without any further hesitation, she presses her mouth against him and her tongue darts out, delivering a wet, exploratory lick right across his asshole.

Your video-self lets out a choked gasp, his entire body jolting from the unexpected, intensely intimate sensation. Yuqi giggles against his skin, then settles in, her tongue now working with a surprising expertise, lapping and swirling, dipping and tasting.

“That’s it, Yuqi-ah,” Soyeon purrs, watching with a satisfied, almost clinical interest. “Do a good job. Leave him nice and wet for me. mommy doesn’t like to work with dry ingredients.”

Tzuyu is utterly paralyzed. The sight is so far beyond anything she’s ever imagined, it’s like her brain has been wiped clean and rewritten with this one, singular, taboo image. You. Her boyfriend. The man she loves. On all fours, ass spread wide, being eaten out by a beautiful K-pop idol. It should be weird. It should be gross. But it’s not. It’s… undeniably, terrifyingly, incredibly fucking hot. The sheer power dynamic, the role reversal, the vulnerability of your position contrasted with the eager worship of Yuqi’s mouth… it’s captivating. It’s amazing.

As if sensing her mind being blown, you finally move, sliding your hand back between her thighs. You gently part her slick folds and slide two fingers inside her, beginning a slow, almost lazy rhythm, a stark contrast to the frantic energy of moments before. You’re not trying to push her over the edge now; you’re simply reminding her you’re there, grounding her in this new, bewildering sea of sensation.

In the video, your video-self is groaning, his head pressed into the mattress, his voice a strained, breathless thing. “Oh, fuck… Yuqi… holy shit…” he gasps. “Your tongue… it feels… oh my god, that feels so fucking good.”

Yuqi giggles again, her voice muffled against his skin. “Mmm, you taste good, daddy! Salty and so… manly! I love it!” She seems to be having the time of her life, her tongue becoming bolder, more insistent. She’s not just licking now; she’s sucking, her lips creating a gentle pressure around his asshole, her tongue darting inside with quick, shocking little probes that make him cry out. “I’m gonna make you so wet for mommy Soyeon! You’re gonna be my favorite lollipop!”

“Fuck, yes… lick me…” he moans. “Eat my ass, you good little slut…” His hips are starting to rock, an unconscious, helpless movement in time with her relentless tongue. The scene is one of pure, unadulterated, gender-bending taboo, and Tzuyu, despite her initial paralysis, is drinking in every single, filthy, mind-altering second.

“That’s it, Yuqi-ah, get right in there,” Miyeon encourages. “Don’t miss a single spot. We need him to be perfect for Soyeon-unnie.” She leans closer to your video-self’s ear, her hot breath ghosting against his skin. “You feel that, daddy? You feel her tongue all over your little hole? You like being mommy’s good little girl, don’t you? Getting your pussy eaten out for her?”

Your video-self can only manage a series of choked, guttural moans, his head buried in the plush duvet, his hips making small, involuntary circles, chasing the incredible sensation. “Fuck… yes… feels so… holy shit, Yuqi…” he gasps out with a pleasure so intense it’s borderline painful. “Your mouth… it’s… heaven… Don’t you ever stop, please…”

“Never, daddy!” Yuqi’s muffled voice promises from between his cheeks. She pulls back for a second, a mischievous grin on her face, a glistening sheen of saliva on her lips. “Your ass is the most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted! I could do this all day!” She dives back in with renewed vigor, her tongue now tracing the rim of his asshole with maddening precision before plunging as deep as it can go, eliciting a sharp, high-pitched cry of pure bliss from him.

Tzuyu watches, utterly transfixed, her body a strange mixture of rigid paralysis and trembling, uncontrolled arousal. Your fingers are still moving inside her, a slow, deep, almost lazy rhythm that does nothing to quell the raging fire inside her, but instead seems to stoke it, spreading it to every corner of her body. The sight on the screen is just so… alien. So taboo. Yet, the sounds of your video-self’s unrestrained pleasure are undeniable, and they’re resonating with something deep inside her, something she never knew existed.

While the main event continues, the camera’s wide shot captures a secondary scene unfolding. Soyeon is sitting up, now holding the formidable black strap-on dildo. Minnie and Shuhua are beside her, their roles now that of dutiful handmaidens preparing their queen for battle. “Okay, hold it steady,” Soyeon commands, and Minnie holds the base of the dildo while Shuhua helps Soyeon adjust the leather straps of the harness, pulling them tight around her lean hips.

“Wow, Unnie, it's even bigger than the old one!” Shuhua says as she runs a finger down the thick, veiny shaft of the dildo. “Are you really going to put all of that inside him?”

Minnie giggles, her eyes sparkling. “Of course she is! She’s going to make him scream! He won’t be able to walk straight for a week after mommy gets done with his little boy-pussy!”

Soyeon just smirks, a look of supreme confidence on her face as she cinches the final buckle. “He’ll take every inch,” she says. “And he’ll beg me for more. He always begs for more.”

Tzuyu gaze snaps from the screen to your face, then back again. Her own fingers come up to her lips, as if to stifle the words, but they tumble out anyway, a shocked, hesitant whisper.

“Wait…” she breathes. “You… the way Soyeon is talking… that thing she’s putting on… have you… have you already done this before? Has she… has she actually fucked your ass?”

You look into her eyes, seeing the genuine, almost fearful curiosity there. You give her a slow, knowing smile. “You’re a quick study, baby,” you murmur. You decide she’s earned more than a simple yes or no. She’s earned the story. “The very first time they decided I was going to be their ‘stress reliever’… this was part of the initiation. My final test, Soyeon called it.”

You resume your fingering, your pace matching the cadence of your story, each stroke a punctuation mark, each circular rub of your thumb on her clit a deep, thrumming underscore. “I was just as nervous as Shuhua was in that other video. Maybe more so. The idea of it… of being penetrated… it was completely alien. Terrifying, honestly.” Tzuyu’s eyes are locked on yours, her entire being focused on your words, her body unconsciously absorbing the narrative.

“They had me tied down, just like in that other video, but to a different bed, with silk scarves,” you continue. “Soyeon stood over me, wearing a strap-on similar to that one, only smaller, looking like some kind of dark goddess. She lubed me up herself, her fingers so slow, so deliberate. I was trembling, my heart was hammering against my ribs, I was so scared of the pain.” You can see Tzuyu’s own body tense in sympathy, her breath hitching. “And the beginning… it did hurt. A sharp, burning pressure, like I was going to split in two. I begged her to stop.”

“But she didn’t, did she?” Tzuyu whispers.

“No,” you say. “She didn’t. She held me down, whispered in my ear that I was her property, that my body was hers to use, and that I would learn to love it. And then… she pushed past the pain.” Your fingers inside Tzuyu mimic this, pushing just a little deeper, stretching her in a way that makes her gasp, a sound that’s half protest, half plea for more. “And once she was all the way inside me… god, Tzuyu… the pain just… melted away. It was replaced by this feeling of incredible… fullness. A pressure that wasn’t painful anymore, but deeply, profoundly pleasurable. It hit a spot deep inside me I never even knew existed. A man’s g-spot, I guess.”

You can feel Tzuyu’s pussy getting impossibly wetter, her juices flowing freely over your hand. Her hips are starting to move again, a slow, instinctive rocking. “Every time she thrusted, it was like a jolt of pure pleasure. It was overwhelming. I was completely at her mercy, completely filled by her, dominated in the most absolute way imaginable. And when I came… it wasn’t like a normal orgasm. It was deeper, coming from the very core of my body. It shattered me.” You lean in, your lips brushing hers. “I’ve never felt anything like it. And yes, baby… I fucking loved it.”

Tzuyu lets out a long, shuddering moan. “Oh my god,” she breathes, her eyes glazed over, a universe of newfound desire swirling in their depths. “To feel that… to be that full… that… helpless…” Her voice trails off, but her body says the rest, her cunt clenching desperately around your fingers, her hips bucking with a renewed, urgent need.

On the laptop, Yuqi is reaching the grand finale of her task. She’s been meticulous, her tongue laving every inch of your video-self’s flesh, her lips sucking and tasting, leaving him a moaning, quivering mess. The other girls are cheering her on, a chorus of lewd encouragement. “That’s it, Yuqi-ah! He’s sparkling!” Minnie yells. “I think he’s ready for the main course!” Miyeon adds, finally releasing his ass cheeks, which are now flushed a delicate pink.

Yuqi pulls back one last time. She turns to give a thumbs-up to a waiting, now fully-harnessed Soyeon. “All done, mommy!” she declares, voice ringing with pride. “I made him extra wet and ready for you! His little boy-pussy is practically begging for your big cock now!”

Your video-self is still on all fours, his ass glistening under the hotel room lights, his body trembling with the aftershocks of Yuqi’s talented tongue. On the bed beside him, Soyeon rises like a predator, the formidable black strap-on jutting from her hips, a clear and present threat. Her eyes are locked onto your video-self’s vulnerable, presented form.

Tzuyu, mesmerized, watches it all unfold, her breath caught somewhere in her chest. The story you just told her, of your own first time being pegged, is still echoing in her mind, layering a new, deeply personal context over the scene.

Soyeon stalks towards your video-self. She doesn’t rush. Every movement is deliberate, a testament to her absolute control. She picks up the bottle of lube from the bedside table and squirts a generous amount onto the head of her strap-on, rubbing it in with a slow, circular motion that is both practical and intensely provocative. Then, she kneels behind your video-self, her knees bracketing his thighs, claiming the space, owning him. She applies more lube directly to his ass, her fingers callously smearing the cold, slick gel over the sensitive, puckered flesh that Yuqi had so lovingly warmed up. Your video-self flinches, a choked gasp escaping him.

“Shhh,” Soyeon whispers. “mommy’s just making sure it’s nice and easy for you to take what you deserve.” She leans forward, pressing her body against his back, her firm breasts against his straining shoulder blades. “But don’t get me wrong. This won’t be easy. This is your purpose now. Your only purpose. To be a hole for my cock. Do you understand, my sweet little girl?”

“Yes… yes, mommy,” your video-self chokes out. “I understand… please… I’m ready for you…”

The other four girls have arranged themselves into a willing audience at the foot of the bed, a beautiful, tangled tableau of glistening limbs and hungry eyes. Minnie and Shuhua are curled up together, Minnie’s arm draped possessively over Shuhua’s waist, her fingers already starting to ghost over Shuhua’s breasts. Miyeon and Yuqi are sitting cross-legged, facing each other, so close their knees are touching, their hands already finding their own clits, their gazes locked on the impending penetration.

“Oh my god, she’s really going to do it,” Yuqi breathes. “She’s going to break him.”

Miyeon just nods, a slow, languid smile spreading across her face. “He’s going to love every second of it. And so are we.”

Soyeon positions the thick, intimidating head of the strap-on against his asshole. She pushes, just a little at first, stretching the entrance, making him gasp and clench. “Relax,” she commands. “Take a deep breath and open up for me. That’s a good girl.” Then, with a single, smooth, powerful thrust of her hips, she drives the dildo deep inside him.

Your video-self screams, a raw, piercing sound that’s equal parts pain and overwhelming, soul-shattering pleasure. His back arches violently, his entire body locked in a state of sensory overload. Soyeon holds him there for a moment, letting him feel the incredible fullness, the reality of her invasion, before slowly pulling out almost completely and then thrusting back in, this time even deeper.

Tzuyu lets out a sharp, choked cry, her own cunt clenching violently around your fingers. You feel the shift in her, the last vestiges of fear and hesitation being utterly annihilated by a tidal wave of raw, unfiltered lust. This is what she wanted to see. This is what she needed to feel. You increase the pace of your fingering, your movements becoming harder, faster, more demanding, matching the brutal, relentless rhythm Soyeon is establishing on screen.

“I… love this,” Tzuyu gasps, the confession torn from her, raw and honest. “Oh my god, baby… I love watching this. Hearing you… hearing you moan like that… so… so helpless under her…” Her hips are bucking against your hand now, a frantic, desperate rhythm. “It’s making me so fucking wet… please, don’t stop…”

“I wasn’t planning on it,” you groan . Seeing her like this, so open, so shamelessly enthralled by your submission, is an incredible turn-on. “God, Tzuyu, I love seeing you discover this side of yourself. So honest. So fucking horny. It’s the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.” Your fingers plunge deeper, faster, and she screams your name, her head thrashing on the pillows.

Soyeon is a machine. She’s fucking your video-self with a steady, punishing rhythm, her hips working with a tireless, athletic power. Her face is a mask of intense concentration, her body slick with a fine sheen of sweat. With every thrust, she whispers a fresh litany of humiliation into his ear. “That’s it, my little cunt… take mommy’s cock… every fucking inch… You were born for this, weren’t you? Just a hole for me to use… a pretty little thing for my girls to watch while I break you…”

“Yes, mommy! Thank you, mommy!” your video-self chants. “Please… fuck me harder… humiliate me… I’m nothing without your cock in my ass… nothing…”

The other girls are a chorus of moans and gasps. The sight of their powerful leader so thoroughly dominating their shared plaything has sent them into a frenzy of self-pleasure. Miyeon and Yuqi are now openly masturbating, their hands a blur against their pussies, their heads thrown back, their eyes glazed over. “Fuck, look at her go…” Miyeon pants. “She’s pounding him so hard… he’s taking it all…”

Minnie and Shuhua are no longer just touching. Minnie has Shuhua’s nipple in her mouth, sucking hard, while her other hand is rubbing Shuhua’s clit with a frantic energy. Shuhua is grinding against Minnie’s hand, her own fingers tangled in Minnie’s hair, her moans harmonizing with the rhythmic slap of Soyeon’s thighs against your video-self’s ass.

Soyeon changes the angle, pulling out slightly and then driving back in from the side, a move that hits a different spot, a deeper spot, and elicits a whole new level of screaming from your video-self. She starts slapping his ass in time with her thrusts, the sharp, stinging slaps leaving angry red welts on his already flushed skin. “You feel that?!” she grunts, her own breathing growing heavier. “That’s me marking you! You’re mine! My property! My fuck-slut! Now scream for me! Scream so all my pretty girls can hear how much you love being mommy’s little bitch!”

He obliges, his screams echoing through the room, a raw, uninhibited testament to his complete and utter surrender. The sight, the sounds, the sheer, overwhelming intensity of the scene is pushing Tzuyu to the absolute brink. Her entire body is coiled tight, a spring of pure, unadulterated sexual energy. Her moans are constant now, her pussy clenching and unclenching around your fingers with a desperate, frantic rhythm. She’s closer than she’s ever been, her world narrowing to the sight of your submission on the screen and the feeling of your relentless fingers inside her. She can feel the orgasm building, a massive, unstoppable wave cresting within her, promising a release so powerful it might just tear her apart.

Soyeon is fucking your video-self with a brutal, commanding rhythm, each thrust of her hips a clear statement of ownership, each slap of the thick strap-on against his ass a punctuation mark in her sermon of dominance.

The other girls are a beautiful, writhing chorus of encouragement. They’ve formed a sort of decadent daisy chain at the foot of the bed, a tangle of limbs and glistening skin. Miyeon is lying on her back, her legs spread wide, while Yuqi kneels between them, her mouth working skillfully on Miyeon’s clit. Minnie, in turn, is eating out Yuqi from behind, her tongue a blur of motion, while Shuhua, with a dreamy, blissed-out expression, is stroking both Minnie’s and her own cunt, her fingers slick with their combined juices. Their moans are a constant, rising tide of sound that washes over the room.

Tzuyu is lost. Your fingers are a relentless engine inside her, her own juices making your every movement slick and effortless. Her mind is reeling, trying to process the sheer, overwhelming depravity on the screen. She has never imagined sex could be like this; so layered, so performative, so utterly devoid of shame and so full of raw, intricate power dynamics. She’s watching you, the man she loves, being systematically broken down and remade into a pleasure object, and every fiber of her being is screaming with an arousal so profound it borders on spiritual.

Soyeon leans forward, her body flush against your video-self’s sweat-slick back. She grabs a handful of his hair, yanking his head back so he’s forced to look over his shoulder, his eyes wide and pleading, locking with hers. She doesn’t break her rhythm, the thick shaft of the dildo continuing its merciless assault on his prostate.

“You feel that, you little bitch?” Soyeon snarls. “That’s my cock, buried deep in your ass. That’s my power filling you up, stretching you out, making you scream.” She thrusts deeper, a vicious, punishing movement that makes him cry out, a sharp, piercing sound. “You used to be the daddy, didn’t you? Strutting around, thinking your big dick made you the king. Well, look at you now.” She yanks his head back harder, forcing a choked sob from his lips. “You’re on all fours, taking my cock like the good little girl you are. Your dick is useless. You are no longer the daddy here.” She pauses, letting the words sink in, then delivers the final, devastating blow. “Now, I’m the daddy. And you’re just my pretty little fuck-slut. Say it.”

Your video-self is sobbing now, tears of humiliation and overwhelming ecstasy streaming down his face. “Yes…” he chokes out. “Yes… you’re the daddy… mommy Soyeon is my daddy now…”

Tzuyu's whole body convulses, a violent, full-body tremor that has nothing to do with an orgasm and everything to do with her mind being utterly, completely blown. “Oh my god,” she breathes. “She’s… she’s your daddy now… you’re… you’re her bitch…”

“Yes, mommy is your daddy!” Yuqi cheers, words muffled by Miyeon’s thigh. She pops her head up for a second, her face flushed, her lips glistening. “Fuck him, daddy Soyeon! Fuck our little bitch until he forgets his own name!”

Miyeon groans as Yuqi’s tongue finds her clit again, but she manages to add her own encouragement. “Look at him, unnie… taking your cock so perfectly… He was made for this… made to be your girl…”

Soyeon, fueled by their worship and your video-self’s complete submission, grins, a terrifyingly beautiful sight. “That’s right, my pretty whores. He was made for me.” She begins to fuck him with a renewed, almost demonic energy, her thrusts so deep and powerful it looks like she’s trying to split him in two. He’s screaming with every impact, a continuous, high-pitched wail of agonizing pleasure, his body completely at her mercy. “You love being daddy’s little girl, don’t you?!” she roars over his screams. “You love the way my cock feels, stretching out that tight little hole of yours! You’re going to beg me to cum, aren’t you? You’re going to beg daddy to fill you up with her love!”

“Please, daddy! Please, mommy!” he shrieks, his mind clearly too fractured to keep the honorifics straight. “Please fuck me! Don’t ever stop! I'll do anything! I'm yours!”

The sight is too much. The sounds are too much. Tzuyu is completely gone, lost in a world of pleasure and sensation so intense it’s rewriting her very DNA. She’s no longer just watching; she’s participating, her own mind casting her in the scene. She imagines it’s her with the strap-on, you on all fours beneath her, screaming her name, calling her daddy. The fantasy is so vivid, so powerful, that it makes her forget to breathe.

“I… I want to be your daddy too,” she whispers, the confession a hot, shocking secret against your ear. “Oh god, baby, I want to tie you up… I want to make you my bitch… I want to fuck your ass and make you scream my name…”

Your fingers start to go deeper inside her, your thumb rubbing her clit incessantly. You’re pushing her, driving her, determined to take her right to the very edge of that overwhelming release she so desperately craves. On the screen, Soyeon is reaching her own crescendo, her movements becoming faster, more frantic. Your video-self is clearly on the verge of a powerful, helpless orgasm, his whole body trembling on the brink of release. The entire room is a pressure cooker of sexual energy about to explode. Tzuyu is right there with them, her own explosion imminent, her body coiling for a release that promises to be nothing short of transcendent.

Soyeon is a beautiful, demonic engine of pleasure, her hips a relentless piston driving the strap-on deep into your video-self’s ass. Her face is flushed with exertion and sheer, unadulterated power, a triumphant smirk plastered on her lips. Your video-self is completely undone, a mess of sweat and tears and raw, uninhibited screams, his body arching with every brutal, punishing thrust.

Your own fingers are a blur inside a soaking, trembling Tzuyu. You’ve increased your speed to a frantic, almost punishing pace, your digits pistoning in and out of her slick, swollen cunt. The sounds are incredible: the wet, sloppy noises of your hand working her, her own ragged, desperate gasps, and the soundtrack of filth pouring from the laptop speakers. Her entire body is shaking, violent tremors that speak of a pleasure so intense it’s borderline unbearable. She’s so, so close, her inner walls clenching and unclenching around your fingers with a desperate, frantic rhythm.

On screen, Soyeon is leaning in, her lips right next to your video-self’s ear. “You feel that, my little girl? You feel my cock rearranging your insides? You’re so close to shooting your pathetic little load, aren’t you? I can feel you twitching around my dick, begging to be allowed to cum.” She pulls out almost completely, then slams back into him with a force that makes him shriek, a raw, high-pitched sound of pure sensory overload. “But you don’t get to cum until daddy says so. You’re going to beg for it first.”

“I’m… I’m close…” your video-self sobs.

“I’m close too!” Tzuyu cries out, her hips bucking wildly against your hand, her eyes squeezed shut. “Oh my god, baby, please, I can’t… I can’t hold on!”

You lean down, your lips brushing against her ear, your hot breath contrasting to the cool sweat on her skin. Your fingers don’t slow, they maintain their maddening, relentless pace, holding her right on that razor’s edge. “Wait,” you whisper. “Just a little longer, Tzuyu. Hold on for me. I want you to feel this with me. I want you to come with your boyfriend. Wait for my signal.”

A frustrated, desperate sob escapes her lips, but she nods, her body coiling even tighter, a spring of pure sexual energy wound to its absolute breaking point. She’s trusting you, surrendering her own release to your control, and the knowledge of it makes your own cock strain painfully in your jeans.

The other girls in the video are reaching a fever pitch. Their collective masturbation has become a frantic, desperate race, their moans and cries a chaotic chorus of pure lust. “Fuck, Unnie, I’m gonna cum just watching you destroy him!” Miyeon shriek.

“He’s taking it so well!” Minnie adds, her face buried between Shuhua’s thighs. “Look at his ass, just eating up daddy Soyeon’s cock!”

Soyeon seems to draw power from their worship. She looks down at your video-self, a final, triumphant, almost benevolent smile on her face. “You hear that, my sweet little bitch? You’ve been so good for me. So obedient. You’ve taken my cock, you’ve taken my name, you’ve screamed so prettily for all my girls.” She gives him one last, deep, soul-shattering thrust. “Alright. I’m feeling generous. You can have it now. No more holding back. Let it all go for me. Cum for me now! Cum for your daddy!”

That’s the signal.

As your video-self on screen lets out a final, earth-shattering scream, his entire body locking up, his back arching off the bed in a violent, uncontrollable spasm as his prostate is mercilessly milked by Soyeon’s relentless fucking. His cock, untouched all this time, erupts, shooting a huge load that makes the girls around the bed gasp with delight and surprise.… you give Tzuyu one final, deep, powerful thrust with your fingers, hitting her G-spot with unerring accuracy, while your thumb grinds down hard on her clit.

“Now, Tzuyu!” you roar. “Cum for me!”

Her control shatters. It doesn’t just break; it fucking disintegrates. A sound rips from her throat that you have never heard before, a raw, primal scream that’s less human and more pure, elemental force. Her eyes roll back in her head, the whites completely showing, and her body bows upwards, rigid and vibrating.

And then, she squirts.

It’s not a trickle, not a small gush. It’s a fucking torrent. A hot, powerful jet of her clear, musky fluid erupts from her, soaking your hand, your wrist, the bedsheets beneath her, the floorboards, even spattering against the laptop screen. It's a shocking, explosive, utterly uninhibited release that seems to go on and on. Her body is wracked with violent, full-body convulsions, each one sending another powerful gush of liquid out of her, her heels digging into the mattress, her toes curling. She’s screaming your name, or maybe just screaming, her mind completely lost in the white-hot intensity of the most powerful orgasm of her entire life.

You don’t stop. You keep your fingers moving inside her, a steady presence amidst the storm, feeling the incredible, pulsing contractions of her inner walls milking your digits, feeling the hot spray of her release coating your entire hand. The sight is breathtaking, the sound is intoxicating, the feeling is sublime. “That’s it, baby!” you shout over her screams. “Let it all out! Look at you! Look at what you’re doing! You’re so fucking beautiful! Keep going! Give me all of it!”

Your encouragement seems to push her even further, her convulsions intensifying, another wave of fluid soaking the already drenched sheets. She’s completely gone, a vessel of pure, unadulterated pleasure, her body finally, finally getting the release it has been so desperately craving.

On the screen, your video-self collapses, a spent, shuddering mess, his own orgasm leaving him completely boneless, a satisfied, triumphant Soyeon still buried deep inside him. The other girls are similarly reaching their own peaks, their cries joining the chaotic symphony before they too collapse into a panting, glistening pile of limbs.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, Tzuyu’s convulsions begin to subside, her screams tapering off into long, shuddering, breathless moans. Her body goes limp, slumping back against the wet sheets, her chest heaving, her eyes still fluttering behind her closed lids. You slowly, gently, withdraw your fingers from her, the sound a wet, sloppy squelch. Your hand is utterly drenched, dripping with her cum, the musky, sweet scent of her climax filling the air.

You look down at your hand, then back at her beautiful, flushed, utterly wrecked face. A slow, possessive grin spreads across your lips. Without a word, you lift your hand to your mouth. You look her right in the eyes as you slowly, deliberately, suck your first finger into your mouth, cleaning it of her essence with your tongue. You then move to the next, and the next, until your entire hand is clean.

“Mmm,” you hum. “Delicious. The best you’ve ever tasted, baby.” You lean down and give her a slow, deep kiss, letting her taste herself on your tongue. “My good, messy girl.”

Tzuyu is a beautiful ruin on the bed, her body limp and boneless, drenched in a sheen of sweat and the evidence of her own explosive release. She’s panting, shallow, ragged breaths that do little to slow the frantic, triumphant hammering of her heart against her ribs. Her head is spinning, the room tilting slightly, the only anchor in her sea of sensation being your continued presence, your scent, your warmth. The aftershocks of her orgasm are still rolling through her, little phantom pulses that make her muscles twitch and her cunt clench weakly. She has never, in her entire life, felt anything remotely close to that level of absolute, soul-shattering oblivion.

You lean over her, brushing a stray, sweat-soaked strand of hair from her flushed cheek. “Hey,” you murmur. “How are you doing, baby? You with me?”

It takes her a moment to form words, her brain still trying to reboot, to piece together the scattered fragments of her consciousness. A slow, languid, utterly boneless smile spreads across her face, her eyes fluttering open to look at you. They’re glazed over, her pupils huge and dark, swimming with a mixture of exhaustion and pure, unadulterated bliss. “Oh my god,” she breathes. She lets out a soft, airy giggle. “I feel… amazing. I don’t think… I don’t think I’ve ever come that hard before. Ever.” She giggles again, the sound a little stronger this time. “Wow. I’ve never felt so good in my entire life.”

On the screen, Soyeon, with a tired but triumphant smile, finally dismounts. Her formidable strap-on glistens under the lights, slick with lube and the residue of her conquest. Your video-self is a collapsed, shuddering heap on the mattress. The other girls swarm the bed, a pack of beautiful, hungry wolves descending on the spoils.

“Oh my god, look at the mess daddy made!” Yuqi squeals, her eyes wide with greedy delight as she crawls onto the bed. “Soyeon-unnie, you really broke him! He shot his load everywhere!” Without a moment’s hesitation, she dives face-first into the puddle on the sheets, her tongue eagerly lapping at the thick, creamy seed. “Mmm! So yummy! Tastes the best right after you fuck his ass!”

Minnie is right beside her, giggling as she shoves Yuqi’s head playfully. “Don’t hog it all, you little!” She lowers her own head, her tongue darting out to lick a large glob of semen directly from the sheet. “Oh, wow. He’s so warm. And so thick today! You really did wring him out, Unnie!”

Miyeon joins the feast. She kneels elegantly on the bed, her long hair cascading around her as she delicately licks the edges of the puddle, savoring it. “He always makes the biggest loads for us after Soyeon-unnie reminds him of his place,” she purrs, a knowing look on her face. “It’s like she unlocks something deep inside him.” She looks over at your video-self’s still-trembling form. “You liked that, didn’t you, baby? Being mommy’s little girl and making a big mess for your sisters to clean up?”

Your video-self can only manage a choked, pathetic whimper in response, his face still buried in the pillows.

Meanwhile, Shuhua, with an expression of pure, undiluted worship, tends to the victorious Soyeon. She carefully unbuckles the leather straps of the harness, her fingers moving with a gentle reverence. As the strap-on comes free, Shuhua’s eyes fixate on its glistening shaft before she leans in and gives the tip a shy, exploratory lick, tasting the mixture of lube and his essence. Her eyes flutter shut in bliss.

Tzuyu’s gaze flicks from the screen back to you, she reaches up, her hand cupping your cheek, her thumb gently stroking your skin. “Hey,” she says. “Thank you.”

“For what, baby?” you ask, leaning into her touch, covering her hand with your own. “For the orgasm?”

She shakes her head, a small, definite movement. “For all of it. For not running away when I found the videos. For calming me down and explaining everything to me. For not making me feel ashamed when you caught me. For… for showing me all of this. For helping me see that… it’s okay to like these things. To want these things. Thank you for not judging me… and for helping me explore.”

“Tzuyu, I’m the one who should be thanking you. I was terrified when I saw you with that flash drive. I thought… I thought you’d look at me like I was some kind of monster. So thank you for not judging my past. I’m just… so fucking glad you liked what you saw. So glad I get to share this with you.”

A determined fire ignites in her eyes. The shy, hesitant girl from an hour ago is gone, replaced by a woman who has stared into the abyss of her own desires and found it beautiful. “I meant it, you know,” she says. “When I said I wanted to explore these things with you. All of it. The spanking, the anal… the… the daddy thing…” A faint blush colors her cheeks at that last part, but she doesn’t look away. “I think it’s time to spice things up. I’m tired of vanilla sex, baby. I want the whole damn sundae, with all the weird, kinky toppings.”

Hearing her say that, so confidently, so eagerly, is like pouring gasoline on the fire of your own arousal. Your cock, which has been straining painfully against your jeans for what feels like an eternity, gives a hard, demanding throb. “I love hearing you say that more than you can possibly imagine,” you groan. You kiss her again. Then, you pull back. “So… what do you think about us starting this new chapter… right now?”

Her eyes widen slightly, her lips still tingling from your kiss. “Now?” she asks, a hint of her old uncertainty creeping in. “How?”

In response, you push yourself off the bed and stand up. You’re fully clothed, but the tent in your jeans is stark, aggressive, and impossible to ignore. From her vantage point, lying in the glorious, sticky mess of her own making on the bed, you look impossibly tall, powerful, and overwhelmingly desirable.

“Watching those videos with you… hearing you get so turned on… feeling your pussy get so wet for me… seeing you come apart like that…” You take a step closer to the bed, your hand gesturing towards your crotch. “It’s made me really, really fucking horny, Tzuyu. And that first video we watched… the one where they were all begging for my cum on their faces…” You let the sentence hang in the air, your eyes locked on hers. “I want it so bad right now, baby. I want to shoot my load all over your beautiful face. What do you think about getting a proper facial… as your first official act as a certified kinky girl?”

She stares at you, her mouth slightly agape, her mind processing the sudden, intense proposition. This is different. This isn’t watching. This isn’t even her receiving pleasure. This is her giving it, in a way that’s messy, and intense, and so far beyond the simple, clean sex they’ve had before. For a moment, you see a flicker of fear, of hesitation. And then… it’s gone.

“Yeah,” she breathes. “I think that’s a very good idea.”

With a newfound grace that’s almost startling, she pushes herself up and slides off the bed, completely unbothered by her nudity or the slickness on her thighs. She walks towards you, her eyes never leaving yours, and slowly, deliberately, sinks to her knees in front of you. The sight of her, a beautiful, powerful goddess kneeling in submission, ready to worship you, almost makes your knees buckle.

Her hands, still slightly trembling but now full of purpose, reach for the button of your jeans. She unfastetches it, then slowly pulls down the zipper, her knuckles brushing against the rigid length of your cock through the fabric. She peels the denim down your thighs, then hooks her thumbs into the waistband of your boxer briefs, pulling them down too.

Your cock springs free, thick, heavy, and magnificent, veins standing out like cords of steel along the shaft, a glistening bead of precum already welling at the slit in the head. It pulses with a life of its own, a testament to the hours of intense arousal you’ve endured.

Tzuyu lets out a soft, appreciative gasp, her eyes wide with a mixture of awe and hunger. She reaches out a tentative hand, her fingers barely grazing the tip, before leaning forward. Her hot breath ghosts over your sensitive flesh, and then, with a reverence that makes your toes curl, she presses her soft lips to the head of your cock, kissing the bead of precum away, her tongue darting out to lick the spot clean. The taste, salty and uniquely you, makes her shiver.

Her hand, so delicate yet surprisingly strong, wraps around the base of your thick, pulsing cock. Her skin is soft, her grip firm yet tentative at first. She looks up at you, her dark eyes wide with concentration, and a raw, burgeoning hunger that makes your knees feel weak. A small, confident smile plays on her lips as she gives you a slow, experimental stroke, her thumb rubbing over the thick vein that runs along your shaft.

“Oh, wow,” she whispers.. “I think I've never seen it so... hard.. So alive.”

“Feels good, doesn’t it, baby?” you groan, your head tilting back, your eyes fluttering shut for a moment to savor the feeling. “Your hand on my cock… it’s perfect.”

That little bit of praise is all the encouragement she needs. She finds her groove, her hand sliding up and down your shaft with an increasing, purposeful speed. The sound of her skin sliding over your own, lubricated by the steady bead of precum, fills the quiet room. She’s watching your face intently, her eyes tracking your every reaction, learning what you like, her own arousal building with every twitch of your thigh, every ragged gasp you let out.

“You’re so big,” she pants, her knuckles brushing against your balls with every downward stroke, sending shivers of delight through you. “I can barely fit my hand around you. I love it. I love feeling how hard I’m making you.”

She leans forward, her free hand coming to rest on your thigh for balance, her hair falling around her face like a dark curtain. She kisses the head of your cock again, her tongue darting out to swirl around the sensitive slit before taking you into her mouth for a deep, wet suck that makes your hips buck involuntarily. She pulls off with a wet sound, her lips glistening, and looks up at you through her lashes, a look of pure, unadulterated lust on her face.

“God, you taste so good,” she murmurs, before resuming her relentless, skillful stroking. “I can’t wait… I can’t wait to taste the rest of you. I want it so bad, baby. Please… I’ve been so good, haven’t I? I’ve waited. Now I want my reward.”

Her words, the sight of her kneeling before you, so beautiful, so willing, so utterly consumed by this shared, filthy desire, is pushing you closer to the edge. Her hand is a blur now, her wrist working with a surprising stamina, her grip impossibly perfect. You can feel the familiar, deep pull in your balls, the tell-tale sign that you’re getting dangerously close.

“Fuck, Tzuyu… that feels incredible,” you manage to groan, your hands coming down to rest on her head, your fingers tangling in her soft, dark hair. “You’re so fucking good at this. Stroking my big cock for me… telling me how much you want my cum…”

“I do!” she insists, her tone becoming more desperate, more needy. Her pace quickens even more, her strokes becoming shorter, faster, focused on your sensitive head. “I need it! After watching all of that… after coming so hard… all I can think about is tasting you, feeling you on my skin. Please, baby, don’t make me wait any longer! I want your facial! I want you to cover me! Drench me in your cum, please! I’ll be your good girl! Just give it to me!”

Her begging is the most potent aphrodisiac you’ve ever known. The sight of her, this perfect, beautiful woman who you love more than life itself, looking up at you with such raw, shameless need, pleading to be covered in your seed, shatters the last of your control. Your vision begins to tunnel, your breath coming in harsh, ragged pants.

“You want it all, baby?” you roar. “You want daddy’s hot load all over that pretty face? Are you ready?!”

“Yes! Please! Now!” she screams, her hand a frantic piston on your shaft.

“Look at me, Tzuyu!” you command.

Her eyes, wide and dark and full of absolute trust and adoration, lock with yours. Her lips part slightly in anticipation. And then, with a final, guttural roar that seems to be torn from the very depths of your soul, you erupt.

Your hips buck forward violently, your entire body going rigid as your orgasm rips through you. A thick, heavy, almost obscenely large torrent of your hot cum shoots from your cock, arcing through the air. The first rope hits her right on the forehead, and she gasps, a sharp intake of breath, her eyes squeezing shut for a second at the initial shock and heat. But she doesn’t flinch away. She stays right where she is, kneeling, accepting her reward. Another thick jet splatters across her cheek and nose. Then another coats her chin and lips, a final, powerful pulse even catching in her dark, silken hair.

You’re still panting, your body trembling with the aftershocks of your release, your cock still twitching in her hand, as you watch her. Her beautiful face is painted with thick, white ropes of your cum. She looks stunned, overwhelmed, and more breathtakingly beautiful than ever before.

For a moment, she just stays there, kneeling, her eyes fluttering open. She can feel the warmth of your seed on her skin, the slight stickiness as it begins to cool. She can smell its musky, masculine scent. She slowly lifts a hand, her fingers trembling slightly, and touches the thick glob on her cheek. She looks at her cum-coated fingertips, her expression one of wonder.

Then, with a slow, deliberate movement that makes your heart stop, she brings her fingers to her mouth and licks them clean.

A slow, beatific smile spreads across her face, a smile of pure, unadulterated satisfaction. “Oh my god,” she whispers, then leans her head forward and licks the cum from her own lips, her tongue darting out to catch every last drop. Finding that isn’t enough, she uses her hands to scoop the cooling seed from her cheeks, her forehead, her nose, and eats it with a greedy, almost reverent hunger.

When she’s cleaned most of it away, she looks up at you, her face still glistening, her eyes shining with a light you’ve never seen before; a dark, confident, knowing fire.

“I loved it,” she says. “Baby… I absolutely fucking loved it. It tasted… so good.”

You sink to your knees in front of her, your own body weak with relief and a love so profound it aches. You cup her face, your thumbs gently stroking her cheeks. Her skin is warm, slick, and glistening with your seed. A thick, pearly white glob remains on the curve of her cheekbone.

“Fuck, you’re so beautiful like this,” you breathe. “Covered in my cum.”

“It was better than I imagined, baby. The taste, the feeling… I want to do it again.”

“I know you do.” Your gaze drops to the remaining cum on her cheek. “Looks like you missed a spot, though.”

Slowly, deliberately, you slide your index finger through the thick glob, scooping it up. You hold your cum-coated finger up to her lips, an offering. An invitation.

Her eyes never leave yours. There’s no hesitation, no flicker of doubt. This isn’t the shy girl from the beginning of the day; this is a woman who has discovered a deep, undeniable part of herself and is embracing it completely. Her lips part, and she leans forward, taking the tip of your finger into her mouth.

She sucks.

Her tongue swirls around your fingertip, cleaning it with a slow, deliberate, almost reverent thoroughness while her gaze holds you captive. The sensation is incredibly intimate, a final, definitive act of submission and acceptance that seals the promise of this new beginning. When she’s done, she pulls back slowly, her lips glistening.

You look at her, this incredible, beautiful woman, kneeling before you, having eagerly taken every filthy, wonderful thing you had to offer and asking for more. Your kinky girl.

A slow, wicked, unbelievably sexy smile spreads across her face.

“So,” Tzuyu purrs. “What’s for lesson two, daddy?”

[earthtooz]

: THE GRASS IS WARMER ON YOUR SIDE :*+ﾟ

in which: you hate okhema. it's too loud, too busy, too many bad memories associated with home. until phainon shows you otherwise.

or, in which you really were not expecting to fall in love with your friend, but fate has always been particularly funny, especially when you agree to be his fake partner for the upcoming kephale festival.

warnings: 20,000 words, slow burn, fake dating!au, modern!au, university!au, gn!reader, fluff with a good dash of angst, familial issues and toxic home environments, happy ending, two idiots in love, PINING, he falls first and harder, aglaea as a mother figure to both phainon and reader

a/n: more detailed notes here, this fic was a monster to write but is my new magnum opus. i hope you enjoy. if this flops, i'm cancelled both my mydei long fics that are in progress.

You don’t like it back home. 

The city of Okhema is a metropolis haven with beautiful architecture and lush outdoor spaces, but, the streets are too busy, the people too obnoxious, and the memories you have there are dull and uninteresting. You don’t like it, you don’t like going home every summer, you don’t like leaving the Grove of Epiphany and returning to the lackluster life of your growing years, forced to spend another summer with your nose pressed in books.

People who aren’t from the Holy City like to proclaim it as a dream destination as it is beautiful, a lush paradise of bustling markets, expansive bathhouses, theatrical performances. It welcomes people from all corners of Amphoreus, and will be especially busy with the upcoming Kephale Festival.

While you’ve avoided going home for the past two years, you might be pushing your luck too far now for your parent’s pleasure.

“Y/n, are you alright?” Hyacine’s sweet voice snaps you out of your reverie, and you realise now that perhaps you’ve been staring down at the wooden table for a bit too long to be considered normal. 

“I’m fine,” you wave your thoughts away, suddenly feeling very scrutinised under everyone’s gaze. “What was the question?” 

“I just asked if you were going back to Okhema for break,” Castorice asked from across the table. “You don’t normally go back during the holidays, right?”

“I have to this time, it’s been a while since I’ve seen my family, they’re kind of… demanding I come back,” you rest your chin in your palms, trying to mask the displeasure that churns in your stomach. “Why’d you ask?”

“Oh, what a shame. I’ll be staying behind for once, I was hoping we could spend some time together, but I guess not.”

“Aw, that’s such rotten luck, I would have loved to spend the holidays with you, Cas!” You visibly deflate in your seat. Spending time here with a close friend would beat out anything Okhema has to offer, and suddenly it feels even harder to go home. You wonder if you could conjure any kind of excuse that would suffice for your absence. However, given long it has been since you last saw your family, they’d be severely displeased if you flake out this last minute.

The wrath of your parents is not one you’d want to induce.

“Hey, while you’re in Okhema, will you be at the Kephale Festival?” Phainon’s chipperness cuts the conversation like a warm knife through butter, his bright smile stealing your attention. 

The Kephale Festival was an annual celebration and one of the more important dates in the Holy City’s calender. To celebrate, the entire city comes alive with games, banquets, and performances from human dancers to chimeras alike, turning into a spectacle to behold. So much so, that people from all corners of Amphoreus come just to witness it, wanting to partake in the celebrations themselves. After all, no other city knows how to celebrate like Okhema.

Despite being such a distinguished event, you’ve historically kept to yourself during it. Friends would invite you, but you’re not particularly enthused, maybe at most traversing through the streets a little to find some food to indulge in. The more vibrant celebrations, however, you’ve kept up a streak of avoiding them throughout the years.

Surprisingly enough, this isn’t even Phainon’s first time asking. This was your third year at the Grove of Epiphany, and for the last few times, you’ve said ‘no’ each time whenever he asked.

“I don’t have plans for it,” you admit. 

“What? You’re in Okhema for once and you don’t attend the Kephale Festival? That’s unheard of.”

“Not everyone is a socialite like you, Deliverer,” Mydei chips and you laugh underneath your breath. Phainon pouts at you, as if pleading for you to come up his defence when you know very well there’s a myriad of smart retorts he could respond with.

“In all fairness, it is a huge yearly celebration, I even think my family has plans of going.” Hyacine intervenes. “Are you maybe too familiar with the festivities?” 

You shrug. “Maybe, but if you’re in Okhema this year, then we should hang out!” 

“That sounds great! Would you like to join us, Phainon?”

“Of course!” He nods enthusiastically, “We should show you around!”

The conversation flows onto something else, which you’re grateful for. Eventually, the group splits when Castorice and Hyacine head to a class together, and Mydei follows, leaving just you and Phainon.

You two move to a different section in the expansive gardens of the Grove, seeking shelter from the bright sun by sitting under a large magnolia tree. The dirt surrounding you is littered with droppings of the white petals, Phainon idly fidgeting with the blooms and grass, even making little knots and threads of them.

Sitting with your knees tucked and a book resting on your legs, you can’t help but get the feeling that the white-haired man wants something from you, his gaze flickering over to you and lingering for a few seconds before he turns his head away.

There’s a question he wants to ask but doesn't know how to approach it, like the words won’t roll off his tongue in the way he wants it. There’s also a furrow in his brows, and you know that determined look all too well. You saw it when he was failing Professor Anaxagoras’ classes during the first half of the semester and worked hard enough that he managed to scrape a distinction from the scholar. Whilst his efforts were fuelled by him desperately wanting to prove himself, you gave him the push to really go for it. 

So, exactly like you did then, you nudge him in the right direction.

“Something on your mind, Phainon?” 

His bright blue eyes widen, flickering back to you as he straightens his spine, clearly being caught off guard by your question. “How’d you know?”

“You’re fidgeting.”

He laughs in that boisterous way of his, eyes crinkling at the corners. “You speak as if you know me like the back of your hand.”

“Well, I wasn’t wrong, was I?” You turn your attention back to the pages. “Fine, don’t tell me if you don’t want to.” 

“No, that’s not it, I do have a favour to ask of you, I’m just afraid it’s a bit embarrassing.” His hand goes to scratch the back of his neck and he refuses to meet your eyes. 

It’s amusing to see Phainon, who’s exuberance is larger than life and unapologetic about it, suddenly become as shy as a small child asking for extra sweets from Okheman vendors. However, for how long you’ve known Phainon, you’ve learnt that whenever he displays this quieter side of his, he’s trying to express a concern that worries him, so you wait patiently for him to answer. 

“You know how I asked if you were going to the Kephale Festival this year?” Asks Phainon. You nod. “Well, I… was hoping to also ask if you could be my date.”

“Date? People need dates for the festival? I thought it was just games and performances and food.”

“It is! However, my mother is invited to lots of galas in celebration, and she always drags me along, somehow landing me a date every time. She has done this since I was fifteen, and honestly, Y/n, I can’t take it anymore,” he grimaces. “I don’t want to have another awkward festival experience, so I was hoping you would be able to accompany me this year?”

It sounds easy enough, maybe a little awkward. What you know of Phainon’s home is that he was adopted by a lady in Okhema who, from the stories he’d tell you, seems like a lovely woman, so you’re not entirely opposed to the idea of attending a gala and potentially meeting her.

Besides, this is Phainon. You may prefer to stay away from galas when you can, but he always has a way of making things fun. Where’s the harm?

“Being your date sounds easy enough. All I have to do is attend, right?”

Phainon laughs awkwardly. “Yes, but that’s not all. My mother believes in chivalry above all else, she will do unspeakable things to me if I’m bringing just a friend. So… we have to pretend that we’re in a relationship.”

“What?” 

Suddenly, he’s on his knees and his hands are pressed together. “Please, Y/n, I’m begging you to help me out here. I’ll treat you to a lifetime of meals, just don’t make me suffer through another festival with someone I hardly know!” 

“I-It’s just a festival…”

“After years of suffering through awkward scenarios with people I hardly know, it feels like torture. I just want to bring someone who i will actually enjoy spending time with.” With the way he was pleading, you don’t think there is much room to intervene. It’s an odd request, you’re not even sure if you wholeheartedly believe his reasoning because of the many flaws in his logic.

Regardless, this issue seems serious to him, and it truly seemed as if he needed the help, and you’re willing to cast aside reason for someone reliable like him. If it were anyone else, you would have rejected, but Phainon? Who has always been there for you? You don’t have the heart to say ‘no’. 

“O-Okay, I’ll do it.”

“Really?” 

“Really.”

Suddenly, he brings you into a hug so tight that it feels like your ribs are being pressed together. He’s basically proclaiming a series of ‘thank you’s right in your ear, leaving you with barely any oxygen or brainpower to wonder if you’ve made a grave mistake, or if this will just be another funny story to share with your friends.

· · ─ · ☼ · ─ · ·

Pie-non: I’ve arrived at Okhema!

Pie-non: Good to be back

Pie-non: How about you?

Y/n: i’m only heading back this afternoon

Y/n: good to know you made it home safely :)

Pie-non: Hehe 

Pie-non: Safe travels :D

· · ─ · ☼ · ─ · ·

“Welcome home.”

Traditionally, it is a phrase meant to be said with warmth, a phrase of love and care that after being away from home so long, you can not help but feel like you’ve finally returned to where you belong, where you’re forever safe from the anguish and hardships of life. It is meant to be a warm greeting, but the words are so icy it creeps up your spine.

In a cruelly familiar way, you feel your muscles tense, concealing a shiver to let it simmer beneath your skin instead, lest you be scolded for improper behaviour.

“I am home,” you say.

“After all those years spent in the Grove of Epiphany, I had assumed you abandoned us.” There is no humour behind your mother’s words, no lightness underneath.

You thought you would have forgotten the cold edge of your mother’s voice. 

You steel yourself. “I have been furthering my studies.”

“At an underwhelming pace, yes, that would be correct. You may go to your room first and put all your belongings away, however, return to the living room within half an hour, your father will have returned by then.”

“Of course.”

“Dismissed.”

Within these walls, everything is constructed perfectly. From the furniture, to where it’s placed, to the floor boards and its distance from the ceiling, everything was made to be precise and perfect, and not an inch out of place. Within these walls, there are clocks everywhere, and they are all set at the exact, same second, ticking at the exact same millisecond so you are reminded to not waste a single tick. Within these walls, goosebumps crawl stubbornly all over your skin, trailing along your forearm, back, and neck, making your hair stand up.

Within these walls, you always feel cold, despite the bright Okhema sunlight that shines through routinely-cleaned window panes.

Within these walls, is your least favourite place in all of Okhema.

· · ─ · ☼ · ─ · ·

Pie-non: Are you free today?

Pie-non: Let’s hangout :0

Y/n: sure!

Y/n: i have a few errands to run, but i’ll be done before 1pm

Y/n: is that okay?

Y/n: we can get lunch or something together

Pie-non: More than

Pie-non: Do you need an errand buddy? I’m great entertainment :p

Y/n: it’ll be quite boring though

Pie-non: It’s ok, I like spending time with you! 

Y/n: alright

Y/n: meet me at marmoreal markets at 11am

The list of errands to complete your parents left you seemed longer today, and you scrutinise the additions that definitely were not there yesterday– just thinking about retrieving everything is making your head ache. Additionally, given how expansive Okhema is and how there are businesses all over the streets of the city, this errand trip is going to be exhausting. 

You stand up straighter and exhale a deep breath. It’s nothing unmanageable, no need to feel so frustrated over something so minute.

If anything, you feel bad that Phainon has to endure it with you. 

Your father had returned home yesterday exactly the same as you last saw him, perhaps with more wrinkles on his forehead and less hair on his head, but with the same distaste for the world he’s heralded for decades. 

They dropped you a series of tasks to complete, and you immediately resigned to your fate of being an errand runner. 

Couples, friends, and families pass by as you wait for Phainon. The markets are a notoriously busy and overstimulating space, leaving you to continuously glance left and right for any indication of his arrival. 

Thankfully, he doesn’t keep you waiting for long, appearing with two cups of iced drinks in his hands and that usual, easygoing smile of his.

“Hey, Y/n!” He waves at you, his other hand occupied with a carton holding two drinks. “Sorry if you’ve been waiting long, I got us some drinks to keep us cool!” He hands you one of them.

“What’s this?” You ask, eyeing the drink and the way it was presented. There are plenty of famous cafes around the markets that go viral all the time on the web for their cute aesthetics and unique drink combos that oddly mesh very well together. 

“I got you a pomegranate cream latte!” He stabs his straw into his drink, “you do like pomegranate, right?”

Incredible, it’s like Phainon knew you haven’t had your caffeine fix yet. “Yeah, I do. What did you get?” 

“A fig iced tea, want to try some?” He tilts the cup’s straw to your mouth and you hum at the fruity flavour that explodes on your tongue, nodding in approval of his choice, saying something about how you’ll get that next time. 

Then, you take a sip of your drink and hum in approval at his choice again. “This actually tastes pretty good, I would never have tried this if I saw it, thanks a bunch.”

He makes a sound of satisfaction, pleased with your judgment. “I’m glad, otherwise I would have had to drink it for you.”

“No thanks, we don’t need you to be caffeinated today.”

“Aw, why not? I did promise I’d be an exciting errand buddy today.”

“You don’t need caffeine to be exciting, Phainon.”

He laughs, the corners of his eyes creasing. “I’ll take that as a compliment! So, partner, what kind of date do you have planned for us?” 

You roll your eyes. “Unfortunately, this is going to be a date between me and this list of errands to get through, so let’s see how long you last before you regret tagging along.”

It’s like he takes that as a challenge, following along with every task you complete so obediently that you begin feeling bad for putting him through this, even if he’s not complaining or showing any physical weariness. Instead, he’s making small talk with the vendors you visit, asking about business, their days, what they’re selling. They’re far more receptive to him than you, but you’re certain that’s just part of Phainon’s charm and how effortlessly he can draw people in and keep them there.

Eventually, when you’ve finally completed the last task on the list, you and Phainon settle for a restaurant nearby.  

“Thank you for accompanying me today,” you watch as he pours water into both your glasses.

“No problem! It was fun, we talked to so many cool people like that fabrics owner!” Phainon exclaims. “Who knew that deep colour of red could only be achieved with pomegranate wine?”

“Speaking of which, I didn’t realise you knew so much about tailoring and garments and all that, where’d you learn?”

He waves his hand dismissively, “my mother, actually! Of course, I am nowhere as skilled as her, but after watching her weave for so long, I’ve picked up a few things along the way. I could never actually make anything, though, I’d be stuck threading the string through the needle.”

“Wow, so your mother is a seamstress?”

“Yeah! She actually runs a business in it. I really should know more about it, but fashion has never been my strong suit. She’s always picked out my outfits for me and burned the things she didn’t like.” There’s a twinge on embarrassment on Phainon’s features as he recalls the story and you laugh.

“Did she dress you for today?” 

He crosses his arms. “No! I’m not that aesthetically challenged anymore.” 

“I’m kidding,” you take a sip of your water. “Either way, having you around made the day a little more bearable.”

“Just a little?” 

“Just a little.”

“Are you sure it’s not a whooooole lot more than just a little?”

You roll your eyes. “Whatever.” 

He grins. “By the way, lunch is on me. I do owe you a lifetime of meals.”

“What? No, it’s fine,” you insist, “I thought you were just kidding!”

“I wasn’t, you’re my saviour, really.”

“That’s an exaggeration, come on.”

“I’m paying. That’s final.”

Phainon beats you to the register later, successfully covering your portion of the meal before you can do anything about it, smiling smugly at you when he’s successful.

· · ─ · ☼ · ─ · ·

Pie-non: Do you want to come over to mine?

Pie-non: Mum wants to meet you c:

Y/n: omg actually

Y/n: i’d love to! what day were you thinking?

Pie-non: How about Saturday? I’ll come pick you up. 

It dawns on you in Phainon’s car that you actually have to play the role of a loving partner. You knew what you were getting into, but it only hits now that the act has to come alive as you sit in his passenger seat, a box of fruits from Janusopolis in your lap.

When he pulls up at, what you assume has to be, his house, you have to stop and admire for a bit. It’s really nice, and you wonder how on Amphoreus you didn’t know that Phainon might have come from an affluent background. Maybe because the air of arrogance that rich Okheman kids carried around was not present in him- either way, you suddenly feel a lot more nervous for what his foster carer might be like. 

You have had your fair share of unpleasant run-ins with rich people.

He unlocks the front door and calls out a loud “We’re home!”. His voice booms through the expanse of his home and in response, someone exclaims a ‘welcome home’, the voice hypnotising and mature as the sound of heels ricochet down the walls. 

You had an image of what Phainon’s guardian might have been like, but you definitely were not expecting the face of your parents’ number one business rival to turn and greet you.

It’s like the universe is playing a grand prank because you’re certain half the colour has drained from your face, and you’re utterly speechless as Aglaea, the infamous ‘Goldweaver’, gives Phainon a small hug. You’re sure you look like a fool when she turns to greet you. Intimidatingly beautiful and beautifully intimidating, she is every part as terrifying as you were expecting her to be.

The first thing to note is that she is far more beautiful in person, carrying an air of dignity that will take your breath away. The second thing to note is she has an extremely kind smile, and you’re unable to see the villain that your parents have relentlessly painted her out to be.

They say that eyes are the window to the soul, but it seems that Aglaea has boarded hers shut with wooden planks, because you can not sense what she is thinking at all. She regards you incredibly neutral, like you are just another person in the threads of her life, and in a sense, you are. However, you were expecting more scrutiny, more hostility concealed by over-honeyed words, and a piercing gaze that would scan you up and down, considering Phainon just introduced you as his other half. 

You expect her to be like your mother. Instead, she smiles like she has known you her whole life.

“It seems that my boy has met his match,” she approaches you with a dignified air to her, as if all the dust particles in the atmosphere part with each step she takes, never obstructing her perfect appearance. “Y/n, it is an honour to meet you.”

“It is a pleasure to meet you as well, Lady Aglaea.” You tense when you realise you’ve addressed her too properly, feeling a grim jab of embarrassment to your gut. Quickly, you recover. “I brought some gifts for your household to enjoy! These are fruits from Janusopolis.” 

“That is very thoughtful of you, and please, drop the formalities, no need to be so polite.”

You relax your shoulders a little. 

“Phainon has told me some stories about you, you’re from Okhema as well, correct? Will you be here for the Kephale Festival?” 

“Yes, I will be.” 

“Good.” She smiles at you, and the gesture alone feels like a pat on the back, despite the fact that you have done nothing but be present before her. “What is it that you study at the Grove?” 

Some small talk is made, you answer each question she fires your way flawlessly, strategic with the tone and language you choose to respond to her with. 

However, unlike most ‘interrogations’ from recognisable members of society, this one with Aglaea feels less daunting and more like she’s genuinely getting to know you, each question not meant to disarm or test you. Rather, her curiosity stemming from interest and careful consideration of all you say. 

You were not expecting that from the most successful businesswoman in Okhema. Maybe even all of Amphoreus. 

After a few minutes, the conversation flows to a close. “Regrettably, I cannot stay to chat- Phainon, do take good care of Y/n. Y/n, you may tell me if he misbehaves, I’ll spin him back into shape.”

You laugh. “I will. It was lovely meeting you!”

“Make yourself at home, Y/n.”

The door closes behind her with a resounding click, and you feel like a massive weight has been lifted off your shoulders. From all the anecdotes you receive in passing from your parents, Aglaea is hardly as devious as they make her out to be. Frightening? Perhaps, but she is not a spawn of malice and evil. 

Still- a little warning would have been much appreciated.

“Why didn’t you tell me your caretaker was Aglaea?” You ask.

A few days ago, when Phainon said his mother owned a business in garment making and tailoring, you assumed it was on small scale, not an enterprise worthy of toppling over her competitors’. You’re pretty certain she runs a tailoring store for fun, external to the rest of her conglomerate. 

He blinks at you. “Would you have known who she was beforehand?”

“Yes! Your mother is the most successful businesswoman in Okhema, some warning would have been nice!”

“Does it matter? Would that have changed how you perceived her?”

You shut your mouth. 

“To me, she is the woman who I am eternally grateful for, without her, I do not know where I would be. That is the only version of her that matters to me.”

Shame crawls up your spine at the realisation you were accusing Phainon under his own roof.

“You’re right, I’m sorry. I got ahead of myself, she seems like an incredible woman.”

“It’s okay,” he nods, an understanding look in his eyes, “would you like any food or water?”

“A glass of water is fine, thank you,” you say quietly and he leads you deeper into the pristine abode of his. You pass by pictures hung up on the wall that you merely glance at, not wanting to pry for too long. Despite how neat Phainon’s house is, it feels lived in. Like a space that is clean, yet welcoming, like the decorations and furniture were chosen for beauty and comfort, not just to show off endless vasts of wealth. 

“You’re fine with pets, right?” Next thing you know, he whistles loudly and you hear several, little claws resounding through the halls, pattering against the marble floor. Eventually, a pack of five or so chimeras round the corner, clearly excited by the call of their owner, who bends down to their height so they can all jump onto his lap. 

They’re all over him, rubbing against him excitedly and jumping around like the exuberant creatures they are. The sight is so cute, it almost makes you coo.

(You are, however, not above sneaking a photo that you will definitely send to Hyacine, Castorice, and Mydei later. The latter is going to laugh his ass off at the sight but you know incredibly well that he would love the pack and let them jump all over him too.)

“Hey guys! I missed you too, yeah, I know, I know, but we have a guest!” Almost as if they can understand him, they immediately stop their assault on Phainon to glance at you instead, five pairs of bright, beady eyes staring right at you. “Everyone, this is Y/n!”

It seems like that opens the floodgates, because they are suddenly jumping all over your legs, hoping to knock you down like they did with Phainon. They howl and whine, quietening down when you scratch their ears, keening at your touch. 

“They really like you!” 

“I think they like everyone.”

“Sure, but they like you the most, look! They’re so happy!” Then, you feel a smooth graze against your ankles, as if something was rubbing against it. When you look down, there’s a blue chimera already gazing up at you with sparkling eyes and it mewls when you make eye contact, tail wagging in excitement. “Especially Bubbles! He’s super fond of you.”

You bend down to pick it up and it sits comfortably in your arms, leaning against your shoulder as you cradle it. “He’s cute.”

“I’m glad you think so!”

“Where did you get all of them?” You ask, staring at the litter that was now playing amongst themselves, tackling, laying down, even stepping on each other. 

“I found them abandoned in a cardboard box in a back alley. I was coming home from school one day when I was 16, then I saw baby Bubbles’ nearby, as if waiting for someone to come by. He led me to the rest of the pack and Aglaea allowed me to keep them, it would be cruel to split them up, they deserve to grow up together.” 

“That’s really kind of you.” You suppose it makes sense for someone like Phainon to be so kindhearted that he couldn’t stand the idea of stranding defenseless animals, especially in a city as bustling and busy as Okhema. They would not have survived long without a home.

Fortunately, neither of you need to think about a scenario where that is reality. 

“Bubbles is a smart cookie,” you murmur and the creature in your arms looks at you as if it knew it was being complimented.

You nuzzle your cheek against Bubbles’ head, and he reciprocates by rubbing his against your chin.

(If you squint, the likeness between Phainon and Bubbles is uncanny, the both of them even wearing the same innocent smile with gentle eyes; ones that make you feel like nothing is wrong with the world.)

When you return home, you call out ‘I’m home!’ and hear nothing but silence in response. Moments later, your mother pops through the hallways and informs you of an email your father has forwarded to you– internal documents that required calculations and he expected them finished within the coming days.

You’re in no position to decline, so you grit your teeth and get to work. 

A few days pass since you last saw Phainon. He’s been texting you consistently about a variety of things, sending photos of his chimeras, the views he sees while on his runs, or other miscellaneous things like the dromas-shaped pancake he got from a food stand.

Meanwhile, you’ve been cooped up in your study, the hours passing by nonstop as you work through the pages of financial information forwarded through. 

Pie-non: What are you up to today?

Y/n: nothing fun

Y/n: just finishing up some reports for my parents

Pie-non: Sounds super gross :(

Y/n: the good news is that i’m almost done and can treat myself soon!!!

Pie-non: Yay!! Pie-non: We should hangout then :0

Y/n: hmm

Y/n: i have the day free on sunday! just need to return by curtain fall for a charity event

Pie-non: Lets meet then! Pie-non: The weather forecast is looking nice, how about a picnic?

Pie-non: We should go near the lake!

Y/n: haha okayy sounds good

Y/n: talk more soon, gotta get back to work. 

· · ─ · ☼ · ─ · ·

Your legs are shaking, and no matter how hard you try, they won’t stop. 

The discomfort serves as a sufficient distraction to the disappointed look in your parents eyes as they sit across from you, the low lighting from the living room lamp only highlighting the creases in their forehead and the downturn of their eyebrows. They’re berating you. You have to maintain eye contact as they berate you, forced to watch all the changes in their expression as they vocalise just how disappointed you’ve made them.

From a young age, they have drilled this into you; that you need to look your failures in the eye, that you must maintain their gaze as they ‘tell you how to improve’, but it’s never grown easier over the years. 

Everytime it feels like there is a small child inside the cavern of your chest shaking uncontrollably, its legs are curled to its chest, fighting to preserving what little warmth is left. You feel it trying its best, but you’ve learnt and accepted that one’s ‘best’ is sometimes just not enough, and failure is in the form of a pile of papers smacking the coffee table loudly. 

“Not only that, but you have calculated all of the ratios wrong, our team can not start on the reports otherwise for the quarter,” your father repeatedly jabs the file, to a point where you think it might dent from his actions. He spits “such foolish mistakes.” 

Your mother is no help. She never is against your father’s wrath, instead, she strokes the flames. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

“I have no excuse,” you murmur, “I’ll get it fixed.”

“By 9 am tomorrow. Do not dream of sleeping until it is done. Dismissed,” your father waves you off and that is your chance of escape. 

With insurmountable amount willpower, you stand and try to conceal the wobble in your legs as you trudge out of the living room and up the stairs to your designated office. 

Sitting down in front of your laptop fills you with dread, your vision is persistently blurry as you open all of the files, and doom is a wet droplet that flows down from your eye to your chin. It’s followed by another, and another, until there are puddles on the mahogany desk below you. 

Crying is a burning feeling you have not felt in years, not since you’ve arrived at the Grove of Epiphany, but this is a dance you will never forget the steps to. Too accustomed to the way your retinas burn, how your nose stings, how it hurts even more to push down the evidence and forcefully collect yourself. 

In Kephale’s name, all you want is to be back in your dorm at the Grove. You wonder what Castorice is doing right now. If things were different, you could be spending the holidays together, sharing drinks or snacks together, laughing. You think about what Hyacine is doing with her family, how they should be preparing for their trip to Okhema soon– you should really text her about it soon. Mydei’s probably back in Castrum Kremnos winning every wrestling competition there is, at least, that’s what he said he was doing when you last asked, showing off the many gold medals he’s won since he’s gone home.

You miss your friends. You hope they’re happy and well and not crying quietly by themselves late at night in front of a fluorescent screen, losing against a set of numbers. 

Your phone buzzes.

Pie-non: [ image attached ]

Pie-non: Bubbles misses you!

It’s a photo of the chimera curled up on Phainon’s lap, and it looks like he’s in the middle of watching a series, having a far more comfortable and cozy night than you. Despite the tears in your eyes fogging up your vision, you laugh at the text, typing back a response in between sniffles and small hiccups.

Y/n: aww :( he’s so cute

Y/n: i really miss bubbles, too

Pie-non: You’re welcome to see him anytime

Pie-non: Sticker

Pie-non: [ image attached ]

Warmth blooms in your chest, a stark contrast to the decrepit sense of loneliness that was settling in your chest mere moments ago. 

Wiping your nose with a tissue, you set your phone down, and turn back to the gruesome folder of spreadsheets your parents have ordered you to look through and fully correct before tomorrow.

· · ─ · ☼ · ─ · ·

The weather is nice today. Okheman summers tend to be incredibly dry and hot, with scorching rays that beat you down and dry out your skin if you stand under it for too long. Here, however, sitting under a tree whose foliage filters out most of the sun, leaving patches of light to decorate the ground and your skin, you think this is the peace summer is meant to bring. Especially whilst by the waterside, where the wind carries its coolness and kisses your face with it.

You’ve missed this part of home, and the natural beauty of the Holy City.

There’s a shriek behind you and you turn around to see where the source of the disruption is, but the sight is more wholesome than you anticipated. A little girl being chased by an older brother, both of them looking no older than seven. There’s dirt on their hands, knees and clothes, and their parents chase after them with noisy concern, pulling out handkerchiefs and water bottles like their lives depend on it.

Eventually, the two children stop and listen to the whims of their parents. The father dabs the streaks off his daughter’s face, saying something you can’t hear before pressing a kiss against her forehead. The mother stops and scolds her son for not drinking enough water on such a hot day, leaving him to go run after his sister again with a ruffle of his hair. Your eyes are glued on the couple, how they look proud and content with their children, the warm day like a blessing. 

(In another life, you’ll receive the love you feel indebted to own, but in this one, you’ll get by chasing the approval of people who may never grant it to you, who may never love you like you deserve.)

“I’m sorry I kept you waiting!” A familiar white-haired companion sits down on the picnic mat beside you, an apologetic smile on his boyish features, paired with a bakery box in his hands. 

“It’s alright, I haven’t been here long,” your gaze lingers curiously on what he’s holding. He opens the lid and inside sits a little, charming cake, seemingly the same size as your hand but with three layers of height. “How cute! What’s the occasion?”

“It wouldn't be right to turn up empty-handed, so I picked this up on my way here! Looks good, right?” 

“How thoughtful of you, very picnic-esque. How should we eat it?”

“I just grabbed two forks and thought we could… just go at it.”

Phainon is kind enough to let you have the first bite, watching you struggle to find the right place to take the first stab with a small smile of amusement on his face. Cakes are delicate and the first ‘slice’ should always be handled with care, you reason, and he just chuckles when you successfully extract a piece.

“Cheers,” your forks tap against each other and watch each other’s expression when the dessert melts in your mouth.

A look of delight flashes in his eyes. “That’s really good!” 

“Delicious,” you reach for another bite. “I don’t remember the last time I had a cake from Okhema. They really bake it differently at the Grove.”

“Must have been your birthday or something, right?”

“I haven’t been back here in years,” you murmur, “and I never really celebrated. I think the first time I got my own cake was when Castorice and Hyacine made one for me.”

You don’t know what compelled you to share that tidbit, or why you had to bring the atmosphere down on such a lovely and warm day, but now you’re stuck pretending like that bittersweet fact doesn’t haunt you as much as it does. 

“If that’s the case, then let’s think of this one like a… welcome home cake,” he says. “It’s good to be back, right?”

“Sure.”

The rest of the afternoon is spent talking and slowly chipping away at the dessert. Summer has a particular ability to make life more magical with sunlight flickering through the dense leaves overhead. The two of you are content with watching the water, gazing out into the distance as you chat about a variety of things, the atmosphere comfortable and friendly like always.

“This time of day is perfect for an afternoon nap,” Phainon muses, “I’m feeling quite drowsy.”

“You can take one if you’d like,” you offer.

“It’s alright,” he laughs sheepishly, scratching the back of his head, “I’ll manage, besides, I’m here to spend time with you!”

“You would take naps all the time back at the Grove. I brought a book with me, anyways, I can keep myself entertained.”

He presses his lips together. “A nap does sound really good right now… are you sure it’s fine?”

“Of course.”

After some small adjustments, you find the weight of his head resting on your thighs– something you’ve gotten used to with how fond of afternoon naps he was. He has accompanied you enough that a sacred routine between friends developed; you reading under the waning afternoon sun of the Grove, and him resting with you under the thick shade of the trees that grow there. You have dropped a book on his sleeping face a few too many times, and he has made it even by drooling on your clothes as he rests soundly against you. 

“You were born in Aedes Elysiae, right?” You murmur, watching your fingers that thread through his snow-white hair, one that has gotten long enough for you to curl your fingers around at least three times. “When did you arrive in Okhema?” 

He hums in contemplation, white eyelashes catching the gleam of the sun every time he blinks, fluttering gently. He is resting on his side, giving you a clear view of his side profile.

“I don’t think I was any older than fourteen, nearly fifteen,” he murmurs, “but my hometown was beautiful. The wheat that grew there was so long, I have fond memories of running through it with my friends, and the crops were the best. Something about them was different, fresher, maybe it’s the soil or the way the farmers planted it.”

He continues his spiel excitedly, hands moving animatedly, matching the enthusiasm in his words and tone. 

“That sounds dreamy,” you muse. 

“Right?” Then, there’s a melancholic shift in his futures; a droop of his eyelids, a small downturn of his lips. “I wish there was an Aedes Elysiae to return to, it’s been abandoned since the Black Tide took it all away. My parents, they- they managed to send me to Okhema in the nick of time.”

“Phainon-”

“-it’s okay,” his hands nervously fiddle with the hem of your clothes. “I’m grateful to be where I am now. If it weren’t for a magnificent stroke of luck and Aglaea finding me, I don’t know where I’d be today, she took me under her wing and loved me unconditionally. That’s why I’ll always do what I can to make her happy.” 

Then, he turns his head and cranes his neck to look up at you. 

“If it weren’t for everything that happened, I wouldn’t have gotten to meet you, either.” 

Sincerity shines in his eyes, and your breath gets caught in your throat. Not once in your life have you thought someone would be grateful to have known you.

“Somehow, you still manage to find a way to me, even though I’m the most irrelevant aspect of the story,” you chuckle whilst untangling your fingers from his hair to cradle his face instead, chill palms resting against warm skin. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to bring up bitter memories.”

“It’s fine! Really, I’m fine. If anything, I’m happy you asked, I love my hometown and telling others about it, it means a lot that you were curious in the first place. Phew, all that talking’s got me even more tired now, I think I’m gonna take a nap now.”

You nod, reaching for the book you brought in your bag. “Alright, sleep well, Phainon.”

He shifts around a bit afterwards, finding a comfortable position to rest in, but after a few moments, his breathing evens and he falls still save for the rise and fall of his chest. 

Still, you think about the uncharacteristic glumness in his eyes, how it looks like he was on the verge of tears despite the evenness in his voice. There’s a lot behind Phainon’s story that you’ll never know– after all, they say the kindest souls are the ones who have faced the greatest challenges, and you wonder if he’ll tell you about all of them someday.

For now, you play with his hair and read your book, waiting for him to wake up.

Later that night, you’re sat alone, dressed in an outfit picked by your mother that does not match your style, paired with beautiful gems that weigh down your chest and wrists.

There are people mingling away from where you are, and it is a crowd you must return to, but for now, you need a breather and a moment to recollect yourself.

You’ve talked to too many people tonight, smiled for too long that your cheeks ache now, and you’re still nursing the same drink you’ve had since the start of the night. There is no desire to drink it, the champagne merely for decoration so people do not ask you if you would like another and invite you to drink. 

In your hand, your phone shakes with a notification. 

Pie-non: How’s the charity event going?

Pie-non: I hope you’re not having too much fun without me ;0

Y/n: lol it would be so much better if you were here

Y/n: it’s going fine

Y/n: i can’t wait to go home

You open your camera and send him a photo of your barely-touched champagne glass, followed by a silly selfie. You wish he were here with you, the night would be infinitely more bearable.

Pie-non: You look great!!

Pie-non: I’ll be praying that the time goes by faster

Pie-non: Btw Aglaea gave me tickets to a play and suggested we go together

Pie-non: Would you like to go with me? :p 

Y/n: sounds great, i’m keen

Y/n: tell your mother i say thank you!

Y/n: i need to go back now, ttyl

· · ─ · ☼ · ─ · ·

“At the charity ball last night, there were a few offers made by sons of reputable businessmen,” your mother mentions over breakfast the following morning, and you halt your chewing, looking up from the news tablet. 

The idea of being negotiated is revolting, you have to force down the food that is in your mouth as you slowly lose your appetite. 

“Don’t you think it is about time you find a partner? Many of your classmates from high school have, your class president was engaed recently.” Your mother continues, not even glancing up from over the rim of her glasses.

Your thoughts drift over to Phainon. He’s… he’s not exactly your committed partner, but you are playing the part of being one to him, and you’re merely doing him a favour because you’re friends.

Why does calling him that feel like you’re choking over your own words? Why is your heart beginning to rebel, when did it have autonomy to do whatever it wants? Why is it doing flips as you think about yesterday, how he laid on your lap, how he gently played with the hems of your clothes as his voice fondly recalled vulnerable moments of his youth?

“No, I- I’m seeing someone!” You blurt without thinking and she finally looks up at you, an eyebrow raised.

“Is that so? And you did not check to see if this… someone is suitable for your father or I’s standard?”

“He is! He comes from a wealthy background and studies veterinary science at the Grove. I… didn’t want to tell you about it yet because I wanted to make sure he is perfect, you’ve always taught me to bide my time.”

“Oh? Fine, but you need to bring him to us soon for our approval. We would hate for you to be with a hopeless suitor who will merely waste your time.”

“Absolutely. Yours and father’s approval are very meaningful to me.” 

She sighs through her nose. “Very well. Don’t let us down.”

“I won’t, mother.”

The rest of breakfast is silent, leaving you room to dwell with your thoughts. 

You don’t actually like Phainon, do you? Maybe the mirage of dating him has gotten to your head, convinced you to see him in a new light- but nothing has changed since you were just friends. He’s always been kind, made you laugh, invited you to events, bought you your favourite drinks, showed you unconditional support, he’s always been all of these things and more, so why does your heart beat erratically now thinking about it? 

You fall back on your bed, the weight of these thoughts making you toss and turn against the comforter. You think about his kind smile and dig your head further into your sheets, you think about his gentle eyes and scream a little. It feels as if you’re living a scene straight from the romcoms you would watch when you were younger. Maybe… you’ve always liked him?

You’re going insane. 

(Since when were you the type of person to overthink about how someone perceived you? You stand hopelessly in front of your wardrobe, scanning through the pieces, the growing pile of clothes you deem unsightly sat atop your comforter. Titans, all of a sudden, nothing looks good or sits right, one outfit was too revealing, another not revealing enough– you’re going to go crazy!)

Later that evening, you meet Phainon outside the theatre. He’s dressed in a button-up with black slacks, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows to show off his forearms (and the veins– stop looking so damn hard!). 

He grins widely when he sees you, pushing off the wall to meet you halfway. 

“Hey! I’m so glad you could make it!”

“I’m glad I could make it too, thanks so much for the invite, I’ve heard good things about the drama we’re watching tonight, all the tickets are sold out though, how did Aglaea manage to snag us some?” 

“Oh, you know,” he waves his hands, “friend of a friend, either way, someone couldn’t make it so these tickets are ours. How was the charity event?”

You hug the spare jacket you brought closer to your chest, murmuring “it was fine, honestly, the most fun part of the night was when you texted me.”

“That boring, hm? Well, at least you’re here with me now!”

“That I am. We should probably go inside now and find our seats.”

“Good idea,” then, he jokingly bows and offers an arm to you, like they do in old movies. You giggle before threading your arm through his. “Shall we?”

“We shall.”

The play was great- magnificent even, enthralling during some scenes and humorous in others, the audience clearly reacted well to it when the actors received an outstanding ovation during the bows, but the greatest comedy was your internal conundrum. 

For it was difficult to focus when all you could think about was how his hand was right next to yours, resting on the armrest of his chair. When he leaned in to say something funny or share commentary, your heart skipped a beat every time you caught his gaze, the stage lights reflecting in his aquamarine eyes. It overwhelmed you with an undeniable urge to break free and destroy all boundaries of friendship, a feeling you had to suppress before you did things ‘fake partners’ would regret. 

When you finally left the theatre, he offered to get dessert together before heading home.

As you walked, you were discussing the play together (or what you could remember). However, you were keenly aware of how your hand kept grazing his, fingertips brushing against each other every so often.

To your surprise, he grabs your hand with his and interlaces your fingers. 

“We are supposed to be dating, right?” Phainon scratches the back of his head sheepishly, “I hope you don’t mind.” 

“No… no it’s fine,” you murmur, shaking your head. 

“Hey, actually, that reminds me; you know how to dance, right? It’s expected of the ball’s attendees.”

You blink at him. A ball that requires its attendees know how to dance? Just how formal is this event? “I know the basics. If anything, I’m more surprised that you know how to dance.”

“Hey! I’ll have you know I am quite excellent, I promise I won’t be stepping on your toes.”

“I was messing with you. With how many years you’ve been attending, I expect you to be the best dance partner I could ask for.”

He turns his face away, hand creeping up to scratch his neck. “Aww, now you’re just making me nervous.”

“I’m looking forward to the gala, it’ll be fun.”

“Me too! It’ll be so much better this year with you coming!” 

“Tell me more about the gala.”

He begins what he’s best at: talking your ear off. While you’ve always loved hearing him tell stories, it’s even better now, listening to his anecdotes as he waves a dripping ice cream cone around, your hand still in his.

On Kephale’s light, this man is not good for your heart at all, matter of fact, he’s merciless without even realising it, but you’re uncertain if this will result in a happy ending. 

When all is said and done and the gala is over, the two of you will return to your normal routine as friends and nothing more. You will continue reading under the shade in the Grove and Phainon will be nearby, either resting, studying, or fiddling with a stray basketball he picked up. You will continue going for snack runs together, picking up the requested items of your friends. You will fall back into normalcy with these feelings devouring your insides, heart forever attuned to a boy out of reach.

· · ─ · ☼ · ─ · ·

Pie-non: Sooooo Aglaea wants you to come over for lunch one day

Pie-non: Would you be able to?

Y/n: that sounds great, i’d love to

Y/n: when?

Pie-non: How about this Saturday?

Y/n: i’ll mark it down on my calender

Pie-non: Yay!

The second time meeting Aglaea feels less daunting. It’s Phainon who opens the door, grinning widely as he greets you with a hug. There’s specks of flour on his face, along with smears of other ingredients, and only then do you smell the aromatic smell of whatever he is cooking. 

“Come on in! Make yourself at home,” he ushers you in, letting you set your things down before leading you to the dining area. Adjacent to it is an expansive kitchen with windows that welcome in generous amounts of Kephale’s light.

“Y/n, how lovely it is to see you again,” Aglaea’s melodic voice chimes and you stand up straighter, hugging the big bouquet of flowers close to your chest.

“Thank you so much for having me! I’ve been looking forward to today, so I brought some flowers to express my gratitude.”

“That’s very thoughtful, thank you. Just set them down on the kitchen counter.”

You do as your told, eyeing the plates of delicious-looking food. “Would you like my help with anything?”

“If you could set the table, that would be great.”

“Of course!” You take the plates and cutlery that Phainon hands you, setting them in the exact way you’ve been taught growing up, in the order that befit dining. Aglaea sees this and leaves a harmless remark that you’ve been taught well, and you graciously wave off her comment, saying there’s more for you to learn.

Phainon carries all the dishes, setting them down on the table. Then, he turns to you with that same excited smile, beaming.

“I’m so glad you could make it, Y/n!” Radiant. He’s so radiant you think his teeth could work as flashlights in the dark.

Still, your heart skips a beat. “I’m very happy to be here, thank you for inviting me. Also, Phainon, you have something on your face.”

“Oh, where?” He rubs his face but it only worsens it, smearing more flour on his face. 

“It’s fine, I got it.” You grab a napkin from the table and wipe off the excess from his skin, trying your best to be gentle whilst he stands incredibly still, letting you do as you please. “There. All good.”

“Thanks!”

Neither of you are aware of the softness in Aglaea’s expression as she watches. It’s only with a clap of her hands do the two of you break out of the little world you were lost in and you jump away from Phainon like he’s burned you, embarrassed as Aglaea laughs.

“Come on kids, lets sit down now or the food will get cold.”

Lunch goes by easier than expected. You had been prepared for another feast where you would sit with your spine straight and shoulders tensed, echoing rehearsed laughs over dry jokes and unfunny remarks. Instead, your mirage has, once again, been completely disarmed by Aglaea’s questions; she seemed genuinely interested in what you had to say, like your hobbies and passions, or the little anecdotes you’d share when talking about different topics. 

Naturally, she shares stories as well. Phainon asks her if there’s been any interesting business deals, and she responds with a flippant sigh, vaguely detailing a client that’s been driving her up the wall, which both of you have animated reactions to. 

Meanwhile, Phainon keeps coaxing you to try more dishes, especially the ones he made, watching your expression with keen intensity while his mother smiles fondly from across the table, retopping your glass of water whenever it emptied. By the end of lunch, your stomach is full and your heart even more so. 

When Phainon goes to feed the family of chimeras, you’re left alone to talk with Aglaea while washing the dishes. However, the tranquility of the moment is ruined by a buzz of your phone, soured when you realise it’s your father who didn’t even write a message, just sent two files and a link, no doubt thrust upon you to complete. 

“Who is it?” 

You quickly shut off your phone, taming the agitation gnawing at your ribcage. “Excuse me, it was just my father.” 

When Phainon returns to the room, Aglaea suggests something about taking you to the riverside. “You shouldn’t stay cooped up inside on such a lovely day,” she had reasoned and the next thing you know, he’s pulling you out the door like an overexcited chimera, eagerness dripping off him in waves. 

You yell at him to slow down, heart hammering from physical exertion and the feeling of his hand tightly squeezing yours. He apologises with a sheepish smile but does not drop your wrist, guiding you to a carved path covered by thick foliage and the end of it was a clearing that gazed over a vast river. 

It’s beautiful. Fluffy clouds drift by overhead, following the downstream current. Your feet take you along the direction of the current, the rock and sand crunching beneath your footsteps as the waves roll by.

“It’s so peaceful here.”

“I know right?” Phainon rolls his sleeves up and sorts through the pile of rocks underneath your feet, picking up each one and inspecting them carefully, discarding any he deems unsightly. You don’t quite understand what his criteria is, but when he has a handful of sizeable ones, he throws one out.

It skids along once, twice, many more times before finally dropping into the water. 

He looks at you like he’s expecting a congratulations, so you give it to him and he beams. Next thing you know, he’s instructing you on how he did it. 

“You want to angle your body and hit the surface at a lower level, make sure you’re using the flatter side of the rock, then, with a flick of your wrist…” he throws the rock and it skids across the surface level seven- eight- nine times before silently dropping into the water, and you stare blankly at the dissipating ripples.

He made it look so easy.

“Here, try skip a few stones!” 

You try your best to abide to his instructions. Angle the body, get lower with the water level, and flick of the wrist and it… plonks into the water without so much a hop.

“Aw,” you murmur, but instead of berating or ridiculing, Phainon hands you another rock, similar to the one you just threw.

“That’s okay! It’s pretty hard to get on the first try, have another go.” 

Maybe it was the sun, but the stone in your hand felt nicely warm, and you let your gaze linger on him for a moment, waiting for the disappointment to appear in his eyes. Yet, it never comes. All he does is beam at you with a thumbs up for encouragement. 

This time, when you flick your wrist, it skips across the water surface one, two, three, four, five times before halting, and the only evidence that you’ve succeeded are the ripples fading away. The only witness claps, softly cheering.

He’s applauding because you skipped a stone on the surface of a river. 

It’s so silly and simple it makes your heart skip a beat. 

You manage to hit a high score of seven, while Phainon manages to go into the double digits, and you find yourself clapping for him too, occasionally high fiving in celebration.

(This is the sense of belonging you’ve been chasing after your whole life. The love you’ve craved for so long but always thought would be out of reach, yet, these two have somehow proven that caring for someone is not a Herculean task.)

· · ─ · ☼ · ─ · ·

If there’s one thing Okhema has taught you, it’s that happiness is fleeting and there will always be those who want to stomp out your light. 

“We didn’t even know you had friends in Okhema. You left all the people you knew behind the second you went to the Grove, disappeared from the face of Amphoreus like some runaway child,” your mother quips, metallic spoon clinking the tea cup she was stirring.

You stiffen. “I thought a change of environment was what I needed.”

She taps the edge of her cup twice, the sound resonating through the room. “If you were more capable, you would have been able to balance both. Unfortunately, not all of us are, you should have been grateful your friends from high school gave you the time of day. They were all such valuable connections to have.” 

You want to defend yourself, tell her about how horrid and small they made you feel, but you suppose she would never understand, not when she treats you the same. Unfortunately, one group is far easier to run away from than the other.

“Do you even have friends at the Grove?” 

“Of course,” you insist, trying to keep your tone levelled. After years of living here, you’ve grown to understand that any display of emotion would be weaponised against you, but it never gets any easier trying to suppress them. Not when the snarky words of your mother are said with the intention of wearing you down.

She raises her teacup to her lips. “Are you sure they even like you?” 

Does she drink poison to stay hydrated? Her toxicity truly knows no bounds. 

“Yes, I’m sure.” 

Your tea finally finishes steeping, and before you can raise it to your lips, your father, who finally decides the conversation is worth entering, chimes up. “I’ve heard some of the people in your grade have started finding success in life, one’s even managed to get a booming startup off the ground.”

“Off the back of his father’s money,” you retaliate. 

“So what? Does that change the fact that he’s operating a successful business and a respectable entrepreneur?”

Rich, you think. Where’s your support, then? They can’t even give you the time of day.

“You finally have a rare break back home, and instead of working, you spend everyday out and about and falling behind. Time is the most valuable resource one can have and you insist on wasting it by going out everyday.”

He smacks his lips together and shakes his head.

“Ridiculous.”

You try to stand up for yourself. “I’m on summer break, I’ve been working hard the last three years to maintain honours with top grades-”

“-We expect you to do better.”

Frustration boils in your chest and clogs up your throat. Defending yourself is never productive in this household, and trying to have the last say only leads to a thundering chest that feels like you’re one breath away from caving in.

As soon as dinner was over and you could leave, you’re out the front door before you can think twice, putting on the most comfortable pair of shoes you can find before darting out. 

You couldn’t stay in that house a minute longer, otherwise your agitation would have boiled over and stained the pristine floors.

The sky overhead bleeds a multitude of warm hues with orange clouds drifting by. The beautiful sight cheers you up minimally, but it’s not effective against the swirling cauldron of emotions sitting in your stomach and the fumes that stick to your throat. You’re so frustrated, you don’t know if you want to scream and kick something or cry.

When will this game end? When will this dance cease? When will this symphony of turmoil finally diminish?

Pleasing them doesn’t change them, rebelling against them just makes things worse, and running away and avoiding them for two years did nothing. 

What did you do to deserve this?

Deep breaths. Inhale… exhale… the breeze of summer infiltrates your senses, and you realise that your feet have taken you to a familiar park. One that, whenever explosive arguments occurred, you would come here to calm your racing mind and turbulent emotions. It has been your routine since young, and after two years of not seeing this natural scape, a bittersweet ache of nostalgia returns. Time may pass but old habits die hard.

“Y/n?” 

You freeze.

Your stinking luck. Why now?

“Phainon!” You choke out, along with an awkward laugh that comes out as a pathetic garble instead. Oh Titans, you’re crying. You didn’t even realise you were crying, the dried-up tear streaks staining your skin an incriminating sign that you immediately hurry to wipe away. 

He can’t see you like this.

Scrambling to stand up, you steady yourself with the trunk of the birch tree you were previously sitting under. You frantically wipe at your cheeks with your shirt, the cotton like steel wool against your skin as you scrub and scrub and scrub, ridding the evidence of your emotional display. 

You can’t even look at him, too ashamed.

There’s a warm pair of hands wrapped around your wrists, and you flinch at his touch, “Y/n… what’s wrong?”

“Nothing! Nothing at all,” the words are a jumbled mess of syllables that get jammed in your throat as you pull yourself away from him, stumbling backwards. “I’m fine.”

“I don’t think you are.” 

“I swear I am.”

“You can tell me if something’s wrong.”

“Nothing’s wrong, everything’s fine!”

“It’s clearly not-”

“-It clearly is.”

“Y/n, it’s pretty obvious something’s wrong.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Stop pretending-”

“-Phainon, please.” 

He’s silent for a few beats before conceding pensively. This time, his tone is softer. “Okay, but you know I’d never judge you, right? So if you need someone to talk to, I’m here.”

Unconcealing your face, you still refuse to meet his eyes, gaze glued to his shirt instead. The first thing you notice is that he’s wearing merchandise with the Grove’s logo printed in the centre, along with the words ‘sport and athletics’ underneath. 

“Thank you.” 

“I’m serious. You don’t have to be alone, you believe me right?”

You’re silent for a few beats. “Yes,” you lie.

“Then say it.”

“I…” your swollen eyes flit up to meet his. There’s a steady intensity in his expression that almost makes you cower, so you glance away and find the trees behind him far more bearable. “I believe you.” 

It’s awkwardly silent for a few beats afterwards, neither of you knowing what to say to lighten the mood, but it was him who was dragged into your unfortunate mess, so you squeak a very meek “I’m sorry you had to see me like that.”

Phainon blinks. “Why are you apologising? If anything, I should be apologising to you for almost scaring you off.”

“It’s only because you snuck up on me!”

“My bad, my bad,” he scratches the back of his neck.

It falls painfully awkward again, a gust of wind brushing against the back of your legs. You shiver. 

“Are you cold?” 

“No- I’m fine, it was just a chill. What brings you here?”

“I was out on a run, this park is on my normal route.”

“It’s so far from your house!”

He tilts his head, ivory locks swaying with the action. “Is it?”

“Well, I guess this wouldn’t be too hard for you, Mr. Top Athlete.”

“Oh, stop it,” he waves off your compliment. “Would you like to get a bite now that we've bumped into each other? My treat.”

The scalding words of your father echo in your head. “I would but I think my family’s expecting me, I shouldn’t keep them waiting too long, sorry.”

He frowns, dejection glossing over his features. “I understand. When can I see you next?”

“To be honest, my parents were scolding me earlier for going out so much so I might need to stay home for a bit. I’ll text you when I think it’s better.”

“Alright.” 

“Well. Guess I’ll see you later, Phai-”

Without warning, you’re engulfed in a warm embrace, Phainon’s fleece shirt pressed against your chin as you crane your neck to meet his towering height. His arms are wrapped tight around your torso, one wrapped around your shoulder, the other around the back of your lower ribs, pressing you securely against him. His cologne smells like cedarwood and bergamot.

(The setting Okheman sun casts golden rays that illuminate his sky blue eyes gorgeously, but you will never forget the unfamiliarity of how he looked at you, and how even the light did nothing to hide it. He regarded you like something that needed fixing, like you were an antique vase that lay shattered on the floor, like you were his favourite mug, like you were something that took love and intention to create.

Instead of sweeping you aside, he held you close to his chest and cradled you there, determined to piece you back together.

You return his embrace.) 

· · ─ · ☼ · ─ · ·

The coming days are mundane. As always, your parents excel at sweeping tension under the rug. Breakfasts are silent, and you’re trying to appease them so you can make it to Phainon’s gala, careful not to stroke their (delicate) tempers. 

You’ve successfully managed to let them know of your plans with Hyacine. Given that she was in Okhema, you didn’t want this chance to slip out of your grasp, so you’re relieved you’ll get to hangout with her for a day or so. 

Other than that, you don’t have much to occupy your time outside of reading, taking occasional walks, and texting your friends, so your mind drifts back to the white-haired man more often than not. 

You’ve been in constant contact, active on both the groupchat with your friends and private chats, but you think back to what he said to you days ago. By the power of unfortunate timing and coincidence, he had caught you at an incredibly sensitive moment– you’re not embarrassed about that anymore, but you can vividly recall the fire in his eyes. How he seemed… angry at your sorrow, like it was unfair that you were feeling upset, like it was his responsibility to fix it. 

‘If you need someone to talk to, I’m here’. 

Would he even want to hear what you have to say? There’s no worth bothering him with problems as mundane as yours… but you can’t say you haven’t been tempted to tell him.

During hours late in the night, when your psyche was tired and rationality worn down after a long day, you were one word away from spilling it all on a late night video call, but the sentence never came out. Instead, they’d crawl right back in your throat and settle uncomfortably in your heart, deciding that someone like him should not need to worry about you. 

What if he is curious, though? He wanted answers, he wanted to console you, wanted you to talk to him, but all you did was jump away when his hands touched yours and refused to speak like some sensitive child.

If you try hard enough, you can feel how hard he squeezed you in that hug, the ghost of his embrace pulling you tight against him. You can remember how he felt in your arms, how the fabric of his shirt felt bunched up in your fists, how grounding it was.

To you, Phainon will always be untouchable, on par with Kephale’s light that beams its warmth on everyone and will always be loved by all. Meanwhile, you’re a puppet tugged along by frayed strings, still trying to discover what it means to be loved and cared for. You are the dust that sits gathered on the windowsill, staring up at the sky outside, yearning for a way out.

Sighing, you savour the sun for a few moments longer. When you cast your gaze downward and see the specks of grey decorating the window frame, you frown, descending to get something to wipe it away with. 

· · ─ · ☼ · ─ · ·

Pie-non: The gala is in 13 days from now :0

Pie-non: Aglaea said that she can help you get ready if you’d like!

Y/n: really?? it won’t bother her?

Pie-non: Nope!

Pie-non: Believe or not, she likes this kind of stuff

Y/n: well, if she’s okay with it, then yes please!

Aglaea gently runs her fingers through your undone hair, classical Amphorean music softly humming in the background from an old record player. The open window welcomes in a warm draft, one that hits the bottom of your neck.

You love the outfit she has picked for you. It’s lightweight and hugs your figure at all the right places but isn’t too tight that moving is a struggle. Most importantly, you still feel like yourself and comfortable in your own skin.

She truly is a tailoring expert.

“I take it that you like the clothes I picked for you?” Aglaea asks, and you glance up at the mirror, unaware of how wide you are smiling.

“I love them,” you announce unabashedly, cheeks beginning to hurt. “They’re gorgeous.”

She laughs, the sound gentle and honeyed as she begins brushing through your hair. “So is the wearer.”

Your gaze flickers back to your reflection. “Thank you.”

It’s silent save for accessories jingling as Aglaea decides which ones best suit you, testing a variety of necklaces, bracelets, arm bands, and more hair pieces. The quiet is comfortable, as if you are more than the (fake) partner Phainon has brought home for the holidays, like you are someone worth a reserved seat at her dinner table.

However, when you leave Okhema at the end of summer, you’ll have to shatter your plate and end this make believe. In the midst of all your new-found feelings, when you and Phainon return to the Grove, he will have to find an excuse as to why you may never return to visit her again. You already feel guilty for wasting her time and energy like this, you can’t fathom how disappointed she will be when it’s time to throw it away. 

“Phainon has been looking forward to today for a long time,” she tells you, a warm look in her eyes when your gazes meet. “Before, he’d be grumpy and petulant whenever I had to get him ready, complaining about all the dates I arranged him, but recently he’s been bouncing off the walls with excitement.” 

You giggle. It’s easy to picture a younger Phainon pouting and huffing, sat in the exact chair you’re in now, throwing a tantrum before Aglaea would straighten him into shape, but you can also imagine current-Phainon eagerly counting down the days to an event he used to dread. Maybe you really did him a favour by agreeing to accompany him. After all, going to big galas with a friend was far more enjoyable than going with someone you did not know.

“Of course, he was never ill-mannered to those I chose, he is far too kind for that, but every year I wondered when he’d finally bring someone of his own choosing.”

“Really? But he’s so popular and well-liked.”

“Phainon is very particular about the people he surrounds himself with. When he first told me that he had a date for this year’s Kephale Festival, I was curious who it was that finally caught his eye. Then, I met you and understood why he liked you so much.”

Your heart skips a beat. “Really?”

She nods. “Admittedly, he has told me about you before and shared pictures you took together from the Grove, along with the group of friends you share. So I have heard about you from all the stories he’d share with me.” 

“It’s a really incredible group, we’re all great friends.”

“I’m grateful he has you all.”

Aglaea smiles fondly. “I’m grateful to have him, too.”

A few beats of silence pass. This time, you’re compelled to speak up. You say “my parents are business owners too. They specialise in a similar industry to you.” 

“Yes, I am vaguely familiar with them. To be successful, you have to know your competitors, but I get the sense they’re not very fond of me.”

“They regard everyone who is not in their circle as rivals and therefore, don’t care about maintaining politeness. I apologise if their aloofness has offended you.”

“Nonsense, I am not holding you accountable for the actions of two different people, not when they should be far more mature. It is baffling that the child they have raised has far more decorum than the supposed role models.”

A feeling of satisfaction settles in your stomach when you hear Aglaea’s remarks, and you don’t even want to defend them, giggling behind your hand. “Did you know of my status before you met me?”

“I know everything in Okhema, so naturally, I recognised you the moment Phainon sent me a group photo.”

You glance up at her, her golden eyes focused on your hair. “I assumed you would herald the same distaste for them and by extension me.”

“Darling, there are a few things we should clear up,” she reaches for a bobby pin, body hovering close to your head for a second. “Apathy is a better suited word than distaste. Business has progressed far beyond a game for me, I do what I do to keep my work afloat, not interact in elaborate mind games with my competitors. Has it turned out that way? Perhaps, but unintentionally. I do not harbour ill intention toward people I have never met, not even when I recognised you for the first time.” Finally, she meets your eyes. “All I discerned about you was that you were a treasured companion to Phainon, and for as long as you make him happy, you will always have a place here in my home.”

Kephale’s light cast her in an angelic light, illuminating Aglaea’s silhouette as she pats your shoulder reassuringly. Your stomach churns at her honesty, the adoring way she speaks about Phainon– would your parents speak of you like this? Have they ever regarded you with this much love and light in their eyes?

Gaze flickering away, there is dust gathering on the edges of the windows.

“Besides, when I see you, I see a powerful individual who has yet to step into who you really are, and that is above the fact that you are also the love of Phainon’s life.” 

Her honesty, the kind way she’s smiling at you– you feel horrible for deceiving her. 

“Phainon and I aren’t really together,” you blurt out without thinking, and you’re immediately covering your mouth with your hands, eyes blown wide as you gauge her reaction in the mirror. 

However, she doesn’t seem the least bit surprised. Instead, she laughs, so animatedly that her shoulders shake, her eyes shut as elegant smile lines crease her skin. 

She inhales deeply with a hand on her chest. “As I said earlier, I know everything in Okhema, and I know that you and my boy aren’t actually together.”

“What? Did Phainon tell you?”

“No, but my intuition is imperceptible, darling. Nothing escapes my eyes. While I could tell you two were upholding a fake relationship, I can also tell that you genuinely like him, don’t you?”

“I do,” you admit softly. “I really do.” You declare it louder the second time. “Is it stupid of me to?”

She shakes her head. “While my guess is that he used me as an excuse to ensnare you, I trust that there is a genuine reason behind his actions, but that is a conversation reserved between you and him. It is not my place to comment on it. However, I can offer you this: when the time comes, know that I am in full support of the both of you.”

“Thank you, that- that means a lot.”

“All you do is thank, thank, and thank people when all they do is show you the basic care you deserve,” she says as she clasps a necklace together.

You fall unnaturally still, eyes stinging as tears begin welling up in your eyes. If Aglaea picks up on your change in behaviour, she is kind enough to not comment, instead, she keeps working on your appearance, pinning and brushing and curling.

After a few minutes, she pats your shoulder and tells you she has finished. So you stand and admire the masterpiece she has styled you into, your hair falling down beautifully, accessories clinging together each time you so moved; you feel ethereal.

“He’ll be speechless when he sees you,” Aglaea smiles at you approvingly.

“Thank you,” you whisper. You hope she knows that you’re grateful for more than just the styling. 

“You’re quite welcome, dear. You shouldn’t keep him waiting, Phainon may be patient, but something tells me he’s downstairs, eager to see you.”

True to her prediction, Phainon is already waiting for you by the bottom of the staircase, fixing his traditional Okheman outfit. When he hears the sound of your footsteps, he looks up but his wide smile falters, shrinking into something more shy and bashful. You carefully descend the steps, holding onto the railing with a gentle grip as fabrics sashay and gold bangles sound against each other, indicating your arrival.

Your date is uncharacteristically quiet, eyes wide and unblinking as they follow your every movement, unable to glance away, even when you come to a stop before him. You anxiously wait for a reaction from the usually-expressive man.

“What do you think?”

He snaps out of his reverie. “I– uh, you- you look incredible.” 

“Thank you. It’s all thanks to Aglaea.”

“Not all, I’d argue,” he wipes his hands on his pants before extending one. “Let me help you down.” 

It felt nice to have his warm palm in yours; how he barely put any pressure on your fingers as his gaze was stuck to the stairs, ensuring you wouldn’t misstep. 

When you reach the bottom, you give him a once-over, keeping your admiration lowkey and refraining from ogling at his biceps. “You look good, Phainon.” 

“I’m glad you think so, I have something to prove tonight.”

“What are you proving?”

“That I’m worth standing by your side.”

Your heart, it’s doing that uncomfortable thing again. You have no idea what to say in response as your face heats up uncontrollably, heat creeping up your neck.

Thankfully, Aglaea saves the day, her heels clacking as she descends the stairs. “Let’s head out now, we’re already running a little behind.”

“Yes, Aglaea.”

A small tug on your hand reminds you that Phainon has yet to let go, and he beams with satisfaction when your attention returns to him. Aglaea comes to a stop beside you and you feel heat creep up your neck at the knowing look she gives you. 

“Was he speechless?” She asks.

“He couldn’t speak for a minute,” you shyly confess and Phainon splutters in protest, causing his mother to laugh, an affectionate smile tugging at her lips when she looks at her son.

Her hands reach over to fix a small part of his outfit. “We were simply teasing. Let’s leave now, the car should be waiting outside.”

The ride to the gala is longer than usual due to closed off roads, but sometimes, you could catch a glimpse of people celebrating. Phainon would point out scenes he found funny or entertaining, delighted by all of the stands with dromas merch, vaguely mentioning how ‘Prof Nax would really like them’. He points to the families who have dressed up, circles of people dancing, and the food stands that he’d like to try sometime soon.

Eventually, the detour ends and you arrive at the steps of the gala. After driving in through the gates, you admire the architecture and construction of the venue. It’s exterior and interior were all thoroughly decorated, and someone guides you through the hallways to arrive at the correct room. 

Before Aglaea can be whisked away by a crowd, she mouths ‘go have fun’ to the both of you. 

“You seem excited, Phainon,” you face him.

“It’s cause I get to spend time with you!”

“Why? We spend a lot of time together regardless.”

He tilts his head. “I always enjoy spending time with you, do I need another reason to be excited about it? Do you want to get food first?” 

“You’re hungry, aren’t you?”

“Maybe, so please?” he pleads with his eyes. 

“Fine.” 

You’re glued to Phainon’s side for the rest of the night. Occasionally people come up to talk to him, greeting him with a big hug and asking how life has been. Then, their curious gaze would drift over to you, wondering who the ‘lucky’ date is.

He’d introduce you enthusiastically, telling you names of people you don’t remember as soon as they turn around and leave. 

Uncharacteristically, it seems like Phainon does not have a lot to say for once as you’re the one to do most of the small talk, asking the partygoers about themselves and showing interest in everything they say. He, on the other hand, is practically too eager to see everyone leave before turning to you with a big, innocent smile, his arm tugging you even closer to his side. 

Then, when it’s the two of you again, he’ll talk your ear off once more. 

“Are you enjoying yourself so far?” Phainon asks.

“Of course, this has probably been the most fun I’ve had at an event,” you tell him. “Everyone we’ve met seems pretty nice so far, and the food’s good! Are you having a good time?” 

He nods enthusiastically, taking a big mouthful of a fig cake dessert. You use your napkin to wipe the crumbs away from the corners of his lips. 

“I’m incredibly grateful for you and Aglaea. This is my first Kephale Festival in a while, and it’s been really enjoyable.”

“You don’t know how happy it makes me to hear that, and it makes me infinitely more happy seeing you get along with my mum. You’re my two favourite people, it means a lot to me.” 

When the night is halfway through, there’s a sudden announcement through the loudspeakers, calling for the crowd to prepare the floor for the partner dances. You raise your eyebrow, it really was true, what kind of events still have formal dances these days?

“You weren’t lying,” you murmur to him.

“Can’t say I didn’t try to prepare you.”

“As long as you don’t step on my toes.”

“Oh come on, I’m trustworthy enough, aren’t I? I promised you I wouldn’t.”

You find a space adequate enough, coming to a stop as Phainon grabs your hand, raising it to shoulder level to prepare. Then, the music kicks in, a lively three-four piece being played by the live entertainment. 

Shaking the nervousness out of your system, he sets the rhythm and you easily follow along. Historically, special dances with their own significance were made in Kephale’s honour, and almost every Okheman learns it either in school or by watching people on the street given how important it is to the Holy City. 

It is said that partner dances are important because Kephale is capable of holding the world on his shoulders alone, so one should rejoice in his benevolent sacrifice and celebrate the gift he gave with another. Furthermore, the steps of the dance follow a circle, as if replicating the world on his shoulders and honouring him.

Mentally, you thank Kephale for his sacrifice, because you get to see Phainon’s joyfully handsome expression as you dance around, following each other’s steps perfectly. He even twirls you around while you move, causing you to throw your head back and laugh, the fabrics you wear twisting and dancing with you. 

You want this moment to last forever. You want to engrain the excited thrum of your heart and the bliss that travels through every vein in your body into memory. You want to be in this moment, under the lights of the dance floor, with him, forever.

He looks at you like you’re something marvellous, turquoise eyes never straying from your face, hand holding yours tightly so you don’t hop too far away from him.

Then, the band builds up to a crescendo, and the dance ends with a final pose. Your chests heave and stray strands of hair stick to sweaty skin, but neither you nor Phainon can think about the fatigue in your muscles. 

People scurry off the floor as new couples take their places. So, you curtsy with a dip of your head, and he bows in return.

“I have somewhere to show you.” He whispers. 

“Let’s go.” 

You find yourself in this familiar situation once again: your hand encased by Phainon’s as he leads you along, this contact an unspoken safety net as you walk through hallways, up staircases, until eventually, you reach a door.

The isolation of this area is not lost on you, there is not another soul in the nearby vicinity as all of them should be downstairs, dancing. You can faintly hear the live band from where you stand. “Are we allowed to be here?” 

He shrugs, “we’ll find out if we get caught.”

“Phainon!” 

“I’ve been here every year so far and no one’s caught me. Just trust me, okay? I’ll cover for you if anything bad happens.”

You look into his eyes that swim with sincerity and brace for the dive. “Fine.” 

He pushes open the door and you gasp, hand covering your mouth. This balcony overlooks the horizon of the Holy City, providing a perfect view of all the festivities occurring beneath. The light of carnival games, the illumination of flower garlands, a ferris wheel that sits in the distance, it looks so alive and vibrant; a warm reminder of all the life and happiness and commemorations that occur in Okhema, something you have taken for granted over the years.

You step out first, stopping just before the tall, stone railings and gazing out at every speck of light you can see, as the wind gently weaves through your hair. It’s so pretty, you can’t tear your eyes away. 

A heavy weight drapes on your back and arms wrap around your waist, bringing you into a warm embrace that you recognise to be Phainon’s. You lean back against him, holding his hands with yours as he rests his chin on the juncture of your shoulder.

You pray he can’t feel the way your heart hammers in your chest, so you fake nonchalance as you gaze out at the horizon instead, content to simply stand and admire… until you feel a pair of eyes staring at the side of your face. 

So, you turn to look at him and almost flinch at how your noses brush. He doesn’t move away.

“Hey, you,” you whisper. 

He smiles, the corners of his eyes creasing. “Hi.”

“It’s so… breathtaking,” you look back at the view and ignore the way his grasp tightens around you. “This is a new perspective I’ve never seen of the Kephale Festival.” 

“Then, I’m honoured to be the one to show it to you.”

You feel his chin retract from your shoulder, but his hand then snakes up, obstructing your view of the city as you feel cool fingers on your cheek, gently guiding your face to look at him. “Phainon, what-” 

“-You’re beautiful,” he interrupts, breath fanning against your lips. “I… I don’t think I’ve told you enough.”

“That’s unnecessary.”

“It’s not, I haven’t been able to take my eyes off you all damn night” his fingers lightly tremble against your face, but his gaze is resolute and firm, never straying from yours. The intensity alone compels you to maintain it, to see where this moment will lead, and if the buildup of anticipation in your gut is correct. 

His gaze flickers to your lips and your chest crumbles. What you want is so close, literally breathing down your face, yet he is still so unreachable because you ache to close the gap but fear the unknown of the other side. 

“You’re unreal,” he whispers as his face slowly inches towards yours. Your hammering heart impatiently beats against your ribcage, aching to feel the–

Boom!

You jump away from Phainon in surprise, shocked by interruption, only for you to sigh in relief when you realise it was a firework that is now fizzling out. Then, because you can never just set one off, a barrage of them follow, lighting up the night sky with a series of colours and patterns. One explodes in the shape of Kephale bearing the world, another in the shape of a chimera head– and oh, a purple dromas firework!

Throughout the display, your partner is uncharacteristically silent, his commentary minimal as you point out fun ones.

After a few minutes, it was finally over, and silence settles over you like a heavy blanket. You’re still held tightly in Phainon’s arms, but his lacking eagerness does not sit right, a sense of anxiety creeping in as you think of something to snap him out of this displeased gaze.

“Is something wrong, Phainon?” 

He blinks to look back at you, subtle frustration softening into a gentler expression. “Everything’s fine!”

“Really?” 

“Really.”

You scramble through your brain in search of something appropriate to say. What would he even want to hear? 

Kephale, You can’t even think straight, not with the way he’s holding you so… possessively, so close to him that it makes your stomach flip helplessly. This, paired with the gentle way he held your cheek, and the sweet words he said to you- you need ten business days to process it all.

But tonight seems to be the day of badly timed interruptions, because there’s a small ding notification from your phone. Fishing it out, the reminder ‘be home before parents get mad!’ is written very clearly on your screen. 

Sighing, you turn it off.

“Do you have a curfew?” Phainon asks, resting the side of his head against yours.

“It’s not necessarily a curfew. It’s just the latest I can get home without triggering my parents. My dad’s a gentle sleeper so he wakes up at any kind of sound I make, especially on nights where he has work the following day.”

He frowns, then his hands grip you even harder, fingers digging into your flesh. Not enough to make you uncomfortable, but enough to dent your skin. 

“I’ve been meaning to ask, and I’m sorry if this makes you uncomfortable but… do you… have a good relationship with your parents?” You freeze in his arms, visibly tense. He’s looking at you- no, analysing you for any kind of changes in your expression that will say what words can’t.

But silence is already a powerful answer and suddenly, your vision of the nightline grows blurry, the lights stretching out into indiscernible lines. Your breathing grows more laboured and the pain that’s accumulated from the last few days come crashing down on you. 

The disappointed look in your father’s eyes, the complacency of your mother who really could not care twice about you, the love you’ve been begging for, the acceptance you may never receive- 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you cry!” He frantically dabs at the tears gathering at the corner of your left eye, trying to catch them with his fingers. Then, he begins fanning your face. “Happy thoughts, happy thoughts! I wouldn’t have asked if I knew it’d make you this upset!”

You erupt into a fit of giggles and he halts, gauging your reaction once again. 

“I’m sorry, I don’t know what came over me,” you mutter, rubbing your eyes. “I… I think I’m okay to answer your question, as long as you genuinely want to know.”

“Of course, but I’m not forcing an answer out of you.”

You inhale deeply. “My relationship with my parents aren’t the best, it hasn’t been since I was young. They’ve always wanted me to be the best version possible, but it feels as if they don’t… view me as their own child. If anything, our relationship is more transactional; someone they can use to further their position in society,” you tighten your grip on Phainon’s wrist. “If I make any mistakes, they’ll eat my head off because everything that goes wrong is my fault even though they never listen to me. If I don’t fit their own personal image of perfection, then I’m a disappointment and a charity case, they hate that I’m at the Grove, they hate that I haven’t graduated early and started a business, gotten married– they hate that my classmates from high school are… better. They hate raising me without benefits.”

The words are tumbling out freely now and Phainon doesn’t interrupt, giving you the space to be completely honest about these feelings that have been bottled for too long.

“You must wonder why this is my first year returning to Okhema ever since the Grove, right? I don’t want to be here because this city is just a reminder that I will never have a proper home. That I won’t be loved like I am by our friends, or the people I’ve met outside the Holy City. This place brings painful memories of youth, of never being good enough, of keeping my mouth shut and going along with everything my parents wanted because I could handle any challenge as long as it made them happy. I still can- I still just want them to be proud of me.” Your chest shudders with the weight of your confession. “Yes, they’ve given me so many opportunities I am grateful for, and I’m… I wouldn’t be as accomplished as I am without them.” 

You crane your neck to look back at him. He’s beautiful, even when your eyesight is all blurry. 

“I want to be loved unconditionally.”

It’s quiet for a few moments, your words marinating as silence settles like the fizzle after a sparkler diminishes, after a fire has crackled its last ember, like the last trails of smoke disappearing from a freshly snuffed candle. 

Unexpectedly, Phainon turns you around in his arms and pulls you into a hug, one strong arm wrapping around your shoulder, the other around your waist.

He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t need to, this is enough. You return the hug, wrapping your arms around his waist, finally exhaling all of the frustrations you’ve been holding to yourself for years.

“Thank you for listening,” you huff, taking a step out of his embrace.

His expression is achingly soft. “Thank you for trusting me enough to tell me.”

You leave the balcony after a while, deciding it was for the better before security discovered and escorted you out. Going back inside wasn’t appealing enough, so you both take a quick detour to check out one of the markets you passed by on the drive, perhaps get some food after a long night.

Eventually, when the moon is high in the sky and the number of attendees at the festival is finally dwindling, Phainon calls for a driver to send you home together. When you arrive at the gates to your home, he helps you out of the car. 

“Wait–” Phainon looks at you as if he has something to say, but you see in real time the way he shuts down his thoughts and closes his mouth. Instead, he reaches for your hand and holds it gently, like a delicate flower he plucked from a garden bed.

He leans down to press his lips against your knuckles.

“Thank you for accompanying me tonight,” when he looks up at you, there is nothing short of earnest candidness gleaming in his eyes as his thumb rubs the back of your hand. The faint glow from the full moon illuminates his features, makes him look younger despite his already-lively appearance, and you take a good look at the man who has shaken your world. It’s unfair that he is breathtaking in the moonlight, too. 

“Thank you for the night,” you whisper back.

“Sleep well, Y/n.”

“You too, Phainon.”

His hand lingers on yours a little longer before finally dropping it. You wave his car off before retiring for the night, fatigue clinging to your bones like honey, eager to pull you under. 

As you undress and peel back all the accessories on your body, you think about the day, about the tenderness Phainon showed you all night, how his hand felt on the side of your face, how he twirled you around, the conversation you had with Aglaea how she said you were the love of Phainon’s life–

Your hands pause. 

What?

· · ─ · ☼ · ─ · ·

The mystique of the night is over as soon as morning arrives, because your parents are already waiting for you. This time, however, the atmosphere feels thick and heavy with tension and you eye them cautiously before sitting down on the couch opposite them, trying to prepare for what they might weaponise against you.

There’s a tablet in your mother’s thin hands and she drops it in front of you as soon as you’re seated.

It’s a photo taken of you and Phainon from last night, dancing, obviously meant to be taken from an angle where neither of you would notice. Both of you look terribly happy, your hands interconnected as he spun you around. Interesting, you don’t remembering seeing anyone  from your parent’s circle of friends last night, but news and gossip travel fast, there is no point wondering who the culprit is. 

“When you said you were attending a gala with someone, did you hide it purposefully from us that it would be with the Goldweaver’s adopted son?” Your mother begins, her sharp eyes boring into you as she spits Aglaea’s business name like it was poison.

You glance up at her, tucking the tablet under your arms, already preempting where this conversation will go. Except, unlike other times, there’s a fiery determination to fight back, to not let their words break and infiltrate your walls and destroy you from the inside out. This time, there’s something to prove, people to defend. 

“No. I didn’t think it was important to mention.”

“Did you know that he was her child?”

“Yes. Not at first, but I learnt over time.”

“And you met her?”

“I’ve ate with her, she has welcomed me at her table, she is the one who dressed me for the gala.” 

Your mum brings a hand over her chest. “No wonder why you looked so horrid.”

You narrow your eyes. “And yet, it received more compliments than any of the pieces you have dressed me in.”

Your father points an accusatory finger in your face. “Watch your tongue.”

“Watch yours.”

“What is wrong with you? That wretched woman is our rival, the one who has sabotaged our business for multiple quarters, have you no shame?”

“Yes, I’m sure she did it purposefully when in actuality, she simply played her cards better.”

There is steam coming out of your father’s ears. “You insolent, ungrateful brat! After everything we have built for you, you whore around behind our backs.”

“Not just with any vermin, but the Goldweaver’s son, have you no shame?” Your mother’s unempathetic voice grows pitchy; her characteristic nonchalant tone displaying a sound of disbelief that you’ve never heard before. 

“His name is Phainon, and you will address him correctly.” 

Your mother’s eyebrows raise slightly whilst your father’s head seems seconds away from popping off his shoulders. “Pardon?”

“He is not a vermin, nor undeserving of your respect, call him by his name.”

He laughs, and it sounds more like a guffaw, or maybe that’s how he laughs because you have never heard it before. It’s foreign, and atrocious, and like nails on chalkboard and you wish for your ears to bleed before you have to listen to it again. 

“The boy has taught you how to talk back to us! You’re losing it! Our child is losing it! After all of these years of raising you, giving you the best opportunities we could, our child is losing it! Dear Kephale, let this be a mere prank!”

You sigh at the tantrum your father is throwing, pushing yourself up to your feet as you begin to walk out of the room. 

The voice of your mother stops you in your tracks. “Y/n, was Phainon the boy you were telling me about? The one you were waiting before your father and I could approve?”

“...Yes,” you lie.

“You had said our approval is important to you, what changed?”

You frown. “I realised I don’t deserve to be chasing your validation for the rest of my life.” 

“If you walk out of that door, say goodbye to us forever, don’t even think about turning around,” your father spits, and you ignore the way your mother slaps his shoulder, as if reprimanding him; a sight you have never witnessed in your life. 

“All the times you didn’t show up, all my achievements that gather dust in a forgotten box below the stairs, I can not lose people who were never there in the first place.”

You leave after that, closing the door to end the only conversation where you had the last word. 

Phone, phone, where’s your phone? Titans- your hands are shaking, they’re shaking so much, calm yourself, breathe, stop the jitters, you can’t find Phainon’s contact like this, this is unbearable, no, please, stop shaking, pull yourself together.

By some miracle your finger presses the ‘call’ button successfully. It only rings two times, but it feels unimaginably long before you hear Phainon’s voice on the other side.

“Hello?”

You exhale a breath of relief. “Phainon, are you free?”

“Of course, are you okay?”

“Please, just meet me at Marmoreal Park.”

“Y/n,” he demands, and you press your phone closer to your ear. “Breathe, you’re safe, okay?”

His voice gently talks you through your panic, six, five, four, three, two, one. Your vision stops creeping in on the edges, you can feel the shake in your hands cease, rationality slowly seeps back in. You just need to get to Marmoreal Park. Phainon’s insistent on staying on the line until you arrive, even if it’s spent in silence as you sit powerless at the back of a taxi, trying to avoid thinking about what just happened like your life depended on it. 

You… you just defied your parents for the first time in your life. Finally severed the reliance you had on appeasing them, all because they slandered Phainon, the friend you’ve relied on like a rock since you arrived at the Grove. The person who always makes you feel wanted in every scenario, who will always save you a seat at every table, who is willing to stay on the line just because you called him in a frenzy, and won’t put it down until he knows you’re safe.

The person you love, and will inevitably lose because he doesn’t feel the same.

Was it worth the hellfire you ignited?

It’s all a mess, your head hurts, and worst of all, you’ve arrived at Marmoreal Park. You pay your driver the fee and leave, nerves running rampant as you hear Phainon’s voice come through your phone. 

He’s here and waiting for you, but you see him and start running without thinking. 

“Phainon!” You yell and he turns around, eyes widening when he sees you but he opens his arms. You barrel straight into them, needing nothing more than to ground yourself against something physical, to feel the presence of another because you think you just lost everything.

“Y/n…” his hand rubs circles on your lower back. “What happened?”

After a deep inhale, you take a step away and glance away to admire the blooms in the park. There were Crape Myrtles all around the perimeter, the tree’s special pink blossoms beautifully decorating the space, even littered all over the grass. 

“I… I had an argument with my parents.”

His gaze darkens, eyebrows furrowing. “What?”

“This might be my last one, though,” you murmur. “I… I think that was the last straw. It’s fine. I’ll survive.”

“What happened?”

“I-It started because of you,” you notice him tense in the corner of your eye. “Someone saw us last night and took a photo for my parents. They didn’t like that I was with you because Aglaea, they despise her, refuse to be associated with her in any way, and that includes having their child be friends with her son.”

“Y/n…”

“They were slandering you, Phai, saying some incredibly disrespectful stuff and I couldn’t stand it.” You sigh. 

“You didn’t have to,” he murmurs, “it’s fine if they hate me, I’m not worth this fight.”

“I would have done the same for any of my friends. Castorice, Mydei, Hyacine, wouldn’t you do the same for me?”

“I would.” There’s no hesitation in his voice. 

Suddenly, you feel a droplet land. Is the weather was against you today as well? Really? When the weather’s been exceptionally clear for the last three weeks? What is this soap-opera level of pathetic fallacy? There’s another drop, and another, until they come bucketing down, beginning to soak through your shirt.

Using a hand to shield your eyes, Phainon grabs your other one and leads you to a nearby gazebo. Thankfully, the park was reasonably vacant for a weekday morning, so you two were the only one taking shelter. Maybe everyone else but you knew about the incoming summer downpour.

It all feels so ironic. A chill passes up your spine as you listen to the percussion of raindrops hitting the brick roof of the pavilion, watch the torrential downpour grow with no end in sight. 

“So… what now?” He asks. “Where do you have to go now?”

You shrug. “I’ll figure that out after this shower passes. Realistically, they can’t be mad at me forever, but now that I’m thinking about it, I can’t say I regret it. It felt good to stand up for myself at least once, and even better to have the last word.” You laugh quietly, shoulders shaking as a decrepit sense of satisfaction creeps up on you. “If anything, I think it’s taught me that I should speak my mind more often.”

“Does that mean you have more left to say?” 

You huff. “Is that a bad thing?” 

“No. Not at all. In fact, I think you should get it all out.”

“Right now?”

“Right now.”

“Even if it may be for the worse?”

“The worst’s already happened, what else could go wrong?” 

“Fine.” You turn to face him square-on, steading yourself. “Phainon, of Aedes Elysiae, I like you. There, now I’ve really fucked everything up- mmhg!” 

The words are stolen from your mouth by a pair of lips sealing against yours. Your squeal of surprise is muffled, devoured by him as big hands cradle your cheeks, tangling in the tresses of your hair. 

Warm. So warm, despite how drenched he is, Phainon feels so warm. His hands are warm, his body pressing up against yours is warm, his lips that are moulding with yours are so warm. Adoration spreads in your body, as if he’s injecting it like the oxygen you need to breathe, letting it trickle like warm, sticky honey that will refuse to leave as it coats your bones.

He’s pulling away and taking the warmth with him too soon. You miss it. You miss it more than you thought you could, which is ironic, because Phainon is right in front of you.

“I’ve waited too long to hear you say that,” he whispers, stealing shorter kisses from your lips by squeezing your cheeks together. “You’ve made me the happiest man alive,” kiss, “I’ll be the best boyfriend ever,” kiss, “I am so happy right now, I could take down an army of Titankin.”

“Wait- wait, let’s talk about this!” You intercept his lips before he could get anymore carried away. “You like me?”

“Holy Kephale, I’ve loved you since I first laid my eyes on you, let me have this moment,” he pulls you in again, bending his neck to meet you halfway. This time, you melt into his touch, letting him lead as he moves his lips against yours. 

Faintly, Aglaea’s words ring in your mind: ‘The love of Phainon’s life’... ‘genuine intentions’. You unwillingly smile against his lips, and he takes that as a sign to part but not without a lick against your nose.

“What… what was that?” You stammer. 

“Nose kiss.” 

“That wasn’t a kiss, weirdo,” you wipe the wetness off as he smiles affectionately at you, not at all apologetic or regretful. It makes your heart flip. 

“Your weirdo.”

“It’s too early to pull out that corny line. Plus, we have a lot to talk about: what do you mean you’ve liked me since you first saw me? I… I thought you didn’t like me.”

If it were possible, question marks would have materialised on top of Phainon’s white hair. “I don’t think I could have made it any more obvious. I tried kissing you last night and you thought I didn’t like you?”

“It- it could have been friendly?”

“If you kiss all of your friends then I’m gonna go wrestle Mydei and tear his face off.”

“Phainon!”

“Just kidding!” 

You narrow your eyes at him before sighing, leaning against his shoulder. You stay like this for a while, neither of you speaking as the downpour continues, encasing you in your own little bubble.

“And I thought this trip home would be the same as always, a torturous three months that I’d have to endure by a hanging thread,” you muse, scoffing at the unexpected turn this holiday has taken. “This city is the furthest thing from beautiful, or eternal, or holy, but you have shown me that maybe… there are many things to love about it,” you glance up at him, and he’s already looking at you. “Maybe, it was all worth it in the end, the grass is warmer on your side.” 

The weather clears not too long afterwards.

 · · ─ · ☼ · ─ · ·

“This photo of us is so cute!” Hyacine exclaims, scrolling through her photo album as you and Castorice peer over her shoulder. “I think I want to post this one, thoughts?”

“I like this one a lot, you look so pretty,” Castorice comments. “I’m jealous, I wish I had gone to Okhema as well now, it would have been so incredible exploring the city with you.”

“Hyacine and I had a blast, but at least your sister came to visit, that must have been good,” you try your best to console her. 

Your pink-haired friend pipes up with an idea: “we should definitely plan out a trip sometime soon, that would be so fun!”

They both look to you. “Well, I probably will be going home now more often,” you admit sheepishly, and await their reactions.

Before Phainon, Castorice and Hyacine were the only ones with a general understanding of your home life as you would vaguely talk about it with them during late nights spent in each other’s dorms. They knew surface-level information; that you hated going home because of strict parents, so their shock was reasonable.

“What!” Hyacine’s eyes widen and Castorice’s hand comes to her mouth. 

“You told me you had to be on your best behaviour for a week so your mum could agree to hang out with me, what changed?” 

You barely get a word out before the reason himself comes behind you and unceremoniously drapes himself over your shoulders. The two girls gasp loudly, the second shock of the day arriving in the form of a clingy boyfriend who is loudly proclaiming that he ‘missed youuu’ while wrapping you in a hug so tight, you think he’s squeezing the air out of you.

“I mean, we both had a hunch based on the pictures you’d send in the groupchat, but… Y/n!” Exclaims Hyacine as Phainon presses two very loud and dramatised kisses against your hairline.

“Phai, please,” you feel heat creeping up your neck at his bold displays of affection. While you don’t necessarily hate it and actually quite like his attention, all of your friends were staring, and they didn’t need to watch you receiving it.

He gently tilts your chin so you look up at him, white hair falling down and tickling your forehead. “Hi angel,” he greets like nothing is wrong before rounding the bench to sit down on the opposite side, beside Mydei, who is very unbothered, expression as neutral as ever as he eats a protein bar.

Castorice speaks up. “Y/n, why didn’t you tell us earlier?” 

“There wasn’t a good enough time…” 

“Anytime is a good time!” Hyacine squeals, pigtails bouncing. “You can tell us anything, especially something as important as this!”

“I know, I know, I promise I was going to, but there-” you try to explain before your boyfriend interrupts you.

“-tell you what?” He asks innocently. “What’s up?” 

“That you and Y/n were dating,” the purple-haired explains calmly.

“What!” Phainon’s gasp is probably louder than both Castorice and Hyacine’s combined as a look of pure shock and betrayal sets on his expression, “why didn’t you tell them?”

You wave your hands defensively, trying to fight a losing battle. “I was going to, I swear, but there was just never a good time, and I’m shy and hate talking about myself for too long and-”

“-I’ve told Mydei three times by now!”

The man in question agrees. “He has. In excruciating detail.”

“Guys!” You whine, “I’m sorry!”

“Wait,” Phainon visibly perks up, like a dog who was just thrown his favorite treat. “If you haven’t told them, then can I tell them?” 

“I don’t trust your commentary!” 

“What? My commentary is a flawless retelling, you don’t trust your own boyfriend?”

“Let me tell them first, okay?”

He deflates. “Okay.” 

After a nice lunch with your friends, all of you catching up and chatting about what you did in the holidays, you and Phainon find yourselves alone once again, sat under the shade of a magnolia tree. He is, as always, laying on your lap, trying to find a comfortable spot for his ‘optimal time of the day’ nap, happily wrapping his arms around your legs and manhandling them as he pleases, while you’re subject to his whims.

“Happy?” You ask when he finally finds a favourable position, which happens to be his head on your thighs while his arms are wrapped around your stomach.

With the way he hums, you’re certain he’s quite content. So, you thread your fingers through his hair and begin playing with the strands; a habit you have after he told you that it helped him fall asleep faster.

As he dozes off, you take the time to think about everything that transpired over summer.

As soon as your feelings for each other were confirmed, Phainon practically dragged you home to tell Aglaea, who was certainly delighted with the new status of your relationship. She was hardly surprised, though, giving you an ‘I told you so’ look before welcoming you as a new member of the family. The hug felt so nice and warm, it was your second best memory from that day.

It is still complicated back home. Your mother has grown more amicable with the idea over time, so much so that she has suggested the idea of bringing Phainon over, but your father is stubborn and refusing to relent. He has always been too preoccupied with work for you to care, though. As long as you did what he was told, he never got in your way. 

As a magnolia blossom falls from the tree and lands perfectly in his snow-white hair, you giggle at the placement, threading it to sit behind his ear as he sleeps peacefully. 

© EARTHTOOZ 2025, do not steal, translate, repost my fics and do not recommend my fics onto any other site.

[pleasantlycrazyworld]

The Matchmaker Assassin

Bob Reynolds x reader

Summary: When Bob realizes how lonely he really is Yelena is quick to pick up on it and sets him up quickly with a friend...he won't embarrass himself...right?

Bob wasn’t sure when the loneliness had crept in. Maybe it had always been there -- buried under guilt and power and the slow, aching process of putting himself back together. For years, he’d been too busy surviving to feel much of anything, and now that he was clean in all body, mind, and soul he actually had time to feel it.

And god, it hurt sometimes.

It hurt to come home to an empty apartment. To eat dinner standing by the sink. To wake up in the middle of the night and have no one beside him but the extra blanket he had on his bed.

He’d tried to ignore it. Tried to pour himself into training, into books and rebuilding and fixing what had been broken. But loneliness was a quiet, persistent thing. It lingered in the corners. It spoke in silence.

He even thought about dating apps once. Spent twenty minutes staring at the “bio” section before deleting it entirely. What the hell was he supposed to say? Hi, I used to be an addict then I became a walking bomb basically and now I fold my laundry instead of it just sitting in the basket for weeks and go to therapy. Wanna grab a coffee? He didn’t think that would really work out very well. 

He didn’t want to explain himself to strangers. He wasn’t sure if he was built for small talk anymore.

And of course, Yelena noticed.

“You’re moping,” she said one afternoon, chewing a piece of his leftover pizza without asking. “You get all squinty and broody when you’re touch-starved. It’s pathetic.”

Bob blinked over the rim of his coffee mug. “What the hell kind of diagnosis is that?”

“A correct one,” she replied flatly. “You named your houseplant Maxwell, Bob. I caught you talking to your microwave Tuesday.”

He cringed remembering that conversation, the worse part was that it was a good conversation.“…Okay. I might be a little lonely.”

She grinned like a shark. “Good. I’m setting you up.”

“What? No. No, no. Yelena, I can’t—”

“She’s a friend. A good one too. You’ll like her. You’re going. Tomorrow. Wear a shirt that doesn’t scream ‘man who talks to plants and kitchen appliances.' Do not embarrass me Roberts.”

Bob didn't know anything about you but he was terrified.

You didn’t know much about Bob Reynolds before that night. Yelena told you he was sweet – with “sad golden retriever eyes and the posture of an anxious oak tree.” You thought she was exaggerating. She really wasn’t.

You walked into the little bookstore café near their complex, not expecting much. A favor to a friend is what you expected that’s all. But then you saw him sitting near the back: tall, broad, fidgeting with a napkin like it had personally insulted him. He stood when you approached--actually stood--and smiled like he couldn’t quite believe you were real.

And god, that smile.

“I’m Bob,” he said, offering a hand.

“Yeah,” you said, shaking it. “Yelena told me. She also said you cry during dog movies.”

His ears turned red. “Well I mean only the good ones.”

You teased him the entire first hour, but he gave as good as he could-- in a quiet, dry, completely endearing sort of way. He was nervous, sure, but also funny. Surprisingly sharp. He told stories about accidentally vaporizing vending machines he told you how he once won a free T-shirt by correcting a grammar error on a billboard. You laughed so hard you snorted once -- and he beamed like he’d won the lottery.

The real click happened when he walked you home. Neither of you said much until your porch. You turned to him and asked, “Wanna hold my hand or are you gonna keep pretending you’re not dying to?” He huffed a breath of laughter. “You always that direct?” You shrugged. “You always that obvious?” He smiled. “Only with you, apparently.”

__–__–__–__–__–

Later that night, Bob lay in bed staring at the ceiling, fingers still tingling from where they’d brushed yours.

He grabbed his phone and texted Yelena:

Bob: I think I really like her.

She responded in three seconds flat:

Yelena: I know I do have eyes Bobert you should know by now I am genius. You truly should be worshipping me at this point of our friendship.

Bob just smiled. Because maybe -- after everything -- he could have this. Maybe you were exactly what he hadn’t known he was waiting for.  And maybe Yelena Belova was terrifyingly good at matchmaking.

--_--_--_--_

Your second date was set for the weekend. Bob promised he’d plan everything.

He showed up ten minutes early. Not because he was nervous he absolutely was, nor because he’d changed his shirt twice he absolutely had, but because this time, he wanted to get it right. You weren’t casual. You weren’t forgettable. You were sitting-in-the-back-of-his-mind kind of unforgettable. When you arrived, with your gentle smile and bright eyes, he forgot how to breathe for a second.

“Did you plan all this?” you asked, nodding at the little sidewalk café table already laid out with two drinks and what looked like one of everything from the dessert case.

“I may have panicked and ordered like everything,” he admitted cringing while he rubbed the back of his neck. You laughed. “That’s okay. I like a man with a default in chaotic dessert strategies.”

You spent hours talking. Bob nearly cried laughing at one of your stories. You confessed you liked to eavesdrop in public and make up fake love stories for strangers. He told you he thought he’d never be normal enough to date again -- and you just held his hand across the table, steady and sure.

He walked you home again. This time, your hands brushed on purpose.

“You really are sweet,” you said, voice softer now. “Yelena wasn’t lying.”

“She also said I’d trip over myself, which I have so far managed not to—” Bob tripped on a cracked part of the sidewalk.

You caught his arm. “You were saying?”

He groaned slightly embarrassed, “I’m two for two.”

At your door, the pause came. That charged stillness where neither of you moved — both of you waiting.

“So…” you said, grinning. “Do I get a goodnight hug, or is this the part where you awkwardly salute me and run off?”

“I was leaning toward a dramatic bow,” he offered.

“Even though that sounds amazing to see I think I’ll take a hug.”

He stepped forward and wrapped his arms around you gently; carefully, like you were something precious. You leaned in and didn’t let go until he finally pulled back, eyes flicking to your lips.

Bob hesitated.

Then, with more courage than coordination, he leaned in… and completely misjudged the angle.

Your noses bumped. Your teeth nearly clicked.

“Ow—shit, sorry,” he blurted. You were laughing. “Wow. We are so smooth.”

“Worst kiss attempt in history?”

“Top three. But you’re still cute.” You grabbed the front of his jacket. “Let’s try again. But this time…you tilt left yeah?”

The kiss was better the second time. Still a little too eager, still smiling into each other’s mouths, but warm and real and just… right. And for the first time in years, Bob felt hope in his chest instead of hollowness.

_–_–_–_–_–_

He showed up at complex the next morning looking like he’d been hit by a truck full of sunshine and bad poetry.

Yelena barely glanced up from her coffee. “You kissed her.”

Bob blinked. “How’d you know?!”

“You look like you cried during a Pixar movie and then got laid.”

“Okay look! Everyone cried when we watched Coco…” Yelena raised her eyebrow making Bob sigh and nod, “Yes. I kissed her.”

“And?” she asked, sipping dramatically.

“It was so good,” Bob said, practically glowing. “We bumped noses at first, but then she laughed and actually kissed me and--Yelena, I swear I could feel the planet tilt. She made me feel like I wasn’t some walking disaster. Like I was just… me.”

Yelena rolled her eyes hearing his dreamy sigh. “Disgusting. You’re so in love.”

“I’m not in love!” he insisted. “I mean--I just met her that'd be so soon like scary soon ya know and I don't want to scare her off...but also… maybe?”

She stared him down. “If you mess this up, I will break both your knees.”

“Understandable.”

Then she softened. Just a flicker. “I’m happy for you. Really. You deserve this.”

Bob blinked before getting a teasing smirk on his face. “Wait--was that… are you being nice to me?”

“Shut up,” she snapped, throwing a pen at him. “Go text your little girlfriend before you start writing her poetry in your mission logs.”

He didn’t even deny it. Just grinned and pulled out his phone.

Bob: Last night was perfect. Wanna get dinner tonight?

You: You bumped your nose into mine and still managed to be cute. You’re dangerous, Reynolds.

He melted. Yelena groaned. “God help me. He’s smitten.” And he was.

Because maybe the world was still a mess. Maybe there were still bad days and echoes of old chaos. But now, when he got home, his phone lit up with a text from you. And that quiet ache in his chest?

It didn’t feel so heavy anymore.

Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed :) If you like my work please let me know! Reblogging, commenting and liking are huge and easy ways to let me know you're enjoying my work and it keeps me motivated to post way more!!! Request are open <3

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[waitimcomingtoo]

Imagine Me And You

Pairing: Peter Parker x Reader

Synopsis: you and Peter have feelings for each other but can’t act on them since he’s your friends ex-boyfriend

Masterlist

“Is it weird to date your ex’s friend?” Peter typed into his laptop and waited for the results to come up. He was so engrossed in reading the responses that he didn’t hear you and Ned come up to the table he was sitting at.

“What are you looking at?” You asked as you plopped down beside him. Peter quickly slammed his laptop shut and hopped you hadn’t seen his screen.

“Oh, uh. I was just taking an “Am I Gay?” Quiz.” He lied with a causal shrug.

“Aw. Did you pass?” You asked with a teasing smile.

“Aced it.” Peter said with a click on his tongue.

“I knew you would. That’s my boy.” You laughed and patted his back.

“I love when you call me your boy.” Peter said jokingly.

“So no one cares that I’m here?” Ned asked when no one had acknowledged his presence yet.

“Do you? Then maybe I should call you that more often.“ You replied and leaned towards Peter. A blush painted Peter’s cheeks while Ned rolled his eyes to the ceiling.

“Maybe you should. But I’d like anything you called me.” Peter answered.

“Oh yeah? Even when I called you fart ass boy the entire bus ride home from DC?” You asked him.

“Okay. I didn’t love that.” He admitted, making you both laugh.

“You did it to yourself, mister.” You shrugged. “Should’ve waiting until you were alone to rip ass.”

“I thought it would be silent.”

“Aw. We all think things.” You said and teasingly patted his back again. You stared into each other’s eyes for a moment because no one wanted to be the first to look away.

“Can you guys stop?” Ned complained. “I feel like I’m watching straight American Heartstopper. And it sucks.”

You and Peter exchanged a look before scooting away from each other. There was always an awkwardness that followed when the unspoken feelings between you and Peter were spoken about. It’s not that neither of you wanted it enough to make the move. It was the boundary that neither of you knew if it was okay to cross.

Luckily, MJ came to the table and broke up the uncomfortable silence Ned had created. She sat down with a smile on her face but it slowly dropped when she sensed the tension among the three of you.

“Real weird vibe here guys.” MJ said out of the corner of her mouth.

“Sorry. That was my fault.” Ned said with a raise of his hand.

“Usually is.” MJ shrugged. “Anyway, a friend of mine is having an art show this Friday and they need more bodies in the room. Would you guys want to come?”

“Sure. I’ll go.” You told her.

“We’ll come. As long as there is some kind of greasy food or ice cream happening after.” Ned answered for him and Peter.

“Cool. I’ll tell her the five of us are coming.” MJ said as she pulled out her phone to text her friend.

“Five?” Peter asked.

“Oh, yeah. I forgot to mention that I invited Liz. Sorry, Peter.” MJ replied, making everyone look at Peter. The only one Peter cared to look back at was you. His face flushed an embarrassed pink as he shrugged his shoulders.

“I have no problem with it.” He said. “We’re cool now. And we’re all friends. It’s fine that she’s invited.”

“Yeah, but we haven’t hung out as a fivesome since you guys broke up.” Ned pointed out. “This would be the first.”

“Don’t say fivesome.” MJ said warningly.

“The breakup was almost a year ago.” Peter shrugged. “I’m sure it will be fine if she comes.”

“Okay. Five of us it is then. No one better bail on me this time. I don’t want a repeat of that time everyone ditched and I had to see Lego Batman by myself with Ned.”

“I haven’t cried that hard in a movie theater before I saw it and I haven’t cried that hard since.” Ned shook his head as he blew out a breath.

You were hardly listening as you stared off into the distance, the reminder of the reason you and Peter couldn’t be together causing you to check out of the conversation. Peter looked over at you and tried to catch your eye but failed. It twisted your stomach in knots every time you thought about what having feelings for Peter would do to your friendship with Liz. As much as you liked him, you could never betray her. So instead, you pushed it down and didn’t dare to meet his eye.

On Friday night, you and Peter stood outside the art studio, both on the phone. You were anxiously waiting for someone else to show up so you didn’t have to be alone with him any longer.

“You’re not coming?” You asked in disbelief.

“I know. I hate to miss the show.” MJ groaned. “But I’m having an allergic reaction.”

“You are? From what?”

“Not sure.” MJ said quietly, making you roll your eyes to the sky.

“You got that damn crab Rangoon from that place on the corner again, didn’t you?” You asked angrily.

“I cannot resist it. I am only human.”

“A human with a shellfish allergy.” You reminded her.

“Those are optional.” She insisted.

“They’re not. I’m coming to your dorm to take care of you.” You sighed and went to hang up.

“Don’t worry about me. Liz is here.” MJ informed you, making your freeze.

“Hey. I’m taking care of her tonight.” Liz called loud enough for you to hear. You looked over your shoulder at Peter before returning to the phone call.

“Do you need any help? Last time MJ ate those things, she puked so much I almost called the Coast Guard out of fear.”

“I think I’ll be okay. Besides, taking care of her is good practice for the NCLEX.” Liz replied.

“The what?”

“Nursing exam.” She chuckled. “Don’t worry. I got her. And don’t worry about me either, okay? I want you guys to have fun tonight.”

The kindness in Liz’s voice when she said the last part made you want to ask her exactly what she meant by that. You didn’t have time to ask before you heard MJ retching and quickly hung up the phone. You thought about what Liz had said before walking back to Peter.

“MJ bailed.” You told him.

“What?” Peter laughed in surprise. “This is her friend’s show. Did she say why?”

“You know why.” You sighed.

“That damn crab Rangoon.” He huffed and stamped his foot.

“She can’t stay away.” You shrugged. “What about Ned? Is he on his way?”

“He’s not coming either.”

“What? Why not?”

“He said he remembered that he didn’t want to and is playing The Sims instead.”

“Of course he is.” You grumbled and shoved your hands in your pockets. Peter recognized that you were cold and unzipped his jacket. He went to place it around your shoulders but then hesitated. You’d been distant during the week and he wasn’t sure his jacket was something you’d want.

“Is Liz almost here?” He asked as he slipped his arms back through his coat.

“No. She’s taking care of MJ. We’re really lucky to have a friend who’s becoming a nurse. One of us is always getting sick from something stupid.” You replied, making Peter smile. He and Liz really were cool now, but he much preferred having an evening alone with you.

“Oh. Cool. Just us tonight, then.” Peter said as a blush painted his cheeks. You looked up at him sadly and shook your head.

“I think we should go home, Peter.”

“What? Why?”

“Because.” You whined. “We can’t hang out just you and me.”

“We can’t?” He asked as his heart started to sink.

“No.” You insisted. “If it’s just the two of us, then it’s like a date.”

“Oh. And you wouldn’t want to be on a date with me.” He nodded his head and looked at the ground so you wouldn’t see how much that stung him.

“It’s not that I don’t want to…” You trailed off, making him look up at you with curiosity. You looked into his eyes and smiled sadly.

“We can’t. You know that.” You said quietly.

Peter knew that you were thinking about Liz. It’s not that he didn’t care if he hurt Liz by going out with you, it’s that he felt like he knew her well enough to know she’d be okay with it.

“So then let’s not make this a date.” Peter said to break the silence. “Because I don’t see any reason why the two of us can’t hang out alone. Let’s ditch this art show and go do something no two people on a date would ever do.”

“Like what? Take the LIRR to Long Island?” You asked him.

“Absolutely not.” Peter said in disgust. “I was thinking we could get some non-date food and then do a non-date activity.”

“I wouldn’t say no to a pizza right now.” You said coyly, starting to warm up to his idea. Peter smiled happily before holding out his arm. You hesitated for a moment and then took it, allowing him to lead you to the closest pizza shop.

It was tiny, dimly lit, and hardly the scene of a date, making it the perfect spot. You and Peter ordered and when he reached for his wallet, you put your hand over his.

“I got this, baby girl. Your money isn’t good here.” You told him before paying the man behind the register.

“Smart. Because if this was a date, I’d pay.” He said and tapped the side of his head. You laughed at him before getting your pizza. The two of you sat down across the table from one another in the back of the restaurant. The only other patron was shirtless and eating a calzone with two hands, so you had your privacy.

“So. What would two people not on a date talk about?” Peter asked between bites of his pizza.

“Hm. I don’t know.” You thought. “Shit from a butt?”

“Hmm. That’s a really good option.” He nodded his head. “But let’s keep thinking.”

You playfully rolled your eyes at him and took a bite of your food. You had initially panicked over it just being the two of you tonight but that quickly fell away when you remembered how easy it was to be around Peter. As long as it stayed a non-date, your guilt would be at bay.

“We haven’t hung out just us in a long time.” Peter said, as if reading your mind.

“Yeah. It’s been over a year, I think.” You realized. “We went to that arcade that also sold purses and knives.”

“And hot dogs.” He added. “Remember I tried one and got a terrible nose bleed?”

“I remember that.” You chuckled. “I was so scared you were gonna bleed out in front of me. I think I gave you a tampon to put up your nose.”

“You did. And it was surprisingly very comfortable up there.”

“That was a fun night. We were out so late too. I had an early morning class the next day but I didn’t care. I didn’t want the night to end.” You said without thinking.

“Neither did I. That’s kinda how I’m feeling now. I didn’t realize how much I missed spending time with you one on one.”

“Aw, Pete.” You smiled and put your hand on top of his. “I missed it too.”

“You guys are a cute couple. Reminds me of me and my boyfriend.” The other man in the restaurant smiled at the two of you as he got up to leave. His comment brought the two of you back to reality and you quickly moved your hand. You looked to the side as Peter pretended to be busy with his napkin. Your reminiscing had landed you in date territory and you needed to pivot out of it quickly.

“The pizza is good.” Peter said to break the awkward silence that had settled.

“Yeah. I can feel a pimple forming on my chin and I haven’t even finished it yet but it’s pretty good.” You agreed without meeting his eyes. You finished your slices with small talk between bites before leaving the shop.

“Want to walk around a little? I need some movement to digest that thing.” Peter offered as he patted his stomach.

“Sure. Just, leave enough room for Jesus, okay?” You laughed awkwardly as the two of you started to walk down the sidewalk.

“Sure.” Peter chuckled and kept an appropriate amount of space between the two of you as you walked. The other sidewalk users that you had to maneuver around eventually caused you to get closer. Your hand bumped Peter’s a few times too many before you folded your arms and rubbed them up and down.

“Are you cold?” He asked you.

“A little. This damn Shein jacket is probably made out of candy wrappers and recycled Build-A-Bear skin. The wind goes right through it.” You grumbled and pulled the fake leather jacket tighter around your body.

“What an odd combination the seamstress chose.” He chuckled. “But it looks good on you.”

“Thanks.” You turned your head to give him a shy smile. Peter only let you walk a few more paces before placing his jacket over your shoulders. You gave him a grateful smile before slipping your arms through the sleeves. You knew Peter tended to run hot so you didn’t have to worry about him getting cold.

“I was going to give it to you back at the art show but I wasn’t sure if you’d want it.” He confessed to you.

“Why wouldn’t I?” You played dumb.

“I don’t know. You’ve been a little distant this week. And a little jumpy tonight. Is everything okay?”

“Yeah. I’m fine.” You replied in a tone that convinced no one. Peter stopped walking so you did too. He took a step towards you and put his hand on your shoulder.

“You know you could tell me anything, right?” He said in a tone so gentle your knees almost collapsed. You looked down at his hand and then into his eyes. You wanted to tell him that you liked him and that it was killing you to not be able to be with him the way you wanted, but the words didn’t come out.

“I’m okay.” You said instead. “Let’s just keep walking. It keeps me warm to stay moving.”

Peters wasn’t fully satisfied but he knew you got cagey when you were pushed so he let it go. You ended up walking to the pier of the Long Island Sound and stopped to looked at the water.

“Wow. It’s actually kinda pretty at night. You can’t see how brown it is.” You commented as you stared at the rippling waves. Peter was too busy looking at you to see what you were talking about.

“Yeah. Very pretty.” He said in a soft voice as he watched the setting sun illuminate your side profile. You both stayed like that for a moment in comfortable silence.

“The sun is going down. You want to watch?” Peter offered. You were about to say yes when a heavy feeling hit your chest.

“Watching the sunset is a date activity.” You said quietly.

“I know. That’s why you’re gonna watch the sunset and I’m gonna go over there and watch those pigeons fighting over an Elf bar.” Peter pointed to a bench a few feet behind you to let you know where he’d be.

“Okay.” You laughed. “Don’t have too much fun.”

“No promises.” He called back as he walked to where the pigeons were. You watched him over your shoulder as he sat down on the bench and felt your heart ache. He gave you a little wave before pointing at the sky, making you turn around. You longed to go over and sit next to him and watch the sunset together, but you couldn’t do that. If he had dated anyone else but your friend, you could. But everything was complicated so you stayed where you were.

“How was it?” Peter asked as he joined you on the pier once the sun had fully dipped under the horizon.

“It was beautiful. You would’ve liked it.” You told him. “It was one of those nights when the sun looks really red and the sky is orange. I know you like those.”

“I do. But don’t worry, I secretly watched from behind you.” He admitted. “But it doesn’t count as watching it together because we were socially distancing.”

“Good. I wouldn’t want you to miss it.” You said as you stared into his eyes. He stared back and raised his hand to tuck a piece of hair behind your cheek, but quickly put it down. You gave him a tight smile before tossing something into the water.

“What was that?” He wondered.

“My pizza crust. I was throwing it to the whales.” You replied. Peter looked back and forth between you and the water for a few times to see if you were serious.

“There are no whales in this water.” He said finally.

“Then what have I been throwing bread crumbs at for the past ten minutes?”

“I have no idea since whales don’t eat breadcrumbs in the first place.”

“Well something was popping out of the water to eat the crumbs.” You pointed out.

“In the Long Island Sound? It was probably the Babadook or something. Let’s go before it comes out and gets us.” He said and put his hand on the small of your back to lead you away. Your face went hot at the contact and you had to give him a look. He rolled his eyes slightly and dropped his hand.

“I know, I know.” Peter said sarcastically. “I dated your friend for three months almost a year ago so you and I cannot do anything that would suggest there was a romance between us. But I put my hand on Neds back too, by the way.”

“I know. That’s why you passed that “Am I Gay?” quiz this week.” You teased him. Peter laughed lightly but you could tell he was upset about something.

“What’s wrong?” You asked him, making him stop in his tracks. He looked at you with his big brown eyes and you felt that old familiar ache in your heart.

“It’s not the I regret dating Liz. She’s a great girl.” He began.

“I know.” You nodded, shocked that you were actually talking about this forbidden subject out loud.

“I cannot tell you how much I regret dating a friend of yours.” He continued, making butteries erupt in your stomach.

“Oh.” You said quietly. He looked to the side but you continued to stare at his face. He looked upset and had his usually blush splashed across his face.

“Peter.” You said softly and went to put your hand on his face. He quickly snapped out of his mood and threw a smile on.

“You know what I’ve been thinking about lately?” He asked.

“What?” You wondered, confused by the sudden change in emotion.

“Those little squishy oatmeal cookies with the cream in the middle. You know what I’m talking about?”

“Not the answer I was expecting, but okay. Oatmeal creme pies?”

“Yes!” He exclaimed. “Those were so good. They’ve been on my mind all week.”

“Let’s stop in and get some. I’m sure they have them.” You laughed and pulled him into the nearest corner store.

“Really? You want one?” He asked excitedly as you walked through the door together.

“No, but I can’t think of anything less romantic than watching you down one of them right now.”

“Oh, baby, you’re about to watch me down three of them right now.” Peter held up three fingers as he practically skipped to the snack aisle. You laughed and followed him to help him look. He didn’t find them in that aisle so he went around the corner to check the next one.

“How much do you think this is?” He asked as he came back to the aisle you were in with an orange cat in his arms.

“Put him down.” You ordered. “That’s the manager.”

“Fine.” Peter sighed and gently let the cat go. “Now I kinda want one of these giant protein cookies.”

“No way. Those taste like straight up sand and butt.” You warned him.

“At the same time?” He wondered. “Or is it like very sand forward with a butt aftertaste?”

“You think you’re so funny, don’t you?” You playfully narrowed your eyes as you turned to him.

“I do actually, yes. Thank you for noticing.” He replied and took a step closer to you.

“The only thing I noticed is that eyelash that’s been sitting on your cheek all night. I want it.” You said and reached up to take it off his face. He gently caught your wrist and moved it away, bringing you closer to him in the process.

“Get away from me.” He laughed. “That’s my wish. Not yours.”

“Come here. Please, let me get it off your face. It’s been bothering me since the pizza place. I’ll do anything. I’ll buy you all the sand cookies you want.” You offered as you tried with your other hand to hold his face still. Peter had wrapped his arm around your waist now to better maneuver you away from his face as you struggled to get the eyelash.

“That is not what I want.” He said in response to your cookie offer.

“Hey guys.” A voice came from down the aisle, making you both freeze before untangling yourselves from each other.

“Liz.” You smiled in surprise and hastily fixed yourself. “What are you doing here?”

Peter gave her a small wave but said nothing. Her face was calm and if anything, delighted to see the both of you. Meanwhile, your heart was pounding in your chest and you felt guilt like never before.

“I’m just getting some Pepto for MJ. She only has the cherry kind and she said it-“

“Reminds her too much of her ex.” You finished her sentence. “I know. Is she okay?”

“She’s doing better. I think she’s learned her lesson this time. She’s not gonna eat them again.” Liz answered. You all were silent for a moment before bursting out laughing.

“That was a good one, Liz.” You said once your laughter died down.

“Thank you.” She smiled. “So, how was the art show?”

“Oh, we didn’t end up going. We got food instead.” Peter replied. Your heart started to pound again in fear of how that sounded to Liz.

“Oh yeah? Where?” She wondered.

“Just some random little pizza place. The pizza was like $2 and it tasted like the price. I bought my own, by the way. I mean, I bought his too, but only because I already had a five dollar bill out.” You quickly explained. Liz laughed at how you stumbled over yourself but didn’t make any sign of being upset with either of you.

“Wow. Thank you for all the details.” She said teasingly.

You felt about ready to explode by that point. Liz appeared calm and happy, the exact opposite of how you were feeling inside. You felt like you were betraying your friend right in front of her eyes and you didn’t understand why she wasn’t calling you out for being a bad friend yet.

“Peter, can you go get me a clear Gatorade?” You asked Peter.

“Oh, yeah, sure. Bye Liz.” He waved again before leaving the aisle.

“I don’t think they make a clear Gatorade.” Liz said once you were alone.

“They don’t. I just wanted to get rid of him.” You told her.

“Oh, smart.” She chuckled. “So, did you guys have fun tonight?”

“It was okay. It was a pretty uneventful hang out with a friend.” You said with extra emphasis on the “friend” part.

“Really? It seemed like you were having fun when I saw you guys.” She said with surprise. She didn’t sound angry which didn’t make sense to you.

“Fun? With Peter? No way. We’re only hanging out because everyone else bailed. I’d never hang out with him alone otherwise. And I never will again, just so we’re clear.” You assured her. Liz looked at you for a while before smiling softly.

“Hey, you know that red sweater you let me borrow last semester?” She asked you.

“Oh, yeah. The one with the big buttons.” You recalled.

“You know how after I wore it a few times, you told me to keep it?” She continued.

“Well, yeah. I thought it was cute but it never looked right on me. But it looked great on you. I wanted you to have it.”

Liz smiled when you said exactly what she was hoping. She put her hands on your shoulders to make you look at her.

“You can keep my sweater. It looks much better on you. And it was never mine to begin with.” She said in a soft tone. You caught on to what she was saying and looked over at the drink section where Peter was still searching for the nonexistent drink.

“Liz. I can’t.” You shook your head and looked down at the ground.

“If you don’t like him and I’m reading all the signs wrong, then l’ll drop it. But if you’re holding yourself back from being with him because of me, then both of you need to cut it out. Because it’s fine with me.”

“It is?”

“Of course it is.” She insisted. “Peter and I barely dated. And we broke up for a reason. We didn’t work as a couple and that’s okay. It doesn’t mean he’s off limits from you or any other girl. I think you should go for it.”

“But he’s your ex-boyfriend.”

“And you’re my best friend. I want you to be happy.“ She said with a friendly squeeze of your shoulders. You gave her a sad smile and then pulled her into a hug. She hugged you back tightly as Peter watched curiously from a distance.

“I appreciate you caring about my feelings. But it’s not necessary.Now, go get him.” Liz said once you pulled out of the hug. Peter came back and joined you in the aisle with a smile.

“Here you go.” Peter said as he handed you the bottle of clear Gatorade.

“What the hell?” You whispered in disbelief at his find.

“I better get back to MJ. But call me if you guys get sick from that pizza.” Liz waved goodbye and left to make her purchase.

“What were you guys talking about?” Peter asked once the two of you left the store with your items.

“My old red sweater.” You told him to put it lightly.

“The one with the big buttons? I remember it. You always looked pretty in it. How come you don’t wear it anymore?” Peter wondered. For once, you allowed yourself to enjoy the compliment from him without feeling guilty. You stopped walking and Peter followed suit and stopped with you.

“Because it was never mine to begin with.” You smiled fondly at him and slipped your hand into his. Peter smiled back at the unexpected gesture but his smile slowly faded when he realized he didn’t know what you were talking about.

“Am… am I supposed to know what that means?”

“I think you know what it means.” You said as you took a step closer to him. Peter looked to the side and in confusion and still had no idea what you were talking about.

“I’m confused. Did you steal it or some-“

You cut Peter off by grabbing his shirt to pull him into a kiss. Once Peter’s initial surprise wore off, he put his hands on your face to kiss you back. You wrapped your arms around his neck and pressed yourself into him, kissing him until you ran out of breath. When you pulled away, Peter had a shy smile on his face as he pressed his forehead against yours.

“What made you change your mind about us?” He asked you in a timid voice. “And don’t say the red sweater because I still don’t understand what that meant.”

“I just realized we’re a good fit. And I didn’t want to hold myself back anymore.”

“So does this mean I can take you on a real date sometime? One where I buy your pizza and watch the sunset next to you?” Peter asked hopefully.

“It does. I’d really like that.” You answered coyly, making him smile.

“Does this also mean if you and I break up, I’m allowed to date Ned?” Peter asked jokingly.

“Don’t push it, mister.” You warned him.

“I won’t.” He held his hands up in defense. You started walking down the street again, this time hand in hand.

“Oatmeal creme pie?” Peter offered as he leaned the box of Oatmeal cookies towards you.

“Why thank you.” You said and took one. “Clear Gatorade?”

Peter accepted your offer and took a large sip of the Gatorade you’d been drinking. He winced at the flavor and looked at the bottle.

“What’s wrong?” You asked him.

“Ugh. This Gaterade is gross.” He grimaced. “Oh my God. This isn’t Gatorade. This is magnesium citrate.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s the stuff you drink before a colonoscopy to, you know, clear yourself out.” Peter said with obvious discomfort.

“What?” You exclaimed and grabbed the bottle to read it for yourself. Sure enough, the neatly empty bottle was what Peter said it was.

“If you think about it, this is kinda the perfect way to end our non-date.” Peter said to try to make you feel better. You gave him a look before pulling out your phone.

“Hey Liz.” You said into the phone. “Funny story.”

Taglist 🏷️

@thebookwormlife @imanativeofswlondondahling

@whatareyouhidingpeter @takenbyheartstrings

@imyourliquor-youremypoison @andreasworlsboring101

@peterparkoure

@justcallmehitgirl @jackiehollanderr

@emmamarshmellow @unbelievableholland

@sovereignparker @every-marveler-ever @undiadeestos @eridanuswave​ ​

@solarxmoonchild @canyouevencauseicant

@quaksonhehe @lovelessdagger

@thesuitelifeofafangirl @marshxx @nooneinvitedfascistbarbie

@maybemona

@alexxcorona113 @lethal-wisdom

@pandaxnienke

 @officialsimppage @itsemohours

@freakofmusic25 @tomholland85

@olixerwxxd @leilanixx

@whereismytelephone @so-very-asleep

@spideyspeaches @hihiweezing

@mathletemadison  

@dhtomholland @insomniac-nerd-posts-things @prancerrparkerr

@hallecarey1 @adayasgeorgia @blackwidowisthebest @imawhoreforu

@ciarahollands

@nellabellaa @pinklxmonade @boogywoogywoogy @wordsarelife

@starboyshoyo

[stzrgirl4norris]

No Judgement - GR63

George Russell x BestFriend!Reader

summary: You and George have been best friends since before his career in F1, always there for each other. He's the only one who accepts you just the way you are. Although fans think you're a bit weird for him, he doesn't care. And, after all, opposites do attract.

based on this request right here

liked by georgerussell63, fan1, yourbff and 1, 700,411 others

yourinstagram i'm about to crash tf out ngl

View all comments:

charles_leclerc Why?

> yourinstagram because i'm fighting battles you’ll never understand > charles_leclerc What battles? You vs your ugly shoes? 🧐 > yourinstagram yeah because YOU have such good fashion sense > user be serious charles

georgerussell63 Your caffeine consumption is worrying me, actually

> yourinstagram let me live george. > user yeah george let her live > user he's being HEALTHY and CARING and she's out here drinking 7 iced lattes a day > user idk why this is giving babysitter dynamic lol

lando disgusting shoe and sock combo 🤢

> yourinstagram ok mr. panda nikes > user i actually like the socks 🫣

> yourinstagram user it’s because you have ✨taste✨

user she's like what I don't want in my pinterest boards

mercedesamgf1 We are against crashes here

> yourinstagram ahem > user mercedes adm is the funniest one

user she’s the only influencer who makes me laugh

> user she’s not even trying to be funny though? > user that's the thing... she isn't funny

user she’s weird, like the kind of weird you can’t fake

> user lowkey feel like her intentions aren't the purest and george doesn’t even notice > user they've been friends before his f1 career, let's not do this shit now

user she and george are SO opposite I actually think it balances the universe

> user he’s giving oxford debate and she’s giving dropped out of school > user he’s too good for her but it’s working and I hate that

user She looks like she made George do tarot readings

user I love that George is like a gentleman and she’s... her

user she definitely manifested him. with like, crystals.

user not to be rude but she kind of gives “i thought he was gay at first” energy

yourbff crash out queen your earned it

liked by yourinstagram, mercedesamgf1, kimiantonelli and 2,333,605 others

georgerussell63 Standard pre-race vibes

View all comments:

yourinstagram you’re welcome for the entertainment

>user literally what does she even do? > user she does him that's what > yourinstagram well i don't but that was a good comeback i respect it 👏

user why is she wearing sweats in the paddock?

mercedesamgf1 Is she okay?

>yourinstagram define okay

user I LOVE that she’s just casually unhinged around him

> user unhinged is generous

user i'd pay to see what their texts look like

user how is he not distracted by that? how?

> user maybe he's into chaotic energy idk

user if they’re not dating yet I’m gonna sue

user he's too polished for her

user george’s mom definitely calls her “that girl”

user not to be dramatic but if she breaks his heart I will take legal action

> user break his heart??? they’re just friends

user she’s literally just doing bits in the background like it’s her show 💀

user why is she climbing that chair like that 😭

user no because i can HEAR her saying “george look!!” and him ignoring her

user she makes everything look unserious and i love that for her

user someone get her down from the chair before she breaks something 😭

user the fact that she doesn’t care what’s going on and he clearly likes it 😭

user what is she even doing back there LMAOOO

user i’m begging her to act normal just once

user help she’s gonna fall

user she’s gonna knock over something expensive i feel it

> georgerussell63 won’t you look at that?? yourinstagram

> yourinstagram ???? everyone knows that wasn’t even the most expensive champagne on the market

user why is she dressed like that 😭

user why is no one stopping her?

> charles_leclerc I ask myself that all the time…

yourinstagram y'all can't handle my swag

yourinstagram added to their story!

liked by georgerussell63, lando, maxverstappen1 and 1,804,302 others yourinstagram traveling with george is fun if you enjoy being judged by every stranger every 4 minutes

view all comments:

georgerussell63 it's because you brought a whole farmacy in your bag 😤

> yourinstagram don't act like you didn't take my benadryl to sleep > georgerussell63 you can't keep saying shit like this in public > yourinstagram mercedesamgf1 i'm joking

> user not her snitching on his sleep aids in front of millions

alex_albon No one invited me

> yourinstagram you didn’t pass the vibe check > georgerussell63 because you always forget your passport

user you cannot convince me they haven’t kissed

user it’s the way george looks like he's going to europe and she looks like she's going to mexico or smth

maxverstappen1 don't worry I think George was the one they were judging

> yourinstagram don’t start > georgerussell63 maxverstappen1 ? > user oh this just got good

> user max came here to start violence and left like it’s casual

lando did you lose a bet or something?

> yourinstagram are you losing the championship or something? > user HELP WHY ARE THEY ALL IN HER COMMENTS

> user lando got cooked and didn’t even fight back 😭

lilymhe did you bring medication or just incense again?

> yourinstagram mind your business lady

kikagomes I kind of admire the chaos

> yourinstagram do you want to switch places?

user they’re opposites in a way that concerns me

user nah bc they’re all in the comments like it’s a groupchat 💀

user george is one “babe please be serious” away from imploding

user her bag probably has crystals, six vitamins, a banana, and a taser

user this feels like i walked into a conversation i wasn’t meant to see but i’m not leaving

user she’s too powerful they’re all scared of her and they should be

user no bc what kind of relationship involves benadryl beef on main

user is this flirting or HR violation i genuinely can’t tell??

user she’s the only person who could talk to all 4 of them like that and survive

user the entire grid acting like siblings in her comments i’m obsessed

user girl this is not close friends why are u posting like that 😭

📍Tulum, Mexico

liked by alex_albon, oscarpiastri, lilymhe and 2,222,399 others georgerussell63 an unpredictable travel companion

view all comments:

yourinstagram ?? unpredictable??

yourinstagram you always post the pics where i'm ugly and you're hot 😔

> georgerussell63 you're never ugly > yourbff george like this if she made you say that > user why do i feel like she screenshotted that reply for future use

user the way he posts her like a proud husband…

oscarpiastri unpredictable is a very diplomatic word

> yourinstagram shush > user oscar sounds like he’s seen some things

user how is she unpredictable when she literally posts her entire life?

> user bc she’s the kind of person to fly to a race and forget shoes > user i bet her suitcase has like… soup in it or something > user she’s a walking side quest and george is the main plot

yourex she’s not unpredictable, you just don’t listen.

> yourinstagram yeah and YOU did > georgerussell63 thank you for your input, therapist ass

maxverstappen1 patrick the ⭐

> user what is max doing here????

charles_leclerc every time i see you two together i feel like i’m watching a social experiment

user max is getting too comfortable in these comments🙃

> user it’s always when she's in the posts too > user you just know George read that Max comment in silence

user do you think she realizes she's not quirky just extremely awkward?

user they hate when you serve weird girl bestfriend😇

user i don't understand their relationship and i don't want to, let me stay confused

[5 days later]

liked by lewishamilton, mercedesamgf1, georgerussell63 and 1,835,029 others

yourinstagram go george or go home! 💙🏁 (also lewis hamilton looked at me)

view all comments:

georgerussell63 are you trying to steal all my friends?

> yourinstagram i'm trying to steal your heart 🫦 > alex_albon don't threaten him with a good time

lando fine... i'll admit... cute jacket

> yourinstagram only the jacket??? 😏 > lando jesus what is up with you today??

lewishamilton can you please text me the pictures you took?

> yourinstagram sir, yes sir 🙂‍↕️

alexandrasaintmleux nice seeing you today! 🥰💞

> yourinstagram if you want we can make it everyday 👀 > user girl are you ovulating or something??

maxverstappen1 nice latte art 👍

> yourinstagram not as nice as the one from that day ❤️ liked by georgerussell63 > user WHAT DAY > user WTF IS THIS

user she’s a menace

user george liked yn’s comment 😭😭😭

> user no bc what did she mean by “that day” DID THEY GO ON A DATE?

user why does it feel like she's flirting with the entire grid??

user she held his umbrella before the race 😭

> user because she's actually his biggest fan > user i don't understand why people don't like her

user with all these boring basic wags it's so refreshing to see someone with a personality 😌

> user not if it’s the worst personality in the world

> lewishamilton yn’s the funniest girl in the world. We all love having her in the Paddock ❤️ liked by yourinstagram

> user help not lewis defending her and george staying completely silent

user it just feels icky to me that george sees all those hate comments and says absolutely nothing

> user yeah if they were dating he'd say something

user another day another what the fuck

user her post is normal but the comments are cracking me

liked by yourinstagram, lando, alex_albon and 2,850,111 others

georgerussell63 Don't ask me how she convinced the entire grid to go to the club

view all comments:

oscarpiastri Peer pressure is real

> yourinstagram peer pleasure is realer 😇 > oscarpiastri this doesn't make sense

yourinstagram evrywine luved it

> user jesus is she drunk??

fernandoalo_oficial Finally someone who knows how to party

> yourinstagram omg did you actually kiss taylor swift??? > fernandoalo_oficial I don't kiss and tell

alex_albon I still have glitter inside my clothes

charles_leclerc Can someone explain why there was a goat in the vip area??

> yourinstagram because he deserved to party too. don’t be speciest. > georgerussell63 that “goat” headbutted the DJ

user the way george just accepts that she’s everyone’s problem now 😭

user “don’t ask me how” LIKE HE’S EXHAUSTED

> user he says that but he was dancing on a table by 2am don’t let him lie > user i saw them holding hands at the taco truck at 3am i fear they’re in love

user does she have everyone at gun point??

> yourinstagram they came willingly 😇

user your friends should be your 2nd priority. Your 1st priority should always be clubbing

> lando agreed

user i love this era

user guys my friend was there and said they saw yn flirting with a random dude

> user not max??? > user nope. not george either. random blondie in a red jacket > user nvmd me griefing

user a man is nothing without his extremely loud girl bestie

liked by georgerussell63, lewishamilton, alexandrasaintmleux and 1,423,333 others

yourinstagram touching grass is not enough i need george to run me over with his car

view all comments:

user OH WE ARE SO BACK LOOK AT THEM

user wait this looks like a date 👀

user if you ever catch me smiling at my phone it's this post right here

user for the first time she's properly dressed

user i just love how george loves her for who she is and doesn't give a fuck

user they hate when you serve sexy bad bitch while being a lil odd and weird 💅

georgerussell63 thanks for paying the bill ❤️

> user and here we are thinking he was a gentleman 😞

user she’s deranged and he’s in love. god’s favorite couple fr

user no bc he’s smiling like she’s the best thing to ever happen to him lewishamilton George can arrange that wish for you!

> Charles_Leclerc And if George isn’t up to it, I can do it!!

> yourinstagram is that a promise charlie boy??

> georgerussell63 No one’s running yn over with their car!

> yourinstagram you always spoil the fun 😔

user no thoughts just george’s stupid little smile lando i know a thing or two about grasses and cars, just saying

> yourinstagram maybe george should run YOU over > georgerussell63 don't threaten me with a good time

user this man is clearly obsessed. and honestly? taste. alex_albon do you guys even like food or was this all foreplay?

> user ALEX > user alex knows something we don't

user girl how did you pull george “mr perfectly polite” russell i’m scared of you????

user she looks like she bites and he’s into it

> charles_leclerc I can confirm he is into it > georgerussell63 you can't confirm shit

user there's no way her rizz is that good

liked by lewishamilton, mercedesamgf1, kimiantonelli and 2,441,200 others

georgerussell63 just being ourselves (no judgement)

view all comments:

yourinstagram never let your bestfriend stop you from finding your future husband 💙

charles_leclerc I KNEW IT

> charles_leclerc albono, norris and hamilton you can all pay me > alex_albon i'm not paying you shit 🙂‍↕️👍 > lando bro you were the only one who participated on that bet

alex_albon finally omg

user ok niall horan fan we see you

user THEY’RE DATING THEY’RE DATING THEY’RE DATING

oscarpiastri what happened to “she’s like a sister to me” 💀

> georgerussel63 I lied

lewishamilton he’s been smiling like an idiot all week btw 🫣

user i don’t even know them but this feels big 😭

sebastianvettel as long as you recycle together ♻️

> user even seb is invested here

> user girl seb is invested on the amazon forest let’s be for real

mercedesamgf1 💙 user they’re so in love it’s disgusting i’m crying user george posting like a man who’s been kissed on the forehead multiple times

user if i had this kind of love i would simply never shut up

user they better be each other’s lockscreen that’s all i’m saying

oscarpiastri ngl i didn’t think she liked him back 😭

user this feels illegal to witness but i can’t look away yourbff is she still mean to you or did love change her 🧐

user i can't you guys he's deffff out of her league

> georgerussell63 She’s perfect. Say one bad thing and I’ll block you ❤️

liked by yourbff, georgerussell63, lando and 2,333,403 others

yourinstagram no rizz, just insanity and love for carlos sainz

slide 3 is me and george in the future

view all comments:

georgerussell63 why are you wearing an "i love carlos sainz" apron?

> yourinstagram because i love carlos sainz > carlossainz55 please let me nowhere near this

georgerussell63 the things you put up to in the same of love....

user max suddenly disappeared

charles_leclerc I am afraid of future instagram posts

alex_albon george did she make you cook in that apron?

> user don't give her any ideas > yourinstagram i might orgasm > alex_albon I am currently regretting my life

yourbff does george know you printed that apron yourself?

> yourinstagram who did you think recommended me the printer store?

user what’s important is that love is alive. confusing, but alive ❤️ georgerussell63 it’s fine. totally normal. totally healthy relationship 👍🙂

> yourinstagram you literally tied the apron for me babe calm down > user BABE

user the way she’s so unserious and he’s still in love is actually inspiring user carlos looks so scared in the comments i’m crying

lando i give this relationship 3 business days

> georgerussell63 why are you even here?? > lando it happens that i kinda care for you both..

user max saw this and booked a one-way flight to monaco

> maxverstappen1 I promise you I'm doing just fine 👍 > yourinstagram damn... and here i am thinking you were devastatingly in love with me > maxverstappen1 I took you for coffee and you talked about george not liking you back for 2 hours straight > yourinstagram TRAITOR > yourinstagram MAX VERSTAPPEN DRINKS ICED VANILLA LATTES WITH OAT MILKS > maxverstappen1 you BITCH🫵

iamrebeccad i just want to know where you got the apron

> yourinstagram etsy. handmade. carlos-core. i’ll even buy one for you

> iamrebeccad can you buy me a george one? 😂

> yourinstagram YES OMG

> carlossainz55 now what the hell is going on here?

kikagomes what else have you custom made??

> yourinstagram a tote that says “gasly girls don’t gatekeep” > pierre_gasly i— > user LMAOOO GASLY GIRLS UNITE

user imagine your type being yn 💀💀💀

user this woman is living my dream

[wonwunss]

–ᝰ.ᐟ✮ When Jeonghan panics and lies to his family about being in a long-term relationship, he only knows one person reckless enough to go along with it: you, his grumpy new neighbor who barely tolerates him. Now, you’re stuck on a weekend family trip, pretending to be the doting girlfriend of a man who once labeled his oat milk with a death threat.

The problem? You’re too good at pretending.

From shared rooms to fake backstories, suspicious siblings and lingering touches, the line between fake and real starts to blur… and neither of you are ready for what that means.

pairing: jeonghan x f!reader

genre: fake dating, enemies to lovers (but like.. flirty enemies), forced proximity, one bed, mutual pining (slow burn edition), romance, domestic fluff in disguise, idiots in love—literally

word count: 2.1k

a/n: my other jeonghan fic did so well, my shayla 😪😭so here’s another teasing jeonghan (maybe teasing jeonghan is up you guys alley🤪😛) anywaysss leaving it with a cliffhanger ending whilst i know what happens next 😈😈

“You’re kidding,” you said flatly.

Across the passenger seat of the very full, very overpacked family van, Yoon Jeonghan had the audacity to grin like this was all part of some grand master plan.

“Look, I didn’t think they’d actually ask to meet you, okay? It was just—my mom was getting nosy, and I panicked.”

“So your first instinct was to lie about having a girlfriend?”

“Not a lie,” he said, far too casual. “A preemptive relationship announcement.”

You scoffed. “With who?”

“Well, you live across the hall, and we already bicker like a married couple.”

“Because you steal my laundry slots and label your milk passive-aggressively!”

“And yet,” he said, adjusting his sunglasses with flair, “here you are, coming on a weekend family trip to save my ass.”

You glared at him. “Only because you bribed me with three months’ worth of your mailroom favors and cleaning up after your nightmare cat.”

“She’s not a nightmare. She’s emotionally complex.”

“She bit me.”

“Love bite.”

You opened your mouth to argue but were interrupted by his mom in the front seat turning back to you, beaming. “We’re so happy you could come, sweetheart! You’ve been dating our Jeonghan for over a year and we’ve never met you! Can you believe it?”

You smiled, the tight, polite kind. “Yeah. Time really flies when you’re in… love.”

Jeonghan tried not to laugh beside you. You jabbed your elbow into his side.

The cabin was cute.

Cozy.

Charming.

And had one bed.

You stood in the doorway, staring at the neatly made queen-size mattress that absolutely screamed “good luck, suckers.”

“Absolutely not,” you said.

“What?” Jeonghan walked in behind you, setting his duffel down with a dramatic sigh. “They think we’re together. Do you want to blow the whole thing up now?”

You turned to him. “Then you sleep on the floor.”

He blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me. You got us into this mess. I’m not sleeping on the damn floor.”

He raised a brow, arms crossing. “Do I look like someone who can survive a hardwood situation? I’m delicate.”

You pointed at the floor. “Delicate your way down there.”

But he just grinned, the kind that was all cheek and absolutely no remorse. He spread his arms wide like he was announcing a magic trick.

“It’s an adventure, darling.”

You rolled your eyes. “Congrats. In this adventure, you’re sleeping on the floor.”

The cabin creaked in the dark. Somewhere in the distance, a cricket chirped like it had a personal vendetta against your ears. The faint hum of Jeonghan’s mom watching a late-night drama drifted through the walls, barely audible.

And then—just loud enough to drive you insane—

Rustle.

Rustle.

You groaned. “Are you trying to be loud?”

Across the room, from the sad little nest of blankets and throw pillows he’d dramatically built on the floor, Jeonghan’s voice floated back at you.

“I’m adjusting my spine for optimal survival. You know, since I’ve been banished from the comfort of the bed.”

“You’re lucky you’re still breathing.”

“You’re lucky I have impeccable restraint,” he muttered.

You turned onto your side, scowling into the darkness. “You’re so dramatic.”

“I was forced to fake-date my neighbor because of a single panic lie. Forgive me for needing to emotionally process.”

You scoffed. “You’re not processing. You’re fishing.”

“…Did it work?”

“No.”

He exhaled a laugh, low and lazy. Then it was quiet again. For a moment, you thought maybe he’d finally fallen asleep.

Until—

“You… really didn’t have to say yes, you know.”

You blinked at the ceiling.

“I know.”

“I just mean…” His voice was softer now. “You didn’t owe me anything. Especially after the whole… hallway coffee incident.”

You bit back a smile. He remembers the coffee incident?

“You mean when you bumped into me, spilled hot latte all over my skirt, and then had the audacity to ask if I had a towel?”

“I panicked,” he mumbled. “Also, I still stand by the fact that the hallway is too narrow.”

“It’s a normal hallway, Jeonghan. You just have zero spacial awareness.”

Another laugh. This one sounded real.

Silence again.

Then, gently—

“…I didn’t expect you to help me.”

You didn’t answer right away.

Then: “I didn’t expect you to say ‘please.’”

He was quiet for a long moment. Long enough that you thought he might be asleep.

And then— “…Can I ask something?”

You turned to face his direction, even though you couldn’t see him. “What?”

His voice was small, almost teasing. “On a scale of one to ten… how convincing do you think we are as a couple?”

You hesitated. “…like… six.”

“SIX?” he cried in a whisper. “That’s barely passing!”

You grinned. “Maybe if you didn’t look so smug every time I touch your arm.”

“I do not— okay, fine, but you laughed when I kissed your cheek earlier!”

“You missed! You kissed my ear!”

A beat.

“…Right. Yeah. Six. Fair.”

And then—quiet laughter.

Yours.

Then his.

And before either of you knew it, the silence that followed didn’t feel so awkward anymore.

It just… was.

Two strangers.

Two liars.

Two people figuring out how to fall asleep in the same room without falling apart.

You stared up at the ceiling, sleep nowhere in sight. Your pillow was slightly too soft, the room slightly too warm, and your fake boyfriend slightly too annoying.

“Hey,” you whispered.

Jeonghan’s voice floated back from the floor, muffled and suspicious. “What.”

“Can we go over our ‘how we started dating’ story? Again. Just in case anyone asks tomorrow.”

There was a dramatic sigh. Fabric rustled.

“Seriously?” he groaned. “It’s a family trip, not an interrogation.”

“Yes, seriously,” you snapped quietly. “Your sister already asked how long we’d been together. What if someone wants details?”

“I gave you the details.”

“You gave me concept art, Jeonghan. You gave me vibes.”

Another dramatic sigh.

“Fine,” he muttered, like it was the greatest burden of his life to clean up his own mess. “Okay, so… we tell them it started after you tripped down the stairs, right?”

Your face immediately contorted in disbelief. “I’m sorry—what?”

“And I caught you at the bottom,” he continued, completely unfazed, “like a scene straight out of a drama. Your hair was glowing, the light behind you was all soft and golden, and you looked at me like I’d just saved your life.”

“I looked at you like I had a concussion.”

“Exactly! The impact of love.”

You blinked at the ceiling. “You want me to tell your entire family I fell in love with you because you caught me falling down a staircase?”

“Do you hear how good that sounds?”

“It sounds like I have zero standards and you have a hero complex.”

Jeonghan rolled over with a groan, now half-visible from the floor. “Fine. We’ll say it happened when I helped you carry your groceries up to your apartment.”

“That’s actually not bad.”

“And then I leaned against your doorframe all charming and irresistible—”

“Nope. There it is.”

“—and you said, ‘Wow, no man has ever carried my oat milk so tenderly before.’”

You flung your pillow at him. It hit the floor with a thump.

He laughed, low and pleased with himself. “Admit it. You’d fall for me.”

“Fall on you, maybe. Just to knock you out.”

“Romance.”

“Delusion.”

He smirked, voice trailing off into the dark. “I think you’re enjoying this fake dating thing a little too much.”

You turned back to your side, blanket pulled over your shoulder. “I think you’re confusing ‘enjoying’ with ‘surviving your dumbassery.’”

Silence fell for a moment.

Then—

“…Oat milk though. That was a good line.”

You threw the spare pillow next.

You woke to the sound of someone knocking—not on the door, but on your brain cells.

Jeonghan’s voice cut through the early light like a dull blade. “They’re making pancakes.”

“Why are you talking like that’s urgent news?”

“Because they’ll think we’re having morning couple time if we don’t show up soon.”

You sat up, hair wild, blanket wrapped around your shoulders like a cloak of regret. “I should’ve let you sleep on the porch.”

Jeonghan, already dressed and way too smug for 8AM, only winked.

When you stepped into the kitchen together, his hand found your lower back automatically. Warm. Light. Familiar.

You didn’t think about it. Until you did.

His sister, who was cutting fruit at the counter, didn’t miss a thing. Her eyes narrowed. “Well, well, well. Look who finally woke up.”

You smiled. The kind that didn’t reach your eyes. “We took our time. You know. Jeonghan’s a cuddler.”

He choked. “I—I am not.”

She gasped, mock horror on her face. “Jeonghan? Touchy? In the morning?”

“He mumbled in his sleep,” you said sweetly. “Called me his ‘oat milk angel.’”

He stared at you like you had personally just ended his whole career.

“I did not.”

“You did too. I was touched. Emotionally.”

His sister was cackling now. “I can’t believe this. My brother’s in love.”

Jeonghan rolled his eyes and grabbed a banana from the counter in retaliation. “We’re not doing this.”

“Oh, we are. We are absolutely doing this.” She pointed her knife dramatically. “Because you’ve never brought anyone home before. This is like watching a rare animal leave its den after twenty-seven years.”

You turned to him, mock-offended. “You told me I was special.”

“I did not say that.”

“Wow. First he forgets our anniversary, now this.”

You pouted, and for dramatic flair, he reached for your hand, dramatically clutching it with two hands like he was repenting for a sin he did not commit.

“My love,” he said solemnly, “forgive me. I shall make it up to you by massaging your shoulders later.”

“I demand breakfast in bed.”

“I’ll hand-feed you grapes.”

You snorted.

His sister stared between the two of you, suspicious. “You’re both awful actors.”

Jeonghan raised a brow. “Says who?”

She gestured with her fruit knife. “Says my intuition. And the fact that your hand’s still holding hers even though that whole bit ended a full thirty seconds ago.”

Your stomach fluttered.

Jeonghan let go like he’d been burned. “Oh.”

“Oh,” you echoed, barely above a whisper.

But it was too late.

The feeling had already curled somewhere in your chest.

Because his hand had been warm. His thumb had rubbed circles without thinking. You hadn’t wanted to pull away.

You looked at him.

He looked at you.

And something was there.

Not loud. Not obvious.

But there.

It started with Jeonghan’s mom saying, “We’re out of eggs,” and ended with the two of you in a cozy little convenience store five minutes from the cabin, pretending you weren’t sharing one brain cell and an alarming amount of chemistry.

You held the basket. He pushed the cart even though you only needed two things.

“Should’ve just made your mom send one of your siblings,” you muttered, scanning the shelves.

“Yeah, but then who would I fake domestic bliss with?” he said, casually tossing in a bottle of your favorite drink. You blinked at it. “What? I’ve seen you drink it, like, five times this month.”

“…Stalker.”

He grinned. “Observant.”

You stopped in front of the ramen section, head tilted. “They have your spicy one.”

He reached over your shoulder, grabbing the exact brand without hesitation. “We’ll get two. I’ll make it for you tomorrow.”

You stared at him.

“What?” he asked, shrugging. “Fake boyfriend duties. Let me cook for you so my parents continue to believe I’m a gift to the earth.”

You rolled your eyes and turned toward the snack aisle.

But your heart was… beating a little weird.

It didn’t help that somewhere between “we need eggs” and “ooh they have strawberry Pocky,” Jeonghan’s hand had somehow ended up on the small of your back again.

Like it belonged there.

Like it fit.

You tried not to think about it.

At checkout, he handed over his card before you could pull out yours.

“Jeonghan.”

“Relax, sugarplum. It’s like, $11. I can afford our fake life together.”

You shoved him lightly as the cashier laughed under her breath. He winked.

The walk back was quiet. But not uncomfortable. At one point, your fingers brushed. He didn’t pull away. And neither did you.

Back at the cabin, his mom peeked into the bag.

“Got everything?”

Jeonghan nodded. “Yep. Even her favorite drink.”

She smiled, just a little too knowingly. “You’re already acting like an old married couple.”

You opened your mouth to protest.

But Jeonghan beat you to it.

With the softest, most dangerous smile he’s ever worn—

“We’ve had practice.”

Your stomach flipped. Your fingers curled around the strap of the bag just to ground yourself.

Because god help you—

you weren’t sure where the lies ended anymore.

[inseobts]

Ink & Memories

law x fem!reader

you’re his ex tattoo artist and girlfriend, so what happens when you meet him again years later?

a/n: this was suggested by someone, I don't remember if it was anon or not but if you're reading this THANK YOU omg

words count: 5.2k

tags: MDNI, smut, ex-lovers, reunion, tattoo artist reader, angst with fluff

masterlist || ao3 || ko-fi

The sea breeze brushes against your cheek as you lean against the doorframe of your tattoo shop, a cup of tea in hand. It’s been a slow day. Not many people walk into a tattoo shop in a port like this. Not unless they’ve just won a bet or lost a bet.

You sip your drink and glance toward the docks, bored. Then your eyes freeze... No way.

You squint.

Tall man, black hat with white spots, fluffy. That long coat, that walk... You drop the cup. It hits the ground with a soft clink.

“Law??” you call out, loud and without thinking.

The man stops. The whole crew turns around.

Your heart skips.

It is him.

He turns, slowly, eyes locking with yours.

“Y/N…” he says. Low. Surprised.

You can’t help but grin.

You step closer “Oh my god... how are you?? I’ve seen you on the news so many times. You’re a warlord now?! I never thought I’d see you again.”

He doesn’t smile, but his eyes soften. You recognize that look. He remembers.

His crew is staring now.

One with goggles leans over to the bear in a hoodie.

“Who’s that?” he whispers.

The polar bear shrugs “Dunno. But she knows the captain.”

You glance at them and chuckle.

Law still says nothing. He looks like he’s thinking too hard, jaw tight. Typical.

You roll your eyes “Right. You’re not gonna say it, huh?”

You take a step forward, hand on your hip.

“I’m Y/N,” you say, loud enough for the whole crew to hear “I used to be Law’s girlfriend. And I’m his first tattoo artist.”

Gasps. Real ones.

“WHAAAT??”

“EX-girlfriend?!”

“Tattoo artist?! So she did those?!”

“Wait, he has tattoos??”

“He let someone touch him?!”

Even the bear goes shocked.

Law sighs and rubs the back of his neck “You still talk too much, Y/N.”

You laugh “And you still say nothing at all.”

You grin “You’re really here, huh? After all these years.”

You walk with the crew through the market near the docks. Law’s beside you quiet, as always, but his steps match yours. The others keep throwing you glances like you’re some kind of rare animal.

The tall one with goggles Shachi, you think his name is, can’t hold it in anymore.

“So, wait. You’re the one who did the tattoos on the Captain?”

“Yup” you nod.

“ALL of them?”

“I guess. I don't know if he had another tattoo artist later.”

"I didn't." he says and only you seems to hear it.

“Even the ones on his fingers? And the arms??”

You smirk “I’ve touched more of your captain than all of you combined.”

“WHA—” They all choke.

Law sighs again, rubbing his temples “Y/N…”

“I’m just saying facts, Law.”

You keep walking, passing a fruit stand. Penguin, the one with the hat, nudges you “So… you really dated him?”

You shrug “Yeah. For a while. Before he was famous. Before the crew.”

Bepo tilts his head “Why’d you break up?”

You pause “Life stuff. Timing. Goals. Pirates and tattoo shops don’t mix well.”

Shachi whistles “Man, that’s wild. I still can’t picture him dating someone.”

“I didn’t believe it either at first,” you say, smiling to yourself “He’s... complicated.”

Then Penguin says, “I bet the one on the chest hurt the most though, right Captain?”

Your body goes still.

Law stops walking too. You both freeze at the same time.

Your mind doesn’t ask permission... it just goes.

Flashback. Your tattoo studio, late at night. Warm orange light. Law’s shirt is off. He sits on the tattoo chair, toned chest exposed, calm as ever. “I want the next one here.” he says, touching the center of his chest. You arch a brow “You sure?” He nods once “Yeah.” You bite your lip. You two are already a thing now, nights together, kisses stolen in your shop, your toothbrush next to his blades. But this feels more...intimate. “Alright,” you whisper, clicking your tattoo pen on “Then let’s make it count.” You don’t sit on the stool. You don’t ask for permission. You straddle him. Right on his lap. His eyes widen, just slightly. His hands go to your waist, not pushing you away, just resting there, tight. “This okay?” you ask, fake-innocent. He grits his teeth “Tch. You know it is.” You smile and lower the needle to his chest. You work slowly, carefully, your hips close to his, your breath brushing his face. His jaw clenches. You can feel how tense he is... but he doesn’t flinch. Not from pain. No... It’s because of you. By the time the ink is done, you’ve forgotten what hurts more, his grip on your thighs or your own heartbeat. And after that... Well, let’s just say he didn’t get up from the chair right away.

Back to now.

You blink. Snap out of it.

Your face is hot. Lips tight. Brows furrowed.

You glance at Law. He’s not looking at you.

But his face?

Same.

Jaw clenched. Eyes distant. Tension written all over his shoulders.

You both remembered. You know it.

Shachi whistles “...Why do you both look like you smelled something cursed?”

Bepo tilts his head “Are you okay?”

You wave it off “Fine. Just, uh, a memory.”

Law doesn’t say a word. He just keeps walking, hands in pockets, eyes forward.

But you see the small twitch at the corner of his mouth.

And it’s driving you insane.

You’re still walking with the crew, but the energy is weird now. Like a storm’s rolling in, just under your skin.

The others keep chatting and asking questions, but your brain keeps stuttering... stuck between now and then.

“Captain doesn’t talk much about his past,” Penguin says, chewing on some weird fruit he picked up “It’s kinda cool hearing this stuff. Makes him seem more human.”

“He is human...” you say without thinking.

Shachi chuckles “You sure about that? I saw him take out ten guys with one swing of his sword.”

Bepo grins “By the way, did you start with the ones on his arms first?”

You hum “Arms first. Then the fingers. Then chest. Then—”

You stop. Too late.

“Then?” Shachi raises his brows.

You bite your lip “Forget it.”

“Nooo, don’t do that,” Penguin whines “We wanna hear!”

You sigh “Fine. The weirdest one was... the one on his back.”

That shuts them up.

“His back?!”

“Where on his back??”

“Wait, why "weirdest"??”

“Dude, that must’ve hurt so bad!”

You shrug “He didn’t complain.”

But your voice is quieter now.

Flashback. Another night. Another quiet request. “I want something here.” Law says, pulling off his shirt and turning away. His back is smooth, pale, all muscle and scars. But bare. “You want... a tattoo on your back?” He nods once “Yeah. I already have something in mind.” You stare at him for a moment “You sure?” He doesn’t answer. He just sits. Waiting. You prepare the tools. The ink. The stencil. But as you move behind him, he grabs your wrist. Pulls you around. Suddenly, you’re in his lap. Again. You blink at him “This how we’re doing tattoos now?” His lips twitch into a rare smile “Only when it’s you.” His voice is low. Dangerous. The kind of sound that always melts your brain. You start the needle, shaking a little “Well, too bad I can't tattoo your back from here.” “Try your best.” You laugh but then you stand and go to his back. The tattoo is slow. Intimate. You’re touching his back delicately even for a tattoo, and every move you make makes him breathe harder, even more when you randomly leave kisses on his bare skin where the ink hasn't reavhed yet. By the time the tattoo is halfway done, his hands are on your waist again, but this time... tighter. “You gonna finish it?” he asks, voice husky. You kiss him instead. You never finish the tattoo that night.

Back to now.

Your face is boiling. You know it. You can feel it. And when you dare to glance at Law, you regret everything.

He looks just like he did after the flashback from earlier.

Tense. Focused. Eyes darker than usual.

And you know he remembered that too.

You inhale sharply and shake it off “Well... sorry to cut this short, but I gotta head back. I have a client in fifteen minutes.”

“FIFTEEN??” Bepo looks horrified “That’s not enough time to say goodbye!”

“We just met! I want to talk more!!” Penguin adds, actually pouting.

“We should do dinner!” Shachi suggests “Or drinks! Or matching tattoos for my birthday...”

“I don’t even know your birthday,” you laugh, trying to hide the heaviness in your chest “You guys are too much. But I had a lot of fun. Thank you for taking care of Law.”

"He's the one who takes care of us."

"Yeah, I don't think so..."

You turn to Law, slower than you mean to.

He’s just standing there. Watching you. Hands in his pockets. Saying nothing.

So, of course, you have to fill the silence.

“Hey.” You meet his eyes.

“If you ever want a new tattoo... my shop’s always open for you.” You smile, but it’s faint “Even after closing time.”

Something flickers in his eyes. But still, he doesn’t say a word.

You wave at the crew, who’s already acting like they’ve known you for twenty years and are sending you off to war.

“Bye, guys. Keep taking care of him, alright?”

They all yell goodbyes and promises and dramatic sobs.

You walk away before your voice cracks.

Back in your shop, the silence is loud.

You lean against your work table, staring at your equipment. The ink. The gloves. The chair.

All the places he’s been.

You try to shake the feeling. But it’s hard. Because you didn’t stop loving him. You just... couldn’t keep up with his world.

Now he’s bigger than life. Famous. Feared. A pirate captain.

And you’re just a tattoo artist in a tiny port town.

So no... you don’t think he’ll come tonight.

He’s got his crew. His ship. His missions.

He probably doesn’t love you anymore.

You sit down and try not to cry.

Your client leaves right on time.

A small anchor tattoo. Nothing fancy. Nothing meaningful. But you smile and treat them with care, because that’s what you do.

Still, when they leave, the shop feels colder.

You sweep the floor. Clean your tools. Wipe the chair down like muscle memory. Then you sit behind the counter.

And wait.

It’s not like you said he had to come. You just offered.

“My shop’s always open for you. Even after closing time.”

You curse under your breath, hand to your face.

Why did you say it like that? Like you were waiting? Like you were... still his?

You glance at the clock.

One hour after closing.

Two.

Then three.

You haven’t moved.

The lights are still on. The “closed” sign hangs crooked on the door. You’ve been telling yourself it’s just so you can finish cleaning.

But everything is already clean.

The tea you made went cold. The silence is suffocating.

Your heart keeps lying to you, saying he might come, even when your brain knows better.

You sit on your stool behind the counter and bury your face in your hands.

You shouldn’t have said anything.

Of course he doesn’t love you anymore. You’re just someone from his past. A memory with a needle. He’s a warlord now. A captain. A living legend.

And you?

You’re no one special. You gave him your love, your ink, your body... But that was years ago.

You sniff, blinking back tears.

“I’m so stupid.” you whisper.

Finally, with a broken breath, you stand.

You walk toward the light switch, hand reaching up, about to turn it off—

Knock. Knock.

You freeze.

Two slow knocks.

You turn, heart racing, and rush to the door.

Your hand trembles as you grab the handle, barely able to breathe.

You open it... Law.

He’s standing there. Alone.

Hat in place, coat unbuttoned just slightly. His eyes are shadowed, unreadable, but he’s here.

He looks at you and you stare back, lips parted, words stuck in your throat.

Neither of you says anything for a second.

Then you whisper, almost scared to believe it “You came.”

He nods once “...Yeah.”

You step aside and let him in. The door swings shut behind him, the click of the lock echoing in the quiet shop.

He stands there, looking around like it hasn’t changed at all. Like it’s frozen in time.

Maybe it is.

You tuck your hair behind your ear, trying to calm your racing heart “So… what brings you here? Need something fixed?”

He shakes his head once “I want a new one.”

You blink “A new tattoo?”

“Yeah.”

You tilt your head, cautious “Where?”

He undoes the top few buttons of his shirt and pulls the fabric aside. Just a little.

There’s a small space on the upper right of his chest. A rare untouched spot surrounded by old ink.

He taps it once “Here.”

Your stomach flips. That chest. You remember how you inked the one beside it. How that ended.

Your cheeks warm, but you clear your throat and nod “Okay. Small tattoo. Got it.”

You turn away to gather your tools, gloves, ink, paper towels, anything to keep your hands from shaking.

It’s stupid, how nervous you are. You’ve tattooed him dozens of times before.

But it wasn’t like this. Not after years apart. Not after you thought you’d never see him again.

Not when your heart feels this fragile.

You pause mid-step and glance at him “Where’s your crew, by the way?”

He raises an eyebrow “You really asking that?”

You blink. Then scoff softly, rolling your eyes “Right. Dumb question.”

You gesture to the chair “You can sit.”

He does.

You sit across from him on your work stool, setting the needle up with focus, breathing slow.

It’s fine. You can do this. No reason to be—

“Room.”

Your body jolts at the word. You barely have time to process it before your whole world shifts, literally.

Suddenly, you’re on his lap. Sitting. Facing him. Just like before.

Your breath catches “Law!”

He doesn’t say anything. His arms are relaxed around your waist. Like this is normal.

But what’s not normal is the firm pressure you feel beneath you. Hard. Hot.

Pressed right against the center of your lower body.

Your breath hitches.

You shift instinctively, but that only makes it worse.

You feel him now. All of him.

...And he’s definitely not unaffected.

He looks up at you, still unreadable. But his eyes… they burn.

You’re quiet for a beat. Your heart pounding so hard it hurts.

You whisper, “...You planned this, didn’t you?”

His voice is low. Calm. Dangerous.

“Maybe.”

Your breath trembles as you sit frozen on his lap, the familiar weight of him under you making it harder to think. To breathe.

Your hands are still gloved. The needle sits ready on the tray.

But the moment is not about the tattoo anymore.

It’s the way he’s looking at you.

Like he’s seeing you for the first time all over again. Like he never stopped seeing you.

You can feel his heart beating through his chest, right beneath yours. Steady. But faster than usual.

"...You’re hard..." you whisper, like it’s a secret.

His gaze doesn’t waver “You’re sitting on me.”

Your face heats instantly “You put me here!”

“You didn’t get off.”

You open your mouth to snap back, but nothing comes out, because he’s right. You haven’t moved.

Your thighs tighten slightly, and he notices.

His hands slide up your hips, slow and patient, like he’s remembering every curve from memory. Like no time has passed.

But it has... So much time.

And still, here you are.

You try to hold onto your pride “This is just for the tattoo, right?”

His voice is quieter now “You really asking that?”

You breathe in sharply.

Your eyes drop to his chest, to the small space he said he wanted inked. Your fingers hover near it.

And just like that...

Flashback. Another time. Another tattoo. You straddled his lap, shirt slightly unbuttoned, hands shaking as you prepped the needle. “I shouldn’t do this, it's not professional.” you said then, voice soft, unsure “We’ll mess everything up.” He looked up at you, calm as ever “We’re already messed up.” You remember how his hands gripped your thighs, how you pressed the needle to his chest anyway. You never finished the tattoo. You didn’t even get halfway before he pulled you down, kissing you like it was the last time. And then...

Back to now.

You blink hard, ripping yourself away from the memory.

Your hand clenches the tattoo machine, but you can’t lift it. Not like this.

“Law…”

Your voice is smaller now. Scared, almost.

He tilts his head slightly, watching you “You think I forgot?”

Your chest tightens “...I hoped you didn’t.”

He exhales slowly “I didn’t come here for a tattoo, Y/N.”

Your heart jumps in your throat “Then why?”

He doesn’t say anything at first. His fingers ghost over your back “What do you think? Because you said the shop was open. Even after closing.”

You’re quiet. Shaking. Overwhelmed.

You look at him, searching for anything in his face that’ll tell you this is real.

“You still love me?” you ask, barely a whisper.

He answers without hesitation “Yes.”

And then, like gravity finally wins, you lean in. Your lips meet his in a slow, aching kiss.

Soft at first. Scared. But it deepens fast.

His hands tighten around you, pulling you closer. You shift again on his lap, and he groans against your mouth.

Everything is heat now. Want. Memory. Regret. And something new, something breaking free after years of silence.

You break the kiss just to breathe, lips brushing his as you whisper “Forget the tattoo.”

His voice is rough “Already did.”

You don’t know who kisses harder first.

You or him.

But once your mouths meet again, there’s no stopping it.

Years of silence, of pretending to forget, all burn away in the space between your lips. Your hands are in his hair before you even realize it, his hat falling to the floor like nothing else matters.

Law’s hands are steady, skilled, familiar while they slide down your back and grip your thighs, pulling you tighter against him. His lips are rough, needy. He kisses like he’s punishing you for the time lost, or maybe for letting him go.

You grind down instinctively, and he groans into your mouth deep, guttural, raw.

“Fuck...” he mutters against your lips, his voice wrecked.

“You remember everything, don’t you?” you whisper, breathless, tugging at his shirt “All of it.”

He nods once “Every goddamn second.”

You roll your hips again and feel it even better now, how hard he is. Pressed exactly where you need him, only the thin barrier of your clothes separating you.

“You didn’t even come for the tattoo, did you?” you tease, lips brushing his jaw now.

“No,” he breathes, tilting his head to give you his neck “I came for you.”

Your fingers fumble with his buttons, heart racing, hands shaking.

He notices. He always does.

“You sure?” he asks lowly, grabbing your wrists and holding them still.

You nod “Yes.”

But he doesn’t move yet, he just looks at you “Say it.”

You meet his gaze “I want you.”

That’s all he needs.

In one swift move, he lifts you up and lays you back on the padded tattoo chair like you weigh nothing. He climbs over you, hands everywhere now... pulling, unzipping, stripping.

Your shirt goes first. Then your bra. Then his coat and shirt.

Skin to skin.

It’s overwhelming how good he looks. Tattoos, scars, the memory of every moment you ever loved him mapped across his chest.

You run your hands over his chest, over the ink you gave him “Still mine...” you whisper.

His eyes darken “Always.”

He pulls your pants down, slow at first, until your soaked panties are the only thing left. He groans when he sees the wet patch. His thumb brushes it, just barely.

“You’re already this wet?” he murmurs, kissing your stomach “From just sitting on my lap?”

“From you,” you breathe, squirming under him "And you got hard as soon as you set on the chair."

He hooks his fingers into your panties, dragging them down agonizingly slow.

And then his mouth replaces his hands.

He kisses between your thighs like he’s missed every part of you. His tongue strokes through your folds, hot and slow, making your back arch and your fingers clutch the chair.

“Fuck, Law!”

He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t speak. Just moans into you, like the taste of you is better than revenge, better than glory, better than everything.

When you finally come, it’s with your hand tangled in his hair and his name gasped like a prayer.

And even then, he doesn’t stop.

He only pulls back once he’s sure your legs are shaking.

You’re breathless, eyes hazy “You always did that too well.”

He smirks, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand “You always tast the same.”

He undoes his belt, his pants, and pulls himself out, hard, thick, aching. You swallow hard just looking at him.

“Still want me?” he asks, eyes locked on yours.

“More than anything.”

He doesn’t give you time to second-guess.

He lines himself up, grabs your waist, and slides inside slowly but fully. Stretching you. Filling you.

You gasp. Your nails dig into his back.

“Fuck, you feel the same,” he breathes, forehead resting against yours “Perfect.”

You moan, wrapping your legs around him, rolling your hips “Move, Law. Please.”

And when he does... it’s everything.

He moves deep, slow, like he’s savoring it. His pace is controlled, his breathing heavy, his grip tight. He fucks you like he’s reclaiming something lost. Like you’re not just a body. Like you’re home.

Your moans echo through the shop. The chair creaks beneath you. His mouth finds your neck, your chest, your lips again, every part of you worshiped, touched like it’s sacred.

And then you both fall apart again, louder, harder, more desperate, but in each other’s arms, skin to skin, hearts racing.

You stay wrapped around him, chests heaving, breath tangled.

Neither of you speaks for a long time.

Still inside you, forehead resting against yours, he murmurs “Didn’t think I’d actually come after closing time, did you?”

You lie there on the tattoo chair, skin still hot, your breath finally starting to slow. His chest rises and falls against yours, calm, steady, like the chaos just passed through and left everything too quiet in its wake.

Neither of you moves yet.

"I was actually about to turn off the lights when you knocked at the door..."

His hand rests gently on your hip, thumb brushing lazy circles into your skin. Your cheek presses against his shoulder, and for a moment… it feels like nothing’s changed. Like you’re back in that messy little house, tangled in each other’s limbs, whispering about a future you thought you’d have.

And then he says it, low and smooth, voice still wrecked from everything you just did “You really never finished any of my tattoos in one setting...”

You laugh, soft and breathless “As if it's not always your fault.”

He doesn’t reply. But the smirk you feel against your skin is answer enough.

You close your eyes, letting yourself feel it for just a second longer, the warmth, the weight of him, the comfort that never really left.

But then…

Reality creeps back in.

And with it, the ache in your chest you were trying to ignore.

Your voice is smaller when you speak again. Barely more than a whisper.

“Maybe we shouldn’t have done it.”

You feel him tense slightly. Not pull away, but freeze.

“…Why?”

You swallow hard, suddenly hating the silence in the shop “Because you're gonna leave again. Probably tomorrow. Or tonight. And I’ll be here. Just like last time.”

He lifts his head, looking down at you now. You don’t meet his eyes.

“I told myself I moved on,” you continue, voice shaking “That it didn’t hurt anymore. But seeing you again... being with you like this…”

You pause, forcing down the tears that want to surface.

“It hurts worse now.”

Law says nothing for a moment. But you feel his hand slide up to your cheek, thumb brushing just beneath your eye.

Then his voice comes, quieter than you’ve ever heard it “It wasn’t just sex for me.”

Your heart twists.

“You think I don’t feel the same?” he continues “You think this didn’t wreck me too?”

You finally look at him. And his eyes… They’re full of that same pain you’ve been carrying. That same longing. The same love.

But his voice still carries that signature Law calm, controlled, composed, even as something inside him breaks.

“I’m a pirate, Y/N.” He swallows “I don’t get to stay anywhere.”

You nod slowly, even though it hurts “I know.”

He presses his forehead to yours.

“And still...” he whispers “Here I am.”

You don’t say anything as he starts getting dressed. You just… watch.

You sit silently on the edge of the tattoo chair, still naked, still warm from his touch, but already feeling the cold creeping in. His back is to you as he buttons his shirt, and you drink in every detail. The way his shoulders move. The curve of his spine. The black of his tattoos against skin you once knew like a map.

You try to memorize him.

Every second.

Every inch.

Because in your heart, something whispers: This might be the last time.

And that’s when it hits you.

How foolish you’ve been. How stupidly hopeful. How desperate you are just to keep a piece of him.

Your eyes sting.

No. Not now. Not in front of him.

You stand abruptly, grabbing your robe, and mumble something you don’t even hear yourself. Before he can turn, before he can ask, you rush past him and slam the bathroom door shut behind you.

You lock it.

Your hands are trembling.

And outside... silence.

He doesn’t knock.

He doesn’t follow.

He doesn’t stop you.

Then you hear the sound of the front door. Open... and close.

He’s gone.

And you break.

You slide down the wall, burying your face in your arms as the sobs finally come out, sharp and raw. It’s not just pain, it’s years of missing him, of pretending you moved on, of wishing things could be different.

And now… it’s too late.

Minutes pass. Or maybe more. Time blurs.

Eventually, when your breathing steadies and your heart stops clawing out of your chest, you pull yourself up. Wipe your face. You don’t look in the mirror, you can’t.

You exit the bathroom slowly.

The shop is too quiet. The lights still hum overhead. The tattoo machine sits untouched, ready for a session that never happened.

You walk over to turn the CLOSED sign on the door. There’s no point pretending today’s a workday. Not like you had any clients booked anyway.

Your eyes flick to the chair.

The same one where hours ago, he made you feel like everything again.

There’s something sitting on it.

You freeze.

It’s a folded piece of paper. Your name written across the front in that neat, sharp handwriting you’d recognize anywhere.

Your fingers shake as you open it.

You read:

"Y/N,

You never talked about being a pirate. Never thought about leaving. I get it. You’re not like me. But then, I heard you telling the crew that you had no clients. No fun. That this place bored you. Then you said you didn’t want me to go.

And I don’t want to leave you behind… again.

So what if I make room for you on my ship?

Will you come?

Will you choose to be a pirate now?

My ship’s always open for you. Even after closing time.

But if this is a goodbye, then let me tell you that I love you and than I'll cheer on you even from the other side of the world.

I just want you to be happy, forever.

—Law"

Your breath catches.

The paper trembles in your hands.

You don’t know if you want to cry again or scream or run out the door barefoot. But one thing is clear, your heart is racing with something new.

Hope.

You don’t hesitate. Grabbing your coat and a small bag, you race out the door, the note still folded in your hand. The night air is cool, but your heart is burning. You know exactly where to go... the docks, where Law’s ship is waiting, dark and quiet under the moonlight.

The night air is crisp as you hurry toward the docks, the note from Law folded tightly in your hand. Your heart pounds, not just from the run, but from the rush of hope and fear tangled in your chest.

The ship sits dark and quiet under the stars, its silhouette a familiar yet strange reminder of a life you never thought you’d be part of.

A single figure leans against the railing, head tilted slightly as if listening to the sea’s whispered secrets.

“Law...” you call softly.

He turns, eyes sharp and unreadable for a split second before softening.

“You came.”

You nod, voice catching on the breeze “You asked if I’d come. So... here I am.”

The distance between you closes, and for a long moment, it’s just you two, breathing the salty air, wrapped in something fragile and strong all at once.

His hand finds yours, fingers curling gently. The electricity between you hums quietly, charged but patient.

He leans in, voice low and teasing, “Still keeping me after closing time, huh?”

You smirk, heart fluttering “Seems like it's your turn now.”

No rush for anything more. No need. This moment is a promise whispered in the dark, full of all the things you left unsaid.

Morning breaks with the chaotic roar of the crew... shouts, laughter, boots pounding on deck, and the unmistakable scent of cooking fires.

You stand just inside the galley doorway, nerves fluttering like a storm in your stomach. The crew buzzes around, eyes flicking toward you, then back at Law, then doing double-takes.

“Wait, is that—?” one mutters.

“No way...” another says, rubbing his eyes.

The captain clears his throat, voice sharp “Well?”

You swallow and step forward, heart pounding.

“I’m with the crew now.” you say quietly, glancing at Law. He gives you a small nod.

Silence.

Then the flood.

“You’re part of the crew?!”

“You didn’t tell us!”

“When did this happen?”

You grin nervouslyand then, half-jokingly “Wait… I don’t have to wear the uniform, right?”

The entire crew bursts out laughing but before anyone can answer, Law’s voice cuts through “No.”

The room freezes.

“What?!”

“That’s not fair!”

“Everyone but Captain has to wear it!”

Everyone glares playfully at Law, who crosses his arms with that signature smirk.

“Rules apply to everyone,” he says smoothly “... everyone but her.”

You chuckle, watching the crew bicker back and forth while Law’s eyes lock on yours with a mix of amusement and something softer, deeper.

Despite the noise, the laughter, and the mess of new beginnings, you feel it clearly...

This chaotic, wild crew, this life, this man...

It’s home now.

[himasntgod]

Hiya, could I please request first years with a reader/Yuu who's actually a lot older? Like, old enough to be a second or third year or maybe old enough to graduate but thanks to Crowley they're stuck in first year 😞

FIRST YEARS X READER

Where you are some years older than them, already graduated back in your world

Some clarifications of the dynamic, in case anyone needs them <3

At first, Ace doesn’t notice you're older. You’re smart, quick-witted, lowkey hot under stress, which is kind of his type, and you're way more competent than the average freshman. He assumes you just have your life together.

Then one day you offhandedly mention you already graduated somewhere else in your world. That this isn’t your first rodeo. That Crowley, in all his magnificent wisdom, stuck you in first year anyway.

“Wait. WHAT?”

He laughs—loudly.“Oh my Seven. You’re an undercover senior?! That’s so cursed. I love it.”

From then on, it’s constant teasing.

“Hey, Grandma, need help crossing the road to Alchemy?”

“Should I walk you Ramshackle after class, or do you want your cane first?”

But the teasing isn’t mean-spirited—it’s Ace’s very acelike way of flirting. What gives him away is the way his eyes linger on you when you laugh, the way he blushes when you lean in too close. The way he gets weirdly smug when you call him cute.

At some point, he admits it:

“Y’know… it’s kinda hot, actually. You being older and all. Like you’ve got everything figured out.”

“I’m literally re-doing high school.”

“Yeah. And now you’re stuck with me,which is obviously the real tragedy here.”

Despite the joking, he starts to really look out for you. Carries your textbooks. Makes sure you eat. Challenges anyone who talks down to you for being a “first year.”

He doesn’t say it out loud, but he thinks you deserve more than this weird limbo Crowley dumped you in. And if he can make you smile through it—even if you’re older, even if it’s complicated—he’ll take every chance he gets.

The moment Deuce finds out you’re older than him, it’s over. He’s already liked yo, your poise, your patience—but learning you’re basically repeating school? That you’re dealing with all this on top of it?

He looks at you like you’re a war hero.

“You’ve… already graduated? Like from a whole school back in your world?”

“And now I’m back in first year hell.”

“That’s amazing! I mean—horrible! I mean—”

He bows.

“I promise to support you to the best of my ability, sen—uh—Yuu!”

After that, Deuce is 1000% more formal. He tries so hard to be “mature enough” for you—sits straighter, studies harder, even pretends he totally understands advanced spell theory just to impress you.

You try to ease his tension, but he keeps glancing at you like you're this untouchable inspiring figure.

Which is hilarious when you’re both in a group project and you groan, “Gods, not again,” because you’ve done this assignment in a past life.

“It must really suck, huh? Being older and stuck with a bunch of us dummies.”

“You’re not dumb.”

“Still… I wish you didn’t have to go through this. You deserve better.”“But selfishly, I’m glad I met you this way.”

He gets bolder after that. Offers you his hand when you’re tired. Studies next to you even when he doesn't have to. And every now and then, he’ll slip:

“When we graduate—uh—I mean—when you re-graduate, I hope we can… keep seeing each other? If you're not back in your world by then....”

The crush is obvious. He respects you, maybe a little too much, but there’s something so earnest about how badly he wants to deserve you.

That might be what makes you fall for him in return.

When you first meet, Epel thinks you’re cool as hell. Calm under pressure, sarcastic, kinda intimidating in that “I’ve seen some things” way. He definitely does not clock you as someone older than him.

Then you casually mention you’ve already graduated once. And the look on his face is priceless.

“WAIT. YOU’RE—YOU’RE A WHOLE ADULT?!”

He’s flustered for like three straight weeks after that. Can’t make eye contact. Keeps forgetting his words around you. He’ll be like:

“I wasn’t checking you out! I mean—yes, but I mean, you’re all wise and stuff and I’m just a country boy and—"

Runs into a door.

What makes it worse (for him, better for us): the crush only deepens. Epel is so into the idea of someone older, more experienced, who doesn’t treat him like a delicate little flower. You actually listen when he talks. You know how to handle things. You’re cool.

He starts trying to prove himself: carrying things for you, using big words, pretending to know complex magic theories.

“Oh yeah, totally read that thesis on temporal rune distortion. Real eye-opener.”

(He 100% did not. He saw the title once.)

Eventually, he drops the act. One day, you’re both sitting under a tree after class, and he looks at you.

“I know I’m younger. And maybe I still got stuff to learn. But I ain’t a kid. I mean what I say. And I think I… y’know… I like you.”

There’s a beat of silence. He fumbles.

“Romantically! I mean romantically!!”

You laugh, but the warm kind, and Epel is pink for a week.

He doesn’t stop trying to impress you. But now he does it honestly, with his real self.

You tell him early on. It’s not like you’re trying to hide it.

“I’m technically older. Like, I was going to enter university back in my world. I should be in like... third or fourth grade here. But Crowley…”

Jack’s eyebrows go up.

“Seriously? You already graduated?”

You nod.

“…That sucks.”

And it does. But the way he says it? You know he gets it. He respects you even more after that. You’re responsible, experienced, and clearly strong enough to endure the humiliation of being stuck in first year again.

He also becomes so respectful it's actually kind of adorable. Like you’re this older pack member or smth. Holds doors open for you. Offers to carry your things. Tries not to speak over you.

You catch him watching you sometimes—like he wants to say something but keeps holding back.

Eventually, he admits it:

“I know I’m younger. But I don’t think feelings care about that stuff. I’ve… liked you for a while.”

He avoids eye contact.

“I respect you too much to pretend I don’t.”

If you accept his feelings, Jack is overjoyed—in the quiet, overwhelmed mood. He’s loyal to a fault, protective, and so serious about making you feel respected, not “babysat.”

He knows you’ve had a life before this. But he wants to be part of the next chapter.

When you reveal your age and educational background, Sebek does not take it well.

“You are a first-year! A fellow beginner! It is utterly irrational for you to be older than me!”

Cue him spiraling. He's stomping around, muttering about rules, ORDER. But then he is very flustered. Like so so flustered.

“How DARE Crowley place someone of your caliber in the same year as—”

Pause.

“…As ME.”

Then silence. Then blushing.

Because Sebek absolutely has a crush on you. And now he’s losing it internally because you’re older, more experienced, and somehow even more alluring.

He starts acting even more pompous—like he has to prove himself worthy of your attention.

“Older or not, I shall surpass you through diligence and dedication!”

He shouts this in the hallway. Loudly. In front of everyone.

He won’t say it, but he’s in awe of your emotional maturity. You don’t get rattled the way others do. You handle Crowley’s nonsense with a sigh. You don’t baby him, but you do take him seriously, which throws him completely off balance.

And that only deepens his feelings.

Eventually, after much overthinking and dramatic pacing, he storms up to you one day and blurts out:

“YOUR AGE IS IRRELEVANT TO ME. I ADMIRE YOU. I—CARE FOR YOU. ROMANTICALLY. PLEASE—DON’T LAUGH :( ”

You don’t.

Instead, you gently kiss his cheek. He goes silent.

His ears are red for three days. He refuses to make eye contact and keeps yelling “FOCUS!” at himself under his breath.

But he also stays by your side. Proudly. Passionately.

[peachesofteal]

Like Real People Do previous + masterlist Simon Riley/female reader - hospital au CW: withdrawal of care and death of an infant in NICU setting

Tess was a rodeo queen.

She could answer “what do you do for a living?” with “I’m a professional barrel racer.”  She had the ribbons and the trophies and the money to prove it.

It’s where the farm came from, all the earnings. She and Liam had big dreams, a legacy, a plan. They had it all, and you had travel nursing contracts, vacations to the BVI, and long nights you only remember half of. Every time you came home, worked a few months in the ED here before skipping out again, she had a new title, a new sponsorship, or a new project. And there was pressure. So much of it.

“If you come home for good you can stay in the house with us. Blue misses you.” The swing’s metal chain creaks as you push off with the toe of your boot. Life is so different here. It’s slower. Sweeter. Dustier. Still, it’s hard to look at everything you grew up with and say you want it back.

“I’m too young to settle down.”

“We’re ten months apart!” You snicker, and she chucks one of the strawberries from the bowl at you. “You could build a house on the land if you wanted.”

“Yeah, with all my house building money?” Build a house. It sounds so… domestic.

“Maybe if you stopped taking vacations everywhere you’d have something left over.”

“So sorry I’m living my life.” It’s a dig and you both know what you mean, but she’ll still bite.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” You don’t mean to hurt her. You don’t like hurting her, but she expects something from you, something you can’t give. At least not right now.

“You didn’t leave Tess. You stayed here, bought land thirty minutes from where we grew up. I mean, you did it better for sure. You’re barrel racing like you always dreamed but… I didn’t want it. You can’t fault me for that.” She wipes her hands across her thighs as she stands, smears strawberry seeds across her jeans and shakes her head. Conversation over.

“Let me know when you’re ready to grow up.” You let it go. It’s not worth the fight.

“You’re not going to win you know.” She pauses in the door way, and flashes you that know it all smile over her shoulder.

“Don’t I always though?”

Jokes on you. She won in the end.

“Thanks so much, I really appreciate it. Anything I can do to return the favor, I’ve got you.”

“Do you have pictures?” Isa gives you a kind smile. Her interest warms you, and you nod, pulling your phone out to scroll through the too many photos of Riley you took this morning at her first day of school, smiling big with a missing front tooth. “She’s precious.”

“Yeah. She’s something. First day of third grade, crazy.” Keona slows in front of you with Doctor Riley right behind her, and there’s a confused wrinkle marring her brow.

“I didn’t know you had a kid. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Oh I… it didn’t come up I guess.” Lie. There were so many times you could have brought Riley up, but you dodged or ignored each one. You glance up and what a surprise… Doctor Riley is staring at you, studying like he’s picking you apart in his brain. Key looks genuinely hurt though and guilt twists your heart. “I’m sorry. I’ve just been a little stressed and so focused on learning.” She nods, and you think she’s going to push it but you’re saved by an alarm, all of you taking off at the sound.

Saved was the wrong sentiment.

You weren’t saved from a conversation by this, this moment. This moment is hell.

“She’ll breathe on her own for a little while after we take the tube out, and you can hold her.” Doctor Riley tells the parents softly. Ryan and Alexa. They’ve been here for weeks, watching Rosie fade while holding out hope. So much hope. You’re devastated for them.

“Do you want to sit down?” You’ve already turned off all the sounds, anything that beeps or dings or blares, and disconnected all the leads, the lines. The only thing left is the vent.

“How long will she… how long will it be?” Ryan’s voice is broken. Shattered.

“We can’t know. Not long.” Doctor Riley looks to you, to where you’re waiting to flip the power, and then he’ll pull the tube. “Are you ready?”

“No.” Alexa sobs, shaking in the rocking chair she’s been sitting in since they got here, but Ryan nods, gives the go ahead.

“Okay.” You do it fast, as fast as you can. It’s like ripping off a bandaid, and you don’t want them to see it, don’t want them to remember the sound of the machine powering down. Doctor Riley frees her from the tube and gently lifts her to pass her to Ryan, cradling her head, supporting her neck and her little body, all of her so small in his arms, so fragile.

“Thank you Daisy.” He’s giving you permission to bolt, but you stand stuck to the floor. It feels wrong to run, it feels like you’re bailing on them, on Rosie.

So you don’t.

You pull her blanket out of the crib and tuck it around where she’s now resting in Alexa’s arms. It’s hand knit by Rosie’s grandmother, pink and yellow, little elephants artfully woven across the bottom, and once you’re done, you turn on the soft lamp behind the chair, angling so it’s not harsh but still enough they can see every little detail of their daughter’s face. So they can memorize her, every little wisp of her hair, the curve of her nose, each tiny delicate eyelash.

And then you leave.

You don’t run from the room. You keep your spine straight, chin lifted. You don’t stop at the nurses station, where Isa and Key are waiting to comfort you as they promised they would be. You don’t stop at the break room, or the bathroom or the empty call rooms. You keep walking, down the end of the hall until you reach the double doors and burst through them into the sun.

You breathe as deep as you can, and hold it. You hold it until you can’t anymore, and then do it again. And again. You try to burn them from your mind, Alexa’s face, Rosie’s weak little cry, but it’s no use. You hate this place. You hate it. You hold your breath again, this time longer, long enough until you start to feel like you might die. It’s better, it’s worse, so you do it again. You’re holding your breath against burning lungs when the doors bang open.

“Daisy.” He’s never said your name like that before. It’s not harsh or acidic or impatient. It’s the opposite. You hate that too.

“I’ll be back in a minute.” It’s said on the exhale released from your sternum, an explosive rush of air punching free from your mouth.

“Take as long as you need.” You don’t answer because you’re too busy patching up the cracks, focusing on breathing in and holding it again, controlling it. You block him out, which is why you don’t realize right away that he’s now standing in front of you, close enough you can see the stitching on the sleeve of his scrubs. “These moments are hard. It’s okay if it affects you, it should affect you. It’s okay to let it out.” You keep your eyes fixed on his chest. Focused.

“I know.” The control is unwavering. Unrelenting. You are a machine. And for good measure, you offer a succinct nod and smile. See? I’m fine.

“There’s no shame in-”

“I know, Doctor Riley. Thank you.” You cut him off, dismiss him. Or try to.

“Daisy.” This fucking man. Something about him is trying to shred your control. Make you weak.

“I’m fine.”

“Let’s go inside.” A minuscule flicker of need ignites in your soul. It begs you to listen, to trust, let the control slip, let go, just for a second. You close your eyes and dangle over the abyss.

If you fell, would someone catch you?

Would he?

It’s a sweet dream, a lovely fantasy. But not for you.

“I’m due for my break actually, so I’m probably going to go down to the cafeteria. Can you let Key know?”

“Daisy,” he murmurs, wraps your name in velvet. “Look at me.” You do it in defiance, to get him off your back. You don’t even know why he’s out here in the first place. What does he care? He hates you. You take a breath, hold it, and meet his eyes, surprised when you don’t see the usual anger or irritation. There’s something else in them instead, something tender and understanding, concerned. “You took great care of Rosie and her parents. They-” No.

“Doctor Riley. I’m on my break. It’s my personal time. If we need to speak about work, we can do it once I’m back.”  The muscle in his cheek flutters as the masseter flexes. The average PSI of the human jaw is around one hundred and twenty. His must be triple that.

“If that’s what you want.” The words are cold. Back to baseline, squashing that tiny blossom of need.

Good.

“That’s what I want.”

[avengxrz]

the fool outranks the golden boy ; jake "hangman" seresin x reader [part one]

pairings: jake seresin x reader

word count: 18.2k (i'm sorry, i got carried away)

summary: you had it bad, like really bad for jake seresin. back in college, you did his homework, brought him coffee, smiled through humiliation like it meant something, fooled yourself into thinking he’d glance your way and actually see you. but he never did. not really. now, years later, you're standing in front of him again, not as the girl who worshipped the ground he walked on—but as the woman who outranks him. how the hell did the fool end up outranking the golden boy?

warnings: emotional manipulation, unresolved tension, slow burn, power imbalance (then reversal), humiliation, angst, college flashbacks, mild academic bullying, reader is hopelessly naive at first, jake is an asshole, later guilt, crying, confrontation, slap scene, reader character growth arc, mentions of absent family, found power, military setting, hangar tension, dagger squad chaos, and one (1) dangerously attractive commander with a grudge.

notes: ugh tumblr's word count limit is so unserious for a fic like this, like let me be dramatic in peace?? anyway this will be a three-part story because there's too much tension, pain, and ego to contain in just one post. if i disappear it's because i’m fighting the character limit and tumblr’s formatting demons. pray for me.

part two , part three , part four , part five

masterlist

your callsign is rogue.

You had it bad.

The kind of bad that made your heart pick up speed just from the sound of his voice echoing down the hallway. The kind of bad that made you memorize his coffee order before he ever asked, the way he liked his breakfast tacos, the exact moment in the semester when he’d start asking for your notes in Social Studies—again. He was all sun and swagger, a boy carved from the sky with that easy smile and reckless charm, and you were twenty and stupid and floating somewhere just beneath his orbit, close enough to feel warm. Never close enough to matter.

Jake Seresin wasn’t just a crush. He was a curriculum.

And God, you studied. You showed up. You took mental notes on his laugh patterns and the way he tapped his pen when he was bored in class. You offered to “help” with his required literature essays, even though helping usually turned into you writing the entire thing while he sat back in his chair, arms crossed, watching you with that annoying little half-smirk like he knew. He always knew.

“You’re a lifesaver, sunshine,” he’d say, tossing you a grin like a bone. Sometimes he'd ruffle your hair, which made your stomach flip like it was some grand act of affection instead of thoughtless habit. Sometimes he’d sit a little too close when you were going over the assignment, smelling like cologne and peppermint gum, leaning over your shoulder as if he actually cared about the difference between metaphor and metonymy. He didn’t. But you still pointed it out, even circled it in a red pen for him.

And when he got a B+, he winked at you and said, “Told you I didn’t need that Shakespeare crap to fly jets.” You laughed. You always laughed. Like a fool.

You didn’t mind doing his work. You didn’t mind when he forgot your birthday but showed up to your dorm two weeks later with a Red Bull and a “my bad.” You didn’t even mind when he flirted with other girls right in front of you—because it didn’t mean anything. Not really. Not to him. But maybe, if you were patient, it could mean something someday.

You told yourself he was just bad at feelings. You told yourself he was focused on his career, that you were helping, supporting, part of his story. You told yourself that being near him was enough.

You lied a lot, back then. Especially to yourself.

You remembered the first time he called you kid. You had just pulled an all-nighter to finish his paper—some half-assed assignment about American foreign policy and its effect on colonial literature that he should’ve started a week ago. You handed it to him in the quad, tired but glowing, waiting for a thank you or maybe, just maybe, a hug. He barely looked up from his phone.

“Man, what would I do without you, kid?” he said, clapping a hand on your shoulder like you were one of the guys. One of the boys. Not a girl who wore her prettiest sweater that day just in case he noticed. Not a girl who memorized his class schedule and purposely bumped into him outside his seminar. Just kid. You smiled anyway, too dizzy with hope to notice how sharp the word was, how much it stung under the surface.

And he never said your name. Not really. Not the way you said his when you whispered it into your pillow at night, soft like a secret. He called you sunshine when he needed a favor, professor when he didn’t feel like studying, kid when he was feeling lazy. It wasn’t cruel. Not technically. But it always made you feel a little smaller, a little sillier, a little more like a side character in your own goddamn story. And still, you held onto it like it meant something.

You remembered how he’d brag about you in front of his friends—“She’s basically a genius,” he’d say, draping an arm over your chair as you hunched over your laptop, typing his paper. “I swear, I just let her talk and I sound smarter by association.” They’d laugh. He’d laugh. And you? You’d blush so hard you thought your ears would catch fire. You told yourself he was proud of you.

You told yourself he noticed.

Once, at a party, someone asked if you two were dating. He choked on his beer and laughed like it was the funniest joke he’d heard all night. “Nah,” he said, loud enough for everyone around the keg to hear. “She’s way too sweet. Like, book club sweet. I'm not trying to get lectured during pillow talk.”

You laughed too, even though something cracked inside your chest.

Later, when you were alone with him in the kitchen, trying not to let your hands shake while you poured soda over melting ice, you asked, “Do you really think I’m sweet?” And he’d leaned in, lazy and amused, eyes glinting with something sharp.

“You’re the sweetest thing I know,” he said. “That’s your problem.”

You thought that was romantic.

You thought he meant it like a compliment.

You started wearing makeup. Nothing major—just a little mascara, some tinted balm, a hint of blush you hoped made you look older, cooler, prettier. You weren’t the kind of girl Jake usually flirted with, the ones who wore crop tops to lecture and knew how to flip their hair without thinking. You studied in quiet corners, read poetry on your lunch breaks, always carried extra pens. But maybe, if you tried a little harder—if you looked a little more like them—he’d finally see you.

He noticed, too. Sort of.

“You do something different with your face?” he asked once, squinting at you while you handed over his notes. “Looks good. Less tired.”

Then he grabbed the papers and walked off, calling back, “Thanks, sunshine!” like he hadn’t just complimented you and insulted you in the same breath. You beamed. You held onto less tired like it meant beautiful. You told your roommate about it like it was proof—like it was progress.

You were always chasing crumbs. Always stretching moments into meaning. Like the time he offered you a ride home from the library when it started raining—windows down, music up, his hand drumming on the steering wheel.

You sat there soaking wet, trying not to stare at the way his jaw flexed when he laughed, trying not to fall deeper into whatever hole your heart had already dug.

At the stoplight, he glanced over and smirked. “Bet you never skip class, huh?”

You shrugged. “Not really. I like learning.”

He raised a brow. “Yeah, I can tell. You always look like you’re about to marry your textbooks.”

You laughed. Of course you laughed. “Better than marrying beer pong.”

He chuckled, and for a second, you thought—maybe this is flirting. Maybe he likes me back.

But then he said, “You’re cute when you try to be sassy.”

You turned your face toward the window so he wouldn’t see the way you smiled. Like a fool. Like someone who didn’t realize being cute to a boy like Jake Seresin meant safe. Non-threatening. Easy to dismiss.

You were the girl he called at midnight for notes and “quick favors.” The girl he brought to parties but never introduced. The girl who did his work and called it love. And still, you waited for something more. Still, you held your breath every time he looked at you a little too long, hoping he might finally see you the way you saw him.

But he never did. Not really.

It happened in the middle of a group study session—well, his group, not yours. You’d only shown up because he texted you last-minute, some vague “Hey, you around? Could use your genius brain again lol” and you’d said yes before even thinking. You always did.

The library table was cluttered with Red Bulls and half-finished equations. Jake was leaning back in his chair, long legs stretched out, baseball cap tilted low.

He was arguing with one of his aviation buddies about flight dynamics or engine weight or some other thing you had no business understanding—but you listened anyway, like you always did. You’d learned the lingo just to keep up, tucked terms into your memory like you were training to speak his language.

At some point, his friend nodded toward you and asked, “Hey, who’s this again?”

Jake turned, eyes flicking lazily in your direction. His brows furrowed. Just for a second. Then—he laughed. “Uh—wait. Crap. Don’t tell me.”

Your heart dropped before you could stop it. Just a beat. Just long enough to hurt.

“You don’t know my name?” you asked, light and teasing. You even laughed a little, because that was the role you’d learned to play. Unbothered. Chill. The cool girl who didn’t take anything seriously. Not even her own heartbreak.

Jake scratched the back of his neck, sheepish but grinning. “I mean, you’re like my PoliSci girl, right? You’re always around with, like… books and that political stuff.”

You blinked. “Political science,” you corrected softly, still smiling, though it felt like something fragile was cracking beneath your ribs. “I’m majoring in political science. Pre-law track.”

He snapped his fingers, pointing. “Knew it. Knew you were smart.”

You already knew his major, of course—Aeronautical Engineering with a minor in Applied Physics. You knew his dream was to fly fighter jets for the Navy. You knew he hated public speaking but loved Top Gun. You knew he bit the inside of his cheek when he was stressed and that his middle name was Andrew. You even knew his sister’s birthday.

But he didn’t know your name.

Not really.

Still, when he leaned in and said, “You’re kind of my lifesaver, y’know?”—you smiled. You swallowed down the sting and tucked the compliment somewhere deep, let it sit heavy and warm in your chest like it meant more than it did.

You told yourself he was just bad with names. That he was tired. Distracted.

You told yourself it didn’t matter.

And when he tossed you a Red Bull at the end of the night and said, “Thanks again, sunshine,” like a pat on the head, you caught it and held it like a gift.

Because it came from him.

You were always the nerdiest person in the room—and you didn’t mind. Not really. You liked it, actually. You liked being the one with too many pens, with color-coded tabs stuck out of every book, with highlighters in four different shades for four different types of arguments.

Your notebooks were immaculate. Your laptop desktop was a perfectly organized grid of folders labeled by subject, date, and citation style. You even had a separate folder for Jake’s assignments—though you’d never admit that out loud.

You quoted obscure political theorists in casual conversation, carried pocket-sized constitutions in your backpack like other people carried gum. You read op-eds for fun. You had a crush on Ruth Bader Ginsburg for three years. You were the kind of girl who got excited about office supplies. The kind of girl who said “actually” a lot and meant it.

Jake didn’t get it. Not really.

But he smiled when you went on tangents about legislation and voting trends and historical revolutions. That day in the library, you tried to explain your thesis about the ethics of surveillance in modern democracies, and he just blinked at you, lips pulled into that signature grin—handsome, golden, practiced. It didn’t reach his eyes.

“That’s… intense,” he said, dragging the word out like it was both a compliment and a warning. “You actually like that stuff?”

You nodded, beaming. “I love it. I think it’s important—how we understand power and systems and history. You can’t just—separate law from people.”

He chuckled, leaning back in his chair. “God, you’re such a nerd.”

Your smile faltered for half a second. Just a flicker. You covered it quickly with a laugh, pretending it didn’t sting, pretending he meant it in that teasing, affectionate way. He was smiling, after all. He called you his nerd once. That had to mean something, right?

“You’re lucky I’m a nerd,” you said lightly, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “Otherwise you’d be failing social theory and citing Buzzfeed as a source.”

That made him laugh, real and sharp. For a moment, he looked at you like he almost saw something. Then it faded.

“Buzzfeed’s valid,” he said, winking. “They’ve got quizzes and everything.”

You laughed again. You always laughed. Even when it wasn’t funny. Even when the smile didn’t quite reach your eyes, either.

Because maybe—just maybe—if you kept being useful, being sweet, being there, he’d learn to look closer. Maybe someday, he’d want to know your name before needing your notes. Maybe someday, that smile wouldn’t be so forced.

You didn’t usually celebrate your birthday. It felt silly, most years—too much attention, too many questions you didn’t want to answer. But this time felt different. You were turning twenty-one, and for once, you wanted to do something that made you happy. Not trendy. Not loud. Just… you.

So you invited Jake.

You kept it casual, like it was no big deal. You mentioned it after class one day while handing over another perfectly formatted draft of his group project—the one he was supposed to help with but hadn’t touched since the outline phase. “I’m doing something lowkey tonight,” you said, trying not to sound too hopeful. “If you’re not busy, you should come.”

He looked up from his phone, eyes still half-scanning whatever was on the screen. “Lowkey like what? Drinks? House party?”

You hesitated. “Kind of. You’ll see.”

He agreed. Mostly because you were finishing his semester-long presentation. Thirty percent of his grade. Not because he actually cared about the celebration part.

But that didn’t stop you from spending the entire afternoon setting everything up—balloons, cupcakes, a paper crown you wore mostly as a joke. You even put on a new sweater, the soft blue one that brought out your eyes. You checked your phone every few minutes until finally, finally, he texted: Here.

You met him outside, bouncing on your heels from nerves. He was wearing jeans and a fitted Henley, looking like he’d just walked off a recruitment poster. His eyes scanned the building behind you—a wide, beige facility with a ramp leading up to automatic glass doors.

“What is this?” he asked, already frowning.

You smiled, a little too wide. “The community center. It doubles as a retirement home. I volunteer here every weekend. We’re doing trivia and cupcakes with the residents tonight. I thought it’d be fun.”

He blinked. “Wait—you invited me to your birthday at an old folks’ home?”

You laughed, nervously. “They’re sweet. And they love meeting new people. Plus, trivia night gets competitive. It’s fun, I promise.”

Jake’s smile didn’t quite land. He rubbed the back of his neck, looking around like he was trying to find a way to back out. “Damn. I thought this was gonna be, like… a party.”

“It is a party,” you said, voice softer than before. “Just not that kind.”

He hesitated. For one awful second, you were sure he’d leave. But then he sighed and stuffed his hands in his pockets.

“Alright,” he muttered. “Lead the way, sunshine.”

You lit up, relief washing through you. You missed the way his shoulders slouched, the way his expression shifted once your back was turned. You didn’t see how bored he looked walking through the doors, how forced his laugh sounded when you introduced him to the residents. You were too busy beaming, too busy bringing out the cupcakes you made from scratch, too busy believing—just for one night—that he was here because he wanted to be.

You never realized he was only smiling because the project wasn’t finished yet.

He offered to walk you home.

Maybe out of guilt. Maybe because it was late and the air had turned crisp, and he still had a project with his name on it sitting in your backpack. Or maybe he was trying to be a gentleman, like he’d been raised right and remembered it sometimes. Either way, you didn’t argue. You just smiled, told him thanks, and fell into step beside him under the glow of sleepy streetlights.

The walk wasn’t long, but it felt longer than usual. You talked in small, tired bursts—about the trivia questions, about Ms. Evelyn’s obsession with Cary Grant, about how hard the cupcakes were to ice without making them look sad. Jake chuckled once or twice, but mostly he was quiet, thumbs tapping absentmindedly against his phone until he slid it back into his pocket.

When you reached your front porch, he paused.

The house was dark. Not lifeless, just… dim. Still. The kind of quiet that felt deeper than it should have. Like it had settled over the walls and stayed there.

“You sure someone’s home?” he asked, eyeing the unlit windows.

You nodded quickly, unlocking the door with shaking hands. “Yeah. They’re probably just in the back. Or asleep. My mom works nights sometimes—she’s a nurse. And my dad’s a lawyer, so he’s always in the study. I—I’m sure they’re inside.”

Jake didn’t say anything, but he looked at you a little too long.

“You can come in for a second,” you offered, trying to sound casual. “If you want.”

You barely had time to nudge the door open before it swung all the way with a burst of warm light—and your mom stood there in her scrubs, hair pulled back, eyes wide with worry.

“There you are!” she breathed, relief pouring out of her like a tide. “We’ve been waiting, sweetheart. You didn’t answer your phone.”

Behind her, your dad appeared, sleeves rolled up, reading glasses pushed into his hairline. “You’re late, bug,” he said gently, his voice firm but warm. “You said you'd be back before ten.”

“I—” You faltered. “I’m sorry, I just… I lost track of time.”

Your mom’s eyes shifted past you, landing on Jake. She blinked, smiled. “Oh! And who’s this?”

“This is… Jake,” you said, stepping aside awkwardly. “He’s a friend from school.”

Jake straightened. “Nice to meet you, ma’am. Sir.”

Your parents exchanged one of those quiet, married glances. The kind that said more than words ever could.

“Well, come in, Jake,” your mom said brightly. “We’ve still got cake. And Oreo ice cream in the freezer.”

“And Bingo’s been howling for you,” your dad added, stepping back to let you both in.

Right on cue, tiny paws scrambled across the hardwood, and a golden-furred puppy bounded into view, tail wagging like a metronome on overdrive. He skidded to a stop at your feet, yipping excitedly.

Jake blinked. “You have a dog?”

You scooped Bingo into your arms, pressing your cheek to his fur. “Yeah. He’s loud and a little bit dramatic, but… he’s mine.”

The house was warm. Bright. Alive. And for a second, Jake stood there like he didn’t know where to put his hands. Like he didn’t expect this from you—this quiet, glowing little life. No red Solo cups, no loud music, no drama. Just parents who cared. A puppy that missed you. And a birthday party that waited all night.

Jake stepped inside. Just barely. Like the warmth might spook him.

And you—still holding Bingo, still wearing your little paper crown—pretended not to notice that he looked like he didn’t belong.

Jake stepped further inside, hands tucked into his jacket pockets like he didn’t know what to do with them. Your mom disappeared into the kitchen with a cheerful hum—“Sit down, make yourselves at home, I’ll get the plates!”—and your dad wandered back toward the hallway, calling something about candles and the lighter drawer. It left you and Jake standing alone in the entryway, where the soft light spilled over hardwood floors and Bingo settled at your feet with a huff.

He glanced around, eyes catching on the walls.

It was impossible not to notice, really. The house wasn’t big, but it was full—every inch lined with framed moments of your life. Photos of you as a toddler with cake on your cheeks. You in a ballet costume, crooked tiara and scraped knees. School portraits from every year, perfectly lined up in a growing timeline of messy hair, braces, and bright smiles. A bulletin board near the staircase held your ribbons, certificates, a newspaper clipping from the high school debate team championship. Everything worn in but cared for—like none of it was ever forgotten.

“You’ve got… a lot of photos,” Jake murmured, blinking at one where you were holding a spelling bee trophy almost as big as your head.

You smiled sheepishly. “My mom’s kind of sentimental. She never takes anything down. Says the walls should feel like home.”

Jake nodded slowly. Something unreadable flickered behind his eyes.

He moved further in, scanning the frames more closely. That’s when he noticed. Nestled between all the snapshots of you were other faces. Boys, mostly—some in college caps, others in football jerseys, one in what looked like a Marine uniform.

“Wait,” Jake said, frowning slightly. “You have siblings?”

You looked up from where you were peeling the plastic off a stack of paper plates. “Yeah. Three older brothers.”

Jake blinked again, like that didn’t quite compute. “Seriously? I figured you were an only child.”

You laughed. “Everyone does.”

His eyes lingered on a photo of you all together—probably one of the last ones before the goodbyes started. You were sandwiched between them, grinning up at the camera like you’d won the lottery. Your brothers were tall, broad-shouldered, each with the same warm brown eyes as your dad.

“That’s Ezra,” you said, pointing to the one in the navy blue hoodie. “He’s studying abroad right now. Germany, for architecture.”

Jake nodded, still staring.

“And that’s Micah and Levi. They both got scholarships out of state. One's in Oregon, the other's in New York. Music and robotics.”

Jake let out a low whistle. “Damn. That’s some family.”

You shrugged, setting the plates down on the coffee table as Bingo pawed at your ankle. “Yeah. We’re all kind of doing our own thing now. But they always call. My mom makes sure of it.”

He looked around again, slower this time. And something in his expression softened—not quite guilt, not quite wonder, but something close. Like he was realizing just how much he didn’t know. Like he was starting to see that you weren’t just the quiet girl with good notes and a crush. You were a whole world. You always have been.

He’d just never asked to see it.

Dinner wasn’t fancy, but it didn’t need to be. Your mom set out spaghetti and meatballs, still warm in their glass dish, with garlic bread that made the kitchen smell like heaven. Your dad poured iced tea into mismatched mugs. The lights were cozy. The puppy circled under the table like he was part of the conversation, brushing up against Jake’s boots with little happy hops.

At first, Jake tried to excuse himself.

“I don’t want to intrude,” he said, already inching toward the door. “You’ve got family stuff, and I—”

But your dad clapped him on the shoulder before he could finish. “You’re already here, son. Might as well eat.”

Your mom chimed in without missing a beat. “Besides, it’s her birthday. You’re staying for cake.”

So he sat. And you sat beside him, still wearing your paper crown, cheeks flushed and puppy in your lap. You fed Bingo tiny bites of meatball under the table while your parents asked Jake polite questions—what he was studying, where he was from, if he liked flying. He answered all of them with that easy smile, but you could tell he was just a little stiff. A little too polite. Like he was waiting for the part where it got hard. Or loud. Or ugly.

It never came.

After dinner, your dad disappeared for a minute and came back with a cake—chocolate, thick with icing, “Happy Birthday Bug” scrawled in lopsided pink letters. A single candle stood in the center, already flickering.

“Make a wish,” your mom said, camera in hand.

You closed your eyes. Blew it out.

The room erupted in soft cheers and clapping, and Bingo barked once like he was part of the moment. You laughed, cheeks glowing. And then—click. Your mom snapped the photo.

“Wait, wait, let’s do one together,” she said. “C’mon, squeeze in.”

Jake shook his head, holding up his hands. “Oh, I’m good. Really.”

But your dad was already standing behind him, gently steering him back toward you. “You’re not getting out of this that easy. You're part of tonight, kid. Sit down.”

And before Jake could argue again, he was seated on the couch, sandwiched between you and your dad. Your mom was hovering over the phone camera, grinning wide. You were still holding Bingo, his paws tucked against your arm. The paper party hat tilted slightly on your head.

“Smile!” your mom called.

Jake did.

Sort of.

The camera clicked. Flash.

In that moment, something tightened in his chest—not panic, exactly. Just… something strange. Foreign. Like he’d been dropped into someone else’s memory. And now his face would live on your living room wall forever, next to spelling bees and ballet slippers and newspaper clippings.

He looked at you—arms full of puppy, crown still perched on your head, face soft with joy—and for the first time all night, he didn’t know what to say.

You told yourself it was fine.

That he was just… being a guy. Boys were like that with their friends—loud, teasing, a little reckless. He didn’t mean it the way it sounded. He was just trying to keep face in front of them. It wasn’t about you. Not really.

You told yourself that the nickname still meant something. Sunshine. He didn’t call anyone else that. He could’ve called you nerd, or PoliSci girl, or just you. But he didn’t. He smiled—kind of—and said Sunshine, like it was a secret. Like it was something only the two of you shared.

That had to count for something.

You told yourself that if he didn’t care, he wouldn’t talk about you at all. That the fact he mentioned you meant you were on his mind. Even if it was just a joke, even if they laughed—he’d still said your name. Your story. Your cupcakes.

You told yourself that maybe he didn’t realize how it came off. Maybe he’d say something later. Apologize, or explain, or laugh it off and say, "You know I didn’t mean it like that, right?" Maybe he was just awkward. Maybe he was nervous. Maybe he was afraid to like you out loud.

You repeated those maybes like they were prayers.

Because if you stopped for even one second—if you let yourself admit how small you’d felt standing in that circle, how cold your hands had gone, how fake your laugh sounded in your own ears—you’d have to face it.

You’d have to admit that he never really saw you. That you’d written a whole love story in your head and cast him as the lead without checking if he even wanted the part.

But you weren’t ready for that. Not yet.

So you walked back across campus with your charger clutched to your chest and your phone buzzing in your pocket and your face still stretched in that practiced smile.

He likes me, you thought.

He just doesn’t know how to show it.

That night, you stared at your phone longer than you should have.

No text. No message. Not even a meme.

You weren’t expecting a love letter or anything. Just… something. A thank you. A hey, good to see you. Even a dumb joke about cupcakes or trivia or your little paper crown. Anything that said he remembered yesterday—that you weren’t just a background blur in his perfect little highlight reel.

But it stayed quiet. And that quiet felt louder than anything.

Still, you didn’t let it get to you. Not completely.

You told yourself he was busy. Labs and simulations and early flight rotations. He was tired. He probably passed out the moment he got home. You even convinced yourself he might be dreaming about you. That deep down, maybe, some part of him felt it too.

Because how could he not?

He’d let you into his orbit. He didn’t have to say yes to your birthday. Didn’t have to show up, or eat your mom’s spaghetti, or sit through trivia with Ms. Evelyn correcting his answers. He could’ve laughed it off. Ghosted. But he didn’t.

That had to mean something.

Didn’t it?

And sure—he’d made jokes. In front of his friends. Stupid, careless, sharp-edged jokes that made your chest twist and your smile freeze.

But that was just… fear. Right?

Boys were dumb when they liked someone. He didn’t want to look soft. That had to be it. He was protecting himself. You’d read about it, seen it in movies. The guy always jokes too much until he realizes he’s in too deep. Until he finally looks at the girl and sees her.

So maybe he just hadn’t looked hard enough yet.

You could wait a little longer.

You’d already waited this long.

And if it hurts a little more each day… well. That was just part of falling, wasn’t it?

The days passed slower after that.

You still saw him, of course. He was hard to miss—loud laugh echoing in the hallway, flight jacket slung over one shoulder, girls looking at him like he was some walking dream. And maybe he was. Just not yours.

But you told yourself that was okay.

Because when he passed you in the quad and tossed you a half-smile, your heart still jumped. And when he sat two rows behind you in general ed and tapped his pen against the desk like he had no idea you were listening to the rhythm, you still wrote poems about it in the margins of your notebook.

You’d learned how to survive on crumbs.

When he nodded at you in passing, it became a paragraph in your head. When he said your name—even just once—you replayed it like a song. You filled in the silences with dreams. Decorated the nothing with meaning. Let him live inside your chest without paying rent.

And it wasn’t like he was cruel. Not really. He still laughed when you said something funny. Still accepted your notes when he forgot his. Still leaned just close enough for you to imagine what it would be like if he did it on purpose.

You didn’t mind that he never texted first. You didn’t mind that you always reached out. You didn’t mind that he still didn’t know your favorite color, or your middle name, or what you wanted to be after graduation.

You told yourself he’d ask. Eventually.

He just needed time.

And in the meantime, you’d keep being there. Keep smiling. Keep hoping. Because the version of him that lived in your mind was warm. Sweet. Quietly in love with you in ways he just didn’t know how to show.

You weren’t delusional.

You were just patient.

It started as a normal afternoon.

You were leaving the library, arms full of books for your midterm paper, when you saw them. Jake and a few of his friends, lounging by the steps near the student center, all wearing matching flight jackets and cocky grins. They looked like they belonged in a movie—golden, loud, untouchable.

You hesitated, heart kicking up. Part of you wanted to turn around, walk the long way back. But then Jake saw you.

He waved. Waved.

So you smiled—of course you did—and made your way over, hugging your books tighter to your chest.

“Hey,” you said softly.

One of the guys leaned in, smirking. “Hey, it’s sunshine. Jake’s academic lifeline.”

You laughed, unsure if it was a compliment. “Just trying to keep him from failing.”

Another one chimed in. “Man, if I had someone do my essays and bake me cookies, I’d put a ring on it.”

You flushed. “I—I don’t bake that often. Just that one time.”

“Oh right,” the first one said, snickering. “That birthday thing. With the old people.”

Jake laughed.

You looked at him—expecting maybe a smirk, maybe a hey, knock it off. But he just shook his head and chuckled like it was all harmless fun.

“Yeah,” he said, grinning. “She even made me wear a party hat. Took a picture and everything.”

“She’s like a golden retriever,” someone muttered. “Loyal as hell. Always shows up.”

Another voice added, “Bet she’d help you move apartments and knit you a thank-you sweater.”

They all laughed.

You laughed, too.

But it caught in your throat.

You tried to tell yourself it was just teasing. That this was what friends did. Banter. Jokes. He wasn’t mocking you. Not really. He wasn’t trying to hurt you.

But then Jake said, “She’s a sweetheart. Can’t get rid of her, even if I tried.”

And that—that—was the line.

It felt like someone poured ice water down your spine.

You smiled. You always smiled. But your grip tightened on your books, knuckles white. And you stepped back, just slightly. Enough that none of them noticed. Or if they did, they didn’t care.

You weren’t the joke.

You couldn’t be.

You were the girl who helped. Who stayed. Who waited for the moment he’d finally wake up and see you.

You had to be.

Because if you weren’t…then what were you?

You left before they could say anything else.

Not quickly. Not dramatically. You just laughed, said something about needing to get back to your paper, and walked away while their laughter still echoed behind you. Your smile stayed on your face until you turned the corner, until they couldn’t see you anymore.

Then it dropped.

You sat on the bench outside the language building, books stacked beside you, and stared down at your hands like they didn’t belong to you. Like if you just sat still enough, long enough, none of it would be real.

He didn’t mean it. He was just being funny. You were sweet. That wasn’t a bad thing. Right?

You tried to remember the look on his face. Had it been cruel? Mocking? Or just… blank? Neutral?

No. No, he smiled. He laughed. That meant something. He wasn’t trying to hurt you. He wouldn’t.

You remembered the party hat. The picture. The way his shoulder had touched yours when your dad pulled him into that family photo. The way your puppy had licked his wrist and made him laugh, really laugh, for the first time that night.

That version of him—the one who said thank you, who ate your mom’s cooking, who let himself exist in your quiet little world—he was real, too.

Wasn’t he?

You pulled your phone out of your bag and stared at your messages.

Still nothing.

No sorry about earlier. No they were just messing around. No I didn’t mean it like that.

Just silence.

You wondered how long you’d be willing to wait for the version of Jake in your head to speak up.

And more than that…you wondered if he ever would.

You didn’t cry.

Not right away.

Instead, you took the long way home. Past the engineering wing, past the old bookstore with the chipped awning, past the bench you used to sit at when you waited for Jake to finish class. You walked until the streetlamps turned on and the sky burned soft orange at the edges, and still—you didn’t cry.

Because crying meant something was real. And if you didn’t cry, maybe none of it was.

When you got home, your mom was in the kitchen, humming off-key and stirring something in a pot that smelled like tomato and thyme. She glanced over her shoulder when you walked in, eyes bright. “Hey, birthday girl.”

You smiled. Automatically. Like muscle memory. “Hey.”

She didn’t ask where you’d been. She never did. She trusted you too much to question things like that. Or maybe she just knew when not to press. There was something about mothers—they could feel sadness like a shift in the air, but they knew when to let you keep it close.

You dropped your bag by the door and went straight to your room. Bingo padded after you, tail wagging gently, like even he could sense that something inside you had gone quiet.

You sat on the edge of your bed, stared at the framed photo on your desk—the one from your party. You in your paper crown, Jake beside you, both of your parents smiling like the sun was trapped inside that little living room.

He looked stiff in the picture. Just slightly. Like he hadn’t quite figured out how to belong in the moment. But he was there. That had to count for something.

Didn’t it?

You whispered the same excuses into the silence you’d been chanting all week. He’s just scared. He’s not used to people like me. It’s easier to laugh than to feel.

But the words felt heavier now. Like stones on your tongue.

You looked at your phone again. Still nothing.

No missed calls. No messages. Not even a heart on the post your mom made with the picture.

You curled up beneath your blanket, arms around Bingo, his soft breath steady against your ribs.

And still—you didn’t cry.

But you wanted to. God, you wanted to.

Because something inside you was beginning to whisper the thing you didn’t want to hear. The thing you’d been fighting from the very start.

Maybe he never saw you at all.

You woke up before your alarm the next morning.

Not because of anything urgent. Just because your chest felt too full to sleep, like your body was quietly trying to tell you something your heart didn’t want to hear.

The sun was barely up, casting pale streaks across your ceiling. You stared at them for a while, tracing patterns with your eyes like they might spell out something worth holding onto.

Bingo was curled against your legs, warm and snoring gently. You didn’t move.

You thought about yesterday. About Jake’s voice, sharp with laughter. About the way his friends had looked at you like you were something between a novelty and a punchline. About the smile he wore when he called you loyal.

Like that was funny.

Like that was a flaw.

You told yourself again that he didn’t mean it. That he wasn’t cruel.

But the words weren’t sitting right anymore. They didn’t settle like they used to. They turned in your stomach, prickled at the corners of your thoughts.

Because deep down, you were starting to wonder if it wasn’t about him not knowing how to show it—if it was simply that he didn’t feel it in the first place.

He liked your help. He liked your notes. He liked the way you showed up, quietly, every time he needed something and never asked for anything in return.

But you? The you who stood outside that circle and laughed too late? The you who baked and wrote and stayed up fixing his grammar and believed—so foolishly believed—that one day he might just turn around and see you?

Maybe he didn’t like her at all.

And maybe he never would.

You pressed your face into the pillow and closed your eyes, breathing slow.

No tears. Not yet.

But you felt something shift—just the smallest crack in the glass.

The first fracture of goodbye.

It was a Thursday.

You’d spent the entire night helping Jake prep for his presentation. You’d practically rewritten half his slides, fixed his transitions, even printed out a stack of flashcards he never touched. You told yourself you didn’t mind. That this was what people did for each other. That he’d do the same for you, if things were reversed.

The event was packed. The auditorium buzzing with bodies—students, instructors, even a few recruiters from the nearby base. Everyone was dressed up, polished and bright. You found a seat near the back, clutching your notebook in your lap, stomach fluttering with nerves that weren’t even yours.

Jake looked good up there—confident, composed, all charm. He owned the stage with that easy smile of his, that flyboy arrogance that always made people lean in. He ran through his slides like he’d been born to do it. Sleek, effortless, golden.

Then someone asked a question.

A tricky one—about the ethical implications of drone use in modern airspace. Jake froze for just a beat. You knew the answer. You’d written a whole section on it for him. He just had to remember the notes. The phrasing.

Instead, he laughed.

“Well,” he said into the mic, smirking toward the crowd, “I’d have a real answer for you if my PoliSci tutor hadn’t been too busy planning bake sales this week.”

Laughter erupted.

Laughter.

You blinked.

It didn’t register at first. The way his voice curled around the word tutor. The way he didn’t look at you, but the whole room knew. Someone even turned around. Looked right at you. You could feel the eyes.

You sat there frozen. Still. Not breathing.

Because he could’ve said anything else. Could’ve deflected. Could’ve joked about the weather, or made something up. But instead, he chose you. To make the crowd laugh. To win back control.

He humiliated you. Publicly. On purpose.

You felt the heat rise in your chest—not warmth, not embarrassment. Something sharper. Something almost like anger, but drowned under the weight of disbelief.

Jake just kept going. Smooth. Unbothered. He didn’t even flinch.

And maybe that was the worst part.

Because you had stayed up until two in the morning making sure he didn’t fall on his face.

Because you had believed—still believed—that somewhere underneath all of that confidence was someone worth waiting for.

And now, sitting there in the back row, cheeks burning, heart sinking fast, you realized something you couldn’t un-feel.

He was never yours.

Not even close.

And you had never been his sunshine. Just his shadow.

You didn’t stay for the rest of the presentation.

You waited just long enough for the polite applause—just long enough to watch him smile and wave and bask in praise like he hadn’t just carved you open in front of fifty people.

Then you left.

You walked fast, out of the auditorium, down the hallway, out into the air that suddenly felt too sharp, too loud, too real. You didn’t know where you were going. You just had to go.

The sky was starting to turn gold, dipping into orange at the edges. Your feet carried you toward the quad without thinking, past people laughing, past someone skateboarding down the path with music blasting from a phone speaker. You moved like a ghost. Like someone only half-real.

Your stomach was hollow. Your hands were shaking.

You wanted to laugh. Or scream. Or throw something. Or maybe all of it at once.

Instead, you sat on a bench. Stared down at your lap. And tried to understand.

Because it wasn’t like this was new. He’d teased you before. Let his friends say things. Laughed when they made jokes that left you blinking too hard, your throat closing around the truth.

But this? This was different.

This was cruel.

And the worst part was—you knew he knew it. He’d looked right at you when he said it, even if his eyes didn’t meet yours. He knew you were there. He chose you. You’d handed him everything—your time, your effort, your loyalty—and he used it as a punchline.

You pulled out your phone.

No messages.

No apologies.

Just silence.

And maybe—for the first time—you let yourself believe it.

He wasn’t scared. He wasn’t confused. He wasn’t trying to protect himself.

He just didn’t care.

He never did.

And you? You were the fool who mistook scraps for affection. Who mistook his silence for softness. Who thought that loving someone hard enough would make them see you.

You sat there until the sun dipped behind the buildings, the light fading into shadow. Bingo wasn’t with you. Your parents weren’t calling. No one was coming to find you.

And Jake?

Jake was probably still smiling.

You didn’t go to class the next day.

You told yourself you were just tired. Just needed a break. But when you passed your mirror on the way to the bathroom, you couldn’t quite meet your own eyes.

You looked small. Not in size—just in spirit. Dimmed somehow. Like someone had taken a sponge to your outline and blurred the edges.

The texts from your group chats went unanswered. A message from your professor popped up—Hope you’re okay. Let me know if you need an extension. You almost replied. You almost told the truth.

But then what would you say?

The boy I loved made me into a joke. And I let him. And now I don’t know what to do with myself.

No one prepares you for this part. Not the movies, not the books, not the Pinterest quotes about unrequited love. They don’t tell you how it feels to watch someone you cherished turn you into something disposable. Something laughable.

They don’t tell you that the worst heartbreak is the one you talked yourself into.

Because you’d defended him. Again and again. You’d brushed off every red flag, excused every offhand comment, convinced yourself that he was just scared or immature or confused. That eventually, he’d realize what you were worth.

But now?

Now you couldn’t pretend anymore.

Not after the way he laughed. Not after the way they all laughed with him. Not after he took your loyalty—your love—and used it like a stage prop, like the punchline in a joke he didn’t even bother to make clever.

It wasn’t just the humiliation.

It was the choice.

He chose to hurt you. For a laugh. For a second of charm. For nothing.

And maybe that hurt more than anything.

You sat on the edge of your bed, wrapped in a sweater you hadn’t realized was his—something he'd left in your bag weeks ago, after a group project. You stared at it for a long time, fingers curling around the fabric like it could still carry meaning.

Then, slowly, quietly, you folded it. Set it on your desk. You walked away.

You didn’t cry.

Not yet.

But something inside you—a belief, a dream, a soft little spark—finally went out.

You didn’t tell anyone what happened.

Not your roommates. Not your parents. Not even your favorite professor, the one who always stayed after lectures to ask how you were holding up. You just kept moving. One foot in front of the other. Like muscle memory. Like sleepwalking.

But your world had shifted.

Suddenly, everything reminded you of him.

The vending machine near the library—the one where you used to catch him between classes, grinning with two granola bars and zero clue what day of the week it was. The quad bench, where you once sat side by side, your notebook in his lap and your heart in your throat. Even the smell of cologne on someone else’s jacket made your stomach twist before your brain caught up.

It was everywhere.

And nowhere.

Because for all the space he took up in your head, in your life, in your heart—he had left you with nothing. Not even a “hey, sorry.” Not even a text to explain. Like what he did didn’t matter. Like you didn’t matter.

You wanted to hate him.

God, you wanted to.

But hate would’ve meant he still had power over you. That he still got to sit in the center of your emotions. And that felt too generous.

So instead… you began the slow work of forgetting.

You stopped opening his messages—when they came at all. You stopped checking to see if he’d be in class before you showed up. You stopped rehearsing conversations in your head where he apologized and you forgave him, tears and all, like some shitty campus romance novel.

You stopped wearing yellow. You deleted the photo from your birthday. You unfollowed his roommate. Then his sister. Then him.

It was like shedding a skin.

Painful. Awkward. Slow.

But necessary.

Because you couldn’t keep carrying him around. Not after he turned you into a caricature. Not after he fed you to a room full of strangers and laughed while you choked on your own silence.

You weren’t his sunshine.

You were a mirror. And when he looked at you, he didn’t see beauty or love or worth—he just saw his own reflection. And when it didn’t flatter him, he shattered it.

So you picked up what pieces you could.

And this time, you didn’t hand them back.

It happened on a rainy Sunday.

The kind of rain that didn’t pour—just fell soft and steady, like the sky was grieving with you. You sat in the kitchen with your mom and dad, their mugs steaming, your hands shaking as you clutched your own like a lifeline.

You didn’t know how to start. Not really.

So you just said, “I want to transfer.”

They both blinked. Looked at each other. Then back at you.

Your mom’s brows furrowed gently. “Sweetheart… is everything okay?”

You nodded. Then shook your head. Then tried again. “I just—I need to leave. This school. This place. I can’t stay here anymore.”

Your voice cracked on the last word.

Your dad leaned forward, his expression steady but kind. “Did something happen?”

You swallowed. “Not… not exactly. I just—it doesn’t feel right anymore. The program, the people, everything. I thought I was happy. I thought I knew what I wanted, but—”

You stopped, breathed, kept going.

“Can we look into transferring? Maybe… out of state?”

Your mom reached across the table, her fingers brushing yours. “Of course. If this isn’t working, we’ll figure something else out.”

You didn’t cry. Not this time.

You just squeezed her hand and nodded, grateful and guilty all at once. You knew it was sudden. Knew you were asking a lot. But you also knew you couldn’t stay—not in a campus where everything reminded you of him. Of who you used to be.

You wanted space. A reset. A chance to become someone else.

Or maybe not someone else—just someone more.

Your dad cleared his throat gently. “Have you thought about what you’d switch into? Or are you just looking for a new campus?”

You hesitated.

Your fingers tapped against the side of your mug, absently. A rhythm you didn’t recognize until much later.

“I’ve been thinking about something else,” you said, voice softer now. “A different path. Something more… structured. More focused.”

They didn’t press. Didn’t question. Your parents weren’t perfect, but they knew when to hold things gently. They didn’t need you to explain why you were asking. They just understood that you were.

And maybe that was enough.

Later that night, you sat by your bedroom window, listening to the rain and watching Bingo chase shadows in his sleep.

You didn’t know what came next.

But for the first time in weeks, your heart felt just a little quieter.

And beneath all the hurt, all the anger, all the shame—something else had begun to flicker.

Not hope. Not yet.

But maybe…purpose.

- Jake -

She wasn’t at the library.

That was the first thing he noticed.

Not that he’d been looking for her—he wasn’t. He was just cutting through the stacks, half a granola bar in his mouth, phone lighting up with a string of dumb texts from Coop about the weekend party. But she wasn’t there.

She was always there.

Tucked between the second and third aisles, back hunched over some worn-out political theory book, highlighter cap stuck between her teeth. Sometimes she'd wave. Sometimes she’d pretend not to see him. But she was there.

Today, the spot was empty.

He shrugged it off.

Maybe she had class. Maybe she’d finally decided to study somewhere else, like the normal students who didn’t have a desk reserved in the library by sheer force of will.

But then he didn’t see her in the quad either.

Or outside the café.

Or by the vending machine near the engineering wing where she always ended up somehow—wrong building, wrong class, always just there, arms full of papers and talking too fast about midterm deadlines like anyone else cared.

Weird.

And it got weirder when he sat down in class and the seat in the third row, second from the right, stayed empty.

That seat was never empty. Not even on days with surprise rain or fire alarms or whatever other dumb excuse half the class used to skip. She was always early. Always had a pen in her hand. Always offered him gum if he looked like he hadn’t slept.

He tapped his pencil against the desk. Checked the time.

Still nothing.

No backpack. No flash of yellow. No tired smile like she’d been up all night fixing someone else’s citations again.

He didn’t get it.

Sure, she was a little clingy. A little too available. Always orbiting a little too close. But she meant well. She always showed up. She always—

The professor started talking.

Jake blinked. Swore under his breath. His notes—he didn’t have them. She usually gave him a cheat sheet the day before. Color-coded, too. Where the hell was she?

After class, he stood outside for a beat longer than he needed to, scanning the crowd like maybe she’d just been running late. But she wasn’t there. Not in the hallway. Not by the stairs. Not on the bench where she sometimes sat reading those giant political memoirs like they were bedtime stories.

Nowhere.

It was weird.

And yeah, okay—he might be screwed if she didn’t show up by next week. He hadn’t started that ethics paper, and he sure as hell didn’t remember the case study they were supposed to cite. She usually reminded him.

But that wasn’t it. Not really.

It was the quiet.

The lack of her.

He didn’t miss her. Not exactly. But the campus felt off without her in it. Like something small had shifted and he didn’t know what yet.

She’d always been around. Like background music you didn’t really notice until it stopped.

And now?

Now it was silent.

Jake didn’t know why he went.

It was almost midnight. The campus was dead quiet, the air humid and thick, streetlights glowing in broken halos as he drove without thinking—just letting muscle memory steer the wheel. He didn’t text. Didn’t call. He figured she’d be there. She always was.

Her house sat at the edge of that quiet little neighborhood near the hospital—white fence, trimmed lawn, porch light glowing like always. He parked sloppily at the curb, engine still ticking as he climbed out, jaw clenched, heart beating a little too loud.

He wasn’t sure what he was going to say.

He just knew he was tired of the weirdness. Tired of walking into class and seeing her seat empty. Tired of not getting his damn notes. Tired of whatever this was.

He rang the bell once.

No answer.

Then he knocked—harder this time, sharper, the way he did when Coop was ignoring him on purpose.

The door opened after a moment.

And there she was.

Hair tied up messily, hoodie way too big, eyes red like maybe she’d been crying. Or maybe she hadn’t slept. The living room behind her was dark except for one dim lamp. A half-empty cup of tea sat forgotten on the coffee table.

The puppy—Bingo, or whatever stupid name it had—perked up on the couch, then settled again.

She blinked at him like she couldn’t quite believe he was real. Like he was something she thought she’d finally let go of.

Jake shoved his hands in his jacket pockets, shifted his weight. “You weren’t in class.”

She didn’t say anything.

“Or the library. Or anywhere, actually,” he added, voice sharp. “Kinda hard to finish my paper when my PoliSci encyclopedia disappears off the map.”

That made her flinch—just barely—but he caught it.

Good.

She opened the door a little wider but didn’t move aside. “Why are you here, Jake?”

The way she said his name—flat, quiet, tired—itched under his skin.

“I just told you. You ghosted. No heads-up, no nothing. You think I don’t notice?”

She let out a breath. “You don’t notice anything.”

And something about that—something in her tone, in the way she looked at him like he was a stranger—lit a fuse in his chest.

“Excuse me?”

She stepped back finally, letting him in. But her body language was rigid, arms crossed tight over her chest like she was trying to hold herself together.

Jake walked in, took one look around—the neatness, the warmth, the family photos—and felt like he was choking on something invisible. Something sweet. Something that didn’t belong to him.

“You’re seriously gonna act like I did something wrong?” he snapped, turning to her. “I didn’t ask you to worship the ground I walked on. I didn’t beg you to fix my papers or follow me around like a goddamn puppy.”

Her eyes widened. “I wasn’t—”

“Don’t,” he cut her off. “Don’t stand there and pretend you weren’t obsessed. You made yourself useful, and now you’re mad I didn’t bow down in return?”

She stared at him, mouth parted, trembling. “I cared about you.”

“Yeah?” he said, and the laugh that escaped his throat was ugly. Bitter. “Well, newsflash—I don’t owe you anything for that.”

Silence.

Thick. Ugly. Shattering.

Then—crack.

The slap hit harder than he expected.

His head jerked slightly to the side, the sting blooming hot across his cheek. He blinked, stunned—not because of the pain, but because she did it.

Her hand dropped, shaking. Her breath came out in broken gasps. Her eyes flooded instantly, fat tears slipping down her cheeks, and she didn’t even bother to wipe them away.

“I know,” she whispered. “I know you don’t owe me anything. But I gave it anyway. Because I thought—God, I thought if I loved you quietly enough, maybe one day you’d look at me like I was real.”

Jake opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

She took a shaky step back. “You don’t even know me. Not really. You don’t know what I study, what I like, what I want. You don’t know anything except how to take. And I let you.”

She wiped her face now, not to hide the tears but just to breathe.

“I let you turn me into a background character in my own life.”

He stared at her.

He didn’t know what to say.

Didn’t know why his chest was tight or why the sight of her crying in the middle of her perfectly lived-in home made his hands curl into fists at his sides.

“You should go,” she said, voice flat now. Steady.

Jake took a breath, but it felt jagged.

He nodded once.

No apology.

No goodbye.

Just the echo of the door closing behind him and the knowledge that for the first time since she’d walked into his orbit—

she was done.

Jake didn’t sleep.

Not really.

He kept replaying the slap. Her voice, cracked and shaking. The way she looked at him—like he’d gutted something soft and sacred inside her, like she didn’t even recognize him anymore. And maybe she didn’t. Maybe he didn’t either.

He told himself he hadn’t meant it. Not like that. Not so sharp. Not so cruel.

But what the hell else was there to mean?

He didn’t know what he wanted when he got in his truck. He just… needed to see her. Say something. Fix it, maybe. Or at least explain.

The street was quiet when he pulled up. Morning sun creeping through the trees. Her porch looked the same—flowerpots, wind chimes, the little ceramic puppy bowl still tucked by the door. Familiar. Safe.

He stepped up and rang the bell, palms sweating.

After a moment, the door creaked open.

Her mom stood there, still in her robe, her hair pulled back, a mug of coffee in hand. She blinked, surprised. “Jake?”

He straightened. “Hi, Mrs. [Last Name]. Uh—I was wondering if… if she’s home.”

Something flickered across her face. A pause. A softness. And maybe—just maybe—a hint of regret.

“Oh, sweetheart…” she said gently, like she was about to tell him someone died. “I thought she told you.”

His heart slowed. “Told me what?”

“She transferred,” her mom said with a small, sad smile. “Packed everything and left last night. Got accepted into a program out of state. It was sudden, but… she seemed sure.”

The words landed like a punch to the ribs.

Gone?

Just like that?

“No warning?” he asked, the question barely making it out.

She frowned faintly, looking confused. “I assumed you knew. I thought you two were close. She didn’t say much. Just that it was time. She seemed… tired. But she’s happy. I guess that’s the word.”

Jake couldn’t breathe. Not properly. He looked past her, into the house. Same furniture. Same hallway. But empty.

No yellow hoodie draped on the back of the chair. 

No stack of textbooks on the coffee table. 

No Bingo barking like a maniac at the door.

Gone.

She was really gone.

Her mom sighed and stepped aside a little, like she wasn’t sure what else to do. “I’m sorry, Jake. I wish I could tell you more. I don’t know what happened between you two, but… I hope you’re okay.”

He swallowed hard. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m good.”

A lie. So flat it felt like it burned.

She nodded. “Well. If you ever need anything, we’re still here. Take care, alright?”

The door closed gently. Not slamming. Not shutting him out.

But final.

Jake stood there for a full minute, staring at the place where she used to be.

She’d loved him—quietly, stupidly, endlessly.

And when he finally turned around to look?

She was already gone.

“Earth to Hangman!”

Rooster’s voice sliced through the noise, his fingers snapping twice in front of Jake’s face.

Jake blinked.

The bar snapped back into focus—glasses clinking, pool cues cracking, Penny’s voice somewhere near the jukebox calling out an order. The low thrum of a Fleetwood Mac song spun lazily through the air, mixing with the laughter of pilots who’d made it through another mission, another day.

He shifted in his seat, realizing he’d been staring at his beer for who-knew-how-long.

“Jesus, man,” Payback muttered, leaning on the bar beside him. “You looked like you were having an out-of-body experience.”

“Did you forget where you parked your ego?” Fanboy added, grinning into his drink.

Jake exhaled slowly through his nose and smirked, letting the default arrogance snap back into place like muscle memory. “Nah. Just tuning out your voice. Didn’t realize I’d need earplugs on my night off.”

“Real original,” Rooster muttered, but he was still grinning.

Phoenix rolled her eyes from across the table. “What’s the matter, Hangman? Someone finally beat you at darts? Or are you just sulking ‘cause the bartender gave your usual to someone hotter?”

“Maybe he’s thinking about someone special,” Bob said softly, then immediately flushed when everyone turned to him.

“Aww,” Fanboy teased. “You’re blushing, Bobby. You projecting or something?”

Jake laughed along with them—sharp, smooth, a little too loud.

But inside? He was still standing on that front porch, staring at a house that no longer held her.

He didn’t even remember what someone had said that triggered it. Maybe Phoenix had mentioned something about transfer paperwork. Maybe Rooster had told a story about an old friend who disappeared after college. Maybe it was nothing at all—just the sound of a voice, a chord in a song, a flash of yellow from someone’s hoodie at the bar.

Whatever it was, it hit like a sucker punch.

He hadn’t thought about her in a while. Not seriously. Not like that. He’d shoved it down—buried her between flight briefings and adrenaline highs and the praise of being the best in the sky.

But some ghosts didn’t stay buried.

Jake shook his head and raised his glass, voice smooth again. “Y’all are acting like I’ve got some dark secret. Hate to break it to you, but I’m just tired of carrying this whole squad on my back.”

The group groaned in collective protest, tossing fries at him, flipping him off, throwing more jabs his way.

He leaned back, grin practiced. Easy. Untouchable.

But he didn’t laugh this time.

Not really.

Because the truth sat there, right beneath his ribs, quiet and unshakable.

She’d been gone for years.

And he still hadn’t forgiven himself for noticing too late.

“You guys hear what Mav said earlier?” Coyote asked, nudging his beer bottle in a slow spin across the table. “About someone joining us tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” Phoenix said, sitting forward. “Apparently it’s someone high up. Real decorated.”

Rooster raised an eyebrow. “Higher rank than us, huh? What’d he say? Lieutenant Commander? Captain?”

“Didn’t say,” Payback replied. “Just said they’re experienced, important, and we better have our shit together.”

“Sounds like someone’s trying to scare us,” Fanboy joked. “What’s next? We get a briefing from a Rear Admiral with a death glare and a coffee addiction?”

Phoenix snorted. “Wouldn’t be the worst we’ve had.”

“Could be Navy Intel,” Bob added quietly. “Or maybe a specialist. Someone brought in for mission design.”

Rooster leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Or maybe it’s a Top Gun legend. Someone who makes Maverick look like a rookie.”

“Unlikely,” Hangman muttered.

But his voice was distant. Hollow.

The banter buzzed around him—jokes flying, theories stacking—but Jake had barely moved. He was still nursing the same beer, head tilted slightly, gaze locked on nothing in particular.

Because something about the way Maverick said it earlier that morning had itched at the back of Jake’s mind.

“This person’s not just smart. They’re sharp. Respected. You’ll recognize the name.”

He hadn’t thought much of it then—just another big-shot to brief them, maybe fly one or two training rounds and disappear.

But now?

Now his gut twisted.

There was something wrong about this kind of silence. The way Mav didn’t give them a name. Didn’t give them a face. And usually, when Maverick kept details under wraps like that—it meant the surprise was personal.

Very personal.

“What do you think, Hangman?” Rooster asked, kicking his boot lightly under the table. “Think we’re about to be out-ranked by some crusty war hero with a cane and a vendetta?”

Jake forced a grin. “Nah. Probably just someone with twice your IQ and a cleaner flight record.”

They all groaned and swatted at him again, but Jake barely felt the energy.

His skin prickled. A chill slithered across the back of his neck, even as the sun dipped lower outside, streaking the windows gold.

Someone important.

Someone they’d recognize.

Jake swallowed hard.

He had a bad feeling he already did.

The door creaked open with that familiar Hard Deck jingle, followed by the low rumble of boots hitting wood.

“Speak of the devil,” Rooster muttered, turning his head as four familiar faces walked in.

Harvard. Yale. Halo. Fritz.

More Top Gun grads. Tight-knit. Dangerous in the air. Trouble on the ground.

“Great,” Phoenix deadpanned. “Just when I was having fun.”

“They let you guys back in here?” Fanboy called out.

“Relax,” Halo said, lifting two fingers in mock peace as they made their way over. “We’re off-duty. For now.”

Fritz was already heading for their table, a mischievous gleam in his eye as he tossed his flight jacket over the back of a chair.

“You guys hear the rumor?” he asked, voice low, grin way too smug for comfort.

Jake raised a brow. “What rumor?”

Fritz leaned in like he was about to tell them state secrets. “About who’s coming tomorrow.”

The Dagger Squad went quiet. Not frozen—but that slow shift into alertness. Rooster set his drink down. Bob sat up straighter. Even Phoenix stopped twirling the straw in her soda.

“You know who it is?” Coyote asked.

“No name yet,” Harvard jumped in. “But they’re saying it’s someone big. Like, Navy-shifting big.”

“They said we’ll recognize the name,” Yale added, clearly enjoying the tension building in the room. “And that this person’s been operating under special orders. Off-grid. For years.”

Jake’s jaw tightened. That itch in his spine was back. Crawling now.

Fritz dropped the bomb like it was casual gossip.

“Word is—Mav might be getting replaced.”

Dead silence.

Not even the jukebox seemed to be playing anymore.

Jake blinked. “What?”

Fritz shrugged, sipping his beer. “I’m just telling you what I heard. Apparently this new arrival’s got the credentials, the combat record, and the connections. Might be coming in to evaluate Mav’s leadership. Maybe even take command.”

“No one replaces Mav,” Phoenix said flatly, but there was a beat of hesitation. “Right?”

“Unless command thinks he’s getting too soft,” Halo offered, clearly enjoying the drama.

“He’s not soft,” Rooster snapped.

“No, but,” Harvard said slowly, “he’s Maverick. Which means he pisses off every third admiral just by breathing.”

The weight of it sank in.

Someone important. Someone respected. Someone they’d recognize.

And now… maybe someone powerful enough to take Mav’s spot?

Jake’s stomach coiled.

Because suddenly this wasn’t just a name or a face.

It was someone coming to shake the cage.

Someone who’d left a scar deep enough to still ache under his skin.

Someone who disappeared before he could ever make it right.

Jake didn’t say a word.

He just stared at the melting ice in his glass.

And for the first time in a long time, Hangman didn’t feel like the guy with all the answers.

“You’re all acting like we’re getting replaced by God,” Jake said, tipping back in his chair, boots hooked on the table leg. “Relax. Whoever it is probably files paperwork better than they fly.”

“Ohh, big words from the golden boy,” Rooster muttered, raising his brows. “What if they’re better than you?”

Jake grinned, sharp and smug. “No such thing.”

“Right,” Phoenix drawled. “Because your ego wouldn’t allow it.”

“Exactly,” he said, without missing a beat.

Coyote snorted. “Okay, but think about it. What if it’s someone insane? Like ex-NSA, flew in Black Ops, has a call sign that got classified?”

Fanboy leaned forward, all dramatic. “What if it’s someone with like… seventeen confirmed kills and a face that makes grown men cry?”

“Sounds like a Disney villain,” Bob said quietly.

“I’m just saying,” Fritz added, slapping his beer down. “If they’re coming in hot enough to maybe replace Maverick, they’re not gonna be your average Top Gun grad. That’s like—nuclear level.”

“Maybe it’s Cyclone’s secret kid,” Halo said, eyes wide. “Raised on steel and shame. Sent to destroy Maverick for breaking too many rules.”

“Jesus,” Phoenix laughed. “Are we writing a soap opera now?”

Jake just smirked, but he was leaning in now—interested, if not worried.

“Whoever they are, I give it two days before they choke trying to keep up,” he said, spinning his beer bottle between two fingers. “No one flies like we do. Mav picked us for a reason.”

Rooster raised an eyebrow. “Cocky much?”

Jake pointed. “Confident. There’s a difference.”

Harvard looked around the table. “Seriously though, y’all aren’t even a little nervous?”

There was a beat of silence.

Rooster shrugged. “I mean, it’s weird. They didn’t give us any info.”

“Exactly,” Yale said. “And Maverick’s been acting cagey.”

Jake stretched, draping his arm over the back of his chair like he didn’t have a single worry in the world. “Maybe they just want to keep us on our toes. Keep the best sharp.”

“You think they’re doing this for you, don’t you?” Phoenix asked, deadpan.

Jake shrugged. “Can’t blame ‘em. I’d want to rattle me too.”

“Man thinks he’s the main character,” Fanboy muttered.

Bob smiled into his drink. “Hangman probably hopes it’s someone he can beat in a dogfight.”

Jake leaned forward, eyes gleaming. “Hope? No, Bob. I’m counting on it.”

“Imagine,” Coyote said with a laugh, “it’s some tiny person who just walks in and makes you look like a rookie.”

Jake chuckled. “The day someone walks into that hangar and out-flies me is the day I kiss Rooster’s mustache and call it destiny.”

Everyone groaned at once.

“No one asked for that mental image,” Phoenix said, covering her face.

Rooster made a gagging sound. “Try it and I’ll throw you into the ocean, Hangman.”

Jake was halfway into another cocky retort when Payback—who’d been silent for most of the conversation, nursing his drink with the patience of a man watching children self-destruct—finally spoke up.

“Y’all are doing a lot of barking for people who don’t even know who’s walking through that door tomorrow.”

The table paused.

Payback didn’t look up, just swirled the ice in his glass, like he wasn’t dropping a quiet nuke.

Phoenix blinked. “Damn, man. That was ominous as hell.”

He raised a brow. “I’m just saying. You can laugh all you want, but whoever’s coming in? Mav respects them. Enough to not tell us anything. That doesn’t sound like just a transfer to me.”

Coyote leaned back slowly. “What if they’re here to evaluate us, not just Mav?”

Bob looked mildly alarmed. “Like… as a unit?”

Fritz whistled. “What if they’re our new squad lead?”

Jake scoffed. “Mav wouldn’t do that. He’d say something.”

“Would he though?” Halo asked, sipping her beer. “If he thought it would make you fly sharper?”

“You all sound scared,” Jake said, pushing his chair back on two legs again. “Like someone’s gonna come in and kick you out of the sky.”

Phoenix narrowed her eyes. “And you’re not?”

Jake just smirked. “Whoever it is, they’ll either learn or crash trying to keep up. I’ll give ‘em a soft landing.”

“Arrogant son of a bitch,” Rooster muttered, shaking his head with a grin.

“Always,” Jake fired back, flashing that signature grin.

But Payback wasn’t done.

He finally looked up. Met Jake’s eyes—steady, unreadable.

“Sometimes the ones you don’t see coming hit the hardest.”

And just like that, the noise at the table dulled.

Jake held his gaze for a second too long before he scoffed and looked away.

“Whatever. Let ‘em come.”

But the chill down his spine didn’t leave.

Because he was Hangman. Untouchable. Unbothered. Right?

…Right?

Tomorrow couldn’t come fast enough.

The morning sun hadn’t even cleared the hangar roof when the squad assembled—flight suits zipped, dog tags tucked, postures stiff with expectation.

The detachment hangar echoed with the click of boots and murmured voices. Rooster cracked his neck. Phoenix sipped burnt coffee. Bob kept checking his clipboard even though nothing had changed. Hangman leaned against the wall, arms crossed, pretending he wasn’t already calculating who was gonna blink first when the so-called legends arrived.

And then—Warlock stepped in.

The room straightened like one body.

He moved like a man who didn’t waste steps. Every inch of his uniform was razor-cut perfection, ribbons gleaming in the gray light. His eyes swept over the group, sharp and unreadable.

“Good morning, aviators,” he said, voice calm but commanding. “At ease.”

A collective breath released.

Warlock stood at the front like he owned the silence. His hands clasped behind his back. His tone steady—but heavy.

“You’ve all been called back for one reason,” he began. “Because you’re the best. Because you were trained by the best. And because the Navy needs you—again.”

He paused just long enough to let the weight of it settle. No one moved. No one spoke.

Jake resisted the urge to yawn, but even he couldn’t fake indifference. Not with the way Warlock’s voice carried now—like something big was shifting.

“Today, we’re joined by a unit the Navy considers indispensable. Specialists. Graduates of Top Gun, yes—but far more than that.”

Heads tilted. Eyes flicked sideways.

Warlock didn’t budge.

“They’ve served internationally. Led black ops we’ll never read about. Advised on global defense protocols. Trained squadrons on three continents. And most recently—hand-selected by Pentagon leadership to support strategic restructure initiatives across branches.”

Jake blinked. That wasn’t just credentials. That was… another league.

“They’re not here to replace you,” Warlock continued. “But they are here with purpose. Consider them embedded observers. Tactical partners. And yes—commanding officers.”

A visible shift rippled through the squad.

Bob stiffened.

Coyote muttered something under his breath.

Phoenix’s jaw tightened.

Jake? He furrowed his brow just slightly, arms still crossed. Higher rank. Embedded. Top Gun grads. Tactical partners?

Before he could piece it together, Warlock turned slightly—and in stepped three figures.

They walked in with the kind of silence that screamed power. Perfect posture. Eyes forward. No smiles. No introductions.

Two men. One woman.

Flight suits. Command patches. No unnecessary flair—but something about their presence made even Rooster straighten taller.

They took their seats without a word.

Warlock nodded once, then turned back to the squad.

“You’ll work with them. You’ll learn from them. And you’ll fly like your life depends on it—because soon, it just might.”

He stepped aside.

Silence.

Chairs scraped as the Dagger Squad slowly sat down, still side-eyeing the new arrivals like they were bombs waiting to detonate.

Jake leaned back in his seat, jaw tight.

Who the hell were they?

And why did something in his chest feel like it was getting ready to collapse?

He didn’t know yet.

But he was about to.

The steel doors groaned open again.

And then he appeared—Cyclone, in full dress blues, cap under one arm, face carved from stone.

The air changed the second he entered. Warlock shifted subtly to the side. Hondo straightened where he stood near the back, arms folded. And Maverick—late as always—stepped in behind them, as if he'd known exactly when to arrive without being told.

Jake saw Rooster tense beside him. Phoenix didn’t even blink. Everyone knew what it meant when Cyclone entered with that face.

The storm was already rolling.

Cyclone stepped forward, taking his place beside Warlock and in full view of the squad. His gaze swept over them once, sharp and slow.

“Let me make one thing perfectly clear,” he said, voice like gravel and steel. “The individuals you see seated beside you hold higher rank, more hours logged, and more confirmed kills than most of you combined.”

He paused. No one breathed.

“They have led squadrons into classified airspace. They have written protocols you use. And they have the authority to overrule damn near every one of you—including your training officer.”

His eyes flicked sideways, right at Maverick.

Jake swore he saw Mav smirk. The man had no sense of self-preservation.

Cyclone turned back to the room. “So, if any of you feel the need to crack jokes, roll your eyes, or question why these officers are here, I suggest you stow it. You will address them with respect. You will fly when they say fly. And if you embarrass this detachment—God help you.”

His words landed like blades.

Jake leaned back slightly, finally pulling his arms off his chest. There was no charm slick enough to wriggle past that tone. Not from Cyclone.

Still, he caught movement in the corner of his eye.

Maverick stepped forward, casual as ever, his hands clasped behind his back. He was in his flight suit already—dog tags glinting, expression calm.

“Appreciate the warning, sir,” Mav said with that cool, confident lilt. “But I think you’ll find this group learns faster when they’re not being barked at.”

Cyclone sighed. “Maverick.”

“Hondo,” Mav said, ignoring him, nodding toward the man standing nearby.

“Captain,” Hondo greeted, trying not to smile.

Maverick turned to face the squad now, taking center stage like it was second nature.

Jake watched him closely—because if there was anyone who could casually deliver a speech while standing in a pressure cooker, it was Maverick.

“I know you’ve all been wondering who’s joining us,” he started, voice steady. “I won’t lie—when I heard the Navy was embedding them, I had questions too.”

He glanced toward the three seated officers, not in challenge—but in something closer to... respect. Maybe even wariness.

“These aren’t rookies. They’re not here to play nice or hand out gold stars. They're here because the Navy wants results.”

Another pause.

“They’re also not here to replace me,” he added lightly, though the smile that tugged at his mouth was short-lived. “But don’t let that stop you from trying to outfly them.”

A few of the pilots chuckled under their breath.

Maverick took another step forward. “You’ll be flying tighter. Harder. And faster than you’ve flown in months. You’ll be critiqued. Corrected. Maybe outmatched.”

He looked straight at Hangman now.

Jake’s spine locked, jaw tightening instinctively.

“And if that bruises your ego,” Mav finished, “then I suggest you start building some calluses.”

He nodded once, then stepped back in line beside Warlock and Hondo.

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward.

It was coiled.

Every pilot in that hangar knew something had just shifted.

Three strangers. Higher rank. Total silence.

And tomorrow? The games began.

Jake didn’t know who they were. Didn’t know why they were here. Didn’t know what they were capable of.

But damn if he wasn’t ready to prove he was still the sharpest knife in the drawer.

Whoever they were—he’d make them blink first.

Cyclone took a step forward, squaring his shoulders like the weight of the Navy rested neatly across his spine—and maybe it did.

“You’ve all been through Top Gun,” he said, voice precise, unwavering. “You’ve flown against the best. You’ve survived the impossible. And most of you carry that like it’s enough.”

The room held still. Not a fidget. Not a breath out of place.

Jake’s smirk had vanished. His hands now rested on his knees, back ramrod straight, eyes forward. He knew this tone. This was the serious Cyclone. No theatrics. No margin for error.

“But surviving once doesn’t make you infallible,” the admiral continued, eyes sweeping across the squad. “Flying one mission doesn’t make you elite forever. The world doesn’t stop because you made it home.”

His voice dropped slightly, the edge hardening.

“Which is why the Navy doesn’t just want warriors in the air. We want tacticians. Innovators. People who don’t wait for orders—they anticipate them.”

Cyclone’s gaze locked briefly with Phoenix, then Fanboy, then Jake. A slow assessment. A subtle challenge.

“These individuals—our guests—represent a standard that goes beyond what you’ve known. Their mission history is sealed. Their ranks earned in blood and black ink. They’ve served in joint task forces across the globe. And above all—”

The heavy hangar doors creaked open behind them.

Loud. Slow. A deliberate sound that echoed off the walls like a warning bell.

Jake heard it.

They all did.

But no one turned around.

Not even Rooster—who turned at everything.

Because Cyclone was still talking. And when an admiral is speaking, you don’t break rank to look behind you. Not unless you’re ready to kiss your wings goodbye.

Jake’s heart picked up speed anyway. That itch again, low in his ribs. The kind that said something wasn’t normal.

Cyclone barely paused at the interruption. Not a glance back. Not even a tick in his tone.

He just kept going—like he knew who was behind them.

“They hold the trust of Joint Command. They’ve written policy most of you don’t even realize you’re following. And tomorrow—they’ll fly with you.”

Another pause.

Jake felt it. That burn at the back of his neck. That presence behind him. Footsteps soft, intentional. Three shadows crossing the threshold like ghosts.

Still—he didn’t move.

Didn’t flinch.

Didn’t breathe.

Cyclone’s voice, still steady, cut through the moment like a scalpel.

“Until they introduce themselves—they don’t owe you anything. Not a name. Not a smile. Not even a nod.”

The squad sat frozen.

And somewhere behind them, three chairs were pulled out.

Three seats filled.

Jake’s jaw twitched.

He still didn’t know what was coming.

But whatever it was?

It just walked into the room.

Cyclone’s gaze swept the hangar once more, the kind of gaze that made even seasoned pilots sit straighter. His voice carried clean across the open space, no microphone needed.

“You’ve all heard rumors,” he said, every syllable sharpened like a blade. “Today, those rumors meet reality.”

No one moved. Even the restless ones—Harvard, Fritz, Coyote—were locked in, eyes forward, spines tight. Maverick stood at the side now, arms folded, silent but watchful. Jake could feel the tension spiderwebbing through the room, subtle but unmistakable, pulling at his nerves like a thread.

“These three officers are not here to be your mentors, nor your friends,” Cyclone continued. “They’ve been assigned joint operational authority, and they’ve seen more combat, managed more pilots, and rewritten more doctrine than most of you will in your entire careers.”

Jake didn’t blink. He wanted to scoff—wanted to—but something about the admiral’s tone made even his usual sarcasm stick like stone in his throat.

Cyclone took a breath. “First—Lieutenant Commander Kade Mercer. Call sign: Jinx.”

One of the seated officers stood, his movements smooth and economical. Jinx had the air of a man who didn’t need to try hard to be the smartest in the room—he just was. His dark hair was trimmed regulation-short, his jaw shadowed with a day’s worth of stubble, and his stare—sharp, cool, unreadable—swept across the squad like a surgical light.

“Mercer’s logged thousands of hours in foreign airspace. Tactical infiltration, stealth coordination, and psychological pattern disruption. He’s the pilot we send in when the map doesn’t work anymore,” Cyclone said. “He’s also ranked top-five in split-second tactical reversals—don’t bother trying to beat him in a turn.”

Jinx gave a single, small nod, then stepped aside and stood off to the left. The air around him felt colder somehow, like he carried a different pressure system with him.

Cyclone didn’t wait for the tension to ease.

“Second,” he said, with a slight nod toward the remaining seated officer, “Commander Theo Hale. Call sign: Ruin.”

Ruin stood slowly. Where Jinx was precision, Hale was presence. Broader, older, his eyes were shadowed but watchful, like someone who had lived through too many things and survived them all. His steps were deliberate as he moved to stand beside Jinx, shoulders squared and arms loosely folded.

“Ruin has led recovery and retaliation ops across three continents. He has extracted downed pilots under live fire, and when protocol fails, he writes new ones in the field,” Cyclone said, his tone unwavering. “If the mission falls apart, this is the man they call to put the pieces back together—or destroy what’s left.”

No response. No smirk. Just a subtle nod of acknowledgment from Ruin, his gaze sweeping the squad like he was already calculating who wouldn’t make it through.

Jake exhaled through his nose, slowly. These weren’t just good pilots. These were ghosts. Legends in uniform. Men the Navy brought in when everything else had already gone to hell.

And then—Cyclone’s posture shifted just slightly.

“And finally,” he said, a new edge entering his tone, “Commander (Your Name) (Last Name). Call sign: Rogue.”

She stood.

Jake’s stomach dropped before he understood why.

The sound of her boots hitting the floor was sharp and clean, cutting through the quiet like a blade. She didn’t move like someone trying to impress a room. She moved like someone who already owned it. Her chin was high, her flight suit immaculate, and her eyes—god, her eyes—didn’t flicker once as she stepped into the center light.

It was her.

The girl he used to forget. The one he barely noticed.

The one who used to bring him coffee and flashcards and nervous laughter—and now looked like she could order a missile strike with one raised eyebrow.

Jake’s lungs stalled. She didn’t even glance at him.

Cyclone kept going. “Rogue is the Navy’s youngest strategic operations commander. Her combat and advisory records are protected under restricted access codes. She’s been stationed on black-zone carriers, coordinated global strike exercises, and earned her Distinguished Service Medal at twenty-eight.”

No one in the room moved. Jake didn’t even realize his jaw was tight until his teeth ached.

“She will be your senior embedded officer,” Cyclone finished. “Any decisions she makes regarding your performance, readiness, or flight status are final. You will address her as Commander or Rogue—and you will not underestimate her.”

She stood between Ruin and Jinx like she belonged there. Like she’d never been anyone else.

And Jake?

Jake sat still, watching her like a ghost had just climbed out of his past and took command of his entire world.

She didn’t even blink.

Jake didn’t hear the rest of Cyclone’s words. Didn’t register the murmurs rolling through the squad, didn’t flinch at the subtle creak of Maverick crossing his arms beside Warlock. The buzz of conversation had faded to a low hum in the back of his skull.

He was staring at her.

Eyes locked like a target he didn’t mean to track. Muscles tight. Breath slow. Something in his chest had gone still, caught between memory and disbelief.

She stood there—Commander Rogue—like she belonged in the middle of war stories and classified briefings. Like she’d never once blushed under library lighting or stumbled through a birthday invite with homemade cookies wrapped in tissue paper. The girl he remembered had notebooks stained with highlighter and coffee rings, a shy smile, and the kind of laugh that didn’t know how to hide its hope.

This woman? She had fire in her spine and stars on her collar. And not once—not for a single second—did she look at him.

Jake’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t move.

She hadn’t even blinked in his direction. Hadn’t hesitated. Hadn’t done a double take. And that, somehow, was the worst part.

Because Jake Seresin—cocky, charming, always two steps ahead—was suddenly just a face in the crowd.

He tried to tell himself it was shock. That it didn’t mean anything. That he didn’t care.

But the truth settled low in his gut like a weight he hadn’t noticed until now. She didn’t look nervous. Or awkward. Or out of place. She didn’t look like the girl who used to wait for him outside lecture halls with hopeful eyes.

She looked like she’d forgotten him.

And maybe that was the part that stung the most. Not that she was different, not that she outranked him now. But that she didn’t even need to look twice.

Commander Rogue.

The girl who once waited for him.

Now the woman who walked right past.

She hadn’t changed. And yet—she had.

Jake couldn’t stop staring, his gaze tracing over every sharp line, every familiar curve turned foreign under the weight of time. Her jaw was more defined now, no longer soft with youth but set with quiet strength. Her shoulders, squared with practiced discipline, didn’t carry the same hesitant curve they once had when she’d shrink beneath his sideways glances. No oversized hoodie. No spiral-bound notebook pressed to her chest. Just a flight suit, clean and creased, and a calmness that didn’t bend.

Her hair was pinned back, neat and strict beneath her regulation cap, but he could still remember the way it used to fall in front of her face when she leaned over his laptop to edit his papers for him. She had that same tilt to her head, that same posture of control—but now it wasn’t shy, it was sharp. Deliberate.

She didn’t look fragile anymore. She looked unshakable.

Jake’s eyes narrowed just slightly, disbelief curling in his gut like a slow burn. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe this wasn’t her. Maybe it was just the name. People shared names all the time—right? He’d probably met three Ashleys last week alone. Could be coincidence. Could be nothing.

But then—

Then there was the way she stood.

That little pause in her step before Cyclone said her name, the same way she used to freeze when her name was called in class, like her brain had to double-check that someone was actually saying it. That subtle bite of her bottom lip—she still did that. A nervous tell. The same one she had when she handed him a flash drive with his project already formatted because “you always forget the citations, Jake.”

God.

He rubbed a hand over his mouth, slowly, like it might smother the memory.

It had to be her.

But how? How the hell had she gone from PoliSci major with trembling hands and wide eyes to Commander Rogue?

And why did his chest feel so damn tight?

Jake sat there, stunned, every excuse he reached for slipping like oil through his fingers. Maybe she wasn’t the same girl. Maybe she was just someone who looked like her. Maybe he’d imagined the whole thing. His mind was good at rewriting stories when they made him look bad. But this?

This wasn’t a story.

She was real.

She was right in front of him.

And she hadn’t even looked at him.

Jake was still staring.

Still trying to force logic into something that had none. His brain looped through possibilities like they were checklists: Same name, maybe. Long-lost cousin, maybe. Government clone, hell, maybe. Anything to explain the impossible without confronting what was staring him in the face.

Then—right beside him—Rooster leaned slightly in his seat and muttered under his breath with a low, impressed whistle.

“God,” he said, barely above a whisper, “she’s hot.”

Jake snapped his head toward him so fast his neck popped.

“What did you just say?”

The words came out sharper than he meant. Or maybe he did mean them that sharp.

Rooster blinked, caught off guard, eyes narrowing like Jake had just challenged him over the last wing at the Hard Deck. “What, man? I said she’s hot. It’s not a crime.”

Jake’s jaw tightened. His tongue pressed to the inside of his cheek, and for a moment, he almost replied with something stupid. Something defensive. Something that would've given everything away.

But before he could speak, a voice cut through the hangar like a whipcrack.

“Lieutenants.”

It wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be.

Commander Ruin’s voice had that same weight a teacher used when they’d caught a student mid-eye roll during a lecture. Cold. Controlled. Designed to humiliate you just enough.

Jake turned his head slowly, along with Rooster and half the squad, all trying to act like they hadn’t just been called out in front of literal legends.

Ruin hadn’t moved from his place at the front, arms folded neatly across his chest, expression unreadable.

“If the conversation is more engaging than the briefing,” Ruin said, cool and clipped, “you’re welcome to step outside and discuss your thoughts where you’re not wasting our time.”

Jake felt the flush crawl up his neck immediately.

Phoenix gave a low whistle under her breath beside them, not even trying to hide her grin. Payback muttered something that sounded like “oof,” and Coyote leaned away like he didn’t want to be associated with any of them.

Jake didn’t say a word.

Neither did Rooster.

But the heat in Jake’s ears had nothing to do with the air-conditioning.

And when his eyes flicked back to Rogue—Commander Rogue—she still wasn’t looking at him.

Didn’t even smirk.

Didn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing she heard any of it.

That, somehow, burned the worst of all.

Then, Commander Hale stepped forward with the unhurried, unshakable calm of someone who’d walked through real fire and didn’t flinch at smoke anymore. His boots echoed across the hangar floor—solid, heavy—until he came to a stop dead center in front of the squad. Arms still folded. Back impossibly straight. Eyes locked forward.

The kind of posture that said I don’t need your respect. I already earned it years ago.

Jake studied him carefully now, not because he wanted to, but because he couldn’t not. There was something about the man—something still, like a mountain before an avalanche. He wasn’t big in a showy way. He didn’t posture. Didn’t sneer. But you felt him in the room, in the same way you felt an approaching storm behind glass.

“My name is Commander Theo Hale,” he said, voice low but clear. “Call sign Ruin.”

He let that settle.

Not a flicker of emotion in his face. Not a blink.

“You’ve already been told what I’ve done, where I’ve flown, and what it means to work with me,” he continued. “None of that matters here unless you give me a reason to believe you belong in the air with us.”

A few seats shifted. No one dared speak.

Jake didn’t move. He felt the words sink beneath his skin like hooks. Belong in the air with us. As if they were a tier above—and maybe they were.

Ruin paced forward a step, slow and methodical, eyes scanning the rows like he was weighing each soul inside them.

“I’m not here to babysit. I’m not here to lecture. I don’t care about your reputations, your bar fights, or your daddy issues. I care about results. I care about the people who will come home because of how tight your formation flies.”

He stopped. His gaze caught Jake’s for half a second—and it didn’t falter.

“If that doesn’t interest you?” Ruin said, voice suddenly sharper, “Let us know now. We’ll make room for someone who still gives a damn.”

Silence.

He nodded once, curt and clean, then stepped back beside Rogue and Jinx, hands behind his back.

Jake let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

One down.

Two to go.

Commander Mercer stepped forward with a slower ease than Ruin, but no less authority. Where Ruin moved like a warpath waiting to happen, Jinx moved like he was already three steps ahead of the rest of the room and didn’t feel the need to brag about it.

He stood tall, hands clasped loosely behind his back, jaw relaxed, eyes half-lidded in that quiet, analytical way that made Jake immediately wary. There was no bark to him—just that deadly stillness some pilots had when they didn’t need noise to command a storm.

“Lieutenant Commander Kade Mercer,” he said, voice smooth, deliberate, and unshaken. “Call sign Jinx.”

He didn’t follow it up with credentials. Didn’t rattle off medals or deployments. He let his name and tone carry the weight—and it did.

“I’ve flown combat missions in seven countries and trained with five different air forces. If you’re in the air with me, you won’t need to guess what I’m thinking.”

His gaze slid over the squad like he was scanning data points instead of people. Not judgmental. Not cruel. Just thorough.

“If I give you a command, it’s not a suggestion. If I give you silence, it’s on purpose. I expect you to listen. I expect you to think.”

There was no heat behind it, no raised volume. Just certainty. Control so quiet it left no room to argue.

“I’m not here to be your enemy,” he said. “But I won’t waste time convincing you of something you should already know.”

He paused. Let that hang in the air like static.

“I trust skill. I trust clarity. I trust decisions made in less than three seconds. If you can’t handle that, step back before you waste my time—or worse, get someone else killed.”

Jake’s throat tightened slightly. He wasn’t scared of this guy. But he respected him, instantly and absolutely.

Jinx gave one final, silent nod, then stepped back into place beside Ruin.

Two down.

Jake felt it coming.

The last voice.

The one he wasn’t ready to hear.

She stepped forward.

Not a twitch of hesitation in her spine, not a flicker of uncertainty across her face. Commander (Last Name)—no, Rogue—moved like someone who’d learned long ago that power wasn’t about volume. It was about presence. And she carried it in spades.

Jake’s eyes followed her like they were wired to. Like he couldn’t look away even if he tried. His hands flexed against his thighs. Her boots clicked once against the concrete and then silence fell again, heavy as a stormfront.

She stood at the center, posture perfect, chin level, her hands at ease behind her back. There was a stillness about her that made the air feel heavier. And when she spoke, her voice didn’t crack or rise—it settled, clean and even, like a scalpel being drawn.

“I’m Commander (Your Name) (Last Name), call sign Rogue.”

She let it breathe. Let the name hang in the air for a moment. The confidence in her tone wasn’t rehearsed. It was worn-in. Lived-in. Like it had been forged in pressure and held together with purpose.

“I don’t care where you came from or how many hours you’ve logged. That’s not what earns you a place here.”

She glanced across the squad as she spoke. Not pausing. Not blinking. Not lingering long enough to give anyone more weight than the next. Not even him.

“You’ll earn your spot in the air. In the comms. In the debrief. You’ll earn it when you show me that you’re not just flying to prove something, but flying to protect something. If your pride’s more important than your team, don’t get in my formation.”

Her eyes flicked for a second—brief, surgical—toward the row where Jake sat.

Then away again.

And he was hit with that same damn ache, sharp and hot in his ribs, the kind that didn’t leave bruises but ought to.

“Some of you might remember my name,” she said, with the faintest curve of something that could’ve been a smirk—but wasn’t. “Some of you won’t. That doesn’t matter. What matters is that you hear it now, and you understand one thing.”

Her shoulders drew back, her gaze hardening just slightly.

“I’m not here to be your friend. I’m here to make sure you survive.”

And that was it.

She stepped back beside Jinx and Ruin without fanfare, without waiting for a reaction. Like she hadn’t just split open the sky and walked out of the thunder.

Jake stared at her like he’d been punched.

Because for the first time in a long damn time, he had no idea what to say.

Warlock stepped forward, the calm after the thunder. His voice didn’t boom—it didn’t need to. It rolled across the hangar like it belonged there, measured and precise, carrying the weight of authority without ever sounding forced. “That concludes introductions,” he said, his tone level, eyes sweeping over the squad like he was checking for cracked composure.

“These officers will be part of your detachment for the foreseeable future. You will respect their rank, follow their lead when instructed, and if you’re smart, you’ll learn something from them while you can.” No one nodded. No one dared breathe too loudly. Jake barely blinked. He kept his jaw tight, hands resting on his thighs, eyes locked forward—mostly. Not quite on her, not anymore. But close.

Warlock gave a final nod to Maverick, then turned. Cyclone followed a beat after, posture as stiff and unreadable as ever. And then they were leaving—Warlock, Cyclone, Ruin, Jinx... and Rogue. She didn’t look back. Not once. She didn’t glance at Jake, didn’t even skim the row of stunned pilots like she needed their approval. She walked out the same way she entered: like the room had already been warned.

Jake watched her until the doors eased shut behind them. The second they did, he let out a slow breath through his nose—but even that felt like weakness. He was still trying to find his footing when Maverick stepped forward.

“Don’t get too comfortable,” Maverick said, hands on his hips, aviators glinting in the overhead light. “You’re not dismissed yet.”

Groans rippled lightly across the group. Fritz let his head roll back. Coyote muttered something about needing a damn minute. And Rooster—Rooster leaned sideways with that half-stupid, half-lovesick grin curling on his face.

“Rogue,” he said under his breath, low enough that he thought no one heard him. “She’s something else.”

Jake’s head turned, just enough to catch it. Just enough for his stomach to twist, tight and fast.

“Dial it back,” he muttered, voice flat but sharp enough to slice. “You’re drooling.”

Rooster blinked, eyebrows lifting in surprise. “What? I said she’s impressive. Don’t have to act like I proposed.”

But Jake didn’t respond. He just looked forward again, jaw tight. Something bitter sat under his tongue, and for once, he didn’t have a clever line to spit it out. Rogue was gone. Out the door, out of reach, and yet somehow—still everywhere.

And she hadn’t even looked at him.

The silence that lingered after the doors shut behind the three commanders was thick enough to choke on. It wasn’t the stunned, respectful kind. It was the kind of silence where no one wanted to be the first idiot to speak and break whatever spell had just been cast.

Of course, Rooster broke it anyway.

“Rogue,” he said again, like the name had settled in his mouth too sweet to spit out. “That’s a damn call sign. She’s got presence. You see the way she walked? I didn’t even know I liked getting yelled at by women until—”

“Oh my god, shut up,” Phoenix muttered, rubbing her hands down her face.

“I’m just saying,” Rooster went on, undeterred, “she commands a room. Not just anyone gets that kind of intro. And did you see the way she looked at—”

Jake cut in, sharper than intended. “She didn’t look at anyone.”

That earned him a glance from half the squad. Rooster raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised at the edge in Jake’s voice, but he didn’t push it.

Before anyone else could jump in, Maverick stepped up to the front, arms crossed, clearly amused by the nervous buzz hanging in the air. “Alright,” he said, drawing everyone’s attention back, “while you all recover from your collective ego bruising, we’re still on schedule. Sim runs this afternoon. Live maneuvers tomorrow. That hasn’t changed.”

Coyote groaned. “You’re telling us we’ve gotta fly after that?”

Maverick shrugged, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You think command cares if your pride’s hurt?”

“Mine’s not hurt,” Jake blurted, voice rising slightly. “I just—” He ran a hand through his hair, frustration bubbling hotter than he wanted. “I mean, what the hell, Mav. Who are they? Especially her—you don’t just drop someone like that in here without warning.”

Maverick looked at him, unreadable behind those damn aviators. “You’ll find out in time, Lieutenant.”

Jake’s jaw ticked. “That’s not a real answer.”

Hondo, who’d been standing silently at Maverick’s side, finally spoke, his tone light but knowing. “Neither’s that attitude, son.”

The rest of the squad chuckled, the tension breaking just slightly, but Jake didn’t join them. He crossed his arms, leaned back in his seat, and stared at the spot Rogue had been standing just minutes ago. She hadn’t looked at him once. Not when she walked in. Not when she spoke. Not even when Rooster practically drooled on the floor beside him.

And now she is gone again.

But this time, she’d left a crater.

Jake wasn’t listening to a damn thing anymore.

Maverick had started outlining the rest of the day's schedule—some nonsense about sim rotations, recalibration drills, airspace protocols. Jake heard the words, sure, but none of them stuck. Not when Rooster, two seats down, was still mumbling like a man freshly baptized.

“She was just—” Rooster exhaled hard, running a hand down his face like he was trying to cool himself off. “That voice? That stare? I think I blacked out a little. I didn’t know it was possible to feel both terrified and turned on at the same time.”

Jake rolled his eyes so hard it almost hurt. “You’re embarrassing yourself.”

Rooster didn’t even flinch. “Worth it.”

Phoenix groaned. “You’re gonna get court-martialed for simping.”

“Gladly,” Rooster shot back. “I’ll hand over my wings if she tells me to kneel.”

“That’s enough,” Jake snapped, louder than intended.

The squad quieted for a beat, all heads turning toward him. Maverick arched an eyebrow, clearly clocking the sudden shift, and Hondo gave him a slow side-eye like damn, someone struck a nerve.

Jake forced a smirk onto his face, even though it felt brittle. “I mean, come on. You’re all acting like this is the first time you’ve seen someone with rank and a decent jawline.”

Payback snorted. “That wasn’t just rank, bro. That was presence.”

“She didn’t even blink,” Yale added. “Straight-up cold steel.”

Jake clenched his jaw.

Because they were right.

She hadn’t blinked. She hadn’t flinched. She hadn’t spared him a glance.

And Jake Seresin, Lieutenant and golden boy of the skies, was sitting there feeling like a ghost in his own story.

Rooster let out another dreamy sigh, tipping his head back. “God, I hope she yells at me.”

Jake didn’t say a word. He just stared straight ahead, arms crossed, pulse ticking in his throat like a warning. Because he knew what was coming.

Tomorrow, they'll be flying with her.

And tomorrow, for the first time in a long damn time, he might be the one falling behind.

[ggukivrse]

THE ART OF PRETENDING - JJK | 06

summary. when you and jungkook show up to your much anticipated graduation trip and realise neither of you had the guts to tell your friends about your recent break up, there’s only one thing you can do to keep the trip from falling apart: pretend.

but somewhere between fake kisses and real feelings, you start to wonder if letting go was ever the right choice at all.

pairing: jeon jungkook x f!reader

genre/warnings: exes to lovers, fake dating, idiots to lovers, mutual pining, swearing, fluff, angst, arguing :’(, jk’s an asshole in this i’m sorry, (eventual) explicit sexual content, ft. seokjin, namjoon, hoseok, jimin, taehyung, yoongi + four female ocs

word count: 4.6k

notes: okay first of all, i’m SO sorry for the wait. second of all, this chapter was meant to be much longer but i split it into two :< anyways, likes, comments, reblogs, asks and feedback are sooo appreciated!! enjoy (?) reading my angels <33 (and pls don’t hate me </3)

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⤷ chapter six — tv

“and i’ll be in denial for at least a little while / what about the plans we made.”

The kitchen is quiet, only filled by the soft buzz of the fridge and the distant sound of waves. You take a slow sip from your mug, fingers curled around the ceramic.

The coffee's still warm, just the way you like it — strong, slightly bitter, just enough milk to soften the edge. You’d made Jungkook’s the same way you always have. You didn’t even think about it. Just moved through the motions like you’ve done a hundred mornings before.

But that was nearly half an hour ago.

His mug is still sitting on the counter. Steam long gone, surface barely warm. You glance at it for the third — maybe fourth — time, as if expecting it to have vanished. It hasn’t. It’s still there, untouched.

And so is the space beside you.

You haven’t seen him since waking up.

You’d stirred sometime around eight, alone. No arm slung over your waist, no weight shifting the mattress beside you, no sleepy grumble against your shoulder. Just cold sheets and a quiet room. The fan was still spinning overhead lazily, and the only thing on the nightstand that hadn’t been yours was a single bottle of water.

You’d stared at the ceiling for a few minutes after that.

It would’ve been easier if you hadn’t let yourself get used to waking up like that again. If you hadn’t let it feel like something.

But you did, because you always do, with him. Even now.

So when you eventually got out of bed, you made two cups of coffee. One for you. One for him.

You tell yourself it was just habit. But that’s only half-true.

Because the other half — the part you don’t say out loud — is that you were kind of hoping he’d show up.

That you could sit across from him, trade casual conversation, build your way back into something steady enough to finally ask the things you’ve been swallowing down since the breakup. Finally ask the things you wanted to ignore last night when you kissed him.

What happened?

What changed?

Why did it feel like he was ready to spend the rest of your life with you, and then suddenly, he wasn't?

You’ve been sitting with those questions for weeks. Letting them settle into your bones. Last night had started to smooth out the edges. That kiss, the way he held you, the weight of him tucked against your back — none of it felt like someone who’d let go for good.

But this morning?

This morning feels like the reset button was hit again. Like you’re back at square one.

And it’s starting to scare you.

You take another sip from your mug.

It’s not just that he left. It’s the fact that you have no idea where he went, or why, or when he’s coming back. It’s that your questions are still sitting in your chest, unanswered. It’s that his coffee is still sitting in front of you, lukewarm.

It’s that you keep hoping for something that keeps slipping away.

And sure, it could be nothing. He could walk into the kitchen any minute and prove that all of your overthinking was for nothing and place a kiss against your temple as he silently confirms that you guys are finally okay again. But as you stare down at nothing in specific, eyes unfocused on the ground, you can't ignore the feeling that it's not going to be that easy.

A hand waving in front of your face breaks you out of your thoughts.

“Hello? Earth to ___?"

You blink and turn to find Kiara standing in front of you, one brow raised, one hand waving dramatically in front of your face.

“Fuck,” you mutter, pulling back a little, caught off guard. “You scared me.”

She grins. “I said your name twice. Thought you died standing up.”

You force a breath through your nose, trying to ease the tension from your shoulders. “Sorry. I zoned out.”

“Clearly,” Kiara says, folding her arms as she leans back against the island across from you. “You were staring at that coffee like you were possessed or something.”

You glance back down at Jungkook’s mug. The coffee inside has gone a dull, murky brown. It's oddly fitting.

“Just thinking,” you murmur.

Kiara gives you a long look, tilting her head slightly. She doesn’t say anything at first. Just watches.

You expect her to pivot the conversation, maybe ask what time you’re heading to the beach, or what’s for breakfast.

But she doesn’t.

Instead, she says, softer now, “Is everything okay with you and Jungkook?”

Your stomach drops, and you're too slow to catch the surprise on your face before it shows.

She doesn’t look accusatory. Just curious. Maybe a little concerned.

You think about what Jungkook said — that your acting sucks.

Clearly, he was more right than you gave him credit for if this is the second time someone has thought that something was off between you two.

You give Kiara a tight smile, trying to play it off. “Of course we’re okay. Why wouldn’t we be?”

Your voice cracks slightly at the end and Kiara’s face shifts. Her eyes narrow, expression flattening just a little.

God. You suck at this.

She doesn’t say anything. Just looks at you.

And when you glance past her, you realise Ari and Yasmine are both in the kitchen now too. You didn’t even hear them come in. They're hovering by the counter, not pretending they didn’t hear the conversation. Yasmine raises her eyebrows at you as if to say, Really? That’s the best you’ve got?

You laugh, the sound a little too loud and a little too fake.

“No, seriously. There’s nothing going on. We’re totally fine,” you insist. You try to make it sound breezy, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. But there’s this edge of strain in your tone that even you can hear now.

Yasmine exchanges a quick glance with Ari. Ari raises a single brow.

“____,” Kiara says, and her voice almost sympathetic. “We love you to death. If anything if going on, you can tell us. We will fight that man if needed.”

You snort at the ridiculousness of the offer, trying to ignore the way they're all watching you.

“Okay, maybe don’t plan my best friend’s murder right in front of me,” Jimin says around a half-yawn, wandering into the kitchen. His hair is a mess — flattened on one side and fluffy on the other — and his hoodie is inside out. His expression, though, is amused as hell.

You let out a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding. It’s half a laugh, really — short and quiet, but enough to break the tension hanging over you. Your shoulders drop just slightly.

“No one said murder,” Kiara replies, looking entirely unbothered. “We said ‘fight.’ With fists. Maybe knees.”

“Maybe a little arson,” Yasmine adds, chewing on the edge of a strawberry she pulled from the fridge.

Jimin walks past them and reaches up to grab a granola bar from the top shelf. “You know I’m contractually obligated to defend Jungkook’s honour,” he says through a yawn, unwrapping the bar. “Even if he’s being an idiot. Which, to be fair, is frequent.”

“Then maybe pass that message along,” Ari says, deadpan.

He finally glances toward you then, eyes briefly scanning your face. He doesn’t say anything — and thankfully, he doesn’t ask — but something in his expression softens. Like he can see the way you’re slightly curled in on yourself, even if you’re trying to fake calm.

The semi-circle of concern around you shifts a little to make room for him, and he steps into it without hesitation, granola bar still in hand. It’s oddly comforting, how casually he folds into the space — like maybe if he acts normal, things will be normal.

And you’re grateful for it. The way attention slides off you and onto Jimin’s sudden presence.

You sip your coffee again, and it tastes slightly better now. Or maybe it’s just that your heart’s not pounding against your ribs anymore.

“Actually, I actually need to tell you guys something,” Jimin says once he’s halfway through the bar, mouth still kind of full. “Before everyone disappears into the sand for the rest of the day.”

You tilt your head, turning slightly more in his direction.

Jimin finishes chewing, wipes his hands on the front of his hoodie — inside-out tag flipping up in the process — and leans casually against the counter.

“Okay,” he starts, tone turning slightly serious. “This doesn’t leave this room. At least not yet.”

Immediately, all of you perk up.

“Oh my god,” Kiara says, leaning in. “Are we finally getting the tea?”

“Someone’s pregnant,” Yasmine whispers like it’s a wild theory, eyes wide.

“Wrong group,” Ari deadpans.

You snort.

“No one’s pregnant,” Jimin says. “But something is happening. And it’s big. So, swear you won’t say anything to Haeun.”

You all nod in varying degrees of seriousness. A chorus of “obviously” and “duh”s.

“Seokjin’s proposing.”

There’s a moment of stunned silence. Not because no one saw it coming — but because even when you expect something, hearing it said out loud hits differently.

“No way,” Ari breathes.

“Finally,” Yasmine grins, clapping once. “She’s going to lose it.”

“I knew it,” Kiara says, not even pretending to be surprised. “He’s been acting weird since we got here.”

“Super obvious,” Ari agrees. “He kept spacing out yesterday during volleyball. I asked him if he was okay and he just said, ‘Just picturing things.’ I thought he meant, like… strategy?”

You set your coffee down, half-smiling. “That man has never strategised a day in his life.”

Jimin nods, serious. “Exactly. So, the plan is— he’s doing it the day after tomorrow. Right at sunset. On the back deck. He wants to keep it lowkey but still romantic. Just the group, nothing flashy. He’s got this whole thing with the fairy lights and stuff. It’s very... Jin.”

Yasmine clasps her hands together with a little squeal. “Do we get to be part of it?”

“Yeah,” he says, glancing at her. “Actually, he wants you to take pictures. Nothing major. Just candids. And the rest of us just need to, like, not make it weird.”

“What do you mean not make it weird?” Ari asks.

“I mean like… don’t swarm them,” Jimin says. “Don’t make it a whole scene. Just let it happen and then we can scream after she says yes.”

You all nod.

“God, they’re gonna be so annoying and in love,” Kiara sighs. “Good for them. Can’t wait.”

Jimin’s expression softens as he talks — and you can tell how much this means to him. How long he’s probably been sitting on it. How relieved he is to finally let it out. He’s one of Jin’s closest friends — the fact that Jin looped him in says everything.

“Wait, does Haeun know anything?” Ari asks.

“Not a clue,” Jimin says, grinning. “She thinks she’s just getting a sunset drink on the deck with Jin tomorrow before dinner. Meanwhile, he’s been carrying around the ring like it’s a live bomb.”

“She’s gonna be a mess,” you say quietly, voice warm.

"They're both gonna be a mess," Kiara replies, and you smile.

Honestly, it feels good to think about something else — to imagine someone else’s future for a while. One that's good and certain.

Not murky. Not lukewarm. Not tangled up in old habits and unfinished questions.

And just as that lightness settles in — just as you feel your chest unclench, just a little — the glass doors behind you slide open with a low hiss.

Everyone freezes.

The sliding door clicks back into place, the sound of it too sharp in the sudden stillness. Jimin’s eyes dart past you. Kiara, mid-sip of her drink, lowers her glass. No one says anything.

Your breath catches as you look over Yasmine's shoulder.

Please not Haeun, you think. Pleasepleaseplease.

Jungkook.

Helmet in one hand, motorbike keys hooked around two fingers on the other.

You're heart tugs with relief.

You’re glad he’s here.

Not because things are fine. Not because you know what you’re going to say. But because not knowing where he was all morning had started to eat at you, slow and annoying and persistent. Like something you couldn’t scratch out of your skin.

Jimin’s the first to speak.

“Fuck, man,” he says, twisting toward the door. “You scared the shit out of me. I thought you were Haeun.”

Jungkook’s mouth twitches, the barest hint of a smile. “Sorry.”

He steps further into the kitchen, the door soft-clicking shut behind him, and sets the helmet down on the island with a dull thud. The keys land beside it with a jingle. The whole group relaxes and the conversation starts backs up, but you’re barely tracking it.

Your eyes stay on Jungkook.

And his eyes don’t quite stay on you, but they flicker. Once. Then back down.

He moves to the cabinet and pulls out a mug from the same shelf you used earlier.

You pause, glancing at the mug still sitting beside your own on the counter. You hesitate for a second before you slide it toward him with your fingertips.

“Here,” you say. “I made one for you already.”

He pauses mid-motion, the clean mug in his hand, and his eyes drop to the one you nudged forward, then back up at you.

“I’m fine. Thanks though." He gives you a tight-lipped smile that doesn't reach his eyes.

Oh.

Okay.

Maybe he just wants tea or something. You've never known him to be a tea person, but you don't dwell on it that much.

You're already moving to shrug it off when you catch a glance — just over the rim of your mug — of him moving back toward the coffee pot, and you watch, with a slow-burning disbelief, as he starts making the exact same cup of coffee that’s still sitting in front of him.

Same brand. Same scoop. Same splash of milk from the fridge. He reaches for the sugar and adds the same amount.

You stare.

Seriously?

You don’t say it out loud, but it hovers in your expression. Long enough that Ari, who’s been half-listening while peeling a clementine beside you, gives you the smallest nudge with her elbow.

You don’t even glance at her.

Your eyes are still on Jungkook.

He doesn’t notice. Or if he does, he doesn’t care.

The air shifts around you and it feels like you’ve suddenly dropped into a scene you weren’t given the script for. Because it’s not about the coffee, really. It’s never just about the coffee.

It’s about how easily he dismissed it. Dismissed you so easily, as if you were nothing more than a stranger.

And maybe it’s petty, but come on. You made that cup for him. It wasn’t some random gesture. You got up, went through the routine, thought about what he’d want, even left it sitting there like a peace offering. And he’d rather go through the whole process again himself than take what you’d already done for him?

Fine.

You sip your own drink again, and try tune back into the conversation.

Jimin is talking about how Seokjin tried to smuggle the ring through airport security without Haeun seeing. Kiara makes a joke about hiding it in his shampoo bottle. Yasmine laughs so hard she nearly drops her bowl of strawberries.

And for a moment, it’s fine.

You even smile a little. Force yourself to pull your eyes away from Jungkook and land somewhere safer — like Jimin’s dramatic re-enactment of Seokjin’s TSA panic face.

But when your gaze flicks back, just for a second, you find Jungkook leaning against the opposite counter, sipping his freshly made coffee like he didn’t just say a whole lot by saying nothing.

And you don’t say anything either. Because what are you going to do — call him out for rejecting your cup of coffee?

So you let the conversation keep moving. You nod along. You laugh in the right places. You keep your expression neutral. Maybe a little too neutral.

But your jaw is just the tiniest bit tight. And your fingers wrap around your mug a little firmer than before.

Guess you weren't just overthinking after all.

The rain starts as a mist before quickly turning into a steady downpour.

You and Haeun are halfway back from the beach by the time it hits properly. She doesn’t bother running, and neither do you. You just glance up once at the thick, grey sky and laugh a little under your breath. She grins beside you, jogging lightly as she shakes water out of her ponytail.

“I told you it was going to rain,” she says, smug.

You’d been adamant about it, insisting that it would be warm as usual when you asked Haeun to come swim with you. She’d shown you her weather app and you’d waved it off with a dramatic, “Those things are never right.” Now, soaked halfway to the bone and blinking through the drizzle, you’re starting to eat your words.

"Yeah yeah, whatever."

By the time you step inside the house through the glass sliding doors, your legs are lightly dusted with sand and your hair is sticking to the sides of your neck, still damp from the ocean, and now slightly tangled from the breeze.

It’s warmer in the house, and for the first time since the trip started, everyone is inside. No one has slipped off to the beach or disappeared with a book to some random corner of the deck.

You brush your fingers through your hair absently as you kick off your flip flops near the threshold. Haeun’s already moved toward the kitchen, mumbling something about tea, leaving you to linger for a second by the open space where the wooden floor transitions into the living room rug.

Jimin and Taehyung are on the floor by the coffee table, throwing popcorn into each other’s mouths with miserable aim and laughing at their failures. Ari’s curled up with Namjoon on one end of the abnormally large couch that takes up almost half of the room, the two of them watching something muted on the TV while Kiara and Yasmine scroll through their phones on the floor beside them, bickering about which photos to post later.

And there's Jungkook.

He's sitting on the other end of the couch, knees propped up, thumbing idly through something on his phone.

He looks calm. Not relaxed, exactly — Jungkook doesn’t really do relaxed when he’s spaced out, but his shoulders aren’t hunched like they were this morning, and his jaw isn’t clenched. He just sits there scrolling.

You hadn’t seen him on the beach. You’re not even sure where he’d gone off to all morning, after the coffee exchange that had been awkward enough to replay itself in your brain on loop.

It’s not that you’re trying to obsess, but it’s hard not to notice when someone you used to know inside out starts moving like a stranger.

You take a slow breath, brushing your hand down your thigh once — a nervous gesture you don’t bother disguising — and cross the rest of the living room, stepping carefully over Taehyung’s outstretched legs as you make your way toward the couch.

There’s an open space beside Jungkook and you decide take it.

But before you can even properly sit down or bring up your knees to get comfortable, Jungkook's already standing.

You watch as he crosses the living room and drops down into the armchair beside Yoongi without a single word, disbelief painting your features for a second before reel your expression back to neutral.

You don’t look at anyone.

You definitely don’t look at Jungkook.

Instead, you keep your gaze pinned to the muted television in front of you — some vaguely familiar movie playing with the subtitles on — and try to ignore the way your heartbeat has picked up in your ears.

It’s not a big deal. Not technically. Maybe he just wanted to sit by Yoongi. Maybe you’re reading too much into it. Again.

But still.

Still.

You cross one leg over the other, trying to breathe through the stiffness now crawling up the back of your neck. You can feel a strand of hair clinging to your collarbone. You reach up and tuck it behind your ear just to do something with your hands.

“Hey,” Jimin says suddenly from the floor, glancing back toward you, “you two get caught in the rain?”

You force your mouth into a small smile. “A little.”

“Dumbasses,” Taehyung says fondly, tossing a kernel of popcorn that smacks Jimin square in the cheek. “Told you it was gonna pour.”

“It’s barely even raining,” Haeun calls from the kitchen, voice slightly muffled from the distance.

You hum in agreement, mostly to say something, but your voice barely makes it out. You don’t think anyone notices.

Except maybe Kiara, who glances at you briefly from the corner of her eye. She doesn’t say anything, but it’s enough to make you shift in your seat.

You try not to look again. At him.

You fail.

Jungkook’s posture hasn’t changed — one arm resting on the armrest, the other slung low in his lap. He’s facing the TV, but his gaze isn’t fixed on anything in particular.

This isn’t normal. Not even close.

Not that anything has been normal since the breakup, but this is different. Cold in a way he’s never been with you — even when you fought. Even when you broke up.

It’s the kind of distance that doesn’t come from anger. It’s more deliberate than that.

And you really don’t know what you did to deserve it.

The rain doesn’t last. It trails off sometime after the movie ends — not that you can remember a single scene of it — and by the time it does, the sky outside is starting to dip in colour.

You keep your eyes on your hands, loosely folded in your lap, while the rest of the group starts to migrate back outside into the pool and the beach. Someone tugs open the back door and lets the salt-heavy breeze rush back in. Kiara walks past and ruffles your hair lightly, says something about joining them soon. You nod, even though you’re not sure you will.

You don’t even register Jungkook until he’s moving past the arm of the couch.

“Jungkook,” you say.

He stops just in front of the door to the front.

He doesn’t turn fully. Just glances over his shoulder, enough to let you know he heard.

You stand before your courage can second-guess you. “Can we talk?”

A beat of silence passes. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, but doesn’t look at you.

“I don’t think there’s much to talk about.”

It takes you a second to process his words.

“What?” you ask, brows knitting.

“I just—” Jungkook shifts, hand flexing at his side like he’s trying not to clench it. “I think we’re handling things fine. Everyone still believes us, right? That’s the whole point.”

You stare at him.

“That’s not what I meant.”

He exhales, but doesn't respond.

“I’m not talking about the deal. I’m talking about you— us— and the fact that you’ve been ignoring me all day.”

“I haven’t—”

“Yes, you have,” you cut in, voice firmer now. “You wouldn’t even look at me this morning. You’ve barely said more than three words since last night.”

“I thought you wanted space,” he says quietly, finally turning around to face you. “I figured, after yesterday, that it’d be easier if I just gave you room.”

“Easier?” you echo. “For who?”

He swallows. His gaze drops. You can see the tension in the way his shoulders pull in slightly, like he’s trying to fold himself smaller.

“I’m just trying not to make this harder than it already is."

Your chest tightens, something sharp rising behind your ribs. There’s a line between being careful and being cowardly, and you don’t know when Jungkook crossed it — only that he’s already miles past it now, still walking away from a conversation he won’t even let you have.

“And moving when I sit beside you— what’s that supposed to be?” you ask. “Because if that’s you being careful, it really fucking sucks.”

His jaw twitches.

“It’s not like that.”

“Then what is it like, Jungkook? Because you’re not talking to me. You won’t even look at me.”

His lips part like he wants to say something before he stops himself.

You wait, but he doesn’t answer.

He just stands there in silence, eyes unreadable, like he’s scared whatever comes out of his mouth next will be the wrong thing.

And that frustrates you more than anything else.

Because you just want the truth, not silence. Even if it hurts. Even if it means hearing him say that he doesn't love you anymore. Because at least, then you’d know.

You cross your arms slowly, swallowing the lump that has started forming in your throat.

“You can’t just fucking kiss me one day and ignore me the next.”

“Look, I’m—” He exhales harshly. “I’m sorry the kiss didn’t mean anything, okay?

You freeze.

Something inside you falters, buckles under the weight of it. You try to breathe around the burn clawing up your throat, but the room suddenly feels too stuffy.

You press your nails into your palms. You can feel your pulse there — quick, shallow, and it’s the only thing anchoring you to the moment. You don't trust yourself to speak, so you don't.

Jungkook's voice is soft when he eventually speaks. “We only have to do this shit for one more day. That’s it. I’ll stay out of your way until then, and when it’s over, we can pack our bags, go home, and you never have to talk to me again.”

You stand there for half a second too long. Long enough for the silence to feel thick again. Long enough to think — maybe he’ll take it back, or stop you. Maybe he’ll say something else.

But he doesn’t, so you turn.

You walk away, footsteps too loud against the hardwood. Your throat is tight, your chest worse. You make your way outside and up the stairs into you room, shutting the door with a quiet click — not because you're calm, but because slamming it would mean he still matters enough to make you angry.

And right now, you're trying not to let him matter at all.

You sit on the edge of the bed, staring at the blank wall, trying to will yourself not to cry.

You don’t win that one. Not completely.

But you wipe away your tears before they can stain your face, because if anyone comes looking, you’ll lie. If he comes looking, you won’t open the door.

Still, you wait for the sound of footsteps outside the room.

None come.

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[pitlanepeach]

Figure It Out | Chapter One

Max Verstappen x Isla Harrington (OFC)

Series Masterlist

Summary — Isla Harrington’s life is upended after a one-night stand with Max Verstappen leaves her a single-mom. Four years later, Max decides that he wants in — and neither of them are ready for what that means.

Warnings — Surprise baby trope, one night stands, co-parenting, grovelling, bullying and harassment, coming of age, angst and fluff.

Notes — We're going allll the way back to 2018! Strap in.

2018

Life didn’t feel real.

It felt like something out of a dream — stitched together from the pages of racing magazines and late-night replays she used to watch in secret under her duvet as a teenager. The engines, the colour, the thrum in her chest that wasn’t nerves but something sharper. Like wonder, only more practical.

Isla stood just outside the media centre, lanyard fluttering against her chest in the breeze, notepad pressed flat against her thigh to stop her hands from shaking.

She hadn’t cried yet.

Not when the email came through weeks ago — the Sky Sports internship offer she never really thought she’d get. Not when she booked her first-ever flight on her own, stuffing her suitcase with more clothes than she could ever possibly need. Not even when she walked into the paddock this morning and was handed a branded pass, with her name spelled right and everything. 

But now, with the sun warming the asphalt and the faint scent of tyres and fuel in the air, she felt the prick of tears behind her eyes.

She wasn’t supposed to be here. Not really.

Girls like her, the ones who hailed from run-down council flats and were raised by parents who didn’t know how to love the children they’d decided to have — they didn’t end up in places like this. They ended up responsible. Careful. Grateful for temp jobs and small mercies.

Not… doing this.

A voice cut through her thoughts.

“You coming in?”

It was Ted, pointing toward the press conference room with a slightly bemused smile, radio tucked in his hand. She nodded quickly, her mouth dry.

“Nervous?” He asked, walking beside her.

“No. Well — yes,” she admitted. “I just didn’t think it would be like this.”

“Like what?”

“Like people are actually going to look at me and expect me to know what I’m doing.” She admitted, her cheeks flushing pink. 

Ted hummed thoughtfully, and then said nothing. Which she appreciated.

Inside, the room was humming — literally and figuratively. Reporters murmured, technicians adjusted cables, and someone handed Isla a list of scheduled driver appearances with three different versions of the same Excel spreadsheet, none of which matched.

By the time the press briefing began, Isla had already re-written her notes twice and found a quiet corner by the back wall. She wasn’t meant to ask anything today, maybe ever. Her job was to just observe. Learn. Make notes. 

So she listened. Not just to what the drivers said, but what they didn’t. She caught the moments when their words didn’t line up with their body language, when tension rippled beneath polite phrases. She tracked patterns, noted phrases, jotted little arrows beside mentions of "strategy" and "frustrating stints."

She was invisible. And that was fine. She was good at being invisible — at watching people closely and knowing exactly when to disappear.

Later, during lunch, Natalie sat beside her and asked, “How are you finding it so far?”

Isla blinked. “Overwhelming. Amazing. I just don’t want to do something wrong.”

Natalie smiled — the kind that made Isla feel seen in a way she wasn’t used to. “You’re not here because we expect you to know everything. You’re here because the big bosses obviously saw potential in you. Let yourself rise to it, okay?”

That night, Isla lay in her hotel bed with the window cracked open. The hum of the circuit still buzzed faintly in her ears. Her notepad was open beside her, full of scribbled thoughts — not just stats and quotes, but moments that caught her attention. A brief smile between two engineers. A driver running his hand along the edge of his front wing like it was something sacred. The way the wind kicked up when the cars tore past, like they could take the world with them.

She didn’t call anyone to tell them about her first day. There was no one waiting by a phone.

But she whispered it anyway. “I did a really good job today.”

And she had.

She really had.

—

The first few weeks of the season blurred together.

Melbourne was too bright, too fast, the weekend over way too soon. Isla forgot her adapter plug, melted her hair straighteners, and spent the first day with her badge on backwards. But she also caught her first real paddock rumour before it hit Twitter; something about the Haas pit stop disaster and a quietly furious team boss who’d nearly broken his radio.

In Bahrain, she kept her head down and her ears open. Vettel took another win. The paddock buzzed with “Ferrari resurgence” whispers and the strange, low simmer of Mercedes unease. She wrote her first segment notes for a feature Natalie was doing. Half of her suggestions made it in. She didn’t say anything about it, didn’t brag or preen, but she smiled the whole way back to her hotel.

By China, she knew which engineer preferred his coffee iced, which producers liked printouts colour-coded, and that if you needed the real story, you had to talk to the tyre technicians. Not the flashy front-facing ones — the gruff old hands who could tell the shape of a weekend by how the rubber fell off the car on Friday.

There were dramas; real ones. The Red Bull crash in Baku made the entire media pen flinch. Verstappen and Ricciardo, teammates colliding at speed, the air after so thick with tension that even the Sky crew kept their voices low. Isla stood behind a monitor that night, typing notes with trembling fingers as Ted tried to piece together a timeline of blame on live TV.

She started sleeping with her notebook beside the bed. Not just for work quotes anymore, but for flashes of dialogue, metaphors that hit her during a race, questions she didn’t have the confidence to ask yet.

She still hadn’t been on camera. That wasn’t part of the plan. But she’d started to earn nods in the paddock, started getting handed spare headsets or asked for help coordinating B-roll clips.

She was still the quiet one. The intern. But she was listening.

And people had started noticing that she remembered things. 

—

Overlapping interviews. Sweat-slicked fireproofs. PR reps hovering just out of frame, brows furrowed, earpieces buzzing. Cameras jostled for position. Booms dipped low, voices overlapped. The late afternoon sun turned everything into glare and heat and movement, like the entire paddock was vibrating with post-race adrenaline.

The media pen was always like this — loud and frantic and fast.

Isla kept her back to the barrier, eyes down, a tiny Sky mic clipped to her collar like it might explode at any moment. She wasn’t meant to be front and centre. Just a placeholder. Natalie had been pulled into a strategy debrief. Ted was somewhere melting into a fold-out chair with a bottle of water. And so Isla stood in, just in case someone needed a warm body holding a mic.

“Incoming,” a voice crackled in her ear. “Ricciardo approaching. If he stops, throw him something. A question.”

She went still. “What kind of question?”

“Any question. Doesn’t matter. Just keep him talking — you’re mic’d, we’re live.”

Her fingers tightened around her Sky notebook. Any question?

Then he appeared — and for a second, the pen narrowed, as if the noise paused just slightly for him.

Daniel Ricciardo. Still in his Red Bull race suit, curls damp with sweat, that ever-present grin fixed to his face like it was stitched there. He looked like he’d just stepped out of a cartoon and landed in the real world.

“Hey,” he said, catching sight of her. “You’re new.”

Isla nodded, quickly. “Yeah. I mean — yes.”

He tilted his head, smiling. “Cool. Got anything good to ask? Hit me.”

She froze. She could feel all the standard questions lined up in her mouth like marbles — Talk us through the race. What was the strategy? Was traffic at Turn 10 frustrating?

But she didn’t say any of them.

Because she’d been watching. Closely. Not just the race, but the details — the micro-movements, the flickers of body language, the way a car talks if you know how to listen.

So instead she asked, voice steady and low, “That rear twitch in Sector Two — what was that? Looked like the car wanted to completely let go, but you held it.”

Daniel blinked.

And then something changed. Surprise first, then something warmer — interest. “Oooh, good observation,” he said, visibly impressed. “Yeah. Not totally sure what triggered it — it’s been creeping in late-race for a few weekends now. You get to a certain point, tyres drop, balance shifts… and suddenly the rear’s whispering, I’m on the edge, buddy. I’ve got to make a choice. Back off or trust the car.”

She nodded, instinctively. “So you trusted it.”

“Today? Yeah. Leaned in. Worked out.”

She hesitated — and then, before she could talk herself out of it. “Is it consistent? That late-race rear instability — your engineers have flagged it as an ongoing issue?”

He blinked again. “Uh, yeah. They’ve noticed it. We’ve looked into it. It’s not super dramatic, but it’s there — especially on tracks with more left-hand load. It’s something to manage.”

Her producer’s voice crackled in her ear. “Nice. Real nice. We’re clipping this. Stay with him — if he’s giving you answers like that, keep it rolling.”

But Isla just smiled, a little shy. And she didn’t push, had never wanted to be the kind of journalist who ran a question into the ground.  “Thanks, Daniel,” she said quietly.

He winked. “Good question, kiddo.”

And then he was gone, swallowed by a tangle of cameras and shouting journalists.

Isla exhaled — only then realising she’d been holding her breath. Her heart was hammering. Her palms were damp. 

—

The meeting room smelled like strong coffee, dry-erase markers, and the kind of air-conditioned panic only found in live broadcasting. Isla sat on the edge of a rolling chair, notebook in hand, pulse skipping in her throat.

She hadn’t even known she was invited until that morning. The email had landed in her inbox with a vague subject line — Editorial debrief — and her name, surprisingly, on the attendee list.

Now, the table was crowded with producers, segment editors, and a few of the on-air crew, all mid-chat, casually dissecting cutaways and replay sequences like they weren’t sitting in a pressure-cooker of world feeds and TV ratings.

Then someone clicked the remote, and a muted clip played on the screen at the front of the room: Daniel Ricciardo, grinning. Isla’s voice played softly over the footage. “That rear twitch in Sector Two — what was that?”

Isla blinked. Her stomach dropped.

The producer in the corner — Graham, fifty-something, glasses perched permanently on his forehead — gestured toward the clip like it was a classroom exhibit. “This,” he said, “is what we’re after.”

The room quieted. Isla forgot how to breathe.

“Instinctive, focused, sharp. That’s a real question. That’s not cribbed from a media sheet or parroted off comms. That’s from someone watching the race. Closely. That’s what we need more of in the pen. Not just echo-chamber interviews — insight.”

Someone else chimed in — Ellie, graphics editor, “It’s been clipped and run on social. Engagement’s good. Real fans picked up on it — few even said it was the first genuine, interesting thing they’d heard out of a driver all weekend.”

Isla stared down at her notebook. Her knuckles were white around her pen.

Graham looked at her. “Good instincts. You’ve got a feel for it.”

“I just…” she started, voice thin. “I noticed the rear was twitchy late on. And… I thought if I was watching from home, I’d want to know if that was going to be an issue.”

“And that’s exactly what we want.”

She flushed.

Someone laughed softly and said, “She’s only been with us six weeks. Give her two months and Crofty’ll be looking over his shoulder.”

The room chuckled. Isla smiled — small, but real.

Later, when the meeting wrapped and laptops snapped shut, Natalie passed her by, giving her shoulder a light squeeze. “Told you,” she murmured. “You’ve got it. Let yourself rise to it.”

And for the first time, Isla allowed herself to consider it.

Not luck. Not accident. Not a glitch in the system.

Maybe she was meant to be here.

Maybe she could thrive.

—

Every airport felt like its own micro-universe. Every paddock a city with its own rhythms and rules. And every time she pinned her Sky lanyard to her chest and walked through the gates, she felt it again — that pulse beneath the surface of things. That ache to understand, to see.

She didn’t travel with the main broadcast team yet. Too junior. But they'd pulled her in for every race so far that season — sometimes as a runner, sometimes as backup for Ted or Natalie. Every now and then, they even let her hold a microphone and ask a question. She’d earned their trust, after all. 

Monaco was madness. Glitz, yachts, traffic jams in the pit-lane, and tension under every surface. Isla was there when Ricciardo drove a masterclass with a broken MGU-K, holding off Vettel lap after brutal lap. She caught him in the tunnel after podium and he looked like he might cry — not from pain, but from relief. From proving something.

Canada? Vettel's redemption. Isla watched the red cars fly on Saturday, and on Sunday, Seb crossed the line with the number one board mistakenly placed in front of Lewis’ car. A quiet moment of symbolism that didn’t escape the fans. Nor Isla, who scribbled “Ferrari are quietly furious this season. Seb’s playing long game?” in the margins of her notebook.

Then came France. New circuit, new chaos. First-lap collision, safety car drama, and Hamilton back on top. But the paddock talk was elsewhere — rumours of Daniel’s contract, Red Bull’s future, and a quiet buzz about the growing number of clips being shared of a young, observant reporter catching drivers off-guard with her keen, non-generic questions.

Isla was starting to be recognised.

And so it was, one sweltering Saturday afternoon at Paul Ricard, she found herself walking the long gravel path from the media centre toward the drivers’ hospitality units — off-duty, notebook tucked away, wearing a faded t-shirt she’d owned for a couple of years now.

MV33.

The lion on the back was hand-drawn, slightly cracked from too many washes. But she loved it. Loved him, the driver. Always had. It was a devastatingly poorly kept secret that the journalist who wasn’t supposed to play favourites very much did so behind closed doors. 

She was halfway down the path, sunglasses low on her nose, when two voices drifted from ahead. Laughter, familiar and bright.

Daniel Ricciardo. And Max Verstappen.

They were walking toward her — fresh from a meeting or maybe lunch, wearing team polos and mirrored shades. Max’s expression unreadable. Daniel’s more relaxed.

She moved to step aside. Disappear into the shadows, as usual. But Daniel caught her first.

“Hey! I know you,” he grinned, pointing playfully. “You got me good in Spain. I got a right walloping from Christian for making our stability issues public.”

Isla flushed. “I didn’t mean to— I mean, I just asked about what I saw. Sorry.”

Daniel’s eyes sparkled. “Nah. Don’t be sorry. That’s why it was good.” Then his gaze dropped slightly, grin widening. “Shit — cool shirt!”

She froze.

Looked down.

Cursed under her breath.

Max Verstappen’s number stared back up at her in faded navy ink. And next to her, Max himself had stilled.

She didn’t look at him. Couldn’t. 

She mumbled something incoherent — “Thanks, sorry, long day, gotta—” — and practically bolted past them, heat crawling up her neck.

What she didn’t see was the way Max’s eyes tracked her retreat. Quiet. Slow. Sharp.

She didn’t see the slight twitch of his jaw. The flicker of something in his expression that wasn’t quite recognition — not yet — but something heavier.

He didn’t say a word.

But he’d seen the lion.

He’d seen her.

And from that moment on, he would keep seeing her.

Everywhere.

—

The heat in the media pen felt heavier than usual. Sweat clung under Isla’s collar, her mic battery pack digging into her lower back as she jostled for a clear spot behind the Red Bull line. Her notes were already smudged from stress — Max had just won the race in front of a sea of Dutch fans and the energy was insane.

She wasn’t meant to ask anything. Again. Just shadow, observe, stay out of the frame.

Ted was ahead of her, waving his mic in the scrum. Isla stayed two steps back, heart thudding in rhythm with the engines still cooling in parc fermé.

Then Max stepped in.

Still half-wrapped in the Dutch flag, hair damp with sweat, grinning that crooked grin that didn’t look real until you saw it up close. His PR handler guided him toward the waiting cluster of broadcasters, and the Sky crew leaned forward, prepping to go live.

But Max didn’t stop where he was meant to.

He scanned the line once — quickly, then again, more slowly.

His gaze snagged on her.

Isla froze.

Max’s mouth curved — a flash of amusement, or maybe recognition. And then he said, to the entire waiting press pack, “I’ll only answer if it’s her asking.”

A pause.

Blinking confusion.

Ted half-turned. “Who?”

Max lifted a finger — pointed, almost lazily, directly at Isla. “Her.”

Isla swear she died a little on the inside.

The Sky producer’s voice barked in her earpiece. “Jesus Christ, Isla, go! Ask him something! You’re live in twenty seconds—go! Go!”

She lurched forward like a wind-up toy, arm snapping up with the mic, eyes wide and horrified. Max was watching her like she was a puzzle he’d already started solving.

She opened her mouth.

No sound came out.

Max tilted his head. “That wasn’t a question.”

Her face flamed. “Right. Um.” She dropped her eyes to her notes, which were absolutely useless, full of scribbles and half-thoughts. “Uh. You—your start was really strong. You covered Kimi into Turn 1. Was that premeditated or reactive?”

Max’s grin softened. “Both.”

“I—what?”

He shrugged. “Premeditated to be reactive. I figured if I could get track position early, the race would come to me. And it did.”

She blinked.

“Want to ask another?” he prompted, voice lower now.

Her mouth opened — and without thinking, she blurted, “What’s it like hearing a hundred thousand people chanting your name?”

Max’s brows lifted, just slightly. And for a beat, he didn’t smile. He just looked at her.

Then, slowly, he said, “Loud. But nice. It reminds me to keep giving them something to shout about.”

The PR handler gestured for him to move along. Max handed her one last glance, another chance to ask something. 

Nothing came out of her mouth. 

She just… stared at him. 

And then he was gone, like always — swallowed up by the next pen, the next camera, the next mic.

Isla stood in the silence he left behind, red-faced, mic still raised like an idiot. Natalie appeared behind her, all wide eyes and flailing hands.

“You okay?” she asked.

“I think I blacked out,” Isla muttered, still staring into space.

“You didn’t cry. Or drop the mic. So that’s a win.”

“But I—I just—I feel like an idiot.” 

Natalie squeezed her arm. “Max is like that sometimes. Don’t let him get to you.” 

“Yeah.” She whispered. Staring at the back of his head as he leaned in close to a Dutch reporters microphone and laughed. 

—

The paddock had thinned out after the media frenzy. Most of the drivers were either back in debriefs or already heading out, but Isla wasn’t looking for any of them.

She was looking for Max.

And she found him — just outside the Red Bull motorhome, fresh out of a team meeting, towel slung around his neck, shirt changed but still crumpled from the race. He was leaning against a table, drinking from a bottle of water like he didn’t have a care in the world.

He saw her before she even said a word.

“Ah,” he said, grin blooming instantly. “I was wondering when you’d come yell at me.”

“I’m not—” Isla stopped. Huffed. “Okay, yes. I am. What the hell was that?”

He blinked innocently. “What was what?”

“In the media pen.” She stopped a few feet from him, crossing her arms, trying to channel some kind of moral authority. “You can’t just single someone out like that on live broadcast—”

“Why not?”

“Because—because it put me on the spot! I wasn’t ready, and I had no questions, and my voice cracked—”

“It did. Little bit,” Max said helpfully. “But it was cute.”

“Max!”

His grin only widened.

“I’m trying to be angry at you,” Isla snapped.

“You don’t seem very angry,” he said, tilting his head.

“I am! I’m—furious.”

“You’ve gone pink.”

She made an indignant noise. “That’s sunburn.”

“It’s not.”

“Stop smiling.”

“Make me.”

That made her pause.

Max’s eyes gleamed, heat and mischief rolled into something deceptively calm. “I liked your questions. You actually watch the race. Most reporters just glance at the podium sheet and ask about strategy. Boring.”

“I was… flailing! You embarrassed me.”

“No I didn’t.” 

Isla faltered — just a beat. Then she tried again. “You don’t get to throw me into the deep end just because you’re bored of answering the same questions.”

“I didn’t throw you,” he said. “You jumped.”

She stared at him.

He pushed off the table and stepped closer, just enough to feel tall in the way that annoyed her — like he knew he could rattle her just by existing. “I’ll give you warning next time,” he said, voice lower now, more real. “But I meant it. I like your questions.”

“…Why?”

His mouth curved again, slower this time. “Because you don’t ever ask what I expect. And I like surprises.”

She hated how that made her stomach flip.

And she really hated how she turned to leave — cheeks hot, jaw tight — only for him to call after her, “See you in Silverstone, Lion Girl.”

She didn’t turn around. But she walked faster. Because if she stayed another second, she might’ve smiled back.

And that would’ve been disastrous.

[em1i2a3]

Strangers

Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Sentry/The Void x Thunderbolts!Fem!Reader!

Summary: You and the team get separated during a mission, leaving you stranded and injured in a safe house with Bob–your ex boyfriend.

Warnings: Angst, Angst and More Angst (y’all asked, now you shall receive lol), Descriptions of Injuries, Close Quarters Trope (Spun on its head a bit), Descriptions of Cleaning Wounds and Stitching Wounds (General First Aid too Basically, may get a bit graphic here and there), Bob and you are ex’s the breakup is really really fresh.

Author’s Note: Well…Another angsty one-shot for the books I guess. In my absolute frustration, I was able to pump out probably one of the most heart wrenching things I’ve written…So Ta Da for that one. People should hurt me more often I guess cause…Shit this one hurt to write. Anyways. Enjoy. <3 I’m not breaking my update streak just yet.

Word Count: 6,297

The snow had a way of swallowing sound–muffling the chaos left behind, softening the ruin with a cold kind of cruelty. It fell in heavy, deliberate sheets through the forest, cloaking the shattered treetops and scorched wreckage in silence. What hadn’t been burned was now frozen solid. Charred bark glittered under a thin glaze of ice, and twisted shards of metal jutted up from the snow like broken bones.

Frost clung to the seams of your tactical suit, lacing over the torn edges like veins of glass. Steam curled upward from where your blood had begun to seep through the fabric at your sides–dark, rich red spilling across the pristine snow in thick, slow pulses. It bled into the white like spilled ink on parchment, staining everything it touched, turning the cold earth warm beneath you in patches.

You weren’t dying. You’d been close enough to know the difference.

But this? This was still hell.

The pain radiated in waves–dull, punishing, sharp around the edges. The injury wasn’t critical, but it was deep. It had torn across your left and right flank with surgical cruelty, and now every breath came shallow and tight. Every twitch of muscle lit your nerves on fire. The cold wasn’t helping, either–it was beginning to bite at the exposed skin of your jaw and fingers, numbing everything but the ache.

You tried to shift your weight, to sit up straighter, but a bolt of pain cracked through your side like lightning and you froze, biting down a grunt, jaw clenched so hard your teeth ached. Movement was possible, barely, but any chance of running–or fighting–was long gone.

You were caught in a vulnerable position and you absolutely hated it.

The silence pressed in around you again, oppressive and vast, broken only by the soft hiss of falling snow and the distant crack of ice settling in the trees. Your breath came out in ragged puffs, fogging the air in front of your face. You gritted your teeth and dropped your head back against the trunk of the tree behind you, the bark biting into your shoulder blades through your gear.

You weren’t going to bleed out–not yet. But you wouldn’t be walking out of here alone either.

The hiss over the comms suddenly buzzed in your ear, sharp and broken, crackling loudly.

”–Y/N? Do you–Kzzzzk–copy? Come in. Please tell me–chhhk–still breathing.” It was Yelena. You closed your eyes tightly as your fingers fumbled for the comm at your collar, your gloved hand shaking with the cold that bit at our skin. You pressed it down hard, hoping the signal held.

”I copy,” You rasped, breath catching on the pain that erupted from both sides of your torso, “I’m down. West of the ridge. I’m compromised.” The line sizzled again–then Yelena’s voice came through clearer for a second, fast and urgent.

“You need to get moving. The storm’s closing in–ground teams are rerouting and we’re losing visual every few minutes. Nearest fallback point is the alpine safehouse north-west of your location. You’ve got maybe twenty minutes before the drop zone gets covered.” You swallowed hard, exhaling a shaky breath, seeing your breath cloud in front of your eyes. The safehouse–or bunker–was buried deep into a rock face. It was an old S.H.I.E.L.D infrastructure that was sealed tight, and solar-heated–it would be one of the last spots that could keep you warm, safe, and out of aerial detection long enough to lose the trail that the agents would have on you.

But it wasn’t close enough for you to reach–not at your current pace, and definitely not in this condition.

You pushed harder against the wounds at your sides and shifted, just enough to brace a boot against the snow. The motion shot pain up your ribs so sharp and immediate you saw stars behind your eyes and you could barely smother a cry. More blood came from your wounds, causing the snow to hiss louder from the heat, and the comm sputtered again.

”…Backup is on the–kzzzzzzk–he’s closest to your location. Hold tight Y/N.” You immediately slammed your hand down on the comms, voice a rasped growl of disbelief.

”Lena, I swear to fucking–“ You doubled over mid-sentence, the sudden movement sending searing pain up both sides of your torso. You gritted your teeth, voice strangled. “He better not fucking be coming he–” But you never finished.

Because something bright caught in your peripheral vision.

Gold. Blinding. Unmistakable.

The wind shifted.

Snow swirled violently around you in a sudden gust as the sky above fractured with light. A deep hum vibrated beneath the earth, and the low crackle of static kissed the ground ahead of you. The snowflakes slowed, suspended in the air like time had stuttered.

Then he dropped from the sky.

Sentry.

He landed with barely a sound–only a deep whump of displaced air and the sharp hiss of melting snow beneath his boots. Static clung to his silhouette like a living aura, sparking off the polished blue of his suit and running in faint, golden threads across the embossed “S” on the belt that caressed his stomach. His cape trailed behind him like a streak of firelight, fluttering in the wake of his descent. The sleek armor clung to every line of him–strong, defined, inhumanly still.

His boots settled into the snow with a whisper, the ground around them immediately steaming from the heat radiating off his body.

And then you saw his face.

The glow of his irises dimmed just enough for you to see the man beneath the god–the light brown curls darkened by the wet, tousled from flight, stuck to his forehead. His jaw was clenched tight, lips slightly parted with breath. Concern carved itself into every line of his features, and his eyes–

God, his eyes still looked at you like you were everything.

He was moving before you could speak, snow swirling behind him with each long, purposeful stride.

“Y/N,” He said, his voice low and wind-worn. “I know you don’t want me to help. But please…Please understand–I had no input on the choices Bob made about your relationship.” You let out a sharp grunt, part frustration, part agony, as another white-hot bolt of pain flared up your ribs. You hadn’t seen Sentry since before the break up, and hearing him make reference to the events that had transpired just a week and a half ago made you seethe.

”Get the fuck away from me, Sentry,” Your voice was a snarl, but breathless. “I’d rather fucking freeze in the snow.” His steps faltered. Only slightly–but enough for you to notice that your words hit him. And still, he knelt down slowly in front of you, dropping to one knee like he was coming to pray at an altar of some sort, not to rescue a woman who wanted nothing to do with him at the moment.

”You truly think I wanted to leave you?” He asked, his voice filled with disbelief, “After everything I told you…After giving you everything I had in my being to be yours…You think I walked away from you by choice?” He exhaled slowly, the light in his chest dimming a fraction, his irises changing into a deeper caramel colour, but still glowing nevertheless.

“Bob made that decision. Not me. He left. I didn’t. I would’ve stayed until my body came apart for you.” His tone lowered to a whisper. “Don’t put his actions on me.” He leaned in just enough to be closer–but still left space between you. Respecting the boundary. Holding the distance like it burned.

“Now let me help you, Y/N,” he said softly. “Please.”

Your jaw clenched so hard your teeth throbbed. Your whole body shook–not just from the pain or the cold, but from the sheer weight of hearing that voice say your name like that again. You opened your mouth, ready to spit something cruel and final.

But the comms crackled sharply in your ear, cutting through the tension like a blade.

“Y/N, let him help you for fuck’s sake,” Bucky growled. His voice was ragged with static and fury. “Now is not the time to hash out your relationship drama. You need to get to the safehouse, and you need to patch yourself up. Move your ass or I swear to God–” The signal cut again.

Sentry didn’t flinch. He stayed crouched, grounded in the snow, glowing just faintly. Not making a move to touch you. Just waiting. Tense. Silent. Willing.

You stared at him–at the god who wore your heartbreak like second skin–and closed your eyes tightly.

“I don’t want you talking to me on the flight there. Do you understand?” There was a beat of silence. Then, his voice cut through lowly.

”…Okay. Anything. I’ll do anything.” You exhaled a long, trembling breath, not entirely from the pain.

“Then get this over with.” Without another word, he moved.

You felt the rush of warmth as he drew closer, snow melting off his suit in the air between you. His arms moved beneath you with impossible gentleness–one hooked carefully under the bend of your knees, the other sliding behind your neck with practiced ease. He cradled you like something precious, pulling you in against the heat of his chest.

You saw it then. Just a flicker. The way his jaw clenched at the sight of your wounds. The tightness in his throat. He tried to hide it—but the concern painted across his face wasn’t the kind that could be masked. It was etched into every line of him.

And then, in a blink, you were airborne.

The wind tore past your face, sharp and biting against the exposed skin of your cheek. You curled instinctively into his chest, against the smooth fabric of his suit, letting your forehead rest against the hard line of his shoulder. His arms tightened around you at once, tucking you closer, shielding you from the worst of the storm like it physically hurt him to feel the snow hit your skin.

You hated the way it still felt like home, and you tried not to look at him…But you couldn’t help it.

Up close like this–there was something in the way his expression softened when he looked forward, golden light flickering across his cheekbones. The muscles in his arms tensed every time your body shifted, like he was preparing to catch you if you fell from a place you were already being held.

And God…Deep down, under all the bitterness, you missed him.

You missed the silence of Sentry’s presence. The fever-dream obsession of the Void. The tender steadiness of Bob’s laugh when he held you at night. You missed all three of them—because they were all yours once. Woven together in a way no one else understood.

And now?

Now you couldn’t touch any of them the way you used to.

And it was Bob’s fault.

You closed your eyes again.

It took Sentry a minute to find the safehouse–sweeping low over a stretch of jagged stone and buried brush, finally locating the narrow camouflaged entrance beneath a snowbank. The structure was carved deep into the rock face, partially buried from the storm. A slab of reinforced steel marked the door, sealed tight with biometric sensors and rusted backup locks.

He dropped down gently beside the entrance, still holding you close, and raised a glowing hand to the scanner. It buzzed, blinked green, and unlocked with a quiet chime.

The door groaned open, and he stepped into the darkness.

Inside, the safehouse smelled like concrete and dust. A low, automated hum filled the silence as lights flickered to life overhead–dim, amber-toned LEDs that cast long shadows on the cement floor. The walls were reinforced with thick alloy plating. Along the far side was a rusted table stacked with blankets, a metal crate of field rations, a solar-powered heater, and a first aid kit tucked beside a basic cot bolted into the floor.

It was functional. It was bleak.

But it was safe.

Sentry carried you straight to the cot and lowered you onto it with such care it made your throat tighten. His touch was steady, his movements precise. And still–he never looked away from you, not even once.

“Let me get the first ai–” The sentence didn’t end, but there was a stark pause.

You recognized that pause. You knew that silence. It wasn’t a hesitation. It was an interruption.

And not just any kind.

It was a Russian Roulette spin with The Void and Bob. Your breath caught, muscles stiffening beneath your torn suit. You braced yourself, eyes narrowing on the man in front of you. That radiant glow–Sentry’s soft golden aura, the warmth that clung to your skin like sunlight–was flickering out.

And you knew who you were about to see before he even raised his head.

Of course it was Bob.

Your heart didn’t lurch–it recoiled. And for a moment, fury shot through you so fast it was like adrenaline kissed every blood cell in your body, pushing you upright despite the fire licking up both sides of your ribs.

Bob’s eyes immediately widened, taking in the sight of you trying to move–of the blood soaking through your suit, still wet on your fingers, and the way your jaw clenched to stop the cry building in your throat.

He stepped forward instinctively, hands raised. “Whoa, whoa–easy, Y/N. Ea–Easy, okay?”

You glared at him.

“Bob.” The name dropped from your lips like venom. “Move out of my way. Right now.” He gulped and shook his head like it might shake away the sight of you bleeding on a cot in front of him.

“Just–Just sit back, okay? Let me get the kit for you. You sh–shouldn’t get up right now, you’re–shit, you’re bleeding all over the place–“ He was already grabbing the first aid kit before you could stop him. You didn’t thank him.

You just snatched it from his outstretched hand, your own bloodied gloves smearing across the white plastic. You tossed it onto the bed beside you, tore off your gloves with sharp, angry movements, and let them hit the concrete floor. You started unbuckling the torn straps of your tactical vest, hands shaking slightly, every shift of muscle sending agony flaring through your sides.

“Get out of the room, Bob.” Your voice wasn’t loud in any sense, but there was a finality to it. Bob blinked–lashes fluttering like he had just been slapped across the face.

”Y/N…I can he-help you.” You stopped moving. Your brows pulled together. And when you turned to face him fully, he saw it–the rawness. The edge.

“You lost the privilege to touch me,” You stated, each word like a razor, “After you broke my fucking heart, Bob. Now get out.”

Silence overtook the room in that moment, it was the kind of silence that made your own breathing sound too loud in the dim room. The kind that made the corners of the space feel smaller, like the concrete was pressing inward. His jaw trembled. You could see it. His hands had fallen to his sides now, curled faintly, like he didn’t know what to do with them.

“Can’t we just…” He exhaled shakily, “Put things as–aside for a fucking minute?” You scoffed–hollow, bitter. You grabbed the first aid kit and pulled it into your lap, gritting your teeth as the movement lit your ribs up again.

“If you don’t leave,” You hissed, “I’ll take this kit and patch myself up outside. In the snow. In the fucking cold. Is that what you want?”

He took a step forward, voice rising with frustration. “Just because we broke up doesn’t mean I su–suddenly don’t care about you, Y/N!”

Your body went still.

Your shoulders locked, and the breath in your chest turned sharp and shallow.

Bob saw the way your face changed–and regretted the words before they even finished leaving his mouth.

You looked at him like he’d just reached in and twisted the knife.

“Don’t you dare start giving me that bullshit,” You spat. “If you cared about me, Bob…If you actually fucking cared–you wouldn’t have broken up with me. You wouldn’t have left me. You would’ve let me in.”

He flinched. Fully. Like your words physically struck him. You were shaking now–furious, bleeding, trembling from a place so much deeper than your wounds. And then your voice cracked, the volume taking you with it. You clutched your side suddenly, buckling forward as another bolt of pain knifed up your ribs.

”Fuck!” You grunted. Bob was there in half a step, his hands twitching up like he might attempt to reach for you again–but he didn’t. He found himself frozen in his spot. A sharp whimper slipped past your lips as you doubled over, clutching your side. The movement sent a fresh wave of blood soaking through your thermal underlayer, and the fire behind your ribs twisted cruelly as you tried to breathe through it.

You didn’t look at him. Couldn’t.

“Just go away, Bob,” You whispered, the words fractured. You blinked hard, jaw clenched against the wetness gathering in the corners of your eyes. “Just…Please go away.” For a second, you thought maybe he would. That maybe you’d finally said something sharp enough, final enough, to push him back across the threshold.

But then you heard it–the thick swallow. The sigh. The familiar crack in his voice.

“I’ll go to the other side of the ro–room,” He said slowly. “But I’m not leaving this bunker.” His voice didn’t shake, but there was a softness to it that pressed beneath your skin and stayed. “I refuse to leave you like this,” He continued, stepping backward even as his eyes stayed locked on you. “As much as you ha–hate me for what I did, I need to make sure you’re safe.” You squeezed your eyes shut, pressing the heel of your hand against your forehead.

His stubbornness. His care. Even now–after everything–you hated that part of him hadn’t changed. You hated that it was the part you missed most.

Your jaw clenched tight. So tight it hurt. But you didn’t speak. You didn’t look at him. You just reached back down and resumed peeling off your ruined tactical gear, one buckle at a time.

The vest was stiff with half-frozen blood, its Kevlar lining torn to shreds from the blast. You tore the shoulder straps apart and let it fall beside the cot with a dull thunk. Your undershirt clung to you, soaked dark across both sides. You didn’t flinch at the cold anymore. It barely registered.

Piece by piece, you undid the layers you’d once let him help you put on before missions–silent hands brushing your hips, warm fingertips slipping between straps, soft kisses pressed to the side of your neck just before liftoff.

And now, you tore them off in front of him like a woman gutting her own past. You could feel his eyes on you, watching the way the blood stuck to your skin. The way your breath caught every time you shifted. The way you refused to cry, even when the pain made your body tense and arch.

He didn’t move. True to his word, Bob stepped back–keeping himself against the far wall. Shoulders tense. Hands at his sides. Silent. But you knew he was still watching you. Every second. Every breath. Because he couldn’t not. And that made it worse.

You grabbed the first aid kit again, flipping it open with trembling fingers. Antiseptic. Gauze. Thread. Numbing agent. You took stock with the clinical focus of a soldier trying not to feel anything at all.

But deep down–beneath the blood, the cold, the grief–you felt everything.

You were just too tired to bleed from more places than you already were.

You dug deeper into the kit with trembling fingers, sifting through gauze pads and foil pouches until you found it: a single sterile packet, crisp white paper, printed with faded blue text. Inside, the curved suture needle sat glinting—thick enough to pierce muscle, sharp enough to slide through torn flesh.

You sighed through your nose and set it gently beside the roll of thread.

The antiseptic bottle came next. You twisted the cap off with a wet click and poured the sharp-smelling liquid over a wad of folded gauze. It hissed quietly as it soaked through, darkening with a slow, blooming stain.

You paused, staring down at your sides. At the wreckage of your body.

The left wound was worse.

It carved a brutal crescent just under your ribcage, torn jagged from a glancing blow you hadn’t even seen coming—shrapnel, maybe, or part of the blast. The skin was peeled open and angry, raw at the edges, oozing slow pulses of blood. The deeper tissue beneath pulsed faintly with your heartbeat, and the bruising around it was already spreading, dark and thick like wine. The right side was only marginally better—a cleaner cut, but deeper. Straight across the oblique, dangerously close to muscle that should’ve stayed intact.

They weren’t mortal wounds. But they were deep. Ugly. And they would bleed you out over hours if you didn’t seal them properly.

You knew what needed to be done.

You reached for the thread. It was surgical-grade, thick and dark, coiled like a serpent inside the sterile packet. Your fingers were clumsy from the cold, but you managed to pull the needle through the first loop, tugging it free. It gleamed in the amber light.

You could feel him watching you. Still. Silent. Every inch of your skin knew where he stood. Knew the way his body tensed when you set the tools out. Knew the sound of him breathing through his nose, like if he exhaled too loud, you’d snap in half.

You said nothing.

You pressed the soaked gauze to your left side first. And screamed.

It wasn’t loud—more of a guttural noise. Something buried deep in your throat, clenched and hoarse and broken from the pain. Your body arched instinctively, jerking away from the sting, but you didn’t stop. You pressed into the wound. You rubbed. You hissed and panted and squeezed your eyes shut until your vision shimmered at the edges.

From the wall, Bob had turned away completely.

His hands were twisted together so tightly the veins stood out in sharp cords across his knuckles, and he looked like he was going to be sick. His jaw clenched, head bowed, eyes screwed shut–and still he heard you.

Every sound. Every grunt. Every pained breath.

You threw the bloodied gauze aside with a shaky arm, the fabric hitting the concrete with a wet slap. Your breath was ragged now—ripping through your lungs in short, shallow bursts that burned. You could taste copper at the back of your tongue.

The numbing spray came next.

You didn’t hesitate.

You took the canister in your palm and sprayed it directly into the gash, watched the mist disappear into torn muscle. You barely registered the cold. The burning was too much. Too loud.

A second later, you dropped the can and raised the needle.

You didn’t breathe. You just started.

The first pierce was hell.

Your hand trembled as you drove the needle into the edge of your own skin, angling it down and through, threading muscle and dermis in one shaking movement. It dragged. It tugged. Even with the numbing agent, the pressure of it tore a ragged whimper from your throat.

You pulled the thread through and moved to the other side.

Stab. Thread. Pull.

You were shaking all over now–ribs stuttering, fingers slick with your own blood, forehead damp with cold sweat. Each pull of the thread tugged your torso, flaring pain through your spine. You had to brace your elbow against your thigh just to keep your arm steady. You bit down on your bottom lip until it split.

And then you heard him.

His voice–low, raw, broken.

“…Fuck, Y/N…”

You paused. Needle halfway through another stitch. Your eyes fluttered up–met his, wide and glassy in the dim light.

He looked like he was breaking in half.

His back had slid down the wall. His hands were limp between his knees now, fingers shaking, chest rising and falling like he’d run a goddamn marathon just watching you do this. He sounded like he was choking on every word before they even left his throat.

“Please,” He whispered, voice cracking. “Pl–Please let me do this for you.”

You froze. You didn’t speak. You didn’t breathe.

He swallowed thickly, eyes shining.

“I’ll be gentle,” He rasped. “I swear. Just…Just let me help you for fuck sake”

You looked down at the needle in your hand. The blood on your skin. The way your stitches were already going uneven because your arm wouldn’t stop trembling. Your pride told you no.

But your body–your pain–screamed yes.

Your heart, however, said nothing at all.

Because it didn’t know how to beat around Bob anymore without hurting.

The needle trembled between your fingers, a thin smear of blood sliding down your wrist, clinging to your pulse. The silence between you stretched, taut and vibrating, like the space just before a scream. Bob sat there, eyes glassy, breath catching in his throat, waiting. Hoping. Breaking.

“…Fine,” You said finally. The word was barely a breath, cracked and bitter on your tongue. “But… I don’t want to talk.”

His head bobbed immediately, eager, frantic.

“I wo–won’t speak a word,” He stammered, voice fraying at the edges. “I promise.” You looked at him. Really looked. He was shaking, eyes rimmed red, his mouth parted like he was afraid even his breath might push you too far.

“Okay,” You whispered.

And before you could change your mind, he moved.

His steps were quick but cautious. He didn’t reach for you all at once–his hands hovered first, trembling, asking permission in the silence. He knelt beside the cot, his knee landing beside your thigh with a soft thud. The warmth of his body flooded close, and when his fingers brushed yours to take the needle, you flinched.

But you didn’t stop him.

He took it gently. Not a word. Not a sound.

He grabbed a clean pair of gloves from the med kit, slipping them on with quick, practiced motions. You didn’t watch his face. You couldn’t. You kept your eyes on the far wall, lips parted slightly, jaw clenched against every sharp wave of pain that still radiated through you.

You had taught him this. Months ago. In a sterile briefing room in Prague, when Ava had caught shrapnel during recon and you didn’t trust the med bay staff to move fast enough. You’d taken Bob aside and showed him how to make each stitch count. How to make the thread lie flat. How to tug the skin just enough without making it worse.

He had picked it up instantly. A natural.

So now, as he began to work–hands steadier than you expected, needle piercing your skin with slow, even rhythm–you hated how easily it came to him. How clean his lines were. How gentle he still was, even with your blood drying across his knuckles.

The universe was cruel like that.

You couldn’t even breathe without remembering that he used to press kisses to this very skin. That these hands had once undone your armor in the dark–only to now stitch it back up in silence.

You didn’t look at him. Not once.

But you could feel his eyes. You knew he was glancing up between pulls. Just small, sharp flickers. Like he needed to confirm you were still breathing. Still there. Still his, in some small, painful way.

You stayed quiet. Let the silence say all the things you couldn’t.

He finished the first side quickly. His hands moved with focused purpose, tying off the thread cleanly before shifting to the other side. He didn’t speak. Didn’t ask if it hurt. He just rethreaded the needle and began again.

But this side was deeper. Slower.

And you felt it–one of the pauses. Too long to be a shift. Too quiet to be nothing.

You glanced down despite yourself.

And there it was.

Tears. Silent and hot, sliding in clean tracks down the curve of his cheek, disappearing at the corner of his jaw. His lips were pressed together tightly, trembling faintly, his shoulders curled inward like he was trying to disappear into himself.

He kept stitching.

Didn’t stop.

Didn’t dare meet your eyes.

You stared at him for a beat too long before turning your head sharply away again, something bitter lodging in your throat.

“Stop crying, Bob,” You said.

Your voice didn’t snap. It didn’t break. It just…Hurt.

He froze. The needle poised between stitches.

A breath shuddered out of him, thick and wet, and he sniffled–shoulders jerking slightly like he was trying to keep everything from spilling out.

“Sorry,” He rasped. “I…I’m trying.”

His hands trembled for a second. Just one. And then he kept going.

Thread. Pull. Thread. Pull.

Like if he just kept sewing your skin back together, maybe the rest of you might follow. Maybe the parts he broke might stop bleeding too.

But you both knew better than that.

He continued stitching until you were closed up and your skin felt taut against your ribs–pinched and burning, but sealed. The last pull of the thread tugged just enough to make your breath catch, and then…Relief. Closure, if only physical.

Bob snipped the final thread, and the sound of it–a tiny, clean click–echoed louder than it should have. He drew his hands back fast, like touching you had branded him. His breath hitched as he recoiled, the stained gloves twitching at his sides like they didn’t know what to do without you beneath them.

He didn’t say a word.

Neither did you.

The silence settled between you again, thick and crackling with the weight of everything unsaid. Then you murmured it. Soft. Honest. Exhausted.

“Thank you.”

He froze. His shoulders went rigid. A sharp, breathless pause–like he hadn’t expected you to speak again, let alone that.

“You don’t have to th–thank me, Y/N…” He said, his voice gravel-thick, threaded with something cracked and fragile. “You know that.”

You looked up at him, and he couldn’t meet your eyes. He cast his gaze away, jaw working slightly, and then reached up to tug the bloodied gloves off his hands with shaking fingers. They landed in the discard pile with a wet thump, joining the remnants of what little trust had survived this far.

Without another word, he stood and stepped back, retreating to the same stretch of wall where he’d sat before. The same patch of concrete that had somehow become his purgatory. He dropped down again with a soft grunt, knees pulled up loosely, arms resting atop them like he was trying to make himself smaller.

You reached for your thermal shirt and pulled it on with slow, painful movements, the fabric catching briefly on your fresh stitches before settling against your skin. It stung. But it was a clean kind of pain. The kind you could grit your teeth through.

You didn’t expect him to speak again. Not after everything.

So when he cleared his throat, the sound scraped against the quiet like a nail dragged over glass.

“Ev–Everything I do…” He began, voice low, chest barely rising, “Every decision I make… It’s to keep you safe.”

You froze, halfway through rubbing at your temples.

The words hit something raw in you.

You turned slowly, facing him fully now. His head was bowed, eyes fixed on the floor between his knees. He wasn’t posturing. Wasn’t trying to win you over. He was just… saying it.

You stared. “Was that your rationale for when you decided you wanted to break up with me?”

His jaw clenched so hard you saw the muscles twitch.

He looked up. Eyes glassy. Raw.

“Do you understand… Ho–How fucking devastating that decision was for me?” he asked, and it cracked out of him like something that had been boiling under his ribs since the day he left.

You let out a bitter laugh. Dry. Broken.

“You could’ve fooled me, Bob,” You replied, eyes narrowing. “You practically did it like it was the most casual conversation you’d ever had in your entire fucking life. Didn’t even let me get a word in edgewise either. Nice touch, by the way… Fucking swell.”

He inhaled through his nose sharply, like he was trying to steady himself.

“I don’t deserve someone like you,” He said, the words spilling out too fast. Desperate. “Do–Don’t you understand? Don’t you get it? I rely on you like you’re my fucking oxygen. I am a fucking burden!”

You snapped.

“And I chose you!” You fired back, sitting up straighter despite the way your torso screamed.

“Don’t you fucking realize that?!”

Your voice echoed off the concrete walls, sharp and breathless.

“I chose you! I wanted you! I was okay with everything! With Sentry, with the Void, with your recovery–I was fine! I wanted you for who you were!” Your throat burned. Your chest heaved. “Then you just up and left me. And you decided for me. And I’m so fucking mad at you for that, Bob.” He looked wrecked. Like every syllable ripped another piece off of him. His hands were curled into fists against his knees, jaw clenched so hard you thought it might crack.

“I thought I was doing the right thing,” He whispered, almost inaudibly. “I thought pushing you away would protect you from wh–what I might become.”

You shook your head, trembling.

“You didn’t protect me. You destroyed me.”

That landed. He went still. Entirely. Not even breathing for a moment.

“You destroyed me,” You whispered, the words scraped raw, trembling on the edge of your tongue. “And left me to pick up the pieces.”

Your throat tightened as the memories forced themselves back in–the sleepless nights, the unanswered messages, the missions where his silence felt like a second set of injuries.

“You ignored me,” You continued, voice gaining force like it had broken free from somewhere deep. “You didn’t try to let me in. You hid yourself from me.”

You looked at him, and for a second, he looked small. Folded in on himself. Like he couldn’t take the weight of what you were saying–but knew damn well he needed to.

“And yet I’m still fucking in love with you.”

His head jerked up.

“I’m still giving you the time of fucking day,” You spat, laughing bitterly through a breathless noise that wasn’t quite a sob, not quite a scream. Your hand flew up to your eyes, pressing hard against your tear ducts like you could physically stop them from spilling. “God–” You let out a short grunt of frustration. “God, what the fuck is wrong with me?”

“Y/N…”

“Please,” You cut in sharply, your voice cracking in the middle of the word. “Please don’t say my name. I can’t…” You shook your head. “I can’t bear to hear you say it right now.”

Bob’s mouth opened—then shut. His whole body drooped like the last sliver of breath had been knocked out of him. He blinked hard and turned his face away, the muscles in his jaw twitching. You saw his fingers twitch where they rested against his knees, then rise shakily to wipe the tracks on his cheeks with the edge of his sleeve.

“I’m sorry,” He whispered.

The silence that followed was thick and uneven. It pulsed. Hung. Broke slowly in your lungs.

You sniffled and closed your eyes tightly. The inside of your throat burned like ash. And the ache in your ribs was nothing compared to the one swelling in your chest.

The worst part was–you knew he meant it. You felt the apology in every shaky breath, in every twitch of his hands, in the way he didn’t dare look at you now. But that didn’t make it better.

Didn’t undo what he did.

Didn’t erase the nights you stayed awake thinking about what you could’ve done differently. The way you had to force yourself not to text him. Not to fall apart every time you passed his room.

And now here you were. In a fucking bunker. Bleeding. Barely stitched together.

Still loving him.

Still breaking over him.

And he was just sitting there–across from you like a fucking ghost with a beating heart.

You sucked in a sharp breath through your nose and whispered, “You don’t get to be sorry now, Bob…You made your decisions…Now I need to live with them and accept them for what they are…And I can’t do anything about it.”

[sereia4skz]

Hii I have a new request for you!!!

Can you please do poly!stray kids x reader where we yell “who wants to suck/lay on my tits?” and then they all come running in all at once and then they argue over who gets to like suck/lay on our tits

drabble | tits for all

pairing: poly!ot8 x f!reader

genre: suggestive

warnings: suggestive, tit sucking talk, chaos

word count: ~800

masterlist: A-Side (texts) | B-Side (written)

It’s quiet. Too quiet.

The kind of quiet that means one of two things: either they’re all asleep or you’re about to be pranked. And since no one’s tried to wrap you in saran wrap or fill the sink with jello, you assume the former.

Which is boring.

You're sprawled across the couch in your softest pajama shorts and a tank top that hangs loose around your chest. not on purpose, but not not on purpose either. You flip your phone upside down on your chest and glance toward the hallway. It’s still.

You stretch your arms over your head lazily and grin to yourself.

Time to stir the pot.

You clear your throat, take a deep breath, and yell: “WHO WANTS TO SUCK OR LAY ON MY TITS?”

For exactly 1.5 seconds, nothing happens… Chaos.

There’s a thud, a shout, the distinct sound of something wooden falling over, and the thunder of eight grown men in various states of urgency, tripping over each other to get to you.

Jisung is the first to slide into the living room sock-feet first, clutching the doorframe. “ME. OBVIOUSLY ME. I CALLED TITS FIRST.”

“NO YOU DIDN’T!” Seungmin shouts from behind him, elbowing his way in. “I was literally thinking about them thirty seconds ago. Telepathic claim.”

Jeongin bursts in from the kitchen, holding a banana like a weapon. “I was mid-snack, and I STILL showed up! Doesn’t that earn bonus points?!”

“Out of the way,” Minho says calmly, stepping over a tangled pile of limbs. “You guys clearly don’t know how to share.”

Hyunjin dives over the back of the couch with a dramatic gasp, landing chest-first across your lap like a fainting Victorian woman. “I have arrived. I will not be moved.”

You blink down at him. “You good?”

“I’m at peace now,” he mumbles, cheek already nuzzling against your chest like he’s imprinting on it.

Felix practically vaults onto the armrest, grinning like a fox. “If I get there second, can I at least kiss them?”

“Back of the line, sunshine,” Chan says, voice low and possessive as he walks in last, arms crossed, gaze locked on your chest with laser focus. “The eldest should get first pick.”

“Did you just pull rank for boob access?” Seungmin huffs.

Chan shrugs. “If it gets me face-to-tit, yeah.”

By now you’re surrounded. Seated on the couch with one arm around Hyunjin’s waist and another hand braced on Felix’s thigh, you watch the rest of your boys start forming an organized chaos pile.

Jisung drops to his knees beside you, big eyes pleading. “Just let me touch them. Or, lay my cheek on one. I won’t even lick. Unless you want me to.”

Minho pushes his head aside like a basketball and settles beside your other hip, arms already snaking around your waist. “They're mine tonight.”

“Not fair!” Jeongin whines, trying to crawl up your legs. “I haven’t gotten boob privileges in weeks! You let Seungmin nap on them twice last week.”

“Nap access is different than suckling rights,” Seungmin argues, deadpan, already halfway curled up on the couch arm and looking like he’s ready to start a spreadsheet.

Chan sighs and kneels behind the couch, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “Let’s be democratic. Five minutes each. Order based on who’s made you breakfast this week.”

“No!” Jisung howls. “That’s biased! I suck at cooking!”

“You’re better at sucking other things,” you say innocently, and half the room groans in disbelief.

“NO FAVORITISM,” Jeongin yells.

“You love us all equally,” Hyunjin murmurs into your chest. “But I’m the prettiest, so.”

You laugh so hard your chest jiggles, and suddenly the whole room goes quiet.

Jisung whimpers audibly.

“Okay,” Changbin says slowly, eyes fixed on you, “we can’t all do this at once-”

“Yes we can,” Minho cuts in. “You just lack vision.”

“Group cuddle,” Felix suggests with a dreamy grin. “Tits in the middle. We arrange ourselves like a flower.”

You open your arms with a little shrug. “Plenty of room.”

There’s a beat of chaos as everyone scrambles into place, limbs tangling and thighs overlapping until you’re absolutely swarmed. Hyunjin remains dead center, head tucked under your chin. Chan ends up behind you, arms caged around your ribs. Minho’s got one hand tucked firmly under your shirt like he owns the damn thing. Changbin is hugging so hard one of you is going to pop like a balloon. Felix and Seungmin are on either side of your legs, each claiming a thigh. Jeongin’s curled into your hip like a cat, and Jisung, well.

He stares up at you from your lap, eyes wide, lips pouty.

“Can I just kiss it?” he whispers. “Just a little one? Just a taste?”

You raise an eyebrow, letting him sweat. “Tomorrow,” you say sweetly. “Maybe.”

He whines. And from beneath the tangle of limbs, Minho mutters smugly: “Told you she likes making us beg.”

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