#so. i think. that. everyone should. keep me in their thoughts

[emisluvr]

‎ AFTER HOURS ˎˊ˗ teaser

✶ SYNOPSIS ── your coworker, jake, is the shameless office slut. he’s cocky, lazy, and infamous for fucking every girl in the office until they’re obsessed. you’re the opposite: organized, driven, and sick of his shit. your best friend heeseung keeps teasing you about the “sexual tension,” but you deny it every time.. until one night, you and jake end up staying after hours at the office.

✶ STARRING ── office fuckboy!jake, fem!reader, bsf!heeseung

✶ CAUTION! ── sexual content, enemies to lovers, lots of cursing, office au, y/n overhears boss and jake getting freaky, eventual smut scenes, teasing, heavy tension, mentions of gossip, jake is an absolute menace. warnings will update in the final fic.

✶ DURATION ── teaser is 1.1k words. oneshot is currently at 4.2k, estimated to finish at 8k-10k.

EMI ✉️ rahhh first long fic in the making !! i've been pretty consistent with writing this so far.. hopefully i don’t lose the motivation /j there’s no deadline for this tbh, but i predict it’ll be out nearing the end of this month, or earlier, but we’ll see! if you’d like to be added to the taglist for this fic, comment on this post or send me an ask.

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Jake’s the type of guy everyone loves, even though there’s not a single good trait about him. Except for the fact that he shows up to work looking hot with zero effort. In the bathroom, girls constantly gossip about him. There’s never a time you can pee, let alone wash your hands, without overhearing some girl rave about how good he made her feel.

“He made me cum in under five minutes.”

“He secretly edged me at my desk.”

“I still dream about how his fingers felt inside me.”

“He fucked me in the lounge room.”

These are just a few of the things you hear about him on the daily. And it’s usually a different girl every time. That’s what made him such a whore in your eyes. And sure, everyone knew about it, but no one cared. A guy as good-looking, probably big, and charming as Sim Jaeyun could get away with just about anything.

To say it pissed you off was an understatement. He showed up late almost every day—today being a rare exception. He flirted with HR and practically skated by with minimal effort, all because he was hot and somehow everyone’s type.

Yes, he does actually do his work on rare occasions just to avoid getting fired, but most of the time he coasts on charm. It’s the only fucking thing he knows how to do with that pretty face.

What everyone knows best about him, though, is his reputation for fucking his female coworkers and leaving them obsessed. The thought made you partially disgusted. But at most, all he is to you is just a guy with an insane face card who’s using it to his advantage and getting exactly what he wants in return: pussy.

And as if that didn’t already paint the perfect picture of him being an asshole, he always made it a point to specifically tease, flirt, and annoy you. The one person in the office he hadn’t gotten the chance to fuck. If you gave him that chance, he would absolutely take it. But since he’s your arch-nemesis, you promised yourself you’d never let him touch you, let alone lay a finger on you.

──

You didn’t know why it was still lingering in your head—like you didn’t already know that he’s done this to nearly every girl in the office. It doesn’t matter. It’s just Jake. He’s a sleaze, a whore, and the very reason your days feel ten times longer than they should.

And yet, you can’t stop thinking about what you heard. The way she moaned, the way he groaned and talked so dirty to her, the infamously cocky tone in his voice like he knew he was ruining her.

You squeeze your thighs together under your pencil skirt, looking away from the screen, utterly disgusted with yourself for letting your thoughts wander.

You keep clicking away at your mouse, moving tabs around, trying to look productive—like you’re doing something—but you can’t focus on anything. You type random words that float around in your noggin that don’t relate at all to what you have to write about, delete them, type again, until you eventually give up and roll your chair away from your desk, now facing the entrance and trying to take a breather.

Your thoughts still creep in your head. They’re almost impossible to push out.

“He fucks like that just for a raise?”

“She sounded so dumb for him.. Was it that good?”

“Is he that big?”

“Why the fuck do I care?”

Fuck it, you need another cup of coffee.

You step out of your cubicle, running a hand through your hair as you notice Jake walking out of the office. His hair is messier, shirt untucked, sleeves still rolled to the elbow—he looks even more disheveled now. But he still looked so good, even post-fuck.

You really didn’t want to cross paths with him again, not after hearing him railing your boss in real time, when he didn’t think anyone could hear.

The minute he walks by you, your eyes meet, and he winks. “Slut,” you mutter under your breath, heart skipping in frustration. You blink, your heels clinking against the floor louder as you walk faster toward the lounge room, desperate to get away from everything and anything, even if that meant through another dose of caffeine.

You and Heeseung planned to meet at a small café in the lobby of your office building during a quick break. Since the workday had already started, the café was pretty quiet—soft music played in the background and just a few coworkers were scattered around. It was the perfect spot to catch your breath before heading back.. and to tell your friend what you had just heard not long ago.

“You look like you saw something you weren’t supposed to,” Heeseung says, noticing how you look down in your lap and stay oddly silent. Normally, if you were going to complain about Jake or your never-ending workload, it would’ve spilled out by now.

“Close enough..” You look up from your lap and at your friend’s bambi-like expression, and reluctantly tell him what you overheard just an hour ago.

“You heard it? Like.. full-on?” His eyes slightly widen—not that he was surprised or anything. He was only shocked that you had finally got a taste of it yourself, meaning you heard everything.

You nod, lips pressed together. “Gosh, she sounded like a pornstar..” you say, before cringing at your own words.

“Was he all like ‘who’s your boss now’?” Heeseung smirks, about to laugh at his own dirty comment.

“You’re disgusting,” you say, before realizing that’s one of the many insults you threw at Jake today.

“I’m just saying.. guess the real promotion was inside her all along.” He cracks another stupid joke.

“Heeseung!” Your tone goes higher.

“Jeez, sorry,” he says, putting his hands up in mock surrender. “Bet you couldn’t even focus on your work after hearing that.”

You can’t even make eye contact with him anymore. Because it’s true—you couldn’t. The sole thought and memory of it was consuming you, and you hated it.

Jake’s high-pitched groans, his breathy filthy talk, the way she was moaning like it was the best sex she’s ever had—all lingered in your brain more than they should. It’s almost as if the second you heard it go down, the sound stuck with you for the rest of the day, clinging onto you like a reminder that the man who teases you every day, the man you despise, is willing to go as far as fucking his boss for a raise.

He doesn't even deserve one. Never did. But again, who says no to a face like his?

© emisluvr 2025. all rights reserved.

[stargirlygirl]

first time with caleb (he's a sex worker)

sex worker/of model!caleb x virgin!fem!reader

summary: your fav of model is staying in your hometown for the next few months, so you book with him to have sex for the first time.

contains: nsfw, smut, protected sex, p-in-v, oral sex (both receiving), size difference (but reader isn't necessarily skinny), porn with plot (lots of it), religious metaphors, caleb's had a vasectomy, 15.8k words

heavily inspired by @heartyluv's camboy!caleb series

You’re a virgin. But you swear it’s not because you aren’t hot or something. You’re saving it, you know? Waiting for the right guy to come along. But that right guy is taking his sweet, sweet time.

Getting older, it’s quite frustrating to be a virgin when everyone around you (you swear) is at it non-stop. Your friends are constantly sharing their good and bad experiences, giving you a mixed bag of feelings on your abstinence. You’re not innocent, per se. Oh no. You’ve seen some things. And it’s because of those things that you’re having a crazy train of thought right now.

So, there’s this man. Of course, you don’t know him personally, but he’s such a catch. Charming, playful, and handsome, what more could a girl want? (I could name more, but let’s keep it here.)

You were first introduced to Caleb when he started OF a few years ago. It was his sweet features coupled with his fat cock that drew you to click on his first video. And you haven’t been able to stop clicking on them since. Even as his subscription price rose with his popularity, you’ve remained a loyal fan of his hard (😏) work.

You’re always one of the first fans on his lives, always donating extra money here and there to his righteous cause, and always leaving meaningful comments on his work. You’d like to think he knows you. Or at least, knows how lonely you are. I mean! How good his videos are. Yeah. Cause they’re reeeeaaaaaally good. Best orgasms you’ve ever had are while watching this man pump his thick length for thousands of fans.

His collabs are cool, too. Stunning co-stars, great banter, and hot sex. But, when you watch them, this pit in your tummy forms. You know that’s crazy talk, but you can’t help it. You’ve known him longer than they clearly have. But, you don’t know him.

And at this moment, you’re thinking of changing that. Someone seriously needs to restrain you as you scurry around your apartment for your phone, like an anxious dog. And you pant like one, drool dripping onto the screen as you tap open a certain app and head to Caleb’s profile.

He announced a few days ago he would be in your home city, living with friends for the next few months while his luxury apartment is renovated. Your heart races as you start typing out your message to him.

Hey Caleb, it’s Y/n. I’ve been a fan of yours for a while now and

Dear Caleb, it’s

Hey there, Ca

Hey Caleb, it’s Y/n. I’m a big fan of yours and I heard you were

Hey Caleb, it’s Y/n. I’m a long-time fan, and I saw that you’re staying in [your home town] for a few months. I was wondering if you were still taking bookings?

The cursor-line blinks back at you, waiting for your next move. An onslaught of thoughts hit you like a train. What’re you doing?!! He’s never going to respond. Should I attach some money to this? But what if he’s not doing bookings? Is this giving desperation?

Sighing, you do the only logical thing in this situation and delete your message press send. You squeal and throw your phone onto the couch, utterly petrified by what your yearning just drove you to do.

Standing up, you pace around the living room, contemplating whether to delete your message and pretend it never happened when your phone dings. You flinch at the ping. Could it be—No.

“It’s just LinkedIn or AliExpress or something, okay?” You tell yourself while retrieving your phone. Oh fuck. You click on the notification. It takes you back into the chat section of OF. Staring back at you is Caleb’s reply.

hey y/n. yeah, you’ve been following me since i first started. really appreciate it, pretty. i’m still taking bookings. do you have a day in mind?

Your fingers are trembling and palms sweaty as you type out your response.

I was thinking this Friday, if you’re not busy?

This Friday?! That’s too far away. Wait. That’s too soon! You’re gonna have to get waxed and buy lingerie and maybe stock up on your favourite perfume just in case and—

fuck, i’m busy this friday. how about next saturday?

Thank the Lord. You sigh as you reply:

Yeah, sounds great.

You’re about to bite your nails from how much you’re stressing.

I’ve never done this before, sorry. I’m like really nervous rn.

Just as you’re about to delete that last message, Caleb’s response pops up.

that’s okay, honey. we can do four hours saturday night? dinner and intimacy

You swear your face is on fire as you click send without even thinking.

Can we do more?

You groan and cover your face with one hand. Screaming into it frustratedly, you look back at your phone.

course, pretty. we can do overnight yeah?

Overnight?! You’re in shock. 1) Because you’re texting THE Caleb Xia. The man who you’ve been watching fuck his fist (for the most part) religiously for years. And 2) because he’s suggesting you spend a whole night together? Where do I sign up?

Yeah, I like that.

You hesitate, wondering whether you should spill the beans now on why you reached out in the first place. But you don’t have to wonder because he asks:

soooooo what do you wanna do with our time together?

You resign to take a shower as soon as everything’s sorted out because by the Heavens, you are sweating up a storm amid the blizzard your AC is unleashing upon your apartment.

Oh haha yeah so it’ll be my first time

Silence. Complete silence for the next two minutes from the OF model as you sit there, anxiously shaking your foot while waiting for his reply. Did you say something wrong? Did you just ruin everything? Your phone finally buzzes.

i see, honey. well, make sure you practise before saturday. you know what to expect, yeah?

Oh. The most important detail— his fat ass cock. You’re cooked.

Haha yeah I will, promise. So is there anything I need to know? Like, do I book a hotel room or something?

You two continue texting for the next ten minutes or so, working out all of the details of next Saturday night. You’re plan is to meet up at a classy restaurant before heading back to your place. To secure you’re booking, you transfer him a 30% deposit.

thanks, honey. i’ll see you next sat

You can’t stop the goofy grin on your face as you reply:

Sounds good! I’ll see you then

Smacking your phone down on the coffee table, you collapse on the couch cushions and squeal excitedly. You’re in disbelief that this is actually happening, but your suddenly poorer bank account provides evidence for the affirmative.

By the end of next week, you won’t be a virgin anymore. Your heart swells with elation at the thought, but tingling nerves puncture the sweet feeling.

Let me revise that: by the end of next week, you won’t be a virgin anymore, BUT on a scale of one to ten, how likely are you to manage taking Caleb’s massive cock? Your current rating isn’t looking so good.

The OF star’s text message replays in your mind. Make sure you practise before saturday. You know what to expect, yeah? Dear Lord, do you know what to expect. Maybe you should have went with someone a bit more… reasonable. The thought makes your heart pang.

If you’re going to do this with anyone, then Caleb is the right choice. He’s always yapping away in his videos, making his fans feel so comfortable yet flustered at the same time. You hope he’ll be somewhat similar in real life. You know he will be!

But you also hope he’s different. You hope you’ll get to see a new side of him, maybe one solely reserved for you. Someone call your therapist because the delulu is speaking again.

…˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚…

It’s 2pm when your phone buzzes. You smile and nod at the nail technician, silently requesting for permission to grab your phone. The nail tech nods back at you, and you fish it out of your bag with only nail extensions on. Your heart rate spikes.

It’s Caleb.

Clicking on his message, it reads:

[image attachments]

hey honey, here’s my test results. all clear for tonight. i’ll see you at 7

You grin stupidly, a warmth bubbling within as you text back:

Thanks! I’ll see you then

You tap on the documents Caleb sent you. They’re pathology results. HIV, Hepatitis B and C, Chlamydia, and so on as you swipe through. Your thumb freezes on the last test.

Semen analysis. Sperm count: 0. Sperm motility: 0. Sperm concentration: 0.

You stare at your screen, blinking dumbly as you read over the results again and again. Now, you’re no doctor. But you can read a sperm count. Caleb said he got the all clear. And damn it seems he really meant it. No STIs or sperm? You’re winning on all fronts tonight!

Locking your phone, you drop it into your bag and switch hands. You place your now gelled nails under the LEDs while the nail tech slathers more gel onto your other fingernails.

“Boyfriend?” The nail tech asks.

You laugh breathily, “Yeah.” A lie, but there was no way you were about to explain who you were seeing tonight.

When you tried explaining what you had signed up for to your friends, you got some very different reactions. Your long-time best friend was critical but supportive, while your other friends either thought you were crazy or wanted to throw a party for you because it’s about damn time you got laid.

It’s already past 3pm once you leave the nail salon, so you book it back home to start getting ready. You’re going all out tonight: shower, glowy body oil, special occasion makeup, and even styling your hair. You know he likes a bit of bush, so you trimmed yours in anticipation.

You sigh as you stare at your reflection in the mirror while your music blasts in the background. Smoothing your hands down your minidress, you turn to the side to admire yourself.

Your nerves spike at the thought of sharing your body with Caleb tonight. Sometimes, self-love is hard. But you’ve done everything you can to make yourself look good and feel good for your date, and that’s enough.

Snatching your phone from the vanity, you check the time. 6:22pm. You head to your dresser and pick out your jewellery. Some classy pieces, some unique ones. Finishing the look off, you slip on a pair of kitten heels and grab your bag.

It only takes 15 minutes to drive to the restaurant from your house. But for some reason unbeknownst to you, every man and his dog are on the roads at 6:30pm.

You groan in frustration as yet another beat up rust bucket cuts you off. What’s taking so long?! The red light flicks to green but there’s no movement. And when there finally is some, it’s this leisurely crawl across the intersection.

The beetles scurry as you blare your horn. Even the traffic light is intimidated by your sudden road rage. It can hear your screaming and cursing the very existence of driving as you make it past the stop line on orange.

Somehow, you manage not to rear end someone by the time you reach the restaurant. After parking, you race to the glass double doors, your heels clacking on the pavement. Throwing the door open, you stop at the host stand and fix your likely dishevelled appearance. Your heart races and you fan your face, eyes frantically drifting around the cosy restaurant.

Soon, the waiter greets you and you give your name. Leading you to the back, they inform you that your date has already arrived. And then you see him.

The smooth jazz and constant chatter melt into the periphery as your heart skips a beat from his beauty. Soft features, but you know what lurks beneath. An angelic trap. An incubus luring you in with his seductive ways. If his mere presence could be considered seduction (you’re certain it can).

He hasn’t even noticed. No, he’s occupying himself with rearranging the salt and pepper shakers on the table, seemingly out of boredom.

Once you draw closer, he gazes up. Those eyes lock on you; their depth is like the grape and chiffon sky as the sun is swallowed by the horizon. You smile reflexively, and so does he. Blood rushes in your ears. You swear you’re about to pass out from how ecstatic-anxious you are right now.

Stopping at your table, the waiter gestures to the empty side of the booth.

“Hey,” Caleb grins, a brightness in his eyes.

You giggle nervously, “Hi,” while sliding across the maroon cushions.

“I’ll get you some table water,” the waiter announces before leaving you two alone.

Shoving your clutch to the side, you start apologising profusely, “I’m so sorry I’m late. The traffic was actually insane like, I swear. I literally left at—” Caleb grabs the hand you were making gestures with and brings it to his lips. They’re incredibly soft. Your eyes widen. Pulling back, he swipes his thumb over the delicate skin he just kissed.

Caleb wears a gentle smile as he reassures you, “It’s okay, pipsqueak. Can I call you that? Pipsqueak?” You nod, a goofy grin on your face like you’re back in high school, talking to your crush for the first time.

The waiter returns and sets down two glasses. They pour water for you two before handing out the menu to look at. As they fade into the flurry of tables and other bustling waiters, you open the menu. The first thing you see is not the exquisite options they have to offer, but the bank-breaking prices you’re gonna have to pay for them.

“$68? For… for an entrée?” You mumble thoughtlessly, skimming through the other pages to see how much worse it gets. You’re already paying over $1k to sleep with Caleb tonight, you can’t afford over $100 for a meal.

Your date chuckles, “Don’t stress, pips. I’ll cover the bill.” Gazing up, you stare at him like he’s grown a second head. After a moment, you regain your composure.

“No, no, that’s okay. It’s chill or whatever,” you try to say nonchalantly.

He raises an eyebrow while echoing your words, “’It’s chill or whatever’?”

“I mean— Argh I’m just really nervous, sorry,” you blurt out.

“I’m just really excited to meet you and obviously like for later tonight. Like I’ve been following you for ages so like, this is really cool and—” Caleb’s chuckle cuts you off. He covers his mouth, attempting to cough it off, but it’s clear that he’s laughing at you.

“What?” You ask, your brows drawing together in confusion.

He shakes his head, a big grin on his face as he responds, “You’re really cute. And you look gorgeous tonight. You know that, right?” Your lips part, words dying on your tongue like flames doused by floods. The embers burn, thoughts tip-toeing around the edges of your mind as you forfeit coherence.

“I…” You start. Caleb returns to browsing his menu, comfortable to leave you sputtering and staring from across the table.

“Ooo, how about the coconut caviar oysters to start us off? You like seafood, yeah?” He asks cheerily. Looking at your own menu, you exhale a long breath.

“Yeah, I don’t mind seafood. But what about the wagyu?” You congratulate yourself mentally for not embarrassing yourself for ten seconds.

Your date suggests, “We can get the wagyu if you want, honey.”

“O-okay,” you say quietly. Your palms are positively perspiring with how warm it is inside. The low lighting and quiet atmosphere are almost too moody. And with this hottie sitting opposite you, you’re sure your cheeks are red right now.

The menu items are like a jumble of words, half of them are places before specific food items. Is this what fine dining is? Food from ‘exotic’ locations served in tiny portions at whopping prices? You guess so.

Oh shit!

You drop your menu on the table, your hands frantic as they feel up the booth cushions for your clutch. Your sudden movements attract Caleb’s inquisitive stare. His eyes flicker between you and his menu out of courtesy, though they don’t miss how you search around in your bag like you’re digging for gold. You retrieve a white envelope and hold it out to him. Your date lowers his menu.

“This is for you,” you breathe out. Eyeing you, Caleb slowly takes tonight’s payment from you.

Leaning forward, he murmurs, “You could have given this to me later, pips. I know you’re good girl.” Your soul leaves you body and travels skyward. That’s where you are, glimpsing this moment from the dark heavens above.

“Haha yeah, it’s—”

“Chill or whatever?” He interjects. Again, your mind goes blank. But that’s okay. All you want to do right now is carve the image of Caleb smirking at you into your memory. At you. Not at the camera, where his fans are watching him from as he mutters the filthiest praise from the sweetest lips.

No, he’s here with you, right now. And he’s teasing you.

You observe as he picks up his menu and appears to read it reverently. The glowy drop light overhead brings out the peach tones in his eyes, and catches on the light freckles dotting his face.

You feel like such a creep for staring at him, but you can’t help it! He’s just so attractive. His shoulders are even broader in real life, or maybe that’s the blazer’s doing. Either way, he looks HOT in his suit.

“Something on my face?” Your date asks, glancing up at you with that slight smirk still on his lips. You shake your head.

“No, you’re just really handsome. I’m sure you get that a lot, but like. Like obviously online, you look super hot. But like in real life, it’s actually insane,” you babble. You know you shouldn’t let your mouth run, but he deserves to be complimented. Or—

“Sorry, is that weird? Am I being weird, right now? I’m being weird, aren’t I? Literally forget I just said that—”

“I can’t. I have reeeaaally good memory,” Caleb interrupts you, again. But you don’t mind. It’s not that annoying kind of interruption where you can only get two words out before a man answers his own question.

You laugh quietly, feeling slightly more at ease as you notice the tips of your date’s ears turning red.

“Sorry,” you apologise, bringing your hand to your mouth, reminiscent of how he did minutes ago.

Caleb shakes his head and shrugs, “You don’t have to keep apologising, pipsqueak. You haven’t done anything wrong.” Wow, they really need to turn down the heater because it’s warming up in here.

A hushed “Oh” falls from your lips as the waiter returns.

“So, what can I get you started with?” They ask, readying their tablet. You gaze at Caleb expectantly.

Turning to the waiter, he rattles off your order, “We’ll get the wagyu for starters. My date would like the—” Caleb casts you a glance, waiting for you to fill in the blank.

Fumbling with your menu, you hold it up to the waiter and point at one of the main options.

“Whatever this is, please,” you say.

“I’ll get that, too. And the apple-macadamia tart for dessert,” Caleb continues.

The waiter taps away at the screen, asking habitually, “Anything to drink?”

“Water’s fine,” your date answers while collecting the menus. He hands them to the waiter, who then moves on to another table.

Shifting back to face you, Caleb grins, “Soooo, what made you reach out to me?” As if your cheeks couldn’t burn any brighter.

You shrug awkwardly, averting your eyes to the bar nearby, “Well, you know, you, uh… you’re staying here for a while, right? And I live here so…”

“I figured.” You can feel him undressing you with his captivating eyes. They notice the deepening shade of your blush, and how you fiddle with your necklace out of nervousness.

Not to mention, Caleb can feel the vibrations of your tapping foot. Oh, how wants to grab it and set it on his lap, maybe rub your ankle and sole while he’s at it to help with your anxiety.

Seeing your determination to stare at the shelves of spirits, he says, “I was really shocked, you know.” Your head whips back immediately, your gaze focusing on him.

“About what?” You ask, urgency lacing your tone.

Caleb grins, glad to have your full attention, “That you texted me. You’re my biggest fan, but you never asked for anything from me until now.”

You’re anxious as you clarify, “Was I supposed to? Or was I not supposed to? Or—”

“Jeez, pips. Relax,” your date exhales. You nod, crossing your legs to stop them from bouncing.

You open your mouth to speak, but he cuts you off, “And don’t apologise.”

Rolling your eyes, you groan, “Fine, fine, I won’t.”

“Good,” he says with a certain finality. It’s quiet between you two momentarily, the cosy jazz filling the space your conversation doesn’t.

Then, you pipe up, “Am I really your biggest fan?” Caleb nods, a grin twitching at the corners of his mouth.

You gaze away for a second as you mumble, “That’s kinda embarrassing, oh my god.”

“Why’s that embarrassing?” He asks, seemingly oblivious to how much of gooner you must be to be his biggest fan.

“Becaaauuuuse,” you drawl. “Think about the kinda content you make. Nothing says ‘I’m lonely’ like being a… corn star’s number one fan.” You lower your voice for that last part.

Caleb almost seems offended as he counters, “One, I’m not a corn star, I’m a model—”

“You’re a glorified prostitute, Caleb,” you reason. Horror twists his soft features, his jaw slack as he stares at you in disbelief.

“I am not a glorified prostitute,” he asserts, his eyebrows drawing together as his lips do.

You raise your hands by your sides, barely concealing your grin as you surrender, “Right, my bad.”

Caleb huffs, “I’m a model—”

“Sure, sweetie—”

“You,” he mutters, his gaze narrowing. You burst out into laughter at how he looks like a confused puppy. Clutching your stomach, you let out all of your joy and jitters.

There’s something so… disarming about Caleb. Yes, you’ve been incredibly nervous and tripping over your words since you sat down. But he makes you feel comfortable and safe.

You feel like you could tell him anything and he wouldn’t judge you for it. But judging and teasing are two different things, and you’re certain that he’s going to do much of the latter.

“My-my tummy hu-hurts,” you chortle, doubling over in a dull ache.

Your date sulks, “Serves you right, pipsqueak.”

“Ow!” You sniffle, reaching for a napkin. Instead, you knock over the carefully arranged salt and pepper shakers.

“Sorry,” you mumble. Caleb hands you a serviette, which you thank him for. As you pat your glassy eyes dry, he fixes the shakers and brushes off any stray seasonings that got on the table cloth. Placing your scrunched up napkin on the table, you fan your scorchingly hot face.

You grin, “That was really funny.”

“I can tell,” Caleb quips. Once you’ve calmed down, he continues, “What I was going to say before you interrupted me was that being my fan doesn’t mean you’re lonely. Of course, I don’t know you very well yet, but you’re a sweet girl. I’m sure you’ve got friends and loved ones in your life to keep you company.” Yet. Your heart beat turns erratic for a few moments.

“I guess,” you say more to yourself than him while glancing down at the table. You press your lips together, attempting to slow your heart rate with sheer willpower. Black dress shoes come into your line of sight; the waiter has returned.

Gazing up, they set a plate of wagyu in the table’s centre and refill your barely touched water before fluttering off.

“Looks good,” you offer, grabbing your fork and gesturing to the fragrant beef. It’s coated in a gravy with pistachios on top. Fine dining really is fucking weird. Caleb picks up one of the slices on his fork and moves it toward you.

“Open up,” he coos.

You sigh, “Caleb,” as you do just that. The wagyu tastes buttery and rich, yet there’s also a tang from the sauce and nuts.

“Mhmm,” you hum while chewing. Your date flashes you the most innocent grin, his eyes all round and soft as he watches you eat.

“It’s really nice. You should try some,” you suggest after swallowing. Poking your fork through another slice, you hold it up to Caleb the way he did to you.

Feeling playful, you swerve your fork from left to right, riding imaginary waves as you giggle, “Here comes the aeroplane.”

He exhales, seemingly exhausted, “Can’t believe I have to spend the whole night with you.”

“Hey!” You exclaim, retracting your fork. He grabs your hand and brings the utensil to mouth. A smirk splays on his lips as he captures your eyes, watching you watch him bite the wagyu off.

Sitting back, he nods in approval, “Really is good.” Your mind is malfunctioning, words scattered across your brain as you try to form some semblance of a reply.

You decide on, “Don’t chew with your mouth open.”

“Caleb!” You squeal as he opens his mouth and shows you how he masticates meat.

He grins, “What?”

“Are you always this weird with your clients?” You ask sassily while stabbing another tender slice of beef with your fork. Out of the corner of your eye, you catch his Adam’s apple bobbing as he gulps his first piece down.

“Nah. Just with you, pips,” he shrugs. Butterflies swirl in your tummy, adding to the copious amounts of sweating you’re 110% sure you’re involuntarily doing right now. He’s probably just saying that. But with how he takes your hand and makes you feed him once more, you really hope he means it.

Soon enough, you two have eaten your way through entrée and whatever the fuck your main was (some lime, duck, raddichio concoction that tasted pretty good), leaving only dessert left. You’re glad the portion sizes are tiny, because you don’t wanna bloat with your plans for tonight. But even if you do, you’re positive the physical activity will help with that.

The server leaves you two with a scrumptious apple and macadamia tart, complemented by honeycomb ice cream and custard. Caleb breaks into the tart first.

“Do you want ice cream, custard, or both?” He asks, gathering a small slice on his fork.

You murmur, “Both please.” He hums in acknowledgement, focusing intently as he slathers ice cream and then thick custard onto your slice. You lean over and your date eases the tart past your lips.

Hovering your fingers over your mouth, you say between bites, “Wow, this is seriously yummy.”

“Oh yeah? What makes it so yummy?” Caleb muses, already cutting himself a fat slice and heaping on the cold toppings.

You reply thoughtfully, “The apple is a little sour, and it pairs well with the sweetness of the ice cream and custard. And the macadamia gives it this expensive taste, you know?”

“This taste is expensive, honey,” Caleb remarks before shoving his slice in his mouth.

“How come you get a bigger slice? No! Don’t answer that,” you panic, seeing how he smirked at you with his cheeks full like a chipmunk. You can’t help but smile yourself, far too ecstatic for your well-being right now.

Gripping the edge of the plate, you slide it over to you and dig into the tart. By the time you’re both finished, nothing of it remains. The server promptly brings the cheque, and Caleb snatches it up before you can get a glimpse of the exorbitant price.

“Nuh-uh-uh,” he tuts, waving his finger from side to side.

“Caleb,” you groan.

“I’ve got it, pips,” he says resolutely, pulling out his wallet and slotting his card into the black folder before handing it back to the waiter.

As they walk away, you sigh, “Thanks.”

“Don’t worry, honey. It’s included with the service,” your date reassures you.

“What else is included with the service?” You ask flirtatiously. It slips out before you can stop it. Your eyes widen, and you stare at Caleb like it’s his fault you said something so raunchy.

He smirks, “Pipsqueeaaak.”

“Shut up!” You scold him just in time for the waiter’s return.

“All good, Sir. You two enjoy the rest of your evening,” they say in that customer service-polite kinda tone. Caleb takes his card while you nod and thank the waiter before they disappear amongst the tables.

Pivoting to face Caleb, you exhale, “Alright. Shall we get going?”

“Sounds good to me,” he chirps, already standing sliding out of the booth. Dear Lord—Was he always this tall?! And buff?! You clamber out of the booth and stumble on your heels, right into his solid chest.

“Sorry,” you inevitably apologise, grateful for his arm around your waist helping to steady you. Your bodies fit together seamlessly, like you were made to complete one another. Lucky coincidence, you suppose. Tipping your head back, you laugh nervously as he gazes at you with concern in his eyes.

Your date confirms, “You okay, pips?”

“Mhmm, I’m fine,” you nod, separating from him and beginning to walk forward. Caleb keeps his arm around your waist as you two make it out of the restaurant.

Slipping past those glass doors, you squeal as your date bends down and picks you up bridal style.

“So, which one’s your car?” He asks, glancing around the fairly full parking lot.

You squeak, “Caleb! Put me down!”

“No can do, baby. Now, answer my question: which one is your car?” You huff while adjusting your grasp on his neck, resigned to your fate.

“In the second row,” you inform him. With a little more guidance, Caleb plops you down in the driver’s seat. Crouching, he grabs your ankle and removes your shoe.

“What’re you doing?” You whine. Your date merely beams up at you, looking like the happiest man in the world as he takes off your other heel.

“What does it look like I’m doing?” He teases, holding your heels on his fingers and straightening up.

You pout, “Being annoying.”

He quips, “Not my fault you can’t walk in these.”

“Caleb!—” He slams the car door shut, and you grumble, waiting for him to walk around. Clicking in your seatbelt, the passenger door opens and Caleb sets your shoes down on the floor.

After grabbing your clutch from you and putting it on top of your heels, he declares, “From now on, you’re banned from wearing heels.”

“What?” You exclaim, shifting to look at him. His ridiculously long legs are bunched up before he slides the seat back, and his head nearly touches the roof. It’s like someone squished an attractive car sales blowup man in your vehicle. You notice the hint of a smile on his face.

He explains, “I don’t wanna see you fall over and break your precious ankles, honey.”

You roll your eyes and retort, “You sound like my dad.” Turning the key in the ignition, the engine roars to life.

“Ouch,” Caleb says, placing extra emphasis on the ‘ch’. The ghost of grin twitches on your lips as you pull out of the parking lot and start heading home; the traffic is much smoother now.

…˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚…

Ever the gentleman, Caleb carries you into your apartment building and holds you tight in the lift. He sets you down on his black dress shoes, not letting your soles touch the hallway’s brown carpet as you unlock the front door.

Pushing it open, you squeal as he loops his beefy arms around your mid-section and walks you inside. Your date releases you by the couch and placing a hand on his hip, sunset eyes roaming your cosy apartment.

You’ve spent the past few days tidying it up in anticipation for tonight. You could have booked a hotel room, but 1) that would have been even more money and 2) you’d like to have your first time somewhere comfortable, and with someone who makes you feel comfortable.

“D’you want some tea or?” You ask, fidgeting with your hands as Caleb comes to stare down at you.

He grins, “That’d be great, pips.” Nodding, you head over to the kitchen and start preparing the tea.

“Do you want peppermint, camomile, lemon balm, or ginger and turmeric tea?” You shout over the screeching kettle from where you’re standing at the kitchen bench.

Caleb calls back, “Any.” Sighing, you pick lemon balm for the both of you. It helps with reducing anxiety and boosts digestion, exactly what you need right now.

You walk slowly into the living room with two steaming mugs in hand. Your date abandons the fashion magazine you had sitting on the coffee table to take the tea from you. Thanking him, you plop down on the couch and take your mug from his large hands.

After you two get comfy, it’s quiet for a little. You don’t know where to go from here. Do you suggest a movie? Get changed? Chat for a while until things head in that direction?

Caleb breaks the silence with, “Let’s set some boundaries, how does that sound, honey?” You hum in agreement, perking up at the topic.

He wears an easy grin as he says, “It’ll be your first time, right?” You nod.

“And you’ve been practising like I told you to?” Again, you nod, feeling a very familiar heat rising up to your cheeks.

He continues, “I assume you don’t want to do anything too crazy, is that right?”

“Mhmm,” you hum.

“Then I’m happy to do whatever you want tonight.” Your date sets his half-drunk mug down on the low table and slings one arm over the back of the lounge. His muscles bulge out of his white button-up, and your gaze lingers on them a little too long for modesty. Your heart rate picks back up.

He prompts you, “So, what do you want to do, pipsqueak? What are you okay with me doing to you?” You gnaw on the side of your lip, your hands trembling slightly around your tea.

“Um,” you start. You rehearsed this how many times?!

You try again, “Yeah, so like… uh—”

“How about I start you off?” Caleb suggests while reaching over and plucking your mug from you by the rim. It clunks on the coffee table before he takes your shaking hands and squeezes them firmly.

His eyes search yours momentarily, decoding the swirling emotions there for a sign to continue. You nod slightly, your voice rendered useless.

Caleb goes on, “We can make out and see where things go from there, yeah?”

“Okay,” you whisper. Your heart is thumping in your ears so loudly, it almost drowns out your date’s sweet voice.

“Or do you wanna cuddle first?” He asks, rubbing his thumb over the backs of your hands soothingly.

You lean in closer, your voice small as you ramble, “Honestly, I just feel fucking nervous right now. And like I’m really sweaty, and I’ve like never talked to anyone about this kinda thing before. I just wanna keep it… like, romantic? If that makes sense?”

He nods, “Makes perfect sense, pips.”

Your shoulders slump as you sigh in relief, “Okay good.” His smirk has you melting into a puddle of goop. You just wanna squish his cheeks. But your bravery isn’t there yet.

Caleb shifts his grasp on you, now holding both of your hands with one of his as the other comes up and tucks a stray strand behind your ear. His fingertips brush the shell of your ear and rest against your ear lobe before his hand returns to gripping yours.

“Caleb,” you say abruptly. He nods, urging you to continue.

“Is it okay if I go shower before we… do other stuff?” You ask anxiously.

He lets go of your hands while encouraging you with, “’Course, go for it, pips.”

Getting off the couch, you say excitedly, “Okay cool.” You dash off to your bedroom, thinking about much water you’ll be wasting as this’ll be your second shower of the day when you halt.

Whirling around, you dart back to the living room. Your frantic entrance draws Caleb’s eyes. He stares at you like he’s assessing a threat, but upon realising it’s you, his frame visibly relaxes.

“What is it, honey?” He asks, confused.

You blurt out, “Doyouwannacomeshowerwithme?” He gazes at you with a faint knot his brow.

“What?”

Taking a deep breath, you exhale, “Do you wanna join me? So like, we can bond. Or like not. It’s totally cool if you don’t want to, yeah like—” You don’t get to finish before Caleb’s rising from the couch and pulling you into his side.

“Well, what’re we waiting for, pipsqueak? Let’s get showering,” he says enthusiastically. Caleb drags you along the hallway, and you steer him into your bedroom. Once you’re inside, he releases you. Fluttering over to your dresser, you pull out a pair of underwear and a lacy bralette.

You don’t notice your date behind you until he muses, “I don’t think you’ll be needing those.” You flinch, somehow shocked about the presence of man you literally invited into your most sacred space, being in your most sacred space.

You sputter, “Are you sure like—”

“Oh, I’m sure, honey,” he grins cheekily. You swear your super hot face just got even redder and hotter from that seductive look he’s giving you.

You stutter, “O-okay,” as you put your panties and bra back in your drawer.

Whilst you do so, Caleb palms your shoulders. His touch sends shivers dancing along your spine and down your arms.

His chest touches your back lightly, as does he lips as he asks lowly, “Why don’t you show me where the bathroom is and I’ll get the water running?” It requires all of your strength not to collapse then and there from his raspy voice.

The things his voice does to you… Liquid heat pools in the pit of your tummy, arousal leaking from your cunt as you point to the only other door leading out of your bedroom. Your finger shakes a little; a testament to your nerves.

Caleb squeezes your shoulders before heading into the bathroom, fully dressed. Were you also supposed to join him, fully dressed? That can’t be right, right? Or—argh!

You scamper off to the linen cupboard and grab a few towels: one for Caleb, one for Caleb fucking you, one for Caleb cleaning you up, and one just in case Caleb ruins either of the previous three towels.

Standing outside the bathroom door, you bite your lip in nervousness. Preparing all week felt pretty real, dinner felt pretty real, but it dawns upon you just how real all of this was. As soon as you cross the threshold, the man you’ve gotten off to more times than you can remember is going to see and come to know you in the most intimate of ways.

The door swings open and Caleb gazes down at you cockily.

“You’re not backing out on me, are you, pips?” He smirks. You shake your head and hold out his towel.

“For you,” you mumble. He chuckles and grabs it from you, ushering you inside. Immediately, you notice that the water isn’t running. What has he been doing all of this time?

As if hearing your thoughts, Caleb answers, “You were taking a while so I thought I’d save you some water.”

“Thanks,” you murmur, slowly pivoting to face him. He’s taken his blazer off and undone a couple of his shirt’s buttons.

Stepping closer, he asks playfully, “Soooo, d’you wanna help me get undressed? Or should I help you first?” You glance down at your feet and notice that his are bare, too. Caleb’s fingers trail down your arm, his body dusting yours. You inhale deeply and then exhale.

Gathering up your confidence, you look up and place your hands on his chest. Beneath your palm, you can feel his heart beat. It’s stable, like he’s done this a dozen times.

Oh wait! He has!

You hold his gaze for a few seconds, feeling the weight of this moment as his hands rest on your hips. Breaking eye contact, you start unbuttoning his shirt. As each one pops out, you get a glimpse of the body you’ve seen so many times on your screen. But it’s not the same. In person, he’s so warm and huge. His chest is so toned, and those pecs boobs are bigger than yours.

Your fingertips graze his smooth skin as you pull his dress shirt out of his trousers and undo the last few buttons. He grabs one of your hands and places it on his abs.

You hum softly, fingers feeling the ridges of his hard muscles. Giving his tummy an experimental poke, you find that he’s still squishy. Just a solid kind of squishy.

He yelps, “Ah, pips, what’re you doin’?” You giggle, the melodic sound slipping past your lips with little resistance.

“Sorrrryyy,” you smile, glancing up at his beautiful face.

You compliment him, “You’re way hotter in person, you know?”

“So I’ve been told,” he responds, kneading your love handles through your short dress.

“Do I live up to your expectations?” Caleb asks, his tone suddenly sincere. You nod energetically.

Feeling bold, you tug at his shirt, and he helps you pull it off his broad shoulders. You start folding it up, but he yanks the shirt out of your hands and tosses it on the floor with a muttered, “Don’t worry about it.”

You rest your hands on his low waistband, fingers curling beneath the edge as you wait. For what, you’re not entirely sure. But it doesn’t feel right to keep going yet. Your date draws you in, your hips flush against his thighs.

“You alright?” He murmurs, leaning down so his lips brush your forehead. You hum gently in agreement as he kisses along your hairline.

You warn him, “Careful or you’ll be eating my setting powder.” His laugh rumbles in his chest, nice n’ close to you so you can feel the vibrations.

“Really, honey?” He teases, pecking your cheekbone affectionately.

“What am I eating now? Your highlight?”

You roll your eyes and sass back, “That’s my blush, actually.”

“Oh, right. My bad,” he says sarcastically, kissing your gelled brows and made-up eyelids.

“Good try, though,” you say quietly. Caleb hums low as his lips wander dangerously closer to yours. His nose tip nuzzles against yours, and you sigh as your head falls back. Your eyes meet, his seeking permission while yours are half-lidded in anticipation.

He asks, “Can I kiss you?”

“Mhmm, yes,” you reply, your hands snaking up to wrap around his neck. You pull him down with surprising courage, moaning as his plump lips press against yours.

Heaven is not a place in the sky, built upon fluffy white clouds and filled with beings of light. It’s a state of existence only acquired after life’s tribulations. But you swear you can taste it’s sweetness on your tongue, a warmth swelling within as your fingers thread through Caleb’s silky locks.

His large hands paw at your hips, pulling you snug against his body. Heat seeps through the fabric of your dress into your bones, and not necessarily the temperature-related kind.

Your yelp is muffled by your date’s wet tongue sliding across your lower lip. You must be hallucinating, because there’s no way in hell the man you’re kissing right now is getting turned on by you. It’s just impossible. You’re the observer of his lust, not the active participant. But isn’t that what you signed up for? What this entire night has been leading you toward?

Still, your knees buckle and your body falls further into Caleb’s as your tongues intertwine. That sweetness is real, a hint of apple and custard poking at your memories. He keeps you sturdy as you lose yourself in him, and his fists bunch up your dress to your waist.

Separating from you, his lips glisten with spit.

Caleb pants, “Let me help you out of this.” You barely nod before he’s hiking your dress up and over your head. He casts it on the floor, murmuring a half-assed apology as he closes the gap between you two once more. His muscular arm circles your waist, and he trails sloppy kisses down the side of your neck.

Your date mumbles into your perfumed skin, “Can I leave marks?”

“Mhmm,” you hum softly while squeezing his shoulders. His tongue is hot and wet as it licks up the column of your neck.

He instructs you to, “Say yes.”

“Yes,” you answer without hesitation. Those long fingers tangle in your roots and tug gently. You moan quietly, the sound just slipping out as your head tips back, Caleb’s lips now just beneath your jaw.

“This okay, too?” He rasps in your ear. You wish the slick dripping from your core could reply for you, but alas, it can’t.

“Yeah,” you breathe out. His grip on your hair tightens as he sucks a bruising hickey on the side of your neck.

Your back arches, the moan spewing from your lips enough to have Caleb on his knees. But he remains strong yet desperate, his growing erection rocking into your lower tummy.

The self-proclaimed ‘model’ leaves hickeys and bites across your neck like it’s a blank canvas, while his expert hands latch onto your bra and unhook it at the back.

“Caleb,” you pant, pushing slightly at his heaving chest. He steps back immediately, your bra dangling from your shoulders.

His eyes are wide as he asks panically, “Everything okay? Did I go too far?” You shake your head while licking your lips.

You try to explain, “No, I just… um.” Your nerves return, causing you to gaze down. Inevitably, you notice what Caleb’s black pants fight to conceal: his hard on.

“Uhhh.” You gulp and glance back up, but that makes it worse. He’s unravelling you with his eyes like you ate the skin off Maccas chicken nuggies as a kid😔.

“Is it making you uncomfortable?” Caleb asks, his eyes dropping slightly to signal to what’s got extra pink blooming across your cheeks.

“NO! No, I mean, like, it definitely leaves an impression. No, wait! I mean—” His hearty laugh cuts you off, shoulders shaking as he inches closer and takes your hands.

With his signature grin on his face, he says, “Just take a deep breath, yeah? And tell me what’s on your mind.” You nod and inhale as he squeezes your hands.

You exhale, “I just like can’t believe this is happening, you know? Like it’s all so sudden. I never thought you could want me like this.” Caleb pushes you against him, his hands splaying on your bare back while his chin rests atop your head.

Your cheek rests on his heart as he admits, “It’s hard not to, pipsqueak.” You hum in acknowledgement, your hands settling on his waistband again.

His breath hitches slightly as he chuckles, “I was gonna say we can take it slower, but I’m guessing you don’t mind.” You lean back in his grasp and tilt your head to look up at him. His cheeks are tinted red, as are the tops of his ears.

You smirk, “I wanna take it slow, yeah. Wanna take my make-up off, too, if that’s okay?”

Allow me to clarify, you DON’T want Caleb to see you bare-faced, but you equally DON’T want to shower in a full beat or have sex in one.

“Mhmm, take it off now, honey. I’ll actually get the water going this time,” he says playfully. The model tugs your hands off of his pants and starts unbuckling them himself. You turn away, pushing your flimsy bra straps up your arms as you reach the sink top.

After taking off your makeup, Caleb’s already in the shower, presumably setting it to cold asf lukewarm. You sigh as you yank off your bra and step out of your panties, tossing them into the clothing heap on the floor.

Staring at yourself in the mirror, you analyse your subdued complexion. Some times it’s hard to feel beautiful in your own skin, especially when an absolute hottie is waiting for you a metre away. But it’s the knowledge that said hottie’s dick is hard from YOU that has you shuffling over to the shower door and opening it.

Steam rushes out as you lock eyes with Caleb momentarily. Momentarily because he shamelessly checks you out, gnawing on his lip all seductively as he does so. Your thighs clench and you hope he doesn’t notice (bad luck, he does).

Your gaze runs down his body as the water does, seeking purchase in the most intimate crevices of such a man. You let your eyes dip and oh shit—You have to avert them immediately.

It’s not that you’ve never seen him like this before. You have. You’ve seen everything he’s ever filmed, but it’s different, looking at him while he looks at you.

Closing the shower door behind you, Caleb’s on you in an instant. He tugs you into his body, groaning as your soft curves collide with his hardness.

Your gasp is caught between his teeth as he pulls you into another breathtaking kiss. He whimpers into your mouth, his tongue slipping between your lips without invitation. Those strong hands push and pull at your delicate flesh, making your back arch and pussy throb.

Your hands cup his nape, his dark strands already damp from the runing water behind him. And you cling to him like your life depends on it, tilting your head and following his pace. He overpowers you, his hunger almost as intense as his hard on.

It’s dawning upon you how severely fucked you’re gonna get be tonight. You hate to be like “It’s so big” but dear Lord… You’re questioning how that is gonna fit in you as Caleb draws you impossibly closer. It’s like he’s trying to tear off your skin and climb into the cavities of your heart. Even worse? You’d let him if he asked.

“Fuck,” Caleb murmurs, drunk on your taste and how goddamn perfect you feel against him. The way you mould to his body; this must have been divined. His hands glide over your moist skin and squeeze your ass. You yelp, his mouth claiming yours again.

When he finally pulls away, you’re both panting for air. Your laboured breaths intermingle, foreheads connected as you swallow his saliva. The rushing water patters against the tiles, droplets bouncing onto your bodies.

You exhale, “Are you gonna help me get cleaned up or?”

He chuckles huskily, “’Course, baby. C’mere.” Caleb holds you by the hips and shuffles back, positioning you beneath the shower-head. You sigh and close your eyes, the streaming, warm water carrying away your worries and nerves ephemerally. His heat disappears for a second, the popping of a cap echoing throughout the bathroom.

“What’re you doing?” You ask, your eyes still closed. Caleb’s body brushes against yours once again, and you assume his hands are rubbing together from the slimy, lathering sounds emanating in front of you.

You crack an eyelid open but shut it quickly as he order you to, “Keep your eyes closed.” A mischievous smirk spreads across your lips.

“Whhhhyyyyy?” His hands grasp your shoulders, the familiar sensation of body wash covering them. He starts rubbing the gel into your shoulders and down your arms.

He grins, “I’m cleaning you up, just like you wanted, pips.” You imagine Caleb behind your eyelids, puppy ears atop his head and tail wagging like he’s waiting for you to scratch his chin and tell him he’s a good boy. Your giggle fades into a deep breath out as his skilful hands work the body wash up your arms and on your chest.

“Can I touch here?” His fingertips ghost the fat of your breast, and his voice is gentle, like he could wait years for your answer. You nod, but think better of it at the last second.

You voice your consent with a simple, “Yes.” Squeezing some more wash onto his hands, you date slathers it onto your breasts. You nibble at your lower lip, enjoying the sensation of him squishing your tits in his strong hands. Those slender fingers fleet across your nipples, testing the waters. You can feel his intense eyes on you, reading every micro expression dancing across your features.

Grabbing his wrists, you shift his hands back to cover your breasts, your eyes finally opening. He stares at you, his violets slightly wide and brows raised.

With a nod, you urge him on, “You can do more if you want.” He shakes his head, averting his gaze to the side for a few seconds as he contemplates.

Glancing back at you, Caleb says earnestly, “This is your night. You’re in charge, so tell me what you want me to do, Miss L/n.” Hearing your last name tumble from his mouth does something utterly unholy to you and your pussy. You press your legs together, fresh slick oozing out against your will. Your grip on his wrists tighten as you watch each other, fascinated and patient.

“Why don’t we keep going?” You suggest, sliding his glistening hands down to your tummy. As much as you’d like for him to play with your nipples and make you ten times wetter, you’re in the shower to prepare for that.

“Ah—Caleb!” You whine as he pokes your soft midsection, just like how you poked his comparably harder one earlier. He chuckles and palms your waist, already head over heels for how doughy you are.

He hums low, “Mhmm. So fuckin’ beautiful, baby. You sure you don’t have a boyfriend?” It’s your turn to laugh, your frame shaking as you chortle at the thought—

“Oh, I’m sure,” you say confidently. “But thank you. I appreciate it,” you add. Caleb rubs body wash in circles over your tummy before spinning you around leisurely by the hips.

From behind you, he pries, “Any special reason?” He begins massaging your shoulders, his hands pressing firmly into the calcifications strewn throughout your muscles.

His plump lips touch your ear as he continues, “You’re smart, funny, sweet, sexy. There has to be some suitors, no?” His palm digs into a particularly painful knot. You yelp and he immediately eases off.

“Sorry, pipsqueak. Didn’t mean to, I swear—”

“No, it’s fine! It’s fine! It feels kinda nice actually. I’m really tight,” you assure him. His hot breath fans your neck as he laughs, his hands returning to your shoulders.

He murmurs, “If you insist.” All is quiet between you two as you enjoy his tender massage, even though you have to grit your teeth every ten seconds from his thumbs poking at your knots. His question hangs in the air, perhaps pinned up like the stars as you think it over.

You sigh, “I don’t know. Just haven’t found anyone worthy yet, I guess.” Caleb hums as his fingers map out your back muscles.

“Like, for some reason, most men find respecting women really hard. Like, I’m not asking for much, you know? Just a decent guy who takes care of himself and has some life goals,” you explain.

You date replies, “Mhmm, pop off, girlie.” Immediately you whip around and ‘playfully’ slap his chest.

It reverberates off the shower walls and Caleb covers his pecs and yelps, “The fuck was that for?!”

“Do not give me the ‘pop off, girlie’ when we’re in the shower, Caleb! At least save it for when I’m painting your nails or something,” you scold him. Your arms fold beneath your cheat, accentuating your breasts. His eyes dip momentarily but you catch it anyway.

Slap!

“Ow! Ow! I’m sorry, alright! Fuckin’ hell, pipsqueak,” he exclaims. Your cheeks grow hotter as you realise what the fuck you just did.

“Sorry! sorry,” you murmur, stepping closer and rubbing his reddening chest. In the model’s eyes, the cutest pout splays on your lips as you sooth the spots he’s not really hurting in. Buuuuuuuut, you don’t need to know that just yet.

“As you should be, pips. I was just trying to support you and look what you’ve done to me,” he says, his voice laced with fake raw emotion.

You reply earnestly, “I know. I know, and I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. You’ve been so good to me and all I’ve done is hurt you.”

“Huh? Wait, pips—”

“I don’t deserve you, Caleb—”

“Hold on a damn minute, pipsqueak. I didn’t say that—”

“But it’s true! You’re so… so kind and patient with me. And—” Your self-deprecation is cut short my your date cupping your cheeks and shutting you up with his lips.

Your head tilts back, deepening the kiss while his slick hands (from the body wash) slide down your back and rub in the gel. They slip to your ass and squish it, making you gasp into Caleb’s mouth. He smirks against your lips, your tongues lapping at each other’s taste buds and cheeks again.

Breaking apart, he peppers kisses at the corners of your mouth and on your eyebrows and finally, your forehead.

Grabbing two handfuls of your ass, Caleb murmurs into your damp skin, “It didn’t even hurt, honey. So don’t give me that ‘I don’t deserve you’ bullshit, yeah?” You hum softly while chewing on your bottom lip.

Caleb continues on his quest to clean you up. You swear he goes through half of your body wash as he lathers you up. And my oh my is it awkward when he gets down on his knees to coat your legs in the smooth gel. Your pussy is right in his face, but he seems unfazed. Seems is the key word here.

You squeak, “Sorryyyyy,” as his hands work up your inner thigh.

He gazes up at you and grins, “For what? There’s no place I’d rather be, baby. And didn’t I tell you not to apologise, angel?”

“Mhmm, maybe,” you sigh, your fingers running through his soaked locks.

“Then don’t make me tell you again,” he says low.

You nod, “Mhmm, I won’t,” while keeping your eyes on his.

“Good,” he breathes out, leaning forward and chastely kissing a patch of body wash-free skin on your thigh. His fingers come so close to your cunt, you swear he can feel the arousal that’s probably dripped down them. Maybe that’s the point.

A weight comes off your shoulders as Caleb stands back up and you guides you under the streaming water. His hands run all over your body to clear off the body wash, filling you with a tender warmth.

The kind you’d always hoped you’d feel when in love. But that’s crazy talk! You literally just met! Well, technically, you’ve known him for a few years. But that’s besides the point.

This isn’t love. This is paid intimacy. Don’t forget that, you tell yourself.

Caleb’s hands come to rest on your hips as he leans down and whispers in your ear, “So, are you gonna help me clean up, too?” Your eyes snap open, your hands grasping the back of his neck to keep him close so he can’t see how you’re freaking out. Wash him off?! Oh, how you’ve dreamed of this moment. I mean! Ew, boys, cooties, gross. Wash a man? Ugh if I have to, you ‘suppose’.

“’Course,” you say sweetly, releasing him and grabbing your body wash. And just as you suspected—

“Caleb, what the fuck? You literally used all of it!” You exclaim.

He smirks all handsome (like he knows it, too), “Shall I reimburse you, Miss L/n?” For fuck’s sake, he just cleaned down there. What’s he gonna think when you get out of the shower with slick sliding down your thighs?

“Just… shut up,” you say, shaking your head slightly and the bottle violently. It makes those squelching sounds as you flip the cap and attempt to squeeze out what remains onto your palms. It would seem that this mammoth of a man left just enough for himself. You rub your hands together before starting with his arms.

For you, it’s a nice change to give rather than receive. You enjoy receiving, and Caleb is damn good at giving. But it feels fulfilling to soothe your body wash into his skin, to show him the affection he’s an expert at showing others.

You’ve seen it in his videos, how when he does collabs, he always prioritises his co-stars needs. On countless occasions, you’ve dreamed of that being you. Of basking in his loving lustful touch. And now that it is you, it feels incredible beyond belief. But you hunger for more. You’re greedy to return the favour.

“Okay, I have a question for you,” you grin, glancing up at your date.

He nods, “Ask away.”

You hold his gaze as you ask, “When you sent me your test results, you had a sperm count of zero. Why?”

“Oh, that,” he chuckles breathily. Your palms glide across his chest, fingers brushing his sensitive nipples (you swear, all of his fans know this, okay?).

He shudders slightly, “Uh, well, in my line of work, it just seemed to be the most convenient.”

“A vasectomy,” you clarify.

Caleb nods and explains, “It’s not 100% effective in preventing pregnancy, but it’s damn close enough.” Your hands move across his ribs and abs before you pump out some more body wash onto your palms.

You return to lathering up his muscles while asking curiously, “Why do you do bookings? Like, your OF is pretty popular, and most models don’t. With your, uh, quality of content, you probably don’t need to be doing this kinda thing.”

He grins, “If I wasn’t taking bookings, then I wouldn’t have met you, honey.” Your heart flutters as your eyes lock on his. And all you find there is sincerity. Your hands on his low abs still.

“Oh, yeah?” You mumble, averting your gaze to somewhere more reasonable, like his painful looking erection.

Up until this point, you had been avoiding his thick cock like the plague. But you’ve gotta face it (and feel it) at some point tonight, so it might as well be now. His tip is leaking pre-cum, and you almost feel bad with how red his dick looks.

Feeling bold, you ask, “Should I wash your back first, or get on my knees already?” It requires every last piece of your strength to not stutter. And it requires every last piece of Caleb’s strength to not cum right then and there. Your presence does something to him. It’s otherworldly, how comfortable he feels with you, and how fucking hard you make him.

The model is putty in your hands, waiting to be moulded to whatever shape you see fit. Or was it the other way round? Sources suggest it’s a mutual yearning (stargirlygirl, 2025).

“Whatever you like, baby—”

“I’m asking what you would like,” you interject. More pre-cum seeps out, and Caleb would be normally be embarrassed but he just can’t seem to find a fuck to give.

Clearing his throat, he requests, “On your knees, please.” You hum in agreement and do just that, coming eye-to-cock—Coming eye-to-eye with his cock! My bad.

Your fingertips trace the curves of his quads under the guise of soothing body wash into his wet skin. You gaze at his hard-on, a little drool running down the side of your mouth as you take a good look. Doing so only serves to reaffirm your earlier sentiment: that you are completely fucked (or you will be anyway😏).

“Was it always this big?” You ask suddenly, glimpsing up at Caleb’s rosy cheeks and dilated eyes.

“Y-yeah,” he stutters as your fingers draw nearer to his twitching cock. You rinse off your hands under the water before turning back to him.

Your heart is about to burst out of your chest like a baby xenomorph (that one’s for you, @tragicvictoriantears) as you point and ask, “Can I touch?”

He groans, “Not here.” Caleb bends down and hauls you up by the underarms like you’re a misbehaving cat. You’ve never seen someone wash off so fast before he’s dragging you out of the shower, drying you off on 4x speed, and throwing you over his broad shoulder.

Next thing you know, your back hits the springy mattress and you bounce a little. Caleb’s already climbing on top of you, bare and wet. His teeth attack every inch of your skin, ravenous, while his lips soothe your reddening. Your back arches as he takes your nipple into his swelteringly hot mouth.

His fingers trail across your body, his touch hot like a branding iron, marking every part of you as his. Then, they skim up and pinch your breasts, eliciting a yelp from you. You’ve never felt anything like this before.

Pleasure jolts through you as he sucks on your stiff peak, tongue rolling around and over it. Pulling off, his saliva glints in the overhead light, as do his eyes with an insatiability.

“Caleb,” you mewl, pressing your tits up to his grinning lips.

He checks in on you with, “This alright, pips?” You nod energetically, desperate to feel his mouth on you once more.

“You okay if I keep going? Or do you want something different?” He pants, his slender fingers tracing the skin beneath your breasts.

“No, I-I want you to keep going. Feels good,” you reassure him. Caleb moans quietly as his head dips and his tongue roves over your areola again. Your hips buck, in dire need of some friction. Your bare cunt catches on his abs, tearing a raspy moan from you.

“Fuck sake,” your date groans in the space between your tits. His hands travel down to your hips and push them into the bed, drawing out a broken whine from you.

You cry out, “Please! Please. ‘M sorry. Just really sensitive, you know?”

“I know,” he rasps out while gazing up at you. Dear God, you hope you don’t have double chins right now or that would be embarrassing. Lowering your head to your pillow, you stare at the ceiling while trying to wiggle out of Caleb’s firm grip. It’s almost like he’s controlling gravity with how he’s got you pinned.

“Ah! Caleb!” You gasp as he nibbles gently on your tit. Just enough pain to grab your attention, and just enough pleasure to have you craving for him to do it again. You can feel his smirk against your flesh.

“So-rry,” he mumbles insincerely. Your heart accelerates as you watch him shift down your body, his lips worshipping every inch of your skin. Like you’re a swig from the holy grail with how he drinks you in.

Those puppy eyes latch onto yours as his nose brushes the crevices of your inner thigh. You’re positive the tip (of his nose, you freaks; I am freaks) must be wet with how your pussy has been dripping for him.

Shame burns bright red and feels like leaving your hand on a hot plate as he spreads your legs wider. Your arousal glistens and clit twitches under his interrogative gaze. You attempt to close your legs but to no avail.

“Caleb—”

“Stop fighting me, pretty girl,” he moans, his breath fanning over your pussy. Your head falls back as he slides his fingertips up your soaked slit, the sweetest moans escaping from your lips.

The sensation is familiar, yet foreign. Something you must have done a million times when masturbating to his videos. But now that the man himself is between your thighs, simply running his fingers through your folds, you can barely breathe from the pleasure.

And when the pads of his fingers start circling your clit, you’re certain you’ve ascended.

“Fuck!” You moan, high enough to thread your fingers through the clouds and clutch onto them to stabilise yourself. Or maybe you’re clinging to Caleb’s dark roots. You can’t tell.

Something transient; a liminal space. The beginning of your descent into the depths for your sins. But how can something to heavenly lead you to the fiery chambers of Hell?

You almost scream as the model’s tongue laps at your cunt. Your juices spill over his lips in his pursuit of quenching his thirst. But such a trial is doomed for failure.

He’s like a beast, slurping up your slick like it’s his sustenance. It’s messy, and obscenely loud. You’re neighbours are probably going to file a noise complaint, but you couldn’t care less.

Caleb’s fingers and tongue guide you to the edges of the universe and make you count the stars. Galaxy glitter sticks to your cheeks as you float amongst the light. It can’t get better than this, can it?

Clitoral stimulation IS the orgasm game-changer, so probably not. But you remain hopeful as you rock your hips, seeking every last long swipe of his tongue. He leans back, plump lips brushing your soaked ones as he stares at you drunkenly.

“You always this loud, pips? Or is it because I’m here?” Caleb teases.

“Because [of] you,” you whisper, your voice hoarse from your endless moans and pleas.

“Oh, yeah?” He grins cockily, licking his lips and groaning at your taste.

He proposes, “Tell me what you want, pipsqueak. More, or something else?”

Your voice is strained as you reply, “Choose f’me.” He chuckles, his thumbs rolling over your inner thighs tenderly. For a moment, you two stay like that, panting and pondering what will happen next. You suck in a sharp breath as Caleb’s tongue glides up your sloppy folds again.

This time, he eats you out with some consideration for your bedsheets and poor neighbours. But he still has you trembling beneath his hot mouth and expert fingers. Your thighs clench around his head, unintentionally but fuck, it makes him rut into the bed like a horny teenage boy who saw a woman’s ankles for the first time.

Caleb draws you closer to your climax, flicking his tongue just right and plunging his fingers into your gummy walls the way you need him to. It doesn’t take much more before you’re slipping into ecstasy-induced oblivion. 

Your body shakes and thighs clamp tight, but the model welcomes it with a needy suck of your clit. You pull at his locks, attempting to push his head away as you make a mess all over his mouth and hand.

Your arousal drips down his wrist once he finally eases his fingers out of you. His tongue, though, is unrelenting.

It stings as he circles your clit until you’re crying out, “Caleb! Caleb, I can’t! I can’t, baby, please!” His laugh rumbles in his chest as he sits back and wipes his damp chin and lips with his veiny forearm. Moving to hover over you, he notes your bitten lips and the daze in your eyes.

“Good?” He asks, his voice thick with admiration for his sweet girl—client. Caleb meant client. You nod, panting and exhausted. But you haven’t even done anything yet! To him, you mean. You haven’t sucked his fat cock, or even rode it yet and you could already doze off.

“Can-can we take a break?” You exhale. The model nods and sinks on top of you.

“Caleb!” You groan, shoving him by the shoulders. But he just won’t budge.

He plants loving kisses all over your face and praises you, “You did so good, pipsqueak. Yeah? I’m really proud of you.”

“Caleb,” you murmur. He draws you into a reassuring kiss; your tang is on his lips. The slow pace he moves at blesses you with an inkling of strength.

“Thanks,” you mumble into his mouth.

Separating, he grins, “Don’t thank me yet, pips. We’re only getting started.”

“But—”

“You know better than to give me that, mhmm?” He interrupts you.

Those violets stare at you intensely, waiting for your little nod before he proceeds with, “Now, what shall we do next? Get straight into the heavy stuff? Or do you wanna play for a little longer?”

“I… wanna touch you,” you say, your lazy hand reaching up and cupping his freckled cheek. He gulps, eyes flicking between yours and your lips.

He clarifies, “Are you sure, pips? You don’t have to—”

“I want to. I want to make you feel good,” you breathe out, your heart beat steadying. Caleb sighs, his arms squeezing you tightly before he carefully rolls you two over so he’s on his back and you’re on top of him.

He leans in and lightly kisses from your cheekbone to your ear, whispering, “Then go ahead. You can do whatever you want to me.” Shivers run up your spine as his fingers do, and your thighs seize up at his words.

“O-okay,” you say nervously, your flush that never really left returning tenfold. He laughs warmly, his breath battering your skin. Turning your head, you grab his jaw with your hand and squish his cheeks, making his eyes widen.

“What’re you doin’, pipsqueak?” He asks, muffled. You giggle before closing the distance between you and kissing him. Your hand on his jaw softens and slides down to his neck, resting at the base like you’re going to choke him. His breath catches, waiting for you to squeeze. But you change to holding his shoulders, your fingers pressing into his muscles and your elbows propping you up on his chest.

The kiss is deep and intimate. There’s something raw in the way you lick at his cheeks and sample his flavour. Maybe it’s the post-nut haze, but you feel vulnerable.

You feel like your soul is pouring out of your body and only Caleb can bear it. Only he can keep you whole through this life-changing experience. And maybe, he can share a part of himself with you to create something new. Your delusions must have awakened.

You leave kisses on his jaw and down his neck, slithering to his pecs and pinching his nipples.

The OF model yelps, “Hah—guess you know all of my weakness, huh? I’d hardly call that fair.”

“You have the advantage of experience, Mr Xia. I’d call this fair,” you sass back. Oh, Caleb almost busts then and there at hearing his name, so formally, pass through your lips. It sounds so natural. He bites his lower lip and moans as you lick a stripe up his chest.

This is another one of those moments you’ve been waiting for. The chance to suck on Caleb’s pink nipples. And you do, ardently, and staring up at him with doe eyes.

You’re positive that he’s wetting your bedsheets with how dewy his skin still is from the shower. And your date is positive he’s soaking your bedsheets for an entirely different reason. His hips rock, his creamy cock hitting your tummy and making you moan around his sensitive nub.

It slips from your mouth, a string of spit connecting your lips and his nipple. You grin wide, ecstatic as you glimpse down at the pre-cum staining your skin.

Fuck, that’s gotta hurt. His cock is so red and messy. You’ve never seen him get like this before. You gaze back up at Caleb to see him shaking his head.

“Take your time. I can wait,” he whimpers.

You muse, “Maybe you can, but I don’t think little solider can.”

“My solider isn’t little,” he bites back. “And don’t call it a solider.”

“Why not?” You ask, failing to conceal your smirk.

He huffs, “It’s kills the mood.”

“I don’t know, Mr Xia. The mood doesn’t seem killed to me, or him,” you tease. Caleb groans, more pre seeping out of his flushed tip.

“Don’t call me that. And don’t call my cock a ‘he’.”

“Don’t like being objectified, pretty boy? Welcome to a woman’s world,” you retort. Grunting, the model tugs you up and snatches the air in your lungs with his lips.

You moan into his mouth as he squeezes your ass, “You don’t like it when I call you Mr Xia?” He sighs into you, large hands squishing your plush flesh before sliding up and gripping your waist.

“Too formal,” he rasps between nipping at your bottom lip and sucking on your tongue. You mewl softly, enjoying how he ravishes you like he’s been starved for days on end.

But that can’t be right, a famished Caleb. You chalk it up to the act. But he must be a damn good actor because you could swear this is real right now. His desperate, sloppy kisses and how tight he holds you, like some entity could pry you from his hands at any moment.

“Caleb—”

“Shush, pips. ‘M not done yet,” he whispers while pulling your hair out of the bun it was in and brushing your locks with his fingers. You cling to his chest, trying to keep yourself afloat in the midst of his hungry kisses. A whimper bleeds between your mouths; you think it’s yours but you can’t tell with the wet patch growing on your hip.

At last, Caleb draws back, his forehead pressing against yours as you both catch your breaths.

“Can I…. please?” You pant. His glinting lips stretch into a grin.

“Can you what, honey? What exactly do you want to do?” He teases. Your hand settles over his heart, and you find it to be beating as fast as yours.

Inhaling deeply, you mumble, “Can I suck your cock?” Mockingly, Caleb turns his head and presses your lips down to his ears by your nape.

“What was that, pipsqueak?” He asks egotistically.

You repeat your question even quieter, “Can I suck your cock?” Your date chuckles as he faces you once more. You stare at one another, your faces both red and burning hot.

“I told you, baby,” he drawls, rubbing his nose against yours fondly.

“You can do whatever you want to me,” Caleb murmurs breathily. You whine a little, that lustful look in his eyes setting your entire being alight.

“M’kay,” you nod. And before you know it, you’re positioned between the model’s legs, delicate hands wrapped around his fat cock. Light bounces off your acrylics, and your spit dribbles down his shaft. You smear it with his pre-cum to stroke him better.

“Am I doing okay?” You ask, eyes flicking between his erection and that hopelessly needy expression on his face. Flushed cheeks, lips swollen, and low-lidded eyes.

Caleb groans, “So good, pipsqueak. Doin’ amazing.” You nod, your hair tickling his thigh as you gaze down and focus on jerking him off.

Your hands are all sticky and make the most lewd squelching sounds as you pleasure him. You know he’d never ask for you to go further, but curiosity gets the better of you. It drives you to lean down and dart your tongue across his tip.

Pre-cum lingers on your taste buds, unbearably creamy and hot and salty.

You cringe, “Ew. Why’s it so thick? Isn’t it supposed to be less thick since there’s no sperm?”

“Ah!—No,” Caleb moans. “Sperm doesn’t a-affect the consistency.” Staring up at him, you have another hesitant lick of his cock. This time, your tongue glides up the underside of his head, right on the bulging vein.

“Fuck! Don’t-you don’t need to do that,” he whimpers.

You shake your head and insist, “I want to. Promise.” Enclosing your mouth around the tip of his cock, Caleb moans loudly, completely unashamed of how good your lips and tongue feel around him.

You suck, the back of your mind screaming at you to start bobbing your head and twisting your hands. You don’t go to far down. If you did, you’re certain you’d choke on him instantly. And that’s something you’d like to avoid.

You’ve gone over this far too many times in the past week. That is, how to give a good blowjob. But all of your study flees from your mind as you’re presented with the final exam.

Pulling off, you remark, “Swear I’m getting my daily dose of sodium right now.” Caleb chuckles while shaking his head.

“You can spit it out if you want. Here.” He brings his palm close to your face. Leaning over, you gather his pre-cum on the edge of your tongue and spit it onto his palm.

“Thanks,” you say quietly.

He nods, “S’alright,” while grabbing one of the towels you placed on the bed earlier and wiping his hand on it. You two continue this routine: you bob your head a few times until you can’t take the thick brine and cough it out into his waiting hand, and then Caleb cleans his hand and the cycle begins again.

Sucking dick really isn’t as cool as all of those porn videos make it out to be.

Soon enough, you draw him out past your lips and whine, “Can I stop now? My jaw hurts.”

“You can stop whenever you like, pipsqueak,” Caleb reassures you. Nodding, you spit the last of his pre-cum into his palm and straighten up.

“Did you bring a condom?” You ask, already hopping off the bed while your date wipes up his hand. He nods to the bathroom.

“Whole box, baby. In the pocket of my blazer,” he informs you. His arm folds beneath his head as he watches you walk to the bathroom. A cocky grin spreads across his lips as your ass jiggles, and he uses this moment alone to pump his hard length a few times.

From the bathroom, you ask, “Can I have your wallet, too?!”

Caleb laughs, hand still wrapped from around his dick as he calls back, “Go for it!” He’s grinning contently as you step out, condoms in your grasp. Making your way over to him, you plop down and shimmy over to his spread legs.

“Off,” you command while tapping his now pre-cum-covered fingers. Immediately, he lets go and cleans off his hand while you tear into the fresh box of condoms and retrieve one.

“Okay, so teach me. How do I put one of these on?” You chirp.

Caleb instructs you, “Well, first you open the packet—” The red foil is no match for your prying fingers.

“Then, you put it on the tip. Yep, just like that. And then you pinch the tip of the condom. Uh-huh. And now roll it down.” You start rolling it down, but he grabs your wrist.

“No, don’t let go of the tip,” he says, while pulling the condom off and grabbing another foil.

Handing it to you, he murmurs, “Try again.” This time, you struggle to get the condom to roll down.

“Grab all the way around. NO. Okay, let me hold the tip and you use both hands to roll it down.” Caleb yanks the condom off and fetches another unopened packet.

You hold up the barely used one and ask, “Can’t we just reuse this one?”

“No,” he shakes his head firmly. “There’s a method to it, okay? Let’s try again, pipsqueak.” While you’re rolling this one down, you accidentally fumble the latex and it curls all the way back up.

“Are you sure this is the right size?” You ask, staring at him then his thick cock in disbelief.

Caleb jokes, “Are you sure you’re not just bad at this?”

You grumble, “Hey! It’s not funny, okay? Your condom is the problem, not me.”

“Sure, sure,” he grins, fishing for yet another condom. You reach out to help, but he shakes your hands off.

“Let me handle this, okay? You can put the next one on.” You hum in agreement, watching as he slips it on with ease. Placing the box off to the side, you climb on top of Caleb and straddle him.

But before you can grind on him, he confirms, “You’ve got lube, right, pips?”

“Oh,” you mumble, staring at him wide-eyed. Lube… lube? Lube! You remember you bought some in prep for tonight. But where you put it is the real question. Getting off him, you stumble to your drawers and start pulling out everything in sight, until finally, you hit the jack pot.

The bed bounces as you scramble onto it and open the lid. Clear liquid pools into your hands, the stream too steady. It spills onto Caleb’s shin, and you apologise while closing the cap.

Sitting up, he takes the bottle from you and pours some out onto his palms. You lube up his latex-clad cock, even squeezing his balls and spreading it through his neatly trimmed pubes. Your date caresses your folds and inner thighs, making them all shiny before guiding you to straddle him again.

“You want it like this, pips?” He asks while circling your waist with his beefy arms. You nod and lift your hips. Your hands fly to his shoulders to stabilise yourself as he runs the head of his cock through your slit.

A jagged moan escapes your lips, some sensitivity lingering from your first orgasm of the night. He prods at your entrance, about to press in.

Caleb murmurs, “You ready?”

“Mhmm, I’m ready,” you breathe out. With your affirmative, he pushes in. Your breath hitches, the feeling of his fat cock strange. As you slowly slide down on his length, you think of all the dildos you’ve ever played with, including the ones you were using last night to help with right now.

But no sex toy could have prepared you for having Caleb Xia’s dick inside of your cunt. It’s so warm and thick, and it keeps twitching. Not to mention the accompanying squeezes to your hips and breathy moans slipping from his lips. Once your hips kiss, you gaze up at the model.

“You alright?” He asks gently, his large hands coming to your jaw and holding it firmly. His thumbs swipe across your cheeks soothingly.

Leaning forward, you prop your forehead against his and answer, “Feels weird. Like, it has a mind of it’s own.” Caleb chuckles softly, your sweetness endearing. But it’s cut short when you clench tight around him.

“Gonna be the death of me, pips,” he groans. You chortle while raising your head and shuffling your legs.

“Help me,” you whine, staring at the model expectantly. He smiles and kisses your brow before gripping your hips and lifting them.

“Up we go.” He focuses on the lewd sight of his cock drawing out of your snug cunt. As he lowers you back down, you both moan. It feels weird, but you grow to like it with each drop of your hips.

Caleb rests his head in the crook of your neck, moaning and whimpering so loudly the whole building must know what you’re doing. You’re squeezing the life out of him, making it ridiculously difficult not to nut within the first few minutes.

The model swears he’s better than this! He can last. He can fuck for hours on end. But here you are, ruining his stamina and pride. You lift up too high, his cock slipping out.

You whisper, “Sorry.”

“Ngh—s’okay,” Caleb rasps out while jerking himself a couple of times. He positions himself at your hole again, but you’re tensing up.

“Just relax, honey,” he coos. You nod fervently and try to, but you can’t stop clenching. Sighing, he pushes you into his chest and embraces you tenderly.

In your ear, he reminds you, “It’s okay to be nervous. Just take your time, pipsqueak. We’ve got all night and more.” You hum quietly, grateful for Caleb’s patience.

You two stay like that for a bit in comfortable silence, until he severs it with, “You feeling better now?”

“Mhmm.”

“D’you wanna try another position, baby?” He asks affectionately.

“Mhmm, yes please,” you respond, shifting in his lap to place a saccharine kiss on his lips. Caleb maneuvers you underneath him.

Leaning back, he grabs a pillow and slides it beneath your hips before caging you in with his meaty arms on either side of your head. Carefully, he eases into you, watching for any signs of discomfort as his hips meet yours. Your heels dig into the dips of his ass, and your arms loop around his neck for support.

“Alright, I’m gonna start moving now, okay?” He mumbles against your forehead, planting loving kisses there.

You hum, “M’kay.” Slowly, he thrusts in and out, whimpering pathetically as he does so. You don’t squeeze as hard this time, prioritising comfort while you navigate this new experience with him. This experience where your bodies connect and souls intertwine, fusing into something divine as your moans ricochet off the bedroom walls.

Caleb catches you in a passionate kiss, his emotions spewing past your lips and down your throat. He tugs off your arms from his neck and interlaces your fingers, pressing your hands into the mattress and palms together.

He breathes out, “This alright?”

You mewl, “Mhmm!—Really good, Caleb. But—ah!” Your head falls back as he hits a delicious spot nestled deep inside of you.

“But what, pips?” He pants, gazing at you with concern.

“Wish—hah!” His thrust knocks the air out of your lungs. Your back curves, breasts pressing into his chest as you clamp your legs around his hips.

You moan, “Ah!—wish we had some bgm or something.” His pace falters as a low chuckle rips through him.

“Your kidding me, right? We’re finally fucking and all you can think about is background music?” His tone is torn between playfulness and exasperation. You shake your head.

“I-think of other things, too,” you defend yourself.

He prompts, “Like what?”

“Like—mhmm!” Your lower lip catches between your teeth as Caleb presses against that spot again, eliciting guttural moans from you.

He repeats his question, “Like what, pipsqueak?” There’s an edge to his tone, but it’s lost in the breathiness of his voice.

You babble, “Think ‘bout how good this feels. Want it to last forever. Want you forever.” You’re helpless to stop the confession from escaping your lips as you cry out in pleasure. Your head lolls to the side, hazy eyes focusing on your joint hands while Caleb breathes on your neck.

You can’t bear to look at him, heat spreading across your body. The sweat he worked so hard to scrub off your body now returns in bucket loads.

His smile is etched into your temple as he presses a tender kiss there.

“Forever, huh? That’s a long time, pips. Won’t you—ah!—get sick of me?” Your head turns back as you gaze at him. His eyes are soft around the edges, but they burn bright with devotion need.

You shake your head and whimper, “Never get sick of you, Ca-leb.” Leaning up, you seize his soft lips in another kiss. This one is broken by resolve-shattering moans and sentimental whimpers. His thrusts become sloppier as the sounds of your sex grow louder.

In the space between breathy groans are the wet popping sounds of his cock drawing out of you. His clammy forehead glints in the cosy light and his cheeks are pink, and you’re positive you look the exact same.

You tug your hands free from his with little resistance and grab his jaw. Holding his face like it’s your anchor, ecstasy courses through your body, buzzing in every little nook and cranny.

Tides of pleasure rise and threaten to overflow as his hips stutter.

He moans, “Fuck, pips! Gonna cum. That okay?” You nod frenziedly, desiring nothing more than for him to finish inside of you–inside of his condom, of course.

With a few more rolls into you, he’s sputtering out fucked out moans and cumming like it’s his first time and not yours. You wrap your arms around his defined back and squeeze him as he releases it all.

Your date murmurs, “Thank you,” over and over like it’s a prayer. You’ve heard his orgasmic, breathy whimpers before, but they sound different in real life. Delusional, you tell yourself it’s because of how good you’ve made him feel. Logically, you recall that microphones can distort people’s voices.

And then you squeal, “Oh my god, Caleb!” He lifts off you immediately, sunset eyes searching yours panically.

“What is it, pips? You okay? Did I hurt you?” He asks, concerned. His fingers encircle your upper arms and squish them reassuringly.

Your voice drops to a whisper, “You’re going soft!” He blinks at you perplexed for a few seconds before he erupts into his usual hearty laughter.

“’Course I’m going soft, pretty girl. What did you expect?” Your lips purse and brows pinch together as you stare at him moodily.

With his signature smirk, Caleb slowly pulls out of you and gets up to discard the used condom. When he returns, he embraces you in a lazy hug. You relax into his body, this feeling of being a new woman settling in.

No longer are you some inexperienced dweeb. But now, you are an experienced dweeb. Much the same, yet changed slightly.

“Caleb,” you say softly, nuzzling your face into his neck.

He pats your head lovingly while murmuring, “Yeah?”

“I really liked that. When you’re feeling better, can we keep going?” You kiss his neck gently, his sweat sticking to your lips.

He rubs your shoulder and replies, “Sure, honey. You got something in mind?” You shake your head slightly, which is met by another deep chuckle from the model.

Minutes pass as you two find solace in one another before picking things back up. Caleb takes good care of you by checking in on you at various points and adjusting where need be.

When your bodies are aching and slimy with a mixture of fluids, he kisses your forehead and carries you to the bathroom to shower again.

After freshening yourselves up, he helps you with your skincare and even let’s you lather his face and body up in moisturiser (the Lord knows he needs it). While you change into some comfy pj’s, he takes the dirty sheets off the mattress and puts new ones on.

Settling into your freshly made bed, you two cuddle and whisper sweet nothings.

You had always hoped your first time would be with the man you love. And you drift off into sleep with the satisfaction that it was.

masterlist

star girl's final words: EVERYONE GIVE JAY (@heartyluv) THE BIGGEST THANK YOU for 1) providing such spell-binding inspiration, and 2) letting me yap about my ideas. SECOND, let's also thank nat (@tragicvictoriantears) for listening to my rambles and giving me even more ideas for this whopper. THE FINAL THANK YOU goes to my physio friend who (inspired my zayne fic here and) will probably never read this. thanks pookie for reading my intro n' also listening to my rambles about this fic.

lmk if you'd like a part two!

you can find my thoughts on virginity here. i feel pretty much the same since i wrote this post in april. there will be no infantilised virgins in my fics, i can assure you!

additional reading on vasectomies and sex work:

ABC ⟶ 'what sex work is like as a side hustle' ABC ⟶ 'sex work clients are increasingly women' ABC ⟶ 'so you want to book a sex worker' deseretnews ⟶ 'OF prostitution is ruining lives in real time' vasectomy australia ⟶ FAQs betterhealth victoria ⟶ 'contraception - vasectomy'

taglist - @calebs-apple, @mcdepressed290, @thirstblogforaparchedgirl, @ssushi, @asiatic-apple, @gunningformeow, @calebsbabyapple, @hilliserose

[chaoticwriting]

A lie

Dick: For the last time, Bruce. Stop trying to cook. You are terrible at it and should leave it to someone who can.

Bruce:*sad face* Hmm.

Tim: Sheesh dude. No need to be so harsh on him. He is just trying to help.

Steph: *Stepping into the kitchen* Hey guys, Danny's here. He brings the thing you guys want.

Danny: Hey guys. Why do you want us to stop for groceries? I thought you all stock up a lot last time?

Duke: Bruce burns the kitchen. He tries to make dinner for us but he accidentally overcooked them all.

Danny: Bruce? As in Bruce Wayne? The guy who learns everything from everyone during his younger days?

Tim: *Squints eyes* Yeah, why?

Danny: I don't know about you. But as a certified Bruce's old friend, I could say for sure that he is a gre- mmmpphhh.

Bruce: *Hands covering Danny's mouth* Ehem, Danny. I have something I need to talk with you. Come here for a moment.

Dick, Tim, Duke and Steph: *Look at each other*

Tim: There is no way Bruce thinks we will fall for that.

Duke: Maybe he is panicking?

Steph: I vote we go eavesdrop whatever they are talking about. Who agree says I

Tim: I

Duke: I

Steph: Welp sorry Dick. You need to cook. We will tell you later.

Dick: Hey-

In the Batcave

Danny: Alright. Care to tell me why you keep the fact that you can cook a secret to them?

Bruce: Well, it's not that I don't want to. It's just that at first it was all an accident. I accidentally burned an omelette. And then Alfred saw it and he banned me from ever entering the kitchen again. And then the same thing happened again when Dick first joined and I want to impress him. Then, Babs, Jason, Tim, Steph, Cass, and Duke. I don't know why but whenever I try to leave a good impression on them, it will always fail.

Danny: Uhuh, so what about all the other time?

Bruce: Errrr... I may have pretended to burn the food.

Danny: Why?

Bruce: *Whispering* Because I am lazy.

Danny: What?

Bruce: Because I am lazy!

Tim: *Jumping down from the vent* What the fuck, Bruce? You have been lying to us all these time.

Steph: *Jumping down from the dinosaur's mouth* Yeah, Bruce. All that time I cook for you because I thought you can't cook had been a lie?

Duke: Shame, Bruce. Shame.

Dick: *Coming out of the elevator with a basket full of Sandwich in them* Tsk tsk tsk. What else have you been lying to us Bruce?

Bruce: Errrrrr

[renewedmotionforjudgment]

Pre-2020 Cdrama List

Okay, because I made my earlier post about how I really do think more people in the cdrama fandom should watch pre-2020 cdramas.

(why 2020? it's a nice round year, but also, there was a big censorship overhaul around 2020-2021. Plus I feel like 2020-21 was when there was the influx into the cdrama fandom.)

Anyways - categories purely by me and not at all scientific. I have more, but I tried to keep this list to things that (I think) have subs.

The Prestige:

Legend of Zhen Huan: yes, harem dramas aren't everyone's thing and I acknowledge it. But if you are going to watch one harem drama, make it this one. It is one of IMO the best character study revenge plot in cdramaland that really explores the concept of patriarchy and power and sisterhood. Bonus, certain scenes in more recent cdramas will suddenly click because Zhen Huan is *that* influential. One note: I recommend the viki version, which the subtitle team does a wonderful job in explaining the context for the numerous poetry that the characters use.

The Story of Minglan: you know the story of the unfavored daughter getting revenge on her evil stepmother and then finding love with a hot noblemen? yes, this is the OG. Except everyone is fleshed out and 3D and you feel like you're watching real people.

Battle of Changsha (available on YouTube, no idea where else): Republic era/WW2 epic, so utterly real, so utterly heartbreaking, flawlessly written and acted. Yang Zi's best work to date, IMO.

(I'll put in Nirvana in Fire and Advisor's Alliance -- but I"ll be honest -- male centric stories tend not to be my cup of tea even if they are very well made, but I can acknowledge that the quality is there.)

The Idol Historical (aka my genre):

Scarlet Heart (no, not the k-drama version that I slowly grew a grudge against. The OG cdrama with Liu Shi Shi, currently available on Iqiyi): it borderlines prestige (TM) for me, but it's categorized as an idol historical so I'll address it as such. Modern girl transmigrate to Qing dynasty, and the writing is so cerebral and it's ultimately a thought-provoking piece about keeping one's sense of self and identity, and the difficulty choices we make along the way. You don't have to ship anyone to enjoy this drama. Ignore the sequel.

Goodbye My Princess (I know there's an English version on YouTube): a grand romantic tragedy (I'm putting that in open disclaimer) about how a murderous bastard soft for one girl trope and love isn't enough. The fact that the ML is also the villain. And then get salty about Cheng Xingxu (ML's actor)'s subsequent projects with me. (addendum - if you enjoy this, the King's Woman with Zhang Binbin and Dilreba is also excellent).

Singing all along (I have a separate genre called "Ruby Lin dramas"): it's a fictionalized story of Emperor Guangwu of Han and Yin Lihua, and it definitely has the most resemblance to post 2020 idol historical romances, except the harem plot which is historically accurate and added some fantastic tension. I also adore the costuming, which had some heft (TM) to it.

Not Necessarily Quality but Fun (bonus: MLs are now uncles/fathers to the current batch idol dramas):

The Glamorous Imperial Doctress (on Netflix): is it quality? I'm not sure, but if you are watching the Princess's Gambit and wondering if you can take off all hinges, congratulations! I don't even know how to describe it, other than ... it's unhinged but in the most entertaining way. ML gets chained in a palace by SML.

General and I (on Viki): does it have bad blue/green screen? yes. Can Angelababy act? not really. Does she and Wallace Chung have insane chemistry and this drama is a romance novel coming to life with surprisingly a complicated story involving the SML? absolutely. (I have a whole list of Wallace Chung dramas, including My Sunshine and Too Late to Say I Love You, but I do think General and I seem to be a good starting point if you are used to watching post 2020 idol historical).

...don't ask me about xianxia, because it's not my genre. Although Chinese Paladin 3 (available now on Iqiyi) is fun with a legendary cast (seriously, the cast). Or wuxia, for that matter. Or moderns. But if you do want harem drama recommendations, I have about 5 more.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Three Pointer 1

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, power imbalance, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: When you go down to see your brother at the basketball courts, you find yourself drawn into a game you don't quite understand.

Characters: Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes

Note: I meant this to be one part but it should only be 2 or 3 at most. My mind is a bit addled. Without having to go into the pain, I lost someone dear to me.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

Photo Sources: #1 #2

The bounce of rubber on pavement greets your approach. You come to the chain link fence and peer through, searching among the courts for one person in particular. Your brother is there with his usual crowd; three-on-three. 

Your anxiety twists in your gut. There’s always so many people down here. So many strangers. 

You enter through the gate, the hinges whining high, and you pass by the benches of those waiting for their go or watching. As you keep your head low, a whoosh blows past your nose. You step back and look up as the ball bounces off fence behind the benches. 

You glance over as a man catches it. You blanches show your palms. ‘Sorry’, you mouth, your voice trapped up inside your chest. 

He echoes you out loud. “You okay?” 

You stare at him. His dark aviators reflect the sunlight and his sleeves are rolled up over his sweaty shoulders. You finally find the sense to nod. You should pay attention.  

You slowly sidle past him. He backs up and watches you before slowly turning around. He tosses the ball to another man. He catches it and flips it into the net with no effort at all.  

You trip as you notice the other man’s arm. At first you think it’s tattoos but they shine like that. It’s metal. You can see a hint of the scarring where it meets his flesh, just beneath the black cotton of his tank top. 

You turn and put your head down again. It isn’t nice to stare. You know you don’t like when people do. 

Your brother, Carter, is in the next court. As you glance up, he’s squinting at you. You frown. What did you do now? 

You stop at the corner as Trevor calls his name. Carter sneers and turns to grab the ball out of the air. He aims and shoots. It bounces off the backboard and Hakeem catches it with a chirp, “Looking sharp.” 

“Whatever,” Carter puffs. “I need water.” 

He flicks his fingers in frustration and stomps toward you. He wipes his forehead with his arm. He ignores you as he grabs his worn-out gatorade bottle. 

“Chu doin’ here?” He growls before he squirts a stream into his mouth. 

“You said come get you around seven.” 

He swallows loudly, his eyes darting behind you. “Did I?” 

“I thought--” 

“Why were you bugging those guys?” He asks. 

You peek back. The man in the sunglasses makes a three-pointer. You shake your head as you face your brother. 

“I wasn’t--” 

“You needa go home. You don’t even like basketball,” he accuses. “No one needs you in the way. ‘Specially not them.” 

“You never ask me to play,” you shrug. 

“And who wants to play with you?” He rolls his eyes. 

You pout and nod. You wouldn’t be very good, would you? 

“Well, it’s seven. I just came to say so like you wanted.” 

“Sure. If Tonya shows, just send her here.” He spits. 

“Right.” 

You don’t like how he treats you like his time-keeper and his messenger. You don’t like Tonya either. Or many of his friends for that matter. They’re like him. You only live together because you got no choice. You can’t afford your own place. 

You spin and head back for the gate. Before you can reach it, the same man as before approaches you. He uses his shirt to wipe his face. Your eyes stray for just a moment, cheeks tinging at the sight of his muscled stomach. 

“Hey,” he tugs the hem down. “You wanna sub in? I needa sit.” 

“Huh?” You stop short and look at him. “Me?” 

“Sure. If you don’t mind? My buddy hates to wait on me,” he points over his shoulder with his thumb. 

“Well I... I don’t play much. Just come down to watch my brother,” you explain. 

“Oh, well, my buddy isn’t very good either,” he chuckles. “Just for two minutes.” 

You look at him. His beard is damp with sweat and a trickle runs down his temple. You look at the other man dribbling, watching you. 

“Okay.” You don’t like to argue. Carter always wants to and you’re over it. 

“Steve, by the way,” he introduces himself as he grabs his water bottle and sits. 

You give your name before you crane to see across the court. You turn and near the other man, waving shyly. “Uh, hi.” 

“He’s sending in a ringer,” the other man bounces the ball then catches it. “What’s your name, doll?” 

You repeat it again. 

“Bucky,” he replies. You blink as something in your mind tweaks. That’s familiar. “You start.” 

He bounces the ball and you barely get your hands around it. He bends his knees and gets into a guard position. You stare at him. You don’t know what you’re doing. 

You dribble, clumsily, and try to angle around him. He moves easily with you. You try to divert but only get your foot under the ball. It veers off and hurtles into next court. 

Bucky chases it as you scrunch up your hand and press it to your chin. He scoops up the ball and Carter turns. He says something but you can’t make it up. Bucky barely acknowledges and turns, giving a somewhat flummoxed face. 

“I’m sorry,” you eke out. 

Your eyes linger beyond him. Carter watches you with a scowl. He gestures, somewhere between disbelief and agitation. 

“Don’t be sorry,” Bucky says. “Gotta start somewhere. How about we go over the basics before you wipe the floor with me?” 

“I’m not very good,” you mumble. 

“Come on, I’ll show you.” He looks you up and down. “Stand here.” 

He taps the ground with the toe of his sneaker. You shuffle around to stand at the peak of the curved line. He takes the ball and stands parallel to you.  

“Watch my hands,” he directs. 

You do. You try not to gape at his metal knuckles as the plates contract with his movements. 

“Hold like this, then flick your wrist.” He makes the shot easy and the ball pings back to him. “Look at that square above the hoop. That’ll help.” 

He hands over the ball. You hesitate but take it, fingers brushing his. You take a breath and focus on the box on the backboard. 

This is going to be so bad. You were never good in gym class but you liked trying for fun. With all these people around, watching, it’s not so fun. 

You try. That’s all you can do. It hits the backboard, then the hoop, then once more goes to the side. Bucky hurries to catch it. He bounces it as he turns to you again. 

“Close.” 

“I’m taking up your time,” you stand on your toes and teeter. 

“Nah, I don’t mind.” He holds out the ball. Once more, you accept it and resign yourself to failure. He steps back. “Take your time.” 

You do, take your time. You stare, contemplating space and time and all the odds against you. You should’ve just gone home like Carter said. 

You flick your wrist. You look down at the pavement before the ball can deflect. You hear it hit and the net swooshes. 

“Yeah,” Bucky claps. “Good one.” 

You flinch and lift your chin, “it went in?” 

“Sure did,” he grabs the ball. “You’re a natural.” 

“Good job,” Steve praises as he approaches. 

“Oh, um, he showed me how.” You sway. “Thanks uh... for letting me try, but... I’ll leave ya be.” 

“What? You’re just getting started. Come on, I’ll show you a layup,” Steve insists. 

“Well, I don’t know...” you say. 

You hear a snort. You peek over your shoulder. Carter is watching. Bucky twists around to see too. Your brother shies away and smiles at the man. He only gets a shake of the head in return. 

“That one your brother?” Steve nudges you gently. 

“Er, yeah, Carter,” you answer. 

“Why doesn’t he let you play with him?” Bucky asks. 

You chew your lip. “Like I said, I’m not very good.” 

“Not having practice doesn’t mean not good,” Steve says. “Besides, it’s not the NBA. It’s fun.” He takes the ball. “Now let’s work on your layup.” 

🏀

You dribble and stop. You can sense Steve and Bucky coming in from both sides. You hurl the ball up with only the intent to deter them. It spins high into the sky and arcs back down. To your surprise, is drops right through the net. 

“Ha,” Steve stops it between his hands, “got us again.” 

“You don’t have to let me win,” you say. 

“Let you? Nah, we wouldn’t do that.” Bucky says. 

“Even if we are, means we get to buy you celebratory drink, right?” 

“What?” You laugh, “no, you don’t have to--” 

“Hey, sis,” Carter interrupts. “Headed home. You coming?” 

You slowly turn. Really? 

“We can get her home,” Bucky rebuffs. “We’re just wrapping up.” 

“Oh, sure, Barnes,” your brother laughs nervously. “Just didn’t want her walking home alone.” 

Your cheek pinches. Since when was he so concerned? Something else needles in your brain... 

“We can get her home,” Steve intones. 

You glance at him, then Bucky. It dawns on you. You turn to your brother. 

“I’ll be home soon,” you say. 

His face falls, “oh, sure. Just... be safe, sis.” 

“Okay,” you utter. 

He lingers, waiting, and when no one stops him, he goes. You watch him until he’s gone then turn to Bucky. He looks back at you calmly. 

“I know who you are,” you say. “Both of you.” 

“Figured it was obvious,” Bucky laughs. 

“Maybe, but... unexpected.” 

“We’ve been coming to this court since it opened in 1936.” Steve says. 

“Uh, of course,” you cringe. “I only meant... I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t be,” Steve chides. “We’ve been away, we know all the best places around, so why don’t we take you for the best drink in the borrough?” 

“That’s... nice. I don’t drink though. Never tried it, to be honest.” 

“How about ice cream, then? Alcohol doesn’t do too much for us. Not with our biology.” Bucky suggests. 

“I... alright.” 

“I know, not much fun hanging out with old men,” Steve snickers. 

“No, I don’t mean...” 

“Kidding,” Steve says. “It’s just around the corner. I’m sure you know the place.” 

Steve keeps the ball and grabs his water bottle from the bench. Bucky takes his bottle too and they walk on either side of you across the courts. As you come out to the street, the evening begins to set in. 

You head north then just around the corner. You’ve been to the ice cream bar before. It’s a bit too expensive for you so you usually get one scoop in a cup, no toppings. 

Steve holds the door. You enter ahead of both of them. You stop and browse the menu. You should try something new. 

“Know what you want?” Bucky asks. “This guy always gets vanilla.” 

“Can’t go wrong with a classic.” Steve says. 

“Nah, just gets boring,” Bucky snorts. “I’m thinking caramel brittle. Sounds interesting.” 

You nod and think. It goes silent as the shop employee awkwardly pretends to stack cups behind the counter. You shift and clear your throat. 

“Strawberries and cream?” You say as you reach into your pocket. 

“Our treat,” Steve insists. “Sprinkles? Waffle cone?” 

“Just a cup is good,” you assure him. 

“Got it. Buck, find a seat.” Steve hands over his water bottle. 

“Come on, doll.” Bucky gestures you away. 

You go back out to the patio area and find a table. Bucky sits across from you and put the bottles on the table. You hook one foot behind the other and lean your elbows on the wood. 

“You live around here?” Bucky asks. You nod and rein in your wandering eyes. “Used to,” he says as he combs back his dark hair. The patch of grey in his beard catches the receding sunlight. “It’s rougher than it was.” 

“It’s not too bad,” you say. You just double check the locks and get home before dark. 

“Things are different for pretty girls. Can never be too careful.” 

Your brows pop up. He means you? 

“Oh, thanks, but... I’m fine, you know?” 

“I’m sure you can take care of yourself,” he grins. 

The door chimes as someone comes out. Steve sits beside you and doles out the ice creams. He got yours in a waffle bowl. That’s the most expensive. 

“Good game,” Steve says. 

“Yeah, fun,” you agree as you poke the ice cream with a spoon. “Thanks for letting me play.” 

“We should do it again. You know, this guy, he’s a bit dull. It’s nice having a buffer.” 

“Me?” Steve exclaims. “Whatever.” 

They both laugh as you can only offer a smile. You like them. Even if you feel like an outsider, it’s not because of them. You just always feel that way. 

🏀

Bucky and Steve walk you home. Another pang of guilt pulls at your chest but you’re happy they came with you. It’s dark. Things are both quiet and too noisy. You swear you can hear other footsteps. 

You stop just at the edge of the overgrown lawn. Carter was supposed to mow it but you’ll probably end up doing it again. You don’t need another notice from the landlord. 

At least it’s dark. They can’t see how cruddy the house really is. You sway. 

“Um, good night, then.” 

“We’ll walk you to the door. It’s only right.” Steve says. 

“We’re old-fashioned like that.” Bucky adds. 

“Oh, alright.” 

You wait a moment then head up the walk. They follow. The front stairs groan under your weight, then theirs. You get to the top and turn around. 

“Thanks again.” You say. “I had a good night.” 

“We did too,” Bucky assures. 

“Sure di--” 

The door behind you opens. Yellow light pores out and casts Carter’s shadow over you. You cringe. 

“About time, sis. You left dishes in the sink—oh, you’re here.” He nearly chokes as he notices the men on the porch with you. 

“You’re not very nice, are you?” Bucky hisses. 

“What? No. I was reminding her. It’s her turn.” He pushes the screen door out and you move out of the way. “You guys wanna come in. I got beer.” 

“You could do the dishes,” Steve growls. 

“Huh? She said--” 

“Please,” you pipe up. “Really, it’s not a big deal. You two should head home. It’s late. Carter, I’ll do the dishes.” 

“They your dishes or his?” Bucky challenges. 

You blanch and shake your head. 

“Um, well, just dishes,” you answer. 

“No way to treat family.” Bucky mutters. 

“No, it’s not,” Steve agrees. 

“I’ll do em,” Carter’s voice squeaks. “It’s no big deal. Come on, sis. You’re right, it’s late--” 

“No. No. She’s not going inside.” Bucky says. 

“What? Really, it’s... fine.” You argue. 

“She’s coming with us. Shouldn’t be living in a place like this,” Steve exhales. 

“It’s--” 

“Not with him.” Bucky snarls. 

“But--” You begin. 

“Doll, you just settle down. This is what we do. We save people.” Bucky drawls. 

“And we know what it looks like when someone needs saving,” Steve puts in. “You come with us.” 

“And you,” Bucky jabs a finger at your brother. “Better not see you again.” 

“Me? She’s my sister--” 

“Nah,” Bucky grabs your arm. “She’s not yours anymore.” 

[eicsferrari]

Guilty As Sin - ln4 smau [8]

-part 8

tw: hate comments & my terrible english. there's a small written part, very short but necessary

part 7 • series masterlist • masterlist

જ ♡ જ

f1news yn yln spotted at the monaco grand prix. magui corceiro is also present

user lando my boy,,, smh

user messy

user maybe if lando stopped being a fuckboy he would be leading the championship

user how did he get this two beautiful women? they should ditch him and date each other

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yourusername posted a story

caption qualy day yourbestfriend // 🧉 francocolapinto

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yourusername posted a story

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iamrebeccad posted a story

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yourusername it's lights out and away we go monaco alexandrasaintmleux yourbestfriend

user i don't understand why she stayed when magui is also there girl have some dignity

user you are stunning. he'll probably win the race but it's his loss

user this is what happens when you want the world to think you are a wag when you are not, you are pathetic

જ ♡ જ

f1 lando norris has won the monaco grand prix!

user YESS LANDO

mclaren 🧡

user deserved

જ ♡ જ

When he got out of the car, he wasn't expecting to see her there. He had hoped, of course- but it had seem pointless and childish. A fantasy, a missing fragment of what another life could have been like. A life where he hadn't screwed up. So he almost thought it was his brain playing tricks after a stressful race.

And yet there she was, orange hair making it impossible to miss her. Not the imaginary version of her in his dreams that could never fully capture the way she was. Really her.

His body acted for him. He embraced her and buried his head in her neck, trying to capture the scent. She always smelled like strawberry for some reason. And she hugged him back. He didn't know why but he didn't dare to question it, afraid the moment might go away. Maybe he had passed out in the car and this was all a dream.

The cheers were still loud but it all fell into the background.

"You came" he mumbled into her hair.

"I promised" she answered and that was enough. This could be the last time he was gonna see her, he realized. But she had kept her word. A promise that might have seemed insignificant.

It was sufficient hope for him to not give up on the fantasy of that other life where he fix this.

જ ♡ જ

f1gossip lando and yn after the race

user oh my god i almost fainted in front of the tv

user "where's the trophy? he just comes running over to me"

user that's love right there

જ ♡ જ

ynupdates yn in an interview after the race:

"this is your second race this year, you seem to be getting comfortable at the paddock"

yn: yes, i have a lot of friends here and i've made new ones. everyone is so welcoming. and i fell in love with the sport, i really enjoy watching it live.

"so, lando won today. how are you feeling?"

yn: i'm thrilled for him, he deserves this and more.

"is he one of your friends? or perhaps there's more there? we saw you two hugging after the race"

yn: sorry to disappoint but lando and i are really good friends. just that. i knew how much this win meant for him and i wanted to support him. it was an emotional moment. but one between friends.

user you can't convince me they are JUST friends after everything we saw

user is he dating magui then? i cannot keep up with this drama

user me neither

user with how they both talk about each other it's clear they are in love. landoyn nation we are not giving up

જ ♡ જ

lando posted a story

↪ carlossainz55 lmao you are not subtle

↪lando not trying to be

જ ♡ જ

previous part • next part • series masterlist

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Taglist: @justaf1girl @anamiad00msday @formoola1fan @2bormaybenot @searecs @rana030 @multifantasic70  @yourmommyagone22 @primadonaprincess55 @hoeforlifee @literallysza @nichmeddar @josephqunnies @sbtlasworld @Hstylesmermaid @pastryboyyy @in-the-marina-trench @ahgase99 @gigigreens @harrysdimple05 @screamingwinecorner @danielricroll @sarx164 @samanthaw16 @tvdtw4ever @landorris @quill-vy @charlesgirl16 @mrs-ghostface @chezmardybum @wordesthetics @ajordan2020 @imagine-it-was-us @n3versatisfied @andreasaintmleux76 @andreasaintmleux

[yuujispinkhair]

A funny HC I have is that if Sukuna had a baby right, his baby would also have their own “stomach-mouth” just like him! But because they’re a baby, it doesn’t have any teeth and they can make it appear at will. It’s creepy yet wholesome in a way

I also firmly believe that Sukuna, and by extension his baby, can purr like cats do. Ofc Sukuna’s high key embarrassed about that🤭🥰

Aww I love that 💗💗 Thank you so much for sending me this! The thought of Trueform!Sukuna as a father always makes me so soft.

Trueform!Sukuna x Reader (female). Heian era. Fluff. A little bit of angst (?) but with a happy ending. 800 words. Minors don't interact. Divider by @/.diviniyae.

The thing is, even though Sukuna's little daughter looks a lot like her father (bigger than other babies her age, with pink hair, red eyes, and that famous stomach mouth), she has her mother's cheerfulness.

Everyone who sees Sukuna carrying his offspring in his big arms gets the surprise of their life. There he is, the huge, scary King of Curses, who everyone fears. The man, the God, who always wears this emotionless mask on his face, his lips only lifted in a dangerous smirk or a mocking laugh. But the little pink-haired girl in his arms beams at everyone.

Her red eyes, so similar to her father's, don't look menacing, but sparkle with joy. And she is smiling. A big, happy, toothless smile as bright as the sun. And not just with the mouth on her chubby little face. Her second mouth, the one on her tummy, smiles just as broadly.

It's a peculiar sight, making most people take an involuntary step back. But they all get stopped by Sukuna's deathly glare. The unspoken words of the King are clear: You dare find my daughter unpleasant to look at? Maybe I should take your eyes so you don't have to see her anymore?

And so everyone, who has half a brain, forces themself to come closer again and bow in respect and smile at the little princess, no matter how terrified they are of her strange looks.

Sukuna knows they only do it because he demanded it, but that's better than nothing. He still remembers how he felt as a child when he was an outcast because of his looks and the power running through his veins. He still remembers how the darkness engulfed him more and more anytime he saw how appalled people were by his appearance.

He won't let his child be met with the same open disgust. At least he can make them pretend as if they don't see her as a monster.

But after a while, Sukuna notices something very interesting:

People's faces aren't frozen in fake politeness anymore when they gaze upon his daughter. Their eyes don't hold the usual terrified expression. Their smiles are no longer fake, but genuine.

It's making Sukuna feel strangely content. Somehow, his smiling, babbling, and laughing little girl managed to win them over. Not that Sukuna cares about what any of those worms think, but he finds the thought of his little girl not experiencing the hate Sukuna himself experienced during his childhood comforting.

After all, Sukuna is not just the King of Curses, he is also a father who wants the best for his child.

But nonetheless, it's a baffling experience to see how differently people treat his daughter and also him now.

Everyone used to keep a distance or outright flee when Sukuna walked through town, but now people seem to move closer to him, trying to catch a glance of his daughter.

Just like today.

Sukuna is currently taking a stroll with his wife and daughter, carrying the little one in his arms, and he notices people waving at his daughter from across the street, trying to get her attention and cooing at her when she looks their way.

Several women approach him and offer small handmade gifts for the little princess. And the little one squeals with joy and kicks her feet while giggling happily at the women, who seem honestly delighted, oohing and aahing at her before they leave again.

Sukuna huffs, shaking his head in utter disbelief, as he turns to his wife. You are walking next to him with an amused expression on your face,

"What's on your mind, my dearest?"

You ask, and Sukuna makes a gruff sound and jerks his chin in the direction of the now retreating women,

"How did this happen? People cooing at our child and waving at her? It's insane. Did you use some magic on them?"

You laugh and place a soft hand on your husband's huge biceps, leaning your face against his muscular arms, while your other hand ruffles your little daughter's soft pink hair, who is currently dozing off in Sukuna's arms.

"There is no magic involved. She is adorable. That's all that happened."

Sukuna laughs softly, a low rumbling sound in his broad chest, and he reaches out to wrap one of his extra arms around you, pulling you even closer to his side.

"Of course she is. And that's your doing, my love."

You tilt your head to look up at Sukuna's face, smiling at him, the same broad smile his daughter has, that always makes his heart feel so warm. You shake your head, while your small fingers tighten around Sukuna's biceps.

"No, it's just as much your doing, Kuna. Who did she get the pretty pink hair from? And surely she didn't get that adorable, smiling tummy mouth from me, hm?"

And suddenly, Sukuna feels a smile tug at his mouth, too. The one on his face, and the one on his stomach.

Sighhhh, Trueform!Sukuna is such a comfort to me somehow. I love to write those soft little moments for him 💗

I hope you enjoyed this little drabble! Thank you so much to the sweet anon, who sent me this ask! It was so cute!!

If you enjoyed this story, comments and reblogs would be very sweet!

[thatonegrimm]

The Manager’s Guide to Demon Boybands: A Witch’s Oath

Unplanned, Unveiled

Chapter6/Chapter7/Chapter8

The rig shouldn’t have fallen.

The safety cables were checked. Twice.

But in the blink of an eye, half the lighting grid groaned, tilted and crashed toward the stage where she stood with her clipboard.

She didn't have time to react.

A force slammed into her side, knocking her off her feet just before metal met flesh. Sparks flew. The air snapped hot with the smell of singed rubber and burning plastic.

---------------------------------

You hit the floor, hard.

Eyes opening in time to see the stage split with a roar and Abby, arms braced above him, holding up the half-collapsed rig like it weighed nothing. Muscles bulging, veins dark against his skin, his jaw clenched with inhuman focus.

Behind him, Romance, one hand glowing faintly crimson, stood among the wreckage. The steel beneath his fingers hissed and bent-melted, actually reshaping just enough to push the collapsed structure off to the side.

Neither of them looked human just then.

Not exactly.

Not enough.

you stayed still, blinking.

Abby looked down, eyes wide with panic. “Are you okay?! Manager-nim—did it hit you?”

“No,” she said, breathless. “I’m fine.”

He exhaled. Relief softened his features. He knelt beside her, still flushed, still glowing faintly around the shoulders.

“Don’t move yet,” he said. “You might be in shock.”

“Did you—” she started, her voice too calm, too steady. “You caught it. You held it.”

Romance crouched near them now, brushing soot off his sleeves like he’d just stepped out of a photo shoot instead of a near-death disaster. “Technically he held it. I just... discouraged it from falling further.”

“Discouraged it?” she echoed.

Romance smiled crookedly. “You know. With my hands. And maybe a little fire.”

She sat up. Dust clung to her blazer. Her eyes scanned the stage—everyone else had cleared out or was yelling for emergency staff. But these two weren’t panicking.

They weren’t pretending anymore, either.

Abby opened his mouth. Closed it. Then sighed, rubbing the back of his neck with a hand still glowing faintly with heat. “Okay. So… uh. This is gonna sound crazy—”

“She’s not screaming,” Romance cut in, sounding almost offended.

“I know she’s not screaming.”

“She’s just staring. Like she expected this.”

“I didn’t expect it,” You said softly. “But I’m not scared.”

That threw them both off.

Abby shifted uncomfortably. “You should be. Not because we’d hurt you—we wouldn’t—but most humans don’t take this well. Finding out their clients are—”

“Not normal?” You supplied.

Romance chuckled. “Understatement. We’re not exactly in your company handbook.”

“Clearly,” she muttered. Then blinked. “You’re telling me you’re not human.”

“We’re demons,” Abby said, finally, gently. “Not… hellfire and pitchforks demons. But still demons. And we’ve been trying to keep that part quiet.”

Romance leaned in, tone teasing but cautious. “So... this the part where you run? Or call the Vatican?”

You looked at them both. At the wariness in Abby’s face. At the easy grin that didn’t quite mask Romance’s tension.

You thought of the prophecy.

Of five flames. Of your oath. And you smiled—small, tired, but real.

“I think I need a coffee,” she said. “And probably a new lighting tech.” Romance blinked. “You’re still not screaming.”

“Should I be?”

Abby looked floored. “You’re seriously not going to quit?”

“I don’t have time to quit. You have a showcase in three weeks and at least two of you don’t know your left from your right when dancing.” There was a pause. Then Romance laughed—a real one, unguarded. “I like her,” he said.

“Me too,” Abby muttered, standing and offering her his hand. She took it.

“Can we... pretend this conversation didn’t happen?” he asked. “For the others. For now.”

“Sure,” she said. “But maybe... next time something like this happens, give me a little warning?”

“No promises,” Romance grinned.

They helped her to her feet.

Behind them, the stage still smoldered faintly.

---------------------------------

Your Apartment – Midnight

The apartment was dark except for a single lamp, its golden glow catching the edge of an old leather-bound journal. The kind you couldn’t buy anymore. Not online. Not anywhere.

You sat at the desk, fingers ink-stained, mug of herbal tea untouched beside you.

You didn’t write on a laptop for this. These were the kinds of thoughts you committed to paper, spelled into pages with memory and meaning. Your handwriting was neat. Controlled.

---------------------------------

Journal Entry – June 28th

The lighting rig was sabotaged. I’m sure of it. But that’s not the important part. What matters is what happened after.

Abby caught it—caught over two hundred pounds of steel like it was nothing. No marks. No hesitation. His arms glowed. Aura saturated. Not just strength—resilience. Protection. That’s his aspect. Romance melted steel. That’s not metaphor. It bent under his fingers. Some kind of infernal heat, but controlled. Elemental? Or charm-based? Possibly both. He deflected suspicion with a joke. Classic distraction technique. I wonder if he even realizes he does it.

She paused. There was something unsettling about how effortlessly they had performed—their abilities flashing under pressure. It was almost as if they were used to hiding in plain sight.

Another line:

They told me what they are. Or rather, what they think I am. Human. How strange, to be considered the weakest in this situation. Yet, in a way, it felt strangely comforting. A position I was unfamiliar with, but not necessarily unwelcome.

She paused again, her mind replaying the events on stage. 

Romance’s power—raw, intense, and so close to her that she could feel the heat radiating off him. And Abby, lifting the rig as if it were weightless, his strength practically tangible in the air. They weren’t like the demons she’d read about. These weren’t just stories of monsters. No, these were beings of real, living power—alive, breathing, and real. It felt like they had no place in this world, yet they had somehow learned to adapt, to fit in. They were creatures of myth, but they were more than that—they were very much alive. And they were hers to protect, whether she was ready for it or not.

They don't know I already knew. That I was warned of them before they were even born into these bodies. That I chose this path knowing it would end like this—with broken glamours and bent truths. They still think they’re hiding something from me. But the truth is... I think I’m the only one hiding anything.

You closed the journal.

You didn’t lock it. No one could read it but you anyway.

Outside the window, across the narrow street, the faint light of another apartment flickered.

You could see their balcony. Just barely.

A shadow passed behind gauzy curtains.

You smiled, just slightly.

---------------------------------

The Saja Boys’ Apartment – 12:14 AM

The living room still smelled like popcorn and cologne. Someone had left a game paused on the TV. But no one was playing it.

The five demons sat scattered on the couch and floor, unusually quiet.

Romance sprawled across the beanbag chair, one hand behind his head, the other playing with a lighter he wasn’t technically supposed to have.

“She didn’t scream,” he said again, for the third time.

Jinu adjusted his glasses. “Plenty of people go into shock during traumatic events.”

“She made a joke, Jinu. She told me I needed to fix my shirt before the next stage rehearsal.”

Abby looked up from where he sat on the floor, arms wrapped around his knees. “I think she might actually be... okay with it.” “She’s human,” Baby said. He was upside down on the couch, eyes fixed on the ceiling. “They don’t do okay with demon stuff.”

“She didn’t look scared,” Mystery said softly. He was near the balcony, the curtains half-open. Watching the same street as you. But you didn’t know that. “She looked… focused.”

There was a long pause.

Jinu stood, pacing. “We need to be careful. We don’t know how she’s reacting yet. She could be pretending.”

“She could be a demon hunter,” Baby added.

“No hunter walks around with a clipboard and color-coded schedules,” Romance muttered.

Abby rubbed the back of his neck. “What if she is just human? But… different? Braver?”

Romance grinned. “Then I think I’m in love.”

Jinu sighed. “Don’t fall for the manager.”

“Too late,” Baby said.

“Too obvious,” Mystery whispered.

They all looked at him.

He didn’t explain.

AN: This was such a fun (and tense) chapter to write!! I’ve been waiting forever to start peeling back the layers on their demon sides, and of course Abby and Romance had to be the first ones to slip up. 😅And Mystery's keeping secrets of course.

Also: shoutout to manager-nim for being calm under pressure. The clipboard is mightier than the sword, apparently.

Taglist: @poem-bee @gremlinartstudio @wantstoliveinfantasy @lovely-maryj @buggaboobich @idkokfu @osball @tenaciouskittenpuff @venommie

[inseobts]

HEYYYYY AHHH THANK YOU FOR OPENING REQUESTS AGAIN ‼️‼️‼️is it ok to request an ace x fem! reader with a mix of angst and fluff? Like they’re really close and like each other but one night while the wb pirates are celebrating they share a drunk kiss and the next say reader starts ignores him cause she feels as though he doesn’t remember/he was just drunk and doesn’t feel the same. Fluffy ending though 🤗🤗🤗 THANK YOU AGAIN AHHHHH 🔥🔥🔥

Sober Hearts

portgas d. ace x fem!reader

A/N | idk if this came out as you wanted, hope you like it T.T

WORDS COUNT | 2.8k

TAGS | slow burn, angst to fluff, friends to lovers, drunk kiss, misunderstanding

masterlist || ao3 || ko-fi

The deck of the Moby Dick is alive tonight.

Someone’s playing music. Laughter fills the air. Fire crackles in the middle of the circle, and everyone’s got drinks in hand.

You sit between Thatch and Marco, legs tucked under you, cup already your third... or maybe fourth. Doesn’t matter. It’s a good night.

Whitebeard laughs so loud it shakes the sky “Drink up, family!”

You cheer with everyone else.

Ace sits across the fire from you, one leg up, drink in hand. He’s already shirtless, of course. His smile is big and wild.

"You can't even hold your cup straight." you tease when he almost spills sake on himself.

He smirks “Please, this is nothing. I could drink you under the table.”

“Oh yeah?” you raise a brow “You’d be on the floor crying after two shots.”

“Big talk for someone who turns red after one.” He points to your cheeks “Look. Tomato.”

You gasp “That’s the light from the fire, idiot!”

He leans forward with a lazy grin “Nah, it’s me. I make you hot.”

Your whole face burns now. The crew laughs around you, not really paying attention. But his words? His eyes?

He’s teasing. Of course. He’s always like this with you. Flirty. Playful. Stupidly hot.

You laugh it off and push your cup at Thatch “Refill, please.”

"That’s your fifth." Marco warns, but he’s smiling.

"Then it’s my lucky number tonight." you grin.

You keep drinking. So does Ace. Everyone’s louder now, stories flying across the fire like waves. Jozu starts dancing terribly. Someone spills a bottle. Izo makes a toast to "the best damn family ever".

You laugh, laugh, and laugh some more, until you feel that weird flutter in your chest, that heat crawling under your skin.

Ace looks at you again, smirking like he knows what you’re thinking.

He licks his lip, slowly “Still red.”

You stand quickly, too quickly “I... just need air.”

You walk away before your heart bursts. Down the deck, behind the crates, into the darker part of the ship where the stars are brighter, and the sea sounds louder.

You exhale.

“Stupid Ace,” you mumble, pressing a hand to your hot cheek “Can’t do this in front of everyone…”

You’re not sure what “this” is.

But your skin is on fire, and your thoughts are a mess, and you can still taste sake on your lips.

You close your eyes and lean back against the wooden rail.

Footsteps.

You turn.

It’s Ace.

Of course it is.

“Didn’t think you’d follow.” you say quietly.

He grins “You looked too cute to leave alone.”

You cross your arms “I needed space.”

“Liar.”

You blink “Excuse me?”

He steps closer “You always leave when I get too close.”

You swallow hard “You’re drunk.”

“So are you.”

You don’t reply.

He’s standing just in front of you now. Moonlight makes him look soft. His eyes aren’t teasing anymore.

"Why’d you run?" he asks.

You open your mouth but nothing comes out.

He’s close. Too close.

Your heart? It’s racing.

Then... he leans in.

The silence is heavy.

Ace is standing in front of you. Close. Closer than friends should be. His eyes are dark, not from anger, but from something warmer, something deep. His body radiates heat and sake, and your brain short-circuits as he leans in.

He's going to kiss you.

Ace is going to kiss you.

Your heart slams against your ribs, and suddenly...

You laugh.

A short, loud, stupid laugh.

At his face.

His brows twitch. His lips stop inches from yours.

“...What the hell?” he mutters, blinking.

You slap a hand over your mouth “I—I don’t know!”

You’re laughing harder now, gasping for breath. Your chest hurts, your eyes sting. It's not even funny, but you can't stop.

Ace steps back, face flushed... not from sake. From full-on embarrassment “Seriously?”

“I’m sorry!” you say between laughs, holding your sides “I—God—I just panicked!”

“You laughed. At my face.”

“It wasn’t your face! I mean... okay, maybe a little! But you leaned in and—and my brain just broke!”

He glares, but it’s weak. His ears are bright red now “You’re so stupid.”

You wipe your eyes “I know!”

He looks at you for a second. And then, with a groan, he throws his head back.

“Ughhh—you’re so cute to be this idiotic.” he mutters, half to himself.

You freeze.

“…What did you just say?”

“Nothing.” He turns away.

You grab his wrist “No no no—say it again.”

“I said you’re dumb.”

“You said I’m cute.”

He groans again, tugging his hand back, but you don’t let go.

“You’re drunk.” you say, your voice quieter now.

“Yeah,” he admits “But I still mean it.”

You stare at him. He doesn’t look at you. He’s chewing his lip, eyes on the deck like he regrets everything.

You feel dizzy, and not from the alcohol.

He liked you. Or still does. Maybe. Or maybe he's just being Ace and doesn’t even know what he’s doing to you.

“…Were you really going to kiss me?”

Silence.

Then he asks softly “Would you have let me?”

Your throat tightens.

You whisper “...I think so.”

His eyes meet yours, burning. The heat between you rises like a wave.

He doesn’t say anything else.

He just moves.

Suddenly, his hand is on your waist, pulling you in like you weigh nothing. His other hand cradles your cheek, fingers warm and a little shaky from the alcohol. But his lips? Firm. Confident.

His mouth crashes onto yours.

It’s not sweet. It’s not careful. It’s desperate... hot and messy and way too real.

Your fingers dig into his bare chest without thinking. You feel him groan against your mouth, feel his grip tighten on your waist. He kisses you like he’s starving. Like he wanted this forever.

And maybe he did.

Your back hits the wooden rail, but he follows, pressing into you, breath short between kisses.

“Still laughing now?” he mutters against your lips, voice husky.

You gasp “Shut up.”

He grins, then kisses you again, deeper this time.

Your legs feel weak. His lips trail down your jaw to your neck, slow and burning, and your hands fly up to tangle in his hair.

“You smell like fire.” you breathe.

He chuckles, mouth still on your skin “You smell like trouble.”

You pull back slightly, just enough to meet his eyes.

“We're drunk.” you whisper.

He licks his lips, still breathless “Yeah. But I still know exactly what I’m doing.”

You don’t reply.

You just pull him in again.

And this time, you kiss him first.

Your eyes open slowly.

The sun is already pouring through the porthole. Too bright. Too warm. Your head throbs, but it’s not the worst part.

You feel it right away.

The kiss.

Last night.

You sit up fast.

The heat of Ace’s hands still clings to your skin. His mouth, his voice, all of it floods back in broken flashes. His lips on yours. Your hands in his hair. The way he said, "I know exactly what I’m doing."

Did he?

Or was that just drunk Ace talking?

You don’t know if it meant anything to him. Maybe it was just a game. Knowing him it probably was. Or maybe the heat-of-the-moment, sake-fueled chaos.

You pull on your clothes quickly, your heart hammering.

You need air.

The deck is already alive when you step out. Some pirates are still nursing their hangovers. Others are already laughing and working like the party didn’t just go until sunrise.

You spot him.

Ace.

He’s laughing with Thatch, sitting on a barrel like nothing happened.

Like he doesn’t remember.

Your stomach twists. You freeze in place.

He doesn’t look over. Doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t even glance your way.

Not a single flicker of recognition.

Your throat burns.

You walk the other direction.

Fast.

You avoid him the entire day.

You skip meals. Stay out of sight. No more jokes. No more sitting by the fire. You lock yourself in your cabin with excuses and a pillow over your face.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

What were you thinking? That he meant it? That it was something real?

You wish you’d just laughed and walked away like before. At least then, your heart wouldn’t feel like it was cracking open.

Later, you hear a knock at your door.

“Y/N?”

His voice.

You freeze.

He knocks again “Hey. You alright?”

You don’t move.

“You didn’t come to dinner.” he says “Marco said you’re sick? You okay?”

You press your fist to your mouth.

Sick? Yeah. Sure. Sick in the heart. Sick in the brain.

Sick of hoping.

He knocks one more time “You mad at me or something?”

You squeeze your eyes shut.

Then silence.

You don’t hear him walk away, but you know he does.

You curl under your blanket.

And you tell yourself it was nothing.

That it didn’t mean anything to him.

That he forgot.

Even if you never will.

You’re on deck again the next morning.

Pretending nothing happened. Pretending your heart didn’t split open the night before when he knocked on your door sounding so normal.

You didn’t sleep. You didn’t cry either, not really. You just lay there with your eyes open, heart screaming quietly inside your chest.

Now you smile at Thatch. You laugh at Marco’s grumbles. You help Izo fix his coat.

All while avoiding Ace like he’s the goddamn sun.

But he comes to you anyway.

Of course he does.

“Hey,” he says, walking up behind you like he doesn’t hold your soul in his hands “You feeling better?”

You force a smile before you turn around “Yeah. Must’ve just been the sake.”

He scratches the back of his neck “Yeah. We all went kinda hard.”

“Mm.” You look away.

“Uh, so,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck, eyes suddenly glued to the sky, “I just… I kinda wanted to say sorry. You know, if I said anything dumb last night.”

You freeze inside.

He’s doing this?

You laugh, fake and light “You? Dumb? Nothing new.”

He chuckles, but it’s tight “You know how it is. Everyone says weird stuff when they’re wasted.”

You nod slowly “Yeah. No big deal.”

“No big deal.” he echoes.

You both stand there for a second. Not looking at each other.

You want to scream.

You want to grab his shirt and shake him and say, then why did you kiss me like that? Why did it feel like everything I ever wanted? Why did I let myself believe it meant something?

But instead, you smile again. And this time it’s worse, because your lips are trembling.

“Well,” you say, taking a step back, “I’m gonna go clean the kitchen. Thatch made a mess.”

“Right,” he nods “See you later.”

You walk away.

And your chest aches so badly you have to lean on the wall when no one’s looking.

What were you even expecting?

Of course he didn’t mean it.

Of course he forgot.

He’s your best friend. He was drunk. He was probably just being… Ace.

You bite your lip so hard it stings.

This is fine.

You’re fine.

Meanwhile, Ace watches you walk away.

And his fingers curl into fists at his sides.

He saw the look in your eyes. He saw the smile not reach them. He saw everything.

But he thinks you regret it.

He thinks you hate that it happened.

So he tells himself this is what’s best.

Even if it feels like cutting off a piece of his own heart.

You're helping Marco carry boxes toward the kitchen, chatting casually, finally managing to smile without pretending.

Ace is nearby, laughing with Haruta, stretching in the sun, shirtless as always like he doesn’t know what it does to people.

You haven’t spoken much to him since the “nothing happened” talk. You’ve been civil. Careful. Safe.

And then...

You reach down to pick up a dropped cloth, and Ace does too.

His fingers brush yours.

It’s barely a second, just skin on skin.

But it’s enough.

Your entire body freezes. Your breath stops. Your hand jerks back like you’ve been burned. And when your eyes meet his, it’s like being struck by lightning.

He looks just as stunned. His lips part, but no words come out.

The air between you crackles.

The crew notices.

Izo pauses mid-step. Thatch tilts his head. Marco narrows his eyes.

But you don’t say a word.

You just turn on your heel, and walk away.

Fast.

You hear his voice behind you, sharp and panicked.

“Wait, hey! Y/N!”

You keep walking. Down the hall, around the corner, out of sight.

Footsteps pound after you.

“Y/N!” he calls again, louder now “Don’t walk away from me!”

You whirl around “Why not?!”

He stops in his tracks.

You’re both breathing hard. Faces flushed. Emotions straining at the seams.

He stares at you for a long second, chest rising and falling like he’s about to explode.

And then he does.

“Did... UGH, did you hate that kiss so much?” he shouts.

Your heart slams.

“…What?” you whisper.

He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated, voice rough “I’ve been trying to give you space, I thought you were mad. I thought you regretted it, so I pretended like I didn’t remember because I didn’t wanna make it worse! But now I'm tired!”

“You what?” your voice cracks.

“I remember everything!” he says, stepping closer “Every second. I wasn’t that drunk. I knew what I was doing. I meant it. All of it.”

You just stare at him.

He laughs bitterly, eyes shining with something like anger, something like hurt “And you looked at me like I ruined everything.”

“I thought you forgot...” you choke out “You acted like it meant nothing, Ace.”

His mouth opens, then shuts again.

Silence.

Then, softer “You… you really thought that?”

“I’ve been losing my mind for days.”

His face falls. His voice breaks “So have I.”

You blink fast. Your throat is tight. Your eyes sting.

You laugh weakly, tears pricking “We’re so dumb.”

He steps forward “Yeah. We really are.”

His hand reaches out, tentative this time, fingers brushing your cheek.

You don’t move away.

“I didn’t hate it.” you whisper.

His voice is barely audible “Good.”

He leans in again.

But this time, it’s not messy or rushed.

It’s soft. Slow. Sure.

And when he kisses you again, it feels like everything unspoken finally makes sense.

After the storm, after the yelling, the hurt, the kiss that finally felt real, you and Ace just… stand there for a while.

He holds your hand like it’s made of glass. You lean against him like you’ve been trying to for years. And even though your faces are still hot, and your hearts are still beating out of sync, you feel calm.

“Should we… go back?” you ask quietly.

Ace hums “Eventually.”

You both stay like that a few seconds more.

Then, together, you walk back toward the deck.

Like absolutely nothing just happened.

The crew spots you immediately.

You're both laughing softly, trying way too hard to act normal. Ace scratches his nose. You twirl a lock of hair. Suspicious. So suspicious.

Thatch squints “Okay... what the hell was all that?”

Marco tilts his head “You two just ran off like your hands caught fire and now you're smiling like idiots.”

Izo crosses his arms “Yeah... Explain to us, please.”

You open your mouth, but Ace beats you to it.

He drops onto a crate like he owns it, leans back, throws an arm across his knee, and goes “Well... funny story.”

The crew leans in.

Ace grins “Basically, we kissed when we were both drunk during the celebration night.”

The world goes silent.

You stiffen beside him, eyes wide “Ace!”

He raises a hand “Wait, I’m not done, it's just right that they know too. Then the next day Y/N got mad at me because she thought I forgot the kiss…”

The crew slowly pans to you.

You try to smile. It’s awkward. So awkward.

Ace continues, still far too casual “But I actually thought she regretted the kiss, so that's why I pretended to forget about it.”

He shrugs “Just a big BIG misunderstanding. Funny, right?”

You both laugh.

Quietly.

Awkwardly.

No one else does.

Silence.

Still silence.

Then Thatch stands up like someone slapped him.

“YOU KISSED?!”

The deck explodes.

“WHAT?!”

“WHEN?!”

“WHO KISSED WHO FIRST?!”

“WHAT THE HELL DID WE MISS?!”

“ARE YOU TOGETHER NOW?!”

“IS THIS A THING?!”

Thatch grabs Marco’s arm “I feel betrayed.”

Izo dramatically covers his eyes “I knew there was tension, I just didn’t think they’d be so stupid about it.”

“You guys are literally the worst at communicating.” Haruta sighs.

You bury your face in your hands. Ace just laughs harder.

“Well,” he says, nudging you with his shoulder, “they took it better than I thought.”

You peek at him “You mean the screaming?”

“I mean the lack of violence.”

Thatch walks by and smacks him on the head.

“Okay, yeah, there it is.”

You both laugh... this time, not awkward.

This time, with relief.

[vanillaxbambi]

+*#behind the camera — ch. 2 || lee heeseung

+*pairing: childhood crush-> idol!heeseung x make-up artist!femreader

+* wc: 6k

+*contains: phone sex(? more like a very suggestive and dominant!heeseung talking hot and bothered while reader is a flustered mess), praise, degradation if you squint, and guided orgasm. mature language. mdni.

synopsis: forget the NDA, heeseung's reaching out. blatantly, flirting and offering more than just simple fan-service. your childhood crush isnt just calling you to catch up. he's international enhypen all star idol, lee heeseung— ready to show you, famous youtube mua, that he's no longer the little 13 year old boy you rejected on a field trip.

m i k a 🌷: when i tell u how much this man suits this scenario, i might explode. in my mind, i will always see him dating a fan irl. like bsfr, i need to see him with someone famous or an engene.

🎀taglist: No pressure to you beautiful flowers to read at all! I love youuuu🌷💝 @heegyukeluv @fatherwound @str8ykids @twancingyunhao @nctrenjunie @allygator-98 @jay-scenarios @hansungie01 @jadedxfemme @sagegreenhairclip @lveegsoi @srhnyx @simj4ke @jiyeons-closet @hxonieverse

couldnt tag :( @ninistranaut

chapter 1 << chapter 2 >> chapter 3 soon...

chapter 2.

your phone blares loudly with the facetime ringer you’ve specifically set for him. although you've preemptively prepared yourself by setting a very distinctive ringtone for his contact… it still makes you want to jump out of your skin.

you realize that he isn’t allowed to date and this is probably the only form of communication with the opposite sex that he is allowed to have.

no one in the company was going to ever know that you have heeseung’s private number. especially when he’s entrusted you to keeping this a secret.

on top of violating the NDA, by having his personal number, you were genuinely bargaining more consequences than your careers could handle.

The ringing jars you back into the moment, with your finger accepting the call. Immediately you can recognize that he’s in a single recording room. The one that he is usually seen talking to engene on Weverse.

His eyes dart around the screen, seemingly adjusting something before landing his full attention on you. “Hi, y/n.”

It’s nearly as jarring as the first time you heard his voice in your studio. His voice sounded even better coming through the speakers of your phone.

“Wow.” You start with a smile. “I feel like I just won a fancall.”

“Yeah?” Oh. God. “What should oppa do for you?”

Your face twists as you cringe. “I will never ever call you that. We’re literally the same age.”

”I’m a few months older than you. That counts.” He begins to lean forward and adjust the lighting on his desk.

“No, actually though,” You catch your thought before you forget to ask him later. “Do you actually like doing fancalls?” You fiddle with the corner of your phone’s case. ”You seem to flirt with every single fan that you interact with.”

“I have to.” He sets the phone up in a very familiar position to how he does his Weverse lives. “I’m engene’s boyfriend. I play to everyone’s fantasies and little requests.”

“Oh.” You’re not sure why but that doesn’t quite sit well with you. “Is that why you were so blatantly flirting with me after I told you that I was a fan?”

“Hmm,” He actually considers before answering. “Yes, and no.”

”It can’t be both.”

“Well, It’s more of a force of habit. Occupational.” He explains the first part. “But I can’t lie when I say that I wanted to mess with you in case you recognized me at all.”

”Anyone would recognize you.” You also prop your phone up against something. “I didn’t think that you recognized me at all.”

”A man never forgets a woman who rejected him.” Heeseung’s voice drops into a slightly serious tone. “Do you not like eye contact?”

This again.

You realize the whole time that you haven’t once looked directly at your phone. Mainly just around the room and at your hands.

”I think it’s cute how shy you get around me when around others you're so confident and charming.” He points out while seemingly typing on his pc.

Music begins to play; he finally sits back after finding the right song for the background.

“Be honest,” he says suddenly. “You’re used to being flirted with.”

“I’m not–”

“I saw the episode of Wooyoung from Ateez complimenting your eyes while you were applying his foundation.” Heeseung levels his eyes with what seems to be your line of sight. Searching for your reaction. “You seemed to like it.”

“It’s not that I liked it… I was being engaging and polite.” You fixate on your finger tips and what they could be touching to keep yourself distracted. “Lets not forget that you’re a professional boyfriend, and you’re just an occupational flirt. I deal with men like you regularly.”

“Oh, Yeah? You still answered a facetime call from a man like me anyway.” Heeseung crosses his arms, clearly amused.

If he was just going to make you feel like your head was going to explode, you thought it would probably be smart to cut the conversation short. “Why did you facetime me, heeseung?”

“I missed you. It’s been a whole week since I last saw you.” Heeseung pulls out a samsung phone from his pocket. “We’re viral, you know?”

“I saw.” You smile, warmth spreading over your cheeks. “Apparently engenes are shipping us with each other. The edits on tiktok are pretty good. Speaking of flirting, I was hoping that my team cut out a few parts. Like you mentioning our past…” Until now, you haven’t sat and read through the comment section of your video together. The very reason being that you wished you could entirely ignore all the negative feedback and death threats sent by sasaengs.

“Yeah, but now they know what I look like when I’m showing interest in someone.” Heeseung lifts a knowing brow. “Feeds a lot of fantasies.”

”Oh trust. They have plenty of those videos way before you and I interacted.”

“You keep up with my content like that, y/n?” His brow flicks up in amusement.

“Oh please, I’m a k-beauty makeup artist. Anyone who's keeping up with kpop is bound to get all of your trends and viral videos in their feed.”

Heeseung just grins, not even pretending to deny it. “Regret rejecting me now that I’m famous?”

You scoff. “Don’t flatter yourself. I almost declined.”

“Almost,” he echoes, that same smug glint flickering in his eyes. “But you didn’t.”

There’s a pause. The kind of silence that isn’t awkward—just heavy. Familiar. You can hear him exhale, the faint shift of his hoodie when he leans back in the studio chair. His mic must still be on, because the low hum of audio equipment buzzes faintly beneath the slow r&b song playing in the background.

“I didn’t tell you this when we saw each other last,” Heeseung clears his throat a bit before continuing. “but while you were touching my face with your soft little hands, I was trying so hard not to keep staring at your lips. You’ve got such pretty shaped ones…”

You make a sound between a laugh and a groan, pressing your face into your hands. “Heeseung.”

“What? I’m just saying.” You can hear the smile in his voice, and it sends heat straight to your ears. “You were concentrating so hard enough to start pouting. It was cute.”

“I was working.”

“I could see that And I was trying to behave.”

You finally glance at the screen. He’s watching you again—of course he is. Arms crossed, mouth tilted just slightly at the corner, like he’s waiting to see what expression you’ll make next.

“That’s funny, because it felt like the opposite,” you say, sitting up straighter. “You turned my makeup video into your own version of a dating show.”

His brow lifts, tongue slightly poking his cheek with a faint smile. “You didn’t seem to mind.”

You pause. You really, really shouldn’t engage. But the pull is magnetic, and you’re tired of pretending you’re not curious too.

“I didn’t mind,” you admit quietly. “I just didn’t know how to respond.”

Heeseung tilts his head at that. “Why not?”

“Because…” You trail off, fingers toying with the hem of your sweatshirt. “You’re not supposed to talk to me like that. Not on camera. Not when we have a hundred people waiting for either of us to mess up.”

His smile fades just slightly—not gone, just thinner. “But we’re not on camera now.”

Your chest tightens a little at that. He’s right. This isn’t staged. There are no lights, no cameras, no mics hidden in lapels. Just your phone screen and the boy you once lied to because the truth would’ve hurt too much to carry with you across the ocean.

“I didn’t think we’d ever talk again after I left Korea,” you say, surprising even yourself with the softness in your voice.

Heeseung leans forward now, elbows resting on the desk in front of him. “I thought about messaging you for years,” he says simply. “But I figured if you wanted to talk, you would’ve at least messaged me through kakao.”

“I did remember you,” you say instantly. Then, quieter: “I just wasn’t sure you’d remember me.”

He lets that hang in the air.

It stretches between you—ten years of what-ifs, buried under makeup brushes, video thumbnails, and late-night music recordings. you want to say something else to not make it sound as pathetic as it came out but you cant.

“You think I would forget my first one sided crush?”

That’s the thing. It was far from that.

“It wasn’t.”

“What wasn’t?”

“Your crush.” You clarify, letting out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. “I didn’t reject you because you weren’t my type.”

Heeseung blinks before a slow smile spreads across his face. “I figured. You left not too long after the trip.” His teeth catch his bottom lip as if to contain his thoughts.

“I still remember everything.” Heeseung says. “You were the first person who didn’t care that i was just … really good at things. You know, before enhypen. There was a time that I didn’t have enough money for the vending machine outside of the practice rooms and you ended up handing me some change while walking by with your friends.” Heeseung chuckles to himself as if he replayed it in his mind. “You were so sweet to everyone.”

You swallow, the words catching somewhere in your chest. There’s a pinch in your throat that feels suspiciously like nostalgia trying to become something else.

He continues, but gentler this time. “I didn’t call to freak you out. I just… wanted to see you without everyone else around.”

“This feels a bit too… vulnerable.” You confess.

“I know,” he murmurs. “ I like it.”

The silence returns.

But this time, it doesn’t feel so heavy.

Just a little too comfortable. A little too warm for something that’s supposed to be professional.

“I should go,” you say, but you don’t move to end the call.

“I know,” he echoes again, eyes still on you. “But you won’t.”

Your thumb hovers over the red end button for a second too long. And then finally, you say:

“Goodnight, Heeseung.”

He tilts his head like he’s memorizing how you look—like he wants to pause this exact moment and tuck it somewhere safe. “Goodnight, y/n.”

The call ends.

And your apartment is suddenly too quiet.

Your fingers still curl around the phone like he’s still on the other end.

And that stupid ringtone?

You don’t even consider changing it.

a week slips through like sand. you arent sure why but whenever olive or rose begin to mention the new shift your career will be taking from this point forward… you hate to think that the time you’ll spend with heeseung will be temporary.

the sting doesn’t exactly register with you as much when the work and planning begins to pile up and you have to force yourself to compartmentalize your emotions away from this job.

Hybe sends you more information about the tour dates, concept meetings, and more non-disclosure contracts that legally bind you to shutting the fuck up about anything that will ever happen between you and any of the enhypen members.

it’s been a week since your forbidden facetime with international idol lee heeseung. most of your interactions are limited to brushing shoulders in the busy halls during promotions, 3 second long eye contact in the office floor, and brief greetings when leaving from signing a few final disclosures.

today was different.

heeseung manages to catch your eye in the cafeteria before mouthing, “I’ll call you.”

you hate to hold him to his word but the butterflies in your stomach can’t tell a difference.

lee heeseung wanted to call you.

you nod with a blank look on your face. something stuck between surprise and panic. this, makes him chuckle— biting his stupid lip again as he scans you up and down before leaving the cafeteria.

your thighs instinctively press together from the rush of anticipation that flushes through your body.

god, he hasn’t done anything. fucking get it together.

that night you’re trying hard not to stare at the time.

6pm. nothing.

7pm. silence.

8pm… a promotional advertisement from olive young and a message from Olive asking if you were free this weekend to get drinks.

you figured you needed a distraction. so you call Olive to bide time.

it’s not long until you’re laughing and getting unready with her. she’s cracking jokes about what might happen on the tour and what the other make up artists will say while she’s gone.

frankly, olive is the only person in the world who would understand what you’re going through and exactly what you’re risking if you keep allowing this boundary line to fade into the background with heeseung.

olive was never one to care about rules and regulations anyway. “You only have one life, girl.” olive squirts micellular water onto a cotton round. “If you’re out here getting cozy with a childhood friend; who just happens to be Enhypen’s Lee Heeseung, that’s your business.”

her nonchalant seriousness makes you laugh as you apply toner to your clean, bare face. “it’s a bit embarrassing liv,” You sigh, patting the toner onto your cheeks. “my fucking pussy clenched just from him looking me up and down today.”

“Your what?!” olive’s mouth hangs open.

”I’m deadass.”

“He did what?!?!” she starts giggling. “i love this man for you.”

“oh stop, he’s probably just flirting with me because he feeds off of the attention.”

“Oh shut up, bitch. You keep giving it to him too.” She deadpans.

“I can’t ever live around you, can i?”

olive pouts at the screen with a little kiss. “not when you’re acting like you don’t want to have this man fuck you against—“

your phone rings.

his contact name pops up.

FaceTime Video Lee Heeseung...

“oh shit. that’s him isn’t it?” you can hear the smile in olives voice as you stare at the incoming call.

“fuck!” you panic, taking a look at yourself in the mirror. you’ve taken off your make up, your skincare routine is almost done, and you’ve got on this ridiculously huge Sanrio character headband to keep your hair from getting wet. “I look busted right now!”

“I’m hanging up now, girl! good luck! love you!” Olive squeals before hanging up.

The call ends and you’re scrambling to get out of your restroom.

it’s still ringing.

you take a glance at yourself in your wall mirror in your room.

shit.

you’re in your bra, head band still on top of your head, you looked bare. stripped down. not a touch of make up on your face.

the ringing stops.

then your phone pings.

Lee Heeseung you always shower this late or are you actually sleeping?

Lee Heeseung got home from practice. call me back if you’re up, y/n.

you throw on a large tee, gripping your phone as you go back and forth on actually hitting the facetime icon.

Lee Heeseung you looked so fucking good today by the way.

you hit the icon right as the message banner shows on your screen.

oh my god.

heeseung’s face appears on your screen and he looks as if he just freshly showered. hair slightly wet, face clean, yet his eyes seem tired.

“there she is.” Heeseung’s voice fills your ears with the huskiness of his busy day. “you look cute.”

you see yourself on the screen. you look out of sorts. caught off guard and entirely not in your element.

“you just take off your make-up, y/n?”

you were still wearing your sanrio headband.

he chuckles lowly and from what you can make out, he seems to be sat at a desk. if you weren’t still flustered from his text, you would immediately start going on about how he really needs to get actual furniture and decorate like someone actually lives in his room.

all that comes out is: “yeah.”

“you okay?” heeseung is mildly amused but you can’t help but notice that his eyes blink slow and heavy.

“just didn’t expect you to call so late.” you slip the headband from your head and ruffle your hair a bit. ”you look tired.”

“i said i would call.” he ruffles his hair as well. “i’m usually pretty tired after long practice days— insomnia still keeps me up most of the time though, no matter how exhausted i am.”

“you didn’t have to call me.” you feel your heart tug a little. the same way that it did the first time when he fell asleep in your make up chair. “you need to relax and rest if you want any sleep tonight.”

”i’m relaxing just fine being on the phone with you, y/n.” heeseung leans back in his computer chair. face glowing from his monitor screen and what’s playing on it. “i missed you since our last conversation.”

“woah,” you lift a brow. “i would stop right there, heeseung, you sound like you’re using your professional boyfriend skills on me.”

“if thats what you want me to be for you sweetheart, then i can be whatever you want.”

the nickname drops like a bomb and you hate that your face feels warmer by the rising second of him staring at you as if he didn’t just rock your world.

“heeseung…”

“what? you answered the phone looking so cute with your sanrio headband on, huge shirt, bare face, and don't expect me to say something about it?”

“you just can’t stop, can you?” you try to deflect, knowing that you’re looking a mess.

“i like seeing how flustered you get.”

you feel like a simple minded fangirl.

the shy, talented but popular boy he once was is long gone. replaced with this suave, confident and flirtatious man. the difference jarred you. you wanted to be the type who bounces back from cute little flirty jabs but coming from him was a different level.

you get the fantasy.

why fans purchase hundreds of albums to get the opportunity to have a mere 2 minute long phone call.

and yet, here he was offering his time to you for free.

his eyes blink slower and his smile doesn’t necessarily meet his eyes.

the butterflies in your stomach stop once you realize that you don’t actually want this version of him.

this was something he always does. something he has to do.

flirting with engenes and appealing to every request. never actually being himself and constantly bending to the will of the fans.

”hey so…” you find yourself starting to say something that you might regret. but the greater the risk the bigger reward. “you really don’t have to do that with me, heeseung.”

he pauses and you can see that he adjusts in his seat. “am i making you uncomfortable?”

“no, its actually very flattering and sweet,” you admit. “but you’re off the clock. you don’t need to give me fan service.”

heeseung’s brows shoot up before a slow smile spreads to his face, this time it meets his eyes. “its more natural for me to talk to fans like this.”

“im not just a fan." you frown.

heeseungs eyes soften and he leans back into his chair. "i know...you're right." he bites his lip slowly before taking a sharp breath. "sorry im tired and im just doing what i've practiced. occupationa—"

"occupational habit." you complete. musing his sentence with a sense of understanding. " I get it."

"how should we talk to each other then y/n?"

"like im not looking for an interaction. like im just a friend who enjoys your company and not your fame." you suggest.

heeseung tilts his head and nods. "i'd like that actually."

"have you ever wanted to just exist and not have to charm anyone?"

"sometimes, yeah." heeseung presses his pink lips into a flatline.

"you dont need to play idol." you turn off your main light and adjust your lamp on your desk. "we're old classmates. it must be nice for you to be normal."

"alright," you visibly see his entire body relaxing and he no longer holds the tension that he did when you called back. "its lame. the first real interaction i have with my old crush is me trying to give her fan service vice." he humors.

"technically, our third ."

"i was also giving you fan service the last time as well, soo not very impressive on my part." he chuckles, moving to type on his computer.

two more clicks and soft music plays.

"im not gonna complain, like i said; its flattering and sweet." You bring your legs up into the chair to get more comfortable. "what do you do to wind down after a long day?"

"you want the real answer or the broadcast answer?"

your eyes widen. "depends..." your mouth slowly running dry. "do you go for a run? long shower? game?"

the corner of his lips twitch. "sure. those answers work."

his tone of voice shifts to something suggestive. playful. deep.

this was taking a turn. fast.

“oh.” you nod slowly, a bit awkwardly before he bursts out laughing.

“god, you’re so fucking cute.” heeseungs eyes crease and this is instantly your favorite expression on his face. “i just scroll on my phone and game, y/n. I’m a very simple man.”

with your cheeks warm and hands fidgeting, you manage a calm expression. “same here. just more scrolling than gaming.”

a silence creeps in and you try to think of something to ask, say, or even occupy yourself with. heeseung’s undivided attention sort of makes you uneasy and his habit of searching for direct eye contact isnt exactly grounding.

he breaks the silence first. “It’s getting late, y/n… i don’t want to keep you up.”

“you’re not, i dont have to be at the company until 8am.”

“my show time is 7.”

you looks over at the digital clock on your night stand. “oh shit, you need to be in bed right now. its almost midnight.”

“insomnia, remember?” he brushes a loose lock of hair from his brow. “couldnt fall asleep even if I wanted to.”

“well, i would feel better if you laid in bed at least.”

“Already trying to see me in the sheets, y/n? damn, i didn’t know you were so forward.” he jokes before his monitor light flickers with a pink light. “I kind of don’t want to yet. i hate being told what to do.”

you realize he’s finally teasing you the way he used to with his friends back in the day. “don’t blame me then when you’re exhausted and tired while i work on your face tomorrow.”

“you’re already working with us so soon before the tour?” he smoothly changes the topic.

“yeah, sort of need to immerse myself and understand all of your faces before i assign people to all the members.”

“you assigned to me?” his smug little expression flashes on his features.

“you wish.” you smirk.

heeseung looks you up and down through the screen, the same way he did in the cafeteria. “why don’t we both lay in bed, hmm?”

“like right now?”

“yeah, cmon.” Heeseung grabs his phone, shuts off his pc, and takes you to prop his phone on the night stand. “get in bed.”

he was calling the shots now?

“oh. i still need to finish my skincare…” your eyes dart around your room.

“let me watch.”

why did that sound so hot?

“go on. i’ll wait.”

you’re moving on his word. fuck, you hated that you folded so fast. just one simple change in tone is already enough to subtly show him that you liked taking orders.

“Mmh.” he quietly hums in approval as he watches you set him down somewhere on your sink. “you listen well.”

you turn away as you grab a bottle of your serum and facial mist. hoping that you could hide your reaction. “this your way of being petty after being told what to do all day?”

“no,” he calmly responds. holding his phone with one hand now and the other propped behind his head as he lays down to watch you. “just finally able to be me.”

“and what’s being you like?”

“in charge.”

oh. fuck.

he doesn’t wait for you to be speechless about it and turns his head. “take your time, y/n. i’m right here.”

after 5 excruciating minutes of you rushing through the final steps of your routine. you shut off the bathroom light and pad over to your bedroom.

“you know,” heeseungs eyes blink slowly. “i’m actually starting to get a little sleepy… something about watching you get ready for bed is so cozy.”

“you said something similar when you fell asleep in my chair.” you point out as you shuffle into your sheets.

heeseung lazily smiles before his eyes dart down. “i’ve never done that before… i was actually a little embarrassed about it.”

“i just figured you were tired.”

“I was… just your fingers were so gentle and soft… fuck, sorry.” now a strange expression reaches his eyes when you finally lay down in bed.

“about?”

“its getting late, i should hang up.” heeseung sounds uncomfortable.

oh.

“you.. okay?” you bring the comforter up higher on your torso.

he offers you a pained smile before nodding. “i’m good… just—“ he reconsiders before sighing. “i’m so fucking turned on.”

oh.

“uh—“

“your bare face, your flushed cheeks, then you climbing into bed—god, you’re killing me. it’s pathetic how deprived i am…”

“do you not have like… women for that?”

heeseung looks at you like you just said the most ridiculous thing. “with what time? dispatch follows me everywhere. my fans are insanely para-socially attached to me that even the mention of me next to another woman makes them send death threats. you think i’d be able to talk with a woman freely knowing that they’d have to go through that?”

he has a point. but also, “you’re talking with me…”

he opens his mouth before closing it again.

“what’s the difference between any other woman and me?” you ask curiously before biting on the inside of your cheek.

“our past.” heeseung blinks a few times. “and the way the public majority is actually enjoying our relationship.”

“oh? i didn’t know we had a relationship.” for some reason this conversation isn’t turning out the way you intended it to.

“well, its the closest one i have to an actual girlfriend.” heeseung makes another valid point. “what else would you call this then,y/n? you could’ve left me on read.”

“being on facetime with you doesn’t mean we’re dating.”

“no, it doesn’t,” heeseung nods contemplatively. “but it must mean something that you listened to me, finished your night routine, then got in bed with me like a good girl..”

your phone gets blurry for a second and you realize that your eye is twitching.

“you were so obedient for me, i thought maybe you were starting to enjoy me being myself.” his voice melts around your ears like spiced honey. “or should i go back to fan service heeseung and do as you say?”

“heeseung.” you try to grab hold of reality. a dream. you must be drifting off to sleep.

“yeah, baby?” fuck, he was still talking. “tell me to stop…i promise i will, if you just say the word.”

you should behave.

you should tell him no.

you should say the word and have him do the behaved, well-mannered thing.

but fuck, you weren’t going to lie to yourself and say that you aren’t just as fucking heated from the way he’s sweet talking to you.

your silence tells him everything.

“you warm, sweetheart?”

“so fucking warm….”

“yeah?” he shifts in the sheets and you can hear him bring the phone closer, the low light enough to show you the angular curves in his face. “we should fix that…”

“mhm…” you bite your lip, already getting a sense where this was going.

“aww, you look so cute all bothered because of me…” he chuckles. “just from the sound of my voice?”

“heeseung.” you gasp his name purely from the stimulation of his voice but your legs start rubbing together helplessly.

your slick slowly coating the fabric of your underwear.

“oh, fuck.” he groans. “... Needy little thing.”

your face burns but you’re passed the point of caring. the room is getting spiny… your thoughts are merely wisps of echos of his voice.

”you’re getting awfully quiet… is this too much? should i stop here?”

“no!”

heeseung’s low chuckle reverbs through your speakers. “so pathetic for me… my little makeup artist can’t lay still while she listens to my voice?”

you make a sound. something between a whimper and a whine. you hand slipping down your naval and underneath the waistband of your underwear.

when you touch the wetness leaking from you, the gasp that leaves your lips causes heeseung's brow to flick up. "oh? are you touching yourself, y/n?"

you flush, fingers slipping out and gripping your loose t-shirt.

"answer me," heeseungs voice asserts calmly. "are you touching yourself to my voice?"

you hate how breathless you sound when you reply. "yes..."

”keep going, sweetheart.”

"what?"

"i said, keep going." heeseung sits up against his bed frame. biting his lip attentively and watching your facial expressions. "i'll keep talking, you enjoy yourself."

"but, you're tired—"

"this shit turns me on, no way im leaving you hanging, y/n." heeseung breathing finally sounds labored. "now, touch your pussy for me."

youve abandoned all restraint. " do you want to see?"

"no." his reply surprises you. "i want to watch your pretty face fall apart. you take care of that needy pussy for me. i want to watch your eyes roll back when you cum."

oh. my. god.

you set up the phone where he can have full view of your torso. just enough to show him your arms reaching down to slide down your panties.

"thats it, baby... get comfortable for me."

this is when it begins. his words start leading your hands. with every flow and rise in his voice as he watches your face contort and scrunch from pleasure.

"god, you dont know how long ive been watching your youtube channel, y/n. you're so fucking beautiful... i saw one of the members watching it one day... i immediately recognized you. isnt it fate that we met again 10 years later? 10 years after you broke my 13 year old heart on that stupid field trip? " heeseung groans when you start rolling into your hand. "now look at you. fucking touching your leaking pussy to my voice. letting the boy you rejected edge you into your orgasm. fuck— i can hear how wet you are from here, baby..."

his breathing is jagged and from your peripheral vision you can see how hooded his eyes have gotten from watching you crumble.

"thats it, sweetheart. bring yourself to the edge... you look so fucking good with your eyes rolled back like that into that pretty head of yours... cmon, make a fucking mess... be my messy little cam girl, baby... give me something to get addicted to..."

you whimper loudly. gasping for air as your orgasm tips right on the edge of your tummy.

"aw... you gonna cum so soon? i didnt take you as such a sensitive baby...thats alright, pretty girl. just a little more yeah?" heeseungs smile is heard even while your eyes are rolled back. "fuck, i'd love to stretch you open while holding you down against the bed... your moans are prettier than i imagined."

"heeseung..." you whine—so, so close.

"yeah? you better fucking ask for permission before you cum, y/n."

your core flexes and your thighs begin to shake. youve never reacted this way from barely touching yourself. you need release. bad. "heeseung! please! i- i'm so close! i need to cum! please, may i cum?"

heeseung lets out a low groan before he comes closer to the speaker. "good girl...fucking cum for me. make a fucking mess all over yourself."

you squeal, hips thrusting forward in rapid succession as your orgasm barrels through.

stars flash your vision and a sheet of white blinds you as your eyes roll and twitch.

you're on another planet.

* * *

heeseung is here watching you ascend.

the satisfaction that blooms through his chest and abdomen is immense.

fuck. he gets off on watching you fall apart.

he knows he's already addicted.

he wont be able to get enough of you falling apart to his voice. "good fucking girl."

and like that, your secret relationship begins.

* * *

ch. 1 << ch.2 >> ch.3 coming soon.

m i k a 🌷: AHHHH! LET ME KNOW WHAT YALL THINK! if there's any typos or errors… be kind, i was excited!😵‍💫🤪🌝

let me know if you want to be added to the taglist! i will try to update every 3-5 days! depending on how much work I can get done during the week! leave a comment, like, or reblog for me, love!

All Rights Reserved to mika of vanillaxbambi. Any posts on other platforms are prohibited.

[w1w2]

Don’t Fly So Close To Me

Karina x Fem!Reader

Word Count: ca. 11k

Synopsis: Amid the crowded lecture halls and quiet corners of Yonsei University, two students fall into a bond neither of them meant to form. But as closeness begins to blur into something more, one of them finds herself caught between the comfort she craves and the fear she can’t outrun. Some hearts are too loud to ignore, and some silences cost more than they should.

English isn’t my first language so I apologize in advance for any mistakes.

♡ Enjoy! ♡

The dorm was too quiet.

Not peaceful quiet, in the way that makes your skin feel too tight and every sound hit too hard. The kind of quiet that creeps into your bones and makes you think about things you’ve spent months trying to bury. The kind that forces you to listen to your own thoughts.

Most of the rooms on her floor were already empty. Their doors hung open like hollow mouths, stripped bed sheets dangling at the corners, half used rolls of packing tape abandoned by the trash bins. Earlier in the week, the hallway had been buzzing, girls shouting last-minute reminders, the dragging screech of suitcases on tile. 

Laughter, motion, life.

Now it was a ghost town, what was left behind felt abandoned more than finished. And she hated it.

But maybe that was fitting.

Y/N stood in the center of her room, surrounded by piles of clothes, shoes, chargers, and notebooks. Organized chaos, or so she told herself. Her suitcase sat open on her bed, half-full, with a duffel on the floor beside it. Her desk was already cleared, drawers emptied, books packed. She moved mechanically, folding shirts and pants, pressing them flat like keeping the fabric smooth might keep her heart steady. She didn’t even realize how fast she was moving until she stopped to catch her breath and noticed her hands were shaking.

It was almost over.

Just one more night here, then a train to Busan and a month at her uncle’s place near the coast. She told everyone it was for a reset, some time to think, get away from the city, be with family.

That was only half true.

She wasn’t going home, she didn’t have one. And the only person who ever made Yonsei feel like one… Well.

Y/N swallowed hard and turned toward her dresser, grabbing the top drawer by habit. Socks, underwear, pajamas. She folded them quickly, shoving them into the bag without looking. She moved to the second drawer. Shirts, more hoodies, random notebooks.

Then came the last drawer, the one at the very bottom.

It stuck slightly when she pulled it, it always did. Like even it knew there were things inside that were better left untouched.

She hesitated.

Then, with a tug, she opened it anyway.

It stuck slightly when she pulled it open. It always did, crooked on its track from the one time she slammed it shut so hard the mirror cracked above it. She told herself it was just the hardware, just poor construction. But part of her had always wondered if the drawer was holding something back on purpose.

She gave it a tug, fingers curling tightly around the handle, expecting the usual mess inside. The old shirts she never wore but couldn’t throw out, mismatched socks, the sweatpants that had lived in that drawer since freshman year. Faded, stretched, safe. The kind of forgotten fabric that came with no weight, no memory.

Her breath caught.

Tucked at the very back, like it had been deliberately buried beneath the rest, was a flash of white cotton. Soft, familiar, and heart-stopping.

She froze.

For a moment, she didn’t move, didn’t breathe, didn’t trust her eyes. Her brain scrambled to rationalize it, tell her it was something else, a different shirt, something that didn’t matter. But even from where she stood, she knew what it was.

Jimin’s shirt.

It was crumpled into itself, sleeves twisted like it had been hastily shoved away, but Y/N would’ve known it anywhere. The fabric was worn thin in places, the collar stretched from being tugged over Jimin’s head in too many sleepy mornings, the hem curling in that way it always did when Jimin would fiddle with it during their late night conversations.

The sight of it shouldn’t have knocked the air from her lungs.

But it did.

Because it wasn’t just a shirt. 

It was everything she hadn’t let herself feel for weeks, everything she’d tried to outrun. Every moment that she pretended hadn’t meant anything. And now? It was here, sitting in her drawer like a trap she’d set for herself and forgotten until it snapped shut around her ribs.

She stared at it for several seconds, unmoving, like touching it might confirm the worst. That part of her still wanted to go back, that part of her had never left. When she finally reached in, her hands moved slower than her thoughts. Hesitant, careful, like she was handling something fragile, like it might fall apart if she touched it wrong.

She pulled it out and let it fall into her lap.

The fabric was still soft, softer than she remembered. Somehow still warm, like it had been waiting for her.

Still hers.

Still Jimin’s.

She let her fingers curl into the cotton, gripping it tighter, then lifted it closer to her face. She inhaled, and just like that she was wrecked.

It didn’t smell like Jimin had just worn it. No. The scent was faded now, diluted by weeks of being trapped in the dark. But it was still there, that trace, that impossible, specific blend that Y/N had never been able to name, only feel.

Citrus and vanilla, something floral, something deeper. And something else entirely, something that didn’t exist in any bottle. 

Something that was just... her.

It clung to the collar like a memory refusing to let go, and that was all it took.

Y/N sat down hard, back thudding softly against the frame of her bed. The shirt bunched in her hands as she clutched it to her chest like she could squeeze the memory out of it if she just held on tight enough, like if she pressed it hard enough, Jimin’s voice would come back, soft and teasing in her ear.

The room blurred at the edges, not from tears, but from everything inside her suddenly collapsing inward, folding in like a house made of paper.

And still, she didn’t cry.

She just held the shirt like it was the last tether she had to something real, something beautiful.

Something already broken.

Her chest felt heavy, as though her ribs had folded in on themselves, each breath thinner than the last, shallow and insufficient, like the air in the room had thickened without warning. There was a pressure just beneath her collarbone, a weight she couldn’t touch, but could feel pulsing steadily through her bloodstream. Sharp, quiet, unforgiving. Her throat ached with the kind of restraint that came from years of teaching herself not to show anything, not even when it hurt, not even when it split her open.

And still, her face remained blank.

Emotionless, controlled, still.

There were no tears, not even the sting of them. No trembling chin, no wavering breath, no release of any kind. Just that dull, suffocating silence that filled the space between her lungs and kept everything locked inside. Because that’s what she did, she held it all in. She always had, from the moment she was old enough to understand that vulnerability could be weaponized, that softness invited disappointment, that love, real, messy, terrifying love, was too dangerous for someone like her.

Even now, in the quietest version of goodbye, she couldn’t cry.

Not when she was alone in a half packed dorm room, surrounded by the remains of a year she didn’t know how to talk about, staring down the barrel of a month long exile to a town she didn’t belong to, with a plane ticket paid for by someone she barely spoke to anymore. Not when she had no one to say goodbye to, no one waiting on the other side.

She just sat there.

Motionless, back pressed against the side of her bed, legs folded beneath her like she was trying to make herself smaller, less visible, easier to forget. Jimin’s shirt sat in her lap like a wound she hadn’t noticed was still bleeding, her fingers curled into the soft fabric until her knuckles ached.

The sound that escaped Y/N’s throat wasn’t quite a sob. It was smaller than that. Less audible, more internal, like the first fracture in something ancient.

“It’s funny,” she murmured, her voice barely more than a breath, lips barely moving. “I didn’t mean to fall in love with her. I didn’t think someone like me could.”

And then, silence again.

Not the comfortable kind, no. The kind that stretches long and thin, where you start to wonder whether you’re the only one left inside your own body. The ceiling above her blurred slightly, though not from tears, and her eyes dropped to the shirt again, to the little rip in the seam near the sleeve, the one she used to tease Jimin about fixing but never did. She ran her thumb over the fabric slowly, tracing it like a map she no longer had the right to follow, and felt something shift low in her stomach, something she couldn’t quite name but had lived with for too long to ignore.

She should’ve returned it.

There were chances, so many of them. She could’ve folded it neatly, slipped it into a tote bag, brought it to her door with some half smile and said, “You left this.” And Jimin would’ve taken it, maybe smiled back, maybe said “I was wondering where that went.”

But she didn’t.

She hadn’t returned it, hadn’t let go, not really.

She kept it. Kept it the way she kept everything that scared her, hidden, quiet, buried under things that didn’t matter. Pretending it meant nothing, pretending that what they had wasn’t something she still carried in the most fragile parts of herself.

Because even though she’d told herself she walked away, even though she had turned off her phone and avoided her eyes and cut the string between them with a blade that shook in her hand, some part of her had stayed, and maybe it always would.

She let her head fall back against the frame of the bed, the edge pressing into the back of her skull, her eyes slipping shut as the fabric in her lap grew heavier somehow, as if it were carrying everything she refused to say aloud.

The memories came back slowly, uninvited but familiar, rising up from the quiet like smoke curling under a door, soft at first, almost bearable, before it filled the room. Not the loud ones, not the ones that haunted her in dreams.

But the beginning.

The quiet glances, the unexpected kindness. The sound of a name that hadn’t meant anything yet. The way time started to move differently, all because someone sat next to her when no one else ever did.

She could still remember the first time Jimin spoke to her, how it felt like being called out of hiding. And even now, with the shirt clutched to her chest and the campus emptying outside her window, she couldn’t stop herself from going back.

The first week of fall semester always carried the same predictable scent, fresh paper, overpriced coffee, and the faintest whiff of anxiety masked under new perfume. It was the season of fresh starts and empty promises, of pristine planners meticulously color-coded for two weeks before they were abandoned, of campus bulletin boards buried in fliers and orientation emails nobody read.

Students walked around with purpose, as if simply showing up early and dressing like they had their lives together could rewrite the mess they’d left behind the semester before. There was a kind of forced optimism to it all, this collective lie everyone agreed to participate in. “This year would be different.” they’d get better grades, they’d finally sleep more, drink less, care less, get over the person who didn’t text back last spring.

Y/N didn’t believe in any of it.

She arrived fifteen minutes early, not because she was trying to impress anyone, but because she preferred to claim her solitude before the room filled up. She slipped through the door with her hood still half up, chose the seat in the far back corner near the window, and set her bag down with practiced precision. Movements quiet, deliberate, invisible. The goal was always the same, don’t be noticed.

Her earbuds were already in, though no music played. It was just habit now, a convenient way to signal disinterest without having to say a word. She flipped open her notebook to the first blank page, uncapped her pen, and laid both out in front of her like armor. Her handwriting was already in the margins, sharp, small, even. Her notes always looked like they belonged to someone who cared more than she did.

The classroom itself was too bright for her taste, wide and newly renovated, with whitewashed walls and floor to ceiling windows that let in the kind of light that made people think too loudly. The overhead fluorescents buzzed faintly, like they were straining to keep up with the morning sun.

Modern art prints were framed and hung around the room, slightly crooked, mostly abstract, jagged lines, empty color blocks, ink splatters pretending to be genius. They were thematic, she guessed. A visual echo of the course’s name scrawled across the syllabus she'd skimmed in the registration portal Art and Society: Cultural Expressions in Modern Life. It sounded like a class designed for overthinkers who liked to hear themselves talk.

It wasn’t her kind of course.

Too vague, too subjective. Not enough data, not enough structure. But it was one of the only electives that fit her schedule and didn’t require studio work or weekly presentations. It counted for her humanities credit and, more importantly, it was open to students outside the arts. Econ majors like her usually avoided it, too risky, too touchy-feely, but that suited her just fine. 

She wasn’t here to make friends, so she sat. Silent, distant, still, and watched the room slowly begin to fill.

Groups of students filtered in with the usual early semester energy, still clinging to summer, still dressed in tank tops and linen pants, still laughing too loud like nothing yet mattered. Some dropped their bags loudly beside chairs, some hugged friends they hadn’t seen during the break, some scanned the syllabus already complaining about the group work mentioned in paragraph three.

The front rows filled quickly, the social ones. She could already tell who would dominate discussions, who would make “devil’s advocate” their whole personality, who would volunteer for every activity just to be seen.

Y/N leaned back in her seat, eyes flicking from face to face, forming quiet conclusions she would never say aloud. She wasn’t judging, no, just cataloging. It made the world easier to survive when she knew who she was dealing with.

She barely glanced at the door when it opened again.

But she noticed the change.

It wasn’t loud, but it was instant, the subtle shift in tone, the way a few conversations dipped in volume, a collective hush so slight you’d miss it if you weren’t paying attention. But she always was.

And then came the pause.

Heads turned, not all, but enough to signal something.

She looked up, instinctively.

And there she was.

She walked in late, ten minutes past the hour, but with the kind of ease that made it look intentional, like the room hadn’t really started until she arrived. No apology, no glance toward the clock, no quickening of her step. If anything, she moved slower than the rest, as though time bent around her.

And somehow, she didn’t look out of place, not in the slightest.

She wore an oversized charcoal cardigan that slipped halfway off one shoulder, draping like it had been pulled there by the breeze outside, layered over a fitted white tee that clung just enough to suggest she hadn't rolled out of bed like the others. Her jeans were high waisted, soft denim, the kind that looked vintage but expensive, cinched perfectly at her waist with a belt she probably didn’t need but wore for style. Her black tote hung low at her side, scuffed at the corners, worn in a way that said well loved, not careless.

Her hair was long and dark, falling over her shoulders in effortless waves that, Y/N suspected, had taken no less than forty-five minutes to get just right. Slightly tousled, slightly glossy, strands tucked behind one ear in a way that framed her jaw perfectly. Her makeup was minimal, barely there liner, a soft wash of color on her cheeks, lips tinted like she'd bitten into a cherry on the walk over. Casual, but studied. Natural, but not.

Y/N knew girls like her.

Girls who turned heads without meaning to, girls who didn’t need to speak to be noticed, girls who had something magnetic in the way they existed, like they knew a secret the rest of the world wasn’t privy to. But what caught her off guard wasn’t the entrance, or the way the classroom seemed to tilt subtly in her direction.

It was how she smiled. Soft, relaxed, like she didn’t need anything from anyone.

She paused in the doorway only long enough to scan the room with a quiet confidence that made Y/N’s stomach twist for reasons she couldn’t name. She was searching, that much was clear, but not for someone in particular, more like she was choosing.

And then she started walking.

Not toward the front, where the open seats were clustered and laughter still lingered. Not toward the side row, where two girls were already waving her over, half-standing in their chairs.

No.

She walked straight to the back.

To Y/N’s row, to the one empty seat beside her.

Y/N glanced to her left, pretending to shift in her chair, her eyes flicking toward the aisle without turning her head. Then back down to her notebook, heart ticking just a little faster than before.

“Please don’t,” she thought, not even fully sure why.

The chair beside her scraped lightly against the floor.

Of course.

“Hey,” the girl said, voice smooth, threaded with a kind of warmth that didn’t ask, it assumed the greeting would be returned. She slid into the seat beside Y/N like she’d done it a hundred times before, like it was hers.

Y/N gave the smallest of nods in response. She didn’t pull out her earbuds, didn’t offer a smile or a hello. She kept her pen poised over the page, her eyes fixed forward, every muscle in her body trained in the art of disinterest.

But it didn’t seem to matter.

Because the girl just smiled to herself, like she was used to silence, like she didn’t take it personally. Like she’d already decided that Y/N was worth sitting beside.

The professor arrived precisely five minutes late, juggling a coffee cup, a leather messenger bag, and a stack of paper that threatened to collapse in his arms. He had the disheveled energy of someone who lived more in his own head than in the real world, a man built from books and chalk dust, with hair that stood up in odd directions and thick glasses that he adjusted constantly without actually fixing the tilt.

He introduced himself as Professor Song, waved off the use of PowerPoint slides like they were beneath him, and launched into a monologue about how art is resistance and culture is chaos with a heartbeat.

He spoke with his hands, broad, sweeping gestures that knocked into the edge of the desk more than once. He quoted French philosophers and underground performance artists in the same breath, scribbled phrases like “beauty as protest” and “the aesthetic of survival” across the whiteboard. Most of the students looked dazed, trying to decode what was expected of them.

Y/N didn’t flinch. She’d seen enough eccentric professors to know when to tune in and when to simply take notes.

Her handwriting was small, neat, effortlessly uniform, each bullet point aligned with surgical precision, margins untouched, no room for chaos. She wrote in black ink only, no highlighters, no doodles. Notes were for facts, not decoration. She never rewrote or revised them, she got it right the first time.

But out of the corner of her eye, she saw the opposite unfolding.

Jimin wrote like her thoughts were dancing across the page.

Purple ink, big, looping cursive, arrows that curved like vines between paragraphs. She underlined things twice, sometimes three times, added squiggly brackets and messy little stars in the margins. Her handwriting wasn’t just expressive, it was emotional, like she was already invested in ideas Y/N hadn’t even registered yet.

It should’ve annoyed her, but somehow, it didn’t. It was just different, unexpected, and alive in a way that made her stomach twist.

Halfway through his second tangent, Professor Song clapped his hands and said, “Now, let’s talk about the semester project.”

Around the room, people stirred, pages turned, phones were tucked away.

“You’ll be working in pairs,” he continued, “on a thematic presentation and written report connecting one contemporary artistic expression to its sociopolitical impact. Think big, think bold and think personal.”

Y/N straightened slightly. She hated vague instructions, no parameters, no rubric.

Then he added, as if it were an afterthought, “You’ll be working with the person seated next to you.”

She didn’t even have time to brace for it.

Jimin turned toward her instantly, that slow, easy grin spreading across her lips like it had been waiting for the right moment to arrive.

“Well,” she said, voice low and playful, “looks like we’re stuck with each other.”

Y/N pulled one earbud out, not both, just enough to acknowledge her, though her expression didn’t change. “I guess so.”

Her voice was flat. Polite and carefully neutral.

Jimin tilted her head a little, eyes narrowing, not in irritation, but in thought. She didn’t look offended. She looked curious, like she was trying to figure Y/N out with no pressure to do it quickly.

“You’re Y/N, right?” she asked. “Economics?”

Y/N nodded once. “Yeah. And you’re…?”

“Jimin,” she said, then paused. “Music department. But most people know me as Karina.”

Y/N blinked. 

She knew that name, everyone on campus knew that name.

“You’re that Karina?” she asked, more surprised than impressed. “Like the festival stages and performance clips that got reposted a million times?”

Jimin gave a sheepish shrug, like she was used to the recognition but didn’t quite know what to do with it. “That’s me, unfortunately.”

Y/N raised a brow. “Unfortunately?”

“I mean…” Jimin smiled, soft and self-deprecating. “I like performing, but the stage name thing? It gets exhausting, sometimes it feels like people only know that version of me.”

There was something about the way she said it, lighthearted, but with a thread of honesty pulling just beneath the surface, that made Y/N pause.

“You can just call me Jimin,” she added, nudging the strap of her tote off her shoulder and letting it fall softly against the side of her chair. “I hate being called Karina in real life.”

Y/N didn’t respond right away. She glanced back down at her notebook, let her pen hover above the page without writing.

There was something about this girl that felt bright. Like sunlight on a window she hadn’t realized had been closed. Not warm enough to burn, not yet, but enough to make her shift in her seat, enough to make her uncomfortable in a way she couldn’t explain.

She cleared her throat, eyes still fixed on the paper.

“We should meet after class,” she said finally, her voice quieter than before. “Figure out how we’re splitting this.”

Jimin didn’t answer immediately. And when Y/N looked up, the other girl was watching her with a look that was hard to place, not judgmental, not amused. Just present, steady in a way that made Y/N want to retreat and lean in at the same time.

Then she smiled again.

“Sure,” she said easily. “Or we could just work on it together.”

They weren’t alike. 

Not in the way that made sense, not in the way that made partnerships easy or natural or inevitable. In fact, if you laid them side by side, it almost looked like someone had made a mistake, matched two people who moved in completely different directions and hoped they’d meet in the middle.

Y/N was quiet in a way that wasn't shy, but practiced, intentional. Every word she spoke in class felt measured, like it had been chosen from a long list of discarded alternatives and delivered only when necessary. She thought in terms of efficiency, what needed to be said, what needed to be done, how little emotion could be shown without seeming cold. She never rambled, she never raised her hand unless silence stretched too long, she didn’t speak to fill air, she let air settle around her like armor.

She sat in every class the same way, arms crossed, posture rigid, pen in hand but rarely used unless it was for notes. Her gaze was steady, but unreadable, like a locked door with no keyhole. Her expression gave nothing away, if she was bored, no one knew, if she was irritated, she never let it show, if she was interested, that secret stayed between her and the back pages of her notebook.

Jimin was the opposite.

She moved like her thoughts arrived mid-sentence, like she was always catching up with herself but didn’t mind being a few steps behind. There was no hesitation in her voice, even when she was unsure. She leaned in when she spoke, smiled with her whole face, eyes crinkling at the corners in that way that made people soften, she asked questions just to hear someone else’s answer, she doodled in the margins of her notes, wrote little jokes to herself in pink pen, tapped her pencil against her chin when she was thinking.

She was vibrant, undeniably so. Where Y/N retreated, Jimin reached out. Where Y/N observed, Jimin engaged. She used people’s names when she spoke to them, she remembered things, she laughed easily, freely, like she didn’t care who was listening.

And somehow, none of it came across as performative.

She was just like that.

And it shouldn’t have worked. Not on paper, not in theory, but something about it did.

It wasn’t obvious at first. It wasn’t like Y/N looked at her and felt something massive crack open inside her chest. No. It was quieter than that, slower, more dangerous because of how subtle it was. Like water dripping through stone, finding the cracks, working its way deeper with every accidental glance, every shared joke, every moment Jimin smiled at her like she wasn’t difficult to love.

Y/N didn’t understand it at the time, the pull. The slow, steady gravity of someone who didn’t push, but never backed away. Someone who treated her silences like spaces instead of walls.

It wasn’t a crush, not then, it wasn’t even interest. Not the kind she knew how to recognize.

It was something smaller.

A flicker, a shift in temperature, a warning. But it lived in her chest, even then, quietly threading itself through the spaces she thought she’d boarded up for good.

A spark.

One she tried to ignore, one that refused to go out.

They met twice a week at first. Quietly, without fanfare or expectation, just two students working on a shared grade, nothing more. The library on Tuesdays, always the second floor, far corner, tucked beside the philosophy stacks where no one ever looked. On Fridays, they moved outside, settling on the lawn behind the humanities building if the weather cooperated. Jimin would bring a blanket, worn and floral, and Y/N would pretend not to notice that it always smelled faintly of detergent and vanilla.

There was no lingering after, just notebooks, laptops, and the increasingly fragile illusion that this was still about the project. But even in the beginning, there was a rhythm forming, one that Y/N wasn’t prepared for.

Jimin always brought drinks.

She never asked what Y/N liked, never texted first to check. She just showed up with something different each time, as if guessing had become its own kind of game. Cold brew with oat milk, plum juice, matcha with way too much honey, a lavender latte that Y/N claimed tasted like soap, even as she finished the entire cup.

One afternoon, Jimin handed her a bubble tea without a word. There was a bright yellow post it stuck to the lid, its writing slightly smudged from condensation "for the most serious person I know."

Y/N rolled her eyes, said nothing, but she folded the note and tucked it into her wallet later, wedging it behind her ID like something worth keeping.

Y/N, for her part, insisted on structure. 

Everything was outlined, roles divided, sources color coded in a shared document. Meeting agendas, timelines, deadlines. She’d walk in with bullet points and walk out with action items. Efficient collaboration, no distractions.

Jimin rarely listened.

She’d start on task, then veer off course without warning. Midway through citation formatting, she’d look up and say something like, “Do you think people are born creative, or does the world just beat it out of most of us?”

Y/N would blink, sigh. “That’s not relevant.”

And Jimin would just grin. “Didn’t say it was. Just wanted to know what you thought.”

It happened more often as the weeks passed. Not questions about the project, but about her. Personal ones, uncomfortable ones, questions dropped like smooth stones in the middle of their sessions, leaving ripples long after she brushed them off.

“Do you think you’re more like your mom or your dad?” “Why economics?” “Have you ever been in love?”

Y/N deflected, shrugged, redirected. Masked truth with dry sarcasm and safe indifference. But Jimin? Never looked disappointed, she’d just smile like she saw the dodge and didn’t mind, like it told her something anyway.

She never pushed, but she never walked away either.

One afternoon, while editing their final draft, Y/N referred to her as Karina. Just once,just out of habit. It slipped out, unthinking, like a reflex.

Jimin looked up from her laptop, fingers pausing over the trackpad. “Call me Jimin.”

Y/N glanced over, brow raised. “I thought that was just your stage name thing?”

“Karina’s a mask,” she said softly, her voice lower now, less playful. “You don’t wear one, I shouldn’t either.”

Y/N didn’t respond right away. She just nodded once, and turned back to her screen.

But she didn’t use Karina again.

They finished the project a week ahead of schedule. On the last day they met to finalize their slides, they didn’t talk much, just worked side by side, laptops glowing in the fading afternoon light, the silence between them no longer awkward but companionable.

Comfortable, unspoken.

On presentation day, they stood at the front of the classroom together. Y/N wore a blazer over her hoodie, an accidental compromise between formal and familiar, and Jimin had her hair pulled back in a sleek braid, all calm confidence and quiet charm.

She spoke first, introducing their theme with the kind of poise that made people sit forward. Her voice didn’t waver. She made eye contact, used her hands when she talked, turned dry theory into something alive. And when Y/N stepped in to explain their economic framework, Jimin didn’t interrupt. She didn’t check her notes, she just listened. And smiled, slow and proud, like she’d been waiting for Y/N to show them who she really was.

They received one of the highest grades in the class, the professor called it “a compelling balance of artistic inquiry and pragmatic application.”

But that wasn’t what Y/N remembered.

What lingered, what etched itself quietly into the space behind her ribs, wasn’t the grade or the applause or even the way the presentation felt easier than it should have.

It was the way Jimin didn’t walk away.

The way she turned to her afterward, after the clapping had died down and the seats were scraping against the floor, and said, “So… same time next week?”

Y/N blinked. “For what?”

Jimin smiled, biting the inside of her cheek like she was fighting the urge to laugh. “You didn’t think I was just here for the assignment, did you?”

Y/N opened her mouth, then closed it again.

Jimin didn’t wait for an answer. She just walked out of the classroom with that same calm grace she always carried, like she knew Y/N would follow. And against all logic, all instinct, all the protective walls she’d built and reinforced for years. 

She did.

Most people faded out after the project deadline. Partnerships dissolved like sugar in coffee, sweet while they lasted, forgettable the second the class moved on. Messages stopped, shared folders gathered digital dust. No hard feelings, no formal goodbyes.

But not Jimin.

Jimin didn’t treat endings the way most people did.

She kept texting. Not constantly, never enough to be overbearing, but just often enough to make Y/N pause when her phone buzzed. She sent playlists titled things like “for thinking too much” or “for breathing slower”. She sent blurry photos of campus trees lit up at night, or the sky outside her practice studio when the sunset made the world look unreal “this reminded me of something you said about light and stillness,” she’d write.

Sometimes she sent voice notes instead of typing. Little bursts of warmth in Y/N’s ear, laughter from a group chat she wanted to share, a random thought. Once, an entire monologue about how she burned her tteokbokki.

Y/N never told her how often she replayed them.

One morning in late November, Jimin showed up five minutes before class and dropped something into Y/N’s lap without warning, a scarf, soft and dark gray, folded with surprising care.

“You keep pretending it’s not freezing,” she said, sitting beside her with a grin, “and I’m starting to take it personally.”

Y/N opened her mouth to protest, but the look on Jimin’s face made it clear the scarf was non-negotiable. So she said nothing, held it awkwardly for the duration of the lecture, and later, when no one was looking, tucked it into her bag.

She didn’t wear it right away, but she never gave it back.

Late night study sessions started picking up again during finals, but they didn’t feel like studying. Not really, they’d start with open textbooks and notes, and end with their laptops forgotten, lights dimmed, legs curled under blankets as they drifted into conversations neither of them planned to have.

Y/N learned more about Jimin in those quiet hours than she had during the entire semester. About her older sister, who dropped out of college to start a café in Jeju. About the song Jimin wrote after her grandmother died, and how she still couldn't listen to the demo without crying. About the dance teacher who told her she'd never be good enough, and how she practiced three hours a day more just to prove him wrong.

Jimin’s words weren’t rehearsed, they fell out of her like breath, unfiltered and fragile.

Y/N listened. 

She always listened.

But when the silence turned toward her, when Jimin asked something personal or let the quiet stretch, offering space, Y/N would pivot. She’d change the subject, make a joke, ask a deflecting question. And Jimin, for all her brightness, never made her explain.

She never pressed. She just stayed, kept showing up, slowly, steadily. No demands, no guilt, no pressure to trade secrets like currency.

And somehow, that made it worse.

Because Y/N began to expect her.

She waited for the messages that came late at night, buzzed low against her pillow. She started checking the front of lecture halls a little too early, looking for a familiar silhouette. She began noticing the silence on the days Jimin didn’t text, checking her phone with a vague ache in her chest she refused to name.

She caught herself watching the door.

That boundary, clean, simple, safe, had blurred without permission. And now there was something else growing in its place, something unnamed and increasingly undeniable.

And that terrified her, because when people stayed, they expected things.

And Y/N had nothing good to give.

On the surface, Y/N was fine, always fine. She showed up to class on time, sat in the same seat, took notes in the same pen. Her hood up just enough to shadow her eyes, her answers were always just right enough to not invite follow up questions. She turned in assignments early, her desk was clean, her voice was calm. 

Her expression? Always unreadable.

Fine.

It was a lie so well rehearsed that even she started to believe it during daylight hours. But the second the world slowed down, when the halls emptied and her phone screen stayed dark, reality came rushing back, uninvited and overwhelming.

Because inside? Everything was chaos.

Not the loud kind, not visible. Her mess lived beneath the skin, in tangled wires of self doubt, in broken glass thoughts she tiptoed around every night. It was a carefully contained implosion. From the outside, she was still. But on the inside? Everything was bleeding.

She didn’t remember the last time she slept through the night.

She’d lie in bed, eyes open in the dark, staring at the ceiling like it might offer answers. The smallest sound, someone shutting a door down the hall, a heater kicking on, would send her spiraling. She’d replay conversations from weeks ago, dissect texts for things never said, overanalyze every expression that crossed someone’s face when she walked into a room.

And in the quiet, the voices returned.

Her father’s voice came first. Crisp, measured, tired in that disappointed way that didn’t need to be loud to cut deep.

“Why can’t you be more like your cousin? She’s in med school now, did you know that?” “You always take things too seriously. That’s why no one wants to be around you.”

Then her ex. Slippery, cold. The kind of voice that didn’t yell, but dismantled.

“It’s exhausting, being with someone who always thinks they’re broken.”“You make everything harder than it has to be.”“I never knew love could feel so heavy.”

And then, the cruelest voice of all, her own. The one that whispered, all day, every day.

“You’re a burden.” “You ruin everything good.” “You’re too much but the same time never enough.”

It lived in her like a parasite, feeding on every crack in her foundation. Every moment she pulled back from someone, every time she flinched when someone got too close, every time she made someone laugh and then immediately convinced herself they were only being polite.

It didn’t matter how much progress she made, or how much she achieved. Her brain always found a way to twist it. If she succeeded, it was because people had low expectations. If someone liked her, it was because they didn’t really know her. If she smiled too long, she felt fake. If she cried, she felt pathetic.

And yet, there was Jimin.

Soft, persistent Jimin. With her messy handwriting and her oversized sweaters and her stupid habit of leaving voice notes instead of texts because “words sound better out loud”, with her playlists and her scarves and the way she looked at Y/N like none of the sharpness scared her. Jimin who laughed at her dryest jokes like they were love poems. Jimin who never flinched at her distance. 

Jimin who stayed. 

And that? That was the worst part.

Because every time Jimin smiled at her, genuinely, openly, without hesitation, Y/N felt her chest tighten like it was being pulled apart at the seams. Like her body didn’t know how to hold something that soft without breaking it.

Because if Jimin looked too closely, if she really saw the way Y/N’s thoughts tore her apart, she’d leave. 

Or worse, she’d stay, and be ruined by it.

“You’ll ruin her,” the voice hissed. “You always do.”

Y/N believed that voice. “She thinks you’re someone worth loving. She’ll learn. They always do.”

She fed it, because it was safer to believe that she wasn’t made for love than to risk needing someone who might walk away.

And yet, when Jimin was around, the voices quieted. Not gone, not silenced, but hushed. Dulled like a radio turned low in the background, still there, but bearable. When Jimin touched her arm, or smiled like the world hadn’t hurt her yet, or looked at Y/N like she was worth listening to, really listening to, the storm inside her stilled.

Sometimes, in those rare and terrifying spaces between words, when Jimin sat close enough for their shoulders to touch and didn’t ask her to speak, Y/N could feel the static of her own panic slowly soften.

Sometimes, she even believed, almost believed, that maybe, for once, the voices were wrong.

And that terrified her more than anything else, because hope was a dangerous thing. And Y/N had never learned how to hold it without cutting herself on the edges. But the thing about quieting the voices, even for a little while, was that it made the silence feel worse when they came back.

And they always did.

They returned on the nights when the world moved too fast, or when she sat too still for too long. They returned when her phone stayed dark, when her reflection looked wrong, when her hands shook and she couldn’t explain why.

They returned on a Thursday night in December, after Jimin posted a new dance video. The video had gone up in the evening, quietly, without a caption, without a filter, without any of the polished edges that usually wrapped Jimin’s work in distance and design. It was a single shot in a dim practice studio, just her and the mirror and the floor beneath her feet, the lights flickering slightly overhead as she moved through something that didn’t look choreographed so much as surrendered to.

Y/N had watched it once, then again, the first time in awe, the second with something tight forming in her chest that she didn’t want to name. Jimin’s body moved with an aching kind of honesty, arms trembling slightly, head tilted back like she couldn’t stand to carry the weight anymore, not even for the camera. She looked unguarded, exposed, like she had laid something bare and then hit “post” before she could think better of it.

It was beautiful.

And the internet, as always, couldn’t leave something beautiful untouched.

By midnight, the ripples had turned into a wave. The reposts began, then the edits, cruel, cheap distortions with captions that twisted her vulnerability into punchlines. There were clips that mocked the way her body had faltered mid turn. The comments multiplied, some encouraging, but most weren’t. They picked her apart, word by word, frame by frame, line by line.

Y/N saw it unfold in real time. She didn’t know why she checked, only that she did, and once she started scrolling, she couldn’t stop.

The last message from Jimin had arrived around 10 p.m. and after that? Nothing, no “goodnight loser”, no playlist link, no voice note.

Just silence.

And Y/N, who’d learned how to exist with silence like a second skin, suddenly found she couldn’t sit still in it anymore. She waited, checked her phone too many times, told herself not to spiral, told herself it wasn’t her place.

But by one in the morning, she was pacing her room, hoodie zipped up to her chin, earbuds in without music, and every instinct she’d buried under logic and boundaries and self-control was clawing its way back to the surface, loud and urgent and shaking her hands.

By 2:47, she was outside.

The walk across campus was cold. Not freezing, but raw in the way late fall could be, quiet air that cut through fabric and made every breath feel heavier. She walked quickly, hood up, shoulders tense, not entirely sure what she’d say if the door opened, not sure what she hoped would happen if it didn’t.

She knocked once. Then again, softer.

She didn’t expect an answer.

But the door eased open, and there Jimin was, wearing one of Y/N’s hoodies, sleeves pulled over her hands, her hair up in a loose knot that had mostly fallen apart, face stripped bare of makeup, eyes red and swollen and barely focused, like she hadn’t decided whether to let herself break down or hold it in a little longer.

She blinked once, slow, as if unsure whether Y/N was real or something her brain had conjured up out of longing.

“You didn’t text,” Y/N said quietly, the words catching in her throat halfway through, but holding steady.

Jimin’s lips parted, then pressed together again. Her voice came out hoarse, barely audible. “I didn’t want anyone to see me like this.”

Y/N didn’t think, she didn’t measure the risk. She just stepped forward, she moved into the room like she belonged there, like there had never been a question of whether she should, and closed the door behind her with one hand, the other already reaching out. She opened her arms, not wide, not performative, just enough, and Jimin fell into them like it was the only thing she’d been waiting for all night.

There were no words.

Just weight and breath and skin and the warm pressure of two people holding still because movement might shatter something. They slid to the floor together, backs against the bed frame, Jimin curled into Y/N’s side with her face buried in the curve of her neck, her fingers twisted into the fabric of Y/N’s sleeve, like anchoring herself there might keep her from drifting off entirely.

The room was quiet except for the soft sound of the radiator clicking on in the corner and the slightly uneven rhythm of Jimin’s breath as it caught and stuttered against Y/N’s skin.

Y/N rested her chin against the top of Jimin’s head and let herself be still.

After a while, she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper, “Whoever edited that video clearly failed art class.”

Jimin let out a small sound, half a laugh, half a broken exhale, and didn’t lift her head.

Y/N added, gently, “And karma’s real. So, honestly, they should be scared.”

That time, Jimin smiled. Y/N felt it, faint but real, pressed against her collarbone. She didn’t move away.

And neither of them spoke again.

When Jimin finally dozed off, head resting against her shoulder, Y/N moved with excruciating care, laying her gently on the bed, pulling the blanket over her legs. She stood there for a second too long, eyes tracing the outline of the girl who had, somehow, let her in, even like this.

She left without a note, without a word.

And neither of them mentioned it the next day.

But something had changed. After that night, Jimin stopped knocking. She just came over, sometimes with snacks, sometimes with nothing at all, and curled up on Y/N’s bed like it belonged to both of them. She started leaving her socks under the desk, her charger on the nightstand. She used Y/N’s shampoo in the morning and never apologized for it.

They never kissed, never labeled it.

But there were nights when Jimin would fall asleep with her hand curled just under Y/N’s shirt, like she needed skin to skin proof that Y/N was still there. And there were mornings when Y/N would wake up to Jimin’s hair on her pillow and pretend it didn’t mean anything.

But it did.

It meant everything.

And Y/N could feel it now, settling in her bones, making a home in the softest, most dangerous parts of her. Because if she admitted it, if she let herself have this, even for a moment, she didn’t know who she’d become when it was gone.

And that was the part that scared her the most.

Spring had come early that year, or maybe it only felt that way because of how long winter had lasted in her chest. The cold had held on through March, gray skies and brittle wind, but now the days were stretching longer, softer, full of golden light and the scent of thawing earth. Everything smelled like the promise of something new, blossoms beginning to crack open on the trees, sidewalk chalk smudged beneath sneakers, cigarette smoke curling lazy from dorm balconies.

Even the air had changed, thicker somehow, laced with warmth that clung to skin and made people linger. It was the kind of weather that made it easier to laugh, easier to stay. Easier to believe, for a night or two, that maybe things could be good.

Y/N hadn’t planned to come out. She almost never did, bars weren’t her thing, and neither was pretending to belong in a circle of people who lit up every room they walked into. But Jimin had asked in that gentle, offhand way that meant she really wanted her there.

So she went.

The bar was small and vaguely hipster, wedged between a bike shop and a flower stand that only opened on Saturdays. It had old vinyl posters plastered crookedly on the walls, mismatched chairs that wobbled when you leaned too far back, and a smell that was half beer and half fries.

It was loud, but not in a bad way. The music was old R&B, the kind that made people dance in their seats, and the chatter around them was constant, shouted greetings, clinking glasses, the high, sharp notes of someone laugh.

Y/N sat near the end of the booth, tucked between the wall and Jimin, who had slid in beside her with practiced ease, legs crossed under the table, elbow always just grazing Y/N’s. Her presence felt easy, like gravity, like something Y/N had stopped resisting weeks ago.

Jimin had ordered for her without asking, something citrusy and light, not too sweet, and placed it in front of her with a grin. “Trust me,” she said, like it wasn’t a request.

Y/N sipped slowly, not because she didn’t like the taste, but because she liked having something to hold when she didn’t know what to say.

The conversation moved quickly. There were too many inside jokes to follow, memories that belonged to dorm rooms and dance studios she’d never stepped into, but it didn’t matter. They made space for her, Winter leaned across the table to tell her about a disastrous blind date, Aeri asked if she’d ever had milk soju, Ning offered her fries and told her about her job at the campus radio station, about how she still got nervous speaking live even though no one really listened on Tuesday nights.

Y/N listened more than she spoke, but when she did speak, they listened back.

She laughed. Not just the small, polite ones she gave to fill silence, but real ones, sudden and surprised, the kind that made her feel like maybe she hadn’t forgotten how.

And all the while, Jimin was beside her.

She wasn’t loud tonight, she didn’t need to be, she chimed in here and there, offered teasing commentary, tucked her hair behind her ear every time she leaned in to whisper something to Y/N, something small and unimportant that still made Y/N’s pulse skip every time she turned to meet her eyes.

Their shoulders touched more often now, not by accident. Jimin’s hand brushed against hers on the table when she reached for her drink, lingered a second too long, and didn't pull back.

And Y/N didn’t move away.

Jimin’s cheeks were flushed from the heat of the room, or the beer, or maybe from laughing too hard, her eyes shining under the dim lights, mouth curling into that crooked half-smile that always looked like she was about to say something kind.

Y/N looked at her, really looked, and felt her breath catch.

There was a strange, dizzying warmth pooling low in her chest, not sudden but steady, something she’d been keeping at bay without realizing it. A shift, an ache that didn’t hurt, not yet.

And just for a second, just long enough to feel dangerous, she let herself believe “Maybe I can have this.” Maybe she could hold onto this version of herself, the one who belonged in this booth, in this noise, in this moment. The one Jimin kept looking at like she wasn’t afraid of the dark inside her.

But then Jimin excused herself to the bathroom, sliding out of the booth with an easy smile and a touch to Y/N’s arm that was too brief to hold onto.

And in the space she left behind, something shifted. 

The warmth didn’t go away, but it wobbled. Y/N felt her fingers tighten around her glass like something was about to fall.

The moment the bathroom door swung shut and her absence settled into the booth like an exhale, Winter leaned forward, chin tucked into her palm, her cheeks flushed with alcohol and something softer, sentiment, maybe, or just the ease of knowing she was safe among friends. Her eyes were glassy, her voice low and familiar, the kind of tone people only used when they weren’t guarding their words.

“God,” she sighed, slow and lazy, “I really wish I had someone who looked at me the way she looks at you.”

Y/N blinked, confused at first, her glass halfway to her lips. “What?”

Winter’s grin curled, crooked and knowing. “Don’t what me,” she said, eyes narrowing like it was all so obvious, like they’d all known something Y/N had somehow missed, or refused to see.

Aeri leaned over from her spot at the other end of the booth, one elbow braced on the table, the gold of her rings catching the light. “Seriously,” she said, her voice lighter but no less certain. “You do realize she looks at you like you hung the stars, right?”

Y/N stared at them, her body still but her thoughts suddenly thrashing, something hot pressing against the edge of her ribs.

“What?” she repeated, softer now, barely more than a breath. It didn’t sound like denial, it sounded like fear.

Winter opened her mouth again, probably to elaborate, probably to soften it, but this time it was Ning who cut in, quiet and clear, her tone a shade more sober than the others, her gaze steady.

“Jimin’s in love with you,” she said, and there was no teasing in it, no laughter. Just the truth. “You idiot.”

And it didn’t hit like a slap, it didn’t explode. It landed like a weight, like something that had always been there, just waiting for someone else to say it out loud.

Y/N didn’t respond, she couldn’t.

The world didn’t tilt, the music didn’t stop, the lights didn’t dim. But something inside her shifted, subtle and irreversible. Like a thread being pulled, like a single crack in glass that had been holding for too long.

It wasn’t that she didn’t believe them, it was that part of her already had.

That night, Y/N didn’t sleep. 

Not because she couldn’t, but because something inside her refused to let her. She lay still in the dark, fully dressed, the stiff fabric of her jeans pressing lines into her skin, the hem of her hoodie bunched at her ribs, her phone resting on her chest like a warning. The light blinked once, then again. Every pulse of the screen was another breath she forgot to take.

“hey loser, text me when you get home safe.” The message was simple, familiar, harmless on its own. 

But to Y/N? It felt like standing at the edge of a cliff, like if she moved even slightly, she’d fall, and there’d be no coming back.

She stared at it until her eyes burned, until the letters blurred, until she could hear her heartbeat louder than the words themselves. She typed a reply once, something easy and meaningless “Made it back. I’m good.” 

Then erased it before it was fully formed, as if the mere act of acknowledging the message would make the night real, would solidify everything Winter and the others had said in that booth with their knowing smiles and careless truths.

She tried again, deleted it again. Eventually, she just closed her eyes and pressed the phone face down against her chest like it might quiet the noise inside her.

But it didn’t.

The silence that followed wasn’t peace. It was pressure, it was the kind of stillness that scraped raw, heavy in her lungs, thick in her throat, the familiar weight of panic settling back into its usual place beneath her ribs. Her body felt too small for all the things she was trying to hold, guilt, want, fear, the echo of Jimin’s laughter still ringing in her ears.

And then the voices returned.

Not new ones, not sudden. Just the old ones, louder now, braver in the quiet.

“She’s in love with you,” they said, “and she shouldn’t be. She doesn’t know what she’s doing. She doesn’t know what you are.”

“You’re going to break her, like you always do. You don’t mean to, but you will. You ruin everything you touch.” 

They piled on top of each other until they blurred, until her own thoughts were no longer her own, just borrowed lines from old arguments, old mistakes, old nights when someone walked away and never came back.

She sat up around four, her hands trembling in her lap, her palms damp, her mouth dry. There was no clarity, just the horrible, relentless certainty that the closer Jimin got, the more inevitable the fall would be.

Because Jimin didn’t see it, not yet, but she would. She’d see the cracks in Y/N’s foundation, the sharp edges hiding under silence, the fear behind every guarded smile. She’d reach for her one day and come back cut.

And Y/N wouldn’t survive that.

So when she saw Jimin on campus the next morning, walking toward her with a coffee in one hand and her jacket sleeves rolled halfway up her forearms, her face lit with a smile that was probably meant for her, Y/N crossed the street without a word. She didn’t look back, she didn’t need to. She could feel the moment unraveling like thread between her fingers, and still, she kept walking.

The next day, she pretended to be asleep when Jimin knocked at her door, three soft, hesitant knocks, a beat of silence, and then another. She lay perfectly still in bed, her body tense, her heart hammering in her ears, waiting until the footsteps faded down the hallway before she allowed herself to move again.

Her phone buzzed that night. 

Once. Twice.

“Made you something, it’s dumb but here” A link, a playlist. And the title? “if i made you a mixtape, would you finally get it”

She didn’t open it, didn’t press play. Because if she heard her name in those lyrics, if she heard the unspoken truth layered between chords and choruses, she might break the rules she’d set for herself. She might answer, she might stay.

And staying felt so much more dangerous than leaving.

So she didn’t explain, didn’t apologize, didn’t offer closure. She just stopped. Stopped answering, responding, showing up. She disappeared from Jimin’s orbit like it had all been an accident, like she had never been there in the first place.

And she told herself it was mercy, that it was better this way. That if she left now, before Jimin said the words, before Y/N admitted she wanted to hear them, she could protect them both from what would happen after. Because she knew how this ended, she’d lived it before. People left, and it was always her fault.

She told herself Jimin deserved better.

That someone else would come along, softer, steadier, more whole. Someone who didn’t carry a war behind their ribs, someone who wouldn’t destroy the one person who made the world quiet.

But even as she said it, even as she turned her phone to silent and buried it beneath a pillow, the ache didn’t leave.

It just sank deeper, colder, more permanent.

It had been days, maybe a week, maybe more. Time had stopped making sense after the third day of silence, the moment Y/N realized she had started counting how long she could go without hearing Jimin’s voice. Every minute stretched out too far, then collapsed in on itself. She lost track of hours, ignored her classes, let her inbox pile up with reminders she didn’t read. Sleep came only in brief, restless intervals, her mind too loud and too full to rest. Her body still moved through the world, barely, but it was muscle memory, not will. She was keeping herself upright, nothing more.

She hadn’t responded to any of Jimin’s messages.

Hadn’t listened to the playlist, hadn’t let herself so much as open the photo Jimin sent the day before, the one of her coffee cup and messy hair and the caption “this is what heartbreak looks like ☕️💀”

Y/N had stared at it for ten minutes before deleting the notification. She told herself it was better this way. That if she just stayed silent long enough, the damage would be minimal, contained, like a controlled burn that cleared the forest before the fire got out of hand. She was trying to be careful, trying to be kind, or maybe just trying to escape the guilt of having wrecked something good without leaving visible wreckage behind.

But the knock came anyway.

Three sharp, certain taps against her door, no hesitation, no warning. For a second, she told herself it wasn’t her. Just someone looking for a roommate, or a package mix up, or anything else that wasn’t what it had to be.

But then it came again, louder this time.

And Y/N’s stomach dropped, sudden and violent, like something had been kicked out from under her ribs.

She didn’t move right away.

Just stood in the center of her room, heart hammering, the kind of dread pooling in her chest that always came right before everything cracked. She thought about not answering, about waiting it out, pretending she wasn’t there. But something in the knock, its clarity, its insistence, made that feel pointless.

So she crossed the floor with slow, mechanical steps, every part of her already bracing for impact, already composing the lie she’d need to tell to get through the next few minutes without bleeding all over the floor.

And then she opened the door.

There she was.

Jimin.

Standing in the hallway like a ghost that hadn’t realized it was haunting something, dressed in a hoodie Y/N remembered from winter break and black jeans that clung to her hips like an afterthought. Her hair was tied up in a knot that looked like it had been redone three times and still didn’t hold. Her makeup was minimal, smudged slightly around the eyes, like she’d wiped tears with the back of her hand and forgotten to check the mirror before walking over.

Her arms were crossed, her jaw was tight, her spine held straight like she’d spent the entire walk rehearsing what not to say. But her eyes? That was where the exhaustion lived. Not the kind that came from too little sleep, but the kind that settled into the bones after too many nights of hoping for something that never came. She looked like someone who had run out of options. Someone who wasn’t angry yet, but was close.

Y/N blinked, swallowed.

Forced her mouth into something neutral, nothing warm, nothing familiar, just blank enough to hide everything clawing at the inside of her chest. She didn’t step aside, didn’t soften. Didn’t offer a word of comfort or apology or anything that might be mistaken for hope.

“Hey,” she said, voice flat and distant, like it was someone else speaking through her.

Jimin didn’t smile.

Didn’t return the greeting, she didn’t need to, she was already here to burn the rest of it down.

“I thought you weren’t like the others,” Jimin said, and her voice wasn’t loud, it didn’t need to be, but it carried the kind of weight that didn’t ask permission to land. It was steady in the beginning, but trembling by the end, like she was holding her composure in her mouth like glass and could feel it cracking. “You said you didn’t do lies. So what the hell is this?”

Y/N blinked, slow, as if that would give her time to build the mask back over her face. Her hand was still on the edge of the door, gripping it tight enough for her knuckles to pale. Everything in her screamed to pull away, to close the door, to bury herself beneath the weight of her own silence until the moment passed, until Jimin gave up.

But Jimin wasn’t giving up, not yet.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Y/N said finally, her voice flat and cold, practiced. A performance she’d perfected long before she ever met Jimin. Detached, dismissive, as though the past months hadn’t happened at all.

Jimin stepped forward, not inside, not enough to cross the threshold, but just close enough that the scent of her perfume filled the doorway. That familiar note of citrus and something warmer, something sweet, hit Y/N’s senses like a memory she didn’t ask for. It made her want to lean forward and run at the same time.

“Don’t,” Jimin said. Her voice didn’t raise, it didn’t need to. “Don’t act like I imagined everything. Don’t do that to me.”

Y/N looked down, jaw tight.

“You don’t get to do that,” Jimin said, firmer now. “You don’t get to disappear and pretend I misunderstood. I was there.”

Y/N’s lips parted, her mind scrabbling for something cruel enough to push Jimin further away. Something sharp enough to cut deep without letting her see that her hands were already bleeding.

“You’re overthinking it,” she muttered, but the words felt thin, paper thin, like she could hear them disintegrate the second they left her mouth.

Jimin laughed, bitter, wet. Her eyes were shining now, red at the corners, and her mouth twisted like she was trying not to let the rest of her face fall apart.

“You don’t even believe that,” she said. “I felt safest when I was with you. You knew that, you knew what you were to me. And you still—”

“It wasn’t serious,” Y/N snapped, cutting her off like the truth might kill her if it got out.

Jimin’s expression crumbled, just slightly, just enough.

“You read too much into it,” Y/N added, her voice sharper now, trying to wedge space between them with every word. “It was... it was nothing.”

The silence that followed was brutal.

Not like the quiet they used to share on the floor at 3AM or tangled in sheets as the sun came up, those silences had been soft, safe. This one was a noose, tightening.

Jimin shook her head, eyes glistening.

“No,” she whispered, barely getting the word out. “No. Don’t rewrite it now, don’t you dare pretend I made this up.”

Her voice broke, and this time, she didn’t bother hiding it. “I was there too, remember? I saw how you looked at me. I felt it when you held me, when you showed up at my door in the middle of the night just to make sure I was okay. I know what that was, you don’t get to take it back just because you’re scared.”

Y/N turned her face away, then took a step back, not in fear, but like someone preparing for impact. Like someone about to detonate something they couldn’t undo.

She had to say it. 

She had to make it final, make it cold. Because if she left even the smallest crack open, Jimin would find a way through it. She always had, and Y/N didn’t trust herself not to let her in, she didn’t trust herself to survive what would come after.

“It didn’t mean anything,” she said, quiet, steady, but there was something hollow in her voice now, something that echoed. “We weren’t anything, you were never mine.”

The words sat in the air like broken glass.

Jimin flinched, actually flinched, like the sentence had struck her in the chest.

And Y/N knew how cruel it was, how false. But she said it anyway, she had to make it hurt enough that Jimin wouldn’t come back. Because if Jimin begged her to stay, Y/N would crumble.

She always did.

Jimin didn’t speak for a long time. She just stared at her like she didn’t recognize her anymore, like she was trying to reconcile the girl in front of her with the one who had tucked a scarf around her neck and made jokes in the dark and whispered things half-asleep that sounded too much like I love you.

Then, without a word, she stepped inside the room.

Y/N didn’t stop her.

She watched as Jimin moved through the space like a stranger, walking to the bed they used to share, picking up the book she’d left on the nightstand, the gray hoodie she always wore after dance practice. Her movements were fast, sharp, mechanical, like if she let herself slow down, she’d break.

She turned toward the door with her things tucked in her arms, her hand trembling where it gripped the hoodie, but her back held straight.

She paused.

Just once.

Her eyes met Y/N’s, one last time. And her voice, when it came, was soft and raw and broken open.

“I don’t know what’s worse,” she said. “That you’re lying to me, or that you might be telling the truth.”

Y/N’s throat closed, her fingers dug into the sleeves of her hoodie to keep from reaching out.

And before she could say anything, before she could backpedal or apologize or confess, Jimin turned, and walked away.

No final plea, no slammed door.

Just silence.

And Y/N stood there for a moment, completely still, like if she moved too fast, the floor would give out beneath her. Then, as the silence thickened, as her chest caved inward around the weight she had tried so hard to carry without breaking, she dropped.

She sank to her knees like something inside her had finally given out, the tshirt Jimin didn’t take still crumpled at the edge of the bed, her name still echoing like an unanswered question in the corners of the room.

She pressed her face into her hands and sobbed, not delicate, not cinematic, but guttural and ugly and real. The sound of everything she never said crashing back in at once.

And the awful, inescapable truth that she had done this to herself. That she had chosen this ache, that she had called it mercy and wore it like armor, that she had let go of something that felt like home and then stood still while it burned.

The room had gone quiet again by the time the last breath left her lungs in something like a gasp.

Only then did the memory begin to loosen its grip, only then did the weight of now return. And when it did, it landed with a kind of cruel clarity, because she was no longer at the door, or standing frozen while Jimin walked away, or wrapped in the wreckage of that final goodbye.

She was here.

On the floor.

Alone.

And the shirt, the only piece of Jimin she hadn’t returned, hadn’t been able to return, was still there in her lap, bunched up between trembling hands that had forgotten how to let go, the material wrinkled and warm from where she’d been holding it like it meant something, like if she just clung tight enough, it might somehow make everything that followed un-happen.

It should’ve been returned weeks ago.

But Y/N hadn’t, she couldn’t. Because even when Jimin left, even when her voice vanished from the hallway, when the knock didn’t come again, when the playlist stopped updating, this was the only piece of her that stayed. 

And now it was all that remained.

She lowered her forehead to her knees, eyes closed, breath catching in shallow bursts as her fingers curled tighter into the cotton. She wasn’t sobbing, not really. The crying had happened earlier, maybe an hour ago, maybe three. But now she was just unraveling, quietly, silently, in pieces.

She remembered the sound of Jimin’s laughter, not the kind she gave to everyone, the one that made strangers fall in love with her in seconds, but the real one, the one that only came out when she thought no one was listening. The one that crinkled her nose and made her shoulders shake. She remembered how Jimin used to trace her scars with gentle fingers, never asking what happened, never pushing for details. She never needed the full story, she just held the hurt like it belonged to both of them, she treated it like it didn’t make Y/N broken, like it made her brave.

And she remembered the way she looked at her. Like she was something precious. God, how could she have believed that? How could someone like Jimin, warm, luminous Jimin, have ever thought she could build something safe inside a person like her?

Y/N had never said it.

Not once, she never said the words. Never let them slip past the walls she’d built around her mouth, her heart, her whole damn life.

But she had loved her.

Quietly, deeply, and in every way she didn’t know how to explain.

She loved her in the way she memorized her coffee order without ever asking. In the way she waited for Jimin’s goodnight messages, in the way she kept Jimin’s scarf folded in her drawer all winter and pretended it was nothing.

But she hadn’t said it.

“I wanted to be enough for her,” she whispered, her voice raw and so quiet it felt like it might dissolve in the air before it could finish forming. “I really did.”

She pulled the shirt higher, pressed her face into it, the scent hitting her all over again, fainter now, buried under the salt of her tears, but still there.

“I thought leaving would protect her,” she said, as if saying it might make it true. “I thought if I walked away before I ruined it, before I ruined her, it wouldn’t hurt as much.”

But it did, god, it did.

It hurt in places she didn’t know could still feel anything, it hurt in the space where Jimin used to sleep, in the air where her voice used to fill the quiet, in the part of Y/N’s chest that had gone still ever since that final knock, the one that never came again.

“I thought if I stayed,” she said, barely breathing now, “I’d become the worst thing that ever happened to her.”

She closed her eyes and bit the inside of her cheek so hard it tasted like blood.

There was no one there to tell her she was wrong.

No one left to correct her, no one left at all.

And in that silence, deep, absolute, the kind that settles in your bones and never leaves, she curled tighter around the shirt, the scent, the memory, the absence, and let the final truth settle in her chest like the weight it had always been.

“People like me... we break beautiful things.”

[singto-prachaya]

I'm not sure if I should express this feeling. I've always thought that I don't want anyone to feel bad or receive negative energy from my messages, and deep down, I don't want to show that I'm weak.

But I think, as a human being, I should be able to share some of my feelings.

I just want to say that lately, I've been feeling tired from many things. Perhaps it's because a lot has been impacting my mind recently, both things I can control and things I can't. All I can do is smile through it, do my best every day, and live my life as well as any human being possibly can. I've come quite a long way in this career. I've lost some things along the way, but I've also gained many things in return, and of course, I'm still moving forward. I hope everyone has the strength to keep going and continue living their own lives together.

I don't like to force and will not try to force anyone to love and like me, and I know very well that there are many people who are more handsome than me, have better physiques than me, are more skilled than me, are more amiable than me, are more cheerful than me, are better at social media than me, have brighter eyes than me, and seem more like normal people than I do.

If you know all this and still like me, I am incredibly and truly grateful that you allow me to be myself. I will continue to develop myself in many areas so that I feel worthy of the love and admiration everyone has for me.

Thank you for loving Jimmy.

And

Thank you for loving Nong Ohm.

Thank you for the love. You desever it too.

I Love You

JIMMYOHM IS LOVED

Jimmy, I really wish you could see yourself through my eyes. You're one of the most lovely, warm, and kind-hearted people I've ever met in my life. I want to tell you that I love you so much, more than a colleague should ever think of loving. It's not just because you're handsome or taller than me or anything like that. It's because you're you, Jimmy. You've always been a wonderful person. I've told you before that I want you to be yourself to society without fearing anyone's disapproval, and even now, I still want you to be the person you want to be. You don't have to be as muscular as anyone else, or compare your handsomeness to others, or learn to use social media as much as I do. You don't have to be like anyone else, just be the Jimmy you're comfortable sharing with the world for others to admire. That's more than enough, seriously. I don't know what to do to make you love yourself the way I love you, and the way others love you, but I just want you to know that there are far more people in this world who love you and are ready to stand by you than you think. At least I'm one of them. You once said you don't like being comforted or coddled. Okay, I won't comfort you, and I won't tell you to be strong either. You can be as weak as you need to be. And I know you're already very strong and capable. You'll get through this period like the strong person who has always overcome challenges. Finally, I love you, Jimmy. I love you very much. When you wake up, please call me back or reply to my LINE message.

Over the past few days, we've had some tension, disagreed on things, and let various issues lead to misunderstandings. I'm sorry that I was part of what made things difficult recently. But please be assured, I definitely won't give up on us. And I know you won't give up on us either, Jimmy. Let's keep fighting for this, bit by bit. :-)

[gh0stvi0lets]

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘋𝘦𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘓𝘪𝘴𝘵,

──────── ♱ ─────────

𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵 1 𝘰𝘧: 𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘚𝘶𝘯𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘦, 𝘐 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘔𝘪𝘥𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘙𝘢𝘪𝘯

𝘱𝘢𝘪𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨. teenage dirtbag dean winchester x high school sweetheart reader

𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘵. 1.3k

-> PART TWO (coming soon)

The first time you end up in detention, it’s not because you did anything wrong—not really.

You forgot to bring your English assignment, something about The Catcher in the Rye, which wouldn’t be a big deal for most people. But for Mr. Sandler, the washed-up football coach turned English teacher who never quite forgave you for dropping cheerleading junior year, it was a cardinal sin. He slammed your name down on the list like it was a death sentence and sneered at you like you were wasting everyone’s time.

So now here you are, Friday afternoon, slouched in a desk that’s chewing gum-stuck and creaks every time you shift. The classroom smells like old coffee and mildew. It’s hot—too hot for late October—and the air conditioning unit in the corner rattles like it’s gasping its final breath.

And then Dean Winchester walks in, five minutes late, with a lazy smirk on his face and a fresh bruise on his cheek.

He doesn’t acknowledge Mr. Sandler. Doesn’t even look in his direction. Just strolls in like he owns the place, flopping into the desk across from yours with all the grace of a rock star and none of the respect.

He kicks his feet up on the table, crosses his arms behind his head, and glances sideways at you.

You look away immediately.

Dean Winchester is... something else. Everyone knows that. He’s the kind of guy people whisper about in the hallways. Not just because he’s always in trouble, but because he doesn’t care. About anything. About school. About his future. About the fact that he’s probably going to end up dropping out just like everyone expects.

And yet, somehow, he still gets under your skin. Like a song you can’t stop humming. Like the smell of gasoline and leather in the hallway after he’s walked by.

“Wow,” Dean says after a beat, his voice low, a little amused. “Didn’t expect to see you here, Princess.”

You roll your eyes. “Don’t call me that.”

“What, ‘Princess’? You don’t like nicknames?”

“I don’t like yours.”

He grins. “You wound me.”

Mr. Sandler groans, muttering something about “goddamn delinquents,” then disappears into the teacher's lounge next door, leaving the two of you unattended. Classic Sandler.

You pretend to focus on your homework. You don’t want to talk to Dean. You shouldn’t want to talk to Dean.

You’re dating Chad Branson, remember? Quarterback. Homecoming King. The kind of boy your parents do approve of.

Dean, meanwhile, is everything they hate. Worn-out jeans, metal band tees, and too many bruises that never get explained.

“Seriously though,” Dean says after a few minutes of silence. “What’s a girl like you doing in detention? Did you steal someone’s lunch money?”

“I forgot an assignment.”

He whistles. “Damn. You are hardcore.”

You snort before you can stop yourself.

His grin widens.

“I thought you didn’t talk to girls like me,” you say, trying to keep your voice neutral. “Too preppy. Too... what’s the word?”

“Boring?” he offers helpfully.

You give him a look.

He shrugs, unbothered. “Nah, I don’t think you’re boring.”

“Wow. A compliment. Mark the calendar.”

Dean shifts in his chair, finally sitting up straight and pulling a crumpled piece of notebook paper from his jacket pocket. He smooths it out and starts sketching something with a pencil he probably stole.

“You’re dating Branson, right?” he asks, like he’s talking about the weather.

You stiffen. “Why do you care?”

“I don’t.” He doesn’t look up. “Just curious what a guy like that does for fun. Besides flex in the mirror.”

You bite back a smile. “He... plays football. Lifts weights. Tells me I should smile more.”

Dean snorts. “Sounds like a real prince.”

“He’s not that bad.”

Dean looks up, one eyebrow raised. “If you have to say that out loud...”

You narrow your eyes. “And what about you? You’re in detention every week. What’s yourexcuse?”

Dean leans back again, smile gone now, replaced by something distant. “People like me don’t need excuses. The school just expects it.”

You study him. There’s something under the surface—something tired. Not just the usual bad boy act. Real weight. Real shadows.

You don’t say anything. You’re not sure what you’d say even if you wanted to.

The silence stretches. It’s not uncomfortable, exactly, but it’s heavy. Like the air just before a thunderstorm.

Finally, Dean slides his sketch across the desk.

It’s a drawing. A pretty damn good one, too. A caricature of Mr. Sandler with devil horns, holding a Shakespeare book like it’s on fire. You laugh before you can stop yourself.

“That’s—okay, that’s actually really good.”

Dean smirks, proud. “You can keep it. I’ve got a whole collection.”

You glance at him. “I didn’t know you could draw.”

He shrugs. “There’s a lot you don’t know.”

And that’s true. You’ve gone to school with Dean Winchester for years, but you don’t knowhim. Not really. You know the rumors. The whispers. The way teachers sigh when they see his name on the roster. The way girls look at him like they want to fix him.

But now, sitting here, you’re realizing there’s more. There’s a person behind the leather jacket and smartass attitude. Someone funny. Someone talented. Someone lonely.

The door creaks open, and Mr. Sandler comes back in with a half-eaten donut and a fresh coffee. He doesn’t say anything—just sits behind his desk and resumes grading.

You glance at the clock. Twenty more minutes.

Dean catches your eye. “So... you want a ride home?”

You blink. “What?”

He shrugs. “Figured you might not want to deal with Branson picking you up. I’ve seen that guy drive—he treats his Jeep like it’s a tank.”

You hesitate. It’s not a good idea. Everything about Dean Winchester is a bad idea.

But when you think about the look Chad gives you when you say the wrong thing, or the way he never really listens, or how he calls you “babe” like it’s your actual name—

“Yeah,” you say before you can talk yourself out of it. “Okay.”

You sit in silence in the passenger seat of his Impala, the engine purring beneath you like a contented beast. The car smells like oil and mint gum, and the dashboard is covered in cassette tapes. Led Zeppelin. AC/DC. Black Sabbath.

Dean throws a tape in without asking, and the music starts—something slow and aching, with a gravelly voice that fits the mood of the sunset-stained road.

He doesn’t ask for directions. He knows where you live.

You roll the window down and let the wind tangle your hair.

“Your car’s cooler than Chad’s,” you say casually.

Dean smirks. “Damn right it is.”

A beat of silence.

“You ever think about getting out of here?” you ask, surprising yourself.

Dean’s jaw tightens slightly. “Every day.”

You nod. “Yeah. Me too.”

The car slows as he pulls up in front of your house. Porch lights are already on. Your mom’s probably watching from the window.

Dean doesn’t turn off the engine.

You linger for a second, hand on the door handle.

“Thanks for the ride,” you say.

He looks at you. Really looks at you.

“Anytime, Princess.”

This time, you don’t tell him not to call you that.

That night, when you check your letterbox before heading home, there’s a folded piece of paper inside. It smells faintly like motor oil and cheap cologne.

It’s a mixtape. A real one. Labeled in sharpie: "For when detention sucks." No name. No note. Just a playlist of songs that scream late nights, loud hearts, and the ache of wanting something you’re not supposed to want.

You press play when you get home.

The first song is “Teenage Dirtbag.”

And you smile.

୨ৎ tags: @iloveyou2mia @britt217 @rosemichael12 @aylacavebear @angellust333 @suckitands33

୨ৎ usual tags: @bowbowrry @mostlymarvelgirl

if you'd like to be added to the series’, don't hesitate to let me know!

[thelostconsultant]

Charles Leclerc x reader

summary: In which Max has enough of watching you and Charles have whatever the hell you have, and forces you two to make a move.

note: Listen to CAZZETTE's Beam Me Up while reading.

You’re singing the song like it was a hymn, you always do, this is why even though he’s watching you and Charles dance on the floor from the VIP section, he knows what he would hear if he was there. But this is Charles’s night, it was him who probably tipped the DJ quite a fortune to play this song.

When the chorus with “beam me up” fills the club, you both start jumping happily, and by the time the line “diamond clouds” arrives, Charles has a hand on the back of your neck and pulls you into a messy, drunken kiss.

Max smiles to himself, even chuckles as he shakes his head at the sight. This is what happens every time you are at a party together when neither of you is in a relationship, but so far—at least to his knowledge—you never went further than this.

He never really understood why, because your family, Charles’s family, even your mutual friends expected the two of you to end up together when you grow old enough. Yet, here you are, not one date closer to what everyone imagined you to have in your twenties.

Some drunken girl comes over for a chat, interrupting his train of thought, but he’s not at all interested in that at the moment. Unlike the two of you on the dance floor, he’s still completely sober, the result of coming to a party so soon after an injury that forced him to take some heavy painkillers.

“Maxie,” he hears your high-pitched voice from the side before you take a seat in his lap. “Will you drive us home? I don’t feel like calling a taxi tonight. The drivers always want to chat with me,” you add with a pout.

Charles’s green eyes are following the scene with the kind of intensity he hasn’t encountered since the Monegasque tried to murder him during a race when they were kids. It’s clear as day that this is jealousy, so he lets out a sigh and reaches for the bottle of beer the girl left behind by accident.

When you notice it, your lips curl downward. “What a shame, now I’m gonna have to chat with the driver.”

“Ask Charlie if he’d give you company to make sure you’re home safe and sound,” Max suggests, much to his friend’s surprise based on the look on his face.

You seem just as surprised, but by the time you glance over at the other man, he’s already watching you with a sweet smile. 

“C’mere,” he mouths as he curls his index finger to draw you closer, and you go without a word, sitting next to him with your legs thrown over his thighs. His hand explores the bare skin of your legs, but he keeps his touch where it is still slightly appropriate. “Ask nicely, sweetheart, and I’ll think about it.”

“Why are you so mean?” you complain.

Max has enough of this stupid cat and mouse game he’s playing with you. “Come on, mate, you’re gonna say yes anyway, just go.” 

As he stands up, ready to head home, he meets his friend’s narrowed eyes, but that soon disappears. He watches as Charles gently puts your feet on the floor, then stands up and offers his hand to pull you up.

“Okay, fine, but you’ll behave, okay?” 

You nod obediently with a bright smile on your face. “Thank you, Charlie. You know how much I loooooove you, right?” you wonder and you wobble along with them, having a hard time walking in those high-heels of yours.

The Ferrari driver leans over to give you a quick kiss. “I do.” 

For a moment the two of you are looking at each other so tenderly that Max begins to wonder if this is the moment when he should say goodbye and hurry home, leaving you to do whatever the fuck you’ll gonna do in the end.

Outside the three of you are waiting patiently for your taxi, but then Max decides to open his car from across the street. You look at Charles, who looks back with an equally confused expression on his face, so the Dutchman decides to explain himself.

“That beer wasn’t mine, I’m sober. But you two will go home with that taxi tonight, sorry.”

And with that, he leaves you two there, hoping you’ll finally make a move forward. If not, he came play this game as long as he has to.

[letsyapthenightaway]

Sunshine Beauty ☀️

Luke Hughes x PlusSize!Reader

When Luke invited you to come on the boat with his brothers and a couple of friends you quickly started overthinking. You knew Luke knew you were a bigger girl. He never failed to show you how pretty he thought you were. Holding you close, kissing your cheek, and he says it more times you can count. All that and you two aren't even dating yet! That only made you more nervous because what is after today someone talked him out of being interested!?

You try to shake it off as you get closer to the dock. A T-shirt and shorts over your bathing suit as you carried a cooler with drinks. Requested by Luke himself because "you always have the best drinks" once you get closer a bunch of grown men yell your name out multiple times like toddlers. Some start rushing towards you and you of course recognize them as you watch Jack playfully push Luke to get to you first.

"No fair you cheated!" Luke exclaims as just hugs you. "Maybe you should've just gotten to her quicker" Jack laughs and grabs the cooler from your hands. Just as Luke is about to whine again you interrupt him "Boys behave" you laugh, joining in on the playful banter. "I invited you, I should get to hug you first" Luke says as he pulls you into his arms. Luke's hugs always lasted longer, you never questioned why.

"can the three of you get on so we can leave?" Quinn calls out but Luke doesn't let go. He keeps an arm around you as you walk towards the boat and he helps you get on. You say hi to everyone and Luke's just a couple steps away. As Quinn is about to set off you sit next to Luke. Maybe you weren't just nervous about being in a bathing suit... Just as the boat starts moving you tightly grab onto Luke's shirt. He looks down at you and chuckles "Scared?" He pulls you in closer, "no!" You lie through your teeth as you hold onto him tight.

"yeah, okay" he smiles and shakes his head. That's a thing about Luke he won't question you about things like this. If it was Jack the whole boat would've known and 10 jokes would've been cracked by now. After a while of just talking and laughing Jack calls out to you. "Y/N! Get in the water with me!" You sigh, "Jack you know I can't swim" but he keeps whining. Finally you stand up but Luke grabs your wrist. "You know you don't have to" he's worried, he trusted Jack but he didn't want to put you in an uncomfortable situation. "It's fine" you say as you nervously take off your clothes. You can feel his eyes on you but once you are finished and look up at Jack he's already off with someone else.

You laugh and turn to Luke "well Jack is gone" but Luke doesn't answer. He stares at you for a good minute before pulling you over and grabbing the plush of your hip. "You're really pretty" he mumbles as he pulls you onto his lap. You quickly try to squirm off "Luke" he stops quickly and lets you get up again "I'm sorry am I making you uncomfortable?" His face shows that he's nervous, he'd never want to put you in that situation. "No! Um no it's not that...it's just I'm heavy and-" he shakes his head "so me touching and pulling you in doesn't make you uncomfortable?" once you shake your head and he's pulling you in again.

"Luke!" This time you can't help but giggle. "That's cute, you're cute." His hands stay on your hips as he looks at your face. "I think you look really pretty in this... I think you look pretty all the time" he shrugs and does his lopsided smile. "Luke you say that all the time" you can't help but smile softly. "But apparently it never gets through to you. I think you're gorgeous... I want you" he taps your hip and pulls you closer. "I love every curve, I love having you close, and I love everything about you." He sighs and leans in "have I not made that clear? Im getting desperate here Y/N"

You look at him, you're not shocked about the confession. You knew how you both acted around each other. Yet you still felt shocked as he continues to lean in. "Please, Y/n" Luke says softly "I like you too, Luke" that's all it took before he is pulling you in and kissing you. Once you pull away he's looking at you with a smile, he looks like the word love shot him. "I really do think you're everything" he pecks your lips one more time as he kneads the plush on your hip.

Bonus:

"You know he was actually desperate" Jack says as he floats by. Luke's holding you as he helps you keep steady in the water. "Jack" Luke warns with a playful glare as you laugh. "What? I'm not lying!" Jack calmly floats away as he sips his drink.

[carawenfiction]

Writing Update July 2025

Hello everyone!

I took about a week away from writing at the end of June but now I'm back at it again. I've uploaded an updated version of chapter 1 (I know I know, when will the chapter 1 rewriting end). Even with the changes I've already made I wasn't all that happy with the scene transition when the MC is drawn to the mansion, but I couldn't figure out a better way to do it. Now I think I have, though :) at least I personally find the scene change less abrupt and jarring than it was. Rewriting chapter 1 in a satisfactory way has been really difficult, but I think it's pretty okay in its current state. I might still make changes to it if I come up with ideas to improve what's already there, but it won't be my primary focus.

I also fixed some continuity errors when a scene suddenly jumped from an interaction with M to your work and another one where you went to your mother's apartment even though you chose not to. The scene with M should now play out properly until the end, and the mother-apartment scene shouldn't happen if you choose not to go.

Chapter 2 is now sitting at around 30k words. I've probably already mentioned this, but it's a pretty branching chapter with different paths so it's likely going to be a long one. I've finished adding some short POV scenes from the supporting cast that take place after whoever you choose to interact with (if anyone at all); R, Q and G's are finished but I'm still writing A's. (M doesn't have one just yet, sorry M fans </3). I was debating whether I should include character POVs at all in the rewrite — on one hand it's fun to know a character's inner thoughts (just like when you read a non-if book), on the other I think it risks revealing too much too soon. Ex. instead of getting to know a character over time, you learn about their thoughts early on (you, not the MC) which can make the pacing of the relationship a little bit tricky imo. However, since character POVs were part of the original TSS, I've decided to keep them and hope that they add another layer to the characters. I'll try my best to handle them with care!

Since July isn't as busy for me as May and June have been, my goal for this month is to write at least 30k words and edit more of the existing chapter 2 content. I hope to update the Patreon-demo with the content I write this month while adding a little more to the public by August.

Take care and have a lovely summer <3