#someone needs to write this fic and it might be me

[studioeisa]

you deserve each other ⛱️ seokmin x reader.

all is fair in love, war, and... trying to get fired? the waterpark is the last place you and seokmin want to be. in a ditch attempt to escape your job, the two of you opt to break carat bay’s unspoken, cardinal rule: don't date your co-worker.

⛱️ pairing. co-workers seokmin x reader. ⛱️ word count. 12.4k. ⛱️ genres. alternate universe: non-idol, alternate universe: waterpark co-workers. romance, friendship, humor, hint of angst. ⛱️ includes. mentions of food, alcohol; profanity. fake dating and all its shenanigans, sweetheart seokmin, lots of making out (do with that what you will), soonyoung is a plot device, other idols get randomly name dropped as employees. ⛱️ notes. this is part of @camandemstudios’ carat bay collaboration. ever so grateful to be trusted with seok! ‹𝟹 thank you to my ride or die, @chugging-antiseptic-dye, for beta reading. check out the other fics in the collaboration here. 🎵 seokmin’s top tracks this month. sugar, brockhampton. sunny days, wave to earth. get you, daniel caesar ft. kali uchis. heart to heart, mac de marco. m2m, cody jon.

The framed plaque is heavier than you expect.

A small, polished thing. Mahogany edges, gold trim. Your name etched onto a brushed metal plate, capitalized and misspelled. The receptionist claps politely. Someone offers you a slice of cake. Your manager—Changbin—says your name like it’s a blessing, like you’re his biggest win this quarter.

“... a beacon of initiative,” he’s saying, hand on your back, smile radiant and full of teeth. “Always on time, never a complaint, always going above and beyond—”

You stop listening around the word beacon. 

Where joy should be, a horrible kind of dread is crawling up your throat like soda foam. You don’t want this. You never wanted this.

For the last six months, you’ve been orchestrating your own quiet downfall. 

Small acts of rebellion: late reports, mismatched fonts in client decks, turning in spreadsheets without formulas. Once, you deliberately CC’d the wrong contact on an invoice email. Twice. Three times.

Nothing. Not a single reprimand. You’ve only been praised for your ‘out-of-the-box thinking.’

Now here you are. Employee of the Month at Carat Bay—home of hollow branding jargon, ergonomic nightmares, and a break room fridge that smells like egg salad and regret. You’re holding a plaque you prayed someone else would win.

The universe is cruel. Your parents are crueler.

See, Carat Bay is just the latest on your resume’s Greatest Hits of Unwanted Professions. Before this was the summer you spent handing out frozen yogurt samples in a visor that said Lick Me. Before that: barista at a vegan café that also sold crystals. Before that: dog-walking, tutoring, retail at a candle shop that played Meghan Trainor on loop.

Your parents forced each one of them with the same airtight argument: You need discipline. You need direction.

You said you wanted to freelance. Write, maybe. Design book covers. Do something weird and personal and fulfilling. They laughed. Your father nearly choked on his coffee.

But a deal was struck with the Carat Bay gig. If you got laid off, they’d stop pushing. Let you go rogue. No more curated job listings emailed at 5 a.m. No more passive-aggressive forwarded TED Talks. No more, ‘When I was your age, I had a mortgage and two kids.’

If—if—you got laid off. Quitting was not in the cards. It was either that or you stay for at least three years, which you would honestly rather die than do. 

Now, you find that you have this. A plaque. A photo op. Changbin squealing, “This one’s going in the newsletter!”

God, you think, gripping the plaque like it might shatter. You are being rewarded for mediocrity. You are being celebrated for incompetence.

You smile for the camera anyway.

It’s the kind of smile that could get you promoted.

Back at the merchandise stand, your co-worker greets you with a grin and a pair of scissors he’s using to snip zip ties off a crate of branded tote bags.

“Look at you, hotshot,” Seokmin says, nudging you with his elbow. “Changbin’s golden child. I knew you had it in you.”

Your brows furrow. “You’re not mad?”

He scoffs, that beaming smile of his slotting back into place without a moment’s hesitation. “Why would I be mad? This means I don’t have to be Employee of the Month. That plaque is cursed,” he teases good-naturedly. 

You laugh. Genuinely, if only for a second. Seokmin is the kind of person who makes you believe in the good of humanity. 

He once gave his lunch to a crying intern. He always remembers your birthday. He talks to every lost tourist like it’s his job, which technically, it is not. And—in your honest, unbiased opinion—he’s easy on the eyes, too. It takes a lot to make the dreadful polo and even more dreadful khakis work, but Seokmin somehow manages. 

“Seriously,” he continues, turning back to the tote bags, “I’m happy for you. You’ve been working hard. And let’s be honest, you’re the only one who knows how to fix the card reader. Changbin was probably just buying insurance.”

There’s a lightness to his voice. No trace of envy. Just easy, unaffected kindness.

You swallow down the guilt forming like a pit in your stomach. You’ve been quietly planning your own escape route while he’s been showing up every day like a real adult, juggling overtime and night classes. You’re trying to crash and burn and Seokmin—sweet, undeserving Seokmin—might get singed in the crossfire.

You clear your throat. “Thanks, Seokmin. That means a lot.”

He just shrugs. “Don’t let it go to your head, okay? You still owe me lunch for covering your shift last week.”

Seokmin walks away to restock mugs, and you stare after him, plaque still under your arm, feeling like the world’s worst con artist. You don’t want Employee of the Month. You don’t deserve it. 

You know someone who does. 

Lee Seokmin, who brings extra socks to work in case someone forgets theirs. He knows the perfect ratio of syrup to ice in the rainbow slushies. He has an uncanny ability to get toddlers to stop crying with a single balloon animal. 

You’ve seen it all. He’s sunshine in human form, if sunshine occasionally tripped over its own feet and knocked over the popcorn machine.

That’s the thing, though. Seokmin—bumbling, bright-eyed Lee Seokmin—isn’t just your co-worker. He’s the son of the owners. 

The heir of this kitschy little theme park kingdom. The golden boy who is destined to inherit its cotton candy throne and take up the sticky, sunscreen-slicked mantle of summer fun for generations to come.

Carat Bay is practically tattooed on his DNA. The gift shop trinkets, the underwater mascot shows, the overenthusiastic lifeguards. This whole place was designed by his family and built on a business model of manufactured joy, and he was the prince working the merchandise stand to get some good ol’ starting-from-the-bottom experience. 

So when, days later, he startles and blurts, “I swear it’s not what it looks like!”—while clutching an open box cutter and a half-disemboweled box of limited edition light sticks—your first reaction isn’t anger. 

It’s confusion.

You ask, flatly, “What the fuck are you doing?”

He winces. He always winces when you swear. Rubbing the back of his neck, his eyes dart around like he’s searching for an escape hatch. “Okay, I know this looks bad. Like, really bad,” he starts. “But I swear I wasn’t going to, like, ruin them. Just… make them look better?”

Your mouth opens. Closes. And opens again. “But why?” you manage. It’s a good thing the waterpark has already shut down for the day. You’re not sure what you’d do if you had to deal with this with a whole shift ahead of you.

Seokmin sighs. It’s the kind of sigh that carries a decade of summer-themed retail trauma.

You glance over his shoulder to the shimmering banner flapping in the breeze: WELCOME TO CARAT BAY—THE #1 MERCH DESTINATION ON THE COASTLINE! A glittering monstrosity. Just like everything else here.

“I thought you liked it here,” you add, genuinely bewildered. “You do the Carat cheer. You wore the mascot suit that one time. Willingly.”

He shrugs, sheepish. “Well, yeah. But I also want out.”

“You’re the owner’s kid. All this is going to be yours someday.” You gesture vaguely at the cartoon dolphins, the sparkle-laminated shelves, the sea of bubblegum-pink merchandise. 

Seokmin shouldn’t be cutting up product. He should be on some managerial fast-track, drawing up expansion plans in a conference room somewhere. Not ruining stock and looking like he’s going to hurl from the guilt of it.

It happens fast enough for you to almost miss it, but Seokmin’s expression crumbles into  a grimace. Unnatural on a face that usually had a perpetual grin, a catalogue of every positive emotion known to man. “Yeah,” he exhales. “Exactly.” 

It clicks, then. All of it.

The too-frequent mishandling of inventory. The time he tripped and unplugged the entire register system. The day he mistakenly shipped an entire box of glow-in-the-dark keychains to the wrong coast.

You’d chalked it up to Seokmin being Seokmin. Lovable. Mildly chaotic. But now—

“You’ve been trying to get fired,” you say, the truth hitting you like a tsunami on the Wave River.

“Just like you,” Seokmin confirms. The knowledge sends a prickle of panic down your spine, but it fades when he goes on to joke, “Only I suck at it even more than you do.”

You snort. You can’t help it. “Wow. So we’re really the dumbest people here.”

He laughs sheepishly, but it’s the most honest thing you’ve heard in weeks. And when your eyes meet, there’s this quiet understanding that passes between you��like a pact sealed in shared misery and mutual sabotage.

You exhale. “Fine. I won’t rat you out. But you’re going to tell me what it is you actually want to do. Eventually.”

Seokmin grins. It’s that sun-bright, unfiltered expression he wears when he’s about to say something incredibly sincere or incredibly stupid.

“Deal.”

You reach for the disemboweled box. “Let’s make it look like an accident.”

Now you’ve both got a secret. And a goal.

The only thing more dangerous than two people who hate their jobs? Two people who’ve decided to stop pretending otherwise.

--

Except nothing you try works.

You set the air conditioning so low people start confusing your booth for a meat locker. Seokmin deliberately stocks the wrong merchandise on the featured shelves. You both take extended lunch breaks and once, very deliberately, you curse out a mom with three kids after she calls the staff lazy. Seokmin nearly fainted afterward from the adrenaline.

But none of it lands. Your manager pats you both on the back. Customers rave about your booth on Yelp. Kids write thank-you notes in marker.

Next thing you know, a laminated sign appears at the break room. Your name and Seokmin’s, right next to the dreaded Employees of the Month title. 

The photo is horrible. Your smile is tight with disbelief. Seokmin’s peace sign is half a second from cramping.

You two convene in the supply closet. Your emergency meeting room of choice.

“This is bad,” you say, pacing. “This is so, so bad.”

“We could, uh… just keep trying?” Seokmin offers, nibbling the edge of a pen.

“We’ve been trying. We ended up with a plague.” You groan. “We need something bigger. Something bold.”

Your mind whirs. You sift through memory like old receipts in a drawer. Nobody gave a fuck enough about merchandise to cry about its sabotage. Snark was to be somewhat expected from the two of you, and you didn’t really want anything too extreme on your track record. 

How had the past couple of people left Carat Bay? Your fingers tap, tap, tap on the closed closet door. There had been Heeseung, and Soobin—

Bingo.

The recent firings. Not many, but enough to see the pattern.

Heeseung, shortly after he was confirmed to be living with the girl who worked the bodyslide. Soobin, who packed his stuff up when he was found making out with the after-hours lifeguard. 

The ‘rule’ wasn’t written in stone. Not in the employee manual, not mentioned during briefings. But it still existed in a yellowing Post-It taped up on the janky breakroom refrigerator.

DON’T FUCK EACH OTHER.

“Of course,” you whisper. “Of course.”

“What?” Seokmin says, wary.

You turn to him slowly. The smile that breaks on your face only seems to unnerve the boy even more, especially when you go on to declare,  “We fake date.”

A beat. Seokmin blinks at you like you just offered to throw hands with God himself. “Fake date?” he repeats. 

You nod sagely. “It’s bulletproof. Everyone who’s gotten canned the past three months? They were caught hooking up with coworkers. There’s a Post-It in the lounge, remember? ‘DON’T FUCK EACH OTHER.’”

Seokmin opens his mouth, closes it. Then again. It’s like watching a fish try to breathe above water. Finally, he croaks, “No.”

“No?”

“No,” he repeats, slightly firmer now, arms crossing over his chest like that would protect him from you. Which, to be fair, it might have if you weren’t already smirking.

“Wow,” you say, feigning hurt. “That repulsive, huh?”

Seokmin chokes. “Don’t put words into my mouth!”

You raise an eyebrow. “Then what am I supposed to take from that, huh? You look like I asked you to run off to Vegas.”

He rubs the back of his neck, visibly flustered. His ears are already pink. “It’s just… complicated.”

“Why? What, you got a secret girlfriend stashed in the plushie bin?”

He groans. “No. That’s not—I just… haven’t.”

“Haven’t what?”

“Dated.”

“You’ve never had bitches?”

“I don’t—women are not bitches,” Seokmin splutters. 

He looks like he might spontaneously combust. You’re half-tempted to poke his cheek, see if steam comes out of his ears. Cute, you muse to yourself, but cute in the same way that a kitten might be if its head was stuck in a tissue box. Not cute in a I-want-this-man way. At least, you don’t think so. 

You lean your elbow on the counter and study him, thoughtful. “I could ask someone else. Soonyoung probably wouldn’t even hesitate,” you note. “But I wanted it to be mutually beneficial.”

Seokmin chews the inside of his cheek. “Mutually beneficial?”

“Yeah. We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do, handsome,” you say, deliberately sweet, watching his face redden by the second.

He presses his hands to his cheeks like that’ll stop the heat. “Can I… think about it?”

“Sure. Just don’t think too hard. Might take it personally.” 

He groans again, but you catch the shy little grin he tries to hide as he ducks his head. Victory tastes a lot like Seokmin’s embarrassment—soft and just a little sweet.

Four days and three failed sabotage attempts later, Seokmin finally gets back to you.

You’re in the middle of stacking sun-bleached baseball caps that say CARAT BAY: GOOD VIBES ONLY when he approaches, rubbing the back of his neck like he might apologize for existing.

“So,” he starts, glancing around like he thinks you might have an audience. The only person within 10 feet of you is a kid licking ice cream and glaring at a pigeon. “About the thing. The, uh. Proposal.”

You know where he’s getting at. You just want to hear him say it. “You’ll have to be more specific,” you say breezily. “I proposed several things.”

He goes pink in the ears. Adorable.

“The fake dating thing,” he clarifies, and then fumbles over his next words. “Not that I think dating you would be—I mean, obviously, you’re very—I’m not, like, repulsed or anything—”

“Seokmin.”

“Right. Sorry. Yes. Let’s do it.”

You blink. Then blink again. You had expected him to try and let you down gently, to instead try and rope you into vandalizing the mat racer. Instead, he’s shifting from side to side, laying his heart down on your feet. 

“If you still want to,” Seokmin adds when you’re silent for a beat too long. By some miracle, you resist the urge to coo. 

“Handsome,” you say slowly, grinning as he sputters. “Of course I still want to. What changed your mind?”

He looks down at his shoes, his voice soft. “You said it could be mutually beneficial. And I figured… I want out. You want out. Maybe this is the way.”

Something flickers in your chest. Not pity, exactly. Something warmer.

“Alright,” you say, and you reach over to the counter to hold out your hand to him. 

You lay out the ground rules. You’d spent an embarrassing amount of time the past few days doing research of your own—watching contemporary classics like Anyone But You and To All The Boys I Loved Before before scouring the fake dating tag on AO3. 

“We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do,” you remind him. “Touch is probably the best way to go about this, but we only have to do that when somebody’s watching. Convincing flirting is the key. The goal is to get caught.” 

You don’t add the cliche of all cliches. No falling in love. Not because you’re hoping for it, no, but because it feels like a given. You like to think you’re smarter than Sydney Sweeney’s Bea and Landa Condor’s Lara Jean. 

Seokmin listens with rapt attention before bobbing his head up and down in a solemn nod. With eyebrows slightly scrunched from concentration, he takes your hand. 

The two of you shake on it. 

--

You and Seokmin agreed to start small. Ease into it. Not make it too obvious. Open flirtation in the break rooms, stolen glances in line for churros, maybe a suggestive comment or two over headset. Nothing too dramatic.

So far, none of it has landed.

You’d told Seokmin to just follow your lead. He was good at that. Always had been. When you reached across the table to oh-so-casually pluck a cherry off his soda float and pop it into your mouth, you expected at least one co-worker to clock it. Instead, Soonyoung kept chattering about the new ice sculpture exhibit, completely unbothered. Joshua just nodded, as if you had simply demonstrated the polite camaraderie of sharing a beverage.

You even tried batting your lashes while Seokmin offered you the last dumpling. He didn’t need to play it up much—just smiled wide, ears going red. Still, all you got from the others was a distracted thanks-for-leaving-some-for-us, not even a wink or a whisper.

You were going to have to double your efforts.

“This is a disaster,” you mutter later that night as you help Seokmin restock souvenir mugs.

He straightens a bit too fast, knocking over a stack of keychains. “I thought it was subtle,” he sniffles, going to pick up the plastic surfboards. 

“Exactly the problem,” you shoot back. “We’re so subtle, it’s like watching two Barbie dolls try to make out without bending at the waist.”

Seokmin’s laugh is loud and unguarded, drawing a look from a passing intern. He ducks his head and waits for her to pass. “Okay. We go bigger. I can do that,” he says, probably trying to convince himself as much as you. “Maybe I could, I dunno, carry you bridal style through the sand sculpture path?”

“Let’s not go zero to K-drama,” you say dryly. “We build up to that. We start with touches. Long looks. Close proximity.”

“You say that like we’re not already touching every five minutes by accident.”

You hand him a mug and let your fingers brush his, lingering. It’s an act, sure, but you’re sure he feels it too. The jolt of electricity. The thrum beneath your skin. Seokmin’s breath hitches, his eyes flitting to where the tips of your fingers had just pressed. 

“That,” you point out. “But on purpose.”

He nods, dazed. “Right. Totally. On purpose.”

If anybody asked, you were building a believable relationship arc.

A couple of days later, you find Seokmin hunched over the merchandise booth counter, the cheap company laptop tilted slightly toward him. He’s got that familiar deep crease between his brows, the one he gets whenever he’s hyper-focused. Usually while trying to fix a jammed ticket printer or master a new drink recipe from the cafe next door.

You lean closer, about to tease him for working too hard, when the wikiHow tab on the screen catches your eye: How to be a good boyfriend: A guide for beginners.

You bite back a smile, heart squeezing painfully at the earnestness of it. Of course he’d look it up. Sweet, ridiculous Seokmin.

“Whatcha doing, handsome?” you ask, voice lilting and teasing.

Seokmin jolts upright so fast he nearly knocks the laptop onto the floor. “I—Nothing! Research! Important work research!”

You snicker, plucking the laptop gently from his grasp and setting it safely aside. “Research, huh? Planning to date the slushie machine or something?”

He groans, covering his face with both hands. “Don’t make fun of me,” he mumbles, words muffled by his palm. “I'm—I'm trying to be good at this.”

Your chest aches again. Not in an oh-I’m-screwed way, but in the reminder that, once again, Lee Seokmin is too good for this world. Too pure to be roped into your low-budget, romantic-comedy life. 

“Hey,” you say delicately, nudging his arm until he peeks at you between his fingers. “You can just ask me, you know.”

“Ask you?”

You grin. “Yeah. You’re fake-dating me, remember? Free resource right here.”

He drops his hands, staring at you for a moment. It lasts long enough to make you feel seen, which is never good. “You’d really help me?”

“Of course. I’m an excellent fake girlfriend.” You lean in, conspiratorial. “Tip one: You’re already doing great just by caring this much.”

Seokmin's mouth parts slightly, like he wants to protest but can't quite find the words.

“Tip two,” you continue, tapping your chin thoughtfully. “If you ever don’t know what to do, just be honest. It's kind of…” —you soften— “my favorite thing about you.”

He blinks at you, visibly flustered, and you resist the urge to pinch his cheeks.

“Got any other questions, babe?” you tease, but Seokmin only shakes his head and mumbles something about knowing what to do. 

You’re not all too sure about that. Especially as he starts acting pretty weird in the coming days. 

At first, you think it’s just regular old Seokmin nerves. He fumbles during his cash register shifts, stutters when customers ask for directions, and practically leaps out of his skin when you tap his shoulder to pass him a bottle of water.

But then you notice him sneaking glances at you every few minutes. Shifty, fleeting glances. Like he’s hiding something. You catch him half the time, and he immediately goes red, waving you off with a too-high laugh. “Nothing!” he chirps. “Just—! Nothing!”

Suspicious.

During your lunch break, you find him pacing behind the Carat Bay merchandise booth, clutching his phone like it’s a lifeline. When he spots you, he stuffs it into his back pocket and beams so brightly it’s blinding.

“You good, handsome?” you ask, raising a brow.

“Yup!” His voice cracks on the word.

You narrow your eyes but let it go. For now.

It’s when you’re restocking plushies that you notice it: Seokmin, in the distance, accepting—and then panicking over—a large, extravagant bouquet of flowers.

He tries to hold it normally. He really does.

But first, he almost drops it. Then, he sneezes. Loudly. Violently. Three times in a row.

“Are you okay?” You rush over just as he doubles over with another round of sneezes, the bouquet wobbling precariously in his arms.

“I’m—” he gasps between fits, “—fine!” Sneeze. “Fine!” Sneeze.

You take the flowers from him. It’s a stunning collection of pink and white blooms. “Were you… getting me flowers?” you ask dazedly. 

Seokmin nods, eyes watery, nose turning a tragic shade of red.

Your heart lurches. “Seokmin. Are you allergic to flowers?”

“N-No?” He says unconvincingly before another sneeze rattles through him.

You bite down a laugh, the affection nearly overwhelming.

“Oh my God,” you murmur, shoving the bouquet into Joshua’s bewildered arms as he passes by. “You’re literally dying to be my boyfriend.”

Seokmin sniffles pitifully. “Worth it.”

You shake your head, pulling him by the wrist toward the staff lounge. “C’mon, Romeo. Let's find you some allergy meds before you actually keel over.”

Behind you, Joshua calls out “Are these for me?” while holding up the bouquet.

Seokmin sneezes again in response.

--

“We should actually get to know each other,” you say around a mouthful of rice.

Lunch at Carat Bay is a lawless stretch of twenty-five minutes during which the staff gathers in a sun-warped outdoor seating area, and hierarchy momentarily dissolves into lukewarm leftovers and communal fries. You and Seokmin decide this is the perfect place for the two of you to set your scene. 

You sit on the same picnic bench, unnecessarily close to two people who claim to be coworkers. Which is the point, really.

“I thought we were doing okay,” he answers middlingly. 

“You Googled how to be a boyfriend, Seokmin.”

His ears redden. You fight a smile.

“Let’s do this,” you urge, setting your chopsticks down. “Secrets. Weird facts. Stuff you tell someone if you’re… you know. Really dating.”

Seokmin shifts, folding himself smaller as he thinks. “You first,” he says, almost bashfully.

“Fine,” you huff dramatically. “I can’t snap my fingers.”

Seokmin blinks then bursts into laughter, his head tilting back with the force of it. “That’s your big secret?”

“You’d be surprised how often it comes up in life!”

He wipes the corner of his mouth with a napkin, still grinning. “Okay, okay. My turn. Uh. I still sleep with a nightlight.”

Your heart squeezes. “That’s cute,” you say, smiling softly.

“It’s dizzying otherwise.” 

“It’s fine,” you say, nudging him. “Better than getting eaten by whatever monster’s under your bed.”

He groans before looking at you with an open, helpless fondness that makes you feel raw. If you were a little smarter, you’d call it off then and there for both of your sake. 

Instead, you go back and forth like that, trading tiny confessions. You tell him about your irrational fear of mannequins. He admits he once tried to drink orange juice after brushing his teeth on a dare and cried. Every admission makes him squirm, makes you giggle, softens the space between you and pulls it tighter.

Seokmin is sweetness, clumsy and earnest and golden. And as he talks, stammering through another story about how he accidentally joined a ballet class in high school thinking it was an improv workshop, you realize: you aren’t acting when you find him impossibly endearing.

You lean your head against his shoulder with a dramatic sigh. “We’re gonna crush this fake dating thing.”

“Yeah?” Seokmin says, wide-eyed but smiling.

“Yeah,” you say, and it’s with a certainty that’s wholly misplaced.

Soon enough, the conversation spins into romantic experiences. When Seokmin asks you about your worst dating experience, you lean in conspiratorially. “There was this one guy who wore socks during sex. Like—knee-high, novelty print socks,” you divulge. “Multiple times.”

Seokmin’s mouth falls open. “No. No. No.”

“Yes.”

“Was that—was it a kink thing or—?”

“Unclear,” you say. “He called it his 'performance gear.”

Seokmin makes a scandalized noise and drops his sandwich in horror. “That is the worst thing I’ve ever heard. I hate the fact you experienced that.”

You’re laughing now. The kind of light, surprised laugh that bubbles up without warning. “I can go worse.”

“Don’t you dare. I’m already mortified.”

“Come on, Mr. No Dating Experience,” you tease. “You’re the one who wanted to know. Unless you’re just jealous.”

He goes red instantly. It shoots up his ears, stains his neck. “I—well, maybe I should be! I don’t have any dramatic sock stories to tell,” he says defensively. “I had one crush in the eighth grade who gave me half of a Twix bar.” 

“That’s romantic.” 

“She transferred schools the next day.”

You burst out laughing, while Seokmin stares at you helplessly. “It’s not not character building,” he whines, shaking your shoulders as you giggle over his misfortune. 

Across the lawn, Joshua nearly drops his water bottle doing a double take at the sight of you two. Joshua blinks a few times, looks away, and proceeds to accidentally pour water down his own shirt.

You and Seokmin exchange a glance.

“Half-win?” he whispers.

You grin. “Half-win.”

He reaches for another fry. You nudge his knee with yours. Lunch hour ticks on like a warm, strange summer dream.

--

You’re elbow-deep in foam fingers and keychains when Seokmin saunters over, oozing effort.

“Hey, gorgeous,” he says, leaning on the edge of the merch booth like he’s James fucking Dean. “Need a hand, or were you just waiting for me?”

It’s so out of character that you freeze for a second, your fist halfway inside a box labeled CLEARANCE MUGS. Then, you clock Soonyoung loitering a few steps away, nursing a popsicle and watching the two of you with all the interest of someone half-invested in a reality show.

You turn back to Seokmin. He winks. Actually winks. It’s not subtle. You can feel the twitch of his eyelashes from here.

Soonyoung squints. “You guys good?”

“Just peachy,” you chirp, playing along. You sling an arm around Seokmin’s shoulder and lean in a little, giving the performance a few more sparks. “My knight in branded polo just saved me from mug-related peril.”

“Cool,” Soonyoung says, totally unfazed. “Let me know if you find the sunscreen shipment. Shua burned his face again.”

You hold your grin until he’s gone, then collapse against Seokmin’s side with a snort. “Jesus. That was rough.”

Seokmin groans. “I thought the wink would sell it.”

“The wink was, frankly, terrifying.”

He flushes, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m trying, okay?”

“You’ve got heart, baby,” you say, patting his chest. “Execution just needs a little work.”

He mutters something about humiliation and stock rooms.

“You sure you’ve never dated before?” you ask, teasing.

He sighs, still pink. “Yeah. Theater kid. Improv. Not exactly irresistible, apparently.”

You blink at him, then let your gaze sweep from the messy fringe of his hair to the freckle on his jaw, lingering a second longer than necessary. Sure, Seokmin is a bit—all over the place. But he’s boyishly attractive, and if he wasn’t doomed to wear rose quartz and serenity as a 9-5, you think he might actually be a real catch. 

You decide to let him know. 

“Seokmin,” you say slowly. “You are irresistible as fuck, actually..”

He gapes at you. You pretend not to notice how his ears go red like warning lights.

You busy yourself with mugs again, all while your heart plays hopscotch in your chest.

After the disaster masterclass with Soonyoung, you decide to up your act. With Seokmin's consent, of course. 

It’s silly, really. His hand settles in the back pocket of your jeans as if it belongs there, palm flat against the curve of your ass like this is the most natural thing in the world. It’s not. It isn’t. Seokmin is practically vibrating with embarrassment, eyes darting like he’s waiting for a lightning bolt to strike him down. He’s sweating through his uniform polo, and you can feel the tremor in his fingers as he tries—bless him—to stay composed.

“You okay there, champ?” you murmur out the side of your mouth, smile still perfectly plastered. You’ve faked worse. But there’s something especially comical about watching Seokmin try to play suave when he looks like he might pass out from holding your gaze too long.

“Totally fine. Just, uh, practicing proximity,” he says, a little too loud, a little too stiff.

“Proximity,” you echo, biting down a laugh. “Sure. That’s what the kids are calling it now.”

He opens his mouth to reply but clams up instantly when Joshua walks by and double-takes so hard it’s like his neck cricks. Joshua’s eyes linger for a second too long, eyebrows halfway up his forehead, and then he walks faster, like maybe if he moves quickly enough, the image of Seokmin copping a feel in broad daylight will erase itself from his memory.

“Was that—did that count as a win?” Seokmin mumbles.

You grin victoriously. “Definitely a win.” 

Seokmin exhales, relieved. “You’re really good at this,” he breathes. 

“Oh, honey,” you say, adjusting your shirt and looping your arm around his waist like it’s nothing. “I haven’t even started.”

--

Seokmin shoots you a wide-eyed look over Soonyoung's shoulder. You know the one. The look that says, Please get me out of here before I die.

For the past fifteen minutes, Soonyoung has been monologuing about his fantasy, co-ed K-pop group, who he thinks would thrive the most in JYP Entertainment. You catch Seokmin’s eye and give him a sympathetic smile. When there’s a lull in the conversation, you seize your moment.

“We should get going,” you say, brushing your hand against Seokmin’s arm. It makes you feel like a scene partner in a bad rom-com. “Busy day.”

Soonyoung nods, waving a little too enthusiastically. “Yeah, yeah! Go do your merch-y things!”

And that’s your cue.

You lean in like it’s second nature and press a kiss to Seokmin’s cheek—except he turns to look at you just as you're going in, and your lips graze far too close to the corner of his mouth.

Seokmin freezes, eyes wide, cheeks pink. You pull back with a proud little smirk, only to hear Soonyoung’s delighted voice go, “Aww, cute!”

Soonyoung then leans in and, before you can stop him, plants a swift kiss to your cheek.

You blink.

Seokmin blinks.

Soonyoung pulls away, shit-eating grin firmly in place. “Guess that’s how we’re saying goodbye now, huh? Love that for us.”

And then he’s gone, humming something off-key.

You and Seokmin are left standing in stunned silence, lips parted, eyes still tracking the space Soonyoung just vacated.

“What just happened?” Seokmin asks dazedly.

“We’re either really bad at this,” you say, “or Soonyoung’s just really, really good at being Soonyoung.”

Seokmin lets out a strangled laugh. “You think Shua’s gonna want a kiss next time too?”

“God, let’s hope not. I only have so much emotional bandwidth.”

The next month’s announcement comes with a twist neither of you anticipated. 

Wonwoo—quiet, brooding, catlike in demeanor—is the new Employee of the Month. The rest of the team cheers for him with tepid enthusiasm, and he accepts it with a shrug, already halfway back to the cabanas before the applause dies down.

But for you and Seokmin? It’s hope. A rare, glimmering thing.

Seokmin finds you an hour later, halfway through inventory behind the booths. He sidles in beside you like he’s doing something criminal, which—considering the last few weeks of manufactured PDA and workplace sabotage—isn't far from the truth.

“Heard the news?” he says.

“Wonwoo finally getting recognition for his uncanny ability to look hot and disinterested at the same time? Yeah. Big day for the guy.”

“No, I mean—” He lowers his voice, eyes flicking to the open slats of the booth. “Do you think this means it’s working? That they’re onto us?”

You close the inventory sheet and lean against the shelf. “I mean, maybe. But let’s not get cocky. We still work here. We’re not off the hook until we’re fully jobless and making life choices our parents would cry about.”

Seokmin grimaces. “Right. That.”

You bump your shoulder into his. “We gotta up the ante.”

He raises an eyebrow. “What, like another back pocket maneuver?”

“No. We bring out the big guns.”

He looks skeptical. “What’s bigger than the back pocket?”

“A kiss.”

Seokmin chokes on absolutely nothing. “A kiss?”

“In public. Obviously. Catch us in 4K. Let the rumors fly, let HR cry.”

He stares at you like you’ve suggested robbing a bank. Which, to be fair, with this level of emotional fraud it isn’t too far off. “You’re serious.”

“As a tax audit.”

He groans and drops his forehead onto your shoulder. “I am not mentally equipped for this.”

“You’re doing great, handsome.”

“Don’t call me handsome when you’re about to ruin my life.”

You grin, threading your fingers together in a fake prayer. “It’s only fake ruining. Come on, do it for the cause.”

He sighs deeply, like a martyr. “Alright. But if this backfires, you’re buying me dinner.”

“Deal. And dessert, too. You’ll need something sweet to cry into when we’re finally free.”

The plans get made. You’re both actively trying to get fired, sure, but Seokmin still wants to get some of his stuff done. And so the two of you stay even as the clock ticks past eleven, Carat Bay, a ghost town save for you and Seokmin. 

Plastic bins of unsold shirts and foam fingers lay scattered around you while you’re both sluggishly folding and stacking them back into place. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting a sterile hum over the quiet.

Seokmin yawns into his shoulder and tosses a crumpled hoodie into a bin without aiming. It lands with a sad little flop, nowhere close to folded. You nudge him with your hip.

“You're getting sloppy,” you snicker.

“‘M tired,” he mumbles.

“Whose idea was it to volunteer for overtime, huh?”

He gives a small, sheepish smile, one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes tonight. You watch him for a beat longer than you should, picking up on how the weight of something heavier seems to settle over him.

“Hey,” you say, softer now. “You okay?”

Seokmin fiddles with the hem of the hoodie, his fingers restless. For a moment you think he won’t answer. But then he breathes out a laugh, quiet and self-deprecating.

“I guess I owe you the truth,” he says, “about why I wanted to get fired so badly.”

You put the last foam finger down and turn to him, giving him your full attention. He looks everywhere but you before admitting, “I… I wanna open an animal shelter. Mostly for dogs, but… you know. Cats too. Whatever needs a home.”

You blink, processing. “Seokmin, that’s—that’s noble as fuck.”

He gives a short laugh. “Yeah, well. Not really. I’ve been saving up, but my parents aren’t really big on  charity and shit. They still want me to take over this place."

Your heart twists painfully at his honesty, at the way he says it like he's bracing for you to think less of him. “Seokmin,” you insist, stepping closer, “I can’t believe you’d ever be embarrassed of this. You want to get fired because you want to help dogs?”

He lets out another laugh, finally looking at you. “When you put it like that, it sounds stupid.”

“It sounds like you have the biggest heart in the world,” you correct him.

He flushes at the praise, ducking his head. You feel something tender pull tight in your chest.

“You’re gonna do it,” you say, firm. “You’re gonna open that shelter. And it’s gonna be amazing."

Seokmin gives you a look so soft you have to glance away, pretending to busy yourself with a pile of lanyards. But even as you fumble with the cheap keychains, you feel the warmth of his smile on your skin—quiet and certain, as if for the first time, he believes it too.

--

The cubicle smells like a mix of chlorine, sunscreen, and the ghost of body spray someone probably forgot to bring home last week. 

You and Seokmin are pressed shoulder-to-shoulder in the tight space, backs to the damp plastic wall, waiting. You can hear the sound of people outside. Laughter, feet slapping against tiles, the zip of a towel being whipped like a weapon. No one ever checks the shower cubicles during lunch. They’re too humid, too gross. That’s what makes it perfect.

“Okay,” you say, shifting your weight, peering at Seokmin. He’s biting the inside of his cheek, eyes fixed on some grout on the tiles. “We don’t have to, like, make out or anything. Just something quick. Catchy. Like a Sabrina Carpenter music video.”

Seokmin nods slowly. Then shakes his head. Then nods again. “Right. Okay. But, uh… just so you know… I’ve never done this before.”

“Kissed someone?”

“Yeah,” he says. He sounds like he’s confessing to murder. “Like—not even a stage kiss. I always got cast as the comedic relief or the tree.”

You pause. That makes your heart hurt a little. This was supposed to be a dumb performance. Another scheme. But now, your stomach knots with guilt. 

“Do you want to back out?” you ask, already leaning away. “I don’t want to take your first kiss in, like, a sticky-ass stall with pool water dripping on us. That’s a memory you’ll carry forever.”

But before you can make a clean retreat, Seokmin grabs your wrist.

“I want to,” he says, and for once, he doesn’t sound unsure. “With you. It’s doesn’t sound  bad.”

You freeze for a beat. His grip is warm. His cheeks are flushed pink, and he’s still damp from the park’s mist sprayers. For some reason, your heart picks that moment to hammer in your chest.

“Okay,” you breathe.

You lean in. You expect it to be awkward, but it’s… not. 

It’s a little shy at first—his lips tentative, almost featherlight—but it deepens just slightly, like he’s trusting you to lead. His hand flutters awkwardly at your waist, not quite sure where to go, before settling on your hip.

When you pull back, you’re both a little dazed. 

“Christ,” you murmur.

Seokmin grins, soft and stunned. “That wasn’t terrible.”

You smile, and for a second, you forget why you’re even here. Right—

You're still holding onto his wrist, gently, when you say, “We could practice. If you want. Just to make it convincing.”

Seokmin clears his throat. “Practice?” 

“Yeah,” you say, with a noncommittal shrug. All cool girl, chill girl, this-isn’t-a-big-deal girl. “Just enough so we’re not all teeth and awkward angles when it counts. We want it to look natural.”

He nods, visibly thinking through the logistics. Then, a little breathlessly, he says, “Okay. Yeah. Practice. That makes sense.”

You step closer. The shower stall is cramped, so it’s not hard. Your shoes bump into his, your body brushing his chest. You place one of his hands on your waist. His fingers are hesitant, like he’s afraid you might change your mind and bolt.

“Touch me like you want to,” you urge him gently. “Like you're allowed to.”

His palm flattens more deliberately now. You feel the shift in him, the effort. His other hand lifts but hovers, unsure.

“Here,” you guide it, fingers curling gently around his wrist to place it at the side of your face. “You can hold me here. It helps.”

His thumb grazes your cheek, trembling slightly. His breath comes shallow.

“Now, slower this time,” you say. “Tilt your head a little more.”

He does, obedient. Eager. His eyes flick to your mouth, and then he leans in.

The second kiss is better. Less rush, more curiosity. You taste mint gum and something sweet—maybe from the café earlier. His lips are soft, tentative, and open slightly when yours press in a little firmer.

Your fingers rest lightly on his collarbone. His hand on your waist grips tighter, just a little. He kisses you again, like he’s learning. Like he wants to keep learning.

When you pull away, just slightly, he’s dazed and pink in the cheeks.

“Okay,” he says, voice low and stunned. “That was... useful.”

You try not to laugh. “We’ll need more practice. Just to sell it.”

“Right,” he agrees, too fast. “Totally. For realism.”

You’re both kidding each other at this point, but to hell with it. 

Things escalate not long after. He’s touchier. Bolder. Somewhere along the way, Seokmin has stopped flinching when he touches you in public and started leaning into the performance like it’s second nature. And worse still: he’s getting good at it.

A brush of his fingers along the dip of your waist as you reach for the locker door. A comment in front of Soonyoung about how you look good in the staff polo, followed by a wink that is actually genuinely disarming. One time, he even smooths your hair back before a team meeting, murmuring something about presentation.

You catch Mingyu watching the two of you, eyes narrowed. Minghao frowns when Seokmin lets you steal a bite of his lunch using the same fork. The whispers are starting, and not even Seokmin’s endearing clumsiness can cover for the shift in atmosphere.

But the real danger doesn’t come from the outside.

It comes from the break room.

You’re sitting on the counter while Seokmin stands between your legs, lips a breath away. It’s meant to be another rehearsal. A quick one. A casual, convincing peck for the hallway.

Instead, Seokmin’s hand brushes your thigh. Not by accident.

Your breath hitches. He pauses. You don’t move.

His palm presses firmer, sliding just barely, just enough.

Then, without much warning, he leans in and kisses you again. Slower. A little hungrier. It catches you off guard—not because it’s clumsy, but because it’s not. It’s careful. Considered. There’s intention behind it, like he’s trying to see what else he can get away with.

You make a sound. It’s not loud, but it’s unmistakable. A quiet, surprised thing at the back of your throat.

Seokmin jerks back immediately. You stare at each other, both stunned into silence.

“What was that?” you ask, heart pounding.

His voice is soft, eyes wide. “I—I don’t know. I thought we were practicing.”

“We are,” you say, but it comes out shaky.

You both stare at each other for another beat.

It’s getting dangerous. Very, very dangerous. You force yourself to act, to play the role. You shift, leaning back slightly to break the tension, giving him a small, teasing smile. “Now I’m curious, Seokmin. Can you make the same sound?”

The question only flusters him even more. “What?” 

“You know. The sound I made. You looked like you liked it.”

“I—” he sputters, adorably scandalized. “That wasn’t—I mean, it was nice, but I wasn’t—”

You lean closer again, voice dropping just slightly. “Let me try something.”

He nods. Wordless. Willing.

Your hands come up to rest on his chest, warm over the fabric of his shirt. You feel the faint thud of his heart beneath your palms. He’s wound tight, you can tell, nervous in the way he always is when you close the distance. You tilt your head, angle your lips near his ear.

“Relax,” you whisper, soft, lilting.

Then you kiss him.

It starts gentle, barely-there pressure. Your hands slide up his shoulders, then down, resting at his hips as you slot your mouth against his more deliberately. You deepen it slowly, coaxing, guiding.

When your fingers skim up the nape of his neck, he makes a sound—a small, breathy one that ghosts from the back of his throat. It makes your stomach flip, makes you smile into the kiss. You do it again. Just to hear it.

“That,” you murmur, lips brushing his, “was hot.”

He groans in embarrassment, pulling back to bury his face in your shoulder.

“You can't just say stuff like that,” he mumbles, muffled.

“Why not? You sounded good. Really good.”

You laugh, light and airy, and he groans again. When he peeks up at you again, he’s still flushed. But he’s smiling.

“Okay,” he whispers, all conspiratorial, almost as if it were a dare, “your turn again.”

You’re in trouble.

--

The plan is simple, in theory: get caught in a compromising position by the most enthusiastic gossip in Carat Bay. 

The break room behind the bumper cars is off-limits after closing. Soonyoung has a habit of staying late to tally the day’s dance competition scores. It’s foolproof. Everything’s lined up.

Except Seokmin is looking at you like he’s just been asked to disarm a bomb with his teeth.

“I didn’t think you’d actually…” he trails off, eyes darting downwards, where your polo shirt now lies folded over the employee bench. His cheeks are redder than you’ve ever seen them, which is saying something. You’re still wearing your undershirt—barely indecent by any standard—but Seokmin’s expression says otherwise.

“Strip?” you finish for him, amused. “It’s the uniform. People get fired for less than partial nudity, you know.”

He swallows. Hard. “Right. Yeah. Totally.”

You laugh, stepping closer. “Seokmin, we’re trying to sell the illusion. If we’re going to pull this off, I need you to look less like you’re about to pass out.”

“I’m not gonna pass out,” he lies, his voice two pitches higher than usual.

You reach up, fingers grazing the side of his face, and it’s like flipping a switch. He exhales, trembling a little. Your thumb brushes the corner of his mouth.

“We’ve done this before,” you remind him gently. “We’ve kissed before. This is just like practice, remember?”

He nods again, more believably this time. “Yeah. Just like practice.”

“Exactly.” 

You press your lips to his, soft and warm. 

Enough to ease him in, to coax some steadiness into his hands where they hover near your waist. You kiss him again, this time slower, more deliberate.

And maybe—just maybe—you’re reassuring yourself as much as you are him. Because your skin tingles where his fingers tentatively land on your hips, and your breath hitches when his mouth parts just slightly, enough to let your tongue graze his.

He pulls back first, eyes wide and unfocused. “That was…”

“Convincing?” you offer, trying to keep your voice steady.

He nods mutely, blinking at you like he’s never seen you before.

“Good,” you murmur, straightening his shirt collar. “Let’s make this a performance Soonyoung won’t ever shut up about.”

The break room is just warm enough to be stifling, wrapped in the hush of neon hum and the smell of popcorn grease and old rubber. You’re straddling Seokmin’s lap on the worn-out couch you’ve both dubbed the ‘emergency plushie zone.’ 

Seokmin’s tie is hanging off a peg behind you, abandoned somewhere between your fifth and sixth practice kisses. How much fucking practice one needs to get this ‘right,’ you’re not sure, but neither of you are complaining. 

This kiss starts like the rest, lips brushing with practiced familiarity, but something shifts when Seokmin’s hands curl around your waist with more certainty than before.

"You’re really getting good at this," you murmur against his mouth.

He huffs a shy laugh, fingers slipping beneath the hem of your undershirt where your skin runs hot. “You told me to practice.”

“I didn’t tell you to practice this well,” you say, and then you kiss him again, hungrier now, breath catching when his hand trails up your spine.

It’s just an act, you remind yourself. Just something to get Soonyoung to walk in and freak out, let the gossip train do the rest.

Except Seokmin moans when you nip at his lower lip. A small sound, barely there—but it melts into you. You want to hear it again. So you shift your weight, rolling your hips once. His breath stutters. Yours does too.

You press your mouth to the underside of his jaw, voice low. “You’re really committing to the bit.”

“I think,” Seokmin says, voice wrecked with something like disbelief, “I’m losing track of what’s a bit.”

You smile against his neck. “We’ve been at it for twenty minutes. Where the hell is Soonyoung?”

“Was—Was Soonyoung even at work today?” 

You freeze. You pull back and stare at Seokmin. 

Kwon Soonyoung had taken a ‘sick’ leave today. To line up at midnight for a video game. He bragged about it in the group chat that all the newbies shared. 

You glance down at your exposed chest, then at the way your thighs are locked around Seokmin’s hips. “Are we fucking stupid?” you wonder out loud. 

Seokmin blinks at you, lips swollen and pink, eyes blown wide. He leans his head back against the couch with a groan. “I don’t think I can do that again without losing my soul,” he rasps. 

“You’ll get it back in pieces,” you sigh, patting Seokmin’s chest in a gesture that’s meant to be reassuring. “Starting with your tie.”

--

You’re heading back from the boardwalk, salt still on your skin and the cheap cola you pilfered from the vendor stand fizzing in your hand, when you hear voices. The kind that make you stop short and lean just a little closer to the maintenance shed wall, pretending like you’re very interested in the bulletin board you’ve seen a hundred times.

It’s Joshua. Low and calm, like always, but there’s a seriousness in his voice you’re not used to.

“Seokmin. I just want to know what this is.”

You freeze. You don’t mean to. You know it’s bad form to eavesdrop, especially when you’re the this in question, but something roots you to the spot.

“I’m not trying to start anything,” Joshua continues, “but if this is just a game, if the two of you are pretending? You guys should quit it. Seriously. You’re both going to get into a shitton of trouble.”

A beat. Then Seokmin’s voice rings out, convincingly offended.

“It’s not pretend. I like her.”

Your breath catches.

“I like how she always wipes her hands on her shorts even when she has a towel. I like how she rolls her eyes like the world’s exhausting but she still shows up every day. I like that she lets me be nervous, but doesn’t treat me like I’m fragile. I like her laugh. A lot.”

Joshua doesn’t say anything, so Seokmin keeps going.

“I’m—I may not be able to call her my girlfriend. Not yet,” he says hastily. “But that doesn’t change the way I feel. I lo—like being around her. I like her, Shua.” 

You press your lips together, suddenly unsure what to do with your hands, your breath, your entire chest. You feel like a live wire. Humming, sparking at the edges with something dangerous and sweet.

None of that was part of the act.

And, fine. You wish it were real. Just a little bit. Just enough to close the distance between his feelings and yours.

You slip away from the corner of the shed before either boy notices you there. The cola in your hand has gone flat. Kind of like your plan.

The conversation makes a home underneath your skin, hangs like a cloud over your head. It exists even as you’re perched on the countertop in the employee break room, the sickly hum of the vending machine buzzing under the clatter of Seokmin's footsteps. He slots himself between your knees with the same ease he’s learned over the past few weeks, hands bracing on either side of your thighs. It would be routine now, if not for the fact that your heart is somewhere around your ankles.

His eyes search yours. “Are you okay?” he asks delicately, looking at you with that concerned glance he’s been throwing your way all afternoon. 

The thing about Seokmin is that he's gotten good at reading you lately, which would be great if you weren’t actively trying to keep your thoughts from turning into a romantic nosedive. You sigh. Might as well throw it all out. “I overheard you and Joshua,” you push out through your teeth. 

Seokmin freezes like you’ve just dropped on him  a bucket of ice water. “What?”

You offer a crooked smile, something flimsy and fragile. “You were good. Like, really convincing. Should’ve guessed you were a theater kid.”

He looks like he’s been punched. The breath leaves him slowly. “You thought I was lying.”

You don’t answer. You don’t have to. The way your gaze skitters off to the corner of the room is answer enough.

His voice goes soft when he says his name, and you presume it’s him readying you. He’s about to let you down gently, you think. “I—” he starts, and you refuse to hear it. Not without one final act of stupidity. 

You move before you can think. Your hand cups the back of his neck and you yank him forward, pressing your lips to his like it'll keep everything messy and tender at bay. It’s not careful. It’s not supposed to be. It’s a distraction, a fire alarm, an emotional eject button.

Seokmin doesn’t kiss you back, not immediately; his brain is still caught on whatever he was about to say. The kiss only lasts a few seconds, but it’s long enough for the door to swing open behind you.

“GUYS—”

You both tear apart like you’ve been electrocuted. Soonyoung stands at the doorway holding a neon slushie. The look on his face is the type of thing that would have him going viral on TikTok.

You and Seokmin exchange a look, wide-eyed and flushed.

It’s the worst time to get caught, and of course, that’s when it finally happens.

--

The fallout begins quietly.

Which is the worst part, really.

No fireworks, no messy confrontation, just an unrelenting silence that creeps in where easy laughter used to be. Every brush of Seokmin’s hand now feels weighted, every shared glance taut with the possibility of a conversation you’re not ready to have.

Worse, people are buying it. Hook, line, and sinker. After Soonyoung caught the two of you mid-liplock, the rumor mill went into overdrive, and suddenly, no one bats an eye when Seokmin shares his food with you, or when your knees knock beneath the merchandise booth. Everyone thinks you’re together. That you’re real.

It makes it harder than ever to fake it.

Seokmin still tries. He flashes you that warm grin and slings his arm around your shoulder like nothing’s changed, but it has. You can feel it in the way he hesitates before touching you, or how his laughter doesn’t quite reach his eyes when you tease him. He wants to talk about it. You know he does.

And he tries.

It happens after another long shift, the two of you walking side by side through the near-empty parking lot. The sky is bruised and pink at the edges, cotton-candy dusk descending on Carat Bay like an afterthought. He catches your wrist, gently but firmly.

“Can we just—talk?” he says, voice low, eyes impossibly sincere.

It’s the exact thing you’ve been avoiding. You look at his hand around your wrist and your heart hammers in your chest. You want to hear him out. You want to ask him which parts were real, and which ones were for show. You want to tell him it’s been pretty damn hard for you to tell the difference, even if you’re the one who laid out the blueprint months ago. 

But you’re a coward. And this isn’t part of the plan.

So you do what you’re best at.

You run.

You tug your hand free and turn on your heel. You don’t get far. Just past the bumpers, right by the yellow staff lines painted across the lot, you hear it—the telltale squeak of worn soles and a long-suffering sigh.

Changbin. 

He’s standing there, arms crossed, expression unreadable. His eyes flick from you to Seokmin, whose hand is still hovering like it’s caught mid-air.

“Inside. Both of you,” Changbin says coolly. “HR wants a word.”

Great.

You’ve been trying to get fired for months. And now, at long last, it feels like your wish is about to come true.

Except the look Seokmin shoots you isn’t relief.

It’s heartbreak.

The HR room is ice cold. Not temperature-wise—someone must've left the thermostat on the exact edge of comfort. It’s cold in that awful, bureaucratic kind of way. Like nothing good has ever happened in here. Like no one’s ever left this place with dignity fully intact.

Changmin, the HR Manager, offers you both paper cups of water. His smile is so bland it’s offensive. “Let’s make this quick,” he says, as if he has something better to do than scold employees for handsy interactions in the Carat Bay parking lot. “There’ve been some... concerns.”

Your arms are crossed. Seokmin’s foot keeps tapping under the table, a nervous rhythm he’s trying to stifle.

“Rumors have been circulating,” Changmin continues, folding his hands neatly. “Several employees have reported seeing you two getting cozy on company time.”

You open your mouth, but Seokmin beats you to it. “We weren’t—I mean, it was nothing compromising,” he argues feebly. 

“The CCTV disagrees.”

Holy shit. You almost forgot about that. There are eyes and ears all over the place; you and Seokmin didn’t even have to wait around for Soonyoung. The two of you could have just made out in the merch booth and been done with it.

“You’re both aware of the rule,” Changmin goes on. “No romantic fraternization during work hours. No workplace relationships without disclosure. And certainly not in full view of customers or staff.”

“Yes,” you mutter.

Changmin sighs, as if he genuinely hates what’s about to happen. “After internal discussion, we’ve decided to terminate the employment of one party.”

It sinks in a beat too late, what’s wrong about the statement. 

One party. Only one of you is going to get sacked, and it’s pretty clear who it’s going to be. 

Seokmin’s head snaps toward you. “What? No, that—that doesn’t make sense,” he sputters. “We both broke the rule.”

Changmin's smile flickers. “Mr. Lee, you know very well your position in this company.”

Ah. There it is.

The heir card.

You could laugh, but it’d come out strangled.

“This doesn’t have to be a big thing,” Changmin says smoothly. “We’ll phrase it as a mutual separation. No disciplinary record. A clean reference, if needed.”

You stare at the condensation sliding down your paper cup. This was what you wanted, wasn’t it? To get fired. To be released from this pastel-colored theme park hellscape and finally live your own damn life.

And yet.

Beside you, Seokmin's voice breaks. “It wasn’t just her. If anyone should take responsibility—”

“This is final,” Changmin says, in the politest voice imaginable.

You got what you had planned for. Why does it feel like shit?

You find Seokmin in the parking lot after the meeting, his hands jammed in his pockets, shoulders drawn up like they’re trying to shield him from the world. The Carat Bay sign flickers behind him, casting a tacky blue halo over his profile. You take slow steps toward him, gravel crunching under your shoes.

“Hey,” you say tentatively. “I—I didn’t think it would go like that. I thought we’d both get fired. That was the point.”

Seokmin doesn’t look at you. His jaw works, like he’s trying to swallow something sharp. “I’m sorry you didn’t get what you wanted,” he says flatly.

“That’s not—” You stop yourself, bite your tongue. “You know that’s not what I meant. I didn’t want you to get hurt by this. I didn’t think they’d—only fire me.”

He lets out a bitter laugh, the kind that tastes of ash. “Of course they didn’t. Why would they? I’m Lee Seokmin, Prince of Carat Bay. Fucking heir to the tacky throne.”

You step closer. “Seokmin—”

“No, seriously. This is the first time I ever tried to do something for myself, and I managed to ruin it by—” He breaks off, exhales hard through his nose. “By catching feelings for someone who only wanted a clean way out.”

You flinch. “That's not fair.”

“Isn't it?” he snaps. “You heard what I told Shua, right? You were eavesdropping. So you know. You know I wasn't acting. You kissed me anyway, like it didn’t matter. Like it was just another scene.”

You shake your head. “I kissed you because I didn’t know what to say,” you say, voice cracking. “Because I was scared. Not because I didn’t care.”

Seokmin finally looks at you, and it guts you. His eyes are red-rimmed, vulnerable in a way he’s never let you see. When he speaks, it’s as good as a confession, “I thought maybe, just maybe, if I kept being useful, if I kept showing up, you’d start to want me for real,” he manages. “But I guess I really was just an acting partner, huh?” 

He pulls back when you reach for him. “Don’t,” he says, looking less like the boy you’ve come to love and more like the ghost of him. “Don’t make this harder than it already is.” 

And then he’s walking away, shoulders still hunched, hands still buried in his pockets, as if letting them out might betray too much. You stay rooted to the spot, the neon lights buzzing overhead, your name already half-forgotten by the place—and the coworker—you were trying so hard to leave behind. 

--

You have at least two more weeks before your exile from Carat Bay is final, and you tell yourself you’re okay.

You tell yourself that when Seokmin, who you’ve worked elbow-to-elbow with all summer, starts pretending you’re not breathing the same air as him. You tell yourself that when he disappears to ‘stock’ the back room every time you so much as look at him.

You tell yourself that when he hands you inventory lists like he’s passing secret messages in a Cold War spy thriller. Gaze averted, fingers barely brushing yours.

You’re fine.

It’s fine.

You’re very normal about the fact that the boy who once had a casual palm curved to the slope of your ass now can’t stand to be within two feet of you. The boy who used to trip over himself to steal kisses, to coax soft sounds out of your throat in the shadowed corners of Carat Bay, now can’t even meet your eyes.

The merchandise booth is tiny, the kind of claustrophobic that’s usually endearing in the early stages of a slow-burn romance. Now it feels like a battlefield. 

Every interaction is a landmine. You joke with Soonyoung and Joshua louder than necessary just to fill the silence Seokmin leaves behind. You laugh a little too hard when Mingyu teases you about winning the Fastest Employee-to-HR Pipeline award. You act normal. You’re good at acting normal.

Seokmin, for all his theater-kid roots, isn’t.

His silences are loud. His stiffness is louder.

You catch him watching you sometimes, when he thinks you’re not looking. There’s a hollow, guilty kind of sadness in it, like he’s punishing himself. Like he’s mourning something neither of you can name.

You don’t know how to fix it. You’re not sure you should. Wasn't this what you wanted?

You got out. You got what you needed. It’s not your fault if somewhere along the way, Seokmin handed you something far messier, far more dangerous, and you didn’t know how to hold it.

You clock in. You clock out. You memorize the days until your last shift like you’re counting down to parole.

You don’t think about how empty the booth feels now.

You don’t think about the way Seokmin used to smile at you like you put the sun in the sky.

You don’t think at all.

You can’t afford to.

And, really, you don’t mean to cry. You’d told yourself you’d get through your shift, maybe duck into the bathroom if it got bad enough. You could’ve handled this like an adult. Quietly. Dignified.

Instead, here you are in the back break room, facedown against the sticky laminate table. Your shoulders are shaking, and you’re sniffling embarrassingly loud as you try to muffle the sound.

“Whoa, hey,” comes Soonyoung’s voice, full of immediate alarm. “Hey, what—oh my God, are you crying?”

You don’t look up. You can’t. You just groan low into your arms, trying to make the world swallow you whole. Of all the people who could find you. 

There’s the rustling sound of Soonyoung pulling out the chair next to you, scooting in close. A warm, awkward hand pats the middle of your back.

“Hey,” he says again, softer now. “Hey, it’s okay. Breakups suck. Like, really bad. Especially when it’s someone you see every day at work. That’s brutal.”

You let out a wet, miserable noise.

“Everyone’s been talking,” Soonyoung continues, unaware of the dagger twisting deeper into your gut. “Like, we all kinda figured something was wrong since Seokmin’s been… I dunno, all weird. He barely even smiles anymore. He’s acting like you killed his cat.”

You lift your head just enough to squint at Soonyoung through bleary eyes. “It wasn’t even real,” you whisper.

“Huh?”

You sniff and rub your sleeve across your nose, cringing at yourself. “It was all fake. Me and Seokmin. We were faking it.”

Soonyoung blinks at you. “Like… the relationship?”

You nod miserably.

“Why?”

Through your tears, you tell Soonyoung everything. The plan, the faking it, the makeout sessions. The way it ended on a Wednesday, of all days, which is terrible—because you both had to clock in the next morning like you hadn’t just broken each other’s hearts. 

Soonyoung leans back in his chair, processing this with the same serious expression he reserves for really important things, like choosing what to order for lunch.

“Okay,” he says after a beat. “That’s kinda… diabolical. But also, like, you and Seokmin… you’re just idiots in love.”

You let out a half-sob, half-laugh, wiping your eyes with the heel of your palm.

“I mean it,” Soonyoung says, smiling now, in that rare, earnest way of his. “You’re both idiots. And it’s kinda beautiful, if you think about it.”

You don’t know if ‘beautiful’ is the right word for the mess you’ve made.

But maybe—maybe it could be.

--

You always figure there’s a big act of romance in every rom-com. A grand, sweeping gesture by the male lead. Unfortunately, your male lead is out of commission; you decide to take things into your own hands. 

It’s your last day of work, and you have nothing left to lose.

Lunch time is your choice of poison. You wait for the clock to hit exactly 12:30, and then you hit Send after making sure everybody who matters is in the breakroom. 

Someone gasps. Someone else drops their coffee. Employees and managers alike pull out their phones to see what’s so stunning. 

The screenshots are in the group chat. Seokmin’s texts to you over the past few months, confessions of all the petty little sabotage attempts he’s made at the merchandise booth: mislabeling shirts, sneaking wrong sizes into bags, purposefully miscounting plushies. 

People are side-eyeing you, whispering among themselves—

“Damn, she’s really airing him out.”

“Was the breakup that bad?” 

“Evil ass ex.” 

You ignore them all.

You’re focused on Seokmin, who is seated between Joshua and Soonyoung. When he glances at his lockscreen, he does a double take. Blinks. Shoots up, his expression slack with horror. He looks like he’s about to make a run for it. 

You cross the room in a couple of quick strides. Before Seokmin can say a word, you grab him by the collar of his stupid Carat Bay polo and kiss him. Long. Hard. Unapologetic. 

Your mouth moves against his like you’re staking a claim. Like you’re not done with him yet. 

The breakroom explodes in noise—shrieks, whistles, laughter—but you barely hear it. Your brain is doing that thing again, the one where your entire world narrows into nothing whenever you’re up against Seokmin like this. 

You’ve known since the first time you kissed him that he would ruin you. You were right. 

You break the kiss to breathe, to murmur against his lips, “You’re definitely going to get fired now.” 

You don’t need to look to know a few mothers outside the breakroom are going to be scandalized. That the CCTV in the corner is blinking red, and Seokmin’s face is angled so you absolutely cannot manipulate or miss who had just participated in public indecency. 

For the first time in days, Seokmin smiles.

Not the fake half-smile he’s been giving you lately. Not the sad, wilted one. A real one. Wide and bright and devastatingly beautiful. He cups your face, leans in, and kisses you again—softer this time, like a promise. 

Screw the script. You're writing your own ending.

--

EPILOGUE. 

The drive is long, but not unbearable. 

Soonyoung and Joshua have packed the car with snacks, and between the three of you, there’s enough chaos to keep the ride from feeling too heavy. It's only when the road smooths out into rolling countryside and the first glimpse of the shelter comes into view—an unassuming building with bright, inviting banners—that your heart tightens in your chest.

“There it is,” Soonyoung says, leaning forward against his seatbelt, eyes wide.

“Cute,” Joshua adds, pulling his sunglasses down to get a better look. “Looks like it belongs to someone who loves, like, every living thing.”

You laugh, amused. “Sounds about right.”

The car barely parks before you're throwing the door open, feet hitting the gravel with an eager crunch. Seokmin is already at the entrance, waving both arms above his head like he's trying to guide a plane in for landing. You sprint the last few steps and collide into him, arms wrapping around his middle.

He lets out a winded, delighted noise, hugging you so tight your feet lift off the ground for a second. “You’re here!”

“Of course I’m here,” you murmur against his neck. “I’d be a terrible girlfriend otherwise.” 

Behind you, Soonyoung and Joshua groan loudly.

“God, it’s worse than I thought,” Soonyoung sighs. “You’d think the honeymoon phase would be over by now.” 

“It’s watching a rom-com on 2x speed,” Joshua agrees.

Seokmin only grins against your hair, clearly unfazed. He sets you back down but keeps an arm looped lazily around your shoulders as he ushers everyone inside.

The shelter is still new—there’s the faint smell of fresh paint, and not every kennel is full yet—but the energy is unmistakably Seokmin: warm, bright, buzzing with earnest hope. He introduces you to every animal like he’s presenting you with priceless treasures. You fall in love with each one.

You had properly fallen in love with Seokmin shortly after you were both freed from the clutches of Carat Bay. The two of you talked it out. He asked you on a proper date. The rest became history, and the story of your origins—now about half a year in the rearview—proves to be a fun tale to swap during drinking sessions. 

This time, you both got what you wanted, and so much more. 

At one point, Seokmin presses a kiss to your temple. You instinctively lift onto your toes to kiss his jaw in return. You both giggle like teenagers, noses brushing, completely lost in each other.

From behind you, Joshua pretends to gag. “Do we need to leave you two alone with the puppies?” he says judgmentally, arms tightening around the Rottweiler puppy he’d been eyeing for weeks. 

Soonyoung joins in on the teasing. “Disgustingly cute,” he announces dryly, already halfway out the door so he can escape you and Seokmin. And then, he throws in as an afterthought: “You two deserve each other.” 

You glance up at Seokmin. He beams down at you like you’re the only thing he can see.

It pains you to admit—but for once, Kwon Soonyoung might be right about something. 

[ineedpaigebuckets]

Hello. Can you write a comfort Pazzi fic about Paige's first days in the W? Perhaps one set after yesterday's game, where she's happy her friends are there, but she's missing Azzi. She come home tired and beat up, wanting to talk to Azzi, who shows up by surprise and takes care of her. Some vulnerable moments maybe where Paige talks about the adjustment and how hard she's working and how her body is best up from the intensity. Azzi, maybe giving her a massage or bath, and some "gentle ish" sex, where they both are soft with each other, but Azzi really, really takes care of her. And Paige finally has her person with her in Dallas, and someone just to talk to and share the moment with.

yes ma'am (it's kinda like filthy be warned)

home, now

the door clicked shut behind her with a quiet finality. paige stood frozen in the entryway, her keys still dangling from her fingers, the strap of her duffel bag sliding off her shoulder and thudding softly to the floor. her legs felt heavy—like concrete—and her arms hung limply at her sides. she had never known her wrists could ache like this, or that the simple motion of pulling her hair out of a ponytail could feel like too much.

the game was over. the adrenaline had worn off hours ago. the high-fives, the lights, the press. her friends had been in the stands—she’d seen them, smiling and screaming her name, and it had helped for a moment. she’d smiled back. waved. she’d even felt proud.

but now the silence of her apartment pressed against her chest like a weight. she was proud. she was also exhausted. and sore. and just… lonely.

paige didn’t cry. not really. not when she left uconn, not when the draft happened, not even when she stepped on a w court for the first time. but now, here, in the soft dark of her living room, with bruises blooming across her thighs and a dull ache pulsing in her knees, she blinked and felt something wet catch on her lashes.

she rubbed at her face, dropped her keys onto the counter, and dragged herself toward the couch—only to stop short.

the lights were on in the kitchen.

and there, standing by the fridge in a hoodie too big for her and socks pulled halfway up her calves, was azzi.

paige froze. stared. didn’t breathe.

“hey,” azzi said, like she hadn’t just rearranged the entire universe by being here.

“what—what are you doing here?”

“you sounded tired on the phone yesterday. and our schedule finally lined up. so… i flew in. got the spare key from your agent.” azzi walked toward her slowly, like she knew paige might crumple if she moved too fast. “i just wanted to be here when you got home, but im really sorry i couldn't make it to the game.”

paige let out a sound—something caught between a laugh and a sob—and stepped into her arms like she hadn’t seen her in months. because it had felt that long. longer. her head dropped to azzi’s shoulder, her face buried in the space between her collar and neck. azzi’s hands circled her back instantly, one sliding up to her hair, fingers gentle.

“i missed you,” paige mumbled. “i don’t even know how much until right now.”

“i know,” azzi whispered. “me too.”

they stood like that for a long time—until paige’s legs started to shake and azzi was guiding her to the couch, pulling her down gently, cradling her like something precious. azzi helped her out of her shoes, then crouched down in front of her, fingertips brushing over paige’s knees like she was cataloging the pain by feel.

“rough night?” azzi asked softly.

paige huffed. “rough month.”

“talk to me.”

paige swallowed. her throat felt thick. “everything’s faster. harder. i knew it would be. but knowing and living it are two different things. i’m trying. i swear i’m trying. but my body… it’s so tired. i’m so tired.”

“you’re doing amazing,” azzi said, brushing hair from her face. “and you don’t have to be strong for me. not here.”

paige’s eyes fluttered shut. “i just needed… you.”

“you have me,” azzi said, kissing her temple.

they ended up in the bathroom, quiet except for the gentle hum of the tub filling. the light was soft—just the dim glow above the mirror and the flicker of one candle azzi had somehow found and lit while paige was in her haze.

paige leaned against the counter, hips resting against the cool marble, eyes barely open. her sports bra clung to her ribs, damp from sweat, and her shorts were loose but felt suffocating after the game. azzi moved around her with quiet purpose, barefoot, hoodie sleeves pushed up to her elbows.

“arms up,” she said gently.

paige obeyed without speaking. azzi pulled her bra over her head with care, folding it and setting it aside. then the shorts, sliding them down slowly, her fingers brushing paige’s skin. nothing rushed. nothing greedy. just presence. reverence. a kind of knowing only built through years of quiet, quiet love.

when paige was fully bare, she didn’t cross her arms or shy away. she just looked at azzi, eyes a little glassy, like she might cry if azzi wasn’t already holding all the heavy things for her.

“in,” azzi whispered.

the bath was warm. not scalding. just enough to pull the tension out, to coax her tired body into letting go. paige stepped in slowly, wincing at first, then sighing deep once she sank beneath the water. azzi got in behind her, pulling paige between her legs like she belonged there. like she always had.

paige’s head rested against azzi’s collarbone, and azzi’s hands started moving—soft circles over sore shoulders, her thumbs pressing gently at the knots by her neck.

“just breathe,” azzi murmured, mouth close to her ear.

paige exhaled shakily, chest rising and falling in uneven waves.

“hurts?” azzi asked, fingers pausing at a particularly tight spot near her spine.

“yeah,” paige said. her voice was hoarse. small. “everywhere.”

“i’ve got you.”

slowly, azzi let one hand drift down, tracing the line of paige’s arm beneath the water. her fingers dipped below the surface, brushed over her ribs, then lower—along her thigh, where bruises were blooming like violet fingerprints. she cupped one gently, her thumb brushing over it like she could take the pain into herself.

“you’re working so hard,” azzi said. “i know it feels like you have to do it all alone. but you don’t. not with me.”

paige tilted her head, cheek brushing azzi’s jaw. “i didn’t know how much i needed you here until you were.”

“i know,” azzi whispered. “you carry everything.”

“sometimes i wish i didn’t have to.”

“then don’t. not tonight.”

azzi’s hand slid across her stomach, slow and steady. not demanding. just there. grounding. the water lapped gently around them, and azzi kissed the top of paige’s head, then her temple, then lower—along her jaw, soft lips pressing into the places where the tension lived.

paige let her legs float open slightly, the smallest movement, but azzi understood. she always did. her fingers found the inside of paige’s thigh beneath the water, just resting there at first, as if to ask are you sure? and paige’s breath caught, then steadied, and she shifted back into her, answering in the way her hand found azzi’s thigh and squeezed lightly.

“okay,” azzi said, so soft it was almost a breath. “just let go, baby.”

and paige did.

she let azzi touch her, slow and steady, the way only azzi could—like her body was a language she already knew by heart. azzi’s palm moved beneath the water, slipping over soft skin and settling between paige’s legs, but even that didn’t feel like the start of anything rushed. it felt like an extension of the care she’d been giving all night. like an offering. like safety.

azzi’s fingers moved slowly, parting her carefully, like she was trying to memorize every reaction. her other arm stayed locked around paige’s waist, holding her steady. anchoring her. her mouth never left paige’s skin—cheek, shoulder, collarbone—kisses placed gently between each breath, each soft sound.

paige’s breath hitched as azzi’s fingers circled her, a slow rhythm that built with no urgency, just intention. her hips shifted, a subtle roll forward that told azzi everything she needed to know. she tightened her arm around her, guiding her through it.

“you’re okay,” azzi whispered. “i’ve got you.”

paige whimpered—a broken, beautiful sound—and azzi kissed her temple, lips lingering.

“you’re doing so good,” she murmured. “just relax.”

paige’s eyes fluttered shut, her body melting into the space azzi had made for her. everything ached—her knees, her wrists, her back—but not here. not like this. azzi’s touch washed it all away, slow and sure and patient, until all that was left was heat building low in her stomach and the soft press of skin and water and love.

when she came, it wasn’t loud or frantic. it was a quiet unraveling, a slow release that crept up on her like dusk. a soft surrender. a breaking open in silence.

it started in her chest—a tight coil of exhaustion, pressure, emotion that finally, finally gave way. her breath stuttered, shallow and uneven, then deepened into a long, trembling exhale as the feeling washed through her, full-body and fierce. not overwhelming, not this time. just consuming in the way that made her feel known. real. touched in places that had nothing to do with skin.

her legs shook beneath the water, gentle but visible, the kind of tremble that started deep in her core and radiated outward in soft, involuntary pulses. her thighs twitched as the warmth swelled low in her belly, a dull ache that unspooled into pleasure slow and deliberate—like her body had been holding back too long and was finally, mercifully, allowed to feel something that didn’t hurt.

her knees knocked faintly against azzi’s, and her breath caught—shallow and sharp—then spilled out in a shaky moan that barely made it past her lips. her stomach clenched, not with effort but release, every muscle around her hips fluttering beneath the water as she let the feeling crest, then crash. not fast. not overwhelming. just steady. consuming.

her body curled slightly, instinctively, the water rippling around her. she reached behind without thinking, fingers fumbling through the bath until they found azzi’s thigh—smooth and strong and steady behind her. she gripped it—not tightly, not desperate, but with this quiet urgency, like she needed to know something was there. something real. something grounding when everything inside her was liquid and shaking and breaking open at once.

her palm flattened there, splayed wide over azzi’s skin, and in that moment she felt everything. the tension in her own shoulders finally starting to ease. the rush of blood behind her ribs. the softness of the water against her chest. the heat between her legs, still pulsing in slow waves. azzi’s breath at her ear. azzi’s hand still cradling her gently, not pushing, just holding her through it.

azzi didn’t speak. she just held her tighter, fingers easing their rhythm as paige’s body trembled once, then again, then stilled. her mouth was pressed to paige’s temple, breath warm against her hairline. she whispered something too quiet to catch, but paige didn’t need words.

the warmth between them was more than the bath. it was the way azzi wrapped around her like a second skin, like protection. it was the way her hands knew when to keep moving and when to stop. the way her touch never asked, only gave.

paige let her body fall completely limp in azzi’s arms, muscles softening like she hadn’t let herself relax in weeks. her spine curved against azzi’s chest, head tipped back onto her shoulder, neck long and exposed in a way that felt like trust.

her eyes stayed shut. her breathing was unsteady still, little aftershocks in her ribs. but her face—usually so guarded, so tense—was calm now. raw and flushed and peaceful.

she didn’t say a word, didn’t need to. everything was already spoken in the way her body curled back into azzi’s like instinct. like belonging. like home.

and azzi just held her, fingers still moving gently, easing her through every wave until she stilled. until her body was slack and heavy in azzi’s arms, her breathing deep and slow and clean for the first time in days.

“there you go,” azzi said, pressing a kiss to her cheek, her temple, her wet lashes. “i’ve got you. you’re home now.”

they stayed there, naked and quiet, water cooling around them, but warmth pulsing steady between their bodies. and for the first time since the season started, paige didn’t feel like she was bracing for the next hit.

she just felt held.

they stayed like that long after the water cooled, azzi holding her like something precious, like her being here was the only thing that mattered.

and maybe, for tonight, it was.

when the bath was over, they moved to the bedroom. paige’s skin was soft and warm from the heat, her limbs loose with exhaustion. she didn’t say anything when azzi kissed her—just kissed her back slowly, gratefully, like she needed to memorize the shape of her again.

and when azzi touched her—soft palms over tired muscles, mouth against her chest, her stomach, her thighs—paige let her. she didn’t feel like a wnba player or a public figure or someone who was supposed to be fine. she felt like a person. her person’s person.

they ended up in bed without really speaking, towels loose around their bodies, hair damp against their shoulders. the light was low. the sheets cool. and when azzi kissed her again—really kissed her—there was nothing hesitant about it.

it was different now. not soft, not slow.

it was need.

paige felt it in the way azzi’s hands roamed lower, bolder, like she wasn’t afraid of breaking her anymore. like she finally believed she wouldn’t. and paige met her there—hips lifting, teeth catching azzi’s bottom lip, hands fisting in the towel still slung around her waist before pulling it off completely. she was done being careful.

because this wasn’t about relaxing anymore. this wasn’t about rest.

this was about remembering she was alive.

and when azzi touched her—soft at first, but building, pressing deeper, harder—paige burned for it.

heat bloomed under her skin, spreading fast, fast, fast. her breath stuttered in her chest as azzi’s fingers traced the slope of her waist, her ribs, the dip of her stomach—each touch grounding and electric all at once. her back lifted off the mattress, body curving instinctively into every point of contact like she’d been starved for it. like this—her—was the only thing that still felt real.

azzi’s mouth followed the line of her torso, open and warm, tongue flicking across her skin in slow, purposeful drags. paige could feel every pass of it—how her stomach jumped when azzi dipped into her navel, how her thighs tensed when azzi’s nails scraped lightly up their insides, how her nipples tightened under the rush of breath when azzi grazed past them again, not stopping, teasing, building.

and when azzi finally pressed her hand between paige’s legs, sliding in slow, deliberate strokes, paige gasped—sharp and breathless, her hips jerking up to meet her touch like a live wire had gone off inside her. slick heat surged through her, low and insistent, her thighs falling open without hesitation now, surrendering to the rhythm azzi set, one that was fast becoming frantic.

everything that had been quiet in her all week—the ache in her shoulders, the hollow in her chest, the dull numbness from forcing smiles through days that demanded too much—came roaring back as want. feral. full-body. her fingers twisted in the sheets, jaw slack as a moan slipped loose, shameless and low, and azzi groaned softly in return, like she felt it too.

“that’s it,” azzi murmured, voice dark and reverent, breath hot against the inside of paige’s thigh. “just like that.”

and paige gave in—hips rolling up to meet azzi’s hand, her mouth falling open as the pressure built sharp and fast. her body moved without thinking, chasing it, aching for it, driven by instinct and hunger and the sheer relief of being allowed to want something this badly. to be wanted this badly. to not be composed or collected or fine—but fucked open and undone, and seen in the fire of it.

every nerve in her body was screaming, raw and awake again.

and god, it felt so fucking good to feel.

pure, physical, full-body want.

“azz,” she breathed, eyes fluttering shut as azzi’s mouth moved down her chest, her ribs, her stomach. “please.”

and azzi didn’t ask what she needed—she already knew. her hands were steady, her mouth unrelenting, and paige’s body answered with sharp gasps and a tremble that wasn’t gentle this time. it was raw. it was desperate.

paige clutched the sheets like she needed something to hold onto. like she might come apart if she didn’t. and maybe she did. but azzi was already there, anchoring her, pulling moans from her throat like she wanted to hear them, wanted to feel how wild she could make her.

and god, she was wild.

it wasn’t quiet now. it wasn’t delicate. it was fast and hot and dizzying, and when it hit her—when she came this time—it felt like a snap. like a match strike. her back arched off the bed, and azzi held her there, let her ride it out, let her make noise.

paige didn’t cry, but it was close. the kind of climax that felt like a reckoning. like something crashing through her chest. her whole body was shaking, fingers tangled in azzi’s curls, thighs trembling as she finally fell back against the bed, slick with sweat and flushed all over.

azzi crawled up beside her, mouth kiss-wet, hair sticking to her cheek. and she looked at paige like she was hers. not like an athlete, or a name on a jersey, or a girl who needed to be taken care of. but like a woman who was fire and fury and feeling, who had come back to herself tonight and let someone witness it.

“you good?” azzi asked softly, brushing paige’s hair from her face.

paige let out a long breath. her lips were parted. her eyes still half-lidded, dazed.

“yeah,” she whispered. her voice was hoarse. “yeah, i’m good.”

and she smiled—not polite, not tired.

real.

hungry.

“you’re gonna kill me,” azzi gasped, breath shaky, fingers curling weakly in paige’s hair.

paige smiled against her skin, slow and dangerous, lips brushing the edge of azzi’s ribcage. “good,” she whispered. “you deserve it.”

azzi had taken care of her. had held her through the unraveling. but she wasn’t tired. not really. her chest was rising fast, yeah, and her lips were kiss-swollen—but she hadn’t been wrecked yet. hadn’t been touched like she touched paige. and paige needed that. needed to feel her come undone. to see the heat in her face shift into something wild, something messy, something ruined.

she pressed azzi back into the pillows, hands moving low, deliberate, greedy. azzi’s breath caught, her thighs parting almost automatically, her body too honest to lie.

“baby—” she tried again, but it was thin, breaking. “you don’t have to—”

“shut up,” paige murmured. “let me.”

and then she was everywhere—mouth, hands, hunger. kissing down azzi’s stomach, biting gently at the skin just above her hip, dragging her tongue over every sensitive place she remembered from long nights and low light. she was slower than shefelt, but deeper. pressing her weight into each movement like she wanted to brand azzi with it. like she needed to make her feel it tomorrow. the next day. every time she tried to walk.

“god,” azzi breathed, her voice gone low and wrecked already. “paige—”

but paige didn’t answer. she just kept going. sucking, licking, curling her fingers just right until azzi’s thighs were shaking, until her hips jerked and her hands slammed into the headboard, fingers gripping the slats like she was holding on for dear life.

paige didn’t stop when azzi begged. didn’t stop when she came, the first time—high and sharp and with a broken cry into the crook of her arm. didn’t even slow. just kept going, mouth soft but relentless, fingers deep and confident, coaxing sound after sound out of azzi’s throat until she was writhing, legs clamped around paige’s shoulders, breath a wrecked mess of “please” and “fuck” and “i can’t—i can’t—”

but she could.

and paige proved it.

with her mouth first. slow, then fast. tongue teasing at first, then deep, purposeful, pressing into azzi like she wanted to ruin her. like she meant to. her hands held azzi open, thumbs dragging soft, dizzying circles over her hips while her tongue licked through slick heat, again and again, until azzi’s back arched and her hand flew to the sheets and pulled. the kind of grip that begged for mercy. the kind of grip that meant don’t stop.

and paige didn’t.

she sucked and licked and curled her fingers into azzi when she started shaking—just two at first, then three, slow but deep, hitting the spot that made azzi cry out and snap, hips lifting off the bed, thighs trembling around paige’s shoulders. the third orgasm tore out of her like a sob, like it had been dragged up from the root of her.

but paige didn’t stop there.

she eased her through it, just enough for the tension to break, then started again—lips sticky, chin wet, eyes wild with it. she shifted her angle, kissed the insides of azzi’s thighs, then went back to her center like she couldn’t stay away. her fingers didn’t falter, didn’t slow. her mouth sealed over azzi again with that same steady rhythm, building it up again, and azzi bucked, already too sensitive, already wrecked.

“paige—” her voice cracked, high and hoarse. “please.”

paige just groaned, the sound low and almost possessive. “you can take it,” she said, mouth brushing wet over her. “i know you can.”

azzi came again, harder—hips jerking, legs locking, both hands shoved into her own hair like she didn’t know what else to hold onto. tears welled in her eyes, spilling out at the edges when she gasped paige’s name like a prayer she couldn’t stop saying.

and still—still—it wasn’t over.

paige climbed up her body, kissed her face, her throat, bit at her collarbone, and said, “one more.”

“i can’t,” azzi choked out, voice shredded.

“one more,” paige whispered, breath hot in her ear. “let me, baby. please. i need to.”

and somehow, azzi did. she let her.

paige moved her leg over azzi’s thigh, bodies sliding together, flushed skin on flushed skin, slick and wet and raw. she lined them up, pressed in, slow and devastating, her hips grinding just enough to pull a choked moan from azzi’s throat.

it was too much. and exactly right.

azzi clawed at paige’s back, her body lifting to meet her, rocking helplessly as paige proved it with every roll of her hips. every kiss. every breathless whisper of “i love you�� against her ear.

azzi shattered again—legs trembling, thighs slick, voice gone—and this time, she didn’t even make a sound. just a breath, a sob, her whole body seizing beneath paige, then going utterly limp. twitching.

and paige finally stopped.

her mouth pressed to azzi’s cheek, then her temple, then the corner of her mouth. her hand stroked through her hair, whispering “you’re okay, you’re okay, i’ve got you,” over and over until azzi could finally breathe again.

azzi’s arms tried to lift, then dropped. spent. tears still clung to her lashes. her lips parted, eyes unfocused, voice slurred when she mumbled, “you win.”

and paige smiled. soft. proud. completely in love.

“i know.”

azzi didn’t move for a long time. not even a twitch. she just lay there, breathing shallow, lips parted, her entire body slack beneath the damp sheets. paige hovered above her, catching her own breath, chest rising and falling with quiet pride and something even deeper—something like awe.

eventually, azzi stirred.

“you’re a menace,” she croaked, voice absolutely wrecked, the smallest smirk tugging at her mouth. “i’m gonna have to be stretchered into the next team meeting.”

paige grinned, not even a little bit sorry. “you’re the one who showed up unannounced.”

“to take care of you,” azzi groaned, dragging a hand across her face. “and now i need my caregiver.”

“well,” paige said, shifting down and kissing her belly button, “consider it mutual destruction.”

azzi let out a hoarse laugh. “i can’t believe you kept going. i think my soul left my body on orgasm number four.”

“number five,” paige corrected. “but who’s counting.”

“you were,” azzi said, eyes fluttering shut as she grinned. “sicko.”

paige rolled to the side and gently pulled azzi with her, wrapping her up in her arms. azzi was limp but pliant, head falling against paige’s collarbone. their skin was sticky, overheated, slick with sweat and everything else, and still, neither of them pulled away.

“you good?” paige murmured into her hair.

azzi made a sound somewhere between a sigh and a hum. “i’m alive,” she said. “barely.”

“wanna rinse off?”

“i can’t walk, bro.”

“so dramatic,” paige teased. “you’re an elite athlete.”

“not anymore,” azzi groaned. “i’ve been retired by your mouth.”

paige laughed, full and warm, and kissed her temple. “okay. i’ll carry you.”

and she did—half-lifting, half-guiding her into the bathroom again. the lights were low, the air warm. paige ran a soft stream from the showerhead and let it trickle down azzi’s back while she held her steady, soaped her up gently, kissed the slope of her shoulder every time azzi leaned too heavily into her.

“this is actually nice,” azzi murmured, finally able to stand on her own as paige rinsed her arms. “i think i forgive you.”

“think?”

“jury’s still out.”

once they were clean and dry, paige tugged azzi back into bed, this time under the covers. she made sure to lotion her shoulders, run her fingers through the knots in her hair, kiss the soft spot behind her ear just because she could.

“you okay now?” azzi whispered after a while, voice drowsy.

paige looked over at her, and something in her chest softened, like all the fight had gone out of her.

“yeah,” she said quietly. “i am now.”

“good,” azzi said, tucking herself into paige’s side. “i don’t ever want you to have to go through something big without me again.”

paige kissed the top of her head, pulled the blankets up around them. “then don’t leave.”

“wasn’t planning on it.”

and they drifted like that—bodies tangled, skin warm, every ache eased by the presence of the other. there was nothing left to prove. just this. just them.

safe. loved. home.

[revelboo]

Them looking at our eyes must be fascinating. For me looking at someone eye is intimidating feels like im invading them and might see what their feeling

I love the idea of mass displaced mechs getting lost in their human’s eyes. The little flecks of color, the striations entrancing them.

This is a sandbox fic-a world other people can write in if they want and a vehicle for me to do oneshots with various Cybertronians and a willing human partner looking for a one night stand or something more. Want to be sandwiched between Megatron and Optimus? Rodimus and Tarn? The war’s over, come play. 🔞 Mass displaced mech 🌶️

Interludes- Part 1

Trailbreaker

• Hand rubbing over the back of his neck, the pulse of the bass in the mixed species bar thrums through him, the low lights interspersed with flashes from the strobe lights playing havoc with his optics as another Cybertronian catches his optic and he pointedly turns away. Just needs a distraction. A partner that doesn’t know him or his reputation. Who won’t want him for a pity frag, Trailbreaker, the one trick force-field bot.

• Stilling at a soft moan, his head turns. The shadowy booth tucked into a corner and too dark to make out much except the glow of optics and biolights, a smaller form straddling a Cybertronian, bodies moving against each other. Doesn’t need to see when the musk of interfacing is thick in the air. A human, then. There’s plenty of them here, curious enough to give him a night for the thrill of saying they fragged an alien. And he can hold someone in his arms, give them a wild ride and pretend he’s not so damn lonely.

• Jaw working he makes his way deeper into the bar watching the humans flitting from the bar to the dance floor, looking fragile and ethereal in the pulsing lights. Servos trembling slightly as he swings by the bar and Blurr slides some engex his way, he tosses it back and eyes the little humans. Do they have to be clustered in little groups? How does he get one alone? Sees a former Decepticon he can’t remember the name of approach a dancing human, leaning down to whisper in their ear. Then leading them to the back. Because on the surface Interludes is meant to foster intergalactic goodwill between their highly compatible species. But everyone knows it’s where you go for a one night hook up.

• Bass thumping so hard you feel it in your bones, you smile nervously as your buddy grins and shoots you a thumbs up before following some scary looking Cybertronian into a shadowy alcove. Because scratching fucking an alien off your bucket list had sounded fun on paper, but you’re a bundle of nervous energy. Out of your depth and not nearly drunk enough to actually approach anyone. Warm servos brush your arm and you nearly spill your drink on yourself, turning to find a huge mech standing right there. And one corner of his mouth twitches slightly.

• Jumpy little thing. You’re staring up at him with wide eyes, tense like you’re about to bolt. Making him think of a bird about to take flight. “Looking for some company?” He asks, reaching out a hand. Doesn’t know how to do this. What to say. Can’t make himself say ‘hey, want to frag in the back?’ But you lay a tiny, soft hand in his. “Trailbreaker. My name, it’s Trailbreaker,” he says, servos closing around your hand and completely engulfing it even mass displaced. You whisper your own name so softly it’s almost lost under the music. Gently tugging you in the direction of the back rooms, he half expects you to change your mind. Come to your senses and realize there’s better looking mechs.

• Are you really doing this? Sleeping with a stranger? Heart racing, you remind yourself that it’s just harmless sex. You can’t pick up anything from these guys, so you don’t have to worry about that at least. Maybe if you just think of him as a big, walking talking vibrator? Grimacing at yourself as he stops by the bar, tapping a servo against the counter and a short red and white mech slides him a little, puck looking thing. Then he’s leading you into the back and holding the thing up to a door to make it slide open. “Have you done this sort of thing before?” You ask as he turns your way, expression a question.

• “Never been with a human before. You interfaced with a Cybertronian, sweetspark?” And you shake your head at him, that at least reassuring him. That you’re both going into this blind. He’s heard other mechs gossiping about fragging humans. That you’re tight and wet and so incredibly responsive. And best of all? You don’t know him. “Alright. We’ll figure it out together then.” Head lifting as he surveys the plush little room. There’s not much here but a padded, oversized berth piled with blankets and pillows and a little fridge of water, energon, and snacks. Because even if Interludes is a bar catering to interspecies hookups, the hope is making lasting bonded pairs that can save their dying race. “What do you like? Top? Bottom?”

• Dying a little inside because this guy is so damn nice and the talking is making this way too real. “Can we just do this?” Because you’re going to panic and chicken out if you get to know him. Fingers trembling, you start stripping and your breath hitches when he hooks an arm around you, warm frame at your back as his mouth slides against your neck to make you shiver. Grabbing his hand you tug him to that big bed and he turns you, hands cupping your face. It’s too intimate when his mouth covers yours and he backs you up to the bed until you sit suddenly when your legs hit it. And he’s going down on his knees, insinuating himself between your thighs.

• “Can I touch you, sweetspark?” Head lifting, he growls, servos gently nudging your thighs open. And your breath hitches when he leans to vents against you to pull the scent of your need deep into himself making you tremble. Shy? You’re not saying no, so he brushes his mouth against you, tasting you. And that noise you make? It’s the sweetest thing he’s ever heard. Little hands land on his helm as his glossa and lips slide against you.

• Laying back on the bed because you’re overwhelmed watching him, your thighs tremble as his glossa tunnels inside you. Honestly, you’d figured he’d just push you down on your belly and fuck you. Moaning as his mouth slides on you, licking and sucking until you’re so close and you whimper a priest when he stops, mouth sliding up your body. More like a lover than a stranger. Aren’t even aware that he’s freed his spike until you feel the heat of it branding your inner thigh. “You’re so sweet,” he growls, the head sliding against you as he shifts over you. That visor brightening when he slowly stretches you and he’s big, making you squirm at the slight burn of him sliding deep. Filling you. “Okay?” He asks, deeps voice rough as his venting shifts, grows ragged.

• It’s killing him to hold still. To wait for you to nod, because they hadn’t lied. You’re silken heat inside, wrapped so tight around his spike and you moan when he moves against you. Finding a rhythm as you hang onto him. Making those needy little noises for him. And there’s no bar, nothing but the sounds you’re both making as his hips pump, the wet sound of you taking his spike. Knowing he’s lost as those eyes lock with his visor hidden optics. When you whimper a breathy plea for more, he begins to rut against you, losing himself in you. Letting the way your breath catches, your moans guide him.

• Arching as that thick spike stretches you, drives deep, you know how screwed you are. That you’re probably going to be addicted to alien sex after this, one of those people that are here every night, desperate to get lucky. Whimpering his name as he moves against you and you’re coiling tight, begging as you come apart feeling him lose control, hips snapping against you as he groans, shuddering and driving deep when he overloads to fill you. And you slowly become aware of the muffled noise of the club on the other side of the wall, of his ragged venting. Before his hips curl, spike pushing deep and you realize he’s still hard when he starts rocking himself against you, one corner of his mouth twitching at your surprise. “Go another round?” He asks. Fuck, you might just be in love.

Next

[yeahiveheardofbears-fics]

Behind the Beaded Curtain

When you and Steve get stuck closing Family Video together, the usual banter takes a turn toward mischief—and maybe something more—when an empty store and a cart of VHS tapes lead to some questionable decisions. Between late-night chaos, awkward tension, and way too many adult films, Steve might finally figure out that sometimes, taking a chance is worth the risk.

hi guys! here's a little smut oneshot to hold you over till I post the next fic in my rewrite series! There is no use of Y/N and the 'you' mentioned is fem. I loosely based it off of my OC, Mac, but I tried not to be super descriptive so the X Reader girlies can get a little more immersed. This was just an idea that didn't make sense for my main fic, so i decided to write it as a oneshot. I'm goign to try and post my oneshots on this page as well as ao3! comments encouraged and I hope you enjoy.

enemies to friends to lovers, semi public sex, confressions, idiots in love word count: 13,619 TW: talk of porn, sex at work, body confidence issues, uh idk they fuck so if you don't like that i guess don't read it

REQUESTS ARE OPEN, IF YOU LIKE THIS, PLZ MESSAGE ME CAUSE I NEED INSPO <3

fic masterlist

read on ao3 or read below the cut:

The bell above the Family Video door jingled weakly, signaling the entrance of a customer. You leaned against the shelf you were restocking, the rough cardboard edges of a VHS cover pressed into your palm, watching Steve Harrington prop his feet up on the counter like he owned the place. His uniform vest clashing with his shirt, collar slightly rumpled, and his hair—perfect as ever—caught the light just so. You hated that he looked like he belonged in one of the cheesy rom-coms he was so bad at recommending to customers.

“Don’t strain yourself,” you called, sliding a copy of A Nightmare on Elm Street onto the shelf. “Wouldn’t want you to pull a muscle working too hard.”

Steve lazily swiveled the stool he was perched on, an easy grin spreading across his face. “It’s called delegating. You’re the one who offered to restock.”

You raised a brow, slapping another tape onto the shelf with a little more force than necessary. “You mean when you handed me the cart and said, ‘You’re better at this, anyway’? Yeah, real great teamwork.”

Robin appeared from one of the aisles, dragging a broom behind her and looking thoroughly unimpressed with both of you. “You know, it’s amazing you haven’t driven each other insane yet. You’re like two stray cats fighting over the same dumpster.”

Steve shot her an annoyed look, but you just smirked, leaning against the shelf with your arms crossed. “He’s not worth the energy,” you said, jerking your chin toward him. “I’d rather put my effort into alphabetizing the horror section for the third time this week.”

“Hey!” Steve pointed at you, his grin widening. “That’s because you have no taste. You keep shoving Gremlins into the comedy section.”

“It is a comedy,” you retorted, the hint of a challenge in your voice. “You’re the one who insists on putting it in horror.”

“Technically it’s a Christmas movie.” Robin interjected but you two were too into your usual banter to acknowledge her comment.

“It’s literally about monsters terrorizing a town,” he shot back, standing now, clearly ready for this argument.

“And it has a montage set to Christmas music,” you countered, stepping closer, refusing to back down. “Face it, Harrington. It’s a comedy, and your taste is basic.”

Robin watched the exchange with barely concealed amusement, resting her chin on the end of the broom handle. “This is how wars start, you know. One second it’s Gremlins, next thing you know, someone’s annexing the drama section.”

Steve ignored her, crossing his arms as he stared you down, his brown eyes sparkling with exasperation. “Oh, I’m basic? Says the girl who has a Misfits patch on her backpack like every other kid trying too hard to look edgy.”

You scoffed, stepping closer until you were almost nose to nose. “You wouldn’t know edgy if it bit you in the ass, Harrington.”

For a second, the room felt charged, like something was about to snap. Then Robin cleared her throat dramatically, cutting through the tension. “Okay, you two, this isn’t a cage match. Save it for the Halloween crowd this weekend.”

You stepped back, rolling your eyes as you returned to your cart of tapes. “Fine. I’ll let him live another day.”

Steve plopped back onto his stool, muttering under his breath but loud enough for you to hear, “You wish you could take me.”

“Oh, please,” you shot back, already halfway down the aisle. “It wouldn’t even be a contest.”

“You know, for someone who spends most of her time glaring at customers, you’ve got a lot to say.”

“Somebody has to keep you on your toes,” you shot back, brushing your hands off and making your way toward the front. You flicked a stray strand of hair out of your face as you passed him. “Besides, someone’s gotta make sure you don’t charm every poor soul who comes in here. It’s starting to get embarrassing.”

“Embarrassing?” Steve feigned offense, placing a hand on his chest. “I’ll have you know, plenty of customers appreciate a little charisma. You could try it sometime.”

“Charisma doesn’t mean flirting with everyone who rents ‘Sixteen Candles,’ Harrington.”

Robin let out a dramatic sigh, looking between the two of you. “I can’t decide if this is banter or foreplay, but either way, it’s exhausting.”

“Foreplay?” Steve sputtered, his cheeks flushing.

“God, no,” you said at the same time, shooting Robin a glare.

Robin laughed, leaning against the counter as Steve sighed, shaking his head with a reluctant smile. Somewhere behind the banter, in the dim light and popcorn butter air, the faintest trace of something real hung between the two of you—something neither of you was ready to admit, least of all to each other.

---

The last few hours of your shift crawled along, with Robin having said her goodbyes twenty minutes earlier and left you and Steve to close up. A post-dinner rush had left the place in chaos, with empty shelves and a mountain of returns now sitting on the counter. Steve, standing at the rewinder machine, was absently humming to himself as you finished putting away the last of your cart.

“Finally done,” you muttered to yourself, dusting your hands off. Just as you started to roll the empty cart back toward the counter, Steve sauntered over with a fresh pile of tapes, all rewound and stacked precariously.

“Perfect timing,” he said, grinning as he plopped them onto the top of your cart. “More work for you.”

Your eyes narrowed, jaw tightening as you stared at the offending pile. “You’re kidding me.”

“What? That’s the system!” he said defensively, his hands going to his hips. It was a classic Harrington move—half annoyed, half clueless.

“Your system sucks,” you shot back, pulling the tapes off the top and setting them on the counter. “And you’re helping.”

“I am helping,” he argued, gesturing to the now-empty rewinder. “I rewound the tapes. That’s like, ninety percent of the job.”

You snorted, grabbing the cart handle with more force than necessary and turning it toward the aisles. “Whatever. I’ll do it myself.”

Halfway to the shelves, you paused, an idea sparking as you glanced back at Steve, who was still standing there with his hands on his hips. “Actually…” you said, setting the cart brake and turning to face him fully.

Steve tilted his head, suspicious. “What?”

“You’re an athlete, right?” you said, your tone dripping with exaggerated innocence. “Former Mr. Cool Guy?”

He frowned. “I don’t like where this is going.”

You grinned, hoisting yourself onto the cart and sitting cross-legged on its flat surface, tapping the metal sides. “Put those skills to use and make this less boring. You push, I steer. I’ll call out the titles; you take me to the aisles.”

Steve’s mouth fell open, his brow furrowing. “Are you serious?”

“Completely.”

“This is dumb,” he said, shaking his head. “What if someone comes in?”

You leaned back, gesturing toward the door with a dramatic flourish. “Steve, it’s Wednesday. It’s 7 p.m. The only person walking through that door is someone too embarrassed to rent their adult movie during daylight hours. And if that happens, do you really want to help them?”

Steve opened his mouth, closed it, then sighed, throwing his hands up. “Fine. But if you fall off, I’m not taking you to the hospital.”

“Noted,” you said, grinning victoriously. “ I always wanted to bleed out in the comedy section anyway.”

With a reluctant groan, Steve walked around the cart and grabbed the handle. “What’s first?”

You picked up the first tape from the stack beside you, holding it up to squint at the title. “Raiders of the Lost Ark. Action-adventure, aisle three.”

“Roger that,” Steve said, his voice dripping with sarcasm as he started to push the cart. It wobbled slightly, and you leaned forward to steady yourself, already laughing as he picked up speed.

“Faster, Harrington!” you called, pointing toward the aisle like you were commanding a ship. “Aisle three awaits!”

“This was a mistake,” he muttered, though there was a hint of amusement in his voice. He slowed as you neared the correct aisle, and you held the tape out dramatically, like a torch.

“Here we are!” you declared. “Place the artifact on its rightful throne.”

Steve grabbed the tape from your hand, muttering something about your flair for the dramatic as he slid it onto the shelf. When he turned back to you, you were already holding up the next tape.

“Ready for the next one?” you asked, wiggling the VHS case.

Steve let out a long-suffering sigh but grabbed the cart handle again, a reluctant grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “This is going to be the longest close ever.”

“Yeah, but you’re having fun,” you teased.

He didn’t respond, but the way his lips twitched into a full smile as he started pushing again gave you all the answer you needed.

Steve pushed the cart into the Drama aisle, his grip on the handle loose as he rolled his eyes at your smug expression. You waved The Breakfast Club over your head like a trophy, already looking triumphant.

“Drama section, as requested,” he said, stopping with a slight flourish. “But I’m just saying… it could also go in Romance.”

You nearly fell off the cart from how hard you laughed. “Romance? That’s what you got out of it? You think it’s about Claire and Bender hooking up?”

Steve raised a brow, his hands moving to his hips in that classic, I’m about to defend myself stance. “What? No, that’s not all it’s about. But it is a part of it. Opposites attract, right?”

You tilted your head, grinning like you’d just been handed the perfect opportunity to roast him. “Oh, sure. Opposites attract. That’s definitely a trope worth rooting for,” you said, your voice dripping with sarcasm. “Especially when it’s just code for ‘the weird girl has to completely change herself to be worth the jock’s attention.’”

Steve frowned, clearly thrown off. “You’re talking about the makeover thing?”

“Obviously,” you said, flopping dramatically against the back of the cart, the metal sides rattling under your weight. “She was perfectly fine as she was—better, even. Then suddenly she gets some preppy glow-up, and boom, Emilio Estevez notices her. It’s such crap.”

He was quiet for a beat, like he was actually chewing on your words. His lips pressed into a line, and then, unexpectedly, he nodded. “I mean… I agree with you. She looked out of place like that. It wasn’t really her.”

You blinked, caught off guard by his response. “Wait… you agree with me?”

“Yeah,” Steve said, shrugging. “I mean, she didn’t need all that. She was cooler before.”

Something about the way he said it made your stomach flip. His tone wasn’t teasing or defensive—it was sincere. He looked at you with this genuine expression, like he actually cared about what you thought. The space between you suddenly felt smaller, the air heavier.

For a moment, neither of you said anything, and the quiet made your skin prickle in a way you weren’t used to.

Then Steve broke the tension with a smirk, shifting back to lean casually against the handle of the cart. “So, what I’m hearing is… you must hate Grease too, huh? Sandy changes everything for Danny at the end. That must drive you nuts.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, sitting up straighter and gripping the sides of the cart like you were preparing for battle. “Oh, don’t get me started on Grease, Harrington.”

His grin widened, and he gestured with one hand for you to continue, clearly enjoying this way too much. “By all means, let it out. This should be good.”

You took a deep breath, ready to launch into a full tirade about the crime that was Sandy’s transformation, while Steve leaned against the cart, laughing softly under his breath before you’d even said a word.

---

Steve jiggled the lock on the front doors, pulling them to test if they were secure before flipping off the outside lights. The neon "OPEN" sign fizzled out with a soft hum, leaving the store bathed in the sterile glow of its overhead fluorescents. He sighed as he turned the "CLOSED" sign around and shot a glance your way.

You were standing at the counter, finishing up the register deposit you’d started early since the rush had ended hours ago. You hummed quietly to yourself, seemingly in a good mood, which was rare for a late-night shift.

“Got any costume ideas for Halloween?” you asked as you counted the last stack of bills. “Since we get to dress up here and all.”

Steve leaned against the counter, crossing his arms. “Robin and I are going as pirates,” he said, his voice flat. “Her idea.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Let me guess. She’s all excited, and you’re just going along with it because you have no spine?”

“Pretty much,” he admitted, though there was a small grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “She’s got this whole ‘Captain Robin and First Mate Dingus’ bit planned. It’s exhausting.”

You snorted, finishing the deposit and closing the register drawer. “Well, I’m going as a devil. Simple, classic, but I gotta tone it down a little so Keith doesn’t spend the entire shift staring at my chest.”

Steve went stiff for a moment, muttering something under his breath that you didn’t quite catch.

“What?” you asked, glancing up at him.

“Nothing,” he said quickly, straightening. “So, uh, are you done with that?”

“Just about,” you said, locking the deposit bag and setting it aside for the morning shift. Your eyes drifted to the cart in the middle of the store, still loaded with a few stray tapes. “Looks like we’re not done with that, though.”

Steve followed your gaze and sighed. “Oh, great. More cart rides.”

You grinned, hopping back onto the cart and gesturing for him to take the handle. “You’re the one who insisted on delegating, remember? Now push.”

With another sigh—this one more dramatic than the first—Steve complied, wheeling you toward the horror section. You rifled through the tapes on the cart, calling out titles as he brought you to the correct spots. It went smoothly until you reached for the next tape and froze, reading the title aloud before you could stop yourself.

“Blondes in Heat?” you said, eyebrows shooting up. Your gaze darted to the rest of the tapes on the cart. “Oh, no.”

Steve groaned, already knowing what was coming. “Yeah, I’ll take care of those.”

You shook your head, holding up the tape with a smirk. “It’s fine, I can do it.”

“Seriously,” Steve said, his tone a little sharper. “I’ll handle it.”

“Don’t worry about it,” you said, shrugging. “I’ve seen porn before, Steve.”

His eyes widened, and he stumbled over his words for a second before recovering. “What—you—you’ve—okay, I mean—”

“Relax, Harrington,” you said, clearly amused at his reaction. “You’re not the only person in Hawkins with a VHS player and curiosity.”

Steve rubbed the back of his neck, his face slightly pink. “I wasn’t—okay, fine. Just—don’t make it weird.”

You laughed, waving him off. “It’s not weird. Now push the cart.”

Grumbling something under his breath, Steve resumed pushing, steering you toward the back corner of the store where the beaded curtain waited. The clinking of the beads was just faint enough to make you second-guess the idea, but you straightened your shoulders and braced yourself. The cart rattled slightly as Steve slowed, and you gave him a look over your shoulder.

“C’mon, Harrington. It’s just tapes.”

The dim lighting of the ‘adult’ section made the whole thing feel way more awkward than it should have been. You broke the silence once more as Steve pushed the cart, and you, to one of the corners and had you hand him the tapes.

“You know, a place called ‘Family Video’ having a section for porn is a little weird.” You say as he shelves Blondes in Heat.

“Can you stop saying porn?” he sighs over his shoulder before walking back to you.

"Oh, I'm sorry. What would you rather me call it? The erotic arts? Adult features?"

"Just shut up," Steve says, but you can hear the smile in his voice.

You hand him the next tape, which you had been staring at with an amused smirk. "How to Satisfy a Woman in Six Minutes or Less? Really?"

Steve groaned. "God, you're such a pain."

"I'm just saying. Unrealistic. Also why the rush?"

"Oh, my God. Shut up!" Steve says, trying not to laugh.

"What? I'm being serious! Six minutes is a lot to ask. That's barely any time for foreplay, and I don't think anyone wants a half-assed—"

"I am not talking about sex with you!" he says, a little too loudly.

You bite back a laugh. "Why not? It's not weird. I'm sure it's not even the most awkward conversation you've had this week."

He turns, an eyebrow raised. "Oh, really?"

"Uh-huh. Remember when Robin told you and Dustin the difference between tampons and pads?"

Steve visibly winced at the memory. "Okay, fair point."

"See? Not weird," you said, handing him the next tape. 

"Yeah, sure," Steve said, rolling his eyes as he took the tape and glanced at the cover. Then his eyes went wide, and his whole body seemed to freeze.

"What? What's wrong?" you asked, trying to peek at the case. "Don't tell me it's worse than the last one. Oh, is it—"

"It's nothing," Steve said quickly, cutting you off as he turned away.

"Uh-uh," you said, jumping off the cart and walking around so you could see the front. "I want to see."

"No, no way."

"If it's really nothing, then why can't I see it?" you challenged, crossing your arms.

"Because I said so!" Steve shot back, his voice high and panicked.

"Fine. Hand it over," you demanded, holding out your hand.

"No."

"Yes."

"No, really, I—"

"Steven Harrington," you snapped, your patience running thin. "If you don't give me that tape right now, I will—"

"Alright, fine! Just stop yelling," Steve sighed, relenting as he shoved the tape into your hand. You stared at him, surprised.

"I yelled once."

"Still."

"Whatever."

You glanced down, and immediately, you felt your own body freeze. In a flash, the situation felt way too real.

Because staring up at you from the tape cover was an image of a girl who could've been you, if her hair was a different color. A girl, sprawled out on her back, naked. The camera angle was positioned above her, the lens angled to give the viewer a full view of her body—her face, her breasts, her legs spread wide.

Your face was on fire, your mouth suddenly dry. Beside you, Steve shifted nervously, and it occurred to you that you were both just staring silently at a porno tape that was clearly made for a specific audience.

"Uh... this is awkward," you finally managed, your voice a little hoarse.

Steve made a sound that was half laugh, half strangled cry. "Yeah, I could've done without the reminder, honestly."

You shot him a confused look. "Reminder?"

He waved his hands in front of him, clearly flustered. "No, that's not what I meant. I just meant—forget it. Forget I said anything. Can we please move on?"

"Not yet," you said, narrowing your eyes. "What do you mean, reminder? Is there a girl in pornos who looks like me or something?"

"Uh... maybe," Steve said, wincing. "But it's not weird, or whatever. It's totally normal. I just... happened watch this one. I wasn't trying to... or anything. I didn't realize..."

He was rambling, and it was kind of adorable. But there was also something about his nervous energy that made your skin prickle in the best way.

"So, if I look like this girl..." you said, letting the words hang as you tilted your head and met his gaze, which was locked onto yours.

"Yeah?" he breathed, swallowing thickly.

You stepped closer, holding his gaze. "Does that mean you've thought about me like that?"

"What?" Steve said, his voice cracking. "No. No way. Of course not. Why would I—"

"Liar."

Your tone was gentle, playful. It was a challenge, not an accusation. Steve's lips parted slightly, but he didn't respond, his eyes still locked on yours. You tried to keep a straight face, but you couldn't help the laugh that escaped you.

"You know- just give me that." Steve said, snatching the tape back. You watched him shove it onto the shelf, the movement quick and jerky.

"Hey, I'm just teasing! It's not that serious." You say, hands up in mock defense as you walk backwards and hop back up to sit on the cart.

"Shut up," he muttered, his cheeks flushed.

You bit your lip, unable to stop grinning. "Sorry. Couldn't help myself."

"Yeah, well, it's not funny."

You tilted your head, watching him as he fiddled with the shelf, his eyes not meeting yours. There was a vulnerability there, and a hint of shame. He looked almost hurt.

"Okay, seriously," you said, leaning forward and catching his gaze. "I didn't mean to actually upset you."

You hand him the next tape, attempting to make a joke about the absurd cover, but he just gives a noncommittal shrug. You frown.

"Steve, come on," you say, trying again. "I was just playing around. If it's really bothering you, I'll stop."

"It's not that," he said, shaking his head.

"Then what is it?"

He looked away, his jaw tight. You waited, giving him the space to say what he needed to. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, his words heavy with frustration.

"It's stupid," he said, still not meeting your gaze. "I just... we never talk about this stuff, okay? And then, the first time we do, it's because you think I'm some perv who gets off on looking at girls who look like you."

You blinked, caught off guard. "I... did not think that."

"Well, you should have," he snapped, turning to face you fully, his eyes burning. "Because that's how everyone thinks of me, isn't it? Steve Harrington, the former king of Hawkins High, screwing anything that moves."

You swallowed, not knowing what to say. Naturally, you went with humor to deflect.

"I mean if it helps, I've seen your luck with women lately, so I definitely don't think that..."

"Stop. Just—stop," Steve sighed, sounding exasperated. "This is exactly what I'm talking about. This is all we ever do. We can't have a serious conversation without joking about it, and it drives me insane."

You uncrossed your legs on the cart and let them dangle, leaning back against the wall of tapes, taken aback by his sudden honesty. His shoulders were tense, his jaw clenched. You had known each other through school, been friendly since he started at the store in July, but this was the first time he had ever really opened up. It was new, and a little scary, and definitely not something you knew how to deal with.

"I'm sorry," you said quietly, and you meant it. "I didn't know you felt that way."

"Yeah, well," Steve sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I'm not the best at sharing. Ask anyone."

"Hey, I've got no room to talk," you said, smiling a little. "I've kept my walls pretty high too, I think."

"You're not wrong."

The air hung heavy between you. Steve shifted, his eyes darting from the cart to the shelves, clearly feeling just as awkward as you were.

"You know that the person you were in high school doesn't, like, define you right?" you offered, your voice quiet. "Like, I don't think of you as 'King Steve' or anything."

"Really?" he asked, his brow furrowing skeptically.

"Yeah," you said, nodding. "I mean, we work together. I get to see all of you. The Steve who's actually really good at his job, and a surprisingly good teacher when you're helping Robin study, and an actual nerd about movies. Plus, y'know, the dingus pirate."

Steve rolled his eyes but grinned a little.

"And I mean, maybe you'd have better luck if you were that guy when you tried to uh, pick up women. The fake charm kinda just... doesn't work with this version of you."

"Gee, thanks," he said, feigning annoyance.

"No, I mean it in a good way," you assured him. "I think you're more real like this."

He was quiet for a moment, chewing his lip. Then, unexpectedly, he reached for the next tape and you went to grab it from the dwindling stack. You handed him the tape, your fingertips brushing his palm, and a rush of heat flooded your cheeks.

Get it together, you told yourself. You're not suddenly crushing on the guy because he showed a little vulnerability are you?

Steve, oblivious, flipped the case over, studying the cover. "Okay, so this one is... not great," he said, shaking his head. "I've had the misfortune of having to put away more than one."

"Oh, boy," you said, laughing. "I'm ready."

"Okay, here goes," he said, turning the case toward you. "Blonde Bimbo Gets Banged."

"Jesus Christ," you snorted. "Is there any way this can get worse?"

"Let's find out," Steve said, flipping the case back and reading the synopsis. "She's blonde. She's a bimbo. And she knows it. She likes to flaunt her blonde beauty. Her boyfriend knows she's a whore, and that's just the way he likes her. They get wild and hot together, and soon the whole gang is banging the blonde bimbo."

"Jesus Christ how many times do they have to say 'blonde' in one synopsis. Does the target audience have the memory of a goldfish? Does this company need a new marketing team?"

Steve laughed, shaking his head. "Oh, it gets worse. The reviews call this a 'stand-out-of-the-pack classic.'"

"Please don't make me read the rest," you said, waving you hand in front of your face while laughing. "I'm already scarred."

"You wanted to know," Steve said, his lips pressed into a line to keep from laughing.

"You're right. I did. I shouldn't have."

You two fell back into a comfortable silence, and you found yourself studying Steve as he went about his task, staocking the last of the tapes neatly on the shelf. He had always been attractive, but he was starting to feel realer. You could see the details of him now, the cracks and rough edges and the parts of him he'd rather not share. It was a dangerous thought, and you knew it. He was still your coworker, after all. And, maybe, your friend?

You watched him finish shelving the last tape, the muscles in his arms flexing slightly with the movement, and your stomach did a somersault.

Oh no.

Steve turned and noticed you staring. He raised an eyebrow. "What?"

You shook your head. "Nothing. I was just zoned out, I guess."

"Right," he said, clearly unconvinced. But he didn't push it.

"Last one," you say as your got to hand it to him. "And the survey says... oh. Wow."

"What is it?" he asked, tilting his head.

"Oh, no, it's just this is the first time we've actually stocked something decent," you say, turning the case toward him. "Like, this one doesn't make me want to scrub my brain out with soap."

Steve studied the case, a smirk tugging at his lips. "Oh, yeah. I've seen this one."

"Really?" you asked, surprised.

"Yeah, it's actually pretty good," he admitted. "There's, like, a plot and everything."

"You don't say," you said, smirking. "Maybe we should put this in the Romance section."

Steve rolled his eyes, shelving the movie. "Okay, wiseass."

"I'm just saying. Plot, characters, and actual sex? That's practically a Jackie Collins novel."

"Very funny," Steve said, walking back toward the cart. You were still sitting on the edge, the wheels of the cart rattling slightly.

"Huh. We actually got through the whole cart," you said, grinning a little. "Go us."

"Yeah," Steve agreed, leaning his hands against the cart and looking over at the shelf. "That was surprisingly easy."

"We're a pretty good team," you pointed out.

"Yeah, we are."

You leaned back a little, balancing yourself on your hands and studying Steve. He seemed to be doing the same, his gaze locked on yours. The air felt thick, heavy, and somehow electric. You could practically feel the sparks.

"We should, um," Steve swallowed thickly, glancing over at the beaded curtain that led out to the main sales floor. "We should probably get to the front."

"Yeah," you agreed, though neither of you moved.

You held his gaze, and he held yours, the tension between you was overwhelming, and intoxicating, and you could barely breathe.

"You got a deposit to finish..." he whispered, his voice low.

"Yeah, the main lights are still on," you said, your throat dry.

Neither of you moved. You could feel the pull, the urge to close the space, the electricity between you threatening to overload. Your pulse was racing, your skin tingling. You wondered if he could hear the thunder of your heart, if he could feel the warmth of your breath on his lips.

"This is dumb," he murmured.

"So dumb," you breathed.

"We're not gonna..."

"Yeah, we're not..."

And then his lips were on yours, and everything else faded away. His hand cupped your cheek, his touch gentle but firm, and the world seemed to stop. His mouth was soft, the kiss slow, lingering. You melted into him, letting him guide the pace, savoring every second. He tasted like coffee and popcorn and something sweet, and the scent of his cologne surrounded you, enveloping you.

When you finally pulled apart, your lips felt swollen, and you were breathless. Your eyes fluttered open, and you stared at each other, the air crackling around you.

"We are so fucking dumb," he whispered, leaning his forehead against yours, a small, amused smile pulling at the corner of his lips.

You laughed, feeling giddy. "The dumbest. We should probably stop."

"Probably," he murmured. But his lips found yours again, his hand drifting into your hair, his fingers curling. You grabbed a fistful of his uniform vest, pulling him closer. He pressed into you, the pressure of him against your chest, between your legs, made your body ache. You moaned softly as he deepened the kiss, his tongue darting along your lower lip. You could feel his smirk as your lips parted, giving him access to the rest of your mouth. His tongue grazed yours, teasing, exploring. His free hand ran up the outside of your leg, his palm hot on your thigh even through the denim of your jeans. You arched against him, craving the friction, the feel of his weight, and he pushed back.

You tugged on his vest, and without breaking the kiss, he clumsily shed it and tossed it aside, his arms then circling your waist. Your hands slid under the hem of his shirt, and you shivered at the contact with his bare skin. He sucked on your lower lip, making you gasp. Your fingertips dug into the muscle of his back, and he pressed harder into you. His body was solid, but soft, and he still held you so carefully. You wanted more of him, all of him, everything.

One of his hands moved to you shoulder to take the same hideous Family Video vest off of you. He broke the kiss only to make sure that he didn't rip it or pop one of your many pins off while doing so, putting it on the bottom of the cart. The careful action made you giggle. He smiled down at you before capturing your mouth in another heated kiss. You pressed your tongue into his mouth this time, running it along his bottom lip. He moaned softly, pulling you even tighter against him.

Your fingers raked down his back, nails grazing the smooth skin, and he moaned into your mouth, grinding his hips into you. The friction of him between your legs sent a shiver of pleasure through your whole body, and you groaned. His hands gripped your thighs, spreading your legs so that he could fit himself perfectly against you. He pressed hard, his body hot between your thighs, his chest pressed to your chest, his mouth on your mouth.

He rocked his hips into you, the slow friction driving you wild, and you wrapped your arms around him, holding on as he pressed his full weight against you, pinning you on the cart between him and the shelves. Your fingers gripped his shoulders as he moved again, his hands moving down to grip your hips. You could feel his arousal growing, and you shifted to match his pace, his hips rolling into you as yours rocked up to meet them, creating the perfect amount of friction, the pressure building with every thrust. You whimpered against his mouth as his fingers dug into your thighs.

"God, I want you," he breathed between kisses, his voice husky, sending a fresh wave of heat through your core.

"We—we have to—" you gasped, your words catching in your throat as he ground against you again, his fingers digging into your skin.

"Yeah," he breathed, nodding. His hands moved to your waist, pushing your shirt up and running his palms up the exposed skin, his thumbs grazing the soft skin of your stomach that that swelled gently over the waistband of your jeans, his touch reverent as he let his thumbs trace lazy circles there. You pulled away at the contact, suddenly feeling self concious with his hands on your exposed skin.

"Woah.. is this okay?" he asked, his voice a little strained. "If you're not—"

"It's not you, it's just..." you swallowed, suddenly feeling vulnerable. "I've never been with someone... like you before. Someone who... has expectations..."

His hands slid out from under your shirt as he took a step back, confusion on his face. "Wait, what?"

"I mean," you continued, struggling to find the right words, "You're so attractive, and I'm..." You gestured to your body with an open palm, not even able to find the words to express how self-concious you were about your body compared to the girls that usually got his attention. "You know," you finally added. "Me. So... I mean, I just want you to be sure, because..."

Steve's eyebrows pulled together in concern, his voice suddenly very serious. "What are you talking about?"

"You know what I mean."

"No," he shook his head. "No, I really don't."

You stared at him for a moment, surprised, and then your eyes dropped to your hands, which were clasped in front of you. Your nails had been painted black with silver glitter, and the edges of your fingertips were rough, worn down from anxiously picking at them for so many years. Your thighs, while sat on the cart, pressed together, the soft curve of them spilling slightly over the edge, a reminder of how you never felt like you fit the mold of what guys like Steve usually went for. You thought about the way your jeans pinched at your waist or how you always avoided certain angles in photos because they made your arms look bigger than you liked. Your stomach churned at the idea of him seeing all of you—every mark, every curve, every imperfection that you’d tried so hard to ignore but couldn’t help cataloging in moments like this.

“I just…” you started again, your voice quieter now, “I don’t want you to feel like this is a mistake. Like maybe the weird girl is hot when you're at work, but in the real world...” You trailed off, biting your lip hard to keep it from trembling.

Steve crouched slightly to meet your gaze, his hands gentle as they rested on your thighs, grounding you. “Hey,” he said softly, his voice steady but insistent. “Look at me.”

When your eyes finally met his, the warmth in his expression nearly unraveled you. “You think I’m going to change my mind just because we take our clothes off? I'm rock hard in the middle of an adult section that smells like stale popcorn, and you think that's going to go away when your clothes are off? Really?" He asked incredulously, pausing to laugh at his own words. "That's pretty bold of you to assume."

Your breath hitched at the words. At his touch. The way his voice softened around your name. "Steve..."

"Seriously," he said, leaning a little closer. His voice was quiet now, almost a whisper, and his eyes darted between your eyes and your lips, his hands still gently kneading your thighs. "It's you that should be careful. I mean... I can barely focus on anything when you're just standing around in these jeans," he admitted, his eyes moving to your legs, his palms slowly moving up the curve of them. You bit your lip, heat flaring low in your stomach. "But naked?" His eyes returned to yours, his voice suddenly rough. "I wouldn't stand a chance."

Before you could even respond, he closed the distance, pressing his mouth to yours in a slow, deliberate kiss, his hands gently kneading the tops of your thighs. You moaned softly at his touch, your arms sliding over his shoulders and tangling in his hair as you melted against him. He wrapped one arm around you, pulling you to him, the other hand sliding up your waist.

"Now," he whispered against your lips as he went to lift your shirt a little again. "Can I continue where I left off, please?"

You smiled, kissing him in reply. You parted your lips, deepening the kiss. He moaned against your lips, his hand slowly trailing up your waist again, lifting your shirt up more this time. Your body tingled in anticipation of his hands on your skin, his fingertips warm on your bare stomach, slowly trailing up to your ribs, then higher still, his thumb brushing the edge of the cup of your bra.

Your head tipped back as he broke the kiss to trace his tongue over your collar bone, then dipped lower, his breath hot on the exposed skin as his thumb gently brushed your nipple through your bra, your back arching slightly at the sensation. He pressed another kiss to your throat, and you moaned as his hand dipped under your bra, cupping your breast and kneading the soft skin.

You slid a hand under his shirt, trailing your fingertips across his waist, tracing the trail of hair that lead lower, the muscles in his stomach contracting at your touch. His hand on your waist tugged at the hem of your shirt, and you took the hint, reluctantly pulling away for a moment to peel the fabric over your head. Steve let out a low groan at the sight of you in your bra, and you smiled shyly, letting him take a moment to appreciate your newly exposed skin. His hand went to the back of your neck, his touch firm, grounding as he leaned in to kiss you again. His free hand found its way to your other breast, palming it and gently tugging your bra strap down.

You were both panting now, his fingers on you and your fingers on him, and your whole body throbbing for more. You ran your palm along the front of his jeans, feeling the outline of him straining against the denim. His mouth left yours and moved to the skin above your bra as his hand left your chest and fumbled for the clasp at your back. You ran your nails over the front of his jeans, your own pulse racing. You had to touch him, you had to see him. Your fingers found his belt, but it was difficult to work with his hands on you and your mind a haze of arousal and nerves.

He seemed to be having the same problem, because after a few more attempts he stopped trying to work your bra clasp and tugged impatiently at the fabric, his voice husky.

"This—can you take this off? Or should we move? Because I can't—"

"Here," you gasped, shifting slightly and turning so your back was to him. "Try again."

Steve hummed softly in acknowledgement, his breath tickling your shoulder as he worked to free you from the offending fabric, his touch feather light and torturously slow. You leaned forward a little, letting your hair fall in a curtain over your face so he wouldn't see how much his teasing was affecting you. But you could feel the wetness between your legs, the ache of anticipation making your knees weak. Finally, with a quiet, satisfied noise, he freed you from your bra, and you sat back against the self again, letting your hair swing back to frame your face again as you watched his reaction to your body.

Steve's mouth dropped open at the sight of you, the slow grin tugging at his lips doing nothing to ease the ache.

"Well, this isn't fair," he breathed, standing straighter with one hand on his hip and the other running through his hair, as if to calm himself down. He looked over you as you leaned back, braced against your elbows. He then let out a long, deep exhale, his hands moving back to take his own shirt off. He paused about halfway through the motion to peer down at you, looking a little ridiculous with the collar halfway up his face, one arm free.

"Oh shit, sorry, did you want my shirt off too, or did you want me to leave it on, or—"

"Shirt. Off. Please," you said quickly. Steve grinned and finished the motion, tugging the tshirt off and letting it hit the floor. Your eyes darted to his torso, his skin flushed and his chest heaving slightly from the anticipation. He had a nice, lean build, with broad shoulders and a surprisingly strong-looking core. His chest hair was a light dusting that trailed across his pecs and tapered into a faint line down the center of his stomach, disappearing into the waistband of his jeans. It added to his charm, giving him an effortlessly masculine edge. Your fingers twitched with the urge to touch him, to feel the softness of his skin under your palms, to trace the faint lines of his muscles beneath.

He definitely noticed you staring because he started grinning again, and when you noticed, he laughed a little. "What? Never seen a guy naked before?" he asked teasingly, making a joke of it to cover up the fact that he was suddenly a little self conscious under your scrutiny.

"You're beautiful." It spilled out of your mouth before you could stop it, and he looked surprised by the sincerity. His hands froze in mid-air and his eyes darted to yours. He opened his mouth to respond but nothing came out, so instead he cleared his throat and grinned shyly at the ground.

"Okay," he said, clearly trying to collect himself, and you realized that he'd been flustered. By you. A wave of pride flooded your stomach, and you bit your lip as your smile grew wider. You weren't usually so forward, and it had surprised you too, but you were glad it came out. "Okay. Let me just, uh, find my brain."

"You left it over there, on the floor. With your shirt." You smirked at him and his eyes narrowed at the playful teasing. He bent down to place both his hands on either side of you on the cart, caging you in as he leaned closer to you and pressed his forehead to yours. He gave a slight push of his hips against you, just to make you aware of how much you were affecting him, before cupping one of your breasts in his hand and letting out a breath. He took your nipple in his fingers and rolled it gently. You moaned at his touch, your thighs spreading a little wider.

The sound was affirmation enough for him to take your other nipple in his mouth, and you leaned into his touch as he circled his tongue around you. His teeth grazed over it, biting just slightly and making you whimper with need. You could feel him smirk against your skin, and he slid his free hand down to your stomach, then lower. His fingers grazed over your jeans and pressed firmly against you through the thick denim.

He paused with his hand right above your waistband and he lifted his head to look into your eyes. He was clearly trying to make sure that he wasn't overstepping any boundaries and was silently asking for permission to keep going.

"You can always say no." His voice was barely more than a whisper as his fingers played with the button of your pants, not wanting to rush you.

You didn't hesitate, just leaned into him and whispered, "Please touch me. Please."

He gave a low groan, pressing a hard kiss to your lips and biting down on your lower lip, before breaking away and dropping his gaze to your jeans. You watched, biting your lip as he flicked open the button, pulling down the zipper, and slipping his fingers underneath the fabric of both your jeans and your underwear. He dragged a single finger over the slick, swollen heat between your legs, and you let out a shaky breath. He sucked in a breath, clearly affected, and then dipped his finger lower to stroke along your entrance. You shivered, letting out a low moan and trying to pull him closer.

You felt his breath hot on your shoulder as his other hand moved to tug the rest of your pants off, giving him easier access to you.

"So wet already," he breathed, and the feel of his lips moving against the soft skin of your shoulder made your thighs twitch, the tension of anticipation nearly overwhelming. He traced circles around your entrance with one finger before pushing in slowly. His movements were cautious at first, gauging your reaction as he worked up a slow pace. But it wasn't enough, not when you'd been craving the release for what felt like forever. You spread your thighs, trying to pull him closer.

"More," you breathed, gripping his wrist to guide him deeper, faster, harder. Steve gave a low moan as his finger curled inside you, finding that one spot that made your whole body ache with pleasure. He added a second finger, pushing deep and pumping into you again and again as you ground your hips up to meet him, chasing the feeling, desperate for more. You looked up to find him watching you, his lips parted and his pupils blown wide.

He leaned down to kiss you again, and the change in angle sent a new wave of heat through your core, a whimper escaping you. His free hand moved to the back of your neck, pulling you into him and holding you steady as he pressed his thumb to your clit. You cried out at the new sensation, and Steve broke the kiss to let you breathe, his lips still pressed against yours, your breath mingling in the space between. His eyes locked on yours, he curled his fingers again and began working them in earnest, the heel of his palm pressed hard against you as his fingers pushed deeper and deeper with every thrust.

The pleasure was building, every nerve on fire as your orgasm neared, every stroke of his hand, every graze of his thumb making the tension build higher. His fingers moved faster, and you moaned his name, clinging to his shoulder, his arm, your hips rising to meet his hand.

"You're like...way too good at this..." You breathed between whimpers. Steve grinned, slowing his movements and teasing you.

"Well, I do have a pretty decent reputation..."

You gave a frustrated growl at the sudden slow down.

"Steve," you whined.

He chuckled softly. "Mm-mm," he hummed against your ear, nipping at it as he slowly slid his fingers out. "Not so fast."

"Are you... you're really doing this? Now?" you panted, incredulous. You needed more of him, more of his touch, more of the release you had been so close to, but now he was denying you? You opened your eyes, watching as he grinned down at you while he began to unbutton his jeans, still wearing a smug expression as he slowly pushed them down over his hips and down his legs. Your eyes darted from his face to the obvious bulge in his boxers as you swallowed.

"You want to keep complaining?" He asked, pulling down the boxers a little before taking himself in his hand and slowly pumping once, twice. His eyes never left yours, the grin you were used to seeing every day coming back "Because we can stop."

You couldn't even pretend to be angry as your gaze flicked between his face and his cock.

"Oh. You are... that's..." you stammered, taking a second to drink in the sight of him, so close but still so far from where you needed him. The smug grin turned genuine at your reaction and he pumped himself a few more times as if he was putting on a show for you. He let go of himself to slide his boxers all the way down and then stepped out of them to kick them to the side. He put his hands on sides of the cart and gave it a small shove, testing its durability, which illicited a small laugh from you.

"What's wrong? Not confident that we can stay in one piece for a few more minutes?" You teased. He scoffed in mock offense, giving you a quick kiss that lingered as he pressed his lips to the corner of your mouth.

"It's just precaution. Don't want you complaining if I get too excited and end up breaking this thing." He pulled away slowly, looking at the cart for a moment, thinking. "Actually, maybe I can—"

You wrapped a leg around his waist before he could finish his thought, pulling him to you so he was nestled perfectly against your hips. "You could also start with taking these off me," you suggested, grabbing the sides of your panties and tugging at the fabric. Steve let out a breath, his hands immediately moving to help you, though his mind was clearly distracted by what he wanted to do next. You watched as he pulled down the fabric over your hips, then your thighs, before dropping it on top of your jeans. His eyes trailed over the newly exposed skin, a look of pure desire on his face, his gaze hungry.

"God," he breathed. "You are..."

But you never found out what he was going to say, because your impatient hands had found him again, and you were pumping him slowly, watching him shiver in anticipation. His fingers dug into your hips, his mouth dropping open slightly, his gaze locked on yours as you moved, letting the feeling of your touch overwhelm him for a moment before he pulled your hand away with a small chuckle.

"Fuck. I almost forgot..." He bent to find his jeans and fished around in his back pocket. When he pulled his wallet free, your eyes went wide as you realized what he was getting. He held the square, foil wrapper in front of him.

You raised an eyebrow at him as he went to open the wrapper with his teeth.

"You brought a condom to work with you? Why would you ever think you'd need it here? In Family Video?" You questioned as he opened the packet, spitting the excess foil to the side, before looking at you with a lopsided smile.

"What, you think I put it there just in case we ran out of videos to restock? I had it there for after work one day, just in case," he explained as if it was the most obvious thing. You rolled your eyes, smiling and giving a slight laugh. "I mean, not with you. Not like... I had it there just in case I went on a date." He paused to wince a little. "Wait, no, that doesn't sound any better, does it?"

"I get what you're trying to say," you reassured him as you laughed a little harder, before the conversation took a slightly serious turn.

You glanced between the condom he was holding in his hand, and him. He was hard, aching even, and he looked desperate for your touch. You felt a small wave of pride that you could turn him on so much, and that you had the opportunity to be with him like this. To touch him and be touched.

You licked your lips, then said, "Put it on."

You felt like a teenager again, waiting with bated breath while he carefully slipped on the condom, his own breath shuddering as his fingers moved along his cock. When he finished, he leaned over you, caging you against the shelf once again with his arms on either side of your waist.

"For the record, I was hoping to take you on a date before… this happened. After work some time. Y'know, really take you out. Watch a movie with you, get dinner, go back to my car," He whispered the last bit into your ear, before kissing it gently and adding, "maybe get you in the backseat. But we can save that for another night."

You were too caught up in the feel of him against you to fully process what he just implied. A second night. This wouldn't just be a one time thing, you'd get to do this again... and maybe more?

Before you could react to that, you felt Steve line up at your entrance and your brain seemed to go on autopilot, your focus shifting to how you were about to get exactly what you needed. Your legs parted a little more, your heels resting against the lower shelves for leverage, your back arching slightly so your chest pressed against his. He paused there, looking down at you for a moment. Your breath caught at his expression—he was watching you intently, his gaze fixed on your face, his lips parted, his cheeks flushed.

"You want this, right?" The genuine question took you aback. The vulnerability was back in his eyes, and it suddenly became clear to you how nervous he was. "I just want to be sure this isn't—"

"Steve," you said, cupping his face in your hand. "Yes. I want this."

His breath left him in a rush as his lips curled into a smile, his relief clear. Then he gave a slight push of his hips and began to slide into you. His cock started to stretch you out, his length filling you inch by inch, and you whimpered at the feeling, the sensation of him inside you so overwhelming after having gone so long without being with anyone yourself. Steve stopped, his head falling to your shoulder as he groaned.

"Oh, god... you feel... Jesus, you're—" he was breathing hard, his chest pressed to yours, his hands gripping the shelf. His cock pulsed inside you, and you were trembling from the tension of it, the sweet ache of being filled, the need to have him buried in you fully. You slid your hands up his back and wrapped your arms around him, holding him as close to you as possible. He let out a ragged breath, then pressed a soft kiss to the curve of your neck, just below your jaw.

"Are you okay? Is it too much? We can stop—"

"I'm okay, just please—"

"What? Anything, just say—"

"Please keep going. Please," you whimpered. Your thighs twitched around him and you tried to pull him deeper, your body aching for him, for release. The angle was different and new, and it felt incredible. "I need more... please, I want you, all of you... "

Your words spurred him on. His mouth found your neck, sucking lightly at the spot just below your ear as he slowly thrust deeper, and deeper, until he was buried inside you. You felt your inner muscles stretch to accommodate his size, the pressure making you gasp as your legs quivered and your body flushed. Steve groaned, his breathing ragged, his body taut as he waited for you to adjust, every muscle in his back tense.

"God, I don't know how long I can hold out," he whispered.

"Then don't," you said. Your nails dug into his skin and you clenched around his cock. Steve bit down on your shoulder as he began to thrust in long, hard strokes, the friction making your legs tremble as you tried to keep up.

He pressed you to him, his arm looped under your waist, pulling you down on his length, the slow slide making you see stars. His hand snaked down between you, finding your clit and stroking you as he began to pick up the pace, the pressure building with every thrust. His moans were quieter now, more breathy as he drove into you over and over, the rhythm steady as he fucked you in time to the thud of the shelf against the wall.

You could feel yourself approaching the edge, every nerve tingling, every inch of you burning for release. The pressure of his body on yours, the way he moved, his moans, his scent, his hands—everything was pushing you higher, faster. His cock twitched inside you and you moaned, your own orgasm building with every stroke, every thrust, every touch. His pace became more erratic as you moved against him, your legs spread, your back arched, the angle deep and intense.

"I'm... fuck, I'm going to..." he managed between pants. "I want you... to come first..."

The way his voice shook, his hips stuttering with the effort of holding himself back, made your chest swell. He wanted you to finish before him, he wanted you to feel good. And it did, it felt good—so good, too good. Your heart hammered in your chest, the pressure of it making you feel like it might burst. He pushed harder, his fingers moving faster on your clit.

"Steve—" His name escaped your lips, breathy, as your body started to unravel. The tension in your core built higher, your hips jerking, the shelf hitting the wall harder. Your vision blurred as a wave of pleasure rolled through you, and you gasped his name again as you came around him, your body shuddering. Your muscles clamped down hard, making his pace stutter as he tried to push through. Steve groaned, his forehead resting on yours, his fingers digging into your side. He kept his pace even, thrusting through the aftershocks and holding you through your release, his mouth hovering near yours as he panted and moaned. You slid your arms to his back and raked your nails down, dragging your hands across the planes of his body, reveling in how his muscles twitched as your touch moved along his spine and to his ass, and you pulled him in deeper.

The angle was different now, the pressure intense as his pace sped up and he started chasing his own orgasm, his cock filling you up completely and sliding against every inch of you, sending another wave of pleasure through you. He looked so beautiful above you, his hair disheveled and falling in front of his face, his expression pinched as his pace increased. You wrapped your arms around his waist to pull him closer and pressed a soft kiss to his neck. The tender touch made him shiver, and he pushed in hard and fast, his whole body going tense as his cock pulsed, the waves of his own release flooding through him. He moaned softly and your name tumbled from his lips.

For a moment you stayed there, his arms around you, his face pressed into your shoulder. Then, as the aftershocks ebbed away, he pulled out, giving you one last slow stroke as he did so. The loss of his touch made you whimper. You felt so empty now, aching for him, and you couldn't help but feel a little vulnerable at the thought of him pulling away from you. Steve stayed close for a moment longer, kissing you softly, tenderly, and you could feel your heart clench. He wasn't rushing off, he wasn't pushing you away. He was taking care of you.

Your body hummed with the lingering buzz of pleasure as Steve pulled off the condom, knotted the end, and threw it into the wastebasket in the corner, grinning proudly when it landed in the trash.

"Nice," he said, nodding as if impressed with himself. "And with my left hand, no less. Maybe I should have tried for pro basketball."

He was being a dingus again. A post-sex dingus, but still, a dingus. And it was such a relief.

"Mmhmm," you hummed, watching him carefully as he found his discarded clothing on the ground and began getting dressed. You had no idea what would come after, what the dynamic of things would be. What were the rules here? The guys you'd been with in the past didn't stick around to help you get dressed. You just put on your clothes, left the guys to clean up their mess, and went home.

"So," you said, taking your time to gather your own clothes from the bottom of the cart, putting your underwear on first. "Now what?"

He gave you a small grin, buttoning his pants as you grabbed your bra. "Now..." he trailed off, as if in thought. You slipped your bra over your arms, reaching back to do the clasps as best you could with limited reach. Steve noticed you struggling, and stepped towards you. He reached a hand up, motioning for you to turn around so that he could help you.

You did as he instructed, turning so that he had easy access to the hooks. His fingers grazed along the skin on your back as he slowly clasped each of them together. Once he finished, his hands slid up to your shoulders and he turned you around to face him again. You smiled up at him as you continued to put on your bra, adjusting yourself slightly. He didn't pull back right away. He kept his hands on you, running his thumbs across the fabric on your shoulders, a content smile on his face as he stared at you.

"What is it?" you asked, noticing that he seemed to be stuck in his head. He didn't answer you right away. His smile widened and he leaned down, kissing you gently. It was so soft and slow, that you forgot what you had asked him to begin with. All you could think about was his mouth on yours, and his hands on your waist, and the smell of his cologne and sweat, and the way his hair was completely messed up. He pulled away after a moment and you blinked, dazed.

"Nothing," he answered after what seemed like forever. "Just... this."

"This?" you asked. You could feel your heart racing again. He was still smiling, and he kissed you once more before pulling away and reaching down to pick up his shirt.

"This. You and me," he said, as if the answer was obvious. He pulled his shirt over his head and cocked his head at you as you began to put your jeans on, not answering. "Unless you didn't... I mean, I kind of assumed... unless you just wanted to forget this happened? That's not really my thing, but I mean, it's okay, we could pretend if—"

"I like you." It just blurted out of you and he froze, looking surprised. You realized you were holding your breath. He blinked.

"Really?"

"Really. But I mean... I know you like to take girls out, so maybe this was just a—"

"You really don't know me that well, do you?" he laughed. Your heart was hammering.

"What do you mean?" you asked cautiously. You'd said too much. He was going to take it back now. You knew he would.

"I mean..." he scratched the back of his neck awkwardly, but he didn't look like he wanted to back down. "I'm not just gonna... y'know, get with you at work and then bail on you. I like you, I like... being around you. A lot. I wanna keep doing it. Just in other places. Like outside of this shithole. And definitely without my uniform on. I mean, unless you're into that. I could probably bring my uniform home."

Your mind was going in about twenty directions at once, and it took you a second to process what he'd just said. He'd never... he liked being around you. And he wanted to take you out. You realized your mouth was open slightly and you closed it, biting your lip and feeling a wave of relief.

"You like me?" you repeated. "Not... you actually want to be around me?"

Steve stared at you for a second, a mix of disbelief and concern on his face, like you were the biggest idiot in the world for doubting him. Then his eyes narrowed, like he'd suddenly understood. He grabbed your waist again and pulled you back into him, a mischievous grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"Are you telling me I'm so bad at flirting you didn't realize I've had a crush on you for the past four months? Are you kidding me?" He laughed a little at that. "You're actually insane. I thought it was so obvious..."

"I... what?" you stammered. "No! I had no idea."

"I mean," Steve started, pulling away slightly as he began to run through the list of times he'd been blatantly obvious in his interest for you, "I'm always trying to spend more time with you, asking you about yourself, finding stupid ways to make you smile or laugh or just... you know... pay attention to you... and like, the way I talk about you. Robin constantly call me out on it." He ran a hand through his hair, messing it up a little more, which somehow only added to how endearing he looked.

"Well..." you mumbled, feeling your cheeks redden, "I just thought it was, y'know. Steve Harrington being Steve Harrington. Being a flirt."

Steve stared at you in silence for a moment, looking slightly disappointed that you were that clueless.

"Wait... do you really not know? About—" he looked up to the ceiling, and let out a short huff of air, before he looked back at you with his eyebrows raised. "The flirting, the winking, the talking about my parents not being home? Like... is it actually not obvious?"

Your face fell as you thought back on all the interactions the two of you had over the past few months, trying to pick up on clues. Had you really missed every hint that he had been dropping? You wanted to bury your head in your hands. You wanted the ground to swallow you up. But... he was still here. Still smiling. Still standing close and looking at you with the same interest that he'd had the whole night, since you had walked through the front door.

"You argue with me about everything, though," you said with a laugh, thinking of the many debates that the two of you had over what was a good movie, what was a bad one, which character in a movie was the hottest, if the latest rom com was really that good (spoiler: it wasn't), or even over the smallest, dumbest things that didn't even matter. "If I hadn't known you, I'd think that we just didn't like each other."

"That's just the chemistry," Steve shrugged, "You think I argue with all my coworkers about every little thing? Please." He chuckled as you blushed and shook your head, before he took another step closer to you, closing the distance between the two of you. "I like getting a rise out of you. You get so annoyed when you're trying to argue your point but can't think of the words. It's really cute."

You playfully nudged him with your elbow, before you finally put on the last of your clothes. Steve did the same, and when you looked down, you were both fully dressed. There was no trace that either of you had just fucked each other senseless a few moments ago. You glanced back up at him as he adjusted his vest.

"Lets go finish that deposit and then get the hell out of here."

You followed him back to the register, and he took the deposit bag and signed it, passing it to you. He waited patiently as you double checked to make sure that the deposit slip and the money matched. Once everything was correct, he gave a nod.

"Looks good. Ready to lock up?" he asked.

You nodded, and you both went to the breakroom to punch out. He opened the door for you, and you punched out on your time clock and gathered your things. You put your vest in your locker and closed it, turning around to see that Steve had already waited for you, patiently leaning against the wall with his hands in his pockets. You walked past him and out of the door, flipping the light switch as you walked out.

Whe you were outside the store, Steve locked the doors, then took the key and tossed it up and caught it. He turned and started walking backwards in the direction of the parking lot, as you headed to the bike rack to unlock your bike. Steve turned around, thinking you were right behind him and when he saw you at the bike rack, he spoke again.

"What are you doing? Are you riding that?"

"Um. Yes?" you raised an eyebrow, giving him a strange look as if to question what his problem was. "That's the plan. It's how I usually get home from work."

"It's freezing and it's late and I'm not letting you ride that back." He was being insistent. "No."

"Um. Yeah? It's really not that bad. I have a coat."

"Get in the car, leave your bike chained up. I have a morning shift tomorrow, I'll make sure it's there" he insisted, "Please? It's already past ten."

"Steve."

"C'mon. Just get in." he shrugged, his keys jingling in his hands. He wasn't going to budge and you were starting to get annoyed.

"It's really not—"

"Get in the damn car already." He rolled his eyes at you, clearly not buying the argument that you could get home by yourself and in one piece. It was dark outside, and a bit chilly, but that wasn't exactly uncommon for Hawkins. You sighed. You knew you wouldn't win this battle and it wasn't worth it to continue to argue.

"Fine. But just for the record, it's not that cold and I would have been fine. You know that."

"Mhm. Sure." Steve grinned, leading the way to the parking lot. When you got there, you stopped and glanced at all the empty cars and he frowned, before he gave a laugh of relief when he saw his BMW in the back corner. He unlocked the doors, you both climbed inside and he started the engine. He drove out of the parking lot, turning right onto the main street. You leaned your head on the window, your mind still spinning with the events of the last hour. Steve Harrington wanted you. You wanted Steve Harrington. This wasn't a one time thing, you could do this again. It was really happening.

As your eyes closed, you thought about the conversation you'd just had and something clicked. Steve's comment about him having a crush on you for months finally sank in. Your head whipped towards Steve in the driver's seat and you stared at him, as if you hadn't seen him in this light before. You couldn't help but stare. He was... perfect. He was absolutely, flawlessly beautiful and you just couldn't believe that someone like him could be so infatuated with someone like you. You leaned back in your seat, watching him carefully as he drove. You felt like you were going to burst, or pass out. You'd never been more attracted to someone before, but there was something else there. It felt more intense, more intense than it had felt before with anyone else. You felt your face turn a few shades of pink again as you thought of him.

The ride to your house wasn't a long one. Hawkins wasn't exactly known for being large, after all, and you didn't live too far from the store. Before you knew it, you were parked on the side of the road right in front of your driveway. You smiled at the sight of the familiar streetlight flickering every now and then. Home.

"Thanks," you mumbled quietly, as Steve put the car in park. "I... I mean... um, yeah, just... thanks." You fidgeted a little with the seatbelt strap and he nodded at you. He didn't move to take his hand off the wheel.

"Yeah... so," Steve gave a slight sigh as he leaned back, finally looking away from the windshield and meeting your eyes again. "Can we go back to talking about the whole you having no clue thing, because... I gotta be honest with you. I don't think I've ever been this embarrassed in my life. You thought I was just..."

You stared at him for a second, watching the way he spoke, watching how animated he was as he explained his side of the story, as if it had actually been some huge deal that you didn't notice him pining over you. The thought of it was... sweet, and it was such a contrast from what you thought you knew about him before. He really cared about how you felt.

"You know that I would never use you, right?" Steve continued. "Like I really like you. I think I made that pretty clear at the store, but like, if I made you uncomfortable or—"

You reached forward and took his hand in yours. You took it gently at first, testing to see his reaction, before he took your hand in return. He glanced down at where your fingers laced together, as his thumb moved over your skin.

"Steve," you interrupted softly, and his head tilted up to look back at you again. He had been rambling.

"Hm?" He asked, clearly unsure of how to react to what you just said. He watched as you brought his hand up to your mouth and pressed a soft kiss to the top of his hand. When your gaze met his again, you smiled, feeling the warmth of your breath on his hand, your nose brushing against him.

"Take me out." It was a request, a gentle demand, as if he didn't know that you would follow him anywhere at this point.

He grinned at that. The idea was definitely appealing. You saw the wheels turning in his head, imagining all the places that you could go on a date. What movies you could see, which ones would be worth sitting through for two hours with you, and which ones wouldn't. You were certain he had the entire month mapped out already.

"Can I pick you up at five on Saturday? There's this drive in theatre down the next town over." Steve offered, his eyes lit up with excitement.

"Yeah, I'm off on Saturday."

"I know. I've been staring at that calendar in the breakroom all week. I know all the dates you have off." Steve explained, as you looked at him in awe, with your mouth hanging open in surprise. "What? I wasn't lying back there. I had been planning to ask you out."

He didn't seem ashamed to admit it either, as he reached out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, then brushed his fingers over your cheek, as if to check that you were really there. You leaned into the touch and he smiled, letting out a content sigh. He took your hand and pulled you towards him, pressing his lips to your temple.

"I should get inside, my parents are probably wondering why I'm home from work so late." You whispered, looking up at Steve, whose face fell. He pulled you a little closer to him, leaning his head down to meet you, as if he didn't want you to leave.

"Saturday." He said it more to remind himself than to remind you. "I'll pick you up here."

"I'll be ready. Promise." you grinned, and he nodded in confirmation. With that, he gave you one final kiss, pressing his lips gently to yours for what felt like an eternity, but ended up only being about three seconds, before letting you go. He sat back up, putting the car back into drive, as you reached for the door handle.

"Have a good night."

"Yeah. You too." Steve smiled as he put the car back in drive.

---

extra lil bonus scene for the platonic!Stobin lovers:

The next morning at Family Video, Steve leaned lazily against the counter, flipping through a stack of tapes with all the enthusiasm of a kid forced to do summer homework. Robin, meanwhile, was loading the last of the returns into a cart, muttering about how she always got the worst tasks.

“You could at least pretend to help,” Robin said, giving him a pointed look as she pushed the cart toward the back.

“I’m on very important rewinder duty,” Steve replied, smirking as he leaned back against the counter.

Robin rolled her eyes. “You’re on very important doing nothing duty.”

She disappeared into the aisles, her voice carrying back to him as she headed toward the adult section. “Why do I always get stuck with the beaded curtain of doom? I didn’t sign up to alphabetize Hawkins’ finest porn collection !”

“Because you’re the captain, and I’m just a humble first mate,” Steve called after her, grinning to himself.

A moment later, Robin’s horrified yell shattered the calm.

“STEVE!”

Steve’s heart leapt into his throat as he sprinted toward the back, shoving through the beads to find Robin standing stock-still, staring at the trash can with a look of utter disgust.

“What? What’s wrong?” he asked, panting slightly.

Robin pointed at the trash can like it was radioactive. “There is a used condom in the trash can!”

Steve froze, his stomach dropping. “Uh…”

Robin turned to him, her expression a mix of shock and dawning realization. “Wait. Wait. Harrington. No. Tell me you didn’t—”

“I—it’s not what it looks like!” Steve stammered, raising his hands in defense. “I mean, technically, it is what it looks like, but it’s not like that!”

Robin’s jaw dropped. “Oh my God. Oh my God, you and—wait— you and her?! In the adult section?!”

“No! Well… yes. But it wasn’t—it was after close!” Steve groaned, running a hand through his hair, clearly panicking. “And it wasn’t planned ! It just… happened!”

Robin stared at him, blinking slowly. Then, she tilted her head. “So let me get this straight. You, Steve Harrington, had sex here, surrounded by titles like Butt Bandits 3 and Debbie Does Dallas? ”

Steve’s face turned bright red as he buried his face in his hands. “Please don’t say it like that.”

Robin then let out a bark of laughter. “Steve, do you have any idea how lucky you are that I found this and not Keith? Can you even imagine? He’d have a field day!”

Steve groaned again, his face still buried in his hands. “Please, don’t even joke about that.”

“I’m not joking!” Robin said, laughing harder now. “You’d never live it down. He’d probably give you some gross high-five and call you ‘stud’ every time he saw you.”

“God, please stop. I’m already dying of embarrassment.”

Robin folded her arms, a wicked grin on her face. “Oh, I’m not letting you off the hook that easily. Who even does this? At work, Steve? In the adult section? What, were you inspired by the ambiance?”

“It wasn’t planned!” Steve repeated, throwing his head back. “It just… happened!”

Robin smirked. “Oh, I’m sure it just happened. ”

“Robin,” Steve said, glaring at her. “Please. I’m begging you. Just pretend this didn’t happen.”

Robin pretended to consider it, then shrugged. “Fine. But you’re taking the trash out.”

“What? No way!”

“Oh, yes way,” she said, shoving the trash can toward him. “You made this mess. Literally. Now deal with it.”

Steve sighed dramatically, grabbing the trash can and stomping toward the back door as Robin’s laughter echoed behind him.

As he reached the exit, Robin called after him, her voice dripping with amusement. “Oh, and for the record? Since she clearly likes you back, maybe next time, take her somewhere that doesn’t smell like old popcorn and desperation!”

Steve froze mid-step, turning to glare at her. “Robin!”

She just grinned, wiggling her fingers in a wave. “Have fun with the trash, lover boy!”

Steve groaned loudly, stomping outside as Robin’s laughter rang through the store, the last thing he heard before the door slammed shut.

[cosmickid-inmotion]

From Each According to Their Ability

Jackson!Joel x gn!reader

Masterlists being updating under the new renovation. I went from romanarose to cosmickid-inmotion!!! I have to fix everything up before I add masterlists etc

Summary: You're fully deaf, and you're begining to feel frustrated with not being seen as a productive human with your own capabilities.

Warnings: Covert ablism. Nothing extreme but just to be fair. Reader lost their hearing in a explosion. Mention of meth. That's it i think, lmk if I missed anything!

Disability Visability event OPEN THROUGH THE END OF MAY!

A note on disability and employment after the fic.

Based on an ask I got by @goodbyetothenight! Back in October I said i was done writing Joel due to constant abuse from the fandom. However, in the spirit of an inclusive enviorment for people of all kinds I decided to write this piece. I took a intro to disability class where one of my big projects was on disability and employment, and i have a good friend who used to do dead/HOH advocacy so I feel pretty comfortable with this subject. As many of you know, for a long time i suffered hearing loss due to what i know know was a mass in my ear. I got it removed and hear much better now, but it was bad enough it caused problems for me. Still, if I said anything offensive please let me know!!

Dividers by @bernardsbendystraws

1.7k words

(I changed it to gn reader so if theres accidentally anything indicating gender other than the 50s housewife joke which i think works either way, lmk!!)

To each according to their need, from each according to their ability.

That was the communist manifesto, wasn’t it? Honestly you don't remember anymore, college was so long ago, and you’d have enough brain trauma. Of course your memory wasn’t what it once was. 

What you did remember was Maria saying, “Everyone has their place”

The accident was how they’d found you; how Joel had found you, actually. No, you weren’t making meth in Wyoming after the world had gone to shit, but you might have been known to… do some trade running is all. Imagine your surprise when you came to a supplier, were having a chat, when his entire lab blew up… and all the explosives he’d stored in the next room. 

You laid there in the rubble, making peace with your ending when and angel appeared in flannel.

You didn’t hear a word he’d said, the ringing in your ears far too loud, but after he’d taken the parts of the house that’d fallen on you and shortly before passing out, you were certain you could read his lips.

I got you.

You had lost all your hearing. This made you hesitant to join the community Joel had brought you too, but what choice did you have now? Maria, in conversing through writing, had assured you that there would be work for you and you’d be provided for in return.

“Not everyone does patrol.”

But you couldn’t do a whole lot you used to do either. Anything that involved needing to be very aware of surroundings was a no. No construction, for obvious reasons. None of the farm work: if there was a clicker or a siren went off, what if you were too far out and no one got you? No teaching, the kids, no large animals, not even cooking because you couldn’t hear when someone said ‘behind!’ or ‘sharp knife!’ or ‘oven open!’

Yeah, you did work. You did a lot of sewing, mostly. Sometimes you could watch the young children in the nursery, just not alone. You did what you could but sometimes you felt useless. It’d been a year now, and you struggled to feel yourself all the time. The world kinda being over meant not much for options like hearing aids, but your deafness was so profound you weren’t sure anything could have fixed it.

Sign language wasn’t happening. You’d learned some things because some people in Jackson knew a little but there was no one really an expert. Besides, at this point it was hard to learn something new. You counted your blessings. You could read lips pretty well, and you could talk, so most communication face to face was fine… unless people were weird.

Maria and her husband, Tommy, were nice and acted normal. They invited you over quite a bit and always spoke clearly, so you could read. Not that thing a lot of people did where they spoke slowly or over-enunciated. That didn’t help anything. The over enunciating was almost worse than the mumbling, but often the mumbling was mixed with people who wouldn’t even look at you.

Ellie was awkward sometimes but honestly, that was just Ellie. Jesse spoke like a boy scout and was overly formal, but you were pretty sure he was just like that too. He enunciated.

But then there was Joel. Your Joel, as he came to be over the months you’d been here in Jackson. Joel took such care to speak clearly, but also let his personality shine, that smile you loved to see. The teeth so close to perfect, you’d known before you ever explored his mouth he had to have a wire retainer on the back of his teeth. The night it all exploded and he closed the gap between you, you’d slipped your tongue behind the bone and felt the wiring yourself. 

It wasn’t long before you’d moved into Joel’s house, opting to free up a new house for the people kept fleeing to Jackson and finding comfort in the safety of him. You weren’t scared of existing in a house, no, not at all. But there were times you worried you wouldn’t hear a siren or a warning call. Now, even though you would be home alone for hours you knew that there were people that would come for you. Joel would know where you were. Joel would find you.

He always made sure to come from the side or the front where you could see him. Since you couldn’t hear when he came home, sometimes he caught you off guard, but after a few jumpscares living together Joel learned how to enter your vision without giving you damn near a heart attack. Ellie hadn’t quite learned the skill, but she was trying.

Joel’s deep green flannel peaked the corner of your eye as you sewed, and when you looked up, he came into vision. When you can clearly see his face, Joel grins at you. Maria said she’s never seen Joel this happy.

“Hey darl’n,” Joel always tried to stifle the accent to make things easier to lip-read, but it came out in certain words. “How was the day?”

You put down the sewing in a huff, pouting up at him. “I’m tired of this. I want to be useful.”

Concern seeped into his aging face, those two deep lines between his brows coming out to say hello. “What do you mean?” Joel came to sit on the couch with you, and you two turned to face each other.

“I mean, I’m useless, Joel. It’s frustrating! I used to be feared, did you know that? No Tony Soprano or anything, but my god people knew my name some places. I was taken seriously. And now?” You hold up what you were working on. “I’m fixing Eugene’s jeans. His You-jeans, if you will.”

Joel was clearly trying to stifle his smile at your joke, unsure of what tone you needed. “Baby,” He gets out through a laugh. “I promise, you’re valued here. Everyone has a role to play.”

“And mine is nothing better than a 50’s housewife. And I don’t even get to be high and balls on valium while I do it.”

Joel sighed, thinking. “If I could get you valium, I would.”

“I know.”

“Used to be able to. I ever tell you I ran drugs?”

Your ears perk up at that. “Before?”

His eyes go wide. “No, no not… not while I had Sarah. That was Tommy’s scene, if I’m being honest. I mean in Boston. I was a big tough guy, running underground trades. Anyone that crossed me got fucked up. People feared me too.”

It was hard to imagine your sweet old man a fear drug runner… but everyone had a second life before Jackson. “I didn’t know that.”

“Used to be a fist of fury. Now it’s just a hand.” he spread his fingers and grinned. Joel was happy in his new life, you understood. He liked this domesticity.

You give him a smile, but you don’t feel better. “It’s not the same, Joel. You get to use your skills. I’m not even that good at sewing!”

Something in Joel’s expression shifted, he could pick up that this was actually bothering you, not just a mild inconvenience.

You continued, softer. “I wouldn’t have an issue if all I was good for is sewing. I understand everyone has their place, everyone is important. But I feel like I’m not being used to my fullest. I’m not a child just because I’m disabled.”

He looked you, those two lines thick with thought before he sighed again. “When I… when I lost some of my hearing, it was confusing. I mean, it was a confusing time in general but navigating everything while dealing with the fact I was never going to hear the same wasn’t easy. I thought, how can I protect Tommy like this? Sarah was dead, all I had left was Tommy. I thought okay, you only have one fucking job left and it’s keeping him safe. It was like we were teenagers again.” That flicker of sadness across his face, the look of a man who was nearing 60 but still shivered at the thought of his father. He shakes the thoughts away. “I had to figure it out, but I would be damned if I let Tommy help me. I hated that shit; I still do.”

You nod a little. “I get that.”

“I know, and darl’n,” His eyes flittered away, and his lips didn’t move enough. “I feel protective of you-”

“What’s that? You’re mumbling.”

Joel snaps back to look at you, eyes apologetic. “Shit, Sorry,” He was clear now. “I just mean, i feel protective of you, but maybe instead of protecting, I should be advocating.”

Your heart clenches, feeling nothing but love for you sweet, still-fresh boyfriend. “I love that you like protecting me. I love when you got your arm wrapped around me when we talk in the tipsy bison… We met because you were protective, even of a complete stranger.” You give Joel a peck on the lips. “But could we talk to Maria about figuring something else out? I can work with my hands Joel, I can be productive for more than Sewing. AND I’LL SEW!” You raise your hands in defense, and Joel chuckles. “I’ll sew too, don’t get me wrong, just… please. I need more.”

He nods. “Yeah baby. I know we can figure something out.”

And you trusted him.

Later that day, you and Joel sat down with Tommy and Maria and explained how you felt. Maria emphasized safety, including yours. You knew she meant well, but I felt frustrated. Joel stepped in. 

It wasn’t long before you joined the construction crew. Not on the field, not climbing around where constant spatial awareness and knowing where everyone was was necessary, no. But a corner of the shop was set up just for you, a space people could only enter with express verbal permission from you, a space you could work with your hands and saw and cut and nail and wire. 

And yeah, sometimes you still sewed, but you don't mind it as much now. Not when you finally felt fulfilled.

Disability and employement.

For a long time, disabled people were often given menial labour jobs, like putting caps on pens, for pennies. Many people thought all disabled people could do was barely contribute to society. This seems to be RFK's thought process to.

LET ME BE CLEAR. You do not need to work to be valuable. Some poeple can't work, and they contribute in other ways. Some people simple cannot work. Everyones life is important and disabled people deserved dignity no matter what. You don't need to be paying taxes to be worth something. Human value is innate.

BUT, just because one is disabled does not mean they cannot work. Many, like myself, WANT to work, meaningful work we feel proud in. I'm lucky to have a job that works well with my disabilities. In this story, we briefly explore the reasonable accommodation. In the past, my emplyers have not had to give an accomidation but I've had costumers be extremely rude with my hearing loss.

Maria is not mean to be the bad guy here. She cares for reader, wants reader to be happy and safe and keep those around them safe, but she wasn't thinking outside the box. Joel gave reader the chance to speak, then helped advocate for them like a good partner.

I want to leave you with this fact I learned from my disability and employment project.

Did you know? Disabled people hired very rarely need much accomidation, and the accomidation is usually pretty cheap if anything. In return, disabled people have much lower turnover rates, which saves the company money. This is a purely capitalist arguement, but unfortunetly we live in a capitalist society. Next time someone wants to say something negative about the ADA or requiring accomidations at work, remember that disabled people are very valuable in a job.

Thanks guys!

@my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction @copperhalfcent @miraclesabound @quiet-night-sky-writers-blog @missdictatorme

ill get a proper tag list going i swear sorry if yall arent interested

[writeriguess]

I love your writing so much!!! Could I request Izuku x reader with a healing quirk (similar to the one you did with Katsuki which I LOVE)

author's note: If you're requesting a fic, I’d really appreciate it if you could include the full scenario instead of referencing a past one vaguely—for example, saying something like, “Can you write a fic where the reader has a healing quirk, like the one you did with Katsuki?” might not be enough. Healing quirks are a pretty common concept, and I might not remember exactly which fic you’re referring to, especially if some time has passed.

Even something like, “Can you write that same fic with Katsuki where they kiss after fighting, but with Hawks?” could be confusing if I’ve written multiple fics with a similar scene. To help me avoid mixing things up or pulling from the wrong one, please include the full details of the scenario you want. Thanks for understanding!

The Katsuki fic

"Can I request an established relationship with katsuki x reader where reader has a healing quirk, but whateber injury she heals, she feels a fraction of the pain and drains her own energy.

she had to heal a lot of civilians in the mission and katsuki finds her before she passes out"

Mend My Wounds, Mend My Heart

The first time you healed Izuku Midoriya, you thought he might never let you do it again.

He had been fresh out of a fight—battered, bruised, and bleeding—when you found him slumped against a crumbling wall in the middle of a mock battle during training. One arm hung limp at his side, twisted in a way that made your stomach churn. His lip was split, blood dripping onto his freckled skin, and his hero costume was in shreds.

“Izuku,” you breathed, kneeling beside him. Your hands hovered over his arm, eyes scanning his injuries. “That’s broken.”

Izuku let out a weak chuckle, shifting slightly and wincing. “Yeah. I, uh… I might’ve overdone it again.”

You sighed, placing a hand gently against his forearm. He tensed at your touch, his tired green eyes flickering up to meet yours. “I can fix this,” you assured him. “But you know how my quirk works, right?”

His brows knitted together in concern, and he nodded. “You… you take on some of the pain, right?” His voice was thick with exhaustion and guilt. “Y/N, I—”

“Don’t,” you interrupted, offering him a small smile. “You need this. Let me help you.”

Izuku’s lips parted like he wanted to protest, but he knew better than to argue when someone was offering help. With a slow nod, he relaxed against the wall. “Okay. Just… be careful.”

You inhaled deeply, closing your eyes as you activated your quirk. A soft, golden light emitted from your fingertips, sinking into Izuku’s broken arm like liquid warmth. As the bones knitted back together, a sharp pang shot through your own limb. It wasn’t as intense as what he had felt, but it was enough to make your breath hitch.

Izuku noticed immediately. His hand twitched as if he wanted to grab you, stop you, but he held back. “Y/N—”

“I’m fine,” you said through gritted teeth, continuing the process. The energy drained from your body little by little, exhaustion creeping into your limbs. “Almost done.”

The swelling faded, the bruises lightened, and finally, the damage was reversed. You pulled your hands away, the glow fading, but the aftermath hit you in a wave of dizziness.

Before you could sway too far, Izuku’s good arm shot out, steadying you. His fingers curled gently around your wrist, his grip warm and grounding. “You’re not fine,” he murmured, eyes scanning your face with barely concealed worry.

You forced a breathless laugh. “I’m a little tired, sure, but you’re all patched up now.”

Izuku frowned, clearly unconvinced. His grip tightened slightly, as if anchoring you. “You take too much on yourself.”

You smirked. “Funny. That’s what everyone says about you.”

He blinked, caught off guard, before a sheepish chuckle escaped him. “I guess we’re alike in that way, huh?”

You gave him a lopsided grin. “Guess so.”

From that day on, Izuku refused to let you heal him without checking on you afterward. Whenever you used your quirk on him, he made sure you ate, rested, and drank plenty of water. He even started carrying extra snacks in his bag just for you—“for emergencies,” he claimed.

But he still hated watching you use it.

The worst time was during a particularly brutal villain attack. You had found him collapsed against a crumbling wall—again—with one of his legs mangled and bloodied. He had fought hard, that much was clear, but he hadn’t been able to walk by the time the fight ended.

You had rushed to his side, ignoring your own minor scrapes and bruises. “Izuku! Stay with me.”

He groaned, his fingers twitching as he tried to push himself up. “Y/N… you’re okay?”

“I should be asking you that,” you scolded, pressing your hands against his leg. “This is bad, Izuku. I need to heal you now.”

His hand shot out, gripping your wrist weakly. “You’ll feel it,” he rasped, his voice laced with pain. “Don’t—don’t do too much. Please.”

Your heart clenched. Even now, when he was the one bleeding out, he was worried about you.

You swallowed hard, nodding. “I’ll be fine. Just hold on.”

The moment your quirk activated, the pain slammed into you like a hammer. You bit back a gasp, your breath hitching as your muscles tensed. It felt like hot knives were stabbing into your leg, the sensation so vivid it nearly took your breath away.

Izuku’s eyes widened as he saw your face twist in pain. “Y/N!”

You clenched your jaw. “I said—I’m fine.”

The healing took longer than usual, the extent of the damage forcing you to work slower. Every second felt like an eternity, your body growing weaker by the moment.

When it was finally over, you collapsed forward, barely catching yourself on Izuku’s chest. He immediately wrapped his arms around you, holding you close.

“Y/N, you—” His voice cracked with worry, his grip firm but gentle. “You pushed too hard.”

You let out a shaky breath, your forehead resting against his shoulder. “You needed it.”

His heart pounded against your ear, fast and frantic. “I—I hate seeing you like this,” he admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “You shouldn’t have to hurt for me.”

You smiled weakly, lifting your head to meet his gaze. His eyes were filled with so much emotion—gratitude, guilt, admiration, concern.

“It’s not just for you,” you murmured. “It’s for everyone. I want to help.”

Izuku’s expression softened, and for a moment, he just looked at you. Then, with a deep breath, he cupped your cheek gently. “Then let me help you too.”

You blinked. “Huh?”

“You always take care of me,” he said. “But I want to take care of you too.”

Your heart stuttered in your chest. His touch was warm, grounding.

“…Okay,” you whispered.

Izuku smiled—soft, relieved. He pulled you into a hug, holding you close like you were something precious. “Good,” he murmured. “Because I’m not letting you do this alone.”

And from that day on, he never did.

[d0rothydraws]

I need to read a fic where MC confronts zayne like a few months later bc she misses him and is mad that he made the choice about deciding to (redacted) without considering her feelings because it's her life too.

"I don't care that you (redacted). That's your choice to make. But it's not your choice alone to leave me me again. You don't get to leave again."

This might end up making me write someone other than Sylus for a change

[zorange13]

no bc you don’t understand how much seeing this (and YOUR WORDSSSS) mean(s) to me.

i always like to insert a part of myself into my own writing and i felt like i could relate to both riki and reader in many ways here. with wanting to give back, with feeling out of place, with being mildly angry and resentful of sociopolitical systems. and honestly, readers outfit means so much given that there doesn’t always need to be glamour in every outfit. bc there are ppl—like me and you—that wear a hoodie and flare jeans 😭. this fic was unrealistically realistic.

this riki is someone that i would fall in love with myself. there’s nothing more fun than to have a male lead be so openly in love with/simply want someone in earnest. forget the lust, forget the bullshit. he's genuinely so funny and i do truly love his character and i have no shame in saying that, again, i would fall in love with someone like him in 5.5 hours too 😭.

but truly, i write these for us and for girls and people that can relate to every aspect of life as a young adult. black women are constantly overlooked and there's nothing more important than seeing us placed in positive spaces. no need for struggle love, no need for the dramatics, definitely no need for anything too crazy. but even with that, those works are just as valid because that can really be someone else's life too, who knows? that's why we write about them!

i love you so much and i'm happy that i wrote someone's comfort fic. THAT'S SO WILDDD considering that there are so many other talented authors here that have done that for me. i love love love you and i hope that my other works might be up your alley soon? idk but i rly do hope! ❤️

— your name in wet paint, nishimura riki

vandal art student! nishimura riki x law student! black fem reader

synopsis: in the heart of new york city, you, a driven law student, run into Riki, a reckless street artist who gets you into a bit of tailspin. upon a one-off kiss, he swears there’s something more he has to offer than spray paint. he’s messy, impulsive, and everything that you didn't know you needed. and in just a few hours, your entire world changes.

cw. illegal activity, cursing, forced proximity/deception, emotional whiplash, mentions of hunger and food, eating, police chase, new yorker riki, new yorker reader, riki’s a little delusional but disgustingly charming, small age gap (riki 21, reader 19), pining, riki has slight manic pixie dream boy tendencies, socio-political commentary (gentrification, red-lining, etc.), meet-weird (???), citation/quoting The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock by T.S. Eliot, kissing, smut (fingering, p in v, etc. the whole thing), virginity loss,

minors dni.

wc. 18.7k

inspired by The Sun Is Also a Star and Before Sunrise.

—

— New York City, Lower Manhattan, Greenwich Village: circa 4:26 PM

You were just trying to get home before dinner.

You swear—you were just trying to make it home and out of Bleecker Street before the sun dipped too low. If God could just let you make it one borough up north, back home safely in Baychester, then that’s all you needed. You would never ask Him for another thing again. 

But as you start bustling your way through the gentrified streets of Lower Manhattan, you look to your left and are silently deliberating. 

Shortcuts at this time, or any time, in a city like this were in fact dangerous and a part of you debated taking the risk. Granted you had taken this way a few times but never a shortcut. Not at this hour. 

Still, you had things to do. Legal briefs to write, dinner to reheat—you were starving, shows to watch. Literally anything would be better than being outside right now. Never in life would you travel all of this way to study again—a “change of scenery” was no longer something you desired. Columbia University’s library and your bedroom was more than enough.

Nonetheless, you pondered and pondered. Then figured that the MTA wasn’t going to wait for you. So you veered left. 

It wasn’t dark out, no, you weren’t stupid. You wouldn’t have taken this way if you couldn’t see down the abyss that was this alley. But it was narrow, it stank. Smelt of cat pee, weed, and faintly of…cheddar cheese? 

But it shaved a solid five minutes off your walk, so putting a little pep in your step wasn’t an issue—nope, not at all, no problem. 

You removed your headphones quickly, you weren’t scared. Just alert. What you didn’t expect was a hiss. Stopping in your tracks, afraid it might’ve been a stray cat or human being. 

It’s New York, you really never know.

But this sound was ahead of you and curiosity did in fact, kill the cat but you tried not to let it kill you. Carefully stepping forward and looking down slightly to your right, you spotted a figure—someone. Someone crouched in front of the wall, seemingly a guy—hoodie half up and already partially covered in the vibrant colors that lay on his black clothes. A sharp spray of aerosol cut through the air as your eyes fell upon the wall to see what he was doing. 

A stupid dumpster was blocking your view, requiring you to take a step forward and accidentally, your foot kicked a stray, empty can. Making you freeze and put your hands up in defense. 

The guy turned to you sharply, equally as stunned as you are. “Oh my god, you scared the shit out of me.”

You blinked, “I scared you?” Your hands are still half-up like you’re getting arrested by a particularly dramatic mime. He’s still holding the spray can, finger mid-press, the paint hissing a little tail as it dies out.

Something about him feels familiar. Not in a ‘I’ve seen you around campus or in a dream’ kind of way. But in a weirdly boyish, pretentiously attractive guy you only see on social media kind of way. 

And attractive he was. Even though he was crouched, judging by the length of his legs he seemed tall. Sharp jaw, cat-like eyes, and equally as sharp, yet upturned nose. The skewed lighting in this alley complimented him in some weird, sick and twisted way. That somehow, in any situation he still looked akin to a supermodel. Someone that looked like that had no reason being holed up in a dirty, dingy alley. 

He was beautiful.

So as he stayed crouched, slightly turned to you in a half-zipped hoodie, revealing the white long sleeve he had on under it that peeked through the cuff. Hair a bright, dazzling silver—he looked at you with something unrecognizable. “I don’t know, thought you were a cop or something.” He shrugged. “You’re not a cop…are you?”

You deadpanned as you tightened the straps on your backpack. “Do I look like a cop?”

He gives you a once-over, suddenly making you super conscious of your appearance. Your tight, coily hair was out. Frizzing from the tad bit of humidity in the atmosphere. Old, faded flare jeans and some beat up sneakers you’ve had since middle school that you just never grew out of. As well as a thick zip-up your mom gave you for your birthday last year. You didn’t look a mess, you just looked like a normal person going about their day. 

He shook his head, grunting as he stood up. “No,” he dusted his gloves off as he stepped back to admire his work. “You caught me just as I was finishing though.” Mystery boy smiled, “What do you think? Isn’t it gorgeous?”

Your eyes darted everywhere but the wall. Surprised that he would even want a stranger’s opinion. Partly because you were still sizing him up—trying to clock if this was some kind of setup—but mostly because the last thing you expected was him wanting your opinion. “Um…”

You looked past him to the wall, finally taking in the spray-painted chaos in front of him. It was abstract—vivid and strange—but somehow…weirdly moving. It was the kind of thing you wouldn’t understand in a museum, but might stare at anyway. 

“It’s okay, I can take criticism.” 

“You know you just graffitied a private building. That’s a crime.” You muttered quietly. “But besides that…it’s beautiful.” You played awkwardly with your sleeve, biting your lip.

He let out a breathy laugh as he tidied up, taking his gloves off and tossing them into a small duffel bag. “Thank you, but…there’s no harm in a little public beautification, right?” 

You smiled despite yourself as you bent down to pick up the can that ignited this exchange. “I guess not.” You toyed with the empty can as your eyes found his bag. “Do you always do this?”

“I think you really are a cop.” He turned to you with a smile before zipping up his bag. 

“Close,” you nodded, “law student.” You pointed to yourself with a glint in your eyes.

His smile faltered for half a second—just a flicker—but it was enough to clock. “Oh,” he said, like he wasn’t sure if he should keep talking to you or start running.

You raised an eyebrow. “Relax. I’m not gonna chase you down and recite Miranda rights.”

“Thank you,” he said, tossing the duffel over his shoulder. “But I do this enough. Enough to know where the security cameras are and aren’t.”

That wasn’t an answer. But it also was.

You eyed him for a second. He was still watching you, like he hadn’t quite figured you out either. Like maybe he was waiting for you to say something cop-adjacent again so he could bolt—or maybe he just liked the way you were looking at him.

“What’s your name?” You said as you mindlessly sprayed the ground, though there was no give. The aerosol only emits air and lightly sputters out the remnants of some bright blue paint. 

He smirked, “You first, you’re the one trying to build a profile on me as we speak.”

You tilted your head, deadpanning, “I said I’m a law student, not a snitch.”

“Those lines get blurry,” he waved his hands cavalierly, “But I’m Riki.” 

You nodded slowly, giving him your name, but as you prepared to respond you heard a pointed voice from down the alley. “Hey! You two!” And that’s when you both heard it: the faint static crackle of a walkie-talkie and the distinct sound of boots against concrete. Hurried and heavy.

You looked at him with wide eyes, “Wh—” But he didn’t have time for words, he grabbed your hand and looked at you firmly. “Run.”

Without another word, he took off with your hand in his at rapid speed down the alley. The can in your hands dropping and his duffel abandoned. He’ll come back for it later. But for now, he was forcing your legs to move faster than you thought were physically possible. Huffing and puffing down the way. 

As you two reached the end, you stopped and looked both ways, seeing that there was nowhere to go. You had already passed the part that you were meant to leave out of to go to the train. But Riki was quicker. His hand, still held tightly on yours, guided you to a fire escape. “Go, c’mon.” 

“This is crazy,” you whisper-yelled as you climbed up the fire escape with awkward finesse and him following closely behind, right on your heels.

As you scrambled up and he hoisted himself behind you, the metal creaked beneath your weight. Your hands slipped once on the rusted railing, but Riki was there—one hand steadying your back before urging you upward again.

“You’re doing great,” he muttered, and somehow you hated how calming his voice was. Like this wasn’t a literal felony footrace.

You reached the top, chest heaving, heart trying to break dance out of your ribcage. He hopped up beside you, barely out of breath, and looked around quickly—eyes sharp and scanning the skyline like he’d done this before.

“You do this often?” you panted, half-joking, half-wheezing.

“Only on days ending in Y.” He gave you that stupid cocky grin and took off again, toward the roof but quickly stopped when he saw you weren’t behind him. “What are you doing?”

As you peered down at the far and wide gap between you and the ground, sweat started forming on your brow. Stomach twisting and lurching. You shook your head frantically, “I can’t do that.”

Riki’s eyes widened as he frowned, looking back at the fire escape as he heard the same groaning that the metal gave them you two when you were on it. Signaling that the cop wasn’t too far behind. “Come on, please? It’s not even that far.”

“Riki, no.”

“Please, just trust me. You really gotta trust me.” He quickly walked backwards toward the middle of the roof. His hand hasn’t let yours go this entire time. “Just don’t look down.”

Seeing the cop make his way to the rooftop with you two lit a fire under both of your asses. 

“Shit.” You cursed under your breath, eyes flicking from the cop to the rooftop ledge, to Riki—whose fingers tightened just enough to say we are so screwed unless you jump, right now.

He gave you one last pleading look, that infuriatingly cinematic silver hair catching the wind like this was some kind of indie action movie. “I got you. I swear.”

“I hate you,” you muttered, heart pounding as your legs twitched with hesitation.

“Yeah, but you’re gonna miss me if we get caught,” he grinned—and then he ran, tugging you right along with him.

Your feet slapped against the concrete, wind rushing past your ears as the ledge came closer, faster, too fast, and your brain screamed STOP but your body didn’t listen because—

You jumped.

And for one horrifying second, you were airborne. No ground. No roof. Just air, your hand in his, your scream trapped in your throat—

And then impact.

You hit the other side hard, tumbling into Riki, who had twisted just enough to break your fall—with your backpack that had been performing extremely well—and immediately groaned, “Ow. Okay. Maybe that was a little far.”

You whined at the pain shooting through your back, most likely the stainless steel water bottle having been the thing to jut out and poke you. “Fuck you,”

He let out a pained laugh, “Damn, at least buy me dinner first.” He stood and rubbed his elbow before he reached down to help you up. 

You could feel the onset of bruises forming on you, but none of that mattered. “You said it wasn’t even far, that you would—I almost died!” You pushed his shoulder with your not-aching hand. 

“But you’re very alive!” He gestured to you as he took the excuse to scan your body. “I’d rather a bruise than a casket.” Smiling as he unzipped his hoodie, taking it off and wrapping it around his hips. 

The sound of the rooftop door slamming open across the gap cut off the sarcasm instantly. You both whipped your heads toward it—flashlight beams sweeping the rooftop you’d just left, voices yelling over each other, and then…one of them looked directly at you. He must’ve called for backup.

“There!” someone shouted. 

Any and all angry responses you had were all out of the window. You both darted to the far edge of the roof, this one not having a door to follow through. But fortunately, a fire escape to drop down on. Like last time, he let you go down first. And as you both made your way down, he accidentally sandwiched your hand between a rung and his foot. “Ow! Bitch!” You hit his leg as you kept moving down the ladder. 

He gasped softly, “Sorry!” He whisper-yelled, sounding more amused than concerned. 

You both hopped down onto a stack of milk crates with a loud clatter. You winced. “Subtle,” you muttered.

The momentary silence was broken when there were frantic steps toward your way. Paranoid that it might be the same cop, you both scrambled behind a nearby dumpster. Squatting behind it in close quarters. “Wh—is that—” You sputter out but are shushed by Riki. “Aht!” He holds his finger to his lips as he looks at you. 

The world seemed to go silent as you both pressed yourself against the wall. The dumpster reeked of sour milk and corn chips as the sun had baked it, only intensifying the stench. But despite that, amidst the silence, crunching of gravel beneath boots was enough to send your senses aflame. 

Your eyes widen, mouthing “What the fuck.” To which Riki shook his head with firmness, not even trying to look your way—but focusing on where the cop was coming from. 

As the officer encroached, your stomach twisted and hands started shaking. Panting and trying to mellow out your frantic breathing, you grab the collar of your sweater and cover your mouth with it. 

You know for a fact that if he saw you two, you’d be arrested and charged with trespassing, vandalism, fleeing law enforcement, and reckless endangerment. There was such despicable irony in this being a possibility yet you worked your entire life up to this point to resist exactly this. You, of all people—Miss GPA, Law School, Future of the Fucking Judicial System—were now crouched behind a dumpster, next to a guy who thought “Don’t look down” counted as a real strategy.

And still. Still. 

You didn’t move.

Because despite everything—sweat clinging to your back, the stench clogging your throat, the very real chance of handcuffs—his hand brushed yours. Barely. Not even gripping this time. Just…there. A silent “I got you.”

Your heart, already trying to launch itself through your ribcage, gave one loud, traitorous thump. And as the cop was approaching and inspecting every nook and cranny you had to do everything in your power to ensure you did not go to jail.

So you grabbed Riki, no build up, no foreplay, no teasing. You crashed your lips against his without a thought. It was hilarious actually, you could taste the shock on his lips but none of that mattered. He complied and wrapped his arms around your shoulders to pull you closer as you both leaned into the lie. 

Or, at least—that’s what you told yourself it was. A distraction. A decoy. A get-out-of-jail-free kiss. Right?

Except his fingers curled into the fabric of your sweater. 

Except his mouth moved like he meant it. 

Except you weren’t looking forward to pulling away either.

Your brain was screaming ‘girl, what are you doing’  but your body? Your body was a traitor. A criminal. An accomplice.

The cop’s boots paused. Peeking over the dumpster and onto you two, but you didn’t stop. It didn’t matter who was watching, no one else mattered. Nothing mattered. 

But with finality, the officer smacked his teeth and sighed. “Damn kids,” turning back, retreating to wherever he belonged: giving up.

Riki didn’t let go.

Not immediately as least, his hands found your hair as he mindlessly massaged your soft coils. But his lips lingered, slow now. Like if you gave him another second, he’d kiss you with more than he meant right now. 

You finally pulled back—breath catching. “Is he gone?”

His hands left you and he nodded without a word, slightly dazed. 

You stand up, surveying the area—scanning for any sign of law enforcement. A person, anything. But no, not a soul. And you didn’t even realize that it was already dark out.

Riki stands up, eyes never having left you as he walks toward you. Still wordless. Heart also clenched but nowhere near from fear.

Your adrenaline was starting to simmer, hands starting to clench but your stomach wasn’t fueled with fear anymore. Now it was solely anger. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you?!” You turned around and shoved Riki, hands practically making marks in his firm chest. 

“Ow!” He yelped as he held his chest. “Nothing,” he whined. “What was that for?”

Your brows furrowed, chest heaving and vein in your forehead pulsing as you feel yourself start to see red. “You! You almost got me arrested and made me run from the fucking police!”

Riki blinked, caught off guard by your rage. “Us. I almost got us arrested,” he corrected, hands raised in surrender. “Teamwork makes the felony, babe.”

Wrong answer.

You shoved him again.

“Are you joking right now?!” you snapped, voice sharp enough to cut through the night. “You think this is funny? I’ve spent my entire life trying to avoid shit like this, and you dragged me into it like it was a fucking side quest!”

He stumbled back a step but didn’t stop grinning, which only made your blood boil harder. “Okay, okay! Chill! I didn’t drag you—”

“You literally did and said trust you!”

“I meant it!” he protested. “And hey, we’re not in jail, are we? You kissed me, we got away, that’s a win.”

You stared at him like you were trying to set him on fire with your eyes alone.

“Oh my god, I should’ve let them arrest you,” you hissed, turning away to pace, hands flying to your head. “I should’ve said, ‘Yup, officer, that’s the guy, right there! Trespassing, being annoying, fuckass attitude!’”

“Guilty on all counts,” he said with a dramatic bow, still following your every move.

You stopped pacing. Your chest rose and fell in furious silence. “You think everything’s a joke. Like none of this matters.”

His smirk faltered for the first time.

“People die over shit like this—over shit way less than this—and you think this is fucking funny?”

Riki blinked. The playful spark that had lit his eyes the whole evening dimmed like someone had finally flipped the switch.

“I didn’t think it’d go that far,” he said, voice low and defensive.

You let out a dry laugh. “Wow. Not even an apology. That’s crazy.”

“You’re fine, aren’t you?” he shot back, arms lifting in some half-shrug, half-shield. “You made the jump. We’re not in cuffs. I figured you could handle it.”

“Oh, you figured.” You stepped forward, jabbing a finger at his chest. “I don’t know you. You dragged me up there like we were in a fucking movie, and I followed because—for some goddamn reason—I thought you knew what you were doing.”

Riki looked you up and down—less like he was checking you out now, and more like he was trying to piece you together. “So what, you kissed me and screamed at me in the same five minutes? You might be worse than me.”

You bristled. “Yeah? Well next time, maybe don’t nearly get a complete stranger arrested for thrills. You’re not charming. You’re a walking liability.”

And with that, you turned around and stormed off.

And he—stupidly, predictably—followed.

You stormed off, heels of your shoes hitting pavement like war drums—but apparently not loud enough to discourage the cockroach with good hair tailing behind you.

“Okay,” he called out casually, like you weren’t mid-rage, “but real quick—was the kiss, like, fake-fake? Or fake with feelings?”

You stopped. Turned. “Are you serious right now?”

He grinned, slowing to a walk beside you like this was just a post-date stroll and not a felony-adjacent escape. “Because I felt something. Like…chemistry. Heart palpitations. Internal fireworks. You know.”

“You’re about to feel a restraining order.”

“And yet you haven’t run again.” He gave a mock-swoon. “God, you’re into me.”

You groaned. Loudly. “What is wrong with you?”

“Only child. Coddled. Maybe a head injury or two.”

“I don’t even know your last name!”

“Nishimura.” He said it proudly. “And you’re gonna remember it, it might be yours soon. Who knows?”

You turned again to walk away. He followed.

“For real though,” he said, easily catching up. “What if we just…went out sometime? No cops, lore, full names exchanged and everything. I’ll even tell you my shoe size if you want.”

You didn’t even dignify it with an answer.

“Okay, okay, how about I make it up to you with coffee?” he added. “Or tea. Or a smoothie. Or a long heartfelt apology in the form of interpretive dance and slam poetry. I’m flexible.”

“You’re insane.”

“I’m persistent,” he corrected. “There’s a difference.”

You sped up, “Where is this even coming from?”

His voice hasn’t wavered, “Three minutes ago when you kissed me.” He matched your pace, “I can cook, by the way. I clean. I’m like, decently smart.”

You groaned, “If you were smart, you would leave me alone. Wait—how old are you?”

“Twenty one,” He said like he hit the jackpot, voicing it immediately and swiftly. 

You blinked, “Ew. Nope. Too old.”

He furrowed his brows in worry, “How old are you?”

“Nineteen.”

Riki raised an eyebrow, looking at you like you’d just dropped a bomb on him. “Nineteen?!” He almost shouted, his arms flailing dramatically as if he’d just discovered you were a time traveler or something. “That’s barely even a gap! C’mon, you’re acting like I’m forty.”

You rolled your eyes so hard you almost gave yourself a headache. “Yeah, well, twenty-one feels ancient when I’m still figuring out how to survive college, Riki,” you shot back, not breaking your stride.

“Okay but, besides…what just happened I have a really good future ahead of me. I promise I’m not just some ruffian that likes to vandalize corporate buildings.” He strides widely, ensuring he’s beside you. “I go to Columbia, I major in Design and—”

You stopped, “Wait—where?”

He looked at you with furrowed brows, confusion residing heavily in his expression. He slowly spoke to you like you were five years old. “I said I go to Columbia University…” 

That irritated you but you didn’t even care to acknowledge it. “No you don’t…” You said in disbelief. Heart beating rapidly as that weird shaking in your hands reignited.

“How are you gonna tell me—” He smacked his teeth as he reached into his pocket, showcasing a sleek black wallet. Then immediately handed you his student ID. 

It was a picture of him, straight faced, again reminiscent of a model. His name and graduating year. Undeniably real. This sent you into a whirlwind. “What the fuck.”

“Do you think I’m not smart enough to be there or something? Because I know you—” You cut him off, putting your hand up as you looked at him. “I go to Columbia too.”

Riki blinked at you, his expression a mix of amusement and disbelief. “No way,” he laughed, laughing as if you were Kevin Hart or Dave Chappelle and you just said the funniest thing in the entire world. “Columbia Law?”

You nodded, closing your eyes to mediate the aggravation and pure coincidence. “Yes,”

But he just slowly stopped laughing, a bright grin following immediately after. “I mean…this has to be fate, right? Some otherworldly, cosmic sign that we just have to know each other right?”

“Yeah, you lost me.” You brushed past him as you kept walking hurriedly to which he quickly followed right behind you.

“So I had you?”

“Never,” you shook your head and toyed with the straps on your backpack like you always did under pressure.

He jogged up to match your pace. “I mean, think about it. All the schools you could’ve picked. FIT, Parsons, NYU, Fordham, any of them.” He brushed his hair out of his face. “But somehow, someway, you bump into me in a random alley and we just so happen to be in a closer proximity than we thought. That means something, right?”

“Then how come I’ve never seen you around?” Which makes sense, people like him stand out more than anything. Tall, handsome, fit, the school wasn’t that big. I’m sure someone would’ve acknowledged the hot, art major somewhere and put him on Fizz. 

He shrugged, “I come and go as I please,”

You scoffed, what a privileged asshole. “Okay…whatever that means.”

“But now I have a reason to go,”

You shot him a look. “Don’t make it weird.”

He grinned, unbothered. “Too late.”

You groaned, speeding up like walking faster could shake him off. But to no avail. “You’re literally insane.”

“I’ve been called worse.”

“I believe that. Like seriously,”

He tilted his head, smirking. “So what you’re saying is...you’ve been thinking about me?”

You let out a bitter laugh. “I’m still thinking about that restraining order.”

“That’s still thinking about me.”

You stopped walking so fast, your brain buffering. “You’re not serious.”

He shrugged again. “Only about the things that matter.”

You looked up at him, squinting like he was an overexposed camera flash. “And you think I matter?”

He didn’t answer right away. And you hated that. Hated the way his smile fell just slightly—like he was thinking. Actually thinking.

Then, way too softly for your comfort, he said, “I think you could.”

Your stomach did a weird thing. Like it tried to throw hands with your logic and then tapped out halfway through.

So you did what you do best—deflect. “Well, I think you’re lost.”

And just like that, his grin snapped back into place like muscle memory. “Nah. Found exactly what I was looking for.”

You sighed, “Okay,” you rub your forehead as if you could soothe your headache from the outside. “What do you want? Truly.”

His smile faltered a little, simmering into some sort of seriousness. “You.” He edged closer to you, looking at you with gentle eyes. 

A part of you wanted to step back, to reject him further. But you couldn’t deny the feelings and attraction brewing between the two of you. So you didn’t step back, because you didn’t want the indirect mention of fate that Riki mentioned to be real. “I don’t know you.” You muttered with little confidence.

He smiled again, letting out a breathy laugh, shaking his head at your stubbornness. “You can get to know me. I promise, I’m not that bad.”

You shook your head, “Then what? What’s your big plan?” Shrugging at his flippant attitude.

He tilted his head like he was genuinely considering it, like this was a business pitch and not some unorthodox meet-cute. “I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe we talk. Maybe we get dinner. Maybe you don’t call the cops on me—crazy idea, I know.”

You rolled your eyes so hard you saw your ancestors. “You’re not even trying to be normal about this.”

“What is normal? It’s a social construct,” he countered, hands waving around like what you said was nonsense. “Girl meets boy. Boy tries not to screw it up in under five minutes. I’m doing my best here.”

You let out a snort you tried (and failed) to muffle. “Your best involves mildly harassing me and romanticizing a chance encounter where you were literally spray painting a wall.”

“Technically,” he held up a finger, “you walked into my crime scene. I was minding my criminal business.”

You blinked at him. “Did you just say ‘my criminal business’?” 

He nodded, “I did.” But he held his hands up, “But just give me a chance, please.” He looked around to assess where you two stood. It was already dark out as established, but there were still many people lingering in the streets. The cool weather breezing through your hair as if this were some postmodern, A24 film. The neon signs from the stores meddling about and casting a sensual glow on both of you, melting and simmering into your skin. “What time is it?”

Furrowing your brows, you tap around your jean pockets for your phone. Finally landing on it, you pull it out and read, “6:19 PM.”

He nodded firmly, getting straight to the point. “Give me until midnight.” His eyes looked into yours, a mix of desperation and anticipation. “Midnight, to show you that this wasn’t just some fluke.”

You stared at him, squinting like he’d just challenged you to a duel instead of whatever this was supposed to be. “Midnight?”

“Midnight,” he confirmed.

You blinked slowly. “Is this Cinderella? I’m so confused.”

“If you want it to be then, yes. It can be whatever you want. I can be whatever you want, just please. Give me the five and a half hours.” He nodded as stepped aside, pulling you out of the way of passersby and slightly bent down to plead.

“Oh my god.” You opened your mouth. Closed it. Rubbed your forehead again. This man was going to give you wrinkles. “And what exactly happens at midnight? The spell breaks? Do we forget this ever happened?”

He nodded, “We can. But if you don’t like me after then I will leave you alone. Even if I see you around campus I will walk past you like I never knew you if that’s what you wanted.” 

You stared at him, trying to evaluate his expression and you didn’t track that smugness, that cocky smile that has been half of what you’ve been seeing for the last two hours. Just him, crouching down to meet your height in the middle of the sidewalk. “You’re so dramatic,” You shook your head with a small smile. 

His ears perked up at the fact that he got you to smile. But he didn’t want to get overzealous. “I’m an artist,” he smiled. “Just don’t think too much into it.” He tilted his head, peering at you with gentle eyes. “Take the chance…five hours of your time.” 

You stared at him for a beat too long, and maybe it was the mix of city noise and his hopeful expression—or the fact that he looked at you like the universe personally dropped you in front of him—but you felt your resolve falter.

“…Fine,” you muttered.

His face lit up. “Yes?”

You sighed with a nod, “Okay,” pointing at him firmly, “But don’t ask me to do anything.”

He put his hands up in defense, “Swear on everything I love, you won’t. All I’m asking you to do is be pretty.” He smiled, “But what do you wanna do?”

You waved your finger with a smile, “No, no, no. My job is to be pretty, not think. You’ve been hounding me for the last hour, buddy. My only request is nothing illegal.”

He clutched his chest like you’d just professed undying love. “You being pretty and funny? You’re trying to kill me.”

You gave him a look that was this close to amused. “Don’t push it.”

“Right, right,” he nodded solemnly, already walking backward like a man on a mission. “Nothing illegal. Got it. Which really narrows down, like, seventy percent of my plans.”

“You’re not helping your case,” you called after him.

He spun, walking forward now, ensuring you weren’t too far behind. Gratefully, you were now walking side by side. “Are you hungry?” He looked down at you, waiting for your answer.

Amazingly enough, your hunger was one of the contributing factors as to how you even ended up in the situation in the first place. The sudden need for a shortcut being how you ended up walking side-by-side the human form of mono. Easy to get apparently, but hard to get rid of.

But the adrenaline you were running off of had seemed to die down. And now that your body was exiting that fight or flight, it was like a trigger—his words. That you didn’t even remember being hungry until he asked. So as your stomach growled obnoxiously, probably being the loudest thing on the street—even above the cars. Without any thought you wrapped your arms around you, not even wanting to look him in the eye. 

Riki smiled endearingly, “I’ll take that as a yes, then.” He looked at you, gently asking. “Do you eat meat?”

You nodded, keeping your eyes trained on the sidewalk like maybe if you stared hard enough, it’d open up and swallow you whole. “Yeah,” you muttered, voice small.

“Cool,” he said, like you hadn’t just had your internal organs announce themselves to the world. “I know a spot.”

“Of course you do,” you mumbled, shooting him a side-eye.

He grinned, unbothered. “It’s not even sketchy this time, I swear.”

“‘This time,’” you mimic his words with a smile.

“I said what I said.”

You couldn’t help the huff of a laugh that escaped your nose. He caught that too, of course, but didn’t say anything. Just walked beside you with that infuriating little bounce in his step like he was winning some imaginary game you never agreed to play.

After a block or two, you turned a corner and the world cracked open with the smell of grilled meat, sweet and savory spices, and the unmistakable comfort of street food glory.

“Ta-da,” Riki said, gesturing grandly to a tiny halal cart lit by the glow of string lights and years of character. “Best lamb over rice in the city. You can fight me on that.”

“I’d rather fight you, just cause.” But as you scaled the cart, you noted the rust that crept onto metal signs and the near decrepit wheels and half-faded photos of food that were tacked to the vehicle. This cart was one more bowl away from breaking down and coming apart. 

That’s how you knew this food was about to be the best you’ve ever tasted.

You gave him a blank look. “You really like the sound of your own voice, huh?”

“Almost as much as I like the sound of yours,” he shot back with a wink.

You looked away before he could catch the corners of your lips twitching upward again. 

—

You walked beside him as he held the plastic bag with both of your guys’ food inside. Simply following his lead, “Do you wanna go on a picnic?”

Your brows furrowed at the request, “A picnic?”

Riki nods with a smile, “Yeah, I think I know just the place. Only mild trespassing, it’s abandoned. So does that count, Ms. Law Student?”

You deadpanned. “It absolutely still counts.”

“Legally?”

You snorted, “Legally. Morally. Every -ly you can think of.”

“Okay, okay.” He held his hands up again, that now-familiar ‘I’m charming please don’t arrest me’ gesture. “But if I told you it had one of the best skyline views in Manhattan and nobody around to ruin it—just you, me, and lamb over rice—would you consider turning a blind eye to justice?”

You squinted at him. “I’m tired of you and your felonies.”

“Technically it’s a misdemeanor.”

You blinked.

He grinned wider. “I looked it up. Once. While hiding.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Then gave a long sigh that tasted a little too much like amusement. “Lead the way, Picasso.”

— New York City, West Village: circa 7:04 PM

The rest of the walk was quiet in the way only New York could be—horns in the distance, muffled chatter spilling from windows, and your footsteps synchronized like some kind of reluctant duet. When he led you around the back of an old building, pulling open a rusted side gate with the grace of someone who’s done this many times, you just sighed again and followed.

And as the two of you started the climb—graffiti-tagged stairs, occasional creaks and all—you realized you weren’t even thinking about the risk anymore.

Just the view at the top.

The rooftop door groaned open like it hadn’t been touched in years, and Riki held it for you like a gentleman and a menace all at once. The second you stepped out, the city greeted you—wind tugging at your hair, the buildings glowing like embers in a dying fire. The skyline stretched across the horizon like a living painting. A couple pigeons took off at your arrival like even they knew they weren’t cool enough to be here.

You took a slow breath. “Okay…wow.”

Riki didn’t say anything at first. Just smiled, letting the moment do the heavy lifting. Then he set down the bag of food, spreading out two of those obnoxious plastic bags like a makeshift blanket. “Your table, m’lady.”

You sat in butterfly position, trying to play it cool while your knees absolutely did not cooperate. As you took off your backpack, he handed you a container and a plastic fork, and the second you cracked the lid, the steam hit you in the face like a warm hug and a slap all at once.

“You’re gonna owe me when this changes your life,” he said between bites of his own plate.

“You’re real confident for someone who literally just admitted to mild trespassing.”

He grinned mid-chew. “Confidence is all I’ve got.”

You rolled your eyes, but you didn’t argue.

After a few minutes of nothing but chewing and the sound of distant city life echoing up the building sides, Riki wiped his mouth with a napkin and tilted his head at you like he was switching gears. “So. Bronx girl, huh?”

You raised a brow. “How’d you know?”

“Your accent.” He pointed his fork at you. To which you drew back, “I don’t have an accent, you just hear funny.”

He shook his head with a smile, “No, you do. You say ‘lost’ like ‘law-st.’” He laughs, his mouth partially full as he covers it with his hand. 

You threw a crumpled up napkin at him, “I do not! You loser.” Matching his laughter despite yourself. “I think I sound just like every other New Yorker if anything.”

“It’s cute,” He smiles as he takes a sip of his water bottle and lets the charged silence stew between you too. “So, which part?”

“Baychester,” you answered. “You?”

“Queens. Forest Hills.” He smiled. “But I went to high school in the Bronx for like, five minutes.”

You drew back but didn’t want to throw him off. Forest Hills is one of the wealthiest areas in Queens—probably New York in general. Knowing that there was a Whole Foods on almost every corner moves you, making you feel like you and him shouldn’t even be having this conversation. But if you’ve learned anything today, it’s that you never really know anyone. So you let it go, kept it in the back of your mind.

But you nodded slowly, chewing. “Explains a lot actually, which school?”

“Taft.”

“Oh God,” you laughed as you also covered your mouth. “I’m so sorry,”

William H. Taft High School wasn’t exactly terrible. But if there was chaos and extremely mild anarchy in a school it would be this one. Which—hindsight 20/20—makes a lot of sense for someone like Riki.

“Yeah, yeah,” Riki waved you off, dramatically wounded. “Laugh it up. I lasted, like, three fights and a lockdown before my mom yanked me out.”

“You fought?” you blinked, already knowing the answer.

He shrugged like it was Tuesday. “To be fair, only one was my fault. The second one was self-defense. The third was...well. Mysterious circumstances. That was early freshman year though, so it didn’t go on my record.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You’re the mysterious circumstances, aren’t you?”

“Guilty.” He grinned.

You shook your head, still smiling despite every part of you that knew better. There was something infuriatingly magnetic about him—like if hooliganism had a pretty face and nice hands.

“So, what about you?” he asked, voice quieter now. “Why law school? You trying to save the world or something?”

You poked at your food again. “Not the world. Just…my block.”

He laughed, “Okay, J-Lo.”

You reciprocated the laugh, lightly shoving his shoulder. “Shut the fuck up,” Leaning back to where you sat, crossing your legs in butterfly position as you stifled a laugh. “That’s not funny.” 

Riki nodded, laughter diffusing. “It was funny,” but his eyes softened as he looked at you. “But why? Seriously.” He let his words hang warmly in the air, like this was the first real thing he’s gotten or even felt all night.

Your own laughter died down, finally leaning toward introspection. “Well…” you sighed, looking up in thought. “Seeing neighborhoods like these in Manhattan compared to the ones near me… The ones that generations of families grew up in, seeing how they slowly start to not become theirs anymore…infuriates me.” 

Riki didn’t say anything, just let you speak as he digested your words. Nodding in understanding as he knew exactly the things you were speaking of. 

“The Bronx is the only borough that has slowly resisted gentrification and walking through places like Greenwich Village and the Upper East Side upset me because…you see these gorgeous brownstones and high rise buildings. Then you turn the corner and there’s poverty, uncleanliness, liquor stores, weed dispensaries where they don’t need to be.” You went on, “The people that look like me are basically set up to be trapped in these hubs and red-lined areas so we can’t further our lives and only…prove them right.”

As Riki listened to you with intention, eyes never leaving you—his heart softened at the passion behind your eyes. The way you spoke so firmly—yet with care, about the world you lived in. But even as he listened he couldn’t help but develop more respect with each passing word. “And you don’t wanna prove them right…” He said softly.

You nodded, slowly. “Exactly. I want to make it out without selling out. I want to help people stay in the places that made them who they are. That raised them. That’s if they want to. But they shouldn’t be pushed out so…” You sighed, “housing law it is.”

Riki’s lips parted slightly, like he wanted to say something but couldn’t quite find the words yet. Instead, he just gave a small smile—gentler than any expression you’d seen on him all night. “That’s very admirable and I know I really don’t know you yet but…I’m proud of you.”

You glanced over at him, surprised by his sincerity. Face warming up as you looked down, avoiding eye contact. “Thanks…you?”

He huffed a laugh through his nose, tipping his head back for a second like he needed to stall. “Damn, I was seriously hoping you would make this all about you.”

You shook your head, “Don’t deflect, why do you do what you do?” You smiled, “And don’t say ‘because it’s fun’ or I’m kicking your ass off this roof.”

He looked at you sideways, considering, before shrugging slowly. “I just wanna create something that outlasts me.” He went into the bag to grab a huge, saran wrapped, chocolate chip cookie before he broke it in half and gave the rest to you. “I feel like…art has always been an escape for me. My parents have always instilled creativity into me and…there’s nothing more addictive than forcing people to see me.” 

You got to understand him in a way. The way he looked at you with such gentleness and a smidge of desire. But it wasn’t demeaning, like he looked at you like you were something to be conquered. Rather something to explore out of curiosity, like not being told to touch that big red button in action movies. 

“I firmly believe that if no one wants to hear you, make them listen. Whether it’s in a judicial chair, art on a wall, words on a page, screaming through your window, music, anything.” He says firmly, “I don’t like being silenced.” 

You smiled, shoulders relaxing as you felt yourself become a little more comfortable in his presence. Which is something you’d never thought you might feel. “You sound like an anarchist.” She broke a piece of the gooey cookie and popped it in her mouth.

“I’ve had a couple ideas.” He nodded with a quirk of his brow. But something he said before had piqued your interest. 

“Wait,” you tapped your knee with your fingers, trying to stir up a proper way to word this. “You said you got into a few fights in high school, right? Your freshman year?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he confirmed with a bitter smile. Remembering those days where his mom had to pick him up from school. Forcing him to hear lectures about how she didn’t come to the States for him to act like a dummy and blah blah, immigrant parent lectures, blah blah. 

And you hated the stirring in the bottom of your stomach at hearing him call you ma’am but that’s not here nor there. “How did that not get on your record? I mean, Columbia’s pretty strict about shit like that.”

He adjusted himself as he pondered your question, taking his zip-up that was once tied around his hips to ball it up as a makeshift pillow. Groaning as he slowly reclined his body against the cold, empty stone of the rooftop. He shifted, getting comfortable and looking up at the star-polluted sky. “In case you can’t tell,” Riki looked over at you with that same cocky grin. “I can be very convincing.” He rested his hands on his stomach as he folded the cuffs of his sleeves over his large hands a little.

“And a little bit of a liar but this isn’t about me right now.” He waved off, “but I just really pleaded with them to expunge it. I was young, fourteen years old, bright future, blasè blah. That most of the fights were out of character and that I was having a hard time at home. Anything that was going to keep my very Japanese mother from killing me.”

You tilted your head in interest. “Were you?”

“What?”

You clarified, “Having a hard time at home?”

His grin faltered, not completely disappearing but definitely softening—melting into something smaller, something quieter.

He inhaled through his nose, exhaled slowly. “Yeah,” he said, voice lower now. “But not in the way they thought.”

You didn’t press him, just let the silence stretch as he looked back up at the sky like it might help him piece the words together.

“My parents...they love me. A lot. But they love me in that ‘you will succeed or else’ kinda way.” He gave a humorless chuckle. “I was dancing since I could walk, painting since I could hold a brush, and speaking three languages before middle school. And none of that ever felt like enough.”

Your brows furrowed, gaze softening. “That’s a lot.”

He nodded. “Yeah. And I didn’t even mind it, not at first. I liked being good at things. But somewhere along the way, I realized I didn’t know who I was when I wasn’t performing. Like if I wasn’t impressive, I didn’t matter.”

You sat up a little straighter, the cookie in your hand forgotten. He wasn’t just opening up—he was unfolding.

“So when I started acting out, it wasn’t ‘cause I was angry or whatever. I just wanted to know what would happen if I wasn’t perfect for once.”

You smiled gently, “It wasn’t like you did too poorly. You’re attending one of the most respected and prestigious universities in the country.” You adjusted your legs as they started to tingle, signaling they were falling asleep. “That has to count for something.”

“It counts for everything.” His eyes glued to the sky, swearing he saw a shooting star zip over the moon. “I just knew that fucking around all of my life wasn’t going to really get me anywhere.” He shrugged, “I’m twenty-one. While I’m still young, my time for making dumb mistakes isn’t going to be forever unfortunately. Plus, I wasn’t going to let all of my hard work go down the drain like that, no way.”

You nodded, watching him carefully, understanding the weight of what he was saying. He had a self-awareness that was rare for someone his age, and it made you respect him more. You shifted on the rooftop, legs now crossed beneath you to stop the tingling from spreading.

“I get that,” you said, voice steady. “There’s always that balance between wanting to live and not wanting to screw up what you’ve worked for.” You paused, then added, “But you don’t have to be perfect to succeed. You’re allowed to stumble. We all are.”

Riki let out a slow breath, eyes still on the sky. “Yeah, but I don’t know if I really know how to stumble without completely falling apart.”

There was a slight vulnerability in his voice that he hadn’t shown before, and it made you feel like you’d just uncovered another layer of him—one he didn’t often let people see. You hesitated for a moment, then took a chance.

“Maybe you don’t have to know,” you said softly. “Maybe you just need someone to help you back up when you do.”

His gaze flicked to you then, meeting your eyes with a kind of quiet intensity. He didn’t respond right away, letting the words settle between you two. The air felt heavier suddenly, charged with something unspoken.

After a moment, he chuckled lightly, breaking the tension. “Yeah? So what, you’re gonna be my personal safety net, huh?”

You grinned, teasing. “Maybe. Depends on how many dumb mistakes you make.”

He raised an eyebrow, that cocky grin returning. “Well, you might be real busy then.”

The playful banter was back, and it felt like the pressure between you two had lifted just a little bit. But the look in his eyes, still holding yours, said something deeper lingered.

“Guess we’ll see,” you said, the words lighter, but the undertone carrying the weight of everything you hadn’t quite said yet.

Riki’s gaze softened again, but this time, it wasn’t for show. It was real. “You know,” he started, his voice quieter, “I never thought I’d actually...get along with someone like you.”

You raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Someone like me? How so?”

His gaze shifted to something a little more playful, teasing. “I don’t know…since I met you, you just seemed so uptight like—”

You leaned up empty containers of food, swatting at his chest again. “I’m not uptight. You just caught me at a terrible time and had me run from the literal police.”

Riki nodded with a small smile, “Yeah? What else did I do…?” He smoothly grabbed your hand as you were leaning back. Leaving your palm burning in his grasp. You didn’t dare pull away.

“Then chased me down the street for me to go out with you.” 

The glint in his eyes remained, toying with your fingers with the same hand. Eye contact never letting up. “Mhm, and now?” 

You swallowed. The rooftop felt quieter than before. Maybe it was the way his thumb brushed the center of your palm—like he knew exactly what he was doing, but didn’t need to gloat about it.

“Now you’re annoying,” you said, voice a little breathier than you intended.

He huffed a laugh, head tilting just slightly as if he could see straight through your bravado. “You think I chased you down the street because I like bothering people?”

You raised your brow. “You don’t?”

Riki smiled at your jab. “Well…I meant what I said. After you kissed me, what I felt was…electric.” He let out a breathy laugh, but you didn’t know if it was for you or him. Just something a result of introspection. “And I just couldn’t let this go without seeing it through. Everything just feels so uncanny and…like a weird coincidence.” He adjusted himself again, still not letting go of your hand.

“Do you really believe in that stuff?” You tilted your head, curls falling in your face. “The whole fate, destiny thing?”

He laughed, something that you’ve been hearing a lot of recently. Not that there are any complaints. “No, that’s the thing. I don’t.” He turned his head back up to the stars. “But I do believe everything happens for a reason and—like,” Riki sat up, scooting a little closer to you. “Think about it. You just somehow decided to be in the alley I was in. Mind you, no one has ever seen or caught me ever. Then we find out that we go to the same school. When we kissed it felt like I was floating.” He rambled, grip on your hand tightening—but not enough to hurt you. 

“So you’ve kissed strangers before?” 

“Yeah,” his eyes flitted to the side with a nod, as if it was an obvious answer. But judging what we’ve seen of him thus far…of course he has. “But none of them have felt like this.”

“So, what’s your goal? We met three hours ago.”

Riki blinked once, twice. The kind of pause that held weight, not hesitation.

“Exactly,” he said, like that explained everything. “That’s how I know it’s real. Time doesn’t move normal when something actually matters.”

He leaned in just slightly, not close enough to kiss you—yet—but enough for you to feel it, the magnetism of someone who never did anything halfway. His voice dropped just a bit lower, like it was only meant for you to hear.

“My goal?” He repeated your question, rolling it over like he was tasting it. “To find out what this is. Between us. Even if it’s just for tonight, or a week, or whatever. But I’m not gonna pretend like I don’t feel this. And I don’t wanna bullshit you and say I’m some perfect guy—I’m not.” He offered a small shrug, thumb brushing over your knuckle again. “But I’m not gonna disappear tomorrow, either. If you let me stay.”

You stared at him. Hard. Trying to find the catch. The trick. The usual posturing that guys with smirks like his tend to carry like armor.

But there wasn’t any. Just warmth. Just honesty, tinged with mischief, but solid underneath. And that scared you more than if he’d lied.

“Don’t fall in love with me,” you whispered, half-joking, half-dead serious.

He grinned slowly, devilish. “I already told you,” he murmured, that damn twinkle in his eye again, “you kissed me first.”

The tension held thick in the air, humming like static between your bodies.

Neither of you spoke.

You weren’t even sure you were breathing properly—not with the way Riki was looking at you, like you were something tender and wild all at once. His hand was still curled around yours, steady and warm, like he had no plans of letting go unless you made him.

Your heart pounded so hard you swore he could hear it, but he didn’t comment. Just kept his gaze locked on yours, like he was memorizing the moment. Like he’d already written about it in one of his sketchbooks and was just checking to see if he got the shading of your eyes right.

His thumb skimmed over your pulse again.

The rooftop, the city, the stars—none of it felt real. Only him. Only this.

You swallowed again. That same ache curling low in your stomach, the kind that had less to do with lust and more to do with want. Pure want. Dangerous want.

And then, before anything could tumble out of your mouth that you couldn’t take back, you inhaled sharply and broke the spell.

“So,” you blurted, sitting up straighter, “where are we off to next, Houdini?”

Riki blinked. A beat passed. Then he snorted, full and bright.

“Wow,” he said, letting go of your hand just to shove his own through his hair. “That was smooth. Really killed the moment.”

You smirked, grabbing your water bottle to hide the way your hand was shaking just a little. “Yeah, well. Consider it payback for the ‘uptight’ comment.”

He tilted his head, considering you with a grin that said fair enough. “Okay, well I have some place I wanna show you.” He grabbed a plastic bag to toss the discarded containers in. Even he was decent enough to not litter. You followed suit, grabbing the water bottles and napkins as he held open the bag. 

“Is it legal?”

He frowned, “Tragically, yes.”

“Bless your heart.”

— New York City, Upper Manhattan, 116th and Broadway. Columbia University. Circa 8:49 PM

It turned out to be the campus library.

But not the front-facing, normal-people part.

You followed him past the security doors (seeing him type in a few numbers), up two staircases, down a back hallway that smelled like dust and vanilla extract, and into a tucked-away room you didn’t even know existed. No fluorescent lights. Just floor-to-ceiling windows, shelves lined with old poetry books, and a pair of velvet chairs facing a skylight.

You blinked. “Is this…the Rare Books Room?”

Riki turned, that smug glint in his eye fully engaged now. “Mmhmm. Closed to the public after 8. But I may or may not have flirted my way into a key code once.”

You crossed your arms, trying not to look impressed. “All that effort…for books?”

He plopped into one of the chairs and looked up at you. “Nah. For moments like this.”

And suddenly, the silence wasn’t awkward—it was loaded. Safe. Special. Like you’d stepped into a pocket of the night that didn’t exist for anyone else but the two of you.

“Pick something,” he said, nodding toward the poetry shelf. “Read to me.”

You blinked again, thrown off. “You want me to read you poetry?”

“No,” he said, leaning back with a grin. “I want you to let your guard down. But we can start with poetry.”

Surprisingly enough, you hadn’t started to feel nervous until now. Slightly overwhelmed with the array of literature to choose from, but also the guy that was looking at you with a mixture of anticipation and kindness. It seemed that he could never look at you in one way. Nothing ever seemed simple with Riki and a part of you liked the dichotomy. “Which one do I pick?” Your eyes scanned the hardly lit room, the moon being your only source of light. 

“Any one. I’m not picky.” He said softly as you gave a small shrug.

You hesitated. The weight of the shelves full of words pressed down on you like an invisible hand. It wasn’t so much the pressure of picking a poem—it was more the pressure of picking the right one in front of him. The one that wouldn’t feel like you were exposing too much.

Riki was watching you closely, his gaze softening as he waited for you to pick something, anything. His eyes never left you, like he was giving you space but also asking you to take the leap.

You ran your fingers over a book spine, feeling the edges of each title like a string of lifelines. Finally, your hand brushed over the weathered cover of one particular collection. “This one,” you said, more to yourself than to him, your voice a little unsure.

You opened the book and began reading softly, the words spilling out into the room, the only sound between the two of you. You could feel Riki’s attention on you with every line you read, his gaze never straying.

“Let us go then, you and I, When the evening is spread out against the sky Like a patient etherized upon a table; Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets…”

It felt strange reading something so melancholy in this space, in this moment. But somehow, it fit. You didn’t glance up at Riki as you spoke, but you could feel him absorbing each word as if it were more than just poetry—it was a conversation without speaking.

The words felt strange on your tongue at first. But with each verse, something softened. Your voice steadied. You wandered a few steps forward, eyes glued to the page, trying to find a rhythm. But the poetry filled the silence like it belonged there, like it had been waiting in the wings this whole time.

“The muttering retreats Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels…”

You were only vaguely aware that Riki hadn’t moved. That he was still sitting in the chair, slightly manspread like some museum exhibit of patience. His expression was unreadable, except for the way his eyes didn’t leave you.

You took another step, and then another. And before you could register what was happening, his hands found your waist.

He didn’t say anything. Just gently guided you down until you were sitting on his lap, your back to his chest, the book still open in your hands like nothing had changed.

Your heart stuttered in your chest, but you didn’t stop reading.

“…And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:Streets that follow like a tedious argumentOf insidious intent…”

His breath was steady against your shoulder as he eyed the book now. Warm. His arms rested around you without pressure, like he didn’t want to startle you out of the moment. Like he knew you needed this stillness more than anything.

“For I have known them all already, known them all:Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;I know the voices dying with a dying fallBeneath the music from a farther room.So how should I presume?”

You weren’t sure when the words stopped being just a poem.

And started being the way he listened to you.

You read the final lines slowly, like they were something sacred. Like they were the last thing tethering you to the ground.

“We have lingered in the chambers of the seaBy sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brownTill human voices wake us, and we drown.”

The silence that followed was deafening in the best way.

You finally lowered the book, your hands settling in your lap. His arms were still around you, and you could feel the way his chest rose and fell beneath you—steady, like he was trying not to startle the moment. Like if he moved too fast, it would all dissolve. That he would ruin all of it.

You turned your head slightly. His face was close. Closer than you remembered. Closer than you expected. But there was no rush in his eyes. Just that same impossible softness.

And then—quietly, slowly—he leaned in.

You met him halfway.

There wasn’t anything dramatic about it. No breathy gasps or hurried hands. Just his mouth brushing yours with such care it almost didn’t feel real. Like he was making sure you had every chance to pull away. But you didn’t.

You deepened it first.

It wasn’t perfect. Your noses bumped a little. Your hands weren’t sure where to go at first. But it was real. And warm. And—God—it lingered. 

You hated the fact that you now understood the electricity that Riki was talking about. Fortunately, he didn’t take advantage. He took everything you were giving him without being overzealous. 

Carefully, he placed his hand on your jaw. Tracing your cheek with his thumb as he slowly threaded his lips with yours. Like a puzzle piece, it just fit so perfectly. So naturally. 

This wasn’t your first kiss, but it felt like what it should’ve. Not awkwardly, poorly timed, two young teens unsure of what to do but just trying to make something out of it anyway. However, this didn’t feel as such. This felt sure; sure, that the guy you were kissing actually knew what he was doing and was more than happy to guide you. So he did.

The hand that was on your jaw moved to your bicep to guide your arm up. This way your hand rested on his shoulder, he didn’t want to push you or take advantage of the moment and you were grateful for that. But now it seemed less like he was kissing you. More like you were kissing each other. You moved your hand to the side of his neck to deepen the kiss. 

Riki subconsciously smiled into the exchange, taking this as a sign that you were just as into this as he was. His hands mindlessly drift to your fluffy curls, which he seemed to do the last time. Savoring the texture in his hands as if he wasn’t ever going to feel it again. Bunching them in his hand gently as he ran his hand down your head and played with a singular curl at the ends. 

His silver hair was surprisingly soft considering what it took to get it there. Since he was playing in your hair, you had no problem indulging in his either. And wasn’t ever going to pull away, he didn’t want this to end. But it had to. So just as you pulled back:

“See,” he murmured, voice roughened by something too intimate to name. “Told you this wasn’t just a coincidence.” He rested his forehead on yours as he gently—ever so slightly—let his index finger graze your lips. 

“You know what’s crazy,”

“What?”

You sighed, whispering into the solemnity of the room. “I didn’t even pick this on purpose.”

“And you kept doubting me.” He nuzzled his nose into yours with a smile. “I’m starting to think that I have a great intuition.” Riki’s smile brightened as his fingers tightened, bunching around the fabric of your hoodie.

You let yourself lean into a bit, finally letting yourself smile without restrictions. “I think so too.” Sighing, “But what time is it?”

His eyes found the analog clock on the wall in front of your conjoined bodies. Squinting lightly to read it within the dim room. Luckily, the moonlight hit it just perfectly—letting him be able to read: “9:30.” He stroked your cheek as he peered into your eyes. The mixed perceptions of his now soloing into one: kindness. “Two and half hours left. Are you done for the night?”

A part of you was overwhelmed at the thought that this seemingly magical night was coming to an end. The other was happy to make the most of it and now you were all in, and fully ready to adhere to Riki’s impulsivity for the next couple of hours finally. 

You shook your head in thought, “No, I’m…not really in any rush to get home. Plus Uber’s cost at least thirty-five dollars and that’s not something I wanna spend money on when I can just catch the train.”

“Yeah, I’m not letting you take the subway this late.” He furrowed his brows as if what you said was ridiculous—which it was.

“No, no! I don’t wanna take it now. That’s insane.”

He brushed his hand over the back of your head, into your hair. “I can get you an Uber if you want. It’s not a big deal.”

You sigh, “No, I have no way to pay you ba—”

“You don’t have to. I’ll eat the money if it means you’re safe. Plus I dragged you out here, the least I can do is get you home—make sure you get home.” He kissed your cheek gently, now taking full advantage of the proximity between you two. Taking in your scent like it was intoxicating, like his kryptonite. 

“I don’t want to go home.”

He froze a little, his heart dropping—not in panic, but in that weird way when someone says something so real you forget how to breathe for a second.

You weren’t looking at him. You were staring at the shadows moving along the far wall, like saying it out loud made it too fragile to face.

“I don’t want to go home,” you repeated, quieter this time. “Just…not yet.”

Riki didn’t ask why. He didn’t press. He just nodded like he understood more than you knew how to explain.

“Okay,” he said. Soft. Sure.

He sat up a little, arms still loosely around you. “Wanna go somewhere else? We don’t have to do anything crazy. I just—” He scratched the back of his neck. “I just don’t want this to end either.”

You finally turned to look at him. His silver hair caught the moonlight, soft and out of place in the best way. There was no smirk this time. Just that sincerity again. That stillness.

“Where would we even go?” you asked.

He blinked once. Twice. Then smiled.

“Well,” he said slowly, “I could make an irresponsible financial decision.”

You snorted. “What does that even mean?”

“Come with me and find out,” he said, tapping your arm for you to stand and you do. Riki stands with a dramatic groan and gives you his hand. “I know this is a bit overused today but…trust me.” 

— New York City, Upper Manhattan, 242 West 76th St. The Wallace Hotel, Circa 10:09 PM

He paused right outside the glass doors of the hotel, hoodie pulled low like he was ducking paparazzi.

“Okay, real quick,” he said, turning to you with a deadly serious expression that had no business being this funny. “I need you to do me a solid.”

You blinked. “Are you about to propose a drug deal right now?”

“I wish,” he muttered dramatically, glancing behind him like someone was watching. “Nah, I just—can you check us in?”

“…Check us in?”

“Yeah. Use your ID. I’ll pay for everything, I just—” he glanced left and right again. “I can’t put my name down.”

You stared. “Why? Are you literally wanted by the NYPD?”

He threw his hands up. “Technically, no. But like…do I want my name on file the same night I accidentally fled a crime scene? Also no.”

“Riki,” you said, holding back a laugh. “You did graffiti.”

“Which, in the eyes of the law, is vandalism,” he countered, finger raised like a professor. “And also, I left my bag there. It’s got, like, three cans and a half-eaten bag of Hot Cheetos. I’m practically breadcrumbing.”

You burst out laughing. “You’re not a fugitive, bro.”

“Yet,” he said ominously.

You rolled your eyes but pulled out your wallet anyway. “Fine. But if I get flagged for being your accomplice, I’m putting paws on you.”

He beamed as he handed you a thick wad of cash from his wallet. “That’s my girl.” You took it with reluctance.

You shook your head as he pulled open the door for you with a little bow. “Alright, let’s check in before your Hot Cheetos turn state’s evidence.”

—

The lobby was dimly lit and upscale in that “broke people should never laugh” kind of way. You stuck close to Riki, eyes flicking toward the front desk. He didn’t look even slightly nervous. If anything, he looked like he belonged here—hoodie, smirk, and all.

He approached the concierge with the kind of swagger that made you want to check if his sneakers were levitating.

“Good evening,” he said, smooth as silk. “Just one room for the night. Something quiet, if you’ve got it.”

The concierge gave a slow nod, clearly clocking the late hour, your backpack, and the ridiculous amount of chemistry floating between you two like fog. “Name on the reservation?”

“No reservation,” he replied easily. “But she’ll be checking in.” He gave you a quick glance, then looked back at the woman behind the counter.

The concierge hesitated. “I’ll need to see her identification, then.”

You slid yours over. Riki didn’t even flinch. He just leaned one arm on the counter, watching you calmly, like you’d done this a hundred times before.

“And how many keys?” she asked.

Riki didn’t even glance at you this time. “One’s fine.”

You raised an eyebrow. “One?”

He smirked. “Unless you plan on locking me out.”

The concierge paused typing and definitely had to stop herself from smirking too. She slid the keycard across the desk.

Riki took it with a quiet, “Thanks,” and then gently steered you toward the elevators, hand low on your back.

The second you stepped inside and the doors closed, he exhaled. “See? Easy.”

You side-eyed him. “You’re way too good at that.”

He gave a half-smile. “Nah. You make it easy to play it cool.”

—

You two padded down the exquisite hallway, covered with stunning floral wallpapers. The coloring wasn’t abrasive nor was it too subtle to where you misjudged its luxury. Riki held the key card though and you scanned the numbers on the doors: 

501…

502…

Yes! 503.

You jut out your hand, just in time to stop the tall man from going further. He stopped and turned, letting out a quiet “Oh…” before opening the door. 

You didn’t even have time to comment before you were taken aback by the space you stepped into. It was average sized, nothing too crazy but you didn’t even care. It was for less than a day and it wasn’t like you needed Daddy Warbucks’ mansion to be able to sleep. 

But it was so modern and sleek, the chandeliers that hung from the ceiling not those dramatic ones. Though those are beautiful, there was something so cute and kind of chic about it. The two bathrooms. Then the bed. The bed was where your attention landed and absolutely refused to leave. King-sized. Crisp white sheets. Pillows stacked like luxury clouds. It looked like it cost more than your monthly rent. You caught yourself staring too long and quickly turned away like you didn’t just imagine a soft place to collapse after a day of accidental vandalism and heart palpitations.

Riki shut the door behind you with a soft click. He stood still for a second, scanning the room with a thoughtful nod.

“I feel like I should apologize for how suspicious that check-in was,” he murmured, tossing the keycard onto the nearby table. “But I kinda nailed it, right?”

You snorted. “You didn’t really have to do that, but I guess you did a decent job.”

He shrugged off his hoodie and kicked off his shoes, flopping onto the end of the bed like he owned the place. “You’re welcome for the free luxury experience.”

You dropped your backpack onto the chair, slowly lowering yourself onto the opposite side of the bed. The mattress gave slightly under your weight, as if inviting you to sink deeper. “This place is nice.”

“You deserve nice,” he said casually, and it would've felt light if he hadn’t looked at you like that—like he meant it.

You glanced at him from the corner of your eye, toeing off your sneakers. “You’re really leaning into the whole charming fugitive thing, huh?” 

Riki smiled, that same lowkey one that made your chest tight. “Crime’s my love language.”

You laughed—too loud for a place this expensive—and flopped onto your back, staring up at the ceiling.

There was a beat of silence before he asked, voice a bit softer now, “So…what happens now?”

You turned your head toward him. “You tell me, Picasso. I’m just following your lead.”

He leaned in slightly, propping his head up on his hand. “Then let me ask you something important.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Okay?”

“Do you want to watch trash TV and eat overpriced snacks from the mini bar...or do you wanna talk about how weirdly perfect this night has been?”

A small smile crept onto your lips. “Can we do both?”

“You’re going to ruin my life, I fear.” He mirrored your smile as he cupped your jaw. 

You let out a small laugh, “Says the guy that dragged me into a police chase.” 

“And it’s crazy because…I want so desperately to say sorry to you and feel bad. And I do feel bad, for putting you through that emotional distress, so I’m sorry. Sincerely, but I don’t feel bad for what it’s gotten me thus far.” He professed under the warm lighting of the hotel, probably the most flattering he’s looked all day. But he’s looked amazing even in the shitty lighting of the alley so that’s not saying much.

You cleared your throat before your brain could spiral deeper into that thought. “Okay, I hate to ruin the moment,” you murmured, sitting up, “but I really want to shower.”

He blinked. “You—huh?”

“Huh?” You mocked him but then laughed to yourself. “I feel grimy, Riki. Like, totally disgusting.”

He laughed. “Fair. But…you don’t have clothes.”

You raised an eyebrow, already halfway off the bed. “Wrong. This is another very crucial thing to know about me.”

You grabbed your backpack and unzipped a side pocket with dramatic flair, pulling out a little pouch like it was Excalibur. “Behold—pads, tampons, toothpaste, deodorant, toothbrush, and emergency underwear.”

He stared, impressed. “You’re actually…cool as fuck.”

“I know right.” You smirked, holding it up like a badge of honor. “All one ever really needs is a fresh pair of underwear.” You shrug.

“So what are you gonna wear when you get out?” 

You firmly stand and stretch, “I’ll just wear a robe to bed.” You walk to the bathroom cavalierly, smiling as you scan the shiny bathroom and open the shower door to turn on the water. “There’s only one robe though.” You call out.

Riki walks to the bathroom and leans against the doorframe, watching you with interest as usual. “I’ll just call downstairs and have them bring one up, or I’ll go down to get one. Whichever works.” He hands you a towel and washcloth that sat on a shelf below the sink. 

You take it with both hands as you look up at him, eyes full of warmth. “Thanks,”

He nodded as he stepped to you with ease, “No problem, gorgeous.” Tilting his head, “It’s just a towel,”

“No,” you shake your head. “Thanks for just…not being the shitty person I thought you were. In some weird way, you’ve brought me out of my comfort zone and even though it has been a bit much. Still…” You look up in thought as Riki stares at you, no pressure behind his gaze but encouragement. Like he was just waiting for you to get where he needed you to be.

“This has been one of the best days of my life and I have no one but you to thank for that.”

Riki’s expression didn’t shift much—but his eyes did. They softened in that distinct way only he could manage. Like he was keeping a hundred things behind them and choosing, deliberately, to just show you the one that mattered.

“I’m really glad you didn’t run off when you had the chance,” he said after a beat, his voice quieter, the kind of quiet that sticks in your chest.

You laughed softly, glancing at the now-steaming shower behind you. “You kidding? I almost did. Like five times. You’re exhausting.”

He grinned, stepping back toward the door. “I know. I’m an acquired taste.”

“I expect you to be done when I am,” you called after him as he slipped out.

“Your wish is my command, I live to please you.” he said, blowing you a kiss before the door clicked shut.

The shower was warm. Hot, even. Not just temperature-wise, but the kind of hot that made your thoughts swirl a little. Like the water was washing off more than just grime—maybe a little bit of fear, a little bit of doubt. You let it.

By the time you stepped out, towel-wrapped and robe-draped, the room had dimmed a little. Riki had turned off the overheads, leaving only a lamp by the bed casting a soft amber hue across the room. He was lounging at the edge of the bed in a now-matching robe, legs sprawled, flipping through channels on the TV like this wasn’t the weirdest, best night ever.

His head turned as you walked out, and he stared.

Not in a creepy way. Not in a wow hot girl in towel alert way either. In a stunned, slow-lidded, maybe-a-little-speechless way.

“You got your robe,” you said, padding over to your bag to stash your used clothes.

“Mm,” he hummed, eyes following you. “Had to charm the concierge.”

You snorted. “I swear you’re gonna get banned from like…every Manhattan hotel.”

“That’s okay.” He grinned. “We’ll just start hitting Brooklyn.”

You gave him a mock bow. “Your criminal empire awaits.”

He laughed—really laughed. The kind that crinkled the corners of his eyes and made his whole chest shake.

Then he patted the spot next to him. “C’mon. Snacks and garbage TV. Your choice.”

You flopped beside him with a satisfied groan. “If they got 90 Day Fiancé on here, I swear—”

Riki tossed you a chocolate bar from the minibar. “We’re watching people ruin their lives together. Very on brand if you ask me.”

You slipped under the thick duvet and scooted closer to him. “Pass the remote, please.” 

He did without a word and moved his arm behind you to bring you closer to his chest. His scent clouding your senses, taking in the sweet smell of the hotel soap. A lavender soap and the matching lotion mixed so well with his body chemistry, making you hesitantly poke your face into his neck.

He jumped back a bit with a laugh, “What are you doing, weirdo?” He says playfully, but his words contrast his actions as he’s pulling you closer. Nearly on top of him.

“Nothing,” you pull back and face the TV and flip through the options. “You just smell nice, I like lavender on you.” 

Riki smiles as he stroked your robe-covered thigh, testing the waters and sliding his fingertips under the cloth—just barely. “Duly noted,” 

— New York City, Upper Manhattan, 242 West 76th St. The Wallace Hotel, Circa 11:10 PM

The TV was still on, but neither of you were watching.

At some point, the half-eaten snacks were left to the side, and you both shifted down, bodies facing each other under the plush hotel duvet. The lights were off—completely this time—just the low, flickering glow of the TV playing muted chaos across the room. But your eyes had long since adjusted to the dark, and all you could see now was him.

Riki. Inches away. Head resting on the pillow, hair slightly tousled, lips parted like he was mid-thought.

You blinked slowly, barely breathing. “What are you thinking about?”

He didn’t answer right away. His gaze scanned your face, gentle and a little too knowing.

“Whatever you’re thinking about,” he said, voice hushed.

You smiled, but it was small—honest. “That’s such a cop-out.”

He shrugged, face still close enough that his breath tickled your skin. “It’s the truth.”

You shifted a little closer, like your body made the decision before your brain could. “Okay. Then what do you think I’m thinking about?”

He let the silence stretch for a moment, a soft exhale escaping his nose. “I think you’re wondering if this...us…if this is just some weird blip. Like a temporary high.”

Your eyes searched for his own in the dark. “And is it?”

He swallowed, barely noticeable. His hand moved slowly between you, fingers brushing against yours like he was asking for permission to say what came next.

“I don’t want it to be,” he said. “I think this is the first thing that’s felt real in a long time.”

Your heart thudded, loud enough that you were pretty sure he could hear it too.

“I was thinking something similar,” you whispered, like saying it louder might shatter it.

You both stared at each other again, and that stretch of silence that followed didn’t feel empty. It felt full. Heavy with everything neither of you were saying. Warm with things you didn't know how to name yet.

Riki’s fingers finally laced with yours under the covers.

And then he said it. Soft. Stupidly soft.

“I don’t think you ruined my life.”

You tilted your head, barely smiling. “Yeah?”

“I think you might’ve saved it a little.”

Neither of you said anything after that. You didn’t have to.

You just stayed there. Still. Quiet. Staring.

Letting the warmth between you speak louder than anything else. But you just couldn’t let it be still. You couldn’t just be in this moment, feeling every single thing in every square inch of your body and be still. 

For once, you wanted to take a page out of Riki’s book. 

Mirroring your prior actions, you lean in swiftly to plant your lips onto his. Almost as if you were fearless of this outcome, and you were. 

He responded instantly, resting his hand on your cheek as he tenderly ravished your lips. The kiss was calm, both of your heads lying against the pillow, just lazy. Quietly, chastely hearing the smacking of your lips in the nearly silent room. 

The calmness felt like a haze, like you were meant to do this. Just to be here, with him until you couldn’t anymore. But you just wanted more, a part of you yearned for more. So you pulled back slowly, resting your hand on his own cheek. Gently stroking it and letting the illumination from the TV cast a varying glow on his face.

You pecked his lips one time before hesitantly moving to his neck. Letting the tingling in your body control you more than you thought it ever could. As you continue your ministrations, you could feel the clenching in his body as he tries not to react. Like he’s trying to act like he’s not affected by you being this close to him. Pulling back again, you look at him. “Are you okay?”

Riki nods, “Yeah,” he rests his hand on your waist. “I just…I don’t want us to ruin it.” He says tenderly, like he was afraid to hurt you.

“You think we’ll ruin it?” You hesitated—something you’ve been doing a lot in the last few minutes. Maybe you hadn’t been as much like him as you thought. “Are you—do you not see me like that?”

Urgently, he shook his head. “No. Wait—no I—I mean.” Riki sat up, turning on the bedside lamp so he could look you in the eye. His eyes and lips were slightly puffy from impending slumber and earlier activities. “I do want you, and see you like that. I just don’t want this to be ruined by one night of lust. Because I genuinely like you.”

You nodded in understanding, “I get it. But…I just want to…can I be honest with you?” Your eyes looked down at the pillow as you adjusted your robe beneath the covers. 

“Of course you can, baby.” He strokes your cheek in earnest. 

You sighed, looking at him. “No guy has really…liked me before.” 

Riki blinked. “What?”

You smiled a little, embarrassed but trying to keep it together. “Not really. They’ve wanted me. Or they liked the idea of me. But no one’s actually liked me. Not like you do.”

There was a moment of silence—soft, heavy silence that made your heart race.

Then Riki tilted his head like he was trying to get a better view of your soul. “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard,” he said, voice low but full of fire. “You’re beyond likeable.”

You let out a breathy laugh, half in disbelief. “Riki—”

“No, I’m serious.” He leaned closer, his palm still warm on your cheek. “You’re smart. You’re funny. You’re absolutely gorgeous, stunning. You’re interesting. You challenge me, which, by the way, is annoying, but I love it. And you’ve got this look when you’re thinking real hard—like right now—where your eyebrows do this thing…” He reached out and lightly traced your brow with his thumb.

You were speechless. The kind of silence where your whole chest aches a little, because someone just said something that wrapped around a wound you didn’t know was still bleeding.

“So yeah,” he whispered. “I like you. I like you more than I probably should. And if this is you trying to run from that by kissing me until we forget it—I’ll let you, because I like the way you kiss.” He smiled gently. “But just know I’ll still like you tomorrow. And the day after that. Even if we never do anything ever.”

Your throat tightened, your eyes hot in that way they get when someone sees you too clearly. “And I’m not really an impulsive person but I just really want this. But I don’t want to make it seem like I’m trying to convince you to want to have sex with me.”

“You don’t have to convince, babe. I will have sex with you.” He nodded calmly. “I just like you enough to consider how you’ll feel after. I just want you to be sure. That if we do this then we don’t regret it right after.”

“I won’t. And I know I won’t because I know that if it felt right in the moment then it wasn’t a mistake. Especially when you’re the first person to make me feel like this.” I grab his hand from my waist and hold it to my heart. “I want my first time to be with someone like you.”

Riki blinked. “You’re a virgin?”

You nodded slowly, feeling suddenly so small under the glow of the bedside lamp. Like the confession shrunk you.

“I mean, not like...because I didn’t want to ever. Just that it never felt right. And with you, it just...does.”

He sat back, eyes widening just a fraction—not in surprise, but in recognition. Like something about you just clicked into place. Then, after a beat of silence, he smiled softly and whispered: “Well. I’m honored.”

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding, but your chest still ached. “I just didn’t want that to make this weird.”

“It’s not weird,” he said instantly. “You’re not weird. You’re...you’re incredible.” He took your hand from where it rested on your heart and pressed it to his lips. “But thank you for telling me.”

You searched his face. “Are you sure you still want to?”

Riki nodded, “Yes, I want to. Only if you’re sure.”

Nodding firmly, “Totally sure, a bit nervous—but sure.”

He stood and went into his jean pocket for his wallet, pulling out two condoms then placed it on the bedside table. Then went onto the bed back next to you. “Nervousness is normal.” He kissed your cheek gently. “But at any point if you wanna stop, tell me. I’m not kidding, okay?”

“Okay.”

He nipped at your neck skillfully. “It might hurt a little, and that’s normal. But I’ll go slow…slower than slow.” He smiled into your neck as he traced his hand down the lapel of your robe. “Can I open this?”

You nodded, eyes low and chest slightly heaving. “Yes, please.”

Without untying the belt, he opened the neckline and revealed your tits. You shivered at the cool air of the room hitting your bare body. He continues kissing your neck and raises his hand but stops himself. “Can I touch you?”

You nod, “Yes, anything. Please. Just don’t stop. Do anything you want—” Chest heaving, vision blurry and he’s barely touched you. You’re just overcome with anticipation that you don’t even care what he does anymore. You just want him.

He places his hand over your tit carefully as he massages it, eliciting a quiet moan from you. His lips track from your neck to your chest, kissing the valley of your breasts as his left hand is still holding your tit. “Isn’t this so perfect already?” He kissed just above your stomach. “Your beautiful body, your tits fit so perfectly in my hands. Like you were made just for me.” He leaned, still leaning on his side next to you, and swirled his tongue around your nipple. 

Watching your back arch off of the bed he smiles, clearly enjoying the pleasure he was giving you. But he didn’t stop, he latched his lips around it and gently sucked, at this point flicking your other nipple with his other hand. 

Your heart is in your stomach and you feel nothing but his warmth, the muscle on your breast and its wetness. And even with the warmth, it feels like heat. Like fire, spreading through your body just like it was earlier when you were close to him. But now the heat moved to your core and it was pooling into the underwear you had on.

He released your tit from his mouth quietly, a string of saliva still between and his lips still puffy—appearing thicker than they already were. At this, you had a reaction beside yourself and clenched your legs closed. A stinging, aching feeling between your legs that signified that you needed something from him now. You didn’t want to be overzealous or greedy; but it seemed like he knew what he was doing. Or like he knew you. “You want more from me?”

“Mhm, I do.” Your brows furrowed in discomfort. “Please touch me.” 

He smiled as he kissed your lips, “You want me to touch you? Give your pretty pussy some attention? Give you a little taste before you get what you’ve been waiting for? My gorgeous girl. Is that what my baby wants?”

You whined, his words going straight down to your core. Only making the blood rush even worse. “Please,”

He untied your robe finally and looked down to see that your underwear was on. He laughed quietly, “Why do you have these on?”

Shrugging, unsure how to answer that question. “I–I just didn’t want her to be out. In case I slept weird or something. Didn’t wanna flash you.” 

Riki nods, “I think I’m the last person that would care about you flashing me. But I get it.” He slowly runs his hand down your stomach, smiling as he lightly squeezed the pudge on your sides. “Can you take them off for me, please?”

You lift your hips as you slide them off and let them fall to the carpeted floor. Now you laid barren, fully exposed, only the robe on your arms. You watched as his eyes scanned you attentively, like he was trying to remember every last inch of you. But when his eyes laid on your pussy, you subconsciously threw the robe over it—afraid that he would judge you. “Sorry…I haven’t shaved—”

Riki smacked his teeth as he moved the robe back. “I don’t give a fuck about shit like that. Hair ain’t never stopped me.” He laughed as he traced his fingers down your slit. 

“Are you sure? We can sto—”

He shook his head, “Relax…I know this is a very vulnerable position you’re in and you want this to be perfect but I like you. I like this. Hair is not a big deal, I don’t care about it. I like women.” He nodded, “I actually prefer a little hair, it’s hot.” Riki didn’t even wait for a response before he slipped one finger into your soaking wet folds. 

You gasped at the sensation, not knowing what to do with your hands. Instead, one hand gripped onto the ivory sheets and the other balled in a fist. Riki smiled kindly at this, “It’s okay…relax. Come here, let’s try this.” He sat up, leaning his back against the headboard. Then he parted his legs and patted the space. You, still stuck for words but nonetheless compliant. 

As soon as you sat down, back against his chest as he sighed of relief. “You got it, all you have to do is relax. Touch me how you want, this is all for you, my love.” He kissed your shoulder as he caressed your stomach and slipped his finger down to your core. “You’re so wet, is this all for me?” He gently, slowly, brushed his finger along your clit, eliciting a moan. “Hm?”

You threw your head back on his shoulder, shivers rippling through your body. “Yes, all for you. Because of you.” 

“Mmm,” he smiled into your shoulder. “I’m gonna put my fingers in, please tell me if you don’t like anything. I’ll stop.” He kissed your bronze skin, smelling like the sweet scent of the hotel lotion—lavender and vanilla. 

Then he slowly inserts a finger into you, carefully watching the way your body reacts. And after seeing your body respond positively to it, he slowly thrusts his finger all the way in. “You’re so tight around my fingers, my love.” Then bottoms out, then slowly inserts another finger just to test the waters. Your arousal made it easy.

As the sweetness you felt in your core spread to your heart, you smiled. The pleasure clouding your brain and the position he had you in, the heat from his chest spreading to your entire body as he continued to thrust his fingers in and out of you. The wetness squelching and your panting being the only thing heard in this quiet room. He curled his fingers inside of you, brushing them against the walls of you, making your hips lift off of the bed. Without a word, he kissed your neck. “Are you ready?”

“Yeah,” you climbed off of him and next to him to grab a condom from the table, handing it to him. He took it with a small laugh as he put it between his teeth, freeing his hands as he laid you down on the bed again. Letting himself climb on top of you, grabbing the condom from his mouth to put it on the bed next to your head. 

And it seemed like this was him letting himself go slightly; he pressed some of his weight onto you as he pressed his lips to yours. Releasing a groan into your lips as he gently groaned into the exchange. Grinding his hips into yours and this is the first time you registered how hard he was. 

His tongue meshed well with yours, the warm, wet muscle working to taste every inch of your mouth. And he sat up, finally, and untied the robe. Letting it fall down his shoulders and onto the bed to reveal a lean, muscular figure. Strong pecs, toned arms, a sculpted torso that told you that he knew exactly what he was doing. He just wanted you to see him, he wasn’t trying overly hard to impress you.

You sit up yourself and mindlessly reach out to run your hand along his abdomen. His laughter made them contract, “You like them?”

Not answering, you move your other hand to his cock. He was the perfect mix of girth and length, just perfectly thick and not too long to where it made you afraid. You were already nervous, no need to add to it. But regardless you took him in your hand and slowly moved it. Making his head fall back with a sigh, “You don’t have to do this, babe. T-This is about you.” He said that, yet his body was twitching like he was trying to hold himself back. 

You shook your head, “Then let me try this.”

He bit his lip, leaning into it. “Then…can you move your hand faster for me? Just for a second.”

Smiling gently, you increased the speed of your hand; stroking him with a firm hand. Riki sighed, letting out a slight whimper. Whispering your name as his body almost gives. But he can’t let himself go yet. “Okay, okay.” He huffed out a smile, “Lay back for me, baby.” He grabbed the tin next to your pillow and opened it with his teeth, putting it on his length. Sliding it down like he’s done this multiple times which he probably has. 

He settled between your legs, stroking your thighs gently as he lifted them. Nearly putting them to your chest but just high enough not to make you uncomfortable. “I’m gonna go slowly, I think I prepped you enough but…I just wanna make sure you’re good.” Riki leaned down to kiss her knee. “I’m gonna make this so special for you, my love. You have no idea,” he kisses down your thighs. “My sweet, stubborn girl.”

You smile at his little jab, “Shut up,” you run your hands through his hair. 

He sits up, lining himself up with your pussy but before he pushes in, he looks you in the eye. “It might hurt a little but I can stop if it becomes too much. So…are you sure?”

You looked at him with wide, doe eyes. “I’m sure,”

Riki exhaled, chest rising and falling like he’d been holding his breath for hours. He nodded once, slow. Then, with steady hands, he guided himself in—the tip pressing into your warmth as he kept his eyes on you the whole time. His jaw clenched, his breath hitched, but he moved with care. Inch by inch.

Your walls stretched to accommodate him, the fullness almost overwhelming—a burn that bordered on unbearable for a second. But he was there, kissing your temple, murmuring quiet things: “Just breathe. You’re doing so good. That’s it. That’s my girl.”

Your fingers dug into his shoulders, anchoring yourself as he bottomed out with a quiet groan against your skin.

He stilled.

“Okay?” he whispered.

You nodded quickly, voice barely there. “Yeah. Just…give me a second.”

He didn’t move—just kissed your cheek and ran his thumb along your side. Letting you adjust. Letting the pain melt into something else. Something warmer. You felt it start to bloom slowly—the tension easing, the pleasure starting to lap at the edges.

When you gave a soft nod, he pulled back just a little and rocked into you again—slow and controlled, like he was afraid to break you. But he didn’t have to say it.

You were already breaking for him.

The slight stinging was there still but pleasure began to make it subside—making you let out a whimper as you felt a mixture of sweetness and relief where you needed him most. But he worked his hips into yours, his cock gliding against the walls of your wet pussy. His girth brushing against your swollen clit from stroke to stroke. “F-Feels so good, Riki.” You cry out, “S’good,”

He held your leg as he buried his face in your neck, kissing your neck alongside other parts of your face: nose, lips, cheeks, ears, eyes, everything. “You like my cock? You like what I’m doing to you?”

His words ignited you, “Mhm, yes, baby I love it. More. More.” You wrapped your arms around his neck to pull him impossibly closer.

He smiled into your neck as he let your leg go, hugging you back as he lost himself in you and the skin to skin wasn’t making it easier on him. But he whispered into your ear, his thrusts increasing in roughness. “More? You want more? Because I can give you—”

You cut him off with a moan, crying out as tears pool in your eyes. He kisses your jaw, “I can give you more.” 

Your skin, covered in goosebumps and body clinging to him like a koala, heart pounding—your eyes rolled back at the sensation and you didn’t think it would take you nineteen years to have a full sexual awakening. You had toys, masturbated regularly, but none of that seemed to compare to the real thing and a swirl of fear, excitement, and lust overtaking your senses. 

And you couldn’t hold back anymore. 

“Give it to me.” You pant out, sweat collecting along your forehead. 

“Yeah?” Riki pulled back from you, leaning in close to your face. “Want me to give you everything I’ve got?”

You nodded, eyes glassy and lips parted as your body trembled beneath him. “Please,” you whispered, and it sounded like surrender. Like reverence.

Riki let out a ragged breath, forehead pressed to yours. “You’re so fucking amazing.”

Then he gave it to you.

Every stroke after that felt like he was carving himself into your memory — deeper, harder, more urgent. Your name left his lips like a prayer, like a promise. His hand slipped under your lower back, lifting your hips slightly to hit that devastating angle again and again until your legs were shaking around him.

You were gasping now, sobbing his name, clutching his back like he might disappear if you didn’t hold tight enough. Then, somehow you got curious. “Wait,”

He immediately stopped, leaning up and sitting on his knees. “Everything good?” Riki nodded with lifted brows. 

You, still winded, mirrored him. “Yes, perfect. I just…wanna be on top. If that’s okay.”

He smiled as he caressed your thighs, “That’s more than okay, come on.” Before you could even reposition yourself, he leaned forward and flipped you both over in one swift, fluid motion—still buried inside you. The sudden shift pulled a gasp from both of you, your laughter caught between moans as your bodies adjusted.

But the moment passed fast.

Because once you were on top—eyes locked, chests heaving—it was like everything else disappeared.

Your hands braced against his chest, and as you started to move, his grip tightened on your hips like he was trying to anchor himself. He watched you like you were a miracle—eyes dark, lips parted, head thrown back against the pillow with a groan that could’ve torn the sky in half.

“Fuck,” he breathed. “Just like that, baby. Ride me just like that.”

You rolled your hips, the angle hitting a spot that made you whimper, and you could feel him twitch inside of you.

His hands wandered—your hips, your waist, your chest—like he couldn’t decide what part of you he wanted to hold most. “You feel so good,” he choked out, voice hoarse. “I’m losing my mind.”

You leaned down, pressing your forehead to his, your rhythm picking up as your bodies slid together like puzzle pieces soaked in sweat and lust and love. He moaned into your mouth, both of you chasing that same high with each movement, each breathless kiss.

“I don’t ever want this to stop,” you whispered.

And Riki—Riki looked at you like he meant it when he said, “Then don’t. Stay right here. With me. I want you forever.”

As you felt your thighs start to give in slightly, Riki could feel it in your movements. He pulled you down, your bare, pillowy tits meeting his firm chest. And lifted his hips to drill into your pussy, going at a nearly inhumane speed.

Your world blurred—breath, heartbeat, and the heat of his body flooding every sense. The headboard thudded a slow rhythm against the wall while his name tumbled from your lips in shaky fragments.

“That’s it, baby,” he rasped, voice raw. “I’ve got you. First time or not, I know your body—let go for me, I’ve got you. Cum for me, please.” He let out a chilling, guttural moan. “Let me be your first, your last, everything you want. I just want you—please. Together.”

You clung to him, nails raking his shoulders, thighs trembling as pleasure coiled tight—hot and sudden—then snapped. A broken cry tore free while your body clenched around him in waves. Seeing white behind your eyes as let him ride you through it.

Riki followed a heartbeat later, burying his face against your throat with a low, helpless groan. He held you there, hips shuddering through the last pulses, arms wound tight as if he could fuse you together right before spilling into the condom.

For a long moment neither of you moved, the only sound was your mingled breathing and the hush of late‑night traffic far below.

Finally he smoothed a damp curl from your forehead, kissing the spot it had rested. “You okay?”

A breathy laugh escaped you—equal parts spent and stunned. “More than okay.”

He smiled—soft, boyish, a little awed—then eased you onto your side without letting go. Blankets came up over bare skin; his palm settled over your heart as if to reassure himself it was still beating. “Did I do good for you?” He said quietly.

Your eyes were half open, considering how you managed to stay awake for the entire day was beyond you. But this was more than enough motivation to keep you awake and you were grateful for all of it. “It was…everything that I thought it would be. And more.”

He took the condom off and disposed of it at the bedside table. “I’m glad…” he smiles. “I…really care about you.” Riki kisses your lips gently, as if the lust just evaporated. 

“I care about you too. I don’t want this to end.” You shook your head with a smile. 

Riki stood up but not before kissing your hand and padding to a bathroom to bring a damp washcloth back. He wiped you down gently, muttering apologies when you flinched from the sensitivity. And when he finished, he tossed the cloth aside and crawled back into bed—pulling you into his chest, arms cocooning you like a shield.

Your eyes catch the digital clock that resided on a nearby desk, it reading 12:00 AM on the dot. You nudged him, “Look,” your mouth gaped in awe.

Riki’s eyes went in the direction of the desk but he squinted. “Fuck I need glasses.” He leaned up closer. “Oh shit!” He laughed, pointing at the clock. “If fate isn’t on our side then I don’t know what is. Truly.” Riki threw himself onto you, enveloping you in a hug. “Oh…my baby.” He squeezed you closer, the only thing between you both at this point being the duvet.

You hugged him too, smothering a laugh. “Well I guess I gave you those five and half hours.”

“Mhm, so…what do you say?” He leaned back, already knowing your answer but still wanting to take the formality. “Am I worth keeping around?”

You rolled your eyes fondly, letting your fingers trace the lines of his jaw. “You already know the answer.”

“I do,” he whispered, smiling like it still surprised him anyway. “But I think I just wanted to hear it.”

You leaned in to kiss him—slow, soft, and lingering. The kind of kiss that felt like a promise.

“I’m keeping you,” you said against his lips. “For as long as you’ll let me.”

“Forever then,” he said without missing a beat, his voice low and certain. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”

He pulled you closer, tucking your head beneath his chin. His heartbeat was slow and steady against your cheek, his breath fanning across your temple. Silence settled over the room, not awkward or empty, but full. Like it had been waiting for the two of you to claim it.

And maybe you didn’t know what the morning would bring—what the world outside this little cocoon of blankets and whispered confessions might say.

But right now, here, with his arms around you and your body still humming from the aftershocks of being truly wanted, truly seen, for the first time…

You let yourself believe him.

That forever didn’t sound so impossible after all.

[horny-marbles]

Hiii :(

I’m going through a painful breakup. Could you please write me a long ass heartbreaking EJ angst (not involving death/ cheating/ anything like that, just falling out of love)

Actually any CP is fine, I just want to cry

Thanks in advance if you do decide to write this

hi baby, i'm sorry to hear :( shit fucking sucks i know. sending you much love and healing and this fic i did a while back. i actually closed my reqs for the moment but i already had this written and i couldn't not post it lol. kisses and hugs, i hope everything falls into place for you soon💗

Erosion (Eyeless Jack x GN!Reader)

CW: angst with no comfort, light mentions of cannibalism and blood

wordcount 3.6k

You never flinched when you saw him.

That’s the first thing Jack would bring up later, in one of those rare, quiet moments where he let memory bleed through the cracks in his composure. “You didn’t flinch,” he’d murmur like it still surprised him, like it was something sacred. He’d say it with that low, flat voice of his, but you’d feel it anyway; in the way he touched your hand after, careful like he might still ruin it.

And it was true. You hadn’t flinched. Not at the sight of his eyeless face or the oily, unnatural gleam of the scar tissue that webbed through his sockets. You didn’t shrink from the smell of blood on his breath or the uncanny stillness in the way he moved. You’d just looked, and maybe that was what did it. You looked at him like he wasn’t a monster.

You’d loved him. You really fucking loved him.

It was one of those rare loves that felt mythic in its stillness. No explosions. Just gravity. The kind that anchored itself so deep in your chest it changed the way you breathed. It was like waiting for snow to melt through black dirt. Messy, quiet, inevitable. Every time you looked at him, you thought, I will never love someone like this again.

You didn’t fall in love all at once. You fell the way water seeps through cracks in stone—quiet, insistent. You learned him like erosion. You watched how he touched things only with gloves, how he turned his head slightly when you laughed, like it was something foreign but not unwelcome. You caught him listening. That was always the first step. Jack always listened before he ever allowed himself to care.

He didn't speak much at first, only watching you with his unreadable expression while you chattered nervously to fill the space. The stillness was brutal. He sat like stone, like bone-deep control. He observed. Measured. Not like a man, but like something old and starved of gentleness. Like he wasn’t just seeing you, but weighing you. Testing if your softness would rot like everything else.

It took months for him to let you see him without the mask.

And when he did, when he sat on the edge of your bed in the dark and peeled it off like it hurt him, you didn't gasp. You didn’t turn away. You looked.

And he flinched harder than if you had screamed.

You never thought someone so dangerous could seem so… tired. But maybe that’s what you loved first. How exhausted he was from carrying himself like a loaded gun. You wanted to be the one he could hand the weight to.

And eventually, he let you.

Not all at once. Jack didn’t work that way. But there were little moments. His hand resting on your lower back longer than necessary. The way his body leaned toward yours in sleep, as if pulled by instinct alone. That one time he let out a sound halfway between a sigh and a low, guttural hum, when your fingers curled into the back of his hair.

And through all of that, through all the things he didn’t say, he let you touch him.

Do you even understand what that meant?

Jack, who lived in endless control, who dissected every instinct, let you in. Carefully. Like one mistake would shatter everything and he’d never recover. You were the first person who didn’t try to fix him. The first who didn’t flinch. And God, he needed that. He needed you. He needed someone to be soft and unrelenting in their care, someone who wouldn’t hand him their fear like a fucking gift and ask him to carry it.

He trusted you. Slowly. Brutally.

You learned his habits like a language. The pauses in his speech meant he was filtering thoughts through caution. A low twitch in his jaw meant he was hungry and trying not to think about it. When he touched you bare-handed, it was his way of saying I trust you not to run.

And God, you were so sure you wouldn’t.

You remember the first time he touched you without gloves. The way his hands trembled—not from cold or nerves, but from restraint. From the raw fact that he hadn’t let himself feel skin like that in years. The warmth of your body against his made him go still, like the contact struck some bone-deep alarm that he silenced only for you.

“Are you afraid of me?” he’d asked, low, in that scraped, worn-out voice.

“No,” you said, and you meant it. He was many things, but not to you. Not dangerous. Not disgusting. You saw the monster, yes—but you saw him too. The man. The thing underneath. The part that still wanted, still longed. Jack didn��t believe in redemption, but he believed in you. Maybe that was worse. Maybe it was too much.

Because there’s something violent about being loved by someone who doesn’t think they deserve it. It’s beautiful. God, it’s beautiful, but it’s also fragile. Every kindness becomes a debt. Every mistake becomes betrayal. And you didn’t understand it at first. You didn’t see how love, to him, was a battleground where he was always about to be abandoned.

It was rocky. Of course it was. There were days he vanished for hours, came back with blood on his collar and glass in his fists. Nights where you reached for him and he flinched, not because of you, but because touch still felt like a trick. He didn’t know how to ask for closeness. He didn’t know how to keep it.

But you stayed.

You stayed when he shied away from your eyes. You stayed when he snarled through gritted teeth that he didn’t need anyone, even as his whole body leaned toward you. You stayed through the mutterings, the nightmares, the hours where he crouched on the kitchen floor gripping his head like something inside him was trying to crawl out.

And when he said “Don’t go,” barely audible, barely even him, you stayed.

Because you loved him. You loved every mangled, haunted part of him. You loved the way he dissected the world like a puzzle, loved the way he remembered every detail you’d ever mentioned. You loved that he never lied. That he didn’t know how to.

You believed in him.

And you thought it would be enough.

God, you thought it would be enough.

The beginning of the end started with a twitch. Not yours—his.

He hadn’t fed in over two weeks. You didn’t know that at first. You only noticed the tightness in his jaw, the sudden pauses mid-sentence like he was fighting something back. He got quieter. Still, somehow even more still. Like he was afraid that if he moved, he’d splinter. He sat on the floor more often, back pressed to the wall, hands loose in his lap like claws waiting for command.

You didn’t ask. You should have, maybe. But you didn’t want the answer.

Because you already knew.

You knew by the way he touched you. Gently, but from a distance, like your skin was a prayer he wasn’t allowed to speak anymore. You knew by the weight of his body beside you in bed, tense like a wound, holding his breath when you moved in your sleep. You knew by the silence after you laughed. It used to comfort him. Now it made him ache.

He was starving.

And it wasn’t just hunger. It was denial. He thought if he could just push past it, if he could go long enough without feeding, he wouldn’t need it anymore. Like a bad habit. Like an addiction. Like something love could fix.

But you were never meant to fix him.

And that’s what made it worse.

Because Jack did it for you.

Every second he went without tearing into someone’s chest, every hour he spent gritting his teeth as instinct clawed its way up his throat, it was all for you. Not because he saw the flicker in your eyes every time he came back, smelling like blood and rot, but because he felt it. Even blind, he felt it. The hitch in your breath. The spike in your pulse. The unconscious step you took back when he walked through the door. You tried to hide it. God, you tried.

But nature doesn’t forgive love.

You were still human. Your body remembered the old language of fear, even when your heart was fluent in devotion.

And still, you... stayed.

You stayed through the tension, through the growing silence. Through the weeks where he barely touched you. Where his voice became rawer, scraped thin by restraint. Where you found claw marks in the sink and didn’t ask questions. Where you woke up alone and found blood in the grass out back.

He always came home. Even when he shouldn’t.

Even when he knew the sight of him—trembling, soaked in gore, face slack from the afterglow of instinct—would make something in your chest twist violently. Even when your body stiffened in his arms, and you hated yourself for it. Even when you whispered, “It’s okay,” like a prayer, like a lie, like a desperate thread trying to hold it all together.

He always came back.

Because he couldn’t survive the guilt of not coming home to you.

So he’d run. He’d disappear into the woods, into the night, into the parts of the world that had long since stopped asking questions. You knew what he did out there. You knew he tore through homes, through throats, through families. Not because he wanted to, but because he had to. And when the haze lifted, when the blood dried and the hunger subsided, he always ended up at your doorstep. Sometimes hours later. Sometimes days. Eyes hollow, skin vibrating from adrenaline and self-loathing.

He never knocked. You left the door unlocked for him anyway.

And when he stumbled through it, like a dying man crawling back to his altar, you never said a word. You just opened your arms. Even if your stomach turned. Even if your hands shook. You opened your arms.

Because you loved him.

Because he was still him.

Because if you didn’t hold him, who the fuck would?

He wept once. You only saw it once.

You were sitting on the floor, his head in your lap, and he was still sticky with blood. He hadn’t changed. Hadn’t spoken. You were combing your fingers through his hair like it was a ritual, like touch could ward off the rot in his mind. And suddenly, his shoulders locked up, and he made this sound. Not a sob. Something quieter. Rawer. Like something breaking inside him.

“I tried,” he rasped. “I tried, I tried, I tried—”

You hushed him. You pressed your lips to the crown of his head, despite the blood caked in the strands, and whispered, “I know.”

But you didn’t. Not really. You couldn’t possibly.

Because you didn’t know what it was like to wake up with blood under your fingernails and a name you didn’t recognize in your mouth. You didn’t know what it was like to spend hours shaking, hoping you hadn’t gone too far this time. Hoping you hadn’t become what you always feared. Hoping the next time you walked through that door, you wouldn’t see revulsion in the eyes of the only person who had ever seen you and stayed.

And that’s the part that made him want to die. Not the hunger. Not the guilt. Not even the kills.

But that fucking look on your face when you tried to hide how afraid you were.

Because he would’ve ripped himself apart to make you feel safe. And the cruelest part of it all? He already was.

The thing about endings is, they never happen all at once. They don't knock. They whisper.

You still kissed him in the mornings. Still made coffee while he sat wrapped in a blanket like penance, still let his cold hand brush yours in passing. But something had shifted. Subtle at first. Molecular. You didn’t know it then, but it had already begun: the withering.

It wasn’t his fault. Not really. He hadn’t changed. You had just finally accepted that he never could.

You used to think he was a tragedy, a thing broken by the world, by the sharp teeth of circumstance and cruelty. Something to mourn. Something to heal. But time had worn that delusion down to the raw bone of truth.

He wasn’t just broken. He was built this way. Hurt was written into him. Etched into the dark sinew of who he'd become.

He was made to suffer, and to make others suffer by existing. And he hated it. You know he did. Every time he came back with blood on his teeth and a tremble in his shoulders, every time he whispered your name like a prayer he didn’t think he deserved, every time he curled around himself on your kitchen floor like a dying animal, you knew he fucking hated it.

But knowing that didn’t make it easier.

Because love couldn’t stitch his biology into something human. Because no amount of tenderness could override instinct. Because he was trying so hard to be good, and still, he fed.

And you tried to hold on. You fought to hold on.

You helped clean the mess when his body slackened post-feeding, wiped the blood from his jaw with shaking hands and kissed the sharp edge of his mouth like forgiveness. You whispered, “You’re not a monster,” like a vow you didn’t believe anymore. Because monsters choose to harm, and he didn’t choose this, not really. But he did hurt. He would hurt again. And the aftermath always ended up in your lap, like grief you never asked to carry.

Jack knew you loved him. That wasn’t the question. The question was whether that love was survivable.

And the answer started showing up in small ways. In how you didn’t reach for his hand as often. In how you stopped looking at him when he spoke. In how your voice softened too much, like you were soothing something on its deathbed.

You began to leave rooms before he entered them.

He noticed.

Of course he did. He couldn’t see your eyes but he could feel the absence of them. He could smell guilt like blood in water. He could hear the way you sighed after you thought he was asleep. Like the weight of him was something you couldn’t hold much longer. And worse, like you were mourning him while he was still breathing.

He asked you once, in the dark, “Are you afraid of me now?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t lie to him. Not when your heart was already a ghost in your chest.

The silence was enough. It was everything. He flinched. Not visibly, but internally. You felt it like a knife lodged between you. He rolled away. Didn’t speak again until morning.

You watched him, in the light of day, moving through your shared space like a haunting. Like someone trying not to take up space. And it hurt—god, it hurt—to see him so small. To see a creature built of fear and hunger trying to fold itself down into something harmless just so you’d stay.

But what neither of you ever said out loud, what gnawed at the edges of your mind every day like static, was this:

He didn’t need you to stay. He needed you to love him. And they weren’t the same thing anymore. And that was the real decay. That was where the love began to rot.

Not because you wanted it to. But because you realized... You were never enough to save him.

And the worst part? You still. Fucking. Stayed. Because leaving would hollow you out. Would turn your body to raw, weeping loss. Would unravel every moment you ever shared. But staying was its own kind of agony. It was watching him shatter and trying to pretend you hadn’t been the one to drop him.

So you stayed. You loved him in past tense, quietly. You smiled when you didn’t feel like it. You kissed him on the forehead instead of the mouth. You washed the blood out of his clothes and whispered, “It’s okay,” knowing it wasn’t.

And every day, he died a little more knowing he was losing you while you were still right beside him.

Erosion. That’s what it was. Slow. Silent. Unforgiving.

He used to picture the end like something cinematic. Violent. Devastating. You in a fit of fear, maybe screaming at him to get out, to stop hurting, stop being what he is. Or worse, you running from him, phone to your ear, the word monster trailing behind you like a scarlet ribbon. He imagined his own version, too, one where he lost control, finally, fully. Where hunger and madness swallowed him whole and he ended you because he couldn't survive without you.

But it didn’t happen like that.

No, it ended on a Tuesday.

He thinks it was Tuesday.

There was blood on the floor again. More than usual. His hands had trembled the whole way back, and he collapsed in the entryway like he always did, because your home was the only place he could fall apart in without fear of being killed for it. It used to be sanctuary.

This time, he didn’t even get a word out. You walked in barefoot, hair still damp from your shower, wearing the t-shirt he used to love you in, and you didn’t gasp. You didn’t flinch. You didn’t ask if he was okay.

You just sighed. Soft. Barely audible. And got the mop.

And that’s when he broke.

No screaming. No rage. Just his knees to his chest. Fingers clutching his skull. A low sound in his throat, cracked and animal.

He sobbed. But there were no tears. Just sound. Just shaking. Just pain with no exit.

You didn’t stop cleaning. Didn’t pause. Didn’t look. Just scrubbed the blood from the tile like it was ketchup, not evidence of the agony he’d tried to drown in.

And it didn’t hurt that you didn’t hold him. Not really. He understood. He always understood. He had lived without warmth his entire life. He had adapted to absence like some animals adapt to the dark.

But what gutted him, what turned the sobs to silence, what made his stomach hollow out like a carcass... Was the way you looked at the stain and not at him. The way your body moved around him like a chair or a table or a spilled drink. Like he wasn’t suffering. Like he wasn’t even there.

And for the first time, he wondered,

Do you think I deserve this?

Because once, you had looked at him like a question worth answering. Like a wound worth treating. Like something sacred that just needed love to stop unraveling.

Now, he couldn’t be sure.

Now, he thought maybe you’d stopped seeing a man trying to survive, and started seeing the thing that killed to keep breathing.

He didn’t ask that, though. He just asked, “Are you afraid of me?” Again. Voice low. Unsteady. Hoping.

And you didn’t look up. Didn’t stop. Didn’t speak.

Because what was left to say?

You had already said everything in the way you didn’t say anything anymore. The silence was a scalpel. It cut clean.

He didn’t leave right away. He couldn’t. He lingered like breath fogging a window. Like a stain of blood in old floorboards.

He hovered in doorways. Sat on the couch even when you didn’t sit beside him. He kept asking.

“Do you want me to go?”

“Is this what you want?”

“Do you still…?”

You never said no. But you never said yes, either.

And that was enough. Eventually. It wasn’t a door slamming. It wasn’t a fight. It wasn’t anything, really.

One night, he just didn’t come back.

And you noticed. Of course you did. The absence was a shout in the quiet of your routine. No blood on the porch. No heavy, trembling footsteps. No murmured apologies into your neck while he tried not to fall apart. Just… stillness.

And what's worse? You didn’t cry. You sat in the kitchen for a long time. Fingers wrapped around a mug gone cold. Eyes on the doorway. Waiting for something you no longer had the strength to want.

He’s gone. But you still flinch when the floor creaks at night. You still reach for two mugs instead of one. You still whisper, “Be careful,” to an empty room.

Because it ended. But it didn’t stop.

[damnfandomproblems]

8890:

How do you know it's a dude writing the "gross" fics? Are you just assuming, because you see something like that and assume it has to be a guy?

As a lesbian myself, if you're "scared for yourself and other women" because of fic posted on the internet by someone you've never met and 99.9% will never meet... you might need to take a step back and consider the fact that you might be overreacting to a piece of fiction. Makes me think that you don't actually know that fiction doesn't equal reality.

Posting as a response to a previous problem.

[ticklish-n-stuff]

Certain mood

If this looks like it was written by some crack addict, I'm on my time of the month and my sleep has been all over the place so that's my excuse uwu

I had this half finished fic ages ago, I think it was originally for tktober, but I finished it now LMAO

Will I eventually write something without Kazuha? Who knows

Enjoy<3

Also on ao3

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Kazuha x Heizou (romatic)

Lee: Heizou

Ler: Kazuha

Warnings: Tickles!

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Oh, this was no bueno. Heizou could feel the giddiness rise up his chest and the way his skin started to feel all tingly. 

Oh yeah, one of those moods hit. That mood that made him want to be turned into a puddle of laughter with zero  thoughts running through his usually hyperactive brain. Where he could fully let go and let someone else take control for a change. There was only one problem… His partner, Kazuha, as sweet and kind as he was, was unaware of these moods that Heizou got. As smart as the detective could be, he had no clue on how to open up about this. 

‘So like I sometimes get these moods where I want you to tickle me until I forget my name’ …yeah, that was not going to work. Even Kazuha might find that a little weird. Surely there had to be another way…

And that’s when it hit him. Maybe he could provoke his partner into tickling him. Nothing could possibly go wrong with that plan… right?

~~~

Orange and pink hues shone down on Inazuma, casting a warm glow by the shore, where a wandering samurai found himself resting peacefully on top of a rock. He didn’t need to open his eyes to figure out that his lover was approaching him, he could always rely on the sounds of nature to tell him these things. 

“What brings you here, dear detective?” his eyes remained closed as he awaited a response, only to be met with silence. How strange. “Heizou-?” he calls out once more, eyes half-lidded as they adjust to the light. His words get cut short as the air is quite literally knocked out of his lungs. On top of him sits his lover, looking down at him with a face full of mischief. 

“Did I accidentally wake you up? I’m so terribly sorry~” Heizou, in fact, did not look sorry at all. His lips were quirked into a smug smirk.

Kazuha couldn’t even get upset at that, letting out an amused chuckle. “I take it there’s something you want from me?” 

The samurai’s bluntness was usually a welcomed trait, but now it managed to irk Heizou. Of course, he wasn’t about to give his partner the satisfaction of seeing his composure fall apart, so he brushed it off with his usual teasy demeanor. “Me? Want something? You look like the eager one to me~”

There was a bout of silence. Olive eyes met red ones, usually filled to the brim with patience, but feeling tested by Heizou’s antics.

In the blink of an eye, Heizou watched his world turn upside down, literally. Their positions were now reversed, Kazuha straddling him this time. An innocent smile rested on his lips, though his ruby colored eyes showed a flash of mischief. “I tried doing this the easy way, but it seems you’ve forced my hand…”, he leaned down to whisper against Heizou’s ear, “I know how to loosen those lips, detective~” 

With a sweet kiss to Heizou’s cheek, Kazuha’s hands wormed their way up the detective’s bare sides, fingers wiggling in a gentle yet relentless motion.

“AH-! WahAIt! KazuHAh-!” was this really happening?! Does Kazuha somehow know this is what he wanted all along?! Surely not. The samurai is usually so forward about these things, he would’ve said something by now. Still, to think he’d resort to using the very thing the detective wants in order to get him to talk. What are the odds? Heizou couldn’t dwell much on that as choked laughter forced its way out of his lips.

“Wait? Wait for what? You don’t seem to mind so much~” his fingers climbed up the exposed set of ribs, massaging his thumbs between each bone.

Heizou could feel his mind grow fuzzier with each ticklish shock that coursed through his body. He was in pure bliss, unable to fight back even if he wanted to. All he could do was laugh and flail and squeeze his eyes shut as if somehow that would help lessen the embarrassment. 

Seeing the blatant joy in his partner’s face, Kazuha was slowly starting to piece together what was happening. Who was he to deny his lovely detective’s wishes? “Don’t worry, my love. I’ll give you exactly what you want~”

______________________________________________________________

[loves-n-kisses]

Hii!! I'm new to your page but I absolutely love your fics. Do you recon it'd be possible for us to get a second part to your recent shinsou fic? I'm actually so obsessed with it I want to eat it like a delicious soup

I literally laughed so hard--that made my day 😭

here is another soup for you to enjoy 🤠

Mind's Misstep: Part 2! Hitoshi Shinsou x Reader!

A story where Shinsou still needs a teeny weeeny bit of reassurance.

TW: cursing

THIS IS A SLOW BURN, B*TCHES!! MWAHAHAHA!! (Lots of banter!)

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The UA training grounds thrummed with the distant clamor of Class 1-A’s sparring—explosions from Bakugou, Midoriya’s enthusiastic shouting, and Aizawa’s occasional dry reprimands. You and Shinsou, however, were tucked away in a quieter corner, tasked with quirk control drills instead of brawling. The memory of yesterday’s slip—Shinsou’s quirk accidentally kicking in during the dorms—lingered like static in the air, charging every glance between you.

You lounged on the grass, tossing a stress ball up and catching it with a lazy flourish. Shinsou leaned against a nearby tree, arms crossed, his purple hair glinting in the late afternoon sun. He looked broodier than usual, his sharp eyes flicking between you and the ground like he was wrestling with something.

“So,” you said, breaking the silence with a playful lilt, “you planning to make me juggle this ball with your mind powers, or are we playing nice today, Hitoshi?”

His gaze snapped to you, narrowing at the use of his first name. “You’re pushing it,” he said, but the faint quirk of his lips betrayed him. He pushed off the tree, stepping closer, hands shoved deep in his pockets. “Aizawa’s got me on a leash. No quirk today. Just… control practice.”

You caught the ball, smirking as you leaned back on your elbows. “Control, huh? Big challenge for you, considering you nearly had me reciting hero laws like a lovesick poet yesterday.”

His eyebrows shot up, a flush creeping up his neck. “Lovesick poet? You’re reaching,” he muttered, but he didn’t look away, his voice dropping lower. “Careful, or I might make you write me a sonnet next time.”

You laughed, tossing the ball at him. He caught it one-handed, his reflexes annoyingly smooth. “Oh, please,” you teased, sitting up. “You’d blush so hard you’d pass out before I got to the first line.”

“Bold words for someone who’d probably trip over their own ego trying,” he shot back, twirling the ball on one finger like he was showing off. He stepped closer, close enough that you could see the faint freckles dusting his cheeks. “You okay, though? After… yesterday?”

You tilted your head, catching the genuine worry in his eyes despite his cool tone. “I’m fine, Mr. Overthinker. You didn’t exactly turn me into a villain’s puppet. Besides, I’m building mental armor now. You’ll have to try way harder to get in my head again.”

He snorted, tossing the ball back to you with a little more force. “Mental armor? You practically dove for that textbook. I’d have you doing cartwheels before you could blink.”

You caught the ball, grinning as you stood, brushing grass off your pants. “Big talk for someone who panicked like I’d caught fire. Admit it, you were more shaken than I was.” You stepped toward him, closing the gap, your voice teasing. “Worried you’d lose your favorite training partner?”

His eyes flicked over your face, lingering a beat too long. “Favorite’s a stretch,” he said, but his voice was softer, a little rough around the edges. “You’re… tolerable. Barely.”

“Tolerable?” you gasped, clutching your chest dramatically. “Hitoshi Shinsou, you wound me. And here I thought we had something special.”

He rolled his eyes, but the flush on his cheeks deepened, and he didn’t step back. “Keep dreaming,” he muttered, though his gaze didn’t leave yours. “You’re trouble, you know that?”

“Only the best kind,” you said, winking as you tossed the ball back. He caught it, his fingers brushing yours for a split second—long enough to send a spark up your arm. You ignored it, or tried to, and pushed on. “For real, though. You good? You’ve got that ‘I’m carrying the world’s problems’ vibe again.”

He stilled, his fingers tightening around the ball. “I’m fine,” he said, too quick, too sharp. He sighed, raking a hand through his hair, tugging at the strands. “It’s just… I’ve spent years locking my quirk down. Drilled it into my skull. And then I slip over something dumb. If I can’t keep it together with you—” He cut himself off, jaw clenching. “What happens in a real fight? Or with a crowd?”

You softened, stepping closer until you were only a foot apart. “You’re spiraling,” you said gently, searching his face. The bags under his eyes were stark in the sunlight, his usual deadpan mask cracking. “You slipped, yeah, but you stopped it. You caught it fast, Shinsou. That’s not nothing. Most people wouldn’t have that reflex.”

He huffed, the sound bitter. “Reflexes don’t mean shit if I mess up in the first place. Heroes don’t get to screw around like that.”

“You’re not a hero yet,” you said, voice firm but kind. “You’re a student, same as me. We’re all disasters. Remember when I misfired my quirk and nearly turned the training gym into a crater? Aizawa had to yank me out of the debris.”

A reluctant smile tugged at his lips. “Yeah, you looked like a ragdoll. Pathetic.”

“Rude!” you laughed, nudging his shoulder. He didn’t pull away, and the contact felt like it lingered. “Point is, I didn’t quit, and you’re not gonna either. You’re too stubborn, and honestly? Way too cute when you’re brooding.”

His eyes widened, the ball nearly slipping from his grip. “Cute?” he sputtered, the word clearly throwing him. “You’re out of your mind.”

“Am I?” you teased, leaning in just a fraction, your voice dropping. “Bet I could make you blush harder than that if I tried.”

He stared at you, caught off guard, then muttered, “You’re gonna regret saying that.” But his voice was unsteady, and the way his eyes flicked to your lips for a split second didn’t go unnoticed.

You grinned, stepping back to give him space before the moment got too heavy. “Your quirk’s intense, no question. But you’re not a walking disaster. You’re Hitoshi Shinsou, future pro hero, and I’m not just saying that to flirt with you.” You paused, then added with a smirk, “Well, maybe a little.”

He let out a choked laugh, shaking his head. “You’re impossible,” he said, but his tone was warm, the tension in his shoulders easing. “Fine. If I’m stuck with you, you’re helping with these drills. No slacking, troublemaker.”

“Deal,” you said, holding out your pinky. He stared at it, then at you, like he was debating whether to play along. After a beat, he hooked his pinky with yours, his touch lingering a little longer than necessary, warm and steady.

“Good,” he said, pulling back with a faint smirk. “Now throw that ball properly, or I’ll make you run laps without my quirk.”

You laughed, tossing the ball at him with a playful spin. “Only if you say ‘pretty please’ first, Hitoshi.”

He caught it, groaning, but the flush on his cheeks and the spark in his eyes told you he wasn’t as annoyed as he pretended. As you settled into the drills, trading jabs and glances, the shadow from yesterday faded, replaced by a crackling tension that felt less like fear and more like something neither of you was quite ready to name—one toss, one quip, one heartbeat at a time.

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Note: I used a dictionary to find words to use in this one. A physical dictionary. What am I, a boomer? (yes) I actually love this one so much it's unreal. Seriously questioning how this came out of my brain.

-made with loves n' kisses! 💋✨

[thesylverlining]

Give It To Me (A Disco Elysium One-Shot)

(In which Harry is reminded fatphobia exists, and he's at the painful end of it. Fortunately, he's with a guy he'll always listen to before any other nonsense.)

- - -

His bare hands inch lower, down Harry's pecs to the region where lower chest meets and becomes upper belly. Harry's always so adorable when Kim gets here, ticklish, loving the closeness, reveling in affection, anticipating pleasure, trusting--and how obvious it must be that Kim loves his body, wants it, wants him, wants to devour him whole and will in his own sweet time, but first his trousers need to be unbuttoned, fly down, shirt untucked, Kim's hands slipping eagerly underneath to--

Harry goes still. Sucks in a breath, and his belly recedes like waterline in a choking drought. Then practically freezes over, every muscle locked where before they were warm goo, and Kim stops as well.

- - -

First ever DE fic, inspired by seeing one too many slimmed-down Harrys (Harries?) in various tags (presented as a good thing). Let that man be fat and beautiful and loved! And realized in writing this, Kim would definitely Get his concerns more than anyone might expect.

And some slight kink exploration/negotiation in the form of figuring out how to worship someone as a Dom but not an Innocent/Deity. Always fascinating.

[tangerinefish]

Signups are open for the BFDI fic exchange until June 1st!

https://archiveofourown.org/collections/tangygiftex1

Have you ever needed to ask for requests just to get writing inspiration? Or have you wanted to meet other members of the writing community, but been unsure how? Or have you desperately wanted someone else to write an idea that's been living in your head without paying rent?

Look no further than this gift exchange! To join, add your desired tags/details for your request (the fic someone else will write for you). Then, add your desired tags/details for up to two offers (the fic[s] you will write for someone else). And you're done!

The deadline for gifts is at the end of the month. We hope to see you there!

If you have friends who might be interested as well, reblog this post or tag them!

me if you don't join /nf /j

[lovealwayssay]

I would pay an ungodly amount of money for a Supernatural finale where Dean rescues Cas from the Empty and tells him he loves him too, Eileen comes back to be with Sam, and Jack chooses to live with the four of them in the bunker as a happy family.

[goosecastle41]

Idk just the imagery of Kremy using Gideon for warmth

Like yeah okay we’ve all thought of this cause duh alligator man and fire man go good together blah blah

But the imagery of Kremy slinking out of his tent on a cold night out in the woods. He and Gideon have been traveling together for a good while now; started just as the weather was wearing off from winter, the warmth coming back into the world. They’ve been traveling together for so long the weathers turning bitter.

Their fire had long since been extinguished and the wind whips around their makeshift campsite. Even despite the trees, the cold air rushes through like waves, chilling Kremy’s already cold blood to ice. No matter how deeply he burrows into his tent, swathed in his blankets, he can’t seem to retain any of his heat.

I just I magine him pulling his thickest blanket tighter around himself as the wind beats against his shivering body, looking towards the second tent in the small clearing. Debating with himself; “Would he even be okay with this?” “It’s just for warmth.. He’s a god damn walkin’ heater, it only makes sense…” “But he didn’t sign up for THIS-“

Another wash of icy wind sweeps through, making Kremy flinch and pull the blanket just the smallest bit closer. He concludes as he walks to Gideons tent that, Gideon in fact DID sign up for this when they created their contract. Gideon is Kremy’s bodyguard, and in return Kremy feeds Gideon and gives him a percentage of whatever cons he helps Kremy pull off. Kremy can’t feed and pay him if he freezes to death in his tent overnight.

Imagine Kremy creeping towards the tent, seeing a soft glow emanating from inside. He can see from a crack in the tent flap the embers in Gideons hair and beard. Even in his sleep Gideon burns hot. Opening the tent flap is like opening the door to a stove; hot air rushing out at him due to the colder air outside. The warmth blankets Kremy and he can’t even begin to think about stopping the sigh that leaves him.

I imagine Gideon as a light sleeper. He never slept well while he was held on the train; hell he couldn’t even sleep laying down without his arms being hung in the air thanks to the chains attached to the car walls.. But he could and did sleep on the train. The constant noise and rattle of the cars, the sound of the fire he constantly stoked, the voices and laughter of those awful hobgoblins, the trains blaring whistle.. it was all his lullaby for years. Despite how horrible those years on the train had been, the first night he tried to sleep off of it, he laid awake in bed until sunrise.

Gideon couldn’t hear a thing over the sounds of the train. There really wasn’t much else to hear expect for the sounds stated above. There wasn’t much else to worry about. But outside of the train and it’s constant noise… there was so much more. Gideon knew what to expect from the train.

The sigh wakes Gideon from his sleep. His eyes pop open, immediately alert as he quickly scans around his tent. It takes nothing more than a second for Gideon to spot Kremy and relax the tension that flooded into his shoulders.

“Krem? Ever’thin’ ‘lright?” He’d ask, his voice thick with sleep as he moves to sit up in his bedroll.

Kremy would hesitate to open his mouth a moment, having forgotten to actually come up with what to say to Gideon. He could just be upfront and explain that he’s cold… But making up some long winded excuse that doesn’t involve looking weak willed has always been Kremy’s go to.

When he does actually open his mouth to start on the second option, another blast of cold air hits and makes Kremy shiver hard, eyes squinting against the torrent of sharp winds. He ducks deeper into his blanket cocoon, anything he could have said blown away with the wind.

Gideon watches this and immediately gets the picture here. Gideon can be.. a dense man. He’s not exactly the sharpest knife in the drawer ya know. But he cares for Kremy. Kremy’s done so much for him over the time they’ve been together.. He’s given Gideon some kind of purpose. He’s given Gideon a sense of belonging. He’s given Gideon a constant companion… He gave Gideon that little comb, the first thing anyone has ever given to him of their free will.

The least Gideon can give back is some warmth.

“Geez, man, get in here and close that behind ya, would ya? Lettin’ all the heat out.” Gideon would say, moving to lay back down again while shuffling to the side to allow Kremy into the warm spot that had been beneath Gideon.

Kremy blinks once, twice.. Unsure. A smaller gust beats at his back, forcing Kremy into the heat of Gideons tent. He quickly secures the tent flaps closed before he practically dives into the warmth Gideon has offered.

Kremy curls up on the warm patch of tent ground Gideon had just been on moments before while Gideon is radiating heat to Kremy’s back that he can feel even through his blanket burrito. Kremy closes his eyes, more than content with the way these events have gone.

That is until he feels Gideons hand on the blanket. Kremy’s eyes pop open again as he hears Gideon speak,

“Share. You’ll get warmer faster and stay warm.”

He feels Gideon pull one side of the blanket out from under him, moving to pull it over himself before he shuffles back closer to his original spot. He’s practically pressed against Kremy’s back, hardly an inch separating them. Kremy stiffens up like a board, waiting with almost bated breath to see what comes next… But Gideon just settles behind Kremy, not touching him but just a hairsbreadth away from it…

“Can’t have you freezin’ on me now…” Kremy hears Gideon mutter behind him.

“Yeah… who would feed ya if I did?”