#sometimes I feel suffocated under all that’s happened to me

[astraystayyh]

Bleeding heart dove

pairing: idol!chan x lawyer!reader. youngerbrother!seungmin.

genre: f2l. slow burn. angst (lots of it). fluff. (un)requited love. forced proximity. law/corruption sub-plot.

warnings: parental loss. grief. self-depreciating thoughts. suicidal thoughts. reader has she/her pronouns. this is a work of fiction. the actions and timeline depicted in the story don’t represent the idols in real life.

word count: 25.7k.

You are ashamed, even in the privacy of your thoughts, of this longing, of this sharp ache. For even thinking, daring to dream of a world where you could behold his warm hands into your butchered ones. Where he’d let you. Where you’d let yourself.

It feels like death to think of Chan, it feels like living too.

a.n: she’s finally here!!!! i haven’t written for chris in such a long time and i’m so grateful to @kayleefriedchicken for commissioning this fic :,) it spiraled and i took some creative liberties that’s why it’s so long now LMAO but i hope you’ll enjoy reading!!!! i challenged myself writing this, it is a bit different from my other fics. much heavier too. but i’m slowly finding a writing structure i truly enjoy. i love you all 🤍 thank you for waiting for me

They say that smells are little vessels of memories, wrapping themselves around moments in time. When a certain scent floats by you, it doesn’t graze your shoulder like a stranger in the streets, never to be seen again.

No, smells seize you by the wrist, their nails sinking deep into the softness of your skin. Scents do not pass. They pull. They lead you into the locked corridors of your mind, to places you thought had crumbled into dust, memories buried seven feet under by the weight of years.

You smell rust.

Many may not recognize it, most might not even notice it. But you do. The scent of rust is etched into your nostrils, carved along your nerve endings, again and again. It smells earthy, metallic, sharp—like blood smeared on your tongue against your will.

As everything in your life has ever been.

Every orphanage you lived in reeked of rust. It seeped into the walls, staining them beneath layers of pale, lifeless paint. It curled into the battered beds and damp linens. You tried to pinch your nose shut at night, suffocating against the foul scent. But rust was patient. Rust had time. And so, naturally, rust always won.

It was a cruel smell at that— the scent of things stolen— childhood, innocence, soft mornings, your very ability to dream.

You were ten years old when both your parents died in a tragic accident. A drunk driver slammed into their car and made it combust into flames. He was quickly caught and cast into prison. But what did that serve you? Your parents were gone. What respite would this semblance of justice bring you?

That part of your life remains hazy since there was no room to mourn, only movement, hands ushering you from one orphanage to another. Each time the walls could no longer contain any more children. Any more grief.

And you were only ten.

But Seungmin was only six.

Your brother didn’t understand what was happening. Why did he have to leave his shiny toys and Pochacco-themed bed behind? He cried at night for your parents, his wails cresting and receding like waves against a fragile shore.

Sometimes, he cried so fiercely that no one could calm him—not even you. You would leave him to sob until exhaustion claimed him. You envied him, in a way. Sleep refused to visit you. You were sentenced to lay awake instead, burdened by responsibilities too heavy for your small hands. Yet, when you glanced at Seungmin’s resting form, the ache in your chest eased, just slightly. If he could rest, that was enough.

You didn’t know it then, but this thought would become the basis of your entire life. You’d give and give, tear at your own flesh if it meant Seungmin would remain intact and safe.

The first orphanage was small. Twenty beds crammed together in a single room. It was a temporary holding place while the city council decided your fate. Orphans, you realized, were like misplaced luggage—tagged and eagerly discarded, waiting for someone, anyone, to claim them.

The second orphanage was somewhat worse. There were a hundred beds this time, a larger playground, warmer food. But the older kids were cruel. That’s what you remember. Rust and cruelty, entwined.

They shoved you hard against the ground on your first night there. And then, they turned to Seungmin. The moment their hands reached for him, something primal surged within you—a burning, blistering rage as if your very being was dipped into scalding water. You lashed out, punching the nose of one of the older boys. Blood. Yours, his, theirs. It all blurred together.

Then, punishment quickly followed: no more dinner for three days.

Seungmin didn’t understand. He tugged at your sleeve, crying that he was hungry late at night. That’s when you decided it was better to endure in silence. To take the blows, as long as your brother could eat.

By thirteen, you arrived at Promise Orphanage. Your hand trembled in Seungmin’s grip as Miss Jeeho introduced you both. Forty-four pairs of eyes bore into you, gliding over the faint bruises that painted your arms like ink stains.

You braced yourself for the worst. But then, a girl stepped forward, her hair a messy halo around her face. Her smile was wide, her eyes bright despite the dust coating her skin. She held out her hand, and you noticed how rough and calloused it was for her age. How warm it was too.

“I’m Winter,” she said, her voice soft.

You blinked at the odd name, then nodded. Later, you would learn she had been abandoned as a newborn, left nameless at the orphanage’s doorstep. It was a cold night when the workers found her, with heavy snow. It was surprising she didn’t pass from pneumonia.

Winter chose her name after the season she was born, since her parents didn’t bother to do so for her.

You came to realize that in these walls, even something as mundane as a name was a privilege, something the world could simply not grant you at birth.

“I’m Y/n, and this is Seungmin,” you replied, gripping your brother’s clammy hand. There was steel in your voice as you said his name, ensuring everyone knew he wasn’t to be touched.

But the other children simply smiled at you, and you tried to smile back. Though it came out much more like a grimace. Smiling felt foreign to you, like a muscle long unused.

Promise Orphanage then became your home for five long years. The children were kinder, their grins did not sharpen into unkind hands. Your bed was slightly bigger. You got gifts for your birthday and cake on New Year’s. You always gave yours to Seungmin— the better toys, the bigger slices, the softest pillows. You hoped it would make him feel better, even for a second.

But rust remained.

It followed you when you turned eighteen, into your first apartment. A single room, smaller than your childhood kitchen. But it was enough. Enough to build a life for Seungmin, to earn his custody, to gift him the privilege of dreaming.

Though even then, when Seungmin laughed, when he sang with Winter, when you had enough warm showers to forget the cold of the orphanage, you wondered if other people could still smell the rust like you did.

Perhaps it was your mind’s way of reminding you that, even if you shut your eyes so tightly that colors bloomed behind your eyelids— even if you thought hard enough of your summer home and salt-kissed winds, if you strained to hear your parents’ airy laughter calling you to dinner— this was not home.

It never could be.

“Y/n?”

Han’s voice slips through the fog of your memories, bright and familiar. You blink, the haze receding like chimney smoke to find him leaning casually against the doorframe.

He’s the first one out of the stylist’s room, his hair falls in soft waves over his forehead, and silver dust coats his eyes, catching the overhead lights like scattered stars.

“Hey, Han,” you greet, pulling him into a brief hug.

His grin is as easy as ever—warm and full of mischief. “Like the makeup?”

“It’s perfect,” you reply, poking his rosy cheeks.

“The boys are still getting ready,” he says, falling in step beside you as you walk toward the waiting room. Shelves stacked with instant noodles, water bottles, chips, and candy stare back at you.

“Figured.”

Your gaze flickers to the jelly candies, and you smile. You can already picture Hyunjin diving for them first and Seungmin scolding him for his sugar intake.

Jiho, the manager, greets you with a nod, and you return the gesture.

“You seemed far away just now,” Han notes, twisting the cap off a water bottle.

You exhale slowly. “The vents smell like rust. This whole place can quickly turn into a safety hazard. That’s a lawsuit waiting to happen.”

Han gasps in mock horror, clutching his chest. “Why is it that every time you talk about law, I feel like I’m about to be sued?”

You swat his arm, giggling at his theatrics, before pinching his forearm lightly.

“Hey—“ he yelps and you narrow your eyes at him.

“I should actually sue you for not visiting my new office though,” you point out, doing a neck-slicing motion with your hand.

“Okay, creepy. AND, for my defense, I sent you that fruit basket, didn’t I? Been busy writing songs. You know how it is when inspiration strikes me.”

You do.

It tugs at a distant summer, long days spent on the coast of Jeju Island alongside the boys, to celebrate your first successful case. Han locked away with his notebook while the sea breeze knocked at his window. He only joined you once he had finished writing the lyrics of two new songs. Some of your favorites too, at that.

“There she is! You’re smiling,” Han says, poking your cheek.

“Just remembering our trip.”

He sighs dreamily, before slinging his arm around your shoulders. “Best summer ever. Next time, the vacation’s on me. Pinky promise.”

Your smile softens, warmth pooling within the cracks of your heart.

Han was angry once, when you had first met him. Just like you. But where his anger burned bright, yours hid beneath the surface, smoldering slowly. But time softened his edges. You wonder if the same could ever be said for you.

“You’re here,” Seungmin appears suddenly, peeling Han’s arm away from your shoulder with a scowl. Han retaliates by blowing you an overly exaggerated kiss before wandering toward the vending machine.

“I finished up the case early,” you explain.

Seungmin’s gaze narrows slightly, scanning the lines of your outfit.

“And why are you so dressed up?”

“Can’t a sister look nice for her favorite brother’s first sold-out concert at the Kyocera Dome?” you tease, clasping your hands.

Jiho snorts from his seat. Traitor.

“I’m your only brother, and we both know you’re lying,” Seungmin deadpans.

It’s endearing—the way he shields you from heartbreak as if he hasn’t spent his whole life beneath the cover of your arms.

It’s foolish too— as if you still have a heart that beats hard enough to love, then to break.

“Fine. I have a date after the show.”

“With who?” Hyunjin’s voice drifts in as he steps into the hallway, Changbin trailing closely behind.

You smile. “Jaehyun.”

Seungmin pinches the bridge of his nose. “You know I don’t love him.”

“And who said I do?” you ask, a sly smile tugging at your lips.

“Then why do you still meet up with him?”

“Because he’s fun. And I like spending my time with fun people.”

Changbin leans in, grinning wide. “I’m fun too. Why not date me?”

He drapes his arm over your shoulder, and Seungmin groans, pretending to smash his head against the wall repeatedly.

“Alright, alright, stop the flirting,” you laugh, shaking your head. “I fear you’ll end up killing my brother.”

Seungmin pouts, and you laugh softly, pulling him in for a tight embrace. “Look at you, performing in such a big arena,” the words suddenly catch in your throat, a silky rope tightly binding the syllables together. “You know that I’m proud of you, right?”

You smile, and Seungmin holds you a little closer.

“Yeah,” he breathes. “Thank you for coming. I really wanted you here.”

You clear your throat, stepping back with a playful flick to his arm. “I’ll see you after the show. Say hi to the rest of the boys for me.”

“You’ll do great,” you add, and his smile softens like sunlight melting across the sea.

His voice follows you down the hall. “We’re still talking about this date later, though!”

“Seungmin loves acting as if she isn’t older than him—” Swat.

—

There is one peculiar emotion that always beats within your heart at your brother’s concert halls. It is warm, like beholding a glowing sun within the empty hollows of your ribcage. It swells and swells, spreading within your being like paint spilled on canvas— soaking your heart in wildflower hues.

You feel relieved to see your brother and his friends so loved. You sense it in the cacophony of cheers, in the misty eyes of all the fans surrounding you. You know that the boys can feel it too. In the shaking of their voices as they take turns saying their ending ments. It is a monumental moment for them, something they only dared dream of back when they were still trainees and you had to sneak snacks into their dorm.

It is Seungmin’s turn to speak. His shaking hand barely manages to hold the mic. Seungmin doesn’t cry as often as before. Never in front of you anymore. He suddenly stopped once he turned fifteen, as if he had made a vow to himself, to lift off some of his worries off your burdened spine.

But tonight, unmistakable tears gather at the edges of his eyes, glinting like faraway constellations.

He tilts his head toward the sky, and you wonder who these words are really addressed to.

Deep down you already know the answer to this.

“My sister is here tonight,” he starts and tears glisten in your eyes, all of the sudden. “If I’m here today it’s all thanks to her, so I– I hope you’re proud of me,” he says, voice tight, breaking. But he still speaks. “You know, I… I don’t believe in forever—” his lips tremble like leaves at the mercy of autumn winds. A faint ringing surges through your ears, muffling the sound of everything until only his sharp words remain. “But just at this moment, being with the members and everyone who stood by our side, I— I want to believe in eternity with you.”

The crowd roars at his words. Cameras flash everywhere. The boys quickly move forward to wrap Seungmin in their arms.

But you’re not here anymore.

You’re somewhere quieter. Smaller. Somewhere dimly lit by flickering hallway lights and hushed whispers past curfew.

Your hands shake, pressing into your thighs as if their weight might ground you. But the cold creeps in anyway, walking alongside your veins, settling into your heart like an old companion.

—

He was eight.

His hair stuck to his forehead in damp curls, and the faint glow of the moon reflected onto his eyes like a gleaming water surface.

You remember smoothing his bangs away, tucking him beneath a worn blanket that didn’t quite reach his toes. He didn’t mind. Seungmin never minded the small things.

“Did you make a wish?” you whispered. It was his birthday. Birthdays never got easier for Seungmin, nor for you. Most days you were just pretending— that you knew what you were doing, that your knees were strong enough to hold you upright. Pretending that you had what it takes to protect your brother when you, yourself, were in desperate need of protection.

How do you salvage innocence in halls that spell out loss and grief at every turn? How do you make a birthday a happy memory in such a terrible place ?

Seungmin blinked up at you as his small hand curled around your fingers.

“I said that I want to see mommy and daddy again.”

The air had thickened then, and the knot in your throat twisted so tight it left no room for you to breathe.

You forced on a smile anyway. “You will,” you promised, voice soft but unsteady. “Soon.”

He paused, blinking slowly.

“What’s forever?”

The question felt like a swinging pendulum suddenly came to a halt— Seungmin’s innocence slipping away from your shaky grasp.

“Why do you ask?”

“I told Gyuvin I’ll see our parents soon. But he said that you lied, and it will take forever until then.”

Your chest tightened. You knew Gyuvin had a mean streak—sharp edges chiseled by loneliness and unspoken grief. You never held it against him. He was only eight too.

Still.

“He’s joking, Seungminnie,” you murmured, brushing your thumb over his knuckles. “Forever just means something that doesn’t end. Like numbers. Numbers don’t end, right?”

He thought for a moment, lips pressing into a pout.

“Would you like to believe in forever?” you asked, teasing gently.

“No,” he said quietly, “Because then I’ll be sad for a very long time. I want the time to pass quickly.”

Oh.

Seungmin drifted off not long after, his breaths soft and even. But you stayed awake—long enough for the world outside to fall silent. Long enough to bury your face in the pillow, stifling the sobs that trembled past your chapped lips.

Seungmin was only nine.

But you were only thirteen.

And you missed your parents, so terribly so. You wished your mom was there, combing your hair with fingers that seemed to be made up of silk. You wished you could press your ear to her chest and listen to her heartbeat, breathe it in, soak in the love that the sound seemed to spell out for you.

You wished your dad was here, holding your hand in his much larger, weathered down one— rivulets of age running between his knuckles. You wished he’d carry you once more on his shoulders, tall enough for you to reach out to the stars, to foolishly believe you’d be able to graze them with your fingertips. You wished they were still here. You hated them for being gone. You hated yourself for hating them, even for a millisecond. For allowing the thought to filter through the endless void that constitutes your mind.

You thought of what it’d be like to float atop the sea near your home. Of letting the waves carry you deep into the darkness of the water. Of sinking deep enough that you wouldn’t feel anything anymore. You couldn’t bear it. You couldn’t bear having a heart that kept demanding you to live. It felt like a curse, like every heartbeat spelled out horrible truths for you. You wished for it to stop. All of it. All of you.

—

“Yah, Y/n why aren’t you smiling?” Changbin nearly shouts in your face and you and Jeongin scurry away on cue, cradling your ears at his loud voice.

You plaster a smile on your face, force the corners of your mouth to tug forward— “Because! You’re all sweaty and pressing onto me,” you say, and a cacophony of protests erupts all at once— “this is the sweat of hard work”, “but our sweat smells nice though!”, a groan, “that’s just you Hyunjin.”

Your yelp as a hand suddenly wraps around your wrist, Felix’s, pulling into the middle for a group hug.

“Stop, your sweat will rub off of me!” Your high-pitched shriek causes all of them to back off on cue, giggling loudly.

You don’t give yourself a second to breathe, afraid that your mask will slip away quicker than you can stop it. You take advantage of the commotion to kiss Seungmin’s cheek quickly, avoiding his gaze as you run off to the entrance. “You all did well! I’ll have to go now! My date is waiting!”

You don’t leave him time to respond as you scurry away, leaving the backstage. You can feel the oxygen settle like stones into the pit of your heart, weighing the rushing of your blood down. It takes you excruciatingly long to breathe. Being here suffocates you all of a sudden.

You remember your wish, for the waves to carry you away into whichever place they rest in. What a violent thing for a thirteen-year-old to wish for. What a violent thing to still seek now deep into your twenties. You felt guilty. To be surrounded by many people who love you and yet to not feel loved.

You’re almost outside when a warm hand curls around your wrist.

“Seungmin, I told you I’m—” you turn around expecting to see your little brother’s gaze, full of mischief, full of affection, only to be met with Chan’s worried one. Your retort dies on the tip of your tongue, like a deflating balloon. You try your hardest to plaster a smile on your face but it comes off like a grimace. Chan’s frown only deepens further.

“I—” you think of something quick to say, to get his scrutinizing gaze off of you. You can predict the question forming, swirling his mind, you already know which way this conversation will head. But all your thoughts seem to melt, your mind unable to conjure something to save your facade.

Your phone suddenly rings, Jaehyun’s name lighting up the screen. You go to reply when Chan grabs the phone away from your hands, silencing the call.

“What’s wrong?” he finally asks and it feels as if the walls are closing on you once more. You can hear the waves thrashing around, calling. “And don’t say you’re just feeling emotional because we made it so far.”

You chuckle faintly. You know it’s no use lying to Chan, of all people. “Jaehyun is calling again,” you point to your lit-up screen, and his lips press into a flat line, rejecting the call.

“Cancel your date,” he cocks a perfectly shaped eyebrow at you, “you know you have the most fun hanging out with me”.

“Alright, Mr. Cocky,” your heart is heavy as you attempt to smile at him, as if you’re forcing it to perform something it does not wish to, to pump blood for an action as meaningless as smiling. What purpose does it really serve if you are not happy? “I'm not in the mood for you to psychoanalyze me, though.”

“I won't,” his eyes soften as he takes one step closer to you. “We'll go on a drive okay, like old times?”

What is the point of pressing ice to a third-degree burn? Nothing, if not a fleeting respite, to close your eyes and pretend as if the burn would come undone, to soothe the fire only for it to barge in again. With a vengeance. Stronger. Harsher.

That is what being next to Chan is like to you.

“Fine,” you concede, though. Because you despise worrying people. You despise worrying Chan mostly. “I don’t want Seungmin to know though.”

“Don’t worry,” he smiles as he hands you back your phone, his thumb brushing your wrist for a second before he walks back. “I’ll come to your car, alright? Wait for me.”

—

It was a late summer night when Chan first discovered his love for music. He was only five, the air fragrant with the sweetness of strawberries and the tang of lemon zest. His curls were damp, clinging to his forehead from how hard he played with the neighborhood kids. The glass of water his mother handed him felt like the sweetest reprieve against his parched throat. Because Chan was happy, a joy so vivid it seemed to have taken roots within his veins, blooming into gleaming eyes and a smile so vast it could mend every crack in the universe.

He didn’t know it then, but there was a beautiful carelessness in the way he dashed outside, barefoot and giggling to order ice cream from the vendor near his house. Vanilla and bubblegum. In the way he did not use a spoon, instead licking the ice cream directly from the cone, as the sun melted it into rivers of sweetness that coated his fingers, leaving them sticky and fragrant. In the way he paid no mind to the earth clinging to his shorts, the sweat glistening on his face, or the syrupy mess on his hands. Because his happiness was so full he was bursting at the seams with it.

Because he was still a child, and children did not care for perfection. Children did not see the world through a lens that sought out every flaw— Chan did not learn yet how to turn that lens inward, harsher as he aimed it at himself.

His dad had brought him a ukulele, gently placing it into Chan’s small hands. The notes stumbled out, clumsy and wrong at first, as if their melody were caught in the strings, hesitant to be set free. It took a few tries for Chan to untangle them, but he didn’t mind. Because within these notes he found a new kind of joy—one that seemed to amplify his racing heartbeat, spilling into the room and filling it with the decadent taste of happiness.

It was a late autumn night when Chan first hated himself.

It was a particularly exhausting training day, the kind that left Chan barely upright as he walked down the stairs, his legs shaking with every step. He couldn’t bring himself to head back to the cramped dorms just yet, nor did he want to speak to anyone. Or rather, he no longer knew how to talk to anyone anymore. How could he make futile small talk when his soul was seized by a terrible longing, one that lingered bitterly on his tongue like the cough syrup he used to drink as a child?

See, how could he explain to anyone that he even missed that—the syrup, the warmth of his home, the pieces of a life that now felt as if they belonged to somebody other than him. He felt as if the wound only grew larger each day, spreading farther into his ribcage, infesting every part of his heart—every vein, every molecule—tainting them with the blueish colors of sorrow and ache.

Chan had found a quiet spot by the Han River, tucked far from prying eyes, his shoulders slouched under the weight of nostalgia, not the sweet one, rather, the one that felt like pine needles digging into his skin, at once. He liked it here—if he closed his eyes long enough he’d pretend the salty air was Australia’s breeze. He missed the wind there and how it ruffled his hair like an old friend. He missed his father’s grilled meat, his mother’s lemonade, his sister’s shenanigans. He missed his dog.

Would Berry even remember him now? Has it been too long?

It had.

The thought stung sharper than he expected. Was it all for nothing then? Does Berry not remember him for nothing?

Sometimes, it only takes one second for the world to shift off its axis, for the seconds to march forward but for you to remain stranded in the past. It took Chan this single question to break apart. It was as if someone had driven their fist into his chest, their claws digging deep, twisting around his heart until it felt on the brink of bursting— an ugly eruption of crimson, staining the blissful river with its bloodied ache.

What is wrong with me? He’s been asking himself the same question ever since.

It was a late winter night when Chan saw you for the very first time.

He was seventeen, shackles of self-doubt and insecurity wrapped around his ankles, digging deeper into his flesh with each year spent farther from his dream. Chan hated looking at his reflection in the mirror. He hated thinking of home. He avoided thinking of the future, of who he was, of who he hoped to become. Sometimes, he wished his mind could just go quiet. The voices were very loud and very mean.

Yet, unbeknownst to him, there were fragile blossoms of hope that fought to flourish in his chest, tentative, frail, since they grew in barren soil that didn’t quite believe in meeting the sun once more. But they were there.

Because Chan wasn’t alone anymore. Jisung joined him first, a kid with a passion that burns so fiercely it scathes his own heart at times. Then Jeongin, a voice singing of a reverence that shook Chan to his core. Hyunjin, who saw in dancing a form of salvation. Changbin, the missing golden piece to complete the infamous 3RACHA.

And then Seungmin.

It was through Seungmin that Chan saw you.

You had just dropped off Seungmin at the trainee dorms, bags full of homemade food in his hands. You hugged him tightly as he waved you off before disappearing into the building. And then, as soon as Seungmin was out of sight, Chan saw you collapse against the wall, your body wracked by cruel sobs. Cruel, because it was winter, and he knew that crying during the cold was somewhat harsher on the soul. You can’t cling to blooming flowers, to warm sun rays, to anything beautiful to ease your pain.

Cruel, because he recognized himself in you. In the way you rushed to hide your tears, wiping them away with your sleeves so that no one would see you. As if you were not deserving of this moment of weakness. As if you were not deserving of being human too.

“Do you still pick at your nails?” Chan asks, glancing at your figure as the light turns red. “Can’t give up bad habits?”

“You’re the last one to talk about bad habits, Mr. Never Sleeps.”

“Touché,” he chuckles, and you shake your head, the faintest smile lingering on your lips.

The seasons passed, and Chan’s fragmented heart had somehow found itself pieced together again—not to its original form. That would be a fool’s hope. People noticed the external changes—the different hues of his hair, how his muscles grew more chiseled with time—but they couldn’t see how pain and self-doubt had altered him, down to the very molecules of his being.

Because pain doesn’t pass like an angry cloud, casting a dark shadow only to drift away. That would be too kind, too merciful for emotions forged to drain you dry. No, it breaks you, reshapes you, molds you with the thorns in its calloused hands. It forces you to relearn who you are, how to breathe, where to stand, how to cling to the fragile thread that keeps you from stumbling back into the darkness.

The heart Chan carries isn’t his own anymore. It belongs mostly to sorrow now. But it still beats.

And so it did. And that winter passed, and so did spring. Then summer came, and fall returned once more.

And the years went by, and Chan blinked, and suddenly it had been ten years since he first saw you. And yet, it felt as though you remained stuck in winter. Because you did not have anyone’s hand to hold, warm enough to make you believe that summer would come again.

“Is this about Seungmin?” Chan asks softly, his fingernails drumming absentmindedly against the steering wheel.

“No, yes—I… I don’t know,” you sigh in exasperation, and he nods, turning his head to glance at you.

You first went on a night walk with Chan when you were still a law student, and his group had just debuted. Your apartment was under renovation, so you had to stay in the boys’ dorm for a few days. It was late into the night, with both of you the only ones still awake, working through your respective tasks in silence. He had offered to go for a walk, and you had accepted.

Neither of you spoke. Chan pretended not to see the stray tears that silently slipped down your cheeks, with no previous warning. He wondered what had weighed on your heart so heavily that it searched desperately for any moment of solitude to escape.

Your eyes are distant now, glazed over as if your mind has carried you to a place where the sun never rises. You bring your hand to your mouth once more, but Chan gently pushes it away, cradling your fingers in his palm.

He has to pretend that the sensation of your hand in his doesn’t feel like a thunderbolt—a surge of electricity that shoots up from the tips of his toes, swirling deep into his chest and settling into warmth in his stomach.

“It will bleed, and then you’ll come whining because it hurts,” he jokes, though his heart pounds in his throat, threatening to choke him.

“When did I do that?” you exclaim, but you don’t pull your hand away.

Your hand is in his.

Your hand is in his.

Your hand is in his.

“Besides,” you say, your fingers slipping from his grasp to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, “You know I’m the last person to ever whine.”

Was it normal to still feel your hand on his? For his hand to memorize the warmth of yours so quickly? As if it had been thirsty, like a man astray in the desert, longing for what a drop of water would feel against his parched throat.

“Yeah, you should do that more often, actually,” he chastises softly. You exhale a shuddered breath in response.

It feels like a lifetime before you speak again. “You heard Seungmin’s speech,” you say quietly, like a wounded animal, hesitant and wary of what approaching another human might bring, of what baring your heart might cost.

Chan wants to say: It is safe with me, I would shred my own heart if it meant keeping yours intact.

“Hard to miss, since I was on stage next to him,” he jokes, and you finally giggle—a real laugh, not the artificial ones you’ve been giving him. It feels like Australia’s breeze ruffling his hair, like he can finally breathe again.

“You know,” you say, your voice shifting to something gentler, “It reminded me of Seungmin when he was still young, discovering the concept of forever.” A bittersweet smile tugs at your lips. “Seungmin was short, pale, and so fragile that I was afraid the faintest wind would break him. You should’ve seen him. When he looked up at me, his eyes were wide, his irises pitch black, and they looked so trusting. He was an easy target for the kids who needed someone to blame, someone to pour their anger into, to soothe their bruised hearts. There was no one else to punish. Too much injustice, and no respite.”

Chan’s hands tighten around the steering wheel. To think of such sad times for both you and him. Should he rewrite the march of time, he would have forced the universe to make him your friend, to entwine your hand in his, to stop the cold from making a home within the pathways of your heart.

“I remember when I first saw him. He was very shy. Like he didn’t quite know how to carry himself yet. But he ranked second in the open audition.”

“He did,” you smile. It’s a bit different from all your grins. You’re always different when it comes to Seungmin—softer, bursting with pride.

“And…” Chan trails off, glancing at you from the corner of his eye, a wide smile tugging at his lips. “I remember you.”

“Oh, please, no,” you hide your face in your palms. “That’s so embarrassing.”

Chan chuckles softly, but in his heart, he remembers your first encounter with such clarity. He had found you many things—beautiful, brave, human. ‘Embarrassing’ had never been an adjective that crossed his mind when it came to you.

He remembers.

“Here,” Chan handed you a handkerchief, and you looked up at him, a frown deepening in your eyes. Time had somehow stilled then. The seconds felt like years passing on Chan. The cold seemed to dissipate, his heart emanating a warmth he hadn’t known before. Everywhere. Consuming him.

You blinked, and time resumed, and yet Chan was changed.

“Thank you,” you said tentatively. “Something got into my eye.” You attempted to explain, and he simply nodded, humoring you.

“I figured. There’s a lot of dust around here. From the trees and all,” He cringed internally, realizing how silly that sounded. So, he fell into silence, as did you, both of you just looking at each other. Chan had never felt this way before. He ached to ask you what was wrong, if he could do anything to alleviate your pain. If you too would like to break near Han River with him.

“I’m Chan. Bang Chan. Christopher, actually. But you can call me Chan.”

You had giggled then, and his ears burned so fiercely he was sure they were a shade of fuchsia, bright and loud. The sound was melodious, like notes strung along a flute just right. Soothing and warm. He loved your laugh. He wished his piano could recreate it. He wished he could save it so he could dance to it later.

“Alright, Christopher Actually Chan,” you smiled, and his cheeks flared a shade brighter. He silently prayed you’d account for the harsh winds that wrapped around you both.

“And I know you, actually,” you continued.

His eyes widened in surprise, and you chuckled softly at his reaction. He liked making you laugh. He liked it so much he’d make a fool out of himself if he needed to. “I’m not a stalker, Kim Seungmin told me about you. He’s my brother.”

“Right,” Chan responded, his usual confidence slipping for just a moment. He was never awkward—social prowess was one of his greatest strengths. Still, with you, all semblance of normal interaction vanished. There was something in your gaze, something so beautifully haunting, like the sight of tree branches in autumn. Something that once was whole, now stripped bare, yet still captivating in its vulnerability. It made him wonder if beauty like this could ever be captured in music.

“I’m Y/n, by the way,” you bowed slightly, before quickly turning and walking away. Chan watched, breath hitched in his throat, as you paused, and then as if pulled by some invisible thread, you turned back to him.

Without a word, you grabbed his hand, gently placing something within his palm.

A cherry lollipop.

“As a thank you,” you said, a bit sheepishly, eyes still puffy from the sobs that kept you prisoner just a few moments ago. “Ah, and, you better debut with my brother!”

You pointed at him, and in that moment, a grin broke through your face—one so radiant, so full of life, he wondered if this was what witnessing the first sunset felt like to humans. A beauty so grand, so overwhelming, he didn’t quite know what to do with it.

Chan’s fate was sealed right then and there—he would spend the next ten years chasing after your smile, no matter how foolish it seemed.

For one would ask, what’s a drop of white against a sea of black? What use are cherries’ scent before the stench of sorrow? And the answer would always be everything. Everything, if it’s you.

Chan clears his throat, settling on the least incriminating adjective of the bunch. “You were brave, Cherry. You still are.”

“You think too highly of me,” you snort.

“I think of you just right, actually.”

You are nearly home when, out of nowhere, you speak. “What if I told you I’m terrified?” The words rush out, as though you are afraid they’d die in your throat before they could reach him.

Chan’s heart tightens in worry. He parks hastily in front of your place, the engine still humming as he turns to face you, you who’s like a Russian doll—layer upon layer of your soul wrapped carefully, each one guarding the other.

“Why?” he asks, his voice barely a whisper, thick with concern.

“I didn’t want to tell Seungmin,” you begin, pausing to bite your lower lip. “He’d be heartbroken... I know him, I—” you falter, your voice cracking just slightly. “My new case... It's about Promise Orphanage. They want to tear it down to build a luxury apartment complex. A fucking billionaire’s investment, with pools and golf courses.”

“Sun Corporation,” you explain, “it’s owned by the son of Gyeongdo Holdings’ CEO. They’ve been harassing Miss Jeeho for two months now because she refuses to desert the orphanage. It’s a mess, Chan.” you’re angry, he can feel it, the rage burning bright right beneath your skin.

“The city council caved in and granted them a permit because the land belongs to the state and this project apparently serves public interest, but that’s bullshit. Who would benefit from this other than billionaires?” you bite your lower lip, sucking in a deep breath. “I told you Winter became the vice director of the orphanage, right? She just learned about this and told me. They’re offering compensation but I’ve dealt with those kinds of people. They’re greedy. They’re corrupt.”

“I couldn’t turn my back on it,” you whisper. “I had to take the case. Those kids… they’ll have nowhere to go. And I know how cold it feels, how brutal it is when you lose your family and still have to look for someplace to call home.”

Your eyes glisten, tears clinging to the edge like dew on a leaf, only to be blinked away before they fall. How much does it cost your soul to bear this weight? How much longer until you fracture—like a pomegranate violently split open, bits of your soul scattering out in splatters of raw scarlet.

Chan’s palm finds your knee, squeezing it gently. “You’re worried they’ll end up forgetting about the orphanage and not building a new one?”

“Yeah. They did this before. I checked the civil files. They built over a nursing home and never gave them proper compensation, paid hush money to the owner to keep them from suing. What if I can’t stop them? This is all those kids have. This is all Winter has. Miss Jeeho too.”

“They won’t. you’ll stop them. I know you will, Cherry, alright?” he says with all the sincerity he can muster. You seem dubitative and he sighs, reaching out to hold your cold hands. Please warm up.

“You will, okay? I have no doubt you will,” he repeats with a fire that seems to light you up. A sudden light reflects off the broken shards of your heart.

“I will.”

—

Chan: you up?

Your phone lights up, distracting you from the mountain of paperwork scattered across your desk.

Y/n: What a fuck boyish text

Chan: akldkdkd so you’re definitely up

Y/n: I’m working on the case :(

Chan: open up!! i have snacks

You blink at the message, confused, before padding to the door. When you open it, Chan stands there, a wide grin stretching across his face. He’s wearing a grey varsity jacket that drapes across his broad shoulders perfectly, and a blue navy cap. You still don’t understand why he rarely allows his curls to see the light.

“What are you doing here?” you ask, crossing your arms.

“I got bored alone in the studio,” he shrugs casually. “So I thought I’d drop by.”

“Drop by?” you repeat, laughing softly. “Your studio is on the other side of town.”

“Okay, I guess you don’t want fish cake and tteokbokki—”

“Come back,” you interrupt, wrapping your hand around his forearm and tugging him inside. His body is warm, and it is only then do you realize just how cold your apartment truly is.

“It’s a mess, I’m sorry,” you apologize, glancing at the dirty plates in the sink and the papers all over the desk, and the floor, and the couch too.

“Need me to tidy up again?” he teases, grinning as he steps inside.

You swat his arm, rolling your eyes. “You did it once because I was bedridden, and Seungmin was in Japan for a schedule.”

“I don’t mind, Cherry,” he says softly, setting the food down on your coffee table. His gaze flickers to yours. “I’d do it even if you weren’t sick, you know.”

Chan has a habit of saying things that send your heart into a slow, painful thrum—one long pulse that stretches endlessly, forcing you to acknowledge its existence. But, as always, you avoid it. You never allow yourself to question the warmth that only blooms when he’s near.

You both sit cross-legged on the living room floor, the spicy scent of tteokbokki wafting between you. For a while, the only sound heard in the apartment is the soft clink of chopsticks against takeout containers.

“Any updates on the case?” he asks.

You nod, running a hand through your hair. “I filed for an injunction,” you say, sighing deeply. “Trying to stop the demolition for now, at least until I figure out what to do next. The city council is ridiculous.They keep saying this is for the public benefit, but how is that true? Who benefits from luxury penthouses except rich assholes? And because the orphanage is on state land, they think they can just sell it off like it’s nothing.”

Chan’s eyes have been tracking each one of your words intently, drinking in every syllable that drips from your mouth. He has long thought your calling was law, there is a certain logic in you, a peculiar fire that burns in your core that seems inherent to this job. Though oftentimes he wonders if this is truly what you’ve always wanted. Had you been raised in your home would you have turned out differently? Would you like to pursue something else? Would you sing like Seungmin too?

“I’m trying to figure out who’s behind those apartment deals. Jaehyun’s helping me track it down.”

Chan’s eyes darken, like a storm has gathered within his irises. He doesn’t realize his jaw is ticking. You do. You pretend as if you don’t notice.

“Jaehyun… are you guys together yet?” Chan asks, and your heart pauses at the change in conversation. You shake your head. “Hm? No. We’re just friends.” you say between bites.

“You go on dates with your friends?” he chuckles, but there is nothing funny in the sound. His eyes don’t morph into crescents, his dimples refuse to show.

“You know, we’re just messing around, or whatever,” you quickly say.

“Right.”

Chan remembers the moment with striking clarity—when you first mentioned Jaehyun. You were both at a hotpot restaurant, the steam from the bubbling broth curling around you.

You had said his name casually, A journalist you’d met at one of the court hearings, someone with the same fiery passion for justice that you had. He was annoying, you’d said, always bothering you with his questions, his relentless pursuit of truth. But there was something else in your voice when you spoke of him—something new, something soft and fond that made Chan’s chest tighten.

“Anyways, he’s friends with one of the junior employees in the city council,” you continue, voice tinged with frustration. “So he’s been trying to convince him to help us out.”

“An insider,” Chan says absently, his voice flat, like the surface of a pond long undisturbed by pebbles. He’s thinking, how long is it acceptable to harbor a crush on someone? Three months? Six? A year? What if Chan’s been carrying this weight for ten years? 3650 days spent thinking of you, chasing the shadow of your image away from his eyelids at night, yet always yearning for a dream where all he’d glimpse is you.

What if bile rises in his throat at the thought of Jaehyun so close to you, his fingers tracing the lines of your lips, memorizing the shape of your body, the rise and fall of your chest as you sleep? What if he cannot bear it, cannot stand the thought of anyone else knowing you in ways he never will?

You sigh, fingers digging into your temple as the weight of your exhaustion becomes tangible. “It’s tiring, Chan,” you admit as your forehead rests against your knees. Chan feels something shift inside him—a peculiar ache that only surfaces when you are in pain.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, his hand hovering above your back before it settles there. He slowly pats your back, dragging his nails along your spine. It’s very quiet all of the sudden, a calm that only manifests when two souls, not bodies, are sitting by one another. You lean into his touch, your body angling towards him like a sunflower tilting towards the sun.

“Do you remember when the possibility of us debuting became very high?” he says and you nod, resting your cheek against your knee to look up at him. His hand doesn’t stop caressing your back. You don’t wish for it to.

“What is it with you and my most embarrassing memories?” you giggle quietly only to sober up at the sincerity you gather in his eyes. They are like pools of amber, the color of decadent chocolate, like the rich bark of trees kissed by sunlight.

“Everyone was out and I was the only one in the dorm.” He recounts the memory as if you weren’t there; as if he needed you to hear this, not as a participant but as an outsider. “And then you came knocking on my door, disheveled, looking like you hadn’t slept in days. You asked me, ‘Is it true? Are you debuting soon?’”

You close your eyes, the weight of that moment flooding you—how raw and real it was. You remember it vividly: the way his eyes met yours, like he had seen you for the first time right there and then.

“You were petrified. Because yes, you worked overtime to pay off Seungmin’s vocal lessons, you supported him so much his confidence never wavered, and yet, you were scared,” his words soften, and the pit in your throat tightens. You can’t speak even if you wish to.

“I said yes and you started crying. and I hadn’t seen you cry in three years. Not since the night we first met.” You remember his worried gaze, how he sank to the ground with you when your knees crumbled beneath you. He called you Cherry for the first time then, as if he had kept the nickname a secret, wishing to speak it outloud but never daring to. He did it because he thought back to your first meeting, and the cherry lollipop in your hand. You thought of it too.

“Seungmin,” you heaved, “please protect him, Chan, I— please, you have to protect him, please.”

“What’s wrong?” He panicked. “Talk to me Cherry, hm?”

“What if they are unkind to him? What if they somehow find out he’s an orphan and use that against him? He doesn’t like telling me anymore when it hurts. What if he’s hurt and he can’t tell me?”

His thumb swipes at the lone tear slipping from your eyes, gentle and warm. What if Chan is too kind to you? What if your heart wasn’t crafted to handle it?

“Then when all the boys came back ten minutes later you smiled as if nothing happened. I had seen you break down on the floor a few moments prior, and yet, you found the strength to smile, so as to not worry anyone, especially Seungmin.”

Chan’s heart throbs in his chest, the rhythm uneven and insistent. His voice wavers as his gaze locks with yours. Your eyes glimmer, like a river kissed by the summer sun, like stained glass basked in the light of a centuries old cathedral.

His palms cup your cheeks, tentative and gentle, akin to a flower breaking through the soil for the first time. “You are the strongest person I know,” he says, his voice soft, “The most hardworking, too. You care, so much, even when you try to hide it. It’s that passion that makes you the best at what you do. You’ll win this case, and every case after it, because you’re the one handling them.”

His thumb brushes against your skin. “And you believed in me when I said I’d protect Seungmin. So I believe in you, Cherry. Please believe in yourself too.”

You nod, over and over, like a broken record stuck on a single note. Before he can process it, your arms wrap around his neck, pulling him close. Your head finds its place in the crook of his neck, and for a fleeting second, he’s frozen, the world tilting off its axis. Then, slowly, his hands slide to your waist as he breathes you in—your shampoo, your favorite laundry detergent, the faint trace of cherry lingering on your skin like a memory of a distant summer.

“Thank you, Channie,” you whisper against his shoulder.

He nods, his voice muffled by the turmoil caging his heart. “You’re welcome, Cherry.”

For how long is it acceptable to love someone who doesn’t love you? Chan doesn’t know. He doesn’t really want an answer. Even a lifetime wouldn’t be a waste if it’s spent loving you.

—

“Three penthouses are already registered under different names,” Jaehyun tells you, handing over a couple of lease contracts. You’re seated in a small café near Promise Orphanage, waiting for Winter to join you. The junior employee in Sun Corp. has finally caved and handed over the registrants to Jaehyun—names of the people who have already secured luxury apartments, long before the project even saw light.

“Park Yuna, Lee Seo-Jun, and Choi Joon-Ho,” you read aloud, glancing up at Jaehyun, who’s already smirking.

“Park Yuna…” you pause, “isn’t she the wife of the city council president?”

“Bingo!” he exclaims, his arms wide open, head tipped back as a sinister giggle rips out of his throat.

“Oh gosh,” you cover your face as some customers turn to look at you. “This isn’t an action movie stop it.”

Jaehyun pouts as you swat his arm and you laugh despite yourself.

“Anyway, you’re right. She’s his wife. I also found out Seo-Jun and Joon-Ho are tied to prominent council members. Second cousin and son-in-law. They had their penthouses promised before the project was ever public.”

“They didn’t even register them under their names. Subtle,” you mutter, shaking your head.

“Yeah, I bet they weren’t even expecting Miss Jeeho to resist the compensation.”

You sigh, leaning back in your chair. “They think those kids are just pawns, something they can move around for their benefit. They don’t get that those children have nothing but each other and the comfort of a familiar bed.”

The conversation lulls. Jaehyun grows quiet as you stare holes into your coffee, swirling the caramel syrup into the dark liquid. But no amount of sweetness can mask the bitterness on your tongue—the bitter taste of injustice, of watching people prioritize their greed over others’ lives.

“We’ll gather more evidence of their corruption,” Jaehyun says eventually, his tone firm. “And when we do, we’ll confront them. They won’t risk this becoming public with so many global investors involved.”

You nod. “You’re right.”

He leans back in his chair, a teasing glint in his eyes. “By the way, why did you cancel on me two nights in a row?”

The question catches you off guard, and your mind drifts to last night: Chan showing up at your home, his comforting words, the warmth of his hand on your back, the scent of pinewood and cinnamon lingering in the air, the clean apartment you woke up to. Something stirs in your chest, warm and soft.

“Chan came over,” you admit.

Jaehyun whistles, a mischievous grin spreading across his face.

“Chan,” he says, drawing out the name.

“Mhm,” you reply, suddenly shy under his gaze.

“The man who calls you Cherry.”

“Yeah. Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Because you’re so oblivious.”

“Agreed,” a familiar voice chimes in as Winter slides into the seat next to you. She presses a quick kiss to your cheek before sitting back with a knowing smile.

You groan, burying your face in your hands. “This isn’t the subject of discussion,” you say pointedly, glaring at both of them.

You’re momentarily distracted by Winter’s appearance. Her cheeks are hollow, her eyes shadowed with exhaustion. She’s poured so much love back into the orphanage she grew up in. Losing it would destroy you both.

“That man likes her,” Winter says casually, sipping from your drink.

You glare at her. “No, he doesn’t. He’s my friend.”

Winter raises an eyebrow at you. “He always looks at you differently. His tone is softer when he talks to you.”

Your eyes drift away, thoughts pulling you back to last night—to how Chan stayed with you until dawn, watching awful dramas with you despite his packed schedule, simply because he was worried.

“What’s the point of him liking me if I can’t like him back?” you murmur, voice barely audible. “My heart isn’t made for this.”

“Have you ever given yourself a chance?” Jaehyun asks and you scoff.

“A chance for what? To hurt someone?” you reply, shaking your head. “I don’t know how to love. I never had the time to learn. I was too busy surviving. We were,” you say glancing at Winter who averts her gaze.

This suddenly felt like a conversation too grim to have in the open. To speak of how your heart has been morphed into a cowardly being, shrinking at the simple thought of being looked at. What would anyone behold anyways? If not an organ that’s too battered, too bloody, unworthy of being seen, let alone to be loved.

“Anyway,” you say, forcing your voice to steady, “Can you set me up a meeting with that employee? We need more insider evidence and he’s the only one who can help us. I’d like to talk to him alone.”

“Yeah, I’ll try to convince him,” Jaehyun reassures you. The three of you nod and dive back into the stacks of paperwork, but the words blur in front of your eyes, forming an incoherent mass.

There are things you’ve always wished to escape—dark truths you thought you'd one day outrun. You still haven’t. Perhaps, you will never.

Perhaps, had you not been shaped by the cruelty of others, had you not been born beneath a star soaked in grief. Perhaps, if you never had to carve pieces of yourself out to survive, if you had the time, the strength to sit quietly with your own heart, to listen to who it wanted you to be, then, maybe, just maybe, you would have known the warmth of another’s touch.

You would have allowed yourself to melt into the softness of their gaze, you would have let your cheeks flush freely with the sweetness of their words, with no restraints, no shame. But the world is not kind. It will not offer you such a path. And so, this is your curse: to be one of grief’s favorite beholders, for you to wear it like a second flesh. To cling to it, as it clings to you because it is all you’ve ever known.

—

Your mother’s fingers were always warm as they entwined with yours, no matter the season. You remember the feel of them particularly when you went on walks by the ocean, her hand tugging you close to her frame. She was like an angel, walking softly on earth, coaxing the waves to slow down their feverish run as she brushed against their milky foam.

You can’t see her clearly in your memories anymore. Your temples ache each time you try to picture the fine details of her features. But you remember her humming along with the waves, as if singing a song to the sea, thanking them for the salty breeze they carry within their tides and swells. You remember closing your eyes to soak it in, as if you had known, even back then, that you’d forget the map of moles drawn upon her face, and the specific hue of her hair against the sun, and yet you wouldn’t forget her voice filling up your heart to the brim.

You remember coming home and trying to replicate her humming, through broken whistles at first, then, adding words where you saw fit. You remember singing to your mother in your living room. You remember feeling as if the sea was lodged right within your heart.

You loved singing, for the three years before your parents’ deaths. You sang in chorals, you sang to the birds and to the flowers blooming in your garden. You sang to the sun and to the moon. You sang to your reflection in the mirror. You sang, because it made you feel like your mother talking to the waves. And then, your parents died, and the music within you did too. The flowers, the sun, the birds… They were all an unworthy audience all of the sudden; since they all turned blind to your voice, allowing for your entire world to be stripped away from you. Leaving you bare, rootless.

You were then forced to learn that there isn’t just one big death in a lifetime. That the heart can perish multiple times before it finally stops beating completely. It felt like a little death when you began to loathe the ocean. It felt like a little death when Seungmin told you that he wished to become a singer.

You too, had wanted to, once. Maybe. If you had been given enough time to think.

It felt like a little death when you stepped into a recording booth for the first time.

You’d told Winter you were desperate for money. She mentioned agencies looking for anonymous artists to record backing vocals for prominent groups. It paid well, she said.

Your voice was well-liked. Not overpowering, but subtle, like a floral perfume—soft, seamless, blending effortlessly with whoever you sang alongside. It paid well to sing lifeless songs, to let your name dissolve into the footnotes of prominent groups, 2PM, Twice… Even your brother’s group when he debuted.

You knew that fans liked to speculate on who you were. You knew that the songs in which you sang were popular. And yet, it did not matter.

It felt like death, to kill your voice and for the sun to keep rising regardless.

“You were brave, you still are, Cherry.” Chris had told you. You wanted to believe him so badly. You wanted for the world to split open and atone for what it did to you. You wanted for the world to mend the cracks in your soul. You wanted for the world to disappear with you in it.

Your legs are growing weary of driving for so long with no destination in mind. Your eyes burn from how long you’ve stared at the road, unblinking. Somehow, you find yourself outside of Chan’s and Jeongin’s place.

It would feel like death too for you to head back to your empty apartment.

You grab your phone, sending Chan a message before you can second-guess yourself.

Y/n: Are you home?

You wait, fingers hovering over the delete button. His reply comes three seconds later.

Chan: yeah, innie is sleeping over at seungmin’s

A heartbeat.

Chan: why? are you here? are you alright?

You sigh, resting your forehead against the steering wheel. What the fuck are you doing? But still, you unbuckle your seatbelt and walk hurriedly to his door.

You knock. He opens immediately, eyebrows furrowed.

“I’m okay,” you say quickly, expecting the deluge of questions swarming in his mind.

“It’s 1 a.m.,” he replies, concern etched into his features.

“I can read the clock,” you joke, and his pout deepens as he steps closer. He’s beautiful in a way that makes your soul wish to split open to escape it. It overwhelms you.

“I’m just anxious about the next few days,” you admit.

“What’s happening?” he asks, already taking your coat and leading you to the kitchen. He pours you a glass of cold water, just the way you like it.

“I’m meeting a junior employee at Sun Corp. He’s called San. I need to convince him to give me materials proving the corporation’s corruption for our case.”

Chan’s worried gaze meets yours, and you shake your head quickly.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you murmur. “I didn’t come here to worry you. I just… I wanted your company.”

Chan’s demeanor softens at your words, like white foam finally resting against the warm sand.

“I think I feel less anxious around you,” you add, the warmth in your cheeks suddenly betraying you. Winter’s words echo in your mind: That man likes you. What a foolish thought to engrain in your mind.

“Oh, I…” His words stumble, and his fingers flex as if they’re debating reaching for you. Instead, he lowers them and smiles softly.

“So do I, Cherry,” he admits. His voice is gentle, his ears tinting red. “And I could come with you to meet San, if you’d like.”

“Really, you’d do that for me?” his being slacks off, his shoulders sinking low. If you were in a battle, this would be him dropping his sword, kneeling.

“Of course, you don’t even need to ask.”

You see it then—visions of yourself wrapping your arms around Chan’s neck in his kitchen, holding him long enough for his warmth to seep into your soul, shielding it from the many winters to come. You imagine, for a fleeting moment, putting down your defenses and letting one human in.

Perhaps this is the most violent act of all—to have visceral fantasies of something as innocent as a hug.

“Were you working?” you ask, and Chan clears his throat, nodding. “Yeah, working on some new songs. But I’ll take a break now.”

“The mighty producer CB97, taking a break for little old me. How wonderful,” you tease, a giggle escaping your lips. He rolls his eyes, his tongue pressing against his cheek in mock exasperation.

“Should we have a drink?” he offers, and you clap your hands excitedly. “Yes, I’d like that.”

It’s easy to recall with Chan—to relive the memories alive in your shared history. The summer vacation in Jeju, grilling meat for the boys, playing video games till dawn. Chan face-planting into the snow, the times you hid backstage to surprise them. You remember him accidentally body-slamming you onto the floor, the way you nearly drowned in the pool from laughing too hard.

The clock creeps toward four a.m., but you don’t feel tired. You’re tipsy, the wine warming your stomach—a bright, crisp taste, like biting into a ripe apricot. And you are happy. Your soul feels satiated, as though this laughter could sustain you for a lifetime.

Your giggles fade, leaving a comforting silence between you. You’re close to all the boys—you care for them deeply. But Chan is different. Because he dropped by only because he was worried. Because he calls you Cherry. So he remembers, and not alot of people remember you.

“I was thinking on my drive home of this… melody my mom used to sing,” you whisper, staring ahead. Your shoulder brushes against Chan’s. You rarely speak about your parents. Never this openly. Chan knows this well.

“She used to hum it to the ocean, to me when I’m about to sleep, when I was sick, when she was cooking,” you smile softly, bringing the drink to your lips. “I’ve been trying to replicate it on the piano but I’ve never managed to.”

You turn to look at him, only to find his gaze already fixed on you. His eyes are wide, vulnerable, twinkling like stars witnessing the birth of a galaxy. He licks his lips, hesitant, and your eyes linger on them. They are glossy, red, and impossibly inviting.

“Can I hear it?”

You start humming, singing what you remember off of your fragmented memory. Chan listens intently, his eyebrows tightly knit in concentration. You hear the waves, you taste the salt in the breeze. You miss the sea.

You finish, resting your cheek against his shoulder. “Thank you for sharing,” he says.

“Thank you for listening,” you whisper, and your eyes are closed, but you feel it, his lips pressing to your temple, soft as a petal. It quakes through you, unmaking you, as though your soul has been cleaved wide open. You are a supernova, unraveling, scattering light in a beautiful, dying burst.

You wake up to a note on the bedside, and a pink plaid blanket draped over you. It hits you then: you’re in Chan’s room. A blush spreads across your cheeks, igniting your skin. When did you fall asleep? Did he carry you here? Of course he did. Did he press another kiss to your temple? Why would you think of that? Still, you can’t help but wonder if he too felt it— the way your soul trembled under the weight of his touch.

You imagine him writing the note, his figure hunched near you, glancing at your peaceful form, his eyes fleeting to yours as if making sure you were still there.

‘I’ve made you breakfast, it’s in the kitchen. I have an early morning schedule, but I’ll see you tomorrow, Cherry. Thank you for coming to see me :)’

You close your eyes, burying your head deeper into the pillows surrounding you. You can’t help but inhale their scent—traces of Chan lingering in the fabric, pinewood and cinnamon, intoxicating, as though they were made for you alone to breathe in. Your skin tingles with the thought, as you imagine him beside you, what it would be like to press your face into the soft curve of his neck, to take in that scent and to fill all the hollow spaces inside you with it.

You are ashamed, even in the privacy of your thoughts, of this longing, of this sharp ache. For even thinking, daring to dream of a world where you could behold his warm hands into your butchered ones. Where he’d let you. Where you’d let yourself.

It feels like death to think of Chan, it feels like living too.

—

You find Chan leaning casually against his car, arms crossed over his chest. With his Chrome Hearts beanie nearly swallowing his eyes and a mask covering the rest of his face, he looks almost intimidating. Almost—because you can’t help but giggle at his over-the-top efforts to stay incognito.

“I think we’ll scare the poor boy away,” you tease in greeting, and he huffs, reaching out to lightly punch your arm.

“Do you want me gone? It’s fine, I can leave,” he mumbles, his pout clear even behind the mask. “It’s not like I made all this effort to come here—”

“Oh my god, you’re still a whiny baby at your big age,” you cut him off, laughing as you both step into the café.

You choose a table by the large windows, the sunlight streaming in and bathing the space in golden light. As Chan sits across from you, his grin spreads wide, making his eyes crinkle and nearly disappear. You miss the sight of his dimples, all of the sudden.

San arrives ten minutes later, sliding into the seat across from you. His eyes dart to the door every few seconds, as though someone might burst through at any moment. He fidgets in his chair, tugging at his slightly askew tie, beads of sweat gathering on his brow despite the cool air conditioning.

Your fingers curl loosely around a lukewarm cup of coffee you’ve yet to sip. “Thank you for meeting me, San. I really appreciate it,” you begin softly, and he barely nods. He reaches for his iced Americano but pulls his hand back.

“Look, Miss Kim,” he stammers, voice barely above a whisper. “I gave Jaehyun the names of the apartment holders, but what you’re asking of me now... it’s dangerous.” He avoids your gaze, eyes fixed on the floor, as if it might open up and swallow him whole. “They’re not the kind of people you cross. You have no idea how high this goes.”

“I do,” you say firmly, leaning forward. “I know exactly how high it goes. That’s why I’m here. And that’s why I need your help.”

San hesitates, his lips pressing into a thin line. His gaze flickers to Chan before meeting yours again.

You take a deep breath, knowing how delicate this conversation is, how crucial it is too. “Look, I’m not asking you to go public,” you murmur, lowering your voice. “I just need the truth. Documents, emails… anything that proves there’s a corrupt force behind this decision. I’ll keep your name out of it. I promise. Whistleblowers are common in our lines of work. No one has to know where it came from.”

“I want to help you, I do,” he says, his Adam’s apple bobbing nervously. “But they will find out, and I’ll lose everything,” he pauses, shoulders slumping, “I’m the sole caregiver for my mom… She’s in the hospital, and I still have bills to pay. You understand, right?”

Your eyes soften as you watch his anxious form. He’s still young, shouldering a burden you know all too well. You think he will understand, only if you bare a part of your heart to him.

“San,” you start gently, “I once lived in Promise Orphanage too.” you admit and his eyes slightly widen. “Before that, I was in two other orphanages in the city…” You pause, looking for the right words. “I still have nightmares about those places. About how cruel some of the people there were.” Your voice cracks, and Chan’s warm hand finds your knee.

“It’s hard to be happy in a place like that, but Promise Orphanage was the only place I ever thought of as home. It felt like family. I still visit to play with the kids. They’re happy, I see it, as best as they can, anyways. But they’re well taken care of. I know Miss Jeeho, I know Winter. They love those children. They allow them to dream. They don’t deserve to have their only familiarity stripped away from them.”

San swallows hard. "And what happens when Sun Corp. finds out anyway?”

“You’re here,” you reply, “you’re afraid, but you also believe in what we’re fighting for. Otherwise, you would’ve rejected this meeting.” You sigh, your voice softening. “You’re a good person, San. Don’t let them corrupt you too. You know this is wrong.”

“I do,” he admits, voice shaky. His resolve is unraveling.

“Look, I know they gifted the city council members penthouses to sway them in their favor. But no judge would consider this hard evidence since I can’t prove intent. What we need is what’s inside your office. You know, emails, memos, contracts, whatever. I can’t do this without you, San. I mean it.”

San stares at you for a long moment. Finally, he sighs, his shoulders slumping in defeat. “There are emails,” he admits quietly. “Some from the CEO, discussing how to ‘incentivize’ council members. And I’ve seen the transaction logs... Large deposits to personal accounts, listed as ‘consulting fees.’ It’s not hard to connect the dots.”

Your heart leaps in your throat. “That’s exactly what we need. Can you get copies?”

“I think so,” he says reluctantly. Then, in a quieter tone he adds, “I lost my father too, you know.” There’s a rawness in his voice that only those who’ve been burdened by grief can understand. “I’ll find a way. For those kids.”

You reach out, briefly covering his hand with yours. “Thank you,” you whisper, and he nods, a miniscule smile finally stretching across his lips.

-

“Should we celebrate?” Chan asks, his voice light, once you’re settled in his car. For a moment, you hesitate. Celebration feels foreign to you. You’ve been the prosecutor and the wrongfully accused, you tie the noose and gasp when it tightens. But now, it seems like you’ve closed this case without needing a trial. That’s something worth celebrating.

“You know what? Hell yeah,” you giggle, and Chan’s face lights up like the sun cresting the horizon. “Great! Because I already planned for us to!” His laughter bubbles over, and you yelp as the car suddenly accelerates.

“Cherry! you’re free tomorrow, right?” he shouts over the music, and you recognize the song—No. 1 Party Anthem.

So you’re on the prowl, wondering whether she left already or not…

“Hmmm, let me check if my schedule is clear for being kidnapped…” you tease, pretending to swipe through an imaginary calendar. He chuckles, his dimple deepening, and the sound makes you feel giddy, like champagne fizzing in your veins. “Looks like I am!”

“Perfect! Let’s go on a trip, then!”

Sunglasses in doors are par for the course…

“Where to?” you laugh, and he simply winks in response, “You’ll see.”

“Fine, you be mysterious, and I’ll…” You grab his Fendi sunglasses from the console, perching them on your head, “I’ll be your passenger princess.”

It doesn’t escape him— how readily you’ve let go, how much you’ve placed in his hands without hesitation. It makes him want to drive further, faster, to a place where your bruised hearts won’t catch up with the two of you.

Her eyes invite you to approach…

You stop along the way at a small, unassuming seafood stand nestled along the coast—one Chan seems to know well. The air is alive with the sizzle of grills and the briny scent of the ocean. The ahjumma behind the counter greets Chan warmly, her hands deftly working as she prepares your meal.

You’re served grilled crab, its shell glistening in a marinade of soy sauce, chili, and honey. The flavors burst on your tongue—savory and spicy with a delicate sweetness that reminds you of the sea itself. Chan insists on feeding you the oysters, gently placing each one on your plate. They’re buttery and tangy, kissed with lemon and sea salt and the warmth of Chan’s gaze.

Your heart softens as you watch Chan chatting easily with the older woman, a laugh bubbling out of him as she teases him for eating too fast, as he fist-bumps her grandson as he clears the plates. How tragic it would have been for him to remain closed off, a flower enclosed in itself, never sharing the vibrant beauty of his petals with the world.

And it seems as though those lumps in your throat that you’ve just swallowed have got you going…

You pause again at a roadside shop, picking out heart-shaped sunglasses and trading the ugliest souvenir T-shirts you can find, laughing until your sides ache. Chan drapes an obnoxious orange scarf over his shoulder, striking a runway pose that makes you topple over from how hard you’re laughing. But then, in the mirror’s reflection, you catch his gaze—soft, unguarded, and filled with something you don’t dare name. Your breath falters. You’ve never been looked at like this before, as if someone could unravel you completely and still leave you whole.

Come on, come on, come on…

The road stretches endlessly ahead, the horizon blurring as you feed Chan fresh strawberries from a farmer’s market along the road. You don’t question why your pulse skips each time his lips brush your thumb. You don’t question why you’re suddenly sure the fruit would taste sweeter off of his mouth. You simply let the wind whip past, wondering if his cheeks are flushed from the cold or from you. You pray it’s the latter.

Number one party anthem…

“Welcome to Gangneung,” he announces as the car rolls into the small coastal town. The sea glimmers outside your window, and the houses—painted in pastel blues and greens—climb the hills like a living postcard. A group of high schoolers are biking down a narrow street, their laughter reaching you even as you drive away. While three women walk uphill, groceries in hand, their wide-brimmed hats bobbing as they chatter energetically. They seem to be gossiping. They seem happy.

“You remembered,” you say softly, your gaze flickering to him.

“I’d like to go to Gangneung one day,” you had once told him during a late-night walk. “I heard it’s a small town, and the locals agreed to all paint their houses blue. Isn’t that sweet? I’d love to escape there one day, without telling anyone.”

“I didn’t tell anyone,” he says, giggling. “Well, except Winter—so she could pack a bag for you. And Jisung, so the kids wouldn’t worry. But I didn’t tell them where we’re—”

You don’t let him finish. Stopping yourself would feel unnatural, like damming a river mid-flow. You lean over and press a kiss to his cheek, right where his dimple is hidden.

The look of love, the rush of blood…

“Thank you, Channie,” you whisper. He simply nods, a bit dazed, so are you.

Come on, come on, come on…

Both your cheeks are still burning as you pull up by the sea. You’re the first to step out, stretching your arms to shake off the nerves while Chan rummages through the car. A sudden chill creeps over you, and you instinctively wrap your arms around yourself.

Number one party anthem…

“Here,” he says, draping a hoodie over your shoulders. He’s got a towel slung casually over one shoulder, and a basket balanced in his hands. “Come on,” he beckons softly, leading you to the shoreline.

He spreads the blanket atop the golden sand and you both lay on it, admiring the sea. You’re lost in your thoughts as you silently nibble at the cheese and crackers Chan brought with him. You haven’t sat before the waves in so long. For all your bravery in courtrooms, you were a coward in real life, scared that the mere sight of the overlapping water would make your buried wish resurface— to be adrift amidst waves, to sink with the peaceful certainty that you won’t resurface again.

But you haven’t felt this serene in a long time. Like you could draw in a deep breath and not dread the one that will follow it.

“I made you something.” Chan blurts suddenly, and you twist your neck to look at him. You’ve seen Chan in many states— happy, angry, weeping. But you haven’t seen him this nervous before.

“What is it?” you ask, your curiosity tinged with caution as you sit up.

He hesitates, his words tumbling over one another. “I’m sorry if this is too much, but I couldn’t stop thinking about the melody you hummed. I... I turned it into a piano piece. I recorded it. Do you want to hear it?”

He offers an earphone with trembling hands. Your own shake as you tuck it in, and then—oh god.

“Chan, I—” you choke, clutching his arm as the music flows into you. It’s her. It’s your mother, her voice resurrected in the notes. It’s as though he’s handed you a forgotten fragment of time, lighting it up, brushing away the dust of years. The memories flood back—her hand in yours, the melody she sang to you like a lullaby for your soul. Because she loved you, so much. You were once very loved.

You close your eyes as silent tears slip down your face. It’s a short recording, just fifty-five seconds, so you replay it, again and again, until the night falls gently around you. You want to live, you want to live if only to keep her voice alive.

“Should we go swim, Chan? I feel like swimming.” You suddenly say, a smile breaking through your face. This is the easiest it has been for you to grin in a long time.

“We’ll get sick,” he says, though a grin tugs at his lips.

“We haven’t been kids in so long”, you say and something shifts in his gaze. He understands, so he nods, suddenly picking you up and throwing you over his shoulder.

“Wait, not like this!” you shout, flailing as Chan hoists you up with ease. But it’s no use—he’s already running and the next thing you know, you’re plunging into the cold water.

He dives in after you, surfacing with a loud laugh that echoes across the shoreline. The water is freezing, but it doesn’t matter. He feels weightless, unburdened, like a child again, like he could do anything he wishes for in this world, like he could get on his knees and confess to you right there and then.

You’re both trembling still by the time you reach the hotel. You linger by the entrance, your gaze tracing the cracked wallpaper and worn-out carpets. Chan is at the desk, talking to the receptionist. Snippets of their conversation float your way—“only one room... unfortunately a pipe broke... an old hotel.”

Oh.

When he returns, his ears are tinged with pink. “There’s only one room left,” he stammers. “The other one has a water leak. But it’s okay! We can find another hotel. I understand you might be—”

“Christopher, I’m fucking freezing,” you interrupt, teeth chattering. He giggles softly, boyish. “I’ll let you shower first, then.”

The room is sparse, reminiscent of a hanok. There are no beds, only two padded mats that side by side on the heated floor, and a small desk in one corner. It feels intimate, ten times smaller as Chan stands behind you.

“Go ahead,” he says, “I’ll wait.”

You quickly grab your bag and retreat to the bathroom. With trembling hands, you unlock your phone.

Y/n: Winter!!!!!!!!!! Are you here?

Winter: OMG are you still with cherry man?

Y/n: Yes, and we’re sharing one room 🫣

Winter: Wooooooo my ship is sailing

Y/n: I hate you. Did you pack me cute pajamas at least?

Winter: Of course i foresaw this

You giggle slightly, gusts of powdery air materializing before you.

Y/n: I’ll kill you once I’m back!!!

Winter: you love me 😘 you’ll have to tell me everything when you come back

Y/n: I will ❤️ He’s very sweet… and confusing

Winter: Just trust your gut

Trust your gut? You’re quite unsure what your gut is trying to spell out for you. You sigh, before quickly heading into the shower. You know Chan must be freezing too even if he tries not to show it.

You hear the water cascade down when he goes in after you, still avoiding your gaze. It feels almost forbidden to imagine him standing there, steam curling in clouds scented with your cherry shower gel. He’ll carry it with him, you think—a faint trace of you on his skin. That thought seems to send goosebumps rippling down your spine.

Later, the two of you lay atop your mats in a quiet darkness. You can hear the hum of the heater, and the splashing of the waves far away. You don’t remember falling asleep, but the cold wakes you, sharp and biting.

“Chan?” you whisper into the quiet.

He hums instantly. He hasn’t slept.

“Aren’t you cold?”

“I am.”

“Should we move closer? Body heat and all,” you suggest, your voice barely audible. You hear him swallow in the dark.

Slowly, cautiously, he inches closer until your shoulders brush. You wrap a tentative arm around his waist, and he draws you in, his palm resting on your back. The embrace feels intimate, terrifyingly so, but you stay. He is warm. He smells like pinewood and cherry. He smells like you and him.

“Good?” he asks, voice rough, and you nod. “Yeah, good.”

You hear his heartbeat, frantic at first, mirroring yours, then slowing down as the minutes pass by. It feels familiar to lay so close to him, it feels natural, ordinary.

“Channie?” you whisper.

“Yes, Cherry?”

“How different do you think we’d be, if we hadn’t gone through the things we did?”

You don’t know why you ask, except that today, for the first time in forever, you feel like blank paper—uncrumpled, untainted, left to be.

He thinks for a while, his hand threading gently through your hair, lulling you back toward sleep.

“I think I would open my heart more,” he finally says, voice soft. “I’d be myself without fearing judgment or abandonment. I’d stop chasing perfection. I’d just... exist.”

You nod against him. “You should stop apologizing for wanting the things you do.”

It feels hypocritical coming from you, but you mean it.

“Yeah, Cherry,” he murmurs, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead. “And you?”

“I’d allow myself to love. Without fear. I’d be someone worthy of being loved.”

A pause stretches between you, heavy and sharp. You inhale deeply.

“I’ve dated people,” you say quietly, “it drives Seungmin’s crazy because I know he wants to protect me from heartbreak,” you giggle softly, memories of the long talks Seungmin had dealt you flooding your mind.

“He’s a good brother.”

“He is,” you smile, before sighing. “But I don’t know how to tell him that it has always been for fun. They know what they’re getting into, which is, nothing beyond a few dates because... that’s all I have to give. I’m afraid someone might waste their time peeling away my layers, only to find nothing worthwhile. I’m hollow inside, Chan. A hollow chest can’t beat for another. Not in the way they deserve.”

His hand stills, his grip falters on your back. You hope he has heard your plea, unspoken, that he can read between the lines of your words. Please, you beg. Don’t love me. Don’t hurt yourself.

—

Chan sees it then, as evident as the rising of the sun. The truth of you, the truth of himself. Chan is loved by many, yet he doesn’t feel loved. You do not love Chan, perhaps you will never allow yourself to love another, and yet—he still loves you. Despite your warnings, he does. Even if you paint the image of the most violent of heartbreaks, he still will.

—

You judge heels by two criterias: one, how easy they are to stand long hours in, and two, how satisfying they sound when you walk. The powdery pink Jimmy Choos Seungmin gifted you hit both marks perfectly, sounding particularly delicious as you stride through the halls of Sun Corporation’s headquarters.

From the corner of your eye, you catch employees glancing up from their desks, whispers rising as you breeze past the secretary’s protests, her voice growing increasingly frantic. But you already know where you are headed: straight for the conference room, where you know an important meeting is currently unfolding.

Fun!

The secretary, a petite brunette, jogs after you, her heels barely keeping up with her urgency. She plants herself in front of the double doors, blocking your path, literally, with her arms outstretched.

“Miss, you can’t go in there,” she says, chest slightly heaving. “This is a private meeting.”

You flash her a thin smile, the kind that looks anything but kind. “Private? How convenient! It seems like they’ve kept their corruption private too!”

Her face pales, and she stammers. “I… I’m sorry, but I’ll need you to wait. Mr. Choi is—”

“Expecting me,” you cut her off, brushing past her without a second glance.

With a forceful push, you throw open the conference room doors. The chatter inside ceases instantly, replaced by stunned silence as ten executives turn to face you. At the head of the table sits Choi Min-soo, the CEO. His expression remains calm as his gaze locks with yours. He’s young, roughly in his thirties, surrounded only by men, of course. Perhaps that's why he keeps accumulating one bad decision after the other.

Choi leans back in his chair, his eyes narrowing in irritation. “Who let you in here?”

“Apologies for the interruption,” you say, though there’s not a shred of remorse in your voice. “I’m here about the demolition permit for Promise Orphanage.”

Choi leans back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest. “I don’t recall scheduling a meeting with you.”

“No, you didn’t,” you reply coolly. “But I thought I’d save your secretary the trouble. Some things simply can’t wait. Surely you understand.”

An executive to Choi’s right clears his throat, tapping his fingers against the table in a measured rhythm. “This is a private meeting. You can’t just barge in—”

“Oh, but I can,” you curtly cut him off, “And I have. Now, if you’d prefer, we can do this in front of the press, but I thought you’d appreciate the courtesy of keeping this internal.”

Choi’s mask of indifference falters ever so slightly, his lips pressing into a thin line.

“Sit,” he says curtly.

You ignore him, instead leaning forward, your palms pressing into the polished surface of the table. “No need for pleasantries. Let’s cut to the chase. I have evidence that the city’s approval for your demolition project didn’t come through lawful means. Bribery, to be precise.”

A heavy silence blankets the room. The executives exchange uneasy glances, but Choi’s smirk betrays no concern. Though you know it is all rehearsed. Every expression is part of the masquerade that is their lives.

“I could sue you for defamation, you know,” he says, leaning forward. He’s beautiful, but in a sinister way. Like staring into the core of a bubbling volcano knowing it could swallow you whole.

“Is it defamation if it’s supported by your own emails?”

From your bag, you retrieve a thick stack of documents and toss them onto the table. One of the younger executives fumbles to pick them up, his face paling as he scans the contents.

“These emails detail discussions between your company and key city council members about how to tip their votes in your favor. Then there are the transaction logs. Substantial sums of money deposited into personal accounts, labeled as ‘consulting fees.’ Oddly enough, these transactions occurred right after a cozy dinner at that hotpot spot downtown. Convenient timing, wouldn’t you agree?”

Your grin widens as you add, “All of it obtained lawfully, of course.” You know they’re infuriated by you. You’ve learned over the years that men like these don’t fear consequences as much as they despise being brought down by a woman.

“There is nothing illegal about consulting fees,”a voice quips from your right, “it’s standard practice.”

“Standard practice,” you repeat, tilting your head. “How fascinating that these fees always seem to align perfectly with approvals for morally bankrupt projects. This isn’t your first rodeo, Choi, is it? Remember the nursing home? Your big debut? The one that earned you Daddy’s approval?”

Choi’s fist slams onto the table. The sound echoes sharply through the room. You don’t flinch.

“How dare you speak to me like this?”

“And how dare YOU prioritize greed over the lives of children?!” you fire back, your voice rising. “YOU are the one bulldozing an orphanage to fatten your pockets. Not me.”

The room shifts uneasily. The executives glancing at one another, avoiding your gaze.

“You have two choices,” you say, straightening. “Withdraw the permit and take responsibility for the lives you’re willing to destroy, or I’ll take this to the media. Every email, every transaction log, it’ll all be public knowledge. Let’s see how long you keep your title when the truth comes out.”

Choi chuckles, a sinister sound that sends shivers down your spine. Spoiled assholes are always somewhat deranged. “So let me get this straight. You barge in here, threatening ME in my OWN office? Do you have any idea what this project is worth? FUCKING BILLIONS! And powerful people back it, people who won’t tolerate interference.”

You pick up your bag, winking. “Then I suggest you start figuring out how to explain this mess to them. You have five days to withdraw the permit. Good luck!”

Without waiting for a response, you turn and stride out, the sharp clicks of your heels like music to your ears. You wave at the secretary who looks at you as if she’s just seen a ghost. And so do the rest of the employees. Your voice must have been loud enough then.

Now that was fun.

Winter launches herself at you as soon as you open the door to her car. “Fuck you were so badass!” she laughs, hugging you tightly and you giggle, the sound light and airy, as you take out your phone from your back pocket, silencing the call with her.

“I can and I have,” she repeats your words, voice dipping lower as you high-five excitedly, your palms almost ricocheting off one another.

“God winter you should’ve seen his face,” you laugh, cheeks almost splitting open, “he looked like a big baby throwing a tantrum!”

“Ah I think this is over, right?” she asks excitedly, as she gets out of the parking lot, “they’ll yield or else you’ll drag their reputation through the mud.”

“I think so,” you sigh, resting your head against the seat cushion. “If they’re any smart they’ll know that the general public will always empathize with children. We’ll wait and see,” you grin, pinching her cheeks. “Either way, I’m not letting them take away the orphanage from us.”

“Never doubted you will,” she smiles widely, before elbowing your side, “girls night then? It’s been so long.”

“Yeah, let’s do it!”

You glance at her as she drives, the sun threading between her blonde strands like molten gold. You’ve always found it ironic that she chose the name Winter for herself when she’s the warmest person you know— she’s the saccharine taste of honey, she’s the colors of the sun and the sounds of a joyous summer. She cannot possibly be a mere human. She’s too kind, too patient for the confines of such a flawed label. You suddenly remember her supporting you as you undertake your law classes, working long hours at the bakery near your home to pay for Seungmin’s lessons. You feel her move for you when your body was too weary to even stir.

“I love you,” you suddenly say, your voice a raspy whisper, and she turns to look at you, her eyes softening. “Yah save this for the sleepover.”

The sun has long slipped beneath the horizon, as you talked the night away with Winter, stomachs full of sweetened Soju and laughter on the living room floor. You rest your head on her stomach as she idly runs her fingers through your hair, reminiscing. It doesn’t hurt as much to remember these days.

“So, will you tell me about Chan?” she whispers, and you groan, hiding your face in your hands.

She giggles at your reaction, gently scratching your scalp. “Come on. How was your getaway?”

It takes you a few moments to admit it. Out of joy. Out of fear. “It was the happiest I’ve been in a long while, Winter.”

“You don’t sound happy about it,” she observes, and you nod.

“I’m terrified, because he’s confusing me.”

She’s silent, and you gather your memories—the ones that have kept you afloat for the past week, the ones that have mended some hidden part of your heart, though you can’t say which one. It is too scarred to keep count, but you can feel it, something inside you has healed, something caged within you can breathe again.

“He remembered which coastal city I wanted to visit, something I said on a whim during one of our walks, years ago, Winter” you say softly, as though speaking of his memory would make the universe take him away from you.

“He took me to eat oysters; You know how much I love oysters. He wore every ugly souvenir I gave him,” you giggle faintly before quieting down. You choose to skip over your mother’s piano piece secret. You feel as if you’d desecrate it by speaking of it, like it’s a memory that belongs only to Chan, you, and the sea. “And then… since we had to share a room, we cuddled because it was cold.”

You expect her to tease you, but her voice is gentle as she asks.

“How did you feel?”

You think hard of how you felt. How easy it was to fall asleep near him. How beautiful he looked as dreams wrote themselves behind his eyelids.

“I felt safe. Like I could let go, and he’d be there to catch me.”

“I don’t think he would hurt you. I don’t think he could, even if you hurt him.”

You sigh, straightening up to meet her gaze.

“I don’t want to hurt him, Winter. That’s my issue. And I know I will.”

“Why would you—”

“I’m a bundle of issues, grief, and sorrow,” you cut her off, resigned. “You know that. I didn’t choose to be this way, but I am. I will taint him.”

“What I know,” she says, taking your hands in her own, “is that you are a good person. Your heart is warm and full of goodness, despite everything that happened to you. Grief changes a person, injustice changes them even more. But your heart still overflows with love. That’s something not everyone can say.”

You shake your head, tears welling in your eyes.

“Winter, have you ever found a flower so beautiful? You see it, and its petals are the brightest colors, almost calling to your soul. Would it be right to cut it and take it home? Yes, it might bring you joy for a while. You’d change its water, add vinegar and sugar cubes. But then what? It’ll falter and die early. Because I was selfish. Because I hurt the flower, even though I loved it so much.”

Your voice cracks, and the tears you’ve been holding back are now dangerously close to spilling. She’s quiet for a long moment, and you begin to believe you’ve imagined this whole conversation. But then—

“What if that flower’s only wish is to be loved?”

Sometimes, words feel like a soothing balm coating your wounds. Sometimes, they feel like a dagger suddenly protruding what’s left of your heart. Sometimes they feel like both.

Your phone pings, and you reach for it through a hazy view, grateful for the small distraction.

Except it isn’t.

Jaehyun: Your cherry man just paid for San’s hospital bills.

You frown, and Winter leans over to peek at your screen.

Y/n: What???

Jaehyun: Yeah, he just called me. An anonymous (beautiful) man (with dimples ;) per the nurse’s description) paid for all his mother’s expenses.

Winter stares at you knowingly as your heart does somersaults—throbbing in your chest, in your throat, in your stomach. You feel him everywhere, Chan, like he’s made a home inside you and is now setting you ablaze.

Does he have to be so kind? Does he have to make it so hard for you not to love him?

Somehow, it’s 4 a.m. before you notice, Winter sleeps soundly beside you while you lie wide awake. You can’t stop thinking about Chan. His desire to be seen, his fear of it too. His voice. His warm hands. His soft lips. His heart. His soul.

You slip away from Winter and head to the balcony, a shawl wrapped around your arms. You hesitate for a moment, then press ‘Call’.

“Cherry?” Chan answers instantly, and your shoulders relax despite yourself. Is this what it feels like to be a flower plucked from millions? Cherished. Loved.

“Hi, Channie,” you whisper, and you hear him rustling in bed.

“Are you okay? Where are you? Do you need me to pick you up?” His questions come fast, and you stop him before he can leap out of bed.

“No, no. I just… I wanted to thank you. For what you did for San.”

“Oh, who told you?” he sounds sheepish, timid. “I thought I told the nurse to keep it anonymous.”

“Well, not many men have dimples as pretty as yours.” The words slip out before you can stop them. You don’t hate yourself when you hear Chan chuckling softly, the bed covers rustling with his movements. Does he too chase remnants of your perfume on his pillows? Does he too imagine you laying on his bed once more?

“Well, it’s the least I could do.”

“No, you didn’t have to do that. You didn’t have to take me on that trip, or rearrange your whole schedule to spend a night watching shitty dramas with me. You didn’t have to do any of it. So why? Why do you do these things, Chan?” you ask, breathless.

He sighs softly. “Does it make you happy, Cherry? When I do these things?”

“Yes.”

“Then you have your answer.”

Oh.

The silence stretches, long and endless. Your shoulders hurt from always being cowered, tense. You wish you could ease them down.

“Thank you for making me happy. Sleep well, Channie.” You hang up before he can reply, before he can call you Cherry again. Because it makes you feel like dying. To love Chan in a world where you won’t let him love you feels like the biggest of deaths.

—

Seungmin’s earliest memories have always been of you.

There was a hollow space in his small heart, carved with the dullest of knives, something that pulsed even though he didn’t know who was it far. He knew his parents existed, he remembers his old home, but only faintly. They’d been taken too soon, he didn’t have much to hold on to.

So it was always you and him.

He remembers being a whiny child, crying endlessly because he didn’t understand why the world was so cruel—to him, but mostly to you. It confused him deeply, the way people overlooked your kindness. You were his older sister, his light. Why, then, couldn’t everyone else see you the way he did?

By the time he grew more into his body, into his heart, the tears stopped coming as often. He noticed the way a light dimmed in your eyes every time you tried to console him, and it frightened him. He didn’t know how many lights you had to give, or how many were left. So, he stopped crying.

Seungmin started piecing together truths he didn’t yet know how to speak. He began to understand the sharpness in your voice when prospective parents visited the orphanage, the urgency in your words when you told him to hide in the bathroom. You were protecting him. You didn’t want to be separated from him. It was almost impossible for two children to be adopted at once.

He began to understand why you always came back a bit breathless from talking to the older kids, the ones you strictly forbade him from playing with. Why would blue marks always appear on your arms after those conversations. Why he often heard you crying at night when you believed him long asleep.

And it killed him. There was no other way to describe it, because Seungmin had scraped his knee and lost his parents, and yet it did not hurt as much as it did when you were hurt. So, he tried to be as small as possible, as quiet, he tried to not get sick, to get good grades, to do his bed and yours. He tried to be perfect, so you wouldn’t be burned by him. So you wouldn’t cry when looking at him asleep.

Joy was scarce in Seungmin’s life. And it was all tied back to you. He was practical, even as a child, understanding early that he’d have to work harder than most to make something of himself. But not for personal gain, it was all to repay you for everything you gave him.

Then, one day, he stumbled onto something unexpected—a gift. A cheat code. “You’ve got a beautiful singing voice,” Miss Jeeho told him on his second night at Promise Orphanage. She had caught him singing in the garden. He didn’t like singing in front of other people. He feared you’d be punished for it too. “Have you ever thought of becoming a singer?”

The idea felt like cracking open a window in a suffocating room, a breath of air sweeping through the dust and decay of a crushed life. For the first time, he saw a semblance of dream take shape. He felt hope settle below his ribs, softening the thorns in his chest.

So he researched in the library of his school obsessively on this topic. How to be a singer, how to audition, how to win. He kept it hidden from you in all the years you spent in Promise Orphanage. Only Miss Jeeho knew, and she was kind, he didn’t feel scared sharing his hope with her. He was fifteen when he told you, after a year of relentlesses fighting to gain his custody. “I want to be a singer.”

You froze for a second, and Seungmin hasn’t stopped wondering where your mind went in that moment.

“Will you help me?” he asked, voice burning with resolve. “It pays well. I promise I’ll debut, and I’ll make you proud. And I’ll repay you, for all of it, I swear.”

“What’s this talk of you repaying me?” you said softly, your eyes so kind it made him want to weep. “All of me is for you, Seungminnie.”

Seungmin felt a sharp, throbbing ache in his chest at that moment. There she was, his greatest supporter, promising to back his dream. And yet, he felt hideously worthless, as though merely looking at the mirror would make it shatter.

It was then he named it—the poison coursing through his veins, the thorn lodged deep in his throat—the guilt. He wore that guilt like a second skin, its barbed wires sinking deeper into his soul with each passing year. Did you have a dream, too? Did you abandon your own to make room for him? He should’ve asked what your dream was. He should’ve begged you to keep your heart for yourself.

Seungmin could not rewrite the past, could not save his parents, could not undo his own birth so that you would not carry the weight of him. So, he sought to make up for it. He never spoke of his weariness during practice, nor of the pain, the fear, or the anger that gnawed at him. He only shared the triumphs—him ranking second on the entry competition, his voice praised by the vocal coaches at the company, finding friends that turned into family who genuinely cared for him, and you with time, that he would debut soon, that he has made it.

He spent his first paycheck on you, buying you the heels you’ve been eyeing for a long time, the ones you wore to your first courtroom. He spent the next on you too, and the one after it. He overcompensated for the guilt– gifts, flowers, a luxurious coffee machine, a two weeks retreat fully paid. He grew overbearing too, when it came to your heart, when it came to protecting it, disapproving of every person you chose to date.

He understood after a while that you weren’t looking for anything serious, at least not for now. Your dates seemed to understand this too. But he was afraid that one day you’d fall for someone who’s still looking for fun, who wouldn’t care for your heart like it was your own.

His hyungs would always poke fun at him for his protective nature, but he couldn’t help it. He was terrified for you, terrified that a heartbreak would be the thing to take you away from him.

He still remembers the look on your face when you caught him sitting in the same restaurant as your date. You’d laughed, and he’d felt sheepish under your gaze. “I told him it was a bad idea,” Jeongin giggled, throwing his hands up.

“I don’t like him,” he grumbled and you had chuckled, ruffling his hair, “when do you ever?”

You had then spent the night with him at the dorms watching movies with all his members. It was a normal occurrence for you to hang out with them, his found family, because they too had been touched with your kindness, back when they were all still trainees and you insisted on making them homemade food.

Seungmin knew it was your way of clinging to a normal home, that too killed him a little.

He knew that the members loved you, that they too cared for you deeply. Though they liked to annoy Seungmin by flirting with you. Which made you giggle, so, although he despises it, he still lets it slide.

Which brings him to today.

Seungmin hasn’t seen you since the concert at Kyocera Dome. So, he spammed you long enough for you to finally agree to have dinner in his dorm. Except 3RACHA was there too since they were all working on a song. It wasn’t their presence that weirded out Seungmin. Nor the fact that Han and Changbin took turns flirting with you, turning more obnoxious and loud and making Seungmin wish he could hit them with the plates on the table. Not that.

It was Chan. Who looked tense, jaw tight, his fingers flexing each time they sent a flirty remark your way.

Was he… Jealous?

“Thank you honey,” Han says, blowing you a kiss when you hand him his chopsticks. You giggle and Seungmin buries his face in his hands when Changbin grabs your plate, declaring that he will cut the steak for you.

“She doesn’t like meat cut that way,” Chan suddenly says, taking away the knife and plate from Changbin. Your cheeks blush as if a dahlia blossomed there. Han and Changbin exchange knowing looks.

Okay. What?

“Is there something—” he asks when your phone suddenly rings and he quiets down, swallowing the question with the rest of his beer. That would have been a stupid question, anyways.

“Winter!” you pick up, tone cheerful. Though all the color drains from your face as she speaks, the flower withering and turning into ash.

“W-what…?” you ask, slightly dazed, your hand gripping the table.

“What’s wrong?” he asks. “Cherry, what’s wrong?” so does Chan.

Cherry?

“The orphanage…” you say, Chan seems to understand what you’re talking about perfectly. You don’t finish, getting up and running out of his dorm. Everyone gets up on cue following you. “We’ll take my car,” Changbin says.

—

Is it possible to have sinned right before birth? To have done something so terrible you cannot atone for it no matter how much time passes. You accept it, you accept that your star is an unlucky one. You accept that even the most restless waters will always drown you, not carry you. Still, for how long do you have to pay the price, over and over again? Till how long is it no longer justice? Till how long does it become the universe toying with you? Does it think you can’t break? Does it think there is no limit to how much you can take?

Because there is.

You think you’ve reached it now.

Time seems to have slowed down, so much you’re sure five lifetimes have passed between each of your breaths. You know that there must be people screaming, a loud shatter, the sirens of ambulances and firefighters. Still, it’s quiet in your head. Save for a faint ringing, a buzzing, like a swarm of bees has lodged itself within your ear.

The earth is moving beneath your feet, it threatens to split open and swallow you. And you’d let it. You don’t have the nails to dig yourself out. You don’t have the will. You don’t have the hope.

You almost feel like laughing. You’re cursed. Every bit of happiness comes back to haunt you down the line.

It’s hot, extremely hot, and ashy. And you’re before the orphanage but you don’t smell rust. You smell smoke, pungent and bitter. You smell loss. You smell your last hope dying.

The orphanage is burning.

The kids are outside, covered in blankets and hugged turn by turn by the staff— Miss Jeeho, Mister Seonghwa, the cook, the gardener, the teachers, the psychologist, Winter.

The firefighters are trying to control the fire, but it’s spreading rapidly before your eyes, emboldened by the wooden floors and squeaky doors. You are losing your home again. The fire is eating the room you slept in, the kitchen where you learned how to cook, the garden where you caught Seungmin singing to Miss Jeeho. It’s eating the stairs where you sat with Winter laughing, the attic where you hid when existing became too rough.

It’s eating your memories, it’s eating you.

“What’s— what’s happening?” Seungmin stammers, his hand on your shoulder. You feel like kids again, back when the policeman came to your home and found only you and a toddler inside. A kid caring for a kid.

Winter sees you from afar, rushing to wrap you in her arms. You don’t feel her warmth. You don’t feel anything, now that you’re thinking of it. Has your heart bled dry? Finally?

“Cherry,” you hear but you brush the hand away, walking towards two firefighters once only smoke remains. “Who started it? The fire?” you ask breathlessly.

“Why?” they ask, cautious, “do you have reason to believe it was intentional?”

“Who started it?” you repeat.

“It’s too early to tell,” he says, eyes fixed on his coworker, sweat dripping from his brow, his forehead smeared with ash. “Preliminary findings suggest it began in the garden, which is odd, since there’s no apparent cause and no sign of a cigarette. The owner claims no one smokes. We did find what looks like traces of gasoline, but more investigation is needed. It spread quickly towards to the utility room, where there are electric wires. Something, or someone must’ve sparked it, and now it’s out of control.” He sighs, “We’ll call the police.”

You feel it then, a stone that sinks deep within your gut: they burned it. Sun Corporation burned the orphanage because if there is no orphanage then there is no case. They burned the orphanage and you with it.

—

“Would someone tell me what’s going on?” Seungmin grows more agitated the more you remain silent in your apartment. You can tell everyone is looking at you, waiting for you to snap out of your daze. But you don’t know where to begin. You don’t know how this will end.

“Miss Jeeho called,” Winter says softly, reappearing from the balcony. “There’s enough suspicion to begin an investigation. They need my testimony.” Changbin, without a word, stands and grabs his car keys. “I’ll drive you,” he says. She nods in reply.

“Do the kids have a place to go tonight?” Han asks, his voice laced with concern. Winter shakes her head. “No, Miss Jeeho is still trying to figure that out.”

“Alright,” Han says, pulling out his phone. “Let me call the others for help.”

“You have my card,” Chan says, pressing a sleek, cold card into Winter’s hand.

“Text me,” you tell Han, and he nods, following Changbin and Winter out the door.

And then there were three.

“Would you please tell me?” Seungmin asks again, kneeling before you. His voice is quieter now, laced with something you hadn’t anticipated—hurt, confusion. A part of you stirs alive and you sigh, beginning to recount everything— the apartment, the corruption, San, the meeting, the fire— but your voice feels like someone else’s, void, unfamiliar.

“And why didn’t you tell me any of this?” he asks once you finish. There’s raw pain coating his gaze, Seungmin has always been an open book to you.

“I was going to tell you,” you murmur, “once the permit was withdrawn. I didn’t want to burden you with this.”

“But I want you to burden me!” his voice rises slightly, as he stands up, pacing before you. “I could have helped you. I would have stood by you!”

“Seungmin, please,” you breathe, the weight of it all pressing against your chest.

“You don’t always have to carry everything alone. It doesn’t make you stronger, it only makes the pain ten times worse,” he presses his eyes shut, “I wouldn’t have hid something like this from you.”

“Well, you’re not me!” You snap, and he flinches, recoiling like you’ve struck him. You’ve never raised your voice at Seungmin before.

There she is, the person who pushes those who love her away, the person who deserves to be punished.

“I’ll go help the boys,” he softly says, walking out, shoulders slumped. He looks smaller now, like you’ve just hurt the child within him mourning his only home.

“Cherry…” Chan’s voice cuts through the tense silence, and you rise to your feet, instinctively covering your face. “Not you too, Chan.”

“Would you talk to me?” His voice is gentle. “You haven’t said a word in over an hour. This isn’t healthy, I know this must hurt so you shouldn’t keep it all inside.”

“I don’t have anything to say,” you reply, your voice colder than you intended. Please go, you beg. Please, before I snap at you too.

“Just talk, okay? Say whatever comes to your mind. I’ll listen to you. It’ll feel better if you let it all out.”

“Except it won’t!” The words come out harsher than you meant, and you feel yourself spiraling. You’re throwing up thorns, and you can’t stop it. “You don’t always know what’s best for people, alright? You can’t always fix people, Chan! And I can’t be fixed! Talking about it won’t help, keeping it in won’t help, because this is who I fucking am. This is all I’ve known.”

“Cherry, please. You know that’s not what I meant.” His voice is soft, still tender, still trying to reach you.

He still calls you Cherry. He’s still here. You can feel the desperation creeping inside, a bitter realization that they should all run before you curse them too.

“Oh, come on,” you laugh, the sound hollow. It feels like daggers slicing through your throat as you speak. “Don’t you see me as a project to fix? Something to make you feel in control for all the years you’ve lost it?”

“Is this how low you think of me?” he asks, taking a step back, his face a mix of hurt and disbelief. “I never thought you needed fixing.”

“Well, it’s how I felt around you,” you say, the words spilling out like venom. Liar. Liar. Liar. “Like I’m the poor orphan and you’re the knight in shining armor, coming to save me.” He looks like you’ve just slapped him in the face.

Does he hate you now? Does he hate you as much as you hate yourself?

“You know, you should stop punishing yourself, Yn.” He says your name, not Cherry, but your name, plain and flat. It feels like all your little deaths combined in one. “You only have one sin and it’s that you wish to be loved.”

He pauses. You feel as if the world was cracked wide open. You feel as if your soul just splattered before his feet, naked, trembling.

“And I love you. God, I’ve loved you for the past ten years, and I wish you could open your heart just a little bit to see it.”

“What?” you ask, breathless, the words barely leaving your mouth before he turns away, silent. He doesn’t answer. He leaves.

He left.

Your feet move before your mind can catch up, and suddenly you’re running after him. “What do you mean you love me?” you shout, the words raw, desperate. Your chest is heaving, breaths coming in ragged gasps. You’re sure your neighbors are peeking from their windows, watching, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters now except him, nothing has in a long time. “What do you mean, Chan?!”

“Forget it,” he mutters.

“You can’t say that and ask me to forget it!” you shout and he chuckles, hand tightly gripping his hair in frustration.

“Has it not been clear? That you’d ask me to get you the moon and I'd fucking die trying. Can’t you see that I’d sacrifice the sun if it means making you happy?”

You back away, tears streaming down your cheeks in an unstoppable flow. No. Yes. No. How?

“N–no, you… You shouldn’t love me.”

“Do you think I haven’t tried?” His voice rises, raw and hoarse. “I’m human too, it kills me to love someone who I know won’t ever love me. But tell me, please, teach me how to pause the throbbing of my heart. Teach me how to silence it when it calls out your name, when it aches because it misses you so much I feel like I’m dying. When there is a void in my soul shaped after your laugh, your smell, your words, how do I—“ his hands land on your shoulders, his forehead resting on the crook of your neck. You can feel the shaking of his hands, you can feel his being unraveling before you.

Your hands curl in tight fists, you are broken, shattered, there is no glue that could piece you back together. Even if gold travels between your shards, it will not make you into something beautiful. You’ll remain a disaster. You’ll ruin him too.

“Look at me.” You shake your head, unwilling, unable to face him. “Please, Cherry, look at me. Even if you’ll leave me right now, please, I— I’d rather you leave while looking at me.”

You bite your lip, choking on the sob rising in your throat.

“Tell me you don’t love me,” he pleads, taking your palm and placing it atop his chest.You can feel the erratic thrum of his pulse, alive and desperate beneath your hand. “Say it. Say you never will. Make me believe it, so this thing inside me will die. Please.”

“I can’t say that,” you whisper. The world offers itself at your feet. “I can’t say that because I won’t mean it.” Your eyes finally meet his, you wonder what he sees in yours. You wonder how someone like him could ever love you.

You lick your lips tentatively, tasting the saltiness of your tears and the cherry of your chapstick.

“Do you know what a bleeding heart dove is? It’s a small pigeon, with a plumage so white and pristine it resembles the first snow. But right in the middle of it, there is a patch of crimson, it looks like a bullet wound Chan, it looks like his little heart is always bleeding.” Your voice cracks like glass, Chan’s eyes soften more than you’ve ever thought was possible. “That’s how I feel, like I always always carry this wound that won’t ever heal. It bleeds and it bleeds and the blood oozes so much at times that I choke with it. I don’t want to taint you with it too.”

“What if I want you to taint me?” His warm palms cradle your cheeks, threads of sunlight brushing against your skin. “What if I want you to change me? What if I want everyone who has looked at me to know that I’m loved by you?”

You smile softly, shaking your head. “That would be selfish of me.”

“Then love me selfishly, love me with greed. Just love me, Cherry. Please, love me,” he begs, his eyes boring into yours. You peer into him, his soul, the sincerity in his offering to you— his heart, so fragile, yet so resolute in loving you.

“You’re so beautiful, Channie,” you gently say, as your palms tenderly cup his cheeks. His eyes flutter closed, tears staining your hands as he leans into your touch, placing his heart right in your hands. “I’d like some time to think of myself as beautiful, too. Would you wait for me? Until I figure it out.”

He softens. “I waited for you for ten years. I’d wait for you for an eternity if I have to.”

A knot forms in your throat. “You’re so sweet, God, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I know you don’t pity me, I shouldn’t have said that. I’m just so overwhelmed and everything spiraled down and I don’t know where to even begin now,” you ramble, and he cuts you off by placing a tender kiss atop your wrist.

“Would you breathe now?” he smiles and your world somehow brightens despite it all. “I'm not mad, alright? And we’ll figure it out together, Cherry. You have us. You always did.”

Your voice is small as you mumble– “Seungmin is mad at me.”

“He’s not. He always wants to protect you so he feels bad when you don’t let him in. You know that.”

You did, of course you do.

You feel a little less ashamed of plucking a beautiful flower out of its soil. You’ll insuflate your own soul in it to keep it blooming.

“Will you stay with me, Chan?”

“Always.”

—

“So, they burned down the orphanage?” Jeongin asks, disbelief thick in his voice as you finish recounting the horrors of the past month.

Your small apartment is packed the day after the fire—Winter, Jaehyun, Miss Jeeho, San, and the boys. Some sit huddled on couches, others sprawl across the floor, leaning into one another. You’ve never known that warmth could become a tangible thing, that it could weave itself around your heart like silk, drip sweetness down your ribcage like rivers of honey. You feel it, despite how harrowing the situation is, because all your friends care. They care for the orphanage like it’s their own.

“Yeah, I’m sure of it,” you reply. “We got a report of a suspicious van speeding off right after the fire started.”

“And remnants of gasoline were found at the scene,” Jaehyun adds, taking a leisurely sip out of his beer. “The police are tracing it now.”

You nod, thinking back to the police chief who happened to be one of your high school classmates. He got promoted and he promised he’d tell you first, if anything happened. “Yeah, the firefighters confirmed that it was arson. Once the police officer gets back at us I’ll file a lawsuit against them.”

“But can you believe the fucking nerve?” Felix scoffs, “I just read their statement: ‘We are extremely saddened by the news of the burning of Promise Orphanage due to faulty wiring. We promise to work side by side with the community to ensure the children are safe and living in better conditions’. Do they think we are stupid?”

“They’re lying,” Miss Jeeho says bitterly. “Trying to save face while they can.”

Hyunjin’s face pales. “This makes me sick,” he whispers. “The fact that they’d endanger those kids just for their agenda…” He trails off, shaking his head, and the room falls into a heavy silence.

“They stopped communicating through emails after you confronted Choi,” San says, his voice tight. “They must’ve realized someone was leaking information. Now everything’s confidential.”

He slumps, defeated, and you reach over to pat his back gently. “It’s okay. I don’t think they’d be dumb enough to discuss arson in emails anyways. We’ll find another way.”

“What about the kids? Are they okay?” Jeongin asks, his brows furrowed in concern.

“They’re doing fine, considering,” Minho answers, nodding toward Han. “Yeah,” Han adds with a soft laugh. “We visited this morning. They’re warm, well-fed, like michelin chef well-fed, we made sure of it, and maybe a little spoiled, we might’ve gone overboard with the toys.” The group chuckles briefly, Minho throwing a pillow at Han’s face before smiling fondly at him.

“But this is all just temporary,” Winter whispers, her eyes suddenly brimming with tears. “We can’t keep them in a rented house forever. They’ll need to be sent to different locations, scattered across the country.”

“Is there really no other way?” Changbin asks, as he squeezes Winter’s shoulder gently.

“Unless we can rebuild the orphanage in record time, then no. It’s all gone,” Miss Jeeho sighs, and you feel the knot in your throat tighten. You’ve avoided looking at her ever since the fire, you can’t bear the sight of raw grief in her eyes, specifically.

“What if we rebuild the orphanage?” Seungmin suddenly asks. It’s the first time you’ve heard his voice during the night.

“We don’t have the funds for that, Seungminnie” you say softly.

“We do,” Chan interjects firmly, “If we all donate, we can raise the money. Start a fundraiser, maybe?”

You see it then, a fickle of hope blossoming in the air.

“You know, it’s not a bad idea,” Jaehyun says, leaning forward. “Media coverage of the case is really strong and it has garnered a lot of public sympathy. I also told friends in media to keep up intense coverage since something big is simmering beneath the case.”

“I can hold a press conference then,” you say, your voice quipping up. “Expose everything, from the beginning and ask for public support.”

“And me,” Seungmin says suddenly, looking up to meet your gaze at last. His voice is steady, but his eyes are tinged with vulnerability. “I want to stand by your side. It’ll help us garner more attention too.”

“Are you sure?” you ask gently. “Are you ready to reveal where you grew up?”

“I’m not ashamed of it,” he replies softly. “It’s because of that place that I’m here today.”

Your heart swells, and tears sting your eyes as you nod. “Alright. Sounds like a solid plan.”

—

You’ve known loneliness long enough to recognize that it doesn’t wear a singular face.

“Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen. My name is Y/n Kim, and I am the lead attorney representing Promise Orphanage.”

You’ve known the loneliness that slices your bones. That cuts so deep within your marrow you’re unsure whether the sun will rise tomorrow, whether you’ll be even there to witness it. You knew it when you were ten and your parents simply never came back home.

“You are aware that Promise Orphanage has been burnt down last week. A tragedy for our community as this orphanage housed forty children who only have that place to call a home.”

You’ve known the loneliness that doesn’t stab, its sharp tip always remaining at the edges of your soul, as if threatening you, reminding you that it could sink within you at any given moment. You knew it when you were fourteen and Winter shook your hand for the first time.

“I am here to explain that this isn’t due to uncontrollable circumstances. But a crime. The fire did not start hazardously but was intentionally caused. By Sun Corporation, the subsidiary of Gyeongdo Holdings.”

You’ve known the loneliness that doesn’t fill you, but rather sits beside you on a bench. Loneliness that only manifests when you’re surrounded by people who love you, and who you love. And yet, you feel as if you are enclosed in transparent glass, always keeping you at arm’s length from them. Because your heart is different. Because you grieved a lifetime before you were old enough to understand it.

But for the first time in years, you don’t feel lonely.

Not when the people in your life have worked tirelessly with you for the orphanage, for justice, for the children. Not when a room full of journalists hang onto your every word, cameras flashing, questions flying. Your eyes scan the crowd, landing on your loved ones in the back. They nod.

The legal case is airtight. You’ve worked tirelessly with your team to gather the proof—police reports, financial records, surveillance footage. You exhale, steadying yourself, and nod toward the screen.

“We have obtained documentation, in collaboration with the authorities, confirming that a van was seen fleeing the scene moments after the fire started getting out of control. That van was rented by a company in which Sun Corporation holds 45% of the shares. The individual who rented it is also an employee at Sun Corporation, whose identity we’ll keep anonymous. For now.”

Your eyes meet San’s, and he winks—he’s the one who verified the identity, right after depositing his resignation letter at Sun Corporation.

A journalist raises his hand. “Are you saying Sun Corporation committed arson?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying. But don’t take my word for it, of course.”

You press a button on the laptop connected to the speakers.

The room falls silent.

Then, the recording crackles to life.

“Are you insane?! I said a warning, not a damn inferno!”

Murmurs ripple through the crowd, cameras shifting toward the speakers as the voice, angry, panicked, continues.

“You idiots lost control of it! The fire department is involved, you know that bitch is going to the police too. Do you have any idea what’s at stake? BILLIONS! I wanted to sue them for neglect and now we are the ones who will lose EVERYTHING! Fix it, or so help me—”

The recording cuts out. The silence that follows is deafening.

Journalists erupt all at once.

“Who is that speaking?”

“Was this obtained legally?”

“Is Sun Corporation under criminal investigation?”

You raise a hand, and a hush falls upon the room.

“The voice belongs to Choi Sungho, CEO of Sun Corporation,” you confirm. “This recording was obtained from a whistleblower inside the company and has been turned over to the authorities. The police are actively investigating Sun Corporation for arson, conspiracy, and fraud.”

You think back to the brunette secretary. You now know her name—Jia. She once dreamed of becoming a lawyer too, but she needed money for her sister’s medical bills, so she had to give up her aspirations. She heard snippets of the conversations authorizing the fire and recorded the aftermath. You know she’s watching this at home too.

“This is not just a case of reckless endangerment. This is a coordinated criminal act, executed for financial gain. Sun Corporation had previously filed for a demolition permit for the orphanage, but the permit was granted under questionable circumstances.”

You gesture toward the documents on every table.

“There is evidence that Sun Corporation bribed city officials to fast-track the permit process. However, because of our legal scrutiny, the project was delayed. Burning a part of the orphanage to argue neglect was their alternative. But as you can see, it backfired.”

More whispers, more frantic typing. A journalist from the back calls out, “Are you pursuing legal action?”

“Yes. We are also working closely with law enforcement to hold all responsible parties accountable, including those within the city council who enabled this corruption.”

You suck in a deep breath, nodding towards Seungmin who was standing behind the curtains, veiled from everyone’s view.

“There is someone I’d like you to meet now.”

He steps forward, taking the mic from your hand.

The camera flashes become incessant as the interrogations ripple from everywhere.

“Is that…?”

“Wait, Kim Seungmin?”

“What is going on?”

“Hello,” he says, voice reverberating around the room. “My name is Kim Seungmin. Some of you may be familiar with who I am, but today, I do not speak to you as an Idol.” A pause. “I am here as one of the children who once lived at Promise Orphanage.”

The cameras shift, zooming in on his face. Jaehyun excitedly signals that the viewer’s count is rising up rapidly.

“I’ve never spoken about this publicly before, but I am an orphan. My sister,” he nods at you, “raised me. My fans may recognize her voice from some of our songs,” he smiles softly, before sobering up. “We moved from place to place, but Promise Orphanage was the only orphanage that felt like home. The only place where we were truly taken care of, where I was allowed to dream, thanks to Miss Jeeho, the director. She’s the one who helped me become a singer. She’s also the one who helped my sister in her fight for my custody.”

He swallows hard, steadying himself.

“This crime is not just about corporate greed. It’s about children who lost their home overnight. And now, they face being scattered across different locations, losing the only family they have left.”

His gaze fixes every camera, every journalist in place. You feel pride swell in your heart, loud and bright and all encompassing.

“We are not just seeking justice. We are seeking solutions. We are launching a legal fund to rebuild Promise Orphanage. We ask for your steady support in holding Sun Corporation accountable and in ensuring that these children are not left behind.”

“Please don’t let this injustice go unanswered.”

He bows deeply. You follow. Cameras flash, a deluge of light and sound.

It’s done, now. The end of the beginning is finally over.

—

Sometimes a month is just a month. Sometimes a month stretches like ten lifetimes crafted solely to hurt you. Sometimes a month slips through your fingers like running water, not yours to keep.

The past six months have been both, somehow.

You spent sleepless nights building the most solid case against Sun Corporation. Exhausting weeks passed before the judge finally struck his gavel against the wood, charging them with arson, criminal activity, bribery, and interference with civilian law. It took the sweat and tears of many to rebuild the orphanage from the charred ground. It took a lot of love to fill its multicolor walls with children’s laughter again— yours, your brother’s, your friends’, the fans’, the general public’s too.

And yet, when it was all over, when you could finally exhale without fearing the consequences of letting go, you were left with a gaping hole in your chest. Void was an insatiable creature gnawing at your heart, void was a creature that sought something you could not name.

That is until Seungmin talked to you.

“Can I sit?” he asks, pointing to the patch of shade near you. You nod, scooting over as you both lean your backs against the freshly planted pine tree. For a while, it’s quiet as you watch Han and Felix, dressed as clowns, playing hide and seek with a group of children at the orphanage’s reopening party.

“They look happy,” he whispers and you smile softly, letting their giggles waft to your ears.

“They do.”

“I never apologized for that night,” he suddenly says, turning to look at you. “When I got mad because you didn’t tell me about the orphanage.”

“I’m the one who’s sorry,” you sigh. “I knew how much this place means to you. I knew this was where you figured out what your dream was. I just… didn’t want to burden you, not when you already have so much atop your plate” you explain, gently smoothing down his bangs. “I guess a part of me still sees you as the little kid I have to protect.”

“You were a child too, protecting me,” he whispers, voice hoarse as he places his warm palm over yours. “You don’t have to protect me anymore. I promise. I’d rather you look after your own heart. Listen to what it really wants.”

Your eyes drift toward Chan. He’s playing guitar for a group of older kids, their small hands clapping to the upbeat melody. His smile is the sun. His smile tastes like the ocean breeze.

“Do you like him?” Seungmin asks softly.

Your breath catches. “What?”

“Chan. I’m not blind. I see the way you look at him. The way he looks at you, mostly.”

“Does it bother you?”

“Why would your happiness ever bother me?” He smiles, and you feel a weight dissolve in your chest. The creature within you perks up at his words.

“Then yes,” you admit, breath hitching. “I like him. So much it terrifies me.”

You speak your feelings for the first time, and yet, the sky does not collapse, the earth does not tremble beneath your feet. It feels almost miraculous— to voice what you long for and not be punished for it.

“Sometimes the things that scare us the most are the ones that make us happiest,” he says. “Because we’re scared of allowing ourselves to feel joy. Because we’ve conditioned ourselves to think we don’t deserve it.”

Tears prick your eyes, and you crack a soft smile. “Look at you, saying such wise things.”

“I’m literally twenty-four,” he deadpans and you laugh, ruffling his hair. “But you’ll always be a baby in my eyes, Seungminnie.”

“All right, all right.” He laughs, pulling you into a side hug. “But would you do it? I know you’ve sacrificed a lot for me, it must have hurt to do so,” you go to interject but he stops you, “Please. Would you listen to your heart for once?”

It takes a week away from everyone to do just that. You return to Gangneung, you walk past the blue houses, you talk to the locals and play chess with the grandpas and drink tea with the kind women at the local market. You twirl barefoot by the waves until salt clings to your skin, you lay on the sand and trace constellations with your fingertips. You sit in stillness. And you listen, truly listen, to the silence between each of your breaths. And then slowly, the melody emerges. Faint at first, like a distant lullaby. Then clearer, insistent, unwavering—stuck on a single note.

Chan.

You’ve never quite known who you were. When personality quizzes asked how your friends would describe you, you hesitated. Funny? Sweet? Practical? What about nothing—an emptiness that expands to swallow you whole? You never knew what to say when interviewees asked about your strengths and weaknesses, the things you’d like to change in your being, the ones you’d like to keep. You felt like a water lily floating aimlessly atop the still water, untethered, with no roots to return to.

But you knew you were a coward when it came to your heart. That you craved love so violently you could cleave the earth open with your ache. You knew that your mind had convinced you that you were cursed, flawed, undeserving.

But for the first time, you allow yourself to simply feel human.

You sit by the waves once more, the endless sea stretching before you. The sun disps slowly beneath the horizon, the clouds are dusted pink. Are they blushing too, at the thought of what you are about to do?

You had asked Chan to meet you on the beach at Gangneung whenever he could free himself, and he did—without hesitation. Seungmin texted you that he left the mid-writing session and jumped into his car with no second thought. He seemed happy, he said. That made you happy too.

“You look different,” Chan observes, and you turn away from the sea. His eyes are kind and you don’t shy away from his gaze, for once.

“Different?” you echo.

“At peace.”

You nod, curling your knees to your chest, resting your cheek against them. He follows suit, his legs grazing yours now and then, grounding you in his presence.

“I’ve thought a lot about what it means to be human,” you murmur. “To soften my heart, to open doors I thought were long sealed. I don’t have all the answers. But I found something.”

“What is it?”

“I found you,” you confess, so softly like you are speaking of a prayer. His eyes widen but you press on. “I weighed in the pros and cons, of what I want, of what losing what I want would cost me. And yet, in all my most horrible twisted scenarios, where you’d leave me heartbroken and bleeding, it still feels worth it. It feels worth it if it means you’d love me for a while, and that I’d love you too.”

He gently tucks a stray lock of hair behind your ear, the gesture tender, as all his touches are.

“A while? The only way for me to stop loving you is if my heart stops beating, Cherry.”

“So you still love me?” you ask, a bit shyly, too hopeful.

Chan blinks, then deadpans, “Are we sitting by the sea?”

You burst into laughter, the sound rolling out of you freely. As it fades, you see him—your beautiful Chan—the faint smile lines etching themselves around his lips, the kind warmth in his eyes, the remnants of dimples on his cheeks. He is so achingly beautiful it feels like an axe splitting your chest open. It feels like being born once more.

“I haven’t listened to my heart in so long,” you confess, brushing your thumb against his cheek, letting it trail softly over the corner of his mouth, a whisper against his lips. “But right now, it only wants one thing.”

“I’m yours,” he breathes, lips slightly parted.

There is no one around but the two of you and the sea. Who is there left to pretend for? The play is over. You bow to the sadness. You bow to the grief.

You take a deep breath. You dive into the water. You finally kiss Chan.

You knew that his lips would be as soft as silk, that pressing your mouth to his would be akin to breathing in oxygen for the first time, and yet, you did not imagine it to be this soul-shattering. You did not foresee the fireworks going off behind your eyelids, the bees and the bleeding heart doves singing in your chest, the garden buzzing in your stomach, telling you that you are alive, and that you are loved, at last, and that that is all that matters.

You did not imagine that he would taste like salvation, like honey and cherries and everything beautiful in between. You did not imagine that his tongue dancing along yours would feel like floating atop the sea, warm as sun, carnal like surrendering to your heart’s rawest desires.

You did not foresee that his warm palms would cradle your cheeks, that he would kiss you with the urgency of a starved man. That he would not tire of you, never ceasing, never faltering. That he would lay you on the sand and kiss you till night fell above you both, till your lips are both swollen, tender, and bleeding cherries.

“I love you,” you finally breathe, your heart throbbing all over your body, “I’m sorry it took me so long to see it.”

“Nonsense,” He smiles against your lips. “Even if you only loved my last dying breath, it would still be enough for me.”

—

“So, does this mean I can officially no longer flirt with you?” Han asks, eyes wide with mock horror. Seungmin flicks his forehead in response, and Chan tosses a napkin at him, an amused smile playing at his lips.

“Wait, pause, I can’t believe I lost to Chan,” Changbin pretends to weep, earning a laugh from the others.

“She’s mine,” Chan cocks his eyebrows at them, leaning back on his chair. “Go find yourselves your own partners.”

You are tucked away in a remote town of Japan, a hard-earned vacation after the turmoil you’ve went through the past months. You figured it was the best time to tell the boys that you are dating, only for wave of questions (and indignation, mostly) to immediately crash over you, followed by a group hug that lasted two full minutes, courtesy of Felix.

“Wait, but we liked you first!” Han protests once more, and Seungmin groans, his face contorting in annoyance that borders on anguish. “God, I thought I would be free of this torture.”

“I literally liked her before you guys even saw her,” Chan chimes in with a satisfied grin.

“So you’ve loved her for ten years now?” Hyunjin shouts, raising from his seat dramatically. “Wait this is so romantic.”

“I’m sorry, Jisungie, Binnie,” you tease as you press a lingering kiss to Chan’s cheek.

“Oh my god guys he’s BLUSHING!” Minho shouts, pointing excitedly at Chan. “This is too funny! Channie hyung is so flustered,” Jeongin laughs, whipping out his phone to capture the moment. “Wait, Innie pan over to Seungmin’s face!” Felix claps in pure delight, and you turn to see your brother sulking.

“What? I’m still not used to… this,” Seungmin grumbles, wiggling his fingers in front of you both in exaggerated disgust, but there’s a soft gleam in his eyes. He’s happy for you, only after threatening Chan five hundred times to treat you right, but he’s happy.

“Who wants ice cream?” Chan suddenly asks, not waiting for an answer before he grabs your hand and pulls you away.

“What was that?” you ask once you are out of the house.

“Nothing, I just wanted you all to myself for a bit,” he smiles bashfully, and you giggle, wrapping your arm around his waist. “You’re making it a habit to kidnap me,” you tease.

“Do you mind?”

“Not in the slightest.”

“Good,” he grins, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head. “Also, it’s Changbin and Jisung for you,” he chastises, a big pout tugging at his lips.

“Does Mr. Bang feel jealous when I call them Binnie and Jisungie?”

“Yes, I am. Sue me, I worked day and night to be yours. Day and night and for ten years at that too,” he sighs dramatically and you tip your head back in laughter. Your giggles lull when you see it.

“Are we standing underneath…” you draw out.

“A cherry blossom,” Chan whispers, his gaze soft and full of warmth. His smile is so wide, so radiant, it feels like your soul is buzzing, melting underneath his light.

“This reminds me… Did you fall for me because I gave you a cherry lollipop?” you tease, wrapping your arms around the nape of his neck, his hands instinctively finding your waist.

“Yeah, you must have laced that lollipop with something,” he chuckles, eyes twinkling with mischief.

“What if I hadn’t given it to you? What if we hadn’t met at all?”

He softens, his palms cupping your cheeks gently. “I would’ve found you,” he murmurs, brushing his lips against yours. He can almost taste it, vanilla and bubblegum. “In the streets of Gangneung. As you swam in the sea. In one of your courtrooms… I would’ve found you, my Cherry, and I would’ve loved you just the same.”

What does it mean to soften your heart? What does it mean to open the doors of what you thought was long sealed? The answers didn’t come to you all at once, you found them serendipitously, as you rounded up corners of paths you never thought you’d walk in.

You learned that softness is the greatest act of courage. You learned that to tear down your defenses is the greatest act of rebellion. You learned that love is a patient being, that it is all encompassing, that it heals, but only if you allow it to, only if you let it make a home out of your ribcage.

You learned that being human, unapologetically so, in all of its sorrowful and joyous shades, is to forgive, first and most. To forgive the world, for being sharp at times, for being cruel. To forgive yourself, for depriving your soul of happiness, for doing what you had to do to survive the cold.

To forgive the rust, for walking by your side for a long time. To let cinnamon and pinewood and cherries invade your senses instead, settle upon your sheets and waft into your home. To let the fire within you simmer, to let the anger go, even if it had kept you warm for a while.

For you have the sun now.

You have Chan, and he has you too, at last.

[heyitsmemel]

God the unbecoming, the unraveling of a lifetime of shit that’s not yours, the process of coming back to yourself is so fucking painful. Keep going. You’re doing great.

You are not trying to find yourself. You were never lost. It’s a slow rememberance, a coming home of who you really are before the world told you who you should be. I’m proud of myself. I’m proud of you too. Yes this is a snz blog. Yes this isn’t sneeze. Just a place of thoughts. I love you. I want nothing more from me, from you, other than to be authentic.

[selfinflictedgunshotwound]

it sucks to have no one to talk about the big emotions to because they're either too close to you or too far away... i simply don't know how to cope with real life and i don't know how people do

[bumblebeesfromvenus]

Unsatisfied ♤

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ────── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

A lil self-indulgent Jason drabble to get back into writing this cutie <3

NSFW under the cut.

《Content》: PiV, toys, implied usage of antidepressants, Jason being a sweetheart and boyfie of the year 💋

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ────── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

The room was filled with the sounds of sex, the air thick, hanging over your naked bodies like a suffocating fog.

You were grabbing at the sheets, your face scrunched up in pleasure while moans and mewsl of ecstasy tumbled from your lips. Jason was grinding his hips against yours, dragging his cock in and out of you, leaving a him-shaped hole.

Every vein and ridge rubbed against your velveteen walls, your eyes rolling into the back of your bead while your lover was panting above you, his arm straining while he continued to hold a buzzing vibrator to your clit.

He groaned, his head thrown back, sweat dripping from his temples. His pink lower lip was caught between his pearly teeth.

"Fuck, you f-feel heavenly.." Jason moaned, a strangled sound as you clenched around him.

The pleasure melted your bones, leaving you pliant for him. It felt like your brain was oozing out of your ears, your eyes glazed over with a distant look glistening within them.

He noticed, leaning over you to gently tap your cheek.

"You with me, baby?" He panted, not stopping the movement of his hips.

Your eyes were half-lidded as you nodded at him.

"Yeah.." you said quietly, sinking into the mattress at the pure euphoria boiling in your veins.

"Good.." He breathed, planting one of his big hands on the soft fat of your tummy, your chub spilling through his fingers.

The sight made him groan while he used it as new found leverage to pull you back onto his cock. The toy was still relentlessly buzzing on your bundle of nerves, a moan getting getting caught in your throat when Jason turned it up a setting.

"Are you gonna come for me, princess?" He asked lowly, attaching his mouth to your pulse point.

"Mhm!" You nodded, the all too familiar prickling of your orgasm crawling up every nerve in all your limbs.

The feeling bundled in your core, and you melted into Jason's embrace, waiting for the high to strike you like lightning.

But it never happened. All of a sudden, the sensation faded in an instant, like a bubble that was popped.

All your limbs felt like now was heavy, the coil building up in the pits of your belly gone. There was nothing as you desperately tried to clutch at every bit of pleasure that remained.

The buzzing of the vibrator dulled, and you were left with a deep itch that couldn't be scratched.

"No, no, no, no..." You whined in frustration, tears stinging in your eyes as you threw an arm over your face in hopes of hiding your shame.

"Those fucking pills.." you snarled.

Jason stopped immediately. A deep crease of worry between his brows as he turned off the toy and pulled out of you, no regard for his own satisfaction.

"What's wrong, baby? What happened?" He panted, gently rubbing his thumb along your side.

You stayed quiet, pressing your palms into your eyes with a defeated sigh that was closer to a sob.

"I can't-... I don't feel anything." You admitted quietly, frustrated with yourself.

"What do you mean?" He asked, sitting back on his haunches.

Your lip trembled as you rolled onto your side.

"It's all numb, I-... I can't feel anything. I was so close and then... it just went away." You explained, your voice cracking.

Jason's eyes widened slightly.

"You mean your-"

"Yes!"

You cut him off with a sniffle, embarrassment burning in your cheeks.

Your face was hidden in the blanket, so all you could hear was shuffling, but soon enough, you were pulled into his gentle embrace, held tightly to his chest.

"It's okay. Stuff like that happens sometimes." He spoke softly, a hand rubbing up and down your back in a comforting manner.

"I know... it's just so annoying and frustrating." You replied quietly, wiping at your teary eyes.

"My clit goes numb and the high just fizzles out... I'm always left unsatisfied."

Jason hummed, stroking over your hair with care. Like so many times before, your body had failed you.

"I'm sorry. I ruined the whole thing and-"

the words got stuck in your throat and fresh tears managed to blurr your vision.

Your hand reached between the both of you, searching for his slick cock so at least one of you could walk away from this with some gratification. He quickly caught your wrist and tucked it to his chest.

"Don't even think about it." He said firmly, a sincere look in his teal eyes.

"But-"

"Shush. I don't wanna hear it. You didn't ruin anything, okay, sweetheart? Look at me."

His voice turned soft, and all you could do was meet his gaze. His hand gently cupped your cheek, the rough, calloused pad of his thumb stroking over the soft skin of your face.

"You did nothing wrong, you hear me? Nothing." He stated.

You nodded slightly, nuzzling into his palm.

"We can just lay here. I'll hold you for as long as you need."

"But what about-"

"Shhh, Shh. I don't need anything but you in my arms, doll." Jason muttered, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

With a sigh, you let your eyes fall shut and snuggle into the warmth radiating off his body.

It was a much needed break with lots of sincere and mumbled reassurances from Jason before he broke the peaceful silence.

"D'you wanna try again?" He asked gently, quietly, with a small smile.

You returned a smile and nodded.

"I do."

You watched as his smile morphed into a wide grin.

"Let's try something else, yeah? Come on, sit on my face, pretty girl."

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ────── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

Aka my love-hate relationship with my antidepressants <3

More of Jason and others -> 💫

《DC Taglist》: @arkhamknightscxnt @allysunny @hellonheels-x @gaozorous-rex-blog

Lmk if you wanna be added! (Jason Todd, Dick Grayson and Bale!Bruce Wayne)

[kingtomura]

Good Girl

Summary: It’s not your fault that your boyfriend was hard for people to warm up to. God, your parents are so lame. But so were you. So you did what anyone else with strict parents would, and you cut him off. 

Bad idea. 

Word count: 4k

part two is here!

Content: Tomura Shigaraki x female reader, explicit content, kinda quiet sex, cunnilingus, praise, slight humiliation, unprotected sex, strict parents, toxic relationship with parents, AU - no quirks, no use of y/n, gets a little mushy at the end im sorry

You would rather be anywhere else but here. You would pay to be anywhere else but right here, right now being scolded like some teenager who had been caught sneaking out after curfew. But you were here and you weren’t going anywhere any time soon. 

“He’s just not good for you,” your father’s voice stressed. It dragged on, pulling you from your drifting thoughts. “You have so much ahead of you and we even agreed to this gap year so that you could figure out what you wanted to do, not so you could run around with some delinquent boy with no future–”

“He‘s not a delinquent,” You cut off, “you’re judging him without even giving him a chance.”

Your father sighs, knowing he’s fighting a losing battle, but knowing you inherited his stubbornness has never detoured him from taking your objections head on. He’s been on this earth longer than you, butting heads with others longer than you have. “Well, whatever he is, he’s not allowed to see you again. That’s final.” he says with a shrug of his shoulders. False air of nonchalance sending fury through your veins. 

There would be no more arguing and you knew it. You desperately look to your mother, who is in her usual stance of resignation and uselessness when it comes to his word. If she saw things your way, she would never say. And even if she agreed with you, there would be no change. It has always been your father’s way or no way. 

“I’m an adult, you can't tell me who I can and can’t see.” you try once more, not ready to end things here. It’s suffocating. 

He scoffs, bringing a hand up to count his fingers, “You live under our roof, you eat our food, you drive our car, you give me attitude when I agree to give you time to figure out your life when you decided to leave university after two semesters,” his voice is rising and you begin to feel your eyes burn with the threat of tears, your chest tightening as its harder to catch a breath. You can’t cry here, it would only make things worse.  “I don’t think it matters how old you are. I am done with this conversation. End things with him now or you won't have a pot to piss in by the end of the day.” 

This cannot be happening. You're still sat on the plush sofa of the living room as your father stalks off with your mother in tow. The latter only glancing back with an empty look of pity as you stare at where your father had just been. Words burned into your mind while hot tears finally break and run down your cheeks. This is really happening.

And Tomura was going to be upset.

In a perfect world you could meet up with him tonight, talk it over, or even run away together and leave all this behind, but you know better. You know the two of you haven’t dated long enough to warrant running away together, but it still crosses your mind. You’ve never felt this way about anyone before and it's painful to think you never will again. Tomura just made you feel so.. Alive. There was so much to him and his witty dry humor that keeps pulling you in. 

He’s cynical, he’s moody and sometimes he’s mean but god he could be so soft. Touch you in ways that felt like he reached your soul. Quiet nights where you would stay at his house and watch him play video games would turn into late night sessions of making love until the twilight of dawn peeked through the dark curtains of his room. There was no way you could let him go. But you had to. You had to. Your father had given you no other choice. So you take the coward’s way out.

You text him.

You send him a short text that would send you to the bathroom dry heaving, but you didn’t know what else to do. What more could you say other than your father had snapped at you and you both could no longer be together. It would hurt so much more facing him head on. You knew that if you had to speak to him face to face that you would crack, probably throw out your silly idea of running away together and then face the awkward rejection. This was all you could manage. You felt awful for it, finally forcing yourself off of the floor and dragging your feet to the bathroom to get ready for bed. 

It had been hours and there was no response from Tomura. You couldn't blame him. What could anyone say to a break up text? You hollowly hoped he would fight for you. Even a little. But the flat Read 14:57 showed you otherwise. This had now become a heartbreak you werent quite expecting. You couldn’t help but second guess every interaction you had with him before. If maybe you read into things a little too deeply. If maybe, some smaller, quieter part of you dreaded your father was right.

There was no use of dwelling on that now. No point in running through what you would never know. So, you sighed, and finished up in the bathroom. Slipping on your silk sleeping gown that stopped above your knees and adjusted the small straps on your shoulder. You had cried for hours after your argument – if you could even call it that– with your father was over and your face ached. The bags under your eyes showing the worse for wear state you had found yourself in. it would be okay, you told yourself. You just have to sleep it off. 

And that was your plan and you slid into your welcoming bed, soft comforter embracing you and your worn feelings. You feel more tears begin to sting behind your eyelids before there's a sudden tap at your window. 

A trick of the wind, you decide and return to your somber thoughts. 

You would have to move on eventually, but tonight? He was the only thing on your mind. His eyes, his hair, the way he would feign annoyance when you were overly touchy, craving closer contact. He always indulged you. Always gave you more, you knew he liked it as much as you did. You were lovesick. 

Tap. 

There was that noise again. Louder than before as if someone had thrown a rock right at your window. The room was still and quiet so you knew it hadn’t been your imagination. 

Jumping to your feet and shuffling towards the window in question you brushed your curtains to the side to see the possible culprit. And when you do, your heart drops and instant regret fills you. Stomach aching as you take in the sight before you.

It’s Tomura Shigaraki and he is pissed.

Tomura, your Tomura leering up at you with another rock resting in his hand, bigger and ready to be tossed at your window if the last attempt didn’t work. 

You look around, knowing no one is in your bedroom but yourself and the moonlight, then go to open your window, ducking your head out to get a better look at him. There he was, black hoodie oversized and so soft, red eyes burning in anger but you aren't scared. You’re relieved, it's him. He's here to see you, mouth turned down in a scowl and fists clenched in fury but he was here. 

You couldn’t stop your hushed whisper, “what are you doing here?”

“I came to talk.” Was his only reply before he dropped the rock and walked towards your window. It wasn’t terribly high up, but higher than he could reach without a bit of help from you. 

Now that he was closer you could see the anger in his posture much more clearly. All tense shoulders and narrowed eyes. It was enough to make your stomach turn. You couldn't help but worry your bottom lip as he pulled out his phone and took a step closer.

“Really? Over a fucking text message?” He hissed, rasp in his voice, uncaring of the time of night or who could hear. 

“Tomura, shh, please–” you tried, hands coming up to placate him, if only a little. Your father would have your head if he heard another man in his home, let alone Tomura Shigaraki. 

He huffed a sarcastic laugh, disbelief taking over his features, but he obliged, “I don’t care what your father told you. He can’t control who you talk to.”

You shake your head, the all too familiar sting of tears in your eyes threatening to fall, “I know. I told him that, but he threatened to kick me out, to cut me off. I’m sorry Tomura, but I can't.”

“He can't do that.”

You nod, knowing all too well that your father would go through with his threat. “He can. Technically. I'm an adult, so it’s his choice.” The tears fall now, seeing the rage dissipate from Tomura, slight drop of his shoulders showing disbelief and disappointment. It's too much. This is why you didn’t want to see him, couldn’t face him. “I'm so sorry,” you whisper, trying to hold in the sobs threatening to wrack your body and possibly wake your parents up. This could not have ended worse.  “I don't want it to be this way.”

“Wow, I didn't know you were such a good girl.”

Your breath hitches, caught off guard, “What is that supposed to mean?”

He shrugs. “I didn't know you did everything daddy says. What a good girl you are.” The tone is one you’re familiar with. Condescending. Challenging. He’s testing you.

Your cheeks flushed. What could you say? That you’re not a good girl, actually. Then what would that make you? A bad girl? You would walk right into his trap. He’s watching, waiting for a response. Something to make you slip up. 

You don't have the chance to respond before he’s taking a step forward, lifting your chin with a finger so that you could look him in the eyes. Even in the dim lighting of the room those crimson eyes looked into your own. Like he was delving deeper, looking for the response that you can't seem to give him. Nothing else matters in this moment. It’s just him and you and the pale moonlight dancing between you. The air is tense and unmoving, like the smallest noise, the faintest blow of wind would ruin this moment. 

You couldn’t take it, couldn’t wait another minute before your body moved, leaning forwards onto the tips of your toes to give you more leverage as your lips pressed to his. His lips were still cold and dry from the cool air outside but that didn’t matter. Nothing matters more than knowing you needed more of him and you needed it now. Tomura’s hand came to rest at the nape of your neck, pulling you closer and the kiss deeper. Taking all of you in as his other hand gripped your waist. 

Your hands wasted no time burying into his hoodie – so soft and worn–  the faint smell of citrus and cedar being a comfort as the intoxicating kiss deepened. Tomura wasted no time, slick tongue entering your mouth, hungry, like it was the last time you would have him this way. It was too much. It was not enough. You broke the kiss, a string of saliva following the short distance you put in between. Air seemed sparse, like you couldn't get enough and Tomura spoke before you could.

“Get on the bed.” 

And you did, newfound vigor in your step as you eagerly did as what you were told. Energy ebbing through your veins as excitement overtook your previous anxiety. Tomura was a mere step behind, discarding his hoodie without care and joining you on the bed, caging you beneath him as he dove back in for another kiss, wet and warm, before trailing lower. Open mouthed kisses to your jaw, then neck, his hands, rough and warm gripping your thighs, taking in all he can. After leaving a particularly hard bite on your neck, Tomura lifted your gown up, smooth silk gliding with ease above your ass and resting below your breast. It was only natural for your legs to spread for him, cool air on your bare cunt making you shiver. 

“Oh?” An amused huff from the man above you makes your cheeks heat further than before. He’s seen you like this many times before, but he’s always had a way of making you feel shy. “No panties, huh?”

You push past your embarrassment. “You know i dont wear them to b– ah!” you're cut off by the feeling of his finger sliding between your folds, slick making it glide, and rubbing over your clit. The surprise of the motion makes you press your thighs closer together. Tomura grins above you, before bringing his wet finger to his mouth, a mocking shh following the motion, tongue flicking out and licking the digit as his other hand pushed your legs apart again. 

He bends down, bulge in his sweatpants pressing against your bare cunt. He’s so hard and that thought only makes you wetter. Tomura’s nose brushes yours, your eyelids fluttering shut as he dives to kiss you again. All open mouthed and wet. You could taste yourself on his tongue as well as feel the pressure of his clothed erection grind against you, rubbing against your bundle of nerves. You are sure your slick is dampening his sweatpants but Tomura doesn’t care. He’s grinding you into the mattress and you’re so close to begging him to get on with it you want to scream. But almost like he’s read your mind, he pulls away. 

The kisses he places along your body set your nerves on fire, anticipation eating away at your patience as he takes his time. Once he’s reached his destination, right between your thighs, he places one wet kiss onto the plush of your inner right thigh. Another teasing move. Another way to make you squirm in excitement. He looks up at you, ruby eyes gleaming in the moonlight of the room. 

“Be quiet for me, yeah?” 

Tomura huffs a laugh at your eager nod, grin growing wider. So quick to please. Dedicated. “Good girl.”

The praise makes you falter for a second, embarrassment threatening to make its way to the surface once more. There was no time for it now, Tomura enjoyed catching you off guard. Loved surprises. He wastes no more time, tongue licking a wet strip between your lips. The action causing you to moan louder than you intended. Your hand rushes to cover your mouth. If you were to be caught in this predicament by either of your parents it would be horrendous for the both of you. 

This doesn’t stop Tomura, though. If anything you were starting to think it encouraged him, because his relentless pace on your cunt was driving you wild. His long stripes simmered into just the tip of his tongue flicking your clit and  sending jolts of pleasure roaring through you. You were already close, pleasure and pressure building and building until you were so close to tipping over– 

Knock knock.

“Hey sweetie. I know it's late, I just wanted to talk for a second.” 

It was your mom. Holy shit it was your mom and there's a boy in your bed with his head buried between your legs and holy shit. If she opened the door, if she barged into your room in the familiar way she always had a bad habit of doing, you would be done for. With wide eyes and accelerated breaths, you clamped down harder over your mouth with both hands. Even Tomura stopped in his tracks, gaze lazily focused on the door with curiosity bleeding into his indifference. 

Your mother must have taken the silence as a sign of slumber, yet she continued. Voice muffled by the door between you both. 

“Your father... was harsh today. And I’m sorry for that.” She pauses, long enough for you to believe she would be giving up and going back to her bedroom. You aren't so lucky, surely at this point you were very unlucky and you dreaded whatever else she had to say. “I just want you to know that he just wants the best for you.” your heart drops as she carries on, unaware and unconcerned of the other pair of ears listening in to her words. “We don’t know him that well. We can't risk you getting involved in something you're not ready for and throwing your future away.”

At this, Tomura rolls his eyes, interest clearly lost and goes back to his earlier movements. The sloppy kiss to your clit catches you off guard and forces a whine out of you. It was small, but still a noise. Squeezing your eyes shut you prayed this would be written off as an odd sleep noise. Wishing to the sky that it wasn't noticeable and Tomura would stop. He didn’t. It was in that moment he decided pressing a finger against your entrance would bring out more noises. The digit slipping in with minimal effort and adding more pleasure to this mix as he sucked your clit. 

If your mother heard anything, she didn't make it known. The floorboards outside of your door creaking with the shifting of her weight. “Well, maybe we can get ice cream or something tomorrow. Have a little girl’s day?” The silence is palpable as she waits for an answer that won't come. “Okay well, goodnight sweetie. See you in the morning.”

You don’t know what you're more grateful for; the sound of her receding steps or that fact that Tomura wasn't cruel and waited until the telltale sound of a door opening and closing rang through the air before adding another finger and curling them. This time you couldn’t bite back the moan that escaped you, hands gripping the cotton of your duvet. 

“Aw, how sweet,” Tomura started, sitting up while adding a thumb to your sensitive nub and rubbing slow circles to replace his mouth. “She wants to have a little girls’ day with you.” 

His mocking tone would have gotten a reaction out of you any other time, but right now you were so close. On the precipice of an orgasm that’s been drawn out for far too long. You could only look at him with half lidded eyes as his fingers worked like magic sending you closer and closer, your breath hitching as you finally, finally reached the climax. Body shaking pleasure cascades over you like a tidal wave. 

“There we go,” Tomura whispers, giving your cunt a playful tap after letting you ride the sensation out. He pulls away completely to take off his sweatpants and underwear, cock already hard and leaking. Your tongue darts out to wet your lips at the sight and you hear his breathless chuckle. “I’ll let you have a taste next time, but right now, I can't wait any longer.” 

It was only when he began to line up with your entrance that you absently wondered about the lack of condoms you owned. You look up at him, question burning on your tongue but he only grins at you, and you swore in that moment he was a mind reader. “I didn’t bring any with me, sorry,” his voice was far from apologetic as he stroked his cock, rubbing the head between your folds and against your clit, slick soaking the head. “But don't worry,” he continued, leaning forward and you felt the pressure at your entrance, excitement buzzing through your veins. “I’ll pull out.”

Whether you believed him or not didn’t matter, you had no time to process a thought as he began stretching you to the limit with his size. A gasp escaped your parted lips as the sickeningly sweet feeling of being stretched too far too fast took over. He gave you a minute to adjust, even as his cock twitched in anticipation of movement. The grip he had on your hips was tight enough to bruise and you knew it was taking a lot of his self control to wait for you. 

He pressed on, figuring it had been long enough and bottomed out with a sigh. Your walls clenched around him and swore you could cum from the stretch alone. After giving you a second to breathe he pulled back, almost pulling out, only to snap his hips back forward into you. Your head lolled onto the pillow, hand coming up once more to mute the moans dragging from your body. Tomura hoists your legs onto each side of his shoulders,bending them forward and successfully folding you like a lawn chair as he started his aggressive pace, forcing your tight heat to clench around his cock. 

“Oh, fuck…” you couldn’t help but mutter as you struggled to hold off your already approaching orgasm. 

Tomura saw this as a challenge. “What? You gonna cum on my cock?” he mocked, pace wild and rough, leaving you gasping as you shut your eyes, not ready to admit how right he was. “It's okay,” he continued, leaning closer and allowing his dick to press deeper inside you. The drag hitting the bundle of nerves inside and nearly sending you over the edge. “Come on, cum on my cock like the good girl you are.” 

Those words push you over, hips convulsing as your legs shake and it takes Tomura slapping a hand over your mouth this time to quiet you. You couldn’t focus on anything else, let alone keeping quiet. Your body felt light and Tomura fucked you through it. His pace grew more erratic as his grinning face became one of focus, brows furrowing as his eyes shut and he focused on his pleasure. Your pussy squeezing around him making it harder for him to stave off his own nearing climax. You were worried that at this point you were both too far gone. The silence of the home would leave the messy noises between you both loud and clear for the entire house to hear. Tomura was great at keeping his composure but the soft groans coming from your lover only showed how much he was losing his grip. 

“Can’t– fuck, sorry–” you didn’t have time to decipher his strange words, your curious eyes meeting his face to gauge his expression before you feel it. 

His cock twitches inside you, seed painting your insides white as his thrusts didn't slow. He was hammering away at your insides, only pumping his cum further into you.  You feel so full, the warmth spreading over your body like a blanket. He came in you. Even though he said he wouldn’t, he did. The worst part about it? You don’t care. It's invigorating. You feel even more attached to him. Even closer. You want more.

Overstimulated and weak, you whimpered, thoughts swimming as Tomura finally came down from high. Slowing his thrusts and panting heavily. Your heart is drumming against your chest as he removes your sore legs from his shoulders. Shuddering as he slips out of your tight heat, feeling the cum dripping out of you and onto your sheets. 

The bed dipped as he took his place next to you. Out of breath and eyes focused on the ceiling. Your ears were ringing with the sudden quietness of it all. Things felt different, heavy. 

“You could always just not tell them.” It was Tomura who broke the silence first. “Act sad, mope around, and then come see me at night.” 

You glanced over, vaguely registering the sweat cooling on your body. You would need to get up and get cleaned up soon. “Yeah, but if they catch me–”

“They won't. I’ll teach you how.” he turns towards you, bringing a hand to your chin to make you face him. There’s a fuzzy feeling turning in your chest and the familiarity of heat rising to your cheeks is starting to drive you mad. His grin is enamoring, red eyes almost glowing with mischief in the moonlight. “I’ll show you the ropes.” 

There's an ache that tugs at your chest as you nod. “Okay.”

You are so fucked.

[smellysluna]

Could you write an Adrien x reader imagine where they’re forced to date by their parents to promote an upcoming fashion collaboration something, and then go from hating each other and being super fake to falling in love for real?

You know what? I postponed this ask waaaay to much. So what did I do? I sat down and took up your challenge. Go and enjoy the story you asked for but I never put the effort to make - until now e.e

warnings? no warnings apply :p

You always thought arranged dates were a relic of the past, something that only happened in old movies or distant cultures. Yet here you were, sitting across from Adrien Agreste, the face of the Agreste fashion empire.

Your parents have arranged this meeting to promote an upcoming collaboration between their brands, hoping the buzz around your "relationship" would skyrocket their sales.

Adrien looked perfect, as always—his blond hair artfully tousled, green eyes bright but distant. Always maintaining the perfect façade. Unlike you, painfully aware of every imperfection and every nervous gesture.

"Let's get one thing straight," Adrien said, breaking the silence. His voice was calm but firm. "We don’t have to like each other, but we do have to make this work."

You nodded, feeling a mix of relief and annoyance. "Agreed. Let's just get through this."

For the next hour, you both put on a show for the paparazzi lurking outside, sharing forced smiles and rehearsed lines. The whole encounter felt like a poorly scripted play, and you couldn't wait for it to end.

The next few weeks were a whirlwind of public appearances, photo shoots, and meticulously planned dates. Your parents had spared no expense in crafting the perfect narrative: two young heirs, brought together by fate and fashion. But behind the scenes, your interactions with Adrien were cold and apathetic.

One evening, after yet another tedious event, you found yourself walking alone in the Agreste mansion. The luxury of the place was suffocating, each room a reminder of the pressure you were under.

You wandered into the library, seeking solace among the rows of books.

"You like to read?" Adrien's voice startled you.

You turned to find him leaning against the doorway, a curious look on his face. "Yeah," you admitted. "It's one of the few ways I can escape."

He nodded, stepping into the room. "I get that. Sometimes I feel like my whole life is scripted. But I prefer watching anime to get some distraction." And patrolling as Chat Noir, though he wasn’t about to expose his best-kept secret to you.

For a moment, you saw a flicker of vulnerability in his eyes, and it struck a chord within. Maybe you weren't so different after all.

As the days passed, the cracks in your mutual disdain began to show. You still argued over trivial things and maintained a facade of disinterest, but there were moments—small, fleeting moments—when you glimpsed the real Adrien beneath his polished exterior.

One afternoon, you were both at a photoshoot for the collaboration campaign. The theme was a romantic picnic, complete with a vintage blanket and a basket of props. The director called for a break, and you and Adrien found yourselves alone in the park.

"Here," Adrien said, handing you a water bottle. "You look like you could use this."

"Thanks," you replied, surprised by the gesture. "I didn't expect you to be so… thoughtful."

He shrugged, a small smile playing on his lips. "There are a lot of things you don't know about me."

He hesitated, then said, "Like how terrible I am at cooking. I once set the kitchen on fire trying to make toast."

You laughed, picturing the usually composed Adrien in such a chaotic situation. "Seriously? Toast?"

He grinned, a little sheepishly. "Yeah, it was pretty bad. I had to call the fire department and everything. My father was not impressed."

You chuckled, the tension between you easing a bit. "Well, remind me never to let you near my kitchen."

He laughed along with you, the sound genuine and warm. "Deal. And maybe one day you can teach me how to make toast without causing a disaster."

One day, after a particularly exhausting photoshoot, Adrien and you found yourselves with a rare afternoon off. Deciding to make the most of it, you both ended up in the Agreste mansion's sprawling garden. The setting was beautiful and serene, a perfect escape from the public eye.

As you wandered through the lush greenery, admiring the flowers, you suddenly felt a cold splash of water on your neck. You turned around to see Adrien standing there, a mischievous grin on his face and a small water gun in his hand.

"Did you just...?" you began, but before you could finish, he squirted you again, laughing.

"Lighten up!" he teased. "It's just a bit of water."

You couldn't help but laugh, the unexpected prank breaking through the formality that often hung between you. "Oh, you're going to regret that!" you said, grabbing a nearby watering can and splashing him back.

What ensued was a playful water fight, with both of you dodging and splashing, laughing like carefree kids. It felt liberating to let go and just have fun, forgetting about the pressures and expectations that usually weighed you down.

Finally, drenched and out of breath, you both collapsed onto the grass, still giggling.

"Okay, I have to admit, that was pretty fun," you said, wiping water from your face.

Adrien smiled, his eyes sparkling with amusement. "See? I knew you had it in you."

"Just don't make a habit of it," you warned playfully. "Or I might have to come up with a prank of my own."

"I'd like to see you try," he challenged, his grin widening.

As you lay there, catching your breath, you realized that this was the first time you'd seen Adrien truly relax and let his guard down. It made it more obvious that he's not just a perfect, polished model, but a real person who wants to laugh and have fun.

As the collaboration launch approached, your relationship with Adrien grew deeper. You began to spend more time together, not just for the cameras, but because you genuinely enjoyed each other's company. You talked about everything—your favourite anime, your dreams, your fears, your hopes for the future.

One day, you were both at a charity event for Adrien's school, where he introduced you to his friends. Nino, Marinette, Alya—they were welcoming and kind, and you felt a pang of envy at the close-knit group they formed.

"You're lucky to have such great friends," you said to Adrien as you watched them from a distance.

"I know," he replied, a fond smile on his face. "They keep me grounded."

"Tell me more about them," you urged.

He did, and as he spoke, you saw a different side of him—one that was caring, loyal, and deeply connected to those he loved. It made you like him even more.

The night of the collaboration launch arrived, and the event was a resounding success. The venue was abuzz with excitement, filled with influential guests, dazzling lights, and the perfect blend of glamour and sophistication. Your parents were thrilled, the media couldn't get enough, and every detail had gone off without a hitch.

After a whirlwind of interviews, photos, and obligatory mingling, you and Adrien finally managed to slip away to a quiet balcony overlooking the city. The cool night air was a welcome respite from the heat and noise inside.

"We did it," you said, raising your glass to him. The city lights reflected in your eyes, adding a sparkle that matched your mood.

"Yeah, we did," he agreed, clinking his glass with yours. His smile was genuine, not just for the cameras this time. "But I want to tell you something."

You raised an eyebrow, heart beating, curiosity piqued. "Oh? What's that?"

He took a deep breath, looking out over the city before turning back to you. "I don't want this to end. This whole thing. I know it started as a publicity stunt, but somewhere along the way, it became real for me."

Your heart skipped a beat. "I...". The sincerity in his eyes was unmistakable. "I actually feel the same way," you admitted, feeling a rush of warmth on your face.

He laughed, a light, joyful sound that made your heart flutter. "Good. Because pretending to be in love with you was starting to feel way too easy."

You blushed, a mix of relief and happiness washing over you. "So, what now?"

Adrien stepped closer, cupping your face in his hands. "Let's stop pretending and see where this takes us. For real this time."

Adrien stepped closer, his hand gently brushing a strand of hair from your face. "Now," he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper, "we make this real."

Before you could respond, he leaned in, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that was both tender and passionate. The world around you faded away, leaving just the two of you in that perfect moment. You could feel the genuine emotion behind his kiss, a stark contrast to the rehearsed displays of affection you'd shown the world.

As the kiss deepened, you wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer. His hands found their way to your waist, holding you as if he never wanted to let go. The kiss was intoxicating, filled with all the feelings you'd both been holding back.

When you finally pulled away, breathless and smiling, Adrien rested his forehead against yours. "I've wanted to do that for so long," he confessed, his voice full of warmth.

"Me too," you replied, feeling a flutter of joy.

The pressures of your parents and the fashion world still loomed, but they felt more manageable with Adrien by your side.

[strawberryhotlips]

༆THE LAST WOMAN ON EARTH ☢︎︎- ➪enhypen ot7 x fem reader

SYNOPSIS: Moving to South Korea at just 20 years old to study medicine was something that made you extremely proud. You had so many plans for the future, but it seems that fate doesn't want the same for you. Overnight, a virus that affects only women spreads throughout the world, causing all the women in the world to die in a matter of weeks. You were the only one left standing, the problem? Nobody knew, only you. As time passed, you managed to survive this post-apocalyptic world, where you had to hide from men because if someone knew that a woman still existed, everything would go to hell for you. You didn't expect seven strangers to break into your house in the middle of the night and you didn't expect what was going to happen next either.

Word count: 4360

Pairing: enhypen! x fem!reader

Genre: Suspense, death, dystopian, post-apocalyptic world, angst, too much drama, slow burn, smut as the chapters go by (mdni), fluff, Possessiveness, jealousy, fights, toxicity, lots of love (I know, it sounds contradictory) enhypen are complete losers for the reader in the best way, strangers to lovers and other things that may happen later

Warnings!⚠️: Death, loss of loved ones, use of weapons, depression and anxiety problems, mentions of suicide, survival, vulgar and sometimes offensive language, graphic descriptions of traumatic events. If you are sensitive, don't read it for your own good. Rader is a little mean to the boys in this chap, but she's just defending herself! everyone is of legal age!! Heeseung is 26, Jay, Jake and Sunghoon are 25, Sunoo is 23, Jungwon is 22 and Ni-ki is 21.

Status: ongoing (16-01-2025 -)

Disclaimer: This is a work of pure fiction, everything came out of my head, the personality of the characters are not real and do not represent them in real life in any way, any resemblance to reality is purely coincidental. Everyone is of legal age in this universe. English is not my first language so you will probably find spelling mistakes.

Hii beautiful people!! I'm finally back with the second chap of this story! It took me longer than the first one, sorry for the delay! hope you enjoy it a lot! You would help me a lot by liking, reblogging and commenting! Without further ado, thank you very much and enjoy!

CHAPTER I: "Disaster"

CHAPTER II: "Loneliness"

more under the cut ☟︎︎︎

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck... that sound definitely wasn't the rain....

Your senses were sharpened to the maximum again, your hand gripping your weapon tightly and securing it close to your body. Your heart and breathing seemed to be in a race to see which one was faster, but you could be sure that your heart was the winner, as you could literally feel it pounding in your ears. Your throat suddenly felt tight and dry, nerves and anxiety on edge, you tried to swallow to moisten it, but your attempts were futile. You could feel tears stinging your eyes from the desperation you felt.

"Holy shit..." your voice was barely a whisper as you tried to process what was happening. You tried to calm yourself and sharpen your hearing so you knew how many men you were up against. Your room suddenly seemed suffocating and tiny, you felt the bubbling of a panic attack in your chest, you felt like you were going to die, your mind kept telling you that your minutes were numbered. You started to shake as one shudder after another went through your body like lightning, it was desperate and terrifying. You quietly climbed down from your bed and approached the door of your room on tiptoe. You wanted to listen better, because despite your fear, dying was not an option, not after surviving for so long. Breathing shakily, you leaned your ear against the door of your room, trying to catch a sound. Fuck, you had no idea what to do, fear made your legs shake slightly.

Meanwhile, on the second floor, the intruders were breathing heavily and panting, a sign that they had been running. Their clothes were soaked from the heavy storm outside, so the floor was filled with small puddles of water and some mud "Fuck, that was close..." one of them said, trying to catch his breath, putting a hand on his chest, feeling the strong beating of his heart as he leaned against the front door, holding it shut.

How stupid you were. In the midst of crying for your mother, you'd forgotten the most important thing: securing the fucking front door of your house.

"It was all Jake and Ni-ki's fault, we almost got caught by the police!" another voice shouted, pointing at the named ones who looked at him with a mixture of indignation and disbelief, while the first boy who had spoken looked at him with wide eyes, signaling him to shut up.

"Excuse me? no no, no way, it's not our fault, no one forced you to come with us Jay..." another of the voices said with a distinctive accent, his words tinged with contempt "And try not to scream, the police might still be around.." Jay frowned and approached this one with indignant steps "Don't be an idiot Jake, we can't let you go off alone in the middle of the night, you know crime has risen too much in the last few years, there's a reason the government declared a curfew after midnight, fuck..." his voice sounded frustrated as he looked at him seriously. "'You're a grown man, you should have a little more conscience, you both could have been killed..." he said this time with more seriousness and concern, scolding him firmly in a whisper. The weight of his words hung in the air.

Definitely none of them wanted to die, let alone go to jail, Jay was right, they couldn't just leave in the middle of the night and put themselves in danger and worry the rest of the group. It was a miracle they had found this house, a few more minutes and the police would have caught them.

"Well, sorry, it was my idea Jay Hyung..." another deeper voice said as he scratched his neck a little embarrassed and looked at the elder "Anyway, we're all fine," he said this time with a little cheeky but guilty smile trying to break the tense moment.

A sigh was heard, followed by another clear voice. "It's okay Ni-ki, make sure you don't do it again please..." he asked firmly but at the same time calmly as he looked at the one named and also at Jake who nodded silently, feeling a little guilty, he had quite a bit of leadership in his voice. Ni-ki nodded, "Okay, Jungwon Hyung..." Ni-ki's deep voice hung in the cold air of the house as Jungwon sighed again.

The house was silent for a few seconds as the boys looked around and surveyed the place, ignoring the fact that they were freezing to death from the water that had fallen on them in the middle of winter. And it had occurred to Ni-ki that it would be fun to leave (escape) from where they lived at three in the morning, Jake saw him trying to leave and joined him on the pretext that he "couldn't let him go alone because it was too dangerous", which brought them all here.

Ni-ki was the youngest of the group, which of course made him the most rebellious, and someone like that always needed an accomplice, which was Jake most of the time, which led to both of them getting into trouble quite often.

"It's a nice house...strange that it's abandoned..." another voice, different from the others, a little softer, broke the silence, praising the architecture of the place, your place. And it was true, it was a huge house, with a modern vintage style. Another of the boys nodded in agreement as he shook his head a little, trying to get the water out of his hair, "Yeah, Sunoo's right...it's pretty nice for being abandoned..." The words hung heavy in the air as the boys looked at each other, seemingly searching for answers, there seemed to be an immediate understanding between them as the named one nodded and the seven began to explore the living room, their steps cautious in the new suspicion that someone already lived in the house. Even though it seemed empty, they had to make sure they were out of danger.

On the second floor, you had managed to identify seven voices from your room, where you were still trying to calm down. So they were being chased by the police for breaking the curfew, tsk...men. Your breathing was still fast, but as you listened to their conversations, you managed to calm down a bit, knowing that because of their actions, it wouldn't be very difficult to deal with them.......

or so you thought

You could hear them walking around your living room and decided that you needed to listen more closely, their voices were a little muffled by the distance. You were about to open your bedroom door slightly, but what sounded like something falling to the floor startled you slightly as your free hand instinctively grabbed the doorknob, as if holding on to it would somehow protect you from them.

"Shit..." cursed the voice of one of the guys whose name you hadn't heard yet, furrowing his brow slightly "Pfff...what an idiot, Heeseung Hyung..." Ni-ki said, letting out a laugh as he sneered at the older one, watching as he crashed into a nearby shelf, causing a ceramic jug to fall and shatter into several pieces on the floor.

Heeseung turned his head to look at Ni-ki with narrowed eyes, "Aish...hey, what a brat...i can't see..." mild annoyance ran through his dramatic voice as he defended himself and pointed at Ni-ki who was still laughing. The other five boys chuckled a little at the amusing situation between the oldest and the youngest of the group. They got along so well, you could hear a certain camaraderie in their voices, as if they had known each other forever "I mean, ....Ni-ki isn't wrong..." the other boy, whose name you didn't know yet, remarked with a slight sideways smile that showed his fangs a little longer than usual, a cute, not-so-usual attraction.

Heeseung looked at him without any amusement on his face, judging him with his eyes. They had this habit of teasing him, not that he really minded, but he was tired, hungry and soaking wet, not in a good mood "Really, Sunghoon, you too?" he shook his head in disapproval as Sunghoon shrugged his shoulders without saying anything else and let out a small chuckle. He was really stressed out too and fuck, the current situation had affected him a lot, he hadn't had pussy in over four fucking years and he fucked so often that he was really going crazy.

Not that he was a pervert (or maybe yes), but he excused himself by saying that "fucking relieved his stress and made him perform better in his daily life"

But he had never experienced falling in love, only one-night stands, just like the other guys. The hope that he could have pussy faded deeper and deeper in the back of his mind, and he resigned himself to settling for his own hand. But he refused to accept that idea, he still had some hope. He didn't just want to fuck, he wanted a woman he could love and who would love him, he wanted to be a good love and he also had a dream of being a father, something that obviously seemed unattainable for Heeseung, in fact it seemed unattainable for the seven men.

They really wanted to fall in love...

In fact, they were all stressed about the lack of pussy.... Even Jungwon and Ni-ki, who were still virgins and had never been able to bury their sad cocks in real pussy, were sexually frustrated. But for Heeseung, Jay, Jake, Sunghoon and Sunoo, the feeling of being trapped inside a pussy was like nothing else in the world and now they could only remember and even imagine because fuck, four years without sex, it was like being a virgin all over again.

But come on, their hearts needed to be stimulated as much as their cocks.

Jungwon cautiously approached the now non-existent jar on the ground, bowing slightly and examining it, "If someone was here, they would have heard us by now..." he mused with a calm expression. He straightened as he turned to look at the other boys, they were like his family, he had known them for many years and loved them like his brothers.

The only thing that illuminated the living room at the moment was the light from the occasional thunder light that came through the window like a horror movie. It was a huge place, enough for everyone to be comfortable "I think we can either spend the night here or keep the place, after all, the one we had was getting too small for the seven of us..." he looked at them, waiting for a sign of denial, but they all seemed to agree.

It wasn't a bad idea, after all. They were in the middle of the forest, far away from the city, where there was more crime by the way, and the place seemed quite cozy. Besides, if Jungwon said so, it was because it had to be. He always made sure that everyone felt comfortable, even though they often fought like siblings, which was sometimes funny, Jungwon always prioritized everyone's well-being.

"Well, we should look for the bathroom, clothes and blankets, I'm freezing...we could take a bath..." Sunoo spoke for the second time, articulating each of his words with his hands. The boys nodded. A hot shower sounded great after running through the forest in the rain, so much that their legs felt tired.

"Good idea, we should split up, go through the rest of the house and look for the things we need..." fuck no, if they went through the rest of the house they would definitely find you and that couldn't happen, they couldn't find you, so you had no choice but to find them before it was too late.

Sunghoon's voice was full of determination as he explained his idea to the others, who immediately agreed. But before they could take action, you beat them to it for your own good.

"I wouldn't do that if i were you..." Your voice finally echoed through the living room with newfound certainty, causing a sudden hush to fall over the place. Your gun was pressed against the large back of one of the seven boys, who was now undeniably tense, you could tell by the way the muscles in his back were contracting under his clothes. He was tall, blond, and seemed to have well-defined biceps.....

"No, idiot, this is not the time to think about biceps, concentrate" You mentally scolded yourself.

Instinctively, he raised both hands to let you know that he was not going to attack you. His hands were shaking slightly and he was completely stiff as he felt the cold metal of your gun against his back, which, in addition to your distinctly feminine voice, sent shivers down his spine.

From your vantage point, you could see the faces of the other six boys, pale and still as if they had seen a ghost. And no wonder, they must be more confused and shocked than ever. The torrential rain that pounded against the windows and roof was the only thing that filled the deadly silence. It was the first time you had seen people in years, your heart was beating fast in your chest and you couldn't tell if it was from fear or excitement...

or perhaps a mixture of both.

After what seemed like an eternity, one of them tried to move forward, his hair was a deep red, but quickly there was an instant click in your head as you pulled the safety off your gun, making him flinch in place, your survival instinct was at its peak "Take another fucking step and I'll blow your friend's head off..." your voice was cold as was the expression on your face, your breathing rapid, matching that of the guys in front of you who seemed more nervous than you.

Your eyes were still slightly red from crying earlier, and even though you were scared shitless inside, you didn't want to let it show, you didn't want them to notice your weakness. This time you leaned your gun against the back of the blond boy's neck, indicating that you meant business.

Fuck, they couldn't let something go unnoticed, something they thought didn't exist anymore and that they would never see again in their lives, suddenly the reality they lived in took a 180 degree turn when you appeared, you were a woman, fuck, you clearly were, and you stood in front of them and threatened to blow Sunghoon's head off with one shot. It all seemed like a lie, the last four years of their lives began to have an unbearable weight on their backs when they saw you. They began to think they were hallucinating and had to blink several times to process the information. Even so, their throats felt dry and their eyes couldn't take their eyes off you. Sunghoon began to feel impatient, yes, he was scared, but he also wanted to see you, so he gathered all his courage to speak

"M-Miss...we don't want to hurt you..." you idiot, he mentally cursed himself for stuttering slightly and scrunched up his face in an expression that clearly said 'I screwed up', he who never hesitated in front of any woman had just done it with you, which left his ego a little bruised, but he didn't care.

You clenched your jaw as you heard him speak, pressing the gun harder against his head, making him tense up even more, if that was possible, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry...really, we don't mean any har-..."

Pathetic, he begged pathetically, but a mixture of fear and emotion controlled him at that moment, he couldn't control it.

"Shut up...you talk too much for someone who is being targeted..." your voice was cutting and harsh, making it clear that there was no room for discussion in your words, making Sunghoon shut up immediately as he nodded slowly, almost imperceptibly.

You had to find a way to control the situation, no matter what. You grabbed the boy's soaked shirt from behind and pushed him down, "Get on your knees..." you ordered firmly and he obeyed immediately, kneeling on the ground, you don't have many options when you have a gun pointed at you, making it so that everyone could see you better now. You didn't mean to be so rude, but you couldn't trust them, not yet, "You too, idiots, what are you waiting for?"

Yes, maybe you were too harsh, but you had to guarantee your survival first and foremost.

With the seven men now kneeling on the floor in front of you, you sighed and thought about what to do next. You weren't going to kill them, you weren't that kind of person, even if it gave them a free hand to hurt you, you just weren't that kind of person. But letting them go wasn't an option either, what were you going to do, stay with them? you didn't know them, the most you knew was their names and from the way they looked, they were all around your age.

"Are you really a woman?" the voice of one of them broke through your cloud of thoughts. Oh God, you didn't think they were that stupid, he really just asked you that?

You raised your eyes to look at the boy who had spoken, your brow was clearly furrowed, he had some blue strands in his black hair "Jay, shut up for God's sake," Heeseung spoke softly, clearly scolding him, really, he couldn't believe his friend had asked that. But he didn't blame him, he was just as or even more stunned than Jay by your presence, which made him move slightly in his place, not wanting to alert you, he really couldn't believe his eyes either, actually none of them could.

While you thought intently without saying a word, your gun still rested on Sunghoon's head. You bit your lower lip, trying to think of a quick solution, but damn, this was clearly going to take a long time. A sigh left your lips, you were sleepy, your body was aching and your head was going a mile a second, which made your mental situation difficult as well as putting your thoughts in order. In addition, you couldn't see much because there was no light and everyone's eyes were on you, which inevitably made you a little nervous.

Meanwhile, the boys' minds were no better off than yours, still trying to process that you actually exist and are not a figment of their imagination.

Hell, they even wanted, no, they had to be in Sunghoon's place. Just knowing that you were a woman got them going, but what about your assertive dominance? The way you had brought Sunghoon, who was probably one of the strongest in the group, to his knees with a simple command from your lips was fucking attractive.

The tension in the air was thick, not only because they were threatened at gunpoint, but also because there was an undeniable sexual attraction and tension between you and them. It was impossible to control, something instantaneous that left them with their breath caught in their throats and their cocks already half hardened in their pants, including Sunghoon himself. They didn't want to look like dogs in heat or perverts, they didn't want to scare you and make you think badly of them, but it was something that was simply out of their hands.

The cold they had felt from being soaked earlier vanished at a ridiculous speed and was replaced by warmth. Their faces were slightly flushed and now that they knew you were real, they couldn't help but imagine a lot of situations in their twisted minds, but damn, besides being hard, you were beautiful, a temptation at a glance that made them clench their thighs as their erections went wild.

Sunghoon, who was closest to you, was the most affected, he could even smell your scent, so soft and delicate, the scent of a woman. He stopped himself from inhaling your precious scent with all his might, forgetting that the tip of a gun was pressed against his head.

Jungwon cleared his throat, trying to find his voice in your presence, which was quite strong, "Miss, please..don't hurt us... we can just go and..." a dry laugh came out of your throat as you looked at him with narrowed eyes, cutting off his words, "Sure, I'll let you go so you can shout that you found a woman all over Seoul..." Your words were clearly sarcastic, rejecting his suggestion outright, making Jungwon quickly shake his head in an attempt to contradict you, but your gaze was enough to make him stop trying.

"Then you'll have to let us stay here..." the rational sense of Heeseung had left his head when he dared to say those words with a tone of boldness and obviousness as he looked at you with slightly half-closed eyelids, the ghost of a smirk on his lips.

It infuriated you, how could he be so arrogant when you could literally kill him at any moment? You looked at him as you let go of Sunghoon and approached him with quickened steps. You grabbed his jaw with one of your hands and roughly lifted his face to look into his eyes while resting your gun on his forehead. Your eyes betrayed your anger, but he seemed too relaxed for his own good, "You better shut the fuck up, because if you don't..." the asshole didn't let you finish as he blatantly interrupted you, "If I don't, what?..." he dared you, not only with his voice, but also with his eyes.

How fucking dare he?

"You're not going to kill us..." he said, his fucking grin getting bigger and bigger, "if you wanted to, we'd all be dead by now from the moment you walked into this room, precious..."

Oh fuck, he couldn't be that fucking arrogant, but he was right, you wouldn't kill them and you hated that he could read you so easily without even knowing you.

You clenched your jaw, wanting to break his ridiculously attractive face, because that was one little detail you hadn't been able to overlook, they were all fucking attractive, but you couldn't afford to think about that when your top priority had to be keeping yourself safe.

You clenched his jaw with your hand, your fingers digging lightly into his skin, causing a small sigh to leave his lips, "You're right, i may not want to kill you...but I'll blow your fucking balls off if you keep spitting shit..." this time he didn't dare interrupt you, instead he seemed to be lost in limbo. His gaze was fixed on your lips as you spoke each word with furious determination....

Fuck, you had fire in you

The formula was simple: danger equals adrenaline, adrenaline equals thrill, and thrill equals arousal. There was no other way to explain why they enjoyed danger so much.

The others were waiting for the scene to unfold in front of them.

So you weren't going to kill them. A relief settled in their chests when they realized that you weren't a bad person, you were just defensive, which was completely normal when seven intruders enter your house in the middle of the night. Jungwon had quickly understood and realized that Heeseung had been the first to notice, that's why he dared to talk to you like that. Now the group was less tense, they trusted their oldest member, they knew that Heeseung wouldn't risk doing something he wasn't completely sure about.

"All right, no need for anyone to get hurt, miss..." Jungwon interrupted what seemed to be a dueling stare between Heeseung and you, his words a little more confident now that Heeseung had taken it upon himself to break through the layer of harsher tension, but still he was being cautious.

Your eyes didn't leave Heeseung's and you didn't take the gun away from his head either, but his words echoed in your head and honestly, you didn't have much of a choice. Curiosity bubbled in your chest, you wondered what to do, you had been alone too long, you remembered nights when you couldn't sleep because you were so scared. Maybe letting them stay was your best option, you knew you were the last woman on earth, you were sure that if you asked them to do something, they would do it without hesitation and maybe they could protect you. Bring you out of your state of loneliness, which seemed to grow with time.

The boys' knees were starting to hurt from kneeling for so long, but the tense situation in the living room was too tense for any of them to try to make a move. Everyone was waiting to see what would happen, including you.

A sigh escaped your lips when you realized that you would have no choice but to let them stay here, but if that was going to happen, it would be under your own rules. You didn't want to be alone anymore, which didn't mean that you were going to blindly trust them overnight, because trust was a luxury you could pay dearly for if you decided to put all your cards on the table.

You let go of Heeseung's face and slowly lowered your gun, your gaze, still quite hard, shifting from him to the other guys as you took your time to study their expressions.

"Alright..I'll let you all stay..." you finally declared and your words were an immediate comfort to the seven men in front of you, but before any of them could say anything you continued "But..." you fell silent for a few seconds, letting the anticipation fill the air "if any of you do anything stupid, i swear...

i will kill you..."

CHAPTER III: "Trust Issues"

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[keeksandgigz]

okay okay, but imagine an older!modern!eddie getting ticked off every time you have your phone on 'do not disturb.'

this was supposed to be a blurb but pls queens turn off your dnd this is loosely based on a true story

eddie munson x fem! reader

word count: 3k

cw: porn with a little plot, spanking with a spoon, oral (f receiving), unprotected piv (pls don't do that), use of nicknames (sweetness, sugar, baby etc), established d/s dynamic (even if there isn't much of it here), no physical description of reader, minors dni, smut below the cut!

Like, it starts off kinda funny like "Honey, c'mon I need you to return my calls if I know you're free. I needa know my girl is safe" he says, voice real sweet. You just apologize and turn it off.

Until it becomes a recurrent thing. He'll call you to ask if you still need to get picked up after class while you're out running errands. You don't see his call until after class and you hurriedly call him to come pick you up.

Or he's at the grocery store to pick up dinner for later and he's texting you to ask what he needs to get for you and you just don't answer him. You don't see his texts.

He tries to call. Voicemail.

He later gets home with whatever he was craving and just starts cooking.

"But I thought we said we were gonna do pasta, Ed? Why're you making chicken?" you ask, literally without a clue as to why dinner plans have changed.

"Well, sweetness, if you don't answer my texts or return my calls how the hell am I supposed to know what kinda pasta you wanted, huh?" he just shrugs, voice a bit hardened. You can tell it's starting to tick him off.

"Oh, shit. Sorry Ed, I don't even know where my phone is, really" you scratch your head, looking around but not really in search for your phone.

"Well, if you didn't have your DnD on you'd know where your phone is once I call or text you. It's starting to get a little frustrating, baby, can you please be a little more mindful and turn off your 'do not disturb' when you don't need it please?" you just nod sheepishly, like you've been scolded for not saying 'thank you' to a gift you didn't like.

And it does end up happening numerous times. Luckily, nothing too insane.

Sometimes he'd ask you if you wanted to call and you just sit there waiting for him to call. After ten minutes, you assume he's gone to sleep (he's a bit old after all), so you turn off your phone and tuck in for the night.

"Why didn't you pick up last night baby? I called you like six times" he asks the morning after.

"Wait, you called? I was waiting for you to call and then you didn't so I just went to bed" you explain, then clocking the issue there. Shit.

"You had your DnD on, didn't you, sweetness?" and he gets close to you. Close enough for you to hold your breath, too entranced by his big presence, filling up every bit of your vision. You feel suffocated by him.

You look down, too much to be looking at him right now, with the aura of calm and cool control that he exudes. It'd be easier for him to swallow you whole than for you to be making eye contact with him right now.

He just takes care of that promptly for you. He gingerly places two fingers under your chin, making you look at him in the eyes.

"You look at me when I talk to you. You know better, don't you baby?" and he puts on this fake pout that makes you blush all over. You imagine the butterflies at the bottom of your stomach tinging a pretty shade of pink with every domineering word that comes out of that man's mouth.

You just nod, he makes a clicking sound with his tongue and teeth, releasing you from the delicious torture of him invading your senses as he takes a step back, letting your chin go before he just goes back to what he was doing.

"Oughta punish you one of these days if you don't turn that damn DnD off" he mutters and then he's back on his computer.

The gruff words make your shaky legs stutter as you decide you cannot be standing anymore and you plop yourself on the couch.

His last straw, however, is when you're out at a club with your friends. You've had one too many drinks and you text Eddie to come pick you up. He has no idea where you are.

Yeah, baby I can pick you up. Where at? 12:34 am

Can't pick you up if you don't tell me where you are, sweetness. 12:42 am

You there? 12:50 am

Turn off your DnD PLEASE 1:00 am

I'm omw 1:03 am

And he pulls up in front of the bar you were helplessly staring out the door of. You're not drunk, just not having fun.

You run into the car, shivering from the biting November breeze.

"Had to call one of your friends to tell me where the fuck you were. Are you drunk?" he asks. Voice stern, laden with what you could only define as barbed wire. Cutting, angry, almost.

"'m not drunk." you mutter "I had, like, a shot, then I decided I wasn't having fun anymore. Didn't wanna go out in the first place" finding the creases and ridges of your hands very interesting all of a sudden.

"Trust me when I tell you you won't be having fun at home either. Fucking sick of that 'do not disturb' thing on. You had me scared to death." he seethes, knuckles tightening around the steering wheel. You notice he's wearing his pyjamas.

Fuck. You made him get out of bed. You shrink in your seat.

"Y'don't wanna be disturbed? I'll fuckin' teach you about being disturbed" and that's the last thing he says before he just speeds home.

There's thick tension between the two of you when he opens the door to his apartment. You sit on his counter, looking at the floor and getting ready for another scolding.

He's leaning on the wall opposite to you, arms crossed.

He breaks the silence "Floor's lookin' clean? You gonna look at me now?" you shiver, then look up to meet his darkened eyes.

He scoffs and takes a few paces towards you, until he's placed between your parted legs.

"What do I gotta do with you, huh? Do I gotta start checkin' your phone to make sure that damn thing is turned off? As far as I'm concerned after your classes you shouldn't have it on at all" he remarks, his hands caressing over the nylon of your tights, toying with the fabric of your dress.

You interject "I just forget, Ed. I'm so busy these days I forget to turn it off" you jut out your bottom lip, trying to coax a bit of sweet sympathy out of him. Something that'll make the punishment a bit lighter.

But he remains unmoved, his lips in a straight line as he moves his hands up, up, up to firmly hold your waist. "So forgetful, aren't you, baby? Maybe you need a reminder, carve some space in that big, busy brain of yours to remember to turn your DnD off, hm?" he chides, playing with the insides of your arm, skin sensitive and waiting as his thick finger moves up and down and you can't help but nod.

Your breath begins to pick up ever so slightly. But he notices, of course he notices. The way your mouth parts and your pupils dilate. The way your chest begins to get closer to him, rising and falling in anticipation.

"So pretty" he teases, his hand moving up to cup your cheek. You lean into the warmth of his palm, letting out a sweet humming sound that makes Eddie's stomach flip despite his hardened facade "Y'wanna play?"

His voice goes to a deep, dark timbre, the question making you shiver. You speak for the first time in what seems like forever.

"Yes, sir" voice thin and quiet as you keep looking at him, not wanting to worsen your precarious position as he undoes the zipper of the short dress you're wearing, helping him out by taking your arms out of the thin sleeves.

"Good girl," he remarks, tapping the sides of your thighs to make you lift your hips, removing the dress off of you completely.

He licks his lips when he finds you're wearing tights. He loves spanking you with the nylon barrier between his hand and the soft skin of your ass. A weird quirk of his.

You feel the hardened pressure of his bulge against the inside of your thigh as his body turns to litter a trail of kisses over your jawline and you keen into his touch, arch towards his chest demanding more, more, more. Even if you're in no position to demand anything.

A whine escapes you as you keep arching your hips towards him. Eddie's quick to stop you with a strong hand pinning you down against the marble of the counter. He tuts.

"Don't be greedy. Hop off and bend over" he commands, and who are you to say no to him as you comply with a meek "Yes, sir," resting your elbows on the cold counter.

His nose skims the length of your spine, taking in the way you smell. Sweet and musky, after a night of dancing among sweaty bodies. The thought intrudes Eddie's head. Did a body press itself against you? Is the scent of a random man now on the skin of your back, the fabric of your dress?

He shakes the thought away as he reaches the waistband of your black nylon tights.

"Pass me that wooden spoon, will you, sugar?" he says sweetly, snaking a hand in your hair. You shiver as you reach for the wooden utensil in the metal bucket next to the stove. You pass it to him, skin pricking up from the anticipation of not knowing what he might do with it.

"Thank you, baby" he kisses your shoulders, as the spoon comes into contact with your ass. Caressing up and down.

"Now, I hate to do this, you know me, but I gotta teach you a lesson, sweetness. Tell me you want this" he says, the utensil snaking its way between your legs, rubbing back and forth. A wicked smile appearing on Eddie's lips when you begin to helplessly whimper, your head lolling on its side against the marble counter.

"I- I want this" you say, loud enough to make him hear you.

And that's all he needs. A green light.

The wooden spoon lands on the meat of your ass. You hiss. The feeling is new, he hadn't spanked you with anything aside of his hand before, but the feeling of the wooden handle cracking on your skin makes your head reel.

"You gonna put your phone on DnD again?" he asks, a question he knows the answer to as he cracks down the spoon again.

"Ah- ow- No, sir. Thank you, sir" you say, sweet and compliant, hoping that it will relieve you of your penance earlier than he'd planned to.

His hand sneaks itself on the seam of your tights, knowing you never wear panties with them, feeling the heat radiating off of your core, a dampness that had been sitting there since you'd climbed in the car.

He chuckles to himself, a dark laugh, a notice that he will not go easy on you tonight.

"You're likin' this?" you can almost hear the wicked smile in his words. "You little slut, you're getting wet from this? Me smacking you with a spoon?" he taunts and your legs quiver as he administers two more cracks to your ass.

You have cotton in your ears. Your skin feels everything and nothing at the same time as you begin slumping against the counter.

"So horny you can't even stand, huh, sweetness?" Eddie smacks you again and then reaches his arm around your waist to pull you up "Little slut didn't want me to disturb her, hat true?" he asks, another smack, this time he expects an answer.

"Fuck- ow- no Eddie that's not-ah" another smack "t-true" you sob, tears beginning to well on the waterline of your eyes.

Your ass feels on fire while Eddie puts the spoon down next to your head. Your legs shaky in your heels as he kneels between your legs.

Two of his fingers hooked on the seam of your tights as he rips a hole in them, exposing you to him. You gasp, more at the suddenness of the motion than at the action itself.

Your tights never had a long enough lifespan when you wore them around Eddie.

"You got so wet, sweetness." He whispers, entranced by the way the skin glistens in the dull kitchen light.

His hands hook around your waist to keep you still as his face narrows into your pussy, and he begins to lick.

Broad stripes of his tongue, slurping and lapping up whatever he missed. Eating like a man starved.

Your back arching to get more, more, greedy in the best way possible as you mewled and cried for him to keep going. As you mewled and cried nonsense, feeling your brain turn fuzzy and your eyes becoming accustomed to going to the back of your head every time his tongue lingered long enough on your clit.

When he begins to suck harshly on it you have no choice but to grab the back of his head and push it further, if there ever was a further, as he is wedged deep between your legs, eating you out like his life depended on it.

He doesn't like it, though, the way you grab and push at his head like you're the one calling the shots.

He unhooks his arms from your waist momentarily to reach for your wrists to pin them behind your back, that's when he stands from his place in between your legs.

"Y'think you're a big girl, huh? Callin' the shots?" he lands a smack on your ass, turning you around to finally face him. Hands still pinned behind you as he pushes you towards him.

"I didn't- I don't-" you try and justify yourself, but he just delivers a smack to your face. Light enough to give you a slight sting.

His chin glistens with your slick, and you can smell it on him.

"Look what you did" he says, taunting you. His free hand comes to squeeze your cheeks, making you look at him.

"Clean me up, since you wanna be so fuckin' messy" and he squeezes harder, your tongue jutting out to lick at the clear wetness on his face, slight stubble scratching your tongue and chin. You lick around his mouth, under his nose, until he pushes you away from him.

"Greedy, greedy" he chants, as he places you on top of the counter, cold marble a relief against your aching ass.

You could clearly see the outline of his cock against his sweats, you bite your lip as he inches closer to you. “Look how hard you made me, baby," he mutters, low and dark "it’s impossible to be in your presence when you look like you want to get fucked all the time." he continues "Goin' out in that tight little dress like you don't want everyone to see your pretty tits" he says, grabbing a handful through the bralette you're wearing.

He moves the cups to the side as he toys with your tits, a hand reaching into your mouth to wet his fingers. You gag and sputter around his digits.

"Theeere you go, sweetness. Y'like having your mouth full?" he asks, Hardened stare urging you to answer. You nod and let out a weak hum in approval as his fingers keep pushing in and out of your mouth.

He removes his fingers from your mouth as he begins circling the sensitive buds of your nipples. You let out a desperate moan.

"So sensitive, aren't you? You wanna cum like that while I fuck you?" he asks, and you can't find the words fast enough to nod your head yes.

"Ask me nicely. You know better" he says sternly as he uses one hand to lower the waistband of his sweats, letting his cock spring free.

"F-fuck, pleasepleaseplease, fuck me, sir" is all you can muster, before he guides his cock to your entrance, sinking in all the way to the hilt. A gasp escapes you. It never gets old.

"That's a good girl. Wasn't so hard, was it?" he teases, both his hands returning to deliver their ministrations on your tits, thumb unforgivingly grazing your nipples. The motion makes you scream as Eddie sets a quick pace.

"That's right, sweetness, keep singin' for me. Lemme hear that pretty voice" he says, his words making you clench around him.

His hands come off your tits to place your legs on your shoulders, making you curl in on yourself as he leaned his body to make your faces touch.

"Kiss me, baby" and you kiss him with such fervor and need. He hadn't kissed you the whole night. You don't know how much you need him to kiss you until you do and it's like fireworks are going off behind your hooded lids.

His tongue slips past your lips as he keeps thrusting, unforgivingly, hitting your g- spot every. single. time. You whine into his mouth, he chuckles at how needy you sound.

"My baby just needed a good fuck to remember to not put her DnD on, didn't you?" he taunts, an especially harsh thrust follows as you feel his breathing become more ragged and his pace begin to stutter.

"Feels good, huh? Shit, baby you're so tight" he begins and you can't help but moan.

"Feels good Eddie- huh- so... so deep" you hiccup, and you feel close. "Hmm so ah big" you groan as your eyes roll to the back of your head when a particularly well- angled thrust deliciously hits your spongy walls.

"You like that, sweetheart? God- fuck- so gorgeous, baby. Look at you" he rambles. He's getting close.

"Oh fuck, Ed, 'mclosesoclose" you cry out and you're seriously teetering on the edge of orgasm. A few more thrusts and you'd be gone.

"Me too, sweetness, c'mon cum for me" he thrusts a couple more times and the coil snaps. You're clenching and whining and screaming his name while he follows after you, finishing inside you.

He stays there even after he's done, laying his head on your sweaty chest while you both try to stabilize your breathing.

"Feel free to disturb me whenever you want" you say, and he chuckles, giving a soft kiss to your shoulder.

taglist: honey-flustered, fracturedarkness, them-cute-boys, ancientcrone-blog, eveybitch, everythingtodayisthoroughly, jennathinker, @vampysstuff, rubyirene, floriscus, mrsmarch64, fairymunson, capricornrisingsstuff, sole-screws, helloweenfiend, flaminggarbagepail, @squigglebottom, @cozmiccass

[mrpenguinpants]

Memorabilia [ Commissioned ]

— Unable to sleep, Sunday seeks help from the Astral Express's most unusual crew member. With each anecdote, he wonders if, someday, he too will have pleasant memories of companions to reminisce.

Word Count: 13k

Request: [ A platonic first encounter/found-family fic between the Astral Express and a male reader. Due to an accident, the reader is corrupted and has a "glitchy" appearance with multiple voices in their head. ] Reader is based on an OC, so there are a few extra details/lore, but no OC names or physical details are mentioned. This is still an x reader fic. [Masterlist]

Thank you so much for commissioning me and trusting me with your OC although this fic doesn't feature him specifically. I hope I did his lore and character traits justice. Regardless, I hope you like it!

It doesn’t happen often, but sometimes... sometimes, the memories claw their way back into Sunday's mind, suffocating and unrelenting. They descend without warning, shadows of a past he can never escape. Images of a time when he had pinned his own wings down, seep into his consciousness like spilled ink creeping across the parchment, staining everything they touch. They are vivid, merciless, and inescapable, dragging him back to the place where ambition bled into ruin.

In these recollections, he is not a distant observer; he is the architect of every misstep, every wound, every betrayal. The walls of Penacony stretch endlessly before him, their grandeur gleaming like a lie. Marble floors echo with each step, cold and unyielding beneath his feet, while gilded walls glimmer with an opulence that now feels hollow. They form a labyrinth—beautiful, yes, but suffocating—a maze carved out of blind conviction and arrogance. He strides through them as he once did, head high and eyes forward, an Aeon in form, resplendent and untouchable. But that same pride, so intoxicating back then, now feels distant and alien, like a suit of armor he no longer fits into. The faces are always there, clearer than he’d like, sharper than he can bear. They loom in the shadows and step into the light, their expressions shifting with every memory that takes shape: admiration, fear, then quiet simmering resentment. Their eyes cut through him, piercing the illusion of grandeur he once wore like a shield. He feels their gazes heavy on his skin, weighing him down, their unspoken accusations louder than any words. He remembers the promises he made—the oaths spoken with all the fervor of someone who believed he was doing what was right. Words that once rang with purpose, gilded by his ideals, now echo hollowly in his mind, stripped of their luster. Their weight grows heavier with each repetition, each memory, pressing down like the cold hand of inevitability.

And then, the worst of it: the downfall. The moment his grand vision crumbled under the crushing weight of his own hubris. The cries of those he swore to protect tear through the air—their anger sharp as blades, their pain sharper still, like a wound that never heals. He sees their faces, once filled with hope, now twisted with betrayal. The very people he had sworn to uplift have become his accusers. The world he had built, piece by careful piece, unravels before his eyes. And he is powerless to stop it. His actions, meant to save, have instead been condemned. What he had thought was salvation—the future he had crafted with such fervor—has become nothing but ruin, a collapsing empire of promises broken. His good intentions, like poisoned arrows, strike true and deep, far deeper than he could have ever foreseen. Each one finds its mark, each one a reminder of his failure. The sting of it lingers long after the dream has faded, the weight of those choices pressing down on his chest as if the very air had thickened in the wake of his decisions. And in that moment, in the bitter silence that follows, he realizes that no matter how hard he tries, he can never escape the truth: he failed.

Sunday wakes with a start, his breath sharp and ragged, his chest rising and falling in uneven rhythms. The memories cling to him like a heavy fog, stubborn and suffocating, refusing to loosen their grip. His hands tremble as he sits up, the cold sweat on his skin a stark contrast to the warmth of the bed beneath him. His eyes dart around, disoriented, searching for something familiar in the dim light.

Right. He's not on Penacony anymore.

The walls are unfamiliar, not the cold, opulent marble of Penacony’s halls, but the soft, worn wood and steel of the Astral Express. His room—no, his temporary space—is simple, much like the rest of the train, but it's a world away from the grandeur he once commanded. Here, he's just a wanderer. Ordinary and even inconsequential. No longer an Aeon, no longer the ruler of a broken vision. The weight of the past, the crushing responsibility he once carried, no longer weighs on him in the same way. But the echoes of that past still haunt him, slipping into his dreams when he least expects it, reminding him of who he was. He closes his eyes briefly, willing the tremors in his hands to stop, before slowly rising from the bed. The room is quiet, save for the low hum of the train moving through the stars. No pitiful looks of betrayal, no echoes of failure—just the distant sound of a train journeying onward through the vast unknown.

These flashes of mistakes made, when Sunday dazes off unintentionally, March had dubbed it "dream paralysis." In her ever-cheerful logic, the term made perfect sense—it was like sleep paralysis, but trapped within the labyrinth of his own thoughts and dreams. A clever turn of phrase, at least in her eyes. But no matter how neatly she labeled it, the reality was far from simple. To him, it was a suffocating experience, a haunting that left behind an uncomfortable weight—a constant itch beneath his skin that couldn’t be ignored. The feeling was relentless, the sensation of being trapped in a nightmare where even waking didn’t offer escape. More often than not, it ended the same way: a desperate sprint to the bathroom in the dead of night, where he’d stand beneath scalding water, scrubbing his skin as if he could somehow scrub the discomfort away. His skin would burn, reddened, and raw, but the rashes that followed only mocked him. They were a cruel reminder of his futile attempts to cleanse himself of a discomfort that ran far deeper than his flesh. It wasn’t just his body that was being scratched at—it was something deeper, something he couldn’t reach. Despite Mr. Yang’s steady, measured advice and Miss Himeko’s gentle, empathetic suggestions, nothing seemed to ease the unease that gnawed at him. It remained stubborn and unshakable, no matter how much he wished otherwise. Yet, for all his frustration, there was no way around it... until Caelus made a suggestion. It was a well-meaning idea, of course. Caelus, always the problem-solver, had come up with something that seemed harmless enough, but to Sunday, it was nothing short of mortifying. The idea itself was simple, but the potential consequences left him flushed with embarrassment: Would it really help to let someone else know what he was going through?

Tonight, however, the remembrance come with a relentless hunger, pursuing him with unyielding force. Each time he closes his eyes, he sees her—his sister, her beautifully sad smile as they both fall from the sky, tumbling into the depths of the dreamscape. He has no wings to stop their fall and no way to save them. The weight of it drags him down, spiraling deeper into a nightmare that refuses to release its grip. Sunday is tired, truly, deeply exhausted. It’s a weariness that sinks into his bones, leaving him hollowed out, drained of energy and resolve. His eyes burn with the constant strain, the never-ending conflict between the waking world and the one that holds him captive in his sleep. His head pounds, the rhythm of two worlds pulling him in opposite directions, each tugging at him until he’s stretched too thin to bear. His gaze shifts toward the door across the room. It’s sealed tight, yet somehow, it calls to him, its pull irresistible, like a siren’s song echoing in the stillness of the night. Dangerous, but impossible to ignore. A choice looms before him, sharp and undeniable. A path he’s walked many times before, though each time feels like the first, fresh with the weight of uncertainty. With a sigh that carries the full weight of defeat, he pulls his coat over his shoulders. The fabric feels like a second skin, familiar yet stifling. His hands tremble slightly as he steps out of his temporary room, the quiet hum of the Express a constant background to his thoughts. He’s not supposed to feel like this—like he’s walking away from something important. There’s nothing shameful about leaving, about taking this moment for himself. But guilt clings to him, sticky and suffocating, like a secret he’s too tired to keep. It’s far too late to be doing this, but here he is again. Driven by something he can’t fully name, something that draws him away from the safety he’s built for himself on the ship.

Nothing has changed. Nothing ever does. And still, he keeps walking, each footfall a soft echo of a decision he’ll never be able to undo.

The warmth hits him as soon as he steps into the hallway, a sharp contrast to the chill of his temporary space. He’s always preferred the cold, finding comfort in the way it sharpens his thoughts and isolates him from the world. With each step, he tells himself it will be the last. That he will stop, turn around, and retreat back to where he started. He promises himself that this time, it will be different. He won’t dream of them—those people, those faces, those ghosts from his past that refuse to fade. But with every step he takes, the promise slips further from his grasp, a fleeting whisper drowned by the weight of his own exhaustion. Now, standing in front of an unassuming door, the warmth seems almost alien, its presence too gentle, too inviting. It’s comforting, yes—but also unsettling in its softness, as if it carries a weight of expectation he isn’t ready to face. The door itself is plain—just another identical threshold in the corridor—but it’s the small detail on the corner that catches his eye. A sticker, carelessly slapped there by March with her usual irreverence. A simple star, grinning back at him with its wide, beady eyes and too-cheerful smile. At first, it seems like nothing more than a trivial decoration, an innocent touch of whimsy. Yet, there’s something about it—something in the way those eyes seem to pierce through him, like they know more than he does, more than he’s willing to admit. The smile feels a little too knowing, a little too mocking, and for a brief moment, he wonders if it's laughing at him, at the way he feels so far removed from everything this small gesture represents. For a fleeting instant, the urge to retreat, to step back into the cool isolation of the archives, nearly overpowers him. The cold offers sanctuary, a place where he can hide from the world’s expectations and his own restless thoughts. But his feet remain rooted, unwilling to obey the instinct to flee. Instead, something inexplicable pulls him forward, toward the warmth, toward the comfort of the door. Something that feels like it’s asking him to stay, even as he longs to turn away.

He raises his arm and knocks three times, the sound sharp and purposeful in the quiet hallway. He waits, letting the silence stretch out in front of him. If you don’t respond, he’ll simply turn and return to his room—no harm done. But then, a sound breaks the stillness: a muffled voice, static, then followed by the shuffle of footsteps. The mechanical hum of the door's engine stirs to life, and with a soft whoosh, it slides open, revealing you. The Astral Express’s most enigmatic resident.

Though you’ve been traveling with the Express for months now, even before Sunday’s arrival, he doubts he’ll ever grow accustomed to your appearance. He suspects it would never feel “normal,” no matter how long he's stayed in your presence. He doesn’t know the full story—not that he feels compelled to pry—but whatever happened to you, it’s left a permanent mark. Your form glitches and flickers, a jarring patchwork of neon hues that pulse and shift like a broken screen. Bright flashes of color flare in and out of existence, twisting into shapes that defy any sense of order. If he didn’t know better, if he weren’t so attuned to the dangers of the corruption, he might be tempted to reach out—to touch the glowing lights. To see if they felt as unreal as they looked, or if they would dissolve at his touch like mist caught in a breeze. But he knows better than to test the unknown.

"Sunday?" Your voice is softer than usual, a touch deeper as if the hour has wrapped itself around your words. Do you even need to sleep anymore? In the corner of his eye, he can see your hands flicker into particles of shapes that form into gray crosses, "It’s late. What do you want?"

The words aren’t unkind, but they carry a weight that settles uneasily in Sunday’s chest. He’s caught off guard, his breath halting for a moment. There’s something about your tone, something subtle, that makes him hesitate—a pull he can’t quite name, but one he can’t ignore. Even though he knows this is the right thing to do, even though it was Caelus who suggested it, the moment feels different than he anticipated. He stands there for a beat longer than he should, battling the strange urge to turn around and leave.

"My apologies, I didn’t mean to disturb you at this hour," Sunday begins, his tone more clipped than he intends, the words leaving his mouth with a sharpness he doesn’t quite mean. He immediately regrets the faint edge in his voice, but the annoyance festering inside him makes it hard to suppress. Why is he even doing this? Of all people—of all things, it feels ridiculous. He shifts his weight impatiently, unwilling to let the awkwardness fully settle in.

"I—" He cuts himself off, irritated at how he sounds, even to his own ears. Caelus had insisted that he talk to you, someone who might understand the disorienting weight of mixed emotions, someone who’d probably dealt with more than enough confusion himself. But standing here now, the whole thing feels like a stupid idea.

“I don’t know what to do with it,” he says instead.

"That bad, huh?" you remark flippantly, leaning against the doorframe with an air of nonchalance. The words catch Sunday off guard, and for a moment, he freezes, blinking at you in surprise. He had expected the usual volatile reaction—some distorted image of yourself breaking down, maybe even spiraling into an incomprehensible mess of glitches and shadows. After all, he had heard the rumors of your unpredictable mood swings, the flashes of anger, the strange moments when you seemed to slip between states of reality sprinkled with black zigzags. But instead, you reach for him, hand faltering in the glitchy blur of your form before stabilizing, your fingers finally wrapping around the tassel of his coat with surprising precision. The motion is absurdly gentle, like a small tug on a leash, and Sunday, in spite of himself, allows you to guide him inside your room.

He hums in response, a non-committal noise. There’s an unspoken understanding aboard the Astral Express. No one presses too hard, not unless there’s harm meant. As long as your secrets won't bring any danger to any of the passengers intentionally, no one will pry. It’s an arrangement Sunday can appreciate, even if it can lead to many dangerous paths.

As you lead the way, stumbling slightly as your form blinks in and out of reality, Sunday instinctively reaches out, his hand resting gently on your shoulder to steady you. A soft curse escapes him, his fingers tips burning even through his gloves at the slightest brush of your shoulder, as he nudges you just in time to avoid crushing one of Himeko’s gadgets under your erratic foot. Your room is a curious thing, with a charm all its own. It’s not as fluffy as March’s, nor as bare as his own quarters, but it feels lived in, touched by every person who calls the Express home. The small items scattered about—the faint traces of everyone’s personalities—add warmth to the otherwise utilitarian space. He can almost sense the traces of each person’s energy here, something unique to the crew in every object. It’s not a place of perfection, but it feels like it belongs to someone. To you.

"Interested? Need a bedtime story to go to sleep?"

Sunday blinks, momentarily caught off guard, then looks up to find you smiling at him with that familiar, teasing grin. The static hum around you pulses gently, soft yellow stars twinkling across your face and words, distorting the edges of both as if the world itself was slipping between reality and dream. It’s a strange, almost hypnotic sight, something he only see in the dreamscape. He huffs softly, a small exhale of air that escapes almost involuntarily, before looking away. His gaze drifts to the side, lingering on nothing in particular as he settles on the edge of your bed. The cool, unfamiliar comfort of the moment leaves him uncertain, and he remains silent, unsure of how to respond. What could he say to something so... absurd? Something so blatantly casual that it felt almost out of place.

"Bedtime story? I haven't heard one since I was a child," he finally mutters, his voice a low murmur, clearly not sure whether you’re joking or serious. After all, this—whatever this is—isn’t normal for him.

“You know,” you begin, eyes cast downward, “the first time we saw the Astral Express… I thought we made a mistake, walking into it. Felt like we stepped into the wrong universe altogether.”

---

The moment you step into the archives, pixels, and particles following you, you know you’re not alone. The quiet hum of the Astral Express is ever-present, but there’s something sharper lingering in the air—an edge of awareness that prickles at the back of your neck. The hairs on the back of your neck stand at attention, and your senses sharpen, alert to every small shift in the room. You don't need to turn around to know you're being watched. The weight of the gaze on your back is palpable, almost tangible, like a shadow that hangs too close. You pause, considering your options, but before you can make a move, something cold and unyielding presses against the side of your neck. The cold pressure against your neck tightens just slightly—enough to send a chill through your spine. Whoever is behind you is no amateur, you realize. This is someone who knows how to move in silence, how to strike without warning. Slowly, carefully, you let out a breath, knowing you need to react before the situation escalates further. The quiet hum of the ship feels distant now, swallowed by the tension building around you.

"Not here for trouble," you finally say, your voice low, but steady. "Just passing through."

The silence stretches on, thick and unyielding, as you wait for a response.

"State your intentions," the voice commands, low and steady, yet laced with a razor-sharp calm that cuts deeper than any shout ever could. The words hang in the air, each syllable calculated, each pause deliberate—an unspoken promise that any misstep would be met with swift retribution. You turn your head slightly—not enough to dislodge the weapon, but enough to catch a glimpse of its wielder. He’s tall, with piercing teal eyes that seem to see straight through you, and a faint energy radiates from the spear he’s holding against your throat. The voices in your head are thrown into a panic, mumbled words of different meanings that you can't decipher yet pound against your head. A flicker of annoyance, a burst of black zigzags, and that spear is now digging into the skin of your neck.

"You’re here to harm the Express," the man says in lieu of your response. It’s not a question. He’s sharp, this one. Smarter than he looks, and far more perceptive than you’d like. If you were a worse person, you'd bang your fist against the precious computers and send the man flying in a shower of electrical sparks. But you need him, and you need what the Express carries.

"Maybe," you admit, leaning just slightly into the cold pressure of the blade, testing him, watching for the smallest sign of hesitation. He doesn't flinch. "Or maybe we just needed a ride."

The man's teal eyes narrow, piercing into you with an intensity that feels like it could slice through steel. His grip tightens around the weapon, a subtle shift of muscle that speaks volumes about his readiness, "Then you’ll explain why we've been tracking an additional signal monitoring the train’s systems for weeks. Why your presence coincides with unusual disruptions in local Stellaron activity. And why my instincts are telling me not to trust you."

A grin tugs at the corners of your mouth, despite the palpable tension, despite the deadly situation. You can't help it—.

"Instincts, huh? You trust those over facts? Dangerous habit for someone like you," the edge in your voice is almost playful, but there's an undercurrent of challenge that hangs in the air, thickening the space between you like a storm cloud waiting to break. He doesn't respond immediately, but the subtle tension in his jaw speaks volumes. His mind is already working, piecing together fragments of information, weighing what little he knows against what he's yet to figure out.

"Listen, I have something you need. Those twins? Stelle and Caelus? We're the same," you say, your voice slipping into something quieter, a complete tonal shift that catches him off guard. "You're not wrong. We're not here entirely by coincidence. But harming the Express? That’s not our style. If we wanted to, we’d have done it already. But we will, if we need to."

The words hang in the air, heavy with unspoken implication. For a moment, his gaze flickers—just a split-second hesitation, barely perceptible. It’s enough to make his grip loosen just a fraction, a slight shift in his stance. The crack in his armor to protect his own companions, however small, is enough for you to notice. You don’t let the opportunity slip by, "You can lower the spear, or we can stand here all day while your friends wonder why you haven’t come back yet."

The man studies you for a long, heavy moment, the tension crackling in the air between you. Finally, with deliberate slowness, he withdraws the spear, the sharp edge of the weapon no longer pressing against your skin. The atmosphere in the room doesn’t exactly lighten, but it does shift—enough to let you draw a breath without the sensation of impending danger gnawing at your chest.

"If you make one wrong move," he warns, his voice cold and unwavering, like steel on the verge of snapping, "I won’t hesitate next time."

You nod, casually brushing nonexistent dust from your jacket, the act dismissive but calculated. "Duly noted."

He takes a step back, his eyes never leaving you, still as sharp and calculating as ever. You feel the weight of his gaze, like a silent promise that he’s not done watching you. In the midst of it all, an unexpected thought crosses your mind: This man is going to be trouble for you. Smart, careful, stubborn to a fault—he’s exactly the kind of person who sees through people like you. What a bother.

---

"We were kind of a bastard back then," you admit, a bitter smile tugging at the corner of your lips. "Surprised Dan Heng even gave us a chance to tolerate us."

"Us?" Sunday asks, the word hanging in the air, his curiosity piqued. It’s been gnawing at him for a while now, this strange way you refer to yourself as if there’s more than one person within. You give him a half-hearted grin, it's grim, before tapping your head, then making a motion with your hand—a fluid up-and-down flick of your fingers, as if mimicking someone talking. Each finger meets its thumb in a rhythmic gesture. The understanding dawns on Sunday, a quiet realization creeping in. Some things, some details, are better left up for interpretation but never the truth.

"So," Sunday continues, shifting the conversation, "you arrived without warning, gave them every reason to be cautious, and still managed to walk away unharmed. That’s... fortunate."

It's quite frankly offensive that the same situation happened twice. If the Express keeps giving hand-outs, maybe the train will one day sputter out of fuel.

"Dan Heng could tell we weren’t there to cause trouble—at least, not immediately," You shrug nonchalantly, the motion effortless. The words are spoken with a hint of amusement, as though the whole situation had been a delicate dance, one you were somehow able to navigate without triggering the full force of suspicion.

Sunday tilts his head, his expression thoughtful, "Or perhaps he exercised more patience than most would in his position. A rare quality, considering the circumstances."

"Maybe," you admit with a faint smirk, though Sunday’s gaze remains steady, as if searching for something beneath your words.

He lets out a quiet hum, his voice softening as he speaks, "Trust isn’t something easily earned, especially with the Astral Express. It’s a privilege, not a guarantee."

Right now is his chance—his opportunity to rebuild trust that was shattered before it was ever truly given. The weight of it settles on him, heavy and undeniable. He’s not sure if he can ever fully erase the past, but this moment, this fragile opportunity is all he has left. It’s a test—a chance to prove that he can be trusted, even when everything before suggests otherwise. The quiet moment of self-reflection is broken by the jingle of keys. Sunday turns his head to see you holding up a keychain, its odd charm catching the light. It’s a trashcan, miniature, and oddly endearing. It has cartoony arms forming a thumbs up, the lid slightly opened to show the black trash bag inside. The absurdity of it makes him pause, a flicker of amusement pulling at the corners of his lips.

"Another story?" he asks, his tone light but laced with a hint of curiosity, as if he's not sure whether he wants to hear more or is merely indulging you.

---

"You two need something?"

You don’t need to turn around to know that Caelus and Stelle are lurking, their presence is as obvious as an elephant in a room. The twins are hidden behind a potted plant, doing their best to remain inconspicuous, but their attempt is about as subtle as a bull in a china shop. They peer out from either side of the skinny plant, wide-eyed and guilty, like two kids who’ve just been caught raiding the cookie jar. They don’t move, sharing some silent exchange between themselves—one of those unspoken conversations that only twins seem capable of, their eyes darting back and forth with a kind of synchronized rhythm. You don’t have to wait long before you decide to break the silence. Leaning casually against the wall, you snap your fingers with a sharp, deliberate sound. It’s a quick, attention-grabbing motion, and to anyone who might be watching, you might as well have been trying to corral a pair of raccoons. The twins, startled at first, perk up immediately. Like clockwork, they abandon their hiding spots and scurry toward you, grinning sheepishly as if they hadn’t been caught in the act at all.

"Well? You two are the most unsubtle pair of idiots we know," you say, your tone flat but with an edge of amusement. "So what were you two trying to do?"

You level them with a stare, eyes flickering with jagged, glitching teal squares that ripple beneath the surface of your corruption, catching the light like fractured glass. The momentary flashes make your gaze feel sharper, more unsettling, but the effect doesn’t seem to faze them. Stelle is the first to break the silence, a grin tugging at the corner of her lips.

"We were trying to scare you," she admits, her voice playful, but there’s a mischievous lilt that betrays her intent. She taps her chin thoughtfully with her thumb and index finger, adopting an exaggerated stance like some kind of inquisitive scholar. Her eyes gleam with an almost theatrical curiosity, her gaze flickering between you and Caelus. Caelus, ever the mirror to his twin, nods in agreement, the corner of his mouth twitching into a grin of his own. He matches Stelle’s pose, almost to the letter, his subtle smile hinting at some shared joke. The synchrony between them is uncanny, and it’s clear they both find this moment far more amusing than it has any right to be. You raise an eyebrow, your patience thinning, waiting for them to elaborate. Stelle’s grin widens even further, and Caelus, picking up on whatever idea is dancing through her mind, mirrors her expression with a gleam of mischief in his eyes.

"We’re bored," Stelle begins, her tone dripping with exaggerated seriousness as if she’s about to reveal some profound, existential truth.

"Really, really bored," Caelus chimes in, his voice practically bouncing with the energy that radiates off him. He shifts from foot to foot, practically vibrating with pent-up energy, as if he’s struggling to contain his excitement.

"We were gonna try to scare you," Stelle continues, leaning forward slightly as if sharing a great secret.

"But then you found us and spoiled it," Caelus finishes with a dramatic sigh, throwing his hands up in mock defeat. Their synchronized performance makes it hard not to smirk. The sheer childishness of their attempt, paired with their boundless energy, is somehow endearing, despite the fact that you feel like you’re dealing with two hyperactive children who think they're being clever.

You shake your head, a smile tugging at the corners of your lips despite yourself. Leaning forward in mock disappointment, you raise an eyebrow, "Yup, good job. We were totally scared."

Caelus huffs indignantly at your sarcasm, his pout deepening as he crosses his arms over his chest, making a show of being offended. Stelle, never one to miss an opportunity for drama, rolls her eyes so dramatically it’s almost impressive. Then, without warning, they share a look—a silent exchange so loaded with meaning that you can practically hear the unspoken conversation between them. It’s a look that says more than words ever could. And then, just as suddenly, they launch into a silent argument, their exaggerated gestures and comically furrowed brows making the entire scene seem more like a theatrical performance than a real disagreement. You watch them, amused, for a few moments, shaking your head at their antics. And then, as if an invisible cue has been given, they stop abruptly, turning to face you with matching, exaggerated expressions of innocence.

With sudden synchrony, the two of them pull something from behind their backs. It's a keychain—strange and, to say the least, unexpected. You stare at it as Caelus hands it over, his grin widening.

“It’s for you,” he says, his voice light, but there’s a mischievous glint in his eyes. It’s a small trashcan keychain, with a tiny, empty can dangling next to it. It's...quite ugly if you're being honest. You look up at the two racoons, your eyes screaming "seriously?" but you still take it from him. Stelle beams with pride, crossing her arms and watching you intently as if waiting for your reaction.

"It’s a symbol," she declares, as though it’s some grand gesture of deep significance. "Of our collective boredom."

You blink at the keychain, shaking your head. It’s utterly silly, but in that weird, inexplicable way, it’s perfect. It’s the kind of quirky, offbeat gesture that somehow fits this strange little crew you’ve found yourself with. Hands too wide, arms too open, and eyes far too crescent. You roll your eyes, but the smile tugging at your lips is unmistakable as you slip the keychain into your pocket.

"Thanks, you two," you mutter dryly, the glitch in your hands weirdly stable enough to not drop your new gift, "We’ll treasure it."

---

Sunday watches, his expression a mixture of restrained bemusement and reluctant fondness as you finish retelling the tale. He hasn’t had the chance to experience the twins’ antics first-hand, but from Robin’s stories and the occasional interaction, it’s clear that Caelus and Stelle are the type to act first and think later. Silly, carefree, and utterly unburdened by the weight of anything that doesn't immediately concern them. It’s almost baffling how easily they offer their trust, without a second thought, to someone like you—a stranger, someone whose past is tangled with so much uncertainty. His gaze drifts to the keychain still resting in your hand, and he suppresses a quiet sigh. A small trashcan with a gusto of positivity might have been enough to irritate him in another context. But right now, in this odd, unexpected moment, it doesn’t do what he expects. Instead of irritation, he feels something else—a strange sense of warmth. It's silly, it truly is. It reminds him of the cartoons he's indulge when Robin would tug on his sleeve to please, just for 2 minutes, watch the newest episode with her. Despite the complexities of everything else weighing on his mind, it serves as a reminder of something he’s almost forgotten.

It’s fleeting, like a brief flicker of sunlight through a cloudy sky, but it settles in his chest with an unfamiliar comfort. A quiet smile, barely perceptible, tugs at his lips. You set the keychain down on your bedside table with deliberate care, moving on to the next object. A plushie of a white ball. There are slanted blue and purple eyes stitched on with a scar going across the left eye.

"It's called a Wubbaboo. They're mischievous Astral Spirits that possess individuals and commit pranks for fun. Although they are not deadly, they have the potential to cause trouble and should be kept from breaking loose. March found it funny to compare them to us," you say, an annoyed notch in your eyebrow as you squeeze the "wubbaboo" until it's face is smushed together so close you can't see the angry eyes staring right back.

---

The neon lights of the room pulse erratically, casting every-changing glows over the crowd. March 7th bounced from one foot to the other, her bright eyes locked on the brightly lit claw machine ahead. Inside, the prize—a pink plushie with a dopy grin and pink cheeks—sat just within reach, taunting her with its unyielding proximity. Her gaze was unwavering, her fingers twitching with anticipation.

"Come on, just one more try," she muttered under her breath, digging into her pocket for the last of her coins. The weight of them, small and cold in her palm, felt like a promise she couldn’t quite break. She'd come this far—surely the next try would be the one.

Behind her, the air hummed faintly—an odd, almost imperceptible static that seemed to vibrate with a quiet energy. It was the kind of noise that made the hairs on the back of March’s neck stand on end, a discomfort she couldn’t quite place. At first, she paid it no mind, her full attention fixed on the claw machine. She slipped the last coin into the slot, her gaze narrowing with steely determination as the machine beeped, signaling the start of her next attempt. But then, from the corner of her eye, she saw it. A figure. Someone watching her. She turned instinctively, expecting to see one of the crew members, perhaps Caelus or Dan Heng, idly observing her antics. But no. The figure she locked eyes with was unfamiliar, unsettling in a way she couldn’t immediately define. Your form flickered—barely a glitch, just a brief ripple in reality, too subtle for anyone else to notice. But to her, it felt like a silent warning, a quiet anomaly that sent a shiver racing down her spine. The space around you seemed to warp for an instant, as though reality itself was struggling to contain you. March blinked, but when she looked again, you were still there—just standing, waiting, like an enigma she hadn’t figured out yet. And that strange, unsettling feeling refused to leave her.

“Oh, hey!” March called out, her usual energy slicing through the lingering unease like a burst of sunlight. “You’re here to watch me win this plushie, right?”

You didn’t respond immediately, your attention unwavering from the claw machine. There was something about the way you stood, casually leaning against the wall, that felt... off. Not the way someone would watch a simple game play out, but with an unsettling precision—like you were studying the machine’s every move. Your eyes tracked the claw with such intent, it was as though you were dissecting its every twitch, every mechanical shift, as if the game were a puzzle to be solved. March tilted her head, momentarily curious about the strange intensity radiating off you. She didn’t mind the silence—after all, who needed words when you had her enthusiasm to fill the space? But something about the way you held yourself made her feel like she was performing on a stage where you were the only audience.

“What? No encouragement? I’m about to win this thing, I can feel it!” She threw a grin over her shoulder, half expecting the same playful teasing she’d received from the others, but you didn’t flinch. No laugh, no words of support. Just your eyes, fixed and unmoving, on the claw’s next movement. It made her pause, just for a moment. But only for a moment. Her confidence bounced right back, her smile widening as she adjusted her grip on the controls. “I’m telling you, it’s happening this time. Watch and learn!”

You finally looked at her, your expression unreadable for a moment, then a flicker of something—amusement, maybe?—passed through your gaze, "If you really believe you're about to win, there’s no need for encouragement."

March raised an eyebrow, her smile fading just a little as she tried to make sense of the shift in your tone. She knows that you're quite aloof, not prickly per say, but you definitely don't indulge in the express's whims. But that's okay! Dan Heng was just like that until she managed to whittle away those iron walls.

“Uh, okay... but I still need all the luck I can get,” she said, trying to shake off the eerie undertone in your voice. She turned back to the machine, her fingers hovering over the controls, the tension of the moment stretching out.

"Luck has little to do with it," you added softly, your eyes flickering to the claw again. There was something in your tone, something that made March pause, just for a second, as she processed the weight of your words. But before she could respond, the machine gave a soft beep—your prediction, it seemed, had been right. Along with the last of her coins.

“Gah! I ran out of time! I’ve been trying to win this plushie for hours!” March whined, her voice carrying a mix of light-hearted frustration and exasperation. “The claw just doesn’t grab it! I’ve tried every angle, but it always misses. It's like the machine’s rigged!”

You simply raised an eyebrow, because obviously all the arcade machines are rigged, and take a step closer. Your fingers twitched, the subtle erratic energy that often surrounded you almost palpable, as though the air itself hummed in response. A mischievous glint flickered in your eyes, the pink diamonds trailing after you beneath the neon lights of the arcade machine shimmering more vibrantly than usual. Without a word, you slid into position next to her, your hand reaching toward the controls with an almost practiced ease. March's frown deepened in confusion, her brow furrowing as she watched you. Before she could protest, the machine seemed to shudder with a strange, low hum—a sound so faint that it barely registered at first, but enough to make her pause.

“You—what did you just do?” she asked, her voice a strange mix of awe and disbelief, as if she couldn’t decide whether to be impressed or unnerved by what had just happened. Her words seemed to hang in the air, heavy with confusion and fascination. You didn’t offer an immediate response, just watching the machine as your fingers twitched again, a barely noticeable movement that seemed to set the air vibrating with some hidden force. For a split second, the claw hung motionless, as if frozen in time. The hum of the machine stilled, and everything around you seemed to hold its breath. Then, with an almost imperceptible shudder, the claw jerked downward, the movement sharp and precise as it latched onto the plushie’s corner. The machine groaned as it whirred to life again, the claw lifting with slow, deliberate force, its grip firm yet delicate, holding the plushie aloft as it dangled precariously by a single corner, swaying ever so slightly. March’s eyes widened, her mouth falling open in utter disbelief. Her jaw dropped, her voice barely a whisper as she stared at the plushie now hanging in midair, clearly suspended by some matter. You stood there, still as ever, a subtle glint of something in your eyes—a fleeting amusement, or perhaps something more calculating, like you had known exactly what would happen all along.

"Just a little glitch here and there," you said, your voice cool, though there was a faint static buzz beneath your words, as though your presence was subtly affecting the machine's circuits. "Machines like this are predictable if you know how to... persuade them."

March stared at the plushie as it was deposited into the prize chute. She scrambled forward, pulling it free from the machine with a loud, excited gasp. "I—I can’t believe it! I actually won it!"

“Looks like you’re finally getting lucky," You watched her, your arms crossed as you leaned back against the wall, your eyes still flickering with that odd energy.

March couldn’t help but laugh, clutching the plushie tightly to her chest, "I should’ve asked you to help from the beginning! I’ve spent hours trying to get this thing. I owe you big time!"

"You’re welcome," you said, though the words were laced with a strange, robotic quality. Your eyes flickered again, as if you were seeing the world in a way no one else could, "But next time, maybe try using your own hands instead of relying on glitches. It’s better that way."

"Nah, I think I’m gonna keep asking you for help," she teased, her energy back to its usual brightness. Her grin alone would power the arcade with how brightly it was shining, “You’ve got the magic touch.”

You raised an eyebrow, pink diamonds flickering once more, but this time, you hurriedly brush them away, "Whatever you say."

As March bounced away, clutching the plushie, she suddenly stopped, eyes wide with a new idea. Without warning, she turned and grabbed your arm, tugging you toward another claw machine nearby, "Alright, you helped me get mine, now it's my turn to get you one!" she declared, practically bouncing with excitement.

"You don’t have to do that," you protest, but March was already running to the coin dispenser to buy more arcade tokens, determined as ever.

"Nonsense! You made my night, so now it’s my turn to return the favor," she said with a grin. "Besides, this one has a super rare plushie. It even looks like you! You’ve gotta have it!"

---

"It took her another two hours to win once. We could feel the voices in our head getting louder. Any longer and who knows, maybe we would have started smashing machines and gotten us all kicked out of Penacony sooner," you say, your tone light but with an undercurrent of something darker, like you might be persuaded to actually go back and cause mass property damage just for the fun of it. Although Sunday is no longer apart of running Penacony, he hopes that you keep that little side adventure sealed in a box.

"Sounds like it was... fun," he murmurs, his voice as steady and measured as ever, but there's something else—something unspoken in the way he looks at you, a subtle acknowledgment of the weight behind your words. It reminds him of Robin's not-so-subtle attempts to drag him away from his office. The puppy-eyes unbefitting her image, how she's bemoan and cry like a spoiled child despite being the most generous person he's ever known. You lean back, letting the memory of the night with March linger in the air between you both, but it’s not the laughter that stands out now. It’s the strange, almost imperceptible warmth that comes with sharing something so unremarkable, yet so anchoring.

"Yeah. I guess it was. But, you know, I don’t need any more prizes. I can't find half my things under all this fluff. Though I’ll admit, it’s nice to be a part of something so... simple for once," your words trail off while your fingers absentmindedly trace the edges of a leather-bound notebook resting nearby. It's a habitual gesture that helps you center yourself, pulling away from the chaos of your thoughts, gray crosses make their reappearance with each stroke. It’s a small thing, yet it feels oddly comforting as if you're balancing yourself to something real amidst the constant shifting of your mind. You don’t look at it directly, but the weight of it under your touch is familiar, as though it’s tied to a version of you that’s been buried, one that doesn’t need the noise or the complications of the present to feel whole.

---

The corridors of the Astral Express were unusually still that afternoon, the kind of stillness that felt more like a pause—like the entire ship was holding its breath. Welt, ever perceptive and attuned to the nuances of his crew, couldn’t ignore the subtle shift in the atmosphere. There was a hum in the air, almost imperceptible, yet it was unmistakable to someone who knew the rhythms of the train as well as he did. Something was off, and it wasn’t just the absence of the usual banter.

He found you in one of the lounge areas by the window, sitting on a plush chair, your back rigid and unmoving. Your eyes were fixed on the stars outside, yet they seemed distant, unfocused, as though you were seeing something far beyond what was visible. A flicker of tension lingered in the air around you, something that made the quiet feel unnatural. Welt’s instincts tingled, the way they always did when something wasn’t quite right. He stepped closer, careful to keep his presence subtle, but as he neared, he saw the flicker of anxiety in your movements—the twitch of your fingers, the way your gaze darted restlessly around the room, as if you were trying to catch hold of something just out of reach. Your mouth pressed into a thin, controlled line, betraying the internal struggle playing out behind your eyes. It was like a storm was brewing just beneath the surface, one he couldn’t quite read. It also didn't help the black zigzags cascading down from your head like water. The suddenness of it struck him like a spark before the crackle of thunder—quick and sharp, but brimming with an undeniable intensity. Something had changed in you, something deeper than what words could reveal. And Welt, ever the observer, felt a weight settle in his chest. Whatever it was, it wasn’t good.

“You’re not okay,” Welt’s voice broke the stillness, soft yet firm, the kind of tone that held no room for argument but also offered a space for understanding. He knew you’d hear him, even if you weren’t ready to respond.

You didn’t answer immediately, but he could see the shift in your posture—the slight stiffening of your shoulders, the way your hands clenched and unclenched, restless, as if they were desperate for an outlet. Your eyes flickered to him, but they never fully met his. They danced around the room, unfocused, searching for something just beyond the edges of the present. And Welt knew, without needing to read further into the subtle tension in the air, that something was brewing beneath the surface. There was a storm in those eyes—wild, untamed, as if your emotions were battling each other in a silent war, and your mind was struggling to keep up. The turbulence inside you was palpable, though you made no effort to show it outwardly. But Welt, who had long learned to read the unspoken, could see it—the flicker of something, a fleeting moment of vulnerability, quickly masked by a wall of distance. He stayed quiet for a moment, letting the space between you linger, his gaze steady but patient, waiting for you to find your footing amid the chaos. He knew you didn’t need his answers or his help—not yet. What you needed was someone to acknowledge that what you were going through wasn’t something to hide, something to sweep under the rug.

“Talk to me,” he urged, his voice softening, an invitation more than a demand. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Talk? Why does everyone want to talk? I'm sick of hearing other people's voices-" You spit, those same black zigzags spilling down from your mouth like tar. Your corruption flares up, lashing out towards Welt like hands if he hadn't raised his cane, the pressure of a blackhole swallowing them with one motion. Although your powers are strong, Welt has dealt with beings far more dangerous. Right now, you only look like a lost boy whose confused and anxious. You flinch away, the dark matter in Welt's cane temporarily mixing with your curse snaps you back to reality. "It’s happening again,” you murmured, the words barely a whisper, but they carried an undeniable weight that seemed to hang in the air, heavy with the force of a brewing storm. It's as close of an apology as you can say, the admission of your weakness. Your voice, strained and fragile, barely reached the space between you and Welt, but the tension it carried was palpable, suffocating the room. It was as if the words were not merely spoken, but dragged from you—born of some unseen pressure that twisted around your very being. Welt’s brow furrowed, a faint crease appearing between his eyes as the words sank in. His normally composed exterior slipped just slightly, concern flickering like a distant ember. He stepped closer, but the distance between you both felt miles apart like there was an invisible barrier keeping him from reaching you. His steady, calm demeanor remained in place, the calm before the storm, but there was no mistaking the quiet alarm in his eyes. It was the kind of concern that didn’t need to be spoken—it was in the way he watched you, the careful way he approached, as if unsure whether any sudden movement might cause the fragile equilibrium of your mind to snap. He wasn’t a stranger to the Antistar’s influence, the thing that had fused with your body somehow. Welt had witnessed it before—the way it sank its claws into people's mind, its voices echoing in their thoughts like a cacophony of distant whispers, each one dragging their host deeper into a void. He had watched the shift, the way their thoughts could become erratic, spiraling into madness. But this… this felt different. Your eyes, wide and unfocused, darted around the room like prey under a predator’s gaze. They never settled, as if your surroundings had become something foreign and threatening. There was an almost panicked quality to your movements, your hands fidgeting in agitation, fingers twitching involuntarily. Welt could see it—the rapid rise and fall of your chest, the way your muscles tensed, anticipating some unseen danger. Yet you kept everything constrained under a deteriorating cracking iron fist.

“Let it out,” he said, his voice soothing, though there was a firmness to it, like he was anchoring you to the present moment. “Tell me what’s going on in your head. If you lose control, I will be here.”

You clenched your hands tightly, the fingers trembling ever so slightly. The irritation, confusion, and pain on your face were unmistakable. You weren’t ready to speak, but Welt could see the frustration in your eyes as you fought to keep control, as if you didn’t want to burden him with it.

“The voices… they’re too loud,” you muttered again, the words barely coherent, slipping from your lips like the last tether to reality was breaking. You weren’t speaking to him now, he realized. You were speaking to something else—somewhere inside yourself. Your eyes flitted around, unfocused, the flicker of your gaze darting in every direction as if trying to escape the storm inside you. But no matter how hard you looked away, the shadows seemed to follow, pressing in on you, crowding your thoughts. The chaotic whispers, fragmented and incoherent, spun like a whirlpool in your mind, each thought louder than the last, pulling you under. Welt’s hand twitched, but he held himself back, unsure if any touch would push you further away. He could feel the shift in the atmosphere—something heavy, suffocating, that seemed to darken the space between you both. It wasn’t just the usual voices. This was something deeper, something suffocating that made the air feel thick, pressing against your lungs, forcing every breath to feel like it could be your last. Your fingers twitched at your sides, and for a moment, it looked like you might collapse under the weight of it all. Something about your posture—rigid, almost as if frozen—suggested that you were fighting an unseen force, and that fight was taking all the energy you had left.

“You don’t have to hold it all in,” Welt continued, his tone never harsh, just a calm, steady presence. “You’re not alone in this, you know. We’re all here for you.”

Welt moved a little closer, sitting down beside you, not crowding you, but close enough to let you know he was there. He didn’t rush you. He didn’t expect an answer. He simply waited, letting the quiet space between you become a bridge. Slowly, you exhaled, the tension beginning to ease.

“I don’t know how to stop it,” you admitted, finally, your voice trembling, “I can’t escape it… the memories, the voices, they keep mixing together. It’s too much. It feels like… it feels like I’m breaking apart sometimes.”

The words were barely there, barely above a whisper, but they carried the weight of everything you’d been carrying—everything you didn’t know how to deal with. Welt remained silent, letting you say what you needed to, the gentle hum of the train filling the space between your words. After a moment of silence, Welt reached into his coat and pulled out a small, simple notebook. It was nothing special, just a black hardcover with blank pages inside, but there was a certain gravity in the way he offered it to you.

“I know it’s hard to sort through everything in your mind,” he said, his voice steady, “But sometimes, putting it down on paper can help. Whether you write, draw, or just let your thoughts spill out, it’s a way to process what’s going on inside. It’s yours. Whenever you feel like you need it.”

His gaze is soft and steady as he handed you the notebook, the worn leather cover catching the dim light of the train’s quiet lounge. He didn’t need to say anything more; his gesture spoke louder than words ever could. It was an offer, an invitation to channel the chaos, to make sense of the dissonance swirling in your mind, even if just for a moment. You took the notebook from him with a quiet nod, fingers brushing against the cover. It felt like a small tether, a lifeline to something that might help you regain control. There was a subtle warmth in the action, like an invisible thread connecting you to him, a silent understanding between you both. You couldn’t bring yourself to meet his gaze just yet—your eyes still too full of that swirling storm, too fragile to hold his steady, unshakable presence for long. But even so, there was a shift inside you. A tiny, almost imperceptible lightness that you hadn’t felt in a long time. It was like a small weight had been lifted, just enough to let you breathe a little easier. The thought that there might be a way to bring some order to the chaos, even if just for a fleeting moment, was oddly comforting. It wasn’t a cure, and it wasn’t a solution to everything, but it was something. And that was more than enough for now.

“Thank you,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper, the words carrying far more weight than the simplicity of their sound. They were more than just a polite acknowledgment—they were a recognition of the space he had given you, the quiet support that had anchored you in the midst of your turmoil. The storm inside you hadn’t fully passed, but the gentle pressure of the notebook in your hands and Welt's presence beside you made it feel like there was at least a small way forward. And for the first time in a long time, that felt like enough.

---

Sunday’s gaze lingered on the notebook, the silence between you both stretching out, comfortable yet laden with unspoken thoughts. His eyes, usually so guarded, softened as he watched you trace the edges of the book. It was a small thing, but there was a kind of quiet understanding in the way his attention remained fixed on it—on you. He was listening, more than just hearing, letting your words settle in the space between you, weighing them with care.

"A notebook?" he asked, his voice as calm and neutral as always, but you could feel the subtle shift beneath it, the way he was registering the importance of this new detail. You nodded, a small sigh escaping you as you let your fingers graze the leather cover, feeling its familiar texture beneath your touch. Something was grounding about it, something that allowed you to breathe a little easier, even if just for a moment.

"Mr. Yang said... writing, drawing, anything—just getting it out of our- my...my head could help." The words left your mouth more easily now, a little less guarded than before. You allowed the vulnerability to show, even if only for a brief moment, “It didn’t seem like much at first, but it kind of made sense. Maybe if I put things down on paper, I could start making sense of it all.”

You could feel the weight of his gaze still on you, a steady, almost intangible presence that let you know he was fully engaged with what you were saying. The way he didn’t rush to speak, didn’t offer unsolicited advice, allowed you the space to process your own thoughts aloud. It was rare, and it felt like a small gift. He didn’t respond right away, and you could tell that he wasn’t just hearing your words—he was truly absorbing them. His silence wasn’t uncomfortable, but instead it was thoughtful, almost as if he was searching for the right way to acknowledge what you’d shared without diminishing it. You briefly remember that Sunday used to act as a confessional when he was still in Penacony.

"I see," His voice was quiet, but the way he said it—like the weight of your words had a place in the quiet space between you—felt like an unspoken agreement. He understood, in his own way. There was no need for further explanation, no need to fix it, because he saw what you were trying to do. Finally, you leaned forward, placing the notebook gently into his hands. His eyes widened slightly in surprise at the gesture.

"Take it," you said, your voice steady now, "Welt’s right about one thing—getting it out, even if just on paper, can help. But sometimes, it’s hard to know where to start. Maybe you could use it. I know you’ve been carrying your own things, too, and...I think it might help. If you want."

Sunday's gaze lingered on the notebook in your hands, his fingers drifting over its surface as if weighing its significance without quite touching it. There was a slight furrow in his brow, a quiet contemplation that seemed to speak volumes about the thoughts running through his mind. The air between you was thick with the stillness, the kind that held space for unspoken words, for the things that were never said but felt deeply all the same. The silence stretched, comfortable yet heavy, before his eyes finally lifted to meet yours. His expression, as always, was carefully neutral—an unreadable mask that kept his thoughts hidden from view. Yet in the soft, steady look he gave you, there was something else, something that wasn’t contained in the lines of his face or the calmness of his voice. It was gratitude—subtle but unmistakable. It was a warmth that lingered in his eyes, a quiet acknowledgment that said more than any words could.

“I appreciate it,” he said, his voice low, carrying an uncharacteristic vulnerability. The words were simple, but they felt like a rare offering from him, a small crack in the armor he wore so effortlessly. Sunday, who usually kept his emotions tucked away in the recesses of his mind, was letting a piece of himself be seen. He took a slow breath, as though trying to ground himself in the newfound realization, considering the offer you'd made with a seriousness that reflected just how much it meant to him.

“I’ll think about it,” he added quietly, his voice softer than usual, but carrying an openness that had been absent before. It wasn’t a promise, not yet—but it was a crack in the door, a willingness to entertain something different, something new. And in that moment, you knew that it wasn’t just the notebook that he was considering. It was the space you had offered him, the chance to let something out that he hadn’t known he needed to. You nodded, your heart settling a little. The connection, small as it was, felt like a shared understanding. Neither of you had to carry the weight alone, even if you both still had a long way to go. You bat the sheets, flipping them over to make room as you clumsily slip under the covers. Sparkles of pink diamonds and yellow stars dust your cheeks. You scoot over a bit, patting the empty space beside you.

"So, Sunday, the night is still young. What other stories do you wish to hear?"

---

The soft hum of the Astral Express reverberated through the still morning air, a gentle reminder of the vastness of space surrounding the train. The faint glow of the sun barely peeked over the horizon, casting the world in muted hues of gold and lavender. Himeko, having long since grown accustomed to the quiet rhythms of the morning, made her way to the kitchen with a peacefulness that seemed to come only at this hour. She savored the calm that hung in the air, as though the world outside was still asleep, cocooned in the early hours before the day fully began. No noise, no urgency, just the steady pulse of the train and the promise of a new day. With each step, the familiar scent of brewed coffee and the faint warmth of the kitchen grew stronger, tugging her further into the solace of the moment. The corridors of the Astral Express, usually bustling with the energy of the crew, now felt like a world apart, as if time had slowed in reverence to the serenity of the morning. It was in moments like this, before the demands of the day began to pile up, that Himeko felt the weight of everything that had happened in the quietest way possible. It was as if the train itself whispered secrets to her in these brief, fleeting moments of solitude. She opens the kitchen door manually, not quite ready to disturb the peaceful atmosphere, only to stumble onto an unexpected sight. You were standing alone in the kitchen, a cup of tea cupped between your hands over the sink in case you accidentally spilled it's contents, staring out the window with an air of quiet contemplation. Himeko couldn't help but notice the way the soft light from the window caught your features, highlighting the tired lines under your eyes, and the subtle shift in your posture. Teal squares just on the ends of your heels, small and insignificant. It's probably the calmest your glitches have ever been since you joined the Express.

"Good morning, is it just us today?" Himeko greeted, her voice gentle but warm as she stepped inside. You startled slightly at the sound of her voice, blinking at her with a mix of surprise. You hadn’t noticed her approach, too wrapped up in your own thoughts.

"Morning," you mumbled, your voice soft yet not quite there, "The twins and March are probably going to sleep in since the Express hasn't reached its destination. Mr. Yang mentioned that he'd be cooped up in his room since he'd had a burst of information for his animation. Dan Heng arrived earlier but slinked off like the lizard he is."

Himeko laughs, your not-so-subtly rivalry with Dan Heng is always amusing. One day she hopes that you and him will get along since your personalities are similar, yet she doesn't think that day will arrive anytime soon.

"And Sunday?" she asked, a quiet concern slipping into her tone. Although it's obvious that she's prodding at the fact you've left their newest member out of your count, your expression remains the same. You didn’t immediately respond, your gaze dropping to your hands, fingers tightening around the warm ceramic of the cup you still held.

"Sunday visited us... last night. It was," you tap your fingers lightly against your cup, the words lingering a moment before you continue, "productive."

Himeko’s soft chuckle fills the space between you, her gaze sharp and knowing as she observes the subtle shift in your posture. The way your fingers tap nervously against your cup, the faint tension in your shoulders—every detail betrays the discomfort you're trying to hide. It’s clear that something has unsettled you, and she doesn’t miss a beat. It seems that Sunday had finally decided to take Caelus’s advice, something Himeko had been quietly anticipating. She’d often wondered how many nights she would hear his pacing echo through the quiet halls, his restless steps a soft but constant reminder of his inner turmoil. It wasn’t until now, after all this time, that he had worked up the courage to knock on your door. As she watches you, a quiet satisfaction lingers in her expression. For someone like Sunday—so reserved, so distant—it was a rare and significant step, and she can’t help but wonder what this moment means for both of you.

"I didn’t know you two had gotten so close," she remarks, her voice light with curiosity, "I always thought Sunday preferred his solitude. Guess you’ve managed to break through that shell of his."

"It’s not like that," you mutter, your words a bit awkward as you try to navigate the conversation. You rub the back of your neck, the heat rising to your face as you glance briefly at Sunday, still unsure how to explain the situation, "Just... paying it forward..."

---

The train was quiet in the dead of night, save for the soft hum of the engines that kept it steady through the stars. The glow of the emergency lights created a muted, warm atmosphere in the corridors, but the calm didn’t last long. A muffled cry cut through the silence, followed by the sound of something hitting the floor. Himeko, ever attuned to the sounds of the Astral Express, immediately snapped awake, sitting up from her chair in the lounge. Her instincts told her where to go. Without hesitation, she stood and moved swiftly down the narrow hallway, her footsteps quiet but determined.

When she reached your door, she paused for a moment. The sounds of distress were unmistakable—night terrors, or something close to them. She gently pushed the door open, finding you curled up in a tangle of blankets, breathing erratically, your body still twitching from the remnants of a nightmare. Himeko’s heart softened. She had seen this before, though not in the same form. Everyone aboard the Astral Express carried their own burdens, but sometimes those burdens took the shape of dreams that could tear through the night. Without a word, she stepped inside and softly sat at the edge of your bed. Her presence was calming, like a tether to reality, something solid in the wake of your fear.

"Hey," she said softly, her voice gentle but laced with a quiet concern, waiting for you to stir. The silence stretched between you both, heavy with the unspoken understanding. When your eyes finally fluttered open, still bleary and clouded with unease, she offered a small, reassuring smile—a quiet balm for the storm inside.

"Nightmares, huh?" she asked, her tone light, but there was no mistaking the empathy in her voice. You blinked up at her, listening intently, your pulse beginning to slow as her calming presence wrapped around you. You nodded slowly, the motion almost automatic as you tried to shake off the lingering remnants of the dream that clung to your mind like shadows. Your breath was still ragged, the echoes of the nightmare pulsing in the back of your skull. Himeko didn’t rush you, her gaze soft but unyielding, the kind that could see through the cracks in even the toughest exterior. She gave you a knowing look, one of those rare expressions that only someone who had seen the weight of the universe could wear—a quiet strength that could fill any silence.

"It’s funny," Himeko said, her voice softening as she leaned back slightly, her eyes distant for a moment, as though recalling something personal, "I found that sometimes, the best way to chase away the nightmares wasn’t by fighting them head-on."

She paused, letting the words linger before she continued, her tone quieter now, as if inviting you into a shared secret, "Instead, I focused on objects. Sounds strange, doesn’t it?"

She let out a light, almost melodic chuckle, the sound warm and comforting, before brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. The gesture was casual, but there was a quiet elegance in the way she carried herself, a kind of understanding that only someone who had seen the weight of the universe could possess, "But honestly, it works. You begin to connect memories to things—simple things. A chair that reminds you of a calm afternoon, a necklace that brings back the feeling of warmth from someone you care about, or even a map that shows the way to a place that feels safe. Objects like that—they become more than just things. They become anchors in the storm. They bring back something good, something peaceful when everything else feels chaotic."

"I have this feather. Although it doesn’t resemble a traditional bird's feather with its pointed tip and flared edges make it stand out, it is a feather nonetheless. The kind of thing you don't question at first glance, but once you hold it, it seems to carry a weight of its own. It used to belong to someone else, someone who, in the quiet moments, always had it with her. She would carry it everywhere, as if it were an extension of herself. Her constant companion and a token of something deeper. But when she was gone, all that remained was her feather. No explanations, no grand gestures—just this simple, delicate thing, left behind like a piece of her that couldn’t be taken away. It’s strange how something so small can carry such weight, but in its quiet presence, it holds memories, echoes of a time now past," she continued, her voice soft yet unwavering, as if the weight of her words could carry the silence between them. Though her conversation remained one-sided, she spoke as if the act of sharing brought a strange kind of comfort, "Whenever the weight of the past begins to creep up on me, I hold it in my hand. To an outsider, it's just a feather, nothing extraordinary—but when I grip it, it’s as if it anchors me, as if it has the power to guide me through the storm. Somehow, it helps me find the peace I need, even if only for a fleeting moment. There are a lot of ways to fight the darkness, you know. Sometimes, it’s about finding what makes you feel grounded. What pulls you back when it all starts spinning out of control."

You let out a shaky breath, nodding slowly as her words sank in, each one settling in the quiet spaces of your mind. Her presence was a balm, softening the tension that had coiled tight within you. The storm inside, once turbulent and overwhelming, seemed to lose its force in the calm of her company. The stillness of the night, which had felt suffocating moments ago, no longer held the same threat. With her there, her voice a steady and unwavering anchor, everything seemed a little less overwhelming, as if the weight of the world could be borne, even if only for a while.

"You’re not alone in this," Himeko added, her smile soft and kind, "We all carry something heavy with us, but we don’t have to carry it alone. And when the nightmares come, don’t be afraid to reach out. We’ll get through it together."

You nodded again, a quiet sigh escaping as a sense of peace began to unfurl in your chest. The nightmare didn’t vanish entirely, but its grip had loosened, its hold no longer suffocating. Himeko’s words, simple yet profound, were like a balm, soothing the lingering traces of your fear. The storm inside you settled, its chaos quieting in the warmth of her presence. Himeko rose to her feet, her movements fluid and graceful, as if she were part of the very calm she had helped create. The soft rustle of her clothes was the only sound as she stood, poised and serene, her quiet strength radiating through the room.

"Get some rest," she said gently, her voice quiet but full of warmth. "Tomorrow is a new day. And if you ever need anything, don’t hesitate to find me, alright?"

With one final smile, Himeko turned and left your room, leaving the door slightly ajar behind her. The quiet comfort of her words lingered in the air, and the night didn’t feel so long anymore.

---

"I never properly thanked you for that night," you say, the words leaving your mouth with a quiet weight, as if they’ve been waiting to be said for far longer than you realized. The moment feels suspended, fragile—an acknowledgment that feels both overdue and somehow vital. Your voice falters slightly, but there’s a tenderness in it, an unspoken appreciation that lingers between the lines. Himeko turns toward you, her gaze softening as she takes in your words. You already know what she's trying to say without having to hear it, she's never needed to hear your thanks because that was never the intention.

"I’m proud of you," she says instead, her voice steady and warm, the sincerity in her tone making the space between you feel more intimate, more real. It makes your hand momentarily glitch, your cup spilling momentarily before your fingers phase back into reality to catch it, "It’s not easy to open up, but you’re doing it. That’s what matters."

The simplicity of her words settles into you like sunlight breaking through clouds. You smile faintly, a quiet flicker of gratitude stirring deep inside, the kind that doesn’t need to be said out loud to be understood. The tension that had been coiled tight in your chest begins to ease, like a storm passing on the horizon. Her words, so gentle yet unyielding in their kindness, carry with them a warmth that softens the sharp edges of your past. The heaviness that had once seemed insurmountable becomes a little less oppressive, as if, for just a moment, you’re allowed to let it all go. A burst of orange circles pop from your cheeks that you hurriedly wave off but those circles, shining brighter under the light, only move to dodge your hands.

"I’m going to leave you to your morning," she says, her tone light but you can hear the underlining of laughter in her words. Her smile is a quiet promise, one that lingers even as she begins to step away, "Just remember, if you ever need anything—anything at all—you don’t have to carry it alone."

Her words settle in the air, offering you an unexpected kind of strength, a quiet reminder that you aren’t as isolated as you sometimes believe. She moves toward the door, her movements fluid and graceful, like a gentle breeze passing through a still room. As the door clicks softly behind her, the sound feels like the closing of one chapter and the quiet beginning of another.

You remain where you are for a moment, your mind still. The warmth of her presence lingers in the room like the afterglow of a setting sun, soft and comforting. The steady hum of the train continues around you, its familiar rhythm filling the silence she left behind, a constant reminder of the world that moves on. It wasn’t much, this exchange—just a few quiet words and a gesture of kindness. But in this moment, it feels like the first true step toward something you hadn’t known you needed: a reminder that you’re not as alone as you sometimes think. The weight of your thoughts, once so suffocating, seems a little lighter, and for the first time in a long while, you allow yourself to simply breathe.

---

Hi, thank you for reading! I kind of went crazy and I hope the alternating switch between past and present made sense. I'll reblog this with further writer notes but I wanted to include the research bits in order of appearance. I can't guarantee the full accuracy but I hope I didn't get anything wrong.

Also: I couldn't explore the full lore of this reader, but if you're interested in knowing more, please reach out towards the original creator: @thezboss

Colours and Shapes

Gray: Neutrality and detachment | Crosses: Balance and reflection

Black: Sadness and Fear | Zigzags: Instability and disruption

Yellow: Happiness and optimism | Stars: Aspiration and guidance

Teal: Calm and clarity | Squares: Stability and straightforwardness

Pink: Compassion and playfulness | Diamonds: Confidence and value

Circles: Unity and Harmony | Orange: Warmth and impulsiveness

Trash Can Keychain

Not an actual trash can keychain, but if you bought a full set of HSR chibi figures, you were gifted an extra figure of a trash can.

Pink Plushie

The plushy that March wanted is the pink happy face that sits on her bed inside her room. It's beside the dog plushie.

Himeko's Feather

The feather Himeko is referring to is Fu Hua's feather. Shout out to my Honkai Impact fans (I've never played the game).

[revelboo]

Oh, almighty and powerful Revelboo! I humbly request more of Clumsy Heart! (Bows to your greatness) I will do anything to serve you, master!! ☆.☆ Thank you for your generosity! We love you!

You guys crack me up sometimes 🤣

Sorry! Should be fixed now. I tend to work on these just idly when I’m bored and I sometimes get distracted doing other things and forget to add the link

Clumsy Heart Pt 7

IDW Soundwave x Reader, Shockwave x Reader

• “The human,” Soundwave says and Shockwave looks down at you. “Why stop me from calming it?” Antennae flicking, Shockwave looks down at where you’re sitting flexing your tiny fingers. And you look up at him as if sensing his stare before you frown up at Soundwave. Knows stopping Soundwave had been illogical, but can’t pin down why it had bothered him. It’s like something right there, just out of reach. Another memory he can’t claim as his own. Of being helpless.

• Venting in frustration when Shockwave’s antenna go back and the scientist doesn’t answer him, Soundwave turns his attention back to you. Something about you had triggered… something. Knows not to get his hopes up, but he needs a distraction from his own turmoil. Hurting and needing to salvage something. Knows he can’t get back his lost cassette, but maybe Shockwave, the real Shockwave, is still in there somewhere. Needs to believe the Shadowplay hadn’t erased all of him. Because if he gets his hopes up and he’s wrong, he’s not sure he can stand it.

• And they’re both staring at you again. Shoulders hunching, you can’t help but feel like a spider trapped under a cup. Waiting to be either freed or flushed down a drain. And you’re pretty sure your life means very little to either of them. “I’m not an it,” you manage, trying to not wilt under the suffocating weight of their attention. “I have a name. A family. A job.” Even if you don’t matter to them, there are people that do care what happens to you. Not sure why you need them to understand that, only that you do. To understand that you do matter.

• Can’t do this- going to notice I’m- look for- stop. Servos on his arms. Peds sliding on the floor as he’s dragged. He’d been yelling. Threatening. Then begging. Screaming? Except the memory is a jagged, disjointed thing. A misstep in his mind. Not his. “Against my will,” he murmurs, the details slipping through his servos. “Afraid?” Shockwave asks and you just blink at him, face scrunching.

• Is Shockwave talking to him or you? His single optic dim and unfocused as the end of his cannon nervously taps on the table and begins sliding toward you to send you scrambling to your feet and retreating. Your fear prickling at him. “You remember something.” Can’t get a hold of the memory in Shockwave’s mind, the sharp, broken edges cutting him when he tries. “Say it.” Give him a clue. If he can get Shockwave to focus, to talk to him, maybe he can remember more. But the scientist is rocking again, the memory gone.

Previous

[suguru-getos]

୨・┈﹕✦﹕ Kinktober Day 27﹕✦﹕┈・୧

-> Event Masterlist

Yandere Hawks x F!Reader -> Ruts

Warnings: Dub!con, filthy dirty talk 😭, prone!bone, dóggy!, squirting, nicknames -> Baby bird, love bird, mentions of breed!ng, cumflation, plugging, overstimulation. Yandere tendencies, threats, wings as a source of threat, kidnapping. Let me know if I missed anything.

Summary: How you latched yourself as Hawks’ little thing after being just an avid fan, now caged and loved (in his own ways) and mated to. <3

You hate the crumbling feeling on your stomach that comes with Keigo's presence, your heart aches, your sanity gets crumpled under his dominant, ruthless gaze that hides oh-so-well behind his suffocating love. Keigo knew the moment he saw you for the first time, sparing your time at a coffee shop in the evening, the same shop he sometimes likes to visit. The coffee there is immaculate, not the 'gutter like' canned coffees he drinks for the hell of it. You were just as enamoured by the rest of the fans, gazing at him, some are nervously asking for his autograph, some of them are asking for selfies. Yet, nothing phases Hawks. It's as if he's made for this. Made to show everyone why he's the Number Two hero. You could almost swear it gave you strength and guts to ask yourself, so you get up from your place, walking towards him with that unhinged confidence, mingled with a hint of nervousness because of just how much you adored him as you urged him for a selfie. Mostly, Hawks takes respectful selfies with women, distancing himself just enough not to look probing, yet close enough to look friendly. Yet, she selfie you clicked with him didn't turn out to look so planned, so thought out. It almost seemed like Hawks wanted the momento you carried to have an imprinting significance.

Then, it was as if fate was responsible for what comes next, or that's something stupid you'd leave your old self to believe. Hawks saved you from harassing villains, taking you home couped up in his lap. Why wouldn't you ask him to come inside, why wouldn't you offer him a drink?

Now you're just a kidnapped nobody, your family thinks you're dead, your friends think you're dead, Keigo made sure of that. You see- he could easily date you, but patience is not something he harbours so perfectly. He could earn your love, by being the doting boyfriend, by being everything you'd ever want.

Then again, he can do that once he has the surety of you being couped up in his house. That's exactly what he did.

"Come on Baby bird, I am trying to be nice." He coos softly, watching you scream and cry and beg, it breaks his heart why don't you understand.

"Maybe I can write my name on your hand?" He holds up his feather blade, it's half threat, half unhinged devotion. "Promise you won't feel a thing!"

"Hey I got you, your absolute favourite food lovebird, come here." He croons, urging you against your will to settle in his lap as he feeds you.

He is tolerant, even tempered, hopelessly funny until you piss him off. You know better than to piss him off after being with him for a few months now. You can't even recognize him when that happens, rageful daunting echoing through the walls as his flowy feathers encircle your body like a threat, Hawks is a threat. You mustn't forget that.

He thinks sex can solve it all, what more than to make love to his mate, to get intimate and make you take his ridged member in your hole over and over until it slides in without your squirms and moans. He can tie you up if you do though, no disturbances please-

You haven't seen the real, gruesome, cruel self of Hawks yet. You will soon, his rut is approaching. The symptoms are clear to him, and weirdly to you as well. He has discussed this several times during the 'aftercare' of you. "You know, there are certain times when.." his thumb rubbing your palm soothingly, "When the avian side of me becomes dominant…" He says it so softly you'd almost feel it's harmless.

Not right now though, when it's actually impending and happening.

"Baby bird, did you fucking put your clothes in laundry?" Keigo yelled from the washroom, the restroom's echo making him sound even more terrific than he usually is. You visibly flinch like a dried leaf, shuddering, "Sorry- Kei I- uhm, sorry they were dirty." You don't know the reason of this outburst, you'd rather not find out.

You give yourself strength to drag your defiant feet towards the rest room, finding him pathetically curled up on the left-over set of your used clothes. He looks almost cute if it weren't for his intentions.

"God I- I want you so fucking bad." He almost whimpers, soon turning into an aggressive growl.

"On the fucking bed, all fours." You shake up at the sudden order, were you being punished for something like this? Keigo's crazy but he's not this- off his clock. "Why? What- what did I do wrong?" You bite your lip, one feeble attempt to want to know what you're up against.

Hawks sighs, his expressive wings faltering as he took two steps towards you, wanting to lessen the distance. You wanted to run so bad, the instinct in you screaming to run, yet the panic in you freezing you up.

"Nothing, pretty girl. Told you I got my rut approaching, didn't I?" Hawks is slightly tender, though from the way he's straining himself to be polite, you know not for long. "On the bed. All. Fours." He gripped your face with a single hand, puckering your lips and leaning in, forcing a painful whimper with the way he kisses you roughly.

"Good girl." He parts away, the string of saliva parting like a thread of fate.

You don't want to make this hard on yourself, so you walk towards the shared master bedroom, it's designed in colours which are neutral, yet suit perfectly to the Hawks palette. As his fan, or ex-fan, rather, you always thought of how his aesthetic would be, and it perfectly matches your imaginations.

To please him a little more, you take off your clothes, arching your back up perfectly to let him see your pre-abused cunt, sitting perfectly down your tightened asshole. You bury your head on the mattress, letting it be cushioned in the fluffy pillows.

An audible hiss escapes Hawks, he can't fucking control the lewd desires that tear him apart when he marvels at your body. "These next few days, would be tough, Angel." Keigo warns, and before your brain could register, or formulate a response, You feel Keigo spitting onto your cunt, the dribble of the liquid making you throb, moistening your walls as his fingers pinched at your clit. A small whimper escapes you when you find your sensitive bundle of nerves under his mercy. "Aw, little slut loves a little pain with it." Keigo snickers under his breath, spanking the fat of your ass hard, one single hit shoving you into the mattress more, though the hold on your clit forbids you to. It feels like a clamp being pulled, you're left with nothing more than a scream as a response.

"Oh good girl, sing for me." Hawks hums, spreading your ass cheeks and watching your now relieved clit twitch, along with your walls. "This pussy begging for me?" He warns, and you nodded as if there's no other answer you can give him.

"Going to fill you up, breed my little mate until she can't take it anymore. Give you so many loads your pussy can't have any other option but to give me a little Keigo, or a little Y/N." He groans to himself, taking his hardened cock out, shoving it deep into your walls, in one swift go. You can cum as many times as you want really, because normally, Keigo's stamina covers up for it, this time- worse. He's rutting like an animal, achy, needy, all for you.

"Then- you know what I'll do?" Hawks breathes out, gritting his teeth as you scream in pain, laced with the perfect amount of pleasure.

"Then, I'll plug this pretty pussy up, none of my cum can escape. Then when I want to, I'd unplug and fill you up again. Little cum jar." He laughs, "My pathetic little cum dump, aren't you?"

Hawks is filthy, absolutely unhinged and filthy with the way dirty talk laced with degradation spouts out from him.

You nodded, hating the way your body betrays you at his words, the way your cunt clamps onto him in a silent affirmation.

"Good (thrust) girl (thrust), gonna (thrust) fill'ya (thrust) up."

Your moans and whimpers echo throughout the shared bedroom, it feels almost sinful, the way his dick kisses your cervix, brushing against your G-spot and making you dance around the waves of pleasure. "So fuckin' tight even though I fuck your pussy up almost err'day." Keigo leans his head back, praising you as he rails onto you, one to two thrusts every second, hands gripping your waist with a bruising grip so you can't possibly run away. "Atta girl" He loves how your moans break into a jerk with the way he's thrusting. Loving the way your petite body tries to clamp up around him, loving the way you try to keep up.

"Aw she's clenching, yeah? Go on, massage my cock and cum. NOW." Keigo commands, an order which would come intertwined with punishments if you don't listen. You croak out, as you orgasm, the constant poking of your G-Spot makes you remember the familiar sensation when you squirted last time, it's so embarrassing, how you gush out at the roughness, and you find yourself doing exactly that. "Aw yes baby, yeah baby," Keigo encouraged, riding out your high as he thrusted his own load, deep into you, still continuing, the same pace, no break.

"Ngh- Ah- please- no. You- I can't." You can feel yourself squeeze down, pathetically so as another orgasm builds to betray your words.

"No no no, where'dya think you're doing Baby bird?" Keigo chuckles, laughing at your feeble attempt to run away, loving how your legs give out.

"Hmm? Want Prone bone? Oof, nasty little song bird." Keigo commented, adjusting your legs, using your tiredness to his advantage as his pelvis slaps your ass with the aggressive way his cock thrusts into you. It's akin to an actual spanking, and you tip off the edge of your delicious orgasm once more. Gritting teeth at the overpowering waves of pleasure. "Gah- can't-"

Your whimpers are paid no heed, another sticky load from Keigo creaming inside you. "That's two, got a lot more in me." Keigo warns, while you feel dizzy at the shaking way your body is being used.

He stops a little though, wanting to give you just a few more minutes before you can start giving him orgasms again, his beautiful little cock massager.

Keigo loves it, how giving you a break makes you slightly reset to be used again.

"Say you love me." He croons, almost sounding like a hurt child, though you know that persona would quickly change.

"I love you." He makes you say it so many times your own definition of the term 'love' is slightly going hazy, not accustomed to your own terms and blurring out with his.

"Gonna make you turn on your back now Little one." Keigo coos, watching you tenderly and moving again.

Oh it was going to be a long night for Hawks' mate. You only hope you'd be able to bear him on you, just as he hopes of you loving him as much as he does.

[welikeimagines-andfandoms]

Accidental Confession- Thorin x Reader

Summary: Thorin overhears you confess your feelings about him to his nephews

Word count: 1, 478

Mixing yourself, two dwarf princes and a full barrel of mead was bound to create some chaos. Honestly after an hour of drinking with them you’re surprised that the worst thing you’d done was a failed handstand and a terrible improvised song. Unfortunately however things were going too smooth for too long, and your luck of only slightly embarrassing yourself was running out.

You and the princes were sat in the woods outside of Erebor, all three of you needing an escape from castle that could sometimes feel suffocating. Though you were only visiting your friends, you could tell they needed a break from their uncle, especially Fili as he was next in line and his list of duties were piling up every day. Needing the biggest break out of all three of you, it was no wonder that the embarrassing question came from him.

“Y/N, I have a question.” The blonde dwarf asked, sat upon a rock with a cheeky smile on his face.

“Well fortunately for you, Fili dear, I might just have the answer.” You reply with a cheeky smile of your own as Kili refills your cup.

“Why do you dislike our uncle?” Came Filis oddly sobering question.

This question caused even Kilis face to become serious as both princes stared at you. Although their faces were filled with worry, you couldn’t help the girlish grin that came to your face. At seeing your grin, both princes grew matching grins of their own.

“I don’t dislike your uncle.” You answer, trying hard and failing to hide your smirk.

“Oh really? When he speaks you seem to always walk away and just last night he asked you to dance and you denied him.” Kili now interrogates, a quizzical smile growing on his face.

“It’s not because I don’t like him.” You try to defend yourself sheepishly.

“Is it because you do like him then?” Fili asked you smirking.

“No! Maybe… Look it’s not fair! When he talks that dwarf language…”

“Khuzdul.” Kili quickly corrects.

“Yeh! It’s just really hot… I know he’s your uncle but it’s so hot! And and! The dancing! If I dance with your uncle my tits would be in his face! Which if that happened I’d get so turned on I’d die.” You confessed to your friends, babbling foolishly.

Fili and Kili exchange a look at hearing your confession, before promptly bursting out in laughter. Their laughter so loud that you’re sure people in Erebor could hear it.

“It’s not funny!” You half-laugh and half-shout, trying hard to stay serious and defend yourself, but unfortunately failing.

It wasn’t long until you too joined their laughter, all three of your laughs sounding loudly through the forest.

If any of you had been sober, you might have realised that such laughter had drawn the king under the mountain himself to find your little hiding spot. Seeing you all so intoxicated and in the forest he had half a mind to storm over and tell you all off, but was abruptly stopped at the conversation at hand.

“You should tell uncle how you feel!” Kili announced excitedly.

“No!” You shout.

“Why not?!” Both of your friends seemed to yell in unison.

“Oh yeh what would I say? ‘Hey Thorin, I know you’re the super duper important and serious king, but I think your voice is really sexy and the reason I don’t dance with you is because if your face was in my tits I’d get so horny I’d die! Also you’re really sweet to me and I’d like to hold your hand and bake you nice things and maybe kiss you a little’…” Your confession suddenly turning more sweet and serious.

Realising just how you felt about Thorin, your head fell as you played with your fingers, suddenly feeling very vulnerable and embarrassed.

“Maybe we should head back. It’s getting cold and I think it’s time we all went to bed. We’ll get you something nice to eat and some nice warm furs.” Fili suggests as he takes your hand, knowing your confession was a lot more than just a silly girl being attracted to their uncle.

As both boys held your hand to help you walk, Thorin hid himself behind a tree, not wanting to be noticed. Though he hid, he couldn’t help but stare at you as you left with his nephews. Knowing his feelings were reciprocated suddenly filled him with both relief and fear.

*****

You were surprised to wake up the next morning with only a mild hangover after your night of drinking with your friends. Getting dressed you decided it was a day for comfortable clothes, topped with a big warm cardigan knitted for you by Ori.

As you went to leave your room in search of food you literally ran into the last person you expected.

“Oh! Hello Thorin.” You sheepishly greeted him, slightly stepping back into your room.

“Good morning, y/n. How did you sleep?”

“Fine, thank you. Is there something I can help you with, Thorin?” You nervously ask him, trying hard to keep eye contact with him as you wrap the cardigan around yourself.

“Yes, um- may- may I come in? I’d like to speak with you in private.” He asked as his voice suddenly became more serious.

“Ye-yes, sorry, um, come in.” You anxiously step aside and quickly pull out a chair from your vanity for him to sit on while you sit on the edge of your bed.

Thorin manoeuvres the chair to sit directly in front of you, your knees barely grazing each other. Looking from your hands, to your barely touching knees and into his beautiful blue eyes, your gaze quickly falls back to your hands.

“I-I need to speak with you about last night.” Thorin stutters out.

Looking back into his eyes, you meet him with a quizzical look. The king under the mountain is never nervous and you had not spoken with him at all last night.

“I-I heard what you said to Kili and Fili last night.” He confesses.

Suddenly your eyes go wide as realisation hits you. At hearing this, your blood turns cold, both fear and embarrassment filling both your body and your face.

“Oh no.” You quietly mumble as you anxiously hide your face in your hands.

You were mortified and scrabbling your brain to think of anything to get him away, so you could wallow in shame and embarrassment alone. However before you could think of the words to save you, you felt large warm hands around yours, as Thorin pulled them away from your face.

“Please do not hide from me.” He gently soothes you, as his thumb runs across your fingers.

Your head shoots up at his comforting touch and words. Your eyes filled with panic, dart between your now joined hands and his kind eyes. Trying to look for pity in them but you did not find it.

“This was not how I had imagined telling you this but I suppose after last night I could not ignore my feelings anymore. Y/N, I care for you so deeply and think you are the most gorgeous woman I have ever seen in my many years. I feared you would not feel the same as I am not of the race of man and am quite older than you, but from what I heard last night I’m guessing the feeling is some what mutual.” He smiles as he gazes lovingly into your eyes.

You were stuck, too many emotions holding you in place. Confusion, fear, embarrassment and maybe a little bit of love forcing you still and your eyes to never leave Thorins.

“Amrâlimê?” Thorin speaks, worry now in his eyes as he places his large warm hand on your cheek.

You can’t help but close your eyes and hum at the feel of his skin finally against yours. Placing your hand over his, you rub your face further into his hand.

“I suppose you were right about your reaction to me speaking in my native tongue.” Thorin teases you as his face comes closer to yours.

Your eyes fling open as you realise he truly did hear everything you said. Letting out a defiant chuckle, you decide to show him just how much you meant the words you said last night. Grabbing a hold of his coat with both hands, you forcefully pull him into you, as you press your lips passionately against his own.

Thorin moaned into your mouth as your hands desperately pulled at his hair and his squeezed at your hips. You couldn’t get enough of each others touch as you both pulled the other closer.

Finally breaking away, your foreheads rested against each other as you stared into each others eyes.

“Maybe we should try the dancing next.” Thorin teased you with a smirk and a wink.

[deadsnakey]

𝐁𝐄𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐎𝐃𝐎𝐑𝐄 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐓'𝐒 𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐓𝐋𝐄 𝐒𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐈𝐍 𝐇𝐎𝐆𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐒

𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐑𝐄 ——> 𝐅𝐋𝐔𝐅𝐅

𝐁𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚 𝐬𝐥𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧 𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐨𝐥𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐛𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐬𝐧𝐭 𝐚𝐥𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐛𝐚𝐝, 𝐞𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐬𝐥𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧 𝐛𝐨𝐝𝐲𝐠𝐮𝐚𝐫𝐝𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐢𝐭 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐢𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐨𝐨 𝐦𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐨𝐟 𝐚 𝐛𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫, 𝐦𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐥𝐲.

₊˚ ‿︵‿︵‿︵୨୧ · · ♡ · · ୨୧‿︵‿︵‿︵ ˚₊

₊˚ ୨୧ honestly, Theodore was so happy and proud when you got picked Slytherin by the hat

₊˚ ୨୧ he would've still been happy for you because you're his little sister and he'd be proud regardless of you got another house.

₊˚ ୨୧ but, he won't have to worry about not being able to be there for you when you need it most or if someone is picking on you, etc

₊˚ ୨୧ once his friends found out you're his sister, let alone had one to begin with, they instantly took you under their wing

₊˚ ୨୧ you now have six older brothers and one older sister (pansy).

₊˚ ୨୧ pansy definitely loves doing stuff with you, many sleepovers together

₊˚ ୨୧ I like to also think once you get a bit older maybe 14 or so you also become a huge shit talker from being around them so much, specifically Mattheo and Theo. (You three prob hung out a lot since Matty n him r really close.)

₊˚ ୨୧ he's very overprotective of you, it's sometimes suffocating but you know he just cares and worries about you.

₊˚ ୨୧ if he can't be there to help you or protect you or even watch over you, he'll have one or more of your other brothers to instead, he knows he can trust them.

₊˚ ୨୧ will gladly help you with your studies or homework even if he doesn't study himself. He knows there's some subjects you're not too great at.

₊˚ ୨୧ rather you're a Slytherin or not, he somehow finds a way to check up on you real quick. Always.

₊˚ ୨୧ "hey, wsp kid?" Bruh he's not even in this class??? Or worse when he sends Mattheo or sum to find and check up on you.

₊˚ ୨୧ "hey! Everything alright?" "Yeah? Why?" "Oh, just your brother, sent me here to check on you. See you around, kid!" And ruffles your hair before leaving.

₊˚ ୨୧ yeah, all his friends refer to you as kid, including Theo himself.

₊˚ ୨୧ refuses to let you date any of his friends, though if it came down to it he wouldn't be too mad since he knows them already, yk?

₊˚ ୨୧ draco is always there to snap back at anyone who's rude to you, it's like his sixth sense he just knows when youre in danger dude it's crazy. Defends you the most, corrects you in private.

₊˚ ୨୧ Blaise is pretty cool, y'all just chill, paints and listen to music, small talk here and there. It's just something to do to relax.

₊˚ ୨୧ Mattheo probably gets in the most trouble with you and mischief but will always take the blame if something genuinely bad does happen or if Theo finds out. Y'all are also really close, BSF!!

₊˚ ୨୧ pansy is like an older sister and will always be there when you need her, very funny n nice too.

₊˚ ୨୧ Lorenzo is pretty nice to you as well ofc, he makes sure you're taking care of yourself and check in on you often because he cares about you, he sees you as a cute little sister and just feels this overwhelming sense of protecting you. Brotherly instinct.

[p0orbaby]

Sinners | Wrath

summary: things get worse before they get better

warnings: SMUT 18+, dom!reader, abit agro ngl

a/n: the penultimate chapter

word count: 2.3k

Lust | Gluttony | Envy | Sloth | Greed | Pride

-

Leah barely gets the door closed behind her before you’re at her neck. The click of the latch is still echoing through the hallway when you grab her by the collar of her blazer and push her back against the wall. Hard.

“What the fuck was that?” Your voice is low, trembling with the anger you’ve barely been holding in.

Leah blinks, her surprise morphing quickly into something more guarded. “What are you talking about?”

“You know exactly what I’m talking about,” you snap, your hands tightening on her shirt. The adrenaline’s still pumping through your veins, making it hard to control the volume of your voice, the sharpness of your words. “Don’t play dumb with me, Leah”

She clenches her jaw, eyes narrowing. “I don’t have time for this”

“Oh, you’re going to make time.” Your tone leaves no room for argument. You can feel the heat radiating off her body, the tension between you like a live wire. She knows better than to push you when you’re like this, but she does it anyway, because she’s Leah, and she’s stubborn as hell.

“Why don’t you just say what you want to say?” she bites out, her own anger starting to surface. “Instead of acting like a fucking psycho”

That word. That fucking word. It’s the last straw. You don’t even think—just react. Your hand flies out, landing with a sharp crack across her cheek. The sound hangs in the air, and for a split second, everything goes still. Silent.

Leah turns her head back slowly, her cheek already reddening, eyes darkening with something dangerous. “You’re going to regret that”

“Maybe I will.” Your voice is steadier now, quieter, but no less intense. You’re vibrating with the need to lash out, to keep pushing until something—anything—breaks.

Leah’s eyes flick over your face, assessing, before she makes her move. She grabs your wrist in a bruising grip and twists it behind your back, forcing you to spin and slam face-first into the wall. You gasp at the impact, but it only fans the flames inside you.

“Let go of me,” you hiss, struggling against her hold, but she’s stronger, has always been stronger. It’s one of the things that drives you crazy about her.

“Not until you calm the fuck down,” she snarls, pressing her body against yours to keep you pinned. “Jesus, what’s gotten into you?”

“Let go,” you repeat, but there’s less fight in your voice now, more of something else. Something dangerous and consuming. You’re not even sure what it is, but it’s clawing its way up your throat, demanding to be let out.

Leah must sense the shift because her grip loosens slightly, just enough for you to twist around and face her. You’re both breathing hard, eyes locked in a battle of wills. The tension is suffocating, the space between you crackling with barely restrained fury.

“You want to hit me again?” she taunts, leaning in closer, her breath hot against your lips. “Go ahead. See what happens”

You don’t. Not because you don’t want to, but because there’s something else you want more. Something that’s been simmering beneath the surface all night, buried under your anger, but now it’s boiling over, impossible to ignore.

“Fuck you,” you whisper, but there’s no heat in the words, just raw, aching need.

Leah’s eyes flicker with something dark, something predatory. “No. Fuck you”

Then she’s kissing you, hard and bruising, her teeth scraping against your lips, her tongue forcing its way into your mouth. It’s not gentle or sweet or any of the things you sometimes crave from her. It’s violent and messy and everything you need right now.

You kiss her back with equal ferocity, your hands clawing at her jacket, yanking it down her arms, tossing it aside without care. She’s doing the same, tearing at your clothes with a desperate urgency, both of you needing to strip away the layers that separate you, as if it’ll bring you closer to whatever it is you’re both chasing. The anger is still there, simmering just beneath the surface, but it’s tangled up with something else—something primal and electric that makes your skin tingle and your breath come in ragged gasps.

Leah’s hands are on you, rough and possessive, like she’s trying to leave marks on your skin, a physical reminder of this moment. She bites down on your lip, hard enough to draw a sharp gasp from you, but it only fuels the fire inside you. You bite back, digging your nails into her back, leaving crescent moons in her flesh.

You stumble backward, pulling her with you, until the sharp edge of the kitchen island digs into your spine. She’s on top of you in an instant, pinning you down with her body, her hand wrapping around your throat—not tight enough to hurt, but enough to make your pulse race.

“Is this what you wanted?” she growls, her voice low and dangerous as she stares down at you, eyes blazing. “To push me until I snapped?”

You don’t answer, can’t answer. All you can do is stare back at her, defiant and desperate, your breath hitching in your throat. You can feel the tension in her grip, the way her fingers tremble just slightly against your skin, betraying the intensity of her own emotions.

“Say something,” Leah demands, her grip tightening just enough to make you gasp, your hands flying to her wrist to hold on, though whether to push her away or pull her closer, you don’t know.

“What do you want me to say?” you manage to choke out, your voice hoarse with the effort.

“I want you to admit it,” she says, leaning down so her lips are inches from yours. “Admit that you’re being stupid”

You glare at her, the stubborn part of you refusing to give her the satisfaction. “Fuck you”

Leah’s eyes narrow, and for a moment, you think she’s going to lose it completely. But then she smiles—a slow, dangerous smile that sends a shiver down your spine. “Have it your way”

Her grip on your throat loosens, and instead of pressing further, she pulls back slightly, studying your face with an intensity that makes your skin prickle. For a moment, you think she’s going to keep pushing, but then something in her gaze shifts. The defiance in your eyes seems to reach her, and she sighs, a deep, resigned breath.

“Fine,” she mutters, almost to herself.

She releases you entirely and takes a step back, giving you space you don’t want, her hands held up in a gesture of surrender. It’s the last thing you expect, and it throws you off balance, your fury momentarily disarmed by her willingness to let you take the lead.

“You want to be angry?” she says, her voice low and even, but there’s a challenge in it, too. “Then be angry. Take it out on me”

You stare at her, your breath coming in hard bursts, your hands still trembling with the adrenaline that’s coursing through you. You don’t know what to do with it, all that pent-up rage and frustration. You don’t know how to direct it, how to let it out without breaking something—or someone.

Leah seems to understand the turmoil in your eyes because she reaches out, her hand coming up to brush against your cheek. “Come on,” she murmurs, her voice softening, though it still holds that edge. “Let it out. I can take it”

It’s like she’s offering herself up to your anger, giving you permission to unleash it in a way that feels almost sacred, like a release you didn’t know you needed. And for some reason, that makes the anger twist into something else, something raw and painful that sits heavy in your chest.

But you don’t want to cry. You don’t want to be vulnerable right now. So instead, you grab Leah by the shoulders and push her to her knees, taking control. She lets you, her body pliant beneath your palms, her eyes watching you with curiosity and something darker, something almost like honour.

“Is this what you want?” you demand, your voice shaking with the effort to keep it steady as you stand over her, your hands on her chest, pinning her down the way she pinned you.

She doesn’t answer right away, just looks up at you with a calmness that infuriates you all over again. “It’s not about what I want,” she says finally. “It’s about what you need”

You hate that she’s right. You hate that she knows you so well, knows how to get under your skin, how to push all the right buttons. But more than that, you hate that she’s offering herself up like this, like she’s some kind of martyr for your rage.

“Don’t,” you warn, your voice thick with emotion you can’t quite name.

“Don’t what?” she challenges, her eyes daring you to follow through.

“Don’t act like you’re doing me a favour,” you hiss, leaning down so your face is inches from hers. “Don’t act like you’re some fucking saint”

“I’m not,” Leah says, her voice low, but there’s an intensity in it that makes your stomach clench. “I’m just trying to help”

And with that, something snaps inside you. You kneel down and kiss her, hard and demanding, your teeth scraping against her lips as you pour all your anger, all your frustration into the kiss. Leah kisses you back with just as much fervor, her hands gripping your waist, pulling you closer, encouraging you to take what you need from her.

You break the kiss and straighten back up, your hands shaking as you pull off her shirt and then your own. The cool air hits your skin, but it does nothing to cool the heat that’s radiating off both of you. Leah’s eyes are dark and hungry as she watches you, her chest rising and falling rapidly with her quickening breath.

You don’t waste time, don’t give yourself a chance to think. You reach down, tugging her trousers off with rough, jerky movements, your hands clumsy in your haste. Leah lifts her hips to help you, and then she’s lying there beneath you on the floor, naked and open, her eyes locked on yours.

You want to tear into her, to unleash all the anger and frustration you’ve been holding in, but as you look down at her, something stops you. Maybe it’s the way she’s looking at you, like she’s daring you to go through with it, but also like she’s giving you a choice. You realise that she’s offering you control, letting you decide how this plays out.

And that’s when you realise what you really want. It’s not to hurt her—it’s to make her feel what you’re feeling, to make her understand just how deep this runs.

You reach down between her legs, your fingers sliding against her wetness, and Leah gasps, her hips arching up to meet your touch. But you don’t give her what she wants right away. Instead, you keep your touch light, teasing, drawing out the tension until she’s writhing beneath you, her breaths coming in short, sharp bursts.

“Is this what you wanted?” you ask, your voice low and dangerous as you watch her squirm.

“Fuck,” Leah breathes, her head falling back against the couch cushions. “Yes. Just—please”

Her plea sends a thrill through you, but you don’t give in just yet. Instead, you lean down and kiss her neck, your teeth grazing her skin, leaving marks as you make your way down to her chest. You bite down on one of her nipples, just hard enough to make her cry out, and then soothe the sting with your tongue.

You keep teasing her, bringing her to the edge and then pulling back, until she’s trembling with need, her hands clutching at your arms, her nails digging into your skin. You can see the frustration building in her eyes, the way her jaw tightens, the way her breath hitches every time you pull back just as she’s about to come.

“Please,” she gasps again, her voice breaking, and there’s something in it that makes your heart clench.

You finally give in, sliding two fingers inside her and curling them just right, hitting that spot that makes her back arch off the couch. Leah’s breath catches, her eyes squeezing shut as you start to move, slow and steady, building the pressure until she’s gasping for air.

You lean down and kiss her again, softer this time, but still with that edge of desperation, that need to feel connected even as you pour all your anger and frustration into her. She kisses you back just as fiercely, her hands sliding up to tangle in your hair, holding you close.

When she finally comes, it’s with a sharp cry that echoes through the room, her body shaking with the force of it. You keep moving, drawing out her pleasure until she’s completely spent, her breath coming in ragged gasps.

You pull back and look down at her, her face flushed, her chest heaving, her eyes glazed over with the afterglow. You’re still breathing hard yourself, but the anger has ebbed away, leaving you feeling drained, empty.

Leah reaches up and cups your face in her hands, pulling you down for a gentle kiss, her lips soft and reassuring against yours. When she pulls back, she looks at you with an expression you can’t quite read, something soft and tender that makes your heart ache.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, the words slipping out before you can stop them. You didn’t mean to say it, didn’t want to admit that you’d been wrong, but now that it’s out there, you can’t take it back.

Leah smiles faintly, her thumbs brushing against your cheeks. “It’s okay,” she murmurs, her voice soft. “You don’t have to be sorry. Just… talk to me next time, yeah?”

You nod, swallowing hard against the lump in your throat. You know she’s right, but you’re not ready to say anything else just yet. So instead, you curl up against her, resting your head on her chest, listening to the steady beat of her heart as she wraps her arms around you, holding you close.

For now, this is enough.

[bumblebeesfromvenus]

Here are some Austrian specific quirks I think König would have <3

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ────── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

(PSA; I'm German, but I figured I could put down the most general quirks that we have, which I think would also apply to Austrians :) )

♡ he HATES fans and air conditioning. Like I'm talking disdain from the deepest pits of hell kinda hate.

Ceiling fans and AC are not a thing here, and literally every German looks at it with a very disapproving look if there happens to be one somewhere.

König absolutely refuses to sleep with the fan or AC on, just open a window, Liebling!

He's so upset that he can't put the window "auf kipp" :( (pls Google it, it's so hard to explain lol) like he's crushed that he can't keep the windows "auf kipp" all day.

You have a ceiling fan? Nope, not anymore. That thing is getting taken down the minute you move in together. But if you insist on keeping it, he'll secretly cut the cable to the switch.

Everyone knows all they do is whirl around dust and make you sick! He's not having it.

König acts like artificial ventilation is his worst enemy (I agree with him) and he'd rather suffocate than turn on the goddamn AC.

♡ Sundays are strictly lazy/rest days. Nothing's open on Sundays here, so we're forced to relax and not run around like headless chickens trying to get things done.

He's absolutely baffled if you have plans to go somewhere on a Sunday. What do you mean you need to run errands? What do you mean you're going out? And if you want him to come along?? Yeah, no.

His brain stops working. After the many years he's been alive, not once has he gone somewhere on a Sunday that wasn't his Oma's house for Kaffee und Kuchen.

You're not going anywhere. Plans are canceled, and you better spend the day on the couch with him.

♡ König probably misses all the beautiful old architecture Vienna has to offer. You don't quite appreciate it as much when it's just there all the time, but now he wishes he could quietly people watch in the city center :(

In my mind he's a bit of a history nerd, so he probably frequented museums and castles, admiring the delicately sculpted ceilings and wondering how people lived back then.

He'd be most fascinated by the masonry work done on the outside of most buildings. I mean, that's stone, but it's so smooth and carefully crafted.

♡ there are some very weird sayings in German that you just can't translate because they don't make sense. König is sick of having to awkwardly try to explain what they mean after he's been caught muttering one under his breath, only to realize halfway through that he looks like a maniac.

German is a very literal language, and I think he misses speaking it. We have very specific words for some things and he probably struggles to talk in English sometimes purely because the words he wants to use just don't exist.

(I'm very upset they didn't give him an Austrian accent bc it's one of my favorites, but I can also confidently say that I think he wouldn't be taken seriously at all if he had one lmao)

♡ König goes on random ass walks sometimes. Where's he going? On a walk. No, like where is he going? HE'S GOING ON A WALK.

There's no destination, you just walk. No matter the weather. Ya walk until you feel like you've walked enough. (A very German experience and I hate it)

♡ dreams of his Oma's Kaiserschmarn (me too, König, me too.)

It's basically a giant pancake that you tear into little pieces (traditionally, it has raisins too, I think) and you eat with either cinnamon sugar or applesauce (or both) and you will drift up to heaven.

It's warm, it's fluffy, it's sweet;

It's perfect for a gloomy Friday afternoon spent with his Oma and Opa 🥺

(Can you tell that I'm projecting)

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ────── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

"Auf kipp" is a very specific window position where only the bottom two hinges stay attached so you can tilt the window towards you and a little crack is open so you can always have fresh air!

"Oma und Opa" grandma and grandpa, which he loves so much, undoubtedly.

"Kaffe und Kuchen" basically tea time. You get together and eat cake and have coffee! Mostly on the weekends :)

"Kaiserschmarn" what dreams are made of.

🩷

[remember-to-be-gentle]

Inspired by this tumblr post by @hawnks 

Subject: JJK, Satoru Gojo

Title: Hate Me Tomorrow (Omega!Gojo x GN Alpha!Reader)

Trigger Warning: Dub con, omega verse, scenting, size difference, biting/marking, obsessive/toxic behavior, self-hatred, knotting, knot riding, begging, heat/mating cycles, grinding 

The sweet, musky scent of Gojo's cologne and sweat enveloped you. Even the giant stuffed beta fish you were snuggling had no scent but his. His pillow fort was surprisingly spacious, granted, Gojo was nearly twice your size so there was a lot of him to fit. But being in here with him was nearly suffocating, and not just because of the light whiffs of omega scent rolling off of him or because he'd practically ripped off your jacket to snuggle into. 

He'd called you suddenly, saying that he needed to spend time with someone. It made sense. Geto just died and there were only so many people who were willing to pick up the phone for Gojo, and even fewer he'd actually call. Especially when it was a secret he was an omega, pretending to be an alpha and you were an alpha pretending to be a beta. 

The two of you were decent friends, hanging out after teaching at Jujutsu Tech for a drink or a quick round of gossip. He was one of the few people who knew you were an alpha and he an omega, an unusual kinship formed but it was never anything more. More importantly, you knew about his relationship with Geto. You couldn't say no. 

Which was why your thigh was snug against his, smartphone balanced on your knee, his favorite plushie shoved into your arms. His head on your shoulder breathes fast but not uneven. It seemed like he was trying not to cry. Poor guy. The winter fashion review didn't seem to be helping him calm down at all. Nor any work gossip. You wanted to stay and help, but it was getting late. If he really wanted to, he could just pin you down, sometimes that thought scared you.

Gojo curled onto his side, struggling closer to you, your jacket wrapped in his hands like a security blanket. 

It felt wrong to leave, but you needed to take care of yourself, too. "Hey, bud, I need to get going. Are you going to be alright by yourself?" 

Gojo buried his face in your neck, silent. He leaned his weight into you, just enough to make it clear he didn't want to be alone. 

Fuck. "I'm sorry. I'll come first thing tomorrow. We'll call out from work and go to the city or--" 

His teeth scraped your neck. Possessive, dominant. Alpha behavior. Before you knew what was happening, he was ripping off your scent suppressor, inhaling like he hadn't been breathing for hours. Alpha pheromones leaked from your skin, invading your nose. "Gojo?" 

Your stomach turned as your instincts awakened, the need to comfort an omega struggling with your own needs for autonomy. Your fingers dug into the beta fish plushie, filled with his scent. 

He reached for his own scent blocker and you suddenly realized what was going on. With his neck practically right under your nose, his omega scent was free. And not just that, he was going into heat. The pillow fort was a nest and this was a trap. Gojo was primed to breed and he was going to use you to fuck away his pain. "This isn't healthy, Gojo, listen to me!" 

But his patch was already off and the omega scent of him in your lungs, filling you, lighting every nerve on fire. Your cock swelled under your clothes, reacting to his breedable scent with vigor. 

Gently, Gojo took the plush and pushed you onto your back, yanking off his pants as his pale face filled with color. His bandages were already slipping, the iridescent shine of his six eyes laser-focused on the swelling at your crotch. He crawled on top of you, already tugging off his shirt. "Just for today, please." He panted, his thin but muscular chest heaving as if just sitting here breathing was a near-impossible task. 

His weight lowered onto your cock and you gasped, feeling his wetness through your clothes. His heat was so pleasant, feverish but warm, empty, and yearning. Blood pulsed lower and you gulped. 

Slowly, Gojo rocked back and forth, moaning loudly each time your shaft met his clit. His back arched, nipples swollen and pink, and standing at attention. "Please," he begged. "Just me just for tonight. Please. Please. Please. Please. Please, ah, Y/N. Please, I wanna cum. Let me have it inside me." 

It was getting harder and harder to think straight. He felt so good, the need to fill him up, let him fuck himself stupid on your cock growing. It would be better if you let him, a voice whispered. Another said, it's what you were made for. Just let him. 

"Gojo," you gasped. You reached for him, tried to make him stop so you could think, but his fingers intertwined with yours and he was moving faster now, his breathy moans coming faster. His skin was so soft and warm, filling you with his heat until you thought you might burst. Blood pulsed in your cock, his pussy was sucking at you through your clothing. He wanted you so badly. You wanted... What did you want to do again? You had to leave but why? 

"Y/N, I'm cumming." His hips rocked faster, tummy rolling with downy white hair covered in sparkling slick. "I'm cumming on your alpha cock." He let go of your hands to lay across your stomach, his head buried in your neck to take in your scent, his own making your head spin as pleasure threatened to burst out of your cock. His teeth met your skin, nibbling and biting gently then hard enough to bruise until he let out a long, throaty groan as he came. 

Instantly, your clothes were soaked, his hot slick smothered on your member. If you weren't fully erect before, you were now. 

Still panting, Gojo lifted himself up just enough to tug your cock free from your clothing. He didn't wait, spreading his pussy with his fingers as he sank down on your tip. Slick gushed down your shaft as he cried out, swallowing your swollen head into his heat. You bit back a groan, fingers digging into the blankets making up the fort. 

"You feel so big," Gojo moaned. "So good. I've only done this with Geto, so I'm going to have to start slow." He sank a little further, impossibly tight and hot and wet. "Feels so good," he huffed, rolling his hips and finally, sinking all the way down your shaft.

Your knot throbbed, seeming to sense that an omega was speared on your length. 

Gojo humped himself on your cock, needy moans slipping from his mouth each time his hips met yours. "Feels so good, Y/N. I've only felt Geto like this before." 

Before you could respond he pulled back to his full height, six eyes glowing in the warm darkness of the pillow fort. He spread his lower lips as he lifted himself up, clear slick drooling from his hole. His pretty, pink, clit a shining pearl at the apex of his thighs. "You did this to me. Look how wet you made me." Slowly, Gojo slid back down, pushing the head of your cock against his cervix. Again, he kept himself exposed and rose up, only to slurp your length right back down to the knot, aiming this time higher, into something spongy and mouth-wateringly soft.

"G-Gojo, I know you miss him but you can't--" 

He raised himself up and dropped down, knocking a groan from you both. "I think about him a lot," Gojo panted. "About how empty he left me. In my soul. In my body. So please, let me fix one of those. Just for now. It's okay if you hate me, but I need you now more than I've needed anyone." 

Gojo whined, flushed and excited. "Right there." He slammed back down on you with a stomach-churning squelch right into that soft sweet spot. "So good." He was riding you now, using you like a dildo to get himself off, his delicate fingers rolling his clit in circles. You couldn't take your eyes off him. "I want you to cum inside me, okay? Fill me up with your seed. Help me feel less empty." 

Pleasure gathered deep inside you, begging to come out as your knot swelled. Shit. You shouldn't. He was your coworker, your friend. But omegas needed alpha seed, he needed reprieve from his heat and you were the only one he could call--because the person he really wanted was dead. 

That thought shattered your high, grounding you back in the moment. "Gojo, I know you're still mourning Geto, but this isn't healthy for you." 

Gojo settled on your stomach, chest heaving. His hands snuck under your shirt, impossibly soft and warm in your skin. Your cock twitched inside him, wanting him to squeeze and milk you dry but that wasn't what a good friend would let him do. 

"I killed him, you know." His hands curled into fists by your hips. "He left me after taking my virginity and when he came back, I killed him on Christmas Eve because he didn't give me another choice. I'm awful, aren't I? Shoko hates me. She won't say it but I know she does. I hate me, too." The blue of his eyes shone as tears gathered, threatening to fall down his red flushed cheeks. 

"Shoko doesn't hate you." You said soothingly. You sat up, so much smaller than him, and ran your hands through his hair. "It was an impossible situation, we all think you did the right thing. We--" 

He didn't let you finish your thought. Gojo grabbed you by your shirt and slammed his mouth onto yours, his tongue filling you as if he could make you swallow every hateful thing he'd ever thought about himself. "If you don't hate me," he breathed against your lips, his spit wet and warm as it dribbled down your chin, "then cum inside me." He rolled his hips, reigniting the electric pleasure in your core. "Please. You can hate me tomorrow, but right now, I can't let you go." 

The pulsing softness of his pussy contracted, squeezing you so tightly you thought you might burst. You gasped for breath when Gojo released you and then did it again. You wanted to move. You wanted to stop. You wanted... 

Gojo pulled down the front of your shirt, rolling his hips roughly, chasing his end against your cock. He bit your chest, hard enough to bruise, marking you like an alpha. And that was enough to come undone. 

You exploded inside of him, eyes rolling back as your core emptied against his sweet spot. Your hips rolled up into his and you shivered as you felt your knot pop into his pussy, slick sliding down your thighs and onto the blankets. 

You struggled to breathe as Gojo laid himself on top of you, breathing fast. He rocked his hips against your knot, already trying to drag another orgasm out of himself. His arms slid under your back, pulling your chest to his. "You're all I have now, Y/N," he whispered, "so please, don't leave.”