#thank you again for trying out the demo!! | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

tosomeonessomeone · 2 months ago

Text

there you are.

words•5.2k /pairings・Lee know x Solo mom reader / genres・fluff, humor / warnings・ MDI, intercourse

You shifted Rio’s warm weight on your hip, his little fingers crumpling the orange-cat drawing he’d clung to all morning. “Mama, *pleeeease* can we get one?” he whined, burying his face in your shoulder. His plea was sugar-coated, sticky as the juice stain on your sleeve from breakfast—the third shirt this week. At 30, solo motherhood meant your world spun to the rhythm of daycare alarms, client deadlines, and the perpetual tang of spilled apple sauce. But Rio’s eyes—wide as the cartoon kittens he’d scribbled—melted your resolve. “We’ll *look*,” you relented, steering the stroller toward *Whisker Haven*, its address hastily scribbled on a Post-it from your coworker. *Just looking*, you told yourself. *No commitments*.

The shelter hummed like a living thing. Cedar chips and lavender cleaner mingled in the air, punctuated by trills and mews from wall-mounted cages. Rio squirmed free before you could unclip him, darting toward a sunlit playpen where a lanky volunteer knelt, tousled chestnut hair catching the light. His hands moved with practiced ease, flicking a feather toy just out of reach of a speckled kitten. “C’mon, little warrior,” he coaxed, voice low and playful. “Jump higher.”

Rio crashed into the scene like a tiny tornado. “Hi!” he announced, planting himself beside the stranger. The man glanced up, and your breath hitched—not at his sharp jawline or the faint scar threading his brow, but at the way his smile transformed his face. Crow’s feet crinkled, warm as summer honey.

“Hey there, adventurer,” he said, tilting his head to match Rio’s height. “I’m Minho. Wanna try?” He offered the feather wand, handle first. Rio seized it with a warrior’s cry, sending the kitten pouncing.

Minho rose, brushing cat hair off his jeans. His gaze found yours, steady and curious. “He’s a natural,” he said, nodding toward Rio, who was now giggling as the kitten batted his shoelaces. There was no pity in his tone, no *single-mom radar* flicker—just genuine warmth. You tucked a stray hair behind your ear, suddenly aware of your faded jeans and the granola bar wrapper peeking out of your tote.

“Thanks,” you said, softer than intended. “He’s been… obsessed.”

Minho crouched again, steadying Rio’s grip on the toy. “Obsession’s good here,” he replied, glancing up through his lashes. “Means he’s got passion. And good taste.”

The kitten leapt, landing in Rio’s lap. Your son’s squeal of delight echoed off the walls, and for the first time in weeks, you felt your shoulders relax. *Just looking*, you’d said. But as Minho’s laughter tangled with Rio’s, something fragile and hopeful stirred in your chest—a feeling you hadn’t dared name in years.

Weekends bloomed into a rhythm of shelter visits, the three of you falling into a routine as comfortable as an old sweater. Minho became a fixture in your Saturdays, his patience with Rio as endless as his cat trivia. He taught your son to cradle kittens like clouds, guiding his small hands with a steadiness that made your throat tighten. “Support their paws, buddy—like they’re holding tiny secrets,” he’d say, and Rio would nod, solemn as a scholar.

You learned Minho was 26, a grad student in animal behavior who spoke of feline body language like it was Shakespeare. “Cats arch their backs not just to scare foes, but to feel bigger when they’re scared,” he explained once, demonstrating with a theatrical curve of his spine that sent Rio into giggles. But it was the slow blinks that undid you—the way Minho would lock eyes with a wary cat, lids drifting shut in a languid Morse code. “They’re saying, ‘I trust you,’” he murmured to Rio during one lesson. Then, glancing at you across the playpen, he repeated the gesture, slow and deliberate. Your cheeks burned. *It’s just a demo*, you told yourself, even as your pulse skittered.

One rainy afternoon, the shelter emptied early, the patter of droplets harmonizing with the kittens’ purrs. Rio dozed in his stroller, thumb tucked in his mouth, worn out from chasing a energetic tabby. Minho appeared beside you, two steaming mugs in hand. “Matcha latte,” he said, voice low to avoid waking Rio. “No sugar, just like you mentioned last week.”

You blinked, startled he’d remembered your offhand comment about hating sweet drinks. His fingers grazed yours as you took the mug, calloused from scrubbing litter boxes yet impossibly gentle. The silence between you thickened, charged like the storm-heavy air.

“He’s lucky,” Minho said suddenly, nodding at Rio. “Not every kid gets a mom who works two jobs *and* lets him turn her kitchen into a cat art gallery.”

Your grip tightened on the mug. He knew. Of course he did—you’d confessed it weeks ago, that offhand moment when he’d asked about Rio’s father. But hearing him acknowledge it now, without a trace of pity, unraveled something in you.

“Some days, it doesn’t feel like enough,” you admitted, the words slipping out before you could cage them. “The deadlines, the daycare bills… What if I’m just—”

“Enough.” Minho’s interruption was soft but firm. He stepped closer, the scent of matcha and cedar enveloping you. “You’re *everything* he needs.”

Tears breached your lashes before you could stop them. You turned away, but Minho was already there, offering a tissue printed with a grinning cat and the pun *“Hang in there, paw-some human!”* A wet laugh escaped you. “Do you stock these for all the crying women who wander in?”

“Just the ones who pretend they’ve got it all figured out.” His smile was tender, a silent invitation to lean in.

Outside, rain drummed its approval. Rio sighed in his sleep, Tofu—the tabby he’d claimed as his soulmate—curled at his feet. And in that fragile, honeyed moment, you let yourself imagine: Minho’s hand brushing yours not by accident, his slow-blink smiles reserved just for you, weekends that stretched into years.

The rain softens to a whisper as Minho leans against the adoption desk, his gaze steady on yours. *“You know,”* he begins, tracing the rim of his mug, *“I started volunteering here after my sister’s cat, Mochi, passed. She’d had him since we were kids.”* He pauses, a shadow flickering in his eyes. *“She’s in remission now, but back then… the shelter was the only place that didn’t feel heavy.”*

Your breath catches. This is more than he’s ever shared—a fissure in his usual playful armor. *“Minho, I…”*

He shakes his head, smiling faintly. *“Don’t. I’m not fishing for sympathy. Just… you should know I’ve seen how love can be a lifeline. Even the furry kind.”*

The admission hangs between you, raw and real. You glance at Rio, his lashes fluttering in sleep, then back at Minho. *“After Rio’s dad left,”* you say, the words tasting less bitter than usual, *“I almost gave up freelancing. Too unstable. But then Rio drew his first cat—a scribbled blob with fangs—and I thought…* Okay. We’ll build a life where he gets to keep that joy.”

Minho’s thumb brushes your wrist, fleeting. *“You did.”*

A kitten mews from a nearby crate, breaking the tension. Minho chuckles, scooping up the bold calico intruder. *“This is Soybean. She’s a door-dasher—escapes every chance she gets.”*

*“Like someone else I know,”* you tease, nodding at Rio, who’s begun snoring softly.

Minho cradles Soybean against his chest, her purrs a rumbling echo of his next words. *“When I’m with you two… it feels like I’ve found something I didn’t know I was searching for.”*

Your heart stammers. *“Minho—”*

*“Not asking for labels,”* he interjects, setting Soybean down. *“Just… want you to see what I see. A woman who paints worlds for a living, raises a kind-hearted kid, and still makes time to laugh at my terrible cat puns.”* He gestures to the tissue still crumpled in your hand. *“That’s not surviving. That’s* thriving.”

The shelter’s clock ticks, loud in the silence. You step closer, until the steam from your mug curls into his. *“What if I see you too?”* you whisper. *“The guy who teaches kittens—and single moms—how to trust again?”*

His slow blink is answer enough.

The adoption day arrives, and Tofu—now lord of Rio’s sock drawer and ruler of half-eaten goldfish crackers—officially becomes family. When Minho shows up at your apartment with a cat tree taller than Rio, your son erupts into a frenzy, launching himself at Minho’s legs. “Hyung! Tofu needs a *castle*!”

Minho laughs, setting down the box with a thud. His shirt sleeves are rolled up, revealing forearms still scratched from last week’s kitten wrestling match. “Every queen deserves a throne,” he says, winking at you. You cross your arms, feigning suspicion. “And you just *happened* to have a cat tree lying around?”

“I’m full of surprises,” he says, tossing Rio a package of felt mice to “test” for Tofu. For the next hour, you watch Minho assemble the tower with the precision of an engineer, indulging Rio’s demands to add “secret tunnels” (a cardboard tube) and a “treasure box” (your old sunglasses case). Tofu watches from the couch, her crooked tail flicking in approval.

By sunset, the living room is a jungle of scratching posts and dangling toys. You order pizza, and Minho stays—not because you ask, but because Rio tugs him to the table with sauce-stained hands. “You *gotta* try the pepperoni, hyung! It’s Mama’s favorite.” Minho’s knee brushes yours under the table, lingering a beat too long.

Later, after Rio’s bedtime stories (*“Again, Mama! The one with the space cat!”*), Minho hovers at the door, his usual confidence fraying. “The shelter’s fundraiser… I’d like you both there. With me.” He hesitates, fingers drumming his thigh. “Not as volunteers. As… my date.”

Your pulse stutters. *Date*. The word feels too big, too bright for your cluttered life. But Minho’s gaze is steady, his vulnerability disarming. “Okay,” you whisper.

The fundraiser glows with string lights and the murmur of well-dressed attendees. Rio, in a bow tie that keeps slipping sideways, drags you and Minho to a photo booth plastered with cat-ear headbands. “Family picture!” he declares, shoving a pair of cardboard whiskers at Minho. You freeze, but Minho just grins, clipping the whiskers to his hair. “Your majesty,” he says, bowing to Rio.

The camera flashes: Minho’s arm around your waist, your head tilted toward him, Rio mid-laugh with frosting smeared on his chin. When the strip prints, Minho tucks it into his wallet, his ears pink. “For luck,” he mutters.

You escape to the garden when the crowd swells, Rio asleep in your arms. Cherry blossoms drift around you like confetti. Minho brushes a petal from your hair, his voice soft. “I know I’m younger. I know your world is… *a lot*. But I’m not going anywhere.”

Your throat tightens. “Why?”

He steps closer, his thumb tracing the curve of your jaw. “Love isn’t about age,” he says, nuzzling your temple as Rio’s breath evens against your shoulder. “It’s about who stays.”

The kiss is gentle. When you pull back, Minho’s forehead rests against yours. “I’m not asking for a spotlight,” he whispers. “Just a corner of your chaos.”

You laugh, tearful, and his mouth finds yours again. *Chaos*, you think, as Rio snores and Tofu bats at a falling blossom. *Maybe chaos is where love grows best*.

As you and Minho lingered under the cherry blossoms, Rio’s frosting-smeared face pressed against your shoulder, the night felt suspended in time—soft and hopeful. But then a voice cut through the quiet.

“Minho! There you are!”

A woman in a sleek black dress approached, her heels clicking sharply against the garden stones. She was familiar—a longtime donor, maybe, or a board member. Her gaze flickered to Rio, then to your intertwined fingers, before settling on Minho. “We need you inside. The press wants a quote about next year’s expansion.”

Minho hesitated, his hand still warm on your waist. “Give me five minutes, Soojin.”

Soojin’s smile tightened. “Now, Minho. This is the *real work*.” Her emphasis lingered, a blade thinly veiled.

You stiffened, shifting Rio higher on your hip. “Go,” you said, too quickly. “We’re fine.”

Minho searched your face. “I’ll be right back.”

But he wasn’t.

Minutes bled into an hour. Rio grew restless, tugging at his bow tie, while you paced the garden path. Laughter and clinking glasses spilled from the venue, a world away from the sticky reality of motherhood. When Minho finally reappeared, his tie loosened and hair ruffled, Soojin trailed behind him, her laugh sharp as champagne bubbles.

“—such a *natural* with the donors,” she purred, patting his arm. “You’ll go far, if you stay focused.” Her eyes slid to you, polite but dismissive. “Goodnight.”

Minho reached for you, but you stepped back. “You should get back,” you said, voice brittle. “The *real work*.”

He flinched. “That’s not what I—”

“It’s fine.” You adjusted Rio’s blanket, avoiding his gaze. “We’re used to being an afterthought.”

The words hung between you, cruel and untrue, but fear had already coiled around your heart. Minho’s jaw tightened. “You think I’d choose *that* over you two?”

You didn’t answer. Rio whimpered in his sleep, and you turned toward the exit.

“Wait.” Minho caught your wrist, his voice raw. “I’m not him. I’m not going to vanish because something shinier comes along.”

Tears blurred the fairy lights. “How do I know that?”

He stepped closer, his thumb brushing your pulse point. “Because I’m asking you to trust me,” he whispered. “Even when it’s hard.”

The gulf between you trembled, fragile as a spiderweb. Then Rio stirred, his small hand patting your cheek. “Mama, go home?”

Minho released you, his eyes shadowed. “Let me drive you.”

You shook your head. “We’ll take a taxi.”

The ride home was silent, Rio’s head heavy on your shoulder. As you tucked him into bed, Tofu curled at his feet, your phone buzzed.

**Minho:** *I’m here. However long it takes.*

You didn’t reply. But you didn’t delete the message either.

A week of silence. Seven days of Minho’s unanswered calls piling up like unread apologies, and Rio’s relentless questions chipping away at your resolve. *“Did Minho-hyung get lost? Is he mad at us?”* You’d deflected with hollow excuses—*“He’s just busy, sweetheart”*—but Rio’s crumpled frown mirrored the guilt gnawing at your ribs.

On Saturday morning, you flee to the park, pushing Rio’s stroller through the fog-thick air. Tofu peers from the basket, her tail flicking like a metronome counting down your dread. The lake glimmers ahead, its surface still as held breath. Rio babbles to Tofu about turtles, unaware as you round the bend—and there he is.

Minho slouches on a bench, his hoodie sleeves pushed up to reveal forearms still marked with fading kitten scratches. A paper cup sits abandoned beside him, steam long gone. His gaze is fixed on the water, shoulders hunched like he’s carrying the sky. You pivot sharply, but Tofu leaps from the stroller with a yowl, darting straight to him.

“Y/N.”

His voice is sandpaper-rough, and you flinch. Rio twists in his seat, squealing, *“Hyung! Mama, look—it’s Minho!”*

You fumble for Tofu, but she’s already in his lap, kneading his thighs like dough. Traitor.

“Hey, troublemaker,” Minho murmurs, scratching her chin. His eyes lock onto yours, shadowed and sleepless. “Missed you.”

Rio tugs your sleeve, lower lip wobbling. “Mama, *please*.”

You crouch, adjusting his scarf to avoid Minho’s stare. “Stay here with Tofu, okay? Just for a minute.”

“But—”

“*Please*, Rio.”

He nods, solemn, and you rise on unsteady legs. Minho meets you halfway, the morning chill sharpening the lines of his face.

“You’ve been ghosting me,” he says, voice low.

“I’ve been… figuring things out.”

“By shutting me out?” He steps closer, Tofu pressed to his chest like a shield. “Talk to me. *Please*.”

The plea unravels you. “What’s there to say? You saw how Soojin looked at me—like I was a *distraction*. And I can’t—I won’t be the thing that holds you back from—”

“From what? Schmoozing donors?” He laughs, bitter. “That’s not me, Y/N. Never was.”

“But it’s part of your job! Your *future*—”

“I quit.”

The words hang between you, brittle as ice.

“What?”

“Donor relations. Events. All of it.” He sets Tofu down, his hands trembling. “I told them I’m sticking to the cats. And the kids. And… you.”

Your breath hitches. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Yeah, I did.” He swipes a hand over his face. “Because I’d rather mop piss puddles every day than lose you two.”

Rio’s laughter floats over, Tofu now chasing a leaf he’s waving. Minho’s gaze softens. “I’ve been here every morning. Hoping you’d come. I’m not going anywhere, Y/N.”

Tears blur the fog-drenched trees. “I’m scared,” you whisper.

He reaches for you, pausing just shy of your cheek. “Let me be scared with you. Let me *help*.”

You lean into his touch, his palm warm against your skin. “What if I break?”

“Then I’ll put you back together.” His thumb brushes away a tear. “However many times it takes.”

Rio crashes into your legs, Tofu circling his ankles. “Group hug!” he demands, arms stretched wide.

Minho scoops him up, your little trio—*family*—colliding in a tangle of limbs and purrs. The fog lifts, sunlight spilling gold across the path ahead.

The click of Rio’s bedroom door echoes like a held breath. You retreat to the kitchen, hands trembling as you fill the kettle. Moonlight spills through the window, silvering the mugs you set out—the chipped one Rio painted with paw prints, and Minho’s favorite, striped like a tabby’s fur.

Footsteps pad behind you.

“Need help?” Minho leans against the doorway, sleeves rolled up, shadows pooling under his eyes.

You shake your head, but he steps closer anyway, his warmth a quiet challenge to the distance you’ve carved. The kettle whistles, sharp and urgent.

“Why’d you really quit donor work?” you ask, pouring hot water too fast. It sloshes, scalding your thumb.

Minho catches your wrist, guiding the kettle down. “Because I finally figured out what matters.” His thumb brushes the burn, soothing. “Saw my dad chase promotions my whole childhood. Missed every school play, every birthday. I swore I’d never be that guy.”

You stare at the steam curling between you. “And us? Are we just… another promise?”

He turns your hand over, tracing the lines of your palm. “You’re the reason I keep them.”

The confession hangs, fragile. You pull away, busying yourself with tea bags. Chamomile for him, earl grey for you—he’d remembered.

“I keep waiting for you to realize this is too much,” you whisper. “A single mom, a chaotic kid, a cat who hates your shoes—”

“Y/N.” He steps into your space, the counter’s edge pressing into your back. “You think I don’t know what I’m signing up for? I’ve seen your late-night panic over daycare bills. The way you cry when Rio draws family pictures with *three* people now. Hell, I’ve scrubbed puke off my favorite jeans thanks to Tofu’s hairballs.” His voice cracks. “I’m not here for *easy*. I’m here for *you*.”

Tears blur the mugs. “What if I’m not enough?”

He frames your face, calloused palms anchoring you. “You’re everything. The deadlines, the mess, the *fear*—it’s all part of you. And I want all of it.”

Your breath hitches. “Even when I push you away?”

“Especially then.” His forehead rests against yours, the tea forgotten. “You don’t have to be brave alone anymore.”

The admission unravels you. “I don’t know how to do this,” you rasp. “To trust someone to… stay.”

Minho’s thumb catches a tear. “Let me show you.”

Outside, rain begins to fall, tapping a rhythm against the window. The first brush of Minho’s lips is tentative, a question whispered into the fragile space between your breaths. But when your fingers fist in his hoodie, tugging him closer, the hesitation shatters. His hands slide from your face to your waist, lifting you onto the counter with a ease that steals your breath. Tea mugs clatter forgotten as he steps between your knees, his mouth slanting over yours with a hunger that mirrors the storm outside.

This isn’t the careful Minho who blinks slowly at skittish kittens. This is wildfire—calloused palms skimming your ribs, teeth grazing your lower lip, a groan rumbling deep in his chest when you arch against him. His hoodie smells like cedar and the faint musk of the shelter, a scent that’s become as familiar as your own chaos.

“Minho—” you gasp, breaking the kiss, but his name is a plea, not a protest.

He stills, forehead pressed to yours, breath ragged. “Tell me to stop,” he murmurs, but his thumb traces the hammering pulse at your neck, betraying his own unraveling.

You don’t. Instead, you knot your hands in his hair, dragging him back. The counter digs into your thighs, the cold edge a stark contrast to the heat of his mouth. He kisses like he’s memorizing you—the sigh you stifle when his tongue flicks yours, the hitch in your breath as his hands slide under your shirt, branding your skin.

Minho guides you through the darkened hallway, his steps careful and measured despite the desire thrumming through his veins. Your bare feet pad silently across the wooden floors, past Rio's room where soft snores filter through the crack under the door, and Tofu's favorite sleeping spot by the window.

His hands never leave your body - ghosting over your hip, tracing the small of your back, fingers intertwined with yours as he leads you to your bedroom. The door clicks shut behind you with barely a whisper, and suddenly the air feels charged, electric with anticipation.

Moonlight spills through your curtains, painting Minho's bare chest in silver shadows as he backs you toward the bed. His movements are controlled, deliberate - every touch calculated to keep quiet. When your knees hit the mattress, he catches you before you fall, lowering you to the sheets with such care that your heart swells.

"Shh," he breathes against your ear when the bed frame creaks slightly, his warm weight settling over you. His fingers trail down your sides, hooks in your belt loops. "We'll have to be very, very quiet."

The challenge in his whispered words sends a shiver down your spine, especially when his teeth graze your earlobe, testing just how silent you can stay.

Minho's fingers tremble slightly as they work at your jeans button, his usual confidence wavering as moonlight reveals the vulnerability in his eyes. When you reach to help, he catches your wrist, pressing a kiss to your palm.

"Let me," he whispers, "I want to remember every second of this." His hands slide your jeans down with aching slowness, but you notice how he hesitates at the scars on your thighs, the stretch marks mapping your hips. Before self-consciousness can take root, he's tracing each mark with reverent fingers, then following with his lips.

"Beautiful," he breathes against your skin. When you start to protest, he silences you with a deep kiss. "Every inch of you."

You reach for his belt, but notice his own moment of hesitation as your fingers brush his stomach. This confident man who spends his days wrangling large dogs suddenly seems unsure, and you remember the burn scars he usually keeps hidden under long sleeves.

"You don't have to—" he starts, but you quiet him by pressing kisses along the scarred tissue of his right arm, feeling his breath catch. Your fingers work his belt open as your lips trace each mark, each imperfection that makes him perfectly him.

Soon you're both down to underwear, skin against skin, every touch electric yet tender. His fingers trace the curve of your breasts through your bra, while yours map the hard planes of his chest, both of you learning each other's bodies with wondering hands.

"You're sure?" he asks, thumbs hooked in your panties, waiting for permission despite the obvious desire straining against his boxers. His eyes hold yours, dark with want but soft with something deeper.

You nod, lifting your hips to help him slide your panties down your legs. His breath catches as he takes in your naked form, illuminated by moonlight. Your instinct is to cover yourself, but the raw adoration in his gaze holds you still.

Minho trails kisses up your inner thigh, his touch growing bolder as your breathing quickens. When his tongue finds your clit, you have to bite your lip to stay quiet. His hands grip your thighs, holding you steady as he works you with his mouth, each stroke of his tongue deliberate and precise.

You reach down to tangle your fingers in his hair, tugging gently when he hits a particularly sensitive spot. His responding groan vibrates against you, sending sparks of pleasure up your spine. Your other hand fists in the sheets, trying to anchor yourself as the pressure builds.

"Minho," you gasp, barely a whisper, "I need you. Please."

He crawls up your body, kissing a path from your navel to your breasts, then capturing your lips. You can taste yourself on his tongue as he positions himself between your thighs, the hard length of his cock pressing against your entrance.

"I adore you," he breathes against your mouth as he slowly pushes inside, stretching you deliciously. "Gosh, I adore you so much."

Your bodies move together in the darkness, finding a rhythm as natural as breathing. Each thrust is measured, careful not to make the bed creak, but the restraint only makes it more intense. His forehead presses against yours, sharing each shaky breath as you climb toward ecstasy together.

Minho's thrusts grow deeper, more urgent as your walls clench around him. His cock fills you perfectly, hitting spots that make you see stars. You wrap your legs tighter around his waist, changing the angle until he's grinding against your clit with each movement.

"Fuck," he pants against your neck, struggling to keep his voice down. "You feel amazing. So tight, so perfect."

Your nails dig into his back as the pressure builds, every nerve ending on fire. The familiar coil of heat in your belly winds tighter and tighter. Minho seems to sense how close you are - his fingers find your clit, circling it in time with his thrusts.

"Come for me," he whispers, his voice rough with need. "I want to feel you come on my cock."

The combination of his words, his touch, and the delicious stretch of him inside you sends you over the edge. Your orgasm crashes through you in waves, your pussy clenching rhythmically around him as you bite down on his shoulder to muffle your cries.

The feeling of you coming undone triggers his own release. His hips stutter, losing their rhythm as he buries himself deep inside you with a muffled groan. You can feel his cock pulsing as he fills you, his whole body trembling with the intensity of his orgasm.

For several long moments, you lie there tangled together, hearts racing, bodies slick with sweat. Minho peppers soft kisses across your face - your forehead, your cheeks, the tip of your nose - as if he can't bear to stop touching you.

Minho chuckles softly against your neck, his fingers drawing lazy circles on your hip. "You know," he murmurs with a playful nip at your earlobe, "if we keep this up, Rio might get that little sister he's been begging for."

Your laughter bubbles up, soft and intimate in the darkness. "Only you would think about making babies right after our first time," you tease, turning to face him with a grin. Your fingers trace the smile lines around his eyes, memorizing how he looks in this moment - hair mussed from your hands, lips swollen from kisses.

"Hey, I'm just being practical," he defends playfully, pulling you closer. "Rio's been asking for a playmate ever since he saw Mrs. Kim's new baby. And Tofu could use another human to train."

You snort, burying your face in his chest to muffle the sound. "Of course you'd bring the pets into this conversation," you whisper. "Such a typical shelter worker."

"Speaking of," he murmurs, his hand sliding down to cup your ass, "we should probably practice that baby-making technique a few more times. You know, for science."

Three years later, sunlight drips like honey through the windows of your shared home, gilding the mosaic of chaos and love that is your life. Minho stands at the stove, spatula in hand, crafting pancake dinosaurs with the precision of a man who’s learned to find art in the messy. His free hand rests on the curve of your belly, where your daughter kicks impatiently, as if already eager to join the fray. “Princess Appa’s practicing her roundhouse kicks,” he teases, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head.

Under the table, Rio—now six and savant of all things glitter and mischief—huddles with Tofu, their whispers punctuated by the crinkle of a manila folder. You bite your lip, heart swollen, as he peeks up at you. *“Now, Mama?”*

You nod, tears already pricking your lashes.

Rio scrambles out, folder clutched to his *Star Wars* pajamas, and tugs Minho’s apron with the gravity of a diplomat. “Appa! Father’s Day present!”

Minho grins, flipping a T-Rex onto a plate. “Let’s see it, space ranger.”

Rio thrusts the folder forward, its cover a masterpiece of sticker explosions: cats in rocket ships, a lopsided family portrait labeled *“ME, MAMA, MINHO, TOFU & BABY SIS,”* and a glitter-glue galaxy that glints in the light. Inside, the adoption papers gleam, their legalese softened by Rio’s crayon scrawl: *“PLEEZ BE MY REEL DAD”* looping across the top.

Minho freezes. The spatula clatters to the floor.

“Mama did the grown-up words,” Rio explains, bouncing on his toes, “but the *‘forever daddy’* part is *mine*! And Tofu helped!” He points to the corner, where a smudged paw print is stamped in purple ink.

Minho sinks to his knees, the linoleum cool against his palms. He stares at the papers, then at Rio’s hopeful face—so like your own—then at you. “You… you’re sure?”

You crouch beside him, Tofu weaving figure-eights around your ankles. “We’ve never been surer of anything.”

A tear splashes onto the folder, blurring the “DAD” in Rio’s title. Another follows. Rio’s eyes widen. “Did I spell it wrong?!”

Minho drags him into a hug, laughter and sobs tangled in his throat. “It’s perfect. *You’re* perfect.”

Later, after pancake dinosaurs fossilize and the notary—a friend from the shelter who’d arrived with confetti and cat-shaped cookies—witnesses the signatures, Minho sits on the porch swing, Rio sprawled across his lap, sticky with syrup and dreams. Your daughter pirouettes beneath your skin, and Minho presses his palm to your belly, his thumb brushing the spot where her foot jabs. “Hey, little comet,” he murmurs. “Your brother’s already plotting your first mission to Mars.”

You lean into him, the adoption papers now framed beside Rio’s first crayon cat drawing. Tofu’s paw print is immortalized in gold ink beneath your signatures—a family relic. “Think she’ll survive the chaos?”

Minho’s slow blink is a language only you know. *I love you. I’m here. Always.* “She’ll be the chaos queen,” he says, grinning.

And when she’s born—on a tempestuous night with Minho reciting cat facts as a breathing coach, Rio “assisting” with a toy stethoscope, and Tofu yowling backup vocals—you’ll finally understand: family isn’t found in the quiet. It’s built in the storm, one paw print, one pancake, one *“forever daddy”* at a time.

#Spotify #skz #skz x reader #skz imagines #skz smut #lee know #lee minho stray kids #lee minho x reader #lee minho smut #lee know imagines #lee know fluff #lee know x reader #lee know stray kids #stray kids minho #stray kids #stray kids fluff #straykids #stray kids smut

239 notes · View notes

saidrabbles · 5 months ago

Text

vulnerable

pairing: g-dragon x reader warnings: none word count: 1.1k

— this is for anyone that feels like a burden to others if they dare open up about their feelings —

jiyong slides in his chair, letting out an exasperated sigh. music production has been so stressful, trying to meet the high expectations put on his name. g-dragon. sometimes, he wishes he can run away from this name, from his genius producer reputation. but he loves music, his fans and...he wouldn't have met you.

he met his girlfriend of three months now through mutual friends, and he couldn't be more thankful. you're everything to him, which is why your reply made him sulk.

jy: hi baby, are you free tonight? ;) y/n: hii my beloved, im sorryy :( work has piled up and i see no escape. i'll be busy for the next few days :(

several days is way too long of a time without seeing you. "i don't blame her, i'm struggling the same with my work. but i would love to see her for an hour or two." he was ranting to his bestfriend, taeyang, on the phone with a visible sulk in his voice. "i think you should tell her that jiyong, maybe she was too stressed to think of meeting for a few hours."

he was staring at the demo he produced a few hours ago, his mind thinking of ways to make the song sound better. he forgot taeyang, still on the other side of the call, but a feminine voice pulled him out of his thoughts. "did she say she's busy with work for a few days?" "yeah, why?" he cleared his voice, "uhm guys, what are you on about?"

hyorin, taeyang's wife, sounded worried. "i think you should go check up on her, jiyong-ssi." he sat straight in his seat "why? what does it mean when she says she's busy?" hyorin sighed on the other end, "i can't talk in detail about it because it's not my place but, (y/n) has struggled with being vulnerable because of a previous relationship." he stood up fully now, rushing to save his work. "i coincidentally went to visit her with a meal when she said she was busy, and she was having a breakdown...she thinks she will be a burden if she made people rush to her side everytime she's going through something." his heart felt like it stopped working, like it malfunctioned. why would she...she's not comfortable with me?...

you heard a knock on your apartment door and you started wiping your tears, the delivery man doesn't need to be seeing dried tears and puffy eyes, you tried to joke. "you can leave it just on the inside-" you were super-glued to your place. it wasn't the delivery man. "ji-jiyong?" your voice came out thick from all the crying you did. "can i please come in?" his voice was almost a whisper, like he is afraid to raise it any higher in case you run the other way.

you silently opened the door wider to allow him in, not knowing what to do with yourself. run, hide, don't show him your weakness. your traumatised mind was screaming at you, but you were still glued in-front of the gentlest man you've ever met. his eyes had an expression you couldn't read; pain? guilt? sadness..?

your body starts forcing you to walk into the living room, but before you turned around he leaped and wrapped his arms around your waist, his head leaning into your shoulder, engulfing you whole. you stayed in your place, you didn't understand what was happening. "(y/n)" he breathed again. "(y/n)" he breathed out, "why are you crying, alone, when i'm here?" you felt your body shaking, so you wrapped your arms around his neck, burying your head into the crook of his neck in an attempt to hide from the confession he was asking of you.

you held him tighter, and he returned it by pulling you closer to him. "it's not about you" your voice was more of a whisper than anything. "i know baby" you shifted in his arms, "you know?" he slowly started drawing circles on the small of your back. "hyorin told me a bit about it, but" he placed a kiss on the top of your head as he rested his chin on the top of your head, "who in their right mind would not want to hold you in their arms, like this, and smell your floral shampoo?" he tried to lighten the mood.

"a whiny, clingy person" you started "that's what he told me when i called him, needing reassurance." at which point did your tears started pooling around your eyes again, you don't know, but you notice how jiyong starts swaying the both of you gently right and left, like he's telling you he's listening. he knew you still had more to say. "i'm the type of person that holds it in, i don't complain unless i've suppressed my emotions for too long. at some point in my relationship, he started sighing anytime i tried to express how i'm feeling.." you started crying, but wanted to continue,

"so, i stopped telling anyone how i feel. every time i tried to speak, my mind would start to attack me, scream at me, and it shut me up." you hid your face in his chest as you cried your heart out. you let out all of your pent-up feelings to another human being after all this time. it wasn't just anyone, it was to the person that mattered the most to you. his arms melted away your sadness, stress, frustration. after what felt like hours, your cries were now sniffles, slowly settling into this newly cleansed heart.

you felt jiyong pull away, and pull you with him over to the couch in the living room. he sat you down, held your tear-stained face ever so gently, wiping any escaping tear from your (e/c) eyes. "your vulnerability" he kissed the space between your brows "is what you makes you human" he kissed your left cheek "becoming someone you can lean on," he kissed your right cheek "is a great honour for me." he kisses your nose "i want to know your everything, i want you to cry only in my arms, and to complain when life feels unfair." he grazed his thumb over your lower lip.

he slowly leaned in, placing a feather-like kiss. you smiled as he kissed you again, deepening the kiss, like he's sealing the promise he made to you with his warm, soft lips. you melted, feeling your mind settle into an unheard whisper. he rested his forehead on yours, sighing happily.

"i love you, kwon jiyong." he giggled at the mention of his full name, "i love you too, (y/n) (l/n)." you were both giggling at this point. you settled on his lap, as he held you close to his chest. feeling his heartbeat, you felt yourself come home. "thank you, my dearest." he reassuringly squeezed your upper arm. "always, my most beloved."

a/n: im working on a gdragon x reader slow burn friends to lovers reuqested by anon, but enjoy this scenario written by yours truly :)

#drabbles #imagines #scenarios #writing #gdragon #kwon jiyong #gdragon x reader #fanfic #oneshots #bigbang #gdragon power #mama 2024 #kwon jiyong x reader

341 notes · View notes

mandalhoerian · 1 month ago

Text

(5) 🦭 signed, sealed, delivery pending...

Your time in university is a downward spiraling disaster temporarily put on hold whenever you get to visit home and resume attempts to reconcile with your beloved seal, who seems like he'll never forgive you for leaving. A band being pulled from both ends is bound to snap eventually.

genre: fluff, comedy | word count: 12k | read on ao3

< previous | next >

note: i apologize for the wait (again)!! i hope the word count makes up for it !!!!! im a lying liar who lies though. human raf next chapter . sorgy </3 and if any of you is a museum major, remember this is a fantasy land where seals can turn into humans and im allowed to make mistakes even tho i researched. thank you!

You come home for spring break with your sketchbook spine cracked from overuse and your first-year, first-semester syllabus crushed beneath half-finished elevation diagrams, smudged object labels, and two drafts of a museum display plan you still don’t understand. Your tote still smells faintly of plaster from the failed mount-building demo in your Material Culture and Object Handling class, fingers bearing charcoal from rushed object sketches and dry glue from a labeling prototype you smudged the night before critique.

There's also a bent metro card. A crumpled worksheet on humidity control from Fundamentals of Conservation. A balled-up napkin scribbled with a reminder to fix the syntax on your object description draft for Writing for Cultural Institutions.

It’s the quiet clutter of someone trying too hard to catch up in a world where everyone else seems to have already memorized the map.

You tell Mom you’re helping with the harbor cleanup, though the truth is you couldn’t spend another minute under fluorescent lights or in a dorm shared with three girls who somehow all seem impossibly ahead.

One’s a biology major who’s always lugging around a lab manual and her phone alarm goes off three times a night to remind her to check some ongoing culture assignment. Another is in photography and just got a feature on the campus arts blog, she spent the break taking foggy morning shots around the reservoir and somehow made them look like a film set. The third is majoring in media studies and recently joined the university’s documentary club, she’s been recording mock voiceovers at 2 a.m., softly narrating into her phone with the lights off like the room’s a sound booth.

You’re still figuring out how not to smudge your object labels or second-guess how to pronounce vitrines.

She doesn’t question you. Just hands you an old jacket and tells you to wear a scarf because she knows your next stop. The air bites harder this time of year, and you look like you’ve been hollowed out by deadlines and dorm-room junk food.

You take the ridge path out of habit. The same winding switchbacks carved into the cliffs, softened by briny grass and your own childhood footsteps. Your boots skid a little like you've already forgotten how to walk on this terrain. It’s stupid, probably. You haven’t been here since August. But your feet carry you to the cove where he used to wait for you — where he could still be. Maybe. You wouldn’t know.

The tide’s out. The sand is coarse and wind-swept, strewn with driftwood and slick stones that catch the light like wet coins. You sit on the rock you always claimed, smoothed by time and salt, and let the cold climb up through your jeans until it settles into your spine like a held breath. You hunch forward, listening to the water breathe in and out, over and over, like it’s trying to tell you something you’ve forgotten how to hear.

He doesn’t come.

You don’t whistle. Not this time. The sound is still tucked behind your teeth, tight in your throat, where it aches like something half-swallowed. It’s your call, your note, and it would rise easy if you let it. But right now, it would feel too much like an apology.

Instead, you press your hands to the earth, grounding yourself in its silence. Near your boot lies a broken fish spine, arched and pale, a tiny crescent of something once alive. You pick it up without thinking and tell yourself it’s just habit. Just instinct.

Back in the city, it ends up pinned beneath mylar in a shadowbox for your Introduction to Museum Studies course. Labeled neatly in pencil: "Unidentified specimen, coastal origin." You write it with disgruntled detachment, trying to echo the tone your professor used when reviewing everyone’s labeling drafts the week before. Your classmates brought in bits of pottery, manufactured junk, bones bleached too clean by city air. Yours smells faintly of brine.

You imagine Raf, briefly, nosing it toward shore like a gift.

You come home again in April, skipping a mandatory field visit at the Maritime Conservation Annex. You were supposed to be cataloguing replica ship parts, jotting down environmental exposure notes, and identifying surface decay patterns. Instead, you take the overnight ferry with a knot behind your eyes and a sketchbook full of crossed-out exhibit themes and poorly shaded elevation diagrams. You haven’t slept. You haven’t called ahead.

You tell Mom you missed her, the fact that you’re already burnt out hidden under your tongue, affecting your speech with its sheer size. You say that you miss the foghorn’s groan in the morning and the smell of the tide seeping through the floorboards. She doesn’t argue. She just hugs you with arms that smell like rosemary and old soap, tells you the storm passed last night, and lets you sleep until noon, doesn’t comment on the dark circles under your eyes, and leaves a thermos of tea waiting for you on the windowsill.

The beach is wider than you remember. Stretched out and wind-swept, as though the tide’s been dragging its fingers farther inland in your absence. Or maybe you’re just weaker now, after months of stairs and static and deadlines. You walk anyway. Your body remembers how.

The cove is empty. But not untouched.

Shells form a crescent near the waterline. But that’s only what you notice first. Look closer, there’s more.

A pocketknife you lost in tenth grade, rusted but unmistakable.

The twist of ribbon from your old field journal, weighed down with a pebble. Even a museum flyer — sun-bleached, soggy at the corners, but somehow intact — folded into a crude triangle with teeth marks on it and pinned beneath a polished clam shell.

Your pink hair tie from last summer, faded and stretched, looped carefully around a shard of sea glass.

A cracked keychain from the ferry gift shop that had once jingled off your backpack.

A dried daisy chain from that sun-glutted afternoon you spent lying face-down in the dunes, your voice hoarse from reading funny tweets aloud and laughing when he splashed too close.

A bottle of cheap, glittery nail polish you swore you’d use for toe-dipping pictures but never did.

A torn polaroid, the edges warped with salt, showing a particularly flattering picture of you taken by your cousin just this summer.

Even your library card, still laminated, still bent at the corner, with a picture of a 15 year old you.

Not scattered — placed. Tucked into the sand with intention, like offerings. Like memory made physical.

You crouch, brushing your fingertips over the nearest shell. Damp. Fresh. A trail. A message. A stubborn, silent kind of loyalty.

You sit down on the cold, salted stone, the one you always claimed, and pull your knees to your chest, fingers digging into the familiar grooves along the edge. Your hand brushes the lining of your pocket and closes around something small — your enamel ferry pin, the one from your very first shift, belonging to the family business. The metal’s dulled and the backing is loose, but the weight of it feels like everything you’ve been holding in.

You hesitate only a moment before you set it down between two stones, nestling it beside the knife and the ribbon like you're adding to an altar you hadn’t realized he’d built.

Then, using your index finger, you drag a line through the sand beside the offerings. It starts as an oval circle, round and oversized, and then you give it flippers, a belly, and an exaggerated frown that hooks comically toward its chin. Two tiny dots for eyes, drawn close together with a tight squiggle between them, a makeshift furrow where no brows exist, and curly whiskers of course. A giant, miserable seal stares back at you from the sand, all pout and slump and silent accusation. You snort despite yourself. It’s terrible. It’s perfect.

You whistle. A low, rising note that used to send ripples across the water, used to make him appear like something conjured. It hangs there in the salty air, stretching out toward the horizon, unanswered.

The wind pulls at your hair. The sea keeps its secrets.

You wait longer than you should. Long enough for the cold to settle under your fingernails, for your hope to thin out into something quieter.

And then, finally, you stand. Brush the sand from your palms. Turn back toward the path and go back home.

The departure for summer break isn’t the relief of the finish line everyone else made it out to be. Your roommates had been buzzing about it for weeks — finishing final submissions, stealing extra dining hall muffins, swapping playlists for their train rides home, romanticizing porch naps and home-cooked meals and feeling proud of a year well survived. They spoke about it like the reward phase of some coming-of-age movie, like they had earned the softness waiting at home.

For you, it’s the world’s slowest walk of shame.

There’s no big exhale. No victory lap. Just the sun biting at the back of your neck and a guilt-shaped stone lodged somewhere under your breastbone. Your suitcase is heavier than the time you left with it, not with books or clothes, but with the silence of multiple failed classes, and a transcript that feels like a wound folded up in your back pocket.

You’ve already told your parents you needed the summer to "reset." They nodded. Didn’t ask. You think that’s worse. Like they’re afraid pressing would crack you open.

You don’t tell them about the grades. About the meetings. About the email with the subject line: "Academic Standing Review." You don’t tell them about the week you spent avoiding the registrar’s office or how you couldn’t sleep without hearing the chime of overdue assignment reminders in your head. Or the way you started flinching at the sound of email notifications altogether. Like the ping alone could pierce skin.

You don’t tell them how you cried in the library bathroom for an hour after your group presentation fell apart. Or how you walked out of your conservation final halfway through because you couldn’t remember the relative humidity range for organic textiles and your hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

Instead, you clean your room. Fold your sketchbook closed without looking at the last page. You pretend. Harder than you’ve ever pretended before. Smile through dinner. Nod when spoken to. Sleep like it’s your only job. You spend a week pretending to be fine.

And then you go to the cove when you feel like you've earned the right to breathe.

You spot him just offshore the first day you return — a sleek dark head bobbing between the waves like a buoy with an agenda. Your heart skips, already caught halfway between hope and apology. But then, as if summoned solely to deny you, he dips back under before you can even part your lips.

You whistle anyway. The tune, meant to be light and teasing, comes out brittle. It cracks at the end.

He doesn’t come.

The next morning, you wake up early and rinse out a chipped enamel bowl, the one he always used to nudge with his nose like a dinner bell. You fill it with sardines and leave it by the tide line like an offering. By evening, they’re gone — but so is he. Again.

Day three, you escalate: you bring the ridiculous honking pink rubber duck he used to steal from your basket when you were in your horse desensitizing era and treat like sacred treasure. You place it in the sand and turn your back with forced indifference, sitting cross-legged and reading an old paperback you aren’t really following.

An hour later, he appears at the edge of your vision. He doesn’t approach — just watches. Stares. Then, without warning, he lunges forward, snatches the duck, and flings himself backward into the surf with an almost theatrical flip of his tail.

Day four, you whistle three times. He surfaces once.

Day five, you wade knee-deep into the water and shout his name. He appears a good thirty feet out and just... floats. Watching. Blinking. Drifting.

Day six, you bring the duck again. He doesn’t come. Later, you find the duck dragged halfway down the beach, left deliberately nose-down in a pile of seaweed.

Day seven, he waits until you’re packing up to surface. You turn around with the folded towel in your arms and catch him mid-dive, as if he’d timed it for maximum annoyance.

It’s become a battle of wills. He’s there, always. Just far enough to be unreachable. Just long enough to remind you he’s choosing this distance.

You whistle. He disappears. You sit. He surfaces. You move closer. He vanishes like smoke. Like he’s punishing you. Or teaching you a lesson. Or just enjoying the torment.

He hadn’t even made you work this hard the first time you met him, when you were fifteen and barefoot and slightly sunburned and he’d come right up to you like the sea itself had sent him.

But now? Now it’s like you have to earn him back.

You don't mind, you keep bouncing back. It’s like all the bad luck in the whole world has found their way to you once you left this creature’s side.

Nothing else is working to remedy this. Not the sleep, not the food, not the long walks with your phone turned off. You’ve done everything the counselors suggested. Advice from Reddit threads bookmarked at 2 a.m., typed by people who’d never met you but somehow still sounded kinder than you could stand. You tried all of it. Traced your breathing. Made gratitude lists. Journaled until the pages bled. Some of it helped for a few seconds, like aspirin against a broken bone. But you’re still unraveling.

You spend your mornings rewriting assignments that no longer count for practice to get better at academic writing. Afternoons rereading course emails with dates burned into your brain like scars. You’ve taken to organizing your notes by color-coded failure — red tabs for zeros, blue for extensions, yellow for all the things you said you’d redo but never did.

Even now, in the refuge of summer, you’re still chasing a version of yourself that keeps vanishing into the surf just like him.

You’re a string pulled tighter and tighter. A rubber band about to snap. Keep waiting for a release that doesn’t come. Even your dreams are full of waiting, missing trains, late exams, searching for classrooms that don’t exist. You wake up breathless, mouth dry. Every day feels like trying to outrun something just out of sight.

And the one place you thought you’d feel safe again won’t let you in.

It’s on the tenth day that you snap.

You come down to the beach after dinner, barefoot, your hoodie damp from where you dropped it in the sink. The sky is lavender and low. Your breath won’t even out, throat raw from holding back everything you can’t name.

He’s there. Lounging on his rock like a king. Indifferent to you.

It's the final straw.

You just crumple. One moment you’re standing there with the whistle still echoing out of your lungs, and the next you’re on your knees in the sand like the weight finally caught up to you mid-step. It’s not graceful. It’s not cinematic. It’s just broken. Pathetic. You curl up tight in the same spot you used to nap in when you were younger, half-shielded by dune grass and shadow, and dig your phone out of your hoodie pocket with hands that won’t stop shaking.

You open the group chat with Tara, Macie, and Simone. Hit record.

"Okay," you whisper, then immediately press the heel of your palm to your eye. "I — fuck, I’m sorry, I know this is so abrupt. I don’t know how to say this. I’m — I feel like I’m gonna fall out of my body or — I don’t know. I didn’t tell you guys. I didn’t tell anyone. I failed. Three classes. Not just badly — like, failed-failed. Like I have meetings and I’m on probation and I can’t — I can’t keep up and I thought if I worked harder it would get better and it didn’t, it just — it just got worse."

You’re crying too hard to sniff. Your breath is hitching like something’s wrong with your lungs. You keep recording.

"I can’t tell my parents. Not — not after I screamed about needing this. How I had to leave, how I was suffocating here and — and now what? I come back with nothing but a GPA circling the drain and I can’t—"

You make a sound like a laugh but it cracks halfway through.

You swallow this part down, but your brain cites it like tacks being rattled around in your skull. And Raf — he won’t even look at me. He won’t come near me. Like I’m nothing. Like I’m gone. I thought maybe — maybe it’s like, object permanence? Like babies? You leave too long and they forget you exist? Maybe he doesn’t remember me. Maybe I left too long and now I’m just—

You cut off with a sob you try to swallow, but it just rattles out of you louder.

"I don't know. I don't know, it's so fucking stupid. I feel so stupid. I thought I was gonna be — fine. Like, I thought I could handle it, just keep my head down and get through it, and now I’m on probation and I don’t even know what that means, not really, like how close am I to getting kicked out? How bad is bad? What happens if I can’t fix it next year, what if I can’t fix anything, what if I already ruined it — ? And I keep telling myself I’m gonna catch up but it just keeps slipping, and I don’t know what I’m doing, I don’t know what any of this was for—"

You choke. Cough. Curl tighter.

Somewhere behind you, the sand explodes in a flurry of movement — snorting, huffing, frantic slapping. A full-body rustle and a high, unmistakable blubbering honk. It’s been happening for a while now, just filtering into your ears after the ringing in them starts fading away the more you let the poison drain by finally talking it out.

You pause the recording. Don’t move. Don’t breathe.

Then you hear it: a wet, frantic percussion — flippers slapping against the sand in a staggered staccato, speeding up like something big and heavy hurtling downhill. It's fast. Too fast. Just chaos and wobble and blind, blubbery urgency. Like someone dropped a weighted water balloon and it decided to sprint.

You barely have time to turn your head before it happens.

He rounds the dune like a meteor with a mission, sand flying in every direction, his eyes wide with purpose and panic. Raf barrels into view like a runaway suitcase filled with guilt and righteous offense. His body jiggles so violently with momentum that every bounce forward looks like he might detonate.

And he doesn’t slow down. If anything, he speeds up.

He slams into your side with the force of someone who’s never learned the meaning of caution, knocking you flat onto your hip with a surprised grunt that bursts out of you like a punched balloon. It’s not gentle. It’s not coordinated. It’s not even particularly graceful.

But it is immediate. And it is him.

The shock of it jolts something loose in your chest. Your panic attack hiccups. Stalls. You suck in a breath that almost turns into a laugh. Almost.

He shoves his nose under your arm with a whimper and settles his full, ridiculous weight against your ribs.

You let the sobs come in full this time, but they’re softer now. Messy. Grateful. Raf makes a warbling, almost defeated sound, then promptly rolls onto his back like he’s surrendering to fate itself. One flipper flops out like he’s fainting. The other tucks to his chest. His stomach rises like a little hill of warmth and resignation.

You blink at him, chest still heaving, nose running, and before you can think twice, you collapse onto him like he’s a novelty beanbag chair you’ve been emotionally blackmailed into needing, it's a travel pillow made of grief and blubber and the kind that will most likely scurry away once you’re okay again.

By your second year, the returns aren’t marked by breakdowns or urgent flights from failure. They creep in like late rain. Unannounced. Not unwelcome, but damp with something you can’t quite shake off.

The travel is tiring in the dullest way — long waits, bad vending machine coffee, a stiffness in your back from sitting still for too long while your mind keeps moving, always spinning on what you should’ve done differently. There’s nothing glorious about it. You arrive with skin that smells like someone else’s laundry soap and a mind still half-occupied by half-finished drafts.

You’ve started disciplining yourself not to go back home often. Not every setback is a reason to run. Not every bad grade should end at the cove. You tell yourself this like it’s a rule, a boundary, a growing pain. The windows to return feel narrower now, less like open arms, more like checkpoints you have to earn your way through.

You think, if you treat it like medicine, measured and sparing, it’ll mean more. That it’ll hurt less to stay away if you’ve decided to do it on purpose. It’s an experiment in self-control. In learning to stand on your own two feet. You even write it down in your planner like a mantra: "Earn your quiet. Don’t escape to it."

But the restraint frays at the edges the longer it holds when it comes to the kind of silence that grows between living things when time stretches too far. Not quite a grudge. Not affection either. Just distance that’s had too much time to settle in its shape. That’s what you and Raf become. A shape that no longer fits the way it used to.

You think about the story your parents used to tell when they wanted to scare you and your siblings off your recurring "I want a pet" phases — the one about the cat they had to rehome when Mom got pregnant with your oldest brother. It used to sleep above Mom’s head every night, curled like a question mark on her pillow, purring against her scalp. They’d had her for years. She was part of the household. Then, overnight, she wasn’t.

Your parents didn’t sugarcoat it. The cat never forgave them. The neighbor said she’d hiss if she so much as smelled Mom’s perfume. She’d turn her back whenever Dad entered the room. Once, she growled loud enough to make Mom cry.

That story used to make you cry. Now it just makes sense.

You wonder if Raf has the same mechanism wired deep inside him — not quite revenge, not memory in the way people understand it, but something animal and old that withholds affection not out of cruelty, but out of instinct. A quiet kind of rejection. A closing off. Something cold-blooded in the way he recognizes you, but doesn’t rise to meet you. That primitive, wordless ability to turn away and mean it.

You try to explain it to yourself the way a naturalist might: that bonds can decay in the wild when time goes unaccounted for. That animals forget scent, forget the way something felt when it was constant. Even social species will let go of their own after too long apart. In flocks. In herds. Maybe this is just that — an adaptation. A recalibration. Nothing personal.

But it feels personal.

You tell yourself you haven’t cried over it. That you’re grown now. You know what he is. But every time he stays in the water, every time he looks at you and doesn’t move, it stings. Not like punishment. Like being erased from something you thought was permanent. Like being forgotten by someone who used to run toward you with open arms — or flippers.

He’s adjusted to the long gaps. You can tell. He doesn’t pace the shore or look toward the house. He’s not waiting. But he knows when you come back. He always knows.

When you come back in the autumn — briefly, for the week the university grants between midterms and burn-out — he doesn’t rush to the shoreline. He’s out in the water when you arrive, bobbing just past the drop-off like he’s part of the sea itself. You whistle once. He doesn’t respond with the same matching melodied chirps. Just snorts in response, slow and unbothered. You sit on the sand anyway, shivering through your hoodie, and talk about how you’re passing now. Barely. But still.

The sky darkens. He doesn’t come closer.

When you stand to leave, he’s gone.

You tell yourself it’s okay. You’d already decided not to need him the way you used to and start relying on the companionship of human beings like your roommates. But even then, you still find yourself slipping little things into the beach when he’s not looking — offerings without ceremony. A piece of your sandwich. A bandana that smells like you. Once, a silly pebble shaped like a heart that you almost pocketed but didn’t. You leave them near where you sit and pretend not to watch.

Sometimes, they vanish. Sometimes, they don’t. But the next time you return, there's something different. Arranged driftwood in a crooked ring. A crab shell turned upright like a bowl. That pebble in the middle of that bowl.

You try not to read into it, but the pattern starts to form. You leave something. He answers. Never directly. But clearly.

So it becomes a back-and-forth. You bring objects. He rearranges the shore. Maybe leaves something in return like a weird trading conversation. It's not forgiveness. It's not closeness. But it's something. Like playing a slow-motion game across weeks and waves. Like he's reminding you that while he might not come close, he hasn’t forgotten how to speak to you.

You start playing back. You bring him things that are more intentional now — not random. A pink shell shaped like a comma. A bottle cap with a fish on it. You leave them in a particular corner of the cove, beside a rock he used to sun himself on.

When you return, they’re stacked differently, like he's shifted them with his nose. Once, you find the bottle cap perched carefully atop a stone like a crown.

It becomes a game with no score. You never talk about it, of course. You never even look at him when you do it. But he knows. And he answers.

Winter comes. You don’t make it home. Snowed in by assignments. Stranded by train delays and emails that stack up like debt. You keep a seal keychain clipped to your backpack. Talk to it sometimes when the dining hall’s too loud. It smells faintly like sunscreen and stress.

Spring break, you visit again. He meets you halfway down the beach this time. Doesn’t wait on his rock. Doesn’t flinch when you sit. You watch him nap for a full hour just as how things used to be like it’s a sacred ritual, your fingers itching to pet him, but feeling like you're probably not allowed to do that anymore.

Later, as you’re brushing the sand from your jeans and readying to leave, you notice something at your feet. A shell you didn’t bring. Pale and ridged, curved like a crescent moon. Nestled into the print your heel left behind.

And so it goes.

The summer before your fourth year arrives with more noise than usual. There’s luggage on the porch that doesn’t belong to you. Voices in the hallway. Bright sandals left by the door. The smell of someone else’s shampoo in the bathroom and the clatter of your name being called from the kitchen in someone else’s cadence.

You brought them here — Theo, and the girls.

It still feels strange to say it in your head that way. Theo, and the girls. As if he’s earned his own category. As if he belongs to the orbit that’s always just been yours. Like naming him among them makes it more permanent, more real than you’re used to admitting.

Theo... Your first ever boyfriend, is a law major with immaculate notes and a resting face so unreadable it makes you want to fluster him on purpose. You only met because of an elective you got roped into by the girls — something general and discussion-heavy that promised easy credit and turned out to be anything but. The kind of course where you had to talk more than listen. Where participation was part of your grade, and no one let you disappear into your own thoughts.

You sat across from him, expecting nothing. But Theo asked questions like he wanted the long answer, like he was collecting your words instead of waiting for his turn to speak. You remember the way he used to furrow his brow when you talked about maritime heritage and museum archiving in that offhanded way you did — like your interest wasn’t worth noting, so you just cut your ideas short so the next person could start talking. He disagreed. Kindly. Plainly. Made you feel your voice belonged in the room.

Perhaps it was the constant turn of his head to your direction that pulled you in. Recognition and acknowledgment after being deprived of it.

It started small. Shared readings. Group projects. Walks back from lectures when the hallway buzz had quieted. Jokes over cafeteria food that weren’t really jokes. You noticed how he took up space without pressing against yours, how he listened without waiting to speak. He had this way of holding silence after you said something, like he was letting the weight of it settle before he answered. Until one day he showed up outside your studio with a coffee you didn’t know he knew you liked.

And slowly, it became a thing. Not a crush. Not fireworks. Just a closeness you didn’t pull away from. You didn’t even realize that’s what was happening. It wasn’t a thunderclap. It wasn’t even a spark. It was more like a slow tide pulling up to your ankles — gradual and persistent. Letting yourself be comfortable. Letting someone stay.

So, your answer was an automatic "Yes," when he asked if you wanted to go out with him.

There was a safety in it. Someone to text when your class let out early, someone to split snacks with at the library, someone to carry your bag when you were too tired to ask. Someone to go eat out with when you’d otherwise stay inside because the act of being perceived felt too sharp that day. Someone who sat next to you on the train and didn't feel the need to fill the silence. You didn’t feel the burn of longing around him, and that felt... sustainable. Manageable. It felt like something you could keep without breaking it.

So when summer came, and the suggestion floated — "What if we went somewhere quiet?" — you offered.

You talked it up the way someone talks about a childhood pet they’re not sure is still alive, all warmth and vague descriptions. “It’s peaceful,” you said. “You’ll like it.”

They were curious. Of course they were. Macie wanted to swim. Simone asked about your favorite tidepool spots. Tara just smiled and told you it’d be good for you to breathe island air again. Theo didn’t push to know more about your life back at home. He just held your hand under the table when you brought it up to them, like the decision had already been made the moment you opened your mouth.

When they asked about Raf, you lied without blinking. Told them he didn’t always stick around this time of year — something about seasonal wandering, maybe mating behaviors. You said it like you’d read it in an article, even though you hadn’t. Even though you knew exactly where he would be if he were around.

Not because you were hiding him. Not really. Your girls already knew about your seal friend because you wouldn’t shut up about him. Your wallpaper and lockscreen were both of him, after all. Not to mention the album on your phone titled simply: “Cutie.” You’d shown them old videos. Clips of him flopping through the surf, close enough to touch. Of him screaming and making funny noises.

But still. Still. Your friendship with Raf felt too private to be shared with anyone else. Like opening a box you hadn’t touched in too long, afraid the air would ruin what was inside. You were gatekeeping him before you realized there might not even be that much of a friendship left to show off. But that didn’t matter. You still didn’t want to introduce him to them.

Not even your parents had seen you with him. Not really. Not the way he used to follow you through the shallows like a shadow, not the way you used to press your face into his side like a warm, living stone and let the tide rise around you both. He was special and he was yours. You were proud of this connection you had carved out for yourself. Something wild and tender and unsupervised.

So, you don’t take them to the cove.

You pick another beach, one of the broader ones farther down the island — the kind people use for engagement shoots, family barbecues, the kind of place that shows up in someone else’s scrapbook, not your memory. It’s less intimate, less burdened by history. And that’s the whole point.

You tell them it was the easiest to reach. That the sand is fine, the tide pools were especially photogenic in the afternoon light. But deep down, you didn’t pick it for them. You picked it for your own comfort — because you know he wouldn’t be here. He doesn’t like crowds or people at all.

The sand here is pale and packed tight, the color of sifted flour. Flat rocks sit like little stages along the shore, and the tide pools glint with mica and tiny darting fish. Children shriek in the distance. Someone’s playing a bluetooth speaker nearby, something tinny and sun-soaked. The wind doesn’t bite here, it flutters its lashes. Everything about this place feels engineered for memory-making. Safe, palatable, curated. A beach designed to be preserved in pixels.

Theo lifts the cooler with one arm. Simone has the umbrella slung over her shoulder like a rifle. Tara trails behind, her flip-flops slapping rhythmically against the packed sand, laughing like the sun’s already sunk into her bloodstream. Macie’s filming everything — seagulls, a crab fight, the uneven hem of the horizon — and providing a running commentary in that absurd, exaggerated British documentary narrator voice that always makes the rest of you laugh.

You lag behind a few paces, pretending to dig through your tote bag for chapstick. Mostly, you’re watching their silhouettes bob forward, listening for how much of yourself is still tethered to them. You smile when they glance back.

They lay out the towels and start divvying drinks. Theo opens the cooler and gestures for you to pick first. You choose a juice box, half out of nostalgia, half because it’s easy. He leans into your shoulder with a quiet sort of ownership, chin pressing lightly against the curve where your neck meets your collarbone, his hand warm as it slides over your thigh.

The others break off like strands of sea foam — Simone crouching by the tide pools, pointing out green anemones and prodding gently at barnacles with the end of a sunglasses arm, Macie dancing backward to film a reel, Tara announcing she’s going to find “a rock with the most powerful energy.” You sink into the blanket, drink in hand, and pretend the sun is doing its job. The condensation slicks your palm; Theo’s elbow keeps knocking into yours each time he shifts, rummaging in the cooler for his drink.

Someone starts talking about sea glass. Macie thinks the little green shards come from old soda bottles. Simone insists some of it’s from shipwrecks. Tara finds a piece shaped like a heart and says she’s keeping it forever. Theo listens to them like it’s a podcast he’s only half-invested in, but he smiles whenever you laugh.

It feels ordinary. In that stretched, sugar-glazed way summer days do when you don’t look at the clock. You’re halfway through your juice when Macie’s voice cuts the day in two.

“Seal!” she cries, delighted.

You pause mid-sip.

Not startled — more like… struck. That word slices through the ambient noise like a tuning fork. Your body reacts faster than your brain. Somewhere in your chest, a thread pulls taut.

The others are already rushing toward the shore, sneakers kicking up sand. Simone’s got her phone out again. Tara gasps. “It's a chonker!”

“Are they common around here?” Theo’s voice is light as he squints toward the water. “I read something about conservation efforts in the northern colonies — tagging for tracking migratory habits.”

“They haul out sometimes,” you say. Your voice sounds far away. “Usually early in the season.”

You don't notice Tara staring, as if she's trying to ask you why Theo seems to be confused about the seal when it's common knowledge that you haul from a place with a seal population.

“Get a load of this unit,” Simone says, laughing. “That’s not a seal, that’s a sentient ottoman.”

“I’m naming him Barnaby,” Macie announces. "Bernadette if female."

You rise without thinking.

The voices of your friends flatten into background static. Theo’s muttering about population markers again, something about dorsal notches and flipper scarring. Someone suggests a group selfie with the seal in the distance. You’re already stepping past them.

You move toward the shoreline like someone being pulled forward by the collar. The closer you get, the more the light shifts — the kind of shimmer that makes everything blur at the edges, like film that’s been left in the sun too long.

From a distance, it could be any seal. Big, lazy, glinting like riverstone in the tide. But your eyes track instantly to the shape bobbing just beyond the last rock.

You pass Macie, who’s still narrating. “Seriously, look at the spot pattern. He’s like a limited-edition beanbag.”

You stop just at the lip of the water, salt wind catching in your hair. The waves break around your feet like hands brushing past. The light fractures. You squint.

Then he shifts. Just slightly.

A tilt of the head. A flash of familiar scarring on the shoulder area. The slope of the skull. The unruly whiskers. The uneven patch where fur never quite grew back right.

That’s Raf, alright. No question.

What the hell?

It isn’t just that he’s here — it’s that he’s somewhere he never should be.

Raf doesn’t come to beaches like this. You know by heart now that he sticks to his own territory, avoiding crowded places the way skittish animals avoid noise, the way anything too aware of its own edges avoids spectacle. He has always preferred the cove, quiet and thick with sea mist, where nothing moves unless it belongs. Even during summer’s peak, when the whole island feels like a postcard come to life, he stays tucked away, content in his own paradise. You’d have to wait until sunset, until the last paddleboarder left, before he’d even dare surface. Sometimes not even then.

So seeing him now, in daylight, under the loudness of other people’s joy, within reach of clumsy sandals and cell phone lenses…

If you had to explain it, you might say this: that all those things you try to swallow — the loss, the homesickness, the worry — well, it all congeals into the same ache deep beneath your sternum. It manifests physically as if there was a physical place inside your chest cavity where emotion collected like sediment or rust or bruised fruit. It comes out in flickers, in ways you can't control. Things set it off: memories, sounds, smells, sensations you'd grown up being conditioned to associate with nostalgia and happiness in your subconscious, regardless of whether those things actually did make you happy anymore or not — just the trigger stimuli alone would bring about the longing that'd cause tears to prick at your ducts immediately, if only for a second.

Seeing him suddenly brings your feelings surging up in the same abrupt way they do when you're alone in your dorm room, trying to survive finals week. Now that he's there on the other side of the sea when you're over here with new friends surrounding you when it used to be just you two, a familiar tightening sensation unfurls inside, like something getting caught and torn in the cogs of your ribcage. It aches worse than you expected.

"Wait, though. Do we know if that's your seal buddy?" Macie asks, grinning widely. "Do you think I can pet him?"

"It is Raf, and no," you tell her firmly. "Just leave him be."

She gives you a surprised look. "You sure? They don't bite, do they? Or slap?"

"They won't but still..." You gesture vaguely towards the rest of them with a helpless shrug as you attempt to maintain control over your emotions, willing the lump forming at the base of your throat to dissipate.

"Seal buddy?" Theo asks. He's come up to your side without you noticing and has placed a comforting hand on your waist.

"You haven't told him about Raf?" Simone arches an eyebrow, looking amused. "The familiar to your sea witch?"

"C'mon..." you whine, not noticing the look you're being given by your boyfriend.

"Huh," he confirms after studying you intently for several long seconds.

A beat of silence passes between your group, a few questioning glances exchanged, before Theo speaks again, his tone carefully neutral. "We were dating for almost five months and you've never mentioned being friends with a seal?"

You couldn't just say that it naturally didn't come up when you in fact did not stop yapping about Raf to your roommates. It felt... childish. Self-centered, like bragging. Theo had a certain level of maturity beyond what you possessed, so it seemed fitting to keep quiet about how special and close you were with your adorable animal companion rather than risking exposing yourself as someone who talks about seals more someone with a marine biology major. You weren't exactly trying to hide it per se, either, more so keeping the information regarding the subject matter private and away from any potential prying or mocking... or perhaps the feeling itself.

Despite having already shared it with your friends.

…

Yeah, honestly, you don't know why you didn't tell him earlier, now that you think about it. It makes for a particularly awkward silence, as well.

One that gets interrupted by Tara's, "Oh my god, is he coming over here? Look!"

You whip around and indeed see Raf paddling his way onto shallow waters before picking up speed as he closes in on your location.

"That settles it. We gotta film this. Do you think it'd go viral?" Macie says excitedly, pushing play on her camera app while taking aim at you and Raf approaching.

"Viral," you mutter drily under your breath as you slowly start walking deeper into the water with the intent of greeting your friend properly for the first time since arriving at home.

Theo watches from the shoreline silently as everyone else bursts into applause and cheering once Raf arrives and immediately hops closer to you instead of anyone else present despite them attempting to coax him over with promises of food and various petting session offers, something they complain loudly about behind you.

"Hey, you little fucker," you grouse once within earshot, crouching down like a gangster stationed by a random corner on the pavement, elbows on knees. The words hold absolutely zero heat to them. "You've been giving me attitude bigger than your body mass ever since I left and now you decide to hobble on over when I'm with company? Really? You're like my mom trying to keep up appearances when guests come over. Who the heck do you think you are?"

Raf croons and chatters in response, nuzzling your bare legs affectionately before flopping heavily on your feet. He proceeds to roll around in the wet sand, looking every bit of pleased with himself for drawing a laugh from you when he looks up expectantly with wide, adoring dark eyes blinking innocently up at you.

Ha, look at this guy acting cute.

As if you weren't literally deprived of his presence for nearly the entire time you were away because he was too pissed to see your face, you realize with a sharp twang of bitterness, shaking your head in mock annoyance at the unfairness of the situation. What bullshit timing. He has to be doing this on purpose at this point. The big brat.

"Wow," your friends remark in awe simultaneously at the display occurring before their very astonished selves.

"So tame,” Theo remarks.

He pays them no mind whatsoever. Instead, his sole focus remains on you as he rolls upright so he may rear onto hind paws and balance against your bent knee. His whiskers tickle your skin, hot snorts stirring loose strands of hair fallen over your face, dampness from his breath transferring to your forehead. It's like he's giving you a vibe-check, sniffing you all over with little to no care towards the peanut gallery currently filming everything happening.

"This is fascinating," Theo comments from somewhere nearby, likely observing your interactions closely together with Tara and the rest. He comes to crouch beside you for a closer look. "I honestly thought they wouldn't engage humans unless approached first. Then again, I guess you've managed to build enough trust with that one to encourage friendly interaction..."

It's almost in slow motion that Raf turns his head towards your boyfriend, and to your absolute shock, curls his back in a way you've never see him do before, baring his teeth at Theo in the most hostile display you've ever seen from a creature known to have such a placid temperament.

It's when the unfamiliar purring-rumble starts rising from his throat that you come back to reality and tilt your body away from a jaw-dropped Theo, effectively making a barrier between the two. "Oh my god, no, Theo, I'm so sorry! Please back off, okay? Just take a couple steps back, please, and I'll handle this—"

The rumble becomes louder, sharper. To the surprise of everyone present, Raf crawls over your leg and hip possessively like a large lapdog might climb into a couch and lie on their owner for warmth, deliberately placing himself in between you and a wide-eyed Theo, staring pointedly at your boyfriend until he backs away completely to rejoin the girls watching with horrified fascination on the beach. You breathe a sigh of relief knowing he did not bite nor hit anyone in his frenzy.

It takes you pulling back to sit flat on your butt that he relents finally and allows you to maneuver him onto your lap so you may bury fingers deep into the thick, dense fur around his neck area and massage him into calm submission. "What is with you today," you reprimand softly as the aggressive sounds gradually subside into gentle yips. "I thought you forgot me or something, and now look at you. Like no time passed at all."

Raf doesn't seem apologetic in the least, if the way he snuggles even closer in your arms and throws in a lick across your cheekbone indicates anything. With his chin hooked securely over your shoulder, tail thumping loudly against the water splashing quietly against your entangled legs, it seems pretty evident he has no plans of going anywhere anytime soon.

"I know I shouldn’t be surprised after seeing everything on your phone, but are seals really supposed to behave like this?" Macie asks aloud uncertainly, putting her camera down.

You shrug, absently continuing to knead downwards along Raf's side. He shifts under your hands, the smooth, slippery texture of his skin bunching under your fingertips pleasantly as he leans further into you with increasing insistence.

"He's just domesticated," Simone offers, coming closer to better assess the situation. "Look, he's not food motivated."

"An expert family friend of mine told me I could have formed a small pod with him without knowing it. Like, a unit of a colony."

"Like a bonded pair?" Tara joins in.

"Maybe the word you're looking for is just bonded. He could have imprinted on her. Like a duck," Theo adds helpfully, gesturing to where you've now begun rubbing down your sulky seal friend's tummy while he rolls over unashamedly on his back for easier access. He's got his phone on his hand, gesturing to some article he found in no time. "This says young pups follow people they initially attach to for several minutes after birth sometimes and perceive them to be their mother. When exposed to higher levels of maternal influence after development, the bond grows stronger than it would have otherwise been possible to sustain by nature alone."

Raf grumbles soft under his breath, seeming disgruntled. What the fuck does he have to sigh about like that as if he's a single mom who works two jobs? He's not even an arctic seal who has to deal with diabolical orcas gunning after him 24/7.

But you're more concerned with this scene unfolding right now when you barely had any interaction with Raf over the past couple of years. He's being clingy when it was so obvious he was being distant and cold like a normal person would've behaved after a falling out...

And yes, it does sting quite badly for having the reunion be made to witness and scrutinized over by near-total strangers while your friends are having a conversation about seal behavior and looking things up on the internet in the background.

It really hurts even more since you expected a much earlier reception given your efforts at reconciliation... and then here comes Raf randomly deciding he's now okay on a random day for seemingly no reason whatsoever. Talk about emotional whiplash. What happened to the sulking and stubborn refusal to interact? Where did that go?

Well. Better late than never?

Hours pass. Eventually, the beach is emptying out.

The laughter is gone, or far enough to feel like it. Distant chatter rides the salt wind, but it doesn’t reach you, not really. The sky has bruised into mauve, sea lavender and charcoal layered thin across the horizon, all color is being dragged out like a damp cloth wrung slow.

Macie was the first to suggest heading back when the sour mood of Theo didn’t get any better, already talking about post-beach showers and cooking for your parents who’ve yet to return from the ferry for having them over. Simone followed with a promise to upload the best photos. Tara stayed behind just a little longer, watching you in that gentle, perceptive way of hers, before slipping away to give the two of you a space. Your towel is still damp beneath you, your bag a mess of half-unpacked things. And Raf hasn't budged from your side, pressed warm and firm into your hip as if anchoring you to this exact spot.

Theo stands a few feet away, arms crossed, half-turned toward the sea. He hasn’t spoken in minutes. You can feel it brewing though, like pressure in your ears before a storm.

When he finally does speak, he doesn’t raise his voice, but there’s a moderated accusation to it that makes your stomach tighten. “So... were you ever planning to tell me about him?”

You keep your eyes on your towel, fingers worrying at a loose thread that’s already frayed beyond saving. “It's not like I was keeping it from you, it must have just slipped my mind to mention it or something.”

He shifts, crossing and uncrossing his arms, feet grinding into the sand with impatient little pivots. “That’s not the part I’m stuck on,” he says, voice level. “It’s that everyone else knew. It didn't slip your mind with them.”

You lift your gaze briefly, catching his silhouette framed in the bleeding dusk. “I really wasn’t trying to hide him or something. I don’t talk about a lot of things.”

Theo’s shoulders fall with a tired breath. He’s not angry. Just tired. “Yeah. I’ve noticed.”

The air between you feels suddenly thinner.

You turn toward him fully. He’s wearing the expression you’ve come to recognize when he’s calculating every word before he says it. It’s hard to tell if it’s a personality trait or something his law professors taught him.

“I didn’t tell you about Raf because I didn’t know how,” you admit, the words small, almost fragile. “He was my best friend for years. And then... he wasn’t. I haven't properly spent time with him for three years now, the best I do is just seal watching from afar, and that's whenever I get home, which is. Sparse.”

He doesn’t interrupt. He just listens, jaw flexed.

“And then today, out of nowhere, he’s back. Like nothing happened. It's like my first proper interaction with him in forever.”

“I’m not asking for a play-by-play. I just want to know why you couldn’t share that part of your life with me. You're changing the subject.”

“I don't know,” you mutter, rubbing your palm against your leg. “It didn't occur to me I could. And I liked... I liked how clean things were with you.”

His brow knits. “Clean?”

“Like I didn’t have to unpack the past every time we talked. I could just be in the moment. Maybe that's why it didn't cross my mind at all.”

Theo exhales through his nose, dragging a hand through his hair with restless fingers. “And what moment are we even in now?”

You blink at him, the question hanging too heavily to dodge.

“Because I’ve been your boyfriend for five months—"

The seal in your lap jerks so suddenly as if shaken up from deep sleep to do a double-take between you and Theo with a distinct sputter and a sneeze, and you momentarily miss some of what's being said to you from watching the weird flailing in front of you.

"—sometimes I still feel like I’m waiting to become one. You sit beside me. You let me hold your hand. You even sleep next to me. But half the time, I feel like I’m dating someone who’s barely in the room.”

“That’s not fair—”

“Isn’t it? You’re nice to me. You show up. You laugh. You don’t want to hurt me, I know that. But it’s like I’m an accessory in your day, not a person you’re choosing.”

Your gaze drops. Raf is staring off into the distance like a shell-shocked war veteran for some reason and you swear his eyes are about to look in different directions.

Theo watches your fingers curl into the seal’s coat.

“Do you even like me?”

Your head snaps up. “Of course I do.”

His next words are quieter. “I mean... do you like me? Not just the idea of being with someone. Not just what I represent, or how I don’t ask too much. Do you like me?”

You part your lips, the response on the tip of your tongue — except it isn’t. The panic hits before the words come, tightening your chest, making the air feel wrong in your lungs.

Theo closes his eyes like he already has the answer.

“I think I’ve been trying really hard not to admit how one-sided this feels,” he says. “But I can’t do that forever.”

You reach toward him — instinctively, helplessly. Your hand hovers mid-air.

“Listen, Theo, I didn’t mean to—”

“I know,” he says quickly. His face twists for a fraction of a second. “I know you didn’t. That’s the thing. You’re not cruel. You just... keep your distance. You never come to me for anything. Not once. I know you’re struggling with your classes. You get weird when someone mentions midterms. You disappear for days when grades drop, and when I ask how you’re doing, you say ‘fine’ like a robot. You don’t talk to me about any of these things.”

“I don’t need to dump that stuff on you.”

“It’s not dumping if I’m your boyfriend,” Theo says, caught between ache and frustration. “You don’t lean on me. You don’t share anything with me. I’m just... here. Being reminded I’m that insignificant and held at arm’s length every. Single. Day.”

Raf shifts again. There is a slowness to his breathing, a cadence like the tide. If he is listening, you cannot tell.

Your throat feels too tight. Theo sees it before you manage an answer.

He sighs. It sounds weary, like someone reaching the bottom stair.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. Everything in you wants to refute it, deny him. But you know it wouldn't matter, because he isn't asking questions anymore; he's stating facts. And somehow, that makes everything worse.

You pick anxiously at the dead skin at your thumb's cuticles until the urge to apologize overwhelms everything else.

"I'm so—"

Theo raises his hand abruptly, stopping you short. "Don't. I don't need an apology."

A beat passes in uncomfortable silence. Raf grumbles, unhappy.

"Then what do you need?" You mumble under your breath.

"For you to see me as your person," Theo responds bluntly, staring intently down at your stunned features. "Or maybe just as someone who matters more than the stupid seal on your lap you're petting like a dog while having an important discussion."

You wince as if scalded, retracting your hands. "I don’t, I—!"

"Then look me in the fucking face when you speak to me," he barks harshly, scowl growing increasingly prominent. You've only seen Theo mad once or twice before, but he doesn't explode or break things. His anger is contained and icy cold instead. Raf doesn't like the way he's raising his voice at you, his huffing is getting more frequent now. "Or maybe stop sitting there like the victim and give me the courtesy of standing up and talking to me with actual intention rather than treat our relationship like some hobby you take on between finishing whatever homework is due? How would you feel if I treated you like a second choice friend whenever we meet up together? Think carefully."

There's something final about the way he ends the sentence, like shutting a door. Or snapping shut a notebook. Like wrapping up a case and moving on. For someone so impossibly empathic, so effortlessly considerate, you wonder if he finally reached the end of his rope. If you had worn him down, after all.

"I'm sorry," you find yourself saying anyway, hoping he would be kind enough to accept the olive branch.

But Theo only shakes his head slowly with lips thinned in repressed irritation. "Don't do that," he cuts you off curtly. "I told you I don't want apologies."

Something tenses in your gut. Maybe it's guilt. Maybe shame. It sours too quickly for you to sort it out.

Raf has been statue-rigid for a while now, his body coiled tight underneath your palm resting just over his ribcage — sensing the discordance, no doubt, alerted by the spike in tensions among the two of you.

"I think we need to rethink this whole thing," Theo says, looking directly at you with solemn, resolute conviction gleaming in his eyes. You understand what it means immediately. It isn't anger so much as sadness that draws itself around him, making his shoulders round, his mouth stern. He rubs a knuckle absently against his temple. "I seriously need some space. I can't keep putting in effort on my end while getting practically nothing back on yours. Frankly, it's been taxing and frustrating beyond belief."

"We could—" you pause, realizing there's absolutely nothing you can offer that would be viable. You don't have the same qualifications to make things work out as he did, nor can you convince him otherwise knowing this much of what you put him through. It wouldn't be fair to either of you. So all that's left for you to say is: "Is there anything I can do to fix this? Do you want me to..."

There is nothing more pathetic to finish your sentences with besides crying, begging and offering ultimatums — and none of those are appealing options.

"Look," Theo says, visibly restraining himself from pacing the way you've seen him do whenever frustrated with a difficult case to crack, and you feel horrible knowing full well that most of your interactions will likely leave him feeling this way. "I appreciate what we had over these past few months... It was good to spend time with you. But honestly, it'd just be healthier for us both if we put it on hold right now until you figure out what it is that you really want, and then I'll reopen negotiations."

Silence follows for a brief moment. Raf lets out a long whine, which causes you to snap out of the funk of despondency you momentarily sunk into, remembering he's still very much present, listening to everything, perhaps like a child overhearing his parents arguing.

"Okay," you croak, suddenly feeling unworthy of your boyfriend's presence. "Yeah, okay, I get it."

You don't even get the last part of your sentence out, which was thanking him for being patient with you before he's talking again.

"I'm gonna try to catch the last ferry," he tells you calmly despite the heartbreaking disappointment written all over his features. You nod along mechanically without meeting his searching stare, looking downwards in avoidance. There's a twinge of resentment at yourself for treating someone as wonderful as him this way, regardless of whether your actions were consciously intentional or not. "It's been nice here but the space thing, you know... Give my apologies to your parents and tell them it was a family emergency. I’ll talk to the others.”

All you can do is bob your head woodenly as an acknowledgment while keeping your line of sight trained elsewhere lest he notice the tears beginning to build up inside your lower eyelids. Everything feels wrong in this exact moment, like nothing you could've done or said will rectify anything.

His footsteps retreat away after a short silence, the distinct sound of the plastic handle on the cooler creaking softly under its increasing pressure, sand rustling audibly underneath.

Then you're alone — truly alone — for the first time in hours. The breeze kicks up, salty and cool off the water. You wait till the crunching pauses; until Theo reaches the place where footpath meets pavement, out of earshot. Until the world contracts around you. You let out a shaky sob, one fist digging into Raf's coat. A series of pitiful squeaks respond.

"I got dumped over a seal," you wheeze out shakily, fingers clenching deeper into damp fur.

You realize it's more than that, but the shock numbs everything else. You not mentioning Raf to Theo somehow snowballing into being perceived as emotionally distant and disengaged is such a surreal thought to contemplate that it takes awhile for your brain to catch up.

Your stomach knots so tight that you bend double, forehead dropping against your knuckles. Raf brings his nose to rest at your temple. Wet heat slides along your cheekbone, snuffles once, then again, the edge of his whiskers twitching against your temple like he’s thinking hard. He lets out a chuff, a ridiculous, gravelly little exhale that vibrates against your skin. You don’t know if he’s annoyed, apologizing, or just reacting to the taste of your tears.

You sniff. Wipe your face with the back of your wrist. “You’re really a homewrecker.”

He makes a low, rumbling sound in his chest.

“Don’t sass me,” you whisper.

But the way he edges in closer, until your whole side is engulfed in damp fur and quiet warmth, makes your throat seize. You shut your eyes. Let your fingers dig into the pelt at his shoulder, where his scar discolors the fur. Your grip trembles.

“But I really didn’t think he’d leave,” you say, barely audible.

Raf’s head nudges under your chin, blunt and persistent, until you have no choice but to raise your face again. He’s looking up at you with that same familiar gravity behind his eyes that always made you feel seen. Not observed. Seen.

And it unnerves you a little.

“I didn’t think you’d come back either,” you admit, voice cracking. “So I guess it’s somewhat of a law of equivalence.”

He presses his forehead to yours, gently, like something instinctive and unceremonious. You feel he’s not trying to comfort you so much as just… be there. And for a second, it really does feel like time folded back in on itself, and you’re seventeen again with sand in your socks and unburdened giddiness in your chest, laughing into his neck after some awful day at school like he was the only part of your world that made sense.

“I missed you a lot though, buddy,” you whisper. You’re not sure whether it’s a confession or an accusation. Maybe both. Underlying with the strange emptiness of what this separation means to you. The fact that you’re here with Raf right now means a lot more than Theo leaving you. And you’re not sure how to feel about that other than the fact that you must be a grade A douche.

Usually it’s a man that exhibits this behavior. You don’t know how to feel about that, either.

Raf noses your collarbone, then burrows closer with a dramatic grunt. Like he never left. Like this spot — your side, your lap, your shoulder — is still his, and he’s reclaiming it without apology.

You laugh, but it cracks open into something hoarse. Something wet. An egg dropping an embryo to the pan instead of yolk. You bury your face in his neck like it’s the only place left you can do that safely. He smells like salt and sand and the faintest undertone of seaweed, but his warmth remains unchanged.

You don’t know if you should be angry with him or grateful. He might’ve cost you your relationship. Or maybe he served you a lesson about one that was always a little too one-sided. You don’t know. You don’t know anything except that he’s here now, curled into your ribs like a message in a bottle finally finding its destination.

You sigh into him, your voice small. “You really couldn’t have picked yesterday to be emotionally available, huh?”

Raf whines softly. Rolls to his back and kicks his flippers like he’s throwing a tantrum. His belly’s damp and ridiculous and offered to you like a truce.

You let out a snort and swipe at your eyes.

“I can’t believe this is my life.”

You flop onto your back beside him as the tide kisses at your ankles again, more gentle now. As if the sea itself is easing back. Raf’s breathing slows, matching yours.

And in the quiet between waves, you think, not for the first time, not for the last, that maybe he came back because he knew this moment was coming. That maybe he knew you’d need him, right here, right now.

Some part of you says, Nah, he’s a homewrecker.

You graduate, and eventually end up right back on where you started with your shoulders braced like someone expecting to be hit.

You don’t join the cap throwing ceremony, or any other party with the excuse you unfortunately don’t have time for any of that. You get your diploma like it’s a shady deal in an alleyway and go your own way.

The thought of maybe — maybe — coming back home for the last time would feel like slipping into warm water is at the back of your mind — strange at first, but comforting once your body adjusts.

It doesn’t.

The sea greets you the same way it always has — without ceremony, without apology. Not like a mother welcoming her child, but like an old employer who never removed your name from the roster. You step off the boat with all your belongings, and the wind claps you on the back, and the salt is in your mouth before you even say “I’m home,” as if to tell you to get back to work.

That’s all there is to it. Slap the, “That’s all folks!” title card on it.

The sea still smells the same — wet iron, salt, the distant sweetness of fish — but it doesn’t comfort you. It clings like dead weight you have to carry on your back, stains your clothes, settles in your hair, crusts behind your ears like it’s trying to remind you: you belong here. Like it never really let you go. Like you’re Sisyphus rolling his boulder up the hill as always, except you drag it around like a pet rock now, one that is visible to everyone. One everyone recognizes.

You’re the girl who left. The one who came back with nothing.

You wanted to leave, though. God, you had wanted out so badly.

So you picked something clean. Something quiet and shiny that didn’t come with fish guts and engine grease. Museum studies. Archival work. Something that would let you tell stories about the sea without having to live inside its salt-stung grip. Something you could point to and say: See? I made it out. I became someone else.

You imagined glass cases and curated lighting. Climate control and respectability. People in linen suits asking for your opinion on preservation techniques. You imagined being good at it. Sharp. Polished. Like you were a cultured socialite and your hands had never once smelled of fish and that white-collars didn’t look down at you as though you were a second-class citizen for it. You clung to that dream like it was a life raft. Like it would keep you from becoming Dad, Mom, your whole line of weary sea-anchored ghosts.

University didn’t spit you out so much as it starved you slowly.

You told yourself it would be delicate — artifacts and silk gloves, white walls and whispered, distinguished voices of explanation and storytelling. But you weren’t ready for how different it would feel to be constantly behind. Always catching up. You watched people glide through it all — the lectures, the essays, the study abroad placements — like they were born into it. You weren’t.

You didn’t speak the language. You wrote too plainly, too tangibly. You didn’t know how to dress your thoughts up in academic language or play the intellectual performance they all seemed to have memorized. You didn’t know how to use a theory as a shield or a weapon, didn’t know how to say absolutely nothing in five polished pages. Your sentences were called “too literal.” Your ideas “lacked depth.” You began second-guessing everything you wrote. Every time you turned in a paper, you waited for it to come back bleeding red, like a wound reopening.

You sat in the back and took notes while others quoted theorists by name, confident and smooth and laughing with professors after class like they were friends while you could curl into a shrimp trying to show respect to their profession. That’s what you were taught. You didn’t know you had to ‘befriend’ those professors to get to places. Didn’t even know it was an option in the first place.

You stayed up until your eyes burned. Took out loans that made your stomach twist. Lived on discount noodles and cold coffee while kids in pressed coats talked about internships their relatives arranged for them in cities lacquered with prestige — all colonnades, opera houses, and museums with wings named after patrons whose names you’d only ever seen etched in gold above arched doorways. They breezed into networking events while you stood near the drinks table, gripping your plastic cup and trying not to sweat through your only decent shirt.

You couldn’t afford the unpaid internship your program said was "essential." You tried. God, you tried. Sent emails. Wrote cover letters. Offered to do anything, even just data entry. But you weren’t the kind of student they wanted — no fancy last name, no family connections, no recommendations from tenured faculty who actually remembered your face. You weren’t someone they saw potential in. You were just... competent. Just fine.

You spent a whole semester trying to figure out your thesis — circling topics like a vulture over carrion. And per usual, everyone else seemed to already know what they were writing about, already had advisors clapping them on the back, already had titles that sounded like published books. You kept second-guessing yourself. Too narrow, too vague, too personal. Everything you proposed sounded childish out loud, stripped of the wonder you felt privately.

Eventually, you landed on something about regional maritime artifacts and their cultural displacement — a fancy way of saying: the things that reminded you of home, stolen and pinned to museum walls. You thought it might be enough.

It wasn't.

Your advisor called it "charming but unfocused." You rewrote it four times. Each time it became less yours. By the end, you barely recognized what you were arguing. It passed, technically. You walked the stage. But it didn’t feel like a win. It felt like crawling across the finish line on bloodied knees.

You went to info sessions and forced yourself to shake hands. You printed business cards and smiled until your jaw ached. You went to office hours and tried to form a rapport with professors who always seemed to be glancing past you. You sat in lobbies for interviews you never heard back from. You applied for conference scholarships and didn’t get them, starting to realize there were doors you simply weren’t meant to walk through.

Your professors were polite. Detached. "Consider a gap year," one of them suggested, when your final project fell short. Another one smiled and told you that museum work was competitive — very competitive — and that maybe you should consider broadening your horizons. Maybe try the local heritage angle. Maybe lean into your background.

You knew what that meant.

Not giving up that easily, you toured gallery basements and museum backrooms during student field trips — rooms lined with crates and relics you weren’t allowed to touch. You watched a conservator handle a centuries-old scroll with hands steadier than yours would ever be. Every inch of the job looked holy from the outside, like something sacred you might be allowed to enter if you studied hard enough. But behind the velvet ropes and institutional polish, you started to see the cracks.

There were whispered complaints about underfunding. Stories of interns made to catalog entire collections alone. Older curators who treated provenance like personal territory. You volunteered once at a small regional museum just to get experience and ended up cleaning display glass and scrubbing exhibit floors. You told yourself it still counted.

And then there were the interviews, where they asked if you'd be comfortable lifting crates, running fundraisers, handling social media, and managing guest tours — all for minimum wage. Positions with beautiful titles and nothing behind them. It started to feel like the job was less about protecting history and more about convincing donors to keep the lights on. The past, you learned, only matters if it’s profitable.

You applied anyway — less out of hope, more like inertia. You tweaked your resume. You Googled synonyms for "passionate" until the word meant nothing. One of them called you in for an interview. You didn’t get it. Another place called you back for a position that paid less than the ferry ever did. You didn’t get it either.

And then Dad fell. Blew out his knee. Couldn’t walk the dock anymore.

You came back because you were broke and tired and humiliated and out of reasons not to. You packed in the middle of the night. Left behind a box of books on your old desk. Deleted the job alerts from your inbox. Told yourself it would just be temporary.

Now you’re here, back in the same boots, walking the same boards, answering the same questions from the same kind of tourists. You’re twenty-something with a degree that means nothing here. A diploma that doesn’t fit in your coat pocket when you’re loading cargo. A piece of paper that couldn't save you. A history of unpaid internships you never got. Professors who’ll forget you in a semester.

The archipelago hadn’t changed. Same bleached dock planks. Same rust-ringed ladders. Same old ferry with its bucking engine and stubborn throttle. And you were the same, too. Worse, maybe. Just older. More tired. A degree heavier. A dream deader.

You don’t know what comes next. There is no next, not really. Just water and wind and the hollow thump of your boots on damp wood. You’re stuck.

And worse — you’re starting to wonder if maybe this is all you’ll ever be.

Not a tragedy. Just another quiet failure folded back into the landscape. The girl who once swore she’d vanish past the horizon, only to wash up years later just like one more piece of flotsam the sea decided to keep.

Slap the, “That’s all folks!” title card on it. Fade to black.

(Except, well. As far as Raf’s concerned, the main titles had only just begun.)

306 notes · View notes

nyrvietmblr · 5 months ago

Text

Muse |

Alexia Putellas x popstar!reader

Warnings: age gap (Alexia is 30, reader is 24). Suggestive but no actual smut. Kinda short.

“Wanna be your muse, wanna be your muse. Let me be your truth… wanna be your muse.”

The home studio blared with your song as you leaned back in your chair, a pen between your teeth, one knee pulled to your chest, the other dangling off the leather seat.

You leaned forward, ready to press play again. The screen showed dozens of different demos—all for the same song. You’d tried layered harmonies, a bassline you’d reworked for hours, and a beat that still felt off somehow. No matter how many things you changed—the vocal phrasing, the tempo, even the reverb on the final chorus—something still didn’t sit right.

“It sounds good, mi amor,” Alexia said, wrapping her arms around your shoulders and pressing a soft kiss into your hair.

“No… it still sounds off,” you murmured, clicking play once more. Again, the faint sound of an electric guitar filled the room.

“See? It… it doesn’t sound like me.” You paused the track, shifting in your seat so you could complain directly to the woman behind you.

“Well, I’m pretty sure that’s you,” she teased.

“Alexia, this is serious. I have deadlines, and I can’t figure out what this song needs,” you said, the stress practically radiating off you.

“Just give it time,” Alexia soothed, gently massaging your tense shoulders. “You’ve been doing this for years. I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”

She was right. You had been doing this for years, which only made it more frustrating that you couldn’t figure out why this song didn’t feel like something you’d written.

“Maybe…” Alexia started. “All you need…” She leaned closer, beginning to lay soft, gentle, innocent kisses along your cheek, then trailing them down to your jaw.

Your eyes narrowed. “Alexia, deadlines,” you reminded her, trying to stay strong. But she was determined.

“Is some… motivation,” she whispered in your ear.

“Ale, we can’t. I’m busy,” you pointed out, gesturing to the demos in front of you.

“Busy and stressed, mi corazón,” she said softly, pushing your hair to the side and kissing the back of your neck.

“Besides… your song is called Muse. Maybe you just need one,” she murmured, her hand gently sliding to your neck.

“Alexia,” you warned, your tone half-hearted.

“Shh… I just want to take care of mi princesa,” she insisted, slowly coaxing you out of your chair and toward your shared bedroom. Before you could protest further, her lips captured yours, silencing any objections.

For the first time that week, you allowed yourself to let go, to relax—thanks to your special little muse.

#woso #woso community #woso fanfics #woso imagine #woso one shot #woso x reader #fcb femení #spain women's national team #alexia putellas #alexia x reader #alexia putellas x reader #nyrvietmblrfics

323 notes · View notes

frequentlykit · 10 days ago

Text

Helping Hand - Bang Chan

Bang Chan x fem!reader

Warnings: None

Genre: Fluff

WC: 1.4k

Summary: While on a work trip to Japan you run into a familiar producer.

A/N: this is my first original fic so please be kind, hope you enjoy! let me know if you have any requests or suggestions. i'll hopefully be posting more and maybe i'll figure out how to make a masterlist at some point.

- kit <3

You weren’t much for flying but when your company asked you to join a work sponsored trip to Japan you couldn’t help but jump on it. Though you’d been working in Seoul for almost a year, you’d never been able to find the time to travel out to Tokyo. And having the whole trip paid for by the company made it even better.

Though they hadn’t splurged for first class tickets, you’d never sat in business class before, not even on your flight to Seoul when you’d first moved there.

You found your seat quickly, a middle seat, wonderful. But as the plane filled up you realized you lucked out and got the whole row to yourself, though it being a red eye flight might have something to do with it.

Now, you weren’t afraid of flying, but you weren’t exactly a fan either. Particularly when it came to take off and landing.

As the plane taxied away from the gate you got comfortable in your seat, putting on your headphones and playing some music hoping to distract yourself from takeoff. You squeeze the armrests as the plane rises and falls before eventually reaching cruising altitude.

Having settled down a little from takeoff, you take the time to look around the plane cabin. A particular passenger catches your attention, black beanie, black sweatshirt, black sweats and sneakers. Though it wasn’t his outfit that caught your attention, it was his face. You’d know it anywhere, you were certain that Bang Chan was sitting in the row across from you, working on his laptop.

At first, you didn’t know what to do. You didn’t want to bother him but you wanted to say something.

“Hey Chris.” You were thankful he didn’t have his headphones on right at that moment because he looked up, turning towards you.

You smiled awkwardly and waved, “Sorry to bother. I just wanted to say I’m a big fan.”

He returned your smile, about as brightly as you’d expect from someone on a red eye flight, “Hi. What is your name?”

“Y/N.”

“Nice to meet you.”

“What is bringing you to Tokyo? It’s not a SKZ thing is it? Though I suppose you’re probably not supposed to tell me if it is.” You laugh quietly at yourself.

“No, it’s just me. We have a week break and I wanted to get out of Seoul. I was going to go to this spa resort Hyunjin told me about for a few days.”

You gasp softly, “You? Taking a break? Who are you and what have you done with Bang Chan?”

He chuckles, “Haha, very funny-” as he was about to continue the person next to him slumped over onto his shoulder. He jumps, turning towards the man and slowly pushing him back to his own seat.

You bite your lip, hesitating before speaking up, “Do you… do you want to join me?”

He looks back over at you and his millisecond of hesitation makes you overthink.

“You don’t have to! I just, I wasn’t trying to- I have more room and you… you don’t have to…” You trail off.

“I appreciate the offer…” he smiles genuinely. “I don’t want to impose.”

“You’re not, I promise.” You wave him over, “I’ve got the whole row.”

He glances between your empty row and his full one, both people beside him sound asleep. You wave him over once again.

He glances down the aisle, making sure the stewardesses are busy, and quickly grabs his backpack and laptop before sliding into the aisle seat next to you.

“I can move over if you want more space.” You offer, already starting to shift to the window seat.

“No, no, you don’t have to move.” He shakes his head, pushing his backpack under the seat and setting his laptop on the tray table.

You can’t help but steal a glance at the screen, seeing that he’s working on song a demo.

“Trying to get a sneak peak?” Chris teases.

You sit back, blushing, “Sorry, couldn’t help it. It’s not like I understand what any of it means...”

“Do you want to listen?” He asks.

“You’d let me?” You raise your eyebrows in surprise.

“It’s a pretty rough demo at the moment and there’s no vocals so I don’t see the harm in letting you hear it,” he holds out his headphones.

You smile, taking them and placing the headphones over your ears. Chris rewinds the track and presses play. It wasn’t what you had expected, much slower, almost sensual. It reminded you of Red Lights a little bit. You could hear where the melody would go and couldn’t wait to find out what the lyrics would be, though knowing Chris it could be years before this song was finished and released fully.

The song ends and you take off the headphones, handing them back to him, “I like it, it’s very you.”

“I think it fits with our style.” He nods.

“I meant you specifically.”

“Me?”

You nod, “Mhm.”

“Why me?”

“You have a very particular… sound, especially for your solo songs.”

“Do I?” He laughs.

“It’s very distinct.” You grin.

“Good to know," he nods, "So, tell me about you.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Why are you heading to Japan?”

“Work trip.” You answer simply.

“What do you do?”

“I’m a photographer.”

“That’s cool, what will you be photographing in Tokyo?”

“I work for a large marketing company and they need pictures of an event they are holding in the city.”

“Very cool.”

Before you knew it, two hours had passed and the captain came over the intercom saying that they were going to begin their descent. Chris started to put away his laptop as you buckle your seatbelt.

You felt your stomach drop as the plane slowly lost altitude and instinctively grabbed for the arm rest, unfortunately for you, Chris already had his arm on it, meaning you grabbed his hand. You pull away quickly, feeling a blush heat your cheeks as you apologize.

“Shit, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to- I just don’t like-”

He cuts off your ramble by taking your hand and squeezing it tightly in his, “Squeeze as hard as you need to.” He smiled gently.

You looked at him, you were surprised but also not at all because this was completely in character for Chris. You were about to say something stupid when the plane dropped again and you sat back in your seat, squeezing his hand hard as you gripped the other arm rest.

The plane landed on the airstrip, Chris didn’t say a word as you continued to hold his hand until the seatbelt sign was turned off. You gathered your things and walked silently off the plane with Chris trailing behind you.

Once you were at the gate you stepped to the side, Chris following suit.

“Uh, thank you… for that. I really appreciate it.”

“Happy to help, a few of the guys don’t really like flying either so I’m used to it.”

“This, uh, this is kind of awkward but can I ask you to sign something? It’s been really cool hanging out with you and I… I don’t know, I want something to remember it by.”

He laughs softly, “As long as you swear I won’t see it on eBay in a few days.”

You giggle, “Cross my heart.”

You pull out the notebook you carry with you and hand it to him with a pen.

“No photocard?” He teases.

“I… I didn’t bring any with me…” You look away as the blush returns to your cheeks.

“I’m just teasing.” He says as he starts to write in the notebook.

He took longer than you expected but after a minute he closes the notebook and hands it back to you, “I would ask for something from you to remember this by but I think the nail imprints on the back of my hand will suffice.”

“I did not grip your hand that hard,” you reach out without thinking and take his hand, inspecting it for marks.

As you let go and look back up at him you see him smiling fondly at you.

“Oh, sorry, I wasn’t thinking-”

He shakes his head, silencing you, “You think too much, sweetheart. You didn't do anything wrong. Maybe I’ll see you around.”

You both wave and he walks off, leaving the airport as you head to baggage claim.

As they find somewhere to sit and wait for your luggage, you open the notebook and find where Chris had signed.

Y/N Thanks for hanging out with me, hopefully I’ll see you around ❤︎ Bang Chan XXX - XXXX use it wisely ;)

He didn’t…

Part 2

don't forget to like and reblog, hope you enjoyed it <3

#bang chan x reader #stray kids x reader #bang chan #skz x reader #bang chan comfort #bang chan fic #stray kids fic #kitfrequentlywrites

168 notes · View notes

tpwk-formula1 · 8 months ago

Note

Hii!! Could i get a deep dish with red sauce, sausage, mushrooms, chicken and basil on my pizza. For drinks i would like to have a beer and a root beer. And a dessert, please with Lewis Hamilton. Thank uu

Lee-Lee's Pizzeria Menu

Deep dish teammates to lovers red sauce rough sex sausage "better not waste a drop" mushrooms "wrong, wanna try again" chicken "awe you thought I'd let you cum that easy" basil "I love watching my cum leak from that pretty pussy" beer edging/ orgasm denial root beer daddy kink dessert yes

Backstory - the reader is Lewis's teammate and her season is going exactly how George's season is going. Set to be in the hotel room right after the Baku GP finished.

TW - rough lewis, fingering, rough blow job, slight squirting, pussy eating, creampie - MINORS DNI

WC 1900+

AN - I'm not gonna lie I am so excited to have gotten my first request! I was working on a demo "request" to try and bring more attention to my request page since it's so new but then I got this notification and instantly jumped ship on the other fic. lol

To this anon thank you for requesting and I hope you love your fic <3

Y/N POV

"Lewis, just shut up," I finally snap after having listened to Lewis bitch and complain for the past 30 minutes. I understood that he had been struggling with his car during the race but after trying to enjoy my podium finish after a rough few races I was getting to my breaking point.

"Are you fucking serious with me right now?" Lewis snapped back and I knew exactly where this was going to lead us.

"Yes," I deadpan staring at Lewis dead in the eye.

"Wrong, wanna try that again," Lewis replied back standing up and crossing the room so he was standing in front of me sitting on the edge of the bed.

"No, I want you to shut up, you're a 7-time world champion you can afford to lose a race," I reply back standing up so Lewis was no longer towering over me. What I didn't take into account was how close that would leave us. I was now chest to chest with Lewis making my breath hitch slightly.

"Get on your knees," Lewis's voice boomed out making me jump slightly before slowly bending to get on my knees.

Lewis and I had always had an interesting relationship, to say the least. We were close on track and knew how to help each other out to get the best outcomes for the team but off the track, we would butt heads a lot. We bicker and we fight but somehow it always ends up with me cumming around Lewis's cock.

He had once asked me if I ever got tired of fighting off whatever we had and I simply just shrugged. I had no idea what we had but I knew I loved the back and forth.

Once I'm comfortably situated on my knees I slowly start pulling down the black Mercedes-branded sweats Lewis had thrown on once we got back into my hotel room.

When I get his sweats all the way off I can see just how hard Lewis is under his briefs. My mouth instantly starts watching wanting to get a taste.

"Please daddy," I whisper taking my eyes from his rather large bulge to making eye contact with Lewis hoping to get what I wanted.

"Go ahead, put your slutty mouth to work," Lewis replied back making he pull him briefs down before gripping onto his hard cock. I lick a strip from the base of his cock to the tip making Lewis shudder slightly.

I pull the tip of Lewis's cock into my mouth making sure to completely coat the sensitive gland with my spit before pulling back and blowing on it slightly watching the goose bumps grow across his skin. I could see Lewis was shaking slightly from the shear pleasure of the cool air.

"Don't be a fucking tease with me," Lewis snapped after a second or so of the cool air.

"Yes daddy," I reply back before taking Lewis's cock completely into my mouth and down my throat not stopping until I've completely bottomed out and I'm left gagging slightly around his cock.

I can feel Lewis's start to tremble slightly letting me know he was enjoying it as much asa I was. When I start bobbing my head and massaging his balls Lewis instantly became a lost cause. He was shaking and gripping onto my hair making sure to fuck nice and hard into my face.

I was a gagging mess letting spit and tear to coat a good portion of my face.

"God, you're such a fucking cock whore for this aren't you," Lewis groans when he looks down and catches a glimpse of my tear-streaked face.

"Fuck," Lewis groaned out before he gave one last hard thrust into my mouth before unleashing a massive load filling my mouth full of his cuk.

"Swallow, better not waste a fucking drop," Lewis said while still softly fucking into my face to ride out the rest of his orgasm. I do my best to swallow the best I can while still having my mouth completely stuffed with Lewis's cock. When he finally pulls out I swallow the last remanding bit of cum before opening my mouth and showing Lewis that it was now empty.

"Good girl," Lewis said while pulling his briefs back up and kicking his sweats to somewhere in the room leaving him in just his briefs having discarded his shirt sometime while he was face fucking me.

Lewis helped me stand before she started stripping me down into nothing but my underwear, which by now are completely soaked through making Lewis smirk before training a finger over my folds making me gasp slightly.

"Please, Daddy," I whine not entirely sure what I was asking for. Lewis just pushed me down on the bed before climbing on top of me and pulling me in for a quick makeout session before trailing his kisses down my jaw, to my tits where he pulls one of my hard nipples into his mouth and starts sucking on it. My back instantly starts arching and I'm already moaning loudly.

When Lewis finally makes it to my soaked pussy he rips my sad excuse of a thong right off my body making me whine at another pair of panties gone at the hands of Lewis.

"I'll buy you new ones soon," Lewis whispers against my heated pussy making me whine.

"Hurry up," I whine and wiggle around trying to urge Lewis to make a move.

Lewis finally starts kissing around my thighs and smooth pussy but never getting close to where I need him the most. When he finally licks a strip from my soaked hole to my achy clit I let out on of the loudest gasps yet.

"Oh," I whine when he continues to tease my clit with the softest and lightly kitten licks possible making me legs shake needy more.

"Daddy please," I whine not being able to handle the teasing.

"God, I love when you get needy for me baby," Lewish whispers before pulling my clit in for a long suck making me moan, finally getting what I had been wanting.

"Fuck," I moan through gasps finding myself growing close to an orgasm already. Lewis caught on which had him speeding up his actions and slipping two fingers into my waiting hole where he finger fucked me right to the edge before pulling back and leaving me to shake in the orgasm that was no longer about to happen.

"Lewis, what the fuck," I groan out sitting myself up slightly to see Lewis better. He instantly set a firm slap down on my pussy for using the wrong name not even having to tell me why I was getting a small punishment.

"Awe, you thought I was gonna let you cum that easy," Lewis said with a smirk before slipping his fingers back into my pussy and pulling my clit back into his mouth giving it a slight nip with his teeth before soothing the slight pain by sucking on my clit again.

"Daddy I'm gonna cum," I moan shortly after Lewis started finger fucking me roughly again. When Lewis pulled back again I wasn't shocked this time but I was just as frustrated.

"Please," I beg not being able to take much more.

"What do you want?" Lewis asks me. "Fuck me please," is all I reply back before Lewis is pulling himself back up to hoover over me and place a few kisses on my lips letting me taste my pussy that was smeared all over his lips.

I feel Lewis shove his cock into me giving me no time to adjust to his brutal pace. I loved when Lewis got like this, it always had me cumming within minutes and gave me the perfect type of soreness to feel for the days following.

Once Lewis got into a comfortable pace he reached his hand between us and started rubbing small but rough circles on my clit knowing it would have me cumming within moments.

"Please Daddy," I beg needing to cum already.

"Cum all over my cock now," Lewis demands making me whine and clench my pussy before cumming all over Lewis's cock.

"Daddy," I scream softly while still being fucked my Lewis making sure I was riding out my orgasm but working on throwing me over the edge again but this time he when he came with me.

"So, good," I whisper trying to catch my breath from the intense pleasure I had just expierenced while also feeling the effects of the overstimulation.

"Daddy, it-s too mu-ch," I stutter over my words through moans trying to push Lewis away slightly.

"You can take it," Lewis told me before slowing his pace ust slightly but still making sure the thrusts were rough and I could feel him hitting my cervix.

When I finally caught my breath Lewis picked up his pace again bringing me towards the edge again. Now Lewis and I were both standing on the edge together waiting to fall over.

"Daddy, please," I moan.

"Cum with me," Lewis finally groans out after having helped us on the edge long enough. I instantly start shaking and twitching all over Lewis's cock cumming hard than I had the first time even quirting just slightly soaking Lewis's skin slightly. My orgasm through Lewis over the edge filling my cunt up with his cum. He continued thrusting in me slightly making sure to ride both of our orgasms out before he slowly slips out of me not wanting to cause me any discomfort.

"I love watching my cum leak from that pretty pussy," Lewis whispers softly while he continues to stare at my pussy that is leaking his cum all over the hotel bed sheets.

Once Lewis caught his breath he stood up before picking me up softly and bringing me into the bathroom that was connected to the room. He softly sets me on the bathroom counter making me gasp at how cool it was on my heat skin.

"Sorry, just give me a minute," Lewis whispers at my discomfort and kisses my lips softly before turning around and drawing a bath for us. This was something we always did when we got like this. If we happened to be in a room that didn't have a bath we would take a shower together.

When the tub was half full at the perfect temp for both Lewis and I he picked me back up before placing us both into the bath together.

Lewis had his back pressed against the side of the tub while sat in his lap facing him.

"You know I care about you a lot more than I would like to admit," I tell him softly while trailing my thumb across his cheek.

"I care about you a lot too," Lewis replied softly taking his hand out of the water and softly pushing my head down to rest on his chest, slightly falling asleep listening to his heartbeat.

I wake up to feel Lewis standing up with me still in his arms making me whine at sleep being disturbed.

"Let's get to bed pretty girl," Lewis says softly before doing his best to wrap a towel around us and making his way back into the hotel room.

Once he dries both of us off he pulls back the cum soaked comforter and gets us a clean blanket from the small couch before climbing into bed with me and pulling me to his chest.

"I'm sorry if my complaining tainted your podium. I'm really proud of you," Lewis said softly making me smile against his chest.

"It's okay, I know I probably wasn't the best after Silverstone," I replied back before placing a soft kiss on his lips.

323 notes · View notes

elleandstufff · 4 months ago

Text

Let's Play a Game -`✮´- Part 1

Young and in the club scene due to the family business, you meet an up-and-coming rapper who calls himself Thanos. As the two of you become deeply embedded in the dark world of fame, money, and drugs, you begin to wonder if you can make it out alive. Pre-games, during the games, and post-games Thanos/Choi Su-bong x fem!reader

Series Note: This story contains explicit descriptions of substance abuse (party drugs and alcohol) by both Thanos/Su-bong and reader. This story is emotional!!! Like seriously, they are going through it! I wanted to experiment with what Thanos was like before the drugs/fame. This series is going to be a long one so buckle up!

Chapter Warnings: Small age gap (6 years), mostly fluff, club setting, moderate alcohol consumption, sweet but persistent!Thanos, brief discussion of anxiety and depression, grinding/dancing, pet names (my princess, good girl, baby, etc), dialogue spoken in English is written in bold italics, 3k words

ˑ . 𖥔 . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ˑ . 𖥔 . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ˑ . 𖥔 . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ˑ . 𖥔 . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ˑ . 𖥔 . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ˑ . 𖥔 . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ˑ . 𖥔 . ݁₊

The club always looks weird with the lights on, but you’re used to it. Most days you come here before open to do inventory, mingle with that night’s entertainers, or supervise in general. You like the atmosphere of the club–lights on or off–and you feel that helping out is the least you can do to thank your father for allowing you to live a lavish party lifestyle. As far as you know, you’re the only person in all of Seoul that owns the title of only daughter of Korea’s biggest club mogul.

“Hi, Princess!” Your father descends the nearest staircase and meets you by the bar. “Do you think you can hold things down tonight?”

“Of course, Appa, but what’s wrong?” Despite still being young, you had managed the club many times before when your father was unable to.

“Baek-hyeon is not feeling well. I am going to head to the Incheon club to manage it tonight. You know I much prefer trusting myself or one of my children to be in charge.”

You bid him safe travels and sent a get well soon text to your eldest brother before getting to work. You had planned on partying the night away, not managing a 5,000 square feet nightclub, but trying to make your father proud is one of the only things you have left. After checking in with all the bartenders, security, and main entertainers, you finally allow yourself to sit down for a quick drink.

You sit at the empty bar and sip on your drink until you feel a presence sit in the seat beside you. There are two dozen open seats, yet the man chooses to sit directly next to you. As he orders his drink you try to subtly inspect him. He’s here before opening so you assume he is a stage crew member for one of the performers. He has typical dark hair and dark eyes, but there’s something that stands out about him. Maybe it’s how soft his hair looks or that sparkle in his eye-

“Man, this place is nice!” The man swivels the seat to face you, a bright smile on his face. “I’m so lucky to get this gig.”

You look at him oddly. He’s a performer? You already knew all the main performers as they had been playing here for years.

He sees your confusion and speaks up again. “I’m Choi Su-bong, but everybody is soon going to know me as Thanos. I’m an up-and-coming rapper. I sent an audio demo into this place not expecting anything, but I guess the owner was so impressed by my talents that he gave me a fifteen minute spot at opening time. Those fifteen minutes are going to make Thanos a star.”

His smile is so infectious that you can’t help but smile back. This was the guy whose audio had blown you away. You introduce yourself using only your first name. You like to coax people into realizing that you are the owner's daughter without outright telling them.

“You know, the owner doesn’t review and select performers. His daughter does.”

“Could you pass along my thanks to her?”

“Why not thank her yourself?” You ask, gesturing to yourself with a bemused expression.

Su-bong’s eyes widen. He gives you a once over, but he doesn’t change his tone or straighten himself up like everyone else does when they find out who your father is. For once, it seems that someone sees you for you, rather than as your father’s daughter.

“Well, in that case…” Su-bong drops to his knees and takes hold of your left hand. He peppers several kisses across your skin while he professes his gratitude. “Thank you, my dear, for giving Thanos a chance.”

You have to look away to hide your blush and smile. “I’m not calling you Thanos, though.”

He gets back to his feet and throws you a wink. “You can call me whatever you want as long as you call me.”

The bartender finally hands over his drink. It’s one of the bar’s specialty drinks–one of the most complex and priciest items on the menu. But you can’t blame him; getting the fanciest drink the only time you’ll visit somewhere is a smart choice.

He reaches to hand his card to the bartender, but you quickly force him to lower his hand. “On the house,” you tell the bartender, who nods and walks away.

“Thank you again, my princess.” He takes a big sip from the straw, then leans forward and offers you the straw. Neither of you breaking intense eye contact, you take the straw between your lips and suck down a mouthful of the liquid. It burns as it glides down your throat and into your chest. The Social has always been well known for its strong drinks.

“You should get ready,” you tell him as you turn away. “We open soon.”

You can still feel his eyes on you as you walk away.

ˑ . 𖥔 . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ˑ . 𖥔 . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ˑ . 𖥔 . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ˑ . 𖥔 . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ˑ . 𖥔 . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ˑ . 𖥔 . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ˑ . 𖥔 . ݁₊

Thanos the Great–as he calls himself–exits the stage after his fifteen minutes. Shortly after opening, the place is not nearly as packed as it will be in a couple of hours. Most of the people that are here at this time are more concerned with getting plastered than listening to some underground rapper, but a decent crowd did gather. The crowd that was present was very lively and seemed to enjoy the short performance.

Su-bong makes his way toward you, and you turn in the opposite direction. You had already been distracted enough tonight, and you need to focus. He manages to jump directly in your path.

“Do you usually watch performances from the front row?” He asks, a giant grin on his face.

“Yes,” you lie. You usually focus on something else or watch from toward the back. You tried to convince yourself that your interest in his performance was because he was a new entertainer, but really you just wanted to see more of him. Something about him is eating you alive–his deep voice, his talent, his smile–but you could never let him know that.

“I think that’s a lie,” he says, hastily walking to keep up with you. “I think you like Thanos the Great-”

“I told you I wasn’t going to call you that.” You stop to pick up a few menus left abandoned at a table.

“And I told you I don’t care what you call me.”

One of the menus slips from your hands and falls to the ground. You both drop to the ground to pick it up, and his large hands end up over yours. You pull away quickly, turning on your heel to drop the menus off at the bar.

“I got seven new followers from my performance. You could follow me, too.”

“Maybe later,” you say. Your mind is distracted right now as you stand on your tiptoes to try and monitor the crowd as the space fills up more. “Sorry, I just have to work right now. This is a very busy time.”

“I’ll just wait until you aren’t busy then.” With a shit-eating grin he plops himself down on one of the black leather couches in the corner.

“I’m not coming back,” you say, unsure if you are trying to convince him or yourself.

“Yes, you will, good girl.”

You roll your eyes and walk away from him. You’ve played these games before. Every other week some guy shows up and tries to woo you for free drinks or guaranteed admittance to the club. You know that in an hour he’ll give up on you and have some other girl on his lap.

Nearly two hours later you finally decide to take a break. Your feet are killing you and the black go-go boots you decided to wear tonight feel as if they weigh twenty pounds. You know this Su-bong guy isn’t waiting for you anymore, but for some reason you decide to stop at the bar and get a drink for yourself and a drink for him just in case. It would be rude to show up empty handed. Worst case scenario, you can end up giving a free drink to some unsuspecting patron.

The club is at full capacity now, making your visibility extremely low. As you squeeze past numerous dancing bodies, you find yourself shocked to see Su-bong sitting in the same spot scrolling on his phone. Nearby, several groups angrily eye him, annoyed that he is taking up an entire table for just himself.

As you approach, he notices you and slams his phone down. “I knew you’d be back, good girl!”

“You seriously waited two hours on me?” You slide into the both, leaving about a foot of space between you two.

“I said I would, didn’t I?” He slides himself closer to you, knocking your knees together.

“What have you been doing this whole time?”

He shrugs and drinks from the new drink you brought him. “Waiting on you, thinking about you, scrolling on my phone, telling people this table is taken… What about you? What did you do?”

“I made sure everything is going okay all over the club. It’s very tiring. My feet are killing me.”

He surprises you by pulling your legs out from underneath the table and draping them across his lap. His hands firmly grasp your calves, keeping them in place and subtly massaging them.

“What the fuck you are you doing?”

He looks innocently at you with his big brown eyes. “Letting you stretch your legs, of course.”

You relax into the couch. Stretching your legs does help, and his fingers are working magic on your calves. “Okay, but remember I’m on a break. I can’t sit here with you all night.”

“Of course, busy girl.”

For a few minutes you relax your anxious mind, listening to the loud bass beats reverberating throughout the club. You even let your eyes close for a minute, only to open them and find Su-bong’s eyes mere inches away from yours. You nearly jump backward, but he still has a grip on your legs.

“Are you sleepy?”

“No.” You sip from your drink. “Just anxious.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know, I just am.”

“And you’re sad, too?”

“And why do you say that?” What is this guy’s deal?

“Real eyes, realize,” he quotes the cheesy American saying to you.

“Are you saying you’re sad too?”

“Yellow is such a unique color,” he states, completely ignoring your question to instead take your hands in his again. He admires your yellow painted nails.

“Yellow is my mom’s favorite color.” Yellow was your mom’s favorite color–you should say–but you don’t bother to correct yourself. You don’t find yourself pulling your hands away, either. Instead, your finger absentmindedly traces his line tattoo from his middle finger until it becomes hidden underneath his jacket sleeve. You suddenly realize what you’re doing and stop, shaking your head as Su-bong smiles.

“You like my tattoos, baby? I got them when I got done with my military service a couple months ago.”

“They’re nice line work,” you lie. He doesn't need to know that his choice of tattoos were an amazing addition to his already insanely hot hands, nor does he need to know that you secretly wish you could see what other tattoos are lurking under his jacket. What the hell are you thinking? You need to finish your drink and get back to work.

“Do you have any tattoos?”

“No, my dad would kill me.”

“Do you usually work every night for your father?” he asks at the mention of your dad.

“No, I usually party every night,” you say, then backtrack when you realize how spoiled you sound. “I mean, I always try to help out as much as I can.”

“So you’re a spoiled girl?”

“Yes.” You can’t lie to yourself. “I’m the only girl in my family with my father and four older brothers. I was a bit of an accident.”

“I bet they are protective of you,” he says with a smirk, knowing fully well that the current positioning of you two would anger your father and brothers. With your legs still splayed across his lap, his fingers inch upward, until they rest lazily on your lower thigh.

“When they pay attention to me, yes.” You regret the words the second they leave your mouth.

“Who wouldn’t want to pay attention to you, pretty girl?”

“My father is just busy, and my brothers are so much older that they have their own lives. This was nice, but I should get going…”

You attempt to reclaim your legs and scoot yourself out of the booth, but Su-bong’s arm blocks you from exiting. “Dance with me,” he says, somewhere between a question and a demand.

You worriedly glance around the packed club. You hardly ever take up dance offers from guys, partially because of your father’s disapproval and partially because you don’t trust the guys who come through here. “I don’t really dance with guys. Everyone would stare.”

He scoots himself closer to you so that you’re both sitting at the edge of the booth. “Good, let them stare.”

You look at his pleading, big brown eyes and instantly know that you have to accept. “Fine. One dance.”

His huge grin calms your nerves slightly, so you take his outstretched hand. He leads you to the closest dance floor and the two of you find a spot near the wall. You can barely move your body before the people around you start staring at the uncommon sight. You start to get cold feet, but Su-bong pulls you close to him. “Don’t focus on them, focus on me.”

Shakily, you began to dance with him. Within minutes, your nerves calm, and you feel like you and him are the only ones here tonight. Once the song finishes you tell yourself just one more. Then two songs, turns to three, and three to four. Before long, your night turns into a sweaty blur of his hands on your waist, your back against his torso, your ass against his crotch, his face buried in the crook of your neck.

“Miss? Miss Social?!”

Someone yelling the nickname you got when you started coming to the club three years ago snaps you back to reality. Your eyes snap open and you try to distance yourself, but Su-bong’s grip on your waist stays firm so your back remains pressed against him.

The person in front of you is one of the security guards. You panic, unsure of what is going on and how long you’ve been distracted.

“We have a couple of tourists that were being disruptive at the bar. I tried to explain that they need to leave tonight, but they’re not in trouble. They can’t understand me.”

“O-of course,” you say. “Take me to them.”

The guard leads you through the club and up the stairs to a waiting area. Halfway up the stairs you notice that Su-bong is following closely behind you, but you don’t have the energy to say anything to him. Before you talk to the first tourist, you turn to Su-bong. “Hey, sometimes these things take a while… You don’t have to wait for me.”

You take the first tourist into a room and explain to him the situation in English. You spoke English the most fluently out of any of the staff members, so you had been translating for tourists since your dad started letting you come here at sixteen. Luckily, this guy isn’t too combative, but he is pretty drunk. After a while, you finally get through to him that he’s not in trouble but he has to leave for the night.

Out in the hallway, you realize that you need to pee really bad after the few drinks you had tonight. “I need the bathroom, I’ll be back for the other one in a minute.”

You rush to the bathroom and rush back only to find the other tourist gone and a smiling Su-bong in his place.

“Where the hell did he go?”

“I let him know the deal. He left.”

“You speak English?”

“Yeah, baby,” he says proudly. “My dad made me start learning when I was little. He wanted me to be a fancy business man, but then- but then that didn’t happen.”

Clearly something happened either between him and his father or to Su-bong himself, but you don’t pry. Instead, you shrug. “Fancy business men are not that fun–like my dad–they just work all the time.”

He gives you a little smile, but this one seems sad.

“It’s almost close…” You are bummed that the night has to end, but you have a feeling that you will be seeing him again.

“I need your phone number, Princess.” He puts his phone in the palm of your hand, softly patting your skin.

You type your name into the contact information but leave the phone number blank. If this guy is serious about you, he’ll be able to wait for you. “You can get the rest of it next time.”

“So hard to get, I love it!”

His goofy grin is the last thing you see as you disappear into the dwindling crowd.

Part 2 Masterlist

#pls don't let this flop #squid game #thanos #thanos x reader #choi su bong x reader #thanos squid game #squid game season 2 #squid game x reader #player 230 #choi su bong #player 230 x reader

219 notes · View notes

ot8xbangchansgirlsblog · 7 months ago

Note

Don't mind me, just jumping into your asks. 😄

I had an idea/prompt for you! (Obviously you don't have to write it.) OT8 x fem is preferred but please, go nuts!! Thank you!!

*p.s. I am addicted to your writing works. I can't wait to see what you come up with!*

"His/their arms did what her sleeping pills couldn't."

𝕐𝕠𝕦𝕣 𝕞𝕪 𝕗𝕒𝕧𝕠𝕦𝕣𝕚𝕥𝕖 ℙ𝕚𝕝𝕝

Warning: Angst/comfort/fluff

Summary: Request!

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

"Have you been sleeping?" Felix asks suddenly, breaking the comfortable silence in the kitchen. They were enjoying an afternoon snack that Leeknow had prepared for them after classes—a simple spread of sandwiches and fruit, but it felt warm and cozy.

Y/N sighed, taking a slow bite of the sandwich she was holding. If it weren’t for Lee Know insisting she eat something, she would probably be passed out from exhaustion by now. The weight of late-night studying and looming deadlines pressed down on her.

"Yes, I have. Just a lot of studying to do," she lied, trying to sound convincing.

"Hm? Are you sure?" Felix pressed, his eyes narrowing slightly. He knew her too well to buy into her facade.

"Yes, Felix, now drop it," she snapped, her voice sharper than she intended. Felix's face fell, and he pouted, his bottom lip jutting out in that adorable way that always made her heart soften.

"I was just asking. I didn’t mean to upset you—"

"Well, you are, so just leave me alone," she retorted, frustration spilling over. She knew she wasn’t angry at him; it was just that the exhaustion and irritability were clouding her thoughts. She hated taking it out on him.

"Fine," he replied, his expression clouding over as he frowned again. He stood up slowly, taking his plate with him, the sound of the chair scraping against the floor echoing in the otherwise quiet kitchen.

As he left, Y/N felt a pang of guilt settle in her stomach. She knew she needed to let him in, but right now, the weight of her fatigue felt like too much to bear.

She let out another frustrated sigh before putting away her empty plate and trudging toward her room, but she was soon interrupted by Seungmin, who playfully pulled her to the couch.

"Can you just listen to this?" he pleaded, handing her an AirPod. She sighed again, knowing she had just snapped at Felix and didn’t want to take her frustration out on anyone else.

"Y/N?" Seungmin called, snapping her out of her thoughts. She realized she had totally zoned out and barely heard the demo of the song he was working on.

"Did you like it?" he asked, his voice hopeful.

A pang of guilt washed over her, but she decided to lie again. "Yes, I did. It's amazing, Seungmin," she replied with a strained smile, handing him back the AirPod.

"That’s it?" he asked, looking confused. "Usually, you give me more details on where I can improve," he pouted, crossing his arms.

"W-well, maybe it’s just perfect, okay? Can we do this later, Seungmin? I promise I'll give you my full attention," Y/N begged. Her body ached, her head thumped like a bass drum, and her eyes felt like they were on fire. She could hardly keep herself upright.

"Are you sick? You look awful," Seungmin remarked, reaching out to check her forehead.

"Geez! Thanks. Means a lot," she grumbled, snatching her backpack and turning to leave.

"That's not what I meant—Y/N—wait!" But she was already in the hallway, refusing to look back.

It was as if the universe conspired against her because just as she was about to walk into her room, she was unexpectedly pulled into Hyunjin’s room.

"There you are! My favorite girl!" Hyunjin beamed, planting a soft kiss on her cheek. "How was school?"

Horrible. Disgusting. Tiring. Frustrating.

"Good," she replied flatly, forcing a smile.

"Great! So can I borrow you for tonight?" he asked, spinning her around and playfully carrying her toward the bed.

"Hyunjin..." she sighed, feeling the weight of the world on her shoulders. "I really wish we could go to the gallery, but I'm swamped with studying and—"

"Hey, baby!" Changbin interrupted, bursting into the room. "I was looking for you. Sorry to interrupt, but are we still on for the gym in 30?" His words hit her like a ton of bricks. She had totally forgotten!

Why does everyone want something from me today? she thought, feeling overwhelmed.

"Binnie..." she sighed again, tears welling in her eyes.

"God, I’m the worst girlfriend ever!" she huffed, her emotions boiling over. Without waiting for a response, she stormed out of the room and rushed to her own, knowing better than to lock it—Chan’s rules, after all.

She decided to lock her door and take a breather from everything. It wasn’t long before Changbin and Hyunjin knocked, but there was no response.

"Do you know what’s going on?" Changbin whispered to Hyunjin, concern on his face.

"No idea… maybe we should give her some space?" Hyunjin suggested, though neither wanted to leave her alone. They knew how she could shut down during tough times.

"I'll text Leeknow," Changbin decided, and they headed to the living room.

Meanwhile, Y/N felt overwhelmed. The pressure of school and her relationships weighed heavily on her. She tried to take a nap to recharge for the evening with her boyfriends, but sleep wouldn’t come. Her mind raced with thoughts of assignments, exams, and the expectations she felt from everyone around her.

"Forget this..." she whispered, pushing herself up and deciding to study instead. She shuffled to her desk, surrounded by textbooks and notes. Despite her exhaustion and the tears threatening to spill, she forced herself to focus on the pages in front of her.

Time slipped away, and she lost track of how long she had been studying when a loud knock startled her. "Y/N? You know I don’t like it when people lock doors," Chan called from outside, his voice a mix of concern and gentle authority.

It was 8:57, and she rubbed her eyes before reluctantly unlocking the door.

There stood Chan, looking concerned. Was he going to scold her?

"Hey, Y/N," he said softly, stepping inside.

She managed a small smile as he wrapped her in a warm hug. It felt so comforting that it made her wonder why she had been short with those she cared about. The weight of the world seemed to lift for a moment as she leaned into him.

"Channie... I’m so tired," she whispered into his shoulder.

"I know baby, shhh, it’s okay," he soothed, laying them both on the bed. He glanced around the room, noticing scattered books and an almost empty container of sleeping pills.

"Having trouble sleeping again?" he asked, worry in his voice.

"Mmhm," she sniffled.

"How long?" he continued, rubbing her back gently.

"Eight days..." she admitted, feeling shame wash over her.

"Eight days?!" he exclaimed, shocked that she was even functioning.

"I was going to tell one of you, but we’re all stressed with exams, and you have your comeback soon. I just couldn’t bring myself to do it," she cried, her voice breaking.

Chan let out a frustrated sigh. He cared deeply; that much was clear.

"What did I say about thinking for others?" he gently scolded. "What if I wasn’t busy? You can’t decide for me or the others when we’re available. Eight days isn’t healthy, and if I tell Leeknow, he’ll worry."

She lets out a whimper as the memory of how the last visit went. She had to be hooked up to many machines and monitors each monitoring her sleeping and to see what was wrong. She was exhausted for 12 hours straight in the hospital. "I’m sorry, please don’t tell him."

"Only if you promise to come to me whenever you’re struggling, okay?" he said, kissing her forehead and picking up the nearly empty container of pills. "How many have you taken? Are they not working?"

"It doesn’t work," she admitted, burying her head into his shoulder, feeling ashamed. "I tried taking three each night—"

"Three?! No way, Y/N, that’s not good for you, Please tell me you don’t feel sick."

"I don’t; I just feel cranky."

"Is that why you snapped at Felix?" he asked gently.

"Y-yeah. I should apologize to him," she said, avoiding his gaze.

"Hey, look at me," he said softly, kissing her cheek. "I know it gets tiring, but you have to communicate, okay? Wash up, and we can watch a movie downstairs. The boys are worried. Han's about to lose it. He's about to escape the restraints Leeknow put on him."

"Oh no," she giggled for the first time in a while. "Not time out!"

"I missed that smile," he said gripping at her waist.

"I thought I had to wash up?" she teased, feeling a bit lighter.

"Yah! Is it wrong to love my girlfriend? I already have to share you with those 7 idiots, Let me enjoy this," Chan said dramatically, pulling her close. He let her straddle his lap and both their core's lightly touched one another.

Another giggle escaped her lips as she leaned in for a quick kiss, feeling warmth spread through her despite her lingering exhaustion.

It did indeed take her longer to enter the shower, mainly because Chan was so committed to making her feel good. Basically she got the best head of her life. When she finally made her way downstairs to the theater, she was immediately tackled by Han, who showered her with kisses.

"I'm so sorry I didn't notice you felt this way! I should have paid more attention. I love you. Do you love me?" he exclaimed, his voice full of concern and affection.

"I love you, Han, and it isn’t your fault. I promise, bub," she replied, planting a gentle kiss on his forehead.

Changbin, who was nearby, chimed in, "I’m sorry for pushing you earlier, babe," as he handed her a takeout plate, realizing Han wasn’t letting go anytime soon.

"You don’t need to apologize, love. I should be the one apologizing for not communicating and just shutting down. I hope you all can forgive me; I haven’t been the best partner," she confessed, her voice a bit shaky.

"Oh hush!" Hyunjin interjected with a warm smile before giving her a kiss on the forehead and heading to his seat. "No need to apologize; we all have our moments."

"Yeah, he’s right. Totally forgotten," Seungmin added, snuggling into Hyunjin's side, a comfortable warmth radiating between them.

She turned to Felix, her heart racing a bit as she hoped he wasn’t angry. "Lix?"

"I could never be mad at you," he said softly, climbing by her side and planting gentle kisses on her cheeks. "I love you."

"I love you too," she replied, feeling her heart swell with gratitude.

The rest of the night was filled with lighthearted conversations and a movie. Everyone eventually drifted off to sleep, and she felt a profound sense of peace wash over her.

"Come on," Chan whispered, gently pulling her out of I.N and Han's grip. They let out little whines but soon settled back into slumber. She crawled onto Chan's lap, and he whispered soothing words to her while rubbing her back.

"Remember to always find me when your lost."

This was her happy place. As her eyes began to close and her breathing evened out, Chan placed a tender kiss on her forehead and held her close, ready to keep her safe until she woke up.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

Don't forget to reblog and follow! <3

A/N: Thank you @idoubleswearimawriter!!

Taglist: @ihrtlix@bowsnbang@katsukis1wife@thegingerthatwaited@thicccurls

@xxeiraxx @paleangelsweets @klaydohart @eastleighsblog @ivrespace

@galaxy4489 @purplepursepaint @catlove83 @sillystormsstuff @iwuberic

@cocofia143 @royal-shinigami @virluna148 @galaxycatdrawz @memersanonymous

@skz-stay13 @seungminsbest @hogwartslife64 @sinfulfic @hyunnesblog

@maisyyyyyy @cluelessred3 @leezanetheofficial @cocofia143 @lemonn015

@kkamismom12 @mei0packet @igetcarriedawaywithyou @hyuneyeon @iris-iiridescent

@mbioooo0000

(open: i believe i've added everyone but if you don't see your @ please comment down below)

360 notes · View notes

remotewatch · 8 months ago

Text

can’t hit it one time, multiple

Jack Schlossberg x reader | 2.9k wc

minors dni but still get involved and stay informed politically let me be clear

summary: volunteering is so rewarding! being a part of a cause you believe in, educating first time voters, getting dicked by the campaign’s eye candy on your lunch break; it’s got everything!

cws: shameless classic 1D style smut, bus rocking, wrap it before you tap it on THE Harris campaign reproductive freedom bus (is it legally actionable to call it by its govt name), whatever the hell is going on with the JD videos cranked up to 100, reader calls him both diva and a slut, both not totally serious, his tripod is your wingman, this Barbie tastes like clementines, semi public sex I GUESS, sub!jack SOMEWHAT

many thanks to my editor (and co-writer this time around) @mystardustmelodyyy for the organizing and romantic flair 🩵🗳️

additional thanks to Jack and the team for the inspirational Philly content, do keep it up !!

Although your day of volunteering had been nothing terribly exciting so far- setting up chairs, guiding people to their seats, a LOT of directing lost families to the bathroom- the whole town hall was thrumming with a sense of hope that felt nothing short of electric. You didn’t realize how busy you’d been until you finally got a chance to sit down and make up some gift bags. That took no time at all, leaving you a nice free chunk of the day to wander around and soak up the atmosphere. There had been rumors of a free gelato truck, and the empty breezeway pointed to them being true. The sharp thwap of sambas slapping onto marble snapped you out of your daydreaming; almost empty, apparently.

As you rounded the corner, you spotted the source of the racket: America’s most polarizing nepo baby. Filming… a stunt of some kind? He takes a running start into a front flip, landing close enough to his tripod to throw it off balance. After repositioning it and trying again, his shoes slip in a puddle on the floor, forcing him to splay out a hand to avoid falling onto his ass.

You were well aware of Jack’s work; your feed was convinced you were precisely his target demo and had been pushing his content onto you since July. Maybe it wasn’t totally off base. Regardless, watching him struggle to land a perfect somersault was much more endearing than the finished videos. When he stands up for a third attempt and manages to tangle a tripod foot up with his pants in the process, you’re unable to suppress a fit of giggles.

“Are you winning over there, diva?”

Jack looks a bit sheepish when he first glances up but recovers quickly. He adjusts the tripod and hits you with the same smile your algorithm insists makes you weak.

“I think it’s still too close to call.”

“Did you want some help with the…whatever it is you’re recording?”

One of the tripod legs abruptly gives out, the clatter echoing around the breezeway. Jack winces and nudges the fallen hunk of fiberglass with his shoe.

“Yeah, that would be great, if you don’t mind.” Five long strides over to you and he’s pressing his phone into your hands, camera already open. “If you’d just follow- well, you saw what I was trying to do.”

You can’t say if it’s the pressure of a live audience of him being fed up with his previous attempts, but Jack flips perfectly into frame this time, proceeds immediately to an immaculate standing backflip, then takes off towards the other end of the breezeway without so much as glancing at the camera. He leaps up and clicks his heels a few steps in, only turning around when you’re starting to wonder if he’s just ditching the shoot altogether.

“How was that?” He shouts on his way back over.

“Looks good!” You have no earthly idea what he was going for, but it fits right in with the absurdist athletic vibe he’s been rocking with between his more overt political content.

“Aw, that’s great. Thank you!” he beams at you after looking over the footage (you try not to focus on how small the phone looks in his hands). “The lighting is perfect too.”

“Oh, good!” Thank god. “Did you need help with anything else?”

Jack rolls his eyes mischievously like he's considering letting you in on a huge secret. “I was actually going to film a thing or two for JD if you’ve got an extra minute.”

“For that? Absolutely!”

His grin stretches wider to match yours at that response, and you realize you’re smiling at each other like two idiots.

“I’m Jack, by the way.”

He repeats your name back after you introduce yourself, and you wish he’d do it again so you can keep watching his lips move saying it.

🔹🔹🔹🔹

This time, Jack gives you slightly more direction, guiding you to hold the phone at an angle just high enough to skew provocative as he leisurely strolls backwards through the hallway. You don’t need to coach him into angling his head just right to catch the afternoon sun in his eyes; he’s got the bambi look down pat.

“JD, I really miss you. Won’t you come home so we can be a family again?” He motions just out of frame for you to aim higher, but you’re already adjusting the shot before you see his signal. “You said I shouldn’t be voting because I’m not a dad like you. Is that true, JD? Or are you making up stories again?”

Jack glances backward to check if there’s enough room for him to keep up his pace, then breaks for a second to ask “Alright, one more?” The two octave difference almost makes you drop his phone, but you keep it together and nod.

His eyes crinkle up adorably when he smiles. “Sweet.” Then he’s back to business, eyefucking the camera like he just got out of prison.

“JD, I thought you knew everything, and you told me that I should never lie. How am I supposed to trust you if I don’t know when you're telling a story or not?”

You stick your bottom lip out and mouth “more”; he happily obliges. Jack looks every bit the foxy little public servant as he peers out at the lens from under his eyelashes.

“Can you help me understand, JD? I want to understand. I just need a little help. Can you show me?” Christ, he’s practically purring. Thankfully, he snaps back to director mode before you can get too lost in the rhythm.

“You think that was too much?”

“I think you could do a little more, to be really honest.”

His eyes narrow knowingly. “How so?”

“...You could go down on your knees.” You’re half joking at the most and still think you’ve crossed a line, but sure enough, he’s kneeling down and crossing his ankles like it couldn’t come more naturally to him.

He’s still plenty tall enough to bite your pant zipper, and you quickly shove the thought aside.

“Like this?”

“Yeah, perfect, just like that.”

This time, he might as well be on mute for all the words you’re processing. It’s all slow blinking doe eyes, curls bouncing with every emphatic head tilt, his tongue stretching out to wet his lips between sentences. The “Can you show me?” rocks straight through you and breaks the spell when Jack glances up at you. His expression shifts from mockingly innocent to coquettish for just a scorching, enduring moment, then he’s back on his feet, back to the bubbly, personable demeanor you’d expect from him.

“Thank you again for the help. She was NOT playing nice today.” he nods back at the tripod.

“Oh, it’s no problem! I love your work.” He waves a hand modestly.

“I love your work! You actually came out here and helped! It’s so much more important than what I do. Is this your first event?”

“It is! It’s my first time.”

“Well, we love first timers around here.”

“Oh, I’m sure you do.” The implication hits you a beat too late, so you pad it with a restrained “It’s really interesting to see the behind the scenes of it all.”

Jack rocks back on his heels, his eyebrows drawing up playfully.

“Have you seen the bus?”

“Of course I’ve seen the bus!”

“No, I meant the inside of it. Did you want to see that?” He allows himself the forwardness of a head tilt.

What else could you say?

“Yeah, I really would.”

🔹🔹🔹🔹

Bless the gelato truck, because there’s not a trace of human activity on this side of the building. You’re barely paying attention to the formality of a tour Jack’s giving; his enthusiasm is adorable, but the way his fingers spread as he’s pointing out every feature in the bus is making your mind wander.

“Shoes on or off?” you manage to ask.

“Oh, whatever you want. We’re not strict.” Off, then. “As you can see, this is where the magic happens.”

Once you get to the middle of the bus, the combination of campaign paraphernalia and scattered phone chargers, melatonin gummies, and cold brew cans feels like you’re getting a peek into something thrilling. There’s a map of tour stops tacked up with current polling results on a small whiteboard to the side. It’s close, but no doubt doable. You’re so swept up that you nearly smack your head on an open cabinet door when you turn back to face your host. His hand shifts back along its edge to cushion the impact before you can think to duck, and the heat from it makes your cheek tingle.

“Careful, it’s tight in here!” he teases.

It’s hard to shake the feeling of trespassing.

“Are you sure I’m good to be here?” Jack turns back from replenishing half empty swag baskets to smile reassuringly.

“No one needs it until one. When do you have to get back?”

“My break ends at one thirty.”

“I guess it’s our bus, then!” He fetches you a sparkling water from the minifridge and cracks open his own like he owns the place. You elect to remain standing and lean against one of the chairs opposite, certainly not because you want to have him looking up at you for as long as possible.

Jack is all long limbs and tanned striations as he stretches out on the bench seat like a cat, his wingspan nearly spanning its whole length. When he arches slightly to get comfortable, his shirt catches under his pecs and makes your mouth go dry. You wonder if you’re staring too much.

“So, do you have any other directing experience, or do you just have a knack for giving orders?” His head lolls to one side, soaking up your attention. One of his feet moseys it’s way over to you, and you uncross your ankles before it has a chance to nudge them in that direction.

“I think you’re just good at taking them.” Is that a blush you’re seeing? Jack breaks into a giggle that reads almost wistful.

“I was expecting you to tell me to roll over and balance a treat on my nose.”

“Anything for the campaign, right?”

“I mean, of course, but it's still those day to day interactions that are going to win this for us.”

“Yeah, the canvassing especially is really rewarding, I didn’t expect this many people to be undecided. I guess some of them still need a little convincing.” You plop down next to him, closer than you’d ever dare if he wasn’t flushed clear down to his shirt collar. Somehow, your right leg finds itself intertwined with his. He’s a fucking furnace, even directly under the AC unit.

“Not me though; I know exactly what I want to do.”

The corners of Jack’s mouth curl up without a shred of hesitation. He squints at you again before taking a slow pull of his Perrier, Adam’s Apple bobbing like it's begging you to bite it. His middle fingertip trails lazily around the rim as he sets it down. One last lip smack, then he’s pressing them onto yours and flooding your nose with the smell of clementines and sea salt.

The buzzing in your brain reaches a fever pitch when he drapes an arm around your waist to pull you closer. Tilting your head ever so slightly, your hand wanders up to cradle his face and press a thumb to his chin. A gentle push down to open Jack’s mouth and his tongue is snaking its way in, the obscene length of it sending sparks straight down to your clit. He breathes a contented, relieved moan into your mouth when your leg swings over his hips to straddle him, then little stilted mewls as you start rocking back and forth.

“You’re a little slut for democracy aren’t you? You tease, panting against his jawline.

“Who, me?” he grins and drags his hands up your thighs to settle on your ass, thumbs playing with your waistband.

You can feel your nipples hardening as you reach one hand out to steady yourself against the window. The bracing cold glass is delicious, but you flinch back when you spot people trickling back into view, gelato cups in hand, a few racing over to pose with the bus.

“Don’t worry; they can’t see you,” he chuckles along your sternum. Jack scooches too far forward trying to get a better angle to rut against you and nearly slides you both off the seat. You hear a whispered little “oh, shit,” before he scoops you up with one arm and shifts to stand, the other grabbing a spare water on his way to the rear of the bus. He collapses onto the deep sofa without missing a beat, but looks back up at you for reassurance, as if he’s somehow being presumptuous. You don’t even see it; you’re too busy yanking at his jeans like a madwoman after feeling how hard he is.

Concerns assuaged, he manages to pull both of your pants off without incident, only an accidental kick to the end table. Jack lets out a cackle when his hand slides low enough to feel you drip down his wrist.

“And I’m the slut for democracy?”

“Oh, shut up!”

You stretch behind him to the bin of condoms marked ‘F•CK PROJECT 2025’ on the far windowsill, shamelessly letting your breasts drag over his face in the process.

“It would really be a shame if we didn’t do some quality control, since we’re already here.” You trace one along his lips until they part to accept your gift.

“Such a waste,” Jack mimics you, if a bit muffled, as his incisors shred the foil wrapper. “And,” he adds cheekily with a shrug, “we’re fresh out of plan B.”

He’s already slid it on by the time you realize he’s unclipped your bra somewhere between here and the door, and you waste absolutely no time slipping him inside, so warm it makes you shudder. His eyelids flutter when you sit down fully; he’s whining like the bus is soundproof the second you get to work, all strained little whimpers and cut off syllables as you bounce in his lap. There’s not a minute to waste, and it’s showing in the breakneck pace you set. Jack’s movements are just as frantic, bucking up hard enough to threaten to throw you straight off this ride.

Desperate to see how far down he blushes, you slide your arms under his shirt, heat blooming up to your shoulders as you do. He gets your hint and tugs it off; you waste no time planting both hands on his pecs and letting your fingers run wild through his chest hair.

Meanwhile, your shirt and bra get caught on your elbow in the process of shedding them, and your left knee skids right off the couch while you’re distracted. Jack catches your shin effortlessly and plants his foot to keep his balance; you actually spot him smiling at his own reflexes. He rolls you both over without slipping out, chuckling a little “didn’t I tell you to be careful?” into your ear. He moves to let your leg down, and you throw it over his shoulder to keep him pinned flat against you before he can do so. The new angle restricts his range a bit, but he’s already shoving a hand down to strum at your clit, face millimeters from yours for the perfect view of just how much you’re loving it. He murmurs cockily when he sees you holding back. “Won’t you let me hear you?” There’s no way you’ll attract attention if you’re just moaning into his mouth, right?

It’s all too much; Jack’s whole body draped over you like a fever that won’t break, the way he’s panting down your throat every time you clamp around him, the little calluses on his occupied fingertips and how they maintain their perfect, unbearable pace no matter how much you thrash around. You can barely squeak out a “fuck, Jack, please-,”

His “I know, I know,” sounds just as ragged and that tips you right over the edge.

Jack’s composure completely unravels with the first pulse. His eyes screw shut and his hips still as deep as he can get to ride it out with you. You’re shaking and frothing like a can of Pepsi- sweet and sticking all along his slicked-flat happy trail as you lift your leg a little higher and over the back of his neck to pull him in closer. The beads of sweat on his forehead drip onto yours when he falls into another messy kiss, aftershocks buzzing comfortably through you both.

His phone timer jolts you out of your shared stupor.

“What is that?”

“12:30,” he groans into the couch cushion. “Sit tight, I’ll get you a towel.

🔹🔹🔹🔹

Jack is steaming your dress pants in one sock and his Hanes like its second nature, and it’s making a strong case for the hottest thing he could possibly do. In a few minutes, he’ll go out the front of the bus and stir up the crowd while you exit through the back.

“Take a bev for the road if you’d like.” He slaps the minifridge pointedly.

“Thanks, you’re such a good host!” you hadn’t moved from where you were laid out on the sofa; it was too much fun watching him get flustered from the compliment, “This was fun, getting to know you and all.”

“Yeah it was,” his tone is achingly sincere as he smiles back at you, face getting flushed all over again “...Not to be too bold, but could I get your number?”

#jack schlossberg #jack schlossberg x reader #freak nasty #if his blush isn’t visible through his tan #don’t tell me #i want to believe #Spotify

338 notes · View notes