#that they Push Through to Do The Right Thing

[reignpage]

Is Two Really Better Than One?

Summary: in which Nanami's wife gets hit with a curse and he comes home to two wives, not one... Warnings: smut, married couple/established relationship, f!reader, threesome, dom!nanami, mention of being used as a sex toy, cunnilingus, penetrative sex, spanking, paizuri, spitting, doggy, dual ride/double cowgirl position, cum eating, fingering, dirty talk, degradation, praise kink, slight size kink, slight yuri action, voyeurism/exhibitionism?, totally inaccurate use of the curse science or whatever, not proofread - like literally not at all sowwy Word Count: 4.5k

Nanami is flabbergasted. 

When he came back home after a long hard day’s work, he was impatiently waiting for his wife’s loving embrace and reviving kiss. There’s a routine you two follow and he upholds it like a knight pledging allegiance to the crown – arrive home at 6pm, you greet him, he takes a shower and changes into comfortable clothes whilst you prepare dinner, and then you dine together. He expected you to be at the front door with an excited grin and open arms, just as you did yesterday and the day before that.

What he wasn’t expecting, however, was two wives waiting for him. 

“Ken! Make her go away,” you scream. 

The other you snarls, “No, you go away.”

Apparently, you’ve been hit by a spirit splitting curse – it fragmented your soul into perfect halves. There is no ‘original wife,’ just two different parts of the same woman he loves. At least, that was how Shoko explained it on the phone. How long the effects will last is indeterminable, though Nanami’s simply glad it’s a harmless consequence and not something more disastrous.

“I want her ugly ass gone, Kento,” you growl.

And other you shrieks. “Excuse me? I am literally you. If I’m ugly, so are you, idiot.”

“Yeah? Well, somehow, I’m just prettier, so suck it.”

Sitting in the living room, he loosens his tie and stares up at the ceiling. He supposes it really was just too much to ask to have peace and quiet in his life, to be able to catch up on some rest and sleep, and have dinner with his wife, his only wife. Right now, the two of you are smacking throw pillows at each other’s faces, exchanging limp blows over his body, and insulting one another.

This animosity is unfounded. She is you and you are her. You are both his wife, with the exact same body, personality, past, hopes and dreams. And yet you’re at each other’s throats like there is a long feud between your warring families. Nanami sighs again. “Please, stop fighting. Let’s just get on with our evening and wait for the effects to subside.”

Both of you press close to him, taking a side each. You cling to his arm, cradling his bicep between your breasts, seeping warmth into his skin through his work shirt. Nanami clears his throat. You smell nice – always do – but right now, the scent of you is engulfing him from all sides. Other you pokes his chest. 

With an accusatory tone, you question, “Why aren’t you pushing her away, Kento?”

He leaves a kiss on your head, hoping to soothe your irritation. “I could never push away my wife, darling. I’d sooner die.”

“But I’m your wife.”

“No, I’m his wife.”

Nanami wraps his arms around the both of you, rubbing comforting circles on your backs; if he doesn’t do something, he might just come out of this with no wife. “You are both my wives. Just as beautiful as the other and just as ferocious. So, there’s no need to fight, alright?”

“Oh my god, what if we’re stuck like this forever? I can’t share you, Ken! I won’t. And! What if you start to like her more than me? I’ll kill myself.”

Gaze softening, he holds you tight. “That won’t happen, my love. It just wouldn’t. I’m confident things will go back to normal soon enough and you’ll be whole again. That’s our biggest concern, not ‘who will I prefer.’ That’s a silly thought; I love you in all the possible shapes and forms you come in. I could never choose just one side of you to love, it’s simply impossible.”

A moment of silence passes. 

“He is such a sweet talker, isn’t he?” You ask yourself.

You reply with a chortle. “The absolute sweetest. Thank god we put up with his grumpy ass before he fell for us.”

His heart swells. To watch you two get along fills him with so much pride and he can’t quite explain it. Perhaps it’s because he loves your smile, the way your cheeks get so plump with the force of it. Maybe it’s because he knows how long you’ve struggled to reconcile with the need to love yourself, truly, and how you find it torturous to confront yourself and see all those flaws he thinks creates your perfect soul. 

Maybe it’s simply because he loves you so much; there’s no need to question it.

“Ugh, get your hands off my husband!”

“No, you get your hands off my husband.”

And Nanami sighs again.

On and off, you two keep bickering, momentarily being quieted by his hushed commands to behave before starting up again shortly after. Slowly losing the will to fight, he accepts his indefinite reality. His house might never know peace again and he might never truly clock off work even once he returns home. It seems, outside of the office, he also has to manage stubborn individuals and rising tension. 

Still, it’s not so bad, he thinks. Having two of you is a blessing; he’s always encouraging you to eat more with the rationale of wanting more of you to love, after all.

But, his reasoning at this moment isn’t so pure.

The feeling of your plush bodies in his grasp is distracting. Two sets of your breasts are bouncing against his sides and in his face with every move you both make. Hands rove all over his body, staking their claim, and teasing the skin underneath his clothes. Nails scrape against his thighs, digging in when you try to control your anger, using him as the punching bag. He needs to keep his cool, to maintain control so he can ease your worries and dispel trouble at any time. But damn it if it isn’t taking a lot of effort to stand his ground. 

“Ken,” one of you whispers in his ear, lips brushing the shell, “you’re hard…”

Looking down, he comes face to face with solid evidence of your observation. How embarrassing – his wife was hurt and is facing an indubitably anxiety-provoking situation whereby she might never recover as whole from again, and despite that, he’s aroused. What kind of man is he?

What kind of terrible husband would be so self-centred?

“We can help… if you’d like.”

The kind that’d be married to you, apparently. 

Speechless, Nanami can do nothing but sit back and let his wife unbuckle his belt whilst the other unzips his trousers. One has a look of complete glee when she finds his hard cock already leaking and the other sports a focused expression, working her hand up and down his length. You really are his wife, split or not. No one could ever touch him so seductively, so enticingly, already threatening to shake his entire foundation with simple grazes. 

He should stop you both, should establish boundaries and get on with dinner. Instead of giving into baser instincts, he should lead by example and ensure your safety and wellbeing by being patient. But…how can he when your velvety palms play with his balls, fascinated by the weight of them?

“Come here, sweetheart,” he mutters, losing all grip on reason. He discards his glasses. “Come give Kento a kiss.” 

Two heads rush to his face. They collide with a bang. Hissing, you throw aggravated looks at each other. “He meant me.”

“Uh, no, he meant me.”

Tutting, he cradles both of your faces and brings one up to his lips. He lays a kiss where you bumped your head and then another to your mouth. Slowly and gently, he indulges in your taste, swallowing your breathy moans and teasing your tongue with his. Then, parting ways, he pushes your head down, eager to feel those juicy lips wrap around his throbbing cock. 

He meets your gaze. “You too, love.”

Mirroring the ministrations, he loses himself in the steamy kiss, groaning into your mouth when the you that’s licking his cock from the base to the very tip slides her wet tongue on the slit. Fuck, he needs more. He needs to feel you. 

A hand of his slides down your body, groping a breast, tweaking the nipple, before it ventures further down to between your legs. You’re soaked. Pussy lips swollen, he wastes no time in working two calloused digits inside. Wet, tight, and hot, he can’t get enough of how your cunt clenches around him. 

“Ah, Ken! So good. Thank you!”

The wife that’s drooling on his balls pouts. “Me too, Ken. Make me feel good too, please.”

He smiles. “My sweet wives, always so polite. Tilt your hips this way, darling, show me your pretty pussy. That’s it. And you, sweetheart, let me kiss your beautiful breasts.”

Now, both of his hands are being thoroughly coated in your wetness, squelching their way inside your pulsing canals. Mouth full of your breast, sucking and flicking your hard nipple, he lets himself be consumed by your scent, your warmth, your softness, and the wondrous sounds of your barely subdued whimpers and squeals. 

Being weighed down by your body, the reminder of your love and need for him, of which reflects his own for you, is the purest form of bliss he never would have thought he was deserving of. There is nothing more rewarding than drawing out your pleasure, than curling his fingers in just right against that gummy spot inside you that pushes out even more sloppy juices, and washing away your fears and worries. 

In this moment, as both of your hips are grinding down onto his hands, he wishes there was another of him. He can meet all your needs at once, overwhelm you with his body and drive you crazy. Then, there’d be no need to be jealous or possessive. Though…Nanami has a dark realisation that perhaps the sight of a cock that isn’t really his pushing its way inside your body would drive him to madness and not the pleasurable kind.

“Fuck, Ken! I’m gonna–”

“Cum!”

You orgasm at the same time as your other half, juices flying and soaking the sofa underneath your bodies. Speckles land on his creased trousers, drowning his hands and dribbling juices down his wrists. Nanami throbs, cock jolting in the cold air.

Slumped over his body, one of your heads perks up. “Hey, uglier me, wanna give him a boob job together?”

“I’m ignoring that insult, bitch, but yeah, whatever.” You roll your eyes and then land a peck on Nanami’s cheek, giving him a wink.

Getting down onto your knees, you force his legs to spread wide to accommodate yourselves. A little frazzled at seeing you two collude and leave him out of the decision making process, no word of complaint can manifest before he throws his head back, unable to stand the sight of impish joy all over your irresistible eyes doubled as you watch his cock bob once and twice. 

“Ugh, isn’t his dick so pretty?”

The kitten licks you leave on his frenulum are your answer. Then, you both wrap your breasts around his cock, nipples kissing each other and his sharp intake of breath elicits giggles. Up and down, you rub his heated length with your supple breasts. His fingers thread through your hair, unable to keep his hands off you. 

“Is it good, Ken? Do you like it?”

Nanami groans. “Y-yes, it feels amazing, sweetheart. You’re so good to me…always so good to your husband, aren’t you?”

Giggling again, you two exchange grins, feeling mighty proud of yourself, he supposes. And he knows he can cum just like this, that his cum will spurt all over your faces and breasts. It’ll coat your plump lips and you’ll be able to taste his salty spend. Lightheaded, he gasps for air, intent to get his bearings, to not let you two have your way with him, but then you surprise him one more time. 

Lips locked, you two make a big show of moaning into each other’s mouths, tongue twisting together in an obscene display that has his heart thumping faster and faster until he’s sure he’s losing his mind. 

You might never stop surprising him no matter how long he’s loved you. 

He can’t take it anymore. The smell of your sweetness, the evidence of your euphoria coating his skin, the doughy blanket of your breasts around his cock is driving him insane. He needs you and he needs you now. In agile haste, he stands and takes his clothes off all while you both watch. 

“I-I need to be inside you, darlings.” There isn’t enough space on the sofa for what he wants. So, with a grunt, he lifts you two and carries your bodies up, biting back a smile when you squeal and giggle, into the bedroom. You both bounce into each other’s embrace when he drops you off on the mattress. “Strip.”

Clumsily, you remove every article of clothing. Your arms get caught in your shirt and your panties get tangled around your ankles. “Ugh, Ken, help.”

“I’m here. I’m here.” He helps you two out, wrangling your clothes off. “There we go, honey. Upsi-daisy.”

Though he might never admit how pleased he gets when he’s needed, he’s sure you know. There’s no way you don’t. You feel the evidence of it when he pins you to the kitchen counter to fetch the plate you’re reaching for and you surely see the way his eyes darken as you place a foot on his lap, wordlessly asking him to clasp your heels on for you.

As soon as your clothes are off, he pounces – sloppily swallowing your wet moans, he devours you and then the other you, swapping and switching till he gets frustrated and gasps for air. 

“Oh, sweetheart. I love you so much. All of you. In every life, in every time. Always.” You’re lying so prettily for him. Whatever he has done to deserve you today, he hopes he’ll do it again and again so he may never part from you, not even in death. His hands don’t know where to stay, exploring, groping and squeezing and pinching wherever they please. There’s so much of you he wants to feel at once and it’s like an urge he can’t fight. The need to be with you, to please you, to immerse himself in your essence wholeheartedly is choking him up, calling forth tears in his eyes. “God, if only you could see yourself from my eyes.”

“Ken, I love when you get all emotional, I swear, but please just fuck me already.”

He gulps. “Yes, love. I will.”

“No, wait, fuck me first.”

“Wait your fricking turn, oh my god.”

Another fight breaks out. 

Nails are out, hands are flying, hair is being pulled. Kento huffs. He’s trying to get in between you two without using force, without accidentally hurting you, and just as he’s about to pull you apart, a resounding SLAP!echoes. It’s a grating noise that steals his breath. In a flash, he’s got you behind him and you pinned to the bed. 

“No.” Nanami growls. Breathing hard, he shakes off the sudden anger coursing through his veins. Wide eyed, you just watch him release his punishing hold on your neck that he didn’t even realise he had on you. The scolding fire in him doesn't disappear. “No one hurts my wife. Not even you. Understand?”

You nod frantically. 

“Good. You know I hate to punish you but you won’t disagree when I say you need to be reminded of the rules, would you?” You shake your head. “Use your big girl words.”

“I need to be punished, Ken. I need to be reminded of the rules.”

Satisfied, he leans back on his haunches and beckons the other you to his front. There’s a mark on your cheek and it makes his chest squeeze painfully. “Oh, look what you’ve done to your pretty face. My darling wife and her penchant for violence. You’re going to give me more grey hairs.”

“I hope so; you’ll be a silver fox. Yum.”   

A fruitless frustration builds inside – it’s akin to that cuteness aggression you claim overcomes you often, he thinks. Well, he won’t deny himself any longer. He tugs your neck and kisses you. It’s rough, it’s messy, it’s sloppy. And he does it all while keeping his eyes on the you that’s in near tears. “Why don’t you -hah- show my wife how to be a good girl? Show her the reward you deserve.”

“Okay, Ken.”

Leaning back into his firm, sturdy body, you hiss as the threatening stretch of his fat cockhead pushes through the tight ring of muscles at your entrance. Slowly but surely, he’s worming his way into your pulsing cunt. Nanami grunts when he finally bottoms out, balls constricting with the labour of keeping his cum in his balls and not in your pussy prematurely. This is all far too much for him. To be thrusting into you, holding you upright by your arms as you watch his cock shine with your juices, is an insane fantasy he never even dreamed of, but it is his reality and he damn sure will make the most of it. 

“Ngh, tell my wife h-how you’re feeling, sweetheart.”

Breathless, you try to talk despite the delirium-inducing pleasure he’s ramming into your tight cunt. “G-good. I feel good. Ken’s so big a-and I’m feeling so full. Fuck, Ken, fuck me harder.”

The sound of skin slapping, the squelching of your pussy, and the heady moans and grunts are all going straight to his head. Overstimulated, he clutches your breast for a tether, grounded by the weight and the softness. His pace quickens. “Like this? Hmm? You like this, darling?”

“Yes, Ken! Fuck, I’m close. More, Kento. Fuck me more.”

Over your shoulder, he watches you writhe and squirm on the bed, a hand squeezing your breast the way he is and fingers pumping inside your needy cunt at the pace his cock is working its way into your other half. Impatient, you whine. “Hurry, Ken. I want your cock too.”

He licks his lip. Sweaty, eyesight ever so slightly blurry, and growing closer and closer to his climax, urged on by the tight pulsing of your pussy, he continues thrusting inside. “Behave. Can’t you see I’m -ah, fuck- p-pleasuring my wife? Bad girls don’t get to touch, do they? They don’t get to have their cake. And. Eat. It. Ngh. Too!”

To highlight his point, he lets you slip through his grasp. You fall on top of yourself, bouncing breasts pressed tightly against each other. Your face is buried into the crook of your neck, uncaring about how loud your moans are. Nanami finds purchase against your slippery ass and holds it still as he fucks his cock into you, using you as a glorified cock sleeve. 

“Give me something. Anything, Ken. Please. Pleasepleaseplease.”

Nanami grunts. “Open up.”

A fat drop of his spit lands with a plop onto your awaiting tongue. You gulp it down eagerly. Your fingers work themselves inside your cunt even faster, unperturbed by the weight of yourself pinning you to the bed, sweaty and shaking. Dare your husband say, you rather like it. His cock pulses.

“Soon, honey. Just be patient, a-alright? And then I’ll -hah- fill you up. Just have to -ngh- make my wife cum first.” 

Expert hips grind into your tight pussy, cockhead hissing your g-spot and stretching out your gooey walls again and again. If he had it his way, he’d never leave your cunt, but he has a responsibility to make you both cum. He can’t be selfish.

“Ugh, hurry up, you whore,” you mutter into your ear. Then, he sees your mischievous hand trail down your other’s spine until it descends between your legs. When the moans get louder and the clenching of your pussy steals Nanami’s breath, he can only assume you’ve taken matters into your own hands.

You cum around his cock with a scream. 

Hips stuttering, his orgasm soon follows. “Ah, f-fuck! So tight. So fucking good.”

His choked groans are all that can be heard as you lay limp. He too falls to the bed, lying beside your bodies. That had to have been one of the strongest orgasms he had ever had. Never a dull day with you. Just when he thinks he’s got you all figured out, you prove him wrong. What a privilege it is to learn all about you every day for the rest of his life.

“Hey, my turn!”

Brushing back his blond locks, he chuckles to himself as he watches his cock throb back to life. It seems his body has adapted to be sure he can attend to his wife’s needs. Both of them. “Get up here, sweetheart. Take what you want.”

Excited, you shove your other half off and rush to straddle your husband’s hips. You don’t wait; his cock slides inside with ease from your juices. “Oh, god, yessss. Fuck, Ken, I can feel you in my lungs.”

Bracing himself by holding onto your thighs, he can do nothing else against the desperate bouncing of your ass. The pleats inside of your perfect pussy are attempting to wring him dry all over again and Nanami’s abs flex with the building pressure. His cock is still recovering and it’s sensitive but you don’t care. Now, he’s the one being used like a mere toy. 

“S-slow down, honey.” He hisses. “Hah, slow -hngh!- d-down.”

“Hmm, shit, Kento. Y-you’ve gotten so big…” Ignoring his pleas, you must be referring to the layer of fat that’s grown on his body, thanks to the delicious food you’ve been cooking for him. Wholly embracing married life by skipping visits to the gym in lieu of staying longer in bed with you, he’s realised that his clothes no longer fit as they did. It’s embarrassing for a man who prided himself in being fit and put together but it gets you so wet and so needy, he doesn’t dare change a thing. “I want to -ah ah ah fuuuuck- drown in you.”

His chuckle is punctuated by the grunts that your incessant bouncing is forcing out of him. “If it’ll make you happy, my love.”

You clench down. 

“Ah, don’t -oh fuck- squeeze so tight.” He reaches for your clit, thumbing at it. You yelp, hips bouncing faster. Looking so absolutely beautiful, he can’t keep his eyes off the recoiling breasts in his line of vision. Suddenly, his mouth is suffocated with something hot, wet, and delicious. “Hmmph!”

You’ve sat on his face, leaning forward on his stomach, clearly keen to be involved once more in the fun. Submerged in your scent and taste, he doesn’t hesitate to slurrrrrrp! up your juices. He can taste his cum too and it dribbles down his chin. Cunt wrapped around his cock and another leaking wetness right into his mouth, Nanami swears he’s in heaven, delirious with the devastating gratification of pleasuring his wife. “Ride me faster…my face…my cock…that’s it, dear…doing so -ngh- great for me…my -hah hah- perfect wife.”

Lapping up your juices, he throbs when you squeal on his tongue.

“Is that how I really sound when you eat me out? Ew.”

Other you growls. “And is that what I really look like when I ride you?”

SMACK!

SMACK!

“Don’t t-talk badly about yourself. I won’t have it.”

Rubbing your sore ass, you mumble, “Mmm, sorry, Ken.”

“Yeah, s-sorry.”

Soon, you three work back into a punishing rhythm. Nanami hates to be so strict, but he can’t bear to hear you be so mean to yourself. It makes the hairs on his arms stand. If his eyes aren’t rolling to the back of his head, he’d lecture you about the importance of loving yourself. Again. But he can’t string full sentences together. Not right now. Now when you’re all so close. 

Your clit is bumping against his nose whilst his tongue pierces your cunt and he wonders if you can both feel the specific kind of bliss the other is – a cock kissing your g-spot, filling you up, and your pussy being thoroughly ravished by his greedy mouth. 

“Yes, Ken, suck my clit…hmm, just like that… yes yes yessss.”

“Fuck, Ken, your cock feels so good. I love it! More more more. I need it.”

Whatever his wife wants, he’ll oblige. Planting his feet, he fucks up into you, jostling your body. You shriek. His pace is relentless, merciless, and they push you further and further until your climax nears. Off balance, your face falls in between other you’s breasts. Whatever you’re doing to those tits he loves so much is making his wife’s eyes roll to the back of her head too. 

Nanami’s nearing his end. He needs you to get there first. Always. “Come on, sweetheart. Make me –ah make Kento– proud, won’t you? Let me h-hear, feel a-and taste my darling wife -hah- cum.”

“Yes, Ken!” You both screech.

And soon after, your husband finds himself covered in a flood of your juices. 

“FUCK!” 

“SHIT!”

“OH GOD!”

Nails dig into his skin, scratching and stinging. The grip you have on his cock tightens until he’s robbed of his breath and forced over, hips pumping up into your scalding cunt. Your moans are muffled between your breasts when his searing cum paints your walls white. 

Clinging to each other, the three of you black out. 

Minutes or hours later, Nanami is the first to wake. Finally, the sight that greets him is not anomalous or extraordinary – it’s just his wife, singular and whole, draped naked across his lap and snoring. He’s trying to catch his breath, staring down at your sleeping form. “I’ve -hah- tired you out, huh? Poor thing.”

Just as he wanted, he’s covered in sweat and your juices, owned by you in every way possible. This is how he’d like to spend the rest of his life if he could: attending to your needs and drawing out a smile even in your sleep. He pets your head, a shaky smile on his lips. Your eyes flutter open. 

“There’s my beautiful wife. Hi. I’ve missed you, darling.”

Groggily, you ask, “Am I fixed now, Kenny?”

Bringing up your face to his, he skims his nose against the tip of yours. “You were never broken to begin with, my love.”

“That’s sweet…can we go eat now? I’m hungry.”

Petting your pussy and seeking out your heat as if his fingers are magnetised to it, he whispers against your lips, “You can take one more round, can’t you, honey? For me? For Kento?”

You both know it won’t stop at just one round. 

It never does. 

And thank fuck.

[azzibuckets]

petty

paige bueckers x azzi fudd

4 times paige and azzi are petty and grumpy and sleepy but eventually make up + 1 time they’re petty and grumpy and don’t sleep ??

a/n: shit summary i know, lowkey just a bunch of drabbles that don’t make sense but kinda do

main masterlist | oneshots masterlist

word count: 4.3k

#1 October, 2020

“I can’t believe you pranked me like that.”

They’re holding hands, palms clammy and sweat intermingling in the space between their fingers, but Azzi holds on a little bit tighter. “It was pretty good, huh,” she brags, basking in the way Paige had completely believed her lie. Usually Paige is calm and collected, hard to fool—Azzi’s been losing their scare game for almost four months straight now. But her best friend’s reaction at dinner a few hours ago? Absolutely priceless.

Paige wrestles her hand out of Azzi’s grip and tucks it under her arm. “You made me cry,” she pouts, and it’s not like it’s particularly new to her—she’s more familiar with the feeling of crying with thoughts of Azzi, Azzi, Azzi running through her mind than she’d like to admit—but this time it had been different. It hadn’t been Azzi’s fault all those nights she’d sobbed herself to sleep thinking about how wrong it felt to feel so right with her best friend. Paige had been jokingly mad at first, but it slowly dawns on her that it had been embarrassing for Azzi, her parents, and Colleen to see her break down like that, from a prank as fucking trivial as a “gotcha!” when Azzi had said she was committing to UConn, something Paige had dreamed about for months. Her more than friendly feelings for Azzi had just been put on full blast, and there was no coming back from it now—she’d basically just announced to Azzi’s entire world that she had a big, fat crush on her, and from the look Colleen had sent her way when she’d returned to the table—curious but amused in a way only best friends can pick up on—it hadn’t gone unnoticed.

“Aw, you’re still mad.” A giggle escapes Azzi’s mouth, and the uncomfortable knot in Paige’s stomach coils tighter. Azzi reaches for Paige’s hand again, but the blonde is quick to push it away. “How long you gonna stay like this, miss grumpy pants?”

“For as long as I want,” Paige grumbles, steadfast in her long strides forward. Unfortunately, Azzi’s legs are just as long as hers, so the younger girl keeps in stride, and now on top of her bad mood, Paige is sweaty and slightly out of breath.

That night, Paige goes to bed first. It’s only 9 PM, and usually they stay up for at least half an hour, talking about anything and everything in bed, the darkness and stillness of night always making them a little bit more vulnerable and soft with each other. But if Paige is one thing, she’s stubborn. So when Azzi joins her in bed a few minutes later, freshly showered with the intoxicating smell of her Brazilian nut body lotion still lingering on her, Paige flips over to face the wall, squeezing her eyes shut as tightly as possible.

Azzi doesn’t say anything, though, merely nestling into her pillow with a content little hum as she opens her book, and that pisses off Paige even more. She hasn’t been trying to be petty all evening just for Azzi to start reading. Paige harrumphs to herself before beginning to work on her breathing, even and slow from the bottom of her lungs. She learned this technique a few years ago from a coach, after she’d shared her struggle of sleeping the night before big games. It’s helped her get rest despite nerves and anxiety and now the desire to turn around and give into the toucu of the girl she might be in love with.

It works, and Paige’s mind is turning into a fuzzy mush of half-consciousness when a voice, low and muffled, filters in. “Paige.”

Her name is whispered, faintly, and Paige thinks that Azzi sounds tired and will fall asleep soon enough, so she snuggles deeper into her bed in hopes that her best friend will leave her alone if she looks slumped enough.

“Paigeeeeyyyyy.”

Paige groans internally, still resisting the urge to turn around, but when Azzi gives her an aggressive tap on the shoulder, her desire to get this over with so she can finally rest wins out. “Mm.”

Azzi stays quiet, and Paige is about to get even more mad that she got disturbed for nothing, when the younger girl says quietly, “Can’t sleep, knowing you’re mad at me.” Paige can barely register Azzi’s words, doesn’t even know if she’s dreaming or awake, so she stays silent as the words float around in her brain. Then Paige feels a tug on her arm, and yup—she is unfortunately very much awake.

“Can we talk tomorrow? ‘M tired, Az,” she pleads sleepily, words barely coherent through the grogginess of her voice. There’s another tug, this time more insistent, as hands pry at her fingers, opening them just enough for Azzi’s hand to slip inside and tangle with her fingers. Paige knows that she should pull away, that her angry facade (that was never really strong to begin with) is weakening by the second, but Azzi’s hand is so soft and warm and fits so perfectly into hers that she subconciously relaxes into her touch.

“So are you mad at me?”

“Azzi, please.” Paige squeezes her hand, giving the bare minimum of reassurance as she begins to fall back asleep.

“Paige.”

“Not mad, baby,” she groans. “Just really fuckin tired.” Paige has never called Azzi that before, but it rolls naturally from her tongue, loose and soft in her drowsy state. She rolls over and throws her arm around the younger girl’s waist, pulling her back flush to her front. Azzi immediately takes her hand and lifts it to her cheek, nuzzling into the older girl’s palm, and immediately Paige finds any and all remnants of impatience leave her body. She can’t bring herself to be mad, not when Azzi, beautiful and sleepy, is curled into her body, warm skin all over hers, loose curls tickling her chin. My baby, Paige thinks.

“Are you sure?” Azzi murmurs into Paige’s hand, lips barely brushing her skin but still making her feel light-headed all over. “I didn’t know it would make you this upset.” She kisses the little scar below Paige’s index finger, where a girl had scratched her during jump ball of a pickup game.

“Yes, I’m sure.” Paige’s lips graze Azzi’s hair in return, feather light and barely perceptible. “Good night Azzi.” Then, “I love you.”

She can feel Azzi smile against her hand, can feel her dimple in the groove of her thumb. It makes her smile too. “I love you too.”

#2 November 2021

“Paige, it’s almost midnight.” Azzi throws an arm over her face. The lights in her best friend’s room are especially blinding today, and they don’t help the small headache that’s been throbbing at her temples sporadically throughout the day, likely the product of being stressed out all week for her presentation in marketing combined with the physical exhaustion of Geno’s sadistic conditioning sets.

“Yeah, I know.” Paige hunches forward, eyes trained on the screen as her thumbs fiddle over the controller.

Azzi turns around and buries her face into her pillow. “Don’t you think it’s time to go to bed?” And yes, maybe she’s calling Paige to bed because she always feels the most well-rested after a night of cuddling to sleep, and the bed tonight especially feels too cold for just one person. But Azzi knows the endless teasing she’d get if she admitted to being clingy, and she’s not really in the mood for that right now, so she adds quickly, “We got lift early tomorrow.”

“Shit, that was close, KK,” Paige says into her mic before refocusing her attention back to Azzi. “Nah, I’m good. You go to sleep.” She glances behind her momentarily, and seeing the exhaustion in the younger girl’s face, her eyes soften. She opens her mouth to add something, probably a comforting line that always picks up Azzi’s mood a little bit, but then KK says something in her headset and she turns back around to her screen and laughs.

“Okay, whatever.” Azzi picks up her pink blanket and throws it over her shoulder, and when Paige still doesn’t turn around, she aggressively takes off the Hopkins sweater she’d been wearing and tosses it forcefully on the bed.

“Yo, where are you going?” Paige finally tears her eyes away from the screen when Azzi’s hand lands on the door handle, eyes narrowing.

“To sleep.”

“Sleep?” Paige lifts her headset to hear better. “In your room?”

“Yes, Paige, I’m tired and I don’t know what you replaced your light bulbs with but they’re way too fucking bright.”

“I didn’t even choose the high brightness bulb,” Paige mutters. “It’s only 1200 lumens.” When Azzi sends her a glare, she straightens up in her seat. “Just go back to bed, I’ll play with the lights off,” she reasons, immediately reaching for the switch in the corner of the room.

“Nah, I’m really tired and I just wanna go to sleep.” Azzi opens the door. “See you tomorrow.”

“KK, gimme a sec.” Paige tosses her headset off completely, fingers drumming against the desk. “Bro, you mad at me or something?”

“I’m not mad at you,” Azzi says. And it’s not really a lie—she’s not mad at Paige, but she is mad at something, and she doesn’t even know why. She’s grumpy and she’s tired and she’s probably starting her period soon and she wants to cuddle Paige but she doesn’t know how to say that, or if she can even say that when her and Paige have been stuck in this halfway limbo for months, of tiptoeing the line between best friends and soemthing more. And thinking about that just makes her more upset, and now all she wants to do is curl up into a ball on the floor and cry.

“Okay, then…” Paige looks around helplessly. “Then why are you leaving my room all angry? Thought you were gonna sleep over.”

“Why do you even want me in your bed if you’re gonna be up all night gaming?”

“I literally said half an hour more, like, ten minutes ago.” Paige reaches for the mic, quickly muttering a, “Hey, sorry to end early but I gotta go,” before shutting off her console and standing up to eye level with Azzi. “You’re definitely mad.”

“Stop saying that!” Azzi rubs her forehead, where her headache has turned into a stabbing pain. “I don’t even know why I even sleep over so much in the first place.”

“Why?” Paige’s eyebrows knit together in genuine confusion.

“Don’t you think it’s weird I’m in your bed, like, three days a week? We’re not even dating.” She says this proddingly, hoping to get something out of the blonde that will push them over the line of friends into the territory of more. 


“So?” Paige looks even more lost. “Why does it matter whether we’re dating or not? I like sleeping with you.”

Azzi blinks. Now they’re ten steps back and nowhere even close to the line anymore. “Whatever, Paige.”

“Wow, okay.” Paige picks up remote. She knows that Azzi hates it when she acts indifferent—the thought of things not riling her the way it does Azzi always pushes her nerves even more. But Paige is nineteen, and she’s petty, and she’s mad at her best friend for being mad at her, so she starts playing her show, obnoxiously loud, as Azzi puts on her shoes.

“Good fucking night,” Azzi calls over her shoulder. She only gets a scoff in response.

When she gets to her room, her mind’s running too haywire to even think of trying to sleep, so she steps in the shower, turning the water as hot as she can stand. It burns, slightly, but it takes her mind off all the shit going on and it feels good.

When she hears the door open, she doesn’t turn around. She feels the shower curtain ripple and feels hands encircle her waist, gently and reverently, but she stares at the wall in front of her.

“You crying, mama?”

“Not crying.”

Paige turns her around and presses her thumbs to her cheeks, eyes scanning hers. “You always shower whenever you feel like crying.”

Azzi buries her face into her neck. Her tears mix with the water, and her shoulders shake, but Paige holds her through it all. “Water’s too hot, baby,” the older girl murmurs. She reaches behind her, twisting the knob, but her other arm stays tightly wrapped around Azzi’s hip. That’s the thing about Paige, Azzi thinks—she can’t let go, she won’t let go, and she holds on even when it kills her. The water cools down a little. “It’s not good for you.”

“All of a sudden you know what’s good for me?” Azzi laughs, dry but not unkind.

“You know I didn’t mean what I said earlier.” The water runs between them, heat and steam curling between their bodies, sticking to the sheen of their foreheads and the glistening of their skin.

“Which part?” Azzi mumbles into her chest.

Paige tucks her cheek against the younger girl’s shoulder. She closes her eyes, letting herself feel the unyielding press of her bodies, their nakedness, how they’re holding each other so tightly that if they let go, they’ll stumble and fall. “It does matter to me.” She knows Azzi can barely hear her over the spray of the water, the splattering beneath their feet, but she’s not brave enough yet to say the words any louder. “Azzi.” She whispers her name like a plea, like a prayer. “Does it matter to you?”

Azzi looks at the love of her life, blonde hair turning dark and limp under the water, face bare and so full of emotion she has to look away for a moment. Azzi touches her face, fingers tracing dark eyebrows, brushing down the apples of her cheeks, gripping the firmness of her chin. It’s a familiar path she’s traced about half a million times, but not once has it felt like hers. Not until now. “I’ve loved you so long,” she whimpers. “I’ve loved you long that it feels wrong to say it out loud.”

The air leaves Paige all at once, and she slumps in relief. Azzi kisses her eyelids. They stand under the water, hearts beating in sync, mouths moving against each other as lips and tongues meet, until it turns cold and they shiver. Even then, they stay, each reluctant to be the first to let go.

#3 January, 2022

Azzi’s thirteen tabs and two coffees deep into her research when Paige pulls up, wrapped in a thick red blanket and slides on her feet. Without a word, she moves Azzi’s backpack to the ground and makes herself comfortable on the seat next to her. Within seconds, she’s sprawled out on the table next to a scattered array of pencils and pens and half a dozen packets, head in her hands and blanket still wrapped snugly around every inch of her body.

Azzi takes off her her headphones. She has to nudge the older girl about seven times before one of her eyes crank open. “What’re you doing?”

“It’s twelve am and you’re here in this empty ass library studying by yourself.”

“Paige, I lift more than you. I’ll be fine.”

“First of all, not true. It’s definitely true. Second of all, what kinda girlfriend would I be if I left you here to walk home all alone in the middle of the night?” She stifles a yawn with a hand over her mouth. “Bad girlfriend,” she murmurs. “Bad, bad girlfriend.” Paige drops her head onto her arms and promptly falls back asleep.

“Baby, you’re sick.” Azzi curls a wild strand of hair behind her ear. Paige had woken that morning unusually clingy, with a bit of an attitude, and it had only taken a few seconds for Azzi to think of checking for a fever. Paige was always a big baby whenever she was sick, her first symptom before coughs or headaches or anything. “Go home.”

“Nah.” Paige bumps her knee against Azzi’s under the table, still not looking up. “Wanna be with you.”

Honestly, Azzi wouldn’t mind the company, but then her breath starts whistling out, raspy and wheezing. “Paige, go back to your room. Seriously.” Azzi is unable to soften the annoyance in her tone. “You’re sick and you need to sleep.”

“Baby, let me stay,” Paige begs. “‘M fine, I swear.” She looks up and smiles as if to prove it, but Azzi only grimaces at how pale she looks.

“Paige.”

“Fine.” Paige is sick and annoyed and she doesn’t understand why her girlfriend wants her to go away, and honestly she’d rather be in a library with bright sterile lights, back aching hunched over a desk, than alone in her room, in cold sheets. She leaves quite grumpily, her blanket trailing sadly and dragging on the ground behind her, and Azzi sighs before resuming her work.

It’s almost three in the morning when Azzi finishes up. She thinks about Paige, sleeping alone in her bed, but then decides against disturbing the older girl and heads to her own room. She wakes up past her alarm clock, a product of a mere four hours of sleep, and drags herself through practice. Paige isn’t there until it’s time for film.

“Honey,” Nika giggles when she appears in the doorway, ghost-white with red-rimmed eyes and an even redder nose, box of tissues tucked under one elbow and bottle of water in hand. “In the nicest way possible, you look like shit.” The whole team cackles, and the senior throws up a middle finger before quickly getting chastised by CD.

“Never say I’m not locked in,” Paige grumbles, making her way dazedly to the first row of seats before tossing herself dramatically in her usual chair.

Azzi leans in from the row behind, unsure if Paige is still upset from the night before. “How you feeling?” she whispers.

“Awful.” The blonde lifts her hand, grasping for Azzi’s. Relieved, Azzi slips her hand in the space between the seats and squeezes it. “You didn’t come back last night.”

“Didn’t wanna wake you up.” Azzi kisses the back of her hand. “You sleep okay?”

“Woulda slept better with you,” Paige says, a little too loud, and Nika and Aaliyah both cringe next to them, disgust written on their faces.

“You two done fondling each other or can we start watching film?” KK snickers from behind them, causing another ripple of laughter to run through the room. Paige turns to CD, pointing at KK with her mouth agape, but the coach only shrugs, her lips twitching.

“Rigged,” Paige mutters as Geno walks in and the team settles down. “This whole system is rigged against us.”

Azzi giggles, squeezing Paige’s hand one last time before letting go. “Try not to fall asleep during film.”

“No promises.”

Naturally, Paige falls asleep during film. When the last of the freshmen filter out, Azzi hops over the row and gets comfortable in the seat besides Paige, lifting up the armrest divider so she can pull the older girl onto her lap. Azzi combs through her hair, pressing a kiss to her sweaty forehead. She can feel her girlfriend’s pulse against her skin, erratic and feverish. “You’re a big baby when you’re sick,” she mutters affectionately, thumb rubbing circles into her hip.

Paige stirs, never one to let Azzi get the last word, even when she’s asleep. “Am not.” As soon as Azzi’s hand stills on her scalp, she nuzzles her head into it. Rolling her eyes, Azzi continues playing with her hair.

Somehow, they both end up asleep on the chairs, TV still playing a clip from last week’s practice and lights still on, and when CD walks past and sees her two star players slumped in the 2.5 million dollar facility like it’s their own personal bedroom, she has half a mind to go chew them out. But when Paige mumbles something in her sleep and Azzi nuzzles closer into her, snores filling the room, she rolls her eyes and decides jay her lecture can wait for later.

#4 April 2025

Paige may be a newly crowned national championship, but she’s hungover, and she’s exhausted, and she’s cross with Azzi because she’d told her to save her a seat on the bus only for her to board and see Morgan sitting happily next to her girlfriend, the two of them chatting it up like they’ve always been best friends.

Ordinarily, she’d use her super senior authority to kick the freshman out of her seat, but her headache had been throbbing and her throat sore from all the drinks she’d had, like, five hours prior, so she’d flopped down in the last row and gone right to sleep, still dreaming of confetti and shots.

One of the assistant coaches had to wake her up after they’d arrived at the airport, so she’d boarded the plane last, and seeing Azzi now sitting with Caroline, she’d flopped down again in the nearest seat and, aggrieved, pulled out the neck pillow from her backpack with such aggression that Kaitlyn had winced and scooted further away. Was she so wrong for wanting her own personal human pillow and not this stupid little rainbow headrest?

Paige falls back into slumber, only to be waken up by the sound of shuffling next to her. She turns her head, about to make a passive aggressive comment to Kaitlyn, but blinks when she sees two braids and a grin. “Hey, baby,” she greets, leaning in for a kiss but Paige swerves her.

“What happened to saving me a seat on the bus?”

One of Azzi’s eyebrow scrunches down, and Paige curses her girlfriend for being so impossibly cute when she’s trying to stay mad at her. “When did you ask me to save you a seat on the bus?”

“Like, two nights ago.”

Azzi scratches her head. “Baby, how am I supposed to remember you asking me to save you a seat on the bus two nights ago?”

Paige sniffs.

Azzi kisses her cheek. “I’m sorry, okay? We’ve had a lot of drinks since then. My mind has been a lil fuzzy.”

“Okay.” Paige smiles. “Apology accepted.”

Azzi shakes her head. “Can I have a kiss now?”

Paige cups her cheek and kisses her, long and slow, relishing in the fact that she’s a national champion kissing another national champion, or more specifically, the Final Four Most Outstanding Player, her most outstanding player, and her tongue swipes at Azzi’s bottom lip eagerly before they’re broken apart by a loud shriek.

“Nooo!” KK wails. “I did not just see y’all fornicating over my baby.” Pushing her way into the row, she picks up the trophy and cradles it in her arms.

“So dramatic,” Azzi laughs, until KK’s stormy eyes are turned on her and it quickly dies in her throat.

“This,” she says emphatically, “is coming with me. To sit between me and Ice. While y’all make out and do whatever you wanna do.” Shivering, she steps carefully down the aisle, still stroking the trophy and cursing under her breath.

Raising an eyebrow, Paige sits back into her seat, letting out a long exhale.

“Well.” Azzi unbuckles her seatbelt and slips into the middle seat. “Now that that’s out of the way.”

Paige grins and pulls her in again.

#5 sometime in the future idk

Their daughter is in the next room, babbling to herself. She’s clueless, blissfully happy in her two year old world of stuffed animals and play pens, and Paige wishes she could be with her, holding her favorite person in the world as she reads her her favorite book, the one with the red pig and black giraffe. Instead, Paige stands in the dim glow of the room, facing the harsh reality of her thirty one year old world as she stares at her wife. The aftermath of their last argument is vivid around them—in the two separate beds, both rumpled and slept in, pillows worn with tear tracks, and in the empty bottle of wine on the dresser besides Azzi’s bed and the crumpled up cans of beer in the trash can by Paige’s suitcase, and in the way Azzi’s entire body is stiff, spine rigid against her back, turned away from Paige like she can’t even look at her.

“This schedule. It’s getting too hard on her.”

“Did she tell you that herself?”

“Any sane parent knows that it’s not reasonable for a child to be flying across half the country every two weeks.”

“It’s not every two weeks. Don’t be dramatic.”

“Azzi.”

“Paige.”

“What’s your solution? We’ve been trying to get on the same team for two years and it hasn’t fucking worked yet. You think I don’t want her to grow up in a more stable home, with two parents who can be together for longer than a week half the year?”

Paige’s shoulders sag. “I don’t know.”

“We’ve been going in circles for months.” Azzi opens the mini fridge, reaching inside, but Paige closes it, firmly.

“I don’t think we should keep drinking away our problems.”

Azzi’s fingers flex. “What are you insinuating about me?”

“Azzi. Please.”

Paige wraps her arms around Azzi’s shoulders. Azzi sinks into her. “We’ll figure it out,” the blonde murmurs. “We’ll figure something out. Let me talk to my agent again. We’ll set up a meeting with yours and they’ll work out a plan.”

Azzi curls into her chest. “I don’t like arguing with you.”

Paige traces patterns over her nape, where her curly little baby hairs meet the warm skin of her neck. “I can’t stand when you’re over there in the other bed.” She looks into the eyes she’s loved for so long, still as doe brown since the day they met. “Sleep with me tonight. Please.”

Azzi stands between her legs, in her little pajama shorts and tank top. At thirty years old, she’s more beautiful than ever, Paige thinks. Her cheeks are fuller now, eyes more creased but still betraying her every emotion. She’s all muscle, seasoned from years in the league and having welcomed one too many rookies. Paige’s hand falls down her leg, down the dip in her hip to the smoothness of her thigh, tracing down her calf. Azzi sucks in a breath, the feeling of Paige’s fingers ghosting over her sensitive spots causing her head to tip back and moan.

Azzi presses herself achingly, wantingly into Paige’s touch before she connects their lips. Azzi kisses her like she’s beautiful, like she’s fucking precious, all gently and softly and tentatively. She kisses her like she’s still a school girl with a crush, like she can’t really believe it’s happening. Paige feels delicate in Azzi’s hands, and she loves it. Azzi kisses her like she’s afraid that if she stops, the world will come shattering down around them. Maybe it will. Maybe it won’t. Right now, with Azzi whimpering into her mouth and making all those little sounds that has Paige pushing against her, fingers digging into her waist with desire, Paige can’t seem to really care.

In the early light of morning, Azzi leans on her elbow, tracing words on the older girl’s spine, fingertips dragging sleepily across the ridges of her muscle and a couple of old scars. She presses a kiss to the hollow of her back. It makes Paige feel ticklish, and she squirms and flips onto her back to stare up at her. “My wife,” Paige whispers, hands going to caress her cheeks, making sure that she’s real, that she’s still hers. “My baby.”

[cressidagrey]

Cricket Whites

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Felicity Leong-Piastri (Original Character)

Summary: Oscar plays Cricket. Teenage Felicity is TOTALLY normal about it.

Notes: Don't leave me alone with a Google Doc for an hour, or this is the result.

Y'all can thank @llirawolf and @leodette for both sending me that picture of Oscar in cricket whites.

(divider thanks to @saradika-graphics )

Felicity Leong had always considered herself a composed person.

Even as a teenager, the age where everyone else was all hormones and impulse, she was the calm one. She planned things. She colour-coded her notes. She knew her boundaries. She once told a boy in Year 10 that “flirting is not a substitute for intellectual value” and walked away before he could reply.

So really, there was no excuse for what happened when Oscar walked onto the pitch.

It was a sunny Saturday afternoon, the kind where the Haileybury campus looked like a postcard: golden light spilling across the cricket green, the redbrick buildings glowing warm against a cloudless sky. A soft breeze lifted the edges of the white pavilion flags. It was all very idyllic. Very civilised.

Felicity had come prepared — not for the match, but for productivity. Her physics textbook was open on her lap, highlighters neatly lined up on a blanket, hair twisted into a no-nonsense bun. She had even brought a second set of flashcards to quiz Aarya during breaks.

She was there to “support her boyfriend” in an academically responsible way. Watch the first ten minutes, smile when he glanced over, then get through three chapters on oscillations and waves.

That was the plan.

And then Oscar walked onto the field.

In full cricket whites.

The trousers were unfair. The polo shirt was worse. And the cable-knit jumper with the school crest — God, the jumper — looked like it had been stolen from a Ralph Lauren ad and adapted by angels. He had the sleeves pushed up just past his elbows, exposing his forearms like it was no big deal, and his hair was ruffled from warm-ups in that exact way that made Felicity want to punch a wall.

She blinked once. Then again. Her hand twitched.

Aarya looked over. “You haven’t turned a page in five minutes.”

Felicity didn’t respond. She had just realised she had written the word cricket in the margins of her notes. Four times.

“I’m fine,” she lied, adjusting her glasses. “Just… distracted.”

Aarya leaned in, concerned. “Do you feel sick?”

Felicity let out a low, strangled sound. “He’s got the forearms out.”

Lara glanced up from her phone. “Yeah, that’s cricket for you.”

“He just adjusted his sleeve with his teeth.”

Aarya raised an eyebrow. “Okay. Are you… okay?”

“No,” Felicity hissed. “I’m sixteen and I’ve just discovered I’m shallow.”

To his credit, Oscar was entirely oblivious to the war crimes he was committing against her nervous system. He jogged into position with the easy grace of someone who’d grown up on a pitch, flexed his fingers in his gloves, and took a long drink from his water bottle — all very normal things that, unfortunately, now seemed deeply personal to Felicity.

He wasn’t even trying. That was the worst part.

He wasn’t peacocking. He wasn’t showing off. He wasn’t winking or smiling for the crowd. He was just existing — calmly, sweat on the back of his neck, school crest on his chest — like some private school boy dream sequence designed in a lab.

Felicity dragged a hand down her face and whimpered.

“Do you want me to splash water on you?” Aarya offered helpfully. “You know you’ve been staring at Oscar like he’s a final exam answer sheet for ten straight minutes, right?”

“I have not.”

“You have. It’s okay. Cricket whites do weird things to the female brain.”

“I’m going to die.”

“He’s literally your boyfriend.”

“Exactly! I’ve seen him with morning hair and mismatched socks. And now he’s out there looking like a fictional heartthrob, and I don’t know what to do with myself.”

Later — much later, after overs and innings and Oscar bowling a clean wicket — he jogged over toward her. Sweaty curls. Beaming like he’d just saved the world.

“Hey,” he said, voice warm and a little breathless. “You stayed the whole match?”

Felicity blinked up at him, suddenly aware that her cheeks were still flushed and her voice was definitely not going to come out normal.

“Yes. Obviously,” she said. But it came out more like a squeak.

Oscar grinned. “You were sitting with Aarya, right? I thought I saw you.”

Felicity nodded. “I, um. I was… taking notes.”

Oscar glanced at her closed textbook, still in her lap, the same page open as it had been three hours ago. “Right. Good notes?”

She looked down. Realized she had drawn a doodle of a cricket bat with hearts around it.

“Very good,” she said, stuffing the book into her bag. “Lots of physics.”

He laughed and leaned down, brushing a kiss against her cheek. “Thanks for coming, Fliss.”

And then he was off again, turning back to grab his gear, leaving Felicity to fan herself with a match programme and hiss, “I am in so much trouble,” under her breath.

Aarya just patted her leg. “You’re doomed. But like. In love.”

***

Oscar Piastri prided himself on being unflappable.

On the track, in exams, during surprise oral presentations — he was composed, methodical, ice-water-in-his-veins calm. His tutors loved to say he had “a natural temperament for pressure,” which was a nicer way of saying nothing ever seemed to rattle him.

That composure extended, usually, to his relationship with Felicity.

She was the one person who could throw him off, yes — but never in a bad way. She made him feel steadier. Like being with her made everything else make sense.

Which was why it took him exactly three seconds after sneaking into her room that night to realize something was different.

Fliss was standing by the desk in pyjama shorts and an oversized hoodie, hair scraped up in that messy bun she always claimed was an accident, even though he thought it was the cutest thing he’d ever seen.

“Hey,” he whispered, already grinning. “I had to wait till Mr. Bates turned his WWII documentary on. I think I know more about submarines now than I ever wanted to.”

Felicity didn’t roll her eyes. Didn’t smirk. She just crossed the room and kissed him.

Like, properly.

It wasn’t their usual soft goodnight kiss. This one was all heat and hands and startled noises in the back of his throat, and Oscar had just enough brain cells left to catch her waist and kiss her back before every single logical thought in his head short-circuited.

When she finally pulled away, pink-faced and breathless, Oscar just stared at her.

“Okay,” he said quietly, catching his breath. “Not that I’m complaining, but... what the hell was that?”

Felicity dropped her face into his hoodie-covered chest. “Don’t ask.”

“I’m going to ask.”

“You’re going to regret it.”

Oscar laughed, slipping his arms around her waist. “Was it the flash cards? Did I finally win you over with molecules?”

“You’re such a nerd.”

“You just snogged me like I came back from war.”

She groaned again, louder this time, and shoved him lightly. “Shut up.”

Still, she didn’t move far. And when he ducked down to look at her properly, he saw it — the pink blush across her cheeks, the way she wouldn’t meet his eyes.

Which meant he really wasn’t letting it go.

“Still not telling me?”

She sighed, then looked up at him, and it hit him again — how beautiful she was when she was flustered. “It was the stupid cricket whites, okay?”

Oscar blinked. “The… what?”

“The cricket match. Your uniform. The sleeves. The sun. Your forearms. I don’t know. My brain shut down. Aarya had to tell me how to spell ‘turbine.’”

Oscar stared at her, baffled. “You’ve been tutoring sixth formers since you were twelve. And cricket whites took you out?”

Felicity groaned and tried to walk away.

Oscar followed her, laughing. “No, no, I’m sorry, I’m just—seriously? That’s what did it? I’ve made you flashcards with little doodles. I learned ballet terminology for you. I literally memorised your favourite cookie recipe -”

“Yeah,” she muttered, dragging a hand through her hair. “And apparently none of that matters because your arms looked good in the sun.”

Oscar blinked again. And then—

“Oh my god,” he said, delighted. “You were checking me out at cricket.”

“I’m breaking up with you.”

“You love me in cricket whites.”

“I am not dignifying that with a response.”

Oscar was glowing. He couldn’t help it. Because the most brilliant, most put-together girl he’d ever known had just short-circuited over his stupid cricket whites.

“Tell anyone and I’ll key your laptop,” Felicity threatened him. 

Oscar bit back a grin and stepped forward, cupping her face.  “I won’t tell a soul,” he said softly. “But just so you know… I would’ve worn that stupid jumper a lot earlier if I’d known it had that kind of effect.”

Her eyes narrowed, but the corner of her mouth betrayed a twitch of a smile.

“I hate how smug you are.”

“I’m not smug,” Oscar said, all innocence. “I’m flattered. My girlfriend thinks I’m hot. In cable-knit.”

“God, you’re insufferable.”

And then he kissed her again — softer this time.

And he was still grinning when they fell asleep, tangled under her duvet, her fingers curled into the hem of his shirt like they always were — the same shirt she’d probably end up stealing the next day.

Cricket whites, he thought, smug and dazed and very much in love.

Who knew?

[usedpidemo]

Alive (tripleS Seoyeon)

15k words

—————

“For the last time,” huffs Seoyeon, tone playful but showing a tinge of disdain toward her friends, bothered by their insistence. Raising her voice through the ear-thumping club music, she says, “I’m not interested.”

“Oh come on, don’t be so cold.” Yooyeon replies, bumping shoulder to shoulder, poking at her sternness. “You haven’t gone out with us once the entire time. We’re headed back to Korea tomorrow, mind you. We don’t know when we’ll have another opportunity to spend time like this together.”

“Okay, and what about it? Someone has to be the adult around here.” Seoyeon remains uptight, crossing her arms and shaking her head. If not for the neon lights gleaming throughout the place, her face would be seen lit bright red with rage. “I’m down to follow you around and maybe have a drink or two, but please leave me out of your bullshit.”

“Bullshit? You mean us flirting with the guys here?” Xinyu points at one such man, in a ragged business suit, clearly a few bottles in and on the verge of falling over. “They won’t remember a damn thing when they wake up.”

“And what if they do remember? What about the rest of us then? Have you considered what you’re doing can harm our career, hell our personal lives?”

“Hasn’t done anything, so I think we’re good,” Xinyu fires back, as if it were a gotcha moment. Drinking another round to prove her point, she adds, “Look, I’m saying you should have fun every now and then. A little party never killed nobody, after all.”

“I don’t think that saying is true these days,” replies Seoyeon, tilting her head, unconvinced. She rises from her seat to leave, unwilling to hear any more of her friends’ yapping. “Like I said, I’m not interested. Just call when you need me to take you home.”

As she walks away from her two friends, disappearing into the energetic crowd, Xinyu and Yooyeon stare at each other, shrugging their shoulders before returning to the club’s backrooms. 

—————

“Look, for the last time, I’m not interested,” you tell your friend, looking left and right. Clubs have never been your favorite place nor have parties been your favorite pastime. Nevertheless, you’re still accompanying a few workmates there because of bullshit office culture and so-called teambuilding. For a weekday, the energy is surprisingly electric. “I don’t mind having one drink, but I’d rather be home right now over anything, so—”

“Dude, this is where all the rich people and celebrities hang out. No way on earth you’re not going,” your friend tells you, as if the last thing you wanted was to share the same space with more men and women in the upper tax bracket when you’re not even making a tenth of their monthly income. Nevermind the fact that most of you unceremoniously decided on this excursion at the eleventh hour—you’re all still in your office attire, evidently worn out and in need of a laundry service. “I mean, there are some gachas nearby, since you seem to like them a lot—”

“Hey. I haven’t bought a gacha in two weeks!” you fire back, but your reply is drowned out in a sea of colleague laughs and party music. 

You can only shake your head and sigh, taking an embarrassing defeat on your character. 

As you scan your surroundings, you can’t help but recognize that you’d fit right in with all the groggy strangers and passed out drunkards filling out the seats and the corners of the club. Your sleep-deprived brain might as well be a few rounds in with how overworked and pushed it has been with all the overtimes, assignments, and take-home work you’d been receiving. All that for the bare minimum with no consideration for promotion nor any hints indicating such. But to be fair, you’d only been around for a handful of months; most of your peers have found their careers stuck for up to years. 

And based on some of the other salarymen you’ve seen knocked unconscious, they seemingly feel the same way. So you can conclude that it’s only right that you should drink your worries and sorrows away, at least for tonight.

It doesn’t take long for jovial merrymaking and intoxication to set in. You swear that your coworkers emptied out two buckets full of alcohol bottles in mere minutes, with plenty of liquor in great abundance to pass around. It gets to a point where you have to take at least one.

And so you do—in tiny, barely recognizable sips to blend in.

Some of your colleagues are singing their hearts out, others end up on the dance floor, but most fall head first onto the table, completely inebriated. Their minds filled with poison, your cue to weasel out of there.

Making your way through the crowd, unsure of where the entrance and exit was, you head down some steps, uncaringly bumping every person that passes by you and vice versa. You’re one bad move away from an incident. It could be anyone.

It ends up catching up to you.

“Oh!” A frantic shout rips through your ears and to everyone nearby, sending you careening onto the floor—except it’s your body crouching by impulse. Glancing to your side, a phone falls onto the stairsteps with a not so audible thump. Your natural instinct is to grab it, while the party goes on without a care.

The person turns around and immediately realizes what’s happened. Reaching out her hand, it intertwines with yours. Your eyes meet. An air of familiarity flows between you two. It’s a slow-motion, time-freezing scene straight out of any cliche drama—the ones you’d make fun of for being too unrealistic and predictable. And now, you’re put in that exact same scenario. Not a soul could have written your story any better.

Looking into her eyes, you’re taken back to not that long ago, at the tail end of a busy day like this one:

—————

As the clock struck the top of the hour before midnight, a command blared through the subway station speakers, telling all passengers that there’s only 30 minutes remaining before all services will come to an end. And yet, even this late, every terminal is brimming with life. 

All the more reason to rush through the crowd and head home. Another overtime shift in the books and you’re running on fumes to get back to your apartment. You’re dead set on crashing as soon as you hit the bed or the couch, whichever is the first you see. 

You barely make it, narrowly entering the train mere seconds before the doors close. Before you’re forced to stay the night in some convenience store to get some semblance of sleep.

Inside, the carriage is filled with people from all walks of life, from single parents and families with their children, businessmen from salarymen to executives, to partygoers going club hopping. The city never sleeps. Like everyone else, you occupy yourself in your own earphones and music to get by until you reach your stop.

Shuffling your way out the train and down the steps, you recall this exact moment. It should have been an afterthought, but you still remember everything vividly: a bump—a borderline tackle—that sends you tripping down the stairs. No wonder that scream sounded so familiar.

Instead of a phone, it's a patchwork of documents and paperwork flying in every direction. The girl frantically grabs for whatever she can retrieve while you recover the rest. She’s quite apologetic doing so, repeatedly saying ‘Sorry’ in the tiniest voice imaginable, that you overlook how she’s got all your files mixed up with no cohesion or continuity whatsoever. 

“God, I’m so—so—sorry—” she mutters, clutching the last of your paper before straightening the pile she collected and handing them back to you. Bowing her head, she follows with: “I really am sorry. I was in such a rush to get home and—”

But you never hear the rest of it, because you promptly take the papers back and hurry out of there.

—————

Deja vu is working overtime. 

Your fingers are slowly pointing at each other, mouths slowly gaping, eyes also widening, stunned speechless. The girl is first to speak:

“It’s you again.”

And to be quite honest, you don’t have a response to that.

“You’re the guy I ran into at the train station last week,” she recalls, her eyes widening more, her shocked expression turning into a look of genuine delight, like you’re distant friends reconnecting after a long time apart: “I didn’t think I’d see you here.”

Glancing left and right, you scramble for a quick answer. It comes out awkward: “Y--yeah. Me neither. That’s crazy.”

“Small world, huh?” she quips, quickly grabbing her phone off the floor and pocketing it. “Didn’t I also see you the morning after?”

“Morning after?” you ask, puzzled by what seems to be a second previous encounter.

“Yeah. I was going to the convenience store for some coffee and I saw you across the street,” she says, grinning from ear to ear. “You were still wearing the same suit you wore the night before.”

Knowing that you did, in fact, crash onto the couch once you got home and went to work the next day without changing clothes proves to be embarrassing. You get completely flustered. What a spectacular first impression.

“I—yeah, I—I guess I did,” you reply, scratching your head, unable to look her directly in the eye in light of this revelation. You can only chalk it up to one thing. “Work.”

The girl laughs, covering her mouth. “Can relate.”

“So,” you swallow your throat, tugging on the collar of your shirt. Feeling sweat trickle down your face and  new tension brewing. “What brings you here?”

“Oh, some friends,” she remarks, rolling her eyes seemingly at the thought of them. “I was about to leave for some fresh air. And you?”

You stifle your laugh, toothily smiling, hoping you’re not turning her away. She looks at you intently, like you have something important. “Oh, funny. I was gonna say friends, too, if coworkers qualify as friends.”

“Really now?” She scans you from head to toe and recognizes that you’re one of those men. “I’m not surprised. My friends dragged me here as well. I’m guessing you didn’t wanna come along too?”

Your eyes widen at how quick she is at reading you. Like she’s known you for so long. “Wait, how’d you—”

“I guess we share quite a lot of things, huh?” she comments, beaming. The realization hits her: it’s destiny, it’s fate. “Gosh, it does really feel like we’re meant to cross paths.”

“Now that you’ve said it, you might be right.”

The girl looks around, and a realization dawns on her: that you’ve been making casual conversation on some narrow stairs, unknowingly being a mild inconvenience to partygoers. It’s only afterward she notices the growing pileup of disgruntled people cutting past, cursing you both out for indirectly acting as human roadblocks.

Glancing up the stairs, she remarks, “I think we should take this outside, you know, so we can hear each other better. My ears are hurting.”

—————

Despite reacquainting yourself with fresh air, your ears are still reeling in aftershocks from deafening party music. 

Across the street, from the club, lies a humble cafe serving customers 24/7. Despite the music being so loud that you can still hear it from behind these walls, the place is empty and solemn. Evidently most people here prefer their drinks with alcohol, not coffee. And looking at the girl, you do seem to share something common: that you’re both fishes out of water, living in a way that your peers might describe as ‘foreign’ and ‘weird.’

She’s on her phone, sighing as she fires back text after text to what seems to be her friends, annoyed about being bothered. Occasionally shooting you a meek, apologetic smile. You can make out her name even through the little font on the screen; ’Seoyeon-unnie, where did u go?’ reads one of the messages, and she catches on right as you’re reading them, concealing it, her face turning red and cheeks puffing.

“You’re not from around here?” you ask, genuinely curious. She’s blended in with the locals effortlessly.

“Afraid not,” she tells you, rapidly mashing through her phone before putting it away. Sipping on her drink, her eyes fixate on you, reciprocating interest. She inhales deeply, adding: “We’re here on a scheduled trip, so we’ll be leaving soon. Don’t know when we’ll come back.”

If this is her attempt to dissuade you from developing this little date into something more, then she’s failed. She has a natural glow around her, a magnetic pull that has you hooked. Even when she sounds direct, she’s as gentle as a candle’s flame. You can imagine the stars revolving around her; she’s that charming.

“That’s unfortunate,” you reply, frowning, hoping to earn some sympathy points from Seoyeon.

She doesn’t really notice, or sees through your act. Either way, she doesn’t react. “Yep,” she sighs, stirring the straw on her drink, glancing down on the table’s surface. “Tonight’s actually our last night before we leave tomorrow, so we went out. Not a party animal, so—”

She should have probably led with that. Hearing that this encounter will be as brief as your previous ones rips through your hopes and dreams like a gun shot straight through your heart.

It leaves you speechless for a moment. Unable to take even a little sip of your own drink too. 

And maybe it’s better off this way. Cherish the brief time you have before you part ways again. 

“Hey, are you alright?” Seoyeon asks, snapping you from your daze.

Shaking your head loose, you adamantly lie. “Y-yeah. I’m good.”

She’s leaning her head forward, staring into your eyes intently. Something appears off. “I don’t think so.”

Fucking hell. Seoyeon’s smarter than you thought.

She pulls the rug from underneath, catching you further off-guard. 

“Let me guess: work, huh?”

It’s the perfect alibi and escape. There’s some truth behind your excuse to stand on. Countless hours of a thankless job, being forced out of your comfort zone by peers that you hardly know and vice versa, when all you want is to separate your work life and personal time. Clock in, clock out.

“Yeah. Something like that. I don’t really drink; I wanna go home, but you know—”

“I understand. I mean, I’m not saying my job is as bad, but the hours eventually catch up and weigh down on you. I don’t sit behind a desk in an office for hours everyday, like you do, but the feeling is mutual.”

“Way to kick a man when he’s down,” is your reply, throwing a light jab at what appears to be a misguided attempt at empathizing. She lost you when she said she doesn’t work office hours. 

Seoyeon seems to take offense to it, shooting a pout, firing a glare in your direction. “I didn’t mean to make your life sound boring and monotonous. If anything, I’ve got it worse—well, we do.”

You remain silent. Suspect.

“Imagine getting up at two in the morning, putting on makeup, being in front of cameras at nearly every waking moment, having to put on your best behavior, no matter how tired you are. Having to sing and dance the same song a dozen times without making a mistake. And when the day is over, you only have 30 minutes of sleep before you do it all over again. Rinse and repeat.”

A dour feeling hits you right in the gut. Not even you get overworked this terribly, even if your company’s policies are borderline unethical. 

“Well—shit,” is your only response to quite the expository dump.

“Sometimes I wonder if this is even worthwhile,” she adds, pausing to take a prolonged drink. “I mean, I’m not alone; the responsibility is on all of us to look out for one another, but I wonder if they share the same feelings as me.”

Tilting your head, you reply, “Pretty sure they’re just as good as hiding it as you are. I mean—there’s a reason why my coworkers keep asking me to drink with them almost every other day.”

“I guess, but—someone has to be the levelheaded one in our group,” she says, her brows furrowing, reminding herself of the responsibility. “As much as we want to let loose, we still have to be careful. Getting drunk can be the worst sometimes.”

“True.”

Seoyeon has already emptied her drink while yours is still halfway unfinished. She looks directly into your eyes, reaching out her hand across the table, which you instinctively hold. Despite the little time you’ve spent together, your interactions mostly a string of mere coincidences, you feel a sense of warmth and familiarity with her that only close friends share. 

“Sorry for going on a tangent like that,” she says, gently caressing your hand beneath hers, resting her head on the table, her gaze staring out the window, visibly looking tired and defeated. “I get really stressed out sometimes, and I can’t show weakness in front of anyone. I’m just—” she abruptly pauses, huffing, sighing wistfully. “I’m not ready to get back out there.”

Admittedly, you hardly know her, nor will you ever get a chance to, if she’s to be believed, but you can’t let the opportunity slip away for good. There’s no way she’s confiding this much of herself in some random stranger.

“Well, we can still stay in touch, for when you leave,” you tell her, drawing her attention. “Unless you don’t wanna exchange numbers with a guy you just met properly for the first time.”

She pauses, takes a moment to quietly chuckle, before looking up at you, grinning. “Technically, we already met twice. Just not in a conventional way.”

“Still won’t let me live that down, huh?” you remark, annoyed, much to her amusement. Meanwhile, she’s straight up laughing.

“I don’t know. I think it’s cute, actually,” is her reply, her ear to ear smile and upbeat expression infectious. “Shows that you’re committed.”

“Or that my workplace has no qualms about overworking their employees to death, but sure. Committed.”

“Hey, you’re not the only one overworked here, like I said.” Seoyeon raises her arms defensively, feigning innocence. “I thought we were on the same page.”

“You’re making me look like I enjoy it.”

“Never said you did. Did you not listen to me?”

“I heard you—I just don’t see it that way, honestly.”

“Then stop being an uptight dick about and move on.”

“You won’t let me.”

“Are you this insufferable with your coworkers?” Seoyeon mocks, resting her chin on her palm, eyes gleaming with mischief.

You lean back, feigning offense. "Only when they drag me to clubs late at night on a Wednesday." She laughs—a bright, clear sound that cuts through the cafe’s drowsy hum. "Fair. But you’re bearable. Surprisingly."

"Wow. High praise," you deadpan, swirling the ice in your half-finished drink. A comfortable silence settles, the kind that feels earned. Her thumb traces idle circles on the tabletop, and you notice the chipped polish on her nails. The neon glow from the club across the street paints her face in fleeting streaks of flashing colors.

Seoyeon sighs, the playful edge softening. "This was—nice," She glances at her phone lighting up again. Another ignored message. "I should probably face the music. Literally."

The neon glow from the club across the street pulses through the café windows, painting alternating stripes of violet and gold across her cheekbones. You watch as she absently traces the rim of her empty glass, the ice long since melted into a sad, diluted puddle. There's a quiet intimacy in the way the condensation clings to her fingertips, in the way she hesitates before finally pulling her hand away.

"You don't have to go back yet." The words leave your mouth before you can stop them. 

She looks up, one eyebrow arched. "Oh? And what exactly would we do instead?" There's a challenge in her voice, but beneath it—something softer. Something hopeful.

Outside, the bass from the club thrums through the pavement, vibrating up through the soles of your shoes. A group of drunk salarymen stumbles past the window, their laughter sharp and raucous in an otherwise quiet street. The contrast is jarring; the chaotic energy of the night pressing in closely against this fragile bubble you've created.

"I don't know," you admit. "Walk. Talk. Find somewhere that doesn't smell like stale beer and poor decisions." 

A slow smile spreads across her face. "You had me at 'doesn't smell like stale beer.'" She stands abruptly, chair scraping against the floor. "But if we're doing this, we're doing it properly." 

Before you can respond, she's shrugging out of her jacket and tossing it to you. "Put this on."

"Why—"

"Because," she interrupts, already pulling her hair into a messy bun, "if anyone recognizes me, I'd rather they think I'm some random girl out with her—" She trails off, gesturing vaguely at you. 

"Ugly salaryman boyfriend?" you supply dryly. 

She barks out a laugh. "I was going to say 'tragically overworked acquaintance,' but sure. Let's go with that." 

The jacket is too small around the shoulder, the fabric still warm from her body heat. It smells faintly of her perfume—something floral and expensive, undercut with the sharp tang of citrus. 

"You look ridiculous," she informs you playfully, stepping out into the night. 

The cool air hits your face like a slap, sharp and bracing. Seoyeon tilts her head back, inhaling deeply as the city lights reflect in her eyes. For a moment, she stands there, perfectly still, as if savoring the simple act of breathing. 

"Where to?" you ask. 

She turns, and the smile she gives you is different now. Less guarded, more alive. 

"Let's get lost." 

—————

The alleyways twist and turn like a maze, the sounds of the main streets fading into a distant hum. Here, the air smells of frying oil and damp concrete, of laundry hung out to dry on cramped balconies overhead. Seoyeon walks half a step ahead of you, her fingers trailing along the graffiti-covered walls as if reading some secret braille only she can understand. 

"You know," she says suddenly, "I used to do this all the time as a trainee. Just—walk. No destination. No manager breathing down my neck." 

A cat darts across your path, its eyes gleaming in the dim light. Seoyeon crouches down, making soft clicking noises with her tongue. To your surprise, the creature actually approaches, butting its head against her outstretched hand. 

"Traitor," you mutter. 

She grins up at you. "Animals love me. It's my one true talent." 

"What, and the whole singing-dancing-being-ridiculously-good-looking thing is a happy accident?"

The words are out before you can stop them, too honest by half. Seoyeon goes very still, her fingers pausing mid-scratch. The cat, sensing the shift, slinks away into the shadows. 

"Sorry," you start, but she shakes her head. 

"Don't be." She stands, brushing invisible dirt from her jeans. "It's just—strange. Hearing someone say that like it's a fact. Not a PR talking point."

There's a rawness to her voice that makes your chest ache. You want to reach out—to bridge the gap between you—but the moment stretches, fragile and uncertain. 

A distant siren cuts through the silence. Seoyeon blinks, as if waking from a dream. 

"Come on," she says, nodding toward a flickering convenience store sign at the end of the long, narrow alley. “I'll buy you a drink that doesn't taste like regret."

—————

It’s half-past midnight. The air inside Room 408 hangs thick with ghosts of cheap perfume and spilled beer. Neon lights pulse across soundproof walls as Seoyeon kneels on the carpet, her fingers hovering over the touchscreen. The menu glows unnaturally bright in the dimness, a constellation of song titles scrolling into infinity.  

“New rule,” she says, not looking up. “If you pick anything released before 2010, you automatically lose.” 

You sink onto the pleather couch beside her. The material groans, releasing a puff of dust that dances in the projector’s beam. “That eliminates eighty percent of good music.”  

“Your definition of ‘good’ is suspect.” She finally meets your eyes, a challenge in the tilt of her chin. “We’re playing ‘Answer Me.’  

“The kids’ game?”  

“Adapted.” She tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear. The motion is quick, practiced. “I ask a question. You answer while staring at the ceiling. If you blink, you sing first. If I blink, then I do.”  

“What’s the question?”  

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”  

She rises, standing before you. The shift alters the room’s gravity; suddenly, the space feels smaller, charged. The thump of bass from next door vibrates through the floor.  

“Ready?”  

You nod, leaning back. The ceiling tiles are water-stained, patterned like old tea leaves.  

Seoyeon’s voice drops to a murmur, cutting through the muffled chaos beyond the door. “What did you wish for at the train station? That night we collided.”  

Your breath hitches, heart pumps erratically, endlessly going through a million probable answers. 

“A promotion.”  

She doesn’t move. “Liar.”  

“How would you—?”  

“You blinked.” Triumph curls her lips. “Twice.”  

You scowl, your brows furrowing. “Fine. I wished I had asked for your number when you apologized.”  

Silence. The neon shifts from blue to violet, catching the startled dilation of her pupils. Her throat moves as she swallows.  

“My turn,” she says, too quickly.  

You stand, closing the distance. Her shoulder brushes your chest. “Rules are rules. You blinked.”  

“I did not!”  

“Your left eye. At ‘apologized.’ 

She glares, but it lacks heat. “Cheap shot.”  

You chuckle.“Sing.”  

Indignantly turning away from you, she complies.

She picks the song almost a little too fast. ‘Into the New World’ by Girls’ Generation flashes on the screen. A classic. A rite of passage for every female aspirant looking to get into the industry.

The opening notes shimmer, crystalline and familiar. She takes the mic like a weapon, her knuckles clenched, white.  

“You know this one?” she asks, back still turned.  

“Who doesn’t?”  

“Right.” A bitter edge. “National anthem.”  

When she faces you, the transformation is jarring. Her posture straightens, shoulders pulling back. Chin lifted. Even her breathing changes: measured, controlled. The girl who tripped on alley cobblestones is gone. In her place: a performer. A born to be idol.

Her voice is clean, technically sound—every note placed with surgical precision. But it’s hollow. A perfect mannequin singing a perfect replica of joy.  

Halfway through, she stumbles. Not on the notes, but on the choreography. Her hand rises automatically for a fanchant that isn’t there, then aborts the motion, fingers curling into her palm. She doesn’t look at you. A glance here and there, but otherwise, you’re nowhere in sight.

The final chorus fades. The screen flashes 99.7%. Artificial applause crackles from the speakers. She smiles naturally as if she performs for thousands, not for one man.  

She drops the mic onto the couch. It bounces, hurling toward your knee.  

“Your turn,” she says, her voice tight.  

You don't pick a song. Not right away.  

“My question now.” You hold her gaze. “What did you wish for? That morning you saw me in this same suit.”  

The air conditioner whirs. A drop of condensation slides down a beer can, pooling on the table.  

Seoyeon looks down at her hands, deep in thought. A moment that could be its own eternity. She holds her breath, before her lips curl into tangible words: “That you’d look up.”  

It barely registers in your head.

“—What?”  

“At the convenience store. You were staring at your shoes. I wished you’d look up so I could wave. Say sorry properly for the stairs.” She picks at a thread on the couch. “Stupid, right?”  

You step forward. The scent of her shampoo cuts through the stale air—pear blossoms and salt. “Why didn’t you?”  

“You seemed—” She searches your face, blinking slowly. “Like you carried something heavy. I didn’t want to add to it.”  

The admission hangs between you both. Raw. Unrehearsed.  

“Just sing,” she whispers, her voice shrinking, body lightly jittering. “Please.”  

Turning around, you scroll past Hotel California, then Gee, eventually landing on Spring Day.

Seoyeon’s breath hitches. “That’s—”  

“Yeah.”  

The piano intro spills into the room, slow as honey. You don't bother to face the screen. Don’t need to. You watch her instead, keenly observing the way her lashes lower at the first line, how she knots her fingers together.  

Your voice cracks on the high note. Not idol-perfect. Human. Rough with the weight of overtime shifts and convenience store dinners and wishing for things you couldn’t name.  

Seoyeon doesn’t move. But when the bridge begins, her lips shape the words silently. A secret shared.  

On the final chorus, your voice breaks entirely again. When the song ends, the screen flashes 72.1%. ‘Better luck next time’ flashes brightly on the screen, as if it were a divine message from some higher power. You don't care in the slightest. At least you did your best, and you have no regrets.

Silence floods the room, for real this time. No fake applause.  

Seoyeon reaches out. Her fingertips graze the back of your hand: feather-light, electric.  

“You blinked,” she says, soft as the neon bleeding through the curtains. “During the second verse.”  

“I know.”  

“So I win.”  

“Do you?”  

Her thumb brushes your knuckle. A tremor runs through her. “No.” 

��————

The air in Room 408 hums, thick with the bass bleeding through the walls and the raw scrape of your own voice battling the final lines of Fix You. Hours have dissolved into a blur of flickering lyrics, shared laughter that rattles cheap speakers, and the warm, drowsy haze of cheap drinks. Empty beer cans and soju bottles gleam like fallen soldiers under the relentless neon pulse, cycling across Seoyeon’s face as she watches you, chin propped on her hand, a soft, unfocused smile playing on her lips.

Your voice, which was never strong to begin with, has been steadily ground down by belting out everything from Bon Jovi to Gee. It’s a ragged thing now, tearing on the high notes of Iris, collapsing into a cough that bends you double, one hand braced against the sticky tabletop. You try to push through, clinging to the mic like a lifeline to no avail. The sound you make is pure gravel, like a wounded animal rasping against the soaring melody still pouring from the speakers.

"Okay, okay! Stop!" Seoyeon’s laugh cuts through the noise, warm and slightly breathless. She’s on her knees beside you in an instant, her hand landing firmly over yours on the mic. Her touch is electric, sending a jolt through the pleasant fog of alcohol and shared exhaustion. "You sound like you’re gargling rocks. Give it!"

She tugs gently, but you cling on, stubbornly trying to croak out the next line. It’s truly pitiful. Painful, even.

"Seriously!" she insists, her laughter fading into genuine concern. She leans in closer, her other hand landing on your shoulder. Her face is inches away, the neon catching the flecks of gold in her wide, amused eyes. "You’re going to ruin your throat forever. Stop." There’s surprising strength in her grip as she pries away the mic from your weakened fingers. She tosses it carelessly onto the couch beside her, the clatter loud in the sudden vacuum left by the abruptly silenced backing track.

Silence crashes down, dense and immediate. It amplifies everything else: the frantic thudding of your own pulse in your ears, the soft, quick rhythm of Seoyeon’s breathing so close to your face, the faint, sweet scent of pear blossoms and alcohol clinging to her skin and hair. Neon washes over her; blue highlights the curve of her cheekbone, red stains her parted lips, green catches the sudden intensity in her gaze. She’s not laughing anymore. Just—looking. Scanning your face.

Her hand is still on your shoulder—a warm, grounding weight. You don’t pull away; neither does she. The air crackles, thick with the unspoken weight of the hours spent here, the confessions whispered between songs, the shared cynicism about work and life, the unexpected comfort found in mutual exhaustion. The ridiculousness of your dying-frog impression evaporates, replaced by something else entirely. Something fragile, terrifyingly potent, and charged with the raw intimacy of the dying night.

You see the shift in her eyes, a softening, a question forming in the slight tilt of her head. Your own gaze drops to her lips, then flickers back up, held captive. The scant distance between you feels like an impossible chasm and a magnetic pull all at once. The noise of Shibuya, the weight of her impending flight, the looming dawn—it all recedes, muffled by the soundproofed walls and the sudden, profound quiet binding you together. You lean in, your movement barely a fraction. An unconscious yielding to gravity. Her breath catches a tiny, audible hitch. Her eyes widen slightly, dark pools reflecting the fractured light, but she doesn’t retreat. Her fingers flex slightly on your shoulder, not pushing away, not pulling closer. Just holding. Waiting.

Her face is but a hair away. You can see the faint smudge of eyeliner beneath her lower lashes, the almost invisible scar just above her left eyebrow, the delicate flutter of her pulse at the base of her throat. The scent of her is intoxicating—floral, malty, and something uniquely, essentially her. The world narrows to the point where your noses might brush, where shared breath mingles in the charged space between your lips. Her eyelids start to drift shut, long lashes casting feathery shadows on her cheeks, a silent surrender, an unspoken invitation held in that fragile darkness. Your own eyes begin to close, the chaotic neon dissolving into warm anticipation, the space between you measured in heartbeats. You lean in further, the distance collapsing into millimeters, the world reduced to the scent of her and the roaring silence—

The door crashes open with a force that rattles the entire booth.

"Unnie! There you are! We were wondering where you—" A woman’s voice, shrill and triumphant, cuts through the intimate silence like shattering glass. It dies instantly, choked off into a stunned gasp. 

You jerk back as if electrocuted, your heart pounding unceasingly against your ribs. Seoyeon recoils violently, snatching her hand from your shoulder and scrambling backwards on her knees until she bumps the low table, sending an empty can clattering to the floor. Her eyes, wide and dilated a moment ago, are now huge with pure, unadulterated panic. Not embarrassment, but fear.

Xinyu and Yooyeon stand frozen in the doorway, silhouetted by the harsh fluorescent glare of the corridor. Their faces, flushed with alcohol and the thrill of the hunt, morph from gleeful excitement to slack-jawed disbelief. Xinyu’s mouth hangs open, her finger still raised in a pointing gesture that now feels accusatory. Yooyeon’s sharp eyes dart rapidly: from Seoyeon’s flushed face and dishevelled hair, to your proximity, to the scattering of empty beer cans, the discarded mics, and finally, landing pointedly on her jacket shared between your shoulders. Her expression hardens, a flicker of cold betrayal sharpening her features into something diabolical.

The silence is absolute, heavier and more suffocating than before. The only sound is the relentless, cheerful thump of an uncaring, soulless pop song bleeding from the room next door.

Seoyeon finds her voice first, thin and strained. "Xinyu. Yooyeon. What are you—"

"We’ve been looking everywhere for you!" Xinyu explodes, stumbling into the room, her voice regaining volume, thick with indignation and cheap soju. "Ignoring our calls! Texts! We thought you got lost! Or mugged! Or worse!" Her gaze sweeps over you again, lingering with undisguised disgust on the jacket, now spread on the couch after falling away. "And this? This is where you vanished to? Cozied up in a karaoke booth?" She spits the word like it’s filthy, her finger pointed at you like you’re dangerous. "With—him?" 

The pronoun is a weapon. A curse. A byword.

Yooyeon steps in beside Xinyu, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. Her voice is lower, colder, cutting through Xinyu’s drunken hysteria. "Manager-nim has called eight times, Seoyeon. Eight. He’s downstairs in the lobby. Right. Now." Her icy gaze flicks over to you, then back to Seoyeon, heavy with accusation. "Care to explain? Or were you too busy?"

Seoyeon flinches as if she were physically struck. Color drains quickly from her face, leaving her pale and suddenly fragile looking. The vibrant, almost luminous girl from moments ago is gone, replaced by a cornered idol, defenses visibly crumbling. She pushes herself shakily to her feet. "I—I just needed air. Somewhere quiet. We—we ran into each other. We were—talking. Singing." The lie is paper-thin, pathetic against the evidence littering the room and the intimacy they had shattered.

"Talking?" scoffs Xinyu, stepping further into the cramped space, invading it with her presence and the smell of stale cocktails. She gestures wildly at the scene: the beers, the mics, the close proximity. "In a private karaoke booth? At 2:00 AM? Looking like that?" She waves a hand dismissively at Seoyeon’s messy bun and slightly smudged lip tint. "Singing? Is that what they call it now?"

"It’s not what you think," Seoyeon insists, her voice gaining a desperate edge. She takes a step towards her friends, but Yooyeon’s glacial stare stops her cold.

"Funny," mocks Yooyeon, her voice dangerously quiet. She takes a deliberate step forward, her eyes locked on Seoyeon’s. "That’s exactly what it looks like. Looks like you ditched us. Ditched all of us. After all that righteous indignation earlier." She lets the words hang, sharp as knives.

Seoyeon swallows hard, looking worse by the second, evidently guilty. "What are you talking about?"

"Oh, don’t play dumb," Xinyu cuts in, her voice rising again. She steps right up to Seoyeon, jabbing a finger near her shoulder. "Remember? Back at the club? ‘I’m not interested.’ ‘Leave me out of your bullshit.’ ‘Someone has to be the adult!’" Xinyu’s mimicry is viciously accurate, laced with venom. "You looked down your nose at us for wanting to have a little fun, for maybe flirting with some harmless, wasted salarymen." She spits the last word, her eyes flicking contemptuously towards you. "And then you sneak off to do what? Exactly the same thing? But oh, it’s different when you do it, right? Because you’re the responsible one? Because your taste in men is so much better?"

The accusation lands like a wicked blow. Seoyeon’s face crumples for a split second before she forces the idol mask back on, but it’s deeply cracked. Her hands, clenched at her sides, tremble slightly. You see the shame flood her eyes, hot and bright, before she looks down at the garish carpet.

"It’s not the same," Seoyeon whispers, the protest weak, barely audible.

"Isn’t it?" Yooyeon presses, her voice blisteringly cold, simmering with a deeper hurt. "You judged us, Seoyeon. You called it bullshit. You acted like you were above it. And now here you are, hiding away, drinking," she gestures at the cans, "getting cozy with some random office drone you bumped into on the subway. What’s the difference? Because he looks a little more pathetic than the ones we were talking to? Because you feel sorry for him?"

Each word is a lash on her back and her heart. Seoyeon flinches with every syllable. The hypocrisy laid bare is brutal, undeniable. The jacket you’ve gripped with your fingers feels suddenly heavy, suffocating, a symbol of a critical lapse in judgment. You want to speak, to defend her, to deflect, but the words choke in your raw throat. You’re paralyzed, a spectator to her public flaying.

"We were worried," Yooyeon continues, the ice cracking slightly to reveal genuine anger. "We were looking for you. We thought something happened. But you were—here. Doing exactly what you scolded us for. Only sneakier."

Xinyu snorts derisively. "Yeah, real adult behavior."

Seoyeon says nothing. Her shoulders are hunched, her head bowed. The vibrant spark that animated her while singing, while arguing, while laughing with you, is utterly extinguished. She looks small, defeated, drowning in the harsh light and her friends’ cruel judgment.

Yooyeon lets the silence stretch, thick with condemnation. Finally, she sighs, a sharp, dismissive sound. "Whatever. Manager-nim is waiting downstairs. We’re leaving in five hours. Get your things. Now." 

It’s not a request. It’s an order.

Xinyu grabs Seoyeon’s discarded wallet from the floor. "Unbelievable," she mutters again, loud enough to carry, shaking her head as she turns towards the door. "Just—unbelievable."

Seoyeon doesn’t look at you, nor does she look at her friends. She turns mechanically, her movements stiff, robotic. She walks towards the door, shoulders slumped, head still down. As she passes Yooyeon, the taller girl grabs her elbow, not roughly, but with firm, impersonal efficiency, steering her out into the harsh corridor light.

Yooyeon pauses in the doorway, turning back. Her gaze sweeps over the wreckage of the booth—the cans, the couch, the abandoned mics—until it finally lands on you, still frozen on the couch. Her expression is unreadable, a mix of disdain and something colder, more calculating. "Stay away from her," she commands, her voice flat, final. "You’ve caused enough trouble."

Moments later, they’re gone, pulling the door shut behind you with a soft, definitive click.

—————

Silence. Not the warm, charged quietness of moments before, but a hollow, echoing void. Once again, you’re all alone. The relentless neon continues its mindless cycle—red, blue, green—flashing idiotically over the empty couch, the scattered cans, and the silent microphones. Her jacket now hangs over your shoulders, the scent of pear blossoms now sickly sweet, a cloying reminder of an intimacy violently ripped away. The phantom warmth of her hand on your shoulder lingers, a faint touch against the sudden, profound chill settling into your bones. This karaoke booth, previously a sanctuary, a pocket universe, now feels like a desolate crime scene. The taste of cheap beer persisting in your mouth has turned into ash. The city outside, hurling relentlessly towards dawn, feels vast, indifferent, impossibly cold. The space where her lips almost met yours is a vacuum, sucking all the air from your lungs. 

You sink back against the groaning pleather of the couch. Deathly silence presses in, broken only by the relentless, mocking, cheerful beat bleeding through the wall from the next room, a grotesque soundtrack to your shattered intimacy. The echo of Xinyu’s mocking words—’Because you feel sorry for him?’—reverberates in the hollow space, sharp and corrosive, scathing.

You can only stay here for long before it feels like a prison sentence. A crime for breaking from a predetermined path. A crime against normalcy.

The click of the karaoke door shutting behind you echoes with unnatural finality in the suddenly oppressive hallway. The cheap, overloud music from surrounding booths feels like a physical assault after the hollow silence you left behind. You’re adrift, unmoored, with Seoyeon’s jacket still draped awkwardly over your shoulders like borrowed skin. The scent of pear blossoms and lager clings to the otherwise soft fabric, a cruel, intoxicating reminder that feels invasive now, tainted by Xinyu’s sneer and Yooyeon’s glacial dismissal.

You walk. The corridor stretches, gaudy and endless, each numbered door leaking its own brand of musical chaos. The sticky linoleum tugs at your soles. You don’t look back at Room 408. That booth, as far as you’re concerned, is tainted and cursed. You wouldn’t wish it on anyone, even your worst enemy. Elsewhere, the lobby is a blur of overtly bright lights and the tired, vacant stare of the night attendant. The automatic doors hiss open, releasing you into the pre-dawn chill of Shibuya.

The city breathes differently now. The frantic, electric pulse has dulled to a weary, dead thrum. The crowds have thinned, leaving behind stragglers—stumbling groups clinging to each other, lone figures hailing cabs with the desperate focus of the profoundly exhausted. Neon signs still scream into the fading darkness, but their messages feel hollow, advertisements for a party that’s already moved on. The air is cool, damp, smelling of exhaust, stale beer and litter. It washes over your face, a feeble attempt to clear the fog of cheap drink, raw emotion, and the phantom sensation of Seoyeon’s breath so close to yours.

You keep walking, directionless for a block, her jacket heavy on your shoulders, every step dragging your feet. The memory of her cowardly flinch, the shame flooding her eyes under her friends’ assault, replays in your mind on a loop: 

"Because you feel sorry for him?" 

The words scrape like sandpaper against your raw throat. You shrug the jacket off, clutching it bunched in your fist instead of wearing it. The pear blossom scent is stronger now, released by the movement, a bittersweet assault.

A vacant taxi crawls past, its roof light a beacon. You raise a hand, the motion muscle memory. It pulls over, the tires whispering on the slightly worn asphalt. Opening the rear door, the vinyl seat feels warm against your legs. The interior smells faintly of pine air freshener and old cigarettes.

“Sorry,” you rasp, your voice still wrecked from all the singing, from all the tension. You give the driver your address, your own apartment building, a place that suddenly feels impossibly distant and devoid of anything resembling comfort. You lean against your seat throughout the ride, closing your eyes, the city lights streaking past the window in blurred ribbons of color. The jacket rests on your lap as a crumpled weight.

The taxi navigates the quieter streets, leaving the core of Shibuya’s nightlife behind. The buildings grow more residential, the neon less aggressive. You recognize the familiar turn onto your street, a canyon of mid-rise apartments and shuttered family-run shops. The taxi slows, pulling towards the curb opposite your building. You fumble for your wallet, motions sluggish, your mind still trapped in that neon-lit booth, in the shattered moment before the door crashed open.

You pay the fare, the transaction silent and efficient. The driver somberly nods in appreciation, the partition sliding shut as you open the door and step out onto the pavement and back out into the real world. The cool air hits you again, now sharper. You take a step towards your building’s entrance across the street, clutching the jacket. You need water. You need silence. You need to avert your mind from thoughts of pear blossoms or panicked brown eyes or the acidic taste of hypocrisy.

“Hey! Wait!”

The voice slices through the pre-dawn stillness, high-pitched, slightly slurred, but unmistakable. Her voice.

Your heart stutters, then drums hard against your ribs. You freeze mid-step, turning slowly, disbelievingly, towards the sound.

She’s standing maybe twenty feet down the sidewalk, on the same side of the street as your apartment building, swaying slightly. Seoyeon. No Yooyeon, no Xinyu, no manager. Only her, silhouetted under the harsh glow of a singular streetlamp, wearing the same jean shorts and thin top from the karaoke booth, her arms wrapped around herself against the relentless cold. Her hair is way messier, escaping the bun entirely on one side. Her eyes are wide, searching, slightly unfocused.

“You!” she says again, pointing a finger that wobbles unsteadily in your direction. She takes a stumbling step forward. “You have—” her voice rises and falls, as if she were winding up. “You have my jacket!”

You stare, dumbfounded. The taxi pulls away, its taillights disappearing around a corner, leaving you stranded on the curb facing her. The street is completely deserted. The only sounds you can hear are the distant hum of the city and the frantic pounding of your own pulse.

“Seoyeon?” Your voice is rough scraped gravel. “How are you here?”

She ignores the question, focusing entirely on the bundle in your hands. “My jacket!” she insists, lurching towards you with more determination than coordination. “Give it! They’ll—they’ll smell it on you—or something,” Her logic is drowned by the evident alcohol still swirling in her system. She covered it better in the booth, fueled by adrenaline and shared rebellion. Now, outside, alone, the full weight of the drinks hits her like a truck.

She reaches you, close enough that you catch the stronger scent of layered soju and see the hectic flush high on her cheeks under the streetlight. Her eyes are glassy, pupils dilated, but beneath the intoxication, there’s a frantic, almost panicked energy. She makes a grab for the jacket crumpled against your chest.

“Seoyeon, stop,” you say, instinctively taking a half-step back. “You shouldn’t be out here alone. Where are the others? Your manager?”

“Fuck them,” she slurs, swiping at the jacket again. Her fingers brush the fabric. “Judgy—hypocrites—‘Feel sorry for him’—fuck them!” Her voice rises, echoing slightly in the quiet street. “Just gimme my jacket!”

This time she lunges with reckless abandon, off balance, her weight tipping dangerously forward as she snatches at the bundle. Her fingers clutch on the fabric, tugging hard. Caught by surprise, you instinctively hold on for a split second. The opposing forces—her drunken momentum, your reflexive resistance—are disastrous.

She gasps, her eyes flying wide with sudden, sobering terror as her feet teeter and tangle. She pitches sideways, not towards you, but towards the unforgiving pavement of the sidewalk.

Instinct screams louder than thought. You drop the jacket and lunge forward, shooting out your arms. You catch her not gracefully, but desperately, one arm hooking awkwardly around her waist, the other hand grabbing her upper arm right as her knees buckle. Her weight slams into you, solid and warm and terrifyingly limp. You stagger back a step, boots scraping loudly on the pavement, struggling to keep both of you upright.

For a heart-stopping moment, she’s dead weight against you, her face buried against your shoulder, her breathing ragged and hot through the fabric of your shirt. The scent of alcohol, pear blossoms, and sheer, unadulterated panic washes over you. You tighten your grip, bracing your legs, holding her suspended inches from the ground.

“I’ve got you, I’ve got you,” you repeat, your own heart hammering against your ribs. “I’ve got you. Don’t move.”

She doesn’t struggle. She sags against you, a shudder running through her frame. “Told you,” she mumbles, her voice muffled against your shoulder, thick with tears, or exhaustion, or both. “Screw them. I just—wanted my jacket—”

The near-disaster shocks some clarity into the situation. She’s out here alone, drunk, stumbling, and clearly in no state to navigate back to wherever her group is staying, let alone face her manager. The memory of Yooyeon’s icy command—’Stay away from her’—wars with the immediate, undeniable reality of Seoyeon trembling against you, inches from cracking her head open.

You look across the street. Your apartment building entrance is right there. Safe. Contained. A world away from judgmental friends and furious managers.

The jacket lies discarded on the damp pavement. You ignore it for now. Carefully, shifting your grip to better support her weight, you turn her slightly, keeping one arm firmly around her waist. She doesn’t resist, leaning heavily into your side, her head lolling against your shoulder. Her eyes are half-closed now, the frantic energy draining away, replaced by sheer, drunken exhaustion.

“Come on,” you say, your voice low, firm. “My place is right there. Across the street. You need to calm down. Get some water.”

She mumbles something incoherent, but allows you to guide her, her steps shuffling and uncoordinated. You half-walk, half-carry her a few steps to the curb, glance quickly for non-existent traffic, then navigate the short distance across the street to your building’s entrance. The automatic door slides open with a soft sigh.

The fluorescent-lit lobby is starkly quiet after the street. The night concierge glances up from his phone right as he’s about to walk away from the front counter, his expression carefully neutral as he takes in the scene: you supporting a clearly inebriated, strikingly beautiful young woman inside. You avoid his eyes, steering Seoyeon towards the elevators. She stumbles again on the smooth floor, and you tighten your hold, pulling her closer. Her warmth, her weight, the softness of her hair against your jaw—it’s overwhelming, charged with a different kind of tension now, born of necessity and shared vulnerability.

Punching the elevator button, waiting feels eternal under the concierge’s silent observation, but he eventually leaves you alone to your own devices before the doors finally slide open. You maneuver her inside, leaning her against the mirrored wall as you press the button for your floor. The reflection shows her slumped posture, her flushed face, her eyes slammed shut. She looks impossibly young and utterly spent. You pick up the jacket from where you’d managed to grab it off the pavement without dropping her.

The elevator ascends in silence, the hum of machinery the only sound. The mirrored walls amplify the awkward intimacy, the sheer strangeness of the situation. You hold her upright, her body a soft, trusting weight against yours, the events of the last hour—the singing, the almost-kiss, the shattering interruption, the street rescue—collapsing into a single, surreal point of contact in this sterile, ascending box. Her jacket, previously a symbol of stolen connection, now feels like a burden, a complication clutched in your free hand. Dawn is creeping closer, and with it, her inevitable departure. But for now, she’s here, leaning against you, breathing softly, entirely in your care.

It takes a herculean effort to fish the keys to your apartment from your pocket, with the weight of Seoyeon on your shoulders, but you unlock the door and take her inside your flat. Approaching the lone couch in your living room, you gently lay her down on her back as she releases her grip on you, settling in and taking up every little space. Leaving her to rest, you rush to the kitchen fridge and grab a glass and a pitcher of water, pouring it as you return to her, sprawled and deeply wasted. Well aware of the dangerous precedent you’re setting and its disastrous consequences, you can only pray she comes to her senses.

Placing the half-full glass of water and the pitcher on the table, you gently mutter, “Oh, Seoyeon. If only—” 

The rest are words you don’t have the heart to openly declare. You share equal amounts of accountability as her, except you won’t get half the lashings, whether from her friends or from upper management.

As you scan her, peaceful and asleep, you come to the realization that she genuinely does not want to get on that plane in the morning. Beneath that quiet exterior lies unfettered frustration and rage against her so-called friends. The one time she decides to loosen up and have a night all to herself, it almost causes a near career-ending situation. She’ll probably live with that guilt for the rest of her idol days. Such is the unfortunate nature of the beast, of the industry. To be perfect always, to make no mistakes.

As the night approaches the point of fading away, you’re reminded of your own path. So different, yet so similar to Seoyeon’s. And considering what you’ve been through these last several hours, that’s a lifetime till you’ll get to experience something like this again. Admittedly, it’s liberating. A breath of fresh air from your otherwise repetitious life.

The only thing you want to see is her glow, that bright sparkle permeating from her face. If only you had more time.

Once you’re certain she’s unconscious, you hop from your crouch and walk away, readying yourself for a brief night’s rest, only to hear her faint, incomprehensible mumbles, drawing your attention.

“Seoyeon? What’s up?”

The cool plastic of the water glass beads with condensation against your palm as you turn back. Seoyeon hasn’t moved from where you laid her on the couch, a crumpled starfish against the worn dark fabric. Her face is turned towards the back cushion, half-buried. The soft, distressed mumble comes again, muffled.

“Seoyeon?” You crouch beside the couch, setting the glass and pitcher carefully on the low table. The floorboards creak under your knees. “Hey. Can you hear me?”

She stirs, a small, restless shift. One hand flails weakly, fingers brushing the air before falling back onto her stomach. Her eyelids flutter, but don’t open. “—no,” she slurs, the word thick and indistinct. “—don’t wanna—”

“Don’t wanna what?” You keep your voice low, gentle, trying to pierce the fog of alcohol and exhaustion. The pre-dawn light seeping through your thin curtains paints everything in shades of weak blue and grey, making the scene feel fragile, unreal. “Water? Here.”

You reach for the glass, but her hand flails again, this time connecting loosely with your forearm. The touch is startlingly warm. “—go,” she breathes, the sound catching on something wet. Perhaps a tear or her saliva. “—don’t make me go—”

The fragmented plea hits you like a physical weight. ‘Don’t make me go.’ Back to the hotel. Back to the manager. Get on that plane. Back to the life where moments like tonight are impossible, dangerous contraband. 

You lower the glass. The urge to brush the stray strands of hair stuck to her damp temple is almost overwhelming. You curl your fingers into your palm instead.

“Nobody’s making you go anywhere right now,” you murmur, the lie tasting like ash. Dawn is making her go. Responsibility is making her go. Millions of fans around the world are making her go. The harsh reality Yooyeon and Xinyu represent is making her go. “No one else is here but me. Please rest.”

A small tremor runs through her. “Liars,” she whispers, the word barely audible, aimed at the cushions or the universe. “—all—hypocrites—” Her breath hitches, a soft, wet sound that twists something inside your chest. She’s crying. Silently, drunkenly, the tears escaping beneath closed lashes, tracking paths through the faint smudges of makeup still clinging to her skin.

The sight undoes you. The fierce performer, the exasperated friend, the girl with the sharp tongue but secret softness—reduced to this shivering, tearful vulnerability on your worn out couch. It’s a raw exposure far more intimate than any almost-kiss. It’s the crumbling of the last wall.

Carefully, slowly, you reach out. Not to touch her face, but to gently pry the crumpled jacket from where it’s still tangled near her hip. You smooth it out, the familiar scent of pear blossoms rising faintly, and drape it over her like a makeshift blanket, tucking it loosely around her shoulders. The gesture feels absurdly inadequate.

As the fabric settles over her, her hand moves. Not a flail this time, but a slow, searching crawl across the couch cushion. Her fingers brush yours where they rest near the edge of the jacket.

You freeze.

Her touch is hesitant, clumsy with intoxication, but undeniably deliberate. Her fingers, cold at the tips, curl weakly around your index finger. A silent cry. An anchor.

You don’t pull away; you let her hold on, her grip loose but desperate. Her crying softens to hitching breaths, her face still turned away, hidden. The silence stretches, filled only by her ragged breathing and the frantic drumming of your own pulse in your ears. The pale light strengthens incrementally, outlining the contours of your small, cluttered living room—the overflowing bookshelf, the takeout containers forgotten on the table, the silhouette of her curled form on the couch, clutching your finger like a lifeline.

This is the precipice. This quiet, tear-stained connection in the fading dark. The world outside—the furious manager, the judgmental friends, the looming flight, your own precarious job waiting in a few short hours—presses in like a crushing weight, an inevitable that will pull you apart. But here, now, there is only the warmth of her hand around yours, the slight tremor running through her, the impossible fragility of the moment.

You shift slightly, settling more fully onto the floor beside the couch, your back against its sturdy arm. You don’t speak. There are no words that won’t shatter this. You simply stay. You become the anchor she’s silently asked for. Your finger rests in her loose grip, a point of contact in the vast, terrifying loneliness of her world and the quiet desperation of yours. The pitcher of water sits forgotten on the table, beading coldly. Dawn is no longer approaching; it’s seeping into the room, minute by minute, a slow, inevitable tide washing away the fragile sanctuary of the night. But for now, you hold the line. You hold her hand. You watch the light grow stronger on her tear-streaked face, and you wait.

The apartment is quiet, but not silent. Only the faint hum of the fridge and the soft whistle of wind nudging the balcony glass. Dawn creeps in inch by inch, peeling shadows off the room like skin from fruit. You shift slightly, your back pressed against the arm of the couch, her fingers still curled loosely around yours. Seoyeon hasn’t moved, but you can feel her breathing change—steadier now, more aware.

Her fingers tighten.

You look up and find her eyes open, red-rimmed and puffy, lashes clumped from dried tears. She doesn’t say anything at first, merely stares at you, as if trying to anchor herself in reality. You hold her gaze, patient, silent. The world beyond this room is still waiting to collapse around her. You both know that. But right now, it hasn't.

“You stayed,” she whispers, hoarse.

“I said I would,” you reply, matching her softness.

A beat passes. Then another. Her eyes search yours with something deeper than gratitude—something raw and reverent. And then, without warning, she pulls herself up, slowly, until she’s sitting beside you again. Her legs are folded beneath her, her hands rubbing nervously at the sleeves of the jacket you returned to her sometime in the night.

She doesn’t meet your gaze now. Instead, her voice, tentative and low, breaks the stillness like a ripple across glass.

“I don’t know if I can do this anymore.”

You don’t need to ask what this is. The industry. The expectations. The constant dissection of her every move, every breath. The public self, flawless and unbreakable. The private self, unraveling at the seams.

“I try to be the adult,” she continues, fingers curling into fists in her lap. “The one who keeps everyone safe, who doesn’t step out of line. But it’s so exhausting. I'm tired of holding it together just because I'm the one who looks like she can.”

She finally glances at you, eyes trembling. “And then I meet you. And it’s so stupid—this random accident. A bump on the train. A karaoke booth. But it’s the first time in a long time I felt like I didn’t have to—perform. Like I could truly be myself.”

You don’t speak. You reach out instead, brushing your thumb across the back of her hand, and her breath catches. Slowly, cautiously, she leans forward. Her forehead comes to rest on your shoulder. Then her whole body follows, small and warm and vibrating faintly with emotion as she folds into you.

You wrap your arms around her without thinking.

She smells like soap and sleep now, the faintest trace of pear blossom perfume clinging to the crook of her neck. Her body melts into yours, burying her face in your shirt as though trying to disappear inside your ribs. You hold her there, unmoving, your cheek resting against the top of her head.

“I’m scared,” she whispers. “That I’ll forget this. That I’ll go back tomorrow and none of it will matter.”

You close your eyes, fingers threading gently through her hair. “Then don’t forget about tonight. Don’t forget about the good times.”

She shifts, enough to glance up at you. Her eyes search yours again, but this time, the desperation is replaced with something quieter. Trust. The kind of trust that hurts because it’s so fragile, so undeserved, and yet she’s giving it to you anyway.

Her hand comes up, cupping your jaw with tentative care. You lean in without hesitation, like gravity’s been pulling you this way all night. She closes the distance the last few inches, her breath warm against your lips. 

And then—she kisses you again.

It’s not careful; it's fierce—urgent. Like she’s trying to pour all the things she can’t say into the press of her lips against yours. Her fingers tangle in your hair, pulling you closer. You respond in kind, sliding your hand up her back, pressing her into you, chest to chest, heartbeat to heartbeat.

The kiss deepens, not messy, but aching. Like a dam bursting. Like the moment before a fall you no longer want to stop.

She tastes like citrus, alcohol, regret, and everything else in between, like all the things you should have said earlier. Perhaps this night was always meant to end here.

When she finally pulls away, breath shallow and lips red, her forehead rests against yours, your noses brushing. Her eyes are closed, her voice small. You can hear her heart through her gentle breaths.

“I’m not sorry.”

You shake your head. Neither are you.

Her breath mingles with yours, shallow and unsteady, the heat between you both rising in quiet, unstoppable waves. Seoyeon’s hand remains against your cheek, her thumb gently stroking your skin, but there's tension behind the softness—an urgency beneath the surface, waiting to break through.

Then it does.

She kisses you again, harder this time—less hesitant, more driven. The kind that demands something, not just offers. Her fingers tighten at the back of your head, pulling you closer, until your teeth barely graze and your breaths tangle, ragged and warm.

Your body moves on instinct. You shift, climbing onto the couch, one knee sinking beside her hip, the other anchoring you against the cushions as your hands cage her in—one planted beside her head, the other skimming her waist. She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t falter. Her eyes burn into yours for a fleeting second before she tugs you down into another kiss, fiercer than the last.

Your hand slides up her side, her thin shirt wrinkling beneath your touch. You feel the tremble in her breath as your fingers graze the hem. She answers by hooking her hands beneath your shirt, tugging it upward in fits and starts between kisses. When she finally peels it halfway up your chest, she lets out a soft, frustrated sound and rips it the rest of the way. The fabric stretches, then tears at the seam near the collarbone.

You blink. “That was my—”

“I’ll buy you another,” she murmurs against your mouth before pulling you back in, her teeth catching your bottom lip with intent. Pushing it off you, she tears the rest of it off your body, landing on the ground. She takes lease of your bare chest, claiming you as hers. “It was looking worthless anyway.”

You can’t even argue. In fact, you’re too far gone to care. 

Your hands fumble at the hem of her shirt now, working fast, your pulse roaring so loudly in your ears it drowns out the city beyond your window. Digging through her shirt, slowly lifting it off her svelte body, eventually getting a little assist from her hands. Over her head, then sliding it off her shoulders, tossing it aside and joining the other discarded piece of clothing on the floor.

Seoyeon pulls you flush against her, her legs parting slightly to make room as you sink into the cradle of her hips. Your lips move along her jaw, her throat, her collarbone—tracing heat and longing across every inch of skin you find. She gasps your name into the quiet, and it doesn't sound like a whisper. It sounds like a need.

The moment has the weight of something irreversible.

You pause, your forehead resting against hers, your chest rising and falling against her ribs. Her hand rises to the side of your face, her eyes searching yours through the hush.

There’s no pretense left. No posturing. No industry rules. No office culture. Just the two of you: lonely souls, pressed together in the dying hours of a borrowed night, clinging to something fleeting and real.

And when she pulls you down again, lips parted, body arching to meet yours, it’s more than passion—it’s rebellion. It's a confession. It’s all the things she can’t say with a manager waiting in the lobby, with fans watching her every breath, with friends who pretend support but demand perfection.

Your mouths meet again. And again. The world blurs around the edges. Time unspools into something slow and molten.

Neither of you have anything left to lose. But in this fragile, fleeting moment—you have each other.

As the clock goes from 4 to 5, your kisses intensify, burning brighter than the neon lights that have blinded your eyes for hours. Your hands are all over each other, exploring the other’s bodies, leaving no opportunity wasted, leaving no room for regret. She kicks up a leg, giving your hand new territory to travel. Wrestling skin and fabric, your primal urges get the best of you. Like your mind hasn’t already hit the gutter, the temptation is something you can barely fight.

Still, you never forget your place. Hiking your hand up those jean shorts of hers, you ask her: “Can I?”

She nods vigorously, seemingly wanting it more than you. 

You oblige, slowly working through the buttons, followed by the zipper, sliding it down along with the rest of the obstructive fabric. Getting a feel of her thighs, she trembles; whether it's due to the cold seeping in or from your touch, you have no clue. But what do you know is there’s barely anything beneath. A thin piece of black underwear separates you from her heat.

Dipping between the lines, the space between you merely breaths, you slip a finger through—and she keens.

Letting out this airy, thick sigh as your digit curls into her slit. Her core aches. Her mouth hangs wide, singing a profound note that’s music to your ears. 

“Oh my God—” she whines, holding onto that last word with every fiber of her being. The newfound pleasure is heavenly.

“Don’t worry about anything, just focus on me,” you mumble, softly kissing down her neck between commands, hitching your breath as you feel her pussy begin tightening around your finger. 

With her grip slowly arresting you like a vice, you slip a second digit in, eliciting a nasally moan from her saccharine lips. The chant is clear. ‘Need it, need it,’ she repeats, every word heavy, like it’s her lifeline, like it’s something she can’t do without. 

Keeping your focus on her pleasure-laden face while her features are constantly shifting and morphing. Your fingers are pushing into her cunt, pressing the buttons that make her go wild. As she writhes and wriggles beneath you, you’re holding her steady with your other arm to keep you both from falling off that couch. She grows more and more restless with each pulse, each stroke, the sensation becoming too overwhelming to resist.

“Ah—fuck—this—is—so—” Seoyeon can’t help but rattle on, even with the endless rush of ecstasy flowing through her nerves. Still having the clarity to remember everything. It’s embedded into her mind like a deep scar. “Bet they’re jealous that you’re fucking me—”

You immediately cut her off kissing her hard on the lips, stretching that cunt a little too deep for comfort. She hums into your mouth, her body fighting against you by instinct before you quickly pull away. Gently shaking your head, you hush into the air, comforting and reassuring her, “Remember. Only me.”

She nods emphatically, bracing for impact. Through the talking, your fingers remain buried inside her cunt. They’re a match made in heaven, like she’s meant for you.

Fast on her clit, you’re regaining your rhythm as quickly as you’ve lost it. Everything falls naturally into place. Seoyeon lets out these quick whimpers, unable to keep herself together under duress. She looks so good like this, so vulnerable, so helpless in your grasp. With each sigh supplementing her moan, her body pushing against you in kind like you’ve been railing her for hours. You can feel how long she’s bottled it up, and how you’ve unlocked this side of her.

“Yes—God—yes—” she mewls, wrapping her arms around your neck and dragging you close, releasing any hope you have of letting go. Not that you had any intention to, considering how alarmingly wet and tight she feels around your grip. You can only imagine what it’s like when you finally make the move on her. 

But at this moment, you can only focus on bringing her to that apex. Everything around you blurs except the heavy breaths and sighs, the natural squelch of her cunt with every drag of your fingers, and the tiny, desperate pleas for more.”‘So close,” she murmurs, biting harshly on her lower lip, using what remains of her dwindling resolve she has left to hold on, but she knows she’s on borrowed time. You’re there to accelerate the process.

Anytime now, she’ll come undone in your arms, so you savor every moment you can get. 

“It’s okay, babygirl,” you whisper, your fingers inside her delicate, but ardent. “Cum for me. Cum all over my fingers. You’re so wet, God.”

Your voice activates her. Sets her off in a way that only you can.

Arching her back, you feel every inch of her fighting—resisting—only to fold right after. Her walls tensing, rigid against your digits, before it all comes together in a perfect concoction. 

Seoyeon’s jaw drops hard. Lips forming a shape vaguely resembling an O, letting out a guttural whiny as her body locks beneath you, violently trembling. Brain going blank, having no other thought but the climactic bliss, the culmination of a dramatic night reaching its expected end. Fucking all sense and sanity out of her, if there’s even anything left to begin with. Your fingers take it all: a torrential downpour of slick and nectar coating your filthy digits, spilling onto your already worn couch, now past the point of repair. 

You guide her through the aftershocks, never moving an inch inside her needy cunt, showering her with heaps of praise and soft, tender kisses on her skin. “Good girl—you’re cumming so much for me—” you tell her, comforting and reassuring your presence will stay for as long as she wants.

As her breaths shift from quick and erratic to slow and heavy, you take this opportunity to scoop her in your arms, taking her to somewhere a bit more—spacious. Your bedroom.

Her body instinctively clings to you, arms hooked around your neck, legs coiling around your hips as she finds an air of solace from the madness. Resting her head on your shoulder, you figure that she’s actually light as a feather when she’s not burdened by the weight of her world. Caressing streaks of raven colored hair and back, unhooking her bra and letting the panties halfway down her legs fall to the floor, leaving a trail of your whereabouts. 

Gently setting her down on the bed, still in a wayward haze from her climax, the rest of your clothes follow; pants, shoes and boxers all kicked aside as you join her. Your bodies are pressed together, chest to chest, both of you sharing another passionate kiss. There’s nothing in between keeping you apart. Seoyeon looks incredibly pretty like this: so delicate and peaceful, the afterglow of her orgasm and her sticky juices clinging to her skin making her glow under the little light.

Already hard and finally loose, you line your cock on the edge of her aching core, the touch setting her alight, rekindling a dying fire. She keens, bites on her teeth, bracing herself for what’s to come, though she knows she’s not ready.

“Gonna put this inside you, babe,” you whisper , dangerously close to leaving a bruise on her skin, calling you to mark her, to claim her. She waits with bated breath, nodding vigorously in approval, as eager as you are. “Tell me if it’s too much,” you add, leaving pecks from her cheek down to her chin, finishing up at her lips. You don’t know when you’ll get a chance like this again, so you’ll make every moment something meaningful. “I’ll ease into you, but I won’t hurt you. Promise.”

“I know you won’t.” sighs Seoyeon, tilting her head back, gently smiling. “Not like you can hurt me as much as they have.”

“Need I remind you that we’ve only known each other for hours?” you reply, much to her amusement. She laughs, heartily—like you didn’t fuck her to pieces minutes ago. 

“Not bothering to ask me if I’m on the pill?” she says, trying to throw you off. 

“You’re an idol. I think we both know the answer to that.”

“And what if I wasn’t?”

You remain silent, brushing strands of hair blocking her otherwise perfect face away, seeing through the facade.

“Gosh, I will seriously get in so much trouble. I mean—they’re probably looking for me right now.” Seoyeon looks away, finding some clarity through her mostly drunken haze, even if her words feel heavy. “And if they see me here—with you—”

“Don’t worry about that,” you interrupt with a kiss, shaking your head. “Just—don’t forget this night. Forget about me, but not tonight. Ever.”

With that, you slip your cock inside her spreading core, feeling the sensation of her walls stretch against you upon making contact. Looking into Seoyeon’s twinkling eyes, seeing lifetimes in each other’s gaze, before the clench utterly breaks her. More than anything, more than your fingers ever have with a single stroke.

Lips parting, moaning against you, breath hot, laced with a dangerous concoction of  alcohol and ecstasy. Her eyes slam shut as she takes you in. It’s all too much for Seoyeon to handle at once. 

“Oh, holy fuck. Holy fuck,” she cries, her breath hitching, her body nearly jumping at the depths you’re reaching. “You feel so large inside me—”

“Does it hurt?” is your first question. It’s your top priority, caring more for her wellbeing than your own gain. Because fuck, she’s incredible. Too much for words to explain. Tight, intoxicating warmth envelops your cock as you bury yourself deep in her sopping cunt, unwilling to release you from its ironclad grip.

Vehemently, she shakes her head, her face burning red from sheer pressure. “It’s okay. I can handle it, I can handle it,” she pants, though her tone remains low, giving you second thoughts. But then she follows up with: “Don’t worry. There’s nothing you’ll do that can hurt me. Not when you’re giving this to me. Like you said: let loose.”

Further spurring you on is her hand delicately brushing up and down your arm. The only thing to really seal the notion is a kiss signed with her lips.

It takes every bit of strength to draw your hips back; she has you wrapped in a magnetic pull. Slick, wet, hot. Testing your resolve with every second you stay embedded inside her pussy, daring you to break right then and there. It’s nothing like the porn you’ve been watching during the little time off you have from work.

Swallowing your throat, holding onto a breath like you’re drowning (you are), the sound is sloppy yet so satisfying. Her juices coat your shaft, making it easier to plunge right back in. Stretching her cunt a little deeper with every thrust, overwhelming your muscles with a rush of adrenaline and blissful rapture as you fuck Seoyeon at a steady, perfect rhythm.

Doing all the little motions in between: kissing her temple, burying your face against her neck, finally leaving a bruise as a memento, whispering all the things she wants to hear.

“So fucking tight—” you mumble, brushing up against her ear, letting your tongue have a taste. As daylight begins to break and the night dies, you’ve never felt more alive with anything or with anyone than with Seoyeon, especially when you’re fucking her like this. Raw, intimate, passionate.

You can feel her body respond in kind. Her nails leave scratches all over your back, hugging you so tightly it’s suffocating. Moaning with desire, with intent. Demanding you go harder, she’s not as fragile as you believed.

“More, baby—” she whimpers, kissing your side, her embrace now inescapable. “This fucking cock—it’s so, so good—”

It’s now beyond your control. Hammering into her cunt, pinning her deep into the mattress to the point of splitting it in half. You’re working her throat overtime; unfazed and barely muffled, her voice strains and cracks with every curse and whine, clearly breaking apart at the seams. She leaves chills down your spine through vibrations of her obscene noises against your ear, accompanied by the echo of your skin slapping skin. It’s only pushing you further and further over the edge.

Pushing your hips against hers, your noses create a connection, allowing you to meet halfway in a torrid, frenzied kiss. You can hardly call it a respite, as you continue to pound into Seoyeon without quit, like you’ll burst into flames if you ever stop. Hardly a thought worth considering when you feel the intrusion of dusk piercing through the windows of your apartment bedroom. 

She doesn’t have much time left—and so do you.

“Promise you won’t ever forget about me,” you beg, despite going against your own word and Seoyeon losing herself in her own bliss. A few minutes more and she might disintegrate into nothing right before your very eyes. Forget about pace at this point, it’s only about surviving the night till the world comes calling again.

“Never,” she manages to spit, moaning against your face, body trembling. Pulling you close to her like you’re her lifeline, shifting into millions of pieces that have no well-defined identity. “Not when you make me feel this good, this alive—”

God, no wonder you’ve fallen so hard for Seoyeon. Even when she’s shaking and pressed beneath your grip, she still finds ways to make your heart flutter.

“So close, again—” she whines, and that’s all you needed to hear. “I hope you are too—”

She activates something in your head. Right there, she’s set your body on fire. Like a ticking time bomb, minutes turn into seconds in an instant. As if her clench stifling your lungs wasn’t enough. Your senses are working overtime to salvage what’s left. It’s right there—the inevitable, the end. 

You just have to give in.

A couple more thrusts into her; you’ve stopped thinking about it and choose to let go. Seoyeon keens, and then: she softly grins.

“There you go—give it all to me—”

Surprisingly, it’s a quiet affair. A deep moan escapes your mouth, sure, and it’s mostly you filling up the air with your weak groans, but she lets the moment pass by with an air of peace and finality. Like she’s already accepted her fate. And you pour it on; shot after shot of cum painting her cunt, not wasting a single drop. Falling beside her, burying your face into the sheets, now you’re the one desperately clinging to Seoyeon. 

It should feel euphoric, a grand triumph. But knowing what’s waiting on the other side, it isn’t. It’s bittersweet.

You kiss her. Leave a second bruise on her neck. It will eventually disappear, but the memory never fades.

And so remain together like this: glued to each other in bed, while your orgasm dies and the morning rises. You don’t wanna look; the sight of Seoyeon’s little smile is the last image you want to remember. It finally catches up to you: the fatigue, the drunkenness, the wear of your emotions. 

Eventually, your world fades to black.

————— Sunlight slants through the half-drawn curtains, painting stripes across the rumpled duvet where Seoyeon had been. The space beside you is hollow, the indent of her body already fading. A crushing weight settles on your chest, immediate and suffocating. The vibrant, tangled intimacy of the night—the moans, the desperate kisses, the raw vulnerability, the fierce claiming—feels like a dream punctured by the sterile silence of your bedroom. 

The digital clock on the nightstand screams 10:47 AM. You’re catastrophically late.

Panic flares, cold and sharp, but it’s instantly drowned by a deeper, more profound realization: she’s just—gone. Like the last notes of a song fading into silence. 

You push yourself up, the sheets pooling around your waist, the phantom warmth of her body against yours still palpable. The room feels too big, too quiet, haunted by the ghost of her laughter, the memory of her trembling beneath you, the echo of her whispered confessions against your skin. The faint, sweet scent clinging to the pillow is a cruel reminder of what you lost.

Stumbling out of bed, legs unsteady, the pleasant ache in your muscles a stark counterpoint to the hollow feeling expanding inside you. The living room is a tableau of the night’s chaotic intimacy: your torn shirt discarded near the couch, the empty water pitcher and glass on the low table, the cushions still bearing the deep impression where you’d coaxed her climax with your fingers. The memory is visceral, electric, making your breath catch. But the space feels abandoned. Sterile, despite the mess.

Then you see it.

Draped carefully over the back of the armchair, not crumpled on the floor where you’d both shed clothes in a frenzy of need, is her jacket. The soft, expensive-looking one she’d made you wear, the one that smelled like her. It’s folded with a care that feels deliberate, almost reverent. And beside it, resting squarely on the seat cushion, is a single, tiny square of paper, torn from something larger. Maybe a receipt, maybe a notebook page.

Your heart stutters, then hammers against your ribs like a trapped bird. Crossing the room slowly, the worn carpet feels rough under your bare feet. The silence is eerie, deafening. You pick up the paper. The handwriting is small, neat, a little rushed, but unmistakably hers:

> Had to go. Flight. Idol stuff. You already know. 

> Don’t forget.  

> 010-XXXX-XXXX  

> - S1

Below the number: a single, hastily drawn puppy. Like something she might doodle in a margin during a boring meeting.

The simplicity of it steals your breath. No grand declarations. No promises she couldn’t keep. Just a lifeline. 

‘Don’t forget.’ 

As if you ever could. 

The scent of pear blossoms seems to intensify, rising from the jacket, from the paper held tightly in your suddenly trembling fingers. It’s not the scent of loss anymore. It’s the scent of her, preserved. A tangible connection.

You trace the numbers with your thumb, the ink slightly smudged, but real. The frantic worry about work, the looming dread of facing your boss, the mountain of emails undoubtedly piling up—it all recedes, muted by the sheer, staggering significance of this tiny square of paper. She didn’t merely slip away. She left a part of herself. Deliberately. Hopeful.

You remember her fierce kiss in the grey dawn light, her whispered "I'm not sorry." You remember her vulnerability, the tears, the way she clung to you like an anchor. You remember the rebellion in her touch, the way she shattered her own carefully constructed walls against your skin. She wasn’t merely escaping her friends or her manager last night; she was claiming a moment of pure, unvarnished self.

And she wants you to remember. She wants this—this connection forged in shared exhaustion and unexpected understanding, the intimacy that bloomed in the cracks of their pressured lives—to mean something beyond the frantic hours before her flight.

You pick up her jacket. It’s soft, still holding a whisper of her warmth or maybe the memory of it. You bring it to your face, inhaling deeply. Pear blossoms, beer and soju, the faintest trace of her perfume, and underneath it all, something uniquely Seoyeon. Not the idol, but the girl who tripped on subway stairs, who rolled her eyes at her friends, who confessed her fears in a quiet cafe, who kissed you like it was her final act of defiance.

A slow, hesitant warmth begins to spread through the hollow ache. It’s not happiness—not quite. It’s something quieter, more profound. A fragile kind of hope, delicate as the paper in your hand. The world hasn’t changed. Your soul-crushing job still waits. Her life as an idol, governed by rules and scrutiny, continues relentlessly. The distance between Seoul and Tokyo remains vast.

But—she left her number. She asked you not to forget. She reached back.

The frantic panic about work resurfaces, much sharper now. There will be consequences. The weight of your ordinary, monotonous career presses in. Life goes on.

Yet as you stand, still holding the jacket and the precious slip of paper, the dread feels—different. Manageable. It’s merely noise. Background static to the quiet hum of possibility resonating from the number in your hand.

You carefully fold the paper, slipping it into the pocket of your sleep pants, a lucky charm against the mundane hell awaiting you in the office. You drape her jacket back over one of the dining room chairs, not putting it away. Let it stay. A reminder.

You head towards the shower, the hot water a necessity to face the day. The steam rises, filling the small bathroom. As you close your eyes, letting the water sluice over the scratches on your back—her marks—the image that surfaces isn’t of spreadsheets or your boss fuming. It’s Seoyeon’s face in the dim karaoke light, fierce and alive as she sang, then vulnerable and trusting as she fell apart on your couch. It’s her smile, small and real, in the grey dawn after. It’s the lone puppy drawn beside her number.

The day ahead is a gauntlet. Deadlines and apologies and the ruthless grind of an indifferent corporate world. But beneath the surface tension, beneath the fatigue and the lingering scent of her on your skin, something else thrums. A quiet, persistent current. A purpose.

“Don’t forget.”

—————

(A/N: Thank you for the commission! Again, would like to apologize for the inactivity, semester just ended and thesis work is brutal. But I am getting into tripleS a little. A bit too many members to remember, but I really like Sohyun especially. Haven't had time to listen to their new music, but Girls Never Die was one of my favorite 2024 songs. What started as a fun prompt turned into something a bit more emotional and sentimental. I do wonder if I'm just repeating elements from older works, especially since it takes a lot from Instant Crush. Hopefully with more free time, I can post a bit often than usual, even if it's only temporarily. Thank you for reading!)

[shyoko]

✧Too late. She moans my name now ✦༺⊹

This writing is my own; no copies, adaptations, or translations are allowed. I hope you like it. 𓂃

✦ 1.2K words * Masterlist˚ Taglist₊‧ ✦𓂃 

Ni-ki x fem!reader ⚠️ CW: +18, jealousy, possessiveness, rough intimacy, dirty talk, choking, oral (m receiving), spanking, marking, phone call humiliation, creampie, breeding kink, emotional tension.

He wouldn’t touch you. Not after all the fights. So you begged. Now he’s fucking you hard enough to make your ex hear every moan.

The room was silent. Only the dim glow of the bedside lamp lit the outline of his body, naked on the bed, giving you a perfect view of every tense muscle, every shadow that defined his broad back and narrow waist. Ni-ki hadn’t looked at you once since he entered the room. He hadn’t spoken to you. Hadn’t touched you. Nothing. And you couldn’t take it anymore.

Days without a single fucking touch. No affection. No kiss. Just arguments, shouting in the middle of the night, doors slammed shut… all because of your stupid ex who kept calling like he still had a claim on you. And you, with that naive sense of calm, had tried to de-escalate. Had tried to explain to Ni-ki that the other guy meant nothing, that he wasn’t part of your life anymore. But Ni-ki couldn’t stand it. And you couldn’t stand the silence either.

You walked slowly to the bed. He still had his back to you. The silence between you felt like concrete. “Ni-ki…” you whispered, but he didn’t answer. You moved closer, reaching out, your fingers barely grazing his skin.

He turned around sharply, his eyes burning with restrained rage. “Don’t start. I don’t want to talk. I don’t want to fight anymore.”“I’m not here to fight…” you whispered softly, almost trembling. “I came to say I’m sorry.”

Ni-ki closed his eyes tightly, like your words only made things worse. He turned away from you again. “Do you really think a damn ‘sorry’ is going to erase what you defended? What you excused?”You bit your lip. Pride hurt, but your need for him hurt more. “I just want to be with you… I just want you to look at me like before.”

You moved in from behind, wrapped your arms around his waist. He tried to push you off with one hand, sighing heavily. “No. Don’t touch me right now.”“Then tell me you don’t love me anymore,” you murmured, kissing his shoulder blade. “Say it, and I’ll leave.”

Silence. His jaw tightened. “Don’t provoke me.” His voice was low, tense, dangerous.

But you kept kissing him, lower, softer. Your lips drifted to his neck, and his breathing hitched. His hand caught your arm, this time tighter—but not to push you away. He held on. “What if I just want you to hold me…? What if I just want to prove I belong to you?”

That broke him.

Ni-ki turned abruptly, grabbing your wrists and pushing you down on the bed. His eyes were full of anger, yes, but also the desperate kind of need he tried to hide. His lips crashed into yours—brutal, messy, hungry. He kissed you like he hated how much he wanted you, his hands trailing over your body like he needed to make sure you were still there, still his.

His lips devoured you. Nothing soft. Nothing sweet. Just raw frustration. He bit, sucked, held you down with a grip he only used when control slipped through his fingers. His hips pressed against yours, and his tongue forced its way between your lips, like he needed to erase any trace of someone else.

He yanked your underwear off without hesitation. The fabric didn’t stand a chance before it hit the floor. You were left wearing only his oversized t-shirt—too big, too his—and that seemed to set him off even more. “Look at you…” he growled against your neck. “My shirt. My bed. But you’re still acting like you’re not completely mine.”

His fingers slammed into you, two at once, fast, deep, impatient. He fucked you with them hard, hitting that spot inside that made your whole body shake. “You’re so fucking wet… and I’m the one who’s supposed to be angry?” he scoffed, his tone mocking. “Pathetic.”

You moaned beneath him, clinging to his neck as he gave you no space to breathe. His mouth dropped to your chest and bit down through the shirt, leaving a harsh, burning mark.

“Don’t pull away,” he growled when you squirmed. “Don’t you dare tell me to stop. Not tonight.”

Your mind was gone. Your body was melting. Your thighs trembled, your pussy pulsed violently around his fingers. Suddenly, he lifted you with ease and dropped you to your knees in front of him. His erection strained against his pants, bulging, ready to snap. Ni-ki pulled them down, and his cock sprang free, hard and heavy, the tip flushed and dripping.

“Do what you’re good at,” he muttered coldly. “Have your fun. Like it’s the last fucking time.”

He gripped your hair and forced you to look up at him. You didn’t speak. You just opened your mouth and took him in. The taste, the heat, the weight of him—he filled your mouth and your senses all at once. “That’s it…” he groaned through clenched teeth. “My pretty little slut.”

He fucked your mouth without mercy. Each thrust deeper, faster, pushing past your limit. Tears streamed from your eyes, saliva coated your chin, and still, he didn’t stop. His hands were tight in your hair, guiding you like a toy.

Then your phone rang again. The name on the screen: your ex.

Ni-ki froze. He pulled out of your mouth, a thick string of spit trailing. He grabbed the phone, glared at it, and answered.

“Listen, asshole,” his voice was sharp as a blade. “Call again and I’ll break your face. She’s not yours. Never was. She’s on her knees for me, swallowing it like she fucking needs it. And now you’re gonna hear exactly what it’s like to be irrelevant.”

He tossed the phone on the bed—still connected. He shoved you onto the mattress and flipped you over, pulling your hips up roughly. No warning. No pause. He slammed his cock inside you with one brutal thrust.

You screamed, your voice tangled in spit and moans and heat. He started moving fast, punishing, every thrust deeper than the last, smacking into you like he was trying to make a point. “This what you wanted, huh?” he grunted in your ear. “You want him to hear how fucking needy you get for me? Let him know this pussy only gets wet for me.”

A harsh slap landed on your ass. Then another. Your skin stung, your walls clenched. His hand wrapped around your throat, squeezing just enough to leave you breathless as he kept pounding into you.

“You’re mine,” he hissed against your back. “Mine. And I’m gonna fill you so deep you won’t be able to hide it.”

The phone was still on. Still active. Moans, cries, his name over and over. Then, finally, the line cut off.

Ni-ki smirked darkly. “Coward,” he murmured. “He knows he lost.”

He leaned over you, biting your shoulder, his hips snapping into yours with more power, more fire.

“I’m gonna cum,” he warned, his voice ragged. “And I’m giving it all to you.”

He spilled inside you with a guttural groan, shaking as he emptied himself deep. He didn’t pull out. Just stayed there, catching his breath on your back.

“Don’t take it out,” he ordered, breathless and rough. “I want it to stay in. I want you dripping with me so everyone knows what happens when someone tries to take what’s mine.”

He wrapped his arms around you from behind, his lips brushing your ear with a final, vicious whisper:

“I’m gonna put a baby in you, princess. So that fucker finally gets it—you’re mine. Only mine. Fuck.”

✦N/a: Hiii, I hope you all liked it a lot! I love you so much, my loves!

✦Taglist: @lezleeferguson-120 @nuki-riki @ijustwannareadstuff20 @vvenusoncasual @miellette @enhacolor @xxkatsusjinsux @somieverse @ourshin @han-to-my-minho @douqhnxtss @nuggets4lifers @mitmit01 @highway-143

[deansbeer]

you get insecure looking at your belly bump in mirror.

warnings 𓏵 tooth-rotting fluff | pregnancy | body image insecurities | slight alcohol mention | soft!simon.

sticky notes 𓏵 me and vee @amordixon are whores for soft simon. so thank her for this little drabble i wrote just now <3

you’ree standing in front of the bedroom mirror in just your underwear and one of simon’s old worn out shirts, hands gently cradling the small bump that’s started to show. fifteen weeks. fifteen weeks of growing this little life inside you, and while part of you is over the moon, another part can’t help but frown at your own reflection.

everything feels different. your body doesn’t feel like yours anymore — you’re bloated all the time, your jeans don’t fit right, and you swear your face looks puffy. you turn to the side, smoothing the shirt down over your belly, trying to see yourself the way simon does. he’s been nothing but excited, telling anyone who’ll listen that he’s going to be a dad, but you just feel... bleh.

you’re so lost in your thoughts that you don’t hear the front door open, don’t hear his boots on the stairs. it’s only when strong arms wrap around you from behind that you realize he’s home, the smell of beer and cold night air clinging to him.

“what’s wrong, love?” his voice is soft against your ear, concern immediate. even slightly tipsy from his night out, he can read you like a book. his large hands come to rest over yours on your belly. “why’re you frowning at my girls?”

“how do you know it’s a girl?” you deflect, but he’s not having it.

“answer the question,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your temple. “what’s got you looking so sad? thought you’d be asleep by now.”

you lean back into his warmth with a sigh. “i just... i feel so bloated and weird. nothing fits right anymore and i look...” you gesture vaguely at your reflection.

“…beautiful,” he finishes firmly. “you look beautiful.” his hands slide under your shirt to touch your belly directly, and you can feel him smile against your neck. “fuckin’ gorgeous, carryin’ my baby.”

“si...”

“no, listen,” he turns you gently to face him, cupping your face in his hands. his eyes are intense but soft, that look he only gives you. “you have no idea what it does to me, seeing you like this. knowing there’s a little one growing in there. our baby.” his voice drops, thick with emotion and accent. “my baby. your baby. ours.”

he drops to his knees suddenly, pushing your shirt up to expose your bump. “still can’t believe it sometimes,”he murmurs, pressing kisses all over your belly. “that you’re giving me this. a family. never thought i’d ...” he trails off, resting his forehead against your skin.

“baby,” you whisper, fingers threading through his hair.

“you’re perfect,” he says against your belly, then looks up at you. “every change, every curve, every bloody thing. means our little one is growing strong. means you’re doing the most amazing thing.” he presses another kiss just above your navel. “my brave girl. my beautiful, perfect girl.”

“you’re drunk,” you laugh wetly, tears pricking your eyes.

“m’not,” he protests, standing back up to pull you close. “just happy. lads kept buying rounds, celebrating.” his hands frame your bump between you. “gonna be a dad. still doesn’t feel real.”

“very real,” you assure him, covering his hands with yours. “especially when i’m throwing up every morning.”

“and you’re still the most beautiful thing i’ve ever seen," he says simply, like it’s just fact. “even when you’re green and cursing my name.” he grins when you smack his chest lightly. “what? s’true. loved you before, but this? seeing you grow our baby? fuck, love, i didn’t know i could feel like this.”

“you’re going to make me cry,” you warn, but youmre smiling now.

“happy tears?” he checks, thumbing at your cheek. when you nod, he kisses you softly. “good. only want happy tears from my girls.”

“we still don’t know if it’s a girl,” you remind him, but you’re melting into his embrace.

“know you’re my girl," he says simply. “thas’ enough for now.” he yawns suddenly, the night catching up. “c’mon now, let’s get to bed. want to hold you both.”

as he leads you to bed, hand protective over your bump, you catch sight of your reflection again. somehow, wrapped in simon’s arms, you don’t feel so bleh anymore. you just feel loved. completely, overwhelmingly loved.

“simon?” you whisper once you’re settled against his chest.

“yeah, love?“

“i’m really happy about the baby too.”

his arms tighten around you, one hand splayed possessively over your bump. “good,” he murmurs into your hair. “gonna be the best mum. already are.”

and wrapped in his warmth, feeling your baby safe between you, you actually believe him.

[mggslover]

FOR YOUR LOVE (i’ll do whatever you want) — spencer reid

In which Spencer begs for your forgiveness.

genre smut (18+) cw dacryphilia, pathetic love and touch starved spence, worship and praise, begging, crawling, marking his back with your heels, oral (f receiving), p in v, mirror sex, some discussion/fighting, established relationship, mention of r having a mom, r wearing a dress and heels wc 4,1k a/n race against the clock to post this on the kinkfest date. literally going on vacation in a couple of hours and yes i used my precious sleeping time writing this. you cant tell me i don’t have my priorities straight /jk

Spencer: We delivered a wrong profile Spencer: I can’t make it tonight Spencer: I’m so sorry Spencer: ❤️

You didn’t have to check your purse when the notifications chimed in, already knowing the messenger and the context. It wasn’t the first time Spencer had cancelled on you: lunches, dates, holidays, vacations… To be honest, you had stopped trying. Had stopped planning anything in advance and telling yourself that spontaneous activities were more fun. But right now, sitting in a restaurant with your family as you were celebrating your mother’s birthday that you had been planning for weeks, it was a harsh reminder that this lifestyle wasn’t fun. Not at all.

The one-year mark of your relationship was coming up, and you finally felt stable enough to introduce your boyfriend to your family. It wasn’t a thing you often or easily did, the gesture meaning a big deal to you. And Spencer had known that and had promised you that he would show up at all costs. But he didn’t, leaving you embarrassed as your family laughed and joked about the actual existence of this mystery man that you had been so infatuated with.

The dinner started in longing, wishing you had Spencer’s warm hand to hold in yours underneath the table when the conversations got too loud, or wishing for one of his intricate analyses on which dessert you should choose when you got handed the menu. But every time his name got mentioned, your frustrations began to grow.

“Thanks,” you mutter to your Uber driver while handing him twenty bucks for your ride home. Wrapping your arms around yourself (while thinking of Spencer, who always takes your jacket with him or gives you his when you refuse to take one with you, like now), you walk up to your apartment. 

In your periphery, you notice a soft, dim light shining through the curtains of your living room, the sound of clicking heels against pavement halting abruptly. The latter texts you’ve received must’ve been him asking you if he could come over to your place while probably standing in front of your doorstep already. It had been raining earlier, so you can’t blame him for using the spare key you handed him after the four months you’d been dating. You gave him the excuse that you were too sleepy to open the door for him when he’d come home from a case in the middle of the night, and when he suggested that he could sleep at his place on those days, you had come up with another excuse while placing the key in his palm and closing his fingers around it. He had smiled goofily at you, had seen right through the act, obviously. But he didn’t comment on it, besides pressing a gentle kiss to your hand that was wrapped around his fist. 

You never imagined a day to come where you’d feel sad and annoyed about the prospect of him sitting on your couch, able to envision the way he’s shaking his knees as he’s trying to come up with a new way to apologize for this repeated conflict.

Pushing those thoughts to the back of your mind, you unlock the door and open it with a soft creak. The hallway gives a panoramic view of the open living room, and like a deer caught in flashlights, Spencer’s head whips around to face you, those big brown bambi eyes searching for yours despite the few feet of distance. 

He catches on to your mood as you silently place your purse on the dresser. The pillows on the couch ruffle as he sits up straighter, bending his body to face you.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t show up today,” his voice cracks, and you hate the way the small sound pulls on your heartstrings. “I– I don’t know what went wrong with the profile. We established it was a white male, but then—”

“Then it turned out to be a woman, and everyone was thrown off guard,” you finish with a jab. “I know how it goes, Spencer. A simple apology isn’t going to do it anymore.” 

A sigh escapes you. “God, you don’t know how many times I had to reschedule things so that it fit into your schedule. This isn’t going to work if you can’t understand that.”

Desperation laced the soft tone of his whisper. “Then what do I do?”

You raise your hands in the air in question before they fall back on your thighs with a thud. “Well, I don’t know. Beg on your knees for forgiveness?” 

The harsh sarcasm slithered off of your tongue. It’s the classic image of mercy: hands clasped together, pleading on your knees with tear-streaked cheeks. There was no way he didn’t understand that. Still, the despair must have been bigger than his ego, because when you looked at him again, he had fallen to the ground, legs resting on the carpet.

“Spencer,” you start in a warning, but he shakes his head, cutting you off.

“I’ll do anything you tell me to do. Don’t be mad at me, please?” 

Next were his hands. His long, delicate fingers made contact with the floor. And then his back: arching it like the pose came naturally to him.

“Spencer, please,” you try again, embarrassed by the way your skin heats at the act when you’re supposed to be mad at him.

With the way he’s bent down, you’re able to take a peek into his dress shirt and see the soft reddened skin of his neck and upper chest, decorated in some faded freckles you could blindly point out by now. It was only emphasized by the way his tie was sweeping over the floor with every hypnotizing sway of his hips as he crawled his way over to you.

There was no space to back away, feeling the cold wood of the dresser hit the back of your bare legs as you stumbled back. And truly, you were too curious to see how far he was planning on taking this in an attempt to win your forgiveness.

Kneeling in front of you, you could make out the faded red spots creased under his eyes, indicating that he’s probably cried before — beating himself up over not being able to make it. Those eyes were dangerous, you’ve always said it, big and glassy as they blink up at you, the green hints visible that you weren’t always able to see.

“You look so beautiful, I didn’t tell you that.”

He hadn’t. 

You’d sent him a picture of the dress you were wearing when you were getting ready, him still at Quantico. When you first started dating, you quickly learned that Spencer wasn’t a good texter — far from it — but over time, he’d learned to text you back right away. On days when he wasn’t busy then. If you didn’t get a response back in the next two minutes, it was a sign for you to cancel whatever you had planned, knowing it would take at least hours for him to get home. Today was a day like that.

Spencer let his hand trail over your calf and up to the inside of your knee, goosebumps erupting at the gentle caress of his fingers. 

He inches closer toward you, messy locks tickling as his eyes flit over your legs that are at eye-level with him. “Heels give the illusion that your legs are longer,” he explains, pressing a chaste kiss to the bare skin, testing the waters. “It all has to do with gravity,” another kiss, “you shift the center of it, which changes the body’s proportions,” kiss. 

Every word he spoke, and every moment you stayed silent in anticipation, he took as an opportunity to take it a step further. Sweet pecks turned into longer presses of his lips, wetting them with his tongue to a dark pink hue before kissing you again. Occasionally giving a lick before wrapping his mouth around the muscle, sucking a mark. 

It was a distraction. He was playing exactly into the need he knew you always had for him. It was a new tactic, and you had to give it to him; it was starting to work.

“Stop,” you announced, your voice stern as you used the tip of your shoe to press against his chest, pushing him slightly back.

His brows furrowed, mouth dropping open in dissatisfaction. “Why?”

The way he says it makes him sound like a small child, not understanding the concept of not being able to get anything they want. And whatever nurturing qualities you have in you cause you to feel guilty. The clear, watery drops forming at the corners of his eyes don’t help with that either.

You cross your arms, assembling defiance. “Seducing me is fucking low, Spencer,” you scoff. 

“I— I wasn’t—“ he panics. “I just missed you. I needed to touch you.” 

“Well, I missed you too, Spencer! You were supposed to be there,” you groan out in frustration.

“I know, and I’m so sorry! I mean it.” He quickly apologizes. “I’m so sorry,” he repeats, burying his face back into your thigh. 

The wet stains of his tears transferred to your inner thighs, making his lashes stick messily together when he looked up at you. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart. Let me make it up to you? Please?”

Reaching out, you wrap his tie around your fingers, making him groan as you tug him up on his feet.

Instinctively, he reaches out to place his big palms on either side of your waist, pulling you close.

“Nuh, uh, uh,” you tsk. “Help me up here.” You nod to the dresser you’re leaning against.

He blinks his confusion away, lowering his hands and bending through his knees to lift you up. You’re gently placed on the hardwood, dress lifted up in a bunch at your waist.

Maneuvering his body between yours, he’s ready to cup your cheek and envelop you in a kiss when you place your finger to his lips. 

“Come on, angel,” he cries as you deny him again.

“You’re such a crybaby, Spence,” you huff. “You don’t even know what I was going to say.”

With his impatience igniting yours, you decide to not wait any longer and spread your legs. 

Spencer’s gulp is visible, Adam's apple bobbing as his eyes drift to the lace between your thighs. 

You raise an eyebrow. “Want to make it up to me?”

“Yes,” he answers breathlessly and nods. “I’ll do anything.”

“Kiss me, then,” you dare, fighting a sly smile as his pupils widen in awe.

Spencer drops himself to his knees, fitting his frame in between your legs as he spreads them open wider, the cold whoosh of wind that comes with the movement tickling your sensitive, covered folds.

He held you by your hips, scooting you forward so that his mouth was aligned with your cunt. “Smell so good,” he murmurs, nuzzling his nose over your inner thighs. “Can’t wait to taste you.”

With that, he used the tip of his button nose to draw a line up your folds, his tongue following behind as it lapped up a wet stripe. You shivered at the touch, abdomen flexing as the thin lacy fabric pressed against you with the power of his tongue.

“Gonna get you so wet for me, going to make you feel so good,” he breathed against you, not sure if he intended for you to hear or if it was a promise to himself. 

He repeated the motion, humming as his tongue came across your clit, feeling it swell under the tip of his tongue as he expertly flicked the little bud. 

The barrier of underwear was starting to bother him, wanting — no, needing — to hear more of the beautiful, soft moans you were trying to hold back.

Carefully, he curved his finger into the fabric, pulling it aside so that it rested in the place where your thigh met your puffy lips. Then he dove back in.

“Yeah,” you moaned, leaning your head back. You could practically feel yourself dripping at this point, though you had to concentrate on it, because the second a stream flooded out of you, Spencer was there to lap it up.

Spencer was a loud lover: moaning and humming as he nibbled on your labia and circled your needy hole, getting immense pleasure from the way you squirmed or gasped when he hit the spot, from being the one to make you feel good. 

You locked your legs around his back. With your heels still on, you dragged the sharp red points across his skin, pulling him in deeper.

“Oh, Spence, that’s it, right there—“ you whimpered, hands reaching out to lock in his hair.

His cock twitched up in his pants, rubbing against the pre-cum-stained spot that had been accumulating from the moment he went down on you. 

Nothing spurred him on more than seeing you be so eager as you finally touched him, reaching out to him willingly. 

On a mission to earn your love and release, he started sucking on your sweet spots with all his might. He hummed against the delicate pearl that was situated between his lips, keeping your hips steady, almost bruising you as he held you in place while you shook as your orgasm came down.

He continued to lick you clean while avoiding your sensitive clit. Reaching out with his thumb, he gathered the last of your wetness before pushing it back into you. 

“Fuck,” you softly cry when his thumb enters you.

He hummed in observation. “You came without me using my fingers.”

A hoarse chuckle escaped your throat. “So what? You decided to finger-fuck me now?”

“I’d rather fuck you with my cock,” he states, the dirty words a sharp contrast to the sweet, boyishness of his voice. 

Taking his words in, you decide to give him what he wants. Albeit on your terms. 

“Stand up and turn around.”

It was fun ordering him around. Especially when he actually listened because his pulsing cock drove him desperate enough.

His knees cracked a little when he stood up, holding your gaze for as long as he could before he turned around, his back facing you.

You wrapped your legs around him, pulling him in closer until you were able to let your hands slide over his shoulders. You rested your head on them, breath fanning across his neck. “Did I hurt you with my heels?”

“N-no,” he swallowed at the proximity. “It felt good.”

You laughed, the sound reverberating in his chest, freeing a swarm of butterflies. “Of course you enjoyed it. You’re being such a good boy for me.”

The tips of your fingers moved down until they were splayed across his chest. Batting his tie away, you started opening up the buttons on his shirt — a skill you had grown quite expert in since dating Spencer Reid.

He breathed out a shaky exhale, chest rising and falling rapidly as more of his skin got exposed to the tension-filled air. 

Knowing you weren’t able to reach the lower buttons (or maybe it was an act of haste), Spencer lent you a hand in taking the shirt off.

With a soft thud, the white fabric fell to the ground, and you hummed in pride as you spotted two pairs of red lines over his back.

Using your nails, you traced the pattern that you had created. 

“Feels good, baby,” Spencer panted. His own hand has found its way to his bulge, squeezing the throbbing length in search of relief.

“Don’t know why you’re even trying,” you comment in a silken purr as you spot Spencer’s actions. “You know my hands feel better than yours.”

Despite not being able to see his face, you could tell a rouge blush had found its way to his cheeks by now. His voice sounded hopeful. “Would you touch me?”

You responded with a hum and a gentle squeeze of his slender waist. “You’ve been doing a very good job at listening. I think you deserve a reward. What do you think?”

He quickly nods. “Yeah. I’ve been good to you.”

It’s almost like he needs to remind himself, still feeling guilty of not showing up this evening when he had promised you so.

Still, he saw your words as an invitation to turn back around. He had his bottom lip trapped in between his teeth, watching you watch him.

“Looks pretty painful,” you remark as you let your fingers graze over his bulge. 

Spencer bucks his hips up into you, cursing at his bodily functions as you take your hand away. 

“Now you have to keep being patient, or I can put a stop to this right now.” 

He didn’t know when he had subconsciously handed the reins back to you, you now in power when he had believed he’d found your salvation in between your thighs. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’ll be good.”

With a trusting nod, you moved to the button on his pants, undoing it with ease, and the zipper followed swiftly along.

You had to wrap your fingers around his shaft to pull him out, his cock having filled the fabric to the point where it was a struggle to just tug the material down his legs. 

A sound in between a gasp and a moan left your lips at the sight of him. No matter how many times you’d seen him like this, it never failed to amaze you.

“You’re so pretty, Spence.”

His eyes were focused on the way your manicured nails tapped along his length. “Thank you.”

You used your thumb to paint his tip in sticky pre-cum, prepping him for what might come, as Spencer fought the urge to hiss in delight. 

“You want more than just my hands, though.”

Spencer’s eyes found yours. He tried to read you, but it wasn’t as easy as it was on the job, distracted both by your beauty and by your warm touch as you played with him.

“If I’m allowed to,” he responded in perfect politeness. 

You didn’t smile, solely shrugged. “I’m still pretty pissed at you,” you squeezed him in your palm. “Don’t know if I’ll allow you the pleasure.”

“But you deserve the pleasure,” he quickly intervened. “I’m not doing it for me,” lie, “you deserve to feel good.”

The wheels were turning in your head, and he used the chance to convince you more, adding some oil to the rusty mechanics. “You don’t even have to look at me. I’ll— I’ll turn you around. You can just focus on you. On feeling good.”

“Alright.”

He could cry in relief, his balls straining at the prospect. If there’s one situation he’s been most grateful he’s learned negotiation for at the academy, it might be this. 

Gently, he helped you off the dresser, only to turn you around and attentively bend you over it. It was only then that he noticed the large round mirror on the wall above. He didn’t say any of it. Praying desire has clouded your mind as well.

After becoming aware of the mirror’s presence, he seemed to not be able to look away. It was a picture-perfect image, after all. Your face scrunched in pleasure as he held you by your hips and entered you in one smooth, long stroke.

Spencer sucked in a breath. “So warm, baby.” He buried his face in the crook of your neck, kissing the skin to soften his whines as he started moving into you.

Your hands were gripping the sides of the dresser, nails biting into the wood as he stretched out your walls. 

“You’re so beautiful,” he moaned into your shoulder, his breath starting to heave as he picked up his pace. 

He was absolutely enamored by the way your breasts bounced, having asked you to pull the straps of your dress and bra down, your dress now bunched around your waist as Spencer used it as extra grip to slap his hips against you.

“Can you squeeze them for me, please?”

Catching his expression in the mirror, you couldn’t even try to hide your amusement at the question. Spencer held you steadily enough to let your hands roam to your tits, cupping the soft flesh before pressing them together.

An actual cry came out of his mouth, absolutely lovestruck with you as he fastened his speed. 

“Mmhm,” he moans in a muffled tone, lips pressed against your hair, unapologetically taking whiffs of the sweet scent. 

“I’m so lucky to have you,” he praises as he picks up his speed, heavy balls slapping against you as his hot body is hovering over you. 

The heat of his skin warming yours and the weight of the words he speaks engulf the entirety of your body in tingling sparks. 

“So nice, Spence,” you softly whine as he presses into you deeper, leaving a mark inside that was only for him to feel.

“I know, baby. It’s so nice for me too,” he hums, his thumbs rubbing circles against your back.

The sensations were overwhelming, Spencer having his cock nuzzled inside of you, gratefully accepting him with every flutter of your cunt. 

“So pretty. So messy, baby,” Spencer whines as he covers your shoulder in wet kisses, matching the sounds of skin against skin. 

Through the reflection in front of you, you could see his face shining in what you first thought was sweat — but upon another look, realized were tears streaming down his face.

In concern, you commented on it. “Spencer, are you crying?”

“I— I’m sorry. You just feel so good, angel. I can’t help it.” He squeaked, not stopping the steady and deep rhythm that he had created. 

You laughed, but the sound turned into a loud moan when his hand ghosted over your stomach and found its way to your clit. 

“Can I make you come?”

“Yes!” You whine, teeth sinking into your lip. “Yes, please, Spencer.”

“Oh god, baby,” Spencer groans back. Hearing you be the one to beg him drove him crazy. He positioned you on his cock with his free hand, finding a new angle that made his eyes roll back in delight. 

Sweat dripped down his face to his jaw, mixing with yours. His chest heaved against your back while he pinned you down against the dresser. His lips were on your shoulder and neck, sucking marks without any precision or care, just need. And two of his fingers moved against your clit at a speed that continued to fasten. You felt him everywhere. 

A desperate sound filled the room. “I’m gonna come, baby, I can’t hold it anymore.” Spencer panted. “You feel so good. Jesus, so fucking good, angel.”

“Mmh,” you nod. “Want to feel you come inside of me, Spence. Fill me up.”

Your request was immediately answered. With a deep groan, followed by smaller moans and cries, he spilled into you. 

He doesn’t stop like he usually would because of the sensitivity but instead prolongs the moment as long as he can — most of all, because he needs you to come too.

“Almost there,” you gasp in a breath as his fingertips are pulling you under.

Just a moment later, you’re shaking. Hands patting the dresser and reaching out to grab his arms in an effort to ground yourself as he makes you come. 

You thought you saw it wrong when you looked at him in the mirror, seeing his mouth form the O-shape you knew all too well. But then his cock twitched inside of you, never having softened, and warm drops of his seed filled you again. 

“Oh, angel,” he cried, his arms moving up to wrap around your waist. 

“I know,” you reassure him. “You did so good, Spence. Made me feel so good.”

His hips shake and twitch until he’s given you his all.

He presses another kiss to the side of your forehead. “‘M sorry for today.”

Reaching your hand behind you, you cupped the other side of his face, forcing him to look at your reflection in front of him.

“It’s okay. You made it up to me,” you gently smiled.

“Should’ve just left work,” he sniffled, his grip around you lessening.

“Hey,” your tone takes him out of his thoughts, and you place your hand atop his to strengthen his hold on you. “She’ll still be in town. Why don’t we visit tomorrow morning? It’s on the way to Quantico, so worst case scenario, you drop me off and take the subway.”

A smile creeps onto his face, accepting your touch when you intertwine your fingers with his on your stomach. “That sounds good.”

[hypomanic-chaos]

[ID:

First image is a tweet by "Bad" Billy Pratt @/KILLTOPARTY, reading "Why do all women insist on skin tight clothing?" followed by a screenshot of an anonymous post from 4/10/23 including a photo of two women posing in thigh-length, fitted dresses. A red circle has been added around the belly of the woman on the right. Following the photo is the caption "My gf has a pouch like pic and it doesn't seem to go away no matter how hard she hits the gym. Is surgery my only hope?"

Second image is a reply to the tweet, by 🪾🍄👁 @ umineko ep 4 @/bloomfilters, reading "the responses to this are variations on 'these men must be gay' which badly hides the actual truth of the matter which is 'a lot of men think its funny to police and humiliate women and their bodies and say things like this intentionally and calling them gay wont disrupt them"

Third image is 4 more replies by @/bloomfilters. The first reads "the hatred of women is not contradictory to the dominant culture of attraction under the heterosexual system. its baked in!"

The next reply reads "its not really a matter of young men's minds being passively moulded by xyz and then being shocked when they see the myriad ways women look like. it's not like they 'don't know what women look like'. it's that the expression of desire becomes an expression of control."

The third reply reads "the response that they must be gay understandably holds 2 wishes: that theyll be shocked into a sexuality crisis via homophobia and that real straight women love women. in practice, neither works out, because the heterosexual system positions subjectivity as straight manhood.

The fourth and last reply reads "so, for anyone who wants to push back against this, including even the straight guys who are continually frustrated by seeing their peers do this, you can't plan a line of attack through calling them f4gs or saying Real Men sexualize women. its best to reveal this for what it is"

/end ID]

[rafesbimbo]

could i req gyno!rafe x inexperienced!reader, when he confirms her there's a certain amount of times she should come, or she's not healthy - overstim.

or inserting different medical objects in her- sort of a powerplay, and he's there gaslighting her 'you can take it baby, your muscles will accomodate whatever i give you' ... going from a small metal rod or medical equipment to a huge thing...

warnings: ( did the second scenario!!!) medical kink, consensual powerplay, size play with objects, manipulation, dirty talk, mild gaslighting, unprotected sex, praise, light degradation

pairing: gynecologist!rafe x reader

the room was cold. that awful sterile chill clung to your bare thighs as you shifted on the exam table, paper crinkling under you. you weren’t here for a check-up. you both knew that. but dr. rafe cameron made it feel like you should be.

he was standing at the counter, gloved hands arranging silver tools on a small tray. cold metal glinted under the overhead lights—objects you didn’t even have names for. and every time he picked one up, he turned just enough to catch your eyes.

"you’re already clenching, sweetheart," he murmured, voice soft as velvet but thick with amusement.

"you that nervous? or that excited?"

your legs twitched where they were spread wide in the stirrups, ankles secured gently but firmly with medical-grade straps he swore were for “stability.” your gown was open, useless, your core exposed to the cool air—and to him.

rafe stepped between your legs, blue eyes trailing down your body, mouth quirked in something between affection and hunger. he ran the back of a gloved finger along your inner thigh, slow and clinical.

"i told you to trust me, didn’t i?" he asked sweetly.

"told you your body would accommodate whatever i gave it. and it will. you’re built for it, baby."

you whined, thighs flexing instinctively, but you were already soaked. he could see that. he leaned in close, lips brushing the shell of your ear.

"your little muscles are gonna stretch so pretty for me."

the first thing he used was thin—something long and smooth, cool against your entrance. you gasped when he pushed it inside, slow and careful, letting you feel every inch. it wasn’t much… yet.

"see? that wasn’t so bad. you took it like a good girl," he praised, curling his fingers around your waist to keep you still as he gently twisted the tool. "just getting you warmed up, sweetheart. we’ll move slow."

but rafe didn’t stay gentle for long.

he moved through sizes—graduated tools, each one thicker, each insertion met with a soft moan from you and a murmur from him. “god, you’re so tight.” “look how you open up for me.” “you were made for this table, weren’t you?”

by the time he was pressing in the largest one, something unreasonably thick for a medical instrument, you were shaking.

"dr. cameron, please—" you gasped.

he cut you off with a soft chuckle. "what is it, baby? too much? no, no. you can take it. your muscles’ll stretch right around it. let me show you."

and he did—holding your hips down, pushing it in slow, sweet, devastating inches while you whimpered and clung to the edges of the table. his voice never raised. he never lost that calm, affectionate tone.

"you’re doing so well. so fuckin’ well for me, sweetheart. look at that greedy pussy, just swallowing it down."

your walls fluttered around the intrusion, overfilled, overwhelmed, dripping down the sides of the tool as he finally stilled. he leaned down to kiss your shoulder, then your collarbone, whispering praises like poison.

"you were made for this. for me. letting me stretch you out with all my little toys. think anyone else gets this kind of treatment?"

you shook your head, breath stuttering.

he smiled, slow and proud. "didn’t think so. now hold still, baby—’cause I'm not done with you yet."

[karaaeilish]

★ ride or die; b. eilish

★ military!billie x wife!reader

★ smut `

having a military wife is about being separated. about the constant worry and longing. about wondering when she'll finally come home, and if she'll come home at all. it's hard and it's difficult to always be afraid that your little girl will be left without her mother.

but what's even harder? being close to her. being inches away from her body, not being able to touch her all the time, running your tongue down her neck, leaving a small bite above her collarbone so that all curious eyes could see that the ring on her finger meant only that she was yours. only yours.

you loved going to the gym together. always watching each other's bodies, admiring every curve, every millimeter. running your fingertips over skin hot from the workout, but it was really hard for you to keep your hands to yourself while your wife walked around in an open tank top, completely exposing her arms. her biceps and triceps are on display, drawing the gaze of every single woman and others, clearly too caught up in the movements of her fingers to notice the wedding ring that billie almost never takes off, every muscle that tensed with her every move. it’s just not your fault that a wet spot has started to form between your thighs.

her body is completely soaked in sweat, beads of which run down her forehead, forcing her to wipe them with the back of her hand every few minutes, and you stare. you just can’t stop. and the strange feeling in your tummy aren’t so strong, until she comes up with a great idea: lift her tank top, exposing her hard abs, sparkling with sweat. she calmly wipes her face with it, as if she's not doing anything that drives you and your hormones crazy. not a split second passes before your legs carry you towards her, your fingers wrapping around her wrist, and as you try to pull her towards you, you clearly forget just how big is the difference between your sizes. you swallow.

"darling?" she looks down at you, straight in the eyes. looks so innocent that all you can think about is slapping her, simply because every step she takes makes your mind drift to the most sinful and dirty fantasies, and right now she has no idea.

"billie, please," you whisper, your bubble of patience about to burst. "let's get outta here."

her face instantly clears with realization, lips curling into a sly smirk. she always knows that tone. always knows when you need her like nothing else. she grabs a sports bottle of water, her right hand coming to rest on your lower small as she slowly leads the two of you out of the gym and towards the locker room.

“so what’s wrong, mamas?” she whispers in your ear, leaning down to press a kiss to your temple. “someone needs some cock, hm?”

your mind goes fuzzy, legs go weak, your pussy throbs painfully with the knowledge that before you can have her all to yourself, you’ll need to get home somehow.

“jus' take your damn things and take m'home, o’connell” you hiss, pushing at her, though it doesn’t do much good because no matter how hard you strain your arms, her body won’t budge an inch until she takes a step of her own. and she does. obeys. for now. “yes, ma’am. but don't forget you're mrs. o'connell too"

her teasing makes your stomach do a thing, nervously snapping your fingers and biting your lip until she drives you home. until a familiar building appears on the horizon and you're already unbuckling your seatbelt, eager to get out of this damn car.

you needed her. so bad. so rough. so raw.

and she's all over you. completely. picking you up awith ease, hands on your ass, squeezing and kneading the flesh through the fabric of your sweatpants. "it's so hard to watch you bend over, purposely showing your ass to the world. just fucking begging me to come and take you"

you whine, arms wrapping around her neck, lips pressing to hers in a sloppy kiss that takes your breath away.

"i can't stand watching all these sluts clinging to you like you're a fucking museum piece" you mumble between kisses and billie smirks, lips trailing down your neck, leaving bites and marks for anyone who lays eyes on you to see. she falls to the edge of the bed, letting you straddle her lap. she pats your thigh, silently telling you to get rid of those fucking pants as she fiddles with her tank top, pulling it over her head, revealing her stomach once again, adorned with her well-defined abs. your pussy's dripping. right down your thighs.

billie lies down completely on the bed, beckoning you with her index finger, and you obediently climb on top of her, pussy hovering just above her body as you await further instructions.

"don't be shy, mama. you know what to do" her hand on your hip, pressing down, forcing you down onto her abs. your pussy touching her skin, your eyes instantly rolling to the back of your head, accompanied by a pathetic whine. hands falling on her chest, fingers hooking into her sports bra as you begin to slowly move your hips back and forth, feeling every hard muscle of hers.

"fuck. oh fuck—billie…” your broken whines mix with your quiet pleas as you pick up the pace, trying to hold back the tears in your eyes. your body's shaking, and billie notices it instantly.

“c'mon, baby, don’t tell me you’re already close.” she pushes herself up on her elbows, her abs tensing, your arms go weak and you fall forward slightly, your forehead brushing against her cheek, your hips riding her with relentless speed.

“m'close, so close, billie… i need—” but she doesn’t let you finish, smirking. “shhh, sweet girl. hold it for me.”

she leans back again, both hands on your hips, making you grind against her faster, ignoring your shaking legs and numb limbs. it's only been half a minute, but it feels like forever until you start whining, begging for her permission.

"please. daddy, please" you moan, tears streaming freely down your cheeks. "please what, princess?"

she's such a bitch sometimes.

"please, let me cum. wanna cum f'you" you mumble quickly, body shaking as you try to keep your orgasm on the edge. billie smiles, enjoying your torment. waits before responding.

"such a good girl for me.. cum, mama, wanna hear you" she purrs, and there's no way you can help but scream her name as the pleasure washes over you in high waves. your lips are dry from screaming and moaning, voice hoarse.

you lean over, holding onto her body until the strength completely leaves and you fall backwards next to her, breathing heavily until your heart rate returns to normal.

billie follows suit, kneeling on the bed, her shadow completely covering your body.

“you’re so beautiful from this angle” she whispers, straddling your hips, her hands reaching for her stomach, collecting some of your arousal on her fingertips. she smirks, bringing her fingers to your lips the next second, and you obediently open your mouth, letting them slip inside, putting gentle pressure on your tongue.

“that’s it, that’s my good slut” she shifts position, ending up between your thighs, pushing them apart with her knees until they're as wide as she wants.

her fingers come out of your mouth with a distinctive 'pop' sound, leaving a thin thread of saliva between them.

"now let me take care of my perfect wife" she whispers playfully, fingers slowly tease your folds.

౨ৎ tags; @billiesbabygirll, @amara-eilish, @st0nerlesb0, @bxllxebxtch @mystiquemm, @bilswifee, @dragoneyelashart, @bilssturns, @chrissv4mp, @allyeilishh, @bitchesbrokenpromises, @too-sapphic-to-function, @thefeverburningalive, @peytonglazesbillieeilish, @1nn3rthOughts, @thebluediner, @xiletay, @eilishsfantasy, @ariieeesworld

[sp0o0kylights]

“Alienate.” Flo mutters, the first thing Phil Callahan hears when he enters the station. “No, that's eight letters. Darn.” 

“How’s the crossword, Miss Flo?” He asks, as he always asks, every morning. 

It’s part of a little routine he’s established with their doting receptionist, partly out of boredom, mostly because she sometimes asks him for help.  

If there’s one thing Phil enjoys doing, it’s helping.

(It’s why he became a cop, after all.)

“Hi, hun. I’m stuck.” Flo responds, staring down at the New York Times spread out before her. 

It’s a quiet Friday morning and a quick glance at the open and dark-empty office of the Chief says the man’s not in yet, and so Callahan rounds the big wooden desk to stare at the puzzle over Flo’s shoulder. 

“Which one?” He asks, seeing most of it’s already been filled out. 

Flo jabs a finger at the offending clue, her nails painted a light pastel blue. “Pushed away through inattention.” She reads dutifully, then traces her finger to the blank section of the crossword, tapping at it. “Nine letter word.” 

Phil cocks his head, thinks it through. 

“It wasn’t alienate.” Flo says, non-helpfully. 

“Ignored?” Phil tries.

“That’s seven letters.” 

They both stare down at the puzzle, the black and white squares taunting them. 

“Neglected.” Phil says suddenly, triumphant. “It has to be neglected--the word has to end with a D to make sense in the puzzle. See?” 

One of two words that crosses over with their missing piece is ‘abandoned’, which fits nicely with the apparently gloomy theme of today’s crossword. 

“Doesn’t work with the other word that goes through it though.” Flo points out, defeating the proud little glow that had been building in Phil’s head. 

The other bisecting word is ‘isolated’, making him wonder if the puzzlemaker is in the middle of a rough divorce. 

(Or maybe just a rough day, and he’s the one projecting…) 

“Well, hell.” Phil grumbles, staring down at it. 

“Try estranged!” Powell calls as he passes by with a mug full of coffee. 

Flo carefully pencils in ‘estranged’ and makes a pleased noise when it fits. 

“Thank you, hun!” She calls, and Phil huffs at himself for not seeing it, but also refuses to let Powell’s one upping ruin his day.

The man himself offers their receptionist a smile, before tossing a casual reprimand Phil’s way.  

“Callahan, get to work, would you?” 

“Yeah, yeah, smartypants.” He says, going to fetch his own cup of coffee. “Save the bitching for the Chief.” 

Powell rolls his eyes at him, and Callahan makes a face back, and the two of them go on to have a very boring, small town cop sort of day--right until a legitimate call finally comes in. 

Well.

Sort of. 

“The Harrington residence is having a too-loud party again.” Hopper says, having finally shown up sometime between nine and noon. “Drunk teenagers are throwing up in people’s lawns.” 

“It’s not even dark yet.” Powell mutters, staring at the clock as if he couldn’t imagine a party taking place before 8 pm. 

“Teenagers don’t care about that shit, that’s why they’re getting the cops called on them.” Hopper snips back. He’d been in a mood all day, and not the fun, jolly kind. 

“Come on Callahan, let’s go remind Harrington Jr. that it’s his daddy that owns this department, not him.”

“I wish you wouldn’t joke about that.” Phil says as he follows Hopper out the door, waving goodbye to Flo as he goes. “People are going to think you’re serious.” 

(Sometimes, Phil thinks as he swings into the patrol truck, that Hopper is serious. 

That they are being paid to look the other way. 

Then he takes a sip of their god-awful coffee and hears Hopper’s ancient truck cough to life, and figures, if anyone was getting cash here, there would at least be evidence of it.) 

xXx 

Harrington Jr.’s party isn’t quite the chaotic disaster it was made out to be, though there are a handful of tipsy teenagers stumbling around the lawn.

“One of these idiots is going to drown in that damn pool someday.”  Hopper complains through gritted teeth as he storms up the driveway, kids scrambling into action the second they spot him. 

One loudly screams; “Cops!” and the rest of them scatter, running in so many directions it makes Phil’s head spin. He briefly moves as if to give chase before deciding there’s simply too many to bother. 

(Knows that it’s unlikely they’ll arrest anyone but Harrington tonight, anyway.)

“If the right kid bites it, Dick Harrington might even have to come deal with it personally.” Over his shoulder Hopper tosses Phil a shark’s smile, barging up the porch to bang hard on one of the two front doors. “Wouldn’t that be a sight to see?” 

“No, not really.” Phil says, because he’s thinking about dead teenagers in pools. 

“Also I don’t think Richard likes to be called Dick.” He adds cautiously, just in case the man himself happens to be home. 

It’s unlikely, doubly so given all the drunk minors, but that just means Phil isn’t surprised when it’s not the Vice President of Indiana Corporate Consulting, LLC that opens the door but his son, Steve. 

“Officers.” The kid drawls, shirtless in swim trunks, not a single strand of his perfectly styled hair out of place. “What can I do for you?”

He leans casually in the doorway, as another kid screams out a warning inside. 

“You can cut the shit.” Hopper says. “You know the drill. Turn around and put your hands behind your back.” 

Harrington does neither of those things, instead tilting his head and making a face like he just smelled something foul. 

“I’m not drunk. And anyone who is drunk brought it without telling me. You should go arrest them.” Steve  jams a thumb over his shoulder, pointing at the rapidly emptying house. 

Then he smirks at both of them, every inch the newly crowned King the kids insist on calling him. 

“You think your old man is gonna believe that?” Hopper snarls, infuriated. He never was one that dealt well with teenagers. Or at least, these kinds (and that damn Munson kid, who just loved stealing everybodies lawn flamingos.) 

“I think you’ll find ‘my old man’,” Steve mockinly mimics, “doesn’t care.”

“He will when the neighbors start calling.” Hopper tosses back as Phil pushes past Harrrington Jr. to begin the process of trying to wrangle drunk teenages. “That’s Janet Wilkinson’s prized hydrangeas Hagan’s been throwing up in. You wanna see what happens when she talks to your mother?” 

“She has to get a hold of my mother to talk to her.” Steves snarks, instead of pulling out his usual charm. “Why do you think she called you instead?” 

This isn’t Phil’s first call to the house, but it is the first time Harrington Jr. has been this combative. It’s new, but not exactly unexpected. 

Not when Steve Harrington has been hurtling towards this ever since he started hosting parties. 

“You think your parents won’t care when I call them?”

“Well they haven’t before, so--” 

Phil rolls his eyes as the kid and Hopper trade more barbs, the adult’s growing sharper and sharper as Steve makes a couple of arguments about being held accountable for other people’s actions (and something else about unreasonably high standards and making his own bail.) 

Let's them argue it out as he quickly realizes he will definitely not be catching teenagers, and pivots to scanning for too-drunk stragglers in need of help. 

“Keep running your mouth, Harrington, and I’ll let you cool your heels overnight in a jail cell. That what you want?”

“You already did that, remember? Swore you’d never do it again because I was too annoying.”

“You can’t annoy me if I’m not the one there watching you--” 

Phil tunes out the rising voices, his attention snagging on something else.

The Harringtons’ entryway was sparse, and the rooms beyond weren’t much better. The whole house had the sterile feel of a museum;  untouched and unlived in. 

Not even a swarm of teenagers had managed to leave much of a mark. Or at least, not in these few rooms, anyway. 

Which is what makes the scraggly note stand out.

It’s taped to the wall right above the phone, but slightly askew, like it’d been thought of last-minute. A little crumpled, like someone half-heartedly tried to peel it off before giving up and pressing it back down.

‘Who puts a phone in the entryway?’ Phil wonders, but then, it is the Harrington’s. 

Maybe they need it to find each other in this huge fucking house. 

He leans in to read the note, spotting the bold letters at the bottom informing everyone the entire notepad had been custom ordered for RICHARD HARRINGTON, VP. 

‘Darling,’ beautiful cursive starts, at odds with the footnote, ‘Sorry that we couldn’t get a hold of you. Your father had a business opportunity, you know how important those are. I’ll send you a postcard. Take care of the house, remember that Martha is coming on Wednesdays now to get the dry cleaning. Do something fun for your birthday!’ 

It’s signed XOXO, Muffin. 

Muffin is, of course, Richard Harrington’s wife, and also a walking punchline. Or at least she is when people aren’t tripping over themselves to stay on her good side.

Weird that she signed it as such instead of with ‘Mom’, but then Muffin always has been a bit…much. 

More importantly (besides the fact that they skipped out on their own kids birthday) is the date at the top, which says the note was left Tuesday, March 17th. 

It’s currently the middle of May.

Flo’s crossword springs to mind, each guessed word clicking into place beside Steve’s own, still warm, spoken just moments ago.

Abandoned, and ‘She has to get a hold of my mother to talk to her.’ 

Ignored and ‘I think you’ll find my old man doesn’t care.’ 

A cold realization sweeps through Phil, as he recalls the things they’ve all heard other kids say about Steve. 

No parents. 

Big house. 

Always down for a good time. 

(‘Neglect is the failure to give somebody proper care or attention.’ Powell had argued on their lunch break, as Phil complained that ‘neglected’ fit the stupid crossword better than ‘estranged’ had. 

“Estranged works because it’s when you’re not really talking to someone. Hence the pushing away part. They’re different. Similar! But different.” 

“That’s dumb.” Phil argued back. 

“You’re dumb.” Powell replied, then laughed when Phil gasped in mock offense. “It’s why you’re getting taken to the cleaners in your divorce!”

“Hey man, come on, too far!”

“Sorry, sorry--” ) 

All cop’s develop intuition, even the small town ones, and Phil’s kicks in as he stares at the note. 

Neglected might be a hard sell for a fifteen year old that drives a BMW, but estranged definitely fits the bill. 

(He’s pretty sure neglect does fit the fucking bill no matter how much money the kids parents have, but he’s been on the force long enough to know how these things go.) 

He turns on his heel and marches over, sticking himself right in between his boss and the only remaining teenager. 

“Where are your parents at, again?” He asks, right over whatever point Hopper was butchering. 

“What?” Steve and Hopper both say, before giving the other a look for it. 

“Do you know where your parents are at?” Phil asks again, switching up the wording a little just like they’d taught him in the academy. 

“Uh…No?” Steve says, seeming too startled to lie. “You’d have to call dad’s receptionist.” 

“Okay. And when are they coming back?” 

This time Steve tosses a look at Hopper, like Phil’s the one being weird here. 

“When they get back.” He says, and it’s like he’s trying to still sound tough, to put forth that King persona, but is fumbling a little now that it’s not Hopper who's asking the questions. 

“So you have no idea, at all.” He clarifies, and feels his stomach sink a little. 

“I mean, I could also call dad’s receptionist.” Steve says, like that makes it better.  

“Whose in charge of you while they’re gone?” And yes he knows it’s a stupid question, knows that Steve is fifteen (he thinks, anyway) and is perfectly old enough 

“...I am.” Steve says, right over Hopper’s annoyed; “What the hell, Callahan.” 

“Chief, can I talk to you?” He says, turning to face his boss. 

Hopper stares back at him in disbelief, before making a show of summoning the last of his patience with a loud sigh. 

“You.” He points at Steve. “Sit. Stay.”

“Want me to shake too?” Harrington Jr calls out in an attempt to recover, but Phil’s got a hand on Hopper’s elbow and is dragging the older man away before he can get sucked back in. 

“You better have found something good Callahan.” Hopper warns, as Phil snatches the note on the wall as they pass by. 

“Hopper,” Phil says quietly, leaning in as he pulls Hopper all the way into the kitchen, kicking empty solo cups as he goes. “I don’t think his parents have been home in a while.”

He shoves the note in the Chief’s face. 

“No shit, kid.” Hopper spits, and the nickname sits badly, now that Phil’s heard it spat at Steve the same way. 

(Hopper doesn’t mean it, Phil knows he doesn’t. 

Hopper’s the best boss Phil’s ever had. The guy’s just a little rough sometimes, gets lost in the little things and needs to be brought back down. 

‘He’s got a lot going on, hun, but we’ll get him there.’ Flo says when he’s been really mean, and Phil knows they will, he’s seen it himself, but sometimes he wishes whatever the Chief was healing from would let him go a little faster.) 

He grabs the note, eyes scanning over it, and Phil talks a little faster. 

“No, I mean, look at the date, Chief. They’ve been gone for months.” 

Hopper looks up from the note and gives him the world’s flattest state. “So?”

Phil gapes a little at him. “Isn’t that abandonment?” 

In response, Hopper simply steps more into the kitchen, then throws open a door next to the stove. Reveals a huge, walk-in pantry, piled high with all kinds of food. 

Stands next to it like it’s a party trick he just unveiled. 

“Given the lights are on and that fancy little car of his seems to have gas,  I’d say they’re providing for the kid just fine.” He says crossly. 

Which isn’t wrong exactly, but it’s not right either. 

“Yeah,” Phil protests, “but--” 

“Trust me, things could be a lot worse.” Hopper cuts him off. “Save all the pity for someone who actually needs it, and not a kid whose parents’ lawyers will cut both our balls off for even suggesting they don’t care about their kid.” 

“Harsh, Chief.” Phil mutters, stung. There’s a small, growing voice in his head that says Steve Harrington does kind of need someone.

That a kid, even one as old as Steve is, shouldn’t be left like this. 

“Life’s harsh. Now unless you’re volunteering to watch the kid all night in a cell, I say we call the brat’s parents and this time, we’re gonna hit them with a citation when they get home. See if they ignore that.” 

“Please do!” Steve calls loudly, from where he’s still seated on the couch. “It’ll be funny, trust me.” 

Hopper goes to pinch the bridge of his nose, before glancing sideways at the island counter covered in solo cups and bottles. 

Changes course to pluck an unopened whiskey bottle from the pile, tucking it under his arm. 

Storms back out to whatever the Harrington’s call the room Steve’s in, pausing only to stop in front of him. 

“Hey.” Steve says, spotting the bottle.

Hopper holds it out. “Oh, I’m sorry,  is this yours?” 

Steve’s mouth opens, before he catches Callahan’s shaking head. Thinks better of it, and slams it back closed. 

Grumbles; “No, sir.” 

“Oh it’s sir now, is it?” Hopper says with a snort. “Since you’re so good at eavesdropping, you already know what I’m going to do. Congratulations Harrington, you get out of jail tonight, but,” 

He leans forward, putting himself almost nose to nose with the surely teenager, “I will be making sure that this time, your parents pay attention.” 

Quick as a shot he’s up and out the door, slamming it close behind him like he forgot Phil was there. 

“Good luck!” Steve shouts after him, but it’s clear even he thinks the Chief won their little sparring match. 

“Have your parents really been gone since March?” Phil says when the coast is clear, and watches Steve blink at him like he hadn’t realized the younger officer was still there. 

“Yeah.” Steve says with a shrug, like it’s not a big deal. “Every kid’s dream.” 

It’s not. Even Phil can tell from the way Steve’s face looks just then, that he knows it’s not. 

He doesn’t know what exactly posses him, but the next words out of his mouth are; “You ever get too lonely here, you can stay with me.” 

“What?” Steve says, eyes snapping right to Phil’s face like he misheard him. 

He’s embarrassed for two entire seconds before deciding, fuck it. 

He already offered, he’s not taking it back. 

“It’s a big house, kid. You shouldn’t be alone for that long.” Phil thinks about his impending divorce. On the emptiness of the house, with his soon to be ex wife long gone. How that eats at him, sometimes. Adds;  “No one should be.”  

Harrington Jr. stares at him like he’s lost his mind. “Whatever.” He scoffs, but it’s not quite the waspish tone he’d used before. 

“You ever need help either, you call me.” Phil says, because that seems important to say too. 

He points up at one of the chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, impossibly high over both their heads. “Even if it’s just to hold a ladder to change one of those lightbulbs.” 

Steve’s eyes go up with him then back down, like he’s still not sure this isn’t a joke being played on him. 

“I mean it.” Phil says, right as one of the front doors whips back open. Reaches into the pocket of his uniform, and pulls out his card. “You need me, you call.” 

“Callahan!” Hopper bellows, and Phil calls out a loud; “Coming!” before making eye contact with Steve once more.

“Take it.”  He says, holding out the card, and hopes he sounds like a proper adult when he does. 

(Phil often does not feel like an adult, least of which because he’s the youngest in the department by two decades, nevermind the failed marriage.) 

“Okay.” Steve says dismissively, but he reaches out.

Takes the card.

It feels like a victory and Phil lets it be one as he leaves the Harrington residence and Steve behind with it. Feels the rot of that be soothed by the fact he at least did something. 

(Also see’s Hopper didn’t wait for him, but is instead sitting in the driver’s seat of the truck. 

Knows his boss is gonna be pissed at him, but faces the noose anyway.) 

“Puppies are expensive.” The Chief tells him darkly, the second Phil opens the door. “And they shit all over the floor.”

“What?” He asks, not always used to his bosses nonsensical ramblings. 

He eyes the thermos the Chief’s holding, and wonders if already dumped the whiskey he stole in it. 

They all thought the Chief had been getting better, but maybe not… 

“Puppies,” Hopper stressed, jamming the hand holding the thermos in Phil’s face (no liquor smell, thank God.) “who have very rich owners, are typically well cared for, even if their idea of care and your idea are different.” 

Phil’s face contorts in confusion, eyes following Hopper’s finger pointed middle finger to the fading tail lights of Steve’s BMW. 

It takes him a second, but he gets there.

“Steve isn’t a puppy.” He says instantly offended, because teenagers and puppies are very, very different, thanks, and yes okay, he knows it’s a metaphor, but it’s a stupid one. 

“Acts like one.” Hopper says, before taking a noisy sip of the thermos. 

“He really doesn’t?” 

Phil wants to say he complains right back at his boss, but really it comes out as more of a question--because Steve Harrington has never acted like a dog. The kid’s not clingy, or whiny or even loud. 

He’s a kid, sure, a teenager that’s obnoxious, but aren’t all teenagers that way, by default?

Phil’s mother certainly said so, though she’d been teasing about it. 

(She also said something about how kids who can’t get what they need the right way, will revert to trying out the wrong ways instead.) 

“Whatever. Just don’t come running to me when you get too close and Mommy and Daddy show up to remind you it’s none of your business.”

Hopper starts the cruiser, expecting that to be that.

And normally it would be. Phil would leave it alone, even if he disagreed, but today he finds he can’t. 

Not when the words from Flo’s crossword are still haunting his head, ‘abandoned’ and ‘neglected’ and ‘pushed away’ lighting up like little warning signs, all pointing towards one very sad kid. 

“If they come back.” He finds himself saying. 

“Oh, they always come back.” Hopper snorts right back. “Just not when any of us ever want them too.” 

Phil doesn’t like that answer, but this time he does leave it alone. 

Figures the best he can do for Steve is what he already did. Let him know he saw him. Let him know he understood. 

If Steve needs someone, he now knows Phil will come. 

He won’t let anyone make him feel bad for offering that, either, because this is the exact thing he signed up to do, when he became a cop. 

Even if Harrington never reaches out to him, at least Phil can say he did something. At least he can live with himself. 

xXx

Weeks go by.

A month.

Two months and more.

By a year Phil has kind of forgotten about his promise to Steve Harrington, and by the time the Chief has gotten them all involved in some kind of--poisoned pumpkin patch problem, he’s too caught up in trying to figure out what the hell is going on in Hawkins to really think about it. 

That is, until the kid himself shows up on his doorstep, with a black eye and a hand hugging his ribs. 

Which would be concerning on its own, but it’s worse given that known lawn flamingo thief and constant pain in the police department’s ass, Eddie Munson, is right there with him. 

“Hi Officer Callahan.” Munson says, and he, Phil quickly realizes, looks perfectly fine, despite clearly being the only reason Steve seven on his feet. “Uh…Harrington said I should take him here?” 

He does not sound certain, and frankly, looks two seconds from bolting.

Given how much Steve is bleeding on him, Phil can’t blame him for it. 

“What the hell.” He says, shocked and loose tongued for it. “Did you two get in a fight!?” 

“No!” Munson yelps, then immediately stills when the act of it jostles Steve. “I found him like this. He was fucking trying to drive and was weaving all over the place--I got him to stop, and get in my van, but the only thing he’ll say is that I needed to bring him to you!” 

Like it wasn’t bad enough the chief had been out of contact all night or that there had been weird people swarming all over town, nevermind all those damn phone calls about loose dogs and--

“You said.” Steve interrupts Phil’s spiraling thoughts, voice sounding oddly strangled, and he'd pay more attention to that if he wasn’t finding new and concerning injuries every second he looked. 

“You said I could go to you, for help. If I needed it. Cause Hopper--Hopper’s busy,” Steve’s slurring, Phil realizes and oh god a lot of that blood is on his head, “An’ I didn’t want the kids to worry, but I think…i was wrong, I don’t--I think I’m…I don’t wanna be ‘lone--”  

“Okay, okay.” Phil reaches out, tries to take Steve’s weight off of Munson. “Get in here. You too, Munson.” 

Expects the latter to protest and is a little surprised to watch as the kid instead helps Steve hobble inside. 

“Put him on the couch while I get my first aid kit.” Phil orders, trying not to panic and failing. He has first aid training--more than, actually, because he took it as an elective back when he thought he was going to go to medical school, but that was years ago and Steve looks like he went head first through a blender. 

‘Stabilize him now, panic later.’ He orders himself, as Munson settles both of them down on the couch. 

“Am I dying?” Steve asks vaguely, to Munson’s increasingly panicked face. 

“Nope.” Phil says, voice as firm as he can make it. “Not today.” 

He comes over, looking over Steve once again 

“You staying Munson?” He asks, more an out for the kid than anything else. 

Watches as the older teen clocks that for what it is. 

See’s Steve unintentionally lean into his chest, breathing a little weird. 

“No man, you’re going to need an extra hand.” Eddie says. “I’m staying right here.” 

“Me too.” Steve slurs nonsensically.

“What the hell, me too.” Phil says, just to lighten the mood a little. 

Then he drops to his knees and goes about stabilizing Steve. 

(At some point Munson decides to help tell his latest flamingo heist story. Phil let him, even if no one had realized he’d pulled off another one again.

He got Steve to laugh, so Phil figures it was worth it, at least. ) 

[letters-for-sara]

This is all super, super great knowledge. I'd like to add on, for anyone who thinks polyester and acrylic isn't that bad, acrylic isn't even recyclable like polyester is to a degree- and some polyester is made out of RECYCLED PLASTIC BOTTLES. Yeah. You read that right. They take old plastic bottles, wash 'em in chemicals and other crap, shred 'em up real fine and then melt them down and push the melted plastic through teeny tiny spinnerets, and is then woven into threads and cloth, AND THEN carded through to make it soft to the touch. Don't get me wrong; Polyester gets a hard rep, but it's a marvel of ingenuity in repurposing used plastic, and it certainly has applications and uses- but NOT as wearable garments. That is a hill I will die on.

There are other synthetic fabrics that aren't QUITE as bad as polyester, as they were manufactured to serve a certain purpose; you have things like Spandex, also know as Elastaine or Lycra, which was wholly designed to make a body-conforming textile to be used in undergarments, stockings, waistbands, etc. Do you own a pair of comfy denim jeans that stretch just right? They probably have a percentage of spandex in 'em to help keep their shape and stretchability. Stretchiness can also be achieved by the type of weave- namely, a KNIT weave, but it doesn't hold up shape as well as spandex.

Then you have Nylon, which is similar to polyester but not quite as cheap to produce. (It's also typically stronger) You'll see it woven a lot to make cords, belts, ribbon, that kind of thing. I wouldn't recommend using it as a garment textile unless you're making something really specific, because it auffers the same breathability and irritation issues that polyester does.

Then, there's the semi-synthetics- textiles that are derived from a natural source but put through a chemical process. The main ones that come to mind are Acetate & Rayon, both durived from processed wood pulp and were created to be cheaper alternatives to silk, and Viscose, which is durived from various plant fibers for the same purpose. No real shade to these types of fabrics, but I personally don't care for the texture and the way they feel on my skin. Still a step-up from straight synthetics, though.

And one more good scrap of knowledge for anyone who made it to the end of my little rant- when out shopping for new of thrifted, don't be TOO turned off by material labels that list a percentage of synthetic fibers. For example, I own a lovely blue sweater that's mostly angora and lamb's wool, but there's about 20% nylon in it. Angora, for anyone who doesn't know, is luxurious but also very delicate, and it's not uncommon to see delicate fibers be woven in with a minor percentage of something like nylon, cotton, linen, or viscose in it to help add strength and longevity to the fibers. It's purely a preferential thing, and I personally would prefer a strengthener fiber of like- cotton or linen, but it's up to the buyer what they're willing to excuse in their clothes.

... That being said, avoid labels that have "other fibers" listed on them like the plague. "Other fibers" is to clothing what "fragrance" is to personal hygiene products.

The closest experience I've ever had to discovering "the vitamin" was buying a 100% wool outfit and wearing it in the winter.

Not only was I not freezing anymore, I was not sweating and overheating either. The horrible sensory nightmare of winter clothes disappeared.

In particular, I bought a pair of wool pants. They were a thrifted pair of fancy dress pants like you would wear at an important office job, and they were easily the most comfortable pair of winter-appropriate pants i'd ever worn. I wore them Every Single Day.

From that point on I realized a lot of my clothes were making me feel bad, and the common thread was polyester. Especially polyester blends.

It's a trap because the polyester clothes are the ones that always feel sooooo silky soft when they are in the store, whereas cotton, linen and wool can feel comparatively rough and scratchy. But when actually wearing them for hours throughout the day, it's the natural fibers that feel more comfortable.

Maybe the secret to sensory comfort is not about the presence of softness, but the absence of overloading sensations. Or maybe the sensory stress and agony is not triggered by texture of the fabric, but by how it breathes and regulates temperature.

Then there's the problem of clothing life span: polyester blends, no matter how soft they seem at first, become rough and scratchy and covered in hard, itchy pills after wearing them 10 or 20 times, whether or not they have been tumble-dried or even washed at all. (I tested it!) Linen and cotton become softer and more comfy the more you wear them, polyester but ESPECIALLY polyester blends become a constant stressor. Polyester blend t-shirts I used to love for their softness now feel bristly and irritating.

So now I'm trying to change my wardrobe to as many natural fibers as possible, and the more natural fiber clothes i have the more I realize that the plastic fibers stress me out. It's so easy to overheat or freeze in them and they're always degrading and becoming less comfortable and it sucks.

[smutmind]

More ahyeon!

MONSTER ft. Ahyeon

The countryside stretched silent and wide beyond the dusty windows. Inside, the guesthouse smelled of aged wood and dried herbs. Ahyeon stood just inside the threshold, backpack slipping off one shoulder, staring at the shadowed hallway where her host had disappeared.

She’d barely set down her bag when he returned—older, unshaven, sun-darkened skin, barefoot, and with the kind of presence that made her shrink into herself.

"You really came early," he said, voice low and amused.

"The bus wasn’t stopping again. I thought I’d wait here."

He nodded, glancing at her shoes. "City girl. You stand out here."

She tried to smile politely. "I won’t be any trouble. Just staying until classes start."

"Mm." He stepped closer. "They send you all this way just to hide you out here, huh?"

Her fingers tightened on her strap. "I’ll stay in the room mostly. I don’t take up space."

"No. You don’t."

He looked her over openly, then turned toward the hallway. "End of the hall. Last room. Come on."

The walls creaked with every step. When he opened the door, it gave with a groan. A single bed, one wooden chair, and thick light filtering through moth-bitten curtains.

Ahyeon stepped in. The air was warm, still.

"Nice and private," he said.

She nodded. "Thank you."

She turned to say something else, but he was already behind her, fingers grazing the strap of her top.

"Pretty thing like you, all alone out here. You think that’s safe?"

She stepped away. "I—My aunt said—"

He touched her wrist. "She didn’t know what you’d grow into."

Ahyeon gasped as he caught her other wrist, backing her toward the bed. Her bag dropped to the floor.

"Wait, I didn’t—This isn’t—please don’t—"

He shoved her gently onto the bed. "Stop lying. You think I don’t see how you look at me?"

"I don’t—I’m not—Please, let go!"

He yanked her top over her head, quick and practiced. Her bra followed, baring her chest to the dim light.

"Goddamn. Look at these. Soft little things—"

She covered herself. "Don’t! Please, don’t touch me like that—"

He pushed her hands aside, cupping them, thumbing her nipples until they hardened.

"Even your skin knows better than your mouth."

She winced, trying to twist away. "Why are you doing this? Stop—this isn’t right."

He leaned down, licking a slow path up one breast before sucking deep.

"You taste like fucking honey."

Her head jerked away. "You’re disgusting—get off me!"

He grinned. "And you’re tight."

She gasped as he pulled her to her knees on the floor, undoing his fly.

"No—no, I won’t! Please, stop—"

He slid her hands behind her back. "Mouth open."

"Please, I don’t want to—don’t make me do this—"

"Too late for that."

He guided himself to her lips. She turned her head, but he held her firm.

"Open up. Now."

Tears welled as she parted her lips. He slid in, slow but unrelenting. Her body tensed as he filled her mouth.

"That’s it," he muttered. "Wrap your tongue—yeah—"

She choked softly. Spit gathered at the corners of her lips. He rocked forward, deeper.

"Keep those eyes on me."

She tried. Her mascara streaked. Her breaths grew quick.

He groaned low. "Gonna cum. Take it all."

She gagged as he spilled down her throat, held there until she swallowed.

"Let me see."

She opened her mouth slowly, tongue glistening, empty.

He pulled her up roughly. "Bed. On your back."

She stumbled. "No, please, I did what you wanted—don’t do this—"

He shoved her flat.

"This is what happens when no one can hear you scream."

Her eyes widened. Outside, only the birds chirped.

"Someone—someone might come, please—"

He yanked off the rest of her clothes. Her legs trembled.

He spread them and ran his fingers over her.

"Soaked. Didn’t take long."

"That’s not true—stop lying!" she cried, voice shaking. "I’ve never... this is my first—"

He paused only a moment, then smirked. "Even better."

She gasped again as he moved closer, positioning himself.

"No, you’re too big—it won’t fit, please!" she cried, struggling.

"It’ll fit. You’ll stretch."

He pushed into her in one hard thrust.

She screamed into her arm. The bed creaked.

He grabbed her thighs. "Tightest I’ve ever had."

"Please—don’t—this isn’t what I came here for—"

He thrust deeper. "Say it again."

She sobbed. "Please stop—"

"You’re going to feel this for days."

He pounded into her, rhythm sharp, her hands slipping on the sheets.

"Even the birds know who you belong to now."

He leaned over, kissed her neck hard, biting just above the collarbone.

She turned her head, crying openly. "I hate you—I hate this—please... it hurts."

"You think anyone’s listening out here? You’re mine until I’m done."

Her body shook beneath him.

He grabbed her waist, pulled her closer. His groans deepened.

"Cum with me, baby. Now."

She sobbed harder. He drove into her one last time, hips locking. He spilled inside her with a grunt.

She went still beneath him, breath broken.

"Monster...."

[guliexe]

—ON THE LOW 18+

Dealer!Nicholas/Wang Yixiang x Female!Reader

warnings/tags: slow burn, dealer/stoner!nicho, i call him weno in this, soft dom!nicho, shy!reader, loverboy!nicho, drug use, shotgunning, romantic, making out, dry humping, praising, fingering, oral (f. receiving), p in v, mating press, crying, unprotected sex, confessing, aftercare

♡ you started buying weed for your friends and ended up falling for the dealer—turns out, he fell even harder.

w/c: 9.7k (no proofread)

You’d seen him around long before you ever spoke to him. He wasn’t the kind of guy you could ignore. Not because he was loud, Weno was anything but loud, but because he had this presence. Calm, quiet, and detached, like nothing ever really touched him. He was always there but just out of reach. The kind of person who didn’t care if people were watching, but somehow still ended up being the one everyone looked at. You had a couple classes near the same buildings. He always showed up late, always dressed like he’d just rolled out of bed—big hoodie, baggy jeans, backpack hanging off one shoulder. Never rushed. Never looked stressed. Just there. He’d walk past where you and your friends were sitting on the grass and barely glance your way. But even that one second felt heavier than it should. You didn’t know much about him, but you noticed him. You always had. Weno wasn’t exactly a mystery, everyone on campus knew what he did, they just didn’t talk about it. Not out loud, anyway. The stories passed around in whispers. That he sells, and it’s good shit too. That he never chased customers, people came to him. That if he liked you, he might give you more than you paid for. That if he really liked you, you’d know.

You didn’t know if any of that was true. But what you did know was that your friends wanted weed and were too scared to go get it themselves. So they asked you. Apparently, being the quiet one made you the designated “safe” option. It wasn’t like you and Weno were strangers, anyway. You’d talked a few times now. Nothing long, quick chats during pickups, the occasional hi at a party when you passed by each other. He’d never made you feel weird or unsafe. Just… flustered. A little warm in the chest, a little unsure what to say next. He had a way of watching you that felt deliberate, even when he said nothing at all. Your friend had shoved some cash into your hand at the last minute, babbling about how “he’s chill, he’s not scary, just please go for me, I can’t” — and you’d sighed, texting him before you could overthink it. He told you to meet him behind the dorms. 6:30. You almost didn’t go. You weren’t sure why he made you nervous, he hadn’t done anything to deserve that label. But something about him felt sharp beneath all the calm. Like he could see through you if he wanted to. When you rounded the corner that evening, he was already leaning against the side of his car, phone in hand, headphones around his neck. The sun was low, painting the edges of his face gold. You caught yourself staring before you could stop. He looked up as you approached. “Didn’t expect you,” he said, not moving. You blinked, “Why?” He shrugged, “Thought one of your loud friends would be the one to show. You’re not really the type to do this.” It wasn’t teasing exactly, but the way he said it made your face warm. You cleared your throat. “They made me come.” “Mm,” he hummed. “Figured.”

He pushed off the car, pulling a ziplock from his hoodie pocket. You reached for it automatically, but he didn’t hand it over right away. “You ever tried it?” You shook your head. “No. It’s not really… my thing.” He tilted his head slightly. Not judging, just observing. “Didn’t think it was.” he chuckled softly, then he handed it to you, fingers brushing yours for half a second too long. You looked down at your hand, not at the bag, but at where your skin still tingled. “You’re good,” he said quietly, “Let me know next time.” You nodded, muttered a soft thanks, already starting to turn away, but then he said your name. You froze and glanced back. He was still standing by his car, one hand in his pocket, the other lazily spinning his keys around his finger. The way he looked at you made your stomach flip, like he wasn’t just looking at you, but through you. “You always do stuff for your friends?” His tone was casual, but the question caught you off guard. “What do you mean?” He shrugged a little. “They want something, and you’re the one who shows up.” A pause. “That happen a lot?”You weren’t sure how to answer. It did happen a lot. They asked, you went. Not because you wanted to, but because it felt easier than saying no. You glanced down at the ziplock in your hand. “I guess,” you mumbled. “I don’t know.” He hummed low, like that told him everything he needed to know. You looked back up, ready to say something else—anything, maybe even defend yourself, but he beat you to it. “You’re a good girl.” The words were soft and genuine, but they landed heavy. Your breath caught. His gaze didn’t waver—steady, calm, like he hadn’t just said something that made your skin go warm all over. You didn’t know what to do with that. You didn’t even know what it meant coming from him. You just knew it made something flutter in your stomach. “Thanks,” you said, voice barely above a whisper. You turned and walked off a little too quickly, heart pounding, ears hot, his voice still echoing behind your ribs. You’re a good girl. You didn’t stop thinking about it for the rest of the night. It wasn’t long before your friends asked again. Same excuse, same tone, a whiny “please, he already knows you” and cash pushed into your hand like you owed them something. You hesitated more this time. Not because of them, but because of him. You hadn’t stopped thinking about last time. It replayed in your head again and again. You stared at his contact in your phone for some minutes before typing out the message.

You

hey my friends wanna grab again

He replied two minutes later.

Weno

same place 7:30

When you showed up this time, he was inside his car, driver’s door open, music playing low through the speakers. He looked up as you approached and smiled, lazy and half-lidded. “Hey,” he said, voice low. “Hey.”You tried not to sound nervous. You weren’t even sure why you were nervous. This wasn’t new. You’d done this before. But this time, it felt different. You felt different. He stepped out, shutting the car door behind him as he pulled the same ziplock from the pocket of his jeans. You took it wordlessly, but his fingers brushed yours again, on purpose this time. You could feel it in the way he didn’t rush, didn’t pull away immediately. “Still not trying it?” he asked, tilting his head. You shook your head. “Not yet.” He raised a brow. “Why not?” “I just… haven’t.” You tucked the bag quickly into your jacket pocket like it might deflect the attention. “You scared?” The way he asked it wasn’t mocking, just curious, like he wanted to understand you, not challenge you. You hesitated. “No,” you said finally. “Just don’t wanna.” He nodded slowly, watching you again with that unreadable expression. “Still doing things for your friends, though.” You pressed your lips together. “I guess.” “They ever do stuff for you?” You blinked. “What?” He shrugged. “Just wondering.” You didn’t answer. Mostly because you didn’t have one. He could probably tell, because he didn’t push. He just looked at you for a long second, eyes dropping to your mouth before flicking back up to meet your gaze as he rolled a blunt for him. “You should stop letting people use you.” The bluntness of it caught you off guard. You shifted on your feet, unsure whether to say thank you or tell him it wasn’t like that, even though maybe it was. “You don’t even like them that much, do you?” Your breath hitched. “They’re my friends.” “Mm,” he hummed. “If you say so.”

After that, it happened a few more times. The same routine: a text, a time, a quiet walk behind the dorms where he’d be waiting. Sometimes he was standing. Sometimes in the driver’s seat with the door open. Sometimes already smoking, low music humming from the speakers. And each time, it got a little easier to look him in the eye. But also harder not to look too long. Weno never talked much. He didn’t fill silence just to hear himself speak. He asked things, small things, personal in ways that didn’t feel invasive, just seen. He was trying to piece you together quietly, without making a show of it. You’d come with your friends’ money in your pocket and leave with more than you paid for. Not every time, but enough that you noticed. When you offered to give him more, he just shook his head, said “You’re good,” and he meant it, it wasn’t just about the cash anymore. You didn’t tell your friends about how often you started going. Sometimes it wasn’t even about picking up anymore. You’d hand over the cash, but he’d wave it off. “Not this time.” You started to wonder if he even gave you real amounts. If this was still a deal or just an excuse. What you did know was that somewhere along the way, something started to shift.

It was in the way your pulse picked up when his name lit up your screen. In how you started getting ready earlier than you needed to. In how you made sure your outfit and make up was cute before leaving, like that would help keep your face from giving you away when he looked at you like he always did. It was on the low. No one really knew how often you were seeing him now—certainly not your friends. To them, it was still just you doing the awkward task they were too scared for. They didn’t know that half the time you went to Weno now, it wasn’t even because of them. Sometimes they didn’t ask at all—you just found yourself texting him anyway. And he always said yes. You weren’t sure when it stopped being about weed. You weren’t sure it ever really was. Sometimes you’d sit with him for a while. In the passenger seat of his car, parked in the same quiet lot behind the dorms. He’d roll one and lean back with the window cracked, slow smoke curling out into the night while music filled the silence. He never pushed anything on you. Never asked why you stayed. But you stayed. You weren’t good at talking about yourself, and he didn’t make you. He just gave you space to exist, and maybe that was what started doing it. Maybe that’s why you kept feeling warmer every time you saw him. More sure that he saw you. And you started to open up to him. You two would hang out and talk about anything and anyone very frequently.

You were curled up in the passenger seat, legs tucked under you, jacket zipped halfway. The night was cool, and the air smelled like weed and cologne, smoke curling from the blunt between his fingers. His playlist low in the background that made it feel like time moved slower in his car. You hadn’t said much in the last ten minutes. Just sat there, letting the silence hang. But it wasn’t awkward. Weno never made things awkward. You gave him a small smile, eyes drifting out the window. The streetlights cast a warm glow across the dashboard. He tapped the ash into the tray and leaned back, one arm stretched across the back of your seat like he didn’t even think about it. “I don’t get it,” you said quietly after a moment. “You do this with all your clients?” “Do what?” he asked, eyes narrowing slightly, playful but unreadable. “This.” You motioned vaguely between you. “Sit in the car, talk like this, not charge them.” He chuckled once, deep and soft in his chest. “No.” You blinked. “No?” He turned his head, looked right at you, and shrugged like it wasn’t a big deal. “They’re not you.” Your stomach fluttered. You tried to play it off, but your smile gave you away. He tilted his head slightly, watching you through the soft haze in the car. “You know you’re my favorite, right?” Your head snapped toward him. “What?” He smirked, exhaled a slow breath, eyes never leaving yours. “Client,” he added after a beat, but the pause was on purpose. His smirk deepened like he knew what he was doing to you. Your face went warm immediately. “Shut up,” you muttered, covering your smile with your hand. “I’m serious.” His tone was calm. “You don’t talk much, you don’t ask dumb questions, you never waste my time.” “Oh,” you said quietly. But your smile stayed. “So I’m convenient.” He leaned a little closer, voice dropping low. “Nah. You’re cute.” Your heart jumped. You didn’t know where to look. You didn’t know what to say. So you laughed—awkward and soft, trying to bury your face in your hands like that might cool your cheeks. You left a little later than usual that night.

Three days later, when your screen lit up with a text from him, you answered in less than a minute.

Weno

u free tonight?

wanna chill for a bit?

♡

You

yeah :)

same spot?

♡

Weno

pull up at 10

no rush

You tried not to read into it too much. But you still picked out a different hoodie this time, your favorite one, did a little extra on your make up, styled your hair in way you knew framed your face best. It wasn’t a date. It wasn’t anything. But your hands still felt warm as you walked out to meet him. His car was already there when you arrived. You climbed into the passenger seat, familiar now with the way the door stuck a little when you pulled it. Same playlist was on, and the heat was turned up just enough to make the inside feel cozy. He glanced over as you settled in, eyes flicking down to your mouth before meeting your gaze again. “Hey,” he said, voice smooth, quiet. “Hey,” you murmured back, smiling a little.

The next hour passed easily, like it always did when you were with him. You talked about nothing and everything, classes, music, random campus drama you weren’t even involved in, movies you both halfway remembered, the last weird dream you had. He laughed more than usual tonight, low and slow, eyes squinting a little when something you said caught him off guard. His hand rested on the steering wheel as he listened, thumb tapping the leather in a lazy rhythm. He made you feel comfortable, like whatever you had to say mattered even if it didn’t. Like he was listening just because it was you talking. At some point, he lit up. You were mid-sentence when he leaned forward to spark the lighter, the soft flick of it barely cutting into the music. He offered it to you once out of habit, holding the blunt out between two fingers, and this time you didn’t shake your head immediately. You hesitated. Then, before you could overthink it, you took it. Your fingers brushed his. His expression didn’t change, but something in his gaze lingered longer than before. “You sure?” he asked, voice soft, a little more serious now. You slowly nodded. “Yeah. Just—don’t laugh at me if I cough.” He smiled, “I won’t.” He leaned back into his seat. “Promise.” You inhaled, a small hit, like you’d seen him do a hundred times now. It burned, made your throat tickle, your eyes water just a little, but you didn’t cough. He watched carefully, still smiling. “Good girl,” he murmured.

Your chest tightened at the words, heat blooming under your skin before you could stop it. You handed it back to him quickly, trying to focus on the burn in your lungs, the soft thrum of bass in the background, anything except how warm you suddenly felt. Time got slower after that. An hour passed in a haze, soft laughter, lazy conversation, both of you sinking deeper into your seats, the windows fogging slightly. He smoked again, and passed it back and forth to you. Your body felt lighter. Music melted into the background, his voice a little rough now. You both stared out at the empty parking lot for a while, just existing. It was quiet in the way that felt close, not awkward. Every time your knee brushed his, he didn’t move. Every time you shifted, his eyes flicked toward your mouth, then back to the road like he didn’t want to get caught looking. And maybe it was the high, or the way the space between you had been shrinking since the start, but something changed. You turned to say something and caught him already looking at you, staring. His arm was still draped behind your seat, but now his fingers were brushing your shoulder, light and casual. You blinked at him. “What?” you whispered, voice lower than before. He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at you for a long second, eyes warm, thoughtful. “C’mere.” You didn’t even think. You just leaned forward, heart thudding quietly behind your ribs as his hand slid slowly to the back of your neck. He tilted his head slightly. His lips brushed yours soft at first, testing. Then again, firmer. You leaned into it. Your heart stuttered, hands unsure of where to go. One found the edge of his hoodie. The other pressed lightly to his chest. His mouth moved against yours like he’d been thinking about this for a while. He wasn’t in any rush now that it was finally happening. You kissed him back slow, high and a little breathless, your skin buzzing all over. He pulled back eventually, just enough to look at you, eyes dark and steady.

“You’re high,” he said, almost teasing. “So are you,” you whispered. He smiled, gaze dropping to your lips again. “Yeah. But I still meant it.” You smiled, small and dazed, and tucked your legs under you again, curling back into your seat. The car was quiet for a few more minutes. Nothing changed. But everything had. And when you finally said you should go, he didn’t stop you. Just nodded, reached over, and opened the door for you like he always did. Before you stepped out, he caught your wrist gently. You turned back. His eyes searched yours for a moment. “Text me when you get in.” You nodded, “Okay.”

You

made it home :)

♡

Weno

good

was starting to think u got lost

♡

You

nope

just still thinking

♡

Weno

about?

♡

You

you

♡

Weno

yeah?

what part

♡

You

the obvious part

♡

Weno

mm

i liked that part too

didn’t rlly want u to go

♡

You

u didn’t?

♡

Weno

nah

wanted to kiss u again

♡

You

i wanted to too

but i got nervous :(

♡

Weno

it’s ok bby

will i see u again soon?

♡

You

yeah

if u want to

♡

Weno

i do

♡

You

can’t wait

goodnight weno :)

♡

Weno

me neither

gn <3

You didn’t stop thinking about that night. Or his texts. Or when he said he wanted to kiss you again. The way your heart stuttered when he called you bby like it wasn’t a big deal. Like it was already normal between you. It wasn’t, not really. But it was starting to be. You’d kept texting after that. Not every second of the day, but enough. Little check-ins, good mornings, music recs, late night questions that felt heavier than they sounded. He was never overly forward, not the type to blow up your phone or say things just to get a reaction, but everything he did say stuck with you. You were head over heels. Smiling at your phone and then burying your face in your pillow like an idiot every time. So when one of your friends mentioned the party coming up—some frat guy’s birthday, everyone was going, “you have to come, it’s gonna be huge”—you didn’t think much of it at first. Until she added, casually, “Pretty sure Weno’s gonna be there too, so you can’t get us some stuff as well?” That made your heart skip. You played it off, said “yeah, cool” and shrugged, but your brain had already started spiraling. What if you saw him? What if you didn’t? What if he ignored you in front of everyone? What if he didn’t? You told yourself you weren’t going for him. But you still stood in front of your closet longer than usual. You picked a dress—short, tight, something you hadn’t worn before. Simple, but it hugged you in all the right places. You did your makeup with more care than usual, spritzed perfume on your neck, your wrists, let your hair fall soft and full around your shoulders. You didn’t tell anyone why you looked a little extra tonight. But you kind of hoped he’d be there. And you really hoped he’d notice.

The house was already packed by the time you got there—music thumping through the walls, bodies crammed together in every corner, red cups in almost every hand. Lights low, flashing sometimes, music echoing through a speaker in the living room. It smelled like sweat, beer, weed, and cheap cologne. Typical. Your friends disappeared as soon as you walked in, squealing at someone they recognized near the kitchen. You stayed back for a second, just long enough to scan the crowd. Not because you were looking for anyone. Not on purpose, anyway. And then you saw Weno. Leaning against the far wall near the stairs, hoodie half-zipped over a white tank, cargo pants hanging low on his hips, the hem of his boxers peeking a little. He wasn’t dancing. Wasn’t talking loud or laughing or drinking like the rest of them. Just standing there, calm and unreadable, eyes lazily moving through the room like he’d been here a hundred times before. He was talking to someone, dapping them up quick, pulling something from his pocket and handing it off like it was nothing. No one looked twice. Just a quiet exchange, over in seconds. He didn’t try to be subtle, he didn’t have to. People came to him. You stayed near the edge of the crowd, drink in hand, pretending to be more focused on your friends than you were. But your eyes kept drifting back. He looked good. Effortlessly good. And he hadn’t seen you yet. You tried not to look over too often. Tried to focus on your friends and their chaotic conversations, the loud music, the colorful lights. You laughed at jokes that didn’t really register. Nodded along. Sipped water from your cup and told yourself it wasn’t that serious. He wasn’t even talking to you. He was doing his own thing. Still, your gaze kept drifting. Just to see if he was still there. Still. Every time you checked, he was. Some minutes passed like that—just you pretending to be more chill than you felt while your friends chattered and moved toward the crowd. You stayed behind, needing a second to breathe. You slipped into the kitchen, mostly empty now, except for the quiet hum of the fridge and the faint bass vibrating through the floor. You reached for the fridge handle, intent on just grabbing some cold water and hiding out for a bit, but when you turned, he was already there. Standing just inside the doorway. Watching. Your breath caught.

He didn’t say anything at first. His eyes scanned you slowly—top to bottom, unhurried. You felt it like a heatwave, settling low in your stomach. His gaze was darker than usual. Focused, sharp. You dropped your eyes immediately, trying not to fidget. Tugged lightly on the hem of your dress like it might help somehow, like maybe it covered more than it did. You felt your cheeks flush without him even having to speak. You weren’t even sure why you were so nervous. You’d seen him like this before, but something about tonight made it worse. Made you bite your lip without thinking. Made your cheeks burn just from the way he looked at you. “Didn’t know you’d be here,” he said, voice calm and even. A little rough from the smoke, but still warm. You glanced up, heart racing. “Yeah,” you said, “Wasn’t really planning to, but… my friends dragged me.” He smiled a little. “I’m glad you came.” Your breath hitched. You weren’t expecting that. “You look good tonight.” It landed heavy in your chest. No teasing. No smirk. Just him saying it like it was a fact. Your whole body flushed. “Oh,” you said, voice small. “Um. Thanks.” He nodded once, eyes still on you, and then glanced back toward the hallway. “I’m heading up to the balcony for a bit. If you wanna get some air.” He didn’t wait for an answer. Just gave you one last look—soft, lingering—and pushed off the doorframe to leave. “Come find me,” he said, and then he was gone. Leaving you standing in the kitchen, heart racing, lip caught between your teeth, wondering how the hell he always made you feel like this without even trying.

You lingered in the kitchen for a while after he left, pretending to scroll through your phone, half-listening to the party still pulsing through the walls. Your friends had fully disappeared into the crowd by now, probably dancing or taking shots or screaming over music. You told yourself you were just cooling off. Just getting a break from the noise. But you couldn’t stop thinking about the way he’d looked at you. The way he said it—You look good tonight. Like it wasn’t up for debate. Like he meant it, and he knew you’d heard him loud and clear. Eventually, you texted some excuse about needing air, said you’d be right back if anyone even cared that you left. You slipped out of the kitchen and made your way upstairs, heartbeat loud in your ears, feeling a little ridiculous and a lot nervous. The hallway was quiet, just some closed doors and the muffled hum of bass below. You found the door to the balcony slightly cracked open, soft breeze pushing in from the night. You pushed it open gently. There he was. He sat on a low, beat-up couch tucked against the wall. One leg stretched out, the other bent, arm thrown over the backrest like he owned the space. Head tilted back just slightly, hoodie slipping off his shoulder, lips parted around the blunt as he took a slow drag. The ember glowed red in the dark, lighting up the sharp cut of his jaw, the curve of his mouth. He looked unfairly good. Like the air belonged to him. Like nothing touched him. He turned his head lazily when he heard the door, eyes finding yours through the smoke. Didn’t smile. Didn’t say anything for a second. Just looked at you, then took another slow hit, exhaling with a quiet sigh before speaking.

“Knew you’d come.” You swallowed hard, heart kicking up again like you hadn’t already spent the last fifteen minutes trying to calm it down. His voice was low, almost lazy, but there was something behind it—something that made your chest tighten a little. You stepped out and quietly shut the door behind you. You sat down beside him, slow and careful, the cushion dipping under your weight. His knee brushed yours just slightly, warm through the fabric. You glanced over, then down again, chewing the inside of your cheek. “I just—I’d rather be up here with you than down there in all that chaos.” That got him to finally look at you. Head tilted slightly, eyes narrowed just a little like he was trying to read deeper than what you were saying out loud. He didn’t answer right away. Just flicked the ash from the blunt, leaned back again, eyes still on you. You breathed in through your nose, steadying yourself. Then softer, barely louder than the wind, you added, “I missed you.” He turned his head fully now, letting the blunt rest between his fingers. The pause that followed wasn’t awkward. It was heavy. Warm. His eyes softened just a bit. “Yeah?” he said, voice a little quieter than before. “I missed you too.” It landed in your chest like a weight—like the kind of thing you weren’t sure you were allowed to want, but did anyway. He leaned in a little, not close enough to crowd you, but just enough for his knee to press softly into yours. His eyes didn’t leave your face.

“You been thinking about me?” he asked, voice still calm, but something about it made your stomach twist. You blinked. Heat rushed to your cheeks again, and you had to look away. “…Maybe.” He smiled at that, small and crooked and unfairly attractive. “Same.” And then he took another hit like he hadn’t just wrecked you with a single word. He let the silence hang for a few seconds after that, the blunt burning slow between his fingers, and then he said it quietly, like it wasn’t a big deal. “Come closer.” Your eyes flicked to his, heart stuttering a little. He didn’t look away, didn’t shift or make room, just waited. You hesitated for a second and then moved, scooting over until your leg was pressed fully against his. He reached out casually, like it was second nature, and slid his arm around your shoulders. A soft tug, and suddenly you were leaning into him, your head falling against his chest like it belonged there. You could feel everything. His warmth, the slow rise and fall of his chest, the steady thump of his heart under your cheek. His hoodie smelled like smoke and laundry and him. He brought the blunt to his lips again, took a hit, then lowered it and turned his head slightly toward you.“Want some?” he murmured. You shook your head, just once. “Not right now.” He hummed, didn’t push. Just let his hand stay where it was on your shoulder, thumb brushing idly against your arm. You didn’t say anything after that. Neither did he. You both just sat there, pressed together on the old balcony couch, the party a muffled storm below you, the stars wide and scattered above. You listened to the wind. The soft scratch of fabric when he shifted. The occasional drag and exhale as he smoked. You closed your eyes for a second and just let yourself feel all of it.

He shifted a little, moving his hand lower on your arm, caressing the skin, his breath warm against your hair. You felt his heartbeat quicken just a bit beneath your cheek. The silence between you was thick. to be noticed. You glanced up at him, your eyes catching his in the dim light. There was something softer there now. Something unspoken, but heavy. Without breaking eye contact, his hand moved to brush a stray strand of hair from your face, fingers lingering near your temple. Your breath hitched. He leaned down just a little, voice low and casual, “You’re beautiful.” You swallowed, barely able to meet his gaze as your face flushed again. Then, just like that, he closed the tiny gap between you. His lips found yours slow and gentle, before deepening the kiss, like he’d been wanting to do this all night. You melted into him, your hand slowly reaching up to rest on his chest as the world around you faded. It’s not gentle anymore, it’s urgent, needy. His hand tightens in your hair, pulling you closer as his tongue slides against yours, deep and demanding. You whimper softly, the sound lost in the press of his mouth, your body melting into his. He pulls back just enough to whisper in your ear, voice husky, “Wanna get out of here? I’ve got my car nearby.” Your heart pounds so hard you’re sure he can hear it. You just nod, swallowing the lump in your throat, breath catching again as he wraps his arm tighter around you.

He doesn’t rush you, just laces his fingers through yours, warm and firm, and gives your hand a gentle tug. You follow without thinking, legs shaky as you leave the balcony behind and slip back into the quiet hallway. The party feels distant now, like the world narrowed down to just him, the weight of his hand in yours, the aftertaste of his kiss still lingering on your lips. The walk to his car is quiet, but not awkward. When he unlocks the door and slides into the driver’s seat, you hesitate for half a second before slipping in beside him. The doors shut with a soft thud, sealing you both inside the low, warm hum of the vehicle. He leans back, legs stretched out, calm like always, but there’s a heat behind his eyes when he looks at you. A spark still flickering from earlier. “I’m gonna roll real quick,” he murmurs, pulling out his tray and grinder from the center console like it’s second nature. You nod, watching him work—his fingers nimble, methodical, the lighter’s flame briefly illuminating his face when he brings the blunt to his lips. The car fills with the earthy scent of smoke, and his head tilts back slightly as he exhales, half-lidded. He looks so fucking fine like this, bathed in shadows and smoke, hoodie loose around his collarbones, the faint red glow of the blunt lighting up his lips. Then he turns his head toward you again and you don’t even get the chance to fully catch your breath before he leans in again, free hand finding your cheek as he kisses you.

The smoke still lingers on his breath, and you melt into it, moaning softly into his mouth as his tongue slides against yours. His fingers are on your thigh, squeezing gently as he pulls you closer. The kiss turns messier, full of need, soft gasps and low groans echoing through the car. Your hand grips his hoodie low, holding on like you might fall apart if you let go. He pulls back only enough to whisper, breath ghosting over your lips, “Could do this all night.” Then his mouth is on yours again. More heat, more tongue, more breathless little noises spilling from your lips as your body starts to tremble in his hands. Without breaking the kiss, his hands move, one sliding up your thigh, the other settling on your waist. “C’mere,” he murmurs against your mouth, voice low but soft. You barely register what he means until his hands are guiding you, pulling you gently, firmly, right onto his lap. One leg at a time, knees sinking into the seat on either side of him, hands braced on his shoulders, your dress hiking up as you settle onto him, straddling him, face to face. He leans back just enough to look at you, eyes hooded, red from the weed, blunt still between his fingers. One of his hands slides up your side, fingers grazing your waist and ribs over the thin fabric of your dress. He takes his time with it, like he’s learning your shape. Your breath stutters as his hand travels higher, stopping just under your arm. He brings the blunt to his lips again, takes a long, slow hit, his chest rising beneath you, and then leans in close. His free hand curves around the back of your neck, guiding your face closer to his. You part your lips on instinct, and he exhales the smoke right into your mouth, warm and slow, curling over your tongue. Your eyes flutter shut as you breathe it in, heart thudding, and then he kisses you. Kisses you like he’s taking the air right back from your lungs.

Your breath catches when you feel his hands slide down, beneath the hem of your dress. He pushes it up slowly, bunching the fabric around your waist until the cool air hits your thighs. You shift slightly, nervous, thighs tightening around his hips as he exposes more of you. He doesn’t say anything, just stares for a second, eyes flicking down to where your panties are now visible, his palms firm on the back of your thighs. “Fuck,” he mutters, almost to himself. Then he leans forward, mouth finding your neck, and everything gets messier after that. He kisses down the side of your throat, open, warm, wet, his lips dragging along the skin, tongue flicking against your pulse point, teeth grazing just enough to make your hips twitch against him. You whimper quietly, trying to stay still, but he’s already pulling you closer with both hands, guiding your body into his like he knows exactly what you need. You tilt your head for him without thinking, shy sounds escaping your mouth as he works his way up to your jaw, then down again, kissing a little rougher now. “Weno…” you whisper, voice breaking around his name. “Shh,” he murmurs, his voice low against your skin. “You’re okay.” Your arms wrap around his shoulders instinctively, face burning as you shift in his lap, unintentionally grinding down just slightly. His reaction is immediate, a quiet groan right into your neck, his hands tightening on your hips. “Just like that,” he breathes.

Your hips grind down harder without thinking, breath coming out in shaky gasps as the friction starts to feel almost too good. His hands slip under the back of your dress, squeezing the soft flesh of your ass, guiding your movement like he needs it just as bad. You’re whimpering into the heated space between you, clinging to his hoodie, your body trembling slightly with every slow drag of your hips over his. Your panties are soaked. His pants are straining. The windows are fogging up, and the whole car smells like weed, sweat, and heat. He tilts his head, catching your mouth again in another deep, tongue-heavy kiss, like he can’t stop tasting you. His hand slides up your waist, grazing under the curve of your chest over the thin fabric of your dress, and you shudder, moaning softly into his mouth. Then he pulls back, just a little, resting his forehead against yours as both of you try to breathe. “Fuck,” he whispers, chest rising and falling beneath you. “You look so fucking pretty like this.” You blink at him, dazed, lips swollen and barely parted, still trying to catch your breath. He looks at you for a long second, hands still on your waist, grounding you. “I don’t wanna do this in the car,” he says, voice rough. “You deserve better than that.” Your breath hitches, heat flaring even higher at how serious he sounds. “Wanna go to my place?” he murmurs, brushing his thumb along your side. You nod slowly, shy but needy, your fingers curling in the collar of his shirt, a little scared to let go. “Yeah,” you whisper, barely audible. “Okay.” He kisses you once more, soft and sweet, before pulling back just enough to reach for the keys.

The door shut with a quiet click, sealing you into the warmth of his place. It was dark, mostly, just the glow of a streetlamp slipping through the blinds, casting faint lines across the floor. Neither of you spoke. You turned slightly, lips parting like you might say something, but he was already reaching for you. His hands found your waist in the dark, pulling you in with no hesitation, and his mouth was on yours before you could even breathe. Kissing you hungrily, deep and needy. Everything he hadn’t said tonight was pouring out of him all at once, into the way he held you, the way his lips moved over yours. His grip was firm, hands splayed over your hips, your back arching into him as you kissed him back just as desperately. He walked you backwards without breaking the kiss, slow, steady steps through the short hallway, lips never leaving yours. You barely registered the corners of the space or how you ended up where you did until the back of your knees hit something soft. And then he was lowering you onto the bed. The mattress dipped beneath you, and your breath caught as he hovered above you, eyes dark and steady on yours. Then, without a word, he zipped down his hoodie and took it off. Now just in a white tank, it clung to his frame in all the right places, the cut of his collarbone visible, shoulders broad and sharp under the light. He looked down at you for a second longer, breathing hard, gaze lingering on your face like he couldn’t believe you were really there. Then he leaned down, kissing you again, less rushed, but just as intense. His hands slid up your sides, fingertips ghosting over the fabric of your dress, moving deliberately, memorizing the shape of you. You whimpered softly into his mouth, fingers curling in the hem of his shirt. He pulled back for a second, eyes flicking between yours, voice low and wrecked. “You good?” he asked, forehead brushing yours. You nodded, cheeks burning, lips swollen already. “Yeah,” you whispered. “I’m good.”

He didn’t wait long after your answer. His mouth moved to your neck, warm and open, lips brushing your skin before he started kissing, slow, deliberate, dragging his tongue gently along the curve of your throat. You gasped, breath hitching as he sucked softly at a spot just below your jaw. Then again, a little lower. Your hips twitched beneath him when you felt his teeth graze you. “Weno—” you whispered, but it came out as more of a breath than a word. “You’re so pretty” he murmured, voice barely there, like he was talking to himself. “Always are.” His hand moved down slowly, slipping over your waist and along the outside of your thigh before sliding back up under the hem of your dress. His touch was patient, teasing, he didn’t rush. Just let his fingertips brush along the top of your thigh, higher and higher until they were tracing the edge of your panties. He pushed the fabric of your underwear to the side, slowly, and let his fingers slide between your folds, touching your bare heat. You gasped, head tilting back into the pillow, lips parting in a silent moan. “Shit,” he whispered, breath warm against your collarbone. “So soaked f’me, baby.” Your cheeks burned, thighs tensing slightly around his hand. He kissed the hollow of your throat, then lower, just above your chest, tongue wet and warm as his fingers began to move—slow circles at first, barely-there pressure that made you squirm beneath him. His free hand gripped your waist, holding you steady like he could feel how close you already were, how much you wanted him. “You’re so sensitive,” he muttered, voice deep and low, teeth grazing your skin as he kissed up to your ear.

You whimpered his name, hips grinding into his hand without meaning to. His fingers never stopped moving, dragging slick circles against your clit as he kept his mouth on your neck. Every kiss felt more urgent, but not rushed. It wasn’t just lust. It was something else. Something heavier. And then he leaned up, lips brushing the shell of your ear, his voice barely above a whisper. “I think about you all the time,” he murmured, breath warm, fingers still teasing between your thighs. “Even when I’m not supposed to. Even when I try not to.” Your heart flipped, aching at how raw it sounded coming from him. “I don’t even think you know what you do to me,” he continued, a soft kiss behind your ear. “How long I’ve wanted you like this. Letting me touch you.” The words hit harder than anything else had—deeper than the kisses, deeper than his touch. Your chest tightened, eyes fluttering shut as your fingers slid into his hair, pulling him down until your lips met again. Your moans melted into his mouth, the rhythm of his fingers picking up as your hips rolled up into his hand. His other hand gripped your thigh, spreading you wider for him.

And then, without warning, he shifted his hand lower, deeper. Your lips parted in a quiet gasp as he slid one finger inside you, slow and careful. Your walls clenched around the intrusion, already aching from how worked up you were, how long he’d been teasing. He didn’t wait long before easing in a second finger, stretching you just a little more. His movements were smooth, curling them up inside you just right, drawing out whiny, breathless little sounds from your throat you couldn’t hold back. You buried your face in his shoulder, hands gripping his bicep, your hips rocking involuntarily into every slow thrust of his fingers. He moved deep and steady, his palm pressing into you, thumb dragging lazy circles over your clit in rhythm. He kept moving inside you, slow and deep, curling just right. You were so close, the tension winding tighter and tighter in your stomach, breath catching with every stroke. But just as your legs began to shake, just as your hips bucked up into his hand with a quiet, desperate moan—he pulled out. You whined at the loss, hips stuttering forward instinctively, chasing the friction. “Weno…” “I know,” he murmured, breathless himself, voice thick with need. “I know, baby.” He leaned back just enough to pull his shirt over his head, tossing it somewhere to the side. The soft light coming through the cracked door hit his chest just right—shoulders broad, abs toned, skin flushed and warm. His chain shifted against his skin when he moved.

Then he was reaching for you again, hands gentle. “Can I?” he asked, fingers brushing the hem of your dress. You nodded, cheeks hot, eyes wide and dazed. “Y-Yeah” He pulled it up slowly, lifting it over your head. His eyes dropped to your body as it was revealed to him—bare chest, soft skin, rising and falling with every shaky breath. He leaned his mouth to your nipple, giving it a soft suck while sliding your panties down your legs, dragging his hands along your thighs as he did. Then he moved lower. He settled between your legs like he belonged there, hands spreading your thighs gently, thumbs brushing along the inside. You whimpered, body already arching at the sight of him down there, the feel of his breath ghosting over your skin. “So fuckin’ perfect,” he muttered, more to himself than anything, eyes locked on your soaked center. And then he leaned in. His tongue was warm, slow, one long, deliberate lick up your folds that made your back arch off the bed. Then again, this time with more pressure, more intent. His mouth locked over your clit, sucking softly before he flattened his tongue and circled it. You gasped, hands flying to his hair, fingers tangling as your thighs tried to close around his head. He just groaned into you, gripping your hips and pulling you closer, keeping you wide open for him. The sounds—wet, messy, sinful—filled the room along with your breathy moans, soft whimpers, the quiet creak of the mattress beneath you.

He didn’t stop. His tongue moved with purpose, lapping, circling, flicking. You couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t do anything but moan, soft and desperate, your hips twitching with every stroke of his tongue. And then you felt his hand again. Sliding up the inside of your thigh, fingers trailing through your slick folds before one dipped inside you, curling instantly. Your mouth fell open in a silent cry. He added a second immediately, stretching you and pumping into you while his mouth never left your clit. “Weno—fuck,” you whimpered, body jolting as he curled his fingers just right. Your walls clenched around him, needy and tight. His groan vibrated through you when he felt it. His tongue pressed harder, fingers pumping deep and slow—each drag of his knuckles making your toes curl. Your moans got higher, breathier, as your body trembled under his touch. “You close, baby?” he muttered against your clit, fingers never slowing. “Wanna feel you cum on my fuckin’ fingers.” You nodded, frantic, too far gone to speak. Your back arched, thighs shaking as he held you open, ruined you with his mouth, pushed his fingers deep inside you until the heat building in your stomach finally snapped. You came hard, legs trembling, hips stuttering, a loud moan spilling from your lips as everything clenched and pulsed around him. Fingers still working you gently through it while his tongue slowed, easing the intensity but never leaving you empty. Weno pressed one last kiss to your thigh, lips lingering as he pulled his fingers from you slowly, savoring the way your body jolted at the loss. He sat back on his heels, chest rising and falling a little faster now, eyes heavy as they dragged up your body.

You watched, dazed, flushed, and breathless as he reached for the waistband of his cargos, unbuttoning and sliding them down. They hit the floor with a quiet thud, leaving him in just his boxers—black, stretched tight over the obvious bulge straining against the fabric. He palmed it slowly, eyes still fixed on you, thumb pressing down over the thick outline like it ached. You squirmed beneath him, breath catching again when he leaned forward, caging you in with his arms. He kissed you slow and deep, tongue sliding over yours, moaning into your mouth. Then he reached between you and pushed his boxers down just enough to free himself, hissing softly when his length sprang free and brushed against your thigh. “You still good?” he whispered, pressing his forehead to yours, his thumb caressing your cheek. You nodded, voice caught in your throat. “Yeah… I want you.” That was all he needed. He reached down, guiding himself to your entrance, dragging the tip through your slick folds, teasing you both with the heat of it. His hand found your waist again, grounding you as he pushed in slowly—inch by inch, thick and hot and stretching you just right. You gasped, nails digging into his biceps, body arching as he filled you completely.“Fuck,” he breathed out against your mouth, kissing you again as he bottomed out. “So tight. So good.” He didn’t move right away. Just stayed there, buried deep, letting you adjust while he pressed soft kisses to your jaw, your cheek, your lips. His hands smoothed over your sides, grounding you. And then he started to move.

He started slow and deep, rolling thrusts that dragged every inch of him along your walls. Your body clung to him, welcoming each stroke like it had been waiting, aching, for this exact moment. His hands moved down your sides, palms warm and firm, before sliding under your thighs to hitch your legs higher around his waist. The new angle made you gasp, your head falling back into the pillow as he sank even deeper. “That’s it,” he whispered, voice all breath and gravel, “So fucking perfect like this.” You whimpered, lips parting with every slow rock of his hips, every soft press of his chest to yours. One of his hands slipped under your back, pulling you closer, the other traveling to cup your breast, squeezing gently, thumb circling your nipple. “Love your body,” he murmured against your skin, lips brushing your collarbone. “Every inch. All mine now, yeah?” You could only nod, breath shaky, heart pounding. He moved again—long, deep thrusts that made your thighs tremble around him, that had you clinging tighter to his shoulders, trying to ground yourself in his touch. “So fuckin’ good,” he groaned, kissing your neck, “Fuck—look at how you take me.” He slid his hand down to your ass, gripping it tightly, pulling you up into each thrust, letting you feel just how hard he was holding back. You cried out softly, tears blurring your vision as the heat coiled tighter and tighter inside you. You felt stretched, full…loved. Every part of him was on you, in you, his lips, his hands, his voice. He slowed for just a second, chest heaving as he looked down at you.

His hand cradled your jaw, thumb brushing your lip as he whispered, “No one’s ever made me feel like this.” You blinked, another tear slipping free. He caught it with a kiss. He pushed in deep again, groaning low as your body clenched around him. Your eyes fluttered shut as your lips parted in a sob, overwhelmed. The pleasure, the emotion—it was too much, and not enough. You gasped out his name, voice broken, tears spilling freely now. “You’re doin’ so good,” he breathed, kissing the corner of your mouth. “So good for me. You feel so fuckin’ good—can’t get enough of you, baby.” He cupped your breast again, his other hand squeezing your ass as he rocked deeper, firmer, filling you completely with every thrust. The mattress creaked beneath you, skin slapping, breathy moans and whimpers. He lift your legs higher, folding them up toward your chest as his hands slid beneath your knees, guiding you open. His body shifted with yours, hovering close, his chest pressing to yours as he settled into the new position. You were utterly vulnerable, and so full. “Fuck,” he breathed as he pushed back in—deeper, impossibly deep, the new angle hitting something inside you that made your mouth fall open in a silent gasp. Your thighs trembled against his sides, your arms wrapping tight around his shoulders as he rocked into you again, slow and hard. His face was right above yours, eyes dark, mouth parted, breath hot on your cheek. His forehead pressed to yours. You pulled him down, fingers tangling in his hair, and kissed him hard, messy, open-mouthed, desperate. You sobbed into the kiss, the pleasure blurring everything, making your whole body feel like it was about to break apart in the best way.

He moaned against your mouth, thrusts picking up just slightly, deeper and deeper, hips pressing you into the mattress. One of his hands cradled your cheek as the other gripped under your thigh, holding you open for him while his body kept driving into yours, filling you perfectly. “You feel like heaven,” he whispered, kissing along your jaw between gasps. “So good for me, baby… fuck.” Your body clenched tight around him, your moans turning into cries as your nails dug into his back. “Weno— I’m close, I—please,” you gasped, barely able to form the words through the sobs that kept catching in your throat. “I got you,” he panted, hips grinding down, pace relentless now. “Cum for me, baby. Wanna feel you.” It only took another stroke. One more hit just right, and you shattered. Your second orgasm came, stealing the breath from your lungs. Your back arched, tears slipping down your cheeks as you sobbed his name, legs shaking violently around him. You clung to him like he was the only thing tethering you to earth. “Shit—baby—fuck—” he groaned, eyes squeezing shut as your body pulsed around him. “So good. So fucking good.” He barely lasted another few thrusts before he was pulling out quickly, stroking himself through the last moments, his body jerking forward with a final moan as he spilled across your stomach, thick and warm. He collapsed onto his forearms above you, forehead to yours again, breath ragged, lips ghosting yours.

He was still above you, body trembling slightly as he caught his breath, his lips brushing yours in soft, lingering kisses that felt more like confessions than touches. You were trying to breathe too, heart racing, chest rising and falling as your mind spun. Every nerve in your body was still alive, aching with how full he made you feel—physically, emotionally, all of it. And yet, even in the quiet after, something heavy sat in your chest. You swallowed hard, fingers fidgeting at his sides, your eyes darting everywhere but his face. You could feel it pressing against your tongue—those words—so big and so terrifying, but so real. Too real to keep inside. “Weno…?” you whispered, voice barely audible. He blinked down at you, soft and hazy from the afterglow. “Yeah, baby?” Your lip trembled as you looked up at him, wide-eyed and afraid. “I… I think I’m in love with you.” The second the words left your mouth, your stomach dropped. You felt exposed, like you’d stripped yourself bare in a whole new way. Your eyes filled with panic—what if he didn’t feel the same? What if this ruined everything? “I—I’m sorry,” you added quickly, voice cracking. “I didn’t mean to ruin it, I just—fuck, I don’t know, I just feel so much and I couldn’t keep it in and—” He cut you off with a kiss. Not a soft one, not a careful one, but deep, sure. His hand cupped your face as he leaned into you, kissing you like he needed to feel every word you’d just said on his tongue.

When he finally pulled back, his thumb brushed beneath your eye, catching the little tear that had escaped down your cheek. “You didn’t ruin anything,” he whispered. “You could never ruin anything.” Your heart fluttered painfully. “I’ve been in love with you,” he said, voice a little hoarse. “Since before I even knew what to call it. You don’t scare me, baby. You’re the only thing that’s ever made sense.” He kissed you again, tender. His hands wrapped around you, pulling you close until your body was pressed to his, skin to skin, and you could barely breathe from how tight he held you. You buried your face in his neck, arms tucked between your chests, your heart pounding against his. The silence that followed was heavy with warmth—safe, soft. Eventually, he shifted just enough to reach for the blunt on his nightstand, lighting it with a quiet flick of his lighter. The glow lit up his face in soft orange as he took a long drag, exhaling with a sigh, head tilted back slightly. You curled into him, cheek pressed to his chest, ear catching the steady thrum of his heartbeat. His arm came around you instinctively, holding you tighter, and his hand drifted lazily into your hair, fingers combing through the strands. You didn’t speak. You didn’t have to. He held you like he was never letting go.

my other works ➵ masterlist

@0403s

© guliexe 2025 all rights reserved.

[esmeefreckles]

Long Day | Kika Nazareth x reader

+18 SMUT MINORS DNI

TW: ANAL SEX. ANAL FINGERING. ANAL PLUG. STRAP-ONS. COLLARS. ROUGH SEX. SLAPPING.

A/N: A huge thank you to @sswed for being the best beta reader and supporter and helping me so much.

Kika set her stuff down on the couch with a sign, today was hard, training didn’t go well and she was really frustrated. The first thing she sees as she opens the door is you cooking in the kitchen and the overwhelming aroma of whatever you’re making filled her nose. Seeing you brought a small tug to her lips, forming a smile so Kika quickly went over to meet you.

“Hey, beautiful, how was….” Kika turned off the oven with a smile. 

Even though it smells amazing, she doesn’t care about whatever dinner you were making them right now. Kika pushes you against the fridge and roughly takes your mouth. Tongue and teeth with no warning, just like you want it. 

Kika knows you’re her good girl and you submit immediately, without a care in the world, even forget the dinner that is in the oven.

 “What’s your safeword?” Kika grabs your asscheek and slides her hand down to the bend in your knee, lifting your leg up so she can push at a better angle into your clit.

“Rua,” you answer, grinding back into Kika. “Do you want to talk or just throw me around like your little whore?” You ask sweetly and you don’t actually care too much about talking or dinner right now. 

Kika loves you; she’ll never deny it. She would die for you, she would live for you. You’re her everything and she’s yours. Now, Kika’s needs are all focused on release and you don’t really mind, not one bit. 

��Be my good little whore, on your knees, right now.”

You obey, just like you always do and Kika can feel you slipping away and into subspace. She watches you take off your belt and slacks. You look so eager, perfect on your knees for her with your slacks pooled down around your feet and then you pull Kika’s own pants down before working with your tongue. 

It’s tight circles and long licks in turns, just how Kika taught you. Somewhere, in the amidst of all this in the kitchen, Kika grabs your face and grinds straight into it. You barely keep up, lapping even harder to keep the fast pace that she had just set. It makes your jaw ache and shoulder stiffen up, so you give up completely and just stick out your tongue for her to use. 

Kika’s fingers dig into your scalp a moment later and you can hear the low grunt above you. Her legs shake a little, you can feel the muscles ripple under the palm of your hand and you forget about everything for a moment. The dinner, the fact you’re in the middle of the kitchen, Kika’s bad mood, your own one. 

For you, this might have been enough to put out the fire for a little bit but Kika, she looks at you with a determined gaze that you know all too well.

“Grab the little strap and some lube,” Kika slaps your face to accentuate the demand. 

Your cheek strings but you grin in return, then try to stand but instead a hand comes down on your shoulder, stopping you in your tracks. Kika looks at you with a tight lip that makes a wave of desire rush through you. 

“Crawl.”

Your eyes roll into the back of your head at the demand, the wetness that’s been building up this whole time triples. You crawl to the bedroom which is, thankfully, close by. You collect the asked strap and lube, biting down on the harness so you can crawl back without it collecting dust. 

“Good girl.” Kika pats your head and takes the strap-on to put on the harness. 

“Present yourself to me.” Kika takes the bottle of lube and sets it on the kitchen counter. 

You spread your asscheeks to give Kika a perfect view of your glistening pussy and the bejeweled buttplug that had come from the training set you had gotten for Kika, to use on you, for her birthday. They had been working you up to this point and Kika was worried about hurting you but there was no chance she could think about something like that right now.

She had no reservations in this state and that was just the state you had been waiting for.

Kika was a big softie ninety-five percent of the time but when she was like this, you were sure to wake up sore and satisfied. Only missing the feeling of being stuffed and pleasured so well. This five percent was the spark that Kika needed to cross your first-time anal boundary.

Kika puts the plug in every morning and exchanges it for a smaller one for night time, and you have a specific diet for them to do this without interruption.

Kika pulls the plug out of your asshole, pushing it in a little each time before she pulls it out. She teases the entrance and pushes back in every few bits but she’s impatient and eventually, you go from being fucked with a buttplug to feeling the emptiest you’ve felt in all the weeks it’s been that Kika’s been preparing you.

You had to admit that getting railed from behind in your pussy as Kika toys with the buttplug in your ass is the perfect combination. 

“Are you ready, darling?”

“Yes, I’m so fucking ready.”

“Color?”

“Green, so green.”

Kika pulls on your collar roughly, forcing you off all fours and on to your knees. She pushes the pull into your mouth and you part your wet lips to accept it. She takes the opportunity to check the tightness of your collar with a light tug. It’s one of the lighter ones in your collection and you’re thankful for that. 

You suck on the plug as if it were a pacifier and look at Kika through your lashes. 

She tips your chin up so she could get a better look at your face, “Can you go get ready on the bed for me, princess?”

You nod and Kika watches you crawl to their bedroom once more. Kika lubes up the dildo and thinks about jerking one out just so she would be a bit softer on you.

You don’t want Kika to be soft, you want it hard. She doesn’t really know that you’re probably strong because you’ve never been pushed that far, it might be part of the reason why Kika loves you so much. You don’t take anything from anybody when it goes against your boundaries.  You have that kind of smile that lights up worlds and it definitely lights up Kika’s. 

She grinds into her hand for a second, despite the fact that you’re on the bed. Kika needs something more for a moment, some outer body experience but she calms her breathing and joins you in the bedroom instead. 

You’re in the middle of the bed, on your hands and knees waiting patiently for Kika to join you. 

You’re already so wet and Kika can see it all over your ass and thighs. She licks her lips and her eyes darken with desire. She crawls onto the bed and places her hands on your ass, spreading your cheeks before licking a long stripe right over your asshole. 

The first time you’d taken her up your ass it had just been her long fingers and it had been the most full you’ve felt in a long time. This time, that feeling is knocked off its top spot by Kika’s tongue. She’s never eaten you out before but this might be the closest you’ll come to it, so you savour each short lap of her tongue on you. 

You’re so overwhelmed by it all that you mumble around the plug. It sounds a lot like ‘I love you’ just barely audible around the plug that occupies your mouth instead. 

“I love you too, darling. Are you ready?” Kika asks and squeezes out a little bit of lube onto her finger before pushing it into you gently.

You moan at the intrusion and tense up slightly when Kika adds another finger. You feel so full and you want more. She pushes another finger in a short while after, making it three now and you take a moment to adjust.

The fingers don’t stay inside you long. Kika is just as impatient as you are and so you remove her fingers after you’ve properly relaxed. You groan and clench around nothing, you miss the feeling of her inside you. 

You push your ass against her and Kika gives you a slap in return.

“Stop being an eager slut; you take what I give you.”

You moan around the plug again, and Kika pushes forward and reaches for your collar. 

“Spit out the plug and say it, princess.”

“I’m an eager slut,” you repeat; the strain on your neck keeps your words choked.

“That’s it,  good girl.” Kika praises you and you moan back in answer. 

 Kika presses further into you by pulling your collar back. 

“You were eager, so I’ll speed this up,” Kika smirks and moves her hips forward as she continues to pull you back by your collar.

Kika flips your hair around in both of her hands to keep it off your neck. Kika skillfully puts it in a ponytail. Kika takes the open skin of your neck between her teeth. You moan freely over all the stimulation.

The dildo rests perfectly inside of you, and these are the moments that Kika wishes she had a cock so she could feel the squeeze and pull of your inner walls to their full degree instead of through the barrier of the silicone.

Kika flicks out her tongue to soothe your newly marked skin, and she slowly pulls out of your ass just to thrust back in at unexpected times just to hear you moan and watch you fall apart.

Kika gets bored of the teasing after a long time, hours, Kika thinks. Eventually, she speeds up and gets in a suitable position on her knees.

Kika’s hand rests on the small of your back, and Kika’s other hand waits by her side so Kika can occasionally slap you. 

“You’re taking my cock so well, darling.”

You moan at the praise and attempt to roll back against Kika. This time, she allows the motion and only smacks you once in light reprimand.

“Say you love taking my cock in your ass.”

“I love taking your cock in my ass.”

“You love being my good anal whore.” Kika smirks and speeds up her pace, only pausing a long, drawn-out moan reaction from you.

Kika loves this game where you try to remember what you’re supposed to say while you’re lost in pleasure. She slaps your ass to encourage the answer. 

“I love being your good anal whore.”

“Good girl.” Kika can feel how close you are getting; she can see it too.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,” you become incoherent in your pleasure. “Let me-  fuck, let me cum, please, baby.”

Kika pulls your collar once, “You can cum, baby.”

“Oh my god, oh my god, I love you. Fuck, fuck, I love you.”

You get your ass pounded by Kika until Kika feels herself tipping over the edge with such force that Kika almost feels like she’s ascending into some higher form.

Kika crashes on top of you. Kika can’t form a single sentence, and you just grab her arm and put it over her waist, content to let Kika stay inside your ass all night.

She sets an alarm on her phone with shaky hands for an hour so that they can do their nighttime routine when they have the energy again. You can feel Kika fading fast. 

“Kiss?” This is the first thing that you can understand that comes out of her mouth.

You turn around carefully and notice the loving smile on your girlfriend’s face. You lean in for a quick kiss, but Kika pushes for it to be a little more. You pull back with a soft and loving sigh.

“We’ll talk about your day tomorrow. I love you, baby. I’m here for you in whatever way you need.”

Kika mumbles something back that you decide to interpret as, “Yes, dear. I love you.” before you slip off into dreamland.

[starryjake]

take care of you | b.e

in which ej can’t sleep and turns to you for help.

pairing: euijoo x fem!reader

includes: consensual somnophilia, dry humping, fingering, handjob, intercourse, unprotected sex, cumming inside, (lmk if i missed anything).

-

ej felt awful. he was exhausted, he was sweaty, and worst of all, he was hard.

he looked over to his right to find you sound asleep, your back facing him. how you were sleeping in the dead middle of summer heat was beyond him, but you made it look so easy.

he tossed and turned, trying to get in a comfortable position, but nothing was comfortable. not with how uncomfortable he felt in his skin at that moment.

he tried pressing himself against you, thinking maybe he’d be able to sleep better with you in his embrace, but it only made him harder. the way your ass nestled perfectly against his erection.

eventually, ej tore himself away from you and stripped out of his t-shirt. he immediately felt better, cooler.

he lied flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling. he was tired, but still he couldn’t fall asleep.

his erection was straining against his shorts, clear and as obvious as day. he glanced over to you again, ensuring you were still asleep, then slowly brought a hand down to his cock, over the shorts.

he squeezed his length slightly, sighing at the relief. it wasn’t much, but it was something. he looked over at you again, staring at your body as he dragged his hand up his length and back down.

his eyes scanned your pretty sleeping body. all you had on was a little pair of white shorts and a matching white tank top. ej thought you looked like an actual angel.

“baby,” he called out softly. “are you awake?”

no response. you were out like a light.

he sighed, then released his grasp on his covered erection. he wasn’t going to jerk off with you sleeping right next to him. he couldn’t.

so, he attempted to fall asleep again. he turned on his side and closed his eyes. nothing. he pressed himself against you again, sliding his arm over your stomach and holding you tight.

it felt like cuddling with a furnace. you were both hot. your tank top stuck to ej’s bare chest from sweat.

ej inhaled the scent of you shampoo, running his large hand up and down your stomach. he couldn’t help the way his cock dug right into your ass and how good even the slightest bit of pressure felt.

testing, he pushed his hips forward and bit his lip to restrain the moan threatening to leave his mouth. it felt good. you felt good.

you both had talked about it before, doing things in your sleep. both of you were intrigued by the idea, and both of you gave each other permission. so, ej thought, why not.

he tightened his grip around your waist, still being cautious not to wake you up, though. he pushed his hips forward again, burying his face into the back of your neck and sighing against your warm skin.

he started peppering soft kisses around your neck, kisses that gradually became harder the more he thrusted against you. he eventually started sliding his hand down from your stomach and into your shorts.

“mmm,” he hummed softly, spreading your legs slightly so he could get a better angle to dry-hump you. “you’re so good, baby.”

you shifted a little, but still weren’t awake yet.

ej found your clit and began rubbing you in little circles, getting you nice and wet. he huffed against your neck, feeling his pre-cum leaking through the fabric of his shorts. he was so turned on.

eventually, he pushed your shorts to the side and slid his fingers down to the bottom of your pussy and then back to the top, gathering your wetness that had formed, even with you being fast asleep.

he slid his middle finger into your tight hole, burying it there inside you. then, he used his thumb to keep rubbing your clit, and by then, it was getting hard to stay asleep.

ej continued to dry hump you, eventually not noticing how hard he was going. he just needed to feel good and at that point, if you woke up, so be it.

you suddenly squeezed your thighs around his hand and planted a firm hand on his wrist, stopping him from fingering you.

“fuck,” he exhaled, immediately pausing all movements.

“ej?” you called out, confused and dazed.

“i’m sorry, baby,” he said, slowly pulling his hand away from your drenched cunt.

“what’s going on?” you asked, your voice so soft and sleepy that ej twitched in his pants.

“nothing, sweetheart,” he replied, petting your hair. you looked up at him with big, tired eyes, blinking in confusion. “i just couldn’t sleep.”

“why not?” you wondered, turning your body so you were facing him instead.

“i don’t know,” he lied. “it’s just hot in here, so maybe that.”

with your tired gaze, still half asleep, you scanned ej from his red face down to his bare torso, and down to his shorts. that was where you were met with his cock straining clearly against the fabric with a dark patch on it.

he gulped nervously, watching you stare at his boner.

you reached your hand out and placed it on his clothed cock. ej melted into your touch, sighing out at the contact.

“you don’t have to,” he assured you. “you’re sleepy, baby. you should go back to bed.”

you gently stroked his length up and down, looking up at him through your eyelashes. god, he was so fucking horny. you made it impossible for him not to be.

“it’s so hard,” you whispered.

you took the initiative to slide your hand into his shorts and jerked him off without any interference. he moaned softly in your ear as your thumb swiped over his tip, gathering his pre-cum and using it as lubrication.

ej stared at your hand down his pants, watching how slowly you jerked him off from how tired you were. he knew you wanted to sleep, however, he also knew you were into it, because you were rutting yourself against his leg, equally desperate to be touched.

a few minutes of jerking him off and your movements got slower and slower, until eventually they come to a complete halt.

ej looked over at you to see why you stopped, only to find your eyes were closed again. you’d fallen back asleep, your hand still down his shorts.

he sighed, unsure what to do. to wake you up again would feel like a crime. you were obviously exhausted, and ej had been too, but by then, he was completely awake. and he wanted to cum.

“y/n?” he called out softly.

you hummed a little in response. you were on the cusp of falling back into deep slumber, yet still just barely conscious at the same time.

“just…” you started, “put it in me, euijoo.”

“what?” ej responded. “are you gonna wake up?”

you mumbled incoherently.

“just fuck me,” he eventually made out from your babbles.

his cock twitched in your limp grasp. he wanted to fuck you so bad, quite literally more than anything.

“yeah?” he said. “gonna let me fuck you, baby?”

your eyes fluttered open just barely. you looked so pretty, your pink cheeks smushed against the pillow, your hair messy and your lips inviting.

ej pushed you gently onto your back and leaned down to plant his lips against yours. he spread your legs and placed himself between them, holding your knees up around his waist.

you were barely kissing back, too tired to keep up with the pace he was going, but he didn’t care. you were still kissing him.

he ground his cock into your pussy, both of you still clothed. he kissed you so messily, so desperately and intensely. you just couldn’t keep up.

“fuck,” he grunted, pulling back for a moment to look at you. “you’re so pretty, baby. such a perfect girl just for me.”

you blinked up at him, lips glistening with a mixture of both of your saliva.

“fuck me, euijoo,” you begged quietly.

ej was quick to pull his shorts down, his aching cock springing out, dripping pre-cum. he slid your shorts to the side and slid your tank top up far enough for your tits to come out, leaving you just how he wanted you.

“are you gonna stay awake?” he asked, jerking his cock off to the sight of your body.

“i don’t know,” you responded lazily. “‘m so sleepy, but i want you to fuck me so bad.”

ej smiled softly down at you.

“just let me take care of you,” he said, finally lining himself up with your hole.

he slowly pushed his dick inside, giving you an inch at a time. you gasped, keeping your eyes on his as he filled you up.

“i’ve got you, honey,” he assured, caressing your warm cheek. “i’m right here.”

you felt so safe. so safe, so warm, and so good with him as he bottomed out inside of you. you were full of his cock.

you let your eyes close again, turning your head to the side. ej pulled out halfway before pushing back in deeply, feeling every inch of your warm, wet pussy.

he looked down at where your parts intertwined. he watched his cock pull almost all the way out of you before pushing back in.

he made sure to fuck you slow. you were falling back asleep, he could tell. he could feel it as your legs grew heavier around his waist and your body became slack. he had to be gentle with you.

“my good girl,” he whispered to himself, staring at your chest, then up to your face. “so sweet.”

he fucked you like that for a few minutes, feeling himself get closer and closer. he then dropped your legs down from around his waist and pulled out. at that, you woke up again.

your eyes fluttered open and you looked up at him, practically pouting.

“why’d you stop?” you whined.

a bead of sweat was rolling down the side of his face, down his neck, and down his torso.

“i was getting close,” he told you.

“me too,” you said, taking him by surprise. “put it back in, please.”

he was quick to stuff his cock back inside you, feeling your tight walls suffocate his length. you spread your legs yourself, giving him enough room to thrust slightly faster than he had before now that you were awake.

with heavy eyelids, you watched him fuck you. he looked so good above you, sweaty and his jaw slightly dropped from how good he was feeling. you felt warmth all over your body and your stomach tightening.

“fuck,” you whispered tiredly. “i’m gonna cum.”

ej found your hand and intertwined your fingers together. he looked you deeply in your eyes as your orgasm hit you.

you gasped, throwing your head back as your tired, spent body came. your toes curled and your vision went blurry for a moment, from just how hard it had hit you.

“oh my god,” you cried out. “cum inside me, euijoo, please.”

ej groaned in response at the sheer thought of stuffing you full with his big load. he squeezed your hand and thrusted once, twice more, then let go.

“oh fuck,” he cried out. “oh, yeah. mmm, shit, i’m cumming.”

you could feel his warmth filling you up, rope after rope of cum flooding your insides. his eyes were squeezed shut, his hips lazily rutting into you to get the most out of his orgasm.

after about a minute or two, ej finally had caught his breath and pulled out of you. he collapsed by your side, chest still heaving for air slightly.

you were quick to cuddle up by his side, sighing happily as he planted a kiss to the top of your head.

“that was so good,” he said.

you hummed in agreement.

you both went silent then, ready for sleep to envelope you.

only then did you both hear a bird chirping, and as you looked out the window, you could spot the sun beginning to rise.