#the head the hands the other person looking away oh oh oh oh

[cherrygirlfriend]

─── YOU'VE GOT MAIL .ᐟ

...or going back home.

★ pairing.ᐟ frat!rafe x nerd!reader

★ summary.ᐟ rafe cameron is the golden boy of kildare university; certified frat boy, captain of the football team, relentless party animal with lines of girls to sleep with.

reader couldn't be more different; while she has the best grades in the whole school, she suffers from social anxiety disorder, and her social life is limited to her three best friends and the cat she secretly snuck into her dorm room.

both of them decide to join the anonymous chatroom for their campus, and start talking to one another, a friendship starting to form between the two; but neither of them know how different the other is.

★ author's note.ᐟ send me asks and i might release another ygm chapter this weekend…

YOU'VE GOT MAIL!

you sat in the backseat right next to your friends, your eyes glued to your phone, all the chatter around you and the music playing on the stereo tuned out by just your focus on your phone screen, unaware of the boy looking at you through the side-view mirror with a dumb smile on his lips while occasionally glancing down at his own phone.

MalachiConstant: i'm still sorry that i went AWOL

MalachiConstant: my phone wasn't working for a bit and then i had stuff i needed to think about

YOU: yeah, you've explained about half a million times :p.

YOU: i understand. though, i was a bit worried you were ghosting me on purpose.

MalachiConstant: please, like i'd ghost my personal pocket genius

MalachiConstant: let me make it up to you

YOU: how? :D

MalachiConstant: i have my ways ;)

your cheeks felt warm, your bottom lip stuck between your teeth, but before you could even begin to typing up a reply, vivian let out a gasp, "you're smiling!" she exclaimed, grabbing the attention of everyone in the car. you turned to penny, a deer-in-headlights look in your eyes as you felt your face warm up even more. you simply cleared your throat, locking your phone. "i was just... reading." you shrugged, "oh, that makes sense." vivian winked at you. during all this, you still somehow missed the smirk on rafe's face.

YOU: i'm missing you too not gonna lie.

MalachiConstant: i’m honored MalachiConstant: you’re a menace. you’re always on my mind.

YOU: yeah? then come over.

MalachiConstant: i would if i knew where you were.

YOU: what would you do if you were here?

MalachiConstant: things i can't say in this chat without being banned.

YOU: you're nasty, MalachiConstant.

MalachiConstant: tell me something i don't know, AnnabelLee.

rafe laid on the couch in the fraternity's living room, a small smile on his face as he read the message you'd just sent him, talking about how you were going to start unpacking; the boy himself had just thrown his bag into the corner of the room.

AnnabelLee: i just finished unpacking. AnnabelLee: i'm gonna pick up my baby soon!!!

"what are you smirking at?" topper asked as he entered the living room, running a hand through his hair. "nothing." rafe was quick to clear his throat and put his phone away "c'mon. are you messing around with some chick and not telling me?"

"nah, dude." rafe chuckled, "it was just some girl i invited to our back-to-school party tomorrow." topper held out his hand, rafe dabbing him up on the couch, but as soon as topper was gone, rafe turned back to his screen.

you'd just gotten done with unpacking your stuff, your computer open your lap while you scratched the soft fur on angel's head with your free hand as the white cat purred, but your hand stopped when you read the message MalachiConstant sent next, your heart beating against your chest as if it was a drum.

MalachiConstant: i want to meet up MalachiConstant: only if it's okay with you.

you let out a sigh, running a hand through your hair, a million different thoughts running through your head. what if he didn't like you? what if he didn't think you were attractive enough? what if he thought you were the most boring person in the world?

but somehow, your fingers typed up a reply.

YOU: alright. let's meet at the fountain at 11pm. wear something red so i'll recognize you. our code word is forevermore.

it took you over an hour to pick out what you were wearing, to decide if you wanted to wear your bangs this way or that way. you'd taken double your usual anxiety medication, now staring into the mirror feeling as if the person staring back was someone you didn't quite know.

"even if MalachiConstant doesn't think i'm attractive it doesn't take anything away from my worth." you breathed in, "even if he doesn't find me attractive, someone will."

you snapped the band around your wrist as you thought about the worst case scenario; maybe MalachiConstant didn't find you attractive, maybe he'd call you names and say you were disgusting… but at least you put yourself out there. you took in a deep breath, grabbing your bag and starting to make your way out of the girls' dormitory.

meanwhile, rafe was standing in front of his mirror, trying to smooth over his hair.

"hi, annabel lee." he said in a deep voice, before clearing his throat and repeating it in an even deeper voice "hi, annabel lee."

rafe sighed, running a hand through his short hair. what if you didn't like him? what if you'd heard all the rumors about him and though he was some nasty dude who couldn't keep it in his pants?

rafe sighed, pocketing his phone and keys, taking one last look in the mirror before leaving his room.

you'd been standing at the fountain for about ten minutes when the clock struck eleven, tapping your foot against the marble underneath your foot, looking around. for some reason, you couldn't help but get there early, to possibly catch a glimpse of your online penpal off guard.

but your eyes widened and your brows furrowed so harshly it hurt when you saw who was approaching you; surely it was an accident? surely he wasn't MalachiConstant.

"dodge?"

"hi."

"you're MalachiConstant?"

little did you know, the real MalachiConstant had frozen up in his spot only a few meters away, staring at the interaction between you and dodge.

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[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!)

[straows]

Too perfect.

—in which, Gojo doesn’t want people to know you’re dating him because it’ll fuck up his rep.

A/n: I've been absent for a while, but I think I'll have a few more works coming up soon. Remember to hit up the inbox and request- literally any prompt or any idea, because my brain juice is empty. Dw tho, bc my friend bought shrooms.

Gojo Satoru is 50% nerd and 50% dork. All wrapped up in pale, lanky guy that’s way too tall for his own good.

He wasn’t popular in the normal popular sense. No he was popular among the group of dorks he hung out with.

The kind of guys that were perpetually virgins. The kind of guys that make fun of regular popular kids, taking everyone at face value and assuming they have no problems of their own.

You were one of those popular girls. You weren’t mean. You weren’t loud and obnoxious. No, you were kind and sweet and so pretty it hurt to be around you.

You were the kind of person that had all kinds of friends. You didn’t stick with just one group. You were friends with the sports kids, the theatre kids, the band kids, the fucking chess club, hell you even befriended the goth kids that think popularity is just another form of conformism.

Everybody loved you.

And Gojo was not an exception.

From the moment he saw you walk in late to the first fucking lecture of the semester. All pretty in simple fitted longsleeve and a simple pleated skirt that went mid thigh, a jacket only zipped barely halfway keeping you warm.

“I’m so sorry!” You’d apologize to the professor, who just rolled his eyes and waved you off because it was too early and he was only a few years older than you.

(Live laugh love young professors who dgaf)

And the entire time, his eyes never left you. Gojo was sat in the back, his weird little buddies on either side of him. His glasses pushed too far up, hard messy and his sweat shirt sat awkwardly on his body.

It was like he physically couldn’t look away. Not from the way you’d laugh awkwardly and sit down at a random spot. Regardless of who was next to you, you’d say hi and talk with the neighbor.

You two couldn’t be more different.

Which made the current situation, even weirder.

“Oh fuck,” Gojo mumbled against your lips, hands pawing at your hips, large and squeezing as they slid down to your ass.

One hand cupping his jaw, the other pressed against his chest, nails digging in each time he’d grunt into the kiss.

What was supposed to be a study session, ended up with you on his lap, thighs bracketing his hips and his lips swollen from how he was kissing you.

“We- we should be s-studying—“ Gojo would pant and moan lowly each time your hips grinded against the tent he’d pitched in his pants.

“We’ve been studying, let’s take a break.” You’d murmur against his jaw, pressing kisses down to his shoulder before biting down teasingly.

It started there. And after that night, it only snowballed into a secret relationship.

You were both absolutely head over heels for each other. The first month or so, was perfect. Absolutely amazing.

Sneaking around was fun, and it gave you both an adrenaline rush— you’d kiss when nobody was looking, sneakily hold hands, run off to go hook up in some single bathroom, or hell you’d even snuck him into your dorm more times than you could count.

But it got old.

It got old quick.

“Baby, do we really have to do this whole sneaking around thing?” You whined, slipping back on your clothes.

“Yes.” Gojo didn’t waste a second to answer, his answer firm and sure.

His quick answer hard your heart aching. At first, you’d thought he’d wanted to keep it secret for you, but no.

“Come on, you’ve gotta leave before anyone sees you.” Gojo was hurrying you out the door, but the moment he’d had you out in the hallway, one of his buddies was standing right beside the door.

Blinking slow, surprised to see one of the most popular girls leaving his friends room wasn’t what he was expecting. “Gojo?”

Gojo stared down at him, like he got caught red handed. “Uhh— I was tutoring her.”

“Hi! It’s nice to meet you, I’m—“ you went to shake the guys hand but he just gave you a disgusted glare that had you blinking in surprise.

“Dude why are you even tutoring her? Isn’t it just a waste of time? Not like she’ll even retain any of it.”

Oh. That was really mean. You looked back up at Gojo, expecting him to back you up, but all he did was push you further out into the hallway.

“Yeah, probably was a waste of time.” Gojo was quick to agree with his buddy.

“…” You just stood there for a long moment. “I thought… that you liked me?” You whispered, looking at the ground and sounding so hurt and fragile it had the air knocked out of Gojo’s lungs.

“What are you babbling about? Go do your make up or some shit and get outta our flat.” The guy was waving you off and walking into Gojo’s dorm.

That was the final straw, because the dam broke and tears started to flow. You tried to speak but all that came out was a pathetic little squeak. Your throat tightened and burned, and you were embarrassed. So fucking embarrassed.

Quickly, you turned on your heel and walked down that hallway as fast as you possibly could without breaking into a sprint.

Gojo just watched. He watched with his heart in stomach as you ran off. Running a hand over his face, he groaned. He fucked up— so bad. Knowing he’d hurt you like that made him sick.

But with his friend in his dorm, he just sighed and walked back inside, hoping that his buddy couldn’t smell your perfume still on his sheets.

That night, you went back to your dorm. And cried. Cried so fucking hard that when your roommate got home she thought your dog died.

You cried. And cried. And cried. All night, and stayed cuddled up with your best friend.

And then the day after that, was silence.

Rubbing his eyes, still groggy from the literal three hours he got from sleep, Gojo sat down in his seat. His eyes automatically landing on the back of your head.

He’d tried calling you, maybe 80+ times, sent god knows how many texts. And every single one of them got left on delivered. No call was answered, and hell— he even sent an email just in case.

But all he got was radio silence.

And the entirety of the lecture, he didn’t write down a single note. Hell he didn’t even get out his fucking computer so he could even type.

His eyes were glued to the back of your head. He hardly blinked. He knew he had to talk to you after this class. He wanted to apologize and try to fix whatever he’d broken as quickly as possible.

So when that bell rang, he simply got up, and waited for you outside the door.

But when you came out, you didn’t even look at him. Eyes still a little red and swollen from crying the night before.

“Hey— wait, can we talk?” He grabbed your wrist gently, not expecting you to immediately tug it out of his grip like you did.

“No.” It was a firm, short answer.

Gojo blinked, not used to hearing you talk to him like that. “Please, I really wanna apologize about what happened last n-“

“Gojo. Leave me alone.” You shot him a glare, your bottom lip threatening to quiver as you felt that familiar tightness in your throat, that burn that meant one thing and one thing only— you wanted to cry again.

He couldn’t handle it. It physically hurt to see you like this— to see you literally repulsed by his touch.

“Please! I need to explain— and- and make it up to you—“

“I don’t want anything to do with you! You made it clear that I embarrass you. You let your asshole friend walk all over me and you literally said we studied when we’d just fucked!” You were yelling now.

It was so out of character for you, that literally the hallway stilled and even the profesor stuck his head out the door so he could watch.

“I mean— is that really all you want from me? Just to fuck and then push me out? You said you like me! A lot!” Tears ran down your cheeks and you felt humiliated.

“I do! I like you so much- and I don’t only want you for sex! God— no that isn’t what I want at all,” gojo was struggling to find the words, and all the eyes now on them didn’t make it any better.

“You didn’t want it at all? So what, was this just a point you were trying to make?” Your voice was softer, and you couldn’t have felt more hurt— hell you couldn’t have felt more used than you did now.

“No! God no, please can we just talk in private and—“

“I hate you. I hate you so much, I can’t believe I was in love with you.” You were crying now. Hands trying to wipe your eyes but the tears didn’t stop.

“You were in love with me? You love me?” Gojo’s voice was whisper now, eyes wide and breathless.

“Not anymore.” With one last glare, you pushed past him and walked down the hallway.

He didn’t move. Just stood there. Feeling a sense of loss that he couldn’t even put into words. His shoulders dropped and he just kind of stared at the spot you once stood at.

[spaceyaemonds]

pairing: dr. jack abbot x reader

sum.: a rare night out ends in rushing to PTMC

warnings: age gap (jack is late 40s, reader is mid to late 20s), parenting, a child (they have a son who is 5) nongraphic mentions of falling down stairs and mild concussion, they call each other mommy and daddy but not in a kink way?? no smut but minors DNI.

notes: requested!!! i don’t 100000% love this, but currently it seems like that is not a new thing for me with my writing LMAO. i hope you guys enjoy this (especially the person who requested!! unedited. and as always, any feedback is extremely appreciated, it helps keep me motivated. especially reblogs/comments/asks!

wc.: 1.6k

Jack can’t help but sigh looking at his pouting son, a face that mirrors his own but eyes that are all yours.

“Buddy, you like Sadie. It’ll be a good night. Mom and I won’t even be out late,”

“But daddy, why can’t I go?”

Because you and Jack haven’t had a night to yourselves in who knows how long. Not that Jack would ever, ever, tell your son that.

“Because daddy wants to take mommy to dinner,”

Your son's pout somehow deepens, “I wanna take mommy to dinner too.”

Jack sighs, “Well, what if when dad gets off work, we both take mommy to a nice restaurant. And tonight you let dad take mom out. Plus,” He crouches down to his son's height, but more weight onto his left side than his right, “you get her all to yourself for three nights in a row.”

Jack watches as his son sighs, but nods his head, “Fine.”

Jack takes it as a small victory. The five year old is completely attached to you, and though he can’t blame him, it can get slightly annoying when he wants to spend time with you and the small boy refuses to stay with the sitter from down the block.

It’s a rare off night on a weekend for him, and he’s determined to have an actual dinner with you that doesn’t consist of your son eating off your plate, you eating off Jack’s, and Jack ending up eating dinosaur chicken nuggets.

It’s also a win that he gets to see you dressed up.

And dressed up you are.

He glances over at the stairs when he hears your heels clacking on the hardwood of the stairs, and he swears you never fail to make his breath catch.

Especially in a black dress.

A little black dress, at that.

Before he can even think to compliment you, a tiny voice beats him to it.

“Wow, mommy look at you!”

You grin, and do a dramatic turn, “Yeah? Looks nice?”

“Veeeery nice!” He giggles, and it makes you giggle.

You finally look at your husband, “Well doesn’t daddy look nice, huh?”

Jack huffs, “Yeah. Not as nice as mommy, though.”

You laugh as he gently grabs your wrist and pulls you into him, placing a quick, but firm, kiss on the corner of your mouth.

A knock on the door pulls the two of you out of your bubble. Jack quickly pulls away from you to go let Sadie in, while you kneel down in front of your son.

“Alright, bub. Be good for Sadie and mommy will bring home a dessert for the two of us to share.”

He gives you a toothy smile, “What kind of dessert?”

Dramatically, you furrow your brows and place a finger on your chin, “Hmmmmm,” He laughs at you, and it’s the best sound you’ve ever heard, “How about cheesecake?”

“Oooooh yes,” Dragging out the oh, he nods enthusiastically, giggles never ceasing.

“Okay, that settles it.”

You kiss the apple of his chubby cheek, standing up right as Jack and Sadie walk in.

“Right, we’ll be back around 11. He should be in bed by 8, but if he wants to stay up a little later and watch TV, that should be fine,” Jack glances at you for confirmation that your son can stay up a little past his bedtime.

Nodding, you glance at Sadie, “9:30 is the absolute latest, though,”

A few minutes later, the two of you are out the door.

In the fifteen minute drive to the restaurant, Jack’s hand lingers on your thigh, squeezing it every so often.

“Do you think he’ll sleep all night?”

You smirk, “Why?”

His voice drops slightly, “You know why.”

You laugh, looking over at him and smiling, “Yes, I think he will sleep all night.”

An all too familiar grin takes over his face.

“But we’ll have to be quiet. We’ve had one too many close calls.”

Thank god for the lock on the bedroom door. He’s never actually caught the two of you, but you dread the thought of it.

“I can be quiet,” He glances at you out of the corner of his eye, “You can’t.”

Dramatically, you gasp, “Excuse me?”

This time, he doesn’t even look at you, just huffs out a laugh, “You heard me, and you know I’m right,”

An hour and a half later, the two of you are well on your way to dessert, laughing like a couple of teenagers over pasta and steak.

He’s staring when you pull yourself together enough to look back up at him.

“What?” He smiles when you furrow your brow.

“You’re beautiful. And I don’t think I tell you enough,”

You roll your eyes.

“No,” His eyes are locked on yours, “I’m serious. You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, and you are absolutely the best mother ever.”

His fingers lace with yours, “You gave up a lot,” You immediately go to deny it, but he continues, “Don’t say you didn’t, because you did. You’re whole life changed when he was born, and you made every single sacrifice you needed to without any complaints. And I know, my life changed too, but not as much as yours did,”

His eyes hold a lot of emotions when he squeezes your hand tightly, “You’re the greatest person I know. And I love you more than anything.”

Tears well up in your eyes, but you give him a big smile, “I love him, and I love you, more than anything. All sacrifices have been far worth it.”

His phone ringing pulls both of you out of your conversation.

Jack huffs out a sigh as he digs it out of his pocket, mumbling under his breath, “The one fucking night,”

His brow creases when he sees Sadie is the one calling.

“Hey, Sadie,” You tense up in your seat immediately, she never calls when sitting. Never.

“Wow, hey. Calm down,” He keeps his composure, but the look in his eye tells you that something is wrong.

“The ER? Which one? Take him to PTMC. We’ll meet you there.”

Now you’re panicking, “Why are we going to the ER?”

Jack takes a deep breath and grabs both your hands, “He’s gonna be fine, but he took a pretty bad tumble down the stairs. Sadie said he slipped. His nose is bleeding, but he’s going to be just fine.”

You can’t tell if he’s trying to convince you or himself, but you start feeling overwhelmed.

“He fell down the stairs?” The way your voice cracks has Jack wincing. He had just taken the babygate out over the weekend.

“He’s going to be fine. Go get in the car started,” He digs his keys out of his pocket, “and I’ll take care of the check.”

You’re shaking as you stand, chest feeling tight and fingers going numb as you clutch the keys.

By the time the two of you make it to PTMC, you can tell Jack is panicking. You wish you could say something, make him feel better like he’s trying to do you, but you can’t think of anything to say.

You need to see your baby before you say anything.

“Hey,” Jack stops walking when he notices you aren’t right behind him, walking back to where you’re standing, “Hey.” His hands grab your face, “It’s a tumble down the stairs, and while it is scary, he is going to be just fine. Maybe a concussion but that’s probably it,”

You take a deep, shaky breath, “What if it’s not?”

Jack shakes his head, “He’s going to be just fine.”

A kiss on your head ends the brief moment before he grabs your hand and guides you into the ER, quickly making his way through and to the nurses station to look at the board.

E. Abbot S9

“C’mon.”

He gently guides you to the room your son is in, sighing when he sees Sadie.

“Oh thank god,” The teenager sniffles and walks over to you guys.

“I think he’s okay, they took him for a CT a bit ago-“ A sob cuts her off as she looks at you guys, “I am so, so sorry.”

“Hey,” You gently take one of her shaky hands, “it’s okay, you did everything right.”

She takes a deep breath, and nods.

“My mom is going to come pick me up, I’m gonna go wait for her in the waiting room. Please text me and let me know how he is?”

Jack nods, “Of course we will.”

You give her a tight hug before she walks off, which is perfect timing as Shen and Ellis both appear, wheeling your son though.

“Mom!”

You smile, despite the tears in your eyes, “Oh, my baby!”

You reach to hold his hand, “Are you okay?”

Shen, bless him, “Yeah, it’s a good thing for that hard Abbot head. He has a very mild concussion. I think the sitter was worried the bloody nose was from his head hitting the wall, but from looking at it, he also has bruising on his nose,”

Jack’s glaring, “What did you just say about my kids head?”

You turn and shush Jack, “You are hard headed, don’t start,”

Jack rolls his eyes before glancing down at his son, “You feel okay, bud? Neck hurt or anything?”

He shakes his head, “No and no.”

Jack nods, “Can we take him home?”

The question is directed at Shen, since Ellis is wheeling the two of you into South 9.

“Yeah, even if he wasn’t your kid, I wouldn’t think monitoring was necessary. I think the fall scared the sitter more than anything. He was awake and alert when she brought him in.”

Jack nods, “Good.”

Shen pats his shoulder, “I’ll go get the discharge paperwork.”

Jack walks in as Ellis is walking out, she smiles at him, “Best patient we’ve had all night, boss,”

Jack rolls his eyes and waves her off.

It isn’t surprising to find you laying with him in the bed, his smaller body sprawled over yours.

“Well, I guess he’s sleeping with us tonight, huh?”

The question is directed at you, but a small voice answers.

“Yes, I am.”

[deadbydemand389]

Too far away

why did i sobbed ,long but worth it

Story:Two dorks stupidly in love. Distance tries to wreck them.

Warnings⚠️:smut,fluff,language,long distance angst ,softdom boyfriend ,horny and heartbroken ,panic attacks mention ,emotional support hoodie ,filthy phone calls

“Do you really have to leave? Can’t I just sneak into your suitcase and smuggle myself out with you?” You pouted—sad was an understatement.

“You know I’d love that, baby,” Erik chuckled, “but I’d rather not end up on human trafficking posters across the country.” He laughed, but you could tell it was just as hard for him.

Erik Campbell—aka your boyfriend of two years, your personal heater, your serotonin provider—was being shipped off to Buttfuck Nowhere for some tattoo workshop his boss had bullied him into. And yeah, you were happy for him (or at least trying to be), but the thought of your apartment without him in it? Bleak. Depressing. Borderline illegal.

“Can you at least leave your dick at home? I don’t think I’ll survive without it. I’ll miss him too much.” You flopped onto the bed as he packed,  tossing clothes into his backpack like a man on the run.

He cackled. God, how were you supposed to go three whole months without that sound? You were going to go fully, irreversibly numb.

“Him? Really?” Erik raised an eyebrow. “Me and my dick are a sealed package, sweets. I’m sorry.” He hovered over you, pinning your wrists playfully above your head.

His cologne hit you first—warm, musky, stupidly good. Then the mint on his breath. Your body was already mourning his absence, and he hadn’t even left yet.

“I’ll miss you like crazy, you know that?” he whispered, kissing your neck, biting and sucking like he was trying to tattoo himself into your skin. You let out a soft moan. “Oh look,” he grinned, pulling back slightly and gesturing to the very visible bulge in his jeans, “your buddy already misses you.”

You smirked. “That’s my boy.” Two dorks, stupidly in love, laughing through the ache.

“I’ll call you when I get there, okay? And please, for the love of all things holy, send me some nudes. I’m about to be trapped with ten other dudes and exactly zero porn material.”

“You such a dork. I will.” You winked.

The moment stretched—just you and him, eye to eye, your heart already splintering down the middle.

Then his phone buzzed.

“Shit. I’m late,” he muttered, checking the screen and throwing his backpack over one shoulder. You ruffled his hair, trying not to crumple into a mess of snot and tears.

“I love you. Have a safe trip. And Erik—no dick pics while I’m at work. I’m serious. Last time, my patient saw it and nearly had another stroke.”

He smirked. “That was a great angle, to be fair. Maybe the piercing triggered it.”

You pinched his arm. “I’m serious.”

“Aww, okay okay—only balls, no cock.” He dropped his bag and leaned in, cradling your face. His lips met yours, slow and greedy, like he was trying to memorize the taste of you. His tongue grazed your lips, parting them. You melted. You bit his bottom lip, dragging a low whimper out of him. When the kiss broke, he gave you one last peck on the cheek.

“I love you, Peach.”

You squeezed his hands. “I love you too, dumbass. Now go before I change my mind and tie you to this bed forever.”

He grinned. “Honestly? Not the worst idea. Maybe I’ll stay—”

You cut him off with a finger to his lips. You knew if you let this play out another second, you’d snap and lock him in the bedroom for life. But you had to let him go. At least before the ugly crying started.

“Bye, baby.” You kissed him one last time.

“Bye, sweets.”

And just like that, he was gone. Leaving you horny, breathless, and heartbreakingly alone.

After Erik left, you got dressed and dragged yourself to work. You had the night shift at the hospital—thank god. Maybe if you kept busy, it would stop your brain from spiraling. Distraction. That was the plan. That was the only plan.

Twenty-four hours later, you were officially dead on your feet. The ER had chewed you up and spit you out. You peeled yourself out of your scrubs, took a scalding shower, pulled on one of Erik’s oversized T-shirts, and collapsed into bed.

His scent still clung to the pillow. Your eyes stung before you even realized you were crying. The ache in your chest felt like it was trying to climb up your throat and crush your windpipe.

Panic attacks were easier when Erik was around. He always knew what to do—what to say, how to hold you, how to make the world feel just a little less heavy.

Your phone buzzed. You picked it up before it could ring twice.

And just like that, the chaos in your brain quieted the moment you heard his voice.

“Hey, baby. What’re you doing? How was your shift?”

You exhaled. The knot in your chest loosened. Maybe three months wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe.

“It was fine. A ton of paperwork and, like, maybe two hours of sleep,” you murmured, already drifting.

“Oh fuck—did I wake you? I’m such an idiot. Sorry, Peach.”

You could practically hear him facepalming. Even through a speaker, he was stupidly adorable.

“No, babe. It’s okay. I just got into bed. I’m wearing your shirt, by the way,” you added with a sleepy giggle.

“You brat. You miss me that much, you’ve resorted to theft?” he laughed.

“Shut up. I left you a present in your inside pocket, by the way. Thank me later,” you mumbled, voice going soft.

“Wait—what? Hold on—” You heard frantic rustling through his bag, and smiled. He was always such a mess when he unpacked.

“HOLY FUCKING SHIT—ARE YOU SERIOUS?”

You couldn’t hold in your giggles. His reaction had you grinning like an idiot, your heart doing little summersaults.

“You’re welcome, dummy.”

While he was distracted, you’d managed to sneak in a couple of sexy Polaroids—tastefully shot, high heat, and very not iMessage-appropriate. You’d even included the lace panties you wore in the photos. Classy, thoughtful, terrifyingly effective.

“How do I tattoo this on my eyeballs? Jesus Christ,” he whispered like he was in church.

You yawned, blinking back tears—this time the tired kind.

“Go to sleep, babe,” he said gently. “I love you.”

His voice was so soft, so close, you couldn’t tell if he was on the phone or just in your head.

“I love you more,” you whispered.

And just like that, you were gone— floating in the scent of him, wrapped in his shirt, with the ghost of his voice holding you through the night.

ERIK’S POV

The call ended, and for a moment, Erik just sat there—on the shitty motel bed in the middle of Nowhere, USA—staring at the Polaroid in his hand like it was sacred text.

Jesus. You were unreal.

He set the photo on the nightstand, very gently, like it might self-destruct if he moved too fast. The panties were tucked safely in his hoodie pocket now—he was never taking that hoodie off again. Not even for fire safety.

He leaned back, running a hand through his already-messy hair, exhaling like he'd just survived a war.

Three months.

What the hell had he done agreeing to this stupid workshop? Oh right—his boss, with that whole “it’ll be good exposure, Erik” crap. If exposure meant sharing a bunkhouse with ten other tattoo artists who all snored like dying lawnmowers and argued about needle brands at 6 a.m., then yeah. Exposure was thriving.

But you? You were home.

Even over the phone, he could hear how tired you were. He could practically see you curled up in bed wearing his shirt, all soft and sleepy, with those barely-there moans when you yawned. It made something ache deep in his chest.

He missed you. Already. Stupid hard. And not just in the horny way (though, let's be clear, he was one lace-panty whiff away from going feral).

No, he missed the tiny things.

Your awful morning coffee that somehow always tasted like burnt hope and yet he still drank it. The way you’d steal all the blankets and then wrap yourself around him like a very needy, very warm octopus. The way you'd hum under your breath when you were concentrating—he swore it was his favorite sound on Earth.

He stared at the ceiling. This room felt too empty. Too quiet.

The pillow didn’t smell like you. That alone should’ve been illegal.

He rolled onto his side, pulled out his phone, and opened his camera. Snapped a blurry, shirtless selfie with the Polaroid blurred in the background and his dumb smirk front and center.

Caption: Missing you so bad I’m talking to your panties. Pray for me.

He saved it, didn’t send it. Not yet. You were asleep. He didn’t want to risk waking you again, even if part of him wanted to keep hearing your voice on loop.

Instead, he opened his Notes app and typed:

“Things to Do When I Get Back:” – Binge-watch that shitty detective show you love (no complaints, even during the sex scenes) – Take you to that sushi place you keep hinting about – Let you steal all my shirts, no arguments – Make up for three months of lost time in bed. (Bring Gatorade.) – Tell you again and again and again: I love you, I missed you, you’re it for me

He looked at it for a moment. Smiled to himself like a complete idiot.

Then he buried his face in your panties and groaned dramatically into the pillow.

This was going to be the longest three months of his entire goddamn life.

It had only been three weeks.

JUST THREE FUCKING WEEKS.

You thought keeping busy would help. You picked up extra shifts, reorganized the kitchen (twice), binge-watched two seasons of that drama Erik hated (“They’re not even real detectives, babe”), and even tried meditating. You lasted five minutes before crying yourself to reality.

Everywhere you looked, Erik was there—in the dent he left on the couch, the stupid chipped mug he insisted was “aesthetic,” the half-full cologne bottle by the sink that you kept sniffing like it was cocaine.

You missed him so bad your bones hurt.

Even worse? Nights.

You couldn't sleep. Not properly. The bed was too big, the silence too loud, and your body too used to being wrapped in his stupid, clingy octopus limbs. Without him breathing next to you, it felt like the world was slightly tilted. Off-balance. Wrong.

And the panic attacks? Yeah. Those were back. You had one in the breakroom on day five. Curled up in your locker like a wet cat, texting Erik things like “I hate this” and “I need you” while tears smudged your eyeliner into raccoon territory.

He texted back instantly, always did. But it wasn’t the same. It wasn’t him.

You even started talking to his pillow like it was an actual person.

"God, I’m losing it,” you muttered one night, clutching your phone, hoping he'd call before you completely short-circuited.

And when he finally did, you answered on the first ring, voice cracked and sleepy and desperate.

ERIK’S POV – ONE MONTH WITHOUT YOU

He was unraveling.

Every day was hell, and not even in a dramatic, poetic way. Just... mundane, miserable hell. The bunkhouse smelled like Axe body spray and chili dogs, some dude named Kyle snored like a freight train, and someone stole his shampoo. Twice.

He hadn’t eaten a vegetable in two weeks.

But none of that compared to the you-shaped void following him everywhere.

He missed you in the morning when he didn’t get to kiss your temple before you rushed off to save lives. He missed you at night when he lay in bed scrolling through your old texts, rereading them like they were scripture. He missed you in the shower, where the water was too hot and no longer smelled like your vanilla conditioner.

He was being weird. Fully aware. He was sleeping in the hoodie you gave him even though it was 80 degrees in the room. He kissed the Polaroid you gave him goodnight. Once, in a moment of weakness, he pulled the panties out just to feel closer to you, then immediately scolded himself like, “Jesus, Erik, get a grip. This isn’t a damn romance novel.”

But then he got your texts. The ones where you sounded small. Frayed. Like you were falling apart just like he was.

And he cracked.

He called you even though it was late. He couldn’t go another night without hearing your voice. When you picked up and whispered a broken, “Hey,” he wanted to climb through the phone and hold you so tight the world disappeared.

“Baby,” he breathed. “I miss you so fucking much.”

You sniffled. “I think I’m going insane. I cried in the freezer aisle today. I saw your favorite ice cream and lost it.”

He smiled softly, eyes stinging. “That’s fair. I saw someone wearing your perfume at the grocery store and almost proposed.”

You both laughed, a little brokenly, through the ache.

He lay on his bed, listening to your breathing even after you fell asleep, your voice fading mid-sentence. He didn’t hang up. Just pressed the phone to his chest like a lifeline.

SEXTING & SOBBING (A MASTERCLASS IN FAILING AT LONG-DISTANCE)

You: You were curled up on the couch, swaddled in a blanket like a burrito of despair, eating peanut butter straight out of the jar with a baby spoon. Erik hadn’t texted in two hours—two whole hours. That was basically a week in long-distance time.

Finally, your phone buzzed. Erik : “Hey sexy. You alone?”

You raised an eyebrow, wiped a peanut butter smudge from your lip. You knew that tone.

You: “Alone, pantsless, and dangerously close to crying to a rom-com.”

Erik : “Hot. Let’s pretend I’m there. What would you do if I was?”

Okay. So that’s what we’re doing.

You squirmed a little, warmth blooming in your belly. You wanted him so bad it physically hurt. So you gave in.

You: “I’d sit on your lap and grind real slow, just to torture you.”

Erik : “Fuck. Keep going.”

You giggled, slipping a hand under your shirt, playing with your own chest like he would.

You: “Then I’d pull off your shirt, kiss down your chest, tongue over that tattoo I love…”

Erik : “I’m getting hard. Jesus. My roommate just walked in, I’m going to kill him.”

You laughed, then bit your lip, typing out something hotter—

But then you saw his jacket hanging by the door.The one that smelled like him. And just like that, your throat tightened, your eyes welled up, and the tears started leaking without permission.

You: “I miss you.” “Like… ache-in-my-ribs miss you.”

Erik : Typing... then nothing. Then: “Babe…”

You: “I want to fuck you but I also want to cry into your chest and eat pasta while we watch cartoons.”

Erik : “Same.”

You: “I’m a disaster.”

Erik : “You’re MY disaster.” “Let’s just cry and masturbate in sync. Soulmates shit.”

And that’s how your sexy night ended—with a mutual emotional breakdown, one ruined vibrator, and Erik softly whispering “I love you” through FaceTime while you wore his jacket and ugly-sobbed into your pillow.

10/10. Romance is alive and well.

ERIK: It was a Thursday. A normal, boring-ass Thursday. Until it wasn’t.

It started with him dropping his machine mid-session. His hand was shaking. Because the last text he got from you was: “I had a panic attack in the breakroom again. I just want to go home. But home feels empty without you.”

He’d read it twelve times.

Then Kyle—the human garbage disposal who he shared a room with—made some offhand joke about “you still being hot without the crying,” and Erik nearly decked him.

That was it. That was the breaking point.

He walked out of the studio, got into his rental car, and drove straight to the airport. No plan. No luggage. No return ticket.

He got as far as the ticket counter.

“Where to?” the airline clerk asked.

“Home,” he said. His voice cracked on it. He coughed. “I mean—Boston.”

The lady raised an eyebrow, tapped the keyboard. “Next flight’s in three hours. ID and card?”

Erik stood there, frozen. Three hours. That was nothing. He could do it. He could surprise you, show up at your door with a bag of takeout and that dumb grin you always called “trouble face.”

His phone buzzed.

It was a selfie from you—no makeup, eyes puffy, holding a cup of instant noodles and wearing his hoodie. Caption: “I miss you like air. Be proud—I haven’t fallen apart today. Yet.”

He stared at the screen. His grip tightened.

And then he turned around.

Back to the car. Back to the bunkhouse. Back to the fucking chili dog–scented nightmare.

Because he loved you enough to keep going. To not blow it all up just because he was hurting. Because you needed him to finish this. To prove that you were both strong enough to survive three months apart.

He could cry later.

Right now, he needed to send you a text.

Erik : “I was literally about to board a plane. Your hoodie photo saved me from losing my job.” “I love you, Peach. You’re my home. I’ll be back soon. Promise.”

BAD OMENS, “WHO ARE YOU,” AND A GODDAMN MIRACLE

It had been two and a half months.

You weren’t sure how you’d made it this far without Erik. Probably a combo of sheer willpower, unhealthy coping mechanisms, and late-night FaceTimes that ended in “I love you more, no I love you more,” until one of you passed out.

Then the Bad Omens tickets came.

Your favorite band. His favorite band.

You’d bought them together, months ago, on the floor of your apartment, high on pizza and each other, screaming when you saw the pre-sale went live. You were supposed to go together. You couldn’t imagine it any other way.

But now?

Now he was 1,200 miles away. Still stuck in Tattoo Bootcamp.

You almost didn’t go. You’d sat on your bed for hours, the ticket clutched in your hand, crying into his hoodie and whispering, “I’ll go next time. When he’s here.”

Then your phone buzzed.

Erik : “Baby, you HAVE to go.” “I know it hurts, but you need this. I’m there with you, in every fucking beat, okay?” “Scream for me. Cry if you want. Just go. Don’t let us miss this.”

So you went.

Alone.

The arena was packed, vibrating with energy, everyone screaming lyrics and losing their minds. But you felt like a ghost—surrounded, but alone.

Then the lights dimmed. Smoke curled around the stage. The crowd started to hush.

You felt it before you heard it.

The first soft, aching chords of “Who Are You” started to play.

Your chest cracked wide open.

That was your song. The one that played in the background the first night Erik said he loved you, voice shaking. The one that always made you look at each other like no one else in the world existed.

And now, it was playing without him.

Tears slipped down your cheeks. You tried to wipe them away, but the flood was coming. Your lip trembled. You wrapped your arms around yourself.

Then— A hand brushed lightly against your waist. Warm. Familiar.

And a voice, low and rough, whispered in your ear:

“I told you I’d be with you in every beat. I just didn’t say it’d be in person.”

Your heart stopped.

Your brain screamed.

You whipped around so fast you almost fell. And there he was.

Erik.

Grinning like a damn fool, eyes glassy, hair messy from travel, wearing the same hoodie you used to cry into.

“I—I thought you couldn’t—I mean—you were—” You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t believe.

He grabbed your face with both hands and kissed you like the world was on fire and you were the last safe place.

The crowd exploded around you, but in that moment, it was just you and him and Noah Sebastian’s voice echoing the exact pain and love sitting in your chest.

When he finally pulled back, breathless, he whispered against your lips:

“I couldn’t miss this. Couldn’t miss you. I got on a red-eye the moment they let me go early. I’d have walked here if I had to.”

You were full-on sobbing now, holding onto him like he might disappear again.

“I hate you,” you whispered into his chest. “I love you. But I hate you.”

He laughed, kissed the top of your head.

“I love you too, Peach. So much it made me stupid.”

Then you screamed the rest of the song together, wrapped up in each other, lost in the music and the madness and the miracle of finding home again—right there, in the middle of a crowd of strangers, with your hearts finally back in the same place.

POST-CRY DINER CUDDLES & EMOTIONAL WORD VOMIT

You didn’t let go of Erik’s hand for a second.

Not through the crowd.

Not down the sidewalk, past buzzing post-show fans.

Not even when you slid into the squeaky red booth at the all-night diner down the street.

You were still in your concert high and emotional coma all at once. Erik looked just as wrecked—eyeliner smudged (yes, he wore eyeliner for your concert), hoodie stained with some kind of beer, eyes still pink.

You both just stared at each other across the booth for a minute, breathing like two people who had survived something massive. Because you had.

He reached across the table and grabbed your hand.

“Do you know,” he said, voice hoarse, “how close I was to completely falling apart when you turned around? Like, actual chest-cracking-level shit.”

You laughed. “You? I nearly blacked out. I thought I was hallucinating you from emotional dehydration and raw vocals.”

You both laughed—half-giddy, half on the verge of another breakdown. The waitress came by and neither of you could read the menu, so you just mumbled “fries, milkshake, whatever you got, please help us.”

Erik scooted around to your side of the booth and pulled you into him, arms around your shoulders, forehead against your temple.

“I watched that whole song from behind you,” he whispered. “I saw the way your shoulders shook, how you clenched your fists.”

You didn’t say anything. Just buried your face into his hoodie.

“I had to hold back so hard not to grab you the second it started,” he added. “But then you cried, and I couldn’t—I couldn’t let you stand there like that anymore.”

You whispered into his chest, “That was the worst and best surprise of my entire life. You realize I’m going to propose to you one day purely because of this, right?”

“Peach,” he murmured, eyes wide. “Don’t threaten me with a good time.”

You both laughed, but the air around you had shifted.

The ache was still there, but the relief of having him here—real, warm, smelling like sweat and salvation—was washing over it.

Then the fries arrived. And you devoured them like two wolves who’d just survived an apocalypse.

LATER – RECKLESS, EMOTIONAL, STARVING-FOR-TOUCH SEX

You barely made it through your apartment door.

Erik kicked it shut behind you, pressing you against it with all the desperation of someone who hadn’t felt you in seventy-five days and some change.

Your hands were already under his hoodie. His mouth was on your neck. It wasn’t slow or gentle. It was messy. Clumsy. Starved.

Clothes came off like they were on fire. You tripped over each other trying to make it to the bed but collapsed halfway there, tangled in limbs and kisses and breathless moans.

“I missed you,” you gasped as he kissed down your chest.

“I dreamed of this,” he whispered into your skin. “Every night. I’d wake up hard and aching and alone—fuck, I missed you.”

He took his time, even in the chaos. Mouth on every inch of skin he could reach. Hands like he was relearning you from memory, mapping every curve, every scar, every place that made you gasp.

You clawed at his back, pulled him in closer, whispering his name like a prayer between moans.

When he finally slid inside you, you both froze.

It was too much. Too good. Too real.

You locked eyes, tears threatening again—not from sadness this time, but the overwhelming weight of having each other again. Of surviving the storm.

Erik held your face like it was holy. “I love you. I’m so fucking in love with you, it hurts.”

“I love you more,” you whispered, voice breaking as he started to move. “Don’t let go. Please don’t let go.”

“Never,” he promised, and sealed it with a kiss so deep you forgot where your body ended and his began.

The rest of the night blurred—slow, then fast, breathy laughter between filthy moans, skin slapping, hands gripping, hips grinding, and love thick in the air like smoke.

You came apart under him with a cry of his name. He followed not long after, trembling against your chest, whispering “home, home, home,” over and over.

AFTERMATH – THE SILENCE THAT MEANT EVERYTHING

You lay tangled in the sheets, both sticky and breathless, limbs draped across each other like anchors.

Erik kissed your forehead.

You whispered, “Please don’t leave again.”

He looked you in the eyes, tired but glowing.

“Never. Not unless you’re coming with me next time.”

And in that silence that followed, you both just breathed.

Together. Whole. Home.

THE MORNING AFTER – DOMESTIC, STUPIDLY IN LOVE, & STARVING FOR PANCAKES

You woke up slowly, the way you do when everything finally feels safe again.

Warm breath tickled your neck. A heavy arm was draped across your waist, a leg thrown haphazardly over yours, and someone—Erik—was dead-asleep, mouth slightly open, mumbling nonsense against your skin.

You turned slowly to face him.

He was a mess.

Hair everywhere, lashes resting on flushed cheeks, a faint mark from your pillow across his forehead, and a little trail of dried drool on the corner of his mouth.

You smiled. You were done for.

His eyes cracked open just enough to catch you staring.

“Are you watching me sleep like a creep?” he rasped, voice wrecked and gravelly and—god help you—stupidly hot.

You whispered, “No. Shut up.”

He smirked, then kissed your nose like it was his religion. “I love you.”

“You’re disgusting,” you said, but it came out as, I missed you so much I could explode right now.

You lay there like that for a while. No rush. No alarms. Just skin on skin and fingers tracing lazy patterns on backs and hips and arms. Erik kissed your shoulder every few minutes like he couldn’t believe you were real.

Eventually, your stomach growled like a wild animal.

He chuckled, eyes still half-closed. “Is that your soul leaving your body?”

“I need pancakes. Or you’ll lose me forever.”

He groaned and rolled out of bed dramatically. “Fine. But only because I need to rehydrate after that olympic-level sex marathon you subjected me to.”

You threw a pillow at him. He dodged, naked and proud. “I’ll wear an apron and nothing else. It’s what you deserve.”

“You’ll burn your dick on the stove again.”

“That happened once.”

You followed him into the kitchen, both of you in underwear, looking like half-conscious trash goblins and feeling like the happiest idiots alive.

While Erik clumsily whipped together pancake batter (spilling flour like it was glitter), you leaned against the doorway and just watched him.

Then your eyes landed on the shelf near the fridge. A frame sat there now, small and unassuming.

The Polaroid.

The one you’d snuck into his backpack—the reason he almost got kicked out of the workshop for “inappropriate groaning during team breakfast.” The one he’d kissed every night like a love letter.

He noticed your gaze and followed it.

“Oh my god,” he whispered, walking over. “You framed it?”

You nodded shyly. “It reminded me of you. Of us. Even when we were apart.”

He picked it up, held it to his chest like it was a heartbeat. Then he kissed you, slow and gentle.

“You’re a menace,” he murmured. “And I want to be married to that menace someday.”

You blinked. “Wait. Was that a proposal?”

He shrugged with a grin. “Maybe. Who knows. Could’ve just been pancake brain talking.”

You grabbed a spoon. “Say it again and I’ll make sure pancake brain never walks again.”

He cackled, hands up in surrender.

And just like that, you were dancing in your tiny kitchen, tangled in each other, burning pancakes on the stove, completely in love, and entirely whole again.

A FEW WEEKS LATER – THE PROPOSAL (OR, “HOW ERIK COULD NOT Wait Another Second”)

You weren’t expecting anything.

It was just another lazy Sunday—your favorite kind. You and Erik were on the couch, tangled up in a sea of blankets, your legs on his lap, both pretending to watch a movie but mostly just trading forehead kisses and dumb jokes.

You had a mouthful of popcorn when he said it:

“So I’ve been carrying this ring around like an absolute psycho.”

You froze mid-chew. Slowly turned toward him.

“What?”

He was dead serious. Too serious. Like you’d caught him confessing to murder.

He pulled something out of his front pocket. Small. Velvet. Box-shaped.

You choked. “Are you—”

“I was gonna wait,” he said quickly, nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. “Like, for something cool. On the beach. Or with fireworks. Or whatever Pinterest says you’re supposed to do.”

You just blinked. Popcorn halfway to your mouth.

“But I can’t,” he admitted, eyes locked on yours. “I literally can’t wait. I think about it every night when you fall asleep with your mouth open next to me. I think about it when you steal all the hot water and call it feminism. I think about it when you wear my hoodie backwards like a gremlin and ask me if your butt looks good while brushing your teeth.”

You laughed, heart racing, mouth dry.

“Babe—”

“Peach,” he cut in, softer now. “I’m in love with every single version of you. The broken ones. The brilliant ones. The panic-attack-in-the-grocery-aisle ones. All of them. And I don’t want another day where I don’t get to call you my actual, legal, fully-recognized-by-the-state dumbass partner in life.”

He opened the box.

Inside: a ring.

Simple. Silver. A black diamond. Classic Erik—bold, not flashy, beautiful in its own way.

“Will you marry me?” he whispered. “Like, for real? As in, I get to legally be the guy who brings you soup when you’re sick and kisses you before you yell at customer service?”

You were crying before he even finished.

You tackled him onto the couch, kissing him so hard he dropped the ring box between the cushions. You didn't care.

“Yes,” you breathed against his lips, smiling through your tears. “Yes, you absolute idiot. Of course I’ll marry you.”

“Fuck,” he grinned, pulling you tighter. “I was so scared. I thought you were gonna say, ‘I’m too young to be a wife, I barely keep my plants alive.’”

“I don’t keep my plants alive,” you sniffled. “That’s why I need you. You’re the adult in this relationship.”

“Oh god help us,” he groaned.

You both laughed, wrapped in each other, fully in love, half-covered in popcorn.

Somewhere under the couch, the ring glinted between the cushions—waiting for one of you to retrieve it.

But right now? You were too busy making out with your future husband to care.

[celestiliall]

Dealing With A Runaway Cat ── .✦

Synopsis: you, a renowned Crysos heir, having abandoned your duty of supporting the Flame-chase journey in order to pursue your own, decided to pay a little visit to Castrum Kremnos. Little did you know that this would be one of the rare moments where the ferocious lion would pursue your tail from behind.

Walking into the ruins of the once-glorified city who worshipped the God of Strife, Nikador, your eyes sparkled with mischief upon finding numerous of treasures left behind by those city dwellers who had to flee when the Black Tide struck. Now, it was only you and your beloved treasures waiting to be collected.

Being a thief whilst having catlike abilities has its own capabilities, being able to sneak past from others easily without being noticed, not having to worry if anyone could catch up with you—not if you were already aware of their presence running toward you. This way, you would be able to flee even before they walked in where your presence lingered moments prior.

And even if they did manage to corner you... well, let's just hope they would be able to keep up with your speeding ability of a cat~

Like what the prophecy had foretold, you were one of the few selected people who was blessed with golden blood and the ones who would take part in the Flame-chase journey, defeating the Titans and bring back the Twelve Coreflames with your companions for the world to start anew.

—or that was how it was supposed to go; you never cared about the Flame-chase journey, and would rather indulge yourself by wasting your limited years stealing treasures from different cities, having been faced with the cruel reality of not having anything since you were little, forcing you to grow up selfish in order to have everything, everything except for what your heart truly desired...

Companionship.

Humming with a satisfied tune, your heels echoed throughout the grounds of the dead city, feeling your heart swelled up with elation after collecting some of the treasures and putting them into your sack of bag behind your shoulder.

Having been satisfied with today's discovery, you decided to end your adventure and continue tomorrow; in another city. Looking around the chilling sights of the city, your vision spotted something that looked... Out of place.

It wasn't something extraordinary in particular, just an abandoned necklace sitting a few meters away from the other treasures that were nearby.

Of course, objects randomly lying around in an abandoned city isn't uncommon, given that the owner might have been in a rush prioritizing their life to care about their expensive accessory from falling—but something about this exquisite jewelry spoke something of a hidden intention devised by someone in order to catch your eyes...

Before you know it, your figure had already approached the necklace who was waiting to be picked up by someone, crouching down in order to take in the design. Despite appearing expensive, the jewelry had already lost its former touch of good qualities, as if having been washed up by the shore long enough for it to look as damaged as this.

Nevertheless, a treasure is still a treasure—no matter what kind of form it had taken. So, with a hint of curiosity in your eyes, your hand reached out to take the necklace into your possession. But before you could even as hope to touch the piece of jewelry, your ears caught wind to the sound of footsteps.

Someone is coming.

And judging by the volume of their steps, you could assume that they were already nearby.

How? With your enhanced hearing ability, you would've figured that someone was here even before they were in a close distance from reaching you. So how was it that this person managed to escape your sharp senses?

And something about the sound of the heavy footsteps, it reminded you of someone who used to chase you down whenever you head off to steal something...

Oh crap, it's definitely a trap!

Abandoning your previous task at hand, you ignored the necklace and was about to get up and use the chance to flee as quickly as possible—but then something yanked you by the back of your hoodie even before you managed to scramble away, or rather, someone.

The action elicited an almost sharp yelp resembling that of a cat from you, being forced to stand up with your feet losing the feeling of the ground. Then, a familiar grumble from someone was heard, still keeping you in a vulnerable state of being manhandled.

"Hmph... Found you."

Recognizing the familiar and husky tone from none other than the strawberry blonde-haired man standing behind you, you inaudibly sighed.

"If I didn't know any better, I would've assumed that you were the ancient Zagreus themself for being able to escape my sharp senses into tricking me, Mydei."

"Even without the power of Trickery or Time, I would've still been able to know where you were exactly heading, given that we had these exact moments before together."

That answer received a frustrated groan from you, now being dragged away with a single hand like what a mother cat would do whenever it picked up its child from the ground with its mouth.

"You're coming with me. No more running away from your duty, else I will have to use a different method next time I have to drag you back again."

Lesson learned.

No matter how a cat managed to swiftly escape from the others' watch silently, it can never escape the sharp instinct of a ferocious lion searching for its prey.

Heh, not that you would stay being dragged until reaching Okhema.

[spikesbunny]

can u draw law (finally) hooking up w/ his long-time ally/acquintance but didnt know reader was mtf and just stares at the dick for a while then carries or smth

+ an: i was torn between making law experienced or unexperienced, so i went with my personal favorite (virgin law)!! also apologies, i know i said i write mtf reader, but dicks are not my specialty </3

minors DNI!

trafalgar law had his eyes on you. ever since you stepped onto his ship 10 years ago, offering to be his nurse.

there was something about you, so appealing. maybe your style? the way your hair cascaded over your shoulders? the piercings you had lining your face?

maybe it was your voice. sweet, alluring.

it was gross. the way he felt about you, sitting in his room, jerking himself off to fucking anatomical diagrams of female reproductive organs. he was a doctor, for fucks sake! and your captain!! this was unprofessional on the highest level.

never had law ever been this pathetic over a crewmate. you probably didn't even want him!!! sure, you were sweeter to him than the others on the crew, but you probably just wanted to warm up to your captain. and that sent blood flowing to the wrong places.

fortunately, it was another late night, and you were long gone. hopefully asleep, safe and sound. he hoped you were. he couldn't afford to loose you - not only as a dear friend, but also because he was disgustingly infatuated with you.

law was confident he knew everything about you - or at least, most. not only was he your best friend, but a doctor too. he could solve any problem you had.

minus the fact he gets a hard-on every time he ends up checking your wounds after a battle.

his heart jumps into his throat as footsteps make their way down the hallway, coming towards his office. he sighs, brushing a hand over his face, making a (weak) attempt to focus back on his paperwork and stop fucking day dreaming.

"who is it?" he calls, his tone stern. until he sees you in his doorway. "shit... hey... can't sleep?"

"somethin like that." you coo, making your way over to him. "law, you know its late... get some sleep." you whisper to him, and in that minute he knows he's a goner. his dick twitches to life, and he shifts uncomfortably in the seat.

"it needs to get done."

"lemme stay here then" you ask, settling yourself down onto his lap without a warning. he swallows a moan, nodding, trying to remain nonchalant as he works away.

law's facade fails when you shift your hips, earning a whimper. you turn back, meeting his eyes. "law.. you good??"

law looses it. he can't, he can't lie to you, can't ignore the way his heart pangs when he sees you. "can i eat you out?" he ask.

your face flushes. out of both lust and embarrassment. this is gonna be hard to break to him

"law uhm... no."

"huh?" he pauses, before looking guilty. "shit, im sorry.... hope this didnt make things weir-"

"no, not no you can't, but literally you can't. i wasn't born a girl." you confess."

he blinks. "ohhh... can i suck your dick then?" he ask.

you chuckle, amused by his boldness.

"sure. why not." he sighs, shaky hands moving to set you atop his desk, hands making quick work of your bottoms. he pulls off your pretty panties - a cute touch, he thinks to himself - swallowing at the sight of your dick.

"fuck... uhm... how do i suck dick?" he ask.

right. he was a virgin. "oh, right. uhm..." you grab his face, bringing him down. you press your tip to his lips, watching him slowly take it in. you sigh breathily, giving him a soft 'good'. "use some tongue, and if ya can't fit it all, use yer hands."

he nods around you, slowly lowering his head down, messy and uncoordinated with his movements, slowly starting to gain confidence.

sure, he wasn't the best. but it was the fact he was the one giving you head that made it feel so good. your hand wraps around his hair, pressing him further down, tip hitting his throat and earning a soft whine from his lips.

law whimpers and moans around you, dick twitching and ready to cum just from pleasing you. sure, it wasn't what he had imagined, but fuck, he would kill for this to be a reoccurring thing.

"so close" you groan, pushing him down further, before spilling hot seed down his throat.

law eagerly swallows, pulling off and licking his lips. "w-was that good?" he whispers, eyes teary and meeting yours, seeking your approval.

you nod, bringing him up to kiss his lips. "mhm. perfect."

"now... what should i teach ya next?"

©2025 spikesbunny- please do not repost/translate my works on other media sites ♡

[chimielie]

“Today,” Atsumu announces imperiously, “is the first day of summer.”

“Not until the twentieth,” you say, not turning away from the omelet you’re folding carefully in the pan. You should add “no early morning dramatic declarations” to the list of roommate rules tacked up on the fridge, but you know it would join “no volleyball in the house” and “no drinking on weeknights.” You also know that, like the latter two, the ignorance of the rules would not be entirely Atsumu’s fault. “Please do not be so stupid when it’s so early and I am so, so hungover.”

“Really?” Atsumu’s voice is as bright as his hair. “I feel fine.”

“That’s because,” you roll your eyes as you turn around, sliding the omelet around in the pan in a practiced maneuver as you prepare to flip it. “You have a ridiculously athlet—”

The omelet splatters on the ground.

The hand that’s not holding the now-empty pan comes up and slaps over your eyes, even as you peek through your own fingers.

“It’s the first day of summer,” Atsumu says, clearly pleased to have your full attention and then some. “Because I found my hot boy summer shorts.”

The inseam can’t be longer than five inches. The sun has kissed him all over; with a shudder of disgust (that’s what you’ll call it), you realize you want to too. What a horrifying concept. You’re already mentally carving a place in your to-do list for it.

“Those are obscene,” you say. “What is a hot boy summer? You are not a hot boy. You are an average man.” You are clinging to the edge of a cliff and he is prising your fingers off one by one.

“They’re a little tighter than they were in high school,” he says thoughtfully, flexing his thighs. One, then the other. Then both. The seams are going to pop. Those poor shorts are going to bust. You gape at him, caught between terror and hope.

“What is wrong with you? What is your problem?” You demand, the pretense of hiding behind your hands dropping.

“You’re bein’ mean,” he complains. “You don’t like my shorts?”

“I hate them. Take them off,” you say imperiously. You are going to fire him from being your roommate if he wears those around you ever again. You are going to vote him off the island. You are going to do something so, so inadvisable, and embarrassing, and un-undoable.

“Fine,” he shrugs, and hooks a thumb into his waistband.

“Not what I meant!” You shriek. Your volume startles even yourself and you cringe at the desperate scratch of your voice. His thumb is still just under the fabric, which is forcing your gaze along his hand to his loosely curled, long, lithe fingers, and then to—

Oh, sweet corn on a cob, how did you miss seeing that. You cover your eyes again.

“Are you alright?” He asks. You turn around and face the cabinets with your hands still over your face. You can tell from his tone that he knows the direction of your thoughts. And your line of vision.

“No. You made me spill my omelet.”

“I didn’t make you do anything,” he says. “You did that on your own.”

“It was your fault. Walking around my home looking like a slut—”

“Our home,” he corrects. You splutter wordlessly. When you turn around, he’s standing over you, a smirk toying with his mouth, his eyes dropped to half-mast. You keep your head up, gaze fixed firmly on his face. “Are you objectifyin’ me?”

“No,” you say, eyes dropping. You raise them again with Herculean force. “No. I think of you as a whole person with your own thoughts and-and decisions—“

As you speak, Atsumu steps toward you. You step back.

“What if I decide to do this?” He murmurs, putting a hand on your cheek. He’s warm, like he just stepped out of the sun. “Your face is awful hot.”

“I’ve fallen terribly ill,” you say. “If I faint, you may need to catch me.”

He’s caged you against the counter. You panic, groping to the side to turn off the stove.

“Gonna faint from seein’ my ankles, huh,” he looks supremely self-satisfied, leaning back momentarily to admire the much-more-than-just-the-ankles he has on display.

You seize your chance and lift the hem of your shirt with both hands, pulling it up to your chin.

He stops and reels back, eyes bugging out of his head. You make a break for it, pushing past his arm and running down the hall.

“Oh, you are gonna get it when I catch ya,” he shouts after you, thought he’s still rubbing his eyes in a daze when you glance back.

You laugh to yourself, slowing to a stop just around the corner, out of his line of sight.

The weather forecast is looking like the season is taking a turn for the hotter in your apartment.

[yup-thats-me]

—smitten • Y. Jeong

𐙚pairing; ❝bf!Yunho x gf!reader❞ 𐙚summary; ❝Yunho yearns for you and maybe his prayers will be answered❞ 𐙚warnings; ❝hurt comfort❞ 𐙚a/n; ❝its not that well-written, but I do hope you like this nonnie<3❞

⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡

"I swear I'm going to smother you in kisses till you die," Yunho groans into the call. "Just let me get back."

Y/n giggles at her boyfriend's frustration. "Awe, but it's still three weeks away, love," she teasse.

"Don't. Remind. Me." He threatens with a tight-lipped smile.

How many times has it been that Yunho had to leave you for tours? Countless. Being together for four years and yet your hearts yearned like the first time he had left all those years ago.

"I'll be back before you can say "I love you,'" Yunho had said at the airport then, eyes teary but still trying to make you laugh.

But now, some would say the two have gained experience, that you two would be used to the distance, but no. One really can't get used to that, Y/n would argue.

So when her man left for tour again, it still ached. Even if there were no tears shed this time, the atmosphere was still heavy. Heavy when Yunho had kissed Y/n goodbye just before boarding the plane. And the call after landing was heavy too.

Sighing deeply, Yunho shakes his head. "Anyway, how was your day, baby?" he tries to change the subject.

Y/n smiled at the man, heart feeling all warm and fuzzy. Even when he was sad, he still tried to make her smile and that made the girl yearn for him even more.

"Yunho," Seonghwa calls out as he enters the room. The older one smiling when he hears Y/n talking on speaker. "Hey, Y/n!"

Y/n calls back, voice cheery. "Hwa, hello!"

Yunho smiles as the two of you chat before he remembers. "What is it, hyung?"

Seonghwa too had forgotten why he was here while talking to Y/n about the stupid things they were doing. He hits Yunho once he remembers. "The delivery is here!''

Yunho groans again, tipping his head back against the chair. "WHy can't Wooyoung go to pick it up?"

"You lost, remember?"

"Oh?" Y/n asks. "What delivery, yuyu?"

Seonghwa answers for him. "Just some food, Y/n," he glares at Yunho before speaking to Y/n again. "Your man's getting all lazy, ya know!"

Yunho chuckles. "Can't blame me, hyung. My powerhouse is not here," he pouts.

Y/n giggles on the other end at her boyfriend's antics.

"I have to hang up! Bye!"

And silence. Yunho stares at the blank screen, blinking. "What? No 'I love you's'?" he mumbles.

Seonghwa smirks, hitting him playfully on his head. "You can call her later, loverboy. Get the delivery."

Without a choice, Yunho sighs as he gets up. "You guys' gonna kill me, making me do all the work round here," he mutters like an old man as he leaves the room.

As soon as Seonghwa heard the hotel room click, Seonghwa quickly runs to the other's room, calling them to come down. The men, read that as two child San and Wooyoung, and other men, they take the stairs, silently rushing down the building, phone already in hand.

Yunho stands on the road with a hand resting on his waist as he looks around for the delivery man. In fact, what delivery? The street was as empty as his heart without Y/n, Yunho thinks.

Then a call from an unknown number. "Hello."

"..."

"Hello? Is it the food delivery?" Yunho tries again.

Then the other person speaks. "Turn around," their voice is incredibly deep, Yunho notes.

"Where?" He asks when he turned to his left.

"No, on your right."

Yunho turns again to avail. "I can't see you man! You're messing with me–"

"You can't see me, yuyu?"

The voice came from his back. Turning around in a flash, Yunho almost drops to his knees when he sees Y/n standing there in sweats and a cap covering her pretty face. Even if Yunho can't see her face, he'll be damned if he mistakes the love of his life for some stranger.

It's really her.

As if to be assured of it, Yunho takes slow steps towards her. He gently lifts up the cap, breathing sharply as her face comes in full view.

Yunho hugs her close, spinning in circles as he did so. "You're here!" He excalaims, "Why are you here?!"

Y/n giggles, hitting him on the chest. "You don't want me here?"

"May I be damned for ever thinking that," Yunho says in all seriousness.

When he finally sets you down, Yunho was just inches from your lips when the sudden commotion of men cheering from the building stops him.

"Guys!"

The group erupts in cheer, jumping as if they were the ones getting married. Wingmen for life for sure.

Yunho laughs as he makes an attempt at hiding you from their cameras. "No point, dude," San laughs.

"Got that on camera," added Yeosang.

"The perfect blackmail material. He's so smitten!"

And Yunho swears to the heavens above that he is indeed, smitten with you. And forever will be.

do not copy, steal or translate my work on any other sites. All rights belongs to yup-thats-me™ on tumblr

⋆｡°✩reqs are open⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡

[demie90s]

Imagine Azzi Fudd and the reader being secretly together during the season. They keep sneaking glances and moments behind closed doors, but a teammate catches them kissing in the locker room.

Behind Closed Doors

Azzi Fudd x fem!reader

MASTERLIST | MORE

Summary: Azzi and I kept it quiet—late-night talks, soft kisses when no one was around.

Warnings: Secret relationship, locker room kiss, caught in the act, soft tension

Word count: ~ 0.6k

I knew we were getting sloppy the second Azzi touched my hand on the bench during warmups.

It wasn’t big. Not even noticeable to anyone else—just a brush of her fingers against mine while Geno was going off about transition defense. But I felt it. I always did. It was the same electric current that hit me every time she stood too close in the dining hall or when we’d sneak into the film room after hours just to sit in silence, backs against the wall, letting the flicker of old game tapes play over our skin.

We’d been doing this for months. Stealing seconds. Living in the margins. Nothing loud. Nothing official. Just a lot of glances that lasted too long and touches that meant too much.

And I was good. We were good. Until we weren’t.

It was after a win, the locker room still echoing with the kind of hype only UConn knows how to generate. Towels tossed, shoes flying, Paige yelling about getting hibachi like it was a birthright, and me? I was in the back with Azzi. Door halfway shut, steam from the showers fogging up the mirror. I had her pressed against the lockers, palms flat on the cold metal, her mouth on mine. It wasn’t rushed. Wasn’t desperate. It was quiet, slow, the kind of kiss that says I missed you even though we saw each other two hours ago.

Then it happened.

A creak. A pause. Then—

“What the hell—” Aubrey. Full volume.

I pulled back just enough to see her standing in the doorway like she’d just walked in on an alien abduction. Eyes wide, mouth open, every tooth in her damn mouth on display like she was in a Colgate commercial. She didn’t blink. She didn’t move. Just stared. First at me. Then at Azzi. Then back. Then she did this little stutter step like she was gonna back out the room but forgot how her legs worked.

Azzi stepped away from me quick, adjusting her jersey like it would somehow erase the fact that I’d just had my tongue halfway down her throat.

Aubrey’s jaw dropped even lower, like her face couldn’t physically contain the drama. “Y’all—y’all together?”

I didn’t say anything. Azzi didn’t either. We just kinda looked at each other like, Well, that’s that.

Next thing I know, Aubrey’s laughing. Like, cackling. She put her hands on her knees like she was trying to breathe through it and goes, “I knew one of y’all was gay but both?! TOGETHER?! Oh my God.”

And because Aubrey’s loud, it didn’t take long.

Paige walks in next, sweating and clueless, with her dumbass backwards hat and says, “Why y’all acting like someone died?” She sees me. Sees Azzi. Sees Aubrey still losing her mind.

And then she freezes.

Like froze, froze.

Tilted her head like a confused golden retriever and went, “Wait… waitwaitwait—y’all kissin’ kissin’?”

KK sprinted from behind her yelling “WHO KISSING? WHO KISSING?” like she smelled gay in the air and wanted a front row seat.

By the time Jana, Ayanna, and Caroline wandered in behind the chaos, it was a full-blown scene.

Jana clutched her chest like she’d been personally betrayed but also looked like she just watched her favorite romance arc bloom in real time.

Ayanna? That girl just smiled and nodded. Real lowkey, real chill. Like she knew and was just waiting on the rest of us to catch up.

Caroline had her “mom who just walked in on the teen daughter and the boyfriend making out” face. Hand to the mouth, soft gasp, blink blink. “Oh… oh wow. Okay.”

I leaned back on the locker, arms crossed, and said, “Y’all done?”

KK yelled, “HELL NO. YOU AND AZZI?!”

I raised an eyebrow. “What about us?”

Paige stepped forward, eyes narrowed. “This been going on?”

Azzi, cool as hell, just goes, “A little while.”

Aubrey screamed again and said, “I knew y’all was sneaky! The way you two be whispering and disappearing at team events like y’all allergic to daylight!”

Jana just kept shaking her head, muttering, “This is better than The Summer I Turned Pretty.” I roll my eyes muttering “what isn’t better then that?”

Ayanna whispered, “It’s giving soulmate energy.”

And Caroline? She just took a deep breath and said, “As long as y’all aren’t sneaking out of curfew together.”

I looked at Azzi.Azzi looked at me.Then she smiled.

I grinned back and said, “Too late.” And the whole room lost it.

@xxsnowxx213 @draculara-vonvamp @kcannon-1436-blog @zizi-bee-yapping @kaliblazin @perksofbeingatrex @soapyonaropey

[zerosomnia]

Thunderbolts Bucky Barnes x Reader:

The Perfect Gentleman

Summary: The reader, having recently started using dating apps, laments about their failing love life to some of the group. Bucky, shocked by the attitude of their dates, offers to show them how a real gentlemen acts on a date.

Genre: Fluff

Author's Note: Eeek! I've been wanting to write a Bucky fic for sooo long - it's quite late here though, so I'm sorry if I have missed any typos. Also, I rewatched the movie at the cinema, so I am feeling extra inspired atm! Big potential for part 2 here so lmk what you think.

Word Count: 2867

Four of you sat in the common room of the watchtower. Walker and Ava sat on the floor, playing some form of card game on the low coffee table, bickering occasionally when one would dislike another's choice in cards. Bucky was over by the minibar, back turned to you all, and nose deep in some book. And you? Well, you were lying back on the couch, disgust plastered on your face as you flicked through dating profiles on some app. Throwing your phone down on the cushions next to you with a frustrated groan, you rubbed your hands across your face, hiding your despair from your fellow teammates. Not that it wasn’t obvious, Ava and Walker had already slowed their incessant battle of sarcasm to watch you.

“You ok?” Walker broke the silence. You chuckled bitterly into your hands.

“I am totally fantastic, Walker.” He shook his head.

“Fine, don’t tell us,”

Ava sent him a sideways glare, already having an inkling about what this was related to.

Recently, you had made an attempt to reignite your dating life. It may, or may not have been, an attempt to get over a certain teammate – but no one had to know that. Unfortunately, the intricacies of the modern dating world were almost entirely new to you, as being an assassin rarely left many networking opportunities. Your first attempts at romance had not been pleasant experiences.

“This isn’t about that dating app again, is it?” Ava jumped straight into the deep end, leaving an uncomfortable silence lingering in the room. Peeking out from under your hands, your attention was drawn to a certain dark-haired super solider, who had stilled at the mention of your dating life. You turned back to Ava.

“Ding! Ding! Ding! We have a winner!” You tried to mask your discomfort behind the joke, hoping that the others wouldn’t dwell too much on it.

“I don’t get that stuff,” Walker butted in, annoyance was evident in his voice but you couldn’t decide if it was the cards or the topic of conversation. “Why do you need an app to meet people? Just go outside.” You chuckled at Walker’s bluntness.

“That’s easy for you to say, you’ve been married.” Ava bit back. You agreed with her, sitting up so you could address them properly.

“Yeah, Ava’s right. Plus, spending your life around people who are just training you to kill, or are being killed by you, doesn’t leave much room for practice with flirting.” Bucky had fully turned in his chair now and had given up on pretending to read, observing your conversation from afar.

“You know,” You turned to face Ava – she always gossiped with you about your dates. “I went on a date with this person like two days ago, and they got up mid-way through our dinner to go to the bathroom-”

“Oh noooo, how terrible,” Walker interrupted you. In response, you threw a pillow at the back of his head.

“As I was saying!” You glared at Walker. “They went to the bathroom and then never came back! I got left to foot the bill.” You saw Walker visibly cringe, clearly feeling bad about his previous comment.

“Jeez… that’s not cool,” Was all he could manage. Ava sent him a pointed look.

“Really? That’s the best you could give them?” The pair started to bicker again, too distracted to notice Bucky approaching you all and sitting near you on the couch.

“That… that’s bad. That wouldn’t have happened when I was younger, they wouldn’t have gotten away with it.” That silenced Ava and John.

“You are, like, one hundred years old. Dating has changed.” Ava shrugged. You found yourself staring at Bucky, who had a wistful look on his face.

“I don’t know, I’m probably just overreacting. I’m sure there are lots of other, far worse things that could have happened." You tried to reassure your friends.

“I suppose it is good by your standards…” Walker commented. You whipped your head around to stare at him.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Well… didn’t you go on a date where someone spent the whole time telling you about how in love with their ex they were?” Walker trailed off, only for Ava to jump in and add to your shame.

“And what about that one where your date got blackout drunk and trashed the restaurant?” You could feel heat rising up your neck, especially with the way Bucky was staring at you with wide-eyed incredulity.

“Where are you finding these people?” The quiet horror was evident in Bucky’s voice.

“Oh that’s nothing. There was this one time-”

“Okay! We get it! I don’t have a particularly high bar for what is considered a good date.” You harshly interrupted Walker, sighing in defeat and pinching your brow at the headache you could feel coming on.

“Maybe that’s something that we can fix.” Bucky chimed in. You stared at him, disbelief on your face.

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but there isn’t a line of ‘quality candidates’ lining up to ask me on a date.”

“I’ll take you then.”

Ava and Walker had remained quiet throughout your exchange, watching with eager curiosity. To be honest, you weren’t really registering their presence anymore, too distracted by the earnest look in Bucky’s eyes and the blatant manner in which he had made his statement. You fell back on your humour again, trying to make the situation a little less awkward.

“Bucky Barnes, are you offering to take me on a date?”

“I am.” You drew in a deep breath.

“Alright then, wow me.”

A knock sounded at your door at exactly 7 PM. You already knew who it was; you had been waiting for this moment for the past half an hour. In typical you-fashion, you had prepared far too early and therefore had been sitting around in your date clothes. Bucky told you he would take care of the planning, and that all you needed to do was be ready for him. He had also mentioned that it wouldn’t ‘just’ be a restaurant date – and to wear clothes you could be comfortable in. So here you were, sitting around in an outfit that you had spent hours toiling over, and feeling nothing but dread and nerves. It wasn’t an unfamiliar feeling. You had come to expect it while dating.

You opened the door to your room and stepped out to meet Bucky. He was holding a bouquet of flowers, and not just some store bought packet, they looked like they were from an actual florist. An involuntary gasp left you.

“Oh! Thank you, I’ll just put these in a vase.” As you set about finding a vase, Bucky hovered in the entryway to your room. You could feel his eyes studying you, but not in a predatory way like others had, it was like he was admiring a painting from afar. You returned to him.

“You look nice,” His voice was low and gravelly, like the compliment was only for your ears. You felt your face heating up as you thanked him.

“So do you, I really like this jacket on you.” You traced your fingers up the zip of his leather jacket. He seemed a bit taken aback by you returning his compliment, but he sent you a small smile of thanks regardless.  He had adhered to the ‘comfy but nice’ dress code, and he looked good. His hair was neatly styled in a side part, and he wore a pair of nice jeans to accompany the dark leather of his jacket. Underneath you could see something reminiscent of a compression shirt, that sat tight against his skin.

“Shall we go?”

The night started out with a twist, you had never pegged the serious ex-winter soldier for the dancing type. Yet as you climbed out of the taxi, which he had paid for despite your protests, you found yourself in front of an old fashioned nightclub. A flutter of excitement rushed through you, and you saw a pleased grin on Bucky’s face as he watched you marvel at the flashing lights in the entryway. Most of your dates had been boring dinners, or walks with nearly no chemistry. You could already tell this would be different.

Bucky offered his arm to you. “Are you ready to head in?” You took it without hesitation.

“I never pegged you for a dancer.”

“Yeah. Well, it’s been a while, so don’t get your hopes up. You might end tonight with another embarrassing story.” He sent you a sly smirk, and you swore your legs turned to jelly.

“Please, if anything, you’ll be embarrassed by me. You don’t know what you’ve gotten yourself into here.” You laughed.

The pair of you walked into the nightclub together, remaining unbothered by bouncers. Immediately, a rush of warmth, alcohol, and, much older, music hit you. It was pure joy. Couples were dancing unabashedly in the centre of the room, where the tables had been pushed back for such activity. The building was two stories, and you could see the balcony from where you stood. It was clearly an area for people to sit with their drinks, tucked away from the music in secluded privacy.

Bucky used your hold on his arm to gently direct you both towards the bar. As you ordered, you saw him pull a card out of his wallet. And when you tried to pay for your drink, he gently pushed your hand down with a reassuring gaze. The two of you settled at the barside, sipping as you chatted.

“Thank you, you didn’t need to pay for everything so far.” He sent you a confused look.

“What do you mean? I get to go on a date with you, I should be thanking you.” All of the breath left your body at that. And he said it so easily, so confidently.

“What?”

He shrugged, as if what he was saying was the most obvious thing in the world.

“You could have said no.” You nodded. Of course, that’s what he meant – he would have been embarrassed in front of the others if you had rejected him. You were taking it the wrong way. Stupid feelings. You blinked, and there was a hand in front of you. His hand. He was… offering it to you? “Would you like to dance?” There it was again, that earnest look in his eyes. A blue so deep that you could sink into them.

“I would love that.” You grasped his hand firmly, and the pair of you made your way onto the dance floor.

The music was upbeat, and it took a minute to get into the dancing. You didn’t really loosen up until Bucky took the lead, pulling you into something somewhat resembling a swing dancing routine. You allowed yourself to be carried by the music, twirling and spinning, and occasionally, Bucky would grasp you firmly by the waist, lifting you into the air like it was easy. It was like time slowed down, the pair of you whooping and throwing one another about the floor. By the end of it, you were both a panting mess. You collapsed against him as the song shifted into something a little calmer, laughter getting lost in the sounds of the dance floor. As you leaned on his chest, you felt his arms gently circle you. He was looking at you with such a fondness, such a bright smile – it made your heart beat like you were running a marathon. You felt shivers tingle down your spine as Bucky leaned down to speak into your ear.

“Have you ever done the fox-trot?” His grin was cheeky, a reflection of his boyish youth. You shook your head, allowing him to show you this side of himself. He led you around the floor, reciting steps to you with a protective arm around your waist. Once you got comfortable, he started to have fun with you, adding flair to your twirls and swaying his hips. As you laughed, you felt yourself falling into place, allowing him to whisk you around the dance floor with practiced precision. The other couples moved for you both, and some tried to copy, but either way – you were having so much fun. Your cheeks were aching from the smile, and your heart caught in your throat every time you caught Bucky staring at you with that adoring smile. Once the song had ended, Bucky bought you both another round of drinks, leading you to a secluded table on the upstairs balcony. From your seat, you watched the couples twirl below, joy palpable on their faces.

“This has been so fun!” You grinned at Bucky, who nodded with a knowing smile. “And you were not as rusty as you claimed,” You motioned to the dance floor with a giggle.

“You were pretty good yourself, you picked up the moves really quickly. I’m impressed.” You let yourself sit in the ambience for a minute, enjoying the music now that it was quieter, but there was something that you were caught up on.

“Bucky-”

“James.” You blinked at him in confusion, and he quickly clarified. “I want you to call me James, at least for tonight. I don’t want you to think of me just as the winter solider, I want you to see James.” He was awkward in his delivery, but the words were heartfelt. You nodded, continuing your previous thought.

“Ok, James.” The name was foreign on your tongue, but you didn’t dislike it for him. “Earlier, you said you should be thanking me for accepting your invitation. What made you say that?” You searched his face, hoping desperately that your internal thoughts had been wrong. He chuckled, and part of you panicked for a second. Bucky sat for a second, clearly contemplating how to answer your question. His stare was switching between the floor and your face, like he knew he was about to say something that would change how you saw him.

“I’m going to be blunt here.” You swallowed hard, dread pooling in your stomach. “The way other people have treated you is ridiculous.” You stared at him for a moment. But he continued before you could press. “You are wonderful, and amazing, and strong – and the fact that they wasted their chance with you is.. it’s so stupid.” He was quiet, but starting to stumble over himself, frustration gnawing at his words. Bucky took a breath and met your eye with a quiet determination. “If you keep giving me a chance after tonight, I swear I will not mess it up.”  He looked down to the lower floor, and couples were preparing for a slow dance. While you were still processing, he stood and offered you his hand. “Last dance?” His tone was hopeful. You accepted without hesitation.

The slow dance was nothing short of magical. Your arms were looped around Bucky’s neck, and your bodies were pressed together tightly. Every movement was amplified tenfold. The lights had shifted to a low blue, bathing you both in splendid tones as you glided slowly across the floor. But despite that, it was his eyes that caught your attention. They always did. How could they say so much, without saying anything at all? The heat of his hands on your waist was driving you insane. And with your faces mere inches apart, how were you supposed to survive this dance? The song started to slow, coming to a close, and he leaned down to your ear again.

“I really want to kiss you right now, would you mind?” You nodded, breathless at his confession. One of his hands moved to your face, the other planting you firmly in place, and he brought his mouth down to meet yours. He was gentle, warm, and surprisingly soft. You let him take the lead, suddenly feeling very aware of your inexperience with romantic acts. When you separated, he let his forehead rest on yours, eyes closed like he was savouring the moment. His voice was barely audible.

“Thank you.”

As your evening drew to a close, James walked you to your room. You felt like you were floating, even as you travelled through the watchtower. If one of the others had seen you, well, you dreaded the thought. You leaned back against your door, hoping that he would steal another kiss from you. And he did, as if he were reading your mind. It was just as careful as the first, like he was worried he’d scare you off if he was any harsher. A surge of confidence prompted your invite.

“Would you like to come in?” It was a breathless whisper against his mouth. And he groaned against your lips.

“You are making it very difficult to be a gentleman.” You shrugged with a small smile. “We’ll have time for that later, if you still want it.” He backed away from you, slowly, as if it was hard to do so. A smirk plastered itself over his face. He knew what he was doing as he left you, his parting comment drifting over his shoulder as he walked away. “Sleep well.”

[leighsartworks216]

Omg your Sylus Dragon drabbles made me all excited, just loved the way you described him with his mate.

Could you please make one on how Sylus would be around other males, how protective he would be with his mate.

It's ok if you don't want to answer, thankssss

Oh my god he is SO protective. I'm gonna separate these between humans and other dragons, bc I feel like it would be a little different between them

With humans, he's all glares and body language. He's standing between you and them, standing stock straight and all puffed up. He trusts you - he doesn't trust them

Thinking about a scenario where you go to the market. He goes with you, of course, prepared to give up treasure from his hoard to pay for you and to carry all your spoils. You stop at a booth and start browsing. His head is on a swivel to look out for danger, but he snaps to attention the second he hears a man's voice answering your questions

He stands right behind you, towering over you, glaring down at the vendor. That meme where the sunshine character is flanked by a shadow of a person with only the threatening shine of their eyes? Yeah, that's him

Also uses his wings to make himself even bigger, and he will show his teeth if the man doesn't back down

I also imagine him like nuzzling and biting your neck while you talk to a man. Like, very blatantly staking his claim on you while glaring daggers, leaving marks on your skin where everyone can see

With dragons, I imagine it being more outright "they're mine" type shit. He sees another dragon and his wings are out, teeth bared, ready to attack. If the other dragon doesn't back down, a fight will break out. I imagine that dragons mate for life but they will also fight for a mate, even if that mate belongs to another dragon already, like, to the death. So he's genuinely protecting you from becoming another dragon's mate

I imagine the Defending dragon (Sylus in this case) doesn't kill dragons that try to do this, just beating them down enough for them to concede defeat and run away. But these fights get messy as hell. If the Attacking dragon doesn't back down after the initial display of wings and teeth, it's a full on fight of claws and teeth and brute strength

Omg imagine watching Sylus take on another dragon in one of these fights. You're not worried that he'll lose - he's strong as hell and you know he can handle it. But seeing all the blood that stains the dirt, seeing him get even temporarily pinned down before he gets the upper hand again - your dragon is getting hurt, and that hurts your soul

He wins the fight and stays vigilant until the other dragon is out of sight before he comes back to you. He's got scratches all over. Deep bites too close to his neck. Scrapes and incoming bruises. He's smirking all roguishly, seeking your approval for winning; he doesn't expect you to run over and fawn over his injuries

Imagine dragging him back home and tending to his wounds, dabbing away the blood with a wet cloth and putting bandages on the deepest of the bites and cuts. Once he's patched up, you feel like you can finally relax again. Can finally appreciate the things he does to protect you. Pressing a delicate kiss over a cut on his cheek, and he absolutely melts when you whisper a thank you against his skin. Tilts his head up to catch your lips in a kiss, slow and sweet and adoring

If you're also into girls, I think he'd be a little protective of you there, too, but far less than men. If a woman comes onto you, he's still gonna glare and position himself close to you to show that you're together. Female dragons don't fight for their mates, though, so any interest there is discouraged with a growl and warning flick of his tail

[juliettejwnewinesa]

Hiii - could you do one with Park Humin, him and the reader have known eachother since they were kids but have a frenemies to lovers vibe? and they confess towards eachother while arguing??👀

"Can’t Stand You" — Park Humin x Reader (Frenemies to Lovers)

humin x reader

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

The streetlights flickered above them like they were about to die, matching the exact vibe between Y/N and Park Humin as they stormed down the sidewalk in silence—heated, stubborn silence. The same kind that had built up between them since middle school, since he pulled her pigtails and she threw a pencil at his head.

They’d always been like this. Side by side but never quite on the same page. Childhood best friends who never admitted it. Teenagers who walked home together while pretending they couldn’t stand each other. Adults now, still orbiting each other in a dangerous loop, pretending it didn’t burn to look.

“You know,” Y/N finally snapped, tired of how he always got under her skin without even trying, “I don’t even know why I agreed to come with you tonight. You’re the worst person to hang out with.”

Humin scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Then don’t. No one dragged you, Y/N. You practically shoved yourself into my car like always.”

“I only went because Minseok bailed on me,” she shot back. “It was supposed to be a group hangout. Not whatever this was.”

“Oh yeah?” he turned on her, slowing to a stop under the streetlight. His eyes were sharp, annoyed. “Maybe you should’ve gone crying to Minseok instead of acting like you didn’t want to come with me.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” His jaw was tense. “You act like I annoy you so much, but every time I try to pull away, you show up again. You always come back.”

Y/N glared at him. “Don’t act like you don’t do the same thing. You’re always texting me first, picking stupid fights, getting under my skin just to get a rise out of me—what, is that how you get off?”

“I like getting under your skin!” he snapped, frustrated. “I like making you mad! At least it’s something. Better than you ignoring me or talking to me like I’m just some guy you used to know.”

“Then why are you acting like you hate me half the time?!”

“Because I don’t!” His voice cracked, eyes burning into hers. “I don’t hate you, okay? That’s the damn problem.”

Silence. Her breath caught in her throat.

Humin’s fists were clenched at his sides, breathing hard, like he’d just thrown a punch. His words echoed between them like a challenge.

Y/N blinked, confused and pissed and stupidly hot all at once. “You don’t hate me?”

“I never did,” he said, quieter this time. “You’ve always been the one I—” He cut himself off, teeth grinding. “Every time I saw you laughing with someone else, I wanted to rip them away. Every time you looked at me like I was just your dumbass friend from third grade, it made me crazy. You don’t get it, do you?”

She swallowed hard. “Then explain it to me.”

He took a step forward, jaw clenched like he was bracing himself. “I liked you since we were fifteen. Maybe even before that. You were loud and annoying and stubborn and better than everyone, and I couldn’t stop looking at you. But you kept pulling away.”

“I didn’t know,” she whispered.

“Bullshit,” he said sharply. “You knew. You just liked watching me squirm.”

“Maybe I did,” Y/N said, stepping closer until there was barely space between them. “But you never said anything. Just teased me, pushed me, made me hate how much I wanted you.”

His breath hitched.

“Yeah,” she said, heart pounding. “I wanted you too, you idiot.”

That broke something in him.

He grabbed her face with both hands and kissed her like it was everything he’d ever tried not to say. It wasn’t soft. It was heated and messy, a clash of teeth and tongue, hands tugging, clutching, nails digging into fabric. She shoved him against the streetlight pole and kissed him back harder, like she had years of resentment to burn through.

“You’re so annoying,” she muttered against his lips.

“Say it again,” he growled, pulling her tighter against him.

“You’re the most frustrating person I’ve ever met.”

“And you’re the reason I can’t sleep at night.”

His hands slid down to her waist, gripping tight. She didn’t pull away.

When they finally broke apart, panting, her forehead against his, Y/N whispered, “So what now?”

Humin let out a breathless laugh. “Now we stop pretending. And I stop letting you run.”

“I never ran,” she said. “I was always here.”

He stared at her, eyes softening for the first time in hours. Then he kissed her again—slower this time, like he couldn’t believe it was real. And maybe it wasn’t. Maybe it was years of fighting that finally snapped. Or maybe, just maybe, it was always meant to be this way: furious, magnetic, inevitable.

Either way, he wasn’t letting go.

Not this time.

[murasakiyams]

cw: crying (i forgot what that kink was whoops) , choking but it’s not really in there that much. biting, fingering, cowgirl, reader is younger however it is barley mentioned, bad smut writing (i sorry.)

a/n: not proof read, i literally wrote this at work because it’s been so slow., so i hope everything is okay! i tried my best!

based on this ask

When you had first met Gojo, you were an up-and-coming 3rd-grade sorcerer. He was immediately drawn into how you acted, always put together and reading others. You had even once helped Megumi open up a bit about his sister— which was rare. Gojo couldn’t seem to get you out of his head. You were so caring, just so emotionally mature— something he was not. It didn’t take long for you and Gojo to become close, only because you were intrigued first. He seemed so carefree, so open? and your first thought to all of this?

He has to have something deep within him to act like this.

When it came to the Satoru Gojo opening up about his feelings, it wasn’t easy until he met you. You were the only person that he found it easy to open up to. Oh, he froze up the second he upset you? You’d say, “Let’s go back and figure out why.

his childish nature when it came to serious topics? You’d sit down with him and make him talk it out.

“It’s just who I am, babe, nothing too serious about it.” Gojo scoffed, making you roll your eyes. “Is it? Because I just heard from Megumi that you made Yuji pop out from a box saying how their dead friend Yuji just reappeared.” You said, making Gojo freeze just a little. He opened up his mouth to say something but then closed it. “Do you think you act childish because you had your youth taken away, Toru?” Gojo softly smiled before looking down at his lap, playing with his blindfold. “It’s really nothing-“ “no it’s not.”

There was a beat of silence between you two before you slowly climbed into his lap, taking off his blindfold. “I’m not trying to make you feel bad, Toru—I just really wanna figure you out. So please, just help me out.” You pleaded, placing his blindfold to the side of him. “I just wanna help you, that’s all. I really do.”

Well, that was different. The strongest was always looking out for others, not the other way around. “Y/n, come on, you need to sto-“

“Stop worrying about you?”

“Yes! There’s nothing-“

Gojo felt his lips being met with others, his eyes widening. You had pulled back away, a smile on your face. “You do understand that it’s just us, right?” “Right.” “So there is no reason for you to act so nonchalant about it. It’s one thing to not want to talk about it, but it’s another just to bottle it.”

Satoru didn’t think you could get any more beautiful than this, on top of his telling him to open up, being so confident and confronting to him? He was whipped. A smile appeared on his face as he ran his fingers across your thighs, his touch light, but leaving a trail of fire in his wake. “You love taking care of me, don’t you?” He asked, his fingers now tracing over your sides, underneath your shirt touching you bare. “Because I fucking love it, I think it’s sexy.” A scoff left your lips and you shook your head. “It’s seriously nothing. I’m just looking out for my old man-“ “Old man? Are you serious?”. A laugh left your lips and Gojo couldn’t take it anymore, his hands reaching up to your neck to pull you in closer, as he quite literally smashed his lips onto yours.

“You’re-“ He pulled away before kissing you again. “The only one who fucking gets me.” He said, kissing you once more. His hands trailed down to your waist, your hands going to cup his face. He bit your lip with a low moan, a fucking whimper. Moving your hips as he wanted more friction between you two. “Please, take it off-“ He begged, tugging at the hem of your shirt. “Baby, please.” He whined. You shook your head, and took off your shirt, throwing it to the ground. And it didn’t take long till Gojo had his hands all over you, rolling your nipple around his fingers, taking one in his mouth, sucking on it before biting it softly. Your moans like fucking music in his ears, your soft gasps and whines when you rocked against the tent in his pants.

He pulled off your chest with a loud pop! A line of spit connected to your chest and his mouth, a lazy smile on his face. “You take care of me so well, do you realize that, hm?” He asked, still toying with your nipple, rolling it between his index and thumb. A sharp gasp left your pretty little lips. “god- fuck- Toru- please.”

“Only because you asked nicely- and because you take care of me so well.”

Gojo unzipped your jeans, before laying you down on the couch. He wasted no time in undressing your lower half, using his teeth to take off your underwear. “fuck-“ he moaned, using his index and middle finger to spread you out. “You have the prettiest fuckin pussy I’ve ever seen, babe.” “Gojo!” He smiled as you squealed his name, pushing two fingers in. “And you make the prettiest noises- fuck!” Gojo had finally gone down and started sucking on your clit. Harsh licks and pumping his fingers in and out. “I’m not- stopping until you fucking come on my face, understand?”

You quickly nodded your head, shutting your eyes shut to focus on the pleasure he was giving you. Focusing on the fact his fingers were pumping in you at the exact pace you liked, and the fact he was literally spelling out his name on your clit with his tongue over and over again. “fuck- Toru-“ “Shhh, I know, just let go, okay?” A squeal left your lips, as you squeezed your thighs around his head. Your whole body suddenly turned warm, your vision almost going blank as your eyes rolled the back of your head. “fuck- atta girl, holy shit.”

you heard his pants unzip, and the sound of clothes tussling when you finally sat up, propping your self up on your elbows, your face fucked out- but a smile on your face, “Lemme ride you, baby.” you asked so sweetly, grabbing his dick and stroking it slowly, running your thumb along the tip, smearing his pre-cum. he shuttered, closing his eyes as a breathy moan left his lips, “please, toru, i wanna take care of you.” and how could you say no when you were asking so nicely, so sweetly, so innocently, like you just asking to have a bite out of his food.

you had pushed him back on the couch, before leaning down, straddling him as you kissed down his neck, leaving little bites here and there, making whine so beautifully. you had pumped his cock a little, running your finger across the tip to tease him just a little, “please- baby, you’re fucking killing me here.” satoru begged, his hips jerking up, squirming at your touch, a simple hush leaving your lips as you straddled him, his hands found yours, interlocking them together, as you slowly sunk down onto him, whines and gasps leaving both of you. “oh my fucking god- you’re so tight, holy shit.” satoru cried, you begin to rock your hips slowly , as you were still trying to adjust to him, you had bent your upper half so you were face to face with him, kissing him softly, “m-more.” you begged, and that’s when gojo lost all patience, he pulled away from your hands, moving both of his to your ass, before he began to bounce you up and down like it was just a simple work out to him, the room filling up with slaps, and moans from the both of you.

“you fucking- oh my god- always taking care of me.” he said, a hand of yours reaching to cup his face, “you’re so fucking sweet to me alway.” his eyes once squeezed shut, now opened due to your touch, both of you making deep eye contact, he stopped. taking in all of you, somewhat of a small smile on your face, and this look in your eyes, he couldn’t quite place it, but a simple “because i love you.” was all it took before he started fucking into you into a brutal pace, “toru! ngh- sl-slow down!” you cried out, throwing your head back, “you-you’re so fucking perfect.” he whispered, but you felt something wet touch your fingers, opening your eyes, you saw tears flowing down his face, as he stared into you, your face turned into a concern one, moving your hands to his, almost like you were going to stop him, a simple low growl from his throat and a ‘no.’ made you stop.

“gonna keep fucking you till were passed out.” he confessed, his pace not slowing down, he sounded so rough, so mean, but the tears wouldn’t stop flowing down his beautiful face, so your reasonable response? lick the tears off his fucking face, to which he didn’t know rather to cry harder (not because he found it gross, but because he found like he finally meant his match, someone who actually knew him, inside and out.)

“shh, shh, i know baby.” you cooed to him, or tried to, your gasps and moans cutting you off occasionally, you pulled away from him, pacing your hands on either side of his face, feeling that normal pressure in your lower stomach.

he felt you squeeze around him and chuckled as tears were still flowing down, he went harder, “fuck- please-please.” he begged, you felt it, the snap, your whole body turning warm, he let you ride it out of course, but it wasn’t long until he flipped you over onto your back, with his pretty hand wrapped around your pretty little throat.

“my turn.”

yeah no, you were fucked.

-a/n: give a girl a slow day at work and this is what you’ll get:::: guys im so sorry this is so bad :(

[save-the-villainous-cat]

The hero truly didn't like undercover work.

They didn't deem themselves to be very good at it, after all they were impatient. For the most part, observing someone else felt wrong, pretending to be someone they were not wasn't easy and now, they were in the busiest park of the city, watching the subject like some maniac.

Hating their boss for putting this stupid project onto them wasn't exactly helping them with anything but maybe, maybe, their frustration could make it clear how much they hated this.

However, they also knew their boss was spoiling them, the agency was spoiling them. They shouldn't have been allowed to complain.

They were the newest recruit and people seemed to adore them. The hero wasn't sent on any dangerous missions, nor was their training program particularly formidable. The hero was already used to being called the baby, even though they were way past twenty.

It wasn't annoying per se - the hero had expected to save a lot more people and be of more use, but that seemed far away from reality at the moment. They were being treated like a little sibling that needed protection.

They sighed.

"Don't you know it's rude to stare?" The warm breath against their neck nearly gave the hero a heart attack. They turned around and almost jumped out of their own skin (and over the bench).

"You-"

"Unless you're staring at me, of course." The villain seemed so horribly human in these clothes. They walked around the bench and sat down right next to the hero. One thigh on the other.

"You-" the hero repeated. They wanted to get up and arrest the villain, but their enemy was quicker. They put their arm around the hero's shoulders and pulled them close against them. Close enough for their cheeks to press against each other.

"Now, now. Not so hasty," the villain purred. The hero tried to get up again, but this time, the villain's hands dropped to their waist and pulled them back to their side. Ultimately, the hero decided to let it rest for now and find other means of escaping later.

"You've got some nerves, showing up here."

"Dunno what you're talking about, I was just taking a stroll and saw my lovely partner out here," the villain said. Their mouth curled into a smile. "Who are we stalking?"

"That's classified," the hero said. They put their hands into their pockets and let out another sigh that turned into gentle mist. The temperature had dropped overnight - a bitter reminder that winter came when it pleased.

"Oh, my. What a shame, maybe I could have helped you." They pulled the hero closer and leaned their head against the hero's. It reminded them of the shared childhood they craved to forget.

"I doubt it," the hero mumbled. "That subject is just a decoy. They gave me a random person to observe. Has barely anything to do with the case we are working on."

"Aww, are you still under puppy protection? What a waste of your talents, just imagine what the both of us could-"

"You know I am not going to join you, I've made that clear," the hero said. Their voice was sharp. "I've been waiting my entire life for this. So, what if I have to wait a little bit more? What if I am not taken seriously yet? I can endure waiting."

"Urgh, you are so lovely," the villain said. This time, they leaned their entire body against the hero's side, just like a cat that craved attention. They crossed their arms in front of their chest, hiding their own hands from the cold. "Don't let anything change the shape of your soul, got it?"

"You're awful," the hero whispered, but they let themselves relax a little. They didn't harbour any ill feelings towards anyone, not even the villain. Not anymore. They didn't want anyone dead.

They simply wanted to be seen. They wanted to be seen so badly.

"Don't get frustrated," the villain said. Their voice was calmer, maybe even more serious. "Your time will come. Good people always succeed. And you are inherently good."

"What about you?" The villain was still leaning against them. They probably truly looked like two lovers.

"Ahh, you know I don't like all those rules," the villain said. "Rules and regulations are so restrictive. I could never be comfortable with following orders. I have my own methods. My own goals."

They looked at each other. Both of them were older now, but it felt like they were kids again. Kids who had chosen different paths, yet they were irrevocably intertwined. The hero's cheeks warmed up.

"Can't wait to really fight against you," the villain said. "Motivated heroes are so difficult to chew up."

They turned and traced the hero's bottom lip with their thumb.

"Right?"

The hero's eyes widened, but the villain stood up quickly, stretching, as if nothing had happened.

"Anyway, enjoy those rookie days." They winked. "You need to prepare for our fights after all."

And just as fast as they had appeared, they disappeared into the park again.

[whinelo]

I love your x stuff can you write one where reader is that one popular colleague that tries to get X attention but he doesn't budge until a co worker ask if they're dating one day to X and everything just short circulates because why would the popular and pretty colleague disturb him 24/7 even though their assigned office is rooms away?

[ Employee of the Month ! [ L/N ], [ Name ] ]

“ Senior [ Name ] is so cool! “ One of your juniors exclaimed— Looking at the tablet hung high up on the wall, stars literally sparkling within their awestruck gaze, and like dominoes— The rest of your co-workers, and people from other departments crowded against the shiny LED screen, hands clasped- hands in pockets- hands out to take a photo.

A feminine voice then expressed— “ [ Name ] is literally my idol.. “ Delight and glee absolutely resolute within her voice, some nodded— some expressed far more comments that went beyond worship;

“ Aah! They’re so hot.. “ Murmurs that share the same sentiment spread across the company break-room, whispering to one another compliments upon compliments about you;

Another one then piped up, “ No wonder they got that promotion! Honestly.. They’re so perfect..! “ Do you guys get tired of this?

And where were you? Well, you just entered the room ( something you regretted in an instant. ) Someone spotted you in an instant, and not long— The crowd gathered around you, mantras upon mantras of praise- and uncensored devotion, as much as you could try and tell them to tone it down- to focus on their work- “ You’re so humble..! “ or even, “ [ Name ]’s so caring—! “

This was the dream reality of so many people— A trust value that surpassed the hundredths, the people who you surround yourself with practically kissing the ground you walked on, promotions- upon promotions, recommendations, invitations, dates and gifts- and so much more— yet..

Why can’t you get his attention?

Chatting away with the people— It was easy to miss, so easy to miss him. Someone that blended in the background as if they weren’t meant to be noticed- wasn’t meant to be seen, and yet you see him. So clearly, he was tall— had a pale complexion, dark hair— round glasses- someone who wouldn’t even stay long in someone's head-space- yet, he stayed in yours for so long.

Why can’t you get his attention? Why does everyone except him look at you—?

“ [ Name ]? Are you okay— you’re spacing out! If you’re tired.. or sick.. I can take over your shift..! “ Snapping back to reality, you looked back at the co-worker who offered, giving them a soft- warm smile, “ It’s fine, prioritize your own work more, I’ll feel bad if you only get more stressed because of me, haha. “ Gritty words easily flowed out of your mouth like a rehearsed line in a theater.

The sound of gasping—

The endless compliments—

And yet in the corner of your eye you watched as Bai Xizhuang take his cup of coffee, and in a flamboyant grace- he looked towards the crowd, your crowd— Wait! Oh he stole the sugar again..

How cute of you..

-

X was honestly glad about the crowd that formed in the break-room, something along the murmurs of the ‘Employee of the Month’ type of business again; In all honesty, he could very much care less- Is what he would’ve thought had it not been you who got the title once more, while he wasn’t vying for such a title ( Heaven already knows how busy he is with his current one, ) It was amusing to see so many people in action adoring one person,

And he wasn’t a stranger to the concept, as X he’s used to it already- the comments ( the good and the explicit ones, ) The awe-struck gaze, the adoration that came with being worshiped; But as of right now he isn’t X, he’s Bai Xizhuang the normal office employee someone would be able to search on FOMO and go to the images, yeah- normal, boring, plain ol’ Bai Xizhuang.

..Right about the crowd, he’s so glad that you took the spotlight- Although as of current he noticed that you’ve been visiting the break-room at the same time as him always, ( could be coincidence though, ) which meant crowds would form and he’d be able to steal the sugar packets without being caught, which was pretty sweet.

Taking his mug of coffee towards his office space- something odd, something peculiar— was waiting for him at his desk, a small assortment of sweets wrapped in pink fabric. Raising his brow, he quietly set down his mug— simultaneously sitting down on his chair, as his fingers were about to touch the surprising gift- “ You know… I saw [ Name ] coming here awhile ago.. “ His co-worker in front of him spoke up,

Her eyes glistened with curiosity as she stared at the wrapped bundle on Bai Xizhuang’s desk— “ So I just gotta ask.. Are you guys.. secretly.. dating? “

“ Pardon? “

And in that very moment X experienced something he never thought he’d experience- A flashback sequence.

“ Hey- I was wondering if you have a spare sugar packet— ? “ Bai Xizhuang felt himself perk up the moment he heard your voice behind him- But the rational part of him believed that you weren’t talking to him, as if proven right another employee spoke up, “ [ Name ], were you talking to me? “ Leaving with his mug in hand- very faintly he heard,

‘I wasn’t..’ Must’ve been the wind, because soon after— “ Oh.. I was talking to.. never mind. Do you have an extra sugar pack? “ See? Logic always pursued in X’s mind, it wasn’t like the [ Name ], dubbed the 'office angel' was going to talk to someone as low-key as him, leaving the break room however— he felt a piecing gaze from the backside of his head..

—

“ I heard that there’s going to be a joint celebration between the marketing and finance department this week! “ While X wasn’t exactly eavesdropping he was curious as to what the occasion was about for the company to allow the departments to throw something as extravagant as this— Then again X himself wouldn’t even be attending, hah.

“ Bai Xizhuang.. Are you going to join? “ A voice came from beside him, soft— gentle- unsure and nervous, turning to look beside him, oh, [ Name ]— Feeling the watchful gaze of many others looking at the both of you, he needed out- “ If you’re gonna go I was wondering if we could— “

“ I’m not going, “

He didn’t mean to cut you off mid-sentence— shit, “ Oh— forget what I just said haha— Bye.. “ Your smaller figure than scurried away back to the crowded table, “ [ Name ], are you gonna come? You are the marketing manager after al— “ One of your co-workers asked, giving them a soft and delicate nod and smile- he watched as you shook your head as a ‘no’ in response.

Why’d you do that?

—

And many more instances that mirrored the ones that flashed through his head— Getting pulled back to reality, he stared wide-eyed ( for probably the first time ) at his colleague- glasses shining with a blinding light, almost as if it was on cue to block his expression, “ Are you and [ Name ].. Like, in cahoots? “ She reiterated, palm to the side of her mouth as she spoke in a hush-hush tone.

Bai Xizhuang could feel his cheeks flush— Just a bit, it wasn’t his imagination right? the flustered gazes you shoot to him, the way your voice became much more softer whenever you spoke to him, the rejected invites— Fuck.

“ Ah- ah.. No.. “ He responded, averting his gaze— He watched as she stared at him up and down; before sighing in disappointment, bringing her hand back down she adjusted her posture— And spun the office chair around, turning her head to the side, her eyes stared directly at Bai Xizhuang.

“ Shame, you guys look too good together— word of advice, you should take your chance with her before another man sweeps her off her feet y’know- jus’ saying, “ She huffed out, before returning back to her work— The loud clacking of pressed keys then returned.

Stunned- [ Name ] likes him?.. Turning down to look at pink bundle, he then carefully unwrapped it, and true to his assumption it was filled with sweets- coffee, salted caramel, strawberry—The kinds of flavors he loved, and the letter, his eyes then looked for the initials..

It was your initials.