#the next movement is STILL in rotation

[cinamun]

I saw AND cared 😭

[crest-of-gautier]

got the badges for gone fission evp 400 + evp 600 yesterday! .52 gal, l-3 nozzlenose, dread wringer, and squiffer make for quite the synergistic team!

my peak was EVP 810 (appx 300-310% HL). my high score of 151 eggs was obtained somewhere in evp 300...? i'm pretty satisfied with how it went, even if i didn't get HLM or 9s.

some thoughts/reflections on good freelancing teams/traits to develop when trying to rank up in evp under the cut:

i think grinding this rotation was pretty fun- all of the weapons have excellent mobility and i think they cover for each other really well! the l-3 was not my favorite weapon going into it but i think i really enjoyed the accuracy and mobility of it, so it's a bit more favorable for me now :)

i ended up reaching a skill wall in EVP 760-780 where i could not get past wave 2 or 3 (usually for quota related reasons, the quota is BRUTAL! we'd miss it by like 4-5 ish... ofc this partially relates to how well bosses are handled).

the grind for evp was a mix of freelance and grouping up (freelance for 230 -> 440s, grouping up for 440 - 750~, and then testing myself in freelance for that last bit).

i enjoyed the bits of freelance i did, and from my playtime i think these were some of the key traits/practices that indicate "good salmon run skills" to me:

players that know their weapons role(s) and target the appropriate salmonid (but also being willing to break that when priority targets haven't been taken care of)

knowing when a teammate needs help (with a boss or being revived) or when the teammate has a situation under control (e.g. someone's already on the fishstick, you can do something else)

proactive use of specials when problem targets appear, preferably with no overlap (e.g. tri-strike and inkjet activated on the same flyfishes is not the best)

using specials like booyah bomb, triple splashdown, and reefslider to clear basket area in the last 30 seconds to help eggs get in (especially important past evp 600)

teams that paint the walls first thing (especially whoever had the dread wringer). all interior walls for fission can be painted within the first 10 seconds imo

forwarding eggs closer to the basket after splatting static bosses (throwing one egg, and then swimming up with one)

players with good judgment; knowing when to lure (mostly for initial boss spawns), and knowing when to leave the big shot cannon

being able to figure out which directions snatchers come from and what eggs they can help you collect

i think these practices all stem from having good awareness and being able to collect information about the shift. it helps with making snappy quick-fire decisions, and it just gets more important the higher up in EVP you go. camera positioning/control is essential for this (you can't figure out where bosses/teammates are if your back is turned to them).

for me, every 7-10 seconds, i like to rotate my camera around to the opposite side of where i'm currently looking to make sure there isn't any bosses i'm missing. i'm hardly in one place longer than 5-10 seconds and i try to always be on the move. the spawn direction where salmonids come from are always changing, so it's essential to rotate around the map proactively rather than reactively. i think this also helps a lot with shotcalling in groups too (since you can be someone else's pair of eyes).

other than boss spawns/teammate locations (for revives), i think it's also important to notice when certain bosses haven't been taken care of for prolonged periods of time too, so that a special can be popped. to me it's usually a sign that someone whose ill equipped to deal with that boss has been forced to deal with them because the people with the "right" weapon are focused on something else... (no fault to them, of course, everyone has different priorities and you can't always communicate clearly in freelance)

in situations where squiffers were chased by a pack of scrappers, perhaps a booyah bomb or splashdown can be popped to help if you don't have the time to stun and splat them manually. maybe the fish sticks were left unattended by the shooters, so a triple inkstrike or a crab/inkjet shot can help clear them out.

awareness also extends to meeting quota, which imo involves paying attention to the timer + where eggs are located. i find that it's nice to check in with the timer/quota at 50s and 30s respectively so that you can start forwarding eggs closer to basket. and when everyone's going crazy about quota not being met i try to make sure i'm not overstepping anyone else's egg pile so that no one goes "wait no thats the egg that i wanted to pick up fuck i have to go back and get a different one."

i think this is why sometimes playing in groups is easier. if you have more sets of eyes that you can communicate with, it alleviates the need to have awareness of "everything" (provided that you can comms effectively). someone can be attuned to different things (e.g. my friend always tells us where snatchers come from and if they're good, i'm personally attuned to where people need to be revived, etc.). you also know what specials you have access to, unlike in freelance where you're not sure what others have until they use them.

the other part of completing shifts successfully (to me) is being mechanically sound with your movement, mostly in regards to how you use the terrain (walls) to get around the map and escape situations. the more you play a map the more you'll figure out how you can move around on it.

some examples, using the location callouts from salmonrun.ink: there were a few times i'd go on the harbor but i could escape any salmonids in the bridge area by climbing the walls there and squidrolling out as needed. sometimes on high tide i would swim from the perch to the left plat.

sub-strafing is also good to know too, especially when you want to rapidly collect the basket eggs at the end. i still need to integrate it into other parts of my gameplay, but it's helpful!

uh. this was way longer than intended because i have WAY too many thoughts about salmon run. TL;DR: The key to succeeding your shifts is having good awareness which comes from good information collecting practices, and having the mechanical skill to act on that awareness without hesitation.

there's definitely a lot that goes on in sensory overload the game™, so it will take time to build these muscles and reaction times. i think while at every rank of salmon run you may face a wall of "i'm overwhelmed by the bosses," the exact fix needed to get past it usually varies, so it's important to figure out what information you were missing or what actions you could've taken (more efficient movement or special usage, usually).

or if you're struggling with quota, try to practice forwarding eggs or take a look where snatchers come from (even if people splat them, it's still a good practice 2 develop for later evp. source: i don't fucking do it and it's biting me in the ass)

and most importantly, recognize when you're in the midst of a loss streak/skill wall, so that you can take a break and focus on other things that energize you! even if there's a certain goal you want to meet, grinding for higher levels of EVP and getting better at the game can be a very exhausting process. you can always come back to the grind later, whether if it's after a 30 minute break, or just a different rotation!

[mysticalcrowntyrant]

Yandere Landlord x Reader

You move to New York because you have no reason to stay anywhere else.

After the breakup—after him—there was no home left. The apartment in Chicago had grown cold, not just in winter, but in the way it echoed with silence even when you were still living there. So, when the hospital called with a residency offer, you packed fast and drove faster, your old car chugging like it resented the weight of your regret.

You arrive in Brooklyn with three suitcases, a secondhand coffee maker, and too many scars to count. Internally. Externally, you’ve always passed for composed, professional. Polished even, when you put in the effort. People don’t see what you don’t let them.

The apartment is perfect. Too perfect. That’s the first red flag, but you don’t want to see it. The rent is suspiciously affordable. Hardwood floors. High ceilings. An antique clawfoot tub. When you visit the unit, sunlight pours in like a promise. You pause at the window, tracing the skyline in your mind like you’re sketching a new future.

The landlord is handsome in that quiet, overlooked kind of way. He introduces himself as Andy, says he inherited the building from his grandfather. Says he’s doing some renovations—you’ll hear some noise now and then, hope that’s not a dealbreaker. He smiles like he’s nervous. Like he isn’t used to people looking directly at him.

You don’t ask too many questions. The building feels safe. Andy feels harmless. You’re tired of running.

So you sign the lease.

You don’t notice the way he watches you. Not at first.

The first few weeks are a blur of hospital rotations and late-night subway rides. You’re barely home long enough to unpack. When you do sleep, it’s dreamless, like your mind’s been rinsed clean by exhaustion. You only vaguely remember Andy helping you carry your boxes upstairs, his fingers brushing yours when he handed over the keys. You’d thanked him. Smiled.

Sometimes you hear footsteps in the hallway at odd hours. A whisper of movement. But you tell yourself it’s just another tenant. You haven’t met your neighbors yet. You don’t plan to.

The first time something feels off is when you find your toothbrush slightly damp at 7 p.m. You haven’t used it since morning. You think maybe you’re being paranoid. Then your shampoo is in a different spot. Your towels are folded differently. The window in the bathroom is open when you never open it.

You change the locks.

Andy drops by with a bottle of wine a few days later. Says it’s a welcome gift. You accept it awkwardly, standing half-behind your door. You never drink it.

That night, you hear a thud inside the walls. You tell yourself it’s the pipes. Old buildings do that.

You feel eyes on you when you sleep.

You can’t explain it. It’s like your body knows something before your mind can catch up. You start waking up in cold sweats. You start locking your bedroom door. You stop using the bathtub.

Then one night, you wake up to the sound of breathing.

Not your own.

You freeze, heart pounding. You listen. It’s faint, ragged. Almost desperate. You flick on the light.

Nothing.

You check every room. You look under the bed, in the closet, behind the shower curtain. You find nothing but shadows. Still, you feel it. Someone has been in here.

You go to Andy the next day. You try to be casual, but your voice trembles. You ask if there’s any chance someone has access to your apartment. He frowns, concerned. Says he’ll change the locks personally. Says he’ll install extra security. Says it with the same calm voice a doctor might use before slipping in a needle.

You almost believe him.

Then you find the camera.

It’s hidden behind the vent in your bedroom. You only see it because the grate is slightly ajar. Tiny. Barely noticeable. You wouldn’t have noticed it at all if the wind hadn’t shifted the angle of light on the wall.

You don’t scream. You sit there, your heart slowly collapsing in your chest. Your skin prickles with invisible hands. Every second you’ve ever spent in this apartment flashes through your mind—every moment alone, every private breath.

He’s been watching you.

You leave that night.

You get a hotel. You call the cops. You tell them everything.

But by the time they investigate, the camera’s gone. The vent is closed. The apartment is clean. No signs of forced entry. No fingerprints. Just you and your paranoia.

You try to stay at a friend’s, but you can’t stop looking over your shoulder. You can’t stop imagining him slipping into your room in the middle of the night. You start seeing Andy’s face in crowds. In reflections. In your sleep.

You change your phone number. You quit your residency.

But he still finds you.

He waits for you in your hotel room. You come back from a late dinner, fumbling with your keycard, and he’s just there, inside. Like he’s always belonged there. Like you’re the one intruding.

He doesn’t threaten. He just talks.

He tells you he didn’t mean to scare you. That he just wanted to be close to you. That he fell in love the moment he saw you. That he made your apartment perfect because you deserved it.

That he watched you cry after phone calls and wanted to hold you.

That he listened to your breathing because it was the only sound that ever made him feel calm.

You back away slowly. You have a knife in your purse. You never used to carry one.

You draw it as he steps closer.

He doesn’t stop.

You stab him in the side.

He gasps. Bleeds. Smiles.

And still, still, he tries to touch your face like it’s the last thing he’ll ever see.

AN: I stole the plot from The Resident.

Masterlist

[guppiechuu]

Morning continuation of irresistible😩✋🏻

your wish is my command ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡ xo chuu

irresistible p.2 ⭑.ᐟ s.j (read part one here.)

length: 1.8k

contains: smut, unprotected sex (sorry guys it's literally every fic), oral sex (fem!reader), wake up sex

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Jake stirred slightly as he came out of sleep, the light through your window easing him gently back into the waking world.

You were still curled against him, your back to his chest, your cheek pressed against the palm of his hand. Your breath tickled his skin lightly, making it difficult for him to fall back asleep.

He pressed his face into your hair, breathing in the warm smell of your skin. The smell of your shampoo and body lotion wafted around him, filling his senses with the thought of you.

Mornings were the hardest for Jake. Even harder than watching you get ready for bed. You were so soft and warm, so clingy when it was time for him to get up and start his day. 

To make matters worse, Jake was always hard when he woke up. Always.

He sighed, that familiar ache settling in his lower stomach. It didn’t help that you liked to sleep as close as humanly possible, that every time you adjusted your hips, he felt your ass brush up against his dick beneath his sweatpants. 

And you were still shirtless. Still in nothing but the underwear he'd hastily pushed to the side last night. Having you in his arms like this, the way you were so at ease with him, it drove him crazy. 

He slid a lazy hand up the length of your thigh, dragging it up the side of your hip and across your stomach. You sighed gently at his touch, goosebumps rising across your shoulders. Jake squeezed the flesh of your waist gently, pushing his hips into yours as the ache in his groin grew. 

There was no way he was falling back asleep. Not anymore.

He propped himself up on his elbow, hair falling into his eyes as he leaned forward to kiss your shoulder, your arm, the inside of your neck. 

His other hand slid up your stomach to palm your chest, squeezing as he bit down on the crook of your neck gently. Mine, he thought lazily. Mine, mine, mine.

You let out a soft moan, still lost in sleep as you rotated onto your back. Jake was propped above you with an arm on either side of yours. His hair tickled your face as he leaned down to kiss you again—the base of your throat, your tits, your jaw. 

He slid his tongue against your collarbone, dragging it up the length of your neck. Covering the wet stripe with a line of feather-soft kisses. He kissed his way down your chest, all the way across your sternum and down to your belly button. 

You stirred again as he settled down between your legs, where he could kiss the sensitive skin between your thighs. You loved when he did this. Woke you up with his tongue between your legs. 

“Mmm,” You hummed, voice scratchy with sleep. 

“Morning, baby,” He said softly, grazing his teeth against the inside of your thigh. 

You didn’t say anything. Just the small movement of your hips, pushing up towards his mouth, was enough of an answer for him. 

He curled his tongue against your skin, leaving gentle bite marks in a trail that got closer and closer to where you were beginning to ache for him. 

That was the thing with Jake. He loved foreplay. Loved to make sure you were soaking wet before he even touched you where you wanted him most. And by the look of things, you were getting there. 

He loved to mark you up in the morning. Leave you with something of his to carry around all day until he could fuck you again later that night. He took his time on your thighs, sucking red bruises into your skin as you twitched beneath him. 

Once satisfied with the smattering of hickeys he’d left behind, Jake hooked a finger over the waist band of your underwear, which were still slightly damp from when he’d finished in you the night before. The thought of it sent a jolt of sensitivity through his body. 

Fucking his cum from the night before into you the next morning? Gross. Absolutely disgusting. It turned him on just to think about it. 

He attached his lips to your hip bone as he slid your panties down your legs, tossing them to the floor carelessly. All he cared about was right there, burning hot under his lips, already shining with arousal. 

Jake watched you as he striped his tongue between your folds, your back arching up to meet his mouth. You tasted so sweet in the mornings, dripping for him before you’d even opened your eyes. 

He curled his tongue against you, sucking gently at your clit as he buried his face between your legs. God, Jake loved eating you out. Who needed breakfast when he could have his girlfriend spread open in front of him like this? 

You whined gently as he lapped across your pussy, dipping his tongue into the well of your cunt. His arms curled under your open legs, palms resting flat against your stomach as you wound your hips against his mouth. 

He hummed against you, the vibrations shooting up your lower stomach in the most agonizingly delicious way. You finally peeked an eye open just to moan at the sight of him, messy-hair and all, devouring your clenching pussy. 

“Jakey,” You murmured, dragging a hand back through your hair. “Feels so good… but I—” 

You groaned, arching your back as he slid his tongue inside you. 

“You what, baby?” He asked, his breath tickling your skin. 

“I want you here now.” You reached a hand out, brushing the hair back from his face. 

He gazed up at you, savoring the taste of your cunt before pulling back. 

“All the way?” He asked.

“All the way.” 

Jake let you pull him up by the collar of his hoodie, whining as he rested in the heat between your legs. You kissed him sloppily, not caring about the fact that neither of you had brushed your teeth or that he tasted like your cunt.

Some people liked coffee in the morning. You liked tasting yourself on your boyfriend’s tongue. 

Jake was stiff now, pressing against you through his sweats as he pushed his hips against yours. It was all lazy sensuality between you—raking your fingers through his hair, his hands grazing over your skin until you were practically shivering under them. 

He sat back to pull his hoodie over his head, exposing the soft skin of his chest and stomach. You bit your lip, watching eagerly as he slid out of his sweats, dick springing up against his stomach. 

You hadn’t even touched him, and he was that hard. Just from the feeling of eating you out. 

Your bodies fit together perfectly, the way they had a million times. Jake tucked an arm under your leg as he pushed the tip of his dick inside you, just enough to make you both groan in unison. 

“So good, baby,” He said, then laughed. “Fuck, I’m gonna cum right here.” 

“Mmhm.” You shook your head, grabbing his shoulders and pulling him all the way on top of you. 

He slid into you with a hiss, burying all the way inside where you were warm and wet and pulsing. Jake’s mouth fell open, his eyes squeezing shut, as you attached your lips to his throat. 

It was your turn to mark him up now. You were more eager than he’d been, biting and sucking harshly until he was stuttering. 

“E-easy, babe, I ha— have to go into the office today,” He said, moaning as his hips began dragging in and out of yours. 

You ignored him, and he couldn’t bring it in himself to stop you. He looked down between your bodies, watching hungrily as his dick slid out of you and disappeared back in. Your belly tensed every time he pushed all the way in, breathy moans hot on his neck. 

You took your time together, as much as the morning would allow. Jake hardly cared that he was inside of you, he was more preoccupied by how beautiful you always looked first thing. 

You blushed under his gaze, heart swelling as he brushed his fingers against your face, pressing soft sweet kisses to your temples and forehead. 

“Pretty,” He mumbled against your skin, moaning breathily. “Love you, baby. I’m gonna miss you today.” 

You buried your face in his neck, craving a way to be even closer than you were already. “Do you have to go?” You whined, curling your legs around his waist as if that might keep him there with you forever. 

He ran his hand down the outside of your thigh, grabbing hold of it as he fucked into you harder. “Aren’t you sick of me yet?”

“No,” You mumbled against his mouth. “Wanna spend all day with you.” 

He hummed achingly, eyes closed as he pressed his forehead against yours. This was your favorite part, the moment he lost all control. 

“Fuck, y/n,” He groaned, biting his lip as his thrusts became sloppier. 

“Come on, baby,” You encouraged, swiping your tongue under his jaw. “Wanna have you inside me all day.” 

Jake could have finished from your words alone. But the sound of your voice mixed with the feeling of you tightening around him sent him over the edge. He jutted his hips into yours, pubic bone pressing down on your clit just right to make you tumble over the edge with him. 

He opened his mouth against yours, spilling whiny moans into your throat as he finished inside you, arms shaking slightly as they held him up. 

You curled your fingers into his hair, tugging gently as your hips tensed and then shook, your climax ripping through your body and chasing away the last of your tiredness. 

Jake gave you a few last strokes, teasing out his sensitivity on the warm, soft velvet of your cunt. Then, he press his lips to yours, humming against your mouth as he pulled away. 

“Can I take you out tonight?” He asked cheerily, gathering his sweats and sweatshirt from the floor. He was always in a good mood like this after.

He disappeared into your bathroom as he spoke. “Are you craving anything? We could try that restaurant that opened last month. I think Heeseung said it was good.” 

The sound of your showerhead turning on drifted into your room. You smiled to yourself, waiting for him to notice that you weren’t behind him.

“Or we could go back to that Mexican place. I’m down for tacos. Always down for tacos.”

“Jake?” You called lightly, head resting on your hand. 

He popped out from behind the bathroom door. “Oh, sorry, baby.” He crossed your room and in one fell swoop, had your body up in his arms as you giggled into his shoulder. “Can’t leave you a mess like this, can I?”

You disappeared into the shower together, giggling through the steam and soap bubbles, most definitely late but entirely too happy to care. 

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⤷ chuu's 💌 ── .✦ i started this and then tumblr deleted the whole thing ヾ(๑╹◡╹)ﾉ🔪

so this rewrite is maybe not as good but i hope you enjoy anyways!! thank you for your sweet message and to everyone else who enjoyed irresistible! I have some fun things in the works for enha comeback! have a good day/night hehe ₍ᐢ. .ᐢ₎ ₊˚⊹♡

[internetdaddy98]

The Opening Gambit

Previous | Next [Series Masterlist]

Pairing: Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x F!SeniorResident!Reader Summary: From the first subtle brush of your shoulder to the featherlight graze of your thumb, you don’t flirt, you control, cool and calculated. Every touch, every murmur, every glance is measured and deliberate. You work seamlessly beside him, professional and sharp, but just close enough to fray his composure.

Word Count: 1 K Content Warning: Medical procedures, blood, will most likely be medically inaccurate at times

The shift started like any other: chaos thinly veiled by protocol. A multi-car pileup on I-279 had half the ER running on caffeine and adrenaline before noon. Trauma teams rotated like gears, syncing movement with muscle memory.

But you weren’t here just to keep up.

You were here to test gravity.

And Robby? He didn’t know it yet, but he was already falling.

You saw him the moment you walked in. Standing at the board, stylus pen between his fingers, brown locks glinting at his temples under the harsh light. His scrub top was wrinkled, his jaw shadowed with a salt and pepper beard, and you had never seen anything more devastating in your life.

“Morning, Dr. Robby,” you said, soft and rhythmical as you passed him, your shoulder brushing his ever so slightly.

You weren’t just being polite.

You were starting something.

He didn’t look at you right away, but his hand paused. You saw the twitch of a muscle in his cheek. Heard the shift of his weight.

“Morning, Sheri,” he replied, low and even. But his voice had a rasp in it that hadn’t been there yesterday.

The trauma pager went off before either could say another word.

Room Four. Level One. Blunt trauma. Male. GCS 8. ETA three minutes.

They moved like a unit, you at his side, anticipating his decisions before he made them. In the resus bay, the air was dense with urgency, but your focus never wavered. Not on the patient. And not on him.

“Needle decompression,” you said confidently, your gloves snapping on. “Right side. You want to confirm, or do you trust me?”

You didn’t say it flirtatiously. That was the genius of it. You said it with that steady, cool voice you knew he liked, that made him respect you.

And you meant it. But still, your eyes flicked up to meet his as you said it. And you held them there.

He paused for half a second too long.

“I trust you,” he said finally and you nodded with a smile.

You worked like clockwork and when it was over and the patient stabilized, you stayed behind to clean up, letting the others filter out.

He lingered near the supply cabinet, reorganizing gauze.

You slipped beside him, close enough he could smell your skin, lavender and antiseptic.

“I like it when you let me take the lead,” you murmured, quiet enough that it was for him and only him. “It suits you.”

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

But you saw the way his fingers curled around the shelf. Saw the tight line of his jaw. The heat in his eyes when he finally turned to face you.

“That wasn’t the time to flirt,” he said gruffly.

“Oh,” you said, lips quirking, “was I flirting?”

And you left him there, too stunned to answer.

You moved through the ER with controlled grace, your expression calm but unreadable. Except he could read you. He’d known you long enough now to sense when you were holding something back. When you were leaning in instead of away.

You didn’t linger when you handed him chart updates. But your fingers always brushed his, and once, only once, your thumb skimmed his knuckle, deliberate and featherlight.

Long that he’d felt it for hours.

Later, you stood beside him as he dictated notes at the computer. You leaned in slightly, not touching, but close. He could smell the soft, clean hint of your shampoo, lavender and something warmer beneath it.

“Good phrasing,” you murmured under your breath when he dictated a particularly precise differential. The words were harmless. But your tone wasn’t.

You said it like a secret. Like a confession meant for him alone. His fingers hesitated on the keys. A flicker of heat curled low in his abdomen.

He didn’t turn. Didn’t look at you. Couldn’t.

Another trauma came in, motorcycle, late thirties, open femur fracture with significant blood loss. The room was loud, packed with motion, but Robby still felt your presence behind him as you prepped the surgical tray.

“IV established,” you said, then added softly, “I’ve got you covered.”

It should’ve been nothing. A reassurance. A common phrase.

But your voice lowered just enough that the words twisted into something else entirely, subtly charged. Personal.

He didn’t look at you then either. He couldn’t afford to. Not with blood on the floor and adrenaline humming through his veins.

But later, when the room emptied and he was washing his hands at the sink, he realized he was gripping the faucet too hard. Water too hot. Skin flushed.

And not just from the trauma.

The rest of the shift passed in a haze of carefully orchestrated tension.

You stood a little closer than necessary when reviewing imaging with him. Let your hand brush his forearm as you reached past for a chart. Tilted your head and gave that slight smile when he caught you watching him.

“You okay?” Mel asked once, nudging you while you reviewed a pelvic fracture.

“Yeah,” you said, eyes flicking toward Robby down the hall. “Just...trying something.”

Santos caught your look and grinned knowingly. “Poor man never stood a chance.”

You stood behind him again as you both reviewed a CT scan on the monitor. This time, your hand ghosted over the small of his back, not quite a touch. Just… there.

His breath caught. Brief, sharp. He said nothing.

But every nerve in his body lit like a flare.

At 7:02 p.m., as the shift wound down, Robby cornered you by the lockers. The hallway was empty, residents already changing, nurses clocking out. He stood close. Too close for it to be professional.

“You’ve been testing me all day,” he said, voice low and tight. “Why?”

You looked up at him, all wide eyes and innocent calm. “Testing you? I thought I was just doing my job.”

“Don’t play coy.”

“Who’s playing?”

He stepped closer. The tension coiled so tight between them it could’ve shattered.

But you only smiled. Tugged your pink hoodie from the locker. Brushed past him, one last slow, deliberate drag of your fingers across his hand.

And with a whisper in his ear, said, “But if I was playing, I think I’m winning.”

Then you left.

And Robby stood alone, fists clenched, heart racing, one breath away from forgetting every line he ever swore not to cross.

[solarismoons]

Astronomy (Pt 1.)

 ‘It’s astronomy, we’re two worlds apart’

Wally Clark x fem!reader

Summary: You grapple with the aftermath of your fall while trying to avoid a persistent ghost and intrusive questions from your friends.

Warnings: Mentions of suicide, angst, addiction, slighttt emetophobia, careful reading.

prev. chap. next chap.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

It was another bad day for your Dad. The second you stepped further into your house, a nasty smell of vomit engulfed the air. With each breath, the ache in your skull sent ripples of pain shooting through your entire body.

Pulling your shirt over your nose, you stumbled further into the house and grabbed your keys off the kitchen counter. The pain in your head and the building pain in your left arm signaled something was wrong. 

Maybe it was the adrenaline or the pure shock of what you witnessed, but by some miracle, you were able to pull out of your driveway and drive to the hospital. As soon as you stepped into the emergency room, the nurses looked at you, concern and pity etched into their features. 

The harsh glare of the artificial lights bathed the waiting room in a piercing brightness that once again made you squirm. Sat around the room were strange people decked out in outdated clothing. Brightly colored bell bottoms grazed the floor, while patterned shirts with oversized collars clashed against the pale walls. You were far too fucked up to care.

You were swiftly guided through heavy double doors, the faint sound of muffled voices fading behind you. As you sat on the doctor's table, crinkly paper crunched beneath your legs, a sterile scent filling the air. You tried to sit comfortably, but your senses were overwhelmed. Each movement hurt, and each breath in brought a new wave of nausea pulsing through you.

After a few brief moments, a tall woman in clean, navy scrubs walked in, her steps purposeful yet unhurried. Her hair was pulled back into a neat, tight bun. Her expression was calm and professional. The woman’s deep brown eyes calmed you down, ever so slightly.

“So, what’s going on, hun?” She snapped tight blue gloves over her hands. As the gloves clicked into place, she chewed on a piece of gum, the sound of her lips popping softly echoing in the quiet room. 

“I… Fell. Off a roof.” The woman pulled up a chair, momentarily blinding you as she flashed a light into your eyes.

“You fell, huh?” She asked quizzically, a hint of concern evident in her tone. “What were you doing on a roof at 2 am, sweets?” Her tone was soft but accusatory. You sunk back into yourself.

“Drinking,” You falsely confessed, your eyes darting away. It was a half-hearted lie that hung in the air like a bad smell. The woman shook her head, unable to hide her judgment. She stayed silent as her fingers lightly prodded the back of your head.

You sucked in a harsh breath, fingers gripping the table. “Am I okay?” You slowly asked. 

“Well, it’s just a cut… It’s better than it looks. I can’t say the same about this arm.” Her fingers lightly picked up your wrist, rotating it slowly. A deep, angry bruise slowly spread across your skin, a constellation of reds and purples swirling at the surface.

“We’re going to have to run x-rays, ’kay?” You nodded.

────────────

Your stay at the hospital was longer than you had liked. You arrived home sporting a sling and a concussion. The doctor ordered you to stay home for a few days and avoid bright lights. Yeah, right. You couldn’t miss a day of school. Spending more than a few hours at home was already too much for you. The stench of alcohol and vomit hung heavily in the air, clinging to every surface. As used to it as you should’ve been, it was a haunting presence that tore you apart. It was a constant reminder of the shell of a human your dad had become. 

A pair of sunglasses and a doctor's note would suffice. 

You crept past your still-passed-out father, who was drooling all over the couch cushions. At last, you reached the sanctuary of your bedroom. As you sank into your bed, the familiar embrace of the sheets enveloped you, offering a comforting escape from the chaos you experienced. You’d only have a few hours to rest before school, but no part of you had enough energy to care.

────────────

Just as you predicted, the second you stepped into school, confused stares burned into the back of your head. The sunglasses did little to protect you from the blinding fluorescents, but it was better than the alternative of rotting at home. 

Your fingers fumbled with your locker, finding it harder than you had thought to open it one-handed. Sneakers squeaked on the linoleum floors behind you. Arms wrapped around you in a tight embrace.

“Holy shit! Are you okay? I got your text!” You winced and squirmed out of Nicole's grasp, your arm exploding with pain. Apologies quickly spilled out of her mouth in rushed succession.

“I’m okay,” You assured her. Past her shoulder stood Maddie, Simon, and Xavier. They all crowded around you, asking you to elaborate further on your cryptic text:

“Might not be at school tomorrow- In the hospital.”

It was sent at 5 in the morning when you barely had any sanity to wake up, let alone send a text. Out of seemingly nowhere, a chill crept up your spine. Your heart began to beat against your ribs, and sweat broke out on your forehead.

“That must hurt,” A deep, unfamiliar voice whispered above you. You slowly slid your eyes over to the voice, eyes focusing on a too-familiar face. Wally smiled down at you, his frame towering over you. He raised an eyebrow at you as you started to shake.

“Hey! Are you okay?” Simon's hand gripped your shoulder, his eyes searching yours. You almost jumped out of your skin as you whipped your head around towards him.

“I- I’m… I’ll tell you guys at lunch. I’m going to the nurse,” You stuttered out. Fully abandoning all your books in your locker, you sped walk away. Your friends stood in the middle of the hall, completely dumbfounded. 

You knew they would interrogate you at lunch–beg you for answers. But you couldn’t care less at that moment. You needed to get away from whatever fucked-up things your brain started projecting in front of you. Feet skidding around a corner, you found an empty classroom. The blinds were pulled down, the only light being a small lamp on the center desk. You slid your sunglasses off your head, put them into your bag, and welcomed the darkness.

You held your head in your hands, your breathing becoming rapid. What the fuck was happening? Maybe you should’ve told the doctor you were hallucinating. Maybe they would’ve locked you up, would’ve filled you with pills, and sent you on your merry way. You would’ve done anything to stop whatever you were seeing.

You tried to reason with yourself–tried to make sense of why you were hallucinating him. A million thoughts raced through your head at once. You always had some weird attraction towards him, but it always made you feel guilty. Was that why? Was your subconscious torturing you for finding a dead guy sexy?

The door swung open, closing shut with a slam. The last person you wanted to see walked right up to you. You looked up at him, anger searing through you.

“You’re not real,” You muttered, more so to yourself, as you hopped off the desk and grabbed your bag with one hand. You tried to step around him, but he maneuvered in front of you.

“I’m pretty sure I am,” He laughed, far too amused at the situation. He was unsure of how you knew him. But he could see it in your eyes–you recognized him. Maybe you’d seen his memorial in an old yearbook? Whatever it was, you intrigued him. He also felt drawn to you. Every time you were near, the hair stood up on his arms, and his breath stopped in his throat.

“You’re dead,” You argued, trying to sidestep him. Annoyingly, he blocked your path again. Hands clenching at your sides, you huffed.

“Then why are you talking to me?” Wally laughed again, the sweet sound cutting through the silence of the classroom. It sent another shiver shooting up your spine. Despite your protests, a warm feeling filled your chest.

“I’m going crazy. You’re not real,” You grumbled to yourself. That’s it; you’ve officially gone mad. You had brain damage. That was the only possible explanation. You quickly stepped forward, knowing you’d step right through him, and he’d vanish into thin air just like that.

Except you didn’t walk through him. Instead, your body slammed into his, your face connecting with his chest. Wally grunted at the impact, his strong hands steadying on your back. You flinched back, looking up into his eyes. The look on his face would stay with you forever.

He looked aghast– like he was the one seeing a ghost. His hands glided down the curve of your body. His large brown eyes, filled with shock and intensity, traced their path, taking in every square inch they touched. Your body went rigid as you dug your fingernails into his arm.

He could touch you. As if you were dead, as if you were just another ghost, he could touch you. It was an experience unlike anything he had ever encountered; a whirlwind of emotions surged through him, leaving him utterly dumbfounded. Never in his 40 years of being dead had he ever been able to touch, let alone talk to someone alive.

He wasn’t just something you could see. You could feel the warmth of his skin. Fuck, you could smell him. The intoxicating smell of his cologne engulfed you, Igniting sparks in your stomach. His breath fanned over your face, the coolness of it laced with a sharp scent of mint that seemed to linger in the air. 

Wally slid his hands up to your jaw, holding it delicately. A part of him was worried you’d vanish right before his eyes. He handled you with a sort of gentleness you had never experienced before. He delicately grazed the pad of his thumb across your cheek as if you were made of porcelain.

The door slammed open again, this time, a less pretty face on the other side. Mr. Anderson walked in, an annoyed look on his face. “Go to class! You’re 10 minutes late,” he yelled. Had it really been that long? Wally abruptly released you, and an immediate chill enveloped you. How was your body already aching for his warmth?

Mr. Anderson sat behind his desk and called your name with an intensity that made your heart skip a beat. Instinctively, your head jerked over to him. “What’re you deaf? Go!” 

You uttered a half-assed apology and ran out the door, not bothering to glance back at Wally. The football player leaned against a desk, a disbelieving smile crawling onto his face. He shook his head, laughing. He didn’t understand how any of this was possible. He couldn’t comprehend what forces could be at play. The gods must’ve been fucking with him.

────────────

For the next two periods–up until lunch–your search history was concerning, to say the least.

‘Is it possible to see ghosts?’

‘Ghost encounters’

‘Wally Clark Split River accident’

‘Split river ghosts?’

Even scouring the deepest parts of the internet didn’t give you clarity. Countless blogs, theorems, and shady articles still couldn’t give you an answer to your question: Why? As you ran through the hallway, shoulder-checking people to get to the cafeteria, the question rang through your head. 

While you ran, you started noticing things you hadn’t before. You saw the girl with wide eyes and a dazed expression sitting on the book return cabinet. You saw the boy with frosted tips and the Canadian tuxedo. Hell, you almost ran headfirst into the girl with a black newsboy cap and an angry look on her face.

You’ve never seen them before. If they were ghosts like you suspected, Wally wasn’t a hallucination. Despite your groping in the middle of Mr. Anderson's classroom, you still couldn’t accept the truth. But, if you were seeing other ghosts? He couldn’t have been a delusion. It made sense for him to be a figment of your imagination–You saw his face every damn time you walked into your living room. It could’ve easily been your subconscious projecting a familiar face right in front of your eyes.

But, you could smell him. And, fuck, he smelled good.

“Hello?!” Nicole waved her hand in front of your face, snapping a few times. Flinching back immediately, you looked around. When the fuck did you buy lunch? When did you sit down at a table?

“Hey!” She shook you gently, her eyes wide with concern as her voice trembled with worry. Maddie and Simon exchanged a sideways glance. You quickly shook your head, trying to shift out of autopilot.

“Sorry- I was just thinking,” You whispered, rubbing your temples. 

Maddie snickered, her voice dripping with sarcasm as she whispered to Simon. Simon, unable to contain his amusement, joined in, muttering something under his breath. Nicole shot them a dirty look, quickly shutting them up. Her hand glided gently up and down your back, a comforting gesture that kept you grounded. 

“What happened, girl?” Nicole inquired, voice soft. You knew telling them the truth was out of the question. The words snuck to the tip of your tongue, begging to be spilled. Your problems weighed heavily on your shoulders, a crushing burden constantly holding you down. Still, they were yours. Not your friends to deal with.

“I fell down the stairs,” you said. Nicole’s hand halted its movements just for a second. The whole table shot you side-ways looks. You shoved a tater-tot into your mouth, hoping no one would ask any more intrusive questions. As if your prayers were answered, each person nodded, seemingly taking your word. Unfortunately for you, your friends were smarter than you anticipated. Nicole made a mental note to confront you later.

As soon as the bell rang, signaling the end of lunch, you booked it out of the cafeteria. Brown eyes followed your figure as you ran. Shamelessly, Wally had been following you the entire day. He watched from a distance, worried to scare you off. He just needed to know more. After his light stalking, he learned two things:

You were the complete opposite of him; Your schedule consisted of art classes and advanced courses he couldn’t get more than a C in. And more importantly, he learned your first name. It rang through his mind like a beautifully crafted symphony, each syllable twisting and turning in his stomach. He knew he was fucked.

Hours later, you trudged home on foot, the day weighing on you. You bombed your calc test and fell asleep in the middle of anatomy. Even in sleep, you couldn’t escape him. You needed to do something before going completely mad. You needed answers.

That night, you devised a plan. Sneak out the window, climb onto a tree, and slide down the trunk. Easy enough, right?

Although, having Wally’s lips connected to your neck was not a part of your plan.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

tags: @maggiecc @astoryworthoftelling @aliengirl99

a/n: If anyone would like to be on my tag list, please comment on this post!

[lupinqs]

CHAPTER NINETEEN ━━ Girls Talk

❀ ━ pairing: paige bueckers x oc (jo jacobson)

❀ ━ word count: 8.9K

❀ ━ warnings: tiny makeout nothing else i dont think

❀ ━ links: my masterlist, nobody gets me masterlist

❀ ━ author’s note: only a few more chapters left thank god. also i promise celeste actually is going to serve a purpose lol

JO FEELS THE WEIGHT of everything ahead more in her chest than anywhere else.

It’s not nerves. Not exactly. She’s not nervous heading into the Big East Tournament, not in the way people probably expect her to be. UConn’s handled conference play like a machine, and even when games have been scrappy—when shots haven’t fallen or players have gone down, when the rotation’s been thin and legs have been heavy—there’s never been real doubt. Not about their record, not about their identity. They’ve come out of it undefeated. And even if it’s just the Big East, they’ve done it by work, by belief, by toughness.

Still, Jo doesn’t let herself take anything for granted. It’s not really in her nature to. And it’s definitely not in Geno’s.

He drills it into them constantly—treat every game like it’s the national championship. Doesn’t matter if it’s Xavier on a Wednesday or South Carolina in the tournament. Doesn’t matter if they’re up thirty or down two. They play like it’s for a title. They prepare like it’s for a title. They think like champions. And Jo’s bought into it completely. Maybe even more than she realizes sometimes. But, here’s the thing: she’s doing all this to become a champion. She wants it more than anything.

So today—last practice at Werth before they leave for the tournament—it’s not just another walkthrough. Not to Jo. The gym smells like sweat and floor polish and memory, and everything feels a little more important. She’s locked in from the moment it starts. Not because she’s worried about their chances. Not because this is where it all begins. The push, the run, the stakes.

She loves practice. Loves the rhythm of it, the detail, the way film sessions bleed into reps and everything is purposeful. She loves Geno’s voice barking at them, loves when CD yells to calm down, loves the exhaustion that builds behind her knees after three hours of movement. She loves feeling the shape of her own improvement.

She loves this team.

It’s not just a line, not just some press conference thing to say. It’s real and rooted. She loves these people. The way Nika talks shit and throws no-look passes. The way Aaliyah’s always catches Jo’s dimes, her post work smooth as butter. The way Lou and Dorka have formed this weird, wordless connection like they’ve been playing together their whole lives. The way Aubrey quite literally defies gravity and nobody can box her out no matter how many times opponents try.

And Paige. Of course Paige. Always Paige.

She hasn’t played a second this year and somehow she still feels like the center of everything. That voice. That presence. The way she pulls Jo aside mid or post practice and says something small that can change her perspective on everything. Paige could be the best coach in the country if she wanted to be (well, maybe after Geno), and she’s only twenty-one. Of course, Jo misses the on-court Paige, the one she watched drain dagger threes in clutch time and argue with the refs like no one’s business. But there’s something even scarier—something even more Paige—about the way she’s taken this season and owned it anyway. No self-pity. Just effort. Energy. Leadership.

Her rehab’s going well, too. Jo knows it; she’s with her for a lot of it, actually. Paige moves different now. The bounce is back. The ease. And even if Paige downplays it, Jo watches. She’s always watching. Because she knows next season, Paige is gonna be back out there. And them with that Paige? It’ll be a whole different monster.

But for now, the Big East Tournament is up next, and they’re getting healthy just in time.

Caroline’s back. Everyone’s relieved about it. What she’s been through—the concussion stuff, the weird limbo of recovery, the way she’s had to just sit and wait and not know—it’s brutal. Jo saw it wear on her. The silence in the locker room, the way her laugh dulled, how she’d have to hole herself up in a dark and quiet room because of the pain. But she’s smiling again. Shooting again. And her release looks like it always has—clean and confident.

Azzi’s close, too. Her knee’s held her out for a while now, but the team’s been careful. Not rushing. Playing the long game. Jo’s missed playing with her, missed the gravity she brings, the way defenses panic when Azzi even glances at the arc. Having her back is huge.

And the timing couldn’t be better.

Because after this weekend, the NCAA Tournament is right there. And at UConn, under Geno Auriemma, it’s not about getting there. It’s not even about Final Fours. It’s not about anything less than winning the whole damn thing. Natty or bust. Always. Jo grew up watching that standard. She’s living it now.

They announced the Big East awards this morning. Jo’s still sort of processing it. Not because she doesn’t think she’s earned them. She knows what she’s done. She knows what she’s poured into this season. But to win both Big East Player and Freshman of the Year is rare. Paige was the last to do it.

And she beat out Maddy Siegrist for conference Player of the Year, too, which is slightly insane when she really thinks about it. Siegrist’s been crazy all year. If Jo’s not mistaken she’s actually led the nation in scoring this season. Jo guesses the committee must’ve seen something else in her—something broader. Leadership, maybe. Defense. Playmaking. The little things. The winning. Because UConn’s record is better. The numbers back it up.

First-team All-Big East. That’s her, Aaliyah, and Lou. Dorka and Nika made Second-team, and Nika got Defensive Player of the Year. Aaliyah is Most Improved.

Even with the team being so injured, it’s a sweep. And Jo’s proud of all of it. She really is. But she’s not floating. Not celebrating. Not letting it really settle in her head at all.

Because the job’s not done.

None of the awards matter if they lose in the Big East championship (they won’t). None of it means anything if they flame out in the Sweet Sixteen. No one remembers the accolades of you don’t back them up when it counts. Jo knows that.

Which is why she went so hard in practice today. And then, afterwards, when she stayed with Paige in the gym for extra work like they’ve done for months now. Shooting, handles, that kinda thing.

Which is why Jo is now dying.

Like—not metaphorically, not in the dramatic, attention-seeking way she sometimes jokingly pulls after sprints when Nika’s yelling at her to stop flopping around. No, this feels different. This is the kind of dying where her legs are jelly, her lungs are still catching up from the extra shooting drills, and there’s an honest, sincere moment where she thinks, Okay, maybe I should’ve stopped twenty minutes ago before Paige made me do that third round of one-dribble pull-ups.

But it’s not like she could’ve said no. She never says no. Not when it’s Paige asking. Not when it’s just the two of them, the gum quiet except for sneakers squeaking, rebounding for each other the way they’ve done all season. It doesn’t even feel like extra work anymore. It feels like something else. Just something they do.

But now Jo is laid flat across the locker room bench like a corpse, one arm flopped dramatically over her stomach, the other curled at her side. She’s still sweating through her practice tee, her face damp, chest rising and falling with shallow, almost theatrical breaths. Paige sits next to her, with Jo’s head is pillowed in her lap. Her fingers are dragging gently through Jo’s hair, smoothing it back behind her ears. The locker room is empty but for the two of them.

Jo doesn’t open her eyes, but she knows Paige is staring down at her. She feels it. The weighted, blue gaze that makes the air buzz against her cheekbones. Her whole body feels heavy and sort of floaty at the same time, like her bones are dissolving right into Paige’s lap.

“You did good today,” Paige murmurs, voice quiet and warm and a little scratchy. “Real proud.”

Jo groans immediately, a low, pained sound that comes straight from her gut. “No. It killed me. I’m dying.”

She doesn’t even try to sound tough. What’s the point? Paige saw her gasping for air after the last few shooting sets. Saw her grimacing through the last of the sprints, hands on her knees, dripping sweat. Jo’s not entirely above playing it up a little with Paige, either—just for sympathy, a little attention. It earns her more of Paige’s hand in her hair, fingers dragging down to scratch lightly at her scalp. It feels good.

Paige laughs softly. It’s more of a huff through her nose, but it’s affectionate and Jo hears the smile in it.

“Well,” Paige replies, clearly amused, “at least you look good dying.”

That gets Jo to crack one eye open. Just barely. The locker room is blurry at first, but Paige’s face is sharp and glowing in the center of it. That stupid little grin on her lips. The teasing glint in her eyes. And she’s looking at Jo like she always does—like Jo is hers and Paige is still not sure how it happened but she’s not complaining about it.

Jo swallows and reaches up without thinking, hand curling around the back of Paige’s neck. Her palm is clammy, but Paige doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t pull away.

“C’mere,” Jo mutters, voice hoarse and low, tugging gently.

She means it. She’s trying to pull Paige down for a kiss, make some kind of reward out of this moment, because she’s certainly earned it after all the buckets and the defense and the sprinting and the dying.

Paige leans forward with it but doesn’t get close enough at all. She laughs again. “Baby,” she says, “my back doesn’t bend that way.”

Baby.

It’s such a small word. Barely there. Tossed out like nothing. But it explodes in Jo’s chest like a firework. She doesn’t show it, but she feels it.

Paige doesn’t call her that often. Usually it’s Joey in that fond voice, or the God-awful JoJo nickname in a teasing way. But when she does call her that—when she says it in that low, almost lazy voice, like Jo is some kind of secret she’s been keeping close—it makes Jo feel warm. Claimed. Like they’re more than something without a name.

They haven’t talked about it. Not officially. Not really. They act like a couple. They kiss and fuck like one, too. But they don’t say what it all means. Jo’s been too scared to ask. Paige has never been in an actual relationship and Jo’s last one ended in the worst way they can. So, she’s got no spine about it, and she knows it.

She keeps telling herself she’s fine with it. That it doesn’t matter. That it feels real, and that’s enough.

Instead of thinking anymore about it, Jo just groans again and shifts, using what little strength she has left to sit up slightly, just enough to reach Paige properly this time. Her face is close now. Close enough to kiss.

And so she doesn’t show.

No words, just action. Just Jo leaning in and pressing her mouth against Paige’s like it’s the most obvious next step. Because it is. Because Paige called her baby, and Jo’s brain short-circuited, and now she’s just following instinct.

The kiss deepens, and Jo chases it—leans into it like she’s leaning into a cut to the rim, like there’s no stopping, no pivoting away. Paige opens her mouth a little and Jo takes full advantage, tongue slipping in. There’s this noise that Paige makes then—tiny, caught in the back of her throat—that makes Jo’s stomach flip violently.

Jo’s still sort of half on the bench, half off it, one knee digging into the vinyl cushion. But then Paige shifts, her hands sliding down Jo’s ribs. Jo moves with them, body rearranging in the space. She ends up straddling Paige’s lap, her arms around her neck, their chests pressed together. The sweat cooling on her skin makes her shirt cling awkwardly in places, but she doesn’t care. Doesn’t even notice.

All she notices is Paige’s hands splayed on her back, fingers warm and patient, one curling into the hem of Jo’s shirt, brushing soft over bare skin. She notices the way Paige kisses her like she means it, tongue licking into Jo’s mouth.

Jo tilts her head, parting her lips wider, pushing deeper. Paige tastes like minty gum and the Gatorade she had at the end of practice and something that’s just Paige. It’s addicting. She doesn’t even care if her legs are still trembling or if her heart’s beating like it’s trying to hammer through her ribs.

She lets out a breath against Paige’s cheek, nuzzling into the edge of her jaw for just a second. “Jesus,” she whispers.

“Mm?” Paige murmurs, eyes fluttering half open.

“You trying to kill me?” Jo asks, voice teasing, but not entirely joking.

Paige smirks, pulling her even closer. “Thought you were already dying.”

Jo huffs a breath that turns into a laugh and kisses her again, harder now, hand tangling in Paige’s hoodie collar as if she could disappear into her if she just pulled hard enough.

She settles her weight fully in Paige’s lap, thighs bracketing her hips, breath catching a little when Paige’s hands shift lower, palming at her ass through her basketball shorts.

It’s perfect. It’s theirs. Other than right before bed, they hardly ever get this—not really. Not with time and space and no one around to ruin it. It’s rare, this kind of peace and quiet.

Which is, of course, when the door swings open.

They jump apart like they’ve been tasered.

Jo’s whole body jolts, heart plummeting as her eyes fly to the door. Paige curses under her breath, her hands leaving Jo’s ass like it burned her. Jo scrambles to move, to shift off Paige’s lap and find something approaching decency, even though it’s so fucking obvious what was happening.

And standing in the doorway is Celeste Sinclair. Red hair tied into a low ponytail, camera bag slung over one shoulder, UConn hoodie riding up a little on one side like she’s been rushing. She freezes when she sees them. Her eyebrows lift. Her eyes do this weird, flicking double-take that makes Jo want to crawl out of her skin.

It’s only a second. Maybe two.

But Jo can feel it—feel the calculus happening behind Celeste’s eyes. The math of it. Jo sitting in Paige’s lap. Lips probably still pink and swollen. Paige’s hands still halfway in the air.

“Sorry,” Celeste says, voice clipped and a little too sharp. Then, slower, eyes lingering—just for a second too long—on Paige, “Um. Sorry. I’ll just… go.”

She doesn’t look at Jo again. Just turns and walks back out the door, the sound of it clicking shut behind her deafening.

Jo exhales, breath rattling in her chest. She’s still kneeling on the bench, one foot on the floor, legs shaking a little from effort and adrenaline. Her hands are braces on her thighs like she needs to steady herself.

“Shit,” she mumbles.

There goes that secret.

She shifts off Paige’s lap entirely now, settling next to her on the bench. Not touching. Her skin suddenly feels too warm, like her body hasn’t caught up to the fact that they’re not making out anymore. Her heart won’t slow down.

Paige groans beside her, dragging a hand down her face. “God,” she mutters. “Of all people.”

Jo glances sideways. “You think she’ll say anything?”

Paige’s jaw tenses. She shakes her head like she’s not sure. “I should go—talk to her. Make sure she doesn’t.”

Jo just nods. Because, yeah, that needs to happen. No one knows about them. Not Azzi. Not Ice. Not Aubrey. Not Caroline. Not Geno. Not CD. Not anyone. And they’ve liked it that way. It’s been theirs, in the quiet between games and the sweat between practices. It hasn’t gotten messy because it’s been private.

She’s about to say something when Paige leans in, gentle again, a hand lifting to Jo’s cheek. She kisses her once, quick, a quiet reassurance.

“Be right back,” she murmurs, then stands and walks out, hoodie sleeves pushed up, bun slightly messed up because of Jo’s hands.

Jo stays there, alone on the bench.

And all she can think is: Well, shit. Cover’s blown.

PAIGE WALKS FAST.

Not running, but almost. Her sneakers are too loud against the hallway tile, the slap of rubber echoing in the quiet post-practice stillness of the facility. It’s always like this when they’re the last ones in the gym—quiet in a way that feels peaceful. But not now. Now, her stomach is doing somersaults and her chest is tight like she just did suicides.

She doesn’t even fully know what she’s about to say. She just knows she has to catch Celeste before she leaves, has to do something to shut it down before it becomes a thing. Before anyone else finds out. Because as much as she doesn’t want to hide Jo, it’s not like they’ve really had a conversation about any of this. What they are, what they’re doing. It’s just been… them. In pieces. In stolen time. Quiet. Private. Safe.

So, when she sees that familiar red ponytail swaying down the hallway ahead of her, her voice cuts through before she even decides what to say.

“Celeste.”

The girl stops—slowly. Turns around even slower. There’s something in her eyes, sharp and tired at the same time.

“What?” she asks flatly. Like she’s bored. Like Paige has already wasted her time.

Paige blanches. Her body keeps moving, but her brain just stalls out. She wasn’t expecting that tone. That edge. Celeste has always been a little cocky, yeah, a little smug, but never cold. Never even really annoyed.

Paige stops a few feet away, mouth opening and closing once, then again. Her hands twitch awkwardly at her sides. She doesn’t know if she should smile, be casual, be direct, be defensive. All of it feels wrong.

“Um,” she starts. “I—about what you saw…”

Celeste tilts her head, lips pressing into a thin line. “What, you and Jo Jacobson—your puppy-eyed freshman teammate—about to fuck in the locker room?”

Paige’s brows lift like she’s been physically smacked. “Jesus, bro,” she says automatically, startled and stumbling. “We were not about to fuck in there.”

And that part is true. They weren’t. That wasn’t the point of it. They were just—well, okay, they were definitely making out, but it wasn’t like that. But Celeste is staring her down with something curled and bitter in her bright green eyes, like she doesn’t believe a single word coming out of Paige’s mouth.

“Sure looked like it,” Celeste mutters.

Paige sighs hard and runs a hand down her face, dragging it along her jaw. There’s sweat still crusted under her nails from the extra reps with Jo. Despite hardly practicing, just doing the little things she can, her body is tired. Her heart is loud. Her patience is frayed.

“Okay,” she says, “I just—can you please keep whatever you thought you saw to yourself? Please?”

Celeste stares at her for a beat. Then she laughs—but it’s not a real laugh. It’s short and humorless, more of a bark than anything else. Her eyes flick to the floor, then back up, and she nods slowly. Mockingly.

“Oh, you wanna keep her a secret?” she concludes, mouth twitching at the corners. “Like you kept me a secret?”

Paige’s stomach lurches, because—what?

She blinks, feels her throat close up. That doesn’t even make sense. That’s not even close to how it went. But Celeste’s expression doesn’t shift—she’s still got that sharpness to her face, like she’s trying to see how deep she can twist the knife. Like she means to get under Paige’s skin.

“Bro,” Paige says again, brows pulling together. Her voice is still calm, but there’s disbelief under it now. “It wasn’t even like that with us.”

Because it wasn’t. They were never anything even remotely close to real. They hooked up a good amount, yes. There were a couple times when they were so drunk it would result in a sleepover. And, over the summer, sometimes Paige would flirt with her during her media duties. But they never even went on a date. Never saw each other outside of necessity with basketball or in bed. Celeste flirted all the time, yeah, still sort of does, but Paige never encouraged anything beyond physical. She made that line clear.

Celeste scoffs—loud, exaggerated—and looks away like she’s trying not to roll her eyes straight into the back of her skull. “Right.”

Paige takes a breath. It’s one of those sharp, tight ones that hits her ribs in the way down and doesn’t quite go all the way. Like her body won’t let her breathe easy until she figures out how the fuck this whole thing went from “whoops, we got caught kissing” to blackmail threat from a bitter ex situationship. Which is just great. Wonderful. Just what she needed on top of an aching knee, exhausting rehab, and a tournament she’s not even playing in yet beyond anxious for.

Tentatively, she tries, “Are you mad because I told you to stop texting me?”

It’s not accusatory, just curious. It makes sense—this being less about what Celeste saw and more about how she felt when Paige fully pulled the plug on them (which, for the record, they never even were a them). Last month, the texts had started up again—some related to media shit, yeah( but some that were just… kinda obvious. “What’re you up to tonight?” “Want to come over?” “Miss your face.” Stuff that had I’m still thinking about you naked as the entrée but also with a side order of maybe I want to hang out and talk, too.

And Paige had shut it down. Nicely. But firmly. Because even if she and Jo aren’t official, even if they haven’t labeled anything or had the talk—Paige knows exactly where her head’s at. She doesn’t want anyone else. Not even a little bit. Not ever.

Celeste narrows her eyes. “You are so smart, Paige,” she says sarcastically, before sighing. “I thought we were friends outside of the fucking. You made it seem like you liked me. Like you saw more than just one of the team’s Instagram admins.”

That hits Paige in a way she wasn’t exactly prepared for. Because Celeste sounds genuinely hurt now, not just defensive. It’s different. Real. And, yeah, okay—maybe there was a time where she leaned in too much. Maybe her being nice looks a lot like flirting if you don’t know her well enough. Paige has always been told she gives confusing signals. Too much eye contact. Too much laughing. Too much attention.

But it was never intentional. And it definitely wasn’t a promise.

Still, she softens, just a little. “I’m sorry ’bout that,” Paige says, and she means it.

Celeste scoffs again and repeats, “Right.”

And then she adds, tossing it out like a rock through a window, “I wonder what the coaching staff would think about two of their players fucking around this late in the season. Hm.”

Paige’s stomach drops. She hears her own heartbeat in her ears and her mind immediately starts running worse-case scenarios.

What would Geno say? Or CD? Or Jamelle?

Would they be pissed? Would they make them stop? Would it be a whole thing? Would the narrative become that they’re distractions to each other? Would Jo get blamed for it, even though Jo has literally never done a selfish thing in her life? Would there be whispers about the team dynamic being thrown off, even if it’s not true? Would the postseason get tainted by this?

She doesn’t know the answer to any of those questions. And she doesn’t want to.

“Celeste, c’mon,” Paige says, and there’s an edge of urgency to her voice now. She drops the posture, the tension in her jaw. Just puts it out there, raw and real. “Don’t say anything. Please.”

Celeste takes a step forward. “Why should I do anything for you?” she asks, voice cold. “Or, for that matter,” she adds, gesturing toward the locker room with a flick of her fingers, “your little bitch in there? I don’t owe either of you anything.”

There it is. The moment something shifts in Paige, a snap.

Because Jo is not a bitch.

Jo is all soft t-shirts and messy buns and shy smiles. Jo is late-night ice cream runs and twirling her pen in her mouth while she takes film notes. Jo is bright pink lip gloss and knee pads and unrelenting kindness, even when she’s bone-tired. Jo is the person Paige reaches for without even realizing it. The person who laughs at all her jokes and hums when she’s thinking and flushes when Paige calls her baby.

Jo is everything. Jo is hers. Not exactly in a claiming, possessive way. More in a I’ll protect this girl with my entire fucking chest If I have to way.

And Celeste Sinclair doesn’t get to talk about her like that.

Paige steps forward, looks down at the redhead steadily, showers set. “Don’t,” she says, low and controlled.

The word hangs there between them. It’s not loud, not even really forceful. Just steady. It lands like a stone dropped into water—clean, deep, no ripple.

For a second, something in Celeste’s expression flickers. Her mouth parts just slightly, like maybe she’s going to double down, say something cruel again, make this even messier. Paige holds her ground, doesn’t move a muscle. Her jaw is tight and she kisses her teeth.

Celeste shifts a little on her feet. Her shoulders relax just slightly, eyes sliding down Paige’s frame slowly. Almost like she’s assessing. There’s more behind it than just annoyance. Her lips curve—not all the way into a smile, but something close.

“You know,” she says, voice low now. Different tone entirely, like she flipped a switch. She leans closer. “I gotta say… you’re kinda hot when you’re pissed, Paige.”

Paige blinks. She genuinely almost laughs in the girl’s face at how utterly ridiculous it is. Are they not adults now? Sure, Paige can be childish sometimes but this is insane. There’s no way—no way—Celeste is actually doing this right now. Not after threatening to rat her out. Not after calling Jo a bitch. Not when Paige is standing here one wrong move away from a full-blown crash-out.

“Are you serious?” Paige asks in disbelief. “You just went from threatening me to—what? Hitting on me again?” 

Celeste shrugs, all fake nonchalance. “I mean… I can still want you and be mad at you. Those things aren’t mutually exclusive.”

Paige makes a face—is this girl bipolar or something? Sure seems like it.

The blonde shakes her head slowly. “You don’t get to flirt your way outta this.”

“I’m not trying to flirt my way out of anything,” Celeste replies, stepping back half a foot, but her tone still has that same slanted heat to it. “Just saying… maybe if you’d handled things differently, we wouldn’t be out here right now.”

That pisses Paige off in a different way. The insinuation that Celeste is the victim here just because Paige didn’t fall into some situationship she never wanted in the first place.

“I handled it the way I had to,” Paige says, firm. “I wasn’t tryna be a dick, ‘kay? I thought I was clear. I didn’t want more with you. That’s not personal. But I’m not gonna apologize for not wantin’ something I didn’t want.”

Celeste watches her for a long second, fiery green eyes flicking across Paige’s face. Then, her arms drop to her sides, some of the tension leaving her. Like the mask has been peeled off, or at least tilted.

“You really like her, huh?” she asks, quieter now.

“Yeah,” Paige says immediately, simply. Because there’s no question to it. “I do.”

Celeste nods once. Looks away, then back. Her mouth is a tight line now.

“I’m not gonna say anything,” she mutters. “Alright?”

Paige exhales. It’s not fully relief, but it’s close. “Thank you,” she says, cautious but real.

“Don’t thank me,” Celeste mutters, already turning. “I’m not doing it for you.”

She walks away without another word.

Paige watches her go, heart still beating a little too fast. She doesn’t move for a moment. Just stands there, staring at the spot where Celeste disappears around the corner. She doesn’t trust her. Not all the way. Not even mostly. There’s a chance this could still blow up later, or get messy, or turn into a headache down the line. But for now, it’s done. It has to be.

She scrubs a hand down her face. Turns on her heel.

And heads back toward the locker room.

THE ROOM SMELLS like garlic bread and takeout containers and the lingering sharpness of victory, all tangled into one heady mix that buzzes around Paige’s ears. The TV’s on low—some men’s game they’re hardly even watching—and everyone’s talking over each other anyway. The hotel room’s packed, the way it always gets when they congregate after a win, girls half-sitting, half-sprawled across mismatched furniture and the carpet, containers of different pastas balanced on paper plates and knees.

It’s warm. Not from the heat, but from the closeness, the full-body kind that comes after a weekend of playing your heart out and winning, again, like they always do. Big East Tournament champs. Shocker.

Still. It’s step toward the real goal, and Paige is proud of her girls.

Paige sits on the bed she’s claimed as hers (her and Aubrey are sharing a room in Uncasville this weekend), her back against the headboard, legs stretched out in front of her. Jo’s right beside her, cross-legged, the hem of her shorts brushing Paige’s thigh when she shifts to dig around in her pasta container. Paige can feel the heat of her through the thin cotton of her sweats. She fights the urge to just look over at the brunette and stare.

Their teammates still don’t know. Celeste has been quiet since that day outside the locker room. No threats, no passive-aggressive commentary tossed into conversation. Paige is grateful for it, but the anxiety hasn’t completely dulled. She’s still not convinced the redhead won’t change her mind, especially if something rubs her the wrong way. So for now, Paige is doing her best to act normal. No brushing hands under tables, no lingering glances across shootaround, no reasons for anyone to ask questions.

But then she glances at Jo, and there’s a tiny bit of gold confetti tangled in her hair—caught behind her ear, near the roots. Leftover from the trophy ceremony earlier, when they were throwing confetti all over each other. Paige blinks at it. Doesn’t even think, really. She just reaches.

Her fingers brush against Jo’s hair, slow, tugging the shiny piece free. Jo doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch or ask what she’s doing or turn her head. She just keeps twirling her plastic fork around a bite of pasta, like Paige’s hand in her hair is the most natural thing in the world. She tucks the confetti between her fingers and lets her hand fall back into her lap.

“Try this,” Jo says, out of nowhere, holding her fork up with a twist of unfamiliar pasta on the end “You’re gonna like it.”

Paige raises an eyebrow. “That’s what you said about the gnocchi balls last week.”

Jo says, “Those were good.”

“No, they weren’t,” Paige argues, grinning a little.

Jo gives her a look. “C’mon, just take the bite.” She leans over, offers her the fork. Paige’s brain doesn’t even think about—oh, maybe it’s a little incriminating for a teammate to be feeding another teammate food if you’re trying to lay low about said teammate and yours relationship—instead, she just opens her mouth, lets Jo feed her the pasta. Clearly, she’s not very good at acting normal with Jo.

“Oh,” Paige says, chewing. It’s good, like really fucking good. “Yeah, okay.”

Jo grins and goes back to her container, satisfied.

Paige glances at her again—at her cheeks a little flushed from the heat of the crowded room, at the soft curve of her mouth when she bites into her next forkful. Jo’s in her warm-up jacket, sleeves pushed up to her elbows, hair in a messy bun that’s mostly falling out. She smells faintly like hotel soap and that strawberry body spray she keeps in her locker.

Paige swallows hard, looking back down at her own food.

And misses the way Nika and Azzi are both watching her.

Or, well, watching them.

Across the room, Nika leans in close to Azzi and whispers something behind her hand. Azzi raises her eyebrows, very slightly, and then presses her lips together in the world’s most obvious attempt at acting normal. Paige doesn’t notice it. She’s too busy stabbing a piece of chicken parm and pretending her mouth isn’t still warm from the fork Jo fed her with.

Her head buzzes a little. From the food, maybe. From the win. From the feeling of Jo’s knee against her thigh again. From how careful she’s trying to be, and how hard it is to not look at Jo the way she wants to, the way that comes natural to her. It’s always easier when it’s just the two of them. But out here, with the whole team packed into the room, she has to be a little more careful—she’s determined to be.

(She’s not very good at it.)

She bites into a cold breadstick. Forces herself to pay attention to Lili’s rant about the lack of sleep she got last night due to Yanna snoring like a man in their room.

Eventually, Paige finishes the last bite of her chicken parmesan, plastic fork scraping softly against the bottom of the takeout container. She lets out a sigh as she leans over and sets the empty box on the hotel nightstand. She glances to her right, where Jo’s listening to Ines yap about God knows what, her accent sharper than usual. Jo’s not eating anymore, her container of pasta sitting untouched in her lap, her fork abandoned to the side, fully focused on Ines, mouth curled up slightly in the corners in that soft way she gets when she’s genuinely amused.

Paige nudges her with her elbow. “You done?” she asks, nodding toward the food.

Jo doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t need to. She just hands the container over wordlessly, knowing Paige well enough by now to read the question for what it really is: Can I finish it?

Paige grins. This pasta is good—creamy and buttery and wildly overpriced, but still.

At the end of the bed, Ice notices the hand-off and snorts. “Fatass.”

Paige doesn’t even look up. She just stretches her leg out, kicking Ice square in the shin, still grinning as she shovels another bite into her mouth. “Shut up,” she says around a mouthful of pasta, completely unbothered.

Paige keeps eating wordlessly, occasionally listening to the several different conversations around her and thinking about the weekend. Three games in three days. Lili was incredible in the post, Nika her normal defensive menace. Jo, per usual, balled out, dropping three twenty-plus point games easy. She was named MVP.

Paige played her role, too—Coach P, hyping the girls up, arguing with the refs for them, the usual agenda for her bench role.

She’s really proud of the whole team. Back in August, when she tore her ACL, so many people doubted them, thought they wouldn’t be able to get by without her. But they’ve done it, and they’ve done it well. It’s all building toward the real thing they all want. And, tonight, they get to feel it a little. The calm before the madness of March truly hits.

She takes another bite of pasta, leaning back into the headboard, letting herself enjoy it. This is one of those rare little pockets of peace. Warm, crowded hotel room. Her people. Good food. And Jo right beside her.

As Ines tells her story, half the room engaged, half the room sprawled and tired, Paige notices Jo moving. She scoots just a bit closer, like gravity’s pulling her in, her head tilting before dropping right into Paige’s shoulder.

Paige tenses a little, even though it could be passed off as an entirely friendly gesture. Best friends do stuff like this.

She glances down, eyes flicking toward Jo’s face. Jo’s not looking back. She’s just resting there, body soft and still, eyes focused on Ines. But the closer Paige looks, the more she sees the little tells—how her eyelids are lower than usual, her whole body loose in that way that only happens when she’s too tired to keep herself upright. Her hand rests lightly on her stomach, and her breathing’s already slowing. She’s exhausted.

Which makes sense. Paige saw the numbers after the game—Jo led the team in minutes, barely came off the floor all weekend. She was everywhere, doing everything. And Paige is proud. She wants to wrap her arms around her and say it straight into her neck. Wants to say, you were the best player in the building all weekend and I’m sort-of in love with you for it. But, obviously, she can’t here and now.

Quickly, though, the room starts to thin out. Everyone’s full, sleepy, the kind of tired that settles into your bones after a weekend of adrenaline and back-to-back games and nonstop noise. Caroline stands first, stretching with a groan.

“Okay, time for bed,” she says, rubbing at her face and grabbing her phone off the edge of Aubrey’s bed.

“Yup,” Aaliyah immediately says from her spot on the couch, already halfway out of the blanket cocoon she made. “I need my eight hours tonight.”

“Bro, you never get eight hours,” Yanna mumbles as she pulls herself off the floor, and Ines nods in solidarity, reaching for her shoes.

“Facts,” Ice adds, unplugging her phone charger from the wall.

It’s a chorus of tired bodies and half-laughs and sleepy groans as everyone starts collecting their things. Paige’s eyes flick over them out of habit, but mostly they stay locked on Jo. Not even on purpose, really. It’s just automatic at this point, how her gaze always finds her. Like her body notices the space Jo takes up in a room before her brain does.

Jo sits up with a quiet sigh, and Paige watches her rub her eyes with the heel of her palm like a little kid. Her voice comes out low, a little croaky with fatigue. “Yeah, I need sleep.”

Paige doesn’t say anything, just watches her move. Watches the way Jo pulls her sweatshirt over her head, stretching just enough to make her shirt lift up a little. The movement is barely anything, completely unremarkable, but Paige still tracks it—eyes dragging slowly, lazily, like she doesn’t even mean to.

Jo turns toward her. She gives her a smile—tiny, barely-there, soft—and pinches her right on the underside of her arm. Not hard, but not gentle either. Just enough to make her flinch.

“Ow,” Paige says, squinting and rubbing the spot.

Jo grins, standing and reaching down to grab her phone and its charger where they’re laying on the floor. “Night,” she says, before leaning into Azzi’s side hug, wrapping an arm briefly around her shoulders.

And then she’s walking out with the rest of the girls, slipping into the hallway with a quiet goodnight.

And Paige is a little bothered about it. She wants to sleep next to Jo tonight. She’s used to it by now, the nights at home default because they live together, and the schemes for away games when they switch with Dorka and Ice.

But they have new hotel roommates for the post season, random room assignments they didn’t even get to rig. And they’re supposed to be acting lowkey right now, so they didn’t try to switch.

They’re doing a terrible job at it apparently.

Because the door clicks shut behind Ice, and now it’s just Paige and Aubrey—since it’s their room—and Azzi and Nika, who haven’t moved. Paige glances over, confused when she catches the way they’re both looking at her: expectant, suspicious. Like they know something.

“What?” she asks, standing up, stretching slightly before she bends to gather her and Jo’s takeout containers into one stack.

She walks over, tosses them into the little trash can. They watch her the whole time. And then Nika snorts. Paige hears it before she sees the grin. That little smirk of hers always gives her away.

“Bro,” the Croatian girl says, “how long have you and Jo been a thing?”

Paige chokes. Literally. On nothing. Just inhales wrong on pure panic and starts coughing like she swallowed her own tongue.

Aubrey bursts out laughing immediately, leaning over from her bed to smack Paige on the back. “You got it,” she says between giggles, like this is the funniest thing she’s ever seen.

Paige pulls away from her, still coughing, face warm now for a completely different reason. “I—what—what’re you even talking about?” she asks, voice rough.

Nika raises both her eyebrows, unimpressed. Azzi leans forward now, too, arms crossed, expression unreadable in that calm way she gets when she’s not buying your shit.

“Jo and I aren’t a thing,” Paige says, more weakly this time, and she hears it in her own voice—how flimsy it sounds. How not believable. She wants to crawl inside herself and disappear.

Azzi doesn’t blink. “Paige, please. We’re not stupid.”

“We’re your best friends,” Nika adds, like it’s the simplest fact in the world. “We know you.”

“Mhm,” Aubrey hums from her bed, not even looking up from the text she’s typing.

Paige stands there, trying to figure out how the hell she’s supposed to lie her way out of this right now. Because the three of them are looking at her like they already know—not like they’re guessing. Like they’re just waiting for her to stop denying.

She opens her mouth again. “We’re not—” she says. And then stops.

Because, with the way they’re staring at her, she already knows this will be a losing battle. So, what’s the point?

She sinks into the bed like her bones have been replaced with sandbags, back hitting the headboard. Her stomach’s full, but her chest feels like it’s slowly caving in. Like someone cracked it open and left the door swinging.

She’s never been good at hiding things from her friends—or anyone, really—but she thought she was doing better than this. Apparently not.

She stares at the wall across the room for a second, then drops her eyes to her lap, the edge of the blanket twisted in her fingers.

“How’d you know?” she asks finally. “Did Celeste tell you?”

Nika makes a face, wrinkling her nose. “Why would Celeste Sinclair tell us?”

There’s a pause, and then Azzi, always fast, always surgical with her intuition, cuts in, “Does Celeste know?”

Paige’s head snaps up. “I—no,” she denies fast, shaking her head before Azzi can press it. “She doesn’t. Just—just tell me. How’d you figure it out?”

Azzi gives her this look, like she’s almost insulted it wasn’t obvious to Paige herself. Then she says, flatly, “Well, for starters, you literally told Aubrey and I that you liked her in October.”

That makes Paige groan, head titling back against the headboard, eyes closed.

“Can’t believe you didn’t tell me,” Nika mutters.

“You weren’t there that night for the crash out,” Paige says, waving a hand at her, like that explains everything—which, to her, it definitely does.

That night is seared into her brain like a tattoo. She remembers everything—the quiet guilt, the post-sex clarity, how fast her chest filled with panic. Celeste’s skin still warm under her hands when she realized she didn’t want this, didn’t want her. That she’d been trying to outrun a feeling that had already caught her. Jo. She’d left quickly, rushing to Aubrey’s apartment at two in the fucking morning, still smelling like Celeste and half-hating herself. Azzi had been there, too. She’d confessed like she was throwing up.

It was a mess. She was a mess.

(She’s better now. Mostly. Not spiraling as much. Not fucking people just to forget she wants someone else.)

“You were so miserable after you realized and told us,” Azzi says now, her tone gentler, doe eyes soft. “Especially when her ex was in town. And then, once they broke up, you, like… stopped being your miserable mopey self you’d been.”

“Exactly,” Nika says, nodding. “So, how long’s it been goin’ on?”

Paige hesitates. She glances between the three of them. Azzi’s sitting across from Paige’s bed on one of the chairs, fingers curls around one of her socks like she’s waiting to pull it off but got distracted by drama. Aubrey’s stretched out on her bed, knees bent, brows raised, very much amused. Nika’s on the floor, leant back against the dresser, legs sprawled out like she’s ready to stay as long as it takes.

They’re her people. They always have been. Even if she wanted to lie, she wouldn’t be able to. They already know.

So, Paige caves.

She exhales hard through her nose, mouth twitching, and says, “Okay, uh—we kissed for the first time when I went on that ski trip with her family for Christmas—”

“Bro, that was, like, right after her and that guy broke up!” Nika exclaims, sitting up straighter like she’s caught a scandal.

“Stop,” Paige says quickly, not even looking at her. “Don’t—don’t bring him up.”

Because it stings. Still. Not in the way it used to, not in that sharp, jealous way that kept her up at night—but in a deeper, quieter way now. Because it makes her wonder sometimes if she was just the warm body next to Asher. If Jo kisses her because she was close and safe and already there. But Jo never made her feel like that. Not once. And that was months ago now.

Paige shakes her head a little and keeps going. “Anyways. We kissed there. And then we talked ’bout it. And then it kinda became a ‘best friends who make out and cuddle but aren’t dating’ typa situation.”

Aubrey’s expression says obviously.

Paige scratches the back of her neck. “And then we fucked for the first time after the Tennessee game.”

Azzi blinks. “Wait—after she hurt her ankle?”

Aubrey makes a noise of disbelief, eyebrows shooting up.

“Her ankle was fine!” Paige defends. “She said it was fine, I didn’t—like—I didn’t pressure her or anything. It was a mutual, fully healed-up, consensual ankle situation.”

The other three start laughing. Paige lets them. Because whatever. It was fine. She’s not explaining the post-game hotel room events. No one needs to know Jo had ice on her ankle while they were fucking. Not relevant.

Azzi recovers first, her tone shifting a little, more curious than teasing now. “So… what are you guys now?”

That stops Paige. She looks down at her hands, fingers curling over the blanket again. It’s the question she’s been dodging in her own head.

“Nothing official,” she finally answers. “But we’re not seein’ anyone else. And it—it feels real.”

The word hangs there. Real.

Because it does. It’s not some high school fling or college situationship. It’s not an impulsive rebound or a secret thing they pretend doesn’t matter. It’s brushing teeth next to each other. It’s cooking together (or, well, usually DoorDashing, actually). It’s wearing each other’s clothes. It’s looking at each other like they’re already theirs.

“And we’re always together,” Paige says, softer now. “And I—I’ve never been in an actual relationship, but it… seems to be goin’ in that direction. If we ever actually talk about it.”

She lets that hang in the air, watching how the three of them take it in.

Azzi nods thoughtfully before locking eyes with Paige. “D’you want her to be your girlfriend?” she asks, voice soft like she’s being careful not to spook her.

With this answer, Paige doesn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

The word is out of her mouth before she has a chance to second guess it, and the moment it’s hanging in the room, she kind of wants to pull it back, like she’s said too much, like it cracked something open inside her she wasn’t ready for.

Because of course she wants that. Of course she wants Jo. Wants to walk into practice without pretending that she didn’t fall asleep the night before with Jo’s hand under her shirt and her leg slung across Paige’s thigh. Wants to kiss her in public. Wants to hold her hand when she’s anxious. Wants to introduce her to people as her girlfriend and not have to glance at her first, like is that okay? are we okay?

But even saying it—yes—feels like walking a tightrope. Like admitting too much too soon. Like if she gets too close to the truth of how much she feels, it’ll all unravel.

Azzi tilts her head, studying her. “Are you gonna ask her?”

Paige blows out a breath and scrubs a palm down her face. “I—I’mma figure it out, okay?” she says, voice quieter now. “After the tournament.”

And that’s the truth. That’s the only way she can even frame it in her mind without worrying. There’s a wall around this time of year—March is sacred, locked in—and they all know it. It’s tunnel vision now. There’s no space for messiness or what-ifs or fragile beginnings that might fall apart if they get poked too hard.

This is what they’ve worked all season for. This is what everything’s about. And as much as Jo matters—more than anything—Paige can’t risk letting her head drift too far from the game.

Azzi, Nika, and Aubrey all nod at that, agreeing. It’s better to leave the big emotional swings for later. Win first. Figure it out after. Priorities.

But then Nika turns her head, eyes narrowing a little, not harsh—just quiet. Just a little hurt. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

Paige’s stomach twists. That question hits lower than the others. It’s not accusing, exactly, but it lands heavily. Because these are her best friends, and she kept it from them.

She sighs again, her body sagging forward slightly as she leans her forearms on her knees, staring at the comforter. She doesn’t know how to make them understand without sounding like she’s trying to justify hiding it. That was never the point.

“It wasn’t about not telling you,” Paige says finally. “It was about us figurin’ things out first—which, we haven’t. Not really.”

She looks up at them, trying to keep her voice even, steady, like she means it all and wants them to believe her.

“We’re in the most important part of the season,” she says. “And we were scared that if something happened, it might mess with the team. Like, the vibe, the chemistry—all of it. And I don’t even wanna know what Coach or CD or the rest of the staff would say or think. We just wanted everyone to focus on March. Focus on what we’re all here for. And figure everything else out after.”

The last word ends with a kind of finality. After. Like there’s a promised world waiting for them just past the edge of April. Where they can breathe. Where they don’t have to hide.

Azzi nods slowly. Aubrey crosses her arms over her stomach and leans her head back against the wall. Nika drops her gaze to the carpet, thoughtful, chewing at the inside of her cheek.

They get it. They don’t have to say they do—Paige can tell. They’re not pushing her anymore. Because, at the end of the way, they’re ball players before anything else. They know what the stakes are.

Paige shifts a little on the bed and looks at them again, voice softer. “Can you guys not tell Jo that you know?” she asks.

Azzi furrows her brows. “Why? Why more secrets?”

Paige shakes her head, quick, already hearing how it sounds—paranoid, dramatic, unnecessary. But it’s not. Not to her.

“Because I think she’ll freak out if she knows,” she says honestly. “At least, right now. You know how anxious she gets. And it’s not like—she’s not ashamed or anything. It’s just… it’s already been hard enough figuring this out, the two of us. She didn’t even know she liked girls before this. I just wanna figure things out forreal between the two of us before she really has to worry. Y’know?”

She pauses, fingers messing with the blanket again. “I don’t want her overthinking it. Or shutting down. I just… I want to keep this safe. Just for us. Until we’re ready.”

There’s silence for a second. And then Nika, in a voice a whole lot gentler than usual, says, “Okay, P. We won’t tell.”

Relief floods her body faster than she expected. Her shoulders drop. Her hands unclench. She nods once, a quiet thank you, and lets her head fall back again.

She’s not used to sharing stuff like this. Because she’s never really had this to share. But, for Jo, she’s gonna try.

[alastorss]

Could you maybe write something with Alastor and reader,

and reader gets hurt in the extermination and he cares for her? And maybe like she takes a nap on his lap and he just sorta falls asleep right next to her?

a/n: hello!! i sort of got carried away with this one and made it more sappy than i originally intended, but i hope you still like it! for context: the reader stepped into battle when alastor was hurt by adam and this is the aftermath :) hurt/comfort and fluff!

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

Alastor has been eerily quiet since returning to the newly-rebuilt hotel, sutures and bandages in hand.

All his belongings, including his beloved cane, have been cast aside in lieu of medical supplies to be split between you. One measly box worth of gauze and sanitizing wipes. Definitely nothing to gawk at, but good enough.

He's stripped his shirt without any exchange of words. You know his silent request, too prideful to ask for your help verbally but desperation clear in his expression.

"Is this the only spot?" You ask, slowly stringing a suture through his skin. He hisses in pain—his only response. The demon doesn't even gratify you with his eyes anymore, opting to stare off into space as if his mind has taken a vacation elsewhere.

You frown but continue delicately stitching him, piecing him together until he's whole again. His back hits the dresser as he leans on it, body instinctively trying to crawl away from the stinging of the needle. Finally, you knot the end of the sutures and sigh in relief, reaching over to get something to clean the area.

"I'm glad this whole fiasco is over," you comment softly, knowing it won't make him look at you. "With their leader gone, maybe the angels will finally—"

"You disobeyed me," he suddenly snaps. "Why?"

You pause in your movements, blinking up at Alastor while he glowers at you. His eyes narrow into slits, half out of anger and half in a grimace.

"You were cornered. I couldn't just sit by and—"

"I told you to stay out of it," he interrupts again, slapping away your hand. You gasp, alcohol wipe hitting the floor beside you. Defiantly, you challenge him with a glare of your own.

"I'm trying to help, asshole!"

"I know, I know!" He explodes, obviously frustrated. "And look where it got you!"

He pinches your chin to tilt your head up toward him, rotating your face around so he can observe your wounds. A cut lip, a bruising eye—horrible reminders that sinners could be hurt. And you were no more of a sinner than he, much less an Overlord who knew the shape of a soul.

"You risked your life by intervening! What if you had been struck down, you fool?"

Alastor's voice is all panic and no composure, missing any semblance of that accent which is so beloved to him. You know he's telling you exactly what he feels, true emotions unburdened by the character he built for himself in the afterlife.

"So be it! It's no less a fate than what would have happened to you!" You emphasize by jabbing your finger just above his wounded abdomen, careful not to agitate his fresh stitches.

Wincing, he goes silent. It's unnerving how quiet it is again. You've gotten so used to the ambient buzz of his static, but with it missing, you can feel the hairs on the back of your neck pricking up in unease.

He still hasn't released your face, clawed fingers pinching your chin and holding you in place. It isn't until he feels the wetness of your tears pooling at the pads of his fingers that he recoils in surprise.

Sighing, he twists over to open new packs of wipes. You stay still while he carefully cleans your face, ignoring your little whelps of pain the best he can.

Once the blood is gone, he pauses. Then, his fingers gingerly wipe under your eyes, swiping away the globs of tears spilling down your cheeks.

You are pitiful right now, he thinks. Though he probably looks no better.

"I'm sorry," you hiccup. "I don't mean to make you worry."

His expression softens, though his viscous smile remains. You can see it in his eyes—something genuine buried beneath his act.

"I don't want you to die," you admit quietly.

"I wouldn't dream of it, my dear."

You laugh dryly, wiping up your tears on your own with your bloodied sleeves.

"But you almost did. What would I do without you?"

The question is rhetorical, but something vile still swirls violently in your stomach at the idea. As if knowing what's going through your mind, he grabs you by the cheeks and forces you to meet his stare again.

"Not another word out of you," he demands.

His gaze flicks to the bruising under your eye, flesh already discoloured and swelling. "Got a remedy?" You grumble.

Alastor shakes his head but leans in anyway, pressing a chaste kiss just below the swelling. His lips linger on your skin for a moment before he pulls away, amused by your stunned expression.

He invades your space again, this time kissing the crown of your head. Speaking into your hair, he whispers, "I will be more careful. I promise."

"And I'll think before charging into battle after you," you chuckle softly, overwhelmed by his warmth.

Slowly, he tugs you along and sits you on the sofa. He brushes the hair from your eye and takes the opportunity to look at it under better lighting. Just like that, he vanishes, melting into the shadows. When he reappears in front of you, he has cold packs. In a place so warm, they are of little use. But they are better than nothing, he supposes.

Groaning in pain, he seats himself beside you and allows you to slot under his arm. Two demons seeking comfort and companionship curled up together—any other Overlord would laugh.

But Alastor knows what it means to be loved, to have someone who would stand in front of a lethal blow for him, to be stitched back together by your hands.

In the safety of each others' presence, you both fall asleep with the faint hum of static filling the air.

~

taglist: @the-lake-is-calling @dragons-and-dwarves-are-nice @averylonelysea @bri22222 @cxrsedwxrlds @amarokofficial @anae-naea-zacheria @for-hearthand-home @fantasy-is-best @angixyc @th3-st4r-gur1 @i-am-nonbinary-bean-deal-with-it @dilemmaiscool @concentratedconcrete (send an ask to be added!)

[lvmimis]

A typical Thursday night has you and Izuku both home early and on this night in particular, you find yourself straddling him in bed, his body prone and back exposed to you so you can knead his shoulder and back muscles in a makeshift massage.

You let gentle pulses of electricity smooth and relax each muscle, carefully tracing along each roughened and scarred patch of skin for new scars, and gently rotate his joints. You’re not as good as the physical therapist who works at your new hospital, but you’re good enough, and as you feel your husband’s body ease up whatever has him tense, you feel a satisfaction deep in your chest. Slowing down your movements, you let your body lay against him, chest to back.

“Do you feel better?” you ask.

His face is still muffled into the pillow as he murmurs “yes.” You wonder if he’s started to fall asleep, but he reaches his arms overhead and backwards to reach for your head, then patting it gently once he’s found it. You laugh at the way he fumbles to look for it at first and roll off his body so that you’re next to him, and he turns onto his side, pulling you in closer, while beaming.

“Not to say that that new healer isn’t great, but it just doesn’t feel the same when it’s not you.”

You pout a little.

“Oh, what’s she doing wrong?” you ask, quick to offer constructive feedback. He frowns for a second, wondering if he misspoke, then instead presses a kiss to your forehead.

“I don’t think it’s anything wrong per se, it’s just-” he trails off for a moment then pauses, thinking about the best way to phrase the next sentence, then continues - “she’s not you.”

He tries to keep his voice light and not demanding to make sure that you don’t feel any guilt, but it’s hard not to. The few months where you worked in the same agency as Izuku must have made him so happy, and you easily recall the practical smile on his face when you arrived as part of the salvage and resuscitation crew or whenever he walked into the infirmary and you were free. 

But the truth of the matter is that hero work wasn’t your calling in that manner and would never be, and he understands that. You've just started at your new place a few months ago, and the adjustment is hard, but you've seemed overall happy even if you're no longer together as often.

He must sense the twinge of discomfort because he cups your face, kissing you first on the lips before pulling back and giving you a reassuring nod.

“I know it’s an unfair standard to meet though,” he says. “How can anyone compare to my perfect wife?”

The way he lays it on thick makes you chuckle.

“I need you to adjust your standards a bit, you’re just far too used to me.”

He makes a show of rolling his eyes, but wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you so that you’re on top of him. 

“I think you should allow me to praise you,” he says.

“Not to someone else’s detriment,” you protest, pressing your chin to his chest as you look at him. 

He frowns. “I didn’t say ‘the healer at my job sucks’, all I said is it doesn’t feel the same. Maybe, just maybe, I just like the extra love I feel when you touch me.”

You grin, now filled with mischief. “Well, maybe I could offer her some pointers in that respect too...”

His nose crinkles. “Stop that right now.” He holds you tighter, and you let your legs kick as he rocks the both of you back and forth playfully.

“Regardless, you always have me to come back to and I’ll always be willing to kiss your booboo so don’t be too sad,” you add.

He laughs, petting your head. “I’m just being a baby, aren’t I?”

“A little, but you’re my baby,” you remind him, as you cuddle, but you make note of the additional indirect message that he always loves and misses you too.

[theonottsbxtch]

FOGGY MEMORIES PT 2 | MV1

an: hello party people we're back with the long awaited pt 2, sorry it took this long and hopefully the next part won't take this long. i just have so many ideas and so little time atm :(

wc: 5.7k

part one

GETTING OUT WAS IMPOSSIBLE

Or at least, it should have been.

Max had spent years operating under the agency’s iron grip, slipping between missions like a ghost, but never disappearing on his own terms. That wasn’t how it worked.

Agents didn’t leave. Not without clearance. Not without orders.

And yet, as the clock edged closer to seventeen hundred, Max knew, he had to go.

The piece of paper burned against his skin, tucked safely beneath his tactical vest, its weight heavier than it should have been.

This was reckless. Dangerous.

But he had no choice.

Slipping past security required precision.

He timed it perfectly.

The changing of the watch. The overlap in shift rotations. A blind spot in the cameras he’d memorised long ago, not because he’d ever planned on escaping, but because he didn’t like being watched either.

He moved like he was meant to be there, weaving through corridors, head down, posture relaxed. He passed two guards, neither gave him a second glance.

Then he was at the outer gates.

The clearance terminal glowed softly in the dim light, waiting for authentication.

He reached into his pocket, pulled out a keycard he wasn’t supposed to have, and swiped it.

A second’s hesitation.

Then—

Access granted.

The gate slid open just enough for him to slip through.

And then he was gone.

By the time he reached the city, his pulse had settled into something even, but his mind hadn’t.

Every instinct screamed at him to turn back, to cut his losses, to forget this before he made a mistake he couldn’t undo.

But then he thought of her.

The way she had looked at him, the way she had said "You already know."

The way she had known things he didn’t.

And he kept walking.

Towards the address.

Towards the answers.

The address led him to an old, disused train yard on the outskirts of the city. Rusted tracks stretched out beneath the dim evening light, the air thick with the scent of damp metal and oil. It was quiet. Too quiet.

Max kept his movements careful, scanning his surroundings as he approached the meeting point. A warehouse, half-collapsed, its walls lined with shattered windows and creeping vines.

He didn’t go inside. Instead, he stopped just short of the entrance, leaning back against a rusted container, arms folded, waiting.

He wasn’t stupid. She would come when she was ready.

And she did.

The blade pressed against his throat before he even heard her move.

Max exhaled through his nose, not tensing, not resisting. "You really need to stop greeting me like this."

A small, almost amused hum came from behind him. "I’ll consider it."

The knife lingered a second longer, then it was gone.

He turned just in time to see her step back, watching him with the same unreadable gaze as before.

She was different in the light. Still sharp, still composed, but softer around the edges, less shadow, more real.

But that didn’t mean she trusted him.

"Strip."

Max blinked. "What?"

She crossed her arms. "Take it off."

"Excuse me?"

She arched a brow, unimpressed. "Your gear. Your shirt. I need to be sure you’re not wired."

Max clenched his jaw. "You think I’m working for Christian?"

"I think Christian would have noticed you sneaking out. And if he did, he’d send you here for answers under his terms, not yours."

He didn’t argue. Because she was right.

But that didn’t mean he liked it.

Still, he sighed, rolling his shoulders before reluctantly pulling off his tactical vest, unzipping his jacket and shrugging it off.

When he reached for the hem of his shirt, he hesitated, just a second.

Her eyes didn’t waver.

Christ.

Scowling, he pulled it over his head, letting the cold air bite against his skin.

She stepped closer.

Max forced himself to stay still as her fingers brushed lightly over his ribs, over his collarbone, checking for any hidden wires or devices. It was methodical. Clinical.

But his skin still burned where she touched.

She must have felt the way his pulse jumped slightly beneath her fingertips, because her eyes flicked up to his. Amusement, maybe. Or curiosity.

Then she stepped back, satisfied.

"Alright," she said simply.

Max exhaled, running a hand through his hair before pulling his shirt back on, shaking his head. "If you wanted me undressed, you could have just asked."

She huffed a quiet laugh. "Don’t push it."

He smirked, just a little. Then it faded.

Because now there was nothing left in the way.

No excuses. No distractions.

Just the questions burning in his skull.

He met her gaze.

"Who are you?"

She didn’t answer straight away.

Instead, she stepped closer, slow and deliberate, her eyes never leaving his.

Max held his ground, but something in his chest tightened, his breath coming shallower as the space between them disappeared.

Then—

Her hand came up, fingers light as they brushed against his cheek, a gentle caress that sent something sharp and electric tearing through him.

He froze.

"You look just as you did before," she murmured, her thumb tracing lightly along his cheekbone.

And then—

Pain.

A sudden, brutal onslaught of memories, crashing into him like a freight train, fracturing something deep in his skull.

Not the sterile, clinical flashes he’d had before.

These were different.

More intimate. More real.

A quiet moment in dim candlelight, their bodies exhausted from training, her fingers in his hair, a whispered joke between them, his own laughter soft and unfamiliar.

The feel of her back pressed against his, both of them moving in perfect unison, breathless and exhilarated after taking down their targets in perfect synchronisation.

The way she had once looked at him, not as an opponent, not as a stranger, but as something else entirely.

And then—

A promise.

One neither of them had kept.

Max gasped, staggering back a step, his breath ragged, his hands coming up to clutch his head as if that could stop it.

The memories flickered, blurred at the edges, slipping through his fingers like water. He couldn’t shape them exactly, couldn’t hold onto them before they disappeared into the void again.

But they were there.

And so was she.

Watching him.

Waiting.

Max swallowed, his voice hoarse when he finally managed to speak.

"What did they do to us?"

Her expression softened, just for a moment. Then she exhaled, shaking her head.

"What did they do to you, my love?"

Max’s stomach lurched.

The words were a gut punch, sending another ripple of wrongness through his already fractured mind. He knew that phrase. Knew the warmth in her voice, the weight of it, the way it curled around him like something familiar.

But it didn’t belong to this life.

It didn’t belong to him.

Did it?

He shook his head, throat tight. "Stop. Just, stop playing with me and tell me the truth."

She inhaled slowly, watching him carefully, then—

"You were born in the Netherlands, Max. That’s where we were raised. In an orphanage."

The world tilted slightly. His pulse roared in his ears.

"You’re lying."

She didn’t even flinch. "I was four when I got there. You were already there when I arrived, you were three. You used to follow me around, always getting into trouble, always dragging me into it. But you never let anyone hurt me. Not even the caretakers."

His breath came shorter now, fingers twitching at his sides. "No."

"Growing up, that turned into something else. A promise. That whatever happened, we’d stick together."

Flashes hit him again.

A tiny hand gripping his wrist. A voice, young and defiant, telling him to run.

"You’re lying," he whispered, but even he didn’t believe it now.

"You taught me how to fight before we even knew what a real fight was," she continued, voice steady. "We trained together. Always together. And then they took you, at 15."

Max’s jaw clenched so tight it ached. "Who?"

Her eyes darkened. "Them."

Something curdled in his stomach.

Then—

"The Netherlands?" His voice cracked slightly around the word. It felt foreign in his mouth, unfamiliar. He should remember it. If it were true, if any of this were true, then it should mean something.

But it was blank.

Erased.

She nodded. "It’s where you’re from."

His hands curled into fists. "Then why don’t I remember it?"

A ghost of a smile, sad, knowing. "Because they made you forget. And Christian—" She hesitated, just for a second. Then she met his eyes again, unwavering. "Christian never taught you Dutch or German, did he?"

Max stilled.

She tilted her head slightly. "You knew them already. But he taught you the useful languages instead, didn’t he?"

The floor beneath him might as well have cracked in two.

Because she was right.

Christian had taught him French. Spanish. Mandarin. Arabic.

All useful. All efficient.

But never Dutch. Never German. Never anything personal.

Max swallowed hard, his heart thudding against his ribs. "Who the hell am I?"

She stepped closer again, slow and deliberate, and for some reason, Max let her.

Her hand came up, gentler this time, fingertips just ghosting the side of his face. He didn’t pull away.

"You’re my Max," she said softly.

His chest tightened painfully.

He didn’t know what to do with that.

Didn’t know how to be that.

His. Hers.

Not Christian’s. Not the agency’s.

Just hers.

It didn’t make sense. Nothing made sense.

His voice came hoarse. "How did you find me?"

Her expression flickered, something raw and weary crossing her features. "I’ve been searching for you ever since they took you."

Max swallowed, his throat dry. "Since I was fifteen?"

She nodded.

His mind whirred, working the numbers. "Fourteen years ago."

A long, exhausted exhale. Then—

"I got recruited by Austrian Intelligence."

His brows pulled together, confusion flashing across his face. "What?"

"They always knew my ulterior motive," she continued. "I was never just theirs. I worked for them, trained under them, but I never stopped looking for you."

Max stared at her, disoriented, the pieces still loose in his mind, still fighting against the block that had been drilled into him.

But one thing was clear.

This wasn’t a coincidence.

This wasn’t just another mission.

This was his life. His real life.

And she was the only person who knew the truth.

Max let out a shaky breath, running a hand through his hair, fingers gripping the strands as if he could somehow ground himself.

"You’re telling me," he said slowly, forcing the words out, "that while I was being trained to be a weapon, while I was following their orders, you were out there, looking for me?"

Her eyes softened, something achingly familiar in them. "Every second."

His throat tightened. He wasn’t sure why, but the weight of it, of her, was pressing down on his chest, making it harder to breathe.

She had spent fourteen years searching.

And he had spent fourteen years forgetting.

His fists clenched. "Why me?"

A ghost of a smile, small, barely there. "You know why."

He wanted to argue. He wanted to tell her she was wrong, that he didn’t know anything, that this entire thing was impossible.

But the memories were clawing at him again.

Flashes of laughter in the dark. The feel of small fingers intertwined with his own. A whispered promise, spoken with the kind of certainty only they could have had.

A promise to never leave each other behind.

His stomach turned violently. "I don’t— I don’t know what to do with this."

She stepped closer, her presence steady, unwavering. "Yes, you do."

Max swallowed hard, pulse hammering. "So what next?"

She held his gaze.

And then—

"We run."

Max stared at her, his pulse thundering in his ears. "Run?"

She nodded, eyes sharp. "They’ll never let you go, Max. You know that, don’t you?"

He did.

Even before this, before her, he’d always known, deep down, that there was no retirement from this life. No clean exit. The agency didn’t train operatives just to let them walk away.

And yet, hearing it now, in this context, sent a cold dread curling in his stomach.

He swallowed hard. "Tell me everything."

She took a breath. "You were taken when you were fifteen. We always knew something was off at the orphanage, the people who came in and out, the way they watched us, the tests they made us do. But we were kids, we didn’t understand."

Max’s jaw tightened. Somewhere, deep in the back of his mind, something scratched at the surface. The distant echo of fluorescent lights. A man’s voice, clinical, detached. "He’s showing promise. We’ll take this one."

She continued. "When they took you, I fought. I tried to stop them. But I was just a sixteen year old girl, Max. They took you, and I couldn’t do anything."

His chest ached.

Sixteen. Alone. And she’d had no idea where he’d gone.

He clenched his fists. "And then?"

"I spent years looking. When I turned eighteen, Austrian Intelligence found me. I knew what they were when they approached, I knew what they wanted. But I didn’t care. I let them train me. I played their game. Because I knew it would get me closer to you."

Max exhaled slowly, trying to process it.

She had spent years searching, training, infiltrating, just to find him.

And all that time, he had been under Christian’s wing. Being shaped into the agency’s perfect operative. Forgetting.

He ran a hand down his face. "Fourteen years."

She nodded.

And for a moment, they just stood there. The weight of everything between them pressing down like a vice.

Then—

A slow, mocking clap.

Max’s blood ran cold.

The sound was deliberate, echoing through the abandoned train yard. Casual. Amused.

And then—

"Such a cute, bittersweet reunion."

Max turned sharply, already knowing who it was before his eyes landed on him.

Christian.

Standing a few metres away, gun in hand, aimed directly at her.

Christian sighed, shaking his head with the kind of disappointment a father might have for a reckless son. "Max," he said, almost pitying. "You should have known better."

Max didn’t move. His whole body was coiled tight, his mind screaming at him to think, to act, to do something. But Christian’s gun was still pointed at her, and that was enough to keep him rooted to the spot.

She was still. Calm. But Max could see the sharp calculation in her eyes. She was measuring the distance, considering her odds.

Christian smiled slightly, as if he knew. "I’ve got to say, I’m impressed. I knew there were gaps in the wipe, I’ve always known. But I didn’t think you’d really go looking for them. And I certainly didn’t think she’d be foolish enough to hand them back to you."

Max clenched his fists. "Why?" His voice was low, tight. "Why take me?"

Christian exhaled, almost looking bored. "Come on, Max. You were always meant for more than that orphanage. You were built for this life. You proved that the moment we took you in."

The words sent a cold shiver down Max’s spine. "Took me in," he echoed bitterly.

"Yes. Took you in. Made you. And look how well you turned out." Christian shifted slightly, tilting his head. "It’s a pity, really. If I’d known back then how attached you two were, if I’d known she’d spend fourteen whole years chasing you, I might’ve taken both of you."

Max’s breath caught in his throat.

Next to him, she stiffened ever so slightly, her jaw tightening.

Christian smirked. "Would’ve saved us all this trouble. But alas—"

His grip on the gun shifted slightly.

"Not that it matters. You’ll be coming back one way or another."

Max forced himself to stay still, his mind working frantically. "And if I don’t?"

Christian’s smirk widened. "You will." He tapped his temple. "You think we’d really let one of our most valuable operatives walk around without a failsafe?"

Max’s stomach twisted.

No.

No, he would’ve known. Wouldn’t he?

Christian hummed. "We know exactly where you are at all times, Max. And when we need you to stop thinking so hard—" His smirk sharpened. "Well. We have ways of dealing with that too."

Max felt sick.

There was a tracker in him.

A leash he hadn’t even known about.

He took a step back, his heart hammering. "What did you—"

A sharp hiss.

Christian’s words cut off, mid-sentence, mid-smirk, as a tranquilliser dart buried itself in his neck.

His eyes widened, shock flashing across his face. He stumbled slightly, swaying as his body locked up, his limbs turning sluggish.

Max barely had time to react before he hit the ground.

She exhaled sharply, muttering under her breath, "For fuck’s sake, Charles."

Max barely had time to register the name before she tilted her head back, looking up. Instinctively, he followed her gaze.

Perched on the rusting steel beams above them, a figure crouched with all the ease of someone who belonged in places they shouldn’t be. Brunette, lean but athletic, eyes glinting with amusement. He twirled a tranquilliser gun between his fingers, looking far too pleased with himself.

"I didn’t need saving," she called up.

"Yeah, you did," he called back, grinning, a french accent in his voice.

Then, without a moment’s hesitation, he jumped.

Max tensed, fully expecting him to plummet to his death, but instead, the man twisted mid-air, landing gracefully in a crouch, like a damn cat.

He straightened, dusting himself off, before flashing a reckless, lopsided grin. "You’re welcome, by the way."

Max just stared. "Who the hell—"

The man extended a hand, all confidence. "Charles. Pleasure to finally meet you, mate."

Max didn’t shake it. "Right. And who exactly are you?"

Charles didn’t look remotely put off. If anything, he seemed delighted. He turned to her, jerking a thumb at Max. "He always this grumpy, or is it just me?"

She sighed. "Charles."

"What?" He grinned. "I’ve heard so much about this one, you can’t blame me for being a bit excited."

Max’s brows furrowed. "Heard?"

Charles smirked. "The Italians and Austrians are allies. We work together. And let me tell you, mate—" He clapped Max on the shoulder, far too familiar. "She talks about you all the time."

Max glanced at her. She rolled her eyes, unimpressed. "Charles."

Charles just waggled his eyebrows. "You’re welcome for the save, by the way. Again."

Charles rocked back on his heels, looking far too relaxed for someone who had just tranquillised a high-ranking operative. "By the way," he said casually, inspecting his nails, "I ran out of horse tranquilliser, so he’ll be up and awake in less than an hour. We should probably get going before he starts shooting."

Max scowled, rubbing a hand down his face. "You use horse tranquilliser?"

Charles shrugged. "What can I say? Some people can take it."

Max opened his mouth to argue, but before he could, Charles reached for his hand.

Max instinctively snatched it back. "What the fuck are you—"

Charles grabbed it again, this time tighter, and dug his thumb into his wrist, pressing down with precise, practised pressure.

Max tensed. "Oi—"

Charles smirked as he felt what he was looking for. "Ah," he drawled. "There’s the beauty."

Max’s stomach twisted. "What?"

Charles lifted his gaze, grinning. "Tracker. It’s in your wrist. Probably buried deep, but it’s there."

Max yanked his hand back, skin crawling at the implication. He clenched his jaw. "And you knew that how?"

Charles waggled his eyebrows. "Because I’m good at my job, sweetheart."

She groaned. "Charles."

He flashed her an easy grin. "What? That really was a heartwarming reunion. I almost shed a tear."

She shot him a glare. "I will shoot you."

"Wouldn’t be the first time," he quipped, then clapped his hands together. "Alright, lovebirds. Let’s move before Sleeping Beauty over there wakes up and starts ruining our evening."

They moved fast.

Max had been on the run before, had been on missions where staying ahead of the enemy was the only thing that mattered, but this was different. This time, he wasn’t just running. He was defecting.

Charles led the way, navigating the dark streets with an ease that suggested he’d done this a hundred times before. She was close behind him, her movements sharp and deliberate, scanning their surroundings constantly. Max stayed quiet, processing, recalibrating.

The tracker.

It was still inside him.

They needed to get it out, fast.

After a long, tense journey, they reached a nondescript building tucked away in the backstreets of the city. Max barely had time to catch his breath before Charles was shoving open a heavy steel door, leading them down a set of stairs into what looked like an underground medical facility.

Inside, a man was bent over a cluttered desk, rifling through medical equipment. He was older, mid-forties, glasses perched on the bridge of his nose.

"Freddie!" Charles called, grinning.

The man didn’t even look up. "I told you," he said flatly, "that is not my name."

"Dr Frederick," she corrected, shooting Charles a glare.

Charles waved a hand dismissively. "Details."

Dr Frederick finally glanced up, his gaze flicking between them. "What do you want?"

Charles clapped a hand on Max’s shoulder. "This one’s got a little problem with his wrist. Thought you might be able to help."

Dr Frederick adjusted his glasses. "No."

Charles groaned dramatically. "Freddie, please."

"It is not my name."

"But you’re so good at this stuff."

Dr Frederick gave him a deadpan look. "No."

Charles sighed, turning to Max. "See, this is the problem with the French. So much passion, so little willingness to help an old friend."

"Charles," Dr Frederick warned.

"Freddie," Charles countered, grinning. "Look, all I’m asking for is a little favour. A tiny bit of surgery. A minuscule extraction. Barely worth mentioning, really."

Dr Frederick pinched the bridge of his nose. "You are insufferable."

"And yet," Charles said smugly, "you love me anyway."

Dr Frederick exhaled heavily, muttering something under his breath in Italian. Then, after a long pause, he finally said, "Fine. Sit."

Charles grinned victoriously. "I knew you couldn’t resist me."

Dr Frederick ignored him, turning to Max instead. "Give me your wrist."

Max sat stiffly on the medical table, jaw clenched as Dr Frederick adjusted the surgical instruments. The small underground clinic smelled of antiseptic and old paper, and the hum of a fluorescent light buzzed somewhere overhead.

"This will hurt," Frederick said bluntly, not offering any unnecessary comfort.

"Great," Max muttered. "Looking forward to it."

Frederick didn’t acknowledge the sarcasm. Instead, he snapped on a pair of gloves and took Max’s wrist, pressing two fingers along the underside until he found what he was looking for.

"It’s deep," he murmured, more to himself than anyone else. "Not standard placement. They didn’t want you finding it by accident."

Charles leaned against a counter, arms crossed, grinning like this was the most entertaining thing he’d seen all week. "Must feel great knowing you’ve been microchipped like a lost pet."

"Shut up, Charles," she and Max said at the same time.

Charles just smirked.

Frederick ignored them all, pressing a needle into Max’s skin. "Local anaesthetic," he said shortly. "I would offer general, but I assume you don’t have the time for that luxury."

Max barely had time to respond before the numbness spread, dulling the pain as Frederick made a precise incision.

He worked quickly, hands steady, eyes sharp behind his glasses. Max had been trained to handle pain, but even with the numbing agent, he felt the pressure, the unnatural tugging under his skin. He clenched his jaw, watching as Frederick extracted a small, black fragment of metal no bigger than a grain of rice.

The tracker.

It sat in the doctor’s palm, glinting under the sterile light.

"There it is," Frederick said, unimpressed.

"Well, that’s underwhelming," Charles remarked.

Frederick shot him a look. "Take it. Do whatever you want with it. Just get it away from here."

Charles took the chip between two fingers, inspecting it. "Oh, I’ve got ideas." He winked at her, then shoved the chip into his pocket and stretched. "Right, I’ll go drop this somewhere suitably inconvenient. Try not to get yourselves killed while I’m gone."

Max rolled his eyes. "Get out, Charles."

"Miss me already?" Charles grinned, then slipped out the door before anyone could respond.

The second he was gone, the tension shifted.

Frederick turned to Max, inspecting his stitched-up wrist. "It will hold, but don’t be reckless."

Max flexed his fingers, testing it. "No promises."

She sighed, then looked at Max. "We need a plan."

He nodded, already thinking. "Christian knows I’m gone. Even without the tracker, he’ll assume I’ve gone rogue. We don’t have long before they start closing in."

She folded her arms. "Then we hit first. Before they’re ready."

Max met her gaze, feeling the weight of everything between them, the past, the present, the war they were about to start.

"Alright," he said. "Let’s do it."

Without another thought she leaned over the makeshift surgical table and grabbed a map.

They spread out the battered old map across the metal table in Frederick’s back room, the edges curling with damp and age. She pointed to a marked facility near the Alps, tapping her finger twice on the paper.

“This is where the data Christian’s been collecting ends up. Not at HQ. Not at any of the supposed satellite sites. Here. Quiet. Off-grid. Guarded like hell.”

Max leaned over, brow furrowed. “And what’s there? Storage?”

She shook her head. “No. Processing. They’re not just collecting information, they’re rewriting it. It’s how they do the memory wipes.”

Max’s stomach twisted. “So that’s where they took me.”

She nodded once. “And every other little kid that was like us.”

Frederick hovered behind them, arms crossed, reluctant but clearly invested now. “It’s not a place you walk out of. You realise that, yes?”

Max didn’t look away from the map. “We’re not planning to walk. We’re planning to burn it down.”

She gave a small, humourless smile. “That’s the spirit.”

Frederick huffed. “You're both mad. And doomed.”

Max looked up at him. “Probably. But if they’re rewriting people, weaponising kids and erasing their lives, then someone’s got to stop it.”

The room fell quiet for a moment. Then she reached into her jacket, pulled out a small flash drive, and slid it across the table.

“I’ve been gathering fragments of what I could. Locations. Transit logs. Staff names. It’s all encrypted, but someone like you,” she nodded at Frederick “can help us crack it.”

He looked at the drive like it was radioactive. “You just want to drag me deeper in, don’t you?”

“You’re already in,” Max said quietly. “You helped remove the chip. There’s no going back.”

Frederick groaned under his breath, rubbing his temples. “I hate all of you.”

She smirked. “That’s fair.”

Max stood, rolling his shoulders. “Right then. We need supplies. Weapons. A route in.”

“I know a guy,” she said. “He’s German. Paranoid as hell, but he owes me a favour. We’ll need to go through the mountains to find him.”

“And me?” Frederick said, still frowning.

“You stay here,” Max replied. “Crack the drive. Send us everything you find.”

Frederick muttered something that sounded suspiciously like bloody lunatics and how mac wasn’t his boss, but nodded all the same.

She folded the map, tucked it into her coat, then looked up at Max.

“You ready?”

He looked down at the fresh bandage on his wrist, then back at her, at the woman who had somehow ripped open the cracks in everything he thought he knew.

“Yeah,” he said. “Let’s finish what they started.”

The mountains loomed ahead, jagged against a sky bruised with early morning clouds. Their boots crunched over frostbitten ground as they trudged through narrow, twisting paths. Max hadn’t realised how much he’d come to rely on tech, drones, trackers, satellite feeds. Now, they were ghosts slipping through silence, guided only by memory and instinct.

She walked just ahead of him, wrapped in layers, her face half-shielded by a scarf. Even like this, she moved like she belonged to the shadows, alert, deliberate, never wasting a step.

“Remind me again,” Max said, breathing into his gloves, “why your paranoid German friend lives halfway up a mountain with no phone reception?”

“Because,” she said without turning, “he likes goats and hates people. You two might get on.”

They reached a stone cabin just as the sun broke weakly over the ridge. Smoke curled from the chimney, someone was home. She knocked once, then again in a strange rhythm. A pause. Then a scraping of metal bolts and the door opened a crack.

A rifle appeared before the face did.

She didn’t even flinch. “Nice to see you too, Nico.”

The barrel lowered slightly. “Thought you were dead.”

“Not yet. This is Max.”

Nico eyed him with a look that said don’t get comfortable. “British?”

“Sort of,” Max muttered.

With a grumble, Nico stepped aside. “Come in before the cold does worse than Christian ever could.”

Inside, the place was cluttered and warm, thick with the scent of woodsmoke and engine oil. Max kept his hands visible, noting the various weapons strewn across shelves and walls.

She got straight to it. “We need gear. Access tech. C4, comms, entry tools. Enough to storm a ghost facility buried in concrete and bad memories.”

Nico raised a brow. “And why, may I ask, would I ever help with that?”

“Because you owe me,” she said simply. “Prague. Eight years ago. You’d be dead if I hadn’t taken that bullet.”

He stared at her for a long time. Then muttered, “I strongly dislike you.”

She smiled. “Still not my problem.”

It took them three days to plan. Nico was paranoid, but meticulous. He handed Max blueprints, schematics, equipment lists. They worked late into the night, checking routes, escape plans, failsafes.

And on the second night, when Nico had gone to sleep, it was just her and Max sat near the fire, the weight of everything suspended for a while.

“You alright?” she asked softly, watching the flames flicker across his face.

He nodded, slowly. “Yeah. Just… this is a lot to process. You, all of this. I don’t know who I am without them, and I hate that.”

She reached out, fingers brushing his hand. “You’re still you. The part they couldn’t reach. The part that found its way back to me.”

He looked at her then, really looked. The flames danced in her eyes, but it was the honesty there that undid him. Something shifted in his chest, cracked open.

He reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, his touch lingering. “I think I’ve always known you.”

Her breath caught. Then she leaned in, slow, deliberate, giving him the chance to stop it.

He didn’t.

Their lips met gently at first, uncertain, like rediscovering something precious. Then it deepened, years of lost time catching fire between them. Her hands tangled in his jacket, his fingers at the nape of her neck. The kiss was quiet, but it said everything — I missed you. I remember. I’m yours.

When they pulled apart, her forehead rested against his.

“Whatever happens tomorrow,” she whispered, “we face it together.”

He nodded, his voice thick. “Together.”

The facility sat like a scar carved into the mountain, brutalist and grey, half-swallowed by snow and rock. From the ridge above, they watched the rotation of the patrols, three-man units, every eight minutes, armed to the teeth.

Max adjusted his earpiece, one of Nico’s designs, untraceable, short-range.

“Everyone in position?” he asked.

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” Charles’ voice crackled in his ear. “Nico’s already moaning about the cold. Might shoot him just for warmth.”

“Piss off,” came Nico’s accented reply. “I’ve been up since four planting explosives. You want a warm seat, you can sit on the detonator.”

Max smirked faintly, but his focus didn’t waver. He turned to her, crouched beside him, dressed in black from head to boot, rifle resting against her shoulder.

“You sure about this?” he asked.

She didn’t hesitate. “This is what we came for.”

Max leaned in, brushing his fingers against hers. “Just… don’t get yourself killed.”

She met his gaze, soft and fierce all at once. “You either.”

Then, too quick to overthink, he kissed her. It was rougher this time, urgent and breathless, the kind of kiss you give someone when you don’t know what the next hour holds. She clutched the front of his jacket, grounding herself in him, like for a moment the mission didn’t matter. Just them. Just this.

When they broke apart, she was already moving. “Let’s finish it.”

Chaos erupted within minutes of infiltration. Charles cut the lights with a grin in his voice, “Happy blackout, boys”, and the entire west wing went dark. Nico triggered the first explosion on a far wall, drawing the guards out like moths to a flame.

She and Max moved fast, ghosting through corridors, silent and lethal. Data cores, servers, security feeds, they planted charges on every last one.

In the heart of it all, Max found the processing room. The machines still buzzed, humming with stolen memories, rows of them, patient files, fragments of lives rewritten and buried. His own name flickered across a screen. Deleted. Rewritten. A lie.

He slammed the drive in. Copied what he could. Burned the rest.

Then he heard her.

A muffled shout through his earpiece. Gunfire.

Max’s blood ran cold.

He took off running, boots slamming down corridors slick with smoke and debris. Around the corner, through the shattered doorway, he found her, pinned by a soldier twice her size, blade at her side, one arm limp and bleeding.

She looked up, and for a moment, even in pain, she smiled. “Took you long enough.”

Max lunged. Took the bastard down with brutal efficiency, two hits and he didn’t get back up. Then he dropped to her side, hands already reaching for her.

“You’re hurt.”

She winced. “Just the arm. Got cocky.”

“You’re not allowed to die. Not after everything.”

“Wasn’t planning on it.”

Then came the sound, heavy boots, radio chatter. Reinforcements.

Max’s breath caught. “They’re coming.”

She reached up, bloody fingers curling into his jacket. “Listen to me—”

A shadow moved behind the glass.

Gunfire cracked.

Blood splattered.

Her body jolted, eyes wide, and everything blurred.

Max caught her before she hit the ground.

“No—”

Then on the other side through of his earpiece he heard Charles, “Max, they’ve got me— Fuck” Charles’ voice crackled through the comms, ending in a sharp grunt.

The room was red.

And then—

Static.

End of comms.

PART THREE...

taglist: @angelluv16 @evalynkillgrave @fergalaxy @alexisquinnlee-bc @carlossainzapologist @oikarma @obxstiles @verstappenf1lecccc @hzstry8 @dying-inside-but-its-classy @anamiad00msday @linnygirl09 @mastermindbaby @iamred-iamyellow @amyelevenn

[jungkoode]

ALTARS IN SHALLOW WATERS | 02

➔ PAIRING: Taehyung x Y/N (ballerina x stalker AU)

➔ MOODBOARD

➔ RATING: Mature, 18+, explicit themes and content.

➔ DATE POSTED: May 05, 2025.

➔ SUMMARY: Altars crumble faster in shallow water. But he still knelt like it was sacred. No one ever warned you that worship could look like love. Or that love could look like drowning.

➔ TAGS: second person perspective, female reader, ballerina!Y/N, stalker!taehyung, obsessive devotion, psychological tension, fixation, worship dynamics, Paris setting, religious imagery, voyeurism, sacred/profane dichotomy, slow burn, touch starvation, ritualistic behavior, gradual corruption, power dynamics, mirror imagery, water symbolism, sensory details, clean/unclean fixation, contamination OCD, professional dancer, self-destructive patterns, compulsive behavior, unhealthy coping mechanisms, possessive tendencies, praise addiction, spiritual yearning, toxic attraction, dangerous adoration, self-loathing, body discipline, mental health issues, self-harm, mental deterioration, unresolved sexual tension (for now).

➔ CONTENT in this chapter: self-demanding thoughts; perfectionism, self-critique, pushing oneself, expectations, dismissing praise, first encounter, lowkey sadistic streaks (lol you go girl), shaking, trembling, antisocial behaviors, anxiety, ocd, curiosity

➔ AUTHOR’S INTRO AND TRIGGER WARNINGS

➔ MASTERLIST | TAGLIST REQ | WORDCOUNT: 3k

➔ A/N: So, fair warning, I know the aesthetic needs work, I know there’s no color but it’s 3AM and I pushed myself to post this because I have been writing and editing all night and I needed this bitch out or I wouldn’t allow myself to sleep (tragic). SO. Here’s my baby number 2. What can I say about this one, truly… I think you can really pin down OC’s personality in this one a lot better, bahahahahaha. I know what you guys were thinking when you saw stalker x ballerina, and I’m glad to twist your expectations completely and be like ‘yeah nope’. You’ll see how this develops but… Yeah I don’t know, I fucking love her. I adore the water imagery, I adore the nicknames I’ve given these two and I can’t fucking wait for you guys to see more. I also adore him, no lies told here. He’s so pathetic and reverent and ugh my heart combusts everytime I write him shaking (I am mentally unwell, we all know that). Anyways, no more yapping from me. Enjoy this monster. As always, I’ll be maniacally laughing while reading your unhinged comments. Mwah mwah mwah. 💕

➔ SERIES : PREVIOUS | NEXT

KIKI NATION’S DISCUSSION THREAD FOR THIS CHAPTER

PLAYLIST

Another twirl. 

Your body knows the motion by heart—the sharp pivot, the snap of head and shoulders following a fraction of a second later, the correction of your core that comes automatically. 

Another twirl. 

The floor beneath you creaks, just slightly. Just enough to notice. Just enough to hate.

Another twirl. Another twirl. Another twirl.

It's not perfect. It's not enough. 

Your ankle wobbles one-eighth of a centimeter on the landing. Invisible to anyone else. Glaring to you. You will never achieve perfection if you don't master a simple fucking twirl.

Another twirl. 

Camille sneers from the barre. Her reflection catches yours between rotations—that twist of lips, that narrowing of eyes. It is ugly, really, that expression on her face. The way her mouth quirks down at the corner, the way her nostrils flare just slightly. You would feel anger at the derision in her mouth, but it is so exaggerated it's pitiful, really. So you deviate your gaze, focus on the mirror in front of you, and continue twirling.

Another. 

Another.

The studio’s windows are streaked with last night's rain—Madame never allows the cleaning staff to touch them during rehearsal weeks. ‘Too distracting,’ she says. As if anything could distract you from the absolute necessity of this movement.

Your leotard cuts into your hip, just slightly. You'll have a mark there later. You don't adjust it. Discomfort is irrelevant. 

"Excellent extension,” Madame calls your name from the front of the room. 

Her voice is crisp, just as usual. You don't register it. Praise means adequate. It is what's expected of you. Expected and therefore unremarkable.

The rest of the company has moved on to petit batterie. You remain in your corner, working. They glance at you between jumps. You don't look back.

Madame calls your name again, and then says, "join the others, please."

You nod once. 

You take your place at the back of the group, not out of modesty but because it gives you the clearest view of yourself in the mirror. 

You need to see the mistakes before anyone else does.

Jean-Paul catches your eye in the reflection. Smiles. You don't smile back. His smile isn't for you—it's for the image of himself smiling at you. Everything he does is performance. You recognize it because you do the same.

The piano starts. Your body follows. Jump, land, repeat. Your muscles know the pattern. Your mind catalogs each moment, each placement of finger and toe. It's automatic, this dissection. This constant evaluation.

Madame walks among the dancers, making corrections, yet she never approaches you. That's not a compliment. It's simply acknowledgment that you'll fix your own flaws before she can identify them.

Elodie, in the front row, keeps glancing back at you. Her form is flawless as always, but you note how tense she is. How she always is around you. 

She knows you're gaining on her. She's thirty next month. Ancient, in ballet years.

The combination ends. The pianist pauses.

"Let's try that again," Madame says. "And this time, perhaps with some actual musicality? We are artists, not robots."

She isn't looking at you when she says it, but you feel the words land anyway. You've been called mechanical before. Precise to a fault. It shouldn't bother you—precision is the foundation of excellence—but something in your chest tightens.

Water break. 

The other dancers cluster by their bags, talking in low voices. 

You stay at the barre, stretching. 

Your hamstring protests. You push deeper into the stretch.

Madame beckons you. "A word, please."

You cross the room, spine straight, chin level. Your reflection follows you, a pale ghost in black cotton.

"Your fouettés are improving," she says. 

It's not a compliment. It's a fact.

"Thank you, Madame."

"The company performs Ondine next season. I'm considering you for the lead."

Your face remains neutral. Your pulse does not. 

Ondine. The water nymph who gains a soul through love, only to lose everything. 

Not just a lead—the lead.

"I'll work harder," you say.

Madame's mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. "That would be inadvisable. You're already overtraining. Work smarter, not harder."

You nod, though you don't agree. There is no ‘smart’ way to excellence. There is only work. Endless, punishing work.

You turn back to the center, Ondine in your head.

You’ll research her later. 

The piano begins again. You take your place. Your custom Freeds creak slightly—you'll need a new pair soon. This one has perhaps two more hours of life in it. You've already prepared the next pair, scoring the soles according to your usual pattern, crushing the box to your exact preference, sewing the ribbons in the specific formation that minimizes blisters on your Achilles.

Camille watches you from her place at the barre, her freckles barely visible beneath her foundation. She performs friendship whenever others are watching, but you've caught her moving your water bottle from your spot, just slightly, just to see what you do. 

Collecting weaknesses like souvenirs.

It is pitiful.

She is pitiful.

You are not.

Another combination. Another chance to fail. Another chance to be slightly less imperfect than yesterday.

L'heure bleue.

The hour, however, is not currently blue. Hours don't hold colors in themselves. The name is pretentious, like most things in this city. But the fluorescent sign flickers that particular shade of navy that matches the rain-slicked streets outside, so perhaps there's some truth to it after all.

You catalog the store methodically. Four aisles. One register. Three security cameras—one broken, its red light permanently extinguished. The floor tiles are chipped at the corners. 

Imperfect.

Everything is imperfect here.

Rain slides down the windows in precise rivulets. You've been caught in it twice today already. First during your morning commute, then during the three-minute walk from the studio to this convenience store. Your hair—still pulled back in its regulation bun—is damp at the edges. The slight discomfort of wet hair against your scalp is familiar. Almost comforting.

Better the rain, anyway. You need to understand water if you're going to embody it. 

Ondine. 

It sits in your chest, the role, like a stone dropped into deep water, heavy like an anchor pulling you under. 

You can already hear the applause, see the perfect arc your body will make as you take your final bow. 

Another performance. Another success. Another inevitability.

Your eyes move across the shelves with surgical precision. Land on the protein bars. The numbers flash in your mind automatically: 20 grams of protein, 180 calories, 4 grams of sugar. 

Excessive. 

Unnecessary. 

You grimace.

The bar goes back exactly where you found it, aligned with the others. Your stomach tightens—from hunger or discipline, you're not sure there's a difference anymore.

Your bun pulls at your scalp, the slight sting a reminder of structure. Beauty is pain. Excellence is sacrifice. These are not platitudes but mathematical certainties. Input equals output. You have the equations memorized.

The oversized cardigan hangs past your hips, concealing the lines of your body. Leotard, tights, canvas shoes—not pointe shoes, never pointe shoes outside the studio. That would be blasphemous. Disrespectful to the craft. You'd sooner walk barefoot through Paris than subject your pointe shoes to the indignity of street grime.

You move through the aisles with the same deliberate placement of feet that you use in adagio. Heel, arch, toe. No wasted motion. No unnecessary steps.

The cosmetics section is in the back corner, poorly lit. You need cotton pads. The ones at home are nearly gone—three left, to be precise. Not enough for tomorrow morning's routine. You glance down, locate them on the bottom shelf. 

Crouch.

A blur of motion interrupts your descent. Someone reaches—faster than you, more impulsive—and retrieves the package. Hands it to you without a word.

You note the gloves first. Latex. Clinical blue. Worn at the fingertips as if from constant scrubbing. 

Then the downturned face, completely obscured by ashy, wavy hair that falls forward like a curtain. 

You can't see his eyes. Can't see anything above the bridge of his nose. Just the curve of his mouth, pressed into a tight line. The shoulders hunched slightly forward. The careful distance he maintains—close enough to hand you the cotton, far enough that no part of him risks touching you.

"Thank you," you say. 

Your voice sounds strange in the empty store. 

Too formal. Too precise.

He doesn't respond verbally. Just nods once, a sharp downward jerk of his chin. His face remains tilted toward the floor, hidden behind that fall of unkempt hair.

You take the cotton pads. The package is slightly dented on one corner. Your eyebrows furrow before you can stop them.

The reaction is immediate. He snatches the package back, so quickly it startles you. For 2.5 seconds, you stand frozen, watching as he examines the shelf with frantic intensity. He selects another package—perfectly intact—and offers it to you with both hands, like a supplicant.

His fingers never touch yours during the exchange. It’s like the avoidance is intentional. Thought out.

You straighten, the pristine cotton pad package in hand. Consider saying something else. Decide against it. What would be the point? Social niceties are performances without purpose. At least on stage, the performance means something.

The rain continues its assault on the windows. You'll be soaked again on the walk back to your apartment. Your hair will frizz at the temples. Your canvas shoes will squelch with each step.

Bothersome.

You approach the register, mentally calculating how many steps it will take. It feels oddly hollow, this convenience store… 

Empty except for the cashier—a pink-haired girl with three facial piercings who hasn't looked up from her phone once—and the strange man with the latex gloves.

Seven steps to the counter. You take them.

The cotton pads make a soft sound when you set them down. The cashier doesn't move.

"Excuse me."

Your voice is clipped. Necessary.

She looks up, blinks, then sets her phone down with visible reluctance. Scans the package. Names a price that you mentally note is 0.20€ higher than last month.

Inflation. Even cotton isn't immune to economic decay.

You reach for your wallet—left pocket of your cardigan, where it always is—and find nothing. 

A blank space where certainty should be.

Your hand slides to the right pocket. Also empty.

You left it at the studio. The realization arrives without emotion, just a fact to be cataloged. An error to be logged. 

You never make this kind of mistake. 

(You made this kind of mistake.)

"I don't—" you begin, but stop. 

The sentence is a dead end. Unnecessary. 

You'll simply return the cotton pads to their shelf and come back tomorrow. It's inefficient, but not catastrophic. You have three pads at home, which is sufficient for one more morning routine. You'll adjust.

The pink-haired girl sighs. Her lower lip has a small sore where the ring passes through.

Before you can pick up the cotton pads, there's movement to your left. 

The man with the gloves steps forward. Not close enough to crowd, but close enough that you register the height difference. 

It is inevitable, catching  the scent of something warm beneath the clinical sting of antiseptic—roasted chestnuts, perhaps. The kind sold in paper cones along the Seine in winter.

He keeps his head down, that curtain of fluffy hair obscuring his features. One gloved hand extends, placing exact change on the counter.

His fingers are long. Elegant, even in those hideous blue gloves. You notice a slight tremor as he pulls his hand back quickly—as if the proximity to the cashier might contaminate him somehow. 

The money isn't for him. He hasn't bought anything. It's for your cotton pads.

"I don't need—" you begin, but he's already retreating, backing away from the counter, from you.

His shoulders curl forward. The blue latex of his gloves catches the fluorescent light, making his hands look bloodless. He steps backward, once, twice, eyes still fixed on the floor.

The cashier shrugs, takes the money. "Need a bag?"

You shake your head. No. More plastic waste for something so small would be absurd. Wasteful. Undisciplined.

The cotton pads are yours now, purchased by a stranger who won't look at you. 

You should thank him. Social convention demands it. But when you turn, he's no longer beside you.

You scan the store, methodical. Not by the register. Not in the front aisle. You spot him in the back corner, methodically straightening items on a shelf. The motions almost beautiful in their devotion to order.

Three steps and you're close enough to speak without raising your voice.

"Thank you for the pads." 

The words come out stiff. Clinical. Ridiculous, suddenly. Thank you for the pads. As if there's any meaning to the gesture beyond simple efficiency.

He freezes completely. His back to you, shoulders gone rigid. You can see the line of his spine through his oversized black shirt. Too thin. His belt has been cinched to the last hole and still hangs loose at his waist.

When he doesn't respond, you consider walking away. You've fulfilled the social obligation. Acknowledged the gesture. There's no reason to prolong this interaction.

But something stops you. Some strange, unquantifiable curiosity about this man who won't face you. Who performs small kindnesses while visibly shaking. Who wears medical gloves in a convenience store.

You wait for a response that doesn't come.

A drop of water falls from your hair onto your collarbone. Slides down beneath your leotard. The sensation is unwelcome and bothersome.

He remains perfectly still, as if movement might shatter something crucial. His breathing is shallow. Almost imperceptible.

You should leave now. The exchange is complete. The social obligation fulfilled.

Instead, you tilt your head slightly. Study the slope of his shoulders. The precise angle of his neck as he stares fixedly at the shelf before him. The way his gloved fingers press against his thigh in a rhythm you can't quite decode. 

Something about him is... delicate. Like a blown glass figure one breath away from shattering.

A strange impulse seizes you. You want to see his face. Want to know if his features match the fragility of his posture. Want to understand why he refuses to meet your eyes.

You step to the side. Just slightly. Just enough that you might catch a glimpse of his profile.

His reaction is immediate—he turns away, keeping that curtain of washed-out hair between you. Maintaining his anonymity with surprising determination.

The motion is too deliberate to be coincidental—as if he's preserving something vital through this avoidance.

You find it... interesting.

Most men stare. They always have. Since you were thirteen and your body first began to take the shape that others found worth watching. Their gazes slide over you like oil—unpleasant but expected. A toll you pay for occupying space.

This man refuses to look at all. Refuses even to be seen himself.

The novelty of it sparks something in you. A flicker of curiosity. A desire to press just a little further.

"Why are you helping me?" The question is direct. Almost rude in its bluntness.

No response. Just that same rigid posture. The same careful avoidance.

The cashier calls from the front: "We're closing in five."

You should leave. The cotton pads are secured. The errand complete. There's no logical reason to remain.

You take one step back. Then another.

His shoulders lower by perhaps two millimeters. Relief.

Your eyes narrow. What a curious reaction to a simple retreat. As if your mere proximity causes him distress.

As you turn to go, something catches your eye. A small plastic employee badge clipped to his belt. Mostly obscured by his shirt, but partially visible now that he's shifted position.

The convenience store's logo. A name printed beneath it.

Kim.

That's all you can see from this angle. Just a single surname.

You file it away. A data point that shouldn't matter but somehow does.

Four more steps and you're at the door. The rain is still falling, harder now. Your shoes will be ruined.

At the threshold, some impulse you don't examine makes you pause. Turn back.

He's watching you now.

Not directly. Not obviously. But you can feel the weight of his gaze from across the store. Can see how he's angled just slightly in your direction, observing through that muted veil of hair.

When he realizes you've caught him, he jerks his head away. The movement is so abrupt it's almost violent. As if being caught looking is somehow worse than looking itself.

Something unfurls in your chest. Something you haven't felt before and therefore cannot name.

It feels like power, but softer. Like command, but quieter.

Like the moment in rehearsal when you know—absolutely know—that every eye in the room is fixed on the perfect arch of your foot.

You watch him a moment longer. Note how his hands have begun to shake more visibly. How his breathing has quickened. How he seems to be counting something under his breath—his lips moving in a silent rhythm.

Afraid. He's afraid. Of you.

The realization should make you uncomfortable. Should compel you to leave.

It doesn't.

Instead, you find yourself... intrigued. By his fear. By his avoidance. By the contradiction of a man who will pay for your purchases but won't meet your eyes.

He's like a puzzle with missing pieces. An equation that doesn't balance. A phrase of music that ends on an unexpected note.

And you… 

You’ve always been intrigued by seemingly unsolvable problems.

As you push open the door, the bell above jingles—a cheerful, discordant note in the tense silence of the store. The sound makes him flinch, though it's difficult to tell if it's the suddenness or simply the fact that it marks your departure.

But you file the reaction away with everything else you’ve noticed about him. Building a catalog of responses. Creating a framework for understanding.

You step into the rain, cotton pads clutched in your pocket. 

The water hits your face in cold droplets. Your shoes squelch with each step. Your hair grows heavier with accumulated moisture.

None of it matters.

What matters is tomorrow's rehearsal.

What matters is Ondine.

What matters is perfection.

What matters is, strangely, the image of his downturned face. 

The graceful arc of his wrist as he straightened those bottles. 

The way he was utterly aware of your presence.

It was beautiful—his fear; his distance. 

It makes you wonder what would happen if you shattered it.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

goal: 250 notes

taglist: @cannotalwaysbenight @taevescence @itstoastsworld @somehowukook @stutixmaru @chloepiccoliniii @kimnamjoonmiddletoe @annyeongbitch7 @mar-lo-pap @mikrokookiex @minniejim @curse-of-art @cristy-101 @mellyyyyyyx @rpwprpwprpwprw @billy-jeans23 @calmyourtitts7

© jungkoode 2025.

no reposts, translations, or adaptations

[arbitrarykiwi]

Just thinking about Namgyu laughing in your face as he holds a vibrator to your cunt😖. Like you’re fully bare and vulnerable while he’s fully clothed, casually leaning on his side as you shake with pleasure.

Play Thing

anon!!! I LOVE THE WAY YOU THINK 😩😩😩 This was wayyyyy too fun to write. I just had a think that he would love to buy all sorts of toys for you and use them until you can’t take it 😗😗

Warnings: smut (18+), sex toy use (f receiving), orgasm denial, dirty talk, name calling (slut), degradation, squirting, read at your own risk

If there’s one thing Nam-gyu loves to do is to play with you. He’s damn near sadistic about it too. He will spend hours with his hand between your legs, fingers practically finger painting with your wetness. He adores how you writhe against him and how your breaths become ragged as you try to act like he’s not affecting you.

He lives for it.

You were just so cute! The way your eyes would well up with tears as your hips rotate mindlessly into his fingers, trying your best to move his deft digits up to your throbbing clit- where you needed it most. But he would always pull away. He couldn’t let you cum too soon, that would ruin all the fun!!

That being said, that brought you right to your current position….writhing against your bed, tucked into Nam-gyu’s side as he gives your new toy a test run. You can’t remember how long you’ve been like this, curled into Nam-gyu’s side, completely naked and oh so soaked while he is composed as ever, clothed completely and smirking down at your pathetic state. All you know is you’ve been so close to cumming 10, 12, maybe even 13 times, and each time he’s ripping the vibrating wand away from your abused cunt and running the nirvana you were so close to.

Your cunt is throbbing, your legs are shaking, and your back hurts from how hard it is arching off the bed but it feels so fucking good. Nam-gyu is smirking down at you, taking in every movement you make, analyzing every reaction you have. Anytime a moan falls from your lips he can feel his cock strain painfully against his jeans but he wouldn’t dare to undo the button and zipper.

There was something about having you tucked into his side, writhing- nearly sobbing as you moan his name, completely naked and spread open for him- Just for him- that gave Nam-Gyu such a rush of pleasure, a feeling of complete domination over you. You were his and his alone to play with.

You were so adorable too! Choked whines of his name and curses flow from your lips with such ease you’d think it was a song you had memorized. You’re looking up at him doe eyed and desperate, hips moving against the vibrator in frantic swivels as you mumble something incoherent about how good it feels. Nam-gyu would never get over the image of your reddened eyes and wet lashes, tears falling down your flushed cheeks as you beg for more.

“More?!” He laughs, “How greedy can you be?” His hand releases your breast to run up your sternum and neck, cupping your jaw and cheek. “Over here cryin’ and you’re still asking for more?” His tone is sickly sweet, his thumb smearing a fresh tear that falls down your cheek.

Your head nods up and down, a silent plea for him to give you more of the exhilarating pleasure you so desperately crave. You hear a scoff, an entertained sound as his finger clicks the button to the next level of vibration.

Immediately the feeling of electricity is amplified tenfold. A wanton cry is ripped from your lungs, the continuous thrum of the vibrator making your mind fill with static. “Nam-gyu~ F-fuck!!”

The way you say his name has him grinding his cock harder into the side of your thigh. It’s such a sweet, needy tone and it’s all for him to hear. In a quick motion he’s increasing the speed, click after click the speed gets faster. All you can hear is your own moans, the thrum of the wand and the lewd, wet sounds that come from between your thighs.

If your eyes weren’t busy fluttering back into your skull you would be able to see how he looks down on you- like you’re a meal waiting to be devoured- and, you are. Much like a delicacy displayed before him on rumpled bedsheets, you deserved to be savored. He deserved to savor you.

Wracked cries and sobs come from your body, you’re so close- but he knows you like the back of his hand- every time he knows your just close enough, he’s pulling his hand away, ripping the feeling of the thrumming vibrator away from your aching clit.

“I-I wanna cum.” You babble out, back bowing and legs shaking. “You can’t.”

You gasp, eyebrows knitting together in a near pained expression, “P-please I need it!” You try to reason, maybe begging will sweeten him up, you think it worked when you feel yourself reaching closer and closer to that exhilarating high that you craved and he doesn’t pull his hand away.

Right as the precipice of your orgasm begins to bloom in your lower stomach, a white hot heat radiating down your spine and legs, Nam-Gyu adjusts his hand and pulls the vibrator away, clicking it off. “Nope.”

Tears pour out of your eyes as you shake against the bed, a sheen of sweat layering your body, you can hardly catch your breath as you lay in the aftermath of being denied your orgasm once more. “Spread your legs wider.”

Nam-gyu’s gruff tone snaps you out of the haze you were in, the tone is domineering- it wasn’t an ask or a request, it was a demand. You whine, knees falling open. He takes this opportunity to trap your leg closest between him, between his own legs. He’s keeping you spread open for him just by trapping your one leg. Sure, you could try to move your other leg but it wouldn’t get you very far.

He places the vibrator back onto your sopping cunt, the head of it even just touching yourself clit- it’s not even on- it makes you jump. You expect him to gradually turn the speed on like he had been for the past hour, work you up to that rapid speed that has your body and mind going numb…

He doesn’t. Nam-gyu’s finger clicks against the ‘increase speed’ button and gets the speed to the highest one possible before he’s placing the vibrator back on your pussy. A creaky, high pitched whine is ripped from you, you’re gasping out his name and jolting against the mattress. Your leg that was trapped between his legs is twitching violently, trying to meet your other thigh to close your legs. “’s t-too much!” Even though you sob out, you don’t make any real effort to get him to stop or slow the vibration down, your hips are even grinding down onto the vibrator.

“Oh come on…” Nam-Gyu muses, it’s slow sardonic, mocking tone, “I wouldn’t have wasted my money on this toy if I knew you couldn’t take it.” He spits, the whirring head of the wand smearing your arousal on your thighs. Anytime he moves the device a wet ‘Schlick, Schlick’ sound echos throughout the room, just more testament to how badly you’re coming undone.

“I-I’m.. hah! I can t-take it!” Your voice gives you away so easily, ten times higher than normal and broken up by sobs of pure pleasure. If you were the least bit more with it you may have felt embarrassed. Here you were so broken, writhing and vibrating with pleasure, your body slick with a sheen of sweat. And you’re tucked so nicely into Nam-gyu’s side. His arm is hung lackadaisically around your shoulders, massaging and groping at your breast- just adding to the overwhelming pleasure you were receiving. He’s fully clothed and the only way you can tell he’s as turned on as you are is the way he grinds his thick, clothed erection against your thigh.

“I-I can t-take it!” He mimics, mocking your tone of voice before laughing down at you. “Ya gotta try harder than that if you wanna lie, princess.” He presses the button on the vibrator, increasing the speed. You let out a yelp, your hands flying to grip at his arm around your shoulder, trying to find anyway to ground yourself. “You’re making a fuckin’ mess of the sheets and your cunt is soaked- I haven’t even made you cum yet sweetheart. I dunno if you can take it.” He huffs, beginning to click the down button on the wand, the speed decreasing.

At risk of him stopping completely, you turn more into him, nearly sobbing into his chest. “I can!” You plead, nodding into his shirt, surely wetting it with your drool and tears. He chuckles, it’s so nonchalant that it makes your insides twist. He’s so composed, breathing steady, face calm and smug, just watching you come undone. “Can you?” Nam-gyu hums, pushing the wand harder against your aching clit as he clicks the speed back up.

You grip harder at his wrist that cups your jaw, nails making crescent moon shaped indents in his flesh. With every ‘click’ of his finger on the increase button, your mouth is hanging farther open and you’re shaking against him. Drool is pooling out of your mouth at this point, he’s driven you so close to the edge of your release more times than you can count- only to pull away right before you finally reach your climax.

“Mhm! F-fuck! I can! P-pleaseeee!!” The wanton cry is drawn out so sweetly, you really want it. You need it. You can feel how messy your cunt is, dripping down the valley of your ass and pooling under you in a sticky puddle on your sheets. He’s been playing with you for over an hour at this point, maybe even longer you can’t even think straight enough to tell at this point.

“Oh?? Begging now!?” He’s cooing at you like he’s talking to a baby, rubbing it in just how gone you were. Completely at his mercy like a puppet and the thrumming wand in his hand was the string that made you dance and sing so prettily for him. “Pleasee~” Nam-gyu mimics your voice, laughing as he looks down at you.

Your teary eyes meet his as you turn your head, trying to burrow your face into the fabric of his shirt. You pout, face red and eyes puffy, lashes clumped together. Fuck you’ve never looked better. You pout, a sound resembling a whine coming out of your throat in response to his mocking. “What??” He asks, his sadistic grin never leaving his face as the sarcastic question falls from his lips, “‘s how you sound right now, sweetheart. Ya can’t be mad at me for just repeating you~”

He mimics your pout and shakes his head playfully, his hand holding the wand, shaking back and forth. White hot fire erupts in your lower stomach, you know you’re getting close again. How could you not be?! You can barely register Nam-gyu’s laugh, the motion has your eyes fluttering back and your legs closing around the vibrating head of the wand. “You better not fucking cum.”

His words are low, nearly a hissed growl. Nam-gyu pulls you closer to him, his grip on you tightening. “Don’t you fucking dare.” It’s a threat. It always was. If you reached your sweet release before he was through with playing with you; he would make sure you paid for disobeying him.

“It’s- ohmygod- it’s s-so good…” your words come out in pathetic babbles, your head buried in his chest as he works the vibrator over the sloppy mess that was between your thighs. No matter how hard you squeezed them together, trying to close off your puffy folds and throbbing clit from the onslaught of the wand, his hand is not moving. The humming head of the wand he bought for you moves back and forth, in circles, up and down- anyway it can move, Nam-Gyu is making sure he does it.

When he was coming home from work and saw that new sex shop finally opened up after construction, it didn’t take but one time of him seeing the ‘grand opening’ sign to practically throw the car in reverse and pull into the parking lot. He did think he should wait, maybe he’d go home and tell you about it so both of you could check it out together…the thought of coming home with a new little toy for his princess as a surprise was much more enticing though…so Nam-gyu turned the car off, shoved his wallet in his pocket and walked into the store.

He came out of the store with the toy he was using on you currently, bringing it home and wasting little to no time to slide into bed next to you, get you out of your clothes and play with you.

“I know, sweetheart~” He coos, a tone so drastic from the demanding one he was just previously using, “but you don’t cum until I tell you too…” he punctuates his words by pressing the vibrator harder onto your clit, his tone teetering from sweet to harsh, “I will make you cum over and over until it fucking hurts.” He speaks through gritted teeth, his hold on your jaw tightening.

Your eyes flutter open, your bottom lip becoming caught in your teeth as you try to keep yourself from cumming. You nod, letting out a muffled, ‘Mhm! Mhm!’

“Yeahhh, ‘s right, you know ya gotta listen to me if you gotta cum…” He muses, an almost twisted grin on his face as his eyes scan over your body. His pupils focus down, watching as you’re creaming around the wand, your cunt soaking the sheets below you even further than it already had been. “You hear how wet you are? So fuckin’ messy. Pretty pussy’s just greedy ain’t she?”

Your breath catches in your throat at his words, they do nothing but drive you closer and closer to your edge and he knows it. You open your mouth to speak, eyes fluttering back open to look at him. You can’t form words, your mind is completely fucking blank from being edged and played with for so long…but it’s so fucking perfect.

Nam-gyu leans down to capture your mouth in a messy, filthy kiss. It’s full of spit and tongue, he’s swallowing every moan that falls from your lungs, in every way he’s just as greedy as you.

His hand drops from your jaw back to your tits, pinching at one of your nipples while moving his hand faster, rolling the vibrator in circles that blend seamlessly with the fast thrum of the vibrations. Your toes are curling and your legs are shaking so violently, you’re trying your best to hold out on your orgasm.

Nam-gyu pulls away breathlessly, placing his forehead on yours as his eyes trail up and down your form. “When I tell you to cum…you’re gonna make a fuckin’ mess f’me right?”

You nod and whimper. Eyes rolling back as your chest heaves with every shuddering breath.

“Gonna cum hard to thank me for spending my money on this toy f’you?”

You nod again, you’re sure you’re going to cum any second whether he tells you or not. You just really hope you can hold on until he allows you to cum.

“S’right pretty girl…” Nam-gyu kisses you again, “Cum for me, show me how good the toy is.”

“Ohmygodohfuck!! ‘M cumming!” You instantly cry out, words slurred and babbled. He could almost laugh at how instantly you jumped on your cue. With a final sob of his name you cum harder than you think you’ve ever cum before. Your back arches to the ceiling, your vision is blurred over with white and your ears are ringing.

Your orgasm gushes out of you in a thick stream and Nam-Gyu doesn’t let up on his ministrations, his hand moves the wand back and forth, splashing around your cum in a lewd display that mimics a fountain.

“There it is~” he coos, working you through your orgasm completely, watching every minuscule expression you make when you cum. “So pretty when you cum…so fuckin’ pretty.”

When you come crashing down your body is vibrating almost as fast as the vibrator that Nam-Gyu subsequently clicks off. He moves, releasing your one leg from the trap he had it in and begins to brush the hair that’s sticking to your forehead back and out of your face.

Your mind is filled with static, your body still on overdrive, yet a blissed out smile spreads across your lips. “S-so when can we go to that store….” You stop your words to draw in a large breath, “Go together. Maybe we can get s-something for you…” you lazily giggle.

He rolls his eyes and adjusts you so you’re tucked properly into his side once more, hand drawing lines up and down your back, “We can discuss that when you’re not fucked dumb. Doubt you could remember a plan if you made one right now anyways.”

He expects you to retort with a smartass comment like you normally do, but you don’t. When he looks down he sees you’re passed out, snuggling into his chest. The vibrator literally fucked you to sleep- it was a great fucking purchase. “Told ya~” He chuckles softly.

I hope you guys liked this one!! I’m sorry my posting schedule has been wonky!! This was the first of my WIPs that I have been working on. Also plz forgive me if this one is a little short 🙏🙏🙏

Every request I get just drives me to continue writing so thank you guys!!! Love yall so much! - <3 kiwi

[holmsister]

Kabru is sat next to this hot blonde in the blunt rotation at some party and they keep talking about random shit but they ARE hot and kabru is too polite to stop them so he's sort of listening with one ear and then like

L: AND THE ALPHA THING COMES FROM A POORLY-CONDUCTED STUDY ON WOLVES FROM SEVERAL PACKS FORCED TOGETHER IN CAPTIVITY AND-

K: *suddenly waking up from a mild slumber* oh its like the Zimbardo prison experiment.

L: the. What.

K: *talking at the speed of light out of fear Laios will stop him* in the seventies this psychologist called Zimbardo at the University of Harvard wanted to see how violence worked in humans so he enlisted students for a big behavioural study and divided them in two group - prisoners and prison guards - and gave the "guards" leeway in how they chose to enforce their authority on the "prisoners" which led to such a level of escalating abuse the experiment had to be stopped long before the agreed date and for decades this has been cited as PROOF humans will inherently take advantage of situations to abuse others but the experiments was demonstrably built extremely badly from conception and most serious researches dismiss it now but it STILL gets quoted all the time as proof humans are inherently evil and shit. Sorry.

L: ...why are you apologising.

K: I went on a weird rant on you.

L: that wasn't weird! That was super interesting actually. I didn't realise experiments on this sort were conducted on humans.

K: well. They usually aren't nowadays for a variety of- are you sure you want me to keep talking? You were talking about wolves.

L: oh but I actually want to hear so we can compare!

K: ...isnt it weird that I know so much about this sort of thing?

L: not at all!

K: *really hot for this stranger all of a sudden* uh. Ah. So. The behaviourist movement-

[kpoplustzone]

IU ONE SHOT- RECORDING FUN

OCx IU

8549 WORDS

Both young producers subtly shifted in their chairs, their eyes glued to the vocal booth. When IU, with her characteristic bubbly energy, suddenly bent down to pick up some sheets of paper that had slipped from her music stand, the loose white t-shirt fell forward, and for a brief, glorious moment, the outline of her perky, braless breasts was visible under the thin fabric—the nipples, small and hard, pressed against the cotton, a blatant invitation.

Minho and Hajun. Their hands, which had been resting on the table or their laps, now discreetly moved. the unmistakable bulges forming in their pants, their fingers subtly working beneath the fabric, rubbing their undoubtedly hardening cocks at the unexpected and tantalizing view. They were trying to be inconspicuous, their gazes still seemingly fixed on IU, but their furtive hand movements spoke volumes about the effect the "Queen of Kpop," in her simple attire, was having on them.

IU, utterly absorbed in her playback, leaned forward over the console, the thin white t-shirt stretching taut across her perky breasts. The fabric clung to her skin, and as she bent, the outline of her nipples, hard and prominent, became impossible to ignore. She tapped her foot energetically, and with each beat, her breasts jiggled beneath the loose cotton, a subtle but undeniable display that caught the eyes of both young producers. Her short skirt rode high on her thighs, and when she leaned further, the fabric tightened across her rounded ass, clearly outlining its shape and the faint indentation of her thong.

She then moved closer to Minho, her arm brushing his as she leaned in to point at the screen. The contact caused her breasts to press slightly against her t-shirt, the nipples now pressing even more insistently against the fabric. As she shifted to hear the playback better, her backside brushed against Hajun's leg, a fleeting but noticeable contact with her firm buttocks. The growing bulge in his pants is now unmistakable. Hajun, too, was visibly stiffening, his gaze fixed on IU's movements, a clear indication of his escalating hard-on. IU, lost in her musical world, remained completely oblivious to the blatant arousal she was unintentionally causing with her simple movements and naturally sexy physique.

A knowing smirk now played on IU’s lips. Her initial surprise had morphed into a playful, almost mischievous awareness of the power she held. She subtly adjusted her white t-shirt, deliberately causing it to dip lower in the front, offering a more generous view of the cleavage that had been previously hinted at. She leaned forward onto the console, ostensibly to adjust the volume, but her posture arched her back slightly, pushing her breasts out more prominently against the thin fabric, the hard nipples now unmistakable bulges. She held the position for a few lingering seconds, her gaze flickering between Minho and Hajun, a silent invitation in her eyes.

Then, she straightened up slowly, turning her attention to the monitor, but not before subtly swaying her hips as she moved, the short skirt swirling around her thighs, offering tantalizing glimpses of smooth, bare skin with each rotation. She took a few steps closer to where Minho was sitting, ostensibly to discuss a specific part of the track. As she leaned in to point at the screen, her breast brushed lightly against his arm, a deliberate contact that made him visibly gulp. She held the position close enough that he could undoubtedly feel the heat radiating from her body and see the defined outline of her nipple pressing against the cotton of her shirt.

Next, she moved towards Hajun, using the same tactic of feigned professional closeness. She bent down beside his chair to pick up a stray headphone, her short skirt riding high on her thighs, revealing a significant expanse of her smooth, toned legs. She paused in that bent position for a moment longer than necessary, giving Hajun a direct, unobstructed view of her rounded buttocks outlined beneath the skirt. As she straightened up, she turned slightly, her backside brushing against his leg, a playful and undeniably suggestive contact.

Throughout this deliberate display, IU maintained an air of playful innocence, her eyes sparkling with amusement as she observed the increasingly flushed faces and labored breathing of the two young producers, both of whom were now sporting undeniably massive hard-ons straining against their trousers

IU finally broke the playful silence, a sly grin spreading across her famously charming face. Turning directly to Minho and Hajun, she leaned against the console, her arms crossed, her gaze dropping pointedly to the obvious tents forming over their cocks before flicking back up to their flushed faces. “Well, gentlemen,” she said, her voice laced with amusement and a hint of teasing authority, “it seems my singing has had quite an… uplifting effect on those hard-ons I see.” She let the words hang in the air for a moment, enjoying their visible discomfort.

IU’s face was often described as angelic, a perfect blend of youthful innocence and captivating allure. Her large, expressive eyes held a depth that drew people in, and her smile could light up a room. Her petite yet perfectly proportioned body moved with a natural grace that seemed effortless, and even in a simple white t-shirt that clung to her perky breasts and a short skirt that showcased her toned thighs and the curve of her cute ass, she exuded an undeniable sexiness.

Now, fully aware of the effect she was having, IU decided to turn up the heat. She subtly adjusted her t-shirt, deliberately pulling it lower in the front, revealing the deep valley of her cleavage pushing against the soft cotton, the dark outline of her nipples clearly visible. She leaned forward onto the console, ostensibly to adjust the volume, but her posture arched her back slightly, thrusting her breasts out more prominently, those hard little nipples practically begging for attention. She held the position for a few lingering seconds, her gaze flicking between Minho and Hajun, a silent, overtly sexual invitation in her eyes.

Then, she straightened up slowly, turning her attention to the monitor, but not before deliberately swaying her hips as she moved, the short skirt riding up to reveal even more of her smooth, bare thighs and the enticing roundness of her ass. She took a few steps closer to where Minho was sitting, ostensibly to discuss a specific part of the track. As she leaned in to point at the screen, her breast brushed deliberately against his arm, a soft, lingering contact that made him visibly gulp and his hard cock twitch beneath his pants. She held the position close enough that he could undoubtedly feel the heat radiating from her body and see the distinct peaks of her nipples pressing against the thin fabric.

Next, she moved towards Hajun, using the same tactic of feigned professional closeness. She bent down beside his chair to pick up a stray headphone, her short skirt riding high on her thighs, revealing a significant expanse of her smooth, toned legs and offering him an eyeful of her perfectly shaped ass outlined beneath the tight fabric. She paused in that bent position for a moment longer than necessary, giving Hajun a direct, unobstructed view that made his already straining cock press even harder against his zipper. As she straightened up, she turned slightly, her backside brushing firmly against his leg, a playful and undeniably sexual contact.

Throughout this deliberate display, IU maintained an air of playful innocence, her eyes sparkling with amusement as she observed the increasingly flushed faces and labored breathing of the two young producers, both of whom were now sporting massive, throbbing hard-ons straining against their trousers, completely submissive to the Kpop queen’s bold and explicit teasing of their lust.

IU, her playful mood now laced with a definite sensual edge, moved from the console and deliberately positioned herself on a chair between Minho and Hajun, making sure her skirt rode up her thighs a little higher as she sat. With a slow, deliberate movement, she lifted both her bare feet, having slipped off her shoes unnoticed, and placed them on the producers' legs. Her soft toes curled slightly as she rested one foot on the inside of Minho's thigh, her heel just grazing his crotch, and the other foot on Hajun's leg, similarly close to his groin. She leaned back slightly, a knowing smile playing on her lips, her gaze flitting between the two visibly flustered young men. She subtly wiggled her toes against their pants, feeling the unmistakable hardness beneath the fabric, her eyes sparkling with mischief as she continued her silent, suggestive teasing.

IU’s playful smile widened into a full-blown, seductive grin. “Alright, gentlemen,” she purred, her voice dropping to a husky whisper, “let’s play a little game. Both of you have been… quite attentive.” She let her gaze drift suggestively downwards towards their straining pants. “Let’s see how long that enthusiasm lasts.” She leaned forward slightly, her eyes gleaming with challenge. “I propose a little endurance test. I’m going to tease you… thoroughly. The first one of you to, shall we say, lose control and let that delicious cum spill out… is out.” She paused for effect, her gaze sweeping between their flushed faces, lingering on their parted lips and dilated pupils. “The winner… gets a very special reward. He gets to fuck me, right here, right now, until we’re both breathless.” Her words hung in the air, thick with promise and raw desire. “The loser,” she added with a mischievous wink, “well, he just has to watch… and not touch his aching cock.”

Without waiting for their verbal assent, though their widened eyes and rapid breathing were answer enough, IU pressed her bare feet more firmly against their legs. Her soft, pale toes, delicate yet surprisingly firm, began a sensual exploration of the contours of their hard-ons through the denim. She ran the arch of her foot slowly up Minho’s inner thigh, her toes then curling around the swollen head of his cock, pressing just hard enough to send a visible tremor through his body. He sucked in a sharp breath, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the armrests of his chair. Then, she moved her other foot to Hajun’s leg, her heel digging gently but insistently into the bulging head of his erection near his groin, while her toes danced a teasing rhythm along the shaft, feeling the thick vein pulsing beneath her touch. Hajun groaned, a low, guttural sound that he quickly tried to stifle, sweat already beading on his forehead.

IU continued her exquisite torment, her feet moving with a slow, deliberate sensuality that was designed to push them to the very brink. She used the balls of her feet to apply firm, circular pressure right over the tips of their cocks, then trailed her toes down the lengths, occasionally pausing to lightly scratch the denim with her nails. She could feel the desperate tension in their legs, the almost imperceptible tremors that betrayed their struggle to maintain control. Her eyes, half-lidded and sparkling with wicked amusement, flickered between their faces, silently relishing their agony and their obvious, desperate desire. Minho’s jaw was clenched tight, a vein throbbing in his temple, while Hajun’s lips were parted, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Both were teetering on the edge, enduring her delicious torture, each desperate to be the lucky one to claim her as his prize.

IU leaned closer, a playful "Yah~" escaping her lips as she eyed their straining jeans. "Looks like our music's got you two worked up, huh?" She tilted her head, a knowing smirk on her face. "Since you're both so… enthusiastic, how about a little naegi game?" (a Korean term for a game or bet). She let her gaze drift suggestively downwards. "The loser has to buy the winner a whole cow of Korean BBQ later. And the winner…" she paused, her eyes twinkling mischievously, "gets a much, much better reward from this noona."

Hesitantly, a blush creeping up their necks, Minho and Hajun reached down. Hajun, looking a bit sheepish but undeniably hard, pulled out his thick, impressive jjokjjok. Beside him, Minho, a nervous excitement on his face, revealed his smaller but equally stiff member.

IU’s eyes widened slightly, a soft "Omo…" escaping her lips as she took in the sight. She knelt gracefully between them, her gaze lingering on Hajun’s longer, thicker kkun before flitting to Minho’s thinner but still eager one. Reaching out with both hands, her fingers, light as a feather, encircled the shafts. “Aigoo, you’re both so cute when you’re excited,” she cooed, her thumb gently tracing the underside of Hajun’s head, then doing the same to Minho. She began to stroke them slowly, teasing the sensitive skin with a feather-light touch, her eyes locked on theirs, a silent challenge in her gaze. “Try your best to hold back, dongsengs,” she whispered, her voice husky and laced with promise, “because this noona is going to make it very, very hard for you.”

IU giggled, a bright, almost innocent sound that somehow made the air in the small room crackle with tension. “Aigoo, you two are so cute when you try so hard,” she repeated, her eyes sparkling with playful mischief as she flicked her gaze between their faces. With a sudden, almost childlike curiosity, she reached out and gently squeezed Hajun’s thicker shaft, her fingers circling its width. “Hyung, yours is really… sturdy,” she commented, her tone both innocent and suggestive, before moving her other hand to Minho’s thinner cock. “And dongsaeng, yours is so… eager.” She gave it a light, teasing flick with her index finger, making him twitch.

Then, with a more deliberate sensuality, IU began to truly tease. She moved her hands up and down their shafts, her touch light and feathery at first, exploring every vein and contour. She’d pause just before the swollen heads, circling them with her fingertips, sometimes even gently pressing down on the sensitive tips, eliciting sharp intakes of breath from both men. Her thumbs would occasionally drift lower, finding the weight of their testicles in her palms, giving them soft squeezes and gentle bounces. She’d lean in close, her breath warm against their skin, whispering little Korean phrases of encouragement and playful taunts, making them both squirm and strain, their bodies aching for release that she was so expertly denying them.

With a playful toss of her head, IU’s fingers found the hem of her white t-shirt. Slowly, deliberately, she lifted it, her gaze locked on the wide eyes of Minho and Hajun as the fabric crept upwards, revealing a tantalizing glimpse of skin. The shirt was pulled over her head, her arms raised in a brief, sensual stretch, and then it dropped to the floor, leaving her upper body completely bare.

Minho and Hajun, their already erect cocks standing stiffly before them, watched her with rapt attention. The sight of IU’s bare breasts, their rosy nipples hard and pointing, sent another surge of blood to their members. Hajun’s thick cock throbbed, a glistening drop of precum appearing at its tip. Minho’s thinner shaft also pulsed, a thin sheen coating its length.

IU’s eyes danced between the two hard cocks. With a slow, deliberate step, she knelt between them, her gaze lingering on the glistening precum. Reaching out a hand, her fingers gently brushed against the tip of Hajun’s cock, smearing the clear fluid across its head. “Looks like someone’s excited,” she purred, her eyes sparkling with amusement, before her fingers trailed down the shaft, collecting more of the precum. She then moved to Minho, her fingers now slick with Hajun’s pre-ejaculate, and repeated the teasing touch, gently coating the head of his smaller cock with the wetness. “And you too,” she whispered, her voice a low, husky invitation.

IU’s touch, though light, sent shivers of anticipation through both Minho and Hajun. As her fingers glided across the sensitive skin of their cocks, they both involuntarily twitched, their breath catching in their throats. IU’s gaze remained locked on theirs, her lips curving into a slow, knowing smile. “So eager, aren’t we?” she murmured, her voice a low, husky whisper that seemed to caress their already taut members.

She lingered on Hajun’s thicker cock, her fingers gently circling the corona, feeling the wetness of his precum slick against her skin. She then used her thumb to lightly press down on the underside of his glans, right above the frenulum, a touch that made him groan and his hips buck forward slightly. IU’s eyes darkened with amusement as she witnessed his barely suppressed reaction.

Moving her attention to Minho, her fingers, now glistening with Hajun’s precum, traced the length of his thinner shaft. She noticed the rapid pulse throbbing just beneath the surface. With a delicate touch, she used her fingernail to lightly scratch the underside of his head, eliciting a sharp intake of breath. “Don’t you dare cum yet,” she warned softly, her gaze locking with his wide, desire-filled eyes. Her bare breasts, swaying slightly with her movements, were now mere inches from their faces, the hard tips practically begging to be touched. The air in the room crackled with unspoken desire, the tension so thick it could be cut with a knife. Both Minho and Hajun were visibly trembling, their cocks straining, slick with precum, desperate for release but held captive by IU’s tantalizing control.

A low chuckle rumbled in Hajun’s chest. While Minho’s face was now slick with sweat, his body visibly twitching with the effort of holding back, Hajun seemed to find a strange sort of control in the intensity of IU’s teasing. His breathing, though rapid, remained steadier, and a confident smirk played on his lips as he met IU’s gaze. He subtly flexed his fingers around her hand that was still stroking his cock, a silent challenge in his eyes.

IU’s eyebrow arched, a flicker of intrigue in her expression. “Oh? Seems like someone’s got a little more willpower than I thought,” she purred, her attention now more focused on Hajun. She leaned closer to him, her bare breasts nearly brushing against his arm. “Let’s see if that lasts, shall we?”

Turning her attention fully to Hajun, IU slid her hand down his shaft, her fingers circling the base before trailing back up, this time her touch becoming firmer. She then leaned in and whispered in his ear, her words a blatant invitation. “Since you’re doing so well, oppa, how about a little reward?” Before Hajun could react, IU swiftly leaned down and flicked her tongue against the underside of his hard cock, right where the head met the shaft, a single, incredibly sensual stroke that made him gasp and his body jerk violently. Minho, witnessing this sudden escalation, let out a strangled groan, his control visibly slipping.

With a playful glint in her eyes, IU decided to push their limits. Focusing on Hajun, she leaned in even closer, her fingers now tracing the length of his thick cock with a more deliberate pressure. She’d pause at the head, using her thumb to gently spread the opening, revealing the sensitive pink flesh within. Her breath hitched as she felt him throb against her touch.

Then, in a move that made Minho gasp, IU lowered her head and took the head of Hajun’s cock into her mouth, her lips closing around it with a wet, eager suction. She began to rhythmically suck, her tongue flicking against the underside, sending shivers through Hajun’s entire body. He gripped the back of his chair, his knuckles white, his eyes squeezed shut as he fought to maintain control.

While her mouth worked its magic on Hajun, IU didn’t neglect Minho. She reached down with her free hand and gripped his smaller cock firmly, stroking it with a rapid, insistent rhythm. Minho’s entire body trembled, his breathing becoming ragged gasps. His face was contorted in a mixture of pleasure and sheer agony as he teetered on the brink. IU watched him with a predatory gleam in her eyes, enjoying his struggle immensely. She increased the pace of her hand on Minho’s cock while her mouth continued its relentless assault on Hajun, pushing both men closer and closer to their breaking point.

IU knelt between them, her bare breasts swaying slightly with her movements, their rosy peaks tantalizingly close to the faces of the two producers. Her black hair, slightly tousled from her earlier energetic singing and Kiho's touch, framed her flushed cheeks. Her lips, full and slightly parted, were slick with Hajun’s precum, her expression a captivating mix of innocent focus and blatant sensuality as she expertly worked her mouth on his thick cock. Her eyes, dark and gleaming with mischief, occasionally flicked up to meet Hajun’s, a silent challenge and invitation in their depths.

Her mouth moved rhythmically up and down Hajun’s shaft, her cheeks hollowing slightly with each deep stroke. She’d vary the pressure, sometimes sucking firmly, other times teasing him with just her lips and the flick of her tongue, paying particular attention to the sensitive underside of his glans. Small, soft moans escaped her lips, adding to the already charged atmosphere.

Meanwhile, her right hand was working Minho’s smaller cock with a frantic energy. Her fingers gripped his shaft tightly, stroking him rapidly, her focus intent on his face, watching the beads of sweat that dotted his forehead and the way his jaw clenched in a desperate attempt to hold back. She could feel the frantic pulse of his erection in her hand, a clear indication of how close he was to the edge. Her bare breasts bobbed with the speed of her hand movements, a distracting and incredibly arousing sight for the already overwhelmed Minho. The contrast of IU, the beloved Kpop idol, in this semi-nude state, so intimately engaged with both young men, created a potent and incredibly exciting tableau.

IU pulled back from Hajun’s still-erect cock, her lips wet and her eyes sparkling with a mischievous, knowing amusement that sent a shiver of anticipation down Hajun’s spine. She glanced at Minho, who was now looking down, a mixture of disappointment and lingering arousal on his face, and gently stroked his cheek with the back of her hand. “You were so close, dongsaeng. You gave it your all. But it seems our hyung here has just a little bit more… staying power.” She then turned her full, captivating attention to Hajun, her smile softening into a slow, deliberate curve that hinted at the pleasure to come.

“Well, Hajun-ssi,” she purred, her voice a silken whisper that seemed to caress his very skin, “you certainly proved yourself… remarkably resilient.” She reached out, her fingers tracing the strong line of his jaw, then down his neck, lingering for a tantalizing moment over the rapid pulse in his throat. “You endured my… little temptations like a true champion.” She leaned in close, her bare breasts nearly brushing against his chest, her breath warm and sweet against his ear. “Now, as promised…” Her voice dropped even lower, becoming a husky invitation that sent a jolt of pure lust through Hajun. “You’ve earned your reward.” She stepped back slightly, her eyes, dark and gleaming with desire, raking over his body, lingering on the impressive bulge in his pants that still stood proudly erect. “My body is yours to use exactly as you desire. What will you do with your prize, oppa?” The air in the small studio crackled with an almost palpable energy, the unspoken desires hanging heavy between them, the promise of unrestrained pleasure finally within Hajun’s grasp.

Hajun’s eyes, now blazing with confident desire, met IU’s challenging gaze. He reached out slowly, deliberately, as if savoring the anticipation, his fingers tracing the delicate curve of her jawline before dipping down to the sensitive skin of her neck. He leaned in, his lips brushing against her ear as he whispered a phrase in Korean, his voice low and husky, sending a visible shiver down her spine.

He then moved his hands down her body, his touch light and teasing at first, skimming over her shoulders before pausing just below her collarbone, his thumbs gently caressing the smooth skin there. He watched IU’s reaction, the subtle catch in her breath, the slight parting of her lips, a knowing smirk playing on his own. He knew he had her attention.

With a more confident move, Hajun’s hands slid outwards, his fingers now tracing the curve where her neck met her shoulders, before slowly, sensually, gliding down her arms, lingering for a moment over the sensitive insides of her elbows. He then brought his hands back up, this time his fingers brushing lightly against the sides of her bare breasts, not quite touching the nipples, but creating a tantalizing friction against her skin that made her nipples harden even further. He watched her eyes darken, her breathing becoming more rapid.

Finally, with a slow, deliberate motion, Hajun cupped her breasts in his hands, the weight of them filling his palms perfectly. His thumbs began to gently stroke her already erect nipples, circling them slowly, then pressing down with a firm yet tender touch that made IU gasp softly. He leaned in, his lips finding the sensitive spot just below her ear, nibbling gently as his hands continued their sensual exploration. He knew exactly how to touch her, where to tease, and where to apply pressure to elicit the most intense reactions.

Minho stood nearby, his gaze glued to the scene. The expert way Hajun was touching IU, the obvious pleasure radiating from her, was a stark reminder of his own earlier, premature release. A wave of intense jealousy washed over him, mixed with a burning desire to be the one in Hajun’s place, his hands exploring IU’s exquisite body. He could only watch, a silent observer as Hajun, with a knowing confidence that spoke of experience

Hajun’s gaze was now intensely focused on IU’s face, his eyes tracing every delicate feature, from her slightly parted lips to the soft curve of her cheekbones and the intense desire reflected in her dark eyes. He leaned down, his breath warm against her skin as he peppered her face with soft kisses – a lingering press of his lips on her forehead, a gentle nibble on her earlobe, a slow, sensual slide across her cheek. It was clear he intended to savor this moment, to explore every inch of her with a deliberate and knowing touch.

His hands, meanwhile, continued their exploration of her body. He trailed his fingers down her bare torso, his touch feather-light as he mapped the contours of her ribs and the delicate curve of her waist. He then dipped his fingers beneath her short skirt, his touch tentative at first, before becoming more confident as he explored the smooth skin of her thighs, inching his way higher with a clear intention to discover all of her secrets.

Watching this intimate exploration, Minho felt a fresh wave of arousal wash over him. His cock, which had begun to soften slightly after his premature climax, now sprang back to full attention, throbbing with a renewed intensity as he witnessed Hajun’s skilled and sensual touch on IU’s body.

IU, noticing Minho’s renewed state of arousal and the longing in his eyes, looked up at him, her gaze a mix of playfulness and invitation. “Minho-ssi,” she purred, her voice laced with a seductive warmth, “come closer. You should have a good view of your prize, don’t you think? Don’t be shy. Come and watch Hajun enjoy what he won.”

Hajun’s kiss grew increasingly passionate, his tongue plunging deep into IU’s mouth, tasting every corner as he held her breasts firmly, his thumbs rubbing against her nipples with a possessive fervor. IU responded with an equal intensity, her tongue tangling with his, her body molding against his, the friction of their bare chests creating a delicious heat. Soft, wet sounds of their kissing filled the air, punctuated by IU’s occasional sigh of pleasure.

Meanwhile, IU’s hand on Minho’s cock had become more deliberate and firm. She gripped the shaft tightly, her fingers gliding up and down with a practiced rhythm, her thumb pressing firmly on the underside of his head, right where the sensitivity was most intense. She could feel him throbbing in her hand, the rapid pulse a clear indication of his escalating arousal. Her eyes, though mostly focused on Hajun, would occasionally flick down to Minho, a playful, almost teasing glint in their depths as she continued her rhythmic stroking, giving him just enough pleasure to keep him on the edge, a silent promise of more to come. The scene was a blatant display of raw desire, IU effortlessly commanding the attention and lust of both young men.

Following the rhythm of their earlier connection, IU leaned more fully into Hajun’s touch and gaze. He held her face gently, his thumbs caressing her cheeks, before he lowered his head to once again capture her lips. This time his kiss was slow, deliberate, savoring the taste and feel of her mouth. He teased her lips with his, gently sucking and then nipping before deepening the kiss, his tongue tangling with hers in a languid, sensual dance.

Breaking the kiss, Hajun’s gaze drifted down to the curve of IU’s neck. He trailed soft, wet kisses down her throat, lingering for a moment at the sensitive hollow just above her collarbone, eliciting a soft gasp from her. His lips then moved to her shoulder, where he gently sucked on the soft skin, leaving a faint pink mark. He continued his descent, his kisses now tracing the delicate line of her collarbone, his breath warm against her bare skin.

As he reached her breasts, his attention intensified. He nuzzled against them, inhaling deeply, before showering them with slow, wet kisses. He’d lick and suck on her already hard nipples, drawing them out and teasing them with his tongue, making IU moan with pleasure. Her bare breasts bounced slightly with his ministrations, their rosy tips glistening with his saliva.

Meanwhile, IU’s hand continued its rhythmic work on Minho’s cock, the strokes steady and firm, giving him just enough attention to keep his desire simmering while her focus was clearly on Hajun and the sensual exploration of her divine body. Minho could only watch, a mixture of jealousy and intense arousal swirling within him, as Hajun continued his intimate journey down IU’s torso.

Hajun’s attention remained fixated on IU’s breasts, his hands now cupping them fully, savoring their soft weight in his palms. His thumbs gently stroked the already erect nipples, circling them slowly, teasing the sensitive tips until they were hard pebbles pressing against his skin. He’d then gently squeeze the mounds, feeling their plumpness and the way IU’s breath hitched with each press.

He lowered his head, his lips latching onto one nipple, sucking strongly, drawing it deep into his mouth. IU arched her back slightly, a moan escaping her lips as the intense suction sent a jolt of pleasure through her. Her hands instinctively reached up, her fingers tangling in Hajun’s hair as she pressed his head closer, deepening his ministrations. He’d alternate between sucking and gently nipping, his teeth grazing her delicate skin, sending shivers down her spine.

While his mouth was occupied, Hajun’s hands continued to explore, his fingers now tracing the underside of her other breast, gently kneading and squeezing the soft flesh. He’d sometimes flick his tongue from one nipple to the other, creating a delicious wet sensation that made IU squirm with delight.

Looking down at Minho, whose eyes were glued to the scene with a mixture of longing and frustration, IU let out a soft, suggestive sigh. “Oh, Minho-ssi,” she purred, her voice laced with a teasing satisfaction, “Hajun oppa knows how to make me feel good, doesn’t he? His mouth… It’s so skilled. And his hands… they’re so sure, so knowing. You should pay attention, dongsaeng. You might learn a thing or two.” She let her gaze drift back to Hajun, a blissful smile on her face as he continued his passionate assault on her breasts.

Alright, time for things to get real dirty. Hajun, like he was gonna eat her alive, started moving down IU’s body. He dropped to his knees, his eyes locked on her face for a split second before diving onto her feet. He took one of her bare feet in his hands, running his tongue all over her sole, then sucking on each of her toes like they were lollipops. IU let out a throaty moan, her head falling back against the chair. He moved to her other foot, giving it the same intense, slobbery attention.

Then, Hajun started working his way up her legs, planting wet, open-mouthed kisses up her calves. His hands followed, squeezing and caressing her smooth skin. He paused at her knees, licking around the kneecaps before continuing his upward journey. When he reached her thighs, things got even hotter. He started sucking on her inner thighs, leaving wet trails of his saliva as he moved closer and closer to her sweet spot. He’d tease the insides of her thighs with his fingers, gently parting her folds, his breath hot against her pussy. IU was practically writhing now, her hand pumping Minho’s cock faster, her moans getting louder and dirtier with each of Hajun’s moves. Minho just stood there, his jaw practically on the floor, watching Hajun eat IU out, his cock stiff as a board and aching to be touched like that.

Hajun’s mouth was all over IU’s sweet spot, his tongue going crazy, licking and sucking her womanhood like he was trying to get every last drop of nectar. He used his fingers to gently spread her folds, giving him better access to the little button that was making her moan like crazy. He’d flick his tongue over it, then suck it deep into his mouth, making her body jump on the chair. His fingers were busy inside her too, sliding in and out, stretching her gently, making her feel so full and satisfied. IU was loving every second, her back arching, her hips moving with his mouth.

In between her cries of pleasure, IU looked at Minho, who was practically shaking just watching. A naughty smile touched her lips. “Minho-yah,” she breathed out, her voice all shaky and excited, “Hajun oppa is so good at this, isn’t he? He knows exactly how to make my flower bloom. It feels so wet and warm… and it’s all for him. You’re just getting a handjob, huh? Maybe next time you’ll last longer, and you can taste this sweetness for yourself.” Her words, full of her pleasure and Minho’s denied desires, made him tremble even more, his hand gripping his cock tightly.

Just as IU finished her teasing words to Minho, a deep shudder ripped through her body, and her inner muscles clenched powerfully. A torrent of hot, slick fluid erupted from her core, gushing out in pulsating spurts all over Hajun’s face, mouth, and chest. Her eyes rolled back in her head, her lips parted in a silent scream of pure ecstasy as she savored the overwhelming sensation of her squirting orgasm. Her legs trembled uncontrollably, and soft, whimpering cries escaped her throat as wave after wave of pleasure washed over her.

Hajun, his face slick with IU's juices, didn't hesitate for a moment. He positioned the head of his thick, hard cock right at the wet, glistening entrance of her pussy. The opening was stretched and slick from her earlier arousal and now even more so from her squirt. With a guttural groan that echoed in the small room, he thrust forward, his long shaft sliding in deep, stretching her wide, filling her from the very tip of her cervix to her swollen lips. IU gasped, her eyes flying open, a look of blissful shock on her face as she felt him buried inside her. She wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him even closer, savoring the feeling of his thick cock filling every inch of her wet, sloppy pussy. Hajun held himself still for a moment, allowing her to adjust to his impressive size, the only sound their ragged breathing and the wet squelch of their joined bodies. Then, he began to move, his hard cock sliding in and out of her slick depths with a slow, deliberate rhythm, each thrust sending ripples of pleasure through both of them

Hajun began to fuck IU, his rhythm shifting constantly. He'd start with slow, deep thrusts, his long, thick cock sliding in and out of her wet pussy with a deliberate intensity, allowing her to feel every inch of him filling her. Then he'd pick up the pace, his hips pumping faster, slamming his cock against her G-spot with a satisfying thud, making her cry out with pleasure. Sometimes he’d pull almost out before thrusting back in deep, stretching her wide and making her gasp. The feel of her slick, tight walls gripping his hard cock was driving him wild, the friction creating a delicious heat that made him groan with each thrust.

IU was completely lost in the sensation, her body moving instinctively with Hajun’s rhythm. She’d arch her back and meet his thrusts, her moans echoing in the room, sometimes high-pitched cries of pure ecstasy, other times low, guttural sounds of raw pleasure. Sweat slicked her skin, her hair was a tangled mess, and her eyes were half-closed in a blissful haze.

And then, amidst the intense fucking, IU’s hand, which had been resting near Minho, reached out. Her fingers closed around his still-hard balls, gently squeezing and caressing them while Hajun continued to pound into her. Minho’s breath hitched at her touch, a fresh wave of arousal washing over him despite his earlier release. He watched, mesmerized and still aching, as IU’s face was contorted in pleasure from Hajun’s hard fucking while her hand worked his testicles, a tantalizing reminder of the prize he had lost but was still allowed to witness.

Even as Hajun continued his steady, deep fuck of IU, he began to explore the rest of her body with his free hands. He cupped her face gently as he plunged into her, his eyes locking with hers, a silent connection of pure lust passing between them. Then, his hands would roam, tracing the curve of her shoulders, down her arms, sometimes squeezing her biceps or running his fingers down to her wrists. He'd caress her sides, his thumbs just brushing the underside of her breasts, teasing her without fully committing.

As his cock slid in and out, stretching her with each deliberate thrust, IU’s moans grew louder and more unrestrained. They started as soft gasps, then escalated into guttural cries that echoed in the small recording room. She’d grip his shoulders tightly, her nails digging into his flesh, her body arching off the chair to meet his deep strokes, every muscle in her core clenching around his thick member. The intensity of his slow, steady fucking, combined with the sensual exploration of his hands, was pushing her closer and closer to another earth-shattering orgasm.

Hajun’s slow, deep thrusts continued, each one driving his thick cock to IU’s depths, making her whimper with a pleasure that bordered on pain. He’d sometimes pause at the very peak of his thrust, holding himself inside her for a long, agonizing moment, making her muscles clench around him before slowly withdrawing and then plunging back in again. His hands roamed her body, squeezing her ass cheeks as he fucked her from behind while she was still sitting on the chair, her bare breasts bouncing with each of his powerful strokes. The wet sounds of their bodies grinding together filled the room, a symphony of raw desire.

In between Hajun's deep thrusts, IU would turn her head towards Minho, her eyes half-closed with a sensual haze, a wicked smile playing on her lips. “Minho-yah,” she’d pant, her voice breathy and filled with the aftershocks of pleasure, “are you enjoying the show? See how much Hajun oppa loves my tight little pussy? He fills me up so nicely, doesn’t he?” She’d then arch her back, pushing her chest out and giving Minho a clear view of her bare breasts, their nipples still hard and erect. Sometimes, as Hajun continued to fuck her, IU would reach out a hand towards Minho, her fingers teasing the waistband of his pants, her touch lingering just above his still-hard cock, a silent reminder of what he had missed out on.

Hajun shifted his grip on IU's hips, angling her body slightly to the side, allowing him to plunge even deeper, his cock now hitting a new spot inside her that made her cry out his name. He leaned forward, his mouth finding her ear, and whispered dirty Korean words, telling her exactly what he wanted to do to her, making her squirm and tighten her grip on his shoulders. His other hand trailed down her stomach, his fingers dipping beneath the waistband of her skirt, teasing the top of her thighs, occasionally flicking at her still-wet folds.

IU’s moans intensified, becoming a mix of pleasure and desperate need. Her head thrashed back and forth against the chair, her hair a wild mess around her face. She’d occasionally glance at Minho, who was watching with a pained expression, and let out a particularly loud cry of pleasure as Hajun hit a sensitive spot.

Suddenly, IU placed her hands on Hajun’s shoulders, stopping his rhythmic thrusts. “Wait, oppa,” she breathed, her chest heaving, “I want to ride you.” With a fluid motion, she slid off the chair and guided Hajun to lie down on the floor of the recording studio. He looked up at her, his eyes filled with anticipation.

IU straddled him, her wet pussy hovering just above his hard, thick cock. She looked down at him, a predatory gleam in her eyes, before slowly, deliberately lowering herself. With a soft sigh of pure satisfaction, she guided his engorged member inside her slick depths, taking him inch by agonizing inch until he was fully embedded within her wetness.

IU took control, her hips beginning to rock back and forth on Hajun’s hard cock. She set a slow, sensual rhythm at first, savoring the feeling of his thick length filling her. With each downward slide, she’d grind down onto him, taking him as deep as she could, feeling him stretch her wide. Then she’d rise slightly, teasing the head of his penis against her clit before plunging again with a soft, wet slap.

Her moans intensified, each one a little louder than the last. She threw her head back, her hair cascading down her back, her eyes squeezed shut in pure ecstasy. Her hands gripped his shoulders tightly, her nails digging into his flesh as she rode him harder. “Oh, oppa,” she’d gasp between moans, “you feel so good inside me… so big…”

Hajun groaned beneath her, his hands gripping her hips, guiding her movements, his own pleasure building with each stroke. He’d thrust his hips upwards to meet hers, driving even deeper inside her wetness. He watched her face, his eyes filled with lust as he witnessed the raw pleasure that was consuming her.

As IU rode him, grinding her wetness down onto his length, Hajun’s mind raced back to that concert. He hadn't been focused on her voice, not entirely. His eyes had been glued to her body. That white dress, so tight in all the right places, had highlighted the perky swell of her boobs with every movement, and when she turned, the fabric would cling to her round ass, making him clench his fists. He’d imagined what it would feel like to have his hands all over her, to feel the softness of her skin, the weight of her breasts in his palms. He’d fantasized about pushing that dress up, lifting her onto the stage, and sliding his cock deep inside her right there in front of thousands of people. The thought of her legs wrapped around his waist, her moans echoing through the stadium, had been a constant, tantalizing fantasy. And now, feeling her hot, slick pussy gripping his hard cock as she rode him, he realized that fantasy had become his reality.

IU’s movements on top of Hajun became more frantic, her breath catching in sharp gasps as she neared the peak again. Her inner muscles clenched tightly around his cock, milking him with each downward thrust. A low, guttural cry escaped her lips as wave after wave of intense pleasure washed over her, her wet pussy gripping his hard length with a fierce intensity as she climaxed again, her body shuddering with delight. Hajun could feel every contraction, the tightening squeeze of her inner walls around his cock sending his desire soaring.

Minho, standing directly in front of IU, his eyes glued to the sight of her riding Hajun, the raw sexuality of the moment becoming too much to bear. Despite his earlier climax, his cock was still rock-hard, and the sight of IU’s face contorted in pleasure, the wet sounds of their bodies joining, finally pushed him over the edge. A frustrated groan escaped his lips as he felt another surge of semen erupt from his cock, this time without any touch from IU, the involuntary release leaving him feeling both satisfied and incredibly frustrated at having lost the game so decisively.

As the intense tremors of her orgasm subsided, IU’s movements on Hajun shifted. She slowed her pace, her hips now rotating with a deliberate, sensual rhythm. She leaned forward, her bare breasts brushing against his chest, her eyes locking with his. “Now it’s your turn, oppa,” she whispered, her voice husky with desire, “time to reward that magnificent cock and those incredible skills.”

She began to grind down on him with each downward movement, taking him deep inside her wetness, her inner muscles clenching and releasing with a teasing pressure. She’d lean back slightly, just enough to tease the head of his cock against her most sensitive spot, before sliding down again, drawing out a low groan from Hajun. Her focus was now entirely on him, her every move calculated to bring him to the brink of his release.

As she slid up and down his thick cock, she used her hands to explore his body, her fingers tracing the hard muscles of his chest, down his stomach, and then lower, gently squeezing his balls. She’d lean forward, her lips finding his neck, where she’d leave soft, wet kisses and gentle nibbles, sending shivers down his spine. Sometimes, she’d reach down and stroke his cock with her hand, guiding her rhythm with her fingers, adding another layer of sensation to the deep, internal friction. Her focus was solely on bringing him to the edge, using every touch and every movement to push him closer to his reward.

Stretched out beneath her, Hajun’s eyes drank in the glorious sight of IU straddling him. Her bare breasts bounced with a luscious freedom, their nipples brushing against his chest with each sensual dip of her hips. He could see the wet sheen of her pussy as it slid up and down his thick cock, the pink folds glistening in the studio light, gripping him so tightly it felt like his very soul was being squeezed. This woman, IU, whose face and body adorned countless screens, whose mere presence sent waves of adoration through stadiums packed with thirsty fans, was stark naked and riding his dick like a seasoned pro, her every move designed to make him explode. The thought alone was enough to send a jolt of pure, raw lust through him. “IU-yah… fuck,” he groaned out, his voice thick with desperation, “I’m about to blow… I can’t hold back…”

With a playful wiggle of her hips, IU lifted herself off Hajun’s thick cock, the suction creating a soft ‘plop’ as it was released from her soaking wet pussy. She straddled his waist for a moment, looking down at his engorged member with a predatory gleam in her eyes. Then, in a slow, deliberate motion, she lowered herself until her mouth enveloped the head of his large, thick cock.

She started at the base, her lips closing around the thick shaft where it met his body, her tongue flicking over the smooth skin. She then moved lower, gently taking both of his heavy balls into her mouth, sucking on them softly before sliding her lips back up the length of his hard cock. Her tongue danced along the underside, teasing the sensitive frenulum before she finally took the entire head into her mouth, sucking deeply, her cheeks hollowing with each pull. Hajun’s hands immediately went to her hair, his fingers tangling in the strands as he groaned, his hips lifting slightly off the ground.

IU continued her expert ministrations, her mouth working up and down his shaft, her tongue swirling around the tip, the wet sounds filling the studio. Hajun’s moans grew louder, escalating into full-blown cries of pleasure as he neared his breaking point. His body tensed, his breathing becoming ragged, and then, with a final shudder, he unloaded a thick stream of hot cum deep into IU’s mouth, the white fluid nearly overflowing her lips. Minho watched the entire scene, his desire a painful ache in his groin, a stark reminder of his earlier, premature finish and his current unlucky position as a mere spectator.

With deliberate, sensual strokes, IU used her hands and mouth to clean up every last drop of Hajun’s thick, sticky cum from his cock and body. She started by running her tongue along the underside of his shaft, from the base where it met his warm skin, right up to the tip, savoring the salty taste. Then, she took the entire head into her mouth, sucking deeply, creating a wet, slurping sound that echoed in the quiet studio. Her hands worked in tandem, wiping away the excess cum from his stomach and thighs. She even licked the remaining droplets from the curve of his balls, her eyes locking with his, a silent acknowledgment of the intense intimacy they had just shared. Swallowing his final load with a satisfied sigh, she looked down at his still-partially-erect cock and then back up at his face, her eyes sparkling with genuine admiration. "Wow, Hajun-ssi. You are truly impressive," she breathed, her hand gently squeezing his shaft. "Even compared to my Jongsuk OPPA," she added, using a more intimate form of address, "you are… exceptionally well-endowed and skilled." She leaned in closer, her bare breasts brushing against his chest, a playful glint in her eyes. "In fact," she whispered, her breath warm against his ear, "you should feel free to come find me, anytime, whenever this noona has a craving for a big, thick cock like yours deep inside her pussy, alright?"

[lcriedlastnight]

Y/n is feeling sick and Oscar is worried so they go to the doctor and find out that y/n is pregnant

thanks for your request babes!

tw: fem!reader, pregnancy (yes that is it's own warning), sick and being sick, swears maybe, lmk if you want me to add anything else.

w/c: 1.6k

you were sick constantly, whether it be a headache, or stomachache, feeling like you just had a general cold or literally vomiting it felt like you were feeling one of them all of the time, in a cruel rotation.

the only times you were actually sick and not just feeling nauseous was when you had drank a little too much (and were maybe on the verge of alcohol poisoning) or if your period cramps were so bad, it made you sick.

you were surmising that it was the latter as you sat on the cold flooring of the bathroom. one hand was clutching the toilet seat and the other was holding your hair back to prevent it from hanging in your face. you had never really been sick before your period had actually started before but you had felt a mild discomfort in your abdomen and had chalked it up to that, even though the pain was nothing like what you usually experienced during that time of the month.

being sick in the hotel bathroom as oscar slept in the next room, resting for the race later on in the day was not how you had planned on spending the morning but it seemed like that was what was going to happen. you were not alone for long though as the australian padded through once his body registered the warmth missing from the bed. he calls your name and you try to reply but you feel surge of sickness wash through you as you hunch over the seat. the bathroom door is closed but oscar knows that if he asks if he can come inside, you would just tell him no. he comes in anyways.

you hear a consoling hum as you retch again, oscar's hand replacing the one holding your hair back, his spare hand coming to rub big, comforting circles on your back, encouraging you to bring it all up.

you whimper through your spells of sickness as you finally feel the urge to be sick ebb away. you rest your weak body against oscar's as his hand continues its soft movements. oscar's mouth presses many light kisses into your hair as he lets you rest on the floor to recover.

"y'alright, love?" oscar asks after a few beats of still silence. he feels a nod against his chest.

"think it's just my time of the month coming." you inform him. you feel oscar's hum of disagreement before you hear it. it confuses you.

"you're not due your period for another week and a bit yet, honey." oscar tells you. you feel too sick to even acknowledge that he knows your cycle off by heart. this would be something you would review when you felt a little better.

"must've come earlier. 've got the cramps and the sickness, just waiting for the blood. you know what it's like anyways, it only really lasts a day then i'm alright again." you mumble as you pick yourself up and grab your toothbrush, desperate to get the vomit taste out of your mouth. oscar stands behind you, supporting you the entire time. he nods at your words and does not tell you that he thinks it is a little weird that you were getting your usual period symptoms but not the actual period. he just prays you are better once you have had a nap. you both head back to the bed and oscar pulls you to his own body so tightly you would think you had a habit of running off and leaving him in the middle of the night.

it turns out that you are not better once you guys wake back up and you do not even feel well enough to make it to the paddock to watch your boyfriend race. although oscar has his reservations about you leaving you alone in the hotel room when you were not feeling the best, there was not much he could really do. it was not like he could just take the day off to nurse you back to health with his comforting and warm touch. you watch the race from the hotel room, cheering him on and home when he gets p4, narrowly missing out on a podium.

"you'll get them next time." is your first words to him when he returns to the hotel room, later on that afternoon. oscar just grunts and questions you about your wellbeing. after you tell him you do not feel any better and that you maybe even feel a little more sick than what you did this morning, he knows this is nothing to do with your monthly cycle. he is not exactly sure what it could be but he knows he has to get you to a doctor as soon as you were both back home.

the flight home was probably one of the worst travelling experiences you have ever had in your entire life. oscar held your hand the whole way home but it did nothing to ease the cramps in your stomach and the sicky feeling resting in your throat. as soon as the plane was touching your home soil and oscar had internet again he booked an emergency appoinement at the doctors for you, not wanting you to have to go a second longer without relief than what you need to.

oscar just takes you both straight to the doctor's office, bags full of your clothes from the weekend flung in the backseat and boot of the car as he parks up in the car park opposite the office. with the way oscar was acting and treating you, some would think you were on deaths door.

oscar urges you to sit as he explains your problems to the receptionist. after a few moments the boy joins you, leg jumping in nerves.

"'y'seem more nervous than me, osc. i'll be fine." you tell him, hand coming to stop his restless leg. oscar smiles at you, kind but his eyes are full of nerves.

"i know. just want you better now instead of later, honey." oscar's hand coming to rest atop yours.

it is not too log after that the doctor comes out and asks you to follow her into the own office at the end of a very long and very white corridor.

the doctor tells you both to make yourself comfortable in the seats in front of you as oscar immediately jumps into rhyming off all of your symptoms and what you had both thought it was previously.

"so you had thought it was just period pains but your period hasn't come yet?" she checks, earning a nod from you and oscar in unison. she frowns in thought before her next words come and take you and oscar, both by surprise.

"and have you taken a pregnancy test?" she asks. you look at her shocked at the words, never even taking the premise of being pregnant into consideration. now that she had mentioned it all these symptoms did all point towards being pregnant. oscar turns his head to face you, hand still gripping yours from when he had helped you along the corridor but now his hold felt like it was ten times tighter.

you clear your throat before you reply, "uh, no i didn't even think about that being a possibility." you tell her honestly. she grins back and walks over to a drawer attached to some cabinet neat the door. she pulls out a more medical looking pregnancy test.

"it's alright, this happens more often than you would think. why don't you go and pee on this and we can tell you for sure if it is that or if we should start looking into something else entirely." the doctor hands you the test and leads you into a toilet just across the hallway. oscar waits nervously in the office with the doctor.

you return a few minutes later, hands shaking as you hand the test to the doctor. you sit back down on the chair as your hand slinks towards oscar's again, longing to feel that familiar touch, sending waves of solace through your nervous body.

the words echo around your brain as the doctor confirms that you are in fact pregnant. it feels like every single emotions runs through you at the news and you really do not know what to think right now. you think you hear the doctor say that she would give you both a minute and then the close of the door, meaning you and oscar were alone. you try and blink yourself back down to earth.

"i'm pregnant." you say, still not believing it. oscar has tears in his eyes as he nods and brings you into a crushing hug, before he loosens it, not wanting to crush his baby even though you were no where near close to showing yet.

"aren't we too young, oscar? are you sure you want this with me?" you worry, hands wringing at the back of his neck.

"i've never doubted that you were the person that i wanted to do this with. it might be a little earlier than i planned but i swear this is all i've ever wanted since i asked you out." oscar admits with a heavy voice and teary eyes. you canot even help but grin at his words.

you were still petrified but at least you had oscar in this and you knew he was here every single step of the way. there was no one else better to do any of this with than him, that you were one hundred percent sure of.

[ourseasone]

CHAPTER 006 ✱ I JUST NEED TO CRY

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It had already been an entire week. Just seven days, but it felt like a lifetime since your first visit to the hospital, the day everything changed. One single appointment, and your whole world had turned upside down, unraveling so fast that you barely had time to catch your breath. Since then, the ground beneath you had felt unstable, like one wrong step could send it all crumbling into dust.

And now, here you were again — back in the same place, facing the same cold reality, except this time it was supposed to go deeper.

They were going to talk more about it again. The tumor.

You didn’t go to school that morning. You hadn’t even considered it. What was the point? Instead, you made your way to the hospital early, giving yourself time to sit in the exact same chair as last week, the familiar spot across from Dr. Hwang’s desk. The room hadn’t changed. Neither had the doctor — same pristine white coat, still crisp and neatly ironed, hanging effortlessly over his shoulders like it was part of him. The air smelled faintly of disinfectant and something sterile, something that always made your stomach churn.

Dr. Hwang was already seated, eyes flickering between you and the monitor in front of him. He looked composed, professional, but not cold. His fingers tapped lightly on the keyboard as he adjusted the scan, the faint whir of the machine accompanying the silence between you. On the surface, you looked calm too. Perfectly still. Not fidgeting, not crying, not showing any of the chaos swirling inside you.

( It was all an act. You were terrified. )

“If the tumor had been located somewhere else, in a less sensitive area, even if it were larger than what we’re seeing, surgery might have been a viable option.”

As he talked, he rotated the 3D scan image on the screen, slowly zooming in, tracing the dark patches nestled deep within your brain. Six masses. All clustered around the frontal lobe like unwanted guests who had no intention of leaving anytime soon.

“But in your case, Y/N, it’s just too dangerous. The frontal lobe is responsible for vital functions like decision-making, movement, behavior, and even breathing. If we attempted surgery, we’d be risking severe neurological damage. Best-case scenario, you’d lose certain functions. Worst-case… it could stop your breathing altogether. Or leave you in a vegetative state.”

The words landed like bricks.

There was no real dramatic reaction from you, no outburst. Just silence. A silence that filled the room so completely it became suffocating. The low buzz of the computer was suddenly the loudest thing in the world.

Your eyes stayed fixed on the monitor, but you weren’t seeing it anymore. Your thoughts were a blur of noise, tumbling over themselves, trying to find meaning in what you’d just heard. It felt like someone had unplugged you from reality, like your body was still there in the chair, but your mind had drifted somewhere else entirely.

After a long, painful pause, you finally spoke.

“So, what now? What am I supposed to do? I just sit around and wait for it to get worse? Just… die?” Your voice was low, thin, almost breaking. The words didn’t sound angry — just exhausted. Like hope had worn itself out in your chest.

Dr. Hwang hesitated, just for a moment. And that hesitation, brief as it was, cut deeper than anything else he’d said so far.

“No,” he said eventually. “There is treatment. We can begin medication. It won’t remove the tumor, but it can slow its growth. It can help reduce inflammation, manage the symptoms, and also ease the pain. It’s not a cure, but… it can still buy you time.”

Time. That cruel word hung in the air like a cruel joke.

You turned your head slowly, finally meeting the doctor’s eyes for the first time since the appointment started. And for a moment, something broke. A bitter, dry laugh escaped you — not because anything was funny, but because there was nothing else left.

“Time? That’s what I get?” You pause for a moment. You’re out of breath. “Time to do what, exactly? Sit around pretending everything’s fine while I slowly fall apart? Time to keep waking up every day with this weight in my head, pretending I’m not scared out of my mind?”

You shook your head, the laugh already fading.

“Is that really all there is? A little extra time so I can suffer more slowly? So I can get my hopes up, only to watch them fall apart again?”

Your voice wasn’t raised, but it trembled with something more dangerous than anger — despair wrapped in sarcasm, fraying at the edges.

“Y/N, I…” Dr. Hwang exhaled slowly, gently. He didn’t finish the sentence.

And there it was again. That damn look.

The one that made you want to flip the desk or run out of the room or scream until your lungs gave out. That awful, unbearable mixture of compassion and pity — softened eyes, furrowed brows, the kind of expression you give a wounded animal you don’t know how to save. You turned your gaze away, staring blankly at the glowing screen in front of you. Anything to avoid it.

God, you hated that look.

You hated what it did to you. The way it loosened the tight threads holding you together. The way it made your throat close up and your vision blur. There were tears building, and you could feel them, hot and insistent, pressing just behind your eyes.

But you wouldn’t cry.

Not here. Not now. Not in front of him.

Dr. Hwang’s voice came again, softer now, like he was approaching a wild animal too frightened to be touched.

“Have you been experiencing any other symptoms lately?” he asked, leaning in slightly, placing both hands gently on the desk between you. “Like memory loss, trouble concentrating, or stronger emotions than usual?”

You inhaled slowly, trying to loosen the knot that had settled in your throat like a stone.

“I— no. I mean… I don’t think so,” you murmured. “Maybe? I don’t know. The headaches, yeah. They’ve been getting worse. They’re sharper now. They don’t really go away.”

Dr. Hwang gave a slow, understanding nod. “Headaches are very common, yes. But there’s something else. This kind of tumor can start affecting your behavior. You might… not react the same way anymore.”

“What do you mean by that? Like… mood swings?”

“Mood swings, yes. But it can be more extreme. Changes in your personality. Impulsivity. Loss of your social filter. You might say or do things without thinking. Some patients become withdrawn, others act out, and some lash out. It can lead to anger, even aggression. In some cases, people fall into deep depression. There can also be episodes of hysteria, confusion, even hallucinations.”

Each word hit like a new weight being added to your chest. You instinctively crossed your arms, pulling them tightly over yourself as if trying to keep all your breaking pieces inside. It felt like the worst news yet, and that was saying something. Your stomach turned. Your breath hitched.

Is that why I’ve been snapping so easily lately?

You wanted to throw up.

“What if I don’t even realize it’s happening?” you don’t know how you’re still able to speak, but you push on. “What if I start hurting people and I don’t even know it’s the tumor making me do it?”

The thought hit you hard, sharper than anything else so far. Because in that moment, one single name, one single face, came crashing through your mind like a wave ; Suho. Your best friend. Your brother in everything but blood. The one person who had always, always been there — through stupid fights, late-night breakdowns, and everything in between.

And now? What if you became a threat to him?

The very idea made you feel like you could disappear on the spot. You would never forgive yourself. Not if you caused Suho pain. Not even by accident. You’d rather—

Die right now.

Right here. In this cold, sterile room.

“Y/N,” Dr. Hwang’s voice cut gently through the spiral of thoughts. “That’s exactly why it’s important to stay aware. To surround yourself with people you trust — people who can tell you if they notice changes. You don’t have to go through this alone. Please don’t.”

You squeezed your eyes shut. Your hands were trembling again. You clenched them tightly in your lap, trying to hold onto something — anything.

“You need to be kind to yourself,” the doctor continued. “Check in with how you’re feeling. Ask the people around you to be honest with you. Stay grounded, even if it’s hard. And it will be hard. But you don’t have to face it all by yourself.”

You let out a shaky breath.

Your voice, when it came, was barely a whisper, like it had slipped through a crack in your soul.

“I’m disappearing… and no one will see it.”

The words lingered in the space between you, heavy and honest. Dr. Hwang didn’t respond right away. He just looked at you with that same quiet gaze — no longer pitying, but something else. Something more human. Like he was seeing not just a patient, but a person who was drowning.

“As long as you still remember who you truly are… you haven’t disappeared.”

But you weren’t so sure. Because truth be told… you didn’t know who you were anymore.

The sky had worn the same muted gray all day long. It wasn’t the kind of gray that screamed thunder or promised rain — just that quiet, oppressive kind, like the whole world had exhaled and decided not to inhale again. The kind that made everything feel a little heavier, a little slower, like even the light had dimmed out of respect for the bad news.

It had been over two hours since you’d walked out of the hospital, and in that entire time, you hadn’t stopped one second from moving. You didn’t have a destination in mind — you just walked, aimlessly, block after block, through streets that blurred into each other. Your arms hung limply at your sides, your shoulders slightly hunched as if gravity itself had turned personal. Your eyes were unfocused, looking somewhere far beyond the physical world in front of you. A few cars had honked when you stepped too close to the road. A cyclist cursed at you when you nearly wandered into their lane. But you didn’t react. You just kept walking.

Inside your head, it was chaos and quiet all at once.

Thoughts were crashing into each other like waves in a storm, and yet… yet there was also this eerie stillness. A hollow space in the middle of all that noise. You knew exactly what the doctor had said — every single word had landed like a punch to the gut — but some part of your mind was still pretending it hadn’t happened. Maybe it was a survival mechanism. Maybe denial was just the last bit of kindness the brain offered before reality hit full force.

Your phone buzzed a few times in your pocket, too. Suho. He’d probably noticed you hadn’t shown up at school and was trying to figure out why. The first messages were just some usual, dramatic complaints ;

[ SUHO ] Where are you?

   [ SUHO ] Dude, you made me eat alone like a loser.

When you didn’t respond — which was rare for you — Suho’s tone changed ;

   [ SUHO ] Why don’t you answer

   [ SUHO ] You good, man?

   [ SUHO ] Y/N pick up your phone

And then came the calls. One after another. You saw them all but didn’t answer. Couldn’t. The thought of speaking to someone, even if this someone was Suho, felt impossible. Your silence wasn’t meant to be cruel — it was all you could offer.

I’ll just tell him tomorrow that I was asleep.

Eventually, your feet brought you somewhere you hadn’t planned to go — though deep down, maybe you had. You stopped in front of a tall, sleek building, its facade made of black glass and stone. It looked more like an art museum than what it actually was. You stood there for a moment, staring at the entrance. Then you took a breath, the kind that tried to brace for pain, and stepped inside.

The air inside the columbarium was strangely thick. Not dusty or musty, just… weighted.

It was quiet, too, but not in the peaceful way. It was the kind of silence that pressed against your skin. Like the building itself understood the gravity of what it held — memories that had to be tiptoed around, as if sound might shatter them. The corridor you entered was softly lit by overhead lights that felt more like fog than illumination. The scent of polished stone, aging wood, and faint lilies clung to the walls. Your footsteps were nearly soundless, your shoes barely whispering against the smooth, pale floor.

You didn’t need to think about where you were going. Fifth aisle. Third niche on the right. Second row. It was etched into your bones by now. But still, when you reached it, you let your eyes find the name again — as you always did. As if reading it might make it more real.

Moon Hajoon.

Two simple words carved into marble, lined in fading gold. There was no photo, no inscription, no poetic farewell. Just a name. But that was enough. Because behind that tiny square of cold stone, in a space barely large enough to hold a box, was your father.

Your father.

You stood there, frozen in place, your breath caught somewhere in your throat. For a few seconds, you couldn’t bring yourself to move. Then, finally, you sank to your knees, slowly, as if lowering yourself into water that was way too cold. Your hands trembled as they came to rest in your lap. Your heart felt like it was violently trying to break its way out of your chest, every beat sharp and too loud.

“…Dad,” you whispered, the word barely audible.

It didn’t even feel like a real word — more like a sound carried by grief. A word heavy with things unsaid.

You let your palm press flat against the marble. It was smooth, unyielding, freezing. You hoped for… something. A flicker of warmth, a vibration, a sign. But there was only stone.

“I didn’t want to come,” you murmured, closing your eyes. “I kept making excuses. Again and again. Telling myself I was too busy, or it wasn’t the right time, or I’d just come next week. And then next week turned into the week after, and then… it just kept going.”

Your voice wavered, but you didn’t stop.

“But today… I couldn’t keep lying to myself. I couldn’t breathe anymore, Dad. It felt like if I didn’t come here, I was just going to break apart.”

You let your forehead rest gently against the niche, like a little child seeking comfort. Silence filled the space again, heavy and constant.

“The doctor told me I have a brain tumor,” you say, the words falling from your lips like dead leaves. “Me too. Just like you, Dad.”

You let out a laugh — but it’s not real. It’s brittle. Hollow. A quiet, cracked sound that vanishes almost immediately into the heavy silence of the columbarium.

“It’s kind of poetic, right?” you mutter, wiping at the corner of your mouth like the bitterness is something physical. “Some sick, cosmic poetry. I spent years being angry at you for dying. For leaving me. And now… now I’m walking the same road. Same damn disease. Same sterile rooms. Same pity look from doctors.”

You exhale sharply through your nose, head tilting back as if addressing the ceiling, the sky, or whatever’s above. Maybe nothing at all.

“You know what he said to me? The doctor?” Your voice is getting tighter, angrier. “He said they couldn’t operate. Said it’s too risky, too deep. Like it’s a mine you can’t defuse, so you just… wait for it to blow.”

Your hands slide down from your lap and hit the ground, palms open against the smooth stone floor. Your shoulders tense, head hanging. Rage simmers under your skin — not the loud kind, but the deep, suffocating kind that doesn’t know where to go.

“So now what? I get pills? I get time?” Your voice shakes. “Time. That’s what they call it. ‘We’ll manage your time.’ Like I’m a fucking calendar.”

You close your eyes hard, try to breathe, but fail. Then you lower yourself further, your body folding in on itself like you’re trying to vanish into the floor. Your forehead grazes your forearm. You look so small. So fragile. Seventeen years old and already on a countdown.

“And no one knows,” you say, quieter now. “Not even Mom. Especially not Mom. She wouldn’t believe me. Or maybe she would and she’d just… shut down. Like she always does now. She hasn’t been the same since you left, Dad. Not really. Some days it’s like she’s there, and other days… she’s just smoke.”

You swallow hard, and for a second, you can’t speak. When you do, your voice is raw.

“I’m tired, Dad,” you whisper. “God, I’m so tired. I wake up tired. I go to bed tired. I laugh with people and smile and act like I’m still… alive, but I’m not. Inside it’s just… blank. Like someone turned off the lights and forgot to tell me.”

Your body curls tighter, knees pulled to your chest. In that moment, you’re no longer the sarcastic kid with the quick comebacks and dry humor. You’re just a little boy — broken and unraveling in the presence of the only person you think might still understand, even in death.

“I’m vanishing, Dad. A little more every day. I feel it. Like… I’m fading. And no one even sees it happening.”

You pause. The silence stretches. Then it snaps.

“I don’t want to die!” you burst out, your voice cracking open at the edges. “I don’t! I know I act like I don’t care, but I do. I’m scared, Dad. I’m fucking terrified.”

And that’s when the tears come — not quiet tears, not the dignified kind. These are loud, messy sobs. The kind that wrench out of your body like they’ve been trapped for years. You bury your face in your arms and let it happen. Let the grief take over. The loss. The fear. The fury.

“I don’t want to join you yet,” you cry. “It’s not fair. I didn’t get enough time — not with you, not with anything. I didn’t even get the chance to live properly, and now it’s already being taken away.”

You pound your fist lightly — not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to mean something — against the marble slab bearing your father’s name.

“Why didn’t you leave me anything?” you choke out. “A letter, a message, something. Anything. Just one sentence, one fucking instruction manual for how to get through all this. But you didn’t. You left silence. You left me this fucking tumor and silence.”

You wipe your face, though the tears keep coming anyway. It doesn’t matter. There’s no one here to see you fall apart.

“I’m scared of what comes next. Not just dying. Changing. The doctors said I might lose parts of myself. Memory. Control. Who knows what else,” you take a shaky breath. “What if I say something terrible? What if I hurt people? What if I hurt Suho? He’s all I’ve got left. What if one day I look at him and I don’t recognize him anymore? Or worse… he doesn’t recognize me.”

You shake your head slowly, like you’re trying to hold on to thoughts that are slipping through your fingers.

“I don’t want to become something ugly. I don’t want people to look at me like I’m already gone before I even die. I don’t want Mom to go through that again. She won’t survive it, Dad. I won’t survive it.”

You let the words hang there, heavy in the air, before whispering something softer, almost like a prayer.

“I need you. I know you’re gone, but I need you now more than ever. Just… say something. Please. Anything. Lie to me, if you have to. Tell me I’ll be okay. That I’ll survive this. That I’ll still be me. Always. Just tell me I’m not going to disappear completely. Dad, please.”

You press your forehead to the stone again, closing your eyes tightly.

“I want to go home,” you breathe. “But I don’t even know where that is anymore.”

You stay like that for a long time. Not crying now, but not really moving at all. Just breathing in that still, heavy air. A boy alone in a place built for the dead, clinging to the hope that some part of the person behind that stone is still listening.

And maybe, just maybe, if you stay long enough…

Someone might answer.

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note ∘ ∘ ∘ i had a hell of a crappy week, so i told myself i had to make the reader suffer too, because there’s literally no way i’m going through it alone lmao but now the problem is… i actually feel bad for him (just kidding… kinda… i do love seeing him suffer). but it’s fine. it builds character ᕙ( •̀ ᗜ •́ )ᕗ

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