#why do i always think it will be different

[mwphisto]

So.

Lads reaction to mc being in such a position that their ass is stuck up in the air

LaDs: You did this on purpose, right?

~ All Contain Smut, the consent is dubious for these - never explicitly asked for or stated & they are all in pre-established relationships.

~ All love interests x Female Reader

A note from Soul: Thank you for this idea! Sorry it's taken so unbelievably long to get around to it! I hope it was somewhat worth the wait ;-; I also hope I took your prompt the right way lmao if not... I can always try again!

Xavier can’t help the low chuckle that slips past his lips when he sees you stuck between the tv stand and bookshelf. You’re whining, wiggling your ass as if that will do anything other than tempt him. “How did you manage this, my star?”

The second you slump in defeat, his laughter grows a little stronger. “I was trying to fix all the cables you have back here and I got stuck! If I move too fast the tv will fall. Can you just hold the tv for me so it’s stable?” Reasonable enough, but you’d be a fool to think Xavier would ever let this perfect opportunity pass him.

You expect to hear him shuffle closer, to see his hand from your peripheral vision perhaps. Instead, you feel his hands encompassing your ass. “…Xavier?” The tv teeters as you try and turn your body around, effectively keeping you in place.

“C’mon, tell me this isn’t the perfect opportunity.” You feel it then, his fingers hooking in your sleep pants and tugging them down alongside your panties in one go. “My star, why are you already wet?” How on earth does he expect you to answer that?

“Xavier! Quit playing!”

“Playing? I’m not playing.” His fingers are spreading you apart, watching the arousal ooze from your entrance. "If anything, my star, it seems you're the one playing around." A small smirk is pulling at his lips as he watches your cunt clench around nothing.

"J-just..." But you had nothing proper to say, fingers clenching around the bunch of wires you had foolishly tried to organize. "Don't knock your tv over in the process..."

And you swore he moaned, the warmth of it spreading over your exposed cunt as he placed a wet kiss to your dripping center.

"I'll make it worth your while, my sweet star."

Zayne has seen you in quite compromising positions before, but this one? Oh this one takes the cake. "Z, is that you? Can you help!" You had lost hope in your quiet escape a while ago, accepting your fate of being ass up with your head down in the washing machine.

"My love, how did you even manage this?" Though, it's quite muffled from where your head is at. "I was trying to get the last sock stuck to the bottom, I reached too far and lost my balance and... yeah." Your feet were barely touching the ground, not enough leverage to push yourself back and get stead on the ground.

Zayne suppressed his laugh, eyes dragging over your pitiful stance. All the while, he was making a mental note to buy a washing machine that opened from the side rather than the top.

"I'm afraid my services require a fee." And your bewildered squeal was enough for him to tug at the sleep shorts that had been riding up your ass with each struggled wiggle. "One that needs to be paid before the services can be done, of course."

"No way! Get me out of here first and then I'll pay you!" But slender fingers were already squishing and squeezing your bottom, a pleased hum slipping past your lover's lips. "My love, you know this opportunity is too good." The stain that appeared as Zayne pressed two fingers over your covered center only proved him right.

"Z, please! I swear all the blood is rushing to my head!" But he only laughed, hooking his fingers under the thin strip of fabric covering your center. Pulling it away from your heated sex to see the arousal clinging to the fabric, keeping it connected to you. "I beg to differ, it seems you certainly have enough circulation to..."

But you kicked your legs with a squeal, embarrassed and aroused at the same time. "Just get me out of here!"

"In due time, my love."

Rafayel was nearly doubled over laughing when he found you. "Cutie, how did you accomplish this feat?" You couldn't see him, of course, but oh could you hear the amusement in his voice as he spoke. "You should be thanking me, Raf! I saved your sculpture!"

But, in the process, you knocked over several canvases... and perhaps his beloved ladder he always sat upon. Which didn't hurt when it landed on you. It actually was cushioned by the fallen art pieces on top of you. But, now? You're stuck.

"Cutie, I'm pretty sure you can wiggle your way free." Though, he certainly doesn't mind the view you are presenting him with. Your ass is wiggling a bit but you can't shimmy free with the wet sculpture in your hands. "If I do, it'll ruin the sculpture! It's still wet!" Even now, you could see your fingers creating indents where you held.

"That's... fine." Though, Rafayel would be lying if he said that didn't give him several inappropriate ideas.

How ruined would his newest sculpture be if it was the only thing you had to hold onto while he fucked you stupid? Oh, now he really had to find out. "Let's make it a different sort of art piece, yeah?

Before you could question him, you felt his hands circling your thighs, spreading you apart as he tugged your bottoms to the side. "Rafayel, what are you- shit!" He was nudging your entrance, the dull head of his cock collecting your arousal and smearing it around.

"You sure this wasn't on purpose? You're already so wet..." You felt the urge to question how he was already hard. But you knew your lover well, this position wasn't all that innocent either. On your knees, back arched, ass up? It was like dangling a treat in his face.

"Don't be ridiculous, just get me out of this mess please!" A last ditch effort as you felt him center himself at your entrance. "Oh I will, after I've had my fun..." and he's pushing in, reveling in your desperate whine as he pictured your fingers digging into the clay.

Sylus can't quite believe his eyes when he enters one of his many armories. "This is... an interesting tactic to get my attention, kitten." He had merely gone to investigate the crashing sound he heard, assuming it was one of the twins and not... you.

"Sy! T-this wasn't an attempt to get your attention! I'm genuinely stuck!" A case of weapons had fallen on top of you when you bent down to look at a particular gun he had hanging low on the wall.

Now, you're quite literally stuck between a rock and a hard place. "Ah, well... you've certainly garnered my attention regardless, Kitten."

Your dress was bunched around your waist, revealing your cotton panties to his hungry stare. Mentally, Sylus was thankful neither twin went running at the sound of your chaos. Or else, they would have gotten a view meant for him and him alone.

"I take it you are needing my help." But his tone is a bit far away, as if he is too dazed to really put effort into his words. It's totally not due to the wet patch on the center of your panties, no not at all. Definitely not due to your wiggling hips, or your plump ass begging to be smacked. No, not even your thighs pressing together as you squirm.

No, Sylus was much... stronger than that. (wrong)

"Yes! Yes please! I really can't find a way to free my-Sylus?" Your entire body stiffens, not out of distain but out of surprise. His nose is warm as it trails over your lower back, his hands hot as they still your wiggly hips. "Remember that time you couldn't help yourself while I was on my back under my motorcycle?"

Oh. Oh no... you remembered very well. You couldn't have helped yourself then even if you wanted too. The way his shirt had ridden up his stomach? His arms bare and muscles flexing as he worked on the underside of his bike? Yeah, no. You had straddled him so fast it nearly gave you whiplash. Sylus hadn't even flinched...

"I think..." and something hard and bulging is pressed directly over your covered center "...it's time I returned the favor, no?"

Caleb was convinced he had seen too much porn. No, his mind was utterly tainted, ruined, a wasteland ruined by consumption of the adult video industry. Because there was no way this was happening to him... to you... and he was getting hard.

"Caleb? Is that you?" You want to turn back and look, but you are unironically stuck under the kitchen sink. Somehow, you wedged yourself too deep, stuck between the wooden base and the piping of his sink. "Got a little carried away while cleaning... I'm stuck."

Clad in one of his shorts and a pair of his boxers, Caleb felt like a kid on Christmas morning. His sweet pipsqueak, his perfect princess, he could slap a bow on your ass and he'd consider you the best gift he had ever received. "Yeah, yeah I can see that."

"I just need you to guide me a bit, I think I can get out if you do that- what the hell?" You had attempted to move back but you could feel his evol cling to your skin. "Caleb! Now isn't the t-time!" But his nose was nuzzling your center, and every complaint fizzled out.

"Oh, c'mon. I can't give up this opportunity, pips. You looked too cute with your ass in the air like that..." He can feel you shudder, feel you still feebly attempt to push back but for a different reason.

"Caleb... my back is starting to hurt..." but you were already going slack-jawed. His tongue licking over your covered cunt before his fingers yanked his boxers down of your hips. "All the more reason I should make this pretty pussy feel good, no? You made a mess of my boxers, pips. Your pussy leaked all over them..."

Your cheeks burn as you hear him inhale, sniffing in the heady scent of your musk. You have a funny feeling he won't be washing them before he wears them himself... "Such a pervert, Caleb..."

"Yeah, yeah. But I'm your pervert."

[heesmiles]

OPERATION: HOW NOT TO GET THE GIRL L.HS

SYNOPSIS ⦂ You've never fit in. That much was true. Always feeling like the odd one out in your friend group. But when you're told to your face, well everything becomes more clear. Suddenly, every sidelong glance, every pity laugh, every party invitation that felt like a mistake, makes a little more sense. But it still stings. Especially when it comes to Soobin; sweet, soft-spoken, out-of-your-league Soobin, who doesn’t even know you exist beyond the orbit of your prettier friends. Enter Heeseung: campus golden boy, effortlessly charming, dangerously smug. He’s the type of guy who knows exactly how attractive he is — and how to use it. When he overhears your predicament (okay, maybe you yell about it a little too loudly in the hallway), he makes you an offer: he’ll help you reinvent yourself, rewrite your story, and finally get Soobin’s attention. In exchange? You’ll tutor him through senior lit, a class he's on the verge of flunking. You agree, of course. What could possibly go wrong?

PAIRINGS: heeseung x fem!reader

WARNINGS: smut mdni, virginity loss, jealousy, alcohol use, mean girls, talk of toxic beauty standards, college setting, ft Dani (katseye), Sakura (le sserafim), Soobin (txt), jay, sunghoon, jake, beomgyu (txt), wonyoung (ive), angst, slight miscommunication + more i’m probably forgetting.

WORD COUNT: 28K

RAIN'S MIC IS ON ࿐ haiii this is based on the movie "the duff" i wanted to give this a fun and very like early 2000s rom-comy vibes!! I do want to note especially that i do not support the toxic mindset that makeup and no glasses and dressing slutty automatically makes you more visually appealing, i think that's a mindset we should be letting go of but for the sake of fiction, it will be playing a part in this. Just a reminder that everyone is beautiful no matter what you wear or what you look like. Wear makeup if you want, or don't. Glasses do not equal ugly and nerdy. Also in this, i shortened “DUFF” to “DUF” because even in fiction i don’t feel comfortable saying “fat” so in my version it just means “designated ugly friend” which is still eh, but again for the sake of fiction it will have to do, Please remember those standards are out dated. Love you all hope you have fun with this like i did (: thank you so much to my love @yeonmuse for helping make the banner, she’s so talented check her out guys.

You’re not sure why you came. 

The music pulses like a second heartbeat as you linger in the doorway of the house, the bass reverberating through your ribcage. Inside, it’s packed wall-to-wall with bodies moving in a chaotic kind of harmony, shoulders brushing, drinks sloshing, laughter climbing over music like ivy. You follow the familiar trail of your best friends, Dani and Sakura, as they dive headfirst into the party’s epicenter. They're already laughing with someone, effortlessly folding themselves into a circle of golden-lit conversation. You’re left in the doorway like static caught on the edge of a signal, half-there, mostly invisible. You try to speak, to jump into the flow, but your voice is swallowed by the noise.

Dani’s turning her head too fast, Sakura’s already moving on to a new story. It’s not their fault. They love you. They try; they always do. But in places like this, where charisma is currency and the loudest person wins, you always come up short. You’re the comma in their sentence. The pause between moments.

Eventually, Dani hooks her arm through yours and grins. “Come on. Let’s get some air.” You let them lead you outside, where the music softens behind glass doors and the cool night air brushes against your skin. The wooden deck is lit by string lights and scented faintly of smoke and expensive cologne. And that’s when you see them; The it boys on campus, Leaning against the railing like some untouchable constellation: Heeseung, Beomgyu, Sunghoon, Jay, and Jake. Each one a caricature of cool in different flavors. Beomgyu’s laughing with his head thrown back. Jake is draped over the deck chair like he owns it. Sunghoon and Jay are mid-story. And then there’s Heeseung, casual arrogance wrapped in black denim and a hoodie pushed halfway up his forearms. 

The moment the girls approach, everyone shifts to accommodate them, the circle expanding like ripples on water. You find yourself next to Heeseung, who throws you a brief glance that feels like an assessment. His gaze dips for a second to your glasses and lingers. You know that look. You’ve seen it before in classrooms and locker-lined hallways. The look that decides exactly who you are in the span of two seconds and four syllables: nerd. Unworthy of any and all social interaction beside incandescent teasing. How comical that was. “You guys,” Heeseung says, in that smooth, drawling voice that makes everything he says sound vaguely amused, “Mr. Yoon was on my ass today. Said if I bomb this next lit paper, he’s yanking my scholarship. Like, sorry I don’t care about symbolism in 18th-century poetry, man.” 

Sakura perks up, turning to look at you. “Wait She’s amazing at lit! Like, scary good.” 

“She tutors people all the time,” Dani adds, nudging you playfully. You blink, caught mid-sip of something lukewarm in a red cup, and find five pairs of curious eyes settling on you. Including his.

Heeseung’s lip quirks. “Oh, I’m sure she is.”

You narrow your eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?” He gestures loosely toward your face, vaguely circling your glasses. “Nothing. Just, you’ve got that whole bookish prodigy vibe. You know. Brainiac chic.” 

“Brainiac chic?” You raise an eyebrow. “That’s your insult? Do you even have a GPA?” His friends snicker. Jake lets out a low “oooh,” and Beomgyu slaps Heeseung on the back like he’s just taken a hit.

Heeseung, unfazed, smiles lazily. “Touché. Though, I’m not the one who just quoted my GPA like it’s a flex.” You can’t help the way your lip twitches. You shouldn’t enjoy this. You do. Heeseung is irritating. Arrogant. Infuriatingly pretty. But he’s listening. He’s bantering back. In this weird, warped little moment, you almost feel like you matter. 

And then he walks up. Soobin. You spot him from the corner of your eye, tall and soft around the edges, dressed in an oversized hoodie that somehow still makes him look like a dream. His hair’s a little messy like he ran his hands through it too many times, and his smile; God, his smile, curls up slow when he sees your group. He says something to Jake, who waves him over, and then he’s standing in your circle, next to you, and your brain short-circuits. You try to say hi, but it comes out as a hiccuped squeak. Your voice cracks in three different places, and as if fate hadn’t humiliated you enough, you flinch backward and knock your elbow straight into the flimsy drink table behind you. The cup in your hand slips, spins midair, and splashes all over your shirt in one mortifying arc. 

Soobin blinks. Heeseung stares. You feel the heat crawl up your neck like a flame eating paper. Someone offers you a napkin, Dani, maybe — but it doesn’t matter. You’re already backing away. “I—I’m gonna go,” you mumble. “I’ll see you guys later.” You turn before anyone can say anything else, your heartbeat thudding in your ears, the deck already blurry with shame. Behind you, the laughter starts again, soft, harmless, not mean, not really; but it doesn't matter. You’re already gone. And you have no idea how this mess is only just beginning. 

The next morning arrives not like a promise, but like a punishment. The sun is too bright, the sky too smugly blue, like even the weather knows what happened last night. You drag yourself across campus wrapped in oversized layers, hoodie strings pulled tight around your face like armor. You haven't checked your phone since the party. Not because it hasn’t lit up — it has, but because you can’t bear to face the missed calls and texts blinking like tiny sirens across the screen. Dani: “hey, are you okay?” Sakura: “babe, call us pls.” A voicemail you didn’t dare open. It’s all waiting for you like unopened letters from a version of yourself that doesn’t exist anymore. 

Because last night, you crumbled in front of Soobin. You keep replaying it like a cursed tape in your head: the way your voice cracked, the look of gentle confusion on his face, the splash of cheap punch soaking through your shirt like a scarlet stamp of shame. You can still feel the sting of it; hot, sticky, humiliating. You picture the exact moment his eyes met yours and how quickly you broke, like a window catching a stone at the wrong angle. You didn’t even say goodbye to Dani or Sakura. Just ran. Just let the night swallow you whole. And now, in the cruel light of day, everything feels worse. 

Your footsteps echo a little too loudly on the concrete path through campus. You keep your head down, gaze locked on your shoes as the crowds blur around you in streaks of motion and color. But you feel them; eyes. Not direct. Not obvious. Just there. Flicking toward you. Lingering. Someone lets out a muffled laugh as you pass. You tell yourself it has nothing to do with you, but the way your stomach clenches betrays you. It’s a peculiar kind of spotlight, being noticed for all the wrong reasons. You’re used to being invisible, not mocked. You never asked for attention, never needed a stage. But now you’re walking through campus like a meme brought to life, like the punchline of a joke you didn’t know you were telling. You pass a group of students lounging on the lawn. One nudges the other. Another whispers something behind a hand. Laughter. It could be about anything. It could be nothing. But you flinch like it’s a slap to the face. So you keep walking, keep shrinking.

Your classroom isn’t far, but the distance feels endless. Like the stretch of hallway in a nightmare where your legs move but you never get anywhere. When you finally reach the door, your hands tremble as you pull it open, slipping inside with all the urgency of someone trying to outrun their own shadow. The air inside is still and cold, the hum of fluorescents a dull buzz in your ears. You’re too wrapped in your own spiral to notice where your feet take you. The room is already half full, students murmuring over open laptops, pens clicking like insects in early spring. You move on autopilot, slipping into the first empty seat you see near the back, hoping the distance from the front will buy you some much-needed invisibility.

But the moment you set your bag down and glance to your left, the universe decides to play its favorite game, humiliation, round two. Because there he is. Lee Heeseung. Slouched in his chair with all the grace of someone who’s never had to try too hard, hoodie sleeves pushed up again like it’s a personal brand, one knee bouncing lazily. His arm’s draped over the back of the chair, dangerously close to yours, and he’s already looking at you when you meet his eyes, eyebrow raised, lips curled in that signature smirk that could make a mirror blush. “Well, well,” he says, low and smug. “Couldn’t get enough of me, could you?” You blink, brain short-circuiting for half a second before the sarcasm kicks in like muscle memory.

“Oh, absolutely,” you say, your voice dry as dust. “I just had to sit next to the guy who thinks MLA formatting is a type of sandwich.” Heeseung whistles through his teeth, hand pressed to his heart like you wounded him. “Wow. Vicious. No wonder you’re single.”

Without missing a beat, you smile sweetly, and flip him off. And that’s what does it. Heeseung bursts out laughing. Not a scoff. Not a half-chuckle. A full-bodied, belly-deep laugh that shakes his shoulders and lights up his whole stupidly handsome face. It’s loud, too; sharp enough to draw a few curious glances from the rows in front of you. Someone turns around. Another student raises an eyebrow. But Heeseung just throws his head back and laughs, like you’re the funniest thing to ever happen to 9 a.m. lit. And somehow, against your will, a laugh bubbles out of you, too. 

Just a snort at first, barely more than breath. But it grows, because you can’t help it, because it was kind of funny, because maybe you’re so bone-tired from crying that anything even slightly absurd feels like a lifeline. You laugh into your palm, trying to hide it, but that only makes Heeseung grin wider. “See?” he says, nudging your arm with his elbow. “I knew you liked me.”

You roll your eyes. “You’re delusional.”

“And yet,” he hums, “here you are.”You shake your head, biting back another smile—and for a second, just a second, you don’t care that people are still glancing at the two of you. You don’t care that your shirt from last night is crumpled in your laundry basket or that the video of you spilling punch may or may not be circling the group chat. You don’t care that your friends probably think you’re ghosting them. Because for this one moment, there’s no spotlight. No pressure.

The rest of the class unfolds in a quiet, uninterrupted hum. The professor drones on about motifs and metaphor, and your pen finally scratches to life again. Heeseung doesn’t speak after that, not really, but you can feel the lingering heat of his presence beside you, like a low flame that won’t go out. You catch yourself glancing his way more than once. He catches you every time. 

Class ends in a quiet unraveling. You gather your things slowly, letting the rows of students trickle out ahead of you like a stream smoothing stone. Heeseung’s already up, stretching his arms over his head in that effortless way that shouldn't be allowed this early in the day. He tosses you a wink as he moves toward the door, and you pretend to roll your eyes, even as something traitorous inside you flutters like a curtain caught in wind. You follow the flow of students into the hallway, hoping to blend in. Hoping, maybe foolishly, that today might end on a quieter note.

But fate has sharp teeth. 

A manicured hand taps your shoulder just as you pass beneath the atrium light, and when you turn, you’re met with a smile so sugar-slick and venom-laced it makes your spine stiffen on instinct. Jang Wonyoung. She’s standing in front of you like a statue carved from polished ambition, long legs, glossy hair, not a flaw in sight. Her clothes are designer without needing to scream it, her lip gloss a shade too pink to be innocent. She oozes confidence, curated and sharpened to a point. And you know who she is — everyone does. She’s not just the most popular girl on campus, she’s the one people orbit around. She’s the center of gravity in every room she enters. You’ve never spoken to her before. 

“You’re friends with Dani and Sakura, right?” she says sweetly, voice as light as powdered sugar.

You blink, caught off guard. “Uh… yeah,” you answer, nodding a little too quickly, nerves flaring. “I am.” Her smile doesn’t change, but something behind her eyes hardens. Shifts. It’s like watching a rose bloom only to realize the thorns are still sharper than the petals. She tilts her head slightly, and for a moment, you almost wonder if this is some kind of polite small talk. But then she leans in just enough for her perfume to ghost past your cheek; something expensive and calculated, and her voice drops to a murmur, low and cruel. 

“Don’t think for one second you have a chance with Heeseung.” She blinks, lashes fluttering like knives. “DUF.” You freeze. The letters don’t click at first. They hang there in the air between you, meaningless and jagged. You open your mouth, confusion spilling out in a quiet stammer. “Wait — what’s a DUF?” 

Wonyoung’s smile stretches wider, and it’s not a smile at all now. It’s the curve of something about to cut. “DUF isn’t a name. It’s what you are,” she purrs. “Designated Ugly Friend.” You stare, the words crashing into you like sleet against glass. You don’t even flinch; not yet. You’re too stunned, too caught between disbelief and dawning horror to react. Your throat tightens. Her words burrow under your skin, cold and gleaming. “You’re always with Dani and Sakura,” she continues, still smiling like this is all just a casual observation, like she’s not peeling your dignity apart with her manicured fingers. “They’re hot. Like, objectively. You’re just… there. To make them look better. That’s your role. Know your place.” 

You open your mouth again, breath hitching in protest. “My name is—” But she cuts you off, voice turning sharper, all pretense abandoned.

“DUF,” she repeats, slow and deliberate. “And Heeseung? He’s out of your league. So do everyone a favor, babe, and stay away from him.” She gives you one last look; final, dismissive, like you were never really worth seeing at all, and then she’s turning on her heel, walking away like she just dropped a bomb and is already bored of the smoke. And you — you just stand there. Your heartbeat thuds in your ears like a drum played out of rhythm. Your feet feel rooted to the tile, your hands limp at your sides, notebook barely clutched in your grip. It’s as if the world has narrowed to a single hallway, a single moment, and Wonyoung’s words are etched on the walls around you. DUF. 

You’ve never heard it before. Not like that. Not named. But now that it’s been said, now that it’s out in the open, it echoes. It colors everything. It twists last night into a sick joke, replays every photo you’ve stood in between Dani and Sakura, every party where you stood off to the side. You see yourself through Wonyoung’s eyes, and the reflection stings. You don’t cry. Not yet. The tears are waiting, crouched behind your ribs, but you won’t let them win. Not in this hallway. Not here. You just swallow hard, lower your head, and walk, each step heavier than the last, as if you’re trying to carry the weight of someone else’s cruelty on your shoulders. And all the while, her words stay with you like a brand: Know your place.

You don’t remember how you got there. One moment you were frozen in that hallway, still tasting Wonyoung’s words on the back of your tongue like something spoiled and sour. The next, you’re seated at the farthest computer in the campus lab, shoulders hunched, the too-bright monitor casting a cold glow across your face. Around you, students move in hushed clicks and muted coughs, the clatter of keyboards filling the silence like light rain. No one looks your way. No one ever does. It’s what you wanted, right? To disappear? To be invisible? But not like this. Your fingers tremble as they hover over the keyboard, uncertain, like they already know what you’re about to unearth. You type DUF first, because that’s what she said. That’s what she called you. The letters feel clunky and unfamiliar, like a language you were never meant to understand. When nothing pops up, you frown, your pulse quickening. 

And then, like the knife finally finding skin, it hits you. And the world splits open. The page fills with links, slang dictionaries, gossip forums, teen advice articles, old Reddit threads dissecting high school hierarchies like scientific taxonomy. You click the first video out of instinct, and a girl on the screen, barely older than you, leans into the camera with a sad smile and says, “The DUF is the Designated Ugly Friend. You’re the least attractive in your friend group, the approachable one, the funny one, the one guys talk to only to get to your prettier friends.” You freeze. Her voice continues, but it becomes background noise to the storm inside your chest. Your heartbeat hammers against your ribs like it wants to escape, and suddenly your body feels far too small for what you’re carrying.

Your fingers move on their own, clicking through link after link like each one might offer a different definition, something softer, something kind. But they don’t. They all echo the same gutting truth. The DUF is the one who fills the empty space. The background character in her own life. The girl who exists not for herself, but as contrast, to make her friends shine brighter by comparison. You feel it like a bruise blooming across your entire being. Memories rise unbidden, like film reels unspooling behind your eyes. The nights out where you stood at the edge of a circle, holding jackets and drinks while Dani and Sakura danced with boys who barely spared you a glance. The time a guy asked you for Sakura’s number while you were still in the middle of a sentence. The photos you’d be cropped out of, the stories you weren’t included in, the parties where you stood on the periphery like a shadow no one noticed. 

You thought it was just how things were. You thought maybe you were just quieter. Shyer. Less hungry for attention. But now the pieces fit. Too well. And what guts you, what truly guts you, is the realization that maybe — just maybe — they knew. Dani and Sakura. Your best friends. Did they know what DUF meant? Had they heard it tossed around and just… never told you? Had they laughed about it with others, let it live in whispers while you smiled beside them, oblivious? Were you some inside joke dressed in loyalty? Did they ever look at you and feel sorry? Or worse, did they agree? 

The nausea coils in your stomach like a slow-moving wave, threatening to rise. You press your palm to your chest, as if you can keep yourself from unraveling entirely. Your vision swims. The sterile blue of the lab feels too bright, too loud, too full of all the wrong kinds of silence. You’re still staring at the glowing screen, that same sentence blinking back at you like a taunt: “The DUFF is the one nobody notices until they need something.” Your throat tightens. You don’t want to be in this body. In this moment. In this story.

You slam the laptop shut without ceremony. The sharp clap of it draws a glance from a boy a few chairs down, but you don’t care. You’re already yanking your bag from the floor, stuffing your notebook inside with shaking hands. Your fingers are clumsy, rushed, like you’re trying to outrun a tidal wave that’s already crashing through you. You need air. You need to move. You need to not be here, not be seen. The walk out of the lab is a blur of cold tiles and humming machines. Your steps echo like betrayal. Like every footfall might draw more eyes, more whispers, more invisible hands pointing in your direction. You don’t even realize you’re crying until you taste salt.

Not the loud, sobbing kind of cry. No, this is something quieter. A leak in the dam. A silent surrender. The kind of crying that happens when the weight of the world doesn’t come crashing down in one dramatic moment; but seeps in, slow and steady, drop by drop, until you’re drowning. You step outside, wind slicing at your face, the sky too wide, too open. You feel small in a way you can’t describe. Not just physically, existentially. Like someone cracked your reflection and you’re left staring at the pieces wondering if any of it was ever real. And in the back of your mind, like a cruel echo still clinging to the walls of your skull, her voice repeats: Know your place, DUF. 

The first thing you do after leaving the computer lab is search. You needed to see Dani and Sakura. You find them exactly where you knew they’d be. The C building’s hallway is packed, echoing with the end-of-period rush. Footsteps slap against the floors in every direction. Lockers clang open and shut, laughter weaves in and out of the noise like a skipping stone. The scent of dry erase markers, mint gum, and cheap coffee lingers in the air. But it all feels distant to you, muted, irrelevant. Like you’re underwater, moving through the crowd on instinct, not thought. And then, through the blur of motion and sound, you see them. Dani and Sakura.

The two girls you’ve called your best friends since freshman year. The ones who’ve seen you through breakups, panic attacks, late-night cramming sessions and slow, sleepy Sunday brunches. The ones who claimed to love you. They’re standing outside their chemistry lecture, laughing at something; Sakura’s head thrown back, Dani’s hip nudging hers. It’s such a familiar picture that for a split second, you hesitate. For a split second, your brain lies to you.  Maybe they don’t know. Maybe Wonyoung was wrong. Maybe everything was just some cruel misunderstanding. But your heart knows better.  You push through the crowd with the desperation of someone chasing the truth, and the second your voice cuts through the air, they turn to you, your hair wild from the wind, breath ragged from running, eyes rimmed with something between fury and heartbreak. “Did you guys know?”

The words tumble out too fast, ragged at the edges, raw like a wound. They both blink at you, confusion washing over their faces like clouds across sunlight. “Know what?” Sakura asks slowly, brow furrowing. Dani’s already stepping forward, hand brushing your arm gently, like she’s afraid you might shatter on contact. “What are you talking about?”

And then you say it; louder than you meant to, louder than you ever thought you’d say anything in public. “Did you know I’m your fucking DUF?” The hallway doesn’t go silent, but it feels like it does. Their faces freeze, and you see it instantly, the flicker of recognition in Sakura’s eyes, the tightness in Dani’s jaw. It’s not confusion now. It’s not disbelief. It’s guilt. Guilt. They look at each other. It’s barely a glance, half a heartbeat, but it’s all the confirmation you need. Something in your chest gives, a sickening drop that feels like the floor vanishing beneath your feet. 

Your voice splinters when you speak again. “What? Are you just friends with me because you feel bad for me?” Your words hang in the air like smoke, heavy and choking. Dani’s eyes widen, her mouth opening like she’s about to say something, anything but you see the panic settle across her face. She wasn’t ready for this. They never expected you to find out. They never thought you’d ask.

“That’s not—” Sakura starts, then stops.

Dani shakes her head fast, her voice stumbling over itself. “That’s not true. Don’t say that.”

“Then why?” you ask, louder now, pain bubbling up from somewhere deep and long-buried. “Why did you always brush me off when I said I liked Soobin? Why did you laugh when I said I thought he might like me back? Why did you look at me like I was crazy?” They don't answer. Not really. They just look at you with wide eyes and silence thick between them.

“You didn’t think I was pretty enough,” you say, and your voice cracks right down the middle. Dani swallows. Her hands are wringing the strap of her backpack like she doesn’t know what to do with them. She steps closer again, gentler this time, quieter. “We don’t think you’re ugly,” she says, the words coming slowly, like they hurt her to say. “It’s just… you could try a little harder, you know? Like, you don’t really… put effort in.” The air leaves your lungs in a rush.

You feel it physically, like someone just knocked the wind out of you, punched a hole in your chest and left it gaping open for everyone to see. The people around you are still moving, still living their lives, but all you can hear is the echo of those words: try harder. As if your entire existence hasn’t been one long effort to be enough. And before you can respond, Sakura adds, “You’re just… not Soobin’s type, that’s all.” You blink. Your mind blanks. Your heart is already in pieces, but that line cracks the rest of you open. 

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” you ask, your voice trembling, not with fear, but with something deeper, more dangerous. Rage wrapped in heartbreak. Sakura falters. She opens her mouth, but no answer comes out. Dani shifts uncomfortably beside her. Their faces are pale now, eyes darting around, noticing for the first time how many people are starting to look. How many are pretending not to listen. You want to scream. You want to cry. You want to undo every moment of vulnerability you ever gave them. But more than anything, you want to run. Because staying here, standing in this hallway, heart bared like a wound while the people you loved carve you apart, hurts more than anything you’ve ever felt. You shake your head slowly, backing away from them as the tears begin to fall in earnest. “I thought you were my friends,” you whisper, and then louder, “I trusted you.” Dani reaches out again, but this time you pull back. You don’t want her comfort. You don’t want her pity. You don’t want to hear another word. So you turn. And you walk.

You don’t care that people are watching. You don’t care that your shoulders are shaking, that your tears are spilling freely now, or that your bag keeps slipping down your arm. You walk faster, pushing through the crowd until the voices blur behind you, until the memory of their faces fades into the roar of everything breaking apart. And as you go, the thought haunts you, echoing over and over in your skull: They knew. They knew. They knew. And they never told you. 

The doors to the C building groan shut behind you, sealing away the voices, the stares, the wreckage. But the damage doesn’t stay inside. It clings to you, stitched into your skin like frostbite; cold, deep, and invisible to everyone else. The sting of betrayal coils inside your chest, twisting tighter with every step you take. Your breathing’s uneven. Not quite sobbing, but close. That awful in-between sound, caught in your throat like a scream that refuses to come out. The air outside is biting, too cold for early fall, but you hardly notice. It brushes your cheeks like ghost hands, cuts through your sweater, lifts the ends of your hair, nothing reaches you. Not really. You're numb in a way that feels permanent, like someone turned the volume of the world all the way down and you forgot how to turn it back up.

People pass by, some look, some don’t. A few recognize you, eyes flickering with half-curiosity, half-concern, but no one says anything. And thank god for that, because if anyone did, if even one person tried to ask if you were okay, you think you'd crumble. Right there on the sidewalk. Crumple like paper and never get back up again. The walk from the C building to your dorm stretches impossibly long. Every step is heavier than the last, as if the weight of Dani and Sakura’s words is dragging behind you, chained to your ankles. You replay it all, the glances, the hesitations, the way Dani looked away when you asked if they knew, the way Sakura's voice sounded too rehearsed, like she’d already decided what version of the truth you were allowed to hear.

“You could try harder.”

“You’re just not his type.”

Those words circle you like vultures. You can’t outrun them. You can’t out-walk what’s inside your chest. By the time you reach the dorm building, you’re shaking. Not from the cold, but from everything else. Rage. Shame. Heartbreak. All of it, bottled and clinking against your ribs like glass ready to shatter. Your key slips once in the door before you finally shove it in and turn, stumbling down the hall to your room like you’ve just escaped a storm only to find another waiting inside. You push the door open and don’t bother turning on the lights. You don’t take your shoes off. You don’t put your bag down. You don’t think. You just collapse.

Straight onto your bed, face-first, like gravity’s been waiting all day for you to break. The mattress groans under the weight of your body, the quiet rustle of blankets the only sound in the room. But even that silence feels loud. And then — finally — you scream. It’s muffled into your pillow, soaked into the cotton and foam, but it rips through you like it’s been building for years. A scream made of all the things you couldn’t say in that hallway. All the pain you swallowed down so no one would see you break. All the confusion, all the loneliness, all the self-doubt bubbling up into one long, raw, aching sound.

You scream because you thought they were your people. You scream because you believed, deeply, that you were loved. You scream because you didn’t know you were being pitied.

And when your voice finally gives out, when your throat goes raw and your breathing hitches in the dark, you don’t move. You just lie there, curled into yourself like something wounded, like you could shrink so small the world might forget you were ever here. Your pillow is damp now, tears soaking through it, hot and angry. You clutch it tighter like it might hold you together. For the first time in a long time, you feel completely and utterly alone. And the scariest part? You're not even sure who you can talk to anymore. Who’s left. Who actually sees you. Because the people you trusted the most already proved they never did.

The morning light is a pale, washed-out gray, soft and dull like an old photograph, like something that’s been wrung out of color and left to dry. You move through campus like a ghost, every step stiff and heavy, your limbs still echoing with the ache of yesterday’s unraveling. Sleep had barely kissed you the night before. It lingered at the edges of your consciousness but never quite arrived, chased away by looping memories, sharp-edged phrases, and the hollow ache in your chest where trust used to live. You’ve walked this path to Literature 204 a hundred times, maybe more. But today it feels different. The air around you feels thicker somehow, like it knows what happened, like the whole campus has been whispering about you while your back was turned. You keep your head low, hands shoved deep into the sleeves of your hoodie, as if retreating into yourself will make you smaller, less visible, less whatever-the-hell-you-are-now. The DUF. The outcast. The joke.

When you finally step into the lecture hall, it’s mostly empty, the way it always is ten minutes before class starts. The lights are half-dimmed, flickering in patches as if still waking up themselves. A few early birds have already staked their seats, nose-deep in books, airpods in, sipping lukewarm coffee out of dented thermoses. And then, of course, there’s him. Heeseung. You spot him near the front, standing beside Mr. Yoon’s desk. They’re speaking in hushed tones, but the words carry in this room where the ceilings are too high and silence feels sacred. You hadn’t meant to listen, you weren’t trying to eavesdrop, but your ears catch on the tension in their voices, the frustration curling at the edges of Heeseung’s sentences. You hear fragments. Tutor. Flunk. Drop out. Phrases that sound too final, too heavy for someone who always seemed so effortless. 

You tell yourself not to care. You’ve got your own storm to navigate. You slide into your usual seat halfway up the rows, far enough to disappear, close enough to hear, and drop your bag beside you with a sigh. Your heart still feels raw, your stomach still tied in knots. You’re exhausted in a way that no amount of sleep can fix. And then you hear his footsteps. Heeseung doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t scan the room for alternatives. He just makes a beeline straight for you and drops into the seat beside yours like it’s his god-given right. His presence is large, like it always is, broad shoulders draped in a hoodie two sizes too big, the scent of citrus cologne and coffee trailing behind him like something you could trip on. Usually, there’s a quip on his lips, something smug and irritating and just a little too charming. But today he’s quiet. And so are you.

For a long moment, nothing passes between you but breath. The quiet around you folds in like a cocoon, the only sounds the low murmur of Mr. Yoon gathering his notes and the soft click of someone’s mechanical pencil two rows back. And then, Heeseung leans back with a sigh and says, “Quite the spectacle you had going for you yesterday.”

You groan before you can stop yourself, dragging a hand over your face like you could scrub the memory out of existence. Your eyes narrow as you turn to him, voice sharp with lingering humiliation. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” He’s already grinning, his mouth tilted up in that signature way that makes you want to slap him and kiss him at the same time, not that you’d ever admit that out loud. “Relax,” he says, stretching his arms lazily over his head. “I just mean, you, Sakura, and Dani? Everyone’s talking about it. It was, like, the hallway soap opera of the year.”

Your cheeks burn. You can feel the blood rising in your face like fire licking at your skin. Of course people were talking. Of course the entire goddamn campus probably had a front-row seat to your implosion. “Great,” you mutter, crossing your arms over your chest, “exactly what I needed, public humiliation on top of personal betrayal.” He shrugs like it’s no big deal, like it isn’t your entire world unraveling. But then, out of nowhere, he asks, “How long have you had a thing for Soobin?”

Your heart skips. Not in a cute, rom-com way. In a fuck, how does he know that kind of way. You blink, caught off guard, mouth fumbling for a denial that won’t sound like a lie. “I don’t, what are you even talking about?” He just smirks, eyes glinting with quiet mischief. “Come on. I’m not an idiot. The way you looked at him at that party? Like he was your last meal. It was kinda cute.” 

Your stomach turns, part mortification, part defensiveness. “Why do you even care?” Heeseung shrugs again, but this time there’s something more calculated behind his gaze. “Because I think I can help you.”

You raise a brow. “Help me?” 

“You like Soobin. Soobin doesn’t even know your name. I know what guys like him want, hell, I am guys like him,” he says, voice dipped in arrogance that somehow still doesn’t feel entirely cruel. “I could get you there. Make him see you. Want you.” You let out a sharp laugh, humorless and jagged. “Yeah, no thanks. I’m not really in the mood to turn myself into a Barbie doll just to impress a guy.”

“Suit yourself,” Heeseung says easily, turning back toward the front of the room like he couldn’t care less. “But when Soobin’s off making out with someone like Yunjin behind the gym, don’t come crying to me.” That line strikes like lightning, quick, bright, and unmistakably true. Because you have seen Soobin talking to Yunjin lately. Smiling. Laughing. He held the door open for her last week and you felt like your heart was trying to crawl out of your throat. And now the thought of him kissing her, or anyone, while you’re still sitting on the sidelines hoping for a miracle? It makes something sharp twist in your chest. 

You chew on the inside of your cheek, arms crossed tighter now, and Heeseung must sense your hesitation because he glances sideways again. “I’m just saying,” he murmurs, this time softer. “You help me pass lit, I help you not be invisible. Easy.” It’s insane. It’s humiliating. It’s kind of insulting, if you think about it long enough. But it’s also… tempting. Because what other option do you have? Soobin doesn’t know you exist. Your friends, the ones who were supposed to build you up, have already torn you down. And Heeseung, for all his cockiness, sees you. Maybe not the way you want to be seen. But still. 

Slowly, you turn your palm upward between you. He grins, all teeth and trouble, and slides his hand into yours. You shake. And just like that, the deal is struck. 

The evening sun sinks past the dorm window like a sigh, casting the whole room in the soft gold of a day exhaling. You’re curled up on your bed in an oversized hoodie, legs crossed, a nearly-empty takeout container of bulgogi balanced dangerously on your thigh. The smell of garlic and soy sauce clings to the air like a second blanket, and you don’t care. You’ve earned this. You’ve survived this week, barely, and now you’re self-soothing with salty meat and zero regrets. Your phone buzzes once against the sheets beside you. You ignore it at first. Probably Dani or Sakura again. Their texts have been coming in slow waves all day; apologies, explanations, questions that aren’t really questions. You’ve left them on read, unread, ignored altogether. You’re not ready. You don’t know when you will be. But the phone buzzes again. And then again. Finally, with a huff, you set your chopsticks down and snatch the device up. It’s not a contact you recognize, just a random number. But the message?

[Unknown Number]

what are you doing tomorrow?

You blink. Narrow your eyes. Your fingers hover over the keyboard, halfway to typing who is this when another text lands: 

[ heeseung ]

it’s heeseung

Duh. 

And wow. Of course he wouldn’t lead with an introduction. Or an ounce of normal human decorum. You don’t even remember giving him your number; maybe it was one of those group projects last semester or maybe he’s just unsettlingly resourceful. Either way, you're already rolling your eyes. You type back, begrudgingly.

[ you ] 

nothing. why? 

There’s barely a pause before the dots start dancing again. 

[ heeseung ] 

i’m taking you shopping and then we’re going to a party, you’ll wear what we buy and pretend to be hot for once. You nearly drop your phone into your bulgogi. You stare at the screen for a second too long, as if the sheer arrogance of his words might combust it in your hands. Shopping? Party? Pretend to be hot?

[ you ] 

what the hell does “pretend to be hot” mean???

[ heeseung ] 

it means we’re working with what we got. you’ll be fine. trust the process. 

You audibly groan and collapse backwards onto your pillow, phone pressed against your forehead as if it might somehow absorb the stress and return with divine wisdom. This was the deal, you remind yourself. You help him pass lit, he helps you with... what? Popularity? Style? Winning Soobin's attention through sorcery and strategic eyeliner? 

[ you ] 

i’m not “pretending” to be hot just to impress soobin. i have standards , and pride and a favorite hoodie that smells like detergent and self pity

[ heeseung ] 

noted. wear something that’s easy to take off tomorrow.

[ you ] 

HEY. phrasing.

[ heeseung ] 

relax. for the fitting room, nerd. I’ll be at your dorm at 1. and yes, soobin’s going to be at the party ;)

You stare at that last line for a beat too long. Something flutters, just faintly, in your stomach, uninvited.

[ you ] 

Fine. but if this party ends with me throwing up in a bush i’m holding you personally responsible.

[ heeseung ] 

deal. i’ll even hold your hair back. I'm generous like that.

You throw your phone onto the bed, face-down, like it’s suddenly on fire. You don’t know why you agreed. Maybe it’s the part of you that still wants Soobin to notice. Maybe it’s pride, or maybe it’s just the sheer inevitability of Heeseung’s energy, like trying to argue with a hurricane wearing a smug smirk. Whatever the reason, you’re already mentally preparing for tomorrow. Shopping. With Heeseung.  A party. With Soobin.  A new outfit. A new you. A new mistake waiting to happen. You look down at your empty bulgogi container, sigh, and mutter to no one: “…this is gonna be a disaster.”

The knock on your door comes precisely at 1PM. Not a second early, not a second late. You open it with one shoe half-on, your hoodie sleeve caught in the zipper of your jacket, and your face still half-moisturized. Heeseung is standing there, leaned casually against the doorframe like a page out of a campus fashion catalogue, black jeans, leather jacket, sunglasses perched on his head like he’s just so effortlessly cool it hurts. His hair is slightly tousled, like he either woke up like this or spent an hour pretending he did. “Took you long enough,” he says, not bothering to hide his smirk. 

You scowl and step out, slamming the door behind you. “I said ‘one second’ in the text.”

“Yeah, and I translated that from Girl to Human Time. So twenty minutes.” You roll your eyes, but you follow him anyway, because the deal has officially begun. Operation: Get Soobin to Notice You is in motion. Your dignity is already halfway out the window. Heeseung’s car is just what you expect, black, sleek, a little too clean, and filled with the faint scent of cologne, mint gum, and chaos. You barely get your seatbelt clicked in before he revs the engine and peels out of the dorm parking lot like he's in a race you didn’t know you entered. 

“Oh my god, slow down!” you yelp, clutching the side handle like it might keep your soul tethered to your body.

“Relax,” he says, one hand lazily gripping the wheel, the other already reaching for the radio. “You’re acting like I don’t drive this road every day.” 

“You drive it like you’re being chased, Heeseung.” He only grins in response, eyes still on the road, the picture of reckless confidence. “Maybe I like living on the edge.”

You’re about to fire back another sarcastic quip when the car fills, suddenly, gloriously, with the unmistakable sound of Taylor Swift. Specifically: Cruel Summer. And not the background kind of playing. The volume is up. Way up. Your eyes immediately dart to Heeseung, whose mouth is already moving, quietly at first, almost unconsciously, as he taps the steering wheel to the beat. “I’m drunk in the back of the car… and I cried like a baby coming home from the bar…” Your jaw drops slightly. Because he’s not just mouthing the words. He’s singing. And not in a “ha-ha this song is funny” way. In a felt that in his soul, this is on his heartbreak playlist, probably posted a breakup selfie to this in 2021 kind of way. You try. You really try to stifle the laugh bubbling in your throat. You press your lips together, you bite the inside of your cheek, you turn to the window in dramatic fashion. But it slips out anyway, a full, helpless giggle, light and sudden. 

Heeseung cuts his eyes toward you, still softly singing, and raises a brow. “What’s so funny?”

You blink at him innocently. “You like Taylor Swift?” There’s a moment, a beautiful, brief, perfectly humiliating pause, where Heeseung seems to glitch. His mouth opens, then closes, then he looks back at the road like he’s searching for an exit from this conversation. 

“I — well, I mean —” he clears his throat, shifting in his seat. “She’s… I mean, it’s just a good song, alright?”

Your laugh doubles, slipping out like sunlight through cracked blinds. “Cruel Summer, though?”

“She’s a lyrical genius,” he mutters, half-defensive, half-sincere. “That bridge? That’s literature.” 

You raise your brows, lips twitching. “Quoting T-Swift now? Is this what my tutoring is doing to you?” Heeseung flips you off with absolutely no hesitation, but there’s no heat behind it. He’s laughing now too, eyes squinting as he turns into the mall parking lot with a slightly-too-aggressive swerve.

“Fuck off,” he grins. “You wish you had taste this good.” You hold up your hands in surrender, still giggling. “Okay, okay. I’m not judging.”

“You are judging,” he says, putting the car in park. “But I’ll allow it. Because you’re clearly not emotionally evolved enough to appreciate her catalog yet.”

“Oh my god. Shut up.”

“Nope. We’re listening to Lover next. You’ve brought this upon yourself.” 

The mall greets you with its usual blend of too-loud pop music, screaming children, and the sweet, seductive scent of cinnamon pretzels. It’s packed with people, mothers pushing strollers, bored teenagers clinging to oversized shopping bags, couples holding hands like it’s an Olympic sport. You trail behind Heeseung, your feet already regretting your choice of shoes and your soul regretting this entire arrangement. “So what’s first?” you ask, trying not to bump into a mannequin dressed in denim overalls and heartbreak.

Heeseung doesn’t answer right away. He just keeps walking, purposeful, smug, like he’s on a mission from god. Then he abruptly turns left into a store that is suspiciously sleek and minimal. You blink. “Wait—this is…”

“An eyeglass store,” Heeseung finishes for you, already heading toward the back. “But more importantly, contact central.” You halt, crossing your arms. “Excuse me?”

“You’re getting contacts,” he says, matter-of-fact. “The glasses gotta go.”

You look genuinely scandalized. “Hey! I’ll have you know — I love my glasses.” He stops mid-step and slowly turns to face you, one brow arched so high it’s practically touching heaven. “Yes,” he says, voice dry. “Very librarian core. Sexy in a please return your books on time or I’ll gently scold you in a whisper kind of way.” 

You roll your eyes so hard you practically see your ancestors. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet, here you are. Following me into Lens & Style like it’s the promised land.” You’re about to argue more, but the woman behind the counter greets you both with a professional smile, and suddenly you’re being ushered into a little fitting room with sterile lighting and a mirror that shows way too much. A few minutes later, you’re handed a trial pair of contacts and instructed, gently, but firmly, to put them in. It’s harder than it looks. “What do you mean I can’t blink? My entire personality is blinking under pressure!” 

Outside the door, Heeseung snorts. “You’re being dramatic.”

“You’re being annoying,” you grumble, poking yourself in the eye again.

After a full five minutes of internal screaming, finger fumbling, and probably some divine intervention, you finally get them in. You blink a few times, adjusting. The world sharpens around the edges. For the first time in forever, you can actually see without the weight of frames perched on your nose. You step out slowly, unsure, blinking into the bright lights of the shop. Heeseung looks up from his phone, his gaze flicking to yours. And then — He freezes. His smirk falters for the briefest of seconds. You see it. You feel it. 

“Huh,” he says, slower now. “They… actually look good.”

You raise a brow, tentative. “Yeah?” He shrugs, but there’s something unreadable in his expression now, something softer, quieter. “They make your eyes stand out more.” He pauses, then adds with zero fanfare: “You’ve got nice eyes.” It lands like a piano dropped from ten stories. Simple, direct, and impossible to ignore. You blink, stunned; not just by the words, but by the way he said them. Like it wasn’t a joke. Like he meant it. Before you can formulate an actual response, Heeseung clears his throat and looks away. “Alright, let’s go,” he says, already walking toward the exit. “You can thank me later when Soobin gets whiplash tonight.” 

It takes you a beat to follow. Just one. But it’s enough to register that your cheeks are suddenly warm. That your stomach did a weird, traitorous flip. That you hate how a single compliment from Lee freaking Heeseung just turned your brain into a puddle. You push the thought aside and jog to catch up, voice light. “You know, for someone who thinks I look like a librarian, you sure stare a lot.”

He doesn’t look at you, but his mouth twitches into a grin. “You wish.” You do not dignify that with an answer. Mostly because your brain is still back at You’ve got nice eyes. And just like that, with one step out of the eyeglass store and into the fluorescent madness of the mall, the first layer of the old you is left behind.

You’ve barely had time to blink, or process the fact that you’re now navigating the mall with 20/20 vision and a slightly compromised emotional state, when Heeseung is dragging you again. His grip on your wrist is light, but determined, like he’s got an agenda and you’re just a reluctant passenger in the Heeseung Express. You stumble to keep up. “Where are we going now? I need emotional closure before the next attack on my personality.”

He doesn’t even turn around. “Hair.”

“Hair what?”

“Hair cut. Hair styling. Hair lesson. Hair magic. Come on, keep up.” You dig your heels into the tile floor and jerk your arm back. “Heeseung, wait — I did not agree to this. My hair is fine!” 

He finally turns, a single amused brow arched in classic Heeseung fashion. “Fine,” he echoes flatly. “That’s the bar now? Fine?”

You cross your arms. “It’s my head.” He takes a step closer, voice dipping into that maddening blend of mockery and charm. He laughs — laughs, the audacity of him, and says, “Relax. It’s just a trim. Maybe some layers. She’s gonna show you how to actually style it too. You know, so it doesn’t look like you were electrocuted every morning before class.”

You gasp in betrayal. “I’m sorry?!”

“Respectfully,” he adds, as if that softens the blow, then gestures for you to follow. “Come on. She doesn’t bite.” You eye the interior of the salon like you’re being led to an altar, but against your better judgment, and possibly because you’re too tired to argue anymore, you follow him. 

The girl waiting for you is already at her station, brushing her long, glossy black hair behind one ear. She’s tall, unfairly pretty, and wearing jeans that should be illegal. Her name tag reads “Yuri” in bubble-letter cursive. She sees Heeseung and her entire face lights up like a rom-com montage in reverse. “Heeseung!” she squeals, standing to give him a hug. It’s the kind of hug that lasts exactly one second too long to be casual. “You didn’t say you were coming in today!”

“I didn’t,” he says coolly, his hand barely grazing her back. “Brought a friend.”

You watch the interaction with narrowed eyes. It doesn’t take a genius, or even a whole brain cell, to figure out that these two have history. Whether it was a one-night stand, a few steamy study sessions, or something more dangerous like feelings, you’re not sure. But based on the way Yuri’s eyes immediately slide past you and lock on Heeseung like you’re the invisible girl in the background of her fantasy novel? Yeah. They’ve definitely seen each other naked. 

“She’s gonna need a trim and a crash course in how not to commit hair crimes.” Heeseung says, throwing a smirk her way. You open your mouth to protest, again but suddenly Yuri’s hands are in your hair and you’re being guided toward a chair like it’s your fate and destiny. “Don’t worry,” she hums. “I’ll take care of her.” 

“She’s fragile,” Heeseung calls after her with a smirk as he saunters toward the waiting bench. “Mentally and emotionally.”

“I will throw a brush at you!” you yell back as he flops onto the bench with his phone. Yuri laughs under her breath and begins to run her fingers through your hair. Her nails are long, her movements graceful, and despite your stubbornness, something about the way she works is oddly calming. For the next half hour, you sit there as she snips and styles and explains how to curl and blow out and not look like you just woke up five minutes ago. 

“You’ve got good hair,” she says at one point, combing through a section with reverence. “You just don’t do anything with it.” You shrug in the mirror. “That’s kind of my thing.”

Yuri gets to work with practiced ease, fingers threading through your hair, sectioning, snipping. She hums to herself as she teaches you how to twist certain pieces, how to round-brush volume into your roots, how to flick the straightener just so to create an effortless bend. It’s overwhelming, but oddly empowering. Like you’re being handed the controls to your own spaceship. And somewhere beneath all the bitchy undertones, Yuri’s… actually pretty good at this. You glance toward the waiting bench. Heeseung is slouched with his legs sprawled out, scrolling on his phone like he’s not the reason this spiral of makeovers and feelings is happening at all. Every few minutes he glances up; quick, unassuming, but you catch him watching.

Finally, Yuri steps back. “Alright,” she says, tugging off the cape with a flourish. “Moment of truth.” You turn slowly toward the mirror. And okay, fine. You look… kind of amazing. Your hair isn’t drastically different, just sleeker. Softer around the edges. Effortlessly polished in that “I woke up like this but with money and a personal stylist” kind of way. It frames your face, brings out your eyes, makes you look like someone who chose to be seen instead of hiding behind glass and sarcasm. You stand, still a little dazed, and make your way over to Heeseung. He looks up just as you reach him, and something flickers in his eyes. He doesn’t say anything right away. 

But then — He grins. That slow, crooked, effortlessly smug grin. “She’s a miracle worker,” he says to Yuri, standing and pulling out his wallet. “Put it on my card.”

Yuri takes it with a wink. “You’re welcome.”

“Thanks, Yuri. I’ll call you.” He says, with the offer a wink in her direction. 

She swoons. “You better.”

Once you’re outside, you finally say it, because someone has to. “You’re not going to call her.”

“Nope,” he replies, the ‘p’ popping off his lips like punctuation. 

You shake your head in disbelief. “You are such a menace.”

“I prefer charming rascal,” he says, holding the door open for you like a true gentleman-shaped disaster. “Besides, she’s into guys who ghost her. Keeps the fantasy alive.”

You groan. “You’re actually insane.” He only shrugs, hands in his pockets, strolling beside you with the ease of someone who has never questioned his place in the world. 

The moment your feet hit the tile floor of the clothing store, you know this is going to be a disaster. The air is thick with overpriced perfume and the walls are lined with mannequins posed like they’re judging you. Bright lights buzz overhead, harsh and clinical, and the racks seem to stretch into infinity, each one more chaotic than the last. There are sequin jackets tangled with pastel blouses, jeans with more holes than fabric, and crop tops that look like they were designed for dolls, not human beings. You glance around, disoriented. “There is… absolutely nothing here I’d wear.” 

Heeseung, of course, looks completely in his element. He’s already moving through the racks like a man on a mission, pulling shirts and skirts and things that glitter ominously. “That’s the point,” he says over his shoulder, tossing a fringed jacket onto the growing pile in his arms. “You’re not supposed to wear what you’d wear. We’re evolving.”

“Into what? A disco ball?” 

“No,” he replies seriously, “into the kind of girl Soobin stares at across the room and forgets how to blink.” You roll your eyes and reach for a flannel shirt, your comfort zone. Heeseung is there in half a second, gently slapping your hand away. “Nope. Absolutely not.”

“But—”

He points toward the dressing room. “Try these first. And don’t come out until you’ve mentally committed to the bit.” You sigh, arms loaded with fabrics you didn’t even know existed. The dressing room is small and slightly claustrophobic, and the first outfit you try on feels like something a pop star would wear to confuse the paparazzi. You step out hesitantly, tugging at the edges of the bright green top that’s two sizes too tight. Heeseung blinks.

Then he bursts out laughing. “You look like a glow stick in crisis.”

You snort, your face burning. “Okay, rude.” The next outfit is worse: a ruffled floral monstrosity that looks like it belongs in an 1800s romance novel, if that novel had a comedic twist.

Heeseung cackles. “You’re one bonnet away from becoming Pride and Prejudice’s chaotic cousin.” You both descend into full-blown laughter, the kind that makes your stomach hurt and your eyes water. It's ridiculous, how quickly the walls fall between you when you're in this bubble of absurdity, trying on outfits and exchanging insults like secrets. He calls you a fashion war crime. You call him a menace with too much confidence. He claims he’s got the eye of a stylist. You tell him that eye is clearly blind. But somewhere along the way, the laughter shifts. It softens. Somewhere in the middle of the chaos, he starts watching you differently.

You don’t notice it at first, not until you slip into the last dress. It’s simple. No sequins, no plunging neckline, no look-at-me theatrics. Just soft black silk that clings gently to your frame, the neckline a graceful square that highlights your collarbones, the hem brushing just above your knees. You stare at yourself in the mirror for a moment, surprised. It’s not flashy. It’s not dramatic. But it feels like you, the version of you that’s always been hiding underneath. You take a breath, then step out of the dressing room.

Heeseung is on the bench, scrolling through his phone, completely unprepared. He glances up, probably ready with another quip, but the second he sees you, he stops. His phone lowers slowly in his hand. His mouth parts. And he just… stares. For the first time since this entire makeover madness began, Lee Heeseung is speechless. You shift awkwardly under his gaze, tugging at the hem of the dress. “Is it—do I look weird? Be honest.” He doesn’t answer.

You take a hesitant step forward, heart thudding. “Heeseung?”

He blinks, like you pulled him from a dream, and then, because he’s Heeseung, he smirks and shrugs. “That’ll do for tonight, I suppose.” 

You scoff and roll your eyes, but the flush on your cheeks betrays you. “Wow. High praise. I’m overwhelmed.” He grins, leaning back and resting one arm behind his head. “Don’t let it get to your head. We’re going for hot, not heart attack-inducing.”

You disappear back into the dressing room before he can see the stupid smile tugging at your lips. Your heart feels like it’s doing somersaults, and not because of Soobin. You shake the thought from your head, firmly, stubbornly, and change back into your jeans and hoodie. A few minutes later, you’re at the register, watching the cashier ring up the pile of clothes that feel like pieces of someone new. Someone a little braver. A little shinier. A little less invisible. Heeseung stands beside you, smug and satisfied, like he just built you in a lab. 

The cashier announces the total, and before you can even reach for your wallet, Heeseung slides his card across the counter. “On me.”

Your head snaps toward him. “Heeseung, what?”

He just winks. “Don’t worry. I’ll bill you in character development. The cashier bags the clothes, and you step back into the mall with your arms full of potential and your brain full of questions. 

After the last store spits you out, bags in hand, Heeseung’s wallet lighter, your soul slightly transformed, Heeseung glances at the clock on his phone and says, “Okay. Next stop: food court. I need carbs before I collapse.” 

You blink at him, momentarily stunned. “You eat pizza like the rest of us?”

He shoots you a look. “ I don’t just eat pizza. I inhale it. Come on.” Your stomach growls before your feet can move, and suddenly you realize that in all the chaos, makeup, mirrors, the emotionally unsettling event of someone finding you attractive, you forgot to eat. Now that he’s mentioned it, you’re starving. Practically feral. You follow him past vendors and kiosks, the scent of fried food and cinnamon sugar swirling through the air. The food court is loud and crowded, but there’s something strangely comforting about it, the normalcy of it, the fluorescent lights and orange booths, the chatter of families and teenagers and friends grabbing greasy comfort.

Heeseung gets in line beside you at the pizza place, his arms still casually swinging at his sides like this is just another day. “What’s your poison?”

You glance at the menu. “Uh… pepperoni. And a soda.” He nods and orders for you both, without asking, like he’s already memorized the way you talk, the things you like. You’re about to protest, but then he’s paying with that same black card he flashed earlier and nudging you toward a table like it’s no big deal. You settle into a booth across from him, the tray between you bearing two steaming slices and a pair of plastic cups filled to the brim with soda. The first bite is practically a religious experience, greasy, cheesy, absolutely glorious.

Heeseung watches you with mild amusement. “You eat like you’ve just returned from war.”

“I have,” you say, voice muffled around a bite. “Battlefield: retail.”

He snorts and takes a sip of his drink. Then, after a pause, his expression shifts. “So… have you ever actually spoken to Soobin?”

You freeze mid-bite, the cheese stretching between your lips and the slice. You blink. “Define spoken.”

He raises a brow. “Words. Sentences. Preferably involving two-way communication.”

You swallow and clear your throat. “I, uh, once held the computer lab door open for him.” He’s already laughing. You roll your eyes, cheeks flaming. “He said thank you!” 

Heeseung grins, eyes crinkling. “Wow. A whole conversation. Do you guys have an anniversary for that?”

You smack his arm lightly across the table. “Shut up.”

He rubs the spot like you wounded him. “Abuse. I’m calling my lawyer.” You giggle despite yourself, hiding it behind your soda. There’s something so stupidly easy about sitting here with him. You forget you’re supposed to be awkward and invisible. You forget that you’re the DUF. You’re just… you. Which is why the next thing he says nearly gives you whiplash. “Alright,” he declares, brushing crumbs off his hands. “I dare you to flirt with that guy and get his number.”

You nearly choke on your drink. “Excuse me?” He gestures with a nod to a guy sitting alone across the food court, mid-twenties, dark hair, nose in his phone, clearly minding his own business.

“No way,” you say immediately. “Absolutely not.”

“Oh, come on. This is training. You want Soobin, don’t you?” 

“Yes, but—”

“Then get off the bench and into the game.”

You narrow your eyes. “Easy for you to say. You flirt like it’s breathing.”

He smirks. “Because it is.”

And then — he stands up. Before you can even form a sentence, Heeseung is already strolling toward a girl seated at a table nearby, casual and charming, like this is something he does between errands. You watch, jaw slack, as he leans in and says something that makes her smile, tilt her head, laugh. He gestures to his phone, and she takes it without hesitation, tapping her number in and handing it back with a wink. Heeseung returns, smug as a cat, holding his phone out to you like a trophy. “See?” he says, displaying the fresh new contact with flourish. “Easy peasy.”

You stare at him like he’s grown a second head. “I hate you.”

He just shrugs. “Hate me from over there,” he says, pointing again at the guy with the phone. “Go on. Play dumb, but not that dumb. Guys love that shit.”

“I am dumb,” you hiss. “There is no playing.” 

“Perfect. Just be your beautiful, awkward self.” Muttering every curse you know, you stand up and start toward the guy. It’s awful. You clear your throat. He doesn’t look up.

You fidget, then say, “Hi!”

He blinks, surprised. “Um. Hi.”

You force a smile. “I like your… phone.” He blinks again. You want to die. “I mean — I like your case! It’s… very rectangular. Classic. Minimalist.”

He looks mildly alarmed. “Thanks?” You attempt a laugh that comes out sounding like a cough. “Sooo, um, are you… single?”

His eyes dart nervously around. “I… I have a boyfriend.”

“OH!” you blurt. “Oh, my bad. I totally support that. I’m not… you know. Homophobic. Or anything.” You want to crawl into a vent and disappear. He offers a small, polite smile. “Have a good day.” And he’s gone, up and out, food tray abandoned. You turn slowly, walking back to the table where Heeseung is laughing so hard he’s red in the face, wheezing into his pizza slice like it’s keeping him alive.

You slump into the seat. “That was a hate crime.”

“That,” he says between snorts, “was the best thing I’ve ever seen. Ever.”

You glare at him. “I hope your soda spills on your lap.” Still grinning, he slides your tray toward you and raises his cup. “To improvement.” You clink your soda against his without smiling. But your heart’s laughing anyway. 

When Heeseung pulls up to your dorm, it’s with a dramatic screech of tires and the kind of recklessly confident parking job that screams I’ve never paid a meter in my life. He leans over the center console, smirking at you as you gather your bags of shopping and your still-wobbly self-esteem from the floor of his car. “Alright,” he says, eyes scanning the bags. “You have everything you need to socially destroy the night.”

You roll your eyes. “Thanks, fairy godmother.”

He winks. “I’m hotter than a fairy godmother. And taller.” You snort, slamming the car door behind you and flipping him off over your shoulder. He cackles, the sound following you up the stairs of your dorm and into the echoing silence of your room. Once you’re inside, the weight of the next few hours settles in your stomach like a boulder. You place the shopping bags carefully on your bed, smoothing the edges of the tissue paper like they might calm your nerves. Heeseung said he’d be back at 9 p.m. sharp to pick you up, which gives you a little over three hours to get ready. Three hours to transform. Three hours to convince yourself that you’re not the DUF anymore.

You spend the first half-hour just staring at yourself in the mirror. No makeup, hair messy, hoodie baggy and beloved. You look… like you. Regular. Quiet. Familiar.

You text Heeseung: “Okay so do I have to wear the mini skirt???”

His reply is instant. “Yes. And send pics. I’m the boss, remember?” You grumble, but slip into the skirt anyway and pair it with a halter top he claimed made your arms look “objectively illegal.” You take a mirror selfie, looking reluctant, and send it off. Within seconds, he replies: “Too ‘I work at a bar and hate my life.’”

You snort, throw the top across the room, and try again. Next outfit: jeans and a crop top. You pose. Click. Send “Cute. But it’s giving ‘we’re just friends.’” You flip him off through text “Try the dress. You know the one.”

You hesitate. That dress. The black silk one, the one that made his words stutter and his eyes flicker. The one that didn’t feel like you were trying to be anyone else, just a bolder version of yourself. You pull it out carefully, fingers gliding across the fabric like it might whisper back. Slowly, you slip it on. It fits like it did in the store. Soft, secure, like a secret. You stare at yourself in the mirror, and for a second… you see it. You see her. The girl who could walk into a party and turn heads. The girl who could maybe, just maybe, make Soobin notice. You send the picture. 

Heeseung replies: “Jesus.” Then, seconds later: “That’s the one.”

No teasing. No jokes. Just those three words that knock your heart off-balance. You set your phone down, exhale slowly. Then, the routine begins. You do your makeup with trembling hands, lashes curled, liner precise, lips tinted a soft rose. Your hair falls the way Yuri taught you, soft waves that frame your face and catch the light. You spray perfume on your wrists, your collarbones, the backs of your knees. A whisper of vanilla and hope. You put on your jewelry, simple earrings, the necklace that sits perfectly in the hollow of your throat. You take one last look in the mirror. You don’t recognize her, but you like her.

Then, your phone rings. The name “Heeseung 💀” flashes on the screen. You answer, voice caught somewhere between a smile and a scream. “Hello?”

“Hey,” he says, casual and breezy like this isn’t the first time he’s hearing your voice dressed like this. “I’m outside.” Your stomach flips.

You grab your bag, give yourself one more desperate glance in the mirror, and whisper to your reflection, “Don’t trip. Don’t choke. Don’t die.” Then you’re out the door, the echo of your footsteps ringing down the hall, your heart doing somersaults in your chest.

The car is sleek and stupidly shiny, purring low like it knows it’s hot. You spot it the moment you step outside your dorm building, standing at the edge of the sidewalk like you’re on the brink of a red carpet. And standing against it, leaning like he was born to be the poster child for a Calvin Klein fragrance, is Heeseung. He looks up as you approach, and even in the dim lighting of campus streetlamps, his smile flickers into something that nearly knocks you over. He’s wearing all black, ripped jeans, a bomber jacket, his signature messy hair that probably took way too long to make look that effortless. You don’t want to say he looks good, because that feels too generous. He looks... unfair. Rude. And worse? He knows it. He gives you a once-over, slow and obvious. “Damn,” he says, like he’s complimenting you and mocking you in the same breath. “You clean up alright.” 

You roll your eyes, clutching your purse a little tighter. “You’re not so bad yourself. For a menace.”

He smirks and pops open the passenger door for you with an exaggerated flourish. “M’lady.” You roll your eyes again, but your heart skips a beat anyway as you slide into the seat, the cool leather against your thighs making you realize just how very real this is. You’re on your way to the party. With Lee Heeseung. In a black silk dress and mascara that took you 45 minutes to get right. Breathe. The drive is short, just a few blocks away in one of those off-campus houses you’ve only ever seen through the haze of Instagram stories and hearsay. But your nerves are anything but short. They’ve curled into your stomach, wound tight around your ribs, pressed against the back of your throat. You grip the strap of your bag like it’s a lifeline.

You’ve been to parties before, sure. But never without Dani and Sakura. Without their protective, familiar presence to anchor you in the sea of bodies and music and beer breath. Without their shared eye-rolls and whispered commentary and midnight giggles on the walk home. And now… now you don’t even know if they’ll be there. Scratch that. You know they will. You just don’t want to see them. Not tonight. Not when you're dressed like this. Not when you're trying so hard to become someone new.

You barely realize the car’s stopped until Heeseung throws it into park. You’re frozen, staring out the window at the glittering string lights draped across the porch, the thump of bass already vibrating through the concrete. There are people everywhere, laughing, shouting, spilling out onto the lawn like they’ve never had a quiet thought in their lives. You’re going to puke. Heeseung glances over, and; because he’s Heeseung, he notices immediately. “You good?” he asks, casual but careful. “You look like you’re about to get drafted into war.”

You force a laugh, but it’s brittle. “I’m fine.”

“Liar.” You glance at him, cheeks hot. “Okay, I’m just… nervous.”

He nods like he gets it, and maybe he does. Maybe he doesn’t. But his voice is soft when he says, “Hey. Look at me.” You do. “Everything’s gonna be cool,” he says, with a cocky grin that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “You look insane, by the way. Like, criminal levels of hot. If Soobin doesn’t fold tonight, he’s legally blind.”

That earns a weak laugh from you, and he nudges your shoulder gently. “Just remember who got you here when you’re famous on campus by Monday.”

You snort. “You mean when they put me in GroupMe memes for tripping over my heels and knocking over a keg?”

Heeseung grins. “Even better. Instant legend status.” You breathe out, shaky but a little more stable now. “Okay,” you whisper. “Let’s do this.”

“You sure?”

“No.”

He laughs, throwing open the door. “That’s the spirit.”

You step out onto the curb, your heels clicking against the pavement like you’re a contestant on America’s Next Nervous Breakdown. But still, you stand up straighter. Shoulders back. Head high. You smooth the hem of your dress and tell yourself this is what you came here for. To show them. To show yourself. Heeseung falls into step beside you, his hand brushing against yours, not quite touching, but close enough to anchor you. Together, you walk toward the house, the music growing louder with every step. Somewhere behind the front door, the party waits. Soobin waits. They might be waiting too. But for now; it’s just you. And Heeseung. And the version of you that’s ready to finally be seen.

The moment the front door swings open, you’re hit with a wall of noise and heat, thick and heady like you’ve just stepped into the center of a beating heart. The bass is thudding through the floorboards, lights pulsing with every drop of the music, and bodies are everywhere, moving, swaying, tangled up in each other, laughter and shouting and the occasional high-pitched squeal blending together like some chaotic symphony of college nightlife. It’s not your first party, not technically, but it’s your first this kind of party, this kind of entrance. Not as a background extra or the girl carrying everyone’s phones. No hoodie, no glasses, no fading into the wallpaper. 

Tonight, you’re a main character. And Heeseung is your entrance music. He walks in first, easy and smooth, like the world shifts to make room for him. His presence is magnetic, and it pulls eyes toward the doorway like gravity. The second you step through behind him, heels tapping softly, dress swishing around your thighs like smoke, there’s a ripple. You feel it. Heads turning. Conversations pausing. The hush of recognition so subtle you might miss it, if your nerves weren’t already on fire. 

You try not to look around too much. You try to look confident. Poised. Detached, even. You tilt your chin up like you belong, even though your hands are clammy and your stomach is doing Olympic-level gymnastics. You’re hyper-aware of everything: the way the strap of your dress slides against your shoulder, the way your perfume clings to the heat of your skin, the soft creak of your heels on the hardwood floor. You catch flashes of recognition from familiar faces, faces that used to glance right through you, now blinking, staring, mouths parted, whispering behind their solo cups. And you? You just keep walking. Heeseung’s friends spot him in the far corner of the room, near a low couch littered with bags of chips and someone’s half-eaten box of pizza. The greetings are instant, shoulder claps, finger guns, head nods and booming “Yo!”s that feel like something out of a movie. Sunghoon practically lunges forward, clapping Heeseung on the back like he’s just returned from war. Beomgyu pulls him into one of those half-hugs that somehow involve three back slaps and an awkward shoulder bump. Jay and Jake both pipe up at once about someone from class asking for him earlier, their voices fighting over the music. And for a second, you’re forgotten. 

You stand a little off to the side, hands awkwardly clasped in front of you, smile hovering uncertainly on your lips. You’re not mad, they haven’t seen each other in a bit, and the reunion energy is real, but the awkward ache settles in your chest anyway, that old too-familiar feeling of being adjacent to the fun but not quite in it. Until Sunghoon finally turns toward you, and freezes. His eyebrows shoot up so far they practically disappear into his hairline. His eyes flick over you, slow and not particularly subtle, dragging from the hem of your dress to the curve of your collarbone to your lips like he’s trying to solve a riddle with his eyeballs. “Uh… who’s this?” 

Beomgyu leans in, squinting in your direction like he’s staring directly into the sun. “Wait. Are you new? Like, transfer student new? Heeseung, bro, you didn’t say you were bringing someone.” Heeseung, who is somehow already sipping a drink he didn’t have two seconds ago, sighs and smacks Beomgyu lightly on the back of the head.

“She’s not new,” Heeseung says casually. “You guys know her.”

Jay looks genuinely confused. “We do?”

ake leans sideways to get a better look at you. “Hold on…” Heeseung glances at you, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. Then, with perfect comedic timing and just enough pride to make your knees wobble, he says your name like it was obvious. To them, it was not and for some reason that twisted you up inside. 

There is a silence. Then, chaos. “NO FREAKING WAY.” Sunghoon’s voice actually cracks. “Shut up. Shut UP.” Beomgyu’s mouth falls open. “You’re lying. This is not hoodie-and-sweatpants Y/N. This is, like — TikTok viral-level hot girl Y/N. You’re telling me it’s the same person?” You’re half-laughing, half-dying inside. You glance away, cheeks burning, unsure what to do with your hands or your face or your entire existence. This wasn’t supposed to feel like a scene from a teen makeover movie, but, well. Here you are.

“She’s always looked like this,” Heeseung says coolly, giving them a look that says don’t push it. “You just never paid attention.” The group stumbles over themselves with backpedaling compliments, Sunghoon muttering something about your eyes, Jake saying you look “like a star,” and Beomgyu still acting like he just saw a unicorn. You’re saved from having to respond by Heeseung, who, clearly reading your overwhelmed expression, tosses out casually, “You guys seen Soobin?” 

Jay shakes his head. “Not yet. Might be outside?” Heeseung nods, and without another word, he reaches down and grabs your hand like it’s the most normal thing in the world. And maybe it is. Maybe it isn’t. Either way, the contact is sudden and warm and firm, and you don’t even think, you just let him pull you through the crowd, dodging plastic cups and tangled limbs as he weaves toward the kitchen. Your hand stays in his the whole way. You don’t ask why. You don’t let yourself hope. When you reach the drink table, he finally lets go, only to pour you something in a red cup and hand it to you like a bartender with a mission. 

“You alive?” he teases, raising an eyebrow.

You take the cup, roll your eyes, and murmur, “Barely.”

Heeseung clinks his cup against yours, grin widening. “You’re killing it.”

“You sure you’re okay?” he asks, voice just loud enough to cut through the bass thumping behind you. It’s gentler than you expect, free of teasing or sarcasm.

You nod automatically. “Yeah, I’m—”

“Y/N?!” The sound of your name rips through the music like a siren. You freeze. You don’t need to turn around to know who it is. You’d know those voices anywhere. They’re carved into your memory, every syllable, every cadence, familiar and aching in the way only ex-best friends can be. Still, you turn.

Dani and Sakura are standing there, half in disbelief, half in judgment. Their eyes rake down your body, from the sleek dress hugging your frame to the careful curls in your hair. Their mouths are parted like they can’t decide whether to gasp or laugh. Sakura tilts her head. “What… are you doing here?”

Dani crosses her arms. “And with him?” 

You glance back at Heeseung for half a second, who hasn’t said a word yet, just watching them with a slight furrow between his brows. Your stomach flips. You force a breath out of your nose and turn back to the girls, your grip tightening around your drink. You let out a laugh. It’s sharp and hollow and lined with every quiet insult they’ve ever made sound like a joke. “What?” you say, voice laced in dry amusement. “Surprised someone like Heeseung would want to hang out with me?” They flinch, barely, but you catch it. Dani opens her mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. You don’t wait.

You take a step closer, letting your voice drop, cold and brittle like breaking glass. “Why do you guys even care? Huh? You didn’t seem to care when you were calling me the DUF behind my back.”

Sakura’s expression twists. “We never—”

“This isn’t you, Y/N,” Dani cuts in, voice brittle. “The dress. The makeup. Hanging out with Heeseung? This isn’t who you are.” Your jaw clenches. The words burn, not because they’re true, but because they’re not. Because they’re laced with that same tired condescension, the same kind of backhanded care that always kept you two steps behind, like they wanted you close but never quite caught up. But before you can speak, a sudden warmth settles across your shoulders. Heeseung. His arm slips over you with ease, casual but claiming, protective but not possessive. His fingers brush the edge of your shoulder, and his voice is laced with syrupy sarcasm. 

“We’d love to stay and chit-chat,” he drawls, flashing the girls a lazy grin, “but we’ve got somewhere to be.” And just like that, he doesn’t give them another second. He tugs you away gently, steering you through the party with surprising precision, hand resting firmly on your upper back as he guides you toward the back of the house. You don’t look back. You don’t want to see their faces. You’re too stunned, too angry, too relieved. Your heart is racing and your pulse is pounding and your vision is a little too bright. He opens the back door, and the cooler night air hits you like a blessing. You step out onto the porch, the noise of the party muffled behind the closed door. Fairy lights are strung across the railing, casting a soft gold glow over the wooden planks and the few potted plants half-dead in their corners. It’s quieter here. Private. 

You suck in a breath and finally speak. “Thank you.”

Heeseung leans against the porch railing, glancing sideways at you. “For what?”

You give him a look. “For that. For getting me out of there.”

He shrugs, eyes flicking away. “It’s no big deal.”

You watch him for a moment, heart still unsteady. “It is, though.” He finally meets your gaze again, and for a moment, the cocky smile slips away. His eyes are dark and unreadable, but his voice is soft when he says, “They don’t get to make you feel like that. No one does.” You feel something twist in your chest. Something warm. Something dangerous. For a second, the two of you just… stand there. The silence stretches out, thick and humming with unspoken things. Heeseung’s hand is still in his pocket, but his shoulder is just barely touching yours now. Not quite close enough to be a statement, but close enough to feel like a promise.

The quiet of the back porch doesn’t last long. It breaks like glass, sharp and immediate, at the sound of stilettos clacking against the wood. You feel the shift before you see it. A cool draft. A wrongness. And then, the syrupy sweet voice that makes your spine stiffen and your heart drop. “Well, isn’t this cozy?” 

Wonyoung stood there, draped in a skin-tight red dress that clings like a threat, hair curled into perfect waves, and lips painted a venomous shade of cherry. She walks like the world’s her stage, and you’re just an extra lucky to be in the background. Her smile is the kind that cuts, sharp and gleaming, like she knows something you don’t. Your heart sinks because you remember. You remember her words last time: “Stay away from Heeseung.” You didn’t listen. Maybe you thought she wouldn’t notice. Maybe a part of you hoped she didn’t mean it. But she’s here now, and she’s looking at you like a hunter cornering something helpless. Heeseung straightens beside you, his entire body going taut like a wire pulled too tight. “What do you want, Wonyoung?” he says, voice clipped. 

She doesn’t answer. Instead, she saunters closer and, without warning, nudges you aside with the ease of someone who’s always taken up too much space. Her hand slides onto Heeseung’s shoulder like she owns it, like she’s done it a thousand times before. But Heeseung jerks away instantly, his jaw clenching as he shrugs her off like her touch burned. Still, Wonyoung smiles. “Hee… I miss you.” He doesn’t answer. Not at first. He just glances at you. And the look in his eyes, God, it’s something between apology and warning and please just trust me. But you don’t know how to read it, not really. Not when your stomach is twisting in knots and your voice is caught in your throat. 

“Hey, Wonyoung…” you manage, your tone so high and squeaky you want to slap yourself. Wonyoung turns, slow as a villain in a teen drama, and actually groans, like your existence is somehow the inconvenience of the century. She eyes you up and down with obvious disdain before deadpanning, “What do you want?” 

You blink, caught off guard. “Uh—I was just—” But she’s already looking away, like you don’t matter. Like you’re nothing more than a gnat buzzing in her ear. It’s humiliating. It’s infuriating. But you don’t say anything. You just shrink a little smaller.

She turns back to Heeseung, pressing forward again like she hasn’t just made you feel two inches tall. “We’re playing spin the bottle,” she says brightly, batting her lashes. “Wanna join?”

Heeseung lets out a dry laugh. “What are we, high schoolers?” His voice is full of disbelief. “Isn’t that a kids game?”

Wonyoung just shrugs, undeterred. “Still works.”

Before he can argue again, she latches her fingers around his wrist and tugs. You don’t know if it’s the surprise or the fact that he’s clearly outnumbered, but he lets her drag him halfway across the porch. You don’t even realize you’re following until you’re inside again, the noise swallowing you whole. The crowd’s shifted, coalescing into a rough circle on the living room floor. The center of attention now: an empty bottle spinning slowly on the wood, the air buzzing with half-drunken laughter and anticipation. You spot Dani and Sakura immediately. They’re sitting between Jake and Sunghoon, giggling, whispering, stealing glances at you. But there’s something different now. Not amusement. Not judgment. Pity. It glimmers on their faces like a sheen of sweat, and it makes something cold spark in your chest. You hate it. You’d rather be ignored than pitied. You tear your gaze away. 

“Finally you’re here! Join us!” Wonyoung’s voice rings out, shrill and triumphant. Soobin. He was here, oh god. Your heart lurches at the sight of him. He’s dressed in a white tee and a leather jacket, hair falling perfectly across his forehead, the picture of cool detachment. He smiles slightly as he joins the circle, settling next to Beomgyu without much fanfare. He hasn’t even seen you yet. But suddenly the air in the room is thinner. The lights are harsher. Every breath feels like an effort. This is what you came for, isn’t it? The moment you’ve been chasing. The whole reason you let Heeseung drag you to the mall, to the salon, through an identity transformation that’s still barely settled on your shoulders. You should be thrilled. But instead, all you can feel is this strange, gnawing pressure. You glance at Heeseung, who’s already watching Soobin, something unreadable flickering across his features. Then his gaze shifts to you. There’s tension there. Tight. Heavy. Loaded. And it hits you: the game has started. And you’re no longer sure whose rules you’re playing by.

You watch as people had their turns with the bottle, watching as the glass spun round and round giving someone their fate for the night and finally after countless spins — it was your turn. The bottle spun with a nervous flick of your fingers, clinking softly against the scratched wood floor as it twirled, and you felt your stomach turn with it. Around you, drunken laughter swirled like smoke, the heat of the crowded living room pressing in from all sides. Someone let out a whistle, another person shouted encouragement, and Wonyoung was watching you with narrowed eyes, her arms crossed like she was waiting for you to fall flat on your face. But none of that mattered right now. None of it mattered because that damned bottle had chosen a direction, and it was pointing straight at Soobin. You could barely breathe.

Soobin tilted his head, the corners of his mouth tugging up into a soft, almost apologetic smile, the kind that made your lungs feel like they were filled with helium. His gaze was kind, nonjudgmental. Gentle, even. As if to say “It’s okay if you say no. I won’t be mad.” And God, did that make it worse. Because now the ball was in your court. Your palms were sweating. Your heart pounded so loudly you couldn’t hear the party anymore. Just the roar of blood in your ears. You’d dreamed of this. Fantasized about this exact moment for years. The idea of kissing Soobin had always seemed like something that belonged to a different version of you, a cooler, prettier, worthier version. And yet here you were. Inches from it. One lean forward and you'd touch lips. And still, panic dug into you like claws. 

Your mind spiraled in frantic loops. What if I mess it up? What if I bump noses with him? What if my breath smells like the pizza from earlier? What if my lipstick smudges? What if I suck at it and he tells everyone? And more than anything; do I even want my first kiss to be like this? In front of Wonyoung, Dani, Sakura, and twenty semi-drunk strangers? But before you could finish the spiral, Heeseung’s hand gently curled around your wrist. His fingers were warm, grounding. You turned your head slightly, and he leaned in, his voice brushing against the shell of your ear, low and sincere. “You don’t have to do this,” he murmured. “We can leave. Right now.” 

You paused. That offer, so casual, so safe, it nearly undid you. You looked at him, and for a brief second the noise of the party dropped away. Just Heeseung and his eyes, steady and unreadable. Ready to walk you out of this chaos with zero judgment. But then your gaze flicked across the circle and found Wonyoung, her arms crossed, her expression unreadable but unmistakably sharp. You couldn’t back down. Not now. Not in front of her. “I’m fine,” you whispered, offering Heeseung the tiniest smile, even if it felt wobbly and weak. “I got this.” Reluctantly, he let your wrist go. And so, heart pounding like a drumline, you leaned in. Soobin did too.

Your faces were so close now you could feel the warmth of his breath, smell the faint citrus of his cologne. You were trying not to close your eyes too soon, but you didn’t know the rules. Were there rules? Were you supposed to count to three? Tilt your head? Your brain screamed at you to stop, to run, to — “COPS!” The word cracked through the house like a gunshot.

In an instant, the entire room exploded. Screams. Shouting. Feet slamming against hardwood. Red solo cups hitting the floor and rolling away. Someone knocked over a lamp, plunging half the room into shadow. The panic was immediate and real, like someone had hit a switch that turned this party into a stampede. You didn’t even get a second to blink before Heeseung was yanking you to your feet. “Come on!” he yelled, wrapping his fingers around yours and hauling you after him through the chaos.

You barely had time to register what was happening before you were stumbling through the living room, dodging people vaulting over furniture and crawling through open windows. The entire party had turned feral. Shouting echoed off the walls, red and blue lights flickered from the front yard, and someone shouted something about hiding in the attic. Heeseung didn’t slow. His hand tightened on yours as he dragged you through the kitchen, shouldering past people, and out the back door. The backyard was even more chaotic. Students were climbing fences, squeezing through hedges, and ducking behind trash cans. You stared at the wooden fence in front of you, at least six feet high, and made a sound somewhere between a groan and a gasp. 

“You want me to jump that?” you cried.

“Unless you want your mugshot posted in tomorrow’s student newsletter — yes!” With an ungraceful huff, you hiked up your dress and clambered over the fence, scraping your knee on the way down and landing hard in someone’s overgrown backyard. Heeseung followed right after, barely phased, landing beside you with an effortless thud.

“This way!” so you ran. Breath tearing out of your lungs, dress flapping around your legs, adrenaline pounding through your veins, you ran like your life depended on it. You didn’t stop until Heeseung’s car was in view, parked two blocks down. You practically dove into the passenger seat as he slid behind the wheel and slammed the door shut. He turned the key, the engine roared to life, and the tires screamed against the pavement as he peeled off into the street like a getaway driver in a movie.

You didn’t even speak for the first few seconds, just sat there panting, adrenaline still racing through your bloodstream, chest heaving as the lights and shouting faded behind you. Then, you looked at each other. And burst out laughing. Full, uncontrollable, hysterical laughter. The kind that curled your stomach and left tears in your eyes. You laughed until your lungs hurt. Heeseung clutched the steering wheel with one hand, his other wiping tears from his face. “I almost kissed Soobin,” you gasped out between wheezes.

“And then almost got arrested,” he choked out. “Honestly? 10/10 night.”

You threw your head back, still laughing. “That was insane.”

He grinned at you, cheeks flushed, hair a mess from the mad dash. “You’re kinda fun when you’re not busy hating me, you know that?”

You smiled, your heart slowing in your chest. Outside, the streets blurred past your window. Inside, something was starting to settle. Shift. Change. “I don’t hate you.” You whisper.  You were supposed to kiss Soobin tonight. Instead… you ran away with Heeseung. The laughter between you and Heeseung had started to quiet, settling into the thick silence that sometimes follows a shared moment, like the tide pulling back after a crash of waves. It lingered in the air, warm and easy, the kind of laughter that left your chest aching in the best way. You wiped at the corners of your eyes, breath still uneven from giggling so hard, and turned to look at Heeseung.

He was already watching you. His eyes sparkled under the dim glow of the car’s interior lights, lips curled into a half-smile, like he was still amused by the chaos you both narrowly escaped. Then, he tilted his head, that boyish grin deepening. “You were really going to kiss Soobin just now,” he said, like he still couldn’t believe it. You tried to smile back, to laugh it off, but something in your chest twisted unexpectedly. The corners of your mouth dipped, your gaze fell to your lap, and your fingers began nervously toying with your fingers.

Heeseung noticed immediately. The smile on his face slipped, eyes narrowing just slightly—not in annoyance, but concern. “Hey,” he said softly, leaning just a bit closer. “What’s wrong? I thought this is what you wanted?” You swallowed. The words caught in your throat, all scrambled and fragile. You didn’t want to say it. You hadn’t said it out loud to anyone. It was too revealing, too… vulnerable. But something about Heeseung, the steadiness in his gaze, the quiet way he was looking at you now like you mattered, made you trust him in a way that startled you. So you said it. 

“I’ve never kissed anyone before.” It came out softer than you intended. Barely above a whisper. But it landed between you with the weight of something unspoken for too long. Heeseung didn’t react right away. He didn’t laugh or make a teasing comment. Instead, he just looked at you. His eyes searched yours for something, you weren’t sure what, maybe the why of it, or maybe just the simple truth. But whatever it was, he found it, because after a moment, he nodded, his voice quiet and sincere. “I can teach you.”

You blinked. “What?” 

He nodded again, slower this time. No smirk. No hint of mischief. Just quiet seriousness. “I can teach you,” he repeated, “so you’re not inexperienced when you finally get Soobin.” The words felt… strange. Like something cold and sharp and warm all at once. You weren’t sure what to say, your heart skipping beats like it couldn’t keep up. “You’d really do that?” you asked, voice barely audible.

Heeseung leaned back just enough to look at you fully. “Yeah,” he said. “If you want.” And you did. You didn’t know why. You didn’t know what it meant. But you wanted to. So you nodded. “Okay.” He leaned over the center console, his arm brushing against yours, and suddenly the space between you shrank to something small and intimate. You felt the electricity buzz in the air like static clinging to skin, your pulse racing louder than your thoughts.

You swallowed. “What if I’m bad at it?”

He smiled softly, not in a mocking way but like someone offering reassurance. “That’s why I’m teaching you,” he said. Then, his hand lifted, slow and steady, brushing your hair away from your face and tucking it behind your ear. His touch was featherlight, the pad of his thumb just grazing your cheek. “You want to set the tone,” he murmured. “Don’t just dive right in.” You nodded, breath caught somewhere between your chest and lips, and then — He kissed you. It wasn’t hurried. It wasn’t rough or overwhelming. It was soft. Intentional. Like he was holding the moment between his hands and molding it into something gentle. His lips were warm, firm but cautious, and he kissed you like he was afraid to scare you off. Like you were something rare. Precious. Fragile.

Your eyes fluttered shut, your hand lifting without thinking to rest gently against his arm. You melted, leaned into him. The world slowed down. The roar in your head dulled to a soft hum. The nervous energy in your chest unwound, slowly replaced by a kind of comfort that made your skin hum. When he pulled away, it was only by inches. His forehead almost rested against yours. His breathing matched yours, shaky and a little uneven. His voice was barely a whisper. “Did you learn anything?”

You blinked at him, dazed, lips still tingling. “I  —I think I need another lesson.” He grinned, something sparking behind his eyes, and then nodded. “I think so too.” The second kiss was different. Gone was the careful, tentative pace. This time, his mouth found yours with a hunger that startled you, like he’d been waiting for permission and now that he had it, he wasn’t going to waste a second. His hand slid to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair. Your hands, unsure at first, found their way to his shoulders, gripping lightly as your lips moved against his. It was fire and silk and all-consuming. His mouth moved with confidence, coaxing you, guiding you, his kiss deeper now, filled with something unspoken. You kissed him back with everything you had, wanting, needing, trying to remember everything, to feel everything.

When he finally pulled away, both of you were breathless. The windows were fogged, your hearts thundering. He looked at you with wide eyes and a half-laugh in his voice. “Let’s get you back to the dorms before I forget this is supposed to be educational.” You blinked at him, flustered and floating somewhere between disbelief and bliss. You nodded, cheeks burning, and didn’t say a word.

The morning sun crept in through the slats of your blinds like a quiet promise, painting golden stripes across your sheets and the cluttered floor of your dorm. You stirred slowly, a little dazed, blinking against the light and the memory of last night that came flooding back all at once. Lee Heeseung kissed you. Correction: you kissed Lee Heeseung. Twice, you never thought you would see the day. Your cheeks burned as you sat up, the remnants of sleep falling off your body like petals, replaced with a rush of electricity that made you want to scream into your pillow. It wasn’t just that it was your first kiss, it was the way it happened. Soft. Gentle. Focused. Like he’d been waiting to kiss you and didn’t know it until the moment your lips touched. You padded across the dorm floor, slipping into your morning routine with a weird sort of buzz in your chest. Toothbrush. Face wash. Outfit. Breakfast bar you didn’t feel like eating. But everything felt brighter. Softer around the edges. You were still you, but something inside of you had shifted just a little to the left. Your phone buzzed.

[ heeseung ] 

Studying tonight? Meet me at the campus cafe. 6pm sharp.

Your breath caught, and for the briefest second you just stared at the screen, heart kicking up a beat like it remembered the feeling of his mouth on yours.

[ You: ] 

Is this a date or is Mr. Yoon threatening your scholarship again?

Three dots danced on your screen before his reply popped up: 

[ heeseung ] 

Can’t it be both? 😏

You let out a snort and shook your head, fingers tapping against the glass.

[ You ] 

Fine. But I’m only coming for the lattes. And the pity.

 [ Heeseung ]  

You love me for my academic desperation.

The audacity of how quickly your fingers typed out “maybe I do” and how fast you deleted it made your heart skip. You settled on a safer: 

[ You ] 

6pm sharp. Don’t be late, loser.

He didn’t respond right away, and that was probably for the best. Your head was still spinning with thoughts you didn’t know what to do with. Because despite the fact that this whole arrangement started as a carefully crafted plan to get Soobin to notice you, Heeseung had crept under your skin in a way you hadn’t expected. You were supposed to tutor him, he was supposed to help you get a makeover and gain confidence. You were not supposed to like the way he looked at you. Or the way he laughed at your jokes, like they were the funniest thing he’d heard all day. Or the way he kissed you like kissing you was something he’d been waiting to do forever. And yet…You shook your head and tried to push the thoughts down as you threw your backpack over your shoulder. There wasn’t time to obsess. You had a class to get to and a very smug, stupidly attractive boy to study with tonight. Still, as you stepped out into the cool morning breeze, you caught yourself smiling. That soft, barely-there kind of smile that made your cheeks warm and your chest float.

The clock on the café wall ticked toward six with the dramatics of a heartbeat, each second heavier than the last. You stood outside the door for a moment longer than necessary, fingers tightening around the strap of your bag. It was just a study session. Nothing more. Just like it had been every time you’d met with him to talk about literature, syntax, metaphor, only now, every word he spoke felt double-edged. Heeseung had kissed you. Twice. You had kissed him back. And now here you were, stepping into the soft glow of the campus café, with your heart tucked somewhere beneath your collarbone and trying desperately not to show itself. Heeseung was already there, lounging in the corner booth like it was made for him. One long leg stretched out in front of him, a cup of iced coffee sweating on the table beside a half-opened notebook. His face lit up when he saw you, that easy grin sliding onto his lips as if it belonged there. You hated how your stomach flipped.

“You’re late,” he teased, gesturing at the seat across from him.

You scoffed, sliding into the booth and unzipping your bag. “It’s 5:59. Maybe your watch is just as bad as your syntax.”

He let out a sharp laugh, eyes crinkling in the corners. “Touché.” You started with the basics, flipping through your annotated copy of Frankenstein, pointing out literary devices with the kind of precision you were proud of. Heeseung listened. Really listened. His brow furrowed when he was concentrating, and his eyes flicked back and forth between you and the book like he was trying to stitch your words to the page in real time. He asked questions, good ones, and when he got something right, his grin was so smug you almost threw your pencil at him. But then, somewhere between explaining tragic irony and discussing the gothic atmosphere, his focus started to slip. You were mid-sentence when you felt it, his fingers poking at your side, soft and quick like a spark.

You jumped, letting out a startled laugh. “What the hell?”

Heeseung smirked, clearly proud of himself. “You were monologuing. I had to bring you back to earth.”

“You’re such a child.” You quip. 

“A cute child,” he said, wiggling his brows. You rolled your eyes, shoving him lightly with your foot under the table, but there was no bite behind it. There never was anymore. Then, he leaned back in the booth, his voice lowering just enough to signal a shift. “I have an idea, by the way. About how you can actually talk to Soobin.”

You blinked, momentarily derailed. “You mean… like a conversation that doesn’t involve holding a door open and whispering thanks?”

He smirked. “Exactly like that.”

 “Well? I’m listening.” Heeseung’s gaze flicked over your face before he continued. “Sunghoon’s hosting a get-together tomorrow night. It’s not a huge thing, more like a casual hangout. Pizza, soda, football on the TV, the works. Soobin’s gonna be there.”

You hesitated, twirling your pen between your fingers. “I mean, yeah, that sounds okay but…” You tilted your head. “Is it going to be weird if I’m the only girl there?” Heeseung paused. That pause said more than he probably meant it to. He scratched the back of his neck, like he was bracing himself. 

You narrowed your eyes. “What? What is it?”

He sighed. “Sakura, Dani, and… Wonyoung are going to be there too.” Your heart dropped straight to your feet. You leaned back against the booth, head tilted toward the ceiling in a dramatic groan. “Of course they are.”

“I get it if you don’t want to come,” he said quickly. “I wouldn’t blame you.”

But you shook your head, jaw tightening with something that tasted like defiance. “No. I’m going.”

Heeseung blinked. “Really?” his shock, palpable. 

“Yeah,” you said, voice sharper than you meant it to be. “I’m not going to let them ruin this. I’m not going to let her ruin this.” You didn’t have to say her name. He knew. Still, you couldn’t help yourself from asking, quieter now. “Why is Wonyoung even going to something like that? I thought you two were… done.”

“We are,” he said. “But she’s still friends with the guys. She shows up to stuff. It’s… whatever.” It wasn’t whatever to you, but you nodded anyway. Because you knew if you let your thoughts go too far, you’d unravel right there over your half-drunk latte. Heeseung shifted again, this time leaning in closer. “Hey. If anything happens, if anyone says something, or makes you uncomfortable, I’ve got you. Okay?”

You looked at him, really looked at him, and for a moment the din of the café faded behind the weight of that promise. “Okay,” you said. And just like that, it was settled. Tomorrow night, you’d walk into a room where your ex-best friends and your accidental nemesis would be seated on one side, your crush would be on the other, and Heeseung would be somewhere in between. You had no idea what would happen. But you weren’t going to back down.

It was barely past six when you heard the knock on your dorm doo, three quick raps followed by a familiar “Let’s go, loser” muffled through the wood. You smoothed down your shirt, did a quick breath check (because you were just being cautious, not because you were thinking about kissing him again), and opened the door. Heeseung stood there, smug as ever, but there was something different in his eyes, an excitement that made him bounce a little on the balls of his feet. “You’re early,” you said, raising a brow.

“I’m prompt,” he corrected with a wink. “Besides, I couldn’t wait to show you this.”

He brought his hands out from behind his back, and there, held like a treasure map or some kind of sacred scroll, was a single sheet of paper. You blinked, confused, until your eyes scanned the header and the bold black print across the middle. Literature 206 – Midterm Grade: 85% Your gasp was dramatic, theatrical, the kind of sound that would’ve made someone down the hall poke their head out in concern if it hadn’t immediately been followed by your delighted squeal.

“Shut. Up!” you shouted, grabbing the paper from his hands and spinning to look at it closer. “Heeseung, you passed! You didn’t just pass; you did amazing!” He grinned like a fool, the kind of smile that made your chest feel too tight, and before you could even think about it, you launched yourself forward and hugged him. Your arms wrapped around his neck, and his arms instinctively caught you around the waist, the paper crushed between your bodies. He laughed, that soft, deep sound you were starting to crave more than you should. And when you pulled back, just barely, your faces were close enough to feel the warmth of his breath.

“Told you I was a genius,” he murmured. You rolled your eyes, still beaming. “No. I’m the genius. You’re just the pretty face riding my coattails.”

He shrugged, smug. “Well, now that I’m officially a scholar,” he plucked the paper from your hand, “it’s time to cash in on your prize.”

You tilted your head. “Prize?” He held the door open for you, gesturing dramatically. “Tonight, you talk to Soobin. It’s finally your moment, superstar.” Your smile faltered, just a hair. Because somewhere, buried beneath all your excited nerves and fresh lip gloss, there it was. That voice. Small. Soft. Inconvenient. What if I don’t want Soobin anymore? You blinked, shoved it down. Laughed, even, like it wasn’t true. But it was. Or at least…it was becoming true. Every second you spent with Heeseung, that voice got louder. The boy who was once just a cocky annoyance was now a constant in your thoughts. He made you laugh. Made you feel seen. Kissed you like you were the only girl in the universe.

But you didn’t say any of that. Instead, you slipped past him into the hallway and said, “Well, let’s not keep my prize waiting.” The drive to Sunghoon’s house was familiar now, the same twisty roads and flashing streetlights. Heeseung’s music was loud, upbeat, something with too much bass and a beat that rattled your bones, but you didn’t mind. He drummed his fingers on the wheel, occasionally tapping along to lyrics, and every so often he’d glance at you out of the corner of his eye and smirk like he knew something you didn’t.

Maybe he did. You watched the world blur outside the window, trying not to think too hard about anything. Not the party. Not Soobin. Not the fact that Heeseung’s cologne was now recognizable by scent alone, or the way your hands had fit so naturally around the nape of his neck just moments ago. When he pulled into Sunghoon’s driveway, the house was already glowing, warm lights, windows open, the soft buzz of voices filtering out to the street. You took a breath.

“Ready?” he asked, not moving to get out just yet. You turned to look at him, heart thudding somewhere between nervous and expectant. “Let’s do it,” you said.

You weren’t sure when your heart had started beating so hard, only that you could feel it in the soles of your feet and the tips of your ears. From the moment you stepped out of Heeseung’s car and followed him to Sunghoon’s front door, your nerves had been steadily building, like pressure in a shaken soda can. The lights inside were warm, the sounds of chatter and clinking glasses casual, but nothing about this night felt easy. You stepped through the threshold like you owned the place, chin high, spine straight, masking your spiraling thoughts with the practiced poise of someone who’d watched one too many confidence tutorials on YouTube. Heeseung’s hand hovered protectively at the small of your back, just barely touching, but grounding you all the same. That slight pressure said, I’m here, and for a moment, you could almost breathe.

The living room was full already. Jake sat cross-legged on the floor, waving a slice of pizza around mid-story, while Jay and Beomgyu were in the middle of a mock argument about what toppings were superior. Sunghoon looked up from where he was grabbing drinks and offered a casual grin. And then, your eyes caught them. Dani and Sakura, tucked on one side of the couch, their laughter too forced, their eyes on you too long. But, Wonyoung. She didn’t say anything at first. Just stared. Her gaze zeroed in on Heeseung’s hand still lingering on your back like it was a personal offense, her perfectly glossed lips curling into something sour. “What is she doing here?” she said finally, her voice louder than it needed to be, slicing through the room like a knife dressed in perfume. You froze, but Heeseung didn’t. 

“She’s here because I want her here,” he said smoothly, not even looking at her. His tone was so offhand it made Wonyoung’s eye twitch. She scoffed, turning back to Jay with an exaggerated sigh, tossing her hair like she hadn’t just tried to publicly shame you. You swallowed hard. The room shifted again, the center of gravity pulling you straight toward the boy you hadn’t seen since the party. Soobin. He was seated on the couch, drink in hand, wearing a simple hoodie and jeans, his soft smile as warm as you remembered. He looked up when you approached, a flash of recognition lighting his expression. 

“Hey — Y/N, right?” he asked, voice gentle.

You nodded, tucking hair behind your ear. “Yeah, that’s me.” He patted the cushion next to him, and you sat, acutely aware of the way Dani and Sakura were watching, and more intensely, the weight of Heeseung’s eyes on the side of your face. But for a moment, none of that mattered. You and Soobin fell into conversation like it was the most natural thing in the world. He asked about your classes, your major, if you were enjoying campus life. His smile never left his face, and yours slowly returned to yours. You laughed at something he said, something dorky and sweet about how he got locked out of his dorm last week, and your hand brushed his arm without thinking. And then your eyes darted up, Heeseung, across the room, sprawled in a chair like he wasn’t watching. But you could feel his attention. Like it was tethered to your pulse.

Before you could dwell too long, a sharp clink of a glass brought everyone’s attention back to the group. Wonyoung, placing her drink with a flourish, said, “We should definitely play Never Have I Ever.” Heeseung groaned immediately. “Are we really doing every high school game in the book this week?”

She shrugged, all innocent smile and lethal intentions. “Come on, it’ll be fun.” A chorus of agreement echoed around the room, and you knew, there was no getting out of this one. Someone dimmed the lights slightly as everyone started moving toward the center of the room, sitting in a loose circle with half-finished pizza slices and soda cans in hand. You sat between Soobin and Heeseung, though the space between you and the latter felt a little too electric, like if you moved even an inch, you might get burned. The game began light, as they always do.

The circle had started off innocent enough, plastic soda bottles sweating on the table, crusted pizza boxes pushed aside, the living room heavy with the low hum of music and the occasional pop of laughter. Someone asked something dumb about stealing candy from a gas station. Another person confessed to cheating on a test in tenth grade. It was stupid, harmless, the kind of thing you could brush off with a smirk and a sip of your drink. But there was something in Wonyoung’s gaze that made the back of your neck prickle before she even opened her mouth. She was perched on the edge of the couch like a queen on her throne, manicured fingers curled delicately around her cup, eyes glittering with something sharp and venomous. She turned her head slowly, deliberately, and locked her eyes on you with a smile that didn’t touch her lips.

“Never have I ever…” she began, the silence prickling around her, “been a loser virgin that no man wants to touch.” The room froze. The words landed like shrapnel, hot and slicing through whatever warmth had existed just moments before. Your chest constricted instantly, the oxygen leaving your lungs in one swift rush. You could feel every pair of eyes in the room shift to you, some wide with shock, others downcast, uncomfortable. You sat rigid, your cup trembling in your fingers, your pulse thudding like thunder in your ears. And then Wonyoung, as if to twist the knife, tilted her head and said, sweetly venomous, “Y/N, that means you have to put your hand up.” Your throat tightened so fast it hurt. You blinked quickly, trying to swallow it down, trying to pretend you hadn’t heard her right. But Heeseung stood up then, voice sharp and cold in a way you’d never heard from him before. “Knock it off, Wonyoung.”

She gave a lighthearted shrug, still smiling like this was all some twisted joke. “I mean…it’s just a game, Heeseung. No need to get snappy.”

Dani scoffed, disgust heavy in her voice. “You know exactly what you’re doing. Cut it out.”

But the damage had already been done. Your vision blurred as a tear slipped down your cheek without permission, hot with embarrassment, with shame, with the kind of humiliation that clings to your skin like ash. The silence was worse than the laughter could’ve been, everyone staring, no one speaking. Just the sound of your shaky breath and the trembling rattle of your heart in your chest. You couldn’t stay. You wouldn’t. Without a word, you stood up on wobbly legs, grabbing your bag with clumsy fingers and bolting for the front door. You didn’t hear who called your name, didn’t wait to see who stood or who stayed behind. You just ran, your face burning and your lungs struggling to catch up to your heartbreak. Outside, the air was cold and biting, but not cold enough to numb the pain in your chest. You didn’t get far before you felt a hand gently catch your wrist, not rough, not demanding. Just there. Just him.

“Hey; hey, look at me,” Heeseung said softly, turning you to face him. The night was quiet except for your breaths, short and uneven. He reached up, brushing your tear-streaked cheek with his thumb, the gesture so tender you nearly fell apart all over again. “Don’t listen to her,” he whispered. “She’s miserable and she wanted to take it out on someone. That’s all this is.”

“I’m fine,” you choked out, even though you weren’t.

“No, you’re not.” His voice cracked slightly, and he gave a soft shake of his head. “And I should’ve never brought you here. I knew she was going to be here. That’s on me.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” you whispered, your voice raw. “You’re not the one who humiliated me.” Still, his face was drawn with guilt, his brow furrowed. He opened the car door for you and you slid in, heart still pounding, nerves buzzing beneath your skin. He got in after you, but didn’t start the engine right away. The silence filled the cabin again, but this time it wasn’t awkward, it was heavy. Dense with something unspoken.

You stared at your lap, thinking of Wonyoung’s words again. Loser virgin. No man wants to touch you. It echoed in your head, bouncing around until it started to stick. Was she right? Was that why Soobin had never looked at you twice? Why you were always the girl just outside the circle? Before you could overthink it, before the voice of doubt could talk you down, you turned to Heeseung.  “I want you to take my virginity.”

He blinked like he hadn’t heard you. “What?” You met his eyes this time, steady despite the tremble in your chest. “I want you to take my virginity.” The silence was immediate. Then sharp. His eyes widened, lips parting, trying to find something to say, some script, some defense. But nothing came. Just silence and the sound of your breath coming quicker than before. “I just…” you began, fidgeting with the hem of your sleeve. “What Wonyoung said. Maybe she’s right. Maybe Soobin wouldn’t want someone like me. Someone who’s never—” 

“That’s not true—”

“Please.” Your voice cracked then, raw and soft, but full of something else too. Desperation, maybe. Maybe hope. Heeseung looked at you then, really looked. And something shifted in his gaze, his expression folding into something more serious, more solemn. There wasn’t any cocky grin, no teasing smirk. Just… sincerity.

“Okay,” he said quietly.

You blinked. “Yeah?”

He nodded once. “Yeah.” Relief washed over you slowly, curling around the fear that had taken root in your belly. You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, something like gratitude spilling from your chest.

“Tonight?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper.

He didn’t hesitate. “Tonight.”

And then he turned the key in the ignition, the engine humming to life as the two of you slipped into the dark, quiet night, no longer running away, but heading toward something that neither of you could quite name yet. But you could feel it, in the beat of your heart, the warmth in your chest, and the hand that rested gently over yours on the console.

The streets outside were washed in amber, the streetlights spilling honey-colored light onto the hood of Heeseung’s car as he pulled up to the quiet curb outside a low-rise campus apartment building. You recognized it, vaguely,  though you’d never had a reason to be this far from your dorm before. He eased the car into park, the soft click of the gear shift cutting through the otherwise silent cabin. For a moment, neither of you moved. You were both suspended in this fragile, private space, like the world outside had hit pause just to give you this breath of stillness. He turned to you, one hand still on the steering wheel, the other reaching across the console like he might take your hand but thinking better of it. His gaze flickered to your face, warm and searching, not demanding. Not expectant. Just careful. Just him.

“You sure about this?” he asked, voice low but steady. And you nodded. Without hesitation. Without the voice of Wonyoung echoing in your ears. Without thinking about Soobin or the plan or the stupid game that led you here. You nodded because it was Heeseung and somehow, in the softest, strangest way, you’d never been more certain about anything in your life.

“Yeah,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “I’m sure.” That was all it took. Heeseung stepped out of the car, jogged around to your side, and opened the door for you, offering a hand as you slid out. The air between you pulsed with unspoken tension, not the bad kind, not the kind that makes you want to flee, but the kind that hums beneath your skin like a quiet, rising tide. Neither of you spoke on the short walk to the building. You could feel the beat of your own pulse in your throat, your palms, your knees. Every footstep up the stairwell echoed like a question you were still answering with every breath. When he unlocked the door to the apartment, you stepped into a place that somehow felt like him , even if it wasn’t entirely his. The living room was tidy but lived-in: a half-empty water bottle on the counter, a sweatshirt slung over the back of the couch, a flickering neon sign in the shape of a guitar hanging above the TV. There was a faint scent of cologne and fabric softener in the air , something warm and clean and utterly disarming.

You glanced around, instinctively nervous. “Are you sure no one’s—?”

“I live with Jake,” Heeseung said, gently tugging you further inside. “But he’s out for the weekend. Swear.” Jake was obviously still at Sunghoon’s house. So, you nodded, cheeks warm as he guided you toward the hallway. Every step felt louder now, your heartbeat echoing in your ears. You could feel the shift happening between you,  something solemn, something sacred as he led you into his bedroom. The door clicked shut behind you. His room was dimly lit, the overhead light off, only the glow from a desk lamp in the corner casting soft shadows along the walls. Posters of concerts and bands you half-recognized were pinned above his bed. His guitar leaned against the corner, pick still nestled in the strings. The bed was made, barely and a hoodie lay crumpled on the chair by his desk. You turned to him again, breath caught somewhere in your chest. Heeseung was standing just a few feet away now, hands at his sides, gaze never leaving yours.

“Are you still sure?” he asked again, quiet and reverent. And again, you said yes. The word had barely left your mouth before he was stepping toward you, not fast, never fast , just sure, just gentle. His hand reached up to tuck a piece of hair behind your ear, fingertips brushing your cheek like he couldn’t believe you were real. Then he was kissing you, slow and careful, lips warm and familiar now. The kiss wasn’t like the one in the car, not teasing, not frantic. This one was patient, intentional. Like he was asking permission with every soft press of his mouth, like he was trying to memorize the shape of your yes. 

The rest happened slowly. Clothes were shed like old skins, your nerves still there, still fluttering like moths in your stomach, but softened by the way he touched you. Every brush of his fingers was careful, every motion deliberate. He wasn’t rushing, wasn’t teasing. He just was warm and present, grounding you with the weight of his hands and the way he whispered your name like it was something sacred. He kissed your shoulder. Your collarbone. The hollow behind your ear. He held you like you were something breakable and beautiful. When it finally happened, he was looking into your eyes, his hand laced with yours, thumb brushing over your knuckles to calm you. It hurt at first, of course it did, but it wasn’t scary. Not with him. And eventually the pain faded into something else entirely, something you couldn’t name, only feel.

His hands caressed your body like you were made of porcelain. His breathing hard groans falling from his lips with the severance of a melody you’d never want to forget. “Fuck” He grunted, his hips meetings yours. His forehead sheen with sweat fell against your naked shoulder, lining the skin with searing hot kisses. 

“You feel so good.” His grip on your hips tightened as he allowed himself to go faster, rougher. The sound of skin, mixing with your breathy moans and Heeseung groans were the only sound in the room. 

“Harder.” You choked, letting your head fall against the pillow, your hair creating a halo on the satin pillow case. “Please, Heeseung, harder.” You were begging, pleading for me. It felt too good, better than anything you’ve ever experienced and you just couldn’t get enough. 

Heeseung groaned, a low groan that rumbled deep within his belly all the way up his throat. “You want it harder?” He asks, His eyes locked onto yours as you send him a frantic nod. 

“Yes!” Your voice was almost shrill. “Please.” Your hands found his back, racking your nails up and down the skin — certainly leaving red marks in their wake. Heeseung’s hips pushed harder, the force of his thirst sending your body jerking upwards. 

“Oh my god.” You hissed. “Oh my fucking–” Your voice was cut off with his lips falling to yours, his mouth swallowing the sound of your pleasure. He broke away from the kiss with a low moan and a shaky breath. Your breath caught as you tilted your head back, overwhelmed and undone in the best way. Heeseung murmured quiet things into your skin, not jokes, not one-liners, just your name. Just reassurance. Just closeness. It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t fireworks. It was better than that. It was real. 

When it was over, he didn’t roll away or laugh or ask how it was. He just stayed there beside you, your bodies tangled beneath his sheets, his thumb brushing lazy circles against your hipbone. You rested your cheek on his shoulder, skin still tingling, your heart finally slowing. And for a long time, neither of you said a word. You didn’t need to. Soon, you got up — put your clothing back on and thank Heeseung for all he did that night. You went to your dorm with an even bigger smile on your face. 

Morning sunlight seeps through the cracks in your dorm blinds, painting golden stripes across your duvet and the delicate curve of your shoulder. You stir slowly, not with the usual groggy resistance of a school day, but with something like ease, something light. Your limbs feel loose beneath your sheets, your chest warm, your lips tingling with memories. Last night plays on a soft reel behind your eyelids: Heeseung’s hands, the way he looked at you like you were the only thing worth seeing, the way his voice trembled when he asked if you were sure. You smile before your eyes are even open. It wasn’t just physical , it was something else entirely. Something safe. Something soft. You don’t know what it means yet, or what it should mean,  but right now, that doesn’t matter. What matters is the way you feel in this moment. Like maybe, for once, you’re not the DUF. Maybe, for once, you’re the girl someone actually wanted.

You get dressed slowly, pulling on your favorite jeans and a simple top that fits you right, a new confidence buzzing just beneath your skin. Your fingers hover over your phone more than once, tempted to text him, something casual, something teasing, but you stop yourself. You’ll see him in Lit anyway. And God, you can’t even begin to guess what that’s going to be like now. The walk to class is a blur of humming thoughts and overplayed memories, your heart skipping each time you think about him. You wonder if he’ll say something. You wonder if you should. You wonder if this is the start of something... more.

When you arrive at the building, the usual crowd of students loiters by the lecture hall, but your eyes find him immediately. Heeseung is leaning against the wall near the door, black hoodie pulled over his head despite the early morning sun, hands stuffed into the pockets of his jeans. He’s looking down at his shoes, but as if sensing you, his head lifts, and there it is. That smile. Soft and crooked and just for you. “Look who finally made it,” you call as you approach, your tone light and teasing, the banter slipping into place like a well-worn jacket. “Didn’t think I’d see your face again after last night.”

Heeseung chuckles, pushing off the wall and falling into step beside you. “Please. You think you’d get rid of me that easy?” 

You roll your eyes, a grin curling at your mouth. “You’re relentless.”

“Persistent,” he corrects with a grin of his own. “There’s a difference.” The air between you hums with something more than your usual back-and-forth, a soft awareness, a shared secret, the ghost of his hands still lingering on your waist. Heeseung’s eyes flick over your face for a moment longer than they usually would, like he’s trying to memorize something. Then, as you’re about to reach for the classroom door, he says your name, softly, tentatively. You pause, looking up at him. His expression has shifted, and it’s not teasing now. It’s serious. Vulnerable, almost. Like there’s a weight on his chest and he’s finally ready to let it tumble out.

“Hey, I—” Heeseung starts, but he doesn’t get far.

“HEESEUNG!” Beomgyu’s voice barrels down the hallway like a wrecking ball, all volume and chaos, and before either of you can react, an arm is slung around Heeseung’s shoulder. “Dude! Party tonight. Sunghoon’s place again. It’s gonna be chill this time, no cops, I swear. You’re coming, right? And you,” Beomgyu points to you with a grin, “you better come too. You’re the new fan favorite.” You let out a laugh, caught off guard, but Heeseung just gives Beomgyu a playful shove. “Yeah, alright. We’ll be there.”

“We?” Beomgyu raises an eyebrow, smirking as he wiggles his brows. “Noted.”

And just like that, Beomgyu is disappearing down the hallway, already off to deliver his invite to the next unsuspecting soul. You glance back at Heeseung, your brows furrowed just slightly. “What were you gonna say? Before Beomgyu... you know.”

Heeseung looks at you for a beat, quiet. And in that silence, something shifts again, but this time it doesn’t rise to the surface. Instead, he just shrugs, sliding his hands back into his pockets. “Nothing,” he says casually, a smile that doesn’t quite meet his eyes. “Forgot what I was gonna say.”

You want to press,  there’s something in the way he says it, the way his eyes flick away from yours for half a second too long, but you don’t. Not here, not now. So instead, you just nod, falling into step beside him as you both walk into the lecture hall. You’re still smiling. But this time, your heart is wrapped a little tighter in wonder. 

The air tonight feels heavier, not unpleasant, just weightier, charged in a way that isn’t quite like the other parties. The crowd buzzes with the usual electricity, the low thump of bass vibrating through the floorboards, bodies weaving and pressing in rhythm to a beat no one truly hears. But you do. You feel it in your bones, in your blood, in the skin of your arms where goosebumps rise as you and Heeseung step through the doorway into Sunghoon’s house. He walks beside you, shoulder brushing yours, laughter spilling from his lips as he says something teasing about your outfit. It’s familiar, the way he leans in a little closer than necessary, the way he always seems to find something to comment on, from the way you wear your hair to how your drink tastes like battery acid. He’s still the same. But you’re not. Not exactly. 

Because now you know what his breath sounds like when it trembles. You know how he looks when he’s above you, eyes full of questions and reverence like you were a poem he wasn’t sure he was allowed to read. You know what it’s like to be wanted,  not by anyone, but by him. And that knowledge sits in your chest like a small fire, curling smoke and heat into your thoughts as you walk beside him. You make your way to the drink table where Beomgyu and Jay are pouring vodka into plastic cups with reckless enthusiasm, laughing at something Jake said. It’s all easy, the familiar chaos of a college party,  but something inside you feels less swayed by the glitter of it now. Like you’ve seen what matters more, in the quiet hush of a dorm room when all the noise falls away and someone holds you like you're worth the wait. 

You glance toward Heeseung, catching sight of him joining in a game of beer pong with Sunghoon. His laugh is loud, tilted back in his throat, his hair flopping into his eyes as he lines up a shot. He’s magnetic like this, full of life, a little too much, and always just enough. You don’t even notice the tap on your shoulder until you feel it. You turn around to see Soobin. Your stomach doesn’t flutter. Your pulse doesn’t spike. You don’t feel weak in the knees or dizzy in the way you once imagined you would. All you feel is... calm.

His smile is soft, almost sheepish, like he’s approaching a wounded animal. “Hey,” he says, voice raised slightly over the music. “I wanted to say… I’m sorry. For what happened the other night. Wonyoung was out of line, and honestly? Everyone knew it.” You blink at him, surprised by the sincerity in his tone. He rubs the back of his neck, eyes dipping away as if afraid to meet yours fully.

“That… that does make me feel better,” you say after a pause, offering him a genuine smile. It’s small but sincere, the kind of smile you give someone when you’ve outgrown the pedestal they used to stand on. He brightens at that. “Good. You didn’t deserve that.” The conversation unfolds easily, light, harmless. He asks about class, about your professor’s weird rant last week, and you laugh with him, grateful that it’s not awkward or strange. For a few minutes, it’s like nothing ever changed. But every now and then, your gaze slides across the room, to where Heeseung is, to the way his hand gestures wildly in the air after making a perfect shot, the way his eyes scan the crowd and catch on you. You feel it each time, that invisible thread tugging between you both, fragile but undeniable.

Soobin leans closer, tipping his head toward you. “Hey, the music’s kind of loud down here. Do you wanna go upstairs to talk?” You hesitate, only for a moment. This is what you’d wanted, wasn’t it? Alone time with Soobin. This moment; the intimacy, the possibility of something real with him, it used to be the end goal. It was the prize at the finish line. You look back toward the beer pong table. Heeseung isn’t there anymore. You swallow, forcing a smile as you nod. “Sure. Upstairs sounds good.” Soobin leads the way, and you follow,  but there’s a hollow tug in your chest, a low ache that whispers: something’s different now. Something’s shifted. And you can’t quite tell if you’re walking toward what you want… or away from it.

The upstairs hall is quieter, hushed like a cathedral built out of creaking floorboards and dim lighting. Soobin’s footsteps are steady ahead of you, confident, calm. You follow him down the hallway, the thump of bass from the party below now muffled by layers of drywall and closed doors. He opens one at the end, someone’s bedroom, likely Sunghoon’s spare guest room and steps inside without hesitation. You enter, arms crossing over your chest instinctively. The room is sparsely decorated: a bed, a desk, a dresser with a dusty mirror. A single lamp glows faintly in the corner, casting everything in warm amber light. The kind of soft hue that makes everything feel a little too intimate. 

You sit down on the edge of the bed, hands fidgeting in your lap. Soobin stands near the dresser, one hand running through his hair like he’s searching for the right words, the right entry point into something he’s been building toward. You try not to think about how your heartbeat doesn’t pick up like it used to. How your stomach doesn’t flutter. How the moment you used to dream about, you and Soobin alone in a room, about to have that talk, feels just a little off-center now. He turns to you, expression unreadable. “Can I ask you something?” You nod.

He gives a breathy laugh, rubbing the back of his neck again. “Do you… have a crush on me?”

The question hits you like cold water to the face. You blink. “What?”

“I mean,” he shrugs, “you’re here with me. Alone. Talking like this. And I’ve noticed you kind of… watching me sometimes. Not in a bad way, I just — I figured maybe you liked me.”

Your mouth opens, but no words come out right away. You weren’t expecting this — not so directly, not right now. But wasn’t this the whole plan? The makeover, the party, the studying with Heeseung, the kiss that didn’t happen, wasn’t this what you’d wanted from the beginning? So you say it. Quietly, like you’re repeating a line in a play. “Yes. I think I do.” Soobin smiles softly, like that was the answer he expected. He walks over, taking the spot next to you on the bed. There’s a small silence, not quite awkward but definitely unsure. Then, without another word, he leans in. And kisses you. It’s gentle. Thoughtful. His lips press to yours with an easy kind of care. But instead of feeling sparks or butterflies or that dizzy, swept-away sensation you thought would come,  all you feel is stillness. Like kissing someone underwater. The moment suspended. Weightless. Hollow.

You don’t know how long it lasts, but eventually, your hand moves to his chest and you pull away, slow and apologetic. “I’m sorry,” you whisper, eyes avoiding his. Your heart pounds for all the wrong reasons. “I… I don’t think I feel what I thought I felt.”

Soobin tilts his head slightly, studying your face. “What do you mean?” You look down at your hands, twisting your fingers in your lap. “I thought I liked you. I really did. But it doesn’t feel… right. Not like I thought it would. Not like…” You trail off, not daring to finish the sentence. Soobin hums thoughtfully, like he’s already solved the puzzle. 

“Ah,” he says, nodding once. “I get it.”

Your eyes lift, hopeful. “You do?”

A soft chuckle escapes him. “You like Heeseung.” It’s not a question. It’s a truth laid bare between you. You pause, breath catching in your throat. Then you nod. Slowly. “I think I’m in love with him.” There’s a moment of quiet. Not heavy. Not tense. Just the shared acknowledgment of something that’s been true for a while now,  you just hadn’t let yourself name it. 

To your surprise, Soobin smiles. Not bitter or wounded, just warm. Maybe even relieved. “I think you should tell him,” he says.

You swallow. “You think I should?” He nods, leaning back on his hands. “I think you’d regret it if you didn’t.”

Your heart flutters with something different this time,  not nerves, not fear. Hope. You stand up, legs shaky beneath you, but your decision anchors you. As you move toward the door, Soobin calls out softly, just before your hand touches the knob. “He loves you back, you know.”

You turn your head, eyes wide. “You think so?”

“I know so,” he says, simple and sure. You nod once, lips parting just slightly. “I hope you’re right.” And then you step into the hallway, closing the door quietly behind you. The music is still thudding below. The party still rages. But you’ve never felt more clear. Never more certain of who, or what, you want. It’s not about proving anything anymore. Not about being experienced or wanted by anyone. It’s about him. And tonight, you’re going to tell him.

You step down the creaky stairs, the bass from the party still thumping like a distant pulse beneath your skin. Your breath catches, a subtle panic fluttering in your chest as you scan the crowded living room for Heeseung’s familiar face. Your eyes dart past groups of laughing friends, clusters of conversations, and neon lights that blur faces into hazy outlines. But he’s nowhere to be found. Heart pounding in your throat, you veer toward the kitchen, hoping for some sign, a whisper, a clue. There, leaning casually against the counter, is Jake. His usual smirk falters when he notices your searching gaze. “Hey,” you say, voice barely steady. “Have you seen Heeseung?”

Jake shrugs, tossing a grape into his mouth. “Last I saw, he was in the living room with a bunch of people. Why? You looking for him?” You nod and push past him, a fragile thread of hope knitting itself between your ribs. The living room comes into view, and your steps slow, the air thickening in your lungs like smoke. And then you see him. There, framed by a cluster of familiar faces, is Heeseung. But he isn’t alone. Wonyoung stands close beside him, her body pressed against his in a way that twists something cold and sharp through your heart. His arm snakes possessively around her waist, fingers resting lightly but surely on the curve of her hip. She leans in, lips ghosting across his neck and jaw, a soft, intoxicating murmur escaping her mouth as he whispers back.

The scene unfolds like a cruel play, one you wish you could close your eyes to, but you can’t look away. Your chest caves inward, a hollow ache blossoming beneath your ribs. Your stomach churns, bile rising bitterly as you struggle to breathe through the sudden swell of nausea and heartbreak. You try to wrench your gaze away, but the sight sears into your vision, branding itself onto your soul. You can’t watch. Turning on your heel, you stumble toward the door, desperate to escape the cruel tableau. The room blurs around you, faces, laughter, music,  all fading behind the tight clamour of your ragged breaths and pounding heartbeat. Tears spill unbidden from your eyes, tracing warm, salty rivers down your cheeks. Each step away from the party feels heavier than the last, like you’re sinking deeper into a pool of your own shattered dreams.

You reach the night air, the cold biting at your skin but failing to soothe the ache inside. Pulling your phone from your pocket with trembling fingers, you summon an Uber. The glow of the screen feels alien in your hands, like a lifeline thrown across an endless chasm. Inside the car, the world outside dissolves into a blur of streetlights and shadows, but your tears keep falling, a steady cascade that no driver’s small talk or cityscape can interrupt. Your hands grip the seat, knuckles white, as the distance between you and the party grows with every passing mile. You are utterly broken. Stupid, you think bitterly. Stupid for believing, even for a moment, that someone like Lee Heeseung, with his easy charm and dazzling smile, could fall for someone like you. The DUF. The girl who blends into the background. The girl no one notices, the girl no one wants. You were chasing a dream painted in stardust and whispered promises, but it was always just that, a dream. And now, all that’s left is the ache of reality settling cold and hard in your chest.

The days bleed into each other like a slow, endless ache. You find yourself cocooned in your dorm, wrapped in the faded threads of your favorite hoodie, the one that swallows you whole and carries the scent of safety and solitude. The glasses sit perched on your nose, a barrier between the world and the girl who once believed she could be someone else. The weight of silence presses down, heavier than the thick blankets you pull up to your chin. Your phone lies discarded across the bed, buzzing and blinking with countless unanswered texts and missed calls from Heeseung, each one a fresh pang of regret and confusion you’re too scared to confront. You don’t know how to face him. How to face the truth that your heart still aches for the boy who chose someone else, who wrapped his arms around Wonyoung like you were a ghost in the room. You feel like you’ve been stripped bare, every hope unraveling thread by fragile thread. The girl who dreamed of being seen, of being wanted, it’s hard to find her beneath the rubble of broken promises and whispered lies.

Night falls again, the shadows gathering in the corners of your room as if to hold you close in your loneliness. The quiet hum of the city outside is distant and indifferent. You lie there, heart heavy, tears tracing silent rivers down your cheeks, when suddenly there’s a knock at your door. Sharp. Insistent. You don’t want to move, but something in the rhythm of that knock stirs you, a fragile hope tangled with dread. With aching limbs, you pull yourself from the bed, the cold floor a harsh reminder of the world beyond your blankets. You open the door slowly, and there he is, Heeseung. His presence fills the doorway, that familiar, impossible beauty that twists your heart in the best and worst ways. It makes your head spin, your breath catch in your throat.

His eyes search yours, deep pools filled with worry and something you can’t quite name. “Why haven’t you been answering?” he asks softly, voice low, as if afraid to break the fragile silence. “I saw you go upstairs with Soobin the night of the party…” Your throat tightens, the words choking you before you can even think. You take a shaky breath, then whisper, “The deal’s off. You don’t need to worry about making me ‘hot and popular’ anymore.”

His brow furrows, concern deepening. “What happened? Did Soobin hurt you?”

You shake your head, voice trembling but firm. “No. Just… go, Heeseung. Please.”

You reach out, beginning to close the door, but before it shuts, his foot slides gently into the frame, stopping it with quiet insistence. The space between you is charged, a fragile tension stretched thin. His voice is almost a plea. “What’s going on?” The walls you’ve built so carefully around your heart begin to crumble. You swallow hard, biting back the tears that burn your eyes, and say the words you’ve been holding in for too long. “I’m tired. Tired of pretending to be someone I’m not. Tired of playing a role, like I can be that girl, the one everyone notices, the one guys actually want.”

Your voice falters, breaking with raw, aching honesty. “Guys don’t want me. Not really. Not like I am. This was an experiment... and it worked for you, but it didn’t work for me. So… can you just go?” The silence hangs between you like a thick fog. You hear your own heartbeat pounding in your ears, loud and ragged. This time, your hand moves with quiet finality, closing the door with a definitive click. The sound echoes in the sudden, crushing emptiness of your room. And then, the floodgates break.

You lean back against the door, knees buckling as the tears you held back spill free. The sobs come unbidden, shaking your body, hot and wrenching and real. Each tear a silent confession of heartbreak, loneliness, and the aching desire to be seen, not as a mask, but as the fragile, imperfect soul beneath. In this moment, the girl you tried so hard to hide is raw and vulnerable and fiercely alive. And though it hurts more than words can say, it’s the first step toward something real, toward healing, toward finding the strength to be exactly who you are.

The morning light feels colder somehow, less forgiving as you step out of your dorm room and into the brisk hum of campus life. Today, you wear your armor: a soft, oversized hoodie pulled low over your frame, the familiar weight of your glasses perched on your nose, and leggings that carry no pretense, no flash, no glamour, just you. The girl who sought to dazzle and command attention has quietly slipped away, replaced by someone quieter, more raw, but undeniably real. As you make your way across campus, the chatter and footsteps of other students blur into a dull roar, a soundtrack to your internal storm. The air is thick with the ghosts of last night’s heartache, the sting of broken trust still simmering just beneath your skin. You tell yourself it’s fine. You tell yourself you’re okay. You’ve got this.

The lecture hall door creaks open, and you slip inside, hoping to be invisible, hoping to blend into the shadowy back rows where no one will notice your retreat from the world. But no one really goes unnoticed, especially not in a room charged with unspoken tensions. And then, just as your foot finds the seat furthest from the usual spot beside Heeseung, you hear it, a snide, low comment slicing through the hum of settling students Wonyoung’s voice, sharp and dripping with that familiar edge, echoes just enough for you to catch it. You don’t need to turn around to know it’s aimed right at you. But this time, something’s different. The bite of her words doesn’t sting. The heat of embarrassment doesn’t flush your cheeks. You simply keep walking, your stride steady and unyielding, heart quietly defiant beneath the soft fabric of your hoodie. 

You settle into your seat at the very back, far away from the usual orbit of Heeseung’s presence. And yet, even from there, you feel the weight of his gaze, like a hawk circling above, watching, waiting. His eyes flicker toward you in stolen moments, cautious and curious, as if trying to read the new lines etched into your silence. But you refuse to meet his gaze. You bury yourself deeper into your solitude, the words of the lecture washing over you like distant thunder, barely registered by a mind that’s a million miles away. Minutes stretch on, the clock ticking with relentless indifference. You notice the way Heeseung’s fingers tap lightly against the notebook in his lap, his eyes darting toward you in quick, nervous glances. It’s as if he’s searching for a way back in, a crack in the armor you’ve so carefully constructed. But today, you are a fortress, quiet and impenetrable.

When the final bell rings, a sharp and liberating sound, you rise without hesitation, stuffing your books into your bag with brisk efficiency. Heeseung’s voice trails behind you, soft, hopeful, “Hey, wait—Y/n!” but you don’t stop. You don’t turn. The hall swallows your footsteps as you push through the doors, leaving the echoes of his call behind you.

The evening wrapped itself around your dorm room like a velvet shroud, the dim light casting soft shadows over your tangled sheets and the quiet ache that clung to your chest. You lay there, cocooned in your own solitude, the weight of recent nights pressing down like a relentless tide. The world felt heavy and distant, and the thought of moving, speaking, or facing anything at all felt like a mountain too steep to climb. Then, a sharp knock echoed through the silence, jolting you from your quiet reverie. “Please go away, Heeseung,” you mutter, voice thick with exhaustion and guarded pain, already bracing yourself for the storm you didn’t want to weather again.

But the voice that answered wasn’t his. Soft, hesitant, and tinged with something almost vulnerable, Dani’s words floated through the door: “It’s not Heeseung… please, just open up.” Your heart stutters, surprise and a flicker of warmth breaking through the cold shell you’d built. With a weary sigh, you push yourself up, the weight of days pressing down on your limbs, and unlock the door. There, standing in the dim hallway, were Dani and Sakura, faces soft, eyes sincere, their usual confident air replaced with something tender and remorseful. They step inside without hesitation, their presence gentle like a balm, the space between you shrinking as they settle beside your bed.

“We’re so sorry,” Dani begins, voice low and earnest. “For everything. For not being better friends, for not being there when you needed us.” Sakura nods, her eyes shimmering with an unspoken apology. “We love you, Y/n. We do. And we’re sorry for making you feel anything less than amazing.”

Their words settle over you like a gentle rain, the unexpected kindness dissolving some of the walls you didn’t even realize you’d built so high. They smile, shy but genuine, and Dani confesses, “Sometimes, we’re even jealous of you. You make everything seem so effortless, being smart, funny, just... you. We try so hard, but you just shine naturally.” A quiet laugh escapes you, the sound rusty but honest. You joke back, teasing them for their dramatic flattery, and in the warmth of shared laughter, the tension unravels. The three of you fold into a comforting embrace, a hug woven with forgiveness and the promise of mended bonds.

After the moment lingers, Sakura’s voice breaks through, gentle but curious. “So, what about Heeseung? What’s really going on?” Your chest tightens as you recount the complicated arrangement, the late-night talks, and then, the confession that trembles on your lips. “I lost my virginity to him,” you say quietly, the words both heavy and liberating. “And in all of that... I fell in love with him.”

Their faces flicker between surprise and understanding. Sakura’s eyes soften as she speaks, “The way he looks at you... he loves you too, Y/n.” You shake your head, doubt gnawing at you like a silent ache. “But Wonyoung—”

Dani cuts in gently, firm and unwavering. “He doesn’t care about her anymore. And he never looked at Wonyoung the way he looks at you.” For the first time in what feels like forever, you want to believe them. You nod slowly, the weight of hope settling lightly in your chest. They urge you to hear Heeseung out, to let him speak and show you what’s truly there. But before the conversation can spiral further, they shift the mood, inviting you to a get-together at Sunghoon’s happening just minutes away.

At first, you hesitate, the memory of Heeseung and Wonyoung still stinging fresh. “Heeseung and Wonyoung—” you begin. Sakura cuts you off with a firm shake of her head. “They won’t be there. We promise.” That promise, fragile and shimmering with possibility, nudges you forward. You breathe in, steadying your heart, and then you say yes. Together, the three of you leave your room, stepping out into the night with tentative smiles and the fragile threads of renewed friendship and maybe, just maybe, a second chance at love waiting to bloom.

When you pull up to Sunghoon’s house that night, you’re half-expecting the pit in your stomach to grow teeth and chew you alive. But instead, you’re met with the warm, familiar glow of porch lights, the echo of laughter spilling from inside, and the voices of boys you’ve somehow come to know like brothers. Sunghoon, Jake, Jay, and Beomgyu greet you at the door like you’re royalty, like nothing in the world is out of place. They offer you sodas and cheesy jokes, Beomgyu pulling you into a dramatic bow while Jake salutes like you're being welcomed home from war. And for a flicker of a second, you forget it all, the ache, the shame, the heartbreak. You laugh. You actually laugh. You let your shoulders drop. You exist again.

Sakura appears at your side like she’s always belonged there and gives you a little nudge. “Hey,” she says, smiling with all her teeth, “Can you go grab the extra cooler outside? It’s on the deck.”

You squint at her. “You have legs.”

“Yes,” she says sweetly, “but you have main character energy tonight. So scoot.” You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling, pushing through the backdoor into the backyard. And that’s when it happens.

Twinkling fairy lights string above you like constellations pulled down from the sky, wrapped through the branches of Sunghoon’s backyard trees. They blink softly around the bonfire, flames low and lazy, casting shadows across the grass. And there, seated on a log bench near the fire, is Heeseung. His head is bowed, fingers locked together like he’s praying or maybe bracing himself from falling apart. The moment he hears your footsteps, his head jerks up. His eyes meet yours, wide and uncertain. Time hiccups. You stare. He stares. And then, slowly, shakily, he stands.

“I’ve been trying to figure out what I was going to say to you when I saw you again,” he says, voice low but trembling with everything he’s been holding in. “And now… now that you’re actually here, looking like that…”

You blink. “Looking like what? Like a girl who’s no longer hot?” He shakes his head so fast and so fiercely that a laugh escapes your throat without permission. 

“No,” he says, stepping toward you. “Looking like you. Just — you. Glasses, hoodie, stubborn scowl and all. You're beautiful.” Your breath stutters. The world sways. You try to speak, to make a joke, to do anything, but your lips don’t work. He fills the silence. “You’re so beautiful,” he says again, his voice stronger now. “And I love you.” You open your mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. You’re too stunned. Too overwhelmed. So he continues, and thank God he does.

“When I saw you go upstairs with Soobin that night… I thought I was gonna be sick. I’ve never felt anything like that. Not anger. Not sadness. Jealousy. Like I was losing something that wasn’t even mine to lose.” Your chest aches. You take a step closer, barely breathing. “Wonyoung came up to me after that,” he says, voice rougher now. “Told me she heard you and Soobin hooking up. She tried to kiss me. Said I should get over it. But I didn’t care what she said. Even if you were with Soobin, I didn’t want her. I wanted you. I’ve always wanted you.” 

You want to cry. You want to melt. But mostly, you want to run to him.

“I was never going to get in the way of you and him if that’s what you really wanted,” Heeseung continues. “But then, when you told me outside your dorm that it wasn’t going to work out… I knew. I had to tell you how I felt.” His eyes lock on yours with full, unwavering honesty.

“I love you. Just the way you are. And I think I’ve loved you since the moment I saw you at Sunghoon’s party. When you insulted my G.P.A and spilled that drink all over yourself.”  He laughs, almost breathless. “That’s when I knew I was doomed.”

A laugh bubbles out of you before you can stop it, wet and cracked but real. You take one step closer, then another, until the distance is gone. “I kissed Soobin,” you whisper, eyes locked on his. “Upstairs, that night. And it was... fine. But while it was happening, all I could think about was you. That stupid smile of yours, your dumb little jokes, the way you hold the steering wheel with one hand like you're in an action movie... I realized something.” 

Heeseung holds his breath.

“I realized that I love you. Your charm, your goofiness, the way you never let me walk on the outside of the sidewalk. I love you, even the parts I think I hate, because it’s you. And I want you.” His mouth opens like he might say something witty, but he doesn't. He just crashes forward and kisses you, fierce, certain, heart-shaking. His hands come to your face, cradling you like you’re something sacred. It’s not gentle, not this time. It’s messy and passionate and breathless, like a whole novel written in one kiss. Like everything unspoken finally found its voice.

When you finally part, foreheads touching, breath mingling, he murmurs, “You’re it for me, Y/n.” You smile, tears slipping down your cheeks.

“And you’re the dumbest genius I’ve ever met,” you say softly, kissing him again.

Somewhere behind you, from the house, you hear Beomgyu shout, “ARE THEY FINALLY MAKING OUT?!” And then Jake yells, “SUNGHOON OWES ME FIFTY BUCKS!”

You both break apart laughing, and Heeseung groans. “God, they’re never gonna let us live this down.” 

You grin, cheeks flushed. “Worth it.” Because it is. It always was.

(♬) - @beomiracles @biteyoubiteme @hyukascampfire @dawngyu @izzyy-stuff @1-800-jewon @xylatox @firstclassjaylee @teddybeartaetae @hoonjayke @princesstiti14 @seokjinthescientist @lillotus17 @yeonmuse @hoonieyun @s1rawb3rry

[valtsv]

while on the topic of romanticisation/fetishisation of abuse and its depictions in art and the cultural landscape at large, i do think it's worth mentioning that victimhood being often used as this metric of validity by way of experience - essentially "you must be This traumatised to ride" - and the resulting push for tighter restrictions on who is allowed to create and interact with these depictions of abusive behaviour ultimately only serves to deny victims the language with which to articulate their experiences and hand more power to those who inflict the abuse. you are never not going to get art that explores abuse that doesn’t resonate with you; that makes you feel uncomfortable and perhaps even offended, unless you eliminate it entirely, and it is arrogance to believe that you will always be able to tell the difference between art that uncritically "fetishises" abuse and that which depicts a victim's lived experiences, as well as a potentially invasive demand for relitigation of the trauma someone endured in order to justify their work. that's why we have critical theory and discourse - to discuss the relative merits and failures of any work of art, and communicate our subjective experiences of it with one another. also, while it very much isn't praxis, i honestly could not give less of a shit if someone's introduction to the language that enabled them to articulate their experiences, and/or understand and communicate with me about mine, was a result of their involvement in like. fucking voltron paladin shipping discourse or black butler yaoi.

[chrizzzbang]

When Nobody's Watching

pairing: (Idol) Bang Chan x (Manager) Female Reader

wc: 3k

cw: explicit sexual content, unprotected sex, oral (f receiving), praise kink, marking, mutual consent (not proof read) (lmk if I missed anything)

Minors DNI

Summary: You’re Chan’s manager. Always professional, always careful. But after a long day on tour, he shows up at your hotel door in just sweats asking you a simple question: “Why do you act like you don’t want me?”

A/N: Requests are open!

The hotel room was dark, save for the soft, flickering light of some random Netflix show playing in the background. You weren’t watching it. Not really.

You were lying across the bed, hair still damp from the shower, body sore from the endless chaos of the day. Soundcheck. Press. Scheduling nightmares. Then wrangling eight hyperactive men through a three-hour concert while running on caffeine and pure willpower.

You’d barely managed to scrub off your makeup, slide into one of the plush robes, and collapse face-first onto the mattress.

You were too tired to even respond to texts. The do-not-disturb sign was on the door. Your body was jelly. Your brain was soup.

So when the soft, almost hesitant knock came you blinked like you’d imagined it.

Then it came again.

You sighed, dragging yourself upright with a groan, tying the robe tighter around your waist. Maybe staff had the wrong room. Maybe a delivery mix-up.

You padded over to the door and cracked it open and immediately forgot how to breathe.

Chan stood in the hallway, still damp from the shower, dark curls clinging to his forehead. He wore nothing but a pair of grey sweatpants that sat low on his hips and a white t-shirt that was tight around the biceps.

His eyes met yours.

Your fingers tightened around the doorknob instinctively. “...Chan?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just leaned against the doorframe like he had every right to be there.

“Why do you act like you don’t want me?”

You blinked.

That exhaustion you’d felt seconds ago? Gone.

“Wh- what?” you stammered.

His head tilted just slightly. “You act like I’m just another artist on your schedule. Like you don’t look at me the way you do.”

Your brain scrambled for something, anything, professional to say. “Chan, I’m your manager. This isn’t-”

“I know what you are.” His voice dipped lower, a thread of heat underneath it. “You keep your distance. You’re careful. But I’m not blind.”

He pushed off the doorframe, stepping a little closer.

“I see the way you look at me when you think I’m not watching.”

Your breath hitched.

He was too close now, just one step outside your door. Your heart thudded against your ribs, warning bells in your head trying to outpace the slow, rising pull in your stomach.

“Don’t lie to me,” he said. “Not tonight.”

You crossed your arms, mostly to ground yourself. Definitely not because his eyes had just dropped to the neckline of your robe like it was something to devour.

“Chan,” you said carefully. “It’s late.”

He didn’t budge. “I know.”

“You should rest. We both should.”

“Maybe.” His gaze flicked back up to yours.

There was no smirk, no playful grin. Just quiet honesty. Raw and exposed in a way you weren’t prepared for.

You tried again. “You’re still running on post-show adrenaline. You’ll feel different in the morning.”

His voice lowered to a near whisper. “I won’t.”

You could practically feel it, the shift in the air, the way the space between you felt too charged, like something waiting to break.

“You’re my job,” you said softly, trying to stay firm. “Technically, you’re my boss.”

He took one slow step forward. You didn’t move. Couldn’t.

“You want me to treat you like an employee?” he murmured. “If that’s what you’re into…”

That made you laugh. “Not funny.”

“Wasn’t trying to be.”

There was something dangerous in his eyes now, not reckless, but deliberate. Like he’d already made up his mind.

“You don’t get it,” you said, voice tight. “I’ve worked too hard to cross a line like this. One night, one mistake, it could ruin everything.”

“It’s not a mistake if we both want it,” he said. “And it’s not one night.”

You opened your mouth to argue, to say something that would restore the distance, but he stepped even closer, and your brain blanked.

You could smell the faint scent of his body wash, familiar in the way only someone you spent almost every waking hour with could be.

His voice dropped, almost too soft to hear.

“I think about you all the time,” he said. “On stage. In the van. When you’re pacing around with your iPad and that little crease in your brow, fuck, I want to kiss it away.”

Your stomach flipped.

“I’ve tried to ignore it,” he went on. “Tried to respect your space. Let you be the professional. But do you even realize how hard you make it?”

Your throat was dry. “Chan…”

“I’m not asking you to love me,” he said. “I’m just asking you to be honest.”

He was so close now you could feel the heat of his skin against yours. One inch more and he’d be touching you.

Your fingers curled tighter around your arms. “You’re not being fair.”

“I know,” he said, and this time, he did smile. “But I can’t walk away from this hallway without trying.”

You looked at him then, really looked.

At the vulnerability in his expression. At the way he was trembling slightly, like underneath all that confidence was someone just as scared to be rejected.

It would be so easy to tell him to leave.

To remind him of contracts and PR scandals and the weight of everything on your shoulders.

But your heart was thudding for a different reason now, and the warmth between your thighs wasn’t exhaustion.

You could still tell him to go.

But you didn’t.

You didn’t say anything.

You just stepped back.

Chan’s eyes searched yours for half a second longer, looking for regret, maybe. Doubt. But you didn’t give him any.

So, he stepped inside.

The door clicked shut behind him like a secret sealed. Your fingers hovered at your sides, too aware of everything.

“Just to talk,” you said, more to yourself than to him.

He nodded once, like he was willing to play along. For now.

You sat on the edge of the bed. He stood in front of you, not touching, but close enough to make your skin ache.

Neither of you spoke.

The tension thickened between the walls. The quiet stretched long and loaded, and you could feel his gaze on you.

Then…

“I’ve wanted to do this for a long time,” he murmured.

You looked up at him, about to ask what he meant.

But his hand came up, slow and deliberate, and he cupped your jaw like he was afraid you’d pull away.

You didn’t.

His thumb brushed across your bottom lip, feather-light. You exhaled a soft, shaky breath.

Then he leaned in and kissed you.

It wasn’t careful. Not really. Not after all this waiting. His lips were warm, sure, a little desperate. Yours parted before you realized you were doing it, and he groaned quietly, like that was all he needed.

His other hand slid behind your neck, pulling you deeper into it, and you let yourself fall, hands gripping his waist, mouth opening under his like you’d been waiting years.

He stepped forward, pushing you gently back onto the mattress, one knee between yours.

You weren’t thinking anymore. Just feeling.

His body covered yours, the weight of him intoxicating, his hips rocking down right where you were already starting to throb.

You gasped into his mouth.

His lips trailed down to your jaw, then your neck, sucking a mark low enough to hide.

“I knew it,” he murmured, voice wrecked and full of want. “You feel so good. So fucking good.”

You arched up against him. The robe slipped open beneath him, and his skin pressed to yours.

He groaned again when your hips rolled up to meet his.

“Tell me to stop,” he said, mouth ghosting along your collarbone.

You just whispered, “Don’t.”

And he didn’t.

His hand found your thigh, dragged it up around his waist as he rocked against you, dragging slow, grinding friction between your legs that made you moan into his shoulder.

“You don’t have to pretend anymore,” he whispered, lips at your ear. “Let me make you feel good. Let me take care of you.”

And God help you, you let him.

You didn’t know when the kissing turned into undressing, when your robe slipped off your shoulders or when his sweatpants started to ride lower from how he moved against you.

All you knew was the feel of his hands on your skin.

So careful. So reverent. Like he was touching something holy.

Chan kissed down your neck like it was something he’d dreamed about. No rushing, no fumbling, just hot, open-mouthed kisses dragged along the column of your throat, down to your collarbones, like he was memorizing every inch of you with his mouth.

He paused above your chest, breath warm, eyes flicking up.

“Can I?” he asked, already undoing the knot of your robe with maddening slowness.

You nodded, breath catching.

When the fabric opened, his mouth dropped open just slightly, then curved into something softer.

“Fuck,” he whispered. “You’re so beautiful.”

You flushed under the weight of it. No one had ever said it like that before, like it hurt him to hold it in.

His hands came up to cup your breasts, thumbs brushing lightly over your nipples before he dipped down to kiss between them, then over one, tongue warm and wet.

You whimpered, hips shifting under him.

He looked up again with a small, crooked smile.

“Sensitive?”

You tried to glare. It came out as a gasp when he flicked his tongue again, teasing, suckling lightly until your hands flew up to tangle in his curls.

And that only spurred him on.

He licked down the slope of your stomach, kissing every dip and curve as he made his way lower. When he reached your thighs, he gently nudged your legs apart and settled between them like he belonged there.

Then he looked up at you again, eyes hooded, voice like velvet.

“Been thinking about this for so long,” he murmured. “You, falling apart on my tongue. Just like this.”

You tried to respond, but your breath caught in your throat when his hands slid under your thighs and lifted them over his shoulders.

You were so exposed now. And he looked like he was starving.

The first slow lick made your hips jolt.

“Fuck- Chan”

“Mmm,” he hummed, dragging his tongue through your folds again, savouring it. “Say that again.”

He licked you like he had all the time in the world. Soft, unhurried strokes that made your whole body tremble. When your fingers curled tighter in his hair, he moaned against you loudly, like getting to taste you was as good for him as it was for you.

“You don’t have to hold back,” he murmured, breath hot against your soaked core. “I want to hear you.”

And when he flattened his tongue and dragged it up slowly before sucking your clit between his lips, you did. You moaned, needy and unfiltered, thighs tightening around his head.

“That’s it, baby,” he whispered. “God, you taste so good. So wet for me.”

He didn’t stop. Tongue working you over until your back arched and your hands fisted in the sheets, hips canting up as he devoured you. His fingers dug into your thighs, holding you still so he could keep going deeper, harder, just the way you liked.

“You gonna cum for me like this?” he asked, mouth glossy, voice wrecked. “Let me feel it, baby. Let me have it.”

You were already there, clinging to the edge, breath hitching, legs shaking.

And when he sucked just a little harder, groaned against your clit like he needed it, you shattered.

Your body seized with the force of it, the orgasm crashing through you like a wave, and Chan didn’t stop, kept licking you through it, kept whispering praise you barely understood.

“Fuck, that’s it, baby… just like that… perfect for me.”

When you finally came down, you were boneless, trembling, breathless.

He kissed his way back up your body, slow and sweet. Your chest still heaved. Your thighs were soaked and still twitching.

But his eyes?

Still dark. Still hungry.

“I’m not done with you yet,” he murmured, mouth brushing your ear. “Not even close.”

You were still catching your breath when he kissed you again, slow and tender, like he wasn’t the same man who’d just made you cum with his mouth.

Your hand curled around his nape, fingers dragging through damp curls as his weight pressed into you, grounding you in the best way.

“Still with me?” he asked softly, kissing the corner of your mouth.

You nodded, dazed. “Yeah.”

“Good,” he whispered. “Because I’m not letting you go now.”

His forehead rested against yours, and his hand slid between your bodies to tug at his waistband. You felt his cock brush against your thigh and your body responded instantly, another ripple of arousal blooming low in your belly.

“Chan-”

He looked down at you, gaze dark but gentle. “Tell me if you want to stop.”

You didn’t even hesitate. “I don’t.”

He nodded once. Then reached down, guiding himself to your entrance.

He slid in slowly, giving you every inch with careful precision, hips rolling shallow as he filled you. Your back arched. Your mouth fell open.

“F-fuck,” you gasped. “You’re… you’re big-”

Chan groaned like he was in pain. “You’re so tight, baby. Taking me so well.”

His arms wrapped around your waist as he buried himself fully. Your legs locked around him, pulling him closer.

For a while, he didn’t move.

He just held you, breathing into your neck, letting you adjust to the stretch of him.

“You feel like heaven,” he murmured. “Been dreaming of this. Thinking about it every damn night.”

Then he started to move.

Slow, deep thrusts that hit just right. The kind that made your toes curl. The kind that made your eyes flutter shut.

You clung to him, moaning softly with each gentle drag of his cock.

He kissed your cheek, your jaw, your temple.

“You’re so good for me,” he whispered. “So fucking perfect.”

Your body shuddered beneath him. The praise, the weight of him, the slow rhythm, it was blissful.

But then his pace started to pick up. His hips snapped a little harder, a little faster, his restraint fraying with every breathless sound you made.

“You want it rough now, don’t you?” he growled, lips brushing your ear. “I can feel you clenching. You want me to take you.”

You nodded, helpless. “Please…”

His mouth curled into a wicked grin. “Say it.”

“Please, Chan. Need you to fuck me, hard.”

That was all it took.

He flipped you with practiced ease, your back against the mattress now, legs spread wide. His hands pinned your wrists above your head, and when he thrust into you again, it was rougher. Deeper. Brutal in the best way.

Your head tipped back, a cry tearing from your throat.

He fucked you into the bed, hips slamming into yours with every stroke. Sweat dripped from his temple. His abs flexed as he rolled his hips, grinding into your sweet spot until you were writhing under him.

“Say my name,” he panted, voice full of grit.

“Chan,” you gasped, eyes glassy. “Oh my God, Chan!”

“Yeah? That’s it. That’s my girl.”

He dipped down and sucked a mark into your neck, groaning against your skin like he couldn’t help himself.

“You’re mine,” he growled. “When we’re off the clock? You’re fucking mine.”

You came again, clenching around him with a choked sob as he slammed into you, chasing his own high.

He followed moments later, hips jerking, breath breaking as he spilled into you with a rough moan of your name.

When he collapsed onto you, he didn’t let go.

Didn’t pull out. Didn’t say a word.

Just held you close, arms trembling slightly, breath ragged against your collarbone.

The silence that followed was heavier than anything either of you had said.

But this time, it didn’t hurt.

It was soft. Close. Breath-warm and skin-slick, his chest rising and falling against yours as he stayed inside you, not ready to let go.

You could feel the beat of his heart as his arms tightened around your waist.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

Then, quietly, Chan whispered, “You okay?”

You nodded, cheek resting against his shoulder. “Yeah.”

He shifted back just enough to see your face, brushing damp hair from your forehead. His fingers were gentle, so gentle it made your throat tighten.

“I mean it,” he said softly. “You’re okay?”

You blinked up at him, dazed from pleasure and too many emotions you hadn’t let yourself feel. “I am.”

He smiled, small and sweet. “Good.”

He leaned in and pressed a kiss to your forehead. Then another to your temple. Then one to the corner of your mouth, slow and lingering.

You exhaled, finally letting yourself melt into the moment.

Into him.

Chan pulled out gently and reached for the sheets, covering both of you before curling his arm back around your waist. You let him tug you into his chest, your leg draped over his hip, your hand resting on the soft plane of his stomach.

It felt easy.

It shouldn’t have. But it did.

“You’re gonna hate me in the morning,” he murmured after a while, voice low and tired.

You cracked a smile against his skin. “Not sure I have the energy for hate right now.”

He chuckled, the sound soft and fond. “Don’t go back to pretending, okay?”

You lifted your head, meeting his gaze. It was open, unguarded in a way you rarely saw from him. No jokes. No walls.

Just Chan.

“I see you,” he said quietly. “Even when you’re working. Even when you try to hide it. I see the way you look at me. The way you protect me.”

You swallowed hard.

He leaned in, kissed the tip of your nose.

“You don’t have to pretend anymore. Not with me.”

You didn’t answer right away.

But when your hand slid up to rest over his heart and you tucked yourself under his chin with a whisper-soft, “Okay,” it felt like a promise.

He held you tighter. And when he asked, “Can I stay?” like the room didn’t already belong to both of you now, you nodded, and whispered, “Yes.”

[cloverapple]

Every Law, Method, and View Is Correct, and You Can Never Shift “Wrong”

There’s no wrong way to shift. You do whatever feels easiest on your mind, whatever fits you best. Sure, it’s good not to box yourself in with limits and constraints, but that doesn’t mean you can’t use what resonates. That’s why everything works: Law of Assumption, Law of Attraction, quantum jumping, reality transurfing, two-cup, subliminals, prayer, meditation, visualization— you pick your flavor.

They’re all simply different ways to redirect your awareness to observe the outcome you want until all other options collapse. That’s it. Different roads, same movement, same destination.

And here’s the thing: If you’ve been practicing something—say, using Law of Attraction—to shift for X years, and you think you “still haven’t shifted,” don’t you find that weird? Even if you throw cause and effect out the window, and zoom out to the perspective that you are infinite and already have everything, it becomes obvious: you did the action to get your desire, you set your intention, you observed it, you moved toward it. So by the logic you live by daily, you must have the outcome. You already have it because you did the action to get it. You can’t fail, because you don’t intend to fail.

You always get what you intend, because what you intend becomes what you are. This isn’t “reality reflecting you like a delayed mirror,” it’s instant. It’s that the moment you intend through whatever method you intend by (loa, loass, etc), you are that version, and everything else is illusion, not a delay.

Wavering, contradicting yourself, spiraling; none of these “block” your desire. They don’t take it away. They’re just like hands over your eyes, fogging up your lens, making you think you don’t have it, even when you do. They’re habits of observation, not proof that you aren’t what you intended to be.

It’s like someone who worked out, changed their body completely, but when they look in the mirror, they still see their old body because that’s what they’re used to seeing.

That’s why I keep saying: the idea that you don’t have it is an illusion. “I’m still seeing my CR.” No, you’re not. Even the question of how to break the illusion is an illusion.

So: If you’re using Law of Attraction, you’re not doing anything wrong. If you’re using Law of Assumption, you’re not doing anything wrong. If you’re practicing non-duality, you’re not doing anything wrong. If you’re scripting, meditating, affirming, visualizing, or simply daydreaming, you’re not doing anything wrong. If you’re letting go and forgetting about it, you’re not doing anything wrong.

You are always correct, except for when you believe you’re powerless and that you don’t have something you’ve already taken the action (intended, observed, affirmed) to get. That’s the only moment you’re incorrect—because you’re powerful :)

*The idea that you’re wrong, broken and don’t deserve to shift is also an illusion. Give yourself the grace and love you deserve, but don’t think for a single second that the path you’re taking to get your desire is the wrong one.

[vincentbriggs]

Hi hello I have a question for Vibrating Shuttle People.

My c. 1885 White VS 2 is mostly in working order, and I thought it was working 100% fine but when I tried to actually sew on it I found it makes loops occasionally.

They're always on the underside of the fabric and are quite long - about 6 or 7 mm. All the rest of the stitching is nice and even. They sometimes happen an inch or two apart, but sometimes it goes for a really long time without doing it.

I've tried a few different kinds of thread and it does it a lot more with poly thread than with cotton, but it still does it with my fine cotton machine quilting thread, so I don't think that's the whole problem. (Plus the previous user sewed on this machine from the 1910's all the way through to the 1970's, and the tins of thread it came with included some really low quality fuzzy synthetics, and as far as I know she didn't have another machine so they presumably worked with it?)

I thought maybe it was the slightly different length of the newer needles I bought, but it still does the loops when I use it with one of the original White brand needles it came with.

I've fiddled with the tension lots and lots, and it's super easy to adjust on this machine, but that doesn't appear to have anything to do with the loops either. As mentioned the rest of the stitching is perfectly fine. I've tried it with big heavy spools and tiny lightweight spools and in between spools, and loops happen with all of them.

I am at a loss! The only thing I can think of is maaybe when I took it apart for cleaning I put something back not quite aligned right, BUT if it were the alignment then why would the thread quality affect it so much?? When I cleaned it I also replaced all the felt pads, including the one between the machine and the tension discs (which are different from newer kinds because they spin) but the discs are spinning just fine as far as I can tell.

Has this ever happened to you? Any clues??

It's a boat shuttle, if that makes any difference.

[catherinnn]

Sharp Tongue

Eddie Munson x Fem!reader

summary: Eddie gets his tongue newly pierced and it becomes your weakness.

warnings: SMUT (+18), oral (f & m), overstimulation, piercings and descriptions of the healing process, afab! reader.

words: around 4k

masterlist

The group is at Steve's. Pizzas are already on the way and the beer is chilling in the fridge. The only thing missing was Eddie. Well, not actually missing. He probably took too long in the shower or stayed listening to his favorite album on repeat and the time flew.

He arrives an hour late, everyone scoffing at him.

"Alright, alright. I have no excuse. But I do have a little surprise" he smiles.

"What is it?" Jonathan asks. Eddie simply sticks his tongue out, showing the little metal bar on his tongue. "What?!"

"Holy shit! Is that real?" Steve looks at his tongue surprisingly.

"Of course it is, Harrington" Eddie smirks. "I got it last week. Hurt like a bitch but it looks sick, right?"

"That’s so cool, let me see it again!" Robin agrees. Eddie sticks his tongue out again.

You don't say anything. You stay frozen, just looking at it amazed.

Eddie wiggles his tongue a little before wincing. "Still sore, no unnecessary movements"

"How are you not in pain?" Nancy asks him.

"I mean, I was. The first few days sucked. Living off of soup and mashed potatoes. But now It's not swollen anymore. I can't eat anything that's not soft, and I can't kiss anyone" he explains. "Not like there's a line of girls waiting to kiss me anyway"

"But since when did you want a tongue piercing?" Nancy asks.

"I mean, why not? Looks metal. Plus, it's supposed to be really fun... in some scenarios"

"You mean... like-"

He interrupts her, with a smirk and a wink. "Exactly what you're thinking, Wheeler"

You almost choke on your drink at that image. The idea of what that piercing could do and how it would feel against-

Robin is so kind to interrupt these thought out of your head, as she sees your flushed cheeks and lost stare.

"You've been suspiciously quiet. Everything okay?"

"Huh? yeah, fine" you shrug.

"What's your verdict, princess. Am I pulling this off or does it look weird?" Eddie asks you.

"I think you're pulling it off" you nod.

He smirks. "Good to know"

"Pizzas are here! and uhh... mashed potatoes for Eddie, I guess" Steve interrupts.

As the pizzas disappear, more cans of beer are opened. You're curled in the corner of the couch, finishing your cup, feeling the blush on your cheeks from the alcohol.

Eddie's sitting next to you. Long legs stretched out and he's leaning back against the couch. And his tongue?

You can clearly see the little metal ball peaking out of his pink lips as he absentmindedly plays with it.

"Eddie, stop that. You weren’t supposed to play with it yet" you tell him.

"Didn't realize I had an audience" he chuckles.

"You don't" you playfully roll your eyes, lying.

Robin and Steve are bickering about something you didn't pay attention to. Nancy and Jonathan having their own quiet conversation.

Eddie nudged your ankle with his. "You okay?"

"Yeah, just tipsy" you smile. "How's your mouth? Swollen?"

"Nah, not anymore. The first few days were torture though. I sounded like I had some dental surgery, real charming"

"Did it hurt more or less than a tattoo?" you ask.

"It's a different kind of pain. A tattoo is like... this dragging burn. The piercing was just one sharp stitch, quick and kinda shocking" he answers your questions. "I'm surprised you're this curious. You usually avoid anything involving blood or needles"

"I dunno. This doesn't look too bad"

"Oh great, thanks" he laughs. "Anything else you wanna know?"

If he only knew everything else you want to know. Like how the contrast with the coldness of the metal and the warmness of his tongue would feel against your skin. How would it feel to kiss him? To play with your tongue against his and feel the little ball making everything even hotter.

You've always wondered how it would be to kiss someone with that piercing... and you've always wondered how it would be to kiss Eddie. Ever since you met him.

But now, the thought of killing two birds with one stone, solving both of your questions, was making you dizzier than the alcohol itself.

“You keep looking at me like that” he murmurs, barely audible.

“Like what?”

“Like you want to know something” he tilts his head, a crooked grin forming.

You should lie, laugh it off. Should say it’s the alcohol, the fact that he’s loud and hard to ignore. But you don't.

Instead, you take another sip and lean in a little, the alcohol giving you the courage and guts.

“I guess I’ve always wondered…” you say softly. “what it would be like”

His expression shifts, eyes darkening, his grin faltering at the edges. “What what would be like?”

“Kissing someone with a tongue piercing”

There it is. No flirtation, no sarcasm. Just truth. Eddie doesn’t say anything. He just stares, his fingers tightening around his bottle.

You continue, a little bolder now. “People say it makes everything feel more intense. Maybe the metal adds pressure” Your gaze drops to his mouth. “Makes everything feel even better”

Eddie swallows hard, forgets how to breathe.

Now they're both imagining, picturing, letting your minds run wild. Every place that piercing could go. The heat of his mouth dragging over skin, the pressure of metal.

You're painting a picture, making him your muse. And he's ready to frame it and hang it on his wall.

“You really think about that stuff?” his voice is hoarse.

“Sometimes" you shrug, smirking. “I’m just curious”

“Curious” he repeats, like it’s the most obscene word he’s ever heard. "You know I can't kiss anyone yet"

"No, I know" You lean back against the couch. “I’m just saying, it’s a really interesting piercing”

Eddie clenches his jaw.

"One week” he mutters.

"Until what?”

“Until I can"

You didn't want to overthink what Eddie had said. You were both drinking. Tipsy, flirty. But you've been friends for a while now, there's no way he was really going to throw all that out the window for a hot night together... as hot as that night would be.

By Thursday of the following week, you were going to The Hideout with the group. Eddie was playing with his band and you always came to see him every once in a while.

Once the show is over and the music inside the bar shifts to its usual rock playlist, Eddie comes back down to greet everyone. His cheeks are pink, voice still hoarse from his singing.

You can feel him before you see him. He sits next to you at the tiny table that was definitely meant for less than six people to sit on. So of course his leg is constantly touching yours. Your shoulders brush everytime you lean to grab your drink.

Eddie melts casually into the conversation, like usual. But he still hasn't said a word directly to you since he sat down.

You reach to grab some chips from the table and you bump his arm.

"Sorry" you whisper.

He finally looks at you, grin on. "You keep saying that everytime we touch"

"Maybe we should stop sitting too close" you grin too.

"Maybe I like it" he adds. Then, his hand goes down rest on your thigh. Your heart skips a beat. "You remember everything from last week?"

"I remember a lot of things" you say.

"Oh, yeah?" he hums.

"I remember you were drunk"

"So were you"

"Exactly"

"So you think I didn't mean any of it?"

"I think you wouldn't throw away our friendship just because we drank too much and sat too close"

"Is that was it was to you? A mistake?"

"I didn't say that" you correct him, but your moment of tension is cut off by Steve, not even realizing what he was doing.

"So, Munson, how's the tongue?"

"God, don't phrase it like that" Robin cringes.

"Oh, my tongue? Wouldn't you wanna know, Harrington?" Eddie grins wide and leans back, and arm going behind his head to scratch his head. He doesn't know it (or maybe he actually does) but his shirt lifts up, letting you get a peak of his happy trail. Good God.

Steve rolls his eyes. "The piercing, idiot"

"It's all healed up. No infection. I even checked with my piercer and he gave me the green light"

"Can you eat properly now?" Robin asks him.

"Yup, I've been having pizza for two days straight now. I've missed it so much"

The silver ball appears from between his lips, rolling from one corner to the other. He's playing with it, obviously. Constantly. Like a nervous tic... or maybe a provocation.

"I mean... technically, now I could kiss anyone at this bar if I wanted" he adds. "And even more than kissing"

"Jesus, alright. We get the picture" Nancy groans.

And just like that, your mind is already spiriling again, taking you to a corner in your brain where Eddie's mouth is not talking, teasing, and joking around. It's exploring, tasting, pressing, flicking.

You clear your throat and look away, pretending to focus on anything else.

"Alright, I'm going out for a smoke" Eddie stands up and grabs his cigarettes. He looks up for a second and calls your name. "Could you be a doll and join me outside? You know, so I'm not all alone and defenseless out there"

You hesitate. Something tells you to avoid this. But then again, part of you has been waiting for this moment.

"Back in a sec" you murmur to the rest as you stand up as well.

Outside, Eddie leans back against the brick wall and lights his cigarette.

"Defenseless, really?" you ask.

"I mean, I can't afford a bodyguard yet, so you'll have to do" he jokes.

You roll your eyes. But the joke doesn't last. Eddie takes another drag and exhales, his eyes not leaving your face.

"I meant what I said the other night" he admits. "I only told you that being drunk because sober me's a coward"

"You're not a coward"

"The filter just dropped there, that's all" he pauses. "I haven't stopped thinking about you. About that night and how you looked at me. And you're pretending it didn't mean anything"

"I'm not pretending, I'm trying to protect what we have"

"I know, but what if we miss the chance of something real?" He walks closer to you. "I'm not gonna kiss you. Not because I don't want to. I do. God, I do."

"Then why not?"

"Because I want you to believe me first"

You stay looking at him, thinking. Eddie takes a step back, like the conversation is over, and takes another hit.

He's about to talk but you beat him to it.

"Eddie"

He turns, quiet. And you walk over to him without thinking too much about it.

"I haven't stopped thinking about that night either" you admit. "I keep picturing it. You playing with that stupid piercing like you're doing right now"

He hadn't realized he was. His tongue stops, subconsciously.

"I imagine what it would feel like," you whisper, stepping closer. "against my lips"

"Jesus" he sighs.

"Against my skin. I wonder what it would be like to kiss it. To play with it. with my tongue" you keeps whispering.

He calls your name like a warning.

"What? You wanted honesty"

"This is not fair"

"I know what I want. And I wanted to be sure you wanted it too"

"I do, so badly"

"You said you could kiss anyone you wanted tonight, right?"

"Yeah" he says, jaw tense.

"Then why don't we stop playing around it... and finally see what it feels like?"

It takes him less than a second. He doesn't hesitates and he moves.

Hands on you and he kisses you like he's been waiting months to do it. It's rough at first, urgent. Like he's afraid if he doesn't kiss you now, he'll never get the chance again.

Your back hits the wall softly as you melt into him. Arms around his neck. And it's everything you imagined.

The metal feels a bit cold at first, in contrast with his hot, soft and slow tongue. He deepens the kiss, flicking the piercing slightly against your bottom lip.

A sound escapes your throat at that.

"Well?" he smirks.

"It's... better than I imagined"

"Did you imagine a lot, sweetheart?" he smirks as he hugs you.

You don’t rush back in.

Not when Eddie has you pressed against the brick wall like it’s the only place in the world he wants to be. Not when he’s still kissing you like he can’t quite believe this is real.

Every flick of that piercing, teasing the corner of your mouth, your tongue, dipping down to your jaw.

Eddie pulls back just a little, lips dragging to your cheek, then lower, to the curve of your jaw, then your neck.

And then he mutters against your skin, voice rough and low: “If you want we can keep testing how this thing works later” He pulls back to look at you. “I mean, purely scientific purposes; research, discovery"

“You’re ridiculous” you whisper, chucking.

He kisses you again. Slower and softer.

Then, he pulls away and smooths his hand down your arm. “C’mon, let’s go back before they start missing us”

You walk back in trying to act casual... you failed.

You hadn't notice that your hair was noticeably more tangled, lipstick no longer present. Instead, the tinted red was now on Eddie's lips and the corners of his mouth. His hair a mess...  even more than usual.

And they all notice. Everyone.

Steve spots you first. “No. No way.” He slams his hand on the table. “You two?”

“Oh my God" Robin laughs looking at Eddie's face.

“Do we all need to go outside for a smoke break now?” Jonathan acts scared, jokingly.

Eddie just shrugs and slides back into his seat like nothing happened.

“I mean...” he starts with a grin. “I told you I could kiss anyone I wanted tonight"

You sit down without a word.

“I told you I was defenseless,” Eddie adds, “she just took full advantage”

You roll your eyes.

"So? Does the piercing work?" Robin jokes.

"Oh, it works" you smirk.

The parking lot feels cold. The group spills out of the bar, putting on jackets and still laughing about some dumb joke.

Nancy and Jonathan get to her car, ready to go back home.

Steve grabs his keys and walks up to his car. "Alright ladies, I promised I'd get you two home" he refers to you and Robin.

You dig in your purse for your keys when you hear: "Or..."

You turn to the metalhead behind you, standing by his van.

"You could ride with me" he offers.

"Mmh, pros and cons?" you ask.

"You already know what I'm offering" he gives you a cocky smirk. "I told you we could keep testing things"

"Oh" Robin's eyes shot up.

"Sorry Steve, thanks for the offer though" you walk towards the van with a playful smile.

"Don't worry, Stevie" Eddie smirks, openening the passenger door for you. "I'll make sure she gets home... eventually"

Steve rolls his eyes and sighs, getting on his car.

As Eddie drives out of the parking lot, your friends yell: "Wrap it up, Munson!; Use protection!"

Once you arrive at Eddie's place, the door clicks shut behind you. The trailer is quiet. Eddie tosses his keys on the counter and turns to look at you.

He's like a wolf with its prey. His innocent and pretty lamb just waiting for him to devour her. His eyes raking over you. The silver ball still peaking out in between his lips while he stares at you.

"You look nervous" he murmurs, stepping closer.

"I'm not"

He smirks at that. "You're gorgeous, you know?"

"Just come here and kiss me" you chuckle.

That's all it takes, his hand finds your hair and his mouth is on yours before you know it.

You start making out. That metal ball right where you wanted it, agaisnt your own tongue, making you chase the feeling of it.

His hands sliding down your waist, gripping your hips like he means to leave marks.

He walks you backwards, step by step, never breaking the kiss. Until you hit the edge of his bed and drop onto it.

He just stares at you for a moment.

“Wanna keep going?” he asks, raspy voice. And you nod. “That’s not a yes”

“Yes" you whisper.

He's on you again in a second, kissing you harder, with his hands all over you.

Then, his mouth moves south to your neck. Open-mouthed kisses to make sure you feel the metal.

You can't really register when exactly your shoes came off. If it was before or after your shirt was tugged over your head. Everything blurs around the way Eddie's hands grip you, or his mouth moves lower and lower on your throat, chest, stomach. Until it reaches your thighs.

He looks up at you with those botton eyes and you're not sure if he knows the effect they have on you. His hair brushes over your skin as he settles in between your legs, and the sight of him there —eager, ruined already.

His mouth is everywhere, slow at first, like he wants to savor your reactions —every twitch, every gasp, every whispered 'Eddie' that slips out. And that piercing is not just decoration.

It gets impossibly hot pressed against you in the best places. He flicks it, then drags it slow just to hear you.

You fist on those poor cushions. He grins against you, tongue insistent, fingers gripping your hips to keep you still.

Round one hits like a storm. Your thighs already trembling on his shoulders, his name repeated on your lips as you cum.

But he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even give you time to think.

Round two is worse (or better). He's slower now. "You taste like fucking candy, sweetheart" he mutters, voice wrecked and low, sending you vibrations.

He uses his tongue flat, the piercing catching right on your clit, flicking it every two seconds. You're twitching, begging, already falling apart again.

When you finish for the second time, your mind is blank, eyes glassy.

He nips at the inside of thigh, mutters things against your skin you can't even hear.

And you think he’ll stop now.

He doesn’t.

By round three, you're gasping his name loudly. You're so sentisive that you could just start crying.

And he's not even close to done.

“Still with me, baby?” he murmurs, mouth hovering just above you. “You got one more?”

You nod, enthusiastic.

And he dives in again —addicted.

By the end, you're not sure if you're moaning or sobbing, maybe both. Your hips held tight in his hands while he licks through the waves of your orgasm.

And when he finally pulls back, he's got your slick down to his chin and all over his cheeks, that metal glinting in the low light, his hair wild, and a dangerous look in his eyes.

“Jesus, that was the best” he whispers, licking his lips.

You just reach for him and pull him up to another kiss.

Eddie goes to lie half on top of you, his arms around your waist, hair sticking to his cheeks, and his cheeks are flustered.

He could only describe you as a beatiful mess beneath him, bare and flustered, still catching her breath.

"I could use a cigarette now" he smirks and looks in his nightstand. Your gaze drops to the very obvious state of his jeans.

Tight. Painfully so.

The outline of him is already big.

You reach down and lightly brush your fingers over the bulge. He practically jumps.

He warns, calling your name.

You only tilt your head, voice teasing. "You really thought we were over?"

He groans, hiding his face in your neck. “I'm happy with what we did already”

"Yeah?" you grin, push him back a little, trailing your hand down his chest, toying with the hem of his shirt. “Well… but look at you”

He exhales, jaw clenching. “Don’t do that unless you mean it"

“Oh, I mean it,” you whisper, palming him over the denim now, watching the way his hips twitch towards you. “You’ve been walking around all night with that piercing like you invented sex. Thought we were done?"

He laughs, breathless, then moans as you unbutton his pants slowly, dragging the zipper down. He’s twitching, hard and thick, and so big.

And when you get your mouth on him, he moans louder.

"Fuck, sweetheart-"

You work him over with your tongue, taking your time, teasing, savoring. You want to make a mess out of him too.

Your tongue curls on his pink head, while you stroke the base.

And when you look up at him, mouth slick, eyes gleaming? Eddie loses it.

Groaning, head back, fingers fisting the sheets and your hair with the other hand. He whispers a string of curses and sweet nothings that make you want to ruin him.

"You're so good, baby. You're gonna make me cum, ruin that cute little face and make it mine"

He pushes you down slowly, further, so you're taking all of him.

"That’s a good girl, take all of it. God"

And when he finally comes, thighs trembling, moaning your name, you can only smile, licking your lips, and murmur:

“Now we’re even"

Eddie blinks, dazed. Then laughs, low and panting.

"So did you like the piercing?" he gives you a big smile when you go and lay next to him.

"Like is an understatement" you chuckle.

"Oh yeah?" he grabs your cheeks and gives you a quick kiss.

"Yeah, I might have a few other ideas we could try out"

"Oh, I like the sound of that," he gives you another kiss, "I have some ideas of my own too"

"Then we better get to it, big boy"

"We most definitely will, pretty girl"

[angst-fairy]

Everyone has needs, some more than others sure, but isn't that what the cause is about?? Making sure everyone is provided for? Loving everyone and treating them well?

Ones with extreme disabilities are the most qualified to be part of this cause. Even ones who can't speak has a voice, they have ideas that need to hear, wants to be heard. Why do they need anymore than that to participate?

I understand how awful it is to be in pain, to be disabled, but not look or be treated like it. You feel like you've fought so hard for so long, endured all this pain but by the end no one cares, no one even notices and they treat you like you didn't just fight for your life. You feel like you achieved something but they refuse to give you your prize or admit that you did anything at all. But the fact is we are discriminated against less because of this. You can disagree, you can ignore it, but that changes nothing. This is a fact, you want to change it go do something, but you can't just disagree. Another fact is that it doesn't make me less worthy to be in the disabled community or fight to be treated better. I'm more physically capable than some, that is all. I need a little less help, that is all. There is no "we're more important, we're more justified or we're more disabled." Disability isn't even one single scale. People with different disabilities are affected in different ways, you can't always compare them, especially not if your trying to figure out which one is "worse" than the other.

I got made fun of and accused of faking my seizures for attention in a discord I had just joined. There were 6 girls all attacking me. One of which claimed to have seizures as well. I thought I found friend to relate to, but she refused to believe me because I didn't have a diagnosis yet and said that because she was never medically gaslit, my doctors couldn't have done that to me. I suffered 4 years of being told all my symptoms were just anxiety, a nurse did 3 sternum rubs on me, forced me out of a seizure so I couldn't speak and was very confused and yelled at me because I wasn't corporating, I got thrown out of school, I lost many friends, I left doctor appointments crying and wanting to kill myself, I don't trust any new friends I make online because I'm worried they'll turn on me too. If you are in the disabled community and think your weeding out all the less disabled fakers, then you need to get your head checked. And if you went through similar things I did, but are reacting by not supporting more physically visible disabled people, then you are on the wrong side. Both need to remember what this community is meant to be about, and that is supporting everyone.

[the-fanss]

Threads - Part 2

Note: omg guys thank you for liking the first part so much!! I wasn’t expecting so many people to like it lol, it’s a little self indulgent. The next update might take a few days purely because it’s one of my partner’s birthdays so I’m making this one a bit longer :>

~Reader~

I swear to god Rumi why would you release a song when your voice has been bothering you so much?? I think to myself as the girls message me about what’s going on. Last night after I got home Rumi released Huntrix’s new song Golden when they were all supposed to be on a three week break. I know for a fact Bobby must be stressed because these girls keep him on his toes.

“Rumi if you weren’t feeling well with your voice gone why would you release music. Stress isn’t going to help.” I say sitting with the three girls after a cancelled show and they wanted to get food.

“I don’t know, I wasn’t feeling bad when it happened. I think I just need some rest?” She responded looking down.

“It’s okay Bobby can handle it!” and speak of the devil right as Zoey says that Bobby calls. “Girls I can’t handle this!” Poor man sounds stressed and overwhelmed. He’s talking to the girls about next steps going forward as I observe Rumi and how tense she looks.

We weren’t always friends it was more of a forced proximity to each other that brought us to get to know one another. Zoey is easy to get to know because she loves to please people and she’s so social, Mira was harder to read but I’m so happy I got to know her, and Rumi… she always seemed like she had something to hide and sometimes things didn’t add up but eventually because of us working together a lot we just started to get closer.

“I know I’m not your manager or in charge of schedules for you but how about if you want to still promote without wearing out your voice you just do some game shows?” I say after the girls finish talking to Bobby.

“It wouldn’t be a horrible idea..” Rumi starts, “But a lot of those shows right now are focusing on newly debuted groups to get their name out there for idol awards in a few weeks.”

“True but it could help us get our new song out there and get people excited to connect with us more too.” Mira pointed out going along with my idea. Zoey just nodded along enjoying her food and seemed happy that Rumi was back after running off.

“I can see if I can send some shows for you to do to Bobby if that helps. Some of them are going to be at a few of my venues.” I say checking availability for the next few weeks on my phone.

“You really don’t have to do that..” Rumi starts unsure of herself. I look up from my phone and my eyes catch some of the threads connected to her. Some have turned a golden color, a lot of red is mixed in which are more than likely fans of the group. Zoey and Mira have the same. Threads have different colors for each connection. Adoration is red, friendship can be a deep blue color, but I haven’t seen golden ones before. Sometimes specialized threads can have a specific color depending on who it’s tied to but it varies from person to person, and the weaker the connection you have to a person the less visible the thread becomes. It’s always been interesting and I don’t know why I can see these in the first place. The girls know I can see them and have asked on occasion before if I can see soulmates which made me laugh. I haven’t believed in those in years, the real world doesn’t have one set person for you and that’s something I’ve had to learn the hard way, it’s just fairytales at that point.

After a while of sitting and talking Zoey brings up how tomorrow they should go to this herbal specialist to get tonics to help Rumi’s voice and it’s not a horrible idea but honestly in my opinion a doctor sounds better suited.

“(Reader) do you want to join us? It would give you a chance to be out of your place for a bit” Zoey starts, “After we can grab snacks and hang out with each other. I have so many cute videos about turtles to show you.” I smile a bit at that but just say that I’ll let her know. I may not work but I do value my alone time. I work in a very social setting and any time off is spent decompressing and spending time with my pet.

The next day I am with the girls anyways. In sweatpants and a tank top showing off a few of my tattoos. I don’t have too many and I normally cover them up especially because of the more conservative vibe in South Korea.

“It should be right up ahead!” Zoey says looking at her phone for directions and bringing us to this hole-in-the-wall doctors office.

“Looks trustworthy to me” Rumi says caving into Zoey’s suggestion. I just look at the door and can already tell that this place is something I won’t be stepping into.

“You guys have fun with that, I’m going to go shop around a little bit.” I say already splitting off from the group. Of If I was going to be tagging along I might as well run some errands.

“Be safe and we will text you when we’re done.” Mira says waving me off and following Rumi and Zoey into the building.

I start to walk away and get to Main Street and see some yellow fliers posted talking about a street performance in about an hour. It’s not an uncommon sighting, I’ve seen so many of these street performances on YouTube and just out walking around. It helps gain popularity and any publicity is good publicity. Not paying attention fully I bump shoulders with someone a g a i n, I really need to start paying attention to people and where I’m walking. Right as I’m about to apologize it’s too late. I recognize the person I have bumped into for the second time.

“It’s you! I’m so sorry, I really do need to pay attention to where I’m going” I say taking a deep bow in apologies.

“We meet again. You really need to pay attention.” The blue haired dude says. Standing up straight I look at the blue haired guy again. Making eye contact with him he stiffens up and looks tense out of nowhere.

“Yeah I’m sorry I wasn’t paying attention. I really don’t mean to run into you” I say deadpanned. He doesn’t have to be so rude about it but I guess if I was bumped into by the same person twice I would get a bit miffed. I looked at him again and noticed how despite seeing him briefly he now has a few light threads on him. Huh… okay maybe I just didn’t see them before because it was late? Probably. Finally taking in my surroundings I notice four men standing off to the side focusing on us.

“Oh uhm.. I’m sorry for taking your time” I start to say until I’m cut off by one of the pink haired guys.

“Who is this Baby?” He asks who I now assume is Baby. What a strange name..

“I don’t know, she’s bumped into me twice now.” Baby says switching into an even more uncaring tone.

“Well well. For someone so… attractive, I would think it’s fate to run into you more than once. I’m Abby.” This Abby person says taking my hand.

“Uhm… same to you I guess??” I respond taking my hand away. I swear I could see his eyes light up to something that wasn’t his eye color as he took my hand and stranger danger. Must be the outside reflections.

“We are doing a performance nearby if you want to catch it.” Someone says from the side of me and this man… he is fucking h o t. He hands me one of the fliers I saw earlier. Ohh so this is the group. “We would love to feed off your energy being there.” He says but the way he phrases it makes it sounds like there’s a joke I’m not getting there.

“I’ll try to swing by but I am with some friends who are in a store nearby. It’s up to them.” I say already ready to walk off. Something about the way these people are staring at me feels heavy and I don’t want to find out what it is.

“We would absolutely adore it if you did.” Says the other pink haired guy and grabs my hand to kiss very quickly.

“Woah back up now. I’ll try to be if I can but no promises.” I say already starting to back away from the group. There is one more and he’s been quiet the whole time. He just stares I think? I can’t tell from the hair covering his eyes.

Walking off I wipe off my hand because ew, despite how attractive they were who just randomly kisses a stranger’s hand??

~Saja Boys~

“You never said she smelled like that.” Jinu says to Baby watching the woman walk away.

“I said she has a scent. It seems to be pulling me in.” Baby responds still looking after your retreating figure.

“THAT was the person who bumped you? Damn, if it was me I wouldn’t let her leave even despite the pull I’m feeling.” Abby says definitely checking out the figure walking away.

“We can’t get distracted. We have a job to do and we need to do it quickly to rope these people in. We can worry about her later, she seems human so we can grab her in the after math.” Jinu says still looking after you.

“But her scent, she smelled so good. She’s definitely tied to us.. it’s OUR scent on her.” Romance chimes.

“It is but we can’t be concerned about it at the moment. Let’s get going.” Says Jinu forcing himself to walk away. All of the Saja boys know about Soulmates. It’s something that’s big for a demon to find. However it’s not normal to have a human soulmate. It can happen sure, there’s been times where it’s happened before, the soulmate with always smell like the other person and in this case it seems like she has the smell of all the boys.

“We need to stay focused.” Jinu says again. Whether it’s to himself or not, he has to keep the goal in mind. He cannot get distracted at this very important moment.

Note: Second part is now here yay!! I’m thinking of making a post explaining soulmates and how the reader’s powers work so there won’t be confusion but I’ll decide on that later. If you want to be tagged let me know! -Luka

Taglist: @libdarkheart @calmmell @elli4ever @lvfleur @kahoonie @inojinieeee @isabellamorettosworld

[vviltrumite]

— teenage fantasy ୭ˎˊ˗

⚛ mark grayson x you

wc :: 4,316 ( 23,442 char . )

rating :: nsfw

synopsis :: your brother started hanging out with this new kid—mark, you think his name is? you wondered why this new person was seemingly always around your brother, and tonight when he sleeps over you finally find out why.

contents :: brothers best friend , riding , slight age gap , sub mark , little plot , reader pov , mark is a little weirdo with a crush on u......

a/n :: I LOVE SUBMISSIVE MARK GRAYSON!!!!!!pushed the timeline of this back for the sole purpose of creating an age gap between u and mark. why? because i freaking felt like it ok maybe i like em younger. he's a sophomore, ur a senior. also for the sake of convenience were just gonna pretend that ur on the pill. ok? ok.

edit: Lol tumblr being stupid and deleted 3 paragraphs of writing but it's ok we fixed it😅ahaha😅😅I'm gonna shoot myself😅

Your brother had never been too ecstatic about friends. Not that he didn't want them, it was the actually keeping them part that he struggled with. Seemed like he could never keep the company of a friend for longer than a few months before they fell out with eachother, and whenever you would try to ask about it he would dismiss your attempt by simply saying something along the lines of "We just don't have time to talk as much anymore." or, "They're busy with sports and crap."

But more recently you've noticed that your brother was hanging out with someone new, and this time it was different. He would never fail to show up at your house during the weekends, always finding his way to your living room to play video games with your brother or making room for himself to fit in with whatever your family might have had going on that day, whether it be a dinner out at a restaurant, or even a trip to the movies, he always found time to tag along. He was practically part of the family, and it seemed like him and your brother were actually getting along quite nicely. You'd hear them from his room laughing about something unbeknownst to you just one wall over, or yelling about a game they were playing on his console and it made you glad to know that your brother finally had someone to confide in.

The boy seemed sweet with good intentions. Mark, you think his name is? Black hair with a few strands that never fail to stray from the combed back neatness of the rest of his hair and brown eyes that remind you of a warm coffee on a Saturday morning that you sip when your eyes are still tired and droopy, still on the edge of sleep but not quite. It would be a lie to say he wasn't handsome, but you never really gave him much more thought than that. You go to the same school as him, he's just two grades below you in his sophomore year with grades that aren't yet failing but theres still potential for them to be a lot better, but you chose to give him the benefit of the doubt since you heard from multiple sources that his father died in a car crash at the start of the year, so who knows how he's coping with that.

But that's not the point. the point is, Mark is now practically best friends with your brother and tonight, since your parents are away on a date, he's invited Mark to sleep over. Not that you really cared, you didn't pay him too much mind whenever he would come over since he wasnt your friend anyways. You mostly occupied the time in your room, but you never failed to notice the way he would try extra hard not to look at you whenever you made an appearance and still finding himself unsuccessful. Always stealing quick glances over to you and whatever you were doing. Always noticing the way he suddenly adorned a stutter—something which he had never had before, whenever he'd speak to your brother, pitching his voice an octave louder enough for you to hear.

Your day went on as it usually did, aside from those quick glances that Mark prayed you didn't notice. You always did, but never thought much of it. Maybe he was just intimidated by you, or something? You called your friends, made plans for the following morning, and before you knew it, the smell of food downstairs caught your attention. Glancing at the clock on your phone, it was now six, so you assume the smell downstairs is dinner.

Heading to your kitchen you realize that your brother and Mark had made french fries and were sharing them on a big plate on the counter. You help yourself to a fry, quickly snatching one from the plate before your brother has the opportunity to swat your hand away.

You crack a smile when he almost chokes on the fry he popped into his mouth when he turns to see you, and that only seems to make his cheeks redden. he tries making an attempt at playing it off by pressing the crook of his shoulder against his mouth and coughing into the faded blue of his cotton sweater sleeve, trying to disguise the malfunction, but any attempt he makes at hiding his embarrassment only points it out further.

"Get outta here! Those aren't even for you, make your own." He protests, stopping himself from extending his arm to push you back once he realizes he acted too late and that you've already succeeded in stealing a fry.

Rolling your eyes at his stubbornness, you retort. "You literally made the whole bag, you're not even gonna eat all that." You point out, grinning only because you find pleasure in annoying him.

He grumbles out a defeated "Whatever," only because Mark is here, and he doesn't want to cause a scene. But obviously you know your brother well enough to make the assumption that if Mark wasn't here, the stolen fry would be a much bigger deal than it is right now. But instead of taking advantage of this, you raise your white flag in surrender and instead make your way to the fridge, grabbing your leftovers from the fast food place you ordered takeout at a day and a half ago, reheating it before you head up to your room and feeling Mark's eyes on you the entire time.

You've just finished your shower by the time Mark and your brother are retired to his room for the night. It's late, probably eleven, but maybe closer to twelve, you're not sure because haven't checked the time. Your phone is in the bathroom, but you figure that you can just grab it when you're done changing since it isn't on the top of your list of priorities right now.

What is on the top of that list though, is changing into pajamas. Back turned from your bedroom door, you rummage through the top drawer of your dresser, trying to find that one tanktop you own, the black one. The one you have probably ten carbon copies of, but for some reason you want that tanktop in particular. Just as you set your eyes on it and move to pick it up, a noise at your bedroom door alerts you.

It's Mark. And you can tell by his expression that his heart lurches in his chest until it bobs in his throat when he sees you in nothing but a towel that clings loosely to your frame, the creak of the door in protest as he opens it had given you a split second to acknowledge his presence. It blows his cover and interrupts you just as you were about to let the towel fall down to your ankles. You to gasp as you whip your head around fast enough to see his face flush bright red and his hands that shoot up to cover his eyes immediately.

"Oh, my God, I'm so sorry, I— I didn't even realize you were— Jeez, that's so embarrassing. I'm sorry, I was just trying to bring you your— I'll go, sorry." He rushes, stumbling over his words that spew out from past his lips at a mile a minute, faster than he can comprehend despite his Viltrumite capabilities. He quickly turns on his heel and sheepishly reaches for the doorknob to walk himself out.

Your eyes meet his hand, where your phone rests in his palm and you know you should just let him leave it in the hall, but something in you, some unstoppable force that acts for you before the rational thought to stop and let him go even crosses your mind, and you step forward, then again, and the one more time until your hand is curled over his shoulder, effectively causing him to freeze in place. "Wait," you pause, tone sounding pitched and hesitant like you were holding something back, carefully pausing your breath between each word as if one wrong move could ruin the moment and send him off.

Until he doesn't. He doesn't leave, he doesn't brush you off and close the door behind him like he knows he should. He doesn't even say anything. Wordless as he turns to face you, and you realize he isn't scaring away anytime soon. He was cute, you admit, and the smile he lets tug at the corners of his mouth after his eyes graze over your almost naked form is contagious. He's younger, but stands taller than you by just a few inches and you figure.. Why not? He's clearly interested, and this obviously wasn't an accident. So why not let him indulge in this fantasy, if only for just one night? What do you have to lose?

"Is he...?" Tilting your head, letting your eyes flit behind you to the door, opened just a crack to let the strands of light from the hallway shed into your bedroom and bounce off of Marks shoulder, painting a thin line of hazy yellow against the carpet and walls of your bedroom.

He nods, shaking breath exhaled from his lips in a quick uneven sigh, his hand reaches behind him to click the door shut softly behind you both before bringing them back and letting the palm of his hands find home around the dip in your waist, skin warm against the cool of the towel that drapes around you. "Yeah, he's.. yeah."

Taking his hand and intertwining your fingertips with his, you guide him to your bed where he sits. Mark looks dazed and dreamy, like he can't tell if he's awake or not, can't believe this stupid teenage fantasy of his is actually happening, and that makes you giggle. You tell him to lay back and he does, the erection that strains from under his clothes becoming evident when he looks up at you from where his head rests on your pillow. He's unable to help it when his eyes rake over you again, greedily taking in the way your towel hangs loosely around you, threatening to slip at any second, and your hair falls messily over your shoulders. Perfectly unkempt and knotted in some places where you hadn't combed through it with a brush, but still somehow retaining some of its neatness in the mess.

It would be a lie to say he didn't roughly sketch this whole scenario out in his head. He knew when you got out of the shower and intentionally made his way to the bathroom when you left, only to realize you had forgotten your phone. Originally, he was just going to return it to you when you were done changing, find an excuse to talk to you even just briefly. But then the thought of maybe getting to see you bare crossed his mind, and it was too good of an opportunity to pass up. He didn't want to wait. He didn't mean to open the door that much, didn't know it would creak in response to his weight when he leaned into it. And the last thing he expected was for you to reciprocate whatever it was he felt in that moment when you saw him. But... he wasn't against it, either.

You join him on your bed, letting your hand stroke over his pajama pants for a quick moment before you bring one leg over his and adjust yourself until you're comfortable on top of him, straddling with both of your legs at either side of his body. You don't miss the way his breath hitches when you suddenly lean in, supporting your weight with a hand that plants itself on his chest and folds underneath you when you close some of the distance between your faces. He looks about ready to kiss you, lips parted in a mix of what's probably both preperation and shock. but when you don't, he regards you curiously, the question unspoken but obvious in the air between you.

"You're sure you want to do this?" You ask, just to be safe, and he nods again. If your brother finds out about this, he'll be crushed, and Mark is old enough to know that he shouldn't be doing something like this. And so are you, to be fair. But it's obvious to the both of you that no one cares what you should or shouldn't be doing right now, too lost in the heat of your bodies as you press into one another and eventually finding your way to his lips, meeting him with a kiss.

It's slow at first, hesitant and experimental and filled with nervousness, but the action of your lips molding over his becomes more steady, more sure as his hands trace your sides in a caressing up and down movement, fervorous and quickly desperate for more. And after a moment he hooks his fingers around the top of your towel. A question, and when you pull back from him just to give him a smile that never fails to make him trip, an answer.

You hear it when his breath hitches in his throat at the sight of you fully exposed once the towel is discarded on the floor next to your bed. He lets his eyes travel down your body, taking all of you in. Mark looks almost awestruck, nervous to touch you the wrong way as if you were a porcelain statue to be displayed in a museum. You take his obvious hesitation as an invitation to guide him instead, and place the palm of his hand on one of your breasts before leaning in to take his lips in another kiss. He lets out a muffled noise against your mouth that you swallow up in response, and you feel his obvious erection pressing against you through his pants.

in a beat, the kiss becomes sloppy, messy and quickly not enough. You find yourself starved for more in an instant and before either of you realize, you're already fumbling with the drawstring that loops through his pants, working to untie them while his hands remain on your chest, preoccupied with molding the soft skin like puddy in his palm, an action that makes you moan softly, only really audible over the sound of your own breathless panting when you draw back from his lips to breathe.

"I don't think i should be the only naked one here." you suggest, your tone teasing. the sentence makes his eyes look over your body once again until he brings his gaze back up to you, and it's then that you notice his cheeks marooning once again, a small action that makes you grin.

"Yeah, probably." He agrees with a breathy, nervous laugh, shrugging your hands off of his chest for a moment so that he can lift his shirt off with ease, one hand pulling it over his head while the other remains firm on your waist. And it joins your towel on the ground seconds later.

His chest rises and falls unevenly, but thats not the thing that shocks you the most. You never would have guessed it since hes always wearing loose fitting clothes whenever you see him, but he's a lot more muscular than you imagined. Tracing over his defined stomach with your fingertips as you lean in to kiss him again is like charting over unexplored territory, grazing along each curve and dip in his abs.

And then you traverse lower across his skin until you're met with the fuzzy cotton of his plaid pajama pants once again and this time you don't falter. your index and middle finger curl to make room for themselves around the waistband and you shift just enough to tug them down to his knees. Mark doesn't protest and allows the action, lifting his hips slightly to help you.

Once his pants have been shrugged off, the hardness in his boxers is all the more evident, and it takes minimal effort to have them shrugged down as well. in moments his cock is exposed and you glance back up at him when you hear Mark suck in a breath through his teeth as the cool air of your bedroom envelops him.

"Still sure you want to?" You ask, glaring down at him through your eyelashes. There's still time for him to back out of this, if he really wants to. But it's clear that he doesn't when he nods and wraps his hands around your waist at either side. Not holding you down, but the action makes it clear that he doesn't plan on leaving anytime soon.

"Yeah, I'm sure, just.. please," His voice comes out a hoarse whisper, pleading and more desperate than he would've liked. He looks dazed, lidded eyes glazed over with something akin to need in the pupil and something about the way he says it, asks you so nicely, so sweetly despite the husky tone in the undercurrent of his words makes your stomach knot with a heat that begs to be untangled.

You look back down at his cock, flushed tip weeping and dewy with pre. your hand makes way to his shaft, offering a few slow strokes down to the base and back up to his tip where your thumb grazes over his hole, coating your fingertip in a sticky substance that smudges off when you bring your hand back down. the action makes him gasp like he clearly didn't expect you to move so suddenly, and he can't help but thrust lightly against the movement, his arousal evident when he whimpers through his bitten lip.

But when you pause yet again, he looks confused. mouth popped open, just slightly agape while his eyebrows pinch together. The silent question of "Whyd you stop?" on the edge if his lips, but he doesn't say it out loud. The air between you two is thick with want and a licentious desire to have your needs fulfilled hangs heavy in the space around you, in the darkness of your room.

The question doesn't remain unanswered for long, because in a second you're shifting to lift your hips up, hovering there for a quick, fleeting moment before lining the tip of him with your entrance. It takes him a second to realize what you're doing, but you give him time for the gears turning in his head to spin clearly. And once they do, his tongue flits out to lick over the edge of his lips and in an instant you've planted yourself down on top of him again, adjusted this time so that he fills you instead, and you feel his length twitch inside you at the sudden but certainly not unwelcome action.

Marks hands which had parted from your waist when you lifted yourself quickly find their way back home and he lets out a noise similar to a groan when you roll your hips against him, feeling the way your walls expand and clench around him and letting his gaze fall back to your bedroom ceiling, basking in the warmth of your body on top of him, rising and falling as you grind above him.

The whole ordeal is rather silent save for your ragged breaths and whimpers you muffle through bitten lips and stolen kisses. It's almost transactional, and you both have a clear understanding of what you're here for. This, the guilty pleasure you derive from mark inside you, and you around him. and nothing more. But still there's something that swims in the small amount of light reflecting in his eyes. Something that flickers for a brief moment, barely noticeable unless you were paying attention. Something that suggests their could be more to this, if you're willing to take that risk.

Mark looks back up at you, resisting the urge to let his eyes flutter shut simply because the sight of your body, the way your tits bounce with each rise and fall of your movements, it's something he doesn't want to miss a second of. And in fact it's almost too much—and if he wasn't trying as hard as he was to restrain himself right now, he would have came already. He keeps his hands on you the entire time, following the natural curve of your waist as he carefully slides up your side to knead at the soft flesh of your boobs once again.

You lean down until you're pressed flush againsthim once again, mouth on his partially to silence him, but mostly just to taste his lips. You're drinking up the sound of each quiet moan he can't help but pour out into you, feeling the way you rock your hips against him and getting lost in the rhythm. Carefully, you bring your mouth lower, sloppily pressing kisses deep enough to leave hickies into his collarbone and chest. The action is quick, hungry and almost primal as if you cant decide whether to bite softly at his skin or kiss him. Or if there was even a way to differentiate the two at this point. He lets a hand free from your side simply to find his way to your hair, pressing you impossibly closer in order to keep you there, clinging to you like if he let himself get too lost in the feeling then youd vanish.

Bringing yourself back up to admire your work, you let your eyes examine the hickies you placed carelessly on his body. You were merciful enough to not leave any in plain sight, lord knows how furious your brother would be if he woke up and saw Mark's neck riddled hickies that border on bruises. They mostly decorate where the neck of his shirt would start, easily able to be hidden away with a shirt overtop of them.

Soon, you find Mark holding you down against him, making the action of rolling your hips on his cock a challenge. But he takes the liberty of doing that for you, hands at your sides to guide you as he desperately thrusts deep enough into your pussy to hit your cervix and you arch closer to him as he pulls out, tip dragging over that spot that makes your stomach flutter and eyes roll back only to press into you again and again each time.

"Mark, I—" Your words are cut off by a moan that he quickly moves to cover with his mouth, hand grasping in your hair and tugging lightly to more easily bring you to his lips. He parts from you when the sound has faded and gone, and you bite your lip to prevent anything more from slipping.

"Shh," He hushes you, glancing for a split second to your bedroom door. Still shut, but your walls are thin, so the fact that you both need to be as quiet quiet as possible is non-negotiable right now. "I know, I know." He whispers against the side of your neck, kissing lightly at the sensitive skin there. The hand previously at your side wraps around you and runs over your back, curving as he feels over the way you arch into him in order to help his length fuck deeper into you.

In a moment, his voice is in your ear, whispering what almost sounds like nonsense, too drunk off the feeling of your walls fluttering around him with each thrust inside you that grows more rapid, more intense with each passing second. But you quickly decipher his words, despite the fact that they're short, breathy and would be inaudible if he weren't pressed so close against you. "Fuck, I.. I can't, I'm gonna.." He whispers the words like a mantra. You've never heard him curse before, so the fact that he is only serves to encourage your movements as you roll your hips with him inside you.

The action seems to push him over the edge with one final moan that causes a shiver to snake its way through your entire body, and soon after you feel the warmth of the white-hot ropes that are his come filling you, his hips stuttering, continuing to work his way through the orgasm with lazy thrusts as everything pumps out of him and into you. You follow suit soon after, the feeling of his release inside you being just enough to coax out a much needed orgasm of your own, the knot that had been tangling and building itself up inside you quickly dissolving as a blinding euphoria causes everything around you to dissolve for what feels like forever.

You're reduced to a boneless heap on top of him, unmoving with his cock still inside you. What remains of his semen dripping out of you like hot lava that oozes out of you, sticky and all too overwhelming. You both lay like that for a while, until eventually the time comes where Mark needs to leave. Return to your brothers room before he notices the disappearance. You're lifted off of him with ease and he lays you back on your bed with all the care in the world, making sure to leave you with a final kiss on your lips once his clothes are back on and you've both collected yourselves.

Once he leaves, and you hear the door to your brothers room click shut with a sense of finality, you realize one of two things is going to happen now. This could become a regular thing, one that you'll have to try and hide from your brother as well as sneak past your family, or this could be a one time thing. A spurr of the moment decision that will be glossed over and soon forgotten in a week's time. Some part of you, deep down, hopes for the latter.

[formulafanfics13]

hi bestie 🫶🏻 honestly, lately i've become OBSESSED with your work!! i mainly just scroll on the f1xreader tag and every time your username comes, it's a must-read!

if it's possible, could you do a daniel riccardo foodporn one, with reader texting max or some other past teammate of his 🥺👉🏻👈🏻

You're Moaning Over Melted Cheese? - DR3

Masterlist

summary: your boyfriend daniel ricciardo thinks you're sexting someone. and he's right — almost. technically, you're exchanging filth with lando norris. about food. warnings: suggestive language, wildly inappropriate food metaphors, jealousy, comedic chaos, implied dom!daniel at the end, unhinged groupchat energy, text messages, language

Daniel Ricciardo did not normally give a fuck. Genuinely. Across the board. Laid back, easy going, always grinning, he prided himself on letting shit roll off his back.

But this? This was different. Because this was you, curled up on the couch in his hoodie, giggling into your phone while whispering "god, that sauce-fuck me," and "i'd let it choke me" like you weren't in a committed relationship with a man who had, in fact, actuallychoked you last week. Lovingly. Repeatedly.

His jaw twitched. You didn't notice. Too busy tapping back rapid-fire messages with one hand and swiping through your camera roll with the other. Daniel leaned over the back of the couch. "You sending those texts to someone who's currently inside you?"

You blinked up at him, unfazed. "I'm not inside myself, no."

His eyes narrowed. "So you are sexting."

"No."

"Then why did I just see you type 'i want to be split open by that bun'?"

You tried not to laugh. Failed. "It's... food."

He snatched your phone. 

"Dan!"

He held it above your head. "Nope. Lemme see which Michelin-starred whore you're creaming over today-" His eyes scanned the screen.

And then? Silence. Because there it was.

Lando Norris 📸 (1x view only) you: is that truffle cream?? Lando: look how thick it is 📸 you: i'm actually sweating Lando: i'd lick the plate clean you: i'd let it fuck my throat Lando: full tongue. zero shame. 📸 you: i'm gonna cry this is too good Lando: why does it look so wet. did you touch it??

Daniel blinked. Daniel stared. Daniel developed an actual, diagnosable case of rage vertigo. "You're sexting Lando Norris about... ravioli?"

You snorted. "No, that was the porcini risotto. The ravioli was yesterday."

Daniel scrolled back. Found:

you: it's throbbing Lando: bite it. tongue first. you: i want to unhinge my jaw Lando: i'd eat it like a snake

He almost dropped the phone. "What the fuck is this."

"It's foodporn."

"It's... food."

"And porn. Combined. Rated like filth."

Daniel squinted at the next image. "Is that a grilled cheese sandwich?"

"Triple cheese. Garlic buttered sourdough. Lando was losing his mind."

Daniel read:

you: i'd suck the cheese right out of it Lando: i'd marry it. no prenup.

He scrolled up. And up. And up.

There were months of this. Thousands of lines. Photos of steak, lobster, dripping burgers, fluffy soufflés, dripping tiramisu, and more pasta than a Naples grandmother could justify. All captioned like the lost pages of a banned erotic novel.

you: i'd let it rearrange my guts Lando: i'd let it call me baby you: it's glistening. why is it glistening. Lando: it's begging to be ruined you: i want it in me Lando: i'd suck the juices out and say thank you

Daniel's face twitched. He said nothing. He just turned and walked to the kitchen.

You sat there blinking until he came back thirty seconds later with, "What is that?"

"Microwave mac and cheese," he said, deadpan, sitting down beside you.

You blinked. "Dan."

He stabbed the pasta with a plastic spoon. Then turned to you.

"Say it's better than Lando's."

"What?"

"Say my filthy, processed, chemical-flavoured, glow-in-the-dark, American-imported mac and cheese is better than Lando's fine dining degeneracy."

You tried. You really did. But then the spoon slipped. The cheese stretched.

And you whispered, before you could stop yourself, "Fuck me, that's thick-"

He was on you. The bowl went flying.

You squealed, breathless, as he tackled you to the couch, mouth at your ear, voice hot. "You're gonna rate my food like porn now, baby. Hope you're ready for dessert."

[beloveddawn-blog]

Normally this was a Thursday thing, not a Tuesday one. Changewind, their small town's own Supervillain, never attacked on a Thursday so Maciek felt comfortable having a drink after work with his favourite coworker. His wife needed the car that day anyway because the kids' soccer games were in the next town over, so actually it worked out perfectly.

Too perfectly.

Jasmeen sat to his right, like she always did, with a Whiskey Sour, like she always did, but things weren't the same.

They would never be the same.

For one, it was Tuesday. For two, he had made her drink for her as the bartender wasn't around.

Three... She was still wearing her Changewind costume. A breeze blew in through the blown out windows, making her cape stir the ashes around them. Both of them ignored it.

"Run that by me again, would you?" He asked, still floundering from the reveals that had hit him one after another this evening.

"I fucking hate this town and everyone in it." She said into her arms, her face buried in them. "Except you. And Doctor Smith. And Agnes from Town Hall. So sometimes when someone is wildly racist or a complete dick rather than just the standard levels of racism and dickishness, I burn their part of it down. But I make sure you and Doctor Smith and Agnes are never caught in it because you're the only worthwhile people this shithole has ever produced. And I need you all. I couldn't do it without you."

"If you hate it so much, why don't you leave?" Maciek asked, still confused.

"Mom can't work after that car accident. She can't do much of anything. And because it was the Mayor's drunk-ass shitstain of a teenager that hit her, the police destroyed the evidence. She can't even sue, and insurance fucked her over. She'd never be able to afford an apartment on her own, and I can't afford the three month gap in health insurance I'd have to deal with if I moved to get a different job. The only reason I can afford her medication now is because Doctor Smith keeps getting me samples and alternatives. And because he pretends I'm the one with diabetes so the insulin is covered. Otherwise it's a pre-existing condition and my premiums skyrocket."

"Surely there must be something we could do..." Jasmeen snapped her head up, and he could see all of the seething rage that lead his nemesis to wantonly destroy everything unfortunate enough to fall into her grasp.

Even her voice shook with fury as she bit out her reply. "Maciek, I adore you. And your optimisim and kindness are a huge part of that. You're the only part of my racist, mysoginistic, and fetishizing workday that doesn't make me want to gouge my own eyes out with a rusty fork. I appreciate that you think there must be something more I can do, I do. But there isn't. I have tried everything. I've tried every agency and every aid society and even every fucking church and I've got nothing to show for it. And if I make any wrong moves, my mother is going to die. That is a fact. So yes, some days when I get asked if I even speak English I throw Dwight Brown's truck through his barn. Some days when Carter from Accounting taps my ass and laughs about it with his cousin in HR, I burn his father's store down. Some days when Edith the Church secretary mutters to her cronies that my mother's disabilities are Divine Retribution for being born in India, I tear the fucking roof off of her favourite salon. And I'm not going to stop."

Maciek's mouth twisted with that, unable to refute it but still wanting to do something...

Nothing came to him. Even his optimism had reached it's limits. Instead he just made her a second drink, then held her shoulders as she cried. Just a point of contact. Just a reminder that life isn't all awful. Just a lifeline.

*

Just a chance.

*

It took a few weeks for the bar to be repaired, but that was fine. It took a few weeks to get everything in place anyway. Finally, though, it was Thursday and Maciek and Jasmeen headed to the bar for some wings and a drink.

Danitza joined them.

Jasmeen was shocked, but Maciek greeted his wife with an enthusiastic hug and quick peck like she always came to wing night. They made small talk over the wings, Maciek and Danitza carrying most of the conversation while Jasmeen continued to be bewildered. It wasn't until they were leaving that Danitza finally gave her a hint, asking loudly enough for the patrons around them to overhear, "And how is dear Sujata doing? I haven't seen her in what seems like forever! I've missed seeing her at the Farmer's Market. Her samosas were always the highlight of the trip."

Jasmeen couldn't help but smile, as charmed as always by the other woman's compliments. "Mother is doing as well as she could be. Would you like to come see her? I'm sure she'd love the company."

"That would be delightful." Danitza agreed.

*

"You want us to what?" Jasmeen asked, utterly flabberghasted. Next to her her mother had her translating face on, also obviously caught off guard and trying to figure out what she misunderstood.

"We want you to move in." Danitza replied primly, good cheer twinkling in her eyes.

"The old farmhand quarters are empty." Maciek supplied, continuing their sell. "And now that Alex is in school, Danitza was planning to go back to work anyway. We've been having a heck of a time finding after school care, though, so this would actually be great for us, too! We wouldn't charge you for rent, and in return we'd get someone who can let the dogs out during the day for a bit and watch the children for the 45 minutes between when the bus lets them off and when Danitza would get home."

"And samosas." His wife broke in, grinning. "We will also require samosas."

"You can have so many samosas." Sujata replied, tears gathering in her eyes.

Jasmeen sniffled, doing her best to keep her composure but so overwhelmed a few tears leaked out anyway. "This won't solve everything." She warned her friend. "It's more help than I could have dreamed of, but it won't solve everything."

"I know." Maciek replied. "But I spoke with Doctor Smith when I went in for my check up last week, and he's agreed to get you FMLA for whatever works best at the time when you get a new job somewhere that will appreciate you for everything you have to offer. Between that and what you can save on rent, insulin should be doable with your mother back under her own diagnosis."

Jasmeen was so overwhelmed she couldn't even speak.

*

It was almost suspiciously quiet around town for a bit, but eventually a situation occured in The City and Dynaguy was one of the ones called upon to solve it. He was utterly shocked when Changewind met him at his base, costume on and ready to go.

"Turning over a new leaf?" He asked as he piloted the small craft towards the disturbance. She was still fiddling with her harness, but since she could fly and had super strength he didn't bother to explain it to her.

She gave him a small smile at that before returning to her fight with the flight webbing. "I think you make a better hero out of the suit than in it. Even against just me you were outclassed and I didn't have an agenda. But you've got my back in a way no one else ever has, and this is my chance to have yours."

The villain must know your secret identity. There is no other explanation. All of their plans are perfectly timed with your work hours, and always take place as far away from your family as possible. You have decided to finally confront them about it.

[artstennisracket]

summary: Art passes out in Patrick’s bed after their movie night. Only to wake up overhearing a very steamy phone sex session between Patrick and Tashi. To his surprise they’re talking about…him

parings: art donaldson x tashi duncan x patrick zweig

warnings: nsfw (18+), masturbation, humping the bed, phone sex, dirty talk, art being in denial as always

Art has eavesdropped on many of Patrick’s calls. Not for anything specific, he was just curious. Not because he wanted to know what Tashi would say about him. No not at all.

Tonight was no different. When he woke up around 1am something told him to stay completely still. Instead of sleeping in his own bed, he was actually sleeping in Patrick’s bed. They were watching a movie and Art passed out. So his back was facing Patrick, pillow tucked under his head.

His eyes blinked open slowly, making sure not to move the rest of his body. Patrick was speaking but Art couldn’t fully hear what he was saying yet. There was this slight consistent movement happening next to him that Art couldn’t see but was able to register right away. Patrick was jerking off. Art is sure this isn’t the first time this has happened while Art was sleeping but it still felt like some big secret.

“Mm fuck Tash, gimme a sec,” Patrick sounds out of breath already. Art wonders how long this has been going for.

Tashi voice starts to boom through Patrick’s phone speaker, “Why do I feel like you’re already close. Anytime we talk about Art—

Art don’t even register the rest of the sentence because what? Talk about him?

How often does that happen? Fuck. Art is already hard. His cock straining against the constraints of his boxers under his body weight. If he moved just a little bit he could get some friction, some release. But he’s almost certain that if he started grinding against the bed Patrick would know.

“He’s my weak spot, you know that baby,” Patrick grunts while shifting his body weight. Art imagines that he’s probably pulling down his boxers more, “And that makes you fucking wet, doesn’t it.”

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. Thinking about Patrick gripping his cock, stroking at that medium fast pace that Art knows Patrick likes. He’s seen Patrick do it enough times—no. No. He’s not hard because of Patrick. He’s hard because of Tashi obviously. She’s probably laying on her bed with her legs spread, gliding her fingers back and forth over her clit using her slick and shit—Art is grinding against the bed subconsciously. He needs to relax.

Tashi ignores the latter, focusing more on former, “Yeah why is that? Tell me what you’re thinking about.” If Art focuses hard enough he can hear the faint squelching sounds coming from Tashi’s end. That mixed Patrick groaning and moaning and—no. Mixed with Tashi’s higher pitched breathier moans, he almost cums right there.

Patrick pushes his back against his pillow, causing Art to shift slightly. “He’s so fucking pretty Tash, you don’t get it. Wanna push him to his knees and shove my cock in his mouth—ah.”

Oh. That’s…yeah that’s—for fuck’s sake why is his stomach twisting like that. Desire pulsing through his body, and most notably his dick.

“Gonna make him take all of it? That’s not very nice,” She whines, moving her free hand up to pinch at her nipples. That wouldn’t be very nice at all, Art thinks. But for some reason Tashi doesn’t sound genuine in calling Patrick mean, just turned on.

Patrick is really…big. It would be a lot to take. Wrapping his lips around Patrick’s tip, thinking about the weight of Patrick’s cock on his tongue. How full his mouth would be. Hitting the back of his throat over and over again. It’s hard to keep fighting off the thoughts of Patrick the more turned on Art gets. Art feels another gush of precum leaking from his tip.

“Fuck yeah, gonna train his throat. Shove my cock deep in there, no mercy,” If Patrick were to do that Art would surely choke. His gag reflex isn’t awful but with the sheer size and impatience Patrick tends to have, he’s sure he’d choke.

The wet sounds of Patrick’s hand stroking himself are picking up. Art is sure he’s using the lotion that is always conveniently stored on the top of their nightstand. He’s going faster which Art knows means Patrick’s getting close. Art thinks he’s getting close too.

“Ah-ah he’s gonna fucking choke Patrick. He’s never sucked dick before” Tashi adds, which makes both Tashi and Patrick moan in unison. The idea of Art choking is very appealing. Tears in the corner of his eyes threatening to fall paired with the sound of Art’s gag reflex, fuck that’s hot. And being Art’s first is especially appealing to Patrick.

“Doesn’t matter. Wanna see him tear up, he’s so fucking pretty when he cries Tash fucking fuck—“ Patrick gasps focusing his efforts closer to his tip.

Tashi’s voice cuts in and Art almost forgot she was still in the phone. It’s high pitched and whiny. Art can only imagine that’s how she sounds when she’s close, “Yeah? What else would you do to him? If I was there—ahhh, watching”

“Nngh—ah fuck. I would bend him over his desk and fuck—ah split him open on my cock. Pull his hair and mmmm make sure he’s facing you, show you just how pretty he is taking my cock”

The squelching sounds flood the speakers of Patrick’s phone and Art is fully humping the bed, there’s no way Patrick can’t tell what he’s doing. Tashi’s voice cuts back in, “Fuck Patrick, I’m so close”

Patrick’s eyes drift over to where Art’s body is shifting in the dark. That little shit, he’s eavesdropping. And humping the bed? He’s so desperate, but that’s not news to Patrick. It does however, add in to the mountain of pleasure he’s feeling knowing that Art is getting off on this.

“You’re so fucked up Tashi, probably imaging all the ways you want me to touch him. Play with him. What if I fucked him while he ate you out? He gets so fucking desperate when he gives head. Slobbering all over the fucking place. Like a fucking dog. Licking you like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted because it is. Your pussy is fucking perfect—shit I’m coming”

Cum spurting all over his chest, a little catching on his chin. He can hear Tashi hitting her climax through the phone. High pitched moans he’s sure her neighbors can hear. His eyes drift back over to where Art’s movements have stilled. He’s sure Art’s came in his boxers by now.

Patrick and Tashi say their goodnight and goodbyes while Art tries to figure out how he’s going to play this off. He doesn’t wanna sit in the mess he made, it’ll just dry up and become uncomfortable and—

“You fucking snake,” Patrick grunts with a playfulness behind his voice, wrapping his arm around Art’s neck to put him in a headlock. Ruffling the blonde’s curls, “Honestly, I’m proud of you. I would’ve done the same thing.”

Art groans, pushing himself out of Patrick’s grasp, “I didn’t do anything.”

Without thinking Patrick grabs Art’s crotch, feeling the damp material of his boxers, “It’s fine, it’s nice to see you lit up about something, even if that something’s my girlfriend.” He ends with a smirk, releasing his grasp.

Shoving Patrick’s hand away, “Your girlfriend—right.” Art didn’t know they were even calling each other that yet. But yeah sure. Art was only excited because of Tashi. That’s it. He can run with that narrative.

And Patrick will still see right through it. If the throb of Art’s dick in his hand wasn’t enough of an indicator.

taglist: @tacobacoyeet @newrochellechallenger2019 @marimacaron @antxnxlla @hanneh69 @urmomsucksfrogs @k4mlg @ctrl-mari @cha11engers @jesuistrestriste @imperishablereverie @shahabaqsa0310 @ghostgirl-22 @artaussi @nozhdyved @asteroid-yuri @sweetheartfaist @jordiemeow @hangels @elsieblogs @museboos @sambergxr

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[zazaiafe2]

OUT-OF-BODY EXPERIENCE (OBE) COMPLETE GUIDE

1) What is an OBE (Out-of-body experience)?

An OBE is an experience where your conscious awareness separates from your physical body. People often describe floating above their bed, flying, or entering entirely different spaces or dimensions.

Whether you see it as a metaphysical experience, a shift in consciousness, or something else it’s valid.

2) Is it dangerous?

In short: No, it’s not physically dangerous.

Your body remains safe and asleep, and you’ll always return, even if the experience is intense or unusual.

However, here are important emotional safety tips:

Don’t force it when mentally exhausted or distressed.

Take breaks if your attempts are draining.

Ground yourself after each experience: eat, hydrate, journal, or touch something familiar.

If you ever feel overwhelmed, return to your body by gently focusing on your breath or wiggling your fingers/toes.

3) How to Induce an OBE, methods based on entry phase

a) From Sleep Paralysis (SP)

Sleep paralysis is one of the easiest entry points. If you wake up unable to move:

Stay calm. The fear is temporary.

Use a gentle technique:

“Roll out” of your body mentally.

Visualize floating or climbing.

Repeat: “I’m shifting outward, gently.”

Avoid thinking of your physical body. Focus outward or on a point in the room.

b) From micro-awakenings

These are small awakenings in the night, often lasting a few seconds to minutes.

When you wake up without moving, try a direct technique:

Visualize your DR (Desired Reality)

Use the rope technique (imagine pulling yourself up)

Affirm softly: “Now is the moment.”

Best when the mind is alert but the body is heavy.

c) From the Hypnagogic State

This is the twilight zone,mental images, twitching, floating.

Do not interfere too much. Just observe gently.

Once sensations build (vibrations, spinning, etc.):

Use the “sink deeper” method

Fall backward into the darkness

Whisper affirmations or visualize your DR portal

d) From WBTB (Wake Back To Bed)

This classic method involves:

1. Sleep for 4.5–6.5 hours

2. Wake up gently (no phone!)

3. Stay awake 10–30 min (drink water, read script More details in the bonus)

4. Return to bed and relax with:

Binaural beats (theta or delta)

Body scan

Light visualizations or affirmations

e) From “The phase” (Michael raduga method)

Raduga’s method is great. Here's a simplified version:

Set an intention to wake up without moving

When you wake up, immediately:

Try 3 techniques in 1 min:

→ Phantom limb movement

→ Imaginary rotation

→ Rolling out

If it doesn’t work, fall back asleep and try again during another micro-awakening.

Here is the PDF of his book, it will be very useful to you even if I will talk about it a little more later

4) How to Stabilize the Exit

Once you're out:

Stay calm.

Rub your hands together

Touch nearby objects

Avoid looking in mirrors too fast

Say mentally: “Clarity now” or “Stabilize”

Engage the senses, smell, sound, touch

If fading, spin slowly or fall backward or go back into your body and do induction techniques again

5) Why is shifting or OBE easier from these states?

Because the body is already in deep relaxation, often in REM or theta state, perfect for altered awareness.

Also:

The subconscious is more open

External distractions are minimal

There’s a natural detachment from the physical

→ This is why many shifters and lucid dreamers use WBTB + micro-awakenings to boost their success.

6) How to Shift from the OBE

Once outside the body, use one of the following:

Mirror method: Imagine standing in front of a mirror showing your DR

Portal jump: Visualize a doorway or light tunnel leading to your DR

Affirm:

“I am now fully in my Desired Reality.” or any affirmations that will help you

“My consciousness is where I choose it to be.”

Feel the emotion of your DR as if you're already there, that locks it in.

7) How to Enter the Void from the OBE

The Void is a state of pure awareness, no form, no body, just potential. To enter:

Let go of all imagery

Sink backward or fall into blackness

Mentally say: “Deeper,” “Stillness,” “Void now.”

If visuals appear, observe passively, don’t engage

Accept silence, stillness, or darkness as the goal, not a failure

Once in the Void, you can manifest instantly via pure thought or intention.

Notes: self-care & respect

These experiences are deeply personal. What works for one person may not for another.

Avoid burnout. Consistency > intensity.

Stay grounded in your beliefs and values. This practice can align with spirituality, science, curiosity, or self-healing, and all are valid.

Keep a journal. Celebrate small progress.

Rest. Hydrate. And don’t be afraid to take days off.

You're doing great. The door is always there, and you are already so close.

BONUS: WBTB & MICRO-AWAKENINGS FOR BOOSTED OBE SUCCESS

(I thought I would add some stuff about the Michael phase method because I found more interesting stuff )

Why WBTB works so well

The Wake Back To Bed method enhances the chance of OBE, lucid dreaming, and shifting because it:

Interrupts deep sleep, placing you in REM

Leaves the body relaxed but the mind lightly awake

Makes it easier to catch spontaneous micro-awakenings later in the night

How to do an effective WBTB

1. Sleep for 4.5–6.5 hours

2. Wake up with a gentle alarm (no harsh noise)

Use an app like Sleep as Android, with tasks to ensure light wakefulness

3. Stay awake for 10–30 min, depending on your brain type

Read your script, visualize your DR, do light breathing

4.Avoid strong lights / screens

Optional tip: Try wearing an eye mask, then remove it before going back to bed,the light contrast helps awareness

You can also watch these three seminars which can help you greatly with this

4. Set an intention:

"If I wake up later, I’ll stay still and shift or exit.”

Write this down physically, it reinforces memory

5. Return to bed with theta/delta frequencies and try:

Visualization (first-person perspective)

Body scan or phantom limb movement

Light affirmations only

Or listen to this subliminal

How to trigger micro-awakenings After WBTB

Use gentle sleep interruptions later in the night:

Drink a little water before bed, just enough to create bladder pressure

Peppermint oil under the nose or near your pillow

Slightly uncomfy position, diagonal, on the floor, etc.

This increases restless sleep and micro-awakenings

These are some common mistakes

Mental rehearsal:

Before sleep, think: “If I wake up during the night, I’ll stay still and shift.”

This primes your brain to catch the moment

Magnesium glycinate (check if safe for you) can promote lighter, more vivid REM sleep

How to shift or exit from a micro-awakening

This is the golden moment:

You just woke up in the night, don’t move.

→ Stay still. Keep eyes closed.

For OBE:

Try 1 “phase” techniques immediately (within 10–15 seconds):

If exit sensations increase (vibrations, floating, spinning): Let go and get out of your body.

If it doesn't work after a few seconds, immediately move on to a method cycle. And do 2-3 techniques if you can't feel a sensation of separation in 5 seconds move on to the other technique if it doesn't work after a minute or maximum 4 cycles put three to sleep and try again next micro awakening.

Important final Tips:

Micro-awakenings are fleeting, don’t hesitate, act quickly but gently

The goal is to act mentally while the body is still frozen in sleep inertia

If nothing happens, don’t panic. Drift back with intent: “Next time, I will succeed.”

I invite you to check out this Reddit post which has interesting testimonies and resources.

Ps : I found this meditation which apparently have a high rate of success

[hexjulia]

This is already very long but I want to add something about tidying up, which is not exactly the same as simpler repeating tasks like laundry that have results that are easy to look forward to (clean clothes, nice smells) and limited in a way "tidying up" isn't, especially when your place is just one big mess.

For the longest time I had no idea how much clutter bothered me. This was in part because like most people with adhd I was constantly nagged at (and shouted at) about the mess I left behind when I was distracted, to the point that tidying up just felt bad. It made me feel anxious, tired, guilty. I was convinced I just thrived in a cluttered mess simply because I dreaded tidying up and other people always wanted me to do more of it. I certainly felt better sitting in a messy place without anyone bothering me than I did in a somewhat tidy one with someone constantly complaining about the state of things. I figured I was simply more comfortable in a messy environment... but that's not true!

It took a long while to realise because I spent a long time subjected to this negative treatment and responding to it. After a while of it being absent however I started trying to pay more attention to/identify when I was feeling overstimulated and/or overwhelmed in some way, and really what I was feeling in the background of other things at all. Which often turned out to be... irritation. A lot of irritation. Often caused by a visually overwhelmed sensation best described as "seeing too many objects with no oversight". Which irritates and exhausts me, and was part of why I found starting so exhausting.

This was not immediately obvious to me. Other emotional responses were more in the foreground, more obvious because they were interpersonal ("finally I'm not being hounded and shamed!" i love being left to my own devices) and this is more of a sensory/emotional response to environment I suppose. I'm not really someone who explodes in anger. It was also easy to just sense as vague discomfort without realising what it was about.

But at some point I noticed my supposedly comfortable mess was actually a constant source of background irritation and overwhelmed sensation leading to a sort of paralysed exhaustion I was always having to fight my way through, every step of the way (also exhausting). So I started to try fixing this uphill battle situation. It's very important to me to do this for my own comfort and to keep thinking about that as a reason for every single action part of this. If you have a similar experience growing up with adhd and dreamily irritating adults ill-equiped to help you develop habits that support you this will likely be the main thing for you. It really is about your own comfort and taking away sources of discomfort. But you have to get there somehow and every step can't be exhausting.

Figure out how things in your environnent feel to you. Sometimes you just have to sit down and do nothing but think about that intensely for a bit. I set a timer and start by looking around, examining which objects are irritating me right now. Then i do something about it. And i look again. And what irritates me now? And now?

For me that usually turns out to be a lot of objects. It might be different for you.

This prevents the overwhelmed sensation from festering and becoming itself something that is hard to face. It stops a pile of stuff from being perceived as one big huge overwhelming thing that i don't know where to start with and exhausted by. I let irritation lead. After a while it just feels like restless energy and then it transforms into a contented feeling when things become less overwhelming to look at. Irritation/anger in response to your environment doesn't have to be a problem. Sometimes you can also let it lead and use it to stop feeling tired and overwhelmed.

ok that was very long so i hope adding this it helped at least 1 person. ^^

thinking about how many people hate doing chores like laundry ironing etc (for themselves! unfairly being expected to take care of everyone else's things is something completely different) and how in attempts to fix the resulting issues (piles of gross stuff etc) it's just framed as another thing to feel bad about not doing, which is not very encouraging under any circumstances -- but if the reason why things keep piling up is something like depression or adhd will make it about 10x as hard, because you likely already feel bad about yourself. And now looking at the piles comes with a lecture about getting your shit together and being an adult at the back of your head.

It's just not effective. It's the wrong reason. You shouldn't be cleaning because you're afraid of being shamed or because you feel guilty. That might work once every few months in a burst of manic chore energy but that's no way to live. The reason why I don't find these things exhausting to do is because it's just things I do to make myself comfortable, and it feels that way. When I'm ironing my clothes I look forward to wearing clean cozy warm clothes. I'm also daydreaming about 20 other things because I do have adhd and I'm maybe listening to an audiobook, but the emotion associated with doing my own laundry is something like ...contentment because I get to decide how exactly I want my clothes to smell and feel. It's largely just a positive emotion. I think the trick is getting yourself to be happy you get to make future you happy. That's a sustainable motivation you don't need shame or guilt for.

Also sometimes it's easy to underestimate how much a "small" sensory issue is making things hard. I hate touching dirty laundry, especially things like wet dishrags. I realised this was what made me want to avoid doing that specific bag of laundry and got some gloves. Now it's fine because I don't have to touch any wet and questionable textures. A lot of these accomodations might feel like overkill + you might not notice how much they bother you/contribute to putting things off until you pay attention and do something about it. If you think the scent bothers you a lot wearing a mask to empty the bin might help remove revulsion re: emptying the bin and so make that easier to motivate yourself into doing just wear one. Yeah it is overkill and not needed. But you don't want to accumulate trash inside because the smell would make you uncomfortable. If the goal is to avoid discomfort you should also eliminate the discomfort of the chore itself insofar possible! If your hands hurt easily from scrubbing things clean see if you can find a more effective cleaning agent or a cheap electric brush. If the sound of the vacuum bothers you even just a little put on headphones. There is no need to make this into some kind of guiltstriken spartan ordeal or only prevent discomfort if it's absolutely necessary for the task.

Chores are going to be a part of your days probably your entire life. It can be a comfortable experience associated with feeling cared for by yourself, feeling in control of how you live, a moment of quiet simple tasks and no deadlines. It doesn't have to feel bad. And if you fail at keeping up you aren't lazy or bad. You're just probably making yourself uncomfortable, but that's not a sin. And you can always change what you do to accomodate your needs.

[slightly-knot-insane]

Can we get someeeee... Shy Chubby reader with a suave playboy knight? Perhaps she's brushed off all his advances, not thinking he was serious about it. Maybe that just spurred him on to become even more serious about it, getting him stuck thinking about her more and more!

Forge Through

[ m!gargoyle x fem!reader ]

a/n: feel free to always imagine my readers as chubby. i've been chubby my whole life and curvy or chubby are my standard body types i just don't emphasize that lol. reader isn't as shy as you expected, but she is an introvert content: nsfw, mild angst, body worship, mild praise kink, p in v, creampie, oral (female receiving)

You've been friends for quite some time. And flirting has always been part of your playful chats. Any kind of conversation would easily slip into sexy banter. How wouldn't it? You were the blacksmith's young assistant, and he was a recently knighted gargoyle. Metal and stone were in both of your blood, and you hit it off right away. Which was rather strange for you since you've always been painfully shy. But he somehow managed to loosen you up with his quirky jokes and euphemisms. Your cheeks would hurt from smiling, but luckily, the blush was basically invisible because of the constant heat inside your mentor's smithy.

"Here's my favourite blacksmith!" As soon as he enters, ostentatious as always, he removes his helmet and gauntlets and kisses you on the cheek. Ever since he was knighted, he has worn his full armour almost everywhere, even though he didn't actually need it, being made of stone and all. "Always working so hard, beautiful."

"Of course," you reply. "Someone needs to fix all the dents you get from scorned exes after you steal their girls."

"Oh, you wound me!" He slams his stone fist against his metal plate. "Those dents are from our country's enemies. I serve my lord with my whole heart... just as I would love to serve you."

You chuckle, wiping your sweaty forehead. "Serve me? Serve me what - a beer? That would be nice, actually."

Your gargoyle friend stays quiet for a minute or two, as you work. He turns away from you and removes his breastplate. His undershirt is sweaty and sticking to his muscular body. You bite your lip.

"I would, you know?" His voice resembles a wave softly crashing against pebbles. "I would serve you. If you asked me to."

You stop your hammer from hitting the anvil. Utterly confused, you look at him, expecting his broad shoulders to shake from laughter. But they are not. "What do you mean by serve?"

"Oh, you know..." He starts pacing up and down the workshop, avoiding looking at you. "To please you... take you out somewhere... woo you... make love to you..."

You're not sure you heard him correctly. It can't be. He's a notorious flirt and has been fooling around with more people than you know. He always brags about his adventures and lovers, and how 'his heart still yearns to be forged by a different kind of flame'. Whatever that means. And it hurts. It hurts to hear him boast about his trysts, all while you only get titillated. "Please stop with your teasing, I'm too busy for that right now."

You are upset. Why are you upset? It's stupid, and you're not stupid. He is just playing with you, as always. And yet, with a hiss of steam, heavy tears hit the hot metal still standing on the anvil.

"Are you crying?" Your gargoyle friend is next to you, pulling you into a hug. Your face is squished against his hard chest. "No, no, no, what did I say? What did I say?"

You push yourself away, trying to stop angry tears. "That's the problem! You say too much! And don't mean it! You want to serve me? Ha, what a joke! That's what I am - a joke to you."

"What?" He runs his fingers through his long hair. "No, never. You were never a joke to me. I've always... liked you. And more than that."

"But..." You shake your head. "But weren't we just... joking around?"

He slowly cups your cheek. "I wasn't."

You recall all the times when he showed genuine affection: his little gifts, his thoughtfulness, his acts of service. Not even for a second did you think they were romantic. How can someone as handsome and popular as he is like someone as painfully antisocial as you?

"Let me show you. Let me show you how serious I am about you." He pulls you closer to him as he leans down to kiss you. And you let him. Not only that, you let him in.

You allow his mouth to cover yours, you let his arms roam around your body, undress you, caress you. His hungry mouth licks your lips and leaves bite marks all over your voluptuous body. He worships your wide hips and soft tummy, kissing them with fervour as strong as your forge. In one quick sweep of his strong arm, he clears one of your mentor's workbenches, lifts you up on it, and eats you out until you're a quivering mess, ready to fall apart in front of him.

"The only one I truly want to serve," he says from between your warm and plush thighs. "Moan for me more. I want to know what you like. Exactly what you like."

And you do. You don't stop even after you cum the first time, because he immediately flips you over and enters you from behind. He plays with your nipples as he bites your neck, and his massive cock lights up your insides.

Your strong arms barely withstand his weight as he pushes his body onto yours, rutting against your ass until he hears you climax one more time. Then he follows, releasing his load into your sore pussy.

"Do you believe me now?" he asks as he kisses your shoulder. "Do you believe I want to be your knight and servant?

You can barely talk from underneath him. "Is that... ahh... is that what you meant by 'my heart yearns to be forged by a different kind of flame'?"

His cock twitches inside you. "Exactly. Took you long enough to decipher that, beautiful. The only heat, the only flame I need is yours."