#((posts that are funny only to me and me only))

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

The Death of Wei Wuxian.

(Thank you to everyone who participated in the poll!)

[tinkeys]

first suits fanart. im like super normal about them of course.

[sincerelyneo]

death by a thousand cuts | l.hc

“but if the story’s over, why am i still writing pages?”

💿now playing: death by a thousand cuts by taylor swift

❯ summary: If you get more than one love in a lifetime, why does your heart still beat for the boy who wrecked you completely?

❯ pairings: haechan x fem!reader

❯ genre: angst, second chance, cheating trope, smut.

❯ words: 9.6k

❯ tags: 18+ minors dni!, smut, cheating (booo), exes, toxic relationship, a therapy joke, lots of angst, swearing, heartbreak, a whole lotta hurt, drinking, insecurities, jealousy, arguing, heavy petting, protected sex, nipple play, oral sex (fem receiving), i can’t lie this is just 9k words of heartache and sex lol.

an: this fic will not be for everyone!! i do not condone cheating in any way, you’re a loser if you cheat. i just felt like writing something heart achey, and this is my favourite taylor swift song that inspires cheating fics whenever i listen to it.

“Give me that!”

Yeji snatches the phone out of your hand with the kind of urgency only a best friend possesses—the kind forged after too many years of watching you do the stupidest things when it comes to boys. Her eyes flare the moment she spots the familiar username. 

@ haechanahceah

“Oh my god. You’re kidding.” Her thumb hovers accusingly over the screen. “Y/N, it’s been a year. A whole year. Why haven’t you blocked Hyuck yet?”

You don’t answer immediately. Just tilt your head back with an exhausted exhale, reaching for the phone. Not because you want it back, but because it feels incriminating in her hands. Like a wound she’s now inspecting. And you don’t need her inspecting it.

“Because we’re okay,” you say, not entirely convincingly. “Mostly.”

It was just a like. On an Instagram post. Of him—with his friends.

(Some of them girls. Most of them girls. All of them tagged. And you definitely weren’t planning on clicking through their profiles in the middle of your best friend coffee date with your screen brightness criminally low. Definitely not.)

“And because we’re friends,” you add breezily. Then you pluck the phone from her hand and tap back into the app, your thumb moving faster than your brain, already leaving a comment beneath his photo.

Something flippant. Something funny. Something that screams: See? I’m a functioning, emotionally stable adult who can totally be friends with the boy who annihilated my heart while he gallivants around Europe on a boat with girls. 

Except probably subtler. 

Yeji stares at you like she’s witnessing a slow-motion car crash. “Oh, absolutely. And when that guy drove me home from the bar last weekend and told me I had pretty eyes, we were just friends too.”

You roll your eyes, swatting the air with your hand. “That’s different. Hyuck’s my childhood best friend. I can’t just cut him off now that we’re not…” you pause, the words catching in your throat like they always do, “you know?”

“No. I don’t know,” she says, arms crossed and chin lifted in that annoyingly perceptive way of hers. “Because you two are in a loop. An exhausting, toxic, ‘I-don’t-know-where-we-stand-with-each-other’ loop. And staying in touch with him is why you can’t move on.”

“We are not toxic.”

You are. 

But you’d already said it out loud like a reflex, before you even had time to make it sound believable. So, you try to fix it. 

“We’re just…”

You trail off, blinking hard like the answer might fall from the ceiling.

 “Co-dependent?” Lia offers helpfully. 

 You sigh. “Yes. That. Thank you, Lia.”

“It’s weird, is what it is,” Yeji says. 

You lean back in your chair, arms folded across your chest like armour. “Ugh. You wouldn’t get it.”

And they wouldn’t. They never have.

Because nobody gets you and Hyuck. Not Yeji, not Lia, not even the therapists you’ve paid a concerning amount of money to explain it all to you. No amount of therapy or psychoanalysis can remove the him-shaped hole inside of you. The way he exists like a second heartbeat.

How many times does a person truly get to fall in love? Not the practical kind. But the kind that rewires you completely. That makes you wonder how you ever existed before this person, and fear who you might become after. 

If love were fair—the answer would be simple. Once. Only ever once.

Because to love someone—truly love someone—is not just to hand over your heart. It’s to fold it delicately, wrap it in every part of your soul, and place it willingly in that person’s pocket. Trusting that they won’t ever give it back frayed or barely beating. 

And if they do (and he definitely did) well, what remains might resemble a heart, but it never beats the same again. You don’t think it ever will.

So yes. One love. One person. One boy—him.

Yeji calls it nostalgia. Says that since he was your first everything, it feels bigger than it was, and that’s why he’s taking up too much space inside your chest. She says you're scared of forgetting. But that’s not it.

You’d give anything to forget. It’s better than remembering everything. Of living in a world where he’s everywhere and nowhere all at once. Where songs feel like him. Where movies feel like him. Where your own body sometimes feels like him because he’s marked it so damn much.

But if you did move on, if you could—you’d still have to ask yourself: where does all that breathless, foolish, all-consuming love go? 

The common consensus is that love turns to hate when it stays too long without being fed. But you can’t imagine a universe cruel enough to make you hate the very boy who made you believe in soulmates.

So you don’t hate him. Even though you should.

“Fine,” Yeji slumps back in her chair, arms crossed, eyes sharp with that familiar fury she reserves exclusively for you��when you’re being like this. “You’re right. I don’t get it. I don’t get why you’re still in cahoots with the same boy who cheated on you and left you a complete mess.”

Lia gasps. “Yeji!”

But the thing is—Yeji has a point. And you know that. But knowing something and truly understanding it is two different things. 

You don’t understand how he put his hands on someone else. How his mouth touched a body that wasn’t yours. How he delivered that line—“I didn’t mean for it to happen”—with the kind of ease that made you wonder just how many times he’d practised it in the mirror before he had the balls to actually tell you. 

You didn’t understand, yet you knew all the same.

You were wearing his shirt when he told you. Still in his house. Still in the space you thought was yours too. And all you could think was: how many nights did he lie next to you like nothing was wrong? How many times did he touch you with hands that had already betrayed you?

He never told you when, or who. Just a sorry. A soft one. A useless one. And a vague promise that he’d do anything to fix it.

But there are some things sorry can’t fix.

You clear your throat, suddenly too aware of how loud your heartbeat feels in a room full of people who love you enough to hate him.

“Because we’re not in cahoots,” you correct. “We’re friends, Yej. Him and I have always been friends.”

It’s not a lie. Not exactly. 

You have been friends with Hyuck ever since he moved in next door to your family when you were six. And even then—when you climbed trees and shared crayons—you think your heart was already beating for him. So much you don’t know what life is without that pulse anymore. Without a hint of him running beneath your skin.

It’s why you plaster on a smile and say, “In fact, I even invited him to my birthday party next week.”

They look at you, eyes full of pity and sympathy. And that hurts way more than him breaking you ever did. Because now your friends are staring at you like you’re some sad, shattered, pathetic thing he left behind.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Lia asks weakly. 

“You’re seriously a lunatic,” Yeji cuts in before you can respond. “You’re just dragging this out for yourself. Death by a thousand cuts and all that.”

“I am not a lunatic,” you say, shrugging her off. “It’s just... he’s still part of my life. It’s not like I’m inviting a stranger.”

“He fucked up your life,” she huffs, the words stinging. “He hurt you.”

“Yes,” you breathe. “But I love him anyway, don’t I?”

And you do. Because some loves don’t end—they just rearrange themselves. 

Yeji yanks her chair back so hard the legs screech against the floor.

“He’s gonna hurt you again,” she spits. “How many times are you gonna let him rip you apart before there’s nothing left? Before you’ve sacrificed yourself and everyone else around you and you’ve got nothing left to give?”

You want to say something, but the words get stuck, because she’s right.

Lia reaches out, “Yeji—”

“If he’s there next week, Y/N,” she says, eyes burning over her shoulder looking from you to Lia, “then I won’t be.”

When Hyuck got a DM from the only girl he’s ever loved—two days ago, now—he sobered.

Which, if you asked Mark, was some kind of divine miracle. Because Mark had been watching his best friend drink himself into oblivion for the better part of a year. A slow, intentional kind of fucked up that was clearly a desperate, pathetic attempt to forget you.

But no shot, no spirit, no stranger’s skin pressed to his could ever do the trick. Not really. Because no matter how hard Hyuck tried, the hangover was always the same: he’d wake up, and you still weren’t his girl.

So when he saw your username light up his phone, he paused. 

Because the preview didn’t give anything away. It did that annoying thing that said “2 new messages.” No hint. No breadcrumb. Just a loaded gun of a notification staring up at him.

And, of course he clicked it. He had to. You knew he would. You’d sent two back-to-back messages on purpose—he’s certain of it. Because that’s exactly the kind of person you were. Always two steps ahead. Always orchestrating even your vulnerability. 

You wanted to see when he’d read it. 

And he did.

At 2:36 a.m. Because you’d definitely be asleep by then. And that meant he had enough time to draft the right response—measured, brisk, detached—like the past year hadn’t cracked him open.

He read it in the half-light of Mark’s living room, surrounded by people he didn’t really like and a bottle of something he couldn’t quite remember picking up.

hey. i’m having a thing next friday for my birthday—just a chill party. nothing major. 

you can come, if you want.

Hyuck stares at the two messages.

It’s not because of the party. He couldn’t care less about the cake or the candles. That’s not what has his heart in his throat. It’s the fact that—for the first time in a year—you actually reached out. None of that accidentally bumping into each other nonsense you two pull. No one buys that it’s an accident. 

At least, it’s not an accident on his behalf.

It’s not an accident when he keeps frequenting the same coffee shop you once claimed made the best lattes in the city—always at the same time. It’s not a coincidence when he drives through your favourite places on rainy days, just in case you need a ride and are too proud to just call him. And it’s definitely not a coincidence that makes him take the long way to your house. He does it deliberately. He selfishly takes more of your time than he deserves.

Because saying goodbye wasn’t an option for him. Not until it had to be. He’d take prolonged suffering. Death by a thousand cuts.

And it’s not his fault. Well. It is. All of the ruin, anyway. But in the twelve months since he blew it all up, you’ve still lingered. You always do. You always will. So he just keeps showing up in your life when he knows you need to move on. Because he doesn’t want you to. 

Because everything in his life is still half-yours. And he won’t board up the windows of that love—not even now. Not when some part of you still flickers inside it, and half of his heart is still in your chest.

Hyuck stares at your message again. He types something. Deletes it. Types something else. Deletes that too.

what kind of thing is it?

Too uninterested.

who’s gonna be there?

Too nosy.

sure, if you want me there.

Too honest. 

Everything felt like a trap—too much, too little, not enough to win you back, but equally too honest and would remind you of his actions that hurt you. 

How was he supposed to respond to the girl who once memorised every mole on his face? Who was the muse of every song he’s written? Who still makes his hands shake on the keyboard? Who he cheated on? Who he destroyed completely? 

Eventually he landed on:

might swing by, angel. happy early birthday, btw.

He hit send before he could change his mind.

11:27PM

Thirty-three minutes left of your birthday, but you’re not celebrating.

Instead, you’re sitting on the edge of the kitchen counter with one leg dangling, the other tucked beneath you, whilst your dress wrinkles and bunches around your thighs because you stopped caring how ruined you looked an hour ago.  

You don’t care that your lipstick is all but gone or that your mascara is smudged under both eyes. You don’t care because he’s not here. 

You were supposed to be smiling by now. 

But he didn’t walk in. 

He still hasn’t.

And you don’t even know why you’re surprised. He’s not your boyfriend. He’s not your baby. He’s not your Hyuck anymore. He doesn’t owe you a goddamn thing—not a happy birthday, or his time. You gave that privilege up the night you stopped being his. Or maybe the night he stopped being yours. You still haven’t decided which one came first.

Still, you hoped he would come. 

It was the only thing keeping you remotely sane—delusional hope that he might still show up. That maybe he’d walk through the door like he hadn’t betrayed you and still want you. You still wanted him. 

You hated that he broke you and still got to keep the pieces. Hated that even now, on your birthday, all you could think about was him. Hated that you still wanted his birthdays, his weekends, his forever. 

You take another drink. Cheaper vodka this time, and let it burn your throat as it goes down. You want the sting. You deserve the sting. Your eyes drift (again) to the front door.

Still nothing.

“You need to stop doing that,” Lia pads barefoot into the kitchen, coming right behind you to smack both her hands on your shoulders. “Stop watching that door like a hawk. Yeji would kill you if she saw you pining after him on your birthday.”

You press your lips together and glance away like you’ve been caught red-handed. Because, well. You have.

“Yeah, well. Yeji isn’t here,” you mutter, taking another sip—longer this time. 

Lia raises an eyebrow. “And why’s that?”

You drain the last of your drink and look her straight in the eye. “Because I invited him.”

Lia looks at you expectantly. You know she hates being caught between you and Yeji, but it’s clear she thinks you were wrong to invite Hyuck tonight, knowing full well how Yeji would react.

And maybe she’s right.

That’s why you sigh.

“Look, he said he might come,” you say finally. “He didn’t promise anything. Yeji was overreacting.”

“He never promises,” Lia says gently. “And yet, you keep prioritising him like he’s still that sweet boy we both used to love, who used to buy your favourite cookies before class, or pick fights with the boys who made fun of you. But he’s not that boy anymore, Y/N. And he’s not yours anymore either.”

You flinch.

She notices. Regrets it. “Sorry.”

You shake your head. “It’s fine.”

But it isn’t, not really. Because this is the first birthday he’s missed since you were kids. Since you were eleven and he showed up with a homemade card. 

It’s not fine because his absence would say something that the cheating weirdly never quite did—that he’s not the boy you fell in love with. Maybe he hasn’t been for a long time.

Lia leans against the counter beside you. “It’s allowed, you know? Being hurt.”

“I don’t get to be,” you reply, glancing at her. “He doesn’t owe me anything anymore. I was the one who didn’t want to forgive him that night. I said I was done. I don’t expect him to grovel forever.”

“No,” she agrees. “But you deserved something. More than a half-assed apology at least.”

That lands in your chest harshly. You press your tongue to your cheek, the way you do when you’re trying not to cry. You’re not drunk enough to cry yet. Give it another hour.

“Come on,” Lia sighs and wraps an arm around your shoulders, tugging you into her side, “I’m not letting you stay in here staring at that door and giving him the power to ruin the rest of your birthday.” 

But even as she says it, your eyes flicker to that door again—still no him.

Lia doesn’t let go of your hand as she leads you out of the kitchen and into the living room, where people are scattered across the sofas and floors. They all feel like strangers at your own party because you’ve spent the whole night looking for one person who never came. 

“Y/N,” Lia says, squeezing your hand, “this is Hyunjae.”

You blink. The boy in front of you is pretty. Dark eyes, strong jaw softened by the curve of a perfect smile, black hair pushed back sexily. He’s holding a drink loosely in his hand as his eyes sweep over you. 

“Happy birthday,” he says. “You look—”

Please don’t say beautiful. Please don’t say gorgeous. Please don’t say anything he would’ve said.

“—pretty,” Hyunjae finishes. “Really fucking pretty.”

You smile. Or try to. “Thanks.”

And look, it’s not that Hyunjae isn’t nice—he is. You can already hear Yeji telling you to give him a chance. He’s the kind of boy who’d text back, who’s safe, who’d never leave you staring at a door wondering if he’ll show up on your birthday or not. Hyunjae is the kind of boy who wouldn’t cheat on you. 

But the truth is, you don’t know if you can be the girl who lets someone call her pretty and fawn anymore. Not without wondering if they’ll still mean it once they see someone better, shinier, hotter than you. 

Just like he did. 

You nod along when Hyunjae talks. You laugh where you’re supposed to. Play nice. Be sweet. But everything he says sounds like static. Everything he is feels like a placeholder. 

And then, you hear it. That deep, honey-smooth, familiar voice saying: “Happy birthday, angel.”

It slices through the room. Through you.

Because there’s only one person who ever called you that. One boy. Lee Donghyuck.

You didn’t even hear the front door open. Typical. But there he is, leaning in the doorway, all tan skin and messy hair. His hands are buried in his pockets, his jaw set tight—too tight, like he’s seconds from grinding his teeth into dust. 

But it’s not you he’s looking at. It’s Hyunjae. Sitting far too close. Arm tossed lazily behind you on the couch, thigh pointing into yours, almost grazing like he owns your space. 

And Hyuck notices. You know he notices.

His eyes narrow. Lips parting slightly as his tongue presses against the inside of his cheek. You know that look. You’ve seen it before. That blend of heat and hurt and possessiveness he has no right to anymore.

It hits your chest all at once—shame, hurt, lust—and you fumble. Your hand twitches with the red plastic cup still clutched tight. The drink tilts before you even realise it’s slipping. Cranberry vodka sloshes, causing sticky, cold liquid to spill down the front of your dress, dripping into the neckline. 

“Fuck—” you hiss, jerking upright as the cup lands onto the coffee table. You paw uselessly at the now soaked fabric, trying to blot it with the hem of your sleeve, but it’s only smearing it worse.

Hyunjae starts to reach for a napkin, concerned. But your eyes have already found Hyuck’s again. And the way he’s looking at you now…

Your throat goes dry. “I—I’m gonna go change.”

You don’t wait for a reply. You’re moving before anyone can stop you, heart hammering against your ribs because this wasn’t how it was supposed to go. 

You barely make it up the stairs, breath coming fast, fingers trembling as you reach for the door to your room. You close it. But you don’t get the chance to lock it. Because the door creaks again behind you. And then it clicks shut. You spin around. And there he is.

You don’t say anything at first. 

Just stalk over to your wardrobe like it’s perfectly sane to have your ex-boyfriend—your ex-best friend, the boy you used to see every single day, the only boy you’ve ever slept with, the only person who knows all the tells on your body, the boy you still love—in your bedroom for the first time in over a year.

You wrench the closet door open. A pair of heels fall out and land with a little thud. You don’t flinch. You pretend to rifle through hangers, but you’re not looking for anything specific. All of it is just something to do with your hands, because looking at him right now would be a sick kind of torture.

“What are you doing here!?”

Hyuck doesn’t respond immediately. Instead, you only hear the soft thud of his shoes on your floor, the creak of your floorboard by the dresser. He’s closer than you want him to be.

“You invited me,” he says, like it’s obvious.

You spin around. “I invited you to my birthday party. Which started five hours ago.”

He lifts his phone, the screen glowing in the dark. “As far as I’m aware,” he says, tapping it once, “you’ve still got thirteen minutes left. So again, happy birthday, angel.”

You stiffen. 

There it is. That.

That fucking word. The one that used to make you feel warm and wanted. Now it feels like an insult wrapped in silk.

“Don’t call me that.”

That stops him. Just for a second. Then, slowly, he lowers the phone. Shoves it back into his pocket.

“I thought you liked it when I called you that.”

“I used to like it,” you spit. “Back when it meant something. You know, before you fucked someone else behind my back.”

His jaw tightens. Good, you think. The truth hurts; you hope it hurts. And maybe that makes you cruel. But then again, he was cruel first.

He rubs his jaw, then exhales. “We’re really doing this now?”

You laugh dryly. “Oh, sorry. Would you prefer we pencil it in for next week instead? Talk about it over brunch sometime, yeah?”

You turn back to your wardrobe, suddenly too irritated. Your fingers find the old grey hoodie you always loved. It looks soft. Comfortable. Definitely not party appropriate. But you don’t care because you don’t want to go back out there. Not after this.

You peel your dress off in one motion, leaving you in the black lace set you picked out this morning—because it was your birthday. Not for anyone else. Not for a boy. Certainly not for him.

Him. 

You forget for a moment that he’s still behind you.

It’s like your brain short-circuits in his presence. Like it still confuses this boy for the lifeline he used to be. Like your heart can’t shout loud enough to warn you: this boy broke us, this boy hurt us, this boy is bad for us. All it says is: this boy is Hyuck. This boy is sweet. This boy—we love.

You only remember when you hear him inhale—sharply—and turn around. 

He’s looking at you like that again. Like he did back when he loved you, and you loved him, and he hadn’t ruined everything yet. He looks hungry, and like the only thing that might satisfy him is you. 

That thought makes you clutch the hoodie to your chest. “Turn around!”

He does. Obediently. But then: 

"So, did you wear that for me?"

His voice is so annoyingly smug it makes you roll your eyes as you reply. “No.”

But your cheeks betray you. Hot. Guilty. Flushed. Thank god his back is still to you, because if he turned around now and looked at you, he’d know. Because he knows all your tells. Always has.

And from just a simple flush, he’d know that yes, you wore this set for him. That yes, despite pretending you were over him in his Instagram comments, your traitorous heart had hoped that he might come tonight and rip the set off of you.

And just in case he caught your second tell (the tremor in your voice), you twist the knife a little more.

“I wore this set for Hyunjae, actually.”

A silence. Then the fucker starts laughing.

Not a little laugh. A full-bodied, head thrown back, belly laugh. You hate how much you’ve missed that sound, how it still makes your stomach flip. 

“Five minutes ago, I might’ve believed that, angel,” he says, turning slightly. Just enough for you to catch the outline of his grin. “And it would’ve driven me fucking crazy.”

Your heart stutters when he nods toward your chest.

“But I wasn’t talking about your underwear,” he says, eyes dipping lower. 

You follow his gaze down to the delicate gold chain resting just above the swell of your breasts. The one with the tiny heart pendant. The one with the H engraving. 

“I was talking about that necklace. The one I bought you for your sixteenth birthday,” He cocks his head. Smirking now. “Did you wear it for me?”

Your fingers fly to it instinctively. You hadn’t taken it off. Not even after finding out. You always wore it underneath your clothes, tucked away like a secret, because Yeji would have a field day if she knew you still wore his necklace.

But in the heat of the moment, stripping down to your underwear, your brain hadn’t realised that he’d see it again. 

“I thought I told you to turn around,” you snap, furious with yourself.

He lifts his hands defensively. “I am turned around.”

“I meant your head, not just your body, Hyuck.”

And so he does, again. Obediently.

You pull the hoodie on. It swallows you immediately. The sleeves dangle past your hands, the hem skims your thighs, and it smells like dust and weirdly like…the boy behind you.

“I’m decent,” you mutter.

He turns around, eyes flicking down before he smiles. Not smug, this time. Just soft and… a little sad?

“That’s mine.”

You roll your eyes, tugging at the sleeves. “No it isn’t.”

“Yes, it is. It’s massive on you. And unless you’ve got a secret stash of men’s hoodies in your closet, that one’s mine.”

You glare. “Oh yeah? And who says I don’t have a collection of men’s hoodies in my closet?”

“I do.”

 So fast. So sure.

You scoff, a single sharp laugh. “God, you think so highly of yourself.”

He crosses his arms—all tensed jaw and too-tight t-shirt—and it’s irritating, how stupidly good he looks whilst being smug.

“Yeah,” he says, deadpan. “I do. Because, despite us being broken up, you still wear my necklace.”  He nods toward your nightstand.  “You still have a photo of us beside your bed.” And then, one step closer. “And you fucking invited me here tonight.”

You lift your chin. “I invited everyone. It was a mass text.”

“Funny,” he says, a fake smile forming, “Mark didn’t get a text.”

“Aww,” you coo, mocking. “You still talk to your friends about me, Hyuck? Christ. Now I’m gonna start thinking highly of myself.”

“You should.”

For some reason, those two simple words hit you like a slap across the face. Because no.

“You don’t get to do that!” you snap at him. “You don’t get to tell me I should think highly of myself when you’re the exact reason I can’t even imagine the top anymore, Hyuck!” You laugh bitterly. “I don’t know my worth because you had me. But you wanted something else.”

And in that moment—maybe it’s your tone, or maybe it’s accountability—a flash of hurt crosses his face, that makes him wince. 

“Y/N, angel…” His voice cracks a little on your name, as he runs a hand through his hair. “Fuck! It was one mistake. You don’t understand—”

But you don’t want to hear it. You’ve already heard it.

You hold up a hand, stopping him from wasting his breath. “I don’t want to understand anything about the night you decided to fuck another girl, thank you very much, Hyuck.”

“Of course, I get that but—”

“But?”  you raise an eyebrow in disbelief. 

“Yes, but, Y/N,” he fires back. “Because I don’t know what you want from me. You say you don’t want to forgive me—and I get it. I don’t deserve your forgiveness.” He’s pacing now. “But you string me along. You comment on my posts, you let me drive you home, you still have my fucking hoodies—”

His eyes flick down to the one you’re wearing now, oversized and drooping around the neckline to show that gold chain. 

“—you wear my initials around your neck, and you asked me to come tonight—you. And now you’re mad that I’m here?”

His voice rises and you swallow—hard. Like maybe if you keep swallowing, you’ll stop the tears from climbing all the way up your throat. Because it’s all too raw. All of it. Him. You.This.

He’s unraveling in front of you. And even though you know—deep in your bones—that he doesn’t have the right to be this angry, a part of you gets it. Because this awful, splintered, aching love you have for him is confusing. It’s contradictory. It fucks with your brain so much that it doesn’t matter that you’re hurting because he’s hurting too. 

And that’s all you can focus on.

It’s like you said:  nobody gets you and Hyuck. 

“I don’t know what you want from me, angel,” he says again, quieter this time. He takes a slow step forward. Close enough to reach out and tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, like he used to.

His hand lingers.

“I don’t know what you want,” he breathes, “but if you tell me—I’ll give it to you.”

Your breath stutters. Your throat tightens.

And then, so quiet you almost miss it: “Because. I. Love. You.”

You close your eyes. You don’t want to. You don’t even mean to. But those three words wrap around you tight. 

“Don’t,” your voice cracks. “Don’t say that to me, Hyuck. Not after everything.”

When you open your eyes again, they’re full of tears. Angry ones. Bitter ones. Hopeful ones too—because you’re weak, and stupid, and still a little bit in love with a boy who shattered you.

“I mean it,” he says instantly. His hand twitches at his side—you see it. He wants to touch you. Wants to wipe your tears like he used to because he hates them. But he doesn’t know if he has permission anymore. (He does, but he doesn’t know he does.)

“I’ve always meant it.”

“Then why’d you throw it all away?” You spit the words out like poison. “Why did you ruin us for a quick fuck?”

“I don’t know,” he breathes, stepping back. “But I do know I hurt you. And I’ll hate myself for that forever. But I never stopped loving you. Not for a second.”

You laugh. But it sounds more like a sob. “You have a funny way of showing love.”

“I know.”

“You know everything,” you say, “except why you did it.”

A beat passes. Two. Three.

“You should go,” you whisper. “The party’s over. You’ve said what you needed to say. And I thought I could do this but I can’t.”

“No.”

Your eyes fly to his. He’s shaking his head, tongue in his cheek again as he sniffs.

“No,” he says again “I’m not leaving us like this.”

“I don’t want you here.”

“Liar.”

“Hyuck—”

“You want me to say it again?” he asks, voice rising just slightly. Not angry. Only desperate. “You want me to beg? Fine. I will. I’ll fucking get on my knees if that’s what it takes.”

And then, to your absolute horror, he does. 

“Hyuck, stop—”

“I’m sorry,” he chokes out. “I’m sorry for everything. For all of it. For her. For the lies. For shattering everything good we ever had. But I love you, Y/N. And I’m not sorry for that. I’ll never be sorry for that.”

You’re trying to stay angry. Trying to hold onto the rage but it’s slipping. Because you want him. You love him.

He’s still on his knees. Still looking up at you. Still pleading. You wish he’d just stand up. You wish he didn’t look so much like the boy you fell in love with instead of the man who broke you.

“Please,” he says again.“I know I don’t get to ask. But I’m asking anyway. I’m asking because I love you. I never stopped. I swear to God, I never—”

“Stop it,” you say, too fast.

It feels like your chest caves in. Because the thing about love is: it’s loud. Louder than hurt. Especially right now. You love him so much you could scream. But instead, you drop down to your knees. Right there in front of him. And before you know it, your hands are reaching for him. Stupid, traitorous things.

“Stop,” you whisper. “Please, stop.”

But he doesn’t.

Of course he doesn’t.

Because he’s Hyuck. And Hyuck never knows when to shut up.

“I know I ruined it,” he’s saying. “I know I don’t deserve a second chance. I wouldn’t forgive me either. I wouldn’t. But I can’t stop loving you. I’ve tried. God, I’ve tried so hard. I’ve kissed girls who weren’t you and I’ve gone home wanting to claw off my own skin.”

You suck in a breath.

“You don’t have to forgive me now. Or ever. Just let me prove it. Let me try. I’ll wait. I’ll wait for you for fucking ever, I swear—”

You’re kissing him. 

You have no idea why, but it just feels like you have to. Because you physically can’t not. Because the love of your life, him, is bleeding out in front of you and you’re the only one who knows how to stop it.

And when your mouth crahses into his, it tastes like heartbreak and history and every stupid, selfish thing he’s ever done. But you keep kissing him. Because just as much as it hurts—it feels like home. Like you’ve finally been returned to the place you belong. Like his lips have been waiting for yours all this time. 

He’s kissing you back just as fiercely. Like he might die if he doesn’t. And maybe he would. Maybe you would too.

You don’t know who moves first. You think it’s you, but maybe it’s him. You’re both equally desperate—lunging backward until his back knocks against the foot of your bedframe and you’re straddling his hips. 

His hands find your waist, landing heavy and possessive around you. But you don’t mind, because your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging just hard enough to make him groan into your mouth—and God, you missed that sound. Missed him like oxygen.

His mouth moves to your neck, lips skimming every slither of skin he can reach, greedily not wanting to miss a single piece of you since he’s trying to make up for all the parts he used to take for granted. And you tilt your head back, giving him that access, because you’ve never been able to deny him anything.

“Tell me you’re still mine,” he breathes against your skin, half-choked.

You should tell him no. Should tell him he doesn’t get to ask things like that—not when he gave himself away so easily. Not now when he’ll never solely be yours like you’re solely his. 

But your heart is so tired and so in love it’s ridiculous, so instead you whisper: “I never stopped being yours.”

And then he’s kissing you again—deeper, this time. Until he pulls away and his forehead presses to yours, and he pants against your lips. “Let me love you,” he begs. “Please. Let me love you right this time.”

He feels solid beneath you. It’s making your brain fuzzy. It’s making you whimper.

“Okay,” you pant, tugging harder at those soft brown strands, as your hips shift and grind down against him, making him groan lowly. 

His hands clamp tighter around your waist, dragging you down harder, closer, like he’s trying to fuse you to him. And suddenly your skin feels too tight. You’re too aware of the clothes between you—what little there is.

Because you didn’t put on pants. Just that hoodie of his over your pathetic pair of black panties—thin, useless fabric—and now your pussy is rubbing right up against the thick outline of him through his jeans, and it’s overwhelming. You can feel absolutely everything you’ve missed.

Heat blooms in your stomach and you roll your hips again. It’s so shameless. So needy. But you don’t care. Not when it’s been this long. Not when it’s his fault it’s been this long—because you never would’ve let it be anyone else.

And he meets you in it. Each grind matched with one of his own, more harsh than the last. Until his hips are moving on impulse, chasing you like a man starved. His head drops to your shoulder, and his breath stutters. 

“Fuck, angel, slow down,” he chokes, “You’re killing me.”

You press your lips to his temple, to his jaw, anywhere you can reach, and whisper, breathless, “You deserve it.”

He groans—louder this time—like he agrees.

His hands slide beneath your hoodie, fingers splayed wide, dragging up the warm skin of your back like he’s relearning it. 

“I can’t believe this is happening again,” he breathes into your neck. “You can’t be real.”

But you are. You’re right here. Straddling him. Shaking for him. Letting him touch you like he never stopped having the right to.

He kisses your collarbone. Then lower—your sternum, the tops of your breasts, the edge of lace peeking from beneath his hoodie. His hoodie. That fact alone seems to snap something inside him.

“Fuck,” he mutters, and then he’s pushing the fabric up and up and up, until it pools around your ribs and the cold air hits your bare stomach. You shiver. 

“Take it off,” he murmurs. “Please. Want to see you.”

You raise your arms, let him peel it over your head, and suddenly you’re half-naked in his lap—wearing nothing but that black set you wanted him to rip off, then didn’t, then did… and now, he is. Fingers working at the clasp, slipping the straps from your shoulders and tossing the bra aside in your room somewhere.

And then, he takes his time letting his eyes drag over you. Taking a sick pride in seeing his initial rest in the valley of your breast. 

“Jesus,” he whispers. “You’re still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

And something about that word—still—makes your stomach twist.

Your arms fold over your boobs on instinct, shielding yourself from the one person you’ve always felt safest with. Because still means there’s someone else now. Someone he’s looked at. Someone he’s touched. Someone you had to beat—and somehow did.

But you shouldn’t have had to.

He notices the shift immediately—how your arms cross, how your body goes stiff, how the room, warm just a second ago, chills.

“Hey. Hey,” he says, brows furrowing. He cups your face, thumbs brushing just beneath your eyes. “Talk to me, angel. What’s wrong? What happened?”

You’re still straddling him, half-naked, kissed raw and dizzy, and yet you feel like you’re a million miles away. You try to speak, to explain, but the words choke you. How do you tell him something he’s never known? How do you make him understand? You’ve never done this to him before—and just knowing how much it hurts—you don’t think you ever could.

“I just—” your voice cracks. “I can’t stop thinking about her.”

He flinches—just enough for you to know it landed. But he doesn’t pull away.

The thing is, he doesn’t say her name. Doesn’t even mention her. Never has. But she’s here. Right here. In this room. Your room. In the silence. In his presence.

He shakes his head like he’s trying to wipe the thought away. “No. No, don’t do that. Don’t think about her. This—” his hands cup your face tighter, gently desperate, “—this is you and me. Always you.”

Your jaw clenches, your eyes sting. “Then why wasn’t it only me?”

He swallows hard, his gaze dropping to your lips before flickering away. He doesn’t answer—of course he doesn’t. He never does. And that’s been half the war between you. He doesn’t want to tell you the why.

Instead, his hands drift from your face to your waist, pulling you in like proximity might somehow make up for his silence. Like touch could smother your insecurities. 

His breath ghosts over your skin as he leans in.“Forget her. Just for now. Right here, right now, it’s only you. Only us.”

You hate that you melt. Hate that the ache in your chest loosens its grip the second his hands coax your arms from where you’d folded them. Hate that even after everything, he still knows how to make you feel safe inside the wreckage he caused.

He’s infuriating.

“Let me show you,” he whispers. “That it’s always only been you for me.”

His hands skim up your sides, thumbs brushing delicately beneath your tits. His eyes never leave yours—not for a second—as he kneads and explores and feels your body in his palm. And then his mouth follows.

Lips warm, slightly chapped, close around your right nipple. Your breath punches out of you. You can’t help it because his tongue flicks once, then again, then again until your spine arches and pushes the bud further into his mouth.

“Hyuck,” you moan, helpless, feeling the curve of his smirk drag against your skin.

His free hand trails up your other side, rolling the neglected peak between calloused fingers so deliciously because he remembers exactly what used to make you fall apart, and now he’s hell-bent on proving he hasn’t forgotten.

“God, you’re fucking unreal,” he murmurs against your skin, then bites gently, just enough to make you gasp. 

His words make you ache. Everywhere. Especially between your legs, where you’re still pressed tight against the thick, unrelenting shape of him through his jeans. And he hasn’t even touched you there yet, but it’s coming—you know it is. 

His mouth keeps going, warm and wet whilst he stays sucking just hard enough to turn your bones to water. And whenever you whimper he groans. 

“Please, Hyuck,” you plead. “Need more.”

He lifts his head, murmuring, “Yeah? You want me to show you how much I missed you?”

You nod, dizzy. 

“Fuck,” he groans and wastes no time lifting you off the floor like it’s nothing, carrying you to your bed. He lays you down gently, spreads you out beneath him like something precious. And then he peels off his t-shirt.

That tan skin—scattered with moles you’ve memorised, counted, traced with your fingers and your mouth—is on full display, just for you.

“I’ll give you everything,” he says, voice low as he drops to his knees, crawling between your legs. “Absolutely everything. As long as you don’t regret this. Don’t regret me.”

Your fingers sink into his hair before you can think. “I won’t,” you whisper. “Couldn’t.”

And then he dips down.

His mouth finds the inside of your thigh, open-mouthed kisses dragging tantalisingly up your skin. He’s not rushing. He never does when he gives head. It’s his favourite thing to savour. You. On his tongue.

“You’ve no idea how long I’ve thought about this,” he murmurs, nipping at your skin, making you gasp. “How many times I’ve had to stop myself from texting. From begging you to take me back.”

“Who said anything about taking you back?” You say, hips shifting, dying for friction, but he pins them with strong hands, keeping you right where he wants you. 

“I did,” he says, a smirk ghosting over his lips. “Am I wrong, Y/N? Because if I am, we can stop right now?”

“No,” you whine on a trembling breath.

He smiles. “I didn’t think so.”

Then, finally, finally—his mouth finds the place you need him most.

He licks a slow stripe up your center, groaning from the taste of you in his mouth. He does it again, and then again, until your legs are trembling and one of your hands fists the sheets, the other tangled in his hair, pulling and tugging at it, just how he likes. Just how you like.

He flicks his tongue, circles it, moans when you cry out for more.

“God, you taste the same,” he says hoarsely. “Still fucking perfect.”

You try to respond, to say something, but then he sucks again, so hard, you almost shoot clean off the bed.

“Hyuck—please,” it’s half a sob, a half moan, one hundered percent completley ruined.

He growls, arms locking around your thighs to keep you still, mouth relentless as he licks and sucks and worships like this is his penance.

“Shit, Y/N,” he mutters between licks, “I missed how fucking responsive you are. Always so good for me.”

You whimper. “Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”

“Not gonna,” he promises. “Not until you fall apart for me. Right here. Right now.”

He hums, the vibration making your stomach flutter, and you swear your heart forgets how to beat.

“Let me make you come,” he says, voice completely ruined now too. “Wanna feel you fall apart on my mouth. Please.”

And you do. You let him. Because you want this. Want him. Still. Always.

Your entire body coils, legs shaking, hands clawing at the sheets as your orgasm crashes through you. It’s shattering, making you cry out, his name falling from your lips repeatedly. 

Hyuck doesn’t stop. Not until your body finally slumps back to the mattress, boneless and trembling. Only then does he lift his head, lips wet and shiny. He crawls up your body, kissing your thigh, your stomach, the underside of your boobs, your jaw. Everywhere. Until he’s hovering over you, and you’re staring up at him, glassy-eyed and overwhelmed.

“You okay?” he whispers, brushing hair gently back from your face.

You nod, breath catching. “Yeah. I just... I can’t believe you’re here.”

“I never really left,” he says. “Even though I know I should have. I’m too damn selfish.”

Your throat tightens. You reach up, tracing his jaw with shaking fingers. “I want you to fuck me, Hyuck.”

He blinks, then his eyes darken. “You’re sure?”

You pull him down until your foreheads press again and then whisper a soft, “Yes.”

Then he kisses you. Slowly. Passionately in a way you know this about to be more than just fucking. It feels like the before. The soft. His hands coming up to your face, thumbs brushing your cheekbones. Everything so tender and full of love. 

And somewhere between the kiss and the forgetting, his pants are off. His boxers too. He’s about to fuck you completely raw—like he used to—and for a moment, your body almost lets him. Because it remembers. The blind trust. 

But this isn’t then. And that’s why you reach out, fingers curling gently around his forearm. Stopping him.

“Condom,” you whisper, cheeks flushing as you glance toward the nightstand.

Because it shouldn’t have to be like this. Back then, you were on the pill. You were his. He was yours. There was no one else. But now? Now you’ve had to share him—with her. Maybe with others too. 

He freezes. And for a second, you swear he looks gutted. But then he nods.

Wordlessly, he reaches into your nightstand, gets one open and rolls it on his cock. He doesn’t protest. He never would. Because it’s not the condom that guts him—it’s what it means. It’s that reminder that everything’s different now. And why. A barrier he put there himself because he was reckless, drunk, stupid and ungrateful. A consequence he crafted with his own hands.

But he doesn’t let that thought linger too long. The past is the past—he hates thinking about it. It’s what wrecked him. What wrecked this. What wrecked you.

Now, all he wants is the present. Not even the future. Just this. Just you. Because you’re here. Beneath him. Asking him to fuck you. You’re his—if only for now. And that’s enough.

He slides back over you. And for a second—just one—you both just… look.

You’re looking at him like maybe this could fix it. He’s looking at you like he knows it won’t. Sex doesn’t fix anything. It’s what broke you two in the first place if you really think about it . But he’s still doing it. And so are you.

He pushes inside of you slowly and your breath stutters, nails digging crescent moons into his biceps.

“Fucking hell,” he groans, voice tight and thick. “You feel like—”

“Home,” you whisper, beating him to it.

Because you do. And he does. And it’s pathetic. And perfect. And completely going to destroy you in the morning.

His forehead drops to yours and he lets out a shaky breath, like the kind that comes right before someone starts to cry. But he doesn’t cry—he moves. Gently. Tenderly. 

You cling to him, every nerve alight, oversensitive in that desperate, raw way that makes you breathless beneath him—letting him kiss you through it, through the pain, through the slow, aching stretch of him inside you. 

And in between those kisses and the thrusts and the way your fingers tangle in his hair again, he whispers:

“Missed you.”

“God, I missed you.”

“I’ll never stop being sorry.”

He fucks you like he’s trying to put you back together with every snap of his hips. And maybe he is.

So you let him.

You let him fuck you until you’re both a mess of moans and apologies and, fractured I love yous. Until you’re panting in time with each other. Until you’re cumming—together.

After, it’s quiet.

Not awkward or bitter or biting, but comfortable. You’re tangled in each other, limbs overlapping, as Hyuck brushes his nose against your temple. Eventually, he slips out of you, careful to not hurt you, but you flinch at the loss. He presses a kiss to your forehead, one to each cheek, and then he’s moving—disposing of the condom, finding his way back to your side. 

“Let’s shower,” he murmurs, thumb storoking your jaw. “Let me take care of you first. And after… we’ll talk, yeah?”

You don’t say anything—because you can’t. Your throat is raw from all the moaning and the whimpering. And also because you’re scared of the talking. Terrified, really. Of the hurting that’ll come with addressing it. 

So instead, you swallow and say softly, “I’ll be a minute. Just... need a sec before I move.”

He pauses, like he’s checking you over again, brows pinching. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

Not in the way he means.

“No,” you whisper. “Just… been out of the game for a while.”

He pauses but doesn’t argue. Just leans in and presses the gentlest kiss to your cheek. 

“Okay,” he murmurs, brushing a damp strand of hair behind your ear. “I’ll start the shower.”

He slips out quietly, to the bathroom attached to your room. You hear the soft creak of the cabinets. He still remembers where everything is. 

And then—of course—his phone buzzes.

You glance over. You don’t mean to look. You really, really don’t. You know you shouldn’t if you wanna rebuild trust and whatever. It’s just…It’s on the floor, fallen from his jeans with the screen lighting up. 

It was taunting you. 

And anyway, he’s the one that broke your trust first. He’s the one that made you so paranoid. He’s the one who made you like this. 

Yeji

if i find out you went to that party tonight, hyuck, and didn’t tell her the truth, i will.

Your stomach drops straight through the mattress.

Another buzz.

Yeji

i’m serious. how long are you gonna keep it from her that it was lia you cheated on her with?

you’re ruining our friendship!

And suddenly you’re not warm anymore.

Suddenly you’re freezing. And hollow. And very, very awake and out of the afterglow sex haze. 

You can’t breathe.

You feel sick. 

Are you sick? Are you dying? Are you about to have a fucking panic attack?

Because it feels like something has clawed its way into your chest and is now eating you alive from the inside out.

Lia?

It all makes sense. It all echoes.

“That sweet boy we both used to love.”

“He’s not yours anymore.”

The door creaks again. Hyuck walks back in, towel slung low on his hips. Completely clueless. 

“You okay?” he asks, soft and smiling. “Shower’s warm.”

You don’t answer because your heart is hammering against your ribs and because you physically, viscerally, cannot breathe.

His smile falters, just a touch.

And then you say it.

One word. One name.

“Lia?”

You’re not even sure if you want to scream at him, or sob, or laugh—because how dare he. How dare he touch you like that, kiss you like that, look at you like that, when he knew—he fucking knew—he’d fucked your best friend and said nothing.

The same best friend who held you while you cried over him for a year. Who told you it wasn’t your fault. Who had her arms wrapped around you less than an hour ago trying to comfort you about him. 

You hold out his phone, pointing to the screen. “You fucked my best friend, Hyuck?”

He freezes. He lifts an arm reaching out towards you or towards his phone, you can’t tell. Probably the phone to see how much you know so he can spin it. Twist it. Try to manipulate this—manipulate you—again.

“Angel—”

“My name is Y/N.”

The words are a blade. His hand drops.

“Y/N,” he breathes, swallowing thickly, “it’s not what it looks like—”

But it is. You both know it. 

“Yeji seems to think it’s exactly what it sounds like.”

And then it hits you. All over again. Yeji knew. Your other best friend. She knew. 

Did everyone know? Everyone you loved? Everyone you trusted? Everyone you thought was safe? 

And suddenly your knees give out. You drop to the floor, spine hitting the edge of the bed on the way down, but you don’t even register the pain. You’re already somewhere else, hands trembling, vision blurry, gasping like there’s no oxygen. 

That fucking necklace around your neck—the one he gave you, the one you swore you'd never take off—isn’t fucking helping. So you rip it off. The chain snapping in your fist and you throw it. It lands at his feet. 

It’s the first time you’ve taken it off since you were sixteen.

“Y/N—”

Hyuck’s voice sounds panicked now. Hurting. He kneels in front of you, eyes wide, reaching for you—

“Don’t you dare touch me!”

You flinch so hard you nearly hit the nightstand. You can’t stand the idea of him touching you now, even though you know there isn’t a part of you he hasn’t touched.

He freezes. Arm stopping in the air. His face furrowed. And you know that face. The face from the night, the one carved from guilt and horror and regret—but it’s too late.

It’s so late.

You’re sobbing now. And it’s ugly—gasping and choking and curling up on the floor. 

“I—I didn’t mean for it to happen like that,” he whispers. “I never wanted to hurt you—”

You laugh. Actually laugh.

“You didn’t want to hurt me?” You shake your head, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, spit and snot and mascara streaking your face.  “Hyuck, you fucked my best friend. And then you came here, tonight, and touched me like…like I was still yours.”

“You are—”

“No. No, I’m not!” You snap. “I don’t even know who I am right now. But I definitely am not—and never will be—yours again.”

“Please, Y/N,” he whispers. “Let me explain. It wasn’t—”

“You’ve had time to explain.” Your voice trembles, but the words are steel. “I gave you so much of myself. So much trust. So much love.” You swallow hard. “But it wasn’t enough, was it? You needed to fuck my best friend. And keep it from me. And somehow rope the other one into it too, so now—”

Your voice cracks.

“So now I can’t trust anyone.”

He opens his mouth, maybe to argue, maybe to lie, maybe to beg. But then he doesn’t. He doesn’t say a word. He just looks at you, regret written in every line of his stupid, beautiful face.

He doesn’t deny it. And that’s the last straw. You fold in on yourself. Arms wrapping tight around your knees as you bury your head and whisper: “I need you to leave.”

He doesn’t move.

You look up—eyes glassy, voice so quiet and weak.

“Get out, Hyuck. Now, please”

And this time, he listens. And you’re glad he listens. Because this time it feels different. This was it. The final fracture. Whatever you had with him? It’s dead now. You just wish you hadn’t kept it on life support for so long—wish you hadn’t clung so tightly to something already bleeding. 

That thousandth cut finally bled dry.

[bellatheknight-ic]

WHY IS MY MOST NOTED POST JUST ME RETELLING MY MUTUAL'S JOKE ONLY LOUDER. I AM ALSO FUNNY CHAT ;-;

they should have leftist infighting as an event at the next olympics

[dollyswishingwell]

Can you do the reader doing the current boyfriend trend on the lads men

ᯓ★ˎˊ˗ Current husband

𝒲𝒾𝓈𝒽 𝑔𝓇𝒶𝓃𝓉𝑒𝒹 𝒻𝑜𝓇 ˙⋆✮ Rafayel, Zayne, Xavier, Sylus, Caleb

𝒢𝑒𝓃𝓇𝑒/𝒲𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔 ˙⋆✮ fluffff, crack fic lowkey, rafayel is so adorable i wanna eat him

> ࣪𖤐.ᐟ You prank them again

𝙍𝙖𝙛𝙖𝙮𝙚𝙡 °‧🫧⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

- You say “current husband” and he stops in his tracks.

“I’m your WHAT?”

- Full dramatic gasp. Hand to chest. Looks directly into the camera.

“NO. Babe. No. Take it back. I’m not your current, I’m like the final boss of all husbands.”

- He immediately tries to take over the TikTok.

“Guys she’s LYING. She’s obsessed with me. She has a custom plushie of me. She cries if I’m not home by 7.”

- You laugh and say “It’s just a trend, Raffy!”

- “NO. There is no trend that allows emotional cheating in my house.”

He drags you back into frame, spins you around, kisses you in front of the camera.

- “Here’s MY outfit. And here’s MY wife, MY pretty, loyal, would-never-leave-me-for-another-man wife.”

- You end up cuddling in bed after brunch while he replays the video like

“Hmph. ‘Current’ my ass.”

𝙕𝙖𝙮𝙣𝙚 ⋆꙳•❅‧*₊⋆☃︎ ‧*❆ ₊⋆

- You’re glowing in your silk dress and high heels, and he’s freshly shaven in a three-piece set he tailored himself. He’s smoothing your hair, making sure your earrings are straight before you go.

“Outfit of the day with my current husband~”

- He freezes.

“Sweetheart. Say that again?”

- His smile never drops, but his hand tightens on your waist just slightly.

- “Current? You mean the man who pays for your closet and memorized your vitamin schedule?”

- He kisses you with tongue before you can respond, palms on your cheeks like he’s claiming property on camera. (He’s a bit freaky, guys)

“Let’s re-film that,” he says with a smile, but you’re pretty sure he deleted the footage altogether.

- You don’t go to brunch. You go straight to the bedroom.

He makes sure you remember that he is your first and only.

𝙓𝙖𝙫𝙞𝙚𝙧 ⋆⭒˚.⋆🪐 ⋆⭒˚.⋆

-He’s smiling in the back, jacket thrown on, holding your handbag for you like a doting husband. You tug him into frame and start filming:

“OOTD with my current husband! Say hi, baby~”

- His eyes open instantly.

“Current?”

There’s a flicker behind his pretty blue eyes.

- “You’re replacing me?”

- He’s not mad. He’s thinking. Strategizing. Mentally deleting all threats to his throne.

“Do I get to meet the next one? Or will he be buried too quickly?”

- You laugh and call him silly. You end the video, wanting to edit and post it later. but he’s following you around all brunch, hand on your lower back, unusually touchy and terrifyingly quiet.

- At night, he murmurs, “Tell me I’m forever, starlight,” while holding you in his sleep grip.

- When you check your phone later… the video is mysteriously glitched and corrupted. Gone. And he makes you film a new version.

𝙎𝙮𝙡𝙪𝙨 ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𓅨⋆｡°✩

- He’s smirking before you even start filming. Letting you drag him into frame because he thinks you’re adorable and he loves attention from his wife.

- Until you say:

“Here’s my outfit! And here’s my current husband~”

- …His eyes narrow immediately.

- “Current? That supposed to be funny, kitty?”

- You can hear the danger in his voice under the teasing smile. He tilts your chin up and stares at you for a full three seconds before smirking.

- “Mm. I like it. Let’s see how long you last being cute.”

- That’s his way of saying he’s about to punish you, gently at first, then not so gently.

- Deletes the TikTok and posts a photo of you sitting in his lap with a caption like:

“There is no next husband. Just a funeral.”

- Brunch becomes a power play. He makes you sit on his side of the booth, kissing your wrist like a threat.

𝘾𝙖𝙡𝙚𝙗 ⋆｡ ‧˚ʚ🍎ɞ˚‧｡ ⋆

- He’s in a fitted black shirt and slacks, looking down at you like you’re the only thing keeping him breathing.

- You start filming, sparkly lip gloss shining:

“Brunch fit! And this is my current husband, What are you wearing, honey?”

- He grabs your phone mid-recording.

“Current? Really, pips?”

Caleb looks amused, but there’s something mean in his smile.

- “You wanna see what happens to a bratty girl who call me current, huh?” He pinches your nose playfully.

- You’re tossed over his shoulder and carried back into the bedroom. TikTok’s over.

- He’s still petty, mentions it at the most random times, he never lets that slide.

- “Gonna call me that again, baby? You can try, but you’ll be limping to brunch next time.”

[jaeminvore]

Credit Card Baby | Z.CL

“Who do I gotta fuck for barricade tickets to Sabrina Carpenter around here?”

PAIRING: Chenle x Fem!Reader

SYNOPSIS: Four days, three broke girls, two possible outcomes, and one solution. What are you willing to sacrifice in exchange for a night seeing a long-awaited Juno pose five feet away from your eyeballs? Your dignity, probably because it just so happens that one (1) Chenle Zhong could be the solution to your current girl problem. Only, you don’t really do well with charity. Nothing in life was free and everything had a price, but Chenle likes to think differently—that he's simply helping a friend out. Like the many times he did before. There should be sugar-daddy-sugar-baby joke around here somewhere.

alternatively: ‘three dumb bitches telling each other ‘exactlyyyy’.’ — ‘A sugar-daddy (kinda) au with no age-gap, but with a financial gap that no one asked for’.

WORD COUNT: 15.5K

NOTE: first Chenle fic kinda nervous but also excited because I've been wanting to write for pookie for a loooong long while!! So I gathered all the remaining brain cells I have and came up with this hot garbage (affectionate). This is legitimately the most unserious piece of fiction I’ve written so far, so if you’re in the mood for some fun and entertainment centered around vibes n mild-horniness you’ve come to the right place! The title comes from a song with the same title which is funny to me because the song itself (Credit Card Baby by Wham!) is the complete opposite of the story I'm telling here LMAO

CONTENT TAGS & WARNINGS: mildly suggestive themes (as in, there's very little implication to sex and masturbation here if it bothers anybody. Just to put it out there so proceed with caution), crude jokes and language, crack treated seriously, comedy, college au, fluff, friends to a secret third thing, sugar daddy au (kinda), Chenle majors in business, MC majors in architecture, everyone yaps a lot... for some reason, Chenle’s also a micro-celebrity (streams and posts on TikTok), brief discussion of OnlyFans, but I am in no way encouraging it.

DISCLAIMER: none of this is meant to represent anyone in real life. This is purely fictional and for entertainment purposes only.

According to an article you’d come across, an OnlyFans creator earned an average of one-hundred-eighty dollars a month. Multiply that four or five times, you’d have enough for one ticket.

“Alright,” you sighed, bringing your knees up as your eyes glued to what laid out in a neat pile right before you and the girls you lived with. “how much do we have all together?”

“Twenty-seven dollars and thirty cents. One banana flavored condom. Three sticks of gum—a chewed piece of gum, ew—a crumpled tissue and a… hairball.”

Jesus. This was getting ridiculous.

“Fantastic!” You clapped, looking at both girls with a wide smile and desperate eyes. “Anything else?”

“A maxed out credit card,” Minjeong sniffed as she threw the offending piece of useless plastic onto the pathetic pile. “That’s all we have to our names combined. We’re broke as shit.”

No, really. You had everything you needed for a flourishing career of flashing your nether regions to the world behind a paywall.

A laptop with a webcam. A pretty face. A small collection of toys. Very small. A pink two-in-one vibrating dildo the girls had gotten you as a gag gift for your birthday still in its packaging type of small. Vaguely resembling a swirly ice pop you’d get on a hot summer day, and you had lovingly named it ‘Pinky’ before it had gotten shoved into the depths of your drawer, never to be seen again.

Your imaginary audience probably wouldn't mind, right? So long as they’d get an eyeful of a pretty girl playing out starved men’s depraved fantasies.

Then again, the idea didn’t seem too hard in theory considering how far gooners were willing to throw a couple of dollars for a  five seconds long clip. They wouldn’t even notice the difference between an overexaggerated moan resembling a cat’s mating yowl and a genuine moan of pleasure, far too busy jerking it until their keyboards were dank from their own mess. You’d be earning enough to broaden your pathetic sex toy collection.

Simple-minded people were easy customers and you sure had no problems capitalizing off of that.

It was a good plan. A perfect long-term plan even, if it didn’t earn less than minimum wage and if you weren’t racing against time.

“This sucks,” Yizhuo whined, throwing her head back and staring forlornly at the ceiling. “Where the hell are we gonna get that kind of money in four days?”

Minjeong raised a groomed eyebrow. “Can’t you ask your parents? Say it’s an emergency or something.”

Yizhuo’s head lolled to the side, frowning at her. “They still have me cut off, remember?”

And the thought wasn’t just devastating to Yizhuo who, up until a few months ago, had been living the life of a spoiled princess with the world right in the palms of her dainty, never-worked-in-her-life hands. Naturally, being the closest to Yizhuo where you all were practically sisters, you and Minjeong were tangled up in the punishment as well. That meant leeching off of her and her unlimited access to her parents’ money was ineffective until she learned her lesson. 

After all, she was the reason why you and Minjeong had a roof above your head because apparently buying a house out-of-pocket was much more cost-efficient than renting, leaving you girls the responsibility of paying for groceries and sparing you just enough to spend for personal items. Yizhuo handled the rest as she had become somewhat of a sugar mommy.

“Apparently Daddy thought I was being very irresponsible with their money.” Yizhuo rolled her eyes. “Whatever that means—that I spend most of my time shopping rather than studying, which is so stupid when I already know the business like I know Daddy’s card details by heart! Why should I go to university when I’m set for life?”

She had gotten a job a week after spending what was left of her savings in a fit of panic. Lavishly, one could say, where the amount of clothes, bags, makeup and accessories had your eyes bugging out at the exorbitant prices printed on each receipt. Minjeong hadn’t been responsive all throughout. You didn’t think she was breathing either when she stared hard at a receipt from Prada.

Lucky for Yizhuo, Minjeong’s job at a thrift store had recently let go one of their former employees after her boss had caught them doing lines in the break room.

It was perfect for Yizhuo, low effort as she’d be manning the cashier and would occasionally keep the racks in stock. And best of all, she won’t be alone. She’d be with Minjeong which also came as a relief to you since it was a huge adjustment from not lifting a finger all her years on Earth thus far, to suddenly contributing enough to keep your mouths fed for at least twice a day.

“Wow,” Minjeong drawled, “your life must be so hard.”

“Ugh,” Yizhou groused, crossing her arms as she leaned against the foot of the couch with a moue reminding you of a spoiled child being told ‘no’. “You don’t even know.”

Judging by the look on Minjeong’s face, she was not having Yizhou’s tone-deafness in the slightest, and while you silently shared the sentiment—that the youngest of the household could have refrained from flaunting her privileged life, you didn’t want any casualties that could potentially turn into a court case. Because as sweet as Yizhuo was, she could be just as evil and vindictive to anyone that wronged her in some way.

“At least your parents let us keep the house,” you joked, patting Yizhuo’s knee with a smile. She at least appeared genuinely apologetic by the situation. “Any ideas on how we could get at least fifteen hundred dollars for three barricade tickets in”—you glanced at your calendar app—“four days?”

“Girl, you are asking for a goddamn miracle,” Minjeong sighed, “even Jesus took three days to resurrect.”

You nodded sagely and added, “took him six days to create the world,” which got a confused noise from Yizhuo.

“I thought it took seven?”

Minjeong shook her head. “No. He rested on the seventh day. Didn’t you go to Sunday School?”

“Not really. I barely lasted half a day.”

Well, all of you were definitely losing the plot here, quoting holy scripture, or whatever, but Minjeong was right; none of you were divine beings capable of pulling miracles out of your proverbial asses in time when the goddamn concert was in four days.

One could argue that you were given a long enough timeframe to save up for pre-sale, but when you had a friend like nepo-baby heiress Yizhuo Ning who had connections everywhere, it was guaranteed that you'll get the best seats at a concert of a big-named artist with her influence regardless of the limited time frame. Perhaps backstage passes if Yizhuo liked them enough. And she liked this one. A lot. She could never resist Sabrina Carpenter’s big blue eyes and bouncy blonde curls.

So, no. None of you had the forethought of pulling out the ‘Saving Up For A Concert For Dummies’ manual. Not when you had Yizhuo and her endless pockets full of hard cash to fall back onto.

Then she lost access (temporarily) to the Ning family vault, with barely anything saved up from her job because her spending problem wouldn’t vanish with just a snap of her father’s fingers, apparently. Now here you were: sitting in a circle on the plush, mauve, floral embossed carpeting that must have costed a fortune with crumpled dollar bills and junk you found deep in your purses like you were all trying out a crude summoning ritual for fat wads of cash.

Nothing could get worse than this. You’ve been through worse than this.

“We could sell feet pics?”

“Hell no. Feet freak me the fuck out,” Minjeong shivered.

You plucked the condom from the pile and lifted it up at face-level. “Would a used condom sell a lot to some weirdo freak out there?”

“Maybe,” Yizhuo replied the same time Minjeong said, in absolute disbelief that one of you would ever think of something so unhygienic, “I wouldn’t know, I’m a lesbian.”

“Yeah, no.” You wrinkled your nose. “You would not catch me pulling out a condom with some guy’s jizz in it from the trash. Ew.”

“How about a sugar daddy?”

“Eh. I’m not really into older men.”

“You saying you wouldn’t let the guy who played M-C-U Bucky Barnes hit?”

“Oh sure,” you said, sarcasm dripping thickly with each word that followed, “let me just hit up my buddy, my pal, Sebastian Stan on Instagram. Maybe I should call his phone number too! Y’know, the number that I don’t have.”

“Okay, sheesh. You don’t need to be so mean about it,” Minjeong mumbled.

“Oh! OnlyFans!” Yizhuo suggested with reverence as if she figured out how to attain world peace, earnest as her eyes rounded with excitement. “I’ve heard plenty of success stories. It can’t be too hard for any of us.”

A beat of silence, and then—

“Not it!” Minjeong exclaimed, touching the pad of her index finger to the tip of her nose.

“Not it!” came Yizhuo’s shrill voice a close second, copying Minjeong.

“Not it—fuck!” you wailed, half from being the sacrificial lamb and half because you smacked yourself in the fucking face from momentary panic which the girls didn’t seem to catch, too busy shrieking and hugging each other in relief. “No fair.”

“Oh, I think it’s plenty fair,” Minjeong shrugged, pressing her cheek against Yizhuo’s. “You were just slow.”

“And if anything, this’ll be easy for you!” Yizhuo cheered.

“Easy? okay—this“—you motioned wildly to your own body—“isn’t for the masses.”

Minjeong snorted. “Oh, sure. Tell that to the three guys you keep on rotation.”

“They’re just three guys. God forbid a girl has a healthy sex-life,” you whined. It was either wither away when you weren’t agonizing over your Architectural Design course—any of your courses, really—or fuck around with the guys you’ve met through mutual friends as your mode of relief.  “and why does it have to be me? I’m sure either of you could pull off being an O-F model.”

“One,” Minjeong raised a finger, “don’t ever call me that. Even if it’s in a hypothetical sense. And two, the thought of men being the majority of my audience unnerves me. I don’t think you could make it so only women could see me, so fuck that.”

“Fine. I’ll allow it.” You turned to Yizhuo with an expectant look. “What about you?”

She returned it with an unimpressed one, bordering on disbelief the longer you stared at her, waiting to say her piece.

“You’re kidding, right?” No, you were not. Was there a joke hidden in those three words forming a question? Not that you knew of, so you gestured for Yizhuo to get on with the program. “I’m like, the last person you should send to the wolves.”

“Why not?” You pouted. “You’re like, the most charismatic of us three. Got a pretty face too, if that wasn’t obvious enough.”

���Uh-huh, yeah—calling me pretty won’t change my mind,” Yizhuo said, firm and that meant she won’t tolerate any more of your pushing, yet the pretty blush tinting her cheeks told you enough that you almost got through her. “I’m an heiress to one of the largest Chinese conglomerates back home. How’d you think that would look for me?”

Bad, I’m guessing, and you knew this first-hand. 

There was an approximate six-thousand mile distance from where Yizhuo was brought up to where all three of you resided, yet that didn’t stop the Chinese media from getting their updates on how Yizhuo Ning was faring as an international college student.

You had a few run-ins with the paparazzi just dying to get dirt on Harbin’s sweetheart, fought with some too which had caused quite a buzz on both Weibo and Xiaohongshu when pictures of Yizhuo stumbling down the stairs of a frat house, looking drop-dead gorgeous were shared. No one could tell she was barely clinging onto sobriety. Or that she had already emptied her stomach twice in one of Sigma Chi’s bathrooms and a plant that surely had seen better days being under the care of jaunty frat boys who barely knew the concept of photosynthesis.

There was also a handful of you elbowing one of the paparazzi in the face when they had gotten too close. Your face, thankfully, had been blurred out. Same with Minjeong’s who had been trying her absolute damndest to keep you from getting aggravated assault charges while being tipsy herself.

If they had somehow caught wind of Yizhuo being involved in something so obscene—and you knew they would eventually—her life would be over. And yours. And Minjeong’s, because God forbid her parents might as well treat you as their own children with how often their darling daughter talked about you during their weekly check-up calls.

“And my parents would literally kill me if they found out their only daughter isn’t as virginal as they thought!”

“But you haven’t been a virgin since sophomore year.”

Yizhuo rolled her eyes. “They don’t know that, obviously.”

“And so that leaves me to be the breadwinner of this fucking household,” you said, heaving a conceding sigh. “God I hate you rich people.”

“I know you do. You say ‘eat the rich’ at least three times a day like it’s ‘grace’.” Yizhuo didn’t even sound remotely annoyed by your diss, basking in the relief of not taking your place and sacrificing her dignity. “It’s just until we get the tickets. Then you can be boring and gate-keep yourself until we have to slut you out again.”

“My body is a temple,” you said, feigning offense as you crossed your arms, cupping your breasts in a protective hold while Minjeong cackled. “Besides, OnlyFans might be easy on paper, but executing it? Four days won’t be enough. There are many factors involved and engagement won’t be that easy from how oversaturated it is. I’d be a no name. It’d probably take me months to get the amount we need and Miss ‘have you ever tried this one?’ would be in Europe by then.”

“And you did the math for that?”

“Only since we took all the shit out of our purses.”

“Right, because you always do the math for everything.”

“It’s a reflex.” You shrugged. You could even say it had been ingrained in you, haunted by the fact you almost failed Calculus I. You struggled less with it now, spending all summer drilling numerous Youtube tutorials into your brain and electing one of your classmates as your tutor. “How do you think we’ve survived this long without your parents’ money?”

Yizhuo shrugged. “Fair enough. Nerd.”

She gets a pillow to the face for that.

“Well,” you said with a clap. “If that’s all, I gotta go in”—you glanced at your watch and then panicked as you scrambled to get up—“five minutes ago. Fuck, I’m gonna be late!” The pop in your knees made you wince when getting on your two feet, making a bee-line towards your bedroom and stumbling over Minjeong’s thighs in the process.

“For a dick appointment?” 

“If you count AutoCad fucking up my chances for a four-point-oh, then sure.”

So maybe you had lied about the dick appointment, but in your defense, you actually had shit to do.

It just so happened Renjun also majored in Architecture, and that you shared all of your classes with him because if you were walking into five years of hell, you sure as hell weren’t going to suffer alone. You were simply hitting two birds with one stone.

If only those two hypothetical birds you hypothetically murdered coughed up fat wads of cash enough for three tickets, then you’d be set.

You let out a defeated sigh. “I need fifteen hundred bucks.”

Renjun, who just got back from a shower, blinked at the bold request.

“Say that again? You need how much?”

“Fifteen hundred bucks,” you repeated.

Renjun's face twisted as he stuck his pinky into his ear and wiggled it around. “I’m definitely hearing things ‘cause there’s no way.”

You rolled your neck to blankly stare at him. “I can say it again in Mandarin, if you want.”

“Please don’t,” Renjun shook his head, not minding that you were trying really hard to set him on fire with your eyes. “That’s like, using what I taught you for evil.”

“Well that’s too damn bad,” and you repeated what you said in near flawless Mandarin.

The conversation should have ended there. He just had the most underwhelming orgasm to-date due to whatever weird headspace you were in throughout your—ahem—session that made it less passionate and more robotic, but getting blue-balled was considerably worse than having to act as your last-minute financial adviser.

He simply could ignore anything that had just left your mouth when your attention was set onto the glow-in-the-dark stars stuck to his ceiling, but the unfortunate thing was that Renjun was nothing but indulgent at the moment. 

Dregs of lust in his brain prevented any of his usual no-nonsense approach and it certainly didn’t help that he could never say no to a girl—a pretty girl, no less—no matter how insufferable they were. Specifically you with his sheets wrapped around your still naked body. Renjun was still a man, and his IQ could still lose a few points if a girl so much looked his way.

Since you were both things, a girl and pretty, he calmly graced your dilemma with an answer.

“I can only give you orgasms, I’m afraid.” He said with a pout you knew was meant to be patronizing, mocking almost, especially with a detached lilt to his voice.

This wasn’t new to you as it was one of his methods to get under your skin. He knew you hated it, and you could definitely tell he’d prefer to discuss something else. Or nothing at all, but he had already poked the bear which meant he had to listen to you whinge until you either 1.) get it out of your system yourself or 2.) or he did something about it, and Renjun knew exactly the choice he made, yet that obviously didn’t work.

“What’s the fifteen hundred for anyway?” he conceded, barely tampering down the reluctance of circling back on your current financial struggles while rubbing his hair dry.

“Barricade tickets to Sabrina Carpenter,” you said shifting onto your side so you could face him properly. “VIP too if possible. For me, Ningning and Minjeong.”

He closed his eyes, jaw clenching. Saying other girls’ names post-coitus should be considered an act of violation or something, but he digressed.

“I thought Yizhuo got you tickets already?” His eyes snapped open to regard you with a lost look. “Before the whole cutting her off from her parents’ money fiasco?”

“Well, no one was really expecting her to go broke. She didn’t think it was a priority when she could just get the tickets last minute.”

“And since they took away access…”

“No money for us until further notice.”

Both of his eyebrows rose at the sheer ridiculousness of Yizhuo, self-proclaimed number one Sabrina shooter who could not go one day without singing Feather as much as her lungs could take, not being able to cop tickets. “The concert is in four days.”

“Oh don’t I know it.” When it rang like a giant alarm in your head, it was hard to not think about it. “I’m thinking of taking out a loan from my bank.”

“Absolutely not,” he snapped and tossed his damp towel onto your face. You shrieked and clawed it away because, ew, gross. “No way in hell are you going into debt because of a concert. Are you fucking crazy?”

“It’s not like I can ask someone to buy them for me either!” 

Renjun just barely resisted the urge to groan at the fact your persistent yapping almost ruined your then stellar bed chem.

“Like, who would be dumb enough to buy me a ticket? Let alone three?”

It’s surprising how you were able to come up with coherent sentences aftergetting your brains fucked out, but Renjun had always thought you were a weird one. Stamina on good days, yet a common cold could have you acting like you were knocking on death’s door.

“I’m sure I can name at least one person,” he said, thoughtful.

“Does this person have two-toned hair, perchance?” you wheedled, rolling onto your stomach to cup both of your cheeks with your hands looking like a flower in bloom for him. “Is his name Renjun Huang? A-K-A my favorite guy in the whole wide world?”

“You’re cute,” Renjun snorted, sitting on the foot of his bed. “But no.”

Your bottom lip jutted out in a pout. “You’re no fun.”

“There’s Jaemin,” he offered.

You grimaced. “Too needy.”

“Haechan?”

“Too mean.”

“And you still go to that asshole?” Renjun asked, incredulous. 

“He’s a good lay?” you offered, sheepish almost under the glare of his disbelief and the full force of his eyebrows. “C’mon, at least one ticket for your best girl?” you cooed, laying it on thick with a flutter of your eyelashes. “The other two can probably work something out.” 

Minjeong and Yizhuo were your girls. No one could ever doubt the love you had for them, being housemates for two years and counting, but desperate times called for desperate measures. It’s every man (well, woman) for themselves and if there was an opportunity right in front of you, might as well take it.

“Yeah…” he trailed off with a wince and you already didn’t like what he was about to say when he glimpsed at you and then at some random spot behind. “about that—“

“Whatever you’re about to say, don’t,” you ground out.

Renjun pretended like he hadn't heard you. “Someone from the student association gave me a ticket.”

“And you’re going?” You hoped he wasn’t.

As if he read your mind, Renjun’s mouth parted in offense. “It’s Sabrina Carpenter. It’s a great opportunity to clout chase.”

Oh he was definitely going to be insufferable on Instagram, talking about it for days on end. Just like you would be.

“Seriously?” you exclaimed, both hands covering your face, muffling your scream. This felt way worse than the time you almost didn’t meet the deadline of a plate submission that made up a large chunk of your grade. “Is everyone and their goddamn moms going except me?”

“Guess so.”

You peeled your hands away to Renjun scrolling through his phone in mild interest.

“Can you at least pretend to feel sorry for me?” 

Renjun let his phone drop in between his crossed legs. “My condolences that you won’t get to see Sabrina do her Juno pose five feet away from you.”

“You’re the worst,” you groaned, sitting up and holding the blanket tightly to preserve your modesty. “I’m literally out of options and you’re already kickstarting the FOMO.”

“And what were your”—he waved absently to the air—“options exactly?”

“There was the OnlyFans route—and before you say anything else,” you gave Renjun a look that was sharp enough to make him think twice about his needling. He said nothing, thankfully, but his pursed lips and scrunched eyebrows said a lot. “yes, I did the math and we all agreed—surprisingly—that it would be impossible to earn that amount of money before the concert. Then Minjeong suggested a sugar daddy, but I’m not really up for being a geraitric’s pretty play-thing. What if he dies mid-sex—”

You got cut off from Renjun doubling over with laughter. “Sugar daddy? Why don’t you just ask Chenle then?”

“Why should I ask Chenle?”

“Why shouldn’t you ask Chenle?”

“That’s why I’m asking you,” you quipped back.

Renjun laughed again. A rich, belly-deep equal parts loud and grating. “You cannot be this dense,” he said as he calmed down. “I just mean—you guys are close, right? Close enough that he bought you a replacement T-square.” He watched you, amused, as you considered the question. Renjun can almost see the gears turning in your head, chin resting in his palm and using his leg to balance his elbow.

“It was an emergency,” you stressed with an eye-roll, though you didn’t exactly fight the fond smile settling on your lips at the memory of Chenle getting rung up for a new sixty-four-inch long acrylic T-square while you perused the rows upon rose of cute stationery. You hadn’t meant for your old one to snap cleanly in half, but when there was a guy who didn’t take ‘no’ for an answer and, well, there was a reason why the running joke of a T-square doubling as a weapon was still relevant to this day.

“Doesn’t he pay for you guys when you hang out?”

Renjun snorted. “Sure. If you count him demanding us to Venmo him later.”

“Huh. He usually just pays for us both.”

Actually, now that you’ve thought about it, his housemates hadn’t ever gotten the privilege of Chenle covering for any of their expenses, much less a cheap meal from a well loved hole-in-the-wall restaurant. You didn’t think it was favoritism either. Was that a thing in friendships too? You had no idea, and you never had to ask when Chenle never thought twice to remind the waiter or waitress that he was paying for two. For me and her—he would nod his head towards you—only and leave the rest to settle their shared bill among themselves.

“Huh.” you repeated.

“Yeah-huh,” Renjun echoed with one corner of his mouth lifted up in a smirk. “Seriously, if you’re that desperate to see Sabrina up close, I’m sure he can work something out for you. What’s fifteen hundred gonna do?”

You both knew the answer to that. Nothing, because although Chenle wasn’t as high profile as Yizhuo and her family was, you had a vague idea on how deep his pockets ran if he barely spared a glance at his receipt from Gucci for a track-suit set he’d been meaning to get. He might as well have slapped you in the face with a thick stack of one-hundreds.

It would have invoked the same feeling of being too poor to even breathe inside the store and it had been a relief you thought of dressing up that day too despite the fact you’ve pulled an all-nighter to complete a handful of plates for design class the night before. You were at least spared from any judgment from the sales reps.

Still.

Renjun clicked his tongue, sensing your mental turmoil. “Just ask him. If he says no, then there’s your answer.”

Just ask him. Easy for Renjun to suggest when he wasn’t the one stewing away in a puddle of anxiety. He already had a ticket! Of course he’d think nothing of it. 

Walking into Yizhuo’s obscenely large living room, you were once again reminded how excessive it was.

There was a grand piano in there, for fuck’s sake, in the far end after the actual living area with the plush seating, yet none of you could play any elaborate musical pieces except for Twinkle Twinkle Litter Star. Right next to it was a sunken conversation pit with a modern fireplace built into the large concrete column and there were a series of floor-to-ceiling windows and glass sliding doors encompassing the pit.

Other than overlooking the luscious, grassy backyard, the doors led straight to the deck where a round pool resided as its main attraction. There was a goddamn fountain just beside it, too. Who needs a fucking fountain in this economy anyway?

Actually, everything about the house was ridiculously extravagant for three college girls to live in. Your bedroom included. Yizhuo ended up giving you one of the bigger rooms and you were sure the drafting table you bought off of a grad student for cheap would do its job and cramp it up, but you knew the saying about gift horses and Mom raised you better than complaining about convenience being handed to you on a silver platter.

The round floor table of the conversation pit was vacant, though there were scattered papers, notebooks, textbooks and all sorts of pens on top of the reflective glass surface. That meant either one of the girls was home. Or both, as Minjeong’s and Yizhuo’s voices grew louder by each step towards the kitchen.

“Guess who might have found a solution to our ticketing problem!”

You slid onto the cushioned seats of the breakfast nook—a breakfast nook, Jesus—right across from Minjeong sipping her to-go cup of thai milk tea. She wordlessly slid on towards you. You took a generous drag of the stuff.

“Actually, it was more of Renjun’s idea—which I am effectively stealing.”

Yizhuo, who was in the middle of plating a hefty amount of pad see ew, looked like she swallowed something toe-curlingly sour. “Oh so you were with Renjun-ge.”

An easy smile curled on your lips as you lifted a shoulder to shrug, sweetly batting your eyelashes. “What can I say? The guy gives good head—” (“I did not need to know that.”) “—anyways, my idea.”

“Mine was probably better.”

“Oh yeah?” you drawled, egging Yizhuo on. “Let’s hear it then.”

“Breaking into the thrift store and stealing everything from the cash register.”

“What?”

“She claimed if her parents found out about her crimes, they’d have to bail her out from prison and then restore her money privileges,” Minjeong glared at the youngest who simply whistled to Espresso as she carried on with the food. “Then I had to remind her of her reputation.”

“Good thing you did ‘cause that’s the dumbest fucking idea I’ve ever heard,” you said and you made sure it showed on your face as Yizhuo wilted underneath your tangible disappointment that she would even risk an integral part of her privileged life when she had used it as a counter-argument to the whole OnlyFans thing. “So we’re going with my solution to our broke-ness—Chenle Zhong.”

Yizhuo did not look pleased whatsoever. “What does Caillou have to do with Sabrina Carpenter?”

You ignored Minjeong shrieking with laughter. “Chenle’s got money,” you said as if you were talking to a toddler barely getting a grasp on words having their designated meanings. “And do you know what we need to get tickets? Money, and Chenle has a lot of it.”

“It took Renjun for you to realize that Chenle could be our solution?” Yizhuo exclaimed in disbelief, head in her hands. “Oh my God—it took Renjun telling you, then you telling us that he could be our solution? How could I’ve been so stupid?”

Her head jerked upwards, ponytail swishing along and gave you a look so sharp and abrupt that you jerked in surprise. You fixed your posture so fast that your grandmother would have been proud. For once. “You’re definitely asking Chenle.”

“Uh—first of all, why me? Don’t rich people have, like, some sort of kinship with one another? Like, hey, can I borrow ten-thousand dollars? I’ll pay you back with five-percent interest.” That definitely wasn’t how deals between rich people were made, but whatever. “Second, why not you, money bags?”

“He’ll never say yes to me,” she said brusquely, clicking her tongue. “I kicked his ass a bunch of times in PUBG and he’s still bitter about it. It’s not my fault he sucks absolute balls. There’s like, a compilation of him complaining on stream about how I was cheating”—Yizhuo made air quotations—“on TikTok. It’s so funny. Actually, I’ll send you the link—”

You turned your gaze towards Minjeong for help, eyes widened a fraction for an added pathetic flair as the younger one focused on scrolling through the damn app.

“Don’t look at me. Chenle’s just cheap with everyone—actually, maybe except for you,” Minjeong pointed a long, black almond tipped nail in your direction. “the favorite.”

“You say it like it’s an insult.” You slurped your milk tea at an obnoxious volume, shrinking in your seat. “Maybe he’s just nicer to me because I’m nice to him unlike you two.”

“Is that what we’re calling it these days?” Minjeong said, eyeing you curiously.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

She moved her gaze elsewhere. “Nothing.”

You squinted. “Uh-huh.”

“Anyways,” she said, pointedly keeping her gaze forward. “He started it. I asked him if I could borrow money for my Lyft and he laughed in my face.”

You pressed your lips together to keep yourself from laughing too because, yeah, the image was a little funny. “You’re exaggerating,” you said evenly.

Yizhuo made a half-wince, half-smile sorta thing with her face. “Are we though?”

“Lele’s not that much of an asshole,” you defended. “He drives me home. You could have hitched a ride with us is all I’m saying. And if I can remember correctly, he still gave you more than enough for your Lyft.”

“He didn’t have to laugh at me, then.” Minjeong looked like she was heavily debating whether she should smack you upside the head, or not. “For someone smart, you’re real stupid.”

You frowned. “Hey.”

The argument still carried on deep in your weekly ‘everything shower’.

“Face it, babe. He’s like your personal A-T-M.”

“Chenle doesn’t always get me things.”

You were aching in places you never knew existed as you passed the foamy loofah over your skin, yet the girls had denounced what it meant to have boundaries, making themselves at home in your bathroom to prove their joint points.

Yizhuo scoffed from where she sat on top of the closed lid of the toilet. “The shampoo you used earlier? That was imported from Japan.”

“So? He noticed I ran out the last time he was here. It’s just shampoo.”

“From Japan,” Yizhuo countered.

You pulled a face. “Is that supposed to mean anything? It’s fucking shampoo.”

She just threw her hands up in the air, visibly annoyed.

“And the body wash you’re using? From Chenle.” Minjeong piped up from the separated bathtub, pointed at the towels hanging on the towel warmer and added, “The bath towel set? Chenle.”

“Alright, fine, maybe—”

“The year’s supply of assorted sheet masks in the fridge we use?” she offered.

“The gargantuan tin of tea leaves you’ve mentioned you liked.”

“Okay. I get it—”

“A new backpack because your old one ripped at the seams.”

“Your underwear—”

“Hah!” You pointed triumphantly in Minjeong’s direction. “No, he hasn’t bought me any.”

“Not yet,” girl-in-bathtub emphasized, resting her chin on top of her arm propped on the tub’s edge. “Shit, he probably bought everything you own.”

“Okay, now you’re definitely exaggerating.” You snorted, walking into the spray of the shower to rinse off the suds. “I’m not that broke.”

“Should I also mention that if it weren’t for him, you wouldn’t have met us? Or that you would have been homeless?” Well, yeah, and you would have figured something out eventually, but you weren’t expecting Yizhuo to bring that up to one-up you in an argument.

“I can’t believe you would use the ‘you would’ve been homeless if it weren’t for me’ card against me.”

“If it weren’t for Chenle, you mean,” she corrected, propping her cheek on top of her bent knee. You glared at the needless addition, though the usual effect wasn’t as strong with warm water sluicing down your face. To Yizhuo, you were definitely doing an almost perfect rendition of ‘wet cat’. “You can’t be this stupid. You’re literally his favorite. I doubt there’s another guy out there that would willingly—again, listen—willingly spend money on you.”

“Does Jaemin buying me a pack of gum the other day count?”

“Oh my fucking God, you’re hopeless.”

Minjeong shrugged. “Maybe he was lowkey telling you your breath stinks.” (“Ex-fucking-scuse you?”) “Didn’t Chenle buy you a ring that looked like a bent nail?”

“As a gift, yeah?” Your wince was immediate the moment Yizhuo gasped at your confirmation.

“That was Cartier!” She whipped out her phone from fuck knows where and showed you the website and its price. Did she have that tab open all this time just for a ‘gotcha!’ moment? Jeez, she scared you sometimes. “Look—Juste un Clou ring. Classic model. I would’ve given you rose gold, personally, but the white gold looks pretty too,” she mumbled, nodding approvingly. “He knows his stuff, at least.”

“Viola!” You turned to Minjeong making jazz hands with flourish. “If he can blow three grand on you without blinking, fifteen hundred would be nothing.”

You let out a heavy sigh, rinsing the loofah free from the suds. “How sure are we that there are any tickets left? Last I heard, three nights sold out.”

“It’s Chenle. He has connections everywhere. He’ll probably end up tracking scalpers too if he could help it.” She weighed her own words for a moment. “As long as you’re the one asking.”

“If you say so,” you trailed off, still not entirely convinced even by her radiating certainty.

“Uh-oh.” Yizhuo promptly sat up. “That’s not good. What’s wrong?”

“It’s just—I feel kinda weird. Asking him. Like, I’ve never really had to ask him for… stuff before.”

“What,” the girls said in a way so dry that you most likely would have broken out in sweat with how serious their faces were right now. Thunderous even.

“What do you mean by ‘not having to ask him’?” Minjeong asked, deathly calm.

“Just as I said. He just does it on his own. Without me telling him.”

In hindsight, Chenle might have been an option right from the very start if the thought of simply asking for help financially didn’t bother you in the slightest, but that’s the thing. The idea did bother you to your very core because, again, it wasn’t like you were broke. A victim to capitalism? Absolutely.

Once you broke the news to your parents and brother about your acceptance to one of the top universities in the state on a full-ride scholarship, they had insisted on a monthly allowance. They hadn’t minded extending a helping hand at all, and it was the least they could do to lighten the burden with the condition that you should be devoted to your academics.

Consequently, you were also good with multi-tasking, so you’ve managed a healthy work-play balance so far. What your parents and brother didn’t know wont hurt them and you hadn’t given them a reason to not trust you on your own, miles away from home, either. Not yet at least.

Deciding for a part-time job was after the realization that majoring in architecture was a bit heavy on the pockets from the consistent need for materials and printing out your designs brought to life by the handful of software provided by your department. The café pay was decent, you were tipped just as okay, and you wouldn’t say no to some cash on the side. Adding that to the remnants of your monthly allowance, it was enough to buy a thing or two at the end of the month as a treat.

And then came Chenle, guns ablazing, with no qualms swiping his card on your behalf.

You never really had to ask him.

Literally.

He would already have it taken care of before you could even pluck your wallet out and split the cost. You couldn’t remember if you had a time where you outright asked (begged) him for a few bills, and if you did, you always always promised to pay him back.

That being said, Chenle wouldn’t let you fight him on it either. When his mind was already made up, it was like talking to a brick wall, standing tall and impervious to almost everything. A losing battle when you’re up against someone headstrong yet so goddamn stubborn.

That’s where your hesitation had stemmed from, because it could either go two ways: he could say no and you could kiss your chances of brushing hands with Sabrina Carpenter goodbye, which would be the best case scenario, or he’d say yes, and once he said yes, there was no turning back. A yes from Chenle was law—signed and sealed that not even expressing the preconceived regret of asking a favor would shake him.

This was entirely different from Chenle just doing whatever the fuck he wanted with his own money without any of your persuasion. You never had to ask him for anything before and the fact of the matter was, you were damn terrified of asking if Chenle could be a bro one last time and drop what was equivalent to the price of a newly released iPhone for you.

Asking him would literally be so detrimental to your conscience that you would probably go insane with guilt and you couldn’t afford getting thrown into the nearest psych-ward when you had tons of deadlines to meet.

Minjeong leaned back to stare forlornly at the ceiling. “Lord, I see the luck you’ve bestowed upon this girl so stupid.”

“Hey!” You whined.

“Congratulations on getting a sugar daddy,” Yizhuo said, dry. “Can you ask him for tickets now?”

Oh God, you thought with abject horror. What if Chenle is my sugar daddy?

Technically speaking, though, you both fit the description. Minus the ‘sugar’ part so, quasi-sugar-daddy then?

Okay, no. That’s definitely not a can of worms you’re gonna open, like, ever. Chenle just happened to be there whenever you had to go out and buy shit. Just happened to be faster whipping out his wallet than you were. After all, he’s the spry athlete while you were five cans of Monster Energy away from keeling over.

What you’d like to get into now was how this conversation developed backwards where you had to be naked and wet to get some sort of pep-talk. Was this even considered pep-talk? This was somebody else’s form of nightmare for sure.

“This is really weird,” you said, neither confirming or denying Yizhuo’s so-called congratulations as you glanced between the two girls unabashedly staring at you in your birthday suit, expecting. “Can you guys leave?”

“Nothing we’ve seen before.” You met Minjeong’s eyes for a second before they strayed to your naked breasts and back up again. “Bet Chenle would love to see you right now.”

For whatever reason, Yizhuo mirrored Minjeong’s sentiments as she bobbed her head so fast you would think the idea was exciting for her. “Only right for you to give him some sugar, too.” 

“Or—get this—I don’t do that?”

“Why not?” Minjeong frowned. “You fuck anything that moves.”

“Correction: I do not. I’ve only been with, like, five guys my entire life,” you said, brandishing one hand so they would get the picture. “And Chenle’s my friend! We’re like this”—you crossed your fingers, shaking them for emphasis—“tight, y’know? Literally everything’ll change if I go… do that.”

“You and Renjun are also”—she copied your crossed fingers—“like this, but you’re still fucking.”

“Well… that’s—that’s obviously different! He doesn’t count!” you said with each word increasing in pitch.

“Oh pray tell why you wouldn’t sleep with Chenle Zhong,” Minjeong goaded. “I may not like guys, but looking at him through an objective lens, he’s one of the good ones.”

“There’s no risk with Renjun because it’s strictly casual and platonic, and I know I wouldn’t get attached and develop—” you quickly clamped your mouth shut. Shit. “Uh—um—you’re breaking up,” you blurted, closing your eyes as you stepped into the heavy downpour of the rainfall shower. “I can’t hear you,” you said, though that likely sounded like incoherent blubbering. You were sure you’ve got your point across with that piss-poor save anyway.

“We can literally see you.”

You turned your back to them. They could talk to your ass if they wanted. Out of sight, out of mind. “Not anymore, you don’t.”

You hoped that was the end of it, though it was made clear time and time again that the girls weren’t satisfied with your hedging. A growl was heard, followed by the quick plap plap plap of feet against the cold tiles. As the glass door squeaked, the brief water prison you’ve enclosed yourself in stopped soon after and you opened your eyes to a hand retracting from one of the knobs.

There was barely a second for you to complain before an undignified yelp was forced out from your throat when you were spun around to find Yizhuo’s dour face, her hands clamping down on your shoulders.

“You’re just admitting this to us now?” she said, incredulous, and a little surprised that you’ve managed to keep a crucial detail from them for this long. 

“It wasn’t like an immediate thing I needed to resolve!” you argued, “but the thought was always there, I guess. Just sitting in the back of my mind until you brought up sex with Chenle. And I’m busy, in case it wasn’t obvious enough to you non-architecture majors. Never had the chance to explore it, y’know?”

Busy was the biggest understatement of the year. Your life revolved around sketching, drafting, rendering—hell, even printing your designs on sheets of paper almost (more or less) half your height had never been this stressful. Adding a part-time job to that? It was a miracle you were still kicking.

With all that combined, you didn’t have the time to give a damn about relationships running deeper than casual, less emotionally charged flings. Those were easier to manage without the messiness of feelings involved. 

“Well, Dora the Explorer,” Yizhuo tendered as she handed you your heated towel. “you better start explorin’ because you’re gonna fuck him either way.”

You swiped the towel from her. “No I’m not.”

“No you’re not,” Yizhuo agreed, and maybe the shrewd glint in those beady eyes of hers was only your imagination, toweling yourself dry and wrapping it around you once you were less damp. “but at least keep it as your trump card if he gets difficult—which I’d doubt, really.”

“You guys’re that confident he’d say yes?” you mused, pushing past Yizhuo to grab the other towel for your head. “It’s gonna be so embarrassing if he says otherwise.”

“To the tickets? Or the sex?” Minjeong then heaved a dramatic gasp, eyes wide as her voice dropped to a staged whisper. “Or worse, your alleged feelings.”

You puffed out your cheeks, ignoring the rush of warmth blooming onto your face. “Now I’m hoping he says ‘no’.”

“Oh, girl, trust me when I say ‘no’ is the last thing he’ll say to you.” Yizhuo said, looking very sure of herself. “So. How soon can you get to him?”

“God I hate you rich people.”

Yizhuo beamed. “I know.”

Well, it wasn’t like you were a stranger to testing your luck.

You: wyd

Lele: ? Lele: I’m not one of your groupies Lele: need something?

You: wanna get groceries with me? :D

Lele: be there in 15 Lele: need to grab Daegal’s kibble too

You: ur the best ✨✨

Lele: i know i am

You: girl whatever.

Lele: ❤️

“You know, when you said groceries, I was expecting personal stuff—like skincare or some shit,” Chenle said loftily. “Pads? Tampons? God forbid a menstrual cup—“

“How do you even know what a cup is,” you muttered. “and my period ended a week ago.”

“I know.” You looked up from your work to Chenle squinting down at his phone. He caught your eye and beamed, pocketing the device. You were too afraid to ask what that was about. “We could have gone to Sephora after.”

Oh you definitely could have if you had been more specific with what groceries meant, but you simply said to take both your asses to the nearest H Mart. Cute as the thought was, you weren’t exactly in the mood to watch Chenle try and figure out which products were on your current rotation. It would have made good content for him though, a sure hit for his predominantly female fanbase, yet the looming three days left to secure tickets above your head kept you from suggesting that.

“Well, I can’t exactly cook you a five-star meal with hyaluronic acid now can I?” 

He blinked and answered with a bland, “I have no idea what that is.”

You squinted at him, taking in the way he’s got his head tilted at an angle where the lighting hit one side of his pale face just right. No texture whatsoever, like a smooth, almost blank canvas marked by a singular mole on the cheek.

“‘Course you don’t,” you grunted, envious of his near perfect skin.

Chenle’s gaze slid towards the pot on the stove, then to his wooden chopping board where a humble spread of your additional ingredients had been neatly organized in small piles with two open noodle packets. “Also, that’s just your classic Shin ramyeon and some crab balls.”

“Well damn, Chenle, I’m no Gordon fucking Ramsay,” you snapped, swatting at his arm. “So ungrateful.” An elaborate recipe was out of the question when you were too busy panicking about how the hell you were going to pull this off.

(“The one thing you’re gonna ‘pull off’ is your top,” Yizhuo instructed as she followed you out the gargantuan front door. “You know how guys are with boobs. They’re like catnip for them.”

“Please don’t compare my tits to catnip.”)

He cackled, tucking himself into your side with an arm thrown around your shoulders in a side-hug. “Thank you,” he cooed, and like a cat, rubbed his head against yours. “You didn’t have to do all this, but I’d never say no to food.” You couldn’t exactly see his face like this, but you could hear his appreciation. Your heart squeezed at the press of his cheek against your temple.

See, it’s little moments in time like this were what jump-started the on-going betrayal you would never expect from your own beating heart, and Chenle made it extremely hard for you to not entertain any straying thoughts formed by the casual intimacy between you. It really didn’t help that Chenle was physically affectionate, and it especially didn’t help that you spent most of your time with him despite majoring in vastly different programs.

Starting the day with Chenle waiting in his car to take you to school, ending it with him driving you home and everything in between was a sure gateway for neutral feelings to gradually do a one-eighty. Reaching that level of comfort where you felt safe with him was just as inevitable, too. Chenle was safe. Always has been.

But for both of your sakes, it had been a conscious choice of burying yourself into your work—letting yourself get fucked over by the workload you had to do. The minor breakdowns you’ve had every time your calculations went wrong, or when color or material swatches didn’t seem to go together than you’d originally thought saved you from overthinking every single interaction with him.

You wouldn’t risk it. You couldn’t risk it.

“What’s the occasion?” Chenle prodded. Still there. Still close. Still trying his hardest to weld himself to your side that he would soon figure out something was up the moment you went stiff in his hold, but you were just as quick coming up with some bullshit excuse to save your own ass. Though it begged the question whether it will hold up against Chenle’s incessant need to stick his nose into anyone’s business.

The longer he stayed quiet, the more your nerves fried. His house—house because Chenle was a loose cannon with money like Yizhuo—was always set to a cool temperature and you wore an outfit that wasn’t meant to cover up much at all, yet you could feel yourself break into sweat the moment he pulled himself away from your space. You still stood there frozen and the pot was taking too long to fucking boil.

“No occasion!” you exclaimed, spinning on your heel to face him with the sweetest and most disarming smile you could muster at the moment. A drop of sweat trickled from your temple down to your cheek when all Chenle did was wrinkle his nose as he took a step back. “‘was just in the mood to cook… something. For you—uh, for us. I was craving ramyeon.”

“You were craving Shin ramyeon,” Chenle echoed, not looking at all convinced. “Shin ramyeon that Yizhuo has stocked in her pantry.”

“That’s why I asked you to get groceries with me,” you replied in haste. “We were running out.” 

Which wasn’t a lie. Technically.

The three of you used to gorge on whatever there was in the kitchen, fridge or pantry, or DoorDash when any of you craved something specific. Key words were ‘used to’ because snack options had been limited to cheaper alternatives and what was cheaper and filling than a packet of noodles that took less than five minutes to cook? Really, it was like you were back in your freshman dorm, living off of instant noodles.

“Running out.” The more Chenle repeated whatever you said, the more you started to realize how deep of a grave you had dug for yourself. “You bought just enough for two people to eat.”

“Right.” You drawled, snapping your fingers and hitting him with the finger-guns. Might as well make yourself look even more like a jackass than you already are with the dogshit lying. “Right—so no plans later? I could use another H Mart run.”

Chenle cracked this time. “You’re a shitty liar,” your name tapered off into laughter. “You want something, don’t you? You’re never this nice to me.” He simpered with a certain type of fondness you’d usually see in people witnessing a puppy scaring itself with its own bark—he should really stop that. You were already kind of a mess from the way he’d freely insert himself in your bubble like he owned the space. You didn’t need the ooey-gooey, cavity-inducing stares to go with that too.

This was all clearly very amusing to him—you stumbling over your own words picked out from throwing darts at random in an attempt to gaslight him. He shouldn’t find any humor in this, really, but Chenle had always been chill like that. Marching to the beat of his own drum or however the saying went that the ease of falling into character, the jester to his court, wasn’t surprising.

If it made him that happy, then you’d continue shaking your fool’s cap for him. As a friend, of course.

“What? Me?” you said, guileless and with a hand flat on your sternum, eyes rounded with that faux gleam of innocence for the full effect. “I have never wanted anything in my life.”

“Anything?” he pressed and received a firm nod. “Not even barricade tickets to Sabrina Carpenter?”

You gaped at him, stuttering out words that weren’t even qualified to be in the English dictionary until you settled with a broken, “who told you that.”

Chenle smiled serenely in kind, not at all fazed by your brain blue-screening in real time. “Renjun.”

The mention of a name sobered you up in record speed.

“That snitching bitch,” you seethed, pinching the bridge of your nose. “I only told him because I was hoping he'd help me think of options, or buy me a ticket himself. The girls could figure something out.” You paused, absorbing the situation as your hand fell back to your side. “Less work for me, though. I've been shitting my pants since, like, yesterday.”

“Yeah?”

You huffed a short laugh. “Oh yeah. There’s this theory going around—not that I believe it—that it’d be easy convincing you.”

“Easy,” he huffed, amused.

“Easy as in—I just have to ask you.”

Chenle tilted his head, considering you for a moment. “Alright. Ask away.”

You balked, grasping straws for a response.

“Ask away?” Nod. “Just like that.” Nod. “I’m not asking just for me, y’know? I’m also asking for Minjeong and Ningning. Since we’re broke and desperate girls who just happen to love the same singer.” Chenle only raised an eyebrow, slowly nodding in a way that said, ‘yeah. I know. What are you trying to say?’.

“Are you not worried how much it’s gonna cost you? Even just a little bit? I’m already feeling sick just thinking about it.” You grimaced.

“Not really, no.” He shrugged, slanting an easy smirk.

You pursed your lips. Right. Okay. So maybe you had severely underestimated how disposable money was to him, then. It didn’t seem like he minded at all, barely showing any negative emotion sans the boredom slowly coloring his features.

You, on the other hand, were already knee-deep in a bog of guilt and regret that you could honestly spit-up today’s lunch from how nerve-wracking this was; standing in front of him while carrying as much audacity a human being was allowed to and asking for something so expensive.

“You’re insane if you actually say yes. I don’t know about you, but if someone asked me for a thousand bucks and told me, ‘oh, bee-tee-dubs, I’m not gonna pay you back. Like ever.’, I’d consider suing the hell out of that person until they have to file for bankruptcy.”

“I mean, money’s never been an issue so I don’t see why my attorney should be involved.” The fact that he actually has an attorney (or a full-blown legal team. You never know) at the ready did not bring you comfort in the slightest. Chenle still tried though. You could at least appreciate that. “I wanna circle back on your so-called theory, though.”

“Don’t look at me.” Both of your hands raised in defense. “I’m not the one who came up with the ‘I’m Chenle’s favorite’ theory. The girls did.”

“Did they?” And for some ungodly reason, he looked delighted by the claim. “Well, can’t say they’re wrong.”

“Chenle,” you warned with a tone so biting you would think it’d have him think twice with this blasé approach.

Though maybe there was something on your face that betrayed the annoyance you’ve vocalized when all Chenle did was smile genially as the syllables making up your name passed through his lips in smooth succession.

“I’m not a charity case,” you muttered, flexing your fingers then curling them into fists. You weren’t too sure if you were pleased hearing it from the source. That you were Chenle’s favorite, confirmed by the man himself. Whatever that meant, or more annoyed that he really couldn’t care less about the money he’d wasted on you because you were his favorite. “You know I don’t take charity as well as normal people would.”

“Why do you think I never let you argue?” He said cheekily. “It’s easier and faster that way. And it’s no big deal! Seriously,” Chenle emphasized quickly at the sight of your deepening frown.

“But it is to me! If there’s one thing I know, it’s that nothing is ever just free. People these days are always expecting something in return. Maybe not right away and what if you’re just letting me rack up enough debt so you could ask me for my soul, or something.”

Chenle snickered. “So this is an exchange, then. Your noodles for concert tickets. You drive a hard bargain,” he wondered with an impish quality to his words, giving you a once over. Twice. It made you a little self conscious, shifting from foot to foot the longer sharp, cat-like eyes passed over your form. “Is that why you’re dressed like that? In case your cooking didn’t make a good bribe—oh, sorry—exchange?”

“Like what, exactly?” You asked, a little offended that he wouldn’t completely fold—or at least crease—at the first bite of a dish that earned its Michelin stars back in Yizhuo’s kitchen. Or that your chosen outfit wasn’t creaming any pants.

“Didn’t you wear this exact outfit when you skipped class to meet with Haechan that one time?”

“It was a different top, I think.” A top that was just as fast to remove too, so you understood the confusion. “How do you even remember that?”

“I remember lots of things,” he clarified, closing the distance until you could make out the top notes of his five-dollars-per-spray perfume with each inhale. “Like how you dress differently whenever you meet with one of your guys.”

“Gee what a coincidence. I wonder why I’m dressed like I am about to meet with one of my guys while in your kitchen.”

This time it’s Chenle who got the surprise of a lifetime, eyes almost bugging out of his skull as those lips you had once imagined yourself kissing just to see how they’d give under the soft pressure parted in a delicate ‘o’. He was quick to recover though, with a sly uptick of his mouth replacing the initial shock of finding out that, yes, you’d probably sleep with him if it came to that.

“Didn’t think you’d be that desperate for tickets.” He’s closer now, too close for comfort that you backed into the edge of the kitchen counter. “Is that how you’re gonna repay me?”

“It’s charity work,” you answered blithely, emboldened by Chenle’s interest because, fuck, might as well. “Fuck knows if you’ve been getting your dick wet or not. I’d literally be doing you a favor.”

Chenle didn’t seem to take offense to that as he threw his head back in raucous laughter.

“Charity for charity.” He grinned. “Seems fair.”

And the words had never sounded sweeter until they came from Chenle’s mouth. You could already hear yourself screaming with the crowd filling up the arena, with your girlfriends who you absolutely did not resent for essentially pimping you out to the one guy who could arguably make your dreams come true—

“I’ll think about it.”

Both Minjeong and Yizhuo were dead to you.

“Think about—” you paused, taking steady breaths until you were calm enough to start talking again. “Chenle. Lele,” and out came the big guns, being sweet to him and using the cutesy nickname the girls from the Chinese Students and Scholars Association would croon to get at least five seconds of his attention. Watching that play out from the sidelines always left a sour aftertaste, how they all would go as far as touching him when they decided holding eye-contact wasn’t enough to fuel their delusions. 

You’ve soon come to realize that it was jealousy that caused your eye to twitch when Chenle’s capitalistic smile turned honeyed towards his junior. Because there wasn’t a day where you were short of his attention.

Perhaps the thought was a little unhealthy, but what if you said it was what you were used to? Can anyone fault you for being a little catty after that interaction?

Calling him Lele worked, you thought. Or so you hoped. You weren’t sure rendering him silent was a good thing, actually. Silence never bode well with larger-than-life Chenle Zhong whose entire personality was being loud, especially with eyes as expressive as his. Dark as shots of espresso you’ve brewed countlessly at work laced with something you couldn’t quite put your finger on.

“The concert is in two fucking days! There’s no time to think—you know what? This was a bad idea. I don’t know how Ningning talked me into—” you shook your head, pressing the back of your hand to your cheek with a heavy sigh. “We can just eat the goddamn noodles and forget all this. I’ll just tell the girls they were wrong, and you said no—”

“Oh, no no no,” you would never admit to making such an undignified sound when Chenle pulled you back by his steady grip on your wrist. “you can’t make that offer and leave just like that, c’mon.” And he had the audacity to whine on top of it.

“Well that’s before I—what are you doing.”

“Making sure I am getting something out of this,” he murmured, crowding in on you further where all you could see right in front of you was Chenle, and whatever you could see over the slope of one hoodie-covered shoulder.

Which by all means wasn’t a lot to begin with, him being taller and broader than you. And Chenle wasn’t even super tall. You knew plenty of people that exceeded the one-hundred-and-eighty centimeter mark, like that Jisung kid who hung out with you both on occasion. Wasn’t even built like a brick shithouse like Jaemin and his friend, your on-and-off tutor, Jeno.

Yet the way he had you cornered, hands planted firmly on the polished quartz countertop boxing you in, kind of screwed with your perception—made him appear bigger than he actually was. Perhaps it was the intensity of his gaze, pinning you down with deep pools framed by gradually thinning rings of brown the longer this stare down went on.

Coupled with the heat radiating off of Chenle, from standing so much closer where it totally crossed the limits of what it meant to be platonic, something just as heated unfurled beneath your navel.

“What—whatever you want,” you stuttered, swallowing thickly when the soft material of his jacket brushed along the strip of skin left exposed by your cropped top.  

“Whatever I want?” Chenle’s tongue darted out, wetting his lips as he studied you. “Even outside of sex?”

It was really hard trying not to not stare at his mouth. “I think being your errand girl will get you your money’s worth than a regular pump n’ dump.”

“The mouth on you.” Chenle cracked a lipped smile, wide enough that a hint of teeth peeking between the soft rosebud pink of his lips. “‘My girl’ does have a nice ring to it.”

Warmth creeped up your neck. “You forgot the word ‘errand’.”

“I know what I said,” he murmured, coming in closer that the tip of his nose gently nudged yours. “Kiss me.”

Your breath hitched, eyes growing into saucers because kiss me could imply anything. Everything.

“What—“

“You said whatever I want,” Chenle pointed out. “and I want you to kiss me. Or I want to kiss you, actually. Real bad.”

Words, apparently, weren’t enough to prove how much Chenle could want something as simple as a kiss.

Slender fingers splayed themselves along your waist, just marveling that you’re allowing him to touch you like this—with reverence. Palms cooled by the counter and the calluses earned from years of basketball raised gooseflesh along your skin when dragging them along the expanse of your stomach. The dips of your waist again—like he couldn’t resist how softer you were there—your back, until one of Chenle’s hands settled beneath the curve of your spine, the other just shy under the side of your breast. 

Chenle was impossibly closer now and your body’s natural response was to arch into him and—oh, he’s hard. So hard—straining against the fly of his jeans pressed against your stomach, and you’ve barely done anything except letting him feel you up, leaving phantom brands of his touch along the way.

“Feel that?” Chenle said, voice low and gravely, delivered like it was a secret only you two should know. He pushed his hips further into yours causing him to groan quietly as you gasped, your hands laying flat on his chest to steady yourself. “You’re definitely getting your tickets if it’s the last thing I do.”

Somehow, out of everything Chenle said, that knocked the breath out of you. The utter conviction. How positive he was in his own right that he will get those tickets for you, one way or another.

Frankly, you couldn’t care less about them now, nor what you had to do in exchange for what was essentially overpriced pieces of paper. All you cared about was who you were getting them from: Chenle, his mouth just a couple of centimeters—all yours for the taking, how secure his hold was around you as if the mere thought of you drifting away any second unnerved him, and the fact that he wanted to kiss you.

Because maybe, just maybe, this wasn’t at all one-sided. Maybe what Minjeong and Yizhuo had been speculating held some substance that, yes, it wouldn’t be too hard if it was you appealing to Chenle’s sweeter side. Maybe the notion was that gratifying to your dwindling self-esteem because how could you deny his simple request? 

So with a breathy, almost breathless, “just—just shut the fuck up about the tickets for a second,” you cupped his face with both hands and yanked him down for a kiss.

Chenle’s kisses were syrupy-sweet, if not purposely drawn out as though he was savouring a once in a lifetime opportunity; uncertain if he’d ever get the chance again. The most surprising thing about kissing Chenle, other than the act itself, was the unhurried pace. So unlike the man you would see loping over with this restless energy ready to leave him bursting at the seams, harrying his friends (anyone, really) to play ball with him. 

It had been near impossible, forcing him to sit still when all Chenle knew was to keep on moving. Keeping close at his heels was a fixed workout you didn’t remember ever signing up for. It was only to your relief that he made sure to keep you right behind him. Beside him, rather. There wasn’t a time where Chenle would knowingly leave you behind and if that ever happened, he would always wait for you to catch up.

There was no rush, and maybe that was the point of it all. Chenle’s willingness to adjust for you with no terms and conditions applied, and you have yet to see him stop.

With each push and pull, worrying teeth on lips and a shallow press of a warm wet tongue, Chenle kissed you like he was a man starved, stumbling upon an oasis and letting himself drown after a drought lasting so long. He kept with the pace, not doing too much or too little, lips slotting together like perfect puzzle pieces. Sweet and deliberate, each movement holding intention. Chenle really wasn’t fucking around when admitting he wanted to kiss you.

You shared that want too. More than you had initially allowed yourself, but that was to be expected when you’ve basically repressed every not-so-platonic thought regarding Chenle for a long while. And you know what they said about bottling it all up.

It came bursting in a flurry rush of movement. From their tender cradling, your fingers reached up to curl into Chenle’s freshly dyed jet-black hair just as he mirrored your own growing need, lithe arms coiling around your torso as your mouths grew greedier by the second. A show of teeth pulled an airy moan out of you turned muffled the second he licked into your mouth.

From there, kissing just became a mere afterthought. Devolving into a carnal dance of tongues, lapping it all up to get your fill.

Chenle tasted just as sweet as he kissed before, like the lemon ginger candy he had stocked around his house, his car and sometimes you would catch him plucking a piece or two out of his pockets. And it was quickly becoming a problem where you just knew there was no coming back from this.

That nothing will ever be the same once you walk out of that door when all of this is over. You couldn’t go back, not when you’ve gotten a taste of what it was like swapping spit with the guy, the same guy who you had thought wasn’t worth the risk.

Fuck it, might as well risk everything, then. You’ve already kissed him, already bulldozed past that boundary you swore you would never cross. So long as Chenle wouldn’t mind a kiss, or two, or three—until he has to pry you off of him and say enough is enough, you’d let yourself crave the sensation of having his mouth give under yours.

Just like how you chased after the plushness of his lips with a meek whine when he drew back, grinning at the state he reduced you to—a needy little thing this high strung over a kiss.

Please. As if he didn’t pop a boner at the thought of kissing you.

Just as you were about to voice out the retort, one of his hands raised to cup your cheek. You leaned into the touch, feeling small under his thoughtful gaze as his thumb swiped over your kiss-swollen lips. You chased after that feeling, too, each drag winding the coil of your self-control tighter and tighter ‘til it snapped like you did, catching his thumb in between the edges of your teeth.

Chenle’s gaze darkened then, no traces of the playful glint you were used to seeing as he surged forward and kissed a searing path from the corner of your mouth, all the way up to the swell of your cheek. Then lower, and lower until the scrape of teeth under the hinge of your jaw made your knees buckle from the sensation with a gasp.

You gripped his hair tighter, though you made no move to pull him off. “That—this is more than just a kiss,” you lightly chided, voice shaky. “Greedy.”

“So what if I am?” He mumbled, mouthing his way down your neck. Your fingers left his hair and curled around his nape. “Want me to stop?”

Pulling him in further by his neck told him enough. The vibration of his pleased humming against where your pulse was at its strongest made you shiver. You could feel him smirk. Like a knife to your neck.

“Thought so.”

Staying true to his words, he didn't stop. Chenle latched onto your mouth again and you’ve quickly grown familiar with his rhythm. Only this time, his hands joined in the fray, seemingly needing more than just having you secured in his arms.

Though perhaps you bit off more you could chew. 

Like, yeah, getting fucked by Chenle wasn’t the most horrible idea you’ve had so far in your early twenties, but thinking about it was vastly different from actually doing it.

So you were definitely in your right to squeal when one of your best friend's wandering hands went up your skirt.

Chenle stilled and pulled back with his eyebrows knitted together. Your face was on fire, both from his bold move and the embarrassing sound you made.

“You okay?” He asked, the same hand that was under your skirt—right below your ass cheek—rubbing soothing circles. It was anything but soothing. When you’ve got thighs as sensitive as yours, the only thing Chenle was helping with was making you hornier.

If he moved his hand a little further up and a little further in, he would have felt just how soaked your panties were.

“I—uh—I’m not ready.”

He blinked. “My hand is literally up your skirt that’s barely covering your cute little butt,” he pointed out as his hands trailed higher and squeezed the plump flesh. “and you’re not ready.” Now he’s looking at you like you’re crazy. Shit, maybe you were. And it’s his fault. He’s just as crazy for calling your ass cute to your face, too.

“I mean yeah, that’s nice and all—your hand is really warm, um—but I may or may not have been talking out of my ass about fucking you.”

Chenle snorted. “I dunno. Your outfit clearly screams ‘fuck me!’. Cute shirt, by the way.” A stray hand wedged itself under the tight fit of your tube-top, earning him a sharp intake of breath when his fingertips grazed the underside of your tit. His touch didn’t go further than that, hand simply splayed across your ribs. “If you can call it that.”

“You bought me this shirt, dumbass.”

“Even better,” he said, delighted by the thought. “Feeling cold?” Chenle wondered, almost in an innocent, offhanded manner you wouldn’t think much of if the twitching of his mouth slipped under your radar. You caught his leering stray south, too. Just what could he possibly be intrigued by when he was quite literally sharing your breathing space?

With eyebrows furrowed, you let your curiosity get the best of you, tracing his line of sight.

You should have stayed curious.

Better yet, you shouldn’t have acknowledged the change of his focal point because of course he’d take notice of your nipples poking against the soft material of your shirt; as if they were saying ‘hi’ to the man who had come so close to giving them some attention.

Chenle dissolved into a fit of cackles. You could only imagine how embarrassed you looked to him. Why were you even embarrassed? You chose to forgo a bra in hopes of distracting him with your boobs if all else failed.

“Yeah, yeah,” you acquiesced, keeping your chin up as you blindly reached for his hands. “Hands where I can see ‘em, pervert.”

Only, you don’t exactly take his hands off of you. This was like, casual touches here and there dialed up to an eleven, right? It wasn’t a foreign concept to you, being held by him. Being friends with him for this long and counting, hugs were a thing you were frequently subjected to, and Chenle loved those, so you did your due diligence of settling his hands on your hips as a pseudo form of it.

A peace offering, if you will, for cutting the closeness short and a little because you were starting to like the warmth emanating from a more intimate touch.

Seemingly pleased by your initiative, Chenle graced you with the sweetest of smiles, squeezing you. That got him a snort and a fond shake of your head, though the amusement dimmed into contemplation as you lingered on the silver padlock-shaped pendant hanging from the dainty chain of the same metal around Chenle’s neck, not knowing where to go from here.

Eventually, you found your voice. “That better be worth fifteen hundred bucks,” you joked because if there was one thing about you is that you had a knack for making light out of an emotionally charged situation.

“I’ve spent more on you before, and you're worth every single penny so far.”

That shouldn’t have flustered you. Really, it shouldn’t have you hot in the face when you weren’t sure if he meant the dig towards you unintentionally milking him of his fortune. But Chenle’s ease of letting weighted words spill from his mouth was the sure contender here, and to deliver the final blow was the charming grin that ensured you everything was going to be just fine. He’d make sure of it.

“That’s definitely something a sugar daddy would say,” you said with a wry curl of your mouth. “Are you my sugar daddy? Because I can’t remember the last time I had to pay for my shit when you’re around.”

There was one time you went out for a bagel on your own, though that didn’t seem like a big girl purchase compared to your ergonomic chair he had ordered from Amazon. The look he had given you when you told him you made do with the many dining chairs Yizhuo had around her huge glass dining table had been the funniest thing you had ever seen. Like stiff chairs having multiple uses was a foreign concept to him.

You didn’t have the heart to tell him that you were mostly on your feet when you had to (by hand) draft floor plans and vignettes that took up almost the entire space of your choice of paper. And the chair was comfy. Good for your back too.

“It does look like that, huh?” Chenle laughed at that, shaking his head as he did so out of endearment because you just wouldn’t get it. “What if I just like taking care of you?”

Now wasn’t that an insane thing to say out loud? Granted that you could kind of see where he came from as he did save your sorry ass a bunch of times with either a tap or a swipe of his card, this was Chenle you were dealing with. The likelihood of him just pulling your leg under the guise of flattery was great and backing down that easy had never been your forte. No matter how sweet he was being about it.

You could count the serious conversations with him on both sets of your fingers and this regularly scheduled bout of psychological warfare won’t even count.

“You just want to get in my pants,” you accused with a defiant raise of your chin.

“You almost let me in your pants,” Chenle pointed out, his fingers gently grasping your chin so he could tilt your head back at its normal angle. “My hand was literally up your skirt and I heard no complaints until you got stage fright.”

“Fair,” you allowed with a shrug. “Still not gonna fuck you though. Not now at least.”

“Whatever you want,” he said softly as he bent down to catch your gaze. “and you know I won’t do anything you don’t want to.”

You hummed, thinking Chenle’s words over. “I’ll give it a few days until you’re on your hands and knees begging to stick just the tip in.”

Chenle’s smile wobbled then turned pained. “If I have to.”

It took three whole seconds for his admission to register in your brain before you sputtered a laugh, falling forward until his shoulder cushioned your forehead. No wonder you and Chenle worked so well. There was not a serious bone in any of your bodies and you wouldn't want to change it for the world.

“Down, boy,” you teased, still cackling as you nuzzled into his neck. “Who’s desperate now?”

He huffed. “Like you weren’t trying to eat my face moments ago.”

You pulled back with a pout. “I could say the same about you.” You poked him in the chest. “Were you actually trying to suck my soul out?”

“Regret anything yet?” Chenle’s question was posed as playful, but there was undertone of uncertainty to it too and over the years, you’ve gotten good at figuring out his tells. The uncharacteristic sudden stiffness in his frame, the way he chewed the inside of his cheek (subtly as he could) and the tightness around his eyes—he thought you did. Regret it, that is, but it was the farthest from what you were feeling right now.

“The only thing I regret is not seducing you sooner.” 

And that did it. Anything that fell in the same vein of uncertainty gave way to the radiance you were much more familiar with.

Chenle looked like an absolute winner—the cat that caught the canary and washed it down with cream in celebration of his win before diving in for his prize.

Until Daegal barked at the sound of jingling keys the moment your lips were a hair breadth away from touching, her excitement piercing through the bubble and granting you awareness from beyond it; namely the pot barely having any water being left on the burner for too long. 

There was a flash of white from your peripheral as you shared a panicked look with your qausi-sugar-daddy when the front door opened, followed by one of Chenle’s housemates, Beomgyu, announcing his arrival with a loud, “I’m home!”

“Shit,” you whispered and the two of you set into motion. Harried, if anything, yet still efficient with the swiftness Chenle displayed in fixing your clothes just as you smoothed stray strands of his hair back in place.

For a quick moment, he took a good look at you, a crease in the middle of his eyebrows before he was shucking off his hoodie and urging you to wear it.

“Didn’t take you for the protective type,” you teased, yet took it without question as Chenle rolled his eyes with a gentle shake of his head, watching you pull on the sleeves; a smile equal parts warm and mischievous playing on his lips.

With the zipper in place, you glanced at him then down to his very obvious problem beneath those denim jeans. “You gonna do something about”—Chenle’s eyes blew wide in alarm and stuck his hand in his pants—“yeah, okay,” you mumbled.

His smile widened into something annoying and you quickly pushed him towards the kitchen sink, a silent command to wash his hands once Beomgyu walked right into the kitchen, surprised that you were here. Daegal trotted closely behind, her tail wagging happily as you bent down to pick her up.

“We’re going to get groceries after some noodles,” Chenle answered the silent question for you while pouring water into the pot. “Want some?”

“I’m starving,” Beomgyu groaned. “I’ll eat anything.”

“Hope you’re excited for Shin ramyeon and crab balls, then.”

Over Beomgyu’s shoulder, Chenle winked at you and you nuzzled into Daegal’s fur, hiding your smile.

In the end, after letting Beomgyu devour most of your noodles, Chenle did take you out for another H Mart run.

“Are the two carts necessary?”

You didn’t think so. One full cart was pushing it, but two? For a second, you feared he might just buy out the whole store if you dared him. Then again, Chenle wasn’t familiar with the concept of limiting oneself and it seemed like it applied to you too. Well, in a way where he showed you it was okay to want things. That it was okay to ask him for things.

Because it’s Chenle who did most of the shopping. Fresh produce, different kinds of meat that didn’t need to be cooked in complicated ways for it to come out edible—namely the humble samgyeopsal. Quick, easy and absolutely delicious—he glossed over most of the condiments seeing you still had them at home, then he absolutely went insane when it came to the snacks, ice cream and, of course, packets of instant noodles.

Chenle had another pack of a different variant in his hands, tossed it into the snack-filled cart he was pushing around.

“You’re really playing into the sugar daddy thing,” you said as you mentally calculated the amount of debt you were in now with the addition of groceries that could last you and the girls the whole month.

“Better than you starving,” he said cheerfully, grabbing a dozen of Buldak Carbonara noodles and dumping them into the cart like a dad finding out their kid’s favorite snack. “Wouldn’t want you living off of shin ramyeon and crab balls.”

You scowled. “It wasn’t that funny.”

Chenle laughed and laughed and laughed anyway because your failed seduction plan was that hilarious if he was still making jokes about two-person groceries.

The drive home was quiet. Peaceful. Less awkward than you had initially expected when the soulful drone of music filled in the spaces with you sat in the passenger’s seat, reaching over to feed Chenle the Pepero you elected on sharing. When it all ran out, you relaxed in your seat and just… watched.

Watched your best friend in his element with his hand on the wheel while the other patted his thigh along the beat of the current song. He looked good. Unfairly so. With the lights glinting off the watch that likely made up your yearly university tuition and the high points of his face, the ruffled look of his hair and the way his jaw flexed every time he sang along the melody.

All this filled you with the urge to kiss him. Reach over and plant one on him and the thought still lingered even as you drove past the house’s gates opened with an app on your phone.

As Chenle helped put away the groceries while you pretended not to notice the leering from the peanut gallery.

As he helped himself to a Melona while keeping up with the verbal spat between him and Yizhuo munching on something yoghurt and blueberry flavoured.

It was all you could think about as you saw him out the door, and if you couldn’t help yourself and acted on it—a quick peck to the corner of Chenle’s plush mouth as thanks—leaving a sheen of your lipgloss, then that was between you, God and the security camera angled to where you stood.

Yizhuo wouldn’t notice if you deleted a few seconds of footage anyway.

Late into the night and you could still feel it. Feel him—the ghost of his kiss, his touch as everything that had transpired in the afternoon played on loop in your head.

You couldn’t sleep. Not when your mind was chanting Chenle Chenle Chenle like a mantra set to summon him. Like an itch you couldn’t get rid off no matter how hard you scratched.

If only…

That night, you decided to get well acquainted with Pinky, fishing her out deep within your drawer.

Mornings like this were rare, where all of you were awake at the same time. Even rarer that you were all up before ten, quiet. Relaxed.

No sense of urgency found on anyone’s person. No school, no jobs to clock into, no not-so-secret meetings—none of you girls had anything of priority today.

There was breakfast, arguably the most important meal of the day, though it seemed Minjeong and Yizhuo weren’t exactly in a rush demanding their eggs be cooked just the way they liked. Just fine with nursing a steaming cup of whatever energized them for the day ahead as they sat at the island counter.

Your phone chimed in the middle of cooking Yizhuo’s scrambled eggs. A text from Chenle—a sent photo to be specific and—

You screamed, nearly dropping the spatula.

fine shyt: [IMG_6969]

You: WWHAT THEBFUCJ

fine shyt: got your tickets 🤓

You: YEA I SEE THAT???????????

When you screen faded into Chenle’s caller ID, a photo of him holding up Daegal, Minjeong immediately took over the cooking as you rushed towards the living area.

“You got the tickets,” you said as you accepted the request to FaceTime, half in wonder and in disbelief that he was able to nab tickets in less than twenty-four hours and a day before the concert. You really should stop doubting Chenle and his ability (see: privilege) to get whatever, whenever. “Not that I doubted you, but the first night usually sells out quick—so how the hell.”

“You underestimate how far money can get you,” Chenle laughed. He looked sleep-ruffled, like he had just woken up. This was his cutest state yet and you really wished you were with him right now. “Think you’re ready to find out?”

“As I’ll ever be.” As long as he held your hand through it, sure. What the hell. You could survive future heart attacks caused by six figures by sheer will alone, you thought. “I asked for three tickets though. Who's the fourth one for?”

“Me,” he answered, beaming. “Someone has to drive you girls.”

“What? I mean—thanks.” That was one less thing to worry about then. “But since when do you listen to Sabrina?”

“Since last night. Still at it, by the way.” he clarified, a little too happy and if you listened closely, you could make out Sabrina’s crooning of Read your Mind on his end. “An enlightening experience, I might say.”

“Good luck on memorizing twenty-one songs then.”

“Oh, Princess. I released an album when I was eight. Memorizing the setlist is light work. Bet I could sing louder than you.”

“Yeah, okay. I’ll grill you on the album thing next time because what the fuck.” The ‘Princess’ thing you elected to ignore, too early and dire to suffer an aneurysm when a concert was waiting for you.

“I’ve lived quite the life,” he mused (“oh I’m sure.”) combing his fingers through his hair. “So what do we say?”

You scoffed, fond and grateful for his generosity whether you were deserving or not. “Thank you.”

“Thank you what, baby?”

Your face twisted in horror, quickly clocking what he was trying to get you to do. “Bye Chenle.”

He was cackling when you hung up, your face on fire, yet you didn’t put in any effort to tamper the giddy grin threatening to split your face.

The tickets were yours. Chenle got the tickets and they were yours. Gosh, this was probably the best morning in your life so far and nothing could dampen your mood from doing your girls proud.

“Now do you believe us when we say you’re Chenle’s favorite?” Yizhuo asked with a mouthful of scrambled egg.

You laughed, cheeks aching from how hard you cheesed at a simple fact. “I’m starting to.”

And selfish as it sounded, you hoped that it would remain that way for a long time because you couldn’t remember a life so dull when Chenle walked in with colors so bright that it sung, and because he was your favorite, too.

a/n: waow you've reached the end! Here, have a cookie 🍪 as always, thank you soo so much for reading until the end! I'd like to thank the girls: Aria, Moon and Aeriel for letting me talk my shit about this fic and help with ideas! and yes, brainstorming with them is an almost daily occurrence and it's great mental exercise imo lol! I hope you had fun reading the chaos that was this fic. I know I had fun laughing to myself writing all this 😆 and please please please let me know your thoughts! Likes, reblogs and comments are always appreciated <3

TAGLIST: @jaylaxies @hoondrop @gojosmojodojo @justalildumpling @dammit-jjk @learnthisfeeling @90s-belladonna @spacejip @ykvdani @drunkhee @neozon3nha @dinosaurtoothbrushwithninjasauce @sunghoonsgfreal @champagne1221 @yuyita-rosier @grimlinshere @jvngw0n @nanaxwi @kissesfromdarling @peterm4rker @haechology @evergreeneyesx @bbina @nctseventeensworld (special thanks to those who asked to be part of the taglist!)

[blueberrybirdsworld]

My boyfriend is hot... somehow

Summary: She post a funny compilation of her boyfriend Lando on insta, he can't find a bad picture of her to get his revenge

Pairing: Lando Norris x reader

Genre: SMAU, fluff

Face claim: Chloé Gervais (the queen)

Author note: Try to uses fake text app now to create my texts message, tell me if you like it :) So i write this short and funny SMAU oneshot to test it, let me know if you like it in the comment!

Main Masterlist

@your_username

My boyfriend is hot… somehow

@landonorris: I thought we agreed to delete that last one 💔

@_user1: The second-hand embarrassment is REAL 😭

@_user2: No because WHY is he driving like he’s in a Fast & Furious audition

@_user3: The "somehow" in the caption sent me 💀

@_user4: The elevator one has me cryingggg he's just THERE

@_user5: Not the “boyfriend dump” turning into a full roast

@_user6: She woke up and chose violence and we SUPPORT IT 👏

@_user8: This is love. This is what love looks like 💀

@_user9: Every picture just gets worse I can't breathe 😂

@landonorris

Tried to get my revenge with a “girlfriend dump” but turns out she’s just too perfect 🤷‍♂️ not fair tbh.

@_user1: Bro this is the worst revenge I’ve ever seen 😭 she ate every single one of these

@_user2: You just gave us free girlfriend appreciation content 😂👏

@_user3: Lando accidentally joined the “I love my gf” club

@_user4: not him tryna roast and ending up making her look like a Vogue feature 💀

@_user5: be fr Lando, are you even trying??

@_user6: WHERE is the flop pic??? WHERE’S THE TROLLING??

@your_username: actually the only issue with this is that you’re the one taking them baby 😭 it’s not me, just you are a terrible photographer

@_user7: AHHHHH THAT’S SO REAL 😭

@_user8: omg wait can we get a full dump of all the terrible Lando angles 👀

@_user9: YES we demand a “he took this” compilation 🔍

@_user10: Petition to make @your_username’s next post just “photos Lando ruined”

@your_username

Does anyone else have a boyfriend completely incapable of taking a decent photo of you or is it just me 🫠

@landonorris: i feel attacked but also i stand by the finger-in-frame one, that was artistic.

@_user1: Nooo bc why is this the universal boyfriend experience 😭

@_user2: This post is so real it hurts 💀

@_user3: He’s got one job and still manages to flunk it 💔

@_user4: THE SHADOW ONE??? i screamed. he really said “let me ruin the lighting real quick” 😭😭

@_user5: Girl we need a full series called “Photos Lando Ruined” pls

@_user6: Lando’s camera roll gotta be 90% near-misses and blurry masterpieces

@_user7: Why are boyfriends allergic to good angles 😩

@_user8: Honestly the effort is there but the execution is… not 🫢

@_user9: pls drop a tutorial for him. or confiscate his phone. idk at this point

@landonorris

Happy birthday to the most beautiful, most chaotic, person I know 💘

@_user1: WAIT. These are actually good. LANDO DID YOU TAKE THESE YOURSELF???

@landonorris: YESSS I DID 😤 it only took 200 tries but LOOK AT HER

@_user2: Be honest bro who helped you 😭

@_user3: no bc that second one is giving Pinterest-level lighting??

@_user4: Is this… growth??? character development??? 😭👏

@_user5: man went from “thumb in frame” to editorial real quick

@your_username: okay but let’s not lie, I had to direct him like a whole photoshoot crew 😌 love u tho

@_user6: not her still being the creative director

@_user7: drop the behind-the-scenes pls. we need the chaos reel.

Author note: please feel free to comment and message me, it's the only way I can know your tought and feed-back on my stories and it felt good as an author :) Thanks

Permanent taglist : @bunnisplayground, @vampgege, @chocolatemooncoffee, @sashisuslover, @gold66loveblog, @carlando4, @il0vereadingstuff, @lilith-123321, @ispywlittleeye-blog, @h-rtsnana, @anonomano, @guacala, @charlotteking27, @ninass-world, @scarletwidow3000, @taetae-armyyyyy, @mynameisangeloflife, @tsuniio, @sophxxkiss, @teti-menchon0604, @angelluv16, @httpsxnox, @anunstablefangirl, @chocolatemagazinecupcake, @mayax2o07, @freyathehuntress, @verogonewild, @lilyofthevalley-09, @esw1012, @its-me-frankie, @linneaguriii, @ezzi-ln4, @rlbmutynnek, @actuallyazriel, @sofs16, @thulior, @sltwins, @henna006, @stylesmoonlight12, @lilaissa, @sideboobrry11, @l3thal-l0lita, @lorena-mv33, @ispywlittleeye-blog, @lesliiieeeee, @sageskiesf1, @adynorris, @curlylando, @rebelliousneferut, @justcharlotte, @secret-agents-stole-my-bunnies, @emneedshelp, @lando-505, @yukimaniac, @sashisuslover, @f1norris04, @dustie-faerie, @madicecream123

Let me know if you want to be add or removed from the taglist :)

[luvlian]

previous | next | beginning

[obsessive-daydreamer]

You're a real one, honestly.

Thank you tanya

Alright, I want to tag everyone in the server. But I don't know everyone's tumblr tags, so that's not happening. Here's a few:

@roterstern Literally one of my best mates. We talk literally all the time, you make beautiful art and have made art specifically for me, which I ogle every day. I know we became friends because I wrote filthy Lore/Hugh smut for you, and it's the most important fic to me for that reason. I get excited every time the little online symbol pops up on discord, and I 100% overshare constantly with you. And you accept it every single time. I cherish our conversations, and every discussion that we have means the world to me, whether you think it was silly or not.

@tanyayoung-322 (who tagged me) ^ as I said at the very top. You're very lovely and are one of the people I met at the beginning. Somehow one of the most tolerant people (of me) that I know. Even though I'm a nasty British bitch

@hawkstar5 literally the number 1 supporter of the discord server, love you for that. Actually, was the first person i got to know on tumblr. We met through smutty roleplay. Another person I've met through smut - fancy that.

@xm0-m0x For being British and really funny. You also draw some banging art, which I realised today I forget to respond to half the time, but I can guarantee I do stare at it for ages. Heart emoji, heart emoji, boobies emoji.

@dawnkiller08 This one is a little out of the blue but I'm pretty sure we met on TikTok. I sometimes tag you in ask games because in my head you're a treasured mutual. (Hope the tagging doesn't annoy you 😭) You also drew Lore with cat ears (had to double check this because it was so long ago. Your account was very long and my hand hurts from scrolling right to the bottom, but I can confirm. The post is indeed there).

@drfuckerm-d ngl mate i really like you. And slag. I love the little video things you do with the sound overlays too. I've actually watched some of them on repeat bc im kind of addicted to your art style.

@dataentryspecialist BRO I ALMOST FORGOT YOU. If I remember correctly, you were the first person I ever dmed on tumblr? Or maybe it was the second...not sure. But I wanted to bookbind Electric Excavations and you gave me the big thumbs up and so far only one (of probably something ridiculous like 15) books has been bounf. 1.3 million words is INSANE. I currently have the second part stashed in a pillow waiting for when I return to bookbinding and can bind it. I'm making it my goal for 2027. Maybe 2028.

(Also means I need to redownload Electric Excavations and my computer is really going to hate me but ohh wellllll...)

I'm also tagging other people I'm friends with on the server but forgot the tumblr handles for ily <33

favirote moots?

(People you tag have to reblog and say their favorite moots)

Okay wait

@ibrokeurheartbcuzubrokemine @foliverfalls @allyeilishh @addisonraesbaby @emiliesblohsh @bilsslut @noodleswashere @bilsbabyy @bitchesbrokenpromises @billsdollie

[1800titz]

FIVE

The one where Y/N and Harry are neighbors in an apartment complex, he's got a bunny called Snuggles, he makes softcore porn spanking people (it's a REALLY LOUD HOBBY), and Y/N has definitely called the police for a domestic disturbance next door.

HII HERE IT IS. This one shows H's (slowly) shifting perspective and introduces some semi-important side characters! Definitely read the other parts first if you haven't already. Reblogs/feedback always super appreciated. If you like a fic, sharing the work with the reblog button and leaving a comment/sending an anon keeps writers motivated to keep posting on this platform for free! (ꈍ◡ꈍ)

FETISH masterlist : PATREON masterlist (367.9K+ words of content and updating) : MAIN masterlist

CONTENT/WARNINGS: just boy shenanigans in this one

WC: 5.7K

“No, but I’m saying— there’s a line,” Niall motions out with his hand, “Like, spitting in someone’s mouth? That’s hot. Spitting in your own hand and slapping them with it? Aggressive.”

Tucked into the chair beside him, Seth raises a wry eyebrow pointedly, “You did that last month.”

The other brunette turns his chin over his shoulder towards his friend, his face falling flatly as if the sentiment is common sense, “Yeah, as a bit.”

“Which part was the bit, exactly?” Art chimes from beside Harry, his eyebrows pleating into a sardonic display of curiosity as he pretends to mull, “The apology text you sent her after, or…?”

Harry traces his finger along the curving rim of his glass, absorbing the chill and the slick of condensation with his other palm, which he cups over the body. It’s a whiskey ginger ale— his usual, here— because a drink with more than two or three ingredients at the hole-in-the-wall dive bar he frequents with his friends every Friday night is more likely to be the reason someone projectile vomits onto the out-of-service jukebox than anything worth paying for. 

The roster consists of the usual suspects and their typical venue; its low lighting, peeling faux-leather barstools, and the obnoxiously rumbling guitar riff spilling from a couple of overhead speakers provides a fitting ambience for the chaos their togetherness always seemed to entail. Truth be told, the sticky floorboards and the questionable garnishes aren’t exactly the curly-haired brunette’s ideal bar scene, but the beer-stained, crumbling excuse of a pub had gradually become one of their default weekly spots (mostly on account of the fact that Art had stolen a set of coasters he found to be funny from their last bar, getting them banned in the process, and partly due to that uber-specific IPA Niall prefers always, somehow, being on tap). Then, Percy started playing the long-game through subtle fuck-me eyes with the bartender (a mating ritual that could only be found in a setting that perpetually smelled of tequila), so. That made three. By majority, Harry’s opinion is outnumbered, outvoted, out of excuses, and frankly, means fuckall. Though he will admit, a couple of drinks in, there becomes something oddly comfortable about the regular hum of bad decisions and flickering neon. Besides, the ambience is easier to stomach once the second drink kicks in. Despite the semi-threatening state of the bathrooms, the crowd can never quite be described as thin (at least not on on the days he and his friends show face) and is always interesting enough to warrant a round of people-watching (a quietly entertaining, solo game he finds himself reverting to at some point in the night, without fail). It’s within walking distance of his building, and the park the group will sometimes frequent (if given enough alcohol prior to last call). Occasionally, they’ll march down the sidewalk and cling to one another like an obnoxious brotherhood— all drunk, off-key chorus to whatever eighties rock hit had gotten stuck in their heads that night and limbs locked around shoulders. It’s the kind of insufferable, testosterone-fueled camaraderie that only seems to become unlocked with a finely tuned formula of alcohol and reminiscing. 

And it’s the same affectionate delinquency that drives their good-natured barbs towards one another. With a knowing half-sneer ticking at the corners of his pink mouth, Harry ducks his chin as his eyebrows climb, “I’m still stuck on the way you managed to miss her face from six inches away the first time.” 

The story, which the raunchy, in-depth details of had surfaced as a means to get advice weeks ago, is still just as amusing as it had been when the Irishman had flooded the groupchat with semi-ashamed, apprehensive voice memos. Apparently, he had received a vague request for rough sex from a girl he was seeing, and rather than ironing out the details (perhaps clarifying— which would have been Harry’s personal default— or experimenting by pulling on her hair a bit, or manhandling her across the mattress), Niall had, in entirely literal terms, slobber-slapped her. Because he had decided that this mechanism was obviously what she was asking for. The onslaught of messages that had ensued in the groupchat had made Harry’s stomach ache from sheer laughter.  

And the mention of the awkward detail from the story— arbitrary, given the whole picture, and still perhaps one of the most entertaining for the cohort— coaxes an incremental stream of agreeing hums and chuckles. 

“We’ve been over this,” Niall groans, rolling his eyes, as if his coordination (or lack thereof) is solely dependent on lighting (or lack thereof), “we had the lights off.”

Seth shakes his head, a loose, weary sort of amusement gracing his features, “I think you’re just disgusting.”

“And the pot meets the kettle,” Niall challenges, eyebrows pinching as his eyes narrow at his considerably swarthier counterpart, “You had that weird toe thing with… what’s-her-name. The one with the teeth?”

At the errant dig towards his ex-fling, (admittedly a nice person, as Harry remembers) hooking into the discussion strictly as collateral, Seth blinks blankly, deadpanning, “Her name was Bianca, and she had perfectly normal teeth.”

Art picks up his drink, muzzling a string of snickers at his own quip by tucking his straw between his teeth, “Sure, sure. She also had a canine sharp enough to open packages.”

As Seth rolls his eyes up to the wooden beams detailing overhead, Niall directs his attention onto Harry, who sits across from him. “What’s your take on it, then?”

Halting the soft, steady drum the face of his ring had taken against the body of the glass, Harry gears his gaze onto the other brunette. A half-lidded, nonchalant glaze coats his expression as he clarifies, “Spitting?” He shrugs, pursing his lips to bottle his mirth, “Well, it’s context-dependent, isn’t it? I’ll wait for her ask for it before giving her a fucking hurricane.”

Art, with the straw still slotted between his lips, snorts and nearly chokes on his drink. 

“It was a bit!” Niall defends hotly, exasperation worming into his tone at the ridicule. He lays his palms flat onto the sticky tabletop, then picks one up to motion with it, pinky parallel to the surface, as if chronologically walking the rest of his friends through a particularly uncomfortable series of unfortunate events, “She texted me a link to one of those Bang casting roleplay and said ‘I want this.’ I. Want. This,” Niall repeats, emphasizing each word with another, firm tap against the table, eventually resorting to gesture out with the same palm, “And I was spitballing.”

At the unintended softball, Harry nudges with his chin, feigning understanding, “Right.”

For a moment, Niall bristles. The dewy (courtesy of the shots the cohort had kicked off the night with) noctilucence of his gaze sharpens to a dagger point as it narrows. Finally, he sits back against the chair, correcting himself flatly, “Improvising.”

“Why do all your bits end in trauma?” Seth notes, a crinkle forming between his brows almost pensively.

“It’s almost impressive,” Art tacks in. When the redhead finally sets his drink onto the table, it’s half-nursed. He snorts, luring a scowl from the Irishman diagonal to him, “You’ve got the bedside prowess of a drunk magician.”’

“Pick a card, any card,” Harry drawls dramatically, stretching his arm out in a display of theatrical mystique, only able to stifle the full extent of his dimples with the drink he takes after the deadpan punchline, “Now, open your mouth.” 

Unlike the rest of the table, Niall doesn’t seem to bask in the same mirth. A ruddy smear inches over the bridge of his nose, speckling his cheeks, and dusts the tips of his ears as his friends cackle. 

“Where would you have done it, then?” the Irishman counters irately, once more focusing his inquiry onto the curly-haired brunette across from him, who seems to have taken the lead role in the ribbing. 

Harry muscles down his laughter, schooling his expression into something more sober and casual, “Where would I have done it?”

Niall bobs his head firmly, the edges of his lips downturned in lingering childish offense, “You get a link to an aggressive porno with a text tied to it that says ‘I want this.’ Where are you spitting?”

Although the answer (common sense, in Harry’s opinion) rests on the tip of his tongue like a ready swimmer on a diving board, he bats his lashes at his friend in mocking innocence, “I wouldn’t degrade a woman like that. I’m a good boy.”

“Oh, cut the shit,” Niall scoffs, his face screwing, “You basically degrade women as a hobby and document it. You’re a sick freak.”

“Consensually,” Harry stresses over the breathless wheeze of laughter that surfaces from the stool beside him, pausing for effect, “Which is the key here, young Niall. And I’ve already, basically given you the answer, haven’t I? If she asks for it, as in, she says ‘I’d like you to spit on me,’ well then, …mouth’s nice.” He shrugs nonchalantly, and a slow-seeping, seedy kind of grin trickles over his lips at the thought, “I’ve got a soft spot for the lower back, too, though. Feels a bit like writing your name in the snow.” With all-seriousness, now (interlaced, of course, with pitying concern that’s meant to condescend), he blinks, shaking his head slowly, “But, mate, I think she just wanted you to pull her hair a bit.”

The tail-end jab and its intended patronization milks a boyish peal of laughter from the group (in more exact terms, everyone at the table besides Niall, whose even huff is slowly getting swallowed by the penumbra of his grimace), and Harry smiles slyly.

“Isn’t this the girl that stole your lighter?” Art sits up, knuckling at his wet eyes, “And you venmo’d her to get it back?”

“I think it was justified collateral,” Seth speaks quietly, motioning out with his hands, and the subtle wisecrack coaxes a snort from Harry.

Niall’s visage is sullen when he admits, “It was vintage.”

And, really, he just keeps throwing him softballs, doesn’t he? Under his breath, as Harry raises his glass to his lips, he comments, “So was she.” 

The glum expression that’d laminated over the other man’s features splinters apart to make room for indignancy to rear, coloring his cheeks a deeper tinge of pink and anchoring the edges of his mouth down harshly. His eyes narrow into slits and he spits, “Like you’re any better, with your little emotionally-repressed baristas and your horny little librarians.” 

While the razor-edged remark clocks him, somewhat unanticipated, Harry feigns indifference, folding his fingers together and bracing his chin against the platform his hands create like a deadpan cherub.  

“No, no,” Art pipes in, wiggling his forefinger side-to-side, “The baristas and the librarians aren’t the emotionally repressed ones. They’re the victims of his emotional constipation.” 

“Thank you!” Niall smacks the top of the table passionately, rattling the drinks set onto it. Harry doesn’t unclasp his own, only reacting with wryly amused silence. The Irishman stretches the same hand over the table towards Art, who seamlessly daps him up as Niall declares, “My fucking man. I’m not taking shit from a thinkpiece dom with an avoidant attachment style.”

Slowly, Harry shoots a careful side-eye towards his redheaded friend, who seems to have no loyalties in the petty squabble (which is no true surprise, given that the man usually plays into whichever chaos is readily available), then back to Niall, droll amusement still slightly cresting the corners of his pillowy lips, “At least repression has dignity. I’ve never laid on a girl’s chest and called her mummy.” 

“No,” Art weighs in snidely, twisting his straw between his fingertips, “you let a girl call you daddy and then never called her back with the milk.” 

In response to the blindsiding, scathing quip, Niall chokes on his bark of boisterous laughter, opting to repeatedly high-five the ginger man over the table, as opposed to dapping him up again. In the clumsy process, he nearly backhands Harry across the temple, and the curly-haired brunette subtly leans back in his seat with just enough time to avoid the assault. For a moment, he just watches the two idiots play patty-cake over the table, unimpressed, swirling and scraping the thin cocktail straw along the tops of the ice cubes in the beverage. When the duo finally settles down, wet crystals beading along their waterlines, Harry opts to verbally tackle the offenders clockwise, starting with Arthur. 

“You trauma-bond, you co-depend, and you—” Harry fires off, pausing as his attention settles on the Irishman, “You just get off on being misunderstood in the same way you were misunderstood by your actual mummy.”

Clobbered by the demolishing bite, Niall sits there, mildly stunned. There’s a quiet beat, and then he blindly swipes back with his arm, knocking Seth in the chest with the back of his hand to garner his attention, “Seth. Are you going to stand for this? You’ve caught a stray.” 

The least active counterpart releases a noncommittal hum, his focus settled on the phone cradled in his palm, which had gotten pulled out of his pocket somewhere in the midst of the aggressive hand-flapping. Without raising his tipped chin (or his eyes), he states, “I’m not surprised, with how many Harry’s got on his leash.” 

The effortless, savage retort siphons another peal of braying laughter from Niall, and Art chimes, matter-of-factly, “It’s not a leash. It’s a ten-foot pole, so he can keep them at a distance.”

Before Harry can deliver another cutting series of comments— this time deliberately aimed for the entirety of the table, who have seemed to unanimously turn on him altogether— the fifth (and final) fragment of their group appears at the empty foot of the hightop, presenting a drink in each hand. 

“What’d I miss?” Percy interjects, setting Niall’s beer ahead of him (dubbed something dumb and difficult to remember, like Bitter Than Thou) and his own beverage in the empty slot where he stands. It’s a vivid pink hue, and almost puts whatever the obnoxious name of Niall’s preferred IPA is— Harry just can’t fucking remember, at this moment— to shame, off of visual presentation alone. 

As he reaches for an empty stool at the table beside them, its legs screeching from the friction against the beer-slicked floorboards, Niall chimes, “We’re just talking about how Harry’s an emotionally unavailable freak with a punishment portfolio.”

Wrinkling his nose, Art leans over the table to get a better look at his friend’s beverage of choice. His eyes creep up to its owner’s face, chock-full of judgment, “Why do you have Barbie bathwater?”

“I ordered something called a Bar Hopper,” Percy sighs, in reference to the assessment of his unusual drink, and as he settles into the barstool, he rolls his shoulders under his green leather jacket to get comfortable, “and it’s supposed to be gin.”

A theatrical gag screws the ginger man’s face, his tongue peeking out as his eyes swipe away from the cocktail to further display his revulsion, “I hate gin.”

During the performative exhibition, Niall meanwhile, has sneakily taste-tested the artificially vibrant concoction by plucking the little black stirrer from the glass and swiping it across his taste buds. 

“That is Fabuloso,” he declares, smacking his lips before he discards the straw onto the tabletop. His brows furrow at the (apparently) unfavorable flavor. “Yep. Fabuloso. The watermelon bottle.”

“Didn’t you eat gas station sushi once?” Seth blinks up for his cellphone to chime, eyebrows furrowing. 

“Yes,” Niall and Percy respond in tandem, though Niall’s answer is matter-of-fact in a way that suggests he continues to stand by his decision, and Percy’s lands as if the reminder still exasperates him to this day. 

“You eat,” the little ruckle between Seth’s eyebrows only chisels in deeper, “gas station sushi, but somehow have standards for gin?”

“I am a man of class—“

“He threw up in my bathtub. He has no right to judge my well gin—“

As the focus of conversation shifts to a bicker between Percy and Niall over the Sushi Incident (in which Percy claims to have spent two hours harvesting mashed chunks of a semi-digested, gas station California roll, so no, with the shit you willingly put into your body, you don’t have room to judge my gin), the curly-haired brunette instead lets his gaze roll over the rest of the room.

Harry doesn’t believe in change. 

Which, in the grand scheme of things (as a massive generalization), just kind of makes him sound like a bit of a psychopath. 

Really, what he means to say, is that he doesn’t believe in change in that grand chrysalis-to-butterfly sort of phenomenon. People, for example, don’t change— not really. They pivot, or they flinch. They make small adjustments, as if tweaking their internal thermostats, and then they pretend to become someone new. It’s not that it’s performative, but the foundation, as a blueprint of their character, is perpetual. Consistency is underrated, anyways. It’s easy to romanticize evolution when one’s never watched someone else slowly devolve under the weight of their own reinvention. 

Change exists all around him; occasionally, he’ll see a new face in the hallway, or note the subtle rotation of balcony plants, suggesting someone’s moved out and someone new has unceremoniously filled their empty slot. Now and again, there’s a different smell somewhere— wet paint (in spite of the lease contract’s very specific warnings against “alterations, improvements, or changes,” which, in his opinion, always felt a little theatrical for a building with christmas-tree green hallway carpeting), or the lingering scent of an unfamiliar perfume. But all of these insights ultimately dissolve into background texture, because it’s the kind of incidental reshuffling he can register without participating. A couple of months ago, one of the breakfast cafés on his morning route shut down, and is currently in the process of being torn down altogether. What was once a semi-relevant brunch-nook now resides as an empty construction lot of rubble and debris, only marked by an opaque silt fence. Truth be told, its expiration doesn’t really bother him, considering he’d never actually attended it. 

Most of the mildly disruptive change, as the plates have settled into place, is years behind him. The divorce, the long-haul move across the country, then the move from one hemisphere to the other. Graduation. He doesn’t count the mildly ephemeral girlfriends, because they’re transient enough to practically exist as something see-through, and therefore do not impact his schedule (which sounds cruel, but is purely candid). Perhaps his unfamiliarity with change is what causes him to believe that the majority doesn’t affect him, and in turn leads him to dislike it. 

Harry would argue that the majority of the human population doesn’t prefer the unknown, and he’s no outlier in that department. 

He likes knowing where his keys are, so he always sets them into the same spot. He likes having a drawer specifically dedicated to loose cables, even if some of them are unidentifiable and may belong to devices he no longer owns. He prefers his breakfast to be the same most days: toast, half an avocado, an egg, and lemon if he remembers. There’s a particular brand of olive oil that he restocks beside his stovetop— extra virgin, Terra Delyssa, always— and he always finds himself reaching for the same shampoo at the store. He still uses a face wash a girl had once recommended in 2017, mostly because he’s scared to try anything else and potentially break out. What’s the point of fracturing and restructuring a routine that already works? 

Harry prefers routine. It is the antithesis of chaos, and therefore change (which, as mentioned, he doesn’t particularly enjoy), and that is funny given that his regular coffee rotation has grown from two reputable cafés to three. The third, incidentally, being the one that Y/N works at, and incidentally, his stops there happen to occur when Y/N is on shift. 

Which is to say, in the most polite terms— Harry deems— that he would like to fuck her. 

The realization (the thought, really, because there was nothing especially extraordinary about it) had sprouted like a weed when he’d turned up for the fourth time, braced onto his elbows over the counter, and told her he’d keep things interesting today; “How about a dirty chai. Switch it up.” — “Dirty chai.” — “The filthiest. Slutty chai to match my… what’d you call them? Slutty tits?” (the quip, of course, a reference to the way she’d playfully demanded he put a shirt on to receive service when he’d stopped by without one, courtesy of his jog, days prior). As her pretty irises lolled up under the canopy of her lashes and she turned to mill behind the counter to complete his request, the brief thought of how those eyes would look, were she on her knees, flickered through his mind. It was a fleeting image, and had thawed away as his eyes lingered on her back, but it had draped itself under his skull and curled up along his hindbrain, nonetheless. 

It both made sense, and didn’t— the young woman was attractive enough in a muted way. Incidental (as he’s finding to be his favorite descriptor), in a way that’s not inherently intentional enough to be dangerous. He’s surprised he hadn’t noted it prior to having an in-depth conversation with her (beyond niceties like swapped mail), opting instead to not glance into her direction twice. He supposes, that may be where the mystery resides; it’s not that her personality leaves anything to be desired, per se, but he doesn’t know nearly enough about her to be intrigued. Besides, an interest in her personality would indicate interest in something less surface-level, and the attraction, as he recognizes it, is nothing if not a shallow afterthought. Exposure breeds interest, and interest is not nearly the equivalent of investment. Harry’s fairly sure he’d seen that motto on a dating blog once, or maybe a tax form. Regardless, the sentiment stands.

Harry finds himself visiting her place of work, while she is on shift, for the same reasons he would approach a pretty girl at a bar. It is the most intrinsic, base-level instinct in interactions with the opposite sex. Quite literally, sex.

Don’t get him wrong— while the passing thought had been an alluring one, she didn’t take up any residency in his mind. He didn’t find himself craving her in those off-hours between dusk and midnight, when his palm would inevitably wander to the pulsing need between his thighs. He doesn’t contemplate the kind of underwear she wears, or if she’s the kind of girl to apologize if she takes too long to shed her top. Doesn’t wonder if she’d let him push her knees apart and still have the audacity to blush— all heat and peach-tint smearing up to her temples. He doesn’t think about it deeply enough for it to take root and mushroom. 

He supposes it’s a kind of out of sight, out of mind logic. That is to say, he does not think of her. Not in a clear-minded headspace, not when he’s got his prick sealed in his fist. It’s a clean, clinical absence. She is simply… eye candy, and when she’s not around, she isn’t, like a visual dessert with an incredibly short half-life. And when she is around, on the clock, her cinched waist also manages to look disproportionately pleasant in that garish apron, and his eyes glue to her ass sometimes, so what can he do in those instances, really, besides wonder what she sounds like when she cums. 

It’s not quite want, because want would insinuate substance. Complexity to a one-note hum and gravity to something that doesn’t even have its soles scraping at the ground. It’s collateral his cave-man-brain suggests when fueled with enough of a view, and has as much depth as a wannabe hipster’s Instagram caption. Nothing worth lingering on. 

Unless she’s standing right there. In which case, Harry reasons, he’s only human. And very, very good at rationalizing. 

Of course, all sense of rationality kicks its feet out the window the moment the anticipated setting of his noncommittal visual enrichment program changes. Which is to say: eye candy sighting, wrong terrain. Apron-swaddled temptation, rebranded in a backless black. Harry has a little less finesse with dismembered expectations, and the last place he anticipates to see Y/N is his regularly-scheduled, regularly-utilized pub. 

It’s not in the capacity he’s mentally slotted her into: behind the counter with her hand on the espresso machine, dishing out his drink and a half-hearted retort to whatever stupid joke he’s draped her with. If he’s going to acknowledge semantics, he’s technically seen her in the wild, given that she lives next door. Brief hallway glimpses, however, aren’t encounters he’d mentally fold into the same category of wild that her backless (and mildly disorienting) mini dress suggests. At first, he doesn’t recognize it’s her. It’s only when she twists her chin and graces him with her side profile, that—

Huh. That’s his first thought.

Oh is the second, which is a smidge more primal and useless. Granted, he’s only human, and fairly weak to visual stimuli. 

It’s Niall’s words that snap him from the wordless daze he’d fallen into, and unfortunately, those words indicate that he’s been caught. 

“What’s that look?” the Irishman prods, sticking his hand out and waving it in front of the other brunette’s face, as if to faze him out of a trance. 

Curiously, Art tips forward over the table so as to catch a glance of what his friend is referring to, sitting back and grinning snidely as Harry blinks and rolls his eyes, redirecting his attention onto the friend group. With the pointed observation, a spike of exasperation surges in his chest, knowing he’s unwittingly forced himself as the new topic of interest in terms of conversation.

“That’s his sex recognition software booting up.”

Unable to muscle down his curiosity (granted, he doesn’t really try at all, Harry decides), Niall turns over his shoulder in the chair, casting his gaze towards the bar, where Harry’s focus had become seemingly engrossed. He twists back, his nose wrinkling in disdain, “Oh, God. Don’t tell me it’s one of your bloggies.”

At the obtuse sobriquet— a generalized moniker that had somehow coined itself and stuck in reference to any of the women (visibly apparent on the blog, and not) Harry happened to interact with in a term best deemed romantic— the man rolls his eyes dramatically. 

“It’s not,” he denies flatly.

“Is this the same not that ‘I didn’t sleep with her’ when you found out that one girl was married meant?” Seth counters (though there’s no contempt to his question, just genuine bemusement). 

“Technically,” Harry huffs, rapping his knuckle against his glass, “I never touched her. She just… did a lot of kneeling.”

“You’re deflecting,” Art takes a sip of his drink, raising his eyebrows.  

Slowly, Harry cups the glass in his palm and lifts the rim to his cushiony lips. His inkpools skate off to the side, behind the table, where Y/N is still glued onto the bar, one foot crossed behind the other ankle. He knocks the rest of the beverage back and hisses out a sigh when he sets the glass back down with a dull thud. 

“She’s my neighbor. And no,” he states pointedly, shedding light on the artistic craftsmanship of his pastime, “she doesn’t have anything to do with my tastefully curated blog.”

Beside him, Art slips something under his breath into his own respective alcoholic beverage, something that vaguely sounds like “Does tastefully curated apply to every glorified Only Fans?” just as Seth starts to say, “The one who thought you were strangling someone?”

“Wait,” Niall blinks, “The fire alarm girl?”

His eyes flicker to his freshly empty glass, and the curly-haired brunette purses his mouth and he chews over the answer. “Something like that. We’re…” once more, Harry’s jade gaze travels to that back corner of the room (though, only settling there for a heartbeat’s length of a pause, this time) before returning to his investigative friends, “on good terms now.”

Perhaps the most level-headed of the entire cohort, Percy chimes in, a simper slicking his mouth as he bobs his head, “You’re into her?”

The words— namely, the way they’re interlaced with a knowing sort of curiosity, rather than the leg-yanking antics the rest of the men have chosen to regard him with— gives Harry’s knee-jerk defensiveness a momentary pause. 

Regardless, his jade irises loll up to the beamed-ceiling once more, a sigh swelling and sinking his shoulders this time as he deadpans, “No. I didn’t say that.”

“Oh, come on,” Niall scoffs, taking a swallow of his own beverage, eyebrows climbing up his forehead and creasing three lines as he emphasizes his point, “That’s your interested face. That’s the same face you had when you saw that guy selling antique chastity belts at the flea market.”

“That was fascination, not attraction.”

“Go talk to her,” Percy cuts in to the quiet birth of what’s sure to become another petty back and forth. 

“We’re not—“ without the excuse of the liquor, the man finds he has little to occupy his mouth with beyond excuses his friends will only continue to dissect. He swallows, shrugging the suggestion off with as much disinterest as he can muster, letting the chill of the ice remnants permeate the glass and bite against his skin, “—we’ve hardly spoken.”

“So what?” Percy furrows his brows, “Say hi. Be a normal person.”

“Are you going to introduce her to the group?” Art pipes in, characteristically out of touch. 

The claim is so absurd, in fact, it causes Harry to snort derisively, and the sober directness of his response only further hardens his friends’ suspicions on the exact depth of his interest. “Absolutely not.” 

“Please,” Niall grips onto his hand (the scene is ridiculous, given the way Harry cradles his glass with one hand, and Niall tucks both of his palms over that ensemble), gleeful notes spilling into his tone at the prospect of possible havoc to wreak, “Please. Let us meet her. I want to tell her about the dance circle.”

At the mention, Harry scowls. His pink mouth downturns into a grimace, and his dark eyebrows pinch indignantly, “You are not telling anyone about the dance circle.”

“I am telling her about the dance circle. Or the cockies.”

“God,” Percy starts, the same notes that usually decorate a pleasant memory slowly teeming his cadence. A faint smile teases at the edges of his lips as he stares off, almost as if reminiscing on the first curl of heat against the asphalt in July, “The cockies.”

“Right,” Harry clears his throat pointedly, withdrawing his hand from the Irishman’s, instead opting to direct his baby blue polished middle finger up at them, molding his mouth into a cloyingly sardonic beam and exaggerating the pleasantness of his tone before he forcibly removes himself from these trenches, “You can all suck my cockie. I’m getting another drink.”

As he slides from the bar stool and lands flat on his soles, shouldering his way past Percy (courtesy of the crowded arrangement), Art raises his beverage, indicating his need for inclusion into the second round. He shakes the empty glass, ice cubes clinking against the walls of the cup obnoxiously, calling, “Vodka-cran.”

Folding his arm behind his back, Harry shoots another discrete middle finger into the direction of the table. He’s hardly out of earshot when Art leans forward to claim, “Ten bucks says she’s a bloggie.” 

Harry thinks it might be Seth that deadpans, “I’m not checking.”

As Harry makes it over to the bar against the opposite wall, the floorboards rumbling under the thud of the bass beneath his feet, he tries to ignore the sensation of his friends’ eyes searing into his back, as if tracing his every move. He’s aware that despite whatever turn the conversation back at the table takes, ultimately, they’ll find their gazes wandering over to their usually romantically-closed off counterpart, because despite the knowledge of his flings, he supposes that watching him in action must be a bit like watching a dog walk on its hind legs for an extended period of time. Or perhaps, a very attractive car wreck. The latter metaphor, of course, isn’t in the sense of the actual wreckage, because the fallout of his romantic interludes is inconsequential enough to hardly count as a chipped coat of paint, and frankly, during the test runs, his check engine light has never even flickered. No— it’s the vague, awe-like sense of collision that demands attention. 

There are two purposes coalescing along the forefront of his mind as the sticky floor creaks under his feet: the first, yes, is to replenish his beverage. On the other side of the counter, the bartender is ducked into a waist-height cooler. But the second, as he spots an empty area beside the young woman to slot into—

Harry braces against the countertop on his elbows, at first turned toward the cabinet ceiling-stacked with a variety of labeled liquor bottles. Then, his chin subtly ducks, and he traces the naked edge of her shoulder. Jade traipses the line of her arm. She’s still turned away, the same direction she’d faced when he’d caught a glimpse of her side profile, and her unwitting lack of focus allows him to openly ogle. Ahead of her, there’s a glass brimming with a synthetic green tint, and the proximity of the glass against her bare forearm insinuates the beverage belongs to her. However, she doesn’t take any incentive to touch it, and one look at the contents tells the entirety of the tragic tale. 

At the bottom of the drink, there’s a bundle of mottled mint leaves, whose frayed, browning edges suggest a rough shelf life, and the view alone nearly makes him cringe. Gingerly, he raps the head of his ring against the wood, then ducks a little closer to signify the soft words are directed towards her. 

“Rookie mistake.”

Read the next 9.7K here now or > access on tumblr 07/15/25 IMPORTANT(!): sign up with a browser (not the app) to avoid extra apple fees!

[littlelittlebear]

streamer!fan!ellie x stand up comedian!reader

u just told me

want me to fuck u! (wc 4.5k)

you're her favorite, she finds out the feelings mutual.

fem!reader, butch!ellie. this is biblically accurate ellie yall, so shes a big dork. maybe i made her horny. maybe she was already horny. ellie worships the ground you walk on, wants your boobs in her mouth asap

major fluff with tension + eventual smut within this series of one shots!

disclaimer author tried to be funny (if youre funnier im so sorry) and knows nothing of twitch dot com (is it a website ??) (researched for this) also, forgot the us drinking age is 21… just pretend it’s at 18 lol. imagine your comedic delivery to be exactly like uh aubrey plaza meets john mulaney. this becomes very apparent as I straight up mention him

It wasn't a viral gem clip of crowdwork on tiktok that got you here. You were a slow burned sensation, a real, man-made star.

Since performing throughout your early teens, you built a bigger and bigger audience through word of mouth and phone booth posters. Old fuckin’ school!

Known for your dry wit comedy, understated delivery, and deserted social media presence, audiences young and old loved you; laughed with you. Big fucking publications– GQ, Wallstreet, the Times– credited you, amongst a couple of other trending talents, for Gen Z’s rising appreciation for stage performance.

You're adamant against the spotlight, you’re in it for the moment. The thrill. The writing and the payoff of a crowd. But because of your lack of content, fans started posting their favorite clips of your sets, which only widened your viewership. Eventually they started editing you. Just you. Cause baby, you’re hot. A handful of edits blew up and you were Tiktok’s fem of the month.

You caught everyone’s eye, including one @SmellieWilliams, fortified Twitch legend, Ellie.

☆

A feral scream interrupted her stream. Halfway through a Baldur’s Gate playthrough, someone in the chat asked if she’s heard of you.

Ellie held her reddening face in her hands. Her manspread legs, clad in checkered boxers, bounced on their heels as she jokingly sobbed. “No guys, you don’t understand, she’s so fucking hot. Yes, I’m pausing the fuckin’ game! It’s show and tell!” She got up, off screen, and returned with a big glossy poster of you biting your red painted lip with gleaming eyes, mic in hand.

visthirdleg BRUH Y/N DOESNT HAVE MERCH???😭😭

jonathansmirnoff ellie has access to a printer

She cackled at the chat. "I had pinterest and a dream. Look, look! Isn’t she pretty? She's so fuh-lipping pretty, can you believe she’s my age? See, y’all, more evidence that that’s my woman.” She left the frame again– and came back with her phone pulled up and held right up to the camera. Her lockscreen was a photo of her horse, Shimmer (a recurring feature on ellie’s streams). Then, she held her thumb down.

The lockscreen morphed into a very different scene: a tiktok edit. “Shut– shut up and watch. Take notes.” She pseudo-ordered.

The video teased a remix of a sexy R&B song as your eyes prawled over the crowd. Applause quieted. “Thank you everybody... hope y’all liked me tonight.” You drawled, purred. A series of slowed moments of you on stage followed – you throwing your head back in laughter like the rebirth of venus; you biting your lip like the poster; you tossing your hair up. The audio volume lowered back down to the first clip of you. “...because I liked y’all.”

“She’s so–” ellie cut herself off with a guttural moan-scream. The chatbox flew by with reactions. Suddenly, half the screen was obstructed by an audience member’s gift.

yournicknameohbaby

Cheered with $500

yournicknameohbaby feeling’s mutual, big secret tell no one

Ellie choked on her breath. “Hol– holy shit. Oh my God?” She scrambled back onto her gaming chair to get a better look, scrolling through the chat to find your comment. The strings of her black NASA hoodie were tugged tight. “yournicknameohbaby. Thank you. Oh my god, thank you. That is so huge I– guys, I know we do the dino dance for every big gift but I genuinely think it’s not enough–” Ellie stopped, reading. “Feeling’s mutual big se–” She chuckled under her breath at the comment, but that stopped too. yournickname… there’s no way, right? “Wait. Fuckin’ wait.” She raised an exaggerated eyebrow. The chat flew by some more.

sturniowannabe WAIT

lanadeladdisonrae NAAAH AINT NO WAY

porkupiggie fan acc

yournicknameohbaby 🤷‍♀️

Ellie reddened ferociously. “Okay! Haha, I’m gonna go with you being a loaded fan account ‘cause if you're actually her, I will jump out my window! The dino dance is definitely not enough for five hundred gyatt-damn dollars– woah you better not be y/n because I can’t be saying gyatt in front of fine shyt like that, um, so you get to pick what I do, yournicknameohbaby!”

The comments flurried between variations of “TELL HER TO TAKE HER SHIRT OFF” and “PLAY TAKE ON ME!!”

Ellie tsked “Guys, its yournicknameohbaby’s pick.” She turned the chat on slow mode so she could catch your comment.

yournicknameohbaby uhhh free of charge

wait no. tell me your favorite joke of y/n’s

and also! tell me what you like ab her :)) gimme like 5 reasons

Ellie read your comments outloud, chewing on her hoodie string. “But what if she sees this? I'm so freaking scared I’d look so freaky.”

yournicknameohbaby booooooooo

i promise you wouldnt

but okay okay

10 pushups rn

(pussy)

(kidding)

The chat erupted in keyboard smashes and onomatopoeia. Ellie sniggered. “Pfft, okay. I can do that. You made the masses happy.” She took off her hoodie by the back to reveal a white tank top. Re-angling the camera lower, she hunkered down and got into position. Palms and toes parallel to the floor. A glance, a wink, a smile. Then she lowered and lifted herself with ease, counting each one.

Towards the last five she spoke up. “Thank–” A push up. “you,” Another. “yournickname,” A whimper. “oh,” A grunt. “baby.” And a biiiig sigh.

She flopped back onto her gaming chair with a big grin. “Sucker, I would’ve done a hundred push ups for that!”

The chat had been business as usual: rapid fire pace with haha’s, omg’s, and the occasional bark.

yournicknameohbaby yay!! good job

yes and i am the most kind for requiring so few!

Ellie felt giddy. Five-hundred dollars was a lot for her scholar student budget, it meant the world. In her frenzy she’d already texted Joel a screenshot with the caption ‘!!!??!?!?:O :O’.

To which, Joel hearted. Probably busy with his shift at the plant. “Man, you know what, yournickname? I’ma follow you back real quick. Thank you. Can’t say it enough.” Her mouse clicked on your profile, then the follow button.

yournicknameohbaby OH WOAH

COOL YAY

HIII

Ellie turned her hands into a heart. “Cool-yay-hi to you, too! I can’t stop saying thank you. Gosh. Thanks a bunch. So many bunches.” She ran a tattooed hand through her auburn hair, then checked her watch. “Oh fuck, I’ve got class tomorrow, guys. I’ll end here. Get my zees. Love y’all, smell ya later!” She clicked her teeth as she winked with her sign off phrase, and the stream went black.

On her phone, Ellie opened her Paypal app and blinked away surprise as an extra five hundred was in-fucking-deed added to her account.

Whispers

smelliewilliams:

dude. thank u. fuck.

yournicknameohbaby:

hiya. you’re super welcome. shit.

smelliewilliams:

im so sorry i didnt do ur first ask yournickname

AAA I FEEL GUILTY BRO YOU SPENT SM MONEY

ITS JUST THAT THE STREAMS HAVE BEEN A LITTLE TOO FUCKIN LARGE LATELY

so scared someone clips it and it reaches wifey’s feed somehow thats so scawy ong

yournicknameohbaby:

ITS OKAY I PROMISE😭😭😭

uh i get it

so no guilt allowed

ive been a fan like since we were 14 (mb we’re the same age btw)

and ive got Adult Money now so im gonna spend it wisely

on the internet strangers who play games for me.

smelliewilliams:

JFHHFJSBDNSBFBA

ur fun-knee

and cool we’re both 19!!

was lowk worried u were a 4490 year old mega oldie

yournicknameohbaby:

only in spirit

the plot of nosferatu

you’re fun knee too

and hugh moris

smelliewilliams:

wait sorry what

yournicknameohbaby:

fun knee like funny and hugh moris like humorous!!

smelliewilliams:

OOOHHHHHA

HAHSHSHBSHSBAH

SYBAU WHY DIDNT I THINK OF THAT

yournicknameohbaby:

im just too good

youre meant to be sleeping ma’am!

smelliewilliams:

EIGHT I FORGOT

right**

night ohbaby!

yournicknameohbaby:

hah

sleep well!

Ellie was filled with bliss, the bigger number in her bank account shone on her like the sun. Instead of bed, though, she opened Tiktok. Lucky her, the first video on her For You Page was a long clip from your last show. Her jaw dropped, tongue pooled with unswallowed spit.

She’d never seen you in something so overtly hot. For all your shows, you’ve dressed more casually. A loud baby tee and blue jeans, hair down and real pretty. In this clip, though, you were in a tight black tank top, daisy dukes, pink kitten heels, and a Pamela Anderson up-do. Ellie bit her lip. “Fuck.” She muttered, and hastily favorited the Tiktok under a private folder called ‘let me do you y/n l/n'. You stood on stage with a mic, soaking up the spotlight. You barely had to muster energy to rack up stage presence. It eminated from you. Every set was like a casual, albeit one sided conversation. A knee rested atop the tall, black stool all stand up comedians seemed to be supplied with. Laughter from the last joke died down.

“My comedic hero is John Mulaney, because I’m nineteen years old. If I were twenty-nine, my comedic hero would be John Mulaney– because that's still not old enough to be good yet.” Laughter seemed to pour from the audience with every sentence.

“No, no. He's a brilliant comedian and, like everyone, I have also adopted him as my scraggly, misplaced, but ultimately very loving father.” The hint of a smirk grazed your glossed lips.

“Like him, I have a weird audience. I target none of you, yet many has flocked.” You raised a graceful hand toward the diverse, chuckling audience.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way! A specific audience calls for specific jokes. Now I may go on, undefined and independent. Sexualized by the free man instead of a Netflix producer–” The crowd gave a mixed cacophany of ooh’s and guffaws. You grinned like the cat who caught the canar-Ellie. “My career is as liberated as the act of getting out of a one piece, a body suit, in the bathroom. Am I technically free? … Yes. But I am also very vulnerable and cold.” Your genuine, underdone delivery made Ellie snicker.

“I respect a good body suit the way you respect that one guy who's really good at being an asshole? Body suits were clearly invented by someone with no genitals. A Ken doll. Because they always put the snap right where your dignity is meant. You look so good, but you are so mad, as there are three metal prongs trying super hard to be inside you.” Ellie choked on her lip. Thoughts of inside and you ran her brain through.

"Despite this, it's so cool to easily pee. The quick release. Like the little car in Cars who works the pit stop at speed ultimus. The short moments before and after the gate in front of a bullrider’s bull is unlocked. The body suit’s got the ethics of a catch and release program. The cunt is barred and freed! Is what the body suit says. It's also what my girl says when she opens the door for me.” The audience howled but Ellie’s smile vanished. She hit the share button for her group chat with Dina and Jessie so she could express her anguish. “I’m kidding, I dont have a girlfriend–” Ellie sighed in relief and deleted her unintelligible ‘whhwwyy”?!?!’ texts. “--I am in fact a total loser, I get zero vagina. Except I’m a pillow princess, so zero vagina gets me. This is not what was promised. Growing up beautiful and heterosexual, I was constantly told boys would be crawling all over me in college. Except I’m gay now. so that’s not ideal–”

The clip ended, cutting you off, and started to replay. A shocked face, lips parted, eyes wide, reflected back at Ellie from her dimly lit screen.

She texted her groupchat a barrage with the tiktok attached.

stinky 1:48 AM

several things: shes single. im single. so that means we’re literallt married

2nd. loser???? her??? fucking never

a pillow princess. guys wym she has sex without me. please plelslslsls lemme p-low that princess

(get it its like pillow but also plow bc smash hahahah)

ANS. SHES. GAY. GUYS SHE SGAY DGEHS D GAY AAAAA

dina’s wife 1:48 AM

sleep

diznuts 1:48 AM

SHES GAAAYAYAYYAYAY

GO ELS GO

stinky 1:48 AM

FYM GO??

I CANT DO ANTHING W THIS INFORMATION😔

dina’s wife 1:49 AM

sleep

diznuts 1:49 AM

DM HER DUMMY

stinky 1:49 AM

she has nothing to dm :(

diznuts 1:49 AM

go to her show.

dina’s wife 1:49 AM

this is enabling

stinky 1:50 AM

i CANT go to her show

diznuts 1:50 AM

PUSSIO

stinky 1:50 AM

THATS WEIRD DINA

dina’s wife 1:50 AM

s

stinky 1:50 AM

leep

night guys 🩶

Two days flew by, meshing into one, singular study session. Since exams season started, Ellie limited her streams to once a week instead of her usual, every other-other day set up. Ellie left her essay writing daze with triple the amount of notifications as usual. Brows furrowed, she consulted Twitter, then her tags. Hundreds of mentions under posts with the same thumbnail. You. Specifically, you on a Youtuber’s talk show.

“Now, girl, you’ve been outed.” Said the interviewer, Ellie wasn’t sure what her name was exactly.

“I know. I’m a gay.” You tsked and whined with joking rapor. Your interviewer pouted with you, and giggled.

“I’m interested. Who’s your celebrity need-me-some-a-that?”

You chuckled, a little shocked. “Oh, I like that. Fuck.” You paused to think. Ellie was on the edge of her seat, as far as laying down on her couch goes, antsy for context. “Okay, I don’t like celebrities, actually. I like athletes and streamers.” Ellie’s brow raised. She didn’t dare check the comments.

The interviewer popped her tongue. “Ooh! Tea.”

“Crumpets,” You added with full seriousness. the interviewer cackled. “Erm, man. God this is embarrassing because she’s… like… a fan of me too?” The interviewer and you gabbed and squealed. Ellie didn’t catch it, her ears began to ring.

“Ellie Williams, from Twitch. My actual fucking wife, She was kind of my gay awakening? Especially when she got more, um, butch–”

The clip ended. Then, Ellie’s phone was launched across the room.

☆

dinosellie’s Latest Tweets

deleting everything

11:10 AM • 25/06/2025 • 139k Views

48k Retweets 29k Notes 64k Likes

my body can be found floating in the seattle aquarium, thanks

11:10 AM • 25/06/2025 • 172k Views

64k Retweets 33k Notes 97k Likes

imsososlrry im such. a simpfor youbon main y/nWHATTGF

11:09 AM • 25/06/2025 • 277k Views

80k Retweets 93k Notes 108k Likes

OH OKAY

11:09 AM • 25/06/2025 • 101k Views

18k Retweets 7k Notes 68k Likes

OH

11:09 AM • 25/06/2025 • 115k Views

42k Retweets 28k Notes 80k Likes

She paced around her tiny, tidy, dorm with her hands on her head, using it as a bongo drum.

“You’re not going insane.” She murmured. “This is just… very awesome and terrifying. Oh baby this is fucked–’ A violent gasp shook through her.

That username, yournickname, is too similar to y/n. The timing. The money. The insane amount of money. The ‘feeling is mutual’.

Whispers

smelliewilliams:

so

yournicknameohbaby:

oh hey!

smelliewilliams:

hooldd on there ohbaby

yournicknameohbaby:

okok im holding

smelliewilliams:

this is weird

ok

OK THIS IS WEIRD

hey.

yournicknameohbaby:

hiya.

smellingwilliams:

are u y/n?

im sorry thats fuckin weird as balls to ask

yournicknameohbaby:

oh

shoot

smelliewilliams:

shoot??!?!??@@?!?!

yournicknameohbaby:

OK FUCK YOU SAW THE CLIP

smelliewilliams:

the clip saw me.

yournicknameohbaby:

hugh moris

smelliewilliams:

DUDE ARE U??

im sorry for calling u dude

im

ner vous ?

yournicknameohbaby:

it felt weird asf to ask right?

imagine how weird it feels to say yes i am

uh

her

me

y/n

smelliewilliams:

jesus wait

ARE U FUCKING W ME🤨

u are.

yournicknameohbaby:

time and place (Ellie found herself forgetting how to breathe.)

oh right

um

we cant send pics on here huh

smelliewilliams:

i dont think so

yournicknameohbaby:

add me on discord

if you wanna

ill turn my cam on and show you

heres my handle

firebuttershoefly

The blood in her veins achieved a strange temperature: both boiling hot and ice cold. On the one hand, she’s meeting you. Seeing your face. Your gorgeous fucking face and your focus all on her. Seeing you after you told the whole internet you want her. On the other hand, she’s fucking meeting you. Speaking to you after she told you (and the other hundred thousand in chat) that she wants you and then some.

Without responding, she added you on discord. After hey and hi were exchanged, the bubbly ringtone spooked her. Without collecting her breath, Ellie clicked answer.

Your camera was already on. You sat comfortably on your desk chair, knees up and covered in–lord have mercy– wooly high socks. A thin, grey t-shirt with a long scooping neckline had fallen off your shoulder. No bra strap obstructed your skin. Black glasses with big lenses sat pristine on your nose. Your mouth broke into a smile. “Ellie?” You asked, sweet voice stripped of comedic timing. You were unlike any state of yourself she’s seen online, comfortable and in sleepwear, but one hundred, billion percent you. Ellie was genuinely shaking. this was worse than stark struck, this was a disease.

“He-ey,” She stammered. “Yeah you’re definitely you.”

You giggled. “u-uh yeah, I am.” In the corner of the frame, she saw your hand tremble and fidget with itself. You were as nervous as she was, Ellie realized. “It’s okay if you don’t want to turn your camera on but I’d, um, like to see you too! We could hangout, maybe. If you’d like. I’d like to. Your profile picture of Shimmer eating pizza is cool too.”

Ellie wiped her sweaty palms on the couch seat. “Hah, yeah we can totally hangout. By the way, If I ever try to be funny, I’m so sorry.” You giggled, then before Ellie could think twice or check how she looked, she clicked camera off.

She saw the shift on your face when you saw her. Lips wetted. Eyes shone. “Woah! Hey there, Smellie!”

Ellie quickly covered her face with a hand. “Oh my God, no– you and Joel are the only people who aren’t allowed to call me that!” She groaned bashfully. “Sorry, Joel’s my–”

“I know who Joel is, silly. I’ve watched almost every stream since you started. I think my favorite one ever is from years ago when you two went to that big NASA exhibit. It’s a total comfort watch.” You tucked that same shaking hand behind your neck, massaging it. Ellie made impish noises internally. She almost wishes this was a clip pulled online so she could find edits of it, but then your shirt fell the teensiest more. “Ellie?” you asked, head tilted. Nope, No. a real conversation with you blows edits out of the water.

“Sorry, I’m here! I… lagged. That’s crazy, wow. I’m just wrapping my head around you knowing who I am at all.”

“Me too!” You nearly squealed. “Ellie, you’re fucking huge–” To which ellie shook her head, about to protest. “Zip it hombre. You’re easily bigger than I am, y’know? And definitely, uh, more thirst trapped.”

She grinned. “Like em?” Ellie sucked in a breath. Oh, she would beat her own ass if she could. “Sorry I– didn’t mean to like–” She could see your surprise. Your discomfort, your pure hatred of ellie and you’re definitely going to hang up and block her–

“Fuckin’ love em.” You said. It was quiet but with that on stage confidence she loves you in. Ellie reddened, her stomach dropping to her loins. Come on now, Williams. Don’t fuck this up. This is only what you’ve thought about every single night for months.

Ellie held two thumbs up at the screen.

You chuckled and copied her. “Anyways, wanna take one of those call-selfies? Everyone’ll go batshit.” You suggested.

“Oh sure! What do you mean though?” Ellie’d been offline since that forty second clip invaded her senses. As far as she knows, you said you had a thing for Ellie, and everyone on the damm platform let her know like Paul Revere.

Your eyes widened in amusement. “You haven’t seen them?” Ellie shook her head. “Oh my gosh, okay.” You interrupted yourself with a laugh as you pulled out your phone, tapping it as you spoke. “I’ll send you some stuff.”

firebuttershoefly sent 6 files.

Ellie eagerly clicked on the first link. It sent her to Tiktok and the lyrics “You just told me, want me to fuck you!” blasted out her phone full volume. Her eyes widened “Fuck, sorry.” she chuckled.

You laughed. “Keep watching!” It was the edit of the two of you, basically, looking hot in your separate fields. Clips of you she’s seen a billion times, transitioning into clips of her on her stream with the line “baby I will ‘cause I really want to.”

Ellie found herself hiding in the neck of her hoodie. “Oh!” She choked out.

“I know right? The rest of the files are screenshots, it’s so, so crazy.” One, a text-heavy Tiktok ranting about what this means for the girl kissing community. Another, a trending hashtag of #y/nllie. The last one was a screenshot of a Tweet by Twtch itself:

bringing lesbians together since 2011.

Ellie couldn’t believe her eyes. “Holy shit, yes let’s take that photo.” Grinning, she pulled out her phone, since you still had no public social media presence. You threw devil horned hand and bit your smiling lip, Ellie smouldered into her phone camera, aiming it at the Discord call. Click! “Should I post it right now?”

“Hmm, you know what? Yeah. Make the caption something like ‘what if we’ve been fucking this whole time.’” Then you laughed in her face like you weren’t little miss blasé.

Ellie sputtered. “Su-ure. I like that–” she cringed. “Not like– not like I like that. Fucking. I mean I do, but I didn’t say it–”

You were cracking up. “Breathe, Ellie.” She might be breathing a little too much, so she slowed it. “I knew what you meant. But we should u-um, talk about it! Shouldn’t we? Because I’m going kind of crazy here.”

“You?”

“Yes me!” Now, she noticed the pink creeping up to your forehead wasn’t makeup. “I’ve had the biggest fucking crush on you for five years. When people ask who my celebrity crush is I have always said Ellie Williams from Twitch.” You rambled.

Why are you so cute? Gone was that confident chick with the world at your feet, somehow, from a tiny pub stage. Drenched in wit and getting bigger laughs than today’s SNL. Now, you’re just a pretty girl who likes her back.

“Woah.” Whe muttered after a while, eyes blown out. “Okay… you might have me beat.”

You quirked a brow. “I know I do. Your turn. Talk about me now.”

She braced herself. “Well… my friend went to your show; sent me pics. Course I wanted your socials right a-fuckin’-way, but you’re like a ghost. so I looked you up and never left the damn rabbit hole.” She scratched the back of her neck, chuckling.

“And you think I’m super hot.”

“Uh-huh. Yep, yeah.”

“And I’m your wallpaper.” You preened.

“Ye-yeah, that too. I can change it if you want!”

“Don’t you dare!”

“Okay okay!”

With the ice broken, Ellie's study materials and Google Scholar tabs went forgotten. You talked for ages, but it felt more like catching up.

☆

“Wait, you’re a gun chick?” You asked, beaming. Elie loved that smile on you. And she’s only seen it on this call, like it’s a secret kept precious away from a show. Dug up treasure.

Your call was moved from the living room to the kitchen counter as Ellie cooked dinner. “I love archery! It just felt archery-adjacent. Plus Joel’s crazy good at that sort of thing. He was a hunter for a while.”

“Oh yeah, I remember that!”

☆

You were pointing your laptop around your room, giving Ellie a tour. It was like letting her into your brain. Evidence of you and your passions sprawled every square inch. Posters of your favorite artists and movies, shelves packed with books, a shirt signed by Andy Samberg, who you met at a show in LA. You showed your collection of CDs you burned yourself, because you’re a firm believer of physical copies.

“I hate that you’re so cool.” Ellie grumbled, mouthful of instant noodles.

☆

Both of you wound up in bed, calling from your phones instead, talking the night away. The air eased into something so comfortable and fun. But the tension never ebbed. The chemistry lit you on fire.

“Hey, ohbaby.” Ellie said suddenly, looking a little nervous.

You smirked. “We're back to usernames, Smellie?”

She chuckled. “What did i say about calling me that?”

“Not to.” You faux-pouted. Ellie’s confidence grew.

“Mhm,” She drawled. God, you couldn’t help but stare. The barely there light over Ellie’s face was doing things for you. “You’re based in New York, right?” You nodded. “Let me come see you.”

“Y-you want to?” You asked, trying to control your quickening heart.

“‘Course I want to. I really want to.” She said. “What’s a three hour drive from Boston?” Your jaw dropped.

“A three hour drive– Ellie! I don’t want to be a bother,” You fidgeted. Ellie rolled her eyes playfully.

“What you want is to see me too!” She teased, before her smile melted into something more earnest. “I don’t just, like, lust after you or something. Especially now.”

“Me too, Ellie.” You said softly.

“Something can really happen here, y/n.” Ellie muttered, loud enough for the mic to pick it up.

You took a second to bathe in the moment. You’ve dreamed of exactly this for years. You never want to hang up.

With great resolve, you nodded. “Come see me.”

The smile you shared outshone the growing daylight peering through the blinds.

You hung up eventually. Too late in the evening became ungodly early, and you both had class the next day. Numbers were exchanged, like people who actually knew each other, for reals, and the bones of a plan for Ellie to drive those one hundred and eighty worth it minutes to come see you started to form.

Once again, instead of bed, Ellie checked her phone. It’s just for a second to check out the reactions to her post!

Your rock n’ roll pose and glowy lamp lighting, Ellie’s slightly grainy Macbook camera and smirking pink lips. “but what if we’ve been fucking the whole time” read the caption. Hundreds of thousands of likes, and the most comments she’s ever had on a post. She was too tired to react, but she quickly typed out her own comment. As always, replies piled up in no time.

smellie Creator

kiddingnm no fucking yet

Hide replies

caulfieldcam

get on it?!?!?!?!

renee

hurry

jessie’s girl

yet 😩

But one – and maybe it was the sleep deprivation, but one glowed brighter than the others. A blank but verified account. The profile picture: the photo of you on her poster.

yousername

sleep now, fucking later

Ellie didn’t have the time to process that.

yousername

sleep now, fucking later

Liked by Creator

---

thoughts??? THOTS?????

[mikuhriii]

a peculiar remedy

s. itoshi x fem!reader

⚠︎ nsfw (mdni!) / explicit content / oral sex (m!receiving) / p in v sex / unprotected sex / mentions of handjob/gagging / cursing / grinding / cum eating / implied!overstimulation / implied! breeding / (slight??) sub!sae

masterlist

it was all bound to happen.

all of this.

a supposedly peaceful night—embracing the presence of tranquility—transforming into something…indecent; impure, if you may add. an unforeseen turn of events, to be blunt.

it all began when you saw your boyfriend, sae itoshi—a prodigy who always dominates the field with his extraordinary innate talent despite his blunt and cold behavior—watching a livestream of a certain rival, playing on the field. his focused, sharp teal eyes glared at the screen, as if he was boring holes into it. funny because you could feel how infuriated he was; his eyebrows twitching everytime bunny iglesias appears on screen—like a gas to a flame—adding fury to his already raging feelings.

and of course, as the ever-so-sweet and thoughtful girlfriend you are; you thought of a way to calm him down.

something that he couldn't refuse; something that would get him wrapped around your fingers.

ah. you knew just what to do.

“shit, ’m close…” he hissed.

your mind was hazy, intoxicated; stupefied—you barely heard him.

you were a filthy, pathetic mess beneath him, kneeling between his manspreaded legs, worshipping his manhood with your skilled, bulging, drooling mouth. your eyes—filled with inextinguishable flame of libido—were cloudy from the repeated gagging caused by his size, bearing the uncomfortable stretch of your throat as you took his cock further in.

messy, filthy, lewd; those were the only words you could think of that’d be suitable to describe the sounds you made as you sucked and licked him off.

“oh—fuck me…fuuuck me..” he panted like a crazed man—chest heaving—a captivating sight. with a hiss, he snaked his veiny hands to the back of your head, digging the calloused pad of his fingertips into your scalp with enough force, tugging ever so slightly before pushing back down to guide you onto his shaft; you gagged.

up and down.

up and down.

faster, until you felt you jaw starting to ache.

deeper, until you gagged for the umpteenth time at his remarkable size.

harder, until your tongue memorized the curves and lines of the popping veins surrounding his shaft.

you took him in like a champ; an erotic spectacle for sae’s eyes.

with a soft pop, you pulled back from his shaft, panting. “give it to me, please…sae, sae..” you mewl as you continue pumping his cock, faster, harder—a desperate attempt to make him release. you opened your mouth, playfully tapping his spit-stained, flushed tip on the warm pad of your tongue, applying kitty licks and feather-like kisses to the leaking hole here and there, before taking him back down again.

the sight alone made sae’s stomach flutter—a clear sign—of his impending release.

“oh fuck, fuck, f—” he groaned, tugging your hair as he spurts out his hot, creamy white fluid into the warmth of your mouth; it was too much that it spilled out of the corner of your lips, trickling down onto the plush skin of your exposed breast. you pulled back with a low chuckle, blatantly licking your cum-stained lips as you milked him further with your glutinous hands; it was obscene, and you sighed, indulging the delectable sight: how his sinful body shivered slightly as he rode out his high, his ragged post-release breath, god, it was a delightful sight.

leaning his head back on the plush couch, sae groaned—eyes shut close, breathless. he was so subtle about it, but he actually felt ecstatic. sure, your idea of calming him down was…peculiar, but he had to admit it was better than what he had expected.

“hah—shi—”

as if he had been resurrected, he choked out a low moan at the warm sensation of your tongue on his oversensitive tip. “what're y—doing?” he asked between ragged breath, as he looked down at you with arched brows.

you gave him no answer.

you stood up from your position, and straddled him on the couch, wasting no time grinding against him, sighing in pleasure once you felt the warmth of his cock on your wet core. “sae…sae..” you chanted his name like a mantra—low and needy.

sae cursed under his breath upon feeling your womanhood flutter against his shaft, lubricating it with your glutinous essence.

he had to control himself. he just got to.

then he grunted.

fuck it.

with his firm hands, he grabbed your waist, plunging you onto him without a warning. “sae!” a gasp of mixed pain and pleasure escaped from your lips at the abrupt stretch of your tight, velvety walls.

“so tight..” he murmured under his breath, resting his head on your neck—a futile attempt to hide the embarrassing shade of crimson on his cheeks.

“sae, i told you…” you began, coquettisly, leisurely and deliberately unclasping his firm hands from your waist. he looked at you—drunk and dazed—as you entwined his much larger hands with your delicate and smaller ones with feather-like motions. “i’ve got it myself; you're in good hands…so let me handle the rest, please?” you whispered hoarsely. and as if under a spell, he couldn't say anything.

he was never like this, you knew that.

what kind of spell had you casted to him?

whatever it was, this whole session was far from making him calm; you were killing him. he swore his beloved girlfriend would be the death of him.

fuck bunny iglesias. he wanted to focus on you alone, right now. without further ado, you moved on top of him; bouncing on his delectable size with a pained and pleasurable gasp of his name.

sae. sae. sae.

you chant his name again and again.

sae on the other hand, watched your nakedness with hazy eyes: the way your bosom bounces sinfully like it was mocking his fucked out state; the way your mouth opens and closes from how overwhelmingly good his cock stretches you out; and god, the way you locked your eyes with his teal ones, as if you were telepathically communicating with him about how good he was making you feel.

“oh…oh sh—fuck—hah” he groaned between ragged breath as he felt your walls tighten around his shaft. god, the way he sounded—like a drug—it was addictive; a music to your ears that makes you wanna cum just by listening to it.

“sae, cum for me, please...” you moaned—breathlessly, your voice barely a whisper.

and like a tidal wave, pleasure washes over your veins as you released in unison, foreheads pressed against each other—clasped hands gripping so tightly both of your fist turned white.

the both of you stayed like that for a while; only the low volume of the television and your ragged breaths can be heard around the illuminated condo. “did that…calm you down?” you asked—your voice tired and low.

sae scoffed, tilting his head and pressing a peck on your lips. “it didn't.” he answered curtly with his usual unenthusiastic tone.

you chuckled and shook your head from his response. “is that so…?” you murmured, eyes fluttering from fatigue.

he groaned, resting his chin on your shoulder “mhm, your way of calming people is…” he trailed off, struggling to find the right words. “...peculiar.”

bullshit. he meant to say, amazing; toe-curling, to be blunt.

“i’d seriously kill anyone who would dare to experience that from you…”

that tickled your stomach. you giggled, playfully smacking his shoulders. “so you did like it!” you beamed, wrapping your hands around him.

“no. i d—”

“then why did you cum all ov—”

he shut you up with a deep kiss, laying both of your bodies down on the plushy couch; a passionate scene witnessed by the city lights outside the condominium’s glass window.

for once, he forgot the infuriating sensation lingering in his chest. what a peculiar remedy to calm a raging heart; you mentally noted to do it again. and by no means sae would ever refuse that idea; after all, he was in good hands.

literally.

a/n: don't mind the trashy title; i couldn't think of something (⁠╥⁠﹏⁠╥⁠) *cough* yes, this was inspired by that one panel in chap 308 bllk leaks whskgkshwksg (manspreading sae 🔛🔝). my mind wanders a bit too much welp. anyway, i hope you liked it. likes and reblogs are much appreciated! and don't forget to hit that follow for more updates! thanks a bunch!

tags: @ysvxnielle @is2sae

© 2025 mikuhriii | all rights reserved.

[infinityinakiss]

Do you have top 3 pazzi pics?

edit: so i'm blind and can't read apparently and i made this whole list cause i thought you said fics. just pretend you asked for fics cause i don't have the heart to delete this and i'll make another post with my pics. this is so embarrassing for me.

it'd be easier to pick a favorite child, man. i'm gonna spotlight a couple (a ton) of authors with my favorite fics by them, but just know i am absolutely in love with anything they write. this post is about to be so long.

@imaginespazzi - anything nivi writes is a godsend. golden hour broke me a thousand different ways, as i'm sure it did many other people, but if you like a fluffy fic, i reread their here's to eternity series whenever i wanna smile at my screen like an idiot.

@luvergirl-535 - actually so good and so funny, her that's so true series is like the perfect mixture of comedy and angst. she's such a wholehearted author, i love her writing so much.

@loeysoi - everything she writes is so beautiful. she says her favorite fic that she's written is thinking of you (while i'm up here), but i've got such a soft spot for weren't we the salt in the sea. lyra, if you see this, your writing is so lovely and if you'd like to update salt in the sea, i wouldn't be opposed.

@azzibuckets - trying to pick one thing that cessa's written is giving me anxiety, so just read all of it. also, follow her and put her notifs on, she's so funny. literally such a beautiful person to follow online.

@bucketgetter535 - wanna feel like you're 15 again and it is all so bright and fireflies aren't going extinct, but also everything is insanely complicated and nobody will tell you anything? read their fic this is not a cry for help (but it might be). i personally love writing that reads like thoughts, that doesn't try to be anything less than it is, and this fic is it. (also there is a little soft spot in my heart for i don't even like her.)

@theseh00perscanh00p - genuinely one of my favorite authors on here, reading their writing is like being given a tight hug (most of the time at least, this new series has been tearing my heart out.) par for the heart is so sweet, not very angsty, and i just love paige and azzi's character voice in it.

@raevpng - rae, i love your writing so fucking much, i basically live in your anons because you're so good and i feel the need to constantly glaze you. i am actually so obsessed with their new series only you, go read it now if you know what's good for you. their one shots are so incredible, bags is a personal favorite of mine.

@azzibueckers5 - their series i wanna know peace again (wanna sing a different song) is one of my top rereads, it's truly so well written and emotional and just everything that i don't think i can fully articulate how much i love it without kissing them on the cheeks like an italian grandma.

@sowerpatch - i've been so hooked on their series terms of play, the tension and the dynamic is so good and so addictive. paige in this fic has balls the size of australia and it always makes my jaw drop.

so yeah. there's my very short and sweet top 3 pazzi fics. totally didn't go overboard.

psa: i love that here it's normal to send an anon so you can really show the authors how much you appreciate em. but it has broken my heart to see people abuse the very thing i love about the fandom to make authors feel unsafe. this is your daily reminder that fic authors are people too and they have their own lives besides writing. try not to hound them too much about when they're gonna update, and always give them grace. they are creating beautiful art for free because they love to. don't ruin that for them.

and if you threaten authors and run them off the internet because they fear for their safety, you are the actual scum of the earth.

[inseobts]

Hello! I'd like to please request a little scenario for multiple characters if possible; I'm especially interested in your take on this with Law, Sanji and Ace given their backstory. If you're open to writing for the ladies as well then adding Robin into the mix would be appreciated! My idea is simple; an S/O with a child, and the aftermath of discovering that fact. I don't mind if it's an established relationship and there just wasn't an opportunity to meet the kid before or something else, I just like the idea of these characters dealing with the concept of surprise family/parenthood, the angst that may arise from dealing with the role of a stepparent if they want a relationship (and its happy ending if possible!) Good luck with all the requests, I hope you have fun with them!

Found Family (Reader with a Kid)

gn!reader

characters: law, sanji, ace, nico robin

tags: under each character + secret child

a/n: I started it with a fem!reader in mind and changed it to gender neutral only later since the post didn't mention the gender, so please if I missed some changes please tell me

words count: around 0.8k - 1.7k each

masterlist || ao3 || ko-fi

── .✦ Law:

Tags: Established Relationship, Surprise Family, Angst to Comfort, Fluff

The wind blows soft through the port town. Law steps off the ship, coat flapping behind him, hands in his pockets. He’s quieter than usual, eyes scanning the street ahead. He’s not here on a mission. He’s here for you.

You sent a letter three weeks ago.

Just one line: “I need to talk. Come if you can.”

Law doesn’t like surprises. But he comes.

He finds you standing outside a small house with peeling paint and flower pots on the windowsill. You smile when you see him, but it’s tight, like you’re scared.

He frowns “You alright?”

You nod “Yeah… I just—can we go inside? I don’t want to do this out here.”

Law follows you in. It’s warm. Smells like soup and soap. A small jacket hangs on a hook by the door. Not yours. Too small.

His sharp eyes catch it, but he doesn’t say anything yet.

You lead him to the living room and sit. He stands. Watches you.

You look down “There’s something I never told you.”

Law’s voice is low “I figured.”

You breathe in deep “I… have a kid.”

Silence.

You look up. His face is unreadable. Like ice. You hate that expression, it means he’s trying to think without feeling. To stay calm.

He speaks finally “How old?”

You blink “She’s five.”

He does the math. That means before him.

“She yours?” he asks, even though he already knows.

You nod “Yes. Mine. The... other parent's gone. Completely.”

He nods slowly. His voice is cold, but not cruel “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I was scared.” You twist your hands “We met during a war. We never talked about kids, or… futures. Then we got together, and things felt good. I didn’t want to ruin it.”

“You thought this would ruin it?”

“I thought you might walk away.”

He looks away “You didn’t trust me.”

“That’s not fair,” you say, standing now too “I’ve been through things. I didn’t know how you’d react. You’re not… You don’t talk about family. You barely talk about your past.”

His jaw tenses. You hit a nerve.

You try softer “I wanted to wait for the right moment. But there never was one. Until now.”

Silence again.

Then small footsteps.

You freeze.

Law turns just as a tiny figure walks into the room, clutching a stuffed rabbit.

“Who’s this?”

Her eyes are big, curious. Law stares.

You kneel “Sweetheart, this is Law. He’s… He’s my friend.”

Law doesn’t speak. He just looks. She hides behind your leg.

You don’t blame her.

“She’s shy,” you say “But she’s smart. She reads pirates like storybooks.”

Law kneels too, finally, lowering himself to her level. His voice softens.

“I’m not here to hurt anyone,” he says “I’m just… surprised.”

Your daughter peeks out “You talk funny.”

Law blinks.

You laugh nervously “He’s from the North Blue.”

“Oh.” She tilts her head “Do you have a boat?”

Law nods “A submarine.”

Her eyes widen “Cool…”

She steps forward. He doesn’t move.

Then she offers her rabbit “You wanna hold Mr. Bun?”

You almost cry.

Law takes it. Careful. Gentle. Like it’s glass.

He looks at you over her head. Still unsure. Still quiet.

But he’s here, and he’s not walking away.

The rabbit sits on the table between you.

Law hasn’t said much since dinner. He eats quietly, politely. Your daughter sits beside him, munching rice balls like they’re treasure. She’s talking to him. A lot.

“Do submarines have beds?”

“Yes.”

“Do you sleep in them?”

“Sometimes.”

“Do you dream of fish?”

“…No.”

You nearly laugh into your cup. Law sends you a look. It says help me. You shrug. You’re doing fine.

When she finishes eating, you ask her to brush her teeth. She runs off with Mr. Bun in her arms. The house falls quiet again.

Law leans back in his chair.

“You didn’t even flinch,” you say “When she offered you the rabbit.”

He shrugs “She trusted me. I didn’t want to break that.”

You nod, chewing on your lip “That means a lot, Law.”

He looks at you. Eyes sharp but not cold “I’m not angry.”

“Really?”

“I’m hurt.” His voice is honest now “You didn’t tell me. I could’ve helped. Been there. Or at least known what I was walking into.”

“I know,” you whisper “I was scared. I didn’t want to push you away.”

“I’m not made of glass, Y/N. I’ve lost family. I’ve lost everything. But I never said I didn’t want to build something new.”

You look down at your hands “She’s my whole world.”

“I can see that.”

“And now that you’ve met her… what do you want?”

He pauses.

That pause stretches long and sharp between you.

Then, softly “I don’t know.”

You nod. You expected that. You’re not mad. Just scared again.

Law stands and walks to the window “She’s a good kid. Brave. You raised her well.”

You smile a little “She’s got my temper.”

“I noticed.”

You walk over to him. You both stare outside. The moon is bright tonight.

“I’m not asking you to be her father,” you say “You don’t have to… take that role if you don’t want it.”

He turns “What if I want to?”

Your breath catches.

“I don’t know how to be that,” he continues “A father. A parent. I’m… I’m a surgeon. A pirate. I know how to fight, how to cut, how to survive. Not how to raise a child.”

You place your hand over his “She doesn’t need perfect. Just present. Just kind. Even I didn’t know how to be a good parent.”

He watches you. Something cracks in his expression.

“I want you.” he says.

“I want you too.”

“But I can’t lie to you… I’m afraid. I don’t want to mess this up.”

You squeeze his hand “We’ll learn together. She’s not looking for perfect either. She just wants someone who doesn’t leave.”

That hits hard.

He nods and then tiny footsteps again.

Your daughter peeks from the hallway “Hey... can he read me a story?”

Law blinks “Me?”

She nods “You have a cool voice.”

You laugh softly “What do you say?”

He hesitates. Then walks over.

“Alright, let’s try.” he says “But only one.”

She beams.

You stand in the hallway, listening through the door. His voice is low, slow, careful. Reading a picture book about sea creatures. She’s tucked in, eyes half-closed. The rabbit is between them on the bed.

Law finishes the page. She murmurs, “You’re not scary like someone said.”

You gasp quietly. Betrayal.

Law chuckles “Someone said that?”

“Mhm. They said you’re all sharp eyes and brooding. But you’re kinda soft.”

Law mutters, “I am never going to live that down.”

You grin and walk back to the living room.

He stays. Finishes the story. Even tucks her in.

When he comes out, he looks… changed.

“You did good.” you say.

“I didn’t even sweat.”

“Liar.”

He sighs, then smirks “Okay, maybe a little.”

You take his hand again “So…”

“So.” he echoes.

“You staying the night?”

He raises a brow “You asking?”

You smile “I have tea. And a couch. Or a bed, if you behave.”

He smirks “I’ll try my best.”

── .✦ Sanji:

Tags: Flirting Sanji, Soft Sanji, Humor, Fluff, Unexpected Bonding, Found Family

Sanji flirts with you every time he sees you.

At the market “Ah, Y/N! Did the sun rise just to see your face today?”

At the docks “Want me to carry those for you, my love? Your hands are far too lovely for heavy lifting!”

Even after the battle in your city, where the Strawhats helped “You’re even more beautiful covered in blood. Should I be worried about how much I love that?”

You never fall for it. You roll your eyes. You walk away. You don’t even blush.

It drives him insane.

“You’re difficult to get,” he says one afternoon, following you through town “but I like that.”

“I don’t fall,” you say flatly “Especially not for men with hearts in their eyes.”

“Ahhh, but my heart is sincere!”

You stop and face him “Sanji. You don’t even know me.”

“I want to.”

You pause. He’s annoying, yes. But not bad. He’s never pushed you too far. Never said anything mean. Just flirty. Charming. Too charming.

You sigh “Fine. You want to know me?”

He lights up “Yes! Of course!”

“Then come with me.”

You lead him through town, away from the market, away from the noise. Into a quiet part of the island. A garden path. A small house tucked in the trees.

He’s still smiling “So this is where the beautiful Y/N hides. A date, then?”

You don’t answer. You open the door. Inside, it’s neat. Warm. Lived-in. There are toys in the corner. A tiny pair of shoes by the door.

Sanji frowns “Is this… your house?”

“Wait here.” you say.

You go into the back room. A few seconds later, you return, holding a small child. Sleepy-eyed. Holding a stuffed whale. While another lady leaves the house as if her job there is finished.

You look Sanji in the eye.

“This is my daughter.”

Sanji freezes.

Dead silent.

You wait.

You expect a nervous laugh. A fast goodbye. A dramatic “I’m not ready for this!” speech.

But it doesn’t come.

Instead…

“Her hair’s like yours,” he says softly “She’s beautiful.”

Your daughter rubs her eyes, looks at him “Who’s that?”

You answer “Just... a friend.”

Sanji kneels slowly “Hi, sweetheart. I’m Sanji. Can I say hello?”

She shrugs. He waves. She waves back with the whale.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Whale.” Sanji says seriously.

You blink.

She giggles.

You didn’t expect this.

You make tea. Sanji helps. He insists, actually.

“She can’t have sugar this late.” you say.

“Then honey,” he says “Gentle on the stomach.”

You watch as he puts her cup in front of her like a butler. Bows. She bows back. You nearly choke on your tea.

“Do you cook?” she asks.

“Oh yes,” he says “Better than anyone.”

She claps “Make us dinner!”

Sanji glances at you. You nod. Why not?

He makes a simple meal. It smells amazing. Your daughter eats two full plates.

After, she sits in his lap and shows him a book of sea animals. He listens. Really listens.

You don’t understand what’s happening.

You were trying to scare him away.

Instead, he’s… perfect.

When she falls asleep, he carries her to her bed. Quiet. Gentle.

He tucks her in, fixes her whale beside her, and kisses her forehead.

You follow him back to the living room in silence.

“Well...” you say, still confused “That wasn’t what I expected.”

He smiles but smaller this time. Softer.

“I flirt because it’s fun,” he says “But I stayed because I wanted to see you.”

You stare at him “You weren’t scared?”

“I was shocked,” he admits “But not scared. You’re a single parent. That’s strong. She’s lucky to have you.”

You look away “I thought it would make you leave.”

“I’m not that easy to get rid of.”

You smile at that and look at him again. This time longer.

Sanji isn’t just charm. He’s heart. He’s warmth.

And… maybe you were wrong about him.

Your daughter’s asleep.

Sanji’s sitting on the couch, arms stretched over the backrest like he belongs there. His jacket is off, sleeves rolled up, and a soft smile on his lips.

He looks so… calm. Like this is normal. Like he wants this.

You sit across from him, legs tucked under you. You sip your tea. Your hands are shaking just a little, but you hide it well.

“Thanks for dinner,” you say “She loved it.”

“She’s adorable,” he says, smiling “And polite. You’ve done an amazing job.”

You stare into your cup “I didn’t do it alone. But… it’s been a long time since I shared her with someone.”

Sanji watches you quietly. No teasing now. Just listening.

You swallow. Here goes nothing.

“So,” you say “I’ve decided something.”

He leans forward “Oh?”

You lift your eyes to meet his “I’m saying yes.”

His brows lift “Yes to what?”

You smile “A date.”

He freezes “Wait. A—really?”

You nod.

“I mean, I’ve been asking for weeks, but I thought you hated me.”

“I didn’t hate you,” you say “I just didn’t believe you.”

“And now?”

“Now I do.”

He stares at you for a second. Then a slow, beautiful grin spreads across his face. Like he’s won a war. Like the clouds finally moved for the sun.

He exhales like he’s been holding his breath for days.

“You—you have no idea what this means to me, Y/N.”

You chuckle “I might have some idea.”

“Do you want flowers? Candles? Music? Should I wear a suit? I’ll cook, of course—”

You laugh softly “Just come as you are.”

He runs a hand through his hair, suddenly flustered “I don’t think I’ve ever been this happy.”

You sip your tea again. Calm on the outside.

But inside? Your heart is thundering. So loud it feels like it echoes in your chest. And he doesn't even know your heart is actually beating faster than his own.

You’ve had to be strong for so long. For your child. For yourself. Love always felt like a luxury you couldn’t afford.

But Sanji… he’s something else.

Not because he’s charming.

But because when it really mattered, he stayed.

And now, you let yourself fall a little deeper.

You stand. Walk over. And press a soft kiss to his cheek.

He goes still.

You pull back and say quietly, “Can't wait for the date.”

His eyes widen, then fill with something warm surprised, happy, maybe even a little nervous.

“You… really?” he asks, softer than you’ve ever heard him.

You nod “Don’t make me regret it.”

His laugh is breathless “Never.”

You smile, heart pounding, but you don’t let it show. He doesn’t need to know yet how much this means.

A few nights later for your first date Sanji goes all out, but not in a flashy way. It’s thoughtful. Intimate.

He sets up dinner on the ship’s deck. Small candles, soft music from a den den mushi radio, and a view of the sea under stars. He cooks something warm and comforting, not fancy, just full of love.

You talk for hours. About silly things, quiet things, your pasts and dreams. It’s easy. He listens more than he speaks, and when he does talk, it’s gentle.

No cheesy lines. Just Sanji. Real and warm.

After dessert, he walks you home in silence. Not awkward, just peaceful. The kind of quiet where you don’t need to fill space.

At your door, he looks at you with hopeful eyes but doesn’t move in. He’s waiting for your choice.

So you step closer.

You kiss him.

Soft. Sure. Just once. But it’s full of everything you’ve been holding back.

When you pull away, he blinks like he’s just been hit by a wave.

You smirk “You were taking too long.”

He laughs, dizzy and full of stars.

And for the first time in a long while, so do you.

── .✦ Ace:

Tags: Friends with Benefits, Angst, Humor, Emotional Reveal, Mutual Feelings Hidden, Teasing to Serious, Marine Conflict

The sun burns above you. You’re lying on the deck of your ship, one leg over the other, a half-empty bottle between your fingers. Ace is beside you shirtless, grinning, sweat on his brow, flame flickering off his fingers like it’s breathing with him.

“You always steal my rum.” you say, kicking him lightly.

“You always keep it warm,” he shoots back “I’m doing you a favor.”

You roll your eyes “Your idea of favors sucks.”

He leans closer, his voice lazy and smug “You didn’t say that last night.”

You groan “Get a new line, fire boy.”

He grins wider. You punch his arm. He fake-winces, like it hurt. It didn’t.

That’s the two of you: teasing, biting, half-fighting, half-kissing. No promises. No labels. Just good fun and bad timing.

Pirate life is rough. You take what joy you can.

“Hey,” you say after a long silence, watching the sky “Wanna hear a secret?”

Ace smirks, eyes still closed “If it’s about that thing you did in the galley with the honey—”

“No, dumbass. A real secret.”

That makes him open his eyes. He turns to look at you “Alright. Hit me.”

You sit up. Serious now. The bottle rests on your knee.

“I have a son.”

Ace snorts “You what?”

You nod, eyes still on the horizon “Yeah. He’s five. His name’s Ren.”

He blinks. You go on before he can interrupt.

“I had him before all this, before the piracy, before you. I got caught in something messy with the Marines. To keep him safe, I left him with my parents. Changed my name. Ran.”

Ace stares.

You keep talking “I go see him when I can. Disguised. Just for a day or two. He thinks I’m some traveling doctor or something. He doesn’t know who I really am.”

You pause. Swallow.

“It’s hell, leaving every time. But I’d rather he grow up safe than have him hunted.”

Ace starts laughing.

You blink “What the hell?”

He’s full-on laughing “Holy shit, you got me! I thought you were serious. What is this, some new kink? Roleplay? Mommy pirate stuff?”

You just look at him.

Dead quiet.

No grin. No tease.

Ace’s smile dies instantly. The flame on his fingers goes out.

“…Wait,” he says “You’re not joking?”

You don’t say anything.

His expression changes fast… shocked, confused, then something close to guilt “You really…?”

You nod once “I’m not playing around.”

He runs a hand through his hair, suddenly tense “Shit.”

“Yeah,” you say, dry “That’s usually the first response.”

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Tries again “Why are you telling me this now?”

You shrug “I don’t know. Maybe because you’re the closest thing I’ve had to a real connection in years. Or maybe I just got tired of lying all the time.”

He stares at you.

You look away “I didn’t expect you to laugh. That sucked.”

“…I’m sorry.”

“Forget it.”

“No,” he says quickly “I’m serious. That was a shitty reaction. I just… I didn’t think you were the kind of person to hide something that big.”

You exhale “Turns out, I’m full of surprises.”

The silence between you is heavy now. Not like before.

Then Ace says quietly, “What’s he like?”

You blink “Huh?”

“Your kid. Ren. What’s he like?”

You smile a little “Stubborn. Smart. Messy. Loves drawing fishes. Hates carrots. Thinks I have the coolest boots in the world.”

Ace nods, quiet. He looks down, then up at you again.

“I meant what I said,” he murmurs “I’m sorry for laughing. And I’m… kinda honored you told me.”

You raise a brow “Didn’t peg you for the emotional type.”

He shrugs, eyes soft “Didn’t peg you for someone with a child.”

Touché.

Ace doesn’t talk much for the next few days.

No flirting. No teasing. Just quiet looks when he thinks you’re not watching.

You try to act normal with some old jokes, same smug grin as always, but you feel it too. Everything changed with that one secret. The space between you now holds more than just fun.

It holds truth. Real, heavy, warm truth.

You’re standing at the helm when he walks up beside you.

“I want to come.” he says.

You glance at him “Come where?”

“When you go see your son.”

Your hands tighten on the wheel “Ace—”

“I’ll stay out of sight. I swear. I just… want to see him. I want to understand what you gave up. What you’re protecting.”

You study him for a moment. His eyes don’t waver. There’s no joke. No smirk.

Just Ace. Real. Honest.

You nod.

Months later — The island is quiet. A small village with stone houses, chickens in the streets, a little bakery that still smells like your childhood.

You pull your hood low. Ace wears a cap, sunglasses... he looks ridiculous, but no one’s looking at him. Just another traveler.

Your parents’ house is at the end of the road. Garden full of wildflowers. Paint peeling on the fence.

Your son is playing outside.

He doesn’t see you at first. He’s chasing butterflies. Laughing. Barefoot.

Ace stops walking.

“That’s him?” he asks, voice rough.

You nod “Ren.”

Ace just stares. His hands slowly curl into fists.

You call out softly, “Ren?”

The boy turns. His face lights up.

He runs to you screaming. You drop to your knees and catch him in your arms. He’s warm. Real. Solid.

Ace looks away.

Inside, your parents keep things short. They know who Ace is. You warned them. They’re not happy, but they trust you.

You all sit outside. Ren sits on Ace’s lap by accident. You try to grab him, but Ace just holds him steady.

“It’s okay,” he says “He’s light.”

Ren shows him a toy ship made of sticks “I made this!”

Ace chuckles “Really? That’s better than some ships I’ve sailed on.”

You stare.

Ren grins proudly “My parent used to tell me stories. About pirates and fire powers. Did you know there’s a pirate who can set his fists on fire?”

Ace raises a brow “Sounds dangerous.”

Ren gasps “But so cool!”

You laugh softly. Ace sends you a small look. It’s gentle. A little sad.

Later, when Ren naps, you and Ace sit on the back porch.

“He’s amazing.” Ace says.

“I know.”

“You’re amazing,” he adds “You left this. For his safety.”

You stare at the grass “I think about quitting all the time. Just staying here. Being at his side full time. But… the world’s not kind. And if they find me—”

“I get it,” he cuts in “You’re doing what you have to.”

You glance at him “I didn’t expect you to care so much.”

He shrugs “Neither did I.”

Then he adds, “But now I can’t stop.”

Your heart stumbles.

“He’s got your eyes.” Ace says softly.

“Don’t get attached.” you warn “This life… it’s dangerous.”

“So is mine,” he says “But that didn’t stop you from letting me in.”

You look at him. Really look.

“I didn’t plan for this...” you whisper.

“Neither did I.”

But here you both are.

And suddenly, fun doesn’t feel like the right word anymore.

The sound of quiet laughter wakes you.

You blink against the morning light, still groggy, still warm under the blanket. It takes a second to remember where you are... your parents’ house, back in your old bed.

And then you hear it again.

Ren’s voice.

And Ace’s.

You sit up, heart skipping.

You slip out of bed, still barefoot, and pad toward the living room. And there they are.

Ren sits cross-legged on the floor, his little wooden ship in one hand, while Ace sits across from him, mimicking an enemy pirate voice.

“Noooo! You got me again, Captain Ren! My ship is sinking!”

Ren giggles and throws a pillow at him “That’s what you get, bad guy!”

Ace dramatically falls back, hands in the air “Ughhh… defeated by the mightiest pirate on the seas…”

Your heart squeezes.

Ace looks so natural. Hair messy. Eyes full of warmth. Like he belongs here.

But then your parents come in.

They freeze when they see the scene.

Ace doesn’t notice at first, he’s laughing with Ren, his smile unguarded.

“Ren.” your mother says, sharply.

Your son turns.

“Come away from him,” your father says quickly, stepping forward “Now.”

Ace blinks, confused “I—”

“Ren,” your mother repeats “Come here.”

Ren looks at you, unsure.

You step in “What’s going on?”

Your father’s jaw tightens “We don’t want him near the child.”

You stare “Excuse me?”

“He’s a pirate,” your mother hisses “A famous one. Fire Fist. He’s dangerous.”

“He’s also sitting on the floor playing ships...” you snap.

Your parents say nothing.

“You trusted me enough to come here with him,” you continue, voice rising “Now you’re trying to pull Ren away like he’s some kind of monster?”

“We’re protecting our grandson.” your father says coldly.

“From what? A man who’s been nothing but kind to him?”

“You don’t know what kind of life he brings.”

“I do,” you shout “I live it too. If you forgot. And yes, it’s dangerous. Yes, it’s hard. But Ace has done nothing but respect my family, protect me, and treat Ren with more care than anyone ever has!”

They go silent.

You’re shaking now, fists clenched.

“And for your information, I love him.”

The words fall like a hammer in the room.

Ren blinks.

Your parents’ eyes widen.

Ace just stares at you.

You don’t move.

You didn’t mean to say it... not like this, not loud, not angry... but it’s out.

And real.

You look at Ace, heart thundering “I love you.”

A beat.

Then Ace stands slowly, eyes locked on yours. He walks to you, quiet. The room holds its breath.

He stops in front of you.

“I wasn’t sure if I should say it first,” he says, voice low “Didn’t want to scare you off. But you beat me to it.”

You blink.

“I love you too.” he says.

He reaches out, gentle, and takes your hand.

Your parents stay silent. Ren looks between the two of you, then claps once like it’s the best thing he’s ever seen.

“Can I have pancakes now?” he asks.

You and Ace laugh at the same time, breathless.

And just like that, the tension cracks.

── .✦ Nico Robin:

Tags: Established Relationship, Soft Confession, Emotional Intimacy, Bittersweet Past

It’s late.

Most of the crew has gone to bed, except you and Robin. You're both in the library room. She’s reading. You’re not. You're just holding the edge of a piece of paper... frayed, uneven, and pulsing with life.

A vivre card.

You don’t have to look at it to know it’s still there. Still pointing somewhere far away, where you can’t be.

Robin closes her book softly “Is that what’s been on your mind all day?”

You glance over.

Of course she noticed.

You nod “Yeah.”

She tilts her head slightly “Can I ask who it’s for?”

You hesitate.

You’ve never told her. Not because you didn’t trust her, but because it always felt like a story that belonged to a different version of you. The you from before the sea. Before the Straw Hats. Before her.

But she’s already part of everything now.

So you answer.

“My son.”

Robin says nothing but her gaze sharpens. Attentive. Careful.

“He’s with his other parent now,” you continue, voice quiet “I raised him alone before I joined the crew. He’s the one who said it was okay. Actually, we were always together, in another small crew. Then he wanted a different kind of life. One with… peace. So we contacted his other parent.”

Robin nods, slow “He sounds mature.”

“He was always like that. Smarter than me, I think.”

There’s a short silence.

You look at the vivre card “I haven’t seen him since I joined. We talk through letters, sometimes den den mushi. But I don’t know when I’ll be able to see him again.”

Robin’s eyes soften “Do the others know?”

You shake your head “No. Just you.”

She reaches out. Her fingers brush yours, just enough to touch the vivre card “Thank you for trusting me.”

You smile, small but real “I didn’t know how to bring it up. I didn’t want you to see me differently.”

Robin hums “I already see you. Clearly.”

You blink.

She looks at you steady and kind “You carry something heavy. And still laugh with the crew. Still help cook. Still stand beside me in battle. That’s not weakness.”

Your chest aches in the best way.

She pauses, then adds, “If one day… you want to try and see him again, I’d go with you.”

Your voice catches “Really?”

She nods “Of course. I’d like to meet him. He sounds like someone I’d admire.”

You look down at the vivre card.

Still warm. Still burning.

Maybe not as far away as it feels.

It’s just past dinner.

You’re with Robin as she asked you to stay close. A soft excuse about helping her with some documents. You're both sitting on the floor, back against the wall, a soft lamp between you.

You have the vivre card on the table. You don't always keep it out, but tonight you felt the need to hold it.

You glance at the Den Den Mushi nearby.

You hesitate.

Then pick it up and dial a number you’ve had memorized since your hands first held his.

The snail blinks sleepily… then perks up.

“Hello?”

Your chest tightens at the voice.

You smile “Hey, kiddo.”

A pause, then, “IT’S YOU!!”

You laugh, caught off guard by the pure excitement.

“Oh my god—FINALLY! You didn’t forget me, right? You didn’t sail into a storm and disappear forever, right?”

Robin lifts an amused brow, watching you with quiet interest.

“I didn’t forget you,” you say softly “You know that.”

“Just making sure. I’ve been drawing so many sea monsters lately you would not believe. I made a kraken with three hats.”

You laugh again, voice cracking slightly “Three hats? He must be important.”

“Very.” He pauses, then adds, “...I missed you.”

You shut your eyes “I missed you too.”

Robin looks away respectfully, but stays close.

Then, from the snail: “Hey, wait—who’s near you? Are you with someone?”

You glance at Robin, who blinks, caught.

“She’s... a friend.” you say carefully.

Robin speaks, her voice soft “I hope I’m more than just a friend.”

The Den Den Mushi mimics a shocked face.

“...OH MY GOD. IS THIS YOUR GIRLFRIEND??”

You bury your face in your hand.

Robin chuckles lightly, graceful even when embarrassed “Hello. I’m Robin. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

There’s a long pause.

“...You sound really cool.”

Robin smiles “Thank you. So do you.”

“Wait—how much do you know about them? Like... do you know about the time they tried to cook without instructions and set the wall on fire?”

You groan “Don’t tell her that.”

“It was a microwave! The noodles caught on fire!”

Robin’s shoulders shake with laughter.

You shoot her a glare that holds no heat “I regret this entire call.”

“No you don’t.”

And he’s right. You don’t.

Not even a little.

Later, when the call ends, you sit in silence.

Robin’s hand reaches for yours “He’s amazing.”

You nod, voice soft “Yeah. He really is.”

She squeezes your hand gently “He has your spark. And your chaos.”

You smile through the ache in your chest “He’s better than I’ll ever be.”

Robin rests her head against your shoulder.

“You’ll see him again. When the time is right. And I'll be with you... if you want me.”

"Of course I do."

And somehow, with her beside you, that feels like a promise you can believe in.

[moonys-tea-leaves]

Funny that you say "lil bro" when I'm pretty sure you're either a teenager or a sociopath, and I'm leaning towards teenager.

Look:

You started this post shitting on a bunch of characters while presenting your own as if he's perfect.

The fact is, none of these characters are perfect. I've already said in the replies that I can drag Remus through the mud all day because his actions in book 6 & 7 are horrible and I'm not happy with him about book 4. I don't think there's a single character I love that I cant point out all the ways they've failed - because part of loving someone is recognizing they're complicated and do shit things.

Honestly I think part of the reason that Snape is so avoided by marauders fans is because the Snape fans are like this. They can't see how Snape was problematic so vehemently defend absolutely deplorable choices.

Why in the unholy hell would he know about how important was a child to a parent with parents like his, first of all.

As someone who was abused as a child and knows many people who were abused as children:

People who were abused as children are aware that normal mothers love their children.

Is your argument truly "Snape thought so little of Lily that he believed she was a horrible, unloving mother"?

Because... yikes.

Also, he was out of Lily's life by the time he became a DE, him becoming one has nothing to do with her and she must've been the last thing on his mind while taking the mark. His life doesn't round around her lil bro.

The Death Eaters were anti-muggle born. If Snape truly cared about Lily he would not have joined an anti-muggle born group. So by your logic, Snape did not care about Lily enough to avoid anti-muggle born groups.

Therefore, Snape did not care about Lily very much.

Therefore, his argument of saving only Lily wasn't about him caring about her as an individual person - but out of a personal desire of wanting something from her.

Therefore, you agree with me that Snape did not save Lily out of any sort of consideration for her.

This conversation has now been completed as you have come to realize I am correct. Have a good day.

Marauders fans just be having double standards on the point they proud themselves the most on: Diversity

They be like "let's make James brown" (ik that it's in the whole fandom in general but ykwim) and reject the Jewish-looking guy

They be like "let's make Lily obese" and reject the underweight guy

They be like "let's make Regulus abused" and reject the canonically abused guy

They be like "let's make Regulus get groomed into joining the DEs" and reject the canonically groomed guy

They be like "let's make Barty's actions look right by saying it was for love" and reject the guy who did everything for the girl he loved (platonically or not)

Double standards, double standards everywhere.

Diversity only exists if Snape is not involved

[lisssyyu]

Eternity to taste

PAIRINGS: Caitlyn Kiramman x wife!f!reader

AUTHOR'S NOTE: As you may have noticed, I really like to write with an emphasis on psychology (which is funny, because I am a lawyer by profession), so the second part may be (!) the last. In general, I really like writing in this genre, especially about the game Signalis, and maybe I'll even post a couple of fics about this fandom.

WARNING(S): Mention of violence; possession; control; implied manipulation; power imbalance; age difference (!Caitlin 28, !reader 22) ;; mention of pregnancy

wc: 6.3k

parts: 1 ;; 2 ;; ?

You no longer remembered how the street smelled, how noisy the main square was on holidays. The world that once seemed so alive and close had now dissolved into a fog, like an old photograph faded by time.

You only knew that Caitlyn drank coffee with milk, that on Tuesdays her gloves smelled of cold metal, and on Saturdays of lilacs. You knew that she always asked you to tie her tie, even though she could do it herself.

"I'm not holding you back," she said, stroking your hair like an obedient little animal. "But where will you go? To whom?"

You tried to imagine it. The city, the air, your friends. But if those thoughts had once brought a smile to your face, now your heart tightened into a knot of fear. The world had become huge and alien, frightening without her.

"They don't understand you," Caitlyn whispered, her voice growing colder and harder with every word. "They always laughed behind your back. I saw it."

You listened to her words in silence, but inside you were feeling something completely different. It was scary, not just because of what Caitlyn was saying, but because somewhere deep inside you, her words were starting to ring true.

Maybe it was true that no one was waiting for you outside the walls of this house. That your friends had long since turned their backs on you. That the world was too cruel to accept you as you were.

You felt more and more strongly how your former self that brave, lively person who once took to the streets with hope and dreams was slowly dissolving. Its place was filled with a cold, empty fear of being alone, of forgetting yourself and losing everything that was even remotely important.

Caitlyn was the one who never leaves, who harshly but unwaveringly keeps you on this precarious edge. There is no room for doubt in her voice, which means that your desire to argue with the reality she creates begins to die. You cling to her words like a lifeline, because who else but her will be there when everything falls apart?

You no longer want to resist, because resistance means being completely alone. And being alone means disappearing.

And now you are her little two. The one who belongs to her, who lives in her shadow and breathes to her rhythm. And even if a faint glimmer of your former self remains deep in your soul, it drowns in this incessant whisper:

"Only I need you. No one else needs you."

And this has become your eternal prayer.

"What's that?"

You looked down at your lap. There lay a book you had found by chance while cleaning. The house was getting colder and lonelier, especially when Caitlyn left for long shifts. You thought reading would help distract you.

"Just a novel," you whispered, feeling your voice tremble. "I got bored."

She approached, and there was no anger in her gaze, only weary cruelty, as if you had once again failed to meet her expectations.

"Are you bored with me?"

Your breath caught, the words slipping out in a mistake you would pay dearly for. Caitlyn stood almost close enough to touch, her cold presence squeezing you like a steel grip.

"I'm leaving for twelve hours. I kill for order. And you… are you bored here?"

You wanted to crawl back, but the back of the sofa behind you prevented you from doing so.

"I'm sorry," you breathed, already knowing it would lead nowhere.

"You're always apologizing. You know who else apologizes? Weaklings."

She grabbed the book with the force of someone tearing off a bandage, without pity, and threw it against the wall so that the pages scattered like feathers.

"I feed you, clothe you, keep you warm, while outside people are killing each other for crumbs of bread. I pulled you out of that filth, out of that city where you would have died at the first intersection if it weren't for me."

She leaned toward you and grabbed your chin sharply, forcing you to look up.

"And you really think you have the right to be bored?"

You wanted to argue, to say, "I was just reading," but your mouth was dry and the words stuck in your throat.

"Look at yourself," she hissed in your face. "Pathetic, scared, shaking like a rabbit. Do you really believe that anyone but me cares about you?"

You shook your head.

"That's a good girl," she said, as if it were a reward.

Caitlyn kissed you on the temple almost tenderly, but that kiss concealed the same power that had recently torn your soul apart.

"I love you, you know that," her voice became quieter and lost its former sharpness, "but when you disappoint me… I can't control my anger."

Over time, fear and anxiety began to recede, but not disappear. Rather, they hid somewhere deep inside, like animals huddled in a warm burrow.

In their place, habit took hold. The day consisted of repetitive gestures: the creak of the front door lock at exactly seven in the evening; the muffled rustle of a coat; heavy breathing before Caitlyn shook the city cold off her shoulders. You met her at the doorframe with an almost smile.

The skin of your palms remembered the roughness of wet fabric, shoulders, a tiny tremor under a uniform that smelled of gun oil. She let you help her, let you take off her gloves, touched your cheek with her fingers as a sign of her presence. And in that moment, the house became the center of the world, the only safe island amid the strange, wind-swept streets.

You learned to read her pauses. If her footsteps were heavy, you poured strong tea; if they glided almost silently, you made a decoction of oregano and mint.

Those evenings flowed smoothly, almost sleepily. She talked about the patrols in fragments: "two detained," "smuggling at the locks again." You just nodded. With each "yes" and "I understand," a strange calm grew inside you: if the world out there was really that cruel, then here, in the flickering circle of the lamp, you were on the right side of the glass.

The warmth from the lamp faded as you finally sat down to dinner. The dark oak table, the blanket on your shoulders, not a sound from the neighboring rooms. Caitlyn ate slowly, as if each movement marked the last breath of the day.

But today something was changing, and you sensed it before you heard it.

Caitlyn put down her fork and turned her palm toward you. There was so much confidence in this movement that the air around you immediately became denser.

You didn't know the words yet, but you could already feel their weight.

Seconds dragged on as a dull, muffled bell rang in your head. And when she spoke, the words fell into the silence without a splash, but the water beneath them cracked.

She wants a child.

The sound of these three words, barely whispered, was louder than any command. The world around her shifted, as if the house had suddenly tilted and the walls had cracked.

Your "no" didn't even have time to take shape. It was just a fleeting spark before it was extinguished in the darkness of her unshakable will. Inside, under her ribs, an invisible bird fluttered, but the cry stuck in her throat: a flat fear of returning to what had been before, to the cold streets, to the loneliness that had long since become more frightening than any loss.

You felt your hands trembling, even though they were resting on your knees, hidden under the fabric of your skirt. Images flashed through your mind: a child's cry, a small hand, the warm smell of milk, but next to them, in the same frame, stood her, tall, inevitable, with the same gaze that holds your world together.

You weren't ready. The word drifted away from your consciousness like a boat from a pier, farther and farther, until it turned into a tiny dot. And the tighter you hugged that dot, the more clearly you felt it melting away.

She rose from the table and leaned close to your ear. The tenderness of her breath burned your skin more intensely than a scream.

The stability you had grown so accustomed to cracked, and the crack spread across the walls of the house, across the edges of your heart, across the secret boundary where you end and her will begins. But the voice inside fell silent again: if ruins are the price of her love, then you will let the walls fall.