#(technically I do know because I like to know everything)

[isabelckl]

texting loser!ellie that you have nipple piercing in class 3

nerdy loser!ellie x popular mean fem!reader

bored in english, you reply to a girl named E you’ve been talking to on an anonymous gay dating app—without knowing it’s that lesbian nerd girl, ellie williams.

texting loser!ellie that you have nipple piercing in class 2

The rest of the month bled together in that soft, glowing kind of way—every day bookmarked by the same routine. E in the morning. E during class. E when you were brushing your teeth or pretending to do homework. You talked about everything. Or nothing.

She kept you sharp. Made you laugh when your head was splitting from school noise. Kept you just distracted enough to forget you were tired all the time. And somewhere along the way, you stopped wondering who she was. Because it felt like she already knew you. Not the polished version people saw. You.

You’d stopped counting how many pictures you’d sent. Nothing technically scandalous. But enough to make her say “i’m not strong enough for this” at least three times a week.

You were on your phone, sprawled out in your usual seat in English—last sub of the day, last brain cell left.

You:

im on my last sub rn. talk to u later :(

E:

don’t think about me too much while you’re in class

You smirked.

You:

oh i will. especially us doing unholy things rn

E:

i’m blocking u.

You:

no ur not. u love it

You were still grinning like an idiot when the classroom door slammed open. Everyone scrambled to pretend they weren’t just throwing paper balls or stealing someone’s chair.

Ms. Alvarez was already holding a clipboard, face grim. “Alright, settle down. We’re starting a new graded requirement today—your final literature project. Half of your term grade will come from this. I’m pairing you up.”

Groans some cheers exploded. You barely registered it, still texting E something about being the main character in a forbidden library romance.

Until you heard your name.

“...and Ellie Williams.”

Your head snapped up, blinking.

A few snickers came from behind you, your friends catching it instantly.

One of them patted your shoulder, barely hiding a grin. “Oh, girl. Should we start worrying?”

You rolled your eyes and didn’t bother to answer.

Then a voice you hated piped up. Some guy you’ve never liked, probably trying to be funny.

“Maybe you could just show her your tits and she’ll do the work for you.”

You turned. Instantly.

“Shut the fuck up,” you snapped. Loud enough for people to hear.

He put his hands up, smirking. “Just suggesting.”

Ms. Alvarez didn’t seem to hear, or maybe she was pretending not to. “You’ll have six weeks. You’ll be required to sit beside your assigned partner during this class for the entire project period.”

Some complaints, some high-fives.

You grabbed your bag, eyes scanning. Ellie was still seated, alone near the front, chin in hand.

You made your way over slowly. She was on her phone, thumb tapping something out fast.

“Hey,” you said, soft and casual.

Her head snapped up. Like, immediately. Her phone vanished into her hoodie pocket so fast it was almost suspicious.

You raised your eyebrows slightly, not saying anything.

“Hey,” she replied, voice a little rough around the edges, like she’d just cleared it.

She blinked once, then moved quickly—grabbing the things from her desk and tucking them into her bag on the floor, her sketchpad sliding in last. Then, without saying anything, she reached out and dragged the desk and chair beside her, pulling them close in one fluid motion. The legs scraped loudly against the tile.

You cleared your throat, lowered into the seat, and placed your bag on top of the desk. One hand stayed tucked in the pocket of your skirt, curled loosely around your phone.

You didn’t say anything else and neither did she.

You both just sat there as Ms. Alvarez started droning about the project.

“This is a character-driven piece. Something with personal stakes. Introspection. Conflict. Subtext. You have six weeks.”

You barely heard her.

You unlocked your phone under the desk.

You:

i just wanna go home now and talk to you

(not being clingy)

You smirked without meaning to, biting the inside of your cheek.

Then waited.

Ms. Alvarez was saying something at the front—project guidelines, probably. But her voice felt like it was coming through a thick wall of static. You just kept your gaze on your screen. Quiet. Expectant.

Still nothing.

She usually replied right away. Even in class. Even with “busy” in her bio.

You stared at the chat a moment longer, thumb hovering over the screen. Not that you were being clingy. Obviously.

You bit your lip and glanced sideways.

Ellie was hunched over her notebook, scrawling notes in the margin like her life depended on it. Her leg bounced under the desk. Her grip on the pen was tight. Too tight. Like it might snap in half if she pressed any harder.

You sighed, leaned back in your seat, and slid your phone back into your pocket.

Your eyes stayed on the front of the room, but you weren’t really listening. Words blurred. The only thing in focus was that weird thrum in your chest. Like something off-key in a song you’ve heard too many times.

After a moment, your eyes drifted back to Ellie.

Her auburn hair was tied loosely at the base of her neck, strands slipping free at the sides and curling against her cheek. Her eyes flicked between the teacher and her notes, sharp and serious, like she was actually locked in.

You stared.

Just for a second too long.

Her brows were pinched in thought. She twirled her pen once, adjusted the way she sat, and pulled her hoodie sleeve down over her hand like she was trying to disappear into it.

You pressed your lips together, fingers tapping soundlessly against your arm as you crossed them tight over your chest, waiting for your phone to buzz.

Ms. Alvarez finally wrapped up her monologue with something about “use your time wisely” and “brainstorming starts now.” Then she sank into her desk like she was already exhausted by all of you.

Ellie cleared her throat, then quietly turned toward you.

She pushed her notebook halfway across the desk, her handwriting a little messy but precise enough to follow. She didn’t look at you at first—just tapped the edge of the page once, offering it like a peace treaty.

You leaned forward, resting your elbows on the desk and your chin on your knuckles. Watching her.

She glanced up, finally meeting your eyes. “Do you have anything in mind?”

You did.

Maybe E.

But you didn’t say that, of course.

Instead, you reached over and plucked the pen from her hand. Your fingers brushed for just a second—warm

You lowered your eyes and started scribbling into the corner of her notes.

Fantasy. Coming-of-age. Drama. Romance. Sapphic.

You underlined the last one.

When you slid the notebook back, she tilted her head at it. Just slightly. Her eyes skimmed the list, and then her lips twitched—barely noticeable. But it was there.

“Sapphic,” she repeated, like she was tasting the word.

You shrugged, eyes flicking up. “Just a suggestion.”

She looked at you again. Not judgmental. Not even surprised.

You raised your eyebrows at her—challenging, almost daring her to say something.

Ellie leaned back slightly. Her voice dropped just a little. “Are you sure?” she asked, voice low and husky. “I mean… you’ve got a reputation.”

You didn’t bother hiding the eye roll that followed.

With one hand, you slid the notebook back across the desk toward her. “You can suggest what you think,” you said flatly. Calm. Measured.

She picked up the pen again and wrote underneath:

Agreed.

You raised your eyebrows again.

That’s it? She just… agreed?

“No suggestions?” you asked, skeptical. “Nothing on your mind? You just agreed we write a sapphic book?”

Ellie didn’t even look up. “Nope,” she said, the pen already back in her hand, sketching something random in the corner of the page. A shape. A line. A loop.

You narrowed your eyes at her, gaze flicking over her blank expression. “Well,” you muttered, scanning her with a mock offense, “I expected something much more from you. I mean, you’re the nerd here.”

That earned a glance—sideways, brief. The corner of her mouth tugged, like she was fighting off a smirk.

“Well, I also didn’t expect you to suggest writing a sapphic book,” she replied, dry.

You tilted your head. “Why not?”

Ellie shrugged. “You’ve got a reputation, remember?”

You didn’t even flinch. Just let out a breathy scoff, leaning forward on your elbows again, voice low but pointed. “I just told our classmate to shut the fuck up because he said I could show you my tits and you’d do the work for me. Do you think I care about reputation?”

That caught her.

Ellie blinked, startled for a beat, then let out a short breath—half laugh, half disbelief. “Jesus,” she muttered, her gaze flicking to yours. “Didn’t know you were like that even in personal.”

You frowned. “Huh? Like what?”

She didn’t answer right away. Just glanced down at the notes again, something unreadable twitching in her expression.

You scoffed softly and leaned back, arms folding across your chest again. Your eyes darted to Ms. Alvarez, who was now busy at her desk, rifling through a drawer.

“And oh, please,” you said, dry. “It’s not like Ms. Alvarez isn’t gay either.”

Ellie looked at you, blinking.

“That’s why she has no husband at her age,” you went on, tone casual like you were talking about the weather. “She likes girls. And the rumors, Ellie—you’ve heard them. She won’t mind reading a sapphic piece.”

You tilted your head, lips twitching.

“I bet she’ll like it very much.”

Ellie stared at you for a moment longer and looked away.

But not before you caught it—that flicker of a smirk, barely there.

She shook her head once, muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “Unbelievable,” and went back to scribbling.

Ellie tapped her pen a few times against the edge of the desk, then tilted her head slightly.

“So,” she said. “What’s it gonna be? Angsty? Enemies to lovers?”

You squinted at her, lips already twitching. Then, without saying a word, you reached out—snatching her notebook and pen in one smooth motion.

Ellie blinked, caught off guard.

You scribbled one word in bold, all caps:

SMUT.

Then slid it back to her with a raised brow and the kind of smug grin you only pulled when you were being very annoying on purpose.

Her eyebrows shot up.

“Smut?” she repeated, slow, confused. “How… it’s not appropriate, I think.”

You bit back a laugh. “Of course it’s not,” you scoffed. “I’m just fucking with you.”

She stared at the word a second longer.

You plucked the notebook back and crossed out SMUT with a dramatic scribble, then started writing again beneath it.

“Anyway, I think something like friends to lovers or whatever,” you said, voice a little more thoughtful now. “It’s the easiest for me to write.”

You kept jotting down rough plot beats, loose ideas—nothing concrete yet. Just bullet points. Your handwriting was starting to drift sideways, slanted and lazy.

When you glanced up again, Ellie was watching you.

Her chin rested in her hand, elbow propped against the desk, eyes steady on your face like she was studying something. Like she was seeing a new side of you. Quiet. Focused.

There was something unguarded about her in that moment. Something soft around the edges. Like maybe—for just a second—she forgot to keep her usual walls up.

You paused, blinking. “What?”

She didn’t answer nor move.

You raised your eyebrows. “Oh,” you said slowly, tilting your head to mirror her. “You’re interested in writing that smut?”

That seemed to break the spell.

Ellie blinked, straightened slightly. “No,” she muttered, her voice low and curt as she grabbed the notebook back from you.

You watched her quietly as she flipped to a clean page and started jotting something down like nothing happened. Like she hadn’t just been staring at you for maybe… kind of a long time.

Her pen scratched against the paper. Her face calm again. Composed. But her ears were slightly pink.

“You’re red,” you said, your voice teasing, a smirk tugging at the edge of your lips.

Ellie didn’t look up. “It’s warm in here.”

You raised a brow. “Right. Sure it is.”

She clicked her pen once—sharp, deliberate—then turned to you with a look so flat it could’ve been carved from stone.

“Better red than desperate for plot-driven foreplay,” she said, completely deadpan.

Your mouth fell open.

“Oh my god,” you breathed, scandalized. “You are thinking about the smut.”

Ellie didn’t respond. Just returned to her notes like nothing happened, but the slight twitch at the corner of her mouth gave her away.

You grinned, triumphant.

You watched her for another beat, amused. “You didn’t deny it.”

Ellie didn’t look up, but her pen paused. “I’m ignoring you.”

You leaned over, voice lower now. “You’re failing miserably.”

That got you a side glance. Brief. Sharp. But not annoyed. More like she was trying not to smile and losing the battle entirely.

You tapped her notebook with your nail. “So, what is this groundbreaking lesbian epic we’re writing?”

“Plot ideas,” she said, clearing her throat. “Since you keep distracting me.”

You hummed, unconvinced. “Am I allowed to see, or are you gonna bite me if I try?”

Without a word, she tilted the notebook your way.

You leaned closer.

There was a character with too many feelings and a bad temper. Another one with trust issues and what looked like “shitty taste in people” scribbled in parentheses.

You frowned, eyes skimming back over the notes. “‘Shitty taste in people’?”

Ellie didn't say anything at first, just twirled her pen between her fingers, like maybe if she spun it fast enough, she wouldn’t have to answer. But eventually, she shrugged.

“Some people keep going back to things that hurt them. It’s realistic.”

You stared at her for a beat. The way she said it wasn’t casual. It wasn’t dramatic either—just honest, like she’d written that trait from experience, not imagination.

You leaned back a little. “Nope.”

Ellie blinked. “What?”

“Nope,” you repeated, already reaching for the notebook. “Too depressing. I’m not writing about heartbreak or sad girls with commitment issues. I’ve got enough of that in real life.”

She didn’t stop you as you turned to a fresh page, clicking your own pen open with purpose. “Let’s try this again.”

You started scribbling, words forming in fast, slanted loops.

Two characters. Childhood friends who lost touch. One returns unexpectedly. Maybe there’s a stupid school festival involved. Maybe someone’s in denial. Maybe they’re both idiots, and it takes a whole novella of almosts before anything actually happens.

You glanced sideways to find Ellie watching your hand move. She didn’t interrupt. Just kept staring like she was trying to match the rhythm of your pen to the shape of your thoughts.

You paused, tapped the page. “This is better.”

Ellie tilted her head. “Friends to lovers?”

You nodded. “Less depressing. More yearning.”

“Yearning is depressing.”

“It’s a good ache.”

She was quiet for a second, then let out a tiny exhale—somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. “Alright,” she murmured. “Let’s write something stupid and soft.”

Ellie took the pen from your hand without asking and leaned over the notebook again, brow furrowed in thought. You didn’t say anything. Just watched her as she wrote—quiet, focused, occasionally pausing to tap the pen against her chin. The sunlight from the classroom windows had shifted, painting her in a late afternoon haze of gold and orange. It softened the sharp lines of her face, caught in the ends of her lashes and the auburn strands slipping from her hoodie.

She looked like a photograph that could blur if you stared too long.

The bell finally rang, loud and abrupt. Ms. Alvarez raised her voice over the sudden scrape of chairs and chattering students, tossing out reminders about deadlines and word count minimums. Nobody listened.

Ellie shut the notebook with a quiet thud and began gathering her things, slipping the sketchpad into her bag and adjusting the strap of her guitar case. You stood, grabbing your own bag from the desk and sliding your phone from your skirt pocket out of habit.

Your fingers unlocked the screen before you could stop them, eyes drifting to your last message to E. Still no reply. You stared at it for a moment longer than you meant to. The bubble of words just sitting there. Unseen. Unanswered.

You let out a breath, sharp and quiet, then turned to Ellie just as she slung the guitar over her shoulder.

“By the way,” you said, holding your phone out toward her, “I need your number.”

She glanced at you, nodded, and took your phone without a word. Her fingers moved fast, thumb flying across the screen before she handed it back and silently offered her own. You typed yours in, quick and neat, and gave it back with a nod.

The room was already half-empty, filled with leftover noise and footsteps in the hall.

You walked out, phone back in your hand, your thumb instinctively brushing over the screen. You opened your messages again.

Still nothing.

Your eyes stayed on it as you moved with the current of students spilling into the hallway—sunlight flickering across lockers and tile. You didn’t notice when Ellie fell in step beside you until she asked, casually, like it was nothing.

“You waiting for someone to text you back?” Ellie said as she walked past, not even slowing down.

You blinked, glanced up—but she was already a few steps ahead, her guitar slung over her back, hoodie pulled up.

You didn’t answer. Just looked down at your phone again, just as a message from E lit up your screen.

Your chest tightened with that familiar tug—the kind you only ever felt with her.

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[barnacles34]

Best Friends & a side of sex

MEOVV Gawon, Sooin X Male Reader

18+ smut 13k words

PART 2 of I Never Meant to Memorize your Smile

‘You’ve got dried cum in your hair.’ Your lips brushed her shoulder blade. Gawon's spine stiffened. ‘What?’

‘Morning, sunshine.’ She twisted, fingers probing her scalp. ‘Tell me you didn’t ejaculate into my hair last night.’ ‘Wouldn’t dream of it. Though… Exhibit A - ’ You tapped a pearlescent streak on her lower back. ‘ - and Exhibit B.’ A glint near her hairline. [1] [1] 'Aim' undersells it. Last night was less a targeted strike and more a Jackson Pollock session across her skin. Stain #1 ended with her pressed against the shower wall as you sprayed load after load over her face. Stain #2: the final piece of the day; Exhausted beyond belief, you came across her back, and the both of you collapsed from exhaustion. It's really a miracle the rest came off relatively easily. She groaned. ‘It’s crystallizing. Like sea salt.’ ‘Adds texture.’ You nuzzled the nape of her neck, inhaling lilac and sex. ‘Stay. Five more minutes.’ ‘Your semen is petrifying on my skin and you want to cuddle?’ ‘Yes.’ Your hand slid down her stomach. ‘It’s proof.’

‘Of what? Your inability to control your own - ’ ‘That we wrecked each other so thoroughly last night.’ Your thumb circled her navel. ‘That’s hot.’ She snorted. ‘You’re disgusting.’ ‘Your disgust sounds suspiciously like pride.’ ‘Fine. But if this gluey patch near my ear isn’t coconut oil, I’m bleaching your favorite jeans.’ 'Of course.' 'Lay back,' she said, still facing away from you, legs curled and slotted against your knees. 'I wanna see something.' You gently rolled onto your back, sinking into the pillow. She turned, entering your periphery with sleep-gleamed eyes and pink lips. 'Try swallowing,' she said, moving closer. You swallowed. Her lips found your neck right in the midst: a wet kiss to your Adam's apple. The sensation lingered. 'Why'd you do that?' 'Why not?'

Why not. Those two words contained everything: why not when you're curled against her like this, why not when you're deep inside her, why not when you're breathing in the sweet scent of her skin. She shifted back, still within the circle of your arms, her hair tickling your forehead. 'I'm all sore. No thanks to you.' 'I was adjusting to your needs. And your needs... are an acquired taste.' You snuggled upward, her hair now feathering across your chest, almost ticklish. She had no defense. 'The champagne was a nice touch.' 'Which bottle?' She tilted her face up, eyes still heavy but alert. 'Don't pretend there weren't multiple bottles. I counted at least three.' 'Two and a half. The third was already open.'

'Because you opened it.' Gawon turned over completely, facing you now. Goddess. Goddess. You didn't say it aloud, but she probably knew what you invoked with each gulp, each strained touch, each unfettered breath. [1]

-

[1] The thing about thinking "goddess" repeatedly during sex is that it's simultaneously the most embarrassing and most accurate thought possible. Like yes, technically we all know about oxytocin and dopamine and whatever chemical cocktail makes you temporarily insane, but that doesn't explain why her particular face makes your brain short-circuit into worship mode. Modern therapy would probably have words for this - "idealization" or "projection" or some other term that completely misses the point that sometimes a person just is that magnificent and your brain is simply reporting facts.

-

A comfortable pause; No awkwardness anymore, just the luxury of looking.

'Details.' You brushed a strand of hair from her face and planted a soft kiss on her forehead. 'How's your head?'

'Fine. I switched to water after the first few toasts. Unlike someone.'

'You're a lightweight.'

'I know. But you didn't fare much better.' She laughed properly then, burying her face in your chest. 'Certified Chair Tester.'

The memory clicked into place. 'Ah. I made you rate the chairs.'

'Yup. And I rated them all tens because I was tipsy.'

'A flimsy critic in my bed. How appalling.'

She poked your chest. 'You were swaying. It was way too funny to focus on furniture evaluation.'

'It's important information. What if we need to know which one's most comfortable?' 'At two in the morning?' 'Especially at two in the morning. That's prime chair-testing time.' 'You're ridiculous.' 'You helped.' 'Someone had to make sure you didn't fall off the balcony furniture.' 'I was perfectly stable.' 'You tried to serenade a potted plant.' 'It looked lonely.' She propped herself up on an elbow to study your face. 'What did you even sing to it?' 'I don't remember.' She blew at your face. You blinked. 'Liar. You remember everything.' 'Only the important things.' 'So what's important about last night?' You pretended to consider. 'Well, first, the sex - ' 'Hey.' Her hand found your shoulder in mock protest. 'Alright, but… come on.' You made the face that said you know it was, and she buried her face in your chest again, giggling. 'Fine. It was…' 'The best.' Another gentle smack. 'Then champagne in blankets. Plant serenading - ' 'You serenaded the plant.'

' - chair testing. When's the next time, anyway?'

'Never happening.' 'Come on.' You caught her hand, interlacing your fingers. Her skin was smooth, like heated marble. 'The way you looked in that dress…' 'Now you're just being smooth.' You traced her hand - the knuckles, the flesh between finger joints, her careful nails. 'Is it working?' 'Maybe.' She leaned in for a soft kiss. 'What else?' 'The way you insisted on ranking every wine from the minibar.' 'Research purposes.' 'On hotel stationary. With ratings out of ten.' 'What do you have against proper documentation?' Her eyes gleaming. Cute. [2]

-

[2] There's something deeply unhinged about making someone rate wines at 2 AM, but it's also exactly the kind of thing that seems brilliant when you're three drinks in and she's wearing your shirt and everything feels possible. The fact that she went along with it - actually took notes, actually assigned numerical values to '$8 minibar Chardonnay' - is probably why you're doomed. Anyone who matches your weird that precisely is either your soulmate or your downfall, and honestly… what's the difference?

-

'Nothing. Found it adorable.' You chased her as she dodged your kiss. 'What was the winner again?' 'The Rosé. Obviously.' 'Mm.' Your fingers found their way into her hair. 'We should probably get up soon.' 'Why?' 'Sooin's coming at 11:30.' She reached for her phone, squinting at the screen. 'That's… two hours away.'

'Exactly. Soon.' 'Your concept of time is broken.' The phone dropped back to the nightstand as she curled into you. 'Five more minutes.' 'You said that twenty minutes ago.' 'Did I? Must have been someone else.' 'In this bed?' 'Could be anyone. Very large bed.' 'True. I should check.' You shifted theatrically. 'Excuse me, mysterious person, have you seen my girlfriend?' She pinched your side. 'Stop.' 'About this tall, beautiful - and I mean beautiful - and makes spreadsheets about minibar wine?' 'I hate you.' 'Makes terrible threats?' She kissed you longer this time, a proper good morning. 'Better?' 'Getting there.' 'Impossible.' But she smiled against your mouth. 'What would make it better?' 'Hmm. Maybe if the mysterious bed person knew where my pants went.' 'Bathroom door.'

'How - ' 'You hung them very carefully while explaining the importance of wrinkle prevention. Very drunk. Very serious.' 'I was thoughtful.' 'You were tipsy trying to be responsible. It was cute.' 'Just cute?' 'And amusing.'

'I'll take it.' You caught her hand, kissed her palm. 'Though I notice your dress made it to an actual hanger.'

'I'm efficient even when compromised.'

'Compromised?'

'Slightly… influenced. By alcohol. And you.'

'Me?'

'You kept doing that thing.'

'What thing?'

Pink crept into her cheeks. 'The thing where you look at me like…'

'Like?'

'You know.' She hid her face in your neck. 'Stop making me say nice things. Too early.'

'It's past 9:30.'

'Weekend rules.'

'Since when do you follow weekend rules?'

'I'm adopting them. Selectively.' Her breath warmed your skin. 'Rule one: no embarrassing admissions before coffee.'

'After coffee?'

'We'll see.'

You wrapped both arms around her, content in the absurd luxury of this hotel bed. The room still held last night palpably - an empty glass on the far table, her shoes abandoned by the door, balcony doors cracked to let in cool morning air. Most importantly, her hair: properly mussed, frizzy where you grabbed it, where she moved in rhythm with your body. [3]

The morning stretched ahead, full of nothing but this.

-

[3] The morning-after hair observation thing is such a cliché it hurts, but: you become a forensic expert in the evidence of your own happiness. Every tangle says "this happened," every misplaced strand means "we were here, we were real, we were absurdly alive at 3 AM." It's pathetic how much meaning you can extract from follicular displacement, but then again, memory needs its anchors, and if yours happen to be keratin-based, so be it.

-

'It was nice watching you and Sooin together. All the history there.' 'Seven years of questionable decisions,' she murmured. 'Good decisions. Like this hotel room.' 'Mmm. I'll tell Sooin you approve.' She yawned. 'She'll be insufferable.' 'She's already insufferable. That's why we love her.' 'True.' A pause settled between you. 'Do you think she's okay? About the exhibition?' 'She will be. She always is.' 'I know. I just worry.' She shifted to look at you properly. 'Is that silly?' 'No. It's what you do.' You tucked her hair behind her ear. 'It's nice.' 'Nice?' 'Adorable. The kind where you pretend you're not soft but you actually are.' 'I'm not soft.' 'You made her a good luck playlist.' 'That's just being supportive.' 'With color-coded sections.' '…Organizational efficiency.' 'And little notes for each song.'

She buried her face in the pillow. 'Stop knowing things.'

'Never.' Your hand found her back, rubbing gentle circles. 'Hey. She's going to be brilliant. You know that, right?' 'I know.' Her voice came out muffled. 'I just want good things for her.'⁴ 'They'll happen.' She turned her head to peek at you. 'You really think so?' 'I do. And if not, we'll be there with emergency mimosas and terrible jokes.' 'Your jokes are terrible.'

'That's the point.' She smiled, reaching up to trace your face. She kissed your closed eye. You held her closer. Her eyes, the small mole on the tip of her nose. Palpable, the universe of you two. 'I love you.' She whispered. You kissed her in turn. 'I thought no embarrassing admissions before coffee.' Pink crept up her neck as she hid her face again. You pulled her closer. 'Nowhere else I'd rather be.' 'Even with mysterious bed people?' 'Especially then.'

She laughed, tugging you down for another kiss. 'Okay. Fifteen more minutes, then we really do have to get up.'

'Deal.'

'I mean it this time.'

'Sure you do.'

'I'm setting an alarm.' But she made no move toward her phone, already melting back into your arms.

'Very convincing.'

'Shh. Weekend rules. No calling out contradictions before coffee.'

'I thought that was embarrassing admissions.'

'I'm making new rules as needed.'

'Of course you are.' You kissed the crown of her head. 'Fifteen minutes.'

'Fifteen minutes.'

The promised alarm never materialized. Instead, your mouth found hers again, morning breath be damned. Your hands sprawled across her honey skin, palms pressing against the beginning swell of her breasts, circling slightly, drawing out those perfect little half-groans.

When you shifted to bracket her body with yours, she squealed playfully, pressing her palm against your shoulder. 'Someone's feeling bold.'

'Just thorough. You seemed cold.' The lie was transparent. She knew it, fingers already tracing your shoulder, eyes holding that particular heat from last night. 'Thorough, he says. Is that what we're calling it?' You answered by kissing the corner of her mouth, working your way to that spot below her ear that made her breath catch. She tilted her head automatically, a response coded into muscle memory. 'You're terrible,' she breathed.

'The worst,' you agreed against her skin. 'Absolutely the - oh.' Her words dissolved as you found that perfect junction of jaw and neck. Then, disaster: pins and needles shot down your supporting arm. She noticed immediately. 'Did your arm just fall asleep?' You lied by her side. With a big grin. So beautiful, when she smiles. 'Maybe.' 'Adorable. My strong man, defeated by his own circulation.'[1] Her hands worked your forearm back to life. 'Better?' You flexed your fingers in response. She caught your index finger, pressed a kiss to the tip. 'Competen - '

'Don't even start.' Her eyes blazed with mischief. 'Maybe stick to positions that don't require gymnastic endurance?' You pulled her firmly against you, her waist bending perfectly as she gasped. Your mouth found the flexing tendon of her neck, tongue tracing hollows and dips as she arched into you. Fifteen minutes became thirty. Thirty became an hour. Sooin could wait.

-

[1] All taut sinew; the next, your nerve stages a coup, flooding your limb with the fizzy static of a thousand dying televisions. The humiliation is exquisite: biology reminding you that you’re essentially a sentient meat puppet piloted by faulty wiring and whimsical blood flow. You try to play it off - Ah, just my corporeal vessel rebelling against transcendence! - but internally, you’re drafting furious letters to Evolution: “RE: Poor Design Choices in Homo Sapiens Model #27B-6. SUGGESTION: Prioritize limb reliability over, say, toe hair or the ability to taste cilantro as soap.” It’s the universe whispering, through pins and needles, that even ecstasy is provisional, subject to maintenance, and probably overdue for an upgrade.

-

Her breath hitched when your lips found the edge of her jaw. You kissed the hard angle first, then traced the taut cord of muscle down to the soft dip beneath her chin. When your mouth finally covered hers, it wasn’t gentle. ‘How’s that for competent?’ You growl. Into her mouth. Her breathless mouth. Inching for any opportunity to breathe. You sealed her protest with your tongue. Her hands locked behind your nape pulling you closer until her breasts flattened against your chest, nipples hardening directly on your skin. The scent of her skin - salt and gooseberries and lilac - flooded your nostrils as she arched into you. Your palm slid down her outer thigh, fingertips catching on the fabric of her panties. Higher. Over the curve of her ass, gripping the fabric until the muscle tensed under your hand. She moaned into your mouth, grinding against your hip, her bare feet wrapped around you, holding on for dear life. Then her hand was on you - fingers curling around the thick outline of your cock through your underwear, squeezing just enough to draw a ragged groan from your throat. You felt the damp heat between her legs when your thumb brushed her clothed pussy.

‘Fuck me,’ she gasped, hips jerking as you pushed two fingers past her waistband, through slick folds. ‘Turn around.’ She smirked before she pivoted, turning around, back pressed to your chest. You hooked your thumbs in her panties - black lace - and dragged them down to mid-thigh, perfectly profane. Her skin burned where your knuckles brushed her inner leg. 'Please.' She pleaded, pushing her ass against your erection' You fumbled with your underwear, cock springing free against her lower back. She guided you with a hand behind her, fingers wrapping your shaft, angling you downward. Your first thrust grazed into her. Too tight.

‘Wrong - ,’ she yelped, pain and laughter trembling. 'Oh fuck. I'm so sorry.' You sidle up next to her, 'Are you - '' 'Keep going. Don't ruin the mood. Keep going. Please.' You choked; you adjusted, the head of your cock catching on wetness this time. She gasped as you pushed past swollen flesh, sinking an inch into her. Her inner muscles clenched.

‘Deeper.’ she begged, fingers clawing at your thigh. ‘Please - ’ You drove forward until your hips met her ass. A choked cry tore from her throat as she took your full length. She was fracturing. 'Fuck. Fuck - ' You held still, letting her adjust, feeling the flutter of her walls around you. 'Take it. Take it.' You breathe out, out of breath, fucking her into heaven. Nothing to offer but your length divvied into her wet walls. Hips pinned against her every turn. Your cock kissing her cervix - the rim of her moist cunt pressed oh so tight, filthy, dirty. ‘Should’ve - ah - aimed better,’ she panted, rolling her hips to take you deeper still. You moved then - thrusts that dragged just so, perfectly, leaving just the crown of your cock before pressing your full length inside her. Her moans sharpened, pitching higher with each retreat, each return. You slid a hand around her hip, fingers finding her drenched folds, circling her swollen bud as you fucked her. Her thighs shook. ‘Come on,’ you urged, thumb pressing hard. ‘Let go.’ You fucked deeper. Restraining her neck, her back compressing into an arch that left nothing in the middle. Only her nape and ass pressed against you. You dug your palm into her navel, 'Cum for me. Princess. Cum for me.' You growl, drawl. Her back arched, more than before. More than what should be possible. A scream ripped through her as she came, muscles milking your cock. Pulse after pulse. You groaned, and you followed, hips slamming forward as release tore deep into your muscles, your bones. Rope after rope. Cum served right to her cervix. Glancing off the walls, eventually sickeningly spread all inside her, filled to the brim, spilling like lava through the slightest crevice of her folds. All she could offer was a soft sigh.

-

Her back was to you, she was still trembling. Sweat glued the both of you together. Your fingers stroked the damp hair at her nape.

'I don't think I can walk.'

You smile. 'Who said you had to walk?'

‘Mmm,’ she hummed, turning in your arms. ‘Such a charmer.’ Her hand slid down your chest, pausing at your abdomen. ‘Prove those muscles aren’t just for show. Carry me.’

You lifted her easily, fireman-style. Her laughter vibrated against your neck as you carried her to the bathroom.

She opened the doors. 'Though I'd be of help, you know, my arms, and your legs situation.'

'Appreciate the assistance.' You jokingly say.

The shower hissed, steam immediately fogged the mirror.

‘Brunch with Sooin later. Before her exhibition.’ she said, a reminder to herself. Water sluiced through her hair, darkening it to ink.

You followed, hands sliding over her slick shoulders. ‘And after?’

She tilted her face up, droplets catching on her lashes. ‘Haven’t decided.’ Your palm cupped her breast, thumb rubbing a taut nipple. She sighed, leaning back into you. ‘Maybe we’ll just… see.’

'Wait.' You reached for the shampoo, squirting some into your palm. 'Did Gawon just suggest winging it?'

'I'm full of surprises.' She turned, presenting her back to you as you worked the shampoo through her hair.

'Next you'll tell me you threw out your color-coded calendar.'

'Let's not get crazy.' She was soft, content. Her head steadily went along with your touch. 'This feels nice though.'

'What does?'

'Not knowing. Just… being here with you.' She leaned back slightly into your touch.

'Even with soap in your eyes?'

'Especially with soap in my eyes.' She laughed, swiping at her face. 'Very romantic. Really setting the mood.'

'I do my best.' You helped rinse her hair, fingers gentle against her scalp. 'So this spontaneous Gawon - should I be worried?'

'Terrified.' She grinned up at you. 'I might suggest something really wild. Like trying that new Thai place without checking reviews first.'

'The horror.'

'Or walking through the park without a clear idea.'

'Now you're just talking nonsense.'

'I'm learning spontaneity from you. So to speak.'

'That's either very sweet or you're setting me up for something.'

'Can't it be both?' She reached for the conditioner. 'Your turn. What do you want to do today?'

'Honestly?' You took the bottle from her. 'Whatever makes you keep smiling like that.'

'Smooth talker.' But her smile widened. 'Though I notice you didn't actually answer.'

'Maybe I'm learning from you. Keeping my options open.'

'A convert!' She pressed a wet hand to her chest  in mock surprise. 'My work here is done.'

'So Sooin at… noon?'

'Eleven-thirty. She's got that exhibition at two.' Gawon tilted her head as you worked conditioner through the ends of her hair. 'She's nervous about it.'

'Art?'

'Mhm.'

'She'll nail it.' You guided her back under the water. 'She's got that whole eccentric thing down.'

'I'll tell her you said that.' She wiped water from her eyes. 'She thinks she's too cheerful for the part.'

'That’s charm though. No one has energy like her.'

'She contains multitudes.' [1] Gawon's eyes sparkled with mischief. 'Speaking of which, you never told me who your favorite poet actually is.'

-

[1] Gawon deploys Whitman quotes like other people deploy "um" or "well". It's her tell. You've catalogued them all: 'I contain multitudes'; 'I am large' when caught crying at a commercial; 'Do I contradict myself?' when she changes dinner plans for the third time. If you were confronted on behalf of her, you'd say, to the world and above 'She's a loser, your honor'. Though the fact that she only does this for maybe four people in the world makes you stupidly proud to be one of them.

-

'You're not getting out of the Whitman bit that easily.'

'Worth a shot.' She reached past you for the body wash. 'Though I bet it's someone properly pretentious. Ezra Pound? T.S. Eliot?' You had your hand out, she spooled some body wash on your palm.

You rubbed your palms together, getting suds out. 'Baudelaire, actually.' You softly rubbed her body down.

She paused, surprised. 'Gross.'

'What?'

'Pervert.' She smiled, something tender in it. 'I see where you get your naughtiness from.'

You smiled back.

The water ran.

'See?' she said finally. 'Spontaneity. We just had a poetry moment in the shower.'

You pressed a kiss to her damp forehead. 'Maybe ease up on the transcendentalists before coffee.'

'No promises.' She tucked herself against you for a moment. 'I'm feeling very one-with-the-universe today.'

'God help us all.'

'Just you.' She pulled back, eyes bright. 'Think you can handle it?'

'I'll manage somehow.'

'Good.' She headed for the bedroom, calling back, 'Because I'm thinking we skip the predetermined brunch place and just walk until we find somewhere that looks good.'

'Living dangerously.'

'Try to keep up. This new spontaneous me waits for no one.'

'Except for the fifteen minutes you'll spend choosing which spontaneous outfit to wear?'

A towel flew back through the doorway, her laughter following it. 'Twenty minutes, minimum. Some habits die hard.'

You helped her dry her hair, something you’d underestimated, she had a mischievous smile the moment you accepted her offer of drying her hair. The best part was, indeed, the scent of her hair, the softness of it, gliding along your hand.

‘Didn’t expect it to take this long?’’

‘Not at all, it's your hair. Any time is too short.’

‘You got vocal chords shaped like a heart don’t you?’

'Only for you.' You wrapped your arms around her waist, and kissed her neck once.

‘I’m feeling beguiled.’

‘Unsafe?’

‘Very. Where’s the exit?’

‘Oh. I’m not that easy.’ You tightened the embrace.

She giggled, her hand wrapping endearingly around yours.

You had maybe 3 outfits; they were also scattered - the rest of the time, you and Gawon had to look for it. You finished just a little later than Gawon.

Outside, Sooin was sitting in her jeep with the windows down. She spotted you approaching with a grin.

'Morning,' she said, climbing out. 'I brought coffee but I drank it all. Sorry.'

'You okay?' Gawon asked.

'Yeah. Just couldn't sit still at home.' She leaned against the car. 'My neighbor started vacuuming at six AM so I figured that was the universe telling me to leave.'

You all climbed in. The car smelled faintly of coffee and the blue lavender sachets she kept tucked everywhere.

'Where to?' Sooin asked, pulling out carefully.

'I hadn't really decided,' Gawon said.

Sooin glanced over. 'Really?'

'Really.'

'Huh.' A small smile crossed her face. 'Okay. Let's just drive then.'

She took a left at the light, no particular destination in mind. The morning traffic was light, mostly delivery trucks and early joggers.

'The exhibition's at two-fifteen,' Sooin said after a while. 'They want a 'spontaneous review' .'

'You're good at those,' Gawon said.

'Sometimes.' She adjusted the mirror unnecessarily. 'It's three months in Hokkaido if I get it.'

'That's far.'

'Yeah.' Another adjustment. 'Really far.'

They drove past a small café with outdoor seating. Sooin slowed.

'This works?'

'Perfect,' Gawon said.

Sooin parked, taking two tries to get it straight. Inside, they found a corner table. The place was nearly empty, just them and an older man reading a newspaper.

'Tea?' Gawon suggested when the server came by.

'Coffee,' Sooin said. 'I know, I know. But tea makes me sleepy.'

'Since when?'

'Since always. I just pretend to like it.' She smiled at the server. 'Biggest mug you have, please.'

They ordered food too - eggs, toast, nothing fancy. Sooin picked at hers.

'Not hungry?'

'I ate earlier. Made eggs at home too. Forgot I did until just now.' She laughed quietly. 'I'm a little scattered today.'

'You'll be fine,' you said.

'Maybe.' She took a sip of coffee. 'My agent actually said 'think less.''

'Helpful.'

'Right?' She managed a real smile then. 'I should just channel Gawon. Very contained.'

'I'm not that contained,' Gawon protested.

'You made me use a coaster at your apartment during a party.'

'That's just common sense.'

'It was a red solo cup.'

They fell into silence. Sooin's hands had stopped fidgeting, wrapped around her mug.

'Thanks for this,' she said eventually. 'I know I'm being weird.'

'You're not,' Gawon said.

-

'Right.' She put the phone down. 'Tell me something normal. Anything.'

'Like what?'

'I don't know. What you had for breakfast yesterday. Your grocery list. Literally anything that isn't about auditions.'

Gawon thought about it. 'I bought new socks.'

'Thrilling.'

'They have cats on them.'

'Of course they do.' But Sooin was almost smiling. 'Are they at least subtle cats?'

'They're wearing top hats.'

Sooin smiled.

'What? They were on sale.'

You laughed. 'Show her the ones from last week.'

'No.'

'They have tacos on them,' you told Sooin.

'Tacos?'

'Tiny dancing kitty tacos.'

Sooin stared at Gawon. 'You're secretly twelve years old.'

'They're comfortable.'

'That's not a defense.'

'It's the only defense I need.' Gawon took a sip of coffee. 'Besides, you have that shirt with the - '

'We don't talk about the shirt.'

'The one with the sequined - '

'I said we don't talk about it.'

They went back and forth like that, and slowly Sooin's death grip on her mug loosened. Her shoulders came down from around her ears.

'Fifty minutes,' she said eventually. 'Think I have time to throw up?'

'You're not going to throw up.'

'I might.'

'You won't.' Gawon pushed the water closer. 'Drink this.'

'Bossy.'

'Yeah.'

Sooin drank the water. 'Remember when I auditioned for that commercial? The one with the cat?'

'You were allergic.'

'So allergic. My face swelled up like a balloon.' She touched her cheek. 'At least there's no cats this time.'

'Small mercies.'

'Huge mercies. Can you imagine? Sorry, I can't quietly unravel, I'm too busy sneezing.''

'You'd still get it,' you said.

'With my balloon face?'

'Even then.'

'Liar.' But she looked calmer. 'Thirty minutes. Oh god.'

'You want to head over?'

'No. Yes. I don't know.' She stood up, sat back down. 'What if I forget my own name?'

'Then make one up,' Gawon suggested.

'Hi, I'm… Gertrude.'

'Aim higher.'

'Beatrice?'

'Now you're just listing old lady names.'

'Those are sophisticated names.' Sooin stood again, for real this time. 'Okay. Let's go before I really do throw up.'

You paid and left. Outside, Sooin stopped walking.

'I don't want to go to Hokkaido,' she said quietly.

'Then don't,' Gawon said.

'I need the job.'

'You need a job. Not necessarily this job.'

'It's a good opportunity.'

'Is it though?'

Sooin looked at her. 'You're supposed to be supportive.'

'I am being supportive. I'm supporting your right to not freeze your ass off for three months.'

'That's…' Sooin laughed, surprised. 'Actually helpful?'

'I have moments.'

They walked to the car. Sooin got in, started it, didn't drive.

'What if I bomb?'

'Then you bomb,' you said.

'That's it?'

'Then you bomb and we get lunch and tomorrow's another day.'

'You make it sound simple.'

'It is simple. But cruel.'

Sooin considered this. 'I hate when you're profound.'

'Sorry.'

'Don't be.' She finally put the car in drive. 'Twenty minutes. Let's do this.'

At the theater, she parked crooked and didn't fix it.

'How do I look?'

'Like yourself,' Gawon said.

'Is that good enough?'

'It's perfect.'

Sooin nodded, grabbed her bag. 'If I die in there - '

'We'll delete your browser history.'

'I was going to say tell my mother I love her, but that's better. Thanks.'

She hugged them both quickly, then walked inside before she could change her mind.

'She's going to nail it,' you said.

'Yeah.' Gawon was already looking for somewhere to wait. 'Coffee?'

'Obviously.'

You found a place across the street. Ordered. Sat by the window where you both could see the theater doors.

'She really doesn't want to go to Hokkaido,' Gawon said.

'No.'

'Think she'll take it anyway?'

'Probably.'

'Yeah.' Gawon turned her cup three times. Caught herself. 'Damn it.'

'I didn't say anything.'

'You were thinking it.'

'Little bit.'

They sat quietly, waiting. Normal morning. Normal coffee. Two people waiting for their friend to maybe change her life or maybe not.

Either way, they'd be there.

-

Sooin's exhibition was successful. She sold 3 pieces. 3 more than she expected. She was more than ecstatic. And she was hired.

'I got it!' Sooin shouted from the hallway, fumbling with her keys. 'Holy shit, I actually got it!'

'We heard you the first ten times,' Gawon said, taking one of the champagne bottles before Sooin dropped it.

'I'm going to keep saying it.' She finally got the door open. 'Maybe forever.'

Her apartment was a mess. Empty wine bottles from last night's panic session, canvases against every wall, a dead plant she kept meaning to throw out.

'Sit,' Gawon ordered. 'You're vibrating.'

'I can't sit. I might explode.' But Sooin collapsed on the couch anyway. 'They want me for three months. In Hokkaido. Starting next month.'

'That's fast,' you said.

'That's terrifying.' She opened the champagne badly. Foam everywhere. 'Shit. Sorry.'

'Leave it.' Gawon was already in the kitchen getting glasses. Real ones, not the plastic cups Sooin usually used.

'Fancy,' Sooin said.

'You got a real job. We're using real glasses.'

'It's just three months.'

'It's a whole thing. With a budget. A whole mentor.'

'Who thinks I have 'luminous loneliness.' Sooin made air quotes. 'Whatever that means.'

'It means you're hired,' you said.

'Yeah.' She drank half her glass at once. 'Weird though, right? Like he saw through me or something.'

Gawon and you exchanged a look.

'What?' Sooin caught it. 'What was that?'

'Nothing.'

'Bullshit. You did the thing.'

'What thing?'

'The worried look thing.' She poured more champagne. 'I'm fine. I'm great. I'm employed.'

'We know,' Gawon said carefully.

'Do you? Because you're looking at me like I'm about to cry or something.' Sooin laughed. Too loud. 'I'm not going to cry. I got the part.'

She kept drinking. Fast. By the third glass she was quieter.

'Three months is long,' she said eventually.

'We'll visit.'

'Yeah.' She picked at the couch cushion. 'It's just. I'll be alone. Again.'

'You won't be alone. You'll have the cast, the crew - '

'That's not what I mean.' Sooin looked at them. 'When's the last time someone actually wanted me around? Like, really wanted me?'

The question hung there.

'See?' She smiled, but it was all wrong. 'Can't remember either.'

'Sooin - '

'It's fine. I'm used to it.' She stood up too fast, swayed. 'I'm going to bed.'

'Let us help - '

'I'm good.' She wasn't. 'Really. Thanks for… this. For being here.'

They watched her weave toward her bedroom. The door closed with a soft click.

-

The apartment had gone quiet except for Sooin's gentle breathing from the bedroom. You'd both helped her there an hour ago, after the toasts became mumbled and her eyes started closing mid-sentence.

Just you and Gawon on the couch, the Yamazaki bottle between you on the coffee table. She poured two fingers each, no ice.

'She was happy,' Gawon said, tucking her legs under herself. 'Really happy.'

'The exhibition was a success.' You add.

'That's not what I mean.' Gawon took a sip, considering her words. 'Did you see her face when that couple was discussing her work? How she lit up?'

'She loves when people get it.'

'No.' Gawon shook her head. 'She loves being seen. There's a difference.'

You waited. Gawon had that look-the one that meant she was working up to something.

'She told me she hasn't been with anyone.’ She said, quiet.

'She's focused on her work.'

'She's scared.' Gawon stared into her glass. 'I mean, I know the feeling now, you know? She’s never been with anybody - I never thought that concept would be so important to me now.’

She looked at you then. 'When's the last time someone chose her? Really chose her?'

Japan’s humid night tucked the both of you in this comfortable atmosphere.

'I've been thinking,' Gawon continued. 'About what she needs.'

'Gawon - '

'Just listen.' She shifted closer. 'You're good. Actually good. Not just nice, not just charming. Good.'

'I'm not - '

'You are.' Her hand found yours. 'And she trusts you. We both do.'

'What are you asking?'

'I'm asking…' She took another sip for courage. 'I'm asking you to make her feel wanted. Even just once. So she knows what it's like.'

'You want me to-'

'I want her to stop believing she's meant to be alone.' Gawon was fierce but quiet. 'I want her to know how it feels when someone sees all of her and wants her anyway.'

'This is whiskey talking.'

She set her glass down. 'This is me talking. Me loving her enough to be unconventional.'

'And you'd be okay with it?'

'I'd be there.' The words came out sure. 'If she wanted. If it helped her feel safe.'

You studied her face - earnest, determined, maybe a little scared herself.

'This could complicate everything,' you said carefully.

'Everything's already complicated.' She laughed softly. 'We're sitting in her apartment, drinking her celebration whiskey, trying to figure out how to fix her loneliness. We passed complicated a while ago.'

'She might say no.'

'She might.' Gawon picked up her glass again. 'But she might not. And maybe that's what she needs - to choose. To be chosen.'

From the bedroom, Sooin murmured something in her sleep. You both turned toward the sound, then back to each other.

'Think about it,' Gawon said. 'That's all I'm asking.'

'I don't need to think about it.' You touched her face gently. 'If you're sure. If she wants it. If it would help her…'

'You'd do that?'

'I'd do anything for the people I love.' First time said aloud. 'Both of you.'

Gawon kissed you then, soft and grateful.

She curled into your side, and you sat there with the weight of what you were contemplating. The whiskey bottle refracted and diffracted, amber and warm, like the feeling in your chest.

'When?' you asked eventually.

'When she's sober. When she can really choose.' Gawon was sleepy now. 'When it's not about the exhibition… but just… us. Being here for her.'

'Okay.'

'Okay?'

'Okay.'

She smiled against your shoulder. In the bedroom, Sooin slept on, unaware of the promises being made in her name, for her heart, in the whiskey-soft glow of her own living room.

-

Morning came with the quiet sounds of movement in the kitchen.

'There's coffee,' Sooin said without turning when you and Gawon came in. She was at the stove, hair messy, wearing the same paint-stained shirt she always wore for cooking.

'Smells good,' Gawon said, settling at the table.

'It's just eggs.' Sooin was carefully neutral. 'Nothing fancy.'

'Sleep okay?' you asked.

'Fine.' She still hadn't turned around. 'You?'

'The couch was comfortable.'

'Good. That's… good.'

Gawon nudged your foot under the table. The eggs were starting to stick to the pan.

'Here.' You stood, moving to help. 'Let me - '

'I've got it.' But she let you take the spatula, stepping back.

Standing this close, you could see she'd been crying again. Not recently, but enough to leave traces.

'Sooin.'

'Don't.' Her voice was very quiet. 'Please.'

'Okay.'

You focused on the eggs, salvaging what you could. She stayed nearby, not quite touching but not moving away either.

'I said things last night,' she said finally.

'You were honest.'

'I was drunk.'

'Both can be true.'

She laughed softly, without humor. 'I guess.'

The morning light caught her face when she finally looked up. She looked tired but also somehow lighter, like crying had washed something away.

'I meant it though,' she said. 'About being tired of being alone.'

''I know.'

'It's not…' She glanced at Gawon, then back. 'I'm not trying to make this weird.'

'You're not.'

'I am though.' She moved closer, just barely. 'Aren't I?'

You set the spatula down. 'Look at me.'

She did, reluctantly.

'You're not making anything weird. You're being you.'

'That's the problem.'

'No,' you said gently. 'It's not.'

Something shifted in her face. 'You mean that.'

'Yeah.'

'Even though…' She gestured vaguely between you and Gawon.

'Even though.'

She was very still now, watching you. You reached up slowly, giving her time to step back. She didn't. Your hand touched her face.

'Oh,' she said softly.

The kiss was brief, gentle. Her fingers wrapped around your wrist, not pulling away, just holding.

When you stepped back, she stayed still for a moment, eyes closed.

…

She opened her eyes, looked at you, then at Gawon who had moved closer.

'I don't understand any of this.'

'That's okay,' Gawon said quietly.

'Is it?'

'Yeah.'

Sooin took a breath. Looked at the stove. 'I burned the eggs.'

'I noticed.'

'They're completely destroyed.'

'We'll make more,' you said.

'Right.' She turned off the burner, moved the pan to the sink. 'Right. Okay.'

She ran water over the burned mess, watched it steam.

'Thank you,' she said to the sink. 'Both of you.'

'For what?'

'I don't know.' A small laugh. 'Everything. Nothing. The eggs.'

'Anytime,' Gawon said.

The morning sun filled the kitchen. Three people standing in the aftermath of something shifting. The burned smell was already fading.

Sooin dried her hands, turned around. 'So. Breakfast?'

'Breakfast,' you agreed.

And that was enough for now.

-

The taxi smelled like fake pine. Gawon sat by the window, arms crossed.

'You okay?'

'Fine.'

'You're doing that thing with your jaw.'

'What thing?' Her jaw unclenched slightly.

'That thing.' You poked her shoulder. 'When you're annoyed but pretending not to be.'

'I'm not annoyed.'

'Okay.'

'I'm not.'

'I said okay.'

She turned to glare at you. 'Her lipstick is on your collar.'

You glanced down. There was indeed a faint pink smudge. 'Huh.'

'Huh? That's all?'

'What do you want me to say?'

'I don't know. Something.' She turned back to the window. 'Never mind.'

'You're jealous.'

'I'm not jealous.'

'You're a little jealous.'

'Shut up.'

You slid closer. She leaned away.

'Gawon.'

'What?'

'You literally suggested it.'

'I know what I suggested. Doesn't mean I have to like it.'

'Fair.'

The driver changed lanes. Gawon stayed pressed against the door.

'She uses vanilla lip gloss,' you said conversationally. 'Very sweet.'

'I don't care.'

'Like candy almost.'

'Stop talking.'

'You use that mint one. Much better.'

She finally looked at you. 'You're enjoying this.'

'A little bit.'

'Ass.'

'Yeah.' You touched her knee. 'Come here.'

'No.'

'Come on.'

'I said no.' But she wasn't pulling away from your hand.

'One kiss.'

'You've had enough kisses today.'

'One more.'

She rolled her eyes but turned toward you. 'You're ridiculous.'

'Yeah.'

'And your collar is still pink.'

'I'll wash it.'

'Good.' She leaned in then, quick and firm. When she pulled back, she was almost smiling. 'There. Happy?'

'Getting there.'

'Don't push it.' But she let you take her hand. 'How was it anyway?'

'How was what?'

'You know what.'

'It was nice.'

'Nice.' She considered this. 'That's it?'

'She was nervous. Kept apologizing.'

'Sounds like her…'

…

'I also liked it.' She added, in the silence.

Wha-

She swiftly kissed you this time, harder, hands on your jaw. The taxi driver coughed pointedly.

'We're almost there,' Gawon said against your mouth.

'We could circle the block.'

'That's very Pretty Woman of you.'

'I've never seen it.'

'Liar.' But she was smiling now, the tension finally breaking. 'You probably cried at the end.'

'Every time.'

'I knew it.' She settled against your side properly. 'You're such a soft touch.'

'Only for you.'

'And Sooin, apparently.' She smiled, now with an air of mischief.

'That's different.'

'I know.' Quieter now. 'I know it is. Still.'

'Still,' you agreed.

The hotel appeared ahead. Gawon straightened, already reaching for her bag.

'For the record,' she said as the taxi slowed, 'I prefer when your mouth tastes like mint. Or nothing. Or me. Or you.'

'Noted.'

The taxi stopped. The doorman was already moving toward them. The moment broke, but the understanding remained - she'd given something, watched something, felt something she hadn't expected. And maybe that was okay.

-

The hotel already felt like home. Two days. Just two days and the air carried Gawon's scent.

And the traces of the entire day, and the day before that.

You carried a box of cookies that Sooin made into the villa. She said it was just a parting gift just for today, but it felt more like she was trying to forget what happened. It was the opposite for you, you couldn't forget; and the fresh smell of the cookies, reminded you exactly of Sooin's plump lips, pressed desperately against yours, as the scent of the cookie caramelized in the oven.

You left the box of cookies on the table.

The door to the bathroom clicked when you sat on the bed. And Gawon emerged. Sheer stockings covering her feet to the midway of her thighs. A stunningly webbed black lingerie piece that covered just the right amount to leave you anguish, while still narrowly hiding everything.

Her bra was the same too, the underswell, the upswell, the way her breasts coupled just over the edge of the bra, just so, god almighty.

-

'Sit on that chair.' She was firm.

You moved, still admiring her, but now sat facing her.

She approached, slowly at first, between you and the bed, and she sat.

'I suppose this is what I planned as payback.'

'Because of yesterday.'

'Among other things. You kissing Sooin, keeping me sore this entire week.'

Her stocking-clad foot traced a deliberate path along your denim-clad thigh - a slow exploration. ‘Gawon.’ The name escaped you, raw and pleading.

‘Hush.’

Your fingers dug into the chair’s worn knit fabric. Her toes pressed, finally, against the aching bulge straining your jeans - then lifted away. ‘Gawon.’

‘Keep saying my name.’ A command.

Both feet settled heavily on your thighs now, warm soles pressing heat through denim. Your knuckles whitened. ‘What do you want? Tell me.’

‘Help me. With your feet.’

‘Good boy.’

One foot slid upward, the nylon catching on your zipper. A single toe hooked under the button. Relief was a breath away. ‘Take it out.’

‘What?’

‘Take it out.’ Her foot pressed down, the arch molding perfectly to your trapped erection. Toe pads dragged firmly along the swollen length. ‘Look at you. Hard just from my feet. Naughty boy.’

‘You’re the reason.’ Your voice was gravel. Her sole pressed harder, feeling the rigid heat through the layers of cotton and denim.¹

Her hands clenched the bedsheets, knuckles taut.

Then - emptiness. Her feet withdrew.

You looked up, lost. ‘Wh - '

Her fingers hooked the waistband of her skirt. A slow, slide down endless legs. The fabric caught briefly on her toes before pooling on the floor. Art unveiled.

You released the chair, transfixed. The air hummed with worn nerves. She planted her feet firmly on the mattress edge, wiggling her toes - a deliberate provocation. Her gaze pinned you, savoring your desperation.

Slowly, deliberately, she ripped the seam of her left stocking. White-painted toes emerged. ‘These were expensive,’ she murmured. ‘I expect… reciprocation.’ The contrast - torn black nylon against creamy skin - was devastating.

‘Take it out.’ This time, it was final. You shoved your boxers down, freeing yourself.

Gawon’s eyes widened. Her left foot landed on your bare thigh, sole searing against skin. Then the right. Both feet bracketed your shaft, radiating unbearable heat just millimeters away.

‘Let me show you what these can do.’ A soft, dangerous smile.

Her feet closed around you. Her warm textured soles around your shaft, bare toes wiggling, brushing. Pressure. Friction. Gawon grinned, your cock trapped between her arches, twitching, helpless, pooling with precum.

She asked you to move closer, ‘Wait - closer. I can - ’

You dragged the chair forward immediately, wood scraping floor. She slid toward the edge. Your hands locked around her thin calves, feeling the flex of muscle beneath nylon.

‘That… works.’ Her breath hitched. One hand slid down her stomach, fingers pressing into soft skin below her navel. Lower. Beneath the lace edge of her panties. A sigh escaped her as her fingers moved slow, shadowing across her lace panties, hints of knuckles, fingers, the soft squelch. Her hand emerged glistening.

‘God. You’re so wet.’ You barely tear out.

‘Like you wouldn’t believe.’ She held up her slick-coated hand. ‘Want it? Be good. Take it.' She wrapped that wetness around your cock. Tight. She spat into her other palm. Both hands worked you now, while her feet maintained their tight grip at the base of your cock, barely moving, but destroying your nerves nonetheless.

Then she moved. Her hand held crown of your cock as her soles pressed heavily on either side. Her hand worked the precum down, her feet worked all of it: saliva, precum, her slick.

You twitched. Back arching. Your grip on her calves was too tight at some point, to which she moaned a soft rebellion: you stopped immediately.

You dug your toes into the carpet, your biceps pulsed, you lost oxygen after every filthy pass of her feet along your length.

And yet,

Her feet never stopped - a slow, torturous undulation against your shaft. The textured nylon dragged and pulled every moan from you, every hunchback position to prevent spilling on her textured soles rubbing against the slit of your cock.

Then just as you half-twitched to completion.

She stopped.

'You want my hand?'

'Yes.' You barely say.

You were prey to Gawon: 'Louder, beg for it.'

'Please. Your hand. My cock. Please.'

Her hand gripped your cock like it was a squeeze toy, a welcome sensation when you're passing in and out of consciousness.

Every downward stroke of her hands synced with her soles pressed hard around your cock.

'Look at you,' she breathed. 'Twitching like a rabbit in a snare.'

A strangled sound escaped you. Her thumbs circled your swollen head, smearing her wetness mixed with yours. Pre-come slicked the path. The schlick-schlick of her pumping hands synced with the shush-shush of nylon soles gliding.

Then she changed rhythm.

Her feet stilled, clamped tight just below the head. Her hands accelerated, twisting on the upstroke, thumb digging into the frenulum.

'Gawon - !'

'Not yet.' Her command was amber and honey and gunpowder pressed to your very nerves. 'You hold it. Hold it for me. Be a good boy.'

Sweat beaded your temples. Your hips jerked, seeking deeper pressure, but her feet held firm, denying release. Muscles trembled - thighs, abdomen, the cords in your neck standing rigid. The need was a live wire sparking behind your eyes.

'You taste the air?' She murmured, inexplicably.

You did. Salt. Her arousal. The tang of overworked nerves.

'That’s you unmaking. That’s what I do. Now, come here. sit here.' She patted on the part of bed between her thighs.

You stood up immediately, sitting between her thighs, her arms now entangled around your waist.

'I have a request.' She pressed a kiss to your jaw.

'Mm.' You reply. Running on fumes.

'I want you to… are you listening?' She says, now soft.

In a flash, her legs wrapped around your waist, her hand wrapped around your cock. Her heels just hovered by the sides of your shaft.

Then her heels dug in.

You let out a groan. In pleasure.

'I want to watch you have sex with Sooin.'

You twitched. You almost came. You groaned too. She's trying to fucking kill you. Her heels moved just so, the muscle of your shaft shifting in turn, her soles now pressed on either side of your shaft.

'Gawon - '

'Fuck Sooin for me. I won't force you. I want you to. I liked it… I liked it when you kissed her.'

'Gawon - ' You breathe. You were about to break. You were twitching. One more move. That's all she needed to break you.

'So?' Waiting for an answer.

Her left foot shifted. Just the big toe, dragging slowly, agonizingly, from root to tip along the pulsing vein underneath your cock. A whimper tore loose. Her hands tightened, twisting harder.

'Ok! I will. Fuck. I'll fuck Sooin. In front of you... I'll cum inside her.'

You groaned, her soles continued its movement, along the length of your cock, the whole of her soles, milking you.

She moaned. She came before you did. She moaned right on the rim of your ear, vibrating her perfect orgasm.

Holy Fucking Shit.

You detonated next.

It was a structural collapse. Spine arching, heels digging into carpet, vision whiting out as heat roared up your spine. Her hands milked every spasm, her feet a warm, grounding weight as you emptied yourself over her fingers, stripes of white landing hot on your stomach, her fingers, the carpet below the bed.

You panted, Gawon held you firm.

Gawon watched, chest rising and falling rapidly, her own arousal glistening visibly now at the lace edge of her panties. She lifted her slick, glazed hand, studying the mess with detached fascination.

'Holy fuck.' She said, spent.

You laughed.

She laughed in turn.

Her foot, still resting against your spent cock, gave one final, proprietary squeeze.

-

Tomorrow. Tomorrow was when everything was gonna happen.

You and Gawon shared a shower. Went along with the routine of days past.

With a commitment etched into eachother's hearts.

-

The day was neutral. Routine. You and gawon showered together. She scoffed when you held her waist with a half-hard cock against her back; all she could offer was, 'Tonight, you'll have all the time you need.' She didn't know how much that made you ache.

The hours ambled past. You and Gawon made rounds to cafes, pet shops, summer trees. Her honey hand was wrapped with yours the entire time, even when clammy: a soft proclamation that the both of you would be through thick and thin.

By evening, you walked nervously with Gawon to Sooin's place. She said everything was arranged. What did that mean?

The walk upstairs was even more nerve-wracking. It was until Gawon hugged you, right outside the door to Sooin's, that you calmed down. 'Sooin deserves the best. You deserve the best. I won't be jealous. I want Sooin to feel loved - more than just a kiss. I want you to understand, more than just sex, that I'll be forever yours.'

'It's a pity I can't throw you against this wall and make love. Hm?' You grin. She grins back. You kiss. You have no idea what you did to deserve Gawon.

The door softly cranked open and Sooin was stood there. Her hands raised perpendicular, waiting for you.

You walked towards her, then hugged her.

Sooin stood on her toes for a moment, readjusting her arms around your neck. She was secure, holding your head, looking at you; maybe she was trying to conceptualize something, something more foreign than just kissing.

Your hands were at her waist now, against her warm skin.

You were already half-hard. Half-dizzy. Crazed: Gawon's watching you, Sooin wants you. Focus, for once, focus.

Two beautiful women, one observing, one right in your arms - the one that isn't your girlfriend. You were confused.

Things were uncoiling. You aren't sure what it was.

'Kiss me. Again. More. As much as it takes.' Sooin whispered, right on your ear. Her moist breath tingling the side of your ear, your face.

Your breath caught. AWOL. You looked at Sooin once more. Her cheeks flush, her breaths heavy, her hair tangled so perfectly around your fingers.

You caught the side of her chin with one hand. Tilting her head just a little, just so, and you touched her lips. She was breathing fast, her heart was beating, you felt it on her lips.

You slid your tongue between her lips, selfishly. mmph she says, christ almighty. You traced her lips, her tongue.

Her arms tightened around your neck, and she took initiative: pushing her tongue deep into your mouth. You moved in response, in surprise. 'Gently' you whisper, she nods; now, licking softly, her tongue to yours, exploring you. Her hands were stretching the quarter-zip that Gawon bought for you.

You were catastrophically hard. You weren't privy to what Gawon was doing, what she was saying, most of all, what her reaction was. You were a deer under spotlight. Sooin coodinating perfectly to make sure you couldn't look at Gawon.

'Was that good?' She asked. Cheeks flush. Breathing heavily. Her hips were gently rocking against you. On your hardness.

'Yes. That… was perfect.' You whisper, just loud enough. Gawon surely heard it. Your cock jerked in excitement.

Without saying anything, you pulled her tight, entering her mouth once more, harder, without sympathy. She squealed something. You kissed her hard. Passionately. Far passionately than before, far more than the other times.

Your arm seized the small of her back. You helped her rock her body against your hardness. She was moaning in tandem with your pushes and pulls.

You looked down to see, to go past concept, to see what you were doing to Sooin. But before then, Sooin pulled your chin again, and kissed you hungrily.

Don't worry.

Just enjoy it.

'Christ almighty Sooin.' You balk, speech almost unintelligible. Desperately clinging to Sooin's body.

'Grind into me. Please.' She begged. That was it. That did it.

You nearly lifted her into the air as you ground yourself deep into her. Separated by cloth. Your cock against her pussy.

She moaned deep into your mouth. Her husky voice destroying a piece of you every time.

'I'm gonna come.'

'Keep going. Please. Keep going.'

You desperately move. Forgetting everything. Concepts forgotten. Just Sooin body perfectly sidled up on your brick-hard cock.

Then:

Gawon wrapped her arms around your shoulders. Forehead against your nape.

'I want in.'

Sooin retreated back. Cheeks red. Breathing heavily.

Gawon’s lips left a searing trail down your neck - half-graze, half-bite - as her fingers hooked the hem of your shirt. Fabric rasped upward, baring skin to the cool air and her hotter mouth. She mapped your shoulders, the tense cord of your triceps, then circled to face you, eyes locked on yours as her tongue flicked a nipple. The jolt went straight to your groin.

‘I want to suck your cock.’

No preamble. No permission asked. Her hands were already at your waistband, deftly working the button, the zipper teeth parting like a sigh. Your fingers tangled in her hair, not guiding, just anchoring, as she sank to her knees.

Behind her, Sooin stood frozen. Back pressed to the doorframe, knuckles white where she gripped the wood. Her breath hitched - a soft, involuntary sound. Gawon heard it. Didn’t turn. Just smiled against your hipbone, her breath humid through the thin cotton of your briefs.

‘Watch,’ Gawon murmured, not to you.

She peeled the briefs down. Your cock sprang free, flushed and straining and dripping with pre cum. Gawon’s gaze didn’t leave Sooin’s face as she took you into her mouth.

Her cheeks hollowed out, a gentle sucking noise rang out as your knees almost buckled right then and there.

The soft whimpers of Gawon going deeper.

The slick noise of her tongue circling the head.

Sooin made a sound - a whimper trapped in her throat. Gawon hummed around you, the vibration ricocheting up your spine. Encouragement? Mockery? Impossible to tell.

‘Gawon - ’ you choked out.

She pulled off with a filthy pop. ‘Patience.’ Her hand replaced her mouth, stroking slowly. Deliberate. Theatrical. ‘She’s never seen this, has she? Never seen how pretty a man comes apart.’

Sooin’s eyes were wide, dark, fixed on Gawon’s hand moving on your shaft. A fevered flush crept up her neck.

Gawon’s free hand reached back, blind, and found Sooin’s wrist. ‘Touch him,’ she ordered, voice thick around the command. ‘Just here.’ She guided Sooin’s trembling fingers to your hip, to the tense muscle jumping beneath sweat-damp skin. ‘Feel how hard he is for us.’

Sooin’s touch was feather-light. Terrified. Electrifying. Her fingertips traced the V of your pelvis, then flinched back.

‘Look at him,’ Gawon insisted, taking you deep again, hollowing her cheeks. _‘Look at what we do to him.’

Sooin’s breath stuttered. This time, when her hand returned, it didn’t tremble. Her palm flattened against your stomach, feeling the clench and release of muscle as Gawon sucked harder, faster. Her thumb brushed the base of your cock where Gawon’s lips stretched tight.

Two hands now. Two women. One unbearable friction.

Gawon moaned around you - a sound of pure satisfaction - and Sooin echoed it, softer, wonderstruck. Her nails bit lightly into your hip as Gawon took you to the hilt, throat working, eyes watering but never closing, never looking away from Sooin’s rapt, overwhelmed face.

Gawon’s throat flexed - a tight, rippling swallow against the head of your cock. Her nose pressed into your base. You felt the ridge of your crown catch momentarily on the tense ring of muscle at the back of her mouth before she forced herself deeper, her throat opening in a practiced spasm. Tears welled at the corners of her eyes, tracking mascara-smudged paths down her flushed cheeks. She didn’t blink. Didn’t look away from you.

Her lips sealed impossibly tight around the root, the stretch burning. You felt the thump thump thump of her pulse through the soft flesh of her palate, pressed directly against your straining underside. Saliva overflowed, thick and slick, dripping down your shaft onto Sooin’s hand still splayed on your lower belly. The warm rivulet traced a path through the sweat-sheened skin.

Gawon held you there, buried to the hilt. Her breath came in short, desperate sniffs through flared nostrils, unable to inhale fully. Her jaw trembled with the effort. A low, guttural hum vibrated through her throat and into your cock - a physical buzz deep in your core.

Then, slowly, agonizingly, she retreated. Her throat released its grip with a wet, sucking pop. Your cock slid back through the tight tunnel of her mouth, every ridge, every vein catching exquisitely on her tongue, her palate, her teeth held carefully back. Her tongue flattened beneath you, a hot, broad pressure massaging the sensitive frenulum as she withdrew. Cool air hit the slick length for a fraction of a second before her lips, swollen and red, sealed back around the head.

Her tongue pressed hard under your cock, making you wince with pleasure, all the joints of your body gridlocked under blissful tyranny. Her lips pulsed around your shaft, the softness of the inside of her mouth, molded around your shaft, all velvety and fucking outrageous, dragging horribly along your length, the suction of her lips making a meek sound as it passed the crown of your cock.

Her hands never stopping working the base of your shaft and your balls. Switching rhythmically, squeezing lightly, fingers rolling your sac, just so, just so.

'Fuck. Gawon.'

'God. I love you. And this cock. And everything.' She breathed out, all flush and bothered, intermittently sending a hand down her panties, knuckles shadowing along her panties as she fucked herself on her fingers.

Gawon's saliva ran glistening along your shaft. Before it could pass down your legs, her lips surrounded your shaft again. Slicking Sooin's fingers where they still pressed against your hip. The sound was obscene: wet schlicks on the upstroke, guttural swallows of choked gasps when she surfaced, the constant drip onto skin.

Her hot gusts fanned your wet skin when she, occasionally, came up for air: short, sharp inhalations followed by low moans directed at you, directed at her fingers working on her pussy, before she plunged down again.

Sooin’s hand on your hip shifted. Her thumb found the taut tendon running from your hip bone towards your groin. She pressed into the rigid cord of muscle, her nail scraping lightly through the sweat and Gawon’s spit. Her other hand, the one Gawon had guided, lifted from your belly. You felt her hesitation in the air above your cock, then the tentative brush of a fingertip against the slick, spit-sheened head - just below where Gawon’s lips were sealed. A jolt shot through you.

Gawon felt it too. Her eyes, locked on Sooin’s, narrowed slightly. She increased the suction, hollowing her cheeks sharply, pulling Sooin’s focus back to her mouth, her control. She released you with another filthy pop, saliva stringing between her lower lip and your crown.

'See?' Gawon rasped, her voice wrecked. She didn't break eye contact with Sooin. Her tongue darted out, broad and pink, lapping at the pre-come beading at your tip, collecting it messily. 'See how he leaks for it?' She guided your cockhead back to her lips, her tongue swirling over the slit once more before taking you in, not deep this time, just the head, sucking hard and fast, her cheeks collapsing inward. 'All this… just from my mouth. Imagine.'

Gawon looked at you once again. This time, she stood up, wrapping her arms around your neck before kissing the side of your face, then pressing her tongue deep into your mouth.

Sooin stood there, wet-handed, even flusher, but she still just stood there: waiting, patiently.

'Sooin.'

That was all she had to say for Sooin to rush back towards you. But before she came, Gawon pushed you. You lost the abiltiy to maintain balance a long time ago, your knees were fucked, your brain was totally fucked. You were just fucked.

So you fell. Onto the bed.

'Calculated.' You breathe, masking the previous panic in your voice.

'Always.' Gawon says. And she leans on you, her knees on the bed. Hand on your wet cock.

Her lips surrounded your nipple, and a faint suction ran through your entire body.

Gawon's hand, the one taht was preoccupied with stroking you into madness, pulled for Sooin to come. And, again, she did.

Knees on the bed.

Palpably close to your cock, Sooin kneeled closer. And her lips pressed warm against your nipple.

Gawon motioned for Sooin, something unspoken, and you felt her hand wrap around your shaft.

Schlick.

Her moved. Her hands were smaller. Warmer. Tighter.

Schlick.

'Sit on him.' Gawon said. You darted up to look at them. Sooin was silent, eyes wide, her hand stopped moving.

'Are you sure?'

'Sit on him. Dear.'

The side of your chest where Gawon stayed was warm, she was there, looking at Sooin, she slid off your body, steadying herself. Her skin glanced off the sunlight, she was paler, a born deer surrounded by two wolves.

You were complicit in her ruin. You knew it now. Your cock grew harder the more you looked; soft skin, large bosom, thick thighs. You took a deep breath when Sooin straddled you, your lungs ballooned, the sides of her inner thighs pressed to your outer thighs. Her body was just inches off your rock-hard cock.

Gawon slid behind Sooin. Sooin didn’t turn - her gaze stayed locked on you, lips swollen and bitten red. The snick of a bra clasp echoed in the quiet. The garment slid down Sooin’s arms and landed in your lap, warm from her skin.

'Ah.'

Their laughter tangled - light, nervous. Gawon’s hand darted out, snatching the bra away.

Sooin’s breasts were bare now, high and full, nipples flushed pink. Your gut clenched, a visceral pull to bury yourself inside her - now.

She crossed her arms over her chest. 'You’re grinning,' Gawon observed, mischievious.

'I know.'

'Approved?' Gawon’s tone was all edges.

'Jesus. Are you blind?' You shifted closer, easing Sooin back against your chest. She was gentle, her back was arched. She was so so soft. Her bare shoulders trembled.

'Mm!' Sooin gasped as your thigh brushed her inner leg.

'Okay?' you murmured.

She nodded, cheeks blazing with red.

A hand closed around your cock - Gawon’s. Her thumb pressed the leaking tip. 'Hard as marble. Is this for her?'

You stayed silent. The answer pulsed in her grip.

Sooin arched when Gawon’s other hand slid between her legs, palming her through damp cotton. 'It’s really happening. Oh fuck, it's really happening.' Sooin breathed, pinned between you.

Gawon hooked a finger in the waistband of Sooin’s panties. Look. She peeled the fabric aside.

Wet heat glistened. No barriers left.

-

You traced Sooin’s inner thigh, feeling the jump of her muscle. 'Tell me.' 'I want' Sooin’s voice frayed. 'Just… touch me first.'

Gawon’s hand left your cock, guiding yours to Sooin’s center. 'Here.' Your fingers met slick heat. Sooin whimpered.

'Like this?' You circled her clit, her viscous slick covering the pads of your fingers. Holy fuck. Sooin’s head fell back against Gawon. 'Yes. God - yes.'

Gawon bit Sooin’s shoulder, leaving a red bloom. 'He needs to feel you. Ready?' Sooin nodded, frantic.

You lined up, the head of your cock nudging her entrance. Her hips jerked. 'Wait,' Gawon ordered. She spat into her palm, slicked your length. 'Now.'

You pushed in - slow. Sooin cried out, back bowing. 'Breathe,' Gawon commanded, pinning Sooin’s hips down. 'Take it.'

Sooin’s walls clenched, scalding tight. 'More - ' You thrust deeper. She sobbed, nails scraping your forearm.

Gawon watched. She moved to the side of the bed, sitting next to you. Hand on her mound - fingers moving. She breathed soft. She was looking at you, how you moved into Sooin. You met her eyes, once or twice. Making sure she saw, how your hips crushed against Sooin. Gawon's grin didn't leave her, her lust-gleamed eyes didn't change. Her fingers were still inside of her. In the background, as you stared at Gawon, Sooin let out pitiful moans that was more inspiration than anything else.

You moved deeper. Found her shoulder to bite on. Her pussy was wet, hot, her slick passed through your entire shaft, collecting down your balls.

'I'm fucking losing it. I'm fucking losing it.' She repeated, in your ear. You went faster.

Her hips moved up, your hands pulling as support, and she crashed back down. Her ass against your thighs. Smack.

She let out a pitiful moan again.

She moved back to find a different position. Her breasts bounced up and down. Your cock ground against her g-spot. She came.

She came just like that.

'Ahhh. Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck' She buried her head in your shoulder. Trembled. Lost herself. Regained herself. Grinded her hips just a little. Letting your cock move and scrape against her sensitive spots.

'How does it feel? His cock grinding you. All inside you. Stretching you out.' Gawon's hand held Sooin's sweaty nape.

It wasn't question: an observation.

Her pink pussy was swollen around you. Morphed around you. Her stomach moved as her diaphragm collected oxygen. It felt unreal, her pussy tightening as she breathed in and out. It reminded you of a grounding detail, as the pause ensued: fucking Sooin as your girlfriend watched.

This time, Gawon's hand wrapped behind you, and she kissed you; first, on your ear, a tender, wet kiss that traced the outline of your ear; then, as you tried to kiss her back, her finger hovered over your chin, and pushed it back: 'I'm a spectator.' That was all she said.

Sooin was still breathing softly, her forehead still pressed against your left shoulder. The sides of her body still moved in accordance of her breaths, her humid breath hovered on your collarbone - worn out, high on bliss.

'Slap me.'

What?

'What?' You say, this time, with your mouth. Doubly processing.

'I want you to slap me.'

You look at Gawon, only to find her smiling.

The only clueless person in the room - you. [1]

-

[1] The exact moment your brain, which was previously operating on a simple "This is nice / This is weird / This is hot" flowchart, blue-screens entirely. It's the dawning, ice-water horror of realizing that the other two players in this… scenario… have apparently been co-authoring a very specific Google Doc of Kinks & Agendas in a shared folder you were never invited to.

-

Sooin blew air at you. You looked, she was smiling, still rawing from the pleasure, and then, just then, kissed you.

You locked your arms behind her back, and pressed your cock so deep that she groaned into your mouth. Her tongue moved in frantic movements as you pressed deeper and deeper into her; her folds pressed wet against the base of your shaft. You let the kiss go - to Sooin's dismay: mouth open and dizzy and flushed - to press your face against the space between her breasts; on either side, there was hills of perfect upswell dotted with pinkish nipples. You held her firmer as you plowed into her. She was still, victim to her pleasure, moaning, groaning, releasing her slick - some of it dripping on the carpet.

You saw Gawon move behind Sooin in your periphery. A sharp crack echoed - Gawon’s palm landing hard on Sooin’s ass. Sooin yelped, her fingers digging into the back of your neck. You held her hips down against your lap, your cock buried deep inside her, and delivered your own stinging slap to her other cheek. The flesh jiggled, already flushed.

'Thought you could just take and take, little thief?' Gawon hissed, naked, pressing her front against Sooin’s sweaty back. Her lips brushed Sooin’s ear. 'Squeeze her tight. Make her gush. Let her ruin her own fucking carpet.'

No more talk needed.

You stood, lifting Sooin’s legs, hooking them over your shoulders. She groaned, back arching, as the angle drove you impossibly deeper, the head of your cock grinding against her cervix. A raw, punched-out whimper escaped her - she was still trembling from her last climax.

You pulled her ass back, just enough for the tip to catch, then slammed home. A wet thwack of flesh meeting flesh. Sooin shrieked. You grunted, the force driving your hips forward.

Glancing down, you saw Gawon on her knees between Sooin’s splayed legs. One hand was frantically rubbing her own swollen clit. The other hand rose and fell in weak, almost spastic slaps against Sooin’s reddened ass. 'Close… oh fuck, close,' Gawon gasped, her voice thin and strained.

Sooin’s ass slammed against your hips again, slicker now. The wet sound was obscene - a mix of her slick, her cum, your pre-cum, smearing across skin and dripping onto the carpet below. The air reeked of sex and sweat.

Gawon’s head snapped back. A ragged cry tore from her throat as she came, her hips bucking against her own hand, her weak slaps stopping entirely as her body seized. 'Yes! Fuck! YES!'

The sight, the sound, the feel of Sooin’s cunt clamping down like a slick fist - it pushed you over the edge. 'Gonna - !' you managed, pulling out just as the first hot pulse surged up your shaft.

'Fuck! Fuck!' Sooin sobbed, her body convulsing. Her swollen pussy clenched around nothing, and a gush of clear fluid splattered onto the carpet between her thighs, soaking into the fibers. 'Oh god! Oh god!' she gasped between desperate cries, her hips jerking as she squirted again.

You gave her no respite. Still hard, still throbbing, you shoved back into her sopping, pink entrance. This time, you crushed your mouth to hers, swallowing her gasps as you fucked her through her own aftershocks. Deep, punishing strokes. The final sprint.

You buried yourself to the root, grinding hard. 'Fuck!' The growl ripped from your chest as you locked Sooin against you, fingers digging into her hips hard enough to bruise. You emptied yourself deep inside her - one thick, hot rope after another, painting her inner walls, each pulse kissing her cervix. Your balls tightened, drawn up, as Gawon ducked her head, hollowing her cheeks to suck them greedily, swallowing what spilled.

'You… filled me,' Sooin breathed against your lips, dazed.

You kissed her, deep.

You thrust twice more, shallow and possessive, grinding your spend deeper into her core. Then you pulled out with a wet suck.

Thick globs of your cum spurted onto the soaked carpet, joining her slick puddle. One stray pulse landed on Gawon’s waiting tongue. She closed her mouth, swallowing.

You lowered Sooin onto the bed. She collapsed, chest heaving, looking up at you with glazed, awestruck eyes.

Your gaze locked onto Gawon. She was still panting, her own climax lingering. On her knees, she shuffled forward until her face was level with your softening cock, still glistening with a mix of your spend and Sooin’s slick. She let the heavy head rest on her tongue for a heartbeat, tasting it, before closing her lips around your shaft. She hollowed her cheeks, sucking firmly, cleaning every inch with slow swipes of her tongue.

To be continued.

a\n: And here we are! Hopefully this fic isn't too bad, I forgot how to write, and then maybe remembered…. idk. So for a few updates, I think releases will be monthly. Commissions are a bit of an issue - since i live somewhere where receiving payments or even operating a paypal account is strictly forbidden - so I decided to close the Ko-Fi account. When push comes to shove, and I mean when I'm really seeking money, I may find a work around. For now, here are my free works: monthly, utterly imperfect, barely edited, yet here. right here.

[tsuy4n]

Okay so I’ve been obsessing over the Saja boys these days. Hyperfixation. New brain rot unlocked. Absolute serotonin. And after reading all these chef's kiss stories on here, my delulu brain said:

"What if Artist!Fem!Reader x Saja boys?"

And no, I don’t mean reader who just likes drawing.

I mean full-on webtoon artist. Sleep-deprived, over-caffeinated, hasn’t seen the sun in days—that kind of artist.

The kind who sees hot people and thinks, "great bone structure. Gonna draw that."

So here’s the ✨vision✨:

Reader isn’t romantically impressed by the Saja boys. At all.

They try to flirt?

"You’re shaped like a Pinterest pose reference. Mind holding that flex for a sec?"

They're shirtless?

"Nice lighting. I need to sketch your obliques."

They do the sexy wink?

They're out here looking like gods and MC’s just collecting them like rare anatomy models.

"I’ve seen better. Your symmetry’s a little off."

How'd she got involved? Well, she didn’t even mean to meet them, really.

She just took a low-key staff job which is some basic behind-the-scenes work. Water duty. Carrying gear. Sweeping up glitter. Whatever pays rent.

But then:

Accidentally walks in on them mid-magic ritual.

Mistakes it for a stage rehearsal.

Doesn’t scream—just critiques the lighting and poses.

Becomes a walking enigma the boys can’t stop thinking about.

THEN her apartment burns down. Rent’s out of the question. And after a lot of suspicious looks and internal debates, one of the Saja boys goes:

"You can stay with us. Temporarily."

So now she’s:

Working for five hot demon idols

Living in their house

Still not impressed.

But wait—it gets worse (better.)

She thinks they’re just dramatic, overly aesthetic idols until she finds out:

They’re literal demons.

And their enemies? Obv the Huntrix which she thinks is another group that has... some similar name to that kpop group.

[Y/n]: "Like— Like Demon slayers?!"

YES. SHE STANS HUNTRIX. But she knows 2...

She has fanart. She follows a fancomic. She thought Mina, They said Mira but she thinks they mixed the name—pink hair, dual-scythe (technically a guandao, but whatever), was fictional.

Sneak Peek Scenes for Flavor:

1. The Huntrix Fangirl Reveal

The boys are bandaged, battered, and mid-complaint.

[Y/n]: "WAIT YOU FOUGHT MINA?! THAT'S SO COOL???" Abby: "She almost took my arm off!" Baby: "She stole my favorite jacket, too!" [Y/n]: *casually flipping through her webtoon collection* "Wait. The one with the dual-scythes and pink hair, right??"

Roman: "…Yeah, why?” [Y/n]: *eyes sparkling, playing along* "OH MY GOD YOU FOUGHT THE MINA?? SHE’S SO COOL!! I LOVE HER ???"

Dead silence. Mystery: *barks once in betrayal* JINU: *eye twitching* "You… stan the person actively trying to kill us?"

[Y/n]: "Okay first of all, she's not trying to kill me. Secondly, have you seen her design? Iconic. Her color palette? Perfect. Her character arc? Chef’s kiss. The drama. The trauma. The hair."

She pauses.

[Y/n]: *softly, reverently*: "She’s everything I wish I could draw." Abby: "You’re sleeping outside."

2. The Abs Incident

Abby: "Go ahead, babe. One-time offer to touch perfection." [Y/n]: "Okay." *Touches abs with terrifying focus.* [Y/n] *nods* "Good texture. I’m using you for a villain character. Thanks."

3. Rumi’s Breakdown (Huntrix Squad)

Rumi: "THEY’RE DEMONS! HOW CAN YOU STAY AT THEIR PLACE?! Not with just one—but all five?!!" [Y/n]: "Really? Wow.” Mira: *narrows eyes* "…You don’t look surprised." Zoey: Are you in cahoots with them?! Like—were you so BEWITCHED by their faces?! Because SAME. But also, betrayal??? [Y/n]: "Oh no, I’m freaking out inside. I just… this is PEAK webtoon content. Enemies to lovers potential. I’m living in someone’s AU."

4. When She Meets Mira

[Y/n]: "Oh my god. You’re real." Mira: "And you’re the artist who’s been drawing me in armor and… cat ears?" [Y/n]: "It was for the Patreon tier okay please don’t kill me."

5. Late-Night Kitchen Chaos

She just wanted rent money 😔Now she has demon roommates, stan wars, and probably develops an accidental crush on the villains.

Baby: "Most girls would kill for a moment alone with me."

[Y/n]: *without looking up from her sketchpad* "Can you move? You’re blocking the fridge light. I’m using it to shade your clavicle." Baby: "…Do I at least look cool?" [Y/n]: "Yeah. You’ve got the perfect bone structure for a mid-arc character death." Baby: "????"

And somehow, that’s still not the weirdest part of her week.

✨ [Y/n] doesn’t flirt. She doesn’t swoon. She just humbles the boys like it’s her side quest. ✨

On the side note: When I get into it imma start writing! (I’m into it.)

[aervera]

Even You Sleep Through It

synopsis. satoru finds peace in curling up beside you, ranting about everything and nothing—only to realize halfway through that you’ve already fallen asleep. contents. sfw, fluff.

MASTERLIST

you’re already halfway asleep by the time he gets home.

the sliding door opens with a familiar click, soft and smooth, followed by the rustle of his coat being peeled off and tossed somewhere it probably doesn’t belong. you don’t open your eyes, not fully. just enough to confirm that, yes—he’s alive. in one piece. loud, glowing, and annoyingly tall. business as usual.

you hear the sigh first.

then—

“you will not believe the day i’ve had.”

you hum faintly into the pillow, cheek squished against the warm cotton of his hoodie you stole hours ago.

gojo, undeterred, flops onto the bed beside you with dramatic flair. you feel the bounce of the mattress, the dip near your hip as he stretches one absurdly long arm across your back like a weighted blanket made of chaos.

“so first of all—nanami lectured me. again. like i’m twelve. because apparently, showing up to a mission ten minutes late is a war crime now.”

he shifts closer, tossing one leg over yours, not caring that you’re basically boneless at this point. his hand slips under your hoodie to rest against your waist, warm and splayed like he’s claiming the whole surface.

“i said, ‘hey, i brought snacks, that’s worth something!’ and he said, ‘you brought dango to a battlefield.’ like okay? and?”

you murmur a sleepy noise that could be interpreted as supportive.

“exactly,” he says, clearly taking it as encouragement.

his voice is all around you now—richer without his blindfold on, deeper when he’s not performing for a crowd. the kind of voice that slides into your ears and settles like velvet behind your ribs.

“and then shoko said i couldn’t keep cursed spirits in the faculty fridge just because i wanted to study them later. which, rude. i labeled them and everything. proper tupperware and all.”

you smile against the pillow, eyes still shut. “you’re insane.”

“y/n, it was scientific research. you wouldn’t understand. you’re too normal. that’s your whole thing. you’re my emotional support civilian.”

you snort.

it’s true. you’re not a civilian, technically. you’ve been a sorcerer long enough to earn the scars on your fingers and the wear in your bones—but next to gojo satoru, everyone’s normal.

you feel him press a kiss to the top of your head, then rest his chin there like a shelf.

“anyway, then i almost vaporized a first-year by accident because they startled me while i was meditating, which is probably their fault more than mine. honestly, it’s like people forget i’m a sensitive guy. i need gentle introductions. soft voices. snacks before confrontation.”

you nod, very slowly. “mmhm.”

“you’re so validating,” he says with a sigh. “this is why i love you. you let me complain and you don’t try to fix it. you’re just like—‘oh no, baby’s mad?’ and i am mad. baby is mad.”

you think about telling him he’s not a baby.

you don’t.

you’re too comfortable.

the weight of him wrapped around you is oddly soothing. you’d never say it to his face, but he feels like a personal heater—sprawled out and ridiculous, all limbs and heat and never-ending commentary.

“also, someone called me a ‘dilf’ today. can you believe that? first of all, i’m not a dad. second of all, i could be, but you’re hoarding the rights.”

you mumble something unintelligible.

“yeah, yeah, ‘shut up, satoru,’ i know,” he says, grinning. “but seriously. the barista looked me in the eye and said, ‘you’d make a really hot single dad.’ and i said, ‘bold of you to assume i’m single. my girlfriend could dropkick you and look good doing it.’”

you yawn. barely hold onto consciousness.

“also—yuuji tried to teach me how to skateboard. that went well until i hit a curb and somersaulted into a vendor stall. the nice old man gave me free takoyaki out of pity.”

you feel his hand move to your side, rubbing lazy circles into the curve of your waist. it’s gentle. almost unconscious.

“then i saw a dog that looked exactly like me. white hair. vaguely threatening energy. barked at a child.”

you laugh, soft and slurred. “you barked at a child?”

“i don’t bark. i’m above barking. i glare. i’m a respectable menace.”

you peek one eye open.

his face is close—resting half on your pillow, hair tousled, eyes unguarded. he looks at you like you’re made of starlight.

“and then,” he adds dramatically, “i came home, exhausted, drained, emotionally neglected—and you weren’t at the door with snacks and applause. betrayal.”

you smile faintly. “you’re so needy.”

“and you’re not needy enough,” he counters. “you don’t demand daily love letters. you don’t insist i serenade you. you don’t weep when i leave for work like the tragic heroine you are.”

you hum, nestling into his chest.

“y/n?”

“mm?”

“are you even listening to me?”

“mhm…”

“no, you’re not. you’re fake listening. you’re sleep-listening.”

you smile without opening your eyes. “go ‘way.”

“never,” he whispers, and the hand on your waist shifts to your hip. “you’re mine.”

you don’t answer this time. can’t. the warmth is dragging you under—his scent, his voice, the slow rhythmic pressure of his thumb against your hip.

still, he doesn’t stop talking.

“you always fall asleep on me. every time. i could be delivering the most brilliant monologue in the world and you’re out by minute four.”

you hear his breath hitch—like he’s checking if you’re still awake.

“…it’s okay, though. you’re cute when you sleep. kind of drooly. occasionally violent if i move too fast.”

you would deny that if you had the strength.

“you know,” he says softly, voice dropping lower, “i think i like this best. you, like this. all quiet. letting me ramble. trusting me enough to sleep before i shut up.”

he shifts closer, tucking his nose against your neck.

“sometimes i think the world could fall apart and i’d still come home to tell you about it. even if you’re too tired to answer. even if you fall asleep halfway through. because it means i made it back. means i get to see you again.”

your lashes flutter, but you don’t speak.

“even if no one else listens,” he whispers, “you do. or you try to. that’s enough for me.”

he presses a soft kiss to your shoulder, then wraps both arms around you like a promise.

you drift.

and somewhere, far beneath dreams, you hear his voice again—

quieter now, like a secret he only tells the dark:

“i love you, y/n. even if you sleep through it.”

[blulowy]

Oh, yeah! Jim was there from the first rough draft of the comic (little blue scribble)

But I had so many different iterations of it closer to the final. Originally it was his villain outfit and mask, but… Technically it’s from Scar’s perspective. So it got erased quickly.

Then the face was a problem because when I’m doing those, I’m trying to keep a feeling like it BELONGS in the fanfic. According to everything. And based from the text it seems like reader knows as much as Grian. And since Grian doesn’t know Jim’s face, readers shouldn’t either.

And the mocking text was the last minute addition. Originally it just stated “def mocks Ringmaster about it” and “Your little crush calls ME by MY name” but first one felt too boring and a second one too on the nose. And that’s how I ended up with what you see.

Whenever I’m redrawing anything from Midnight Strangers I try to keep it not only accurate but also entertaining for people who even know what is coming. And a way of doing so is by adding small details that did not exist in the original version or spinning them around a bit like with the last page and orange glow.

I like to yap about my work progress :D

Midnight strangers redraw

I brought you all food! Enjoy.

P.s. Scar’s civilian outfit based on simplified green life skin for wild life :D

Midnight Strangers by @seriouslycalamitous

[crimeronan]

After all was settled, with the buildings built and the gardens grown and the harvest sown and the roads retread and the plumbing restored – after all was settled, the god slept.

He didn't retreat into his cavern below the earth. Nor did he raise himself a palace or a fortress or even a bed. He walked into the lobby of the community center, which for now was also a shelter and an orphanage and a food pantry and a resting place for weary pilgrims, and he lay down on the floor in a tucked-away corner in front of a heating vent, and he slept.

He spoke to no one. He asked for nothing. He curled on his side with his eyes closed and his tangle of dark hair covering his face, and he slept for two entire days.

The staff were... not sure how to respond.

It was not because they were unequipped to deal with strange men sleeping in strange places. The community center was still new and untested, as everything in the temple was new and untested, and it had become the grounds for all sorts of unexpected visitors. Procedures were still being refined. But in most cases, an exhausted man with no apparent home would be spoken to gently, and fed, and offered a warm bed, and asked about his circumstances. When those circumstances proved complicated, which was inevitable, the staff would retreat into a closed room to argue legalities and technicalities and risks and rewards. It could be dangerous to help the less fortunate.

And then they would help. They would find some way to help.

But the god... complicated things. He was holy, a creature set apart, and nobody wanted to incur his wrath. To approach a god was to sacrifice oneself. To be approached was to lose oneself. And besides, gods were fickle, selfish things – if the god wanted or needed for anything, surely the staff would know.

Most could recognize the god on sight, instrumental as he'd been in the temple's construction. But once or twice, as the receptionist in the lobby changed shifts, the new employee would take a concerned step toward the apparent pilgrim. And the just-off-shift worker would grab their wrist and hiss, "No, that's him," and that would be the end of it.

Ada was the one to break the spell. She was older, well into her sixties, with short silver hair and gnarled fingers turned akey by decades of rheumatoid arthritis. She was pointedly not one of the center's staff, because she lacked any warmth or patience or gentleness for the downtrodden, and she'd lived in this world for far too long to fear the gods.

She entered the lobby like a hurricane, a basket of fruit held in the crook of her arm, a cane braced in the other withered hand, and she hissed, "Has the stupid fuck even eaten?"

The receptionist shot her a startled, guilty look. In his unobtrusive corner, the crumpled silhouette of the god slept on.

"Useless, the lot of you," Ada spat. "I don't suppose you've checked for a pulse, either? Fat lot of good you people do. Haven't you ever seen a god die? He's still human."

This last part was debatable. The receptionist shifted uncomfortably.

Ada began to hobble toward the god, with all the stubborn intention of a crotchety old woman about to settle a score. Only then did the receptionist rise, and there was real fear in her voice as she cried, "Wait–"

"Boy!" Ada shouted, and stamped her cane on the ground. "Get up!"

This proved just as effective as whacking him with said cane would have been. The god jolted upright, wild-eyed, and scrambled to his feet.

"Got a pulse, then," Ada observed, at a normal volume, with something like dry approval. "Boy. Come here."

The receptionist was so still that she did not appear to be breathing. Her eyes were nearly as wild as the god's, darting between him and Ada. Because she was good at conflict deescalation, though, she did not immediately move into action. Her frame was taut with tension. Much tenser than she ever was with even the most unpleasant of vagrants.

The god half-stumbled over to them, his black tank top askew, hair mussed. It was the bleary, frantic movement of someone sharply woken by the sound of explosions.

"What's going on?" he demanded. "Who's hurt?"

Ada tucked her cane into her elbow and lifted an apple from the bag, not-so-delicately clutched between her thumb and two straightest fingers.

"Eat this," she said.

The god blinked.

He was young, still. Or at least, this particular body was young. Old enough for a full beard, somehow, and young enough that it looked funny on him. Like a child playing pretend in his father's closet.

As his expression cleared, Ada noted other warning signs. The ashy cast to his dark skin. The deep, nearly-black shadows under his eyes. The bloody cracks at the corners of his lips.

"For fuck's sake, get him some water," she told the receptionist. "Now."

The receptionist did not need to be told twice. She scurried off in the direction of the kitchens.

Now alone with Ada, the god began to list dangerously to one side.

She thrust her cane into his hand. "Here."

"I'm not going to–"

"What, take the mobility from an old woman? Fine. Prideful coward." She snorted, setting her basket on the ground and spreading her arms. "Let's see if I catch you. You're, mm, six feet tall? More? Yeah. Let's go, kid. I'm strong. Look at me. Bet you'll only shatter half my ribs and a single hip. I like the odds."

The god took the cane.

Not for long, though. The longer he stood, the more distant his expression became, until he gave in and gently eased himself onto the scuffed ground. He winced as he did so, but he was young – his limbs still had all the flexibility and muscle and life that Ada's lacked.

Ada herself could not so easily rise from the floor, so she accepted the cane again, and she stood there watching him.

He bit into the apple. Juice ran down his chin, dripping from his wrist. At first it was just that, a single bite. And then another. And then, as though a switch had been flipped, he began to tear into the flesh of the fruit. He inhaled the majority of the meat and reached into the basket, grabbing another, and then another, and another.

By the time he'd devoured a fourth apple, there was a new arrival on the scene. Not the useless receptionist from before, praise the gods (ha!), but a young person in a white physician's robe. Ada recognized them. One of the talents who'd walked away from a guaranteed career in the city, all to play in the mud out here with the elderly and the insane and the crippled. Idealistic fool.

They didn't look frightened. They knelt beside the god and held out a bottle of water, just as they would for any other dehydrated patient. When the god snatched it like a starving child, they said, "Whoa, hey, easy. Small sips, please. You'll make yourself sick."

The god snarled something that was either in a foreign language or just too angry to be intelligible.

The doctor didn't flinch. Neither did Ada.

No divine wrath bore down upon them, though. No choking sludge in the lungs, no twisted roots erupted from the floor. The god regarded the pair with the sullenness of the young boy he was, and then he scoffed, and then he unscrewed the cap and took small sips.

The doctor made a mistake, once the god had set the bottle down. It was a little thing, a nothing-thing. The god seemed an awful lot like a mortal man, and so perhaps both witnesses had forgotten themselves.

The doctor pressed two fingertips to the underside of the boy's jaw, in the tangled and now slightly-wet beard.

The god lashed out.

Only later did Ada realize there was nothing supernatural about the movement. The god flung an arm out against the doctor's ribs, hurling them back across the floor. They slid several feet and caught themselves on their hands, narrowly avoiding the hard wood of the reception desk.

Ada turned away from the scene and hobbled toward the door.

The god let her go, possibly because she was a crippled old lady, but more likely because he was too busy snarling, "Don't fucking touch me."

"I'm sorry," the doctor said. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to–"

Ada reached the glass. The garden outside appeared deserted, a creek burbling cheerfully, birds singing praises, unaware of their patron's temper. Nobody was close enough to intervene. Still, Ada did what she'd come here to do and flipped the lock. Best not to let the wandering public see their worst fears come to pass.

When she returned her attention to the scene, the doctor had already righted themselves, brushing off the sleeves of their coat. Their hands were out, palms up, but they also had the good sense not to approach.

The god staggered to his feet, scattering apple cores across the ground. His movements were jerky, uncalculated. Unbalanced. He looked from the doctor to Ada, and he registered her steel stance in front of the door, and his expression changed.

"Fuck," he said, and then, panting, "Fuck. Get out. Get the fuck out. Get away from me."

The doctor nodded without a word. They retreated through the door to the main center. It was a wide entrance, round and warm, and it had been open every time Ada had ever set foot inside. But now the doctor unlatched two heavy swinging panels that apparently weren't decorative, and they pulled the doors shut behind them.

Despite the doctor being the sort of idiot to leave a cushy city life for an idealistic dream, Ada trusted their judgment. She knew that they would quietly and calmly move from room to room, asking the staff to please usher the children and the infirm and the unhoused outside. They wouldn't raise an alarm, both to avoid frightening the people and to avoid provoking the god. Given enough time, even a collapse of the building would have minimal casualties.

Ada remained where she was. She would not be rattled by an angry boy with wild magic.

And angry he was. When she didn't move, his lips curled back, a rictus grimace. "Get out."

If she got out, the god might follow her out into the garden. Or follow the doctor into the main center. He might pick off any number of victims from the people escaping out the back.

As long as he remained where Ada could see him, those people remained alive.

She would not be rattled by an angry boy with wild magic.

The god plucked a still-whole apple from the basket. He didn't bite into it or lob it toward Ada, both of which she expected. He just gripped it like he wanted to crush it in his fist, and the soft red began to darken into something rustier, bloodier. Black tendrils sprouted from the stem and the core, furled with leaves, crawling up the god's wrist like latticework.

Even the cleverest earth magician couldn't sprout life like that. There was something grotesque about it, something dripping with malice. The thing did not look like an apple sapling. It didn't even look like ivy. It looked like living shadows, now working up toward the god's shoulder like spidery veins.

"Get," the god started, and then paused, gasping for air, "away."

"Or what?" Ada asked, leaning casually on her cane. "You gonna kill me, kid? You gonna blight me with that magic there? You ever done that before?"

"I could."

"So could anyone." Magic and violence, after all, were not the domain of gods. "Big win, to kill a cripple. Feels good, I bet. Feels like winning. Fuck all the old people. It's backwards, you know. All this so-called respect just because we didn't die? Fuck us. Cockroaches. We didn't die 'cause other people did instead. Fuck it. Go ahead."

The god swallowed. His nails dug into what remained of the corrupted apple, gouged to the knuckle. The black veins crept below his shirt, across his chest, under his skin.

There was not enough matter in the apple to transform into that much material. The magic was something else.

Divine intervention was a hell of a drug.

Ada stood before the door, and Ada watched the god, and Ada did not move.

The god didn't kill her.

At least, not yet.

His face twisted, suddenly, into uncertainty. Once again, he seemed young. Unsure of himself. No eldritch rage, just the hesitation of a strange kid with poor footing. He sat back down, hard, beside the basket, and he drew his knees to his chest, and he hugged his arms around them.

Sludge dripped from his palm. The apple no longer existed in any recognizable form, but his fist remained clenched. Ada could only guess at how far the magic had spread over his body, under his clothes.

"I really think you should go," the god said, and his voice broke. "I'd rather not hurt you."

"Fine. Then don't."

"I'm gonna have to," he said, "if you keep blocking the door."

So he did want to rampage. Or maybe just to run. Ada wouldn't fuss about the latter – but the former was untenable.

"Then do," she said. "Go ahead. I'm close to done either way."

"Fuck." The god dragged in another jagged, painful breath, and scrubbed at his eyes with his non-corrupted palm. "Fuck."

"Don't cry for me, kid," Ada said. "Just do what you're gonna do."

"Stop it."

It was probably a bad idea to goad him. Ada had no illusions about her ability to deescalate. She wasn't searching out a secret heart of gold. The more she pushed, the more he'd feel the need to prove.

She kept talking. She'd never been one to shut her mouth.

"Why'd you come here, anyway?" Ada demanded. "Why even bother if you hate us so fucking much? Hell of a place for a guy who doesn't want to be touched. Thought you had a hermit hole you could use instead. Nobody's going down into your fucking death cave."

The god did not respond.

"Were we supposed to read your fucking mind, then?" Ada pressed, and the fury blistered her throat, curled her aching fingers. "Was there some fucking ritual you wanted? Should we have handed you a virgin? A child sacrifice? Next time, just ask. We can't read your fucking mind. You have to open your fucking mouth and speak, godling. Nothing's coming to you otherwise."

The god closed his eyes. His hand continued to drip, sluggish. Ada could no longer tell whether the liquid was magic or his own mortal blood.

"How long do I have?" he asked, very softly.

Ada couldn't even parse the question. How long did he have? Decades more in this body, and centuries after that. More than enough time to refine the particulars of his own worship. More than enough time to shape this place and its people into whatever twisted little conundrum his heart desired.

Or maybe he meant, How long do I have before everyone runs? Before there's no way left to rage, or feed, or fight? How long before I'm left alone?

Centuries, still. The fanatic would follow him for the magic, and the desperate would follow him for the hope, and the cruel would follow him for everything else. That was the way of gods.

"Fuck if I know," Ada said. "Not sure that's up to me."

The god didn't seem angered by this response. He just nodded, eyes still closed.

"You'll have to tell Nova," he said. "She still needs me on ritual nights. You'll have to work it out with her."

Now Ada had completely lost the plot. "Since when would I tell that insipid bitch anything?"

The god shook his head. "Plural you. You know, you all. You. Tell someone who can tell someone who can tell her. Just–"

He broke off, scrubbing at his eyes again. Ada's own eyesight was far from perfect, and so she couldn't see the tracks, but even so, she was pretty sure he was crying real tears.

She probably should have felt sympathetic. Maybe he even wanted her to feel sympathetic.

She was, however, who she was.

"The fuck are you crying about?" she asked, with genuine bafflement.

The god made a raspy sound that might have been a sob. Might also have been a laugh.

"I wanted a little more time," he said. "That's all."

"Time to do what?"

"To be sober, mostly," he said, which made no fucking sense at all. "To walk around, I guess. Make the flowers grow. You know. Little things."

Patience deserted Ada, if she'd ever had any in the first place. "Then just fucking be sober," she snapped. "Those fucking apples aren't fermented. Go tell the doc you're a useless fucking drunk and then fucking stop drinking. No one's stopping you. I don't give a shit that you feel sorry for yourself."

There was a long silence, only broken by the god's ragged, occasionally-snotty breaths. Ada counted seconds in her head. One hundred, two hundred, three. Many of the most vulnerable must have been out of the building by now. Good.

"Aren't you arresting me?" the god finally asked.

Somehow, Ada discovered, her rage and indignation had not yet peaked.

"Who the fuck is going to arrest you?" she shouted.

She wanted to hit him with her cane. She wanted to smack him across the face. Either of those would require her to leave the door; she compromised by slipping off her shoe and hurling it at his head instead.

He didn't even try to dodge. He might not have even seen her throw it. Regardless, she was not known for her athleticism or her grip strength, and so the shot went wide, bouncing harmlessly across the ground beside the eaten apples.

Now the god was looking at her, though. Properly looking, his brow furrowed, head tilted. The black veins had crawled over his jaw and hooked their way into the cracks in the corner of his mouth. Though Ada's eyesight was not the best, she took a few tottering steps forward and focused. The skin around the wound was rippling, twitching, like the not-plant was snaking through his actual capillaries.

The angrier she got, the calmer he seemed. The magic didn't seem to frighten him, but then again, she supposed, that was his nature. Maybe it didn't feel as wrong as it looked.

"The... cops?" he said.

Ada threw her other shoe at him.

She regretted it immediately, but not for any god-wrath reasons. Once again, the shot missed by several feet. Once again, the god ignored it. But she was suddenly, acutely aware of the rock-hard floor against her aching feet.

Why the fuck had the kid been sleeping here?

"You own the fucking cops!" she exploded. "Arrest you? We can't even fucking look at you without you throwing a fucking fit! Arrest you? Ha! What fucking army? What fucking jail? Where do we put a temple with no god? Where do we put a people with no temple? You're it for us. We don't have anything else. Don't you get that? Arrest you! Ha! No, fuck you, you stupid, spoiled child. You can rip their babies' hearts out in front of them and they can't do a fucking thing to stop you."

The god said, "Oh."

"'Oh,' he says," Ada mocked. "Oh. Oh, what a fucking revelation. What a thrill. Glad I could fucking enlighten you. Are you making plans now? Off to pick the prettiest girls, I bet. Prettiest boys? What's your type? Doesn't matter. Be as sick as you want. Be as cruel as you want. They won't refuse you, godling. Nobody will. We need you."

Finally, he moved. He unfolded his knees and pressed his palms to the ground, and he pushed himself to his feet. His arm and shoulder were all darkness, now, but the magic didn't appear to be spreading any farther. At least, not on his skin. Perhaps it was satisfied now that it had found a opening, now that it was eating through his insides.

His steps toward Ada were slow, but they were steady. He stopped an arm's length from her. From here, she could see his drying tears, and the viscous slick of rotten magic, and the mouth slit stuffed with crawling worms. Dead thing. Decaying thing.

"I'll go down to the caves," he said, as though the rot didn't hurt him at all. "I won't trouble you again. Please – please stand aside."

"I can't," Ada said.

"Why not?"

"I don't trust you."

The god's lips pressed together, a painful-looking motion, made worse by his wounds.

"I didn't mean to frighten you," he said.

"I'm not frightened."

A wan, tight smile pulled at his bloody lips. It did not touch his eyes.

Ada searched her thundering pulse and found that her hands were shaking. The ever-present fire in them was a curious afterthought, far less loud than the rest of her. It was rare for pain to take a back seat to action, these days.

Maybe she was frightened.

"You did mean to frighten me, you dumb fucking cunt," she said, with no small amount of exasperation. "You threatened to kill me."

"Yes, well. I'm sorry. I misunderstood. I – I was frightened."

He did not have anything to be frightened of. How absurd for him not to have known that. She'd never heard of a god who feared consequences.

Maybe she never would again.

As if reading her mind, he said, gently, "I'm not frightened anymore. I'd like to take my leave now. I swear to you, I won't hurt anybody. I promise. You'll never see me again."

"You fucking coward," Ada said.

She almost expected him to lash out, like he had with the doctor. Surely at some point, enough would be enough. Surely a god would do what a god would do.

But he just threw up his hands, matching her exasperation. "What?" he demanded. "Are you serious? Or are you arguing with me just to argue with me?"

"Oh, sure, go back to your hermit hole," she said. "We'll all be so safe from you. We'll all be so much better up here. Fuck everybody who needs a god. Why try to be a good one? That's too hard. You're tired. You're mean. Your little child feelings are hurt. You're sad. So fuck everyone who needs a god."

"Nobody needs a god."

"Then what the fuck are we doing here?"

The god studied her. She didn't know what he was looking for. She didn't know what he wanted from her. She didn't know whether he found it.

What she did know was that eventually, his shoulders slumped. He sighed. The magic, the rot, whatever it was, almost seemed to calm, his skin stilling.

"I'm not Nova," he said.

"Fucking obviously."

"I'm not a monster."

"Is she?"

He didn't answer.

"Doesn't matter, I guess," she told him. "You don't care. So go be a stupid, selfish cunt. Do whatever you want. Hurt us or leave us, it doesn't matter. I won't stop you. I'll just tell them all I told you so."

She undid the lock on the door, and then she stepped away, bending in a stiff, mocking bow.

The god pressed a hand to the glass. His eyes were fixed on the garden. The creek continued to burble. The birds continued to chirp. The sun peeked in golden afternoon rays down through the clouds, a beautiful autumn day.

Then he turned back to Ada.

"Please–" he started, and faltered, and tried again. "Please... go tell Cosmas I'm sorry. Tell them – tell them I'll wait for them here. And tell them I need their help."

Ada studied the boy. It was a command, sort of, but she didn't think he would punish her refusal. If anything, there was a fragility to his shoulders, to the fingers pressed to the door. The suffocating weight of shame.

She nodded, once, and then she hobbled off in service to her god.

[shouterwatt]

BIRTHDAY BOY X READER

You can clearly see that I'm trying to be as aesthetic as possible

NOTICE! → dom gender neutral reader, sub younger character, NSFW

MINOR DNI

Archie Archie, such a little spoiled brat, isn't he, Romancer?

Meeting

It was his 18th birthday and everyone hated little Archie because he's a little whiny spoiled bitch so naturally everyone at his birthday is his mother and father

And his mother (bless her heart) she felt bad for her bitch ass son so she hired you and your friend's group to come to his birthday, so you'd assume it would be kind of awkward having a bunch of strangers on his birthday (it was) but who cares? you get cash and cake, win-win am I right?

So here he is sitting on his chair with his cake set on his kitchen table in front of him he had his eyes set on the cake so he didn't notice that everyone in his birthday party is a stranger besides his parents after he blew his dumb little candles out he looked around and realized wait- who are these people?

Oh wait it's gift time who cares?

As you friends start giving him the dumb ass gifts they got from the dollar store you start to realize you have to bring a gift in a birthday party

"hey, what about you? Where's my gift?"

"uhh I forgor"

Oh for fuck sake how can you forget to get a gift??

And now he's glaring at you whilst he's cutting the cake just great

While his mom was about to give you a piece of cake just like every one of your friends he stopped her

"um actually mom I think I want to talk to them for second"

Before she could answer he dragged you to his room probably still pity about the gift locking the door

" you think you can just come to my party without a gift? Well think again I want my gift and I want it now!"

"but I didn't bring anything"

"well you did bring yourself in here"

NSFWish?

Before you can even ask him what he meant that mf got down on his knees in front of you crotch smirking like a little bitch and looking up at you

"doesn't that technically mean that you're my gift?..."

"no not really"

"but it has to be you I mean it's your fault you didn't bring me one"

"can I just give you two dollars or something?"

"but I wanna taste you..."

He doesn't look even a bit fazed by your offer nuzzling against your crotch like a bitch in heat

Bitch got you considering it I mean free cash, cake and oral? You can just snatch the cake after and go home...

"fine but nothing more and this doesn't make us anything"

"yes yes! Thank you..."

He almost jumped in joy when you said yes almost snatching your clothes off literally gawking at your privates like fucking pervert and you're sure you heard his mom yelling for him to come which he obviously didn't hear too busy digging his face in your privates doing everything he knows as pathetic virgin boy with never done something like this before

Anyway you got your oral and cash and his mom even gave you a piece of cake

He's not gonna start begging you for more right? RIGHT?

[sereia4skz]

hey can you please write a fic where chan and reader has a big fight so the other members team up to get mom and dad together again!

oneshot | don't make me choose

pairing: chan x f!reader ft the boys

genre: angst to fluff?

warnings: the boys like to meddle chan and reader's relationship

word count: 1294

masterlist: A-Side (texts) | B-Side (written)

You haven’t been to the dorm in nine days. Nine full days of unanswered texts, missed calls, nine days since the fight.

It wasn’t just yelling, it was the kind of fight that leaves bruises in your chest. The kind that lingers in your muscles, makes you flinch when you hear his voice in your head. It was raw and mean and not like you. Not like him. But that’s what happens when two people bottle too much up for too long.

| “You don’t let me in anymore!”

| “And you expect me to have room when I’m drowning in everyone else’s problems?”

| “So I’m a problem now?”

| “That’s not what I—fuck, I didn’t mean it like that, just… Can you stop making everything about you?”

| “…Okay.”

That last word had gutted him. You saw it in his eyes. You almost stayed. But the door shut too fast behind you.

⋆｡°✩

Now, the boys are caught in the fallout. And they are not handling it well.

“She hasn’t answered any of my texts,” Felix groans, sprawled across Minho’s bed. “I sent a cat meme. With sparkles. It was foolproof.”

“Chan broke her,” Seungmin mutters from the corner.

“I didn’t…” Chan sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I didn’t mean to. I just-”

“You told her she was too much for you,” Minho cuts in sharply, arms crossed. “Don’t sugarcoat it.”

“I didn’t mean her, I meant everything—”

“Doesn’t matter. That’s what you said.”

Jisung flops onto the floor with a dramatic groan. “Can we do the thing again where we make her cookies? Or get a banner? What do girls like when they’re mad?”

“Space,” Hyunjin deadpans.

“Affection,” Jeongin argues.

“A sincere apology,” Seungmin adds with a glare at Chan.

“Booooring,” Jisung moans. “We need drama. A moment.”

“No,” Chan says flatly, rising to leave. “We need her to not feel like shit when she thinks about us. All of us.”

“Then go see her,” Minho says, eyes narrowed. “Or are you gonna let us lose her too?”

That lands somewhere between Chan’s ribs. He walks out without answering.

⋆｡°✩

You see them before you see him. They start showing up more and more, at your door, in your texts, lurking in the grocery store like dramatic theater kids in disguise.

Felix drops off boba with a note that says we miss you in his bubbly handwriting.

Hyunjin sends selfies with your shared playlist playing in the background, carefully avoiding the topic of Chan like it's a sleeping dragon.

Jeongin pretends to need advice on skincare, even though his skin is flawless.

Minho says nothing for three days, then sends a single message: Come over. Or I’m stealing your favorite hoodie forever.

But you don’t go. Because you know Chan will be there.

And as much as you miss them, miss the chaos and warmth and terrible singing, you can’t go back to the dorm without walking into the memory of that fight. Of being told, intentionally or not, that you were too much.

So you stay away. And the boys start breaking rank.

“You can’t punish all of us because you’re mad at him,” Seungmin says on the phone, blunt as ever. “He was wrong, but we didn’t kick you out. You did.”

“I just… needed time,” you say quietly.

“Then take it. But don’t lie to yourself about why you’re alone.”

He hangs up before you can respond.

You stare at your phone long after the screen goes dark.

Meanwhile, the dorm is a mess.

Not physically, it’s clean, eerily so. Chan’s been scrubbing everything down at 3 a.m. like it's therapy. The vacuum is basically a roommate now. But emotionally?

“Hyung, you have to talk to her,” Jisung says, popping a grape into his mouth like he’s not ready to cry. “She’s like… the sun. And the sun doesn’t text back anymore.”

Chan closes his laptop. “I’ve tried. She blocked me.”

“Emotionally, not technically.”

“Both.”

Jisung winces. “Okay, ouch.”

Chan leans back on the couch, staring at the ceiling. “She’s not coming back.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes, I do,” he says, voice tired. “I looked her in the eye and told her she was too much. She’s not gonna forget that.”

“She wasn’t too much,” Hyunjin says quietly from the armrest. “You were just tired and scared. And you lashed out.”

“Then I deserve this.”

Minho walks in, tosses a pillow at him. “You do. But we don’t. Fix it.”

⋆｡°✩

So they plan something. A trap, really.

They call it movie night in the group chat. No specifics, just a message from Jeongin that says: “Everyone better be there or I’m deleting our Netflix account.”

You hesitate. But eventually, the part of you that misses them wins. You knock on the dorm door with a bag of chips and your heart in your throat.

Felix opens the door like he’s been waiting by it. He beams. “Hey.”

Your eyes flick behind him. No Chan in sight. Maybe he’s out. Maybe you can do this. Then you step in, see him on the couch: head down, hoodie up, hands clasped like he’s praying or bracing or both. 

The silence stretches as everyone watches you freeze.

“I can leave-”

“No,” Minho cuts in. “You came. You’re staying.”

Felix takes your chips and walks off like nothing’s wrong.

You’re gently, firmly guided to a seat between Hyunjin and Seungmin.

The movie starts. Loud. Bright. Something funny. No one laughs. Everyone is pretending this is normal, you try not to look at him, and he’s trying not to look at you.

Eventually, Jeongin ‘accidentally’ knocks over the popcorn. You and Chan reach for the bowl at the same time.

Your hands brush. You freeze. He doesn’t.

“…Can we talk?” he whispers.

⋆｡°✩

The moment the door shuts, the air changes. It’s thick. Unsteady. Chan looks older. Like he hasn’t slept right in a week. He doesn’t smile.

“I don’t want to fight again,” you say first. “So if this is just gonna be another-”

“It’s not,” he says quickly. “I swear. I just… I need to apologize. Not for a second chance. Just for closure. If that’s all I can give you.”

You blink. Slowly.

He looks wrecked.

And sincere.

“Okay.”

He exhales shakily, nods. “I didn’t mean what I said. You were never too much. I was overwhelmed. And scared. And I took it out on the one person who made me feel safe.”

You look away. “You made me feel like a burden.”

“I know,” he says softly. “And I hate myself for that. Because you’re not. You’re everything good. Everything I never thought I could have.”

The tears hit faster than you expect.

“You didn’t even try to stop me from leaving,” you whisper.

“I thought I didn’t deserve to,” he says, voice cracking. “I still don’t.”

You shake your head, covering your mouth.

He steps closer.

“I miss you.”

“Don’t,” you say weakly.

“Not to win you back. Just so you know. I miss you when I wake up. I miss you when the boys laugh and you’re not there. I miss your toothbrush next to mine. Your socks on the floor. Your stupid ringtone. I miss everything.”

You close your eyes, his arms are around you, and you don’t pull away. You cry into his hoodie. He holds you like he’s afraid to break you. 

Eventually, you whisper, “I miss you too.”

And he exhales, shaky, relieved. You don’t say you forgive him. But you stay. And that’s enough.

Back in the living room, Jeongin peers toward the kitchen.

“…Do we check on them?”

“Hell no,” Seungmin mutters.

Minho smirks. “Let them.”

“Think they’re back together?” Jisung whispers.

Felix tilts his head, smiling softly. “They will be.”

taglist: @diekleinesuesse @tillaboo @felixsonlyrealwife @geni-627 @skz8riley @lezleeferguson-120 @pixie-felix @headfirstfortoro @alnex05 @baby-stay92 @encoredesires @androgynouscrownorbit @channiesluvrclub @my-neurodivergent-world @chims-dimple @bookswillfindyouaway @stellasays45 @angel-writes-skz-here @m-325 @0sunshinecryptid0 @beal-o @hug4helios @oksullen @rileylovescats @dreamyfelixx @yxna-bliss @turtledove824 @enhacolor @skzz0213 @hannahlue @purplelady85 @velvetmoonlght @inishij @bangchanspineapple @straykids4lifeee @peskybirdysya @gnabsss @zayn-210 @wolfhallows4 @katsukis1wife @sammhisphere

[solarstranger]

CHAPTER 1 | I HOPE YOU SEE (RIGHT THROUGH ME)

w.c. 1.2k

tags. minors dni. fem!reader, pro-hero!katsuki, aged-up (23), some cussing (it's not bakugou's internal monologue if there aren't any), suicide-related deaths (see series synopsis for more details), discussions of suicide, canon-typical descriptions of violence

a/n. welcome to another series by yours truly!!!! i know i still have that body swap one in the queue, and while i am planning on working on that, this series' premise just spoke to me and i was emboldened to write it as soon as i could. i'm writing this as i go, though, so the posting schedule is likely gonna be erratic, but i promise i'll try to write this consistently. anyway, i'd absolutely love to hear what you think throughout the process, so please don't be a stranger and talk to me!

links. masterlist, ao3

Somehow, he’s wound up in the emergency room of Musutafu’s highly renowned Central Hospital.

Which, if he had the energy left to really think about it, is not particularly an unusual occurrence. He’s been here—and other similar hospitals—enough to have a general blueprint of the corridors etched in his mind, as well as the basic rules they shared and protocols that were strictly followed. Stuff like how phone calls are prohibited, fatigued doctors specializing in emergency medicine are perpetually present, and how—for a place supposedly and rightfully dubbed with the ‘emergency’ title—the staff sure don’t seem to have a whole lot of sense of urgency.

Although he supposes he’d rather have that than be in a room teeming with frantic energy. Maybe they’re doing it on purpose, actually, for the sake of the patients who get rolled in.

Except right now, he was not a patient.

He was technically not a guardian, either, though the disheveled-looking middle-aged man blatantly staring at him from a few rows up front is most definitely thinking otherwise.

Well, then.

Acutely aware of the unwanted attention, Bakugou shifts uncomfortably in his seat, wincing ever so slightly when the connected metal chairs to his right creak loudly with the motion. It doesn’t help that he’s still in his hero clothes—although he’s aware there’s no point in mulling over it now; after all, he didn’t exactly have the time to do a costume change with all the shit that went down.

Not that he’s exactly sure what that ‘shit’ even was.

It all happened too fast.

One minute, he was walking down his regular patrol route down Shizuoka’s famous tallest bridge—cursing the unbearable summer heat and the dehydration-induced headaches that it brought with it; the next, he was jumping off of it.

He even boosted himself with his quirk to aid gravity in his free fall, but to no avail.

Your body had already collided with the ground by the time he could grab your wrist.

The moments that passed after that are even more of a blur now. He doesn’t know how he did it, but after what seemed like an eternity of merely staring at your limp, bloody body, Bakugou was able to pull out his phone and call 119. The medics arrived shortly after, maybe in a span of five minutes, but to him it felt like more.

It took everything within him not to just haul your body and propel you to the nearest hospital.

Because if someone died under his watch…

“Mr. Dynamight?”

Bakugou startles, looking up from where he was blankly staring at his intertwined, scarred hands. At the sight of a white coat-clad woman, the pro-hero immediately stands up, nodding, turning to face the brunette with his full attention.

“Hi,” the doctor greets, “It’s come to my understanding that you’re the one who called in regarding Patient—” she trails off, looking down at her clipboard to double-check, before saying your name in a question. “Is that right?”

“Yes,” Bakugou rasps roughly, before clearing his throat and trying again. “Uh, yes, doc.”

The doctor nods. “Were you on patrol when you found her?”

Close, the voice in Bakugou’s head retorts without missing a beat. I saw her fucking jump.

Instead of saying all that out loud, however, the ash-blonde only nods wordlessly.

The woman hums. “Okay, then. Well, her parents are still on the way here, and normally we’d let them know first, but given the nature of your involvement and your occupation, I might as well inform you.”

Instantly, Bakugou finds himself bracing for what’s next.

The doctor presses her lips in a thin line.

“I’m sorry,” she starts, shaking her head solemnly. “She didn’t make it.”

Dead on arrival.

You were dead on arrival.

At least, that’s what the doctors told him when he pressed them for more. He couldn’t tell if they were hesitant about divulging further information about you aside from the basics or just simply in the dark themselves, seeing as how they only had your wallet that they found on your person to go from. Either way, Bakugou decided it didn’t matter as soon as an older couple burst through the doors of the emergency room—a good half hour later—whom he immediately identified as your parents.

Needless to say, he hightailed it out of there.

The last thing he needed was to be the unfortunate bearer of bad news, or worse, be recognized as the reason why their daughter is currently lying lifeless in one of the hospital’s private rooms.

After that, he couldn’t remember much of his actions, only that he somehow decided to head to the agency. The entire flight down to his office, he stuck his good ear out for any signs of ringing from his phone, which surprisingly—or unsurprisingly—didn’t come.

Which makes sense.

He’s heard stories before. Exchanged in hushed whispers back in the UA dormitory, and uttered in low voices in the agencies he worked at as a sidekick. About how suicide cases in the country are criminally underreported—not just because of the stigma surrounding the act, but because the police allegedly make it a point to conceal such cases, away from the media’s prying eyes and before it gets blown out of proportion by the public.

Hakamada told him it was most likely to prevent the occurrence of suicide clusters, to which Bakugou scoffed instinctively, granting him a reprimanding look from his mentor.

But really, could anyone blame him?

The idea seemed stupid then.

If he killed himself for whatever reason, he sure didn’t want his death to be treated as some sort of curse, talked about only when people think no one’s watching.

There’s nothing more pitiful than fading away without leaving a single trace, after all.

But now, as he sits in the quiet dark of his agency’s office—the building silent if not for the gentle whirring of his air conditioner—Bakugou finds himself oddly grateful.

Because…

Because.

He wouldn’t know what he’d do if he had to face the press about what just happened.

He’s not sure how long he sat spaced out in his office, but by the time he’s inserting his lone copy of his key into the door knob, it’s already two hours past midnight, and the exhaustion from the day’s events has finally made itself known in the form of muscle aches and a throbbing migraine.

Bakugou doesn’t try to fight the sigh of relief that wracks his body the second he hears the lock click, his movements automatic as he pushes the door open with his side, left hand reaching out in the dark until it lands on and presses against the switch.

As if on cue, light floods the living room slash kitchen of Bakugou’s apartment unit, a sight so mundanely familiar that he doesn’t even blink at first.

Just—drags his aching feet towards the foyer where he toes off his sneakers and drops his duffel bag, which he swears he’ll collect the first thing tomorrow morning.

But then that’s when it happens.

Bakugou barely catches it—the movement at the corner of his eye—but he does.

And when he does—glance to look at it—he blanches.

Because sitting on his sofa is no other than a ghost.

˗ˏˋ while likes are appreciated, they don’t do much on tumblr! if you want to support me and writers in general, reblogs, replies, and tags are the way to go. feel free to drop an ask, too—i’d love to chat. have a nice day! ´ˎ

[bebx]

Beb the most exposure I have to squid game is from you so sorry if this is a weird question: Would Gi-hun sort of get along with Henry Creel and/Eddie Munson? Like have a shared understanding of what being forced to do things you don't want to is like? What about In-ho? Either of them?

Okay I need to talk about how alike In-ho and Henry are!

So I’m not sure if you know, but in Squid Game season 2, In-ho’s number is 001. So both him and Henry are 001.

But besides the number, they just have so much in common that it’s insane.

Both In-ho and Henry were wronged in their earlier lives by the people who were more powerful than them — while Henry was seen as “a monster” due to his differences and locked away in the lab where he then endured abuse and torture ever since he was a literal child, In-ho was wrongly accused of bribery by the higher ups when he was a cop, which led to him losing his job and everything he’d dedicated his youth to.

But it’s not just a job that he lost, so In-ho’s pregnant wife was terminally ill — she needed a surgery in order to save her life and their unborn child. In-ho couldn’t afford the surgery, that’s when his friend lended him the money that was then seen as bribery. Cue he lost his job/his source of income.

Desperate to get enough money to save his family, In-ho joined the game (Squid Game) in 2015, canon timeline. Out of 456 Players, only one could survive and walk out with 45.6 billion won.

In-ho won, having seen and gone through the worst of human nature during his time in the game (people killing each other, doing whatever it took in order to survive), but by the time he returned home with the prize money that would save his wife’s life, it was already too late. She and the unborn child died. While the people who got him fired, police who actually are corrupt, remain untouched and in power.

Cue In-ho’s belief that people are bad, people are greedy. From his own words, people are trash.

Re: Henry’s monologue: ❝You see, humans are a unique type of pest, multiplying and poisoning our world all while enforcing a structure of their own. A deeply unnatural structure. Where others saw order, I saw a straitjacket. A cruel oppressive world dictated by made-up rules. Seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years, decades. Each life a faded, lesser copy of the one before. Wake up, eat, work, sleep, reproduce and die. Everyone is just waiting. Waiting for it all to be over. All while performing in a silly, terrible play, day after day. I could not do that. I could not close off my mind and join in the madness. I could not pretend.❞

So Henry and In-ho share the same beliefs, same ideology.

Not only are they both victims who choose to respond to the world that has wronged them with violence, both of them also tried to help others in their shoes.

With Henry, he tried to help Eleven escape the lab, help her live the life that was robbed from him, a good life he could no longer have. In doing so, he was willing to let her leave him behind. As long as she got to live a good life and be happy, even if it meant he remained a prisoner of the lab and Doctor Brenner.

Eleven rejected him and his help. (She technically didn't, but things still went downhill; season 4 episode 7.)

Henry becomes Vecna, Eleven ends up as his enemy because she doesn’t see things the way Henry does, doesn’t agree with the way Henry responds to pain and trauma with violence and deaths of the innocent. Eleven doesn’t think people are bad.

With In-ho, he tried to urge Gi-hun into getting on that plane and going back to his daughter’s life. Tried urging Gi-hun to live the life that was robbed from In-ho, a good life In-ho could no longer have (a fatherhood In-ho could never experience), telling Gi-hun not to look back. And in doing so, In-ho was willing to let Gi-hun leave the game — leave him — behind. As long as Gi-hun got to live a good life and be happy, even if it meant In-ho remained a prisoner of the game and the VIPs.

Gi-hun turned down In-ho's advice (In-ho's attempt to help).

In-ho becomes the Front Man, Gi-hun ends up as his enemy because Gi-hun doesn’t see things the way In-ho does, doesn’t agree with the way In-ho responds to pain and trauma with violence and deaths of the innocent. Gi-hun doesn’t think people are bad.

Both In-ho’s and Henry’s stories are tragic. I’m not denying that they both have done terrible things, but their actions still do not erase the fact they are victims of the people who are more powerful than them. Henry’s a victim of the lab and Doctor Brenner, while In-ho’s a victim of the game, the VIPs and the entire system.

Thus both of them see the world and people the same way, from their own trauma, people are bad and the world is rotten.

Then you have Gi-hun and Eddie.

These two are, on the other hand, humans equivalent of Golden Retrievers.

Gi-hun isn’t as happy and cheerful as he used to be in the past, unfortunately, it’s understandable — considering everything Gi-hun went through, having lost his daughter, mother, best friend, childhood friend and everything. But before the game, Gi-hun was just this happy little dude, he was kind (he still is) and he always saw the best in people, always smiling even if life was unkind to him. Just like Eddie.

Another thing Gi-hun and Eddie have in common is that people saw them as “losers”. Eddie fell behind in school while Gi-hun was addicted to gambling. They didn’t make the best life choices, but regardless they didn’t care what people thought about them, didn’t care about social expectations, and they were happy. Literally too good for this world.

I could see Gi-hun get along and be best buddies with Eddie. While In-ho and Henry should either go see a therapist together or just talk about their shared trauma, issues and feelings.

[heylavellan]

rivalmancing anders as a mage fuels me, not because i think he's wrong or hate mages. its because i can make a hawke gaslight anders into thinking he's wrong only for hawke to choose him and the mages at the end. the breakdown that anders has after is astronomical.

also, a few fave lines from the (gay) rivalmance:

"don't threaten me boy" (hot)

"and since yours is the only head here, and i don't want to rip it off, i should stop." (also hot)

"i will not give up this fight hawke. know this now." (very hot)

"i confess, i wasn't sure you'd share my outrage. i'm glad i can count on this much."

"let us hope he is a fool as well as a bastard." (eat ser alrik alive anders!)

"why is it you can say nothing without me wanting to wring your neck?" (super hot)

"no, i like it. you just... surprised me."

"you defy the circle yourself, yet condemn the rest of your kind to it!" (apostate 2 apostate convo LMAO)

"i will make you see! i swear, if i convince no one else, at least i'll have you at my side before this is done." (hot desperation)

"i swear. i don't know whether to kiss or kill you. you're everything i hate."

"but i can't stop thinking about you. for years i've told myself there's nothing there, but i can feel it smouldering between us."

"i will never understand how you can be so antagonistic by day and so passionate by night."

"every time i don't think you understand, you turn around and do something like this."

"did i tell you about the dream i had where the grand cleric was completely naked except for her mitre? and there was this giant glowing cheese wheel..." (I NEED TO KNOW MORE)

"you cannot care for me and despise what i stand for." (correct king)

"i told you. i'm a liar. i'm a monster. i never claimed i would do anything but hurt you."

"you have given in to sloth. you would stand by while mages are abducted and tortured." (technically justice, but it counts)

anyway, rivalmance is fun.

[mothlillies]

❄️ || ND!Zayne x ND!Reader/MC

---

- Zayne, who understands better than anyone your struggle to fit in with others as he shares the same struggle, even in adulthood.

- Zayne, who ever since childhood, would do anything to protect you from those who would treat you badly because you were "different".

- Zayne, who understands when your social battery is much too low to do anything, he would rather stay in too and spend time with just the two of you anyways.

- Zayne, who never minds if you don't look in his eyes when you talk, he tends not to either.

- Zayne, who becomes a little embarrassed if he develops what he'd consider a "silly" hyperfixation until you reassure him it's okay! (and you inevitably get into it too)

- Zayne, who conversely, never judges any of your interests, treating them all with the utmost sincerety, finding your info dumping calming as he loves listening to your voice and learning new things, it's the best of both worlds for him.

- Zayne, who's systems and routines help you feel more secure, giving you a sense of safety and stability.

- Zayne, who sometimes communicates nonverbally, as do you, the two of you could have an entire conversation that consists of no words.

- Zayne, who does everything he can to comfort you and make you feel safe when the world feels like too much, holding you in his arms and providing a gentle pressure that helps you calm down.

- Zayne, who worries about not being enough for you as the world has him somewhat convinced he's a little less human than most, but you always reassure him he's more than enough, and he believes it when it's you.

- Zayne, who feels uncomfortable unmasking around most people, feels safe doing so around you, and he hopes you feel the same about him.

- Zayne, who's expressions, body language, and tone most have a hard time understanding, you've learned to read like your favorite book, you can tell when he's happy or upset without him even needing to say it.

- Zayne, who's quick to defend you from others, while ignoring comments made about him (which you however, can't ignore).

- Zayne, who above everything makes sure you're taking care of yourself, and takes care of you as much as he can.

- Zayne, who usually flinches away from touch, doesn't mind so long as it's you.

- Zayne, who's got a constant eye on your health, often noticing when you're sick before even you do. Always making sure medical staff listen to your needs and take you seriously.

- Zayne, who finds the taste of something sweet grounding. While he wants to make sure you both have a variety of foods in your diet, he never pushes and always tries to incorporate at least one of your safe foods.

- Zayne, who loves being in the same room as you even if you two never even speak, sitting and working on two entirely different things, just being around you is enough for him.

- Zayne, who when the heat becomes overwhelming for either of you, will use his evol to create something to cool you both down.

- Zayne, who loves you no matter what, every single day. <3

---

A/N: As promised my Zayne post :DD neurodivergent specifically autistic Zayne is so so canon to me, but I figured I should tag it au style just because it's not *technically* canon afaik. As with my last post, I tried to keep it somewhat vague so more people could find comfort in this, but these HCs are based on mine and the people I knows lived experience with neurodivergence so it might not resonate with everyone and I understand that ^^ let me know if you'd wanna see more LI x ND!MC and who specifically!! Sylus and Zayne are my mains so I'm not as confident writing for anyone else, but I'm willing to give it a shot!! Thank you for reading :D

[thebroccolination]

THEORY TIME WITH DETECTIVE KEY!!!

Okay, so. Potential spoilers for "The Ex-Morning," so proceed with caution, oui?

We're finding out in episode seven why Tam left, so!

TIME TO SPECULATE BEFORE WE GET TOLD!!!

First things first, they've got the same outfits in these two scenes:

So it's the same day, just different times of day. I'm gonna guess that since Phi sounds like he's on the verge of crying when he says, "I know why you left me that day," the top image is the scene where he and Tam finally talk about it. He certainly looks the appropriate level of distressed and traumatized.

The bottom image is likely later that same day, and Phi's clearly come to terms with whatever it is, enough that he's not angry with Tam. The whole vibe of that kiss seems fairly composed, so I imagine they're on more even footing by then.

And I mean, even in the top image, Phi's crying, but he's also hugging Tam pretty tightly while Tam strokes his hair, so….

Obviously there's no excusing how he left, but I've been banking on the reason being a mix of external and internal from the beginning.

'Cos here's the thing: I'm pretty sure there was some kind of threat behind it.

The series literally began with Phi and Tam investigating illegal activity as students with Phi talking on camera about how this local drug business could be connected to a member of government. They made this video for a competition, so I doubt their footage was ever made public, but they did get multiple people arrested, so it probably made the news news. The actual news.

And in the trailer, we have Phi saying, "Sorry for putting you through all this."

That, to me, seems like he could be apologizing in general: if he hadn't blown up at Tae, Tam wouldn't have come back, and maybe if they hadn't been so clumsy about their first major investigation together, whatever theoretically happened to make Tam leave wouldn't have happened, either.

I think Yong knows, and I think Paul found out through him.

And I think Paul told Phi.

I actually suspected Tam wouldn't be the one to tell Phi in the end. It seems like he's struggled with open communication all along, but also:

If the reason he left was that the award that landed Phi his job also endangered them, I can see Tam not wanting to tell Phi that it was technically his own fault in the midst of Phi trying to rebuild his career - a career he only got because he broke down crying during an interview after Tam broke up with him.

Then I can see why he's reluctant to tell Phi. If it's also Phi's fault, he doesn't want to kick him when he's down.

Like, "Okay, so not only was your career breakthrough ruined by my leaving, I'm also going to ruin one of your happiest memories by telling you the thing we won an award for also ended up fucking up everything."

It's also super possible that if this theory is true, then Tam doesn't blame Phi at all. After all, they were a team, and Tam did the research side of things. He might entirely blame himself.

Anyway, I think that's what that scene with Paul is: telling Phi the reason why Tam left because it's urgent enough that Paul feels okay with going over Tam's head.

Like, Yong definitely knows. There's this shot of a flashback scene from the behind-the-scenes special of Tam going in to talk to Yong, and he's

Same outfit from the flashback that starts episode 3 in which Phi gets the interview he'll fall apart doing because of Tam's breakup text.

Interestingly, we also get these flashback shots of Yong presumably back when he and Gaogie were dating/engaged:

So we might find out some stuff about him too.

Still many missing pieces, but I'm delighted with this week's episode. Went in a total curveball that made me go, "Ooooh," as a writer because it's not the direction I would have gone, but it's also really good. I would've been a little sad if they only got together at the very end, and I like that Phi took that leap of faith.

Time to rewatch again byeeee!

[mrs-dot-kennedy]

Could you write something about virgin FemReader x Henry? Maybe in a private bacchanal? (Like Reader asking Henry her thoughts on a bacchanal, and how strange it would be, so Henry decides to make it a real thing)

This is the best I could come up with, I kept the plot as close to the request as possible but I suck at writing porn poetically. I’m sorry, ily, I hope you like it💞

There is something about October light that makes the world feel older than it is.

You sit cross-legged on your bed, a Greek lexicon spread open across your knees, the spine cracked and listing from overuse. Outside your dorm window, the leaves bleed gold and rust and shadow. The lamps cast long yellow rectangles across the floorboards, catching dust in their glow like frozen pollen. Your room smells of wine, old wood, and a faint trace of Henry’s cologne — though he would never admit to wearing it.

He sits in the desk chair, one leg crossed neatly over the other, suit jacket folded with geometric precision on the back of the chair. The cuffs of his shirt are undone — rare — and you can see the faint pulse in the tendons of his wrist as he turns the page of Plutarch’s Moralia. There is a half-empty wine glass near his elbow and the silence between you is as familiar as your own breath.

It’s late. So late that the usual noise of campus has gone still, muffled into a hush you feel in your ribs. The others had left hours ago. Camilla kissing your cheek. Charles slurring a joke. Francis raising one amused eyebrow as Bunny tried to take the wine bottle with him and Henry coolly disallowed it.

But Henry had stayed. Of course he had.

It is your voice that breaks the silence — softly, too softly. You don’t mean to speak, not at first, but the question is a stone on your tongue, and it’s been there for weeks now.

“Do you really think it’s a good idea?” you ask. “The Bacchanal?”

Henry does not glance up. “Goodness rarely has anything to do with it.”

“But—” You pause. Your fingers toy with the edge of the lexicon’s worn paper. “What does it mean, really? Not just the ritual. I mean... all of it.”

He tilts his head slightly, as if considering. “Mystery. Communion. Abandon. The casting-off of rational self.”

He says it like an entry in a manuscript. Clean. Technical. Removed.

You swallow. “But the sex—”

That makes him look up. Slowly. Carefully. His eyes are unreadable behind the flicker of his glasses in the lamplight.

“I don’t mean—” You flinch. “I’m not being— God, sorry. I didn’t mean that crudely.”

“You’re not,” he says, and his voice is so soft it almost startles you.

For a moment you hesitate, and then — maybe it’s the wine, maybe it’s the hour, maybe it’s the fact that Henry has always had this effect on you: making you feel older, braver, cleverer than you are — the words begin to tumble out.

“I just— I don’t know what it would mean. For me. I’ve never—” You pause, pressing your lips together. “I haven’t. You know.”

The air in the room stills. A quiet not unlike the one between a lightning flash and the thunderclap that follows.

Henry does not smile. He wouldn’t. But there is a flicker — the smallest shift in the set of his mouth — something caught between solemnity and sympathy.

“You’re a virgin,” he says, without judgment.

You nod.

And then, because your throat is dry and your skin feels too hot and your stomach is tight with the kind of embarrassment that has nothing to do with shame and everything to do with wanting to be understood, you whisper, “Is that ridiculous?”

“No,” Henry says, with that terrible calm that makes everything he says sound like a truth carved into stone. “Not at all.”

You pull your knees up toward your chest, rest your chin there. “Everyone else seems so… beyond all of this. I don’t know if it’s just me, or if they’re pretending better than I am.”

“They aren’t pretending,” he says.

“That’s worse.”

Henry tilts his head again, examining you in that way of his — like you're a passage in Thucydides he hasn't quite translated yet.

“You asked what the Bacchanal means,” he says after a moment. “It means the collapse of boundaries. Of self. Of history, time, shame. To be penetrated by god, the ancients believed, was to be undone.”

“That sounds…” You trail off.

“Terrifying?”

You nod again.

“Yes,” he says. “It is.”

You close your eyes. Let the warmth of the wine and the lamplight bloom against your skin. And then, in a voice so quiet it hardly feels like your own, you ask, “Have you?”

His gaze does not waver. “Had sex?”

You nod once.

There is a pause. Measured. Not hesitant — Henry doesn’t hesitate — but curated.

“For the most part,” he says finally, “my energies have been… otherwise engaged.”

It is exactly the kind of answer he would give. Elegant. Controlled. Disengaged enough to preserve distance, but not enough to be dishonest.

You don’t ask more. You doubt it would make you feel better if you did.

You look away, cheeks burning, but he is still watching you. Watching in that way that makes you feel like he’s hearing things you haven’t said out loud.

“You’re afraid it will make you lesser,” he says. “Or exposed.”

You don't answer. The truth in his words makes you ache.

Then — and it is so Henry that it doesn’t even startle you — he speaks again, evenly:

“If you’d rather not face that unknown among strangers,” he says, “you and I could do it here. Tonight.”

The room doesn’t change — not really — but something in it does.

The air feels closer. Denser. A breath caught between two notes. You aren’t sure if you imagined it until Henry sets the book down, quietly, precisely, the same way he always closes something he’s finished reading. There’s nothing hesitant in him. Never has been.

But in you — a thousand things stir at once.

You should feel awkward. Embarrassed. Unsure. Instead, you feel… calm.

The calm of a blade held at perfect balance. The hush before the first note of a requiem.

“Only if you want to,” he says. “If you don’t, this never happened.”

You believe him. And that might be the strangest part — how much you believe him.

“I want to,” you say, and your voice sounds more certain than you expected. “Not because of the Bacchanal. Not to be like the others.”

“I wouldn’t have offered if I thought it was that.”

You meet his eyes, and they are steady. Steady in a way that steadies you.

You uncross your legs slowly, sit up straighter. Your heart is loud, but not from fear. It’s something else. Something like stepping into a cold lake just as the sun breaks open over the horizon.

“I want it to be with you,” you say, and the words feel like they’ve been waiting in your chest for days.

His expression doesn’t change much — just a breath through his nose, the faintest shift of his mouth. But that’s all Henry needs to say everything. He’s always been a man of angles and control, of deliberate lines and perfect stillness. The flicker in his jaw tells you what he’s feeling more than anyone else’s tears ever could.

He moves with purpose, but not urgency. Sets his glasses on the desk. Rolls his sleeves to the elbows with slow precision. Every gesture deliberate, almost ritualistic — as though this, too, must be carried out with classical elegance, without haste, without ceremony.

The chair creaks as he stands. The room is silent. Sacred.

He steps toward you.

And when his fingers reach for yours — cool, careful, reverent — it feels not like possession, but invocation.

He steps toward you, and your breath catches in your throat.

Not from fear. Not from uncertainty. But from the weight of the moment — how real it suddenly feels, how still he is even in motion, like a statue made flesh. He reaches for your hand and, with a gentleness that seems almost at odds with the severity of his hands — pale, angular, capable — his fingers lace with yours.

“You’re certain,” he says, not as a warning, but as a ritual. A final invocation.

You nod.

“I’m certain.”

And then he bends, not to kiss your mouth, but your temple — slow, almost ancient in its formality — as though you are something sacred. The gesture is dry and warm and strangely chaste, more reverent than romantic. He lingers there a moment, the bridge of his nose brushing your hairline, before pulling back enough to look at you fully.

His hand comes up to your jaw, knuckles ghosting along your cheek.

“You’re trembling,” he says softly.

“I know.”

There’s the briefest pause.

“So am I.”

That admission makes something stir in your chest — sharp, sudden, vulnerable. But then his lips brush yours and it hushes every thought like snow falling on stone.

It’s not urgent. It’s not hungry.

It’s measured.

A kiss like punctuation at the end of a careful sentence. The first of many, you realize — and the thought steals the air from your lungs.

You don’t notice that he’s guiding you down until the back of your knees brush the edge of the mattress. His hands are at your waist — not tight, but definite — and he eases you backward with the same composure with which he might smooth out a wrinkle in a manuscript.

The bed creaks beneath you. The light from the lamp pools in soft shapes across the blanket. Henry leans over you, one hand braced beside your shoulder, the other coming up to brush your hair from your forehead like he’s clearing the dust from an inscription.

“You don’t need to understand all of it tonight,” he murmurs, the words sinking deep into the quiet between you. “Just this.”

Then his lips find yours again — slower, fuller — and he kisses you like you are something to be studied and remembered.

He messes up your gloss more and more with each kiss — his lips smear it all over your mouth, careless in the most beautiful, deliberate way. It tastes sweet, too sweet, almost cloying — artificial strawberry, all saccharine and shine — but beneath it lingers the dry, almost metallic trace of wine on his tongue. That bitter tang makes your breath catch, makes your spine prickle. It anchors the sweetness, sharpens it. Like honey smeared on the blade of a knife.

His hand comes to your jaw then, thumb pressing lightly at the hinge as though coaxing you open, and when he kisses you again — a little deeper now, a little longer — it feels like he’s trying to memorize your shape through taste alone.

You exhale softly, mouth still parted, and he draws back just enough to look at you.

Your lip is swollen from the kiss, gloss blurred to the edges, and you can feel the faint stickiness where his mouth has been.

You are far too lost in it to notice when his hands have drawn up from your hips, only registering it when you feel them under your blouse. His fingers trace shapes and paths across your collarbones and stomach before he presses his palms — big, warm and, surprisingly calloused — to your breasts and begins fondling them.

You are facing the ceiling, eyes wide open and mouth agape as he explores your body however he likes. You don’t know what else to do — other than moan and whine — as he touches so expertly, it’s like your body were an instrument and Henry had already mastered it before he even had the chance to touch it.

Soon enough your clothes lay discarded on the floor, he has made quick work of them. Now he stands here on his knees, in between your legs, and he looks attentively at you.

You are too dazed and too nervous to decipher the look he is giving you accurately. It glints with something cool and unreadable — a knife held behind the back, or a secret folded between the pages of a very old book. You wonder, absurdly, if you’ve done something wrong — if you’ve broken some unspoken rule of Henry’s impossible interior world.

And your confusion must show in your face, because a smirk curls the corner of his mouth — not cruel, not quite — just sharp enough to draw blood if you got too close.

It is not the smile of a boy. It is the smile of a god who has just been offered something sacred and knows he will take it.

Without a word, he begins to undress himself — methodical, quiet, precise. Like shedding layers of armor, or unraveling an ancient rite. The buttons of his shirt come undone one by one, and each movement feels ritualistic, like he’s stripping himself not just of clothes, but of time, of pretense, of the long cathedral of silence he’s built around himself.

And still — still — he doesn’t look away from you.

You feel like the offering on an altar, and he the high priest preparing for invocation — to possess you, to witness you, utterly and without shame.

You are rendered frozen like a statue until he chuckles and says:

“Do you want to lend me a hand?”

And you know that he is inviting you into participating in the moment, because Henry winter couldn’t possibly need you to help him take off his shirt.

Yet, you obey. Your body springs back to life and your hands raise up from the mattress to reach for his chest. It’s only when you are halfway done unbuttoning his — expensive, cotton — shirt that you realize that you’ve been laying motionless while he made a mess of you.

You are not allowed much time to duel on the thought — for as soon as his defined and worked chest is bare for your eyes to enjoy, Henry is quick to take off his trousers and push you back down to the mattress.

The night blurs in your mind, your senses too overwhelmed for your brain to register it properly. You were wet, dripping, when you felt his cock pressing against your cunt. His cock. Heavy, thick, red and impossibly hard — all for you. Henry rubbed it over your glistening folds, not just the head — no — the full thing. He coated it all down to the base with your juices, shamelessly.

And if that wasn’t enough, he rubs your clit with the pad of his thumb at the same time. First in slow circles and he fastens his pace little by little — until a wet spot has formed underneath you. He doesn’t let you come, though, he is mean like that. Even though it’s your first time. Even though you are supposed to be the main one enjoying yourself. Henry ‘s voice is steady and serious when he tells you you are not allowed to come unless it is around his cock.

He pushes it in minutes after he has prevented you from orgasming, which makes you see stars when you close your eyes and they roll back.

You sob and moan, holding tightly onto him — so much so that you sink your nails on his back and almost draw blood. Henry has practically folded his body, his chest pressed against you as he thrusts inside and out of you in a relentless rhythm. Your walls are so tight, so warm… And the wrap so perfectly against his swollen member that he can almost feel his taut balls drawing up already.

When he notices your body beginning to quiver his thumb finds the nub of your clit once more. When your head lolls towards his, Henry kisses your trembling lips and drags his tongue against yours. He encourages you into letting go, says he will catch you, that he is almost there too. All this while his dick ruts inside your pussy.

It doesn’t take you much convincing before you orgasm all over him. You clutch onto him for dear life while you trash around, your body spamming violently. Your cunt gushes and your body trembles at each and every roll of Henry’s hips before he has to pull out in one swift motion. He ends up coming all over your belly — his cock painting your skin white as it spurts its milky load in thick ropes.

Your body has gone boneless, limbs light, when he collapses down on the bed beside you.

He doesn’t touch you at first. That surprises you, though it shouldn’t. Henry’s not made for idle gestures. He moves when something must be done — no sooner, no later — and right now, nothing is required but breath. The sound of it, shared between you, fills the quiet like mist.

You stare up at the ceiling once more. You’re not sure you could move if you wanted to.

The room is warm. The wineglass on your desk glints in the half-light. Outside, the wind rustles through the red-gold skeletons of the trees. Inside, there is only the slow unspooling of your heartbeat and the sense — fragile and unshakable — that something has shifted in the world, though everything looks the same.

Henry exhales beside you, a sound nearly silent. You feel it more than you hear it.

And then, at last, he turns his head.

“I didn’t hurt you.”

It isn’t a question. But it isn’t quite a statement either.

You glance at him — the pale arc of his collarbone, the scattered hair curling damp at his temple, the calm behind his eyes that is never really calm — and shake your head.

“No,” you say softly. “Not even close.”

He watches you for a moment longer. Then he nods once, as though to himself, and stares back at the ceiling.

Another minute passes. Maybe more. Then — suddenly, gently — his hand finds yours beneath the blanket, fingers now cold from disuse. He laces them with yours and doesn’t look at you while he does it.

And you think: If this is how a god touches, maybe the bacchanal doesn’t have to be so terrifying.

[theartofwoompwoomps]

Who you belong to

Tfp Starscream x human reader

Summary: you’ve been kidnapped and even though you’re not trying to escape your relation with Starscream is interesting? (Spoiler he gets jealous) note: this is going to be a series which explains the slow burn or unnecessary drama lol also this is gender neutral but your called gurl as a saying not as gender

Pt.1

——————————————————————————

You’d think it’d be much more entertaining having powerful evil aliens holding you hostage. 

But it’s already been a few weeks since you’ve been taken, and this place is driving you crazy.

There’s not much to do, especially after realizing everything is a whole lot more inconvenient at your size.

Thankfully, Starscream had some decency of bringing entertainment or things that could distract you, but after of a few days or hours it always lost its appeal.

Sighing as you lay on his berth, time seems to really like taking its sweet time. Without Starscream around the place was really quiet. 

As depressing as it sounds, you at least had one thing to look forward to. 

You see, there’s a few other humans on the nemesis. And after Soundwave found out humans need social interaction for good health, it became the norm to bring all the humans together once every two weeks. 

Of course their mechs were supervising, mainly because they distrust the other decepticons, but hey, the peace hasn’t been broken yet.

Feeling giddy at knowing Starscream will undoubtedly take you. Though he does it cause he likes to brag about his human caretaking skills.

And cause he likes seeing you happy, but you don’t have to know that.

————————————

The berth room’s doors slid open announcing your mechs arrival.

Hopping up from your laying position, you go to greet him, “Welcome back Lord Starscream.”

He enters, looking down at you as he offers you to climb his servo. 

You climb on, yet to receive a response. He looks different… not physically rather, his actions. He’s just looking at you. 

His optics making small movements as they analyze different parts of you. 

Well he doesn’t seem mad, you think, but it’s uncanny how un-chatty he’s being.

“…um, is everything alright?”

His optics make contact with your small eyes, you see his optical ridge, aka brows, frown making him look sullen.

Seeing no verbal response you decide to sit as you continue to look at him as well.

And as you are on his servo, he uses a digit to stroke, more like poke, your back. Your skin pricks as a small shiver goes down your spine. 

After awhile he closes his eyes letting a breath out. “Pet human,” oh surprised he’s speaking to you, “ I have not forgotten the arrangement for you humans today. We shall make our presence there soon.” 

Heading towards the gathering he exits his berth with you on hand.

Normally you both would be excited for the potential gossip but your bot is definitely more tired than amused. 

Upon arriving, you see almost everyone is here. He walks past the others, heading towards the large table. All the humans were there, it’s technically a giant barbie house but you’re not complaining.

Lowering his servo, you hop off once near. “Hey Pet, today’s visit will be short so make the most of time with your humanly things.” Sending him a nod before walking off you go to greet the others. 

Much to starscreams enjoyment, one of the humans who is closest to you is knockout’s pet.

You both tended to have the juiciest information, and he just so happened to be in mood for entertainment. 

Trying to stay close, he stays right where he can hear you but not be seen by you.

“ Eavesdropping so soon Screamer?” 

Groaning as he turns to face the medic, sees his smirk as he walks closer to him. 

“You know your human isn’t going anywhere right.” Starscream rolls his optics in annoyance, 

“Please, your far more protective of these pets than you let on. Besides Doctor, your the one whose been nagging my way of caretaking my human.”

Shrugging as he agrees, both bots continue in conversation as their humans do so as well not that far from them.

Honestly both weren’t really paying attention to y’all until the heard a specific phrase.

“What do you mean (name)? You for real haven’t ever thought of being in another bots care?”

He perks a brow at that, even Knockout pauses his sentence to hear.

“I didn’t think it was an option, so it never really crossed my mind. Have you thought about that?”

Now knockout is as close as starscream, both tilting their helms to get better audio. “Gurl please, with a bot as hot as knockout I ain’t ever going nowhere.”

Hearing your chuckle he also sees the visible grin growing on the medic’s face. Oh boy his ego is showing again.

“But be fr, even if you hadn’t thought about it before, if you could, who would you choose to be your caretaker?” 

Your silence makes him tense. 

He not really sure what you thought on the matter. Heck— he’s not too sure what he thinks about you.

“Hmm, well you didn’t hear this from me, but I’d go for Soundwave—“ “What?! There’s no way!” They gasp out hearing your response. Starscream also having to hold back his own gasp as you continue, “Cmon can you judge me? their human basically lives in luxury.”

“True dat, true dat.”

The conversation continues with both of y’all sharing reasons of how great he is.

But he’s great too.

Even better than that silent freak. Feeling a pang in his spark, anger creeps as he hears that out of all the bots Soundwave is your preferred bot?! Technically you didn’t say that

“Woah calm down Starscream, your vents are going crazy. And just a reminder they are talking hypothetically not reality.” 

But he just feels more infuriated, “I am calm.” Sure, but his tone told a different story. 

The medic backs off as Stars goes to pick you up, literally…

“Hey! This is a bit uncalled for you know !” 

He just grunts out a response too low for you to hear. You would have said something else, but judging from how tight he’s holding you he is definitely pissed.

Arriving back to his berth, which felt like an eternity to get to he places you down in your human corner before mass displacing.

Watching him transform is always mesmerizing, but seeing how angry he is as he approaches you is more menacing than mesmerizing.

“Woah, I’m sure there’s a logical explanation for whatever I could have done to have made you upset.” You slowly back up as he just continues to scowl...with a smile? An angry smile??

And he’s not stopping. He keeps walking towards you.

And that little thing called instincts makes run like crazy especially after hearing his own pedes speeding after you ,

“Get back here pet!”

You screech as you dodge a servo using the couch as defense.  “Nuh uh, I don’t even know why you’re mad at me !”

He scoffs but not necessarily at you, “Mad at you? No. Im upset with someone else who has messed with what is mine.” 

“Huh? Then why the hell are you chasing me for?!” 

He doesn’t respond as  he continues to chase you around the couch, but this time you don’t miss the small laugh on his face as he almost reaches you. 

You let out at snicker as he slipped on the rug, and you quickly rushed to the other side of the couch from where he is.

Though his disheveled self sprawled on the ground made you burst out laughing. 

Groaning as he gets up, holding his helm, he mischievously smiles at you, “You little rascal.” 

Jumps at you without a care that the couch is in between knocking you both to the ground.

You also groan as your body hits the floor. He landed on top of you, thankfully his structure avoided actually squeezing you to the ground. 

Though now he has you trapped.

“Geez, give me a warning next time.” And even though he also feels a bit of pain from the action, he simply snarks back playfully, “At least now I know I have all your attention.” 

“What? That’s sounds a bit silly, is that really necessary?”

“Well I can’t have Soundwave taking up any space in your tiny head that belongs to me.” You look at him in shock, “That’s what this is about?!” 

He frowns a bit as he explains himself, “I heard what you said about him. Not mention I also know you’ve been hanging around him a lot more recently.”

He inches his face plate closer. “But there’s one thing I want you to have clear.” You close your eyes feeling the warm air from his vents.

“No,” his servo holds your face, “Look at me as I tell you this.” You resist the urge to squirm feeling a bit uncomfortable at the change mood.

“Remember pet, you belong to me.”

——————————————————————————

Masterlist

[renlyslittlerose]

i love the prompts you have written and i don't know if you still take them, so no pressure to write this <3 but anakin finds out about obi-wan's early apprenticeship (that he was sent away to agricorps, bandomeer mess, melida/daan when he left the order etc) and he realises that he doesn't know obi-wan as well as he thought he did.

Thanks, anon!!! Loved the premise of this one - rife for lots of classic obikin repression, deflection, and ignoring of the real trauma they've both experienced! Yay!

---

‘I heard that Padwans who have yet to place with a Master are sent to the AgriCorps. Is that true?’

‘Indeed, I’d heard the same. Why, Master Kenobi, weren’t you part of the AgriCorps?’

‘Ah, technically, yes. Thankfully, Master Qui-Gon and I found our purpose together, and I was able to complete my training.’

Staring out the cockpit of the starship, Anakin focused on the black space between the stars. Within it lay a tranquility mixed with the overwhelming sense of insignificance that Anakin was craving. Stuck in the blackness of that space, Anakin could maintain a careful distance, void from himself and his churning thoughts.

But try as he might to lose himself into that familiar abyss, something kept tugging him back.

Obi-Wan.

He’d been in the AgriCorp, a fact that he’d never told Anakin. Anakin had to find out at a dinner party with some third-rate politicians on a backwater planet. The thought of it stung and twisted, like a thorn beneath his nail. Try as he might to overcome the source of his discomfort, he couldn’t help but push into it.

Anakin thought he knew everything about Obi-Wan. He was supposed to. They were friends, brothers, father and son. Lovers, when Obi-Wan let himself give in. They were bound by blood, sweat, and seed. Their spirits coexisted within the Force, fused together through it all - despite and because of it. Yet Anakin didn’t know about the AgriCorp, didn’t know about how he met Master Qui-Gon, or what types of mission they’d undergone before Obi-Wan had walked into Anakin’s life on the shores of an ocean of desert.

It was unfair. Years - over a decade - of spending every waking moment with Obi-Wan, and he didn’t even know about the damned AgriCorp.

What else didn’t he know?

“You’ve been quiet ever since we dropped out of hyperspace,” Obi-Wan said.

Blinking back the darkness, Anakin looked down at the console. They were still a fair distance from Coruscant, the ship effectively bobbing out in the middle of nowhere, but Anakin had wanted to take manual control in hopes it would soothe the tremor in his heart. All he’d managed to do, however, was delay their return and lengthen the time they had to spend together - alone, and trapped in a small spacecraft.

Fucking perfect.

“I’m just tired,” Anakin lied. He kept his gaze elsewhere, but could see Obi-Wan’s sleeve out of the corner of his eye.

“You’re a poor liar, Anakin.”

“I’m focused on what I’m supposed to be doing - flying the ship. So unless you want us to crash…”

“What would we crash into? We're in the middle of nowhere.”

“Fuck off.”

Obi-Wan let out a small sigh, one that made Anakin even angrier. He had no right to be annoyed. No right at all. Gripping the steering column harder, Anakin pushed them forward at a faster pace. The motion of the ship soothed Anakin, but when Obi-Wan complained about the sudden velocity change, Anakin’s anger came back.

Pulling the columb back, Anakin brought the ship to an immediate stop.

“Anakin, what are—”

“Why didn’t you tell me about the AgriCorp?” he asked as he finally looked at Obi-Wan.

For his part, Obi-Wan’s expression softened almost immediately. Hesitation fluttered through their bond, and Obi-Wan let out a soft sigh from between gently parted lips. “Is that what’s been eating you up this whole time?”

“What else could it be?”

Obi-Wan shrugged and ran a hand through his hair. “Any number of things, really. You’re not known for your continuous sunny disposition, darling.”

He was trying to deflect. Anakin had dealt with it enough. Hope to make Anakin angry so they could refocus their attention to that, rather than to Obi-Wan’s faults and flaws. The fact that he was trying to do it now - here - made Anakin’s stomach twist and his cheeks grow hot with anger.

“Don’t twist this, Obi-Wan. You know everything about me - everything. You know my past, my fears, my trauma. I’ve both told it to you, and you’ve seen it. I didn’t get the chance to hide it from you, even if I wanted to. Which I don’t.”

“But you were my Padawan, Anakin. A child doesn’t know about their parents trauma, nor should they.”

“We’re beyond father and son at this point,” Anakin said. The anger was building. This wasn’t fair, and Obi-Wan knew as such. He was just too stubborn to admit to it. He always had to be so faultless. “We rely on each other, Obi-Wan, in every capacity. You hiding your past from me only shows that it still effects you. And that can be used against you by our enemies. And in turn, used against us.”

Anakin knew he was onto something. Their bond quivered slightly with shame. But just when Anakin thought he was getting somewhere, Obi-Wan shifted in his seat and locked Anakin with a stern look.

“My past is my past, Anakin. Whatever may have happened is settled. I’ve long since come to terms with it, and it will not be used against myself nor you. I promise you this.”

Anakin rolled his eyes and turned away from Obi-Wan. “Yeah, sure. Always so confident, aren’t you.”

He was done. Done with all of it.

“Anakin.”

Or maybe he wasn’t.

“This isn’t just about our missions,” Anakin spat out. He turned back to Obi-Wan. “We’re… we’re more than just warriors, or Generals, or Jedi. We’re… we’re lovers, Obi-Wan. I trust you to be with me when I’m at my most vulnerable. I give you everything. And you can’t even tell me about the shit that went down when you were a kid.”

Obi-Wan’s brows furrowed, and his eyes softened. Eventually he nodded, and looked away. “I… I understand your frustrations, Anakin. I just thought… I thought perhaps that if I didn’t tell you, I could be free from those memories when I was around you. That through your not knowing of these… these past traumas, as you like to put it, I could be free of them as well. You were my safe space from those memories…”

Anakin wasn’t going to fall for it. It wasn’t going to work.

Obi-Wan looked back at Anakin. “I am sorry for keeping parts of my past from you, darling. It was never my intention to hurt you.”

It wasn’t going to work…

Rising from his seat, Obi-Wan took the few steps between the chairs before kneeling down beside Anakin’s. Laying his hand over Anakin’s mechno-hand on the armrest, Obi-Wan warmed the leather glove with the touch of his palm. Looking down at Obi-Wan, Anakin couldn’t help but relax, even as he desperately tried to hold on to his rage. But it slipped away the moment Obi-Wan tucked his chin on top of their joined hands.

“Forgive me for being selfish?” Obi-Wan asked.

Anakin knew this wouldn’t change anything. Obi-Wan could continue to hide, because it was easier than laying himself bare to Anakin. And Anakin would always give in despite his righteous irritation, because he didn’t like being mad at Obi-Wan.

It was easier pretending there was no discord.

“You’re an ass.”

“A very sorry ass.”

Anakin rolled his eyes but accepted Obi-Wan’s kiss all the same.