#Ended way back in like. 2016 or something

[justmeclover]

Swag says they know nothing on MLP so here's a very very VERY short summary of what it is. Not summarizing the plot cuz I barely watched any of the show myself.

So basically, this one animator guy saw this old pony show abt friendship and was like, "Aight bet." and made his own show about ponies and friendship. 6 main characters, 6 ponies. (And a dragon for some reason.) One comes from Texas, one likes books, one is high 24/7, one is a drag queen, one has social anxiety, and one watched Breaking Bad that one time. The show started silly and goofy, but then the fandom wanted LORE so the animator guy who started this whole mess gave them the LORE.

Oh and also Bronies ig.

Who would be who in a LMK/MLP?

So Pigsy has to be Applejack, Tang is Twilight, Mei as Pinky Pie, Red Son as Rarity, MK is Rainbow Dash, Sandy as Fluttershy (bc come on, he’s really good with animals). That just leaves Wukong and Macaque as Celestia and Luna

I'll take your word on it hoMIE ^^ b

[buckysleftbicep]

what home feels like 𐙚 b.b

pairing: new avenger!bucky barnes x fem!reader (5 + 1 trope)

warnings: loads, like mountains of fluff, soft!bucky, some angst, bucky in an apron, team shenanigans

summary: the 5 times bucky thinks of proposing to you and the 1 time he does

word count: 6.1k (i couldn't help myself 🥹)

author's note: hi loves! i am in the middle of my vacation and i had this written during my layover, and i just couldn't wait to let you guys read it, so here it is! i hope you'll love it as much as i do! love ya and stay safe out there! 💌

The first time Bucky thought of proposing to you, you were asleep on his chest, and the world was still.

The sun filtered softly through gauzy curtains, turning the room to gold, that liminal hush between dawn and morning, when the world had yet to stir. 

The compound was silent. Peaceful. A rare luxury. And in the center of it all was you, curled in the tangle of Bucky’s arms, your face pressed to his chest, your breath warm and even against the fabric of his shirt.

One of your hands was fisted there, right over his heart, like you’d been afraid he might drift away in the night and needed something to anchor you. As if your body, even in sleep, refused to let him go. 

He didn’t mind. He never minded. In fact, if he had it his way, he’d never move from this moment at all. He could stay like this forever. And maybe, for once, he actually believed he deserved to.

Alpine lay nestled between your legs, a puddle of white fur with her chin resting lazily on your calf. She let out a soft mewl, stretching languidly, paws reaching toward the warm patch of sunlight spilling across the bed before curling tighter into the cradle you made for her.

Bucky watched her for a beat, the corners of his mouth twitching, and then looked back down at you, the way your lashes flickered in dreams, the way your lips parted with each slow breath, your features soft and at peace in the golden quiet.

There was a kind of stillness in the air that made everything feel sacred. Like nothing bad could touch the room you shared. Like the outside world, the violence, the ghosts, the endless fight didn’t exist here. 

Just you. Just him. Just this.

And his heart ached a little with the weight of it, of how far he’d come, of how long it had taken to get here. To something this gentle. This good.

Because this life had once seemed impossible.

Germany, 2016.

The first time Bucky saw you, he had been standing at the far end of the airport carpark in Berlin, still learning how to breathe in spaces that weren’t cages.

Still unsure of who he was supposed to be outside the Soldier. Still half-listening, half-drifting.

Steve had brought you in, voice warm, saying you’d be helping with strategy and tech coordination for the joint ops.

There had been a familiarity in how he spoke to you, like you were someone he already trusted. That alone had caught Bucky’s attention. 

And then… then you walked in beside him.

Wearing jeans and a simple button-down shirt rolled at the sleeves, your hair pulled back in some easy style like you hadn’t even put much thought into it.

You had a notebook in one hand, and your eyes were wide, bright. Like you hadn’t yet learned to keep your guard up in this line of work. Like the job hadn’t bled the softness out of you.

And Bucky… Bucky had stared.

Not out of rudeness—not really. But because you’d laughed. Full-bodied and unfiltered.

Scott had said something dumb—some half-witted quip about old men and bluetooth—and you had tipped your head back, laughing like it was the best thing you’d heard all week.

The sound of it went straight through him.

It didn’t just catch his attention. It wrecked him, a little. That laugh landed somewhere behind his ribs, somewhere he hadn’t even realised was still raw. And for the first time in a long time, something in him stirred. Something slow and silent and stupidly hopeful.

Then you turned to him. Your gaze met his.

You smiled.

Held out your hand.

“Hi, I’m (Y/N),” you’d said, your voice warm, effortless and kind. The kind of voice that made people feel safe. The kind of voice that felt like a hand resting lightly on a wound.

“You must be Bucky.”

He hadn’t said a word at first. Couldn’t. His brain had short-circuited under the weight of your gaze and the gentle curl of your mouth. His pulse roared in his ears like it did in combat zones—sharp, hot, all-consuming.

But then, somehow, he managed a smile. A real one. Small. Tentative. But genuine. And when he took your hand in his, shaking it carefully, cautiously, something in his chest locked into place.

He remembered how soft your skin had felt against his calloused fingers. How you hadn’t flinched at the sight of the metal. How your touch had lingered just long enough.

You didn’t seem put off by his silence. You’d just nodded, eyes full of something unspoken, and walked off with Wanda, the two of you giggling about something he couldn’t hear. Just like that, you were gone. But the space you left behind stayed.

That’s when Sam had sidled up beside him, elbowing him just hard enough to knock him out of his daze.

“You know if you keep staring, it’s gonna get reak creepy,” he said, smirking.

Bucky had scowled at him. Sam had just grinned wider, all smug and knowing, before turning back.

But even then—Bucky knew.

Knew he was already in trouble.

Because something had shifted. A compass needle inside him, snapping north.

And from that moment on, he’d been tilting toward you.

Now, as he looked down at you all these years later—your lashes fluttering in dreams, your nose scrunching as Alpine adjusted herself—the same flutter stirred in his chest. The same ache, the same quiet kind of awe.

The kind of wonder a man feels when he realises he’s been given the one thing he never dared to ask for.

You shifted in your sleep, barely a breath of movement, but your hand remained curled tight in his shirt, right over his heart.

A reflex, even now. And Bucky let his vibranium fingers trace along your spine, the weight of them light, slow, gentle. Careful not to wake you. He wanted to hold onto this moment just a little longer.

That’s when he thought about the ring.

The one you’d pretended not to look at in the window of that little shop in town last week, red velvet box, delicate curve of diamonds catching the light.

You’d been with Yelena and Bob, arms full of coffee cups and teasing each other about something John had said.

But as you passed the display, you slowed.

He’d noticed it. The way your gaze had lingered. The way your fingers shifted slightly on the cup, like you were reaching for something you wouldn’t admit to wanting. The way your smile curved at the corners, quiet and wistful, like a secret you didn’t plan on sharing.

He saw it and tucked it away.

And now, with you asleep in his arms, your heartbeat matching his, the sun painting gold into your skin, Alpine’s fur warming your legs and that familiar weight of your hand pressed into his chest—he made the decision he’d been dancing around for weeks.

He was going to buy it.

Because this—this lazy Sunday morning with your body draped over his, your love stitched into the silence—this was it.

This was forever.

The second time Bucky thought of proposing, the kitchen had smelled like toast and sunlight.

It was late morning when he found you in the kitchen, barefoot on cool tile, hips swaying to the distant echo of Taylor Swift playing from a speaker;

The track was barely audible—warbled through the walls, a little staticky at the edges, but you didn’t seem to care.

You moved with it anyway, letting the music carry you from one counter to the next like it had been written for this exact moment—lazy, sun-warmed, still wrapped in the quiet of sleep.

You were wearing his shirt—that old red henley he loved and you’d stolen without apology—sleeves pushed up to your elbows, the hem brushing mid-thigh and clinging in places where the steam from the kettle had warmed the air. 

Your hair was still mussed from sleep, strands curling at your temples, and one sock was scrunched halfway down your ankle like you’d forgotten to pull it all the way on.

You held a wooden spoon in one hand like a microphone, lips parted, eyes closed, your voice rising with the chorus as you spun in a loose, lazy circle in front of the stove.

You were completely at ease. Utterly unbothered. Just lost in the song and the morning and the rhythm of your own joy.

Sunlight streamed in through the half-open blinds, casting golden stripes across the floor and lighting you up like something out of a dream.

You looked like every warm Sunday morning he’d ever wanted, the kind of morning he didn’t believe he’d ever actually get.

Bucky leaned against the doorframe, watching the way your feet padded across the tile, how your hips swayed, how you bobbed your head to the beat like no one was watching—because you didn’t think anyone was.

And maybe he should’ve said something—greeted you, teased you, but the words stayed lodged in his throat, caught somewhere behind the knot that had formed in his chest. Because there was something about you like this that undid him.

Completely.

You were radiant in a way he didn’t think you realised. The kind of radiant that came from joy—unfiltered, unguarded. The kind that wasn’t curated or calculated or polished for the world.

The kind of beauty that only existed in the in-between spaces—in the stretch of a yawn, in a wooden spoon masquerading as a microphone, in the way your laugh cracked when you hit the high notes wrong.

And god, he thought, watching the sway of your hips, the grin playing at your lips, this is home.

You.

You were home.

He thought about the way you’d slowly, gently introduced him to pop culture like it was your personal mission to drag him into the 21st century. 

The curated playlists you made, some with real titles and others labeled “Bucky’s Soft Bitch Era” just to get a rise out of him. The back-to-back movie nights where you made him swear, hand over heart, that he wouldn’t fall asleep during The Notebook.

He remembered the first time he said TokTok by accident and you’d nearly fallen off the couch laughing, giggling so hard you landed half in his lap. 

He’d rolled his eyes and muttered something about the whole app being made by “brain rot,” a term you taught him. but you’d refused to correct him, smirking every time he repeated it wrong.

You’d made it all so effortless. The joy.

He hadn’t known it was happening—not at first. Not until it was already too late to stop. Until you were part of everything. His mornings, his evenings, the space between missions, the quiet between nightmares. The laughter between breaths.

You hadn’t forced him to change.

You’d just given him something worth changing for.

He smiled to himself, one hand curling loosely around the coffee mug, now half-cold in his grip.

You were singing now, his shirt shifted with every movement, slipping just slightly off one shoulder. The sight of it—your bare skin against his worn cotton, the easy claim of it—made his stomach twist.

And maybe it was stupid.

Maybe it was too soon.

But the thought still rooted deep in his chest and bloomed like something inevitable.

I want to come home to this for the rest of my life.

He could see it, so vividly it ached. This kitchen, your voice, that damn wooden spoon. The rest of your lives written in sunlight and bad karaoke, laughter and bare feet on tile. He wanted to memorise this, frame it. Carve it into stone so it would never change, never fade.

Because at that moment, it wasn’t just love.

It belonged.

But he didn’t say anything.

Didn’t move.

Because the moment felt too perfect, too suspended in its own little pocket of magic, like one wrong word might startle it, might shatter the stillness and send it fleeing out the window with the breeze.

So he let it be.

Let it unfold in golden quiet, you twirling in his shirt, bathed in sunlight, the world narrowed down to the music and the soft clatter of silverware in the drying rack, the steam rising from your forgotten tea on the counter.

And Bucky stood there, still and quiet and entirely undone, holding a lukewarm cup of coffee and the sharp, aching certainty that one day, maybe soon, maybe not, he was going to ask you.

The third time Bucky thought about proposing to you, you were laughing in the golden light, beer in hand, surrounded by people who loved you almost as much as he did.

The sky had started to turn.

That soft stretch between afternoon and evening where the sun melted into everything it touched, bathing the world in a low, amber haze. The backyard was warm with the glow of it—fairy lights strung lazily along the rails of the compound’s rooftop. 

Smoke curled up from the grill, rich and familiar, while laughter rippled across the patio like music. Somewhere in the corner, Bob’s speaker hummed with old rock music and the occasional burst of static.

It didn’t matter. Nobody seemed to mind.

You were laughing again.

That soft, breathless kind of laughter that tugged at the corners of Bucky’s mouth every damn time he heard it. Like some part of him lit up in response—quiet and instinctive, like your joy flipped a switch inside him that nothing else could.

He stood just outside the patio doors, a paper plate in hand—barely touched—but his eyes were on you. 

Only you.

You were perched on the arm of John’s chair, elbow resting on his shoulder like it was second nature, beer bottle tilted carelessly in your hand. John was mid-sentence, half-defending himself from whatever teasing you were throwing at him, and you were clearly winning. 

Your smile was crooked, mischievous. Familiar. The same one you always wore when you knew you were about to land a joke that would ruin someone’s ego for the rest of the week.

“You’re just mad because I’m funnier than you,” you said, clinking your bottle against his in mock sympathy, your tone soaked in smug satisfaction.

John groaned dramatically. “Please. I’m hilarious.”

Yelena snorted from the grill without even looking up. “You are a tragedy.”

Bob raised his hand like he was in a courtroom. “She’s not wrong.”

“You people have no taste,” John muttered, but there was no real bite behind it.

“You overcooked the burgers,” Bob added casually.

“Exactly,” Yelena chimed in, jabbing a fork in his direction with finality. “He’s lost all credibility.”

Over by the cooler, Alexei was deep in what could only be described as a passionate retelling of something that definitely hadn’t happened—this time about his red guardian days and a hand-to-paw brawl with some Siberian bear. 

He waved his arms dramatically, chest puffed out, his voice rising with each sentence like a man delivering a one-man play. 

Ava had tuned him out completely, scrolling through her phone with surgical focus and only humming in vague acknowledgment whenever he shouted the word “bear” a little too loud.

It was chaotic, the kind of mess Bucky never would’ve imagined himself a part of—let alone something he could belong to.

But he wasn’t listening to any of it.

His eyes were on you.

The way you leaned into the warmth of the moment, head tilted back in laughter, eyes crinkling at the edges like sun lines. The way you had this unspoken ease with the people around you—even the ones who hadn’t always been easy to love. 

You fit into the team not like glue, but gravity—like you kept everyone tethered without even meaning to.

He shifted, let his free hand drift toward the pocket of his jeans. His fingers brushed the small velvet box tucked there.

He remembered the aftermath of what happened in New York, it had been brutal.

For everyone. But especially for John.

No one really knew what to say to him. No one quite knew how to reach him, not after it came out that Olivia had left. That the wife and baby he said was waiting back home had already left months before.

He was splintered.

You hadn’t flinched. You hadn’t hesitated.

You’d found John on the compound steps the night he returned, still bloodied and shaking, the seams of his restraint barely holding—and sat beside him.

No grand entrance. No fuss. Just a quiet presence. You didn’t offer him pity or force conversation. You didn’t tell him it would be okay, you didn’t lie.

You had reached over and took his hand.

Held it, steady and solid—while the others kept their distance. It was simply, completely unremarkable on the surface.

But it worked. Somehow. Quietly. Without demand.

And Bucky had watched it unfold, breath lodged somewhere behind his ribs. Because that was the thing about you. You never tried to fix anyone, but somehow, you still managed to help them heal.

You were everyone’s lighthouse in the dark, even the ones who pretended they didn’t need one.

Especially them.

It was only a week later when the compound had gone still when Bucky had found himself at the dining table, elbows braced, shoulders tight, knuckles white around the edge of a ceramic mug he wasn’t drinking from. 

He sat there for a long time, unmoving, eyes fixed on nothing, haunted by something he couldn’t name. The image of what he saw in the void still crawled under his skin—loud in the quiet, vivid behind his eyes.

He hadn’t noticed you until you spoke.

You padded in barefoot, still warm from sleep, wrapped in his shirt that hung off one shoulder. Your hair was tangled, voice soft and low like you hadn’t used it yet that day.

You didn’t ask what was wrong. You didn’t need to.

You just pulled out the chair beside him, sat down, and reached for his hand. No preamble. No questions. Just your fingers curling gently around his.

“I’m here, James,” you whispered, voice so quiet he barely caught it. “You’re not alone. Not anymore.”

And that—that was all it took.

He hadn’t said anything. Just nodded once, jaw tight as the tears came fast and quiet and unexpected.

Your grip never loosened.

And then Bucky blinked, too, like waking from a dream.

The memory dissolved around the edges, softening into the golden blur of now. 

You were still laughing with John, chin resting on your hand, your bottle now empty and forgotten.

The sky behind you had turned a dusky pink, streaked with orange and fading blue. The fairy lights blinked overhead like slow, lazy fireflies.

Bucky swallowed hard, throat thick, heart heavy with something he didn’t quite know how to hold. Something fragile and infinite.

The ring burned in his pocket.

Yelena sidled up beside him, two plates balanced in one hand, her eyes trailing the line of his gaze before she leaned in just enough to bump her shoulder against his.

“She’s good for you,” she said simply, like it was fact, like it had always been obvious.

He blinked, pulled his eyes from you long enough to glance at her. She was right.

“I know,” he said softly, mostly to himself, his fingers brushing the velvet box again, like the shape of it grounded him.

Soon.

But not tonight.

Tonight, he just stood there in the glow of fairy lights and fading sunlight, and let himself love you in silence.

The fourth time Bucky thought of proposing to you was during that one particular movie night.

The rec room buzzed, the lights were dimmed, shadows stretched across the walls in flickering shapes, and someone had dragged in extra bean bags and pillows from the training room—turning the entire floor into a makeshift nest of mismatched blankets and old couch cushions. 

The screen glowed in the dark, casting soft blues and golds onto lazy limbs and half-finished bowls of popcorn.

You were curled beside Bucky on the couch, shoulder pressed into his side, legs tangled loosely beneath a shared blanket.

One of your socks had slipped off sometime during the first act. He didn’t even know when. He just knew your toes were cold when they nudged against his shin—and he hadn’t moved away.

He didn’t think he ever could.

The room smelled like buttered popcorn and worn fabric, like sleep and safety and leftover takeout from the kitchen. 

Ava was stretched out across two bean bags with Alpine curled on her stomach. Bob had his head tipped back, already snoring softly, while Yelena and Alexei were still arguing in hushed voices about who cried harder during The Lion King.

It was quiet in a way that only felt possible when you were all together. The kind of quiet that wasn’t empty—just easy.

You shifted slightly, your fingers brushing over Bucky’s hand beneath the blanket. And then, without thinking, you began to trace the ridges of his knuckles. Absentminded. Familiar. Like muscle memory. 

Like you’d done it a hundred times before—because you had.

It was your comfort habit. Your way of grounding yourself when the day had been too long or your eyes were growing heavy. 

You didn’t say anything. Didn’t even look up.

Your breathing slowed and your head dropped against his chest.

Bucky watched you as your eyelids fluttered, your face softening in sleep, lips parting slightly with each slow breath. Your lashes twitched like you were dreaming already—and god, you looked peaceful. Completely undone by comfort and warmth.

You drooled a little. Right there on his chest.

And he chuckled quietly to himself, shaking his head like it didn’t knock the breath out of him. Like it didn’t make his heart twist with something so fierce and tender he couldn’t look away.

Because this—this stupid little moment, your drool soaking into his shirt and your body heavy against his side—this was it.

This was love.

This was the kind of night that carved itself into your bones without even asking.

The movie ended in the background—soft fade-to-black and swelling music—but Bucky didn’t move. People started shifting. Groaning. Standing. 

Bob staggered to his feet, mumbling something about a sugar crash. Alexei wandered off in search of leftovers.

Even Yelena, who usually never missed a chance to call Bucky a “domestic menace,” didn’t say anything this time. She just shot him a look, eyes soft for once, and tugged Bob toward the hallway by the sleeve.

Eventually, the room emptied.

But he stayed right where he was.

Blanket pooled over both your legs. Your body curled into his. One of your hands still loosely wrapped around his.

And Bucky leaned his head back against the couch, eyes fixed on the ceiling, the ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth.

“I want every night like this,” he murmured, barely above a whisper.

It wasn’t even a thought—just something that slipped out, something too true to hold in.

He looked down at you again, the words still blooming on his tongue, soft and certain.

He nearly asked.

Right then.

Nearly reached into his pocket for the ring that had never left his side since he’d bought it. Nearly tilted your chin up, brushed your hair out of your face, and told you he never wanted to do this life without you.

But then—

You snored.

Not loud. Not obnoxious.

Just enough to break the spell.

And Bucky laughed under his breath, the kind of laugh that cracked his chest open a little. He dipped his head, pressed a slow kiss to your forehead, and breathed in the soft scent of your shampoo, your skin, the safety of you asleep against him.

“Soon, baby,” he whispered, lips against your temple. “I’ll ask you soon.”

And in that quiet, golden stillness, as the credits rolled and your breathing evened out again, Bucky knew he could wait.

Just a little longer.

The fifth time Bucky thought of proposing to you, it was in a hospital ward.

Sokovia had been burning.

The sky was thick with smoke and dust, buildings gutted by fire and shrapnel, streets vibrating beneath their feet as another explosion rocked the earth in the distance.

The air was chaos—civilians screaming, radios crackling, the stench of blood sharp against the tang of ash and diesel.

And through it all, Bucky could still hear your voice in his ear—calm, clear, steady, a tether in the madness as you moved beside him.

“There’s two trapped in the north alley,” you’d said, breathless from the sprint, dirt streaked across your cheek. “I’ve got them Buck, go cover the evac point.”

He should’ve listened.

God, he should’ve listened.

But you were always the brave one. The reckless one when it counted. The one who would throw yourself into the fire if it meant pulling someone else out. And before he could stop you, before he could argue, it was already happening.

The shot came out of nowhere—a single, clean crack that split the world in half.

Then motion.

You.

Slamming into him with a force that knocked the air from his lungs — all instinct and desperation. The bullet was meant for him, but it found you instead.

The sound it made when it hit you would haunt him for the rest of his life.

Not a scream. Not even a gasp.

Just a sickening, solid thud, and the look in your eyes, just for a second, before your legs buckled and you collapsed into him like a marionette whose strings had been cut.

Bucky caught you before your knees hit the ground.

He hit his knees with you, arms tightening, hands already pressing hard against your chest, where blood was blooming fast. Too fast.

The warmth of it soaked his fingers, thick and terrifying, spilling between them like time slipping away.

His breath stuttered. His hands wouldn’t stop shaking—both of them slick and red—no line anymore between man and machine, just one desperate body trying to hold another together.

“Nonononono—baby, stay with me,” he begged, voice cracking. “Look at me. Come on, just look at me.”

Your eyes fluttered.

Barely.

You were gasping, breath catching on every inhale, body struggling against gravity and pain—but still, somehow, you found his hand. Still curled your blood-slicked fingers into his like it mattered. Like he mattered.

And then—the whisper.

Barely a breath.

“It’s okay, James.”

You tried to smile. You tried. Even as your chest heaved, even as your face paled. You were still trying to make him feel better. Even then.

And then your eyes slipped closed.

Your hand went slack in his.

“No—” His voice broke. “No, baby, please. Please—stay with me. Stay.”

He screamed for help, hell he shouted it until his throat tore open.

It wasn’t words anymore. It was a sound. Something raw and helpless, a sound he hadn’t made in years—maybe ever. The comms burst to life in his ear, voices overlapping—Alexei calling coordinates, Ava yelling his name, John barking into his comm and Yelena screaming at Bob to send a medic to your position.

But Bucky heard none of it.

Just the ringing. Just the static in his head. Just the crushing silence of your body going still in his arms.

Blood on his hands, blood on his knees, blood on your lips.

And you weren’t moving.

The hallway outside the operating room was too clean. Too bright and way too quiet.

The overhead lights buzzed faintly, and Bucky sat slouched against the wall, the chill of the tile seeping through his suit as he clutched a cup of coffee gone long cold. It had stopped steaming ages ago, untouched, forgotten. He didn’t even remember someone giving it to him.

His front was still damp. His knees stained, his fingers raw from scrubbing your blood off in the sink—not all of it had come out.

Yelena sat nearby, arms folded, her head bowed in a silence she never wore. Bob paced. John stood against the far wall with his arms crossed tight over his chest, unmoving. Nobody had spoken in what felt like hours.

Then the door opened.

And Bucky was on his feet before the surgeon even stepped fully into the hallway.

“She made it.”

Three words.

Three impossible, world-shifting words.

Bucky didn’t remember moving, he didn’t remember dropping the cup or pushing past the doctor or the sound of someone calling after him.

He only remembered one thing:

Your name. In his mouth, in his heart. Like prayer.

You had looked so small in the bed.

The hospital sheets were too white against your skin, the steady beep of the monitors barely loud enough to be real.

Your chest rose and fell beneath the thin blanket, each breath shallow but steady. Your face was pale, lashes resting against your cheeks, an IV threaded into the back of your hand.

But you were breathing. Alive.

Bucky stood at your bedside, his hands hovering before he let himself reach—let his fingers wrap gently around yours, careful not to jostle the wires and tubes. He brought your hand to his lips, pressed a kiss to your knuckles like you were made of glass.

Only then did he let himself breathe.

“I thought I lost you,” he whispered, voice cracked and hoarse. “God, I thought—”

He couldn’t finish the sentence, couldn’t shape the rest of the words around the tremble in his throat. His eyes stung, vision blurring.

He sat down slowly, legs folding under him, and leaned in until his forehead rested against yours.

And there, in the soft hum of hospital machines and the scent of antiseptic and blood and you, he whispered:

“I can’t lose you.”

And in that moment, Bucky knew with more certainty than he’d ever known anything that he didn’t want a life unless it was with you in it. That love wasn’t a question anymore. 

It was you. It had always been you.

The day Bucky proposed to you, it didn’t go as he had hoped.

The plan had been simple.

Well… sort of.

Bucky had spent most of the afternoon in the kitchen with Alpine circling his feet and panic setting in somewhere between how hard can it be? and why is this bread still doughy on the inside?

He had bribed Bob and Yelena with a full month of coffee runs to get you out of the compound—bought himself a few uninterrupted hours. Just enough time to pull together something romantic. 

A quiet night with a dinner he made just for the both of you. Something that felt normal—something that felt like home.

You deserved that.

You deserved wine, and music, and a man who tried.

And god, was he trying.

He’d even worn the apron you got him last Christmas—Kiss the Cook (or Else)—tied it on with absolutely no protest, even though he had grumbled when he found it.

The fabric was too pink, the font was too aggressive. You had giggled when you gave it to him and well, he had never actually worn it.

Until today.

It was stupid. It was stupidly perfect.

And then everything went sideways.

The sauce burned—thick and bitter and clingy, turning the pan black and smoky before he could scrape it off."The bread didn’t rise right—not the first, second, or even the third time. Each loaf slumped in the center like it had given up halfway through baking.

Bucky had followed the recipe twice. Nothing worked. The wine bottle tipped when he reached too fast for a spoon. It spilled across the counter, down the cabinet, pooled under the fruit bowl. Then he dropped a fork into the pan of sauce, tried to fish it out and burned his hand. Swore loudly enough that Alpine hissed and darted under the kitchen table like he had somehow betrayed her on a spiritual level.

The smoke alarm nearly went off.

He hit it with a dish towel and muttered threats at it.

It was a disaster. A complete and utter disaster.

And that was before he heard the front door creak open.

His whole body froze.

He turned slowly, eyes wide, just as your footsteps reached the edge of the hall—too light to be Bob, too quiet to be Yelena. He knew your walk by now. The soft padding of your soles. The way you always slowed down when your hands were full. The way the silence always shifted when you entered a room.

And his stomach sank.

You were home. Too early.

The clock on the oven blinked at him uselessly, and he barely had time to wipe his hands on the apron when you walked into the kitchen.

You stopped short.

Still holding your coat, still glowing faintly from the wind outside and the laughter that hadn’t quite left your face.

And then you saw it.

The smoke, the scorched pan, the puddle of wine dripping a slow trail toward the floor. The half-risen bread like a sad little crater on the counter.

And in the middle of it all—Bucky. In the pink apron. Covered in flour and tomato splatter, clutching a wooden spoon like it might just attack him.

You blinked.

“Was this all for me?”

Bucky looked like a deer caught in a trap.

Or maybe more like a kid with his hand in the cookie jar—big and awkward and helpless, covered in guilt and powdered sugar.

“I—” He swallowed. “I realised I haven’t taken you out on a real date.”

He shifted, the wooden spoon still in his hand like he didn’t know what to do with it anymore.

“I just… I wanted to make tonight special.”

Your lips twitched.

The kitchen smelled like defeat and oregano. The oven was beeping at nothing. Smoke hung faintly in the air like an accusation. And still, your heart cracked wide open.

You stepped toward him—slowly, gently—and rose onto your toes to press a kiss to his cheek.

“It’s okay, Buck,” you murmured, lips brushing the curve of his jaw. “I’ve got leftover cereal.”

Your tone was teasing, warm, affectionate in the way only you could be. Forgiving. Soft. Home.

You turned, half-laughing, reaching for the cupboard above the microwave, the one that always held your comfort stash. Granola and that one sugar cereal you swore was for cheat days and ate every Sunday anyway.

You reached for the handle.

And Bucky’s heart stuttered.

He watched your hand move in slow motion, watched as your fingers curl around the cupboard door, the hinge creaking faintly.

His stomach dropped.

“Baby, wait—no—”

But it was too late.

You opened the door. Your fingers paused.

And there it was.

Tucked behind a half-finished bag of granola and an emergency box of toaster waffles sat a small red velvet box. Not fancy or flashy, but unmistakable. The kind that didn’t belong next to cereal.

The kind that meant something. The kind that meant everything.

You didn’t move.

Just stared.

And across the room, Bucky stood frozen, apron crooked, hair still damp from the steam, sauce on his cheek, and absolutely no words left in his mouth.

“I was gonna ask later,” he muttered, voice low, thick with something heavy. “There was a whole thing. Music. Dessert. A ring not hidden behind cereal.”

He sighed, shoulders sagging.

“I ruined it.”

You didn’t say anything at first.

You just looked at him—really looked at him. At the mess behind him. At the pink apron barely clinging to its dignity. At the way he stood there like he still expected the floor to swallow him whole.

And your eyes welled up.

Your smile tugged softly at the corners of your mouth, cracking you wide open like a sunrise.

“Yes,” you said.

Bucky blinked. “But… you didn’t even open it.”

You closed the cupboard gently and turned to face him. A breath caught somewhere between a sob and a laugh as you stepped forward.

“I don’t have to.”

And that was it.

That was all it took.

Bucky crossed the kitchen in three slow steps, reached for your face with both hands like you were made of something precious—fragile and entirely his.

He kissed you like he was carving the moment into memory. Like nothing else existed but the space between your lips and his heart.

Then, wordlessly, he lifted you onto the counter, settling between your legs, hands braced on your thighs like they were the only anchor he needed.

“God, I love you,” he whispered, forehead pressed to yours, breath shaking. “You have no idea.”

You laughed, watery and real, arms wrapping around his neck as you pulled him closer.

“I do,” you whispered. “Me too.”

The kitchen was still a disaster.

The bread was half-baked. The wine was staining the grout. The sauce had scorched itself into the pan so deeply it might never come out.

But none of it mattered.

Because this—this—was perfect.

And it always would be.

a/n: i hope you enjoyed it!! if you did, please leave a comment or a reblog! thank you my love 💖

[scented-morker]

Lovesick fools

Alternatively… enha’s reaction to being on a variety show with their idol!crush

No warnings, 2k words, implied fem!reader.. these took me forever </3

Heeseung

Fourth gen vocalists on the show ‼️

He was so excited to be there that he totally forgot you would def be there too

Until he was getting his makeup done and you walked in with curlers in your hair and coffees in your hand

He immediately found himself smiling at how cute you looked, and it only got worse when you handed him a cup

"Twitter said this was your order, I hope it's right."

The makeup artist starts laughing and opts out of putting blush on him bc he's all red from you

Once filming starts you all sing a prepared cover, and he's so focused on his own that he stays calm for most of it

Except yours is last, which means his mind is fully empty since he’s done and now all he’s able to focus on is how pretty you sound and the way you smile through the words

You sing 'drinks or coffee' from rose's new album and he swears you wink at him

"We don't have to talk, I know that you want me."

Twitter goes crazy bc you absolutely did wink at him, and they have the slow mo replay to prove it

Him blushing like mad also goes viral

He walks up to you backstage

"So... do you want to get drinks or coffee?" 🤭

Jay

It's shuhua's show again, but instead of sunghoon he's paired up with you

Bro gives himself a pep talk in the mirror before filming starts

"You are cool and calm and will not giggle like a school girl at her. Shes going to look pretty and you're just gonna have to deal with it."

Thinks it should be illegal to look good in a work uniform, but there you are

You guys are cooking and you're so impressed by how well he does at separating the fat from the meat

You are so horribly bad at it that Shuhua looks like an expert 💔💔

"Jay I think you need to help her, she's massacring the product."

Ok girl are you a host or a wingman

But he does, telling you to adjust your grip on the knife, reaching over to show you how to do it better which has you blushing like crazy

You guys are partnered up trying to give away samples against shuhua which is where you shine bc people just can't stay away from you especially when you pout and ask 'pretty please?'

Jay doesn't blame them, he's ready to buy everything in the store from you

One of the girls doesn't bat an eye at you when you beg but you're desperate so you yell after her

"Look how handsome my partner is, don't you want to come buy something from us?"

The girl comes back but Jay can't even be flattered bc he's too busy freaking out that you think he's cute

"Did you really mean that?" He asks you after filming

"Of course I did, I'm not blind."

So he asks for your number and ofc you give it to him

Jake

It’s some sort of school setting show

You guys are paired up against Jay and another member of your group as the four of you compete with trivia questions

You’re all English speakers, so they make you answer everything in English and since we’re already being delulu let’s say you have an English accent bc we know Jake loves that

You have to yell at him to lock in because when you start trying to reason out the question he’s so focused on your voice that he isn’t listening to a word you say

You guys are getting whooped by the other team

That is until your member makes a joke about you saying how your ideal type is a smart guy

Bro instantly locks tf in

“October 23rd, 2016”

“That is correct! Team Hot Accents gets another point as they make an impressive comeback!”

Yes that’s your team name, you both have hot accents and you know it 🤷‍♀️

You get so excited every time you guys score a point that you’re practically bouncing in your seat cheering and giving him high fives

You answer a few questions after that but he’s definitely carrying you guys and he could not be happier about it

“Don’t worry y/n, I got you. Just sit there and look pretty.” 😍

By the end you guys are tied and the hosts ask you to give your partner a good luck charm as he and Jay face off for the last question

You contemplate kissing his cheek before realizing that would probably get you murdered on twitter so you settle for giving his hand a squeeze after interlocking your fingers post high five

When he gets the question right he runs over and picks you up to spin you around in celebration

The editors definitely put some incriminating caption like [a very overexcited reaction from the golden retriever] that fans laugh at him for afterwards

But he doesn’t care bc you were in his arms and that’s all that matters ‼️

After filming you’re like “wow Jake you’re so smart do you want to hang out sometime?”

YEP YEP YEP YES HE DOES

Sunghoon

You guys were both ex figure skaters, so they had you guys film an episode at a rink

They got both of you a new version of one of your old costumes, and sunghoon was immediately red at the sight of you in the sparkling dress with a little cut out on the side

You both spent the first few minutes just running around on the ice, enjoying being back

The hosts had a list of skills they read out and then made each of you try

It only made sunghoon's crush bigger watching you move so gracefully, and he grinned so big whenever you'd compliment him

"Woah, he's still really good!"

Towards the end they had you try partner moves, everyone cheering when you guys synced up so well in the turns and twists

“Woah they look really good together! It’s like fate they move at the exact same time!”

They even let you try a stunt, and sunghoon became a stuttering mess when he put his hand on your waist where the cut out in your costume was

"Is- is this ok? I don't want to drop you, but we could skip it if you want."

"Of course it's ok!"

He's so touched at the amount of trust you put in him while trying out partner tricks

And it's rightfully placed considering the time you guys mess up he makes sure to change the angle of your fall so that he takes the brunt of the impact instead of of you

You apologize so many times, including going up to him after filming to thank him again

"Is there anything I can do to thank you?"

"How about a date?"

Sunoo

Who knows why the show paired you guys up

Maybe they saw the media attention from your brief waves to each other at an award show and the viral ‘bite me’ challenge you did together

But they bring both of you to a cafe set and you have to make coffees and such before being interviewed

You’d worked at a coffee shop predebut so at one point you reach over and grab his hand to adjust the way he holds the cup under the milk steamer

The editors zoom in on his red face while you turn around and practically sprint away

Your last task before the interview is to make a drink for the other person while they film a confessional about you

You’re sitting there stuttering over your words as an explanation as to why you ran after helping him earlier and how kind he was when you filmed your tiktok together last time

Meanwhile, sunoo is asking the staff for help to make your super specific and stupidly difficult drink order that he knows from watching your interviews

He pretends it was casual and easy once he joins you at the table, setting the cup down in front of you like he didn’t restart it 3 times

“This is my favorite coffee!! I didn’t even remember them teaching us this!”

“Wow that’s so weird, lucky me I guess”

He tried to be nonchalant but it was NOT working

He literally lets out a giggle as soon as you drink it and do a little happy dance when it’s exactly how you like

When the interviewer asks about your relationship (bringing up the award show wave) Sunoo says that you guys are casual friends but he hopes you can become closer after filming together

To which you respond ABSOLUTELY and promise to wave at him at every schedule you see him

That’s enough for his weak heart for one day so he doesn’t end up following up after the cameras stopped

but you kept your promise and after a few months of excited waves and animated conversations at award shows he secures your number and a date

Jungwon

He’s too responsible to risk anything by talking about his crush on you but once in a live you said you really admired him because you couldn’t imagine having to lead your group while being one of the youngest members

(He saved the video and probably replayed it about fifty times afterwards)

But that was enough to make one of the shows want you guys together !!

Which is how you end up trailing behind him through a creepy dark building while scare actors try to freak you guys out

Bro was not excited for this but he is doing his best bc YOU NEED HIM ‼️

You are so close to his back that he can feel your body heat and when someone jumps out you practically climb on his back

You apologize profusely afterwards, but he waves it off, offering you his arm to grasp onto for the rest of the time

You say in a confessional part that you were scared out of your mind but it was bearable bc Jungwon was there

“He was so brave and cool, it made me feel so much better!”

He isn’t even scared anymore, he’s just mad bc they’re intentionally making you upset so his cute angry face pops out and the two of you make it through the whole haunted house in record time

Afterwards he tells you that he hopes he wasn’t mean or anything, he was just upset they were scaring you

He was mad at them for doing their jobs 💔 rip

But that just made you appreciate him more

“Can I treat you to lunch one day? To thank you for taking such good care of me?”

He MELTS, of course you can

Riki

You and him were both on a variety show to show the difference between maknaes

He was the image of a cool and mature maknae, while you were the giggly pink maknae of your group

He thought it was gonna be awkward bc the whole point of the show was how different you guys were, but you got along so easily

As soon as you started talking he was a GONER

He'd watch you answer a question and get so distracted looking at your face that the hosts would have to repeat the question for him to respond to after 😭

So much for being cool

They ask him how he feels about aegyo to which he describes how passionately he hates it

So they make you do aegyo for him to see if he reacts

HE DOES

Homeboy starts blushing without even realizing it

It puts the biggest smile on his face that they tease him about for the rest of the show

You tell him you'll give him lessons in it if he wants while live and that's how he approaches you after

"You probably need my number to set up those lessons right?"

[glossdebut]

best laid plans | MYG

✧ PAIRING: yoongi x f!reader

✧ SUMMARY: You meet Min Yoongi at a GS25 on a nothing Tuesday. You don't expect him to change your life. You certainly don't expect to change his.

✧ TAGS: strangers to lovers, angst (with a happy—but hopefully realistic—ending), smut, fluff, this is a heavy one so please heed the warnings!

✧ WARNINGS: mental health issues, depression, depressive episodes, suicidal ideation throughout, suicide mentions throughout, implied suicide attempt (sort of?), panic attacks, specifically panic attacks after (consensual!) sex, smoking, recreational marijuana use, vaginal fingering, oral (m. receiving), oral (f. receiving), vaginal sex, mentions of unprotected sex (but no real unprotected sex), MINORS DNI, please do not read this fic if any of these warnings are triggering to you!

✧ AUTHOR’S NOTE: okay. so... i said i wasn't going to post any more fics until june. and i won't post any more until then after this! i'm still on semi-hiatus! but something happened in my personal life last week, and i couldn't... not get it all out, somehow. so... here's this almost 14k monster. thank you claret @yoonmetogether for beta reading and giving me so much love and support while i was in the process of writing this! i love you! and thank you yoongi, for writing/releasing so far away (and the last) in 2016 and teaching teenage aqua how to stay, even when i didn't want to. and teaching adult aqua the same thing every year since. i hope this fic helps someone. that's why i'm posting it.

P.S. i recognize that i haven't edited my taglist since my hiatus. if you want to be removed, let me know.

✧ WORDCOUNT: 13.6k words

It’s a Tuesday night, which means nothing. Just like Monday meant nothing. Just like Wednesday won’t either.

The buzzing fluorescent lights in the 24-hour convenience store stutter overhead. You’ve been zoned out in the ramen aisle for at least five minutes now, doing the same song and dance you always do. Pretending you’re going to try something different this time, be a little spontaneous. Because you must break the pattern today or the loop will repeat tomorrow, right?

Still, though, your hand hovers over the same one you always get—the spicy one in the black package that scorches your mouth and makes your nose run. But at least it makes you feel something. So, you grab it.

Into the basket it goes, landing beside a bottle of Milkis and a crumpled bag of gummy worms. You sigh, turn around—

—and nearly walk straight into some guy you didn’t even know was in the store.

You both do that awkward side-step thing, freeze, then side-step the same way again.

“Oh. Shit. Sorry,” the guy mutters, voice low and scratchy, like it hasn’t been used yet today.

He’s wearing an oversized hoodie, the drawstrings uneven. His hair, bleach blonde, is tucked messily under a beanie, and there’s a faint line on his cheek from what was clearly a very intense nap. He’s holding a can of cold coffee and a pre-packaged egg sandwich in one hand, clutched between long fingers.

His eyes flick up to yours, and you realize, belatedly, that you’re staring. You should probably move, or say something.

“No, I—sorry,” you say, taking a step back. Your basket clinks against your knee. “Didn’t see you.”

Both of you are still kind of in each other’s way. There’s that weird, hesitant pause where you’re not quite sure who’s supposed to move next.

You clear your throat, nodding at his sandwich. “Midnight craving?”

“Something like that,” he says, eyes flicking down to the ramen in your basket. “You going for pain, huh?”

You blink, then smile a little. You didn’t expect him to be game. “Only the kind I can control.”

That makes him huff a short laugh through his nose. “Hey, no judgment. I’m out here buying coffee at midnight, so.”

You nod toward the sandwich again. “And that. Bold choice.”

“I wasn’t ready to commit to tuna.”

“Fair.”

It feels dangerously like flirting, just for a second. Awkward, clumsy flirting, sure, but flirting nonetheless. But the moment ends just as quickly as it came, like you’ve both run out of things to say at the exact same time.

You awkwardly step in opposite directions after that.

You return to your mission. First, hot water from the machine by the coffee counter. Plastic fork from the stack that’s always slightly sticky. You sit on one of the cracked stools by the window while the noodles steep and sip from your Milkis while staring out at the empty street.

By the time you make it to the register, the guy is gone. You kind of expected that. 

He was cute, you think. A year ago, when you were a different girl and sort of had your shit together, you probably would’ve asked for his number. Batted your eyelashes or something stupid like that.

But now? You barely have the energy to brush your teeth most days. You’re certainly not in a place for romance. Not when your big life plan has boiled down to ‘survive one more month.’ 

So no, you’re not mourning the possible missed connection with the kind-of-cute stranger in the GS25. Just acknowledging it.

But then, when you’ve paid and make a move to shuffle out, the automatic doors slide open—and there he is. 

Again. Leaning against the low brick wall, trying to light a cigarette with the wind working against him. The flame sputters out twice before catching.

You could leave. You should. But you linger, and since the street is pretty much desolate, he notices.

“Didn’t mean to loiter behind you,” he says, glancing up.

You shrug. “Didn’t mean to run into you. Twice.”

He waves his free hand dismissively, the other bringing the cigarette to his lips, plastic bag dangling precariously. “No harm done.”

That should be it, probably. End of conversation, end of interaction. Two strangers walk in opposite directions to wherever it is they call home.

But something about the slump in his shoulders, so similar to your own, makes you momentarily brave.

“You got somewhere to be?” you ask, gnawing at your bottom lip.

“Does it look like it?”

It doesn’t. Neither do you.

“Wanna sit?” you offer, gesturing towards the curb. “I’m just gonna eat before it gets cold.”

His eyes widen, like that’s the last thing in the world he expected you to say.

“Uh. Yeah, sure. Thanks.”

You sit. He settles a little awkwardly beside you, pulling the sandwich out of its crinkled plastic. It’s predictably silent between you, but you don’t hate it.

He eats. You slurp noodles.

And eventually, inevitably, you glance sideways.

Okay. He is cute. Decidedly. Maybe even hot, if you caught him on a better day. In a bleary, worn out way. The kind of good looks that sneak up on you, delicate and masculine all at once. Pale skin. Sharp jaw. Soft mouth. You’re not going to do anything about it. Obviously. But… still.

“What’s your name?” you ask around a mouthful of noodles.

“Yoongi.”

You nod. Don’t offer yours yet.

Yoongi takes another bite of his sandwich. Swallows. “You here often?” he asks, immediately grimacing. “God. That sounded—"

“Like a line?” You laugh. “Yeah. It did.”

“Didn’t mean it like that.”

You shrug. “I’ll allow it. Just this once.”

Small talk comes easy after that. You find out he used to live on the other side of the river and only recently moved to this part of the city because of a roommate situation that imploded. You tell him that you only planned to live in your current apartment for a year, until you could afford something better. It’s been three now.

He tells you he’s currently between jobs. You admit you’re technically not sure if you still have your night gig, because your boss hasn’t texted you in three days and you don’t want to ask.

He gives you the remaining half of his sandwich. You pass over your ramen wordlessly, letting him steal a few bites. It’s still awkward, eating so closely with a stranger like this. Sharing your dinner with someone who doesn’t even know your name. But it’s weirdly nice.

When the food is mostly gone, he holds out his cigarette pack. You take one and he lights it for you. You both pass it back and forth in silence for a minute.

“I used to think I’d be famous by now,” he says eventually, exhaling toward the gutter. “Like, not stupid-famous. Just… enough that I wouldn’t be here. You know?”

You nod. You do know. 

“I wanted to be a writer,” you offer in return. “But I hate writing. And I hate people who are good at it. And I hate that I still kind of want to do it anyway.”

“I don’t even know what I do anymore,” he says. “I was making music for a while. Then I got tired. Now I sleep too much. Avoid my friends. Pick up shifts at my cousin’s record store when he gets desperate enough to ask.”

“That actually sounds kind of nice.”

He snorts. “It’s not. But thanks.”

You tip your head back, look up at the sky, which is a washed-out navy and completely starless. Seoul smog. “I work part-time at a bookstore that almost exclusively sells erotica. And I cry like, three times a week, minimum. Usually in the bathroom. Sometimes in front of customers.”

Yoongi flicks ash onto the ground. “You win.”

You both sit with it. The warm, awful food. The too-sweet soda and the gummy worms melting in the bag between your knees. The companionship of a stranger willing to share a cigarette and half of his shitty sandwich, whose life isn’t all that different from yours.

You turn your heads at the same time. Your eyes flick down to his lips where they’re sealed around the cigarette. Inhale, exhale. To his long fingers, thumbnail bitten to shit. 

He’s really pretty, even like this, in the unflattering light of the streetlamp you’re sitting under. Long lashes and dark eyes that pierce through you. You wonder if his mouth really is as soft as it looks.

He’s looking at your lips, too, you realize. When you catch him, he looks away fast, ears pink.

“This is nice,” he says, staring at the concrete beneath his shoes.

You blink. Then, just as quietly, “Yeah. It is.”

He offers the cigarette again. You take it. Neither of you says anything else for a long time.

✧

The bookstore has been blissfully, predictably dead since you opened this morning. That’s really the only upside of the job—nobody shows up. You could count the regulars on one hand, and half of them only come in to use the bathroom, despite the clearly posted sign that says they can’t.

You’ve developed a theory about it, about the shame that still lingers around buying erotica in person. As if reading about sex is fine, but purchasing it in the flesh is something to feel embarrassed about. You could write a dissertation on it, probably. But you won’t. You don’t write anymore. You just clock in, count the till, and reorganize displays no one looks at.

You’ve already done your morning routine. Opened up. Counted money. Packed a frankly alarming number of online orders (apparently people really love vampire erotica). Now, you’re posted up behind the counter, flipping through a paperback about sexy cowboys with a bright red cover and a title that would make your mother blush.

You’re in the middle of counting how many times the author uses the word member on one page (six, and one was throbbing) when the bell above the door gives its half-hearted ding.

You glance up from the counter, fully prepared to give your standard ‘we don’t have a public bathroom’ spiel, when you see him. Hoodie. Messy, bleached hair. Soft mouth.

Yoongi.

Your mouth actually falls open a little. You eventually gave him your name that night, but you hadn’t exchanged numbers. You didn’t even follow each other on social media. And yet, here he is, bearing witness to you in all of your smut-peddling glory.

“I guessed,” he says, by way of explanation. He sounds a little breathless. “You said bookstore, and there’s like, two in the area. The other one didn’t have nearly enough erotica.”

“So you just… showed up?” 

He shrugs, sheepish. “You didn’t give me your number.”

If he wasn’t cute, you might be a little creeped out. He’s lucky he’s got such a nice face. It makes things feel romantic. 

“You want something?” you ask, gesturing to the wide variety of bodice-rippers your manager has displayed so proudly at the register.

“Yeah,” he says. “A cigarette. And maybe to talk to you again.”

You exhale through your nose, amused despite yourself. “Come on.”

You lead him through the back, past the haphazard ‘Employees Only’ sign that no one respects. Outside, the alley smells like stale piss. Very romantic, indeed.

Just like Tuesday, he lights a cigarette for you to share. You take it, and he leans against the brick wall, watching you.

“I kept thinking about you all week,” he says suddenly, no preamble. His eyes are fixed on the smoke curling off the end of the cigarette. 

You take a drag, the smoke clinging to your teeth. “I thought about it too.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You look down at your shoes. “Didn’t think you’d actually show up, though.”

He gives a quiet little laugh, almost self-deprecating. “Honestly, I almost didn’t.”

“So why did you?”

“I don’t know. Stubbornness? Hope? Boredom?” He shrugs. “I guess I just didn’t want to go another week without feeling like something mattered. Even if it’s just a conversation in a piss alley.”

That earns a smile from you. A real one. You pass the cigarette back.

“I don’t know what this is,” he says eventually. “I don’t even know if I’m in a place to have a thing. But I liked talking to you. And I’m tired of not liking anything.”

You look at him. He’s not exactly looking back, more at the space near your shoes. But his profile is soft, a little hopeful.

“I feel the same way,” you say, cheeks hot and heartrate climbing. Something you haven’t felt in a long time—not for good reasons, at least.

He smiles. It’s small, but it feels real.

“You’re gonna give me your number this time, right?”

You dig your phone out of your pocket and hand it to him.

He types in his number one-handed, cigarette dangling from the other, then calls himself so he has yours too. When it buzzes in his hoodie pocket, he hums like that settles something. Like now, technically, you belong to each other in some tiny way.

You take the cigarette back from him. Your fingers brush, knuckles stay touching longer than they should.

“You’re not gonna ghost me now that you’ve won the chase, right?” you murmur.

Yoongi raises an eyebrow. “You think that was a chase?”

You shrug. “It was something.”

For a moment, you just stand there in the alley. The world keeps moving, traffic hums in the distance. Your shitty boss is probably inside wondering why you’ve been gone more than the regulation five minutes.

But you don’t move.

You look at him. His mouth. The cigarette between your fingers. And your body makes a decision your brain is too tired to argue with.

You lean in and kiss him.

It’s clumsy at first. Your lips a little dry, the angle off, but it doesn’t matter. He makes a sound like a surprised exhale against your mouth and then he’s kissing you back, slow and warm and honest.

He tastes like smoke and canned coffee. You drop the cigarette and his hand finds your jaw. Your fingers reach for the edge of his hoodie, twisting in the fabric like you’re worried he’ll disappear if you don’t hold on.

You kiss him again. And again.

You’re not trying to make it romantic, really. You’re not trying to make it anything. It’s just—fuck, it’s been so long since someone touched you like this. Since someone wanted to.

And Yoongi kisses like he wants to be anywhere but alone. Like he gets it.

When you finally pull back, both of you a little dazed, he lets out a quiet, almost embarrassed laugh. “Okay,” he says, voice rough. “So… this is happening.”

You nod, heart hammering. “Don’t make it a thing.”

“I won’t.”

And he kisses you again, one more time for the road, hands on your hips like maybe he needs the grounding just as badly as you do.

Yoongi leaves around the back and you go back inside like nothing happened.

But he leaves with your number, and you can still taste him on your lips.

✧

Weeks pass, but you both take full advantage of having each other’s numbers.

You text mostly during lulls, when you’re hiding behind the register pretending to alphabetize the books, or when Yoongi’s stuck in the back room of the record store sorting the new arrivals.

You never say good morning or good night. It’s not like that. But he sends you photos of weird album art, and you respond with blurry selfies surrounded by piles of books with egregious titles.

There’s comfort in the ease of it. No pressure. Just a quiet thread tying your days together.

You: someone asked if we have a bathroom and when i said no they said “then what do you do?” like they wanted me to shit in front of them for proof

Yoongi: People are the worst. Come work here. The pay is shit but at least no one talks to me

Sometimes you send voice notes instead of typing because you’re too tired, and he never comments on how drained you sound. He just sends one back where his voice is raspy and low and he’s clearly half-asleep but trying anyway.

It’s not dating, but it’s not not dating. You’re not friends, not exactly, but you care, at least a little, about whether he eats. Whether he sleeps. Whether he means it when he says he’s fine. 

It’s just whatever the two of you are capable of giving right now. Somehow, that’s enough.

It’s nearly midnight when your phone buzzes.

Yoongi: You up?

Yoongi: Don’t say anything about how that sounds btw

You stare at it for a second. Then you type:

You: i am. what’s up?

You: and yes i’m going to make fun of you anyway

You: is this a booty call

Three dots bubble up and disappear. Once, twice, three times.

Yoongi: I just want to see you

Yoongi: Is that okay?

You sit up, heart doing something inconvenient in your chest.

You could say no. You could ask why. You could point out the hour, claim you have work in the morning. But you haven’t seen him since the day you exchanged numbers (and saliva), so instead, you say:

You: yeah

You: come over

You send him your address. Twenty minutes later, he shows up, in the same hoodie as last time. Holding a plastic bag with canned coffee for him, Milkis for you, and a package of cookies you once mentioned liking in a text two weeks ago.

You don’t say anything at first. He holds up the bag like it’s proof that he should be allowed inside, and you take it with a soft, bemused snort. Then you step aside so he can come in.

He enters like someone trying not to wake a sleeping house—careful and quiet and unsure of what to do with his hands.

You close the door behind him. You both fidget for a second.

“I couldn’t sleep,” he says finally, standing just inside the doorway, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Kept thinking about you.”

Your heart tips, like it’s leaning closer to him whether you let it or not.

“I’ve been thinking about you too,” you admit softly.

And then, because it’s late and you’re lonely and he’s warm and real and here, you kiss him. Again.

It’s immediate this time. No fumbling. No hesitation. Just mouths pressing together like they’re picking up where you left off in the alley behind the bookstore. His hands find your waist. Yours cup his face, thumbs brushing the sharp edges of his cheekbones. You kiss him slow, then faster. Harder.

You don’t think about what it means. You don’t try to label it. You just let yourself feel it—the weight of his body, the sound of your breaths, the sudden, startling relief of being touched.

His mouth trails to your jaw. Your neck. His hoodie bunches in your fists.

When you finally pull back, both of you flushed and breathless, he presses his forehead against yours.

“I like you,” he says quietly.

You swallow around the knot in your throat and nod. “Kiss me again.”

There's a sharpness to the way your mouths move now. You tug at his hoodie, fingers slipping under the hem to touch skin, and he makes a sound against your lips, small and desperate.

Yoongi’s hands are everywhere. Gripping your waist like he’s trying to ground himself, sliding up your back, curling in your shirt like he can’t bear to let go. He presses you up against the door, urgent, and you gasp when his teeth graze the underside of your jaw.

“Fuck,” he mutters, breathing hard. “I’m sorry—I didn’t come here for this, I just—”

“Don’t stop,” you say, voice barely there. “I want this.”

That undoes him a little. You feel it in the way his mouth crashes back to yours, the way he exhales sharply through his nose like he’s already drunk on it. He kisses you hard, lips and teeth and tongue with no finesse.

His thigh slips between yours and you move against it, just enough to chase friction, just enough to let him feel how badly you want this too.

“Jesus,” he whispers, low and raw. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You tilt your head back and let him mouth at your throat, lips wet, sucking a bruise into the skin. Your hips roll down again, slow and deliberate, and Yoongi’s breath stutters.

“I missed this,” you admit, half-ashamed. “I missed being touched. I missed wanting someone.”

Yoongi lifts his head just enough to look at you, eyes heavy, expression unreadable.

“You’re not the only one,” he says.

And then he kisses you again, deep and dizzying, and slips a hand beneath your waistband. His fingers are warm against your skin. Tentative at first, like he's giving you a chance to stop him, even now. Like some small, rational part of him is still waiting for you to say, ‘don’t.’ But you don’t. You tilt your hips forward instead, breath catching, and he exhales like that’s all the permission he needs.

He pushes his hand into your underwear and groans when he feels how wet you are. 

“Fuck,” he gasps. “You’re so—fuck.”

It’s been a long time since someone touched you like this. Since someone wanted you like this. Desperate but gentle, afraid of messing it up. His fingers slide through your slick heat and you let out a sharp breath, clinging to his shoulders, your forehead pressed to his.

“I’m not gonna last long,” you whisper, already dizzy. “This is—fuck—this is embarrassing.”

Yoongi huffs a soft, broken laugh. “Don’t care. Come for me. Come fast. I want to feel you lose it.”

He fucks you with his fingers slow, then fast, then slow again. Just enough pressure to make you tremble, to make you cry out softly into his hoodie. His thumb finds your clit, and you nearly sob from the shock of it.

“Yoongi—” you breathe, hands scrambling for purchase. “I—fuck—”

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Just like that. Let me have it. I got you.”

You come fast. Hard. Pathetically hard. Your body locks up and then shudders violently, mouth open against his collarbone, heart pounding like it’s trying to claw out of your chest. Yoongi holds you through it. Doesn’t say anything. Just lets you ride it out with his mouth pressed to your temple, breathing you in.

When it’s over, you’re shaking. Barely upright. He eases his hand out of your underwear and presses a kiss to your hairline, tender in a way that makes your eyes sting.

You bury your face in his neck. 

“I can’t believe I let you finger me against my front door,” you mumble, mortified as you catch your breath.

“Can’t believe you invited me to,” he replies, grinning against your skin.

You both laugh. Quiet and shaky and a little shellshocked. You’re still leaning into him, your breath evening out, your body boneless. The high is fading, but the warmth he left behind is stubborn.

You lift your head, eyes still a little glazed, and give him a suspicious squint.

“I have a question,” you say.

Yoongi blinks, cautious. “Shoot.”

“How the fuck are you not getting laid constantly?”

His eyebrows shoot up. Then he laughs, quiet but full-bodied, like he’s genuinely caught off guard.

“I mean,” you continue, gesturing vaguely to your crotch, “that was—God. And I didn't even know if you’d be good at it! Like, I kind of assumed it would be decent, because you have a mouth and hands and a pulse—but that was fucking criminally good. Who taught you that? Why is this not a more widely available service?”

Yoongi presses his face into your shoulder and groans, laughing harder now. “Jesus Christ.”

“I’m just saying, someone out there is missing the opportunity of a lifetime.”

He finally lifts his head again, his cheeks tinged with pink. “Yeah, well. Most people don’t really stick around long enough to find out.”

That sobers you a little.

You study him—his messy hair, his blown pupils, the way he tries to play it off with a little shrug. But there’s something underneath it all. Not sadness, exactly. Loneliness, maybe.

You reach up and brush your fingers through his bangs, almost absently. “They’re idiots.”

Yoongi watches you for a moment. Doesn’t argue. Doesn’t deflect. Just leans into your touch. 

And then the quiet gets to you, makes you want to crawl out of your skin, so you say:

“So… uh… want me to suck your dick?”

Yoongi freezes. His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.

“...Right now?”

“No,” you say dryly. “Next Thursday.”

He laughs. “Are you always like this?” he asks, amused, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

You ignore him and reach for the waistband of his sweatpants instead, fingers slipping under, deliberate and slow. “So?”

Yoongi exhales sharply, eyes fluttering shut. “Yeah. Fuck. Yeah, I want you to.”

His head tips back when you start kissing down his neck. His breath goes shallow. The way he touches you, light on the back of your neck, like he doesn’t know what he did to deserve this—it makes you want to give him everything all of a sudden.

So you drop to your knees in your entryway, hitting the floor with a quiet thud that echoes in the quiet. Yoongi looks down at you in amazement, eyes wide, lips parted, chest rising and falling fast.

You tug his sweats down and he helps, fingers twitching against the fabric, thick cock already hard and leaking at the tip.

“You’re serious,” he says, voice thin. Disbelieving.

You glance up at him, smirking. “That a problem?”

“Not even a little.”

You spit into your palm, spread it over the head, and he twitches in your grip. When you lean in and lick a slow stripe up the underside of his cock, Yoongi lets out a quiet, broken sound.

You’re a little rusty, but you don’t tease. You don’t take your time. You just sink your mouth down around him, spit-slick and sloppy. 

“Fuck—” 

Yoongi’s head knocks lightly against the wall. One hand finds the back of your head, loose and shaking like he doesn’t know whether to pull you closer or hold you still.

You bob your head faster, messier. Let your saliva drip down over your fingers, curled around the base of his cock while you work the rest with your mouth. He groans again, choked and startled, and you feel him twitch in your palm.

“Jesus, you’re gonna—fuck, you’re gonna make me cum.”

You hum around him. That does it.

He gasps. Buckles a little. Then pulls back. Not all the way, just enough to jerk himself through the last few strokes, breathing ragged.

“Shit, shit—I’m—fuck, baby, fuck—”

You look up at him, mouth open, lips shiny and wet, tongue out just barely. 

He spills across your mouth, your cheek, your chin. Hot and messy and so, so much. You blink through it, a little stunned, a lot turned on.

“Holy shit,” he breathes, staring at the mess he made of you. “You’re—god. You’re insane.”

You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, still grinning. “You’re welcome.”

Yoongi laughs breathlessly. “I think I just fell in love with you a little.”

You feel the shift, then. It’s small, almost imperceptible, but suddenly the air feels different. Too quiet. A little too still.

“Don’t be weird about it,” you huff, just to fill the space. 

Yoongi leans down and helps you up with careful hands. Your legs are a little wobbly. His hoodie is rumpled. His hair’s a mess. His sweatpants hang loose on his hips and his lips are kiss-bitten and red.

You glance at him, then away just as fast.

You’ve crossed some invisible threshold. You both know it. And now you’re just... here.

“I’m gonna, um.” You gesture vaguely toward the hallway. “Wash my face.”

Yoongi nods, but doesn’t say anything. You don’t look back as you walk away.

In the bathroom, you stare at yourself in the mirror, palms braced on either side of the sink. You wash your hands. Splash your face. Pat dry and breathe.

Or try to.

Fuck, are you having a fucking panic attack? Over that? Your chest is tight, every cell of your skin foreign to you. Like you’re wearing someone else’s body and she just did something you weren’t supposed to.

What the fuck was that?

Not the act itself. That part was great. The enthusiasm, the sheer filth of it—you don’t think you regret it. Maybe. It felt good, in the moment. You wanted it.

It’s what came after.

The shift. The quiet. The moment you felt like he saw too much of you. The part of you that glows when it’s being wanted, and dims just as quickly when it’s alone again.

And—Jesus, ’I think I just fell in love with you a little’? Who the fuck says that?

It takes you longer than you’d like to calm down. You do the breathing exercises you were taught, back in college when counseling was free and they handed out pamphlets on every corner of your campus. In for four, hold for seven, out for eight. You smooth down your shirt. Brush your fingers through your hair. 

Then return to the living room like you didn’t just spiral for fifteen straight minutes.

When you return, breathing still a little labored, Yoongi’s sitting on the arm of your couch with his elbows on his knees, staring at the floor like he’s afraid of what comes next. Like you’ve left him with his thoughts for too long. 

He sits up when you approach, brow furrowed at the state of you.

“You okay?” he asks.

You sigh and sit down. 

“Yeah. I just…” You stare straight ahead. “That was good. Really good. But it’s been a while. And I don’t know what I’m doing. With any of this.”

Yoongi nods slowly. “You don’t have to know,” he says. “I don’t either.”

You turn to look at him, and the thing in his eyes, the softness, it’s too much. So you keep going. 

“Not just the sex. Not just… you. This,” you say, gesturing at yourself, then your apartment. The mess that’s accumulated over the past month. “Letting someone see me when I don’t have it together. When I’m not even trying to pretend I do.”

You rest your head on the back of the couch, stare up at the ceiling like maybe it’ll swallow you whole if you keep talking.

“I don’t know why the fuck now of all times is when I’m letting myself feel anything,” you say. “It’s not like my life is better. It’s not like I’ve earned it.”

Silence. 

Then Yoongi shifts. Leans forward, elbows on his knees again, like he’s working up to something.

“You don’t have to earn anything,” he says. “There’s no quota for being okay. Or being wanted. You can be a mess and still deserve good things. You can be at your worst and still… feel.”

You laugh. Bitter and small. “So what, we’re just two disasters trying to convince each other it’s fine?”

He shrugs. “Pretty much.” And then, so gentle it nearly breaks you, he adds, “I don’t think I’m here to fix you. I just want to be here.”

How can he be so sure?

You don’t know a damn thing about him. Not really.

You know he works the stock room in a record store part-time and hates most of his coworkers. You know he smokes too much. That he eats terrible sandwiches and drinks canned coffee. That he texts like he’s trying to make you laugh even when he’s probably in the middle of some breakdown of his own.

You know he’s good with his hands.

You know he looked at you, in all of your mess, like you were still human. You know that he says dumb, grossly honest shit way too easily.

But you don’t know where he grew up. You don’t know what keeps him up at night. You don’t know what kind of heartbreaks he’s carrying, or who let him down hard enough that he walks around like he does.

And still, there’s something in your chest that won’t calm down. Something desperate. Clawing. A tightness you don’t want to name.

Why?

Why the fuck are you feeling so much for someone who’s barely more than a stranger?

Is it just the attention? The intimacy? The fact that, for once, someone touched you without asking you to be okay first? Is this what happens when you’re starving? When your skin has been untouched for too long and someone comes along with warm hands and tired eyes and lets you fall apart without flinching?

Maybe.

But it doesn’t feel shallow. It doesn’t feel fake. Instead, it just feels too easy. Like being with him turns the volume down in your head. Like you don’t have to explain yourself to be understood.

It scares the shit out of you.

Yoongi slips down from the armrest, sinks into the cushion next to you instead. Your knee brushes his. His arm rests behind you on the back of the couch, not quite around you, but near enough that if you leaned even slightly, he’d catch you.

Neither of you moves for a while. You just breathe. 

Then his arm moves and his pinky finger nudges yours.

A small thing. Stupid. Barely anything.

But it’s the first deliberate touch since everything happened in the entryway. And it’s soft. Hesitant.

“We don’t have to do… that,” he says, quiet but firm. You know he means the sex. “We don’t have to do anything.”

Maybe you don’t need to define it yet. Maybe it’s not about love or fate or healing. Maybe it’s just about want.

Two people letting themselves be wanted for a while.

You hook your pinky around his.

Just this, you think. Just this is fine. 

✧

Yoongi doesn’t push. He doesn’t label anything. He just keeps showing up. 

Sometimes at your place, sometimes at his. Sometimes at the bookstore, when he has a day off.

There’s a pattern now.

Late-night convenience store runs. Shared ramen on cracked stools by the window, making fun of people’s bad haircuts as they pass on the street outside. Socks borrowed and never returned. His hoodie living permanently on the back of your chair. Your phone lighting up with ‘Proof of life?’ on days he knows you’re at a low.

Sometimes you kiss. Sometimes you just sit in the same room and don’t say anything. Sometimes he talks and you don’t respond. And that’s okay, too.

It’s not about what it is. It’s about the fact that it keeps happening.

When you disappear, he still shows up. Like today.

It’s not a dramatic breakdown. Not this time.

Instead, it’s the kind of bad week that sinks its teeth in slow. No single catalyst, no big meltdown. Just one exhausting day stacked on top of another, until your body forgets how to move without dragging. Your sink is full of dishes you can’t look at. Your hair’s unwashed. You haven’t eaten anything substantial in days.

You didn’t text Yoongi to come over. You didn’t say much of anything at all this week.

But you must’ve sounded off, or maybe he just knows how to read silence better than most, because around three in the afternoon, you hear the soft knock at your door.

You don’t answer at first. You don’t mean to ignore him, you just can’t make your legs move.

A minute passes, and your phone buzzes from somewhere near your pillow.

Yoongi: Not trying to crowd you. Just wanted to drop off some food Yoongi: Leaving it by the door. No pressure

You muster the energy to roll out of bed and crack the door open. A plastic bag sits at your feet and Yoongi is already halfway down the hallway, hands in his pockets.

“Yoongi,” you call, your voice raspier than you expect.

He turns around.

“Hey,” he says, probably surprised that you’re upright.

You open the door wider. “You can come in. If you want.”

Yoongi hesitates just for a second, checking that you’re sure. Then he nods. He picks the bag up and slips inside without a word, setting it on your kitchen counter. 

He doesn’t try to hug you or touch you or ask what’s wrong. He doesn’t judge your apartment, the clothes strewn about, the closed curtains, the dishes piling up in the sink. He barely even looks.

“You eaten today?” he asks, gently.

You shake your head. “Not really hungry.”

“Okay,” he says. “I’m gonna make something anyway. Just in case.”

He moves around your kitchen like it’s his. Not because he’s overly familiar, but because he’s not afraid of your mess. He pulls out eggs, rice, a few green onions from the bag he brought.

You retreat back to your couch. You didn’t mean to lie down again, but the second you sit, your body droops until you’re horizontal. So you stay curled on your side, facing the wall. Listening.

The clink of metal. The whoosh of your gas burner catching. The soft sizzle of garlic hitting oil.

You don’t remember falling asleep, but when you wake up, Yoongi is sitting on the floor in front of the couch, cross-legged, a steaming bowl in his lap and another on your coffee table.

You push yourself up slowly. Your head aches, your throat’s dry, but you can’t lie. It smells good.

“You didn’t have to—” you start.

“I know,” he says, soft. “I wanted to.”

You eat in silence. The rice is soft, buttery, a little salty from the soy sauce and the eggs scrambled through it. You’re hungrier than you thought, but you pace yourself.

Halfway through, he glances over at you.

“You wanna watch something dumb?”

You nod.

Yoongi takes your bowl when you’re done, rinses both of them without comment. When he comes back, he takes a seat next to you. He scrolls through streaming apps on your TV until he lands on something you like.

The opening credits roll.

He doesn’t try to hold you. Doesn’t try to tell you it’s going to be okay. He just sits beside you, shoulders barely brushing. When your body droops again, he lets you lean into his side.

Somewhere around the fifteen-minute mark, he mutters, “You don’t have to be okay for me to want to be here.”

You don’t look at him. Your throat tightens like you’re going to cry. Which is something, at least, after the numbness of the week. 

“This could be me next week,” he says, like it’s nothing. “Or tomorrow. So. I get it. That’s all.”

And then the movie continues. One ridiculous scene after another. The light from the screen flickers across his face.

You don’t say thank you yet, but you know you don’t have to.

✧

You still haven’t put a name to it.

Neither of you has tried. There was one moment, maybe, a few days ago. Yoongi was over for no particular reason. He’d looked at you from your kitchen floor, head propped against the cabinets, lips red from kissing, and opened his mouth like he might ask.

But then the takeout came, and the moment passed.

You text like friends. ‘Want anything from the store?’ ‘This customer just asked if we sell records on vinyl. I hate it here.’ ‘What are you doing tonight?’ ‘Absolutely nothing.’ ‘Come do nothing with me.’

You hang out like you’re in a relationship. Eat cross-legged on his bed. Steal fries from each other’s plates without asking. Sometimes fall asleep shoulder to shoulder watching terrible TV.

You make out. A lot. 

Against walls. On couches. Outside each other’s doors at night when neither of you feels like saying goodnight just yet. It never quite escalates to the point it did that night—maybe once or twice it almost does, but one of you always pumps the brakes.

You don’t meet each other’s friends. You don’t ask about exes. You don’t introduce him to your sister or take photos together or exchange socials. Because that doesn’t feel like what this is.

You like the bubble you’ve built. The little world where nothing outside matters. Where it doesn’t have to matter yet.

Because outside the bubble, your life is still a mess. Rent’s overdue. Work is torture. You haven’t written anything in over a year and you haven’t figured out how to be proud of yourself again, not really.

But inside it—when Yoongi’s mouth is on yours, when he texts you ‘Made extra ramen if you’re hungry btw’ like that’s not the most romantic shit anyone’s ever said to you, you feel steady.

But, like anything else, it comes with its own set of issues.

The thing about not fucking is that it used to be about not wanting. A lack of drive. A lack of spark. A lack of time or energy or libido or options.

But now? Now, it’s something else. Because you have the option. 

Now, it’s starting to feel like a crack in the glass. Like every time you grind against his thigh with your hips twitching and your breath shaky, or every time he pulls your shirt off and buries his face between your tits but doesn’t go lower, the crack gets a little deeper. And you’re both pretending not to see it.

Because the truth is: you want to fuck him.

You desperately want to fuck him.

You think about it constantly. The way his fingers curled inside you that first night, the soft, filthy way he talked to you, the way he looked down at your face when you sucked him off like he was watching a goddamn miracle unfold.

You think about how he’d feel inside you.

You ache with it.

But you don’t bring it up. Because once you do, once you have sex, it’s not a bubble anymore. It’s real, something with expectations.

And you know yourself, you know how you get. You’ll start needing more. Wanting more. And Yoongi, sweet and quiet and lost in his own way, will become another thing you don’t know how to manage. Another thing you don’t know how to keep.

You’re scared of that. Of ruining it. Of letting your body talk you into something your heart might not be strong enough to carry.

So you kiss him like you’re dying, but when his hands drift to your waistband, you laugh, too high-pitched, and pull away. Pretend you’re tired. Or hungry. Or something, anything. Any excuse not to cross that final threshold. Yoongi never pushes. He just nods, catches his breath, and helps you back into your shirt like a gentleman.

But you feel the tension growing. Between your thighs. In your chest. In the way you wake up soaked and aching after every sleepover, body clenching at nothing. In the way your kisses are starting to come with more teeth. With soft little growls in your throat you didn’t mean to let out.

Tonight, he’s at your place again. It’s late. You both know he should’ve left hours ago, and the crack is splintering even further, faster than you realize.

You’re straddling Yoongi on the couch, your knees bracketing his hips, your mouth fused to his. Your hips are rocking down, slow and aimless at first, but building. You can feel him getting hard beneath you, feel the press of him through his sweats as you drag your clothed pussy over him like your body is starving.

Yoongi groans into your kiss. His hands grip your thighs, fingertips twitching. But, like always, he doesn’t push. He just lets you move, lets you grind down on him with that ragged little gasp in your throat, lets you take what you need without crossing the line you’ve both carefully danced around for weeks.

Except tonight, something’s different. You’re different.

Because when he tilts his head and mouths at your neck, hot and slow, and mutters, “you’re gonna make me come in my fucking pants,” you snap.

Completely.

You pull back just enough to look at him, breathing hard, eyes wild. “I want to fuck you.”

He blinks. Catches up slowly, like he’s not sure if he imagined it.

“I want you to fuck me,” you amend, a little louder. Desperate.

Yoongi just stares at you for a moment, mouth parted, chest heaving. His hands tighten on your thighs. 

“You sure?” he asks, voice rough.

Once you say yes, it happens fast. 

Yoongi’s hands are everywhere. Gripping your hips, your waist, sliding up your back to tug your shirt over your head. He peels it off and tosses it somewhere behind you, eyes locked on yours like he’s giving you one last chance to change your mind.

You don’t.

Your bra’s off next, fast, and he curses the second your tits are bare, like he can’t believe this is happening. Like he’s been thinking about it for weeks too, and now that it’s real, he doesn’t know where to start.

So he starts with his mouth.

He palms your breasts and groans low in his throat, then leans forward and takes one into his mouth like he needs it—hot tongue flicking over your nipple, lips sucking gently before he bites, just enough to make you gasp. His fingers find the other, circling and pinching lightly.

“Fuck,” you whimper, arching into him. “Yoongi—”

You grind down on his cock again, still half-dressed from the waist down, the friction sharp and unbearable. You’re soaked. You can feel it. Your panties are useless at this point, clinging wetly to your folds, and you’re half a second away from tearing them off yourself if he doesn’t move faster.

“Condom,” you breathe. “Please. Where—?”

“Yeah—fuck—yeah, hold on.”

You scramble off his lap at the same time he stumbles off the couch, both of you half-laughing and swearing under your breath. He digs through his bag on your floor, frantic, muttering, “I swear I had one—fuck, wait—yes.”

He holds it up like a prize, and you don’t even give him the chance to rip it open before you’re tugging your shorts and panties down in one go, stepping out of them and crawling back onto the couch.

Yoongi stops cold, stares at you for a second.

Hair messy. Chest heaving. Legs spread. Eyes hungry.

“Fuck,” he murmurs, tearing the foil open and shoving his sweats halfway down his thighs with shaking hands. His cock bobs free, hard and flushed and so ready, and your mouth actually waters.

He rolls the condom on with practiced ease and climbs back over you, settling between your legs like he belongs there. Like he’s done it a hundred times in dreams and is finally allowed to touch.

He presses inside you slowly, inch by inch, and the stretch knocks the breath from your lungs. You’re soaked, but it’s still so much, been too long, and you cling to his shoulders with a gasp.

Yoongi groans, forehead dropping to yours.

“Jesus, you’re tight,” he rasps. “Fucking wet.”

You whimper, hips already rolling up to meet him. “Been wanting this,” you whisper. “Needing this—”

“Yeah?” he murmurs, voice shaking. “You gonna let me give it to you?”

“Yes, please—”

And then he starts to move. Just the brutal press of his hips to yours, every thrust deep and deliberate and filthy, like he’s trying to bury himself somewhere he won’t be able to crawl back from.

Your head tips back against the couch, eyes rolling up, mouth falling open on a gasp that barely sounds like a real word. He’s got one hand gripping the arm of the couch behind your head for leverage, the other wrapped tight around your thigh, keeping you pinned wide open beneath him as he fucks into you.

“Fuck, Yoongi—fuck—”

“You like it, baby?” he growls. 

You whimper, nodding helplessly, your hands scrambling up under his hoodie to claw at his back, his sides, anywhere you can touch.

Your skin’s on fire. Your thoughts are gone. All you know is the sharp, perfect drag of his cock, the sound of your soaked cunt every time he slams into you, the guttural noises he makes when your walls flutter around him.

“You feel so fucking good,” he groans, eyes squeezed shut, jaw clenched. “Tight little pussy just gripping me—shit, baby, I can’t—”

His pace stutters for half a second, like your body is pulling the soul out of him.

You cry out when he hits deep—too deep—and he groans, pulling your legs higher around his waist to get the angle just right.

“There,” he growls when you shatter under him, thighs shaking, cunt clenching so hard he nearly loses it. “Fucking cum.”

You come like you’ve lost control of your body. Loud, legs locked, nails in his back. It hits hard and fast and doesn’t stop, rolling through you in hot, humiliating waves. Yoongi hisses, desperate now, chasing his own end, rhythm starting to break.

“Gonna fill you up,” he pants, even though the condom’s there, even though it’s just a filthy fantasy, and you sob at the idea of it. “Fuck, I wish—wish I could come inside you—fuck—you’d let me, wouldn’t you? Let me ruin you for anyone else—”

“Yes,” you gasp, not even sure you mean it, but it sounds right. Feels true.

That’s all it takes.

Yoongi groans like it’s been punched out of him, hips jerking as he comes hard, cock twitching inside you, face buried in your neck as he spills into the condom.

You both stay there, gasping against sticky skin through the aftershocks. He kisses your neck once. Then again. And again.

“Holy shit,” you breathe, dazed. “I think you just rearranged my internal organs.”

Yoongi laughs. “Cool. I was aiming for your soul.”

The couch cushions are half off the frame, your legs still trembling where they’re spread open around his waist. Yoongi pulls out slowly, careful, and your body aches from it, clenches down involuntarily, already missing the stretch. 

He ties off the condom, looks around for somewhere to put it before settling on the empty takeout bag from earlier. Pulls his sweats back up.

You sit up with limbs like jelly, not bothering to put your underwear back on just yet, and run a hand through your hair. Your thighs are sticky. Your lips are swollen. You feel fucked out and raw and wrung clean.

Your body is so satisfied.

Predictably, your brain is a different story.

You glance over at Yoongi. He’s slouched against the other end of the couch, head back, eyes closed. His hair is damp at the temples, chest still rising and falling like he hasn’t quite come back to himself yet.

He looks gorgeous.

You want to kiss him.

You also want to run.

That tight, itchy feeling—the one you’ve been avoiding since you first let him touch you—comes roaring back. You just crossed the line. You fucked the one good thing in your life that wasn’t tangled in expectations. That didn’t ask anything from you.

You broke the bubble.

He opens one eye and glances over at you.

“You okay?”

You nod. “Yeah. Just…” You trail off. Shrug. “That was intense.”

Yoongi huffs a soft laugh. “Yeah. You think?”

You stand. Your legs are still shaking.

“I’m gonna, uh… go pee,” you say, already heading toward the bathroom. “Before I die.”

He doesn’t stop you. Just nods, eyes following you for a second before he looks away.

You close the door and sit on the edge of the tub. Breathe.

You want to feel good. You do feel good. But also… you feel like maybe you’ve fucked up. Or you’re about to. Or like this is going to change something that shouldn’t be changed.

You think about what you’ll say when you go back out there.

You think about whether he’s getting dressed. Whether he’ll leave. Whether he should.

You think, I don’t want this to become another thing I have to recover from.

✧

When you finally open the bathroom door, the light feels harsher than it should, and your skin’s still warm from the shower you didn’t really want but took anyway. Just to delay, to think, to scrub away the sweat and the way his hands felt on your hips and the way your body sang for him.

You step into the living room wearing clean underwear and a fresh shirt. Your face is bare. Your hair is damp. Your expression, despite your best effort, is a little too tight.

Yoongi looks up from the couch, where he’s still sitting, this time in his sweats and hoodie again, elbows on his knees, fingers idly twisting the hem of his sleeve.

His eyes meet yours. He doesn’t smile, but his gaze softens. Immediately.

“Hey,” he says, quiet.

You nod, cross your arms. “Hey.”

He watches you for a second, then leans back, patting the space next to him.

You hesitate, but you lower yourself onto the couch anyway. Not quite touching, not quite distant. A safe middle. 

“Wanna tell me what’s wrong?”

“I’m fine.”

“Okay,” Yoongi says, disbelieving. “Then why do you look like you’re trying to figure out how to ghost me while I’m still in your apartment?”

You wince, staring at your knees. “I just—I didn’t mean for this to turn into, like… a thing.”

He nods slowly. “Okay.”

“I mean, we’re not, right? A thing?”

You look at him now, really look. Your heart’s racing. Your stomach’s twisting. You’re not sure what kind of answer you want.

Yoongi looks back at you for a long moment. Then he leans back again, scrubbing a hand through his hair.

“I don’t know what we are,” he says. “I wasn’t trying to make it anything.”

You swallow hard, because part of you thinks that should make you feel better. Instead, it just makes your chest ache. You were the one who let him in, even when you swore you wouldn’t. You’re not trying to make him feel like he’s the one at fault here. It’s you. It’s always you.

“But,” he adds, eyes flicking to yours again, “I like you. I care about you. And if we’re fucking now, yeah, that’s gonna mean something to me. Even if we never put a label on it.”

“Doesn’t that make it worse?” you ask, voice thin. “If it means something?”

Yoongi doesn’t speak for a long while. You sink into him without meaning to, thigh to thigh, arm to arm. You don’t really know why.

He exhales, slow and deliberate, and says, “Can I tell you something?”

You nod against his shoulder.

“I wasn’t supposed to be at that convenience store,” he starts, voice shaky in a way that makes you sit up, just slightly. “I mean, I didn’t have a reason to be anywhere. But that night… I think I was sort of… walking around to see if I’d change my mind.”

You still. Your heart trips over itself, because that could mean a lot of things. Because you know, just by the tone of his voice, that he means the worst. 

He keeps going.

“I’d been thinking about it for a while. Not in a loud way. Not even like a plan. Just… wondering. If things would be better. Easier. If I just stopped. Just disappeared.”

You don’t interrupt. You don’t breathe too loud. You just listen.

“And that night, it felt close. Like maybe I was ready. Like maybe no one would notice.” He lets out a shaky laugh. “I hadn’t talked to anyone in a couple days. I didn’t even brush my teeth before I left the house. I just started walking.”

Your eyes sting. You try not to let it show.

“I stopped at the store because I thought—fuck it. One last shitty sandwich. One last can of cold coffee.” He huffs. “Really poetic, right?”

You let out a breath. “Yoongi—”

He shakes his head. “I’m not telling you this so you’ll feel bad. Or because I think you saved me. You didn’t. You just… made it a little easier to stay.”

You’re crying now, because god, you didn’t know, but you know. You know how it feels to always have that in the back of your mind, to convince yourself that there would be relief in giving up. Letting go. 

He turns his head toward you now, not quite meeting your eyes, like he’s still unsure if he’s allowed to say all this out loud.

“I still think about it. Sometimes. Not all the time. But… it comes back. When it’s quiet. When I’m alone too long. But since that night, it’s been easier knowing that someone gets it. That I don’t have to pretend I’m fine all the time.”

He finally looks at you, and it’s not a dramatic, sweeping kind of moment. There’s no soft lighting or music swelling. Just his tired eyes, and your tired heart, and the shared weight of knowing what it feels like to want to give up—and choosing, for whatever reason, not to.

“Maybe that’s all this has to be,” he says. “Not a love story. Not some perfect, clean thing. Just… two people who don’t always want to be here, making it a little easier for each other to stay.”

You can’t speak. You nod, and your eyes blur, and Yoongi presses his forehead to yours like it’s the only way he knows how to say thank you for seeing me.

✧

Days later, things aren’t better—not in the way people usually mean. Your life is still a mess. His is too. 

But something’s changed. Settled.

He lets himself in now. Doesn’t knock. Kicks his shoes off like he lives there, shrugs his hoodie off and drops it somewhere near the couch, grabs two cups and fills them with whatever’s in your fridge.

And you let him.

You sit next to each other, thigh to thigh, flipping through shows you won’t finish. You kiss during the commercials. You fall asleep with his hand on your waist.

You still haven’t said you’re together. You still haven’t said what you mean to each other. But when you’re quiet for too long, he looks up from his phone and asks, “Okay?”

And when he’s too quiet, you ask, “Wanna stay the night?”

And when you both lie awake in the dark, not talking, not moving, you think: I’m still here.

And so is he.

✧

It starts with scraps. Half-sentences in your notes app. A phrase here, a sentence there. Something you jotted down after Yoongi left one night, when your chest felt like it was holding more than usual and your bed still smelled like his shampoo.

Then it becomes a little routine. You open your laptop without the usual dread. You stare at the cursor blinking in a half-finished document and think: maybe I can.

It’s not for meant to be published. It’s not for anyone but you. But it’s something.

One night, Yoongi finds you sitting on the floor with your laptop on your thighs. You’re so focused, you don’t even hear him come in.

He just watches for a second, quiet.

“Writing?” he asks eventually, and you jump.

“Jesus—” You slam the laptop shut on instinct, and he raises both hands in surrender, shoulders shaking with laughter.

“You don’t have to show me,” he says, setting down the drinks he brought. “But… that’s new.”

You shrug, embarrassed. “It’s nothing. Just… stuff.”

Yoongi sinks to the floor beside you. “You haven’t written since we met.”

“I haven’t written in a long time.”

He doesn’t ask why not. He already knows.

Instead, he leans his head on your shoulder and says, “I’m glad you’re starting to again.”

He doesn’t push. He doesn’t ask for details. He doesn’t ask to read it. He just sits with you, there on the floor, eyes closed. Like your writing means something just by existing.

You open the laptop again.

You keep writing.

✧

Yoongi is sitting cross-legged on your bed while you type, cradling a cup of tea you made him because he clearly needed something to do with his hands. 

You can tell he’s nervous. He’s got that look on his face like he’s about to say something serious but is trying not to scare the shit out of you. It isn’t working.

“So,” he says, after a long stretch of silence, “I have a friend.”

You glance up from your laptop, blinking. “Amazing.”

Yoongi huffs. “Kim Namjoon. He’s an old friend. College. We used to mess around with production stuff, back when I thought I was gonna be a genius producer with a Grammy by 25.”

You smile a little at that, set your laptop aside. “What’d he say?”

Yoongi hesitates, fingers drumming softly against the side of his mug. “He got some seed money. Not much. Just enough to rent a space, get a couple of half-decent mics, some gear. Says he wants to start a small label.”

Your stomach does a little flip. Not because you’re worried. Not yet. But because of the way he’s saying it. Like he’s trying not to want it too much.

“He wants me in on it,” Yoongi continues, staring down into his tea. “It’d be three of us, working in a basement, surviving off cup ramen. Maybe getting a local artist to sign on eventually.”

You exhale. “That sounds… really fucking cool.”

Yoongi finally looks at you. He’s smiling now, just a little, but it’s tight at the edges. “Yeah. It does.”

“And?”

He shrugs, but it’s not a real shrug. It’s that shoulder-lift people do when something matters too much. “And I don’t know. I don’t know if I’m ready to give a shit again. I don’t know if I’ll fuck it up. I don’t even know if I still have anything to say.”

“You do,” you say, instantly.

His jaw flexes. “Yeah, well. Maybe. He’s starting soon. Wants me to come by next week. Just to mess around with some demos, get a feel for it again.”

You nod slowly. Try not to let the ‘what if’s start swirling. What if it pulls him away? What if he leaves? What if this tiny, fragile thing you’re building—whatever it is—gets buried under a dream he's only just remembered how to want again?

But you don’t say any of that.

Instead, you say, “You should do it.”

Yoongi searches your face for a long time, hesitant, like he’s trying to catch you in a lie. 

“Yeah?”

You reach over and take his mug, set it on the nightstand. You curl into his side, your face pressed to the crook of his neck.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “I think maybe… we’re both starting to remember how to want things again.”

You feel him breathe out. Slow. Unsteady.

But he nods.

✧

Yoongi doesn’t stop texting. He still sends you memes, voice notes, the occasional photo of his workspace—a cramped basement room with exposed pipes and cords spilling out over his desk, coffee-stained notebooks piled next to a MIDI keyboard.

But he’s not around as much.

The nights you used to spend together—half-draped over one another on the couch, kissing during reruns, sleeping side-by-side without labels—are fewer now. Sometimes he falls asleep at the studio. Sometimes he doesn’t respond until 2 a.m., when you’re already asleep.

It���s hard. You won’t lie to yourself about that. You feel the absence like a low-grade fever. Always there, dull but insistent.

And there’s still no word for what you are. No boyfriend, no girlfriend. Just… you, and Yoongi. And this thing you’ve built together, quiet and warm and undefined.

But when you do see him—when he walks through your door smelling like coffee and sweat and work—you can see it on him. The spark. The momentum. The low, buzzing joy of trying again. Of wanting something bad enough to bleed for it.

He’s tired. But he’s tired for a good reason, now.

And that makes you want to try, too.

So you keep opening your laptop. Not just to scribble down half-formed ideas, but to finish. You sit with the mess of it, the aching in your fingers, the voice in your head that says ‘why bother’—and you write anyway. You dig up old stories, rework scenes that used to make you cringe. You find your voice again, piece by shaky piece.

Sometimes, late at night, you send him snippets. Just to say, look. I’m doing it, too.

And he always responds, eventually. Usually something like:

Yoongi: Fuck yes

Yoongi: Proud of you

Yoongi: Also the studio toilet flooded again. I’m going to kill Joon

You laugh. You keep writing.

It still hurts sometimes. Missing him, wondering what all this means. But now the hurt is paired with movement. With hope.

✧

Eventually, you finish something.

It’s not perfect. Not even close. There are typos and sentences that feel like strangers to themselves, and places where the ending is still a little jagged and wrong. But it’s done.

A full manuscript. Your name at the top. Your words, your voice, your pain and hunger and stupid hope wrapped into a whopping 112 pages.

You think of Yoongi when you submit it with an application to a graduate school program. A program you’ve read and re-read the description for more times than you care to admit. You don't know if it’s good enough. If you’re good enough. But for the first time in a long time, you do it anyway.

And then you don’t tell anyone.

Maybe it’s selfish, but you want the hope for yourself. Just for a little while. You want to keep it quiet and sacred, untainted by expectations or well-meaning encouragement or the crushing weight of what if it doesn’t happen. You just want it to be yours.

You keep seeing Yoongi, of course. When he can. When he’s not tangled up in late-night meetings and studio sessions. You see each other in stolen hours, sleep-heavy kisses, lazy dinners eaten on the floor.

But lately, even those small moments feel bigger.

And then one night, you get a text.

Yoongi: You home?

You are. You say yes.

He shows up ten minutes later, breathless, hoodie damp from trying to dodge light rain, cheeks flushed with joy. Real joy. The kind that lights his whole face from the inside out.

“I had to tell someone,” he says the second you open the door. “I had to tell you.”

You let him in, confused but smiling all the same. You’ve been doing a lot of that lately. “What happened?”

He doesn’t even sit. He paces back and forth, rakes a hand through his hair, practically vibrating.

“We signed someone,” he finally says. “Tentatively, but, this artist from Busan, she’s insane, she’s so weird and good and her voice is like—fuck, I don’t even know how to explain it. But Namjoon loved her. We all did. And she said yes. She said yes, to us.”

You blink, stunned. “You—Yoongi, that’s—holy shit!”

He grins, wide and unguarded, and you’ve never seen him like this before and it just makes you so fucking happy. You’re up on your feet before your brain catches up. 

You hug him tight, breath caught in your throat. Because he’s shaking a little, and he smells so good, and this is what he looks like when he’s proud of himself. When he’s living.

You pull back to look at him, hands on his jaw.

“I’m so proud of you,” you whisper.

And Yoongi’s expression shifts. Softens. Deepens. He takes a breath. 

“I love you,” he says.

Like it’s not sudden. Like it’s been sitting on his tongue for weeks, waiting for the right moment to fall out.

“I just—I do. And I didn’t want to say it while things were still messy, or early, or whatever. But this is what I wanted. That night, at the convenience store. This. You. Someone who gets it. Someone who doesn’t fix me but lets me stay. And I love you.”

Fuck. There it is. 

You don’t speak right away. You reach for him instead. Pull him back in. Rest your forehead against his and let yourself feel it. All of it.

And then, soft and steady, you say it back. 

“I love you too.”

✧

It’s not frantic, not this time. 

Not messy or rushed or born of need. It’s slow, reverent, deep. Yoongi’s hands cradle your face like you’re something fragile, something he’s terrified of breaking now that he knows what you mean to him. His thumbs stroke your cheeks. His breath catches when you tilt your head and kiss him harder but just as slow, open-mouthed and aching.

You walk him backwards toward the bed. He lets you. He goes willingly, grinning against your mouth like he can’t believe this is happening again, that you’re his, and that this time, it’s not just comfort or heat or distraction. It’s love.

He sinks onto the mattress, and you climb over him, straddling his lap, kissing him again and again, hands tangled in his hair, grinding down against the hard line of his cock through his sweats.

But then he pulls back. Barely. His hands settle on your thighs. His eyes are dark and shining and hungry.

“Let me eat you out.”

Your breath catches.

“I—what?”

Yoongi licks his lips. “You don’t get it,” he says, too far gone to filter it. “I’ve been wanting to. Since the night I fingered you against your fucking door, I’ve wanted to get between your thighs and just live there. I love you, and I love your pussy, and I’m gonna make you come so hard you forget every single bad day you’ve ever had.”

You stare at him, slackjawed.

Then you exhale, soft and wrecked, and whisper, “Okay.”

Yoongi repositions you onto your back, gentle, lips back on yours. His hands slide down your body like he’s mapping out every inch. He tugs your shirt off, unhooks your bra, kisses down your neck, your chest, your ribs, like he has all the time in the world.

And then he pulls your shorts down. Your panties too.

He groans when he sees you. Like, actually groans.

“God, baby. Look at you.” He kisses your inner thigh, drags his nose along the crease, eyes flicking up to yours. “So fucking pretty.”

And then he licks into you.

You cry out, sharp and sudden, because it’s so much. He’s warm and wet and greedy, tongue flat against your clit, then pointed and precise, then everywhere, like he can’t choose, like he doesn’t want to.

He moans against your pussy like he’s the one being touched. Like he could cum just watching you feel good, because of him.

“Yoongi—shit—” Your hands fly to his hair, thighs trembling, already shaking, already close.

He wraps his arms under your thighs, holding you open, keeping you grounded, mouth working you over like he’s worshipping you. He sucks on your clit, gentle but firm, and you arch off the bed.

“I’m gonna come,” you warn, voice breaking. “Fuck, Yoongi—”

He groans, messy and eager, never once letting up. And then you do.

You come hard, thighs clamping around his head, hands in his hair, eyes rolled back. It’s hot and overwhelming, your body jolting and twitching, his name a broken whimper on your tongue.

He keeps going until you push him away, overstimulated and trembling.

“Jesus,” you breathe.

He grins, climbs back up your body, presses his mouth to yours without hesitation. You taste yourself on his tongue.

“You love me,” he murmurs, like it’s the best thing he’s ever been told.

You nod, dazed. “I do.”

He kisses you again.

“You’re gonna let me do that every day, right?”

You laugh, breathless. “If you keep doing it like that, yeah. I might not survive, but yeah.”

You let Yoongi kiss you for a while, slow and soft and full of so much love, but eventually, you push at his shoulder. He pulls back instantly, eyes wide and brows furrowed.

“Lie down,” you murmur. “Let me take care of you.”

Yoongi blinks, lips swollen and wet. But he lets you push. “Baby—”

“You’ve been working so fucking hard,” you say, crawling into his lap, straddling his thighs. “Let me ride you. Let me make you feel good. Please.”

Whatever protest he might’ve had dies in his throat the second you reach down and palm him through his sweats. He’s hard—has been since he had your pussy on his tongue—and he groans, low and helpless, as you slide your hand beneath the waistband.

You stroke him slow, loving, watching the tension bleed out of him with every pass of your fist.

“Fuck,” he whispers, eyes fluttering shut, hips twitching into your touch. “Feels good.”

You smile. Kiss his chest as he fumbles for the condom in his wallet.

When you finally sink down onto him, Yoongi lets out a groan. His hands fly to your hips, gripping hard, eyes squeezed shut, jaw clenched so tight you can see the tension in his neck when he leans his head back.

“God—” he gasps. “Fuck, baby, you—”

“I know,” you breathe, grinding your hips in slow, careful circles. “I know. Just relax. Let me do this for you.”

You ride him slow, deep, dragging his cock through your tight, wet heat over and over. Every inch of him feels like it was made for you, thick and perfect and pulsing inside you, your cunt already fluttering from how good he made you feel earlier.

Yoongi can’t keep still. His fingers squeeze your thighs, your hips, then your waist, like he can’t decide where to hold on. Like he’s barely holding on at all.

He opens his eyes to look at you and whines, higher than he probably meant to. Because you’re riding him like you love him. Because your tits are bouncing with every slow roll of your hips, and your face is flushed, and your eyes are locked on his like there’s nowhere else you want to be in the entire fucking world.

It springs him into action.

He sits up, wraps his arms around you, mouths at your tits like he’s starving. He sucks at one nipple, then the other, licking and kissing and biting softly like he can’t stop, like he needs to touch you.

“Yoongi,” you gasp, fingers tangling in his hair.

He moans into your chest. Hands moving down to your ass, guiding you up and down on his cock in that same slow, dirty rhythm, like he wants to make this last forever.

“Can’t even think,” he pants. “You feel so fucking good—too good—fuck, I love you—”

You ride him harder, faster, your hands on his shoulders. Your whole body shakes with how good it feels to be full of him, to see him like this—wrecked, undone, yours.

“I’m so close,” you whisper, hips stuttering. “Yoongi—”

“Come for me,” he begs. “Please, baby, come on my cock, wanna feel it.”

You do.

You fall apart in his arms, gasping his name, pussy clenching around him so tight it nearly rips the orgasm out of him too. You’re shaking, sweating, still grinding through it as he buries his face in your neck, groaning your name, fucking up into you just a little, just enough—

He comes with a low, broken ‘fuck,’ arms locking around your waist, cock pulsing inside the condom. He’s so loud, so needy, and god, you’ve never loved anyone like this.

You collapse against his chest, both of you breathless and slick with sweat, still joined, still trembling.

And Yoongi holds you like he never wants to let go.

✧

You stay like that for a while, pressed to his chest, his arms strong around your back, the rhythm of his heartbeat still racing under your cheek. The room smells like sweat and sex. Yoongi’s hand is stroking slow lines up and down your spine. 

He hasn’t said much since you both came down, but the silence isn’t uncomfortable. Just full.

You’re the one who breaks it.

“I did something,” you admit.

Yoongi hums, not missing a beat in the way his fingers trace over your skin. “Yeah?”

You nod against his chest, then force yourself to sit up, just enough to look at him. His hair’s a mess. His eyes are half-lidded and lazy, but sharp with attention the second he realizes you’re serious.

“I applied to grad school.”

Yoongi blinks.

“For writing?” he asks.

You nod again, heart hammering. “Yeah. An MFA. I submitted a portfolio. Finished something for the first time in forever. I would’ve told you sooner, I just—” You shrug. “I didn’t want to jinx it.”

His mouth opens. Then closes. Then opens again, like he’s still processing.

And then he grins. Slow. Genuine. Gums showing and eyes shining.

“Holy shit,” he breathes, sitting up and grabbing your face in both hands.

Your eyes sting. “I don’t even know if I’ll get in. It’s probably stupid—”

“It’s not,” he cuts in, firm and quiet. “It’s not stupid. It’s huge.”

You try to look away, but he keeps your face in his hands, thumbs brushing your cheeks, grounding you.

“I’m so fucking proud of you,” he says. “Seriously. I’ve watched you try so hard to find something again, and you did it. Whether or not you get in doesn’t matter. You tried. That’s fucking everything.”

You bite your lip, blinking fast. Yoongi kisses your forehead, then your nose, then your mouth.

“Thanks for telling me,” he murmurs. “I’ll keep it safe.”

And you know he will.

For the first time in a long time, the future doesn’t feel so terrifying.

✧

The email comes on a Wednesday.

You’re not expecting it. You’ve nearly forgotten the timeline, pushed it into the back of your mind like a daydream you didn’t want to get too close to. You’ve been telling yourself not to hope too much. Not to want it, even though you do. Badly.

It hits your inbox around 11:42 a.m., and you stare at the subject line for a full minute before you open it. And then—

You’re in.

You read it twice, then two more times. It still doesn’t feel real. You read the phrase We’re pleased to inform you like it’s in another language. Like it’s not something anyone was ever supposed to say to you.

Then you laugh. A startled, breathless sound that turns into something half-sobbing.

You call Yoongi.

He doesn’t pick up on the first try—he’s a busy man these days—but he calls back two minutes later.

“Hey, baby. What’s—?”

“I got in.”

There’s a long pause.

And then, softly, “what?”

You swallow hard. You’re pacing your kitchen now, barefoot and trembling. “I got in. Grad school.”

“Holy fuck.”

You laugh again, breathless. “I know.”

“Holy fuck.”

“I know! Yoongi—”

“You got in,” he says. “You fucking got in.”

He sounds like he’s smiling. Like he’s trying not to cry. You’re trying, too.

“I’m so proud of you,” he says. “So fucking proud of you. I’m gonna lose my mind.”

Your throat tightens. “I don’t know what to do now.”

“Come to the studio,” he says instantly. “No one’s here today except me. I’ll order food. I’ll roll a joint. I’ll kiss you a lot. Do some very dirty, celebratory things to you on the desk, if you want.”

You’re already grabbing your keys. “Okay. Yeah.”

“Meet me out back.”

When you get to the studio, he’s outside. Leaning against the back of the building, waiting. The joint is already rolled, tucked neatly behind his ear, and he’s got that look on his face—that slow, lazy grin.

“You,” he says, pushing off the wall the second he sees you. “Fucking you.”

You don’t say anything. Just drop your bag on the cracked concrete and launch yourself into his arms.

He catches you easily, wraps you up in him—hoodie and warmth and the faint smell of cigarettes and detergent and Yoongi. His arms curl tight around your waist, and he lifts you slightly off the ground as you bury your face in his neck.

“You got in,” he murmurs again. “You really—baby, you did it.”

You nod against him, laughing and sniffling all at once. “I did.”

He sets you down but doesn’t let go. Just pulls back enough to kiss you. Once. Twice. Then a third time, slower. Deeper. Like he’s trying to memorize this version of you—buzzing and breathless and so fucking proud of yourself.

When he finally pulls away, he grins and taps the joint behind his ear.

“Celebration?”

You nod. “God, yes.”

He lights it. Takes a drag, passes it to you, and you both sit on the loading dock out back, knees bumping, fingers laced, smoke around your heads. The sun’s low in the sky. It’s chilly, but you don’t feel cold. Not with his hand in yours.

And everything’s… okay. Not fixed. Not perfect. But better.

Because loving Yoongi didn’t save you, and you didn’t save him. You still have bad days. Panic attacks. Guilt. Long, unbearable silences you have to claw your way out of. He does, too. Life is still life.

But he holds your hand through it.

And when things are good—like now, like this—you feel it in your bones: you love him. You fucking love him.

You lean into his side, head on his shoulder, and you think:

I can do this. I can live this life. 

Especially if he’s in it.

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[pokeberry5]

the classic body builder physique jiménez gives dick is SO funny to me because it makes him look so female love interest coded, complete with unreasonable hour glass figure and booty-out poses

like ok i'm gonna start with a comparison between how he draws dick vs how he draws selina

there's that same!! exaggerated curve at the waist

the rest under the cut bc this is gonna be long—i'm pulling mostly from batman (2016) #137-138 (i've been keeping up with gotham war lmao)

he gives them the same sort of broad shoulders that taper down into a tiny waist

FURTHER, this is technically where dick's pecs are in comparison to selina's curves:

HOWEVER something about the way jiménez draws dick's lats also creates a curve lower down his torso that mimics the shape of selina's tits:

this exaggerated tiny waist is even more striking in comparison to how he draws other male characters

like don't get me wrong, he definitely favors a broad shoulder to slimmer waist sort of build, but never to the extent he goes with dick

take bruce and tim from the same chapters:

their shoulder to waist to hip ration is a lot more equal, they've got much more of an rectangular build, the curve in at the waist/hips is gentle

and i swear jiménez chooses poses to exaggerate dick's tiny waist (not quite booty-out poses but the same sort of vibe)

like????

SIR??????

this sort of twisted side pose to show off the tiny waist is extremely reminiscent of the contorted poses comic artists put female love interests in

take this side by side comparison with a panel from nightwing (1995) #1 (i read it recently so it was on my mind):

there's even!!! the drawn back arm highlighting that inward curve!!

AND THEN

the booty out poses!!!

rip his back honestly

like i'm pretty sure the design choice was actually to emphasize he broad shoulders and show off his nightwing symbol, but imo all it does is makes his waist look tiny

tldr: strong female character dick grayson ig

Ok as thanks for getting to the end, gratuitous batcooch:

and a tiny dick sketch

[lvrclerc]

EVERY SUMMER'S END

summary: loving a writer is a dangerous game, and carlos sainz is reminded of it when the dedication of your new book throws him back to every summer you ever shared, and the bitter end of them all. ✷ IVY'S POETRY DEPARTMENT EVENT: « although i may not be yours, i could never be another's. »

F1 MASTERLIST | CS55 MASTERLIST

pairing: carlos sainz x romance writer!reader wordcount: 7.2K content: summer romance, breakup, takes place from 2016 to 2021, implied smut, loosely inspired by beach read by emily henry, bittersweet, ambiguous relationship status, inacurrate timeline/events, open ending, not proofread. note: requested here! i wasn't kidding when i said i love writing summer romances. carlos sainz you are the epitome of a book mmc. i finished this out of spite and i hate it, which is why it took so long to get out, but thanks @sunsetcupid for sticking with me for the highs and lows of the writing process and reading through it. ‹𝟹

♫ us. - gracie abrams ft taylor swift

THE INTERVIEWER ASKS about what Carlos enjoys doing outside of motorsports, and the answer is rehearsed.

Carlos Sainz is a man of many hobbies. Racing, of course, dominates his life—he had been born in a legacy of burnt asphalt, it only made sense for him to bleed checkered. He’s a man who enjoys sports: padel with friends on week-ends when their hectic calendars allowed it, he could appreciate a boxing match here and there as a spectator, liked surfing when the weather was right and the waves were kind, and, later in life, he would take up golf. Outside of all movements, Carlos found comfort in good music, the kind with low, rumbling rhythm and gravelly guitar chords he would hum under his breath as a kid. He liked old movies too, the ones with seductive charm and grainy black-and-white frames that felt like diving into a memory.

Yet, amidst all the various things he enjoyed, Carlos Sainz had never been much of a reader.

It’s not that he didn’t like reading—he could get around it—but he just never had the time. As a child, karting consumed him too much to think about anything else. There were a few stray books, Percy Jackson maybe, when all of his classmates were raving about them. But he never learned to let himself get lost in pages. He never had the stillness for it—not with the life he grew up in. The erratic rhythm of racing didn’t leave space for leisurely afternoons, thin paper slipping between fingers, and other worlds unfolding in quiet.

Except once a year.

There was a place, tucked away like a whispered secret in the south of Spain, where time didn’t tick the same. There, the sun kissed his skin with soft acknowledgment. The air smelled faintly of vanilla and light florals. And there, he read.

But he doesn’t like to think about it. So when the interviewer asks about books, Carlos only shrugs and says he’s not much of a reader. 

Then he moves on.

—

LA HERRADURA, PROVINCE OF GRANADA, ANDALUSIA, SPAIN. SUMMER BREAK OF 2016.

La Herradura is a small town, as per Carlos’ standards, tucked along Spain’s Costa Tropical. His orange-tiled home set in Madrid, with its silent halls, had started to feel like a weight pressed against his lungs since February of last year. A place too close to memories, but too far from the heart, or something like that—metaphors weren’t really his strong suit. Returning for his second Formula One summer break would’ve swallowed him whole, which is why he chose this town, where nobody would think to look.

Five thousand people at most, strolling in the narrow streets folded between whitewashed buildings, with a beach that always seemed to hum in the distance. Here, he thought, he might be able to breathe again.

And yet, it’s only his second day, and someone spilt coffee all over his shirt.

You hadn’t meant to. You were just reaching for a packet of sugar near the café counter, as your waiter had forgotten to bring any. In no way had you expected the man beside you to whip around, so when he did, it became a mess of startled movement, clumsy apologies, and dark espresso blooming across his white cotton shirt like the birth of a bruise over his heart. You both spoke at once, tripping over sentences. Your voice tangled in the air until, mid-flurry, his hand caught your wrist gently.

“You’re alright, I promise,” the stranger had laughed. It rumbled through his chest and for a second, even the waves lapping outside the beachside café seemed to roar in jealousy.

He was beautiful in the way people rarely are, terribly so, all in sharp edges and sunburnt youth, sculpted by speed itself, with cheekbones etched by the wind, and jaw clenched from habit. Then, as anyone might have thought he could come off as severe, there were his eyes: soft in their curves, chestnut brown, flickering with curiosity and warmth. It was the kind of moment that would’ve made you roll your eyes if you were ever to write it—too convenient. Still, your heart lifted when he smiled, washing over you like carbonation fizzing to the top of a soda bottle you would have turned upside down.

“I’m still really sorry,” you apologized. “I wasn’t paying attention and—”

“Neither was I,” he cuts you off, and the exasperated smile that escaped you made his smile grow. Carlos found it charming.

“Let me at least buy you another one,” you offered. “It’ll make me feel less like a disaster.”

By principle, he should’ve declined. He had more than enough money to buy his own coffee, and his parents hadn’t raised him to let a pretty woman cover the bill. But there was something in the teasing in your voice he couldn’t place, a color twinkling in your eyes he craved to name, a story he didn’t want to end yet. So he said yes.

He ends up back at your table, settling into a wildly uncomfortable straw chair on the terrace, and you talk, voices clashing pleasantly over the aroma of salt and espresso. Carlos comes to the realization you don’t seem to know of him—or his last name, or his face—outside of the little world you built out of spilled coffee when you ask, casually, what he does for a living. He panics. Says he works as a chauffeur, because he likes the way your hand rests naturally on his forearm, unbothered, and he’s not ready to see the awkward change his upbringing might lead to.

To steer the conversation away from the sudden heat blooming under his collar, he nods toward your open laptop and the notebook darkened by messy scrawling next to it. “And… you write?” he asks.

Your cheeks go warm, and Carlos—absurdly—wants to bottle the shade and carry it around with him. “I attempt to,” you mumble, hastily flipping the notebook closed. “Haven’t written anything good in a hot minute.”

A year, two months, and thirty-two days, if we’re being precise. Your debut novel had made quiet waves, gotten a litany of praise. Critics called it raw, authentic, the kind of story that lingers between ribs. One reviewer went as far as to say it felt like the words spilled right from your lips onto theirs. There was irony in it, because you didn’t feel like anything spilled anymore. You had been staring at your blank document and blinking cursor, crafting slowly wilting outlines for months now. All ideas withered the second you touched them.

People called you a romance writer now. But how were you supposed to write about love when your last relationship left you with scars so soft they rotted sweet, like overripe fruit? What good was a writer who couldn’t write?

“Writer’s block?” the beautiful stranger asks, bringing you back from your own mind.

You nod. “Exactly. My agent’s on my ass about getting something new on paper, and I just… can’t. I thought coming here might help. Change of scenery, all that.”

He leans in, half-grin across his lips, almost conspiratorial. His hair brushes your cheek right where the shadow kisses your cheek. There is some poetry to that, and it’s so precise and cinematic that you want to laugh, that you want to lean further in and grasp its intricacies. “What do you write?” he inquires, and his voice is similar to dusk: low and warm. “Maybe I could help.”

That makes you smile, and a chuckle tumbles out of you. “Romance,” you say. “Technically, it’s women’s fiction, but they always shelve it under romance.”

“So you make a living out of people… falling in love?” His eyebrows lift as he says it. You nod, though the motion is braced. You know what people think of the genre, especially men: the subtle scoff and the condescension disguised as charm. You’re already preparing to pull the plug on the conversation, right with the slow building fantasy of it all, before it goes sour. But instead, he says, “I thought it would be easy, writing about love.”

The laugh that bursts out of you is entirely involuntary. You throw your head back from it, startled by the naivety of it, and the sheer audacity that he might really mean it.

“Love is far from being easy, tesoro.”

Sunlight catches your hair as you say it, and Carlos is possessed by the sound of the waves crashing onto shore as he asks, boldly and oddly earnest, if you can visit the town together. “As inspiration for your book, and another payback for the coffee,” he justifies.

Truth be told, he disagreed with you. For Carlos, there was nothing as easy as love: he fell in love with karting before he could spell the word ambition, let the scent of gas and gravel tarnish and scorch his lungs black, until the motion of getting into his seat became automatic. He loved the cockpit, the spare parts, the silence behind the helmet. He loved his country, with its sun-warmed streets, the music folded into each inflection of the language. Tradition etched into gestures that he carries with him when he drives. He had loved multiple women until his heart gave out under the effort.

Carlos loved with a ferocity you could only hold in the wild, boundless beginnings of adulthood, when the world still seemed so wide and endless, beckoning you to seek for its borders, and fell with just as much force.

Love wasn’t something complicated, or a puzzle to figure out. Cars were, so were strategies. But love? Love came as naturally as breathing, so easy to give yourself in.

And when you say yes, a knowing smile tugging at the corner of your lips, just this side of daring, Carlos thinks he might be falling for you just as easily.

You walk through the streets slowly, without a plan or destination, just the rhythm of two people perfectly content to orbit one another. La Herradura doesn’t offer much unless you’ve planned ahead: no grand museum or crowded monuments, instead overflowing in small alleys, bougainvillea spilling down balconies, salt-sticky air curling around your wrists like ribbons.

Neither of you minds. Carlos is more than happy stopping by overpriced ice cream stalls, pointing out absurd flavor just to see you wrinkle your nose. He tells you the worst one-liners he’s ever heard, mostly from his mother’s soap operas she used to watch while folding laundry, and bask in the teenage feeling burgeoning in his chest at the mere idea of them making you laugh.

He pays for dinner without a second thought. It’s the tourist spot next to the café where you first met, and the food is nothing special, but your snarky comment as the waiter brings the wine makes him feel like he’s won something. The sun’s set by the time you finish, but the last of its glow still lingers on the skin of the sea, similar to yours, and Carlos is surprised by how easily the parallel draws in his mind. A bonfire crackles by the beach, a testimony of late June and the traditions he loves, flames and music and voices all blending into a single glowing memory.

Like all good romantics, you’re drawn to it like a moth. Carlos slips your shoes off your feet before you can protest and holds them in one hand, his other brushing lightly against your back to guide you toward the shore. You sink into the sand, slow and aimless.

“Tell me about your first book,” he says. And you tell him how the story came to you all at once, like it had been simmering into a carafe and poured out in the cold glass of a single summer, with no real plans or outline. You say you didn’t think anyone would care for it. Carlos disagrees, this time openly, saying he would’ve read it even if no one else had.

You laugh, because you believe him, and that is such a ridiculous notion to hold for someone you just met.

You stroll along the shore for what could be like hours or mere minutes—time often loses its shape when the moment is right. Somewhere between the fifth song from the beach guitar and the taste of the wine still on your tongue, Carlos brushes a loose strand of hair behind your ear. The look you give him, like the sky is collapsing on itself, you’re sure you could have written about it this time around.

And maybe the sky really is collapsing. Maybe this night doesn’t exist in the real world at all, maybe it’s just a dream stitched together by the help of seafoam. Because when he says, “Come back with me,” as if he’s asking for a secret and not demanding, you don’t even think about it.

You go. Hand in hand, shoes forgotten, sand clinging to your ankles. The streets are in deep slumber, and his rental smells like sea and freshly washed cotton, and the moment the door closes behind you, it’s as if the world exhales and fades out of reality.

Carlos kisses you like he’s known you across lifetimes, like he’s loved you before and lost you, and this is his only chance to get it right. He touches you like he’s never going to see you again, because deep down he’s not sure he will. His hands are rough, his mouth devout. The pads of his fingers leave heat wherever they pass—marks not visible but undeniably there. You welcome them with parted lips, quiet sighs, nails digging crescents into his shoulder blades.

He doesn’t let you breathe for too long. Every exhale is an invitation he answers with his lips, his hips, his hands. It’s all consuming and fierce, because Carlos doesn’t know how to be anything else but hungry. Burning at the edges but still asking for more, dangerously close to spinning out but never losing control. He gives you everything because he doesn’t know how to love halfway. Because that’s Carlos: he only knows how to take, and take, and take, but only in exchange of all of himself.

You lie tangled in the sheets afterwards, skin kissed warm and hearts pounding in synchrony. A breeze floats through the open window, carrying with it the fresh air of a summer night. In the mellow silence, he studies you.

The flush of your cheeks could be called rose, but that’s too cliché. It’s something deeper, warmer—carnelian, maybe? He wasn’t the best with words. Or was it the color of joy? Or the exact hue of summer slipping beneath the ocean, the kind that never really leaves the sky? He commits it all to memory as sleep takes you both, you pressed to his chest no matter the heat.

And when he wakes up, you’re gone. In your place is a note, scribbled in your messy handwriting. “I have a plane to catch, didn’t want to wake you so early in the morning. Thank you for everything.” And beneath that, almost like an afterthought, a softer, neater line: “You’re nothing like I expected.”

He traces the paper with his hand for too long, heart thrumming somewhere in his throat. Yet, Carlos still gets up. He showers, and dresses, and for the first time in years, he walks into a bookstore. 

The woman at the register smiles when she sees the title he picked. “It’s a good one,” she says, and Carlos nods with pride as if the compliment was directed to him.

He reads it in pieces over the rest of the summer break, trying not to read it too fast in order to ration memories. To let your ghost linger a little while longer.

And somewhere in the sky, a few hours before your layover, you finally open your laptop. For the first time in forever, your fingers don’t stall on the keyboard. The words come gently, naturally, and you type them out with the same carefulness. 

They’re not about him, not yet, but Carlos lingers in every line, like the unmistakable smell of sun once it has set.

—

“You don’t read?” his new girlfriend asks, somewhere over the Mediterranean. 

The plane ride home to Monaco is a long one when you’re flying from Abu Dhabi, and Carlos had barely said a word since the takeoff. It’s December, and even at cruising altitude, Carlos can feel the temperature shift. He hates the cold—it bites instead of kisses. Give him heat, always. Give him sticky skin, the faint hum of the fan overhead and someone's breath mixing with his in the dark.

His mind travels to his personal Eden, where summer seemed to loop for years on end. The sound of cicadas, the coast so washed it looked half-dreamt. It’s only when his girlfriend calls his name again that he blinks, startled back to the present.

Right, reading. She’s referring to the interview. 

“I never have the time,” Carlos answers mechanically, punctuated with a tense chuckle.

She hums, unconvinced, and starts rummaging through her bag. “I could lend you one of mine, just to try. This one’s a beach read,” she says, oblivious to how his chest seems to tighten at her words. “My favorite author. I’ve read everything she’s written. Her stories are always kind of… sad, but really beautiful.”

Carlos wants to protest, say that he’s too tired and beach reads aren’t his thing. If he were to read, he’d want something heavier: a brick of historical nonfiction, or a complex murder mystery. He opens his mouth with an excuse at the ready, but the words die in his throat the second he sees the cover.

It’s a painted memory of soft edges and impressionist strokes, displaying a warm-toned terrace café with straw chairs, dappled in afternoon light. Carlos knows this place, not because of the building or how the awning folds over itself, but because of you.

You’re sitting at one of the tables. Well, it’s not exactly you, more someone like you. A woman rendered in delicate brushstrokes, a sundress flowing to her knees, holding a book just high enough to shadow her face. Still, her likeness is uncanny. And where the café’s name should be, in looping white script, is the title: Every Summer’s End. Beneath it, your name.

Carlos forgets how to breathe.

“You said you vacationed there, right?” his girlfriend inquires, unaware of the rupture. She flips the book around to show him the back. “La Herradura? That’s where it’s set. So funny, it made me think about you when I bought it.”

He takes the book when she offers it, thumb grazing the glossy spine. It’s heavy, like truth, and he forces a slow nod of acknowledgement.

Funny.

—

LA HERRADURA, PROVINCE OF GRANADA, ANDALUSIA, SPAIN. SUMMER BREAK OF 2017.

Carlos doesn’t believe in fate. He never has, not in the grand scheme of things. He’s not enough of a romantic, in the historical sense, too much of his father’s son, to do so. What he believed in was repetition, in giving until there’s nothing left and your body breaks before your mind. Fate had never helped him score points, efforts did. And licking open wounds caused by those efforts like an injured dog in hope of miracle recovery is what led him to La Herradura for a second time.

He couldn’t admit out loud that it wasn’t the town he came back for. It was the feeling.

The café hasn’t changed much. The layout is different from last year, the chairs rearranged and the menus reprinted in a more minimalist aesthetic. The cushions are a new shade of sun-bleached coral, he notices, but the air still carries the same warm hum of sea salt and citrus.

Carlos doesn’t look when he turns after ordering. A sharp movement, and his cup tips forward in a graceless arc, splashing a deep brown bloom across your pale beach cover-up. “Joder— shit, I’m so sorry—” he stammers and grabs a napkin with the frantic energy of someone half-present in his own body.

“We’ve got to stop meeting like this, tesoro.”

It’s not immediate. It crawls leisurely over his skin, laps at the snowglobe of his memories. Your mouth curves into a smirk he’s sure he’s shaken a few times in his mind. You laugh, his nickname on your tongue, and it clicks all at once. You were the feeling he missed.

You, on the contrary, don’t believe in coincidences. You believe in the invisible threads that tie together with quiet purpose. That everything, no matter how painful or messy, is part of some intricate, meaningful design in a bigger story. You’d be lying if you even thought that some hidden fragments of you hadn’t been hoping, all along, to see him again, wondering if the right set of conditions would pull him back where you left off.

No screams leave your lips, or curses at the temperature of the drink. You were never one for dramatics. You beam at him, damp fabric clinging to your swimsuit. “I think you owe me a clean shirt, this time around,” you say, and Carlos huffs out a disbelieving laugh.

He insists on buying you another coffee, and puts the sugar in it before you can think about telling him to. This time, you sit on the opposite side of the terrace, shaded by a new umbrella but caught in the same orbit.

The rest of the day folds over itself like a well-read book, the ones with the crack in the spine and the wavy pages from hair dripping of pool water. You walk again: down the coast, over the pebbled sidewalk, past shuttered shops and sleepy balconies. When you pass by the same tourist restaurant where you had dinner last year, you both decide to dine somewhere else.

Later, when the sun sinks and the bonfire sparks to life again, a feeling of continuation sneaks upon you both. You walk barefoot in the sand, again, letting your fingers thread through his, again. Unlike last time, Carlos asks about your new book with a carefulness similar to the one of a child. You admit that it’s finished, that people loved it, but you don’t tell him he inspired you. Not yet.

When you get back to his place, again, Carlos kisses you the exact same way, the brush of his mouth against yours too familiar for something that happened just once because he still remembers every second of it. He touches you like he’s still memorizing you, like you’re something he’s still trying to make sense of.

You fall asleep with your limbs tangled in linen and this time, when he wakes up, you don’t disappear. You’re still here when he wakes up, curled into his side with sunlight slipping through your hair. There were no planes to catch this time, you had made sure of it. However, Carlos is a man of habit, a creature of rhythm and ritual. So he gets up. Dresses.

The bookstore is only a short walk from his place. It’s barely open when he arrives, and yet, he finds it immediately: on the middle shelf, front-facing, your name bold and bright against the soft watercolors of the cover.

By the time he returns, the apartment smells of quiet mornings and coffee. You’re sitting on a stool at his kitchen island, legs folded up, his white cotton shirt swallowing your body. The seagulls heard through the windows are alive and singing but your hair is still mussed with sleep and bleary-eyed. Still, Carlos had the sensation to have walked upon something sacred.

Until you froze as your gaze dropped. “Wait,” you say, voice hoarse, “You— You bought it?”

Carlos turns the book around, displaying the familiar name stamped across the bottom with boyish pride. “First thing in the morning,” he grins.

You groan, tucking your face in your hands, even as your cheeks grow blotchy and warm with color. He’d spent half the night thinking of words to name it: he liked carnelian, but coral was as gorgeous. Cardinal stuck. Cardinal, bright, bleeding. It reveled on his tongue like you did.

It looked like the morning sun was in love with you.

Carlos smiles again, slower this time, fondness finger painting his features like a Monet’s. “I really liked your first book. I thought I’d check out the new one after yesterday.”

“You read my debut?” you gaped.

He hums. “Last summer, after you left.”

You just stare at him with wide eyes in wonder, adoration sprinkled like stars in the sky of your pupils. Your heart is louder than your thoughts, skipping similar to a stone over water. You feel seen. In that quiet, piercing way only readers could ever make you feel. And of all people, for it to be him.

Your voice falters as you admit, finally out loud, “Okay, well. In this one, I mean—just a little—some parts might’ve been…” You gesture vaguely, tugging at the hem of the shirt you borrowed. “Inspired by what happened last year.”

Carlos’ smile softens into a molten thing. If your emotions transpired through your eyes, his overcame you in the soft curve of his mouth, seemingly waiting for each one of your words to trigger something in him. He crosses the space to you in the beating of a heart and, as if it was an everyday thing, presses a kiss to your forehead. “I’m honored to be your muse, preciosa.”

You laugh, and it bubbles out of your chest bright and alive. Carlos could compare it to the shaking of a cold soda bottle on a hot day, but he’d be afraid of sounding somewhat ridiculous. You wrap your arms around him without thinking, face tucked in his shoulder. He still smells like the beach, like intimacy.

“Well,” you murmur, “you’ll probably end up inspiring another one this summer.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you, thumb brushing under your skin. “Then I’ll help you through the process again,” Carlos assures, his voice laced with poetry. “I’ll give you a thousand stories worth writing about.”

And it’s such a you and him thing to say that you feel your chest bloom open.

Outside, the world is just beginning to stir. The sunlight is thickening, birds singing as if to beckon the beginnings of July closer and closer. Inside, in this little kitchen scented with espresso and sunscreen, you know in your bones that won’t be the last time you wake up here.

This isn’t fate. This isn’t coincidence. It’s what’s left of the sand after it trickled down the hourglass, somehow, the two of you begin again.

—

The book was shelved under Romance.

Carlos hesitated in front of the section. His gaze trailed over the display of cartoon covers and pastel spines until his eyes settled on it.

Turquoise and dark sienna, a palette so at odds with its neighbors that it looked like it was meant to misfit. The title curled across the spine in delicate letters tangling into one another with the intimacy of intertwined lovers. Carlos felt like he intruded on something that he had no right to look at. Maybe that was the case.

He handed back the copy his girlfriend had so kindly lended him. Her copy, with loopy, highlighter-bright annotations and neatly color-coded tabs with tiny hearts next to her favorite quotes. It didn’t feel like you at all. Not when you were all in cracked spines and sand-stuck pages, yellowed out by the sun. Your notes, when your mind raced slow enough to make them, were scrawled hastily in the corners of receipts and napkins tucked before the backcover, legible only in candlelight, sometimes not even to yourself.

When they landed in Monaco, Carlos didn’t go home. He went to the airport bookstore, the scent of sterile bleach and teary goodbyes clinging to the air. He needed a clean slate: something that didn’t belong to her, but not something that belonged to you either. Just something that let him read the book like it was a book, and not a wound he’s been carrying around like a splinter.

As he takes the novel in his hands, the rough pads of his fingers shake around the paperback. A book could never be a person, Carlos reminds himself. Still, disappointment swelled in his chest like rising tide when the cover didn’t give under his touch the way your skin used to. It held firm, cold.

He glanced around instinctively. The bookstore was mostly empty, and he waited for the clerk to turn her back on him before tucking one, two, three, four under his arm. He was absurdly careful. As if they could bruise, he mocks himself.

With the carefulness of a lover, Carlos placed them at the very front of the shelf titled Women’s Fiction.

—

LA HERRADURA, PROVINCE OF GRANADA, ANDALUSIA, SPAIN. SUMMER BREAK OF 2018-19

You found each other again, summers after summers, until it became another beloved tradition, a ritual engraved in the gravelly skin of La Herradura, like initials in driftwood, softened by sun and salt but never erased.

Every late June, you’d return to your meeting place: the beachfront café that had once been the backdrop to spilled coffee and first laughter. Same time, same order— there was comfort in that, in repetition, the predictability of you and him.

As the sun dipped low below the sea, you’d slip back into his hunchback rental, skin warm with the fingerprints of daylight and your limbs heavy with knowing exactly where the night was going. You wore his shirt like silk and let him read you like scripture under the low hum of the fan.

Mornings belonged to books and windows cracked open. Carlos always woke before you, force of habit, and he’d pad down to the tiny bookstore with sand still crusted to his ankles and pick up the novel you’d published the summer before. Always one summer behind, and always eager to catch up in the only place he actually could.

He had learned to notice the parallels, to draw the metaphors by himself, no matter how clumsy. A sunset that had once dripped like marmalade over your bare shoulders found itself in Chapter Twelve. The stray kitten that had curled up in his lap one morning during breakfast became a symbol of grief in your prose. He watched your stories unfold and realized he was there: tucked between allegories and half-truths, tucked in the margins.

The days melted into each other with the same syrupy pace as the tide. For someone whose life was clipped in interviews and lap times, Carlos learned what it was like to breathe again, to fill his lungs until they stretched open without ache. His fingers, used to clenching around the wheel or curling into fists from tension, learned to soften. To touch with intention, not urgency.

He slept through the night, and he let silence settle without needing to break it.

In your shared Eden, nothing touched you. Not the headlines, not the passing of time. Even the reality that loomed past the end of those three weeks seemed to be kept at bay. There was only the breeze, the sea, and the soft, looping miracle of finding each other again.

—

LA HERRADURA, PROVINCE OF GRANADA, ANDALUSIA, SPAIN. SUMMER BREAK OF 2020.

Someone had to bite the apple first, and this time the sinner had brown hair.

This time, Carlos landed in La Herradura with red flashing in his mind, tensing the deepest parts of his bone, flashing behind his eyes when he tried to sleep. The familiar rumble of the engine still echoed inside of him as he crossed the beachfront café, the one where it always begins. This time, his body didn’t relax.

The switch hadn’t been sudden, not really. The idea of Ferrari had haunted him long before the contract had been signed. The discussions, the promises, and the restructuring of his future in motorsports; it had consumed him in the months separating one summer from the next, had bent his life in directions he’d sworn to never take for granted.

When he found you again, sitting below the striped awning with your sunglasses pushed up into your hair, your drink sweating under the Andalusian sun, he smiled. Yet, it didn’t fully reach his eyes.

You noticed it. Of course, you did.

Carlos remembers what you said, in a faraway place in which cradled the beginnings of the two of you. You said that love is far from being easy, and back then he’d disagreed without a second thought. There was nothing as easy as love. He was twenty-two then: all heart and bleeding devotion, untouched by the weight of what it meant to choose. But today he was twenty-six: it felt older, he had traded cotton shirts for linen button-ups, and learned to appreciate the taste of stronger alcohol.

And no matter how soft the sand, the hourglass kept running.

This time, Carlos planned things. Planned. The word itself was foreign to your time together. He made reservations at upscale local restaurants with white linens and dizzyingly long wine lists. He drove winding cliffs to bring you to coastal vineyards, places with photo ops and curated beauty. He booked you both scuba diving lessons with a man who introduced himself as Diego and called you lovebirds. He filled the time until it overflowed, as if silence was a sin he couldn’t afford anymore.

This wasn’t how La Herradura worked. You never planned here. You lived here.

Now, he drove too fast, kissed you like the end was always lurking around the corner. The only time he’d breathe and settle down was at night, when he held your body flush against him. His hands tugged you impossibly closer, like he was made of marble and trying to carve you out of him.

Still, you didn’t ask. The problem didn’t reside here, in your sacred, familiar garden. It lived in whatever came before and after, so you didn’t think you had a right to. You didn’t belong there.

Next year, things would have to change. Carlos would have to change. His body, his name, his entire presence all had to be shaped into one thing, focused and sharp. The Carlos you had couldn’t split himself between two places, love and legacy.

Hard-working. Focused. Determined. That’s what Carlos is, down to his core. He’d never been a romantic.

And yet, you curled into him that night, limbs loose from wine and heat, hair spilling over his bare chest like ribbons. The fan circled overhead. Outside, the waves licked the sand in soft intervals, time dissolving once again in white noise. Carlos stared at the ceiling, his hand draped low on your spine, fingers memorizing.

He keeps telling himself that it was always meant to be temporary. Time stopping for anyone or anything was a silly notion enfolded in the delusions of early adulthood. You were a substance he had to get out of his system, and those summer breaks spent in this secluded paradise had him indulging more than he felt the need to.

You were always meant to be temporary, he tries to convince himself as he holds your sleeping figure close to his chest. 

For the very first time, and in a desperate attempt to grasp the last seconds you could ever share, he whispers in your ear for the very first time, “I love you, preciosa.”

He would hold on to his name on the back of the vermilion suit, on his ivory number somewhere on the bar of his cerise car. It wasn’t the cardinal flush of your cheeks, but it was as close as he was going to get in a long time— if not forever.

Carlos would hold onto that too. Until he could draw another parallel, find another adjective.

Love is far from being easy, he finally agrees.

—

Nostalgia is a traitorous substance, an opiate of the heart: indulge in it too much and you become addicted. Carlos had learned, early one, to stray away from it. There was no room for looking back when you lived life ten seconds at a time. However, melancholy— melancholy he never quite managed to unlearn. And nostalgia, no matter how hard he tried to keep it at bay, always found a way back in.

Both brewed now, unbearably sweet, in the pages of Every Summer’s End.

Carlos sat crooked on his bed, spine aching and sheet twisted at his hips. The only sound was the rustle of paper and the quiet shift of his breath whenever a sentence carved too deeply.

When his girlfriend told him it was set in La Herradura, Carlos’ heart had dropped straight to the floor. He was scared of what he’d find between the lines. Terrified of you, not in flesh and skin but in ink and metaphors. More precisely, Carlos was afraid of finding out if you had grown to hate the memory of him, if you had walked the same streets, swam under the same starry sky, but the landscape curled into you like spoiled wine, if you had spat on his name while he held yours tenderly behind his teeth. It was a selfish fear, but real nonetheless.

Then he started reading. That’s when he realized the truth: the book wasn’t about him, like it had been so many times before.

This time, the novel was about you.

The lines blend together until they form black-and-white frames in Carlos’ mind. Adriana—your heroine—had lost the love of her life. The how was ambiguous— sometimes, you hint at the cruel but tender hands of death. Sometimes, you allude to another woman, on another coast, somewhere colder. Carlos read and reread each implication like scripture, combed through context like scripture.

But the novel was never about the man. No matter what you may imply, it all comes down to the same thing: the mourning of what was. Grief, in its purest shade, and the rebuilding that came.

He recognized every place Adriana visited, and Carlos felt it like bruising under his skin to the point of nausea. The worst wasn’t even the familiarity, but knowing you had been there too: walked those same steps without him, cried without him, healed without him. And survived.

Because that’s what the story was really about: surviving through the healing process. Life isn’t restricted to loss. It might shape and change what you are, but it doesn’t erase you. It doesn’t vanish, but simply loosens its grips. The places you once loved don’t reject you; they remember you and help you puzzle yourself back together. In the library near your rental, in the San Juan bonfire on the beach. You are still there, somewhere, no matter what happened.

Eventually, you learn to love again.

Adriana meets someone at a beachfront café. A stranger, simple and warm. He doesn’t spill his coffee on her. He tells her he’s a local, works in a bar not far from here. He’s different from her past lover, and that’s good, because he reminds her that love isn’t always followed by silence.

The tear that hung on Carlos’ eyelashes finally fell down. Gravity had decided to be merciful, just this once.

—

LA HERRADURA, PROVINCE OF GRANADA, ANDALUSIA, SPAIN. SUMMER BREAK OF 2021.

Carlos wouldn’t know what happened at that time or place. He wasn’t there.

However, you would. But you didn’t like to recall it, so you wrote about it instead.

Then, you moved on.

—

By the time Carlos had turned the last page, the sun had started its gentle ascent, spilling gold through the half-closed curtains of his bedroom. The warmth of the light filled the emptiness that came after savoring a book, heavy with everything that had been lived on the page.

The sleepless night had passed in an ever present ache. He deciphered your every allegory, holding your tone close to his chest. He had read you in every line with your rhythm, the sentences that curved like the lines of your body. Your prose was yielding, bruised. It felt like another night beside you, your hands toying with his hair, whispering sweet nothings in his ear. When the final word passed under his gaze, it felt like he was leaving you all over again.

But now he was done reading, and you were almost gone.

Almost. Because there it was, not in capitalized letters or bolded words, but on the final page, similar to the unearthing of a secret.

Although I may not be yours this time around, I could never be another’s.

He could recall a conversation you once had on the balcony of his rental. “I hate dedications at the beginning of books,” you’d muttered with a sigh. Carlos was sunbathing next to you, opening an eye to look at your figure hunched over your keyboard. “It doesn’t make sense to me. The person you dedicate it to doesn’t know what you’re giving them yet.” He’d hummed with a laugh, and you had continued. “Maybe it’s ridiculous, but I would much prefer it to be at the end, so that they understand the meaning of all of it.”

“Would you ever dedicate it to me?” Carlos had asked teasingly.

You’d arched a brow at him, rolling your eyes to the sky with nothing but tenderness. “If I did, I wouldn’t say your name, tesoro. Much too obvious.”

He hadn't thought much of it at the time, only amused when he looked for the dedications in your books and found them right before the backcover.

Except that now, the last of your presence hung on the last page and the two lines that made it, and Carlos knew in the deepest, most egoistic parts of himself, that it was meant for him to understand. That was probably the cruelest part: the story had ended, so had the numerous summers, and he wasn’t sure either of you were still the people who loved and burned under the Andalusian sun. Time passed, it was something Carlos had made peace with.

Yet, the dedication said maybe.

The most rational part of him told him to let it go. He should protect what little healing you and him may have found, to not dig up something that already fed the soil. But the thing about Carlos Sainz is that he had never been at letting go of the things that made him feel alive. Because you had a part of him in you, just like every car he had ever stepped foot in possessed a part of his soul, just like every race track could beat to the rhythm of his heart. Because Carlos Sainz doesn’t know how to give halfway.

He doesn’t know what he’s doing until he’s done, but a ticket to La Herradura for the end of the next month of June is blinking at him on his phone screen.

He had no plans, no speeches, and didn't mean to prepare any. The only desire inhabiting him was the one to be there, in that place, basking in the possibility of it.

Maybe Carlos won’t see you, maybe he will. If he does, you’d talk. He’d offer you your usual coffee, if you still took it that way, and he’d tell the entire truth. He’d see where it leads, if he’d take back that part of him you held or he’d let it stay with you.

Some summers, just like love stories, never end. 

They just get rewritten, again and again and again.

©LVRCLERC 2025 ━ do not copy, steal, post somewhere else or translate my work without my permission.

[norrisradio]

ALMOST, ALWAYS

LINE BY LINE ᝰ.ᐟ “I’m always going to love you.” - La La Land (2016)

ᝰ PAIRING: lando norris x race engineer! reader | ᝰ WC: 1.4K ᝰ GENRE: situationship-to-lovers, as the title says: when the almosts turn to always, lando and mc are both down horrendous, a little bit of angst in the form of lando (as usual) being hard on himself ᝰ INCOMING RADIO: this was written in one manic session after lando's post-quali skysports interview - this is part desperate prayer and part manifestation for tomorrow's race ꨄ︎ requested by anon ! (i'm so sorry - i know you asked for a bittersweet ending but after quali, writing lando not getting the girl at the end would have been psychological torture for me)

send me an ask for my line by line event .ᐟ

Lando Norris knows what destiny feels like, because he's spent his entire life trying to snatch it from fate’s cruel hands.

It’s the way he tightens his grip on the steering wheel when the car jolts over a curb. The way he bites back the sting in his voice when the radio crackles with numbers that don’t match the effort. It’s a god he doesn’t believe in, teasing him with glimmers of greatness, only to pull them away with a shrug and a yellow flag.

It’s also you.

Not because you’re a superstition or a lucky charm—but because you’re the one reading fate’s data. The one in the back room, eyes scanning a dozen screens, voice steady over comms even when the world is burning down. You're not just part of the team. You're his engineer. His brain when emotion runs too hot. His breath when his lungs forget how to work.

But even gods fall short.

And today, so did you.

P8.

You’d gone aggressive on the tire plan. Bet on track evolution. A gamble, one you both signed off on with twin nods in the pre-quali briefing—his jaw tense, your hand gripping your tablet too tight.

You don’t remember walking out of the debrief. Don’t remember the words you said to the engineers or the drivers. You just remember his fingers almost brushing yours when you stood up, papers rustling between you. A breath held. A touch dodged. The same silent question hanging between you that’s been there for months.

You were never his. Not really. Not officially. But you’ve spent late nights pouring over lap deltas with your feet kicked up on his coffee table. Shared hotel breakfasts where your knees touched and neither of you moved away. You know the way his voice shifts when he’s pretending he's okay. He knows the exact moment your voice falters on the comm, even when no one else can hear it.

You both know what it feels like to almost cross a line.

And now, hours later, you’re asleep in your hotel room—lap charts open beside you, headphones still in—when your phone buzzes.

Lando.

You answer on the third ring, already sitting up.

“Hey,” you murmur, voice wrapped in sleep and regret. “You okay?”

“I bombed it.” His voice is quiet, but cracked. “Absolutely fucking bombed.”

You don’t correct him. Not yet.

Instead, you exhale slowly. “Talk me through it.”

“I don’t know. Didn’t hook it up. Rear end was loose, tires didn’t feel ready. Got traffic in S2. I should’ve—” He chokes on the words, and there’s a silence that says: I should’ve trusted something else. Someone else.

You bite your lip, guilt curling in your stomach. “It wasn’t all on you.”

“I know,” he says, but it sounds like a lie.

You shift under the covers, flicking your laptop closed. “One quali doesn’t rewrite the whole season.”

“Yeah,” he mumbles, voice distant. “But it still fucking sucks.”

You let the silence stretch. Not uncomfortable—just true.

Then, quieter: “I woke you up.”

“Yeah,” you whisper, lips curling into a soft smile, “but I’d rather be awake with you than sleep without you.”

He breathes out a laugh. It’s small, but real.

You talk for a while. About nothing, about everything. You tell him the cat at the paddock hospitality tent tried to follow you into the sim room today. You tell him one of the interns mistook your race notes for a coffee order. You tease him about how he still hasn't figured out how to work the printer back at the factory.

And he listens. Let's himself breathe.

Eventually, it fades into quiet.

“You still there?” he mumbles.

“Still here,” you say gently. “You getting sleepy?”

“A little.” His voice is soft. Barely there. “You make everything feel lighter, you know that?”

You smile into the phone. “That’s the goal.”

There’s a beat. Then:

“I’m always going to love you.”

He says it like a secret, like a truth he’s been holding inside his chest so long it’s bruised.

It’s not the first time he’s almost said it. But it’s the first time he lets it breathe. Let’s it be.

And you—you feel it. The weight of it. The ache. The fear and the want and the exhaustion.

You don’t say it back. Not yet. Because you’re still his strategist. And he’s still the boy chasing destiny with a race suit and a number on his back.

So instead, you stay.

You stay on the line until he falls asleep, quiet breathing soft in your ear like static.

Race day.

The sun blazes down on the circuit like a spotlight. Lando starts P8, jaw clenched, hands shaking in his gloves.

You’re in the garage, headset on, every sensor live. Your voice calm over radio, but your heart is a snare drum.

The lights go out like gunfire.

The start is chaos—front wheels locking up into Turn 1, one of the Ferraris darts wide, someone’s radio explodes with static and frustration. But Lando? He doesn’t flinch. He’s already shifting inside out, folding himself into that familiar headspace where nothing exists but the blur of corners and your voice cutting through the noise.

“Car ahead’s vulnerable into Turn 6,” you tell him, cool and clipped through the headset. No panic. No overthinking. You’re holding it together even though he knows your stomach’s in knots. He knows, because it’s his stomach too.

He trusts you. He always has. Even when you make bold calls. Even when the quali gamble didn’t pay off. Even when you won’t quite let your fingers brush his after a strategy meeting.

Lando dives down the inside of the Alpine into Turn 6. Tires shriek. He holds it.

P7.

The laps fall like dominoes.

“Gap ahead, two seconds. You’re quicker in this chicane.” “Box opposite Russell. We’re watching his undercut.” “Next two laps are critical. You can do this.”

He eats into the delta like it’s his last meal. When the tire drop-off comes, your call is perfect—box, outlap, traffic-free window. He rejoins behind one of the Aston Martins but doesn’t wait. Doesn't need to.

DRS open. Straight-line speed sings. Late on the brakes.

P5.

By lap 42, his gloves are soaked through. His neck aches. His visor is streaked with sweat and G-force. But he doesn’t lift.

“Rain maybe in the last five. Category 1 only,” you say, and even that—even that—lands like scripture.

You’re right. You always are.

Spots on the visor. Just a shimmer. Just enough to make it a test of nerves.

The Merc in P4 twitches into Sector 2. Lando capitalizes, flicks it up the inside with the kind of confidence you’ve been begging him to believe in.

He’s on the podium now.

P3.

The last few laps are a blur of tire management, double-checks, and defensive lines, but by the time he crosses the finish line, there’s only one thing he hears:

Your voice. Breathless in his ear. “Well fucking done, Lando.”

He rips the helmet off after parc fermé, hair plastered to his forehead, adrenaline running hotter than the engine. The champagne hasn’t even dried on his suit by the time he’s shoved past press officers and camera crews, giving the post-race interview answers half-distracted.

Smiles for the cameras. Nods at the questions. Grins when they ask about the race. But it’s all white noise.

Because you’re in the garage.

And destiny—destiny’s not on the podium. Destiny’s in black team-issue fireproofs, standing near the telemetry screens, trying to hide the fact that your hands are shaking.

He doesn’t call. He doesn’t wait.

He finds you.

You barely have time to smile before he’s running. His arms wrap around your waist, lift you clean off the ground. Your headset nearly flies off, but you’re laughing, holding onto his shoulders like gravity forgot its job.

He spins you in a tight, giddy circle, and the garage blurs behind you—engineers, mechanics, screens, all of it disappearing under the sound of his laughter.

“You did it,” you whisper, breath caught in your throat.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, hair a mess, eyes wild. “We did it.”

You stare at him. Just stare.

And this time—this time—there’s no almost.

He leans in, forehead to yours, voice so soft only you can hear it, even with the noise around you.

“I meant what I said last night.”

You already know. You felt it in every overtake. Every corner he trusted you to guide him through.

You nod, lips trembling. “I love you too, Lando.”

He kisses you like it’s the last lap of the race. Like he’s already won. Like destiny finally stopped running, and turned around to meet him halfway.

[demifiendrsa]

Scavengers Reign co-creator Joe Bennett confirms on his Instagram account that the series will not be renewed for season 2 at Netflix. He also shared a concept teaser for what season 2 might've looked like had it gotten renewed.

As of right now, Scavengers Reign is not being renewed for a second season. I wanted to let everyone know directly because I really love our fanbase, they’ve been such champions for the show, and I don’t want to leave everyone hanging. We’ve had to fight tooth and nail every step of the way to get this show made, starting all the way back in 2016 with the Scavengers short film to the release of the first season last year. It’s a case study for believing in something and persevering through a million and one hurdles. But, it got made, thanks especially to so many people who supported it along the way, in big and small ways. I want to thank some of those people, starting with my co-creator Charles Huettner @charles.huettner , Chris Prynoski @chrisprynoski and everyone at @titmouseinc , my home base at @greenstreetpictures , the writers, directors, and so many incredible artists who worked tirelessly on the show, and the folks at Max who were incredible partners to work with. But this is not the end. There is more story to be told, we are ready to make another season, and we produced in-house at Green Street a teaser for what was going to come in the second season. Thanks again to everyone who watched and supported the show.

[wachinyeya]

04.16.2025 -- Story by Richard Luscombe

Dozens of gopher tortoises (Gopherus polyphemus) survived a perilous sea crossing after being swept from their homes during Hurricane Helene last summer and are enjoying a new lease on life on a remote stretch of Florida coastline.

Rangers at Fort De Soto county park near St. Petersburg say that before the September storm only eight members of the vulnerable species were known to be living there.

Now, after the astonishing journey, a count last month confirmed 84 active burrows, suggesting the tortoises quickly adapted to their new habitat after their forced eviction from Florida’s Egmont Key National Wildlife Refuge, a tiny island more than three kilometers (two miles) southwest that was pummeled by the Category 4 hurricane.

As well as sparking a surge of interest in the park in the form of visitors keen to catch a glimpse of the unexpected new arrivals, the tortoises are providing benefits for some of the animals that already lived in the 445-hectare (1,100-acre) environment.

“They’re a keystone species, which means they share their burrows with other species, and there’s been something like 250 different species recorded as living in gopher tortoise burrows,” says Anna Yu, a Fort De Soto ranger who has assumed responsibility for the roving reptiles’ well-being.

“Everybody in the ecosystem benefits from gopher tortoises being there, and we’ll hopefully see an increase in biodiversity in the park. Because we have all these new burrows, other animals are able to use them, like eastern diamondback snakes, black racers, all kinds of different reptiles,” she says.

“The last time a gopher frog was listed as being one of the species in the park was in 2016, so it’s really cool to think that maybe some of these really imperiled species that rely on gopher tortoise burrows to survive might make their way back.

“I don’t expect to see frogs popping up everywhere, but there’s certainly more of a chance than before this happened.”

Yu and her colleagues knew the tortoises had come across the water from Egmont Key because biologists from St. Petersburg’s Eckerd College, who were studying them, had drilled small holes in their shells as identification markings.

Tortoises are poor swimmers, and many likely drowned during the hurricane. At least 40 were discovered washed up dead. But the survivors, Yu says, would have floated and been carried on the surface as Helene’s winds whipped the water surging toward the beaches of the mainland. “It’s like they knew exactly where to go; they went a little bit higher in hopes of not being drowned out by another storm. There’s a little bit of intelligence there,” she says.

Even more exciting are the mating behaviors some of the tortoises have exhibited, suggesting a new generation of gopher tortoises will soon be plodding around.

“It’s a sign they’re thriving. Being able to mate is a sign of success,” Yu says.

“The main point in all this is that we want to make sure Fort De Soto is, above all, a wild place and home to an abundance of wildlife that depends on the people that come through, depends on their respect and all of our collective stewardship of their habitat to survive.

“I think this is a really ecologically important event. It’s a feel good story too, of course, but it’s also very critically important environmentally.”

“The whole event was just sheer luck that they ended up at Fort De Soto and not out at sea, or at some of the other beaches north of St. Pete Beach and Treasure Island, really popular beaches that don’t have the habitat to support these creatures,” she says. “It could have turned out a lot differently for them.”

Their behaviors since washing ashore have also fascinated observers. Some of the tortoises, presumably traumatized by their hazardous odyssey, burrowed deep into higher elevations. The majority of the burrows, Yu says, were dug beyond Helene’s storm surge line.

[wicked-disposition]

What’s Done in the Dark, Jeong Yunho.

Note: This oneshot was inspired by the movie Hush (2016). Please note that kinks and limits in this have been discussed beforehand and that what happens in this story is between two consenting parties that are playing their roles.

Tw. fear play, cnc, mentions of knives, breath play, choking, power play.

If only you could see the grin hid behind Yunho’s mask, the fear in your eyes so very addicting; your attempts to keep him out at every cost oh so amusing. He must admit, he thought you would be an easy one but he was wrong. It’s clear that you won’t give up, no matter how scared he knew you would never let him win.

He didn’t mind, he was going to get what he wanted in the end nonetheless.

Yunho can feel your eyes on his clothed back as he walked away from the porch, his crossbow held in a steady grip as he walks around mindlessly. He is in no hurry.

Pretty girls like yourself shouldn’t live alone in the forest, he has all the time in the world.

He can’t help but grow excited as he climbs up to the second floor, your little predator and prey game having his adrenaline pumping.

It will be more than a pleasure to add a line to his crossbow once he’s done with you, he thinks the added count for the amount of bodies he’s taken will look very pretty to say the least.

"Dumb girl."

He doesn’t care to keep his voice down, judgement clear in his tone as he looks at all the windows with amusement his eyes. It's almost too easy.

All it takes is one nice hit with the end of the crossbow for the sound of shattering glass fill his ears like the sweetest of melodies.

He wonders if you can sense him, know where he is by the vibrations on the floor by each step he takes.

He wonders if you can sense his smile as he watches you with curious eyes; he is so close, close enough to smell your floral perfume.

You are anxious, no matter how firmly you grip around the base of the knife one can notice the shake to your hands.

It would be a lie to say he didn't enjoy the pleasure of taking his time with it, each step slower than the other. Such an interesting being you are, Yunho almost felt bad about what is to come next.

Almost.

Your attention shifts from the door to the arrow pressed to your back, just one wrong move and a slight squeeze to the trigger and you are done for.

You don't disappoint as you swing the knife at him, your quick turn taking a second or two to register in his brain; body too slow to move out of the way of the knife.

“That wasn’t very nice.” he says mockingly, with a grin.

It seems like that was as far as your plan went, body now pressed against the door; eyes never leaving his as you desperately try to unlock the door with shaky hands.

Yunho tilts his head as he takes one step forward, you let out a cry at that.

Two steps.

Tears are now streaming down your face. You begin to beat frantically on the door. Jiggling the handle to the best of your ability but it doesn’t budge.

Three steps.

Your eyes flutter to the knife, thoughts clear as day. Your take a chance and glance up to meet yunho’s dark stare. Don't be foolish, his eyes convey, you would never make it.

Four steps.

You try to claw your way through but his frame is way too big for you to even have a chance.

Within seconds you are caged, his body pressed against yours and your chin captured in between his fingers.

Nothing but your soft sobs can be heard in the room, not even the whispers of the forest are audible as he wraps his hand around your neck; squeezing it with ease.

"It's funny how fragile the human body is, something as simple as squeezing some flesh enough to end one's life.” Yunho murmurs, as he pulls your face towards his and licks your tears softly with the tip of his tongue.

Just as expected, your attempts to get away stop as the oxygen to your brain becomes shorter. you slowly start become limp before he decides to have a little mercy on you, letting your body drop to the floor.

He sighs looking down at you, "But you wouldn't know, l'm talking to deaf ears."

You’re still taking time to collect yourself on the floor breathing in and out slowly as your vision starts to clear itself. Your body feels frozen and you can’t get yourself to move as you look up at the man. Tears streaming down your face you find the strength to make your arms move as you begin to sign the word please over and over again.

“Don’t worry baby, you don’t have to beg.”

Your eyes widen in fear as his hands make his way to the front of his jeans and start to unbuckle his belt. Terrified, your body jumps quick into action as you start to crawl away from the door. You don’t know where to go but you know you have to get away from him. If you can just make it to your bedroom everything should be fine. You can lock the door and just pray to god that the man will just give up and leave.

Yunho chuckles as he watches from behind as you try to get away. He can’t wait to ruin what bit of hope that you have left. He grabs your ankle and pulls you back towards him in one swift motion.

You let out a gasp as he flips you over to face him as he descends upon your body. The tears don’t stop falling from your face as you try one last time to fight him off but it’s no use.

You’re trapped.

Yunho hushes you softly as he brings his face closer to yours. “It will hurt less if you stay still.”

From there all you can feel is his cock pressing inside of you. Your tight cunt has him groaning out, walls inviting his length in perfectly.

You try to use the last of your strength to fight him off again. Your fists meet his chest hitting him weakly to push him off but your body was too weak to do any actual damage.

Yunho continued undeterred.

His hips move in a quick pace, hand forcing your head still so he could watch you; watch as he ruined every ounce of hope you had in thinking that you could get away from him.

Watching as he took you apart piece by piece.

You can do nothing but cry and wait it out, his groans only getting louder for each movement he made. As much as you hated it your cunt couldn’t help but to clench down as he drove his cock in and out to reach his peak.

“Fuck baby, I knew you would love it. Your little pussy won’t let go of my cock.”

Yunho knew you couldn’t hear him but he needed you to know how good you were making him feel so as a gift he reaches down a hand to play with your clit as he felt you clenching down on his member.

The closer he got to his climax the rougher his thrusts became, your cries for help turning into moans of pleasure as he continued to hit that one spot inside of you that made you see stars.

The sounds itself only motivate him to go harder. With his free hand he grips you by the neck bringing your faces closer. You look into his eyes and are greeted with nothing but darkness staring back at you. The tears on your face are no longer of fear but of pleasure as he brings you closer to climax.

“I knew you were a slut. You just needed me to bring it out of you. I’m going to cum in your hole and your tight little pussy is going to milk my cock dry.”

You look at him, not comprehending a single word. But that didn’t matter. Your eyes begin to roll back as he plunges his cock in faster at a new angle.

With one last thrust he release his load inside of you, the bulge visible in your lower abdomen even when clothed. You let out a high pitched whimper as he fills you and that’s enough for you to cry out as you release.

Your release can be seen coating his cock once he pulls out from your cunt, he gives your pussy a slap as he watches your hole flutter hungrily, looking to be filled again.

Your eyes close shut in humiliation and embarrassment from enjoying what had just occurred. Yunho tuts softly and gives your face a light slap.

Your tired eyes open back up to meet his.

“The funs not over yet babydoll, we still have all night to go.”

Your eyes shut again slowly as his body entraps yours once again.

[olderthannetfic]

I always see people reminiscing about the Good Ole Days and about how antis are a new thing but. . .is that really true? Or am I just being autistic and taking things too literally, and they just mean it's way more of a common debate now than it used to be before, and that the landscape of shipwank has changed?

Idk, it's like I constantly hear about fandom wank and shipwars and censorship from decades ago, and yes I know "shipping/doxxing/censorship has always existed" can co exist with "antis are new" but I think there's still a bit of a comprehension gap on my end.

am i just dumb? What am I missing here? FWIW - I do feel like the context of "anti" has definitely changed. Back in early 2010s tumblr (I cannot speak of other website/platforms) I remember that tagging something as #Anti Donkey Kong didn't mean you think DK is an evil abusive monster and that everyone who likes him/mains him is also an evil abusive monster and that Nintendo is pushing the evil abusive monster agenda. #Anti Donkey Kong would just be character bashing, wank, letting out your grievances about how ugly DK is, etc, but it was really just a tag used for your own personal opinions (and for DK fans to filter out). Whereas now #Anti Donkey Kong would mean please go die and delete all your accounts if you support DK.

So I definitely know that "anti" has a way more intense definition now than it used to - but for some reason I find it a bit hard to grasp just how new this whole anti thing even is in the firstplace. It honestly makes me sad that I've never seen a pre-anti internet, assuming there really was a time before antis.

--

Antis are new. Specifically, the "Conservative Protestantism in a gay hat" thing that that one tumblr post pointed out is new.

We had doxxing in the past. We had masses of shipwank. We also had "How dare you write that m/m ship. It's bad!"

The key is that the "Your m/m ship is bad" crowd used to openly be conservative Christian homophobes who objected to homosexuality itself. Nowadays, they're queer 20-somethings who like m/m ships but object to gay sex.

It's the anti-kink, anti-fantasy brigade coming from "our side" instead of the outside, essentially. It's respectability politics about "Sempai will love me if I just sanitize The Community and kick out the icky weirdos". It's personal disgust masquerading as morality where once it would have been masquerading as intellectual superiority.

It's a product of queerness being more public and tolerated overall. In the past, a lot of spaces devoted to m/m shipping had to be aggressively in favor of contentious fiction because the existence of anything m/m was itself contentious. There was plenty of "Well, my gay best friend said ___ is unrealistic, and my slash is good, unlike that of you plebes!" There was much less "Fujoshi means fetishizer".

Of course, I'm comparing the 90s internet to now or the mid 00s Livejournal fandom to Tumblr of this past decade. It really depends on whether Ye Olden Times was five years ago or twenty five.

The modern use of the term 'anti' did indeed grow out of the old habit of tagging your hate. As the default cultural mode shifted from "My NOTP is dumb" to "My NOTP is problematic", the usage changed. At some point, antis started getting offended by their self-applied term and pretending that the other side inflicted it on them. This is revisionism. Fiction-is-not-reality had some writeups with citations in the past.

The big shifts were happening around 2012-2016. The long slide into puritywankers being everywhere has only continued since then, but that's where the tipping point seems to have been. TikTok exacerbates this nonsense, and there are clearly plenty of people who are anti-queer and only weaponizing clueless queer youth.

The big shift is that liking m/m used to weed out most of the worst people, and now it attracts lots of them who will not fucking go away because they like the same ship, just the hand-holdy, no dicks can touch ever version.

They spend their time bleating about how AO3 should have been built for them and how anti-censorship activism doesn't matter... because they've grown up in a fandom world dominated by AO3, which shelters them from the reality that the "Ewww, all m/m sucks!" crowd is everywhere on other sites to this day.

That's probably why the shift is when it is. Certain aspects of mainstream queer acceptance were on the rise just as AO3 was getting big. But at the same time, the world is shit and everyone has anxiety they self-medicate through rage and security theater around sniffing out The Bad People.

[ricciardo133]

Montreal 2017

maxiel, vampires, blood, dry humping, and some dubious consent

-

"You smell good, Daniel."

Daniel looks over at his teammate in the bumpy backseat of the team van that carries them post-PR event back to their hotel. In the dying daylight, Max's shockingly blue eyes are brilliantly lit up in staccato beams of light as their car passes each streetlamp. His typically direct stare somehow feels even more locked on than usual, eyes glued to Daniel. It's too dim in the car to tell if he's even blinking.

"Thanks, bud. After hauling ass around town today, I think I smell pretty fucking fresh."

"You do not smell fresh. You smell like sweat."

"Got any normal compliments?"

"You look so alive."

"Okay," Daniel says as the car blessedly pulls up to the hotel's entrance. He hauls himself up and hunches over in the van, waiting for Max to move out of the way of their shared backseat. "Love ya, man, but let's get boogying so I can shower."

Daniel knows he shouldn't be so careless with his coworker's extremely obvious crush, but a little schmoozing does work when he wants something. Max flushes and scoots off the seat and out into the crisp night. Daniel pulls on his backpack and scampers out after him. Two Red Bull managers await by the door, handing off two key cards with the same suite number written on their paper pouches.

"Gotta be a mistake, right?" Daniel asks helplessly. An apologetic headshake as he and Max are informed the hotel is overbooked and it's more convenient for the team to not add another hotel stop to their tight schedule for logistics ahead of media day. Their team helps get their suitcases upstairs, and they leave Max and Daniel in the single room with two king beds.

"Dibs on the bigger one," Daniel jests as he flops back onto the plush mattress. He figures he might as well make this as light and easy-breezy as possible. They've managed to not share a room ever since becoming teammates in 2016. He actually thought Max would look more excited at the surprise slumber party, but the young man stands unnervingly still in the cold room, staring at him.

"This isn't good. I need to...do things alone tonight," Max breathes tensely.

"You can shower first if ya need to jack off."

"No. Daniel, why would they...They're always so good about it when the timing...overlaps," he pauses and pulls out his cell phone. In a rush, he holds it to his hear and speaks quick, unintelligible Dutch to someone on the other end. The call apparently doesn't help. He pulls on his jacket in terse and quick moves. "Sorry if I wake you, when I get back."

"Don't tell me you're going clubbing without me," Daniel teases.

"Not for fun. Just going out."

"For how long? May call up a girl if you're gone for a while. No better way to get out the pre-race week jitters with a little sucking and fucking, eh, Maxy?"

Max stares at him. Rather, Daniel feels he's staring just below his line of sight, as if those blue eyes were piercing his nipples. He glances down like he may have something on his shirt but by the time he looks up, the younger man is out the door. It closes with a sharp thud.

Wired and surprisingly off-kilter, Daniel disrobes and showers. He stands under the hot spray and feels a confused rush. He would've thought he'd have to bat Max off him given the sleeping arrangement. They've never touched beyond sportsman-like claps on the back and too-firm handshakes, but it feels obvious, to Daniel, that he could ask for way more if he wanted. The way he catches Max staring, the disproportionately hardy laughs at Daniel's shit jokes, the easy-to-conjure blush with the smallest compliment, it was clear. Daniel's been on the receiving end of puppy love many times. Usually it has been fans or girls from back home, but he knows what it's like to be admired, to be wanted.

Or so he thought. Max practically sprinted out of the shared suite, seemingly with no intention of spending a second longer than he had to around him. Which was...fine, Daniel assures himself. He still feels a twinge of something like disappointment. A lad's night in could've been fun, rare sightings of seeing Max stripped of team gear. Daniel wonders if Max sleeps in boxers or briefs as he pulls on his own loose sweatpants, brushes his teeth, and nearly puts in his night guard before the door slams open again.

"Daniel," Max says through heaving breaths. Daniel goes to open the bathroom door and finds it pushed shut again. "Don't come out."

"I'm straight, Max," Daniel attempts to joke. He tries to open the door again and feels it impossible to move. "Christ, Verstappen. What gives?"

"I'm not...you can't see me. I fucked up."

"Got an impulse tattoo? Bad haircut? Ill-placed hickey? Trust me, Max. I've done it all. You can't surprise me."

"They won't go back in. I did it too sloppy, people were coming...so just...stay there, please. I'll fix this."

Daniel raises in hands in surrender as if Max could see him through the flimsy door. "Not making a lick of sense, but okay. Put whatever it is away, then." Daniel wants to make a jab at anal beads to get a laugh out of him, but Max sounds scared. It makes Daniel ache. He hears his teammate bump around the hotel room, a bag unzip, rustle of plastic, a soft swear. Daniel holds his breath and then hears a sharp gasp of what sounds like pain.

"Max," he says, pushing the door open reflexively. Max, kneeling over a bright red bloodstain in the carpet, looks up at him. Daniel sees two sharp fangs over Max's full, parted lips.

Daniel freezes. They both stare in wordless shock. Max doesn't blink. He doesn't seem to breathe. He's turned into a statue of a young racer with impossible fangs like a-

"Vampire," Daniel says quietly. "Are they...are those real, Max? The blood."

Max is up at him, holding his shoulders in a flash. Daniel didn't even see him get up and move, it was so impossibly quick.

"Don't tell anyone."

"Yeah, bud. I really was going to go into the media pen tomorrow saying I saw you sucking off a blood bag before bed. Christ, Max." Daniel looks back at the busted plastic IV pouch on the floor. "Please tell me they're fake and that's cranberry juice and you have some weird vampire kink so I can make sense of this."

"They're real. It's blood. I'm sorry."

Daniel looks straight into Max's too-blue eyes. He's tearing up. Max looks off as a tear slips down his sharp cheekbones, and Daniel feels wracked with a horrible guilt.

"Aw, hey. Max, man. Don't...I'm sorry." He pats Max's shoulders. "We all have uh...baggage, y'know? Or, sorry. Not baggage. Maybe being a vampire is fun? Or just like being allergic to peanuts? Because, let me tell you, that also sucks. Uh. Not literally sucks, like...is that what you do? Do you suck? I mean. Oh, I'm fucking this up, I'm-"

Max's hands are quickly on Daniel's back, holding him flush to his chest. Daniel freezes as Max starts to breathe in deeply at the crook of his neck.

"I normally feed once a week, alone," Max says softly into his skin. Daniel sucks in a breath, feeling his skin heat with a blooming desire. "But you're here. I couldn't feed in here with you. So I...I tried...with a guy at a club who wanted it, but..." Max pauses to lick along Daniel's neck. Daniel, instantly, is hard. He swallows, making Max keen. "Fuck, I was careless, too quick. People nearly saw me, so I ran and I couldn't finish right. They can't go back in until I get enough...blood."

"You nearly sucked a guy off at a club?"

"Not through oral, Daniel. Through here." Max kisses on Daniel's fluttering neck. He feels a mix of fear and frenzy, like he's melting into Max's arms despite his best efforts to keep it together. "That's how we feed, we...entice. It's fucked up. I'm fucked up."

And he leaves his arms. Daniel shivers in his spot, falling to sit on the bed as Max paces around in front of the hotel window. The skyline glitters behind him, a modern backdrop for an impossible man.

"Vampires aren't real," Daniel says, hands over his neck, feeling the pulse and heat and wetness left from Max's tongue. He shouldn't want more but every ounce of normalcy is out the same window. He wants more. He wants Max. Desperately, despite himself. "You said you entice?"

"Vampires can compel. We can feel who's open to it, and then we," Max pauses, making frustrated circles with his hands in the air.

"You kill them?"

"No, fuck. No, we don't kill people. Not unless you don't stop."

"Then...you turn them into vampires?"

"Also no, they'd have to drink from me, too. Not happening."

"Oh, well, that's not too bad then? Just a little blood?" Max stares at Daniel, blank and stone-like again. "Like, Max. If that's all it is, that's not a big deal. I thought you were going on a light killing spree, but you can have some blood. If you need it."

Max remains motionless.

"Unless my blood is shitty."

"Your blood smells amazing, Daniel."

"Then, uh, go to town, Max." Daniel wants to get up but he realizes his grey sweatpants would immediately reveal his surprise boner. He squirms. "Ignore the moans, though. They're super manly and super normal, but when you touched me it felt really good."

"That's part of it. You may come."

"Max," Daniel says in shock. He's used to dishing ribald remarks, hardly taking it as Max walks over with that inhuman speed and sits on his lap. "Max."

"If you don't want this, I can go."

"And risk you getting spotted in vamp mode and making me spend longer talking to the press tomorrow about my monster teammate? No dice. Just do it." Daniel doesn't even have to try to make Max swoon. Quite the opposite. His own need feels overcharged, electric, unwieldy. He needs a wordless, formless craving for more. He looks up to the younger man and means it when he says, "please."

"Oh, Daniel."

Max sinks his teeth into Daniel's neck.

Daniel's done plenty of drugs in his younger years, absconding with illicit substances in Perth summers and free-wheeling Monaco ragers in the off-season. Those were nothing. Pale and lifeless against the rush he feels now in Max's grip. He had expected getting his neck bit would be painful. It's not.

He keens, hips bucking up into Max's. Max's large hands grip into Daniel's bare back as Daniel squirms and groans despite his best intentions to hold steady. He's always the giver. Always on top. Always making girls do this under him, not like this. Not with a guy. Not with Max.

He's pliant as Max hoists him up and back onto the bed, flipping so Daniel's poised on top. Max keeps one hand on the back of Daniel's head, fingers lacing through rings of curls. The other grips on his waist, encouraging him as Daniel ruts into his thigh.

"Max," Daniel breaths as he feels a dulled sensation of sucking and the much wilder rush of his length against Max's firm leg below him. "Max."

He groans as Max sucks harder. Daniel feels his cheeks burn and a sweat breakout between his shoulder blades and drip off his forehead. His hands cling to Max's back as he works his hips down, pleasure hitting him in hard, wonderful waves as Max's presence sucks up all thought, all feeling until Daniel is snapping his hips into Max with a blissed out, thoughtless heat. It's hot and building and too fast and not enough. Daniel strains and breaks in a trembling cry as the end finally hits and he comes hard in his pants, tears pouring and the distinct feeling of wetness leaking from his neck. Max licks the tracks of blood away and then sucks with finality over the painless wound.

Daniel can't see it. He can't see anything but stars and Max's chest as he falls into him. Max's breath is tinted with gasps, his voice ragged as he speaks.

"Are you okay? Daniel?"

"Yeah, yeah. Very okay."

"We need to get you water. I think I took too much. Daniel."

He's asleep before he hears anymore than that.

Daniel wakes up to the smell of eggs. He pops up on his elbows and looks around. Max sits on the edge of the bed, untouched room service breakfast sits further on the hotel desk. The Dutchman turns over his shoulder and sighs when he sees him.

"I, um, ordered food."

So delightfully awkward. Daniel smiles, relieved. It's still Max.

"Only fair since I was the room service last night."

"Daniel. I'm-,"

"If you say 'sorry' I'm tossing that omlette at you." Daniel gets up. Max hands him a much appreciated glass of water.

"I know I took too much," Max says as he drinks the entire cup. "Of your...blood."

"So taking a normal amount wouldn't make me come like a fucking horny virgin or is that par for the course?"

"That part is normal."

Daniel laughs. "Excellent. I usually last way longer, too, just for the record. Don't go telling other hot creatures of the night I'm some two-suck chump, if vamps compare notes."

"No. I'd never tell."

"And your secret's safe with me, too."

Daniel didn't realize Max's shoulders were held tense until he drops them with a shuddering sigh.

"Thank you."

"And just ask next time."

"Ask? To use you again?"

The thought of Max doing that with some random guy in a random club makes Daniel irrationally pissed. "Yeah. I can, uh, help. As teammates. It's probably easier for you, right? So you can do it again, if you want."

He was certain, based on that wide-eyed quintessential stare and now much deeper flush that Max did want it. He maybe always had wanted it. Daniel just didn't understand why he wanted it, too. A question for later as he wonders if Max is blushing with his own blood.

"I'd like that a lot, Daniel."

"And if you can turn into a bat, you gotta let me watch."

Max laughs. Daniel feels relieved, as he always does when he can pop Max's nerves into a relieving rush of giggles. "No, no. No bats. I can fly without being a bat."

"Now you're just bragging. Next you can tell me you can read minds."

"No, you are too obvious, I don't need to read minds."

"Me the obvious one?"

"You are very easy to understand, Daniel."

"Like how?"

"You like to stare at me, especially when I stare at you."

Daniel, now flushed himself, chucks a pillow at Max's head. The young man laughs as Daniel glances at his teammate's now evenly straight teeth, picturing the fangs from last night, thinking of all that came after.

"Just staring since I'm trying to see if you ever actually blink, you weirdo."

"I don't have to blink. I have to remind myself to do it."

"Okay, then remind yourself to also not compliment someone's sweat smell. Or stare at their jugular. How's this, I'll teach you how to be more human in exchange for super lowkey orgasms between bros, kapeesh?"

Max laughs again, earnest and fangless for now. "It's a deal, Daniel."

It's something. It's weird, but it's them. Daniel and Max shake on it, and Daniel feels the urge to pull him in and hold him tight despite himself. Later, he thinks. After media day, if Max needs it. Daniel silently hopes he will, that he'll need him over and over like that again and again for as long as they are teammates. As long as they are together.

[fandomlit]

something like falling (anthony padilla x reader)

requested by anon "omg! your ‘everyone’s a suspect’ smosh fic was soooo cute!! i was def side-eyeing ian but i loved who it ended up being 🥰 would you consider a pt 2 about how the info spreads or even a prequel to how the relationship began? tysm for reading, have a great day! 💞"

summary anthony finds himself falling hard for you at first sight, but is scared to make you uncomfortable in the workplace. meanwhile, you're grappling with the dilemma of crushing on your new boss while being a newer smosh cast member. this is the prequel to this fic!

warnings drinking and alcohol, swearing

gif cred belongs to @femmmie

anthony was drawn to you the first time he saw you.

it was one of the first visits he had made to set as he and ian were discussing buying back smosh. they were supposed to have a meeting, but the schedule had somehow gotten behind and ian was still in a shoot when anthony arrived. anthony popped into set, greeting some familiar faces quietly, as he watched ian and a few of the cast wrap up a gameshow-style video.

"now, this is a y/n tweet from 2016," ian announced, turning toward the board.

anthony noted a woman grinning at the contestant stand on the very edge. she shrugged at the camera with a grin that anthony couldn't describe as anything other than beautiful. "that wasn't that long ago."

"that was almost ten years ago, but thank you, y/n." your jaw dropped as some of the crew laughed out. "y/n in 2016 you said, "changing all of my socials to ___ ___ ___ just for the attention"." all eyes turned to you as your brow furrowed.

"now.. this was 2016," you spoke, shaking your head. "i'm going with logic this time, if you couldn't tell."

"good move," damien nodded from next to you.

"this was a big year," ian contributed. "big things happening."

"yeah, vine died," courtney offered.

"harambe, too," you pointed out. you serious, casual way of saying it made courtney burst out into laughter, damien letting out a 'wow'. a smile started to break through, but you worked through it by continuing to speak. anthony found he couldn't look away from you as you verbally worked through some 2016 trends, dropping the serious facade to meld into something that seemed more comfortable for you—a more bubbly demeanor. he imagined that could only be your personality. he hoped he had the chance to find out.

"okay, yeah," you nodded, leaning forward on your stand. "i'm locking in with 'who is harambe'! seems safe."

"let's see if safe is enough-!" ian spoke, gesturing to the screen, where the blanks were filled. you immediately folded over on yourself with laughter as courtney gasped dramatically, damien letting out a surprised laugh. ""changing all of my socials to vine deserved it just for the attention"," ian read out. "that's brutal for its time."

"yeah, that was pretty meta, wasn't it?" you giggled once you straightened yourself, your face flushed with laughter.

"stop trying to use the word meta!" spencer demanded from offstage and you laughed again, leaning onto your stand. anthony found himself grinning as a lot of the crew laughed. "you're not using it right!"

"i will never stop," you assured determinedly, eyes bright as you grinned sweetly at a camera. anthony felt something tug lightly in his chest.

"alright, cut! let's break for lunch and then film the next round," emily announced. anthony watched as the cast onstage took off their mic packs before walking off together, ian shaking his head at you as he spoke. you just grinned, shrugging at him. anthony couldn't help his smile.

"hey! there he is!" ian greeted, opening his arms to wrap his friend in a hug. damien and courtney greeted him after the hug before anthony turned to you. "anthony, this is y/n, one of the newer additions to our cast."

you held out a hand to him with a sweet smile, "nice to meet you."

"you too, y/n," he spoke kindly as he met your eyes, lingering for a moment longer than necessary. he was just thinking of how he liked how your name rolled of his tongue when ian clapped his hands together, breaking the brief spell.

"so, let's get to this meeting, shall we?"

anthony had small interactions with you for a while after that, but every detail he learned, every conversation no matter how short, and every smile you gave him left him grinning and with that familiar tug in his chest; he was falling for you without even meaning it. but it was the party they threw for the official buying back of smosh that he couldn't ignore the feelings any longer.

he had stepped outside for a moment to get some fresh air. both the alcohol and the energy of the party had him in a high he had never felt before, but he feared he was going to suffocate if he didn't get a gulp of cold air. he took a deep breath, sighing loudly as his skin instantly cooled.

"yeah, that's fine, you can join me." anthony jumped, sloshing some of his drink onto his arm as his free hand gripped his heart. you were laughing at the other end of the balcony, out of view of the door.

"jesus, y/n," he huffed as you turned toward him, giggling. "i could've jumped right off this balcony."

"you've got the long legs for it," you considered. "but i don't think i was that scary."

he chuckled, tucking a hand into his pocket and stepping closer to you, leaning against the balcony next to you. "i don't think you could be scary if you tried."

you shrugged. "you're right." he chuckled. "i can't even argue." there was a moment where you both looked over the city lights, a cool breeze sweeping through the night.

"so what are you doing out here?" anthony asked, raising his cup to his lips. "everything alright?"

"oh, yeah," you nodded. "just started overheating in there with all the excitement.”

he nodded in understanding, smiling at the way the wind ruffled your hair and you embraced it with peacefully shut eyes. you were so effortlessly gorgeous. the alcohol in his system threatened to voice that thought. he redirected his mind by instead speaking, “what's your favorite fruit?"

the laugh you let out in your surprise was well worth the stupid question, and he couldn't help but grin at you. you turned your sparkling eyes to him as you gave your answer.

as he stood on the balcony chatting with you, anthony couldn’t help how the butterflies in his stomach when he usually spoke to you, tugging on his heart, suddenly multiplied. by trying to redirect his thoughts of you with conversation, he had instead succeeded in falling harder for you.

it just seemed to get worse for him from there.

your office interactions turned from waves and small talk to seeking each other out for conversation, appearing with each other's favorite drinks, waiting for each other to finish shoots before going to get food on slower days, and endless smiles and laughs shared.

what had been an innocent curiosity about the pretty new girl was now full blown falling for anthony; he was flirting without hinting too much, complimenting you just to see your reaction, touching you when it wasn't even necessary. he was in too deep and he knew it, and yet he couldn't stop. he didn't want to stop.

anthony had been half-locked in and half-zoning out as he started at the scheduling spreadsheet for the week when something pressed his arm. he looked down to see your fingers pressing a warm mug to forearm and blinked in surprise.

"you've been in that exact position staring for at least ten minutes," you giggled, drawing away from him to perch in the seat across from his desk. "or at least, as long as it takes for me to walk by, make us both a drink, and come back."

"i didn't even notice any of that," he chuckled, blinking out of his haze. "i think i need more caffeine." you pointed to the mug you had just set down and he sighed, bringing a hand up to rub his face. "how did i already forget that was there?" your bubbly giggle brought a smile to his face, however. "thank you."

"you're very welcome," you hummed, taking a sip of your own mug. "i've got to run to the games shoot soon, but i can stay and chat for a few if you don't mind."

"how could i say no to the girl who brought me coffee?" he smiled. you giggled again as anthony took a long sip of the warm drink. "holy shit, how did you know how i make my coffee?"

you shrugged nonchalantly, but your smile was proud as you said, "i observe my friends, anthony. i like to know what they like."

"you are so wonderful," he sighed, taking another long drink with a swelling heart. hearing your chuckle gracing his ears brought some memories to the front of his tired mind, and he spoke, "you know, i knew you were gonna be cool the day we met."

you laughed out in surprise. "what? really?"

"oh, yeah," he nodded. "it was when you, damien, and courtney were doing 'you posted that' and i walked in and caught some of it. i just saw you were funny and happy and.. it was just so natural." you smiled, a small blush tinting your cheeks. "and then later that day you struck up conversation by asking me my favorite dinosaur and i just knew you were cool."

"oh, god," you laughed again at the memory and he chuckled with you. "that's my go-to when getting to know someone. it's such a good ice breaker."

anthony gestured around you both to the where you were now. "obviously, it worked."

you let out a content sight, sinking lower in the chair. anthony looked at you fondly, or at least with a deep fondness in his heart as you grinned at him, "always does."

again, anthony knew he was in deep.

and he knew he was your boss, and that would cause a mess. he would hate that, in a world where you reciprocated his feelings, if it didn't work and you two didn't last, you'd still be working at his company. and no matter what happened, he didn't want to put you in a difficult spot like that. so, he stuck to lunches and desk conversations and shitty shared memes. any way to show you he was thinking about you even when he shouldn't have been.

and then the perfect storm gathered at a work party at ian's.

you were starting to feel like you were sick in the head. the frequency in which you thought of anthony should've been some kind of crime, or workplace violation, or something of the sort. you were bursting at the seams with it, it felt, and you hated that you had fallen so hard for your boss in only a year of knowing him. it was painful and wonderful all at once to feel so attached to someone you felt you couldn't have.

when you had a few drinks in you at ian's, you couldn't stop looking over at anthony. the way he smiled, gave everyone he was talking to his undivided attention, and played any game ian dragged him into--it all had you swooning. you felt like you were going to explode with all of your thoughts.

you had no clue that anthony was going through something similar on his side of the party. it felt like everything was coming to the forefront of his mind, the perfect storm brewing.

“you doing alright?” you looked back to see anthony stepping out onto the balcony, too. you were on the dizzy cusp of tipsy and drunk, and you needed to feel some coolness on your skin before it got to be too overwhelming. your heart involuntarily skipped a beat at the sight of anthony smiling at you in the moonlight.

“yeah,” you smiled as you turned toward him, leaning your elbows against the railing. “just needed some air. the dirty shirleys started getting to me.”

"i see," he nodded. "those things are dangerous."

"they are," you sighed, tilting your head back to look up at the night sky. you were far enough from the bright city lights that you could just barely see some stars. you were blissfully unaware of how anthony smiled at the sight. "but angela was pouring them, and i've never been known to say no to her. plus she looks really pretty tonight. it was my own personal recipe for disaster."

“you know, you’re a very sweet drunk,” he smiled, coming to stand in front of you. your meddled mind only wanted him to stand closer to you.

“thank you,” you hummed instead of voicing those thoughts. "i like to think i'm sweet all the time, though."

anthony chuckled, raising his cup to his lips. he spoke with such sincerity that it felt like he stabbed your heart when he said, "you are."

you smiled at him for a moment, letting the compliment ring in the night before you broke, “you don’t look drunk at all.”

he shrugged, looking out into the distance. “it’s good that i don’t look it.” you chuckled and he smiled down at you, taking another step toward you. “but i’m definitely feeling it. not like, a lot, but i’m feeling it.”

you sighed, breathing out, “me too.” when you looked at anthony he was still smiling at you, seemingly way closer than he was before to your drunk mind. "but i definitely look it."

anthony shrugged again. "i don't think so." he inched closer.

you looked at him, heart speeding up as you hoped he was thinking what you were. "no?" even closer.

“no," he spoke, his voice barely above a whisper. "i think you just look beautiful." before your drunk mind could even process it, anthony leaned the final inch forward to press his lips softly to yours. it was like lightning in both of your veins, the perfect storm striking true. you reciprocated instantly, taking one arm off the balcony to cup his face. he was gentle despite the courage scorching through him, taking his sweet time with slow kisses, dropping his cup to tangle a hand in your hair and settle the other on your waist. the feeling of your lips on his, the snap of tension he always felt in his heart around you, was more of a relief than the cool air.

he pulled away from you for a second just to look at you, taking in the sight of your parted lips and bright eyes gazing at him from so close. there were a thousand emotions swirling in your gaze, and he was sure his was the same, and he was about to lean in for another kiss when the door to the balcony creaked open. a very drunk ian stumbled out, tripping over himself just enough that when you two sprung apart, he had just barely looked up.

"anthony, you have- oh hey, y/n!- you have to come inside. we have to sing karaoke."

anthony laughed, trying to snap himself out of the stupor the kiss had just put him in in an effort to look normal. he pressed the back of his hand to his lips, as if he could physically feel the tingling that was spreading through his whole body.

and with one final glance back at you, anthony returned inside, leaving you staring at his spilled drink.

at work on monday, you looked up when you heard a knock on the kitchen door. anthony was standing there, leaned against the doorframe as he looked at you with a smile.

you giggled, face flushing instantly at the memories that had been searing in your brain since saturday night, "come in?"

"can we talk for a moment?" he asked casually. you nodded and he closed the kitchen door before walking toward you. your heart hammered with every step he took--you knew this had been coming. tried your best to prepare for it. but you still weren't ready for what had to be done. "i, uh, just wanted to talk about saturday."

you nodded with a gulp. "right, yeah." he nodded, too, and looked down for a moment as he seemed to be gathering the words. you steeled your heart, something you weren't at all used to doing, before taking a breath and speaking, "we can just let it go. it's alright with me."

anthony looked up at you with a furrowed brow. "what?"

you swallowed, placing your mug on the counter as you spoke, "i know it doesn't look great for the boss and a girl who hasn't even been here two years to.. i don't know, do or be anything other than friends or coworkers, so i'm alright with just.. forgetting what happened on saturday." anthony was still looking at you, seemingly at a loss for words. your hammering heart urged you to fill the silence, so you spoke words that you absolutely didn't resonate with, "it shouldn't happen again."

anthony, in a last ditch effort to be completely transparent even though his heart was hammering with ache, spoke, "i was actually going to say that it should." you blinked in surprise. "i don't regret what happened at all, besides getting interrupted. and maybe the alcohol involved, but i was in my right mind. but if that's how you feel, i'll let it go. i would hate to make you uncomfortable." you stood there in stunned silence for a moment, and anthony took that for discomfort. he nodded, not quite looking at you, before turning to walk away.

until he felt a hand grab his arm. though your touch was light, it instantly stopped him in his tracks to turn to you.

"i didn't mean that," you spoke, eyes sparkling in a way that was similar to the other night, minus the starlight. "i just said it because i thought it's what you were going to say, and i thought i would've looked dumb if i was just some girl telling her boss that she really wanted to kiss him again."

and it was like the ache had never been in his heart at all.

"let me take you to dinner tonight," anthony said softly, eyeing as a few people walked by the kitchen, but didn't enter. he smiled down at you, closer than he probably should've been to you in a semi-public space. "please."

you smiled back at him. "i would love that."

the tug in his heart that he always felt around you was back, but in a more excited way than usual. he looked around, making sure no one was wandering nearby, before pressing a kiss to your lips and grinning at you when you gave him a look of shock, looking around to be sure that no one spied you two.

"sorry," he chuckled as you blushed. "i've just been wanting to kiss you sober."

you let out a quiet surprised chuckle, running a hand through your hair. "well, if you play your cards right, you'll get plenty more of those."

anthony grinned as he backed toward the door. "i'll see you tonight, y/n."

your grin matched as you hummed, "don't be late, anthony."

it was about two months later when you finally slapped the paperwork down on ian's desk. he let out a heavy sigh, as if some great weight was taken off of his chest.

"jesus, he's been saying he's going to ask you for weeks," ian huffed, leaning back in his chair as you grinned. "i was worried you said no or he fucked it up."

you giggled, "no. he just took his sweet time, i guess."

"i'll sign it all and file it before the end of the day," he said, offering you a smile. "but who's going to tell all the cast members crushing on sweet ol' y/n?"

you shook your head and rolled your eyes at him. "as if there's a line." ian furrowed his brow at you.

"do you seriously not know?"

now it was your turn to furrow your brow. "know what?"

she seriously doesn't know this whole office is crushing on her?! ian thought to himself, almost letting his jaw drop. but he decided against it. "nothing." he shook his head. you just shrugged innocently. "just be nice to him, please. i love him."

you leaned over ian's desk, placing a hand atop the papers. "here's a little secret for you.." you cupped a hand around your mouth as you whispered, "i do too."

"if i had the energy, i'd do a victory dance," ian assured you as you leaned back with a blushing smile. "but i have to record TNTL in an hour, and i'm saving up. but i'll do it afterwards. check your phone around 4." you laughed out and ian smiled at you again, speaking sincerely, "i'm very happy for you, y/n."

"me too," you winked, backing toward the door of his office. "and i know you know this from talking to anthony, but you're the only one trusted with this secret right now, ian. we're not quite ready to go boasting about the office."

he held his hands up innocently. "absolutely. it's your business--i'm just the paperwork keeper slash best friend."

"thank you, ian. i'll catch you later?"

ian nodded. "we have to start planning our prank for bit city," he reminded you. "we'll start the meetings soon."

"works for me," you grinned. "see ya!" and you walked out, holding the door for a smiling angela.

"thanks, gorgeous," she cooed at you, entering ian's office. "what's up ian? you said you had an idea for the try not to laugh?" ian watched as angela's eyes flitted around his office before landing on the paperwork right in front of him and widening in the slightest.

shit, ian thought to himself, choosing to ignore the obvious papers instead of draw any more attention to it. after pitching his idea to her and her laughing out her agreement before leaving his office, he assured himself, it'll be fine. angela's not a gossip..

here's the og fic if anyone missed it! everyone's a suspect (surprise!smosh x reader)

[ikwon1c]

Dye Me Down

characters: kwon jiyong x y/n

a bit mid but i miss joker ji so bad

summary: what starts as a playful idea to bring back jiyong’s iconic 2016 green hair quickly turns into a chaotic, steamy mess on the bathroom counter.

tags: 18+, smut, fluff, humor, sensual chaos, established relationship, playful/domestic kink, dirty talk, emotional intimacy

2012-2016 jiyong could ruin my life and I’d still thank him 😣

—

The afternoon was slow and sweet, like thick honey poured over warm skin. Jiyong and I were splayed across the bed, wrapped up in the kind of silence that only came with real comfort. No music, no distractions, just the lazy warmth of a Sunday sun and our bare legs tangled together.

His hand rested lightly on my thigh, fingers moving in soft patterns while his phone hovered inches above his face. Every so often, he’d show me something — a meme, a fan edit, a flashback clip from one of his old concerts.

I rolled closer, propping myself on my elbow. My eyes lingered on his bare face, his slightly grown-out black hair, soft and unruly from our nap.

Why do I feel like you’re plotting something?” he asked lazily, eyes not leaving the screen.

I grinned, propping my chin on his shoulder. “Because I am.”

“Mmm.” He didn’t sound surprised. “Do I need to run?”

“No,” I said sweetly. “But you might need a towel.”

That got his attention. He turned his head to look at me with one perfectly sculpted brow arched. “Y/N.”

“Ji.”

“What are you planning?”

“I want to dye your hair.”

“You know what I miss?” I said, tracing my nail down his chest.

“Hm?”

“2016 Ji.”

He side-eyed me. “Babe.”

I grinned. “The green hair. The wild stage fits. The look in your eyes like you were about to seduce the entire stadium just by standing still.”

“I did seduce them,” he said flatly, but his mouth twitched into a smirk.

I dragged my hand up into his hair, combing through the black strands. “But this… this version of you? Needs a refresh.”

“Oh?” He arched a brow. “Are you saying I’m washed?”

“Never. I’m saying I wanna dye your hair green again.”

“Right now?”

“Yes.”

“You’re insane.”

“Obviously.” I straddled his waist and kissed the tip of his nose. “But you love it.”

He groaned as my weight settled on him. “Why do I feel like you’ve planned this?”

“Because I have,” I said sweetly. “I bought the dye last week. It’s in the bathroom cabinet. Right next to your favorite cologne, which I may or may not have sprayed on my pillow.”

He blinked. “You’re dangerous.”

“I’m inspired.”

A beat passed.

He cupped the back of my neck, eyes fixed on mine. “You really want Joker Ji back?”

“Desperately.”

“Right now?”

I leaned down, lips brushing his jaw. “Unless you’re scared.”

He smirked, hands finding their way to my thighs. “You know I’m not. But this better end with you naked.”

“Oh, it will,” I purred. “Eventually.”

Fifteen minutes later, I was perched on the bathroom countertop wearing only his oversized t-shirt, and he sat between my thighs on the closed toilet lid, towel wrapped around his shoulders, smirking like he was two seconds from corrupting me completely.

I dipped the brush into the dye and stroked it onto the first section. The bright green started soaking into his dark hair, and I couldn’t stop giggling.

“Babe…”

“Hmm?”

“This might stain your scalp.”

“Then I’ll just tell everyone my girlfriend did it while she was straddling me in the bathroom,” he said, resting his hands on my hips.

“You’re not wrong.”

I kept working through the sections, methodical and careful—but Jiyong was anything but patient. His fingers kept wandering. First, just resting on my hips. Then brushing beneath the hem of the shirt. Then gliding higher.

“Ji,” I warned, trying not to laugh. “I swear to God if you make me mess this up—”

“Come on, Aein,” he said lowly. “You’re between my legs, hovering above me, biting your lip, looking like a damn fantasy while smearing neon green into my hair.”

I paused, my thighs tightening around him involuntarily.

He grinned. “Tell me you’re not turned on right now.”

“Okay,” I said breathlessly. “I won’t tell you.”

He chuckled, and I felt his hands curl around my thighs, pulling me closer. I squeaked as I landed fully on his lap, the brush still in my hand.

“Ji, I still have half your head to go—”

“Finish it,” he said, voice husky. “Then I’ll ruin you.”

My stomach flipped. My whole body buzzed. God, this man.

Somehow, I made it through the rest of the application, hands shaking slightly, heart pounding. When I was done, I set the brush down and peeled off the gloves with a snap.

“There,” I said. “Processing time is twenty minutes.”

“Perfect.”

I didn’t even have time to blink before he surged up, gripping my ass and lifting me onto the countertop with a thud. The edge of the cold marble hit the backs of my thighs, and I gasped.

“Ji—”

His mouth was on mine before I could finish.

The kiss was messy, urgent, tasting like toothpaste and mischief. His hands slid under the shirt, fingers splaying over my bare skin. I wasn’t wearing anything underneath—thank God.

“You planned this,” he groaned against my neck, nipping at the skin.

“Maybe,” I whispered, tilting my head to give him more access.

“You little devil.”

I laughed, breath hitching as his tongue traced along my collarbone. “You’re the one with green hair and a hard-on.”

“I’m hard because of you, not the hair dye,” he growled, yanking the shirt over my head in one swift move.

I was completely bare now, legs spread on the countertop, his head between my thighs, hair freshly dyed and wild.

He looked up at me with that glint in his eyes—the one that made my whole body ache. “Look at you, Aein. Already wet.”

“Shut up and do something about it.”

He didn’t need to be told twice.

His mouth was on me in seconds, tongue dragging slow, devastating strokes that made me moan and clutch his hair—green dye be damned.

“Fuck, Ji—“

He groaned into me, the vibration making my back arch. “Say my name again.”

“Jiyong…”

His grip on my thighs tightened. He devoured me like he hadn’t eaten in days, pulling wave after wave of pleasure from my body until I was shaking, thighs clenching around his head, nails digging into his scalp.

When he finally stood up, his lips were slick, chin glistening, and his eyes were dark with heat.

“You look like you’re cosplaying Shrek,” I giggled, brushing the green dye through his roots.

“And you look like a naked housewife with a fetish,” he fired back.

“Housewife?” I snorted. “I’d be the most unqualified—”

“You’d be perfect,” he cut in, more serious than I expected. “If I met you earlier, like during that era… I probably would’ve married you already. Had kids by now.”

I froze.

He looked up, soft and sincere. “Swear to God, Aein. I would’ve changed everything if I knew you then.”

“Ji…” My heart fluttered in a million different ways. “You can’t just say things like that while I’m holding toxic chemicals over your head.”

He laughed, tilting his head back. “You’d be such a good mom. You’re already good at babying me.”

I started laughing, shaking my head. “You’re unbelievable—”

Then, just as I exhaled mid-giggle, he surged upward and thrust his hips against the counter, bumping me in exactly the right spot.

I choked.

“Ji!” I gasped, nearly flinging the dye bowl across the sink.

He grinned, completely unapologetic. “Sorry. Did I interrupt your laugh?”

“You timed that on purpose.”

“Oh, I absolutely did.”

My thighs clenched. “You menace.”

“I’m your menace.” He grinned at me, his fingers creeping up the bare skin of my thighs.

“You’re playing a dangerous game,” I murmured.

He cocked an eyebrow up, with mischief on his eyes. “Still not done with you yet.” His kiss was greedy — open-mouthed and wet, his tongue sliding against mine like he wanted to crawl inside me. He grabbed the back of my neck, deepening it, devouring me.

I gasped against his mouth as his hands slid under my shirt, palming my breasts with a hunger that sent my pulse skyrocketing.

“God, you’re perfect.”

I tugged at the towel around his shoulders and tossed it to the floor. He yanked the shirt over my head and tossed that too and now I was bare, legs spread on the cold marble, and he was standing between them with dye in his hair and sin in his eyes.

“Still so wet,” he said, dragging a finger between my folds. “You like making me look crazy, huh?”

I let out a shaky breath. “You look hot. You’ve always looked hot.”

He dipped his finger inside me and pulled it out slow. “Then say it.”

“You’re so fucking hot, Ji,” I moaned. “Especially when you’re rough.”

His pupils dilated. “Say my name again.”

“Ji…” I whispered, clinging to him.

He leaned forward, mouth at my ear. “Aein, if you keep saying my name like that, I’m not going to last.”

“Then ruin me now and be gentle later,” I said, pulling his waistband down.

He was already hard, thick and flushed, heavy in my hand. I stroked him once, and he hissed, head dropping to my shoulder.

Without another word, he lined himself up and pushed in slowly, inch by inch, until I was stretched wide and gasping, already dizzy from the feeling of being filled so completely.

He held still for a moment, forehead resting against mine.

“Fuck,” he breathed. “You always take me so well.”

“Move,” I whispered, nails digging into his arms.

The first thrust knocked the air out of my lungs. He was deep, hot, pulsing, and I clung to him like he was the only thing keeping me grounded.

The countertop rocked slightly with each movement, and the mirror behind us fogged with heat. He set a relentless pace, each thrust deeper than the last, hitting every spot just right.

“God, Aein, you feel so fucking good—”

I moaned loudly, hands clutching his shoulders, nails scraping his skin. “Ji… faster, please—”

He growled low in his throat, driving into me harder, the sound of skin on skin echoing in the bathroom.

The rhythm started slow — long, deep strokes that had me seeing stars. Every thrust sent shockwaves through me, making the mirror behind fog up with our heat.

My fingers tangled in his hair, gripping tightly. “The green looks so good on you,” I moaned.

He smirked mid-thrust. He slammed into me hard enough to knock the breath from my lungs.

“I’d have two kids with you by now if I met you in 2016,” he growled, voice ragged.

“You’re insane—oh fuck—Ji, don’t stop—”

“You’d be glowing, barefoot, cooking rice in my shirt while pregnant with our second.”

I was laughing again, breathless and wild, when he gave a particularly brutal thrust that knocked the sound straight out of me.

“Still think I’m kidding?”

“Ji, holy fuck—”

My back arched, heels digging into his lower back. He wrapped his arms around me and lifted me slightly, changing the angle. The new position made me scream.

“Come for me, Aein,” he whispered against my neck. “I want to feel you fall apart.”

“Ji—I’m—”

My body clenched around him in waves, my vision going white, my hands clawing at his shoulders. He cursed in Korean, hips stuttering, and then he was coming too, deep inside me, hot and thick and shaking with it.

We stayed like that — tangled, panting, trembling. His face buried in my neck. My legs still locked around him.

Eventually, he kissed my shoulder, then my jaw, then my lips.

“That was the hottest dye job of my life,” he murmured.

I giggled weakly. “You’re never going to a salon again.”

He pulled back just enough to look at me and burst out laughing.

I blinked. “What?”

“You got dye on your nose.”

I gasped. “You got dye on my everything!”

We both laughed, dizzy and high on each other, the air still thick with steam and sex.

He kissed my cheek, then my lips, then my nose—dye stain and all.

“Guess I’m your canvas now,” he murmured.

I grinned, breathless and blissed out. “You’re the hottest art project I’ve ever touched.”

—

Thirty minutes later, with green dye rinsed and his hair dripping wet, he came out of the bathroom shirtless in a towel, water still clinging to his collarbones.

I was curled up in bed, utterly ruined.

He crawled in beside me, propping himself on his elbow.

“Still thinking about 2016?” he asked, brushing hair from my face.

I smiled, eyes heavy. “I think I like 2025 better.”

He leaned in and kissed my nose. “You sure?”

“You’re green, naked, and just made me scream loud enough to alert the neighbors.”

“So… that’s a yes.”

“It’s a hell yes.”

He smiled against my skin.

“Okay, maybe next time—purple.”

mom, i love him so much 💔

[aizshallnotbefound]

missing you

You want jiyong back too— but you couldn’t be more discreet about it

Jiyong’s pov | ft. @makeitworse. Contains: 2ne1!reader x gdragon. Social media au collab, y/n's pov

a/n: collab post with @makeitworse ! congratulation on hitting 300 followers hon <3

r/kpopcelebgossip user: So idk if any of yall have noticed but remember during like 2015-2016 (basically MADE era) y/n and g dragon were like in a speculated relationship right? It was so obvious because of their on stage chemistry , behind the scenes etc etc and i was just stalking gd’s page (peaceminusone) and i was js simply scrolling and i saw literally no pics of them together back when gd posted alot. And i checked his other accounts too and literally no pics of y/n. I checked y/n’s page as well and NO pics at all of them everything is Wiped. No official statement yet but y’all… Do we think it’s over?? Top Comments: user: NONONO IT CANT BE SAY SIKE RN user: I CHECKED THEIR PAGE TOO- the two unliked all of their posts

user: i checked y/n’s spam acc too, literally no pics of jiyong, she literally unliked all posts about gd from all of her accounts. user: they were THE it couple of the k-pop industry no way they ended things like this. I genuinely thought they would get married 😭 user: when is g-dragons ver of eyes nose and lips gonna drop || user: this better be like tae and min hyorin’s breakup where they get back together or im gonna jump user: This is worse than when my parents divorced 😩 user: this better be a PR stunt- MY PARENTS CANT GET DIVORCED LIKE THIS  dispatch.co.kr [EXCLUSIVE] “Something’s Off?”… Idol G-DRAGON and Idol Y/N Allegedly Call It Quits After Fans Spot Deleted Photos and Unfollows  K-pop fans are speculating about a possible breakup between top idols G-dragon and Y/n, after a series of sudden changes on their social media accounts—raising eyebrows over an alleged romantic relationship that was never officially confirmed since 2015.

According to Dispatch’s exclusive monitoring, the two stars quietly unliked each other’s recent and old Instagram posts, and deleted several photos in which they appeared together. Though their agencies have never acknowledged any relationship, fans have long suspected that the two were more than just “industry friends.” 👀 The Evidence? Gone.

Fans first noticed something strange earlier this week when Y/n’s Instagram feed no longer included a carousel photo posted in September 2016 featuring G-dragon backstage at a music show. Within hours, G-dragon also deleted some story highlight’s of Y/N with her kpop group 2NE1.

Furthermore, the pair no longer engage with each other’s posts, despite previously dropping frequent likes and subtle emojis. The once-public digital trail has gone cold. Were They Ever Dating?

Neither party has ever commented on dating rumors, though they were spotted several times wearing what fans described as “matching couple items,” including rings and other accessories. The two was seen many times in events, cruises etc. the two idols was also seen attending eachothers concerts at times secretly. y/n’s car was seen multiple times near his penthouse as well. Their on stage chemistry was fan loved and fueled more to the dating speculations

While some claimed it was just friendship, others believed there was “something more.” than just colleagues or friends 🔕 No Comment from Agencies

When contacted, both agencies declined to comment, stating, “We do not respond to speculation regarding artists’ private lives.” 🌀 Fans React

Online forums are buzzing with mixed reactions—some expressing disappointment, others still questioning if the relationship ever existed in the first place.

“If they weren’t together, why delete the photos now?” “Even their friends used to tease them in live streams… something definitely happened.”

Whether it was a quiet romance or a close friendship that soured, one thing’s clear: something has changed—and fans noticed.

📷 Dispatch will continue to monitor developments.Whether it was love, friendship, or just rumors, we wish both artists the best as they move forward.

r/kpopcelebgossip [DISCUSSION] Y/n is deleting and blocking fans who mention  g-dragon or the alleged breakup — seems like lowkey confirmation? 👀 Posted by User - 2 hours ago Kpop fans going crazy rn because of g-dragon and y/n alleged break up but yall my sister went to her recent post and commented about it AND SHE WAS BLOCKED??? Apparently she is taking down comments about her and gd Like… she’s NEVER done this before?? She’s always been super chill about people commenting whatever—even when shipping rumors were flying before. But now if you even mention him, your comment disappears or you suddenly get restricted 🫠 saw at least 4 fans on Twitter and Insta stories saying they were:

-Soft blocked or removed from followers

-Had their comment about the “deletion/unfollow drama” removed-Got DM blocked after tagging her with “hope you’re okay” type comments

this lowkey feels like confirmation that something DID happen, right?

Top Comments: /user: At this point i wont be surprised if she turns off her comments for a while. Some of yall are really taking it too far with some comments. Privacy is a thing yk?

/user: SHE BLOCKED ME TOO- i put a g dragon gif and she blocked my ass 😭

/user: She was letting people ship her for months. This sudden wipeout screams breakup.

user: Still waiting for Dispatch to drop the “deleted story screenshots” like they always do lol.

/user: I feel bad for her. Must be hard dealing with this stuff publicly. The way fans dissect everything can’t help. Especially the way this would spread through korea gossip media channels

/user: her pr team going WILD with the block button. This is the most aggressive reaction she’s ever had on social. If they weren’t dating… why delete comments at all?

/user: If I ever get blocked by my bias for mentioning her “rumored ex,” I will cry and also make it my whole personality.

/user: She deleted every single reference to jiyong including that old comment under his birthday post. That was the silent nail in the coffin for me tbh.

[DISCUSSION] Idol Y/N A Spotted With Mystery Man Posted by u/kpop_gossip_queen · 27 July 2024 Some photos came out earlier this week of Y/n walking with a man in what looks like Tokyo. Nothing dramatic, just the two of them walking side by side. Not much pda, both masked up and dressed pretty casually. Still, people immediately started speculating — mainly because the guy looks a lot like G-dragon, her ex boyfriend 

If you’re not familiar with their history, they were rumored to be dating around 2015. Never confirmed, but it was kind of an open secret. It was too obvious. They had a lot of lowkey interactions online, subtle matching items, and fans noticed some behind-the-scenes stuff during overlapping schedules, Liking eachothers posts and alot of pics of eachother. Things seemed to be off in 2017, right when G-dragon started his motte tour. That was the point where people started suspecting they were having issues. She usually attends bigbang concerts and gd’s tours whenever she has the time. She’s always seen in the crowd secretly and sometimes backstage pics but during motte tour she was never seen in the crowd ever she barley reposted about it like she usually does with all her industry friends. People thought she was focusing on her solo career or the bigger opinion which was they were having issues. By 2018, it became pretty clear they were done. y/n unliked a bunch of old posts about them, deleted comments that referenced their relationship (or the breakup), and generally stopped engaging with anything related to him. No official statement, but fans took that as confirmation. This all happened a few months (suspected december , november) after he came back from military service. Which marks the start of their hiatus. So naturally, when these new photos dropped, a lot of people jumped to conclusions. But after comparing recent pics and doing some basic digging, it’s clearly not jiyong. Here’s why:

-jiyong was recently seen in seoul and where y/n is it looks alot like tokyo and after some digging it looks like a familiar cafe in tokyo .

-This guy doesn’t have the same tattoos.

-He’s slightly taller and has a different build.

-y/n and Gd haven’t interacted in years, so a random public link-up seems unlikely without any hints at least like they usually did back in the days. - She’s been laying low for a while. From 2020, y/n been really under the radar in her hiatus. She occasionally posts about her cats, art or fashion but she’s avoided any public drama or dating speculation. Her pr team still deletes comments about them till this day. If this was a reconnection with jiyong, it seems weird she’d risk being seen in public so casually after every thing she has done to avoid when it first started No info yet on who the guy actually is — could be a friend, someone she works with, or maybe she’s quietly seeing someone new (most likely). Hard to say. She’s been keeping a pretty low profile lately, especially on social media, so this kind of sighting stood out.Anyway, just putting this here since I’ve seen a lot of people assuming it’s jiyong. I personally think It’s not. But the timing’s interesting considering how quiet she’s been for the past year or so. Even jiyong.

So what do you guys think?

Top Comments: /user: yeah that man aint GD he doesnt have his fashion sense

/user: I thought it might be him at first but the tattoos thing convinced me otherwise. No way he’d get them removed, and that guy’s hands are almost completely clean.

/user: Kinda surprised people even thought it was him. He literally is in korea rn that same morning. Y’all think he’s teleporting?.

/user: To be fair, they were such a strong rumor couple in 2015–2016. I get why people are curious. But yeah, it’s been years, and she wiped all traces of him back in 2018. That wasn’t a soft breakup — that was a clean digital erase. Its been 5 years since then, hard to digest ik but cmon guys

/user: Lowkey hoping it is someone new, she deserves to be happy. And private. After how messy the fandoms were during her rumored relationship with jiyong, I wouldn’t blame her for keeping it quiet now bc of how it turned out a bit messy last time.

/user: No offense but people forget these idols have friends. Not every man near a female idol is a secret boyfriend or ex. Sometimes it’s literally just a person they know.

/user: The fact that people still link her to g dragon every time she breathes near a man is wild. They haven’t even followed each other in YEARS.

/user: I miss her energy from 2015–2016 but she seems like she’s in a more peaceful phase now. Let the girl walk through Tokyo with a guy in peace 😭

/user: People saying “he walks like Gd” like… be serious 😭 The dude has a completely different gait and posture. gd always walked like he was storming a runway. This guy looks like he’s going to buy tofu.

Liked by chaelincl , daraxxi & 1,880,242 others yournamexx ✓ - starting off from the 1st

View comments User -  my childhood is returning and i couldn't be more happier 

_minzy_mz - 🔥❤ 

user -  WAIT SHE’S COMING BACK TO THE GROUP??? Im so glad to witness this 

User - PLEASE COME TO EUROPE I BEG

User -  welcome back queen <3

User - if i was there i would have fainted

User - THE QUEENS HAVE RETURNEDDDDDDD User - the date july 2024 must be marked RN

User - LITERALLY witnessing history rn View 35k more comments

[GOSSIP] Y/n caught dancing to BIGBANG at MAMA 2024— reactions to questions about his new album ubermensch 

Posted by u/kpop_gossip_queen · 1 hour ago If you guys saw the recent MAMA awards, y/n had kind of came back from her long term hiatus and the camera slightly panned towards y/n’s table and she was seen vibing and dancing along to fantastic baby and bang bang with her table members like old times. Fans were used to seeing her get all excited when they performed, so this was nothing new. She was singing and dancing along to their song like before. It didn’t seem like she was doing it out of anything too deep, just that usual vibe where everyone’s hyping each other up and vibing to the performance like its a bigbang concert—something fans have seen her do before. But now... it’s making everyone question things. 👀 1: The awkward interview moments Things took a turn when a few interviewers asked her some awkward questions backstage about g-dragons new album. Yikes.

One interviewer asked, “So, g-dragons new album is dropping soon, any thoughts?” She literally just smiled awkwardly and said, “I’m here to enjoy the show, thank you,” before walking away like she didn’t hear the question. 💀

Another one asked, “Are you supporting his comeback?” She gave a forced smile and responded, “I’m just here for the performances tonight.” It was so clear she wasn’t feeling the topic. What does this mean?Fans are reading a lot into the way she dodged the interview questions, and it’s giving major “let me distance myself from this conversation” energy. While she was vibing to their song like nothing was wrong, her responses say otherwise.

Top Comments:

/user: She was vibing because that's just who she is—she always hypes her friends. But then the awkwardness in the interview is CLEARLY saying, “I’m over it, I’m moving on”

/user: Girl was vibing because of the history with her group and his, but she’s not here for the press bringing him up. She’s distancing herself hard.

/user: I think she’s just tired of all the constant questions about him. She’s been fangirling for ages, but now that things are different, she’s probably just wanting peace.

/user: Yeah, she’s always hyped Bigbang, but you can’t ignore the energy shift when she was interviewed. I feel like the breakup hit harder than we realize.

user: I highkey feel like she’s still trying to keep it friendly, but the press won’t let her breathe. I just wish they’d stop asking her about it. Its been 5 years since then

user: Honestly, I think the whole situation is a lot more complicated than we’re seeing. She was vibing because she’s not petty, but she doesn’t want to talk about him because it’s personal. Her face says it all. But she has no beef with bigbang

Liked by gossip_loverVIP , YG_familyupdates & 880,242 others yournamexx ✓ - amazing reunion week with an old friend 💗 28 february 2024 View comments User -  WHOAAA WHO’S THAT???

User - iv seen this guy in her old music vids before-

user - gd gonna pull up with a new thirst trap now User_lvssteve - /@user be careful hon she might block your ass

User - if this man ends up being that alleged bf back in 2024 gd gonna throw hands while bonamana plays in the bg

User -  so happy she is posting more now and with her old friends 

User - whats this cuties @?  User - IS THIS THE 2024 MYSTERY MAN User - i can smell someone's jealousy rn

View 35k more comments

Liked by daraxxi , YG_familyupdates & 1,880,242 others yournamexx ✓ - ☕🌹 View comments User -  she tryna imitate someones style huh 👀

User - its giving a certain diva (trying so hard not to be blocked again)

user - mr dragon gonna pull up with a new matching thirst trap now User_lvssteve - loving the outfit my queen 

User - i need her phone case- please make it official merch girly

User -  QUEEN IS POSTING MORE AGAIN YIPPIEE

User - one chance i beg you diva

User - ngl how could someone ever break up with her User - someone is resisting to tap the like button badly rn View 20k more comments

Liked by chaelincl , YG_familyupdates & 779,251 others yournamexx ✓ - 🫰🌹 View comments User - IS THAT DAISIES?!?!

User - AM I SEEING STUFF OR IS THIS A GD REFERENCE 

user - her tryna make it as discreet as possible aint working anymore User - GD REFERENCE GOING HARDDD

User - she KNOWS what she’s doing

User -  nail care routine drop when

userlvrtop - he is resisting to repost badly i can smell it

User - /@userlvrtop - i bet he’s losing his shit seeing this rn

View 15k more comments

Liked by gossiplvr18_8 , _minzy_mz & 1,818,251 others yournamexx ✓ - made this silly touch some grass View comments

User - DAISY REFERENCE IS GOING HARD

User - she’s making it obvious atp  

user -  her cat in this too huh User - you cannot tell me she doesnt have a daisy bong yet

User - cant wait for a certain someone to post a rose pic

User -  they definitely have spam accounts to stalk eachother

Userlvsss - gd is definitely fangirling seeing all this View 17k more comments

Liked by d_lable_official , _minzy_mz & 70,251 others yournamexx ✓ - thank you @zip___ds for having me ! 💗 6  March View comments User - ji definitely asked daesung to set them up

user -  ABOUT TIME SHE WAS ON ZIP User - daesung was RESISTING to ask about the one who shall not be named 

User - so happy she’s still so close with daesung after all these years <3 User -  need a friendship like theirs

View 25k more comments

Liked by chaelincl , xxxibgdrgn & 779,251 others yournamexx ✓ - guess who ★

View comments

User - one chance just ONE CHANCE

User - AM I HIGH OR DID G DRAGON LIKE THIS??? Boy you aint slick userlvrtop - need her in a way that would make me shameless

user - IM CRASHING OUT RN GD LIKED GD LIKEDDDDDD User - GD FUCKING LIKED HOLY FUCKING SHIT

User -  jiyong’s ovulating yall

User -  BODY SERVING TEAAAA View 15k more comments

Liked by chaelincl , xxxibgdrgn & 300,251 others blackjacks_ot5 - 2ne1 being unhinged core View comments User -  i love how most of these are js y/n being freaky

User -  gd liked… GD LIKEDDDDD User - gd really be going around liking everything related to y/n atp userlvrtop - did jiyong get flashbacks of her being freaky

user - g-dragons digital footprints goes hard User - i love just like how seunghyun kissed almost everyone from bigbang, y/n has kissed every member of 2ne1

User -  jiyong aint even tryna hide it atp

UsermarriedcL -  oh gd is down bad

Usergyrodropped - /@UsermarriedcL - he too bad for yn- okay il shut up

UsermarriedcL - /@Usergyrodropped i bet he was wished karina was y/n atp

[GOSSIP] Y/n avoiding all questions regarding g-dragons new album Posted by u/kpop_gossip_queen · 30 minutes ago

So after iconic 2nd gen groups are making their comeback g-dragon and y/n’s alleged relationship and break up also made a comeback its only fair as an otp shipper of theirs to dissect the recent drama thats been going on in their instagram

If anyone has seen y/n’s recent live on instagram after a longgg time since her hiatus she was just chilling and answering some questions from the live chat and ofc as expected many questions about gd , their break up etc etc.. here are the two transcript i heard her saying 1st - question: what do you think about gyro drop? - answer: “oh gyro drop? Like the ride? Its one of my favourites. To be honest when i first went on it i was nervous but the more i went on it was fun and it became my favourite ride like ever”

2nd - question: thoughts on ubermensch? - answer: “oh the nieztsche philosophy? yeah ive heard about it. Idk whats its exactly about though”

She’ dodging the questions left and right about him or literally anything related to him but soon after she has been seen on instagram liking one of gd’s post about his cats iye and princess zoa.

Everyones thoughts on this?

Top Comments:

/user: she is dodging anything related to him meanwhile jiyong being so obvious about them 😭 he needs his wife to come back home to the kids (their cats) /user: i just know his cats miss y/n too 😔🙏

/user: i bet he made a spam account and was just giggling and kicking his feet the entire live

/user: when gd posted a thirst trap with the song bonamana after she posted a pic with her guy bestie IS SENDING ME. never knew this man could act like that one desperate ex bf /user: he’s down bad for her again and she’s teasing the fuck out of him by ignoring all the thirst traps i just know it

/user: his hands are ITCHING to like and comment on her posts- i just know he has spam accounts to stalk her instagram and google if she’s currently single and shi 😭🙏

/user: IS THIS A SIGN THEY WOULD GET BACK TOGETHER???? MY PARENTS LETS GOOOOO

/user: he definitely asked taeyang’s help on how to get your ex gf back through songs

/user: gd gonna pull up with a new mv where y/n’s billboard picture in the bg while he sings his heart out on ibelongiiu

/user: i wonder if she got flashbacks on hearing gyro drop and ibelongiiu

/user: take me & ibelongiiu are definitely his ver of eyes nose lips

/user: after hearing gyro drop chorus we definitely know who's always on top and the more freaky one

[lmk if you guys want to be in the taglist ^^]

Taglist:

@gdinthehouseee @loveesiren @sherrayyyyy @ldydeath , @eru-vande @mashtatosworld @wcnderlnds @infinetlyforgotten @petersasteria @emmiesoverthemoon @tulentiy, @loveesiren @breakmeoff

[ likes , reposts , a follow & comments are encouraged and appreciated! <3 ]

[aquaholicsanonymousworld]

Take-Two | Paring: Sebastian Stan x CoStar!Reader

It starts again on the soundstage. It always starts on the soundstage.

The green screens loom, the cameras roll, and the director calls for another take, but all you can feel is the weight of Sebastian’s gaze across from you. He’s in full Winter Soldier gear, face shadowed, jaw tight, and it’s almost funny — the entire world thinks you and him are just that good at acting. That every lingering look, every charged silence, every almost-touch on screen is scripted and professional.

But you know better. You both do.

"Cut! Great. Let’s reset for coverage."

You exhale through your nose, loosening your shoulders like it’s just another scene. Like you didn’t just feel your ribs crack under the pressure of what it used to be.

It wasn’t supposed to end like this. Not for you and Sebastian. You’d been through it all — the whirlwind of getting cast together in The First Avenger, the stolen weekends between press tours, the nights holed up in hotel rooms when the world outside only knew you as costars. From 2010 to 2016, he was yours. And then he wasn’t.

You handled it well, at first. Told everyone it was amicable. Said things just ran their course. Smiled through interviews while your throat burned.

But standing here, in 2025, still playing his love interest while he’s got a girlfriend back home—one that makes him smile the way he used to smile at you—that’s the real torture.

"Hey," Sebastian murmurs when they call for a short break. His voice is low, careful. "You okay?"

You blink, forcing your face into something neutral. "Yeah. Just tired."

He gives you that look. The one that used to mean don’t lie to me, baby. And your stomach twists.

"Y/N," he says softly, stepping a little closer while the crew bustles around. "You’ve been kinda… off today. If you wanna talk—"

"I’m fine, Seb," you cut in, sharper than you mean to. "Let’s just get through this, okay?"

His jaw clenches. That muscle in his cheek ticks, the same way it did during your last real fight eight years ago—the one that ended everything. You swore you wouldn’t fall back into old patterns, but here you are. Two professionals pretending their hearts aren’t in their throats every time they touch on camera.

Because the worst part isn’t the breakup. It’s knowing that if he gave you even half a chance, you wouldn’t screw it up this time. You’d fight harder, hold on tighter. Love him the way you should have before pride and schedules and life got in the way.

But he doesn’t give that chance. Not now. Not with someone else waiting for him off set.

So you nod, swallowing down everything else.

"Let’s just get through this."

Sebastian stares at you for a beat too long. Like he wants to say something else. Like maybe he feels it too — the longing, the ache, the unfinished business. But then the AD calls you both back, and whatever moment was about to happen dies in his throat.

You both go back to your marks. The cameras roll. And once again, you pretend.

The scene wraps late that night.

You’re halfway through peeling off your costume when there’s a knock on your trailer door. You already know who it is before you call out, "Yeah?"

Sebastian steps inside, still in his black tactical pants, but his jacket’s off and his hair’s a mess from running his hands through it — a nervous tell you know all too well. His eyes flick over you, lingering just a second too long on your bare shoulders before he forces them back to your face.

"Can we talk? Like… actually talk this time?" His voice is rough. Tired.

You grip the zipper of your hoodie, suddenly too aware of how exposed you feel. "Seb, I don’t think—"

"Please." One word. Soft, but it lands heavy between you.

You sigh and step back, motioning for him to come in fully. He closes the door behind him, and just like that, it’s the two of you. No cameras. No crew. No audience. Just you and him — the way it used to be.

For a beat, neither of you says anything. The silence stretches until it feels like it might choke you.

"I hate this," Sebastian finally mutters. His hands flex at his sides. "This thing between us now. The distance. The pretending. I hate it."

Your throat goes tight. "You think I don’t?"

His laugh is humorless. "I don’t know what you feel anymore, Y/N. You won’t even look at me half the time."

"Because looking at you hurts!" The words explode out before you can stop them. Your voice cracks on the last word, and you turn away, pressing a hand to your mouth like you can shove the feelings back down. "Every time I look at you, I remember everything we had. Everything we lost. And then I have to go out there and act like I’m still in love with you, and it’s killing me, Sebastian."

The air goes dead still.

When you dare to glance at him, he looks wrecked. Like you just punched through his chest.

"You think it’s easy for me?" he rasps. "You think I don’t feel the same damn thing every time I touch you on set? I—" He cuts himself off, running both hands through his hair, pacing a short, frantic line. "I never stopped, Y/N. I never stopped loving you. That’s the worst part."

Your heart stumbles. The words hit you like a freight train. But then you remember. Her. The girlfriend. The Instagram posts. The red carpets. The life he built after you.

"So what, Seb?" you whisper, voice trembling. "What does that change? You have someone now. I’m not— I’m not gonna be the person who—"

"I know," he breathes, pain flashing through his eyes. "I know. I’m not asking you to. I just… I needed you to know. Because every time we’re in a scene together and I look at you, it feels real. And I can’t keep pretending it’s not."

Your chest heaves, every inch of you shaking with the effort to hold it together. There’s a pull between you — magnetic and dangerous — and for a terrifying second, it feels like he’s going to close the space and kiss you, consequences be damned.

Your heart screams yes. Your head screams don’t. And then his phone buzzes. The sound is sharp and jarring. Reality slamming back in.

Sebastian flinches but he doesn’t even look at the screen, just clenches his jaw and steps back.

The distance feels like a slap.

"I should go," he mutters. His voice is raw, frayed at the edges. "I just… I had to say it."

You nod, tears burning at the backs of your eyes. "Yeah. Okay."

For a second, he lingers at the door. Like he might turn around. Like he might choose you, just this once.

But he doesn’t. He leaves. And you sink onto the couch, burying your face in your hands, biting back a sob that no one will hear but you.

Because the worst part is you would’ve let him kiss you. You would’ve let him ruin you all over again.

If he gave you the chance.