#Everything and everyone I work with is shorter than me

[dreamersparacosm]

it's a match ᯓ★ jeon jungkook (chapter one)

SUMMARY. Your friends think you’re one bad night away from becoming a cat lady with a wine addiction. Their solution? It’s simple: Wingmate, the new dating app where your friends swipe for you, and set you up on a blind date. At the very least, it’s supposed to guarantee a steamy hookup for the group’s weekend trip—little do you know, they’ve swiped right on none other than Jeon Jungkook, resident fuckboy and your coworker, who’s terminally addicted to two things: bad bitches and situationships.

word count. 5.2k

warnings. none.

note. shorter chapter but trust the process!! 2024 me loveddd a good short chapter that gave you everything you needed to know. chapter two will be quite lengthy if i do say so myself. ANYWHOOO this may be my favorite jungkook ever. i’m a sucker for a fuckboy with annoying tendencies (will he be reformed? who’s to say) i hope you cutieful’s enjoy! 😻

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There have been a lot of bad days in your six years of corporate work, but today might take the cake. 

The day from fucking hell has arrived on your plate.

It all started with your Outlook calendar gaslighting you. You could’ve sworn the budget meeting with Finance was next week, but allegedly, they ‘moved it up to allot time back.’

So, not only did you wake up at the crack of dawn for no reason, but you also prepared a powerpoint that will see the light of day in two weeks. 

Then, the office WiFi cut out four times during a client call, forcing you to join through your phone, which meant everyone earned a lovely view of your head followed by the awkward “can you guys hear me now?” line you’d been avoiding all year. 

By lunchtime, your blood pressure had reached astronomical levels. Minimum 190/100. 

You briefly consider walking into the HR office barefoot, and simply lying down on the carpeted floor. Hopefully, they’ll build a shrine to remember you by. Here lies a girl who hasn’t had sex in one entire year and died in the arms of Excel spreadsheets. 

“Hey,” Yunjin, the only coworker of yours you trust to get things right, slides her chair closer to you. “No offense, [Y/N], but you look like you’re about to cry.”

Are you that obvious?

You deadpan. “I am about to cry, thank you very much.”

“Was it Steve? Did he steal the candy from the break room again?” She frowns sympathetically, bottom lip puckered out. 

Yunjin started the same day as you, and while her role is more focused on treasury analysis, you share a lot of the same calendar invites and email threads. They keep the Finance departments tightly wound together, like a tiny little dysfunctional family. 

“No.” You sigh loudly. “Worse than that. Chaewon just sent me two more spreadsheets to look at. I don’t have any time left in the fucking day. Do you think it’s possible to take a shit with my laptop?”

She snorts, tossing her auburn hair over her shoulder. “If it makes you feel better, she added me to five email chains with the CFO of a massive company undergoing a merger. I’m beyond fucked.”

Yeah, she wins this round. 

“UGHHHH.” You groan, head flopping onto the wooden desk with a loud thud. Two rows over, Seo-yeon from Marketing looks over. Marketing sounds nice. Bet she’s never cried over an Excel formula not computing properly. “Yunjin, my patience is running thin.”

“There, there.” She pats your back gently. “You need sugar, stat. Didn’t you say there was one blueberry muffin you had your eye on?”

Lifting your head quickly, you jolt upwards. A will to live has re-entered your body. “Right. I did say I would get it after my call with Rick.”

Anyone who works at Choi Industries knows how much you enjoy sweets. You’ve heard it all—cavity jokes, ‘sweetest in the room’, cookie monster… list goes on. 

It’s gotten to the point where team members will leave out different types of candies and goodies just to catch your eye. You appreciate the gesture, truly, but your cholesterol levels are getting concerning. 

However, sometimes—and this is a rare occurrence—the sweets people leave out for you will go missing. Now, you can chalk this up to two things: 1) Steve from Procurement also loves candy and 2) someone out there is trying to ruin your life. 

“Well, you better run,” she says, already swiveling back to her computer. “Before Steve beats you there. He’s been hovering.”

And with that, your heels are click-clacking against the linoleum as fast as your legs will take you. It’s 2:17 PM, and that muffin is your god-given right. 

When you enter the kitchen, it’s eerily quiet. The old fridge is humming noisily, and the water dispenser expels two more chunks of ice. 

Alas, on the counter, your eyes hone in on the muffin tray. In just a few short seconds, that muffin will be—

The muffin tray is right there.

But the muffin… is not. 

It’s gone. A corpse of what could’ve been your only moment of joy today. 

You stare at it, willing it to reappear, telekinetically demanding the universe to rewind. You’re not entirely sure if the ache in your chest is from rage, grief or starvation, but you do know this: this is your breaking point. Real tears might fall from your eyes. 

A chuckle appears behind you. A singular “Ha.” sound, like someone’s pressing down on their stomach and expelling the sound forcefully. 

You don’t even need to turn to know who it is. 

There is only one person in this entire company who could expel fake laughter like that at your misery, someone who would absolutely steal the last muffin out of spite.

Jeon Jungkook. 

Slowly, steadily, you swivel to face your muffin’s captor. 

Jungkook is standing behind you, hands tucked into his pockets, leaning against the fridge with an expression so smug you want to slap it right off. His teeth are fiddling with the metal ring on his bottom lip, and there’s a mirrorball of sparkles flying across his pupils. Sheer, unadulterated happiness. 

“Something wrong?” He tilts his head sideways. 

“You ate my muffin.”

“Innocent until proven guilty.” He shrugs. 

“You knew I wanted that.” 

If this were any other day, any other moment in time, you would walk away. You wouldn’t even put up a fight. It’s not worth it—especially not with Jeon Jungkook. 

“Didn’t see your name on it.” He’s so decidedly uninterested in what’s going on that your blood boils to steaming levels. 

“It’s an office kitchen, not a kindergarten class. What did you want me to do? Leave a note that says ‘Please don’t be a dick’?”

You don’t normally blame things on people’s mothers, but there must be some fundamental flaw in the way she raised her son. He’s despicable. 

There are office rules, etiquette one must follow. And he just broke the most cardinal rule. 

“I mean…” He shifts his weight, crossing his big arms over his chest. “Might’ve helped.”

Your eyes narrow into spiteful little slits. “I hope you choke on a fat blueberry.”

His lips quirk upwards just an inch, enough to enrage you all over again. “That’s a little harsh, cupcake. Even for you.”

Cupcake.

See, the office jokes about your adoration for sweet foods… funny. Laughable. Hilarious. 

Jeon Jungkook nicknaming you cupcake the second he caught wind of your sugar addiction six months ago?

Heinous. 

“Are you always like this?” You mimic his protective stance, your arms intersecting over your chest. “Is this how you keep scaring girls away?”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “Scared is hardly the word I would use to describe them.”

You grimace. “Well, do they know you’re a thief?”

“Nah, but they do know I’ve got a massive—”

“Finish that fucking sentence and I will end your life.”

There are a lot of things you want to learn in this world. Jungkook’s dick size does not make the shortlist. 

(Although you have heard rumors. And if the rumors are true… well, then he’s not lying.)

“Listen, if you like sweet things so much, I’ve got something else you can try,” he teases, leaning his back against the fridge like he’s planning on being here a while. With your dynamic, you probably will be. These quips and jabs can go for hours. 

You shiver in disgust. “I would literally rather eat Sour Patch Kids until the day I die.”

“I always love our conversations, cupcake.” Jungkook smirks widely, an expression you’ve seen so many times you wonder if his lips just live in that permanent curve. “Keeps me on my toes”

“Can you just please, please leave the muffin by my desk?” you beg. It’s unfortunate that you have to, but you’re past the point of return. 

“What makes you think I haven’t eaten it yet?” 

“Because you’ve never eaten the muffins. You literally did it to piss me off.” Your voice raises several octaves, but you have to remind yourself you’re at work. Whispering now, you say, “Congratulations. Consider me pissed.”

"That's cute you notice my eating habits.” He smiles fondly. “Not even my last situationship did that.”

“Jung—”

“No, really, I’m flattered.”

“Jungkook.” 

He raises an eyebrow. 

“Stay in your fucking lane, and I’ll stay in mine.” If he could just follow rules, this would be simple.

“Yeah, yeah.” He rolls his eyes, clearly bored by the trajectory of this conversation. “By the way, you owe me those reports by 5. Wasn’t sure if Chae told you.”

“Chae?” 

His eyes glint before he proceeds with his final jab. “She let me call her that last weekend. Cute, right?” 

“Please tell me you’re not fucking my boss. Please.” 

“Relax, cupcake.” He leans into you, close enough that you can smell the minty breath and generic cologne. “You’re not her type anyway.”

Wine nights with Nayeon and Jihyo are rare. Everyone’s schedule is always ridiculously overbooked, stacked with deadlines, boyfriends, other friends, but when they do happen, your heart is ten pounds lighter. 

Nayeon has claimed the corner of your couch, a fuzzy blanket coccooned around her shoulders, balancing the stem of her wine glass between her fingers. Jihyo is sprawled lengthwise across the other end, wiggling her painted toes in your lap just to annoy you. 

When Harry Met Sally is blasting on the TV, but the three of you are far too busy talking over it to pay attention to Sally showcase how easy it is to fake an orgasm. 

“I’m just saying.” Nayeon barrels on with her previous point, “I would submit better work if my boss stopped bringing his acoustic guitar into the office.”

“Jesus Christ, Nay. That sounds like a nightmare.” Jihyo is only half-listening as she replies, fascinated by how the streaks on her wine glass look.

“It is,” Nayeon insists. “Have you ever heard a middle-aged man sing old Elvis hits while trying to hit a deadline?”

You laugh into your glass, eyes misted over with the haze of alcohol. “If my boss started singing old music, I think I’d just throw myself out the nearest window.”

“Thank you!” Nayeon smacks the couch cushion. “It’s not even his good songs either.”

Jihyo shifts her legs, toes digging pointedly into your thigh. You make a sound of indignation but she doesn’t let up. “Coming from the girl who made us learn One Direction’s ‘Steal My Girl’ word for word. You must be at the apex of music critiquing.”

Gasping, Nayeon retorts, “That is one of their best songs. How dare you. It’s about the hidden message behind the lyrics.”

“Great song.” You take a sip of your crimson wine. “But need I remind you, you also had Hoseok doing cartwheels in our freshman dorm lounge to One Direction just so he could get your attention.”

It’s a fond memory, but the poor boy nearly concussed himself trying to impress your best friend. 

It clearly worked, seeing as the pair are still together seven years later. 

“Who cares? He looked good while doing it.” Nayeon waves you off, movements sluggish.

Jihyo’s laughter fills your living room. Nights like these are far and few between, but they remind you that even when you feel alone, you could never truly be with these two by your side.

Your trio was an authentic accident. Freshman year, you lived alone on the 14th floor, just how you had planned it since high school. Nayeon and Jihyo lived on the 13th floor, but often traveled to your floor to visit your neighbors. One night, while you were trying to get some peace and quiet (virtually impossible in university), they were involved in a full-on rager next door.

You marched over there, ready to rain on their parade, only to get dragged in by the aforementioned two girls. Four jell-o shots later, you had finally made friends in college. 

(Un)fortunately, they never left you alone. 

“You really need a new throw blanket, [Y/N]. How can you have men over with this scratchy thing?”

You look down at the knitted atrocity draped across your knees. Lime green, mustard yellow, a patch of neon pink. 

“It was my great grandma’s.”

“Oh my god,” Jihyo groans, collapsing further into the cushion. “Of course it is.”

“Plus, it’s not like any men are spending their days here.”

“We know,” Nayeon and Jihyo say in unison. 

Jeez. Tough crowd. 

“[Y/N], honey, my cherry pie,” Jihyo begins, “Don’t you think it’s time to… to…”

She plays with the words on her tongue before finally, Nayeon cuts in, “Time to get fucked?”

You let out a gasp, as if that’s somehow the most scandalous thing you’ve ever heard. Considering Nayeon once re-enacted her schoolgirl roleplay escapade in front of you, this hardly makes the list.

“I-I..I..”

And, truly, honestly, you have no defense. No comeback of your own. It would be different if you had at least made out with a man in the past few months, but you can’t lie and say you have. 

“Maybe it’s time to see what’s out there..” Nayeon wiggles her brow. 

Oh, no. 

No. 

There's a dangerous glint in your best friend's eyes, one that always appears right before she ruins your life.

Your eyes go all narrow, lips pursed. Jihyo peeks over your body at Nayeon. “Should we… tell her?” 

Nayeon shrugs carelessly. “Probably not. She’ll ruin it for herself.”

“Sitting right here, you evil fucks.” You take an extensive sip of alcohol to try and wash down their words. 

Jihyo’s face goes from mildly annoyed to honestly worried. “It’s just… we were thinking about something the other day. You always say it’s difficult to find dates in Seoul, and when you do, the guy turns out to be a dick. One time, you even said it would be great if we could pick someone for you.”

You know exactly where this is going, and it’s down a road you’ve kept paved over with cement for a year. 

Nayeon unlocks her phone, a bright screen casting shadows across her porcelain features. “Hear me out. Imagine if there were a way where we could actually help find you someone.”

She’s scrolling through her apps with a painted finger, clearly searching for something. 

Jihyo takes over. “Also imagine you on a hot, sexy date with a man you’ve had no time to form biases about.”

“Mhm,” Nayeon hums before sliding the phone over to you. “Take a peek.”

Sighing, you clutch the device tightly in your hand. 

When your eyes finally focus on the screen, you nearly drop the wine glass between your fingers. 

It’s a dating profile, or what looks to be one. At the bottom of the screen, there are prompts filled out,  links to songs you enjoy. There’s even handpicked pictures of you from your Instagram—you do note that they at least had the decency to choose your finest ones. 

Tentatively, Nayeon speaks, as though you’re a wild animal and you’ll skitter off into the distance if she approaches too quickly. “It’s a dating app. We get to swipe for you. We do the awkward small talk, set up the date, we can even track you once you arrive.”

“They say chivalry is dead.”

She awkwardly chuckles. “Thoughts? Comments? Concerns?”

You actually have a lot of comments, one of them rhyming with muck pew. 

Maybe you’ll be able to find a way to delete your account before you have to hand the phone back to Nayeon. Yes, that’s a great idea. You navigate to the settings, chuckling darkly.  “Nayeon. Jihyo. Quit it with the fucking set-ups.”

She moves at lightning speed once she catches sight of where your thumb is hovering. 

“But this isn’t a set up!” Nayeon protests, catapulting over your legs to snatch her phone out of your hand.“This is far from it. This is an app designed for people like you, who are too picky to choose someone to date on their own, so their friends choose for them. Isn’t it great?”

It actually sounds as enjoyable as telling your mom you’re still single at 28.

“Dude, it’s all the rage right now,” Jihyo chimes in, finger pointing upwards in the air like she’s some professor with a PhD in meddling. “Everyone’s obsessed.”

You squint at her. “Ozempic is also ‘all the rage’ right now, but you don’t see me signing up for that.”

Jihyo ignores you, eyeing Nayeon from her peripheral vision as if you aren’t even there (which, in this exact moment, you wish you weren’t). Nayeon is hugging her phone tightly to her chest, scared you might leap over once again to investigate what she’s hiding on her phone.

“The app is called Wingmate,” Jihyo pushes on, overly chipper for a woman who just got fired two weeks ago from her corporate job. “The whole point, like Nay said, is that we swipe for you. It’s foolproof. We set you up with someone actually dateable.”

“Foolproof…” you echo flatly. “Right. Because I’m going to outsource my love life to two women who still put ketchup on their ramen.”

All things considered, these two have failed at many things in life, but relationships is not one of them. They both have been dating their current boyfriends, Hoseok and Jin, since university days. They’re part of that lucky subset of people who figured out companionship before everyone else threw in the towel and settled for bad Hinge dates.

Nayeon sighs deeply, “Listen, you haven’t gotten laid since…”

“Don’t.”

“—since Jeremy.”

You groan. Bringing up Jeremy is cruel. He was your three-year long situationship that you met while backpacking in Europe, and you gave up countless weekends and holidays to visit him in London, only for him to sporadically announce he’s getting married to some marathoner he met in Tokyo.

Not to mention, you also found out through Instagram. So he’s really not the upstanding guy you thought he was.

How wonderful.

“I told you not to bring him up ever again, Nay.”

Jihyo pats your back sweetly, probably in the same way she pets her chihuahua after they do a trick. “[Y/N], we only want to help you. I, for one, want you to move on.”

“Trust me, we will only pick the finest of men for you,” Nayeon reassures, “And you can also bring him on the weekend trip! C’mon, it’ll be so fun. You know I always bring Hoseok, and Jihyo’s bringing Jinnie! It’ll be like a triple date!”

Nayeon has a fatal flaw of being the bubbliest person in the room. It’s a trait you envy and despise.

Jihyo nods enthusiastically like some broken bobblehead. You’re going to smack her head. “The trip will be much more fun if you bring someone! I mean—of course, Jin and I love you like a sister, but wouldn’t it be fun to be coupled up with someone for the weekend?”

If you’re being honest, it has been a while. Jeremy cannot be the last person you’ve given entry into your vagina.

Plus, if anyone has your best interests at heart, it’s your overexcited, loving two friends.

It can’t be that bad, right?

“It’s called Wingmate, you say?” You stare at them, digging yourself under the throw blanket.

Nayeon’s smile is suspiciously wide, pearly white canines on display.

The annual Jeju trip would be more enjoyable if you weren't consistently outnumbered by horny couples. Every year it's the same: they sneak off for mysterious 'early bedtimes' and you console yourself by eating marshmallows straight from the bag like some kind of camping goblin.

“And you’ll choose wisely?”

They look uncanny as they nod in sync. 

“We pinky swear on it.” Nayeon raises her pinky finger high, Jihyo following behind in solidarity. 

You already know this is a mistake. It's practically begging to join the hall of fame of your spectacularly poor life choices.

But maybe they’re right. Maybe it’s time to say fuck Jeremy, with your head held high and a new man on your arm. After all, these girls have been with you through thick and thin; they wouldn’t dare lead you astray. 

So you do something you don’t normally like to do. 

You admit defeat and say, “Fine.”

Life has thrown a lot of inconveniences in your direction. 

Job interviews where the hiring manager asked you “what’s your biggest weakness” and you wanted to say men. Finals week with $5 in your bank account and two hours of sleep. That one disastrous one-night stand where you gagged on his dick and threw up a little. 

But this one… well, this feels like the inconvenience to end all inconveniences. 

This is like getting an emergency root canal scheduled the day of your wedding. 

Possibly worse. Who knows? 

A blind date. Or rather, the dreaded Wingmate date Nayeon and Jihyo wouldn’t shut up about. 

You didn’t swipe, didn't choose, didn’t even get the satisfaction of judging someone for holding up a fish in their picture. No, you’ve been set up like a lamb for slaughter, thrown to the pack of wolves. 

Ever since you gave them the greenlight this past weekend, they’ve been working diligently to find a suitor for your first Wingmate date. They promised—no, swore on your dead goldfish from freshman year—that the man would be your dream man. He would be intelligent, rich, and most importantly, hot. Somehow, you doubt that’s possible to find on an app called Wingmate, but that’s neither here nor there. 

They gave you four descriptors to work with—tall. Dark hair. Tattoos. Buff as fuck. 

That’s it. That’s the grand list of identifiers. 

You stop on the sidewalk, staring at the coffee shop door like it’s the gates of hell. Your palms are sweaty, heart thudding away in your chest as you think about all the ways you’ll have to explain this situation to your therapist in a few days. 

“Tall, dark hair, tattoos, buff as fuck,” you mutter, reciting it under your breath for the fifth time. That could describe half the men in Hongdae alone. 

A group of younger men walk past, one of them fitting the bill exactly, and you immediately avert your gaze like you’ve been looking at something else the whole time. 

This is why you didn’t want to do this. This is why you told Nayeon and Jihyo to quit it with the set-ups. Because now you’re outside an innocent cafe, spiraling about who your mystery date is going to be. 

You squeeze your phone tightly in your hand, thumb hovering over the Messages app. If you texted the group chat right now, you could still bail. Fake food poisoning. Pretend you got stuck in traffic. Say you were abducted by a family of aliens and are now on your way to their home planet to save humanity. 

But before you get the chance to type the message, another thought hits you: what if, against all odds, it’s actually someone hot, normal, and emotionally stable? Someone who’s ready for a relationship?

Surely, if he’s on the app, he must also have friends who love him dearly and want to see him happy. 

You’re going to do it. You’re going to walk in—

Grrrr.

Your stomach growls loudly, and you slap a hand over it like that’ll stop it. Great. Nervous hunger. So now you really can’t leave, because you at least owe yourself a croissant. 

Taking one last deep breath, you swing the door open. 

The bell above the door jingles as you cross the threshold. It’s warm inside, golden hues of light reflecting off exposed brick walls and wooden tables. Lightbulbs on string lights hang low, and there’s a chalkboard menu written in cursive along with a display case so crammed with pastries it makes your stomach growl again. 

Couples are everywhere—huddled in corners, pressed shoulder-to-shoulder on stools, whispering across tables. There’s not a single male sitting alone in sight. 

You observe it all with a strange feeling tightening in your chest, blooming into your throat, threatening to choke you. 

This is it. This is the prank. Nayeon and Jihyo have actually set you up with nobody, just so they can laugh about you waiting pathetically in a coffee shop for a man that will never come. 

Your eyes frantically sweep over the cafe once more.

Where is he? Which one is he?

And then, like there’s a spotlight dropping from the ceiling, you see him. 

At the far end, near the windows. 

Perched on one of the barstools that faces the street. Broad back, dark hair, and an arm propped on the counter that’s covered in inky designs. A whole sleeve of tattoos disappearing under a black t-shirt that clings to muscle. 

Tall. Dark hair. Tattoos. Buff as fuck. 

A pit opens in your stomach, and a nest of metaphorical bees swarm into the hole. Your whole body is buzzing, from head to toe, with the familiar swell of anxiety and hope and excitement. 

That has to be him. 

You smooth down your shirt, square your shoulders, and start walking. Each step feels like there’s a vat of cement tied to your shoelaces. You can practically hear Nayeon giggling in your head. 

When you finally reach him, you clear your throat and tap his shoulder. 

He turns around. 

And in that single second, you realize, in undying horror, that the universe has yet again inconvenienced you. 

His eyes widen, jaw unhinging. “Cupcake?!”

Your own jaw pops out of its socket too. “You?!”

The monosyllabic word echoes off the walls, loud enough to make the barista look over. 

Of all the men in this city—every single one—Wingmate (and your friends) has the audacity to match you with Jeon Jungkook. 

Office headache. Resident fuckboy. Your personal corporate nightmare. 

And apparently now, you can add blind date to that list. 

You spin on your heel so fast you almost trip over your own two feet. If you bolt now, you can salvage your day. You can go on a nice, relaxing walk, maybe go shopping in Itaewon. Maybe you can lie to Nayeon and Jihyo and say the guy was a no-show. 

A clean cut exit. 

Except Jungkook’s hand shoots out, wrapping around your arm with enough pressure to stop you dead in your tracks. His palm is warm as it digs into your skin. Strong, too. 

“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” There’s amusement tucked into his tone. “Where are you going? You’re gonna bail on a date neither of us want to be on?”

You pivot slowly, glare on full display. “First of all, this isn’t a date. Not anymore. Second of all, you just said it yourself. Neither of us wanna be on it.”

“I don’t know, cupcake, I’m pretty sure when two people meet through a dating app at a coffee shop, the legal term for it is ‘date.’”

His hand is still wrapped around your bicep. 

You can feel the barista’s eyes piercing into your skull, and for a moment, a wave of embarrassment rushes through you. You’re officially her entertainment. You contemplate collapsing to the floor dramatically—fainting, a seizure, anything to escape—but Jungkook just won’t let go of your arm. 

It’s not even a firm hold, but his strength doesn’t go unnoticed. 

“You don’t need to be all dramatic about it,” he says, thumb casually brushing against the edge of your sleeve. 

“Dramatic?” Your voice cracks on the last syllable, and you immediately pray for anything, any higher power, to come save you from this. “I was promised tall, dark hair, tattoos, buff as fuck. Not you.”

Jungkook looks down at himself like he’s remembering what he looks like, then back at you. 

It doesn’t help your case that he fits the bill to a lethal degree. 

“Sorry to disappoint?”

Tears threaten to spill over your waterline. It’s not going to be a cute kind of cry either, if it does claw its way out of you. How is this your life? How has the universe once again shown you that you are incapable of experiencing a healthy relationship?

“Let me go,” you mutter, trying to tug free. 

He’s still cocky as ever, but something in his eyes has shifted. “It’s just coffee. We’re already here. You might as well sit down for five minutes.”

“Five minutes might be too much,” you mumble. 

“I can settle for two,” he says, releasing your arm only to gesture toward the empty stool next to his. 

“When have you ever settled for what I want?” You almost stomp your foot on the ground like a petulant toddler out of frustration. 

He rolls his eyes. “God, [Y/N], why are you always like this? Just sit down.”

“There’s no point.” You take a small step backward, then another, hoping he won't notice. “This was such a mistake. I’m going to kill Nayeon and Jihyo—”

“And I’m gonna kill Taehyung, but it’s a little late for regrets, don’t you think?”

“I—”

He shifts his body more towards you, hands gripping his stool like he has to hold himself back from strangling you. “They can see on their end when the date starts and ends. There's tracking installed in the app. For safety reasons.”

Oh. That… actually makes perfectly good sense. 

“But.” You wave your pointer finger in the air. “It doesn’t matter. I don’t want to be on a date that neither of us wants to be on.”

“Cupcake—” He runs a hand through his dark hair, looking almost… frustrated? “You’re being stubborn as fuck right now.”

“I’m being realistic.”

“No, you’re being dramatic. It's five minutes and a coffee. I’m not proposing marriage to you.” His lips twitch like he’s fighting a smirk. “Unless you’re scared you might actually like me.”

If there is a God, now would be a great time for him to send a lightning bolt through this coffee shop and burn you to a crisp where you stand.

“Jungkook, this is not happening. I’m leaving. I’ll see you at work.”

Several emotions pass over Jungkook’s face. The arrogance from his face is gone, lips no longer in their signature smirk. “Look, if it makes you feel better… I didn't choose you either. My friend set me up. I told him it was stupid.”

Somehow that makes it worse. 

“Just… sit for five minutes,” he offers, nodding towards the stool again. “Then we can leave. Tell our friends we just weren’t a good fit. No hard feelings.”

You stare blankly at him. For the first time ever, you see a man, one who normally spends his weekends hooking up with three girls and bragging about it in the office break room, asking for mercy.  

And maybe it’s the exhaustion of searching for something more in a world where everyone wants less, or the humiliating prospect of texting Nayeon and Jihyo that you bailed, or maybe it’s just that you’re starving and the croissants are three feet away, but your knees bend, and you lower yourself onto the stool. 

The curiosity lingering in your body doesn’t fade away. 

“So,” he laughs, “here we are.”

“Guess so.”

And that’s how, against every ounce of intelligence you possess, you end up on a blind date with Jeon Jungkook. 

taglist. @petersasteria @deadrosesnthorns  @justanarchiveforfics @akirawhore @songbyeonkim @rainandmatcha @jk97bam @delulutofr @hoelychildofgod @lachimochala @remgeolli @stars4kooo @tteokbokibyjk @taetaecatboy @yeahimacapricorn @gojoscumslut @missthang600 @drwonderbread @gimme20dolla @ppeachyttae @cxcotin @mimi1097 @senaqsstuff @taeswurld @imwutim @dmstoyangyang @lovingkoalaface @httpjeonlicious @neurospicynugget @joyjunk @armyforever7227 @mnijoy @breezy-bts @zyoarchive @mar-lo-pap @yunhoswrldddd @toosweetforyall @parapiop7 @xtrataerrestrial @tearsdntfall617 @ahgasegotarmy116 @yooniepot @goldzen-theia @osakis-gf @gomdoleemyson @cannotalwaysbenight @impossiblecopoaffire @yayaalexis0613 @eyesforjungkook

[mynonsenseistingling]

The human back is a stupidly designed sack of meat. Like what do you mean I strained my lower back, but I can move just fine, if a bit stiff at times, but oh fuck, if I look down with my head then pain will shoot up my entire back?!

0/10, would not recommend to a friend, 0 stars.

Clearly a design flaw, am currently on hold the the manufacturers demanding compensation.

[icewindandboringhorror]

It's always interesting to hear about people's weird/unexpected "alternate life paths". Like, something that you could have done with your life, a job you almost took, a school you almost went to, etc - that was still actually realistic enough that it could have happened, but NOW it seems to not suit your current personality.

Like for example, I currently hate advertising (how manipulative it is, brands trying to be 'relatable', social media amplifying it to an obnoxious extreme, etc.) so much that even seeing a little ad before a youtube video is grating to even witness, but there was a point in time where I was genuinely seriously considering going into marketing/making commercials as a career lol. Or like, I have a relative who was very inclined to be a pastor when they were younger, even though today they're a super strong atheist, etc. etc.

[theflyingfeeling]

fictalkfictalkfictalk

[arolesbianism]

I kick her in the shins and she cries rly hard before running off to tell her team captain

[babiicatt]

nsfw! remmick + f!preachers daughter!reader, rem is a total soft, needy dom, totally awkward, totally loser-y, extremely dubious consent in the beginning, never ever proofread, oral on fem.

I don't think that remmy ever got any pretty little maidens back in his day, subsequently because of his nervous, eager nature that he has carried through his vampire years.

that being said, it doesn't seem to stop him from tripping over himself when you sees you go by, making you feel awfully sorry for guy. just some new guy in town and he's already making a fool of himself for you - which makes you pretend not to notice the way he's everywhere you are, like a persistent shadow dogging at the heels of your feet.

you've been taught to be sympathetic to those in need, which only feeds into remmick's hopes when you return his stumbling words with your own soft n sweet ones. even just a hello from the preachers daughter and the Irish man felt like you had saved his soul.

and maybe remmick liked you (too much), not that he would ever say it. and you had to go and invite him to church and bring him home-baked pastries - things you did for everyone, though he would think otherwise - hell, you even had him even believing that you were wearing your skirts just a tad shorter for him.

so why are you surprised when he offers to walk around the forest trails with you that he's trying to kiss you?

"you're- you're just being too touchy, I think, is all," your voice like a bible hymn as you try to tell him off as politely as your daddy raised you too, head lilting far to evade his lips. "why, sweetheart," he's cooing to you in that southern drawl, "it ain't sex," he lets out with a chuckle as if you needed teachings in the way of god.

as he gets closer and closer, you put your hands to his chest, not pushing him away, but not bringing him any closer, either. "I know-" you stop, lowering your voice despite having nothing around you two for a few miles except the whispering of the wind, "I know that, but I'm just not ready-"

"oh, please baby, shh," he's shushing you, "you don't know what you want," and he believes what he says. why, he's a few hundred year old vampire, and you're just a little dolly thing. "I-i know you need this as much as I do," his statement upheld as his lips find yours, shutting you up even more effectively than before, ignoring the way your hands try to push him off.

"you don't know what you need," his voice promising you this as his lips slam against yours as his hands go and fumble to bunch up your skirt.

"no, no, none of that," he condescends you as you gasp and muscles make your arms move to go and push your skirt back down. "you'll see, sweet thing," his voice rasping a bit more as his nails take a dig at your panties, pulling them down, "you'll feel it, too. see n feel how you need me, how good I can be to you."

before you know it, his lips are suckling on your clit and fingers in your cunt as he looks up at you with those puppy dog eyes, everything about him feeling disgustingly good. "oh, you're just perfect. taste like peaches n cream," his speech muffled as he makes out with your pussy, voice barely making it up to your ears over your little moans you try so desperately to cage in your throat.

still, you can't help that when he gives your cunt a particularly perfect thrust of his fingers that you get louder and your hands go to his hair, tousling it to an even messier state than it had been in before. "o-ohhh, rem," you cry softly, tears that had been clinging to your bottom lashes drop.

"I know baby, I know," his other hand patting your thigh as his tongue works over your clit, "you gonna come for me baby? gonna be a good girl n finish?" his coaxing words making your pussy flutter, which made him smile against your soaking slit.

"yeah, you are," said before finishing you off with a particularly harsh suck to your clit, making your knees buckle, threatening your balance.

never a neglectful lover, remmick licks up the rest of your slick, cleaning you with his tongue before placing a lasting kiss on your slit before retracting himself from you. sitting back on his knees, his hands work up and down your thighs as he looks up at you with that adoring expression. "did you feel good, doll?"

[honeyandruin]

Idle Hands - Auto Shop Teacher!Joel Miller x Reader : PART TWO

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Pairing: Auto Shop Teacher!Joel Miller x Reader (college AU)

Summary: Part two of Idle Hands as so many have requested. After the night in your car, you tried to believe it was a mistake (and failed). But back in class, the tension is impossible to ignore—and when jealousy gets the better of him, you both learn you were never going to stop.

Warnings: 18+ only. MINORS DNI. Age gap, explicit sexual content, JEALOUS JOOOOEL BABY, unprotected sex, choking, rough sex, possessive Joel, teacher/student dynamic, praise & degradation, power imbalance, aftercare.

Word count: 3k (please don’t hate me that it’s a shorter one than the usuals)

A/N : I tried tagging everyone who asked to be tagged, and if it didn’t work, I’m so sorry!

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The shop smells like motor oil and old concrete.

You stand in the doorway a beat longer than you mean to, gripping the strap of your bag so hard your fingers ache.

Joel is already there, the hood of a rusted-out sedan propped open in front of him. He’s bent over the engine bay, forearms braced on the frame, jaw dark with stubble.

When he straightens, you swear he feels you watching him. His head turns—just slightly—and your eyes catch.

For a second, everything from last week floods back at once: the heat of his mouth, the low sound he made when you begged. The way he’d buried his face against your throat and whispered the filthiest things you’d ever heard.

He doesn’t look away.

His gaze drags down your front—like he just can’t help it—and when he drags it back up again, something in his expression flickers.

He’s trying to be neutral. Professional. But he isn’t ignoring you. And that almost makes it worse.

You take a slow breath, moving to your usual workbench. He watches you go, wiping his hands on a rag he keeps tucked in his back pocket.

“Morning,” he says, voice low. It’s the first time he’s spoken to you since he left you in your car with your hands still shaking.

Your heart beats too fast. “Hi.”

He hesitates like he wants to say something else. But the classroom door bangs open behind you—other students filing in, heavy boots echoing across the concrete—and whatever he was going to say dies before it can reach you.

You drop your bag on the stool, pulling out your notes and trying not to fidget.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see him watching you a moment longer before he clears his throat and calls the class to order.

“Alright,” Joel says, voice steady but quieter than usual. “Listen up.”

He shifts his weight, bracing one hand on the edge of the workbench, the other still worrying that rag.

“For your final project, you’re gonna do a complete brake system overhaul. Pads, rotors, calipers—front and rear. You’ll bleed the lines, verify pressure, and log every step. If it doesn’t stop on the test drive, you fail.”

Someone groans behind you.

“Yeah,” Joel says flatly. “That’s the point. It’s meant to be hard.”

He sets the rag aside, crossing his arms over his chest. “If you have questions, you ask. Don’t guess. Don’t half-ass. And don’t touch anything you’re not ready to finish.”

His eyes flick to yours again—just for a beat—and your stomach flips.

���Get started,” he says, voice low. “I’ll be around.”

The group breaks apart in a shuffle of boots and muttered complaints. You exhale slowly and pick your way toward your assigned bay, heart thudding.

You spend the next half hour working in silence, carefully removing the first caliper. You can feel Joel nearby—hear the scrape of his boots, the low murmur of his voice as he checks on the others—but he doesn’t come over to you.

You’re trying to focus. Really. But the memory of his mouth on your skin keeps blurring the edges of everything.

That’s probably why you don’t notice Kyle until he’s too close.

“Careful,” he says, leaning an elbow on your bench. “You’re gonna strip the bolt if you keep wrenching it like that.”

You pause, glancing at the caliper bracket in your hands. “No, I’m not. I’m backing it off a half turn at a time so I don’t crack it.”

He smirks, ignoring you. “If you want, I could help you after class. Maybe go over it together? Over dinner?”

Heat crawls up your neck, part embarrassment, part annoyance. You set the part down carefully, wiping your hands on a rag.

“I’m good.”

“You sure?” He tilts his head, smile widening. “No offense, but it looks like you’re struggling. Wouldn’t want you to mess it up.”

“She’s not.”

You both turn.

Joel is standing a few feet away, arms folded tight across his chest. He’s not pretending to check the other bays anymore. He’s just watching.

Kyle shifts, trying for casual. “Yeah, I just thought—”

“You thought wrong,” Joel cuts in, voice low. “She’s doing it right. Let her work.”

Something in his tone makes Kyle’s smile flicker. He glances at you like he expects you to jump in. When you don’t, he huffs a little laugh and backs away.

“Whatever you say.”

You don’t look up until Kyle’s gone. When you finally meet Joel’s eyes, they’re darker than before—something quiet and furious simmering underneath.

“You don’t need him,” he says, voice rough.

“I know.”

He holds your stare a second longer. Then he pushes off the beam, turns, and walks away—like he has to physically remove himself before he does something about it.

***

The rest of the afternoon drags.

You try to keep your head down, focused on reassembling the caliper and logging each step in your notes. But every time you glance up, Joel is there—never watching directly, but close enough you feel it anyway.

You can tell he’s making himself stay occupied. Finding excuses to check inventory, update paperwork, do anything that keeps him from looking too long.

And you hate how much you like it.

By the time the clock above the door clicks past six, the last of the class is packing up, slamming their lockers shut. Someone mutters a goodbye on the way out. Another kid laughs, cursing about how much his hands hurt.

You pretend to be absorbed in double-checking your torque specs, but your heart is hammering.

You don’t look up until the door closes behind them.

Then it’s just you. And him.

Joel is at the desk again, one hand braced on the top, his other rubbing slow over the back of his neck. He looks tired. Not the usual end-of-the-day tired—something deeper, heavier.

You wipe your hands on a clean rag and gather your notes, forcing yourself to move like nothing feels different. Like the room isn’t too quiet. Like the memory of his mouth on your skin isn’t still playing behind your eyes.

Your boots scuff over the concrete as you cross to his desk.

He doesn’t look up.

“I finished the checklist,” you say, voice softer than you mean it to be.

He flips a page in the logbook, staring at it without reading. “Leave it there.”

Your pulse thuds in your throat. “Joel.”

Nothing. Just the tick of the old clock above the tool cabinet.

“I don’t—” You hesitate. “I don’t want this to feel like a mistake.”

His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t lift his gaze. “It was a mistake.”

You swallow, fingers flexing on the edge of his desk. “You didn’t look like you thought that at the time.”

He drags a hand over his mouth, exhaling slow. “Don’t.”

You take a step closer. The air between you feels too thin.

“You don’t mean it,” you whisper.

He lifts his head then, finally meeting your eyes—and whatever you were braced for, it isn’t that look.

Wrecked.

His hand curls into a fist on the desk. “You think this is what you want?”

You don’t back down. “I know it is.”

He shakes his head, rough and disbelieving. “You don’t.”

Your voice drops, steady and soft. “Then show me.”

His breath shudders out. For a long second, he just looks at you—like he’s waiting for you to take it back. Like he’s hoping you will.

You don’t.

And that’s when he moves.

He comes around the desk in three slow steps. Stops just shy of touching you, so close you have to tip your head back to meet his eyes.

His hand lifts—hesitates—then finds your jaw. His thumb drags along the edge of your mouth, the touch so careful it makes your heart ache.

“You have no idea what you’re asking me for,” he says, voice low and ruined.

Your heart hammers so loud you’re sure he can hear it. His thumb drags across your lower lip, callused and warm, and you see the moment something in him fractures.

“I’m asking you to fuck me,” you breathe.

He goes still. Completely, utterly still.

A ragged sound tears out of his throat—half growl, half plea—and then his mouth crashes down onto yours.

The kiss isn’t careful. It isn’t soft. It’s all teeth and heat and desperation, the kind of kiss that feels like it’s been clawing at him for weeks. His hands find your hips, dragging you into him so hard you lose your breath.

“Jesus,” he mutters against your mouth, voice hoarse, like he hates himself for how good this feels. “Fuck—”

You don’t give him time to second-guess it. Your hands slide up under the hem of his work shirt, feeling the heat of his skin, the hard planes of his stomach. He shudders when your nails scrape lightly over the trail of hair leading lower.

“Goddamn it,” he rasps, and without breaking the kiss, he reaches past you.

The heavy thunk of the deadbolt sliding home is deafening in the hush.

He keeps his mouth sealed on yours, like he can’t bear to stop touching you long enough to think about what he’s doing.

He walks you backward, slow but unrelenting, until your hips hit the edge of the nearest workbench. The cold metal bites through your coveralls. You gasp, and he swallows the sound, groaning into your mouth like it’s killing him.

His hands are everywhere—palming your ass, squeezing your hips, dragging up your ribs. When he finds the zipper at your chest, he hesitates for just a heartbeat.

“You sure?” he mutters, voice wrecked. “You fuckin’ sure?”

“Please,” you whisper.

That’s all it takes.

He tugs the zipper down in one slow pull, the rasp of it loud in the quiet. His palm slides over your chest, thumb brushing the thin fabric of your bra. The contact makes your knees threaten to buckle.

“You have any idea,” he growls, mouth hot against your throat, “what you do to me?”

You try to answer, but he’s already dragging his mouth lower—nipping at the side of your neck, the curve where it meets your shoulder. His free hand rucks the coveralls down your hips, bunching them at your thighs. You feel the rough scrape of his calluses on bare skin, and the noise that slips out of you is embarrassingly needy.

“Look at you,” he mutters, lips brushing your ear. “All fuckin’ sweet now. All mine.”

You drag your hands up his chest, fisting the collar of his shirt to keep yourself steady. He catches your wrists, pins them to the workbench behind you, and holds you there like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

“You think that little shit had a chance with you?” His voice drops lower, almost a snarl. “You think I was gonna stand there and watch him touch what’s mine?”

The possessiveness in his tone makes your breath stutter. “Joel—”

“That what you want?” he demands, words hot and ragged against your mouth. “Some fuckin’ boy who doesn’t know what to do with you?”

“No,” you gasp, thighs clenching around his hips. “Want you.”

“Yeah,” he breathes, like it’s breaking him to hear it. “You fuckin’ do.”

He lets your wrists go—only to shove your coveralls the rest of the way down. The cold air kisses your skin, and he palms your ass, dragging you flush against the thick line of his cock straining his jeans.

“Feel that?” He grinds against you, making you whimper. “That’s what you do to me. Every time you look at me like you want it.”

Your hips rock into his, chasing the friction. “Please.”

“Yeah,” he mutters, voice rough, “gonna give it to you, baby.”

He kisses you again, messy and deep, while his hand drags between your legs. When his fingers find how wet you are, he groans like he’s in pain.

“Fuck me,” he rasps, pressing his forehead to yours. “You’re drippin’.”

His fingers slide through the slick heat, circling your clit just hard enough to make you bite your lip. He watches every reaction like he can’t look away.

“You want me to take my time,” he mutters, thumb pressing harder, “or you want it fast?”

“Fast,” you gasp. “Please—I—”

He cuts you off with a low, filthy laugh. “Course you do.”

He doesn’t waste another second. One hand fists in your hair, tilting your head so he can kiss you again while the other tugs at his belt, freeing himself. The blunt head of his cock bumps your thigh, hot and heavy, and your breath breaks.

He flips you before you can think, palms flattening between your shoulder blades, pressing you down against the cold workbench.

“Stay,” he growls, his voice so deep it scrapes something raw out of you.

You brace yourself, fingers curling around the metal edge, and look back over your shoulder.

His eyes meet yours—dark, starved—and something in them flickers.

“Gonna fuck you so good you forget about every other man,” he mutters. “Gonna fill you up so full you remember you’re mine.”

He drags the head of his cock through the slick between your thighs, teasing you just long enough that you whine.

“Say it,” he rasps, hips nudging forward, the stretch already making your vision blur. “Tell me who you belong to.”

“You,” you choke out, voice breaking. “You—fuck—”

“That’s right,” he breathes, sinking deeper. “All fuckin’ mine.”

When he bottoms out, his hand wraps around the front of your throat, tilting your head back so he can hear every gasp. His hips pull back—and when he slams forward again, the sound it makes is obscene.

Your fingers slip on the workbench. His grip tightens around your throat—just enough to hold you steady—and his other hand slides over your hip, guiding you back to meet each punishing thrust.

“Christ,” he mutters, voice ragged. “So tight—so fuckin’ sweet for me.”

You whimper, every thrust sending sparks up your spine.

“That little shit,” he pants, hips snapping harder. “Thought he could even touch you—”

He drags his hand lower, finding your clit, rubbing rough circles that make your knees buckle.

“Tell me,” he growls, breath hot in your ear. “Tell me who makes you come.”

“You,” you cry, voice splintering. “God—Joel—please—”

“That’s right,” he breathes, voice cracking. “Only me.”

The pressure builds so fast you can’t think. Can’t breathe. His cock drives into you, relentless, and you know you’re close—so close—

“Come on, baby,” he groans, thumb pressing harder, pace turning erratic. “Come for me.”

Your vision goes white. You shatter around him, hips jerking back into his as your orgasm crashes through you—hot, blinding, unstoppable.

He doesn’t stop. Keeps thrusting through it, hips snapping against your ass, low curses pouring from his mouth.

“Fuck—gonna fill you up—”

You can feel every ragged breath, every shudder, right before he finally spills inside you with a rough, broken sound.

When it’s over, he stays there—forehead against your spine, breath gusting across your skin.

As the last tremor leaves your body, you collapse forward onto your elbows, cheek pressed against the cool metal.

Joel doesn’t move for a second. Just stays bent over you, his hand splayed wide across your stomach, breathing like he’s just run every mile he’s ever owed.

After a moment, he drags in a shaky breath. His palm slides up, brushing the underside of your breast, lingering like he’s memorizing the shape of you.

“You okay?” he murmurs, voice wrecked.

You nod, your throat too tight to speak.

He slips free with a low groan and tugs your coveralls up enough to give you a shred of modesty. Then his hand cups the back of your neck, warm and heavy, like he can’t stop touching you even if he tried.

“C’mere,” he says softly.

You let him help you turn around. Your legs are unsteady, and he notices—his big hand bracing your hip until you’re upright. You can’t look at his face for a second. Not when you feel so wrung out. So full.

His thumb drags along your jaw. “Look at me.”

You do.

His eyes flick over your face, something complicated and unspoken in them. Guilt, maybe. Hunger that hasn’t faded. A tenderness you weren’t ready for.

“You wanna come by my place?” he asks, voice low. “Get cleaned up…maybe eat something?”

Your heart does something traitorous in your chest. “Yeah. I—yeah.”

His mouth twitches like he’s trying not to smile. “Good.”

He steps back, adjusting himself and tucking himself away with one hand, moving like a man who knows he’s going to hell and still can’t bring himself to care. He re-zips your coveralls, slow and deliberate, his knuckles brushing the tender skin of your chest.

When he’s done, he smooths the zipper flat. His thumb grazes the little metal pull tab.

“You got a dorm room, right?” he says, trying for casual and failing. “Probably not a lot of privacy there.”

You huff a laugh, still a little dazed. “Tiny. Thin walls. You’d be…pretty hard to hide.”

He lifts a brow, mouth tugging at the corner. “Yeah? You think I’m worth hiding?”

“Think you’re worth a lot more than that,” you murmur.

A groan rumbles in his chest—soft but unmistakable. He dips his head, pressing his mouth to yours, slower this time. Not careful, exactly. But different.

When he finally pulls back, he nods toward the door. “C’mon. I’ll drive.”

You trail him toward the door, your heart still tripping over itself.

Just as he unlocks the deadbolt and pulls the handle, you clear your throat.

“So…” you say, voice small but teasing, “does this mean I pass?”

Joel goes still.

Then—very slowly—he looks back at you over his shoulder. His eyes are still dark, but there’s something softer there now.

“No,” he says, voice low. “Means you’re gonna need a lot more practice.”

And before you can think of something smart to say, he leans in and kisses you again—like he already can’t wait to fail you all over.

🔧 ✦ 🔩 ✦ 🔧 ✦ 🔩 ✦ 🔧 ✦ 🔩 ✦ 🔧 ✦ 🔩 ✦ 🔧 ✦ 🔩

Here is the second part that yall asked for! I hope I did yalls requests some justice. @boscogirlsworld, @pixieeee101, @glitterspark & @kaseynsfws 💚🫶🏻

[rose24207]

I think he loves you more than me now

Summary: When Suho asks his sweet, introverted girlfriend who works in women’s clothing for her employee discount to help his friend Sieun, the unexpected kindness she shows earns her not just gratitude—but Sieun’s rare and heartfelt approval as someone truly good for Suho.

Ahn Suho x reader

Part one

A/N: y’all someone jinxed me. I almost got fired today for no reason help. I think it’s the authors curse. It’s finally out to get me help

Navigation

You’re still working on the first floor of the department store—women’s clothing, where nothing stays hung for more than ten minutes, and every compliment about the mess sounds more like a personal attack.

“Wow,” one lady muttered today, crinkling her nose at a blouse someone else had thrown on the floor. “You’d think someone worked here.”

You just smiled politely, the same way you always do. You’ve learned it’s not worth correcting them. Instead, you hang the blouse back up, smooth its sleeves, and continue folding shirts in the same gentle rhythm.

You’ve changed a little since Suho came into your life—well, not changed, more like grown into yourself. You’re still quiet, still introverted, still way too shy to make small talk unless it’s with someone over the age of sixty or a mannequin. But you’ve also learned to hold your head a little higher. You still hide behind your bangs sometimes, but now your lips twitch into a smile every time you remember Suho holding your hand behind the store and whispering:

“You’re my favorite person in the whole world.”

You’d nearly combusted.

This afternoon, Suho comes into the store looking stressed, his dark brows pinched and his school bag barely hanging onto one shoulder.

He weaves through the perfume counters, then the purses, skips the escalator, and takes the stairs two at a time.

You spot him before he even notices you, and you straighten the display quickly so it looks like you weren’t just admiring his walk.

He finally finds you near the cardigans.

“Babe,” he breathes, all flustered. “Do you… do you have your discount card on you?”

You blink, confused. “Uh, yeah? It’s in my pouch—why?”

He rubs the back of his neck, looking awkward for the first time since he met you. “It’s for Sieun. His shirt got ripped yesterday.”

Your eyes widen. “Ripped?”

“Bullies,” Suho mutters. “Some jerks at school. He didn’t want to tell me, but I saw the tear. Got it out of him. Then I told him we’re coming here, ‘cause you work here and you have that magic card of wonders.”

You chuckle softly. “It’s not magic, it’s a 30% employee discount.”

“Same thing,” he says with a smirk. Then, quieter: “You don’t mind, right?”

You shake your head. “Of course not. For you? For your friend? Anytime.”

He grins and kisses your forehead before dashing back upstairs. You watch him go, warmth curling in your chest.

A few minutes later, you spot them. Suho’s voice, animated and teasing, echoes down from the second floor. He’s pointing at something in the men’s section while another boy—shorter, quieter—stands with crossed arms, clearly unimpressed.

That must be Sieun.

You’ve never met him before, but Suho’s mentioned him lots of times.

"He doesn’t talk much."

"He’s insanely smart."

"He sees through everyone, like he’s reading your mind."

Also: "He never likes my girlfriends. But he will like you. I know it."

Sieun looks like someone who keeps his guard up by default. His expression is unreadable, lips pressed into a thin line. His uniform shirt is neatly ironed despite the tear Suho mentioned. He doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who asks for help.

But when they come down the escalator—with a couple of neatly folded shirts and a plain navy hoodie draped over his arm—you offer them your softest smile.

“Found everything?” you ask gently.

Suho nods and waves Sieun forward. “Go on.”

Sieun hesitates, then steps up and places the items on the counter. “Thank you,” he says, voice quiet but sincere. “I… appreciate this.”

You shake your head lightly. “No need to thank me. Suho told me what happened. I’m really sorry that happened to you.”

Sieun’s eyes flicker up to yours. You expect him to shut down, but instead, something in his expression softens. Maybe it’s the way you’re not making a big deal out of it.

Maybe it’s how your voice is calm, not pitiful. He watches you ring everything up, nimble fingers tapping on the register, checking tags and scanning like second nature.

“You’re fast,” he says suddenly.

You glance up, blinking. “Huh?”

“At this,” he says, nodding to the register. “You’re good at your job.”

It’s not flattery. It’s an observation. You smile a little, flustered. “Thank you.”

You hand him the final price—with your discount applied, of course—and bag the clothes neatly while Suho chats beside you about school, complaining about math. You catch Sieun watching you carefully, thoughtfully. Not in a creepy way, but more like… analyzing.

Later, after they leave, Suho texts you from the bus.

Suho 🤺: he likes u
Suho 🤺: he literally said “she’s not fake”
Suho 🤺: THATS A BIG DEAL
Suho 🤺: i think ur in the circle of trust now

You laugh so hard you nearly drop a stack of scarves.

A few days later, Sieun comes back. Alone. No Suho.

You spot him wandering the second floor and wave at him from across the balcony. He seems a little unsure of himself but eventually makes his way down.

“Suho had work,” he says as you approach. “But I needed another shirt. I didn’t want to go to another store.” I didn’t trust another worker with my cloths.

You smile at him, motioning for him to show you. “Want help finding it?”

He nods slowly. “If it’s not a bother.”

You lead him upstairs and help him check the racks. He’s surprisingly polite, following behind you like a quiet shadow.

You’re not sure what it is—maybe it’s his silence, or the way he watches things like he’s constantly solving a puzzle—but you find yourself talking a little more than usual.

“This one’s the same cut as the one you liked, but in black,” you say, holding a hanger up to the light. “I can check in the system to see if they still have the beige one, though.”

He nods, studying the shirt. “Black is fine. I trust your taste.”

You blink, a little caught off guard. “Oh.”

“I didn’t mean that to be weird,” he adds quickly. “Just that Suho’s style is… chaotic. Yours is calm. Balanced.”

You chuckle. “Yeah, he’s a little all over the place.”

Sieun looks at you, and for the first time, you see the hint of a smile tug at his lips. “But it works for him. He’s happier now.”

You glance at him, surprised. “Really?”

He nods. “He’s calmer. He jokes more. He used to get into fights all the time, not just with other kids, but with himself. Like he didn’t know where to put all the emotion. But ever since you… it’s like he found an anchor.”

Your throat tightens slightly. You weren’t expecting that.

“I didn’t do anything special,” you murmur.

“You did,” Sieun says, voice steady. “You’re kind. And consistent. He needed that.”

There’s a silence between you two—but it’s not awkward. It’s peaceful.

When you finish ringing up his items, he takes the bag with a short bow. “Thank you again.”

You smile softly. “Anytime, Sieun-ssi.”

As he turns to leave, he pauses. Then, without looking back, he adds, “For the record, I never liked any of his past girlfriends. But you…” He hesitates, then nods. “You’re different.”

Your cheeks burn with warmth as he disappears into the crowd.

That evening, Suho bursts into your messages again.

Suho 🤺: SIEUN TOLD ME WHAT HE SAID
Suho 🤺: do you know how BIG that is
Suho 🤺: he called you “consistent” 😭😭😭
Suho 🤺: I think he loves you more than me now

Wifey 🛍️: I just gave him a discount and helped him find shirts 💀
Wifey 🛍️: It’s not that deep

But deep down… it feels kind of amazing.

A week later, Sieun comes back again—this time with Suho. Suho‘s goofing off, nearly pushing Sieun into a rack near the escalator, but Suho stops to wrap an arm around your shoulders.

“My girl,” he says proudly, pressing a quick kiss to your temple. “You ready to discount us into fashion icons again?”

You roll your eyes, but your smile says everything.

Sieun shakes his head but smiles softly. “Honestly, I only come here now for the service.”

And you know, without question, you’re not just Suho’s girlfriend anymore. You’re part of the circle. Fully, finally, warmly in.

Thank you for reading!

Taglist: @ipushhimback, @ladyoflynx, @lewishamiltonismybf, @cmleitora, @same1995, @amatswimming, @llando4norris, @dr3wstarkey, @hurtblossom, @ernegren, @esposamultifandom, @darleneslane, @stxr-lilac, @geumseongjelicker, @itzzezraa

[valeisaslut]

࿐𝐔𝐍𝐒𝐂𝐑𝐈𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐃- 𝐜𝐡.𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞

⚢ 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆— Actress!Ellie x Actress!Reader

⊹ 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒 — a promise made under lamplight helps you survive: you were going to be stars, or at least work hard enough to try. But stardom doesn’t save you. It exposes you. Two weeks after the leak detonates their past into pixels and headlines, the fallout is nuclear and love—old, new, broken, bruised—won’t stay in its box. Old flames ache, new ones flicker, and when one last script lands like a match in gasoline, everyone has to ask—who gets to tell the story now?

⊹ 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓— 14,6k

⊹ 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 — chaotic and dialogue-heavy, funny moments, vulnerability, post-leak trauma, grief spiral, depressive episode, alcohol use, smut references (Ellie x reader/ Ellie x Dina), yearning as a disease, crying on friends, Chris, Rachel and Jesse being chaotic saviors, queer shame, outing (non-consensual), media harassment, past family trauma, i love snitching comedy in devastation, multiple POVs, AFAB!reader. minors and men DNI.

𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ⭒࿐

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐄𝐄

“𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐩𝐢𝐞𝐫𝐜𝐞 𝐦𝐲 𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐥. 𝐈'𝐦 𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐟

𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐲, 𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐟 𝐡𝐨𝐩𝐞.”

← 𝑐𝘩𝑎𝑝𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝒕𝒘𝒐 | 𝑚𝑎𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡 | 𝑐𝘩𝑎𝑝𝑡𝑒𝑟𝒇𝒐𝒖𝒓 →

“𝑇ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑 ℎ𝑎𝑣𝑒 𝑏𝑒𝑒𝑛 𝑛𝑜 𝑡𝑤𝑜 ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑡𝑠 𝑠𝑜 𝑜𝑝𝑒𝑛, 𝑛𝑜 𝑡𝑎𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑠 𝑠𝑜 𝑠𝑖𝑚𝑖𝑙𝑎𝑟, 𝑛𝑜 𝑓𝑒𝑒𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠 𝑠𝑜 𝑖𝑛 𝑢𝑛𝑖𝑠𝑜𝑛, 𝑛𝑜 𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑡𝑒𝑛𝑎𝑛𝑐𝑒𝑠 𝑠𝑜 𝑏𝑒𝑙𝑜𝑣𝑒𝑑...”

𝐓he tripod was crooked, as always. 

One leg shorter than the others so the camera leaned just slightly, catching the room at a tilt, like even technology was conspiring to remind you that your life had never been level. Ellie crouched on the floor, twisting the plastic knob to tighten the hinge, muttering something under her breath about how Craigslist had robbed her blind for a hundred bucks.

It was the same camera. The same one that had caught the flush of your cheeks under her, the grainy sound of your laughter spilling against her throat, the sweat on your skin. 

But now it was going to catch something else: two kids too in love and too broke to know any better, trying to convince faceless strangers on the other side of a casting call that they could be anybody but themselves.

“Okay,” Ellie said, standing up with a little grunt, brushing her palms against her jeans. She tilted her head at you, eyes glinting in the lamp-light. “You go first.”

You sat cross-legged on the floor in front of the couch, script pages trembling slightly in your hands. The scene was supposed to be for a low-budget horror—something about a group of friends in a cabin, a killer, and the role you were auditioning for was the scream queen who lives long enough to deliver the final blow. The paper smelled faintly of printer ink and dust, like everything else in the apartment.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you mumbled, tucking your hair behind your ear, already nervous.

“Like what?” Ellie smirked, plopping herself on the couch cushions and leaning forward, elbows on her knees.

“Like you’re about to roast me.”

She grinned wider, teeth flashing. “Baby, I would never. You’re the star of the show.”

You narrowed your eyes, but the laugh still slipped out, delicate and unwilling. You lifted the first line, let it drop from your mouth, but the words sounded wooden in the stale air. Your hands fidgeted, your throat felt tight.

Ellie tilted her head. “Hey. Don’t think so much. Just—say it like you’d actually say it. Like—fuck the lines, ya’ know?”

“Yeah, easy for you to say,” you muttered, pressing the edge of the script to your lips, half-hiding your smile.

Ellie leaned back, hands spread wide as if she was magnanimous. “Fine. Watch me then.”

She snatched the script out of your lap and flopped dramatically onto the floor, rolling onto her back with one hand pressed to her chest. 

“No, Jason, don’t go in there!” she wailed, voice high and absurd, “The killer is—” She broke off into laughter, clutching her stomach. “Okay, okay, maybe not like that.”

You dissolved too, falling sideways into the cushions, tears stinging at the edges of your eyes from laughing so hard. “You’re insane.”

“Yeah, but you love me,” she said simply, rolling onto her side, chin propped up on her hand. She was looking at you with that expression—the one that made your stomach flip every single time, hey green eyes glinting when they caught yours.

The laughter softened. Your smile lingered as you adjusted your posture, script crumpling in your lap. You tried again, this time looking past the words, trying to imagine the terror, the grief. It was shaky, but it was something. Ellie nodded, her mouth twitching upward.

“Better,” she murmured. “But…” Her eyes sharpened, mischief curling at the corners.

“You remember when you didn’t get Glinda in junior year?”

The words hit like a pinprick. You froze, blinking at her. 

“Ellie.”

“Hey, don’t kill me,” she said quickly, holding her hands up in mock surrender. “I’m just saying… you cried so hard. Like—ugly cried. And that’s the kind of energy we need here.”

You swatted at her knee with the back of your hand, but the memory already bubbled up—the fluorescent lights of the auditorium, the squeak of sneakers on stage, the name called that wasn’t yours. You’d walked home that day with your throat raw and your face blotchy, Ellie trailing behind you the whole way. She cracked the most stupid jokes ever heard every step, failing to keep you from collapsing completely.

You swallowed, blinking fast. “Fuck you.”

“Perfect,” Ellie leaned forward. “Do it again.”

You did. And this time, the tears flowed freely, the words catching in your throat in a manner that felt too real, too familiar. You concluded the line with your voice trembling, and Ellie’s smile shifted into something deeper—pride, wonder, love.

“See?” she whispered when the scene was done, leaning over to peck your damp lips. “Told you you’re a star.”

You shoved her shoulder lightly, “Your turn.”

Her audition was for the drama, a slow-burn suspense, the kind of role that lived and died in the silences between lines. The lead was an intelligent woman, her charm only a mask for something feral lurking beneath. Ellie sat cross-legged on the carpet in front of the couch, script clutched in her hands, the corners torn from how long she’d been worrying them. She tapped it against her knee like she always did when she was restless, the rhythm betraying her nerves.

“…You sure you see me for this part?” she asked suddenly, peeking up at you through her lashes. “Feels backwards. I should be in the horror, and you in the drama.”

You leaned forward, chin propped on your palm, watching her with an expression that was half fond, half exasperated, all affection. “Babe. I know. You would rock a drama, even more than you think.”

She narrowed her eyes, unconvinced, but looked back at the page.

When she started, her voice was low and even, each syllable precise, as if placing bricks in a wall. It was good—controlled, careful—but it wasn’t alive. The words sat on her tongue instead of burning through it. You crossed your arms, waiting for the spark. It didn’t come.

“Too stiff,” you said flatly.

Ellie’s head snapped up, glare cutting sharp. “Oh, so you’re the expert now?”

“Yes,” you said, completely deadpan, stretching the word out like it was fact carved in stone. Then you lowered your voice into mercilessness. “And if you don’t put your all in this audition tape, you’re not munching for two weeks.”

Her eyes went wide, green sparking in the lamplight. “You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.”

For a beat, the room held still—the blinking red light of the camera, the hum of the old lamp, the tap of her foot against the rug. Then Ellie’s throat worked, jaw locking tight, and her eyes began to glisten. You bit your lip, fighting the laughter, but she turned back to the script with a glare sharp enough to split you open.

When she spoke again, her voice cracked—just slightly, just enough to bleed.

You smiled as she finished, clapping slowly, your smile syrup-sweet. “Damn, babe. That was incredible. Guess threats work better than encouragement.”

Ellie tossed the script down like it had betrayed her, cheeks flushed, eyes still wet. “You’re evil.”

“And you love me.”

Her sigh was long, dramatic, like she was carrying the weight of the entire world. Then she leaned back until her head landed in your lap with a thunk, staring up at you upside down. “Yeah, but that doesn't mean that i'm wrong.”

You laughed, reaching for the camera and flicking it off; the red light died, leaving only the warm glow of the lamp. The sudden stillness felt sacred. No blinking lens, no silent witness, just you and her and the hush of a city filtering in through cracked windows.

Your fingers slipped into her auburn hair, twisting gently through the strands until her eyes softened, still glistening from the performance you’d dragged out of her. She let them fall shut with a sigh, as if the world had finally gone quiet. 

Ellie then cracked one eye open, her gaze catching yours. “We’re gonna get these parts,”

You snorted. “One of us, if we’re lucky.”

“Both,” she insisted with that stubborn fire of hers. “Because the universe owes us. Because we’re fucking unstoppable.”

You bent down and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Fine. But if I don’t, the munching ban goes into effect.”

She groaned, rolling her eyes, though her smile betrayed her. Curling into your stomach, cheek pressed against you, she muttered, “Oh. So you hate me.”

“I could never,” Your voice almost whispered, as your fingers threaded idly through her hair. She stayed in your lap, one arm crooked behind her head, the other draped possessively across your thigh—territory she had claimed years ago, never needing to renegotiate.

The lamplight made everything seem delicate — the sweep of her lashes, the scatter of freckles across her temple, the slight sheen of her bitten lip. She looked impossibly young and impossibly certain, her body heavy against yours, her breathing steady. She looked impossibly real.

“What happens when we’re famous?” you asked suddenly. The question slipped out quiet, tentative, as if voicing it might shatter the moment.

Ellie cracked her other eye open, squinting up at you. “When,” she repeated, slightly mocking.

“Yes, when,” you countered, flicking her forehead. “Play along, loser.”

She smirked, closing her eyes again as if to see the future better that way. “Okay… when we’re famous… we live in some glass house in the Hills. The kind everyone pretends is modern, but really it’s just a giant fish tank.”

You tipped your head back against the couch, laughing. “And we get robbed instantly ‘cause everyone can see our shit.”

“Exactly,” she grinned. “But we don’t care, because we’re making ten million a film.”

“Ten?” you gasped, feigning outrage. “Ellie, please. Think bigger. Hundreds. They’ll be throwing Oscars at us.”

She hummed like she was weighing the math. “Fine. Hundreds. And we get matching Oscars, obviously.”

“Obviously,” you echoed.

The room went quiet again, filled only with the hum of the fridge in the corner, the occasional rush of a car outside.

“We’d still be us though, right? Even if we’re… big.”

Your hand stilled in her hair when her voice came. She was nineteen, sharp and brilliant and fragile in ways you didn’t know how to shield. You tilted your head down until your eyes caught hers.

“Yeah,” you said, sure in that way you only are when you’re young and in love. “Still us. Always us.”

She blinked at you, as if imprinting the promise, then smiled that crooked, lopsided smile that you loved. “Good. ‘Cause I don’t wanna get famous if it means I can’t come home and eat cereal on the couch with you.”

You tugged lightly at her hair. “That’s your big dream? Cereal and a couch?”

“Hey, don’t knock it. Some people would kill for this lifestyle.” She gestured around at your crooked little apartment—the peeling wallpaper, the leaning bookshelf, the stained carpet.

You both broke into laughter, the kind that curled you over each other, the kind that made your ribs ache. When it faded, Ellie reached up blindly until her fingers laced with yours, warm and sure.

“No matter what happens,” she said quietly, “we’re not letting nothing break us.”

Your throat tightened. She meant it. She always meant what she said, her words always held more certainty than time and life and destiny itself. And in that moment, with her head in your lap and the lamplight painting the room gold, you believed her.

You kissed the crown of her head. “Never,” you whispered. “We’re unstoppable, remember?”

Her smile spread slowly against your stomach. You sat like that for a long time, wrapped in a silence too full to be empty.

“Can we watch La La Land again before I have to return it?”

“You already know the answer.”

“...𝑁𝑜𝑤 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑦 𝑤𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑎𝑠 𝑠𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑛𝑔𝑒𝑟𝑠; 𝑛𝑎𝑦, 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑠𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑛 𝑠𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑛𝑔𝑒𝑟𝑠, 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑦 𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑 𝑛𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑏𝑒𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑒 𝑎𝑐𝑞𝑢𝑎𝑖𝑛𝑡𝑒𝑑. 𝐼𝑡 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑎 𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑝𝑒𝑡𝑢𝑎𝑙 𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑛𝑔𝑒𝑚𝑒𝑛𝑡.”

— 𝑱𝒂𝒏𝒆 𝑨𝒖𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒏, 𝑷𝒆𝒓𝒔𝒖𝒂𝒔𝒊𝒐𝒏.

𝐓wo weeks. 

That was all it had been. Two weeks since the video detonated like shrapnel through your chest, since the ground under you split open and swallowed whatever life you thought you had left. 

Your apartment stopped feeling like home. It became a cage lined with shutters and blinds. The sidewalk below turned into a hunting ground, clogged from sunrise to midnight with paparazzi packed shoulder to shoulder, their cameras lifted like rifles, every lens locked on your windows. 

Even the sound of them—shutters clicking, voices shouting your name, the scrape of shoes on pavement—bled through the walls until you swore you could hear it in your sleep. The first time you tried to go out for groceries, the flashes hit you so hard you staggered backward, vision spotting white. After that, you stopped trying. The fridge emptied, the air went stale, the curtains stayed drawn. Days passed without you stepping past the door frame.

The crying wouldn’t stop. It came like the tide, dragging you under at unpremeditated hours. Sometimes in bed, fists tangled in the sheets, pillow damp and clenched tight against your face. Sometimes in the shower, shoulders shaking while steam fogged the mirror, hot water beating down until your skin burned. Sometimes in the middle of the day, a sob ripping out of your chest so sudden it startled you. 

You told yourself it was your career—that it was over, that the world had finally decided it had no use for you anymore. And maybe that was true. 

But in the quietest hours, you knew it wasn’t just that. 

The grief you couldn’t even think of without unraveling had a name and a face. 

You haven’t seen Ellie since the conference room. When the doors shut, she walked one way, you walked the other, and the world made sure there was no way back.

But you can’t stop replaying every fragment: the cadence of what she said, the raw edges of what you said back, the silence that hung between like a wound that wouldn’t clot. You keep thinking about the way she smelled when you held her—same cologne you choose, threaded through with a note that was hers alone, familiar enough to undo you. The memory burns, steady and unbearable. 

And you can’t stop yourself from thinking you would give anything to bury your face in her shoulder now, to press yourself into the hollow there until the rest of the world dissolved.

The agency didn’t waste time. The calls started the next day, executives huddled in glass towers you’d never set foot in, spitting words like scandal and liability. They debated cutting you loose, making you vanish before the damage bled further into their profits. 

Rachel fought until her voice broke. She fought harder than you could, harder than you knew how. She shoved back until they offered what looked like mercy but tasted like ash: another contract.

You saw the clauses yourself, whispered them under your breath as you traced each line with trembling fingers. The contract was no longer about projects or opportunities, it was about control. You weren’t just theirs to sell anymore; you were theirs to stage, to sculpt, to suffocate. They called it a “rebrand.", but you knew it wasn’t rebranded. 

Chris was part of that script. More standing at his side, more staged photos and red carpets, more glossy smiles and kisses pressed against his cheek for cameras you hated. 

One clause said it outright: appear publicly with Christopher Parker in order to reaffirm stability and trust with the audience. Stability. Trust. Words that meant nothing and demanded everything. 

Rachel tried. God, she tried. She argued across long conference tables, her voice cracking and, insisting you couldn’t be shackled to a lie forever. But the executives didn’t care. They wanted contracts honored, profits salvaged, damage reversed. They wanted to hold you tighter, not looser. And in the end, Rachel’s voice broke against a wall that wasn’t meant to move.

Chris agreed, of course. Chris always agreed. He said he didn’t mind, that it was fine, that he understood. Maybe he was pleased, maybe this was easier for him than it was for you. He said you’d get through it together. He said all the right things. And you—you were too tired to argue, too hollow to fight. You nodded, you signed, you let the ink seal the coffin.

And so your life went quiet.

Quiet except for the rumors, the comments you read and then couldn’t unsee. Threads dissecting your life in real time, strangers pulling apart your body, your choices, your past. Everyone suddenly a detective, a judge, a biographer of a life they’d never lived. 

And all of it orbiting one thing: your sexuality.

A part of you wanted to scream it from the roof, to tear the curtains wide and say yes, that was me. That was her. Her. To let it stand in the open instead of festering in the shadows.

But another part of you—older, wearier, carved hollow by your family’s judgment, by your agency’s careful scripts, by even your own insecurities—knew better. Knew how dangerous honesty can be. 

Even if you hate it, you can’t picture a world where you aren’t standing beside a man, can’t imagine what it would mean to face the storm without that buffer. To walk into it alone.

And so you swallowed the truth. You signed the statement. You played the part. And still, no matter what words you released into the world, people decided they already knew you. They wrote their own version of your life and handed it back to you, like you had no say in the matter at all.

Quiet. Quiet except for the mob outside your door. Quiet except for the choking hum of your own thoughts. Quiet except for the static of what you’d lost and what you’d never get back.

You’re curled on the couch, face buried in the same pillow you hadn’t washed in days, raindrops slapping against your windows when the back door creaks open. For half a second your stomach clenches—paparazzi, a break-in, the worst. Then the sound of whispered bickering floats through the hallway, the clumsy shuffle of feet, the faint clink of glass bottles.

“Shh, you’re stepping on the bag!” Rachel hisses, her voice sharp as a slap.

“I’m stepping around the bag, hoe” Chris whisper-yells back, dramatic as ever. “And by the way, this is the least stealthy operation I’ve ever been part of.”

You sit up just as they tumble into view, arms full. Rachel has three bottles of wine tucked under one arm like ammunition, a pizza box dangling precariously in the other hand. Chris trails behind her, carrying a paper bag that smells distinctly like garlic knots, his grin already too wide for the room.

“Surprise, bitch!” Rachel sings out the moment the door swings open, hip cocked, stiletto heel nudging it shut behind her with practiced flair. 

Always stilettos, always. Even for a midnight ambush. Her brunette bangs blown out to perfection, her blazer crisp as if she’d just stepped off a magazine cover instead of into your wreck of an apartment. Rachel. Immaculate, impossible. 

She flashes a wicked grin, eyes sweeping the room. “Bet you thought you’d seen the last of us.”

You blink, disoriented, the silence in your chest breaking just enough to let a small, fragile smile slip through—the first time your lips had remembered how in days. “Hey, guys…”

Chris gasps as if he’d just won the Powerball. “She smiled. Oh my God, she smiled. Rachel, did you see that? My work here is done. I can ascend.” 

His blond hair sits glossy and styled, not a strand out of place. Versace shirt gleaming, not a wrinkle in sight. Chris. Diva. Always a diva—walking into a crumbling apartment like it was the Met Gala, every move choreographed, every sigh an aria.

Next to them you feel homeless, hollow-eyed in your sweats. 

With a dramatic flourish he drops the bag on the coffee table, fanning himself wildly with one hand as though on the verge of swooning. “Saint Christopher, patron of lost divas, signing off.”

Rachel rolls her eyes so hard you swore they’d never recover. “Jesus Christ, you’re insufferable. Sit down before you sprain your gay little wrist.”

“Gay big wrist, thank you,” Chris corrects, planting himself on the arm of the couch with all the grace of a Broadway star between acts. “You’re looking at the future Mr. Henry Cavill. He just doesn’t know it yet.”

Despite yourself, you huff a laugh. Rachel smirks, satisfied, and drops the pizza box on the coffee table with a loud thunk. “There. Carbs and alcohol. The two pillars of survival. You’re welcome.”

Chris immediately snatches a slice, holding it up like an offering. “You want me to feed it to you? Say the word and I’ll Lady and the Tramp this bitch.”

“For fuck’s sake, Chris. She’s depressed, not feral.”

He pretends to swoon into the cushions. “Rachel, you’re killing the vibe. I’m trying to distract our girly pop from the hellscape outside, and you’re over here auditioning for the role of the biggest byotch.”

The room quickly fills with their bickering, their ridiculous back-and-forth, and for the first time in what felt like years the silence in your apartment turns into noise. You curl your knees up to your chest, pizza warming your hands, and let yourself laugh—quiet at first, then louder, until it felt like something was loosening inside your chest.

Rachel pours wine into three glasses she found in your kitchen, sliding one into your hand with a firm look. “Drink. Doctor’s orders.”

When your glass clinks against theirs, the sound is warm, solid. For a brief moment, the paparazzi didn’t exist, the internet didn’t exist, the leak didn’t exist. 

Until 1 am. Because by 1 am, the three bottles of wine were gone—90% your fault—and the pizza was just a grease-stained box on the table. The apartment was thick with that late-night hush, rain still pouring outside but muffled like you were in some fishbowl separate from time.

You’re drunk. But not the glittery, high-heeled, Kesha kind of drunk. Not the hot girl, knees on the floor, Megan Thee Stallion drunk. This is a sad, heavy kind of drunk, where the air presses down instead of lifting, where your laugh sounds foreign in your own mouth. 

Depressed and repressed drunk.

You sit cross-legged on the couch, glass dangling between your fingers, eyes glassy. Chris sits sprawled across the rug like a Victorian heiress, one arm draped dramatically over his forehead, while Rachel perches in the armchair as your overworked therapist, swirling the red in her glass with the severity of a judge.

Your voice cracks open to talk, again. Alcohol always made you talkative, and you damn sure had a lot to talk about.

“And yeah....” you exhale, rubbing your temple, “that was me and Ellie. And we dated. I'm ready to spill the tea.”

Rachel raises an eyebrow. “Groundbreaking revelation. Thank you, Sherlock.”

Chris gasps, clutching his chest with sarcasm. “Dated? You mean the sex tape was not method acting?”

You tip your head back, eyes closing as if going back in time. “We dated for six years. Yeah, six—you didn't hear wrong. Met at fourteen in drama club. She had these… Super-Man boxers, like, y'all know those with the cartoon all over them? I found them so cool. And the worst jokes. And these… freckles… God, those stupidly gorgeous freckles. She was so… so pretty. She was it for me. Loser and all.”

Chris lets out a dreamy sigh. “Ugh, freckled loser. Always the downfall.”

You lean forward, your inexpressive face from hours before now suddenly animated, pointing at them with the neck of your empty bottle. “And she liked when I wore my retainers! My retainers! Who does that?!”

Chris’s eyes go wide. “Wait. You had braces and retainers?!”

“I was so fucking ugly,” you groan, falling back against the couch cushions. “I swear to God, I had the biggest glasses. Like, telescopes. My hair was so ugly too, and I had the worst acne. I was a total loser too. Now, I'm a proud ex-loser.”

Rachel swirls her wine. “Oh honey, you’re still a loser. You just get paid more now.”

You bury your face in your hands. “And I was so fucking gay. Like, aggressively gay. We were so gay we made scissoring look straight.”

Chris lets out a shriek, slapping the floor. Your laugh cracks into a hiccup, then softens. “We waited two years. Two fucking years before we… y’know.”

Chris perks up. “Two years?! What were you doing? Hand-holding? Y’all were loser lesbians final boss.”

“Shut up,” you mutter, but your smile wobbles. “It was the backseat of her dad’s truck after prom. We won prom queens even though we didn't even run, and I swear I still stare at that polaroid all the time. She ate me out bad. Like, objectively bad. We didn’t even know how to scissor, but I still came because I liked her THAT much… it was magical.”

Chris flings a cushion over his head. “Noooo, not ‘being each other's first time’!!”

Rachel rolls her eyes, but her smirk twitches. “Backseat of a truck. Original.”

You exhale, reaching for your glass even though it was empty. “I wonder how Joel’s doing…”

Chris tilts his head. “Who 's that?”

“Her dad.” Your throat tightens. “I wonder how he’s doing after his daughter won a fucking Emmy. She—she won an EMMY! She didn’t even want to do dramas! She was like, ‘I’m gonna be Hugh Grant, babe. I’m gonna fall into a pool in a rom-com.’ And I was the one who told her she could do drama. Me. And then she goes and fucking wins an Emmy. And the worst part? She totally deserves it! She's so talented it makes me wanna DIE.”

Rachel exhales like smoke. “Hugh Grant? That tracks.”

Chris mutters under his breath, "I told you she killed it in Backstage..."

You laugh weakly, then press your sleeve to your face. “Wait, where was I? Yeah, so… we moved into this horrendous apartment after high school. Like, crooked walls, smelled like mold, the whole deal. I swear it was as big as the kitchen here. We were so broke I had to beg my stupid ass mom for cash every week—she hasn’t even called me now, by the way—and she only gave me like twenty bucks, like that fixed anything!”

Chris’ mouth curls, sharp as a paper cut. “Mothers are a scam.”

“Exactly!” You drag your palms down your face, fingers digging into your temples as if you could press the ache out, feeling tears slowly but surely forming.

“We literally ate cereal for lunch and dinner. But she—” your voice cracks as the more you talk, shattering mid-syllable, “she was so pretty, so fucking pretty. She still is. And funny, and kind, and stubborn. We were happy, even with no money and no idea what the fuck we were doing, because we were so stupidly in love. It was enough. Then we made the tapes, and suddenly we could pay rent… and we fucked every day, it was so fucking good—like crazy fucking levels of good, she made me come like crazy, and I was so—” 

You choke on it, eyes squeezing shut, “I was so fucking happy.”

The room goes still. Even Rachel doesn’t have a quip locked and loaded.

Your lip trembles, breath snagging in your chest, and then it breaks. The sob rips out of you, raw and jagged, tearing its way up like glass in your throat. You fold in on yourself, small and ruined, wine-slick tears running hot down your cheeks as the words keep spilling, faster than you can catch them. Confessions and secrets you've harbored in the most profound depths of you for far too long, desperate to break free through the re-opened cracks.

“And now I’m rich and hot for society. I have diamonds, rom-coms, and fucking magazine covers, and I swear I was happier back there. Not having anything. Not having money. Just having her, waking up next to her, breathing the same air of that moldy apartment with the ceiling leaking and my stupid two-dollar coffee. I was so happy, and couldn’t even realize it. I thought Hollywood was gonna fix me. I thought LA was gonna make me happy. I convinced myself all these years that I could leave my past in some fucking box, cut my hair different, do photo shoots, forget about musicals, forget about my family, forget about drama club, forget about her—"

You wail and press your hands hard against your chest, as if you could hold yourself together. "But I can’t.”

“And then—then... and now—now… SHE’S JUST BACK!” You slam your palm weakly against your knee, voice cracking. “And the whole fucking world knows what we were—but they don’t know. They think they do. They know that we fucked, but they don’t know what we were. Because I’m not allowed to say it."

Rachel leans forward, eyes sharp, voice quieter than usual but no less cutting. “You are allowed to say it. You just did. That’s not going anywhere.”

But you can’t stop. The words tumble out, wine-slick and ragged. “I feel so... exposed. So ashamed. Everyone saw me—saw us—like that. People are talking about me, about my sexuality, every time I open my phone it’s rumors and comments I can’t unsee. And I keep thinking—why me? Why is this happening to me? Haven’t I given enough? Haven’t I already bled enough for this career?”

Your chest heaves, sobs clawing up your throat. “And the worst part is—” your voice breaks into something guttural, “I always hated my body. Always. Since I was a kid. Too much this, not enough that. I hated looking at myself, and now the entire fucking world has seen me at my most raw, my most—vulnerable. I feel like I’m on display in a museum of shame. Like they’re all pointing and laughing.”

Chris doesn’t even hesitate. He climbs onto the couch like a kid clambering into a blanket fort, wrapping his arms around you with ridiculous, exaggerated care. “Shhh. Shhh, diva. Cry on my Versace. It’s fine.” He rocks you gently side to side, humming something off-key. You gasp out a wet, broken laugh into his chest, but the sobs keep shaking you.

Rachel sets her wine glass down, leans forward, and plants her hand steady on your knee. “Listen to me. You are human. And people who pretend they’ve never had sex, never been messy, never been vulnerable—they’re lying. The only shame here belongs to the people who stole from you. Not you. Do you hear me?”

You shake your head against Chris’s shirt, voice muffled. “But everyone saw—every flaw, every angle I’ve hated my whole life—”

“And they’re still breathing, aren’t they?” Rachel cuts in, voice sharp but warm underneath. “They didn’t explode from the sight of you, because there was nothing to survive. You are beautiful, you always have been. You’re the only person in this entire world who can’t see it.”

Chris pulls back just far enough to cup your cheeks with both hands, forcing your tear-smeared face up toward him. “She’s right. You’re hot, babe. Even when you’re ugly-crying. Especially when you’re ugly-crying. Vogue could do a whole spread"

Rachel smirks, though her thumb rubs soft circles against your knee. “If you cry on my Louboutins, though, I will bill you.”

That earns another hiccup-laugh out of you, even as tears keep streaking down.

Rachel exhales, eyes softening for once. “And about Ellie... people keep thinking love disappears. It doesn’t. It just changes costume. It sneaks in your life and puts on a new wig. Sometimes it’s ugly, sometimes it’s unbearable, but it’s not gone. And shame? Shame is the same thing, it’s just an old script you keep performing.”

Chris gasps dramatically, eyes wide. “That was poetic as fuck. Who are you and what have you done with my Rachel?”

“Shut up,” she says flatly, though her gaze stays locked on you, steady and unflinching. “I’m trying to save her from drowning in her own melodrama.” Then, softer, “You don’t have to swallow it, you don’t have to spit it out. You just… have to carry it until it stops being this heavy. And it will. I promise.”

Chris presses his chin to the crown of your head, murmuring through your tangled hair. “And until then, I’m available for unlimited hugs and duets where we both scream Adele until the neighbors call the cops.”

Rachel snorts, but squeezes your knee tighter. “Pretends? Honey, I’ll disown you in public. But here, in this room—” her eyes soften again, “—we’ve got you. Always.”

The sobs slow, your breath hiccupping in shaky gasps, the storm still raging but quieter now under their weight, their hands, their refusal to let you drown alone.

You laugh through the sob, but it wasn’t even a real laugh—more like a broken hiccup wrapped in snot as you press harder into Chris’s shirt, voice muffled. “God… it’s 3 a.m., I should be like, dancing on a fucking table… instead I’m here being depressing as shit.”

Chris tilts his head, the way someone does when they’re about to lob a grenade without realizing it’s live. 

“Wait… is this why Rachel told me you and Ellie were hugging and crying the other day at that terrace? Like, you two have crazy lore. Rewind—dated for six years, you said? Fucking hell, that’s like a full lesbian timeline. That’s like… season one to season ten. That’s Grey’s Anatomy level.”

“Chris—” Rachel cuts in as she hears you starting to cry again. Her eyes narrow, shooting him a look across the couch. Her manicured hand waves behind your hunched shoulders like a warning sign. Shut. The fuck. Up.

But Chris was leaning into the bit, oblivious. “Like, goddamn. Six years is marriage length. That’s—like—taxes together length. Like, you probably had a joint Spotify account, huh? And Rachel tells me you were hugging her like it was the series finale—like, damn, girl, what happened, y’all were the blueprint.”

Your tears smeared against Chris’s chest as you sobbed even harder than before, mumbling into the fabric. “Six years. Six years, taxes together, and the spotify account we shared was paid by Joel. Six years and now I’m crying on your shirt, and Rachel’s threatening to sue me over her shoes, and none of this makes any fucking sense!”

Rachel shoots him a sharper look, mouthing stop. you’re gonna kill her, while her other hand smoothed gentle circles over your thigh. He raises his hands halfway in surrender but still whispers, “Sorry, sorry… but damn, six years is like—”

Rachel makes a face so deadly you’d think she was casting a curse, then leans closer to you, soft only for you. “Ignore him, darling. He’s like a drunk Wikipedia page with no citations.”

You groan, sinking even deeper into his chest, as if his shirt might just swallow you whole. Your fists bunch into the fabric at his collar like it's the only thing tethering you to earth.

“I HAVEN’T BEEN THIS SAD SINCE I DIDN’T GET GLINDA!”

Chris blinks, stunned, then bursts out laughing. “Oh my god.”

Rachel arches a brow. “Don’t encourage her. She’s about to go full theater trauma.”

But you're already spiraling, words tripping out between hiccuped, kid-like sobs. “Do you even know—do you even know how sad I was?! Nobody could play Glinda like me. NOBODY. I knew all the songs, I practiced in the shower, I had the hand gestures, Chris! The hand GESTURES!”

Chris gasps dramatically. “The hand gestures?!”

Rachel rolls her eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn’t fall out. “This is why she didn’t get the part. They could smell the desperation.”

“I wasn’t desperate, I was talented! I AM TALENTED! IT’S JUST THAT NOBODY CAN FUCKING SEE IT!” you cry, and before either of them can stop you, you lift your chin and launch straight into song—half-sobbing, half-singing, slurring the notes of Popular like you were on stage at the Tonys and also three bottles of wine deep. 

“POPULAR YOU’RE GONNA BE PO-PU-LAR—”

Chris glances helplessly at Rachel, who only rolls her eyes harder and hisses under her breath, “This is what happens when you let theater kids drink past midnight.”

Your voice cracks on the last note, and instead of winding down, you only crank the drama higher, throwing your arms wide like you're dying on stage. “AND NOW EVERYBODY KNOWS I GOT MY TITS DONE BECAUSE OF THE DAMN TAPE!”

The room freezes for a single, stunned beat. Then Chris sits straight upright, eyes as wide as dinner plates, both hands flying to his mouth. “I KNEW ITTTT!” he shrieks, the sound loud enough to rattle the wine glasses. “I fucking knew it, Rachel! You owe me fifty bucks!”

Rachel doesn't even flinch. She just sips her wine, utterly unfazed. “I ain't giving you shit.”

You wail harder, collapsing into the throw pillows. “It wasn’t supposed to be public knowledge! I was going to deny, deny, deny!”

Rachel groans, dragging her palm down her face. “God, kill me.”

“Oh my god, wait—” Chris cuts himself off mid-laugh, sitting bolt upright again, scandal lighting up his face like a Broadway marquee. He grabs your wrist dramatically. “Pause. Pause again. What happened to Abby Anderson? That hot hockey player you were fucking on the low?”

You only cry louder. “She fucking ghosted me! That fucking blonde bitch ghosted me!”

Rachel’s laughter breaks out sharp, incredulous, bubbling from her throat like champagne poured too fast. She slaps the table for emphasis, wine already sloshing dangerously close to the rim of her glass. “Oh, this is rich. You got ghosted? Sweetheart, people write sonnets about you. People fall at your feet on tiktok edits. Chanel and Dior are obsessed with you. And Abby Anderson just... walked out of the chat?”

“I hate you both!” you scream, words damp and pathetic.

Chris smooths your hair back in exaggerated, motherly strokes, rocking you like a toddler. “No, babe, no—you love us.” He kisses the top of your head with a loud, dramatic smooch that makes Rachel gag. “But also—ghosted? Ghosted? That’s like… illegal.”

“She didn’t even say bye,” you mumble, “Not a text. Not a fucking Post-It. Nothing.”

Rachel makes an exaggerated face of mock pity, pouting her lips. “God. Imagine being so emotionally constipated you ghost you.” She leans over, “Tell me on record, for the jury: was the sex at least worth the therapy bill?”

That only makes you cry harder, shoulders shaking so violently Chris glances up at Rachel in alarm. He mouths—what the fuck did you just say—but she only shrugs and grins at him.

“Okay, okay, I’ll stop,” Chris says quickly, tugging you closer when you let out another broken sob. “Forget them. Forget the blonde. Forget the auburn. Forget the lesbians. Abby Anderson and Ellie Williams can choke.”

“On what?” Rachel asks dryly.

“On regret!” Chris declares, clutching you tighter as if delivering a prophecy and taking care of his wailing baby. “On eternal lesbian regret!”

“ADD DINA WOODWARD TO THE CHOKING LIST!” you snap, stabbing the air with your finger.

Chris stops mid-dramatic sway, his eyes going cartoon-wide. Who’s Dina? he mouthS, scandal dripping off every syllable.

Rachel leans in without missing a beat, whispering sharp as a knife dipped in venom. “Ellie’s girlfriend.”

Chris’s jaw drops so hard it nearly hits the pizza box. He whipps back to you, eyes huge, mouthing with silent, horrified clarity: ELLIE HAS A GIRLFRIEND?!

Rachel just sips her wine like it was communion, head tilting, slow nod of disapproval.

“I HEARD YOU!” you wail, pointing at both of them as if the betrayal had been personal. “She has a model girlfriend! A MODEL, CHRIS. I—”

And a knock cuts through the room like a blade.

All three of you freeze, the kind of stillness that has its own weight. Rain threads against the windows—thin, steady needles—and somewhere down on the street a siren dopplers past, then the hollow quiet returnS. The knock came again, quieter this time, like whoever was outside was careful not to spook you.

Rachel slides off the armchair in one clean motion, mouth already primed for violence. She pads to the door, heels in her hand, peers through the viewfinder, and then snaps her head back to you, eyes large, incredulous. 

She mouths it, no sound, just the shape:

ABBY?

You sit up too fast, the entire room tilting. Your hands flew to your face, scrubbing at your cheeks, then yank your hair into something like order. You tug down your sweatshirt, pat the pizza crumbs off your thighs, will the wine out of your breath.

Behind you, Chris springs to life, scooping bottles and sliding them toward the kitchen like he clearing a crime scene. Rachel points at him, then at herself, then at the kitchen doorway. Hide. They ghost away, a rustle of fabric, a shared grimace, the clink of a bottle neck rolling against tile.

The knock came a third time. You swallow, set your shoulders, and finally open the door.

Abby stands in the hall with rain spangling her braided hair, a dark jacket clinging to the cut of her shoulders, damp jeans cuffed above boots that left clean crescents of water on the mat when you focus your view.

She looks annoyingly good, in the way people look when they don’t know what to do with their hands, all that size forced into apology. One hand grips a crumpled paper sleeve, and only then did you notice the bouquet—bright flowers in supermarket colors, daisies and carnations bleeding rainwater down the stems. The kind of gesture that looked clumsy, almost juvenile, but so earnest it lodged in your throat.

Her eyes find yours, then dip to your mouth, then back, as if she couldn’t stick to one place without burning herself.

“Hi,” she says, voice low, careful.

You stare. “Oh. Now you appear?”

The words land harder than you intend, but you don't pull them back. Abby flinches, almost imperceptible, fingers tightening around the wet bouquet, then nod once like she figured she deserves that much and steps past the threshold when you don't move to stop her. The smell of rain rode in with her, wet wool and pavement, the faint green bite of crushed stems, a little cold that made your living room feel smaller.

“Look,” she starts, hands flexing at her sides, bouquet dangling awkwardly now, “I’m sorry I didn’t text you. I’m so sorry. It’s just that everything is so… complicated. I should have. I should have, and I didn’t. I’m so fucking sorry.”

“How did you even get here? It's so late,” you ask, because it was easier than answering the apology. “The paparazzi—”

“Aren’t out there,” she says. “Not right now. Rain chased them, and your back alley’s blocked by a delivery truck. Your doorman—Gabe?—likes me.” A ghost of a smile that doesn't reach her eyes. “I brought him empanadas from the place on Ninth. He put me in the service elevator.”

You let out a breath that tastes like wine and nerves. “Well, you could have just texted.”

“I know.” Her voice is low, throat tight, the words almost drowned by the hiss of rain outside. A bead of water slides from the ridge of her eyebrow down to her jawline, glinting under the dim light. She doesn’t bother to wipe it away.

Her eyes lift to yours, searching, cautious. “I just… I just wanted to see you. Are you okay?” Her gaze drags over your face, lingering on the puffiness around your eyes. “You look like you’ve been...crying.”

You let out a brittle laugh, one with no humor in it. “Do I seem okay?”

The answer hangs sharp between you, and Abby shifts her weight, big hand flexing uselessly at the bouquet before she forces herself to still.

“I’m gonna be sincere, okay? Just… honest.” Her eyes flick away from your face, tracing the wreckage of the night—the empty glasses scattered across the coffee table, the wine bottle listing sideways in its cradle of napkins, the greasy pizza box half-collapsed in defeat. For a second she looks like she’s going to lose her nerve, but then she drags her eyes back to you.

“Watching that tape—even a few seconds—it was a lot.”

You stiffen. “We’re really doing this right now?”

“I don’t want to fight,” she says quickly. “I’m not accusing you of anything. I just— you never told me you dated another... woman.” A beat. “Her.”

“Me and Ellie were a long time ago.” Your voice comes out smaller than you liked. “This is… honestly? Ruining my life.”

“I know,” she says, and she meant it. You could hear the bruise in the words. “But still... you were never like that with me.”

Something in your chest tightens into a fist. “Abby, I don’t owe you explanations about my past. I had a lot with Ellie. We were together for a long time. And this—” you gesture vaguely towards the world, the window, the rain, the echo of a million hungry eyes “—this is the past coming back to eat me alive.”

Silence. In the kitchen, a bottle clinks once and goes quiet; Rachel’s face briefly edged into the doorway and vanishes, her mouth a flat warning line at Chris.

You look at Abby because you had to. “Also,” you say, “we never… you and me never dated.”

Her jaw works, a slow grind. Your honesty doesn't surprise her; it only hurts.

“I want us to,” she says, finally letting the sentence out into the room. “I want us to be more. I’ve been saying it for a while, and you keep dodging the question.”

You laugh—short, mean to yourself, and a little bit mean to her too. “You know how messy everything is right now.”

“I know,” she mutters, stepping closer without touching you. “And I’m sorry I made it messier by disappearing. I panicked. I was jealous. It’s ugly. I—” She exhales, then crosses the last inch as if it burned and put her arms around you, tentative at first, then firmer when you didn’t pull away. You can feel the petals caress and burn your back.

“I’m so sorry, baby,” she murmurs into your hair, voice breaking across the nickname. “I really am.”

You froze, words hanging between your bodies like a live wire.

You feel her heartbeat thumping against your ribs, profound and sincere. You feel your own heart racing, striving to catch up with a past that stubbornly refuses to remain where you left it.

“I forgive you,” you hear yourself say.

Abby’s breath hitches against your temple. She doesn't move, as if any shift would spook the moment. Her hands are big and careful at your back, the kind of careful that admits what it could break.

Over her shoulder, the kitchen doorway blooms with two faces for a single heartbeat—Rachel, eyes narrowed, reading every molecule of this like a contract; Chris, wide-eyed, clutching his still damp shirt as if it might lower him through the ceiling and out of this scene. Rachel mouths don’t, and he nods, swallowed, vanished.

You stood there in Abby’s arms and listened to the rain stitch itself across the city. Somewhere under your sternum, something softens; somewhere else, something bristles.

Love, says one part. Compromise, hisses another. Performance, says the contract folded like a blade in your desk drawer. Story, says the red light on a camera that wasn’t here anymore but never really left.

“I shouldn’t have made you apologize for my ghosts,” you say finally, voice rough. “But I can’t— I can’t carry anyone else’s certainty right now. I have none left.”

Abby’s grip eases, just enough to see your face. “Then let me stand here with you while you get it back.”

You almost laugh again. “You think it works like that?”

“No,” she says. “I just think it’s raining, and you’re alone, and you shouldn’t be.”

You look past her shoulder, past the damp strands of blond hair clinging to her jaw, to the window. The glass was black, a mirror smeared by storm, and your reflection was dissolving into the city lights. A blur. A smudge. A person who no longer recognized herself. Your throat aches from all the crying you’d done—hours, days, weeks of it. Crying you thought had wrung you dry, until tonight proved otherwise.

“I’m actually not alone,” you say, voice low but steady. You flick your eyes toward the kitchen. “Rachel and Chris are eavesdropping.”

A beat. Then, Rachel’s voice from behind the cabinet door:

“YES, WE HEARD EVERYTHING!” 

“Every single syllable!” Chris chimes in, sing-song. 

Abby startles, then laughs—a small, surprised sound that shook her head loose, softened her shoulders. She looks back at you with an expression caught somewhere between Jesus Christ and of course they are. The sound of her laugh fills the air, a foreign, fragile warmth after so many nights of static silence.

She steps closer, tilting her head until she could press her lips against your forehead. It was quick but heavy with something that felt like both a promise and a question she wasn’t ready to ask. When she leaned back, her eyes were steady. 

“Fine, then,” she says, quietly. “I’ll come tomorrow. We’ll… figure something out. We’ll find a way to be together.”

Her words hang in the air like steam from a kettle—visible, fragile, threatening to vanish if you don't believe in them hard enough.

You swallow, throat raw. “Okay then,” you say, matching her softness. “See you.”

Abby’s arms untangle from the hug, her hand fumbling as if she’d forgotten what she was holding. She lifts the soggy bouquet between you, petals bent. “These are for you, by the way.”

Your chest clenches as you take them. “Thank you,” you whispered. “I love them.”

She leans in and kisses you—soft, fleeting, but searing all the same. Abby lingers, her hand twitching like she wants to touch your face, to say your name again just to prove she still could. But she doesn't. She steps back, turns, and the lock clicks behind her.

For a long moment, it was only rain again. Rain and the faint hum of the kettle you hadn’t turned off, rain and the pounding of your heart against the echo of her words.

Then Rachel emerges from the kitchen, arms crossed, expression carved sharp, Chris trailing behind her, eyes wide.

“Well,” Rachel mutters flatly. “That was a fucking soap opera.”

Chris’s gaze drops to the bouquet in your hands, his nose wrinkling. “Oh, honey. Those flowers are tacky.”

“Seriously tacky,” Rachel adds with a scoff.

You groan, looking at the flowers in your hand, “Oh god—she tried!”

They exchange a look, more like a side eye, then in perfect unison:

“Girl…”

𝐄llie’s world stopped spinning the night the video resurfaced. 

The air in her apartment was stale, heavy with the kind of stillness that clung to the walls. The curtains had been drawn so long that daylight and darkness blurred together into the same flat shade of gray; the hours only announced themselves through the crawl of the clock hands, a merciless reminder that time was passing whether she moved or not.

Dina had her on ice law—cool, distant, nothing more than clipped words and silences sharp enough to bruise. And just like that, the one anchor Ellie thought she still had slipped loose, leaving her adrift. 

Outside her building, the swarm was constant. Paparazzi clustered on the curb like carrion birds, cameras primed, flashes ready. Their voices carried through the glass when she dared peek outside, shouting her name as though she owed them pieces of herself she no longer had to give.

Her phone never stopped. Erin called like clockwork, every hour, sometimes more, her voice clipped and demanding. Here’s what you have to do. Here’s what’s next. Here’s the statement we’re drafting. Here’s the fight I’m having with the agency so they don’t cut you. The calls stacked on top of one another until Ellie could feel her sanity fraying at the edges. The words blurred together into orders, corrections, negotiations—Erin always fighting, always strategizing, but never letting Ellie breathe. Each call left her rattled, her hands shaking, her chest tight with the suffocating weight of a life that didn’t feel like hers anymore.

She hadn’t seen you either. Not since you’d both walked out different doors and let the world devour you whole. She didn’t even let herself say your name aloud, as if it might summon another storm. 

But she couldn’t stop thinking about you. Your face bloomed in the dark whenever she closed her eyes. Your voice carried itself in the silence of her rooms, threaded into the walls. It was like a curse stitched into her skin—every part of her body remembered you, remembered the years, remembered what it felt like when life was simple and brutal and yours.

In the shower, she let herself break. The spray masked the sound, water scalding hot, steam turning the mirror blind. Her shoulders shook as she pressed her forehead to the tile, whispering excuses she didn’t believe.

It’s my career, it’s the contracts, it’s the future slipping away. But even as the words spilled out, the truth carved itself raw inside her: it wasn’t just the career. It wasn’t the roles she’d lose or the red carpets she’d never walk. It was the loss of you all over again, even more painful this time, because now the whole world knew what you once were to each other.

Ellie scrubbed her palms over her face until her skin went raw, as if she could rub you out of her memory, out of her bloodstream, but nothing worked. When she stepped out of the shower, dripping, hair plastered to her face, she carried you with her. Into bed. Into the kitchen. Into every fucking room. 

A ghost that wasn’t a ghost at all, because you weren’t dead. You were just unreachable. 

And that was worse.

By midnight, Ellie had worn a track into the apartment. Back and forth, back and forth, her nerves sparking under her skin like faulty wiring. By one a.m., she’d decided. By two, she was already halfway down Ninth Street in a cab, hood pulled low, denim jacket zipped to her chin, baseball cap shadowing most of her face. No makeup, no jewelry, no hint of the Ellie the cameras wanted. Just someone trying not to be recognized, just someone trying to outrun herself.

She stopped at a corner bodega before she hailed the cab, the fluorescent light bleaching her skin in the convex mirror above the register. She grabbed two six-packs without thinking, like muscle memory, like old nights when beer was the only thing that could slow the thrum in her chest. The guy at the counter didn’t look twice—just slid the bottles into a brown bag and handed them back. For a moment, the simplicity of it almost broke her.

The cab smelled like cigarettes and stale vinyl. She kept her head angled toward the rain-streaked window, watching the city blur, every passing block heavy with memory. Her heart knocked against her ribs like it wanted out. 

When the driver slowed in front of Jesse’s building, she shoved a handful of crumpled bills at him before he could even tell her the fare. She wanted out of the cab, out of the night, out of her own skin.

The stairwell smelled the same. She kept her cap low, clutching the bag of beer. At his door, she hesitated. The hallway light flickered overhead, and she counted one breath, two, three, then raised her knuckles and knocked.

It took a moment. Then the latch clicked and Jesse appeared, hair sticking up, eyes bleary, hoodie thrown over whatever shirt he’d fallen asleep in. He blinked at her like he wasn’t sure she was real. “Ellie?”

“Hi. I, uh—I want to talk.” She lifted the bag in her hand, sheepish, voice low. “I brought beer.”

For a long second, he just looked at her. Then his mouth tugged into something that wasn’t quite a smile, but wasn’t quite pity either. He stepped aside, the door creaking wider. “Come in.”

Jesse’s apartment was warm, lived-in, the kind of place you could tell had been built piece by piece. Not as big as Ellie’s loft, not nearly as expensive, but it had heart—plants leaning toward the window, books stacked sideways on shelves, a guitar propped against the wall. He’d made good money since Backstage, more than Ellie ever expected. He had potential, she thought, a career ahead of him. The kind of clean, forward path she couldn’t see for herself anymore.

Two beers in, Jesse was loose, shoulders relaxed, sipping at the bottle in his hand like he was pacing himself. Six beers in, Ellie was gone. Elbows on the kitchen island, cap tossed aside, hair a tangle. 

Her words poured out without filter, tripping over themselves, chasing one memory into another, her voice rising and breaking as though she couldn’t keep up with what was spilling out of her.

“So yeah…” Ellie says now, waving her bottle like it was a conductor’s baton, slurring just a little. “We dated. Me and her. God, Jesse—she was so pretty. She still is. She looked gorgeous even with those fucking retainers in, and the braces before that, and the biggest glasses you’ve ever seen on a human face. Like, cartoonishly big. And I—” Ellie slaps the counter, nearly knocking over her bottle for emphasis.

“I used to sketch her all the time in my notebooks. Like, pages. Like a creep. I was such a fucking dork. Still am. Still a loser. And Jesse—” she points at him like she’d just caught him in a lie, “I used to jerk off just thinking about her smile. Her smile, Jesse. Who the fuck does that? That’s not even horny. That’s like—pervert shit with a cherry on top.”

Jesse raises his brows, smirking. “You’ve always been a hopeless romantic. Just, y’know, the version with cum stains.”

Ellie barks a laugh, then groans, dragging a hand down her face. “Exactly! Cum-stained Romeo. That’s me.”

She tips her bottle toward him as if she was confessing in church. “I had Superman boxers, Jesse. Superman boxers and forty comics in my backpack at all times. And she—she still looked at me like I wasn’t just a loser. Like I was… I don’t know. Like I was something.”

Her voice softens, broke at the edges. “It was like—wow. You know when someone just wows you? That was her.”

“Fourteen, right?” Jesse asks, rescuing another empty bottle before it went rolling.

“Fourteen. Drama club. I saw her once and that was it. Since then, we didn’t spend a single day apart.” Ellie’s eyes glaze, words spilling faster, as if the story was dragging her along instead of the other way around. “We went to prom together. We slow danced. I rigged the entire vote to make her prom queen because she said it was her dream. Never told her. Then we had our first time in the backseat of my old man’s truck.” 

She laughs through her nose, almost fond. “We scissored. It was magical.”

Jesse winces, and then chuckles. “TMI, El. I don't need this mental image.”

She ignores him, plowing forward. “Then we moved into this tiny-ass apartment that smelled like mold, but Jesse—listen to me—I have never, ever been so happy. Just me and her. Me and her and nothing else. And it was enough.” she leans closer, eyes glassy, “But nobody called us back. Not one audition, not one callback, we were broke as fuck. Couldn’t even afford ramen some weeks.”

Jesse tips his chin, trying to keep her tethered. “But you figured it out, right?”

“Yeah.” Ellie’s laugh is jagged, like glass in her throat. “We made the tapes. My idea, of course it was my fucking idea. Who else would it be? She never would’ve. She was smart. Smarter than me. Always smarter. And I thought I was being clever—like, ooh, indie porn star, rent money, whatever—but it was stupid. I was stupid. She loved musicals, Jesse. Do you get that? Musicals. We watched La La Land and she cried all five times I made her watch it. Five times, five. And every time she looked at me with those big wet precious eyes like it was the end of the fucking world.”

“You made her watch La La Land five times?” Jesse said, horrified. “Honestly, I’d dump you.”

Ellie wheezes out a laugh, half sob. “Shut up. She loved that movie.” Her words trip over themselves, spiraling faster now. “Wait—where was I? Yeah—the tapes. We uploaded them, made money for rent. And we fucked every day. Every damn day. It was so good, Jesse. I don’t even have words for it. Like, stupid good. Like, life-ruining good.”

Jesse sat back, quiet, letting her run, his beer untouched on the counter.

Ellie’s voice cracks lower, taking a false swig of her empty beer. “They’re still on my iCloud because I’m the shittiest person alive. Like, I never deleted them. I couldn’t. I still can't. And sometimes—fuck—sometimes I jerked off to them. A thousand times, maybe more. Sometimes I’d jerk off and then cry. Or cry first and then jerk off. Like, which order even matters? I’m a sick fuck. The sickest fuck.”

Jesse drags a hand down his face, muttering into his palm, “Bro, you need therapy, not more beer.”

“And not even one year later, she has a boyfriend!” Ellie bellows suddenly, slamming her bottle against the counter so hard the sound cracked through the apartment. “A BOYFRIEND! Can you believe that shit? She’s out there doing these silly-ass rom-coms with her Brad Pitt-coded man, like she didn't wake up next to me every day. Doesn’t add up, Jesse. It doesn’t fucking add up! GOOD LUCK, BABE!”

“Good luck… babe?” Jesse echoes, lips twitching. “Brad Pitt-coded? What does that even mean?”

“It means he looks like he’s allergic to real problems,” Ellie snaps, tears streaking hot down her cheeks. “It means he gets paid ten million to stand around looking tall while she—she—is carrying the whole damn movie on her back. And she could do so much better! She’s so fucking talented! She could do dramas, she could win awards, she could win everything. I know it. I fucking know it. But instead, she’s parading with him and turned herself into some kind of sex symbol.”

Ellie’s voice shreds on the next words, breaking open completely. “And me? I’m here. Drunk as fuck. Talking about Superman boxers at two a.m. With you.”

She tips forward onto her folded arms, forehead pressed against the cool marble of the island, shoulders trembling with a laugh that was way too close to a sob. The sound echoes small and pitiful against the clean kitchen, bouncing off tile and stainless steel. Jesse just stares at her for a long moment, the weight of all those years spilling across the counter between them.

Finally, he clears his throat. “And what about… Dina?”

Ellie groans like the name itself had a physical weight, then lifts her head just to slam it back down against the counter. 

Thunk. Again. Thunk. Again. THUNK—

“Okay, okay—okay!” Jesse yelps, half-laughing, half-panicked, lunging across the island to grab her by the back of the head before she cracked her skull open. “Jesus, stop trying to concuss yourself in my kitchen.”

Ellie lifts her face, cheeks blotched pink, her forehead pressed red from where she’d been knocking it against the counter, eyes bleary and glassy. For a second she looked wrecked, frayed at every edge.

Then, like nothing happened, she dragged a fresh beer out of the half-empty carton, hooked the cap against her teeth, and cracked it open with a sharp pop.

“She has me on ice law, can you believe it? Like—frozen. Siberia. Bare minimum.” Ellie flings her free hand up, almost sloshing beer onto the counter. “She saw the tape and now she doesn’t talk to me except for these little snarky comments.” Her laugh comes out bitter, hollow. “And I mean, I get it. I do. What the fuck do you even say when—when that—is everywhere? I wouldn’t know how to react either.”

She tips the bottle back, throat working as she swallows hard, then drags her sleeve across her mouth. Her eyes catch Jesse’s—glassy, sharp, fractured. “It’s so… intimate,” she rasps. “It was only mine. Ours. And now it’s everywhere, even when our agencies scrubbed it, deleted it, nuked it from the internet—they still saw it. It makes me want to fucking vomit knowing everyone saw us like that. Saw her like that, and I can’t do anything about it.”

For a beat the apartment hummed quiet, just the fridge buzzing low and the rain pattering against Jesse’s windows. “Okay. But how does that make you feel, El?”

She let out a jagged breath, eyes darting to the counter, anywhere but him. Her voice cracks open when she speaks. “Disgusting. Ashamed. Exposed. But she's in the most vulnerable position. And I—” she swallows hard, shaking her head. “I don’t know. It’s like I flinch every time I remember, my own body rejects the memory.”

Jesse’s jaw works, but he doesn't joke this time. He reaches out, resting a steady hand on her wrist where it pressed against the cold marble. “Ellie… you can’t keep taking the whole world on your shoulders. You didn’t leak it, you didn’t ask for this. People love acting like saints, it’s ugly and it’s cruel, but it’s not your fault, you hear me?”

Ellie blinks fast, her throat bobbing around the lump lodged there. She doesn't answer, but doesn't pull her arm away either.

Jesse exhales, rubbing his thumb against her sleeve. “Okay,” he says gently, like he knew she couldn’t handle more about that topic. “Let’s go back to Dina. How do you feel about her?”

Ellie blinks at him, mouth tugging like she wasn’t sure if she wanted to laugh again or fall apart. She twists the bottle between her palms. 

“I do… I do love her. I really do. But it’s different, Jesse. It’s—” she exhales sharply, words tumbling out, “you know how much Backstage fucked me up. And I’ve felt like there’s been this hollow inside me ever since. Like… a pit. And Dina was there for me when that happened, she held me up when I couldn’t even stand on my own. But even with her, I still feel like…” She swallows, trying to line the words up right. “Like I’m living life on automatic. Like my body’s moving but I’m not really there.”

Jesse nods slowly, eyes steady on her.

“And the Emmy…” Ellie’s voice cracks, her laugh bitter. “God, winning that was supposed to fix everything, right? Dream come true. And it did, for like five seconds. Then it all just crashed down again. Joy doesn’t stick to me anymore. It slides right off.” She sets the bottle down with a clink and presses her palms flat to the marble, “I can’t get my head out of that place, Jesse. I sunk myself so deep I don’t even know how to climb out.”

Her throat works around the next words, tear tracks running in her cheeks. “And now all this is happening—the tape, the press, the agencies—and I keep thinking, what did I do wrong? What kind of karma am I paying back? What did I break in a past life to deserve this shit storm?”

She drags her sleeve across her face, sniffs. “And she was there at that meeting, you know? And seeing her again was like…” Ellie trails, shaking her head, the beer-buzz shifting into something raw. “Fuck. Just… fuck. Like every feeling I’ve ever had for her just washed over me all at once. Drowned me. And then—” her voice drops to almost nothing, “she was gone, and I’m sure I’m not gonna see her ever again.”

Her hands tighten into fists on the counter, her shoulders hunching like she was bracing for a blow. The kitchen hung quiet, the air thick with it.

Jesse watches her cry in the silence, eyes red, knuckles pressed white against the marble. For a long moment he doesn't say anything, just lets her breathe through it, lets the storm burn itself out a little. Then he sighs and leans forward across the island.

“Ellie,” he says gently. “Hey. Look at me.”

She drags her head up, lashes wet, face blotchy.

He gives her the kind of look only Jesse could—half patient, half exasperated, threaded through with care so deep it didn’t need to be explained. “I know it feels like the world’s falling apart right now. I know it feels like it’s eating you alive. But listen—this can’t be the thing that brings you down. Not you. Not after everything.”

Ellie blinks at him, lips trembling.

“You’ve still got Dina,” Jesse presses. “Whatever you feel—messy, complicated, whatever—it’s real. She loves you. She’s there. And maybe it’s not the same as what you had before, maybe it doesn’t burn the same way, but that doesn’t make it less. Sometimes steady is what keeps you alive.”

He nudges her beer away, and curls his hand over hers until her fingers stopped shaking. “You’ve got a future, El. A real one. You can’t let this—” he jerks his chin toward the window, toward the noise of rain and paparazzi and chaos—“you can’t let this eat you. You’re bigger than a scandal. Bigger than a leak. You’re one of the best actors of your generation, and that's a fact. You’ve got too much ahead of you to bury yourself in what’s already gone.”

Ellie’s mouth twists, her voice breaking low. “But I can’t stop thinking about her. I feel so fucking guilty.”

“I know.” Jesse’s voice softens, firm but kind. “Of course you can’t. First loves are like tattoos—you think they’ll fade, but they don’t. They just change shape. But you can’t live in that ghost forever. You’ve got Dina, you’ve got a career people would kill for, you've got so many people that care for you. Don’t set it all on fire because of this.”

Ellie stares at him, wet-eyed, lips parting like she might cry again, but instead she lets out a jagged laugh. “You’re too fucking good at this pep talk shit.”

Jesse smiles faintly, squeezes her hand once. “Nah. I just know you, El. Better than most. And I know you’re stronger than this.”

The taxi’s headlights cut through the wet black of the street, hissing against puddles as it pulled away. Ellie stands in the hallway for a full minute after she’d paid the driver, her damp hoodie clinging to her skin, the beer sloshing stubborn in her stomach. She could already feel the excuse forming on her tongue like bad gum: I was with Jesse. I just needed air. Don’t be mad.

Her hand fumbles at the lock, keys rattling loud in the quiet building, and when the door gave, she slipped inside as quietly as her clumsy limbs would let her.

And there she was.

Dina.

Sitting upright on the edge of the bed, the lamp casting soft amber light over her face, shadows brushing under her eyes. She wasn’t scrolling her phone, wasn’t pretending to be distracted. She was just waiting, chin tilted slightly, gaze catching Ellie the second she crossed the threshold.

Ellie freezes like a kid caught sneaking in after curfew. “I—uh.” Her voice stutters. She scratches at the back of her neck, suddenly aware of the rain dripping off her hair, the smell of beer hanging on her breath. “I went to Jesse’s. Just Jesse’s. I should’ve told you. I know I should’ve. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“Ellie,” Dina says softly, her voice steady and low, cutting clean through her stammering. “I’m not mad.”

Ellie’s stomach twists. “You’re not?” She laughs nervously, fumbling with her hoodie zipper like a loser. “Because I swear it wasn’t—I wasn’t out, like, doing anything. I literally just sat there and drank too much and cried. That’s all. Nothing else. I promise.”

Dina’s expression softens, a crease appearing between her brows. She shooks her head. “I said I’m not mad. I’m not. It’s not about Jesse, Ellie. It’s about us.”

Ellie’s throat tightens. “Us?”

Dina pats the mattress beside her, eyes steady, asking without words. Ellie hesitates, then shuffled over, perching awkwardly at first, hands knotting in her lap.

Dina studies her for a long moment, then speaks slowly, like she’d been turning the words over in her head for days. “All of this—the tape, the paparazzi, the calls—it’s been… too much. For you. For us. And I feel like somewhere in the middle of it all, I lost you. Even before that. You’re sitting next to me but you feel… miles away.” Her voice catches, eyes glassy now. “And I don’t want that. I don’t want you far away from me.”

Ellie’s jaw works, useless sounds lodging in her chest. Dina presses on.

“I want you to trust me, Ellie. That’s all. Trust me enough to let me in, even when it’s ugly. Even when it hurts. You didn’t have to tell me about her—about… the past. I didn’t tell you about every person I’ve been with before you either. But when I saw the tape—”

Dina shuts her eyes briefly, shaking her head. “God, I was jealous, so fucking jealous. I hated myself for it, but I was. Because the way you looked at her… the way you two were—” her voice cracks again, but she kept going, “I’ve never seen it before, you know? And suddenly it was everywhere, shoved in my face. And I thought—Why aren't you like that with me? What if that’s a part of you I’ll never touch? What if I’m just holding the leftovers?”

“Dina—” Ellie starts, but her voice is hoarse, broken.

But Dina doesn't let her off. She leans closer, her tone firmer now, though her hands trembled where they clutched the blanket. “But then I remembered—everything that happened to you is horrible. Nobody deserves that. Not you, not even her. No one deserves to have their whole life blown apart like that. And I don’t want to be another person who makes you feel smaller, or guilty, or dirty. Because you’re not. You’re Ellie, my Ellie, and I love you. I’m here, and I want to stay here.”

Ellie stares at her, every nerve screaming, her chest tight with words she couldn’t form. She finally collapses down onto the bed beside Dina, like her body gave up pretending. Their knees brush. Ellie drops her face into her hands. 

“I don’t know how to do this,” she whispers. “I feel like I’ve been running on empty since Backstage. Like something inside me broke and I’ve been walking around hollow ever since. And the Emmy—it didn’t fix it. It was five seconds of joy and then—” she snapped her fingers, “gone. Right back to empty again.”

Dina’s hand creeps over, slow and careful, resting over Ellie’s clenched fists.

Ellie lifts her wet eyes, voice jagged. “And now all of this chaos happens, and I’m here, with you, and I don’t want to fuck that up. I don’t want to lose you, but I don’t know how to stop drowning in it.”

Dina’s eyes shine, but her voice is steady as stone. “Then don’t do it alone. Let me carry some of it. Let me in, Ellie. You don’t have to prove anything, don’t have to pretend you’re not hurting. You just have to let me stay.”

Ellie’s lips tremble. She lets Dina’s hand slide into hers, their fingers knotting. For the first time in days, the storm inside her quiets just enough for her to breathe. She slumps sideways until her temple presses against Dina’s shoulder, the familiar warmth breaking through the static.

“I don’t deserve you,” Ellie murmurs.

Dina kisses the crown of her head. “You’ve got me anyway.”

Ellie lifts her head from Dina’s shoulder, eyes still wet, lips parted like she wasn’t sure if she was allowed to move. Dina cupps her face with both hands, thumbs sweeping at the tear tracks. For a moment they just stared at each other—Ellie, cracked open and trembling, Dina steady and unflinching—and then Dina leaned in. The kiss was soft at first, cautious, tasting of salt and the faint bitterness of beer, but Ellie let out a low, broken sound and pushed closer, chasing more.

The warmth between them builds fast, like a match catching tinder. Dina tilts Ellie back onto the bed, fingers sliding into her hair, holding her steady as if she could anchor her there. Ellie clings like she's afraid Dina might vanish if she let go, their mouths urgent, teeth clashing, breaths hot. Her chest presses against hers, and for the first time in what felt like forever, Ellie felt present—fully in her body.

“I love you,” Dina breathes against her mouth, words spilling raw and certain. She said it like an oath, like she was stalking a claim on Ellie in that single sentence. Her hands roam Ellie’s sides, greedy.

Ellie stills for half a second, the words striking somewhere deep inside her chest, then surged up to meet Dina’s mouth again. “I love you too,” she whispers back, fierce, desperate, as if saying it back would make it truer. Her hands fist in Dina’s shirt, dragging her closer. 

Their kiss deepens, the weight of grief, jealousy and fear pressed out between their bodies until only heat remained. 

𝐀 week later, you're folded into the couch with Abby, the two of you pressed together more out of gravity than choice. Her arm drapes across your shoulders, heavy and grounding, her fingers idly toying with the seam of your sleeve. The TV hums in front of you, the carousel spinning endlessly—title after title sliding past and not catching your attention.

The cursor lands on La La Land. The neon poster floods the room in a blue-pink glow.

“Wanna watch this one?” Abby asks, tipping the remote toward you.

Your chest tightens instantly, sharp as a pin. You clear your throat, force your face to still. “Nah. Don’t like that one.”

She tilts her head, eyes narrowing just slightly. She notices the crack in your voice, but doesn’t push. She just clicks on, letting the film dissolve into the tide of forgettable options.

Then your phone buzzes on the coffee table, rattling hard against the wood. Rachel’s name flashes bright across the screen.'

You peel yourself out from under Abby’s warmth, padding into the kitchen with the phone pressed to your ear. “Hey Rach!”

“GIRL,” Rachel shrieks, voice shot through with caffeine and hysteria, “YOU WILL NOT BELIEVE THIS!”

You wince, holding the phone away. “Jesus Christ, what?”

“This director—this insane, award-winning, globally-fucking-renowned director—wants you for his next project. A romance. Not some formula Netflix garbage you've been doing. Real, capital-R romance. The kind critics call art, the kind that ruins marriages because everyone in the theater falls in love with you.”

Your knuckles dig into the counter edge, blood rushing to your ears. “Wait—what? You’re serious?”

Rachel barrels on, manic, high on her own news. “And not just romance, it's a musical remake. With grit, with darkness, with DRAMA. And do you wanna know what he told me? Do you?!”

Your knees wobble as you grip the countertop tighter. “What?!”

“He said—and I quote—if you don’t do it, the project doesn’t exist. Period. That you’re the only person who can play this part and this whole movie is hanging on you.”

Your forehead drops into your free hand. “No. No fucking way. That’s insane. You’re lying!”

Rachel nearly bursts through the line. “DO I SOUND LIKE I’M LYING?! He said you, bitch. YOU. Nobody else.”

“Oh my god,” you whisper, the words breaking apart on your tongue. “Oh my fucking god. Really? Really?”

From the couch, Abby calls carefully, “Everything okay?”

But you don’t hear her. You sprint back into the living room, fumble your laptop open, and the screen floods your face with light. Your inbox glows—an unread email sitting bold at the top. Subject line: Your Name. Attachment: Script.

“Rachel,” you breathe, not even aware of Abby staring at you now, her brows knitting. “It’s here. It’s actually here!”

“Open it, I’m staying on the line,” Rachel orders, breathless with triumph.

Your fingers shake as you click. The title page blooms onto the screen, stark black on white, your name stamped across the header.

For a second, your vision swims. The tears come hot, unbidden. Your hand flies to your mouth to muffle the laugh that bursts out, jagged and wet.

“Rachel,” you choke, tears spilling, “I’m actually fucking crying right now.”

Rachel’s grin practically crackles through the receiver. “Good. Cry, sob, break down. You deserve this. This is it, babe. This is the one.”

You stare at the glowing page until the letters blur, the sound of your own heart drowning out everything else.

Hope floods through you, dizzy and bright, tearing into all the wreckage you’ve been carrying. For the first time in years, it doesn’t feel like a lie.

𝐑ain still threads faint against the loft windows, a quiet percussion that seeps into the bones of the night. The room holds its own hush: books stacked half-fallen on the nightstand, the lavender scent of Dina’s lotion lingering, the sheets tangled around their legs from hours of not moving very far.

Dina leans back against the headboard with a book open across her lap, the spine cracked and the pages splayed. Ellie lies stretched out beside her, one hand laced over her stomach, the other wandering lazy circles along the hem of her shirt. For the first time in weeks, her muscles aren’t strung tight as wire. Her eyes track the ceiling like she’s searching constellations that aren’t there.

“You’re distracting me,” Dina murmurs without looking up. There’s no heat in it; the corner of her mouth is already curving.

Ellie grins, fingers drawing another slow pattern across Dina’s ribs. “Good.”

Dina huffs a laugh, nudging her with her elbow. “You’re unbearable.”

Before Ellie can shoot something back, her phone buzzes on the nightstand. The sound tears straight through the cocoon of quiet. The screen lights up: Erin.

Ellie groans, face dropping into the pillow as if she might prefer suffocating instead. “Nope. Not happening. Not tonight.”

Dina glances at the screen, then at Ellie, brow creasing. “It might be important.”

“It’s always ‘important,’” Ellie mutters into the pillow. “Never like, how’s your day, El? Want to talk about your feelings, El? Always calls and panic and damage control.”

“Answer,” Dina says, firm now. She closes her book, slides it onto the nightstand. “Humor her. Then you can hate it after.”

Ellie sighs, drags her hand down her face, and grabs the phone. She swipes to answer, voice sharper than she means it to be. “What?”

Erin’s voice filters through, clipped. “Ellie. A director just called me. He said he sent you a script.”

Ellie frowns, rolling onto her side, suddenly alert. “What? Who?”

“Some director,” Erin says, deliberately flat, like she’s trying to undersell it. “Apparently he’s… well, big. Whatever. It’s a romance script, I don’t know if that’s the right move right now. Also it's like... a musical remake? You do dramas. This isn't your brand."

Ellie pushes herself upright, sheets pooling at her waist. Her pulse spikes. “Wait. What do you mean ‘romance’? Who is it?”

Erin exhales, her voice thinning into static. “He told me he only wants you. That if you don’t do it, he’s not making the movie. But Ellie—romance is delicate. With your situation, the tape, the press—it could backfire. People will twist it. They always do.”

Ellie is already off the bed, feet hitting the floor. She crosses to the desk, grabs her laptop like she’s been waiting for this exact call all her life. “Hold on, hold on—you’re telling me a big director sent me a romance script and you think it’s not the right move? Erin, do you even realize what you just said?”

“And you finally gave me my laptop back,” she adds under her breath, flipping it open with shaking hands, but Erin doesn’t respond.

Her inbox springs alive, the glow bathing her face. And then she sees it. An email. Subject line bold with her name, attachment waiting like a blessing.

Her breath catches. “Holy shit.” She laughs once, disbelieving, her voice breaking. “Holy shit! Do you even know who this is? He’s not just famous. He’s a goddamn legend. The goat. What are you even saying right now?”

“I know who he is,” Erin replies, annoyed. “But listen to me—you can’t afford another storm. This could be a trap dressed as opportunity.”

Ellie stares at the screen, her whole body thrumming. Her thumb hovers over the email. Her jaw hardens.

“Erin. Listen to me for once.”

Silence.

“You manage my public life,” she says, voice low, each word carved sharp. “I manage my projects. That’s the deal, that’s how it’s always been, and that's how it's gonna be now. I’ll read this script, then I’ll tell you what’s happening. Not the other way 'round.”

“Ellie—” Erin starts, voice rising.

But Ellie is already hitting end. The screen goes black. She tosses the phone aside like it’s a mosquito and settles back onto the bed, laptop heavy on her knees. The unopened script glows against her face like a doorway.

Dina shifts closer, propping herself on an elbow, studying her with a gaze that’s equal parts pride and amusement. “You sounded hot just now.”

Ellie lets out a breathless laugh, dragging a hand through her hair. “Jesus, babe. If this script is half as good as I think… it could change everything.”

“Then read it,” Dina says, patting the sheets beside her. “And bring it here, so I can watch you freak out in real time.”

Ellie grins, sliding back under the covers, the laptop warm against her thighs.

Her pulse is racing, her chest too tight, but for once the weight doesn’t crush—it lifts. For the first time in years, hope feels like something she can touch.

࿐♡ ˚.*ೃ love you all endlessly—thank you so, so much for reading 💌

𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐌 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓— @talyaisvalslutsoldier @miajooz @andieprincessofpower @isabelckl @sunflowerwinds @coastalwilliams @thinkingabtellie @ssijht @pariiissssssss @liddy333 @sewithinsouls @beeisscaredofbees @d1catwhisperer @the-sick-habit @elliescoquettegirl @elliewilliams-wife @yueluv3rrrr @your-eternal-muse @ellies-real-wife @katherinesmirnova @ellies-moth-to-a-flame @thxtmarvelchick @natscloset @lesbiansreverywhere @satellitespinner @yunaversalluv @wwefan2002 @ilahrawr @harmonib @piastorys @azteriarizz @starincarnated @natssgf @ukissmyfaceinacrowdedroom @iadorefineshyt @claudiajacobs @urmomssideh0e @kingofeyeliner @womenlover0 @ferxanda @marscardigan @elliewilliamsloverrrrrrrr @bambi-luvs @maru0uu @mikellie @gold-dustwomxn @nramv @liztreez @eriiwaiii2 @les4elliewilliams @elliewilliamskisser2000 @azxteria @elliecoochieeater @doodl3b3ans @savagestarlight28 ࿐

[corinthianism]

SOMETHIN' STUPID || VIKTOR

pairing: viktor (arcane)/fem!reader additional tags: viktor's pov, viktor is a certified yearner, maybe ooc, unrequited love that's actually requited, no physical descriptions for reader other than having dainty fingers and being shorter than viktor, hopefully correct use of czech pet names, barely proofread synopsis: the ever-brilliant viktor finds himself drowning in feelings for his colleague, so what does he do? bury them, of course.... until he learns that love is not something you can just ignore.

author's note: hello everyone! it's been a long, long while since i've written anything so i thought i would try and see if the ol' writing machine (aka my brain) still works lol. this is more of a blurb than anything so please go easy on me. also trying out something new by writing in present tense (lmk if it flows well!) viktor might be a little ooc but i'm still trying to fully understand him. hopefully my characterization of him in future fics (if any) will be more faithful to the viktor you're all familiar with. anyways, enjoy 2k words of viktor yearning like CRAZY 🫶🏼

Viktor doesn’t know how much more of this he can take. How many more times would your eyes meet from across the room at one of those parties he never really wanted to attend in the first place? How many more times would your fingers brush in the early morning, when he accepts the steaming sweetmilk that you so kindly got for him? How many more times would your laughter intermingle softly late into the night, when exhaustion took over and your writing started to look more like chicken scratch rather than letters?

He might just go insane.

How was it possible to want someone this much? Maybe he’s experienced something like this before, in tiny amounts, for people he hasn’t thought about in years. Deep down, he knows that even if he added all of those fleeting romances together, it would still only be a fraction of what he feels now. For you.

He can’t pinpoint that exact moment in time when everything changed. There were definitely a few of those moments that stood out more than others, but none of those instances were the catalyst for whatever this is. But they certainly don’t help his case.

A few words of encouragement.

A book recommendation.

A smile— so soft, so intimate, he briefly allows himself to believe that it was meant just for him. Something precious for him to keep, to be his and his alone.

In the dim light of the lab, he finds you asleep on your desk. The humming glow of the hex crystals leaves you blanketed in a gentle blue. He’s heard tales of this before, from when he bothered to listen to such things. It would happen just like this, they said: his heart would beat so fast, it threatened to leave his chest entirely. His skin would burn with something unmistakable, a feeling that left one in a state of simultaneous confusion and clarity.

He feels it all now and he finds it polarizing. It’s too much and not enough. He chases and runs away from it at the same time. A part of him wants it to stop, to go away and leave him forever for the sake of ending this game he’s painfully losing… but a greater part of him hopes that it will grow and grow to the point where maybe you’ll notice and do something about it. His palms get a little sweaty just thinking about making the first move. Symptoms of a lovesick fool.

The soft sound of your breathing quiets the pounding of his heart, prevents the wretched feelings from overflowing and spilling everywhere. Even if it was just for tonight. Tonight, he keeps his lips sealed, fights to keep himself from reaching for you. It would be unbecoming of him.

His eyes land on you again, observing how your head rested on your arms. Understanding hits him then, why you’re so bothered by seeing him stay at the lab so late that he ends up falling asleep. That position couldn’t have been comfortable. Of course, he knew that from experience, but it’s your comfort he’s thinking about right now. He wonders if this is what you felt whenever you woke him up and implored him to go home.

Surely not.

No, he can’t wrap his head around you possibly viewing that act the same way he does. Not when he wants to bottle this moment, wants to capture the preciousness of seeing you like this. It just can’t be the same.

So can you really blame him if when he finally rests a hand on your shoulder to wake you gently, he lets it linger there for just a little longer? An infinitesimal piece of time that he claims for himself. He never thought himself to be the sentimental type, but he cherishes it all: he cherishes the way you blink slowly as you returned to the waking world, and your tired murmur of his name that makes his chest tighten.

It’s just a wisp of a moment, never really tangible enough for him to hold in his hands, but he cherishes it all the same. It’s burned in his memory, in his very being, the same way everything else about you is. Every piece of you that you so generously gifted him.

“You should go home, darling.”

The word slips past his lips before he could even think about it. But he allows himself this one indulgence. He can’t help it. He’s always been a bit greedy.

“What time is it?” you ask.

“Far too late for you to be here,” he answers.

You huff out a breath of a laugh, “That’s rich coming from you.”

He finds himself smiling. How does someone manage to be so endlessly endearing without even trying?

It takes an embarrassing amount of effort for him to pull back his hand from your shoulder. Had you been more awake and had the room been brighter, he might’ve schooled his expression into something more neutral. Something to hide the unbridled adoration in his eyes. He doesn’t do that now. With the shield of darkness to protect him, he lets the mask come off. He lets his affection for you wash over him in waves. It would’ve been liberating, if it wasn’t for the tiny detail that that affection was unrequited.

Still, he says your name with utmost care. “You must go home and rest.”

To his surprise, you listen. You mumble a tired "okay” and gather your belongings, slipping on your coat. “You should go home, too, Vik.”

“I will. Soon. I just need to finish a few things.”

Your face twists into a frown, “No, you’ll do that tomorrow.” Before he can interject, you speak up again, “Just… come with me? It’s late and I don’t want to walk home alone.”

His brain refuses to reconcile with what his eyes see: the trepidation written all over your features, the way you clutch the lapel of your coat just a little tighter. He knows it’s a trap, you just want to get him out of the lab but how could he possibly reject the promise of a few more minutes with you? The chance to pretend, even if it’s just for those precious few minutes, that he was taking you home as someone more than a colleague? More than a friend? Only a fool would say no to you. Or perhaps he was a fool either way. He really must be going insane.

He says yes almost instantly.

It’s cold in Piltover tonight. It makes his bad leg ache more than it already does, and so his strides are a bit more careful. He doesn’t say anything about how you also slow down to match his pace but he appreciates your considerate gesture nonetheless.

The moon hangs in the sky big and bright, making everything around you seem softer. It’s picturesque. Almost romantic. He tries his best not to entertain that thought for much longer. Instead, he focuses on what you say to him so he could ignore the traitorous thoughts his mind conjures up and the way his knees were protesting because of the cold.

Conversation with you is easy— terrifyingly so. It was one of the first things he noticed about you when you first met.

Early on in the process of finding sponsors and securing funding, him and Jayce quickly realized that they needed help. Yes, Jayce is a friend of the Kiramman family. Yes, Viktor is Heimerdinger’s protégé, but they’re academics. At the end of the day, Jayce’s warm personality could only do so much when he was still greatly inexperienced with navigating these more political spaces and for all of his experience and perceptiveness, Viktor knows he’s no good at sweet-talking sponsors, either.

Enter, you.

Caitlyn Kiramman was the one to recommend you, her former tutor. Jayce was quick to back her up, remembering that you were also Academy alumni; a particularly strategic businesswoman. Viktor was hesitant at first, knowing that a third party could complicate things. Hextech was born out of the dream to help people. He worried that bringing business and politics (even though he knew it was necessary) into the mix would warp Hextech into something it wasn’t. Jayce convinced him to take a gamble, and it seemed that the potential of Hextech was enough to bring you back to Piltover from your travels across Runeterra.

It took him a while to warm up to you. You weren’t nobility, but most definitely well-off. Even more so after your years as a business consultant to organizations all over the continent. He respected you, sure, but Viktor had a hard time trusting someone who was so… privileged. How could you possibly understand how important it was that Hextech remained a beacon of hope for the less fortunate? Perhaps it was naive of him to think that way, as much as he hated to admit it.

But true to your reputation, you delivered exactly what they needed. You bridged the gap between Viktor and Jayce’s hopes for Hextech and the support they needed from sponsors, protecting them and their inventions from being taken advantage of.

Suffice to say, you earned his admiration.

Never in a million years would Viktor imagine that you would captivate his entire being, too.

It was daunting. Scary, really. Especially now that he’s beginning to understand the full extent of his affections. Years and years of burying that softness from his youth deep beneath the armor of his intellect— all that hard work diminished by a pretty girl. Gods, he really is just a man. Not even that. With you, he feels like a highschooler with a crush. It’s painful. Downright humiliating. But he wouldn’t trade it for anything. Not when you link your arm around his, laughing at something he said. Was he really that funny? Probably not. He’s just happy to make you laugh.

“You don’t have to be nice about it. Salo is a grade-A asshole,” you grinned. “We both know it. If I have to spend another dinner with him present I might actually stab a fork in my eyes.”

He smiles, “Ah, but that wouldn’t save you from his incessant chatter.”

“I’ll stab the fork into my ears too."

“I might just follow after you,” he hums, “you’ll have to check if it works first, though.”

Your friendship blossomed when your visits to the lab became less for work and more for leisure. You wanted to visit, wanted to learn more about what he and Jayce were working on and why. Everything after that was just dominoes. You, with all your fiery passion and sharp wit, have become a permanent fixture in his life and now? He could hardly imagine life without you in it. You're one of his dearest friends and, much to his dismay, that makes his current predicament even more challenging than it already is.

Before he knew it, the two of you were standing in front of your apartment building— one of the most luxurious in Piltover. He could only imagine how much it cost, though he knew for certain that your penthouse probably barely made a dent in your wealth. He’s gotten somewhat used to your differing lifestyles, but he’s never completely able to not marvel at it. A gust of wind kissed his skin once more as he turned to look at you.

“This is me,” you say, gloved hands in your pocket and your lovely, lovely face framed by your hair and ruby red scarf. He recognizes it as the gift he gave you a year ago now. A spur-of-the-moment purchase on one of the rare occasions he was actually outside Academy grounds. He remembers thinking that the color would look nice on you. He was right. He finds himself holding onto the seconds before he has to go. “Thank you for walking me home, Viktor.”

“Of course,” he nods but the calmness of his voice don’t match the way his eyes bore into yours. “It’s only proper.”

“Proper?”

“Yes. Proper. I am a gentleman, after all.”

His accent comes out thicker, emphasizing the words more than he means to.

“I didn’t take you for someone who cared much about propriety,” you tease.

“Is it because I’m from the undercity?” he deadpans and he relishes in the look of horror on your face that replaces your grin.

“What? No!” you exclaim, smacking his arm when you realize he’s just joking. “You. Are. Impossible.”

A laugh bubbles out of his chest, “Oh, that’s cruel. You would hit a defenseless man? How heartless.”

“Shut up. That cane of yours is a weapon of war. Don’t think I haven’t seen you smack Jayce with it.”

“If I hit him with it, he probably deserved it.”

“Poor Jayce,” you laugh as well. “Remind me not to get on your bad side.”

Viktor smiles.

“I do not think you could even if you tried, lásko."

He freezes and so do you. The laughter—the music—that you shared for the briefest of moments was thoroughly snuffed out, leaving you both in a silence that threatens to swallow him whole. He didn’t mean to do that. He didn’t mean to speak so gently, but there is not a part of Viktor that could withhold this sincerity from you. Specks of the truth, of the confession he’s barely managed to wrangle into submission and lock away somewhere dark and unreachable.

He pulls back on instinct. He’s shown too much, said too much. You don’t move. He is petrified.

Your eyes widen and he sees his reflection in them, staring back at him. This is it, he thinks. He’s crossed the line and he’ll have to deal with the crushing blow of your rejection.

You manage to compose yourself and what you say next is… well, unexpected. Your tone is light, clearing the air and allowing him to breathe again.

“Do you say that to every woman or am I a special case? I’d hate to be part of a roster.”

He’s taken aback, but he feels a weight lifted off his shoulders. You are a miracle in his eyes. Washing away his worries with a kind smile and a few choice words. He laughs again and this time, he doesn’t stop himself from speaking the truth. It’s now or never.

“Surely you know by now that you are singular,” he whispers, his accent a pleasant drawl in your ears. He takes a step forward. It is gravity that pulls him in, not the Earth’s, but yours. A force that he can’t help but be drawn to. Not that he would ever dare to resist it now that his fear has shrunk down to something a little less debilitating.

His face is inches from yours. You don’t move. He gets a little braver.

“I do not appreciate your implication that I would pay attention to anyone else,” his voice is low, honest. “As if anyone could compare to you. As if you don’t hold my very being in the palm of your hand. Miláčku, I adore you. Don’t you know that?”

There is a hint of pleading in his tone, begging you to understand the full scope of his feelings from those few words so that he wouldn’t unravel before you, a bundle of nerves and petals the same shade as your scarf.

“Say something. Please,” his fear rears its ugly head once more. “Say the word and we’ll pretend this never happened. I will remain your colleague and nothing more. A friend, if you would allow it.”

“What if I don’t want that?” you ask, your own voice a little shaky with uncertainty. Maybe it was also fear. That, he’s not quite sure.

Viktor doesn’t fully trust what he’s hearing, thinks it to be a figment of his deluded imagination, but his heart is screaming at him now to push forward.

“What is it you want, lásko? Tell me and it shall be yours.”

You're almost breathless when you finally respond, “You. I want you."

The world stills. Time itself screeches to a halt. There is only you and him, together in this moment that he knows will be woven into the threads of his soul. He has never known euphoria quite like this. He can’t name it yet, doesn’t know if this is love. He can only hope that it will be.

When he looks into your eyes again, he does not see his own terrified reflection. He just sees you. And the sheer intensity of your gaze that rivals his own. Have you always looked at him that way? Was he just too blind to see it?

“Do you mean that?” he finds himself asking. He has to— has to make sure that this is real.

You smile again, dainty fingers intertwining with his. It is a gentle smile, a hopeful smile that answers his question before you even open your mouth.

“I do,” your voice is so gentle and yet it squeezes his heart. “I’m yours, Viktor, if you’ll have me.”

He brings your knuckles to his lips, places a reverent kiss on them like you’ve given him the world. In a way, that’s exactly what you did. Maybe his lips were always meant to be on your skin, worshipping you like the goddess you are. It feels too natural for it to mean anything else.

And for the first time in a long time, he allows himself to hope.

“I would love nothing more.”

[aperrywilliams]

That Wasn't Fake (Spencer Reid x Fem!BAU!Reader)

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Author Masterlist

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Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!BAU!Reader.

Request: Can you write a Spencer fic where the reader is kind of quiet and shy when she begins working at the BAU, and Spencer has a crush on her, and then they have a case, and she has to like to seduce the unsub lowkey and everyone kind of like...how is she going to do this shes not very outgoing but when she does shes really good at it, and everyone is surprised and impressed.

Summary:  You're shy and reserved. Spencer has a crush on you, and unbeknown to him, you have a crush on him. Maybe the cat can get out of the bag when you have to step aside of your comfort zone to catch an elusive unsub.

Word Count: 4.2k (no self control here)

Warnings: Words like 'fuck' and 'bitch'. A rant about self-doubt. Typical CM stuff: unsubs, killings, etc.

A/N: Another request I loved! It should have been a little shorter, but I'm having a hard time getting to the point these days. Please keep sending requests!

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Spencer knows it is inappropriate, but he can't help it. You're coworkers, and that itself sets a boundary, so he shouldn't be thinking of trespassing.

But the crush he has on you seems to grow every day.

He doesn't know if it is your beautiful smile, the kindness you show in everything you do, or the enthusiasm you put into every task you are committed to. Since the moment he saw you pass the bullpen glass doors, Spencer knew he was damned.

From that moment, Spencer knew he wanted to know you and learn everything about you. About what you liked, what you hated, and what your fears and dreams were. Everything.

But not much after that revelation in his mind, he understood it wasn't going to be easy to get to you.

You were extremely shy and reserved.

In fact, your first interaction - when Emily introduced you both - consisted of a wave of your hand and a timid 'nice to meet you.'

He thought as time went by, you would loosen and become less bashful and quiet. And in part, he was right. As the months passed, you began to feel more comfortable within the team. You laughed at Luke's jokes, you commented on Rossi's stories, and you could even - when the stars aligned - crack a joke yourself to Tara or Matt.

But beyond that, no one knew much about your life outside of the BAU, unlike JJ, who always talks about her kids and her husband, or Matt, who talks about his kids, too. Or Tara, who recounts her failed dates. Or the same Luke who always shows photos of Roxy.

You, on the other hand, seemed to be an enigma. But Spencer Reid loved decoding enigmas.

At first, he turned his interest in you out of mere scientific curiosity. However, internally, he knew it wasn't just that.

It started with small random questions about the times you worked together: Is this coffee okay? What was the last book you read? Do you think we should buy some donuts for the team?

If you were honest, it picked your interest why, from all people, Dr. Spencer Reid was so adamant in making conversation with you.

From what you knew and from what the team said, Spencer was not a person very interested in things other than work or books. But suddenly, out of nowhere, he asked you what the last movie you saw was or something like that.

You always answered his questions; however, you would have liked to be much more talkative and engage in longer conversations, but your nature stopped you.

'What if I don't have anything more interesting for him to say?'

'Does he just talk to me because he feels sorry for me?'

And that was the big issue: you have never had problems with the way you live your life. You're pretty satisfied with what you do in your job and out of it, too. But you have always thought you are too 'simple' to entertain people's interest.

And to be honest, being surrounded by people with so much experience and big things happening in their lives still intimidates you a bit. So, you usually refrain from talking too much about yourself or anything for that matter.

But with Spencer, things are a bit different. He's always checking on you but respects your boundaries. He has learned that sometimes you just don't want to talk, and he doesn't push.

Despite his interest beyond the professional, Spencer would never do anything to make you uncomfortable. Being able to share time with you will have to be enough for him.

In a way, he has become your protector. He is your backup during interrogations or in situations where you can feel awkward, like the times when some police officers tried to flirt with you and got too close. Sure, you know how to turn them down, but sometimes guys don't get the memo and keep pushing. You're too shy to yell or be aggressive about it.

The team also understands the way you are, and they know it does not make you any less professional. However, they have always been careful not to take you too much out of your comfort zone.

---------------

A whole two weeks and five murders later, the team is stuck trying to catch an unsub who has preferences for killing women after club nights. The profile says he is not interested in just any woman but in those between 25-30 years old who like to flirt with several men in the clubs. But it is not just any type of flirting; it is the type that is initiated and dominated by them. In short, he likes to kill women who are the opposite of submissive. He sees them as predators on a hunting ground.

Another finding in victimology is that the women he kills, in addition to having a specific age range, have very similar physical characteristics. And similar to you.

All his victims have your build, eye color, hair color, and height. It gets to be creepy to a certain point. And it's something difficult to ignore.

Bouncing information and possible strategies, the team agrees they need to be proactive to get him to show up before another killing happens.

"Okay, what options do we have?" Emily asks.

"The witnesses haven't gotten us anywhere," Luke complains.

"Although we've narrowed down his hunting grounds," Rossi shrugs.

"Yeah, we know the clubs where he likes to hunt," JJ backs Rossi.

"But although the profile, we have yet to learn about what to look for there. I mean, we know what the unsub wants, but not how he looks like." This time, it's Tara who speaks.

You've rarely seen Emily bite her tongue when she wants to say something, but it's clear that she has something on her mind, and she doesn't know how to put it, or maybe the problem is something else. You look at her out of the corner of your eye, and she looks back at you; what do those eyes say? They look like they're even apologetic.

It's a fraction of the time before she comes back to behave like herself.

"We need to lurk him. It's the only way," she says. And everyone's eyes - yours included - are on her immediately.

"Lurk him?" Matt repeats.

"Yes. And all we know who should be the one going undercover to do that," Emily adds, looking at you this time.

That's it—the elephant in the room.

Of course, you're the ideal candidate. Well, you're perfect in the physical aspect because if we talk about the victim's personality and yours...

There's silence in the room, and you can feel like the team's eyes are all on you.

Do they expect you to say no? To refuse? From your perspective, it's not a question; it's more like the option you all have to catch the guy.

"It's true (Y/N) would be the closest to the unsub type, but there are a lot of things to take into account," Matt says. And you know perfectly well what's behind his words, even if he doesn't say it directly.

And that's okay; it's perfectly plausible they have their doubts. It is not enough to look like the victims for the operation to work.

But if there is one thing you are sure of, it's that you will always give your all to your job, even if that means becoming a completely different person.

"I can do it," you mumbled so quietly that if the AC weren't in the lower setting, people wouldn't have heard you.

"But (Y/N), you know about this guy. It's dangerous," Matt points, a frown on his face.

"Not to mention he likes rough interactions," Luke adds.

"You don't have to do it if you feel uncomfortable." This time, it is JJ who voices her opinion. And you know, that's the closest reason to the team's main concern.

And the fact you can blow up the entire plan.

Spencer stays in silence. Internally he's freaking out thinking of you having to lurk on the unsub, but he knows you are a professional. And he feels a kind of deja vu.

When he was younger, the team would have said the same about him doing something like that. Spencer knows what it's like when people baby you, making you feel insecure. Sure, he hasn't had to worry about that anymore. Spencer is almost forty, and no one would dare to tell him he can't do something. Not after all the things he has been through.

"JJ is right, Bella. You don't have to do it. We can think of another way," Rossi backs JJ.

That's when Spencer notices the slight frown on your face. It's invisible to everyone but him. He knows it's there.

You stay collected, even when everyone on the team has something to say about how bad the idea of you going undercover to lurk the unsub is.

Emily is who stops everyone's rant.

"Guys, hey. If (Y/N) is telling us she can do it, we're going to do it. Of course, we'll be there to back up her and catch this unsub."

And this is how the discussion is settled.

Emily sends everyone out with a task to prepare for the night. Today is Friday, and the unsub will surely be stalking some new victim. The chances are high.

When it's just you and Spencer in the room, he still looks at you in silence.

"Do you also think I'll not be able to pull off this mission and I'm going to ruin everything?"

You downcast your gaze, exhaling deeply.

"No. I don't think that," Spencer clarifies, and you raise your gaze to meet his eyes. "You are more than capable, (Y/N). The team is worried because you'll be out of your comfort zone in a dangerous situation."

"The team? Not you?" You narrow your eyes to him.

You try not to sound accusatory, but if you're as scared as everyone, you also are fed up with the other's doubts.

Spencer closes the distance between you both but doesn't invade your personal space.

"Of course, I'm worried too! I don't want anything bad to happen to you. But I trust you and your judgment."

Your heart does flip-flops, and you're not sure if it's because Spencer is worried or because, despite that, he trusts you—or both.

"You do?" You ask, not so convinced.

Spencer nods and smiles at you.

"And we'll be there when you catch the guy."

If that is the reassurance you need, you don't mention it. Instead, you grin at Spencer as a promise you'll do your job just how you are supposed to.

---------------

You insist on getting ready in your hotel room. The only assistant you ask for is Emily. She was the one who trusted you first in this, so you'll take every piece of advice she can give you before this night starts.

Everyone has a role in the plan.

Rossi will be the chauffeur who will drive you to the club.

Luke and Spencer would be in the club, mingling with the patrons. JJ, Matt, and Emily would be in the van monitoring the whole situation with cameras and earpieces. Rossi would keep his facade as a driver so he could be at one of the entrances. Tara would be at the club, too, eyeing nothing suspicious going on in the bar because there is a chance the unsub is getting help from the bartender.

When you are in front of the mirror applying the last touch of makeup, Emily is looking at you with a stare you can't decipher.

"What?" you ask, and Emily chuckles.

"Please, don't take this in a bad way, but I never thought I would live the day of seeing you using clothing like this. And Jesus, you look so hot!"

Your cheeks redens.

"It's a little bit odd coming from my boss, don't you think?" you muse, smoothing the fabric of your dress.

"Point taken," Emily raises her hands in defense. "Although I know someone who is going to run out of breath after seeing you."

You let out a scoff. It's not a surprise for you. The BAU girls - boss included - have been trying to set you up with Spencer since forever. You don't entertain the idea only because you don't think it's possible and not because you don't like the concept.

"Come on, don't say that. You are not helping to my nerves."

"Sorry, I'll shut up. We should go, though," Emily says, checking her watch.

One of the SUVs drives you to the van parking point. You needed to review the operation details.

At the back of the van - or commander point - JJ, Luke, Tara, Rossi, Matt, and Spencer see you come up with Emily.

For the best US profilers, they're not doing a good job hiding that they are gawking at you. Surely, no one imagined seeing you in such a revealing outfit. Outfit that, without a doubt, suits you extremely well, highlighting all your body attributes.

Spencer feels like he died and was resurrected after seeing you.

"Okay, guys, we need to check the details again," Emily announces.

The plan is in motion, and everyone is in position.

As expected, you arrive with Rossi at the club, who opens the door for you and helps you descend from the car. Rossi gives you a reassuring smile before letting you go.

Like a switch, you are no longer the shy SSA (Y/L/N). Now you are the woman who is going to take what she wants and attract the unsub attention doing that.

Your walk is determined, and your eyes send out flames of confidence to those who look at you. The music is very loud, something that would usually bother you, but not now. This needs to feel like your environment. That's how you like it, you tell yourself.

Almost instantly, you start to attract the looks of men who are eager for a woman like you.

You exude determination, and you don't go unnoticed.

Walking into the club, you make brief eye contact with Luke, who is on the dance floor. You see Spencer perched in a booth, nursing a beer.

At the same time, Tara is stationed at the bar.

"Remember (Y/N); the unsub expects the woman to approach men. The flirt needs to come from you," Emily reminds you by the earpiece hidden in one of the earrings you're wearing.

"Show time," you mumble to yourself.

You walk seductively to the dance floor, where a young man is dancing with a blonde. You approach and whisper something in his ear. That makes the boy completely lose interest in the blonde and start dancing with you. You smile and cling to the man's body, who wastes no time and takes your hips as if they were his possessions.

That dance certainly has nothing innocent about it. You continue whispering things in the boy's ear, and he looks more and more excited. Once you consider it a reasonable amount of time to have attracted attention, you leave the boy alone and head to the bar. Just a few meters away from Tara, a suspicious man is staring at you. You see him out of the corner of your eye as you order a drink. When the bartender passes it to you, you make subtle eye contact with Tara, who nods, indicating that the drink is clean.

You look next to you and see another man not so subtly looking at you. You know the unsub's profile, and you can't be intimidated or dominated by another man. You are the one who calls the shots. Otherwise, this will not work.

Before the man makes his attempt to seduce you, you turn to him, and with a penetrating look and disdainful voice, you stop him.

"Sorry, honey. Don't waste your time. You're not my type," and with that, you leave to move to the opposite side of the club. The guy huffs, and you're almost sure hearing him call you 'bitch' under his breath.

JJ, who's following the cameras inside the club, sees someone who looks suspect.

"Hey, this guy has been peeking at (Y/N) the entire time, and look, he clenched his fists when (Y/N) turned down that guy at the bar."

Emily confirms JJ's observation before giving you the next instructions.

"(Y/N), you're doing great. We have a possible target. So we need to raise the bet."

You know exactly what Emily means. You both had talked about the strategy to follow, having more details about what you should do than the rest of the team.

Matt and JJ look confused at each other but say nothing.

Your next step is to find another dude to seduce before delivering the coup de grace.

Luke and Spencer keep an eye on you. And while Luke is pleasantly surprised by your audacity, Spencer can't help but feel his stomach tighten. He tells himself it's because he is afraid something bad could happen to you, but inside of him, it's that and the fact of seeing you flirt with other men.

Just like you did with the guy on the dance floor, you attract the attention of another man; this time, you take his hand and pull him to the dance floor.

JJ and Matt's jaws drop to the floor. If Tara, Luke, and Spencer could do the same without giving themselves away, they would have done it, too.

As if it were your second nature, you laugh and move to the music. The man seems to enjoy the moment so much that he takes a bold step by leaning in to kiss you. You let him get closer until his lips are almost on yours. But before touching each other, you pull back with a malicious smile.

"Naughty boy. I'm who says if you can kiss or no," you pout, faking disappointment. Dizzed, the guy cocks his head and sees you walk away.

Matt chirps now. "It's him. Look boss," he tells Prentiss, pointing to the same guy JJ saw before.

There is no longer any doubt that it is him. Now you just have to catch him red-handed.

"(Y/N), we got him. It's time for the last play," Emily tells you.

With Emily's instruction, you go to the bar for another drink before heading over to where Spencer is sitting.

He tries to play it off, but he has no idea why you're approaching him.

"Is this seat taken, handsome?" You ask, with your drink in hand.

"N- no. Please," Spencer gestures to the booth on his front, but you opt to perch to his side. Spencer thinks he never has been this close to you. He looks at your eyes, and it's like you are a totally different person. It's a little bit contradictory for him, to be honest. He already likes you just as you are, but this version of you? It's driving him insane.

Some resemblance of your true self looks with a kind of curiosity the nervousness on Spencer. You don't think much about it; you assume he's playing the nervous guy who is baffled by you.

The thing is, Spencer isn't playing. He's definitely baffled by you.

"Are you okay?" You ask him, masking your question with a seductive smile.

"Yeah. Are - are you?" Spencer stutters a bit—something that is perfect for the plan but embarrassing for him.

You get closer to him to speak in his ear.

"This was Emily's idea," you tell him before kissing his ear and gently biting his lobe.

Spencer's breath hitches in his throat, and he thinks he's going to pass out any second. You're not doing it better: your heart is also pumping hard from the adrenaline. Of course, you had imagined something like that with Spencer, but only in your erotic dreams. You wouldn't dare do this on any given day.

You keep teasing Spencer, who, despite the nervousness, tries to play along. If this is the closest he will ever have you, he wants to engrave this in his memory.

"Just a little push, (Y/N). We almost have him," Emily instructs by the earpiece.

You swallow as subtly as possible as you wrap your arm around Spencer's neck, pulling him closer to you.

It's only a second between that action and the fact that you're kissing Spencer like it's your last meal.

Spencer doesn't know how to respond, and you were counting on that; it was enough time for the unsub to notice that you were the one who chose her last prey.

When Spencer is about to reciprocate the kiss, you murmur a 'sorry' into his lips and quickly pull away, giving him a disdainful look—which you hope he understands is fake—before getting up and walking toward the back exit door.

As expected, the unsub follows you towards the back door, and while your back is turned, he believes he has the advantage to attack you. What he doesn't know is that Matt and Luke are ready to lunge at him the moment he tries to touch you.

Everything that happens after is too fast.

The unsub is detained and taken to a patrol car while the team gathers around you, congratulating you on the successful operation. They all apologize to you for their previous apprehensions. You tell them that you understand and that there is no need to apologize. And it's like the switch has been flipped again since you came out of the femme fatale role.

But something is wrong. Spencer is not in the group. You see him a little further away, near the exit door of the club. Emily notices the looks between you both, and she sends the team on different tasks to close the case, leaving you and Spencer there.

There's something in his eyes that you can't decipher. You think it's resentment for using him without warning him what you were going to do.

You shyly approach him.

"It's me again," you tell him, pulling a face. You don't know what to say to make the situation better. Spencer nods.

"Yeah. You did it great, by the way," he compliments you. But it doesn't feel good like Spencer's compliments usually do.

"Look, about the kiss back there-" you start. He needs an explanation as a bare minimum.

"I know. It was fake," Spencer cuts you off.

Those words shouldn't hurt you as they do now. But isn't that the most reasonable thing to believe? The you in the club weren't you, so all you did inside was pretend.

Everything except that kiss.

If it's true you couldn't enjoy it the way you would have liked, you will never forget his lips on yours.

A tense silence takes over the moment. This is not okay.

You can't afford to lie to one of the most important people in your life, even if telling the truth takes you out of your comfort zone.

What the hell! Tonight has already been a total of 180 from a usual day for you.

"It wasn't," you mumble, and you see his eyes flicking to yours in a second.

"What?" Spencer asks, narrowing his eyes at you.

"Everything was fake, but not the kiss," you say with a stadied voice this time.

Spencer's heart races again. If you say you didn't fake it, then what he felt on your part at that moment was real?

"It wasn't fake?" He asks for clarification. You nod.

A smirk forms on Spencer's lips, seeing your cheeks redden.

There you are. The girl he had fallen for in the past two years.

"Well, you know that I am a man of science, right?" he tells you, and you frown because you have no idea where this is going.

"I know," you say with some hesitation.

"And as a man of science, I need evidence of things, you know?"

Now, you are the one who smirks at him.

"Evidence, huh?"

"Yep," he says, emphasizing the 'p' and swaying his body on his feet. You hum.

"I believe I can provide the necessary evidence if you need them," you concede, and Spencer's eyes sparkle with excitement.

Now, he is the one who reaches out and cups your cheeks. Your breathing quickens, but that doesn't stop you from standing on your tiptoes and connecting your lips with his.

This time, there is no unsub, no curious eyes are looking at you, there is no rush, there is no femme fatale role, and above all, this is not fake; it's as real as the fact that your heart beats for him, and his for you.

------------------ 

Spencer Reid's Taglist: @dreatine @nomajdetective @jayyeahthatsme @rosalinasam2 @averyhotchner @lovelyxtom @princessmiaelicia @pastelbabygirl19 @reidsbookclub @alexxavicry @gspenc @spencerreidisbae123 @calmspencer @pauline5525mgg @anamiad00msday @milivanili99 @laylasbunbunny @leahblackk @miaxx03 @missabsey @taintedstranger @khxna @hiireadstuff @pleasantwitchgarden @dysphoricsanity @levi-of-starz @themoonchildwhofell @silver138 @lovelybaka @shinytinywhispers 

[spiderb00bs]

- GIRLS NEED LOVE, J.O

“Jenna likes to be in charge at work, but when she gets home, having you in charge of everything makes her more excited than usual.” 

warnings - Smut 18+, g!p reader, daddy kink, p in v, unprotected sex (don’t be silly wrap that willy), dirty talk

MEN AND MINORS DO NOT INTERACT (MDNI)   (request)

Now playing - Girls Need Love, by Summer Walker n Drake

“You just need some, someone that’s calm and patient”

Jenna Ortega is methodical! 

Everyone knew it, some admired her for her incredible work and hard dedication. Others found her annoying, just a little girl who thinks she can boss everyone and everything around. But that was Jenna, the way she worked wasn't going to change, not when her ideas worked so well, not when her acting was so highly praised, not when she loved being in control of situations.  

Some people seemed to take that part of Jenna too seriously, especially people on the internet. Everyone knew that you and Jenna were dating, a long and stable 5-year relationship. You met on the set of Babysitter – Killer Queen, and you've been inseparable ever since. You knew that some people always pointed out the fact that Jenna was bossy, and they almost always threw that at your relationship.  

Some of these things seemed to get bigger when some gossip sites confirmed your engagement. It was a big deal! Two big names in Hollywood were about to get married! Who would be invited? What would the decorations be like? Would you cry? Are you happy, or are you just another person following Jenna's orders?  

Anyone who was even minimally online could see those intrusive comments on some photos of the two of you. “Poor yn, she's stuck forever!”, “Her girlfriend must have a general at home. That's sad.”, “The way Jenna must have this girl on her knees for her 24/7...”, “Run away from this marriage, girl! You still can!”  

You didn't care about them, Jenna didn't care about them. You knew how your fiancée liked to work, and honestly, some of them made you laugh. It was almost comical how people always managed to make a small part of your public life sum up everything else. 

“I don't care! People can say what they want, I'm not going to deny the news!” Your voice was firm, making your manager wince slightly on the other end of the line.  

With the engagement announcement going public, your publicists and manager tried to convince you to deny the news. Fortunately, you still have enough brainpower to know that this would surely cause a backlash across the internet.  

“I don't care, Matthew! I'm getting married anyway, I don't care if I lose a couple of crazy fans who think they'll ever have a chance to steal me away from Jenna!” Too busy with the phone to your ear, you didn't even hear the front door open.  

Much less the tired sigh your fiancée let out as she took off the boots she was wearing. 

“Wait a second, there's someone on the other line...” Still with your back turned, and without noticing Jenna, you sighed. “Actually, this conversation is over! Don't bring this up again!” 

You hung up the phone before giving Matthew a chance to respond. Jenna heard your voice soften slightly as you answered the other call, which made her giggle at your behavior, finally making her presence in the room clear. 

“Yes, I'm can talk!” You turned around, walking over to your fiancée to plant a long kiss on her forehead.  

The shorter brunette closed her eyes and enjoyed the affection, opening them again only to see you walking away with your hands on your hips. Following you, Jenna watched your every move closely. When Jenna woke up that morning, you had already left for the gym, and the brunette remembers rolling her eyes and complaining quietly about how dedicated you were.  

But, looking at you now, Jenna mentally apologized. You had clearly returned from a work meeting, your white dress shirt was tucked into your pants, and the muscles in your back seemed more visible now that you had placed one hand on your waist. The dress pants you were wearing highlighted your round butt, and when you turned slightly to the side, Jenna couldn't help but look at the volume in your pants. Your bare feet on the wooden floor reminded Jenna that she was at home, a great feeling of comfort and simplicity that she had simply learned to love. 

“No, she wants dark flowers!” Your voice snapped the woman out of her trance. Your eyebrows were furrowed, and Jenna jumped up to sit on the kitchen counter and listen to some of the conversation. “I'll email you the guest list. I'm almost done, I just need to check if my fiancée wants to add anyone else...”  

It was clear that you were talking about the wedding. The weeks seemed to be passing extremely quickly, and the preparations seemed to be piling up in Jenna's head. As much as she wanted to be actively involved in everything, she couldn't do it all, and when you started to put everything in order, she just let it happen. 

“I'll call you later and confirm it, okay?” You walked toward the brunette at the counter, placing your hand on her left side as you hung up the phone.  

Looking at your fiancée, you widened your eyes comically, snorting playfully just to make Jenna laugh. The moment you managed to get that smile on your fiancée's face, you joined her in laughter, lowering your head slightly and resting your right hand on the right side of her body.  

“You know, all these phone calls are worth it when I remember that I'm planning all this because I'm going to marry you!” Your hoarse voice is music to Jenna's ears.  

Her small, delicate hands grab your face, pulling you closer just to leave a kiss on your lips.  

“Thank you for helping me with everything, my love.” Jenna's voice was as smooth as honey, and it made you want to melt. Her hands ran through your hair and you sighed softly, letting your head fall into the curve of her neck.

The kisses you planted on your fiancée's sweet spot made her sigh with pleasure, her hands wandering toward your back as she spread her legs so you could fit between them.

“I know you're very tired, darling, but I need you to decide just one thing.” Stopping the kisses, you looked at Jenna, seeing her complain. “I swear it'll be quick...”

Throwing her head back to rest on the cabinets, your fiancée thought for a moment, sitting up straight on the counter and placing her hands on the collar of your shirt.

“Quick!” Her hands slid down your chest as you began to think about the things you had to discuss.

“I spoke to your mother today and she suggested Mexican food for the buffet.”

The first two buttons of your shirt were unbuttoned.

“Perfect.” Jenna's lips were on your neck.

“Great! I'll call the organizers tomorrow morning.” Your voice was trembling because of Jenna's kisses.

Pulling away slightly, the brunette looked at you with a questioning expression. Her hands were resting on the remaining buttons of your shirt, and you were upset that she had stopped caressing you.

“What do I still have to take care of?” One of her eyebrows rose, and you shook your head.

“Nothing, my queen!” The smile on your face made Jenna bite her lower lip.

Your fiancée let out a deep sigh.

“You take such good care of me, Daddy...” Her eyes were wide and pleading, almost making your knees weak. “I'll give you a reward!”

Before you could even think, the buttons on your shirt flew across the room, making a small noise as they hit the kitchen floor. Jenna's lips pressed against yours as you began a mind-blowing kiss. Your hands gripped her thighs tightly as your hands began to reach for the zipper of her pants.

Usually, you and Jenna took longer to take off your clothes, wanting to enjoy every second to memorize every part of each other's bodies. But this time, your clothes were torn off fiercely, almost like two wild animals eager to attack each other, getting closer and closer to each other.

The pile of clothes on the floor quickly grew, while you and the brunette were still kissing on the counter. Sliding kisses lower and lower on your bride's body, you finally reached where you wanted to be, your tongue exploring every part you could while the moans of the woman on the counter echoed freely through the decorated walls of the house.

Your hands squeezed her thighs, while hers pulled your hair. The freckled girl was seeing stars and enjoying every move you made, not even thinking about the years of practice you had put in until you knew all the little nerves that made her roll her eyes back in pleasure.

Jenna didn't care.

The only thing she wanted was you. And the way you made her feel good.

It didn't take long for her legs to tremble in your hands, her juices spilling onto your lips and chin, while you took everything she was giving you without complaint.

You waited for your fiancée to calm down a little more before standing up and kissing her again. The brunette felt your cock rubbing against her thigh, getting wet again instantly. Your lips tasted like her, and the pressure of your bodies together was making Jenna's brain melt.

“Daddy...” Her delicate hands were on your cheek, just to make you look at her. One of her hands reached down, grabbing your cock and aligning it with her wet entrance. “Please...”

Your breath faltered for a moment. Even after years, you still couldn't say you were 100% used to hearing your fiancée's pleas in your ear, or even the fact that she was your fiancée.

The moan you and Jenna let out when you finally entered her was wild, the two of you finally connected in the physical way you had been seeking. Your mouth was dry, and Jenna's hands tried to grab every place she could. You felt her nails run from your back to your shoulders as you began to move inside her.

“Damn, mi amor. You're so good to me.” Your voice sounded breathless, and your lips immediately moved toward your fiancée's collarbone, kissing and sucking her skin.

The brunette's head was thrown back, hitting the cabinets behind her with a dull thud.

Jenna didn't care.

All she wanted was to be possessed by you, for you to show her how much you loved her, how much you cared for her, how much you loved her.

“You take such good care of me, Daddy!” Your fiancée's breathless voice sounded very close to your ear. “I love you so much!”

“You like when I do this, huh?” Grabbing her face, you smiled when you saw her immediately agree. “You like it when I take care of you just to destroy you later, don't you?!”

Her hands grabbed your face, pulling you into a messy but passionate kiss. Her hands moved up to your hair, messing it up as your thrusts got faster and faster.

The brunette gasped into your mouth, pulling away from the kiss as she let out a series of moans in quick succession. Her hands moved down to your nipples, twirling them between her thumb and forefinger. At the same time, one of your hands moved down to her clit, massaging the swollen button and bringing her to the peak of pleasure.

The freckled girl's legs trembled, and you buried your head in her neck as she pulled you close. You both came at the same time, feeling more connected than ever!

The kitchen was silent, except for the sound of your panting breaths. Jenna's hands moved up to caress your scratched back while you drew circles on her hips with your thumb.

Picking her up, you felt how weak she was, just laying her head on your shoulder and letting you take her wherever you wanted.

“Come on, mi amor.” Jenna felt the kiss you placed on her shoulder, relaxing her even more. “I'll get you a bath.”

“I love you.” Her trembling voice made you smile slightly.

“I love you too. Now let me take care of everything.”

[jacksabbotts]

. ᵒ .༄ FRANK x ROBINAVITCH!READER !  ࿔* ·˚ ༘ ┊͙ # 🩺 possible trigger warnings frank and abby are divorced bc i say so, mentions of an absentee mother, reader has a chronic illness, dont ask me why all my readers end up in the er ( i am a SLUT for the er visit trope especially with my pitt men lmao ), probably incorrect medical information ( while i work in healthcare this IS NOT my department so some things may be wrong ), metion of frank having an absentee father ( idk if this is canon )  ‧ 💉 ‧ ━━ WC 8.9k

main masterlist || more frank langdon ━━━ * ✷ ⊹ * ˚ ✷ dividers by @cafekitsune + @anitalenia

⤷ ✵ ✧ . · * . · .  RISK FACTOR ━━ ⋆ ⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆ summary when a cardiac episode sends you back to the pitt, the last person you expect to see at your bedside is frank langdon—your father’s former golden boy, now tarnished and freshly rebuilt after rehab. but one brush of his hand, one kiss you never should’ve shared, and suddenly you’re standing between the man who saved your life, the man who raised you, and the secrets that could break you all.

you do not work at the pitt. in fact, you’ve made it a point not to work at the pitt, despite raised eyebrows, glowing recommendations, and thinly veiled nudges from faculty advisors who insist it would be good for your career.

it’s a legacy move, they say. a golden opportunity. but they don’t understand what that place has cost your father. or you.

you didn’t inherit his last name—at least, not publicly. you go by something shorter, cleaner. a first name and a clipped surname on all your ids. you didn’t want anyone to know.

at least not at first. you wanted to be taken seriously on your own. but people talk. professors connect dots. one attending caught sight of the robinavitch tattoo on your inner wrist—the subtle symbol you and your dad share, inked the day you got your med school acceptance. now, it’s no use pretending.

your father still calls you kid. always has. even now, when you’re correcting his latin terms over dinner, or teasing him about misdiagnosing fake patients in medical dramas. he says it with a kind of soft defeat, like he knows you’ve outgrown the name but can’t quite let it go. you let him. most days.

you’re brilliant, and everyone knows it. but you don’t lead with that. you let people underestimate you. you’re quiet, careful, observant. you don’t speak unless it matters—and when you do, people shut up. not out of fear. out of precision. you don’t waste breath.

your coffee is black, double-strength. your notes are handwritten and color-coded. you carry electrolyte packets in your coat and granola bars in your bag. you don’t party. you don’t flirt with classmates. you don’t give anyone the chance to think they’re ahead of you.

because you know what it’s like to fall behind.

you were fifteen the first time your heart betrayed you.

track practice. sprint drills. you hit the curve, then the ground. knees buckled. everything went dark. you remember the sirens more than anything else.

the er said dehydration. maybe a panic attack. but your father wasn’t having it. he pushed for more testing—holter monitor, echo, stress test. you spent the next month with wires taped to your chest and bruises blooming under hospital bracelets.

finally, you had a name for what was wrong with you. hypertrophic cardiomyopathy. a thickening of the heart muscle that makes it harder for blood to flow. rare. inherited. dangerous if not monitored carefully.

they told you it was manageable—but that you’d never be normal. you were pulled from sports. put on medication. monitored constantly. no caffeine. no stimulants. no high-impact stress. your dad bought a home defibrillator and a pulse ox monitor before your next appointment. you were barely allowed to carry your own backpack.

you remember resenting the diagnosis—but you hated the way your dad looked at you now. like you were already halfway dead. still, you adapted. you always do.

you take your meds. you avoid your triggers. you know what the dizziness means. you know what a bad rhythm feels like in your bones. you know the limits of your own body—at least most days.

some of your classmates know. most don’t. professors are told on a need-to-know basis. you have formal accommodations, but you almost never use them. you don’t want special treatment. you just want a shot at being a doctor without people calling it brave every time you show up.

since the diagnosis, your relationship with your father has become a lot more complicated.

you love him. that’s the easiest part. he raised you alone. he made your school lunches, signed your permission slips, taught you how to change a tire and recite acls protocols in the same breath.

when your mother left, he became everything.

but after your diagnosis? he became too much. too careful. too controlling. too afraid.

he started calling cardiologists by their first names. he memorized every new study on hcm. he argued with specialists about treatment plans like he was the specialist. you were just a teenager trying to live—and he was the man convinced you’d die if he looked away for more than five minutes.

even now, he texts to check your heart rate between classes. he has your mychart login saved. he has your medical alert tag copied in his wallet, just in case.

and maybe it’s sweet. maybe it’s love. maybe it’s everything a daughter could ask for.

but you can’t breathe like this. not when someone else is holding the oxygen.

so you moved out earlier than he wanted. picked a med school outside his comfort zone. you make your own appointments now. you manage your own refills. you don’t tell him when you feel a flutter in your chest unless it lasts more than five minutes.

you are not a child.

you’re not his patient.

you’re trying to be a doctor.

and you know—know—he’ll never fully accept that. but you’re doing it anyway. even if it kills you. even if it breaks his heart.

frank langdon is the kind of man you remember by how he sounds before you remember what he looks like.

soft-spoken, measured. a voice like gravel pressed through gauze—low, warm, steady. he talks the way good doctors do: calm under pressure, never wasting words. but underneath that calm, there’s something else. something harder to place. like everything he says is holding back something he doesn’t want anyone to see.

he’s thirty-something. early thirties, probably. not much older than some of your classmates, but something about him always felt heavier. more lived-in. like he’s seen more than he’s saying.

he’s not flashy. he doesn’t wear expensive watches or drive a fancy car. he wears scrubs like armor and exhaustion like perfume.

but when he smiles? it’s quiet. small. devastating.

frank langdon was, for a while, the golden boy of the pitt. a trauma senior resident with a reputation for being unshakeable in crisis and weirdly good with terrified kids.

he was married when you met him—barely, from what you gathered. you never saw a ring, but the nurses whispered about it when they thought you weren’t listening. the marriage was fraying long before you walked into the picture. that part had nothing to do with you.

you don’t know him. not really.

but you’ve seen him before—on the worst nights of your life.

he’s treated you maybe twice. three times, if you’re counting consults. the first time, you were eighteen. a cardiac episode triggered by dehydration and stress—textbook hcm flare.

you remember opening your eyes to his voice, low and calm and telling a nurse to keep your legs elevated. you remember the way he didn’t look afraid of you. didn’t treat you like you were breakable.

he was different from your father in that way. not better. just different. he didn’t hover. he didn’t panic. he just handled it. quiet hands. quiet voice. the kind of presence that made it easier to breathe.

you’d seen him a few more times after that. er visits spaced out between college and med school. nothing dramatic. he was always professional. always kind. he never lingered. but you remember every time.

you might have had little crush, honestly you couldn't help yourself but he was married then. you told yourself that mattered. it did.

but sometimes he’d ask how med school was going. or crack a tired joke that made you forget your heart was trying to kill you. and you’d remember that too.

you found out the way you find out everything in that hospital : from princess and perlah, your favorite nurses.

you’d come in during a med school break—mild flare, nothing new. frank wasn’t on that day. you were halfway through vitals when princess leaned over the desk and said, “girl, you hear about langdon?”

you blinked. “no? why?”

perlah chimed in without looking up from her keyboard. “caught stealing benzos.”

“can you believe it? frank. mr. er ken himself.”

“court-mandated rehab. and abby? done. served the papers while he was still drying out.”

you’d felt it in your throat. a strange, sinking weight. you hadn’t realized you cared. not like that. but still. something about hearing it secondhand—casual, gossipy, unkind—made you feel sick.

you wished it hadn't changed your perception of him.

you wish you could say it didn’t change anything—that you held the same level-headed compassion for him that you would for any patient struggling with substance use disorder. that you kept it clinical. clean.

but that would be a lie.

the truth is, it gutted something. not because you were shocked—no, it wasn’t that. it made sense, in a terrible, retroactive way. the exhaustion in his eyes. the slightly-too-steady hands. the rare, fleeting moments where his focus slipped just a fraction of a second too long.

it didn’t feel like discovering a stranger. it felt like confirming something you hadn’t wanted to see.

and worse? you’d looked up to him. not as a mentor, not even as a role model—but as a fixed point in a world that often made you feel like you were coming apart at the seams. he was calm when your heart raced. gentle when everyone else was urgent. he treated you like a person, not a risk. not a diagnosis. not robby robinavitch’s fragile little girl.

he made you feel normal.

so yes, it changed things.

it made you angry. at first, mostly at him.

because how dare he. how dare he use while treating patients. how dare he put himself in your trauma bay and act like he wasn’t unraveling.

but also, how dare he lose the version of himself that had made you feel safe. you didn’t realize how much it mattered until it was gone.

and then the anger turned inward. because you couldn’t stop wondering : how long had you been wrong about him? or worse: had you ever really known him at all?

and once upon a time, robby adored him also.

frank was like a second son. he mentored him through residency, backed him for fellowships, put his own name on the line to defend frank’s instincts more than once. they were close. too close, maybe. enough that you noticed the way your fathers whole posture would change when frank walked into the room.

robby believed in him. maybe more than he should have. so when frank got caught? it wrecked him. more so because he was the one who had to turn him in.

robby wasn’t just angry. he was betrayed. humiliated. he’d gone to bat for frank more times than he could count. put his reputation on the line. and frank had lied. stolen drugs. risked patients. undermined everything the pitt stood for.

he didn’t speak about it for weeks. not even to you. the silence said more than words ever could.

it shattered it. not all at once—but loud enough that the cracks were visible in every room you shared after.

you’d never seen your father that angry. not even after your diagnosis. not even when you fainted mid-lecture during undergrad and tried to walk yourself home instead of calling him.

when frank got caught? robby wasn’t just angry. he was changed.

he stopped sleeping. stopped smiling. he snapped at nurses. fought with attending staff. came home gritting his teeth so hard you could hear the bones in his jaw click. you tried to talk to him—once. you asked if he wanted to sit down. he looked at you like you were the one who betrayed him.

it felt like he was forgetting about you.

that was the worst part. for weeks—months—you didn’t exist. not in the way you were used to. you weren’t his daughter. you were just someone in the blast radius.

he poured all that rage into silence. into paperwork. into working extra shifts to avoid thinking about frank. and you started quietly putting up walls.

because how could you trust a man to protect you when he couldn’t even recognize the way his anger was tearing you apart?

you stopped calling as often. stopped answering every text. you lied about your heart rate, your episodes, your check-ups. you told yourself it was for your independence, but really it was because you couldn’t stand being in the same room with all that resentment even though none of it was really directed at you.

it wasn’t fair. to him. to you. or to frank.

but that’s what made it real.

for the first time in your life, you were afraid that the man who had saved you so many times might not see you anymore.

and for the first time ever? you didn’t want to be seen.

when frank came back—after rehab, after everything—robby didn’t say a word to him for almost three months. he refused to sign off on any of his shifts. refused to consult on shared cases. wouldn’t even say his name in front of you.

and when he did speak to him again?

it wasn’t for forgiveness.

it was a warning.

you were at your clinical rotations.

not at the pitt. never the pitt. you were assigned to a community outpatient clinic—basic triage, patient interviews, chart reviews. nothing dramatic. nothing dangerous. just steady, dull medicine.

but you hadn’t eaten. not properly. just a protein bar and coffee twelve hours earlier. you hadn’t slept—not since the midterm. not since the last night of practice osces.

you’d felt it earlier that morning, the hum. that hollow tremor in your chest that didn’t quite hurt, didn’t quite warn. you ignored it. like always.

because you’re used to the hum. you’ve lived with it longer than you’ve lived without it.

it wasn’t dramatic.

you were reviewing a chart. a man with uncontrolled diabetes, hba1c through the roof, chart flagged for noncompliance. you stood up to go ask your attending a question, and everything inside your body tilted.

not the room. not the chair. your heart.

you felt it stutter—just once—like a hiccup from deep inside your ribs. your knees buckled on instinct. but you didn’t fall. not fully.

you grabbed the desk. blinked. there was sweat on your upper lip. your ears rang. your left arm tingled—more pressure than pain. you could feel your heart spiraling upward, pounding in a way that felt wrong—not fast, not slow, but off-rhythm.

your attending turned just in time to see the blood drain from your face. you remember someone saying your name. you didn’t answer.

then hands on your shoulders. then the floor. then nothing.

heart palpitations that were not just fast, but uneven. like someone dropped a wrench in your chest and now everything’s grinding out of sync.

sweat collects behind your knees, at your collarbone, under your eyes. your whole body sticky with adrenaline and failure.

your fingers were twitching, left hand tingling, jaw tight.

you visions blurred, peripheral mostly. like looking through frosted glass. shortness of breath, but shallow, like your lungs are just going through the motions.

and worst of all : the fear. that quiet, sickening, this one is different feeling

you know the difference between discomfort and danger. you’ve been doing this long enough. and this is danger. a red zone.

you come to with the siren screaming over your head and the rattle of speed under your spine.

the straps are tight across your chest. you can feel the buckles digging into your hips. your whole body pulses in time with your heartbeat—uneven, arrhythmic, mocking.

there’s a paramedic above you. male. late twenties. gloved hand pressed over your radial pulse, frowning down at the monitor beside your head. he’s not panicked—but he’s not relaxed either.

he’s watching numbers you can’t see. you’re watching the ceiling. your mouth tastes like copper. your arms are shaking. you try to move your hand, just slightly, but the tremor is too fine to fight. you don’t even try to speak.

there’s an oxygen cannula in your nose. sticky pads across your chest, running wires to the portable monitor. you can hear the beep, beep—but it’s irregular. two fast. one slow. a pause.

you know what it means. you’ve seen it in simulation labs. in real patients. you just never thought you’d feel it in your own throat.

the paramedic calls something over the radio—your name, your age, your condition. you hear hypertrophic cardiomyopathy like a curse, like a trigger warning.

and then you hear it, “…en route to the pmtc.”

the ceiling spins. your stomach twists. you want to scream no—but you can’t. not because of the words. but because you know who is on call.

you lie still. focusing on the rhythm of the wheels under you. trying not to cry. because if he sees you like this—if your father finds out—that is a fight you don't want to have right now.

you don’t remember coding.

you remember the beeping. the metallic hum of the defibrillator warming in the corner. the way the paramedic’s voice tightened—not panicked, just clipped—like he was trying not to scare you.

and then—nothing. again. that was the second time you had lost consciousness in the last half hour.

the fluorescent ceiling tiles blur in and out like someone’s manually dragging the opacity up and down in your peripheral vision. your body feels distant, thick with static. a body-shaped silhouette that used to belong to you. your limbs are moving. or maybe it’s the stretcher. hard to tell.

you’re aware of being rolled in, but not of the doors opening.

the air shifts. that’s the only thing you register: the sterile rush of it, cold and clinical. it smells like antiseptic, sweat, and last-minute decisions.

the pitt.

god help you.

you're here.

the paramedic's voice cuts into the noise like a scalpel.

“—female, twenty-two, known hcm. witnessed syncopal episode on site. decompensated en route. flatlined at 11:47. returned with one round epi and compressions—five seconds max. resumed rhythm. holding stable now.”

you don’t recognize the voice that answers. but you recognize the shoes—black nikes with pink laces. dana. charge nurse. crowned queen of controlled chaos. and one of your father's closest friends.

“you said she coded?”

“briefly. on route."

you want to ask what time it is. you want to ask if they called your father. you want to ask who’s on call. you ask none of those things.

because you’re too busy looking for the one face you don’t want to see. and that’s the worst part. not the pain. not the cold. not the oxygen still burning your nostrils or the vomit drying sour on the side of your mouth. no.

the worst part is that you’re scanning this chaos not to find your father—but to avoid him because you can’t bear the look on his face if he sees you like this.

you blink. the overhead lights flicker like halos in water. dana appears in your frame of vision. her chopped hair in a low ponytail, scrubs a muted blue, voice too calm.

“we’re gonna take care of you, sweetheart, alright? just hang tight. langdon—langdon, can you—?” your stomach turns to stone. you don’t hear anything else for a second.

because that name shatters whatever calm you were pretending to cling to.

langdon?

frank was here.

no. no, no, no, no—anyone but him.

you feel him before you see him.

there’s something about the way the energy shifts. not loud. not dramatic. just quieter. like the room folds itself around his presence. a pause, tucked into the noise. your eyes flutter open in time to see the curve of his jaw, the scrub top pulled tight across his chest, the latex gloves snapping into place like punctuation.

and then—“the hell are you doing here, lil' robby?”

that voice.

god. that voice.

it’s softer than it should be. not accusatory. not clinical. just tired. wary. as if seeing you there—on the gurney, pale and shaking—is the last thing he ever expected.

your throat works around a breath you can’t quite catch. the room swims. “don’t,” you whisper. or maybe you don’t. maybe it’s just in your head.

because frank’s already beside you now, chart in hand, brow furrowed so deep it carves years into his face. he leans in, eyes scanning the vitals on the monitor, mouth pressed into a line. you feel the shift in him, the way his whole demeanor locks down—hyperfocused. unforgiving.

not of you.

of this.

of what your body has done to you again.

he doesn’t say your name. not out loud. but his hand hovers over your shoulder for a second too long. “she coded in the rig?”

“five seconds,” the paramedic says again. “we got her back fast. but i don’t like that rhythm.”

frank’s eyes narrow. “i don’t either.” he rattles off orders like he’s reading them from muscle memory. “one liter ns bolus. hang mag and run a full panel—cmp, cbc, bnp, trop just in case. get cardio up here. and someone find me a damn bed.”

dana mutters something about room two. someone wheels you toward it. frank walks beside you the entire time. not looking at you. not touching you. but he’s there. and that’s worse. because it means he saw.

you try to keep your eyes open. you try to hold onto anything that doesn’t feel like drowning. but all you can think about is how this isn’t how he was supposed to see you again.

not like this. not hooked to machines. not oxygen-masked and half-conscious with dried vomit on your neck and hospital tape across your chest.

not this version of you.

you don’t know where your father is.

roof, maybe. bathroom. break room. it doesn’t matter. because if he finds you now—if he sees you like this, after all the space you put between you—he won’t just panic. he’ll break.

and you don’t have the strength to hold his pieces tonight. frank slows as you’re wheeled into room two. he doesn’t say anything. just nods at the nurse. squeezes the bridge of his nose. stares at your chart like it might rewrite itself if he reads it hard enough.

and then—finally—his voice, low and bitter, “anyone know where robby is?” but you already know what you want to say. not here. not yet.

the monitor hums steady, green lines crawling in jagged loops across the black screen. heart rate : 118. irregular. bp too low. o2 holding steady under the cannula.

frank’s eyes flick over every number, trained, unblinking. he could read them in his sleep, and tonight, he’s half afraid he will.

he’s telling himself not to look at you. he’s looking everywhere else—the monitor, the iv line, the chart dana clipped to the foot of the bed. anywhere but your face. because if he does, he’s not sure what he’ll see.

you make the first move.

a sound—a tiny, broken sound—pulls his gaze before he can stop himself. your hand moves. just barely. it’s trembling, pale fingers brushing against the scratchy hospital blanket. he doesn’t think you’re reaching for him. not at first. he thinks you’re shifting, twitching under some half-dream of pain or memory.

then—he feels it.

your fingertips brush his wrist, clumsy and unfocused. and then your hand closes, weak but deliberate, clutching him like a lifeline.

“hey—” he’s startled. not at the touch, but at the way it jolts something in his chest. he glances down, sees your eyes half-lidded, barely open, lashes sticking together. “you’re okay. you’re in the er. i’ve got you.”

your lips move. words spill out, but they’re slurred, soaked in exhaustion and adrenaline crash. “don’t… don’t call him…” frank blinks. he thinks he misheard.

“what?”

your grip tightens—or tries to. your hand shakes against his pulse, desperate. “please,” you rasp. “please don’t tell my dad…” frank freezes.

the er noise fades into static. dana’s footsteps, the beeping monitors in the hall, the paramedic giving report at the nurses’ station—it all turns to white noise.

your words hang there between you, fragile and heavy.

don’t tell my dad.

of all the things you could say to him—this wasn’t on the list.

confusion hits first. because as far as he knows, you and robby are unbreakable. you’ve always been “lil rooby.” robby’s shadow. his kid. his pride. he talks about you like you hung the damn moon.

so why—why are you looking at frank like this? why does your voice sound scared? not of him. not of what’s happening. but of your father finding out?

“hey, hey, slow down—” he tries to coax you, voice dropping low. “you don’t have to worry about that right now. just breathe for me.”

but you’re already shaking your head weakly, lips parting to say something else—and then your eyes roll back. just like that, you’re gone again. your hand slips from his wrist, falling limp against the bedrail.

frank stares at your hand like it’s still holding him.

there’s a war going on inside him. protocol says he should inform next-of-kin. that he should call robby. that of all people, robby has a right to know his daughter is lying in a hospital bed with a heart like a grenade.

but something stops him.

maybe it’s the law— you’re an adult, twenty two, and legally, he can’t say a damn thing unless you give consent.

or maybe it’s something else. something harder to admit.

maybe it’s because you asked him not to. and for reasons he doesn’t want to pick apart just yet. whatever the reason, it's enough.

frank’s legs carry him to the nurses’ station like someone moving on autopilot. the kind of autopilot you don’t notice until you stop—and he doesn’t. he doesn’t stop. not when his pulse is still faster than yours was when you came in.

he sets the chart down a little too hard. the sound makes dana raise an eyebrow, but she doesn’t say anything. not at first. she’s busy typing vitals into the emr, chewing on a pen cap.

he leans against the counter, hand curling around the edge, fingers white-knuckled. god, he hates this feeling. like he’s caught in some crossfire he didn’t agree to.

he stares straight ahead at the heart monitor readouts across the bay. he knows your numbers are stable now. he doesn’t need to check again. but he does anyway.

“you tell robby yet?” dana doesn’t even look up when she says it. she just flicks a glance toward room two, where you’re lying unconscious, and then back to the screen. casual. like she didn’t just fire a bullet straight through his chest.

frank’s jaw tightens. he’s good at hiding it, good at keeping his face calm. ( except for the fact that he’s so not calm right now. not in the slightest. )

“uh… not yet,” he says.

“not yet,” dana repeats. looking at him now, her eyebrow arches now, slow and deliberate.

“langdon. you’re telling me robby’s kid just rolled in here coding, and you haven’t called him? what’s the holdup?”

frank’s throat is dry. he clears it, aiming for casual. he does not feel casual. he feels like someone is peeling the skin back from his ribs with a scalpel.

“i can’t,” he says simply. dana snorts. “can’t? or won’t? look if your tryna punish robby for what happened—”

“i'm not. that not what this is,” frank fires back, maybe a little too sharp. he sees her brows rise, so he drops his voice. “she asked me not to. and she’s twenty-two. hipaa’s clear as day.”

dana leans back, folding her arms. her expression is the exact mix of judgment and curiosity he hates. “yeah, but it’s robby. robby. you know how he’s gonna react when he finds out you kept this from him? especially you?”

frank’s gut twists. because yeah, she’s not wrong. robby finding out—especially from anyone but him—will be a goddamn nuclear detonation.

but frank just shakes his head. “doesn’t matter. law’s the law. she’s an adult. she said no, i don’t call. simple.”

he says it like it’s easy. it’s not. it feels like every word is dragging across glass on the way out. dana tilts her head, studying him like he’s some kind of strange case study.

“you sound awfully… protective for a guy who’s supposed to be switzerland here.” frank scowls. “i’m not protective. i’m on the straight and fucking narrow now, dana.”

that for once lands heavy, even to his own ears. he swallows hard. because yeah, this isn’t just about hipaa. and he knows it.

because as fucked up as it sounds, betraying you feels like betraying himself. like he’d be breaking something fragile you put in his hands the second you reached for him in that trauma bay.

but betraying robby? that’s like betraying family. hell, robby’s been more like a father to him than his actual one ever was.

frank’s been on this knife-edge before. when he was stealing from patients, hiding bottles in lockers, and robby looked at him with that combination of disappointment and fear. he swore he’d never feel that way again.

and yet, here he is. standing in the middle of the nurses’ station, lying by omission.

he hasn’t let himself think about you in a while. not really. not since that first time you came in on his shift, maybe twenty, pale and shaky but still managing to glare at him when he told you to lie back.

he’d been married then. and you're robby’s kid. so whatever he felt—whatever flicker of something sparked when you smirked at his bad jokes—he buried it so deep it might as well have been dead.

except it wasn’t. not really. and tonight, seeing you like that—grabbing his wrist, voice slurred, begging him not to call your dad— god, it rattled something loose.

he clears his throat, realizing dana is still staring at him. “look, i’ll… figure it out. but i’m not calling robby yet. not unless she says i can, ok.”

dana narrows her eyes but doesn’t argue. she just mutters, “you’re insane,” under her breath and swivels back to her computer. frank doesn’t answer. because maybe she’s right.

as he turns, walking back toward room two, his chest feels too tight. not in the bad way—not panic, not a relapse—but like he’s holding onto a secret that’s too heavy for just one person.

he tells himself again : hipaa. that’s it. just the law. nothing personal. but it feels like a lie. because the truth is, if you asked him for anything tonight, he’d give it to you. no questions.

even if it means betraying robby again.

the er has quieted. not silent—never silent—but quieter. the chaos is a low hum now : shuffling feet, printers spitting out labels, dana’s voice calling someone’s name over the din. far-off beeping. a monitor alarm two bays over.

frank’s been avoiding robby like it’s his damn job. which, ironically, it kind of is. he ducked into trauma when he saw robby pass the station earlier, kept himself busy with a triage from the waiting room.

avoidance has become second nature—both of them circling the hospital like boxers refusing to throw the first punch.

now, though, his feet carry him back to you.

your room is dim. the harsh overhead light is off, replaced with the soft blue glow of monitors. you’re propped slightly on your side, cannula still in place, iv fluids dripping slow and steady into your arm. there’s a blanket tucked over your legs that you don’t remember anyone putting there.

when the door slides open, you don’t realize it’s him—not until his voice cuts through the haze. “welcome back.”

you blink up at him. he’s leaning casually against the doorframe, but his eyes—man, his eyes—are sharp, locked on you with an intensity that feels like it could strip the oxygen from the room.

your throat is dry, but you manage, “you . . . you didn’t tell him, did you?” it’s not a question, not really. because if he had, your father would already be here, storming in like a hurricane.

frank’s mouth ticks into something like a half-smile. “you asked me not to. so i didn’t.” you exhale, a shaky breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding. relief slides through you like warm water. your fingers relax against the blanket.

he moves closer.

not rushed, not hesitant—just steady. like he’s made this decision and there’s no going back. he comes to stand beside your bed, eyes flicking over you, reading every line of your face like it’s a chart he’s memorized.

then, without asking, he takes your hand. his palm is warm, his grip firm but careful, like he’s afraid of breaking you.

the monitor behind you is already telling him your vitals—but apparently, he doesn’t trust it. because his other hand slides to your wrist, two fingers pressing lightly into your pulse point.

thud-thud. thud-thud.

slow. steady.

the kind of rhythm that melts something deep inside you.

“what’s that all about?” he asks after a beat. his tone is curious, not accusing. “hiding from your dad?” you hesitate. your gaze drifts to the ceiling.

“we’re . . . not on the best terms right now.”

frank tilts his head, frowning faintly.

“what? since when? last i heard, you two were thick as thieves.”

you bite the inside of your cheek. the words hover on your tongue—since you got caught stealing drugs and broke my father’s heart. but you can’t say that. not out loud. not when he’s looking at you like this.

“it’s been hard since—”

you stop. the silence is heavier than your words. frank blinks, confused. “since what?” you swallow, sheepish now. “since . . . the whole benzos thing.”

the moment hangs in the air.

frank doesn’t flinch—but something changes in his face. his jaw works once, like he’s trying to grind down the weight of what you just said. his thumb brushes your wrist, unconsciously, like he’s searching for something steady.

“that…” his voice is low now, strained. “that messed things up between you and him?”

you look away. “it messed up a lot of things.”

frank doesn’t let go of your hand right away.

if anything, his thumb lingers against your wrist, tracing the faint beat beneath your skin like he doesn’t trust the monitor behind you. he’s looking at you like you’re something fragile and dangerous all at once—like if he lets go, you’ll disappear, and if he holds too tight, you’ll shatter.

finally, he shifts, dragging the worn plastic chair closer with his foot and sinking into it. the vinyl cushion squeaks under his weight. it’s the sound of someone settling in for the long haul.

he doesn’t look at you right away. he’s staring down at your hand in his, as though it’s an exam he’s still figuring out how to pass. his thumb brushes over your knuckles once. twice.

“i didn’t know,” he says quietly. “about you and robby. that things were . . . bad.”

you shrug a little, your gaze fixed on the faint scuff marks on the floor. “i didn’t think it mattered—” you stop, catching yourself before you say too much. “he’s my dad. it’s always complicated.”

frank exhales, leaning back slightly in the chair. “complicated, huh? that’s one word for it.” you glance at him, and for a moment, there’s something there—something you can’t name. his face is caught halfway between frustration and regret, like he’s been carrying something heavy for a very long time.

“you know…” he clears his throat, fingers drumming lightly on the arm of the chair. “when all that shit went down—” he pauses, looking for the right words. “i wasn’t thinking about who else i’d hurt. not really. i told myself it was just me. my problem. my screw-up.”

his voice dips, soft but steady. “but then robby wouldn’t look at me. wouldn’t speak to me. and i realized i’d trashed something bigger than just my own life.”

he glances at you now, eyes sharp and searching. "i said a lot of things to him that i regret when the whole thing went down but i didn’t think… i never thought it would spill over onto you.”

there it is. the almost-apology. he doesn’t say i’m sorry, but it’s written all over his face. the exhaustion in his voice. the way he looks at your hand when he speaks, like he’s not sure he deserves to hold it.

you blink, trying to process the weight of his words.

“you really thought that it wouldn't?” your voice falters. “do you even realize how much you meant to him. some days i actually thought that he loved you more than me. robby was—he still is—so angry. and when he’s like that, he . . . i don’t know. he looks at me like i’m gonna break. like i’m next.”

frank’s jaw tightens. his hand squeezes yours, firm but careful.

“you’re not next,” he says. there’s no hesitation in his tone, none at all. “you’re nothing like me.”

the way he says it—low, intense—makes something twist in your chest.

for a moment, neither of you speaks. the monitor hums behind you, its steady rhythm filling the room. frank doesn’t move, his hand still warm against yours. you’re aware of every detail: the roughness of his palm, the faint scent of antiseptic and coffee clinging to him, the weight of his presence right beside you.

he leans forward slightly, elbows on his knees, but doesn’t let go of your hand. his gaze drops to your wrist again, thumb brushing your pulse point like he’s reassuring himself you’re still here.

the silence stretches, warm and heavy, and you’re not sure how long you’ve been staring at the broad line of frank’s shoulders. he’s still leaning forward, elbows balanced on his knees, his hand wrapped around yours like it’s an anchor. he hasn’t moved in what feels like forever, like he’s afraid that if he does, you’ll vanish.

you swallow against the tightness in your throat. your voice comes out soft, but it breaks the moment in half.

“frank . . . i’m sorry.” his head lifts slightly. his eyes, shadowed from lack of sleep, flicker with confusion.

“sorry? what do you have to be sorry for?” your fingers shift faintly under his, tightening like you need him to hear you.

“i… uh, i heard. about abby. and the custody battle.”

there’s a pause, sharp and immediate. the words hang there, heavy as lead. he looks more embarrassed than upset about it.

for a moment, frank doesn’t move. his thumb stills over your wrist, and you see it—a flicker of something raw passing through his eyes. something almost too intimate, too unguarded, like you’ve hit a nerve he can’t shield.

“you . . . heard about that?” his voice is rough. quiet. not angry, but tired. bone-deep tired. you nod, hesitating. “princess and perlah, you know . . . they talk. i wasn’t trying to listen. it just . . . i’m sorry it’s been so hard.”

frank exhales, leaning back into the chair, running a hand over his jaw. there’s a faint rasp of stubble, the sound filling the small room for a second. he doesn’t look at you right away. when he does, his expression is strange—soft and closed-off all at once.

“it’s messy,” he admits finally. “was always gonna be messy, i guess. abby and i . . . we were over long before the paperwork said so.”

his hand slips from your wrist to your fingers again, holding on like he needs the weight of something steady. “the custody stuff—” he shakes his head slightly, like he’s trying to find the right words. “i hate it. i hate what it’s doing to tanner. but it’s not your problem. you don’t have to be sorry for me.”

“i know i don’t have to,” you murmur. “but i am. you didn’t deserve all of that. i mean…” you trail off, unsure how far you can go without digging up all the wounds he’s already bleeding from. “you’re a good doctor, frank. and i know you’re a good dad.”

his eyes flicker at that. like you just said something he hasn’t heard in a long time. “yeah?” he asks, voice almost too quiet.

“yeah,” you whisper back.

he looks away for a second, jaw clenched, his thumb brushing over the back of your hand again. he doesn’t thank you—not out loud. he doesn’t say you don’t know how much i needed to hear that. but you can feel it in the way his grip tightens, in the small exhale he lets out, almost like relief.

frank is quiet for a long moment, his thumb brushing slowly over the back of your hand. he’s not looking at the monitor anymore. he’s looking at you.

like he’s really seeing you for the first time since you walked into his er all those years ago. except now, you’re not a patient with a father hovering at your bedside. you’re twenty-two. a med student. and still, somehow, you’re looking at him like he isn’t the sum of every bad choice he’s ever made.

his brow furrows slightly, the tension there not harsh, but uncertain and confused. “why are you being so nice to me?” his voice is low, almost hoarse. “after everything you’ve heard—everything i’ve done?”

the question stuns you for a second. not because you don’t know the answer, but because it feels like such a frank thing to say—like he truly doesn’t believe he’s worth anyone’s compassion.

“because i know what it’s like to feel like you’re failing everyone.” you swallow, searching his face. “and because you've seen me at my worst. and you were still kind. even when you didn’t have to be.”

he blinks. that knocks something loose in him, you can tell. he leans back slightly, running his thumb absently over your pulse like he’s grounding himself.

he huffs out a laugh, but it’s not really a laugh. more like disbelief. “you make me sound better than i am.” you shake your head, small but firm.

“you’re better than you think you are. my dad wouldn’t have believed in you if you weren’t.” there it is—your father. the elephant in the room.

frank looks away for a beat, jaw tightening, before his gaze finds you again.

“he might not believe in me anymore,” he says quietly. and god, there’s something in his tone that aches—like a confession he didn’t mean to say out loud.

you can feel his thumb lingering over your pulse. the weight of his hand on yours. the closeness of him, so still and watchful. you can see the exhaustion in his face, but also something softer, buried deep.

“well,” you say, voice low, “i do.”

those two words feel heavier than they should. his lips part slightly, like he’s not sure what to do with them, and for a moment it’s just silence, so loud it almost drowns out the monitor.

frank doesn’t move for a second. he just stares at you, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes. the kind of look that pins you in place, like he’s seeing through you. his grip on your hand tightens just slightly, his thumb brushing your knuckles in a rhythm that feels almost frantic.

“don’t,” he says softly. “don’t say that unless you mean it.”

“i do,” you whisper, without hesitation.

and something breaks in him.

it happens so fast you almost don’t register it—just the scrape of the chair legs as he leans forward, the warmth of his palm sliding over the side of your face, his thumb brushing the curve of your jaw.

then his lips are on yours.

not tentative. not testing. just need.

like he’s been holding back since the moment he met you and had finally, finally lets go.

your breath stutters, but you don’t pull away. not even a little. your fingers—still trapped under his—curl, clumsy, desperate. the kiss is soft but rough around the edges, like he’s not sure how to handle this kind of gentleness.

it’s over too quickly—just a few seconds, barely long enough for your mind to catch up. when he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours for a moment, his breath warm and uneven.

“i shouldn’t…” he murmurs, voice ragged. “god, i shouldn’t have done that. i'm sorry.”

you’re still catching your breath. “then why did you?” his jaw tightens, like he’s searching for an answer.

“because i—” he swallows hard. “because i can’t remember the last time someone looked at me the way you just did.” he pulls back, standing to his full height and taking a step back as if the distance would change anything.

but you don’t let him go.

your grip tightens around his hand, the one still tangled with yours. he freezes, glancing down, confusion flashing across his face.

and then—slowly, deliberately—your other hand slides up his arm, tracing the hard lines of muscle beneath the sleeve of his scrubs. he’s solid. warm. you feel him tense when your fingers curl around his bicep, holding him there.

“wait,” you whisper. your voice is hoarse but steady. “don’t stop.”

his breath catches. “we—” he swallows, shakes his head like he’s trying to clear it. “we shouldn’t—” he mumbled as if he wasn't the one to kiss you the first time. but you’re already tugging, dragging him back down toward you.

and this time, when his lips meet yours, there’s nothing tentative about it.

the first kiss was instinct, a slip. this is fire.

frank kisses you like he’s been starving and just realized what hunger really feels like. his hand slides back to your jaw, then the side of your neck, thumb brushing just under your ear as he deepens the kiss.

you feel him everywhere—his warmth, his scent ( antiseptic and coffee and something just him ), the weight of him leaning into you. it’s dizzying, but not in the way your heart condition makes you dizzy. this is the kind of dizzy that makes you want to chase it.

you breathe his name against his mouth—just a whisper, but it undoes him. his lips part, and his forehead presses to yours for a second, like he’s grounding himself, but then he’s back, kissing you again. harder. deeper.

it’s messy and desperate, like neither of you know when or if you’ll get the chance again.

when he finally pulls back, it’s not far. his lips hover just over yours, breath ragged. his eyes are dark and conflicted, like he’s one breath away from doing it all over again.

“you don’t know what you do to me,” he murmurs, voice rough, like gravel. “you—god, you shouldn’t . . . ”

you smile faintly, dazed and warm.

“then stop.”

but he doesn’t. he can’t. his thumb brushes your jaw again, and for a moment it feels like he might actually lean in a third time.

frank’s breath is warm against your lips. he hasn’t moved, not really—just hovering, his lips a whisper away from yours, his eyes locked on you like he’s drowning and you’re the only lifeline in sight. your fingers are still curled tight around his bicep, feeling the tension in him, the way every muscle is coiled and ready to snap.

you lean in—just barely—your chest brushing his scrubs as if the world isn’t ready to swallow this moment whole.

and he’s about to break. you can feel it in the way his grip on your jaw tightens, in the low, ragged sound that escapes him when his lips ghost against yours.

then theres a drag of a curtain. the unmistakable whoosh of fabric on metal rings. a heavy boot scuff against the tile. and a voice—low, harsh, furious—slices through the air.

“what the fuck?”

it’s like a grenade goes off.

frank jerks back so fast the chair nearly tips, his hand ripping from yours like he’s been burned. his breathing is unsteady, his lips still parted like he was caught mid-confession. he doesn’t even turn right away—because he doesn’t have to. he knows that voice.

robby.

your father.

frank's boss.

your heart spikes—not from the arrhythmia this time, but from pure panic. you whip your head toward the doorway, pulse pounding in your ears. robby stands there, eyes wide, jaw clenched so tight you can see the muscles twitching under his skin. his gaze snaps from you—disheveled, propped on the bed—to frank, who looks like someone just caught him with a hand grenade in his pocket.

for a split second, frank feels seventeen again. like a kid caught sneaking out. except this is worse—so much worse. he swears under his breath, running a hand down his face, trying to find words that don’t exist.

“robby…” his voice cracks slightly, half-apology, half-disbelief. “i can explain.”

“explain?” robby’s voice is a growl now, low and sharp like broken glass. “explain why the hell you've got your tongue down my daughter throat and your lips all over her? or explain why you didn’t think to call me the second she came in?!”

“dad—” your voice is soft, trembling, but firm enough to cut through some of his fury. “don’t. it’s not—” you glance at frank, at the way his jaw tightens, at the guilt written all over his face. “it’s not what you think.”

“not what i think?” robby steps inside, his shadow falling over both of you. his eyes lock on frank with the kind of anger that could end worlds.

“langdon, you’ve gotta be out of your goddamn mind.”

frank doesn’t flinch. not really. he straightens, meeting robby’s glare head-on, though his voice is quiet. “she asked me not to call you. she’s an adult now, robby. i . . . i was just respecting her wishes.”

robby’s eyes narrow, fire blazing. “you’re respecting her by—what? kissing her while she’s hooked up to a monitor? she's your patient. you’ve lost your fucking mind.”

frank’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t look away.

“that’s not—” he cuts himself off, struggling. “it wasn’t planned. i . . . it just happened.”

robby’s voice is rising now, sharp and cutting, echoing off the tile walls.

“what the hell is wrong with you? i trusted you, and now i find you with your hands all over my daughter? you think rehab bought you a clean slate? you think you can—”

“robby—” frank’s tone is quiet but firm, trying to de-escalate. “it’s not—”

“don’t you robby me. you’re lucky i don’t have you hauled out of this hospital for—”

“shut. the. fuck. up.”

the words rip out of you before you even think. the room goes silent. even the hum of the monitor feels muted. both men freeze, wide-eyed, because you’ve never spoken to your dad like that.

you push yourself up on the pillows, breath heavy, glaring between them. “both of you. just stop. right now.” your voice shakes but doesn’t break.

“do you have any idea what it’s like lying here, listening to you two scream like i’m not even in the damn room? like i’m some prize you get to fight over?”

your eyes lock on your father’s, and this time, you don’t flinch.

“you don’t get to yell at him like that. he’s the only one who actually listened to me tonight. i asked him not to call you. i begged him. and he respected me and my decision.”

“kiddo—” robby’s voice softens slightly, but you cut him off again.

“no. no, dad, you don’t get to spin this. you don’t get to barge in here acting like frank is the villain when you—” you stop yourself before the words turn to tears. “when you’ve been angry at me for months. like i did something wrong just by existing.”

you turn your gaze to frank, who’s standing frozen by the bed, jaw tight, clearly trying not to get in the way of this storm.

“he’s not perfect,” you continue, voice steadier now, “but he’s here. he’s the one who sat with me when i woke up. he’s the one who didn’t treat me like i was going to break. and i’m so tired of feeling like i’m the fragile thing in every room i walk into.”

the silence after that is deafening.

robby’s face is carved in stone, shock and hurt and something else—something softer—mixing in his expression. he glances at frank, then back to you.

“kid…” his voice is quieter now. “i’m just trying to protect you.”

“i don’t need protection. i need you to trust me. and to trust him. even if you’re angry. even if you hate it.” frank exhales slowly, like he’s been holding his breath the whole time.

you’re still glaring at your father, chest rising and falling faster than the monitor behind you can keep up with. the silence that follows your words is razor-sharp, hanging heavy in the air.

“and while we’re on the subject,” you snap, “you can’t keep punishing frank for a mistake. he paid his due. he did the work. he got clean. he’s back, and you are just gonna have to deal with it.”

robby doesn’t move. doesn’t breathe. his jaw clenches, but for once, he doesn’t have anything to throw back. your words hit like a scalpel—clean and impossible to ignore.

frank is still at your side, looking halfway stunned. like he’s not sure what to do with the fact that you just . . . defended him. fiercely. publicly. in front of your father.

his eyes meet yours for just a beat too long, soft and conflicted, like he’s silently saying thank you and please don’t stop looking at me like that all at once.

robby exhales—sharp and slow—and mutters, “we’re not done talking about this.”

“yeah,” you say, leaning back against the pillow, still burning with adrenaline. “we are.”

he stares at you one last time before backing out of the room, the curtain dragging closed behind him like a warning.

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# Ⓒ all rights to canon characters belong to the original creators. my character and non canon compliant events belong to me. under no circumstances are you to repost, copy, or redistribute anywhere with out permission. also mdni, this 18+. ageless blog will be blocked!

[maxinehufflepuffprincess]

So This is Love

BangChan x fem! reader. 9th member.

(This is a much shorter fic from my other SKZ ones. But, still enjoy anyway.)

Taglist. Masterlist. Progress Update. MamaBear Collection.

Summary: You and Chan are dancing alone in the practice room.

You stood in the centre of the practice room. You were currently dancing. You had your ballroom heels on. You had grown up dancing. It was kind of a family tradition. You started with ballet and tap. Then you moved on to Latin and Ballroom. Which was a style that you adored. You went into Freestyle and cheerleading. Hip Hop was also a style you tried. But the ballroom always pulled you back. So, alongside Freestyle, you continued ballroom. You learned the right way to move your hips in the cha cha cha. You learnt how to be effortlessly graceful in a waltz. You learnt how to breathe in a quickstep. You learnt to be fierce yet delicate in a foxtrot.

Chan sat comfortably on the couch, watching you move. He had always been mesmerised by you when you danced. Yes, Minho was the main choreographer. However, you always helped where you could. You helped him and the rest of the dance racha come up with dances when needed. You had even taught the boys some ballroom moves. 

Hyunjin enjoyed tangoing with you. Whereas I.N. just enjoyed getting to twirl you around. Felix had taken up wanting to learn Rumba. He was doing well so far. Minho was doing well with the Foxtrot. Both Jisung and Changbin were still having fun with Cha-Cha-Cha. Seungmin had recently asked if he could try learning to Quickstep. Chan, however, had been enjoying Waltzing with you. 

Chan always felt close to you when you waltzed. It felt like everything else stopped, and it was just the two of you. It felt intimate in a whole new way. It felt light and romantic. It was the way he got to hold you close. The way that at first he let down all his walls and had to trust you to lead the dance. Now, he was at the point where he could lead you. Where he could take everything you taught him and show you that he had been listening. That he was worth the time you were spending on him.

Chan looked at you as he heard you let out a small huff. 

You turned to face Chan and held your hand out to him. “Come here.” You spoke softly. 

Chan raised an eyebrow but got up anyway. He walked over to you. 

You smiled up at him before walking over to your phone, which was connected to the speakers and music system. You picked a song. ‘So This Is Love’ from ‘Cinderella’. You made your way back to Chan as the music began.

You held a hand out to him. “Dance with me?” You asked softly, hopefully. 

Chan nodded his head. “How could I ever say no to you?” He held your hand in his, his left hand came to rest on your waist, and your left hand rested on his shoulder.

Chan pulled your body closer to his, and soon you began to waltz around the room. It was nice. It was somewhat relaxing. Both of you forget everything around you. You forgot about work, about the comeback. You forgot about the tour that wasn't too far away. A part of you both even forgot about the boys. Because at the moment, it was just the two of you. 

Two people who had adored and loved each other since before you debuted. Two people who hid their real feelings for each other from everyone except your families and obviously your boys. Of course, Stay knew. They had thoughts and theories, but nothing had ever been confirmed. Over the years, more and more people began to realise. No one said anything. Because why break something so pure and beautiful?

Something that had started between two teenagers who wanted nothing more than to follow their dreams and get there together. It was two people who loved each other. A couple that makes music together and work so well together. Two people who took on a leadership role, taking on the responsibility of looking after and taking care of their seven members. Seven men who were their friends, co-workers and family. They were younger brothers and sons to you both. 

So moments like this were needed. Because sometimes forgetting about the world was the best way to survive something. Sometimes it was enough just to be in each other’s arms, staying close and holding each other. 

You soon found yourself humming along to the song. Chan couldn't help but smile as he listened to you.

“So this is love. Mmmmm. So this is love. So this is what makes life divine.”

The two continued to waltz around the room. When Prince Charming’s part came up, Chan sang along. So there you were. Two people, very much in love. Singing to a Disney love song as you waltzed around the empty dance practice room, waiting for your boys to arrive.

—-----------------------

The door was open. Not a lot, just enough. There were seven sets of eyes watching as you and Chan danced around the room and sang together. 

Hyunjin, Felix and Seungmin were all filming and taking pictures of the moment. 

Minho was captivated by the way you moved as I.N. swayed to the sound of your voice. 

Changbin and Han both teared up a little. Because they knew you both needed this. 

All seven could see how Chan’s shoulders relaxed as he twirled you around. They saw the way you didn’t worry about how you sang the song or nitpicked at your own steps. 

Minho backed away. “Come on. Let’s go get some drinks and come back. Let’s give them a little more time together.” 

So the boys left to get coffee, tea, and smoothies. Whatever they wanted. But they were sure to get you and Chan’s favourites as well. 

The videos and pictures were posted in the group chat just before dance practice started. One of the pictures that Seungmin took. It was of the two of you dancing, holding each other. Looking at each other like you had all the love in the world. It’s now your phone wallpaper and your new contact photo in Chan’s phone.

Months later, on your anniversary, Hyunjin gifted you a painting. It was the exact same picture you adored from that day. Though in the painting, you two looked like you were right out of a fairytale. Chan was dressed smartly, almost princely. And there you were in a gorgeous dress that was your favourite colour. A pretty tiara on your head. On top of the painting sat a card that simply read. ‘To Chan and Honey, I painted this because a love like yours is rare. I needed to capture that. I want a love like yours. Thank you for everything you do for us. Happy Anniversary. Hyunjin xxx.’

The painting sits proudly above Chan’s desk in your room.

-----------------

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[inumakiiii]

+ .’ Clark Kent w/ a fat gf!!

Very NSFW pls be mindful

Mentions: FAT/CHUBBY READER!, lots of Breeding, Dumbification, A little bit of dollification? Mention of exhibitionism, Body worship, Pussy worship + being jealous of… ur pussy????? P in V sex, Cunnilingus, praise, Soft dom! Clark, size difference (Clark is taller than almost everyone let’s be real) Strength kink, Petnames (mama, baby, doll) probably more but I forget! Bodyshaming from an asshole co-worker but Clark fixes that real quick! sappy sappy love and adoration for your body

IMPORTANT: Reader is AFAB and uses she/her prns, described as being shorter than Clark and fat/big/chubby/soft/large/fluffy/squishy, a menstrual cycle is mentioned, YOU ARE NOT TOO FAT FOR THIS FANFIC!!!!!

Ur favorite fictional characters love fat women and IDGAF.

SUPERMAN is the bright, muscular, and tall absolute unit of a man that everyone in metropolis either admires or wants to fuck let’s be real ..

LIKE I’m sorry but you can’t tell me that this man doesn’t have atleast a couple of sappy & obsessive fan pages contrived of mostly teenagers + young adults going on about everything he does. They have edited pictures and pfps of him like he’s a member of some adolescent boy band. But it’s not surprising! He’s awesome! And despite being humble, he really revels in it actually, he likes to see that ppl enjoy him and look up to him!

Clark really gets too curious, starts exploring a bit too much in his free time, looking through comment threads and browsing forums, something about Superman , something about Metropolis’s favorite hero…

And he giggles a little bit when he sees a couple of comments wondering if this altruistic hero who answers to the city’s every call has a special someone in his life ..

& now he’s just getting all worked up and distracted thinking of his plump little girlfriend. His heart just gets all thumpy and fast and excited when the thought of you crosses his mind.

Big, strong and muscled Superman just loves to come home to his fluffy, soft woman! Just wants to fall into your arms and let you play with his disheveled curls, listen to you worry and whine about how tired and dirty and bruised he looks… Head resting against the expanse of your belly, just staring into your cute little distressed face and dozing off a tiny little bit. He loves your belly soooooo much. It’s so big and soft and squishy, the most perfect belly & body to come home to after a day of stress & fighting monsters and the subconscious stress of having to keep his idenitity completely secret. He just wants to melt into your jiggly body, mush his cheek against the soft and thick layers of fat that adorn your abdomen and knead at the doughy skin of your thighs with his large hand…

He LOVES to see the way that your belly pudge spills between his fingers when he sinks his palm into it, loves to see how you get all flushed and worked up cause of your big strong boyfriend and his big strong hands that are just touching and feeling and gripping all over your body so much it’s a lil overwhelming. & he’s just so tired .. wants to give into his instincts and just suckle on your tit, belly or soft mound of ur pussy and just let his eyes flutter shut to the sound of your whimpers.

He loves all of your soft bits so much :(

Can’t get through an hour of work without thinking of your puffy pussy and how soft, warm and fat it is .. his cock just deserves a gooey, messy hole to fuck & pound and breed when he gets home and he’s just so happy that you’re his. Sometimes when you get out of the shower, you catch him staring at those little tiger stripes all over ur body, zoned out, and ur like “Clark? Are you okay?” And he comes back to the surface and hes kind of smirking but still all flustered and muttering apologies, your stretch marks are so pretty!

Clark knows he’s a jerk: even when you’re being cute & wholesome or those moments you spend being worried for his safety, his head & cock are just buzzing and saying how much they wanna breed u and make you a mama. Your belly is just so big and squishy and so perfect for babies!, hips too wide and/or soft to be neglected! Ur body has one purpose & it is just made to carry his babies!! Like .. What do you expect him to do??

A mans got instincts! He needs to repopulate the motherland! DO WHAT U WERE MADE FOR & GIVE HIM UR BABIES!!!

Ofc Clark would never EVER force you into something you weren’t comfortable with, if babies aren’t for u rn or ever he just gets off at the idea so much anyways… just stares at the way ur entire body ripples and jiggles with each thrust of his strong hips and he swears you were made just for him. He wants what you want. If you want babies, ur getting knocked up, bred and cummed in at every damn chance he gets. Don’t want babies? Clark still fucks you like a rabbit & is just grateful he gets to wake up to your gorgeous face every morning.

He just loves you so much and wants you to feel good, always wanting to latch his lips onto your drooly cunt and lick and suckle all of your special bits, one hand toying with your fat lips while the other explores your chubby mound and thick pudge of your lower belly . He’s just so enamored with ur pussy and ur kind of getting jealous. “She’s so pretty…” he coos and rubs his hand along ur puffy folds, spreading and inspecting u like ur his own plump little plaything. Ughhhh and he just loves making you feel good so much that he’s moaning and whining louder than you!!! 6’4 alien giant of a boyfriend who could manhandle you at any moment he wanted js whining and whimpering in between his gf’s fat thighs & chubby cunt… & it’s just making you more worked up.

SOMETIMES: As a big girl it’s hard to feel small, always worrying about how much space you take up in every room, if your body is too much , if your presence is too bold or disgusting or unwanted. And you know Clark would just talk your ear off for hours about how beautiful you are inside & out… reprimand you for thinking such things and fuck you silly to get all of those dumb little thoughts out of your cute head! He loves himself a big woman, and he doesn’t understand how others don’t. There’s just so much more to look forward to! So much more to love, feel, fondle, cuddle & fuck and you are just the sweetest, softest, chubbiest little thing ever. But if someone goes out of their way to make you feel lesser than just because you are big.. Clark is gonna have a *big* issue with them.

The Clark side of him might come off as awkward and shy but he can break that act in a second when it comes to the woman in his life, you, his woman. If it’s someone at your work… He’s not gonna be confrontational unless it persists or becomes something bigger, but Clark will pull up during a break and just tower over everyone, eyes darting around to find the person who was the source of all of your woes the night before.

He won’t do anything or say anything, he’ll just be there, smiling at you and squishing your thigh, pecking your lips and making his presence known. Maybe making it a point to bump into something only annoyingly tall ppl would bump into or pick up something only someone with obvious strength could pick up … I feel like he’d also try to make friendly conversation with them, joking a bit before mentioning that you’re his soon to be fiancé and getting all sappy and passive aggressive talking about you and the person is just like .. oh… This tall ass guy is her boyfriend. Shit.

Clark will talk your ear off later abt how much he “heavily dislikes” bullies, how you shouldn’t listen to people who just wanna bring you down because you are just the most beautiful human ever & they need to work on themselves first.

Even after, he texts you all throughout the day about how pretty you are… makes you stand in the mirror when you are both home and just kisses your ear and talks to you about his favorite parts of you and runs his hands down your body, touching at the fat of your arms and ass, kissing your cheeks and caressing your double chin. “So pretty, mama.” He says with a smirk and in that deep rumbling voice that makes butterflies start fluttering around in your tummy …,,, and soon enough ur a moaning fucked out mess under him again as he just apologizes over and over for always fucking you silly but he “just can’t control m’self”

Clark makes you feel so tiny & warm and safe and cared for. He’s such a big and clumsy guy, too tall and awkward for his own good! His suit jackets are somehow always too big even though he’s huge … Even when trying to blend in as a normal citizen, he’s still always standing out among the crowds, zig zagging through bustling streets to get to work or, at noon, drop off lunch at ur home or workplace bc he needs to make sure his baby eats! He always makes it a point to get your favorite foods, that dish you always order from your favorite restaurant, that fast food/takeout place you like to indulge in & even takes notes of meals you make during your cycle or when ur just in need of some comfort food and brings it to you! He loves seeing you happy, loves seeing you nourishing yourself with food idk! Theres just smth about seeing someone you love do even the most normal mundane things ever like eat, sleep or shower … like.. ur alive and I love you and I want you to take care of yourself yk? And Clark is just so smitten with you he could watch you do anythinggg!

But the look in your eyes when you see your bf walk into the room delivering lunch to you is just enough for him. You’re just so happy to see him, so happy to share a meal with him and get to talk to him .. it’s so pure and lovely and happy and Clark just can’t get enough of you.

Again, Clark is just so much taller and broader than most people, and you’re no exception. He’s a tall guy! If you’re on the shorter side oh my god… he loves it sm.

Now take “if” with a grain of salt bc most people are shorter than him…

He just loves how cute you are! He wants to protect you and nurture you like a little pet.. gets so confused on how you’re real sometimes like, why are you going to work??? Being independent?? What the fuck? You shouldn’t need to worry about things and stress out about stuff all the time bc ur just the cutest little thing who needs to be coddled and taken care of.

He knows it’s silly, you’re a grown, responsible and hardworking adult who makes your own decisions but he just goes on rants about how he just wants to provide for you so you don’t have to move a limb and just sit there and be worshipped like the goddess that you are!

Listen, he’s a wholesome man but when he sees the size difference between ur hands…. Oh honey hes practically in heat atp.

Ugh and Clark just gets oh so mad at himself for being such a perv, mama Kent didn’t raise him like this! He gets all upset when his cock gets hard and drippy even though you’re just holding hands. But his hand is practically swallowing yours whole ..

When he gets home and kicks off his loafers he nearly dies everytime he sees how big his shoes are compared to yours, such a dainty little thing!!! How did he get so lucky! You’re just a little doll in his eyes.

And when you’re both cuddling at night & he’s going off about all this nerdy dorky stuff and the crazy shit he has to deal w/ as Superman and he just really starts to realize how much smaller parts of ur body are than his..

Like, he loves that you’re a big girl, but in length and overall size … his forearm is just so much bigger than yours… wrists and biceps so much stronger… his legs so much longer and his head 2x the size of yours and he’s just like .. thinking of naughty things and ur just sitting there gawking at ur man as he goes off abt smth,,, but little do you know he just wants to grab you and manhandle you into a mating press but he would NEVER actually do it w/o your explicit request and consent.

HES A GENTLEMAN! And ur just like “ugh Clark just use me whenever you want for fucks sake.” And he’s just like “No!!! What the hey dude ?! do you have no self respect!! You need to hold yourself in higher regard ugh..” even though he can feel his cock literally throbbing in his boxers. He’s no better than any man, sorry.

Clark who LOVES to fuck you as Superman. Secretly gets off to the idea that he just takes you in public with his suit on and pounds into you like there’s no tomorrow, gripping your big belly as someone walks by and sees Metropolis’s hero fucking his woman like he’s in heat .. But again, he gets so ashamed thinking these thoughts cause they’re so dirty! BUT HE WANTS EVERYONE TO KNOW THAT UR HIS!!! Even though he’s never gonna bc that wouldn’t be practical for his personal life’s sake.

He’ll fuck you in the suit anytime you want though, u want Superman tonight? YES MA’AM!! And he’s just got you in a position that shows his full strength like a headlock or full nelson (per ur request …) and he’s just fucking your plump little body in absolute bliss. And he keeps repeating little apologizes “shouldn’t be doing this to you… could hurt you.” And ur just like CLARK STFU AND USE ME!!! And even then he’s still like “is this okay???? Can you breathe?”

God but he’s so fulfilled and he’s so turned on by having complete control over you, just rutting into you and ur ass is rippling against his hips, whole body going limp and eyes rolling into the back of ur head cause you’re just his dumb little thing.

Cause that’s what you are. His beautiful fat girl who he just loves so very much and just needs you to know it everyday. No one could fulfill him like you do, no one else’s body could make him feel so needy and desperate like yours. Clark doesn’t love you despite of your size, he loves you because of your size; and everything else that comes with you. In his humble opinion, there is never enough of you to go around.

⊹₊⟡⋆ ⎚-⎚

[imujings]

[l.jh] home for new year’s

synopsis. | it’s the new year, and you and jihoon have some cleaning to do.

♯ pairing(s). | lee jihoon x gn!reader, platonic!svt & gn!reader ♯ genre(s). | fluff & established relationship ♯ wc. | 1.8k ♯ warnings. | drunk soonyoung, svt’s chaotic antics, reader is shorter than jihoon, brief shirtless jihoon (yeah this is a warning), domestic fluff …

jay's musings. | hii this is my first fic teehee. i’m soo normal about woozi. tysm @wheeboo for cheering me on with writing c: hoping to write more in the future! <3

“You sure you’ll be alright?” Seungcheol asks, his hands full of various gift bags of different sizes.

He’s standing in the doorway of your flat, his puffy winter coat already on, but he looks ready to sacrifice everything in his arms and on his body at the moment to be elbows deep in dishes. “There’s only two of you,” he continues, his eyes wide with concern. “All together we’d be fourteen, and cleaning would be so much easier.”

A woozy and abrupt buuurp! sounds from behind you. There’s some shuffling, and Jihoon’s grimace is prominent as he leads a giggling Soonyoung to the door. The latter is singing some sort of holiday song, refusing to quiet down despite the exasperated laugh your boyfriend lets out at his antics. Outside, you can hear the warm calls of goodbyes of the others, accompanied by the soft shutting of car doors and the hum of their engines.

Your smile is easygoing, leaning against the foyer’s small closet door. “You’ve already done enough, Cheol,” you insist. “All Jihoon and I have to do is rinse the wine glasses and the food trays. We’ll be fine, I promise.”

“Plus,” your hand flies to your mouth to hide the smile that appears as Soonyoung dramatically collapses against the front door, his head thudding against the material. “I’m not sure if everyone is truly in… the right state to help.”

As if on cue, your endearingly intoxicated friend begins to belt hysterically about lost love, reaching for Jihoon who’s desperately backing away, his own hands clutching to his sides with laughter. Seungcheol scrunches his eyes shut as if he could magically will away the younger man. The echoes of Soonyoung’s singing ring in the stairwell of your flat’s complex, not going ignored by those who have already left. You swear you can hear Seungkwan’s harmonies and Seokmin’s adlibs from up here.

Bidding a final farewell, you watch as Jihoon and Seungcheol carefully guide your friend down the stairwell to the car that’s waiting down below, Joshua in the driver’s seat to take Soonyoung back to his house. Your eyes meet Jihoon’s, crinkling at the corners when he huffs out that he’ll be right back.

It’s unnervingly quiet when you click the door to your flat shut. Turning to the now empty space, a hushed, relaxed puff leaves your lips. The guys were sober enough—save for Soonyoung, apparently—to help clean up to the best of their abilities. Your TV is still on, some old reruns of a sitcom droning on in the background as you finish straightening up the throws on the couch. A soft, cream tufted pillow lays fallen from its place on the lovechair, where only hours before Wonwoo had been lying lazily with Jeonghan against him, the two watching with amused eyes at Seungkwan and Chan’s rap battle. Picking it up, you roll your eyes at finding a crumpled napkin filled with messy tally marks underneath. Ah. Jun’s record of how many times Hansol had goose-laughed during the night.

Giggles bubble out of your mouth before you can stop them. You miss them all already.

Padding softly to the kitchen, you thank the stars that your friends were kind enough to assist in cleaning up. You vaguely remember Mingyu laying the food trays in the sink and stacking their respective warmers away, blessing him a safe drive home and a charger that works without having to angle it weirdly. Fourteen wine glasses ready to be washed were neatly tucked on the counter next to the trays. Luck was on your side, you suppose.

Rolling up the sleeves of your sweater, you let autopilot take over, barely tuning in to hear the sound of the front door unlocking and clinking shut again.

You feel him before you see him and smile.

Jihoon's arms snake around your waist as you turn on the faucet and begin to scrub the glasses. You feel his forehead rest in the space between your shoulder blades, letting the vibration of his soft groan flow through you.

“I am never letting you convince me to host a get-together ever again,” he complains.

There’s no real threat to his words. “You enjoyed it,” you reply with a hum, not as a question but as a statement.

The rinsed wine glasses are placed onto the drying mat upside-down. He pauses, before letting go of your waist and reaching for the towel that rests on the handle of the dishwasher. As he starts to dry off the wine glasses, his hip bumps against yours good-naturedly. “It’s a miracle they didn’t leave the place a mess.”

It’s silent for a little. You take this time to let your mind wander yet again, your gaze flitting to your boyfriend every now and then. You’ve always loved this about Jihoon—his pure dedication to a task. There’s a rawness and undoubted authenticity to his movements, his tongue poking out a little in concentration as he wipes the glasses dry.

Shaking your hands to rid them of water, you giggle as you pass him by to your next chore. You can’t help it, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek, laughing louder when his cheeks warm to that familiar shade of cherry that you adore.

However, your mood solemns rather fast. Moving to the counter, you frown as you stare down at the mugs, and then up at the top cupboard shelf. Your gaze drops back down to the cups.

“Ji,” you sigh. “Were these mugs from the top shelf or below?”

“The top shelf,” Jihoon answers easily.

Your frown deepens. You stand fruitlessly on your tiptoes, barely being able to place the mug on the top shelf without it falling back over the side.

“I think I’m too short to reach it.”

He doesn’t even look over from his new location of wiping down the dinner table, humming softly. His tone isn’t unkind when he responds. “Yeah, I know. I’ll take care of it. Don’t worry.”

You two work in tandem, sometimes slipping in light conversation about new gossip the two of you had attained from the party. There’s a tiredness to your movements that’s matched by the man, but you both easily sidestep one another when moving about in the kitchen, picking up where the other left off in a task.

When you’re done, Jihoon looks just about ready to topple over. “I'm never doing this again,” he mutters, eyeing the clock on the wall who’s hands are about to strike twelve and three.

You lean against him and press another soft, lingering kiss to his cheek. “This is the second time you’ve said this now. We don’t have to if you really don’t wanna, but I think you had more fun than you’re letting on.”

Preening, Jihoon gladly leans into your touch, his tone softening. “Still… maybe not next year. We just need a bigger place; our flat is too small to have twelve guests. Plus us.”

Something in you warms at the thought of moving out of your tiny place and into a proper house, a proper home, with Jihoon. Maybe it’s the wine Minghao had convinced you to try (and then had a good few more glasses of, but you would never admit that to him), but as you make a noise of agreement, you try and fail to imagine a home without Jihoon. Home is more than where you sleep for the night, you muse. It’s his toothbrush next to yours on the bathroom sink counter. It’s his hoodies hanging neatly next to your sweaters in your bedroom closet. It’s him, calling your name in that sweet lilt of his, before planting an equally sweet kiss on your lips. Home is Jihoon.

You brush hair out of your eyes, and before you know it, you’re moving together towards your shared room. You call dibs on washing up first, to which Jihoon rolls his eyes and scoffs before pushing you lightly into the unlit space.

“One day,” you murmur as you come out of the bathroom and sit on the edge of the bed, yawning and watching him lazily change into comfier clothes. “One day we’ll have our own place. And a cat, too.”

Jihoon glances back at you with amusement in his eyes, his face relaxed, the tension in his shoulders releasing. He tosses you a shirt of his that lands awkwardly in your lap before disappearing into the bathroom. Squirming out of your clothes and into what you argue is a much more comfortable shirt, you breathe in his unmistakable scent and scroll through your phone, exhaustion starting to creep up on you.

Your eyes flicker up to your boyfriend when he re-emerges, cheeks heating at his lack of shirt, hair disheveled from washing his face. You’ll never get used to it, no matter how many nights you spend together. His insistence of sleeping without a shirt never ended in your complaints, but the sight still left you a little dry-mouthed, swallowing thickly as you turn your phone off and tug the blanket over your tired form. The mattress dips below Jihoon’s knee as he crawls into the bed, slotting against you perfectly. His skin is pleasantly warm.

“Thank you for helping me clean up,” you brush your nose against his and smile.

Jihoon’s breath tingles lightly against your cheek, his tone sluggish as he mumbles against your skin. The only light on now is the one from your digital alarm clock, emitting a tender glow into the room that has you sighing contentedly.

“Why wouldn’t I help? I hosted it, too.”

“I know,” you whisper back playfully, going to tuck your face into the crook of his neck. “And I appreciate you. You did well today.”

He knows the hidden meaning behind your words. And I hope you know you mean the world to me. I love you.

The heater clicks on, warm air beginning to blow from the vents in the corners of your shared bedroom. There’s a comfortable lull, sleep pressing you gently in waves, coaxing you to finally disappear under the surface of reality and into the dream world below. All you can focus on is the slow of Jihoon’s breath, his touch inviting, longing, and full of love. Your Jihoon. Your home.

“You did well today, too. Get some sleep,” he kisses your hair, your mind already surrendering to the bliss that sleep is.

I love you, too. Please love yourself the way I love you.