#and SHE finds something she thinks is pretty and gives it to you

[satzumosupremacy]

Elite Bodyguard Series: Pt.13

Gift In Disguise

Male reader X Kwon Eunbi

Tags: Smut, not a mommy Eunbi 9.2k Words

A/N: Does mention a little blood and violence but you should be fine :)

Every movement is calm, controlled, and efficient. But you carry a kind of danger. It can serve good or evil, but make no mistake—you are dangerous, more than what people realize. It’s not something you like to show, unless you want to make a clear statement.

Someone always has to learn the hard way. Just like today, you’ll give back what they bring. Psychological mind games, manipulation, subtle pressure, controlled silence and chaos—you’ll escalate it calmly, with precision, only if it’s necessary. This is your playing field.

“Boss?” Shadow—a colleague of yours say, pausing as he looks back at you.

Eunbi glances over too with curiosity in her eyes, wondering why you stopped short just before turning around the corner toward the elevators. She tries to follow your gaze but quickly finds nothing. Shadow, on the other hand, catches the signal instantly. No words needed.

This is just one of the many things that set you apart as a bodyguard—counter-surveillance isn’t easy, and it’s not a skill anyone can easily learn. It’s more than watching your surroundings; it’s about reading people, anticipating their moves. You see someone once, there’s no need to be alarmed. Twice, maybe it’s a coincidence. But the third time, you know you’re being tailed. Easier said than done.

“I need to use the bathroom. Escort Miss Eunbi to her room, Shadow,” you say, making an excuse as you continue to stare down at the person in the lobby from afar.

“Understood, Boss” the bodyguard says and continues to walk with Eunbi following right behind.

And right after Eunbi turns the corner, you adjust your earpiece to radio your colleagues. “This is Boss. Shadow is escorting Eunbi. Ghost, do you copy?”

“Copy.”

“What did security say about the possible Tango? Over.”

“They think we’re overreacting. We can’t do nothing about it. They seem like unseasoned security guards that haven’t gotten their hands dirty before when the threat is posing as a bodyguard.”

No bodyguard should be sitting down when there’s only four that’s in the building. It’s already a red flag. An experienced security guard would have caught on.

"Should I drag him by the hair to security?" you say, half-sarcastic, but not entirely joking. At this point, the risk of something happening is unknown. Anything can happen in a moment. You're not doing this just to protect Eunbi, but to ensure the safety of everyone in the building. It’s really not your job to, but something like this is already a security risk.

The whole time, your eyes stay locked on him—the threat. Whether he knows you're watching from a distance and is just playing dumb, you don’t care. You want him to realize he’s being stalked. You want him to feel uneasy. You want him to be afraid.

“What’s Tango doing? Confirm a description, Boss. Delta is right beside me. Shadow and Miss Eunbi just got out of the elevator and are walking to the room.”

“He’s sitting pretty with a phone in his face,” you reply, still staring down the threat. “Confirming—black baseball cap, black suit jacket, white flannel, black pants, brown dress shoes.”

“Copy that. No changes. Should I drag each security guard by their hair to you, Boss?” Ghost chuckles.

“It’s a good way to hurt their pride, and I’ll be proud—but let’s not get into legal lawsuits.”

“Right. Would you like me to take your place?”

“Rendezvous at my location. Try stalking and make it super obvious. Or try hitting on him if you get bored.”

“Is that really the extent you want me to go, Boss?” Ghost laughs.

“Up to you. Just let me know so we’re on the same page.”

What you really mean is, you aren’t pressuring Ghost to do honeypotting—a form of espionage where a woman flirts with a man to gather information or lower his guard. But if you can get something useful that way, it’s a win. Minimal risk. Maximum gain.

“Eunbi just entered the room a few seconds ago. I’ll be on my way down,” Ghost says.

Once Ghost takes over your position, you step into the elevator and head up to Eunbi. You glance at everyone who passes by from the corner of your eye—head on a swivel, even as they go about their day.

When you reach the room, you tap Delta on the shoulder and motion for him to patrol the floor. No one says it out loud, but the team feels it from the change in your glare—passivity dissolving into quiet tension. The calm watchfulness sharpens. Everyone’s posture straightens, eyes narrow. Surveillance shifts into staging. You and the team aren’t just watching anymore—you’re waiting for the moment to strike.

“Hey,” Eunbi whispers, opening the door after hearing your voice from outside her room. “Oppa.”

“Yes?”

She waves you into the room, and you follow her command. Eunbi gently closes the door behind you, leaving the two of you alone in the brightly lit room while her manager is still out getting snacks.

“Oppa, is everything okay?” she asks cautiously. “You were in the bathroom for so long. Are you feeling constipated? I have some medicine if you are.”

Seriously, what’s going on in her mind? Is she always like this? You don’t even know.

“No. And stick to ‘sir’ like you did before. We aren’t close like that.”

“Alright, Boss,” she replies, which already feels bizarre to you.

“Not that either.”

“Well, you’re not the actual boss-boss, though,” she says, tilting her head slightly. “Right?”

You keep a silent smile, with just a hint of a smirk.

“Hey, you’re a little annoying. At least answer me, Sir,” Eunbi pouts.

You would say Eunbi is an oddball, because how many names is she going to call you by, and within a simple response? She already called you by your name, “Sir,” “Oppa,” “Mister bodyguard,” and an informal “Hey”, all in rotation. It’s not a big deal to you, but it is getting a little annoying when she can’t stick to one name.

“Do you know what psychological misdirection is, Miss Eunbi?”

“A what?” she says, sitting down on the chair while you stand near the door.

If she doesn’t catch on, you’ll misdirect her to another topic—just to gauge how clueless she really is. “Want to know why I told you not to say my name? Get down.”

She stands up, confused, looking around before slowly squatting in front of you with her legs together. “What’s happening?”

“Stand up,” you say, looking down and meeting Eunbi’s gaze with her cleavage in your view, which was unintentional on your end to look down at her.

She obeys silently, still confused as ever.

“Sit back on the chair, Miss Eunbi.”

“W-what are you doing?” she asks, blindly grabbing the chair and sits down.

“At least you’re obedient, Miss Eunbi. Just listen and do whatever I tell you to do. Don’t question, don’t worry. Trust me, and I’ll trust you.”

She chuckles and rolls her eyes at how easily you controlled her. “Oppa, why do you look so paranoid, though? Nothing’s going to happen,” Eunbi says with a smile.

That’s the last thing you wanted to hear—“nothing will happen.”

Even omens exist in your line of work. It’s like telling a first responder, “It’s been quiet.” Anything can happen after that. And the smile Eunbi’s giving you meant to comfort, just hits a nerve instead.

“I’m not paranoid, Miss Eunbi,” you say calmly, letting out a quiet sigh that barely masks the tension coiling in your chest.

“Um, would you like to sit down? There’s a chair right by you. Just look down, like to the left side," she says with a gentle invitation.

“No thanks, Miss,” you reply, your tone clipped but not harsh. “Not here to babysit an adult.”

She exhales, a mix of frustration and concern. “Why are you being like this? Weren’t you more friendly like thirty minutes ago? Is it because my manager’s not here that you’re acting cold to me? C’mon, it’s only been more than like one or two hours.” Her eyes search yours, trying to find a hint of the person she met earlier.

If she were sharper, she’d notice the subtle shift in your posture—the way your eyes flicker toward the door every few seconds, or how your jaw tightens when you think she’s not looking. The threat you’ve spotted more than once over these past hours isn’t visible to her. And you don’t blame her—it’s not her burden to carry.

Still, your guarded demeanor, the silence between your words, the weight in the room—it should speak volumes.

“It’s not that, Miss Eunbi. Please understand,” you say quietly, voice steady but heavy with meaning.

“Eunbi. Just call me Eunbi. Please, Oppa?”

But you don’t budge. “I get it. We met at the awards show when you got lost and couldn’t find the bathroom and talked a little, but let’s stick to professionalism.”

“I don’t like you, Sir.”

“I don’t care,” you shoot back quickly.

“Are we friends? We sure do bicker a lot.” Her smile grows wider, teasing, eyes locking with yours like she’s trying to crack the armor you wear.

You neither know nor care much about being her friend, so you shrug without saying a word.

“It’s okay to be shy and not admit we’re friends. But you should buy my album. I’ll personally include extra goodies—free of charge. I’ll even sign it. Friends should support each other, right?”

“We’ll see,” you say, not planning to spend a dime on her album. “Depends on how I feel.”

“I like this side of you now. It’s kind of hot. The cold with the soft, gentle side mixed in—very charming.”

She’s definitely hitting on you, but you act like you didn’t hear it. Neither does she really get what you’re trying to say.

“Mhmm, okay. Is that all you want to talk about? May I step outside and give you some privacy, Miss Eunbi?” Your voice is calm but carries an edge, masking the tension simmering beneath.

“No. Can you stay with me a little longer? I get kind of lonely sometimes.” Her voice drops a notch, softer, almost vulnerable, and you catch the faint scent of her perfume lingering in the air.

You glance at her, the dim light casting soft shadows across her face. Reluctantly, you nod. “What else do you want to ask, Eunbi?”

Casually dropping the ‘miss’ is intentional. Psychologically, she’ll feel a lot better and let you out quicker. You’re playing it smart by controlling the situation. Not in a bad way, that is.

She shifts slightly on the chair, the subtle rustle of fabric breaking the quiet. “How does a woman become a bodyguard? I swear, I saw one standing by my door. Why is she dressed totally different from you?”

“Her call sign is ‘Ghost.’ She’s dressed as a staff member for obvious reasons.”

“And about the guy who escorted me to the room... why does he walk weird after we left you?”

You blink, caught off guard by the question. The faint hum of the air conditioning fills the pause. “What? Why are you so curious about how people walk? That’s kind of weird.”

“I can’t be curious?” she chuckles and adjust her shirt by the collar, to which, you saw a glimpse of her cleavage. “His right arm doesn’t sway much like his left.”

“Cauliflower on his left ear. A stiff right arm. What comes to your mind? He’s the scariest bodyguard here, Eunbi.”

“And you’re not the scariest?” she says, trying to sound sharp, her eyes flickering up and down your figure. “Your nickname should be ‘Little Boss’ then.”

“Unfortunately, no,” you reply. It’s actually an understatement. Some things are better left unsaid.

She shrugs, clearly unimpressed. “You’re kind of boring.”

“Yeah, sorry for getting your hopes up or something. But I have to get going out there. We can talk after everything is done, Eunbi.”

“Fine. Gosh.” Her voice trails off, a mix of disappointment and amusement.

Once you step out of the room, the cool hallway air hits your face. You catch Shadow’s steady gaze as you smooth your sleeve with a quiet sigh. “Anything from Tango?”

“Tango got up and took the staircase. Ghost is following. Should we not make a move? He’s in a secluded space that people won’t see.”

“We move on my command,” you reply firmly. “Tango isn’t an immediate threat until he does something.”

“Anything on your mind, Boss? A plan B?”

“You’re in charge if anything goes sideways. Stay with Eunbi while I’m out. Coordinate with Delta while Ghost and I handle Tango. And do me a favor—don’t tell Eunbi where I am.”

“I—yes, Boss.”

“Did you want to say something?” you ask, your tone softening.

Shadow hesitates, then nods. “I’m not sure Ghost can keep up with your pace.”

“You know her. She’s a tough fighter.” You adjust your earpiece, glancing at Shadow as he acknowledges your words. “Delta, do you Roger? Over.”

“Roger.”

“Go to the lobby and be on standby to escort Miss Eunbi’s manager when they return. Check six and twelve.”

“Roger that, Boss. But what about Tango? I don’t have a good feeling.”

“Ghost and I will handle him. I need you and Shadow to watch Eunbi closely.”

“Boss, I’m against that,” Delta says firmly. “I’ll go in your place.”

Shadow cuts in over the radio, voice sharp and unwavering. “Just listen and do what you’re told, Delta. Don’t make things harder for Boss. He’s not in the mood.”

You lean in beside Shadow and reply quietly, “Shadow…”

And things heat up quickly, out of nowhere.

“Didn’t Boss pull some strings to get you out of prison after seeing you stomping a creep nearly to death? You know damn well you would’ve done time for that. Most people don’t get a second chance after, but somehow, Boss saw something worth saving you from being locked in a cell," Delta snaps back.

“Okay, army brat. Still got that army ego, huh? Always itching for a fight, always ready to kill? Gosh, the military’s the only place you can get away with murder, isn’t it?” Shadow fires back. “Be glad Boss took you in and gave you a second chance. Otherwise, you’d be dead broke, fighting for a country that didn’t give a damn about you afterward.”

“Hey, fucking quit it,” you radio back in a not-so-friendly tone, glaring directly at Shadow with your eyes silently saying, “Don’t make me put you in check.” The radio goes silent for what feels like minutes as you close your eyes, trying to regain some calm after losing a fair bit of your cool.

“Sorry about that, Boss,” Delta finally replies over the radio.

“I’m taking full responsibility for what can happen. Understand that. Acknowledge all.”

“Roger,” delta responds back on the radio.

“Roger,” Shadow responds beside you.

You wait for one more reply—but Ghost doesn’t respond. No verbal answer, not even the faint double-tap on the earpiece that usually signals acknowledgment or silent confirmation.

“Ghost, do you copy?” you radio. “Ghost?”

Your mind races to one conclusion—something’s wrong. You glance at Shadow, who’s staring back at you, his expression darkening with concern. There’s no time to hesitate, no time to gamble on hope. Without another word, you sprint toward the stairwell, pounding down the steps two at a time while Shadow stays behind and watches Eunbi.

“Delta, be advised, Boss is engaging. Standby,” Shadow radios to Delta.

The sudden rush of footsteps draws Eunbi’s attention. She opens the door, startled to see only Shadow standing there. “Where’s… um… your boss?”

“He’ll be back in ten minutes. Don’t worry. Your manager should be back any minute now. The radio show isn’t starting for another hour. Get some rest, Miss Eunbi.”

“Did your boss run to the bathroom again?”

Shadow exhales a short, quiet sigh—part amused, part tense. Her question might’ve been funny under normal circumstances, but the situation is far from that. “No, Miss.”

Meanwhile, you’ve already turned the corner, racing down three flights of stairs. As you hit the landing, your eyes lock onto Ghost against the wall, one hand clutching her stomach, her fingers slick with blood.

“Where did he go?” you ask, breath caught somewhere between panic and command.

Ghost winces, jaw clenched, and points toward the nearby stairwell door. “I’m fine. Go get him. He has a knife,” she gasps.

You catch sight of her earpiece on the floor—shattered, useless. She never got the chance to signal. Without hesitation, you pull out your phone, hit the emergency line, and hand it to her with the speaker on. You trust her holding on until help arrives and you quickly leave her to deal with the threat.

“Ghost’s been stabbed. Delta, inform the front desk to shut every door. My orders. Execute, now!” you radio and run full speed quickly after, hoping to catch the threat before anyone gets hurt.

“Lima Charlie, Boss,” Delta responds quickly.

“Going dark,” you declare, slipping your earpiece off and continue to run.

Every scream you hear only pulls you closer, feet pounding against the floor as you run. Your mind is spiraling with frustration and anger burning hot. You should’ve handled the threat earlier. Maybe none of this would’ve happened. But deep down, you know you couldn’t have moved until now.

As you reach the end of the hallway, you spot the threat—knife out, yelling at the broadcast station staffs, demanding something you can’t quite hear over the chaos. But you're past the point of negotiation. One of your own is bleeding out, and you have every right to act in defense.

The staff freeze at the sight of you charging forward. There’s no hesitation in your stride, no warning in your eyes. You’re locked on target, and nothing else matters. In one swift motion, you slam into the threat, driving him hard into the wall. The crack of impact echoes through the hallway as the side of his face smashes against the concrete. You hope the shock will dislodge the knife—but he doesn’t let go. Behind you, the staff break into screams, scattering and sprinting to safety, putting as much distance between themselves and the scene as they can.

And to what you don’t expect, he maintains his balance and grips his knife. But looking down at his knife still in his hands and how he’s holding onto the knife like an amateur, you don’t expect much. The threat takes a good look at you and points the knife right at you.

“Just give up and put it down,” you warn him.

“Scared?” he laughs and charges at you.

Being rushed at took you by surprise. And neither was calming down the situation was an option anymore as you dodge his knife attack easily from how slow he swung. It also took him by surprise. You quickly take this window as an opportunity to charge right at him as an exchange of force.

He tries to fight you off by lowering his arm down, getting the knife sideways with an intent of swinging it out once it connects to your stomach. You know this all too well in an instant as he tries to swing right at you instead after knowing that targeting your stomach was difficult. And neither did that work when you lowered yourself to punch him right in the ribcage. It worked a little too well that he stumbled and lean against the wall for a split second.

From what you just observed and did, you’re not expecting a long fight.

“Are you done?” you say, trying to provoke him, trying to get in his mind while he groans in pain.

He’s not giving up without a fight, or even worse, until you’re seriously hurt by him. Without an answer, he sees you approaching him at the corner of his eyes, and that’s where he strikes you with his knife, slashing your left outer forearm in a clean straight line from a quick defensive maneuver.

You felt every single bit of that slash despite your body fueling you with adrenaline.

But quickly and smartly, you back off and hear the sirens in the distance. To what he doesn’t expect, you stood your ground and crack the bones in your neck, smirking. He doesn’t like anything about how calm you are, even after you lowered your guard to where he got lucky to get a hit on you.

Trying to disarm him was a plan, but with how he’s waving his knife around carelessly for you to not jump back in, it’s not worth a risk. Despite reading his movements, all you can see is how vulnerable his chest was.

One big mistake from you can lead to his death from how the sharp side of the knife can be turned against him with just a strong push. This is something you want to prevent yourself from doing. Neither would it look great.

“Don’t be scared, come at me,” you say, provoking him again as he charges at you blindly, knife aimed dead-center at your stomach like it’s all he’s ever trained for. Very predictable.

You quickly counter him with a sidestep, just enough to let the blade miss, then drive a short, jab to his liver. That would definitely make anyone drop in seconds no matter how tough they are. But he still won’t let go of the knife. He twists with the momentum, swinging back at you—this time the blade grazes your side, then suddenly, you feel it sink in.

Your breath catches as the cold steel bites into your side. The pain blooms fast, hot—but your mind stays clear. You don’t pull away. Instead, you drag him with you, shoving both of you toward the wall, using every ounce of muscle to keep the blade from driving deeper as he suddenly looses all his strength and drops down. You quickly follow, pinning him to the ground before he can recover.

In the back of your mind, time is ticking. The knife isn’t lodged in you. You can already feel the warm trickle soaking onto your shirt, the sharp throb in your side growing louder with each heartbeat. You press your knee harder into his spine, just enough to make him stop squirming.

“Learn how to use a knife properly,” you say, which provokes him. He tries squirming around to get out but you apply pressure to his back, hurting him more and more.

“Ah. Ow. Ow. Ouch. Okay! Damn!” he screams in pain. His breathing is abnormal because of the liver shot delivered from you. “Get the fuck—.”

“Stay down while I’m being nice. And be glad I didn’t hit you hard,” you quietly say with a growl and look around, then back down to him. “Should I demonstrate where it would be better to kill you quickly?”

He doesn’t answer, everything you’re saying is scary when you’re in hands reach of his knife. Waves of dizziness starts to settle, the feeling of nausea kicks in as he groans from the pain, his vision starts to blur.

“It’ll be quick. You’ll feel it for about thirty seconds until your body goes into shock within a minute,”you say quickly, wanting to bring some sort of panic from him on purpose.

All you’re doing is scaring him. And neither was he good enough to put up a fight while armed with a knife. However, you did underestimated the sudden jolt of his willpower that got you hurt in the process. You’ll blame yourself for thinking he would drop the second you punched his liver without too much force.

“You’re just a thug… in a suit,” he slurs. “Another dog… for those soft, rich bastards. Leashed… till they say go.” He grunts, groaning in agony as you slam his face into the cold ground.

You didn’t like what he said one bit.

Within the moments of listening to his words, you wouldn’t say he was wrong—but being called a thug? That was over the line. You don’t want him to think he got in your head—even if he did.

“I don’t need your sympathy. I enjoy preying on people like you. And just to correct you, some hunting dogs can’t ever be controlled by a leash.”

He chokes on his cough, “you’re—fucking insane.”

“Be glad you’re still alive. Your chest looked like an easy target, the way you swung your knife around. You wouldn’t want to see your knife lodged in your heart, wouldn’t you? Especially from your own hands? How about a deep slash to your Achilles tendon? You won’t walk the same after.”

“Fucking psychopath,” he says, spitting his saliva on the ground, wheezing and groaning.

“Say it again,” you murmur and sigh. “You’re no different. You picked the wrong hunting dog and you’ll pay for it by being locked in a cage.”

Yet, despite toning down your aggression and daring him to repeat himself, he stays quiet. At the corner of your eyes, you see police officers running towards you. Slowly, you get off of the threat as he lays down exhausted, and voluntarily.

“Requesting additional medical support,” the police officer says into his radio, his calm, steady voice echoing faintly down the hallway as another officer walks alongside him.

Glancing down at the side of your stomach, you spot the wound. It doesn’t feel deep, but the moment your hand presses against it, pain flares, sharp and pulsing. Blood seeps through your shirt and fingers, faster than you expected, though it’s not the worst you’ve seen. Your grip weakens, but your face stays steady, calm and composed, like this isn’t the first time.

——

It’s the next day, a perfect day to be alone in your quiet house, resting as your injuries slowly heal. Peace settles over everything, undisturbed, until the sharp chime of the front doorbell cuts through the silence at fifteen minutes past noon. The unexpected sound piques your curiosity; you weren’t expecting anyone.

You glance at the front door camera and see Eunbi standing there. It’s completely unexpected. What surprises you even more is that she came alone with her car parked right in your driveway. With a quiet breath, you walk over and unlock the door, ready to greet her.

“Hey, so… um, I heard about yesterday,” Eunbi says, handing you a small bouquet of flowers along with her album and the extra goodies she promised. “I know men don’t usually get flowers, but I thought you might appreciate this.”

“Hi, and… thank you?” you say, a bit confused as you take the gifts from her hands. Flowers from her felt strange, beyond strange, but you appreciate the gesture. “Should I wire you the money? I’m supposed to pay for the album.”

“No, it’s alright. Please take it as a thank-you gift for watching over me yesterday. My manager made sure to send copies to your agency for your colleagues, and I personally signed each one. I promise."

“That’s nice of you, Eunbi,” you say, feeling the smooth weight of the album in your hands. A quiet moment settles between you. The sincerity of her gesture lingers in the air.

“Thank you,” she smiles softly, and a quiet silence lingers between you again for a few seconds.

The stillness feels a little heavy, as if neither of you quite knows what to say next. There’s an unspoken distance between the two of you, neither close enough to fill the silence comfortably. You glance away briefly, the awkwardness settling in as the gap lingers just a bit too long.

“How did you get my address?” you ask. It’s a simple question, but the slight hesitation in your voice betrays your curiosity, and maybe a touch of awkwardness.

“My manager contacted your agency.”

You nod slowly, acknowledging it’s reasonable. “Alright. You probably had a good explanation to get them to give out my address so easily.”

“Are you mad at me?” she asks, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Why would I?”

“You know, I… I didn’t mean to bother or annoy you yesterday or today, or even jinx anything from happening, Oppa."

“Yesterday? Oh, that’s just because I just didn’t want you to know what was happening.”

“Awh, that’s sweet of you. But are you doing anything today? I got in because your gate was opened. Were you going somewhere?”

“No, someone dropped off a med kit since I was running low. And sorry, I think you should head home. Not in a mood to talk.”

She didn’t like your response one bit. She was expecting you to comply. “Please? Aren’t we friends?”

“Are we?” you reply, tilting your head slightly to the right, a hint of skepticism flickering in your eyes.

“Are we not?” she counters back. “Can you do me a favor?”

“Like what?”

“Let me in,” she says, letting out a cautious, suppressed chuckle.

You turn around, rolling your eyes in mild irritation, and walk away from the door. You’re not in the mood, but you can’t bring yourself to force her out when she hasn’t done anything wrong. “Close the door after you get in,” you call over your shoulder.

Eunbi shuts the door behind her and quickly slips off her shoes. As she moves towards you, her eyes scan the space—much bigger, more modern, and sleeker than the small apartment she’s used to. “How much are you paying for this house?”

“That’s private information,” you say, opening the med kit in the living room and pulling out a small bandage to replace the one on your left arm.

“Ah, that’s right, you’re the boss. It’s not just a nickname. I get it now,” Eunbi says, sitting down beside you on the couch, hands resting quietly in her lap. “Bet it’s paid off, right?”

“No comment.”

She’s quietly taking you in—observing how you don’t treat her like a famous celebrity and how you’re letting her make herself at home. You weren’t the first to invite her in when it’s something she’d expect, but what surprised her most was that you didn’t ask for a photo or autograph. It’s eye-opening for her. For the first time, she feels like her fame has been gently stripped away, and it’s a strangely comforting feeling.

As her gaze shifts to your arm, a flicker of sympathy crosses her face. She begins to feel bad for what you endured yesterday. The room falls silent for what feels like minutes as you carefully peel the plastic off the adhesive.

“I’m sorry, Oppa.”

You meet Eunbi’s gaze, catching the genuine regret in her eyes. You shrug lightly, a small, reassuring smile tugging at your lips. “What are you sorry for? It’s my job, Eunbi.”

“But is violence always the answer? Even when you’re not the one causing the problem?”

“It’s better to calm things down with words,” you say, pausing to press the adhesive firmly onto your arm so it won’t come loose. “But who am I to say that when my colleague got stabbed? Would you do the same as me?”

“I would.”

“I assumed so,” you murmur and reach for the med kit to tightly close as it clicks in place.

“Can I ask you something?” Eunbi says hesitantly. You lean back on the couch, catching her uncertain expression before she meets your gaze. “Uh… how does it feel, being in a situation like yesterday? Is it scary?”

“You don’t focus on how it feels. You focus on what needs to be done. Ask a firefighter, they’d say the same.”

“Were you scared, though?” she asks, glancing at you as you look down at your own hands. You take a slow breath, your fingers tightening slightly before you finally meet her gaze.

“Hmm, it feels like a Sunday night when you know you have to get up and work the next day,” you chuckle, teasing a little as you look at her. “You just gotta get used to it and deal with it, ya know?”

“You’re so annoying,” she laughs, looking away to catch your reflection alongside hers in the TV screen. “But you’re kind of hot to be annoying.”

There she goes again—flirting. But this time, Eunbi doesn’t meet your eyes, even as you watch her closely. It makes you wonder: what other creative tactics does she have up her sleeve?

“My manager told me you got stitches,” Eunbi says, glancing back at you with a curious look.

“I did. Why?”

“Can I see it?”

Should you let her see your stitches? Neither are you close to comfortably lift your shirt up for her to see. But you couldn’t stop being curious on what she’s trying to do. You’ll be more than willingly to stir something up as the tension between the two of you grows. Because what’s really the reason why she’s staying this long?

“Sure,” you say, lifting the side of your shirt to reveal the stitches beneath a gauze pad. For whatever reason, time seems to slow as Eunbi reaches toward the wound without asking. Your hand snaps up, catching her wrist. “What do you think you’re doing?”

She feels the firmness of your grip—but also the unexpected warmth in your touch. Her wrist is slender beneath your hand, your fingers overlapping with controlled pressure, restraint held just at the edge of release.

“Do you… like, feel lonely sometimes?” Eunbi murmurs, her voice barely above a whisper. She looks a lot shyer now, like she’s bracing for something—your answer, maybe, or the silence that might follow. Her eyes meet your gaze, unsure if crossing the line between the two of you meant being pushed away.

You’re still gripping her wrist. The tension hasn’t broken—if anything, it’s sharpened, suspended in the space between you. Her skin is warm beneath your fingers, her pulse steady but not quite calm. You don’t speak right away, and in that pause, the weight of her question lingers—louder than either of you expected. In the stillness, your eyes lock, and the two of you stare at each other for just a little too long.

If anything can be read through her eyes, it’s not just curiosity—it’s a flicker of vulnerability, a silent plea for a sense of connection. Her gaze holds steady, soft yet unguarded, and though she doesn’t move closer, there’s a tension there—like she’s daring you to close the space between you.

“I remember you saying you get lonely sometimes, Eunbi,” you whisper. “I get it. I do too.”

She slowly leans in, close enough that you catch a faint trace of her scent. “We’re more alike than you think,” she murmurs. “Sometimes alone, sometimes in a crowd. Always on the move—city to city, country to country, barely any rest. Surrounded by people, by fans, but the loneliness creeps in when no one's around."

You see her point—there’s truth in it—but you’re not ready to buy into it. “I like the way you think, Eunbi,” you say quietly, “but no.”

Eunbi lets out a soft laugh, tilting her head. “So you’re saying no but in a really attractive way. Are you always this charming when you reject people?”

You try to stay composed, keeping your thoughts and lust in check. But it’s hard when she’s this close. The way her tits sit leaves a lot to the imagination when the line of her bra is just barely visible from her tight shirt. And that smile—the way she’s looking at you with steady eyes pulls your desire. The silence stretches with unspoken tension. Your gaze drops to her lips, then back up to her eyes. You crave her, no question. But still, you hesitate.

Your quietness lingers too long to where she adds on with a murmur, leaving her pride out, “have me today, will you?”

“Eunbi,” you say, your gaze locked onto hers, surprised as she reaches for your other hand and places it gently on her chest.

“I get a lot of messages from men. I know exactly what they want from me. But how come you’re not asking or trying to seduce me? I know my boobs are big and all, but are you more of an ass guy?”

You gulp, genuinely unsure how to respond. Part of you wants to play it cool, but another part is caught off guard—unsure whether to joke, deflect, or be honest. Honestly, what the hell are you even supposed to say in a moment like this?

“Am I not pretty enough?” she teases, a mischievous sparkle in her eyes. “How hard do you want to play before I have you wrapped around my finger?” She chuckles softly, leaning in just a little closer. “You’re pretty feisty. Try kissing me. Might just change your mind.”

You lean in even closer, and she closes her eyes, silently waiting for your lips wherever you dare choose to place them. But what you’re really doing is trying to read her pulse through her wrist—it’s racing faster from your playful teasing. Despite that, Eunbi gently slips her hand under your shirt, pressing her small palm against your chest, silently daring you to make the next move.

She opens her eyes with a flicker of embarrassment crossing her face for having to close them. She sighs softly, “can you stop playing hard to get? I need your help taking off my clothes, you know. Just for a while, make me feel vulnerable. Make me feel wanted.”

“What do I get in return?” you ask with a smirk, finally releasing her wrist that your right hand had been holding onto for what felt like forever.

She pushes you back against the couch’s backrest, straddling you as she leans in close. Her lips find your neck in a quick, heated kiss, and she murmurs softly, “anything.”

You slowly pull Eunbi into your embrace, your left hand sliding from her chest to rest gently at her side. Her curious lips explore you with delicate warmth, and in that quiet closeness, you both find something you’ve been needing—raw, unguarded connection. You want more. Those soft, inviting lips deserve to be kissed deeply, and her body craves the touch only you can give.

“Let me take you to my bed after,” you whisper, feeling Eunbi’s soft lips trail along the side of your neck, devouring you completely. A shiver runs down your spine, your breath catching as warmth floods your body, every nerve ignited by her touch.

“I’d love that,” she chuckles, pulling away just enough to grab both your hands. She compares them, hers noticeably smaller than yours. With a playful smile, she laughs softly, “It’s ironic how your hands were clenched into fists yesterday, but today I’m holding them like I might get manhandled.”

“Is that what you want, Eunbi?” you tease, a slow smile spreading as a playful smirk curls at the corner of your mouth.

“Well…,” she pauses, eyes softening as she glances down at your wound with a hint of playful concern. “Oppa, why don’t you just lie back and let me take care of everything?”

You like her idea—there’s something tempting about letting her take control, but you know damn well you’re not in any shape to do much with that injury to the side of your stomach. It’s a bittersweet feeling: wanting to be involved, yet needing to surrender to the moment.

“Sounds good?” she asks, her fingers lightly tracing the side of your jaw. You can’t help but appreciate the tenderness in her touch—so gentle, especially after the seriousness you showed just yesterday.

“I’m sorry that you have to do most of the work today,” you softly say.

She chuckles softly at your sincerity. “Isn’t that what friends are for? Sometimes we go out of our way just to help a little.”

“You said I can have anything from you, right? Let’s meet next time we’re both free, Eunbi. I’ll make it up.”

“Oh, so manly. You’re not going to take back those words, are you?”

You nod, tilting your head side to side. She finds the gesture way cuter than she expected. “Should we move to a more comfortable place? Your bed?”

With a quiet groan, you lift her into your arms. Eunbi can’t help but giggle, surprised by your sudden strength—and the fact she’s being carried. As you step into the bedroom, the door left slightly opened and forgotten, your eyes stay locked on her, drawn to her eyes.

“Lay down,” she urges softly, tapping your back. “I’ll take it from here.”

After Eunbi slides off, you rest your head on the pillow, eyes fixed on her curves. She slowly undresses herself by taking off her shirt to reveal the light pink bra she has on. You can’t help but admire how stunning she looks by feeling a heat rising inside you as your mind drifts to the thought of your face buried between her tits.

Eunbi grips her waistband, her knees locking in place as she bends down to slide her pants off, letting them fall softly to the floor. You lick your lips and swallow hard, eyes locked on her every move. She teases you with a small, playful sway before crawling onto the bed, settling herself gently on top.

“You’re hot. So damn hot,” you compliment her as your hand brushes against the smooth curve of her thighs up to her hips.

She lowers herself, closing her eyes as her lips part slightly before pressing softly against yours. Like the gentle tide meeting the shore, Eunbi’s touch is both tender and inevitable. You feel the warmth of her breath, the soft weight of her body pressing close. A smile tugs at her lips as she parts just enough to murmur, “may I undress you, handsome?”

Your whispered consent barely leaves your lips before her thighs wrap around you, firm yet inviting, locking you in place. As she pulls your pants and boxers down in one smooth motion, your cock springs free, catching her gaze. Eunbi lets out a slow, deep sigh— the kind that speaks of quiet relief, of tension finally easing as desire takes over.

“It’s so hard,” she chuckles, covering her mouth with one hand, a playful glint in her eyes. With her other hand, she hesitantly traces the waistband of her own panties, fingers trembling slightly as she savors the slow burn between you. There’s no rush—just the tension of anticipation, every second stretching out.

“Come back down and let me take your bra off, Eunbi,” you murmur, voice low and steady, eyes locking with hers. “Just slide your panties to the side.”

She crawls closer, leaning down so you can wrap your arms around her waist and unhook her bra with ease. Her breath brushes against your ear as she whispers, “can’t help but crave my body?”

“Whatever you say,” you murmur playfully, pulling her face closer to press a soft kiss to her lips. Your eyes close as your arms tighten around her. Your tongues dance slowly, teasing and exploring, exchanging heated breaths that mingle with the warmth of the room. Every second, you lose yourself more—the feel of her body, the taste of her lips—completely captivated by such a beauty.

But all that tenderness disappears the moment she breaks away from your lips with a heavy breath and sits upright. “I can’t wait any longer, Oppa.”

You clearly see the dark, damp spot spreading on her panties—proof enough that you’ve already stirred something deep inside her. Without even touching, you’ve got her this wet. The anticipation in Eunbi’s eyes is unmistakable as she slowly crawls back, settling on one knee while spreading the other leg wide. You reach out your hand, offering support in case she loses balance on the soft bed.

Eunbi spits on her hand and wraps it around the tip of your cock as it throbs from a touch. Then with a quick glance at you, she slides her panties to the side and slowly brushes the tip of your cock on her pussy in a teasing way before she slips it in. Both of you exchange a moan the moment you feel the tight hug and Eunbi feeling the length of your cock sliding into her slick walls.

“Fuck,” she breathes out, followed by a soft grunt. Your cock hasn’t even fully disappeared inside her, yet, Eunbi is already struggling to take every inch.

“Don’t rush it, Eunbi,” you let out a breath, feeling the warmth of her walls tighten around your cock.

Her breath catches, and a soft whimper barely escapes her lips. “Oh my gosh,” Eunbi moans, voice trembling with a mix of surprise and pleasure as she arches her back.

You gently grasp her wrist, guiding Eunbi down to lie on top of you. She exhales a heavy, shuddering breath as your bodies press close. “You feel so good, Eunbi,” you murmur, your voice thick with desire for every touch of her skin.

“You’re really stretching me out," she murmurs with her breath soft against the pillow, the warmth of her tits pressing onto your chest. Eunbi moves slowly, riding you with a measured rhythm, savoring each sensation of your cock penetrating her tight pussy—just enough to keep the pleasure building without overwhelming herself and you.

Your lips trail along her shoulders, tasting the warmth of her skin as she muffles a soft moan into the pillow. Your breaths grow heavier, syncing with the rhythm of her movements, while your hands roam freely, exploring the curve of her back before reaching down to her ass. You grab and squeeze, claiming them like it’s all yours with a gentle slap right after.

“So—,” she catches her breath, “aggressive.”

“Sounds like you enjoy it,” you reply back to her with a growl.

“I love it. A lot.”

And that was the last conversation for a few minutes. She’s not riding you hard. She takes every inch slowly, savoring the moment while your cock disappears in and out of her. You let Eunbi moan freely while hearing your own breath catch in her ear. It’s a wordless, therapeutic exchange—your bodies speaking for each other in perfect harmony.

“Eunbi,” you gulp and let a breath out, breaking the passionate silence, “hold on.”

“Can’t help it?” Eunbi murmurs, pausing as she feels your cock throbbing deep inside her. She leans close to your ear, a mischievous smirk playing on her lips. “I don’t want you to cum just yet.”

Well, if she doesn’t want you to cum yet, you want her to, on your cock, from your very hands. You’ll make this Waterbomb goddess breathless with her toes curling up. “May you sit up, Eunbi? I want to see how pretty you are.”

That’s one way to make Eunbi’s heart skip a beat. She’s not used to hearing this side of you, and it catches her completely off guard.

“A little flirty, aren’t you?” she gets up slowly from the pillow, chuckling with a smile. Her smile is charming—you’ll admit it, but your attention starts shifting to her tits. She tracks your eyes and grabs your hands, guiding you to touch her tits. “I know you love them.”

“Who honestly wouldn’t?” you murmur and squeeze her tits, playing with them as she grinds on your cock. She holds onto both your forearms as grip while continuing to grind on you.

“Such big arms,” she seductively says, letting out a quiet moan and stares at you for a reply. “How lucky would a woman be to have you?”

“Extremely,” you say, teasing her. She quickly rolls her eyes, getting so annoyed of your cheeky response. It’s almost like she expected that. “What’s wrong, Eunbi?” you softly chuckle to play innocent, when you can assume she’s hating.

“Fuck you,” she chuckles along with you and pauses from grinding to guide your hands to her hips.

“But you are though,” you quickly reply, staring at each other in the eyes, which, you aren’t going to look away until she does. “Take a breath, Eunbi. Slow down if you have to. We have time.”

“Why do you stare at me like that, Oppa?” she says, brushing her thumb on your arm.

“Like… what?”

“You have charming eyes. No one told you?”

You shrug, unsure if she’s just bluffing because she’s on top of you with your cock deep inside her.

“It’s a compliment, by the way,” she murmurs and rides you slowly, not breaking eye contact. But you can clearly see how pink her cheeks have gotten. Slowly, you trace one hand down from her tits to her crotch as she lets go from your arms and place it on your chest. You slowly rub her clit as she lets out a whimper with her body quivering. “It’s sensitive, Oppa,” she moans.

Well, that just makes it a whole lot easier.

“I want you to cum, Eunbi.”

She stops riding you once the tip of your fingers rub her clit in circles. Eunbi’s moans get loud, neither are you stopping when your cock is lodged so deep that you can feel every pulsation from her walls. She struggles to even position still on top. You’re enjoying this, a lot. Just hearing the beautiful voice of hers makes you want more.

“Oppa,” she murmurs out with a groan and her body starts quivering uncontrollably, grinding gently on your cock. Eunbi’s breath turns heavier, arching her back, closing her eyes as she faces up towards the ceiling, cumming hard with her hands gripping onto your chest. It’s a sight to see her tits mashing each together with the body spasms as she continues to whimper and moan. Eunbi quickly grabs onto your hand, stopping you from rubbing her clip. She can’t handle more as she lets out a gasp, begging you to take it a little easy on her.

“Come back down, Eunbi,” you murmur, pulling her down as you’re greeted with her tits in your face. So without a single hesitation, you suck on them—both sides in respectful turns. Her breaths are still heavy as she rides out her orgasm. You burry your face between them and catch a breath, all while she smiles from all the sensitive nerves being felt from her chest and your cock.

“I told you my pussy is very sensitive,” Eunbi chuckles in between her breaths.

“Couldn’t help it,” you murmur, not a thought of stopping from feasting on her tits.

She continues to ride your cock slowly. There’s a sense of shyness from Eunbi after you made her cum. Every subtle touch and attention of yours makes her have some closure like she wanted.

You take a breath as she doesn’t stop pushing back down onto your cock. “Keep going. Just like that, Eunbi.”

“Love it that much?” she murmurs and lets out a seductive chuckle.

“Yeah,” you utter, gasping. Your hands reach to her ass for a tight, yet gentle squeeze.

Eunbi can tell you’re reaching your limit from how creamy and slick your cock’s penetrating into her. If Eunbi can make you have a memory of her, she’ll want this next moment to be for you. If she’s all smiling and laughing on your screen, Eunbi wants you to know that there’s still unfinished business the more she waits for a second time together.

“Cum,” she murmurs, kissing your neck, “cum inside this tight, little pussy.” Then she takes a quick breath, “it’s all yours, handsome.”

“Don’t slow down,” you gasp, grunting as Eunbi smiles by the way she picks up the pace. Feeling every throb, every breath onto her tits, and hearing your moans, you cum, making her feel the warmth of you cumming inside her. However deep Eunbi wanted it, you couldn’t stop cumming from how good this felt.

Eunbi pauses with your cock throbbing less and less every second. You feel her lips pressing against your neck, then up to your own. She gives you a kiss on the lips, almost like a passionate thank-you gift—another one.

“I let you cum in me for a reason, Oppa,” she murmurs, quickly pressing her lips back onto yours, intentionally not letting you speak a word. However, you’ll throw that to the side for now when her soft lips are craving more.

——

Eunbi lies beside you, her fingers gently tracing the edges of the bandage on your arm. You run your hand through her hair with slow care, both of you half-dressed, bodies still warm from the closeness. The room is quiet, wrapped in a kind of peaceful intimacy.

“Did you enjoy it?” she asks out of the blue, her voice soft and curious. Her pointer finger begins to trace slow circles over the bandage on your arm where the wound rests beneath. It’s a gentle, soft gesture—part playful, part intimate—as if she’s feeling out your answer not just in words, but through your body.

“The sex?” you reply.

“Yeah,” she chuckles shyly, unable to look at you.

“I did, Eunbi.”

She’s glad you enjoyed it, and with a smile, she giggles, “I needed that after working so hard for these past few months. I feel so… relieved.”

“It just had to be with me, wasn’t it?” you chuckle and tease her as she looks down at the side of your stomach where your stitches were.

“I couldn’t help it, Oppa. You let me in your home despite the fame I have. I’m sure I wasn’t the only woman in this bed.”

“You don’t think any less of me for that… do you, Eunbi?” you ask quietly, your gaze steady but your tone carrying the weight of curiosity.

“I get it. And I don’t think I’m the only one who’d feel this way. You didn’t treat me like some celebrity when I walked in. You weren’t chasing after anything, not my fame, not my body. It didn’t feel like you had some hidden motive. You’re… a good guy. I respect that.”

You look at Eunbi with a genuine smile, meeting each other’s eyes, “thank you.”

It’s a simple compliment, bit enough to make her heart flutter. “If anything, I should be the one saying thank you,” she murmurs with a small smile.

“Then kiss me if you mean it,” you laugh as she playfully hits you on the chest gently.

“You’re annoying,” Eunbi chuckles.

“But I’m too hot to be annoying, right?”

She’ll ignore the question, only because she doesn’t want to admit it again. “Do you want me to stay over tonight? Actually, may I? If you’re not busy?”

“I have a debriefing tomorrow in the early afternoon. Will that work for you?”

“What’s that?”

“Just going over about what happened yesterday. What went wrong, what could have been prevented, you know, those stuff. It’s required.”

“Are you there as the Boss or a colleague?”

You smirk, and teasingly chuckle in her face with no intentions of telling her.

She rolls her eyes at you with a chuckle. “Okay, yeah, I’ll leave tomorrow afternoon too. Give me your phone number before I forget.”

[r66dusthewriter]

Outer Banks Cast Reveals Uncomfortable Truths in the Hot Seat | Vanity Fair

Pairing: Drew Starkey x fem!reader.

Masterlist | Who am i? | REQUESTS ARE OPEN!

a/n: Been working pretty consistently on these so i thought i could spare some extra fics this week! I'm also working on other interviews you guys requested so here goes a quick one b4 it's requested 🙂

Genre: Fluff

Warnings: none

Word count: 0.5k

“Have you ever used your fame to get a dinner reservation?” the interviewer asked, panning the camera across the cast until it landed on you. 

You nodded sheepishly. “Yes…but on accident.”

Laughter erupted around the room.

“What do you mean ‘on accident’?” Carlacia leaned in, eyebrows raised in disbelief.

“I actually tried to get her to do it for me on purpose once, it didn’t happen,” JD chimed in, pointing at you with a grin.

You nodded, ready to tell the story. “Okay, so I was on the phone talking to the very sweet young lady to make a reservation. I was meant to give a fake name, privacy and all that but I was just walking around the house, doing…whatever, obviously distracted and when she asked for my name, I totally blanked and gave her my real one.” 

“You didn’t realize until she repeated it twice” Drew added, shaking his head with a smirk.

“Yeah…” you laughed. “She goes, ‘Y/n Y/l/n?’ and i’m like ‘Yup, that’s me.’ Then she says it again, like slower and I look over and Drew– I was with Drew –was just staring at me wide-eyed, silently mouthing, ‘Hang up the phone. Now.’ So, yeah…We ordered in and called it a day.” 

“Attached at the hip,” Rudy muttered, barely above a whisper, making Chase burst out laughing.

—

“Have you ever looked at any fan accounts dedicated to you?” the interviewer asked next as the camera panned again, this time landing on Drew.

Drew reapplied without hesitation. “Yes, I've definitely looked at fan accounts dedicated to me. A hundred percent…I think we all have. Y/n sent me one dedicated to us,” he added, gesturing toward you.

“Listen, I don't know how they do it. They find pictures of us that I didn't even know existed! I’m starting to think they are photoshopped–”

“Like the one of you two kiss–” Madelyn started before dissolving into laughter with the rest of the cast.

You smiled, a little flustered. “I don’t know about that one…”

“We hate paparazzi in this house,” Madison declared matter-of-factly.

“That we do,” Drew mumbled, eyes cast down with a chuckle.

—

After a few more lighthearted questions for the others, the final one landed on you. “What is the most high-maintenance about you?”

“Oh, you picked the wrong person,” JD said immediately, making everyone crack up.

You glanced at Drew. “I don’t know…I feel like Drew would know better than I would.”

“Makes sense. You two spend a lot of ‘friendly’ time together,” Chase teased, emphasizing the word and sending the cast into another fit of laughter.

Drew shrugged. “Honestly? I’d argue you’re not high-maintenance at all.” 

“There’s gotta be something,” you countered.

He thought for a moment. “Your meals, maybe?”

“Yup,” Madelyn chimed in. “That’s it.”

“Oh yeah! The make-it-from-scratch queen,” Rudy teased.

You laughed. “Okay, yeah. I have this thing where I crave food i’ve never had before or cooked and I’ll just decide to cook it or I get these really specific cravings days in advance. Like this morning, I had waffles but that decision was made–” 

“Last week” Drew finished. The whole cast cracked again.

“It just had to happen,” you shrugged with a grin.

[penelopehere]

Dom HCs With Huntrix

Rumi

Very touchy, will have her hands anywhere and everywhere on you while being intimate

Whether that be in your hair, on your chest, gripping your waist

Literally anything since she loves having you close

Wants to be in control as well, so manhandling is a must

Will toss you on any surface if you’re both in the mood, pinning your wrists down with one hand and running her other across your sensitive areas to hear you moan

Bondage is also something that really turns her on and interests her

Has extensive knowledge on the different types of knots and styles, because of both her hunter training and fascination for the topic

Enjoys seeing the ways she can make your body bend, pushing you to your limits before making you feel good

But she’s also satisfied with just tying your hands to the head board, gripping your thighs as she rests between your legs and give you head

Loves seeing the ways your body tenses up when you get close

Will push and hold you in place if you squirm too much, feeling the muscles spasm under her touch

Has also used you to pleasure herself while you were tied up if she was in the mood, but primarily likes being a giver

Biting you is a must, instinctively doing it when you guys get really into it

Even when she’s being more vanilla, she’ll always find a way to sink her fangs into you

Gets a bit embarrassed afterwards with how many marks are over your body, but is also proud at the fact that you let her do it and are willing to show it off

Would spank you if you wanted, interested in the way you squirm and get wetter from the pain

Loves using vibrators or dildos on you from time to time, sometimes having your back against her chest as she holds your legs apart; rubbing the toy against your clit

Other times she’s tied you up and placed you on her lap, watching as you moan and whimper from the toys inside you as she plays with the settings

Nicknames would be very affection, like my love or darling, even as she’s making you cum

Would definitely praise you while she brings you to climax, calling you pretty while you let out a strangled moan

Mira

Would be teasing you constantly, loving to lead you on and get you flustered in public then just walking away

Gets you extremely needy so you’re really desperate when you guys finally get some privacy

Will do light touches, loving the way you move towards her touch and beg her for more

However, when she thinks you’ve had enough, she’ll get a lot more touchy

Pushing you down and holding you in place, then using her fingers make you feel more hot and turned on

Only to pull away at the last second, loving to see the frustration on your face as she edges you

Uses rope and toys during this too, wanting to torture you even more

Loves pinning your hands in some way, especially having them tied behind your back as she watches you squirm

During this she’d have a vibe attached to you, just sitting back and playing with the settings as you become more of a mess

Definitely convinces you to use them in public too, innocently asking if you were okay after putting the vibe of the highest setting and seeing your face turn bright red

Loves to do pain play as well, especially spanking

Will manhandle you onto her lap, pinning your hands with her own or handcuffs as she hits your ass

Will keep doing it until you calm down and beg for her to stop

Only then will she consider doing something else, moving her hand to grab a toy to use on you

Has definitely put a collar around the neck before; making you crawl towards her or pulling at the leash as you came

Would use you to make her feel good as well; forcing your face between her legs, moving your head up and down as you suffocated against her

Has also had you grind against her leg and cum that way, getting a sort of pleasure out of your desperation

Very teasing and juxtaposing nicknames, like good girl/boy, brat or prince/princess

Can be more soft and vanilla if she feels like it, having her hands all over you as she focuses on watching the cute faces you make

Zoey

Extremely creative when it comes to making you feel good

Very big on experimenting, willing to do anything you saw online and try it out

Will literally do so much research on it to make sure she does it safely

However, once this happens, she’ll go all out

Loves combining bondage and sex toys, watching the confusion on your face as you try to figure out whether you’re feeling pleasure or pain

Forces you into the most insane poses, using rope to bend you in half; tying your wrists into a prayers pose behind your back and attaching your ankles to it

During this she would do something like attaching nipple clamps to your chest and put a vibrator inside you on the highest setting, just wanting to see the ways you react

Will overstimulate you until you’re dry cumming, whimpering every time you feel a pulse from the toy or the way her fingers curl inside you

Would also try sensory deprivation with you, putting a gag in your mouth and blindfolding you as you’re tied to the bed; feeling the way her fingers lightly graze your skin before disappearing again

Loves the way you try and find her, giving out a few muffled whimpers as you turn your head trying to listen for any movements

After she feels like she’s led you on enough though, she can’t keep your hands off you

Will use her fingers on you while grinding on your lap; your arms bound and unable to move as she devours your mouth

Will bite your lips and neck when she gets really into it, not even noticing the marks she leaves all over your body

Also loves trying different gags on you; ball, bite, spider, dildo

Would definitely get wet from watching you choke from it

Extremely high sex drive and would love if you kept up with her, body trembling as she asked if you wanted to go again

Very cutesy nicknames which is ironic considering the way she is in bed; like baby, honey etc

But she would also do something like calling you good girl/boy when she’s absolutely torturing you

[thewertsearch]

TT: I should probably warn you. GG: About what? GG: Yet another exploding game trap? […] TT: She already sent it? GG: Yes. GG: But to be fair, she warned me not to run it. TT: That's weird. GG: Why? GG: She was probably just trying to protect me from the Batterwitch's latest assassination attempt. […] TT: No, it's weird because Lalonde was the one who rigged it to explode.

What the fuck?

But what could possibly motivate her to-

TT: To accomplish exactly what it sounds like got accomplished. TT: You narrowly averting the "fake" threat to your life, then getting your shit all hot and bothered at the Baroness over it. TT: Then you abdicate your heiress throne or something, and give up on this game as a big fuck you to the genocidal cake alien.

That's fucking unhinged! Not least because the bomb could easily have killed her for real!

Plus, the virus employed Roxy's fucking typing style! Wouldn't it have been obvious that she was the one behind it?

TT: She's working through some problems right now.

Ya think?

I mean, let's be real, here - this plan was probably conceived and carried out in a drunken haze. Drunk coding is messy enough without bringing ~ATH into it.

GG: Now that I think about it, she was probably going to disarm it or such when she got back, seeing as her objective had essentially been accomplished already by an ACTUAL assassination attempt. […] GG: But then I went ahead and ran it anyway like a doofus. GG: I think she just wanted to be believed. GG: Shucks. GG: Am I an awful friend?

Y'know, I think I'm just gonna let Dirk answer this one.

She rigged! Your PC! To explode!

TT: Just heard about your assassination on Prospit. […] TT: I read it in a newspaper. […] GG: Are you being ironic again? TT: No. TT: I just picked up one of the sleazy Dersite tabloid rags. TT: Sometimes they'll feature some pretty entertaining gossip about the royalty or whatever.

That's actually pretty clever. Not even Rose paid much attention to Carapacian culture - it was probably too mundane for her. These guys know a lot more about the game than you'd think, and we should probably be learning as much about them as possible.

GG: Dersite? You mean the other planet? The evil one? TT: Derse, yeah. TT: Not evil, necessarily. That's a bit simplistic. The kingdom represents the forces of opposition to Prospit and the four heroes. Us.

Specifically, Derse is opposed to frogs - in other words, they're opposed to the idea of creating a universe. That might initially sound evil - but remember, these universes destroy entire planets when they're created, so Derse.... kind of has a point, actually.

TT: It was also reported your tower exploded. They couldn't find the body to give it a proper funeral. Probably incinerated.

Wait, is Jane's dream self on the move?

I guess if anyone's Aspect Powers could allow their dream self to exist independently, it'd probably be a Life Player. After all, that's basically an Awaken spell.

[no1blacksapphirefan]

Hi! I really love your self aware AU. I was wondering, how do you think the cookies would react to the player/reader trying hard to get their outfits? For me, I love Pure Vanilla’s Truthless Recluse and Pastel Blue outfits (used the cubes for the first and stars/crystals for the second). And Shadow Milk’s Sage of Truth one is pretty too. And similarly, how do cookies that don’t have any (yet) feel? I don’t think Black Sapphire has any (that I’ve seen) which shocked me. The only other outfits I adore are Milky Way’s, Stardust’s and Capsaicin’s, so there’s very few I try and get. But feel free to talk about any other character!

I made one for the wedding costumes here if you’d like to give it a read ^^

Here’s one down for the others though hehe

(Not proof read, I'll fix any mistakes when I can ^^)

Shadow Milk Oh how he loves how concentrated you look, how you press that pull button and pray, hope that little Mont Blanc Cookie does that special animation, getting your hopes up until it's just an epic. Oh don't get him wrong, he is going to love seeing you get his costume and he loves it more knowing how much you want it, but it's exactly that reason why he hopes it takes longer.

Just seeing your desperation as you farm, collect, do anything you can for more rainbow cubes just to even get a chance at seeing that special outfit is enough for him, it truly shows him how much you like him, so call him cruel, but he wants to watch just a bit longer, it'll make watching your face light up more worth it.

Pure Vanilla Oh if he could, he'd love to just give you the outfit outright, he's glad you enjoy his other fits. Though he will admit that the Truthless Recluse outfit of his does make him a tad bit iffy, nothing bad enough to make him look away, it just feels odd to see himself acting rather differently. He watches as you try everything to get his outfit, seeing if he can find someone to up your luck.

And when you finally do? Oh he's overjoyed, he'll happily wear the outfit if you so want him too, seeing you so giddy and happy over finally getting it warms his heart to no end, perhaps he should get another costume. He will admit, seeing you're happy face over getting it is quite lovely.

Eternal Sugar She only has one outfit, and at first she was a bit mad. You're telling her this outfit would be what she wore if she won? She could've won?? Witches dammit, she swears she was so close, though...seeing you want it so much, she pushes that thought away. Not that it's gone completely, she's still annoyed but she's willing to hold back on those feelings if it meant being able to concentrate on you pulling for it.

Oh how sweet her darling was, doing everything in their ability to get more. She'll giggle so much if you decide to even use money to get more (don't do this guys) She'll consider it a win once you manage to finally get it and put it on her. Sure it never happened, she never truly won but she's wearing the outfit of a timeline when she did. Plus as a bonus, she got to see your smile.

Black Sapphire He preferred the outfit he wore, if he wanted to wear something else I think he'd make it himself, while he doesn't really hate the idea he also doesn't want anyone else to make him one, preferring his own handiwork when it comes to outfits. But he'd be lying if he said that he doesn't want to see your face light up when you manage to obtain a new one. And as a deceit follower, that's exactly what he tells everyone anyways.

Oh but he's so willing to compromise, maybe if he made a new outfit and bribed Mont Blanc Cookie he'd be able to have his own gacha. It'll be a win win...everyone's happy, he'll still be wearing his own work but you'll be pulling for it. It'll make you happy, he's sure of it. He'll make sure to make an outfit so pretty you'll practically be swooning when you see him wear it.

Mystic Flour She doesn't mind not having an outfit and sure, many times have you been the exception to her apathy, things she usually wouldn't care about suddenly she cares if you show an interested but I don't think it'll be this way when it comes to outfits. Besides, it seems as though she's forgotten in the game she seems to be in. She'd be surprised if she even got a costume.

That's not to say she won't be looking forward to you pulling on her outfit if she even gets one, more so that she won't mind whether or not she got an outfit or not. All she really wants is for you to still like her, if you find her current outfit pretty than she'll wear it, if she gets a new one and you prefer it? She'll wear it for you. She will admit, she does get why everyone enjoys seeing your smile when you manage to obtain an outfit, you've done it before though so she's content with how things are.

[mooblesandsoups]

Something I find so interesting after rewatching double life is how the fandom portrays DL! Scott.

I often find him being portrayed as this cold, rude and uncaring person who just decided to leave pearl on a whim and hates her for the entire series until his death. He's only around Cleo and antagonizing Pearl the whole series.

Which after a rewatch... Wasn't exactly the case.

Scotts first episode is surprising just calmer, spending most of the first couple minutes desperately searching for his soulmate only to no avail spending the whole time watching other soulmates get paired and helping out others only to end up pretty much soulmatless by the end.

He's tired and frustrated but then Cleo brings up the idea "you know what let's be each others soulmates" and Scott agrees not because he hates Pearl but because he quite literally had no one else to go to. Plus when he does end up meeting Pearl he's frustrated by the fact she doesn't realize what she did was wrong and left with Cleo. In fact he doesn't actually start disliking Pearl until she starts messing with him becoming this clingy annoying ex, having to push her away to even get her to just leave his home.

If anything Pearl ended up antagonizing Scott more, Scott only told people he was soulmates with Cleo now and the fact Pearls going a bit crazy (which she is let's all be honest she was loosing it a bit) and people were very against the idea of a "chosen soulmate." the kinda mentality of "oh but if you just teamed with Pearl she wouldn't be going crazy like this."

But besides the crazy ex drama Scott is still not Cold and calculating as a lot of people make him out to be. He does his little pranks and spends most of his time building not thinking much about it, trying to make the best out of his situation with Cleo.

THE FANDOM TOOK AWAY HIS WHIMSY GUYS!! THEY TOOK HIS SILLY WHIMSY AWAY!! GIVE IT BACK GUYS!!!

[sinnabarmoth]

Hiiiii!!!!!

I just wanted to ask, how would the LIs react if they accidentally found out that the reader/mc is bi?

Since June has almost come to an end I wanted to make this req- (I can't help but wonder how they'd react cuz I'm bi myself, hehe🌝🫂✨)

Fellow Bi girlie here! Excited to do this one!! Got a little silly with it.

Zayne: I think the way Zayne finds out you are bi is he meets one of your ex-girlfriends at work. She starts work as a nurse and recognizes Zayne from your instagram or whatever and is like "Hey! I know your girlfriend. We dated for a couple months." And he's just standing there like "...oh. So that childhood crush on Princess Jasmine was more than her just thinking she was pretty. Good to know." He's super chill about it. You had never put a label on your sexuality and he never asked but he goes home and mentions meeting your ex at work but frames her as just a friend to give you the chance to come out on your own when prompted.

Xavier: Xavier finds out you're bi before you two started dating. You were going out a lot with this girl that he thought was just your friend but then he sees the two of you clearly on a date and is just having a moment thinking "I didn't think I had to worry about women hitting on my crush. Guess I have a new rival." You've only been friends for a while so he's not surprised that you never brought it up but he does just point blank ask if you are into girls to clear the air. Meanwhile you're looking at him confused like, "You met the girl I was dating multiple times, how did you not know?" "I don't know. So do you like guys too or just girls?" "I like guys too." "Great. So can your girlfriend fight?" "What?" "What?"

Rafayel: Rafayel found out by scrolling through your entire instagram and finding pictures of you at Pride with a little bi flag. He's a little surprised but overall is glad to know more about you. He is a little pouty that you never told him. Did you not trust him or something? Did he give off an anti-queer vibe? He was literally part fish! Gender basically doesn't exist in Lemuria! You find him painting in the bi flag colors and making a point to donate to queer and trans organizations during pride month so you know you can trust him and come out to him. June is almost over and he's getting more antsy before just blurting out "So have you ever wanted to kiss a girl?" "I have kissed girls. Did I never tell you I am bi?" "No!" "Oh...well I am." "Wow, thank you so much for trusting me with that information, cutie! I love you so much!"

Sylus: I think the way Sylus found out you were bi is when you went out to a party and you got a little drunk and told him "If you were a girl I'd still love you so much. You'd make a great lesbian!" and he's carrying you into the house like, "Thank you, sweetie. I suspected you were not entirely straight but glad to have confirmation. We'll see if you remember any of this in the morning though." He's surprised for sure but not by much. He's maybe a little worried that it took you getting drunk to come out to him but it is something nonetheless. Of course you don't remember the night before so Sylus plays back the recording that Mephisto took of the conversation. You freak out for a second before Sylus gives you a sly smile. "You really think I'd make a great lesbian, sweetie?"

[chvoswxtch]

back up plan

pairing: matt murdock x fem!reader

summary: when the interrogation doesn't go as planned, matt has to compromise.

warnings: swearing, mentions of blood & violence

word count: 2.6k

a/n: just so you know, part of what takes so long for me to post these chapters is I get stuck staring at gifs of matt murdock, and then I think about all the situations I wanna put him in. as always, feedback is welcomed/appreciated!

[previous chapter] | [next chapter coming soon] | [series masterlist]

“So, is there something that makes this rooftop more special than the last one we were on? Or do you just have favorites you like to brood on like a Gargoyle?”

Matt ignored her as he fastened Dimitri’s wrists together with rope, looped through one of the bars of the water tower above. It kept his unconscious body upright, and it would prevent him from being able to go anywhere when he woke up.

“This neighborhood is mostly abandoned buildings and trap houses.”

“And?”

“No one will care if they hear screaming.”

Her brows lifted in surprise, looking him up and down curiously as she watched him expertly weave the rope in a binding labyrinth not even a goddamn boy scout could escape. 

“Wow, you really are a whole other person in that suit.”

“No I’m not-”

“Oh come on, you even change your voice.”

Matt pressed his lips together as he let out a frustrated exhale, tightening the last knot.

“I disguise my voice so I won’t be recognized.”

“And yet you leave the very recognizable lower half of your face uncovered.”

Matt dipped his head back and muttered an annoyed ‘Oh my God’ under his breath, making her amused grin difficult to hide.

“I’m just saying. Your Daredevil voice isn’t that different, and you have a distinct face, even if half of it is covered. Besides, anyone who’s seen you from behind would recognize you in a heartbeat.”

Underneath the cowl, Matt rolled his eyes for the hundredth time in the last fifteen minutes and tossed the remaining rope onto the ground.

“Are you done?”

“For now.”

Leaning against the ledge of the rooftop, she crossed her arms over her chest.

“So what exactly is the plan here?”

“Get him to talk.”

“I know that, devil boy. I mean how do plan to do that?”

Matt cocked his head to the side slightly while listening to Dimitri’s breathing and heart rate. He was still out cold. Pulling off his gloves, Matt removed his cowl next, and the breeze that blew past felt even colder when it hit the sweat that had dampened his hair. It was a welcome chill that helped cool down his body temperature.

“You do realize I interrogate people every night, right?”

“I’m aware. But you’re delusional if you think beating the shit out of him is going to get him to give up Tarasov.”

Matt sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose with one hand while his other rested on his hip.

“I’m not delusional-”

“You’re over three hundred thousand dollars in debt from law school, and yet instead of committing to your profession, you commit felonies every single night that could get you sent to prison. That’s a pretty goddamn good case for being delusional.” 

Matt pressed his lips together in a disapproving frown as he fixed his hazel eyes over in her general direction. He didn’t have a retort for that. Once again, she was right. God he was really getting sick of feeling so off balance around her. It pissed him off every single time.

“Well it’s certainly a better fucking plan than the one you had.”

There was a serrated bite to his words, and it straightened her spine in an instant. The sharpness of his judgment snapped like a whip, and the verbal lash landed like a physical one. Her fleeting reaction caused a familiar feeling of guilt to rise within him. In his anger, he always took it too far. It was like his brain searched through an arsenal to find the sharpest words he could weaponize, and he’d aim directly where he knew they would cut the deepest. 

He’d spent his whole life trying to tame his temper, and he usually had better self discipline, but something about her drove him fucking insane. It was like he completely lost control around her. Letting out a deep sigh, Matt rubbed his hand down the lower half of his face and then placed his hands on his hips.

“Why was that your plan, anyway? I mean, surely you were taught how to interrogate at S.H.I.E.L.D., or wherever you were before.”

She turned to face the ledge of the rooftop, absentmindedly staring out at the expanse of the city. Another breeze blew past, and when it carried that blend of spiced vanilla and jasmine he’d grown to associate with her scent, he involuntarily inhaled deeply as it hit his nose. He hated how much he liked it. He hated how his body reacted to it.

“That wouldn’t work on him.”

Matt’s brows knit towards the center of his forehead that creased in confusion.

“Why not?”

“Because he spent two years in a prison in Siberia, although, calling it a prison is generous. When he wasn’t being tortured, he was left to starve and freeze to death in his cell. He intentionally got frostbite on his foot so he could break it, pull out one of the bones, and use it to stab some of the guards to escape. He doesn’t respond to pain like a normal human being.”

Matt grimaced at the mental image that painted, and he felt a phantom pain in his own foot that had him clenching and flexing his toes in his boots.

“Christ.”

Letting out a deep exhale through her nose, she glanced up at the sky above. The city lights made it nearly impossible to see a single star.

“But, he is a man, and he does respond as such. Like the rest of you simple creatures, he can’t deny the intrinsic desires of the flesh.”

Matt opened his mouth to protest at being lumped into the same category as someone like Dimitri Sokolov, but she cut him off.

“And he spends as much money on sex workers as he does on drugs. He hires women for these meet ups like clockwork, so I paid off the woman he originally booked to take her place.”

His defense dried up on his tongue at this revelation. She’d shown up as the entertainment because she knew Dimitri was expecting it. She’d studied his habits, and she’d found a foolproof way to infiltrate the poker game without arousing suspicion. 

And now he felt like even more of an asshole.

“Oh.”

It was all he could think of to say. In hindsight, it was a genius plan, and he’d completely ruined it by jumping to conclusions and being a sententious dick. He seemed to keep forgetting that this was her job. This was what she had done for years. She was trained to account for things he wouldn’t even think about. He was a vigilante, but she was a spy. As much as he hated to admit it, he was out of his element. 

But his stubborn pride prevented him from acknowledging that or apologizing for his behavior. Instead, he did what he did best in uncomfortable situations. 

Distraction.

“Look, I’m sure he endured a hell I couldn’t even fathom in my wildest imagination, but that doesn’t mean he’s immune to pain.”

“No, but he has a high tolerance. We could be up here all night.”

Matt knew violence, and he knew how to wield it. He was certain he could get Dimitri to talk. 

“Just let me try.”

Throwing her hands up in exasperation, she let out an exhale of annoyance and shook her head while looking out across the rooftops.

“Fine. Do it your way.”

»»———　　———««

As soon as Matt could hear Dimitri’s breathing getting lighter, signaling his return to consciousness, he slapped him harshly across the face, and Dimitri immediately began to thrash against his restraints, yelling out curses in Russian.

“Sorry, I don’t speak asshole. Can you repeat that?”

Dimitri’s eyes were wild with rage, and his top lip curled in a snarl. When his sights landed on her, casually leaning against the water tower with her arms crossed over his chest, his eyes narrowed and he spit on the ground in her direction before thrashing against the rope again.

“Cyka!”

“Hello to you too, Dimi.”

Matt tilted his head slightly in her general direction over his shoulder.

“You just gonna stand there?”

She casually shrugged her shoulders and gestured towards Dimitri with her chin.

“You wanted to take the lead. Take the lead.”

“I don’t speak Russian.”

“Oh, he speaks English. He’s just being shy.”

Dimitri shouted more curses in Russian, and the old metal of the water tower creaked and groaned under the weight of his hopeless endeavor to free himself. Matt took a step closer and swiftly struck his fist across his face, and the metallic tang of blood permeated the air.

“Where’s Tarasov?”

Dimitri narrowed his eyes as he sneered at Matt.

“Never heard of him.”

“Now Dimi, you know lying is a sin.”

She taunted him with a slight smirk as she took a few steps closer. Dimitri let out a dry chuckle that rumbled deep from within his chest.

“I am not afraid of Devil of Hell’s Kitchen. What is he going to do, call me names?”

Dimitri let out another dry chuckle and gestured his chin towards Matt, his top lip curled in another snarl.

“You hit like girl. You are no real threat. You are no Punisher.”

Matt tilted his head to the side for a moment, a devilish smirk slowly tugging at the edge of his mouth as he spoke in a condescending tone.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart. Did you want it harder?”

Without warning, he struck his fist across Dimitri’s face again, and this time there was a satisfying crack that indicated a tooth being knocked loose. Dimitri groaned, and he coughed as he spat out blood along with a cracked tooth. Matt gripped Dimitir’s hair and yanked his head back as he took a step closer, his voice dropping an octave lower with a dangerous edge of warning. 

“Now, I’m gonna ask you again, and if you cooperate, I might let you walk away from this roof instead of tossing you off of it.”

Dimitri let out another deep chuckle that rumbled in his chest, causing him to cough, and he looked right into the dark lenses of Matt’s cowl with a bloodstained grin.

“I have counter proposal. Go fuck yourself.”

Matt clenched his jaw and let out a growl of frustration as he gripped Dimitri’s hair even harder and smashed his face against one of the metal bars of the water tower, and the crunch of his nose breaking was audible even to her. 

“You might as well kill me. I will not tell you shit.”

Slipping her hand under the hem of her dress, she pulled out the small knife she kept strapped to her thigh, and she rounded Dimitri before she raised the sharp blade to the rope, speaking calmly in his ear.

“You and I both know death isn’t a threat. It’s mercy. And the devil doesn’t grant mercy to the wicked.”

Dimitri lifted his chin defiantly and spoke through gritted teeth.

“I will die before I talk.”

As she looked over at Matt, he gave her a subtle nod.

“Have it your way.”

Cutting through the rope, Dimitri’s arms dropped from above his head, but before he could even make a move, Matt shoved his boot against his chest in a swift forceful kick that cracked three of Dimitri’s ribs and sent him stumbling backwards. The second he hit the ledge, he fell backwards over the rooftop, and a startled yell pierced through the bustling noise of the city on his way down until it was abruptly cut off with a thud.

Taking a few steps towards the ledge, she peered over it down below, and then she turned to look at Matt over her shoulder, arching one of her brows.

“You know, leaving someone paralyzed in a dumpster isn’t exactly morally superior to a bullet to the head.” 

“It is if you’re Catholic.”

She couldn’t help but let out a snort of amusement at that, shaking her head in disbelief.

“So it was those religious loopholes that prepared you for becoming a lawyer, not Columbia.”

“Bit of both.”

Matt focused his senses on Dimitri down below. That telltale metallic tang of blood was stronger in the air, and he could tell a few bones had been broken by the fall, but he was still conscious. He let out a deep exhale of frustration. He could practically hear the words running through her head that she wasn’t saying. 

I told you so.

God he really hated that she was constantly right.

“We need to change tactics.”

“But you were doing so well.”

Matt grunted in annoyance as he placed his hands on his hips and let his head drop between his shoulders, turning it from side to side to crack his weary bones.

“Can we skip the petty gloating, alright? I get it. You were right and I was wrong. That what you wanna hear?”

“Can I get that in writing?”

Matt grit his teeth so hard it made his jaw ache, and he dipped his head back towards the heavens while clenching his fists at his sides, the worn leather creaking under the force of his frustration.

“For fucks sake-”

“Relax, Matthew. You’re gonna give yourself an aneurysm. I have a backup plan.”

As she started to saunter towards the rooftop door that led to the staircase, Matt turned his head in her direction, completely perplexed by that admission.

“Backup plan? What backup plan?”

“One of many. If it doesn’t work, I have backup plans for my backup plans.”

Matt let out a dry scoff and started to follow after her.

“Sounds like anxiety.”

“It’s called preparation. You should try it instead of just parkouring around Hell’s Kitchen and beating the shit out of everyone.”

Matt pursed his lips in a firm line as he let out an irritated grunt, smacking his gloved hand against the rooftop door right when she started to open it, keeping it shut.

“And were you gonna tell me about this backup plan?”

“No.”

Matt pulled a face at her blunt reply that she could read even with half of his face covered. She rolled her eyes and crossed her arms over her chest.

“Everytime I tell you the plan, you change it and do whatever you want instead.”

Matt couldn’t argue with that. Letting out a deep sigh, he gestured between the two of them with his gloved hand.

“What if…what if we came up with one together.”

“Are you going to actually listen to me?”

Matt grumbled under his breath like a petulant child and rolled his eyes under his cowl.

“Within reason.”

Shifting her weight to her other foot, she kept her arms crossed over her chest and arched one of her brows while staring him down, faintly cocking her head to the side. Letting out another frustrated exhale through his nose, he threw his hands up in defiant surrender.

“Alright, fine. Let’s hear it.”

“There’s one thing that Dimitri Sokolov values above everything. More than money, more than his reputation, even more than respect.”

Matt’s annoyance was quickly replaced by curiosity, and he perked up as he began to wonder where she was going with this.

“What?”

“Loyalty.”

Matt wasn’t exactly sure what she meant by that, but he had a feeling her plan required more brain than brawn. She looked him up and down in his Daredevil suit before turning on her heel.

“Leave the horns at home. I need Matt Murdock for this one.”

tags: @the-swift-escape @lambmurdock @lunakkey @Lfdybadgirlsdiw @devilmurdock64 @moonyinthestars @suits-and-smirks @day-dreaming-goddess @natashasotherhalf @rebel13lion39 @pixelfaery @ebsmind @mattmurdocksscars @ahhhhhhhydbhdg @ayupcap @thepassionatereader @awenthealchemist @zomtart @superrbffun @buckypops @snicksbabe @redroomproperty @angel113431 @18raven @a-sunflower-in-bloom @shadypaperwitch @lizziela @givemylovetoall @dreadfulxives18 @jjprxntiss @bigratbitchsworld @s1xthirty @daisy-the-quake @raven18 @hipwell @scorpiovelaryon @yiiiikesmish @mel-thefrog @ponyosmom35 @daisydark @xoxabs88xox @punkshyteee @abbyhaslongshorts @wolvierinee @snowflames-world @yomnajir @fries11 @groovycass

the devil and the widow soundtrack

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[changingplumbob]

Second Round - Day Six (BB) 2 of 2

@belsasim, @corrienteallita, @cawthorntales, @hashimasims, @ravingsockmonkey, @pixeldistractions - Sim creators and co-writers

Kaye: *happy dance*

Sarah: I told you we should have stayed home to play video games

Kaye: *sitting* What? No! I've already had my date

Devin: She's right. Kaye gets bonus points and you get the date Sarah

Sarah: No way! Maybe I should believe in luck...

The weather today makes for beautiful views at the cafe Sarah has chosen for her date.

Deanna: Do you think you're mostly lucky or unlucky?

Sarah: I don't think I'm either lucky or unlucky.

Deanna: Neither at all?

Sarah: I believe in hard work

Deanna: Dreams do require work

Deanna: Can we get deep for a bit? My family believe in the watcher but I know not everyone does. Do you believe in fate, you know, destiny? Or do you think we're all at the mercy of some watcher?

Sarah: Eh, I don't really know? 

Deanna: I think it's good to be able to say we don't know about things

Sarah: My sister believes in all that stuff. She's even studying to become a church pastor. But everybody believes something different and who am I to say who's right or wrong?

Deanna: *smiles* I like the open mindedness

Deanna: Say you can live anywhere. Where would you live?

Sarah: San Myshuno! I'm a city girl—all the culture, the technology, the marvel of human design and invention, and just being able to step outside your apartment and reach literally anything you want. It's a few hours away from where I go to school and we go there sometimes on the weekends. I can't wait to move there after I graduate

Deanna: Some amazing technology inventions are coming out of there

Sarah: Absolutely! I know San Sequoia or Del Sol have big tech communities but San Myshuno is definitely a hub

Deanna: I have to say I like being in Tartosa because it's close to my family. I could be persuaded to move if it was to somewhere stable, not constant packing and unpacking

Sarah: Moving for someone is a big ask! *thinking about the now-ex-girlfriend who wanted her to move in together, and she dumped her instead...* 

Deanna: It is but I'm willing to compromise. I get tied to people more than I get tied to places

Sarah: I hope I would feel honored, if someone wanted to do that for me, but you'd have to really really see a future with someone to make that move.

When everyone is back at the villa it's time to work on their skills. While some challenges are more up to luck, there are some that are influenced a lot by skill.

Harmony and Billie decided to build on today's challenge and focus on their fitness skills. Mariela is feeling playful and decides comedy is the way to go! No one will be able to escape her jokes. Dee meanwhile has picked logic to focus on. Rounding out the group Kaye and Sarah have picked charisma to work on.

Devin: Another date with Sarah. How did it go?

Deanna: Pretty good I think. She has interesting ways of looking at things

Devin: So sentiments?

Deanna: None today. I mean we had a good time but not spectacular gold level

Devin: Clearly I need to tell the contestants to up their game...

After skill time we give everyone a chance to unwind. Time for a water balloon fight! Contestants get in to their hot weather outfits and head outdoors. Sarah is quick to wind the others up. Strangely Mariela takes a back seat for this activity, maybe trying to not be a target since she came into this round in the lead for this group.

Harmony smiles and throws some balloons but it seems no one wants to return fire (for which she is grateful because dodging while clumsy…). It doesn't take long for Sarah to get pelted and for Kaye to take over riling everyone up duties. Strangely this group seems apprehensive to throw at Deanna, even when she's wide open.

Deanna does want to participate though and ends up hitting Dee right in the face, knocking her sunglasses. Whoops. Sarah finds it hilarious while crafty Mariela appears beside Dee, picking it as a safe spot for a while. Harmony grows sad at her inability to hit anyone but Billie assures her she's fine.

Deanna: Thanks for playing everyone. Your sunglasses aren't busted are they?

Dee: *sighs* They are fine, my face is less so

Kaye: Looks fine to me

Billie: Yeah but we've still got our sunglasses on

Sarah: Why? Don't tell me they're tied to your outfits

Mariela: It's fashion. Can't ruin the hashtag aesthetic. Hashtag vibes. Hashtag llama

After dinner autonomy is set to full and Deanna is locked out of all rooms (and away from computers). To start things off though she suggests the group watch a movie. I don't tell her to do anything so the night is very much up to the contestants.

Sarah: The Island? Are they on an Island?

Dee: Supposedly they'll go to an island... I don't believe them

Kaye: I could tell you but spoilers

Billie: Scarlett Johansson, she's so beautiful! But why are they all in white? Where's the colour?

Harmony: Maybe they don't have colour in the future

Mariela: Is it the future? Why are they basically slaves if it's the future?

Dee: Are they slaves?

Mariela: He can't choose his food or what he wears or what his job is, sounds like slavery to me

Sarah: Eh, Sean Bean! I bet he dies

Harmony: Why do you say that

Billie: There's this thing that if he appears as a character he's probably going to die because most characters he plays die

Kaye: *to self* not spoiling it, not spoiling it

Mariela: Well... not slaves exactly

Sarah: Clones? For rich people to have transplants?

Billie: And babies apparently

Dee: That's so messed up! And yet... I can see rich people doing that

Kaye: Same! They make some crazy calls

Harmony: I sure hope they manage to get away from it all. I'd like a happy ending

After the movie everyone chats for a while.

Sarah: That was wild. Did they need so many explosions

Kaye: It's an action movie, action movies have explosions

Dee: *sighs* Not my favourite genre

Deanna: Sorry to hear that. I'm not a big action fan but I watched so many movies with Devin, I figured Scarlett Johansson was a safe bet

Mariela: She is gorgeous. I could be talked in to watching most movies she's in

Billie: So Harmony can you show me how you get from sketch to animation

Harmony: *smiles* Sure! I'll grab my digital sketchpad

Deanna joins the growing list of sims who decide to brew coffee after 8pm… interesting choice. Sarah heads to one of the house computers and gets some gaming in for the day. She needs some digital time to relax. Kaye decides to nap on the couch in the lounge despite the stereo going… it's not a very successful nap. Billie and Harmony keep chatting.

After seeing Deanna have coffee Dee decides to follow suit. Maybe copying her behaviour will win her over? Maybe? Mariela decides to go sleep in a bed! But she chooses the same room that Sarah is gaming in… I don't know how she manages to sleep through the game sound effects. Billie and Harmony talk until Harmony heads to sleep and it seems everyone is talked out for the day.

Gym build by @hashimasims Cafe build by @sleepyselkiesims Villa renovation by @paracosmic-sims

[fnzktn]

hype girl

abm!haerin x abm!reader

synopsis: she never said much. but every choice she made brought her closer to you.

includes: slowburn!!!, thesis💔, soft jealousy, slight favortism but she's never gonna admit that, r is oblivious to haerin's crush😞

word count: 9.9k

part of the shs!njz series

a/n: literally had to bribe my former abm bsf to give me the link to their thesis that won when we were in 12th grade so i could use it to this fic💔 worth it

the first thing people say about kang haerin is that she’s quiet. not in a cold way, not even in the sharp, untouchable way people might expect from someone who looks like her. just quiet.

quiet in a way that feels deliberate. in a way that makes you pay more attention to the sound of your own voice when you speak to her, like anything too loud might crack the space she keeps around herself.

she doesn’t talk unless she has something to say. she doesn’t walk in groups unless she’s needed there. she never lingers in doorways the way most of your classmates do, never stays behind to gossip or stretch out her presence just to be seen. and yet, somehow—she’s always seen.

some people think it’s because she’s pretty, which is true. she is. the kind of pretty that isn’t accidental. it’s practiced, almost polished, in a way that hints at structure. school-pressed uniform, hair always neat, minimal jewelry that still somehow looks expensive even when it isn’t.

there are campus stories—her parents run businesses you’ve seen on EDSA billboards. someone once said she modeled for a school campaign when she was in junior high. you’ve seen one of those posters in the admin building. her face is half-turned, eyes slightly downward, the edge of a smile on her lips. it doesn’t look posed. it just looks like her.

but it’s not just that. it’s not the beauty that draws people to her. it’s the silence. or rather—how she uses it.

haerin’s the student council treasurer. always on time, always speaking with just enough confidence to hold a room without overpowering it. she doesn’t argue with teachers, but she doesn’t shrink in front of them either. she listens. she folds her arms and tilts her head slightly when she disagrees. when she answers, her voice is calm. measured. decisive.

there are videos on her instagram story highlights—short clips of her dancing in a studio. muted lighting, big mirrors. she never tags anyone. no captions. just her. sometimes she posts on weekends and deletes them after a few hours. it’s always a little unexpected. it’s like seeing someone blink mid-statue. movement in the middle of all that stillness.

you don’t talk often. just sometimes. usually when you don’t understand something in fabm, or you need help finding a formula for business math. she never seems bothered by your questions, but she doesn’t exactly invite them either. she answers plainly. writes things down if you forget. slides her notes your way when you ask.

she’s always been kind. just… distant.

but then came the first day of inquiries, investigations, and immersion.

third period is supposed to start at ten. but at 10:03, the iii teacher still hasn’t arrived.

the classroom isn’t loud, but it isn’t quiet either. students half-slouched over their desks, refreshing gc messages and half-finished quizlets, poking at leftover food with plastic forks. someone yawns dramatically near the back. two boys in front are sharing one earbud each. your seatmate is drawing on the corner of their paper. from where you’re sitting, you can see three people using ai to finish their business case drafts. someone opens a bag of chips. it crackles too loudly. no one tells them to stop.

you’re sitting in your usual seat—third row from the back, by the windows. it’s a decent spot. close enough to hear but not enough to be noticed. you like it that way.

outside, the clouds are thick and slow-moving. the sunlight coming in is pale, almost watery. not golden, not sharp. just soft. a tuesday kind of light.

haerin’s seat is two columns away from yours, diagonal. she’s not doing anything, just flipping a pen between her fingers. there’s a reviewer open on her desk, but her eyes aren’t moving across the page. she looks like she’s reading, but you know she’s not. she does this sometimes—sits very still, lets the world move around her like she’s not quite part of it.

someone calls her name across the room. she blinks, looks up. nods. doesn’t say anything. then goes back to her pen.

the door clicks open at 10:06. finally.

the teacher walks in, holding a manila folder. they look serious. everyone starts sitting up straighter.

you reach for your notebook instinctively.

“okay,” the teacher says, not wasting time. “since we’ve already covered your research orientation last week, we’re moving straight to groupings.”

you feel something in your stomach fold in on itself.

groupings.

you glance around. a few people are already side-eyeing their seatmates, mouthing names. some groups are obvious. some are already forming under desks. haerin hasn’t moved.

“this semester, you’ll be working on your research papers in fixed groups of five,” the teacher continues, adjusting the folder. “the subject is designed to simulate a business environment, so we’re treating this like a project-based task. not just research, but immersion. you’ll conduct field work, you’ll propose your own focus, and yes—you will defend your findings by the end of the term.”

no one’s speaking anymore.

then, the teacher adds, “and to make this more interesting, we’ll be assigning leaders. four of them. the rest will be drafted—yes, drafted—into teams.”

groans. tension. disbelief. but nothing new. this teacher is known for curveballs.

“the four team leaders,” they say, reading from a small card, “will be…”

there’s a pause. a paper shuffle. then names.

you don’t hear your name. you barely react. not disappointed—just relieved.

but then, “kang haerin.”

heads turn.

she blinks once, sits up straighter. her pen stops moving. she doesn’t look surprised. she never does.

your teacher continues. “team leaders, you may now choose your members. one by one.”

and then—

“we’ll go in reverse order. kang haerin, you’re up first.”

you freeze.

she stands up, notebook still closed. doesn’t hesitate. doesn’t ask questions. doesn’t even glance at anyone for a cue. just says your name.

calm. clear. definite.

your name. first.

your name leaves her mouth and lands in the room like a dropped pin.

not loud. not dramatic. not dragged out with emphasis or flair. just said. simply. like it made sense.

and for a second, no one reacts. the class seems to hesitate—like the name didn’t register because no one was expecting it. not even you.

especially not you.

your first thought isn’t even a thought. it’s more of a physical thing—like something invisible tapping against the inside of your ribs. a second of blank stillness before the wave reaches your head.

she called your name.

haerin. kang haerin. student council treasurer. the one who’s good at decision trees and breaking down amortization schedules in under ten lines. the one who always walks just slightly apart from everyone, like she exists on a different plane of focus. that haerin. she said your name. first.

you blink. you aren’t sure if you heard it right. maybe it was someone else with a similar name. maybe she meant to pick someone sitting near you.

but then people start turning.

not dramatically. just little glances. a few shifting shoulders. the sound of someone snorting quietly to your right. someone from the back whispers, “wait—what?”

your body doesn’t know what to do. your hands are suddenly too still. your notebook feels like the only thing anchoring you to your seat. you don’t move. not until the teacher clears their throat and looks at you.

“that’s one,” they say, making a note on the clipboard. “next?”

the rest of her group fills in slowly, but no one remembers their names.

not really.

because the surprise of your name hangs in the room longer than it’s supposed to, stretching through each new pick like a secondhand echo. your classmates shift back into polite focus as the other leaders begin to choose, but the tension has already cracked. now there’s an edge of curiosity under it. something tight and low and wordless. like you’ve been pulled into the center of a story that hasn’t even started yet.

you watch her. carefully.

after you, she calls a quiet boy from the top ten. next is a girl from the debate team—someone articulate, good under pressure. then, someone unexpected again, a transfer student who barely speaks unless prompted. and that’s five.

five people. including you and haerin.

when the teacher nods, announcing that the groupings are final, you nod too. but yours is automatic. you’re still looking at her.

there’s a stillness to haerin’s posture as she sets her pen down and folds her hands, like nothing about this morning has been surprising to her. like this was the plan all along.

you don’t know what to make of that.

the rest of the draft moves in a blur.

other leaders are called. names are picked. teams slowly form. you hear your classmates call out to each other, some joking, some groaning, some whispering predictions like they’re betting on exam scores. someone claps when two people who clearly wanted to be grouped end up together. the noise returns, gradually. the room fills with movement again.

but you stay quiet.

you can’t seem to shake the feeling that everyone’s a little more aware of you now. not in any intense way—just in the corner-of-the-eye, side-of-the-mouth kind of way. glances that are too quick to be kind, too casual to be real. you catch someone whispering something to their seatmate, eyebrows raised. another girl leans forward to whisper, “since when were they close?”

you aren’t sure what to do with your face. you don’t feel smug, but you don’t want to look confused either. so you keep your eyes on your desk and your hand on your pen and pretend to take notes that don’t matter.

from the corner of your eye, you see haerin turning to the teacher to confirm your team schedule. her voice is calm. her hands are still. she could be discussing stock returns and she’d sound exactly the same. no shift. no weight. just certainty.

when the bell rings, people start rising immediately. the scraping of chairs, the shuffle of bags. your name’s been called three times before you realize someone’s waiting for you by the door.

you stand, slinging your bag over your shoulder. haerin’s already halfway down the hall, her steps slow, precise. she doesn’t wait for you. but you know you’re supposed to follow.

you catch up outside the building.

she’s walking beside the trimmed hedges, the sun catching at the edges of her hair where it’s tied back loosely. she’s scrolling through her phone, probably checking the new group schedule.

“hey,” you say, not too loudly.

she looks up. slows. waits for you to fall into step beside her.

you walk together for a few seconds. quiet. just the gravel beneath your shoes, the hum of the afternoon.

then you ask, carefully, “why’d you pick me?”

you don’t look at her when you say it. just keep your eyes ahead.

she doesn’t answer right away. you hear her thumb tap the side of her phone. she breathes in once. then—

“you were the only one who asked last semester if immersion could be off-campus.”

you blink.

“i remembered that,” she adds, tone even. “you asked about real-world application. no one else did.”

you’re silent. not because you don’t know what to say—but because you’re realizing you didn’t know she’d heard that. that she'd remembered it. you’d said it in passing. to the teacher. to no one, really.

she noticed.

“i thought,” she says, slower now, like she’s choosing her words as she walks, “that someone who asks questions like that… probably has ideas worth listening to.”

your heart knocks a little too hard against your ribs.

you swallow. nod. “okay.”

she hums softly. a small sound. almost a smile, but not quite.

then she pockets her phone, adjusts her grip on her bag strap, and says, “our first meeting’s on friday. i’ll message you.”

friday afternoon. room 302.

it’s a quiet, out-of-the-way classroom on the third floor, usually reserved for electives or teachers who don’t like being interrupted. the lights are dimmer here. the windows are dusty, only half-open. the air smells like paper and whiteboard ink and faintly of rain, even though the sky outside is still clear.

you’re the second to arrive.

haerin is already seated by the far window, a half-drunk bottle of water beside her, her hair tied loosely in a way that feels more lived-in than usual. she’s reading something—a printout, probably the class syllabus—eyes scanning, pen tapping once against the edge of her notebook.

she doesn’t look up when you enter, but she tilts her chin slightly, just enough to acknowledge that you’re there.

you sit two chairs across from her. not beside. not yet.

the rest of the group trickles in slowly. you know them, more or less—two boys, one girl, all smart enough to keep up but casual enough to get distracted when things get too abstract. one of them—the taller guy with the chain necklace who always carries an iced americano into class—is already talking about presentation templates before he even sits down.

haerin waits until they’ve settled. then she speaks.

“so,” she says, flipping her pen around, “we’re finalizing our direction today. whatever we pick, we commit to it.”

no one answers immediately. someone shifts in their seat.

then the girl says, “we could do something safe. like e-commerce growth post-pandemic. everyone’s doing that.”

the others nod. something easy. something passable. nothing risky.

you hesitate. the idea forming in your head is half-formed, but it’s there—has been there since last week. it’s not as clean, not as familiar. a little ambitious. maybe too much.

but it’s the only one you’ve been thinking about.

so you speak. quietly.

“what if we did something on small community-based startups?” they look at you. you continue, voice a bit more certain now. “like sari-sari stores that restructured after lockdowns. people who used to sell in-person but had to shift models completely. it’s still e-commerce, technically. but from the ground up.”

you feel the weight of silence right after.

the guy with the iced americano frowns slightly. “that’s… a bit messy, isn’t it? hard to quantify.”

“data’s gonna be hard to pull,” the girl adds. “and those places don’t keep records.”

you nod, slowly. already pulling back, already regretting speaking.

and then—

“it’s our strongest lead so far.”

everyone turns.

haerin isn’t looking at anyone in particular. just writing something down in the corner of her notes.

“the rest are surface-level,” she continues, voice calm. “this one has depth. and flexibility. and a unique angle for our defense.”

her words are quiet, but they don’t need volume. they settle into the space with finality.

no one argues.

someone says, “okay.” another nods. the iced americano guy leans back, quiet now.

you’re still processing.

because she didn’t just accept your idea. she claimed it.

not to be nice. not to make things easier, but because she actually meant it.

you glance at her. she’s still writing. doesn’t look up. doesn’t need to.

and for the first time, you think—maybe you’re not just here because she remembered something you said. maybe you’re here because she trusts the way you think.

the hallway outside the faculty office is quiet except for the low hum of electric fans and the occasional scuff of shoes along the tiles. the light through the windows is weak and diffused, more gray than gold, casting everything in the tired color of early morning nerves. it’s pitch day, a formal pre-immersion presentation for all iii groups, and the whole class has been instructed to show up in full business attire.

the result is a corridor filled with uneven collars, ill-fitted coats, and classmates swapping belts. you’re standing just beside a dusty mirror bolted to the wall, trying to fix the same necktie for what feels like the fourth time. the knot keeps slipping sideways, no matter how tightly you pull it.

your fingers are clumsy with the fabric—too stiff, too smooth, like it refuses to cooperate with the rhythm you vaguely remember from a tutorial you watched the night before. you try again. pull, loop, fold. no good. it still sags a little to the left. you sigh under your breath and glance at your reflection. not awful. but not great, either.

“you’re doing it wrong,” comes a voice just over your shoulder. low, steady, no trace of teasing.

you glance up. it’s haerin.

she’s already fully dressed, neat in a crisp navy blazer over a pale blouse, sleeves fitted just right, a pair of simple earrings you haven’t seen her wear before catching a bit of the light as she tilts her head. her hair is tied loosely at the back, a little messier than usual, but it suits her. she looks like she’s already been calm for hours. like there was no part of this morning that could’ve unsettled her. she’s looking at your tie now, not you.

“i know,” you say quietly, almost embarrassed.

she steps in without another word, raising her hands to your collar. “stay still.”

you do. you try not to breathe too loudly.

her fingers are light but certain as she undoes the knot, slipping it free in a single practiced motion. she moves carefully, not slow, not fast—just enough for you to feel each adjustment. the pull of the fabric. the brief press of her knuckle against your chest. the clean slide of the tie being straightened, tightened, tucked.

she doesn’t comment on how off-centered it was, doesn’t sigh or frown or act like she’s doing you a favor. she just works quietly, like it’s nothing new. and yet, the air between you shifts into something quiet and careful, like even she feels the weight of this simple thing being shared.

when she finishes, she steps back. “there.”

you look down. the knot sits perfectly now—centered, flat, almost sharp against your shirt. her fingers had only brushed your collarbone once, but it lingers more than it should. you glance at her. she meets your eyes for a second. there’s no smile, no expression of pride, just that familiar neutral calm. but something about the moment feels like it’s been folded and placed somewhere you’ll return to later.

“wear it like that from now on,” she says, not waiting for a response, already turning to leave as one of your groupmates calls her name from the other end of the hallway.

you watch her walk off, blazer catching slightly at her sides as she moves. you reach up once, touch the edge of the knot again, as if to prove it’s real. it is. still firm. still exactly where she left it.

the week after, she grows quiet.

not in a cold or distant way. just quieter than usual. a kind of gentle withdrawal. she still shows up on time for meetings, still replies to the group chats, still submits her deliverables without reminders. but her presence feels dimmed, like someone lowering the brightness on a screen. she listens more than she speaks.

she stares at her laptop a little longer between sentences. she doesn’t interrupt jokes, doesn’t offer side comments, doesn’t even give you that usual nod when you walk in a room. she’s not ignoring you. but she’s somewhere else.

the others don’t seem to notice. you do.

you try not to overthink it. but it follows you—through meetings, through class, through the way your eyes keep flicking toward her even when you’re supposed to be writing.

it takes until friday to ask.

you’re the last two left in the room after a group check-in. the others have already left for lunch, leaving papers half-folded on the desks and a bag of barely touched snacks on the windowsill. haerin’s packing slowly, folding her charger neatly, checking her usb twice before putting it away. her face is neutral, tired maybe, but not upset.

you stand there for a moment, watching her. “are you okay?”

she doesn’t look up. not at first.

“yeah,” she says after a second. it’s not curt. just soft.

you wait. she zips her case.

“sometimes i just get like this,” she continues. “it doesn’t mean anything.”

you nod, even though she still isn’t looking. “okay.”

a few more seconds pass. she finally straightens and meets your eyes.

“i didn’t mean to shut you out.”

you weren’t expecting that. not from her. not out loud.

you search her face—calm as always, but this time there’s something else there. something quiet and unguarded. not vulnerability exactly, but a flicker of honesty that feels new.

“i get it,” you say, and you do.

she nods once. doesn’t say anything else.

you walk out together. there’s no need to talk.

but the space between you feels different now. not wider. not heavier. just more real.

the immersion site is just two jeepney rides away — still within the city, though farther than most of your classmates are assigned. it’s a quieter part of town, nestled past the marketplace, near a line of low-rise apartments with rusting gates and cracked sidewalks. the streets aren’t unfamiliar, but they’re quieter than what you’re used to.

your group is assigned to a small home-based printing business run by a married couple and their niece. they take bulk orders for stickers and packaging from nearby cafés and shops, operating mostly through facebook and instagram dms.

everything is done in their living room — orders lined up on a folding table, samples stacked inside plastic drawers, handwritten records clipped together with binder clips. no official branding. no business cards. just a steady, humble system that keeps the orders moving. when they describe their process, it’s with phrases like, “we just figured it out along the way,” or “as long as the supplies don’t run out, we’re okay.”

they’re generous with their answers. open, even if they don’t fully understand why you’re asking what you’re asking. haerin leads the interview. she sits across from the couple with a small spiral notebook and a list of questions she barely glances at — she knows most of them by memory.

her tone is soft but confident, her posture straight without looking stiff. she listens closely. never interrupts. and when she does speak, her questions feel more like conversations than interrogations.

you sit nearby with the recorder, mostly quiet, logging timestamps and checking battery levels. your pen stays near the edge of your notebook, unused except for the notes you jot quietly between answers.

until something catches your ear.

it’s the fourth or fifth question. haerin is asking about when the business moved online, and the husband answers easily, saying it happened around june. but something doesn’t line up. earlier, they’d mentioned having a surge of graduation orders that came through dms, which shouldn’t have happened midyear. you glance at your notes. march. that’s what they said the first time.

you raise your hand a little, quietly.

“sorry—can i ask something?”

the couple pauses. the group turns. not startled. just slightly surprised.

you glance at haerin once — she nods — then look back to the interviewees.

“earlier you mentioned that you were already receiving graduation orders through instagram,” you say slowly, “but just now you said you moved online in june. did you start using digital channels earlier than that? maybe around march?”

the wife turns to her husband. he blinks. then nods, smiling like he’s only just now remembered.

“yes! you’re right. it wasn’t june — it was march. we only said june because that’s when we opened the new account.”

the niece laughs. “i told you it started earlier.”

the husband chuckles. “good catch,” he says, glancing at you. “thanks for clarifying. we always mix that up.”

your groupmate beside you scribbles the correction into their notes. you nod, quietly writing it down as well. the others move on. but for a moment, you feel something different settle into the air around you — something small, like the sound of a quiet switch being flipped.

from across the table, you feel haerin watching.

she doesn’t say anything. just picks up her pencil and draws a small circle next to a timestamp. that’s all.

but later, when the interview ends and the group is filing out of the house, tired but satisfied, she walks beside you for the first few steps. she doesn’t speak. doesn’t make it a point.

but she stays close.

someone suggests stopping somewhere nearby before heading back. no one argues. there’s a café at the edge of the barangay, tucked beside a small clinic and a dental lab. the kind of place students go to finish essays or kill time between errands. it’s narrow, air-conditioned, with a glass counter full of uneven brownies and labeled drinks in stickers. two fans spin lazily overhead. the stereo plays a soft acoustic playlist, half drowned out by the whir of the blender.

you take a table by the window. haerin sits across from you.

your groupmates are still near the counter, debating over who’s paying for what, distracted by iced coffee options. no one notices the way the sunlight lands gently across your table. your drink arrives first. hers, a bit later — something warm, even in this heat. she pulls out her notes before she even takes a sip.

you watch her underline a word.

“you’re still working?” you ask, not in criticism — just observation.

“if i don’t mark what stood out now,” she says without looking up, “i’ll forget what mattered.”

you nod. you understand that.

she circles a line. taps once near the edge of her page.

you glance at her again. “you noticed the timeline thing too, right?”

this time, she does look up. her eyes meet yours. “yes. but you spoke first.”

she says it plainly. not like she’s impressed — more like she’s confirming something. acknowledging it.

you don’t respond. not immediately.

she tears a small square from her paper. writes a timestamp in her sharp, slanted handwriting and slides it across to you. “use this when you cross-check your audio.”

you fold the paper without thinking and tuck it into your pocket.

you don’t talk much after that. but there’s no pressure to. the quiet stretches naturally between you. outside, a motorbike rolls past, followed by the slow, hollow bark of a dog. inside, the light is soft, and the fan hums, and for a while, the rest of the group just blends into the background.

when it’s time to go, she stands first. your straw wrapper is still on the tray. she picks it up and throws it away without a word.

the classroom is warm. not hot, not uncomfortable — just warm in that way old rooms tend to be when the lights have been on too long and the windows barely let the breeze in. it’s late afternoon, maybe an hour before dismissal.

your group is gathered around one of the long wooden tables in a half-circle, laptops open, papers fanned out. you’ve just presented your revised framework to the supervising teacher. this is meant to be the mid-point consult — where flaws are spotted, adjustments made, and promising directions are encouraged. but it doesn’t feel like encouragement today.

you’re halfway through explaining your proposed angle when the teacher leans back in his chair and frowns.

“i don’t think that’s feasible,” he says, tapping his pen lightly against the table. “how do you plan to measure something as vague as that? what are your indicators?”

you blink. “well—”

“and if you’re basing it on self-reported data,” he adds, interrupting, “how do you plan to account for bias? you’re not psych students. i don’t want assumptions passed off as findings.”

you nod, swallowing back the words you were going to say. you weren’t expecting praise — just not this. not this fast. you glance at your notes, unsure where to begin defending something that hasn’t even been fully shaped yet. your fingers fidget near the edge of the printout. one of your groupmates shifts uncomfortably.

and then, quietly — from your left “we’ve accounted for that.”

it’s haerin.

she doesn’t raise her voice. doesn’t sit up straighter. just speaks clearly, like she’s adding a line to a conversation she was always part of.

“the variable isn’t vague,” she continues. “it’s emerging behavior. it’s supported by existing business literature, especially in informal microbusinesses. we plan to isolate it by observing purchasing decisions over a fixed period. we’re not using abstract metrics. we’ve broken it down.”

the teacher raises an eyebrow. but says nothing.

“as for bias,” she adds, “we know our limits. that’s why we’re framing it as patterns, not conclusions. we’re not interpreting motive. just documenting action.”

she says it calmly. like this isn’t about proving anything — just about making sure something true doesn’t get misunderstood. her hands stay folded near her notebook. she doesn’t even glance at you.

the teacher leans forward again, slower this time.

“that’s a good point,” he says, more thoughtful now. “make sure to write that in the limitations. and don’t bury it. i want it on the first page.”

haerin nods. “yes, sir.”

he stands a few minutes later, dismissing the session with a reminder about submission deadlines. your group gathers their things. someone jokes about how intense that felt. someone else sighs in relief.

you don’t say anything. not right away. you’re still sitting where you were, watching her close her folder. she does it like it’s done — no celebration, no tension. just another task folded neatly into the afternoon.

as the others move toward the door, you linger behind. your bag’s half-zipped.

“thanks,” you say.

she looks up. “for what?”

you gesture vaguely to the space between you. “that.”

she shrugs. “i knew you were right.”

you smile, small, unsure.

“you don’t have to explain things perfectly the first time,” she adds. “that’s why we’re a group.”

it’s such a simple thing. said without weight. but it lands somewhere soft inside you. you don’t know what to say back, so you just nod.

she turns to leave, walking ahead of you by a few steps. not far. just enough that you watch her for a moment before following.

and for some reason, you feel lighter than you did before the meeting even started.

later that night, the group call drags past midnight. it starts as a discussion, turns into document formatting, and eventually dissolves into half-sentences and background yawns. someone falls asleep without leaving the call. someone else plays music too loud. you and haerin stay silent for most of it, cameras off, both of you working in parallel without speaking.

at 12:43 a.m., she messages you privately.

“your idea made the whole framework work. just so you know.”

the second immersion takes place in a busier district, not far from a university belt. the roads are uneven, lined with shops that never close, and people who never seem to walk slowly. it’s not unfamiliar, but the pace is sharper — everything louder, faster, more unpredictable. your assigned business is a compact booth that sells thrifted clothing and repurposed accessories. it's owned by two sisters in their late twenties, both former design students who decided to build something of their own after dropping out.

the stall is tucked inside a commercial strip between a milk tea place and a print shop. it’s barely wider than a classroom door. the walls are made of thin plyboard, painted by hand with swirling yellows and greens. shirts hang from the ceiling. bucket hats drape over plastic hooks. there’s a mirror framed with mismatched stickers and a glass counter full of mismatched earrings.

your group arrives in two batches. you’re in the first, along with haerin and one other. the sisters are welcoming, excited even, and they talk fast — explaining how they source items, how they price, how sometimes the business makes enough for rent and sometimes it doesn’t. you and haerin take turns asking follow-ups. she stays composed, unhurried. you find yourself adapting to her rhythm — letting her ask the questions that shape direction, then chiming in to fill the gaps.

at some point, one of the owners compliments the structure of your questionnaire. “you two are very organized,” she says, pointing to your clipboard. “most students don’t ask about our struggles. just sales.”

you glance at haerin. she says nothing, but nods once. you’re not sure if it’s meant for them or for you.

after the interview ends, your group decides to eat nearby. the others still haven’t arrived. the three of you step into the street — bright, noisy, overfull. it’s the kind of late afternoon that feels stretched too thin. cars honking, motorcycles weaving, people brushing past your elbows without pausing. you feel a little dazed by it.

you glance at her once. she doesn’t look back. just says, softly, “you ask good questions.”

you turn. not quite sure if you heard her right.

she’s still looking straight ahead, like it wasn’t even meant to be heard—just something she said because it was true.

“you’re good at noticing things,” she adds, a little quieter. “you don’t talk much, but when you do, people listen.”

it’s quiet for a while after that.

the milk tea shop is cramped, overly air-conditioned. you share a table by the window, your drinks sweating between you. she takes your straw wrapper when you forget to throw it away. doesn’t say anything about it. just does it. later, when someone starts talking about deadlines, she passes you her checklist without being asked.

no one else notices anything. not the compliment. not the way your eyes follow her hands more often now. not how her voice sounds less distant when she’s speaking just to you.

but you do.

and you start to wonder if maybe she notices it too.

your group has settled into a rhythm. not perfect — but stable. every few days, you meet in the same corner classroom at the end of the second floor hallway, the one with the loose window lock and the flickering ceiling light that no one ever fixes. sometimes it’s too cold from the aircon, sometimes too warm when it’s turned off, and someone always arrives fifteen minutes late. but no one complains. you sit. you work. you try not to get overwhelmed by how much of the research still doesn’t make sense yet.

today’s focus is data sorting.

haerin is at the whiteboard, breaking the variables into columns, her handwriting small but sharp. the others are hunched over their laptops or fidgeting with printed transcripts. your group is quieter than usual. there’s something about messy data that flattens everyone’s mood. too many numbers. too many phrases that mean nothing unless you squint at them sideways.

you stare at your section of the spreadsheet. you’ve been trying to code your notes into usable insights, but everything looks off. inconsistent. like you missed something. you keep reading and re-reading your own writing, and the more you stare, the less confident you feel. there’s a margin note you don’t remember making. one timestamp doesn’t line up. you scroll too far, then lose your place.

one of your groupmates sighs. “none of this matches the framework.”

someone else adds, “i think we should just redo this part.”

your stomach sinks. they’re not talking to you directly. not even criticizing. but your fingers pause over the keyboard anyway.

you feel it. that low, quiet kind of doubt. it creeps in softly — the thought that maybe you’re dragging things down. maybe you’ve been silent too long. maybe they’re right to redo it.

you glance across the table.

haerin’s not looking at the board anymore. she’s looking at you.

“it matches,” she says, to no one in particular.

the others stop. look up.

“this part here,” she continues, stepping toward your end of the table. she places one hand lightly on the printed sheet you’ve been working on. “it doesn’t look like the rest because it was tracked by behavioral pattern, not by product type. that was intentional.”

you stare at her.

she taps one of your notes gently. “it’s consistent. just not with the parts you were expecting it to match. but it lines up with our first visit.”

someone frowns. opens the photo log. someone else flips through the observation record.

she stands there calmly, not defending — just clarifying. just stating something that needed to be said.

one of the groupmates nods. “she’s right. this part actually strengthens the framework.”

another mutters, “we should’ve started from this, honestly.”

you don’t say anything. just sit there, still, unsure how you feel.

after a few minutes, the others shift back to work. someone goes back to color-coding. another asks if anyone brought snacks. the conversation resets.

you lean slightly toward haerin as she returns to her seat.

“you didn’t have to do that,” you murmur, low enough so only she hears.

she doesn’t look at you.

“i know.”

a pause. “but you’re too quiet when you get unsure.”

you glance at her. her gaze stays fixed on the whiteboard. her voice doesn’t change.

“and i don’t like watching you disappear like that.”

you don’t know what to say.

so you don’t.

you just sit there beside her, quiet, feeling the air shift around that one line — like she handed you something you hadn’t realized you were missing.

by the time the session ends, the light outside has dimmed enough that someone finally notices the flickering ceiling bulb above. the group starts gathering their things. chairs scrape gently against the floor. someone jokes about ordering fries on the way out. no one moves too fast — everyone’s tired in that content kind of way, the kind that follows a day that wasn’t perfect, but felt like progress.

you’re slow to pack. you move your notes carefully into your folder, double-check your usb, uncap your tumbler and find it empty.

beside you, haerin closes her laptop with a soft click. she doesn’t rush. doesn’t speak.

but as you reach for your bag, she taps her knuckle lightly against the edge of your table.

you look up.

“don’t second-guess it next time,” she says.

her voice is quieter than before. almost like a reminder she doesn’t want anyone else to hear.

you nod.

she slings her bag over one shoulder and heads toward the door, her steps unhurried.

you follow after a few seconds, her words still repeating in your head, like something written in the margins, half-faded but carefully placed.

the auditorium isn’t loud, but it isn’t silent either. it’s the kind of in-between sound that settles under your skin — a steady murmur of folders being flipped open, heels tapping against the aisle, the low whirr of a dusty projector bulb warming up on stage.

the air-conditioning is colder than it needs to be. the lights are too white, flickering slightly at the edges. a bottle cap rolls faintly across the floor before someone stills it with their shoe. it’s the last hour of the program. your group is next.

you sit in the third row with your hands locked loosely on your lap, fingers twitching beneath the hem of your blazer. you’ve adjusted your tie four times now, but it still feels crooked. your name tag is pinned too close to your collar. someone behind you sneezes. a teacher coughs. you’re not really hearing any of it.

haerin sits to your left. her legs are crossed neatly at the ankle, posture perfect. her folder is closed, clasped in her hand like she doesn’t need it. and maybe she doesn’t.

you’ve seen her recite her part so many times you could mouth it along if you wanted to. she hasn’t spoken since your group was called earlier, but she’s alert — eyes focused, shoulders still. calm in a way that makes your own breath feel too loud in comparison.

the current group presenting wraps up with a shaky thank you. the audience claps politely, and the panelists — three professors seated at a long table just below the stage — begin scribbling their final notes. they don’t look impressed. the emcee adjusts her mic, her voice low but practiced as she calls the next group.

“representing the ABM strand group four, under the research of kang haerin.”

you stand when the others do. haerin leads. you follow. your steps are quiet on the wood-paneled stage. your blazer pulls slightly when you bow. the lights aren’t blinding, but they’re bright enough to make your skin feel warmer than before. you try not to look at the crowd. you focus on the screen. then the panel. then haerin.

she’s already at the laptop, plugging in the usb. the title slide appears. she takes the mic, doesn’t test it, just lifts it calmly and says, “good afternoon.”

her voice doesn’t shake.

“the study we’ll be presenting today is titled ‘purchasing patterns in low-visibility microbusinesses: a behavioral lens.’” her tone is measured. no filler. no notes in hand. just the rhythm of someone who’s rehearsed something until it lives in her bones.

she outlines the context — a breakdown of your chosen stalls, your decision to focus on low-foot-traffic areas, the nuance of your behavioral angle. she paces her words carefully, not rushed, not drawn out. there’s something magnetic in how she speaks. not performative, not flashy — just sure. like she knows what she’s saying and doesn’t need anyone’s approval to say it.

the first slide clicks. then the second. your groupmate presents the methodology, the field structure, the decision tree behind your customer approach. then it’s your turn.

haerin looks at you once — just a glance — as she hands you the mic.

your fingers brush.

your hands are colder than they should be. the mic feels heavier than usual. you step forward and look at the screen, but not for too long. you inhale, just once.

you begin.

“for this segment, we’re focusing on a behavior cluster observed during our third immersion visit — specifically, patterns that deviate from predicted logic-based decisions.”

your voice doesn’t sound like much at first. it’s softer than you meant it to be, and the reverb in the room makes it echo oddly. but you keep going. you frame the deviation, then introduce your anchor subject — the customer who repeatedly chose the more expensive vendor out of habit, not price. you explain the three-site comparison, then gesture toward the color-coded map. it’s the slide you made. the one haerin told you not to take out even when you were unsure it made sense.

you reference it now with more ease than you thought you’d have. your language stays sharp. the panel doesn’t interrupt. one of them — the visiting lecturer — leans forward. nods, once.

you close your section with the phrasing you’ve practiced exactly three times. “we interpreted this behavior as spatial habituation under limited cognitive engagement — a response not to price or brand, but to perceived effort and routine anchoring.”

the room doesn’t react. not right away. you hand the mic back without looking up.

haerin takes it again, voice soft but even, weaving your points into the study’s final conclusions. she doesn’t repeat anything. just folds everything in, word by word. her final sentence lands cleanly, “we propose a behavior-first lens not just for customers, but for how microbusinesses position themselves in low-competition markets.”

you all bow. the panel doesn’t move.

then applause — not rushed. not loud. but held just a second longer than expected.

you step off the stage slowly. your hands are sweating. the group sits down again. no one says anything for a while. you wipe your palms against your pants once. haerin is already adjusting her name tag.

but after a few breaths, she leans in and whispers something only you can hear. “you didn’t even look at your notes.”

you don’t say anything. but your pulse skips.

the rest of the congress passes like a blur you’re only half in. the last strand presents — TVL, a case study with too many text-heavy slides. then comes a panel commentary segment, then closing remarks from the research coordinator. you nod when you’re supposed to. clap when everyone else claps.

and then the emcee returns to the mic, card in hand.

“we’ll now announce the recognition for best output and best presenter across strands,” she says, her voice bright, a little too rehearsed. “for best research study—”

a pause. then your group’s name.

“—ABM strand, group four.”

there’s a beat of silence in your chest before you hear the others beside you react. one of your groupmates exhales a sharp “no way,” then gets to his feet. someone behind you claps. someone else gasps a soft “wow.” your body feels like it hasn’t caught up to the words yet.

you stand slowly.

the host reads the next line.

“and for best research presenter—” another pause, “—y/n l/n, also from the ABM strand.”

you feel it land.

this time, you don’t move. not until haerin stands beside you, her hand brushing your sleeve. not until she nods once — not telling you to go, just reminding you that you earned it.

you walk up to the stage again. your name is called. you’re handed a framed certificate, the edges cool against your fingers. one of the panelists leans in as she passes it to you.

“you speak like you’ve done this for years,” she says quietly. “you paced it perfectly.”

you murmur something polite in return. you don’t remember what.

the camera flash catches you mid-blink.

you don’t look for her after the program ends. but somehow, she’s already waiting at the back hallway, where the noise dies down into faint applause and footsteps echo off the cement walls. you’re rebuttoning your blazer, still holding the award folder when you feel her hand on your wrist.

she doesn’t say anything. just rests her fingers there for a moment — light, almost unsure — before reaching past you to push open the door beside you. the small restroom tucked behind the curtain partition. dimmer, quieter, unused.

you glance at her once, but she’s already stepping in.

you follow.

the door closes softly behind you.

you stand there, a little too close. neither of you speak at first. the light above flickers faintly, casting a pale wash over the floor. your award folder is still in your hand. your collar is slightly uneven. she notices — straightens it with a quiet touch.

your eyes meet.

and for a second, that's all it is.

then she lifts a hand — not confident, not certain, but slow — like she’s still waiting for you to move away. when you don’t, she touches your face. just barely. her thumb brushes the edge of your cheekbone, a careful, searching motion like she’s never done this before. maybe she hasn’t. maybe she has, but not like this.

you don’t lean in. not yet.

it’s her. it’s always been her.

she draws just a little closer. her gaze flickers to your mouth and back again. and then finally — only when she’s close enough to feel your breath catch — she kisses you.

gently.

not rushed. not deep. not even for very long.

just once. light and hesitant, like she isn’t sure she’s allowed to.

when she pulls back, she stays near. her hand hasn’t moved. she looks at you like she’s still somewhere inside that moment, somewhere between the breath she took and the one she forgot to exhale.

“you looked really good up there,” she says. her voice is low. steady, but quieter than usual. “i couldn’t help myself.”

she doesn’t smile. but she doesn’t look away, either.

and neither do you.

for a moment, nothing moves. the air feels heavier than it should — like even your breath might shift the balance if you’re not careful. her hand lingers near your jaw, still half-raised, but she’s not touching you anymore. her fingers hover like they forgot how to rest or retreat. her eyes flicker to your mouth again, just once, then stop halfway — as if thinking better of it.

she draws back half a step. not because she wants to, but because she thinks she should. her gaze drops to the folder you’re still holding, and for some reason, that makes her expression soften — like she’s only just now remembered where you are. what all of this just came from.

“we should go,” she murmurs, but she doesn’t move.

you nod. or at least you think you do.

neither of you walks to the door. not right away. she leans back against the sink counter, arms crossed loosely now, but her posture isn't composed anymore. it’s a little messier — just slightly. the collar of her blouse has shifted beneath her blazer. the hand that kissed you now curls against her side like she doesn’t know what to do with it.

you stay where you are.

and for a while, you just look at each other.

there’s something quieter than silence between you — not heavy, not awkward. just full. like everything that needed to happen already did, and now you're both standing inside the space it left behind.

eventually, she exhales. “thank you,” she says.

it takes you a second to understand.

“for what?” you ask.

her eyes meet yours. and this time, there’s no hesitation.

“for making it feel easy,” she says.

she doesn’t explain. and you don’t ask.

because maybe you understand anyway.

you don’t leave right away. not until the hallway outside quiets again — until the echo of chairs being scraped across the auditorium floor fades into something distant. she straightens first, brushing a wrinkle off her skirt, fixing the loose strand of hair tucked behind her ear. you mirror the motion, slower. the silence between you doesn’t feel strange. just full.

when she reaches for the door, she doesn’t look back to check if you’re following.

she already knows.

the hallway is empty when you step out. the hum of the venue remains faint in the background — laughter in clumps, teachers calling attendance, someone’s name shouted near the exit. she doesn’t rush. her steps are even, light, as if she’s conserving the last of her energy. your pace falls in line with hers without thinking.

neither of you speak.

the folder stays tucked beneath your arm, its corner pressing into your ribs. your award certificate peeks slightly through the plastic sleeve. you catch your reflection in one of the windows you pass — uniform straight, tie slightly loosened now, cheeks still warm. you wonder if anyone would notice anything just by looking.

haerin doesn’t touch you again. but she walks close. close enough that your elbows nearly brush with every step. her bag strap slips once down her shoulder, and you almost reach to fix it — but she pulls it up herself.

when you reach the courtyard, she slows.

the group’s still gathered there, under the trees, trading food from their packed lunches, animatedly reenacting parts of the earlier presentations. they haven’t noticed you yet. your classmates are laughing about something. someone waves their certificate like a fan.

haerin stops beside a low stone bench and exhales.

you stop too.

“do you want to go back now?” you ask, voice quiet.

she looks at you. studies your face for a second like she’s memorizing something.

“in a bit,” she says.

so you sit down next to her, shoulder to shoulder. you rest your hands on your knees. she folds hers in her lap. the breeze moves through her hair. you feel her glance at you once, then look away just as fast.

and for the next few minutes, you don’t talk.

you just sit there together.

not waiting for anything. not needing to explain. just letting whatever this is — settle.

later that night, she messages you.

the event is minor — just a local showcase for the business track, held in one of the open halls behind the annex building. it’s loud, cluttered, not too formal. tables lined with folders and sample mockups. students huddled in clusters explaining brand plans to wandering teachers, a few alumni visiting, two unfamiliar faces from another senior high. everyone’s either in pastel polos or tucked-in uniforms, sleeves rolled up, name tags pinned crookedly to collars.

your group — the same one from III — had been tapped last-minute to present your now-award-winning paper as an example. not for judging. not for competition. just for show. a “model output,” they’d said. something for others to look at.

so you stand near the center table, beside the neatly propped-up trifold board, repeating the same summary you’ve now memorized by heart. your voice is calm. your hands stay still. you’ve done this too many times to stumble now.

haerin is just a few feet away, talking to a teacher who keeps nodding at your visuals. she’s in full student council mode — neat, composed, perfectly poised as she explains how the framework could be applied to local vendors. but she glances at you every so often. you catch it each time.

and you don’t think much of it — not until later.

you’re halfway through walking a visiting college rep through your feasibility metrics when someone new approaches your table. another student — not from your class. tall. unfamiliar. easy smile. they wait until the rep leaves, then lean slightly closer to your side of the table, gesturing to your summary sheet.

“you’re the one who spoke at the congress, right?”

you glance up. “yeah, that was us.”

“you were really good. like, actually made the topic sound interesting.” they smile, easy and a little too smooth. “kind of rare.”

you laugh once under your breath, polite. “thanks. we just rehearsed it a lot.”

“you didn’t look like you were rehearsing. you looked like you knew exactly what you were talking about.” they point toward the flowchart pinned to the board. “can you walk me through this part?”

you nod and begin to explain — outlining the data sequence, the way your group layered in comparison samples, your voice steady, hands gesturing just a little. they stay attentive. too attentive. and when you glance to the side mid-sentence, you see haerin.

she’s standing near the corner, not too far, one hand resting on her elbow, gaze trained directly on you.

you keep your explanation calm, voice even, but you can feel the weight of her stare. the other student smiles again. “seriously, you made this look easy. if you’re planning on taking business, i hope we end up in the same course.”

“i’m… not sure yet,” you say, half-distracted.

“well, you’d do great either way.” they step back just slightly. “and if you ever need help with mockups or design stuff—”

“hey.”

the word lands light but firm. you both glance up. haerin is at your side now, expression composed but unmistakably cool.

“we’re packing up,” she says to you, not looking at the other student. “you ready?”

you nod quickly. “yeah, let me just—”

“i’ll handle the rest,” she cuts in. “come on.”

you follow.

she walks toward the hallway behind the annex building, the quieter one where most students rarely go unless they’re cutting through. her pace isn’t hurried, but it’s not slow either. focused. when you reach the end, near the faculty lounge, she stops. you stop too.

she turns to face you fully now, her eyes sharp but unreadable. “you’re popular today.”

“that was just someone asking about the panel.”

“they weren’t asking about the panel. they were asking about you.”

“haerin—”

“you looked good,” she says. “too good.”

your breath catches, just slightly. “what?”

“when you explain things. when you stand like that. like you don’t even realize how serious you look when you’re focused.” her voice is quieter now. “people see it. they start thinking things.”

you don’t respond, unsure if this is irritation or something else. she takes one step forward.

“they think they can get close. like you’re available. like you’re theirs to impress.”

another step. she’s close now. just inches away.

“i don’t like it.”

you meet her gaze. “why?”

her eyes flicker, but she doesn’t blink. “because they don’t know you the way i do. and they shouldn’t get to look at you like that.”

you hold your breath.

“you’re mine,” she says. low. final.

and then she kisses you.

no hesitation. no asking. just her hand reaching up to your collar, the other at the side of your face, pulling you in with a quiet intensity that makes the whole hallway disappear.

it’s not rushed, not showy — just firm and certain. like something she’s been keeping in for weeks. her lips press warm against yours, lingering. and when she finally pulls back, she doesn’t move far. her forehead leans lightly into yours.

your eyes stay closed for a moment. then you open them.

“you’re bold today,” you whisper.

“i was being patient,” she murmurs. “you made it hard.”

you laugh under your breath, fingers brushing lightly against hers.

she doesn’t let go.

neither do you.

the convenience store is mostly quiet now. a few students linger by the window, waiting on rides. the overhead lights buzz faintly, casting pale reflections on the table between you. your tie is folded in your pocket. haerin’s hair is slightly mussed, one sleeve rolled higher than the other. your fingers keep brushing the condensation on the shared milk tea cup, half-watching the swirl of pearls at the bottom.

neither of you have brought up the kiss.

but it’s there. humming underneath everything. the shared glances. the way she sat beside you, not across from you. the way her leg stayed pressed lightly against yours. none of it accidental.

you look at her. “so.”

she stirs the drink once with the straw. “so.”

“you kissed me. again.”

“you let me.”

“you called me yours.”

she pauses.

“i meant that,” she says softly.

you turn slightly to face her better, cheek resting against your knuckles. “mm. i liked it.”

her gaze flickers toward yours, unreadable.

“but,” you add, “i feel like i should know what that makes us.”

she blinks. “…what?”

“am i just someone you kiss in empty hallways? or do you have a title in mind?”

“you’re insufferable.”

“but charming,” you counter. “and curious. what are we, kang haerin?”

her fingers tighten slightly around the cup. “you’re mine. isn’t that enough?”

“sounds like a placeholder.”

“it’s not.”

“then what am i? say it.”

she exhales. you can see the internal battle behind her eyes. not because she doesn’t want to say it — but because saying it makes it real. makes it more than just what’s been simmering between you since the first day of immersion.

she murmurs something, too low.

you lean in. “huh?”

“���you’re my girlfriend,” she says, clearer now. voice low, firm, not looking directly at you.

you grin. “one more time?”

she finally looks at you. “you’re my girlfriend,” she repeats. then adds, quieter, “do you want me to write it down, too?”

“maybe.” you lean back, smug. “school record. printed. laminated.”

she rolls her eyes, but her ears are pink. “you’re ridiculous.”

“but officially yours?”

a pause. then, “yes.”

“girlfriend,” you repeat, a little softer. “mine, too.”

you bump her shoulder lightly. she doesn’t move away.

outside, the street is emptying, headlights sweeping by in slow motion. inside, under the soft hum of cheap fluorescent light and a nearly finished milk tea, haerin reaches for your hand. doesn’t make a show of it. just lets your fingers slip together, quiet and sure.

and just like that, it’s official.

girlfriend. hers.

finally.

[novasillies]

okay. wifi sorted. squid game i hate you i will try and keep this organised. spoilers upon spoilers beneath the cut, this might be a long one. i had an 8 hour journey to watch the whole show in one go and then ruminate on it for two hours of driving. so. yeah.

As many issues as I have with this season, I will say some things were pretty interesting. So let's start with the few positives I have.

One, the commentary on democracy and the idea of a democratic vote. The fact that the players were forced into making this choice, either threatened or manipulated into voting one way or the other, and treated differently by the group depending on which way they voted was very interesting and something I am not at all smart enough to dissect beyond surface level. the whole "through your democratic vote, you have all chosen to continue the games" thing made me go hrrhrhrhrr every time because, yeah, democracy is far from fair and two-party systems with one final choice cannot accurately represent the wants of an entire group. love it speak on it.

Two, I didn't mind In-ho's story this season (or, what little story he had). The fact that he's tried to save Gi-hun's life at every turn, and the man has been too stubborn to listen, rightfully so, if the writers had decided that optimism was something we deserved in this day and age. He begged him to get on that plane, to stop looking for the games, to kill the other players and just take the money. In-ho wanted Gi-hun to live. And he didn't. And In-ho delivered, in person, his jacket and money to his daughter. He never called him a friend. He blew up the island. I'm assuming he left it all behind now that the coast guard got involved. God knows. Actually, never mind, his story was lazy and nonexistent. The contrast between him and Gi-hun when given that chance to kill them all and take the win was interesting, though.

Three, i cant think of another thing i liked. which is troubling. Oh, I do love a tragedy done right, so Gi-hun's death did satisfy me in the way that it was horrible. I still think he should not have died. But the fact that it was like that. I don't despise it. Not happy about it. but it could be worse.

I'm gonna just get right into my main issue with this season (and season 2 now that it's over and I can be sure of it), which is: THIS WAS NOT NECESSARY.

The entire two-part story (ridiculous) of seasons 2&3 was literally, in the end, for nothing.

Nobody's characters developed and they all died. Jun-ho didn't get anything out of finding the island because they blew it up and he was only there for 25 minutes. He saw In-ho again, said like 8 words to him, got nothing back, and then left again. Pointless. So many hours of television that were for nothing. He didn't grow as a person, he didn't learn anything new, he didn't even realise Gi-hun (WHO HE WAS MEANT TO BE LOOKING FOR) was dead however many feet below him. All he got was that fuckass CGI baby and 45.6 billion won of blood money.

Gi-hun went back just to stop the games, then killed himself to let a two-day-old newborn become a multi-billionaire for the hope of that innocent little FUGLY FREAK being a better person than him. He said maybe 20 lines the entire season. He spent the whole time silently plotting dae-ho's death, then killing dae-ho, then trying to kill himself until he finally did. His entire story was just a playbook on how to give up.

They watered Jun-hee and Geum-ja and No-eul down to just Mothers with nothing else to show for themselves. Two out of three of them killed themselves for their children and one of them tried. No-euls entire storyline felt just as pointless as the rest of them, with its weird maybe-your-daughter's-alive-maybe-she's-not open ending of her flying to China. It didn't help that we've spent this whole two-season storyline waiting for Gi-hun to have some magical moment where he figures out how to save them, only for all of them to die slowly and pointlessly one by one. Geum-ja's suicide was the only death this season that upset me, purely because I only realised what had happened just as the coffin got carried in, and her big monologue to Gi-hun finally made sense and became far more sad. It was really only thanks to her actress' performance that Yong-sik's death made me feel anything, too. Everyone else had nothing. Just cheap SFX and two seconds of shock value.

What the fuck was Hyun-ju's death. Like. Excuse me?? Myung-gi had no reason to still be killing people, let alone hunting them like animals. Why the FUCK did he kill her??? And why did Jun-hee's water break and her baby was born within five minutes???? I don't think there was a single woman in the writer's room for season 3 honest to god. I wasn't even sad about Hyun-ju's death I was just so so sooo confused. It made no sense. And then I was like uhgggh she shouldve gone through the door but no she was right to go back but wtf myung-gi why did you do that you useless piece of human garbage. and maybe it was a little bit poignant because they were so close to all surviving together. but they could've. very easily. Hyun-ju's death was just as unneccessary as the rest of this story.

Don't even get me started on myung-gi. I didn't like him last season on the principle of what he did to Jun-hee, but there was always the justification of him trying to protect her from the people who were after him but. god. I was so right to hate him. Even then, he was somewhat likeable. He did nice things sometimes. He acted like a normal human being. Who the HELL was that this season?? trying to throw his own newborn daughter off that tower for THE MONEY??????????? I thought Gi-hun would hand over the kid, myung-gi would be all sweet and sad and sorry and kiss his daughter on the head (WHICH GI-HUN THEN DID AND MADE ME GO !!!!!) before he pressed the start button and threw himself off. A nobel sacrifice for the kid, just like her mother had done, or whatever the fuck. but no. nooooo nonono of COURSE not. that wouldve been HEARTFELT and SWEET and would've let OUR HERO survive. can't have that can we?!?!?!?!??!?!?!? i need to calm down.

Side note, what the hell was kate blanchett doing there?? we do NOT need an american squid game spinoff with kate fucking blanchett as the recruiter and in-ho going full gi-hun and trying to infiltrate it and take it down in his memory or some bullshit STOP IT.

Another side note, why did they spend more time on min-su's grief over se-mi than like... any other character feeling anything?? i didn't give a shit about those two personally so every drawn-out drug-induced hallucination about it just felt like watching paint dry.

Also the games sucked. Sorry. They were all dissorientating in the most midly inconvenient way and the direction of this season was all over the place. whoever was director of photography for s3 needs to have a long think about things. And the sound design??? was it always that weird?? no, right? there wasn't always the freakish distorted music and stuff? and that weird prowler sound whenever gi-hun was staring at dae-ho and wanting to kill him?? I felt like i was going crazy it was either too silent or too loud but whatever.

And the CGI baby. Come on now. Terrible!!! There was an egregious amount of CGI in this season and it was very clearly rushed. you're on a Netflix budget with one of its most popular titles and you still managed to come out with cheap, uncanny special effects??? I would be happy about the use of CGI because yeah newborn babies look like that not like 4-month-olds and yeah that's a big rope swing u cant be throwing those at real people in real life without some serious waivers signed and some serious injuries nonetheless but you had the money to make it good. you should've taken the time, too. I have an inkling that the six-month gap between seasons instead of a few years had a small role to play in that, even if it was all shot at once. Maybe if you hadn't stretched out your nothing burger of a second season into two of them, we wouldn't be having these problems. It's just so confusing how season 3 felt so much lazier and just worse than season 2 when they should've been written, filmed, and begun post-production right alongside each other. so so sooo weird. The subpar performances of the actors i think didn't help. i just felt like i was watching actors act instead of watching people exist within a story and that always irks me. to be fair, with a cast that big, you really can't expect the greatest performances from all the nameless side characters. but like. still. lock in for me guys plz. and maybe stop throwing babies from extreme heights (Gi-hun is just a man)

The thing is, season 1 was neat and tidy and concise and heartwrenching and purposeful. It had a true meaning. A moral. It was a representation of the horrors of capitalism. The characters changed - gi-hun became an entirely new person due to the trauma of it all, sang-woo became colder and so desperate he was unrecognisable, sae-byeok's end was so tragic but before it happened, she learned to trust, jun-ho actually learned new things about his brother and the games and uncovered secrets as the viewers did and it was interesting - and the story was written with clear intention. This storyline, stretched over two seasons to get more fucking money from continuous streaming and renewal of interest, shocker, anti-capitalist my ass, was literally nothing more than a cash-grab. It was heartless. They somehow brought back queerbaiting for a second there. Nobody (at least I hope) believed it, but they tried. And that is just so so disappointing. Because they knew this story wouldn't stand on its own. They knew they had not written it for any real reason. It was all for the money. And how ironic is that?

This story could have been so good. All of the pieces were in place for them to craft something insanely relevant, a story about goodness, community, honesty, and hope beating the 1%. A story about redemption. A story about equality.

Instead, Squid Game season 3, and the overarching story of season 2, teach nothing more than there being only one thing we all can have and deserve to have: death.

Sacrifice yourself, give up, because the rich are just gonna keep getting richer. And you will never win. But, hey. There's always the next generation. Here's to hoping.

[orlaunderrated]

The Edges of Us: Chapter 13

First Chapter | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Will Lenney x fem reader; George Clarke x fem reader

Summary: Y/N has always been close to George—but everything changes when she catches feelings for his sharp-tongued, infuriatingly charming friend, Will. Torn between loyalty and desire, Y/N finds herself caught in a messy tangle of friendship, secrets, and unexpected love.

Word Count: 7.0k+

Note: SMUT again!!!!! i had SO many requests to write more so im trying!!! any authors want to give me tips id love that xxx

18+ only, MDNI

content warnings: blowjob, face fucking sorta, cum swallowing, exhibitionism I suppose?? idk what to call it. if I'm missing any let me know <33

xxx

The last three weeks? A blur.

It’s been… about as close to "not casual" as you can get without admitting it’s something real with Will. And I don’t know whether I should feel relieved or like I’m teetering on the edge of some emotional cliff.

He’ll wait for me to finish work, and then we’ll go out to dinner. Always somewhere low-key, somewhere we can avoid prying eyes.

But he hasn’t made me a cup of tea, not once. Not even when I’ve been on the edge of exhaustion, when a cup of Earl Grey could fix everything.

He’ll text me job opportunities his friends are posting—always practical, always thoughtful—but he doesn’t ask about my day, not in the way someone who’s really invested does.

Or maybe he's trying to keep it casual, like me.

And we never meet when the sun’s still high in the sky. It’s like he has this rule, a silent agreement we’ve never discussed: after dark, we exist. Before then? It’s as if we’re just... separate lives.

He hasn’t met my friends. Not Ruth, not anyone. It’s like I’m hiding him away, but I don’t really mind. I don’t want him to be friends with Ruth—she’d ask too many questions, and I’m not ready for that.

We don’t know what the other gets up to when we’re not together, but over text, we’re funny. We send memes, random jokes, and stupid updates, like we’re in some constant, low-stakes conversation. But it’s never about anything real. No talks about our days, no checking in on anything that matters. It’s just… banter.

It’s like we exist in parallel, connected by inside jokes and little moments, but never touching the deeper stuff. Until we come together for our stolen moments.

But god… it’s fun. It’s so much fun. He’s fun. He’s wild and unpredictable, and when we’re together, it’s like the world falls away.

And yeah, he’s pretty. He’s ridiculously pretty. Like it’s almost unfair.

But that’s the thing, isn’t it? It’s easy to get caught up in all of it. The thrill. The mystery. But I’m starting to wonder… is that enough?

xxx

Work was hell. One of those days where every email felt like a personal attack and the printer chose violence for the third time this week. My manager spent the afternoon breathing down my neck like I was personally responsible for the state of the global economy, and by the time I got on the tube, I felt like a chewed-up receipt someone had stomped on.

So when I finally unlock the front door, all I want is silence, maybe tea, maybe death.

Instead, it hits me immediately—music, laughter, and the low thrum of voices carrying down the hall from the living room.

Shit.

I thought I’d dodged this.

Chris texted something earlier about “lads round before the pub,” and I’d purposely stayed late at work, hoping I could sneak in, grab a snack, and vanish into my room unnoticed. No small talk. No beer breath.

No Will.

I’m not ready for him to see me like this. In my work clothes, Absolutely destroyed. My limbs are heavy, my brain is fried, and I have zero patience for banter or flirtation or pretending to be even remotely charming. I feel frayed at the edges, like if someone so much as asks me how my day was, I’ll burst into tears or flames—whichever comes first.

I try not to think about the last time I came home like this. When I’d been this wrecked, this worn down, and he saw it—all of it. I remember the quiet way he looked at me, like I wasn’t pathetic for falling apart over spreadsheets and deadlines. I remember how he kissed me like I made sense to him, even when I didn’t make sense to myself.

I almost get to my room. But then—

“Y/N!” Chris’s voice cuts through the noise like a boomerang of guilt. “You’re back! Come sit, we’ve got room!”

I freeze at the corner of the hallway, fingers still curled around the strap of my work bag. Just a second’s pause. Too long. George’s head turns. He sees me.

There’s no escape.

“Just for a bit,” I call back, keeping my voice light, masking the internal oh-for-fuck’s-sake that’s bubbling up behind my ribs .I step into the room and it’s like a spotlight swings right onto me. Seven pairs of eyes. A half-empty bottle of rum on the table. And Will—

Will, lounging across the couch like a Renaissance painting that got bored and discovered sarcasm. Long legs stretched out, one arm draped over the backrest, beer bottle balanced loosely in hand. He clocks me immediately, and his mouth curves—not into a smile, exactly, but into something far worse.

Our eyes meet.

It’s electric. Sharp. Stupid.

He's got that knowing tilt. That lazy smirk. That look that says: You came here for me, didn’t you?

So painfully obvious that I look away almost instantly, like that’ll stop my cheeks from heating up.

Chris kicks the beanbag next to him, indicating the spot he's 'found' for me. “Don’t be antisocial. You’ve earned a drink, coder queen.”

“Only if the drink contains morphine,” I mutter, letting my bag thunk to the floor. I move into the room slowly, careful not to look too long in Will’s direction, which of course just makes me more aware of every molecule of him.

George offers a vague nod from the armchair, glass coke-and-probably-rum in his hand. “Rough day?” he asks.

I shoot him a look that could curdle milk. “Define ‘rough.’” I don't mean to be so curt with him. But its hard not to be recently.

Will hums, eyes glinting. “Did someone interrupt your TikTok scroll with a meeting invite?”

I give him a saccharine smile. “No, just got emotionally waterboarded by capitalism. But thanks for your concern, William.”

He raises his beer in my direction, grin tugging at one corner of his mouth. “Cheers to emotional trauma.” The room laughs, Arthur snorts into his glass—but Will’s eyes don’t leave mine. Not really.

He’s joking. Obviously. That’s the game. We throw jabs, deflect with sarcasm, act like neither of us is keeping score. But there’s a flicker underneath it. His brow arches just slightly, the tilt of his head barely perceptible—but it’s there.

You alright?

He doesn’t say it out loud, and I don’t answer. Not with words. Just a half-smile, quick and crooked, the kind that says I’m fine even when I’m not. Especially when I’m not. I'm sure he sees right through it but that’s okay.

I take the spot Chris offered me on the beanbag, it's just close enough to feel the heat of Will’s gaze, but far enough that I can pretend to ignore it. The voices swirl around me, but they feel distant. My focus is too busy tuning itself to him. Chris hands me a rum and coke he's just mixed. I take one sip, holy fuck it's strong. I know I insinuated I wanted one with heavy drugs in it but goddamn. I mutter a thank you to him.

Will leans slightly forward, one elbow resting on his knee now. His fingers tap absently on the glass bottle. His eyes flick to mine again, like he’s checking I’m still there, still looking.

I am.

I always am.

The stress starts to slip off me in layers—first my shoulders, then my jaw. He doesn’t even say anything to me. Just exists in the room the way he does, all ease and quiet smugness. This always happens. I show up bristling and bitter, decide I won’t even look at him, and five minutes later I’m laughing at nothing, forgetting why I was mad in the first place.

I scan the room, counting names like mental flashcards. Chris. George. Arthur—both of them. Bach, curled up with a cider and a fresh haircut, hoodie sleeves pushed up like he’s about to solve a mystery or maybe start a band. But then there's a face I don’t recognise.

He’s shorter, with could-be curls and the kind of cheekbones that suggest he’s good at five-a-side. His football shirt is vintage, or at least cool enough to pretend it is. He catches me looking and offers a polite, not-unfriendly half-smile.

I nod, reflexively. Then—without thinking—glance at Will.

And he’s already looking at me.

He clocks the exchange immediately. Doesn’t miss a beat. “This is Stephen,” he says, voice pitched just that bit louder than necessary—like he’s introducing him to the room, but really, the message is mine. A soft thread tugging: I see you.

The conversation ripples with laughter, someone says something about Stephen being “the designated wildcard,” and I manage a real smile this time. Not forced. Not polite. Just… easy.

Will’s eyes find mine again. That same look—subtle and steady, with none of the usual bite. Not quite a smile, but something warmer than neutral. Something careful. Protective. Like he’s flicking the corner of a post-it note stuck to my ribs that says, You’re not invisible.

I want to thank him, for throwing me that social lifeline, for always noticing. For being the first and honestly only person who introduces me to people. It seems like everyone just assumes I should know them.

But the words catch in my throat, too heavy with everything we’re not saying. So instead, I shift on the beanbag, tuck one leg underneath me, and look away—pretending not to blush while the heat creeps up my neck like he lit a match inside me.

Still, I feel it.

That invisible line drawn across the floor. The energy between us shifts. It’s no longer sweet — it’s something else. It’s…

I meet is gaze, steady on me.

Like a secret that doesn’t need to be spoken to be known.

So I take a sip of my too-strong drink, pretending it doesn’t taste like his name on my tongue.

It’s…

Hot.

Heavy.

It’s…

everything I didn’t want to admit.

The conversation rolls on, picks up speed again like it never noticed I tried to derail it by existing. It’s normal. Casual.

I feel anything but.

Every nerve in my body is hyper-aware of Will’s presence. Of the three inches of space between his leg and George next to him. Of the way he isn’t drinking much, just slowly nursing a beer and glancing in my direction whenever someone else is talking.

I try not to notice.

I fail spectacularly.

“So, Will,” Chris says, stirring something neon and suspicious, “what’s going on with you? You seeing anyone? What happened to that girl from Dublin?”

My stomach tenses. I blink hard at the rim of my glass. I didn't know there was a girl from Dublin.

Will grins, infuriating and deliberate. “She moved back to Dublin, plus we couldn’t understand a word each other were saying.”

George scoffs. “Translation: she ghosted him after one mediocre date.”

“Excuse you,” Will says, hand on chest in mock injury. “My dates are never mediocre.”

He says it to the room, but he looks at me when he says it.

Direct. Unapologetic.

Like he’s daring me to contradict him.

Laughter breaks out around us. Chris chuckles into his drink. Arthur-who-i-don't-live-with claps once, delighted. George chuckles too at first. But I feel it. That subtle shift. The way his body leans back, almost imperceptibly, like he’s just remembered something, or just noticed something he hadn’t meant to see.

Will sits back again, smug. His fingers brush the rim of his bottle, slow and rhythmic.

Arthur-who-i-DO-live-with raises his eyebrows. “So what—you are seeing someone now?”

Will shrugs, slow and maddeningly nonchalant. “Yeah, sorta. It’s… early. Kind of nice, actually.”

The word nice lands on me like a spark. My heart flips.

I see George go stiff.

Arthur-who-i-don't-live-with lights up. “Is that an exclusive soft launch?”

Will tilts his head, grinning like he knows the chaos he’s about to cause. “Wouldn’t be very soft if I confirmed that, would it?”

More laughter. But I see it—the small clench in George’s jaw. The way his smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

My pulse is in my ears, like the room just tilted slightly and no one noticed but me.

I stare at glass, trying to focus on the ice melting. I don’t look at Will. I don’t look at George.

I try not to look like I’m thinking too hard about any of it.

The conversation has shifted again, and now I'm pretending to listen to whatever Arthur’s saying about Fantasy Premier League. Will’s directly across from me, half-lit by the warm lamplight, that same lazy posture like he hasn’t moved in an hour. But I can feel him.

Not see him.

Feel him.

The way his gaze keeps drifting—pulling across the space between us like a taut string. It slides over my cheek, down my collarbone, lingers somewhere just below my neckline. Never obvious. Never quite bold enough to be caught by anyone else. Well, except maybe George.

But I feel it. God, do I feel it.

I keep my face carefully neutral, sipping at my drink and nodding like I’m tuned in. I’m not. I’m hyperaware of everything else—of the way Will’s thumb rests along the bottle’s edge, slow circles, absent-minded but precise. Of the way his knee bumps against George’s once, shifts, then angles ever-so-slightly toward me. Of the flicker of his tongue as he licks a bit of beer from the corner of his mouth.

He hasn’t said a word to me in ten minutes.

And he doesn’t have to.

That silence between us? It’s louder than anything.

Someone jokes about going out soon, about being already half-cut—and the room laughs, the energy rising. I laugh too, a bit too high, a bit too fast. Will notices. Of course he does.

He lifts his bottle and tilts it slowly toward me. Barely half an inch. Just a twitch of his wrist. But it’s deliberate. Drink, love, it says.

I blink. Tilt my glass back in quiet rebellion.

He smirks.

The bastard.

Chris throws a cushion at Arthur, and the room devolves into a tangle of boys and half-empty mixers. But I stay grounded—anchored by Will’s eyes. Every time I glance up, I find him already looking. Like he doesn’t trust me to be in the same room without watching me.

I shift slightly on my beanbag, tug my work cardigan off my shoulders like it’s casual, like it’s just warm in here. It’s not. I’m ice inside and overheating all at once.

He doesn’t look at the cardigan. He watches my hands as I pull the sleeves over my wrists, watches my fingers fiddle with the hem like I’m trying not to fidget. Like I’m unravelling, slowly, and he’s enjoying every second.

George says something beside him, and Will nods along, doesn’t break eye contact.

Doesn’t need to.

His gaze is that constant hum under my skin. That pressure behind my ribs. That memory of last week’s hands on my skin—of mouths, too fast and too familiar, of breathless laughter tangled in the dark.

I press my knees tighter together, shift again.

Will’s brow lifts—subtle, cocky. Like he knows exactly what I’m doing.

I clench my jaw. Look away.

Then, under the coffee table—light, so light—I feel it. The brush of his foot. Just barely grazing the side of mine.

I don’t move.

I don’t flinch.

But my pulse kicks up like I’ve been yanked out of my own skin.

I glance up again, carefully, slowly. Will’s talking now. Joking about something, deflecting someone’s dig, probably Stephen's, but his eyes flick back to mine mid-sentence. And the corner of his mouth twitches.

That almost-smile. That “I know what this is doing to you” look.

I hate him. I hate how well he reads me. How much I want to close the distance between us in front of everyone. How I can’t.

Someone’s asking me a question—Arthur, maybe—but it doesn’t land. I answer with a nod I barely register. My brain is half-fog, half-fire, and all of it is him.

He shifts again, knees spreading wider, then lets his hand drop to his thigh. His thumb taps once. Still watching me.

I sip my drink just to give my hands something to do. I’m going to combust.

And he knows it.

Xxx

There is a lull in the conversation, and I can feel another story starting, another distraction spinning through the air like glitter. I use the moment and push myself to my feet.

“Gonna crash,” I say casually, stretching like the act of standing isn’t a full-body escape. “You lot have fun.”

There’s a scattered chorus of goodnights. George offers a warm “Sleep well,” and Chris winks like I’ve just admitted defeat to my own social battery.

Will doesn’t say anything.

But I feel his eyes follow me as I walk out.

I don’t look back.

Upstairs, my room is dark and quiet, the low hum of bass from downstairs barely bleeding through the floor. I close the door gently, not quite clicking it shut. Just in case.

I exhale.

Then I sit on the edge of my bed, the silence thick around me, hands pressed into the blanket like I need the grounding. The energy from the night still crackling across my skin.

Two minutes later—barely enough time for me to even kick off my shoes—I hear the floorboard outside my door creak.

The faintest knock.

Then the door opens. Will slips in without waiting for a reply, like it’s not a question. Like this has always been the plan. He clicks the door closed behind him.

He’s holding his half-finished beer. His brows lift when he sees me still sitting on the edge of the bed, like he expected something different—maybe pyjamas, maybe distance.

“We have to stop meeting like this,” he says, voice low and easy, like the joke’s been waiting on his tongue all night.

I glance up. “Like what?”

He tips his head toward the clutter. “You. Me. This cursed little museum of other people’s bad purchases.”

I snort. “Hey, don’t knock the early-career YouTuber aesthetic. George says the broken drone adds character.”

He glances at the corner like it personally offends him, eyes landing on the toppled ring light still leaning sideways against the wall.

“That tripod’s still knocked over,” he says, mouth twitching. “Should’ve known you’d leave it exactly where we kicked it.”

I shoot him a look. “Technically, you kicked it. While trying to multitask.”

He steps a little closer, slow, smug. He’s still standing. I’m still seated, spine straightening without meaning to as he closes a bit of the distance. “I was very focused,” he says.

“On making a mess?”

“On you.”

God.

That look on his face—just barely smug, but warm underneath, like he’s remembering the exact moment he lost focus. The way his voice drops when he says you.

It does something to me.

I try not to let it show. But suddenly I’m hyper-aware of the way he fills the doorway. The way his shirt clings to the dip of his collarbone. The light catching on the edge of his jaw. He smells like citrus and beer and something faintly like heat.

He’s not even trying, and I feel like I’m about to go up in flames.

That shuts me up for half a second too long. He notices—of course he does—and the smugness softens, just a fraction. Not gone, just folded beneath something quieter.

“Yeah, well, I live here rent-free. I don’t get to be picky.”

“There’s a monitor from 2011 under your bed.”

“And yet you keep showing up.”

He smiles at that—slow, crooked. Dangerous. “Yeah. Wonder why that is.”

He doesn’t move closer. Just lingers near the door, like he's giving me the choice. Like if I said go, he would.

I don’t. Obviously.

He scans the room again, like he’s seeing it for the first time—even though this isn’t new. He's been here before. More times than makes sense, actually.

More than makes sense for two people pretending not to mean anything.

His voice softens. “You alright?”

“I am now,” I say, quieter than I mean to.

He nods like he already knew. Like it’s not the first time I’ve said that to him.

Then a beat. Just enough silence to feel like gravity.

He looks at me, just looks, still standing, beer in hand, five feet of electric space between us, and says, “Funny, isn’t it?”

“What is?”

“This keeps happening.” His eyes flick around the room—the clutter, the quiet, me sitting there in the middle of it all like a scene he keeps returning to. “Me ditching my mates. You sitting here like you didn’t plan on letting me in.”

I try to look unimpressed. “I didn’t.”

He takes one slow step forward. “You always leave the door open.”

“I always forget to close it.”

“Sure you do.”

His voice is lower now, steadier, pulling something out of me like thread from a seam. I should say something clever. I should move. But I can’t. I just sit there, heart thudding, skin flushed, and think—

He looks so fucking good.

And then I do move.

I stand slowly, like I’m not entirely sure why I’m doing it, like gravity’s just pulled me to my feet instead of common sense. We’re closer now—barely a foot between us—and he watches me rise like it’s happening in slow motion.

He opens his mouth like he might say something else, but I don’t give him the chance.

I kiss him.

Soft at first, but insistent. Like I’ve been thinking about this all night—and I have. His mouth tastes like beer and something sharper underneath. I grip his collar and feel his breath catch against mine.

He kisses me back, of course he does—hands sliding to my hips, grounding me, anchoring us—but there’s something restrained in it. Like he’s kissing me carefully.

I know that version of him. That cautious, thinking-too-much version.

So I tip things.

My hands slide lower, thumbs brushing under the hem of his shirt. I toy with the edge of his waistband, tug lightly, just enough to make a point.

He breaks the kiss with a soft, breathy laugh. “All of my mates are literally a door away.”

I look up at him, deliberately unfazed. “So?”

His breath hitches again.

It’s almost funny, how flustered he gets when I push things. He’s all bark in the living room, teasing across the room with smug little comments and those eyes. But in here, with me? His confidence slips just a little when I’m the one steering.

"I think they're about—” he starts, but he doesn’t finish.

I kiss him again, firmer this time, my hands threading through the collar of his shirt, pulling him closer like I own this moment. “We’re already being stupid. Might as well commit.”

Will leans back against the door, just like the first time he pressed me here—his body a solid frame against mine. The heat between us sizzles, silent but undeniable, like electricity sparking in the tight space.

My fingers move to his chest. I pull back just enough to catch my breath, eyes locked on his. “I need five minutes and a hairtie,” I say, voice low, teasing with a dangerous edge.

He arches a brow, a slow, reluctant smile curling his lips. “Five minutes? What’s the plan, boss?”

I step forward, voice dropping to a sultry whisper as I lean close, so close he can feel my breath against his jaw. “You’ve been looking at me like you can’t resist me all night," I murmur, "may as well give you what you want."

He laughs, rough and easy, but there’s a flicker of hesitation in his eyes, I know he's nervous, with all his mates next door but let's be real, he's a guy. He won’t think about the consequences of a blowjob if it means getting a blowjob.

“Alright, alright. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Good,” I murmur, my lips brushing his ear, “because I like you exactly where you are.”

I step back just enough to grab the scrunchie from the messy bed, my fingers trembling slightly over the pile of clothes and tech junk. The crooked ring light teeters but doesn’t fall.

Will watches every move, his gaze sharp and hungry, the light catching the planes of his face—jawline, collarbone, that subtle crease above his brow.

I twist my hair up slow, deliberately, locking eyes with him the entire time. When I turn back around, he’s still by the door, eyes dark, lips slightly parted.

Without warning, he reaches out, fingers sliding around my waist, pulling me close again. His touch is firm, possessive, and completely sure—like he’s claiming every inch of me without holding anything back.

My hands press against his chest, feeling the steady pulse beneath his shirt, matching the wild racing in my own veins. I let my lips drift lower, tracing a slow path along his jaw, brushing against the sharp angle, every kiss deliberate, every breath warm against his skin.

Will's breath catches. I bite lightly at the curve of his neck, my teeth teasing, my tongue on his skin just enough to make him shiver. My fingers find their way back to his waistband, and I feel his bare skin under his shirt, my fingers ghosting along his hips.

Without breaking the kiss, my fingers fumble hurriedly at his belt buckle, the tension making my hands tremble just enough to slow me down. It catches on the metal, stubborn. He leans in, breath warm against my ear, and with a quick, practiced motion, frees the clasp.

His hands slip around my waist again, fingers pressing into my skin, pulling me impossibly closer—solid, grounding me in the wildfire sparking between us.

His eyes darken, shadows deepening into something fierce and hungry, raw and unfiltered, completely caught in this moment like nothing else exists beyond us.

I can feel the heat radiating off him, the steady thrum of his heartbeat syncing with mine, every second stretching out, heavy and electric.

Theres no hesitation now, just the undeniable pull, the raw energy crackling through the air.

I kiss him again—no time for pleasantries—my tongue sliding boldly down his throat, hungry and demanding, like I’m trying to swallow every word he’s left unsaid.

I push his jeans down his legs, just enough to give me access to his briefs. I palm his dick through them, a moan escaping his mouth into mine. His knees buckle just slightly, but enough for me to notice. I giggle softly, breathless, and he responds by moving his hands up, cupping my face gently—his touch warm and steady, grounding me even as everything else feels like it’s spinning.

I want to tease him a little longer—draw this out, keep the heat simmering—but I’m wary of the time, the situation.

I told him five minutes. I’ll deliver on my promise.

So I pull back just enough to flash him a sly smile, my fingers trailing teasingly down his chest before stepping away, leaving the tension hanging between us like a spark waiting to catch fire.

“Five minutes,” I remind him softly, voice low and mischievous.

I drop to my knees faster than he’s expecting. I know because when I look up, his eyes widen—surprise flickering across his face.

My hands work quickly, sliding his briefs down, then his jeans, the fabric slipping and pooling around his ankles like they don’t belong.

He’s exposed and vulnerable now, and somehow it only makes my grin widen.

His hands find my hair, fingers curling tightly around my locks, tugging firmly—sharp enough to sting but slow enough to tease—setting the tone so fast it knocks the breath out of me.

Heat surges through me, but I have to steady myself, remind myself we don’t have all night to make this flirty or even sexy.

There’s no time to ease into it, no room for slow burns or soft teasing.

Just this—raw, urgent, and real.

I take him in my mouth, my tongue swirling around his tip, trying to make it as slick as quickly as I possibly can. I can taste his precum, and I catch every last drop.

I move forward, taking him into my mouth as deep as possible, my hand covering the rest. I'm still not over how big he is. For a skinnier guy hes a) strong and b) hung. I press one hand lightly on his bare thigh, using it to steady myself—feeling the warmth of his skin beneath my palm, grounding me in the moment.

I look up at him, drinking in the way his chest heaved and how his eyes were screwed shut. His mouth is hanging open, He's trying to not moan, I can see it in how he bites his lips, how tight the grip is on my hair. I wish he would, he has the prettiest little moans I've ever heard.

He tells me late at night, when we’re soft and happy and talking about anything and everything, that he doesn’t moan.

I’ve learned otherwise.

And tonight? Tonight is just more proof.

“holy fuck.” he breathed out, as quietly as he could. He's not able to stop himself from thrusting down, his eyes blinking open, a shocked face looking down, looking at me. I look back, hollowing my cheeks, taking him deeper. He hits the back of my throat over and over, im gagging slightly, but not too loud.

I hope.

His hips were shaking now, and he was twitching in my mouth.

"Love can I - " he breaths softly, looking down at me. One of his hands is now detangled from my hair, finding its way to my cheeks.

Even now, like this, he’s soft with me.

Despite everything, there’s a gentleness in the way he holds me, in the way he lets himself be vulnerable—right here, right now.

“Can I move? Can I…” It’s so cute and honestly downright hot when he says things like that—when he asks sweetly before taking the next step, like he’s checking in, making sure I’m okay. Before he fucks my face.

I nod, mouth still full of him. He smiles at me, hands returning to my hair, further back now, and much tighter.

his hips set a restless pace, it's hard to breathe, but god. If he looks like that he can do anything to me.

My name spills from his lips, soft and quiet—like a prayer. Like a plea.

It catches in my chest, a tender weight I didn’t expect but don’t want to ignore.

He moves a hand,  ushing a stray lock of hair from my forehead, my fingers trembling just a little.

Tears start to well in my eyes, blurring my vision until I can’t see him clearly anymore. My body feels like it’s on fire—every nerve alive, every breath catching like it’s too much and not enough all at once.

“god, fuck, yeah-,” he stumbles over his own words, the pleasure taking over him completely.

Will's muscles are strained in his long sleeves, and he pushes my head further down him.

He groans quietly—low, guttural, a sound that vibrates through me and sets something deep loose.

I blink, tears falling from my face. His pace falters for a second, but I softly move my fingers on his thigh.

Its okay, keep going.

His pace resumes, but not for long. “sh-shit, I’m gonna… fuck.” his body began to shake, and I restrict my mouth around him one last time. His pace stops, and his body shudders forward. Hands still firmly tangled in my hair.

I felt his hot, desperate load down fall down my throat. 

and I swallow all of it, like a goddamn champ. I clean off his cock with my tongue and finally let him drop from my mouth, wiping the sides of my lips with my thumb. He whimpers, clearly overstimulated, and is looking at me like I just sucked his soul clean out of him.

Maybe I did.

Will is still catching his breath, chest rising and falling as he recovers. I revel in the site. A silent I did this to him.

He pulls his jeans back up his body, fixing his belt. Then, slow and steady, he extends a hand to lift me off the floor.

His fingers brush the tears from my face, wiping them away gently. He smiles at me—sweetly, innocently—as if we hadn’t just committed filthy sin in his mate’s storage cupboard.

He kisses me, deeply, and tastes all of himself on my tongue.

"Holy… Fuck" he says. Our faces only inches away. "You weren't kidding about five minutes. I've never cum that quick in my life".

"What can I say? I'm a woman of my word, I say, cheeks very warm. I can feel my own heat sticking through my underwear. I'll have to sort myself out later, when the flat is empty.

Oh my god. The flat isn't empty.

If anything its very full.

Will’s breath is still warm on my neck.

We haven’t said anything in a minute, he's holding me close to him, his back still against the door, like he didn’t actually want to pull away. My chest is flush against his and his hands are still resting on my waist like he's forgotten how to let go.

“Think they’ll notice I’m gone?” he mutters, voice low against my skin.

I don’t get the chance to answer, because right then, through the door, we hear it:

“Oi, where’s Will?” George.

Will stiffens. I feel it immediately — every muscle in him goes tense.

Shit.

We’re still standing way too close. I try to move but he doesn’t step back. Not right away. He just lifts his head, eyes flicking toward the door like he can see straight through it.

“He was just here?” says Arthur-who-i-do-live-with.

They don’t sound suspicious. Yet. Just drunk. Loud. Careless.

Will finally shifts, just enough to ease the weight between us, but he doesn’t step away.

His arms stay around me, loose but certain, like letting go isn’t an option yet. One hand trails slowly down my arm, brushing my skin in a way that sends shivers up my spine—but instead of stopping, he links our fingers together, holding me there.

Close.

Warm.

Silent, but full of something neither of us dares to name.

I take a shaky breath, still wrapped in him, pretending I’m fine.

Not flushed.

Not trembling.

Not wildly aware that we’re tucked away in my bedroom with friends just metres away and his heartbeat still thudding against mine.

And even though we should be moving, disappearing before anyone notices—we don’t.

Because neither of us wants to be the first to pull away.

“Bathroom?” someone says. Then there’s the sound of doors opening — hallway cupboard. Not mine.

“This is bad,” I whisper.

He shrugs, but his eyes are still locked on the door like it might vanish if he stares hard enough. “Only if they find me.”

I look up at him quickly. He grins. Bastard.

“Come on, we’re heading out!” Chris calls. Muffled, but definitely closer. “Will, don’t make me come find you!”

Outside, someone knocks on the bathroom door. A beat of silence. Then George again: “If he’s having a tactical, he better hurry the hell up.”

They’re all still yelling and fumbling around out there, no idea he’s right here, ten feet from them — hair messy because of me, shirt untucked because of me. I hold onto him, heart racing.

Will and I both freeze when we hear the bathroom door open.

“Nope,” George calls. “He’s not in there. Ghosted us.”

Will glances at me. He looks amused.

I don’t.

Outside, footsteps echo down the hallway — Chris stomping like he’s on a mission, Arthur’s voice somewhere behind him, probably making sarcastic commentary, and Stephen mumbling something about just leaving without Will entirely.

Will leans his head closer to the voices, listening carefully.

He holds up a finger: wait.

And then, the second their voices fade past my room and toward the front of the flat, he opens the door just enough to slip out.

It happens fast. Quiet. Like he’s done this before.

But right before he disappears fully into the hallway, he glances back at me — not a smirk this time, not a wink. Just… a look.

I don’t know what it means.

Then he’s gone.

I hear his voice seconds later, chiming in with the group like he’s been there the whole time.

“Oi, I was getting my jacket. Calm down.”

They laugh—one of those tired, half-drunk bursts of laughter that echoes down the hall.

Chris curses him out, but it’s half-hearted, more fond than furious.

And I can hear Stephen’s already halfway out the door—his voice going all echoey as it carries from the shared hallway, fading in and out between open space and walls.

They’re leaving.

They think Will’s just behind them.

And I’m still here, tangled up in him, trying to catch my breath while pretending this doesn’t feel like more than it’s meant to be.

But then there’s a pause.

A beat.

Arthur's voice isn’t loud — just close. “…You didn’t get your jacket from Y/Ns room, though.”

Silence.

My phone buzzes.

I ignore it.

It’s probably Ruth. Or maybe it’s Chris asking if I want to come with them. Either way, I don’t have it in me to check right now.

I curl onto my bed, knees pulled in, face pressed to the pillow that still smells like his shampoo. I can still sort of hear them, I guess they're at the front door, dicking around with the uber app, realising they need an XL.

Will’s voice is the first I catch.

“yeah were… It’s… a thing. Kind of.”

The words hit like a slap I saw coming but didn’t move fast enough to dodge.

I don’t even know what the question was. Doesn’t matter.

The way he says it — awkward, hesitant, like he’s embarrassed to say more — that’s the part that sticks.

Not a relationship.

Not I really like her.

Just a thing. Kind of.

God.

What happened to "it's kind of nice, actually." from before?

There’s a short silence, and then George pipes up, far too quickly.

“I’m happy for you, mate.”

But his voice betrays him. There’s something sharp under the words. Brittle.

And the others go quiet, like they heard it too.

I go still, barely breathing, straining to hear anything else — but the silence that follows says enough.

Because I know George, better than most.

Will doesn’t reply right away.

I imagine him there — shifting uncomfortably, maybe rubbing the back of his neck like he does when he’s not sure if he should push or back off.

I almost wish I could see his face.

Almost.

A few minutes later, I hear the front door shut. Voices blur into the street noise—Chris yelling something, someone laughing too hard—and then the house finally settles.

Quieter. But not quiet.

Not in my head.

I don’t move. I just sit there, staring at the chipped edge of my bedside table like it might tell me what I’m meant to feel.

I want to be angry.

At George, for whatever that was.

At Will, for saying "It’s... a thing. Kind of.”

Like I’m a side quest. A rumour. A shrug.

But the worst part is—

he's not wrong.

That’s what we agreed to. No pressure. No label. Nothing real.

Just fun.

But it's not just fun anymore. I'm sure of it. It's changed somewhere.

Somewhere between when he notices when I’ve had a bad day before I say a word.

When he brings me the crisps I always pretend I don’t want. When he lingers after everyone else has left — just long enough to ask if I’m okay, but not long enough to make it obvious.

Somewhere in the way he kisses me like he means it.

I rub my palms down my jeans, still not sure if I want to scream, cry, or just disappear into the mattress entirely. There’s a twisting feeling in my chest—hot and stupid and hard to name.

Not heartbreak.

But definitely something cracked.

My phone buzzes on the nightstand, screen lighting up in the dim room.

 lol cat’s out the bag

The boys are teasing me for how fucked my hair looks.

I don’t respond to him, not yet.

You alright? Want me to come back up?

I stare at the screen, thumb hovering over the reply bubble, but I don’t type anything. Because I don’t know what I’d say. Not yet.

Lol

Probably should've thought that more through

Enjoy your night!!

I feel so tired now. The heat in my cheeks is long gone, replaced by something strange and hollow—like whatever was burning in me has cooled too quickly, leaving just the ash behind.

I want to forget about George, I really do. Because this—this sharp edge under his words—it's not just a random mood swing. It’s personal. And it’s unfair. Because he was the one who rejected me. Not the other way around. But I don’t want to think about George. I don’t want to untangle the way my chest tightens when I hear his voice. Or the way his eyes flicker when he catches me looking. I want to focus on Will.

But George—George is a weight I can’t shake, and it feels like he’s dragging me back every time I try to move forward.

And it’s not fair. Not to me. Not to anyone. I rub my palms against my trousers , willing the knot in my stomach to loosen.

But it won’t.

xxx

Taglsit: @meglouise00@migilini @thankyoulovely @mosviqu @formulaal @jonnybernthalslover @tiredqzl @mrswillne @ravenaz

[fantasticfourthwingimagines]

You've Got All My Love Pairing - Ridoc Gamlyn x Reader Summary - When you help pull a prank on Ridoc, it has some unforeseen repercussions. Not that you're complaining. At all. Word Count - 5.4k Warnings - SMUT. 18+ Only! Other than that cute and fluffy. <3

It wasn’t often that you felt at ease. You tend to live in a constant, high functioning state of anxiety, whether that be about an upcoming exam or the imminent threat of death. Right now though, you couldn’t deny that you were . . . relaxed. 

You were in a circle with the squad, minus Violet who you were fairly sure had gone off somewhere to find Xaden Riorson, passing around a bottle that Rhiannon had managed to steal from an unwatched table. You wore a pretty black skirt, your head resting on Ridoc’s shoulder and Sawyer laughing on your other side at something Liam had said. 

It was better than anything you’d dared to imagine your future might look like. 

“Now that we’ve established that Fourth Wing has the hottest cadets,” Rhiannon said with a grin, “it begs the question . . . who’s the hottest?”

You barely registered the question. Ridoc’s fingers had been tracing lazy, invisible patterns up and down your back for the past five minutes, and it was doing all kinds of things to your focus. You felt like a cat ready to curl into the nearest warm spot, which just so happened to be Ridoc. It was only when Sawyer poked your side that you remembered your role in their little prank. “Well? What do you think?” He asked you, a playful gleam in his eyes. 

Ridoc snorted. “Oh, come on. It’s obviously going to be -“

“Liam,” you cut in, sitting up and nodding across the circle toward him.

There was a beat of silence. You didn’t even have to look to feel Ridoc freeze beside you, his hand halting mid-motion on your back. 

“Good to know someone around here has taste.” Liam said, winking and tipping his bottle toward you. 

Heat flared in your face, but it wasn’t from Liam. It was the weight of Ridoc’s stare burning into your cheek. You didn’t meet his gaze. You couldn’t. The second you did, you’d crack. 

So, for some reason, maybe curiosity, maybe impulse, you pushed the joke one step further. 

“Maybe you can see how good my taste is sometime,” you said, voice laced with more flirt than you’d ever let slip. 

Immediate regret swirled in your gut, but then you glanced at the reactions. 

Sawyer was fighting within an inch of his life to not laugh, Rhiannon was staring at you in stunned disbelief, blinking like she must have misheard you, and Liam’s eyebrows shot up before he flashed you a devilish grin. “I might have to take you up on that.” 

“What the hell? I’m right here.” 

You looked at Ridoc. 

His expression hit you like a punch to the chest. He wasn’t just hurt, he was furious. His jaw clenched, lips pressed into a line, and he was glaring at Liam like the man had committed a war crime. The warmth you’d felt from his hand was gone, and instead his hand was absolute ice against you. 

“And?” Liam challenged, clearly enjoying pushing Ridoc’s buttons.  

Ridoc looked like he was about to leap across the circle, and punch him. The coldness in his touch was unbearable, and you shifted away, unable to take the tension coiled in his whole body. 

Then Sawyer burst out laughing, followed by Rhiannon, and Liam wasn’t far behind. 

Ridoc blinked. The anger on his face gave way to confusion. He turned to you, a silent question in his eyes.  

You wrapped your hand around his wrist, giving it a squeeze. “Sawyer said he’d do my History homework if I said that.” You reassured him, gliding your thumb across his racing pulse. 

“Worth it.” Sawyer wheezed, doubled over with laughter.

The tension in Ridoc’s shoulders started to ease, the corners of his mouth twitching. His cheeks flushed slightly as he glanced around at your grinning squad. 

Then his gaze settled on you. 

The way he looked at you, intense, focused, like you were the only thing in his world, sent a ripple of heat down your spine. Then he smirked. That familiar, maddening smirk. “Oh, I’m so going to get you for that.” 

You were already on your feet, laughter bubbling out of you as you darted away, his footsteps right behind you. You didn’t even think. You ran, more laughter breaking free as you bolted across the courtyard. 

He was faster. You could feel him closing in, chasing you through the chaos of bodies and across the slick bricks. You dodged a second year before a pair of strong hands caught your hips and spun you around - 

- and your back hit the wall. 

Brick met your spine with a jolt. You gasped, more from surprise than pain. Then his knee slid between your thighs, and suddenly you couldn’t remember how to breathe at all. 

You were still smiling when you looked up at Ridoc, but it faded fast under the intensity of his stare. “That was mean, you know.” He murmured, teasing, but his voice had dropped an octave, and the way he pinned your wrists made your pulse stutter. 

Then those hands slid down to yours, fingers threading through like it was the most natural thing in the world. 

“I know,” you breathed, “It’s why I couldn’t look at you.” 

Ridoc shook his head, then leaned forward to press his forehead against yours. “That’s not why you couldn’t look at me.”

Your brow furrowed. “What?” 

“You couldn’t look at me,” he said, voice low and sure, “because you knew it was a lie.” 

You snorted, a smile tugging at your lips despite yourself. Gods, the confidence of this man. “You are so full of it, Ridoc Gamlyn.” 

But that infuriating, beautiful smirk deepened. “Never said you thought I was the hottest, sweetheart, but now I need you to say it.” You stopped breathing for a moment as he lifted the hands he was holding above your head, pinning them to the wall. “Who do you actually think is the hottest in the wing?” 

He was everywhere, filling your senses until you thought you might go mad. His chocolate brown eyes were staring straight through you, pupils blown wide. His breath, slightly uneven, ghosted across your skin. The scent of him, orange and cypress, wrapped around you like heat. His hands, no longer cold, held yours in a tight grip, and it took everything in you not to press against the knee between your thighs. 

Only one sense was missing, the one you craved most. 

Taste. 

“You.” You whispered, heart pounding. “I’ve always thought it was you.” 

“That’s what I thought.” He replied, and then it happened. He leaned in and kissed you. 

And there were no dragons to throw water on the two of you, no friends to barge in, no bells to get to class. It was just Ridoc’s lips and yours, meeting after months and months of tension, teasing and touches. 

It was better than you could have ever imagined. 

You remembered Violet telling you how disappointed she’d been after kissing Dain, that there were no sparks. You wouldn’t be having that problem, because Ridoc Gamlyn kissed like a spark turned wildfire. He didn’t waste time with a chaste kiss, testing the waters, no, immediately his lips parted yours, and his tongue slipped into your mouth like he was done waiting. He kissed you like he knew what you needed and intended to give you all of it. You burned with the need to touch him, run your fingers through his soft hair, but he held your hands pinned above your head, fingers laced, holding you there like he owned every second of your pleasure. 

And gods help you, he probably did. 

When he pulled away, your lips followed with a soft whimper, needy, unguarded, and you saw his eyes darken at the sound. “So, on a scale from one to ten-“ 

He couldn’t be serious right now. “Ridoc Gamlyn, I swear to Dunne, if you don’t kiss me again I’ll-”

Ridoc chuckled for a second, and then he kissed you again, finally letting go of your hands. As the pleasure of his kiss flowed through you, you wasted no time tangling your fingers in his soft, brown hair like you’d dreamed of doing a hundred times. Ridoc’s hands, meanwhile, were doing a slow slide down your body, setting every nerve alight. One of his hands stopped at your hips while the other kept going, fingers slipping through the slit of your skirt to land on your thigh. You gasped, soft and sharp. 

Ridoc had touched you before, but not like this. There was an intimacy to it, slow and claiming, that left a trail of fire and ice in its wake. You shivered, aching for more. Gods how you needed that touch everywhere. Every inch of you craved his hands, even if it burned you alive. You were desperate, hungry for him in a way you’d never been for anyone else in your life. 

You sighed as he pulled away again, but this time his lips traveled down your neck, kissing all the exposed skin. “Gods I fucking love this skirt.” 

“So do I,” you agreed, letting out a breathless laugh that turned into a moan as he found a spot on your neck and started sucking. You knew it would leave a mark, and gods, you wanted it to. Until now, you never thought you would want that, but something about Ridoc doing it made it so . . . hot. You wanted everyone to know he’d done it. That he’d marked you as his, chose you as his. Your fingers fisted in his hair as you rocked your hips down against his thigh, desperate for friction, for something to soothe the ache curling hot and tight inside you. 

Ridoc groaned, his grip on your thigh tightening, almost bruising, as he dragged you closer, and you let out a moan of your own as you felt how hard his length was against your thigh. It blew your mind that you had been able to do that. That he wanted you as bad as you wanted him. “I thought I was going to kill Liam.” He murmured, brushing a kiss over the spot he’d marked. The tenderness of it made your knees weak. “You’re mine, remember?” 

He didn’t say it viciously. Like he was mad that you had “flirted” with Liam. No, he said it like he needed the reminder. Ridoc needed you to reassure him that you weren’t someone else’s. It was almost a contradiction, how he’d left a possessive mark for the world to see, yet needed you to say it aloud. Like he wanted everyone to see you were his, but needed to hear the words from your lips. “Yeah, Ridoc. I’m yours.” You told him, and you slid your hands from his hair to his cheeks, tugging him up to face you so you could look in his eyes. “Yours,” you repeated, stroking his cheeks with your thumbs. 

Ridoc nodded, then surged forward to kiss you, needy, wild, all tongues and teeth. His body pressed against yours, but it still wasn’t close enough. You arched your hips, and he groaned when you pressed against him, a sound you wanted to hear him make for the rest of your life. His hand on your thigh slipped the slightest bit higher while the hand on your hip moved to your back, his fingertips digging in though the fabric like he wanted to brand you. Tension built up low in your stomach with each passing second, and when Ridoc’s thumb swept across your inner thigh, so close to where you were aching, you whimpered. 

Ridoc pulled away, pressing his forehead against yours. “I wanna take you to my room.” He said, voice low and breathless, “but only if you want to.”

Oh Gods how you wanted that, but you knew you had to tell him first in case he wanted to change his mind. “I want to. I’ve wanted to for a while now.” You bit your lip, heat rushing to your cheeks as you hesitated. “But you should know I’ve never . . . I’ve never done this so I’m probably not good at it.” 

His brow furrowed as he looked at you. “You’ve never done-” it took him a minute for the words to make sense, but when they did, his eyes widened in disbelief. “You’ve never had sex?” 

Of course Ridoc would say it that bluntly. You nodded, your eyes searching his face for an insight to his reaction, but all you could see was shock. “I understand if you don’t want to be the first-”

“No - wait, yes. Shit this is coming out wrong,” Ridoc shook his head, then took a deep breath. “The fact that you trust me, want me to be your first, that turns me on more than I could ever tell you. It’s just you’re the hottest fucking girl I’ve ever seen, and I can’t believe no one has tried to get in your pants.” 

Heat flushed to your cheeks at his words. “They’ve tried . . . They just didn’t get very far.” You ducked your head, suddenly shy. You’d never felt any sort of desire to sleep with anyone for a long time, or . . . ever. “I haven’t wanted to . . . not until you.” You looked up at him, heart pounding. “I know that’s a lot.” 

You’d spent a lot of your first year at Basgaith studying dragons, physics, battles, but another that wasn’t on the curriculum was Ridoc. You’d watched him more than you cared to admit, but the result was you felt like you could read his face better than anyone’s, and right now, all you could see was desire. 

Ridoc let out a groan like he couldn’t take anymore. “Fuck, that’s it.” 

You let out a startled gasp as you were hoisted in the air, slung over Ridoc’s shoulder like you weighed nothing. “Ridoc!” You yelped, grabbing for the back of his shirt. “What are you doing?!” You asked, a disbelieving laugh on your lips. 

“Romantically sweeping you off your feet so I can ravish you with the best sex of your life in my room.” He said matter-of-factly, and thank gods no one was around to hear him because your face felt like it was on fire, along with other parts of your body. Because honestly? 

You believed him. 

He carried you up to his room, one arm locked around your thighs while the other swung at his side in a casual show of strength that had your toes curling. He didn’t even try to be discreet, and you earned a few curious glances from passersby. Eventually though, you made it to his room, and he placed you on his bed, biting his lip as he gazed at you. 

You’d been on Ridoc’s bed more times than you could count, usually curled up next to him, falling asleep during study sessions. But this was different. You kept waiting for the nerves to set in, anxiety to course through your body, but to your surprise, it didn’t. Instead anticipation made your fingers twitch as you watched him unbutton his shirt and slide it off his shoulders. You’d seen him shirtless countless times, but it never got old. You let your eyes trace the lines of his well toned chest up his arms to Aotrom’s relic, pausing once you reached his face, and suddenly, you didn’t want to wait another second to touch him again.

You leaned forward, grabbing his arms and tugging him down on the bed, smiling at him as he settled between your thighs like he’d always belonged there. You let your fingertips trail across the skin of his arms, over his collarbone and down his chest, watching with fascination as it tensed under your gentle touch. Your hands slipped over his sides and wound around his back. “You’re beautiful,” you whispered, as his lips brushed against your cheek in a kiss so tender it made your chest ache. 

“That’s my line.” Ridoc murmured against your skin, but you could feel his smile against your cheek. His hand slid lower along your spine, pausing once he reached the zipper of your shirt. He pulled back to look at your face. “Can I take this off?” 

You nodded, and Ridoc leaned back so you could roll over on your stomach, making it easier for him to unzip the shirt. 

A shiver rolled through you as his hands trailed down your bare back. You closed your eyes, savoring the way his touch made your skin feel like it was glowing. It was only when the shirt was undone, and he was sliding the sleeves from your shoulders that you realized something strange. 

His hands were shaking. 

You glanced at him over your shoulder, and instead of finding the confident, smirking man you knew so well, you found someone who looked . . . nervous. You sat up, turning to face him. “Rid? What’s wrong?” You asked, cupping his face in your hands again. 

He shook his head, a little smile on his lips. “I’ve thought about this a million times. How gorgeous you would look, how amazing you would taste, everything I wanted to do to you.” His hands slid up and down your arms, slow and reverent, “but not once did I think about all the ways I could mess this up. Not until now.” 

Gods, was this man oblivious? You shook your head at him, brushing some waves back from his face. “I can’t believe you don’t see how impossible it is for you to screw this up. I mean you could ask for something as gross as me licking your toe, and I care about you so much I’d consider doing it.” 

Ridoc raised his eyebrow at you. “Careful, sweetheart. I might hold you to that.” 

You chose to ignore that because you could still see the nerves dancing at the edge of his eyes. “It’s me, Ridoc. You know me better than anyone on the continent. I don’t think you could disappoint me if you tried.” You reassured him. 

He leaned forward, and you let out a soft sigh as his lips found that spot on your neck again. “You’ve got to tell me if it starts to hurt.” He told you, and you bit your lip as his fingers slipped one sleeve, and then the other, off your shoulders, the front of the top then falling down to your waist. Ridoc pulled back to look at the exposed skin, and somehow you felt even more naked under his gaze. “Fuck.” His voice was barely a whisper. “Every time I think you can’t get more beautiful, you do.” 

Your heart stuttered at the sincere compliment, and you arched into him as he helped slide the skirt and your underwear the rest of the way off of you until you were naked underneath him. You eased yourself back down onto his bed, watching as his eyes raked over your body. Any insecurity you had ever had about the way you looked melted away in that moment. The way he was looking at you like you were some sort of deity made you feel more beautiful than ever. 

After a few seconds he picked up your leg, pressing a kiss against your ankle. Your breath caught at the gentleness of it and the kisses that followed as he slowly made his way up your body. By the time he made it to your inner thighs, you were trying not to squirm. “You still good?” He asked, his eyes on you as he pressed another kiss to your thigh. 

“Very,” you replied, anticipation filling your body as you watched Ridoc settle between your thighs. 

Then, that smirk you loved so much appeared back on his lips, and Ridoc proved to you that his skills had not been exaggerated at all. 

It wasn’t like no one had ever touched you, and in fact you were pretty adept at touching yourself, but it was something about it being Ridoc that made it so much better. His mouth was the one that was devouring you. His finger was the one slipping inside of you and touching you intimately. He was the one sending so much pleasure through your body that you didn’t know how you were going to make it when he was inside of you. You couldn’t speak, couldn’t think. All you could do was grab a hold of his hair and hold him close to you, moaning and whimpering for more even though you weren’t sure how you could take it. 

Within what could have been seconds, minutes, or hours you felt a tight coil low in your stomach, right on the edge of release. Ridoc seemed to sense it however, and you let out a whimper as he pulled his mouth off of your clit. He kept his finger inside of you, continuing its lazy thrusts that were just enough to keep you dangling at the edge of release as he grinned at you. “You were right earlier. You taste amazing.” 

“Ridoc . . .” You whined, arching your hips towards him, desperate to feel that mouth back on you. 

“And you’re so tight.” He said, licking his lips as he watched you try to get closer to him. “I’m going to add another finger, okay?” 

You nodded, unsure you would be able to even speak anything other than his name. 

Then he slid another finger into you, and you gasped. There was a slight stretch, but nothing too uncomfortable, and within moments, the pleasure started building again as his mouth went back to your clit. It was almost embarrassing how quick he was bringing you to orgasm. “Ridoc, I think I’m going to-” you tried to warn him. 

His fingers curled and stars exploded behind your eyelids. Your hips arched up and your hands tightened in his hair, holding him against you as he lapped at your clit, licking up everything that you gave him as your body shook in waves of pleasure. 

Gods that was incredible. 

Ridoc eased away from you, and started kissing up your stomach, pausing to give some attention to your breasts. His fingers however, stayed right where they were. You were so sensitive from the constant stimulation it almost hurt, but you couldn’t imagine shoving him away right now. You still wanted more. “You think you can give me one more sweetheart?” He asked, pressing a soft kiss to your nipple that had you arching into his mouth. 

Two? You’d never been able to have two so quickly. Even as the thought occurred to you though, you could feel that tension rising in you once more. This time it was more of a slow burn, growing warmer as his fingers continued to work you. 

“Yeah, you’ve got another one in you.” He murmured, and brought his free hand up to your breast, while he continued to lavish the other one with his mouth. “You’re doing so good.” He told you between kisses. 

Oh those words did something to you. Letting out a little whine, your hands dug into his shoulders, your hips lined up with the movement of his hand, craving every second of friction he was creating until a wave of pleasure dragged you under again. 

Ridoc didn’t let up, working you through it until you tugged his hand away. His grin was cocky and sure of himself again, and you gave him a soft smile as he leaned down to kiss you, moaning when you tasted yourself on his tongue. It wasn’t until you felt his length pressed against your thigh that you realized he was still wearing clothes. “Why are you not naked?” You groaned, tugging at the waistband of his pants. 

“Mhmm, I ask myself that question every time I look at you.” He teased, nipping at your lip for a second before he started sliding his pants off of him and discarding them somewhere in the floor. 

Heat flushed through your body again at his words, then a gasp escaped you as he lowered himself between your thighs, and you felt him bare for the first time. The overwhelming urge to feel him had your hand sliding down his body again, tracing the lines of muscles, the v of his lower abdomen then stopping. “Can I touch you?” 

Ridoc pressed a quick kiss against your lips, and then trailed them across your jaw. “I promise you never have to ask that question again. The answer is always yes.” 

You let out a breathless giggle that had him smiling against your skin. You didn’t hesitate any longer though, sliding your hand down to grip him, hard and heavy in your hand. Ridoc let out a hiss of breath as you stroked him, your fingers circling his tip at every pass to help lubricate your hand. 

Ridoc’s groan against your skin sent heat straight to your aching core. “Are you on the fertility suppressant too? Because sweetheart, I’m not making it much longer without being inside of you.” He asked. 

“Yeah, I am.” You replied. Even if you hadn’t been having sex . . . You knew that you and Ridoc would end up here. It was only a matter of time, and as much as you adored this man, the last thing you wanted right now was a baby. 

He pulled back so he could look at you, brushing some hair from your face in a tender gesture that had you smiling at him. “You’ll tell me if I need to stop?” He asked, his voice taking on a rare serious tone. 

“I will.” You promised him, and used your hand to start guiding him right where you were craving for him to be. 

Your eyes locked, and the first press of him inside of you had you gasping. He was larger than his fingers, and the friction created from him sliding inside of you was incredible. You’d never felt anything so good. You wanted more, needed more. You needed everything he would give you. Arching your hips up to encourage him to keep going had him moaning. “Fuck baby, I’m trying to go slow for you.” He said, his breathing heavy. 

Baby. He’d never called you that until right now, and gods did you love the sound of it on his lips. “You don’t have to.” You told him, your hands sliding up to tangle in his hair again, a spot that was quickly becoming your favorite. 

But he shook his head, his eyes so soft you could melt into them. “This time, I do.” Ridoc said, and then leaned down to kiss you as he slid further inside. The kiss distracting you from the slight burn as he pushed in more slowly and steadily. 

Your hands turned to fists in his hair as he filled you, but you had expected it to hurt worse. You had expected all the anxiety and nerves to flood your system and make this stressful, but it never happened. Your body was at ease and accepting for the most part. The reason why wasn’t hard for you to figure out either. It was because of how much you loved and trusted this man. In moments, you let out a little whimper when his hips came into contact with yours, and he was fully inside of you. 

He pulled away from your kiss, searching your eyes. “Are you okay?” Ridoc asked, and the concern on his face made your chest warm. 

There was a sting, but nothing that you couldn’t handle. “Yeah, just-” you winced as you wrapped your legs around him, keeping him close. “Stay there for a second?” 

“Unless you want this to be over in five seconds I’m going to have to.” He admitted, and leaned down to press a kiss right behind your ear. “You feel fucking amazing.” 

You couldn’t help but be pleased that he felt as good as you were starting too. You let out a soft sigh as Ridoc’s lips trailed down your neck, the hand that wasn’t holding his weight coming back up to cup your breast. “Ridoc . . .” You moaned, tightening your legs around him. 

“Does it help?” He asked, brushing his thumb across your nipple as he nuzzled into your neck. The motion sent chills straight to your core, pushing some of the burn away. 

“Mhmm,” you replied, unable to trust yourself with words right now. In fact, the pain had faded to a dull ache as your body got used to the fullness of him. Gods it felt so good. You needed more though, and you could tell by how tense his body was that he did too. So you let your instincts take over, arching your hips and rolling them against him, gasping at the intense pleasure the motion sent through your body. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” You heard Ridoc groan against your skin. “This isn’t going to last as long as I want it to.” 

“It’s okay,” you reassured him. “You feel so good, Rid. I need you to move now.” You told him with another roll of your hips. The friction was incredible, but now you needed more. 

Ridoc nodded against your neck, and slid out of you. Your whole body ached at the loss until he slid back in, faster than the last time, and with much more pleasure than pain. He pulled back to look at you again, his hand squeezing your breast to give you even more pleasure. “Still okay?” 

You nodded. You were better than okay. You felt like a live wire filled with energy and desperate to spark. When Ridoc slid out of you again, you thrust your hips up to meet his when he pushed inside of you, and the both of you let out groans that you were sure anyone outside the door could hear. You found you couldn’t care less though. All you cared about was the feeling building inside of you, more intense than anything you’d ever felt. 

Assured that you were okay, Ridoc started thrusting in and out of you at a steady pace. You kept up with him as best as you could, your hands sliding down to his shoulders, feeling the tension in his back under your fingers. He started pressing kisses against your face with every thrust, murmuring things about how perfect you fit him, how much better this was than what he imagined, how you were taking him so well. The compliments did something to you, making you thrust up harder to him, eager to do the best you could to make him feel as amazing as you were feeling. When his compliments turned into a string of curse words that would have made anyone blush, you felt your pleasure building even more, right on the edge of what promised to be an all consuming release. Ridoc seemed to notice, his pace picking up the slightest bit. “Are you close, baby?” 

Oh gods you hoped he called you that for the rest of your life. You nodded, a whimper leaving your lips as he thrust a little harder into you. You knew you were close, but you couldn’t quite get there. “I - I need-”

His hand slid down your breast to where the two of you met. “I know what you need.” He assured you. 

Gods did he. His thumb pressed against your clit, and within moments you were making noises you had no idea you could, combusting with pleasure. All it took was one more hard thrust, and you were clenching down on him, your nails digging into his shoulder as you cried out his name. Your mind going numb with a sensation you’d never felt so intently. All you could was hold onto him as he rode you through the wave, letting out his own groan of your name a couple thrusts later as he emptied himself inside of you. 

Your chest rose and fell in rapid bursts, each breath brushing against his as you came down from your high. A few moments later, you felt him slide out of you and you felt the bed dip as Ridoc collapsed beside you, both of you still breathless, still trying to wrap your heads around what had just happened. 

So, this is why everyone was obsessed with sex. That was phenomenal. Though, to be fair, you were pretty sure a lot of that obsession had to do with the man lying next to you. Would he want to do it again with you? 

A soft smile curved your lips as Ridoc’s hand found yours, his fingers slipping between yours like they were made to fit there. You turned your head to face him, an adoring smile on his lips as he looked at you, and you couldn’t stop the teasing lilt in your voice as you echoed his words from earlier. 

“So . . . on a scale from one to ten . . .”

Ridoc threw his head back and laughed.

[viviale]

𝐈𝐌𝐀𝐆𝐈𝐍𝐄 ... logan comforting you when he finds you at home, scared after having watched a horror movie.

something was off today.

logan first noticed when the door to your apartment was locked. you usually left it open, knowing that he'd swing by after work to join you. today, he had to use his spare key. a rare occurence — when you gave it to him early into the relationship, it was mainly cherished for its symbolic value.

you trusted him enough to share your home, your most private sanctuary with him. honestly, it still baffled him to this day.

however, the tell tale sign of how vulnerable you allowed yourself to be with him, an open door, didn't apply today.

with a frown, he stepped inside.

"sweetheart? i'm home."

no answer.

alarm bells rang in his head. you knew the time he usually arrived, and you had made it a habit to greet him with hugs and kisses. so where were his kisses?

god, what if something had happened to you — dreading the thought alone, logan kicked off his shoes and quickly made his way inside.

this was his nightmare, you in danger, and him failing to protect you.

"baby?" he raised his voice, walking quicker as he checked the rooms one after the other. kitchen, bathroom, living room...

you were nowhere to be found. even worse, the lights were shut.

logan ran a hand through is hair in frustration, pondering on what to do next.

don't freak out. she's probably just in the bedroom, watching something with headphones on. it's gonna be okay.

he was focused now. jaw clenched, a tension pulling at his muscled. he made his way over to the bedroom, ready to jump at any sign of an intruder. he'd fight them off with passion.

he took a deep breath before walking in, collecting his senses. his claws unsheating as he balled his fists was second nature.

without further contemplation, he yanked open the door — only to be met with an empty room. his eyes darted over the room frantically, searching for a hint of where you might be. the sight of your shared bed properly made with the pillows propped up all orderly was his breaking point.

he panicked.

"fuck. fuck... where are you, doll?"

logan paced throught the room with a wild gaze in his eyes. this was not good. no, this was very bad.

suddenly, he heard a creaking sound. he jolts, claws raised to protect himself —

"logan, i didn't know you were home already!"

with a snikt, his claws retracted and he let out a relieved sigh. it's you, peeking out of the closet. you're okay...

he bent down, crawling over to you where you sat on the floor of the bedroom closet, beaming at him. you had built a little nest, it seemed. the inside of the closet was cluttered with fluffy pillows and blankets. it was a snug fit, but the cramped closet seemed really comfortable judged by how happy you seemed to be there, all cuddled up.

"sweetheart... ya had me worried there for a second. thought something had happened to you."

his face relaxed, eyes softening as he takes in the sight of you. logan drinks in your smile greedily.

you leaned forward to press a welcome home kiss to the corner of his mouth. he chased your lips when you pulled away, kissing you properly.

only once he was satisfied (for the moment) and his nerves calmed down, did he give you time to breathe.

"sorry, lo" you flashed him an apologetic smile.

"didn't mean to worry you."

he huffed, pulling you out of your nest and onto his chest so he could breathe in your scent.

"'s okay."

"yeah? you seem pretty shaken," you hum into his shirt, teasing him.

a scoff.

"'course i do. i was worried you might be dead, doll."

you looked up at him, eyes soft.

"you did?"

"sure. door shut, lights turned off..." he grumbled.

"sorry about that." you chuckled awkwarldly.

"i uh... there was this horror movie on and i got scared."

that put a faint smirk on logans lips.

"so you hid in the closet?"

"don't mock me!" you giggled, slapping his shoulder lightly.

"it's the safest place in the apartment."

he cocked a brow.

"uhuh? gotta admit, smart thinkin' there. took me forever to find you."

you just hugged him closer at that, burying your face in his chest.

"i'm glad you found me... the movie was really creepy, y'know."

and it was. from time to time you'd tried to watch horror movies, but most of the time you wouldn't even finish them because you got scared half into it. this one was way too heavy on the gore. it put images in your head that were hard to forget, and you'd wished logan was home.

how good that he was, now.

he cradled your head, smiling into your hair.

"... c'mon, let's get you back into the closet."

anything to make you feel safe. he'd prevent you from getting anxious on his watch! a horror movie no less... safe to say he's probably done and experienced worse things than the characters in it. but you hadn't, and he sure as hell wouldn't let you do so through some shitty movie.

logan pulled away from the hug and crawled over to the closet, squeezing into the tight space. to his surprise, it was quite comfortable. you'd done a great job at covering it with blankets. still, he struggled to fit his long legs inside.

he raised his brows at you and you took the hint, crawling into his lap so you sat between his thighs. a snug fit, but you managed.

you let out a dreamy sigh as you cuddled into his body, now feeling more at ease than ever, the warmth and his arms around you providing more security than blankets or tight spaces ever could.

"this is nice..."

"mhm..."

logan hums in agreement, pressing a gentle kiss to the crown of your head.

"...now how 'bout you tell me all about the movie 'n i help you take your mind off of it, baby? would ya like that?"

"sounds perfect," you mumble contentedly.

"we can watch one of your silly rom coms after, if you wanna."

you smile.

[letstalkaboutfandomsbaby]

Can't stop thinking about fertility goddess fat reader having a whole cult for herself, all the guys adore her, they all want a kiss, a look, anything, please!!! They love her! They adore her!!! Just a kiss!!

A fat fertility goddess... it's so obvious...

Wide hips, bountiful breasts, a round belly with thick thighs and soft arms. You're truly a sight to behold. You do your duty, blessing those who pray for a child, cursing those who speak ill of you, though those are few are far between. You are beautiful and wise and above all kind. You truly are a goddess.

When you first came to be, you had a small following, mostly women who struggled with fertility and couples who had been trying for a child for years. You were worshipped by few, small shrines set up in houses that often went away after a child was born. You were fine with it, your love for your followers never faltered, you didn't expect much.

And then a group emerged that you did not expect.

A group of men has emerged that has built a temple for you in their village, adorning it with fruits and flowers, sweet oils for your skin and hair, lovely clothes to make into fine robes. You've never received such gifts before, so you are beyond grateful, but you are confused. You assume the men worship you to bless their wives with children, but none of them are married or seem interested in any of the women that live in their town. You wonder what their intentions could be, so late one night, you present yourself to a burly man praying at your temple.

"What do you want of me, good sir?" you ask, leaning down to his kneeling form. "Do you wish for more crops? Or perhaps wealth? If I cannot give you something, I may direct you to another god who may help you."

"My lady," he presses his head to the stone below, "I only ask for your love, if you are willing to give it."

You blink.

"You... oh, wait, you wish for me to find love for you, yes? There are many a pretty young women in your village, it is true. I may appear to them in a dream and tempt them to—"

"No, my lady, you misunderstand." He looks up at you, eyes sparkling. "I wish for your love."

"... What?"

"If not your love, may I simply have a kiss from you?"

"I... I do not understand."

"You are a vision, my goddess," he breathes, hesitantly touching your calf. "You are much lovelier than the legends say. You are the moon and the stars, so beautiful. You must taste so sweet. I wish to experience it, even just once. Please, my goddess, I will give you more gifts if you wish. I will prove myself to be worthy of you, I swear on my life."

You blink several times, clearing your throat and standing up straight.

"Your worship is suffice. I shall grant you a kiss on the cheek for all of your gifts."

He stands quickly, very excited, and you are shocked to see that at full height he towers over you. He leans down, presenting his cheek to you. You hesitate, but then lean forward, pressing a chaste kiss to his cheek. He sighs longingly when you pull away, putting his hand to his cheek.

"Your lips are so soft, my lady." He looks to you. "May I give you a kiss as well?"

You think for a moment before you nod, turning to show him your cheek. He leans close, pressing a kiss to your cheek, lingering there for a moment or two before pulling away. He bows low.

"Thank you, my lady. I shall bring some fresh fruit tomorrow."

The next day, you see him enter your temple with several men, all of them carrying fresh fruit for you. As they delicately lay them down at your altar, you hear them speaking.

"Did the goddess truly kiss you?"

"Yes, she did."

"And you were able to kiss her in return?"

"I did."

"You are quite lucky, sir, to even see her in the flesh. I would do anything for a glimpse of her."

"She is much more beautiful than the legends. Silky hair, smooth skin, plump and full. I wish I could have felt her skin against mine."

"I wonder how soft she is, so sweet and smooth. Do you think she would lay with us if we asked?"

"She is far too regal for such a thing... but perhaps if we give more of our crop, she would bless us with more kisses."

Your skin is burning. You don't know if you've ever felt such a way before.

[factual-fantasy]

28 Asks! Thank you! :)) 🪆

@thelatter0verview5

I got a few petty reasons, but a very justified reason is because he is extremely disrespectful and treats everyone around him like garbage. Goose herself said that Jax is a bad person and the Jax simps need to reel back on the excuses they make for his behavior.

"But he's just pushing people away to cope" "But he's just mean because he lost a friend." "But that's just his way of showing love"

Yeah those may explain his behavior but they do not justify it. No matter the reason, Jax is responsible for how he treats other people, and he treats them all like trash. Jax should be held accountable for that.

Now just because I hate him, doesn't mean I have to take Ribbit away in my AU. I hate Jax as a character, as he was designed to be up to this point. But I wouldn't wish the death of a friend on anyone. So honestly for my own sake, not having to write something so sad, I added Ribbit to my AU.

Honestly I like Ragatha a LOT more after episode 5. She's actually becoming one of my favorites.

For starters, I could so easily put myself in her shoes when she mentioned Ribbit. Jax has been a PHAT JERK for a VERY LONG TIME. He has been grinding her gears FOREVER. Because of this she lets a nasty comment slip. "Not anymore.." but after that she IMMEDIATELY back peddles, realizing that what she said was very out of line. I can see myself being bitter and sipping up just like she did.

Right after she frantically yet genuinely apologizes and then flees to give Jax space from her.

Later on, when Jax has been a jerk AGAIN and pushes her buttons with a stupid "what no apology for me?~~💅💅💅"? I would not have had the strength to be kind to Jax. I would have told him to screw off and turned away most likely. But Ragatha had a bigger heart than that.

Despite how rightfully TICKED OFF she is with Jax's horrible behavior, she swallows her pride and apologies again for bringing up Ribbit. And again, walks away to give each other space.

I think Ragatha was awesome and showed how big her heart is in this episode. When she has these outbursts due to stress or other she immediately takes accountability for what she said and genuinely apologizes. That is a millions times more than Jax can say.

@local-dairywizard

The Caine in my AU is very different from canon. So much so he's hardly Caine anymore, but I'm ok with that.

My Caine has 2 goals, of which he was not programmed to do, but has made for himself none the less. #2 is to keep the humans as mentally healthy and calm as he possibly can. And 1# being the most important, get the humans out of here ASAP and back into the real world.

So while Caine in canon was freaking out about the humans liking the suggestion box adventures more than his own, my Caine would be THRILLED! He's be so relieved that the humans have some time of peace where they're getting along and socializing. In fact he would probably toss in a few little distracting activities like more food options, some more pretty bugs and a few more pretty colors in the sky.. before leaving the humans there in peace while he works extra hard on finding an exit for a bit.

In my AU, Caine cannot control or alter the minds of the humans in any way. And he is very transparent and honestly about his inability to do so. Which ngl the circus members kind'a wish he could-

If Caine could alter the minds of the humans, he could shut down their panic attacks, remove their deep depressions or paranoid delusions, and even cure abstraction. But alas, he cannot..

(Referencing this post)

Thank you so much!! :DDDD💞💞💞

Honestly, the only ramen I really remember the taste of is chicken. And its been a VERY long time since I've had that.. so its hard to say what they'd like <XD

But Cici and Gerald aren't picky, they'd probably try any ramen! Maybe they'd even favor a spicy kind! :00

I think that would be pretty fitting! :0 I wouldn't be surprised to see a teddy bear character on one of the crossed out bedroom doors..

(Referencing this post)

XDD I'm glad you like it! :))

That's gotta be on the list of the most wholesome and warm compliments I have ever received.. thnk yu... 🥺💞

@neo-metalscottic (Referencing this post)

Thank you so much! :DD And don't worry about the Shockwave post, <XD in hindsight I should have just waited a day or two before answering.

As for the Dinobots, I don't think I can promise anything 😅 I mean, you said they were normal Cybertronians that were experimented on and mutated to look like dinosaurs, right? Well in my AU it obviously wouldn't make any sense for Shockwave to have modeled them after Earth creatures- if he even could make them perfect like that.

Instead, they just probably became these horrible masses of mutated metal and grime. Their legs and spines were elongated, forcing them to arch and crouch their legs. Kind'a looking like a dino but not really being one- Idk how I can make that NOT horrific 😓😓

And tbh, I'm back and forth on Shockwaves arm. If he was primarily a scientist, wouldn't be illogical to replace one of his arms with a blaster? It would make more sense to replace his arm with another working hand, and maybe give himself some kind of body mounted gun for protection. Like Megatrons arm blaster or Breakdowns shoulder cannon.

That's probably what I'll do. But his other arm could look different or odd. Maybe it was taken from someone else's body and so the paint and finger shapes are different. But ultimately its just a normal hand.

Also, Shockwave using Arachnids mind as a blueprint for the Insecticons is really clever! It would make a lot of sense that they would worship her. I'll have to think about that! :00

And lastly, thank you for the well wishes! My symptoms have been pretty bad today, so after these two posts are up my day will come to an end and I will go crash <XDD

I honestly didn't care for any of them, but I liked evil Orbsman. His voice made me laugh for some reason XD

SCREAMSSS THANK YOU SO MUCH!!!! 😭😭🥰💞🥰💞💞💞

@palettepainter

Thank you so much!! :D Though unfortunately- since Ribbits ref was released, some changes are in the works-- <XD

I'm thinking Ribbit will actually be a 17 year old girl. I'm considering making her a mischievous "little" sister to Jax and they (lovingly) prank the crap out of each other all the time XDD

Anything beyond that, like if they knew each other before the circus or anything- has yet to be decided 😅

I got through all of Markipliers videos on it thus far, which as of typing this he has 8 parts up.

And yeah, at first I liked it. But by that first ending I completely rejected that entire game from the FNAF lore. It implies and changes WAY too much. Especially when it comes to Henry, William, the history of Fazbear entertainment, the springlock suits, the original 4 bots- its just a huge mess. As far as I'm concerned, for my AUs at the very least, that game is not canon. at all.

HOWEVER, I did take a liking to the animatronics/costumes. Much more than I thought I would. In fact I have some drawing plans for them! :DD

@briandraws (Referencing this post)

JSNDKJSN SORRY XDDD (I'm glad you liked it! :DD )

Also thanks again!! :DD But don't get too attached to it, after seeing Ribbits official ref sheet that seems to imply she's girl, I will be making some changes to her design.. whoops! 😅😅

@cherrycreamfairy

AAA THANK YOU SO MUCH!! :DDD That's the part of the drawing I try my hardest to get right! 🥰🥰

I believe I've watched the.... 2....? movies about it. But it was a very long time ago so I don't really remember much 💔

@dragonsgirl572 (Referencing this post)

AWE!! Thank you so much!! :DD

And thank you for the well wishes. My symptoms have tough and our more recent cure attempt came back with no results. Hoping I get better soon too <:') 🙏

@beryl-shade

The design of the Tiger had me HOOKED! He looks so drawable! If its a movie and not a show I'll have to give it a watch!! :DD

@misscherrypie

I've seen it floating around and people saying its surprisingly good. I might have to look into it! :0

@minnesotamedic186

Honestly this season has been very gloomy, and it hit too close to home one too many times. I'm anxious for it to be over.💔🕊️

You can look at my tier list here :0 my rankings haven't really changed after episode 5. Other than moving Ragatha and Pomni up a tier and moving Caine and Bubble down a tier. Also adding Evil Orbsman to s-Tier XDD His voice was really funny. "whAt tHe f R I c K???"

@pewpewae

SCREEAMING AND CRYING WAAAAJHG THS IS SO SWEET THANK YOUU!!! PUTTING THIS ASK IN THE TINY SHIRT POCKET IN MY HEART😭😭😭💞💞💞💞

@candyglumboy (Referencing this post)

I can imagine they love pranking and screwing each other over in adventures. Its all light hearted and nothing too painful though dw- XD

(Referencing this post)

XDD Indeed!!

Awe, thank you! I can confidently say I don't do that because I've actually tried it before with Bowser <XD

I don't hate Bowser- but after the Mario movie made an absolute fool of him, I wanted to make him a vicious, irredeemable villain in my AU. Just an absolute monster, I WANTED people to fear and hate him. But in the end he felt bland.. it almost felt like I made a fool of him too but just on the opposite end of the spectrum.

I have since then learned my lesson and now try to take characters I don't like and give them some grace. I hope I was able to do that with TADC and TFP! <XDD

@virtualworldfp5

Very cool! :D

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