#anyways this is the first part of the first scene of the first chapter

[unabashegirl]

Heavy hands — part I

A sheltered university student falls into the dark world of underground fighting—and into the orbit of undefeated fighter Harry Styles.

Author’s Note: I debated for weeks whether or not to share this, but… here we are. This is just a taste of what’s been brewing behind the scenes — the first part of a new ten-part Harry Styles fanfic I’ve been quietly building: gritty, slow-burn, and filled with everything I love in a story. For now, it’s a Patreon exclusive, but I couldn’t resist giving you a glimpse of what’s coming in a few weeks. If you’re curious, or if you just can’t wait… You can join my Patreon and read the full first chapter (and the rest as it comes) for only $2 USD. 🖤 Thank you for always being here, and for letting me tell the kind of stories that linger. I really hope this one does.

📌 here is the link to the tier to get access to heavy hands -> select the tier quick fix -> patreon

📌 word count: 5.1K

Y/N kept her head down as she walked the edge of campus, her breath turning pale in the morning air. She liked the quiet before her lectures started—the way her boots sounded against the cobblestones, the hush in the trees before the day filled in with people and noise and everything she didn’t quite know how to handle yet.

She held her notebook tight to her chest, fingers curled around the edges like it was armor.

The philosophy building loomed ahead, old stone and ivy creeping up the sides. Inside, it was dim, echoey. Smelled like dust and paper. The lecture hall had tall windows and creaky floors and more students than she’d ever been around at once. She took her usual seat—third row from the back, end of the bench—and opened her notebook with quiet care.

No one looked at her. They never did.

She preferred it that way, mostly. Or at least, that’s what she told herself.

It wasn’t that she didn’t want to be noticed. It was just… she didn’t know what she’d say if someone did.

Everything about university still felt sharp-edged and overwhelming. The people. The freedom. The way no one asked where she was going or what time she’d be back. After nineteen years of homeschooling, of morning devotions and polite conversation and being taught how to fold napkins the right way, it was like being dropped into another universe.

Her mother still called every night. Still reminded her not to talk to strangers. Still warned her, half-joking and half-serious, that London would eat her alive.

Y/N didn’t argue. She didn’t argue about anything, really. She was the quiet one. The good one. The girl who followed rules because they made her feel safe. And maybe because she didn’t know how not to.

A chair scraped beside her and she flinched, just slightly.

“Hi,” a voice said. “You’re in this class, right?”

Y/N turned her head. A girl with messy blonde hair and black eyeliner was dropping into the seat next to her, unbothered, smiling like they’d done this before. She wore a denim jacket over a black hoodie, silver rings stacked on her fingers. Her boots looked like they’d seen every corner of the city.

Y/N blinked. “I—yes.”

“I’ve seen you in here,” the girl said. “You always sit alone.”

Y/N’s cheeks burned. “I just like this row.”

“You’re new.”

It wasn’t a question, but Y/N nodded anyway.

“Thought so. I’m Liv.” She held out a hand, bangles jangling against her wrist.

Y/N shook it. “Y/N.”

“Pretty name.” Liv looked her over, head tilted. “You don’t talk much, do you?”

Y/N managed a tight smile. “I listen more than I speak.”

“Right.” Liv grinned, wide and unapologetic. “One of those. Cute.”

The professor arrived, setting down her briefcase with a thud, and the room shifted into a loose hush. Liv leaned in just a little as the lecture started, her voice barely above a whisper.

“You doing anything tonight?”

The question caught her off guard. She shook her head slowly. “No. Why?”

Liv’s smile curved like she already knew the answer. “There’s this thing I’m going to. Bit off the map. It’s kind of… exclusive.”

Y/N blinked. “What kind of thing?”

Liv shrugged. “You’ll see.”

That made Y/N nervous. “I’m not really—”

“It’s nothing crazy,” Liv said quickly, but her grin said otherwise. “Just come. You can leave whenever. You don’t even have to talk to anyone.”

Y/N hesitated. Her mother’s voice rang in her ears: Don’t follow people you barely know. Don’t go out late. Don’t be stupid.

“I shouldn’t—”

“It’s one night,” Liv cut in, soft but insistent. “And you look like you need one.”

Y/N didn’t answer. She stared down at the lines in her notebook, heart knocking against her ribs. Liv didn’t press her after that, just passed a torn scrap of paper across the desk with a time and a station scribbled in smudged ink.

“Text me if you decide to go” Liv whispered.

Y/N hadn’t told her parents she’d moved into student housing.

They still believed she was commuting from her aunt’s flat in Clapham. That she took the Tube each morning and was back home by dinner, curled under a blanket, phone fully charged, doors locked.

It wasn’t a lie exactly. Not the worst kind. Her aunt did live in Clapham, and she had stayed with her for the first week. But she’d craved the silence, the independence. Craved something she didn’t have a name for yet.

So she’d moved.

Her parents didn’t know. They wouldn’t understand.

Growing up, her world had been small. Safe. Her father was a strict man with soft eyes who believed in structure, who said that routines kept a family together. Her mother homeschooled her from the age of five, and her education had been rich in detail, precise and thorough—but narrow. Everything outside their four walls felt like a warning. She was never allowed sleepovers. No television past nine. No unchaperoned visits to the shops. No boys.

“Too much of the world too soon can rot the mind,” her mother once told her.

So Y/N stayed soft. Careful. She read obsessively—books about people who lived wildly, recklessly, freely. She filled journals with lines from poetry she didn’t always understand. She baked bread from scratch. She studied the Psalms. She knew the difference between a pressed pleat and a bias cut. She still folded her underwear into neat little rows.

Her rebellion, if she could even call it that, was quiet. Choosing to study philosophy when her parents had pushed for English. Sitting alone in the lecture hall instead of trying to fit in. Saying nothing when her mother asked for a tour of the uni halls and changing the subject instead.

She wasn’t brave. Not really.

But she was curious.

Sometimes, late at night, she’d sit on the floor of her room with the curtains drawn and scroll through photos other girls at uni posted. Loud nights. Flashing lights. Smudged mascara. Arms slung around boys’ necks. Kisses stolen in club bathrooms. Glitter stuck in collarbones. She didn’t want all of it. But she wanted something.

She didn’t know what.

And now there was a scrap of paper in her notebook. A time. A name. A chance

Later that night, Y/N sat on the edge of her dorm bed, the crumpled scrap of paper warming in her palm. Outside, the hallway was silent except for the faint hum of the building settling into the night. Her roommate’s light was off. No one was supposed to be out this late.

The note had a time and a name — Liv — and a vague meeting place: just outside the dorm’s main entrance.

That was all she knew.

She didn’t know where Liv was taking her. She didn’t even know what she was walking into.

Her parents’ warnings echoed loud in her mind — Don’t go out late. Don’t trust people you barely know.

But Liv’s words floated beneath it all, soft and tempting. You look like you need one.

Y/N folded the note carefully, tracing the ink with her thumb. She felt the familiar pull of nervousness tightening in her chest — the same nervousness she’d felt all her life, at the edge of something new and scary.

Her fingers shook slightly as she mapped out a plan to leave the dorm unnoticed.

Wait until the hall is empty.

Keep my phone silent but with location tracking on.

Wear something dark.

Take the quickest route.

If anything feels wrong, leave.

She exhaled slowly. Maybe this was reckless. Maybe it was a mistake.

But maybe it was also exactly what she needed.

The hallway outside Y/N’s room was empty when she slipped out, every step measured and quiet. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears, loud enough to drown out the creak of the old wooden floor beneath her feet.

She hugged her jacket tighter around her, breath forming small clouds in the cold night air as she pushed open the dorm’s heavy front door.

There, waiting just beyond the flickering streetlamp, was Liv. Her silhouette looked sharper than ever—hands shoved into the pockets of her leather jacket, black boots tapping impatiently against the pavement.

Liv’s head turned, and her dark eyes caught Y/N’s instantly. A slow smile curved across her lips.

“Thought you’d chicken out,” Liv said softly, voice low, like sharing a secret.

Y/N shook her head, swallowing the lump in her throat. “I’m here.”

“Good.” Liv stepped closer. “You ready to have fun?”

Y/N hesitated, cold fingers curling into a fist inside her pocket. She had no idea what she was about to walk into. But the night already felt different—charged. Dangerous. And thrilling in a way she’d never imagined.

“Let’s go,” Liv said, grabbing Y/N’s hand and pulling her toward the dark streets of London.

The city breathed around them—damp, restless, alive. And somewhere in the distance, a low roar rose through the night.

Liv led Y/N down the street, her grip firm but gentle, pulling her into the night that thrummed with a restless energy.

Around the corner, two figures waited by a battered black taxi.

The first was a tall, lean man with dark hair slicked back, a cigarette hanging loosely from his lips. His leather jacket was scuffed, sleeves pushed up to reveal tattoos—snakes coiled around his wrists and numbers inked like a secret code. He gave Y/N a brief, assessing look before flicking the smoke away.

The second was a girl with a shock of bright red hair tied messily in a ponytail. She wore a patched denim vest over a hoodie and carried an easy, knowing grin, like the city had whispered its secrets just to her.

“This is Tom,” Liv said smoothly, nodding at the man. “And Jess.”

Tom gave Y/N a slow nod — a silent greeting or perhaps a challenge — while Jess winked, playful and mysterious.

Liv’s eyes flicked back to Y/N. “They’re part of the crew. You’ll like them.”

Y/N’s stomach fluttered with nervous anticipation and uncertainty, but Liv’s steady presence was a comfort she didn’t expect.

“Do you guys… go to uni with Liv?”

It came out a little too hopeful. A little too desperate for connection.

Jess’s head snapped toward her, and she burst out laughing. Loud and sudden.

Tom smirked. “Us? Nah, sweetheart.” He ran a hand through his hair, eyes glinting. “We’re in a different kind of education.”

Y/N blinked. “Oh… like what?”

Jess leaned in, chewing gum like it was part of her attitude. “The kind they don’t put in brochures.”

They both exchanged a look that made Y/N’s skin prickle—like they shared a joke she would never be let in on.

Liv, beside her, just grinned. “Don’t worry about them. They’re harmless.”

But somehow, that didn’t make her feel any better.

They walked toward the Tube station together, the streetlights casting long shadows behind them.

On the platform, Liv’s voice dropped to a low, teasing murmur. “So. What do you think you’re coming to see tonight?”

Y/N shrugged, voice barely above a whisper. “I… don’t really know.”

“That’s the point,” Liv said with a grin. “Not everything in life needs to be spelled out, you know.”

The train screeched into the station, and the four of them squeezed into a carriage, the city blurring past outside.

“Is it dangerous?” Y/N asked, unable to hide the tremor in her voice.

Liv looked at her sideways, eyes gleaming. “Depends on how you handle it.”

Tom and Jess exchanged a glance but stayed silent.

Y/N stared out the window, heart pounding. She didn’t know what was waiting for her at the end of this ride — but somehow, she felt she was about to find out.

The train rattled and groaned beneath the city as Y/N stared out the window, the familiar London skyline replaced by grimy brick walls and flickering neon signs.

They were in East London now. The air felt heavier here, colder, sharper. It carried a bite that made Y/N pull her jacket tighter around her shoulders.

Outside the station, the streets were quieter, narrower, and shadows gathered thick between the dim streetlights. The usual hum of nightlife was replaced by something rougher — the distant clatter of footsteps, the low murmur of voices, the sharp edge of something unspoken.

Y/N’s stomach twisted. She felt exposed, like a small animal caught in the open. Every instinct whispered warning.

Liv’s footsteps were steady beside her, calm and confident.

They stopped in front of a squat, weathered building with no sign out front. A heavy metal door stood closed, cold and unwelcoming.

But from behind it came the thump of music — deep, pulsing bass that vibrated through the concrete beneath Y/N’s feet.

“It’s just a club,” Liv said, sensing Y/N’s tension. “Wait till you get inside.”

The door creaked open before Y/N could answer, and a rush of heat and smoke spilled out, swirling colored lights slicing through the haze.

The room beyond was dark, crowded, and alive — thick with bodies moving to the rhythm, faces barely visible through the smoke and flashing strobes.

Y/N blinked, overwhelmed. This was nothing like the neat, quiet world she knew.

She clutched Liv’s arm, heart pounding louder than the music.

“Just breathe,” Liv whispered. “You’re okay.”

But Y/N wasn’t sure she was.

Inside, the heat hit Y/N like a wave. The air was thick with smoke and the sharp scent of sweat and something sweet—maybe alcohol or perfume—mixing together into a haze she wasn’t used to. Colored lights sliced through the fog, casting strange shadows on faces she couldn’t quite see.

The bass throbbed in her chest, each beat a punch that made the room feel alive and dangerous.

Tom and Jess flanked her like guards or guides. Jess grinned and nudged Y/N gently. “You want a drink? Something to calm the nerves?”

Y/N shook her head quickly. “No, thank you.” Her voice barely carried over the music.

Tom leaned in, his breath warm against her ear. “Come on, just one. You’ve got to loosen up a little.”

Y/N smiled politely but pulled back. Her throat felt tight, and the loud music made it impossible to hear clearly unless someone spoke right in her ear. She felt like a fish out of water, lost in the current of movement and noise swirling around her.

Jess laughed and tossed her head. “She’s shy, huh?”

Tom’s dark eyes flicked to Y/N, a teasing spark lighting up his gaze. “I like that,” he murmured, stepping a bit closer, his voice low and smooth.

Y/N’s cheeks warmed, but her attention wasn’t on him. She scanned the crowd, feeling small and exposed under the flashing lights.

Liv caught her eye and gave her a quick nod—a silent promise that she had her back.

Still, Y/N couldn’t shake the feeling that she didn’t belong here.

The pounding music pressed against Y/N’s chest like a living heartbeat as she swayed slightly to the rhythm, her arms loose at her sides. She wasn’t a dancer—never had been—but somehow, in the heat of the room and the rush of it all, she’d let herself move, just a little.

A couple of drinks had found their way into her hands over the night—mostly from Jess’s insistent prodding—and though she wasn’t drunk, a gentle warmth bloomed beneath her skin. It loosened her tongue just enough to make the endless chatter around her seem less intimidating, less like a wall she couldn’t climb.

Still, the bass hammered in her ears and her pulse thrummed in her temples, making her glance down at her phone more than once.

She found the screen dimly glowing in her pocket and pulled it out, squinting at the time. Almost midnight.

Her stomach twisted. This wasn’t how she’d imagined her first night out would go—or maybe it was, but not like this.

She edged closer to Liv, who was leaning against the bar with that calm, unreadable expression that had been a lifeline all evening.

“I should go,” Y/N said, voice just audible over the music. She glanced at her phone again, then around the room. “It’s getting late. I have a class early tomorrow and… I think I’ve had enough.”

Liv’s eyes flicked to Y/N, sharp and calculating. Then she smiled—a slow, knowing smile that sent a shiver down Y/N’s spine.

“You can’t leave yet,” Liv said softly, voice low enough that only Y/N could hear.

Y/N frowned, taking a step back. “Why not?”

Liv leaned closer, the noise swallowing her words but the meaning clear. “Because the main event hasn’t started.”

Y/N blinked, confusion pooling in her chest. “Main event?”

Liv’s smile deepened, but she didn’t answer. Liv tugged Y/N’s hand firmly, steering her away from the pulsing center of the room where bodies had been dancing, lost in the pounding music. The crowd thickened, pressing in around them, but Liv led her toward a narrow space against the far wall, where the air was cooler and the chaos dimmed to a dull roar.

Suddenly, the music cut sharply, replaced by an expectant silence that rippled through the crowd like a wave.

Two blinding lights snapped on, slicing through the smoke and darkness, illuminating the middle of the room with harsh white beams.

A man appeared, gripping a microphone like a weapon. His voice boomed out, amplified and commanding:

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the real show.”

The crowd erupted into cheers and whistles.

Liv’s grip on Y/N’s hand tightened.

The man paced slowly across the floor, eyes shining with excitement.

“Tonight’s fighters are ready to put it all on the line. Only one will walk away the victor. And remember there’s only one rule in here,” he shouted. “No fuckin’ rules.”

Y/N’s breath hitched.

The announcer’s voice lowered, but carried over the noise like a knife.

“ In the red corner…” he called, drawing out the pause like a showman feeding blood to wolves, “you know him, you hate him, you can’t kill him—Marcus ‘The Butcher’ Dale!”

A wave of chaos surged through the room. Screams, whistles, fists pounding against walls and floors.

A man stepped into the light from the opposite side—tall, with broad shoulders, with thick arms covered in brutal, angry tattoos. His face was twisted into a cocky smirk, blood already dried across one knuckle.

Y/N’s stomach twisted.

This wasn’t some theatrical show. This was real.

“And in the blue corner, five-time underground champ. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t lose.” He grinned. “The King of the Cut — Harry fuckin’ Styles.”

A roar exploded around them. People were shouting his name, clapping, stomping.

Y/N’s eyes locked onto a figure stepping into the light—tall, solid, tattooed arms gleaming under the harsh glare. His buzz-cut hair caught the white light, and those cold, piercing eyes swept the room like a predator.

Everything inside Y/N froze.

This wasn’t a club. It wasn’t a party.

This was an underground fight.

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat, a mix of disbelief and awe swirling in her chest. The roar of the crowd was a distant thunder, and yet all she could focus on was him.

He stood in the center of the ring, a living storm of controlled power. His buzz-cut scalp gleamed under the harsh lights, every sharp line of his jaw set like stone.

Tattooed arms flexed as he shifted his weight, muscles coiled beneath the skin like a panther ready to pounce. Silver rings glinted on thick fingers, catching the light with every movement.

His eyes—cold, calculating, fierce—scanned the crowd before settling briefly on the entrance.

Y/N felt those eyes slice through the haze and land on her, just for a fraction of a second, but enough to make her heart leap.

There was something raw and dangerous in him, an intensity that seemed to pulse from his very bones. But beneath it all, she sensed a quiet hardness—a man who had been through fire and come out harder.

She had never seen anyone like him.

Her fingers curled into fists at her sides, and for a moment, the heat blossoming in her skin wasn’t from the room or the drinks—it was from something far more electric.

As the announcer continued, the crowd’s cheers surged again, but Y/N’s world had narrowed to that single figure standing tall and unyielding before her.

The announcer raised his free hand, waiting for the crowd to settle—just enough to be heard again.

Y/N’s hand shot out and found Liv’s without thinking, her fingers closing tight.

Liv looked over, eyes dark and steady, and gave her a single, reassuring squeeze.

“You okay?” she asked, her mouth close to Y/N’s ear.

Y/N didn’t answer. Her heart was in her throat. The reality was setting in like ice water.

This was violence.

And Harry—Harry, with the cold eyes and the inked skin and the motionless stance—was about to step into it without flinching.

Y/N’s grip on Liv’s hand tightened until her knuckles ached.

The announcer had vanished into the crowd, swallowed whole by the heat and noise, and the two men stood face-to-face beneath the harsh white lights. No gloves. No headgear. No rules.

Harry hadn’t moved. His expression was unreadable—stone, carved from the coldest parts of him. His chest rose and fell in steady rhythm, muscles tense and still. The other man—Marcus—was pacing, shaking out his arms, smirking like he’d already won.

Y/N’s voice cracked as she leaned toward Liv. “Why did you bring me here?”

Liv didn’t answer at first. She was watching the ring like it mattered more than the air in her lungs.

Y/N tugged on her sleeve, voice rising, urgent now. “Liv.”

Liv finally turned, her eyes shining in the dim light, something wild flickering there. “Because I wanted you to see what real looks like.”

Before Y/N could process it, the bell rang.

Not a clean boxing bell—an actual iron bell slammed by someone’s fist.

The crowd erupted, bodies surging forward, a roar rising up around them so loud Y/N could feel it in her chest.

Marcus lunged first—fast for his size, all brute force and rage. He threw a heavy right hook aimed straight at Harry’s jaw.

But Harry didn’t flinch.

He ducked cleanly, silent and sharp, then answered with a lightning-fast jab to Marcus’s ribs. The sound of it cracked through the air—flesh meeting flesh, knuckle meeting bone.

Marcus stumbled back, face twisted. He hadn’t expected the counter.

Y/N’s eyes widened.

Harry moved like a shadow—fluid, controlled, terrifying in how calm he was. No showboating. No wasted steps. Just raw precision.

Blood sprayed from Marcus’s nose as another punch landed, and the crowd screamed louder. Someone near Y/N shouted Harry’s name again and again like a prayer or a curse.

She couldn’t look away.

The lights overhead flickered slightly, the smoke rising from the crowd curling around the ring like steam over a fire.

It was chaos—pure, unfiltered violence—but somehow… there was beauty in the way Harry moved. Not just strength. Discipline. Intention.

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat.

He was terrifying. And he was magnificent.

Her heart pounded louder than the crowd.

And she had no idea what kind of world she’d just stepped into.

The fight escalated fast.

After the first few blows, Marcus no longer looked amused. The smirk had vanished, replaced by something far uglier—frustration. Maybe fear.

He rushed forward again with a roar, throwing a savage combination—left, right, then another right meant to break someone’s jaw.

Harry blocked the first two, absorbed the third with a subtle turn of his shoulder, then answered with a brutal uppercut to the gut. Marcus doubled over, gasping, and Harry didn’t wait.

He stepped in. One. Two. Three hits. Clean, fast, calculated.

Each punch echoed like thunder.

The crowd around Y/N was a blur of motion—screaming, fists pumping in the air, bodies jumping and shoving. Some were chanting Harry’s name. Others were yelling for blood.

Y/N stood frozen, her back to the wall, eyes locked on the ring. Her ears rang, not just from the noise but from the sickening, wet thuds of fists colliding with flesh.

Marcus tried to land a knee, wild and desperate. But Harry caught him mid-motion, wrapped an arm around his neck, and slammed him hard into the floor with a move so fast Y/N barely registered it.

Gasps. Cheers.

Marcus writhed, cursing, trying to rise—blood spilling from his nose, his lip split wide. But Harry didn’t let him.

He straddled him in a controlled mount, knees planted firm, and drove a single punch—straight to Marcus’s jaw.

And then another.

And another.

The crowd counted aloud. “One! Two! Three!”

Y/N’s breath hitched.

Marcus’s head lolled slightly, dazed, mouth open, eyes unfocused.

The bell rang again.

Loud. Final.

Harry stopped. Immediately.

He rose slowly, blood streaking his knuckles, chest heaving, but his expression unchanged—calm, cold, unreadable.

The room exploded around him.

People surged toward the ring, some climbing over barriers, others throwing money, coats, and drinks into the air. The lights strobed wildly.

Y/N stared at him—this man who had just dismantled another human being without blinking. Not out of cruelty. Not for spectacle.

But because that’s what he came to do.

He didn’t look proud. He didn’t look relieved. He looked exactly the same as he had when he walked in—haunted, sharp, and terrifyingly composed.

Y/N’s pulse roared in her ears. Her skin felt too tight for her body. Her mouth was dry.

She had never seen anything like him.

And she had never wanted answers more than she did now.

Harry disappeared into the crowd like smoke.

One second, he was there—standing over a broken man, chest rising slow and even, blood splattered across his skin like war paint. The next, he was gone. Swallowed whole by bodies pushing inward, cheering, chanting, desperate to touch something that felt untouchable.

Y/N stayed frozen in place, still gripping the edge of the wall like it might keep her upright.

Around her, the atmosphere had shifted. The violence was over, but the energy in the room hadn’t calmed—it had sharpened. Louder music kicked in, harder and heavier than before. Drinks were passed hand to hand. People laughed and shoved and screamed like it was a party.

A celebration.

But Y/N couldn’t celebrate.

She couldn’t drink.

She couldn’t breathe.

The image was stuck in her mind—Marcus lying there, dazed and bleeding, struggling to sit up, the skin of his face swollen and cracked. His mouth had opened like he was trying to speak, but nothing came out. Just blood. Just pain.

And Harry’s fists, silent and cold and exact.

Y/N blinked hard. Her eyes stung.

She turned quickly, pushing through the crowd, her hands trembling as she passed a group of people laughing and rewatching a recording of the fight on someone’s phone like it was a highlight reel.

Her throat closed.

She didn’t know what door she was looking for—just that she needed out. Needed air. Needed to get the sound of bone hitting flesh out of her head.

The first door she reached wasn’t marked. She shoved it open anyway.

The noise cut off like a switch had flipped.

She stumbled into a narrow alleyway. Dimly lit. Quiet. Concrete walls slick with condensation. She could hear the dull hum of the bass behind her, but here, it was muffled. Like it belonged to a different world.

Y/N leaned back against the cold wall, her hands gripping the edge of her jacket, pulling it tight around her chest. Her eyes welled, unblinking.

She didn’t know why she was crying.

She hadn’t been the one hurt. She hadn’t even known Marcus. She didn’t know the rules of this world, didn’t know what he’d done to deserve it, if anything.

But it didn’t matter.

She’d seen pain. Real pain. Up close. And everyone else had clapped for it.

“You okay?”

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat.

Harry was only a few feet away. Still shirtless, the blood on his torso now dried to rust. A cigarette dangled between his fingers, lit at the tip, the smoke curling lazily in the cold night air. His other hand rested low on his hip, relaxed.

He hadn’t looked at her yet, not fully. His gaze was angled down, watching the cigarette burn.

She hadn’t heard him come out.

Had no idea how long he’d been there.

Y/N’s voice was barely a whisper. “You scared me.”

Harry glanced at her then, his eyes shadowed but sharp—cut from something darker than the rest of him.

“Didn’t mean to,” he said.

He took a slow drag from the cigarette, the ember lighting the edge of his cheekbone, his expression unreadable.

Y/N’s back pressed tighter against the wall, her voice soft and shaking. “Why would anyone cheer for something like that?”

Harry exhaled the smoke through his nose. A pause. Then, finally:

“Because they’re not the ones bleeding.”

[cigarettesuga]

꒰꒰⠀⠀⠀opposites don’t attract, they destroy⠀✸⠀(⠀⠀pjm⠀⠀) chpt. O3

pairing: fuckboy!park jimin x proud & stubborn!reader, slow-burn potential with softboy!namjoon x reader

genre: college!au, smut, angst, slow-burn romance, love triangle, situationship mess, emotional repression, she fell first/he’s falling harder

warnings: explicit sexual content — protected sex (condom mentioned but still be safe irl), brat taming kink, fingering (public-ish space), oral sex (f receiving), use of toys, dom!jimin energy, light degradation, a little rough, slight overstimulation, consensual power play, possessiveness, jealousy, emotionally confusing hookups, mentions of casual sex outside the situationship. also: toxic patterns, emotional whiplash, unresolved tension, and rowan being the obsessed hookup™.

word count: 14.1k

summary: things spiral after an unexpected interruption. (y/n) starts questioning everything with jimin — what it is, what it isn’t. but just when she tries to pull away, he makes it nearly impossible — especially when he knows exactly how to pull her back in. still, a part of her wants more, or at least different, and when sora introduces her to someone who’s everything jimin isn’t… she starts to wonder if maybe she’s been settling for chaos all along.

lu's note: chapter 3 is finally hereeeee after a while!! these two need to get their shit together for real. anyway, this chapter is long bc i wanted to make up for the time i left y’all without an update — i seriously got way too deep into their dynamic and couldn’t stop writing. things are spiraling, there’s angst, there's heat, and a certain dimpled man may just start shifting the game 👀 enjoy!!

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⠀ ⠀ "he feels safe"

the next morning creeps in slowly, grey and uninvited, leaking through the blinds like a secret. (y/n) doesn’t get out of bed. not right away. she just lies there under her covers, eyes on the ceiling like it might offer her an answer she’s too tired to find herself. her phone buzzes somewhere on the nightstand. again.

she doesn’t look at it. she knows who it is.

jimin’s name has lit up her screen half a dozen times since last night—calls she didn’t answer, texts she left unread. she saw the last one pop up around two in the morning:

[park jimin 🐣]: are you okay?

like he had the right to ask.

and maybe he did. maybe she’s being dramatic. maybe it wasn’t what it looked like, some girl from his past showing up in the middle of their moment—but the thing is… there’s no their. there’s no us. there never was. she told herself that from the start.

so why does it sting so fucking much?

she rolls onto her side, tucking her hands under her cheek like it might keep her together. her throat feels tight. her stomach’s been turning since last night. she’d left without saying a word—no yelling, no scene. just grabbed her bag, shoved on her hoodie, and walked out of his apartment barefoot with her shoes in hand. she didn’t even slam the door.

maybe that’s what makes it worse. that she didn’t ask. didn’t demand an explanation. just left. because what would she have been fighting for, anyway?

she’s not his girlfriend. she’s not even someone he talks about out loud.

just a girl he calls over. a distraction. a routine. a body, warm and convenient and quiet.

and the more she thinks about it, the more she realizes—god, she’s been so dumb.

it wasn’t romantic. it wasn’t some twisted, angsty, almost-love situation like she used to write stories about in high school. it was messy and addictive and full of every red flag she chose to ignore.

he flirted with other girls in front of her. he never looked at her like she was his. and she?

she kept acting like she didn’t care. laughing it off. letting it slide. climbing into his bed anyway.

was the sex good? yes. but sex doesn’t mean someone’s gonna hold your hand the next morning. it doesn’t mean they’ll choose you in front of other people. it doesn’t mean they’ll stop answering the door for old flames.

and she’s sick of pretending it does.

the phone buzzes again. she sighs. pulls the covers over her head like she’s sixteen again and wants the world to disappear.

maybe she romanticized it because she was lonely. maybe jimin made it easy. maybe she let herself want something more in all the empty spaces he wouldn’t fill.

and now she’s left with silence. and an ache in her chest she doesn’t know what to call. but she sure as hell isn’t calling him.

the door creaks open like it’s got something to say too, and (y/n) doesn’t even move.

“damn,” sora’s voice cuts through the fog of the room, bright and teasing, like usual. “somebody didn’t sleep well.”

(y/n) stays facedown on her pillow, groaning softly. “can you not.”

sora pauses by the door, toeing her sneakers off, and yeah—she knows. not the details, but enough. she’s been watching this slow-motion crash for a while now. best friends always do.

she sets a coffee down on the desk without asking if it’s wanted. “so. you wanna talk about it?”

there’s a beat. just the hum of the mini fridge and the click of sora’s rings against the plastic lid.

(y/n) doesn’t cry. not because it doesn’t hurt, but because she’s not even sure what she feels. it’s not heartbreak—it never got the chance to be that. it’s not betrayal, not technically. it’s more like… disappointment. in him. in herself. and a creeping kind of embarrassment that makes her want to peel off her skin and start fresh somewhere else.

she shifts slowly, pulling herself up to sit against the headboard, hoodie swallowing her frame. “yeah,” she finally says, voice rough. “yeah, I probably should.”

sora doesn’t push. she just pulls the desk chair around to face her, knees tucked up, eyes soft but steady.

and so (y/n) tells her. everything.

starting with the closet.

“it was two months ago,” she mutters, avoiding eye contact, eyes fixed on the swirling condensation of her coffee cup. “that day I was all pissed at him for messing around in class? I pulled him into the janitor’s room.”

sora blinks. “wait, you initiated?”

“don’t start,” she groans, but the smallest flicker of a smile curls at the edge of her mouth, already crumbling under the weight of her own choices. “I don’t even know what came over me. we were arguing and then I just… grabbed him. it spiraled after that.”

sora listens, quiet but alert, and (y/n) keeps going. the backseat. the texts. the way it became a routine, something unspoken, like a second language only they knew how to speak. how every time she tried to act unaffected, he’d crawl deeper under her skin—his stupid smirk, the way he touched her like she was his, even though he never said it out loud.

“it wasn’t just sex,” she admits softly. “i mean—it was, but it wasn’t. we had these… moments. you know? and I let it mean something. even though we both said it didn’t.”

sora sighs gently, shaking her head like she’s been waiting for this to come out.

“and then last night,” (y/n) swallows, “we were at his place, and it was like, actually good, soft almost. and then someone showed up.”

sora lifts a brow. “someone?”

“an ex-hookup. walked up to the door like she still had keys to his life.”

“ouch.”

“yeah,” she says, voice flat. “I didn’t ask questions. I just left.”

“and he’s been calling you?”

“nonstop.” she picks at her sleeve. “i haven’t answered. i don’t even know what I’d say. like… what do you even say when you realize you were just a filler between someone’s options?”

“you weren’t just that,” sora says firmly, but she doesn’t argue the facts. she knows (y/n) wouldn’t feel this way if jimin had made her feel chosen.and he never did.

“i think,” (y/n) says, quieter now, “i think I let myself believe we were something. and maybe i liked the idea of it more than what it really was.”

and that’s the part that hurts the most. not losing jimin. but losing the story she built around him in her head.

“so what now?” sora asks softly, the question sitting between them like a dare and a lifeline. she’s sipping her coffee, one leg crossed over the other, as if pretending this is just another morning. but they both know it’s not. it never is when it comes to jimin.

(y/n) exhales slowly through her nose, sinking further into the pillows behind her. “nothing,” she answers after a pause, voice even. maybe too even. “there’s nothing to do. he made it clear what this was from the beginning. and if that’s how he wants to keep playing it, then I’ll match his energy.”

she says it like it’s simple. like it doesn’t feel like peeling skin off bone to distance herself, even just a little. but she’s not going to let him have the satisfaction of thinking she’s spiraling. he might’ve gotten under her skin—fine. but she’s not about to let him know he stayed there.

“so you’re not gonna talk to him?” sora asks carefully, reading her like a book with the spine cracked wide open.

“no,” she replies, then amends, “well, not really.”

because she already has. already sent him one text—dry, short, boring as hell. sorry, was tired. fell asleep.a lie, of course. she’d spent half the night staring at the ceiling and the other half convincing herself not to cry about someone who never even promised her anything. but he didn’t need to know that.

she wants him to squirm a little. to overthink the silence. he’s used to girls crawling back. texting first. asking what they are. she won’t be that girl. even if it kills her, she’ll make him believe she’s over it. that she could drop him like a bad habit if she really wanted to.

“i’m not gonna be soft about this anymore,” she says, mostly to herself. “i was letting him in too much. giving him space he didn’t earn.”

sora hums. “you do have a pretty mean side. he’s not ready.”

“he doesn’t get nice girl me anymore,” she smirks without humor. “he gets bitchy, distant, unbothered me. if he wanted closeness, he should’ve acted like I was more than a convenience.”

it’s not a new game. she knows how to play cold. how to side-eye his flirting like it’s beneath her. how to brush past him in hallways like he’s just another warm body. it’s the version of her he fell for, ironically. now he gets it again—just with fewer orgasms and more emotional whiplash.

but beneath it all, there’s this tiny, gnawing truth: she still likes him. maybe more than she wants to admit. maybe more than she should. but she can’t tell him that. can’t give him the power to decide whether or not she’s worth more.

so instead, she tightens the grip on her own pride and puts her armor back on—lipgloss, smugness, silence.

she’ll make him miss her. not just her body, not just the mess they made together—but the way she laughed when she forgot to be guarded. the way she looked at him when she thought he might actually care. he’ll miss that softness once it’s gone.

and she’ll let him.

—----

monday’s breeze is too soft to matter, brushing through the quad like it’s trying not to disturb anyone. the campus is buzzing, students passing by with earbuds in and backpacks slung low, rushing toward lectures or dragging their feet toward midterms.

sora and (y/n) stroll somewhere in the middle of it all, iced coffees in hand, jackets barely zipped. the mood is easy—comfortable, even. sora’s talking about her boyfriend again, something about him nearly burning down his kitchen trying to “infuse” oil like some kind of youtube chef.

“i swear to god,” sora says, laughing, “he’s got the humor of a divorced forty-year-old and the culinary instincts of a frat bro.”

“and yet,” (y/n) teases, sipping her drink, “you’re still letting him reorganize your bookshelves and take you out for pasta.”

“listen, seokjin is hot and employed. those are rare resources in college ecosystems.”

(y/n) chuckles. she doesn’t hate hearing about them, honestly. they’re a weird pair on paper—sora’s chaotic brilliance and jin’s dry dad jokes—but they work. they’re affectionate without being clingy, stable without being boring. (y/n) has only had a handful of conversations with seokjin, but he’s always nice. warm. and most importantly, he shows up for sora without ever being asked.

she wonders, briefly, what that might feel like. to be wanted in the open.

but before she can spiral too deep into that question, a familiar voice slices through the crowd like a blade.

“hey…”

her spine stiffens.

jimin.

he appears out of nowhere, like he materialized out of her bad decisions, hoodie half-zipped, eyes locked on her and only her. he’s not even trying to look casual.

“um—can we talk?”

(y/n) blinks at him, eyebrows raised like he’s just said something in klingon. she glances at sora, then back at jimin, letting the silence drag for effect before deadpanning, “i was literally in the middle of a conversation.”

jimin doesn’t budge. “please. just for a second.”

he looks… off. like her coldness is finally hitting him somewhere he didn’t expect. good.

she steps closer, not in a flirty way—more like she’s examining something unfortunate she stepped on. she lifts her finger and presses it to his forehead, barely touching him.

“are you sick?”

he pulls back, brows furrowing. “what?”

“you’re acting weird.” she tilts her head, voice flat. “why would I want to talk to you?”

jimin looks genuinely confused now, caught between frustration and something softer he’s trying not to show. “because… we usually do.”

“do what?” she asks, tilting her head again, mock-sweet. “hook up? you can just say it, park.”

he flinches—just barely, but she sees it. and it’s satisfying in a low, petty way that she won’t apologize for.

“what do we even have to talk about?” she adds, stepping back beside sora, who’s sipping her drink like this is the best episode of a drama she didn’t know she was starring in. “seriously.”

“(y/n),” jimin starts, but there’s no follow-up. no smooth line. no apology. just her name sitting heavy in the air like maybe that’s supposed to mean something on its own.

but it doesn’t.

not anymore.

she gives him a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes and turns away. “have a good day, park.”

and she walks off with sora without looking back, her pulse ticking at her throat like a warning.

“okay but like,” sora says the moment they’re out of earshot, voice halfway between impressed and genuinely worried, “you didn’t just shut him down. you obliterated him. that was… art. i mean it. textbook.”

(y/n) just sips her coffee, keeping her eyes straight ahead. “he deserved it.”

“oh, totally. i’m just saying…” sora eyes her sideways, tone softening, “you okay?”

“yeah.”

“you sure?”

(y/n) shrugs. “I’m fine.”

sora hums. the kind of hum people make when they know you’re full of shit but they love you too much to call you on it directly. “because I know you,” she adds carefully, “and when you act like you don’t care, it usually means you care so much it’s physically painful.”

(y/n) stops walking just long enough to whip around and blink at her. “wow. did you take a psych elective this semester or something?”

“communication major, babe. i’ve been reading between your lines since freshman year.”

(y/n) rolls her eyes, and they start walking again, slower this time. she opens her mouth, probably to deflect again with some sarcastic retort about being totally unaffected by Park Fucking Jimin when she sees her.

across the hallway. shoulders squared. jaw set like she’s walking into a fight she’s been mentally rehearsing since last night.

rowan.

her heart drops somewhere behind her ribcage.

she looks just like she did standing in jimin’s doorway: annoyed, maybe a little defensive, like she has something to say and it’s only a matter of time before she finds the audience.

(y/n) falters mid-step, instinctively grabbing sora’s arm, leaning in close to whisper, “it’s her. the ex.”

sora’s eyes follow her line of sight, landing squarely on the girl striding past a bulletin board full of club flyers, hair tied up, expression tight.

“oh.” she straightens. “she looks… intense.”

“she showed up at his place last night. in the middle of everything.”

sora’s brows rise. “everything-everything?”

“everything.”

they both glance again. rowan hasn’t noticed them yet—or if she has, she’s pretending not to.

“think she’s gonna say something?”

“no clue,” (y/n) mutters, pulse ticking again. “but if she does, I’m not doing this. I’m not playing that game.”

“i believe you,” sora says, then gently adds, “even though you’re clearly losing your mind.”

(y/n) takes a deep breath through her nose, chin lifting. “not losing it. just momentarily misplacing it.”

but even as she says it, she can feel the crack forming in her façade.

because it’s one thing to pretend you’re over it when he’s the only one around to fool. it’s another thing entirely when the girl from his past is now walking the same halls, brushing past the same walls, maybe still carrying pieces of him that (y/n) thought she was starting to understand.

and it’s suddenly very, very clear: whatever this is between her and jimin— it’s nowhere near finished. but it might be about to unravel.

“ugh, i gotta run,” sora says, glancing at her phone with a sigh, the schedule app glowing with judgment. “ta’s gonna take attendance and i already used my fake sickness last week.”

“you and your tragic academic career,” (y/n) deadpans, pulling her hoodie sleeve over her hand and lightly smacking her arm. “go. be mediocre.”

sora smirks, brushing imaginary lint off her shoulder. “you sure you’re good?”

“i’m golden,” (y/n) lies with a smile.

sora doesn’t press further. just gives her a final look that says be careful, then jogs off into the slow-moving tide of students.

and then it’s just her. standing by herself under the wide-open quad sky. sipping her coffee. pretending she’s not emotionally bruised.

until she’s not alone anymore.

a presence sidles up beside her, calculated and cold like a shadow you don’t want to acknowledge. (y/n) doesn’t turn her head. not at first.

but the voice is unmistakable.

“so you’re the reason he’s been acting different.”

(y/n)’s lips curl before she even looks. slow, practiced, unbothered. she turns toward the voice, gaze gliding down and back up with pointed disinterest. rowan stands there with her arms crossed over her chest, lips pursed, like she’s already decided she’s got the moral high ground.

“you’re gonna have to be more specific,” (y/n) says calmly, eyebrow lifting. “a lot of people act weird around me.”

rowan doesn’t smile. “i’m talking about jimin.”

“oh.” she sips her drink, shrugs. “you could’ve just said that.”

“don’t play dumb with me. i know what’s going on between you two.”

“yeah?” (y/n) tilts her head, giving a once-over like she’s trying to decide whether she’s impressed or bored. “then you probably also know how it ended last night.”

that flickers something in rowan’s expression—tightens it, sharpens it.

“you really think this means something to him?” she snaps, taking a step closer.

(y/n) doesn’t flinch. if anything, she leans in a little, a cruel sort of softness in her voice now. “if it doesn’t, then why’d he ask you to leave?”

rowan opens her mouth, but no sound comes out.

“look,” (y/n) continues, smiling now but it’s all teeth, “i don’t do the whole ‘mark your territory’ thing. if he’s yours, go ahead and claim him. tattoo your name on his forehead. but as long as he keeps calling me at night—well…” she steps past her, brushing her shoulder as she turns, “i’m just gonna keep having fun for a little longer.”

rowan stares after her, stunned into silence.

(y/n) doesn’t stop walking. doesn’t look back. her coffee’s almost empty, her heart’s pounding in her chest, but her face is unreadable.

and god, if she doesn’t love being the one who gets under everyone’s skin— even when she’s bleeding just beneath her own.

she makes it to class five minutes late, breath shallow from speed walking across campus, still slightly warm from her run-in with the ex. her hair’s a little messy, her coffee’s long gone, and her tolerance for bullshit is basically at zero.

and of course—of course—the only open seat is next to him.

park jimin sits there like he owns the row. sprawled out in that casual, cocky way of his, hoodie sleeves pushed up to his forearms, one knee bouncing like he’s got too much energy and nowhere appropriate to put it.

she slides into the chair without a word, slams her bag down harder than necessary, and doesn’t even look at him.

but she feels him smirk the second she’s close.

“you’re late,” he whispers.

“and you’re still talking,” she shoots back.

he chuckles under his breath, leaning just a little closer. “you missed the part where the prof said our midterm is online. you’re welcome.”

“oh, so now you’re doing public service?”

his lips part like he’s about to come back with something smug, but she cuts in before he can:

“by the way,” she whispers, still facing forward, eyes on the projector, “you should really keep your girlfriend in check.”

his body stills beside her. “rowan’s not my girlfriend.”

his voice is too quick, too sharp. too defensive.

she lets it simmer for a beat before letting the smirk curl at her mouth.

“yeah, well,” she says, keeping her voice low and biting, “i don’t think she got the memo. she looked about two seconds away from keying my face.”

he groans quietly, scrubbing a hand down his face. “i didn’t ask her to come over. she just showed up.”

“so did I,” she mutters. “difference is you actually wanted me there.”

that earns her a glance. one of those slow, heavy looks from the corner of his eye that lingers longer than it should.

she doesn’t return it. she can’t. not when she’s still pissed at herself for wanting this at all.

but god, she wants it. even now—especially now.

the professor’s voice drones on, something about behavioral economics and social theory, but she leans in just enough for only him to hear.

“hey…” she whispers like she’s asking something innocent.

he hums in reply, still staring at the screen.

“do you wanna hang out later?” she asks, so casually it could be mistaken for small talk. “you still owe me something.”

his head snaps slightly in her direction, and this time she does meet his eyes. deadpan. unreadable. but her gaze is heated.

he swallows hard, tongue running along the inside of his cheek like he’s trying not to react. trying not to smile.

she hates herself a little in that moment. for wanting him. for wanting to be wanted by him. for feeling it in the pit of her stomach already, the tension pulling tight again like a rubber band ready to snap.

but if she’s going to let herself spiral, she’s at least going to look good doing it.

—----

they don’t even bother heading to their next period.

the air’s still cool and quiet, campus only half-awake, and they’re walking fast without saying anything. (y/n)’s a solid two feet ahead of him, arms crossed, jaw set, sunglasses on even though it’s barely 9 a.m.

jimin follows like he’s tethered to her, fingers twitching at his sides. his hair’s still a little tousled from class, and his hoodie’s too loose on him—but the tension rolling off him is tight. he’s not speaking, because he knows her. knows silence pisses her off more than flirting ever could.

they hit the edge of the parking lot, gravel crunching underfoot, the weight of everything unsaid between them suddenly too much.

the second they reach his car, he snaps.

one hand slams the door shut behind her before she can open it, the other catches her waist, spinning her around and shoving her up against the passenger side with a thud. the sunroof glass rattles with the impact.

his mouth crashes onto hers, bruising and breathless, all tongue and teeth and rage barely hidden under lust.

she gasps against him but doesn’t resist—no, she leans in, arms looping loosely around his neck like she’s bored of the whole thing already.

“i know you’re mad at me,” he breathes into her mouth, eyes flicking between hers. “you don’t have to pretend.”

“i’m not pretending,” she mutters, dragging her nails up the back of his neck, “you’re just not that interesting.”

he laughs. low. dark. the sound of someone who loves getting slapped and kissed in the same breath.

his hands slide up her sides, under her top, palms burning against her ribs. “you want me to fuck the little attitude out of you?” he murmurs, nose brushing hers.

“you think you can?” she shoots back, tone dry as hell, lips barely brushing his. “please.”

that has him grinning—something unhinged and gleaming with teeth. “you are such a brat.”

“and you’re obsessed with it,” she replies coolly, but her body’s already betraying her. she shifts against him, hips brushing his. “you like when I give you a hard time.”

“i like when you shut up.”

“then make me.”

his hand moves down to grip her thigh, hoisting it up against his hip, grinding in just enough to make her inhale sharply. but her face? her face stays unimpressed. lips parted, eyes heavy, a smirk tugging at the corners like she knows she’s got him wrapped around her finger—even now.

he looks wrecked already, forehead pressing against hers.

“get in the car,” he growls. “before I fuck you against the window.”

she slides off him like silk, flicks her sunglasses up to rest on her head, and opens the door without saying another word—her smirk doing all the talking.

the car hums low beneath them, tires rolling steady down the road, early morning sun creeping higher as the rest of the city slowly wakes. but inside jimin’s car? it’s anything but quiet.

the music is low, bass thumping soft under the dashboard. one of those moody R&B playlists he pretends he doesn’t keep just for this kind of thing. the windows are cracked. the air’s warm. and his hand is on her thigh.

(y/n) sits pointedly still in the passenger seat, staring out the window, arms crossed like she’s not burning from the inside out.

but his hand? his hand is deliberate. casual, almost. just resting there at first, fingertips lazily tapping along the bare skin just beneath the hem of her denim shorts. thumb brushing back and forth, light and slow.

he doesn’t look at her. doesn’t have to.

she shifts her weight a little, like she’s trying to create space without making it obvious.

he notices.

of course he does.

his hand slides up. just a little. inching higher with every red light. knuckles skimming higher on her inner thigh like he’s testing her patience—testing her restraint.

she breathes deep. doesn’t move. doesn’t react. not visibly anyway.

that’s when he grins. because she’s playing the game again.

he palms her. flat over her shorts. firm, deliberate pressure where he knows she’s starting to feel it. just enough friction to make her thighs twitch together. and god, the denim is making it worse—coarse and tight and hiding nothing.

“you’re quiet,” he says, glancing at her with that smug, slow-lidded look.

“you’re annoying,” she replies, voice thin, every syllable laced with tension.

his fingers shift, pressing down harder. his palm rolls slightly, a subtle grind right where she’s most reactive.

“mhm,” he hums, “but you’re wet.”

she turns her head slowly, jaw tight, eyes practically daring him to keep going.

“i will bite you, park.”

he laughs—soft and cocky, pulling up at a red light, letting the car idle as he turns slightly in his seat to face her more.

“promise?”

she swallows, blinking down at where his hand still rests between her thighs. then back at him.

cool. unaffected. absolutely lying.

“i’m not giving you the satisfaction.”

“baby, you already did.” he smirks. “like five minutes ago when you clenched your thighs.”

her lips part, but she has no comeback—just a soft little breath of indignation and the flush crawling up her neck.

she doesn’t say anything.

doesn’t spit out some clever one-liner or roll her eyes like usual. instead, she just slowly parts her legs—barely an inch. just enough.

enough to say: fine. try me.

his breath hitches, quiet and shallow.

his hand moves immediately, like muscle memory, sliding just under the edge of her shorts with practiced ease. she’s still facing the window, jaw clenched, brows tight like she’s bored with him—but he can feel the tension humming under her skin. she’s wired tight, her pulse racing just under her thigh, her breath carefully measured, like she’s fighting not to give him the satisfaction of seeing her react.

his fingertips move slow. teasing. tracing up and down the soft skin of her inner thigh, skimming maddeningly close but never quite touching where she wants him. his fingers are warm and sure, featherlight, dragging slow little circles as if they’re not parked in broad daylight in front of a campus dorm.

“still annoying?” he murmurs, voice low, barely audible over the thrum of the engine.

she swallows hard. doesn’t look at him. “you’re a joke.”

he laughs under his breath. “yeah? you gonna keep pretending this doesn’t feel good?”

he dips his fingers higher, the pads of them brushing over the edge of her panties. his grin only grows when he finds the damp spot already soaking through the cotton, evidence of her undoing, even if she won’t give him a single word.

“fuck,” he whispers more to himself than her, tongue darting out to wet his lips, “you’re soaked.”

she exhales, slow and tight, her back pressing deeper into the seat like she’s trying to melt into it. her thighs twitch, hips subtly shifting toward him, betraying her every attempt at aloofness.

he leans in, voice like honey and fire all at once.

“say it,” he whispers, sliding a single finger over the wet fabric. slow. purposeful. “say you missed this.”

she doesn’t. won’t. can’t.

but she tilts her hips again.

and that’s all he needs.

his fingertip slips just beneath the damp fabric, barely grazing her, enough to make her knees tense and a soft breath escape her lips. not a moan, not even a gasp—just air, tight in her throat, caught between pride and want.

he moves again. slower this time. dragging his finger up and down the center of her, collecting slick and spreading it deliberately, like he has all the time in the world.

she grips the edge of her seat, knuckles pale.

he’s grinning like he’s won. like she’s his favorite game and this is the part he never gets tired of.

“tell me to stop,” he murmurs, teasing now, daring her.

she turns, just enough to meet his eyes, her face impassive but her pupils blown wide, cheeks flushed.

“i’ll let you know when i feel something,” she says coolly, voice like smoke.

and that is when he slides a second finger against her—more pressure this time, more confidence, watching her mouth twitch just slightly, just enough to know it’s getting to her.

“yeah?” he murmurs with a grin. “you’ll feel it in two seconds. promise.”

she doesn't flinch when he slides his fingers in.

not outwardly, at least.

her legs stay relaxed, parted just enough. her hands stay in her lap, nails lightly pressing into the fabric of her shorts, knuckles taut—but her face? still unreadable. no fluttering lashes. no bitten lip. no dramatic sigh of surrender. just that same neutral expression as before, eyes fixed somewhere past the windshield like she’s thinking about class or lunch or literally anything but the two fingers knuckle-deep inside her.

but he feels it.

the way she clenches around him, tighter than before, like her body didn’t get the memo her mind’s trying to stick to. the tension in her thighs. the sharp, shaky breath she tries to hide by coughing into her sleeve.

his smile is cruel.

“you’re so full of shit,” he mutters, watching her face carefully, his thumb brushing the edge of her shorts where they’ve ridden up.

her only response is a soft scoff. not quite a laugh. not quite denial.

he curls his fingers just slightly, testing her, grazing that spot inside that always makes her suck in air like she’s drowning on dry land. and there it is—just the tiniest hitch in her breath, the subtle roll of her hips forward, so slight it could’ve been nothing… but he knows it wasn’t.

his voice drops, barely audible beneath the soft click of the turn signal as the car idles on the curb

“you gonna keep pretending?” he whispers, fingers moving slowly inside her, more deliberate now, dragging along every wet, pulsing inch.

still, she doesn’t give him much. just a long, quiet exhale through her nose, lips slightly parted now but her eyes don’t waver. don’t look at him. not yet.

“you’re shaking,” he adds, cocky and amused, pressing in a little deeper, his palm dragging against the curve of her thigh as he moves. “that little attitude’s slipping, baby.”

finally, finally, she turns to him—face flushed now, the tiniest sheen on her brow, but her mouth still curved in that stubborn little smirk he wants to ruin.

“drive,” she says lowly, lashes fluttering once like a warning.

he raises an eyebrow. “drive?”

“yeah,” she murmurs, voice thick and strained, “or i’ll make you fall apart next.”

and he swears under his breath, biting his lip because fuck, he’s obsessed with this girl. even now. especially now.

but he pulls his hand back anyway, slowly, dragging every second out like a punishment. and when his fingers slip out of her, glistening, he watches the way her thighs twitch from the loss.

he doesn’t say a word. just turns the key in the ignition.

and the ride the rest of the way?

silent. tense. electric.

every red light feels like a countdown to something neither of them are ready to admit they need.

the hallway is quiet when they get to her floor, just the faint hum of fluorescent lights and the occasional muffled door slam somewhere behind them. she walks ahead with her keys in hand, eyes fixed on the door to her dorm. doesn’t check if he’s following—she knows he is.

jimin’s just a step behind, hands shoved in his pockets like he’s trying to keep them from doing something reckless. like sliding them under her shorts again. or yanking her flush against him right there in the stairwell.

but he waits.

waits until she unlocks the door, pushes it open, walks in without a word. he steps in after her, kicks the door closed behind him, and the second the latch clicks shut—

she peels off her hoodie.

not in a dramatic, attention-seeking way. not even trying to look sexy.

just—matter-of-fact. like she’s tossing off the weight of the morning. like she’s tired of pretending she’s not already aching from the ride over.

her tank top clings to her, a sliver of skin peeking out above the waistband of her shorts as she tosses the hoodie to the side. she still hasn’t looked at him. hasn’t said a single word since they left the car. but her body speaks for her: shoulders tense, movements sharp, hair falling loose over one shoulder as she reaches down to untie her shoes.

she’s done pretending. and they both know exactly what this is.

jimin’s eyes trail the line of her spine beneath her tank, the slight curve of her waist, the way her shorts barely cling to her hips. he licks his lips and swallows hard, staying by the door for half a second longer than necessary—like he’s bracing for something.

she tosses her shoes toward the corner, stands straight, finally looks over her shoulder at him.

just one look.

blank. unapologetic. devastating.

then she turns back and walks toward the bed, slowly sliding the strap of her tank off her shoulder like it’s just another thing in the way.

and that’s all the invitation he needs.

he’s moving before he knows it, already toeing off his sneakers, pulling his hoodie over his head, eyes locked on her like she’s gravity and he’s just something caught in orbit.

no words. not yet.

just clothes shedding to the floor, tension thick in the air, and the silent understanding between two people who are too far gone to stop.

she doesn’t say a word—just climbs up onto the bed, slow and unfazed, like she’s stretching, not seducing. her knees sink into the mattress first, then her elbows, chest folding down with a soft exhale as she settles near the edge. her hair spills over her shoulder, cascading messily down her back, catching on the soft glow of the lamp on her desk.

her shorts ride up just enough to leave nothing to the imagination.

and then she looks over her shoulder. face half-lit, brow arched in that way.

she doesn’t blink. doesn’t even tilt her head.

just stares at him with that expression like: are you going to do something or just stand there gawking?

jimin’s tongue darts out to wet his lips. his jaw tightens as he exhales through his nose—low, deep, amused. he’s already shirtless, belt undone, standing a few feet away like he’s trying to commit the view to memory.

“you always this bossy when you’re needy?” he mutters, voice low and warm, filled with quiet laughter.

she doesn’t answer. just shifts her hips back slightly, an unsubtle reminder that she’s waiting. that he’s the one wasting time now.

so he steps closer.

his hands come to her waist, one sliding around her hip, fingers splaying across her stomach while the other glides down to the curve of her ass. he squeezes lightly—like he’s testing, admiring, owning.

"you really think that little attitude makes you less obvious?” he murmurs, leaning down until his mouth hovers near the shell of her ear. “you’re dripping through these shorts, baby.”

she rolls her eyes. “you talk too much.”

“and you never shut up until my hand’s over your mouth,” he counters, grinning into her skin, brushing his lips just beneath her ear. “but please, keep pretending I don’t have you exactly where you want to be.”

his hand slides under the waistband of her shorts, slow, almost lazy—like he has all day to take her apart.

and from her silence, her stillness, the faint hitch in her breath?

he knows she’ll let him.

but she’ll never admit it.

and fuck if that isn’t his favorite part.

he presses into her slowly, his chest brushing her back, hips pushing against the swell of her ass still wrapped tight in her shorts. they’re both still half dressed, but the friction feels criminal—the rough fabric of his jeans grinding against her in a way that makes her thighs tense, breath catching somewhere in her throat.

her hands fist in the sheets beneath her, jaw clenched, still pretending this doesn’t do anything to her. still trying to play the unbothered girl even with the weight of him bearing down on her.

but jimin knows better.

he slides one hand around her waist again, fingers dipping just beneath the waistband like he owns the space there. his other hand? the one on her ass—lingering, affectionate at first. his thumb traces a slow, lazy arc on her skin, dipping under the hem of her shorts.

and then—

crack.

his palm lands with a sharp sting against her ass, the sound loud in the otherwise silent room.

she jerks forward instinctively, her breath knocked short by the sudden slap. not hard enough to hurt—just enough to leave heat. a bloom of sensation that burns and tingles, the echo of it painting fire beneath her skin.

“there she is,” he murmurs, his voice smug and low and so satisfied.

she huffs out a breath—almost a laugh, but not quite. her face turns against the mattress, muffling the sound. still refusing to give him the reaction he wants.

but her body gives her away. it always does.

he feels the way she pushes back into him, subtly but certainly. the way her thighs spread just a little wider. the way her hips stay lifted, waiting.

“still annoyed?” he asks, rocking forward again, dragging his clothed length against the seam of her shorts. “or finally admitting you need me?”

she tilts her head just enough to glare at him over her shoulder. her lips are parted, cheeks flushed, a single strand of hair caught in her lashes.

“touch me again,” she says, voice dry, “and don’t waste time talking about it.”

and jimin? fuck, he loves her like this.

headstrong. infuriating. soaked.

he grins, already reaching for the button of her shorts, mouthing along her shoulder as he mutters—

“anything for you, baby girl.”

her shorts hit the floor in a rush of fabric, and still—still—she’s got that expression on her face. like she’s unimpressed. like she’s bored. like she’s not clenching around nothing and biting down on her own tongue to keep from whimpering the second his hand touched her.

and jimin notices. he sees all of it.

the fake eye roll. the smug smirk. the feigned indifference. she’s baiting him—again.

and this time? he’s taking it.

“oh?” he hums, dragging his hand up the back of her thigh again, warm palm skimming the curve of her now-bare ass. “you’re still gonna act like you’re not begging for it? really?”

she shrugs. shrugs. as if he isn’t kneeling behind her, half-hard and starving.

“it’s not that deep, park.���

oh, she wants to be punished.

he lets out a low laugh—one that doesn't quite reach his eyes. “got it,” he says quietly, reaching for the bottom drawer of her nightstand like he knows exactly where everything is now. he finds what he needs in two seconds flat. the bottle of lube. a fresh condom. and just for good measure—her toy, the one she thought he didn’t know about.

her head snaps around. “what are you—”

he cuts her off with a sharp look, one hand already ghosting over the back of her neck, gently but firmly guiding her face back down into the mattress.

“don’t play dumb. you wanna be a brat?” his voice is calm now, cool and measured in a way that makes her pulse jump. “then you’re gonna learn what happens when you act like one.”

and she should say something snarky—she always does—but there’s something different in his tone. something dangerous. delicious.

she stays silent.

“good girl,” he murmurs, almost mockingly, letting the words drip over her like syrup as he trails a line of open-mouthed kisses down her spine. “see? already learning.”

he presses her thighs apart further, kneeling between them. she’s soaked already—of course she is. and now she’s quiet. breath shaky. head turned into the mattress. her hands curled into the sheets.

jimin leans in, whispering just beside her ear, his voice low and cruel and addicting.

“you’re not gonna come until i say so. and if you do? i’m gonna edge you until you’re crying.”

she shivers.

he grins.

and when he finally presses inside her, deep and slow and devastating—one hand gripping her hip, the other wrapping around the back of her neck—she doesn’t say a single word.

but god, she feels everything.

he pushes in deep—inch by inch, like he’s got nowhere to be. like the clock doesn’t exist. like the only thing that matters is dragging out the moment just long enough to make her beg.

and she hates that it’s working.

her body reacts before she can even try to stop it—hips twitching back to meet him, thighs tightening, her hands already white-knuckling the sheets beneath her. but he’s not picking up the pace. at all. if anything, he’s slowing down further, grinding into her with a slow, punishing rhythm that’s more pressure than thrust—just deep enough to leave her breathless, but not enough to tip her over the edge.

“mm,” he hums, voice almost playful, breath hitting the side of her neck as he leans in, so fucking composed. “what happened to that mouth, huh?”

she doesn't answer. she can’t—not with the way he’s moving, rolling his hips in slow circles, deliberately avoiding that perfect angle. not with the way her body is already trembling, so sensitive she could cry if he just moved a little faster.

“not so mouthy now,” he murmurs, smiling against her skin as he trails a kiss down her spine, his fingers pressing into her hips like they’re sculpting her into submission. “what, baby? all that attitude gone the second i touched you?”

still, she says nothing. won’t give him the satisfaction.

but her legs are shaking.

her back arches on instinct.

and when he pulls all the way out and doesn’t move for a full beat—just leaves her there, empty, clenching around nothing—her breath catches like a hiccup and her hips buck without her permission.

that’s when he laughs. low, dark, mean.

“yeah,” he whispers, dragging his fingers along the mess between her thighs. “you’re fuckin’ ruined for me.”

he pushes back in hard this time—not fast, just deep—pressing flush to the base, holding there, stretching her until she whimpers into the mattress.

“you wanna come?” he asks, casual. too casual.

she nods, but it’s barely a twitch. like even moving her head might set her off.

he tsks. “use your words.”

she forces them out through clenched teeth, her voice wrecked and hoarse. “yes. fuck, please.”

but he only pulls out again, slow as ever, and she nearly sobs at the loss.

“not yet,” he murmurs, dragging his lips across her shoulder, breath hot, smirk cruel. “you’re not sorry enough.”

and oh, he’s loving this. the tension. the way she’s twitching underneath him. the way she’s desperate now—no more smartass remarks, no more fake eye rolls. just panting. trembling. waiting.

and jimin?

he’s going to take his time. she wanted to be a brat?

now she gets to be his favorite toy.

her voice is thin, already frayed around the edges, dragged raw from holding everything back. but eventually, it breaks—shattering into the thick air between them like glass under pressure.

“jimin,” she gasps, voice barely audible, cheek pressed against the mattress. “please. please, i—I can’t…”

his grin is slow, predatory. he hums like he’s considering it, even though he always intended to make her beg. always wanted to hear it roll off her tongue like that—wrecked and reluctant.

“can’t what?” he asks, maddeningly calm, hips still moving in that same, slow grind. deep. aching. controlled. “can’t handle it? can’t admit you need me?”

she makes a noise in the back of her throat—something between a whimper and a curse, fingers clawing at the bedsheets like they can save her.

he finally gives her a little more—just a little. his pace picks up barely, enough to make the heat swirl tighter in her belly, enough to give her a flicker of hope.

and then he’s reaching for the bottle on the nightstand without stopping, popping the cap with one hand like he’s done this before—because he has. a hundred times in his head, every time she walked past him on campus, every time she rolled her eyes at something he said like he wasn’t the only one who could get her to come undone.

his other hand slides beneath her stomach, lifting her hips slightly, giving him a better angle as he shifts behind her. she whimpers again—almost instinctively now—and he leans forward to kiss between her shoulders.

“don’t worry,” he says, and there’s actual softness there, threaded beneath the smugness, barely-there but present. “not gonna hurt you.”

then she feels it—the cool slickness of the lube hitting his cock, dripping down where their bodies meet, mixing with the mess already between her thighs. his thrusts don’t stop—still deep, still slow—but the slide becomes smoother, easier, sending a ripple through her that makes her curse into the sheets.

her body jerks forward, her thighs trying to close around him—he stops that instantly, one hand pressing her knees apart.

“no, baby,” he says, low in her ear. “you asked for it. now you take it.”

and she does—biting her lip, panting, begging again under her breath because it’s still not enough, not yet. he’s making sure she’s comfortable, taken care of—and still fucking denying her at the same time.

it’s cruel.

it’s maddening.

and it’s making her obsessed.

he’s got her pinned—head turned to the side, one hand heavy at the back of her neck, not squeezing, just holding. Keeping. she’s got no choice but to look at him, her cheek flattened against the mattress, lashes wet, mouth parted as she gasps around every thrust.

he’s still moving slow, goddamn meticulous, hips rolling deep and deliberate like he's got something to prove. like he wants to fuck the shape of himself into her and take his time doing it.

but she’s trembling now, legs barely holding her up, her voice falling into these broken little sounds that aren’t words anymore. every time he pushes in, she lets out a soft, breathless moan—punctuated by frustration, desperation, need.

“jimin,” she pleads, again and again, tone dipping just enough to soften his name into a whimper. “please—”

he leans over her, mouth hovering next to her ear, his breath hot and smug and fucking infuriating.

“please what, baby? use your words,” he murmurs, a hand slipping between her legs for just a second, two fingers brushing where she needs it most—barely. “you want me to keep going? want me to fuck you like the needy little brat you are?”

she squeezes her eyes shut, too embarrassed, too ruined. but her body answers for her—hips pushing back, thighs twitching.

he lets out a low, rough chuckle.

“you love it when I make you beg, don’t you?” he presses, voice darker now, but still calm—too calm. “look at you. always pretending you don’t want this. but I’ve never seen you so wet. so fucking desperate.”

she chokes on a moan, tears gathering in the corners of her eyes, mascara smudging under the strain.

“say it,” he demands, tone sharp now, that cocky edge turning into something that bites. “say you want it.”

and she finally breaks.

“i want it—i want you—fuck, please, jimin—just fuck me already!”

and that’s it.

he snaps.

the hand on her neck tightens just a little—not enough to scare her, just enough to ground her—as his hips pull back and slam into her hard, the sound obscene, skin meeting skin with a wet crack. she yelps, mouth falling open in a gasp that pitches too loud to be controlled.

“oh, now you’re ready?” he snarls, thrusting again, hard and fast this time, his body crashing into hers like a fucking wave. “you wanna be a brat, and then cry when you don’t get what you want? this is what you’ve been begging for?”

she can’t answer. there are no words. only sounds—breathless, frantic, ruined sounds as he fucks her into the mattress, rough and unrelenting, every snap of his hips making the headboard knock into the wall.

he’s not going slow anymore. he’s feral.

and her moans? they turn to cries.

not of pain.

of relief.

he’s panting now, but still relentless. sweat slicking his back, hair stuck to his forehead, his grip on her hips bruising as he drives into her with every ounce of control he has left. she’s shaking under him—crying out, trying to breathe, trying to hold herself together.

and then he slows just slightly, only to lean over her again and reach toward the nightstand, dragging open the drawer like he knows exactly where it is.

she doesn’t even register it at first. not until she hears the soft buzz—low and steady and unmistakable.

her head snaps up weakly, eyes wide as she watches him turn around with her toy in hand, smirking like the devil.

“thought you said this wasn’t a thing,” he murmurs, voice low, mocking, dark. “but you keep all the essentials ready for me, don’t you, baby?”

her lips part, but no words come out. she’s trembling now, thighs twitching from overstimulation, slick everywhere, muscles sore, her brain trying to catch up with her body.

and jimin? he’s enjoying every second.

he reaches out, takes her hand gently but firmly, and places the toy in her palm.

“go ahead,” he says softly, a breath against her ear. “hold it there for me.”

she looks back at him, breathless, still trying to figure out if he’s serious.

he just raises an eyebrow, cock still deep inside her, rolling his hips slow to make her feel it.

“what?” he taunts. “too much for you now, baby girl? thought you liked being a brat.”

her grip tightens around the toy, and slowly, trembling, she brings it between her thighs, pressing it right there—right where she needs it.

her whole body jolts.

“fuck—” she gasps, and immediately bites down on her bottom lip to keep herself from moaning too loud.

he grins.

“good girl. now keep it there.”

he starts moving again, steady and deep, every thrust pressing her harder against the toy, every movement making her legs twitch uncontrollably.

“but you don’t get to cum,” he adds, almost too casually. “not until i say. and if you do? i’ll make sure the next time you come is on my tongue, after hours of begging.”

her fingers tighten around the toy, and she sobs out something wordless. he’s not going easy. every thrust now is measured for torment. the sound of wet skin, the low buzz of the toy, her wrecked little whines—it all fills the room like a symphony of her downfall.

she’s close.

so close.

and he knows it.

“don’t you fucking dare,” he growls behind her, voice sharp, hips pounding. “you better hold it. i’ll know if you cum.”

and the worst part?

he would

her legs are shaking uncontrollably, the toy still buzzing in her hand, every nerve in her body screaming. she’s biting down on a moan so hard her jaw aches, fingers white-knuckling the sheets beneath her, desperate not to fall apart. because if she does—if she lets go without permission—she already knows what’s coming.

but she can’t take it anymore.

“please,” she gasps, voice cracked and wrecked, tears pooling at the corners of her eyes. “jimin—please, i can’t—i’m trying, i swear—”

and he’s still behind her, hips rolling into hers with that cruel, deep rhythm that keeps pressing her harder into the toy. she’s right there. dangling. one more thrust, one more second—

“i need to come—please—please, i can’t—”

and then her body betrays her.

she doesn’t even mean to do it—she’s not trying to disobey. but it hits her all at once, like her body just gives out, like her muscles snap and melt and twist all at once. she cries out, her voice shattering like glass, her thighs locking tight as she—

doesn’t.

not yet.

but jimin does.

with a sharp groan through gritted teeth, his pace stutters—finally losing it—burying himself deep one last time as he spills into the condom, his forehead pressing between her shoulder blades, hand gripping her hip like a vice. his groans are low, guttural, breathless—completely undone.

but it’s her broken sob that brings him back down.

he pulls out slowly, careful, still panting. the toy is slipping from her hand now, barely buzzing, and she’s collapsed onto the mattress, thighs twitching, body begging for release.

“baby,” he murmurs, voice softer now, as he kneels behind her. “i told you… if you came without asking…”

“i didn’t,” she whimpers, voice wrecked and trembling. “i didn’t. please—just—please—”

he pulls the toy from her weak hand, tosses it aside, and doesn’t say anything else. just spreads her thighs gently and leans in.

she gasps when his tongue makes contact.

a long, flat lick from the base of her folds all the way up to her clit, slow and mean, like he’s savoring her. and then he does it again. and again. until she’s crying—literal, choked sobs against the mattress, hips bucking, thighs locking around his head but he doesn’t stop.

he eats her out like he’s starving. like her pleasure is his revenge. his hands slide beneath her thighs to keep her in place, and he buries his face deeper, tongue flicking, sucking, moving in maddening circles.

her fingers claw at the mattress.

“jimin—fuck, please, i’m gonna—i can’t—”

and then he says it, voice muffled against her soaked skin:

“come for me.”

and she does.

like she’s never come before. her whole body arches off the bed, thighs squeezing around his head, a strangled, high-pitched cry ripping from her chest as she finally lets go—everything breaking at once. pleasure crashing through her in endless waves, tears slipping down her cheeks, her vision blurring as she rides it out, trembling violently under his mouth.

and he doesn’t stop.

not until she’s twitching too hard to handle it, not until she’s begging him to stop through hiccupped gasps and aftershocks, her body collapsing into the sheets—completely wrecked.

he finally pulls back, chin glossy, lips pink and swollen, looking up at her with a smug little smile and a rawness in his eyes that almost—almost—looks like something more.

“told you you’d be sorry,” he whispers, kissing the inside of her thigh.

the room is quiet now. heavy and thick with the remnants of everything they just did—sweat cooling on skin, the low hum of the AC in the corner, the rustle of her adjusting the sheets under her stomach like she can somehow make herself disappear into them.

he's sitting at the edge of her bed, trying to catch his breath, head bowed, hands braced on his knees. she hasn't looked at him since he licked her clean. not once. her back is turned, and her face is unreadable.

“you okay?” he asks after a beat. voice rough but low. soft, even.

she nods. too quick. too practiced.

“fine.”

he looks at her, sees how her mouth pulls tight like she’s trying to seal something in. like she’s already rebuilding that damn wall she always hides behind. and the worst part is—it stings. more than it should.

he runs a hand through his hair, frustration starting to bubble. “you’re not, though.”

(y/n) doesn’t answer. instead, she grabs her hoodie from the floor, slipping it on with her back still facing him. casual. distant. like they didn’t just share something that had her sobbing into the mattress.

he exhales sharply. “you always do this.”

“do what?” she mutters, tugging the zipper up.

“this whiplash shit,” he snaps, standing now, pacing a little like he can’t stay still. “one second you're climbing on top of me like you need me, and the next you're acting like i'm just some guy you tolerate because you're bored.”

she opens her mouth to respond but her phone rings—perfect timing. she glances at the screen and sighs, answering it with a tired voice.

“hey.”

it's sora.

“where the hell are you? you didn’t show for lunch, are you okay?”

(y/n)’s eyes flick toward jimin like she forgot he was still standing there. her voice switches to casual, cool, detached.

“yeah, i'm fine. just had a headache. i’m at the dorm. you coming?”

“yeah, i’ll be there in like ten. just checking in, babe.”

they hang up and the silence creeps back in. she turns to jimin, not even trying to sugarcoat it.

“you have to go.”

he blinks. “seriously?”

“sora’s on her way,” she says simply, tugging her hair into a messy bun. “you don’t need to be here anymore.”

and it hits him like a slap—how final she sounds. like he was a transaction, not a person. like he did his job and can clock out now.

he hesitates. there's something in his eyes—not casual, not cocky. just… confused. raw.

“when can I see you again?” he asks, and there’s a weight behind it. a tone that implies he doesn’t mean it like before. that maybe, for once, he’s not just asking to get laid.

but she hears what she wants.

she scoffs, already turned away from him again. “jesus, park. already thinking about round two?”

his jaw tightens, but he doesn’t argue. he just watches her for a second—searching. then nods.

“right.”

and as he reaches the door, she doesn’t stop him. doesn’t look at him. just drops back onto the bed like it’s already erased.

“i don’t know,” she mutters, voice muffled into her pillow. “i’ll text you.”

he leaves without another word.

and the second the door clicks shut behind him—she closes her eyes, jaw clenched tight like if she keeps her face neutral long enough, she won't cry.

(y/n) had barely cracked the window open, letting in the early afternoon air, stale and cold and not nearly strong enough to clear the weight in the room, when the door clicked open.

“a headache, huh?”

sora didn’t even drop her bag, arms crossed over her chest, a perfectly sculpted brow raised as she looked (y/n) over with that older-sister energy only best friends know how to master.

“yup,” (y/n) replied flatly, voice muffled from where she stood near the window like she was considering just jumping out of it and vanishing into a new identity.

sora hummed. “right, right…”

she kicked her sneakers off, took her sweet time walking in like she wasn’t about to drop a bomb, then glanced toward the window again.

“you wanna tell me what was park jimin doing leaving this building looking like he wanted to break every surface between here and the quad?”

(y/n) didn’t even flinch. she shrugged, eyes heavy-lidded and distant as she dropped onto her bed, pulling her hoodie over her head like it might hide the truth.

“i don’t know,” she mumbled. “he’s probably having sex with that blonde girl down the hallway. wouldn’t put it past him.”

sora paused.

then—chuckled.

not sweetly. not kindly. it was that you’re unbelievable but I love you anyway kind of laugh that only best friends can manage without it sounding mean.

“if you’re gonna lie,” sora said, stepping forward with the confidence of someone ready to be annoying, “at least try.”

she pointed, very pointedly, at the bottle of lube still sitting half-tucked behind the lamp on the desk and the unmistakable glint of a silver foil wrapper tossed into the corner of the trash can. the lube was still half uncapped. the wrapper hadn’t even been shoved all the way down. clearly, damage control was not (y/n)’s strong suit.

(y/n) groaned. long and loud.

and flopped face-first into her pillow, arms stretched out like she was about to be taken by the void.

sora waited.

and then, from under the pillow:

“i’m so stupid.”

it was quiet. muffled and slightly wet-sounding like her voice had cracked on the way out.

sora sat at the edge of the bed. didn’t touch her. didn’t crowd her. just breathed out softly.

“no, you’re not.”

silence.

“you’re just—” sora paused, searching for the right word. “emotionally constipated. and dating a walking hormone.”

“we’re not dating.”

“mhm. you’re just accidentally raw dogging and crying over him.”

“we’re not—crying—” (y/n)’s voice cracked again.

sora smiled to herself.

“look, you don’t have to say it. but you’re not fine. and i think you’re finally starting to realize that wanting him doesn’t mean you like how he makes you feel.”

(y/n) didn’t answer. not right away.

she just curled tighter into herself, fingers gripping the corner of her blanket, lips pressed shut like if she let anything else out, she might not be able to hold the rest in.

the silence that filled the room wasn’t uncomfortable. not really. just full. full of the weight (y/n) didn’t want to unpack and the affection sora didn’t quite know how to hand over without making her best friend flinch.

sora stared down at her hands, fiddling with the charm on her bracelet, debating.

and then—softly, almost hesitant:

“actually… i was wondering if you’d be down to meet someone.”

(y/n) didn’t move. didn’t even lift her face from the pillow.

“…what?” came her voice, muffled, dry with sarcasm. “are you playing cupid now? that desperate to get rid of me?”

“obviously,” sora quipped, but the smile in her voice was warm. teasing. “i already have the wedding planned. you’re going to wear that one dress you hate just to spite me.”

“cute. can’t wait to be emotionally destroyed by someone new.”

sora rolled her eyes and leaned back on her hands.

“no, seriously. jin and i… we kind of—well. he has this friend.”

that made (y/n)’s ear twitch against the pillow. not enough to give away her interest, but sora caught it anyway.

“he’s, um… nice,” she said, like it was a confession. “and hot. but not like ‘jimin hot,’ you know? not, like, slutty hot. like… handsome.”

“wow, love that for me,” (y/n) muttered. “maybe i can trauma-dump over coffee and he can write a sad indie song about me.”

sora snorted. “honestly? he probably would. he’s kinda deep and stuff. he reads. like, actual books. not just quotes on tumblr.”

“does he own a tote bag and drink overpriced black coffee too?”

“probably. and he’d remember your birthday without having to check instagram.”

(y/n) finally turned her head, face half-squished by the pillow, one brow raised.

“this is sounding suspiciously like you’re describing your dream man and just trying to pass him off to me.”

“hey, i already have one golden retriever boyfriend. i don’t need two. jin’s enough work as it is.”

that made (y/n) crack a tiny smile. just barely. but it was there. fragile and fleeting and stitched together with exhaustion—but real.

“you don’t have to say yes,” sora added gently, nudging (y/n)’s foot with her own. “i just thought… maybe it wouldn’t hurt. talking to someone who’s not gonna fuck with your head.”

another pause.

then—

“what’s his name?” (y/n) asked, like she didn’t care. like it didn’t matter. like she wasn’t secretly trying to memorize it in case she decided to google him later.

sora smiled.

“namjoon.”

sora pulled her phone from her back pocket, tapping quickly through her gallery like she’d been waiting for the perfect moment to break this out. (y/n) was still lying face-down on the mattress, now with her cheek smooshed against her pillow, eyes barely open and squinting in the sunlight slipping through the blinds.

“okay. you have to see this,” sora said, her voice laced with a mischievous kind of warmth.

“if it’s another video of jin falling off a couch, i’ve already seen it.”

“nope,” she grinned. “better.”

she leaned over, holding the screen out so (y/n) could see. and there he was—namjoon. laughing so hard he was practically doubled over, his face pink and scrunched, clearly tipsy, a half-empty beer in one hand and the other braced against seokjin’s shoulder. the older boy was mid-rant about something ridiculous—something to do with sock conspiracies and IKEA furniture—but namjoon wasn’t even listening anymore. he was just laughing, full and loud and unfiltered. the kind of laugh that made other people want to laugh, too.

(y/n) didn’t smile. not really. but something shifted in her chest.

“he already thinks you’re beautiful, by the way,” sora added, casual but not. like it was a secret she’d been sitting on and couldn’t hold in anymore.

“you showed him my insta?” (y/n) asked, but her voice wasn’t angry. more like tired curiosity.

sora shrugged. “he asked. i said you were out of his league, but that didn’t seem to stop him from wanting to meet you.”

(y/n) rolled onto her back, lips pursing as she stared up at the ceiling again. “doesn’t know me, then.”

“no,” sora said softly. “but he’s willing to. and that counts for something.”

she hesitated.

then: “we could totally arrange a double date that’s not really a double date, if you don’t want to be alone. it doesn’t even have to be dinner. we could just do coffee or a bookstore or something stupid. zero pressure. i promise.”

(y/n) was quiet for a long moment.

she didn’t say it aloud—didn’t even shift her expression much. but in the corner of her mind, something uncurled. a tiny flicker of vindication. of pettiness, even.

it’s fair, she told herself.

if jimin was still out here sleeping with whoever the hell he wanted—acting like what they had was just a routine, nothing serious—then what was stopping her from at least meeting someone who might actually give a shit?

she bit the inside of her cheek.

“he reads actual books?” she asked, almost like it was a joke.

sora smiled, sensing the change, the small fracture in her resistance.

“and he volunteers at the campus library on weekends. he knows the dewey decimal system.”

“wow,” (y/n) said dryly. “that’s hot.”

but there was a quiet sort of consideration in her voice now. something that wasn’t there before.

“fine,” (y/n) said, her voice soft. a little hoarse from everything, from him, from the morning. “i’ll go.”

sora blinked. froze for a second like she wasn’t sure she heard right.

“…wait—you’ll go?”

(y/n) nodded once, still flat on her back. “i mean, it’s not a date, right?”

“not a date,” sora agreed immediately, practically vibrating. “just four very attractive people grabbing coffee while two of them try to emotionally salvage their best friend’s love life—nothing suspicious at all.”

(y/n) let out a huff that almost sounded like a laugh. barely. her eyes didn’t leave the ceiling, but a faint smile curled at the corners of her mouth before she pressed her phone to her chest.

“i have to tell jin,” sora squealed, grabbing her phone like it was a matter of national importance. “we’ve been waiting for this moment. you are not ready for namjoon’s quiet man rizz. he’s like… polite but intense. like he’s always three sentences ahead of the conversation and still listening to every word.”

“okay, calm down,” (y/n) muttered, rolling onto her side, eyes flicking to her own phone again.

still no messages.

not even a double text. not even a shitty meme.

she swallowed hard, thumb tapping aimlessly at her screen. locked it. unlocked it. then locked it again.

figures, she thought. maybe that was the whole point. maybe this was the moment she finally started playing the game the way he did—cool, distant, unreachable.

“coffee’s on wednesday,” sora said from across the room, already texting, cheeks flushed with the thrill of matchmaking. “just after class. no pressure. and i’ll be there the whole time.”

(y/n) nodded again, still curled under her blanket.

her phone buzzed once.

her heart jumped.

it wasn’t him.

and so she sank deeper into the mattress, wrapped in silence and resolve, whispering to herself in the quietest voice:

just coffee.

just coffee.

just a start.

—---

she had managed to avoid him like the plague for the past two days.

not that it was particularly difficult—jimin had apparently found new places to stick his tongue down rowan’s throat all over campus. the student center. the quad. even the hallway leading to the library, where anyone with a pulse could see them pressed against the lockers like a poorly scripted indie film.

(y/n) had simply kept walking. shoulders squared. expression blank. her heart? a mess. pounding. bruised. aching in the worst kind of private way.

today, she had a free period—one he used to know by memory. the one where they’d usually disappear into some forgotten corner of the campus: a storage closet, an empty lecture hall, the back seat of his car.

not today.

today, she locked herself inside the cleanest, quietest bathroom on the top floor of the liberal arts building. she stayed longer than necessary, pretending to check her makeup, her messages, her nonexistent emails. anything to kill the time. anything to not remember.

but the second she stepped outside—there he was.

leaning against the tiled wall like he belonged there. black hoodie half-zipped, head tilted like he wasn’t trying to look casual. hands in his pockets. smirk already cocked like a loaded gun.

her jaw tightened. she didn’t slow down.

“did you get bored of your girlfriend?” she asked, not even glancing at him as she walked past.

his smirk widened. the kind that made her want to slap it off and kiss it in the same breath.

“don’t act jealous now, princess.”

she scoffed. not even dignifying him with a full-body reaction.

“you wish.”

he pushed off the wall, falling into step beside her. their shoulders close but not touching, his steps a half-beat too synced with hers.

“you said you’d text.”

“i lied,” she said simply. her voice light, sarcastic, but the bitterness beneath it hung heavy in the air.

he chuckled. low, smug, infuriating.

“what, you got separation anxiety, park?” she murmured, casting him a quick side glance, venom sweet on her tongue.

“only when you ghost me.”

her laugh was sharp, humorless. “you’re fine. you’ve got a perfectly capable tongue warmer already.”

he didn’t answer that.

not immediately.

just looked at her. really looked. and for a second she could feel it—like the way he used to stare at her when she was on top of him, hair sticking to her temples, lip caught between her teeth, like she was the only girl in the goddamn world.

“what are we even doing?” he asked under his breath.

her chest squeezed tight, but her face didn’t budge.

“nothing,” she said. “we’re doing nothing.”

and she didn’t let herself look back as she walked away.

he was still following her.

his footsteps weren’t loud, but they were steady. like he hadn’t gotten the very clear message that she wanted nothing to do with him. or maybe he had—and just didn’t care.

“hey, um…” his voice came low from behind her, casual, like the conversation from two minutes ago hadn’t been a punch to the gut. “wanna come over? around lunch?”

she didn’t stop walking. not for a second. the answer was already on her lips before he could even finish the question.

“can’t. i’m going on a date.”

that stopped him. completely.

she didn’t have to look back to know it. she felt the hesitation in his pace, the way his silence caught like a sudden storm break—his breath, audible in the way it halted, like she’d just sucked all the air out of his lungs with one clean swing. and god, it made something twist in her gut. vicious satisfaction. a petty kind of pride.

because finally, she’d managed to land a hit.

she kept walking. eyes straight ahead, hands tucked in her pockets, her expression unreadable even as her heart thundered in her chest. she didn’t want to admit how much it cost her to say that. to make it real. to push the words out like they didn’t mean anything when they meant everything.

a date.

not with jimin.

not with someone who used her like a stress relief valve between other girls and then pretended it didn’t matter. no—someone who might actually see her as more than a warm body and a bratty smirk. someone who might mean safety instead of destruction.

he caught up with her again a few seconds later, but his voice was different now. tighter. still trying to sound amused, but his ego had definitely just taken a hit.

“you?” he asked, that little scoff laced into the back of his throat. “a date?”

she didn’t look at him. didn’t blink. just nodded once.

“yup.”

it was almost cruel, how nonchalant she sounded. how she delivered it like the weather—just another fact, another shift in atmosphere.

he laughed then. forced. hollow. more confused than anything else.

“so… who’s the unlucky bastard?”

he meant it as a joke, but she heard the tension underneath. the need to know. the fact that he couldn’t handle the idea of her giving even a fraction of what she gave him to someone else.

and that?

that was enough to fuel her for days.

she glanced at him then. Just a flick of her eyes, like an afterthought.

“none of your goddamn business, park.”

he opened his mouth again, like he had something else to say, but she was already walking faster. already turning the corner. already gone.

and for the first time in weeks, she left him standing there speechless.

—---

she wasn’t expecting much, really.

namjoon was handsome, sure. tall, broad-shouldered, and the kind of naturally put-together that made him look good in a plain t-shirt and worn sneakers. his vibe—at least from what sora told her—was chill, maybe a little philosophical. smart, funny in a dry way, emotionally aware. the complete opposite of what she was used to.

the complete opposite of jimin.

so, she walked toward the coffee shop with her expectations set somewhere below hopeful. this wasn’t a real date anyway. just coffee. just a distraction. a lifeline, maybe, if she let herself think dramatically. which she always did. the air was warm, sun flickering through the trees lining the street. her shoes hit the pavement in slow, reluctant steps.

when she saw the terrace, she spotted them instantly—sora and jin already seated, their heads tilted in laughter, and across from them—

him.

namjoon.

he was leaned slightly forward, elbows resting on the table, listening intently to whatever jin was saying. his fingers wrapped loosely around a coffee cup, and there was this ease to him. like he fit in every room he walked into without trying. the kind of calm that settled into the space instead of rearranging it.

she was halfway through apologizing as she reached the table—something about running late, something about traffic—when he turned to look at her.

and smiled.

not wide. not flashy.

just a dimpled, polite, heart-achingly sweet smile that made her lose the rest of her sentence entirely.

her mouth stayed open for a beat too long. her chest tightened, her fingers curled around the strap of her bag. and for the first time in a long time, she felt something soft unfold in her belly. not lust. not adrenaline. just... warmth.

“hi,” he said, quiet but clear. his voice deep, gentle. smooth like good coffee and rainy sunday mornings.

she blinked.

closed her mouth.

“hi,” she said back, quieter than she meant to.

sora shot her a knowing look, barely hiding her grin. jin covered his chuckle behind a sip of his drink.

(y/n) sat down slowly, the cushion cool beneath her. she tugged at the hem of her sleeves to hide how her palms had started to sweat. get it together, she told herself. this wasn’t anything. not really. but her mind was already whirling, catching on dimples and calm eyes and the way he hadn't even looked at her body—just her face.

she couldn’t remember the last time that happened.

namjoon offered her a soft "glad you could make it," and the way he said it? like he meant it. like it wasn't just something polite people said.

and just like that, something shifted.

she didn’t know if it would last, if it meant anything, if she’d let it mean anything.

but she knew one thing for sure.

this coffee was already different.

it started slow, like most things that turn out to matter.

small comments. shared glances. little pauses where their eyes lingered a second too long, just enough for someone paying attention to notice. sora and jin definitely noticed.

they’d all been talking for a while now, easy chatter over lattes and croissants on the coffee shop’s sun-drenched terrace. sora had her arm hooked casually around jin’s, legs crossed under the table as she tossed in commentary like a pro. jin had taken to teasing (y/n) mercilessly, half about her general attitude and half about things sora clearly told him in confidence—like how she refused to use dating apps because “if the universe wants me in love it’ll drop it in my lap, not on a screen.”

namjoon laughed when jin said that. not a mocking laugh, but a soft one. amused, kind of impressed.

“you really said that?” he asked, tilting his head at her.

(y/n) rolled her eyes, cheeks warm despite herself. “don’t believe everything sora says.”

“but i want to believe it,” namjoon replied, chin resting in his hand, eyes flickering over her face like he was trying to memorize it. “it’s very poetic. delusional, but poetic.”

sora snorted into her drink. jin pretended to fall off his chair. and just like that, the tension drained out of (y/n)’s shoulders. she was smiling before she realized it. something about namjoon just let her relax.

he wasn’t trying to impress her.

he wasn’t trying to seduce her.

he was just there. present. thoughtful. funny in a quiet way that made her want to lean in and ask questions just to hear how he’d answer.

and he did lean in.

more than once.

at first it was to joke about jin and sora, something low and quick and conspiratorial like: “are they always like this? because I’m both amazed and concerned.”

she laughed. loud enough for sora to glance over and raise an eyebrow.

then it happened again. namjoon leaning close, his voice low near her ear, his fingers brushing the table between them like he was trying not to move too much but couldn’t help it. she said something sarcastic and he deadpanned right back, his words clever and dry and so perfectly timed it made her laugh again.

a real laugh. unguarded.

and suddenly, for those small, glittering moments, it felt like the world narrowed down to just the two of them.

jin noticed first. he sipped his drink, quirking a brow at sora across the table.

“oh god,” he mouthed dramatically. “we created a monster.”

sora barely fought back her grin. “they’re cute,” she mouthed back.

(y/n) didn’t notice. neither did namjoon.

he was looking at her like she was the only thing in the room worth focusing on. not in a possessive way. not in a you’re mine kind of way. just—genuine. curious. gentle.

she didn’t remember the last time she felt that seen.

the air was mellow, the sun beginning its lazy descent behind the campus rooftops, casting soft orange light across the quad as the four of them walked. sora and jin hung back, wrapped up in their own bubble of teasing laughter and inside jokes, while (y/n) and namjoon walked a few paces ahead. it felt natural—unforced—the way their strides matched without thinking, their conversation floating easily from music to professors to jin’s obnoxious collection of novelty mugs that sora had apparently been trying to “accidentally break” since they started dating.

she was laughing, genuinely. not the kind of laugh she gave at parties, polite and performative, but the kind that came from somewhere loose and unguarded in her chest. namjoon’s voice was easy to listen to, deep but soft around the edges, the kind of voice that made every observation feel like a secret. he was funny in a subtle way, clever without trying too hard, his smile tugging at the corner of his mouth whenever she threw sarcasm back at him.

it felt... peaceful.

she liked the pace of it. how no one was trying to impress anyone. how she didn’t feel the need to armor herself in sharp edges and cold glances just to keep control.

until her phone buzzed.

she felt it before she looked. that familiar little twist of anticipation and irritation curling low in her stomach. she glanced down.

[jimin.] “so... how’s the date, princess?”

cocky. smug. he probably sent it leaning back in his chair, that stupid grin on his face, fingers loose around his phone like none of this meant anything to him.

her smile faltered just slightly. she didn’t stop walking, but she exhaled through her nose—sharp, annoyed—and locked the screen before namjoon could see what it said.

but he already had.

not the contents, but the name. she saw the flicker of recognition in his eyes. he didn’t react with surprise or judgment—just a calm, thoughtful blink.

“you and jimin, huh?” he asked casually, his tone laced with curiosity but nothing sharp. just genuine interest.

she gave him a dry laugh, pushing her hair back from her face. “it’s nothing but a headache, really.”

and he nodded. no need for more.

“wanna change the subject?”

she looked at him, smiled. “desperately.”

so they did.

they spent the next few minutes talking about a book he’d been meaning to finish and the worst professor she’d ever had. when they finally reached her dorm building, the sky had deepened to gold, and the air had that quiet kind of stillness reserved for the late afternoon—the in-between of day and night.

he slowed to a stop in front of the steps. she did too, her hand hovering near the strap of her bag.

“this was nice,” he said, and meant it. his voice had a different weight now—not heavy, but intentional.

she nodded, already tugging at her lip with her teeth before she could stop herself. “it was.”

there was a beat of silence, not awkward, but tentative. like they were both standing at the edge of something just slightly out of view.

“can I get your number?” he asked then, tone light. “no pressure or anything. just thought it might be cool to hang out again sometime.”

she hesitated—not because she didn’t want to—but because she did. and deep down, she wanted him to be enough to make her forget jimin. to stop wanting things that hurt.

but she didn’t say that.

instead, she smiled, reached for his phone when he offered it, and typed in her number.

“i’d like that,” she said, handing it back.

and she meant it.

even if jimin’s message still lingered in her pocket like a ghost.

quietly always, cigarettesuga.

taglist Ꮺ @aaclariww @mar-lo-pap @h6rtf9lt @wynterlove @rpwprpwprpwprw @annyeongbitch7 @namgimini @princesstiti14 @alextgef @pjmxxjmdipity @cherryminnie95

[shellsstardew]

you made me ship shelliot so hard it's not even funny 😭 like normally im not super into rarepairs bc it seems ppl ship them just to ship them but i legit see where you're coming from, especially in the same context as your comic where their story begins after elliot moves in. i actually love your comic i cannot wait for the next part (not trying to pressure you obv). ive never gotten too many hearts with either of them but your characterization just feels so accurate like i feel like I could see your story with their dialogue happening in the game and it wouldn't feel out of place at all. and also finally (oops ive been rambling), your art style isn't overly detailed but the facial expressions/body language/like perspective i guess of the characters, especially shane and elliot on the dock is so well done, the small changes in positioning work so well to communicate the change in their body language and its just really impressive.

sorry i yapped or if it was weird or something i promise i was not trying to come off weird 😭😭😭 i just really admire good fanworks such as yours and it's important to tell authors/creators that they're doing well and yeah

also if you (or anyone else) has any shelliot fic recommendations i would loveee to hear them :>

No but seriously it's so funny that your like "I hope I'm not being weird" meanwhile I reread over and over your super thoughtful message to keep me going 😭

YOU GUYS DON'T REALIZE I NEED THOSE HYPER DETAILED COMPLIMENT or my stupid brain will go like "Okay time to think you're worthless and that what you're doing doesn't matter"

No I can point at the screen and say "See? 👉📱 SEE?! 👉👉📱?" and it's putting another coin in the machine hehe

Anyway, thank you so much 😭

AND YES I HAVE FICS TO RECOMMEND! ONCE AGAIN, @cutethulu you know the drill hehe

Camellia Station, by Awdrey (Explicit - but it's only one short smut scene in the last chapter for now)

Now it's still in progress (updating once a month) and they still didn't smooch yet, but that's what you get when you fall into the Shelliott rabbit hole, hehe, you can't be picky

It's really well written and the author and I have a lot of similarities in our interpretations of Shane and Elliott :) Go give it some love!

Also some one shots by @mongoosingisme that I really love :

Untitled Shelliott Ranch Project

Herding cats (Explicit - Shane/Elliott/fem!farmer)

And UHHH maybe you've seen it already but I wrote one about Shells, it's an alternate ending to part 34 (it's my first one and I'm really proud of it teehee)

Shells, alternate ending, by shells_stardew (Explicit)

Also @visionofthebees wrote this one for me on the same concept :

One Shell of a Night, by Visionofthebees (Explicit)

Be warned it's EXTREMELLY SILLY and she didn't even reread it before posting, but I love it with all my heart it's so so funny hahaha

I love her so imma also recommend her Clint x Elliott fic too (yes yes you read that right, she's 10 degrees further than me on the crack ship scene) :

Falling Ore You (Explicit) (46 chapters, completed)

LISTEN SHE MAKES IT WORK OKAY! SHE REALLY DOES!

And also, check my bookmarks! They are some non-Shelliott stuff that I absolutely love in there! (BUT always ALWAYS check the tags before reading, there is also some dark stuff haha)

Here you go, hope I didn't recommend all the ones you already knew about, as we all know this is not an extremely popular ship so this is what we get, quality over quantity hahahaa 😭

[mentalbreakdownsarenormal]

"The carefree shamelessness of a kid." That... entirely recontextualizes her relationship with Lancer in chapter 1, doesn't it.

(Long rant about the two under the cut)

I mean, consider what chapter 1 must have been like for her. The human freak she hates has just caught her eating school property, and if they report it it'd be the last straw that gets her expelled. Considering what she said to them in The_Newist_Girl post, they will probably do so immediately and remorselessly. It is only because of their mother and her kindness towards her that she doesn't cause a major incident on the spot. She begrudgingly agrees to just get some more chalk and head back to class.

(She also drops the line "If you haven't gotten it by now... Your choices don't matter" which uh. Speaking of internalization.)

Of course, it isn't that simple. The closet is both impossibly dark and impossibly big. And when the two of them go to leave, the door is slammed in her face and locked. The floor collapses under her and she falls through. The drop is impossibly far.

She wakes up in a new world that does not make sense. The first person (barring the freak) she sees starts shooting at the two of them. She finds an entire abandoned town, complete with a castle. And, perhaps the strangest thing of all, she meets a hooded figure who tells her about a prophecy. One she is a part of.

One that calls her a hero.

She doesn't believe it. When asked to accept her destiny as one of the Delta Warriors, she refuses. The hooded guy is knocked away by a kid on a bike. And he's the first person to finally give her a clear answer when she asks a question.

"Who the hell are you?"

"I'm... The Bad Guy!"

This is the first and only thing she has understood in the last few hours. He's a bad guy. He's getting in her way. Someone's getting beat up. After the fight, two facts make themselves clear. One, she needs to go east. Two, people are gonna try and stop her.

So she goes, alone, and makes herself a menace of the enemies. Beats them up, steals their stuff, and other sorts of things you would do in a normal RPG. That's what the enemies are for, after all. Why would she be nice to someone trying to kill her. Eventually, she's blocked by a door she can't open alone until the other nerds show up. She needs to follow them, but like hell she's actually gonna help them or change her behavior at all. There's no point. Kris and Ralsei are good and she's bad. They fell right into their roles, being all nice and stuff, but she's not like them. She can't think of anything good to say about someone trying to kill them like they can. She isn't delicate. She isn't skilled at anything. But she can smash things. And so smash things she shall. Just like she always has, and just like she always will. Don't know why anyone's expecting anything else.

She won't, she can't grow as a person like they can, not now not ever.

Susie's arc where she grows as a person begins after two rooms. It's the scene where Lancer mistakes Susie trying to intimidate him as advice on how to be scary and thanks her for it. His praise surprises her and having someone who appreciates her motivates her to become better. That's the basic reading anyway. But in hindsight...

Lancer is a child. A young child. Why? Lancer's age, for the most part, is irrelevant to his character. If you wanted him to parallel Susie, why not write him to be the same age as everyone else? How does the relationship between the two of them benefit from Susie needing to babysit the kid half the time they hang out?

She's his mentor. The one she never had herself. Lancer is bad at being scary. His evil laugh sounds like a baby Santa Claus. He has no idea what he's doing, he's just trying to be "scary and badass" like his dad. And it just so happens being scary is one of the few things Susie knows how to be "good" at. And with that in mind, Susie's words suddenly take on a whole new meaning.

Susie interrupts with a single word. "Stop." What Susie says next, about wannabe tough guys and bitten faces isn't her trying to scare him. It's her trying to crush him. The same way she was when she tried to play. You need to stop because you're bad, now here's someone who can do it better. But unlike back then, the person who told the kid to stop was the better person. The kid got the chance to see it be done properly and was told what exactly needed improvement.

And the next time they meet, Lancer acts far more intimidating. He's still not good, to be sure, but he did improve. He then immediately asks for feedback to try to improve more. He doesn't even have guys, he just wanted to practice.

And this shatters Susie's world view. This kid, this young, carefree kid who's just playing around improves. The kid who's the only person around she could understand or relate to, the kid who introduced himself as "the bad guy" *improved*. Whatever was wrong with this kid that made him a bad guy, that made him an outcast, didn't end up mattering. The support around him did.

In the very same scene Lancer shows improvement, he realizes your team doesn't have a name. To fix this, he asks everyone to drop a name in his bucket to be randomly selected. Kris doesn't and they "look like they don't care." But Susie does add a name. She might not put a lot of effort into it, but she plays along. Susie, who walked through puzzles, who disobeyed commands, who left the party behind, who repeatedly complains about you being slow, who refused help stop the very world from ending, put a name in the bucket.

And in every following scene the two are together, she encourages everything he does.

She expected to be able to play it because she was. She wasn't trying to be good: she liked the piano and she wanted to play it, so she did. Playing for the sake of playing with the carefree shamelessness of a kid.

But because someone thought she was "bad", they told her to stop. It's a role she's been assigned all her life. Without explanation, without justification, without fault, something as inherent to her as her voice, her claws, her skin.

So she internalized it. "Good" must be a role too, right? No one's ever cared enough to teach her about practice or training or perseverance. "Good" is something Susie would simply never get to be.

[thel1ghtningthief]

fic excerpt >:)

under the cut :3

INT. THE BIG HOUSE – AFTERNOON

WE OPEN in a peculiarly decorated room. The room is well lit with minimal windows, a pool table in the middle of the room. Seated around the pool table are 24 children and teenagers of varying ages, as well as a man seated in a wheelchair and a man whose appearance the camera can't quite capture. From the angle, it is clear someone has set up the camera to secretly record the meeting.

 

CHIARA

CHIRON, why did you call a meeting at eight on a Thursday.

 

HOLLY

Yeah, the Eagles are playing the Commanders and I have, like, $50 riding on this!

 

CHIRON sighs, deeply troubled and exhausted, and DIONYSUS rolls his eyes.

 

CHIRON

This is exactly-

 

DIONYSUS

(cutting him off)

Exactly why we called this meeting!

 

The counselors can be seen turning and muttering to each other for a brief moment before turning back to the two men at the end of the table.

 

THESEUS

(with genuine confusion)

Because... we're... sports fans?

 

Outrage can be heard from CHIARA, HOLLY, and LAUREL.

 

CHIRON & DIONYSUS

No!

 

CHIRON

(calmer)

No. We decided...

 

DIONYSUS

(under his breath)

...you decided...

 

CHIRON

...we have decided that we need to set some rules.

[aromanticasterisms]

the epic highs and lows of rereading your own writing to seek out parts you disliked and analyze Why you disliked them to do better in the future

[darlingpoppet]

ＬｉｍｉｎａｌＳｐａｃｅｓ— Chapter 3

Hades (Video Game) | Modern AU (College/University) | PZA | Explicit | Chapters: 3/7 | Words: 21,238 (Chapter 3: 6,763)

Summary: Inspired by The Dreamers, except make it 2010s and ｖａｐｏｒｗａｖｅ. Zagreus is a university student who feels aimless in life. His girlfriend dumped him, things between him & his best friend are weird, and he lacks ambition in his studies, all while the optimistic visions of his generation’s future are becoming lost. Until one day, he falls into the orbit of Achilles & Patroclus―a charming, yet eccentric pair who completely alter Zagreus’ outlook on life & death, love & loss, past & future, and the transitions in between. (Chapter 3 summary: Zagreus reaches a stalemate in his relationship with Thanatos. Achilles & Patroclus invite Zagreus back to their place again for what ends up being a highly-charged evening of music, games, drinking, and sex.)

Excerpt:

“Ugh, Pat. Why don’t you go get a glass?”

Achilles scowls as he watches Patroclus take a particularly clumsy swig directly from the wine bottle, accidentally allowing some to escape from the corners of his mouth and run in blood-like rivulets down his chin and neck. Achilles, to his discredit, hasn’t been behaving much better. His own glass has gone untouched for a while now, and he opts instead to pass the bottle back and forth between himself and Patroclus.

“I will get one whenever I next have an excuse to end up in the kitchen,” Patroclus says as he hands the bottle back to Achilles. “Consider every sip of wine a kiss from me.”

“Why consider it, when I can just do this?”

Achilles pours some wine into his mouth, holding it there while he leans over to Patroclus and feeds it to him. Wine dribbles out between their mouths as the transfer devolves into a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss. They struggle to stifle their giggles over the mess they’re making, while reveling in the delectations of the kiss.

If they were anyone else, Zagreus might have felt irritated to be made a captive audience to their impudent displays of affection. But as it is, he has difficulty ever seeing their behavior as anything but endearing. And to be fair, he thinks to himself, as he tips back his wine glass for small sip: they are probably really, really drunk.

“We should let Zagreus have a turn at the game,” Patroclus says as soon as he regains his composure.

Zagreus, whose mouth is still full, tries not to splutter as he swallows down his drink all at once. He titters incredulously.

“What, me? I don’t even know anything about the kind of music you like.”

“Don’t you worry about that,” Patroclus says kindly. “I’ll help you with it.”

“Patroclus, no, don’t you dare—” Achilles starts, his voice sharp with warning.

“It’s all right, Achilles! Don’t you want to make our guest to feel clever? And who knows, maybe you’ll know the answer.” Patroclus grins impishly as he bounds over to Zagreus’ side, taking the wine bottle with him.

“And what if he doesn’t?” Zagreus asks Patroclus.

“And if he doesn’t—” Patroclus repeats; he leans in slowly, his mouth now so close to his ear that Zagreus can hear the gentle intake of breath in his preparation to speak. Zagreus feels the coarseness of his beard, the nearness of his warmth, making his skin prickle; he can catch a whiff of the alcohol, along with the earthy, yet floral sweet smell of his dark brown skin. “—He’ll have to do whatever you say.”

READ THE REST ON AO3 HERE!

https://archiveofourown.org/works/57964459/chapters/148565071

Chapter Navigation: 1 | 2 | 3

[sunbunnyyy]

love, like sleep to the freezing ch. 5 teaser! i’m looking forward to sharing this with you all… 👀

[solar-halos]

wait i’m sorry i don’t mean for this to come off as capitol but in the anchor cast below ellizablue brings up how the dress annie wore to a funeral was mags’ old Victory Tour dress bc it was a more somber occasion back then and like. man. i lowkey can’t stop thinking about that. like, the evolution of the fashion in early panem. what were tributes wearing in the early days of the Tribute Parades? were they even Tribute Parades at first, or more of a meet and greet sort of vibe? (ok they obviously weren’t meet and greets cos they had the tribute interviews but u get my point). like i know they’d eventually want to shift gears and not make the Tour somber at all and more about honor/sacrifice for the country, but even though they switched gears hella fast in the span of just 75 years i still don’t think this is a change they made overnight, so im just sitting here wondering about how the drip of the victors reflected the times

[constantvariations]

Started listening to A Court of Thorns and Roses out of morbid curiosity. Currently just under 4 hours in, and I have some Thoughts

Knowing that this is something of a Beauty and the Beast retelling, I find Feyre's family dynamics odd. Returning to them is her entire goal in Prythian, yet she doesn't even like any of them, which is why Maas had to shoehorn in that dumb vow Feyre made to her dying mother - whom she also didn't like all that much - at the age of eight. Her goal rings so hollow that I roll my eyes every time I hear about it or that stupid promise

This goal has another annoying layer to it. Escape takes up pretty much all of Feyre's inner monologue, yet the audience knows the story won't let it happen. Can't have a BatB if the Belle manages to flee before the romance has had time to grow. This makes the story drag something awful. There were times I stopped the audio because her plans left me groaning in frustration. If I never hear the word "treaty" ever again, it'll be too soon

And the way she avoids Tamlin at every opportunity is just wild. Even if he's the embodiment of everything gone wrong in her life, why would Feyre pass up a tour of the estate? Why not take the opportunity to study "the enemy" up close? Why go patrolling with the guy who blantantly and repeatedly states how much he wants her dead for what she did instead of the guy who is preventing everyone from doing that? Some of this can be chalked up to her being young, insecure, and untrained in social skills like her sisters, but it's so contrived at times

Considering how Feyre literally skinned his best friend, thus preventing any sort of dignified funeral service, Tamlin's incredibly tame, especially in comparison to the og Disney!Beast. He doesn't yell at her, doesn't threaten, doesn't make demands outside of, "please stop doing things that will get you killed." First impressions aside, Tamlin reads as more socially awkward and irritable than a beast with a dangerous temperment. I find his lameness quite charming, even if Feyre doesn't

It's odd that I'm so far in the book yet the only real interaction between our supposed love interests is the night that Tamlin fought the bog(?). I think this changed something for Tamlin, but Feyre remains unchanged towards him. She's incredibly stubborn, a trait I both have and admire, but her unwillingness to look beyond Tamlin's claws despite how courteous he is to his friend's killer is becoming ridiculous and dragging the plot. Just let him teach you to read already!

Another thing that's ridiculous is Feyre and her bad habit of knowing something is off yet doing a dumb thing anyway. With the wolf, she explicitly says that a creature of that size must be a fairy and kills it because of that only to backtrack and say it's not a fairy. This could be excused for adrenalin/first time killing a sentient being panic brain, but it happens again when her "father" comes to fairy town to rescue her. Feyre inwardly questions how he got to Prythian on a busted knee and some other logistical discrepancies but is willing to follow him into the woods despite these thoughts. She has absolutely zero survival instincts in fairy land. It's like she's trying to die in the dumbest way possible

I can already tell this is going to worm into my brain like RWBY and the MCU. I have a fondness for stories of great potential and even greater squandering. The characters are fun if ill used, and I'm curious about the world along with all the things I've been spoiled about

[zestyzigzagoon]

I don't care what anyone says, drabble writers are so incredibly skilled and undervalued in today's fandom. They're fitting an entire little scene in the space it takes me to say 'she closed the door'

[aperfecta]

Writing down all the ideas for the second draft of the thing I'm working on has made me want to. Work on it. My therapist was right sometimes one small step is all it takes (or for me a dozen small fake-out steps before I finally take off running)

[perexcri]

happy one year to her and one of my better opening lines for a fic <3

now, because i'm curious:

[dallonwrites]

the first chapter of lover boy is really intense on an emotional level because So Many Things happen in quick succession it's like beau barely gets a chance to breathe and process it. meanwhile RR opening chapter is just felix and dorothy arguing in a laundromat.

[kirnet]

tagged for wip wednesday by @nsewell and also @mrs-theirin last week!! tagging whoever wants to and sees this bc its late :3

wrapping up actium chap 3 and also im working on a grave and weep rewrite!

”Who was that guy?” you whispered to him when you pulled yourself into the cab, worried that he could somehow hear you over the distance. “You can’t think working with him is actually a good idea.”

Henry huffed out a breath that meant he agreed with you, but he was going to argue anyway. “You’re not getting paid to ask questions, kid.”

You slapped his hand away before it could turn on the radio. The last thing your thin thread of sanity needed was a twangy guitar solo at ear-bursting volume. “You’re the one always telling me to go in with as much intel as possible.”

”Don’t throw my own advice back at me.” His hair was near matted when he pulled off his baseball cap, his fingers unable to work through the tangle. “You want to pay your mama’s debts? Then you need to get comfortable taking jobs you don’t want to. This is the life you chose.”

”I’m-“ Scared. You were scared. Whoever - whatever - Henry’s contact was, a beast with manic eyes and yellowed teeth, you didn’t trust him as far as you could throw him. With sinking disappointment you realized that you yearned for comfort, that you wanted him to reach out and tell you that hey, it was going to be okay. He wouldn’t put your life in danger needlessly. A good mentor would never aim for his student’s injury. And maybe he realized it, too, the way his lip curled in disgust, like he finally just saw you for what you were: a trembling teenager fumbling with your seatbelt, not some bastion of untapped power. “I’m just letting you know that I’m getting my ‘I told you so’ ready, alright?”

It was a good moment to finish the argument as you usually did, with you conceding and Henry never acknowledging the tense silence. Instead, after a long moment of consideration where he almost shifted the truck into drive, he turned to you. “I don’t trust him,” he admitted, eyes dark. “You don’t either. Good. It means I finally beat some intuition into you.” He scratched his neck, the sound of his scruff making you cringe. “I’m not bringing you on as surveillance for the team, I’m bringing you on for me. To watch my back.”

If Henry thought that moment of vulnerability was going to put your fears to rest, he was wrong. It had a distinctly opposite effect. “You think he’s gonna try to kill you?” you snapped, lurching forward when he finally started the car forward.

The truck tumbled over curbs and potholes, finally connecting to an actual side street. He shrugged. “Always a possibility. Nature of the job.” With a casualness you loathed, Henry reached a hand out and smacked a palm against your forehead, never looking away from the road. “But I got you, yeah? You’re my ace. You just worry about making sure your frozen mice are appropriately thawed and I’ll take care of the rest.”

[cha1cedony]

Need to get back into my longfic series bc writing longfics is so fun (albeit stressful lol, but that’s mostly just be putting pressure on myself)… I love getting excited comments on new chapters and reading people’s theories and emotions hehe :3 And writing multiple chapters gives me more motivation to keep writing… hm