#automatic funnel

[trinabraxton]

If you’ve ever wanted to freak yourself out here you go

[johannestevans]

past tense is such a wild episode where like. obviously it's not mentioned explicitly in most of the text, but just the whole thing of the two Black male crew members immediately being treated as sub-human and funnelled through the sanctuary district with the homeless, jobless, and impoverished

whereas jadzia, perceived as a white woman - even a tattooed woman - gets help from a passing white rich dude and brought to some posh office place and it's so human, whereas they're obviously fobbed off with forms and clipboards and an automatic spiel

obviously the whole story across the two episodes does some really good commentary on everyday fascism and inhumanity, and esp bc we know that sisko has like, such a good understanding of a lot of inequality through american history, and it's not that he's RESIGNED to it, but like

because he's so aware and bc this is such a focus of his understanding and knowledge, and esp as a Black American historian and with most of the extras and other cast being Black or dark-skinned, he's so like. gentle.

like the moment where the one guy is drawing on him with a pen and he just.

really gently moves his hand away

it's such a good episode because like. a lot of the time when julian is shoved into one of these situations - thinking about when he and miles are kidnapped by the jem'hadar or when they're stranded on one planet or another, he's generally someone who interferes

he resists, he focuses, he does medicine, he helps people. in the sanctuary district he's in many ways disempowered, but it's not just that he's without his medical kit

it's that he's not in an environment where his keenness to help or his compassion actually does anything, because of the fascism

we see him repeatedly trying to negotiate with the people around him and saying, hey, this is wrong, why can't things be different, and he gets the answer, "we don't like it either, but that's just how it is."

and unlike on, say, the plague planet, julian can't just change how it is

whereas sisko like. partly because he's a captain in the command track and so he's used to navigating more bureaucracy than julian has to - one gets the impression that medical has the least of that in starfleet - but then obviously he has more understanding of the historic period

and specifically of the racialised and class-based charge to the bigotry around them, but also like… imo part of the reason that he does so well with the cardassian state and dealing with cardassian double-think is because of his knowledge and awareness of how this sort of bigotry worked

racism and white supremacy functioning not as individual things, but as systems. "it's not that they don't give a damn, it's that they've given up". it's a lack of compassion within the systems and people who have too many of their problems, and he knows that!!!!

[lassieposting]

Been thinkin about Astarion + vampire biology so have some headcanons and the bits of game lore they're based on

Dialogue establishes that Cazador has been successfully passing himself off as a regular noble for centuries, and Astarion confirms that while he's considered a bit reclusive, he does mingle with the upper class of Baldur's Gate and has a property specifically for hosting fancy events.

Vampires are camouflage predators, whose primary hunting strategy is to blend in with their prey until the perfect time to strike. Their ecological niche is not a particularly safe or stable one - they live hidden in plain sight, usually in sizeable cities, for easy access to prey, but they know that if they are discovered they will be rooted out and killed or driven away. They are rarely able to get away with attacking in public, where city guards might rush to the aid of a screaming victim - they have to isolate their target before killing it. The ability to blend in, to be overlooked by their target, until it is too late is essential.

Cazador is, as far as we know, the only true vampire in Baldur's Gate

This is because true vampires are aggressively territorial. Like most apex predators, they eat a lot, and need substantial territories to support them - even moreso if they have a partner or spawns. Ascendant!Astarion would need to hold onto the entire city, as Cazador did, to be able to feed himself and Tav without raising suspicion.

True vampires are relatively rare, but there are more of them than there are cities, so it's not uncommon for one to set up in an occupied city and try to oust the sitting resident. The challenger usually believes himself to be as strong or stronger than the current tenant: these territorial disputes usually end in at least one death, so they're not to be entered into lightly.

Astarion is very obviously a vampire: his fangs are visible, as are his bite scars; he's so pale multiple people comment on it; his eyes are red, etc.

Astarion is not a healthy vampire.

This is a man who has been kept on the knife's edge of starvation and tortured regularly for 200 years, and to another vampire, that would be clear from the state of him: Astarion is a camouflage predator who is so malnourished he is no longer able to blend in.

Tav will get an up-close look at his transformation over the course of the game and during the years afterwards: the more healthy and well-fed Astarion becomes, as his body catches up on its immense energy deficit and begins to recover, the better he will be able to mimic a living elf. His skin will be able to bleed, or blush, or bruise, none of which he's capable of while actively starving. Hia fangs will retract until he needs them, not invisible but less obvious - having them out all the time is a response to severe deprivation; he's so hungry his body can't risk losing prey to the split second it takes Cazador to snatch a rat back, so he's permanently in bite mode, hyperaware, ready to strike. Some body functions will come online that he didn't even know he had, the ones that are supposed to help him blend in - his eyes will start producing pigment to look darker, less scarlet and more burgundy, to be more easily mistaken for brown; his lungs will make him breathe automatically even though he doesn't need it, he'll start being able to eat normal food without getting sick again, though he still won't get any nourishment from it; he'll heal faster. He'll even be able to get drunk, though he'll burn through it very quickly. As it stands, all those extra systems have been shut down by his starving body - they're useful, but nonessential, and he needs every single bit of energy funnelled into just keeping him alive and functional.

There is probably an intentional bit of psychological warfare against the spawns on Cazador's part here - him starving them strips them of their natural defences, and every time he makes them leave the mansion to hunt, they have to do so knowing that they're poorly hidden and vulnerable. But it's established that true vampires treating their spawn poorly or outright abusing them is A Thing, so it's not the only reason - he sees them as property rather than people, he keeps them weak so they won't plot against him, he's acting out his own trauma from Vellioth on them, he just wants to - but it does feed into it.

Astarion can, at one point, identify old blood as belonging to the player character. He also gets excited at another point if an enemy character runs away, stating, "Now it's a hunt."

He says that "even stale, [he'd] recognise that bouquet anywhere." This confirms a few things for us:

He has a vastly superior sense of smell capable of identifying individuals by scent and - since he can tell who the blood belongs to even after some time has passed - following scent trails.

This confirms that although city-dwelling vampires may primarily hunt via luring a victim to a secondary location before killing it, they still have the "stalk down and chase" predator instinct. Since Astarion can't lure wildlife anywhere, this is almost certainly how he's been hunting to supplement his diet when he's not using the player as his personal caprisun.

The fact that he can scent out prey before killing it means he has this ability all the time - he can smell blood while it's still safely inside the owner's body.

So scent is probably relevant to how vampires process the world. The more time each companion spends with him, the more he gets used to their scent, starts associating it more with safety and camaraderie than with a potential meal, and so he becomes more relaxed around them. As he learns to link the player's scent with love and comfort and trust, the more likely he is to retreat to their tent over his own when he's injured or afraid or having a trauma moment. When he's fond of someone, something of theirs will go conveniently missing - he's moving their scent into his little safe space, it's comforting for him. He can tell when his lover is hurt or aroused or frightened - though not which of the three applies - from a distance, because his sense of smell can pick up the spike of adrenaline rushing into their bloodstream.

But that also means that he can never feel like he's got any distance from Cazador while he's living in the mansion - even if the man isn't in the same room, the entire place reeks of him, and it makes Astarion feel like Cazador is breathing down his neck all the same. Ascendant Astarion would have a really, really hard time sticking it out in that mansion with stale Eau de Cazador all over the place. It means that he's put instantly on edge by the faint scent of one of his siblings as he walks through the lower city - when seven vicious, territorial apex predators are confined to a single small dormitory, several hours a day, seven days a week, 365 days a year, fights are going to be nasty and frequent, and although Cazador wouldn't allow them to kill each other, considering how many of his siblings refer to him as weak or a runt, Astarion probably didn't win them very often. So. Having a highkey advanced sense of smell is a mixed bag.

[acupoftaewithsomesuga]

"𝙋𝙧𝙚𝙢𝙚𝙙𝙞𝙩𝙖𝙩𝙚𝙙" • 𝙎𝙚𝙤𝙣𝙜𝙝𝙬𝙖 𝙋𝙖𝙧𝙠

stalker!Seonghwa x fem!reader (dark romance/horror)

summary• the heavy deadlines are no joke and you are constantly packed with work. You stay after work to catch up on some files when you come across Seonghwa. After your interaction that day your mind is filled with him and only him. Little did you know that his mind is filled with you and so is the scrapbook that lays next to his bed. 

warnings• angst, stalking, mental manipulation, crying, breakdown, fear, smut, masturbation, voyeurism, pet names, stripping, praise kink, penetration, unprotected sex, filthy dirty talking, sloppy oral (fem&masc!recieving), choking/gagging, biting, spitting, slapping/spanking, cum eating, rough sex, cream pie, after care. (lmk if I forgot something!) 

videos/audios to view before reading

w/c• 11.2k

a/n• I wanna start by saying that this might trigger many of you so please do not interact if any of the warnings sound like they would mentally put you in a dark space!!! Your mental health matters!!! It is officially the month of Halloween and this is the last member of the OT8 saga!!! I plan on making another one for October (hopefully). All I will say is that Demon Line is gonna bless your feed this October. I also want to thank @rems-writing, @itsnotmydejavu, and @xomakara for helping me with ideas and giving me feedback! Anyway, my inbox is always open! Happy reading!

taglist• @rems-writing @st4rhwa @sugarnspice630 @joongiesmoon @no1likevie @woohwababes @hongjoongswife1 @blackb3ll @staytiny23 @ccalyse 

network• @othersideoutlawsnetwork

•masterlist•

It was another Friday evening and the automatic lights in the office shut off. You looked at the clock beside your desk and sighed, “Almost done just 20 more documents to go through.” Working in one of the most popular accounting and auditing companies in South Korea came with a lot of demands and deadlines. Today was one of those nights where you stayed many hours after your shift was done. Throughout the day you saw people funnel out of the office at 5 pm. It was now 7:00 pm and you looked up to see the sun dimming down. You looked through the large glass window and started to question your purpose.

You quickly brushed away your thoughts and got out of your rolling chair. You made your way to the breakroom and made yourself a cup of coffee. You turned on the coffee maker and tossed the old coffee down the drain. You placed the kettle back in, put a coffee pod into the machine, and pressed start. You waited patiently, thinking about random things that came to your mind. You paced the room, looking at the magnets in the fridge that people have put there over the years. You smile at the fond memories before the coffee machine beeps, indicating that it is done. You grabbed your mug and poured yourself some coffee. You didn’t put anything in it, you left it black. 

You turned around and saw a shadow pass through the glass door causing you to instantly tensed up and suppress a scream. You pull back your sleeve and look at your clock, trying to rationalize who it is. “It’s okay. The janitor is still here. That’s who it is. The janitor,” you whisper to yourself in an attempt to calm yourself down. You reluctantly walk out of the door, your heart racing. You held your breath as you looked around but you saw no one. The air in the office space was still, instilling you to relax a bit. 

You start to walk back to your desk when you realize that someone’s cubicle is illuminating light. You walk over thinking that someone left their computer on which was common when people would leave in a hurry. You turn the corner and see the computer on, and papers scattered on the desk. You reach out to turn off the computer after making sure the document is saved. 

“You’re y/n right?” You heard a male voice say behind you. You jump causing some of your coffee to fling out of your cup and onto the floor. You turned around quickly and saw a tall man in a suit with long black hair that framed his face perfectly. 

“Holy shit you scared the shit out of me,” you laughed, placing your hand on your chest. You take a few deep breaths before chuckling to yourself and looking up at him. 

“Sorry for scaring you,” He says and puts the coffee cup on the desk.

 “It’s okay, just don’t do that again,” you say trying to calm down your heart rate. “I see you're enjoying the coffee,” you joke pointing at the coffee cup in his hand.

“It’s not too bad,” he says before taking another sip. “You’re working late I see.”

You nod and shrug your shoulders, sighing. “Yeah, I have to get this paperwork finished. I’m almost done which is good.” You pause for a moment before speaking again. “You’re Seonghwa?” you ask squinting your eyes.

“Yes that’s me,” Seonghwa says, smiling brightly. He walks closer to you and you notice his tall and broad frame. “You didn’t recognize me huh? That’s a bit disappointing.” He chuckles softly and runs his fingers along the handle of his mug.

“I mean I have seen you around the office and our boss always has good things to say about you. I just couldn’t tell, it’s kinda dark in here,” you chuckle, admiring his beautifully sculpted face. 

“I never understood why they turned off the lights when they know some of us are here late. Did you need any help with your work?” He asked before running his hands along his chair, pulling it from under the desk. You could see he was willing to help but your heart said otherwise. 

“No Seonghwa it’s okay, I’m almost done anyway. I really appreciate the offer though,” You say smiling before sipping your coffee. “I should go get this done, I’ll talk to you later Seonghwa. I’ll see you around?”

“Of course, see you around,” he says as he watches you leave and go back to your cubicle. He pulls out his phone and starts typing away, a small smirk on his face.

You sit back down at your desk and start to work. You get these papers done as fast as possible trying to look over mistakes along the way. You were genuinely exhausted and you started to consider Seonghwa's offer of helping you but you pushed it aside. Your mind was filled with numbers but lingering thoughts arose about Seonghwa. You thought about how attractive he was up close. The way his slender fingers touched his cup and his chair and how good they would look touching you. You quickly brushed away your horny thoughts and got back to work. Let’s not think about dick while we are at work.

“Finally,” you said to yourself before grabbing your laptop bag and gathering all your items. You sling your bag around your shoulder and look up at Seonghwa’s cubical. His light was still on indicating that he was still working. Before you walked out of the office you glanced at Seonghwa, his hair falling onto his face as he focused on his work. He averted his eyes and smiled at you, causing you to smile back. 

Seonghwa waited awhile before he turned off the light and left the office. He saw you drive off and he quickly got into his car. He followed you home, his car a couple of car lengths behind yours. He watched as you went into your duplex. You got ready for bed as usual before you laid down and drifted off to sleep from exhaustion. He watched as your lights went on and then off. He sat in his car staring at the window.

He waited until you were asleep before he got out of his car and walked toward your duplex. He quietly makes his way to your window and peers inside, seeing you sleeping peacefully. He pulls out his camera and takes a picture of you. This was a daily ritual for Seonghwa. To follow you home and bask in your beauty without you knowing. He mainly did it at night so he could watch you for hours. Just sleeping peacefully in your home.

Today was the first time you met Seonghwa. But for Seonghwa this was the thousandth time that he has seen you. He remembers the first time you walked into the office. You looked so clueless but determined to work. He liked that about you. But what he loved most was watching you smile. You did it the most when you were asleep. As he watches you sleep he thinks about what you could be dreaming about. He takes new pictures of you as you toss and turn in your sleep, enjoying the way the moon shined on you.

He continues to watch you, taking more pictures and videos. He loves the way your hair falls across your face as you sleep, the way your lips part slightly, and the soft rise and fall of your chest. He goes home before anyone notices that he has been there. He gets to his house and prints off the pictures he took of you. He opens his scrapbook and glues the pictures of you on the pages. 

He sits on the edge of the bed just admiring you. He flips through the pages looking at all the pictures he has taken over time. He sighs as he thinks about how gorgeous you looked when you did the simplest of things like go to the grocery store, clean your house, cook, watch TV, and shower. He was there for most of the moments. He always liked the weekends because he could follow you around all day. Admiring your beauty.

Seonghwa’s obsession with you grew each day. He would often daydream about you during meetings, pretending to take notes but instead drawing your face over and over again. He would sometimes go to the break room just to hear your voice as you talked to your coworkers. He was obsessed with you and no one would take you away from him. 

You walk around the flea market looking at the farmer's fresh produce. You picked up a few peppers and tomatoes when you looked up and saw Seonghwa. Without hesitation, you walk up to him. “Hey, I haven’t seen you here before! How are you?” you speak in a cheerful tone. His heart skips a beat as he hears your voice. He quickly turns around, his eyes wandering along your frame, admiring the green cottage core dress that hugged your body. He quickly puts on a friendly smile, trying to act natural. You look at his outfit and smile. He wears a black and white striped shirt with black pants. On his feet are black loafers and around his neck is a digital camera. 

“Hey, I'm good. Just browsing around. I've never been to this flea market before, so I thought I'd check it out.”

“Well, you are more than welcome to join me every Sunday. That’s if you’d like. I don’t want to force anything on you,” you smile being polite to him. Little did you know he knew that you came here every Sunday. He had countless pictures of you with your cute strawberry tote bag.

“I’d love to join you. I’ll bring coffee next time. what’s your favorite type of coffee?” Seonghwa asks, feeling giddy. He already knew your favorite type of coffee, he knew what you liked in it too. 

“On days like this, I absolutely love iced coffee.”

“Iced coffee it is then.” Seonghwa pulls out his phone and pretends to make a note, but in reality, he’s typing nothing at all.

“I see you brought your camera. Do you often do photography?” you ask pointing at the camera strapped around his neck. You admire his fingers as they fidget with the lens.

“Yeah, it’s just a hobby of mine. I like capturing scenery.” Seonghwa’s eyes flicker with unsaid words. “Most of my photos are of nature,” Seonghwa says, telling only half the truth. 

“Could you take a picture of me? You can add it to your gallery of nature,” you giggled, posing with your strawberry tote bag and picking vegetables and fruits. Seonghwa forces a smile before lifting his camera and taking a few shots of you. He looks at the images and smiles to himself. 

“Don’t be shy let me see it!” you said giddy waddling next to Seonghwa.

Seonghwa hesitates for a moment before nodding and handing you his camera. He watches as you look through the pictures, his heart pounding in his chest. He hopes you don’t notice the countless photos he took of you before today. Seonghwa's eyes follow your every move.

You smile at the pictures he took and hand him back the camera. “Those are really good Seonghwa. Could you send those to me, please? Here I’ll give you my number,” you said reaching into your bag and pulling out a pen and paper. You write down your number and give it to him. Seonghwa takes the paper, his hands slightly shaking. 

“I’ll send them to you later.” He puts the paper in his pocket, carefully folded. “Let’s keep shopping.”

Throughout the next few hours, you walk around together and pick up fresh produce. You both talk about your favorite things to do and he opens up to you about his life. You feel this connection with Seonghwa and you have no idea why. He understands you on a whole other level. It’s almost like you both have known each other for years. 

“I don’t hang out with people outside of work. You’re the first one that I’ve actually been out and about with. It’s nice,” you say the autumn wind picking up causing the remaining leaves on the tree to fall. 

“I don’t go out much either. You're the first person I've spent time with like this in a long time.” Seonghwa says, his breath visible in the cool air. He looks at you as the leaves fall around you. You smile as he lifts his camera and takes a picture of you. Your heart starts to swell as he looks at the picture smiling. 

“Let me take a picture of you Seonghwa,” you say softly, reaching out for the camera.

He hands you the camera, his eyes never leaving yours. “Okay,” he says softly. You raise the camera and snap a picture of him. Through the lens, he looks even more handsome, his eyes filled with warmth and affection. You smile from ear to ear as you look at the picture and then hand him back the camera. 

“Thank you for today Seonghwa,” you look at him for a minute. “And thank you for walking me to my car,” you say taking out your keys.

“Anytime,” he trails off. He wants to ask for a hug or even a kiss, but he holds back. He doesn’t want to scare you off. “Text me when you get home, please?”

“Yeah, I will thanks, remember to send me those pictures. I’ll see you tomorrow at work.”

“I will… See you tomorrow.” Seonghwa watches as you get in your car and drive away. He stands there, in the parking lot, until your car disappears from sight. Then he gets in his own car and drives home, his heart racing with the excitement of finally getting close to you.

You walk into work with a smile on your face. You start it as normal as usual, grabbing a coffee and going to your desk. When you get to your desk you see an iced coffee and a card next to it. You smile to yourself before opening the card. “Dinner at my place Friday night? -Seonghwa.” You chuckled to yourself before taking the iced coffee and going to Seonghwa’s cubicle. He looks up as you approach his cubicle, a small smile playing on his lips. 

“Morning,” he says, his eyes darting to the coffee in your hand. “I see you found my note.” He leans back in his chair, watching you.

“Yes I did,” you grinned looking at him and then at the ground. “Dinner this Friday at your place sounds like a good plan,” you agree shyly, everting your eyes back up at him. Seonghwa's face lights up with joy. 

“Really?” he asks, his voice barely a whisper. He can't believe you said yes. “I'll cook! I mean, if that's okay with you,” He rambles, nervous but excited.

“Of course, that is okay with me!” you express flashing him a cute smile. You glance around before getting closer to him and leaning down to whisper in his ear. “And thank you so much for the iced coffee.” Seonghwa's face turns a light shade of pink at your close proximity. He can smell your perfume, and it's driving him crazy. 

“You're welcome,” he whispers back. He wishes you would stay close forever, but you pull away and he's left craving more.

“I’ll see you later Seonghwa, I have to get some work done. And now I have to be extra focused since I’ll be with you Friday night.” He nods eagerly as he watches as you walk away, his eyes glued to your figure. He turns back to his computer, a goofy grin plastered on his face. He's like a love-struck teenager, infatuated with you.

Throughout the whole week, you complete as much paperwork as possible and attentively listen to every meeting you are in. When you have small breaks you go to chat with Seonghwa. You learn about Seonghwas's photography collection and his massive collection of Legos. You learn more about his family and where he is from. You feel so comfortable with Seonghwa that you talk to him about your past and your struggles. In this little time you have known him you were head over heels for him. No man has ever understood you as he does. 

It was now Thursday evening and it was late. You caught up with all your work for the week but Seonghwa on the other hand was behind. You stayed a little bit later just to get everything done so you wouldn’t have any work to do tomorrow, just meetings. You get up from your cubicle, the automatic lights in the building going off. You walk over to Seonghwa’s cubicle and see him typing away. He was so focused on his screen. He had his black wire glasses on which made him look extremely attractive to you. “You still working?” 

Seonghwa looks up from his computer, his eyes meeting yours. “Yeah,” he sighs, rubbing his temples. “I'm so behind,” He blinks a few times, his eyes tired from staring at the screen for so long. “What are you still doing here?”

“I just got done with my paperwork for the week. And I just wanted to finish it up so I didn’t have any paperwork to do on Friday,” you say, looking at the stack of reports pilled onto his desk.

“Oh,” he says softly, taking off his glasses and setting them down on his desk. “Well I still have a lot to do,” he says, looking more stressed than usual, his demeanor towards you was standoffish. He wasn't like his usual self but you tried to continue to be cheerful and optimistic. 

“I can always come to help you Seonghwa. Then after we can leave and have that dinner you were talking about,” you smile but his expression doesn’t waver. You look at him for a moment trying to search for any emotion other than frustration. “Seonghwa. I know you’re irritated but just know I’m here to help you when you need me,” you express before putting your fingers under his chin, guiding his gaze to you. “Oh look at you, you’re so exhausted,” you pout, rubbing your thumb against his cheek softly. Seonghwa's expression softens and he leans into your touch, craving more of it. 

“I'm sorry. I'm not mad at you. I'm just. Frustrated.” He sighs, his shoulders slumping.

“It’s okay, you are working hard. I see how stressed you are and I just want to make it better,” you softly say matching his gaze. 

On the surface, Seonghwa looked to be stressed out about work but the truth is he was stressed because he didn’t get to see you sleeping. He didn’t get to take pictures of you because of work and it was driving him insane. Only being able to see you at work wasn’t enough. He wanted to be outside your window admiring you every single night but he couldn’t do that. He was swamped with work this week and he had to meet this deadline.

You’ve never seen someone so vulnerable till this moment. You felt bad and you didn’t know what to do. You grab onto his hand and pull him out of his rolling chair. You wrap your arms around his neck and stand on your tippy toes to whisper in his ear. “Seonghwa, I’m sorry. You shouldn’t be stressed out like this. Will this make it somewhat better?” you say before kissing him softly causing Seonghwa's heart to skip a beat. He feels like he's in heaven, and for a moment, all his stress and frustration melt away. He wraps his arms around your waist and holds you close, returning the kiss with a soft sigh. 

"Maybe," he says, his words barely above a whisper. 

“Seonghwa I really like you,” you express looking up at him.

“I like you too, a lot,” he trails off, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “And not just because you’re beautiful. But because you understand me like no one else does.”

“I feel the same way,” you confess, cupping his face and bringing him in for another kiss. Seonghwa smiles against your lips, deepening the kiss. His hands wander to your back, caressing it softly. Seonghwa smiles into the kiss, happier than he's ever been. 

“Tomorrow I can help you with your paperwork since I have nothing to do tomorrow. Then we can go back to your place and have our dinner,” you whisper tucking his long hair behind his ear causing Seonghwa's heart to swell from your touch.

 “Okay,” he says softly, nuzzling into your hand. He's glad that you're offering to help him, but he also feels bad for imposing on your time off. “Are you sure?” He questions, causing you to look into his eyes and then press your forehead against his. 

“Seonghwa I’m sure, you don’t have to do it alone,” you say caressing his arm. You feel a warmth spread through your hand as the tips of your fingers make contact with him. He wraps his arms around you, holding you close. 

“Thank you,” he says softly, burying his face in your neck. You reach up and run your fingers up the back of his head and through his hair. You nod in response to his thank you before speaking, “I should go home. Don’t stay here all night okay? I’ll text you when I get home.”

“Mhm,” he hums softly, nuzzling his face further into your neck. “I won't, I’ll leave after I’m done with this folder. Drive safe for me okay?” he says, smoothing down your hair.

“I will be safe promise. I’ll see you tomorrow,” you say before pulling away from the hug. Your hands linger on him, not wanting to let go. You kiss his cheek before turning around and waving at him with a cute pout. Seonghwa watches you walk away, his heart feeling full. He sits back down at the desk, trying to focus on the paperwork, but his mind keeps wandering back to you. He finishes up the folder and turns off his computer. He sighs and looks at a picture of you that he has of you on his phone. Admiring how gorgeous you look, smiling to himself knowing that you will be in his presence all of tomorrow. 

When he gets back home he looks at the leather scrapbook, looking at pictures that he took of you in the pool during the summertime. His mind races at the idea of you possibly giving him what he has been waiting for. He grows hard as he looks at the way your boobs look in your bikini. He starts to breath heavy as he pulls his dick out and starts to stroke himself. He holds the scrapbook in one hand and his dick in the other. He moans your name until he cums all over the pictures of you. He laughs to himself when he is done knowing that your hand will be replacing his soon.

“Holy shit we did it Seonghwa,” you exclaim looking at your watch. “And it’s only 4:30 pm!” You said bouncing in the rolling chair next to his desk. It was finally the end of the day and you were both eager to get back to Seonghwa’s house to hang out and have dinner together. The week felt long but it was worth it especially since you both get to spend extra time with each other outside of work.

Seonghwa grins at you, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "We make a great team," he says, packing up his laptop and putting on his coat. "Let's get out of here. I'm starving." He offers you his hand to help you up from the chair. You take his hand and squeeze it tightly before placing the rolling chair back where you found it.

“You don’t have to tell me twice,” you smile, making Seonghwa’s heart flutter. You both walk to your cars parked right next to each other. “I’ll follow you okay!” you say giving him a thumbs up. Seonghwa chuckles and then smiles before he gets into his car and starts it. You do the same, your heart pounding in your chest at the idea of finally going to his house. He pulls out of the parking lot and you follow him.

He drives carefully, keeping an eye on the rearview mirror to make sure you're still behind him. He's nervous about you coming over, wanting everything to be perfect. As he pulls into his driveway, he lets out a sigh of relief. You park your car next to his and turn off your car. You get out and walk towards his vehicle, your heels clicking against the pavement. He steps out of his car, his coat flapping in the wind. He walks over to you and takes your hand, intertwining your fingers together. 

"Come on, let's get inside," he says softly, leading you up the steps to his front door. You squeeze his hand tightly, a shit-eating grin plastered onto your face. 

“Such a nice house. You should have brought me here sooner,” you express as Seonghwa takes out his keys and unlocks the door. He chuckles at your comment, opening the door and ushering you inside. 

"I agree," he says, closing the door behind you. "But better late than never, right?" He hangs up his coat and helps you out of yours, hanging it up as well. “Make yourself at home.” With that you start to take off your heels at the door, your bare skin touching the hardwood floor. For a moment you admire the way the floor looks, lost in the wood grain. You suddenly look up and see Seonghwa holding up a bouquet of peonies. Your eyes grow wide for a minute before blinking rapidly. 

“Seonghwa these are beautiful, you didn’t have to get me these,” you gasp reaching out for them and pouting slightly. You lean down and smell them your heart warming up and your mind swelling with memories. “How did you know I liked peonies Seonghwa?” You smile looking at him with admiration.

Seonghwa blushes slightly, averting his gaze. "I didn’t know you like peonies. They just reminded me of you and I decided to get them,” he lied, plastering a sincere smile across his face. In reality, he looked through your Facebook to find a picture of you when you were young, standing in front of peonies at your grandmother's house. He chose those because he knew you would have an emotional response to them.

“They are gorgeous Seonghwa thank you,” you express pulling him into a hug, causing him to smile. Knowing that what he did worked. He ran his fingers down your back and pulled you closer to his body. You took this as a signal to kiss him. You pressed your lips against his in a tender kiss. Seonghwa's arms wrap around you, holding you tightly against his chest as he returns the kiss, his lips moving softly against yours. After a moment, he gently pulls away, his hands still resting on your waist. 

"I'm glad you like them," he says, his voice low and warm. You giggle, pressing a small peck on his cheek. 

“Let’s put them in some water,” you say before pulling away and walking to his kitchen. Seonghwa watches you walk away, his eyes never leaving your figure. He loved the way that tight dress looked on you, hugging your curves in all the right places. His thoughts were cloudy, he couldn't help but think that you wore that dress on purpose. To fuck with him, to toy with his desires for you. 

He follows you into the kitchen, leaning against the counter as he watches you fill a vase with water and arrange the flowers. After putting the flowers in the vase you walk up to Seonghwa and rest your arms on his shoulders. He instinctively places his hands on your waist and you gaze into each other's eyes for a moment. Both of your bodies swaying back and forth. 

“So what are we having for dinner,” you say, breaking the silence. Seonghwa grins squeezing your waist tightly. 

“How does sundubu jjigae sound? I also bought some odeng yesterday to go with it,” he smiles knowing that’s your favorite dish to eat causing you to raise an eyebrow in surprise. You never told him you liked sundubu jjigae, but you just figured that it was a coincidence since it was a popular dish. 

“That sounds amazing Seonghwa,” you whisper kissing him softly. He returns the kiss eagerly, his hands squeezing your waist gently. 

"Great," he murmurs against your lips before pulling away. "I'll start on the sundubu jjigae. Why don't you go relax in the living room? I'll call you when dinner's ready."

You pull away and squeeze his hand, reluctantly leaving the kitchen. You wanted to help make food with him but you didn’t want to protest against it. You sit in the living room and turn on the TV, trying to occupy your mind. 

As Seonghwa cooks, he hums softly to himself, stirring the ingredients together in the large pot. He glances at the clock, satisfied with how quickly things are progressing. As the jjigae begins to bubble, he turns off the heat and calls out to you. 

"It's ready!" you hear Seonghwa yell from the kitchen.

You get up from the couch and make your way to the kitchen. Once you enter he’s already seated at the table with everything set out for both of you to eat. You both smile brightly as you walk over to him and sit down right next to him. 

“The food looks good Seonghwa,” you compliment before pressing your lips against his cheek, your lips lingering on his skin. His face flushes slightly at the gentle kiss on his cheek, his heart skipping a beat. He picks up his spoon and begins to eat, encouraging you to do the same. As you both eat, he notices how much you enjoy the food, your eyes lighting up with each bite. 

You both continue to eat, enjoying each other's company. You look at the bottle of wine and your eyes gaze at the label. “Oh wow even my favorite wine,” you chuckle holding up a bottle of white wine. You pour both of you a glass and you lift yours. “Here’s to the weekend?” Seonghwa smiles warmly and clinks his glass against yours. 

"To the weekend," he echoes, taking a sip of the wine. His eyes never leave yours, admiring your beauty over the rim of his glass. As you both continue to eat and drink, the atmosphere grows more relaxed and intimate.

After you are both done eating you look at Seonghwa. At this time the tension between both of you was present. You were both alone, with no other coworkers and no cubical walls in the way. You were needy for his touch and you didn’t know what to do. Your heart was telling you to make love to him but your mind was thinking otherwise. The alcohol wasn’t helping causing you to become slightly tipsy. While he was eating you couldn’t help but look at his slender and long fingers as he held his spoon. The way they grasped onto the wine glass so elegantly. You took your wine and drank all of it in one fellow swoop. Seonghwa looked at you and awed at the way your neck was sculpted. His mind clouded with thoughts of how you would look with his dick down your throat. You looked Seonghwa in his eyes as you rubbed his thigh. Your heart was racing but you wanted him so fucking bad.

Seonghwa's eyes meet yours, his own pupils dilating as he watches you rub his thigh. He swallows hard, his voice husky as he asks, "What are you thinking about?" He places his hand over yours, intertwining their fingers as he slowly moves your hand higher up his thigh. You swallowed hard not wanting to tell him the naughty things you wish he would do to you. Instead, you switched your focus, squeezing his thigh slightly. 

“What are you thinking about?” you say, your gaze lingering on his lips before shifting back to his eyes. 

Leaning in close, Seonghwa's warm breath fans against your ear as he whispers, "I'm thinking about how much I want to make love to you right now." His hand on yours guides it even higher, bringing it to rest over the growing bulge in his pants. You smile and bite your lower lip to his response. You can feel your body getting hotter by the second. You rub your hand against his growing dick, feeling how long he is under your fingertips causing his breathing to hitch. 

“What else Seonghwa?”

"I want to hear you moan my name as I pleasure you. I want to bury my face between your thighs and make you come apart."

“Oh Seonghwa,” you gasp, your heart rate becoming faster as you listen to what he just said.

Seonghwa's hand tightens around yours, pressing it firmly against his throbbing cock. He grinds against your palm, his eyes locked with yours. Seonghwa's hand leaves yours, and he begins to slowly unbutton his shirt, revealing his toned chest. "I want you to touch me, to explore my body," he murmurs, his eyes locked onto yours. "I want you to know what it feels like to be with me." You move your hands up to his chest and rub softly. You start to kiss his neck, humming slightly as you feel his pulse against your lips. Seonghwa leans his head to the side to give you better access, he lets out a soft moan at your gentle kisses.

“I’d love to explore you Seonghwa,” you whisper against his neck.

"Please, touch me everywhere," he begs softly, his body trembling slightly under your hands. He reaches up to caress your thigh, gently tracing patterns on your skin. "Please," he begs softly, "Please let me take you to the bedroom. I need you." 

“Yes please,” you say causing both of you to get up from your chairs. Seonghwa then sweeps you off your feet and carries you to his bedroom. Once you reach the room he lets you down and starts to kiss you passionately.

Seonghwa's kisses are urgent and passionate, his hands roaming your body as he walks you backward towards the bed. He breaks the kiss only to speak against your lips, "I want to touch every inch of you." As you kiss him passionately, he slowly begins to undress you. His hands unzip your dress and push it off your shoulders, letting it pool at your feet. He breaks the kiss only to trail his lips down your neck and collarbone, his hands caressing your curves.

You let out a few gasps at his eager kissing causing you to press your thighs together. You reach out and start to unbutton the rest of his shirt. You tugged at his sleeves which signaled him to take off his shirt completely. You run your hands down his chest and to his abs as he desperately kisses your neck. The room fills with your needy whimpers and you trail your fingers down to his belt, unbuckling it quickly. His hands move up to cup your boobs, squeezing them gently. He hums against your neck, biting softly as he feels your fingers unbutton and unzip his pants. You push them down, letting them hit the ground. You run your fingers against his shaft causing him to moan against your skin before he presses his lips against yours in a searing kiss.

His hands roam your body as he tries to remove the rest of your clothing. He gently squeezes your boobs before he breaks the kiss to tug your bra off, discarding it on the floor. He curls his long slender fingers around the waistband of your panties, pulling them down your legs, and steps out of his pants. He kisses your jaw and neck before lifting you and placing you on the edge of his bed. He takes a minute to worship your body, placing kisses down your neck to your hardened peeks. He kisses your nipples softly causing you to let out a needful whine.

“Seonghwa I’m so wet,” you whimper, squeezing your thighs together to suppress the overwhelming throbbing. Seonghwa's eyes look down, his hands reaching to nudge your thighs apart. He drops to his knees in front of you, his face hovering over your dripping core. He inhales deeply, his nose buried in your pussy, before licking you from bottom to top in one long stroke.

“Fuuuck,” you breathe out, a long desperate moan escaping your lips as you feel his long tongue run circles against your clit. You grip onto his sheets and look down, your eyes meeting. He was looking up at you from between your thighs, his tongue continuing its slow licking. 

"You taste so good, my love," he murmurs, his eyes locked with yours. He slips two fingers inside of you, curling them upwards as his tongue returns to lavish attention on your swollen bud. You moan his name, trembling slightly as he pleases you. Your head spiraled at the sight of him. You were so sensitive, not being with someone for a long time progressed this pleasure. Seonghwa increases his pace, his fingers pumping into you as his mouth suctions onto your core. He watches as your face contorts with pleasure, your eyes fluttering closed. 

"Look at me," he demands, his voice muffled against your flesh. Your eyes slowly open, as you move your hand behind his head. You start to softly grind against his fingers and face, moaning in ecstasy as he meets your gaze. 

“J-just like that Seonghwa,” you whimper trying to catch your breath. He hums against your core, his fingers beckoning inside of you as his mouth seals around your throbbing nub. He maintains eye contact as you tighten around his fingers, your breathing hitching as your face scrunches up with pleasure.

“Fuck don’t stop,” you breathe, watching how he sucks on your swollen clit. Seonghwa doesn't stop, his mouth and fingers working in perfect harmony. The room fills with slurping sounds and your desperate needy moans. You can feel your walls starting to tremble around his fingers as he sucks harder on your clit. He knows you're close, so he adds a third finger, curling them to hit that sweet spot inside of you. You let out an eager broken moan, throwing your head back and grasping his hair tighter. He removed his fingers, replacing his fingers with his long tongue. You felt his tongue delve deep into your pussy making your back arch, causing Seonghwa to moan against your core. You whimper his name and press his head down further, wanting to feel him lick your walls further. Your pussy clenches around his invading tongue as he caresses your walls. His nose was gliding against your throbbing clit, eager to be sucked again. His hands grip your thighs, holding you open as he devours you. 

He removes his tongue out of your pussy and rubs his fingers along your sensitive bud. He spits on your pussy before slurping it back up and lapping his tongue along your clit again. A long guttural moan escapes your lips as he starts to suck again. Seonghwa's hands tighten on your thighs as he buries his face in your soaked core, his tongue lashing against your swollen bud. He can hear your ragged breaths and desperate moans, egging him on as you buck against his face.

“I’m going to cum don’t stop,” you moan feeling your core tighten. Seonghwa's response is muffled against your flesh as he redoubles his efforts, sucking harder and faster on your sensitive clit. He feels your fingers tighten in his hair and your thighs clamp around his head as you reach the peak of your pleasure.

You let go of his hair and grasp tightly onto the sheets. Your eyes roll back and the loud moan of his name fills the room as you cum. Your core tightens and your pussy starts to tremble. You quickly start to close your thighs around Seonghwa’s head but he pushes them open. Pressing your knees against your chest forcefully. He keeps sucking on your clit causing your body to shake involuntarily. You moan his name repeatedly like a mantra as you watch him continue to suckle and lap at your sensitive clit, drawing out every last wave of pleasure. He can feel your juices flooding his mouth and chin as your body convulses.

Your body goes limp as he pulls away, your juices dripping down his chin as he rubs your thigh. Your legs tremble rapidly as you can still feel yourself coming. He gets up off his knees and watches how your body reacts to what he has done to you causing him to smile. You let out a long groan before looking up at him. You sit up and bask in the beauty of his wet face. You suddenly open your mouth and stick your tongue out. Without even having to ask Seonghwa spits in your mouth before kissing you passionately. You moan against his lips at the fact that he knew exactly what you wanted, swallowing a combination of both of you.

Seonghwa deepens the kiss, his tongue exploring every inch of your mouth as you swallow. He grins against your lips, finding your eagerness endearing. "You like that, don't you?" he murmurs, pulling away slightly to nuzzle your nose. "Want more?"

“Is that even a question,” you state hungrily running your hands down his abs to his shaft. You rub him through his boxers wanting his dick down your throat. Seonghwa's grin widens at your eager response, his fingers rubbing your wrist. 

"Greedy," he murmurs, "On your knees," he commands softly. "Show me how much you want it."

You obey and side down to the ground, looking up at him in awe. You curl your fingers around his boxers and pull them down. His dick slaps against your face, his precum dripping on your skin. You are in shock at how huge he is, wrapping your hand around him. You start to slowly stroke him, looking at his veins. His breathing grows heavy, and his abs flex with each intake. He tangles his fingers in your hair, guiding your head forward. "Open your mouth," he orders, his voice low.

You look up at him as you open your mouth, a smile playing on your lips as you glide his tip onto your tongue. Seonghwa lets out an array of curses before he reaches the bedside table and opens the drawer. You swirl your tongue around his tip, licking all of the precum off and humming at the taste of him. He reaches into the drawer and grabs his digital camera. He waves it around in his hand, his lips turning into a smirk. You remove your mouth and nod your head. 

“Add them to your nature collection,” you say before wrapping your mouth around his head and sucking gently. Seonghwa chuckles darkly as he aims the camera at your face, capturing the moment you take his dick back into your mouth. He starts snapping photos, his other hand still tangled in your hair. 

"So pretty," he cooed, watching you through the camera lens.

You start to move your head down further onto his dick, looking up at him as he snaps pictures of you. You grab onto his base slowly moving your head back and forth, trying your best to take down his long cock. He groans as he feels your mouth enveloping his shaft. He continues to take pictures, immortalizing the sight of you servicing him. 

"That's it, take it deep," he encourages, his voice strained with pleasure. "I want to see those pretty lips stretched around me."

Your eyes roll back and you moan against him in response to his filthy words. This fuels you to go deeper, gagging slightly at the feeling of his tip touching your uvula. You force down more until you feel him hit the back of your throat. He groans as he watches his dick disappear in your mouth and for a second he feels like he is going to instantly cum.

Overwhelmed by the sensation, you see Seonghwa's hand tremble, causing the camera to shake. He quickly steadies it, determined to capture every moment. "Just like that y/n," he manages to say between ragged breaths. "Look at me while you take me." He wants to see your eyes watering, wants to see the intensity of your expression as you work to please him. You continue to keep a steady pace, his dick sliding down your throat. You moan desperately as you feel how perfectly he fits in your mouth. Your lips wrapped around him, sucking eagerly.

Seonghwa's face is contorted in sheer bliss as he watches you bob your head up and down. The sound of the shutter clicking rapidly fills the room, documenting the moment you're gagging on his thick length. You moan against him, your tongue gliding against his shaft as you rock your head back and forth. 

"You look so innocent, but you're taking me so well," he groans as saliva starts to trail down your mouth and to your chin. The sloppy interaction causes you to reach down and play with your clit.

"That’s right, touch yourself for me," he demands, his voice rough with desire. "I want to see you get off while you worship my cock with that pretty mouth."

You whimper as you feel Seonghwa’s hand press against the back of your head, his dick shoving deep down your throat. Your mouth is now touching your hand that was wrapped around the base of his cock. Your fingers move faster onto your clit as you start to gag around him.  All you wanted to do was please him, your hunger was overwhelming and you couldn’t stop. Seonghwa's hips buck forward as you remove your hand from around his base and place it on his thigh for stability. He grunts, his hand tightening on the camera as he records the sight of you pleasure-seeking while your mouth is stuffed with his dick.  

"You're doing so good, baby. Choke on it," he groans, a mischievous smile painted onto his face. The room fills with the sound of you gagging as he pushes your head down further. You try to gasp for air but you can’t, his dick blocking your airways. He tilts the camera downwards, capturing the tears streaming down your puffy cheeks and the desperate way you're clawing at his thighs. 

"You can't breathe with my dick lodged in your throat can you baby?" he pants, his own breath hitching as he nears the edge. 

You feel his twitch inside your mouth as he gazes into your eyes. His face contorts in pleasure as he pulls your hair, removing your mouth from his dick. You start to gasp for air, your grasp on his thighs weakening. You look up at him as he throws his head back, his eyebrows scrunched, a guttural moan escaping his lips. You watch as his cum spills onto your face, coating your cheeks and your lips. You lean forward and kiss his tip as he continues to cum in short spurts causing some to drip down your chin and onto your chest. 

You watch in awe as his body shutters, his orgasm subsiding. Seonghwa looks down, his eyelids heavy as he gazes onto your face glistening with his seed. His mouth turned into a grin, a mischievous chuckle vibrating in his throat. Breathing heavily, Seonghwa lowers the camera, using two fingers to scoop up the mess from your cheeks and push it past your lips. A shuttering sound could be heard again, capturing his fingers gliding against your cheeks. 

"Clean it up, baby," he says softly, his voice hoarse.

You nod in agreement, swirling your tongue around his fingers as you make direct eye contact with him. He shivers as he watches you, his dick already growing hard again. You lick all of his essence from his fingers, moaning at the taste of him. Savoring the taste of your hard work like it was a reward. He pulls his fingers out of your mouth slowly, trailing spit and cum between your lips. 

"You're so perfect like this, marked by me, tasting me. You've been such a good girl for me," he praises, his voice a low rumble. 

“I’m your good girl Seonghwa,” you breathed, looking up at him with those innocent eyes. You shift slightly, your core dripping wet and ready to be fucked. “What are you going to do to me now?” You whisper, waiting patiently for orders.

"Lie down on the bed sweetheart," Seonghwa commands, his eyes never leaving yours. 

You obey your orders and rise from your knees. You press your body against him before giving him a desperate kiss. He wraps his arms around you and trails his hands to your ass, squeezing tightly. The kiss becomes sloppy as both of your tongues dance against each other. You take a deep breath before pulling away, sucking on his bottom lip. He smirks, before biting his bottom lip.

“On the bed. Now,” he demands again causing you to turn around and do as you were told. You feel a firm slap on your ass as you crawled on top of the bed. “Good girl,” Seonghwa whispered, causing you to whimper. 

He sets the camera aside and walks over to the bed, his gaze drinking in the sight of you waiting for him. You watch as he lays on top of you, positioning himself between your legs. He leans down and kisses you passionately, enjoying the feeling of your soft lips against his. Savoring the moment of the both of you together. You feel Seonghwa grind his body against yours, his semi-hard dick rubbing against your wet core. His hands roam over your curves possessively. 

“I love you,” he breathes against your lips, his voice filled with passion.

“I love you too,” you express, pressing your lips closer to his as you move your hips in unison with his. 

"Let me fuck you, baby. I want to feel you completely lose it around me," he says, his hands sliding down to your hips, gripping them tightly as he increases the pace. His face is buried in the crook of your neck, his hot breath fanning against your skin. 

“Please,” you breathe, feeling your swollen bud glide against his shaft. Seonghwa groans against your neck at your pleading, holding back the urge to completely destroy you. To hear your pleading moans as he slams into your sopping-wet core. He looks back up at you and presses another greedy kiss against your lips. You were losing control as you reached down and guided his tip against your entrance. 

“Fuck me Seonghwa please,” you beg causing Seonghwa to nod slowly as he gazed into your eyes. You gasp and moan in ecstasy as he slowly enters you, his thick girth stretching you wide. You claw at his side softly at the new sensation, biting your bottom lip involuntarily. He leans down and presses a searing kiss on your lips. You feel him shiver slightly as he feels you clench around him. His dick twitches inside you, trying his best to get used to how you wrap around him. He moans against your mouth, whispering sweet nothings as he buries himself into you. 

"You're so warm, so tight. Only for me, right?" 

“Only for you,” you moan, your head spinning as you feel his tip kiss your cervix. Seonghwa groans at your reply, never breaking eye contact. Seonghwa starts to move within you, his hips rolling in a slow, rhythmic dance. His eyes stay locked onto yours, his face contorted in a mask of pure ecstasy. 

"I want to make love to you like this forever," he whispers, his voice filled with emotion.

“Forever,” you whimper, rubbing your hand on his cheek to pull him in closer. You kiss his lips, moaning against them as he thrusts into you slowly. 

Seonghwa's pace quickens as he feels you wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him even deeper. His hands slide underneath you, gripping your bottom possessively as he continues to whisper his love for you against your lips.

“Seonghwa,” you moan out his name, throwing your head back. You can feel his dick gliding in and out of you effortlessly, your walls quivering around him. 

"Look at me," he demands, his voice husky with desire. He holds your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze as he thrusts into you with renewed vigor. "I love you, I love you, I love you." He repeats, his eyebrows scrunching together. You whimper as you stare into his eyes, your eyelids heavy. You moan in ecstasy as you claw at his side. 

“I love you,” you manage to breathe out, your heart beating out of your chest. Seonghwa then captures your lips in a searing kiss, swallowing your moans as you feel your walls starting to flutter around him. He increases his pace, the headboard slamming against the wall with each powerful thrust.

“Don’t stop,” you moan, pressing your forehead against his as you close your eyes to savor the feeling of him fucking you into oblivion.

"I won't baby I promise," Seonghwa groans, his jaw clenched as he powers into you. His arms tighten around you, his hands gripping you with a fierce possessiveness. The sound of Seonghwa’s eager thrust fills the room along with both of your desperate moans and groans. You feel him grip the sheets tightly beside your head, his thrust becoming out of control.

“Take that dick baby, take all of it,” he groans, slamming into you harder. You throw your head onto the mattress, your eyes rolling back as he fucks you rough. You moan Seonghwa’s name loudly, your cries bouncing off the walls of his bedroom. With every fast and rough thrust, you feel your juices leak out of your pussy and onto his sheets. You can hear how wet his dick is from the squelching noise that emanates from your core. Loud slapping from your bodies fills the room along with the loud sound of the headboard hitting aggressively against the wall. 

You say his name in a long moan, your head spiraling as you feel him thrust into your g-spot repeatedly. You arch your back and he wraps his arms around your waist, pressing himself further into you. He leans down and captures your neck on his lips. He kisses and sucks desperately at your skin, leaving hickeys along your neck. 

“Take it y/n,” he whispers against your neck as he continues to fuck you at the same rough and fast pace. Your walls clench harder around his dick and the knot in your core starts to tighten. You move your hands from his sides to his back, scratching along his skin. 

"Y-you're so close, aren't you?" Seonghwa pants, his eyes locked onto yours. His hands slide down to your hips, tilting them up so that he can hit that spot that drives you wild.

“Fuck Seonghwa please,” you gasp, your legs shaking involuntarily. 

"Please what, sweetheart?" he asks teasingly, his tone wavering because he's just as close to the edge as you are. He leans down to capture one of your nipples between his lips, his tongue swirling around it roughly. “Look at me when you say it,” he demands. 

“I’m gonna cum, please let me cum,” you breathe out as he continues to slam into you repeatedly.

"Look at me and beg me to let you come apart," Seonghwa says in a breathless tone. His pace quickens, his hips thrusting into you with a force that leaves you breathless.

“Please!” you whine out your pussy clenching tighter against his dick. “I can’t- I can’t hold it. Baby please!” you whimper eagerly, your voice echoing through the room.

"Please what?" Seonghwa asks, his voice a low groan. He leans his forehead against yours, his eyes boring into yours. “Look at me, my love,” he demands.

“Please let me cum please,” you beg your face contorted with pleasure as you feel yourself about to release. He lets out a low groan as your walls clamp down around him. 

"You can let go, sweetheart," he breathes, his pace quickening as he slams into you. “Look at me as cum,” he demands again. 

You look into his eyes before your eyes roll back at the intoxicating pleasure that radiates through your body. Your core is overwhelmed with pure satisfaction and you start to feel your body release around him. You moan his name so loud that it penetrates through the walls and throughout the house. Your walls clench aggressively tight around him as your pussy quivers. You claw at his back leaving visible scratch marks. Your vision is blurred and you start to shake again. Seonghwa throws his head back, a guttural moan tearing from his throat as your release milks his own from him. His body stiffens as he releases into you, his pace slowing as he drives into you deeply one last time. His body shakes as he releases into you.

“Oh my god Seonghwa,” you gasp, your body jerking involuntarily.

"Oh, y/n," Seonghwa pants, his body slumping forward as he buries his face in the crook of your neck. His arms wrap protectively around you, his hands caressing your back soothingly as he tries to calm your trembling body. You feel Seonghwa press soft kisses against your skin, and your body shutters lightly in his grasp before it subsides. You let out a satisfied sigh, feeling content with how everything went.

"I love you," he whispers, his voice gentle. "You were perfect today," he adds, his hands continuing to caress your back. He slowly eases out of you and lies beside you, pulling you close.

“I-I love you too,” you whispered, completely and utterly in love with the man you just had intimate sex with. You gaze into his eyes for a moment, rubbing circles on his biceps, completely effectuated with him. Seonghwa cups your face tenderly, his thumb brushing over your cheek gently as he meets your gaze. You are both drunk off of each other, your heart swelling with unconditional love. 

"My sweet, perfect love," he murmurs, his voice filled with emotion. He leans in, capturing your lips in a deep passionate kiss, your lips move against each other slowly. Your hands roam his body softly, worshiping him and all the work he just did. You admire the way his arms flex against your grasp and the way he relaxes when you rub his side. You break from the kiss and look up at him for a moment. 

“That was amazing, no one has ever made me feel that good,” you blush, recalling everything that happened between the both of you. A smirk plays on Seonghwa's lips, his hands squeezing your backside possessively. 

"Good," he says, his voice barely above a whisper. "You're mine and only mine. I promise to keep making you feel that good, forever. You deserve only the best. And every time will only get better." He brings your hand to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss on your knuckles. He then kisses you again, his hands roaming over your body.

You’re eyes flutter closed from his touch. You were completely exhausted from the long week and this was exactly what you needed. A nice dinner, a great conversation, a make-out session, and some good dick. You slowly felt yourself drift asleep from hearing Seonghwa’s breathing. As you closed your eyes you felt him get up from the bed, leaving a cold spot beside you. Once he came back you could feel him cleaning you up gently with a towel before he laid right back beside you. He pressed his body against yours, rubbing his hands against your thighs and tummy. 

“Get some rest, my love, I’ll be here when you wake up,” you heard Seonghwa say before he pulled the covers over both of you. You smiled to yourself when you felt his lips kiss your cheek.

You suddenly wake up and look at your surroundings. The room is dark, the only thing casting light is the full moon. You feel Seonghwa’s arms wrapped around yours and you smile, caressing your hand against his skin. 

You slowly get up, trying not to wake Seonghwa. The bed frame lightly creeks along with the hardwood floor as you make your way to the bathroom to use it. Your mind flashes with images of Seonghwa pleasing you and you can’t help but want more. You turn on the light and wince at the bright room before you walk over to use the bathroom. You keep thinking about the way he treats you and how loved you truly feel. For the first time in forever, you feel like you have found someone you can spend your life with. You knew that being in love with him so soon was cliche but you didn’t care. You wanted him just as much as he wanted you. 

You take a deep breath and wash your hands before walking back to his room. You look at Seonghwa’s figure as he sleeps, the gentle rising and falling of his breath. Your gaze moves to the bedside table where he placed the camera. Right next to it is a leather scrapbook that has “photos” engraved into the leatherback. You pick it up and smile, thinking about how beautiful his nature pictures must be. Your fingers glide against the strings before undoing them. You then open the book. 

Your heart sinks. 

The beautiful smile on your face then turns into pure fear. Your eyes grow wide as you go through the pages. Pictures of you on your second day of work, in the parking lot, at the pool, the gym, the grocery store, the flea market, the bar. Detailed notes were written under each photo and it caused your skin to crawl. You felt like you were going to have a panic attack, the way your chest was rapidly rising and falling, your breathing becoming shallow, and your heart beating out of your chest. You looked up quickly to make sure Seonghwa was still asleep. You grabbed your clothes off of the ground and frantically made your way to the living room. You struggled to put on your dress, your hands shaking. 

Tears started to stream down your cheeks as the adrenaline started to kick in. You looked around the dark living room trying to find your purse and phone. You quickly walk to the kitchen and find them lying on the counter. As you grab your belongings you look down at the trash. You see a takeout container for sundubu jjigae. Everything was a lie, everything he did and said was a lie. You started to hyperventilate but you had to get the fuck out of there. 

You rushed back to the living room and started to put on your heels. Many emotions were running through your mind, but you needed to put those aside until you got out of There. Your flight or fight response was high and you were completely ready to flee. But you freeze in place as you see a tall shadow walk from around the corner in your peripheral. You go numb and you don’t know what to do. Your body is in shock. You grab the nob eagerly and try to unlock the door but you can’t. 

“Looks like you caught me, princess.” Tears start to flow rapidly from your eyes and you let out a broken cry. 

“Seonghwa please let me go, if you truly love me please,” you beg, trying to open the door. His voice is cold, devoid of any warmth or affection. He walks closer to you, his steps slow and deliberate. 

"Please what, princess?" He asks, his tone mocking. "Please let you go, so you can run away from me? So you can ruin everything we have?"

“Seonghwa, I won’t tell anyone just let me go!” you express, aggressively unlocking the lock and trying the door again. But it’s no use, the door won’t open.

Seonghwa chuckles darkly, his eyes glinting with a dangerous intensity. "Won't tell anyone? Oh darling, I know you better than that. You're not thinking clearly right now, are you?" He takes another step closer, looming over you. You let out a cry, pressing your body against the door. You want to get away but you can’t. You feel like your whole world is shattered. Before you could blink Seongwa cuts the distance, his tall figure looming over your body. You're small frame completely disappears as he towers over you. 

“Please Seonghwa, you're scaring me” you choke out, tears streaming down your face in fear. All he can do is look at you, his expression never wavering. He stares into your soul as he watches you come apart, you just want him to show some type of empathy. The room is eerily still as he watches over you like he is observing you. For a moment you wish you could understand what was going through his mind. You think about the memories you have together and you can’t help but cry even more. How did it come to this? And how did you get yourself in this situation? You should have just left the scrapbook alone, you wouldn't have known. Now you feel these moments fading away. But you give in knowing that there isn’t an escape. He knows everything about you and he can’t let you go and for some reason, you feel like you can’t let him go either. Your heart is racing out of your chest, your fear only amplifying. 

“I’m yours, Seonghwa,” you whisper, choking on your own tears. Seonghwa's face breaks into a wide, satisfied smile, his teeth bared. 

"Good girl," he praises, his voice dropping to a low purr. Before you can try to run again, he grabs your throat, pinning you against the door. You let out a loud wale and instantly close your eyes, not wanting to see him like this. Your happy memories of him were fading and you didn’t want to let them go. This whole ordeal was conflicting with your heart. You wanted to be infuriated that he stalked you for months but you felt like it was meant to be. You felt like you belonged here with him like he was the only one that loved you. 

"Oh, you're so loud," Seonghwa remarks, his thumb pressing against your windpipe causing you to whimper. "But don't worry, no one will hear you. I made sure of that." He leans in close, his breath hot against your face. "Now, be a good girl and open your eyes." There was a pause for a moment as you kept your eyes shut and this fuels his anger. His grip tightens around your neck and a low chuckle vibrates through his throat. 

“Open your fucking eyes!!!” You instantly jump and force your eyes open as he growls in your face. You whimper in fear as you look at him. Seonghwa grins darkly, his eyes glinting with a dangerous light. He takes a deep breath in an attempt to calm himself down. "There you are," he purrs, his voice like velvet. His free hand reaches up to caress your face, his touch gentle, a stark contrast to the iron grip on your throat.

"Look at you, so pretty and scared," Seonghwa coos, his fingers tracing your features. "I love it when you're scared. It makes you so much more adorable." He leans in closer, his nose brushing against yours. "And I love you, princess. So much." You look at him as tears roll down your cheeks. 

Just give him what he wants. You repeat in your head. It will be over soon just give him what he wants. You take a deep breath before speaking. 

“I love you too.”

His face softens, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiles warmly. "That's my good girl," he praises, his thumb rubbing soothing circles on your neck. He leans in, pressing his lips to yours in a gentle kiss. "I’m sorry," he expresses as he releases the grasp on your neck. “Say you love me again.”

“I love you, please,” you whisper, tears still flowing down, tears soaking your dress.

"Mmm, good girl," Seonghwa murmurs approvingly. He kisses you deeply, his tongue pushing past your lips to claim your mouth. “Undress yourself.” He demands. You reach for the zipper on the back of your dress as you sniffle. You look down in shame, knowing that this is all wrong but you want to make it work. Seonghwa watches you with an intense gaze as you slowly unzip your dress. He reaches out to help, impatiently tugging the dress down your shoulders. It pools at your feet, leaving you in your bra and panties. He stands up, looking you over approvingly. 

"So pretty, I’m going to remind you who you belong to."

He kisses you passionately for a moment before lifting you from your feet. You just accept the fact that you can’t run or hide and there is no point in doing so. You love him and there is nothing that can stop you from loving him. 

He takes you back to the bedroom, slamming the door shut and locking it. For the next few hours, all that echoed through the house was your pleading cries and moans. His groans were loud along with the headboard knocking against the wall. He was all that you had and you needed to accept the fact that he was going to forever watch over you no matter what the cost.

[moonstruckme]

hiiii please could i request plus size shy reader being asked out on a date and getting anxious it’s a joke (it’s not). i would LOVE this with steve or james but i love everyone you write for so i don’t mind if you’d rather choose another character! have a lovely day/night! 🫶🏻

Thanks for requesting my love!

cw: implied insecurity around size

Steve Harrington x shy!plus size!reader ♡ 1.3k words

You can feel sweat on the insides of your thighs. Every step you take chafes. Between the heat and your nerves you think you probably look about as shiny as a glazed donut, and you worry that if you lift a hand in front of your face you’ll find it shaking. 

You don’t actually know what you’re doing here. 

When Steve asked you to meet him at the fair, your yes was automatic. He was all brown eyes and gentle features, the apple of his throat bobbing at the tail end of the question, and you hadn’t known any quicker way to get away from all that than simply agreeing and ducking into the kitchen to grab an imaginary order. Whether you actually wanted to go out with him was irrelevant, though of course you did. You still do, you think. 

But later, you’d remembered who he was. Not just Steve, who comes into your work and downs chocolate milkshakes like he’s in some sort of competition while tossing you sugary smiles that make it impossible for you to remember anyone’s orders, but Steve Harrington. King of the gum-popping populars when you’d all been in high school, who publicly degraded Nancy Wheeler just for breaking up with him and who has since been rumored to date a rotation of Hawkin’s most model-esque girls. He would know how to flirt with a girl like you. Might do it just for a laugh. Might even ask you on a phony date simply to humiliate you when you thought it was real. 

And now you’re here, looking sweat-glazed and lost in the middle of the crowd, feeling like a complete fucking loser. Well done, King Steve. 

“Hey!” 

You’re not sure if it’s worse to stay, and slowly reconcile with the fact that you’ve been duped, or leave and have to face him at work the next time he comes in. Quitting your job is starting to sound like a tempting option. 

“Hey!” 

You nearly jump out of your skin when a sure hand lands on your shoulder, and a second later Steve is rounding you with that half-quirked smile of his. His face is cast pink by the neon light of the sign you’re standing in front of. 

“Sorry,” he says, “I was gonna wait at the front, but the line for tickets was getting long so I figured I’d better get in there and grab ours.” He holds up a hand, fanning the two tickets out. 

“Oh.” The word comes out of you on a breath. Steve leans in to hear you better, not a flicker of pique in his expression for your soft voice in this loud atmosphere. “That’s smart.” 

His eyes crinkle as though you’ve said something funny, his hand dropping from your shoulder as he gives a one armed shrug. You’d forgotten it was there and yet you miss it instantly. “Well, thanks. Some people say I can be that, every now and then.” 

You feel your eyes go wide. “Oh, no, sorry, of course you’re smart,” you say in a rush. “I didn’t mean to sound surprised, I was just…” 

“I get it.” The pink light softens the teasing in Steve’s look into something even sweeter. You feel your face warm. “Do you wanna grab a funnel cake or something?” 

“Why…” You’re suddenly conscious again of your sweaty thighs, the way your sundress cuts into your middle and leaves the skin of your wide shoulders on display. “Why would I want that?” 

Steve looks confused, his smile lingering but faint. “I dunno, do you? I’m starving, I haven’t eaten since lunch. We could have whatever, though, if you’ve got something against funnel cake.” 

You blink, the flame of apprehension that had flared in your chest sputtering back down to an ember. “No, sorry,” you say, befuddled once again. What does he want with you? When and where will the other shoe drop? “I like funnel cake.” 

Steve pays for the both of you and you’re too dazed to stop him, still reeling from the hand he placed on your back to guide you through the crowd and seems in no hurry to remove. It rests just above the waistline of your dress, gentle but definitively there, radiating warmth through the fabric. When he does remove it, it’s to sit down beside you at the picnic table so you can eat, one form of contact replaced by another as his jeans press into your bare leg and you try not to spiral out. 

“These things are a disaster for me,” he says, breaking off another piece of funnel cake with his fingers. His chin and the front of his shirt are already covered in a light dusting of powdered sugar, which is somehow more endearing than offputting. You’re currently suppressing the mortifying urge to wipe it off and lick your finger. “I love fried food, and I go even crazier for sugar, so the combination is just—God.” He shakes his head, looking blissed out in the same way you recognize from when he’s half done with a milkshake. “If you don’t want to see me again after this, I’m gonna have a really hard time staying away from your work. I’ll be screwed.” 

You stare at him. Why would he be affected by how you feel about tonight? If anything, the need to avoid Steve Harrington should drive you out of town. Guys like him can do whatever they want. If he told everyone that he’d never even spoken to you and you were making this date nonsense up for attention, that would probably be more readily believed than what seems to be happening here. 

“Jesus Christ.” Steve has discovered the powdered sugar spillage down his front. He dusts off his shirt and does exactly what you’ve been wanting to, using his fingers to wipe his face and then sucking the sugar off them one by one. He looks almost sheepish when he meets your eyes, in a boyish, humorous way. “Sorry, Robin always says I eat like an animal.”

“You’re good,” you assure him. “It’s kind of impossible to avoid with powdered sugar, right?” You actually had managed to avoid it, by leaning over the little paper tray as you ate, but that’s beside the point. “You think you might want to see me again?” 

It’s blunt, not like you, and if you’d taken more than two milliseconds to think it through you know you wouldn’t have asked. Your cheeks burn. 

Steve’s brows furrow with his thumb still in his mouth, and he tilts his head like a puppy. “That’s kind of the point of dates, right?” he asks, sounding halfway between confusion and amusement. “I mean, ideally, you usually want to go out more than once.” 

“Right.” Now you’ve managed to make yourself sound like an idiot. On top of being several sizes bigger and decibels quieter than most of the other girls Steve goes out with, now you’re an airhead as well. “That makes sense, sorry.” 

“You don’t need to keep saying you’re sorry.” Steve smiles lopsided and sweet, and you can’t find even a trace of the infamous King Steve in it. Maybe in the round apple of his cheek, or the easy way he leans on the table, but not in the warmth of the look he’s giving you. The ones he’s been giving you, unreciprocated and largely mistrusted, for weeks now. “Look, we don’t have to worry about that stuff tonight. You can figure out if you think I’m worth another shot after we’re done here, and if you decide to give me a lifetime ban from your work, I’ll get it. Let’s just have fun for now, right?” 

You bite the inside of your lip, considering the soft brown of his eyes, the tiny bit of powdered sugar he’s missed just by the corner of his lips. Let’s just have fun.

“Okay,” you say. Something new and light flickers in your chest at his answering grin. “Where do you wanna start?”

[vanteguccir]

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤONLY GIRL (IN THE WORLD) * CHRIS STURNIOLO

SUMMARY　::　where Chris takes Y/N for his trip to Las Vegas with his brothers, and in the middle of neon lights and late-night walks, Chris’s and Y/N get lost in love and lust.

FEATURING　Chris Sturniolo x reader　REQUESTED?　yes.

WARNINGS　::　SMUT (mdni), p in v, mentions of squirt, oral (fem receiving), multiple orgasms, slight praise kink, petnames.

AUTHOR'S NOTE　::　that is my work, I DON'T authorize any form of plagiarism; copy, "inspiration" or translation! | english isn't my first language, so I'm sorry if there's any grammar error.

The neon lights of Las Vegas flickered in a dazzling display, casting a kaleidoscope of colors across the crowded streets. The air was electric, buzzing with excitement and anticipation as the city came alive with the night. Y/N stood at the edge of the crowd, her hand securely entwined with Chris’s. She felt a thrill of excitement coursing through her veins. Tonight was their night, a night to explore, to be free in the city where they always dreamed of knowing.

Chris looked over at her, his blue eyes sparkling with the same excitement she felt. His smile was wide and genuine, the kind of smile that made her heart flutter every time. He squeezed her hand gently, pulling her closer as they navigated through the throngs of people, his thumb caressing her soft skin gently.

"Ready for an adventure, babe?" The boy asked loudly, trying to make his voice stand out among the diverse sounds that echoed from all corners, his tone filled with playful mischief.

"Always." Y/N replied warmly, knowing that Chris loved to repeat that same sentence every time they were about to do a new thing, her own smile matching his. She felt a rush of warmth at his touch, the familiar comfort of his presence making her feel invincible.

Freemont Street was a sensory overload in the best possible way. Street performers dazzled with their acrobatics and fire tricks, while musicians filled the air with lively tunes. The aroma of street food wafted through the air, mingling with the scent of excitement and possibility. Above them, the LED canopy displayed an ever-changing array of lights and images, turning the night sky into a living canvas.

Chris guided her towards a small food stall, the enticing smell of fresh funnel cakes drawing them in.

"Are you hungry, babe? We haven't eaten anything since lunch." He asked softly, his eyes running over the displayed menu before turning back to Y/N, his gaze twinkling with delight.

"Oh yes, please. I'm starving." Y/N laughed, nodding eagerly, tilting her head so she could look at him, tugging lightly on his hand, indicating that she wanted him to order.

It was always like that with them, Y/N didn't like to order in restaurants or cafeterias, always feeling too shy to do so, and when she was with Chris, it was as if he automatically assumed that position.

The brunette ordered a large funnel cake, piled high with powdered sugar and strawberries, his large hand cutting it in half and giving her her piece, watching with amusement as she took the first bite, the sugar dusting her painted lips in an adorably way.

A nasal laugh scaped him as he reached out, gently brushing the sugar away with his thumb, his touch sending a shiver down her spine.

"You’ve got a little something…" He teased, his voice soft accompanied by a smirk decorating the corner of his lips.

Y/N blushed, her heart racing at the intimacy of the moment, holding herself back so as not to pull his hand back and plant thousands of little kisses on the milky skin.

"Thank you, baby." She murmured, feeling a warm glow spread through her chest, little tingles running through her body while their eyes stayed connected for long seconds.

As they wandered further down Freemont Street, they came across a street performer dressed as Elvis, belting out classic rock and roll tunes. A loud gasp scaped Chris's lips, his eyes widening with a mischievous glint. The boy stopped his steps abruptly, causing Y/N to stop hers as well, her eyes meeting his with a thread of confusion passing through her pupils.

"Care to dance, pretty girl?" He suggested, holding out his free hand, smiling widely while sending a wink her way.

Y/N giggled, feeling a rush of excitement, shaking her head in disbelief.

"Why not?"

A small cry of happiness escaped Chris's lips in celebration before his hands grabbed Y/N's, pulling her close. They joined the small crowd of people dancing to the music, their movements light and carefree.

Chris spun her around, Y/N's slightly swirled dress following the movement smoothly like a protagonist, their laughter infectious as they moved together in perfect harmony. Y/N felt a surge of happiness, the world around them fading away as they lost themselves in the music and each other.

After their impromptu dance session, they continued their exploration, stopping to watch a group of street artists creating intricate chalk drawings on the pavement. The artists worked with swift, confident strokes, transforming the plain concrete into vibrant masterpieces.

Chris pulled her closer, wrapping his arm around her waist before resting his chin above her head.

"This is amazing." He muttered, his voice filled with awe.

Y/N nodded, resting her back against his chest, her hand finding his that rested on her waist, her fingers decorated with delicate rings snaking between his long ones until they intertwined perfectly.

"It really is. I love how alive everything feels here." Her voice sounded airy, amazed.

They stood there for a while, simply enjoying the atmosphere and each other’s company. The energy of Freemont Street was infectious, filling them with a sense of wonder and joy.

As the night wore on, they found themselves at a small outdoor bar, its neon sign flickering invitingly. They ordered some sodas, finding a cozy corner where they could sit side by side and watch the world go by.

Chris sat relaxed on the comfortable chair, his left arm resting on the surface of the table, next to his Pepsi, while his right one draped casually over Y/N’s shoulders, the tips of his fingers caressing the slightly exposed skin of her arm softly.

"You know..." He began, his voice thoughtful while his eyes remained on the unknown people randomly passing by a few meters away from them. "I’ve always wanted to come here with you, to get to know this city with you. There’s something magical about this place, and I really wanted to share it with you."

Y/N looked up at him, her eyes big and shining like little starts and her heart swelling with love.

"Let's thank Justin right now then." She joked, her tone sounding amused before a laugh escaped her lips, joined by her boyfriend. "I've always wanted to visit Las Vegas too, you know? And I'm so grateful for you because you made it happen."

Chris smiled, his eyes softening in a way that, if it was possible, his pupils would take on little heart shapes.

"You make everything perfect, Y/N. I’m so lucky to have you."

Y/N felt tears of happiness prick at the corners of her eyes, moving her body so that she was closer to him comfortably, craving for his warm.

"I’m the lucky one." She whispered, reaching up to cup his face in her hands, her fingers caressing his cheeks softly. "I love you, Chris."

"I love you too, pretty girl." The boy replied, his voice full of the best emotions. He leaned in, capturing her lips in a tender, heartfelt kiss.

The world around them seemed to fade away as they kissed, the noise and lights of Freemont Street becoming a distant backdrop to their own little world. It was just them, wrapped in each other’s arms, sharing a moment of pure, unadulterated love.

When they finally pulled away, breathless and smiling, Chris rested his forehead against hers.

"I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else but here with you." Chris whispered, the warm breath that followed his words lightly hitting Y/N's face. "You make me so soft for you, I don't even recognize myself sometimes." He joked, smiling after hearing the laugh scaping Y/N's lips.

"It's a love potion that I pour into your Pepsi every day."

They sat there for a while longer, talking and laughing, basking in the glow of their love and the magic of the night.

As the crowd began to thin and the lights of Freemont Street started to dim, they knew it was almost time to head back. But they didn’t mind.

It was past 1 AM when Chris and Y/N finally decided to leave the street. The energy of the night still buzzed in the air around them as they began their walk back to the hotel. The neon lights coming from the buildings of the city glowed brightly, casting a surreal luminescence over everything. The streets were quieter now, the crowds having thinned but still alive with the hum of Vegas nightlife.

Hand in hand, they strolled leisurely, not wanting the night to end. They passed late-night diners, open-air bars, and the occasional street performer still plying their trade. The warm desert breeze carried the faint sounds of laughter and music, a fitting backdrop to their moment.

"Do you think it’s always like this?" Y/N asked, her voice filled with wonder while her eyes traveled to every corner. "So vibrant and alive?"

"I think it is. They don't call here the city that never sleeps for nothing, right?" Chris chuckled, squeezing her hand before bringing her closer.

"I love it!" Y/N smiled, her heart swelling with happiness.

They continued their walk, commenting about something they saw, Chris constantly bringing some little facts about those same things. Every now and then, they’d pause to take in a particularly stunning view or to watch a street performer.

When they finally reached their hotel, they entered the lobby, still laughing and talking, Chris excitedly reminiscing about certain moments as he guided Y/N carefully by her hand, their fingers never separating. The staff greeted them with warm smiles, and they exchanged friendly hellos. The lobby was quiet, a stark contrast to the lively streets outside, but it felt like a serene haven.

Chris and Y/N stepped into the elevator, the doors closing them into a private world.

As it ascended, they stood close, Chris’s arm around her waist firmly, his fingers playing with the little strings from her dress. Y/N leaned her head on his shoulder, a soft sigh of contentment escaping her lips.

Their room welcomed them with its cozy ambiance. Y/N immediately making her way to the large mirror near the entrance, starting to remove her jewelry.

"Tonight was incredible, Chris. The lights, the music, the people… everything was just so magical. I’ve never experienced anything like it." She spoke excitedly, her voice a gentle murmur in the quiet room

Chris watched her a few steps away while taking off his shoes, his eyes filled with adoration. He approached her from behind after feeling comfortable enough, his hands working on gently moving her loose hair to one side. The boy lowered his head slightly, pressing a tender kiss to her now exposed shoulder, his touch sending shivers down her spine.

"I’m glad you loved it." He whispered, his voice a soft caress against her ears. "I wanted tonight to be special for you, petal."

Y/N smiled, observing him through the reflection while continuing to talk dreamily, lost in her thoughts as she took off her earrings and rings.

Chris’s hands began to roam over her still-clothed body, his touch both tender and possessive, the tips of his fingers like a ghost touch. He kept his eyes on the mirror, watching her reactions intently, his spine curved foward and his chin resting above her shoulder, his lips a few centimeters away from her neck, breathing in her perfume.

His hands slid from her waist to her hips, then back up to her shoulders, his touch leaving a trail of warmth in its wake. Y/N’s breath hitched slightly, but she continued to speak, her voice softer now, her eyes slightly unfocused.

"And the way the lights danced across the sky… it was like we were in our own little world." She murmured, her words slowing as Chris’s hands caressed her.

Chris pressed another kiss to her neck, stroking the tip of his nose against the sensitive skin, smiling as he felt the small hairs near his lips stand up with goosebumps, his breath warm against her skin.

"We were." He said softly, his voice sounding seductive and slightly husky. "Just you and me, in our own perfect world, yeah?"

He continued his gentle exploration, his hands moving with deliberate slowness. His eyes never left the mirror, captivated by the sight of her. He loved seeing her like this, so surrendered and relaxed, her guard completely down.

Y/N leaned back into his touch, her voice fading as she closed her eyes, savoring the sensation, little sighs escaping her lips mixing with soft gasps. Chris’s hands traced the outline of her body, his touch growing more intimate, his intentions clear. He wanted to prolong this moment, to make it last as long as possible.

As his hands moved too close to her core, Y/N opened her eyes, meeting his gaze in the mirror. There was a spark of desire in her eyes, mingled with the love and trust she felt for him.

"Chris…" She whispered, her voice a soft plea.

He smiled, his eyes darkening with intensity, seeming to pierce her figure in the mirror reflection.

"I know, sweetheart. Let’s make tonight unforgettable, hm? Let me make you never forget about it."

The room was bathed in a soft, ambient light, the glow of the city outside filtering through the curtains, illuminating their bodies.

"Yes. Please, Chris." She pleaded softly, exhaling.

His hands moved with reverence, tracing the curves of her body through the thin fabric of her dress. Y/N’s heart raced, a mix of anticipation and desire building within her.

He leaned in, his lips brushing against her ear, his hot breath sending shivers down her neck.

"You’re so beautiful, you know that?" He whispered, his voice a husky murmur. "I’m the luckiest man in the world to have you."

Y/N felt a surge of emotions, her eyes meeting his in the mirror again. There was a deep, unspoken connection between them, a bond that transcended words. She reached up, placing her hand over his, squeezing gently in silent plead.

Chris’s hands moved to the back of her dress, fingers deftly undoing the zipper too slowly for Y/N's taste. The fabric slipped from her shoulders by itself, the soft texture being pulled down in gravity, pooling at her feet.

He let out a soft sigh of appreciation, his eyes roaming over her bare skin as if it was the first time he was seeing her like that. His mind thanked repeatedly and silently that she wasn't wearing a bra, only her panties in the way of his full vision.

"You’re so fucking perfect." He complimented again, his voice filled with awe. "Every inch of you."

Y/N felt a warm blush rise from her chest to her cheeks, a mix of shyness and excitement. Chris’s words made her feel cherished, like she was the most precious thing in the world. He always did that.

He had that power over her.

Chris braced his hands on either side of her hips, his fingers squeezing the exposed skin possessively before moving, guiding her to the bed, his touch insistent.

They lay down together, Chris’s body covering hers, his weight a comforting presence. He took his time to observe her some more, his flaming blue eyes running over her flushed cheeks and desperate look before finally lowering his head, their mouths meeting in a deep kiss, his lips soft and warm against hers. Y/N responded eagerly, her hands flying to his head, tangling in his messy brown hair, pulling him closer, a soft whimper scaping her throat.

Chris chuckled deeply with her desperation, ignoring it completely, his kisses slow and deliberate, a thread of saliva connecting their lips. He explored every inch of her mouth, savoring the taste of her.

A breathy whine scaped her when Chris caught her bottom lip with his teeth, pulling it gently, nibbling just the right amount, her body arching into his touch. She felt a deep desperation for him, every nerve ending alight with anticipation, begging for his hands, eyes, cock, everything.

His hands roamed her body, each touch a caress that sent sparks of pleasure through her. He moved from her lips to her neck, trailing a line of wet kisses down to her collarbone.

"You’re amazing." He murmured between kisses. "So beautiful, so perfect. So mine, yeah?"

"Y-yes, yours. On-Only yours." The girl stumbled over her words, her throat trying to draw in air that never seemed to be enough for her lungs, her skin burning with desire.

Chris’s hands moved lower, tracing the curve of her waist, the dip of her hips, squeezing all the skin where it passed, his touch gentle but firm.

His hands found their way to her breasts, cupping them gently, his thumbs brushing over her sensitive nipples, his mouth watering instantly with the feeling of it.

Y/N gasped, her back arching at the sensation of his cold touch against her warm skin, feeling like needles above it. Chris’s touch was electric, sending waves of shivers through her.

He moved lower, his lips following the path his hands had taken, surrounding her nipple of her right tit, his warm tongue caressing the slightly wrinkled skin, sucking with the correct force enough to elicit a loud moan from Y/N along with a squeeze of her thighs around his hip bones, bringing him closer.

"Oh, Chris. 'S so good." She moaned, pushing her chest forward, her tit pressing deliciously against Chris's face, his nose nuzzling the soft skin.

"You’re everything t'me." He whispered after lifting his face, the surrounding of his lips and chin luscious with drool, his eyes half-closed as if he was hypnotized, looking deep inside hers.

He was quick to move to her other breast, his tongue escaping between his lips before even finding her abandoned nipple.

"I need to feel all of you. S'obsessed."

Y/N felt tears of pleasure prick at the corners of her eyes. She felt overstimulating by everything. Chris’s words, his touch, everything about this moment made her feel amazing, like she was the only girl in the world.

Chris continued his slow, deliberate exploration, his hands and lips worshipping her body. He moved lower, kissing his way down her stomach, his touch a constant source of pleasure, his hot tongue in contrast to the cold drool left behind generating incessant goosebumps on her skin. Y/N’s breath came in soft gasps, her body trembling with desire.

When he finally reached her thighs, Chris paused, looking up at her with a question in his eyes. Y/N nodded, her heart racing with anticipation. He always had permission.

Chris smirked, pressing a gentle kiss to her inner thigh before moving higher, his lips repeatedly sealing over the cotton fabric of her panties while his index fingers hooked into the sides of it, starting his movements downwards, dragging the piece of clothing - now wet - across her skin gently and slowly until finally taking it off completely.

The first touch of his tongue against her core sent a jolt of pleasure through her, a soft moan escaping her lips instantly.

Chris took his time as if he was pleasuring himself too - and in a way, he was -, the tip of his tongue caressing her bud of nerve with force, constantly drawing little 8's, interspersing with his lips closing around the skin of her clit and sucking it hard, eliciting loud and pretty sounds from Y/N.

He was attentive, listening to her reactions, adjusting his touch to bring her the most he could. His nose remained pressed to the top of her intimacy, pressing the right spots as he drank her like a thirsty man.

After some minutes of only tasting her, Chris brought his right and free hand to the middle of her tights, his fingers traveling through the sensitive skin of her inner thigh, snaking upwards, lightly pinching the flesh of her ass that was exposed by her position before finding home right below his own chin, touching her core delicately, spreading her folds with his index and middle finger, exposing her most intimate parts to him, his tongue darting out to lap up the wetness that fell from her needy hole.

Y/N’s hands clenched the sheets, her body trembling as waves of pleasure washed over her constantly. Chris’s touch was like magic, and she felt like she was floating above it, lost in a sea of sensation.

"Y' taste so fucking amazing, bunny." Chris's voice came out as a groan as he lifted his face, the collar of his white t-shirt wet with sweat and drool, a trail of saliva running down his chin and neck, and his pants hanging low on his hips, almost begging to be taken off, a large bulge catching the girl's eyes.

"P-Please, babe, take it off. 'Want to see you." Y/N begged, lifting her right leg and pressing her foot onto the waistband of his jeans, pushing it down, the belt preventing the fabric from sliding off.

"Yeah? Y' want to see me, petal? Want to see my dick so fucking hard for you? Hm?" Chris' bottom lip jutted forward, a sarcastic pout decorating his face, his tone of voice seeming to mimic his girl's, earning a whine in return followed by a timid nod of her head, her teared eyes finding his, pleading silently.

He chuckled, shaking his head at her eagerness, his hands leaving her body momentarily and going to his own t-shirt, his knees propped firmly against the mattress and between Y/N's legs, preventing her from closing them completely, her pussy lips still in the same position he left them, wide open and showing her small hole, her walls pathetically clenching around nothing.

His tongue escaped between his lips, wetting them as his eyes fixed on her core, removing the pieces of his clothes from his own body quicker and nimbly this time, eager to taste her again.

The sight of his painfully hard cock slamming against his pelvis was the most beautiful sight for Y/N's eyes, and the slight glow of pre-cum dripping from his swollen head, desperate for relief, made her mouth salivate.

His hands were quick to toss the material of his clothes away before reaching down again, resting his left arm above her inner thigh, caging it open, and pressing the palm of his hand over her belly hard, his digits sinking on her skin.

Chris brought his face closer to her pussy, observing it for a few seconds as if it were a work of art, blowing a light breath of cold air before gathering as much drool as he could into his mouth, spitting it over her clenching hole, watching intently and in awe as his saliva mixed with her wetness, lowering his face and pending his tongue out like a dog, pushing it in with ease, tasting him and her, curling it inside her spongy walls.

He didn't waste time to exchange his tongue for the fingers of his free hand; his tongue moving up from her center to her clit, surrounding it and sucking the nerve just right while his fingertips caress her entrance for a few seconds, teasing her, before finally entering, fingers thrusting inside her warm and welcoming walls, curling upwards to hit that perfect spot.

Y/N cried out almost instantly, her back arching off the bed as the knot in her stomach felt like snapping.

"Ri-Right there, Chris. Oh my G-" Her sentence turned into an almost pornographic moan as Chris's fingers increased its movements, his mouth never leaving her bud, his tongue continuing to flick against the sensitive nerve, pushing her to her first orgasm.

"'Could jus' stay here all day, y'know? 'Was made for my tongue, hm?" His voice sounded muffled and wet against her pussy, echoing through her ears and sending vibrations to her core.

When she finally reached her peak, it was like a dam breaking, waves of pleasure crashing over her. She cried out, her body arching like a cat as she was overwhelmed by the intensity of it, her thighs shaking hard and on their own as her hands twist the sheets between her fingers, pulling them closer to her body.

Chris never stopped his movements, only slowing down, his touch now gentle and soothing, helping her ride out the waves of her orgasm.

When she finally came down from her high, her eyes half-closed and her mouth opened from where little breaths came in and out, Chris moved back up, his lips completely smeared with her wetness tracing small kisses from her chin to her open mouth, kissing her clumsily and messy.

"You’re incredible." He whispered, his voice filled with awe. "I love you so much."

Y/N smiled timidly, her heart filled with satisfaction, love, and gratitude.

"I love you too." She whispered tiredly, her voice a soft murmur.

Chris kissed her again, his touch filled with tenderness before moving away, positioned himself above her, his eyes locking onto hers firmly and steadily.

"Can you give me one more, bunny?" He asked gently, his voice soft.

Y/N nodded without a second thought, her heart racing and her pussy clenching with anticipation.

"Yes... Please. I can take it." She whispered eagerly, her voice filled with longing.

A cocky smile spreads in Chris’s lips, his right hand detaching itself from the mattress, the tips of his fingers snaking across her breasts, belly, and intimacy, stopping on her thighs for a second, caressing her skin momentarily before detaching itself from her.

His fingers were quick to find his dick, rounding his hand around it, his thumb gathering the small drops of precum, running it down his length and spreading the wetness through his bulging veins, pumping it a few times, a hiss scaping through his clenched teeth with the sensation, his eyes rolling with his own sensitivity.

He exhaled, finally guiding his cock close to her pussy, his blue eyes traveling to her face momentarily, a convinced gaze taking over his expression as he noticed her head slightly popped up, her eyes watching all of his movements in awe, her bottom lip caught firmly between her teeth.

"Y my freaky girl, huh? Watching me burry my cock inside y'delicious pussy, yeah?" He lightly tapped his swollen, pink head against her clit three times, eliciting eager whines from his girl before finally aligning himself to her needy hole, pressing skin to skin, entering her slowly, his movements gentle and controlled.

Y/N gasped instantly, her chest arching to meet his, the sensation of him filling her a perfect blend of pleasure and intimacy. Chris exhaled as he felt his pelvis touch the upper part of Y/N's cunt, momentarily savoring the sensation of having his dick trapped between tight and warm walls, his favorite place.

Meanwhile, the girl below him was sucking in air through her half open mouth, her jaw slack and her eyes rolling to the back of her head, her eyelashes fluttering against her pink cheeks, feeling the way his thick cock seemed to stretch her open so easily.

Chris took a deep breath, pulling his hips back so that his cock came out all the way, only his head remaining inside her, before pushing forward again, using every muscle in his thighs and abdomen to fuck his dick up into his girl, leaving her a wilting, blubbering mess.

Tremblers run through Y/N's body with the way he moved, making her feel empty every time he pulled out, her pussy sucking him in again eagerly.

"Goddamn, angel." Chris grits, sucking his teeth in an attempt to keep his concentration on her. "Shit, you feel so fucking good. 'S it good? Y'know you ca-can stop me if you need to."

"Ye-yeah." Y/N managed to let it out amid moans and gasps, her hands leaving the sheets and flying to Chris's back, her digits sinking between the rolls that his shoulders and back created with each movement, squeezing and pushing so that their bodies became closer and closer.

"Attagirl."

They moved together in perfect harmony, their bodies entwined in a rhythmic dance. Chris’s touch was gentle but rough, his movements deliberate, each one designed to bring her the most of each feeling.

Y/N felt like she was floating. She clung to Chris desperately, as if she could fall at any instant, her whimpers sounding shuddered, in tune with his fast thrusts and the wet, lewd cacophony of their bodies connecting.

She felt stimulated in so many places. Her nipples pressed up to his chest, clit being rubbed by his pubic bone, and his fucking cock fucking her so good.

Chris lowered his head to the valley between her breasts, laying on his side so that his lips hugged the skin of her right tit, sucking and nibbling as she clutched onto his scalp. Nails scratching at his neck, shoulders, and chest until she feels her orgasm coming up on her once more. 

And he feels it, too. Mouth opening and eyebrows twisting at the way her pretty and hungry cunt clench around him. The way her body draws him in, treats him right.

Chris is an obsessed son of a bitch for that feeling, he can never seem to last all that long when it comes to his girl.

"Fucking fantastic, bunny, God-" He pants against Y/N's hot, sweaty skin, his free hand reaching down and finding the back of her thigh, pulling it up and pressing it against her own stomach, making more way for himself. "Gonna make me cum so fast, yeah? All f'you."

Y/N can only nod her head, unable to utter any words other than loud moans, a scream escaping her throat as she feels Chris' cock press into her G-spot, stroking that spongy flesh repeatedly, feeling him in places she couldn’t before until she see stars and have to physically fight the urge to cum.

"No, princess, don't hold back. Cum for me, yeah? Let me- ugh- 'lemme feel you."

And she does. The low, graveled instruction goes straight to her cunt and, even if she wants to hold a little more, she cum hard, denching his cock, his thighs, her own thighs and the whole sheets. She trembles like never before, her nails pressing into his neck, his shoulders, his back, everywhere, leaving nail trails behind, until the euphoria subsides and she goes limp, letting him use her however he wants.

"There, angel." Chris praises, large hand rubbing up and down her thighs, squeezing the warm skin. "Love the way you cum for me, y'so good at that. S’fucking heaven."

His movements increased drastically in seconds, his cock moving in and out of her swollen and red pussy repeatedly, the wet sound intensifying and echoing through the four walls, and as it increased, it also began to run out of rhythm, his instinct just chasing him own orgasm.

"Cum for me, baby. Please." Her small voice, post orgasm tone, and sounding so tired and hoarse was the snap for him.

"Fuck fuck fuck- make me cum, princ-" It was the last thing Chris could say before his words became incoherent and accompanied by moans and gasps, his hand squeezing Y/N's thigh with such force that he was sure his palm would remain drawn there.

Hot, wet jets of cum flooded Y/N's insides, painting her walls like abstract art. The girl was quick to hook her free leg around Chris's hip, pushing his ass forward and against her own body so that he stopped his movements and sank in as deep as before, a small moan escaping her lips followed by one last groan from Chris.

His left arm lost its strength and his body fell onto Y/N's, squeezing her breasts against his own chest and laying his head in the crook of her neck, exhaling the scent of post-sex and sweaty perfume that emanated from her skin.

They lay there together, wrapped in each other’s arms, sweaty bodies still connected, their chopped breaths mingling in the now quiet of the room. Y/N felt a deep sense of contentment, her heart filled with love. Chris was everything to her, and in this moment, she felt like the luckiest girl in the world.

"I love you, baby. So much." Chris pressed a gentle kiss to her jaw, his voice a soft murmur in the darkness.

"I love you much more." Y/N smiled tiredly, her chest heaving against his. "We should buy a house here." She echoed after a few minutes of silence.

Chris chuckled against her ear, shaking his head slightly, the strands of his messy brown hair spilling over the side of her face and neck with his movement.

"Anything for you, pretty girl."

© vanteguccir

[charliegyrth]

The Hottest Guy in Town - 2 of 2

Mac Grows into Himself

This is a prequel to Two Fat Guys on a Blind Date. Read Part 1 here.

21 Years Old – 315 Pounds

I couldn’t focus. The words in front of me seemed to jump off the page and dance around. I needed to understand these last three chapters before my exam tomorrow, but it was tough. My brain had run out of space.

If I told Sean that, he’d just smirk at me and say, “Told ya so.”

At the beginning of the school year, I’d signed up for a way-too-ambitious class schedule. I planned to graduate in three years instead of four. Sean had told me that I couldn’t manage it, but I didn’t listen.

And now, I was drowning in coursework, behind on essays, and barely getting any sleep. The only good thing about this semester (besides living with Sean) was the amount of food I was cramming into myself. I snacked when I studied, and because I constantly studied, that meant I constantly snacked.

It wasn’t even a conscious decision, either. I’d expanded my capacity so much that half the time, I didn’t even realize I was eating. Right now, as I stared at my textbook, I had three empty boxes of brownies next to me on the couch. I had no memory of eating any of them, but I know I had. The crumbs were all over my shirt and I had a definite brownie taste in my mouth.

Sean didn’t spend as much time feeding me, sadly. Just three or four times a week. We hadn’t pulled out the funnel in at least a month. We were both too busy. I was still overloading myself with calories, of course, but they came from constant grazing instead of erotic binge sessions.

I slammed the textbook closed. Time for a break.

I hoisted myself off the couch and lumbered toward the balcony. It was a surprisingly chilly night, even for me and my extra insulation. I sat on the balcony chair (too dangerous to lean against the railing, obviously) and looked out at the stars.

My anxiety slowly drifted away as I watched the stars and squeezed my hanging belly droop.

I had so much to be thankful for. I was on track to graduate. I already had a job lined up at a marketing firm with an office in my hometown. I had a boyfriend who loved me and helped me grow. And with each passing day, I felt more comfortable in my own body.

I loved how my stomach spilled out of me, how it had sagged into such a wonderful apron of fat. I loved how my hips were starting to dimple, how my arm fat was hanging shapelessly, how my stretchmarks decorated not only my belly, but the sides of my chest and the edges of my armpits. I loved how every single part of me had softened, and yet, old friends could still recognize me because my face wasn’t changing.

Most guys my size have wide, soft faces that made them unrecognizable compared to their skinny pasts. I felt so lucky that people could look at my face and automatically think, “Poor guy. He must’ve been so handsome before he let himself go.”

So yeah, I had a ton to be grateful for.

“Deep thoughts?” Sean asked as he joined me on the balcony. He leaned against my soft side and nuzzled his head against my shoulder.

“Taking a break from studying,” I said.

“Oh yeah?” he asked flirtatiously. He took my hand and led me back inside.

Whatever he wanted to do to me, I was up for it, though I wasn’t quite done relaxing under the stars.

He brought me into our bedroom, pushed me onto the mattress, and brought out a bag of cookies that he’d hidden in the nightstand. He popped one into his own mouth and then got ready to feed me the rest.

“How’s the studying?” he asked as he pressed a cookie against my lips.

“Slow but steady. Still on track,” I said, choosing not to mention how much my brain was struggling to keep up.

“Good,” he said, though his voice sounded a little disappointed in my answer. He anxiously ate another cookie himself.

“Is something wrong, Sean?” A minute ago, he seemed like he was really in the mood. Now, I wasn’t so sure.

He shoved another cookie into my mouth. More aggressive than usual. “You really don’t get it, do you?”

Honestly, I didn’t. He had a really easy courseload. What did he have to be upset about?

“Seriously, Peter. Don’t you ever think about us? You’ll be graduating a year early and leaving me behind. And then who am I gonna be with? I don’t get turned on by normal guys anymore. You fucked up my whole… everything. I don’t want to hold you back, but I don’t want to leave Phoenix. And you’ve never asked what I want.” The words fell out of him. He clearly wasn’t planning to unload all that on me, but once he started talking, he couldn’t stop.

I wasn’t planning on leaving him. But… He was right. I hadn’t really thought about how my early graduation would affect him. No wonder he’d tried so hard to convince me to slow down for another year.

“I’m sorry.” And I meant it.

He had another cookie in his hand, ready to feed me, but he pulled it back and anxiously gobbled it down himself. “Who am I gonna help grow when you’re gone?”

I really wanted to comfort him, but I didn’t know what to say. I sat up straight and pulled him closer to me. Then I pinched at the slight roll of flab that poked out of the bottom of his shirt. My snacking habits were finally rubbing off on him. Not by a lot, but enough to be visible. Neither of us had mentioned it yet, but I figured this was the best time to finally talk about it. “You could grow yourself, honey.”

He looked down at his stomach, at the pudge between my fingers, and he jumped out of bed like he’d just seen a ghost. “I… I…”

Oh God. He didn’t know. And now I’d made things so much worse.

“You look great, Sean. Seriously. And I’m sorry we haven’t talked enough about our future plans. But…”

“I gotta go,” he mumbled. Then he rushed out of the apartment.

I knew he’d come back. I knew I’d see him again. But I also knew that our relationship had run its course. I ate the rest of the cookies alone in bed.

***

22 Years Old – 355 Pounds

I extended my hand. “Peter McDowell.”

Johnny, my new coworker, looked me up and down before he shook my hand. “Peter McDowell? No offense, but you really don’t look like a Peter.”

I didn’t know how to interpret that.

“Let me guess. People call you Mac instead. Am I right?”

He wasn’t. All my life, I’d been Peter. No one called me Mac. Or Pete. Or anything else, really. My ex-boyfriend Sean called me Tubbs sometimes, but I wouldn’t feel comfortable having a coworker call me that.

“Yup,” I said. “I’m Mac.” It was a weird thing for me to say, but whatever. Why not? I was finally out of school, starting a new job, starting a whole new phase in my life. And in a way, Peter felt like more of a skinny-guy name, anyway. Mac seemed much more substantial, like me.

Johnny showed me around the office, introducing me to all my new colleagues. He took me into the breakroom, apologizing for how narrow it was. I literally had to walk sideways between the cabinets because my hips were too wide. A lot of people in Johnny’s position would look at me with pity. They’d give me the same look that my lit professor gave me a few months back when I got stuck in my chair.

I was used to it. And if I was being honest with myself, I really, really liked it. That whole “Oh, you poor thing” expression was so much better than all the ogling that I used to get. (God, that part of my life felt so long ago.)

Anyway, Johnny did not look at me with pity. He was sympathetic, but there was no judgment in his eyes.

He wasn’t really my type. (Stick-thin and kind of nerdy. Also pretty straight, from what I could tell.) But I did like him. He seemed like he’d be a good coworker.

After squeezing out of the breakroom, I followed Johnny to my own office, which was small but not too small. The desk chair needed to be replaced, though. Johnny realized that, too. He wheeled it out of the office and brought in a storage crate that I’d have to use until the company could find a replacement.

The crate wasn’t comfortable, but it worked fine for the rest of the day.

Once 5:00 rolled around, Johnny took me to Risky’s Barbecue Pit for a little getting-to-know-you dinner. That was one of my favorite restaurants. I hadn’t been back there since I was a teen!

The place hadn’t changed at all, though the booths definitely felt smaller. Johnny had to slide the table a few inches before I could sit.

He sat across from me, a big smile on his face, like he knew something I didn’t.

“What?”

“Nothing,” he said. “This is on the company’s dime, so go crazy. Let’s see what you can do.”

That definitely sounded like the words of an encourager. I’d only had one (Sean), but he’d definitely said those exact words to me before. “Let’s see what you can do.”

I looked at him a little funny.

“Look,” he said, “I think I know your whole thing. I grew up in Bullhead, so I used to see you around in the summer. I know what you looked like, and no one changes this much without, you know, wanting to. I’m straight. Happily married. So don’t read too much into this. I just, I have a gainer friend. Great guy. So… To welcome you to the company, I figured I could show my support.” He slid the menu toward me. “Go crazy.”

Since breaking up with Sean, I’d been a bit lonely. Without a cheerleader to keep me going, I struggled to stay motivated. I’d spent the last few months trapped in the 350 range. The fact that Johnny was so direct really meant a lot to me. Perhaps he could help me get over my plateau.

“Challenge accepted,” I said.

***

23 Years Old – 420 Pounds

I waddled into the office, gasping for breath. My usual parking spot had been taken, so I had to cross the entire parking lot in 100+ degree weather. Not fun for someone my size.

My work shirt was soaking wet, with horizontal sweat stains between my rolls and one continuous stain covering my back. The air conditioning hit me like a blast of heaven.

“Hey, Mac!” Maggie the receptionist said. She handed me my morning muffin. I ate it on my long walk to my office. I finished half of it before I reached Sammy’s cubicle.

“Mac! Welcome back!” He handed me a frappuccino.

Now that I was working from home three days a week, my days back in the office felt extra special. Lots of sweets from my supportive coworkers. I’d learned in the last year that gaining weight was so much easier with help. I didn’t have a boyfriend to feed me, but I had Johnny, and Maggie, and Sammy, and pretty much everyone else at work. They weren’t technically feeders or encouragers, but they all liked me a lot and accepted me as the loveable fat guy in the office. I felt really, really lucky.

Johnny was waiting for me in my office, his lanky body leaning against my desk. “Right on time,” he said.

I wasn’t. I was thirty minutes late. (The McDonalds drive-thru took longer than expected.)

He filled me in on the marketing projects I needed to finalize. It was a lot of work, but he knew that I could handle it. I finished my muffin and frappuccino while he talked. Then, once all the business stuff was out of the way, he leaned closer and whispered, “What’s the damage now?”

“Four twenty,” I whispered back.

I could've gone into more detail. I could've told him about the irregular new thigh rolls that made my legs rub together in a slightly different pattern. I could've mentioned how my skin color was darkening inside some of my deeper creases. Hell, I could've pulled up my shirt and shown him the new, lumpier texture of my lower belly.

But no. Those were things to share with a boyfriend, not a coworker, no matter how supportive he was. It was best to just stick to the number.

He gave me a congratulatory pat on the stomach. “And your personal life? Anything new?”

I shrugged. “Still with Trevor,” I mumbled. Trevor was a guy I met on Grommr almost a year ago. We didn’t have anything in common besides our hunger for gaining, but he was a good guy. I guess we were happy.

“Good for you,” Johnny said flatly. I knew that he didn’t really like Trevor. Plus, he was always hinting about setting me up with his gainer friend in Bullhead. I wasn’t interested in anything long-distance, though. Bullhead City wasn’t too far away, but I hated the drive. Now that my grandparents were both gone, I really didn’t have a reason to go down there.

Johnny left me alone to get back to work. He came back in a few more times throughout the day to drop off snacks, but otherwise, I was in work mode.

When I got home (once again sweat-soaked and wheezing), Trevor was waiting for me. He looked particularly bloated today, and while his gut was much smaller than mine, it was a lot rounder. (Hairier, too, but that wasn’t obvious through his shirt.) “Good day at work?”

“Productive,” I said. I wanted to tell him about all the marketing projects that I was working on, but I knew he wasn’t interested. “How about you?”

“Also productive.” He was an accountant. I wasn’t really interested in hearing about his job, either.

We stood there in awkward silence, not sure what to talk about. Like I said, we didn’t have anything in common.

“So,” he finally said. “Should I get the funnel?”

“Yeah. Why not?”

***

24 Years Old – 518 Pounds

I was sprawled on the couch, sucking on a milkshake and waiting for my Uber Eats to arrive.

When the doorbell rang, I immediately stood up. (“Immediately” might be an exaggeration, but I pushed myself off the couch as fast as I could.) I lumbered toward the front door, moving fast enough for my hanging gut to make quiet, little thwaps against my thighs.

I opened the door, but the delivery guy wasn’t there. It was Johnny.

“Hey, Mac! How’re you holding up?” He glanced over at the piles of empty take-out containers littering my living room. I normally cleaned after myself pretty well, but now that I was in the midst of my post-breakup wallow, I’d let the trash pile up.

“Okay,” I said. “I, um… Come in.”

He walked inside, stepped over all the wrappers, and sat on my recliner. It was the one piece of furniture that didn’t have food trash on it.

I sat on the couch.

“We miss you at the office,” he said.

A few months back, my bosses pulled me into a private meeting to suggest that I work entirely from home. I’d outgrown my office chair. And I’d accidentally fallen in the break room, cracking the cabinet and messing up my ankle. Plus the bathroom situation had gotten a bit difficult.

(Sorry for oversharing, but… once I crossed 500, I sort of lost the ability to wipe myself. Had to stick to bidets now. I know some guys my size don't have that particular problem, but I'd really started struggling with, you know, maneuvering. Reaching places.)

Anyway, the company thought it was best that I stopped coming in, which was the right decision, even though I missed seeing all my coworkers. A lot. We still met up at restaurants, and they came over sometimes, but I’d pretty much drifted away from all of them except Johnny.

And then Trevor broke up with me. His weight gain had plateaued while mine just kept going, which made him ultra-jealous. He started getting really snippy, and the one thing that we had in common had become a point of contention between us. Two weeks ago, he ended things.

I didn’t miss him. I never loved him the way I’d loved Sean. (And looking back, I didn’t really love Sean either.) But without a boyfriend, I felt… hopeless. Like I’d never be able to find anyone else.

“So I have an offer for you,” Johnny said. “Well, the company does. I’m just the messenger.”

“Go on.���

Johnny smiled from ear to ear as he told me about our company’s new office in Bullhead City. He wanted me to transfer there to help run things. I’d still mainly work from home, but I was expected to work out of the office more often. He assured me that the new building had plenty of ways to accommodate my special needs. (Wider halls, for one. Bidets in the restrooms.)

I was already sold.

“Plus,” he added, “you can finally meet my other gainer friend. I really think you guys’ll hit it off.” It had been so long since he’d brought up his friend, I’d sorta forgotten. But yeah, why not? If Johnny liked him, then I’m sure he was a great guy.

“Absolutely,” I said. “About the job. About everything.”

I didn’t want to get my hopes up, but I felt like I was finally going to get out of my funk.

“Cool. I’ll get the paperwork in order. The company will help you find a place down there. And once you’re all settled in, I’ll ask Jason if he’d be up for a blind date.”

My heart sped up before my brain could register why. Then it hit me. “Your friend is named Jason?”

“Jason Robbins. Why?”

Holy crap. Jason Robbins was the guy I’d met when I was 17, the handsome face that was always in the back of my mind, the stranger who’d convinced me to start gaining. All this time, Johnny’s friend was the Jason Robbins! How could I not have connected the dots earlier?

“Mac? You okay?”

I guess I was spacing.

“Um, yeah. Let’s do that blind date. See what happens.”

We talked a bit more about the job specifics, then he announced that it was time to go. He had to get back to his family. As he was leaving, the Uber Eats guy arrived at my door with three bulging bags of Mexican food. Johnny brought them inside for me.

Then, instead of leaving, he sat down again.

“I thought you were going.”

He shrugged. “In a bit. For old time’s sake, why don’t you… ya know, show me what you can do.”

I opened the first bag.

***

25 Years Old – 538 Pounds

Jason sat next to me, his fat squishing into mine. We were scrolling through old photos on my laptop.

“That’s me at 16,” I said, “a year before I first met you.”

The photo showed me shirtless on a boat in Lake Havasu, my blond hair looking particularly sun-bleached and my lean torso a bit pink from a sunburn.

“Whose boat is that?” my boyfriend asked. He was rolling my belly fat around in his fingers, just a minor bit of contact that calmed us both down.

“Some lady. I didn’t know her, but she invited me to join her and her family. I told you what it was like back then. Hottest guy in town, always getting special treatment from everybody.”

He let go of my roll and positioned his 400-pound body to the side. He looked me dead in the eyes. “Mac, you do realize that you’re still the hottest guy in town. And you get special treatment all the time. Your office literally installed bidets just for you. People stare at you all the time. You’re constantly getting free snacks from people. How is that not special treatment?”

Jason and I moved in together a couple weeks after our blind date. We both knew that we were destined for each other. Unlike Sean (who never really embraced the gaining lifestyle for himself) and Trevor (who didn’t have anything else going for him besides gaining), Jason was the full package. Beautiful, fat, smart, funny, perfect.

And insightful too, apparently. “I guess you’re right.”

He grabbed my laptop and placed it on the coffee table, out of our way. “No more looking at the past,” he said. “Let’s just enjoy the present.”

He kissed me, his hands squeezing into my softness, my hands squeezing into his. I tasted ice cream on his lips.

I might be the hottest guy in town, but Jason was very quickly catching up to me.

The End.

[captainpikeachu]

So a post discussing new Thunderbolts promotional arts appeared earlier today in the John Walker tag trying to single out John as the odd man out of this Thunderbolts team, saying how everyone in the team deserves to grow and heal but John deserves to die and never be redeemed because he's not like the others.

I'm here to explain why what you see below is totally wrong and shows a fundamental misunderstanding of John and the Thunderbolts movie.

"this man willingly joined the military"

I don't know if the poster is American or not, but this claim ignores the very important context of how John joined the military and when he joined the military. You see, John is canonically stated to have gone to West Point for college, that is a military academy, which means that during high school when John was underage, he would already have been preparing for his application process, getting letters from his congressman or senator or even the president. The selection process is incredibly stringent. You don't decide to go to West Point and apply on a whim like you do regular colleges. Attending a military academy is a long term commitment because after you graduate, you are automatically put into active duty service as an officer, your contract is signed by you agreeing at 17/18 years old to go to this military college.

Some people may not understand, but America has a hugely active military recruitment system that targets children, especially kids from disadvantaged communities. Military recruiters are literally legally given access to high schools across the country, they're allowed personal contact information of kids, they get to show up at career fairs and other activities to actively recruit children to be soldiers and lie to them about all the good things they will do and the opportunities and benefits they will receive. And THIS IS NORMALIZED in American society. The exploitation of children and turning them into soldiers is NORMALIZED. Even celebrated.

So tell me, in an environment that already normalizes and praises the idea of being a soldier and protecting your country and giving yourself for true heroic service, is it that illogical and surprising that a young underage John would have bought into the idea of service as so many other young kids do? Not to mention we don't even know if his school had a mandatory JROTC (Junior Reserve Officer Training Corps) program that funnels kids straight into military service. Or if the MCU follows John's comics history and his father and his older brother both have served. Either way, John lives in an environment and a country that idealizes soldiers to kids, actively recruits and exploits kids, and heavily showers them in heroic military propaganda. A propaganda that even Steve in the 40s buys into and is eager to serve, and Steve was already an adult in his 20s. Meanwhile John was a young teenager when 9/11 happened, when the country was actively rallying its citizens through lies and getting people to buy into a war to defend freedom and protect our loved ones. If people older than John bought into this, then why is it surprising that a teenager surrounded by all this rhetoric and propaganda would buy into it, thinking that he is doing a good thing to help?

Just because indoctrination is normalized by society doesn't mean it's any less harmful indoctrination. Just because John wasn't kidnapped or forced into being a weapon doesn't mean he wasn't turned into one by the military industrial complex as a teenager. And just because he willingly signed up for something that his at best 18 year old self wouldn't have ever properly been mature enough to fully comprehend, doesn't mean he was not abused by a violent system that doesn't care about him beyond using him as a tool. The same way that violent systems of control used and abused the other members of the Thunderbolts team.

We all understand abuse and exploitation and power imbalance when an 18 year old is dating a 35 year old. When abuse happens in that context, we don't say "well the 18 year old willingly got into that relationship so who cares", so why is this kind of dismissive tone taken with John? If a domestic abuse victim stays in a relationship because of complicated feelings, do we blame the victim? What's happening here with John is a form of victim blaming. A very easy kind of victim blaming because the illusion of choice makes some people, like the above poster, think that John asked for it. So John can't be like the others. Nevermind that John's experiences likely mirrors Alexei's yet this poster never seems to call out Alexei for anything.

Yes, John willingly joined the military, but pretending that there isn't a more nuanced context of why and how he joined is to be ignorant to exploitation and indoctrination beyond just the garden variety kidnapping and forced brainwashing, and the insidious nature of that kind of trauma and exploitation. And it also ignores that John's decision was likely made when he was underage and under the influence of a hugely active military recruitment and exploitation apparatus. The creatives behind the Falcon and the Winter Soldier even once stated that the military was John's only family, which implies that he was a vulnerable and lonely child looking for a home, and the military took advantage of that so that they would ensure John would be loyal and grateful to them. They groomed him to be their weapon, no matter how "willing" he made that decision as a teenager.

------------------------

"willingly decided to try to become Captain America"

This comment shows a lack of understanding of how the military works. John didn't ask to be Cap, he didn't even know what the government and military was doing until they showed up one day to give him a new job duty two weeks before they were gonna officially unveil him. There is no willing or unwilling in the military when you're a soldier, you follow your orders. Sure, you can disobey unlawful orders, but guess what, being the next Captain America is not an unlawful order. John didn't get to choose. The military made the decision and it was his job to obey. Because if he didn't obey, he would end up in court martial and in jail. There is no agency in this. You are not an individual, you are property of the US military to do as they wish. And if you don't obey, they will make your life and your loved ones' lives hell.

-------------------------

"willingly killed people in a way that everyone knows Steve never would have"

What people? John killed one person. One person in the heat of the moment in the middle of grieving his best friend who he just watched be killed right in front of his eyes. If anyone would have understood why John did what he did, it would actually be Steve. Yes John doesn't have Steve's restraint, but let's not act like Steve doesn't know the anger and rage that comes in those moments. And if Bucky had watched Sam be killed, he would have done what John did. In fact, most of the MCU would have done what John did. Tony did. Thor did. Wanda did. Peter Parker and Peter Quill did. Yelena did. Clint did. T'Challa did it twice even after learning the lesson of letting go of revenge. Are all those heroes irredeemable and deserve to die?

Hell, in a post that accuses John of not being like the other Thunderbolts, John does the same thing that Yelena and Ava have both done, wanting to hurt and kill and lash out in pain and revenge. Yelena was going to kill Clint for revenge. Ava literally did not care if her actions would have killed civilians if it got her what she wanted to fix herself, was even ready to threaten Scott's young daughter Cassie. Both of them were no longer under the control of their abusers at that point, yet what makes their chosen rage and lashing out okay and understanding but John's somehow the most evil thing a person has ever done? What makes his pain and loss any less than theirs? In fact, in the Thunderbolts trailer, we watch Yelena just gun down guards left and right, does it make her irredeemable for choosing to still do killing when she no longer has to? Why is all this hypocritical judgment only against John?

And if we even want to address the people John killed in war and how Steve would never, let's just remember that in the Winter Soldier movie, Steve specifically states to Fury that he and the others during the war did somethings that weren't so good, that made them not sleep so well at night, but they thought they were doing it for people to be free. Yes, freedom, the same thing that the US military has been peddling since its conception. So why is it okay when Steve does terrible things in war for freedom, but John is a monster for also doing the same?

John wasn't running about happily wanting to shoot every bad guy. He never had any intentions of hurting anyone, only arresting them, even though the Flag Smashers tried to kill him and Lemar from day one. Even after Karli blew up a building with innocent people still inside it, John wasn't going to kill them but only arrest them. He only killed one Flag Smasher in the heat of the moment because he just saw Lemar die. You know what T'Challa said to Natasha after losing his father and thinking that Bucky did it? He said he would kill Bucky himself, even though Natasha pointed out that there was due process and a task force would arrest Bucky.

Why is it that violent desire for revenge is understood when other MCU heroes/protagonists do it, but John is somehow uniquely evil and not-like-the-others because he lashed out in a very human way? Why is John not allowed his humanity?

----------------------------------------

I will be the first to say John is flawed, he is imperfect, he did make mistakes. But he is not this willful evil monster that this poster tries to paint him as. He is someone whom for essentially 20 years has been trained and groomed to be a perfect weapon for a violent and abusive system that he thought of as his only family. And when this system no longer had any uses for him, it threw him out like trash and left him to drown. This poster talks about other Thunderbolts members rebuilding themselves and their sense of identity, yet this is John's struggle too. Who is he if not a soldier?

The showrunner of TFATWS literally stated that John and Bucky were two sides of the same coin of a veteran's story, of what happens when you give everything for a cause that abandons you and doesn't care for you back. Even the writers of this show understood and deliberately wanted to link John and Bucky's mutual struggles as veterans. Yet this poster wants to exclude John, because the illusion of choice made his trauma and indoctrination and grooming less "real" than the others somehow. This isn't trauma olympics. John is a broken and abused and abandoned weapon, just like every member of the Thunderbolts team. And quite frankly I'm sick and tired of people ignoring this reality because their own hate of the character blinds them to nuance and context.

Death is not the only acceptable character arc for John. He can grow to be a better person and learn to stand up against the system that harmed him and many others. And they can and will redeem him, you know why? They already did. Because John already in TFATWS finale chose to walk away from easy revenge so he could save lives. He has already proven that he could be worthy of that shield and title even if he no longer has it. And the Thunderbolts movie is about ALL of this team learning to overcome their past trauma, of learning to love and accept each other, yes even John. He isn't the exception. He is a integral part of this new team and family. And if you think that Thunderbolts is just gonna be a movie that is designed to kick John out and otherize him, then you've missed the point of this story that the cast and director have stated many times in interviews already. Hopefully Thunderbolts will teach you some important lessons about bias and judgment.

The poster of the comments says that they need to still rewatch TFATWS, and I would say to that, yes, yes you do need to rewatch, preferably rewatch with your eyes, ears, brain, and heart open, because you have missed many important contexts and nuances in your desire to only see John as some unforgivable monster.

By the way, Alexei and John are literally characters sharing the same background, Alexei is just as willing of a participant, yet the fact that those comments never once judge Alexei for actively participating in child trafficking and letting the abuse of little girls keep happening, and somehow Alexei still isn't so irredeemable and could be counted among the others who should get to learn to heal and grow is certainly a choice.

Anyways, here is hoping that when Thunderbolts finally releases, people will learn a lesson about John and how wrong some of yall are.

[quiet-admirer]

You all know I love soft feedist themes - they're my ride-or-die constant in my personal kink life - but soft feedists have GOT to start doing some more reflection on the ways we talk about our kink because I am seeing post after post saying things like "I like soft feedism so much better than other kinds of feedism because only soft feedists want connection with their partner and treat their partner with respect and like they're a whole human being, and can balance kink and real life because of how wholesome and nice our kink is."

Not only is that super ignorant and condescending towards people who aren't into soft feedism, who are no more or less capable than you are at healthy kink practices and treating their play partners with respect and love, but it's also a really unhealthy pattern for so many members of our community to say things that reinforce the stereotype that hard dom/sub dynamics and fatphobia play are abusive or unhealthy, or that they are in any way excepted from risk-aware consensual kink (RACK) practices.

When these beliefs become widespread, it means people newer to feedism get the message that any abuse they experience from partners is par for the course if they want to engage in anything but soft feedism. If you're labeling soft feedists as the healthy, supportive, respectful feedists, it means you're ultimately dismissing a huge portion of feedists as 'barbarous' or 'beyond saving', and regardless of whether that's true or not, you're showing yourself as willing to abandon those feedees you see as subjecting themselves to abuse and disrespect instead of working to make sure that every single feedist knows that ALL feedism IS healthy, IS respectful, IS about connection and intimacy when the scene is over. Anything else isn't feedism: it's abuse, exploitation, harassment, rape culture, and fatphobia.

It's also extremely important to decouple in your head that any particular identity or way of being, whether it's identity labels that correspond with your kink fantasies, gender or sexual orientation, or anything else is *inherently* safe; trustworthy; and capable of healthy, respectful, and deep interpersonal connection. The fact that you like popping mini muffins into your partner's mouth in front of a fireplace instead of pretending to force your partner to funnel a weight gain shake doesn't mean you magically know how to communicate well, practice adequate aftercare, or listen to your partner's needs. It doesn't mean you are more knowledgeable about fatphobia. Preferring cuddling and gentle feedings doesn't make you a supportive person to be around or make you incapable of creating a controlling, hurtful, pressured, or shaming environment. We have to learn these things explicitly, we have to practice them, and we have to keep practicing them.

It does you and your potential partner/s a disservice to be actively creating these blind spots in your mind where you never have to examine your own actions or patterns of behavior because you're a Soft Feedist, so that means you're automatically "good." On a community level, you are creating a culture where abuse and mistreatment can go unchecked because "we're soft feedists so that means we're all nice".

That's a culture that makes it harder for people experiencing abuse and mistreatment to speak up. If abuse doesn't happen here, maybe I'm just imagining it and making a big deal over nothing. If abuse doesn't happen here, am I going to ruin the image of soft feedism if I speak up? Will people even believe me that another soft feedist could be mistreating me since everyone knows the people here are so nice and wholesome and care about their partners?

I'll say it again: ALL feedism is respectful, ALL feedism is consensual, ALL feedism is about mutual connection and intimacy, and ALL feedism means treating others as whole autonomous human beings. Claiming otherwise hurts all of us, including other soft feedists.

[musedeluce]

Mandatory Wealth (Caleb X Reader)

A/N: Personally the thought of spending someone else's money is so distasteful to me, I really hate the thought of it. My idea of Luxury and Decadence is the same as MC in this fic, so I wondered how the LI's would deal with that. Regarding Caleb his money, and a pragmatic, independent MC who likes saving money, and who considers luxuries to be things like “getting the name brand groceries.” This is more like musings than a full fic, but I hope you enjoy!

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

Caleb himself, growing alongside you, has the same idea of luxury. Things like getting the pricier groceries at the grocery store, buying clothes at the mall instead of a thrift store, being able to fill up the gas tank, handmade gifts – that’s luxury to him. So, when he actually has money he doesn’t quite know what to do with it except for those things. He’s nothing if not pragmatic and he funnels money into investments, and a high yield savings account. His paycheck is split between his expenses, his investments, his savings, and of course, the “whatever” money, used for whatever he wants/needs at the moment. You manage your money in a similar way, and easily maintain your lifestyle. In a way, he views his earnings as a matter of course, something mandatory for him to achieve. He doesn’t quite know what to do with it, but of course he’d take care of you with it, and of course he’d do what’s needed to earn enough money for both of you to be comfortable, and, if it came to it, for you to be comfortable alone.

・・・

That new money? A portion of it, Caleb spends on his residence. Now, he doesn’t go overboard and add things just to add them, and his house isn’t ostentatious or tacky in any way. It’s comfortable and has whatever necessary. He wants it to be comfortable for you, so he’ll add features and rooms you’ll like in addition to what he wants. For instance here’s a small workshop with a display case for his models, a room dedicated to your hobbies. The kitchen is state of the art and the bathroom is spacious and modern. The beds have comfortable, high quality mattresses and bedding. There’s a place to store your weapons and a place to train and exercise. There’s a thorough, effective security system to protect the residents – I.E, you. Though, to be honest any idiot who managed to break into the place would be met with an irate hunter and furious farspace colonel. His residence perfectly reflects the regard he has for you, it’s a perfect encapsulation of both of your requirements in a home.

・・・

Caleb’s gifts for you are split into different categories, and all of his gifts fit one or more of these. First and foremost, he’ll gauge what you need, and then buy you a gift that fulfills that need, and that he thinks you’ll like. Second, if you don’t need anything, then he gets you something he knows you want. Caleb is very attentive, and takes note of whatever catches your fancy. Third is the “impulsive” gifts. The gifts he gets for you for no reason, other than that he saw them and thought of you. They’re not things you need, or things you know you want, but instead these are things that Caleb thinks you’ll like. And given how well he knows you, he’s always on the money.

Any gifts you give him are taken care of meticulously, and if he can he keeps it with him as much as possible. (As evidenced by the necklace) He really loves it when you give him gifts, because although he knows for sure that you care about him as much as he cares about you, having a physical reminder helps ground him. You make him feel safe and stable, which is something he sorely needs and greatly appreciates.

・・・

Caleb wants to take care of you and cherish you, and the way he goes about it is almost… automatic and sometimes really quite subtle. In general, anytime he invites you anywhere he pays, be it food, tickets, souvenirs, ect. If he invited you, you aren’t paying, no matter what you say. If you invited him, he offers to pay but abides by your decision. The more subtle ways go a little like this:

“Hey, Pip-squeak may I please borrow your car to go get groceries for our dinner?” The answer is yes of course, and lo and behold – the car returns full up on gas, and your refrigerator is fully stocked for the next two weeks.

“Oh, Pip-squeak I noticed that your washer machine was on the fritz, so I figured I’d call for repairs, is that alright?” If you say something along the lines of “Oh, yeah I was meaning to do that.” or anything affirmative – even “Ah, I’m waiting until I can afford it”, he’ll set up the repair appointment for a time he’ll be at your place and pay for it. He’ll accept repayment from you if you insist upon it, but that money is going into a savings account specifically for you. Very often, whenever he notices something wrong, he’ll enact repairs for you himself. If he knows enough about how to repair whatever needs it, he’ll take care of it. Caleb is a smart man, after all. That also means that he knows when to leave it to the professionals. You repair things yourself of course, when needed, but those times less frequent now.

Ask to help him, he’ll be so happy. He get to spend time with you, while helping you out? He couldn’t be happier. Even if you don’t help, and just sit and keep him company, he’ll be happy as a clam, as often he doesn’t need help, though it’s always appreciated.

Very often, he’ll pay for something and you’ll intend to pay him back, but he’ll never mention the matter and distract you from remembering to pay him back.

Written on a note attached to a package holding new, top of the line hunter’s equipment: “Pip-squeak - Stay Safe out there! Your equipment is nearing the end of it’s safe use window, so I got a new set for you. Think of it as an early birthday gift ;)” In the package is the new, state of the art hunters equipment perfectly tailored to you.

In short, he really just beats you to it. If you want to pay for yourself you gotta be quick on the draw! He’ll let you, but he tries to not even give you the opportunity. But, he’s never angry when you pay, and if you pay for him he loves it. Being taken care of, most especially by you, is something he lives for. The reciprocal care between you two is his most treasured relationship.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

[pedrosd1ckrider]

All The Wrong Things At Once

part one.

Tags: She fell first vibes, sunshine reader, grumpy Joel, fluff, reader is an English teacher, Sarah’s in this too, reader has short hair (we short haired girls deserve some love too) and small boobies (again, we deserve some love), misogyny, food consumption, alcohol consumption, first date, they gave two (2) smooches in this one, did i mentioned fluff? Yeah, lots of it!, Joel being perfect, flirting (somehow i’m better at flirting in English than my own language haha 💀), reader being the best maternal figure EVER, no use of y/n.

English is like my fourth language, so I might make plenty of mistakes—I welcome every polite feedback.

Word count: I still don’t know how to do that, but this is long asf

The bell rang with its usual lack of grace—too shrill, too final, like it was personally offended you’d dared to teach another minute over your allotted time.

“Alright, guys, you’re free to go,” you said, your voice gentle. Chairs scraped back with all the subtlety of a demolition site, and students funneled out of the room in the chaotic ballet of end-of-day escape. You didn’t take it personally. You barely took anything personally these days. Which was, frankly, an achievement.

You started gathering your things—half-graded essays, your clicky pen that always ran out of ink mid-comment, your oversized planner with the week’s ambitions color-coded and half-canceled. You moved slowly, as if delaying your return to a home that felt just slightly too quiet, too echoey, like a song stuck on its last note.

Lately, you hadn’t quite been yourself. And it showed.

It wasn’t anything dramatic. You weren’t sobbing into your attendance sheets or assigning Sylvia Plath as “light Friday reading.” You just—weren’t all there. A little dimmer. A little softer at the edges. And it wasn’t like you were heartbroken. Please. You were an adult woman with a master’s degree and a mortgage. Technically, you could vote and drive and do your taxes. You were not going to crumble just because a man with laugh lines and the emotional range of a tree stump had been… less than responsive.

“Hey,” came a small voice near the front of the classroom.

You looked up and found Sarah standing there, backpack slung over one shoulder, curly hair slightly frizzed from the humidity, her brows drawn together in concern. She had that same tone her father had when something needed fixing—a cracked pipe, a broken heart, a Tuesday.

“Hi, sweetheart,” you said, your smile automatic and sweet as honey in tea. You loved this girl. She was bright, kind, and funny. Her presence was one of the few consistent joys of your long, weird days.

“You okay?” she asked, stepping a little closer, not quite sitting on the desk but close enough that she could if she needed to.

“I’m fine,” you replied, your voice carefully level, like you’d practiced it in the car mirror on the way here. “Just tired. You know how it is—six classes, two coffee refills, and a kid in third period who insists Shakespeare invented emojis.

Sarah grinned but didn’t drop it. She had a sixth sense for when people were lying. Must run in the family.

“You sure? You look kinda… I dunno. Bummed?” she said it with that long Texas drawl, the word stretched out like warm caramel. Baah-mmed.

You chuckled, shaking your head, trying not to wince at the accuracy. “You’re very perceptive, you know that? You’re gonna make someone very paranoid one day.”

She tilted her head. “So… not bummed?”

“No, no. Not bummed. Just… not winning any gold stars for mental clarity this week,” you replied lightly, stuffing the last of your papers into your bag. Don’t ask about your dad, don’t ask about your dad, don’t—

Of course, the thought made you glance at her face again. She looked so much like him in that moment—same steady eyes, same stubborn line to her jaw. It was frankly unfair.

Because what were you supposed to say? Yes, your father casually disassembled my dignity in the span of twenty-three minutes, and now I think I might actually scream if I see him again. No, it’s fine. Totally fine. Want a hall pass?

Instead, you said, “Do me a favor and promise me something?”

She blinked. “Uh… sure?”

“If I ever, ever start acting like a man’s opinions are more important than mine, you are legally obligated to slap me with a copy of Wuthering Heights.”

She giggled. “Deal. But only if it’s the hardcover.”

You laughed, really laughed this time, the tension in your shoulders loosening just slightly. “You’re a menace. Remind me to bump your grade.”

“You already gave me an A.”

“Well, now it’s an A-plus. Don’t get used to it.”

She hopped up to sit on one of the desks, swinging her feet a little. “You know, you’re like… one of the only adults I know who doesn’t talk to me like I’m five.”

“That’s because you’re smarter than half the faculty, and you know it.”

She beamed, pleased. “Seriously though… if there was something wrong, you’d tell me, right?”

And there it was again—that instinctive concern, so earnest it almost hurt. You swallowed around it, tried to answer without showing too much.

“I would,” you said. “But sometimes grown-ups get a little… scrambled. Not sad, not mad. Just scrambled. Like eggs. I’m just an egg this week.”

Sarah raised an eyebrow. “You need a nap.”

“I need a nap, a vacation, and maybe a shot of tequila.”

She grinned. “Tequila and Shakespeare. You’re gonna make high school lit legendary.”

“That’s the goal,” you murmured, and for a second, you felt something warm settle in your chest. A reminder that even when you felt like the emotional equivalent of unsalted butter, you were still you.

Sarah looked like she was about to ask something else, her gaze flicking to your face like she was weighing whether to push further.

You gave her a smile that said, not today, baby girl, and she seemed to understand.

Dust motes floated in the still air like lazy fireflies, and your heels clicked softly against the linoleum as you finally sank into your chair with a soft sigh.

“Y’goin’ to that neighborhood barbecue?” Sarah asked. You paused mid-motion, your brain short-circuiting just long enough for your eyes to close. Fuck. You swore silently.

Of course she’d bring it up.

“I forgot that was even happening,” you said eventually.

“Yeah, Dad forgot too,” she said, with a half-laugh. You hummed softly in response, picking up one of your pens and rolling it between your fingers.

“So… y’all going?” you asked, doing your best to sound vaguely disinterested, like it was just a passing curiosity and not an existential gamble where your pride, dignity, and possibly your outfit choice hung in the balance.

She leaned back a little, squinting like she was thinking it through. “Well, I’m goin’ with Uncle Tommy. He promised he’d make his brisket again, so… duh.” She grinned, like that settled it.

You nodded, pretending to be totally neutral and adult and unbothered. “And your dad?”

“He’s still decidin’. You know he ain’t exactly the life of the party.” She laughed—soft and affectionate, not mean—and you could hear the warmth in it.

You smiled, a little despite yourself. “Yeah. I’ve picked up on that.” Understatement of the century. If “socially withdrawn” had a poster boy, he’d be on every bus in Travis County.

Sarah tilted her head at you, amused. “You ever seen him at a party?”

“Not unless we’re countin’ the school board meeting where he spoke four words and three of ‘em were ‘no thank you’.”

She giggled. “Yeah, that sounds ‘bout right. He’s all like, ‘Why would I go talk to people when I could be fixin’ somethin’ that ain’t even broke?’”

You laughed softly, shaking your head as you set the pen down and leaned back in your chair. “That actually explains… so much.”

A beat passed. Sarah dangled her legs off the edge of the desk and looked around the empty classroom. The sunlight hit her hair just right, and you were momentarily struck by the weight of how young she still was—half child, half woman, and somehow wise beyond her years. She looked back at you.

“You really ain’t gonna go?”

You paused, then made a face. “I don’t know. There’s something uniquely terrifying about being judged by an entire neighborhood while holding a plate of baked beans.”

She snorted. “Ain’t no one judgin’ you. You’re like, the coolest teacher.”

“Oh, honey. That bar is so low it’s practically subterranean.”

“Still counts,” she said with a grin.

You bit your lip. “I dunno… Maybe I’ll stop by. If I can find a cute dress and, you know, enough emotional fortitude to survive two hours of small talk and overcooked burgers.”

“I think you should. Might be fun.”

You met her eyes, giving her a smile that felt more tired than fake. “You’re suspiciously invested in this.”

Sarah shrugged again, this time with a glimmer of mischief. “I dunno. I think it’d be funny watchin’ you try to talk to my dad in public. He gets all… weird.”

You arched a brow. “Define weird.”

“Like… stiff. He don’t know what to say. He gets this look on his face like he just remembered he left the stove on but it’s too late.”

You coughed into your hand to keep from laughing. “That’s oddly specific.”

“It’s accurate though.”

You shook your head, biting the inside of your cheek. “Great. So he’s awkward and antisocial. Add that to the list.”

Sarah narrowed her eyes. “Y’don’t like him much, huh?”

You smiled a little too quickly. “Who said that?”

She shrugged, swinging her feet again. “Just a feelin’. You get this weird voice when you talk about him. Kinda like when Mrs. Watkins talks about her ex-husband and her car insurance in the same sentence.”

You leaned forward, chin in hand, trying to sound light. “Let’s just say your dad’s… an acquired taste.”

Sarah smirked. “He’s like black coffee.”

“Mm. More like black coffee left on the burner overnight.”

She laughed out loud, and you couldn’t help but smile along with her, despite the very real sting in your chest.

God, you were in trouble.

You let out a soft breath and leaned back into your chair, the plastic creaking under the subtle shift of your weight.

“Well,” you said at last, “I’ll see if I end up goin’, sweetheart.” Your voice softened instinctively at the term, almost maternal but just shy of affectionate teasing. Sarah grinned in return, swinging her legs like a kid, even though she was starting to shed that look and lean into the awkward in-between of high school girlhood.

You paused, fiddling absently with the silver ring on your middle finger—a nervous tic, though you’d never admit it—and added with a half-smile, “Honestly, I don’t exactly have the energy for meetin’ half the neighborhood. Socializing with strangers makes me wanna disappear into drywall.”

Sarah tilted her head and made a little face, sympathetic. “Yeah, I get that. My dad always says if you make eye contact with one person at those things, suddenly you’re spendin’ your Saturday talkin’ about lawnmowers and property taxes.”

You barked out a soft laugh despite yourself. “That sounds exactly like somethin’ he’d say.”

“It is. He said it last year when Ms. Crandall asked if he wanted to join the HOA. He told her he’d rather change his own oil in August.”

You raised a brow, bemused. “I mean, that’s… horrifyingly valid.”

“He’s real good at avoidin’ people without bein’ rude,” she added, proud.

“Must be nice,” you murmured, glancing out the window, watching a squirrel dart up the side of a tree. “I’m still learnin’ how to avoid people.”

Sarah snorted. “You’re doin’ better than most the teachers here. Mr. Daniels calls everybody ‘champ’ ’cause he can’t remember nobody’s name.”

You laughed again, louder this time. “That explains so much.”

A pause stretched between you while you watched her, legs dangling off the desk like a child who didn’t know yet how much adults envied her for being able to do exactly that.

“You could just come for a little bit,” she said,“Y’know, just show up, eat somethin’, smile at Ms. Norris so she don’t spread another rumor ‘bout you bein’ a witch or whatever.”

“Oh, Lord,” you sighed, rubbing your temples dramatically. “Is that still goin’ around?”

“Yeah,” she said with a nod, utterly serious. “But now they say you’re a hot witch, so… progress?”

You groaned into your hands, and she giggled.

“And anyway,” Sarah went on, swinging her feet again, “it might be nice. Uncle Tommy’s bringin’ his acoustic guitar and like, five pies.”

“I don’t know whether that makes me more or less likely to attend,” you deadpanned. “Pie I can do. Acoustic guitar in public? That’s a high-stakes gamble.”

“He only plays Johnny Cash and ‘Wagon Wheel,’ so… depends on how brave you’re feelin’.”

“Terrified, honestly,” you said, with a smirk tugging at the corner of your mouth.

A beat.

Then: “You think your dad would be weird if I came?”

Sarah blinked at you, like the thought hadn’t even occurred to her. “Weird how?”

You shrugged, trying to sound casual. “I don’t know. He’s just… stoic. Like, emotionally constipated.”

Sarah snorted. “He ain’t constipated, he’s just quiet.”

“Same thing,” you said, “Anyway, I wouldn’t want to show up and have him do that thing where he looks at me like I’m a stray dog he didn’t mean to feed.”

Sarah burst into giggles, doubling over slightly. “He does have that look! I call it his ‘oops-I-cared’ face.”

You chuckled, biting your lip to hide the fact that her insight was a little too spot-on. “Exactly. I’m allergic to mild rejection, so… maybe I’ll just stay home and alphabetize my spice rack.”

Sarah grinned wide. “You’re funny when you’re nervous.”

“I’m not nervous,” you said quickly, too quickly. “I’m selective. There’s a difference.”

“Mmhm,” she hummed, clearly not buying it.

“Well,” you said, voice softening, “if I do come, I expect pie. And exactly zero small talk about irrigation systems.”

Sarah stuck out a pinky. “Deal.”

You locked pinkies with hers, and she grinned like you’d just signed a sacred pact. Then her eyes narrowed thoughtfully.

“…You want me to save you a seat next to Dad?”

You nearly choked. “Absolutely not.”

“Not even a lil’ one?”

“Goodbye, Sarah.”

She cackled like a villain and didn’t move an inch.

You regretted it. Every second of it. Every mosquito bite. Every lukewarm plastic cup of sweet tea. Every awkward neighborly smile from someone named Cheryl. You regretted the moment you said yes to this godforsaken barbecue party.

But most of all, you regretted that you’d fallen—once again—for Sarah’s weapons-grade persuasion tactics.

Because of course she talked you into it. Of course she did.

She’d been trying all week, skipping her usual dramatic eye-rolls in favor of wide, pleading puppy eyes—those big greenish-hazel ones that made you feel like you were denying a Disney orphan Christmas. You didn’t stand a chance.

So now, here you were: sitting at a plastic folding table in someone’s aggressively well-manicured backyard, in the sweltering late-afternoon heat of Austin, trying not to visibly scan the crowd every five minutes like some desperate character in a rom-com who just knows she made a mistake wearing that one skirt.

You were perched at the edge of your seat beside Tommy—who was charming and polite and dangerously good at making people feel welcome—and Sarah, who was halfway through a story about a science class experiment gone rogue.

“—and then Bobby Sanchez dropped the whole thing on the floor, and it smelled like… like rotten pickles ‘n burnt eggs had a baby,” Sarah said, wrinkling her nose. “Ms. Finch had to open *all* the windows. I thought she was gonna pass out.”

You blinked, pulling yourself back into the conversation. “Rotten pickles and burnt eggs. Sounds like half the dishes at this party.”

Tommy barked out a laugh. “Hey now. You insult the deviled eggs, you’re gonna start a war around here.”

“Oh, God forbid,” you deadpanned. “If I get hit by a flying casserole, I want it on the record that I tried to blend in.”

Sarah giggled, leaning over with her arms crossed on the table, sipping at her soda with a little straw she’d twisted into a knot somehow. “You do look cute though. So I think you’re safe.”

You gave her a sideways glance and a smile that said, i love you, but I’m still gonna die mad about this.

She was dressed casually, in jean shorts and a pink tee, and her hair had half-fallen out of its ponytail, in a messy way.

You’d dressed carefully, even if you’d never admit it—something not too try-hard, not too casual. A skirt, loose and floaty, just enough lip gloss to look like you hadn’t thought about it for 45 minutes beforehand and a white shirt that made your boobs look a little bit bigger.

“So, uh,” you said, forcing your tone as breezy as the nonexistent breeze in this Texas heat, “is your dad comin’ or…?”

You regretted it instantly. You hadn’t meant to ask it out loud. You really hadn’t. Your voice trailed off into the rim of your plastic cup.

Sarah glanced at you, then at her cup, and said, “I dunno. He was still in work clothes when I left the house. Might show up late. He don’t really like these things.”

You nodded, tried to make it look like you didn’t care, like you hadn’t scanned every single shadowy shape behind the grill like a CIA operative hunting for someone specifically tall, broody, and emotionally unavailable. “Yeah,” you said. “I figured.”

Tommy nudged your shoulder lightly with his. “He’ll probably come. He always shows up, eventually. Even if it’s just for five minutes to complain about the potato salad.”

“Comforting,” you muttered, and Tommy laughed.

He was easy to like—quick smile, kind eyes, the kind of guy who’d help a stranger carry a couch three blocks without needing a reason. The opposite of Joel, really.

“Well,” Sarah said, “if he does show up, don’t worry. I’ll sit between y’all so it don’t get awkward.”

You blinked. “What?”

She smirked. “I mean, you and my dad always get real quiet.”

“I think we just both enjoy silence,” you said, straightening a napkin for no reason. “Like… independently.”

“Uh-huh.”

You opened your mouth, ready to deliver a snappy comeback—but then stopped.

Because someone behind you cleared their throat.

And you knew. You didn’t have to turn around. You knew.

“Hey,” came that low, molasses-smooth voice from just over your shoulder. A little hoarse, a little tired, a lot Joel.

And suddenly you were re-evaluating every decision that had led to this moment, including—but not limited to—your choice of outfit, your eyeliner, and your deeply regrettable emotional attachment to a man who once described PTA meetings as “torture with snacks.”

Sarah beamed. “Hi, Dad.”

You turned, slowly, like a woman preparing to face a firing squad.

“Hi,” you said, and smiled.

Too wide. Definitely too wide.

Tommy stood up with a grunt and clapped his older brother on the back. “’Bout time you showed up,” he said, grinning. “Didn’t think you’d make it.”

You smiled politely, stared down at your cup like it held the meaning of life.

And then—you felt it. That awful, slow, unmistakable gravitational pull of fate.

Of course he sat down in the only empty chair.

Of course it was the one directly next to you.

And of course the universe hated you today.

The air felt a little too warm suddenly, like the sun had dialed it up just for this moment out of sheer spite. You smoothed your skirt over your thighs and shifted slightly in your seat, pretending to be very focused on a plastic bowl of lukewarm potato salad.

Joel let out a low grunt as he lowered himself onto the flimsy lawn chair, elbows on knees, hands clasped in front of him.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just sat there.

You could feel him beside you, though. The heat of him. The solid, maddening presence. Like your whole left side was suddenly hyper-aware. Shoulder, arm, thigh—not touching, but almost. Close enough to make you wonder what the hell you were even doing here.

You didn’t look at him.

You were not looking at him.

But then Joel shifted—just slightly—toward you.

“Didn’t think I’d see you here,” he said, low and dry.

You turned your head slowly, eyes narrowed just slightly.

“Yeah, well,” you said sweetly, “Sarah used psychological warfare.”

Joel smirked. Just the edge of it. “Sounds ‘bout right.”

There was a pause. Not silence, because the backyard was alive with laughter and music and the occasional shriek of a kid on a sugar high, but still—a pause. A small, heavy pocket of unsaid things wedged between the two of you.

You sipped your drink. “Don’t worry. I’m not here to ruin your evening.”

He arched a brow. “Didn’t say you would.”

“Didn’t have to.”

He didn’t answer that. Just let his gaze slide away, somewhere toward the grill, like he had more important things to look at than the woman he very clearly—kind of sort of almost—rejected a few weeks ago.

Sarah, blissfully unaware, leaned forward and looked between you both like she was hosting a talk show. “So… are y’all talkin’ again now?”

You blinked. “Sarah—”

Joel cut in. “We’re bein’ civil. That count?”

Sarah made a dramatic face and wiggled her fingers like she was playing mediator at the UN. “I knew this party was gonna be a good idea.”

Tommy chuckled and handed her a paper plate. “Go grab yourself a burger, matchmaker.”

Sarah stood up with a little bounce, but looked at you before leaving. “Y’want anything? They got those corny lil’ sliders you liked.”

You smiled, grateful for the out. “I’ll come with you.”

But before you could even stand, Joel spoke again—softly this time, like the words weren’t really meant for anyone but you.

“You ain’t gotta leave.”

You froze.

And then—very politely—you smiled at him.

“I know,” you said.

And followed Sarah toward the food.

You could feel him watching you go.

And you hated how much you didn’t hate that.

You were meticulously balancing a slider and a suspiciously shiny deviled egg on Sarah’s flimsy paper plate—trying very hard to pretend the hotdog tray wasn’t congealed—when your ears perked up like a stray cat hearing a tuna can crack open.

It wasn’t that you were eavesdropping. Of course not. You were simply… present. In a public space. Where words travel. And someone had said, “—Joel,” and your internal alarm system shrieked to life like a school bell on Monday morning.

Your hand froze mid-reach over a bowl of potato chips.

Joel.

Of course.

You didn’t intend to listen. Not consciously. But when a cluster of women behind the lemonade table started giggling like high school juniors instead of grown mothers of PTA presidents, it was kind of hard not to.

One of them—bottle-blonde—let out this theatrical sigh. “Well, thank God he came,” she said, popping a grape into her mouth.

“Mm-hmm,” another one murmured, swaying gently with her red solo cup. “Man’s been workin’ himself half to death. ‘Bout time he came up for air.”

“Yeah, but like—look at him,” the first one giggled. “All gruff and broody like a damn cowboy who forgot how to smile. It’s so hot.”

You blinked, stunned, as if someone had thrown glitter in your eyes.

Hot?

Joel Miller?

…Okay, maybe a little.

In the right lighting.

When he wasn’t speaking.

But still.

You tried very hard not to snort audibly as you dropped a scoop of mac and cheese onto Sarah’s plate. Gruff and broody might’ve been a poetic way of saying “antisocial with a hint of jackass.”

He hadn’t even smiled when you said hi that first week.

Still, your hand lingered on the tongs. Listening.

“I told y’all,” a third woman chimed in, the one in the cowboy boots and the pink floral sundress, “he’s just shy. That’s what it is. He ain’t rude, he’s just got one of them quiet dispositions.”

Quiet disposition.

Right. That’s what we’re calling being a human brick wall now.

Sarah tugged gently on your sleeve. “Miss?” she asked, “Can I get them lil’ corn things? You know, the ones that look like baby fingers?”

You blinked back into the moment, smiling softly as you plopped three tiny corn cobs onto her plate. “Of course you can, honey. You can get anything you want.”

She beamed, already nibbling on a bread roll as you guided her toward the condiment table. She didn’t hear a word from the Greek chorus of thirsty Texas women behind you—but you did.

And now you couldn’t un-hear it.

Or un-see it.

One of them was definitely eyeing Joel like he was the last rib at the barbecue, and you had no idea why this bothered you.

Except you did know. And you were going to pretend you didn’t.

Sarah’s curls bounced as she walked ahead, humming something tuneless to herself, already halfway through her potato chips. You followed, taking a slow breath, resisting the irrational urge to glare back at Sunglasses Barbie and her Joel Appreciation Club.

And then you saw him.

Across the yard.

Still in that damned chair.

Still looking like he hated every second of being alive.

Still watching you.

Of course he was watching you.

Because the universe had a sense of humor.

And apparently, you were the punchline.

Tommy waved at you both as you came back. “You get enough for a small army there?” he joked.

“She got me the baby corn,” Sarah said proudly. “And three deviled eggs even though I only asked for two.”

“Overachiever,” Tommy said with a wink at you.

You smiled tightly, sitting down across from Joel instead of next to him, making Tommy swap seats with you. He didn’t say anything—just raised one brow.

You ignored him.

But you couldn’t help it—your eyes slid sideways, just a little, and there he was. The man of the hour. Mister gruff and broody himself.

Looking at you.

And smiling.

Damn him.

You genuinely had no idea how you ended up in this mess to begin with. One minute you were politely excusing yourself from the barbecue—early and the next you were standing directly between two grown men who were halfway through a shouting match, six beers past reason and one sideways glance away from full-blown brawl territory.

It happened in that slow-motion kind of way where your brain registers each choice—each tiny, innocent, well-meaning step—and catalogs them under: “Mistakes Were Made.”

You’d waved at Sarah and promised to return her Tupperware. She’d said something like, “Don’t forget the lid, miss—my dad always loses it,” and you’d laughed, like the maternal figure you were pretending not to be. Joel had glanced over then, because the universe refused to let you leave anywhere unobserved by those judgmental puppy brown eyes of his. And of course, he hadn’t said goodbye. Of course not. That would’ve been polite.

So you’d walked. Alone. Down the gravel path behind the fence. Toward your house. Past the hedge. Just a few more feet.

And that’s when you heard it.

“Yeah, well, if you paid your goddamn child support—!”

“Oh, please, comin’ from you? You got the damn nerve to talk about responsibility?”

You flinched before you even saw them.

Mike and Randy.

Your neighbors.

The human embodiments of car alarms and meat sweat.

And somehow, somehow, you were right between them.

You froze, hands awkwardly full with a floral casserole dish and Sarah’s Tupperware.

Mike turned first. His face was flushed—either from the sun, the alcohol, or, more likely, a toxic blend of both—and his hand was waving aggressively in Randy’s direction. “I don’t need to take crap from no broke mechanic who still lives with his mama—”

“Say that again,” Randy snapped, stepping forward. “Say that again, Mike, see what happens—”

You cleared your throat softly. “Um—gentlemen?”

A mistake.

A terrible mistake.

Two sets of bloodshot eyes locked onto you like heat-seeking missiles. You felt the casserole dish sweat in your palms.

“Hey, ain’t this Joel Miller’s new lil’ lady friend?” Randy barked suddenly, squinting at you. “You the one teachin’ at the school, right?”

You opened your mouth. Closed it again. Opened it a little and tried a smile, which you now realize probably looked like a nervous squirrel attempting diplomacy.

“She ain’t nobody’s lady friend,” Mike said, though somehow that didn’t sound any more complimentary. “She just thinks she better than everybody ‘cause she teaches English and don’t talk to nobody.”

You blinked. “Okay, wow. That’s—an interpretation.”

Randy snorted. “Yeah, Joel probably thinks he’s too good to come drink with the boys now, huh? Got himself some tight-lipped, big-word girlfriend with a pretty smile and no damn personality—”

“All right,” you cut in. “This has been a fun and wildly uncomfortable detour, but I really should—”

“You know, Joel don’t talk about you much,” Mike interrupted. “That says a lot.”

Ouch.

Okay.

That one kind of stung.

You inhaled slowly, willing yourself not to throw Sarah’s Tupperware at anyone’s face. Or cry. Or do that thing where your lip trembles but you pretend you’re just yawning.

You could still hear the party down the street—laughing, country music playing on someone’s cheap Bluetooth speaker, the occasional slap of a horseshoe against the dirt. It felt like a whole other planet.

Here, between Mike and Randy, was the alien terrain of grown man pettiness and secondhand Bud Light rage.

You adjusted your grip on the casserole dish and lifted your chin just a little.

You were not about to be bullied by men who wore flip flops with socks.

Especially not over Joel Miller.

“First of all,” you said, chin tilted high like your grandmother taught you, “we are absolutely nothing.”

You let the words land sharp and clear, enunciated like punctuation. Like an answer on a spelling test you knew you’d gotten right.

And for some godforsaken reason… they laughed.

Not the polite, awkward kind of laugh you give someone when they’ve accidentally spilled ranch dressing on themselves and you’re trying to make them feel better. No, this was the gross, snorting kind of laughter that men do when they think they’ve just seen a woman embarrass herself.

Randy actually slapped his knee. Slapped his knee, like he was in some kind of honky-tonk sitcom. “Ain’t nothin’, huh?” he wheezed, leaning back like your declaration had winded him from the sheer comedy. “That why he’s always lookin’ at you like he’s thinkin’ ’bout fucking you?”

Mike coughed a laugh right after, and you could smell the whiskey on his breath before he even spoke. “Yeah, darlin’. You’re nothin’, sure. That why he don’t let no one else talk to you? Walks around all stiff like he’s tryna hold somethin’ back—”

You exhaled slowly through your nose.

Do. Not. React.

Do not give them the satisfaction.

Do not throw this casserole dish, no matter how much your fingers are itching to.

They were leaning into it now, emboldened by each other’s drunk, idiotic energy, circling you like vultures who’d spotted a weak spot in the ribcage. Or maybe like dogs, scenting something they thought smelled like fear.

“Bet he’s just usin’ ya,” Mike muttered, his eyes narrowing, mean and heavy-lidded. “You one of them smart girls, huh? The kind that thinks readin’ books makes you better than the rest of us?”

“She talks all sweet like sugar, but I bet she’s got claws,” Randy added with a leer, as if he were being charming.

You wanted to say something witty.

You always had something witty.

But for a second, your tongue stuck to the roof of your mouth and your heart tripped, half-shocked, half-burning. And t ou were trying to breathe through heat and humiliation at the same time.

You weren’t scared exactly.

Not yet.

But it was starting to feel… dangerous.

Like if one of them reached out, or stepped forward, or said the wrong thing one more time, the situation would slide out of the hazy realm of drunken teasing and straight into something uglier.

You were near your house.

You could see your porch light.

But your feet wouldn’t move.

“Y’all ever wonder,” Mike drawled, “why he ain’t lookin’ for a real woman? Someone who ain’t tryna play all proper? Maybe ‘cause he knows what kind you really are.”

“Yeah,” Randy agreed, eyes running over you in a way that made your skin crawl. “Betcha put on that teacher act real good. But I seen how you look at him. You want him. Don’tcha?”

You folded your arms then, mostly so your hands wouldn’t shake. Mostly so they wouldn’t see the way your knuckles had gone white around the damn Tupperware.

“Do you speak to all women like this,” you said quietly, “or am I just lucky?”

Another laugh.

This one sharper. Dirtier. Meaner.

Randy leaned in. “Nah, sweetheart. You’re just askin’ for it, wearin’ that skirt like that. Pretendin’ you don’t know what it does to a man.”

And that—

That was the moment.

The one where your heart dropped into your stomach, not out of fear but out of pure, incandescent rage. The kind that bubbled right under your ribs, fizzing hot and golden and righteous. The kind you only get when you’ve been good, when you’ve smiled through the smirks and tolerated the comments and tried, tried, tried to be liked.

And they still thought they could say that to you.

No one else was around.

No Tommy.

No Sarah.

No Joel with his judgmental eyes and silent smirks and shoulders that could hold up half the county.

Just you.

And two men who didn’t know—had no idea—how much fury a quiet woman could carry.

You blinked slowly, lips parting.

“Enough.”

The voice came from behind you—low, firm.

And oh, you knew that voice.

Too well.

The moment you heard it, your spine snapped a little straighter like it had its own opinion about things, and your mouth went dry like your body had decided to have a full-blown reaction without consulting your brain. Which was annoying, really. You were supposed to be the adult. The professional.

But still—there it was.

Joel Miller, in all his Southern, sharp-jawed, permanently-irritated glory, standing behind you like the world had summoned him just to complicate your evening.

And of course, of course, Randy’s voice turned sleazy on a dime, curling into something mock-sweet and smug.

“Well, hell,” he said, half-laughing. “You brought your boyfriend out here to scare us, sweetheart?”

Your boyfriend.

You almost choked on your own soul.

You didn’t say anything—because if you opened your mouth, there was a very real chance that your entire internal monologue would come pouring out in chaotic, flustered poetry like “he’s not my boyfriend, he’s a grumpy construction god with judgmental eyebrows and I hate him and also maybe want to kiss him under a streetlamp”— which, obviously, would’ve been frowned upon in this particular moment.

So instead, you just stared ahead, arms still folded tightly across your chest, trying not to react. Not to him. Not to them. And especially not to the part of you that was a little relieved he’d come.

Meanwhile, Joel’s boots crunched against the gravel as he took a step forward into your space.

“I said that’s enough.”

Mike scoffed, but not as loud this time. “Ain’t doin’ nothin’, man. Just talkin’. She didn’t seem to mind.”

You turned then. Not all the way—just enough to glance at Joel from the corner of your eye.

He looked… tight. Coiled. Like a man trying very hard not to punch someone.

Which was honestly sort of sweet.

In a terrifying, emotionally-repressed way.

“She minded,” Joel said, slow and clear, his gaze never leaving theirs. “And I don’t think either of y’all want me to repeat myself.”

It wasn’t a movie. No one flinched dramatically or dropped their beer. But there was this subtle, almost imperceptible recalculating in both of them. Like wolves suddenly realizing the rabbit had backup. Big, pissed-off backup in a flannel shirt.

Randy laughed again. “Shit, man. Ain’t gotta get all macho on us. We were just jokin’ around.”

“Try jokin’ somewhere else,” Joel said.

And just like that—just like flipping a switch—they started backing off.

No apology. No shame. Just the lazy, shrugging retreat of men who’d decided the entertainment wasn’t worth the effort anymore.

Typical.

You exhaled, long and quiet, only realizing now how hard you’d been clenching your jaw.

Joel didn’t look at you right away. He just watched them walk off—staggering toward the edge of the barbecue smoke and back into their own personal cloud of Miller Lite and entitlement.

And then, finally, finally, he turned his head. Eyes narrowing at you with that same stormy expression that made you want to both slap and kiss him.

“You alright?”

Your lips parted—and then paused. Because the answer wasn’t simple, and your pride had teeth.

“I had it handled,” you said, as evenly as possible.

He huffed, the faintest sound. Like a laugh. But not quite.

“Sure,” he muttered. “I could tell. Real commanding presence. You gonna throw that Tupperware at ‘em next?”

You looked down at the forgotten casserole dish in your hands, then back up at him.

“I was considering it,” you said primly.

That made him smirk.

Smirk.

Ugh.

You hated how smug it made him look.

And hated more how that little corner of your stomach did a stupid fluttery thing in response.

He rubbed the back of his neck, that familiar gesture that always made him look younger than he was, and somehow annoyingly more attractive.

“They’re drunk,” he said simply. “But they ain’t stupid. Not completely. They know not to push it when someone’s watching.”

“Lucky me,” you said, and raised an eyebrow. “Guess I should thank you for coming to my rescue, cowboy.”

His mouth twitched at that. “You callin’ me cowboy now?”

“ You are wearing a flannel.”

“It’s Texas,” he shot back. “What else am I s’posed to wear? A damn tuxedo?”

You blinked slowly. “Honestly, now that you mention it…”

His laugh—a real one this time—was so rare it stopped you for a second. It was low and warm and gravelly, like someone turning a page in a very old book. And for a moment—just a moment—you forgot why you were mad at him in the first place.

Until you remembered exactly why.

That night.

You straightened again, chin back up, even as the blush crept traitorously up your neck.

“You done saving damsels in distress?” you asked, voice light but laced with steel.

He tilted his head, eyes still on you.

“Depends,” he said. “You done runnin’ off into trouble without tellin’ nobody?”

You didn’t answer. Mostly because you didn’t have one.

“Thanks for the backup,” you say lightly, balancing the cold casserole dish against your hip as you adjust your grip. Your voice is polite—almost too polite, like you’d written the words down on an index card ahead of time and underlined them twice for emotional distance. “I’m heading home now.”

And with that, you turn on your heel, chin lifted, sandals clicking against the uneven pavement as you walk away from the barbecue—and from him. The shadows stretch long across the sidewalk, warm twilight spilling over the edges of the neighborhood like honey left out in the sun too long.

You don’t look back.

But you hear him.

The unmistakable scuff of boots behind you.

Of course.

Because the universe never got tired of trying you.

You don’t stop walking. You don’t say a word. You just keep moving forward, steady and composed, even though you’re acutely aware—painfully aware—of Joel Miller walking a few paces behind you like some kind of flannel-clad guardian angel who probably carries a toolbox instead of wings.

It’s not until you’re halfway up the sidewalk, two houses from your own, that you finally speak—your tone soft.

“I’m not in danger of being kidnapped, you know,” you say without turning around. “You can go home.”

A beat.

Then another.

And then—

“You sure?” he replies, his voice all gravel and heat, laced with the kind of dry sarcasm. “Didn’t seem like those two were big fans of boundaries.”

You do roll your eyes this time, but he can’t see it, which feels like a small mercy.

“I’m a teacher, Joel. I get talked over, interrupted, and emotionally terrorized by teenagers five days a week. I think I can handle two drunk rednecks trying to out-misogynist each other.”

He makes a small sound behind you—something like a laugh, but not quite. More like he’s amused against his better judgment.

“I’m just sayin’. That one guy was starin’ at you like he forgot what decade we’re in.”

You stop at the edge of your porch, finally turning to face him. The porch light casts a soft, golden glow across the wooden steps, catching the edge of your hair, your collarbone.

“I appreciate your… concern,” you say, choosing your words carefully. “But I’m fine.”

He doesn’t respond immediately. His gaze stays on yours and you hate how much you want to know what he’s thinking. Is he still irritated? Is he judging you? Is he remembering that night the same way you do?

Or is he just standing there because he wants to be near you, which is… confusing. And deeply unhelpful.

“Didn’t say you weren’t,” he mutters, finally, with a small shrug. “Just figured I’d walk you back.”

You let out a small breath, eyes narrowing just a little.

“Why?”

He raises an eyebrow, almost like the question surprises him. Or maybe it annoys him.

Or both.

“I don’t know,” he says eventually. “Maybe I’m just tryin’ to be nice.”

That pulls a soft, skeptical laugh out of you.

“You? Trying to be nice?” you echo, and cock your head. “That would be new.”

He looks at you for a long moment. And then he does something unexpected.

He smiles.

Not a smirk. Not a grimace disguised as a smirk. A real, fleeting, actual smile. It doesn’t reach all the way up to his eyes, but it almost does.

You feel your stomach do something it really shouldn’t be doing on a random Sunday night in your front yard.

“People change,” he says.

You arch an eyebrow. “Since when?”

He shrugs again. “Since now, I guess.”

And the weirdest part? He’s not being sarcastic. Not completely, anyway. There’s something different about his voice tonight—softer, less defensive. It’s like he’s trying, in his own gruff, emotionally stunted way, to… what? Connect? Apologize? Flirt?

Okay, no, not flirt. That would require actual intentionality. And Joel Miller doesn’t flirt. He just grunts at you until you develop feelings against your will.

Still, something about the way he’s looking at you feels like a crack in the armor.

It’s almost enough to make you want to let your guard down.

Almost.

You tilt your head slightly, eyes narrowing again in mock suspicion. “You sure you’re not just trying to score extra credit? Sarah’s got that essay due on Friday.”

He actually laughs at that—an honest-to-God, chest-deep laugh that makes your heart stutter for half a second before it remembers how to beat.

“She already finished it,” he says. “Wrote the whole damn thing in one night. Said she wanted to impress her favorite teacher.”

Your chest tightens.

“That’s sweet,” you murmur. “She’s… she’s a good kid.”

“She’s crazy about you,” he says, softer this time.

You break eye contact first, stepping toward your door.

“Well,” you say, forcing your voice to sound breezy. “Tell her I’m proud of her.”

Joel watches you quietly. And then, as you reach for the knob—

“You wanna sit out for a bit?” he asks suddenly.

You blink, turning back. “What?”

He nods toward your porch chairs—old wood, a little creaky, but comfortable enough for late-night conversations and bad coffee.

“Just for a few minutes,” he says. “I’ll leave you alone after that.”

Your hand hesitates on the doorknob.

You should say no.

You really, really should.

But instead—

You open the garden gate with a small flick of your wrist. The metal squeaks just enough to remind you you’ve been meaning to oil it for weeks, and the hinges drag slightly in the humidity.

Your front porch waits ahead, two faded blue chairs and a tiny metal table that wobbles if you breathe near it too hard. String lights hang overhead, casting a buttery glow that makes the whole space feel vaguely like a small-town diner commercial or an indie movie where the leads never quite kiss.

You gesture toward the chairs without looking at him.

“Come on in. I’ve got lemonade,” you say over your shoulder. You don’t wait for a response—just push open the screen door and disappear into the soft clatter of your kitchen, half-hoping he’ll take the invitation and half-hoping he’ll misread it completely and leave you alone forever.

He doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t. Joel never does what you want him to until it’s at least five minutes too late.

You hear the low scrape of boots against your porch—he’s chosen the chair on the right, the one with the little crack in the armrest that you keep meaning to sand down.

Inside, the kitchen smells faintly of lemon zest and whatever candle you left burning earlier—maybe vanilla, or something ridiculous like “Sunset Orchard.” The space is tiny, just one window, one sink, one fridge covered in students Sarah’s drawings and your own crooked little reminder notes: parent-teacher night Thurs, buy printer ink, don’t engage with Joel Miller. You ignore the last one. As always.

You open the fridge, retrieve the tall glass pitcher—your emergency summer lemonade, half sugar, half spite—and pour two glasses. You make his a little fuller than yours and immediately hate yourself for it.

When you step back outside, he’s still there, legs stretched out, one hand on his knee, his eyes lazily scanning the yard like he’s checking for trespassers or rogue raccoons or maybe just avoiding looking at you.

You hand him the glass and set yours down on the table.

He takes it from you without a word and lifts it slightly in a silent toast before taking a sip.

You settle into the other chair, crossing your legs and leaning back, letting the cool glass rest against your thigh. The porch creaks beneath you. The night is quiet, save for the distant hum of cicadas and the occasional bark of that horrible little chihuahua that belongs to the Johnsons next door. You sip slowly, watching him over the rim of your glass.

“Well,” you say finally, your voice light and just a little too sweet, “you’re not what I usually picture when someone says ‘knight in shining armor.’”

Joel glances at you sideways, his brow quirking just slightly. “Yeah? What do you usually picture?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” you say airily. “Maybe someone who doesn’t almost break my garbage bins every Tuesday morning.”

He exhales through his nose—his version of a laugh, maybe. “Those bins are poorly designed.”

“They’re plastic. You body-slammed one like it owed you money.”

“It was crooked.”

“You were crooked.”

He smirks into his glass. You try very hard not to notice how the porch light catches in his eyes when he does that.

“I don’t recall you complainin’ when I helped you carry that bookcase in last month,” he says after a moment.

You hum thoughtfully. “That’s true. You were very helpful. Just like a grumpy neighbor in a Hallmark movie.”

“Damn,” he mutters. “And here I was hopin’ for ‘brooding antihero.’”

You glance at him, head tilted slightly. “Is that what you think you are?”

He shrugs. “A man can dream.”

You smile despite yourself. It’s small. But it’s real.

There’s a long, comfortable pause after that—almost too comfortable. You look out at the yard, your fingers tracing idle circles around the base of your glass. He watches you for a second longer than necessary. You pretend not to notice. You’re getting really good at that.

“So,” he says finally, his voice quieter now. “You mad at me?”

You blink. The words fall into your lap like a stone.

You don’t answer right away.

Instead, you sip your lemonade again, then set it down with exaggerated care.

“I’m not mad,” you say slowly. “I’m just… not especially interested in repeating certain mistakes.”

Joel leans back in his chair, the wood groaning slightly. “Didn’t realize I’d made one.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Didn’t you?”

He looks at you then, fully. No smirk. No sarcasm. Just a long, quiet gaze that feels entirely too honest for this creaky porch and your blue chairs and your too-sweet lemonade.

You hold the stare for a beat, then glance away—down at your glass, at your hands, anywhere but him.

“Anyway,” you murmur. “That night’s not really… something I want to unpack with someone who thinks niceness is a suspicious personality trait.”

He chuckles low in his throat. “You’re a lot tougher than you look.”

“I’m a high school English teacher in Texas, Joel. I have the patience of a saint and the caffeine tolerance of a seasoned trucker. Don’t let the floral skirt fool you.”

That earns another smirk. You ignore the way your stomach reacts to it like a traitor.

You both go quiet again.

And then—

“You smell like lemons,” he says out of nowhere.

You blink. “…That’s probably the lemonade.”

“No, I mean—” He stops, scratches his beard. “I dunno. You always kinda smell like lemons. Or books. Or somethin’ else I can’t put my finger on.”

Your heart does something absolutely inappropriate in your chest.

You make a face, hiding your fluster with practiced ease. “Okay, now you’re just making things up.”

He shrugs. “Maybe.”

And then?

He smiles again.

The lemonade is nearly gone.

Yours, at least—you’ve been sipping nervously, the glass chilled between your palms. Joel’s glass, meanwhile, is still half full—classic—and he hasn’t taken a sip in a while. Just keeps watching you, leaning back in that rickety blue chair.

You’re dangerously close to feeling comfortable. Which, given the fact that this is Joel Miller we’re talking about—the man who once fixed your front gate without asking and then pretended he didn’t—it’s deeply inconvenient.

He hasn’t said anything in a while, and you’re starting to think maybe the lemonade has short-circuited his usual gruff sarcasm. That maybe this is it—maybe he’s going to leave without another one of his broody, cryptic remarks that make you want to both roll your eyes and write about them in your diary.

But then—

“Friday. Nine o’clock.”

You blink.

“…What?”

His eyes don’t move. His mouth twitches, just slightly. “Friday. At nine.”

You narrow your gaze at him, suspicious. “Okay, yeah, I heard you. I’m not eighty-seven. What’s happening Friday at nine?”

He takes his time responding, like he’s savoring the moment. You hate him a little for it. And maybe also not at all.

“Wear a dress,” he says finally, low and deliberate. “The nice one. You’ll see.”

You make a face, part startled, part amused. A short laugh slips from you—tight, a little breathless. You look away, shake your head like you’re swatting a mosquito. What on earth is he talking about?

“Joel, this is Texas in September,” you say, shooting him a look. “I don’t own a ‘nice’ dress. I own five Target sundresses and a maxi skirt I wore to a wedding four years ago.”

“Then wear that,” he says with a slow shrug, like it’s all the same to him. “Long as it’s not covered in whatever the hell was on your shirt the last time I saw you.”

“It was chalk dust,” you say, mock-scandalized. “And it’s called educating America’s youth, thank you very much.”

He smiles again—smiles, like the man actually has the emotional range of a human being—and before you can fire back some half-sarcastic remark, he winks.

Winks.

Like this is 1954 and he’s just invited you to the county dance and not done… whatever this is. Whatever this has been becoming.

Your heart has the audacity to skip. You pretend it’s the lemonade.

“You winked,” you say flatly.

He shrugs. “Felt right.”

You stare at him for a moment longer, your lips pressed together. You’re painfully aware of how close you’re sitting. The armrest between you suddenly feels insultingly narrow.

“I still don’t know what this is,” you murmur.

He watches you for a moment, something unreadable in his expression. Then he leans in—just enough for your knees to nearly brush, just enough for the porch to creak beneath his weight—and says, almost too gently:

“You will.”

And then?

He doesn’t move back.

The silence stretches, long and warm and quiet, like something suspended between two choices. His eyes flick from your mouth to your eyes—slow, like he’s not trying to hide it. You should pull away. You should say something biting. Something that keeps him right where you’re used to him.

But you don’t.

You don’t move at all.

And when he kisses you—because of course he kisses you—it’s slow, deliberate, the kind of kiss that doesn’t ask for permission because it knows, somehow, that you’ve already granted it.

Your lemonade glass tips slightly.

And your heart goes absolutely feral.

You kiss him back.

You—yes, you—are kissing Joel Miller.

You are actively, willingly, shamelessly kissing the man who once told you your mailbox was “leaning like it had scoliosis” and then walked off without waiting for a thank-you when he fixed it.

This is… this is absolutely insane.

Like, on a scale of one to “the neighbor who insists her Pomeranian is a certified emotional support prophet,” this ranks somewhere above her but just below the incident with the squirrel and the Fourth of July grill.

(It was a long summer.)

And yet here you are, sitting on your too-small porch in your too-old tank top, kissing the man who’s been a grumpy, grizzled puzzle since the day you moved into this neighborhood. Kissing him like you mean it. Like you’ve been waiting for it, even if you’d never, under penalty of death and a PTA meeting, admit it out loud.

And the worst part? The worst part?

He’s really good at it.

His mouth is warm and slow, and his hand comes up—tentative at first—and then settles on your jaw. Just the side of your face, his thumb brushing the soft skin near your ear, and it sends an actual shiver down your spine, which is frankly rude. Rude, because he’s the kind of man who wears flannel like it’s a warning label and makes you feel like you’re always five seconds from being scolded.

But right now?

Right now he’s kissing you like he’s not in a rush to be anywhere else in the world.

Your hand finds the front of his shirt—soft cotton, worn at the collar, smells like sun and laundry detergent that probably came from a dented bottle on a dusty hardware store shelf—and you curl your fingers there, grounding yourself in the very real fact that this is happening.

You’re kissing Joel Miller.

He deepens the kiss then, just slightly, and your breath catches. His lips part, gentle but sure, and it hits you like a freight train made of pure chaos: this man knows exactly what he’s doing.

And not in the way of a cocky college frat boy, but in the way of a grown-ass man who’s made mistakes, lived through things, and learned exactly how to mean it.

Your knees bump his. You don’t move.

Your elbow brushes the lemonade glass. You don’t care.

Somewhere, a cicada screeches like it’s bearing witness to a crime.

You kiss him harder.

His hand slides back into your hair now, slow and rough at the same time, like he’s figuring out if you’ll let him.

(You do.)

He murmurs something against your mouth—something you can’t quite catch, something with your name in it—and the porch creaks beneath you both like even the house is trying to mind its business.

And then—

You laugh.

You actually, breathlessly laugh into the kiss, because this is absurd, this is impossible, this is Joel, and now your lemonade is sweating on the porch table and your heart is somewhere near your throat and—

“Jesus,” you mumble, pulling back just barely, lips still brushing his, “what the hell are we doing?”

He leans his forehead to yours, eyes half-lidded, expression unreadable in the dim porch light.

“Hell if I know,” he murmurs. “But I’m not stoppin’ unless you tell me to.”

And you don’t.

You kiss him again.

And again.

And again.

“Fair,” you whisper against his mouth, and you swear you feel him smile. Just barely. Your fingers slide to the edge of his collar, brushing the scruff at his neck.

His hands grip your waist, like he’s trying not to break anything—including the moment. He shifts, just enough to tug you onto his lap, and you follow because what exactly are you going to do—say no? Get up and go grade papers like this didn’t just happen on your porch next to your blue hydrangeas?

No. No, ma’am.

Your thighs settle awkwardly against his, the chair creaks in protest and he looks up at you with that half-lidded look he always gives you. Like he’s not convinced you’re real. Or not convinced this is allowed.

“Joel,” you murmur, feeling kind of dizzy. Your lips still taste like lemon and strawberry from the homemade lemonade—more sugar than fruit, really, but he doesn’t seem to mind. You catch the way his brows lift slightly like he’s registering it too.

“You taste like candy,” he mutters, low, into your jaw, because of course he does. You almost roll your eyes.

“I am candy,” you reply dryly, which makes him huff a breath of something between laughter and disbelief.

He leans back just enough to look at you—really look at you—and that’s when you realize you’ve never actually been this close to his face in broad daylight. He’s got this faint scar under his left eye, the kind that probably came from something stupid, and his lashes are unfairly thick. Why do men have those lashes?

“You’re trouble,” he says finally.

You blink. “Me? I’m literally a public school teacher, Joel. I laminate things for a living.”

His mouth twitches. “Exactly.”

And then he kisses you again.

It’s different this time. Like he’s getting serious.

Your fingers drift up the back of his neck and toy with the ends of his hair—just a little too long, curling at the collar, the kind that makes you think about lazy Sundays and coffee and someone reading the paper across the table. You are absolutely spiraling.

“You always like this on people’s porches?” he mutters against your lips.

You smirk. “Only the ones who insult me and then act like it didn’t happen.”

He chuckles softly. “That was a compliment. You just don’t understand my dialect.”

“Oh? Southern sarcasm? I teach high schoolers, Joel. I’m fluent.”

He groans, tilting his head back just slightly. You press a kiss to the underside of his jaw, because now apparently that’s a thing you do. This is fine. Totally reasonable behavior.

The chair creaks again—loudly—and you both freeze.

“This chair is going to murder us in our prime,” you say flatly.

He grins against your neck. “Worth it.”

It wasn’t that you tried to be pretty. Not generally.

Sure, you liked makeup. Liked the ritual of it—the brushes, the blending, the ten minutes of delusion that maybe this time, concealer would fix your life. And you liked feeling pretty. That was different. But trying to be pretty? That felt like something you’d retired around the same time you stopped pretending you enjoyed group projects or mint chocolate chip ice cream.

Except today.

Today you tried.

And by “tried,” you mean you full-on committed. Shaved everything below the eyelashes, moisturized like your life depended on it, and then spent forty-five minutes in front of the mirror giving your chin-length hair those effortless-looking soft curls that, in reality, took three separate burns to perfect.

And then came the bow.

A small, white ribbon—tied high, daintily pulling back two strands at the front like some kind of grown-up Little Bo Peep. Was it overkill? Yes. Did you care? No. Because somehow, you were… happy with it. Which was alarming. You even caught yourself smiling in the mirror, and then immediately stopped out of principle.

The dress was white, scattered with tiny blue flowers, and hit just at the knee. It was sweet. Innocent, even. Floaty. The kind of thing that said, oh this? I just threw this on after feeding my chickens and baking sourdough. Except you didn’t own chickens. And every time you were meant to bake sourdough, you called your grandma.

The bodice, however, was… another story. Apparently, your tits had decided to make a guest appearance this week—something about impending PMS and estrogen or divine comedy—and the dress made sure their presence was known.

You weren’t mad about it.

And if, say, a certain contractor-slash-single-father happened to notice? Well. That was between him and the Lord.

The shoes were white kitten heels. Tiny, elegant, entirely too optimistic considering you didn’t know where you were going. Joel’s text had said: “Dress nice. Not like, fancy nice. Just… nice.”

Which, of course, meant nothing. What is “nice” to a man who wears the same flannel every Tuesday?

Anyway.

You’d stood in your bedroom, alone, feeling half-ridiculous and half like some older version of yourself was nodding in approval. And under the dress—just in case—your nicest underwear. Lacy. Pale blue. Matching. Which you told yourself was for you, not for him, even though you were lying and you knew it.

The house was too quiet. You’d even lit a candle. Like you were in a commercial for emotionally stable women. The scent was called Fresh Linen and Lavender, which felt aspirational. You didn’t even like lavender.

You looked in the mirror one more time. A small smile, barely there.

“Okay,” you told your reflection. “Let’s go impress a man who thinks a taco truck counts as fine dining.”

Your phone buzzed. One message.

joel: outside.

Oh. Okay. Okay.

Your heart did that irritating fluttering thing it hadn’t done since your second year of college, when some boy with a guitar called you trouble and you believed him. You grabbed your bag, double-checked your bow (it was still bowing), and walked to the door.

You stepped outside.

And there he was.

Joel Miller. In a clean button-down shirt. Which felt… illegal, somehow. His jeans were still jeans—heaven forbid he dress like he’s going anywhere important—but he had shaved. Not completely, but enough to make you pause.

And then, just like that, he looked up.

And blinked.

Once. Twice.

You waited. He said nothing.

“…Say something before I melt into the floor,” you muttered, more to the railing than to him.

His mouth opened. Closed. Then finally, with a voice that sounded entirely too casual:

“You clean up good.”

You snorted. “Wow. I feel like I just won Miss Texas.”

Joel smirked. “Ain’t what I meant.”

And then, a little softer: “You look real nice.”

You froze for a second. It was the softness that got you. He looked at you like he wasn’t expecting to like what he saw—like it surprised him. In a good way.

You cleared your throat.

“You too,” you said quickly. “Very… buttoned. Very collar-forward.”

Joel raised an eyebrow. “That a compliment?”

“That’s as close as you’re gonna get,” you replied sweetly, already locking the door behind you. “Now are we walking or is this part of the date just you standing there looking confused?”

He chuckled, stepping aside so you could lead the way down the porch steps.

“You always this sassy before dinner?”

“Only when I’m hungry and being emotionally manipulated by a man who wears Carhartt on purpose.”

He led you to his truck like he was escorting you down the damn aisle.

And when he reached ahead of you to open the passenger door, you paused. Literally froze mid-step, just staring at him. The gesture was so unexpectedly gentlemanly, so un-Joel-Miller-coded, that for a full second you actually glanced around, half-expecting a hidden camera crew to pop out and yell something about this being a reboot of How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days.

But no. It was just him. Standing there. Holding the door. Looking absurdly smug about it.

You didn’t say thank you. Too easy.

Instead, you slid into the seat as gracefully as your heel height would allow (read: semi-gracefully with a soft oof) and immediately checked your reflection in the visor mirror. Lipstick status: not on your teeth. Victory.

Joel walked around to the driver’s side and climbed in, settling into the seat. He exhaled deeply, one hand already going for the keys.

You watched him for a beat.

He slipped the key into the ignition, and you—very pointedly—placed your hand on the emergency brake.

“Seatbelt,” you said, voice light but commanding. A delicate threat, wrapped in strawberry lip gloss.

Joel turned his head toward you, one eyebrow quirking ever so slightly like he was considering whether or not to make a joke. He didn’t.

Instead, he just held your gaze for a beat too long—something quiet, amused, unreadable dancing in his eyes—and then reached for the seatbelt and clicked it into place without a word.

Which, frankly, was the sexiest possible outcome.

“Good boy,” you murmured under your breath, immediately regretting it when he smiled.

It wasn’t a normal smile. It was a Joel-smile. Infuriatingly charming.

You turned back to your window, hoping the evening breeze would cool your face before he noticed the blush trying to crawl its way up your neck. Not that he’d ever mention it. That would require words, and Joel didn’t waste those easily.

The engine rumbled to life, and the truck eased away from the curb.

He still hadn’t told you where you were going.

You bit your lip. “So… do I get a hint? Or are we just relying on my trust in the mysterious, grumpy contractor from across the street?”

Joel’s hand shifted easily on the gearstick. “You don’t trust me?”

“I trust that you won’t murder me in the middle of nowhere,” you replied sweetly. “Mostly because Sarah would probably kill you first.”

He let out a small laugh through his nose. “She would, too.”

A pause. Then:

“You look nice,” he said again, quieter this time. Like he’d meant to say it earlier.

You didn’t look at him.

Instead, you reached forward and turned the radio dial until you landed on something soft and old—a little bit of Fleetwood Mac, probably.

And then, casually, without looking away from the road, Joel added:

“You smell good, too.”

You blinked.

Your perfume. Lemon and strawberry. The stupid little body mist you sprayed out of habit, not realizing it might ever be relevant to anyone else’s senses.

You cleared your throat. “Wow. What a gentleman. Opens doors and compliments a woman’s scent. I’m shocked you’re still single.”

Joel smirked. “You tryna fix that?”

You nearly choked on your own saliva.

“Okay,” you said, tone climbing a little. “You can’t just say stuff like that while I’m wearing mascara. There are structural risks involved.”

He glanced sideways at you, clearly biting back a smile. One hand still on the wheel, the other resting lazily on the console between you.

He didn’t answer.

You didn’t either.

Because you had no idea if he was kidding.

Or worse—what if he wasn’t?

And then—what the hell?

You blinked twice, your mouth parting just a little in confusion as he turned off the highway, the landscape shifting from suburban Texas sprawl into something greener. The kind of place where people went to fall in love or get murdered, depending on the Yelp reviews.

The truck slowed as a set of warm, ambient lights came into view—glowing in the dusk like fireflies. Twinkle lights wrapped around the fence of what appeared to be… no. No freaking way.

“Wait,” you said, narrowing your eyes at the sign, which read Mandalorian’s. Hand-painted. Pretentious in the best way. “Are you serious right now?”

Joel didn’t look at you. Just kept one hand steady on the wheel and the other resting casually on the console, as if he hadn’t just driven you to the exact Italian restaurant you’d been mentally bookmarking for weeks but never had time to visit because grading papers, parent-teacher meetings, and seventh graders in emotional crises had eaten your soul alive.

He parked the truck like it was no big deal. Just a Friday.

You twisted in your seat, staring at him, blinking.

“What the fuck?” you said, again. More force this time.

Joel looked over at you, utterly unbothered. “What?”

You narrowed your eyes. “Are you messing with me?”

He shrugged one shoulder with indifference, but the corner of his mouth was curving up like he absolutely knew what he was doing.

“I mean, I asked Sarah,” he said, all casual. “Ain’t no psychic.”

You blinked again. That little shit.

“She told you I wanted to come here?” you asked, pretending you weren’t already swooning like a moron in your stupid floral dress with the suddenly relevant boobs.

“She said—and I quote—‘If you take her anywhere except that place with the mozzarella balls, she’ll know you’re a lost cause.’”

You pressed a hand to your mouth to hide the laugh threatening to escape. Mozzarella balls. The height of class. You were a literal goddess.

You tried to get a grip. Focus. Pull it together.

“Well,” you said, turning toward the passenger-side window. “This is all extremely suspicious behavior, Mr. Miller.”

“Oh yeah?” he said, already getting out of the truck.

You watched him round the front—his silhouette outlined by the soft glow of the restaurant’s fairy lights.

When he opened your door again (rude), you stepped out and crossed your arms, trying to suppress the grin clawing at your face.

“This is giving a lot of effort,” you said, your tone suspicious. “You know that, right?”

Joel raised both brows at you. “Can’t a guy just wanna take his daughter’s teacher somewhere nice?”

You snorted. “No. No, he cannot. That’s extremely specific behavior. This is above and beyond. This is…” you gestured vaguely toward the Italian string lights and wooden planters filled with lavender. “This is date energy and I am not mentally equipped.”

Joel’s smile turned crooked. Unholy. “You overthink everythin’ this much?”

“Only when strange, rugged men from across the street start acting like Southern James Bonds,” you snapped, stepping closer to him anyway.

He leaned a little closer, too. Just slightly. “You hungry or what?”

You stared at him.

You were so hungry.

You cleared your throat. “I swear to God, Joel, if this place doesn’t serve that rosemary bread basket, I’m calling the cops.”

He opened the door for you again, this time to the restaurant. He didn’t say anything, but when his hand brushed the small of your back as you walked in—

Yeah. Okay. That wasn’t nothing.

He said his name at the entrance—“Miller, party of two”—in that steady, deep voice of his, like the whole situation wasn’t completely insane. The hostess—young, blonde, aggressively friendly in a “this is my big break” kind of way—looked up from her podium and smiled at him like he’d just proposed marriage and offered her health insurance.

You saw it. The sparkle. The dimples. The flick of her hair behind one shoulder.

Oh, honey. You wanted to pat her on the head and give her a juice box.

Instead, you reached out, placed your hand very casually on Joel’s arm. Right at the bend of his elbow. And he didn’t move. Didn’t twitch. Didn’t shift his weight to pull away. His arm stayed where it was, and he tilted his head a little toward you, like it was normal. Like it wasn’t the first time.

Take that, Blondie.

Your grip stayed gentle but firm. Just in case she needed clarity. Just in case anyone needed clarity. You smiled at her and tilted your head like someone who definitely wasn’t competing for attention, even though you absolutely were. And you were winning.

She blinked. Her smile dimmed maybe… five percent. You considered it a small, glittering victory.

“Right this way, Mr. Miller,” she said, all syrup and teeth, and you followed her into the dining area, your hand still resting lightly on his arm until the hostess noticed it then you let it drop like it meant nothing. Which it didn’t. Obviously.

Joel glanced down at you with the faintest edge of amusement.

The hostess led you to a candlelit table tucked near the window—obnoxiously romantic placement, very first date with intention—and you were about to make some sarcastic comment about it when Joel pulled your chair out for you. You blinked. Sat. He slid the chair in behind you with this quiet competence that should not have been as attractive as it was.

And then he sat across from you like he hadn’t just done that.

You picked up the menu, mostly for show. You’d already memorized half of it months ago in a fit of late-night Googling after seeing someone post about the place online.

Joel raised an eyebrow as he skimmed the menu, then looked up. “You look like you’ve already made up your mind.”

“About dinner or in general?” you asked sweetly, tilting your head.

He smiled—small, private, like it was just for you. “Dinner. But if you got somethin’ to confess, I’m listenin’.”

God, he was so confident. In that way that wasn’t loud or cocky, just… solid.

“I’m still evaluating,” you said, pretending to study the pasta section. “Lot of carbs. High risk.”

“You worried about carbs?” he asked, leaning in slightly, arms crossed on the table like he had all the time in the world.

You lowered your menu just enough to peer at him. “No, I’m worried about ending up with marinara on my white sundress and becoming that person.”

He chuckled. “You think I brought you to a place like this and wouldn’t notice if you got sauce on your dress?”

You blinked. “I—what does that even mean?”

“It means,” he said, with that infuriatingly slow drawl, “I’d probably just hand you a napkin. Or maybe switch plates with you.”

Your brain short-circuited for a second. You covered it with a sip of water.

“Okay,” you said, setting the glass down, “you need to dial it back. Just a little. You’re getting dangerously close to sounding like someone who actually likes me.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You sayin’ that’d be a bad thing?”

“I’m saying it’d be… unexpected.”

He smirked. “Guess I’m full of surprises.”

The waiter came and you both ordered—him confidently, you feigning indecision just long enough to seem casual. The bread arrived, warm and crusty, and Joel tore a piece and passed it to you first without saying anything.

And then the food came. You had the mushroom risotto, he went with the steak. You made a mental note that he didn’t order it well-done and felt an irrational sense of relief.

The conversation flowed so easily it was unnerving. You asked about Sarah—he lit up when he talked about her. Like genuinely. Not in a braggy, “look what a great dad I am” kind of way, but with real affection. You kept asking questions just to see that softness in his face.

“She likes your class, you know,” he said at one point, casually stabbing a roasted potato. “Says you actually talk to ‘em like they’re people.”

“Well,” you said, “high schoolers are technically people. I looked it up.”

He grinned. “You’re real funny. You always like this, or am I just special?”

“Oh, you’re very special,” you said dryly. “I’ve already submitted the paperwork to have a plaque made.”

He laughed under his breath and you felt something flutter in your chest, a problem you weren’t ready to admit existed.

At some point he leaned his elbow on the table and tilted his head slightly, watching you while you talked about some ridiculous thing that happened during parent-teacher conferences. You noticed the way his eyes tracked your face like he was trying to memorize it.

You pretended not to notice. But your foot accidentally brushed his under the table and you didn’t pull back.

He didn’t either.

“Y’know,” he said, lowering his voice slightly, “I thought this’d be awkward. Thought you might not wanna be here.”

You blinked. “What gave you that idea?”

“You. Bein’ all sarcastic and… defensive. Like I tricked you into it.”

You looked at him. “Did you?”

He smiled. “Little bit.”

And you smiled back.

Because of course he did. And you let him.

“Alright,” you say, dusting your fingers off delicately with your napkin. You lean back slightly in your chair and level your gaze at him with a mock-serious expression. “Favorite color?”

Joel quirks an eyebrow at you, chewing slowly. His steak knife glints slightly under the soft lights as he sets it down, and he wipes his mouth with the edge of his napkin before answering—of course he has good manners. You roll your eyes at yourself internally.

“Green,” he says finally, like it’s not a big deal, like he didn’t just give you a piece of information you’re definitely going to overanalyze later when you’re trying to fall asleep. “Dark green. Like pine trees.”

You tilt your head, immediately suspicious. “That’s a little too aesthetic to be a coincidence.”

He shrugs, smiling just a little. “What can I say? I’m a man of depth.”

“Hmm,” you hum, “So, deep pine green. Very broody forest recluse. Makes sense.”

Joel watches you for a beat, arms crossed now, half a smile playing on his face. “Lemme guess. Yours is pink.”

You freeze with your fork halfway to your mouth.

“…How did you—”

He gives you a look. “You serious?”

You narrow your eyes.

“You got pink earrings, pink nail polish, a pink keychain hangin’ off your bag, and I’m pretty sure the fence outside your house is painted bubblegum. I didn’t need to be a detective.”

You blink. “…Okay. Fine. I walked into that one.”

He leans forward, all casual confidence. “Is it the soft kinda pink, or the loud, neon, gives-you-a-headache kinda pink?”

You purse your lips, trying not to smile. “Depends on the day. I’m versatile.”

“Mm,” he says. “Makes sense.”

You point your fork at him. “Okay, your turn. Favorite food, go.”

He chuckles. “Steak.”

You glance pointedly at his plate. “Shocking.”

“What about you?”

You tilt your head thoughtfully. “Anything with cheese. Which… I realize says very little about me and also everything.”

He grins. “You lactose intolerant?”

You gasp. “What kind of monster question is that?”

Joel holds his hands up. “Hey, I’m just checkin’. Gotta know what I’m dealin’ with.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “Do I look like someone who would give up cheese for her digestive health?”

He laughs, and it’s not just a chuckle this time—it’s a full, warm, real laugh that makes something in your chest clench a little.

You reach for your wine and sip slowly, giving yourself a second. This was supposed to be harmless. Just dinner. Some gentle banter. Not… whatever this is. Not the way he watches you like he doesn’t want to miss a thing. Not the way he listens, like what you’re saying is actually interesting and not just noise.

You glance at him. “Alright. Important one. Dogs or cats?”

“Dogs,” he says immediately, with zero hesitation.

“Wow. Not even a moment of reflection.”

He shrugs. “Cats don’t like me.”

“Well,” you say, pretending to consider, “they do have excellent judgment.”

He laughs again, shaking his head. “You’re relentless.”

“I just think we should be honest with each other.”

He lifts his glass, tipping it toward you slightly. “Fair enough. What about you? Dogs or cats?”

You pause, then lean in, lowering your voice dramatically. “Both.”

His eyebrows lift. “Dangerous answer.”

“I’m a complex woman,” you say with a little shrug. “Try to keep up.”

He leans back, eyes still on you. “I’m doin’ my best.”

You look down at your half-empty plate, cheeks warm. Not from the wine.

You clear your throat, twirling your fork lazily through what’s left of the risotto. “Alright. Favorite teacher you ever had?”

Joel tilts his head, thoughtful now. “Mr. Burnham. Ninth grade shop class. Didn’t care much about grades, but he taught me how to use a table saw without losin’ a hand. Pretty solid skill.”

You nod, pleased. “Practical. Masculine. Predictable.”

“You?”

You consider. “Mrs. St. Clair. Fifth grade. Wore bright pink lipstick every single day and used to sneak butterscotch candies into our pencil boxes if we answered questions right.”

Joel smiles. “That checks out.”

You glance at him, eyebrow raised. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothin’. Just… explains the pink.”

You kick him under the table.

He doesn’t flinch.

Instead, he smirks and offers you the last piece of his garlic bread. You take it without comment.

You’re not saying it out loud, but: yeah. You’re definitely not getting over this dinner anytime soon.

You swirl the wine in your glass, watching the pale golden liquid catch the light. Your wrist moves delicately, lazily, like this isn’t the third time tonight you’ve tried to appear effortlessly composed. It’s not working. You glance up at him over the rim of your glass.

“White or red?” you ask, tilting your head, a smile playing at your lips. You’re not even sure why you’re asking anymore.

Joel shrugs as he lifts his glass—your choice, white, because you’d made some dumb comment about red staining your teeth earlier and he’d heard you, apparently. Of course he did.

“Whiskey,” he says, casually, like he’s not currently sipping white wine.

You blink. “Then… why the wine?”

His eyes meet yours across the table, and he leans back in his chair.

“‘Cause you once told Tommy that your favorite’s white,” he says simply.

You freeze.

Just for a second.

Because that was—God, when was that? One month ago? You barely even remember saying it. It was probably in passing, while you were juggling three coffee cups and trying not to yell at the copier. And Tommy—he’d been waiting for Joel in the lobby, which means…

You blink again. Your hand tightens slightly around your glass. He wasn’t even part of the conversation. He must’ve just… overheard. And remembered.

Your cheeks warm. Not blush. Definitely not. You’re just—hot. From the wine. Or the lighting. Or the very inconvenient flutter in your stomach.

You clear your throat.

“So you’re drinking something you don’t like,” you say, deadpan, “to make a point about how attentive you are.”

He shrugs again. “Not that bad. I’ve had worse.”

You raise your brows. “Wow. That’s… noble.”

He smirks, resting his forearm on the edge of the table. “Well, y’know. I do what I can.”

You shake your head and take another sip, not trusting your mouth to say anything that won’t come out flustered. The wine is cold. Your face is not.

He watches you, a little too pleased with himself. You try to ignore it.

“So,” you say after a second, casually, “what’s the last book you read?”

Joel pauses, mouth twitching like he’s trying not to laugh. “That feels like a trap.”

You blink at him, all faux innocence. “Why would it be a trap?”

“‘Cause if I say I don’t read, you’re gonna give me that look.”

“What look?”

He gestures at your face with his glass. “That one. The disappointed teacher thing. I’ve seen it.”

You gasp—offended. “I do not—”

“You absolutely do.”

“I have a resting literacy face, that’s different.”

He chuckles. “Alright. You wanna know the truth?”

You narrow your eyes. “Is it something deeply embarrassing? Please say yes.”

“I read The Grapes of Wrath again.”

Your jaw drops. “Again?”

“I like Steinbeck,” he says, very calmly, like he hasn’t just destroyed every half-formed theory you had about him being a stereotypical Southern dad who only owns one book and it’s a car manual.

You stare. “Are you trying to be good at everything, or is it just happening organically?”

He leans back, smug. “I just show up.”

You shoot him a look, but you’re smiling, your teeth catching your lip for a second.

The rest of the restaurant seems to blur a little around you. It’s loud, but not intrusive. Like everything’s happening just a little slower than usual, like there’s some kind of invisible spotlight on this exact table, on his stupid charming face and your rapidly declining ability to hold your own.

He reaches for the bottle of wine, and you notice—his hand brushes against yours as he lifts it, not on purpose, probably. Maybe. The back of your hand is warm now too. Great.

You watch him refill your glass without asking.

“Do you always pay this much attention to what people say when they’re not talking to you?” you ask, trying to sound casual. Your tone veers sarcastic, which is safer. “Or is it just when I’m around?”

He sets the bottle down carefully. Doesn’t look up right away.

“I remember things,” he says, finally. Then he looks at you.

And—you hate how that lands. You hate how it makes your stomach do that dumb swoopy thing and how you immediately want to ask what else he remembers. What other tiny little comments you’ve thrown into the ether thinking no one gave a damn.

You press your lips together.

“Well,” you say, flippantly, “I hope you don’t remember everything. Some of my best lines are meant to be forgotten.”

His smile deepens. “Too bad. I got a good memory.”

And you just—nod. Because what else are you supposed to do with that?

You sip the wine.

You’d eaten. You’d drunk. You’d talked about everything from the ridiculous to the surprisingly personal. You had very strong opinions about standardized testing in public schools—he somehow had even stronger ones—and somewhere between the fourth glass of wine and the twenty-third sarcastic comment, the conversation had stopped being an effort.

Which, frankly, you hadn’t decided was a good thing yet.

He was still Joel Miller. And you were still… not entirely sure what the hell you were doing out with him.

But he’d asked questions. Listened. Made actual eye contact like a person raised by real human parents. And now you were sitting back against the plush velvet booth, full and slightly tipsy, not quite regretting the amount you’d said.

The check arrived in one of those little black leather folios. You reached for your bag, completely on instinct, and—

Joel looked at you.

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t raise an eyebrow or shake his head. He just looked at you like you’d personally insulted his bloodline.

“What?” you asked, blinking at him.

“Do I look like the kind of guy who’d let you pay?” he asked, already pulling his wallet from his back pocket with zero hesitation. The way his fingers moved it was like this entire evening had been budgeted three months ago.

You froze mid-motion, your hand still inside your purse. “I mean—no—but maybe I am the kind of woman who doesn’t enjoy being assumed helpless?”

“‘S not about that,” he said, unfolding a few bills. “It’s about me bein’ raised right.”

You narrowed your eyes, but he wasn’t even looking at you anymore—he was glancing down at the bill, signing the receipt with smooth, easy strokes like someone who does not, and has never, needed to check his bank account before a date. The check wasn’t small. You had eyes. You saw the wine list. He didn’t even flinch.

You blinked again.

“Okay, now you’re just showing off,” you muttered, folding your arms.

Joel glanced at you, all innocence. “What’d I do?”

“You’re paying for the whole thing and being annoyingly graceful about it. Where’s the part where you pretend to hesitate so I feel less like a sugar baby?”

He laughed under his breath. “Would you rather I let you Venmo me half and send a winky face after?”

You made a face. “God, no. What kind of men are you modeling this behavior off of?”

He smirked. “College-aged ones, apparently.”

“Rude.”

“Accurate.”

You shook your head and leaned back, your eyes drifting toward the window while he tucked the receipt away.

Joel stood up slowly and stepped around the table, offering you his hand without a word. You hesitated—again, on instinct—but took it. And okay. His hand was warm. Strong. He didn’t let go until you were fully standing.

Your stomach fluttered again.

“Seriously,” you said as he held the door open for you, “you didn’t have to do all that.”

“Maybe not,” he said. “But I wanted to.”

And you had no clever comeback for that.

You walked side by side toward the truck, your heels clicking softly against the pavement, your head a little lighter than it had been at the start of the night.

He opened the passenger door for you, because of course he did. And helped you in with a hand at your waist, because of course he did.

The next thing you knew, you were pulling up in front of your house. Joel shifted into park and then hopped out of the truck before you could even unbuckle your seatbelt.

By the time you opened your door, he was already there, opening it for you. You blinked at him, but took the cue, stepping down onto the curb as gracefully as your heels would allow. His hand hovered at your lower back again—not touching, just… almost. As if he was holding himself back on purpose.

Which, frankly, was rude.

You turned to him, smoothing your dress and your tone. “Thanks,” you said with a small smile, voice soft, polite. “I had a really nice time tonight.”

Joel looked at you like that was the only sentence he needed to hear. His mouth tugged into a slow, warm smile—not that smirky, teasing one he’d been throwing at you earlier, but something gentler.

“I’m glad,” he said, and he meant it. Completely. Acting like it genuinely mattered to him whether you’d enjoyed yourself or not.

You swallowed.

Goddamn it.

For a second, neither of you said anything. You were standing just off your front walkway, two feet from your door, and across the street you could see the porch light still on in his house.

He glanced at your door, then back at you. “You sure you don’t want me to walk you up?”

You gave him a look. “Joel, I can literally see my porch from here.”

He shrugged. “Still.”

“I’m not gonna get ambushed by a raccoon between the sidewalk and my doormat. This is Texas, not Gotham.”

He laughed—soft and surprised. “You always this dramatic about thank-you walks?”

You tilted your head. “Only when a man insists on escorting me twelve feet because he thinks I might trip over a leaf and sue him.”

He grinned, clearly delighted by your sarcasm, and—of course—started walking with you anyway.

You made it to your front steps in silence. The air was warm but breezy, your porch light humming faintly behind you. You turned to face him, meaning to say something light, maybe a joke, maybe a “well, this was fun,” but he was already watching you.

Really watching.

And not in a creepy way. More like… he was memorizing. The way your hair had started to curl around your face, the way your lip gloss had mostly worn off but left that soft pink sheen behind, the exact tilt of your head when you got a little defensive but secretly liked the attention.

You cleared your throat. “Well. Good night, Joel.”

His smile went crooked. “Night.”

You should’ve gone inside.

You meant to go inside.

Instead, you stood there, your hand on the railing, your brain not exactly brain-ing. Joel’s eyes dropped to your lips—barely—and then back up. He leaned in, making absolutely sure you could stop him if you wanted to.

You didn’t.

The kiss was warm. Familiar in a way that felt ridiculous, like your mouth had been waiting for his, which—okay, gross, who even thinks that? You should’ve hated that. You didn’t. His hand came up to the side of your face for a second, thumb brushing behind your ear, and your knees did something very stupid.

You pulled away first, just slightly. Enough to look at him and still pretend like you were composed.

“You’re really laying it on thick tonight, huh?”

Joel smiled against your cheek, just there. “You’re worth it.”

Your stomach did a thing you refused to acknowledge.

You stepped back half a step and fumbled for your keys. “Good night, neighbor.”

He chuckled. “See you tomorrow.”

He walked down the steps, heading back across the street, toward home. You didn’t look. You waited until you heard his footsteps fade before you let out a slow breath and opened your front door.

And then you stood there, wondering what the hell just happened.

[intrepidacious]

fluffy drabble request: going to a winter market with steve? 🥺

keep me warm

pairing: steve rogers x f!reader

word count: 476

warnings: wintery fluff and nothing else 💛 please note that my blog is rated 18+. minors dni. ageless/empty blogs will be blocked without warning.

a/n: i literally just went to my first market of the season earlier today and absolutely loved it 💛 also i listened to keep warm by drew sarich a lot while writing this

—

"You didn’t tell me there was a ferris wheel!"

Steve smiles to himself as you tug on his arm again, urging him along towards the far side of the market. The cold air smells like sugar and cinnamon, and a pleasant hum of chatter surrounds the two of you as you pass through the maze of stands.

"I thought you’re just here for the food," he reminds you and you tut at him.

"That’s because you didn’t tell me there was a ferris wheel." You crane your neck. "D’you reckon that’s the line?"

He follows your line of sight past the booths selling scented candles and mulled wine. "I think that’s for those crêpes on the right."

"Perfect."

Immediately, you pick up your pace. Steve just manages to catch your hand in his before you run off and he loses you in the crowd. Your fingers interlace with his automatically, and even though you’ve done it hundreds of times before, it never fails to make a wave of fondness wash through his chest.

"You want to go right now, don’t you?"

"Pleeease," you grin. "You can choose the next thing."

"They haven’t even turned all the lights on yet," he argues half-heartedly. He’s not actually about to deny you when you’re this excited, no matter how he’s planned out this evening in his head.

"We’ll just have to go for another round later," you reply with your most innocent face, and he rolls his eyes fondly.

You pass a child eating a hash brown the size of their head who’s looking at Steve with wide eyes. He tucks his hat down a little, giving the kid a wink.

"Oh, that’s how it is?" he says as you round the corner, the actual queue for the ride coming into view.

"Yes," you tell him happily. "Well, if they let me back on. I still fully intend to eat my weight in funnel cake and potatoes."

"I expect nothing less." He leans closer to your ear as you’re walking, adding, "And I’m not above using my cap card if it means we’ll get to see the lights."

"See, this is one of the reasons I love you," you say, squeezing his hand as you settle into the line.

Honest to god, Steve’s never going to get sick of hearing you say those words. That little felt box is burning a hole into his pocket. Patience, he tells himself. Don’t just blurt it out.

And then you lean back against his chest as you wait, pressing a kiss to the palm of his hand, and Steve … well, Steve doesn’t think he’s ever been this perfectly content before in his life. So if he maybe whispers his question a couple of hours earlier than he’d planned, his arms wrapped around you to keep you warm, well, who could blame him?

[adaginy]

The Big Guide to Humans: Home Planet

Humans come from a small, rocky planet, called Terra or Earth or some other translation of "dirt," where they lived on the land surface despite the planet being mostly covered (area and volume) by water. They do, however, measure temperature in a scale based approximately on the freezing and boiling points of water (at their average atmospheric pressure), set to 0 and 100. As with "years" (see lifespan and development), your local human can probably tell you the conversion to local measurements, if the knowledge is not in your local storage and the numbers are not being converted automatically by your translation dock. The planet's rotational axis is tilted relative to its orbital plane, resulting in "seasons," a predictable progression of local temperatures between local lows to local highs and back over the course of an orbit, despite its nearly round trajectory. This is in addition to the smaller temperature changes of the day/night cycle. Terran weather temperatures range from -90, below the freezing point of radon, to 60, nearly the boiling point of bromine, though humans mostly live where the weather over the course of a year ranges between -20 to 45.

Humans infamously breathe oxygen, but Terra's atmosphere is actually mostly nitrogen. The 23% oxygen concentration is enough for fires to sustain easily, assuming fuel and initial ignition, but low enough that fires smother nearly immediately when fully covered. Terra's rotation and heat from Sol combine to cause a predictable pattern of convection known as prevailing winds. Winds are often strong enough to move light objects without causing damage, not uncommonly strong enough to make it difficult for humans to move against it, or stronger, and sometimes strong enough to cause damage to buildings. This is in addition to regional threats of "extreme" winds, most notably tornadoes (fast-moving, localized funnels of winds strong enough rip buildings apart and fling heavy objects) and cyclones (weaker than a tornado, but traveling slowly and raining so copiously that shelters are also damaged by water).

Having such copious rain that buildings are damaged can happen outside of a cyclone, as well. While humans can swim surprisingly well for a non-liquid-dwelling species, this water has usually picked up so many contaminants that it is capable of overwhelming a human's immune system if it enters their body via their mouth or damaged skin.

Alternately, little or no water may fall on an area that does not usually experience water scarcity. The resulting "drought" kills plants and animals that cannot be moved. This is less predictable, but takes multiple years to come into effect. A vegetated area facing drought, however, is at particular risk for a wild fire, a fire that becomes too large and fast-moving to be smothered. Areas as big as residential ships can burned before the fire runs out of fuel or is able to be drenched.

Terra's planetary surface is made up of several pieces of "crust" floating on top of its liquid center. At the edges of these pieces, or at cracks in the pieces, huge pieces of crust can be forced upward or buckle under the pressure. Done slowly, so slowly no one notices, this produces mountains. Done quickly, it produces "earth quakes." Some earth quakes can only be sensed by sensors, but others cause buildings to shake apart. Humans know where these edges are and, instead of not building there, they design buildings that are able to resist being shaken. If the locus of the shaking is near or under the ocean, it can cause a fast-moving, towering wave called a "tsunami." An average tsunami is capable of obliterating buildings when it reaches shore, and then sucking any survivors into the ocean when it recedes (with strength far past even the best human swimmers). As with earth quakes, humans design buildings to survive being struck by this wall of water. The same edges and cracks also produce volcanoes, places where the earth's liquid center oozes or bursts out of the ground. This liquid will be at temperatures of 700 or more, above the melting temperature of radium and on past the the melting temperature of gold. It can cause fires when it touches things in addition to being so heavy and/or voluminous that it covers items in its path. Humans generally do not build very close to volcanoes that are frequently or explosively active. However, if a volcano is only likely to erupt once or twice within a human lifespan, or tends to ooze rather than burst, they will simply use several sensors to know when it will happen so they can get out of the way. Because they all originate in the same geological source, it is common to have two of these crack-based issues at once and not unusual to have all three.

Sometimes, rain falls in tiny frozen pieces, covering the ground in a layer of ice chips. Sometimes it falls in large rocks of ice, breaking and shattering what it strikes. Sometimes the temperature is anomalously hot or cold in places where the wildlife and human dwellings are not adapted to those temperatures. Sometimes massive sparks of electricity shoot from the sky to the ground. Sometimes the side of a mountain — or the ice chips piled on the side of the mountain — will fall off and slide down, burying and crushing everything in the way. Sometimes erosion under the surface will cause the surface to give way, leaving a hole in the ground big enough to swallow a person or a building. Sometimes the liquid inside Terra doesn't burst through the surface, but super-heats water until it does. While none of these features are unique to Terra, even among inhabited planets, it is uncommon for an inhabited planet to have so many of these features and it is nearly unique among humans to choose to live in afflicted areas. It can be helpful to understand, when one is wondering why humans and other life from their planet are "like that," that life only evolved on Terra once* and then experienced a burst of population up to and beyond local carrying capacities. Every species, including the plants, shares a common ancestor, and every creature that was ever born (hatched, sprouted, divided, etc) faced immediate competition from other, similar creatures. The ability to run faster, eat weirder, live hardier, spread farther provided an immediate benefit. Furthermore, in addition to the horrors described in this chapter of this guide, in Terra's planetary history there are multiple near-extinction-level events — new chemosynthetic species producing upheavals in the atmospheric gas balance, an asteroid strike, massive volcanic eruptions choking the air with ash and blocking energy from Sol — that further pressed evolution. Terra, truly, has earned its reputation as a death world — but less so for the life that has formed there.

*there is a long-standing idea that cephalopods may have originated separately, but this is really only taken seriously by the Chiparsen, who used to colonize via panspermia. While the Unified Government no longer accepts this as a valid territorial claim, the Chiparsen still hope to prove relation in order to put forth a diplomatic demand that Terrans remove cephalopods from their diet.

[eunseoksimp]

is there going to be a part two of west coast 🥲🥲🥲 i need them to finally get together or reader to move on and wonbin realize what he lost

after months of deleting and rewriting and an absurd amount of overthinking, part 2 is finally here. i love this fic so much and i’m glad you guys enjoyed part one, here’s to hoping you enjoy this too :)

p.s this is now a three part series because this part was way longer than i expected it to be

Pairings: Lead Singer!Park Wonbin x Bass Guitarist!Reader

Genre: Angst, Songfic

Description: falling for park wonbin was inevitable—like chasing a song you’ll never finish. he’s magnetic under stage lights and even more dangerous when they dim, leaving behind glances that linger too long and touches that feel too much like promises. you told yourself that night meant nothing, but some things don’t stay buried. now, every song you write feels like him, and you’re not sure how much longer you can pretend otherwise.

Warnings: alcohol consumption (again), gut wrenching heartbreak (you have been warned), a tension filled kiss, wc is somehow 24k.

read part 1 here

. ݁ ˖ ࣪ . ⋆ * .♡ *:･ﾟ. ݁ ˖ ࣪ . ⋆ * .♡ *:･ﾟ. ݁ ˖ ࣪ .

the final show of the tour should’ve been electric—alive with the roar of thousands, the kind of rush that settled deep in your bones and lingered long after the last note faded. the crowd’s energy surged forward in waves, pulsing beneath the weight of the stage lights, each scream carving itself into the air like static desperate to cling to something solid. 

but tonight, it felt distant, hollow in a way that no amount of sound could fill—like trying to chase the echo of a song that no longer belonged to you.

your fingers flexed around the neck of your guitar, the strap digging faintly into your shoulder, but even the familiar weight felt wrong—too heavy, too much, yet not enough all at once. every movement was automatic, drawn from muscle memory you couldn’t shake, but there was no spark beneath it.

 not when he was there, standing just feet away, the bright stage lights catching in the tousled strands of his hair, painting him in hues of gold that felt blinding and unreachable.

park wonbin.

even in the middle of a stage, with thousands of eyes on him, he made it seem like the whole world had narrowed to fit the edges of his silhouette. his head dipped low, fingers curling around the mic stand as the rough edge of his voice slipped into the air, wrapping around the crowd and pulling them under as easily as breathing. 

every note felt deliberate, the kind of performance that left no room for hesitation, and you hated the way your eyes traced the lines of his frame as if tethered there, unable to look away.

wonbin stood at the very edge of the stage, the crowd stretching endlessly before him, but it felt as if the entire room funneled into that single point—him. 

the mic dangled carelessly in one hand, his fingers curling around the metal with the same ease he wore in everything he did. his other hand raked through the damp strands of his hair, pushing it back just enough for the stage lights to catch along the sharp curve of his jaw, painting him in fragments of silver and gold. 

he looked untouchable—impossibly perfect, as if he existed just a breath outside of reality, shimmering at the edges like something your mind could only conjure at night, in dreams you wished you didn’t have.

his smile was a weapon—bladed and bright, slicing through the thick air and leaving a trail of casualties in its wake. you could see it in the way the crowd responded, how the front row leaned in just a little closer, how the sound of screaming filled every hollow part of the room. it shouldn’t have reached you, shouldn’t have cut so deep, but it did and you felt it settle somewhere beneath your ribs, sinking into the fragile parts of you that you’d thought were buried beneath layers of stage lights and sound.

this was the man you’d written everything for—the melodies, the lyrics that spilled from your hands late at night when sleep felt too far away. the chords you’d strummed until your fingertips were raw, hoping the weight of your heart might somehow carry across the strings. you had poured yourself into each note, crafting the very shape of him through the songs you bled onto paper, driven by a love that tangled itself so deeply into your music that it felt inseparable from who you were.

but he hadn’t seen it.

not the way you saw him.

wonbin existed just beyond reach, lingering at the edges of every song, every glance that held for too long in the quiet spaces between rehearsals. and when you had dared to close the distance—to lay your heart bare in a way that felt terrifying and inevitable all at once—he hadn’t crushed it with words or sharp rejection. no, that would’ve been easier.

instead, he’d met you with the kind of indifference that left deeper scars. it wasn’t cruelty. it wasn’t malice. it was worse.

because he didn’t know.

he hadn’t seen the depth of the wound he left behind, hadn’t realized the songs he sang now—so effortlessly, so obliviously—had been born from that ache. and as his voice spilled into the air, filling the space between you, it felt like he was singing those songs back to you.

but not for you. never for you.

this was the song.

the one you had written for him—about him—in the stillness of the night when the only sound was the soft hum of the tour bus and the ache in your chest you couldn’t put into words any other way. it wasn’t just a song, it was your confession, your breaking point, every jagged piece of your heart laid bare in the form of melody and chords.

wonbin stepped forward, mic in hand, and smiled faintly, his voice warm as it washed over the crowd.

 "this one’s special, written by our incredibly talented guitarist and our very own goddess of words—give it up for her."

the audience roared, their applause crashing like waves, but the sound barely registered. the stage lights felt too bright, bearing down on you as if they knew too much, as if they could see straight through the cracks you were trying so hard to hold together. you gave a small nod, barely enough to acknowledge the cheers, but your throat tightened when your fingers hovered over the strings.

your hands trembled, just faintly, as you picked the first few notes, the soft, aching melody stretching out over the venue like a secret you hadn’t meant to tell.

the crowd swayed, lights flickering softly like fireflies in the dark, but the only thing you could focus on was him—the way his head dipped slightly, the microphone close to his lips as he sang the opening verse.

and then it was your turn.

your voice slipped in beneath his, weaving through the melody like a breath you couldn’t hold back, soft and fleeting but impossibly intimate. it threaded through his effortlessly, your harmonies clinging to his in ways that felt too heavy, too raw. every word felt like reopening an old wound, pressing into the places you thought had long since scarred over.

his gaze stayed locked on the crowd, his eyes reflecting the sea of faces that stretched endlessly beneath the glow of the stage lights—hungry for him, devoted to him. you hated the ease with which he held them, how effortlessly he poured himself into their open hands like sunlight spilling through cracks, leaving nothing untouched. 

wonbin was a force—bright, untouchable, impossible to contain—and you felt like one of the thousands standing beneath him, trapped in his orbit but forever out of reach.

you strummed the final note, letting it hang in the air, suspended and bittersweet like a breath you didn’t want to release. for a fleeting second, the room seemed to pause with it, as if the sound could tether you there a moment longer, but the illusion shattered beneath the eruption of applause.

the crowd swallowed everything, their cheers crashed against the stage, drowning out the fragile rhythm of your heart still echoing in your ears.

wonbin grinned, flashing it out across the room like a weapon, and they ate it up—falling apart beneath the weight of his smile, their voices rising higher, feeding into the glow that surrounded him. he basked in it, soaking in their adoration like he belonged there, while you stood half a step behind, your guitar slung low and heavy in your hands. the strap dug faintly into your shoulder, but the weight pressing against your chest felt far worse.

you didn’t feel like you belonged here anymore. your stage, your music, only served of a reminder of him, of the pain it caused you.

the realization settled uncomfortably beneath your skin, tightening around you as the set barreled toward its inevitable end.

rhe closing anthem roared to life—loud and blistering, the kind of song that lit the crowd on fire, shaking the foundation beneath their feet. wonbin leaned into the mic, his voice molten with charisma, the kind that made hearts leap and arms reach toward the stage like he was something divine, just barely within their grasp.

"thank you for an unforgettable tour," he called out, his grin widening as the noise swelled impossibly louder. "we love you!"

and they loved him—loved him so loudly it felt as if the stage itself could barely contain it.

the cheers were deafening backstage, a chaotic symphony of laughter, clinking glasses, and the low hum of exhaustion masked by the adrenaline of finishing a tour. bottles of champagne popped open like firecrackers, sending golden arcs of champagne cascading through the air, dripping off fingertips and pooling in half-empty glasses as your bandmates whooped loud enough to shake the ceiling. 

it was the kind of scene that was supposed to feel triumphant, the culmination of months of hard work, sleepless nights, and endless miles on the road. but you couldn’t bring yourself to celebrate. the celebration drifted around you, filling the spaces you didn’t occupy.

you sat perched on the armrest of a worn-out couch in the corner of the room, your guitar resting against your thigh, the familiar weight grounding you even as the world spun around you. the energy in the room was infectious, but it didn’t reach you.it couldn’t.

 not when he was standing there, oblivious to the way his mere existence unraveled you, threaded into the heart of it all, like the entire room had shifted to revolve around him.

wonbin was at the center of it all, as he always was. his easy laugh cut through the noise, rich and melodic, the kind of laugh that made people gravitate toward him without even realizing it. he had a drink in one hand, the other slung lazily around the shoulder of the waitress from earlier. the one who’d been lingering at the edge of the stage, her eyes glued to him like so many others.

she clung to him now, her fingers curling possessively around his arm, her smile bright and adoring as she looked up at him. he didn’t seem to mind. in fact, he leaned into her touch, his posture relaxed, his face a picture of effortless charm.

the sight of it twisted something sharp and unwelcome inside you, settling heavily in the hollow of your chest like stones sinking into water, squeezing the air from your lungs.

you tore your gaze away, eyes dropping to the scuffed floorboards as if their worn, splintered surface might offer some kind of refuge. but it didn’t. the image of them—wonbin and the girl—was already burned there, seared into the backs of your eyelids like an unwanted tattoo, impossible to scrub away.

the weight of it lingered, gnawing at the fragile edges of your composure, until a familiar voice cut through the fog.

“hey, you good?”

yunjin’s tone was soft, but there was a sharpness beneath it—the kind of sharpness that saw too much. she dropped down beside you with the kind of casual ease only she could manage, her dress rumpled slightly from the night, cheeks still faintly flushed from the heat of the stage lights and the champagne. 

but her eyes—clear and steady—searched your face with quiet precision, narrowing faintly when you hesitated a beat too long.

“yeah,” you said, the lie slipping from your lips before you had time to soften it. you forced a smile, tugging the corners of your mouth upward until it felt tight, stretched thin enough to break. 

“just tired.”

her gaze lingered, weighing the answer as if she could peel back the surface of it with nothing more than silence. she didn’t believe you, not entirely, but she didn’t press.

instead, she nudged your shoulder lightly with hers, a small gesture that somehow felt grounding, her voice dipping low—soft enough that it barely carried over the thrum of conversation filling the room.

“it’s okay to let loose, you know,” she whispered, her tone light but edged with the kind of quiet sincerity that made your throat tighten. 

“we made it. the tour’s over, and we killed it.”

you nodded once, grateful for the attempt, but the words felt hollow—empty, like an echo swallowed by too much space.

across the room, hongjoong’s laughter rang out, bright and unrestrained as he draped an arm over gunil’s shoulders, both of them swaying slightly as they stumbled toward the makeshift bar.

“to the best damn tour we’ve ever done!” hongjoong shouted, lifting his glass high above his head in a triumphant toast.

 the declaration earned a loud chorus of cheers and whistles, someone banging a fist against the table in agreement as the bottles clinked together in celebration.

the energy swelled around you, infectious and warm, but it slipped right past you—like standing outside in the cold, watching a fire through the glass but never stepping inside.

and even as you smiled faintly, nodding along to yunjin’s words, your heart remained fixed elsewhere—still lingering in the shadow of someone who didn’t even know you were waiting there.

wonbin’s voice rose above the noise, effortless and warm, and somehow it carried more weight than the rest—cut through everything, even when you wished it wouldn’t. his laugh followed, low and rich, spreading through the room like wildfire, igniting smiles and drawing every eye toward him as if he was the very center of the world.

and maybe he was.

the waitress at his side laughed too, tipping her head back in that familiar way—the one you’d seen a hundred times from countless girls in countless cities. she leaned into him, her arm brushing against his, and the sight of it made your stomach twist violently, like something fragile inside you was curling in on itself, recoiling from the scene playing out just a few feet away.

you couldn’t look.

you couldn’t not look.

the knot in your chest coiled tighter, pulling so sharply it felt like it might snap if you stayed here any longer. the room shrank around you, the air growing thick and suffocating with each passing second, pressing in until the walls felt too close—until everything felt too loud.

every laugh grated against you, scraping raw against nerves already frayed at the edges, the clinking glasses and echoing cheers rang hollow, amplifying the ache beneath your skin, deepening the storm that had been quietly brewing in the pit of your stomach since the show ended.

your hand slipped to the guitar resting against your thigh, fingers grazing lightly over the strings, desperate for the familiar feeling beneath your touch. it grounded you, offered something steady in the middle of all the chaos. it didn’t hurt. it was the only thing that didn’t.

“hey rockstar, you’re way too quiet for someone who just killed that stage.”

minjeong’s voice cut gently through the haze, her hand finding your arm, warm and steady—a tether pulling you back down to earth. her eyes were soft, concerned but not prying, and for a moment you wanted to lean into that warmth, let her pull you from the edge.

“come on,” she added, giving your arm the faintest squeeze. “let’s get you a drink.”

“i’m not sure if i—“

“come on, one drink won’t hurt—“

“i’m fine,” you answered, but the words came too sharp, cutting the space between you like glass.

her hand slipped away, leaving behind a cold, hollow trace where her warmth had been, and guilt flared instantly beneath your ribs. you opened your mouth to apologize, but the words wouldn’t come—not when your throat was already too tight, not when it felt like the moment you spoke, everything might shatter around you.

instead, you rose abruptly, the movement sudden and graceless, pulling a few wandering glances from across the room. wonbin’s eyes never strayed from the girl beside him, but somehow that made it worse.

the noise—their laughter, his laughter—stretched thin, brittle against the edges of your mind until you couldn’t bear it any longer.

“i just need some air,” you mumbled to the two girls, the excuse barely audible as you slipped past minjeong, past the bodies filling the room, desperate to escape before the weight of it all swallowed you whole.

you didn’t stop until the door closed softly behind you, sealing the noise inside like a distant memory.

the hallway was a sanctuary of silence, the muffled echoes of laughter and celebration dissolving into the background like distant thunder. you leaned heavily against the cold concrete wall, letting it press into your spine, sharp and grounding. 

your palms slid up to your face, fingertips dragging along your skin as if the simple act of touch could smother the ache blooming relentlessly beneath your ribs. the chill bit into you, seeping through your fingers, but it wasn’t enough—not against the weight that had settled deep in your chest, heavy and unmoving.

he didn’t know.

not about the songs—the ones you’d written when sleep felt like an impossible thing, when the darkness outside the tour bus windows felt too heavy to bear alone. every lyric had been carved from the raw, unrelenting ache that he had unknowingly left behind, each melody a confession too fragile to say out loud. the words had poured out of you like blood, as if spilling them onto paper might ease the burn lodged beneath your skin. 

but none of it reached him.

not the sleepless nights. not the way your gaze clung to him on stage tonight, silently pleading for his eyes to meet yours, only to watch him look past you—through you and at the crowd. as if you weren’t there. as if you’d never been there at all.

your arms folded tightly across your chest, knuckles pressing against your ribs like that could hold the storm inside at bay, but the tremble had already started—deep and uncontrollable, unraveling you thread by thread. the cold wall against your back was solid, grounding in theory, but it did nothing to steady the shaking that crept beneath your skin.

the faint hum of celebration seeped through the door behind you, distant but persistent, bleeding into the quiet that wrapped around you like a shroud. the contrast felt unbearable—they were celebrating but you were breaking.

his voice echoed in fragments, replaying uninvited in your mind as he came to a stop next to you as the group exited the stage.

you were great tonight.

it should have been enough. hearing it from him, feeling the brief flicker of his attention—it should have been enough. but the hollowness in his tone, the effortless way he’d said it, twisted something sharp and unforgiving inside you.

he didn’t know. he didn’t feel it. not any of it.

the realization sliced through the haze like cold steel, quick and merciless, knocking the breath from your lungs. your fists curled at your sides, nails biting into your palms—deep enough to sting but not deep enough to drown out the ache curling tighter in your chest.

the air felt colder now, slipping down the corridor and winding around your body, tugging at the hem of your jacket, curling against the bare skin of your neck. it stung, but the cold was nothing compared to the raw, gnawing emptiness clawing at you from the inside, threatening to spill over if you stayed here too long.

and then, the door creaked behind you, soft footsteps breaking the fragile stillness, echoing faintly against the floor.

you didn’t look up, every part of you silently willing it to be someone else—anyone else, but you already knew. you felt him before he spoke.

wonbin.

his presence lingered just behind you, heavy and unmistakable, and even without seeing him, you could feel the weight of his eyes trailing over you, searching for something you weren’t sure you could give.

“you’ve been doing this a lot lately.”

his voice was low, just barely cutting through the quiet, like he was afraid to shatter the fragile stillness that hung between you. the weight of his words curled around the empty space, soft but certain, and something inside you twisted painfully at the sound.

your stomach flipped, and you swallowed hard, willing the sudden tightness in your throat to ease as you dragged your gaze up to meet his.

wonbin stood a few steps away, hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets, his head tilted slightly as he watched you. his hair, still damp from the stage lights, hung in loose, uneven strands over his forehead, the kind of careless perfection that felt maddeningly effortless. the soft glow from the hallway lights caught along the edge of his jaw, tracing his profile in faint gold, making him look more like a daydream than someone standing right in front of you.

his face was unreadable, calm in a way that felt impossible for the moment unraveling between you. but his eyes—those eyes—they didn’t waver. they stayed locked on you, steady and searching, as if he was peeling back every layer of silence and holding each fragile piece up to the light.

“doing what?” the words scraped against the walls of your throat, but you managed to keep your voice level, even though your heart hammered violently beneath your ribs.

“disappearing.”

he stepped forward, slow and deliberate, his movements careful—like he was approaching something fragile, something that might break if he got too close.

“you vanish right when everyone’s celebrating.” his gaze didn’t leave you, and the way he said it felt heavier than it should’ve. “it’s the last show, and you’re... here.”

“i needed some air.”

it came out clipped, harsher than you intended, as you shifted your focus to the floor, eyes trailing over the scuffed lines along the concrete. anywhere but him.

wonbin repeated the word under his breath, almost like he was trying it out for the first time, as if the concept itself was strange to him. the disbelief in his tone was faint, but it still brushed against you like an accusation.

a long pause stretched between you, thick and suffocating, until the weight of it pressed hard against your chest.

“you feeling okay?”

the question should have been simple, casual, even, but it wasn’t. it hit with the force of something heavier—something that cracked through the delicate balance you’d been desperately holding together since the show ended.

you forced a laugh, light and brittle, hoping it would break the tension. but it didn’t. it only made the ache sharpen, coiling deeper beneath your skin.

“i’m fine.”

“...you don’t seem fine.”

his voice softened, and damn him for that—for the quiet way his concern slipped into the space between you, for the way it made you want to crumble right there and let it all spill out at his feet, like it always did.

“what do you want me to say, wonbin?”

the words snapped out of you, harsher than you meant, but you couldn’t pull them back. they tore through the silence before you could stop them, unraveling like frayed edges you’d tried so hard to keep tucked away.

“that I’m tired? that i’ve got a headache and would like to go home? would that satisfy your curiosity”

his brows furrowed, and for a moment, he just stood there, letting the silence stretch between you—not reacting, not recoiling, just looking at you. his eyes softened slightly, but the weight of his gaze didn’t lift. it pressed harder, as if he was turning your words over in his mind, trying to decide what to do with them.

“no,” he said quietly, his voice dropping lower. 

“i just wanted to know that you were doing okay. that nothing was bothering you.”

you bit down on the inside of your cheek, hard enough that you tasted copper, hoping the sharpness of it would ground you—hoping it would keep the tears pricking at the edges of your vision from spilling over.

the silence after that felt heavier, stretching long enough to become unbearable, long enough for the ache in your chest to morph into something suffocating.

“you should go back.”

the words barely made it past your lips, forced through clenched teeth like glass, cutting on the way out.

“everyone’s waiting for you, the star of the show”

wonbin didn’t move, barely reacting to what you said. instead  he stayed where he was, his head tilting slightly, but his eyes never left yours.

“and you?”

you couldn’t answer.

the words dissolved on your tongue, swallowed by the storm tangled inside your chest—the love, the pain, the unbearable weight of everything you hadn’t said, all crashing and colliding like waves threatening to pull you under. the silence stretched, taut and unrelenting, pressing hard against your ribs until you thought you might drown in it.

so you did the only thing you could. you shook your head, turning away before the crack in your composure betrayed you. the movement felt stiff, like each muscle resisted the urge to stay, to let him see the fractures spreading beneath the surface. but you couldn’t—you wouldn’t.

wonbin lingered, his presence anchoring the space behind you. you could hear it—the soft rhythm of his breathing, uneven and quiet, weaving into the faint hum of celebration filtering through the door. the distant echoes of laughter and glass didn’t reach him, didn’t touch this fragile moment suspended between you.

for a second, you thought he might say something else—something that could undo everything, something that could slip beneath the walls you’d spent months fortifying. the air felt too thick, as if the weight of whatever was left unsaid could break apart the fragile stillness hanging between you.

“you were great tonight. if anyone’s the star of the show it’s you.”

and then he turned, the slow fall of his footsteps fading into the distance, each one pulling him further away until the hallway emptied and the weight of his absence settled hard against your chest.

you exhaled sharply, the breath leaving your lungs in a trembling rush, but the cold air did nothing to ease the ache burrowed deep beneath your ribs. it filled you instead, stretching wide and endless, hollow in all the ways that hurt the most.

your hands trembled, slipping down to press against your thighs, fingers curling into the fabric of your dress until your nails dug sharply into the material. the sting grounded you—barely—but it wasn’t enough to pull you back from the edges of the unraveling.

the hallway seemed smaller now, the shadows creeping in at the corners, the walls pressing closer as if they might collapse under the weight of everything you couldn’t bring yourself to say.

you leaned back against the wall, the rough texture scraping faintly against your skin, and let out a breathless laugh—brittle and sharp, but too hollow to hold any real amusement. it barely passed for anything other than the shape of a sob, thin and cracking apart at the edges before it faded entirely.

the ache in your chest didn’t fade, but you swallowed it down, the pain, the heartbreak, the love that burned inside you like a wildfire as you pushed off the wall, making your way back to the noise and the lights and the man who would always be just out of reach.

. ݁ ˖ ࣪ . ⋆ * .♡ *:･ﾟ. ݁ ˖ ࣪ . ⋆ * .♡ *:･ﾟ. ݁ ˖ ࣪ .

the studio hummed with a low, ambient quiet—the kind of stillness that seemed to hold its breath, its walls thick with the scent of aged wood and metal strings, the kind of smell that clung to your clothes long after you’d left.

you sat alone in the corner, your fingers brushing absently over the strings of your guitar, coaxing out soft, mournful notes that dissolved into the air like exhaled secrets. 

it wasn’t deliberate; it never was. the music always found you in moments like these, seeping through the cracks in your resolve, filling the empty spaces with sounds that carried everything you couldn’t say aloud.

the light spilling through the high windows was pale and muted, catching the floating dust motes in a quiet dance. it painted the room in a palette of grays and golds, softening the sharp edges of the equipment scattered around the studio. the low light from the hanging bulbs painted the room in muted golds and ambers, casting elongated shadows that stretched and swayed with every shift of your body.

you let the weight of the guitar anchor you, its familiar curve resting against your body like a second heartbeat. each note you plucked seemed to pulse in your chest, resonating deeper than the strings, like the music was reaching into the raw, aching center of you. the hum of the guitar strings vibrated softly beneath your fingers, a muted melody that felt more like a heartbeat than a tune.

and then the door creaked open, shattering the fragile cocoon of sound you’d built around yourself. hongjoong walked in first, his expression a blend of practiced calm and sharp observation. his eyes flicked to you, lingering for a beat too long, as though he was trying to gauge the exact temperature of the storm you were hiding behind your carefully composed face.

“figured i’d find you here early.”

hongjoong’s voice was soft but carried a warmth that filled the room. you glanced up to see him standing in the doorway, a to-go coffee cup in each hand. his dark eyes held a flicker of amusement, but there was something else beneath it—a quiet understanding he didn’t voice. he crossed the room with deliberate steps, the soles of his sneakers barely making a sound against the hardwood floor.

“i brought you this. thought you might need it,” he said, setting the cup down on the edge of the amp beside you. 

his tone was casual, his expression carefully neutral. he didn’t press, didn’t ask why you were here so early or why your eyes looked a little more tired than usual. instead, he gave you a small smile, the kind that said he’d noticed but wouldn’t say anything until you were ready.

“thanks,” you murmured, wrapping your hands around the warm cup. the heat seeped into your palms, grounding you in the present moment. you took a tentative sip, the rich bitterness of the coffee cutting through the haze that clung to your mind.

before hongjoong could say anything else, the door swung open with a cheerful creak, and gunil strode in, his presence as loud and unapologetic as ever. 

“man, two days off and we’re already back here? this has to qualify as workplace cruelty,” he declared, tossing his bag onto the couch in the corner.

hongjoong let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. “complain all you want, but you’re here, aren’t you?”

“barely,” gunil shot back, his grin infectious as he walked past you, ruffling your hair without a second thought. 

“you look extra broody today. what, the strings giving you a hard time?”

you swatted at his hand half-heartedly, a faint scowl tugging at your lips.

 “ever heard of personal space?”

“nope,” he replied breezily, collapsing onto the couch with a dramatic sigh.

hongjoong rolled his eyes but didn’t bother hiding his smile.

“you’re impossible.”

as the three of you settled into a comfortable rhythm, the sound of footsteps echoed from the hallway. minjeong appeared in the doorway, her hair still slightly damp as if she’d rushed to get here. she offered a small smile as she entered, her gaze flickering to you briefly before she headed to her usual spot by the keyboard.

“hey, you didn’t reply to my text yesterday” she said softly, her voice carrying the same quiet strength that always managed to put you at ease.

“sorry, fell asleep early” you replied, your fingers idly plucking at the guitar strings. 

she didn’t push further, but her eyes lingered on you for a moment, a silent acknowledgment that she’d noticed the shift in your demeanor but said nothing as yunjin burst through the doors, taking the attention away from you.

the new quiet was broken by the sound of the door opening once more, and this time, it was wonbin. his presence seemed to fill the room effortlessly, his sun-kissed skin glowing under the warm light, and his tousled hair somehow managing to look both messy and perfect. he moved with an easy confidence, the kind that wasn’t overbearing but commanded attention nonetheless.

he held a coffee cup in one hand and a bag of pastries in the other, his smile disarming as he approached. 

“morning,” he greeted, his voice smooth and warm like honey. he handed the cup to you without hesitation. 

“thought you might need this.”

you blinked, momentarily caught off guard. “uh, thanks. but hongjoong already…”

for a moment, his gaze drifted to hongjoong, something unspoken flickering behind his eyes—there and gone in an instant, smoothed over before you could grasp its meaning.

“guess you’ll have two, then,” he said with a shrug, his smile never wavering. “never hurts to have extra caffeine, right?”

the room seemed to hum with his presence, the air shifting subtly as he took the seat across from you. his gaze was steady, a mix of curiosity and something softer, something you couldn’t quite place.

“have you been working on anything new?” he asked, gesturing to the guitar in your hands, attempting to make conversation with you.

“a little,” you admitted, your voice quieter than you intended. 

“just messing around really, drawing from some inspiration”

“messing around or making magic?” he countered, his tone light but the compliment sincere. 

“you always come up with the best stuff when you’re ‘just messing around.’”

you felt a faint heat rise to your cheeks and quickly turned your attention back to the guitar. 

“it’s nothing special.”

before the conversation could go any further, gunil’s voice rang out from the couch. “

“are we actually going to practice today, or are we just going to sit around complimenting each other?”

“leave it to you to ruin the moment,” minjeong muttered, earning a chorus of laughter from the others.

you couldn’t bring yourself to join in, the weight in your chest making it hard to muster even a faint smile. instead, you focused on the strings beneath your fingers, letting the vibrations seep into your skin, grounding you in the one thing that always made sense: the music.

the room settles into a quiet hum as everyone takes their places. the faint scent of coffee and the lingering warmth of laughter begin to dissipate, replaced by the raw anticipation of creating something new. yunjin taps a steady rhythm against the edge of her keyboard, her fingers moving in a dance of idle precision, while hongjoong adjusts his microphone with the care of someone about to bare his soul.

your guitar rests in your lap, its polished surface reflecting the muted studio lights. the strings feel like a lifeline beneath your fingertips, taut and ready to carry the weight of your unspoken emotions. you let out a slow breath, the cool air filling your lungs as you begin to strum, the first notes blooming into the space like ink spreading through water.

the melody you play is haunting and raw, a reflection of the turmoil churning within you. each chord is deliberate, resonating with a depth that makes the others pause and glance your way. 

wonbin is the first to speak, his voice warm but tinged with curiosity.

"that’s new," he says, leaning slightly forward, his attention fixed on you. "what’s it called?"

you shrug, keeping your gaze on the strings as your fingers continue to move. 

"it doesn’t have a name yet."

"it’s beautiful," he says softly, and there’s something in his tone that makes your heart clench. 

"play it again."

you do, this time letting the notes unfurl with more confidence. the melody builds, a cascade of sound that fills the room, weaving through the space like a story yearning to be told. your fingers press into the strings with a force that’s almost desperate, as if each note is a piece of the pain you’re trying to expel.

hongjoong picks up on the rhythm, his voice slipping in seamlessly to complement the haunting tune. his lyrics are improvised, raw and unpolished, but they carry an emotional weight that anchors the song. minjeong follows suit, her keyboard adding a delicate, ethereal layer that lifts the melody, while gunil’s drumsticks tap against his thighs, testing out a beat.

the room comes alive, each member adding their own voice to the burgeoning song. but for you, it’s not just music—it’s a lifeline. the guitar strings bite into your fingertips, the faint sting grounding you in the present. the vibrations hum against your chest, echoing the ache that refuses to leave. you close your eyes, letting the music guide you, each strum a step further into vulnerability.

"that’s it," hongjoong says suddenly, his voice breaking through the spell. "let’s build on this."

the band falls into rhythm, the synergy between you all palpable despite the undercurrent of tension. gunil’s drumming grows bolder, a heartbeat that anchors the song, while minjeong experiments with harmonies that dance around the melody. wonbin’s bassline is steady and grounding, a quiet strength that ties the disparate elements together.

his presence, however, is anything but quiet to you. every time you catch sight of him—his fingers moving deftly over the strings, his brow furrowed in concentration—you feel the music falter, your emotions threatening to spill over. he looks up at you occasionally, a small smile tugging at his lips, and you force yourself to look away, focusing instead on the guitar strings and the way they seem to vibrate with your pain.

as the practice continues, the song begins to take shape, its edges smoothing out as the band finds its groove. the room fills with sound, a cacophony of creativity and collaboration, but for you, it’s more than that. it’s a battlefield, each note a weapon you wield against the ache in your chest.

the last chord hung in the air like an unfinished thought, trembling before dissolving into silence. the room should’ve felt full—buzzing with the energy of creation, the satisfaction of crafting something raw and unpolished—but all you felt was emptiness. the kind that crept beneath your skin and stayed there, curling around your ribs like smoke that refused to dissipate.

gunil’s voice cut through it first, loud and buoyant, shattering the delicate quiet you were trying to lose yourself in.

"we’re geniuses. i mean, honestly. did you hear that?"

he stretched like a cat, tossing his drumsticks onto the floor with the lazy confidence of someone entirely at ease in his own skin. the grin on his face was radiant, wide enough to outshine the dim studio lights overhead.

hongjoong snorted softly, rolling his eyes, leaning casually against the edge of the soundboard.

 "yeah, it’s almost like we’re supposed to be good at this."

"i’m just saying," gunil countered, grinning at the ceiling like the notes were still floating up there, just waiting for him to catch them.

 "that was some top-tier stuff. and you know what top-tier stuff deserves?"

there was a collective pause.

"celebration." gunil grinned, flashing his teeth like he’d been holding onto the word just for this moment.

the room stirred at the word, faint murmurs of agreement rising like sparks, drifting slowly toward ignition. hongjoong raised a brow, though the amusement tugging at his lips betrayed his resistance.

 "didn’t we just drink enough to drown a small village on tour?"

"and yet, here we are. alive and well," gunil shot back, undeterred.

"you of all people should not be saying that," minjeong muttered under her breath, shaking her head as she reminisced all of the times she had to beg him to get into the van after a long night of partying hard.

but the room was already stirring with the promise of a night out. the hum of conversation grew louder, and even minjeong’s faint amusement tugged at the corners of her mouth. gunil’s enthusiasm was infectious, spreading like wildfire as the others chimed in.

"come on, hongjoong," gunil pressed, his voice rising above the chatter. "we earned this. final show was killer, the album’s practically writing itself… one night won’t hurt."

the suggestion hung there, and despite hongjoong’s half-hearted protest, the atmosphere began to shift. the idea of a party swirled like a low flame, licking at the edges of the room, spreading through the rest of them with ease. gunil thrived in these moments—the instigator, pulling everyone into his orbit until they were caught in the gravity of whatever whim struck him that day.

hongjoong sighed, but the grin tugging at his lips betrayed him. 

"fine, fine. if it means you’ll stop talking, I’ll go."

a cheer erupted, loud and unanimous—gunil’s voice carrying the most weight, echoing playfully around the room. the excitement gathered like a tidal wave, pulling everyone along with it.

you, however, remained rooted. their excitement drifted past you, ghostlike, as if there was an unspoken barrier between their laughter and the hollow ache that had settled deep within your chest.

celebrate?

the word tasted strange. foreign. how could they be so light when everything inside you felt heavy—when every glance at wonbin during practice felt like swallowing glass? the weight of it all hadn’t lessened in the days since the tour ended. if anything, it had thickened, pressing against your ribs until breathing felt like an effort you had to remember to make.

your grip tightened around the neck of your guitar, the strings humming faintly beneath your fingertips as if the instrument was the only one listening. you tried to disappear into that—into the comfort of its weight in your lap, the way the cool metal bit against the soft skin of your palms.

"you’re thinking too loud."

yunjin’s voice drifted in softly, cutting through the fog. her presence was quiet but grounding, standing just beside you. she hadn’t been there moments ago, but she always knew when to appear.

"you don’t want to go."

it wasn’t a question.

you let out a slow breath, your fingers absentmindedly trailing over the strings, pulling faint, broken notes from the guitar. 

"i just don’t know if i can handle it tonight."

the words were quiet, almost drowned by the sounds of the others still talking across the room. but yunjin’s eyes softened, catching on the slight tremble hidden beneath your voice.

"maybe that’s why you should," she said simply, her gaze steady but not forceful. 

"you’ve been carrying this for too long. sometimes a little noise helps."

the ache in your chest curled tighter.

if only it were that simple.

you wanted to tell her that noise didn’t distract you—it amplified everything. the lights, the sound, the closeness of it all made wonbin’s presence impossible to ignore, his absence impossible to forget, but you said none of that.

"i don’t know," you whispered, as if the uncertainty might shrink into something smaller if you spoke it softly enough.

yunjin offered a small smile, brushing her shoulder lightly against yours in a way that felt more comforting than words ever could. 

"i’ll stick by you. if it sucks, we’ll leave."

her voice carried the kind of certainty you wished you had, and somehow, that was enough to loosen the grip of hesitation just a little.

"fine," you exhaled, feeling the weight of the word settle somewhere deep, somewhere heavy.

yunjin’s grin softened the blow. 

"that’s all i needed to hear."

you glanced up, just long enough to see hongjoong’s gaze flicker in your direction. he hadn’t said much, but the way his eyes lingered told you he’d noticed your reluctance. hongjoong always noticed.

"meet at nine at my place," he said casually, as if your answer was inevitable. 

"don’t be late,” he directed the last part towards you, discouraging you from having any last minute change of heart.

gunil’s grin widened. "i’ll drag you there if i have to."

you offered a faint nod, though the words felt distant in your mouth.

as the others began to filter out, wonbin lingered near the door. his bass case hung from his shoulder, his tousled hair catching faint light from the overhead bulbs, glinting like dark gold. he paused for half a breath, his gaze catching yours.

you thought he might say something—maybe offer one of his casual comments, the kind that tugged on the strings of your heart more than it should have.

but he didn’t. he just smiled, small and unreadable, before stepping out after the others. the studio was quiet again, save for the soft hum of amps cooling down. you sat in the silence, the ghost of his smile still lingering in the room like a faint echo. 

maybe a little noise will help, you thought, but the ache in your chest whispered otherwise.

. ݁ ˖ ࣪ . ⋆ * .♡ *:･ﾟ. ݁ ˖ ࣪ . ⋆ * .♡ *:･ﾟ. ݁ ˖ ࣪ .

yunjin’s suitcase had become an extension of the room itself, its contents spilling onto the bed in a cascade of silk and satin. the fabrics caught the dim light like oil slicks, shifting hues with every turn of her hand as she rummaged through the pile with the focus of someone convinced salvation lay at the bottom. 

dresses pooled across the sheets in soft waves, some half-folded, others left to spill over the edge onto the floor. her hands skimmed through them with surgical precision, sifting through the cascade of black and silver, each piece discarded with growing dissatisfaction.

“you’ve got to have something in here that doesn’t scream nun,” yunjin muttered, tossing aside a long black dress that pooled onto the floor like liquid shadow.

he room hummed softly with the sound of minjeong’s playlist, drifting in and out like waves lapping against the shore, but the music felt distant, as if it belonged to another place entirely. minjeong sat by the window, one leg tucked beneath her, hair falling in loose sheets over her shoulder as she watched with idle amusement.

she didn’t bother scrolling through her phone, the faint glow of the city outside enough to occupy her gaze, but you could feel her attention linger, settling quietly on the two of you from the corner of her eyes. she hadn’t contributed much to the dressing-up process beyond the occasional hum of agreement or head shake, but her presence was grounding. It was comforting in the way only minjeong’s quiet support could be.

“it’s not supposed to be this hard,” minjeong replied smoothly, a faint smirk tugging at her lips. “you’re just impossible to please.”

yunjin ignored her, rifling deeper through the pile, undeterred by the jab.

you sat cross-legged at the foot of the bed, tugging at the hem of the oversized t-shirt that still hung loosely off your frame, trying to shrink into its comfort as you hadn’t found the energy to part with it yet. the worn fabric felt safer than the glossy array of dresses before you. each option seemed louder than the next—demanding attention in ways you didn’t want.

“i don’t need anything flashy or revealing,” you murmured, trailing your fingers over a silky slip dress before quickly pulling back.

“you’re not hiding tonight. you deserve to feel good… even if it’s just for a few hours.”

you didn’t respond, not because you disagreed, but because part of you wondered if you even remembered how to feel that way. it had been easier during the tour—easier to let the music fill the spaces where your feelings threatened to seep through. but now the quiet was suffocating, leaving nothing to drown out the weight pressing against your chest.

yunjin didn’t wait for your answer. she pulled something dark and slinky from the pile and held it up with a triumphant gleam in her eyes. 

“this is it.”

"maybe I should just—"

"—not finish that sentence," yunjin cut in, raising a hand to silence whatever excuse was on your lips. "you’re not skipping out on tonight."

"i wasn’t going to skip."

"mm-hm." yunjin’s eyes narrowed in challenge.

"then you’re wearing this."

minjeong arched a brow, her gaze flicking between the two of you with amusement. "are we trying to start wars tonight, or…"

"if we have to," yunjin replied, her lips curling into a mischievous grin.

“no.”

“yes.”

“yunjin, i’m serious—”

“so am i.”

minjeong let out a quiet laugh, propping her chin on her hand as she watched the two of you. 

“you’re fighting a losing battle. just try it on.”

you slipped into it reluctantly, the silk cool against your skin, fitting in ways that made you hyper aware of every movement—the soft brush of fabric against your thigh, the subtle shift when you walked, as if the dress was designed to remind you of its presence.

the dress felt unfamiliar, even as it slid over your skin, molding to your shape like it had been waiting for this moment. the black fabric clung to you in waves, the high slit brushing against your thigh with each subtle shift, teasing glances at your legs as you moved.

yunjin hummed softly behind you as she swiped a thin layer of red over your lips, the color blooming beneath her careful hand, rich and bold against the softness of your skin.

“perfect,” she whispered, stepping back to admire her work.

you stared at the reflection in the mirror, the familiar slope of your collarbone catching the low light, the soft fall of your hair framing your features. it wasn’t a transformation—it was still you. only sharper. like someone had peeled away the softer edges and left behind something more defined.

it’s not someone else in the mirror, but the version of yourself you use sparingly—the one you keep tucked away, for moments like this.

minjeong had been careful with the makeup, blending shadows at the corners of your eyes until they smoldered just enough to draw focus, but not enough to overwhelm. the person looking back is still you. but sharper, guarded. as if every detail has been edged in something dangerous.

minjeong watched quietly from the bed, her gaze steady, arms crossed as if to say i told you so.

“wonbin’s not ready for this,” yunjin added, smirking knowingly.

your chest felt hollow at the mention of his name, an ache curling beneath your ribs that hadn’t fully subsided since the end of the tour.

you could still see him—wonbin, leaning against the edge of the stage, the low sweep of his hair falling into his eyes as he tuned his bass, completely unaware of the way your gaze lingered. he never noticed the way your breath hitched when his hand accidentally brushed yours during practice, or how your fingers fumbled over the guitar strings when he laughed, loose and careless, his arm slung over another girl’s shoulder at some party you didn’t want to remember.

“it’s not about him.”

yunjin’s gaze softened, but her grip on the dress remained firm. 

“maybe not. but it wouldn’t hurt, would it?”

minjeong rose from her spot by the window, crossing the room with the same quiet grace she always carried, but her gaze lingered when she stopped beside you.

“he’ll notice,” she said simply.

and somehow, that terrified you more than the thought of him looking away.

the rain had stopped long enough for the streets to dry, but the dampness still clung to the air, curling in the spaces where warmth had no business lingering. yunjin’s arm looped easily through yours, her body angled closer than usual, like she could sense the weight pressing down on you, even if you hadn’t said a word since leaving the hotel.

the dress hugged tighter than before, each shift of your hips against the silk like a reminder of how exposed you were beneath the thin layer. the heels felt too high, the cold biting at the sliver of skin where the slit along your thigh dared to catch the wind, and with each step toward hongjoong’s apartment, the gravity of the evening pressed harder into your chest.

your heart pounded—not from excitement or anticipation, but from something heavier, like dread disguised in a prettier shape. the kind of ache that curls inward, weaving through the cracks until you can’t tell if it’s even possible to separate the pain from yourself anymore.

you could already see wonbin in your mind—the way he’d sit with one arm slung over the couch, his head tilting just enough to push his hair from his eyes, that smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. effortless. like everything about him had been carefully crafted to draw people in without ever letting them get close enough to matter.

and yet, you could never seem to stop yourself from standing just close enough to get burned.

“you okay?” yunjin’s voice was softer now, breaking through the cold silence that wrapped around the both of you.

you forced a nod, the lie settling between your ribs, heavy and sharp.

but the truth was lodged deeper—no, i’m not okay.

you weren’t okay when the tour ended, when the final show’s lights dimmed and you watched him from the side of the stage, knowing that no song, no applause, could drown out the ache blooming inside your chest.

you weren’t okay when he laughed with another girl at the last party, her hand curling over his forearm like it belonged there, his gaze never once flicking in your direction.

and you weren’t okay now, knowing that by the time this night ended, nothing would have changed except the depth of the wound you were already carrying.

the apartment building loomed ahead, the faint glow of hongjoong’s window spilling out onto the street below, shadows of figures moving behind the glass.

gunil’s voice was the first thing you heard when the door cracked open, his laugh low and careless as he leaned one shoulder against the frame, beer bottle dangling lazily from his fingers.

but the second his eyes flicked over you, something shifted—his posture straightening just enough to notice, his grin faltering as his gaze trailed slowly down the length of you, lingering where the dress slipped over your hips before snapping back up to meet your eyes.

“damn.” the word left him like a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. he stepped aside, waving you through but not before shaking his head with a disbelieving smile. “i mean—wow. somebody went all out tonight.”

you felt the heat crawl up the back of your neck, cheeks warming under the weight of his gaze, but yunjin just grinned, giving him a playful shove as she followed behind.

“don’t start drooling, gunil. she’s way out of your league.”

“i’m just saying,” he defended, holding his hands up as if to surrender. his eyes flicked to you again, softer this time. “you look great. like, seriously.”

the warmth in his voice felt genuine, enough to tug at something beneath the ache that had settled in your chest long before the night started.

the room was warm—warmer than it should’ve been with the windows cracked and the faint brush of night air curling in from the streets below. the soft thrum of music pressed against the walls, low enough to dissolve into the hum of conversation, laughter trickling in from the far side of the apartment where gunil was already making himself at home.

but none of it touched you.

your glass hovered halfway to your lips, fingers curled loosely around the cool edge as you stood by the farthest corner of hongjoong’s kitchen, barely skimming the edges of the gathering. it wasn’t crowded, but it felt like it was. the apartment stretched thinner, the walls pressing in, shrinking the space between you and the one person you were trying so desperately not to focus on.

wonbin.

he was leaning against the counter near the window, one hand cradling a glass that he hadn’t touched since you walked in.

the soft glow of the string lights draped across the ceiling spilled over him, illuminating the angles of his face—the soft curve of his mouth resting in that easy, half-smile he wore like second skin, dark hair falling over his eyes in lazy strands that framed him too perfectly.

he wasn’t doing anything remarkable, just existing. and somehow, that alone had the power to hold the entire room in orbit around him.

the space he occupied seemed heavier, pulling at you like some unrelenting tide, tugging at the threads that already felt too frayed to hold. you could feel him without looking—his presence crackling at the edges of your awareness, magnetic in that quiet, dangerous way that made you want to step closer even when you knew it would only hurt.

gunil said something loud enough to pull laughter from the others, his voice rising over the rest like a spark in dry air, but it didn’t reach you.

because wonbin’s gaze had found you.

it was slow at first—a fleeting glance that should’ve passed over you like it did everyone else, but it didn’t.

his eyes lingered, trailing over the dip of your shoulder where yunjin’s necklace rested against your collarbone, skimming the soft curve of your waist before settling on the slit of your dress that shifted with the subtle sway of your weight.

and in that moment, the room dissolved.

everything blurred into the background—gunil’s voice, the music, the quiet murmur of hongjoong’s conversation with minjeong—all of it faded into static.

because the only thing anchoring you to this moment was the weight of wonbin’s eyes holding yours.

your breath hitched, catching in your throat like fragile glass, and the ache you thought you’d buried months ago pressed itself sharp against your ribs, curling tighter the longer he looked, he wasn’t smiling now, his expression was unreadable, but the intensity in his gaze was enough to set your skin alight, each second stretching thinner, pulling taut until it felt like you might break beneath it.

you didn’t move and neither did he but the space between you felt electric, charged with something unspoken that neither of you dared to reach for. you wanted to believe—for just a second—that maybe this time it was different, that maybe he was looking at you the way you always caught yourself looking at him.

but hope was a fragile thing, and it shattered the moment he blinked and his gaze dropped, falling away like the air had been sucked from the room, leaving behind the hollow echo of what could’ve been.

his attention shifted easily, sliding toward gunil as if nothing had happened—as if you hadn’t just felt your entire chest cave in beneath the weight of his stare.

you tried to breathe, but the air felt thick, and the whiskey in your glass did nothing to chase away the cold settling beneath your skin but it hurt—worse than you expected because it was always the same.

wonbin saw you, but he didn’t see you.

you were just another part of the room—another fleeting glance that didn’t stick, another shadow he’d forget the second he turned away. your heart twisted painfully, but you masked it with a slow sip of your drink, letting the burn scrape down your throat in the hopes that it would drown out the ache swelling in your chest.

yunjin was by your side before you even registered her presence, her shoulder brushing lightly against yours, grounding you in the only way she knew how.

“you’re doing that thing,” she murmured, leaning in close enough that her words barely carried past the rim of her glass.

“what thing?” you asked, though the faint tremble in your voice betrayed you.

“staring.”

your grip tightened subtly, the cold sweat of the glass slick against your palm.

“i’m not—”

“you are,” she interrupted softly, but there was no judgment in her tone—just quiet understanding.

she followed your gaze for a beat too long, watching the way wonbin’s head tilted back as he laughed at something gunil said, his hand lifting to brush through his hair.

you hated how easily he could exist like this—untouched, unaware of the way he held pieces of you you’d never been brave enough to hand over.

“it’s exhausting, isn’t it?” yunjin’s voice was low, but the weight behind it hit you square in the chest.

you didn’t answer, because there was no point in denying it. the ache had already carved itself so deeply into you that it felt permanent, like something you’d have to carry long after this night ended.

wonbin hadn’t glanced at you again, but that didn’t stop you from feeling the ghost of his gaze trailing along your skin, burning even when it was no longer there.

you wished you could stop caring, but no matter how much you tried to untangle yourself from him, he was woven into the fabric of you, threading through your veins like a quiet, persistent ache..

“we should head out soon,” hongjoong said, glancing at the time. he reached for his jacket slung over the back of the chair, slipping it on without urgency. “party won’t wait forever.”

gunil raised his bottle in mock agreement tilting it in your direction. “i’m just saying, if we’re bringing her like this, we might as well show up late and make an entrance.”

“you’re not subtle,” yunjin shot back, but the laughter in her voice softened the edge of her words.

the group began to gather near the door, the slow shuffle of jackets and boots filling the quiet that had settled over the apartment. hongjoong slipped into his usual role—organizer by default—moving between conversations as he rounded up stray belongings and gently nudged everyone toward the van waiting outside. his movements were easy, practiced, like someone who’d done this a hundred times before without thinking.

wonbin hung back, lingering near the window, the rim of his glass brushing against his lower lip as he took his time finishing the last of whatever he’d been drinking. his gaze drifted somewhere far beyond the street below, unfocused, almost thoughtful, before he finally set the empty glass down with a soft clink against the table.

the keys flashed silver as hongjoong pulled them free from his pocket, tossing them toward wonbin with a flick of his wrist. the metallic glint caught faintly in the streetlights seeping through the blinds, and for a moment, the apartment felt still—like something hanging in the air between the exchange.

wonbin caught them easily, fingers curling around the keyring with practiced grace, the jingle sharp enough to pull your attention back to the room.

hongjoong, already halfway into his jacket, hesitated just long enough to cast him a sideways glance. 

“you sure you’re good to drive?”

wonbin’s gaze shifted, meeting hongjoong’s with the faintest quirk of his brow, a soft half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“haven’t had a drop. you’d know if i did.”

the way he said it—smooth, unbothered—made your pulse stutter for reasons you didn’t want to dissect.

“it’s true,” gunil chimed in with a lazy grin, draping himself over hongjoong’s shoulder.

“i watched him sip on mocktails the whole time. the man’s practically a saint.”

hongjoong snorted. “right. saint wonbin.”

“if we crash, at least we’ll die with the prettiest driver in town,” gunil added with a grin, earning a chorus of laughter from yunjin and minjeong as they pushed their way out the door, the laughter echoing faintly as the group spilled out into the cool night air.

the weight in your chest only deepened when you stepped outside, the cool slap of night air rushing in to fill the empty space around you, the cold biting harder now as the wind curled around your legs where the dress left your skin exposed, but you said nothing, hugging your arms across your chest as you followed the others to the van.

the van waited just down the curb, parked beneath the hazy flicker of a streetlamp that buzzed faintly against the quiet. yunjin and minjeong made their way inside first, their laughter softening as the doors slid shut behind them, leaving only you, gunil, and wonbin lingering on the sidewalk.

gunil leaned against the van casually, taking his time finishing off the last sip of his beer.

you were already moving toward the open door, the quiet creak of hinges cutting softly through the night as you stepped toward the backseat. the city lights flickered faintly along the car’s surface, casting pale reflections that rippled like water beneath the curve of your fingertips. you didn’t think much of it—didn’t have to—until the faintest brush of warmth skimmed across your wrist, halting you mid-step.

the touch was featherlight, barely more than a flicker against your skin. but it burned. your breath stilled as your fingers hovered over the car door handle, the sudden weight of the moment crashing down as if time itself had narrowed to this—just the soft heat of his palm, the space between you, the silent pull that tugged at the edges of your resolve.

you turned, pulse thrumming at the base of your throat, each heartbeat painfully loud as your eyes lifted—slowly, hesitantly.

wonbin stood just behind you, his gaze already fixed on yours, steady and unreadable beneath the faint glow of the streetlights.

he didn’t say anything, he didn’t have to.

there was something in the way he looked at you—anchored you there, like gravity pulling you to him with an inevitability you couldn’t fight. the quiet hum of the distant city softened to nothing, the sound dissolving beneath the sharp, suffocating awareness of how close he was. his hand lingered just over yours, loose but present, the warmth seeping into your skin in a way that felt impossible to ignore.

wonbin’s eyes didn’t waver and neither did you. the silence stretched, threading itself tightly between you until the weight of it settled in your chest, thick and unrelenting.

then finally—finally—he spoke.

“sit up front. with me”

his voice slipped into the narrow space between you, low and quiet, curling around the inches that separated you. the words weren’t a request—soft but firm, threaded with something just beneath the surface that you couldn’t quite place. His head tipped faintly toward the front seat, the smallest tilt, but it was enough to unravel you.

your breath caught, heart slamming painfully against your ribs as the edges of the night seemed to press in closer, drawing the world smaller until it was just this.

just him.

gunil’s head tilted lazily, his eyes flicking between the two of you as something flickered across his face—a slow, knowing smile that spread like molasses, unhurried and far too pleased with itself.

“ah,” he drawled, crossing his arms over his chest with exaggerated amusement. “i get it now.”

The playful lilt in his voice dragged your attention sideways, but the hold of Wonbin’s gaze didn’t loosen.

“she looks too good to be admired from the backseat, huh?” gunil teased, his grin growing sharper as he leaned casually against the side of the car.

you barely heard him, the blood rushing in your ears was deafening, a steady thrum that drowned out everything but the weight of wonbin’s eyes still holding you in place but gunil didn’t seem to notice as he continued.

“can’t blame you,” he added with a carefree shrug, gesturing toward you with an easy nod. 

“she looks good enough to distract the whole damn car. might as well keep her up front where you can admire her properly, right?”

his words floated somewhere at the edge of your awareness—light, harmless, nothing more than the usual banter gunil was known for. but the tightness curling low in your stomach refused to ease, no matter how playful the intent.

wonbin didn’t laugh, he didn’t even glance at gunil his gaze remained anchored to yours, dark and steady, as if nothing else in the world existed in that moment but the space between you.

the silence stretched long enough to feel suffocating. and then, just when the weight of it threatened to press too hard against your chest, wonbin spoke again—soft, but unyielding.

“sit up front with me, please..”

the words slipped through the tension like silk, smoother this time but still leaving no room for argument. there was no teasing edge to his voice, no trace of the lighthearted indifference he so often carried. the usual glint in his eye, the careless charm—all of it was gone.

it wasn’t a question, it wasn’t even a request. it felt like a decision he’d made long before gunil ever opened his mouth—long before you had stepped toward the car at all and somehow, that realization made your heart stumble harder.

gunil hummed under his breath, a low, teasing sound that might have tugged a laugh from you on any other night but now, it barely registered—a distant echo drowned beneath the quiet hum of something far stronger.

the faint trace of wonbin’s touch still ghosted along your wrist, lingering like the remnants of a fading flame, delicate yet searing in its absence. it shouldn’t have felt this way—shouldn’t have meant anything, but it did.

your head dipped in a small nod, but even that felt heavier than it should have, as if the simple motion pulled at some invisible thread stretched taut between the two of you, tightening with a quiet inevitability.

a flicker crossed wonbin’s face—so quick, so fleeting—that you almost missed it. the slightest crease at the corner of his mouth, the shift in his eyes, something unreadable that dissolved the moment you caught it, vanishing as if it had never been there at all.

but you saw it, or maybe you only wanted to.

either way, he released your wrist, his fingers slipping away with a slowness that felt deliberate—like he meant for you to notice the absence, to feel the space left behind.

you swallowed, the heat rising beneath your skin at odds with the cool night air, and stepped forward. the soft thud of the passenger door closing behind you cut through the quiet as you settled into the seat. the leather pressed cool and smooth against your thighs, grounding you just enough to remember how to breathe.

funil slid into the back with the others, his laughter trailing softly behind him, though the grin he wore lingered—persistent, even in the faint reflection of the rearview mirror.

wonbin said nothing.

instead he slipped behind the wheel, the slow, fluid motion unnervingly calm, his hand hovered briefly over the ignition, but he didn’t start the car right away.

the soft click of his seatbelt broke the silence, the sound small but cutting in the closeness of the space, and somehow, it made the air between you feel even thinner.

the drive wasn’t long, but the silence stretched it thin, pulling the minutes like thread unraveling beneath the weight of something unspoken. the low hum of the engine beneath your feet seemed louder than the voices drifting lazily from the backseat—soft, distant, dissolving somewhere in the space between.

wonbin sat just inches away, his hands loose on the steering wheel, gaze fixed ahead, but his presence filled the van in a way that made the air feel heavier. the others kept talking, their laughter rising and falling in soft waves behind you, but it might as well have been static—background noise swallowed by the steady loop of your thoughts.

you hadn’t stopped thinking about it—the way he looked at you.

it wasn’t the brush of his hand against your wrist, though the ghost of that touch lingered somewhere beneath your skin, light but inescapable. no, it was the eyes that met yours in the moments after—the quiet weight in them, dark and searching, like he was trying to find something he couldn’t quite grasp.

it hadn’t left you.

even now, as the van eased to a stop and the low rumble of the engine faded into nothing, the weight of that look sat with you still, pressing into your ribs like an ache that refused to dissolve.

gunil was the first to move, his shoulder bumping into hongjoong’s as he twisted toward the door, hands planting against the seat as he shoved it open with one easy motion. the hinges groaned softly, the cool air rushing in like a breath of relief as gunil climbed out, stretching with the exaggerated groan of someone who had no right to be as energized as he was.

“finally,” he muttered, rolling his shoulders back. “felt like we were in there for hours.”

you didn’t follow—not yet.

your fingers curled around the handle, but the metal beneath your palm felt colder than it should have, grounding you in place even as the others began to filter out. the van felt safer somehow, quieter, like it might anchor you if you sat there long enough. the air, sharp against your bare arms, made you shiver, but you stayed rooted to the seat, watching the way the night folded softly around the edges of the open door.

wonbin didn’t move either.

his hand slipped from the steering wheel, falling to his lap, but he didn’t make any effort to climb out. instead, his gaze flickered toward you, lingering for just a second longer than it needed to—long enough for your breath to catch at the back of your throat.

but he didn’t say anything and neither did you.

his hands rested loosely on the steering wheel, fingers relaxed but unmoving, as if he had no intention of starting the car just yet. his head tipped slightly toward the window, eyes half-lidded beneath the faint wash of streetlights that crept through the windshield. the soft amber glow caught on the sharp lines of his profile—the slope of his nose, the cut of his jaw—illuminating him in fragments that felt too fleeting, like something slipping just out of reach.

the slow drag of his thumb across the leather beneath his palm was the only motion, tracing faint, absent-minded circles against the steering wheel. there was something deliberate about it, like he was grounding himself, tethering his thoughts to the sensation beneath his skin.

“everything okay?”

his voice slipped through the quiet, soft but clear enough to cut through the distant hum of laughter echoing from the house behind you. it wasn’t intrusive—barely louder than the rustle of leaves stirring in the night air—but there was something careful in the way he asked, like he’d been holding the question back until now.

you nodded once, quick and automatic, but the weight pressing against your shoulders told a different story. wonbin didn’t shift, but his gaze slid sideways, cutting through the thin space between you, lingering just long enough to steal the air from your lungs.

“you look good tonight.”

the words didn’t fall lightly. they weren’t tossed carelessly into the dark, the way gunil’s playful teasing had been, or wrapped in laughter the way yunjin’s voice had sounded when she zipped you into the dress hours earlier.

no—wonbin said it like it meant something, like it was a quiet truth that had pressed too long against the edge of his tongue and slipped free before he could stop it.

and just like that, the world inside the car shifted.

the compliment slipped beneath your skin, warm and unsettling, curling in the spaces you tried to keep untouched. you felt it settle low in your stomach, heavy and relentless, refusing to let go even as you glanced away, fixing your gaze on the house glowing faintly through the windshield.

but his eyes stayed. they lingered, pressing against your profile, unwavering in their weight. even as yunjin’s voice echoed from the front door, her bright laughter cutting through the night as she called for you to hurry inside, the heat of wonbin’s stare didn’t fade.

it lingered—burned—long after his gaze finally drifted away.

you followed the others toward the entrance, but the sound of wonbin’s footsteps trailing behind you felt louder than the music bleeding out from the house.

“now this is what i call a party,” gunil mused, the grin evident in his tone even as his back turned toward you.

the music throbbed low beneath your skin long before you even crossed the threshold, the bass a steady pulse that seemed to bleed through the walls and out into the night. the house was already alive, windows cracked open to let the heat spill out onto the damp street, but it did little to temper the weight pressing into your chest—the kind of heaviness that sat just beneath the surface, quiet but impossible to shake.

the house is alive with movement and sound, the heavy throb of bass reverberating through the floorboards, puling beneath your feet like a second heartbeat as laughter spills out in waves that stretch and ripple through the warm, hazy air.

 there’s a weight to it, something tangible in the press of bodies that slide past one another in the narrow hallways, something that clings to your skin like the faint, sticky sheen left behind by too much heat and too little space. the low hum of conversation ebbs and flows, mingling with the faint trace of smoke curling out from the back porch and the sweet, syrupy tang of alcohol that seems to settle on your tongue without warning, as if the air itself is thick with it.

hongjoong and gunil were the first to drift off, their footsteps already echoing toward the kitchen before the door had fully shut behind them. gunil’s laughter trailed after them, his arm still draped casually over hongjoong’s shoulder as if the two had done this a hundred times before. they slipped through the crowd with ease—comfortable, familiar—like the night belonged to them, stitched into their skin long before this moment.

yunjin and minjeong didn’t follow.

yunjin caught your wrist gently, keeping close as the current of bodies pushed past, her gaze flickering across the room before she leaned in, voice barely louder than a whisper. 

“we’re staying with you tonight. no vanishing acts.”

minjeong hummed her agreement beside you, arms crossed as she glanced toward the thick crowd gathering by the bar, unimpressed but unwavering. she didn’t need to say anything to confirm it—the weight of her presence at your side already spoke volumes.

wonbin lingered near the door, his hand brushing against the frame as he stepped inside, but his eyes were already on you. he didn’t move further, instead, his gaze shifted slowly, skimming over the crowded room as if he was searching for something—or maybe waiting.

the soft glow from the living room stretched across the sharp lines of his face, casting half of him in warm gold while shadows dipped beneath his jaw, the faint spill of light catching in his dark hair.

you felt the moment his attention flicked back toward you.

but yunjin’s arm looped through yours then, tugging you gently toward the living room. minjeong trailed just behind, a silent shadow at your side.

you didn’t look back, but you didn’t need to. wonbin saw the two of them anchored beside you—one glance, and his posture shifted, subtle but telling. his hand slipped from the doorway, and without a word, he disappeared into the crowd, the flicker of his presence folding into the blur of people before you could even exhale.

time blurred beneath the steady thrum of music, the house growing warmer with each passing hour as more bodies pressed into the narrow spaces, their laughter rising and falling in waves that seemed to crash against the walls. you stayed anchored near the edge of the room, where the lights didn’t quite reach, the condensation from your untouched glass pooling against your palm, forgotten.

yunjin’s arm looped comfortably around your shoulder, her weight pressing lightly into your side, while minjeong leaned against the wall next to you, arms crossed and gaze sharp as ever. they had barely left your side, brushing off invitations and whispered suggestions with casual ease, their presence unwavering like a pair of quiet sentinels.

you tried to appreciate it—tried to let the comfort of their loyalty settle somewhere beneath the ache still blooming in your chest—but the guilt curled in anyway, creeping up your throat as the night stretched on.

“you guys don’t have to hover, you know,” you said, forcing a faint smile that felt thin even as you tried to keep your tone light. 

“i’m not going to combust if you leave me alone for five minutes.”

yunjin’s eyes flicked toward you, her head tilting slightly in mock consideration. 

“no, but you might slip out the back door if we’re not paying attention. remember that thing you do?”

minjeong snorted softly, barely concealing her amusement.

“i swear i’m fine.” you laughed under your breath, nudging yunjin’s arm with your elbow. 

“seriously. go have fun. those two guys haven’t stopped staring at you since we got here.”

yunjin glanced toward the dancefloor, where two boys stood awkwardly pretending not to be watching your group, their heads dipping closer to each other every time yunjin looked in their direction.

“not really my type,” yunjin mused, but her gaze lingered a second longer than necessary.

“mine neither,” minjeong added, though the flicker of curiosity in her expression didn’t quite match her words.

you shook your head, rolling your eyes playfully. 

“okay, maybe not, but you can still dance with them for a bit. go. i’ll be right here when you get back.”

yunjin hesitated, her fingers tightening slightly around your shoulder, but minjeong was already tugging at her wrist, urging her toward the floor.

“we’ll be close,” yunjin relented, but the teasing edge to her voice had softened, and she gave your arm one last squeeze before letting go.

you tilt the glass loosely in your hand, watching the way the condensation pools along the edges before slipping down your fingers in slow, deliberate rivulets, the coolness of it sharp against your palm, grounding you in a way that feels fleeting at best. 

the drink sits half-forgotten between sips that burn just enough to keep you anchored, but not nearly enough to dull the ache that coils deeper with every passing second spent in this room, in this house, in this night that stretches endlessly ahead of you.

this was supposed to be enough.

you told yourself the music would drown it out, that the drinks yunjin kept sliding into your hand would blur the sharp ache sitting just beneath your ribs. that if you stayed in motion, if you stayed laughing and moving and tilting your head just right when someone leaned in a little too close, it would feel like the version of yourself you tried so hard to convince everyone you were.

but it doesn’t. nothing about this night fills the hollow space curling tighter inside you.

not the taste of liquor that lingers too long on your tongue, nor the glittering haze of strangers’ smiles catching faintly in the flicker of the lights overhead.

your focus drifts, unraveling itself from the music and the crowd until it finds him, as it always does.

wonbin stood at the far end of the bar, the faint glow of low-hanging lights casting him in soft, uneven shadows that stretched long across the counter’s edge. he leaned against it with the kind of ease that looked practiced but never forced, like the moment bent itself around him, settling to fit the sharp cut of his frame as if he’d always belonged there. one hand rested loosely along the curve of the counter, fingertips tracing faint circles against the glassy surface, while the other curled around the neck of a drink he hadn’t touched in what felt like forever.

it was the posture—that posture—that made it impossible to look away.

relaxed but deliberate, as if even the smallest shift of his weight could ripple through the room unnoticed but not unfelt. there was something magnetic in the quiet stillness of him, something that tugged at the edges of your awareness, making the noise around him feel like static.

his hair—still damp from the heat inside—fell across his forehead in careless strands, sticking just enough to hint at the lingering warmth beneath his skin. the collar of his shirt dipped low, the fabric loose where it sloped along his collarbone, revealing the faintest sliver of skin that seemed to catch the light in a way that made it impossible not to stare. the shadows chased the curve of his throat, dark where the soft dip met his chest, and you hated the way your gaze lingered there—drawn to the movement of his hand as it flexed gently against the glass.

he hadn’t even taken a sip, and yet, he seemed perfectly content to let the moment pass him by, standing there like the night revolved around him—like he could shape the room without lifting a finger.

there were girls—there always were—hovering just close enough to brush against him, their eyes bright, shoulders angled inward as if pulled by the steady gravity that followed wherever he went. one leaned in closer than the others, her arm barely grazing his as she tipped her head to say something, the soft lilt of her voice swallowed by the music but somehow still there, threading through the low hum of the bar like the faintest echo of something familiar.

you told yourself not to look. not to watch the way her fingertips skimmed along the inside of his wrist, lingering longer than they needed to, or how his head dipped just slightly—just enough to catch the words she pressed into the space between them.

but your gaze betrayed you, it always did. and the worst part?it shouldn’t have mattered, but it did.

you’ve told yourself that a hundred times before, whispered it like a quiet mantra beneath your breath on nights just like this one, nights when the room feels too small and the space between you stretches impossibly wide, no matter how near he stands. but the truth is, it does matter—more than it should, more than you’ll ever let him see, and the realization of it settles deep in your chest, heavy and unrelenting as you swallow another mouthful of liquor that does nothing to soften the edges.

the music shifted, the tempo rising like the pulse of something urgent, threading through the thick air in heavy waves. for a fleeting second, you thought about leaving—letting the crowd pull you under, dissolving into the blur of bodies where faces became indistinct and the weight of your thoughts might slip away beneath the noise.

the idea curled at the edge of your mind, tempting in its simplicity, and your feet hesitated, the first step backward already sinking into the crowded floor. but before you could disappear into the current of people, his eyes lifted—like they had been waiting for yours to follow.

the connection is immediate, electric in a way that catches you off guard, locking you in place as the noise and the heat and the blur of the party around you fades into something distant, something small and irrelevant beneath the weight of his gaze.

there’s nothing hurried in the way he looks at you, his attention trailing slowly from the slope of your shoulder down to the dip of your collarbone, lingering there for just a second too long before sliding lower to trace the curve of your waist beneath the silk that clings faintly to your skin, each movement deliberate and measured, as if he’s committing the shape of you to memory in a way that feels far too intimate for a crowded room.

your breath catches, heart stuttering painfully beneath the pressure of his stare, and even as the weight of it pulls tighter around your chest, you hold it, unable to move, unwilling to look away as something unfamiliar and unsettling flares quietly in the narrow space between you.

but it doesn’t last.

and then it broke.

the shift was subtle but absolute, the moment fracturing as one of the girls beside him leaned in, her fingers curling softly around his wrist. whatever she whispered barely stirred the air, but it reached him, tugging at his focus until his gaze slipped from yours—falling away like the last flicker of a dying ember.

cold washed over you in its absence.

it’s almost laughable, the way your chest aches in his absence, as if he’d been standing beside you rather than across the room, but the feeling remains, gnawing steadily beneath the surface even as you lift your glass and down what’s left of it in one long, desperate swallow.

yunjin’s gaze flicked toward you, cutting through the blur of the crowd with the kind of precision that made it impossible to pretend you hadn’t been caught. her eyes, warm but sharp, searched yours as if peeling back the thin veneer you had tried to layer over your expression.

you felt the weight of her unspoken question—the slight tilt of her head, the pause in the way her hands moved as she danced—like she was already preparing to step away, to make her way back to your side the moment you needed her to.

but you wouldn’t let her, not tonight.

you forced a smile, light and easy, lifting your glass just high enough for her to see, as if the gesture alone could convince her. it barely touched your eyes, the strain tugging faintly at the corners of your mouth, but you held it there anyway, willing it to settle long enough for her to believe it.

yunjin’s gaze lingered, doubt flickering behind the soft glow of party lights, but after a moment, she nodded, her attention shifting back to the boy in front of her—the one who hadn’t stopped trying to make her laugh since the music started.

her laugh rang out a second later, bright and careless as she twirled beneath his arm, and relief washed over you in slow, cooling waves. you wanted that for her—for all of them.

even if you couldn’t quite reach for it yourself.

you let the smile drop the second her back was turned, the faint ache pressing back into place, familiar as the pulse that thrummed low beneath the music.

and even as you try to follow her lead, try to let the music and the drinks and the night pull you back into the moment, your attention drifts, seeking him out once more, as it always does.

because no matter how much you tell yourself to stop, no matter how much you try to bury the feeling that festers low and bitter in your chest, you know the truth of it. it’s always him and it always will be.

the bass seemed to sink beneath your skin, rattling through your bones in slow, pulsing waves, each throb heavier than the last as it settled low in your chest. the music wasn’t just sound anymore—it was weight, pressing against your senses until the edges of the room began to blur, the faint hum of overlapping voices weaving together into something indistinct, hollow, and distant. 

the warmth from the alcohol you’d downed earlier lingered in the back of your throat, burning faintly as it mixed with the stagnant air thick with perfume, sweat, and the sharp bite of something metallic that curled at the edges of your tongue. you blinked against the haze, but it didn’t help, the dim lights scattering in soft halos across the glossy floor beneath your feet, and for a moment, the entire club felt like it was spinning in slow motion—tilting just slightly off its axis. 

someone brushed past you, their laughter loud and sharp in your ear, but it dissolved as quickly as it came, melting back into the crowd that swayed and pulsed in time with the relentless beat. the room felt too small, too close, the bodies pressing in around you until your breath came shallow and uneven, and suddenly the need to escape was undeniable, coiling tight beneath your ribs until it was all you could focus on.

your grip tightened briefly around the edge of the table, fingertips sliding against the slick surface as you steadied yourself, but even the contact felt fleeting—like you weren’t fully anchored in the moment. the room was shifting around you, or maybe it was just the alcohol catching up, burning low and slow beneath your skin, trailing through your veins in a way that made the lights smear at the edges. 

the crowd stretched out ahead of you, bodies tangled together in clusters that swayed lazily with the rhythm, and for a moment, the space between the exit and where you stood felt impossible to cross. the music pressed down harder, vibrating through the soles of your boots, each beat crawling up your legs and settling uneasily beneath your ribs. your heart thudded in sync with the bass, every pulse a sharp reminder of the weight you couldn’t shake.

you started moving without fully realizing it, your body threading instinctively between the groups that filled the room. each step felt too quick and too slow all at once, the ache in your chest urging you forward, while the drag of the alcohol in your bloodstream blurred everything else, dulling your senses. the faces around you drifted past in streaks of warm skin and glittering eyes, laughter blooming somewhere to your right, but the sounds were muted—faint echoes that faded the further you pushed through the crowd.

the air thickened the closer you got to the staircase, curling against the back of your neck, hot and stifling, until the ache sitting low in your chest unfurled into something sharper—more desperate. the throb of the music swelled, loud enough to rattle through your teeth, and by the time you reached the edge of the room, it felt like the floor itself was vibrating beneath your feet, threatening to pull you under if you stopped for even a second.

the stairway stretched upward in front of you, narrow and half-lit, the kind of forgotten corner of the house that felt colder—untouched by the heat and pulse of the party below. each step creaked faintly beneath your weight, the sound swallowed quickly by the bass that still throbbed through the floor, echoing distantly in your chest like an unwanted second heartbeat. 

the further you climbed, the heavier the air seemed to grow, thick with the lingering scent of alcohol and something sharper—regret, maybe, or the remnants of disappointment clinging stubbornly beneath your skin.

it wasn’t just the crowd pressing too close or the warmth prickling along the nape of your neck that drove you here.  was the way wonbin hadn’t looked at you—*not really.* the brief flicker of his gaze had slipped past you too easily, and the hollow ache it left behind had settled deep, curling into a shape you couldn’t shake.

climbing the stairs felt like trying to outrun it, though you knew you wouldn’t. still, the slow burn of each step beneath your feet offered something—distance, if nothing else. distance from the music, the stifling heat, the soft edges of laughter curling out of mouths that weren’t yours.   

the hallway was hushed, the faint thrum of music filtering up through the floorboards like a distant storm, softened by layers of wood and space. the air felt sharper here, cooler against the back of your neck, slipping beneath the collar of your shirt in a way that made your skin prickle.

it was a relief—a stark contrast to the heavy, suffocating warmth that lingered downstairs, where bodies pressed too close and the weight of Wonbin’s absence felt louder than the music itself. one of the doors stood slightly ajar, pale light spilling out in a thin, uneven line across the hallway, and without thinking, you slipped inside. 

the room was small and sparse, walls bare except for faint smudges where posters once hung, the faintest scent of something sweet—cigarette smoke, maybe, or someone’s forgotten perfume—still hanging in the air. you leaned back against the door until it clicked shut, the latch settling quietly, and for a long moment, you simply stood there, the cold seeping in through the soles of your shoes. 

eventually, the weight in your chest pulled you down, and you slid carefully to the floor, knees bent loosely in front of you as your shoulder pressed into the wall’s smooth surface. the floor was cool against your thigh, grounding you in a way the alcohol couldn’t, and the pressure of your head tipping back against the wall felt like the only thing holding you together—fragile, maybe, but steady.

his name felt like an echo that refused to quiet, reverberating through the hollow spaces inside you, filling the cracks you hadn’t realized were there until he slipped between them. it didn’t matter how much you tried to push him out—the memory of him was woven too tightly into the fabric of your thoughts, unraveling only when the night stretched long and sleepless.

you hated how easily he occupied the quiet, how the shape of him still pressed against the edges of your consciousness even now, as if the ghost of his touch lingered beneath your skin. wonbin had always been like that—effortless. the way he moved, the way he laughed, the way his eyes softened in fleeting moments that weren’t meant for you but still burned when they landed there.

even after he’d left you splintered, after his gaze had flickered past yours like you weren’t worth lingering on, some part of you remained tethered to him, as if your heart hadn’t gotten the message that it no longer belonged to you. It ached in the worst ways—quietly, but persistently, like a dull bruise beneath the surface. 

you told yourself it wasn’t love, but that felt like a lie too fragile to hold. whatever it was, it kept you restless, fingers curled into the sheets at night, wide-eyed beneath the ceiling, counting the faint shadows cast by distant headlights that slipped through the blinds. the weight of it pressed into your ribs, deep and aching, refusing to be ignored, and even now, in the stillness of this room, he lingered—always lingering.

you’d told yourself a hundred times that he was never yours to begin with, but somehow the words never felt true enough to settle. they sat heavy and sharp on your tongue, cutting deeper each time you whispered them beneath your breath, but they never bled the ache from your chest. 

the truth was colder than you expected, more merciless in the way it wrapped around you at night, curling tight until it became something you couldn’t shake. he had always belonged to everyone—his smiles, his laughter, the fleeting glances that seemed to rest on strangers more easily than they ever landed on you. 

and yet, there had been moments, soft and fleeting, that felt like they were carved out for you alone. the way his eyes lingered just a little too long during late-night rehearsals, or the gentle brush of his hand against your arm as he passed by—small, thoughtless things that shouldn’t have mattered but stayed with you long after they happened. you tried to convince yourself it was imagined, something you stitched together in the dark corners of your mind when sleep wouldn’t come, but it didn’t make the ache any easier to bear. 

accepting that he would never be yours felt less like letting go and more like tearing something vital from the hollow beneath your ribs, leaving behind only empty space and the echoes of what could have been.

you barely registered the creak of the door over the hum in your head, too lost in the tangle of your own thoughts to notice the subtle shift in the air. the weight in your chest had grown familiar by now, wrapping around you like second skin, and the idea of him was as constant as your breath—so much so that when you sensed him, it felt like just another manifestation of the way he lingered behind your eyelids when you closed your eyes. 

you didn’t look up, unwilling to break the fragile thread of distance you were clinging to, even if it was only in your mind. but then the faint scent of him swept in, heady and unmistakable—the sharp bite of leather softened by something warmer, something that made your stomach twist in ways you wished it wouldn’t. it settled around you slowly, wrapping itself into the cracks like it had every right to be there, and for a moment you thought maybe you were imagining it.

but then the air shifted again, and you felt it—the briefest brush of his sleeve grazing against your arm, the supple texture of worn leather skimming over your skin like a phantom touch that lingered long after it passed. the heat of him followed, subtle but undeniable, radiating outward in soft waves that melted into the space between you until the room felt smaller, more intimate in a way that made your pulse stutter unevenly beneath your ribs. 

your eyes flickered open, slow and hesitant, and there he was—real. wonbin had slipped into the room quietly, his figure half-shadowed by the faint glow of the hallway behind him, but even in the dim light, there was no mistaking the way he filled the space. he didn’t say anything, not right away, but the weight of his presence alone was enough to unravel the careful threads you’d tried to pull around yourself, leaving you exposed beneath the quiet intensity of his gaze.

the silence between you felt fragile, stretched so thin that you swore he could hear the erratic stutter of your heart as it climbed higher into your throat. each beat seemed louder than the last, pounding relentlessly beneath your ribs, and you hated how impossible it was to quiet the tremble lingering just beneath your skin. 

wonbin hadn’t moved, but the space between you felt smaller with every second that passed, his proximity dissolving the delicate barrier you were clinging to. he was close enough now that you could make out the faint scattering of beauty marks that traced a path along his neck, each one as familiar as the chords of a song you’d memorized by heart. 

your gaze lingered there longer than it should have, following the subtle curve of his throat to where his collar dipped slightly, exposing just enough skin to remind you how many times you’d pretended not to notice. his hair had grown since the last time you were this close, strands falling in soft waves just past the nape of his neck, curling slightly at the ends in a way that made your stomach twist. 

it was such a small detail, but it ached—the memory of the last time you’d been beside him like this unraveling in your mind without permission. you remembered the heat first.

the way it pooled low in your stomach, twisting tighter with every soft press of his lips against your skin, with every inch of space he closed between you until his weight pressed fully into you, warm and grounding. the air had thickened, heavy and languid, settling between each breath like honey—stretching time, making every second feel slower, sweeter, as if the night itself didn’t want to end.

his touch wasn’t hurried.

it lingered—each drag of his palm along your waist deliberate, like he was memorizing the curve of you beneath his hands, mapping the distance between your ribs and the dip of your hip with reverent care. his fingers curled against the small of your back, tugging you just a little closer, until you could feel every shift of his body, the subtle ripple of muscle beneath smooth skin as he moved.

and god, the way he looked at you.

dark eyes half-lidded, heavy with something that felt almost fragile in its intensity, like he wasn’t quite sure if he should hold you tighter or let go before he lost himself completely.

the weight of it all tugged at something sensitive beneath your ribs, sharp and tender in the same breath, and before it could spiral further, you forced your eyes away, grounding yourself in the faint cracks along the floorboards instead. The ache dulled, but it didn’t disappear, settling into a quiet hum that you tried to ignore as the seconds stretched on.

the silence continued to stretch unbearably thin, so fragile you thought even the sound of your breath might shatter it. his presence filled the room so effortlessly, as if he belonged there, while you sat pressed against the wall, arms wrapped loosely around your knees in a dress that suddenly felt too thin for how exposed you felt beneath his gaze. 

the weight of it lingered, dragging over your skin like static, and before you could stop yourself, the question slipped out—soft but edged with something you couldn’t quite name.

“what are you doing here?”

your voice felt small in the stillness, cracking slightly at the edges, but he caught it anyway. wonbin’s head tilted just slightly, dark hair falling messily into his eyes, but he didn’t answer right away. instead, his gaze traced the soft curve of your shoulder, dipping lower to where the thin fabric of your dress stretched delicately over your knee. 

his eyes lingered there—too long. it sent a flicker of heat curling under your skin, the air between you growing heavier, suffocating in the worst way.

“thought you might need some company,” he said at last, his voice low but light, like he hadn’t just unraveled something fragile inside you.

the corner of his mouth lifted, almost teasing, but it didn’t meet his eyes.

he shifted closer then, slow and deliberate, until his thigh rested faintly against yours, the leather of his jacket brushing against the bare skin of your arm. the touch burned—not enough to hurt, but just enough to stay. you couldn’t ignore the heat radiating off him, seeping through the space between you, making the thin straps of your dress feel insignificant.

you swallowed hard, but it did nothing to loosen the ache curling deep in your chest.

“i’m sure those girls downstairs won’t be too happy you left them behind,” you muttered, forcing your gaze down to the floor, watching the way the shadows stretched long beneath the soft pool of light overhead.

his chuckle was soft, breathy—almost like he wasn’t supposed to let it slip.

“they’ll survive,” he said casually, but the weight in his voice was anything but.

you could feel him watching you, the intensity of his stare drawing heat to your cheeks, and the longer you sat there, the more suffocating the quiet became. his shoulder grazed yours once more, subtle but intentional, and the faint pressure of it sent a shiver down your spine, your body betraying you in ways you wished it wouldn’t.

the worst part was that he didn’t even have to try.

wonbin existed in a way that made the space around him feel smaller, tighter—like he could pull someone in without even meaning to, and you hated how easily you slipped under that gravity. even now, with him sitting just inches away, you felt like you were falling all over again, even though you swore you’d stopped letting yourself trip over him a long time ago.

but here you were.

and there he was—close enough to touch.

you kept your gaze trained somewhere near the floor, fixated on the shadows stretching beneath the doorframe, but it did little to steady the fragile rhythm of your breath. the warmth radiating off wonbin, so close yet still untouchable, felt like it could unravel you if you weren’t careful. 

you could already feel it—the delicate thread of composure fraying at the edges, pulled tighter by the way his thigh rested just against yours, the soft brush of his jacket sleeve lingering faintly on your arm like an imprint you wouldn’t be able to shake. you told yourself not to look at him, not to indulge the ache curling low in your stomach, but your body betrayed you.

before you could stop it, your eyes lifted—drawn to him like the ocean dragged toward the shore, inevitable and unrelenting.

he was beautiful in the most dangerous way, and you hated how easily the thought slipped into your mind, settling there like it belonged. the faint glow of the light softened the edges of him, pooling along the curve of his jaw and catching faintly on the strands of hair that brushed past his eyes, longer than you remembered.

his lips, slightly parted in the kind of breathless stillness that felt unintentional, twisted faintly into something that wasn’t quite a smile but held the same weight. the soft dip in his collarbone was visible just beneath the open neckline of his shirt, and you caught yourself lingering too long there, following the path down to where his arm rested loosely against his knee, his fingers tapping thoughtlessly at his jeans. 

every small movement felt amplified in the silence, each rise and fall of his chest leaving you breathless in a way that had nothing to do with the alcohol burning low in your veins.

he hadn’t said a word, but he didn’t need to. the flicker of his gaze—the way his eyes slid just slightly toward you without fully turning his head—was enough to confirm what you already knew.

he felt it. he knew you were staring, drinking him in piece by piece as if you could commit him to memory, as if looking at him long enough would soften the hollow ache sitting low in your chest. but he said nothing, and somehow, that made it worse.

your throat tightened, heat crawling up the back of your neck until you had to look away, forcing your gaze back down to the floor as if grounding yourself to something steady might keep you from unraveling entirely, but it was too late.

wonbin had always known how to linger in the spaces between, how to slip beneath your skin without trying—and even now, even in the heavy quiet of that room, he was everywhere.

his voice cut through the stillness, soft but steady, curling around you in the quiet like he’d been waiting for the right moment to speak. 

“everything’s good with us, right?"

the words felt too careful, too deliberate to be anything but intentional, and for a fleeting second, you forgot how to breathe. your heart lurched, betraying you in the worst way—loud and erratic, hammering against your ribcage with a force you were sure he could hear in the silence that followed.

his eyes remained fixed ahead, but the weight of his question hung between you like a thread pulled too tight, stretched to the point of snapping. you wanted to say something, to let the answer slip from your lips in a way that felt casual, indifferent—yes, of course, why wouldn’t it be?

but the words caught somewhere deep in your throat, tangling with the mess of thoughts you’d been desperately trying to ignore all night. had you been too obvious? had your eyes lingered too long, or had the silence stretched a little too thin, leaving just enough space for him to notice the way you’d withdrawn without meaning to?

you forced yourself to stay still, afraid that even the slightest shift might betray the storm unraveling beneath your skin. his gaze flickered sideways, catching the faintest movement in the corner of his eye, and your body tensed instinctively under his attention.

the moment stretched endlessly, the pulse in your neck thrumming painfully as you tried to gather your composure, but your heart wouldn’t cooperate. it never did when it came to him.

wonbin shifted slightly, the movement soft but deliberate, like he was giving you space to speak. when you didn’t—when the silence held firm between you—he exhaled quietly, his gaze dropping to where his hands rested loosely on his lap.

“i just mean… you feel far away lately. like you’re here but not really present.”

his voice dipped softer, low enough that it barely cut through the faint thrum of music bleeding from downstairs. the kind of softness that didn’t belong to him—like he wasn’t used to carrying words that fragile, as if he wasn’t sure how they’d land but couldn’t bring himself to swallow them.

his eyes lingered on you, dark and steady, searching for something he wasn’t even sure he’d recognize if he found it. there was a quiet weight there, the kind that settled in the spaces between what was said and what wasn’t, stretching taut between the inches of air keeping you apart.

his fingers twitched absently against the zipper of his jacket, tugging it up halfway only to drag it back down again, the faint metallic rasp echoing louder than it should have in the heavy silence that had started to press in around you both.

the way he fidgeted—restless and distracted—felt out of place, a subtle unraveling at the edges of someone who was always so composed, so maddeningly effortless in everything he did.

“you’ve been slipping away.”

the words came quieter, like they almost weren’t meant to be said aloud, but once they were, there was no pulling them back. his gaze never wavered, pinning you in place as if daring you to deny it. there was no accusation in his voice—just something heavier, something that sat low in his chest, threaded through the spaces between each word.

“i see it even when you think i don’t.”

his brows knitted together, barely, as if the distance between you was something tangible, something he’d been measuring long before this moment. when his gaze dipped, it wasn’t aimless—it followed the worn path of your footsteps, tracking every inch of space you put between him and the truth you refused to say aloud, before finally settling back on you, sharp and searching..

and for the first time in a long time, he looked… bothered. like the distance between you had started to gnaw at him too. like maybe, just maybe, he felt it too.

the words pressed into your chest, sinking deep, and for a brief second, you wished he’d left them unsaid he always had a way of noticing the things you thought you hid well, and somehow, it made the walls you’d tried to build feel thinner, like he could see right through the cracks you’d been so careful to ignore. 

his eyes lifted then, searching yours for something you weren’t sure you could give, and you felt it again—that unbearable heat creeping up the back of your neck, curling under your skin until you had to grip the hem of your dress just to keep your hands from trembling.

you could feel him watching you, waiting for some kind of reassurance, but the words sat heavy in your throat, unwilling to rise.because what were you supposed to say to that?

that he was the reason you felt far away? that you were retreating not because you wanted to, but because staying too close—letting him see too much—hurt more than you knew how to explain?

you swallowed, forcing the breath caught in your throat to steady itself before it could betray you. 

"i’m fine," you said, and somehow, the words slipped out smoother than you expected—so smooth they almost felt real. 

your voice didn’t crack, didn’t waver, but it sat uncomfortably in the air, stretched thin like a wire ready to snap

“i’s just the tour. long nights, long drives… it’s catching up to me, i guess." you tacked the last part on casually, adding a faint shrug for good measure, hoping the ease in your posture would sell the lie well enough to make him stop looking at you like that.

but he didn’t. wonbin’s eyes narrowed slightly, just enough for the weight of his gaze to press heavier against your skin, and you felt the shift before he even spoke.

"that’s not it," he said simply. there was no hesitation, no room for you to slip through the cracks of false reassurance. 

“you’ve been different since… that night."

the words hung in the air, suspended like smoke, curling between you until it felt like they left shadows against the walls. you wished he hadn’t said it, hadn’t pulled the memory from where you buried it because now it was here again, sitting just between your ribs, burning slow and steady like it never really left.

you stiffened involuntarily, your fingers tightening around the fabric of your dress as you glanced down at the floor. 

“i don’t know what you mean.”

you meant for it to sound light, dismissive, but the words landed wrong—strained and thin, like they didn’t quite fit into the space they were meant to fill.

“yeah, you do.”

his voice wasn’t confrontational, but firm.

“it was just a night, wonbin. it doesn’t have to mean anything.”

wonbin leaned forward slightly, enough that his knee brushed against yours, and the faint press of it left your pulse stumbling over itself. his eyes searched yours, flickering with something unreadable—something quiet, but not distant.

"you didn’t hate it, did you?"

the question lanced through you, cutting clean and sharp, and for a second, you felt like the breath had been stolen from your lungs. your fingers curled tighter against the hem of your dress, twisting the fabric slowly between your knuckles as if that might somehow keep the frustration bubbling beneath your skin from rising to the surface. 

how could he not see it? the thought pulsed, loud and sharp in your chest, echoing in the spaces he left bare with his questions. was it really that impossible for him to imagine the truth? that the weight sitting between you wasn’t regret, wasn’t confusion, but something far worse—something you’d been carrying alone for far too long.

you shook your head, slow and deliberate, eyes fixed on the faint cracks spidering along the floorboards, unwilling to meet the gaze burning quietly into the side of your face. you didn’t trust yourself to speak.

wonbin exhaled softly, the sound barely more than a breath, but the subtle shift in his posture was unmistakable. his shoulders relaxed, the tension unwinding from where it had been coiled, and for a fleeting second, his relief settled over the room like the soft hum of static.

it felt like a weight pressing deeper into your chest.

"so… what is it then?"

the question sliced through the stillness, pulling you apart in ways you didn’t expect.

there was no teasing lilt in his voice this time, no quiet smugness lingering at the corners of his mouth. he wasn’t brushing it off, wasn’t laughing or letting the moment slip through his fingers the way you thought he would.

he was waiting, and that made everything worse.

"i won’t push," he said finally, his voice dipping low, rough at the edges but laced with something gentler. "but… i’m here, you know? if you ever feel like talking."

the words settled heavily over you, pressing into the ache sitting just beneath your ribs, and for a second, it felt like the air in the room had grown thicker—almost too much to swallow. you nodded faintly, the motion small and fragile, but even that felt unsteady beneath the weight curling in your chest.

a hum slipped from your throat, soft but strangled, and you hated the way it felt—how it barely held together when the edges of your composure were already splintering. your fingers tightened against the thin fabric of your dress, nails biting faintly into your palm as if the sharpness might keep the burning behind your eyes from spilling over.

you forced it back—swallowed it down—until the ache dulled into something manageable, something small enough to keep hidden just beneath the surface.

wonbin didn’t look at you after that. he let the silence linger, stretching wide enough to give you space to gather yourself, and somehow that made it both easier and harder all at once.

the silence between you didn’t dissolve; it thickened, coiling tightly in the narrow space that separated you—if it could even be called that. his knee still brushed faintly against yours, a point of contact so small it shouldn’t have mattered, but it did. 

it felt like everything. 

the warmth radiating from him seeped beneath your skin, clouding your thoughts, tangling them into a haze that made it hard to remember how to breathe it was overwhelming—the way your pulse tripped over itself, the way the air felt too hot despite the coolness pressing through the wall at your back. and then he looked at you.

not in passing, not like before. this time, his eyes dipped low, slow and deliberate, dragging over the shape of your shoulders, the soft curve of your collarbone, before resting somewhere just below your chin.

his gaze lingered, dark and steady, tracing the delicate slope of your collarbone and the faint rise and fall of your chest as if committing each subtle detail to memory.

“you look pretty.”

the words slipped out quietly, but they landed like stones, rippling through the space between you, heavy in a way that felt irreversible.

it wasn’t the first time he’d said it. you remembered the low murmur of those same words in the soft, dim light of his car—the way his hand brushed the steering wheel as if the compliment had been an afterthought, something so simple yet lingering long after the moment passed. but even then, there had been sincerity tucked beneath the calm curve of his voice, no trace of jest or casual charm.

and now—now it was different.

his voice carried the weight of something that had been pressing at the edges of him for too long, something unspoken that finally bled through before he could stop it. the words tumbled out like he’d been holding them back, and there was no disguising the way they sat, raw and unpolished, between the two of you.

he wasn’t teasing. there was no faint curl of his lips to soften the blow. just the faintest flicker of hesitation in his eyes, the briefest pause that felt too fragile, too intimate, like even he hadn’t meant to let it slip.

your breath caught, shallow and uneven, and you felt it—the shift in the air, the slow unraveling of the fragile thread you’d been clinging to since the night began.

his eyes hadn’t left yours, hadn’t strayed from the subtle tremor in your hands as they twisted absently against the hem of your dress, the silk wrinkling beneath your fingertips in a way you couldn’t stop.

you wanted to speak, to downplay it, to offer something light that might untangle the knot tightening low in your stomach, but the words wouldn’t come. and he just kept watching, his gaze unwavering, like he was daring you to look away first.

his gaze dipped lower, lingering at the curve of your mouth, and the breath you’d been holding slipped out too sharply, catching in your throat. the words you wanted to say—the easy, dismissive ones that would push him away and smooth over the crackling tension—froze somewhere between your chest and your tongue, heavy and unmoving. His eyes stayed there, dark and unreadable, following the slow press of your teeth as they sank into your lower lip, and for a fleeting second, you thought he might say something—might do something to ease the tension.

but he didn’t.

the air between you felt electric, like a wire pulled too tight, thrumming with an energy that could snap at the slightest movement. you knew you should look away, should peel yourself from the wall and put distance between you, but you couldn’t. your body wouldn’t cooperate, no matter how hard you willed it to listen and his proximity rooted you in place, the heat radiating off him felt like it was soaking into your skin, holding you there.

you swallowed thickly, heart rattling against your ribs, and before the moment could spiral further, you tore your gaze away, dropping your eyes to the floor as if the sight of scuffed floorboards could cool the warmth burning its way beneath your skin. your fingers twitched faintly at your sides, brushing against the soft fabric of your dress, and you bit down harder on your lip, the faint sting grounding you—reminding you.

you can’t do this.

you told yourself to leave—you knew you should. the thought rang loud and clear, rattling through your head with every agonizing second that passed, but your body betrayed you, anchored stubbornly to the spot as if your limbs no longer belonged to you. every inhale felt heavier, weighted down by the intoxicating pull of him, and no matter how fiercely you urged yourself to step back, the space between you felt impossible to cross.

you could already see it—the disappointment written plainly across yunjin’s face, the way her eyes would narrow knowingly, sharp but sympathetic as if she’d been waiting for this moment. minjeong wouldn’t say anything, but you could hear her sigh in your head, that quiet exhale that spoke louder than words, echoing with disapproval she wouldn’t bother to voice.

they were right, you knew they were right.

but it didn’t matter. not now—not when wonbin was this close, his presence consuming every inch of the space around you until it felt like there was nothing left but him. his warmth melted into yours, heady and overwhelming, drowning out the faint hum of music bleeding through the walls, drowning out the echo of reason whispering at the back of your mind.

your pulse betrayed you, thundering beneath your skin in frantic bursts, and you hated how easily he unraveled the parts of you you’d worked so hard to protect. it was overpowering—he was overpowering, and the sheer force of him kept you frozen in place, as if stepping away would only pull you deeper beneath his gravity.

wonbin hadn’t moved, hadn’t said a word, but somehow that made everything worse. the absence of distance between you pulsed like a live wire, charged and dangerous, and no matter how hard you tried to focus on anything else—on the scuffed floorboards, on the faint draft creeping in from under the door—your eyes still gravitated back to him, helpless against the current that pulled you under.

the moment unraveled in slow motion, the weight of the silence folding in on itself until there was nothing left to hold it back. wonbin’s eyes flickered down—barely, but enough for you to feel the shift in the air, thick and electric, like the seconds before a storm breaks. your breath caught, lodging somewhere between your chest and throat, but you didn’t pull away. 

you couldn’t.

his gaze lingered there, heavy and deliberate, tracing the soft curve of your mouth with an intensity that sent heat rushing to the tips of your fingers.

and then he leaned in.

it wasn’t sudden—not really. his movements were slow, careful, as if giving you space to slip away, to stop this before it crossed the line you’d danced around for so long but you didn’t. you stayed.

and when his lips finally brushed against yours, it was like something inside you cracked open.

the kiss wasn’t soft—it was fire, burning hot and immediate, pouring out of him in a way that stole the breath from your lungs, akin to that night. his hand slid along the side of your neck, fingertips grazing the line of your jaw as if to anchor you there, and you melted beneath it, pressing closer until the space between you no longer existed. his other hand curled loosely at your waist, the warmth of his palm seeping through the thin fabric of your dress, and the sensation made your skin ignite, trembling beneath his touch.

your fingers found the collar of his jacket, clutching at the leather like it might steady you, but nothing felt stable—not with the way his lips moved against yours, slow at first, teasing, before deepening with a hunger that left you dizzy. every brush, every tilt of his head felt deliberate, as if he’d been holding back for far too long, and now there was no reason to.

the kiss twisted something inside you—tight, aching, and impossible to ignore.

your heart raced, thrumming wildly in your chest, but none of it felt overwhelming. if anything, it felt right, as if this was the only way the night could’ve ended, as if every glance, every touch, had been building to this moment, to the way his hands mapped out the curve of your back, pulling you further beneath the weight of him.

and for once, you let it.

you let him drown out the thoughts, the voices, the lingering regret that whispered too loudly in the quiet, because right now, there was only him and that was enough.

the kiss deepened, unraveling slowly but with an urgency that set your skin alight, each brush of his lips coaxing you further under. there was something reckless about the way he kissed you—like he wasn’t thinking, wasn’t holding anything back, and you matched him without hesitation, your body arching instinctively into the pull of him. 

his hand splayed wider against your waist, fingers curling slightly as if to draw you impossibly closer, and the pressure sent a rush of heat spiraling down your spine. every point of contact felt amplified—the firm press of his thigh against yours, the way his thumb traced faint circles along your jaw, tilting your face just enough to deepen the connection.

the world outside of this room—the party still thumping below, the haze of alcohol humming faintly in your veins—faded into nothing, drowned out by the slow drag of his mouth against yours. it was intoxicating, the way he kissed you—like he wasn’t just taking his time but memorizing every second of it, and it left you breathless, every part of you humming beneath his touch.

your fingers tightened in the collar of his jacket, nails grazing the cool leather as if anchoring yourself there might keep you steady, but there was no steadiness to be found. the kiss was all-consuming, and you found yourself chasing it, letting him tilt your chin higher as his lips parted slightly, teasing the line between too much and not enough.

a soft, involuntary sound slipped from your throat, and you felt him smile faintly against your mouth, the curve of it somehow making everything worse—because he knew. he knew exactly what he was doing to you, but you didn’t stop him.

his teeth grazed your lower lip, tugging just enough to send a shiver through you, and the low, quiet exhale that followed only fueled the fire blooming steadily in your chest. his touch, light but sure, traced the dip of your spine, fingers ghosting over the thin straps of your dress, and the sheer intimacy of it made your breath hitch, your body pressing flush against his without thought.

the heat between you burned hotter, and somewhere in the back of your mind, you knew you should stop—that this was dangerous, that nothing about this could end neatly—but the thought flickered and died as quickly as it appeared.

right now, with his mouth on yours and his hands steady against your skin, you didn’t care about consequences. all you wanted was him.

when wonbin finally pulled away, it was slow—like he didn’t really want to, like something tethered him to you even as his lips parted from yours. his forehead brushed against yours, faint and fleeting, but he stayed close, so close that you could still feel the warmth of his breath fanning lightly across your skin, each exhale shallow and uneven. his chest rose and fell in rhythm with yours, as if the kiss had unraveled something in him too, something he wasn’t ready to let slip away just yet.

his eyes, wild and dark beneath the faint glow pooling in the corners of the room, searched yours like he was looking for something—confirmation, maybe, or reassurance that you weren’t about to disappear beneath the weight of it all. but you didn’t move, didn’t dare break the fragile thread tying you to him, even as the faint tremble in your hands betrayed the storm still rolling beneath your skin.

wonbin’s gaze flickered, dropping briefly to your lips—swollen and tingling from the heat of his kiss—before trailing back up, locking onto your eyes with an intensity that made your pulse trip over itself. his breathing, still ragged, filled the small space between you, and you could feel the hesitation crackling in the air, as if neither of you could decide whether to pull back or dive in all over again.

but he didn’t move. instead, his thumb brushed faintly over your waist where his hand still rested, light but grounding, as if the smallest shift might break the moment apart completely.

wonbin’s eyes held yours in the dim hush of the room, and there was something there—something fragile, unspoken, pooling beneath the surface in a way that made your chest ache. he looked at you like he wanted to say something, the words balanced on the edge of his tongue, trembling under the weight of the moment that neither of you had fully grasped.

the soft glow of his stare left you breathless, and you felt it—the way your heart tripped violently over itself, as if it could shatter apart at the force of his attention alone.

but before the silence could break, before whatever hung so delicately between you could find the space to bloom, the door creaked open.

your breath hitched, shoulders stiffening instinctively as the soft glow from the hallway spilled in, stretching long shadows across the floor. and there she was—the girl from downstairs, the one who had been tucked neatly beneath wonbin’s arm not long ago, her hair slightly tousled, lips still tinted the same shade of deep red they’d been wrapped around the neck of a bottle earlier.

she arched a brow, leaning casually against the doorframe as if she hadn’t just stepped into something she wasn’t supposed to witness, her gaze flickering between the two of you with barely concealed amusement.

“there you are,” she drawled, crossing her arms loosely over her chest. 

her eyes lingered on where wonbin’s hand still rested against your waist, the faint trace of a smirk tugging at her mouth. 

“i was just looking for the bathroom, but i guess you found something else to keep you busy.”

the words stung more than you wanted to admit, slicing through the haze of warmth that had settled over your skin like cold water. wonbin subtly pulled away, severing the last thread of contact that tethered him to you.

you felt the absence immediately.

the version of him that had been so close just moments before—the one whose eyes held too much softness, whose breath still lingered faintly against your skin—slipped away just as easily as his hand did. his expression shifted, carefully, subtly, into something more familiar—something easy, like sliding on an old jacket.

“you left pretty quick, you know,” she added, tipping her head as her eyes lingered on him. “i thought you told me to hurry back, that your lips were aching to be kissed.” 

her voice dripped with teasing, but there was something sharper hidden beneath it, something that made the air feel heavier than before.

you dropped your gaze, swallowing hard as you willed the heat crawling up your neck to settle, but the damage had already been done. the kiss still lingered on your lips, but now it felt fragile, as if it might slip away entirely beneath the weight of her presence.

and somehow, that silence said more than you wanted it to.

it sank in slowly at first—like ice creeping beneath your skin, cold and unforgiving, before spreading out in sharp, jagged edges that left you raw and exposed. the kiss that had left you breathless, that had ignited something fragile and aching inside you, was nothing more than a fleeting indulgence to him. a moment without consequence. you could see it now, clear as day in the casual way he stood there, unmoved by the intrusion, his hand slipping from your waist with an ease that made your stomach twist.

the bile rose fast, hot and bitter at the back of your throat, chasing the slow-burning alcohol that had once been your only companion tonight. the room tilted slightly as you lurched forward, unsteady on your feet, but the sudden need to get out propelled you before the ground could catch up to you. 

the floor felt too solid beneath your heels, yet somehow it still shifted, your legs buckling beneath the weight of disappointment that seemed far heavier than your body could carry.

your fingers grazed the wall, trailing against the plaster for balance, but it did little to steady the frantic thrum of your heart, the erratic pulse thudding painfully beneath your ribs. you didn’t look at him—couldn’t look at him. not when the aftertaste of the kiss still lingered on your lips, mixing bitterly with the sourness rising in your chest.

how could you have been so naive?

the thought struck hard, splintering through the haze clouding your mind. of course, it hadn’t meant anything, not to him.

wonbin shifted in the absence of  your closeness, the faint sound of his breath catching like he wanted to say something, but the words never came.

you felt him hesitate, the weight of his indecision thick in the space between you, but you couldn’t bring yourself to meet his gaze—not when the version of him standing there now was the same one you’d always known. the one who smiled too easily, laughed too freely, and kissed you like it was nothing more than a passing moment.

his hand twitched at his side, barely noticeable, but you caught it—the faintest movement, like he wasn’t sure if he should reach for you or let you slip away entirely.

you made the decision for him.

“i should go,” you muttered under your breath, though it hardly mattered if anyone heard you.

a desperate attempt to keep yourself from breaking apart in the same room where you’d just let yourself believe—even for a second—that maybe you were something more than just another girl passing through his night.

your hand barely brushed the doorknob when you heard it—soft, almost hesitant, like he wasn’t sure he should say anything at all. he called your name, just your name. nothing more.

but it sliced through the air, cutting straight to the fragile, aching part of you that was already splitting open beneath the weight of it all. his voice carried that same softness he always seemed to wear around you, the kind that could unravel you if you let it, but you couldn’t afford to let it reach you. not now—not when the bitter taste of disappointment still lingered on your tongue, and the heat of his kiss felt more like a bruise than a memory.

your fingers tightened around the doorframe, knuckles pale as if you could somehow ground yourself through the sheer force of it. for a brief second, you swore you felt the room shift again, the pull of his voice tethering you there like a thin thread you were barely holding onto.

but you didn’t turn around. instead you pushed forward, slipping out the door before the sound of your name could latch onto anything deeper—before the storm swirling behind his eyes could drag you back under.

the hallway stretched endlessly ahead, dim and empty save for the faint thump of music still pulsing distantly beneath the floorboards. each step felt heavier than the last, your pulse thundering in your ears, but you didn’t stop. 

if you stayed—if you met his eyes now—you knew you’d fall apart right there in front of him, and that wasn’t something you were willing to let him see.

the hallway blurred around you, the edges folding in on themselves as you stumbled forward, each step heavier than the last, like the ground beneath you had shifted into something unsteady—something that no longer belonged to you. 

the pulse of the music from below thudded against your ribs, each beat knocking the breath from your lungs as if the house itself was trying to hold you back. your hand slid against the banister, the cool wood biting into your palm, but even that felt distant, as if your body was moving on instinct alone—driven by the desperate, suffocating need to get out, to breathe air that wasn’t laced with the faint scent of him still clinging to your skin.

the staircase stretched endlessly beneath you, spiraling down into the haze of bodies pressed too close, of laughter that felt like it belonged to someone else’s night, not yours. your ankle wavered on the last step, the heel of your shoe catching for just a second, but you barely noticed—barely cared—because the ache curling deep in your chest burned hotter, tighter, until it was all you could feel.

you pushed through the front door with trembling fingers, the cool night air rushing over your skin like a slap, sudden and sharp, yet not enough to ease the knot twisting violently inside you. the quiet outside was jarring, the absence of music leaving nothing but the thrum of your heartbeat ringing loud in your ears, each pulse a brutal reminder of what you already knew but refused to say out loud.

wonbin would never belong to you.

the realization struck harder beneath the glow of the streetlights, seeping into the cracks you’d been trying to ignore for far too long. no matter how many glances lingered, no matter how many fleeting touches made your heart stumble, you were just another part of his night—a brief distraction, nothing more. 

and now, standing alone beneath the cold stretch of sky, the weight of that truth sank deep into your bones, settling there like it had always been waiting. you wrapped your arms around yourself, the wind tugging at the hem of your dress as if trying to pull you apart piece by piece, but there was nothing left to unravel.

you had already come undone.

[windvexer]

id love to have more servitors but im shit as remembering to feed/charge them on a routine!! any tips for ways to have them “automatically” fed somehow?

Inb4 "set a repeating alert."

There are a few methods you can take. For me it basically comes down to a few options:

Permanently plug in the servitor to an energy source

Plug all the servitors into a power strip so you charge all of them at once

Plan ahead and prepare vessels and energized substances so each feeding is easier.

The first approach is to design (or later modify) servitors so that they're plugged into an energy source. This is like leaving a phone constantly plugged in: on the one hand, the servitor becomes tethered to the energy source. On the other hand, it's always charging.

This old tumblr post is still my go-to online resource for this.

There is some fuss about servitors becoming "corrupted" if you attach them to energy sources and walk away, the idea being that new programming can flow through energy, and so over time - if you are not monitoring the servitor - they can start to change in unwanted ways.

I find this to be sort of true, but "corruption" shouldn't be taken as some kind of evil Jekyll and Hyde situation. Probably a better word is fragmented, but even so the effects aren't all that bad in my experience. And I doubt a very well constructed servitor, even a decently made one, would have too many issues with this.

The only real issue I have with plugging servitors (or anything) into an energy source so you don't have to remember it, is that you might forget it.

One thing you can do to keep things more hands-on is centralize the operation. Witches do this all the time with spellcasting altars. Bind each servitor to an object, or all of them to a single object (like extension cords plugged into a power strip), and energize all of them at once.

This can be done cyclically, perhaps around the full moon, but especially when you anticipate actually having the time/energy to do work.

Of course there is nothing at all wrong with just slotting in magic where it fits, but if someone has a lot of work they need to upkeep, I imagine sooner or later a person might actually need to free up one weekend a month to focus on it.

But you don't have to rely on direct energy work to feed servitors. Here's a post on making a feeding oil to anoint vessels, where you spend all the energy enchanting the oil in one go.

This other post about feeding spells may also be applicable (as what is a servitor but a spell with a personality?).

If you do just want to slot things in where they fit, excess energy gathered during other spellwork, energy exercises, prayer, and so forth, can then be used to charge servitors. Of course only you'd know if the energy is suitable for such, but you could do it. If grounding is a part of your practice, funnel energy into servitors rather than into the earth.

So there are plenty of options IMO, but if you do want to start doing things automatically, I'd really recommend keeping strong written records of what you're making. These things are best not completely forgotten.

[craving-for-chaos]

Let's talk about the music video.

So. I guess I'm a prophet now. That's neat 😭 But anyway, analysis time!! Get ready for a LOT of photos to illustrate my points.

First of all, seeing Phoenix + Mary and Reyna + Lucia right when First Light happened was fascinating. Specifically in the case of Lucia, this proves that her sudden illness was directly caused by gaining Radiant powers. And, though this was pretty much already established I believe, this also confirms that First Light happened quite a while ago (as we can see by the noticeable difference in the ages of the agents in the flashbacks vs. the present).

One shot in particular that intrigues me is this one:

Obviously the Kingdom Corp. logo is in the background, and there seem to be agents (not the VP kind) ready to incapacitate Phoenix; notice how they're holding guns and speaking into phones/walkie talkies. And on the right there's firefighters (And Mary, though she's not visible in this screenshot). This implies that Phoenix may have been detained by Kingdom immediately after causing the fire at school—unless this is more metaphorical, but in that case I'd imagine we'd see the Valorant logo in the back instead of Kingdom Corp's.

Okay, now to move on to what I'm sure most of us are going insane over: Sage.

The first thing I noticed was in this shot, Sage's powers are creating crystals wherever she steps:

Personally, I'm not attributing this to her healing power directly, as we know (via her walls and slow orbs) Sage can simple create crystallized structures. However, I find it interesting how almost automatic this seems. We see in the frames after that Sage is already preparing to revive Killjoy, and in that case, could this be her powers "spilling over," so to speak? There's other frames in the MV that make me think Sage could be having issues controlling her powers overall, but we'll get back to this in a second.

I want to bring attention to this transition, for a moment:

In the first shot, KJ is being held by Brimstone, and all of the mission's agents are close to one another. Yet in the next, I believe we're seeing the situation from Sage's POV; the others disappear, and she instead sees KJ's corpse/soul crystallized. She's even looking directly at it in the shot. Reality has fallen away, and from here on out, everything except for KJ coming back to life and the consequences of Sage's powers isn't actually physically occurring. It's in the agents' heads, a manifestation of their traumas. It's possible Sage is actually experiencing these things, but if she is, she's the only one.

Here, notice how the others are still absent (they've been mysteriously teleported elsewhere) except for Raze, and these crystal "monsters" are beginning to rise up and turn hostile. Sage, meanwhile, is making direct contact with crystallized KJ and seemingly funneling all of her power into her.

I'm going to omit the shot of Reyna holding Lucia and Phoenix with Mary in the background because, like I said, they're heavily figurative moments, and don't present us with any new information. What I WILL highlight, however, is this shot of Brimstone:

You may have missed this on first watch, but do you noticed whose face is in the background? KAY/O. Paired with the shots of Brimstone holding his dead friend earlier in the MV, not to mention KAY/O's odd familiarity with and affection for Brimstone, this may lend some more credence to the theory that Brim's dead friend is somehow the "soul" or personality within KAY/O. Now then—back to Sage.

It's this next part that leads me to believe that Sage is either having trouble controlling her powers, is "running out" of life to give, or some combination of the two. We'll go nearly frame by frame.

Notice how, in the first and third images, Sage's eyes are brown. Her powers are flagging, and she has to consciously take deep breaths and gather strength to push out enough power to revive Killjoy. And—something you may or may not have noticed—we can actually see the crystals on Sage's skin forming more and more with each "push." In the second image, her slightly glowing eyes directly correlate with the slight glow seen in the gap of her bangs; the first appearance of the crystals. Then, after her power fades and she has to gather strength again, she bows her head, closes her eyes, and we see the entirety of her cheek + jaw glowing as the crystals form. Lo and behold, when she looks up again, her eyes are glowing brightly, and during her final surge of power, the crystals on her neck are also visible.

She also looks visibly tired and frustrated whenever she "fails" and has to push harder. We see her grit her teeth and thin her lips in irritation in both shots where her eyes are brown. And, to top it all off, she's visibly breathing heavily this entire scene, not to mention how her position (leaning all of her weight on crystallized KJ and literally pushing) also communicates how she's giving everything she has into this. Along with what I pointed out earlier, this could be evidence of her control over her powers slipping, it could simply be evidence that she's pushing herself too far, or it could also mean that the longer someone has been dead, the more damage is done to Sage if she revives them. Or, of course a combination of the three. Either way, it doesn't bode well for Sage.

And then we have this scene. Sage isn't surprised. Sure, she's hurt and frustrated, and she even tries to brush off Reyna's attempt to help, but there's not an ounce of fear or shock in her behavior here. Also of note: not only is she taking deep breaths, wincing, and both of her hands tremble, but she's also hunched over and crouched down. It's clear she's in a lot of pain, and though she isn't quite brought to her knees, it's a damn near thing. The crystals—which, by the way, are still glowing (and perhaps burning her?)—on her neck also disappear under her collar, so we don't actually know just how much of her skin they cover.

We're also firmly back in reality now. All of the agents are still really close to one another, as they were earlier, and none of them are even armed. We're back in Valorant HQ's hangar, not a crystal structure in sight. This further supports the idea that that was all in Sage's head.

....And aside from the burn scar on Mary's face showing us that Phoenix burned her by accident in the fire, that's all I got.

God, this music video was JAM-PACKED with lore. We've now gotten every agent on the loading screen(s) shown except for Viper and Chamber, and I can only imagine how they might show up in the upcoming updates...