#but for now they are just... an question in mind

[thatisaloaf]

Moots do these

yes please

[cameronsbabydoll]

you’re followin’ him around the house like a little duckling in heart-print pajama shorts, pink fuzzy socks, and a tank top that says ‘daddy’s girl’ in glitter letters.

he’s tryin’ to clean his guns on the coffee table. hasn’t looked up once.

“simonnn…” you whine, ploppin’ down beside him.

“what now.” flat. not a question. a warning.

“i just… i missed you…” you blink up at him, resting your chin on your hand. “also… if a plane crashes on the border of two countries… where do they bury the survivors?”

he finally looks up.

“what the fuck did you just say?”

you smile real pretty. “y’know! like… which country do they bury ‘em in?”

he just stares. dead silent.

“…jesus fuckin’ christ.”

you blink. “did i say something dumb?”

“they’re survivors, love. they don’t fuckin’ bury ‘em.”

you giggle. “ohhh…”

he sighs so hard it rattles the windows. tosses his rag onto the table.

“m’gonna lose my fuckin’ mind, swear to god.”

“simon…” you whimper, crawling into his lap. “don’t be mad…”

he leans back, big hands gripping your hips. jaw tight. eyes dark.

“what am i gonna do with you, huh? my soft little wife. can’t even figure out where a fuckin’ plane goes when it crashes.”
“was just askin’…”
“dumb girl.” he squeezes your hips hard. “head full of sparkles n’ nothin’ else.”

you whimper again, softly, nuzzling into his neck. “but i’m your wifey…”

“fuckin’ right you are.” he grabs your ass and pulls you down onto his cock, already hard beneath his sweats. “mine. my stupid little wifey who follows me ‘round like a lost fuckin’ puppy.”

“’m not stupid…”
“you are.” he kisses the corner of your mouth. “but that’s alright. i like you like this. soft. dumb. needy.”

he pulls your tank top down, lets your tits spill out. sucks a bruise into your skin.

“c’mon, then,” he mutters. “ride me. use that dumb brain for somethin’ useful.”

you bounce in his lap, messy and breathy, moanin’ into his mouth. he holds you like a toy—hands bruising, voice gruff.

“look at you,” he groans. “fuckin’ brainless, ain’t ya? all sloppy on my cock.”

“simon—simon, m’your wifey—”
“you’re my fuckin’ problem is what you are.”

you cum all over him with a high, shivery cry, babbling nonsense. he doesn’t stop. not even after.

“you ask me one more stupid question,” he pants, “and i’ll bend you over the fuckin’ oven.”

[xoxojisu]

CATSUKI!

synopsis: katsuki loves when you get your nails done.

notes: i wrote this forever ago. now i always have my nails done lol so katsuki can have head scratchies whenever he likes. based off american highschool not ua ^^

bakugo katsuki hates school dances.

he hates homecoming, he hates prom, he hates all of them and every part of it. he hates having to plan so much for something he knows he won’t even enjoy, he hates watching you stress over afterparties and whether or not your dress will come in time. he hates how ridiculously fucking expensive corsages are, especially when he's convinced he could just rip some flowers out of the dirt and it would look the same but for free, he hates the way the hallways reek of self tan the week before, he hates the actual dance itself, and he leaves as soon as they open the doors, though the afterparties are never much better. overall, he doesn’t find much to like about the whole school dance scene.

there is one perk, though.

whenever a school dance comes around, you always get your nails done.

-

katsuki hums a sigh of contentment as you gently scratch his scalp with your long nails, relishing in the sensation.

you chuckle a little at his tendencies. “feel good?”

he hums again, giving you an affirming grunt.

you smile down at him, your fingers continuing their gentle motions through his soft strands. "you're like a cat." you giggle.

at this, he quirks one eye open. "am not."

"are too."

"am not."

"are too."

"am not!"

you giggle at his childish pout. "are too! look at you! i can practically hear you purring."

his pout deepens, and he 'hmphs.' "'m not purring.." he says, his groan on the verge of being a whine. "'m just tired. from all of this stupid prom nonsense. still think we should just get a refund on our tickets and stay in, too. prom is stupid." he mumbles grumpily, still not moving from his spot on your lap.

"well, if not for prom, i wouldnt have gotten my nails done. and i know how much you love it when i do." you tease gently.

"i don't love it. i just.. find it a little relaxing, 's all." he huffs, eyes still closed.

"oh? so you wouldnt mind if i stopped and scrolled on my phone for a bit?" you question, supressing a giggle at the immediate death glare he gives you.

"such a damn brat," he sighs, as if he's not the one getting completely pampered in your lap. "i suppose the whole.. prom thing isn't that bad." he huffs.

you smile in victory and continue carding your fingers through his blonde locks.

"for the record, though," you grin, "you are totally like a cat. or maybe a chihuahua. but a cat."

"am not!"

masterlist reblogs + comments super duper appreciated! <3

[usedpidemo]

Brand new day (Twice Sana & Dahyun)

23.5k words

—————

The air in the JYP practice room hangs thick and used. It smells like stale sweat, the sharp tang of disinfectant trying and failing to win, and of faint, hot ozone smell from overworked electronics. The polished floor reflects the harsh overhead lights and nine exhausted figures slumped against mirrored walls. It’s Stray Kids, weeks away from their official debut—at least on reality TV. 

Limbs tremble. Chests heave. Hyunjin massages a vicious cramp in his calf, his face tight. Felix leans heavily against Changbin, his usual sunshine dimmed to a faint, flickering glow. Chan, ever the anchor, runs a hand through his sweat-damp hair, his eyes scanning invisible footage, dissecting every misstep, every beat slightly off from their brutal evaluation session.

"Alright," Chan rasps, his inflection rough as sandpaper. "Good effort today. Brutal, but good." He points toward Minho. "We tighten the transition into the second chorus. Minho, your pivot felt late."

Too spent for words, Minho just grunts. 

Silence stretches, thick and heavy, broken only by the group’s ragged breathing. It’s the moment. The awful, suffocating moment you’ve carried for weeks, pressing down like the humid Seoul heat outside. It claws its way up your throat, bitter and sharp. The words drop like stones into the stagnant air. 

Now. 

"I’m quitting."

The ragged breathing stops. A bomb detonates in the stillness. 

Felix’s head snaps up. Changbin stops mid-sip, water bottle hovering halfway to his lips. Hyunjin’s hands freeze on his leg. Seungmin’s analytical gaze locks onto you, sharp and questioning. Jisung’s jaw drops. Jeongin blinks, wide-eyed, uncomprehending. Minho slowly pushes himself upright. Chan doesn’t flinch, doesn’t gasp. His eyes narrow, the exhaustion vanishing, replaced by a terrifying, laser-focused intensity. He takes a single step towards you, the squeak of his sneaker impossibly loud on the polished floor.

"What did you just say?"

You force yourself to meet his gaze. The weight of everyone’s judgment feels gargantuan. 

"I said I’m quitting. Dropping out. Before the reveal." 

The stunned silence shatters like glass.

"Quitting?" Changbin explodes, surging to his feet, fatigue instantaneously disappearing. The water bottle clatters forgotten. Disbelief and betrayal fuel his words. "Are you insane? Weeks away! After everything? The hell is wrong with you?" 

Hyunjin scrambles up beside him, his expressive face tight with confusion and dawning hurt. "Hyung, this isn’t funny. What are you talking about?"

Felix looks devastated, his deep cadence now sounding unusually small. "But—we're a team. Stray Kids. All of us."

Questions overlap, sharp as shrapnel.

"Did something happen?"

"Did the evaluation go that bad?"

"Is it pressure? We can help!"

"You can’t just leave!"

Chan holds up a hand. The room falls silent again, tension crackling through the place like static electricity. He takes another step closer. Not shouting. Worse. It’s low and controlled, vibrating with a fury simmering beneath the leader’s calm. 

"Explain. Right now. Because this?" His gesture is sharp, encompassing the room, the years of grueling training, the imminent debut they’ve bled for. "This isn’t just about you. You don’t get to just quit because you're tired, or scared, or had a bad day." His eyes bore into yours, searching for weakness, for the selfishness he thinks he sees. "You owe us that much. An explanation for this—this selfishness."

His accusation, the emphasis on selfishness, hits harder than any vocal coach’s criticism. It echoes the doubt gnawing at your own insides. You flinch. You see the flicker of confusion in Chan's eyes—he sees the flinch, but not the defiance he expected. He sees exhaustion deeper than practice, pain unrelated to sore muscles.

Your shoulders slump. The weight you’ve carried alone, the secret festering in the dark corners of your mind while you smiled through practice—it all crashes down. Your eyes drop to your worn sneakers, the laces frayed from countless hours in this room. The sterile image of a hospital floods your senses, replacing sweat and floor polish.

"My brother," you mutter. The word hangs heavy, thick with brotherly dread. You force your head up, meeting Chan's gaze again. His rigid anger falters, replaced by wary confusion. "My younger brother. He's—he's sick. Really sick." 

Your voice cracks. "They called me earlier. Today. After evaluation." 

You swallow hard. The memory of your father's voice, thick with a fear you've never heard before, scrapes your nerves. "He's been in the hospital. For weeks. They—they didn't want to tell me. Didn't want to distract me." A bitter, hollow laugh escapes your throat. "Distract me."

Utter, deafening silence. Even the hum of the air conditioning seems to fade. All eyes lock on you, their anger replaced by dawning horror.

"They thought it was just a bad flu at first. Then it wasn't." The words come out flat, mechanical, like reciting a terrible script. "His fever won't break. His lungs—they're struggling. The bills—" You shake your head, the sheer, suffocating weight pressing down. "My parents—they're trying. Selling things. Borrowing. But it just keeps growing. It won’t stop.”

You look around at the faces of your team—your brothers in everything but blood. Sudden realization replaces anger on Changbin’s face. Empathy floods Felix’s eyes. Protective concern hardening Hyunjin’s jaw. Jisung covers his mouth. Minho looks stricken. Seungmin’s analytical gaze fills with painful comprehension. Jeongin looks like he might cry. 

"And I'm here," you continue, the guilt and weight of responsibility spilling over. "I'm here, dancing, singing, worrying about hitting a note or nailing a step, while he's fighting just to breathe. While my parents are drowning." 

Your voice rises, trembling. "How can I stand on stage? How can I smile for the cameras? How can I chase this dream when my family is breaking apart? I don't deserve it. I haven't earned the right. Not now." You rake a hand through your hair, unable to face them any further. "That's why—why I've been off. Why the energy's gone. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry I couldn't tell you. I just—I couldn't find the words. Didn't want to burden you."

The silence that follows is profound and heavy. Saturated with newly-shared pain. Chan’s rigid posture dissolves. The fury is gone, replaced by deep, aching sorrow. He takes the final step, closing the distance. Not to confront, but to connect. His hand reaches out, hesitates, then lands firmly on your shoulder. 

It’s not the grip of a leader. It's a friend’s. An anchor.

"Oh, man," he breathes, anger suddenly gone, leaving only compassion. His despair thickens. "Why—why didn't you say something?"

Before you can answer, Changbin moves. He steps forward to wrap his arms around you, pulling you into a tight, almost crushing hug. 

Right there, everything shatters. 

A sob escapes you, muffled against his shoulder. Hyunjin is there, adding his weight, his hand gripping your arm. Then Felix presses in, his smaller frame radiating warmth. The others soon converge into a wave of silent, overwhelming support. 

Arms encircle you; heads press close. A tangle of limbs, shared breath, and tears you can no longer hold back. Chan’s hand remains on your shoulder, grounding you within their rigid, unconditional solidarity. The weight in your heart doesn’t lift, but for the first time in weeks, you don’t feel like you're carrying it alone.

The practice room door swings open with a cheerful squeak, shattering the tear-stained silence.

"Delivery service!" Sana’s bright, melodic timbre rings out, instantly followed by the rustle of plastic bags and soft footsteps. "We brought fuel for the warriors! Who's ready for—" Her words trail off as she takes in the unusual scene.

The other Twice members stand framed in the doorway, laden with takeout and drinks. Jihyo leads, her confident expression morphing into wide-eyed surprise. Nayeon peers over her shoulder, eyebrows arched high. Momo tilts her head, confused. Tzuyu blinks slowly. Mina’s gaze softens instantly. Chaeyoung nudges Jeongyeon, who frowns. Sana, holding a bag aloft, freezes mid-step, her infectious smile vanishing in real-time, replaced by pure bewilderment. Beside her, Dahyun’s sharp eyes scan the huddled mass of Stray Kids, lingering on your tear-streaked face pressed against Changbin’s shoulder, then flick to Chan’s hand on your arm, to the emotions etched on every face.

Jihyo recovers first, gentle and cautious. "Whoa. Did—did we interrupt something? Bad time?" She lowers her bags slowly.

The Stray Kids huddle loosens slightly, but the protective circle around you remains. Chan clears his throat, roughed up with tears. "No, it's—it's okay. Just—some heavy news."

Still holding you, Changbin shifts. "His brother," he states simply, "Really sick. Hospital. Terrible."

The explanation ripples through the Twice members. Concern overrides confusion. Nayeon’s playful energy vanishes. Momo’s expression turns serious. Mina takes a small step forward, eyes filled with quiet empathy.

You pull back slightly from Changbin, wiping your face roughly with your sleeve. Feeling exposed under nine more pairs of eyes. You take a shaky breath. "Yeah. My little brother. He's—been in the hospital. Weeks. It's—not good. The bills—it's a lot." You swallow, every word sounding more repulsive. "I just—I told the guys—I need to quit. Go home. Be with my family. I can't—I can't do this right now. It wouldn't be fair. To them. Or to Stray Kids."

A soft murmur of sympathy runs through them. Jihyo nods slowly, understanding. Nayeon bites her lip. Momo whispers something, her expression pained.

Sana moves first. She carefully places the bag down and walks towards the group, her bubbly energy replaced by profound, gentle solemnity. She stops close, large, expressive eyes fixed on yours, shimmering with unshed tears. 

"Your little brother—that's—" She shakes her head, unable to find the word, devastation clear. "I'm so, so sorry."

Her sincerity is a warm balm on a raw wound.

Dahyun steps up beside Sana, quieter but intensely present. Her sharp, observant gaze holds yours, cutting through the haze of your grief. She doesn’t offer platitudes. "That's—incredibly heavy," she states, devoid of her usual wit. "Family comes first. Always." 

There's quiet strength in her conviction. Then, something softer, more personal, crosses her features. "We're—really going to miss you around here, you know?" 

The admission is quiet, almost shy, but lands with surprising weight. It’s not just about a trainee; it’s about the person they’d come to know.

Jihyo steps forward, placing a comforting hand on Sana’s shoulder. "They're right," she says, firm yet kind. "Your family needs you. That's where you belong right now." She offers a small, encouraging smile. "Be strong for them. And for yourself."

"Yeah, kick that illness's butt for your brother! We’ll be rooting for him!" Nayeon adds, her cheerfulness is genuine, if a little misaligned. Mina nods silently, her gentle eyes radiating support.

The combined empathy, from both your brothers-in-arms and the seniors you admired, is overwhelming. Beyond measure. The Stray Kids group hug tightens again briefly, a final show of unified strength.

Chan finally speaks, thick but resolute. "Don't you dare apologize for wanting to be with your family. That's not selfishness. That's—that's love." He meets your weary eyes. "We'll hold it down here. Go. Be where you need to be."

As the hug dissolves, Sana reaches out. Her hand finds yours, giving it a quick, firm squeeze. Her touch is warm, grounding. "Be strong," she whispers. Dahyun offers a small, solemn nod beside her, her dark eyes holding yours for a second longer. 

The unspoken ‘We'll miss you’ hangs thick in the air. 

—————

The wind bites. Always does up here, even in late spring. It whips across the hillside like a restless spirit, tugging at your worn flannel shirt, carrying the scent of damp earth, animal dung, and wild thyme. 

Eight years. Eight years since you left Seoul’s neon haze, the mirrored practice rooms of sweat and desperation. The crushing weight of a dream deferred not for failure, but for family. Now, your kingdom is this: a thousand shades of green rolling towards a misty horizon, the plaintive bleating of sheep, and the low, contented rumble of the dairy herd grazing further down the slope.

Your brother wrestles with Bessie. Or rather, Bessie—a placid, hulking Friesian with eyes like chocolate marbles—tolerates his attempts to coax her away from a particularly lush patch of clover crowding the fence line. He’s sixteen now, all limbs and earnest clumsiness, the traces of his childhood illness lingering only in the slight, almost imperceptible fragility around his eyes, the way he sometimes gets winded quicker than he should. 

He’s healthy, though. Vibrantly, stubbornly alive. That’s the miracle you tend every day, more precious than any debut stage.

"Come on, Bessie," he pleads, pushing uselessly against her broad flank. "The good grass is over there. See? By the water trough?" 

Bessie swings her massive head, regarding him with bovine indifference before tearing another mouthful of tasty green.

You lean on the weathered fence post. A little smile plays on your lips. "Try the magic word."

He shoots you a withering look, the kind only a teenager can muster. "She doesn't speak English, big bro. Or Korean. Just—cow."

"Try 'please.’ Universal language." 

You push off the post, your boots sinking slightly into the soft, rain-damp earth. The reflex—the one that makes you scan for the wobble before the fall, the tremor before the shout—it’s ingrained now, deeper than any dance move ever was. You catch it: your brother, frustrated, plants his feet wrong on the uneven ground as he gives Bessie a firmer shove. His boot slips on a slick patch of mud hidden beneath the clover.

"Whoa!" His arms pinwheel: a comical, slow-motion ballet of impending disaster. Startled, Bessie finally shifts—but away from him, her heavy hoof coming down perilously close to his sprawled leg.

You’re moving before the gasp fully leaves his lips. Not the flashy acrobatics of another life, but the efficient, grounded motion of someone who knows this land and its animals. Two long strides, a firm hand grabbing the back of his jacket, hauling him upright and clear right as Bessie’s hoof squelches into the mud where his ankle had been.

He stumbles against you, breathless, face flushed with adrenaline and embarrassment. "S-sorry, brother. Didn't see the mud."

"Neither did Bessie," you grunt, steadying him. Your heart hammers against your ribs with that old, unwelcome thrum of responsibility. "Alright, move her properly. Shoulders against her shoulder, not her ribs. Steady pressure. She’ll follow." 

You demonstrate, guiding his hands, feeling the immense, warm bulk of the cow yield under your combined, gentle insistence. 

The clover is abandoned. The water trough is reached. A small victory on a windswept hill. 

It’s the Parker luck in play: saving the day, getting mud on your jeans, no applause or recognition given.

—————

The drive back to the cottage is a bumpy affair along the rutted track cutting through the endless grassy plains. Sheep scatter like grey clouds before the battered SUV. Your brother chatters beside you, retelling the Bessie incident with increasing dramatic flair, his earlier clumsiness forgotten in the glow of near-miss heroics. You half-listen, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the open window frame, whistling the radio’s tune. 

The air here is clean, vast, scoured free of the cloying exhaust and frantic energy of city life. It smells of sun-warmed grass, distant pine, and the faint, mineral tang of the stream cutting through the lower pastures. Disconnected. Safe. A world away from everything that came before. You breathe it in, trying to let the wide sky push the lingering image of polished practice room floors from your mind. 

Eight years is a lifetime. Almost.

The cottage emerges from the landscape like a stone itself: low, sturdy, smoke curling lazily from its chimney. Home. Scents of roasting chicken and herbs hit you before you even kill the engine, warm and welcoming, weaving through the crisp air.

Lunch is a noisy, affectionate affair around the scarred wooden table. Your mother fusses, piling your plate high. Your father recounts the morning’s minor dramas with the tractor. Your brother, mouth full, mimes his epic struggle with Bessie, earning indulgent laughter. Sunlight streams through the small kitchen window, catching dust motes dancing in the air. It’s simple. It’s good. It’s everything you ripped your old life apart for.

Your father clears his throat, reaching for the chipped ceramic jug of water. "Had a bit of an odd post this morning," he says, pouring slowly. "Foreign. Fancy envelope. Addressed to you."

You pause, a forkful of chicken halfway to your mouth. A post for you. Odd indeed. Here, it’s rare. Bills, farm suppliers, that’s it. "Foreign?"

"Mm-hmm." He takes a sip of water. "Looked official. Had a name on it—" He frowns, scratching his temple. "J.Y. something? Park? Looked like one of those investment scams, you know? Promising millions if you just send them your bank details first. Nearly tossed it in the burner." He chuckles: a dry, warm sound. "Your mother said hold on, it might be important. Wasn't heavy. No gold bars inside, eh?"

JYP.

The name hits you like a wicked blow, low and sudden in the gut. The taste of chicken turns to live coal in your mouth. The warm kitchen seems to tilt slightly. The laughter, the sunlight, the scent of herbs—it all recedes, muffled, replaced by the phantom echo of a metronome clicking in a sterile room, reeking of disinfectant and teenage ambition, and the crushing weight of a phone call received in a JYP hallway eight years ago. 

Your fingers tighten around the fork. JYP. The letters you wrote, painstakingly, hopefully, for years after leaving—2020, maybe 2021—bleeding your confusion and lingering grief onto paper, sent into a void that barely whispered back. Silence, mostly. A few brief, polite responses that felt like formalities, the distance widening with each unanswered letter until you finally stopped sending them. Gave up hoping. Blocked it out. Buried that part of your life deep beneath cattle shit and rolling green hills.

"It's—it's not a scam, dad," you manage, sounding strangely calm despite the tremor in your hands. You set the fork down carefully. "It's—the company. From before. In Korea. The one I trained with."

The table falls quiet. Your brother stops miming. Your mother's eyes, ever perceptive, fix on your face, filled with quiet concern. Your father nods slowly, understanding dawning. 

"Ah. That lot. Them singers." He pushes his chair back. "Well, it's on the sideboard. Didn't look like it would explode." 

He gives you a brief, reassuring pat on the shoulder as he gets up, heading towards the small sideboard near the door.

You don't taste the rest of your lunch. You force it down, mechanically, while the conversation cautiously resumes around you, skirting the sudden tension. The envelope sits on the sideboard like a warrant. A grenade with a JYP logo.

—————

The stairs to your small room under the eaves creak their familiar protest under your weight. The envelope feels unnaturally heavy in your hand, the thick, expensive paper stock alien against your calloused fingertips. You close the door, the solid wood a flimsy barrier against the past flooding back. Dust motes shimmer in the single shaft of afternoon light cutting through the small window, illuminating the simple bed, the worn desk, the shelves holding farming manuals and a few well-thumbed novels. 

No trainee manuals. No dance shoes. No posters of idols. Just the smell of old wood, sun-warmed plaster, and the faint, ever-present scent of grass carried on the breeze.

You sit on the edge of the bed, the springs groaning softly. The return address is unmistakable: JYP Entertainment, Seoul. Your name, written in neat, unfamiliar handwriting. European postmarks layered over Korean ones. It feels like a message from another planet. Or a ghost.

With fingers that feel thick and clumsy, you tear open the flap. Not a bill. Not a scam offer. A folded sheet of thick, cream-colored paper, and nestled within it, four smaller, glossy rectangles. Tickets.

Your eyes scan the handwritten note first. The script is neat, precise, familiar in a way that twists something deep inside you.

Hey Mate,

Long time. Seriously long. Hope this finds you well, wherever you are. We were sorting tour logistics for the European leg (crazy, right?) and your name came up. Chan-hyung remembered you mentioned moving your family somewhere out there for your brother's recovery after—everything. Took some digging (blame Minho, he’s weirdly good at that stuff), but we figured out the rough area.

We’re playing a show in Zürich next month (attached dates/location – hope it’s not too far!). Feels like a lifetime ago, that practice room. Remembering the chaos, the laughs—and how you walked away for the right reasons. Always respected that. We talk about it sometimes, how brave that was.

Just wanted you to know we remember you. Hope life’s treating you kindly. Found some old photos the other day – you looked about twelve, hair ridiculous. Made us all laugh.

If you’re around and fancy a blast from the past (no pressure, seriously!), we’ve put four tickets aside. For you, your brother, your folks. Backstage passes too, if you want to say a quick hello. Be genuinely good to see you, even just for five minutes. No expectations.

Take care of yourself.

 - Bang Chan, Lee Know, Changbin, Hyunjin, Han, Felix, Seungmin, I.N

(Stray Kids)

The words blur. Zürich. Next month. We remember you. 

The casual mention of your brother’s recovery—a fact you’d shared in one of those early, desperate letters, seeking connection. They’d kept it. They’d looked.

A wave of heat rises up your neck, pricking behind your eyes. Not sadness, exactly. Not joy either. A confusing surge of something raw and long-buried. The tickets are real in your hand, cool and smooth. Four gateways to a world of screaming crowds, blinding lights, and the deafening beat of music you once knew by heart. A world you associated with sterile hospital waiting rooms, frantic phone calls home, the gnawing guilt of pursuing a dream while your family fractured.

You haven’t listened to K-pop in years. Blocked the channels. Deleted the apps. The very sound of an idol song could trigger a visceral recoil, a flood of memories associated with the worst period of your life. Stray Kids’ music belonged to the ghosts. To the boy who wrote those hopeful, unanswered letters, clinging to a thread of brotherhood that seemed to fray with every silent month.

You stare at the tickets. Premium seats. Backstage passes. A tangible, expensive olive branch flung across eight years and a continent. 

No pressure, seriously!

The urge is immediate: crumple the letter, shred the tickets, toss it all into the small woodstove in the corner. Watch the past turn to ash. Move on. Finally move on completely. 

You don't need this. You have the hills, the sheep, the smell of earth, your brother’s clumsy grin. You have peace. Simplicity. A life rebuilt brick by brick, far from Seoul’s gilded cage.

You stand up, the letter trembling in your hand. Walk towards the stove. The small iron door hangs open, cold ashes inside from last night.

But your feet stop.

You look down at the signatures. Bang Chan’s neat script. The little doodle Felix always used to add—a tiny sunshine. The earnestness in the words: We talk about it sometimes—Always respected that.

The unanswered letters—the silence—it hadn’t been malice. Just distance. Growth. The insane, all-consuming trajectory of becoming Stray Kids. They’d been kids too, back then. Now they were megastars, yet they'd remembered. They’d reached out.

A deep, shuddering breath escapes you. You lean your forehead against the cool plaster of the wall beside the window. Outside, the vast expanse of your present life stretches out. The green hills, the grazing sheep, the distant line of pines against the sky. Peaceful. Isolated.

The tickets feel heavy. They’re more than just paper; they’re a key. A key to a door you’d welded shut years ago. Opening it means letting the noise, the light, the complicated ache of the past flood back in. It means facing the ghosts: the boy you were, the dream you abandoned, the lingering "what if" you’d worked so hard to submerge beneath the rhythm of quiet rural life.

But beneath the fear, beneath the instinct to burn it all, something else stirs. A flicker of that old fondness. Not for the stage, not for the dream, but for them. The shared struggle in those mirrored rooms. The stupid jokes during breaks. The passionate, fleeting bond forged in the pressure cooker of trainee life. The respect in Bang Chan’s words.

You don’t want any part of it. You carved out this new life, here, for a reason.

And yet the tickets are here. An invitation, not a summons. Like they said: no expectations.

Your fingers smooth the crumpled edge of the letter. Carefully folding it back around the tickets. You don’t open the stove door, instead walking back to the bed and sitting down heavily as the envelope rests on your knees like a sleeping animal. You stare out the window at the endless green, the wind rustling the long grass, carrying the faint, comforting bleat of a sheep.

The past has caught up. It’s sitting in your lap. And suddenly, throwing it away feels less like moving on, and more like running away. Again. The Peter Parker luck: responsibility, even when you don't want it. Especially then.

Decision coils in your chest, tight and unresolved. You’ll tell them. At dinner. Show them the letter. Hear what they say. See what you say when the words actually leave your mouth. 

The farm, the peace, the quiet life you built—it feels suddenly fragile, balanced on the edge of four glossy pieces of cardstock. The hillside feels vast, but the world, with its flashing lights and pounding bass, just got a whole lot closer.

—————

Dinner smells like rosemary and burnt crust—mom’s attempt at shepherd’s pie, a staple that usually tastes better than it looks. Tonight, it sits heavy in your stomach before you even lift a fork. 

The letter, folded tight and square, is a lodestone in your pocket, pulling your thoughts down, away from the warm lamplight and the comfortable clatter of cutlery. Your brother inhales his food with teenage fervor, regaling your parents with an over-the-top dramatization of the Great Bessie Standoff, complete with sound effects. Meanwhile, you silently push peas around your plate.

The moment stretches, thick as the gravy. You catch your mother’s eye—that quiet, knowing look that misses nothing. Your father chews methodically, gaze fixed somewhere beyond the window, on the darkening hills. The peace you fought for, bled for, feels suddenly fragile and paper-thin.

"Dad," you start, cutting through your brother’s enthusiastic bovine impersonation. "That letter. The one from—JYP."

Your brother freezes, his fork suspended mid-air. "JYP? Like the JYP? Park Jin-young? The company?" His eyes widen, saucer-like, darting between you and your father. "What'd they want? Are they scouting me? Did they see my TikTok dance covers?" He vibrates in his seat, a live wire of sudden, impossible hope.

Your father swallows, wiping his mouth with a napkin. "Not a scam, then. As you said." He nods towards you. "Well? What was in it?"

The weight in your pocket feels like stone. You pull out the envelope, the crisp paper stark against the worn wood of the table. The attached tickets slide out slightly: glossy rectangles, stark black and neon against the cream. You lay them down without fanfare. 

"Concert tickets. For Stray Kids. In Zürich. Next month." The words taste like dust. "Four of them. Backstage passes too. For all of us."

Silence. Thick, stunned silence. The only sound is the wind picking up outside, whistling faintly around the eaves.

Your brother’s jaw drops. Literally. His fork clatters onto his plate. "Stray Kids?" he breathes, the name a reverent whisper. He lunges for the tickets, snatching them up before you can react. He stares, transfixed, tracing the embossed logo, the dates. "Premium seats—Backstage passes— big brother, how?" His gaze snaps to you, bewildered, ecstatic. "Do you know someone? Did you win a contest? Is this because of my fan letters?" Hope, bright and blinding, radiates off him.

Your mother reaches over, gently placing her hand over yours where it rests, white-knuckled, on the tablecloth. Her touch is warm, grounding. "They remembered you," she says softly. It’s not a question; it’s fact.

You can’t look at them. You stare at the half-eaten shepherd’s pie, the congealing gravy. "Chan wrote. Bang Chan. He—remembered I mentioned we were out here. After." You gesture vaguely, the word ‘after’ hanging heavy, encompassing hospitals, fear, the desperate flight away from Seoul. "They’re touring. Thought—we might like to go." You force a shrug, aiming for nonchalance, landing somewhere near brittle. "Sentimental, I guess. Or PR. Who knows."

"What will you do?" your father asks, low and steady. Practical. Always practical.

The answer bursts out, harsh, surprising even you. "Nothing. Burn it. Like you should have, dad." 

You meet his gaze finally. There’s no anger there, just a deep, weathered understanding. "That life—it’s done. Over. It belongs to hospitals and endless debt and feeling like I was drowning while trying to stand on a stage. I don’t want it back. Not a single echo." 

The bitterness is acrid on your tongue, a taste you thought you’d buried deep under the peat and the cattle. "We have peace here. We have him." You nod towards your brother, who’s still staring at the tickets like they’re holy relics. "Healthy. That’s the only dream that mattered. That’s the only one that came true. I’d choose it again. Every time."

Your brother flinches. The radiant excitement on his face flickers, dimming as your words sink in. He glances from the tickets to you, his expression shifting from starstruck awe to gradual, horrified comprehension. When it comes, his voice sounds small, stripped of its usual energy.

"You—you were training? With JYP? With—with Stray Kids?" He stares at you like he’s never seen you before. Like the calloused hands, the mud-stained boots, the quiet man who fixes tractors and wrestles cattle, has suddenly peeled away to reveal a complete stranger. "You were—you could have been—one of them?"

The unspoken accusation hangs in the air: You gave it up? For me?

You see the guilt flood his eyes, swift and devastating. He looks down at the tickets in his hand like they’ve turned radioactive. 

"Oh," he whispers. Then, louder, more frantic, "Oh, big brother, no. I didn’t—I didn’t know." He shoves the tickets back across the table towards you, recoiling as if burned. "Burn them. Yeah. Burn them. Right now. I don’t want them. I don’t want anything from them." 

His voice cracks. "I stole your dream."

"Hey!" Mom is sharp, cutting through his rising panic. "Don’t be foolish." She turns her stern gaze on you. "And you. Stop talking like a martyr. You made a choice. A hard one. A good one. For family. There is no shame in that. Only strength."

Your father nods slowly, his gaze moving from your brother’s stricken face to yours, shadowed with the ghosts of the past. "Your mother is right. Throwing away kindness, even from an old life, solves nothing. It just leaves ashes." He picks up one of the tickets, studying it thoughtfully, the glossy surface reflecting the lamplight. "Stray Kids—they were your friends? Brothers, even, for a time?"

Emphasis on were. The thought stings. Like jellyfish bubbling up to terrorize unsuspecting souls on the beach.

"Something like that," you mutter, looking away. "A lifetime ago."

"And they remembered," your mother presses, her hand tightening slightly on yours. "After all this time. In the middle of their big world tour, they tracked you down. Sent tickets. For all of us." She gestures around the table. "That’s not nothing. That’s—human."

"Think of the experience!" your brother blurts out, his guilt momentarily overridden by the sheer, overwhelming magnitude of the opportunity. "Zürich! A real concert! Backstage! Big brother, they’re legends!" His inherent enthusiasm is reasserting itself, battling the shock. "Twice trained there! ITZY! NMIXX! JYP is everything! And you knew them? Before they were—them?" The fanboy in him is re-emerging, wide-eyed and desperate.

You sigh, pinching your temples. The headache is back, a dull throb behind your eyes. The thought of the noise, the crowds, the sheer, overwhelming presence of that world—the world you fled—makes your skin crawl. The polite distance in those late, sparse replies to your letters echoes in your mind. 

No expectations, Chan wrote. Easy for him to say, standing in the spotlight.

"But why go back?" you ask, the question directed more at yourself than them. "It’s done. I moved on. We moved on. Why dredge it all up?" The bitterness is still there, but it’s fraying at the edges, worn down by your brother’s puzzled awe and your mother’s quiet insistence.

"Maybe," your father says slowly, placing the ticket back down, "it’s not about going back. Maybe it’s about seeing how far you’ve come." He looks at you, his gaze steady and kind. "Maybe it’s about showing your brother a different kind of stage. And maybe—" He pauses, a rare hint of something softer in his eyes. "—maybe it’s about letting those boys see the man their old friend became. The one who chose right."

The silence returns, but it’s different now. Less charged with your resistance, more filled with a quiet, shared contemplation. The wind moans outside, a reminder of the vast, isolating peace beyond the cottage walls. Inside, the lamplight glows warm on the four tickets lying on the scratched table.

Your brother looks at you, his earlier guilt tempered by a dawning, hesitant excitement. "We—we could just go? For the music? As fans?" He bites his lip. "I mean—if you really don’t want to see them backstage—we don’t have to. But—the concert, big bro—it’s supposed to be insane. Felix’s voice—Changbin’s rapping—" He trails off, the fanboy winning out, his hope quarreling with the fear of pushing you too far.

Your mother squeezes your hand. "We’ll be with you. All of us. Whatever you decide."

The options crystallize: Burn the past—literally. Watch the expensive paper curl and blacken in the stove, a final, defiant act of closure. Or step, just once, back into the roaring river you escaped, armored with your family, to see if you can stand on the bank without being swept away. To see if the ghosts look different in the strobe lights.

You look at the tickets. At your brother’s anxious, hopeful face. At your parents’ steady, supportive presence. The Peter tingle twinges—not the spider-sense, but the deeper one: responsibility to the hope in your brother’s eyes, responsibility to the kindness offered, however complicated, responsibility to finally face the shadow of the boys you left behind in that practice room, not with animosity, but perhaps with a quiet acknowledgment.

The hills outside are dark, silent, immense. Safe. Zürich feels like another planet, loud and bright and terrifyingly full of memory.

You take a deep breath, the scent of rosemary and home filling your lungs. It doesn’t erase the phantom scent of disinfectant and ambition, but it anchors you. Here. Now.

"Alright," you say, the word leaving your lips before you fully register the decision. It feels less like surrender, and more like stepping onto shaky ground. "Alright. We’ll go. To the concert." You meet your brother’s ecstatic, disbelieving gaze. "As fans." 

You pick up one of the tickets, the glossy surface cool against your calloused fingers. The past stares back, bold and neon. "But we’re keeping the backstage passes. Just—just in case." 

Just in case you can stand it. Just in case the ghost recognizes the man.

The sigh that escapes you is heavy, laden with eight years of avoidance. But beneath it, tangled in the roots of your bitterness, a tiny, stubborn shoot of something else pushes through. Not excitement—not yet—but curiosity. And maybe, just maybe, the faintest echo of that old, complicated fondness, reaching back across the wind-scrubbed plains. 

—————

The roar hits you first. A physical thing, a wall of sound that slams into your chest the moment you step into Letzigrund Stadium. It vibrates up through the soles of your worn boots: sturdy, practical, utterly alien in this glittering cavern of neon and anticipation. Eight years of wind-whipped silence shatter in an instant. Beside you, your brother vibrates like a plucked guitar string, with eyes wide as saucers darting everywhere—the dizzying light rigs, the colossal screens flickering with pre-show animations, the sea of screaming, lightstick-wielding fans.

"Look!" he shouts over the din, grabbing your arm. "Look at the size of it! And our seats!" He points upwards, towards the section cordoned off near the mixing desk, away from the pulsating heart of the crowd. Premium. Detached. Safe. Exactly what you’d hoped for. An observation deck above the storm.

You simply nod, your throat tight. The sheer scale of it all is overwhelming. The smell–popcorn, sweat, cheap beer, and an undercurrent of expensive perfume–is a relentless sensory assault compared to the clean, grassy tang of home. You feel like a ghost haunting a future you abandoned, translucent and out of place. Your parents flank you, your mother’s hand finding the small of your back. 

"Alright?" she mouths, her eyes searching yours. You force a tight smile. 

Fine. You’re fine. You have to be. For him.

Your brother bounces on the balls of his feet as you navigate the steep steps to the seats. "The passes," he hisses, barely containing himself, fingers twitching towards the lanyard tucked inside your jacket. "We have to use them after! Promise? Please?"

"Focus on the show first," you tell him, rough against the rising tide of noise. The command comes out sharper than intended, a reflex honed by years of watching him stumble towards danger—cliffs, bulls, now this glittering precipice of teenage obsession. "Just—be here. In the moment. Okay?"

He deflates slightly but nods, eyes already glued to the empty stage as the house lights dim. The roar intensifies, a primal, collective intake of breath. Then darkness. A single, searing spotlight punches down. And they’re there.

They’re not the boys you knew. Not anymore. Amplified, electrified, moving with a synchronicity that’s almost alien. Bang Chan stands center stage, a figure carved from shadow and confidence, his opening cry booming through the stadium, a mature leader forged in the crucible you once shared. Felix’s impossible baritone resonates in your bones, Hyunjin’s limbs carve arcs of pure kinetic energy through the air, Changbin’s rapid-fire verses crackle like lightning. It’s polished and powerful, a machine operating at peak performance. You watch with arms crossed, a statue carved from bitter stone. 

This is what you walked away from. This is the dream you sacrificed.

The first few songs are a blur of noise and light, observed through a thick pane of detachment. You catalogue the changes: Minho’s sharper angles, Seungmin’s effortless vocal control, the sheer presence radiating from Jeongin. They’re men now. Stars. Worlds away from the sweaty teenagers crammed into that mirrored room, sharing cheap tteokbokki and dreams between punishing rehearsals. 

Your brother is lost, screaming lyrics, waving the borrowed lightstick like a maniac. You keep a hand lightly on his shoulder, an anchor in the raging waves of his enthusiasm, your own gaze distant, analytical. Safe.

Then, halfway through, it happens. A familiar synth line weaves through the bombast, a melody from the early days—one they’d struggled with, argued over, practiced until dawn in that cramped studio. A song about perseverance, about holding onto hope when the path seems dark. Chan cracks, just slightly, on a high note. Not a mistake. Raw emotion. And suddenly, you’re not in Zürich.

You’re eighteen, slumped against the practice room mirror, muscles screaming, lungs burning. Chan crouches beside you, offering a water bottle, his own face pale with exhaustion. "We’ll get it," he rasps, that same stubborn certainty in his eyes. "One more time. For us." 

Changbin throws a sweaty towel at your head, laughing. "Yeah, unless you’re scared, old man!” Felix just grins, offering a fist bump. 

The shared struggle. The stupid jokes. The fragile, resolute belief in each other. The memory hits like a sucker punch. 

Another song follows, a ballad this time. Seungmin steps forward, pure and achingly vulnerable. The lyrics speak of distance, of time passing, of bonds that stretch but don’t break. You see Minho, not the dancer on stage, but the quiet boy who’d silently shared his lunch when yours was forgotten. You see Hyunjin, not as the flamboyant performer, but the kid who’d nervously asked for feedback on his first self-composed rap. The faces of brothers, not idols. The shared hardship, the relentless grind, the dumb, joyful moments that made it bearable—it floods back in, a torrent breaching the walls you’d built brick by brick over eight long years.

Your vision blurs. You look down, blinking fiercely, focusing on the rough fabric of your jeans—the same ones stained with mud from the hillside. The contrast is jarring and painful. As the music swells, the crowd sings along, tens of thousands united. Your brother grabs your arm, his face alight with pure, unadulterated joy. And something deep within you, something frozen and buried, begins to thaw. It’s not envy. Not regret. It’s a profound, bittersweet ache: the recognition of a bond that never truly died, only hibernated through the long, seemingly endless winter of your absence. The stone in your chest isn’t cold anymore; it’s heavy with a warmth you’d forgotten, a warmth that feels suspiciously like grief for the brothers you left behind.

The final notes crash, the lights explode in a blinding crescendo, and the roar becomes a physical force shaking the arena. It’s over. Just like that. 

The house lights flicker on, harsh and revealing. People begin shuffling out, buzzing with post-concert euphoria. You stand frozen, adrift in the sudden silence within the fading noise, the echoes of the music and memories still reverberating through your bones.

"Hey." Your mother’s gentle touch on your elbow startles you. Her eyes are soft, knowing. "They were incredible." 

Beside her, your father nods in agreement, a rare look of deep respect on his face. Your brother is practically vibrating again, his earlier plea forgotten in the afterglow until he remembers.

"The passes!" he gasps, eyes wide, desperate. "Can we? Please? Now? Before they leave!"

You look at his face, flushed with excitement, eyes shining with the magic of the night. You look at your parents, their quiet support unwavering. The thought of facing them—those polished stars who were once your ragged brothers—sends a fresh wave of uncomfortable dread through you. The farm boy amidst the glitter. The one who walked away. 

But the warmth, the bittersweet ache in your chest, the responsibility to this kid who looks at you like you hung the moon—it wins.

"Yeah," you hear yourself say, the word thick. "Okay. Let’s go."

Backstage is a different kind of chaos. A labyrinth of concrete corridors buzzing with roadies hauling equipment, harried staff barking into headsets, and the lingering smell of sweat and hairspray. A security guard checks the passes with bored efficiency, then waves you through a heavy door marked ‘Artist Only.’ The noise drops to a muffled hum. Your brother clutches your arm, suddenly wide-eyed and silent, the enormity hitting him.

They’re gathered in a large, brightly lit lounge area, still abuzz with adrenaline, towels draped around necks, sipping water. The transformation is jarring up close. Stage personas are shed; they look exhausted, human, drenched in sweat but grinning. Chan spots you first. His eyes widen, then crinkle into a smile that’s pure, unguarded warmth—the same smile he’d given you after nailing that impossible choreography sequence years ago.

"Well, look what the cat dragged in," he calls out, hoarse but genuine. He strides over, bypassing your outstretched hand and pulling you into a brief, hard hug. The scent of stage makeup, sweat, and something uniquely Chan—earnest and familiar—hits you. "You made it!"

The others turn. A chorus of surprised shouts, your name echoing off the concrete walls. Minho’s eyebrows shoot up. Changbin grins, slapping Felix’s arm. "Told you he wouldn’t chicken out!" Hyunjin beams, Seungmin offers a shy wave, Jeongin bounces over. The initial awkwardness you feared evaporates in an instant. There’s no distance, no starry aloofness. Just eight guys momentarily forgetting they’re Stray Kids, greeting an old friend. The brotherhood wasn’t gone. It was just sleeping.

"These must be your parents," Chan says, turning with impeccable politeness, bowing slightly. "Sir, Ma’am. It’s an honor." The others follow suit, a wave of respectful bows and murmured greetings. Your usually stoic father looks genuinely touched. Your mother beams, immediately launching into praise for the performance.

"And this," you say, gently nudging your shell-shocked brother forward, "is the number one fan. Knows every lyric, every dance move since—well, probably since he was eight."

Your brother turns beet red, stammering. Felix crouches down slightly, his sunshine smile dialed up to eleven. "No way! Really? What’s your favorite song?" 

The floodgates open. Your brother’s earlier nervousness vanishes, replaced by hyperactive fanboy energy. He breathlessly gushes about Felix’s voice, Changbin’s rapping, Minho’s dancing, and so much more. Minho ruffles his hair playfully. Changbin challenges him to a (very) brief rap battle. Jeongin shows him a silly handshake. They treat him not just as your brother, but as one of their own: a kid sharing in their joy. You watch, a lump forming in your throat again, the protective tension easing from your shoulders. 

They’re good people. Always were.

After a whirlwind of photos, autographs (your brother nearly faints), and your parents expressing heartfelt thanks, your father clears his throat. "We should get this young man home," he says, placing a hand on your brother’s shoulder. "Big day tomorrow, early start." He looks at you, then at the group. "You’ll be alright getting back? You remember the city?"

You nod. Zürich’s efficient trams are a world away from navigating muddy hillsides. "Yeah. I know my way around."

Your mother gives your arm a squeeze, her eyes saying everything. We’re proud. We’re here. Talk to them. 

"Don’t be too late," she murmurs. Your brother, still riding that high, gives you a quick hug.

"Thanks, bro. Best. Night. Ever." 

And then they’re gone, absorbed back into the corridor’s dimness, leaving you alone with the echoes of your past.

The atmosphere shifts. The playful energy settles into something quieter, more intimate. Bottled water is passed around. They collapse onto couches, the exhaustion of the performance finally showing. You lean against a table stacked with equipment cases.

"So," Chan starts, stretching his arms. "The farm life? Suits you. You look—solid." There’s no judgment, just observation.

"Hard work," you admit. "Different kind of tired. But good. My brother—he’s healthy. Strong. That’s what matters." The words are simple, but they carry the weight of eight years of struggle and relief.

Felix nods vigorously. "We saw the photos Chan dug up. Kid looks great. Seriously." There’s genuine warmth in his words.

Changbin leans forward. "And you? Really alright? Not just saying it?" The directness is pure Changbin, cutting through the pleasantries.

You meet his gaze. "It was hard. Leaving. The guilt—the what-ifs—they don’t vanish overnight. But seeing him run, laugh, be a normal pain-in-the-neck teenager—yeah. I’m alright. More than." You take a breath. "Meanwhile you—this?" You gesture around the room, encompassing the venue beyond. "It’s insane. You built this."

Minho snorts. "Built it? Sometimes feels like we’re still holding it together with duct tape and hope backstage." But he’s smiling.

They talk, not as global superstars, but as young men catching up. The grueling tour schedule, the creative pressures, the weird food cravings in different countries. Chan mentions a particularly disastrous attempt at making pasta in Madrid. Hyunjin complains about losing his favorite sketchbook. Seungmin talks about missing his dog. Mundane details, shared exhaustion, lingering humor—it’s familiar. The years melt away. The brotherhood isn’t a relic; it’s a living thing, picking up threads as if you’d just stepped out for coffee.

During a lull, Chan pushes himself off the couch. "Almost forgot," he says, walking towards a cluttered desk in the corner. He rummages through a bag and pulls out a small, elegantly wrapped gift box: silver paper, a simple black ribbon. "Got handed this before the show. Strict instructions: give it to you, only after the concert, and only when you were alone with us." 

He holds it out, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "No hints. Sworn to secrecy."

You stare intently at the box. Suspicion quarrels with confusion. Who in this world, connected to this orbit, would send you a gift. 

You take it, the paper feeling smooth and cool under your work-roughened fingers. The others watch, puzzled and curious. Untying the ribbon, the silence feels suddenly thick. Peeling back the paper reveals a plain white box. Inside, nestled in black tissue paper, are two things.

First, a small, exquisitely crafted silver pin in the shape of a stylized candy. Instantly recognizable. Second, a folded note card. You open it. The handwriting is bubbly, playful, unmistakable even after all these years.

Surprise! Bet you never thought you’d hear from us! Saw Chan-ssi was tracking you down (don’t worry, we made him swear secrecy!) and just HAD to say hello properly. We remember the practice rooms, the shared struggles—the real stuff. Heard about your brother—so happy he’s well! Just letting you know we’ll be in Paris next week for Lollapalooza. If you’re feeling brave (or just nostalgic!), come find us. We’d love to see the man our quiet trainee friend became. No pressure, just old friends!

– Sana & Dahyun ♡

(P.S. The candy’s for luck��and because Sana couldn’t resist!)

You stare at the note, the elegant pin gleaming in your palm. Sana. Dahyun. The other pillar of that shared generation, the sunshines whose success and determination mirrored your own struggles in different practice rooms down the hall. 

Memories flash: Sana’s infectious laugh echoing in a cafeteria, Dahyun’s quiet, observant wit during rare breaks, a shared nod of exhausted solidarity passing in a hallway. You’d been ships in the same storm, focused on survival, not friendship. Yet they remembered. They also reached out.

A disbelieving laugh escapes you, shaky at first, then genuine. You look up. Eight pairs of eyes watch you, various expressions of amusement and curiosity on their faces. Chan’s knowing smile is the widest.

"Candy?" Felix asks, peering at the pin.

"From Sana and Dahyun," you manage, holding up the note. "They—they want to meet. In Paris."

Changbin whistles. Minho smirks. 

"Twice? Man, you’re moving up in the world!"

Chan chuckles, clapping you lightly on the shoulder. "Told you they remembered. Our generation sticks together, even across the years—and sheep pastures." His gaze is warm, understanding the earthquake this simple gift represents. 

"Looks like your past," he says softly, nodding at the pin now resting in your palm, a tiny, gleaming bridge across years and continents, "isn’t quite done catching up with you yet."

Laughter bursts out before you can stop it—a dry, brittle sound in the plush backstage quiet. The hibernation, it seems, is well and truly over.

"Paris? With Twice? Come on, guys." You pocket the silver candy pin, its edges sharp against your thumb. "This whole thing," you gesture vaguely at the lingering concert energy, the expensive lounge, them, "it was a gift. For him. One incredible night. That’s enough."

Felix leans forward, sunshine dimmed to earnest warmth. "But they asked for you. Sana and Dahyun—they remembered. Like we did." His tone softens. "The quiet trainee who fixed our choreography mistakes and never bragged."

"Yeah, and also stole our snacks.” Changbin scoffs, but it’s fond and in light jest. “Point is, it’s not just about the past. It’s about now. Seeing you." He locks eyes with you, the playful rapper replaced by something steady. "We missed you, man. Properly."

Their sincerity hits like a physical pressure against your ribs. You look away, focusing on a scuff mark on your worn boot. "Missed you too. More than I let myself remember." The admission scrapes your throat. "But this life—the farm, the sheep, my brother waking up healthy every morning—that’s my now. It’s good. Solid. I’m not chasing ghosts in Paris."

Chan’s hand lands on your shoulder, a familiar anchor. "No one’s asking you to chase ghosts. Just—reconnect. See familiar faces who care. Consider it a break. A thank you." He glances at his members, a silent agreement passing between them. "We’ll handle everything. Flights, accomodation—consider it added tour perks."

The offer hangs, bountiful and impossible. You shake your head, a tight smile playing on your lips. "Generous. Seriously. You guys are doing the most. But gifts won’t shear sheep or mend fences. The farm doesn’t run on autopilot." 

You meet their concerned looks. "This," you pat your chest, over the pocket holding the pin, "this was the universe throwing me a wild curveball. Seeing you guys—hearing that old song—it was—healing an old wound. But Paris? That’s a different league. I’m content right here."

Minho raises an eyebrow, a trace of his old smirk returning. "Content? Or scared?"

The question nips because it rings true. He’s right. You’re scared. Of the noise, the lights, the sheer weight of that glittering world you fled. Of seeing Sana’s dazzling smile up close, Dahyun’s sharp gaze dissecting your farm-calloused hands. Of wanting something you swore you’d buried.

"Maybe a bit of both," you admit, the honesty surprising you. "But mostly, it’s responsibility. My responsibility is here."

Seungmin, ever perceptive, nods slowly. "We get it. Just—think about it? The offer stands. No pressure." He offers a small, understanding smile. "The brotherhood doesn't expire, you know. Eight years, eighty, or even eight hundred—you’re still one of us."

One of us—the phrase lodges in your chest, warm and undeniable. 

You clasp hands, a wordless echo of the solidarity that held you up years ago in that sterile practice room. The connection hums, strong as ever across time and continents. 

"Always," you rasp.

—————

Dawn at the farm is a symphony of baaing sheep and low murmurs of the dairy herd. Mist clings to the rolling hills as you help your father wrestle a stubborn feed bin lid. The crisp, homely air smells of damp earth and wild thyme, a grounding contrast to the lingering scent of stage smoke and expensive cologne in your memory.

Over breakfast–over thick slices of your mother’s soda bread and strong tea–your silence feels heavy. 

"The guys—they offered something else," you start, tracing the rim of your mug. "After the concert. Twice—well, Sana and Dahyun, to be more exact—they sent a gift. With an invitation. To Paris. Next week."

Your mother’s spoon stops against her porridge bowl. Your father pauses, a chunk of bread halfway to his mouth. "Paris?" your mother echoes. "The singers? The ones you trained with?"

You pull the silver candy pin from your pocket, placing it gently on the worn wooden table beside the butter dish. It glints, alien and elegant. "Yeah. They also remembered. Wanted to—reconnect."

Dad chews slowly, studying the pin. "And Stray Kids offered to send you?"

"They did. Flights, hotel—the lot." You push the pin slightly with your fingertip. "Said it was a thank you. A break."

"And you said no," states Mother, softly—not a question. Her eyes, wise and tired, hold yours.

"Of course I said no," you reply a touch too quickly. "The farm—the season—the lambs due next month—"

"Lambs can wait a week," your father interrupts, gruff but gentle. He sets down his meal. "Son, look at me." 

You meet his steady gaze. "You’ve spent eight years living for this family. For your brother. For these hills. You dug us out of a hole so deep I thought we’d never see daylight." He gestures around the cozy, cluttered kitchen, encompassing the house. "This peace? This life? You built it with your own two hands, and your sacrifice. Don’t think we don’t know the cost."

Mom reaches across the table, covers your hand with her own, worn and toughened by work. "He’s right. You poured yourself out, love. Every drop. For us." Her thumb strokes your knuckles. "Seeing you yesterday—when you came back after that concert—there was a light in your eyes we haven’t seen since before Seoul. Since you were that hopeful boy with a dream."

"It was just a night out," you protest, but the words lack conviction.

"It was more," she insists. "It was a piece of you coming back. The universe doesn’t send tickets and backstage passes and—“ she huffs, “—fancy candy pins for no reason. Maybe it’s not just a thank you from them. Maybe it’s a thank you to you. A chance to step out of the furrow for a minute. Breathe different air." 

She gently squeezes your hand. "You deserve a break. More than anyone."

Suddenly, the kitchen door bangs open. Your brother bursts in, cheeks flushed from the morning chill, eyes still wide with the afterglow of yesterday’s concert. "Bessie’s being a menace again! Whoa, what’s that?" He spots the pin immediately, pouncing on it. "Shiny! Is it candy?"

"It’s a pin," you say, watching him turn it over in his grubby hands. "From—from Twice."

His head snaps up. "Twice?! Like the Twice? Nayeon? Momo? Chaeyoung?!" His shriek hits a pitch only dogs should hear.

You explain briefly: the gift, the invitation, Stray Kids' offer, your refusal. His face falls, crumpling into disbelief. "You said no? To meeting Twice? In Paris?!" He looks at you like you’ve announced you’re joining a monastery on Mars. "Are you fucking insane?!"

"Language," Mom chides automatically, but she’s smiling.

"Think of the farm, kiddo," you say, trying to reason aimlessly. "The work—"

"Dad and I can handle Bessie!" he declares, puffing out his chest. "And the feed! And the fence by the stream! For a week!" He leans across the table, the pin clutched tight. "You have to go! It’s Twice! It’s Paris! It’s—it’s magic!" 

Alight with pure fan fervor, his eyes lock onto yours. Then, a sly grin spreads across his face. "Okay, fine. But you gotta promise me one thing."

"What’s that?" you warily ask.

He thrusts the pin back towards you. "You bring me back Dahyun’s autograph. No, wait—Sana’s! No—both! Definitely both." He nods decisively. "That’s the price. Go to Paris. See your idol friends. And come back with proof!"

The sheer audacity of it all, the collision of your tangled past and his simple, starstruck present, breaks the tension. A surprised laugh escapes you, rough but genuine. Your parents join in, the sound warm and filling the kitchen.

Looking at their faces—your father’s quiet pride, your mother’s tender insistence, your brother’s ridiculous, unwavering excitement—the resistance inside you, the wall built of duty and fear and eight years of careful isolation, finally begins to crumble. Not with a bang, but with the soft, persistent pressure of love.

The candy pin feels warm in your palm. Paris still feels impossibly loud, terrifyingly bright. But maybe—just maybe—facing those particular ghosts, with the weight of this family’s blessing at your back, isn’t running back to the past. Maybe it’s just—stepping into a different field for a while. Taking the break you never allowed yourself.

You close your fingers around the pin. "Alright," you say, the reluctant acceptance feeling strange, like a new flavor on your tongue. "Alright. I’ll think about it. Seriously." You meet your brother’s triumphant stare. "But you’re definitely helping Dad fix that fence."

He whoops, bouncing on his heels. The farmhouse walls seem to vibrate with his energy, a chaotic, hopeful counterpoint to the quiet green hills outside. The past had crashed back in, demanding attention. And for the first time in eight years, you weren’t immediately building a wall against it. You were just—holding the door open a crack, letting in a sliver of unexpected light.

—————

The private jet’s engines whine down to a whisper as the stairs unfold onto the Parisian tarmac. Three days early. Three days too early, your gut insists. 

The air here smells different. Jet fuel and damp concrete, not earth and sheep. Chan echoes in your head, gruff but insistent: "Take the jet. Seriously. Consider it—farm equipment for the soul." 

You’d laughed then, a nervous bark swallowed by the roar of your tractor back home. But now, stepping onto French soil in clothes that cost more than your best ram, the joke feels heavy and sour.

A man in a sharp black suit emerges as you diverge from the Arrivals terminal and step out the airport, holding a discreet sign with your name. Only your name. Not ‘the farmer’ or ‘big brother.’ Just you. 

"Welcome to Paris, sir. Your car is this way." 

The greeting is smooth, impersonal. 

Sir. It sounds—off. Like it’s meant for anyone but you.

Internally, you flinch. Eight years of calluses don’t disappear beneath soft Italian cashmere. The Stray Kids stylist had worked miracles: dark, perfectly fitted trousers, a sweater the colour of storm clouds that felt like touching a cloud, shoes that gleamed with a predatory shine. The result speaks for itself. You look—polished. Powerful. Like someone who belonged in this chrome-and-glass world. But you feel more like a prize bull dressed for market, acutely aware of every stitch.

The car is a silent, obsidian beast, purring like contented machinery. Inside, it smells of leather and something faintly citrus. Cold. Sterile. You sink into seats softer than any hay bale, watching Charles de Gaulle Airport blur past the tinted window. Rain streaks the glass, turning the world outside into a smudged watercolour. 

Flashbacks flicker, unwanted:

Changbin shoving a sleek garment bag into your arms backstage in Zürich, grinning. "Got you covered, farm boy. Try not to get sheep shit on the Armani."

Felix bouncing beside him. "Think of it as—undercover work! Blending in with the pop star elite!"

Minho, quieter, handing you a platinum card. "For essentials. Food. Don’t—don’t go buying a tractor with it." A rare, almost shy smirk.

Blending in. Right. 

As the car glides onto the highway, sleek buildings rise like monuments. Paris unfurls: grand, imposing, a stark contrast to your rolling green hills. This is the life they live. The life you could have lived. Private jets, luxury cars, clothes that feel like armor. It’s not envy that twists inside you, but a profound dislocation. This opulence isn't freedom, it’s a gilded cage—a dizzying glimpse into an alternate timeline where you stayed, where the farm faded into a bittersweet memory, not becoming your bedrock. 

You fiddle with the impossibly smooth cuff of your sweater, missing the familiar roughness of your worn flannel.

The hotel is more than lavish; it’s a silent opera of wealth. Marble floors gleam like frozen lakes. Crystal chandeliers hang like captured constellations. The air inside the main reception hums with quiet efficiency and the scent of money—of polished wood and expensive flowers. Your suite occupies a corner of the sky. Floor-to-ceiling windows offer a panoramic view of rain-slicked rooftops and the distant, hazy outline of the Eiffel Tower. It’s breathtaking. And utterly alien. 

The silence in your new room is oppressive after the constant lowing of cattle and bleating of sheep. You drop your small duffel bag—the only thing from home besides the candy pin tucked in your pocket—onto a bed wider than your tractor seat. It feels like sinking into a cloud. Unreal.

The video call chime echoes sharply in the vast room. You fumble with the sleek tablet provided, relief flooding you at the sight of your parents' familiar faces, pixelated but warm against the stark hotel backdrop.

"Look at you!" Your mother gasps, leaning closer to their screen. "Like a movie star!"

Your father just nods, a slow, appraising look in his eyes. "Suits you, son. But—you alright? Looks—big."

"It is," you admit, running a hand through hair still unused to the expensive cut. "Feels like I’m trespassing in someone else’s life." You motion vaguely at the background of opulence behind you. "This—it’s not me."

"Don’t be daft," your mother chides gently. "It’s part of you. The part that deserves a bit of shine after so long in the muck. Enjoy it! Soak in that fancy bathtub! Eat something ridiculous!"

"Everything’s fine here," your father adds, ever the steady anchor. "Bessie’s behaving. Fence by the stream’s half done. Your brother—" He glances off-screen, a faint smile touching his lips. "He’s out there right now, wrestling with that new post-hole digger like it owes him money. Determined to earn those autographs."

The mention of your brother’s obsession pulls a real grin from you. "Tell him the pressure’s on. Sana and Dahyun’s signatures or bust."

"He knows," your mother laughs. "He’s already cleared a spot on his wall. Now stop worrying about sheep and rain. Look out that window! You’re in Paris! Breathe it in. Let yourself—be here. For us, if not for you."

Their unwavering support is a tangible warmth cutting through the hotel’s dull chill. "I’ll try," you promise, the tightness in your chest easing slightly. "Love you."

"Love you more," your mother beams. "Now go! Explore! Have fun!"

The screen goes dark. Silence rushes back, but it feels less hollow now. 

You walk over to the window, pressing a hand against the cool glass. Paris sprawls below: a glittering, rain-washed labyrinth. Let yourself be here. Easier said than done. You’re still the man who checks fences at dawn, not the man who orders room service in a suite that costs more per night than your monthly feed bill.

A soft knock interrupts your train of thought. Opening the door, a bellhop stands there, holding a slim, elegant envelope. "Complimentary welcome gift, sir."

It’s thicker than the first. Cream-colored paper, slightly textured. Your name is written in the same bubbly, energetic script as before, but there are two distinct hands this time. Opening it carefully, you find not just a note, but a small, beautifully wrapped box.

The note unfolds:

Surprise Again! ✨

Guess who just landed early (well, we did! Shhh, don’t tell management!)?! Paris is calling and we couldn’t wait! Saw you got in safe (Chan’s very sneaky with updates!).

Tomorrow feels too far away. We want to see our quiet hero NOW!

Meet us? Please?

Under the Iron Lady herself—the Eiffel Tower! South Pillar, 5 PM sharp?

We’ll be the ones looking wildly out of place (or maybe not, knowing Paris!). Look for the candy! 🍬 (And maybe—some very excited hugs?)

P.S. Open the box! Sana insisted. (Dahyun thinks it’s cheesy, but secretly loves it too.)

– Your Parisian Partners-in-Crime (and Candy!),

Sana & Dahyun ♡♡

P.P.S. DON’T BE LATE! Or Sana might cry. (Okay, maybe not. But she’ll definitely pout.)

A warmth, different from your family’s, blooms in your chest. Their energy leaps off the page: Sana’s infectious enthusiasm, Dahyun’s dry wit beneath the surface. The mention of ‘excited hugs’ paints a vivid picture of their closeness, that easy, touchy-feely bond you’d sometimes glimpsed years ago in crowded JYP hallways. It’s personal. Intimate. A direct line from the past, abuzz with anticipation.

You open the small box. Nestled in black velvet are two additional gifts: another exquisite silver candy pin, identical to the first, and—a tiny, ridiculously soft plush sheep, no bigger than your thumb. 

A handwritten tag hangs from its fleece: ‘So you don’t feel too homesick! - S&D’

You burst out laughing, a genuine, surprised sound that echoes in the luxurious silence. The sheep is absurd. Perfect. A tiny piece of your muddy, woolly reality nestled right here in this concrete canyon. 

Sana’s playful care, Dahyun’s thoughtful grounding—it’s all there. You hold the little sheep in one hand, the new candy pin in the other. 

Paris seems less imposing now. Less like a monument to a life you missed, and more like—a city. Just a city. One where two women who remembered the quiet trainee, who sent candy and sheep, and wanted to see him again. Tomorrow, 5 PM. Under the Eiffel Tower.

You pocket their gifts, the room key feeling a little less alien against them. The reservations are still there, the unease blending itself with the cashmere armor. But underneath, a flicker of something else ignites. Not the swagger of new clothes, but the quiet, stubborn anticipation of seeing a familiar face—or two—under the Parisian lights. 

You trace the tiny sheep’s fleece. Okay, universe. Point taken. Let’s see what Paris has in store. 

The gilded cage door feels ajar. You might just step through.

—————

Late afternoon the next day, Paris hums of exhaust fumes, baking bread, and damp stone as you approach the Champ de Mars. The Eiffel Tower looms, an impossible lattice of iron against the bruised plum and gold streaks of the setting sky. 

You feel absurdly conspicuous. The storm-grey cashmere sweater Chan’s stylist insisted on feels alien against your skin: too soft, too quiet. The dark trousers are impeccably tailored, the shoes polished, unscuffed mirrors. A man carved from a different life, varnished and presented back to the glittering world he fled. A walking ‘what if.’ The little plush sheep in your pocket is your only anchor to reality.

Then you see them.

A cluster of figures near the South Pillar, radiating an aura of contained chaos even from a distance. Nine women. All impossibly recognizable faces. Not images on billboards, magazine scans, or screens, but flesh and blood, breathing the same Parisian air. The sheer magnitude of their presence hits you like a physical wave: global superstars, Asia’s girl group, casually waiting under the Iron Lady. Your feet stutter on the cobblestones.

They spot you almost simultaneously. A ripple goes through the group. Then, they’re moving towards you, a wave of warmth and vibrant energy crashing over the cool reserve. The greetings unfold like a carefully choreographed, yet beautifully organic, dance of reconnection.

Mina—she’s first, her approach graceful, almost hesitant. A soft, shy smile rests on her lips. Her handshake is gentle but warm. "It’s truly wonderful to see you again," she murmurs, like falling water. Her eyes, large and observant, hold a quiet, sincere affection. "Paris suits you."

It’s a silent kindness, a bridge carefully rebuilt over eight years of silence.

Momo bounces forward second, crackling with coiled energy. "Woah! Look at you!" she exclaims in Japanese, before seamlessly switching to Korean-accented English, grinning. "City slicker now, huh? Almost didn't recognize you without the—uh—farm smell!" 

Her laugh is loud and infectious. She gives your arm a playful punch, the familiarity startling and welcome.

Tzuyu’s third. Towering and elegant. She offers a deep, respectful bow, her expression serene but her eyes bright with curiosity. "Hello," she says, clear and melodic. "It has been a very long time. You look well." The greeting is formal, yet imbued with a quiet sincerity that cuts through the initial awkwardness.

Chaeyoung’s up fourth. She sidles up with an artist’s assessing gaze, a small, knowing smirk playing on her lips. She doesn’t offer a hand, just nods. "The quiet one returns. With a makeover." Eyes flick over your clothes, then back to your face, sharp and intelligent. "Suits the Parisian vibe. Good call." Her approval feels like a hard-won prize.

Nayeon’s fifth. She steps forward with unapologetic confidence, her gaze sweeping over you with playful intensity. "Well, well, well," she declares, hands on her hips. "The prodigal trainee! Look at you, all fancy (ooh)! Did Stray Kids finally drag you out the mud?" 

Her laugh is bright and teasing, but there’s a layer of genuine amazement underneath. She pulls you into a brief, surprisingly strong hug. "But seriously—so good to see you."

Next up is Jihyo. The leader steps forward, radiating a calm, powerful warmth. Her smile is wide and sincere, lighting up her whole face. She takes both your hands in hers, squeezing them firmly. "Welcome back," she says, resonant and full of emotion. "Truly. Seeing you here—it feels right." 

Her gaze holds yours, acknowledging the years, the distance, the sheer unlikeliness of this moment. "We’ve missed your quiet presence."

Jeongyeon follows right after. She approaches with a more grounded energy and a wry smile on her face. "Took you long enough," she says, her gruff but affectionate. She claps you firmly on the shoulder—a solid, mooring touch. "Glad you made it. Heard you’ve been busy building an empire of—sheep? Her chuckle is dry. "Respect. Now, let’s get up this monstrosity before Sana vibrates out of her skin." She subtly herds the group towards the elevator entrance.

Fame is a tangible entity. A hum in the space around them, drawing glances, hushed whispers, phone cameras discreetly raised. Yet, within their circle, it feels—surprisingly normal. Or as normal as reuniting with nine celebrities under the Eiffel Tower can be. They talk over each other, tease, laugh—a dynamic, living tapestry of personalities you remember in fragments, now vividly real.

Then, the final two detach themselves from the group hug forming around Jihyo.

First, Sana. She practically launches herself at you. Without hesitation. 

Her arms wrap tightly around your neck, her face buried momentarily against the expensive cashmere. "You’re here!" she breathes, thick with unbridled excitement, muffled against your shoulder. That trademark smile and those animated eyes gleam radiance, but softer, more personal. She holds your face in her hands, her touch warm and insistent. "Look at you! So handsome! And tall! Did you get taller?" Fussing with your collar, her fingers brush your neck, permeating unfiltered joy and affection. "We got your message! You liked the sheep? Dahyun thought it was silly, but I knew!"

And finally, Dahyun. She hangs back a beat, letting Sana have her moment. Her smile is quieter, more contained than Sana’s infectious charm, but no less warm. Sharp and observant as ever, she scans your face, taking in the changes, the lingering traces of the farm in your eyes despite the foreign clothes. 

When Sana finally releases you, Dahyun steps forward. Her hug is different: firm, grounding, one arm around your waist, the other hand a steady pressure between your shoulder blades. It’s a hug that says I see you. I remember. "Welcome to Paris," she says, low and modest, a counterpoint to Sana’s effervescence. She pulls back slightly, keeping a hand on your arm. "Glad the jet didn’t scare you off. You look—good. Really good." 

There’s a depth in her gaze, an unspoken understanding that bypasses the years.

Sana immediately loops her arm through Dahyun’s free one, pulling her close, resting her head briefly on Dahyun’s shoulder—that easy, tactile intimacy between them as natural as breathing. Dahyun leans into it, a small, private smile touching her lips as she looks at Sana, then back at you. 

"She hasn’t stopped talking about this since she heard the guys were going to Zürich," confides Dahyun, her thumb rubbing a small circle on your forearm where her hand still rests. "Practically packed a month early."

The elevator ride to the summit is a blur of sparkling city lights unfolding beneath the glass walls, mingled with the warm cacophony of catching up. Higher and higher, the panoramic view is staggering: Paris laid out like a jewelled map, the Seine a dark ribbon catching the last fiery glints of sunset. But the view inside the elevator is equally captivating.

Jihyo asks about the farm, her eyes wide with genuine curiosity. "Sheep? Really? Is it—peaceful?"

Nayeon interjects, "Peaceful? It sounds muddy! But tell us about your brother! Is he really strong now? Stray Kids said he’s a fan!" Her grin is infectious.

Jeongyeon adds dryly, "Yeah, apparently we owe him autographs. Pressure’s on."

You find yourself talking. About the rhythm of farm life, the satisfaction of hard work, the breathtaking relief of seeing your brother healthy and strong. You mention Stray Kids' concert gift, the shock of seeing them again, the casualness of the reunion, the overwhelming generosity. "They’re—incredible," you admit, your words feeling inadequate. "Like no time passed at all."

Momo bounces. "They’re monsters now! World domination! We see them sometimes, award shows, backstage—they’re still loud."

Chaeyoung smirks and raises an eyebrow. "Loud? Understatement of the century. But good loud. They work hard."

Jihyo nods in agreement, pride evident. "We all started in those same practice rooms. Seeing them soar—it feels like a shared victory." She gestures around the elevator, encompassing her group. "We’ve been lucky too. Tours, albums, been going nonstop—Lollapalooza feels like another dream." She mentions their own world tour plans, with a casual throwaway about Zürich next year. "You’ll have to come," she adds, looking directly at you. "Bring the brother. Front row this time."

Tzuyu smiles serenely. "The mountains there are beautiful. Different from your hills, but—peaceful too, maybe."

Mina simply nods in agreement, her quiet presence a calming counterpoint to Nayeon’s playful and random interrogation about whether Bessie the cow has a favorite song.

Throughout the ascent, Sana remains glued to your side, her arm hooked through yours now, her warmth a constant. Dahyun stands closely parallel, her shoulder occasionally brushing yours, her presence a steady, watchful pillar amidst the swirling conversation. Their casual touches—Sana squeezing your arm when you mention your brother’s health, Dahyun’s hand briefly resting on your back when the elevator gives a slight lurch—speak volumes of their connection to you, a silent reassurance cutting through the grandeur.

Near the top observation deck, Sana tugs gently on your arm. "Come! Dahyunnie and I want to steal you for a minute! The view is best over here!" 

She shoots a look at Jihyo, who nods with a knowing smile. Dahyun gives a small, confirming nod, her fingers briefly brushing yours as she guides you subtly away from the main group clustering near the eastern railing.

You follow them to a slightly less crowded spot facing west. The city lights are fully awake now, a breathtaking sea of diamonds stretching to the horizon. The Eiffel Tower’s own lights begin their hourly sparkle, bathing you all in a fleeting, magical shimmer. The noise of the crowd and the other members fades slightly, leaving a bubble of intimacy high above the world.

Sana leans her elbows on the cold railing, gazing out, but her body angles towards you. Dahyun mirrors her posture on your other side, closer than necessary, her arm pressed lightly against yours. The city’s hum is a distant thrum beneath you.

"It’s really good," Dahyun starts, words almost lost in the breeze, but her eyes are fixed on your profile, "seeing you like this. Healthy. Properly settled." She pauses, choosing her words carefully. "We—we heard things. Back then. When you left."

Sana turns fully towards you now, her usual effervescence replaced by a profound seriousness. Her eyes search yours, glistening under the tower’s intermittent sparkle. "It was awful," she whispers, the word sharp against the world’s panoramic beauty. "We heard about your brother—the hospital—the bills." She swallows hard. "Everyone at the company was worried, but you—you just vanished. Stopped answering."

You nod, the old knot of helplessness and fear tightening in your chest despite the years. "It was—a nightmare. Everything happened so fast. The debt—it was crushing. We were drowning." Looking down at your hands, the city lights reflect dully in the polished leather of your borrowed shoes. "Leaving Korea—was difficult. Switzerland—it was the only way. A clean start. A chance for him."

Dahyun’s hand finds yours on the railing. Her touch is cool and firm. "We know," she says simply.

You look up, confused. "Know?"

Sana takes a deep breath, exchanging a glance with Dahyun, who gives a nearly imperceptible nod. "We—helped," she answers, trembling slightly. "Not—not officially. Not through the company. It would have been—complicated."

Dahyun picks up the thread effortlessly, grounding Sana’s emotion. "We had—resources starting to come in. Not like now, but enough." She looks out at the city, averting your glare, as if confessing to the lights. "We found out which hospital. We—anonymously settled the outstanding balance. The biggest one."

The world tilts. The glittering city below blurs. The sound of the wind rushes in your ears, louder than the tower’s hum. 

"You—what?" The words are a choked whisper.

Sana nods, tears spilling over now, tracing paths down her cheeks. "And the debt collectors—the ones your parents were terrified of—Dahyun knew someone who knew someone—" She sniffles, wiping her face with the back of her hand. "They made them—go away. Quietly."

Dahyun squeezes your hand. "It wasn’t charity," she adds firmly, finally meeting your stunned gaze. Her dark eyes hold yours, intense and sincere. "It was—investment. In your family’s survival. In your peace. We saw you fight, in those practice rooms. We saw the weight you carried, even before—before everything collapsed. We saw the kindness." She glances at Sana, whose tear-streaked face is now lit by a watery smile. "Sana wouldn’t stop crying about it. We had to do something. Something real."

The revelation crashes over you. The inexplicable easing of the financial pressure back then, the way the most aggressive sharks suddenly backed off—it hadn’t been luck. It hadn’t been a bureaucratic miracle. It had been them. Sana’s ardent compassion and Dahyun’s quiet, strategic intervention. Their secret generosity had been the unseen current that carried your family to the shores of Switzerland, to the hillside, to this very moment high above Paris. The weight of it all: the magnitude of their unasked-for, unacknowledged gift—it steals your breath.

"I—" You struggle, the words tangling in your throat, dense with unshed tears. "I never knew. We could never—we can never repay you. That money—"

"Stop." Sana’s interruption is sharp, cutting through your stammering. She places both hands on your cheeks, forcing you to look into her tear-filled, determined eyes. "Look at me. Look at Dahyun." 

Turning your head slightly, Dahyun’s gaze is equally unwavering. "Seeing you here," Sana continues, trembling but strong, "seeing your brother healthy, hearing about your farm—your life—that’s the payment. That’s all we ever wanted. Happiness. Peace. For you and your family." 

She strokes your cheek with her thumb, an irrevocably tender gesture. "You paid it back a thousand times just by surviving. By building that life."

Dahyun nods, hand still clasping yours. "Sana’s right. We didn’t do it for gratitude. We did it because it was right. Because you were one of us, once. Because we cared." She gives your hand another squeeze. "Knowing you’re okay—knowing your family is safe—that’s worth more than any amount of money we could ever have."

The Tower chooses this exact moment to erupt in its full sparkling glory. Thousands of lights dance like captured stars. It illuminates Sana’s tear-streaked, radiant face, Dahyun’s steady, compassionate gaze, and the overwhelming surge of gratitude, disbelief, and profound love that floods you. This is more than borrowed luxury or what-ifs. This is about the enduring, invisible threads of human kindness that had held your world together when it was falling apart. Threads spun by these two women standing beside you underneath the Parisian stars.

You pull them both into a hug. Sana melts against you instantly, while Dahyun stiffens for only a fraction of a second before relaxing into the embrace, with her arm wrapping firmly around your waist. Holding them tight, the glittering Eiffel Tower is a silent, magnificent witness. Words feel inadequate. The embrace says everything: shock, gratitude, and the profound, humbling realization of a debt you can never repay, but that they refuse to acknowledge. It’s a silent communion high above the city, a moment suspended in light and shared history.

Eventually, Jihyo gently calls out, "Hey lovebirds! Group photo time before security kicks us out for monopolizing the view!"

Reluctantly, you separate. Sana wipes her eyes again, beaming, her usual brightness returning tenfold. Dahyun smooths her jacket. A faint blush forms on her cheeks, but her eyes hold yours with a deep, satisfied warmth. "Told you we’d find you," she murmurs, echoing her note.

The descent is filled with laughter and the bright chatter of nine women planning out their next few days. At the base, amidst the throngs of tourists, the goodbyes are warm but tinged with the understanding that tomorrow is the calm before their Lollapalooza storm.

"Front row Saturday," Jihyo reminds you firmly, pulling you into another quick hug. "Don’t be late!"

"Bring earplugs!" Nayeon yells over Jeongyeon’s shoulder.

“Wreck your hotel room!” Jeongyeon smirks beneath that matter-of-fact cadence.

"Enjoy Paris!" Tzuyu simply smiles.

"Find some good cheese!" Momo adds.

"Think of Bessie for me!" Chaeyoung laughs after.

Mina simply waves, her serene smile saying it all.

Finally, Sana and Dahyun step forward together. Sana throws her arms around you one last time. "Explore!" she commands, pulling back but keeping hold of your hands. "Be fancy! Eat everything! See everything! Our treat!"

Dahyun hands you yet another sleek envelope. This one feels heavier, containing what you suspect is a second access card and likely another alarmingly generous gesture. "Don’t argue," she instructs, anticipating your protest, her eyes holding that familiar, grounding intensity. "Consider it operational funding for—reconnaissance. French sheep markets, maybe?" 

A tiny smile touches her lips. "We’ll see you at Lolla. Front and center."

They then melt back into the group. Sana immediately links arms with Jihyo, chattering excitedly, Dahyun falling into step beside Jeongyeon, already checking her phone. They disappear into the night, a whirlwind of talent and light heading towards their next arena.

You stand alone on the Champ de Mars as the Eiffel Tower sparkles majestically above you. Paris’ nighttime air feels clean in your lungs. The weight of the past, the secret burden of your family's salvation, has been lifted, replaced by a profound, humbling lightness. The envelope in your hand feels less like a key to forbidden luxury now, and more like a key to possibility—a chance to explore this dazzling city, not as an imposter, but as a man finally seeing the full, unexpected map of his journey. You touch the little sheep in your pocket, then the silver candy pin on your lapel. 

High above, the Tower’s lights shimmer like a promise. In two days, the music. Tonight, Paris. Tomorrow, the world is yours.

And beneath it all, the unshakeable foundation of a quiet pasture, a healthy brother, and the enduring, secret kindness of stars. You take a deep breath and step forward into the glittering Parisian night.

—————

The plush sheep digs into your thigh as you shift on the hotel bed. Dawn bleeds gray light through rain-streaked windows. Paris sighs under a quilt of clouds, its grandiosity softened by light drizzle that paints the boulevards in liquid silver. A reminder of home, you trace the sheep’s frayed ear, before tucking it beside the silver candy pin on the nightstand. 

Dahyun’s advice echoes in your head: "A day for you. Just you."  

So you wander. Not far. Just enough to feel the city’s pulse beneath its muted veneer. 

The Seine glistens like tarnished pewter, barges cutting through mist. In a cramped boutique near Pont Neuf, you find gifts: for your brother, a miniature Eiffel Tower paperweight ("So he remembers not to be too provincial," you mutter); for your mother, lavender sachets that smell of Provence; for your father, a leather-bound notebook. Practical. Grounded. Unlike the tremor in your hands when you spot them.  

First, Mina and Chaeyoung materialize outside a patisserie, huddled beneath a single umbrella. Chaeyoung’s laugh—a wind chime in fog—carries across the street. Mina nods solemnly at a macaron, as if judging its soul. You slip away before they get an opportunity to notice.  

Then, as fate would have it, Sana and Dahyun meet you before lunch.  

They find you at a tiny tea shop, steam fogging the windows. Sana bursts through the door like a sunbeam piercing clouds, rain jewels caught in her hair. Dahyun follows, a shadow in a charcoal trench coat, calm as still water.  

"Farm boy!" Sana sing-songs, sliding into your booth. Her knee bumps yours. Electric. "Playing hooky?"  

Dahyun’s eyes scan your modest pile of gifts. "Lavender? Smart. Hides the smell of sheep dung." 

Blunt. She’s always been blunt to a fault.  

You laugh, but your chest tightens. Sana’s proximity is a live wire: her cherry-blossom perfume, the way her sweater sleeve brushes your wrist. Dahyun watches you, that unnerving stillness in her gaze. They see too much. 

"You should try the madeleines," suggests Dahyun, pushing a plate toward you. "They’re like edible sunlight."  

Sana steals one, nibbling the edge. "He needs adventure, Dubu. Not more carbs." She leans in, conspiratorial. "There’s a vintage kimono shop in Le Marais—"  

"Which you’ll get lost finding," Dahyun interrupts dryly. "Stick to the plan. His day. His choice."  

They buy you a box of pistachio macarons ("For your family! Tell them Twice approves!"). As they leave, Sana squeezes your hand, lingering. Dahyun’s fingers brush your shoulder—a fleeting anchor. "Dinner at our hotel tonight," the younger woman reminds you, handing you a small card with their address written on it. "You’re invited. Don’t be late."  

Later that evening, the hotel ballroom is a lavish collision of worlds. Crystal chandeliers scatter light like fractured diamonds. Velvet drapes pool on marble floors. The normally packed restaurant had been closed off for dinner tonight, despite the presence of countless affluent guests. And then you see why—them.  

Twice descends the grand staircase like jewels spilling from a high-security vault. Jihyo in emerald silk, a queen commanding storms. Nayeon’s crimson gown slashes the air like a blade. Momo, a shimmering obsidian statue come to life. But your breath snags on two.  

Sana floats toward you in champagne satin, the dress whispering secrets with every step. It bares one shoulder, the line of her collarbone a masterstroke. Her hair spills in molten waves, lips stained pomegranate-red. She’s luminosity incarnate: a supernova in human form.  

"Like it?" She spins, the skirt flaring. "Dahyun said it’s ‘excessive.’" She pouts. "I say it’s you-worthy."  

Then, you settle on Dahyun.  

She wears midnight blue—sleek, severe, a blade sheathed in velvet. The dress cuts straight lines, revealing only the sharp wings of her shoulders. No jewelry. Just her eyes, dark and fathomable, pinning you beneath chandelier glow. Her hair is pulled back, exposing the elegant tension in her neck.  

"Stop staring," she says, but it lacks bite. A faint smirk plays on her mouth. "Sana insisted we ‘dazzle’ you."  

You’re not dazzled. It’s more than that. You’re ruined.  

The realization hits like Bessie’s hoof to the ribs: this isn’t gratitude. Not admiration. It’s love: terrifying, improbable love. Not for one, but both. Sana’s effervescent warmth, Dahyun’s grounding steel. They flank you at dinner. Sana’s laugh bubbles over as she steals a bite of your foie gras. Dahyun dissects the wine’s notes with clinical precision, then quietly swaps your glass for water when she sees your daze.  

"They planned this," Jihyo smiles from across the table, gesturing at the excess of opulence. "Said you needed proof that farm boys clean up nice."  

Sana beams, squeezing your arm. Dahyun sips her wine, eyes never leaving yours. "Paris deserves to see you shine," she mumbles. "Even if it’s just one night."  

You choke on flattering compliments. "You look—transcendent, Sana. And Dahyun, you’re stunning. Like midnight given form."  

Sana preens. Dahyun’s cheekbones flush faintly. The other members quietly giggle and laugh at the remarks. 

Only Jeongyeon has something to say, and it’s quite the tell: “Guy hasn’t seen a pretty woman in eight years. Good excuse to stare, honestly.”

But beneath the glitter and gold, the call of the hills tugs hard. Sheep due next month. Fences unmended. Your brother’s expectant grin. This isn’t your world. These women—goddesses in couture—aren’t your future. 

You lock the unspoken confession away, burying it under layers of restraint and expensive meat.

—————

Saturday arrives ruthless and bright. Paris sheds the gray skin it’s worn for days, now basking in honeyed sunlight. A town car whisks you to Lollapalooza. The festival erupts in neon and noise: a fever dream of tie-dye, lightsticks, and deafening screams.  

Then Twice takes the main stage.   

The first synth notes of Feel Special crackle like static electricity. Jihyo’s voice is a clarion call tearing through the crowd. Fifty thousand strong roar back the chorus. Nayeon commands the center, her wink setting off seismic screams. Dahyun weaves through formations, her rap a lightning strike—sharp, brilliant, gone too soon.  

Fancy ignites the field. Sana becomes pure incandescence—hips swaying, smile lethal. She blows a kiss toward your VIP perch. Your heart stutters. Mina dances like water given will, fluid and ethereal, a counterpoint to Momo’s precision detonations.  

The Feels is a sugar-fueled pop rush. Dahyun’s rap slices through the bubblegum beat, crisp and deadpan. Her eyes find yours mid-verse: a quick, knowing flicker. Jeongyeon’s thunderous vocals anchor the chorus, while Tzuyu’s sheer presence—regal, untouchable—silences entire sections of the crowd.  

Talk That Talk is a shared heartbeat. The crowd chants the chorus like a prayer. Jihyo soars. Sana and Dahyun lock hands during a shared run, their harmony seamless—sun and moon colliding.  

Strategy closes their over hour-long set. A masterclass in controlled frenzy. Formation shifts are knife-sharp. Dahyun’s smirk as she nails a complex footwork sequence. Sana’s ad-libs, playful grenades tossed into the roar. The final pose: nine warriors, breathless, drenched in sweat and triumph. The crowd’s screams could shatter sky.  

Backstage is humid victory. Confetti clings to extensions and hair. Security funnels you through a scrum of crew and cameras. Twice surrounds you—hugs, laughter, the smell of stage smoke and ambition.  

"You saw?" Sana pants, grabbing your hands. Her stage makeup is smudged, eyes blazing. "We killed it for you!"  

Dahyun wipes sweat from her temple with a towel. "Mostly for the crowd. Partly for you." Her bluntness cracks your tension.  

Jihyo throws an arm around your shoulders. "Afterparty at our hotel! Bigger. Louder." 

Nayeon shoots a playful wink. "Better champagne than last night!"  

You agree. Of course you agree. Who are you to turn down angels like them. But as you turn toward the exit, a cold wire snags your gut. Something’s off. 

The plush sheep in your pocket feels suddenly heavy. Dahyun’s smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes. Sana’s hug lingers a second too long—less joy, more—farewell. You brush it aside as festival adrenaline and emotional whiplash. Nothing more.  

Yet the unease coils, tight and silent, as the limousine pulls away.

————— The limousine swallows you whole. Plush leather, chilled air, the fading roar of Lollapalooza replaced by the hushed purr of the hybrid engine. Sana vibrates beside you, a live wire still buzzing from their set, a thigh pressed firmly against yours. Dahyun sits across, a silhouette against passing Parisian lights, her unreadable gaze fixed out the window. The champagne flute in your hand feels alien, a prop in someone else’s life. The plush sheep is a hard lump in your pocket, a grounding point against this dizzying unreality.

Strange tension lingers. That cold wire in your gut tightens with every city block passed, amplified by the silence stretching between Sana’s excited chatter about the crowd’s energy and Dahyun’s quiet contemplation. The invitation feels weighted with finality. It’s not just an afterparty, but a destination with a definitive conclusion.

Their hotel is a fortress of glass and light. Security melts away as you step into the private elevator, Sana humming Talk That Talk’s melody under her breath, and Dahyun hitting the button efficiently to a shared penthouse suite. The ascent is swift, silent, charged. Doors slide open directly into a living space of staggering affluence: floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing the glittering Eiffel Tower, low-slung white sofas, abstract art that probably costs more than your farm yields in a year. It smells faintly of Sana’s cherry blossom perfume and Dahyun’s clean, ozone-like scent.

"Home sweet home!" Sana chirps, kicking off her designer heels with a sigh. She pads barefoot across the deep pile rug towards a minibar gleaming under recessed lights. "Champagne? Whiskey? Water? We raided the good stuff." Her smile is bright, but her eyes flicker towards Dahyun, seeking confirmation, seeking—something.

Dahyun doesn’t move from the window, her back to you, a dark, still figure against the city’s glow. "Sit," she orders, refusing to turn. Less a request, more a command.

You perch on the edge of a sofa, feeling impossibly out of place in your slightly rumpled clothes amidst this sterile showcase of luxury. Sana brings over two flutes of champagne, her fingers brushing yours as she hands you one. Her touch lingers, startling and putting you on edge. She sits close, tucking a leg beneath her, her satin stage shirt shimmering.

Dahyun finally turns. Her face is indecipherable in the dim light, her sharp features sculpted by the city’s glow behind her. She walks towards you, silence thickening with each step. Stopping before you, she glances down. Her gaze travels over your face, lingering on the fading marks on your neck from Seoul—from a lifetime ago, from a different continent. 

There’s no judgment behind her eyes, just assessment.

"You look tense, farm boy," she remarks, matter-of-fact, blunt as ever.

Sana shifts beside you. "Dubu—" she murmurs, a gentle warning.

"No," Dahyun cuts her off, her eyes still firmly locked on yours. "We’ve danced around this long enough. Since Zürich. Since the Tower. Since the fucking farm. Why are you here?"

Dahyun’s question hangs, sharp and heavy. You take a shaky sip of champagne. The bubbles feel sharp on your tongue. "You invited me," you manage, rough with nervous tension.

Wrong answer.

"Don’t play stupid," she snaps, a flicker of impatience breaking her calm. "We sent the tickets. We hunted you down. We paid your brother’s hospital bills, for fuck’s sake. We brought you to Paris. We dazzled you with dinners and stages. Why?" She takes another step closer, invading your space. Her perfume is subtle but potent now, a clean, expensive scent that makes your head swim. "Out of the goodness of our hearts? Nostalgia for the quiet trainee who fixed our choreography?"

Sana places a calming hand on Dahyun’s arm. "Dubu, please. Be gentle."

Dahyun ignores her, her dark eyes boring into yours. Into the depths of your soul. "There’s something underneath all that, isn’t there? Something you feel. Something we feel. And it scares you. Because of the sheep. Because of the fences. Because you think this," she gestures around the room, encompassing everything including herself and Sana, "isn’t your world."

Her words strip away any form of pretense. The farm responsibilities, the deep-seated love for your family, the sheer impossibility of it all—it crashes over you. 

"It isn't," you rasp, setting the champagne flute down with a clatter. "You’re stars. You live in luxury cars and penthouses. I fix tractors and shovel manure. You gave me an incredible gift, Dahyun. You too, Sana. More than I could ever repay. But this—" You gesture between the three of you. "This fantasy? It ends tonight. I have to go back. I need to go back."

Sana’s hand tightens on your knee, her eyes wide and shimmering. Dahyun doesn’t flinch. She studies you, that unnerving glare never wavering.

Then, a slow, deliberate smile touches her lips. It’s not warm. It’s fierce. Possessive. 

"You think this is about dragging you into our world? Making you an idol?" She shakes her head, a dark lock falling across her forehead. "We don’t want you in our world, farm boy. We want you. The man you became because of the sheep, the fences, the fucking manure." Dahyun then drops to a husky whisper. "We saw it in Zürich. The strength. The quiet loyalty. The man who chose his family and built a life with his hands. We’re proud of you."

Sana surges forward, her hand cupping your cheek, turning your face to hers. "So proud," she breathes, thick with unshed tears. "And we missed you. Not the trainee. The man." Her thumb brushes your lower lip. "We love you. Both of us. Have done, for longer than we admitted, even to ourselves."

The shared confession hangs in the air, fragile and monumental. The carefully constructed walls around your heart, reinforced by years of distance and duty, crumble. The love you’ve repressed since those trainee days, buried under responsibility and the sheer audacity of the thought, surges forward, now undeniable. More than admiration. More than gratitude. A deep, consuming love for Sana’s radiant warmth and Dahyun’s grounding steel. For them.

"I—" The words cling to your tongue, stifled by emotion. You look at Sana, her eyes luminous pools of affection and hope. Then at Dahyun, her pride softened into something vulnerable, expectant. "I love you too," you finally whisper, the truth tearing itself free. "Both of you. Since back then. Seeing you again—it didn’t just reawaken that, it just made it impossible to ignore any longer."

Sana lets out a soft, gasping sob of relief and joy. Dahyun’s sharp intake of breath is the only sign of her own emotion. 

“Finally.” 

The word is simple, weighed with years of unconfessed desire.

Dahyun’s hand fists in your hair, pulling your head back. The other grips your jaw. Her lips crash down on yours—hard, demanding, a collision of pent-up longing and fierce possession. It’s fire and steel: a kiss that sears away doubt, that brands you as hers. Groaning into her mouth, your hands instinctively fly to her waist, pulling her flush against you. Her sweet taste—champagne and something uniquely Dubu, sharp and clean—floods your senses.

Before you can fully process Dahyun’s assault, Sana is right there. She doesn’t wait for an invitation. She captures Dahyun’s lips in a deep, hungry kiss, her fingers tangling in Dahyun’s hair. It’s a sight that steals your breath: two idols, lost in each other for a heartbeat, sharing breath and fire, united in their desire for you. 

Then Sana breaks away, her eyes wild, and descends on you. Her kiss is different: passionate, seeking, full of sweet desperation. Cherry blossom and champagne, warmth and yielding softness. You kiss her back with equal ferocity, one hand still anchored on Dahyun’s hip, the other burying itself in Sana’s impossibly soft hair.

Dahyun breaks the kiss first. Her eyes, dark and dilated, hold a predatory glint. "Bed," she commands, rough but flared with authority. "Now."

She doesn’t wait for compliance. She pushes you backwards. You stumble, falling onto the impossibly soft expanse of a king-sized bed covered in dove-gray silk. Before you can right yourself, they’re all over you.

Sana moves like liquid sunlight, straddling your chest, her knees pressing into the mattress on either side of your head. Her stage shirt is already halfway down her waist, revealing the swell of her tits encased in delicate lace. She grinds down, the heat of her core palpable even through the layers of fabric separating you. 

"Missed this," she purrs, leaning down and nipping at your earlobe. "Missed you." Her fingers work the remaining buttons of her shirt, shrugging it off to reveal a matching lace bra.

Dahyun, meanwhile, kneels between your legs. Her movements are efficient, deliberate. She unbuckles your belt, the rasp of leather loud in the sudden quiet. Her fingers pop the button of your jeans, drags down the zipper. Cold air hits your skin, followed immediately by the warmth of her hand palming the hard outline of your cock straining against your boxers. A low groan escapes you.

"Eager," remarks Dahyun, her cadence a low thrum that vibrates through your bones. She hooks her fingers into the waistband of your boxers and jeans, peeling them down your thighs in one smooth motion. Your cock springs free, already achingly hard, glistening precociously at the tip. The younger woman’s eyes track its movement, a flicker of pure hunger in their depths before her usual composure slams back down. "Sana," she says, her gaze never departing your shaft. "Get him ready for me."

Sana doesn’t need a second telling. With a mischievous grin, she shuffles backwards, settling her hips directly over your face. The scent of her is overwhelming: musky, sweet, distinctly Sana. Already drenched panties, a scrap of lavender silk, press against your lips. 

"Make me feel good, farm boy," she breathes, full of lewd want. Grinding her ass down on your face, her damp underwear feels sharp against your mouth.

There’s not a moment of hesitation. You tilt your head up, nuzzling against the heated fabric, inhaling her deeply. Your hands grip her thighs, holding her steady as you mouth her through the slit, feeling her jerk and whimper above you. Hooking your fingers into the sides of her panties, dragging them down her legs. They catch on her ankles, kicked away impatiently.

She’s bare. Gloriously bare. Her pussy is a perfect, glistening pink, already swollen and wet, the delicate folds parted slightly, the pull outright irresistible. The sight, the scent, the proximity—all intoxicating. You dive in. Your tongue is a flat stroke up her center, gathering her slick, salty-sweet and addictive. 

Sana cries out, her hands flying to your hair, fingers gripping tight. "Yes! Oh God, yes!" 

You focus, swirling your tongue around her clit, finding the hard little nub beneath its hood. Sucking gently, then harder, flicking with the tip. Sana bucks against your mouth, her moans escalating, high and breathless. Then you slide a finger down, finding her entrance slick and welcoming. One finger slips inside easily, then a second, curling upwards, searching for that sweet spot.

"Fuck! There!" whines Sana, pressing down hard on your fingers and mouth. "Don’t stop! Please—please don’t stop!"

While you devour Sana, Dahyun undresses efficiently. The sleek dress pools at her feet, revealing a simple sky blue bra and panties that do little to hide her divinely-crafted figure. Climbing onto the bed, she straddles your hips, facing Sana. Her ass is a perfect curve just above your aching cock. Reaching back, her hand wraps around your shaft, giving it a firm, purposeful stroke that makes your hips jerk all over the bed. Her thumb swipes over the leaking tip, spreading the precum around her fingers.

"Watch him, Sana," Dahyun commands, coiled with steel, fueled by bubbling arousal. "Watch him make you cum." 

Dahyun lifts herself up, positioning the head of your cock at her own entrance. Bare too now, her panties forgotten somewhere on the floor. You catch a glimpse of her pussy, neat and glistening, before she sinks down.

It’s tight. Unbelievably, suffocatingly hot. 

Slowly, Dahyun takes you inch by dangerous inch, eliciting a low groan rumbling in her chest. Slick, but the stretch is intense. You feel every ridge, every clenching muscle as she sheathes you completely, her ass finally resting comfortably against your hips. She’s deep, impossibly deep. You cry out against Sana’s heat, the vibration making her shriek.

She begins to move. Not frantic, not yet. 

A slow, deliberate roll of her hips, grinding down on you, taking you deep with every rotation. Her walls clench rhythmically around your shaft, milking you. She leans forward slightly, bracing her hands on Sana’s thighs, bringing their flushed, pleasure-laden faces close.

"Look at him," Dahyun rasps to Sana, her own breath hitching. "Look how hard he makes you cum." She captures Sana’s lips in a searing kiss as she continues to ride your cock, her pace gradually increasing, catching you off-rhythm.

It leaves you lost in overwhelming sensation. The wet, hot suction of Sana’s pussy on your mouth and fingers, the rhythmic clenching of Dahyun’s tight channel around your cock, the sight of them kissing above you, sharing your body. All overpowering and decadent. You redouble your efforts on Sana, curling your fingers hard inside her, sucking her clit desperately.

Sana detaches from Dahyun’s mouth with a charged gasp. "I’m gonna—Oh God, I’m cumming!" 

Her body locks up, her luscious thighs clamping harshly around your head. A guttural cry tears from her throat as her pussy pulses violently around your fingers and face, drenching your chin. Wave after wave rocks her, her moans dissolving into whimpers as she collapses forward onto Dahyun’s shoulder, trembling.

Dahyun watches Sana’s climax, her own movements becoming more urgent, more demanding. Her hips piston faster, slamming down onto your cock, taking you to the hilt with each stroke. The slap of skin on skin fills the room, a symphony of passionate cries and stupendous sensations. 

"So good," she grunts, her composure fracturing, her breathing reduced to ragged gasps. "Fuck, you feel so good inside me." She reaches back, her hand finding yours where it grips her hip, intertwining your fingers. Her clutch is iron, inescapable and unforgiving.

The pressure in your balls is a molten coil, tightening beyond your control. Watching Dahyun ride you, feeling her tight heat, seeing Sana spent and trembling beside her—it’s all too much. 

"Dahyun—I’m close," you warn, strangled, losing your intonation.

"Not yet," she gasps, increasing her pace, bouncing against you hard. "Fill me. Cum inside me. Now!" 

Her command is sharp, undeniable.

The coil snaps. With a cry muffled by Sana’s thigh, you explode. Thick, hot pulses of cum erupt deep into Dahyun’s inviting cunt. She cries out, her body convulsing around you, her inner walls fluttering wildly as her own orgasm rips through her, triggered by your own release. She grinds down hard, milking every last drop of cum from you, her head thrown back, a look of relentless ecstasy dawning on her face.

You both crash back onto the bed in a sudden collapse, gasping, slick with sweat and utter release. Sana stirs beside Dahyun with a lazy, satisfied smile on her face. She traces a finger down the younger woman’s sweat-slicked spine. "My turn," she murmurs, husky and already spent.

Still recovering, Dahyun manages a weak smirk. She slides off you, your softening cock slipping from her with a wet sound. She gestures towards Sana. "Flip her."

The command kindles renewed energy. Still reeling from your own orgasm, you move, gently guiding the pliant Sana onto her hands and knees on the bed. Her perfect ass is presented to you, still glistening, dripping down her legs. You kneel behind her, running your hands over the smooth curves of her back, down to her hips. She arches her back, pushing herself flush against you. A needy whimper escapes her lips as your cock faintly ghosts her inviting hole.

Dahyun arranges herself on the bed in front of Sana. She lies back against a mountain of pillows, spreading her legs wide. Her pussy is flushed, glistening, her folds still swollen from her recent climax. She looks utterly debauched and in command. 

"Come here, Sana," she orders, regaining her low thrum.

Sana eagerly crawls forward, settling between Dahyun’s thighs. Dahyun reaches down, tangling her fingers in Sana’s hair. "Make me cum," she demands, guiding Sana’s face towards her exposed core. "Use that pretty tongue of yours."

Sana needs no further encouragement. She dives in with a hungry moan, her tongue lapping eagerly at Dahyun’s slick folds. The sight is incendiary, lighting a fire within you: Sana’s head buried between Dahyun’s thighs, Dahyun’s head thrown back, her eyes slammed shut, a low moan starting deep in her chest.

Positioning yourself behind Sana, your cock hardens again, fueled by the erotic tableau unraveling before your very eyes. You guide the tip through Sana’s slick folds from behind. She’s incredibly wet, freshly sensitive, her inner muscles fluttering as you push inside her warmth. Sana gasps against Dahyun’s pussy, her moan sending shockwaves against Dahyun’s clit.

"Fuck her," Dahyun commands, her eyes suddenly opening, dark and intense, briefly locking onto yours. "Fuck her while she eats me. Make her scream."

You and Dahyun’s goals align. It’s a demand that sets you off. 

Gripping Sana’s shapely hips you thrust deep, burying yourself to the hilt and in her welcoming heat. She cries out, the sound muffled sharply against Dahyun’s cunt. Setting a punishing rhythm, dragging your shaft almost all the way out before slamming back in, the force drives Sana’s face harder and closer against Dahyun’s core. Sana moans continuously, a desperate, pleading sound, her tongue working furiously on Dahyun even as you pound relentlessly into her.

Dahyun’s composure shatters. Her hips buck off the bed, meeting Sana’s mouth. Her moans escalate, sharp and gasping. "Yes! Oh fuck, yes! Just like that, Sana! Harder!" 

Her fingers tighten painfully in Sana’s hair, holding her in place. "And you," she pants, flashing a glance in your direction, her eyes wild with ecstasy, "fuck her harder! Make her feel it!"

Redoubling your efforts, your thrusts become brutal and focused. The bed creaks in protest. The sounds are obscene: the sloppy clap of your hips against Sana’s ass, her muffled cries and desperate licks, complemented by Dahyun’s escalating gasps and sharp commands. You watch Sana’s back arch to your rhythm, hear the pitch of her cries change, becoming higher, more frantic. She’s close again.

"Now, Sana!" Dahyun sighs, her body tensing like a bowstring. "Make me cum! Now!"

Sana responds with a muffled cry, her tongue lashing Dahyun’s clit with haphazard intensity. At the same time, you slam into her deep and hold, grinding your cock against her ass, thrusting the depths of her cunt with relentless pressure.

The older woman screams, her body convulsing around your cock, her orgasm ripping through her with violent force. Her inner walls clamp down on you like a vise, draining you even as she shakes.

Above her, Dahyun lets out a guttural cry, her back arching clear off the bed. "Fuck! Sana!” 

Her thighs clamp around Sana’s head as her own climax crashes over her, intense and shuddering. Torrential slick pulses visibly, wetness coating Sana’s chin and cheeks.

Holding deep inside Sana as she rides out the last of her tremors, your own orgasm held back only by sheer will. As Sana collapses, spent and trembling, you continue to fuck into her cunt. Dahyun is panting, her eyes closed, a dense sheen of sweat covering her body. Still, she manages to cry out orders. “She’s earned it. Cum in her.”

There’s no denying it; not even your body can hold on any longer. 

Stretching her pussy, groaning from the depth of your lungs, hands wrapped on her silky waist. The orgasm wrecks through your very soul. Shot after shot of thick load, you unload in Sana’s creamy, warm cunt. The sensation burns through your muscles, your body enduring far more punishment than any amount of labor, leaving you utterly breathless. She cries faint, airy whimpers, taking all your worth, earning every well-deserved drop.

As the embers die out, you’re clung to her hip, your only anchor as you struggle to steady yourself through the aftermath of your climax.

Dahyun opens her eyes, her gaze finding yours, still dark but softened and sated by overwhelming pleasure. She gestures weakly towards Sana, then pats the space beside her on the bed. "Bring her."

Gently gathering the boneless Sana, you lift her from her hands and knees. Reduced to incoherent murmurs, she nuzzles against your chest. You carry her to the side of the bed opposite Dahyun and lay her down. She curls onto her side immediately, already half-asleep.

You move to the other side, collapsing onto your back between them. The mattress dips. Dahyun shifts closer, her body radiating heat. She turns onto her side, facing you, one arm draping possessively over your chest. Her fingers trace the fading sheep bite mark on your neck. On your other side, Sana mirrors her, snuggling close, her head pillowed on your shoulder, one leg thrown over yours. Her hair fans out like a silken blanket.

The collective silence is profound, broken only by their slowing breaths and the distant hum of Paris far below. Exhaustion, deep and bone-melting, settles over you. The scent of shared sex, sweat, Sana’s cherry blossom, and Dahyun’s ozone-clean skin mingle in the air. Home feels a million miles away, yet its pull remains—not a demand in this moment, but a deep, resonant hum beneath the sated stillness.

Sana sighs in contentment, her fingers tracing idle patterns on your stomach before they stop on your chest. "Love you, farm boy," she murmurs, already drifting off.

Dahyun’s fingers cling to your neck. She doesn’t speak, but she presses a soft, lingering kiss just below your ear. It’s an answer; a promise. A temporary surrender to a fantasy that feels, in this exhausted, sex-slicked aftermath, heartbreakingly real.

You close your eyes. A faint command from Dahyun’s lips emanates in your ear: Stay. 

The combined weight of them: Sana’s warmth, Dahyun’s solid presence—they anchor you in the luxurious present, even as the image of green hills and bleating sheep flickers, persistent, on the edge of your consciousness. Spent and utterly conquered, you let the darkness claim you, sandwiched between impossible stars.

—————

Early the next day, cerulean dawn filters through gauzy curtains, painting Sana’s sleeping face in ethereal silver. Her arm rests possessively across your chest, fingers curled loosely into the fabric of your bare chest. Dahyun’s back presses warm and solid against yours, her slow, even breaths a metronome in the stillness. 

Peace. Deep, syrupy, and utterly alien. The city murmurs outside, a distant hum beneath the cocoon of shared warmth and soft linen. You exist in a suspended bubble, the plush sheep a forgotten lump beneath your pillow, the pair of candy pins gleaming dully on the nightstand like discarded constellations. It’s everything you didn’t know you needed. A calm that feels like heaven.

Then, the shriek.

It claws through the tranquility: your phone, vibrating with frantic urgency on the polished oak surface, shatters the silence like dropped crystal. Sana jerks awake, a soft gasp escaping her lips, eyes wide open and disoriented. Dahyun shifts instantly, her body tensing, a calm anchor replaced by wary alertness.

"Whose—?" Sana mumbles, dense with bedroom haze, reaching blindly towards the offending device before you can react. Her thumb swipes the screen. "Hello?" Her tone is polite, confused.

The change is instantaneous. Her sleep-soft features harden. The color drains from her cheeks, replaced by a waxy pallor. Her free hand flies to her mouth, eyes locking onto yours, wide with a dawning horror that chills you to the marrow.

"—Slow down, please. Slow down." Sana trembles. "Who is this? Looking for—? Him?" 

Her gaze bores into you, filled with a panic that mirrors the frantic crackle suddenly audible from the receiver. She thrusts the phone towards you as if it were scalding. "It’s—it’s your parents. They sound—terrified."

In an instant, the peaceful haze evaporates. Ice floods your veins. You grab the phone, your own fingers numb and clumsy. "Mom? Dad? What’s—"

The voices on the other end are a distorted wail of pure panic. Words tumbling over each other, choked with pained sobs. "Where are you?! We need you! Your brother—he’s—"

Your world tilts. The plush Parisian room, Sana’s terrified face, Dahyun’s steadying hand suddenly on your arm—it all feels vain and hollow. All you hear is the despair in your mother’s voice, the phantom echo of sirens screaming down a rural lane eight years ago. The polished wood floor beneath your bare feet might as well be the cold linoleum of a hospital corridor you know all too well. The scent of Sana’s cherry blossom perfume twists into the sharp, nauseating tang of needles and antiseptic.

"Where?" You gravel, scraping your throat. "Which hospital? Tell me!"

—————

Eight years of peace dissolve. You’re eighteen again, lost and drowning in a familiar, traumatizing smell.

The fluorescent lights of University Hospital Zürich buzz like angry wasps, casting a sickly green pallor over everything. The scent hits you first—that same brutal cocktail of disinfectant, fear, and stale coffee that plagued your nightmares for years. It’s a direct punch to the gut, knocking the air from your lungs the moment you push through the heavy ER doors. 

Your parents are huddled on rigid plastic chairs, looking impossibly small and helpless. Mother’s face is ravaged, tear tracks cutting through the exhaustion. Dad stares blankly at the scuffed floor, his shoulders slumped under an invisible, crushing weight. They look up as you sprint towards them, your suitcases forgotten somewhere near the entrance.

"Mom. Dad." You hush, falling to your knees before them, gripping your mother’s cold hands. "Where is he? What happened?"

"He was helping me," your father rasps, sounding like stones grinded together. He won’t meet your eyes. "Fixing the fence by the stream—Bessie spooked—he slipped—fell backwards—hit his head on a rock." He swallows convulsively. "So much blood—Oh God, the blood—"

Your mother clutches your hands, her grip desperate. "He just—crumpled. Didn’t get up. Didn’t make a sound—" A fresh sob wracks her frame.

The description ignites a flashback, vivid and cruel: not of Bessie, but of a feverish younger brother gasping for breath in a sterile bed in Seoul, beeping monitors a frantic counterpoint to your own heartbeat. The helplessness. The crushing weight of responsibility you couldn’t shoulder alone. The smell—it was always the smell.

You push past them, drawn like iron to a magnet towards the curtained bay the nurse wordlessly indicates. Your footsteps echo too loudly in the hushed corridor before yanking the curtain aside.

He lies unnervingly still on the narrow gurney, dwarfed by wires and blinking machines. A thick bandage wraps his head, stark white against his too-pale skin. His face, usually animated with clumsy teenage energy, is slack. Peaceful, almost. Worryingly so. An oxygen cannula snakes under his nose. The rhythmic beep of the heart monitor is the only sound, its every pulse a direct blow against your ribs.

The awful sight completely upends you. 

You stagger, bracing a hand against the cold metal rail of the bed. The room spins. The sterile white walls bleed into the memory of another hospital room, another still form, another desperate vigil. Eight years. A lifetime of vigilance, of sacrifice, poured into keeping him safe, healthy, alive. And the one time—the one fucking time you choose something for yourself, choose the glittering lights, choose them—

A tsunami of self-loathing, guilt, and remorse crashes over you. It’s corrosive, burning through any relief at arriving in time, disregarding any gratitude for the doctors. It floods your mouth with the taste of bile.

Your fault.

The words scream inside your skull, drowning out the monitor’s steady beat.

You left.

You abandoned your post. You shirked the one responsibility that truly mattered. You played the tourist in Paris while he bled on your family’s land.

Parker luck. 

The bitter phrase tastes foul. Power? No. Responsibility. And the universe exacts a brutal toll for forgetting it. Every. Single. Time.

If you’d been there—

The what-if is agonizingly clear: you, strong and steady, grabbing his jacket collar just in time, hauling him back from the slippery edge, Bessie’s hoof thudding harmlessly into mud. You would have seen the loose rock. You would have anticipated the spook. You would have been there.

Instead, you were sipping champagne under chandeliers, drowning in the impossible warmth of Sana’s smile, the quiet intensity of Dahyun’s gaze. Loving them. Choosing them, however briefly, over him.

A choked sound escapes you—part sob, part snarl, but complete frustration. Slamming your fist against the metal rail, the sharp clang echoes in the confined space. Your parents flinch behind you.

"Idiot!" The word hisses out, venomous, directed squarely at yourself. "Selfish, stupid idiot! Goddamn it!"

Outside the curtain, the nurse in charge stirs, muffled but concerned. "Sir? Is everything—?"

You can’t stay. Can’t breathe this antiseptic-scented air dense with your own failure. Can’t look at his still face and be reminded that you failed him. Again. 

Turning blindly, you shove past the curtain, past your parents’ startled, tear-stricken faces. Your father reaches out, his mouth opening, probably to say the doctor had been by, that the scans were clear, that he was stable, that he’d wake soon. 

But you don’t hear it. You don’t want to hear it. The good news doesn’t matter. It doesn’t erase the fact that it happened. The reality of the situation is this: it came about because you weren’t there.

You stalk down the corridor, away from the beeping monitors, away from the damning proof of your catastrophic lapse in judgment. Effulgent lights above buzz their relentless verdict. The ghost of that sick, traumatized eighteen-year-old boy walks beside you. A constant, accusing shadow. 

Responsibility isn't a choice. It’s an obligation. And you’d just proven, brutally, what happens when you try to break free. 

—————

Inside the hospital room, the atmosphere is cautiously lifting. The harsh overhead lights seem less accusing now. Your parents sit beside the bed where your brother rests, still pale but breathing steadily without the oxygen tubes. A doctor had just left, confirming the scans were clear, the concussion moderate, and complete recovery expected. 

Relief hangs palpable in the air, fragile but real.

The door clicks open. Your mother looks up, expecting you, but her eyes widen in surprise. Standing hesitantly in the doorway are Sana and Dahyun. Sana clutches a ridiculously oversized, bright bouquet of sunflowers and daisies, while Dahyun holds a tasteful basket of fruit and what appears to be premium ginseng packets.

"Um! Hi!" chirps Sana, a little too loud for the hushed ward, her usual effervescence tempered by visible nervousness. She bobs a quick, awkward bow. "We're—friends. Of your son. We heard about—" She gestures vaguely towards the bed with the bouquet.

Dahyun steps smoothly beside her, offering a deeper, more composed bow. "We apologize for the intrusion. We just—wanted to offer our support and well wishes." 

Her gaze flicks to your brother, then back to your parents, calm but watchful.

The air inside crackles with awkwardness. Your parents, weathered by farm life and recent events, stare at these two impossibly glamorous young women who look like they stepped out of a magazine spread. 

Your father clears his throat. "Thank you. That's—kind. He's—the doctors say he'll be alright. Woke up groggy but knew his name. Just needs plenty of rest." The relief as he delivers the good news is profound, softening the lines of stress on his tired face.

"Oh, thank goodness!" Sana exhales, her shoulders slumping visibly. Tension in the room eases a fraction. She beams, the genuine warmth in her smile momentarily banishing the sterile gloom. "We were so worried!"

Dahyun nods, placing the fruit basket carefully on a side table. "That’s excellent news. We're very glad to hear it." She hesitates, then meets your father’s eyes directly. Her usual calm is present, but there’s an atypical gravity bubbling underneath. "Actually, while we’re here, there’s something we’ve been wanting to say for a very long time."

Sana fidgets with the sunflower stems, suddenly pensive and straight. "Yes. Eight years, actually."

Your parents exchange a confused glance. "Eight years?" your mother echoes.

Dahyun takes a small breath. "When your son left Seoul—when your family faced—the medical bills. And the debt collectors." She pauses, ensuring she has their full, bewildered attention. "It was us. Sana and I. We arranged for the debts to be settled. We paid the main hospital bill. And—the more troublesome collectors were persuaded to leave you alone."

Your mother’s hand flies to her mouth. Your father stares at Dahyun, then Sana, his jaw slack with disbelief. 

Sana rushes to fill in the gaps; her words come tumbling out. "We didn't do it for thanks! Or anything! We just—we knew him from his trainee days. We saw how hard he fought, how much he loved you all. And we heard—how bad it was. We had just started earning—it wasn't a lot, but it was enough to help. We wanted you to have peace. To focus on getting your son well." Again she gestures towards your sleeping brother. "We wanted him," she nods towards the door, indicating you, "to be able to breathe."

Tears well in your mother’s eyes, emotion spilling over. "You—you did that? All those years ago?"

Dahyun nods once. Simple, definitive. "Yes. Anonymously, because the company—it was complicated. And we didn't want to intrude. Or create obligation."

"Obligation?" your father rasps. He shifts his gaze from Dahyun’s calm demeanor to Sana’s earnest one, his own eyes suspiciously bright. "Young ladies—you gave us our lives back. You gave him," he too nods towards the door, now filled with gratitude, "a chance to save his brother without drowning." He shakes his head, overwhelmed. "We could never—thank you enough."

Sana waves her hands dismissively, blushing. "No, no! Please! Seeing him now—seeing the man he became? Strong, kind, responsible—loving." She softens. "You raised an incredible son. We're—we're just so proud to know him. Proud of him." 

As she looks at your brother one more time, a soft smile touches her lips. "And we're so glad this one is going to be okay too."

————— The antiseptic glare of the hospital corridor feels like an accusation to your decision. You slump on a cold, molded plastic bench just outside the sliding entrance doors, the weak morning sun doing nothing to calm the jitter in your bones. Paris feels like a fever dream, a gilded cage you foolishly stepped into. The scent of Sana’s cherry blossom shampoo still clings faintly to your borrowed sweater, a bitter foil to the pervasive smell of bleach and despair. Every breath rasps in your chest, full of self-loathing.

Your brother’s pale, bandaged face, so terrifyingly still, merges with the ghostly memory of him gasping in a hospital bed eight years ago. The crushing weight of responsibility you’d carried since then—the early mornings, the calloused hands, the buried dreams—feels like it’s physically pressing you into the cheap plastic. And for what. To have it all unravel the moment you dared to want something for yourself. To feel something beyond the relentless rhythm of the farm.

Your fault. The words are an incessant drumbeat banging through your skull, synchronized with the phantom beep of the monitor inside. 

You left him. You chose champagne and chandeliers over fences and feed bins. You chose—them. You chose—poorly.

"Stupid," you mutter, the self-reproach scraping your throat. You rake trembling hands through your hair, pulling hard enough to sting. "Selfish. Fucking. Idiot." 

Parker luck. A gift disguised as a curse. Responsibility always collects its due, with interest. The universe doesn’t forgive moments of weakness. Especially yours. You picture the slick mud by the stream, the loose rock, Bessie’s startled movement. If you’d been there, your reflexes honed by years of anticipating disaster, you would have grabbed his collar, hauled him back. Simple. Instinctive. Your job. Instead, you were—

The memory ambushes you: Sana’s luminous smile across a candlelit table, Dahyun’s quiet intensity as her hand brushed yours. The dizzying warmth of their hotel room, the taste of Dahyun’s lips, the sound Sana made when— Guilt, sharp and acidic, floods your mouth. You weren’t just shirking responsibility; you were betraying it. Indulging in deep-rooted fantasies while your brother bled to death. "I touched them," you whisper hoarsely to the uncaring concrete. "I wanted them. While he—" 

The sentence chokes off. It’s replaced by a rather harsh yet familiar call.

"Rough night, farm boy?"

Your head snaps up. Blinking against the harsh light, you see them. Not ghosts, but anomalies. Nayeon, Jihyo, Momo, Mina, Chaeyoung, Tzuyu, Jeongyeon—filtering through the hospital entrance like a needed burst of unexpected color in the dull gloom. They’re dressed down—jeans, sweaters, faces free of makeup—but their presence is still jarring. Surreal.

Nayeon arches a perfectly sculpted eyebrow, her arms crossed. "You look like you wrestled Bessie and lost." Her tone is light, but her eyes are sharp and assessing.

Jihyo steps forward, her usual commanding presence softened by concern. "We heard," she states simply. "How is he?"

"How—how are you here?" you stammer, awed and confused at their uncanny presence here, of all places. "You had flights—schedules—"

Jeongyeon shrugs, her hands shoved deep in her jacket pockets. "Sana and Dahyun happened. Once they got the full picture after you bolted from Paris like your pants were on fire—" She shoots a glance at Jihyo. "Let’s just say they can be very persuasive when motivated. Especially together. And honestly? After Lolla, our schedule had some breathing room. They insisted we come. We wanted to."

Momo nods, her expression unusually serious. "They were frantic. Worried about you. About him." She gestures vaguely towards the hospital.

Tzuyu offers a small, solemn nod of agreement. Mina’s large eyes hold only quiet empathy.

"But why?" The question bursts out, edged with anger simmering beneath the despair. "You shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t have been there. None of this—" You gesture wildly, encompassing the hospital, your brother’s health, your own shattered state, "This is all on me! I left. I took my eyes off the ball for one second, one selfish trip, and look!" 

Your voice cracks. "He could have died! Because I was off playing tourist, drowning in—in—" 

You can’t bring yourself to say it outright. Not in front of them. In Sana’s laugh. In Dahyun’s touch. In the terrible, beautiful feeling of falling for them both.

Chaeyoung crouches down in front of your bench, her sharp glare fixed on yours. "Playing tourist? Is that what you call facing down a past you buried for eight years? What you call finally letting yourself breathe something other than animal shit and regret?"

"You don't understand!" The words tumble out, bitter and scathing. "Responsibility isn't a choice! It's a chain! And I dropped it! I let myself get—distracted. By lights. By music. By them. I wanted something—something just for me. And the universe punished me for it. Hard. Because that's how it works! You step out of line, you face the consequences. My brother paid the price for my—my fucking overindulgence." 

The implication of your time with Sana and Dahyun hangs heavy in the air, unspoken but perfectly understood.

Jihyo sits beside you on the bench, the plastic groaning. Her presence is solid, anchoring. "Listen to me," she answers, low but resonant. "Love isn't indulgence. Wanting happiness isn't betrayal. What happened to your brother was a freak accident. A slip on wet grass. A spooked cow. That’s bad luck, not divine punishment for daring to visit Paris."

Mina speaks softly, her timbre like clear water. "You carry so much weight. For so long. You built a life, a safe place, for your family. That is not nothing. Taking a few days, letting people care for you—that isn't dropping the chain. It's giving your hands rest, if for a moment."

Jeongyeon leans against a pillar, her expression pragmatic. "Accidents happen, kid. On farms, in cities, on stage. You think one of us hasn't slipped during practice? Gotten hurt? Does that mean the others weren't doing their jobs? That they were 'indulging' by taking a breath? Life is messy. It doesn't follow a script where the hero’s vigilance prevents every fall."

Nayeon crouches next to Chaeyoung. "Stop martyring yourself," she says, surprisingly gentle despite the bluntness of her remark. Something your mother told you not that long ago. "It's exhausting to watch. And honestly? Unfair. To you, and to them." 

Tzuyu jerks her head towards the hospital doors. "You think your brother would want you bound to that farm forever out of guilt? That your parents would?"

Their words of wisdom get lost in translation. In your mind, it feels like they’re speaking a different language. 

You shake your head, tears finally welling, teeming with anger and shame. "You really don't get it. I should have been there. I knew Bessie. I knew that slope. If I hadn't gone—if I hadn't let myself—" The image of tangled limbs and whispered promises in a Parisian hotel room flashes, sharp and painful. "Wanted them—"

"You think wanting love makes you weak?" Jihyo questions softly. "Or human?"

A choked sob escapes, then another, tearing from your chest with ragged force. The carefully constructed walls of control, the stoicism worn like armor for eight years, disintegrate into dust. You fold forward, elbows on your knees, face buried in your hands, shoulders shaking with the burdensome pressure of grief, guilt, and sheer, overwhelming exhaustion. The tears are a flood, silent at first, then wrenching gasps that cut through your very soul.

You don't see them move, but suddenly, they’re there. Arms encircle you. Not just one or two, but many. Jihyo’s firm grip on your shoulder. Momo’s arm around your back. Mina’s hand resting lightly on your arm. Chaeyoung and Tzuyu pressing close. Nayeon’s hand rubbing slow circles on your shoulder blades. Jeongyeon’s mature presence by your side. It’s a cocoon of warmth, comfort and unconditional, wordless support. A silent fortress against an unforgiving world.

Suddenly, two more sets of arms slide themselves into the embrace. You feel them before you see it. Sana, pressing her cheek against the top of your head, her frame trembling slightly. Dahyun, her hand finding yours where it grips your knee, her fingers interlacing with yours in a grounding squeeze. No words, just their presence, anchoring you in the storm. Solid. Real. 

The collective strength of nine women who crossed an ocean for you finally cracks through the impenetrable core of your isolation and self-pity. You weep freely; the sobs wrack your body. Years of buried fear, relentless responsibility, and newfound love pour out onto the shoulders of an unlikely sanctuary.

—————

The sliding doors hiss open. You step back into the hospital corridor, feeling vulnerable but strangely lighter. Lingering tear tracks stiff on your face. The group hug had dispersed, with the members giving you space but following close by like a protective constellation. Jihyo meets your eyes, a silent question. You manage a shaky nod. He’s okay. She smiles, small and reassuring.

You need to see him. To say the words burning holes through your guilt-ridden heart. 

He’s awake. Propped up slightly, looking groggy but blessedly alert. His eyes, the same warm brown as yours, focus blearily on you as you approach the bed. Your parents offer small, encouraging smiles. Sana and Dahyun stand quietly near the window, Sana giving you a tentative, hopeful thumbs-up.

The sight of him awake and alive unleashes a fresh wave of sadness laced with shame. You reach the bedside, your hand hovering over his before gently grasping it. 

"Hey—kiddo."

He blinks slowly. "Hey, big bro." 

He sounds raspy and frail. You feel the pang of guilt coming back stronger the longer your gaze lingers on his fragile state.

Tears threaten once more. You fight them, swallowing hard. "I—I am so sorry. So, so sorry. I wasn't there. I should have been there. I promised—I promised I’d always be there to watch your back. And I wasn't." The words spill out, drenched in regret. "I let you down. I got—distracted. I was selfish. And you got hurt because of it. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry." 

Your head bows, weighed from countless failures pressing down.

A beat of silence. Then, a weak chuckle. You look up, startled.

"Bessie," he murmurs, a trace of his usual grin stirring his lips. "Being—Bessie. Dumb cow." He takes a shallow breath. "My fault—wasn't watching—my own feet. Slippery mud—after the rain. Dad yelled—but I was too slow." 

He squeezes your hand weakly. "Sorry I—scared you." His eyes drift closed for a second, then reopen, focusing with greater clarity. "Shoulda—called you—for backup. You’re better—with her."

His simple, matter-of-fact absolution, blaming only the cow and his own clumsiness, is a balm you didn’t know you needed. It doesn’t erase the guilt—far from it—but it cracks its suffocating hold. 

A watery laugh escapes you. You squeeze his hand back. "Yeah. Bessie’s a menace. That damned cow." 

He manages a slightly wider grin. "Signatures?" he whispers, the childish gleam momentarily overriding the grogginess. "You got 'em? Sana? Dahyun?"

You look over at Sana and Dahyun by the window. Sana beams. Dahyun offers a small, knowing nod. Behind them, the others’ eyes are peeking through. 

Then you turn back to your brother, smiling. "Better than signatures, kid."

Stepping back towards the door, it opens wide, and you beckon.

They file in. Not just Sana and Dahyun, but all nine. A sudden, vibrant explosion of gentle energy fills the small hospital room. They crowd near the foot of the bed, offering shy waves, warm smiles, and soft hellos.

Your brother’s eyes widen—and widen. They’re dying to pop out.

His jaw drops. He stares, utterly starstruck, his gaze darting from one face to another. His mouth opens, closes, opens again. No sound comes out. His face flushes bright red. Then, his eyes roll back slightly in his head, and he slumps dramatically back against the pillows, feigning a dead faint, a ridiculous, over-the-top grin still plastered on his face before he ‘passes out.’

A beat of stunned silence. Suddenly, laughter erupts. Bright, genuine, relieving joy. 

Sana claps her hands, giggling. Dahyun shakes her head, a smile finally breaking through her calm facade. Nayeon snorts. Momo laughs out loud. Chaeyoung cheekily grins. Tzuyu looks adorably confused. Mina covers her mouth, suppressing her own chortle. Jeongyeon casually chuckles. Jihyo shakes her head, smiling warmly at the performance.

Your parents stand together, your mother wiping happy tears from her eyes, your father’s arm around her shoulders. They watch you through the window—their son, surrounded by these bright stars who crossed an ocean for him, looking at your brother with exasperated affection—and their faces radiate with pride. Not just for surviving, but for building a life strong enough to hold both responsibility and unexpected love. For becoming a man worthy of such loyalty, such kindness, and yes, such chaos.

The farm is still there. There are fences that need mending. Bessie is probably plotting her next move. But in this sun-dappled hospital room, the future feels less like a burden and more like a wide, open field, waiting.

————— (A/N: Please fucking help me I can't— In all seriousness, this was a story I never thought I could crack. I've actually put it off for like more than a year cause there wasn't anything I could come up with that clicked. But upon one more revisit of the prompt, I figured the best way to tackle it was to tell a fish out-of-water story from his perspective. Combining his personal duty to family with a pang of nostalgia helped ease in the gaps. Beyond that, Sana and Dahyun are a very special pair, so hopefully I did them both a service! Full album on the way, member solos, Tzuyu's homecoming, and a massive world tour? Something tells me this might be their last big activity for a good while. Thank you for reading!)

[tsuy4n]

Okay so I’ve been obsessing over the Saja boys these days. Hyperfixation. New brain rot unlocked. Absolute serotonin. And after reading all these chef's kiss stories on here, my delulu brain said:

"What if Artist!Fem!Reader x Saja boys?"

And no, I don’t mean reader who just likes drawing.

I mean full-on webtoon artist. Sleep-deprived, over-caffeinated, hasn’t seen the sun in days—that kind of artist.

The kind who sees hot people and thinks, "great bone structure. Gonna draw that."

So here’s the ✨vision✨:

Reader isn’t romantically impressed by the Saja boys. At all.

They try to flirt?

"You’re shaped like a Pinterest pose reference. Mind holding that flex for a sec?"

They're shirtless?

"Nice lighting. I need to sketch your obliques."

They do the sexy wink?

They're out here looking like gods and MC’s just collecting them like rare anatomy models.

"I’ve seen better. Your symmetry’s a little off."

How'd she got involved? Well, she didn’t even mean to meet them, really.

She just took a low-key staff job which is some basic behind-the-scenes work. Water duty. Carrying gear. Sweeping up glitter. Whatever pays rent.

But then:

Accidentally walks in on them mid-magic ritual.

Mistakes it for a stage rehearsal.

Doesn’t scream—just critiques the lighting and poses.

Becomes a walking enigma the boys can’t stop thinking about.

THEN her apartment burns down. Rent’s out of the question. And after a lot of suspicious looks and internal debates, one of the Saja boys goes:

"You can stay with us. Temporarily."

So now she’s:

Working for five hot demon idols

Living in their house

Still not impressed.

But wait—it gets worse (better.)

She thinks they’re just dramatic, overly aesthetic idols until she finds out:

They’re literal demons.

And their enemies? Obv the Huntrix which she thinks is another group that has... some similar name to that kpop group.

[Y/n]: "Like— Like Demon slayers?!"

YES. SHE STANS HUNTRIX. But she knows 2...

She has fanart. She follows a fancomic. She thought Mina, They said Mira but she thinks they mixed the name—pink hair, dual-scythe (technically a guandao, but whatever), was fictional.

Sneak Peek Scenes for Flavor:

1. The Huntrix Fangirl Reveal

The boys are bandaged, battered, and mid-complaint.

[Y/n]: "WAIT YOU FOUGHT MINA?! THAT'S SO COOL???" Abby: "She almost took my arm off!" Baby: "She stole my favorite jacket, too!" [Y/n]: *casually flipping through her webtoon collection* "Wait. The one with the dual-scythes and pink hair, right??"

Roman: "…Yeah, why?” [Y/n]: *eyes sparkling, playing along* "OH MY GOD YOU FOUGHT THE MINA?? SHE’S SO COOL!! I LOVE HER ???"

Dead silence. Mystery: *barks once in betrayal* JINU: *eye twitching* "You… stan the person actively trying to kill us?"

[Y/n]: "Okay first of all, she's not trying to kill me. Secondly, have you seen her design? Iconic. Her color palette? Perfect. Her character arc? Chef’s kiss. The drama. The trauma. The hair."

She pauses.

[Y/n]: *softly, reverently*: "She’s everything I wish I could draw." Abby: "You’re sleeping outside."

2. The Abs Incident

Abby: "Go ahead, babe. One-time offer to touch perfection." [Y/n]: "Okay." *Touches abs with terrifying focus.* [Y/n] *nods* "Good texture. I’m using you for a villain character. Thanks."

3. Rumi’s Breakdown (Huntrix Squad)

Rumi: "THEY’RE DEMONS! HOW CAN YOU STAY AT THEIR PLACE?! Not with just one—but all five?!!" [Y/n]: "Really? Wow.” Mira: *narrows eyes* "…You don’t look surprised." Zoey: Are you in cahoots with them?! Like—were you so BEWITCHED by their faces?! Because SAME. But also, betrayal??? [Y/n]: "Oh no, I’m freaking out inside. I just… this is PEAK webtoon content. Enemies to lovers potential. I’m living in someone’s AU."

4. When She Meets Mira

[Y/n]: "Oh my god. You’re real." Mira: "And you’re the artist who’s been drawing me in armor and… cat ears?" [Y/n]: "It was for the Patreon tier okay please don’t kill me."

5. Late-Night Kitchen Chaos

She just wanted rent money 😔Now she has demon roommates, stan wars, and probably develops an accidental crush on the villains.

Baby: "Most girls would kill for a moment alone with me."

[Y/n]: *without looking up from her sketchpad* "Can you move? You’re blocking the fridge light. I’m using it to shade your clavicle." Baby: "…Do I at least look cool?" [Y/n]: "Yeah. You’ve got the perfect bone structure for a mid-arc character death." Baby: "????"

And somehow, that’s still not the weirdest part of her week.

✨ [Y/n] doesn’t flirt. She doesn’t swoon. She just humbles the boys like it’s her side quest. ✨

On the side note: When I get into it imma start writing! (I’m into it.)

[juicykvnture]

WHITE ROSES

ex-husband!BruceWayne x fem!reader

tags: AFAB reader, DILF!Bruce duhhh, established relationship, slight angst, he’s down bad and needy, slapping, overstimulation, kinda dumbification, headlocks, dacryphillia, praise + degradation,

a/n: a man who yearns is a man who earns.

wc: 2.7k | masterlist

“Bruce?” you scoff under your breath, rubbing the sleep out of your eyes, “what the hell?”

“You should lock your windows, a crazy person could break in.” his tone is clipped despite his inner turmoil, he can already sense the annoyance in your tone.

“One already has.”

“What? Where?” his brows furrow, gripping the glass in his hand tighter as he whips his head around, already on guard as he scans every inch of the kitchen.

Right.. you mean him.

You open your eyes fully to stare at him, your expression as tired and unamused as ever.

“You’ve helped yourself to my whiskey.” you frown, brows knitting together as you watch his hand grip the glass, wedding band still on his finger.

“Our whiskey.” Bruce corrects you, only earning a scoff in response.

Right, your shared whiskey - a wedding gift from many, many moons ago.

Your plan was to save it for a special occasion, something you both agreed on - maybe a ten year anniversary?

Now that you look back, it’s stupid.

Hilarious, you thought your marriage would last that long.

For the last few months, you’ve been trying to convince yourself that your divorce was amicable.

You thought so anyway, though it hurt you more than you’ll ever admit when he agreed to sign those divorce papers without blinking an eye.

It was reasonable, even. That made it worse.

He wasn’t a bad man, it’s not that you two fell out of love.

He just didn’t have time for you.

You couldn’t take it anymore. After all, who wants to live with a ghost?

“What are you even doing here? It’s the middle of the night.” you break the heavy silence, your tired gaze settling on the bouquet of white roses on the kitchen island.

His sulky expression softens by a fraction when you question him, tilting his head up as if he’s leaning into the sound of your voice.

He never expected to miss your constant pestering and nagging so much.

“I was in the area.” Bruce stares at the roses, not entirely sure what to tell you.

You don’t say anything, but he can tell just by looking at you that he isn’t exactly welcome right now.

With your shoulders slumped, you reach for the bottle, pouring some of the whiskey into a random mug from the drying rack.

“Classy.” Bruce scoffs under his breath as he downs his own sip.

“Shuddup.”

His gaze softens slightly, watching you as you stare down into the mug.

He isn’t sure what the fuck he’s doing here, what the fuck he’s doing in general - without you.

Your silence is the last thing he expected when he showed up, how passive you are.

You’re not shouting, you’re not telling him to leave, you haven’t thrown your stilettos at his face like last time.

It’s dumb, but deep down.. maybe he wants a reaction.

He wants to mean something to you still, doesn’t matter if it’s negative. He wants to be more than just a fleeting thought in your mind.

“You’re not yelling at me.” Bruce breaks the silence this time, scratching the back of his neck.

Your grip on the mug tightens for a moment, as do your shoulders.

“I don’t have the energy to yell at you.” you sigh, punctuating your words with another sip.

He observes you silently, trying to seem indifferent when he notices the bags under your eyes, the arch of your brows.

You never were a particularly sound sleeper, even when you two were still together.

You’d sit in bed for hours on end, refusing to close your eyes until you heard the sound of his boots dragging down the hallway - until you were sure he had come home safe and in one piece.

Hell, even if he didn’t come back in one piece, you wouldn’t dare close your eyes until you were satisfied you had bandaged him up enough to not get bloodstains on your silk sheets.

An awful, selfish part of him hopes you still worry about him each night.

Internally scrambling to find something to talk about, you tilt your head up, giving his slightly dishevelled appearance a once-over.

“You’re greying.” you point out gaze lingering on a few silver streaks at the crown of his head.

That earns a small scoff in response, partly offended.. partly flattered.

You noticed.

“Haven’t had the time to deal with it.” Bruce offers, shrugging as he goes to top up his whiskey.

See, that’s partially true.

He’s been keeping himself busy with anything and everything.

He’s even been taking the time to go after petty criminals recently - a waste of time for the literal Batman, but it keeps you off his mind.

The real reason, though? He can’t really bring himself to do it.

It was always your thing.

For vanity’s sake, Bruce always said he hated those pesky grey hairs of his - so much so that he’d have you perched up on the bathroom counter with a bottle of hair dye every few weeks.

He never hated the greys, he just loved the attention when you fussed around with the comb, his hands resting on your thighs as you mumbled and complained that he had to keep his head still.

“I miss doing your hair,” you mumble into your mug, your words falling from your lips before you could even stop them.

Bruce doesn’t blink, staring down into his glass.

“I miss my wife.”

The silence is deafening, all you can hear is your own pulse thrumming in your ears.

You miss your husband too, of course you do.

But you can’t do this again.

Bruce hesitates for a moment before he speaks, trying not to gag on the words coming out of his mouth.

“..is your boyfriend home?”

Boyfriend. Bruce says the word like a curse, like he’s physically unable to say the word without injecting it with pure distaste.

“No, and he’s not my boyfrien-“

You blink, words dying on your tongue.

What are you supposed to tell him? You’re not about to confess that the guy you’ve been seeing is nothing more than a distraction.

Rubbing a hand over his face, Bruce takes a step forward to gently pry the mug out of your fingers.

His other hand goes to tilt your head up to look at him, the cold wedding band still on his finger a contrast to your warm skin.

He hesitates, then comes the question.

“Is he good to you?”

“Yeah,” you croak, though both of you know what he’s really asking.

Is he good enough for you?

Bruce pauses for a moment, giving you ample time to pull away before lightly running his thumb along your bottom lip - silently praying you don’t try and knock his teeth out.

As silly as it is, the way Bruce holds you has always made you a little weak in the knees.

But it’s different this time, it’s been so long.

It’s been so long that you’re not used to it, your hands moving to rest atop his shoulders just in case you fall.

But you already did, a long time ago.

“Yeah?” Bruce repeats, pressing a small kiss to your knuckles, eyes locked on you like they’re searching for something.

“Is he good in bed?” he asks, bluntly.

That makes you wince a little, you knew that question was coming.

You blame the heat rushing to your face on the fancy whiskey, the fact you’re exhausted.

But all you can do is sigh, meekly shaking your head.

“No?” Bruce pauses, and for just a moment, his lips hover over your skin as you nod.

He lets out a low chuckle, which to someone else might have sounded sarcastic.

To you, it’s almost smug.

Like he found a little secret that he knows he won’t ever share.

He sighs, letting a hand wander down to the drawstring of your pyjama shorts - tugging gently as he murmurs against your cheek.

“That’s disappointing."

Bruce Wayne would never ever leave his woman disappointed.

..not in bed, anyway.

And that’s the logic he’s clinging onto, trying to at least - with his fingers digging into your hips and his sweat-slicked hair clinging to his forehead.

He’d managed to mope and scowl and bat his lashes into some pity from his dear ex-wife, which promptly ended in him all but ripping those flimsy shorts straight off your body.

He’s had his face buried between your thighs, his tongue greedily lapping at your cunt like he’s been deprived of you for all eternity. His fingers played with you just beneath his mouth, anything to make up for lost time - anything to render you speechless.

Whatever it is he was doing was definitely working, all you could do was whine and arch your back and yank desperately at his hair.

It’s almost embarrassing that he got you to cum so hard, only proving his suspicions - you haven’t been fucked properly in a long time.

Not since him, anyway.

And god, does that make him wanna go harder.

You’re not even sure how many hours he’s kept you up at this point. Hell, it could be morning by now.

He lifts his head after what feels like an eternity - but not without dragging his lips down your thighs until he presses a small kiss to your knee, eyes not leaving yours for a second.

“Fuck,” he breathes out, almost delirious as he kneels between your legs, unable to look away from your trembling form beneath him, your fingers still clutching the sheets.

“..Bruce?” you pant out, chest heaving as you scramble to reach for his hand - still dazed after what he’s just put you through.

“Mhm, still here sweetheart.” he catches your hand, giving it a small but firm squeeze - fuck, he hasn’t called you that in forever.

Bruce watches you for another moment, rubbing his thumb over the back of your knuckles - trying to ignore the burn in his chest at the lack of your wedding ring on your finger.

Seeing you like this reminds him of when you were still together, when almost every time you two had sex it would always start with his face between your legs - just to get you warmed up.

But now? you’re all shaky from just that, all spent and glassy-eyed.

Bruce shifts slightly, one hand resting over your hip as he leans his face down to hover over yours.

And then it dawns on him.

You’re not used to it anymore.

See, that just won’t do.

“Don’t you close those legs.”

He’s gentle as he can be when he moves you onto your hands and knees, one rough hand at your hip and the other lightly holding the back of your neck.

“..Bruce, I can’t.” you manage to croak, your knees almost giving out from under you until his hands find your thighs, holding your legs open.

You’re all twitchy and part of him almost feels bad for keeping you up so long, he isn’t even sure what time it is either.

But that little part of him is very much overshadowed by the fact he just has to fuck his ex wife.

Your little whines about how it’s all too much fall on deaf ears, he’s too desperate.

With a shaky groan, one of his hands moves down to pull his boxers down, with such desperation his throbbing cock slaps up against his abs, already flushed and leaking.

“You’ll take it.” his words fall from his lips between shaky breaths as he gives himself one slow stroke, trying not to go cross-eyed at the sight of you in front of him.

He doesn’t even warn you before he’s slamming his cock inside you.

It’s not the usual slow or steady thrusts you were always used to, it’s not like that at all. He’s almost shaking from how much he’s missed this, slamming into your cunt like someone’s trying to rip you from his arms.

"Jesus- fuck- Bru-" you gasp, trying to breathe.

Your pleas are met with a firm smack across your ass, making your back arch even more - your face hitting the pillow.

Must he repeat himself?

“You’ll take it," he grunts as he pulls out just a little, soon driving the point home with a rough thrust back into your soaked cunt that has you trembling even more - the pillow doing little to muffle your whimpers.

Actually, how fucking dare you try muffle anything.

The thought of his wife trying to hide those pretty little sounds from him makes him almost snarl, one of his strong arms locking around your neck to keep your head up.

“You still moan like a slut, Mrs. Wayne.”

He’s so fucking grateful you’re too out of it to backhand him for that. You probably wouldn’t even care that he’s calling you a slut - you’d likely be more offended by the whole Mrs. Wayne thing.

“..for you I always do,” you manage to choke out, knowing damn well you’d face plant into those pillows again if he didn’t have you in that headlock.

He lets out an exhale at that, his voice softening despite the harsh thrusts of his hips and the arm around your neck.

“Yeah? Good girl.” He breathes out, cock twitching inside you as he hooks his chin over your shoulder.

“S’cause I always had you well trained, isn’t it?”

That tone makes you throb, trying to turn your head to look at him - the arm around your throat stopping you.

“Head down, slut.” Bruce murmurs into your shoulder, trying to hold back a grin when he feels your hips stuttering under him, your knees threatening to give out once more.

Oh, you’d so kick him in the balls for that in any other context.

But right now all you can do is let out soft little whines of his name and let him use you, one hand still digging into the skin of your hip to control the pace as he slams into your already overstimulated pussy.

“Bruce-“ you sniffle before the breath is knocked out of your lungs with another swat to your ass - paired with a kiss to your nape.

He only scoffs and holds you tighter with a grunt against your neck. His fingers gently smooth over where he just smacked before his hand comes down again.

It’s probably gonna leave marks that sting when you press them, but that’s fine by him.

It seems you need a reminder that you’re still his wife, and he’s the only man capable of fucking you properly.

Naturally, that earns another one of those sweet little whines.

Though this time, he swears he can feel the little tears rolling down your cheek and down his forearm.

“Fuck, you’re gonna make me cum, sweetheart.” Bruce lets out a low hiss, his thrusts getting more erratic as he bites at your neck.

“You’re still my fucking wife, you hear me?”

His arm falls away but he’s quick to replace it with his hand, tilting your head back so you can at least look him in the eye through your tears, so you know who’s making you cum.

The only man who’s ever fucked you properly.

The only man who ever will.

You’re sobbing his name out and he’s staring at you breathless, still slamming himself into you as the hand on your ass moves to run over your clit - letting out a muffled string of curses when you throb around him even more.

You're crying, babbling on a load of nonsense, panting and shaking as your tear-streaked face hits the pillows.

You just about feel that familiar feeling of him cumming inside you, the mess dripping down your thighs.

In all honesty, even when it’s too much for him - Bruce just can’t bring himself to pull out, his fingers digging into your hips like a lifeline as be moves so you’re both laying on your side, one arm firmly draped over your torso as the other goes to tangle with yours, pressing messy kisses to your knuckles with slurred out praise.

You’re just so pretty, so perfect for him, he’ll never want anyone else.

And you just look so soft when you’re fucked out like that, his cock still twitching inside you.

“I love you,” Bruce mumbles into your shoulder, gripping your hand tighter.

He just hopes you’re too out of it to notice him sliding your wedding ring back onto your finger.

a/n: thank you sm for reading!! also 400 followers!!

I have such severe Bruce brain rot so pls send me suggestions of what I should subject this man to next..

Bruce Wayne m.list

[gf2bellamy]

something that would be so cute is r who wears glasses kissing spencer (while hes also wearing his glasses) and their glasses kind of clack against eachother by accident and both spencer and r are giggling a little when that happens so they have to stop kissing for a second

😭😭

-🪲

clink — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: fluff a/n: haiii !!! love this idea <3 hope you like this <3

You let out a dramatic sigh as you dropped your full weight onto Spencer, sprawling across his body on the couch. He let out a surprised “oof,” his breath hitching as you landed on top of him, but his arm instinctively wrapped around you anyway.

“Hi,” you mumbled into the crook of his neck, lips brushing against his skin. “Missed you.”

Spencer’s chest rumbled with a soft laugh as he hugged you tighter, fingers resting gently against your spine. “You went to get the mail,” he said into your hair, amusement clear in his voice.

“So?” you huffed, lifting your head just enough to rest your chin on his chest. He blinked down at you, already slightly distracted by how pretty you looked with your glasses slipping down your nose.

“So,” he echoed, “it was two minutes.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Does that mean you didn’t miss me?”

Spencer gave a laugh, lips quirking into a fond smile. “Of course I missed you,” he said, brushing a gentle hand up and down your back, fingers dragging softly through the fabric of your shirt.

You beamed, content, your eyes glancing down at the book in his hand, which now dangled precariously over the edge of the couch. “You enjoying your book?” you asked, shifting just enough to sit up, now straddling his lap.

He moved with you easily, settling back into the cushions with one hand resting on your hip, the other lifting the book slightly to keep it from falling. “I think so,” he murmured. “I’m only on chapter three, but it’s promising. It’s about—”

You watched him speak as he adjusted his glasses with one hand and gently set the book aside with the other. You barely noticed time pass as you wrapped your arms around his neck, fingers slipping into the hair at the nape of his neck, toying with it gently while he spoke. His thumbs traced soft, absent-minded circles over your hips as he continued talking, occasionally glancing up to see if you were still listening. You were. You asked little questions now and then just to keep him talking, because you loved the sound of his voice when he was excited.

“Hm. I like your interpretation, though,” you murmured thoughtfully as Spencer explained a particular scene from his book. His eyes lit up a little at your words.

“Yeah?” he asked, tilting his head slightly. You nodded, your glasses slipping down the bridge of your nose. He reached up and gently pushed them back into place with two fingers.

“It completely makes sense,” you said, glancing over at the book now resting on the side of the couch next to you, its pages slightly creased from how he’d set it down. “I didn’t even think about it that way until you pointed it out.” Spencer gave you a small smile, his fingers still resting lightly against the curve of your jaw.

“What?” you asked, poking his cheek playfully with one finger, suspicious of the way he was looking at you.

“Nothing,” he said quietly, but the way his voice dipped slightly and the corners of his mouth twitched upward said otherwise.

He leaned in slowly, and your heart fluttered. Without hesitation, you leaned in too, meeting him halfway with a soft smile. But before your lips could touch, your glasses bumped together with a loud clink. You both froze. Wide-eyed and nose-to-nose, you stared at each other in stunned silence for a second. And then you both broke into laughter.

“Okay,” you said, still giggling. “Take off your glasses.”

Spencer gave you an exaggerated pout. “You take off yours.”

You blinked. “Why me?”

“Because,” he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, “if I take off mine, I won’t be able to see you properly.”

You raised an eyebrow at him, amusement dancing in your eyes. “Spencer, you always close your eyes when we kiss. What does it matter?”

He opened his mouth to argue, then paused, visibly considering your point. “Still,” he said stubbornly, “you take off yours. What if I feel like opening my eyes this time?”

You groaned dramatically and laughed. “Oh my god, Spencer,” you muttered, shaking your head as you reached up and plucked the glasses off his face, then yours. You set them both carefully on the arm of the couch.Spencer gave you another half-hearted pout, but you silenced it by finally leaning in and pressing your lips to his.His hands moved instinctively to your face again, fingers curling around your jaw as he leaned into the kiss. He sighed happily into your mouth.

When you pulled back just slightly, his eyes fluttered open, still dazed. “Okay,” he whispered. “You’re right. I do always close my eyes.”

You giggled, brushing your nose against his. “Told you.”

[lomlsatoru]

best friend!jinu remembers your coffee order by heart and knows your favourite snacks and foods. you claim he’s obsessed but he said its just because he’s a good friend.

best friend!jinu pokes fun at you and you poke fun at him. you tease and mock and its all lighthearted and fun. people say you’re flirting but you call them crazy.

best friend!jinu looks for you first when he enters the room — if you’re not already arriving with him. he scans everywhere top to bottom and can only calm down when he hears you greet him in that sweet voice of yours, “jiji!”

best friend!jinu is your unpaid, unofficial bodyguard. anywhere you go he’s two steps behind you. you know that audio, walk him like a dog sis, walk him like a dog. yeah, that’s you two.

best friend!jinu lets you pinch and shove him. it doesn’t hurt but having you hands on him makes his tummy all weird.

best friend!jinu doesn’t drink much if you’re at the party with him. he wants to make sure you’re okay, safe and comfortable.

best friend!jinu stares at you from across the room. he says he’s only keeping tabs, but when you glance and catch his eyes, he turns his head so fast you can almost hear it crack and his cheeks goes up in flames.

best friend!jinu doesn’t really know how to handle how touchy you are with him. your hand is on his bicep, back, shoulders and suddenly he can’t remember his own name.

best friend!jinu lets you become his forever passenger princess. his car is littered with your stuff, your scrunchies, lip balms, tissue packets, rings all in the crevices in his car.

best friend!jinu loves how much you depend on him. your bag? he’s holding it. your lip gloss? in his pocket. your card? he’s taking care of the bill.

best friend!jinu who stutters when you get too close. he doesn’t mind if you get in his personal space, if anything he prefers it. but the moment you smile at him, his brain short circuits.

best friend!jinu is a loser in a hot body and only you know that. you see that side of him more than anyone else — mostly because he only shows them to you.

best friend!jinu doesn’t really compliment you explicitly. mostly because he’s shy, scared that he’ll come off as creepy or someone with an ulterior motive. but you are truly breathtaking to him and he can’t think sometimes.

best friend!jinu acts like your boyfriend. he’s protective, cares too much about you, pays every time you guys go out but also doesn’t stop you when you want to spoil him.

best friend!jinu is easily spoiled by movie marathon, late night ice cream runs and pizza parties. he also likes feeling like to feel pampered but you can smile at him and that would be enough.

best friend!jinu gets nervous when people mistaken you as his girlfriend. he denies but always as the famous follow up question, why do you say that?

best friend!jinu doesn’t know when he started feeling weird around you. good weird. but he’s not surprised. you’re kind, sweet, caring and you like spending time with him. and! you smell nice, and you share food with him, and you play with his hair, and- (okay thats enough jinu!)

oh… best friend!jinu thinks he likes you more than a friend now.

reblog for a smooch 😘 check out my other works <3

[sweetshuga]

𝑾𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒓𝒂𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓?

𝑪𝒉𝒓𝒂𝒕𝒕

ⓘ 𝒔𝒎𝒖𝒕! ⋆ pure filth ⋆ best friends ⋆ sexual tension ⋆ pet names ⋆ sleepover gone wrong (or right) ⋆ threesome (no incest—and please sybau if you think ts is incest) ⋆ eiffel tower ⋆ dacryphilia ⋆ blowjob ⋆ face fucking ⋆ raw doggin’ ⋆ backshots ⋆ spanking ⋆ degradation & praise kink + more.

⟢ Wanna chat with their bot? Well, it seems you’re in luck! @cupiidkills made one! «link»

"Who would you rather sleep with? Me? Or Matt?" Chris asked, grinning from ear to ear, probably finding his own question to be quite amusing.

Well. It was funny. Hilarious even.

The fact that you’d choose both without hesitation was what made it hilarious. But you couldn’t say that out loud of course.

You blinked at him, then looked at Matt, before looking back at Chris—your eyes flickering between the two brothers. You let out a small laugh, too shaky to be one of amusement. More nervous than anything.

"Don’t joke about shit like that–"

You tried to dismiss it. But Matt spoke before you could say anything else.

"We’re serious," he said. "Me or Chris?"

You shifted in your seat, torn between telling them the truth and making it awkward or keeping it to yourself and laughing it off.

After some inner debate, you finally answered the question. "Both."

Matt and Chris barely heard what you said because of how quiet you were. A "huh?" leaving them both as they stared at you with confused expressions.

You looked down at your lap, face burning as you repeated yourself. Louder this time. "Both. I’d choose both."

Their teasing smirks faltered, replaced by genuine surprise, as if they couldn’t believe you actually answered sincerely. They probably thought you’d tell them to fuck off.

Chris cleared his throat and mumbled under his breath. "Well, that’s..." he trailed off, sharing a look with Matt before looking back at you with an unreadable expression. "You serious?"

You stood up suddenly, unable to handle the inevitable confrontation and the aftermath of your words. "I’m going to the bathroom." You mumbled and quickly walked out of the room before they could stop you.

A few minutes later, you walked back into Matt’s room, steeling yourself for the questions.

But none of them spoke when you entered. Their blue orbs bore into you with an intensity that had you feeling like you couldn’t breathe.

Suddenly, Matt spoke, his voice coming out huskier and deeper than usual. "Were you being serious when you said you’d do both of us?"

The seriousness in his voice made all the jokes you could’ve used die in your throat, causing you to go speechless for a second. Your mouth opened and closed like a fish out of the water, no sound coming out despite your best efforts.

You closed your mouth, cheeks flushing in embarrassment. You didn’t know what to say. Were you supposed to say yes? Or no? You couldn’t tell what they were thinking—their expressions were too complicated to read.

"Yeah." You whispered, opting to be truthful.

Although you finally found your voice it was too quiet for them to take as a proper answer.

"Hm..." Chris murmured, his eyes searching your face.

A slow smirk crept onto his face, his eyes darkening with something that resembled... desire?

No. You’re probably just imagining it. There’s no way–

"Why are you just standing there? Aren’t you gonna sit?"

Chris’s teasing words made your mind go blank. You cursed internally, only now realizing how stupid you looked standing by the door and fidgeting like an idiot.

"Ye-yeah, I was about to sit." You wanted to jump into a rabbit hole like Alice and disappear into the wonderland the moment that stutter left your lips.

God, you probably sounded so nervous.

"You sound nervous. Why is that?" Matt questioned, nailing the hammer to the head. His eyes crinkled ever so slightly at the corners as he smirked, mirroring Chris’s expression.

You could almost hear the laughter in Matt’s voice, causing you to cringe, knowing how you’re acting but unable to be normal after that.

"It’s nothing. Let’s continue playing." You tried to lighten the tension in the room, but Matt and Chris didn’t let you.

"You sure?" Chris chuckled.

What did he mean by that?

"What? I am sure." You blinked, trying to gulp down the words that would ruin your friendship for sure.

You wanted them both. You always have. You imagined their hands on you, their lips brushing your skin, their intoxicating scents taking over your senses as they use you–

Stop it. What the fuck are you thinking?

You wanted to bang your head against the wall until it knocked some sense into you. You couldn’t be thinking such things about them. You’ve been friends forever. What you had was too precious to trade for something as stupid as lust.

But the room felt hotter the more you played. The questions got more and more explicit. Each one so close to breaking the fragile wall you had built to keep the friendship from turning into something else.

Maybe it was just your imagination but the brothers seemed to be sitting a lot closer to you than they were before. Their arms brushed against yours each time they moved. Their bodies were so close—enough for your head to fog from the smell of their colognes mixing together.

"Hey." Chris whispered, putting his hand on your shoulder to get your attention. His voice was too close to your ear for comfort, causing a shudder to run down your spine. The hand on your shoulder made the skin there burn hot.

"Yeah?" You said, trying your best to keep your voice steady as you turned your head towards Chris.

You hoped he didn’t notice the slight hitch in your breath when you spoke. But unfortunately for you, the smirk on his face told you everything you didn’t want to hear.

"You’re acting weird. All stiff and shit. You sure you’re okay?" He chuckled, slowly sliding his hand down your arm before dropping it back to his lap.

You didn’t know if he was doing it on purpose or not. But one thing was for sure—you were getting turned on.

Matt noticed the exchange and let out a short snort.

"You do look stiff. Almost like you’re..." Matt trailed off, obviously on purpose. He was teasing you, leaving your head swirling with thoughts on what he was implying. And he liked the way your eyes widened by a fraction, panic crossing your face.

After an hour full of subtle teasing remarks and suffocating tension, you couldn’t take it anymore. You realized they wanted you to word it out. Otherwise, you’d be forever sandwiched between the two brunettes who obviously had no intention of making the first move.

With a slow sigh, you began. "Why are you two acting like this?"

They tensed briefly at your sudden question, but they didn’t look the least bit nervous at you calling them out. Instead, it felt as if they were waiting for you to speak up on their childish game.

"What are you talking about?" Matt laughed softly.

Which was followed by Chris’s amused words. "We’re acting like what?"

They were playing you like an idiot. Unraveling you bit by bit until you were on the verge of insanity from the amount of tension coiling around you.

"You’re acting like, like, you’re making fun of me." You mumbled, your voice quieter than you wanted it to be as you looked down at your lap.

You sighed internally. They’re for sure going to think you’re upset.

But you couldn't help it. Doubt had begun to spread through your head like a wildfire. What if they were teasing you because you looked stupid? God, you probably did look stupid. And maybe you were stupid. Stupid to think they’d ever feel anything more.

Chris and Matt noticed as you got more and more lost in thought. And they knew you were overthinking it. You always did.

The spark in the room dimmed and the tension vaporized. Their teasing smirks and the crinkle of amusement in the corners of their eyes disappeared, replaced with much softer, tender expressions.

You misunderstood them and they couldn’t let you do that.

"Hey," Chris’s voice was a lot softer than before, gently holding your arm and leaning his head down to get you to look at him.

"We weren’t making fun of you." Matt said sincerely, his soft gaze set on yours. "Look at me. You trust us right? We’d never make fun of you."

You sighed softly. "I know. I dunno why I thought that."

You felt even more stupid. You just made the atmosphere depressing and the knowledge made you want to throttle your own self.

"It’s fine-"

"Don’t lie." Chris cut you off. "We’ll make it up for you."

You raised an eyebrow. "Make up for what? You didn’t do anything wrong. Even if you did, how are you gonna make up for it?"

They exchanged a look, something unreadable passing between them before they both looked at you.

"You’ll see."

The back of Matt’s fingers caressed your rosy cheek, wiping away the fat tear rolling down it. Your lips were red and parted, a thick and sticky string of saliva connecting your front teeth to your bottom lip.

"Feels too good?" He asked, knowing the pleasure was messing with your head, causing you to lose coherency and the ability to talk without your words morphing into moans.

Your eyes glazed over and you barely kept them from rolling back. The feeling of Chris’s thick tip dragging across that spongy spot inside your walls had you gripping him like a vice, eliciting muttered curses from him.

A slap, sharp and loud, came on your already flushed ass, the skin reddening even more. A soft groan left Chris when he saw the way your ass recoiled and bounced against his hips, the wet smacking sounds going straight to his dick.

"You look so pretty." Matt murmured, wiping the drool that was beginning to leak down the side of your lips with his thumb, smudging it across your bottom lip instead.

"And y’feel so fucking good." Chris added, grunting in between.

Matt straightened up, his knees digging into the mattress in front of your hands as he gripped the base of his fat cock. The tip was red and swollen, veins bulging and throbbing along the shaft.

He brushed the tip of his cock across your lips, making them glisten with precum. He could feel his dick twitch in his hand at the sight and proximity of your face.

"Open up, sweetheart. Let me feel you wrapped around me."

You complied without another word from Matt, opening your mouth wide to accommodate his thick head. Your lips stretched around his girth and the sweet, musky scent of him filled your nostrils.

Chris’s fingers dug into your hips, enough to leave marks, as he picked up pace. His hips slapped against your ass with loud smacks and the wet squelches of his hefty length plowing in and out of you filled the room alongside the creaking of the bed and your muffled moans.

Matt’s eyelids fluttered, his eyes closing in pleasure as you began to move your lips along his shaft, taking him deep enough for the tip to repeatedly hit the back of your throat.

Your eyes watered from the pleasure Chris was giving you and the feeling of Matt’s cock stuffing your mouth full. Your moans vibrated around Matt’s length—causing him to throw his head back in pleasure—as Chris fucked you harder and faster.

"Fuuuck-- take it... Take us both like the good fucking girl you are."

Matt’s breathless, husky voice calling you a good girl had you clenching hard around Chris, making the brunette groan behind you. His hand came down on your ass, the sudden sharp sting causing you to jolt forward and take more of Matt, resulting in you gagging.

A taunting chuckle came from behind you. "Look at you gagging on his dick like a whore."

The difference between Matt’s sweet praises and Chris’s degrading words had your head spinning. Your stomach muscles contracted, thighs trembling and body shuddering, as the coils in your abdomen drew tighter with each snap of Chris’s hips.

"Close?" Chris taunted, feeling your pussy flutter around his pistoning length. "God... you’ve such a greedy fucking pussy." He let out a breathy chuckle. "Look at her wrapped around me all snug and tight like she don’t want me out."

Matt groaned lowly, his hips beginning to move. He ground his pelvis against your face each time, shoving his cock down your throat, making sure you feel every thick inch of him.

You choked and gagged, getting used as if you were his own personal fleshlight. All while Chris was fucking you so hard you were being jolted forward repeatedly. Each time Chris’s hips connected with your ass, you deep throated Matt.

This was not how you thought they would "make it up" to you.

Your whole body jolted when you felt Chris’s fingers rub your clit in quick circles, making you moan loudly around Matt’s shaft. The vibrations were fucking exquisite. Enough to have Matt biting his lips to keep himself from moaning loudly in pleasure.

It wasn’t long before you felt your body unravel and pleasure shot through you, making your pussy clench and unclench rhythmically around Chris.

Heavy breathing filled the room. The earlier creaking of the bed and noises of pleasure were replaced with sounds of exhaustion and exertion.

You were all sprawled on the bed, completely drained after who knows how many rounds. Hell, the sky was already beginning to turn a few shades lighter.

Panting softly, Chris wrapped an arm around your middle, spooning you from behind. "We should do that again." Chris murmured softly.

"That line is giving me flashbacks I don’t wanna have." Matt mumbled, his arm covering his eyes as his chest heaved with deep breaths to calm his racing heart.

Chris burst out laughing, burying his face in your nape as he giggled. "Matt, shut uup..."

˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖ 𝒆𝒏𝒈𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒉 𝒊𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒎𝒚 𝒇𝒊𝒓𝒔𝒕 𝒍𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒖𝒂𝒈𝒆.ᐟ | 𝒘𝒄 – 𝟐.𝟐 𝒌 ˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖

Isa’s rambling ۶ৎ Chat, I guess I��m back...? I dunno if I am. See, I had to add that line. Also, it’s been sooo long since I wrote a chratt fic I almost forgot how to write a threesome. (I feel like I lowkey failed but it’s whatever). And I also cut the smut short ’cause I was starting to get laaazy.

Anyway, the amount of different fic layouts I have is overwhelming me but yeah... I can’t part with any of them.

© 𝒔𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒕𝒔𝒉𝒖𝒈𝒂

[sweetcalebb]

Virgin! Caleb and Virgin! MC first time PLEASE!! but they don't know what they're doing (and some things go wrong hehehe) but they're all giggly and soft <333

Virgin!Caleb + Virgin!MC (reader) !

wc: 1.8k

a/n: i hope it was fluffy enough. i was trying to keep this as realistic as possible, SO maybe it wasn't fluffy bc of that!! as always, feel free to send another ask, comment, or DM me if this isn't what you wanted since this was kinda short-lived

You didn't mean for tonight to be the night. All he did was kiss you the way he always does—warm and sweet—then one thing led to another and now you were half naked. Nothing but a loose shirt to cover your upper half and socks to hide your toes.

First times were always made out to be some sort of magical moment in movies—beautiful music, five-second clips before it pans to the next scene, cute aftercare.

But this was nothing like that.

You were shaking so much, Caleb had to stop multiple times just to ask if you were okay. And now you were lying flat on your back, face flushed.

"We really don’t have to, if you don’t want to," he murmured, his breath uneven and shaky.

You shook your head. "I want to do this." You carefully pulled an arm around his neck and tugged him close, kissing him, still shaking. "I've wanted this for so long."

Caleb let out a soft whine. "I've wanted this too." He kissed you harder, his hands wandering restlessly. "More than you know."

"I'm just nervous," you breathed, bringing your other hand around his back.

"I promise I'll take care of you."

You sighed, subtly pushing up against him. "I know you will."

"Yeah?" Caleb pulled back, his heart thudding wildly in his chest. And when you nodded, he bit his lip to keep the pathetic little sound that tried to crawl up.

"Okay." He gently shifted over you, pulling a condom out of his drawer before sitting back on his heels in front of you.

Then he paused.

He swallowed hard, the tips of his ears burning red. "Uh.. can you.. look away for a sec?"

You felt a furious blush creep across your cheeks before you nodded and slapped your hand over your face. "Yes!" you breathed. "Sorry, I didn't mean to stare."

Except you did.

You couldn't help yourself.

This was your first time seeing Caleb like this, seeing anyone like this. And Caleb—God, Caleb was so handsome. So beautiful. You wanted to absorb every line of his body—burn it into your mind because it was all for you.

But you couldn't blame him for asking you to look away.

You were the one still in a loose shirt because you were too scared to take it off. And Caleb didn't even question you. Just pressed a small kiss to your forehead and nodded when you asked if you could keep it on.

Caleb shifted over you, settling between your thighs again when he finally slipped his condom on.

"Okay, you can look now."

You slowly drew your hand back, a sheepish smile spreading across your face. "Okay.. I'm ready. I think."

Caleb nodded, a stuttered little laugh slipping past his lips. "Okay.." With a shaky hand, he wrapped his hand around himself and nudged himself at your entrance.

It was small. Barely a little poke.

But you still yelped, the sound making Caleb jerk back. "W-what? Did I hurt you?"

You quickly shook your head, grabbing the corner of the blanket and pulled it over your mouth. "No! Sorry, it's just so new. It feels weird.."

Caleb's lips twisted into an embarrassed frown. "Bad weird?"

"No!" you repeated. "Good weird. I wanna feel it. Feel you."

Oh, God. You couldn't believe the words coming out of your mouth.

"I'm sorry I'm so nervous." You shifted under him, subtly rolling your hips against him as if to prove that you still wanted it.

Caleb grunted, his hand tightening around the sheets beside your head as he leaned back in, trying guide himself in again. "It's okay."

Slowly, he pushed in. It was slow and careful. But the minute he stopped moving, he slipped out.

Caleb bit his lip. "Shit. Sorry."

You shook your head. "It's fine."

You thought you heard Caleb grumbling something about how it wasn't fine before he was pushing in again. Slow again, the pressure making your back arch off the bed.

Then he slipped out. Again.

Caleb made a small, frustrated noise, his cheeks burning red. "Sorry. I—I don't know why it won't stay in."

Your face flushed. Not because he couldn't do it, but because you just laid there and watched him. Didn't offer help. Nope. Just laid there all pretty and nervous.

Apparently people helped their partners during... this, but how were you supposed to when you weren't even sure where he was supposed to go?

"It's okay. I promise," you assured, voice a little shaky.

Caleb tried again. And again, it didn't work. He groaned, leaning forward to bury his face in your neck. "Fuck. I'm sorry. I don't—I don't know why—"

You gently wrapped your arms around him and rubbed your hands over his back. "We don't have to do anything."

Caleb breathed heavily, like he almost couldn't handle the embarrassment burning in his veins. "I want to. I really want to—I just can't—"

You gently nudged him back and cupped his face, a smile instantly breaking across your face when you saw his cute little pout and the frustrated, angry furrow of his brows.

"What?" Caleb whined. "Don't laugh."

"I'm not laughing. You're just so cute."

Caleb huffed, burying his face back in your neck. "I'm cute when I'm completely miserable and embarrassed?"

You giggled softly. "Really cute."

He tried to feign annoyance, but you could feel the smile tugging at his lips against your skin. "Can we try again...? With.. you on top?"

You bit your lip, your eyes big and soft as Caleb pulled back to look at you. "Yeah," you murmured.

You two shifted awkwardly before you were finally on top of him, shirt barely covering your hips as you hovered over him.

You nervously reached down, keeping him still as you took him. It was barely anything, just the tip, but you instantly felt the unfamiliar pressure again.

"I don't know if I'm doing this right," you breathed as you slowly sank the rest of the way. At least you thought you were. Or maybe you were doing it wrong...?

"Am I hurting you?"

Caleb shook his head, his hands tightening on your waist as you took him inch by inch. "No—fuck—no, you're not hurting me. You're doing it just right."

When he finally hilted in you, you gasped, your eyes fluttering shut.

Caleb swallowed hard, giving a weak nod in response. "Are you okay?"

You could only nod.

"I don't—I'm not gonna last long."

Caleb let out a stuttered breath as you rocked your hips. He'd imagined this moment hundreds of times. Had come apart with nothing but the thought of you. But nothing could've prepared him for this. For how amazing you felt.

"Pips..!" He gripped your waist tight, his voice cracking with the effort of holding back a moan.

"I'm sorry," you blurted, even when everything in you begged to move again. Just a little. To feel that new sensation.

Caleb grit his teeth. "'S'fine. You just.. feel nice."

Your chest swelled at his praise. "So I can move?"

"Yes—" he choked out. "Yeah, you can move."

At his permission, you slowly pulled off—just a little, barely even halfway—then sank back down. You winced, unsure if it was pressure or nerves or both.

You weren't used to the stretch. Weren't used to the slow burn in your belly every time he moved inside you. But you didn't want to stop. You couldn't. Not when he looked like that. Not when he sounded like that.

He was just so... good.

Head tilted back, eyes fluttered shut. Moans spilling past his lips like he just couldn't help it.

You went slow at first. Just giving experimentally little bounces, your lips parted with small gasps. It was uncomfortable—hurt, just a little. Then, when it started to feel good, you moved faster.

Caleb sighed beneath you, his hands fisting in your shirt as you slowly rode him.

"Feels—hah—s'nice.." His legs tensed up as he met your slow thrusts, gripping you tighter to gently guide you on top of him.

Caleb wasn't even fully aware that he was doing it; he was sloppy. Uncoordinated. Both of you were. You couldn't properly time your downward thrusts with his, but that didn't stop you. Didn't stop him either.

You were both a mess of whiny pants and incoherent words. The soft sound of skin against skin filled the room. It felt obscene. You'd heard that noise before, you just never thought you'd be the one making it.

"Fuck—wait—wait, I—" Caleb bit his lip, but it didn't stop the raspy little whimper that slipped out. "Pips, I'm—"

Then he was coming.

His whole body tensed beneath you, his arms locking around your waist and pulling you down to bury his face in your neck.

"Wait... Caleb, did you..?"

He clung to you like a second skin, broken little moans spilling past his lips. "I'm so sorry," he whispered. "I didn't mean to—I didn't think—God, I'm sorry."

You blinked, slowly bringing your hand around the nape of his neck and stroking the small hair there. "It's okay," you murmured. "You didn't do anything wrong."

Caleb whined, snuggling into you. "I was supposed to make you feel good."

"You did."

Caleb didn't say anything. Just let out a quiet huff and pressed closer.

"Let's just stay here and cuddle.. Yeah?"

Caleb nodded, letting you pull back to crawl off of him. He flushed, a stuttered gasp tumbling past his lips as he watched himself slip out of you. It wasn't fair. He should've lasted longer.

He reached for the condom, then paused. He swallowed hard, glancing back up at you. "Can you.. look away again?"

You nodded, sinking down into the mattress and looking the other way. Caleb shifted beside you. You heard a quiet groan, then the plastic bag of his trashcan crinkled. A little more shuffling, then he was curling his hand around your waist and tugging you close.

"I'm sorry."

You smiled, happily turning to face him and melting into his chest. "Stop apologizing. I promise it's okay."

Caleb hummed, resting his chin on your head. "I can try again in a few minutes."

"Caleb, you really don't—"

"Please? Let me make you feel good."

You smiled. "Okay."

—

taglist <- if u want to be added

tags: @exe-toby @seungkwansflower @floatinginaer @halfawakeblobbu @heartyluv @starryeyed-apple @asiatic-apple @walrusbreath @sylvieisoffline @awquaz @purpleamethyst25 @pinksaiyans @beaconsxd @haleaf @politefawn @colonelpantysniffer @villainessobsessed @lioria @inlovewithsylus @tired7o7 @justwinginglife @honeymoonfleur @stargirlygirl @peachlycheetea @calebsbabyapple @goochfiddler99 @lewdcifer778 @minivia @bidisasterforevermore

[miredfate]

time to be really sarcastic and annoying because i'm bored and irritated and have nothing better to do (i'm answering all 60 with very little seriousness. yes, 60, it skips 10 of the questions)

complicated

my girlfriend

the fuck kind of question is this, who DOESN'T

similar thing as above

i call penny my girlfriend mostly out of the convenience of using the label i don't understand romance

No

chocolate milk

i did gym in highschool because i had to

only when they get long

never

it's clear this is meant to be a romantic phrase but considering i don't really do romance i don't know what to do other than take it very literally.. .Yes i like human beings around me actually

never really kept track of that tbh, idk

i'd say "who doesn't" but i've met people who are unable to hate

who doesn't miss someone

six cats

dissociated and blunt and spiteful. hence, answering ALL of these because i'm bored and because i can

i don't understand the significance of this happening in the bathroom it's just another room

yes, not by choice, they're cute

no because i know better than to think i wouldn't just endlessly fuck up whatever plan i have in mind

*googling "snogged" * ... idk i don't keep track

go to store, buy stuff to make my room more comfy :3

No

No

subjects? what? i'll assume school subjects? i can do well in any subject technically but i'm at the whim of my long-term mental health. i guess...,,, math and science?

this question already got asked (14)

jersey mikes steak and cheese sub sandwich ,,,

this is a romance question, isn't it? uhg

the concept of cheating shouldn't exist. it's based on monogamous bullshit, we live in a patriarchy

i don't know?? i don't keep track of this kind of thing?? i've made somebody cry i'm sure

these fucking questions

i'm sure

i don't see value in a single color without context

yes

school. it's been three weeks since i've gone to school. idk why i keep dreaming about it

i don't know i don't keep track

absolutely fucking not

i still find myself surprised that people are capable of doing either of those

i'll have to wait another couple decades to answer this one

STOP THIS SHIT AT ONCE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

No

51. huh it skips from 40 to 51- anyways can't pick favorites here 52. listen i'm the wrong person to even let think about this kinda thing 53. JAKED OFF!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 54. see (28) 55. sometimes, right now yes maybe 56. none 57. STOP THIS SHIT AT ONCE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 58. can't pick favorites here either. variety is good 59. mhm 60. idk 61. boy/girl? where the fuck were these questions sourced from? Neurotypical Bob? Cishet Joe? i'd do the comical amount of exclamation points again but this doesn't deserve that much attention from me 62. Hello Neurotypical Bob 63. Hello Cishet Joe 64. STOP THIS SHIT AT ONCE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 65. STOP THIS SHIT AT ONCE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

66. STOP THIS SHIT AT ONCE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

67. STOP THIS SHIT AT ONCE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

68. not worth my energy 69. "Stop this shit at once" with more exclamation points than you can understand 70. in theory yes in practice no my brain wouldn't let me

70 horrible questions ... Fuck it

01: Do you have a good relationship with your parents? 02: Who did you last say “I love you” to? 03: Do you regret anything? 04: Are you insecure? 05: What is your relationship status? 06: How do you want to die? 07: What did you last eat? 08: Played any sports? 09: Do you bite your nails? 10: When was your last physical fight? 11: Do you like someone? 12: Have you ever stayed up 48 hours? 13: Do you hate anyone at the moment? 14: Do you miss someone? 15: Have any pets? 16: How exactly are you feeling at the moment? 17: Ever made out in the bathroom? 18: Are you scared of spiders? 19: Would you go back in time if you were given the chance? 20: Where was the last place you snogged someone? 21: What are your plans for this weekend? 22: Do you want to have kids? How many? 23: Do you have piercings? How many? 24: What is/are/were your best subject(s)? 25: Do you miss anyone from your past? 26: What are you craving right now? 27: Have you ever broken someone’s heart? 28: Have you ever been cheated on? 29: Have you made a boyfriend/girlfriend cry? 30: What’s irritating you right now? 31: Does somebody love you? 32: What is your favourite color? 33: Do you have trust issues? 34: Who/what was your last dream about? 35: Who was the last person you cried in front of? 36: Do you give out second chances too easily? 37: Is it easier to forgive or forget? 38: Is this year the best year of your life? 39: How old were you when you had your first kiss? 40: Have you ever walked outside completely naked? 51: Favourite food? 52: Do you believe everything happens for a reason? 53: What is the last thing you did before you went to bed last night? 54: Is cheating ever okay? 55: Are you mean? 56: How many people have you fist fought? 57: Do you believe in true love? 58: Favourite weather? 59: Do you like the snow? 60: Do you wanna get married? 61: Is it cute when a boy/girl calls you baby? 62: What makes you happy? 63: Would you change your name? 64: Would it be hard to kiss the last person you kissed? 65: Your best friend of the opposite sex likes you, what do you do? 66: Do you have a friend of the opposite sex who you can act your complete self around? 67: Who was the last person of the opposite sex you talked to? 68: Who’s the last person you had a deep conversation with? 69: Do you believe in soulmates? 70: Is there anyone you would die for?

[demie90s]

Can you write a reader x UConn team and reader has like no filter like they could be in the most serious moment and reader would say something out of pocket

Why she got a mic?

UConn WBB Team x Fem!Reader

MASTERLIST | MORE

Summary: Me. The team’s walking HR violation. No matter the mood, you will say something that has the whole team side-eyeing, laughing, or questioning reality.

Word Count: ~ 0.5k

Genre: Comedy, Team Fluff, Mild Crack

Warnings: Cussing, chaos, suggestiveness, mentions of thirst, reader being out of pocket at all times

The mic wasn’t even all the way clipped to your jersey before you started talking.

“So like…y’all gon’ feed us after this right? ‘Cause I don’t wanna sound ungrateful but that little fruit tray y’all gave us pregame made me feel like a parrot.”

You were dead serious. Meanwhile, the rest of the UConn team was already doing synchronized neck turns to Geno, who stared ahead like maybe if he focused hard enough he could astral project into retirement.

The reporter chuckled awkwardly. “Right, well—uh—let’s talk about the game. You had a breakout performance in the third quarter. What clicked?”

You nodded solemnly. “I had to pee real bad so I was tryna hurry up and get off the court. Y’all saw me running? That was urgency. It’s called motivation.”

Laughter broke out across the room. Aubrey dropped her head into her hands. Nika was crying silently.

Someone else raised their hand—braver than most.

“You guys really shut down USC’s offense tonight. What went into that defensive game plan?”

You tilted your head. “I mean, yeah. I saw that. USC good and all…but not as good as us so like…I don’t really care. Sorry.”

Caroline leaned in with a PR-smile. “What she means is we watched a lot of film and trusted each other—”

“No,” you cut in. “That’s not what I meant. I said what I said.”

The reporter blinked. “A-And uh—Aubrey, you had a great night on the boards…”

You slouched in your chair. “Yeah, and yet still no date.”

Aubrey snapped her head toward you. “Yo—”

“I told her, I said, ‘If God see fit and we win tonight, you gon’ say yes’—and we did. We won. And she still didn’t say yes. So she fake but that’s between her and the Lord.”

KK was wheezing. “You need help.”

You turned to her calmly. “Nah I need a girlfriend. Two different things.”

The reporter next to the stage was beet red now, trying not to laugh into their notes. “Okay, uh…next question—what was going through your mind during that final play?”

You crossed one leg over the other like this was Oprah. “I was thinking, if the world ended right then, we’d all go with it, so I might as well go out with a win. That’s real.”

Geno rubbed his temples. “Jesus Christ.”

You leaned into the mic again, like a closing statement. “Thank you. And please remember to feed athletes. We is hungry.”

The PR rep jumped in so fast her paper nearly flew off the table. “That’s it! Thanks so much, everyone!”

The moment y’all stepped backstage, Geno turned slowly.

“You know they record those, right?”

“Yeah Coach.”

“And they post them.”

“Mmhm.”

“You’re going to get us sued.”

You gave him your most sincere expression. “It’s okay. I got a lil savings.”

He looked like he aged ten years in five seconds.

Behind you, Aubrey shoved your shoulder, laughing. “Yo are you alright.”

You shrugged. “I’m just honest. And single. And hungry. Somebody gone address it.”

Just like that, you were back in the locker room, already hyping yourself up for post-game food and probably more chaos. Because filters are for water—not for you.

@letsnowtalk @draculara-vonvamp @kcannon-1436-blog @let-zizi-yap @perksofbeingatrex @soapyonaropey @julieluvspb @non3ofurbusiness @kcannon-1436-blog @kaliblazin @liloandstitchstan @footy-lover264 @yorubagirlsworld @daffodil-darlings @h4untedghOul @followthesvn @hibiscusblu @sevikasleftbicep @swiftie4evr @babyphatbrat @sivensblog @beeop223 @huntedghOul @tpwkrosalinda @lightsgore @em-nems @salemsuccss @villain-ryuk @ihrtsarahstrOng @liyahh037 @sillystarv @somedetailsinthefabric @essence-134340 @mochelisgf @soph1asticated @heheievidbri @unvswrld @breezybellab @planet-ghoulborne @art-ofmusic @toorealrai

[yasministration]

crossover episode - marauders, criminal minds

summary: after a long case, you're happy to find your husband and two best friends have taken a short trip to come pick you up from work. but your coworkers are more than shocked to discover you're not only married, but have a child too. wc: 1.4k+ this fic came to me in a dream. you can read it as a marauders fan or as a criminal minds fan, or both

The parking lot was cold this late at night, despite the coat you wore over your outfit. The conversation between your coworkers was almost non-existent, having spent the past four days together on a case, and the last three hours on a jet, talking until there was nothing to converse about anymore, instead all lulling into a dreamless sleep.

You readjusted the duffel bag hanging onto your shoulder, scanning the entrance to the parking lot, where you silently stood with your coworkers. Aaron’s expression was nearly identical to his usual one, but his eyes were weighed downwards, as though they would shut at any moment. You didn’t bother taking a look at anyone else, already predicting what they each looked like.

Then, as you fished for your car keys in your pocket, you heard a call of “Oi, Potter!” Your head snapped towards the sound of your last name, a smile immediately making its way onto your face at the sight of three familiar figures. You heard Emily echo the name, testing it on her tongue. She, and all your coworkers, only knew you by your maiden name. Which was, to say the least, not Potter.

As though your body had taken control, your legs carried you towards the three men: James sat in the front seat of the car, door open, but his back faced the steering will, his eyes glancing towards something in the back seat ever so often whilst Remus and Sirius stood outside the car, huddled around your husband. As you got closer, you broke out into an excited run, watching as your husband slipped out of the car, arms opening wide just in time to catch you, who had thrown yourself into him.

From the parking’s entrance, Emily glanced back towards the rest of the team, mouth agape with shock. Derek, still staring at you, put a hand on Emily’s shoulder, silently pointing towards you. She gasped at the sight of you shared a passionate kiss with James before slipping out of his arms and greeting your two friends with quick hugs.

“Is, where’s-?” But your question was cut off by a quiet “’s that mama?” Your eyes went wide, features softening as you dropped your bag on the floor, moving to open the car’s back door. “Hi Harry.” You said to your son softly, leaning forward to press a kiss onto his forehead. Harry extended his arms towards you, repeatedly calling out different variations of ‘mama’.

You unbuckled the seatbelt of his car seat, pulling him out of the car and into your arms. “I missed you.” You whispered to him, brushing his hair out of his face.

Now, Spencer was definitely surprised seeing you kiss a man across the parking lot, but watching as you pulled out an entire toddler into your arms? One who immediately began animatedly telling you a story about his day, wildly gesturing with his arms? Well, that was an entirely different story.

“Is that?” He spluttered, eyes glued to you. “She has an entire child?” Continued Emily, head bobbing forward in shock. Rossi shrugged from behind them, lighting up his car from where he stood, pushing past them. “I don’t now why you’re surprised. She’s a very motherly person.”

“She’s, she’s like 20!” Argued Derek, placing a hand on his bald head in shock. Hotch chuckled at the statement, also making his way to his own car, leaving your three closest friends staring at you in disbelief.

“He’s got to be at least three years old.” Said Emily, crossing her arms over her chest. "That would make sense," Began Spencer, "She joined the team only two years ago." The three of them watched silently as James shut the car door, wrapping his arms around you from behind, resting his chin on your shoulder, a hand placed over the one you had on your son’s back.

“It’s really late, you guys. You didn’t have to come.”

“We wanted to. Got bored sitting around doing nothing.” Explained Remus with a shrug of his shoulders.

“And Harry couldn’t sleep. He missed his mum.” You furrowed your eyebrows, pouting softly. You hated being away from Harry, away from James too. You glanced down to look at Harry, still in your arms, his head now resting on your shoulder as he slept, having spent the last of his energy telling you about how he chose his own outfit this morning.

“He felt better knowing that we were coming to pick you up. And you know how he immediately sleeps when we drive around for a bit.” You took a step forward, prying yourself out of James’s arms so you could around, pressing your lips against his in a soft kiss.

“And we got takeout on the way!” Added Sirius, causing your eyes to light up. “Of course, we got you your favourite.” You threw your head back with a groan, mumbling “I love you guys so much.”

“Not more than me, right?” James asked, and you giggled, kissing him softly once more. “No, not more than you.”

"I think your friends are a little surprised.” Remus added suddenly, and you slowly turned towards the parking lot entrance, surprised to see Spencer, Derek and Emily still stood there. For a moment, you forgot that they didn’t know the fine details of your private life.

You smiled, balancing Harry on one arm so you could wave at them with the other. It was comedic, the way they all raised a hand unanimously in a wave. “I don’t believe it.” Emily whispered under her breath. “I have to tell Penelope.”

“She’s really not gonna like this.”

“Or she’ll take one look at the kid and forget she never knew about this.”

They nodded in agreement, watching as you nodded your head over for them to come meet your friends. “Don’t be mad.” Was the first thing you said when they were close enough, but you were smiling. “That’s my husband James, and that’s Remus and Sirius.”

They greeted each other with little words, causing your teammates to blink slowly. Emily was the one to ask, her brain short-circuiting “You guys are British?”

“Not by choice.” Derek chuckled at Sirius’s comment, but his eyes were glued to Harry still. “Oh, this is Harry. He’s asleep, but…”

“He’s yours.” You glanced up at Spencer, nodding “He’s mine.”

“Wow, Rossi really was right.” You laughed, confused expression prompting her to continue. “Said we shouldn’t be surprised because you’re so motherly.” James seemed to like those words, his hand on your waist silently claiming you as his. The mother of his child.

“No, I really am offended, you know?” Derek said, placing his hands on his hips. “I thought we were your closest friends.”

“You guys are my closest friends.” Derek raised his eyebrows, pointedly glancing at Sirius and Remus, who were both very much away of the fact that you were a mother.

“They’re my family, Derek. You guys are my closest friends.” Emily huffed, not knowing what to do with her hands. “I really want to give you a hug but I don’t want to wake the baby up.”

“Em, he’s hardly a baby anymore.” But still, James slid his hands around Harry’s waist, lifting him from your arms to take him from you, giving your shoulders a rest. Instantly, Emily launched herself into you, whispering to you “I’m really happy for you.”

“Thanks, Em.” When you separated from the hug, Spencer and Derek were immediately lining up for their own hugs, Spencer mumbling under his breath “This one’s for Penelope.”

It was silent for a long moment, your eyes trailing away from your mini audience so you could take a glance at Harry, so effortlessly being carried by James, who swayed from side to side in an attempt to keep him asleep. “Um, I think we’re gonna go.” Your coworkers nodded, standing still whilst staring at you, Harry and James. “It was nice meeting you guys.” James said opening the door to the backseat and placing Harry back into the carseat.

You handed Remus your car keys, and he and Sirius began making their way over to your vehicle so you could drive home with your husband. They said their goodbyes, and just as you were about to climb into the middle seat to sit next to Harry, Emily grasped your hand, tugging you back to tell you “Very attractive husband, by the way.” You laughed, and she winked, closing the car door behind you.

“Did you just call her husband hot?” Derek asked as you drove away.

“He is hot.”

“Emily.” Spencer scolded, a smile on his face nonetheless.

“What? I’m a lesbian. If anything, he should be the worried one.”

“This is a new low, hitting on a married woman with a child.”

Emily rolled her eyes, dialling Penelope’s number to tell her the news. Of course, the technical analyst did not pick up. She was fast asleep, and you were driving away into the distance with the family no one new you had.

Apart from Rossi, apparently.

@ravisinghs-wife, @amatoanima, @starry-remus, @pain-in-the-ashe, @hiireadstuff, @superlegend216, @treefairy-28, @kitkatkl, @rory-cakes, @juliet-f017, @fl0weryannie, @tiaajosephin, @why-am-i-like-this18, @theoraekenslover, @animalcrossingshameless, @azure-drag0ness, @dream-alittlebiggerdarling, @dearlizzies, @matcha-kitty13, @thenasoneshots, @cakiebleh, @slytherin-princess-x, @daydreamandforget, @bxuzi, @dlljdhsh, @5sospenguinqueen, @aouoo, @spider–girl, @fandomhoe101, @user010380, @simp-for-fiction, @selenewowww, @paytonluvxx,  @dearlizzies, @tiaajosephin, @bxuzi, @rory-cakes, @dlljdhsh, @aouoo, @fandomhoe101, @selenewowww

[kuncitizen]

Thinking about Nerd!Gojo sitting behind his geeky little science project like a kicked puppy in a hoodie two sizes too big, shoulders slumped as he watches person after person walk right past his stall without so much as a glance.

His glasses are slightly crooked, one leg bouncing nervously beneath the table, right hand fidgeting with a clicky pen that’s already half-snapped.

You definitely didn’t come here for this.

The science fair was mostly a glorified excuse to leave your dorm before your roommate subjected you to another hour of screaming about her situationship and eating spicy ramen on your bed.

But now you’re looking at this tall, awkward boy who looks like he’s slowly evaporating from the lack of social interaction.

His display is brilliant. There are twinkling little lights in a model solar system, and a bunch of laminated diagrams with handwritten notes in tight, slanted print. But people just stroll by like they’re allergic to effort.

And honestly, you weren’t planning to care. Not until his eyes snap up to yours.

A shade of gorgeous, bright, glassy blue. They widen behind silver-rimmed glasses, a blink of disbelief before a hopeful sort of brightness takes over his whole face.

You slow down. Because who wouldn't after seeing that look on his face?

"Hi," you say casually, hands in your pockets.

His mouth falls open for a second, like his brain blue-screened.

“Hi! Oh—uh—welcome to my project,” he blurts, scrambling upright so fast he nearly knocks over one of the solar system models. “Sorry. Sorry. Just—hi. Are you into Astrophysics?”

You glance at the fancy title printed in bold across his poster:

Gravitational Time Dilation: A Simulation-Based Study.

“I mean, i like the stars. And Interstellar was cool?”

He laughs. It's a breathy, half-disbelieving kind of chuckle, and suddenly his whole face lights up.

“That totally counts,” he says, nodding way too seriously. “Okay, uh, here—this part represents the gravitational curvature caused by massive objects. Which means time actually bends near a black hole.”

He fumbles around and presses a button. A tiny motor kicks in and one of the models starts to slowly spin, simulating gravitational lensing.

You nod, even though you’re pretty sure you understood maybe two of the five words he said. “I thought that the whole time bending thing was a metaphor or something.”

“Nooo, it’s absolutely real! I mean, not the fifth-dimension bookshelf stuff, but the time dilation is legit,” he says, practically vibrating now, fingers tapping the side of the model. “Like if you parked a spaceship near a black hole and then came back, your friends would be, like, old. Or dead. Probably dead. It’s kinda depressing, actually.”

You bite back a smile at how excited he is. “Wow. That’s… morbidly romantic.”

He pauses.

Then clears his throat, pushing his glasses up. “I mean, dying alone in space is kinda poetic.”

You laugh.

He laughs too, a little too hard, and then suddenly looks panicked like—shit, was that weird?

But you’re not weirded out, not even close.

“Sure. Although full disclosure, I don’t know batshit about space.”

“That’s okay,” he says quickly, smiling as if that’s the best news he’s heard all day. “I can explain. I love explaining. Ask me anything.”

So you ask more questions, even the dumb ones. Especially the dumb ones. And to your surprise, he never talks down to you.

Satoru stumbles over his words sometimes, but not once seems to mind your follow-up questions, even when you mix up neutron stars and nimbus clouds. He just keeps going, like he’s been waiting his whole life for someone to stand here and just listen.

You aren’t even trying to flirt, but he’s so damn earnest it sort of feels like flirting anyway.

Eventually, you glance at the time and sigh. “I should get going. My dormmate’s probably wondering if I got abducted by aliens.”

He deflates instantly, like someone popped his internal helium tank. “Oh… that makes sense. Thanks for stopping by.”

You’re just about to step away, offering him a small smile and a soft “This was fun,” when his eyes flick downward.

“Wait— is that the Chang textbook?” he asks, squinting like he’s not trying to memorize every title on your book cover.

You pause and glance down at the heavy thing tucked under your arm. “Yeah, it’s for Chem 203.”

He perks up instantly, like a plant finally getting sunlight. “You’re in Chem 203?”

“I mostly sit at the back and doodle in the margins,” you say, shifting the book in your arms. “And my grades are hanging on by a single valence electron.”

He laughs. “I’m in that class too! I usually sit near the front—uh, big glasses, white hair, probably looked like I was possessed or something.”

You tilt your head, the realisation hitting you finally. “Wait. That’s you? I thought you were just some intense TA.”

“No, unfortunately. Just me.”

He scratches the back of his neck, sheepish now, eyes flicking to the floor for a beat before he tries to play it cool. “I mean, I guess if you need some help with chem—I’d be happy to assist. We could go over some things together, if you’re okay with... that.”

You pretend to consider it. “Hmm. Do you charge by the hour, or is this a discount situation?”

He blinks. “I mean, I can give you, like, the friend rate? If we’re friends? Or not. I didn’t mean to assume—”

“Relax, Einstein.” You laugh, shifting your grip on the book. “I’d love the help.”

You start rummaging through your pockets, half-distracted.

“Hang on—need something to write with. Gimme your number.”

There’s a beat of stunned silence.

“...My number?” he echoes, like you just asked him for a kidney.

“Yes, your number.” you say slowly, enunciating each syllable. “You know, the ten digits? For modern communication.”

“Right! Totally. I can—uh—yeah, I can give you that. Lemme just—” he pats himself down like a man on fire, checking every pocket, flipping his notebook, looking under the table like maybe a post-it note will crawl out and offer itself up.

“It’s fine,” you chuckle, amused by the sight. “You can just write it on my hand.”

He freezes mid-motion, slowly turning to you like you just offered him your soul.

“Your hand?”

You raise an eyebrow. “Unless that’s too weird for you. I guess you don’t want me to have it—”

“No! No, no, I do! I mean—I can do that.” he stammers, already reaching for his sharpie again.

You smile and extend your hand for him, palm open.

He swallows hard, before reaching out.

Gojo's fingers wrap gently around your wrist, warm and a little shaky, as he steadies your hand in his. His thumb grazes across your skin as he lines the pen up, then exhales softly like he’s trying not to freak out over the fact that he is touching a girl and she is not recoiling. In fact, you’re smiling.

“There,” he says quietly, fingers unwrapping from your wrist slowly.

You glance at it, then back at him. “What if it washes off?”

His eyes widen. “Wait—should I—? Do you want me to—?”

You shrug, smiling. “Guess you’ll have to pick a permanent marker next time.”

His laugh is boyish, ridiculously fond. “I guess so.”

You step back, tucking your arm against your chest. “Thanks, space boy. I'll text you later.”

You start to walk away, but something makes you turn to glance back once. He’s still watching you, dazed, the heat still clinging to his cheeks, ears tinged slightly red.

You shoot him a wink.

He nearly falls off the stool.

A/N: Comment 'Nerdjo 👅' if you'd like to see a full-length oneshot for this. Also, apologies if I went too geeky on the physics, have to use my degree somewhere.

Credit for the beautiful divider: @kodaswrld

[manyegos]

I wrote on 2019 "Me during the last decade" I think I gained so much wisdom and strength on 2023. The last 2 years were absolutely miserable, whereas in my early childhood and youth it was embodied with trauma, violence, abuse, poverty and utter loneliness . . . the last years specially after covid (and a little bit still) were marked by stagnation, dissapoitment and unkown. I am etraordinary better now and I can handle them but these years were difficult even if I would like to say otherwise. My financial situation really affected me to a point I reached a low point for consecutive years. I am very strong because the combination of everything with the pandemic and the recessions would have taken anyone out. I am better today and it makes me happy to read what I was feeling and going through and to know I gained so much wisdom and strength. That movie also represented how much I felt disconnected, lost and a feeling I can't put into words "stolen" from life. Now Blue is the warmest color does not have the same effect on myself.

By the way on a funny and uplifting note, at one point I reached the Fat Thor (if you seen Avengers you will understand) state of mind, where I had given up on everything and I was a mess (still not the lowest I have been, as I was hedonistic and careless) I posted this back then, thankfully all those questions have been answered and I am still working on the last one. “do you have a boyfriend yet?” Yes I did, I almost get married. Thank GOD I did not. By the way youngerself, you become a master and a pro in relationships and on ending in good terms after a nightmare fall out and dating so many frogs. You will find so much pleasure in being alone and single and even envision creating a family on your own! You also learned that anyone even the sort of wrongly titled "love of your life" are just complements, being good with yourself fixes everything around you and truly attracts people! “when are you gonna get a job?”Well youngself, you will discover soon after COVID hits that we actually had more luck back then and there was so much more we could do. You will experience a new industrialization wave (the AI and supercomputer wave.) Neither Trump, Communist, progressives or any party will fix it. You have to survive, good luck We are still doing that! “what are you gonna do with your life?” Well young self, I am still answering that. I keep avoiding and ressisting. Going after our dreams isn't as clear, easy or serendipitous. It is scary as fuck, sometimes and for many close to impossible and as we are discovering not even applicable (AI changed the landscape, laws change things, the economy, war, etc) But we are actually very motivated and more focus than when we were young.

Bonjour Tristesse (1958) // Blue is the Warmest Color (2013)

[nkogneatho]

𝐃𝐀𝐃'𝐒 𝐁𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐅𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐃 𝐆𝐎𝐉𝐎 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐓𝐖𝐎

part one masterlist

—a/n: i came. i creamed my panties. ok bye. thanks for the patience.

—c/w: daddy kink, creampie, older satoru, reader is in her 20s, dirty talking, reader calls gojo sir.

you barely made it to your room. head spinning, heart pounding so loud it felt like it was gonna burst right out of your chest. the click of the lock? it hit different—like thunder breaking the silence all around the house. you leaned back against the door, trying to catch your breath, trying to make sense of what the hell just happened. but the fire burning low in your stomach? yeah, that wasn’t going anywhere.

satoru gojo. your dad’s best friend. his name echoed in your head, tangled up with that dark look in his eyes and the low growl of his voice. you hated that you wanted him. hated that he somehow knew exactly how to unravel you without even touching you. but you couldn’t stop replaying the moment his knuckles grazed your skin, sending shivers that crawled all the way down your spine.

you paced, bare feet sinking into the soft carpet like it was the only thing keeping you grounded. every step was a fight with your own thoughts. why’d he tell you to lock the door? a warning? a challenge? or something else? you didn’t know. but just thinking about opening it sent this crazy thrill buzzing through your veins you couldn’t shake.

minutes passed, maybe hours? hard to tell. the house was quiet except for a faint murmur of voices downstairs. you tried to distract yourself, scrolling on your phone, flipping through an old book but nothing worked. your mind kept drifting back to him.

then, a knock. soft. almost shy. your breath hitched and you froze, eyes locked on the doorknob. you didn’t move. and before you could, the door creaked open, slow and long, like it was teasing you, without even needing to be unlocked.

there he was. silver hair catching the hallway light, eyes dark and intense. no words at first, just that look that made your knees weak. then the smirk. slow, dangerous, curling on his lips, heat rushing through you like wildfire.

“i told you to lock it,” he said, stepping inside like he owned the space. you stepped back, but he followed, shutting the door quietly behind him.

“you’re not supposed to be here,” you whispered, voice shaky but loud enough to betray every fear and thrill.

“then you would’ve locked the door,” he said smooth as silk, gaze never leaving yours. he moved closer, presence swallowing you whole, until there was almost no space left.

your heart slammed as his fingers brushed your wrist—soft but certain. “tell me to leave,” he said low and dangerous. “tell me to walk away. right now.”

you opened your mouth to speak, but no words came out. you stood there, caught in the storm of his eyes, pulled in too deep to fight it.

then his lips found yours, dark, hungry, everything you didn’t know you needed. you stumbled back, his hands gripping your waist, strong and sure. the quiet power in his hold made your breath catch, and god, you hated how easy it was to melt into him.

“do you know what you’re doing?” you whispered between kisses, voice shaky, unsure.

his lips curled into that maddening smirk against your skin. “maybe the better question is… do you?”

his fingers traced your jaw, tilting your head up. his eyes locked on yours, sharp as knives, like he was reading every secret you tried to hide.

you wanted to push him away, tell him it was wrong. but instead, your hands clutched his shirt, trying to ground yourself in the chaos he brought. “this is insane,” you breathed, more a confession than a protest.

“maybe,” he said, lips brushing your ear, voice low and promising. “but it doesn’t feel like you want me to stop.”

your silence said all he needed. his mouth was back on yours—rougher, deeper, more demanding—pulling you apart piece by piece until all that was left was need. the air thickened, every touch, every whispered word dragging you closer to the edge.

“sir…” the word slipped out before you could stop it, raw and breathless.

he looked at you then, all dangerous and wild, and your knees went weak. your heart raced like crazy.

“you love playing with fire, don't you?” he said, voice low and amused.

you didn’t answer. how could you? the truth was in your body, in the way you leaned into him, in every hitch of your breath when his hands explored places only meant for him.

“on the bed. legs spread wide. now”

you did what he ordered. you climbed on the bed, your ass wiggling on the way. the moment you turned around to face him, he yanked you to the edge, making you yelp. his hands traveled up you thighs and stopped once they reached to your core.

“no panties, huh?” you shied away. you knew. you knew what he was implying. that you knew he was going to come in. and that you wanted him to take you. which was true by the way.

he ran his long, slender fingers up and down your slick, the wet voice of your weeping pussy filling up the silence in your room.

“all this for me? shit, sweetheart. i am so hard. i wanna fuck this pussy till you're crying.”

“then do it.” you didn't know if you were being bold or stupid, but you couldn't—wouldn't wait anymore.

that's all he needed to hear before he literally smashed his lips against your pussy, slurping like a hungry dog. it wasn't your first time getting your pussy eaten but it sure as hell was the first time you felt so good, like you were losing your damn mind.

you clung to his hair like it was the last thread keeping you from falling apart, and then his mouth moved with a ruthless hunger that made your whole body shake. “fuck, you taste so good,” he groaned, voice thick and ragged against your skin.

when you finally mustered up enough sanity to peek, you saw one of his hands stroking his hard cock. the angle made it difficult to see what his dick looked like but a man like him wouldn't act so superior for nothing. gojo satoru, as your father suggested, was never the one to say or do something he didn't have confident in. and the worst part? he had confident in everything he did. thinking about all of it almost made you forget that you're about to cum. you instinctively fisted his gray locks, tightened your thighs and prepared yourself for your orgasm.

your back arched, hips jerking instinctively as the wave hit you, hot and fierce and everything you didn’t know you needed. your breath hitched into shaky gasps, “sir—” oh that did it.

he didn’t stop. if anything, he only got more savage, fingers digging into your hips to keep you right where he wanted. his cock throbbed in his hand, slick and hard, teasing at the edge like it was aching to bury itself deep inside you. “calling me sir all the damn time like it never made your panties wet.”

“i—” you opened your quivering lips to speak but he shushed you. he got off his knees, blessing your eyes with the hottest view, a pink veiny cock, gray hairs decorating his pelvic region, and precum that looked like pearls under your lamplight. you gulped hard.

“what? scared?” you nodded, hesitantly. “want to stop?” when you didn't respond for a few seconds, he really thought he'd get the same answer—that he'd get blue-balled and this night will end in him relieving himself in the shower but, to his surprise, you nudged your heels against his ass, pulling him closer, making him lose his balance a little and almost falling against you.

“need...you.” you spoke softly. he laughs.

“let me wear a condom at least, sweet girl.” you shook your head.

“need it now, sir”  holy fucking god what are you actually doing to him? something dark flickered in his eyes. you saw it. the crystal blue ocean was now imitating a sea of lava, cerulean blue gone bloody red. and before you could make out more of that expression, a sharp pain pulled you out. shit. he really is fucking big.

it was one thing about girth and being stretched out for him, because it was something possible. pushing his long cock in till it hits your cervix was another. you now lied under him, his cock perfectly engulfed in the warmth of your walls as tears stung your eyes. he could only lick them and assure you “just for a while. i promise i'll make it feel better, baby.”

baby

it was spoken in the heat of lust but why did it sound like a call of love?

and just like that, he started thrusting. slow, dragging his cock out but intense as he shoved it in.

your hands clawed at his shoulders, nails digging in as waves of pleasure and pain twisted through you. every thrust hit a nerve, every touch setting fire to the cracks in your skin.

“shit, you’re so tight,” he groaned, hips stuttering against yours. “sweet pussy's driving me insane.”

you were so busy getting your brains fucked out, you forgot this is your father's best friend, a man old enough to also be your father. moreover, the fact that you were fucking him in your bedroom while your parents were asleep downstairs? girl, what the fuck?

“you have no idea how long i've wanted to wreck ughh this pussy.” that made your pussy throb. “saw you on tinder god! made me jerk off to your pictures like a horny fucking teenager.” he was pounding into you, ruthlessly, like he was drowning and you were his only anchor. “i'll ruin this fucking pussy tonight.” he groaned, deep and guttural, and snapped his hips harder, rougher now, fucking the sanity out of you one thrust at a time. “call me sir like a good girl. cum on my cock sweetheart.' but you did something even more insane.

“ngh, daddy!”

he stilled. and in that moment, you thought you'd summoned a beast with flame in his eyes and an intention to do nothing but wreck you and you weren't completely opposed to the idea. a chuckle arose in his throat, not the sweet kind, but the mocking one.

“daddy, huh? calling me fucking daddy? who taught you to—ughh use such dirty language? if i knew you were like this, mhm would've surely—ngh fucked you earlier”

“pleasepleaseplease” you weren't even sure what were you begging for but, it was definitely not for him to stop.

“heh! look at'cha, baby. you wanna cum? yeah? wanna cream on daddy's cock like a good girl? hah. go ahead.” he mocked. the words that were embarrassing enough to make tears well up in your eyes, in turn made your pussy clench. and then it hit you. the high you were chasing for. begging for, earlier. you held onto him like your world was escalating and he was your only anchor. your pussy throbbing around him, yet the man refused to slow down. he wasn't sure he could hold back anymore. he wanted to pull out and make a mess on your stomach but seems like your fresh out of the orgasm self was deliriously tightening you legs around his hips. fuck. he can't pull out.

he doesn't want to.

“fuck. fuck, baby, fuck.”

and just like that, satoru let out a deep growl, his movements sloppier but hard as he painted your walls in his warm cum. unfortunately, your mind was to hazy to pick up the fact that you need to clean up. all you craved at this moment was his warmth. and he was right there. on top of you, chest collapsing against yours.

“you did so good for me.” the praise made your cheeks warmer than they were before. “uhm...i should leave before your parents find out sweetheart.”

“can't you stay for...a bit more?” gosh how can he say no to those words spoken with those pretty pouty lips of yours. he is not completely in his right mind either but he knows the consequences of his actions. he crossed a line. well fuck he fucking cart-wheeled his way out of the line. there's no going back so he might as well enjoy this moment with you. you were leaving back for your final year of college anyways. it's not like you'll ever let him cross this line again.

yeah...about that. oh how naive he was for a man at his age.

because now here you were in his room, holding a pregnancy test.

“i'm pregnant.”