#but i think people just use it for whatever they want so here its meant to show their starting persona's main element and their weapon

[where-does-the-heart-lie]

Even More Doki Doki Battle Academy OP AU

One Piece Fighting Game AU Master Post

Some more~ i had a lot of fun with these designs <3 (a break down for them under the cut)

Kid and Killer would be two Gym leaders who introduce the idea of Duo battling in the story mode of this hypothetical game. They'd probably be one of the first gym leaders the player would face.

They would enjoy their job of getting to beat up teenagers thoroughly even though they'd have to hold back for the sake of not killing them. (for legal purposes obviously). They Profight on the side to let loose sometimes. To make sure people still know they're dont

Carrot: @majestick-posts-op's design for carrot inspired my design for her, the elbow pads and leg warmers gave me the idea of a roller skater and ideas took off from there! the silhouette of the helmet to match her original silhouette from her bob is a perfect way to keep her original silhouette and have her suLONG hair. For her hearts, i know its obvious but she loves her tutu, she loves her roller skates so the hearts are on those. but if you look closely, there are also hearts on the carrots on her helmet!

Shirahoshi: i was having trouble with her design at first, but then i looked up what kind of fish she's supposed to be and a vision immediately appeared in my head

look at this thing. look at those pathetic eyes. what a creeeeaturee.... so i made her a crereeeaturrreee. The silhouette of her hair loopies and her head is supposed to look like a fish, and the bottom part of her sweater is supposed to also evoke fins/a tail! Her top is meant to reference H2O Just Add Water mermaid tops, and she is all around kinda loosely inspired by MLP:FIS Fluttershy <3 I really tried to make her look kind of regal, with her sheer sweater and long flowing hair. But also i wanted her to have elements pulling her down to earth, like having heir hair all dirty from walking in nature and flip flops to tie in her whole beachy feel. The heart on her design is on her big ol' Nature Club pin on her left chest, even over her heart.

Kid: There's a lot with him that i felt i needed to scrap (Pun Intended.) because i just had no way of incorporating his powers into the power system i have. So i'm thinking instead of metal he can repel and attract, he throws and absorbs cactus's into/from his Big Cactus arm with his Growth, Absorbing, and elastic powers. You can vaguely see his hearts in the pinks of his cactus hand! but the real ting indicating his heart is probably his belt buckle and his neck bandana ;3c

Killer: The whole reason i got the idea to make these two Plants That Hurt is because when i was sketching out the silhouette for killer, i thought i had make his hair kinda sorta look like the mouth of a venus fly trap and my mind was like "Wait. Say That again." so i went off from there! I got the help from my friend @zethsdumpster and their friend who's the local Kid & Killer Thirster and we came up with the idea of them being punk cowboys too! and now here we are <3 Killer's boots are meant to look like terracotta pots and his hat is meant to look like a venus fly trap about to munch on a fly (the white and yellow sash around it). The blades on his gauntlet things, i added a handle part to them to make them look like sickles because sickles are used for gardening and that was really the only way i could tie in whatever the hell those things are to the motifs these two have. Killer's heart if you squint is in the negative space from his choker and open buttoned shirt, the color of the choker being Kid's color EHE HEHEHE EHE EHEH EH EH

YEAH I MADE THEM HOMOSEXUALS WHAT ABOUT IT?!?!??!!? AND WHAT ABOUT IT?!??!?!?!??!?!?!?!?!? DO YOU HAVE A PROBLEM WITH IT HUH?!!!!!!!!!??!?!??!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?! thats what i THOUGht. its hard to NOT make them homosexuals when what they got going on is what they have going on. ehehehehh hehehh ehehe hHHEHHE h H HA AH AH AH H AHAAAAAA anyway

I bought the game Tiny Glade to make this building layout LOL and i really havent played it since <3 its a lot of fun though, i enjoy their ducks and their sheep :3 though i would appreciate if they added in a copy building option.

The building is inspired by the school buildings in Card Captor Sakura and Ouran High School Host Club! I wanted a really romantic design like a castle to contrast heavily with the Full Colosseum Structure behind it. Though if i could do it differently, i think i would instead put the arena where the track field is instead. but like theres only so much room on a Tiny Glade workspace.

I have been working on inside setting images too but it is. life draining. This is why I'm a character artist not a background designer.

The middle school Carrot and Shirahoshi would go to would be a sister school to the DDBA and would be close by but in a different location.

I think! that's just about it..... thanks for reading if you got this far!!

[hms-no-fun]

BLAUGUST 4: superman

i want to talk about superman 2025.

i liked it. in fact the more i think about it, the more i like it. in a lot of ways it's casually stunting on everything the MCU has produced in the last 5 years (arguably much longer). it is an entry in the "phase 2" genre of comic book movie, after the origin stories have been established and now characters are crossing over willy-nilly. of course there was no "phase 1" for this version of superman, and that's part of why it works. rather than giving us the origin story of Superman in the broad totalistic "in the beginning i was born" way, Superman 2025 is an origin story for this version of the character's ideological position. it establishes this Superman as someone whose morals drive him to take action on the geopolitical stage, stopping the invasion of not-palestine by destroying a bunch of tanks and kidnapping the president of not-israel to yell at him.

i think it works for me because Superman is disinterested in the broad political brinksmanship of the status quo, and the preferred optics of the ruling classes. he stands up for an oppressed people because that's what he believes is right. now, a lot of hay has been made of the fact that the fictional conflict in the film is clearly meant to read as israel-palestine. and like, yeah, it's definitely that right now. but i've seen folks say that this dates the film or makes it too present-tense Political, and i just don't agree. do you think that palestine is the first country to be unjustly invaded and its people subject to genocide? the fictional nations of the film stand in for every empire invading an imperial subject. the cynicism of the war being about corporate arms deals and property development is widely applicable to these conflicts. what we're looking at here is an archetypal power dynamic that has existed throughout history, which the film insists that we are complicit in and capable of standing up against (if not outright obligated to do so). this is something genre stories have always done, it is not new and it is certainly not some uniquely devilish thing James Gunn the man is doing because of the Woke Agenda or whatever. he is simply utilizing Superman as a moral parable about our times, positioning the titular man as an embodiment of what we should WANT to be, what we should aspire towards. dare i say, what a better America might aspire towards.

the above weren't spoilers because Superman's intervention happened off screen before the events of the film, and it's largely about dealing with the aftermath. this is spoilers though.

the other thing i want to talk about is Superman's parents. it's established early on that he was sent with a message from his parents on Krypton to protect and nurture the people of Earth. but the end of that message was corrupted. the key point of conflict comes when Lex Luthor manages to recover that missing piece of the message, in which Superman's parents say outright that his mission on earth is to spread his seed and rule over the weak as a god-emperor. much of the rest of the film is him coming to terms with this, and what it means for his own self-conception.

what's nice here is i think this plot point stands in for a number of contemporary social dynamics. put simply, it's synecdoche for the conflict that arises when you realize your idols aren't perfect, and may in fact be monsters. that can be down to your parents, sure. Superman modeled his morality on what he believed his parents wanted him to be, on the example he thought they meant to set. so the second half of the message acts as the moment when you realize your parents are human beings too, and that you can't rely on them to give you a perfect answer for the world-- that you have to CHOOSE what you believe for yourself, because you're the one who has to live with the consequences for the rest of your life.

but i think it's just as potent as a representation of the parasocial relationship. Superman only knows his parents through a screen, after all-- a vlog, essentially, that his robot servants play on loop for him because he finds it "soothing." plug in jk rowling there and see the layers unfold. as a child, you hear only the surface of the message and you believe the best parts of it because that's what you want to believe. but then you get older and you realize that even the good parts of that message were inflected with poisonous ideas, and you as an adult have to choose whether you're willing to continue naively ignoring them. Superman could have chosen to embrace his parents' message. he based his morality on their example, after all. but he doesn't, because even though he has loved (the idea of) his parents his whole life, he finds their intended mission repulsive and can't support it. i think you can even plug james gunn himself in there too, as he was once an unabashed edgelord whose old risque tweets got him temporarily fired from the MCU. you can guess from how gunn himself has grown and matured as a filmmaker where Superman 2025's insistence that what matters most is what you DO in the face of change comes from. in that way, i think you can also read the film as telling the chuds of the world that they are not trapped in what they have made of themselves, that they can escape and choose to be something better, and that their attempts to launder the responsibility for their views off on their idols will never actually absolve them of that responsibility (especially as their idols, like Lex Luthor, are never actually on their side).

and there's more still! let's not let it go unsaid that his parents are explicitly eugenicists who believe in racial superiority and the moral necessity to build an ethnostate. Superman is a child of fascists who wanted to raise him to be a fascist! they believe it's his genetic destiny to become the ubermensch of earth, a simple and inevitable consequence of nature. parents in real life do this all the time! and what Superman proves is that genetic destiny is bullshit and eugenics is evil and fake. take the child away from the fascist family and put them in a loving home with kind and generous foster parents, and they will not grow up into a fascist. by the end of the film, this Superman embraces his foster parents as the ones who truly made him who he is. sure, the partial message from his biological parents gave him a sense of purpose, but that purpose wasn't of his parents, it wasn't tied to them by divine right. it was what he WANTED to believe, which pa Kent points out says more about him than anything revealed in that monstrous second half. ultimately he concludes that he must derive his purpose from himself, and the purpose he finds is simple: life is good and must be protected. everyone deserves a chance at a normal life free from war, famine, disease, and exploitation. everyone deserves good parents. everyone deserves at least one person in this world who has their back. this is a Superman who is genuinely a man of the people, not in a messianic sense but in a simple materialist sense. his beliefs matter because he chooses to behave in accordance with them. he's not a centrist democrat whinging about whether we should destroy free speech because some protesters were mean to them on twitter. he isn't fooled by the alt-right playbook, he isn't interested in factional disagreements or playing to the median. he sees injustice and he stands against it, simple as.

now, there are ways in which this ideologically-agnostic position makes him easily manipulable, but that's also part of the text. i think it's interesting that the ultimate blow against not-isreal in the film comes from the corporate-backed justice gang. even in doing the right thing, there are conflicts of interest and moral complications that could have dire ramifications. i find this tension quite interesting and i'll be curious to see if future films explore it more.

anyway, i like Superman 2025. i think it's a lot smarter under the hood than folks have been giving it credit for, and is a lot more refined as a film than any of the Guardians of the Galaxy pictures and even the still-quite-good-IMO The Suicide Squad. like, the characters in this film do ACTUALLY talk about their ideologies and what motivates them to act. it's easy to say this is dirt simple stuff but it's simplicity that the MCU has long abandoned. sometimes you do just want a real movie, man. there's really just one sequence that feels like a classically pointless mid-act-2 dramatic trampoline act, and that's the proton river chase in the pocket universe. which is still pretty fun even if it is slightly long in the tooth. i dunno, my opinion might change on subsequent rewatches (would hardly be the first time i soured considerably on a cape film the second time through), but for the moment i think it's one of the best of its kind out there.

[factual-fantasy]

24 Asks! Thank you! :)

@the-holly-opal

Nope! She's alive and well. She was born in present day since she swapped places with Eggman in the timeline. 🫶

@fablegate

XDD Nah, only thing in his boots are his feet! And maybe like.. A knife or something? A dagger? Do cowboys keep weapons in there..? <XDD

@how-am-i-still-here-lmao

Nah, I still cant afford it 😅💔 I think I'm just gonna throw in the towel and watch a play through on YouTube-

But yeah I don't have much interest in those 3 characters, but I had fun molding them into whatever I wanted in my AU :D

@ardent-38

XDDD You are very welcome!! 😎😎😎

Pff XD No, my sona just gets spikey when stressed

@lathan-chillyfilm

I don't know much about it yet, but I don't like what I see Imma be real..

@mimioctoandfriends

👁️👁️

@thelatter0verview5

Frank Welker wouldn't have been a great voice for Bowser, but ANYONE would have been better then Jack Black. 💀

Ngl I genuinely rotate between the 3 and use them equally as much as eachother.

When I am trying to distinguish between my laptop and my full set up, I say "My laptop and my desktop."

When I am talking casually about my set up, I use "PC" and Computer" interchangeably for no discernable reason. Its just which ever word my brain adds to the sentence first <XD

Idk if I wanna be added to a graph of any kind..? But it was still a fun question to answer, so thank you! :D

@graphitesblog

Shnom...... liteol shmolm...

@lokifaith

Thank you!! :DDD💕💕

@zorkbork

Honestly that's a good question.. my memory isn't that great-

I thiiiiiink I just wanted to draw a silly character with a stupid name. And since I like gnomes I thought to make a Gnome with a name that started with a silent G. I added the among us shape to him and boom, Gerald was born(?) XDD

Also thank you! I wish the same for you! :DD

@caronaro-flipaclip

I know of the mystery dungeon games and kiiind'a get the premise. But my Violet team is in the normal Pokémon universe with humans and everything :0

I always forget they're canonically cousins because their age difference is crazy. If Maria was alive today she'd be like 70 years old or somethin. She'd probably have 30 years on Eggman

W Tails! :DD

Thank you for the info! :00

@minnesotamedic186

Yeah but when people make a cartoon character based on a blue whale, its almost always depicted as blue. So I was just surprised to see it be so grey.

And the color aside, nothing about that character look like a whale to me 💀 If you showed me that cookie and told me to guess what it was based on, I would have NEVER guessed a whale of any kind.

@eireni

ooo :0 thank you for the info! 📝

Oooo thank you for all the information! :DD

As a whole I'm not really interested. <:/ I never felt inclined to jump into it the same way I did Undertale. 💔

AWE! Thank you so much!! :DDD

@misscherrypie

The thing that threw me off is I was under the impression that murder drones was meant to be a very serious show. With the concept of all life on earth being extinguished and the remaining robots going around massacring each other.

With that in mind, I expected rather realistic and gritty looking robots. Instead we got.. this.

Giant bobble headed robots with ENORMOUS glass foreheads to show their uwu expressive eyes. They have HAIR and normal working mouths for some reason. Long noodle arms a cartoony round hands and fingers. They wear NORMAL HUMAN CLOTHES for some reason- with a Uzi wearing a hot topic edgy beanie and jacket. And then the murder drones, they all have these long noodle tails with needles at the end. Like.... I just cant take these guys seriously, no matter how gritty their world tries to be, I cant take them seriously at all.

And that's not even mentioning the episode that was about prom or something where they wore suits and dresses.💀 Its just not for me at all. The characters look way too silly for my taste considering how serious (I think) the show was trying to be. 💔

@redrevent2

Nah, I only really write romantic plots for my own original OCs sometimes. I don't dabble in any ships if the characters aren't mine.🚫👎

@megadino706 (Referencing this post)

It explains why he mirrors Sonic in almost ever way. In canon there is absolutely no logical reason why Shadow is a hedgehog. Sega just wanted an edgy character that could be mistaken for Sonic.

(And before anyone argues the "super sonic mural" thing, that is not canon. Its just a theory, a GAMMEEE THEORY...)

[dahppled]

Did anyone else have a younger brother (or sibling ig) whom everyone was afraid of, even your parents?

[sirenspells]

[Persona 4 FEMC, Persona 5 FEMC]

Character sheets of my girls! Was inspired to do them after seeing Misty's one for Asuka hehe

[nightingale-prompts]

Danny lives in a horror movie-DC x DP prompt

Based on my favorite book series "tales from the gas station"

It's not every day that a mission requires the league to travel to middle America in a bid to obtain a highly cursed artifact but it certainly is today.

Locating the Seal of Silent Ashes was a task usually given to Justice League Dark but Constantine was currently busy. So that meant it was left to the poster boys to get this done. They dressed in civilian attire to investigate the last location of the seal starting with the first building on the edge of town. A small dusty gas station near the woods.

The inside had an awful smell, like death and cleaning fluid. The lights gave off a greenish-blue tint. Rats could be seen out of the corner of your eyes. Most of the chips were offbrand and crappy.

Behind the counter was the teenage boy chewing gum. He looked up at the group before going back to reading his book. He had clearly seen better days but didn't show signs of caring about the state of his hair or bags under his eyes. He drank his coffee.

The air felt off.

"Hey kiddo, do you mind giving us directions?" Clark started.

The kid narrowed his eyes as he popped his gum.

"You're not from here. That or you're from that cult in the woods. Listen I'm not joining. Seriously, cosmic nihilism and fatalism sounds doomed. Hey wait-" the teen checked his notes " No, the cult killed themselves in that mass suicide 2 weeks ago. I forgot, sorry."

The teen didn't say anything else as he went back to his book.

The horrified look of the adults shared was almost hilarious. At least to the teen if he looked up.

"Oh, and stay out of the woods. I don't want the police to come back and ask about who saw you last. Seriously if whatever is in there tears you apart I won't feel bad. I put those signs out forever ago and if I get one more girl covered in blood running in here screaming about her dead friends I'll get a headache." The teen shrugged turning the page.

"What do you mean?! Why would-?! Who's killing people?!" Barry asked frantically as Bruce serched for more reports of missing people in the area.

"I don't know. Why would I know? If you want to go in the cursed forest go ahead. I mean that's how they all die. It isn't my job to stop you. My job is to sit here and watch this store." The teen huffed in annoyance.

Before anymore questions were asked the signal of the radio was disrupted and a demonic howl screeched through the radio.

"God damnit. That cunt is back. Stay here." The teen growled as he grabbed his bat from under the counter and walked out the back door. "String bean! Get off the fucking roof you bastard! You know that radio is all I have here!"

A chattering laugh like a death rattle was heard and the sound of 2 sets of feet was heard on the roof then they lept down.

"Come here so I can beat you to death!" The teen ran around the building towards the front of the gas station chasing-what the fuck is that!

It was like a human that was twisted to crabwalk on all fours backwards. Its face was contorted into a black stretched-out smile with no teeth. It had no eyes just black sockets. All its limbs were stretched out to an extra meter in length. It was a skinwalker of some kind with chalk-white skin. It was skittering away from the teen who was swinging his bat at its head.

"Stop running! I told you before what would happen if I found you fucking with me again!" The boy meant it as he finally landed a hit and began wacking it over and over it.

The skin walker screeched and tried to run for its life but couldn't.

After reducing the monster into a black puddle the black-stained teen came back inside to sit back down not paying anymore to the monster blood he was covered in.

"Sorry about that. Most of the freaks around here have learned to stay away from this place. That one is new and he doesn't listen. You'd think they'd learn but Sting Bean thinks he can torment me. Petty bastard." The teen sighed "anyways are going to buy anything or are you going to waste what oxygen we get in here with this shitty ventilation.

Diana couldn't help but admire the boldness of the boy. He had no hesitation or fear against the beasts of this area even if was crude.

"Does Constantine have a cousin or something? Just a more angry one" Barry whispered to Hal.

[atlabeth]

rough first day - jimmy olsen

summary: lois asks jimmy to accompany her summer intern on her first day in the field. he is totally capable of being normal about it.

a/n: sorry this is lowkey just me manifesting because a paper like the daily planet is my dream and im a journalism student about to graduate into a nightmare job market for journos. superman lore? i dont know her. journalism antics based off my own life? of course (not the bombing part but the rest is pretty accurate lol) thank you to @emiliehornby for being my co-leader of jimmy nation

wc: 4.2k

warning(s): this is all fluff baby!!! there's a bombing at the end but no one dies so still all fluff

“Hey, Jimmy.” 

“Lois!” He rapidly switches tabs from his game of sudoku to the photos he’s meant to be editing and smiles up at her. “Hey— uh, hey. What’s up?” 

She shares a knowing smile of her own as she leans against his desk. “Do you have any assignments yet?” 

Jimmy shakes his head. “Nah, I haven’t pitched anything today. Figured I’d go where the wind takes me, y’know?”

“Well, the wind has arrived.” Lois looks across the bullpen to a young woman talking excitedly with Perry. Well, you look excited, but he doesn’t. “Have you met my intern yet?” 

“Yeah,” he says, a more genuine smile forming as he watches you. “We met when she came in for orientation last week. She— she’s great.” 

“You think so?” 

Jimmy nods. “I’m surprised you took her on, honestly. She’s a lot nicer than you.” Lois tries to swat his shoulder but he rolls back in his chair with a laugh. “Point proven!” 

“Oh, whatever,” she huffs. She calls your name and your head shoots up, and she gestures for you to come over. You say some kind of apology to Perry, who looks relieved once you walk off. 

“Miss Lane!” you say brightly. “What can I do for you?” 

“I told you to call me Lois,” she says. 

“Sorry,” you say sheepishly. “All of you are so nice here. I’m still getting used to it.”

Jimmy frowns. “Were the people at your last job mean?”

“My last internship kind of sucked,” you say. “I mean, I did some great reporting, don’t get me wrong! But everyone there was way more cutthroat than I thought they would be. And,” you tip your head, “I didn’t get paid. So this is already way better.” 

“Glad to hear it,” Lois says. “What was Perry talking to you about?”

“Oh, I was just asking him a lot of questions,” you say with a slight laugh. “This is the biggest paper I’ve ever worked at, so I’m trying to get to know all the editors. My college paper has like… fifteen people total, and it feels like I’m at least half of them some days.”

“What a coincidence,” Lois says, and she pats Jimmy on the shoulder. “My friend Jimmy here was just talking about how he’d love to show you the ropes.” 

“You would?” you ask, your eyes brightening as you break out that perfect smile once again. It’s deadly, he swears—blinding, if nothing else. 

“I would?” he stumbles, and then he blinks. Jimmy’s been wanting to spend time with you since the second you walked through the doors, and Lois is just handing it to him on a silver platter. He can show someone the ropes, can’t he? “I— I would, yeah! Definitely!” 

“Great.” Lois stands up and looks between both of you. “Senator Cia Strong is running for reelection, and she’s having a press conference today in Byrd Park for her stop in Metropolis. I think it would be a good, quick story for you to cover together.” 

“Oh, I heard about that!” you exclaim. “Her opponent’s Bill Macron, and he looks surprisingly strong for a newcomer— do you think she’ll win?” 

Lois smiles. “That’s for the two of you to find out.” 

“When is it?” Jimmy asks. 

She looks down at her watch. “Twenty-seven minutes.” 

“Twenty-sev—?” he blurts out, and he jumps up from his seat. “Lois, that’s a twenty minute subway ride on its own!” 

“You can make it if you hurry,” she says nonchalantly, but he barely hears her as he starts gathering his things at top speed. You’re moving at a similar pace, already booking it back to the intern desk they keep shoved in the corner of the office to get your stuff. 

You make it back ten seconds later—your backpack hangs off one shoulder, your camera is looped around your neck, and you’ve got your press pass and water bottle and jacket and probably five other things in your arms.

“Are you good?” he asks. 

“Yeah!” you nod, “I’ll meet you outside!” And then you’re already jogging out the door. 

Jimmy shoots Lois a dirty look as he grabs his jacket off the back of his chair and starts backpedaling. “You’re the worst!” he calls. 

She smiles. “Have fun!” 

Jimmy runs after you, narrowly avoiding a direct collision with Cat, and Lois walks back over to her desk and sits down. 

“I saw that, Miss Lane,” Clark says. 

“I don’t know what you mean,” she says airily. 

“Don’t you have work to do?”

“This is work!” she defends. “She’s my intern—I’m helping her get situated.”

“Uh-huh,” he nods. “It wouldn’t have anything to do with the fact that Jimmy’s been making eyes at her since her first day, would it?” 

Lois shrugs as she opens her inbox. “I told you, I don’t know what you mean.” 

“It’s sweet,” Clark says. “I didn’t think you of all people would be a matchmaker.” 

She frowns and looks over at him. “What does that mean?” 

This time, he shrugs with a wry smile. “I don’t know.” 

Lois scoffs and clicks on an unread press release. She gets two lines in before she deletes it. PR folks love sending her releases for things that, one, aren’t newsworthy, and two, aren’t on her beat. 

“They’re both good kids,” she finally says. “Cub reporters usually stick together anyway. I’m just giving them a headstart on it.” 

“Of course,” Clark nods. “And if sparks happen to fly, you can’t really be blamed, can you?” 

“You’ve got a one track mind,” she remarks, but she can’t fully bite back her smile, especially as she meets his warm eyes. 

The Daily Planet has a way of bringing people together, after all. 

-

You and Jimmy end up barely making it to the subway, the doors closing mere seconds after you get into the car. You collapse onto the bench beside each other, both very much out of breath from your multi-block sprint. 

“Do all of your stories start off like this?” you gasp out. 

“No.” Jimmy shakes his head, but it takes him another few seconds to respond as he tries to catch his breath. He hasn’t had to run that many blocks in… forever, he thinks. “But the reporters here like to go ‘trial by fire’ for their interns. Especially Lois.” 

“I’ve always admired her work,” you say. “Now I think she might be a little crazy.” 

A laugh tumbles out of him as he leans his head against the back of the seat. “To make it in this field, you’ve gotta be.” 

“Yeah,” you chuckle, “I’ve gathered that.” 

The two of you sit there for another stop in silence, still gathering your thoughts and breath. Jimmy can’t help but pass a few glances at you, glowing from exertion. You shrug your backpack onto the floor and start organizing everything you grabbed off your desk in your haste.

He’s only been in your presence for a collective five minutes, between your orientation last week and your real first day today, but he doesn’t want to leave it. He feels like a meteor stuck in your orbit, especially when you give him that superstar smile. 

“So,” he starts, now that his heart has finally returned to a normal rate, “how’d you get this gig?” 

“Some networking and a lot of luck,” you admit. “My favorite professor went to college with Mis— with Lois. She told me to apply, so I did, and she put in a good word for me. Two interviews and a few on-the-spot articles later, and voila! I’m here.” 

Jimmy nods. “Nothing wrong with a bit of networking. Kinda feels like it’s the only way to get anything done these days.” 

“Tell me about it,” you sigh. “I swear, half my friends are going on dates, and I’m over here with a contact list full of small-town bureaucrats.” 

He laughs some. He kinda feels bad for wondering if that means you’re single. “If it makes you feel better, you’re probably getting left on read about the same amount.” 

You laugh too, and it makes him smile. Something about you draws him in and he can’t even help it. Could Lois tell, or did she just throw him into this without even knowing? 

Who is he kidding? Lois notices everything. This is probably her version of paying him back for handling her dailies last week so she could chase a Superman scoop. 

(He will never admit it to her, but it does kinda make up for it.)

“How long have you worked at the Daily Planet?” you ask, snapping him out of his thoughts. 

“Only about a year and a half,” he says. “I got hired in the mailroom originally, but Perry brought me up to staff after a couple months. I had a ‘Humans of Metropolis’ photoblog that really impressed him.” He laughs. “And the Superman action shots that ended up front page, above the fold."

Your eyes widen. “You’ve met Superman?” 

“Yeah!” Jimmy nods after a moment of hesitation. “Yeah, so many times. We’re basically best buds.” 

“Oh my god.” You grab his arm and lean in and he stares at you with equally-wide eyes. “That— that is so cool! I— I’ve read a bunch of Superman stuff, but I never thought I might get to meet him!” 

He grins. “Reporting in Metropolis isn’t like any other city. I think you’ll realize that pretty quickly.” 

“I can’t imagine getting pictures like that, of a superhero.” You sigh and pick up the camera around your neck.  “I’ve also never been the best photographer. Not very MMJ of me.” 

“That’s what I’m here for,” he assures. “One nice thing about working at such a big paper is that you usually don’t have to go out as a one man band.” 

“God, yes,” you mumble. “I struggled through all of my media production classes. I’m definitely meant to be behind a laptop, not in front of a camera.” 

“I don’t know,” Jimmy says, tilting his head, “I think you’d make a killing on broadcast.” 

You smile at him, more genuine than anything he’s ever received before, and he feels better just at the sight. It doesn’t make sense. He barely knows you—he can’t be thinking like this. He can’t be this obvious. You don’t make it easy.  

“Thanks,” you say. “But I’m happy where I am.” 

You and Jimmy continue to chat until you get to your stop—mostly idle conversation to pass the time, but he does learn a few things. You’re from a small town in Vermont, your preferred beat is politics, and if you could bring three things to a deserted island you’d bring a notebook, a knife, and your reusable water bottle.  

Oh, yeah—he also learns that he’s a complete goner. Jimmy falls deeper into your orbit during a twenty minute subway ride, pulling out every joke he can think of to try and make you laugh and see that smile again. How is he going to work with you every day and still stay a normal, self-respecting person? 

You’re magnetic. It’s no wonder you’re going into journalism, because he thinks you can get anyone to tell you anything if you just ask nicely and give them that smile. 

It’s certainly worked on him.

But Jimmy doesn’t have to think too much about that right now, because the two of you have another five minute sprint to make it to Byrd Park on time. You show your press passes to get to the front, then you separate as Jimmy finds a spot. 

You take out a pen, notepad, and a mini recorder while Jimmy rushes to fix his white balance. He always forgets to reset it. You give him a smile and a little wave from your front row seat. He smiles back and feels dizzy. 

The press conference goes a lot smoother than the rush over did. The senator delivers pretty much exactly what Jimmy expects—improved education, protected healthcare, lowered crime, the same old. Strong isn’t the worst senator, but Jimmy thinks half the state doesn’t know anything about her policies. She’s average, and most politicians seem to be that or worse these days. 

It’s just like any other press conference—with exceptionally good lighting, Jimmy might add—until the explosions start. 

He barely even registers it. One moment he’s on one knee zooming in for a better view of Strong, the next he’s been thrown against a tree so hard he thinks it breaks in half. He hopes, at least, because otherwise that crack came from his ribs. 

It takes Jimmy a second to come back into himself. He’s protected his camera above all else, wrapped in his jacket and his arms, and he snaps a round of quick photos of all the chaos before he struggles to his feet. 

Everything has devolved into hysteria—screaming and running and batting out flames. Jimmy has to find you. You’re a small town girl and now you’re caught up in a bombing in one of the biggest cities in the world. What a great first day. 

He’s trying to search for you, but it’s hard when half the park is enveloped in smoke and flames and he can’t stop hacking up a lung. How is he meant to find you or get any good pictures in this?

“Help!” 

A voice pierces through the disorder and Jimmy knows it’s you. His heart speeds up and he starts shoving his way through the crowd. He yells out your name and you call his in response—you keep Marco Poloing until Jimmy finds you, and his eyes widen. 

You’re face down in the dirt, your leg pinned down by a fallen tree. You spot Jimmy and yell for him again, and he runs up to you.

“Holy shit,” he breathes, dropping to his knees beside you. “Are you okay?” 

“I’m fine,” you say, and you grunt as you push at the tree trunk. “I just can’t— get this— off!

“Just stay calm!” Jimmy says. “It— it’s gonna be okay!” 

Jimmy tries to push the tree off you and quickly realizes he is not anywhere near strong enough.

“Does this happen on everyone’s first day?” you ask. 

“Not everyone’s,” he grunts. “But welcome to your crash course on reporting in Metropolis. Metahumans can throw a superpowered wrench in your plans for the day.” 

“How do you know this is a metahuman?” you ask breathlessly. 

Jimmy thinks about the car he no longer has because of some villain of the week that tried to bash Superman over the head with it. If only he had been able to afford the next level up of metahuman insurance. 

“Because it usually is,” he decides on. “You, uh, kinda get used to it.” 

You huff an incredulous laugh. Jimmy attempts to lift it up even an inch, just enough for you to get your leg out, but no dice. He tries one more time—he has to save you, of course, but come on how cool would it be for him to do this in front of you?—and to his shock, the tree lifts up. 

You crawl out from under it and shift to your back, your chest heaving with effort. The crushed remains of your camera are scattered all around you. Your eyes only widen, but you’re not looking at Jimmy. 

“Superman!” you marvel, your voice a mixture of shock and awe. 

He looks over and sees that Superman is, in fact, beside him holding up the tree.

“Are you okay, miss?” he asks as he sets it back down. Jimmy glances down at his hands, a little disappointed. “Your leg isn’t injured?” 

“You’re Superman,” you repeat. Jimmy thinks you’re starstruck. 

“I am,” he smiles. His gaze goes down to the press pass still hanging around your neck, and his eyes light up. “You’re from the Daily Planet?” 

You nod, once, twice, three times. Definitely starstruck. “I’m one of their summer interns.” 

Superman grins. “I’ll be sure to keep an eye out for you, then. Welcome to Metropolis.” He looks over at Jimmy and nods. “Good to see you again, Jimmy.” 

He nods as well. “Yeah, uh— good to see you too, Supes. Thanks for the assist.” 

Superman flies off to help more people before Jimmy manages to say anything else stupid—Supes?—and you look like you’re about to pass out. 

Jimmy says your name as he moves closer to you, his eyes still wide. He puts his hands on your shoulders to bring you back to the real world. “Are you still with me?” 

“We just met Superman!” you exclaim, grinning at Jimmy. It might just be all the smoke he’s inhaled, but he feels a little lightheaded. “My first day on the job and we met Superman—” 

There’s a sudden buzzing in the air, and you pull your phone out of your pocket. “It’s Lois,” you tell him, and then you answer it. “Lois, hey!” 

Jimmy can hear her frantically saying your name even from here. She’s not exactly quiet. You move the phone away from your ear some and he chuckles. “Are you and Jimmy okay? I saw the news— the bombs—” 

“We’re fine!” you assure, and you motion for Jimmy to come over. “Jimmy too, here—”

“Hey, Lois,” he says, loud enough to be heard through the receiver. “We’re good.” 

“I’m sorry,” she says. “If I had known this was going to happen, I wouldn’t have—” 

“Are you kidding?” you interrupt. “This was incredible, Lois! We’ve got a way bigger story to uncover— no one just bombs normal senators. There’s gotta be dirt we can uncover. And— oh my god, we met Superman!” 

“...You did?” she asks, and she sounds less than enthused. 

“Yes!” you exclaim. “Oh my god, it was amazing. He saved my life!” 

“Sounds like him,” she says. 

“This is incredible,” you say. “Jimmy and I are gonna get a bunch of man on the street interviews from people that are here— can you call the Strong campaign PR person and see if you can get a statement?” 

“Don’t you think you should go to the hospital?” Lois asks. “You were just in a bombing, you have no idea who could be behind it—” 

“This is my chance to get my first Metropolis-sized scoop!” you insist. “Would you go to the hospital right now?” 

“...I’ll give them a call,” she says. “The two of you, stay safe. Jimmy has Clark’s number, call him if anything happens!” 

“Make sure you ask about her donors!” you insist.  

You hang up and you look over at Jimmy. Your clothes are singed and covered in tree bark and ashes, and you have a bleeding cut on your forehead, but you look happier than any normal person should be right now. 

“Did you get any pictures of all that?” 

“Uh, not of that,” he says. “I was kind of busy trying to save you.” 

“What about the explosion?” 

He nods and starts clicking through his photos. “I took what I could. I think I might have a concussion?” 

“That one!” you exclaim, and he stops. “That is perfect, Jimmy!” 

He got one right as the explosion went off, with Senator Strong speaking on a backdrop of blinding light. He goes to the next photo and it’s nothing but that light. He goes back to the photo that is definitely a front pager and shakes his head. He can’t believe his lens didn’t crack, but he’s very thankful. 

“Geez,” he mutters. “How lucky am I?” 

“Do you still have your laptop?” 

“As long as it’s not broken in my backpack, yeah.” 

“Change of plans, then. You get those photos uploaded to your drive so we’re ready once we get back to the office.” You take your mini recorder out, somehow not crushed like your camera, and smile. “I’m gonna interview anyone that’s stuck around. We’ll meet up in thirty minutes by the fountain, okay?” 

Jimmy nods. He looks down at your leg and sees that you’ve lost a third of your pant leg—not to mention the swelling and killer bruises starting to form. “Are you sure you’ll be okay?” 

“I don’t even feel it,” you assure. “Which means we’ve gotta get this done before my adrenaline fades.” 

“You’re a little crazy,” Jimmy says. “I think you’ll fit in perfectly here.” 

You grin and Jimmy smiles. “Fountain in thirty,” you repeat. 

“Aye, aye, captain.” 

You laugh, and then you run off to get your interviews. Jimmy watches you for a good, long second before he goes off to find a still-intact park bench. Police officers and EMTs are already starting to show up—he makes a mental note to get a quote from an officer before the two of you leave. 

He might be a little crazy, too. Because Jimmy is pretty sure he would go through a couple more bombings just to spend more time with you. 

-

You and Jimmy stumble through the doors of the Daily Planet. You limped your way back from the subway station, Jimmy is now sure he has a concussion, and you both look like you’ve been through Hell and back together. 

You don’t think you’ve ever been happier. 

“We need to start making phone calls right now,” you say to Jimmy as he speeds to keep up with you. “Like, search through Strong’s donor list and bother every single one of them.” 

“I’m already on it.” Jimmy’s been scrolling through his phone for half your scramble over here, sending texts to sources and answering ones from friends who saw he was at the bombing. “The news editor at the Metropolis Examiner has been looking into her shifty financial history since her first term—she just shared her master doc with me.” 

“Great!” you exclaim. “We can bust this wide open, Jimmy!” 

You pull up a chair at Jimmy’s desk and take your laptop out of your bag. You’re already typing at the speed of light. “I’ll start a write-up on the press conference so we can get it out as soon as possible. Do you edit your photos yourself or does someone else do it?” 

“I do my own,” he says. “No one else understands my vision.” 

“Then start editing your best shots, ones you think will make us a shoe-in for the front page,” you say, and you almost squeal in excitement. “This has got to get us above the fold, right?” 

“I think so,” Jimmy says. “Perry would definitely give it to us if we got an interview with Superman. That’s why Clark is always on the front page.” 

“Well, it sounds like you two really are best friends,” you tease. “You’re on a nickname basis with him?” 

He shrugs, trying to be nonchalant. “It’s no big deal. We’re cool with each other.” 

“Maybe you can get us that interview with him next time,” you say. “Then I’ll really have something to brag about to my roommates.” 

“I’ll see what I can do,” he says. 

You grin. “Great. Now, get on those photos.” 

Jimmy nods. Technically, he’s higher up on the totem pole than you, but technically, he doesn’t think he’d get anywhere trying to pull rank when he’s only a step above you. You’re in the zone—he respects it, and he’s a little scared of it. 

“Once you’re done, you can keep looking into the Strong angle,” you say. “We move fast enough, we’ll have two articles to pitch to Perry before lunch!” 

“Yes ma’am,” Jimmy jokes. Lightroom has finally booted up, so he starts to transfer his favorite shots over. He passes a glance over at you while they’re loading. “You move fast, don’t you?” 

You laugh, high on life, journalism, and the adrenaline that comes with surviving a bombing. “Trial by fire, right?” 

“Are you two okay?” a voice asks, and you turn your head to see it’s Clark Kent with slightly wide eyes. He has a mug of coffee in each hand and he places them down in front of you both. “It’s all over every station; you even ended up in some shots.”

“We were on TV?” Jimmy asks. He might be working at one of the most acclaimed newspapers in the world, but it is still so cool to him every time he makes it onto the news for something other than his photos. 

“More than,” you assure. Your fingers are still flying over the keys, and you laugh again. “What a way to get my first byline here!” 

“I’m glad,” Clark says, and he looks at you. “Lois is off chasing that lead you gave her. I think you might be the perfect intern for her.” 

“I’m glad,” you echo. “If this is what the whole summer’s gonna be like, I cannot wait!” 

“Woah, new girl!” Steve is walking past them but he stops and backpedals, eyes wide as he looks you and Jimmy up and down. You do both kind of look like complete messes—him, at least. Somehow, you still look good. “Rough first day?” 

You and Jimmy share glances at each other and you grin. He thinks he might pass out. 

“No,” you say. “It was perfect.” 

[comicaurora]

So uhh. If you feel like talking about it. As someone who lives in the US, how are you being kind to yourself on this upsetting morning <3

Checked in with my loved ones first and foremost.

It's interesting. The vibe I've been getting from my circle is very different from 2016. Much less… dread and horror at a realignment of the understanding of what can and can't happen here, now, in this place and day and age. More "fuck, guys. again? whatever. enjoy your consequences, maybe you'll manage to learn something this time."

Frustration and anger is not the most positive feeling, or even the most fair one to express, but it is a protective one. It hurts a lot less than most alternatives.

And it's quite a shift. It was earthshattering back then. How could this have been allowed to happen? Why couldn't it be stopped? Why couldn't we stop it? Why couldn't I stop it? Why couldn't everyone see what this meant? Why couldn't I make them understand? Did they really not care? What did that mean about humanity as a whole? Were we so thoughtless? How could anyone be trusted?

It seems… much less earthshattering to see it happen twice. Disappointing, sure. Frustrating. But nowhere near as devastating as the first time I saw it unfold. We already knew it could happen. I've already had time to digest the implications. Now I'm just freshly disappointed.

It also feels less indicative of Crushing Truths Of Reality this time. We've seen shit get bad. We've also seen shit get better from here! We know both outcomes are possible, even inevitable. We know hoping for a better future is always worthwhile. This isn't the apocalypse. It's an unremarkably bad turn of events brought on by unremarkably self-centered well-documented human impulses. It's utterly mundane in its unpleasantness. It doesn't need to be dignified with despair.

A democratic election, no matter the outcome or the side we're on, makes us all acutely aware of how outnumbered we are by people whose worldviews and priorities are demonstrably incomprehensible to us. And the first time you get outnumbered, it's a shock. Defeat is haunting. It didn't matter how badly you wanted it; by the very function of democracy, you do not have the power to override greater numbers. (insert electoral college caveat here)

The second time through, I find myself focusing on a different facet that has dramatically reduced the amount of spiralling I'm doing. I don't expect this to work for everyone, but for me specifically, it helped to crystallize a few thoughts:

You don't have the power to control anyone else. You don't. You can't share your worldview and your revelations with them. You can't make them think or understand anything. You can lay it all out for them, but you can't make them listen, and you can't make it click. A mentor can't make their student learn a lesson; that's why teaching is so complicated and hard. An active choice must be made by the person to enable themselves to understand, and they must put the pieces together in their own mind before it makes sense to them, and the pieces must have been presented in a way that makes sense to them in the first place. Lead a horse to water, can't make them drink.

These elections highlight a disconnect in what different groups of people care about; and no matter how clearly you explain yourself or how passionately you perform, caring cannot be forced on someone. Understanding and connection cannot be forced. You cannot make anything or anyone matter to someone. They have to choose to see how it matters in order to internalize it. If they choose not to, that is not your failing. You couldn't have made them do it by just Explaining Better. They are not your responsibility. They make their own choices. You can't reach inside their head and connect the dots for them.

I'm a storyteller. I make stories and put them out into the world. I hope people get something good out of them, but I have no control over what that something is. I want people to be thoughtful and kind and compassionate and hopeful and see themselves reflected in stranges, no matter their differences. I can craft stories that I hope encourage this. But that is the extent of my ability and the extent of my responsibility. I control no-one's actions but my own, and so while I am not having the best day, I am at least content that I am doing what I can, and I am not shattering myself against impossibilities trying to control the things I can't.

Sometimes, people make decisions that I think are really bad. I can't make that not happen. All I can do is try to make decisions that will result in things I think are good. Today, that means checking in on people, and not assigning too much dramatic narrative weight to an ultimately mundane set of unremarkable bad decisions outside of my control. We'll take life as it comes and help each other out when and how we can. Everything else is out of our hands.

[barnacles34]

My Greatest Joy

IVE Yujin x Male Reader

16k words

'A single person is missing for you, and the whole world is empty.' — The Year of Magical Thinking

18+ smut

The Birth Crisis. The Great Vanishing. The Specter of Demographic Collapse. The media couldn’t decide on a name, only that it was happening. Some said Korea would be empty in a century. Others, ten years. Twenty-five, if they were feeling generous. A hysterical pendulum swing between denial and terror, between think-tank white papers and government campaigns urging citizens to bureaucratize what was once spontaneous: love, sex, reproduction.

But in Dunsan-dong, no one talked about it. Not really. Not in any meaningful way. The village shrank in slow motion. Affairs stopped happening—nobody had the energy, or the audience. The local divorce lawyer quietly removed ‘Infidelity’ from his services, then shut down altogether. Playgrounds grew ghostly. The corner food stands, once territorial battlegrounds for unruly teenagers, went bankrupt one by one. ‘Kids these days grow up too fast,’ one ajumma said, as if that were the whole explanation.

And yet, in all this entropy, two were born. A statistical error. A miracle.

Miracle is not hyperbole. In two decades, the birth count had been three. The bureaucratic failure of Love—yes, Love, capital L, the thing that was supposed to be instinctual, inevitable, the thing people built whole religions and K-dramas around—had finally completed its slow bureaucratic death. Love was no longer a force. Love was paperwork.

Except for two people.

For them, Love was everything.

—

'One move and you'll split open like a badly wrapped present.' ‘Is that your professional opinion?' 'That's my twenty years of keeping-you-alive opinion.' She's biting her lower lip, the way she always does when she's trying not to smile at your stupidity. 'And I really don't want to explain to some emergency room doctor why I have a boy bleeding out in my room at 2 AM.'

The gash should hurt more. Six inches of red spite across your forearm, but all you can focus on is how Yujin's looking at it—like she's found something breakable in a world made of steel.

'I really fucked up.' 'Did you?' Her touch finds your good arm, barely there. 'Or did you do exactly what you meant to?'

The lamp makes everything soft. She's wearing your t-shirt—the one you left here that summer when the AC broke. Cotton worn thin enough to catch shadowy curves underneath. Silk pajama bottoms that whisper secrets when she moves. You try not to notice. You notice everything.

'This might need stitches.' 'Are you volunteering?' 'Shut up and hold still.' But there's laughter in her voice, the kind that makes your chest tight. 'Some of us are trying to work miracles here.'

The first-aid kit looks wrong in her small hands. Those hands that used to patch up your scraped knees, that still know exactly where you're breakable.

'Remember that time in third grade?' Her fingers ghost over your skin. 'When you tried to convince me you could fly?' 'I could've.' 'You broke your arm.' 'Minor setback.' She laughs, soft and close. 'Nothing's changed, has it?'

Everything's changed. The way moonlight catches in her hair now, how her perfume makes your head swim, the careful distance she keeps even when she's touching you. But you say, 'Not the important things.'

Her breath hits your arm in warm little puffs as she works. Clean movements. No hesitation. Like she's mapping something she never forgot.

'Almost done.' Her thumb traces the edge of the bandage. 'Next time try not to bleed on my carpet?' 'Yujin-ah.' 'Mm?' 'Thank you.'

She looks up. Those eyes crack something in your chest. Then she smiles and whatever was cracked turns to stardust.

'So how'd it happen? And don't say you just slipped, because I know all your clumsy excuses by heart.' 'Just slipped.' 'Onto what? Did some wandering samurai leave their sword in Dunsan-dong?' 'You never know what you'll find these days.' 'Hey.' Her voice goes quiet, the way it used to when she'd tell you secrets at midnight. 'Tell me? I promise to not scold you…much.'

Face to face now. The universe narrows to this: her eyes on yours, her hands still on your skin.

'Okay.' You gesture with your good arm. 'Window.' 'What did you—' Her voice catches. 'If you've done something wild—'

Then you smile.

You watch her shoulders drop. It's a small thing, being able to do this—turn her static to quiet. Not exactly Superman stuff, but it's the only superpower you'd keep if they were dealing them out.

She knows. You can see it in how she moves—little half-dance steps to the window, taking your words as is—hopefully, something good. The curtain whispers. You don't watch. Can't. Your skin's electric with her lingering smell—something you'd bottle if you could, except that'd ruin it, the particular way her skin holds the perfume.

The silence stretches until you think you might snap. Then—

'What am I supposed to be looking at? Because all I see is Mrs. Kim's cat trying to fight a streetlight again, and—' She stops. 'What's it say?'

'Let me make sure I'm reading this right.' She's still facing the window, but you can hear the smile breaking through, eyes transforming into pure joy. 'Because either someone's confessing to me via Christmas lights at 2 AM, or the neighborhood's having a very very specific power outage.'

'These past years—' 'Wait.' She spins around, eyes catching lamplight. 'Did you seriously string up every Christmas light in Dunsan-dong just to—' She takes three quick steps toward you, stops. 'The lights outside the convenience store. The ones from the coffee shop. Even the ones from—' Her eyes go wide. 'You didn't.'

'Old Mr. Park drives a hard bargain.' 'His birthday lights? The ones he's kept since forever?' 'To be fair, they were already purple. Worked with the aesthetic.' 'And what exactly did you promise him?' 'Just my eternal servitude. And maybe repainting his fence.' 'The whole fence?'

'Both sides.'

She shakes her head, but her smile could light up the whole neighborhood. 'You're insane. Completely insane. Do you know how many people I had to convince about your mental well-being?'

'Had to?'

'Have to. Present tense.' She's between your knees now, playing with your shirt hem like it's suddenly the most interesting thing in the world. 'Though I guess now I'll have to change my story to "dating a lunatic who steals Christmas lights and nearly loses an arm trying to spell out love confessions."'

Your heart stumbles. 'Dating?'

'Well,' her borrowed shirt slips further, showing more shoulder. 'I mean, you did just write my name in stars.'

'They're Christmas lights.'

'Same difference.' Her fingers trail up your arm, careful of the bandage. 'Very romantic Christmas lights.'

'Does that mean—'

'It means anyone crazy enough to risk tetanus and Mr. Park's wrath deserves at least dinner.' A pause, then softer: 'Maybe breakfast too, if they play their cards right.'

'Just breakfast?'

'Don't push your luck.' But she's smiling that smile—the one that's always been just for you.

'Yujin-ah.'

'Mm?'

'All these years, did you ever—'

'Every day.' She doesn't let you finish. Doesn't need to. 'Every single day.'

'Can I—'

Her mouth finds yours: the way her lips part like flower petals at dawn, soft and inevitable. Her breath mingles with yours. There's the perfect arch of her spine, the way her breasts press warm against your chest through thin cotton, how her hips seek yours with an instinct older than thought. The taste of her, sweet milk tea and something darker, something that makes your blood sing. Her hands flutter at your neck, startled, before finding home in your hair, and there's that smell of her—woody, floral, fruity—that makes you dizzy, makes you forget where you end and she begins. Delicate sounds escape her, primal and pure, vibrating through both your bodies like a struck chord. Then she's pulling back, but her body stays honest—trembling, burning: alive with new knowledge.

'Sorry,' she whispers. 'Got carried away. We should probably wait until your wound is healed.' Her smile is so reassuring, masking the softest disappointment that her eyes couldn't hide. 

But she was in luck.

Your fingers circle her wrist mid-fret, right as she's about to check your bandage for the seventh time. Her skin is cool against yours, pulse like a hummingbird.

'Stop fretting.'

'I'm not fretting.' But she's barely holding back a smile, eyes bright with something more than just lamplight. 'I'm calculating how many years Mr. Park's going to make you repaint his fence.'

'Already negotiated.' You tug her closer, feeling the way she pretends to resist. 'Two coats, both sides, and my firstborn child.'

'Bold of you to negotiate with children that don't exist.' She settles between your knees anyway, like she's found her way home.

'Yet.'

Her borrowed shirt—your shirt—slips further off one shoulder. 'You're impossible.'

'Impossible enough to steal every Christmas light in Dunsan-dong.'

'Borrow,' she corrects, fingers playing with your collar. 'We're calling it borrowing. Sounds less felonious.'

'Look who's being responsible.'

'Someone has to be.' But she's leaning closer, breath warm against your mouth. 'Since you've apparently lost your mind.'

'Lost it years ago.' Your thumb traces her lower lip. 'Right around the time you started wearing my clothes.'

She makes this sound—half laugh, half something else entirely. 'Smooth talker.'

'Only for you.'

Her hands find your chest, but there's no real resistance in it. 'If you tear those stitches—'

The kiss swallows her warning. This one's different—deeper, like you're trying to taste every year you've waited. She makes a sound that turns your blood to starlight, fingers curling into your shirt like she's afraid you'll disappear.

'That's cheating,' she whispers when you break apart.

'Is it working?'

The lamp catches gold in her eyes. 'Always will.'

Your hand finds skin at the small of her back. She arches like a cat stretching into sunlight.

'You're staring.'

'Can't help it.'

'Try.'

'Make me.'

She kisses you this time—soft, sweet, dangerous. When she pulls back, her smile could outshine every stolen light in the neighborhood.

'We should probably—' she starts.

'Probably.'

Her fingers find the hem of her shirt. Your shirt. Details.

What follows is an exercise in creative problem-solving. One functional arm between you, too much cotton, not enough coordination. Her hair gets caught. You both laugh. The shirt wins the first round.

'Left,' she instructs.

'My left or your left?'

'Wait—here… I got it.'

The second attempt goes better. The shirt surrenders its hold, and suddenly there's just Yujin—all golden skin and starlight. Her bra's simple beige cotton, but the way it holds her could make Michaelangelo weep.

'You're staring again.'

'Still can't help it.'

She kisses you quiet, hands on your shoulders, pulling you closer. Everything soft and warm and perfect.

'Can I—' your fingers find her back, trace lace.

'Yes.' Another kiss. 'Please.'

The bra falls away like a secret finally told. You forget how words work.

The air hums with the weight of revelation—her body an altar, every contour a psalm. Your breath tangles as you drink her in: the bronze aureoles, the arch of her ribs like a vaulted sanctuary, the pulse fluttering at her throat like a caged sparrow. She shivers beneath your gaze: the raw vulnerability of a soul laid bare.

Your palms ascend her sides, mapping the smoothness, the glory of it all—each sigh, each hitch of muscle, a dialect you ache to memorize. She tips her head back as your thumbs brush the underswell of her breasts, a whimper dissolving. ‘More,’ she murmurs, not a demand but a prayer, a beg; her fingers knotting in your hair as if you might slip away like smoke.

You oblige, slow as honey, mouth tracing the salt-sweet hollow of her collarbone. Her skin blooms beneath your lips—petal-soft, fever-warm—as you chart a path lower, lower, until her nipple grazes your tongue. She gasps, back arching. Her hands clutch at you, anchor and plea, as you worship her with unhurried devotion, savoring each tremor, each stuttered breath.

When her legs part—a silent invitation—it’s your turn to shudder. The heat of her radiates through the last fragile barrier, a molten promise. You press closer, the rigid heat of your unclothed shaft straining against her thigh, a visceral counterpoint to her softness. She rolls her hips, deliberate, and you groan as her warmth grinds against you, friction sparking like flint.

You linger there, foreheads pressed, breaths mingling, the world narrowed to the space between heartbeats. Her eyes lock with yours, galaxies swirling in their depths. ‘I want to feel you,’ she whispers, voice trembling. ‘All of you.’

You move as tides do: inevitable, reverent. Her thighs cradle your hips as you guide yourself to her entrance, the head of your shaft slick with Her. The first breach is a shared gasp—a threshold crossed in tandem. She tightens around you, velvet heat clenching like a fist around your length, and you still, trembling, sweat-slicked and spellbound. Her nails score your shoulders, anchoring you to the agony of slowness.

‘Slowly,’ she breathes, and you obey, each fractional advance a pilgrimage. Her fingers trace your jaw, your lips, as if memorizing the shape of this moment. When you’re sheathed fully, time suspends. Her lashes flutter closed, a tear escaping as she whispers, 'Yes.'

You move in thrusts. Her sighs crest into whimpers, into chants of your name, each syllable a spark in the gathering storm. Her breasts sway with the rhythm, nipples brushing your chest, while your hands grip the flare of her hips, guiding her into the tide. Around you, the room dissolves: there is only her skin, her scent, the liquid pull of her around your shaft—a mosaic of need and nectar, each fragment a revelation.

You kiss her deeply, tasting the salt of her surrender, as the world fractures, reforms, and fractures again.

—

Sheets tangled like an afterthought. A leg hooked over yours, pinning you in place with the quiet authority of someone who has long since decided where they belong. The desk fan ticks through its slow, mechanical arc, stirring the air, stirring her hair, making it brush your chin in the softest, smallest way possible.

She shifts, just enough for her ribs to press against yours. You feel her breathing. Deep. Slow. Listening.

‘I have an audition next week,’ she says, voice barely above a whisper.

‘For what?’

‘Community theater. Spring show.’ A pause. Then, quietly, ‘It’s dumb.’

‘You don’t do dumb things.’

She laughs. A real one. The kind that scrunches her nose a little, that makes her shoulders shake just enough to jostle you.

‘Except this,’ she murmurs. Her fingers trace slow circles on your chest.

‘This was a strategic decision.’

‘Oh?’

‘Carefully calculated.’

She laughs again, softer this time. Her breath is warm where it spills against your collarbone. You could live here. Right here, in the space between her voice and her warmth and the way her hair tickles your skin.

She props herself up on one elbow, looking down at you. The Christmas lights outside flicker purples and blues across her face, her skin, making her look like something caught between a dream and waking. Her smile is quiet. Not big, not blinding. Just there. Something she’s forgotten to hide.

‘Hey,’ she says.

‘Hey.’

Her fingers tap lightly against your chest. ‘Remember when you proposed to me behind the school?’

‘Which time.’

She grins. ‘The time I lost the play to Wonyoung and cried so hard I got a nosebleed.’

‘Ah. I told you it didn’t matter because you’d always be the lead in my story.’

She groans, dropping her forehead to your shoulder. ‘You were so corny.’

‘Still am.’

‘Yeah,’ she murmurs. ‘You are.’

You feel her smile against your skin.

The fan clicks on again, stirring the night, the space between you. The crickets outside hum in harmony with the distant sound of a train—faint, but there. The whole world is slowing down. Breathing with you.

She shifts again, nestles closer. Her lips brush your skin—your collarbone, then just above your heart.

‘I can hear you thinking,’ you say.

She sighs, slow and steady. ‘Just… happy.’

You don’t say anything. Just hold her tighter. Like keeping her close might keep the moment from slipping away.

She pulls back, just far enough to see you, really see you. Her hair is a mess. Her lips are still swollen. The Christmas lights turn her eyes into something impossible, something endless.

‘I love you, you know,’ she says, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. Like she’s never known anything else.

You smile. ‘I know.’

She kisses you. Slow, deep, soft. Like a secret. Like an answer.

The fan ticks. The lights flicker. The night stretches on.

—

It was supposed to be small. A local theater gig, a footnote in her life story. Something that kept her busy while she figured out the rest. That was the plan.

Then a casting director walked into the wrong show on the right night. A single scene, a single line delivered with the kind of weight that makes people stop chewing their popcorn. Two weeks later, she’s everywhere.

At first, it’s just murmurs. Articles in the culture section. Buzzwords like promising, raw talent, the next big thing. Then the billboards go up. Magazines with her face—half-laughing, half-serious, eyes catching the camera like they know something you don’t. The first time you see one, it’s plastered on the side of a bus stop you used to share, back when the only lines she rehearsed were whispered promises and badly sung pop songs.

Now she’s too big for Dunsan-dong.

Not just big. Seismic.

Korea’s sweetheart, the industry's new obsession. Agencies circle like sharks with briefcases, smiling through teeth polished for negotiation. They offer her everything—money, sponsorships, a life where she doesn’t have to wait for the subway or count change at convenience stores. And she takes it, not because she’s greedy, but because this is what she was always meant to be.

You watch it happen the way people watch slow-motion car crashes. Helpless. Horrified. A little bit in awe.

Because here’s the thing they never warn you about when you love someone who's destined for greatness: fame isn’t a door. It’s a chasm. You can’t walk through it holding hands.

At first, you convince yourself nothing’s changed. You still talk, still text. But her replies come slower, her voice more rehearsed. The calls happen between set breaks, her voice filtered through exhaustion and bad reception.

Then the interviews start. The talk shows. The press tours.

She gets good at the answers, the little smiles, the artful dodges. The first time someone asks if she’s dating anyone, she hesitates. Just for a second. Just long enough for the internet to notice.

You tell yourself it doesn’t mean anything. That she’s protecting you. That this is just part of the machine.

But a few weeks later, you see a headline:

‘The Nation’s New Star: Who is Yujin’s Mystery First Love?’

And for the first time, it hits you—really hits you—how easy it is to be rewritten.

The tabloids build their own history, constructing boyfriends from old classmates, exes from co-stars. They don’t name you. They don’t have to. Because in the world they’ve built, you don’t exist.

And maybe, you start to think, maybe you never did.

Maybe love isn’t enough when it’s up against the weight of the world. Maybe you were naive to think you could be something more than a footnote in her legend.

Maybe you were never really two. Maybe it was always just her.

Moving forward. Rising higher.

And you—

You’re just the idiot standing still, watching her disappear into the stars.

—

Yujin called you up.

The night was cutting: cold, unrelenting Snow blew sideways, a thousand tiny knives catching on your exposed skin, but you sat there anyway—legs crossed, hands in your lap, all polite.

The bench was old, paint curling at the edges, the kind of place people only sat when they had no better options. You smiled at the irony.

You’d met Yujin in worse places. Loved her in worse places.

And maybe, just maybe, lost her in worse places too.

Then she emerged from the fog, a silhouette first, then a shape, then a person.

Five benches away. Maybe six. Distance had become an abstract concept, like time, like certainty, like the idea that love—real love—was enough to hold the weight of the whole goddamn world.

She didn’t sit. Didn’t hesitate.

‘Let’s break up.’

The words didn’t belong to the girl who used to steal fries from your plate, who used to call you at 2 AM because she saw a cat in the street and thought you needed to know. They belonged to someone else. Someone who had spent hours, maybe days, rehearsing.

Her voice was final. Her eyes were final. Everything about her, from the way she stood to the way the wind refused to touch her, was final.

You should’ve said something.

Anything.

But the air left your lungs in one sharp exhale, stolen by the weight of three syllables arranged in an execution sentence.

The snow caught in her hair, in her lashes, in the hollow curve of her collarbone, and she looked—god, she looked—like something from a dream you had once, the kind you woke from gasping, reaching for someone who wasn’t there.

And then she wasn’t.

She turned. Walked away. Snow swallowed her whole.

You could’ve chased her. Could’ve fallen to your knees, begged, pleaded, made a scene, made a fool of yourself. Could’ve grabbed her wrist, reminded her that you were not just some chapter to be closed. Could’ve thrown every memory, every quiet moment, every touch, every whispered I love you in her face like proof of something sacred.

But you didn’t.

Because Yujin never spoke like this. Not unless she meant it.

And that’s what gutted you most.

You sat there long after she was gone, staring at the place she used to be, like if you looked hard enough, you could rewind time, unbreak whatever fragile thing had finally snapped between you.

The sky stretched empty above you, stars sharp against the ink. You tried counting them. Tried counting anything to stop counting the ways you’d just lost her.

One star. Two. One mistake. Two. Three years. Four. Five benches away.

Maybe six. The wind howled, and you let it.

—

The beer’s flat, but that’s not why it tastes bad.

You lean against the bar, watching foam dissolve into something thin and lifeless, the way good things always do. Three years distilled into neon lights and a tab you don’t remember opening.

She’s 24 now. You keep count because she was impossible to avoid—billboards, subway ads, every damn screen flashing her face like she owns the world. And maybe she does. The brightest star, the nation’s darling, the girl who left and became.

You should be proud. You tell yourself you are.

But pride doesn’t feel like this. Doesn’t sit heavy in your ribs like grief. Doesn’t twist like a blade when you flip through channels and land on her.

The latest drama. Friends-to-lovers, some rom-com fluff. A special kind of hell, watching her fall for someone else, even if it’s scripted.

And the kiss—god, the kiss.

Over and over. Different angles, different takes. The guy has trepid shoulders and a weaker mouth. You want to reach through the screen, grab him by his stupid collar, shake him until he understands: You don’t get to kiss Yujin like that unless you mean it.

The beer in your hand swirls, a storm in a pint glass. You watch it spin, thinking about how everything these days seems determined to drown you.

Then Roach walks in.

Roach—half philosopher, half walking disaster. A man with too many past lives and a prosthetic eye that glows faintly under bar light, making him look part machine, part ghost.

‘That recovery group, they’re solid,’ he says, by way of hello. His voice is like chewing on gravel. ‘Might’ve been able to quit if I stuck around.’ ‘4.8 stars on Google, right?’ ‘Right. Wait. How’d you know that?’ His synthetic eye sits there while the real one narrows. ‘Been there.’ ‘What?’ ‘Been there. You recommended it.’ Roach laughs, short and sharp. ‘That was the review forum.’ ‘Memory’s fuzzy.’ ‘Fuzzy? You’re getting soft.’ ‘All those reviews read like discount novels, Roach.’ ‘Why the hell would I write reviews?’ ‘Same reason you do anything—to feel something.’ He smacks your chest, hard enough to make you look up. ‘Yujin broke you. Plain as day.’ Your throat tightens. The name alone feels like a switchblade. ‘It’s not like that… anymore.’ ‘Sure looks like it.’ ‘How’s that?’ ‘You’re on the leaderboard in this bar. They’re bleeding you dry, and you’re letting them.’ You don’t argue. Just take another sip. ‘Don’t deserve this money anyway.’ ‘Then give it elsewhere. There’s an orphanage across the street.’ ‘Don’t play saint with me.’ ‘It’s just a block away.’ ‘Fuck off.’ ‘Just a block—’ ‘Fine.’ You press your glass against the table, like the condensation might hold you steady. ‘I’ll think about it.’ Roach grins like he’s won something. ‘Ever watch her show?’ he asks, tilting his flask toward you. You hesitate. ‘Not really.’ ‘Bullshit. Saw you yesterday. That rain scene.’ Your grip tightens around the glass. The rain scene. You were there. Back when “we” still meant something. Holding her coat between takes, watching her shiver between scripted heartbreaks. ‘She always cried pretty,’ you murmur. ‘Even back then.’ Roach nods, takes a sip. ‘Tell me about it.’ You do. You don’t mean to, but you do. ‘Nothing to tell,’ you start. ‘I was nobody. She was becoming somebody. Simple math.’ ‘That’s not what I heard.’ ‘Yeah? What’d you hear?’ ‘That you proposed. Night before Seoul.’ The beer sours in your mouth. ‘Who told you that?’ ‘Does it matter? True though, isn’t it?’ You let out something that’s supposed to be a laugh. ‘Got the ring from my grandmother. Vintage Tiffany, art deco. Yujin loved vintage.’ ‘And?’ ‘And she cried. Not the pretty kind.’ You see it now, clear as the night it happened—her shaking hands, the way she pressed the box back into yours like it burned. ‘Said she couldn’t. Said she wasn't ready. I guess that was the foreshadowing: she broke up with me just a week later.’ ‘A choice between you and fame?’ ‘Between real life and the life she’d dreamed of since she was six. No contest, really.’ Roach doesn’t speak for a while. Just stares at the bar like it’s holding the right words. ‘Where’s the ring now?’ You smirk, but it tastes like blood. ‘Pawned it. Bought a week of blackout drunk and a ticket anywhere else.’ Roach exhales, long and low. His eyes flick to your watch, but nothing gold can compare to what you lost. ‘And here you are.’ ‘Here I am.’ Bass pulses through the walls, someone screams about love on the dance floor, and the bartender slides another drink toward you like it might fix anything. Roach downs the rest of his flask, claps a hand on your shoulder. ‘Well. Good luck with that. Got a missus waiting. Let me know when you find one.’ You don’t look at him. ‘We might never speak again.’ ‘Doubt that.’ A pat on the back, one final grin. Then he’s gone. You scoff. If ever. And you leave.

—

Seoul in summer is a thing that sticks. To your skin, to your thoughts, to the spaces between breath. Heat rises off the pavement, thick and wet, settling in your lungs like something permanent.

The city is wide awake, but softer at this hour. Convenience store fluorescents hover in the humidity, blurring edges. Subway vents exhale something metallic, ghostly. The crickets don’t know they live in a city. They just keep singing.

You walk. Not home, not anywhere. Just walking, because it’s better than stopping.

Stopping means remembering.

Every street corner holds a version of her. The Yujin who stole fries off your plate, who could sleep through a fireworks show, who once convinced you that every ice cream cone tasted better if it was half-melted. She’s there, tucked into flickering billboards, frozen mid-laugh on subway ads, threaded between the chords of songs you don’t mean to hear.

You take the long way. Five, six corners. Maybe more.

Then the bus stop appears.

Half-forgotten. Almost overgrown. A bench with its paint peeling like old skin, weeds curling around the edges like they might swallow it whole.

You sit. Elbows on knees. Hands folded. Thinking. Not thinking.

The streetlight buzzes. The air is thick with waiting.

Then—

A shadow falls across your feet.

A shift in pressure. Not wind, just something. The moment before a storm, before impact, before memory collides with the present and makes a mess of everything.

‘What are you doing here?’ Soft. Not a blade, not a wound. Just a question that lands like an old habit.

You don’t need to look. But you do. Because some habits don’t break.

Yujin stands there, framed by sodium light, hands tucked into the pockets of a hoodie that looks too soft to exist. No cameras. No entourage. Just her.

And god—just her is enough to knock the breath out of your chest.

‘Hiding?’ Soft. Like the question isn’t a question, just something to fill the space between heartbeats.

You don’t look up right away. You know the shape of her. You’ve spent years knowing it. The way she stands, weight slightly to one side. The way her voice lands, gentle, edged with something only you ever got to hear.

But you look anyway. Because it’s her. And some rules of the universe don’t change.

Yujin.

Not the Yujin on billboards, the Yujin on magazine covers, the Yujin who belongs to a nation that adores her.

Just Yujin.

Hair a little messy. Hoodie swallowing her frame. Hands tucked into the sleeves like she’s bracing against a cold that doesn’t exist.

And—god. Her eyes. Still warm. Still familiar. Still Dunsan-dong in their quiet, endless way.

She tilts her head. Smiles. The kind of smile that makes you feel seventeen again, like you just said something stupid and brilliant in the same breath.

‘Hiding?’ she repeats, softer this time.

‘Hiding implies I have something to hide from.’

‘And do you?’

A pause. Then—

‘Maybe.’

A hum. A small shift in weight. Then she sits. Just like that. No asking, no hesitation. Just sits, close enough that her knee brushes yours, like muscle memory, like the past hasn’t completely given up on you yet.

The air smells like street food, like summer. Somewhere, a neon sign hums its last flickers before shutting off for the night.

She bumps her shoulder against yours.

‘Missed you, you know.’

You turn your head. Blink. She’s watching you, like the sentence wasn’t a trap, wasn’t something heavy. Just… true.

You swallow.

‘Yeah?’

She nods, pulling her sleeves over her hands. ‘Yeah.’

The night stretches. Not awkward. Not tight with something unspoken. Just easy. Just… there.

‘How’s life?’ she asks.

‘Oh, you know. Full of bad choices.’

‘Any good ones?’

‘Still deciding.’

She breathes out a laugh, soft.

You glance at her, at the curve of her nose, the way she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear like she’s done since she was a kid.

‘You look…’ she starts, then tilts her head.

‘What?’

‘The same.’

You huff a laugh. ‘That’s a lie.’

‘No.’ She nudges your knee again. ‘You’re just… still you.’

And it’s so simple, the way she says it. So casual, like she hasn’t just pulled the breath from your lungs.

You don’t answer. Not yet.

She leans in slightly.

‘Still drink too much coffee?’

‘Still sleep through earthquakes?’

Her grin widens. ‘Still remember that?’

‘Some things don’t change.’

‘Some do.’

A small shift. A glance. A fraction closer.

And the city moves around you, oblivious.

But you?

You stay still.

You stay here.

Yujin sighs, long and soft, tilting her head back, watching the streetlight cast flickering halos through the humidity.

‘Seoul’s different at night,’ she murmurs. ‘Seoul’s different all the time.’

She hums, half in agreement, half just because she likes the sound. You forgot about that—the way she used to make tiny noises when she was thinking, little musical notes that filled in the gaps between words.

‘Feels slower now,’ she says. ‘That’s just you.’ She turns to you, eyes warm. ‘Yeah?’ You nod. ‘Everything moves too fast for you these days. You forgot what slow feels like.’ A small smile. ‘Remind me?’ Something tightens in your chest. She doesn’t mean it like that. Doesn’t mean it like anything more than what it is—a quiet moment, a quiet ask. But still. You shift, leaning back against the bench, stretching your arms across the top like you own the night. Like it doesn’t own you. ‘Alright,’ you say. ‘Lesson one: sitting still.’ She huffs a laugh but follows your lead, sinking deeper into the wood, legs stretching out. Her foot knocks against yours. ‘Like this?’ ‘Yeah.’ A beat. ‘And then what?’ ‘Nothing.’ She raises a brow. ‘That’s it?’ ‘That’s it.’ She exhales, slow and thoughtful. ‘You always made things feel easy,’ she says, voice quiet, like she’s afraid of disrupting the moment. You glance at her, and she’s not looking at you—just at the night, at the city, at something only she can see. ‘Not sure that’s true,’ you admit. ‘No, it is.’ She pulls her sleeves over her hands again, eyes flicking toward you. ‘You made me feel easy. Like… breathing.’ Something inside you curls at the edges. ‘Yujin—’ ‘It’s okay.’ She shakes her head, soft, smiling like she’s telling you not to carry it too heavily. ‘I’m just remembering.’ The city hums around you both. A distant motorbike rumbles past. Somewhere, an old radio plays a song you half recognize. You look at her again. Hair slightly mussed. Eyes bright, soft, familiar. Like she was never gone at all. She shifts, tucking one leg under the other, hands still hidden in her sleeves.

‘You ever think about calling?’ Her voice is light. Not demanding. Not accusing. Just... wondering. You let out a slow breath. ‘You ever think about picking up?’ A small laugh, exhale-soft. ‘Yeah.’ You glance at her, and she’s already looking at you, chin propped against her knee, smile barely-there but real. ‘But I figured you needed time,’ she says. You swallow. ‘Did I?’ Her fingers twitch against the fabric of her hoodie. ‘I don’t know. Maybe I just told myself that so I wouldn’t call.’ The honesty knocks something loose in your chest. You don’t say anything for a moment. The city moves around you both, neon humming against the wet pavement, the smell of night air thick with too many things. Then, quietly— ‘Three years is a long time, Yujin.’ ‘I know.’

She shifts, slow, careful, like she’s turning over a fragile thought in her hands. ‘But I never wanted it to be forever.’ Your throat tightens. You want to ask her then why did you leave like it was? But you don’t. Because you already know the answer. Because she was always meant for something bigger. Because she was scared, because you were scared, because maybe—just maybe—back then, love wasn’t enough to hold everything steady.

Instead, you say, ‘You look good, you know.’ Her lips curve, soft. ‘You do too.’ You scoff, tipping your head back against the bench. ‘Liar.’ ‘I never lied to you.’ That shuts you up. For a moment, you let it sink in. The weight of her voice, the way she says it like it’s a fact, like it’s something you should’ve never doubted. Then, softer— ‘You really never called?’ she asks. ‘I really never called.’ She doesn’t look away. ‘Why?’ You inhale. Let the air sit heavy in your lungs. ‘Because I thought you’d be better off without me.’ The words land, quiet and unpolished. Yujin blinks. Then— ‘You idiot.’ And then she’s moving, shifting closer, her fingers finding your sleeve, gripping just slightly, just enough for you to feel her there, to feel her warmth against the fabric. ‘Do you know how many times I almost showed up at your door?’ she says, voice soft but steady. ‘How many times I wanted to tell you that I was still here? That I—’ She stops. Exhales. Looks away, looks back. ‘That I missed you?’ You swallow. She’s close now. Not quite touching, but nearly. The air between you charged, something slow, something waiting. Your heart does something complicated in your chest. ‘You missed me?’ you murmur. Yujin smiles, small, fond. ‘Of course, you idiot.’ The city hums. The night exhales. And you— You don’t move away. Yujin stays close. Close enough for you to count her breaths, to feel the warmth of her body radiating through the space between you. You should say something. You should do something. Instead, you just sit there. And Yujin—Yujin lets you.

Her fingers stay curled into your sleeve, loose but certain. Like she’s testing gravity, checking to see if you’ll stay, if you’ll shift, if you’ll remind her that you’re real. She tilts her head, watching you the way she used to—like she’s memorizing you, like she’s trying to fit you back into the version of her life where you were always supposed to be. And maybe she is. Maybe she’s wondering how you look the same but feel different. Maybe she’s cataloging the way your shoulders have set a little heavier, the way your mouth curves in thought before you speak. Or maybe she’s just looking. Like she never stopped. ‘So,’ she says, voice light, careful. ‘What now?’ A question too big for this moment. A question you can’t answer, not yet. So you do what you always do. You deflect. You lean back, arms stretching across the top of the bench, looking at her out of the corner of your eye. ‘Shouldn’t I be asking you that?’ She lifts a brow. ‘You were always the planner.’ She snorts. ‘Hardly.’ ‘Oh? I seem to remember someone who had color-coded schedules for summer break.’ ‘That was one summer.’

‘Still counts.’ She exhales a laugh, tipping her head back against the bench, looking up at the sky. ‘Okay, fine. Maybe I was a little obsessed with plans.’ ‘A little?’

She shoots you a look, but it’s all warmth. All familiarity. ‘You liked it,’ she says. ‘It was efficient. It was cute.’

You hesitate. Just slightly. But she catches it. Of course she does. Her smile softens.

‘You can say it, you know.’ You tilt your head, pretending to be confused. ‘Say what?’ ‘That you missed me too.’

Something about the way she says it makes your stomach pull tight. Not teasing. Not fishing. Just true. You turn back to the street, watching the way the neon catches in the puddles, turning them into something like galaxies.

‘You already know.’ Yujin hums. ‘I want to hear it anyway.’ You exhale.

Three years of distance. Three years of silence. Three years of trying to unwrite the part of your life where she belonged.

‘Yeah,’ you say, voice quiet. ‘I missed you.’

Yujin doesn’t say anything right away. Then—

Her hand slides fully into your sleeve, warm against your wrist. A small thing. A quiet thing. But it’s enough.

‘Good,’ she murmurs.

You sit there like that for a while. Neither of you moving. Neither of you pulling away. And for the first time in years—

The silence between you doesn’t feel like an ending. It feels like a beginning.

Her hand stays there. Not gripping. Not holding. Just resting, warm against your wrist, like it belongs there. Like it never left.

You let out a slow breath. Three years. Three whole years. And somehow, this—her, the quiet press of her skin against yours, the way she’s just here—feels so natural it makes your ribs ache.

‘What are we doing, Yujin?’

Soft. Not accusing. Just—just needing to know if she feels it too, if this night is supposed to mean what you think it does.

She tilts her head, slow. Her hair slips over her shoulder, catching the streetlight in its strands. ‘Talking?’

A small, careful smile.

You huff. ‘Is that what this is?’

She hums, shifts a little closer, foot knocking against yours. ‘I don’t know. Feels nice, though.’

Nice. Nice, like it isn’t everything. Nice, like you aren’t suddenly breathing her in again, like your body hasn’t been on high alert since the moment she walked into your orbit tonight.

You roll your wrist slightly, just enough so that your fingers brush hers. She doesn’t pull away.

The city hums. The night exhales. And then—

‘Do you want to go for a walk?’ she asks.

It’s an easy question. A simple one. But something about it knots itself into your chest, makes your throat tight. Because that’s always how it was with her. Yujin never asked for big things. Just small ones, one after another, adding up to something impossible to resist.

Do you want to get ice cream? Do you want to climb onto the roof? Do you want to watch the rain with me? Do you want to stay?

And you had always said yes.

You glance at her now, at the way she’s watching you, hopeful but not pushing, patient in the way only she could ever be. A walk. A moment. A step toward something you don’t quite know how to name.

You exhale, slow. Then you stand.

‘Lead the way.’

Her smile—god. Her smile.

She slips her hand fully into yours, easy, thoughtless, like muscle memory. Like no time has passed at all.

And you— You let her.

The street hums around you, the last traces of night shifting toward something softer. The vendors have mostly packed up, but the scent of grilled meat and frying oil still lingers, floating warm through the thick summer air.

Yujin’s hand stays in yours. Not tight. Not hesitant. Just there. Like it was always meant to be.

You walk without direction. Just moving, side by side, the way you used to. Her footsteps match yours easily, a quiet sync neither of you planned.

‘Where are we going?’ you ask, voice low.

‘Nowhere,’ she says.

It makes you smile.

A few years ago, that answer would have annoyed her. Yujin, the girl with color-coded schedules, with plans so detailed they might as well have been carved into stone. But now she just says it like it’s enough. Like it’s the whole point.

She swings your hands slightly, absentminded. ‘You always walked like this,’ she murmurs.

‘Like what?’

She shrugs. ‘Like the city doesn’t own you.’

You breathe in, slow. The neon of old convenience stores, the occasional flickering of a streetlamp. ‘I guess I never let it.’

She hums. ‘I did.’

You glance at her. ‘Yujin—’

‘It’s okay,’ she cuts in, smiling. ‘I wanted to. I just—’ She exhales, presses her lips together for a moment, then shakes her head. ‘I forgot how good it feels to walk like this. Without thinking.’

You squeeze her hand just slightly.

She notices. Her thumb brushes the edge of your palm. Not an accident. Not a mistake.

The city stretches ahead of you, quiet. ‘You ever think about coming back?’ you ask.

She doesn’t answer right away. Her fingers tighten around yours, just a little.

‘I used to dream about it,’ she says, voice softer now. ‘I’d wake up thinking I was still in Dunsan-dong. That I’d step outside and find you waiting, like always.’

Your throat goes tight. She turns her head, studies your face in the flickering light.

‘But I was scared,’ she says, gentle. ‘What if you were different? What if I was?’

You don’t look away. ‘And now?’

A breath. A small, small smile. ‘I think I was scared of the wrong thing.’

Your heart stumbles.

She slows, pulling you toward the edge of the sidewalk, toward a tiny park that barely qualifies as a park—a patch of grass, a few trees. The kind of place nobody notices. She stops. Turns to face you.

You should say something. You should say everything.

But she beats you to it.

‘You were always the best part of my life,’ she says, voice steady, firm, like she’s decided something for herself.

Your pulse jumps. ‘Yujin—’

‘I just needed you to know that.’

She’s looking at you like she’s bracing for impact. Like she’s not sure what you’ll do with this thing she’s handing you.

So you take it. Carefully, quietly, the way she deserves.

You lift your hand—the one she’s not holding—and tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. Her breath catches.

‘Yeah?’ you murmur.

She nods.

And then, softer—

‘I think you were always mine.’

You don’t know who moves first. Maybe it doesn’t matter. Because the next thing you know, her hands are on your face, and your mouth is against hers, and the whole city dissolves around you.

She tastes like everything you remember. Like fine tea and something sweeter, something that was always just hers. She presses closer, hands slipping down to your collar, holding you there like you might disappear.

You won’t. Not this time.

When you pull back, she’s breathing fast, forehead resting against yours. You smile.

‘Still walk like the city doesn’t own me?’ you murmur.

She laughs, breathless, and pulls you back in.

Yujin kisses like a memory you never let go of. Like muscle memory, like breathing. Like the space between your ribs was always meant to make room for her.

She pulls back, just enough for her nose to brush yours. Her breath is warm, uneven. Her hands are still curled into the collar of your shirt, holding, gripping, keeping.

You open your eyes. She’s already looking at you.

Not like the girl on the billboards, not like the actress on screen. Just Yujin. Soft, real, right here.

Her lips are pink and kiss-bitten. She blinks slowly, dazed, like she’s trying to piece together what just happened. And then—

Then she laughs.

Not a big laugh. Not loud. Just this tiny, incredulous little sound. Like she can’t believe it. Like she can’t believe you.

‘What?’ you murmur.

She shakes her head, smiling, fingers still resting against your collar. ‘I don’t know.’

‘That’s a first.’

She huffs. ‘Shut up.’

‘Make me.’

A flicker of something in her eyes. Amusement. Mischief. Something else.

She tilts her head, considering. Then, in one slow movement, she leans in—

Not kissing you, not quite. Just close enough that her lips barely graze yours. Close enough that you can feel her smile.

‘Tempting,’ she murmurs.

Your heart stumbles.

But then she pulls away, slipping her fingers from your shirt, stepping back onto the sidewalk, like she’s giving you space to breathe.

You don’t need it. But you let her.

The city hums around you, the distant rumble of a car engine, the occasional flicker of neon against damp pavement.

You watch as Yujin tilts her head toward the sky, stretching her arms out, exhaling like she’s just remembered how.

‘I forgot what this feels like,’ she admits.

‘What?’

‘Not thinking.’ She lets her hands drop to her sides, flexing her fingers. ‘Not planning every second of my life in advance. Just… being.’

You shift, watching her.

‘I don’t think I’ve done that in years,’ she says.

A pause. Then, softly—

‘Stay with me.’

Your heart does something complicated in your chest.

She looks over, a little hesitant now, like she’s not sure how the words sound out loud.

‘I mean—’ she starts, but you shake your head.

‘Okay.’

Her lips part slightly.

Like she expected you to hesitate. Like she thought she’d have to convince you.

You step closer. Just enough that the space between you disappears again.

‘Okay?’ she echoes.

You nod.

Then, quieter—‘Anywhere.’

Yujin’s face softens.

And god, it’s so easy, the way she looks at you. Like you are something known. Like she is something understood.

She lets out a small, breathy laugh, reaching up to brush her thumb against the corner of your mouth.

‘You’re so stupid,’ she murmurs.

‘You love it.’

‘Yeah,’ she says, shaking her head. ‘Yeah, I do.’

She slips her hand back into yours, fingers threading together like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like she never left. Like you never let her.

And the city stretches ahead, wide open, waiting.

You should take a taxi. That would be the smart thing. A quiet, unremarkable way to disappear from the city before someone notices Korea’s brightest star walking hand-in-hand with someone who isn’t famous, isn’t scripted, isn’t anything but hers.

But Yujin shakes her head.

‘Not yet,’ she says.

So you walk.

She keeps close, hood pulled low, fingers curled into yours. The streets are thinning out, the city exhaling into its quieter hours. The air smells like fried oil and pavement, the ghosts of dinner service still hanging in the air.

She bumps into you once, then twice.

‘Are you always this bad at walking?’ you ask.

She grins, breathless. ‘I think I forgot how to do it with company.’

Company. Company.

You’re not sure if you’re relieved of that; that she was too busy to even meander through lazy lovers.

You squeeze her hand. She squeezes back.

Your place isn’t far, but when you reach it—when Yujin stops at the entrance, tilting her head back to take it all in—something shifts.

‘Huh.’

That’s all she says.

You fight a smirk. ‘Huh?’

She makes a small noise, arms crossed, like she’s trying not to look impressed.

‘You kept acting like you lived in a shoebox.’

You raise a brow. ‘Did I?’

‘Yeah.’ She gestures vaguely to the high-rise, the massive glass windows catching the city lights. ‘I was expecting something small. Modest. Maybe a bachelor pad with an ugly couch and a tragic little coffee table.’

You scoff. ‘What do you take me for?’

‘A very humble man, apparently.’

You shake your head, leading her inside.

The elevator is empty. Too bright. Too quiet.

She rocks on her heels. ‘So, do I get the grand tour?’

‘I don’t know,’ you say, pretending to think. ‘You might not be able to handle it. Very overwhelming.’

She elbows you in the side, laughing. ‘Shut up.’

The doors slide open.

She steps out first, into the hallway, waiting while you fish your keys from your pocket.

She glances over. ‘I still can’t believe you live here.’

‘Why?’

She shrugs. ‘It’s just weird.’

‘Weird how?’

She scrunches her nose, like she doesn’t quite know how to explain it. ‘I don’t know. You just never cared about stuff like this.’

You unlock the door.

She steps inside.

And immediately—

‘Oh my god.’

You roll your eyes, shutting the door behind you. ‘What now?’

She turns in a slow circle, taking everything in. The high ceilings, the floor-to-ceiling windows, the soft lighting that spills across the polished wood.

‘Are you kidding?’ she says, spinning toward you, mouth open in faux outrage. ‘This is beautiful.’

You snort. ‘What, you thought I was sleeping in a broom closet?’

‘Yes.’

‘Wow. Faith in me is strong, I see.’

She grins, moving toward the living room. ‘No, it’s just—’ She shakes her head, fingers brushing over the back of the sleek, perfectly chosen couch. ‘You were always so… comfortable with less. I figured, even if you had money, you’d still live like some struggling artist in a shoebox.’

You scoff, kicking off your shoes. ‘What does that even mean?’

‘Like, I don’t know, sleeping on a mattress on the floor. A single sad chair. Stacks of books everywhere.’

You raise a brow. ‘So your image of me is basically a broke philosophy major?’

She shrugs. ‘It suited you.’

You exhale a laugh.

‘But this,’ she gestures around again, ‘this is… grown-up.’

‘Was I not grown-up before?’

She grins. ‘No.’

‘Wow.’

‘But,’ she continues, stepping toward the floor-to-ceiling windows, where the city spills out in front of her like a living, breathing thing, ‘I like it. It feels like you.’

You pause.

Not expensive. Not fancy. Not over-the-top.

It feels like you.

You scratch the back of your neck, looking away.

‘Yeah?’

She nods. ‘Yeah.’

She turns back to the glass, resting her fingers lightly against the frame. ‘You can see the river from here.’

You step up beside her.

It’s a view you see every day, but somehow, with Yujin here, it looks different.

She breathes in. ‘It’s nice.’

You breathe her in.

‘Yeah,’ you murmur. ‘It is.’

She turns.

And then she kisses you.

Not careful. Not planned.

Just Yujin.

She tilts her head, presses up slightly on her toes, and meets your mouth with something warm, something easy.

It’s not perfect.

She misses, just slightly. Laughs into the kiss. Her hands fumble for your collar but find your wrist instead.

But god—

It’s real.

You breathe her in. Hold her waist. Feel her fingers curl into the fabric of your shirt like she’s trying to pull you closer, closer.

She hums against your lips, smiling.

You grin. ‘You missed.’

She exhales a laugh. ‘Shut up.’

‘Make me.’

She does.

The kisses are clumsy, messy, soft. The kind that happens when two people are trying to remember, trying to relearn each other in real-time.

She tugs at your shirt.

You trip over the edge of the couch.

She gasps.

You land in a heap, tangled together, breathless.

Silence.

Then—

She laughs.

Bright, full, head tipped back against your chest.

You groan, letting your head fall back against the cushions. ‘Unbelievable.’

She grins, shifting so she’s straddling your lap. ‘I don’t know, I think it’s fitting.’

‘Oh?’

‘Yeah.’ She leans in, pressing her forehead against yours. ‘Clumsy love suits us.’

Your breath catches.

Then, softer—

‘Yeah,’ you murmur. ‘It does.’

She cups your face, fingers warm against your jaw.

The city hums outside, unaware.

And you—

You stay here.

With her.

You don’t know who says it first.

Maybe her. Maybe you. Maybe neither of you—maybe it’s just implied, wrapped up in the way she’s still sitting in your lap, fingers absently tracing patterns over your collarbone, skin warm against yours.

But at some point, between the teasing and the breathless little ohs that slip between kisses, it just becomes a fact.

You’re both too warm.

Too sticky from the night air, from walking too long through humid Seoul streets, from the thick summer heat pressing against the glass of your windows.

‘Shower,’ she murmurs.

You’re not sure if it’s a request or a declaration, but either way—

‘Yeah,’ you say.

And then you’re moving.

Yujin laughs when you lift her off the couch, stumbling slightly as you navigate through the apartment. She doesn’t let go, arms slung loosely around your neck, breath warm against your ear.

‘Are you always this dramatic?’ she asks.

‘You love it.’

She hums, not denying it.

The bathroom is bright, too bright, the kind of brightness that makes everything feel a little more real than you’re prepared for. But Yujin doesn’t hesitate—just pulls her hoodie over her head, shakes her hair out, steps closer like she’s done this a thousand times.

Like she’s never left.

You watch as she turns toward the mirror, tilting her head slightly.

‘Haven’t been in a place like this in a while,’ she muses.

‘A bathroom?’

She snorts, shoving you lightly. ‘No, this kind of bathroom.’ She waves a hand vaguely, indicating the open shower, the marble walls, the soft lighting. ‘It’s fancy.’

You roll your eyes, reaching for the faucet. ‘You act like you don’t stay in five-star hotels every week.’

‘That’s different.’

‘How?’

She steps behind you, pressing her chin against your shoulder. ‘This feels like you.’

You don’t know what to say to that.

So you don’t say anything at all.

The water warms between your fingers, steam rising slowly.

Yujin hums, stepping forward, slipping her fingers under the hem of your shirt. ‘Come on.’

You don’t move.

She looks up, amused. ‘What, suddenly shy?’

You scoff, shaking your head, but your pulse jumps when her fingers skate lightly against your stomach.

She grins. ‘Cute.’

‘What is?’

‘Three years apart, and you’re still so you.’

You exhale a laugh, finally pulling your shirt over your head. She does the same, tossing her clothes into a messy pile, and then—

Then it’s just you and her, standing too close, bare skin meeting for the first time in what feels like forever.

Her breath catches.

You hear it. Feel it.

And god—

She’s so beautiful.

All golden skin and soft curves and the kind of warmth that could make the whole city feel like home.

She watches you, expectant, waiting.

You don’t make her wait long.

You reach for her—

And she lets you.

Lets you pull her in, lets you kiss her slow, deep, careful, like you’re memorizing her all over again.

She sighs into your mouth, hands trailing up your arms, curling into your hair.

‘Come on,’ she whispers.

And this time—

You listen.

The water is hot, almost too hot, but neither of you care.

Yujin steps under first, exhaling as the warmth rolls over her skin, tilting her head back so that her hair darkens, slick against her shoulders.

You’re distracted.

Too distracted.

Because—

Because she’s standing there, all bare skin and soft curves and Yujin, looking at you like she already knows exactly what you’re thinking.

‘Are you going to keep staring?’ she teases.

You swallow. ‘Maybe.’

She laughs, stepping forward, reaching for the shampoo.

You should move. Should help. Should do something.

But instead, you just—

Just watch.

The way she hums under her breath, the way she lathers the shampoo into her hair, fingers massaging small circles against her scalp.

You’re so lost in it, in her, that you don’t even realize she’s finished—

Until she suddenly turns, tilts her head, and smiles.

‘Come here.’

You don’t hesitate.

She tugs you forward, fingers threading through your hair, working shampoo into your scalp like it’s something sacred, something worth taking her time with.

And god—

God, you forgot how good this feels.

Forgot what it was like to just be, to just exist under someone’s hands, to let yourself be cared for in a way that doesn’t feel heavy, doesn’t feel like a transaction.

Her fingers move slowly, carefully, her nails scraping lightly against your skin.

You close your eyes.

Breathe.

Let yourself lean into it.

Let yourself lean into her.

And she—

She lets you.

She’s still rinsing when you reach for her.

‘What—’

You shush her, hands skimming up her sides, guiding her under the water’s warmth.

She lets you.

Lets you tilt her chin slightly, lets you press a kiss just below her ear, lets you work your fingers into her hair like she’s something holy.

Her breath catches.

You hear it, feel it, let it sink into your bones.

‘Close your eyes,’ you murmur.

She hesitates—just a fraction of a second—then obeys.

The water slides down her face, over her lips, down the elegant curve of her throat.

You watch, transfixed.

Then you move.

You reach for the shampoo, work it between your hands, and Yujin’s confused—’Again?’—but when your fingers find her scalp—

She melts.

You don’t think you’ve ever seen her this undone.

Head tilted slightly, mouth parted, body soft beneath your touch.

She hums, a small, quiet sound, like she’s just remembered something she’d long forgotten.

You barely breathe.

Just keep going, keep moving, keep tracing slow, deliberate circles, letting your fingers tangle through her hair like it’s something sacred.

Because it is.

Because she is.

Yujin, the girl who never stopped moving, who never let herself stop thinking, who planned every step of her life down to the last decimal—

She’s still now.

Still, and warm, and yours.

You rinse the shampoo carefully, letting the water do the work. Your fingers trail down, down, past her neck, past her shoulders, past the delicate slip of her collarbone.

She sighs.

Leans into you.

Lets herself fall.

And god—

You’ll catch her.

Every time.

You reach for the soap next, work it slowly over her back, over her arms, over every inch of her that you can touch.

She exhales, barely above a whisper.

‘Feels nice.’

You smile.

‘Good.’

You don’t rush.

Not when she’s like this. Not when she’s letting you do this, letting you love her with something as simple as this.

Your hands trail lower, down her spine, over the dip of her waist. She shifts slightly, breath hitching just a little.

You pause.

Press a kiss to her shoulder.

She shivers, but not from the cold.

‘This okay?’ you murmur.

Her fingers curl around your wrist, stopping you.

For a moment, you think she’s going to pull away—

But instead—

She guides your hand lower.

Presses it against the soft warmth of her stomach.

Holds it there.

She exhales, slow and deep. ‘Don’t stop.’ You don’t. God, you don’t. You let your hands move slowly, carefully, exploring her the way you’ve always wanted to—like she’s something to learn, something to understand. And Yujin— Yujin lets you.

She lets you wash away the last three years, lets you trace something new into her skin, lets you relearn every inch of her with soap and steam and careful, careful hands.

She turns in your arms, pressing her forehead against yours. The water slips between you, catching at the spaces where you don’t quite meet. She’s smiling. Soft. Sweet. Yours. You cup her face. She leans into it, eyes fluttering closed. For a long, long moment, neither of you move. You just stay. Right here. Right now. Like this. Like always. Then— She opens her eyes. And she kisses you.

The water trails down her spine in slow, careful rivers, catching in the dips of her back, rolling down the curve of her waist. You follow its path with your fingers, mapping her skin like something sacred, something known.

She doesn’t move. Just lets you touch. Lets you care.

You start with her back, palms gliding down the slope of her shoulders, the delicate stretch of muscle beneath warm, damp skin. Your thumbs press gently into the knots there, kneading, coaxing, working out tension she probably doesn’t even realize she’s holding.

She exhales, long and slow, tipping her head forward. ‘Mmm,’ she murmurs, voice thick with something close to sleep. ‘That feels good.�� You smile. Press your thumbs in a little deeper. Let your hands drift lower, following the curve of her spine, tracing each ridge, each shadow, each memory pressed into muscle. You smooth circles over her lower back, fingers pressing into the dimples there, trailing down— She shivers. Your hands pause. ‘Ticklish?’ you murmur.

She huffs a quiet laugh, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. ‘A little.’ You grin, but you don’t tease. Not now. Not when she’s letting you do this, letting you love her in the simplest, softest way. You reach for the soap, work it between your hands until it foams, and then— Then you really start. You start with her arms, sliding your palms over smooth, damp skin, tracing the delicate lines of muscle beneath. You lift her wrist, turning it over, running your fingers along the pulse point there. Her breath catches. You watch, mesmerized, as water beads along the inside of her forearm, trailing down to the soft bend of her elbow. ‘You’re so careful,’ she murmurs. You hum. ‘You deserve careful.’ Something flickers across her face. Something soft. She lets her fingers curl around yours. You smile. Run your hands over her stomach next, tracing the subtle rise and fall of each breath, the warmth of her, the realness of her. She shifts slightly, the movement pressing her closer, pressing skin to skin, pressing warmth to warmth. You exhale. Let your hands drift lower, over the curve of her waist, the dip of her hip, the length of her thigh. You take your time. Because she lets you. Because she wants you to. You kneel then, water rolling down your shoulders, down your back, pooling against your skin. You press your lips to her hip. She exhales, shaky, fingers threading into your hair. ‘You don’t have to—’ ‘I want to.’ You slide your hands over her legs, smoothing your palms down her thighs, over her calves, down to her ankles. She watches, breathing slow. You work the soap into her skin, rubbing warmth into her, sliding your thumbs up the backs of her knees, over the gentle curve of her calves. She sighs. Soft. Deep. Content. You let your fingers skim up again, over the dip of her waist, the gentle swell of her stomach, up— Up— To her chest. Her breath stutters. You pause. Look up. She’s already looking at you. Eyes dark, lips parted, cheeks flushed from the heat of the water. She lifts her hand, pressing it against yours. Guiding you. ‘Go on,’ she whispers. And you do. God, you do.

You cup her, trace the delicate slope of her, run your thumbs over warm, wet skin, over the soft peaks of her breasts, watching the way she reacts, the way she shivers under your touch.

Her lips part.

Her fingers tighten in your hair.

‘You’re—’ she starts, voice barely a breath, barely a sound. ‘You’re so—’

You stand.

Tilt her chin up.

Kiss her.

Not hungry. Not desperate.

Just deep.

Just certain.

Just her.

And when you pull back, pressing your forehead against hers, she exhales a laugh.

‘This is dangerous,’ she murmurs.

You smile. ‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah.’

She lifts her arms, looping them around your neck, pulling you in, pressing against you, warm and wet and perfect.

And you—

You let her.

The steam rises. The water beads against her skin, gliding down slow, tracing paths over the soft slopes of her body, catching at the delicate points where warmth meets shadow, where light bends just so, where she is golden and bronze and endless.

You follow it.

With your eyes first, then with your hands.

Fingertips grazing along the soft valley of her stomach, skimming over her ribs, pressing gently into the places where she is most tender, most real. You watch the way the droplets gather at her collarbone, suspended for just a moment before slipping down, down, disappearing into the delicate dip between her breasts.

It feels unfair, almost, that something as simple as water gets to touch her like this before you do.

So you take its place.

Your lips find her collarbone first, brushing against the damp skin, warm and reverent. She exhales, tilting her head slightly, letting you have her like this, letting you take your time.

You do.

You always do.

Your mouth trails lower, following the path of the water, tracing its descent. You press a kiss against the gentle swell of her chest, right where her heart beats beneath, steady, certain, alive. You linger there, letting the moment stretch, letting yourself feel it, letting yourself remember what it’s like to love someone in a way that has nothing to do with time or distance or the years lost in between.

She breathes in, slow and deep, her fingers threading through your hair, nails scraping lightly against your scalp. Not pulling. Just holding.

And then you go lower.

The water clings to her, catching at the nipples, glistening like liquid gold against the dark-bronze warmth of her nipples. It drips, slow and deliberate, down the soft curve of her, over the places where she is most tender, most beautiful.

You chase it.

Your lips press to her sternum, then lower, following the water as it rolls over the swell of her breast, catching it before it can disappear.

She makes a sound then, a soft, breathy thing, like something breaking open inside her, like something unfolding, something giving way.

And god—

You love her like this.

Love the way she lets you worship her, the way she lets you press your mouth to her skin like it’s something sacred, like it’s something worth kneeling for.

You take your time.

You kiss along the curve of her, letting your tongue flick against her skin, letting yourself taste the warmth of her, the salt, the sweetness, the Yujin of her.

She trembles. Not much. Just a little. Just enough. You kiss the the peak of her breast—nipple, lips closing around the dark, glistening bronze of her, taking her between your lips like something meant to be savored. And she— She gasps. Soft. Sharp. Her fingers tighten in your hair, her back arching just slightly, just enough to press herself further into your mouth, to offer herself up like this, to let you take her in a way that feels like praise. The water slips between you, forgotten, but you don’t need it anymore. She is all the warmth you will ever need. And you— You are drowning. But you don’t mind. Not one bit.

You don’t know how long you stay like this—your mouth on her, your hands tracing slow worship into her skin, your tongue moving against the dark-bronze pebble of her like you’re tasting something sacred, something forbidden, something you never stopped craving.

She doesn’t rush you.

Just feels.

Just lets herself be felt.

Her fingers tremble against your scalp, gripping just enough to keep you grounded, to keep herself from falling apart entirely. The water sings against the tiles, drowning the rest of the world out, leaving just the sound of her soft gasps, her breath catching, the delicate whimper when your teeth graze over where she is most sensitive.

‘You’re—’ she tries, but the sentence breaks, dissolving into something else entirely.

You hum against her, half-smirking, half-dazed.

‘Say that again?’

She exhales sharply. Then, in a voice softer than the steam curling between you—

‘You’re ruining me.’

You smile against her skin.

‘Good.’

But then she’s moving.

Slow, steady, deliberate—sliding her hands down to your jaw, guiding you up, forcing your mouth away from her skin so she can see you again.

You lift your head, meeting her gaze, and god—

She looks like something devotional.

Like she’s burning and melting and breaking and remaking herself in the same moment.

And then she cups your face.

Runs her fingers down the sharp edge of your jaw, down your throat, down the planes of your chest like she’s trying to learn you all over again.

‘My turn,’ she whispers.

You exhale. ‘Yujin—’

But she’s already pressing her lips to your palm.

A slow, wet kiss against the skin there, warm and reverent.

You tense, watching the way she does it—how her mouth lingers, how her breath spills against your hand like she’s praying into it.

Then another.

And another.

Each kiss deliberate. Each one softer than the last.

Your fingers twitch.

Your heart stutters.

And Yujin—

Yujin just smiles.

Like she knows what she’s doing to you.

Like she knows the effect of her lips, her mouth, the heat of her pressing into you like this.

Then she goes lower.

Tracing fire against your wrist. Down to your forearm.

She’s taking her time.

Like she knows what’s coming. Like she wants you to feel every second of it before she even starts.

Softly, she lowers herself to the shower floor, folding her legs beneath her like someone praying—like someone preparing for something sacred. Water cascades over her, tracing the delicate angles of her face, slipping down her shoulders, clinging to her lashes. She doesn’t blink it away.

She looks up at you instead.

‘Just so you know,’ she murmurs, fingers curling around your thigh, pressing just hard enough to make you feel it, ‘I haven’t had this for three years.’

Your breath catches.

‘You poor thing.’

She hums, tilting her head slightly, eyes flickering with something playful, something edged with heat. ‘If only you called.’

Her grip tightens on your shaft—subtle, knowing, cruel.

Your pulse slams into your ribs.

‘Regretting everything as we speak,’ you manage, voice rough, because god—three years of waking up alone, three years of knowing what her body felt like against yours and still having to live without it, three years of not having this—

Yujin presses her lips to your hip, slow, warm, reverent.

‘Don’t,’ she whispers, breath ghosting over your skin. ‘From now on, let’s not waste a single breath.’

And that was that.

No more lost time. No more distance.

She presses another kiss, right below your navel. Cheating.

Your entire body tenses, twitches, a sharp current running through you.

She notices.

She smiles.

‘This is punishment,’ she murmurs.

Your fingers twitch against the tile. ‘For what?’

She looks up at you, lashes wet and mussed and dripping, lips parted just slightly—ruinous.

‘For almost forgetting me.’

Your jaw tightens. ‘That’s blasphemy.’

‘Is it?’

‘Every waking moment, every—’

Her hand slides along your wet shaft. Tight. Destitution incarnate.

You stumble against the back wall.

She grins, a little smug, a little knowing, a little dangerous.

‘I don’t want excuses,’ she says softly.

And then—

Then she presses another kiss, open-mouthed, slow, dangerous, right where on the tip of your cock—collecting whatever desperation you had bottled up.

You let out a slow, shaky breath.

She hums against you. Then, another kiss.

‘This,’ she says, hands curling against your hips, ‘is mine.’

And god, you believe her.

You always have.

Her mouth forms a tight ring right on your tip. She’s sucking everything out of you. Caring not for a single second how much this ruins you, how your knees intend to buckle.  

The cool wall slides against your back, and her mouth gentles now—less tight, slower, deliberate. Her lips part, wet and swollen, spit-strung as they glide over the flushed head of you. A slick sound escapes her, obscene and tender. You feel every ridge of her tongue, every warm drag, the way her saliva pools and drips down the length of you. She moans softly, and the vibration travels straight to your gut.

‘Easy,’ you rasp, fingers threading into her hair—not to push, but to feel. To guide her rhythm, your thumb brushing the shell of her ear. ‘Just like that…’

She obeys, but not meekly. Her eyes flick up, dark and gleaming through her lashes, her lips a glistening ring around you. The head glistens under the shower’s spray, spit-slick and ruddy, and when she pulls back just to breathe, a thin strand of saliva stretches between her bottom lip and your tip. She watches you watch it snap.

‘Yujin—’

‘Shhh.’ Her breath ghosts over the wetness she’s made, cooling the heat. ‘Let me.’

Her tongue swipes the slit, slow, too slow, and your hips jerk. She laughs—a soft, husky thing—and catches the bead of precum with her thumb. Holds your gaze as she sucks it clean.

‘All those years,’ she murmurs, nuzzling the inside of your thigh. Her voice is a frayed ribbon. ‘You let this ache. Let it go untouched. Why?’

You tighten your grip in her hair, not harsh, but present. ‘You know why.’

She hums, lips pressing to the vein throbbing beneath the skin. ‘Tell me anyway.’

‘Because it was yours.’ The admission tears free, raw. ‘Even when you weren’t.’

Her breath hitches. For a heartbeat, her composure cracks—lips parting, eyes glassy. Then she surges forward, taking you deep, deep, until your tip brushes the back of her throat. Her nose presses into your pelvis, her cheeks hollowed, and the wetness is overwhelming. Spit spills down her chin, drips onto the shower floor. You watch, wrecked, as she works you with a reverence that borders on worship.

‘God—Yujin—’

She pulls off with a gasp, lips swollen and slick. ‘Look at me.’

You do. Her face is flushed, water clinging to her lashes, hair plastered to her neck. Ruin has never looked so soft.

‘Never again,’ she whispers, palm cradling your jaw. ‘You don’t starve yourself. Not of this. Not of me.’

You nod, breathless, and she smiles—a fragile, aching thing—before bending again. Her mouth is softer now, languid, savoring. Every suck, every lick, pours honey into your veins. You let her take you apart, let her rebuild you, until the world narrows to her lips, her hands, the spit-slick sounds of her devotion.

The climax coils, inevitable—a wildfire in your spine, a tremor in your thighs. You feel it there, the precipice, and your hands fly to her shoulders, gripping hard. ‘Yujin—wait—’

She resists at first, brows furrowed, lips sealed tight around you. But you tug her back gently, your cock slipping from her mouth with a wet pop, her lips swollen, glistening. Her confusion flickers only for a heartbeat before you fist your cock, rough and hurried, and the first hot stripe of release paints her cheek.

She gasps, eyes fluttering shut as the next pulse hits her chin, her throat, the tip catching her collarbone. Thick, pearly streaks splatter across her skin—her eyelids, the bridge of her nose, the bow of her top lip. A ragged moan tears from you as you empty yourself onto her, the mess pooling in the hollow of her throat, dripping down her sternum.

For a moment, she’s perfectly still, breath held, face tilted up as if in prayer. Then her tongue darts out, just once, catching the spill on her lip—not to taste, but to feel, to savor the proof. Her eyes open slowly, lashes sticky, gaze molten.

For a second, she just blinks.

One eye.

The other one is… well.

You watch her process it in real time.

Her lips part slightly, her breath still uneven, chest rising and falling as she takes in exactly what’s happened. Your release is everywhere—everywhere—glossing her cheekbones, slipping down the slope of her throat, pooling in the dip of her collarbone like some kind of offering.

She tilts her head. Blinks again.

‘Oh.’

Then she laughs.

A breathy, disbelieving sound, half-amused, half-are-you-kidding-me?

You’re still pressed against the shower wall, still trying to function, your brain short-circuiting between the mess you’ve made of her and the fact that she’s actually—laughing.

‘You—’ she starts, touching her cheek, then stopping, fingers hesitating before they smear through the mess, ‘—you got it in my hair.’

She looks up at you then, eyes bright, glistening—partly from you, partly from water, partly from the sheer absurdity of this situation.

You swallow, still breathless. ‘Uh.’

She blinks. A slow, lazy flutter of lashes.

Then her mouth quirks.

‘You should’ve warned me, you beast.’

You can’t help it—you laugh, too, scrubbing a hand down your face. ‘I tried. You didn’t stop—’

‘I was busy,’ she huffs, wiping at her cheek again. ‘And now I’m busy. Because look at me.’

You are.

You really, really are.

‘I mean—’ you gesture vaguely to her face, her throat, the trail of evidence marking everywhere she’s been—‘I think it’s a good look.’

She glares.

‘No, seriously. We could brand this. “Dewy Glow” or something. Sell it in high-end skincare stores. “Celebrity Secret.”’

She snorts, shoving at your thigh. ‘You absolute menace.’

And then—

‘Oh, wait.’

She freezes.

Her smile vanishes.

Her expression shifts into something far more serious.

‘Oh no.’

You blink. ‘What?’

She doesn’t say anything.

Just slowly, slowly, slowly raises a hand to her right eye.

You know what’s coming before she even speaks.

‘Oh my god, I can’t see.’

You wheeze. Actually wheeze.

She jabs a finger into your thigh. ‘Don’t—don’t laugh. This is serious. This is—I might never recover—’

‘Yujin.’ You’re still dying, but you reach for her anyway, cupping her face with both hands, thumbs swiping over her cheeks, carefully wiping away what you can. ‘Baby, blink—’

‘I am blinking.’ She’s being so dramatic about it, blinking furiously, tilting her face up to the water like it might cleanse her soul. ‘Oh my god. Oh my god.’

‘Okay, okay, come here—’

You guide her fully under the stream, hands in her hair, rubbing circles at her temples as she half-laughs, half-groans against your chest.

‘Three years, and this is how it goes?’

‘I mean,’ you murmur, fingers tracing down her jaw, ‘technically, this is a good thing. This means I really missed you.’

She gasps, smacking your chest. ‘That is not how this works.’

‘No, no, it is. You should be flattered.’

‘I am blinded.’

‘Listen, some people pay a lot of money for facials like this.’

‘Oh my god, shut up—’

She’s laughing now, still rubbing at her eye, still squinting slightly, but you tilt her face up, press your lips to her forehead, her nose, the water-warm curve of her cheek.

‘Here,’ you murmur, ‘let me see.’

She lets you, tilting her chin up, letting you wipe at her lashes, the bridge of her nose, the soft hollow under her eye. Your fingers are gentle, your touch slow, careful, as you rinse the last of it away.

Her hands find your ribs, gripping lightly, grounding herself.

‘I’m keeping score, you know,’ she murmurs, voice softer now.

You kiss her temple. ‘Yeah?’

She hums. ‘You owe me for this.’

You grin, pressing a kiss to her cheek. ‘I owe you?’

‘Mhm.’ Another soft blink, this one slower, more considering. ‘Big time.’

You exhale, pressing your forehead to hers. ‘I’ll make it up to you.’

She pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes warm, searching.

‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah.’

A beat.

Then she grins, pressing a quick, mischievous kiss to your lips.

‘Good.’

And then—

‘Now help me get this out of my hair, you absolute monster.’

You laugh, tilting her back under the water, already reaching for the shampoo.

You barely make it out of the shower before Yujin is already reaching for a towel, scrubbing at her hair like she’s trying to erase all evidence of your existence.

You watch her, arms crossed, towel slung lazily over your shoulder. ‘You know, I could help with that.’

She gives you a look. A very specific you-are-the-reason-I’m-in-this-mess look.

‘You’ve helped enough,’ she mutters, aggressively drying her face.

You grin. ‘Want me to dry your back?’

‘No.’

‘Sure?’

‘I don’t trust you.’

You press a hand to your chest, mock-wounded. ‘I am offended by this blatant accusation.’

‘You are plotting something. I know that face.’

‘I literally only have one face, Yujin.’

‘Yeah. And I know it.’

She sighs, shoving her towel at you. ‘Fine. You want to be useful? Dry my hair. But no funny business.’

‘Define funny business.’

She glares.

You chuckle, grabbing another towel, stepping behind her. She exhales as you gently towel-dry her hair, rubbing slow, deliberate circles into her scalp.

Her head tilts slightly, unconsciously leaning into your touch.

You knew she’d enjoy this.

She hums, closing her eyes. ‘Okay. Maybe you can be trusted.’

‘Told you.’ You press a kiss to the crown of her head. ‘I am a professional.’

‘A professional nuisance.’

‘A professional lover.’

She snorts. ‘Oh my god, shut up.’

You grin, setting the towel aside, reaching for the hairdryer.

She shifts slightly in her seat. ‘Wait—’

‘Hm?’

She peeks up at you, tilting her head back, cheeks warm. ‘...I like it when you do it slow. With your hands.’

You pause.

Look down at her.

Oh.

Oh.

You set the hairdryer aside. ‘You should’ve said so earlier, baby.’

She exhales, smiling, closing her eyes again as your fingers slip into her hair, raking through the damp strands, slow and careful.

This is— This is intimacy in its simplest form. You, standing behind her, fingers combing through her hair, working through knots with gentle patience. Her, sitting still, trusting you, letting herself be taken care of. ‘You’re soft,’ you murmur, pressing another kiss to her temple. ‘Mm.’ Her shoulders relax completely. ‘Just don’t mess up my parting.’ You chuckle. ‘I’ll do my best.’ It takes a while—because you like taking your time with her—but eventually, her hair is dry, loose waves tumbling down her back. She stretches, arms overhead, and that’s when you realize— She’s still wearing your shirt. The one she stole post-shower, hanging off her like it was made for this moment.

You stare. Your thoughts are not wholesome. She catches you looking. Her lips curve. ‘You’re plotting something again,’ she says, amused. ‘Maybe.’ ‘You need to control yourself—’ ‘Nope.’ She laughs, batting you away when you attempt to grab her. ‘No. No, sir,’ she warns, scooting to the bed. ‘You said you’d be good.’ ‘Did I?’ ‘Yes. You did. You explicitly said you’d behave.’ ‘And you believed me?’ She pauses. Then groans, rubbing her face. ‘God, I’m an idiot.’ You grin. And then you pounce.

She yelps, barely managing to roll away before you trap her under you, laughing as she dodges your grabby hands.

‘No,’ she gasps between laughs, ‘we are doing the normal nighttime routine first!’ ‘This is the routine.’ ‘No it is not!’ You chase her across the bed. She giggles, swats at you, then suddenly—miraculously—manages to flip you over, straddling you with a triumphant grin. ‘HAH.’ She plants her hands on your chest. ‘Got you.’ You blink up at her. Pause. Then smirk. ‘Yujin,’ you murmur, voice low. ‘Baby.’ Her smile falters. ‘…What.’

You cup her waist, slowly sliding your hands up, over the fabric of your shirt, over the nothing she’s wearing underneath.

She realizes. Her eyes widen. ‘Wait—’ And then you flip her back over. She gasps. ‘Noooooo—’ You laugh, pinning her down, watching as she squirms, cheeks flushed, eyes bright with warmth and amusement. This. This is the routine. Laughter. Teasing. The way you move around each other like gravity has always existed between you. She exhales, chest rising and falling beneath you, fingers curling around your wrists. Her voice, when she speaks, is softer. ‘You win,’ she murmurs. You press your forehead to hers. ‘I always do.’ She sighs dramatically. ‘Ugh. Fine. Manhandle me, then.’ She’s still beneath you, chest rising and falling, fingers curled loosely around your wrists where you’ve pinned them. Her breath is quick, her pulse erratic, and you know it’s not just because of the weight of you pressing her into the mattress—it’s everything. The warmth between you, the years leading to this, the understanding that what’s about to happen isn’t just want, isn’t just release—it’s reclamation.

She swallows, lips parting slightly, pupils wide and dark in the low light. The dark strands of her hair are fanned across the pillow, tangled from your hands, a mess you’d memorize blindfolded. There’s a flush blooming across her chest, creeping up the column of her throat, a heat that you feel mirrored in yourself.

You watch her, watch the way she shifts slightly beneath you, pressing up just enough to remind you she’s waiting, waiting, waiting. You could draw this out forever. But that’s cruelty. Or maybe, maybe, that’s worship.

You press your lips to the tip of her nose, then her cheek, then down, trailing a path over her jaw, her throat, the faint dip between her collarbones. You can feel the hum of her laughter before she even releases it, a small breath of amusement, her fingers twitching against your hold'

‘You’re teasing,’ she murmurs, voice wrecked already. ‘No,’ you answer, dragging your mouth lower, tasting the salt of her skin. ‘I’m remembering.’

Because you are. You’re remembering the way her body curls into yours when she’s overwhelmed. You’re remembering the tiny, trembling exhales she makes when your hands slide over the slopes of her ribs. You’re remembering that she loves when you take your time, that she loves to be adored, that she wants to feel every inch of you.

And she is so easy to adore.

You shift lower, your hands tracing slow, lazy patterns down her sides, feeling the way her muscles twitch beneath your touch. The shape of her—long lines, soft curves, skin warm and impossibly smooth beneath your lips.

Your name escapes her in a breath, a barely-there sound that settles somewhere behind your ribs, inside your chest, like it belongs there.

You kiss lower. Down, down. Your fingers slip between her thighs, ghosting over her bare glistening pussy, and her breath stutters, a sharp intake that punches straight through your gut. ‘Look at you,’ you murmur, dragging your knuckles up the inside of her goosebump-ridden thigh. ‘Fidgeting.’ She doesn’t answer. Just glares, lashes damp, lips parted, so achingly beautiful you feel winded.

‘Is that frustration?’ you tease, dragging your mouth back up, scraping your teeth over her hip bone. ‘It’s—’ She exhales, trying for control. Fails. ‘It’s you taking too long.’ You hum. ‘I thought you liked it slow.’ ‘I do,’ she grits out. ‘But I also like it when you—’

Her voice catches as your fingers press a little harder into her. A single stroke, just enough to make her body jolt, enough to make her curse under her breath, enough to feel the sticky wetness of her—inside.

Then you do it again. And again. Until her hips are moving against your touch, until her nails bite into your shoulders, until her breath is a series of broken, unsteady exhalations, ‘Yes, yes, oh fuck~’

You kiss her then. Hard. Deep. Drinking in every shiver, every sound, every breathless plea she won’t voice but you understand anyway.

And then— Then, finally— Her thighs part wider, welcoming you; knees hooking around your hips, heels digging into the small of your back. You press your shaft along her golden-soft navel, hard enough to get her whimpering under the heat of your shaft. You drag slowly along her soft—yet firm—navel, coursing the map lower and lower—until the nub responsible for her heat—all swollen and beautiful and pink—meets your tip. She lets out a sudden whimper; She glares, and you press a kiss on her temple once again—sorry baby, sorry. At the end of the map, you feel the slick heat of her cunt against the head of your cock, her entrance fluttering, pulsing, as you grind around the clit in slow, torturous circles. Precum smears her folds, mingling with her arousal, the glide obscenely wet. ‘Fuck,’ she hisses, nails raking down your spine. ‘Stop—stop toying—’ You catch her wrist, pinning it above her head again. ‘No.’ Your other hand grips the base of your cock, guiding it through her slit, the swollen head catching on her clit with every pass. She jerks, a broken moan tearing free, her hips bucking—but you hold firm, denying her friction. ‘You wanted slow. This is slow.’ Her cunt weeps, glistening, her inner lips swollen and flushed. You watch, transfixed, as your cockhead nudges her entrance, spreading her open incrementally. A single inch sinks in, the velvety grip of her walls clenching reflexively, and you groan through gritted teeth. ‘Christ’ She whimpers, her clit throbbing against your shaft as you retreat, dragging your tip through her folds again. ‘Please—’ Her voice cracks, tears spilling down her temples. ‘Just—fuck me—’ You lean down, lips grazing hers. ‘Where?’ She glares, chest heaving. ‘You know—’ ‘Say it.’ ‘Inside—’ ‘Inside what?’ You press forward, another inch sheathed, the stretch burning sweet. ‘Use your words, Yujin.’ Her thighs tremble. ‘My—my cunt.’ ‘Good girl.’ You sink deeper, the thick ridge of your cockhead massaging her front wall, that spongy patch of nerves that makes her sob. Her cervix yields, soft and pliant, as you bottom out, hips flush against hers. Her cunt clenches, a vice of slick muscle, and you swear, forehead dropping to her shoulder. ‘You’re gonna milk me dry—’ ‘Move,’ she demands, her ankles locking behind your back. ‘Move or I’ll—’ ‘You’ll what?’ You pull out almost completely, leaving just the tip seated, her clit rubbing against your shaft. ‘Beg?’ She keens, back arching, breasts pressed to your chest. ‘Yes—yes, god, please—’ You snap your hips forward, sheathing yourself in one brutal thrust. Her scream is muffled by your palm as you clamp it over her mouth, your other hand sliding between you to circle her clit. ‘Quiet,’ you growl, grinding deep. ‘You’ll take it. All of it.’ Her cunt ripples around you, fluttering in erratic pulses, her clit swollen and pebbled beneath your thumb. You fuck her with shallow, punishing rolls of your hips, each stroke dragging your cockhead over that sweet spot, her thighs shaking, her breath coming in ragged, choked gasps. ‘Look at me,’ you snarl, removing your hand from her mouth. She obeys, eyes glassy, lips bitten raw. ‘Whose cunt is this?’ ‘Yours—’ ‘And whose cock?’ ‘Mine—’ You slam into her, hilt-deep, your balls slapping her ass. ‘Louder—’ ‘MINE—’

The word cracks through the room, ragged and raw, and you reward it by slamming into her hilt-deep, your pelvis grinding against her clit as you still inside her. Her cunt clenches, a vice of slick heat, and you hiss through your teeth, your grip bruising on her hips. ‘Again,’ you demand, pulling out until only the swollen head of your cock remains lodged in her entrance. Her inner lips cling to you, reluctant to let go. She whines, back arching off the bed. ‘Yours—your cunt, your everything—’ You thrust back in, slow, savoring the way her walls ripple to accommodate you. ‘And what do you want?’ 'You,’ she gasps, nails carving half-moons into your shoulders. ‘Inside me—claiming me—’ 'How?' You drag your cockhead over that spongy patch of nerves again, deliberate, watching her thighs quake. 'Cum,' she begs, tears streaking her temples. 'Fill me—mark me—' You still, your hand sliding up to grip her throat—not restricting air, just owning. 'Ask nicely.' Her breath hitches. 'Please—please, I need it—need you to paint my insides white, need to feel it—' A dark thrill curls in your gut. You lean down, lips brushing hers. 'Since you asked so sweetly.' You start a brutal, precise rhythm—deep, grinding thrusts that punch the air from her lungs. Each snap of your hips drags her clit against the base of your cock, each retreat leaves her clenching around nothing. Her cunt weeps, arousal slicking your shaft, the obscene slap of skin on skin echoing off the walls. 'Look at me,' you snarl, tightening your grip on her throat. Her eyes fly open, hazy but obedient. 'You take me so well,' you murmur, your free hand sliding between you to circle her throbbing clit. 'This greedy cunt—my greedy cunt—sucking me in like you were made for it.'

She sobs, her walls fluttering. 'Yours—always yours—'

'Prove it.' You pin her wrists above her head with one hand, your other still working her clit. 'Come. Now.'

Her orgasm rips through her violently—back arched, cunt spasming, a scream tearing from her throat as she soaks your cock. You ride it out, fucking her through the pulses, your thrusts turning jagged, erratic.

'Mine,' you growl, feeling your balls tighten. 'Say it—say it—'

'Yours—god, yours—'

You slam into her one last time, hilt-deep, and hold. Your release surges—thick, hot ropes of cum flooding her cervix, painting her walls in stripes of white. She whimpers, oversensitive but greedy, her cunt milking every drop as you grind your hips in slow, possessive circles.

'Take it,' you grit out, watching her stomach quiver with the force of your spend. 'All of it.'

She nods, dazed, her thighs trembling around your waist. You collapse atop her, still buried inside, your lips finding the sweat-damp hollow of her throat.

—

Yujin’s lashes flutter against your chest, and there’s a moment where she seems to wrestle with something—embarrassment, vulnerability—but it dissolves when she feels your fingers tracing gentle circles against her back. She shifts, propping herself up just enough to look at you, her eyes dark and soft and entirely too honest.

‘You know,’ she whispers, voice almost shy, ‘I used to dream about this. You and me, like this. Just… here.’

‘Here?’ You brush a damp strand of hair away from her face, tucking it behind her ear. ‘In bed, sweaty and gross?’

A soft laugh escapes her, warm and tender. ‘Yeah. Exactly this.’ Her fingertips graze your jaw, light as the touch of a memory. ‘I’d think about waking up to you, about how it’d feel to fall asleep in your arms. It’s stupid, I know—’

‘Not stupid,’ you murmur, cutting her off with a kiss—soft, lingering, like you’re trying to pour every unspoken word into it. ‘Never stupid.’

Her gaze softens even further, and she buries her face in the crook of your neck, inhaling your scent like it’s something she needs to breathe. You feel her lips press against your pulse, a delicate kiss that sends warmth flooding through you.

‘I don’t want to let you go,’ she confesses, voice muffled. ‘Not tonight. Not ever.’

‘Then don’t.’ You trail your fingers up and down her spine, feeling the subtle curve of her back beneath your touch. ‘Hold on to me. I’m not going anywhere.’

She shifts, looping her arms around your neck, pressing her body flush against yours. The contact is warm, grounding, and you let yourself sink into it, let yourself feel the weight of her, the steady thrum of her heartbeat against your chest.

‘You’re too good at this,’ she mumbles, the faintest hint of a pout in her voice. ‘Making me feel safe. Like I belong here.’

You tighten your hold on her, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head. ‘You do belong here. With me. Always.’

Her breath shudders, and you feel her fingers clutch at your shoulders, like she’s afraid you might slip away. You press another kiss to her forehead, then her temple, then her cheek, each touch softer than the last.

‘Yujin,’ you whisper, and she looks up at you, eyes wide and glistening. ‘There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.’

She smiles—a real, unguarded smile—and you feel the weight of it settle in your chest. She lifts herself up just enough to press a kiss to your lips, lingering, tender, unhurried. It’s a kiss that feels like a promise, like something that doesn’t need words to be understood.

When she pulls back, her face is flushed, her expression open and raw. ‘I love you,’ she says softly, the words so simple, so devastatingly sincere.

You cup her face, thumb brushing over her cheek. ‘I love you too. More than you’ll ever know.’

She settles against you, fitting herself into the curve of your body, her head resting against your chest. You stroke her hair, feeling the tension melt from her frame as she presses one last kiss to your heart.

The room is warm and heavy with the scent of you both, with the quiet weight of something real and unbreakable. You feel her breathing slow, her body growing heavy with sleep, and you let your own eyes drift shut, content to let the world narrow to the steady rise and fall of her breath.

And then—nothing. Just the two of you tangled together, warmth and closeness and the certainty that this, right here, is home.

—

a/n: Experimenting yet again. Hopefully the last sex scene wasn't too mortifying. But I really enjoyed writing this—Yujin's personality meshes really well with with the dialogue I was aiming to do (hopefully I succeeded). This was a half-finished draft that I managed to finish (through merging other drafts, other idols, et cetera et cetera), and now I don't have a single draft remaining; sooo... I don't know how this fares for the next fic (hopefully not too long..... haha..heh..he).

a/n 2: Much love for all the support: they never go unnoticed!!! <3333333

[fishnapple]

How will they protect the relationship

(lover/partner/future spouse) - Channelled message

This is a general reading meant for multiple people. Take only what resonates and leave out the rest.

Your feedback is much appreciated. If you find the reading resonated with you, leave a comment, I’d love to know 🎐

About me | Masterpost

Book a reading with me - KO-FI (→ personal reading)

GROUP 1

Sometimes, I fear that you will get used to our relationship to the point of boredom, that our relationship will become just a habit, a routine that you do everyday, mechanically, without enthusiasm or passion. That fear crept in my mind, taking roots, and there will be moments when I let it grow and poke its branches out. Imaginary scenarios swirl in my mind, threatening to spiral out of control.

But I will snap out of it in no time. I'm a master at bringing myself out of the dark, I'm a good runner, running in the night long enough, and you're bound to see the sun rise again. I will try to look at myself first, from an objective lens, to find where I can change, what baggage I need to get rid of. Then I will look at our relationship, I will find a way to lift it up, make it exciting again. Do you like puzzles? Do you like sculpting? Would you like to try a new recipe? Let's forget for a moment all our adult responsibilities and be free. To be excited teenagers again, falling in love for the first time again. I will write you love letters full of typos, sending you half-baked cakes and cringy T-shirts, you will laugh and you will join me.

I do notice that there are some people around us, people who shouldn't come that close, who shouldn't be there at all. They don't understand the concept of respecting other people's boundaries. They will try to turn a blind eye to our commitment, pretend that it doesn't exist. Blatantly coming in without knocking, thinking that they can just take you away from me and me from you. They think that their tactics are subtle enough, that in time, they can corrode our bond. Little touches here and there, the gaze, the "innocent" banters. I can see them all, I will try to put a distance between me and them, so I hope you will do that too, I also hope that you will patiently listen to me when I warn you of those people. Yes, sometimes you will have to call me a possessive person. I just want to shut out everyone dare to threaten us, to find a place where only us exist. But that's impossible, I know, so the best I can do is tell them off as clear as possible, trying to show that we're together, there's no space between us. Let them be jealous, we just need to focus on us and walk away, hand in hand.

GROUP 2

I know we have a lot of unspoken words stuck inside. The silence between can sometimes grow to such a suffocating weight, pushing us down, deeper and deeper into our own abyss.

We both will be so uncertain of our future together, where will we go, is there a place strong enough to shelter us, are we strong enough? We hope for the same things, we are so alike, even our fears are alike, and I don't know whether to be happy or sad about this.

Our bond will be tested numerous times. There will be a time when we've almost given up, but fate or whatever higher powers are at play here, will bring us back together, anew and ready to try again. I wasn't a spiritual person, but by being with you, being in this relationship, I began to believe in something intangible, in the unknown, it scared me, but all I can do is to move forward, with you, and that's where our fears begin. We move forward together, into the unknown future that holds no concrete promise.

Then I realised we've forgotten to remember where we've put our wishes in, what we've wished for. If we can just remember, then there's no point in worrying. I will give you a hint: it's a wish that spans from the past to the future. We felt like we've known each other for a long time when we first met, and I believe we will be in each other's lives for the far future to see. That belief alone is enough for me to feel brave. And I will sit down, take out my pens and notebook, and begin to scribble down the plan, the path for us, give voice to the stuck words inside, air them out. I will show you that plan and tell you to not worry about the future, instead just focus on this current life in front of us, we got this, believe in us.

GROUP 3

Sometimes, I think that we are two pieces of puzzles fit perfectly together. If not, then there's no way to explain how you have everything I lack, and I, in turn, have an abundance of things that you don't. We have our fair share of issues that alone, we seem to lack the strength to tackle them, but together, they seem so silly and easy. You can be the wind and I will be the pipes, you can be the water and I will be the pump. Now that sounds silly, but you get my gist. There will be times when you cry, I will be there, holding you close and being the cool headed one to make logical decisions. There will be times when I'm so down, you will be there, holding me close and being the soft pillow that raises my head up.

There will be problems, from inside and outside, but I believe we can weather them all. The problems will mainly come from the place of insecurities and misunderstanding. People's words can be cutting and unintentionally hurtful, sometimes intentionally. They sow the seeds of doubts inside our minds. But let's believe in the visions of ourselves and of each other. We see ourselves best. We will sit down, talk it all out, there's no barrier between us. I'm proud of our direct and open way of communicating. I can always count on us to be rational and discuss things until we can reach a solution. Yes, there might be tears and angry voices here and there, but they are the minority and will go away quickly. We're too sure of our commitment and ourselves to let those bother us for too long.

Whatever action needed to be taken, it would be taken swiftly. If it's required of me to be cutting something, somebody out of our life, I will do it, no hesitation. Because I trust in our judgement. And if it's required to move, I will move. I'm afraid distance will be our biggest hurdle. But we will find a way to be closer. Many things will need to be changed, our jobs, our homes. But we won't fear changes. Because changes will bring us to a better future.

GROUP 4

I want to prepare you beforehand, our relationship will be scrutinised by a lot of people. It's not like we are celebrities or anything. Why do they have to care so much? I honestly don't know and don't care either. Our bond just attracts a lot of jealousy and objections. The idea of us together will piss people off. They want something, a fixed future for us, they expect it, but then they have to watch a totally different outcome, surprises, surprises.

Particularly those who have authority over us, they're supposed to be the wise guidance, the benevolent power that can protect us, but they will turn their backs on us, worse, they will turn their sneering gaze and contemptuous words on us. That can't be helped, I guess, we're the rebels, we go against their rules and expectations. I know you will want our bond to be blessed by those around us, I want it too, but reality is something we will have to face. At first, we may even have to hide our love, it's frustrating.

Don't worry, I will be strong for us, you won't even have to fight anything, just let me take care of it. I have enough strength to do that. Don't picture the image of me making a foray against them like a bull thrusting its horn angrily. I have enough wit not to do that, just like how I've charmed you with my words, I can do it too, to other people, the people who are against us. If it doesn't work, then I will just be my best, showing them how much of a good life I'm having with you. In the end, I just don't really care. We have our love and that's enough. We can always move away, to a better place. You will be surprised just how much freedom we do have.

[https-bakugo]

"Was I just the fucking NOTES guy to you??" Part Three / (k.bakugo x GN! Reader) (Written)

♡ cw / tw : no more angst.

Bakugo was a smart man.

He knew things that others didn't - and naturally, he caught onto things that others couldn't.

Bakugo was a man who used what he knew and substituted what he didn't. He was resourceful, which means he was useful and that meant he was needed.

He was intelligent, gifted and all the different kinds of things that made people jealous of his inevitable success.

He grew up with a quirk. A powerful quirk. He was told that from a young age, Katsuki Bakugo would grow up to be something incredible. To be one of the most influential heroes the world has ever seen.

-

Bakugo had everything he had ever wanted handed to him. Here he was, twenty five, and one of the greatest heroes Japan had ever seen.

And yet, despite holding the world in the palms of his hands. It wasn’t enough. He needed something more. 

You. 

His highschool love. The one thing that slipped through his fingers. It was nine years ago. 

Nine long, excruciating years.

Though he was too late. He figured out all your cute and cheesy hints, too late - made all the right plans, too late - reached for your longing hand, too late - ached for your touch - dreamt of your lips sliding against his own… simply too late.

He had tried to shoot his shot back then but he was much too late.

But it had been nine years.

Nine whole years since he saw you. And according to Deku, five years since the both of you had broken up.

Surely now, surely now he had his chance. His opening. It was obvious he was still pining for you. 

His heart was yours.

He knew that.

Kirishima knew that.

Deku knew that.

You, knew that.

You knew.

Which is how he ended up finding himself, his lips pressed against yours - just like how a younger Katsuki only dreamt of doing - as he pressed you up against his bedroom wall. 

How did he manage to get himself stuck in this situation? 

He didn't remember.

And he didn’t give a fuck. He didn’t care. It really didn't matter either.

His friends were throwing a party - that’s right. Something about celebrating his “heroic success” or whatever.

Something about inviting his old classmates.

Something about inviting you.

Something about seeing you again, standing there like you were the only person in the room.

It was like the rest of the world melted into nothing as Katsuki stared at you. He didn't realise how much more... how much more you were.

It wasn't more in a bad way.

Not at all.

More. You were just so much. More. He could barely think - let alone place his messed up, jumbled thoughts into coherent words. It was like just the mere glimpse of you had him going insane, a mess of flushed cheeks and racing hearts- and short breaths- and everything. He felt sick, like he was going to hurl all over the carpet but in a good way, y’know?

His palms were sweaty and Katsuki’s head spun. All the lights were too bright and the music was too much. His legs felt like jelly and… shit - were you looking at him? 

Looking right at him with those drowning eyes of yours? 

Smiling at him with that godforsaken smile of yours?

Taking his scarred and calloused palm against the soft skin of your own hand?

Katsuki could write a poem about your beauty - no, he could write a million. He could strip the trees of their skin and use the charcoal as a pencil and exhaust the earth’s crust of its natural life, and still - still he couldn’t capture you. 

Your raw essence.

Your brilliance.

The way you shine and shimmer.

The way your eyes crinkle- and your breath gets stuck in your throat. The pads of your fingertips and the softness of your collarbones, and the dip and curve of you back and- and- and- 

God, he was smitten.

And god.

Katsuki was going to die.

He was going to die again and it was all your fucking fault.

Fucking hell. It was always your fault. 

All of it. 

Everything was your fault.

He pushed himself harder, all because of those melodic words you used to sing to him. How you looked up to him when you were teenagers. 

He worked on himself because you had told him you liked seeing the parts of him that nobody else had.

"I want to see the parts of you that nobody else has."

There was no way in hell that sentence was platonic. God he was such a fucking idiot back then, it was so fucking obvious you liked him. So fucking obvious.

And he missed it.

Like the idiot he was back then.

But he wasn’t going to lose you once more. He would rather tear out his own spinal cord - tendons, ligaments, flesh and bloody bone - then let you slip in between his fingers again. 

-

Katsuki’s breath was hot against your lips, his skin was buzzing with life and his heart pounded in his ears. He felt like if he took a step back he was going to stumble and fall. You looked so… ethereal. In his arms with your lips swollen and your cheeks flushed.

Katsuki leaned down and brushed his thumb across your bottom lip, his gaze softened as a soft smile tugged at his cheeks. 

“I love you.” 

He whispered, voice small. 

“I always have.”

That sense of… being wanted for so long crushed you like a new fish being thrown into its new fish tank- but it was home. 

I’m home.

Here in Katsuki’s arms. The smell of caramel, the feeling of his pulse throbbing against your palm, his imperfect and scarred flesh-

“Perfect.” You whispered under your breath.

“You’re perfect Katsuki.” You mumbled, sliding your lips across his, nails digging into the back of his shirt as he slid a strong hand under your leg, pulling his lips away only to latch onto the soft curve of your neck.

“I love you.” He sighed.

“Never leave me. Never again.”

Part One / Part Two

Everyone thnak @somnbul for helping OH MY GOD TERES A MOZZIE ON MY ARM SCRAMAINFOANFAJSNFOWAUFA

Taglist: @luvseraphh - @tlissablr - @havemyheartt - @smelliottle - @sakurayashiro - @peachesvault

Additional Mutual Tags (I want to hurt you lawl): @rueclfer - @tokeposts

© HTTPS-BAKUGO. Do not steal, copy or use any of my work for AI. Legal action will take place if caught.

[trollprincess]

So I have a friend from high school who is a cop. (Yes, I KNOW.) I shared a photo on Facebook of a packed highway of people attempting to evacuate from Hurricane Milton, all while the lanes going in the opposite direction were open and empty. And my Facebook post was basically me screaming, “Open the other side of the highway and reverse it so that people can GET OUT.”

His response was essentially, “Yeah, that is *really* difficult for us to do.” Not in a condescending way, because he genuinely isn’t a huge asshole. (Yes, I KNOW.)

And then I may have vented in my response, in which I tried not to imply that the police were a problem. Because to be honest, I don’t see this as a police problem. I see this as how we have fucked ourselves as a nation by making ourselves so dependent on cars.

There is that poll on this site – or multiple polls, at this point – asking how long people can tolerate being in their cars. And the thing is, Americans (and Canadians as well, I am imagining) have almost no other options. We have to be used to spending a good 12 hours in a car without breaking a sweat. Everything in this country is built around being in a car. There’s a reason when you ask us how far away a place is from somewhere else, we normally give that distance in hours and not miles.

Air travel sucks. It sucks for a multitude of reasons – cost, the hassle of dealing with security, the time suck, etc. – and in an emergency, only a select few are going to be able to use it to get away from a hurricane. And that’s one of the few disasters where air travel is an optional escape.

Train travel sucks. Amtrak is not something you’re gonna be complaining about if you’re trying to get away from whatever disaster you need to evacuate from. But next to so many other countries, Amtrak looks like we’ve been receiving other countries’s leftover railway systems from the 70s. It also doesn’t go everywhere. I live in northeastern Pennsylvania near Scranton, which prides itself on its history in the train industry. We have a museum and everything. We have multiple things named after that museum, including the Steamtown marathon which is happening tomorrow.

Can you get on a passenger train in Scranton? Nope.

(The main argument against this always seems to be that people will come here from New York City and commit crimes, which is hilarious considering if somebody wanted to come here from New York City and commit crimes it’s only a 2.5-hour drive.)

Anyway, disasters.

If the only option you’re gonna give most people to get out of areas of Florida that are being targeted by hurricanes or areas of California that suffer from wildfires or places in the Midwest that face flooding are cars, then we need a better fucking emergency management system regarding transportation in this country. You can’t just sit there and mock people for not evacuating because they can’t or won’t when getting away from Milton meant sitting on highway for hours with absolutely no gas stations whatsoever nearby having any gas at all. (It just makes me think of those photos of people stranded on the highway in their cars in blizzards where people are like, “Now imagine imagine how bad it would be if all of those cars were electric!“ Well, all of those cars in that photo in that blizzard run on gas and they’re fucking stranded, sooooooo.)

Look, we can change the transportation system in this country. we did it before and we can do it again. We used to have more train options, fewer highways. My small hometown had a fucking trolley in the 40s. Now, if you don’t have a car here, you’re stuck. You can’t even get Uber here. if a wildfire started here and surrounded the town, it would be a clusterfuck.

Regardless of how you feel about the police, if police and fire departments in this country cannot organize an evacuation on a highway in a way that will reduce the backup so that tens of thousands of people aren’t sitting in their cars when a hurricane hits, that’s a problem – not just for those people, but for the police, and the fire department, and emergency management in general.

The people in charge of emergency management are just people, just human. I’m researching the Camp Fire in 2018 right now, and you had a bunch of people calling 911 saying, “I can see a huge fire off to the east. Are we safe? Should we evacuate?” The 911 operators could only work off the information they had. They could have told people to evacuate earlier, but Cal Fire didn’t anticipate the strength of the fire. Which is understandable. Nobody could anticipate the strength of that fire. But the 911 operators were sitting in an office with no windows, and they had no idea what was going on the east. They couldn’t look out and see exactly what was happening. If they could have, they probably would have told people to leave as soon as possible much sooner than they were told to. Instead, they waited for official confirmation, and when they did start telling people to evacuate, traffic managed to back up in a small town of 25,000 people until many of them were trapped in an unimaginable hellscape.

When people need to evacuate from a disaster, and they stay instead, far too many people - including those in positions of power – just kind of wave their hands and say, “Well, we tried.” No, we didn’t. This country made not trying its watchword, and now we’re at a point where unless you own a car, which is a luxury a lot of people cannot afford in this economy, escaping from disaster is impossible. So you can get in your car or somebody else’s car and go sit on a highway and hope your gas doesn’t run out, since none of the gas stations for 100 miles have any gas to give you, or you can stay in your house and hope you don’t die.

Sometimes, I really wish somebody would make me the head of the department of transportation. I would demand an absurd amount of money to build a better train system, to provide better transportation options for smaller towns, to provide extensive training for rescue personnel in managing evacuations like the clusterfuck in Florida this week. I would become an absolute fucking nuisance to Congress. I would be asking for money left and right to make it so that our only options as Americans weren’t to get into cars we can barely afford these days and attempt to organize our own evacuations from the growing number of natural disasters in this country.

Y’all keep posting these polls about how long you can tolerate being in a car at the same time that tens of thousands of Floridians were sitting on highways trying to get away from Tampa so they wouldn’t die in a hurricane.

We can tolerate being in a car all goddamn day. It’s because we don’t have a fucking choice, even when it’s life or death.

[prettieinpink]

WAYS TO LIVE SLOWER IN 2025

2024 was such a blur for me, and I feel like I wasn’t really taking in the present moments as much as I should have. I don’t want to repeat the same thing in 2025, here’s a little few ways i’m implementing living slower in 2025. 

SHOWER MEDITATIONS. Each time I’m in the shower, I just focus on rinsing, soap, rinsing then I get out. While its a small thing to consider, as someone who has a lot of thoughts especially during school mornings, it's a nice way to ground yourself. 

If you’d like you can start off with a little prayer, thanking him for access to clean water and a bathroom. Let the water take all the struggles and stresses you have down the drain, use soap to renew yourself of yesterday for the new day and focus on how the water feels on your skin. Then, you can end it off with a prayer as well. 

TAKE THE TIME TO BE IN THE SUN OR NATURE. Perhaps you can read a book, listen to a playlist or just soak that time spent in nature. It's completely up to you, but I wouldn’t do anything that's too distracting like studying or scrolling. 

SAY THANK YOU, FOR NO ONE. Each time you get to sleep in your bed, say thank you. Each time you eat a meal, say thank you. Each time you get to have access to water, say thank you. There are a lot more opportunities to say thanks, but it just allows for daily appreciation of things that we do without thinking. 

UNATTACH YOUR PHONE FROM TASKS. Certain tasks, you do not need your phone. For example, cooking. When you cook and perhaps you’re waiting for something to boil, wash some dishes instead of opening instagram. Sometimes it doesn’t even have to be a task, when you’re in a car, don’t look at your phone, look outside at the window and observe the people or the cars you see. 

NO SOCIAL MEDIA IN THE MORNING OR EVENING. Social media is meant for quick consumption, but because it's so quick, we underestimate the time that we spend on it. Only 10 minutes can easily turn into an hour. I would avoid using it during these times because this is probably when we’re the most easily influenced by fads, products or misinformation. 

REST IS A TASK. Take the time out of your day to rest, because you need it. It doesn’t have to be a singular session daily either, it can be regular small intervals throughout the day. Use this time to reflect on how you’ve spent your time earlier, then do whatever you consider to rejuvenates you. 

LISTEN TO YOURSELF MORE. While the self improvement community does perpetuate the idea of ‘following the plan, not the mood’, (and i agree to an extent) but being miserable while trying to be productive is not ideal. If you’re sad, take the time to calm yourself down. You’re angry, then channel it into something high energy but not necessarily productive. 

In a way, being able to recognize these feelings and acknowledge them is a skill that is developed overtime and will be useful. 

[bueckets]

The Hit List | 02

Pairing: fuckgirl!Paige x Mechi Student!reader

Masterlist (TBA) | Part One

Genre: romance, slow burn, enemies to lovers, kinda funny?, they fuck, n its hot n sweaty, cat n mouse

Description: What starts as a game of avoidance turns into something far more dangerous when old grudges and unfinished business crash headfirst into a truth neither of them are ready to face. Armed with a stubborn streak, a boyfriend you're trying too hard to believe in, and a simmering resentment that burns just as hot as desire, you swear you won’t let Paige win.

But when history keeps rewriting itself in glances, in touches, in words that cut too close—you start to wonder if you've had control of the game at all.

wc: 24k, yes, 24k

Authors Note: sorry this took forever, too many words so this is split into two parts

Chapter 2: The Problem with Paige Bueckers

The cold air hit like a slap as you and Riven stepped out of The Tavern, the double doors slamming shut behind you. The muffled bass of whatever trash pop remix they were playing inside still buzzed in your chest, but out here, the only sound was the occasional car rolling by and the crunch of Riven’s boots against the pavement.

“Okay,” she started, already wrapping her arms around herself like she hadn’t just spent the last hour insisting she wasn’t cold. “What the fuck was that?”

You tugged Nika’s warmup jacket closer around you. “What was what?”

“Oh, don’t even—” Riven whirled on you, walking backward now, eyes narrowed. “I had, like, a front-row seat to your little moment with Paige. You two looked like you were about five seconds away from—”

“From what?” you cut in, voice sharper than intended.

Riven’s smirk deepened. “From what, she says. Babe, I thought you were about to spontaneously combust. Paige definitely wanted to.”

You groaned, pushing past her. “You’re reading into things.”

“Am I?” She caught up easily, practically skipping now. “Because I watched a six-foot basketball legend—who, might I remind you, does not chase people—spend an entire game, a whole-ass four quarters, subtly showing off for you. Then she followed that up by pinning you to a bar with her eyes and making sure you knew she was looking.”

You kept walking. Focused on the sidewalk, on the way the streetlights flickered, on literally anything but what she was saying.

“And you?” Riven continued, undeterred. “You were eating it up.”

You stopped dead. “I was not—”

Riven held up a hand. “Babe. I love you. But you were.”

Her eyes softened then, shifting from teasing to something quieter. You hated that. Because if Riven wasn’t making fun of you, if she was actually serious, then it meant she thought there was something here.

You shook your head, exhaling hard. “I don’t even like her.”

Riven arched a brow. “No?”

“No.”

“And yet, you’re literally wearing her best friend’s jacket, which Paige has been glaring at all night like she was about to rip it off your body with her teeth.”

You rolled your eyes and started walking again. “Nika spilled coffee on me. She gave me the jacket.”

“Uh-huh.” Riven jogged to catch up. “And Paige definitely didn’t care about that at all. I’m sure that’s why she looked like she wanted to murder her best friend when she saw you in it.”

You ignored her.

She didn’t let up. “You know what I think?”

“No,” you deadpanned.

“I think Paige is used to being wanted. She is thee Golden Child after all.” Riven adjusted her tiny bag, the one you still didn’t believe could fit anything. “And you? You told her to fuck off. You didn’t fawn, didn’t trip over yourself to impress her, didn’t melt the second she so much as breathed in your direction.”

“I was just—”

“She likes it.”

You faltered. “What?”

“That’s why she’s been all over you.” Riven grinned like she’d cracked some unsolvable mystery. “You’re a challenge, babe. Paige loves a challenge.”

You let that sit between you for a moment. The idea that this was all just some game to her. Some chase, some conquest to check off her list.

It shouldn’t sting. But it did.

You kicked at a loose pebble, watching it skitter across the sidewalk. “Well, I’m not playing.”

Riven let out a low whistle. “And that is why she’s losing her mind over you.”

She looped her arm through yours, sighing dramatically. “I love this for you.”

You groaned. “There’s nothing to love. I’m not interested.”

Riven squeezed your arm. “Mhm. And yet, we’ve been talking about her this entire walk home.”

You scowled. She had a point.

The first thing you did when you woke up was groan, roll over, and aggressively smother yourself with your pillow in a last-ditch effort to erase the past twelve hours from existence.

The second thing you did was curse Riven’s name.

I love this for you. What the fuck did that even mean? What was there to love? There was nothing to love, nothing to even consider, and yet your brain had apparently decided to throw hands with your common sense and keep you trapped in this hell loop of overanalyzing.

You stayed like that for a solid ten minutes, letting the residual embarrassment simmer in the dark, trying to physically sweat out the memory of Paige fucking Bueckers pinning you in place with her eyes and her stupid, low-ass voice.

Nope. No. Absolutely not. You were not thinking about it. You had actual things to do.

You shoved the blanket off and sat up, only for your stomach to immediately drop as your gaze landed on Nika’s UConn warmup jacket.

Right. That.

You stared at it, like it was some foreign object that had somehow materialized in your room overnight. As if it hadn’t been on your body the entire night before. As if it hadn’t been the one thing Paige’s eyes lingered on every time she looked at you.

Okay. You exhaled sharply. Okay. You needed to get the fuck out of this room.

The engineering building smelled like burnt coffee and overworked students.

Someone had definitely been living in here for the past forty-eight hours—probably one of the electrical engineering kids judging by the faint, fried-plastic scent of a blown capacitor. A couple of jackets were draped over chairs, a half-eaten protein bar had been abandoned by the 3D printer, and the whiteboard by the entrance was filled with someone’s increasingly desperate attempts at debugging a circuit diagram.

Ah, yes. Your people.

You exhaled, shifting your backpack higher on your shoulder as you made your way toward the CAD lab. The familiar hum of computer fans filled the air, that gentle, artificial whir that meant someone, somewhere, was probably suffering through a last-minute deadline.

Not you, though. You were here to escape.

The lab was half-full, a quiet buzz of activity punctuated by the occasional sigh of frustration. A couple of upperclassmen were arguing over a simulation in the corner, their screen flashing red with failed stress tests. Someone else—definitely a freshman—was furiously Googling “why does SOLIDWORKS keep crashing???” like the software had personally wronged them.

You picked a station near the back, dropped your bag onto the floor, and cracked your knuckles.

Alright. Time to work.

You opened your laptop, pulled up your latest model—a sleek, mid-development turbine assembly—and tried to focus.

For the first few minutes, it actually worked. The soothing, mind-numbing repetition of part alignments, constraint settings, and torque calculations took over. You could feel your brain settling into that comfortable, hyper-focused haze.

And then—

“Jesus Christ, what is this?”

You didn’t even look up. “It’s a turbine.”

“That’s a turbine?”

The voice belonged to Mateo, one of the mechanical engineers who had, at some point, decided that annoying you was his life’s goal.

He dragged a chair over, plopping down beside you with his usual chaotic energy. His UConn hoodie was inside out, his curls were aggressively disheveled, and his glasses were smudged enough to qualify as a safety hazard.

“You’re staring at it like it personally offended you,” you muttered, rotating the model on your screen.

Mateo squinted. “Because it has personally offended me. Why the hell does it look like that?”

You turned, deadpan. “Would you like to rephrase that into something remotely helpful?”

He hummed, leaning in. “Maybe. Depends on how much caffeine you’ve had.”

You sighed, shoving your coffee cup toward him. He took one sip and immediately made a face.

“This is disgusting.”

You stole your coffee back. “It’s functional.”

“That’s what people say about Soviet-era aircrafts, and half of those are held together by sheer willpower and duct tape.”

You ignored him, going back to your model. “You’re still here. Please tell me why you’re still here?”

Mateo stretched, cracking his back like an eighty-year-old man. “Because I finished my project and now I’m bored.”

You arched a brow. “So this is what you do for fun? Bully me about my designs?”

“Absolutely.” He propped his chin on his hand, watching you work. “Also, because your roommate texted me last night saying you needed to ‘touch grass,’ which in Riven language means you’ve been weird lately.”

You froze.

Fucking Riven.

Mateo caught it immediately. His smirk widened. “Oh? So tell me what’s up?”

You shook your head, clicking aggressively through your model constraints. “Nothing.”

“Liar. Is it a boy?”

You snorted. “No.”

“A girl?”

You paused just long enough for his eyes to light up.

“Ohhh, it is a girl.” He grinned, leaning in like you’d just handed him the best gossip of his life. “Spill. Who is she?”

You shoved him. “Go away.”

Mateo cackled. “No chance. What’s her name? Is she hot? Do I know her?”

You shut your laptop. “Fuck off.”

Mateo, absolutely unbothered, just draped himself over the back of your chair. “C’mon. You never get weird about people, so this must be juicy.”

“It’s not,” you gritted out, standing up and grabbing your bag.

Mateo raised a brow. “Where are you going?”

“Anywhere that isn’t here.”

“You know running away only makes me more curious, right?”

You flipped him off over your shoulder as you left.

Mateo just laughed.

It was a flawless, textbook-perfect fucking setup. The one time you leave the lab, take a detour for some overpriced caffeine, and try to get some damn distance from this whole situation—and there she is.

Like a curse.

You saw her before she saw you. A rare, fleeting advantage, considering Paige had the court vision of a goddamn military drone.

She was standing near the library steps, mid-conversation with some girl you didn’t recognize.

And, of course, she was leaning. Paige Bueckers didn’t just stand like a normal person. No, she had to do the casual, just-effortless-enough tilt, one hand gripping the strap of her UConn backpack like she was seconds away from swinging it over her shoulder in slow-motion, Nike-ad perfection.

And she was smiling.

That smile—the one that had probably ruined lives– specifically, your life.. The practiced, easy, disarmingly charming one. The dangerous one.

Your stomach twisted.

You should keep walking. It would be so easy. Just turn left, duck into the coffee shop, pretend you never saw her.

But something in you hesitated.

Because Paige wasn’t just talking to anyone. She was talking to some other girl.

Fucking hell.

It was so stupid. So petty. So utterly beneath you. But for some reason, the sight of her standing there—effortlessly charismatic, completely at ease—was irritating.

And then it got worse.

Because right as you were about to turn away, Paige’s gaze lifted.

Locked directly onto you.

And something in her changed.

It was so quick, so minuscule that anyone else wouldn’t have noticed. But you did. Because you’d spent the past two days doing everything in your power not to notice her, and yet here you were, catching every fucking detail.

The slight shift in her posture.

The way her smirk faltered, just a fraction.

The way her grip on her bag tightened.

Your fingers curled around the strap of your own backpack, a reflexive, useless attempt at grounding yourself.

Walk away.

But you didn’t.

You stood there, frozen in this stupid fucking moment, as Paige’s attention flicked back to the girl she was talking to—only to immediately pull away.

And then she was moving.

Striding over like this was some kind of inevitable gravitational force. Like she knew you weren’t going to leave.

Your pulse kicked up, but you forced yourself to stay still, forced yourself to act bored when she finally stopped in front of you.

Her voice hit first, low and teasing, but with something else under it. “Didn’t know you were into weekend library runs.”

You exhaled sharply, shifting your weight. “Didn’t know you were into casual sidewalk flirting, or studying.”

Paige’s smirk deepened. “Why, jealous?”

Oh, you were going to strangle her.

“I literally do not care.”

She hummed, tilting her head slightly. “You sound like you care.”

You exhaled sharply through your nose, fixing her with a flat look. “Do you just walk around looking for people to harass, or am I just special?”

Paige took another step closer. You held your ground.

“I dunno,” she murmured. “You do seem pretty special.”

Your heart stuttered.

No. Nope. Fucking no.

You weren’t playing this game. You weren’t going to stand here and let her look at you like that—like she was trying to pick you apart, like she was actually intrigued.

You stepped back, shaking your head. “Enjoy your fan club, Bueckers.”

You turned to leave.

Paige’s voice followed. Low. Confident. Amused.

“You’re cute when you’re pissed.”

You didn’t stop walking. Didn’t look back. Didn’t let her see the way your entire fucking body was burning.

But you heard her chuckle.

And somehow, that was worse.

But that wasn’t the end of it.

You should have kept going. Walked straight to the coffee shop, ordered something completely overpriced, and buried yourself in caffeine and denial.

But you weren’t that lucky.

Because the second you stepped inside, the scent of espresso and baked goods barely had time to hit you before—

“Wow.”

You knew that voice.

You closed your eyes, inhaling deeply, willing the universe to smite you.

It did not.

Because when you opened them again, Paige was right behind you.

“What are you doing?” you muttered, stepping forward to put space between you.

Paige slid her hands into her hoodie pocket, exuding pure, infuriating amusement. “Getting coffee.”

You turned, narrowing your eyes. “You weren’t even going this way.”

She shrugged. “Changed my mind.”

Jesus Christ.

You groaned, turning back toward the counter. “Whatever.”

The barista—a slightly overwhelmed-looking sophomore named Jordan, who you’d spoken to maybe twice before—perked up at the sight of Paige.

“Oh, hey! I didn’t know you came here.”

You rolled your eyes. Of course.

Paige flashed her that same easy, heartbreaker smile. “Yeah, thought I’d try something new today.”

Her eyes flicked to you as she said it. You clenched your jaw, and ignored her.

Jordan, oblivious, beamed. “What can I get you?”

Paige didn’t even hesitate. “I’ll have whatever she’s having.”

Oh.

You turned, slowly.

Paige just looked back at you, smirk still in place.

“Fine,” you said, voice tight. “I’ll have your strongest black coffee.”

Jordan blinked. “Wait, really?”

You gave her a look. “Yes?”

She hesitated. “I mean… I just… you always get the caramel cold brew.”

Shit.

Paige grinned.

“Well,” you said, crossing your arms. “Maybe I wanted to try something new.”

Paige laughed.

Actually laughed.

Full, delighted, genuine amusement.

“Oh,” she said, still smirking, “I love this.”

You clenched your fists. “I hate you.”

“See, now that’s not true.”

You turned away, absolutely done with this interaction, already regretting ever leaving the lab.

You paid for your coffee, pointedly ignoring Paige as she paid for hers, and practically snatched the cup from Jordan when it was ready.

You had exactly two steps of peace before—

“So,” Paige said, matching your pace as you headed for the door, “should I be worried?”

You shot her a look. “About what?”

“The fact that you just ordered a black coffee.”

You exhaled sharply. “Maybe I just like black coffee.”

Paige hummed, taking a sip of her own. You watched her expression shift immediately.

“Oh, this is disgusting.”

You snorted, unable to stop it in time.

Paige, victorious, just smiled. “See? I knew you were full of shit.”

You shook your head, pushing the door open and stepping outside. Paige followed, still sipping at her awful coffee like she was suffering on purpose.

And then, finally, mercifully, she stopped walking.

“Alright,” she said. “I’ll let you go.”

You frowned. “What?”

Paige’s smirk returned. “I mean, unless you want me to keep following you.”

You scoffed. “Oh my God. Leave.”

Paige chuckled, stepping back, lifting her hands in mock surrender.

“Later, library girl.”

You didn’t look back.

But you felt her watching. And somehow, that was worse.

You had a plan.

It was simple.

Step 1: Bury yourself in engineering work.

Step 2: Avoid places where you might run into her.

Step 3: Erase all thoughts of Paige Bueckers from your mind.

Step 1 was going great. You were practically living in the engineering building, hammering through assignments, working ahead just for the hell of it. At this rate, you’d graduate two semesters early and have a job lined up at NASA before winter break.

Step 2, however, was failing miserably.

Because no matter how much you tried to avoid her, Paige Bueckers was everywhere.

In the hall, where you caught glimpses of her and her teammates from the corner of your eye.

In the student center, where people were casually talking about her like she was a campus landmark.

Even in your own goddamn dreams, which was the worst part because now, even when you were asleep, you weren’t free from this mess.

And it wasn’t like they were even good dreams. No steamy forbidden fantasies, no sweaty, tangled sheets, breathless, what the fuck are we doing? moments. No. You weren’t that lucky.

Instead, your brain kept feeding you annoying things. Paige standing too close. Paige smirking. Paige looking at you like she knew something you didn’t.

Which meant you were waking up pissed off for no reason, which meant Riven noticed, which meant—

“Let me set you up with someone.”

You blinked, looking up from your laptop. “What?”

Riven was sitting across from you in the student lounge, sipping on some overpriced, sugar-filled coffee monstrosity. “I said, let me set you up.”

You scoffed, going back to your screen. “Why?”

“Because you’re weird right now,” she said, gesturing vaguely at you. “All tense and broody. It’s stressing me out.”

You rolled your eyes. “I’m literally just doing my work.”

“Exactly.” She leaned forward, squinting at your screen. “You’ve been too productive. It’s unnatural.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re avoiding Paige.”

Your fingers paused on the keyboard for half a second, but that was all she needed.

Riven grinned, victorious. “So let me set you up with someone.”

You sighed, shutting your laptop. “That’s the dumbest idea I’ve ever heard.”

“Or the smartest.”

“No.”

She ignored you, pulling out her phone. “I mean, you have options. There’s that guy from your statics class who’s obsessed with you—”

“Absolutely not.”

“Okay, what about Aisha? She’s cute, pre-med, has her life together—”

“She has a girlfriend.”

Riven waved a hand. “Okay, but, like, not a great one—”

“I cannot believe you right now.”

“Fine, fine.” She scrolled through her phone. “Oooh, what about Kevin?”

You gave her a flat look. “Kevin who works at the bookstore?”

“Yeah! He’s sweet. And tall.”

“He tried to sell me a book on manifesting your dream life when I asked for a fluid dynamics textbook.”

Riven paused. “Okay, yeah, that’s a little concerning.”

You shook your head, leaning back. “Why are you so determined to throw me at random people?”

She tilted her head. “Because it’s fun.”

You groaned.

“And,” she added, more carefully, “because it might help.”

You frowned. “Help what?”

She gave you a look. “Come on.”

You exhaled through your nose, staring down at your coffee.

Riven didn’t push. Just let the silence sit for a beat before nudging your knee under the table. “I’ll stop. For now.”

You looked up. “Thank you.”

She grinned. “But only if you come to this party with me on Saturday.”

You groaned. “Riven—”

“It’ll be fun. And guess who’s gonna be there?”

You already knew.

You closed your eyes. “I hate you.”

She sipped her drink. “Love you too, babe.”

You had approximately zero interest in going to this party.

It wasn’t that you were a hermit—you liked going out, sometimes, in controlled settings where you knew exactly what to expect. But parties like this? Loud, crowded, packed with people you barely knew and didn’t want to? No thanks.

And yet, here you were.

Still sitting on the edge of your bed, not getting ready, scrolling through your phone while your unread texts from Riven multiplied like fruit flies.

r u alive

do i need to come drag u by the hair

i will btw

wear something hot

but not like slutty hot like u just threw it on w/out trying hot

like effortless “oops i didn’t mean to be the hottest person here” hot

also ur wearing eyeliner

You groaned, dropping your phone onto your comforter.

A normal person would just say no. Would just text back not feeling it tonight and call it a day.

But Riven?

Riven would actually show up, bang on your door, and physically escort you to this goddamn party like a security detail on a mission.

So now you had a choice:

1. Give in and get ready.

2. Wait for Riven to bust in here like a one-woman SWAT team and drag you there herself.

Neither option was appealing, but at least the first one gave you some control.

You exhaled sharply, standing up. Fine. Fine. You’d go.

But you weren’t doing this for fun. You were doing it to get Riven off your ass, to make an appearance, to grab a drink, stay for a reasonable amount of time, and then leave before you got roped into something stupid.

You shuffled over to your dresser, opening the top drawer without thinking—and then immediately stopped short.

Because sitting there, right on top, was Nika’s UConn warmup jacket.

The one Paige had glared holes into the last time you wore it.

Your fingers hovered over the fabric for a second. Just long enough for the memory to crawl back into your head—Paige, watching you from across the bar, her expression unreadable but sharp.

It’s just a jacket.

You shook your head, grabbed something else, and shoved the drawer shut.

You were not playing this game.

It was cold, but not cold enough to justify a full winter coat. Just that irritating in-between weather where the air had a bite to it, but not enough to make you commit to layers.

The sidewalks were slick from the rain earlier, puddles reflecting the glow of streetlights. Music spilled out from different houses, some of them throwing smaller, more manageable kickbacks. You briefly considered bailing and going to one of those instead—just slipping into a different party and texting Riven oops, wrong address—but she’d see right through that shit.

So you kept walking, arms crossed against the chill, running through worst-case scenarios in your head.

You’ll get there, it’ll be loud, it’ll be annoying, you’ll get stuck in some awful small talk with people you barely like—

“Hey.”

You startled, glancing up.

Some guy had fallen into step beside you, hands stuffed into his hoodie pockets.

You blinked. “Do I know you?”

He grinned, easy and unbothered. “Nah. But we’re both heading the same way, so I figured I’d say hi.”

You hesitated.

It wasn’t weird, exactly. People did this all the time—especially guys, who had that weird confidence of assuming you’d be fine with their company.

And maybe it wasn’t the worst thing. Maybe if you got caught up in conversation with literally anyone, it would keep you distracted from the nagging feeling in your gut about this whole night.

So you shrugged. “Alright. Hi.”

He laughed. “Wow, that was enthusiastic.”

You rolled your eyes, but there was no actual bite behind it. “You always introduce yourself to strangers walking alone at night?”

“Only the hot ones.”

You huffed a laugh. Oh, Jesus.

There was something oddly comforting about this kind of flirting—the casual, throwaway kind. Not serious, not tangled in anything complicated. Just light, meaningless words tossed into the cold night air.

It was easy.

And easy was exactly what you needed.

“Are you always this smooth?” you asked, raising a brow.

He grinned, clearly enjoying himself. “You tell me.”

Before you could respond, a sudden beep cut through the night.

Your phone. Riven.

where r u

it’s been 7 min i am timing u

u better not be dragging ur feet

i swear 2 god if ur pulling a fast one on me

You sighed, tucking your phone back into your pocket. “I’m about to get yelled at.”

The guy laughed. “Friend blowing up your phone?”

“Something like that.”

“Guess that means I won’t have you all to myself, huh?”

You snorted. “I don’t even know your name.”

“Eli.” He shot you a sideways glance. “And now you do.”

You just shook your head, amused despite yourself.

Maybe this night wouldn’t be a total disaster.

The walk over is quiet. Not awkward, but not quite comfortable either. Eli’s hands are shoved into the pockets of his jacket, shoulders hunched slightly against the chill, his breath fogging in the dark as he keeps pace beside you.

The street is mostly empty, save for the distant sound of laughter and the faint hum of music seeping through the trees, growing louder with each step.

“So,” he finally says, tilting his head toward you. “You party much?”

You let out a dry laugh. “Not really.”

“Yeah, you don’t seem like the type.”

You raise a brow, glancing over at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Eli grins, kicking a loose rock down the sidewalk. “Dunno. You seem more like the… stay-at-home-and-watch-true-crime-docs type.”

You scoff. “That’s oddly specific.”

“Am I wrong?”

You don’t answer, but your silence is enough of one.

He laughs, shaking his head. “I knew it.”

The music swells as you round the corner, the UConn house coming into view. People are already spilling onto the lawn, drinks in hand, voices raised over the thumping bass. Someone’s perched on the hood of a car, cigarette dangling between their fingers, while a group is gathered around the porch, deep in some animated conversation that none of them will remember in the morning.

You exhale slowly, rolling your shoulders. The night stretches before you, unknown and electric, waiting.

“Welp,” Eli says, slowing his steps, his eyes scanning the crowd. “Guess this is us.”

You nod, barely glancing at him. “Yeah, guess so.”

And then you leave him.

You don’t say goodbye, don’t offer a parting glance. Just slip past the first cluster of people, stepping into the thick of the party, into the heat, into the house.

Inside, the air is thick—warm and suffocating, a mix of sweat and perfume and alcohol. The bass vibrates through the floorboards, through your ribs, as bodies move against each other, laughter and shouted conversations tangling together into a messy, chaotic hum.

You push forward, barely a few steps in when—

“There you are.”

A hand grabs your wrist, sharp nails digging into your skin just enough to make you wince before you’re being tugged to the side.

Riven.

She looks immaculate as always—makeup untouched by the humidity, dress clinging perfectly to her frame, her lips stained red from whatever drink she’s been nursing.

She eyes you, head tilting. “Took you long enough.”

“I wasn’t—” You hesitate. “I walked here.”

She snorts. “What, alone?”

“No. Some guy. Eli, I think.”

Riven’s expression flickers with interest. “Eli?”

“Yeah, tall, kinda awkward, basketball?” You shrug, not really caring.

“Huh.” She takes a sip of her drink, eyes scanning the crowd. “You just met him and he walked you here?”

“Guess so.”

She smirks. “Cute.”

You roll your eyes. “Didn’t exactly work out for him.”

Riven grins. “Ice cold.”

You open your mouth to respond, but she’s already linking her arm through yours, pulling you deeper into the house.

“Come on. You need a drink.”

The kitchen is a mess of half-empty bottles and red plastic cups, condensation pooling on the scratched wooden counter. The air is thick with the scent of spilled liquor and citrus, the sharp tang of tequila mingling with something fruity—jungle juice, probably, the kind that tastes like candy but hits like a train.

Riven slides in ahead of you, maneuvering through the crowd like she’s been here a hundred times, which, knowing her, she probably has. The confidence in the way she moves makes her impossible to lose, even in the crush of people.

“Alright,” she announces, scanning the counter like it’s a display case. “What’s your poison?”

You hesitate. You’re not much of a drinker—never have been—but tonight feels like it demands something stronger than your usual caution.

“Something not disgusting,” you say, eyeing the sticky countertop, where remnants of past spills glisten under the dim kitchen light.

Riven hums, reaching for a bottle of vodka and some kind of mixer you don’t recognize. “Not disgusting is subjective.” She pours with a practiced hand, tipping the cup toward you once she’s done. “Try this.”

You take a sip. It’s sweet, deceptively smooth, the alcohol buried just enough to be dangerous.

“Not bad,” you admit.

Riven smirks. “You’re welcome.”

The music shifts, the bass vibrating through the walls, through your ribs. People move in and out of the kitchen, laughing, shouting, their voices blending into a haze of noise. The heat of the room is different from the living room—more claustrophobic, the air saturated with liquor and sweat, with the sticky-sweet scent of someone’s perfume, too strong, too cloying.

You lean back against the counter, tipping your cup against your lips, letting the alcohol settle in, loosen something in your limbs.

And then you see her.

Paige.

She’s on the other side of the kitchen, leaning against the counter with the kind of effortless ease that makes your stomach clench. One hand curled around a drink, fingers loose, relaxed. Her other arm draped along the counter, casual but intentional.

The girl next to her is tucked into the space at her side, one hip pressed against the counter, her body angled in, close.

Too close.

Your grip tightens around your cup.

The lighting in the kitchen is dim, but it catches on Paige’s features just right, casting shadows across the sharp cut of her jaw, the slope of her nose. Her expression is unreadable, but her focus is locked.

She’s looking at the girl like she’s the only person in the room.

Something tightens in your chest.

You shouldn’t be watching. You shouldn’t care.

Yet, here you are. Doing exactly that.

The girl tilts her head, lips painted in something dark, teasing at the rim of her cup as she speaks, voice lost in the thrum of the party.

Paige listens, eyes half-lidded, her mouth curling just slightly at the edges. It’s a look you recognize, one you’ve seen before—lazy, amused, locked in. The kind of look that says I already know how this ends.

The kind of look that says I want you.

Your stomach flips.

The girl shifts, closing the space between them, fingers brushing against Paige’s wrist, trailing lightly, suggestively. Paige doesn’t move away.

If anything, she leans in.

The room is too hot. The air too thick, pressing in around you, suffocating.

You take a step back, but there’s nowhere to go. Your back is already against the counter, your drink clutched too tightly in your hand. You can still see them—Paige’s fingers curling loosely around the girl’s waist, the slight tilt of her head, the way her mouth parts, the way the girl smiles.

Like she knows she’s got her.

Like she knows Paige isn’t going anywhere.

A fresh wave of nausea rolls through you.

You should look away. You should walk away.

But you don’t. You never ddo.

You watch as the girl leans in, her lips brushing just shy of Paige’s jaw, as if testing the waters. Paige doesn’t pull back.

She just watches, lets it happen, lets the girl push closer, lets her fingers slide against the hem of her shirt, teasing at the space just beneath.

It makes you sick.

You can’t fucking breathe.

Something ugly claws its way up your throat, something you don’t want to name, something bitter and raw.

You turn sharply, reaching for the vodka, pouring more into your cup than is remotely reasonable. The liquid sloshes over the rim, drips onto your fingers, and you barely feel it.

“Whoa,” Riven says, raising a brow. “Thirsty?”

You don’t answer. Just mix it with whatever’s closest, something orange, something fizzy.

You down half of it in one go.

It burns, but not enough.

Nothing is enough.

Riven watches you, her gaze sharp, calculating. “You good?”

“Fine,” you say, too quickly.

“Uh-huh.” She doesn’t sound convinced.

But you don’t give her time to question it.

You grab her hand, pulling her toward the living room, toward the noise, toward the crowd, toward anything that isn’t Paige and that girl, locked in, locked together, about to—

No.

The liquor hums in your veins, warm and reckless, dulling the sharp edges of your thoughts. The music has taken over everything—the bass pounding through the floor, through your chest, drowning out the lingering echoes of Paige and that girl.

Fuck her.

Fuck all of it.

You let yourself sink into the crowd, into the tangle of bodies moving with the music, the heat, the chaos of it all. The world tilts slightly, but in a way that feels good, in a way that makes you feel untouchable, weightless.

Riven is right there beside you, her laughter bright, her hands tugging at your wrist, spinning you in circles, hyping you up like she lives for this. And maybe she does. Maybe this is her element, but right now, it’s yours too.

You throw your head back, let your hands lift into the air, let the rhythm take over, shaking loose every lingering thought.

Someone grabs your waist.

You don’t flinch, don’t tense—just let it happen, rolling with the movement, letting yourself press back into the warmth behind you.

She’s soft, her body moving fluidly against yours, her hands confident as they slide along your hips, fitting into the moment like she’s supposed to be there.

You don’t think.

You just move.

Her perfume is sweet, her breath warm as she leans in, murmuring something that you don’t hear, don’t need to hear. It’s all instinct, all impulse, all the heat of the night pulling you deeper.

Her fingers trace slow, teasing patterns over your stomach where your top rides up, and it’s easy, so fucking easy, to let her do it. To let her hands wander, to let her lips ghost along your jaw, to tilt your head just so, letting her pull you in.

And then you’re kissing her.

It’s messy, all teeth and liquor and heat, her hands tangled in your hair, yours gripping the back of her neck, nails scraping against skin.

You don’t know her name.

You don’t care.

She tastes like rum, like something syrupy sweet, and you let yourself get lost in it, let yourself drink it in like it’ll burn away everything else.

Like it’ll erase the image of Paige leaning against that counter, her head tilted, her mouth open just enough—

No.

You deepen the kiss, swallow down the thought, let the music swallow you whole.

You don’t know how long you stay like that, don’t know how many songs bleed together before you finally break apart, breathless and flushed, her lipstick smudged against your mouth, your fingers still curled in her shirt.

She leans in, murmurs something into your ear—maybe a name, maybe a suggestion—but you’re already pulling away, already laughing, already shaking your head.

"Bathroom," you say, your voice thick with liquor and heat.

She pouts but lets you go, her fingers lingering on your wrist before she disappears back into the crowd.

The second you step away, the world tilts again, and you brace yourself against the edge of the wall, blinking hard, forcing the party back into focus.

Shit. You really have to pee.

You push through the crowd, past the blur of faces, past the too-loud conversations, past the couples pressed into dark corners, whispering things meant only for each other.

The hallway leading to the bathroom is a little less chaotic, though someone’s already passed out against the wall, their head slumped forward, their drink tipped over onto the carpet.

You slip past them, knocking twice on the bathroom door.

Silence.

You try the handle.

It opens.

You stumble inside, shutting the door behind you with a quiet click.

The house is still shaking around you, but in here, it’s muffled, distant.

You catch sight of yourself in the mirror—flushed, lips a little swollen, pupils blown wide from the alcohol, from the dancing, from everything.

You look different.

Or maybe you just feel different.

You shake it off, stepping forward, gripping the sink to steady yourself before finally doing what you came in here to do.

You need a minute before you go back out there, before the night drags you under again.

You splash cold water on your face, blinking hard at your reflection, trying to ground yourself. The alcohol is still warm in your blood, making everything feel hazy at the edges, but at least the dizziness has settled. The bass rattles through the floor, muffled by the walls, and you press your palms against the counter, exhaling slowly.

You should go back out there.

Find Riven. Get another drink. Keep losing yourself in the night, in the bodies, in the heat, in anything that isn’t the thought of—

No.

You grab a paper towel, blotting your face, and then pull open the bathroom door, stepping back into the dimly lit hallway.

And promptly walk straight into someone’s chest.

“Watch it,” you mutter, barely glancing up, pushing past, your mind already elsewhere.

But the second you take a step, fingers wrap around your wrist—firm, but not rough—and you stiffen.

You know who it is before you even look

“Jesus, relax,” she drawls, her grip loosening but not quite letting go. “Didn’t know you were so touchy.”

You yank your arm free, scowling. “What do you want?”

She tilts her head, looking at you too closely, like she’s trying to read something off your skin. The hallway is dark, but not dark enough to miss the way her gaze flickers downward—your lips, your jaw, the smudges of lipstick that aren’t yours.

Her mouth curves slightly. “Have fun out there?”

Your stomach turns.

You don’t answer.

Her smirk deepens. “She looked pretty into it.”

You scoff, stepping back, ready to shove past her and end this entire conversation before it even begins, but—

She shifts, blocking your path.

“Move,” you snap.

She doesn’t.

Instead, she leans in, voice dropping, a lazy smirk still tugging at her lips. “What are you running from?”

You want to hit her.

Or kiss her.

Or throw your drink in her face.

You do none of those things.

Instead, you shove at her shoulder, forcing your way past, and for a second—just a second—you think you’ve won.

Then you feel her hand at your back.

Not grabbing, not pulling, just pressing. A guiding touch. A challenge.

And you don’t know how it happens—whether she pushes you, or you push her, or maybe you both move at the same time—but suddenly, you’re stumbling through a doorway, into a small, dimly lit room, and the door swings shut behind you.

Hard.

The click of the latch echoes.

You whirl around, already reaching for the handle, twisting—

It doesn’t budge.

You twist again.

Nothing.

Paige sighs behind you. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

You shoot her a glare over your shoulder. “You locked us in here?”

She crosses her arms, looking entirely too unbothered. “It was open when we walked in.”

You yank at the handle again, harder this time, but it doesn’t give.

Panic prickles at the edges of your thoughts.

You turn, scanning the room properly now. A washing machine, a dryer, shelves lined with detergent and fabric softener, a wire basket overflowing with mismatched socks. The UConn house laundry room.

And no windows.

“No, no, no—” You twist the handle again. “It can’t be locked.”

Paige makes a noise, unimpressed, and leans back against the dryer, pulling out her phone. “Guess we’re stuck.”

Your head snaps up.

“You have your phone?”

She smirks, tapping at the screen. “I do.”

You hold out your hand. “Give it to me.”

Her brows lift, amused. “You don’t even say please?”

You exhale sharply, patience hanging by a thread. “Paige.”

She tsks, slipping the phone into her palm, staring at the screen. “Hmm. So many unread messages…”

You take a step forward, holding out your hand again. “Just call someone and get us out.”

Paige’s smirk deepens. “Or…” She pushes off the dryer, stepping closer, holding her phone just out of reach, “…I could make you ask nicely.”

You stare at her.

Then, without thinking, you lunge.

Your fingers brush the edge of the phone, but she’s faster—because of course she is—and she lifts it, jerking it up, holding it above her head, just out of your reach.

Your jaw tightens.

She grins. “What’s wrong?”

You glare at her. “Give me the fucking phone.”

She raises it higher, tilting her head in mock sympathy. “Oh, is that too tall for you?”

Your blood boils.

You take another step forward, reaching again, but she moves too—effortless, smooth, stepping back just enough to keep you from grabbing it.

“You are such an asshole,” you seethe.

She chuckles, tucking her phone onto the tallest shelf beside her. “And yet, you’re the one who followed me in here.”

You groan, running a hand down your face. “I did not—”

“You did.”

“I was trying to leave.”

“And now you can’t.”

You close your eyes, inhaling deeply. Do not strangle her. You will go to jail. Focus.

When you look at her again, she’s still smirking, still so goddamn pleased with herself, like she hasn’t just trapped you in a room with her.

Like she isn’t the exact thing you were trying to avoid.

Like she doesn’t know exactly what she’s doing to you.

Fuck.

The air in the laundry room is thick. Too warm. Too close. The scent of detergent lingers beneath the musk of the party outside, a mix of something clean and something tainted—the ghosts of cheap vodka, sweat, and everything you don’t want to think about right now.

Paige leans against the dryer like she has nowhere better to be, arms crossed, expression lazy, infuriating. Her phone is still perched on the highest shelf, glowing faintly, unread messages stacking up.

You don’t look at it.

You look at her.

And that’s a mistake.

Because she’s watching you, waiting, and there’s something smug about the way she’s standing there, something that makes your pulse thrum harder than it should.

Your nails dig into your palm. “You gonna call someone, or are we just gonna sit here all night?”

She exhales, long-suffering, tilting her head. “I don’t know, you seem really worked up. Maybe I should let you cool off first.”

You roll your eyes. “Oh, fuck off, Paige.”

Her smirk sharpens. “Touchy tonight.”

You scowl, turning away from her, pressing your hands against the washer, gripping the cool metal like it might steady you. It doesn’t.

“You’re the one who locked us in here,” you mutter, half to yourself.

She snorts. “I didn’t lock the fucking door.”

You don’t care. You don’t care about the door, about her stupid phone, about the way the heat of her body radiates behind you like she’s not even touching you but still somehow too close.

You care about what you saw in the kitchen.

The girl. The way Paige looked at her. The way Paige leaned in, just close enough—

Your fingers curl into a fist.

“Shouldn’t you be back out there?” Your voice is tight, sharp, dripping with something you don’t want to name. “Looked like you had plans.”

Paige doesn’t answer right away.

You don’t turn to look at her, but you can feel her reaction, feel the air shift, her smirk stretching, lazy and knowing.

“Ah,” she exhales, dragging out the sound. “So that’s what this is about.”

Your jaw tightens. “It’s not about anything.”

She hums, low and amused. “Mmhmm.”

She moves before you can brace for it, stepping into your space—not touching, but just enough to make you feel her there, the heat of her, the weight of her attention pressing against your skin.

Your breath catches.

You force yourself to focus on the washer, the wall, the tiny flickering light in the corner of the room. Anything but her.

Paige doesn’t let up.

“Didn’t know you were paying so much attention to me,” she murmurs.

You scoff, shaking your head. “Get over yourself.”

She clicks her tongue, still infuriatingly close. “You look pissed.”

“I’m no—”

“Oh, you are.”

Your breath stutters.

Because maybe you are.

And maybe she knows it.

Her voice drops, lower, rougher, like she’s savoring this. “What, you didn’t like seeing me with her?”

You close your eyes, exhaling sharply through your nose.

“Jesus, Paige.” You step forward, away from her, away from the heat of her, pacing to the opposite wall, running a hand through your hair. “You’re so fucking—”

You stop yourself.

Because the words clawing up your throat—angry and raw and desperate—aren’t the ones you want to say.

Paige doesn’t move. Doesn’t chase. Just lets the silence stretch, heavy and unbearable, waiting for you to crack.

And you do.

Because your mouth moves before your brain can catch up, before you can stop yourself from spilling the truth, from letting her have this.

“You looked at her like she was the only fucking person in the room.”

The words hang there, sharp and trembling.

Paige exhales, slow, measured, and when you finally force yourself to look at her, her smirk is gone.

She just watches you, her eyes darker now, unreadable.

Then—

“You’re right,” she says.

Your stomach twists.

She holds your gaze, steady and unwavering. “That’s how I look when I want something.”

Your throat tightens.

Because her voice is different now. Not teasing. Not amused. 

And then she takes a step forward. And another.

Until she’s right in front of you, until you can feel the heat of her breath against your lips, until your back is pressing into the wall and there’s nowhere left to go.

Paige tilts her head.

Slow. Measured. Like she’s giving you time. Like she’s waiting.

Your pulse hammers.

She lifts a hand, slow, deliberate, tracing the lightest touch of her fingers against your arm, up, up, featherlight against your shoulder.

You should push her away.

You should say something, anything, because this—this—is dangerous.

But you don’t.

You just stand there, breathing too fast, too hard, your fingers curling against the wall.

Paige watches you.

Then, so softly it almost doesn’t reach over the pounding of your heartbeat—

“I’m not thinking about her right now.”

Your breath hitches.

And that’s it.

That’s the moment everything fucking snaps.

You’re in her space before you even register moving, hands fisting the front of her hoodie, yanking her in so hard she stumbles. But she doesn’t care. She fucking growls against your mouth when you crash together, all heat and teeth and tongue, your lips parting for her automatically, letting her lick inside like she’s starving for it.

She kisses like she owns you. Like she’s already won.

But you’re not making this easy for her. You bite down on her bottom lip, tugging, dragging a sound out of her that’s more animal than human, and then suddenly her hands are on you—gripping your waist, yanking you forward, pushing you back, back, back until your spine collides with the wall.

The room spins. Or maybe it’s just you.

You barely get a second to breathe before she’s on you again, lips hot, demanding, her fingers digging into your hips like she wants to leave bruises, like she wants you to feel her tomorrow.

“You like this?” she mutters against your mouth, voice low and rough as she drags her hands up your sides, fingers slipping under the hem of your shirt. "Like being handled like this?"

You barely manage a nod before she lifts you.

Like it’s nothing.

Like you weigh nothing at all.

She hoists you up onto the washer, the cold metal shocking against your skin, her body immediately pressing between your thighs, caging you in.

Your breath shudders out of you, hands fisting in her hoodie, nails scraping against the fabric as she yanks your legs further apart.

Paige just watches you.

Her pupils are blown, her lips slick, her chest rising and falling too fast. Her hands flex against your thighs, gripping hard, her thumbs pressing into the softest part of your skin like she’s trying to brand you.

She doesn’t move.

Doesn’t say anything.

Just fucking stares at you like she’s deciding exactly how she’s going to tear you apart.

Your heart is slamming against your ribs. Your brain is screaming at you to stop, to think, to breathe, but then she licks her lips, and every ounce of hesitation shatters like glass.

You grab her by the collar and yank her in like she’s the only oxygen in the fucking room.

She groans as your mouths crash together again—harder, messier, hungrier. Her hands move, gripping your thighs, sliding up, up, until they’re under your shirt, pushing the fabric higher, fingertips teasing along the band of your bra.

"God, you’re fucking desperate," she mutters against your lips, her voice dripping with amusement.

You don’t even care.

Not when she’s right.

She breaks the kiss, panting, dragging her mouth along your jaw, your throat, sucking, biting, marking you, making sure you’ll feel her tomorrow, see her tomorrow.

Your head tips back, a whimper slipping out before you can stop it.

And Paige fucking laughs.

"Yeah," she breathes against your skin, her tongue swiping over the bruise she just left. "Anyone ever make you sound like this?"

You don’t answer.

Can’t.

Her hands slide higher, fingers curling around your tits, thumbs brushing over your nipples through the fabric.

"Didn’t think so," she mutters, rolling them between her fingers, making you arch, making you gasp. "Bet they don’t know what to do with you.”

She pinches harder, making you jerk.

"But that’s not what you want, is it?"

You shake your head, breathless, wrecked, desperate.

Paige just smirks.

"That’s what I thought."

Then, suddenly, she drops.

Drops to her knees.

Your breath stutters, your entire body going rigid as she grins up at you, lips parted, pupils dark, her fingers gripping your thighs like she dares you to move.

She drags her mouth over your inner thigh, biting down just hard enough to make you jolt. Then she licks over it, soothing, teasing, slow, slow, slow.

She presses a single kiss over the fabric of your jeans, right where you're already throbbing.

Then another.

And another.

Before she yanks the button open with her teeth.

You fucking moan.

She laughs—low and pleased—and then she’s peeling your jeans down your legs, dragging your panties with them, her fingers pressing against your inner thighs to spread you.

"God," she mutters, eyes dark, voice thick. "Look at you."

You’re fucking soaked. You know you are.

And she does, too.

She groans, her hands gripping your thighs even tighter as she leans in, her mouth hovering just above where you need her most, her breath hot and teasing.

You lift your hips slightly, already reaching for her hair, butthen—

Paige stops.

Completely.

She doesn’t move. Doesn’t say anything. Just exhales once, slow and deliberate, then pushes herself back up to her feet.

Your heart is still hammering against your ribs, your body still aching, still on fire, and you blink at her, dazed, confused.

“What—?”

She doesn’t answer.

She just smirks.

Then, without a word, she reaches for the shelf, grabs her phone, and slips it into her pocket.

Your stomach drops.

No.

She wouldn’t—

Paige takes a step back, rolling her shoulders, looking at you like she isn’t just leaving you on the edge of madness. Like she isn’t just walking the fuck away.

"Well,” she says, slow, lazy. “This was fun.”

Your brain short-circuits.

She turns toward the door.

Paige. Fucking. Bueckers.

Your breath is still uneven, your legs still wrapped around the washer, your skin still buzzing, burning.

And she’s just—leaving?

No.

No fucking way.

“Are you serious?” you snap, voice raw, breaking.

She glances at you over her shoulder, smirking like she just won the longest game of chess. “What? Didn’t you want to stop?”

Your nails dig into your palms.

You’re going to kill her.

You’re going to fucking kill her.

And then you’re going to kiss her again.

The second the door clicks shut behind her, you’re left sitting there—breathless, pissed, and still throbbing in a way that makes you want to scream.

Your legs are still spread around the washer, body still burning from where her hands had been, where her mouth had almost gone. Your jeans are still undone, your pulse still hammering against your ribs, and Paige fucking Bueckers just walked out.

You let out a sharp breath, shoving both hands through your hair, gripping tight at the roots, trying to will yourself back to normal.

It doesn’t work.

Your heart is still racing, your skin still tingling, your lips still swollen.

“Fucking bitch,” you mutter, slamming your hand against the washer.

Your voice is lost under the pulse of the music vibrating through the walls, but it doesn’t matter. It’s not like she’s here to hear it.

She left.

She fucking left.

And you hate how much it gets to you. How much it makes you want to chase after her, grab her by the hoodie, shove her against the wall and finish what she started.

But that’s what she wants.

She wants you to be thinking about her.

She wants you frustrated.

And you are.

Oh, you are.

You jump off the washer, legs a little shaky, but you force yourself to steady, to breathe. To pull yourself together because no way in hell are you giving her the satisfaction of knowing she just scrambled your brain like that.

Your hands tremble slightly as you fix your jeans, smoothing out your shirt, wiping the last of her touch from your skin.

It doesn’t work.

The scent of her is still clinging to you, faint but impossible to ignore—something clean, something subtle, something undeniably her.

You grip the edge of the counter, grounding yourself as the room tilts around you. You need a fucking drink—hell, you need five—but first, you need to get the fuck out of here. Taking a deep breath, you seize the handle, twist, and the door swings open. She didn’t lock you in. She could have. She would have if she really wanted to fuck with you. But, she didn’t.

She just left you there, knowing exactly what she’d done, knowing exactly how she’d fucked you up, knowing you’d be walking out of this room just as wrecked as if she’d finished what she started.

And that makes you want to find her even more.

You step back into the hallway, the party swallowing you whole again—music, voices, the chaotic heat of the house.

Your hands are still shaking.

You need a drink.

Or you need to find Paige.

And you don’t know which one you’re going to do first.

The laundry room is still warm, still thick with the scent of detergent and something else—something her.

Your fingers flex against the cool metal of the washer as you take a slow, measured breath, trying to steady yourself.

It doesn’t work.

Your skin still burns, your lips still tingling, your body still aching in a way that makes you want to scream.

Paige fucking Bueckers.

You inhale sharply through your nose, shaking your hands out, willing the frustration out of your body, then push off the washer and head for the door. You don’t hesitate this time, don’t pause to gather yourself.

You just leave.

The second you step back into the hallway, the chaos of the party crashes over you again—voices, music, bodies pressing past in a drunken blur.

You need to find Riven.

You need to do something before you lose your fucking mind.

The house feels bigger than it should, the heat of it pressing in around you, the music rattling through your skull. Your fingers twitch at your sides as you weave through the crowd, eyes scanning, searching.

Then—finally—

You spot her.

Riven is perched on the arm of a couch in the living room, a fresh drink in hand, laughing at something the girl beside her just said.

You push toward her, your body still buzzing, your head still spinning, but determined to pretend you haven’t just been left completely wrecked in a locked laundry room by the most insufferable person alive.

Riven clocks you immediately.

She tilts her head, eyes flickering over your face, sharp despite the liquor in her system.

“You look like you’ve been through some shit,” she comments, raising a brow.

You force a laugh, shaking your head. “Just trying to find you.”

“Well, you found me.” She grins, tipping her cup toward you. “And just in time. Thinking about hitting another party.”

You barely register what she’s saying.

Because in your peripherial, something catches your eye.

A glimpse of familiar blonde hair.

A hoodie.

A girl—not you—standing too close, fingers curled in Paige’s sweatshirt, voice low, her lips inches from Paige’s.

Your stomach lurches and your breath stutters.

You shouldn’t be looking.

You shouldn’t care.

Paige leans in, smirking, saying something in return. The girl pulls her toward the bedroom. The door clicks shut behind them.

And that’s it.

Your stomach churns, a sickening twist that rises up your throat, thick and acidic.

Riven is still talking, still watching you, but you can’t focus on the words, can’t focus on anything except the sudden, crushing weight in your chest, the way your throat feels tight, the way the party suddenly feels like it’s suffocating you.

“Hey.” Riven nudges you. “You good?”

You blink hard, exhaling through your nose, forcing yourself to keep it together. “Yeah,” you say, voice too thin, too unsteady.

She studies you, unconvinced.

“You wanna hit another party?”

She’s giving you an out.

A way to distract yourself. A way to drown this feeling in more liquor, more noise, more nothing.

But if you stay here any longer, you’re going to break.

So you shake your head, swallowing against the lump in your throat. “I think I’m gonna go.”

Riven frowns, but she doesn’t push. “Want me to come with?”

“No,” you say quickly, forcing a small smile. “I just—yeah. I think I’m done for the night.”

She nods slowly, watching you, like she knows you’re not saying everything. But she lets it go. “Text me when you get back.”

You nod. “Yeah.”

And then you’re leaving.

Pushing past the bodies, the voices, the heat. Stepping out into the night air, cold against your too-warm skin.

And then you’re walking.

Fast.

Like you can outrun it.

Like you can forget.

But the worst part is—you already know you won’t.

The night air is sharp against your skin, cutting through the lingering warmth of the house, through the haze of alcohol still pulsing in your veins. The sound of the party dulls behind you, muffled by distance, by the pounding in your ears.

You don’t know where you’re going—just that you need to be anywhere but here. Not in that room, not in this house, not with her still lingering in the air like a slow-burning cigarette. The scent of her skin clings to you, the ghost of her hands still warm against your body, her breath still searing against your lips. And that fucking smirk—it’s carved into your mind like a brand you can’t scrub away.

You swallow hard, the lump in your throat thick and stubborn. The sting behind your eyes threatens to spill over, but you grit your teeth, forcing it back down. You’re not going to cry over her. You refuse.

The cool night air rushes against your burning face as you round the corner of the house, stepping onto the damp grass, exhaling sharply like you can push her out of your system in one breath—

And then you see him.

Eli.

He’s leaning against the hood of a car, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, staring up at the sky like he’s waiting for something. The distant glow of a streetlight casts a halo of gold around his head, making his expression unreadable.

You hesitate.

Just for a second.

Then his gaze flickers down, catching on you, and something shifts.

He straightens slightly. “Hey.”

Your heart is still pounding, your skin still too hot, your chest still tight with the remnants of everything you just saw, everything you felt.

And suddenly, you don’t want to think about it anymore.

Suddenly, you want to forget.

You step closer, inhaling sharply through your nose. “What are you doing out here?”

Eli shrugs, a lazy half-smile curving his lips. “Needed a break.” He eyes you, tilting his head slightly. “What about you?”

You wet your lips, arms wrapping around yourself. “Needed to get out of there.”

He hums like he understands. Like maybe he does.

Your fingers twitch at your sides.

He’s looking at you like he’s curious. Like he’s waiting. Like he’s wondering what happened in there to make you walk out like you had somewhere to be, like you had someone to find.

But he doesn’t ask.

And you don’t tell him.

Instead, you step closer.

Slowly.

Testing.

His eyes flicker downward—your mouth, your throat, your hands where they clench into the hem of your shirt.

And something about that—about the way he sees you, about the way he doesn’t ask questions, about the way he’s just there—makes something snap inside you.

You want to feel something else.

Someone else.

So you step forward, closing the last bit of space between you.

Eli inhales, his shoulders tensing slightly. “What are you—”

You kiss him.

It’s impulsive. Reckless.

Your fingers grip at his jacket, pulling him in before you can second-guess it, before you can hear the voice in your head whispering that this isn’t her, this isn’t what you want, this isn’t who you want.

But he kisses you back.

His hands find your waist, hesitant at first, then firmer, fingers pressing into your sides. He tastes like beer and mint gum, like something unfamiliar, something that isn’t her.

And maybe that’s the point.

You deepen the kiss, tilting your head, swallowing down every thought, every memory, every feeling threatening to break through the surface.

Eli exhales against your mouth, the warmth of it sending a shiver down your spine as his hands slide lower, finding the small of your back and pulling you flush against him. You let him. You let yourself lean in, let yourself be kissed, let yourself drown in something—someone—that isn’t her.

Because right now, she can’t exist. She can’t be in your head, in your lungs, in the spaces between your ribs where she’s been living rent-free. If this is the only way to erase her, to rewrite the memory of her hands with someone else’s touch—then so be it.

The morning comes in hazy, dull, a slow drag of reality clawing its way back into your skull.

Your head pounds before you even open your eyes. The taste of stale liquor lingers on your tongue, thick and sour, a reminder of how recklessly you drank the night before.

A deep inhale, and—fuck.

Your body feels off. Too warm, too stiff, too aware.

And then it hits you.

A weight against your side. A slow, rhythmic inhale-exhale that isn’t yours.

You stiffen.

Open your eyes.

The ceiling above you is unfamiliar—somebody’s shitty off-campus house, a string of fairy lights flickering weakly in the daylight. The sheets beneath you smell like detergent and sweat, and the warmth at your side shifts slightly.

Eli.

His arm is draped lazily over your waist, his face half-buried in the pillow. His hair is messy, his breathing slow, peaceful.

Everything slams back into place at once—the party, the kitchen, the drinks, the laundry room. Paige. And then—Eli. Your stomach tightens, not in horror or fear, just realization. What you did. Why you did it. You swallow hard, staring up at the ceiling, willing your pulse to slow, waiting for the weight of it to settle in. But it doesn’t feel like anything. And it should. Shouldn’t it?

You were drunk, sure, but you weren’t gone. You remember his hands, the heat of his body, the way he pressed into you, the way you let him.

But now, in the harsh clarity of morning, all you can think is—

It wasn’t her.

It wasn’t her hands on you. It wasn’t her breath against your skin. It wasn’t her mouth whispering against your throat, sending shivers down your spine, making your stomach twist, making you burn, making you ache.

It was Eli.

And that makes you feel so much worse.

Your breath comes too shallow, your head pounding, your fingers twitching against the sheets. You need to get out of here.

Carefully, slowly, you shift out from under his arm, moving inch by inch until you’re free. He doesn’t stir.

You sit up. Your clothes are mostly intact—jeans unbuttoned but still on, your shirt twisted around you, but nothing that says bad decision in flashing neon lights.

Except the ache in your chest.

You press your hands against your face, inhale deep.

Move.

You slip out of bed, grabbing your shoes from where they’re haphazardly discarded near the door, your jacket thrown across the chair in the corner.

You don’t look back.  You don’t check to see if he’s waking up, if he’ll call after you, if he’ll ask what this was.

Because you don’t have an answer.

The house is quiet, but not silent. Somewhere down the hall, you hear faint voices, the sound of someone in the kitchen, cabinets opening and closing.

You don’t stop.

You walk, fast but not suspicious, through the living room, toward the front door. The air still smells like last night—beer, sweat, something burnt, like someone got hungry and forgot about a frozen pizza in the oven.

The sunlight is sharp when you step outside, stabbing straight into your skull.

You wince, pulling your jacket tighter around you, ignoring the way the world feels like it’s tilting slightly.

Your phone is dead. You exhale, slow, deliberate.

Then you walk.

Every step feels like weight pressing into your chest, like something clawing at the inside of your ribs, like the ghost of someone else’s hands gripping your hips, someone else’s lips dragging along your throat.

You don’t let yourself think about it.

Not yet.

You just focus on the pavement, on the sound of your own breathing, on getting the fuck out of here before the weight of last night really sinks in.

The walk back is slow. Not because you’re taking your time, but because your body is still heavy with last night—liquor humming in your bloodstream, regret pooling somewhere low in your stomach, the ache behind your eyes a dull reminder of every wrong decision that led you here.

Your breath fogs in the morning air. It’s colder than you expected. You pull your jacket tighter, shoving your hands deep into your pockets, head down as you step over cracked pavement, past empty sidewalks.

The streets are quiet.

The world is moving, but just barely—cars rolling by lazily, students in sweats shuffling across campus, people carrying coffee cups like lifelines. The remnants of Saturday night still linger in the air, the ghosts of parties scattered across front lawns—empty cans, forgotten hoodies, crushed solo cups.

It should feel normal. But everything feels off.

Because you know where she is.

Or at least, where she was.

You know what happened after she left you in that fucking laundry room, after she walked away, after she—

You inhale sharply through your nose, pushing the thought away.

It shouldn’t matter.

You made your own choices, didn’t you?

So why does it feel like something is rotting inside you?

Your steps slow as you reach your dorm. The building looms ahead, brick and glass, too familiar, too suffocating. You don’t want to go inside. You don’t want to be alone.

Not when the weight of last night is still pressing down on you, not when the silence is going to make it worse, not when every empty second is just another opportunity for your mind to drag you back.

But you don’t have a choice.

You tug the door open, step inside.

The lobby is quiet, the hallways dimly lit. Your shoes echo against the floor as you make your way to your room, heart thudding heavier with each step.

By the time you reach your door, your hands are shaking.

You tell yourself it’s the hangover.

It’s not.

The second you’re inside, you shut the door, lock it, press your back against the wood, squeezing your eyes shut.

Breathe.

The silence wraps around you, thick and oppressive, and now it hits.

Now the night comes crashing in.

You see it too clearly.

Paige, leaning against the counter, her drink in hand, her smirk lazy, her mouth parted just slightly—

Paige, dragging her fingers over the girl’s waist, letting her pull her in—

Paige, shoving you up onto the washer, her hands gripping your thighs, her breath hot against your lips—

Your eyes snap open.

You swallow hard, jaw tight, chest aching.

This isn’t how it’s supposed to be.

You slept with someone else. You made your choice.

So why does it feel like you lost?

You don’t move for a while.

Just stand there, back pressed against the door, staring at the floor, breath uneven, the silence pressing in from all sides. Your skin still feels too warm, like the heat of last night hasn’t entirely left your body.

Like her hands are still there.

You squeeze your eyes shut. Stop it.

You push off the door, moving toward your bed in slow, heavy steps. You don’t bother turning on the lights. The daylight spilling through the blinds is already too much, making the pounding in your skull even worse.

You collapse onto the mattress, face-first, pressing your cheek into the pillow. The sheets smell like you—just you. No trace of Eli, no hint of anything from last night, and for some reason, that makes you feel worse.

Maybe because it means it didn’t matter.

Or maybe because it means you’re still alone.

You exhale sharply, rolling onto your back, staring up at the ceiling. The ache in your chest hasn’t eased.

If anything, it’s getting worse.

You need a distraction.

You grab your phone from the nightstand, clicking it on. Dead.

Right.

You let it drop onto your stomach, staring blankly at the ceiling again, waiting for your body to settle, for the weight pressing down on your ribs to ease, but it doesn’t. It lingers. She lingers.

She’s everywhere.

Every time you close your eyes, she’s there. The smirk, the mouth, the way she looked at you in the laundry room, sharp and knowing, like she could see every thought running through your head before you even formed them.

You grit your teeth, turning onto your side, gripping the sheets. She is not in this bed. Stop thinking about her.

You don’t know if she ever left that room with that girl. You don’t know if she stayed the whole night. You don’t know if she fucked her.

You let out a slow, shaky breath.

You should sleep. Get up. Shower. Move on.

Instead, you lie there, still, silent, with nothing but the echoes of last night looping through your brain like a song you can’t turn off.

And no matter how hard you try, you can’t shake the feeling that Paige won.

You’re not even supposed to be here.

That’s what you tell yourself as you walk across campus, your fingers curled tight around the strap of your bag, your brain already buzzing with excuses, with reasons—with anything that makes this feel less like a trap.

It’s just an errand.

A professor had emailed you that morning—something about the dining hall on the athletic side of campus having an issue with one of the automated food warmers, something small, something engineering-adjacent. Apparently, it had been flagged last week, and since you’re one of the few undergrads competent enough to check it out, they’d passed it off to you.

You’d said yes before thinking.

Before realizing exactly where they were sending you.

Before remembering who eats here.

Now, standing outside the heavy double doors, the reality crashes into you like a brick to the chest.

This is their dining hall. The athletes. The basketball team. Her.

Your stomach clenches. You should turn around.

No one will notice if you stall for twenty minutes, send an email about how it was already fixed, make up some bullshit about it not being your area.

You swallow, exhale slowly, force yourself to move forward.

Inside, the air is warmer, filled with the scent of food, the sound of chatter, the low hum of conversations overlapping—easy, casual, the way people talk when they don’t have a thousand things clawing at the inside of their skulls.

You keep your head down, moving toward the back of the hall where the food warmers are lined up in sleek, stainless steel rows. The place is bigger than the regular student cafeteria—modern, high ceilings, bright windows. Everything designed for them.

Your pulse thrums in your ears as you slide behind the service counter, setting your bag down, trying to focus on what you came here for.

Focus.

You grab a screwdriver from your bag, crouching slightly, unscrewing the side panel of the warming unit. You barely register the conversations happening around you, just white noise in the background—

Until you hear her.

It’s distant at first. A voice blending in with the others. But your body reacts before your brain does—the immediate recognition, the sharp, visceral reaction, like every nerve in your body suddenly goes rigid.

You don’t look up.

You refuse to look up.

But you hear her.

That low, easy drawl, the teasing lilt in her words, the lazy confidence in the way she talks, like she owns any room she steps into.

And you hate—hate—how it makes your skin burn.

You move faster, working the screws loose, hoping, praying she doesn’t come this way.

But life isn’t that easy, is it?

Because then—closer now—

A voice. A teammate, maybe. Laughing. “Paige, I swear to God—”

And then—her.

Right there. Too close.

You don’t see her face at first, just the familiar joggers, the way they hang effortlessly off her frame. The pristine white sneakers, spotless as always, moving in smooth, practiced steps. And then she shifts, just slightly, and something in your gut twists. You know she sees you. You feel it. The way her stride falters for half a second, that barely-there pause in motion. The weight of her gaze presses against your skin, thick and unshakable, lingering like a hand on the back of your neck.

Your body locks up. The screwdriver in your grip suddenly feels foreign, like it doesn’t belong in your hand, like nothing in this moment belongs. Your fingers tighten around the handle, grounding yourself in something, anything, before it can slip.

And then—nothing.

No smirk. No teasing remark. No acknowledgment at all. She just keeps walking. Not a glance back, not even a twitch of amusement or recognition. Just passes right by you like you’re nothing.

Your chest constricts, the silence louder than anything she could have said. You don’t know if you feel relieved or if you want to fucking scream.

The weight of it slams into your ribs, hard and unexpected, a visceral, gut-deep feeling that you should not be feeling.

Because this is what you wanted, right?

To avoid her. To make this nothing. To erase the way she touched you, the way she looked at you in that laundry room like she knew exactly how to pull you apart and put you back together again.

So why does it feel like she just walked straight through you?

Your fingers curl tighter around the screwdriver, your breath short, uneven, the hum of the cafeteria suddenly too much, too loud, pressing in around you.

Her teammates are still talking, still laughing, moving past you like you’re background noise, like you don’t even register in their world.

And Paige?

She’s leading the charge.

Like she didn’t just see you. Like you aren’t even worth a second glance.

Like she doesn’t know.

Heat rushes up your neck, but it isn’t embarrassment. It’s something sharper, something angrier, something bitter curling its way up your throat.

You twist the screwdriver too hard, slipping, the metal clanging against the side of the food warmer. The noise barely registers over the buzz of conversation, but it jars you, snapping you back into focus.

Get it together.

You grit your teeth, force your hands to steady, force your breathing to even out.

Paige Bueckers is not going to get in your head.

Not now. Not like this.

You glance up, just once, just long enough to catch sight of her before she disappears around the corner.

She’s smiling at something her teammate said, her body loose, easy, the picture of someone without a single fucking care in the world.

And something about that—about the effortlessness of it, about how little she seems to be affected by anything—makes your chest go tight, your stomach coil.

You look back down at the warming unit, ignoring the way your hands shake.

It’s fine.

You don’t care.

You’ll finish this, you’ll leave, and you’ll keep avoiding her.

And if she wants to pretend that night never happened?

Fine.

You can pretend too.

The food warmer is fine.

It had never really been broken in the first place, just a misaligned panel, something so stupidly simple that you could’ve fixed it in thirty seconds if you hadn’t been thrown into a slow-motion car wreck the moment Paige walked in.

You tighten the last screw, slam the panel shut harder than necessary, and grab your bag, exhaling slowly.

Time to leave.

You sling the strap over your shoulder, stepping out from behind the counter, slipping back into the flow of students moving between tables, conversations buzzing, trays clattering.

Your mind is still on her.

Even though you told yourself you wouldn’t let it be.

Even though she’d just walked past you like you were no one.

Your jaw tightens. You have actual shit to deal with.

Like your group project in Systems Engineering that’s due next week.

Like the fact that your bank account is currently laughing at you because you spent too much on takeout last week and now you have to survive on black coffee and spite until your next paycheck.

Like the absolute nightmare of a midterm schedule that’s looming over you.

That’s what you should be thinking about.

Not Paige Bueckers.

Not the laundry room.

Not the way she touched you like she had all the time in the world, only to turn around and walk away without looking back.

You push through the doors, stepping into the cold.

The wind is sharp, biting against your cheeks, cutting through your jacket. A fresh reminder that you’re here, that life is still moving forward whether you’re ready or not.

You’re halfway across campus, your thoughts finally shifting toward something productive—namely, the ungodly amount of work you have waiting for you—when your phone buzzes in your pocket.

You pull it out, squinting against the brightness of the screen.

bitch where are you?

Riven. You huff out a laugh, thumbs moving before you even think.

somewhere worse than hell

Three dots appear immediately,

so. lecture? or did you run into someone who shall not be named?

Your stomach twists.

You type back, fast.

i hate you.

okay so definitely the second one

You groan, shoving your phone back into your pocket before she can keep going.

Because she’s right.

And the worst part is, she doesn’t even know the half of it.

She just knows you and Paige have always had this weird tension—this push and pull, this thing that was never serious but never quite nothing.

She doesn’t know what happened in the laundry room.

She doesn’t know that Paige did something to you that night.

That she changed something.

That you woke up the next morning with someone else’s hands on you and it still wasn’t enough to shake her.

You exhale, hard, pushing the thoughts down, stuffing them somewhere deep where they can’t touch you.

Time to focus.

Midterms. Projects. Surviving off ramen and caffeine for the next two weeks.

Paige Bueckers?

She’s officially off the list.

Continue Reading Part 2.5

[catboybiologist]

So.

Re: tumblr bans of transfemmes.

Let's ignore PhotoMatt for a moment. Manbaby tech CEO doubling down on a stupid decision and making himself look like more of an ass doing so is not a new phenomena.

Tumblr has consistently said, in both public statements and leaked internal communication, that they're essentially running a skeleton crew.

They keep saying that they don't have the resources to moderate, manually review posts, have any kind of appeal process, or anything. So, as people have widely received communications about, they seemed to have automated a significant portion of the moderation to operate solely on the quantity of reports (probably with a basic filter, eg quantity of reports regarding a certain post, within a certain timeframe) to automatically ban or shadowban accounts.

And so, they wipe their hands, both to the users, the public, and their own consciousness, and go about their automated operations.

All of this is likely true. Tumblr, at this point, is essentially abandonware internally, a kind of weird vanity project/dumpster ground for server infrastructure for Automattic. Likely, they don't want the bad press of "shutting down" fully. Or maybe the trickle of revenue they get here just barely exceeds operating costs, so why not keep it around?

Whatever is the case, the bans are a result of an automated process working in the background. I'm giving them some benefit of the doubt here, of course, we can't know anything for certain- but it seems like the individual bans are not based on any specific, manual action.

And that doesn't fucking excuse anything.

Because at some point, multiple people sat down at tumblr, and decided how to cut costs.

And they decided that the bare minimum of report abuse prevention was one of the first things on the chopping block.

Before the boops. Before GUI reconfigures.

They decided to cut something that is necessary to manage online communities.

They decided to cut something that ensures any targeted group will have any kind of community online.

And then, after all of that, the only manual intervention is doubling down on the shitty decisions that the automated systems make, and plucking reasons out of their ass for why they were the right decisions all along.

It's pure silicon valley brain. Blame the computer often and always. Use it to shield the active decisions you made when designing the computer that way. Treat it as a fact of life as opposed to something they actively made decisions for.

Is tumblr staff hitting the banhammer on each transfemme one by one? No.

Is tumblr staff deliberately crafting a system that allows TERFs and other conservative bigots to get rid of the "undesirables" for them? Yup. But they sure as hell are trying to not say the quiet part out loud. If they can always point the finger somewhere else, to the advertisers, to the automated systems, to the TERFs, then they can always have juuusssttt enough plausible deniability.

But being the "queerest place on the internet" requires concious acknowledgement that queer people will be targets of harassment, and you will have to protect against that.

Side note, this is why I do try to keep my blog at least somewhat SFW. Its one of the main reasons why I choose not to reblog all of the posts I'm tagged in- if the post is overtly NSFW, I've probably seen it, appreciated it, and consciously decided my level of interaction with it mostly based on how "tumblr friendly" it is. Is that bowing down to them? A little. It's also my choice. I value the community I have here. The pushes that y'all have given me gave me the strength to transition, and honestly gives me a lot of motivation to research HRT biology as much as I can, among many other things.

Yeah, I post pictures that are clearly meant to be found attractive in ways that are generally not socially acceptable , but never actual NSFW. I would like to think that I'm pretty safe from bans, but hey. Who knows. I don't want to lose my follower base, and the community around it.

And yeah, I'm gonna annoyingly remind you of the other places to find me, make sure to check my pin. If you don't know where to go, just find me on reddit and go from there, I'll post about it if anything happens.

[alexanderwales]

There was some discussion on the discord about how most "superhero fiction" gets tainted by the fact that there are such established things as "superheroes" and "supervillains" in these settings, and that this then taints everything about these pieces of fiction because wide swathes of psychology and character immediately get swept to the side. There's a flattening effect to that, I think I would agree with that, and anyway, it's well-mined territory.

So instead, you could write a superhero novel (or comic) where the entire concept of "superhero" doesn't actually exist, in the same way that zombie movies don't recognize the concept of zombie.

And I think that this would be interesting, but would also immediately introduce a few constraints of its own:

The timescale is relatively short. There's very few imitators, and not enough coverage/traction that people have started to say "hey, these guys are all kind of like each other".

The scope is relatively narrow, probably not more than ... ten characters? And they can't overlap with each other all that much. Maybe you can have small clusters that expand the cast, I guess, a recognized subset of the unrecognized superhero.

This works best in a novel, not in a webfic, because webfic loves to sprawl (and this is one of the best things about webfic).

So to game it out a bit, you have all these different characters, and none of them thinks of themselves as a "superhero". We're pretending the whole concept doesn't exist in this universe. We're making no sweeping generalizations about superheroes, because they're just not a thing here.

Instead, we draw from as many different genres and ideas as possible.

People aren't wearing costumes, there's one guy who's wearing a costume, dressing up like a mascot. Someone else is wearing a uniform. Another guy is wearing a disguise, totally different thing meant to protect his identity, nothing more. There's a guy who summons armor around himself, a guy that transforms, they have distinct individual powers that come from different places, there's nothing that unites them except that they come into conflict with each other. There's no ethos of superheroism or supervillainy.

Part of the idea is that you cannot sort these people into typologies, each of them is individual, except maybe there's a brother-sister couple in there, or a group of five super sentai types or whatever, because we also don't want to make a rule that each and every person is a unique individual.

I think there's a lot that you could get from this. Normal superhero fiction tends to have a lot of ideology in it, and here, because these people don't recognize each other as being the same thing, you have more room to move around. No one is doing things because it's expected of them, except the people who are, who are fighting crime because this is part of their family legacy, or the guy who's a space cop and this is just literally his job. There's greater room for intersectional discussion if you drop "superhero" from the vocabulary.

And it's much closer to what superheroes used to be, before the genre calcified and congealed, when everyone was just their own weird person with their own weird agenda. There is something fresh about that, I think, something that I haven't seen very often, a way of writing superheroes that tries to be in the genre by being outside of it.

I'm not sure I have any ambition to actually write something like this, but I do think that it's probably worth doing. (And I also imagine that if I had infinite depth of knowledge on superhero fiction I would be able to point to three specific pieces of media that did this exact thing.)